Diana Dares

...and the Los Angeles-Linked Loss of Libido: Exhibit #423

2008-11-10T12:17:00.000-08:00

A friend recently dropped her latest romantic interest. She has a kind heart, but even she could not put up with him.

He didn't believe in money, construct of The Man that it is, so he only brought things into his apartment which were found or given to him.

Which meant that she was dating....a beggar.
Who didn't have to be begging.
And who wanted to spend a lot of time at her place.
Where there was a nice warm bed and groceries. And furniture that wasn't driftwood.

Any sensible person would have laughed uproariously and told him, "J-O-B. Look into one."

(To which he would have demurred, preferring to "concentrate on his yoga". And teaching yoga was out, since that would sully his religion with cold, dirty money.)

And still he gets laid, because girls in LA think he is deep, instead of catastrophically lacking in testosterone, common sense, and shame.

Oh man, if Ned had ever tried to pull this shit...

...and the Annals of Addled Analysts Applying As Assistants

2008-10-30T04:21:00.001-07:00

I have recently thought about taking on an assistant. There are many mysteries around me these days, and George and Bess are pretty busy.

You know who I wouldn't ever, ever hire, though?

Paul Begala, he of this penetrating quote:

“If you go to a white neighborhood in the suburbs and ask them, ‘How would you feel about a large black man kicking your door in,’ they would say, ‘That doesn’t sound good to me,’” said Democratic political consultant Paul Begala. “But if you say, 'Your house is on fire, and the firefighter happens to be black,' it’s a different situation.”

The last thing I need when I'm in hot pursuit of some hoodlums who tried to run me off the road is an assistant shouting via walkie-talkie "The suspect is hatless! Repeat, hatless!"

...and the Famine of Front-Facing Feet

2008-09-19T20:06:00.000-07:00

The strangest thing about LA is how frequently women's feet in bathroom stalls are pointed the wrong way.

Ah...eating disorders.

Very disconcerting, like toilets flushing the opposite way in Australia, but a more city-specific variation.

I must start accounting for this in my deducting. I can no longer assume that backward-facing shoes are the dead giveaway of a man dressed in woman's shoes hiding out in the stall of a women's bathroom in order to avoid detection by the authorities and/or myself, and as such, should require additional evidence before charging in on any such stall with a triumphant "Aha!" I do not wish to be covered in vomit.

Mystery Solved

2008-07-28T23:42:00.000-07:00

A decades-old rift in my family has finally been cleared up. Years of hurt, angry feelings because someone misheard what someone else was saying. Funny, sad, and unbelievable.

So the lesson, everyone, is clear the air. Don't let things fester! Give people a chance to explain.

And make an effort with people who seem slow to warm up to you. It could be that they haven't understood you. Perhaps literally.

And also, maybe if you find yourself at a wedding shower with the bride opening up a gift -- a beautiful peignoir -- and someone else commenting (with a smile) that it's so typical of the giver, "so full of venom", consider if that seems likely to have just been said.

Or whether the person might have said "so feminine".

Thirty-five years.

...and the Linguistically Limited Lady

2008-07-17T11:23:00.000-07:00

My lovely older Armenian neighbor comes over to chat sometimes when we both are outside. She likes to talk with me to practice her English, and she's so sweet. She always waters my plants when I forget, which is every day, and loves my cat, who always bolts straight to her as though she is his rightful owner and I am just keeping him held hostage, apart from his one true love.

(I was feeling really awful about how much more he loved her than me until she explained to me that she always gives him huge amounts of turkey and sandwich meats to entice him. Well no wonder he loves you so much, lady.)

Her English is much better than she thinks it is; she's much too hard on herself about it. That said, her halting English does sometimes result in rather stark haiku. Like this grim little gem;

"I remember last summer. You stay inside. Your plants all die."

Ouch.

...and the Quarterback Quagmire

2008-07-14T21:18:00.000-07:00

I am resurfacing after a year because I am overcome with so many emotions right now. Nausea and heartbreak primarily.

This can't be happening, can it? I think there's blame on both sides, or maybe it all cancels out and there's no need to blame. Just a mess. But I can't bear the thought of seeing Brett Favre in anything other than a green and gold #4. Seeing him run out onto a new home field - not Lambeau? It can't be. Nooo!

It's like watching your parents get divorced when you thought they always got along. It's awful.

It also really raises that Madden curse to a whole new level. Stupid game.

I, for one, am still Parent-Trap-hoping against hope that they can work it out. Is that all it would take, Brett? Ted? Some hijinks wherein I lure you both to a candlelight dinner, and then seal the deal with an adorable rendition of "Let's Get Together", and you both realize that you DO think I'm adorable and that you have to work it out, for me, and besides, you're still in love? Because I will totally do that.

Ah the Parent Trap. Speaking of heartbreaking. Little Lilo in that movie...so hard to watch it and see how cute and charming she was and know how different everything would be in under a decade. But she's looking great and happy these days, isn't she? Her trip to the Isle of Lesbos appears to be just what she needed. And of course the leggings.

But if coming to terms with all leggings, all the time is the price we must pay for a happy, well-adjusted Linds, well...

Awww.

Yeah, I'll pay it. Reluctantly, but I will.

Do you think she'd be interested in helping with the Brett-and-Ted get-together shenanigans? Maybe I should give her a call.

...and the Mystery Under the Water Tower

2007-07-03T00:07:00.001-07:00

Sorry I've been away so long, faithful readers.

What with my life being chronicled on the big screen again, I've been trying to lay low. My thought was that if I didn't pay the travesty any mind, neither would anyone else. I'm glad to say my gambit paid off.

It turns out that many of you understand me better than I thought. Like this fine young lady.

While laying low, I did of course come across another case! New lot, new cover, new set of suspects. I even have an alias. Call me GiGi.

Girl Detective...Still on Vacation

2007-05-16T14:40:00.000-07:00

Hello all,

It's still "summer vacation" where I am. The upfronts are this week, so TV people are crazed, but as long as your enterprising girl detective finds a new case in the next month, she doesn't need to panic. No need to panic at all. Just keep repeating to yourself. No need to panic, no need to panic....

Oh, hi! You're still there. As I was saying, still "summer vacation"! And despite knowing that I need to ween myself from my twin addictions of caffeine and gossip, I have found myself powerless against them. Especially when mixed together. I'm sure they discuss the complementary makes-each-more-potent nature at the 12-step meeting, to which, like Amy Winehouse, I refuse to go. No, no, no!

Point is, my addictions have taught me a few things this week.

There's a Starbucks near my home. I realize this is true of everyone in America, and soon, the world, but outside my particular Starbucks, there is a homeless woman who does Pilates. And then asks for change to get a latte. A bobo hobo. I have to admire her absolute refusal to admit that she is no longer a yuppie.

She also reminds me of another woman whom I didn't know directly, yet affected me greatly. I used to have a temp job recording the histories of crack addicts who called a drug helpline for treatment. I transcribed these histories for nine hours a day in a windowless room; it was a little grim. One day I typed in the story of a woman with slight mental retardation who had been raised in foster care. She had been abused, became an addict, and was soon on the street turning tricks. She lived with her boyfriend/pimp, who would use her as collateral for his gambling debts to his friends. One night she protested that she didn't want to sleep with his friends anymore after he lost at poker, and he broke her jaw. He broke a lot of things, and finally one night she'd called this helpline.

Now the thing I took away from that was that a mildly retarded crack whore had a live-in boyfriend. Whereas the guys I was dating were all, "Well... define 'going out'." And now Pilates girl. It is unnerving when you have to start wondering if the homeless and drug-addicted have it more together than you. And yet, sometimes you have to stare that truth down.

The second thing I learned this week is that if I've ever wondered what it would be like to be raped, but not wanted to actually go through the experience to find out, I could just go to Urth Cafee and order a coffee and a small salad. $18.95. Apparently it's organic GOLD that they're using. On the upside, no homeless people outside working on their core and making you feel guilty about not working out.

And finally....my idea that will make us millions and improve the world, if I can just get them to sign on for it:

Did everyone else know that Lauren Graham and Connie Britton used to be roommates? How did I not know that? That would've been one AWESOME apartment of brainy sexiness and really fabulous hair. I imagine their place being like one of those salons in the old Salon Selectives commercials -- you'd go over in your ponytail and sweats for 10 minutes to see if you could borrow a cute top, and you'd stay through sangria and pedicures and agent talk and guy talk and finally four hours later you'd leave with bouncy, shiny hair, the perfect clubbing top, and a renewed determination to stop dating dumb actor guys.

In fact, I think they should go back to being roommates and open a boarding house for young aspiring starlets, like in Stagedoor. First occupant: Lindsay Lohan. Followed quickly by Britney. (Because as much as I want Drew Barrymore to open up her Flower Magic School for Wayward Starlets, she clearly doesn't want to or she would've already. I've certainly suggested it loudly in public places from Beachwood to Fairfax enough times that I'm sure it's gotten back to her by now.)

"Look at us," Connie and Lauren would explain in their brainy, funny, sexy yet caring way.. "We don't go to Hyde, blow 20 rails, date mercenary creeps, and trust all the wrong people and look at us! We're happy, we're doing great work, and have you noticed our killer bouncy hair that is not shaved off lying on the ground around us waiting to be scooped up by a low-rent Burbank beautician so she can sell it on ebay? Everyone in the world understands that we are amazing and sexy without our mothers cozying up to the paparazzi to tell them so. How do we do it? Let us teach you how." And then they'd bake cookies.

Ooh, cookies. A cookie would go really well with this coffee. Must go investigate. Ciao.

...and the Predicament of the Pedestrian Periodical

2007-04-28T14:27:00.000-07:00

Your intrepid girl detective is now on summer vacation!! Or what feels like summer vacation -- she keeps sternly reminding herself that this time is most certainly NOT vacation, but rather time to get in shape, learn to surf, catch up on writing, and fix up her apartment. No free time here!

But one of the loveliest upsides to working in television is that we do get a proper summer vacation. Downside: it may be more than just a vacation. One may end up never employed again. And one must suffer through agonies of nerves while figuring out which scenario is actually occurring.

But for now, it is sunny and I am on vacation (thinking optimistically) and I am getting to catch up on glossy magazines as I watch the cats stalk a floating leaf outside. The leaf won this battle, confusing both of them by floating along and then changing tactics and lying still, at which point they each lost track of the leaf, despite the fact that it was still lying in front of them. Out in the open. Not moving. Not hidden by anything. Plain sight. Only object around for yards and yards. Lying exposed on the cement. Confounded them both completely -- their ancestors' hunting instincts may be pretty watered down in these two.

Anyway, I have found myself reunited with a certain In Style magazine. Ah, In Style, how I've missed you.

In Style is a truly terrible magazine. My heroine, Tina Fey, basically tells it as much to its face (to its pages?) when she describes Jane Krakowski's character on her show 30 Rock with the following: "Her character, Jenna, would read In Style because she would want to know what restaurants Nicollette Sheridan likes in Aspen." Awesome. And yet, even as I appreciate the veiled shot, I realize that 2 pages earlier I was excited that a wine bar I'd just gone to was listed as one of the 5 Things on Our Radar This Month. (Tangent #1: the place was Cube -- a wine bar that has 65 different kinds of cheese, which is both a) clearly a genius idea for a restaurant, and b) not necessarily a surefire hit in LA. Wisconsin, Chicago, Florida, North Carolina, Idaho --sure. There people are sensible about calories and the embracing of dairy products. No brittle bones for us!!)

Anyway, that whiplash effect of "ha, Tina Fey mocks you and I mock along with her!" to "oh, yay I'm cool and trendy...just like Owen Wilson!" in under .6 seconds really sums up my relationship with the magazine. On one hand, a magazine that featured beauty, fashion, home decor and entertaining via celebrity tastes, or more accurately, celebrities' publicists' assistants tastes, as they fill out forms complete with quotes from Emmy Rossum on her favorite perfume ("Shalimar -- warm, romantic, and timeless. I can imagine Rita Hayworth wearing this.") or Jennifer Love Hewitt on Italian pasta ("I love pasta! I could never be one of those girls who swears off carbs!") -- see, I could totally write their fake entries -- is a surefire idea, one so obviously perfect it's amazing it didn't happen sooner. On the other hand, embracing that idea without irony is idiocy. If celebrity watching has taught us anything, and of course, it has, it's that celebrities become celebrities because of their unerring sense of taste, style, and decorum.

Anyway...so it's both irresistible and complete garbage. What tips it into the unmissable category for me, though, are the little jewels scattered throughout that I dearly want to believe are intentional, but fear are not. They were particularly abundant in the early days of the magazine.

The first time I picked up an issue of In Style, I truly believed it was an elaborate joke from the editors of The Onion. What better way to blow a trust fund than on one incredibly perfectly satirical joke? It was all there -- Pierce Brosnan's opinion on candles, a non-ironic monthly feature called "I Want It, I Need It, I Have to Have It Now!", and some of the best worst magazine writing on the planet. It all sounded like it'd been written by a high school yearbook staff in its 17th straight hour of writing captions for candid photos. The required spring nautical look photos were always captioned "Anchors Aweigh!", and Gwyneth's Oscar dress would be featured with the caption "In the Pink!" The tone regarding celebrities bordered on the reverential -- it was like something out of a 1940's fan magazine, pure Hedda Hopper.

But as the magazine's popularity mushroomed -- I think it's the most successfully launched magazine ever, so my in-the-know publishing-type friends say -- they got that "pretend to be insanely insipid and then slip a genius bitchy remark or quote in" habit under control, and now it's the equivalent of your friend who used to go bar-hopping with you and pick up random guys and go home with them despite your loud, vocal objections who recently got married and now wears head-to-toe Ann Taylor. It had to happen, I understand why it happened, but it makes me sigh a bit for the days of old. However, even in the new grown-up version of In Style magazine, some gems survive.

I have a theory as to why. I believe there are two types of women/gay men at In Style Magazine: Magazine Bitches and The Subversives. Magazine Bitches believe in their magazine and its manifesto. They are responsible for the eye-rollingly bad stuff, like this question from the You Asked column:

"Jamie-Lynn Sigler's makeup always looks polished but still natural. What does she use?" Am I to believe anyone other than Ms. Sigler, her publicist, or the Chanel publicist/marketing team (turns out it's their Lip Rouge in Desirable lipstick keeping her polished but natural) submitted this question? Has anyone anywhere even thought that, much less decided to write it down on a piece of paper, locate an envelope, look up an address, find a stamp, and mail it in to a magazine in hopes of a reply?

They are also responsible for the insistence throughout the magazine that Halle Berry's body (voted as best overall hot body, which, agreed) is achieved through 30 minute workouts 5 times a week. Secrets not mentioned: great genetics, not eating, the high metabolism that being crazy generates, and lying about how much she works out.

Magazine Bitches are also always responsible for the tiresome "pro-body" messages which nobody believes -- in this issue, it's right at the beginning of the Hollywood's Best Bodies article:

"In a world of shrinking models and dubious diet fads, it's easy to believe that your body isn't good enough. Wrong! Sexy and gorgeous are no longer the domain of only a certain dress size -- all body types are beautiful. The women on the following pages offer proof."

The women? Halle Berry, Jessica Biel, Cameron Diaz, Scarlett Johannsen (the "curvy" entry), Heidi Klum, Jessica Alba, Demi Moore, Sheryl Crow, Reese Witherspoon (winner of the "better than ever" award -- yikes. really? She needed to lose 15 lbs due to depression? If you say so), and winning the "body confidence" prize (aka the Brave Fatty Award), Jennifer Hudson. Fantastic diversity, guys. I guess all body types really are beautiful.

I know it's a womens' magazine. It's by definition a frienemy. But...Come. On. We both know what's going on. I will give one million dollars to the first glossy womens magazine that quits pretending that it wants me to feel good about my body. How about a marketing campaign of "We'll be happy with it when you're happy with it; in the meantime, here are some pictures of Jessica Biel's smoking hot ass. Guess Seventh Heaven's actual, for real, absolutely not joking this time cancellation really lit a fire underneath her, didn't it?"

Something like that would be the work of The Subversives.

The Subversives work at In Style because it's a good job in an industry they like which provides an enjoyable lifestyle, but recognize that their work contributes to the decline of America and accept this duality head on. And they try to fight it just a little bit -- one grain of sand at a time. It makes me feel better knowing they're there, sending me secret messages in each issue, like American POWs sending coded messages to their comrades in photos taken by their captors. (My friend and I aspire to be the trickiest of all these noble types, Subversive Editors-in-Chief, when we launch our wholly ironic magazine for Sean Combs, entitled Diddy. Watch for it on newstands soon. It's going to be very sexy.) In the meantime, In Style can tide you over. The May issue, in addition to Tina Fey mocking their magazine's stated purpose openly, contains the following:

- a highlighted quote from Sharon Stone, in response to whether she works out: "Do I exercise? I have a 7-year-old, a 2-year-old, and an 11-month-old!" Wow. Really? First of all, come on Sharon, technically YOUR NANNY has a 7-year-old, a 2-year-old, and an 11-month-old. Secondly, I'm presuming these are all adopted, in which case, sweet Jehosephat, who gave Sharon Stone a child, and then allowed her to come back for more??!! Wait, Brett Ratner doesn't have a couple too, does he? Even with Mother Theresa and Gandhi listed as her nannies, I'd be reaching for my giant red "REJECTED. OH HEAVENS, SO...SO...SO REJECTED" stamp for that adoption application. Honestly, how bad can a Romanian orphanage/bottom of a well in rural China be? I'd take my chances, kid. I also love pondering the fact that in the current celebrity adoption flurry, Sharon's purchases have gone relatively under the radar, which makes me suspect that somewhere out there is a Pat Kingsley-type publicist who has cut a couple bitches to prevent any such attention being drawn to Sharon Stone's parental status, which leads me to muse that there must be some Joan Crawford-level gloriousness taking place. I can't wait for fifteen years from now when we hear about it!

- another highlighted quote from Maroon Five's Adam Levine, about his Hollywood Hills house which was clearly decorated by the same person who does all the newly-minted celebs' houses -- midcentury furniture - check, cowskin rug - check, egg chair - check. The quote: "Oh yeah...there have definitely been some legendary times here." Oh my god, he is such a fucking tool. I am shocked he ever gets laid, I really am. I want to have a meeting with all women everywhere and just go all Trojan Women on L.A. douchebags. This is more important than ending a war, girls -- this is about ensuring that Matt Leinart, Brody Jenner, that guy from Laguna Beach who keeps punching everyone, and Adam Levine understand their place in the universe, and the only way to communicate that is by making sure they never ever ever ever get the kitty again.

(granted, a lot of the genius of the subversive In Style employees must now rest in the perfectly chosen quote, which I realize is as much the celebrity's doing as the interviewer's. But they're really good at getting them. And they really know which ones to highlight!)

- a swimsuit in the requisite "find the right swimsuit for you!" article (Tangent #2: Honestly, fuck this article. It's in every magazine every year, it's always the same, and it's always wrong. First of all, it's the article equivalent of the Vogue Body Issue: four non-existent problems and then the "lower body/minimize thighs" one that every female reads. Skinny girls don't worry about bathing suits -- one of the benefits of being skinny; Busty or curvy? Great, you can show off the boobs, but you're still worried about your thighs. Tall? Not a body shape, and you're probably still worried about your thighs. Petite? Worried about your thighs. Long torso? Short torso? Worried about your thighs. Why won't someone just once have an article called "Oh for pete's sake, either get in shape, get a sarong, or become a surfer and wear longish board shorts -- those are the options!") This year, In Style's subversives have gotten downright diabolical, suggesting to the pear-shaped among its readers that they put on a one-piece nude and black color-blocked/horizontal-striped suit. It's in the lower left, p 210, if you're playing along at home.

Wow. Horizontal stripes with nude-colored flattening material over the bust? Just because you're subversive doesn't mean you're not catty catty bitches. This is even meaner than two summers ago when you thought it'd be funny to suggest I wear boy short bottoms just to see if I would wear unflattering shorts that cut a straight line across the widest part of my thighs. However, I had a mirror and eyes and was able to recognize a subversive's perverse joke when I came across them. Like, for instance, this swimsuit. And since I am on the same side of the subversives, I can enjoy watching hippy women across America donning horizontally-striped color-blocked suits and chortle along.

Okay, it's a little mean. But still, not a bad trick. Way to go anti-fake-pro-body. I salute you, subversives at In Style magazine.

Some Mysteries Can't Be Solved

2007-04-17T18:33:00.000-07:00

I was going to write to you all today about how my undercover work was coming to an end today, but my gig has been extended for a terribly sad reason -- a coworker lost a relative in the Virginia Tech shooting, and so I'm covering her desk until she returns.

It's so terribly, terribly sad. I generally try to avoid the media frenzies surrounding events like this -- it seems to devolve quickly into a litany of obvious and insipid newscaster reactions, a kind of emotional porn. The tragedy of lives ended far too early, of the young man's mentally disturbed state and its far-reaching consequences, of the attempts to help that were rebuffed, and of the anguish of this man's family, as well as the families of all the victims is just overwhelming.

Some things won't ever be fully understood.

...And the Artificial Amateurs (Who) Aren't At All Amazing

2007-03-27T16:24:00.000-07:00

Okay, there comes a time in everyone's life when the gauntlet is thrown down, and one is presented with a situation that challenges a person's most dearly held beliefs, and it is what we do in those moments that truly define our characters.

In my case, this moment came as I was picking up lunch at my lovely neighborhood Mexican eatery, Baja Fresh.

I freaking kid you not, they have posted signs (NOT signage, as I am sure the management called them) encouraging me to "bling out my burrito". By which they mean add cheese and enchilada sauce.

Mother of god, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH PEOPLE??!!!

Look, there are grammar Nazis and there are grammar Nazis, and I've sort of fancied myself the cool Mom of grammar Nazis -- I'll let the kids have wine coolers in the basement and the other g.N.s may disapprove, but I'm younger and hipper and I can't be on the kids' backs all the time. I'll bristle at the ubiquitous implied/inferred mix-up*, sure, but I'll try to mention it in a non-1950's-angry-librarian-with-too-many-cats kind of way.

It's taken a lot of work on my part to become less g.N. about the whole thing. I've struggled to control my full-body shudders at "borrow me a quarter?" requests so as not to come off as a ridiculous snob. And while I disagree with the logic that somehow a love for language and a respect for its rules can brand you as a snob (LEND, it's LEND, how hard is that??), the pragmatist in me has, over time, caved and realized that it wasn't worth hurting and annoying friends and acquaintances over such relatively small matters. So if it was something that didn't absolutely make my skin crawl, I have tried to live with it, without going so far as to succumb to it.

Yet while I am not going to correct people's mistakes in a condescending manner in public, passive aggressively apologizing in a "I'm sorry, I'm just one of those people who really cares about using words correctly" way that makes everyone just want to slap you (and rightfully so), I still try to fight the good fight and counteract my superficial surrender in other ways. I purposely frequent grocery stores with "10 items or fewer" signs above their express lanes. Granted, they're all Whole Foods stores, and I can usually only afford one thing there, but someday, I shall do all my shopping there, despite my hatred of all things tofuian and boboed, simply because of their signs. And years after even Mr. Webster capitulated and the bad guys have won, I still refuse to use "impact" as a verb. Just because some idiot corporate-speak middle manager couldn't recall the word "affect" for his TPS report does not mean that I have to imitate such behavior. And just because people have a problem understanding the difference between affect/effect does not mean that the word(s) should be blamed, or that "impact" should be made into a verb. The lowest common denominators among us should not make the rules! They shouldn't!

Now an argument against grammar Nazi-ism is that language is dynamic, and as a lover of language, one should embrace and celebrate new words and new uses of language when they emerge naturally in people's day-to-day speaking and communicating. I concur heartily...provided that the key word -- "naturally" -- applies. From the New Orleans idiom of "yamammanddem" in place of "everyone" (as in "How's yamammanddem doin'?"), or the "going postal" and "total Monet" that Cher and Amy Heckerling gave us to the izzling that Snoop popularized, new words, phrases, meanings, idioms and uses enrich the language. And I do celebrate that. One of the most satisfying elements of (good) hip-hop is its joyful use of language. Ludacris brought puns back, which is waaaaaay harder than bringing sexy back. (Justin.) Remember that overly complicated, somewhat belabored Elizabethan wordplay running through Shakespeare's scripts that teachers assured us the audiences of the time found funny? I remain doubtful, but I will concede that it's a lot more enjoyable with a good track behind it.

But a shameless attempt by a corporation to coopt a slang word (long after its sell-by date, which only heightens the stupidity of it) in an attempt to sling its product is just gross and vexing.

Blinging =/= adding cheese and enchilada sauce. I **hate** the marketing person who came up with this idea so much. Like, want to fnd them so I punch them hard in the face and neck hate. Haaaaaaaatttte.

*most gallingly occuring two weeks back in our writers' room by someone being paid six figures for their ability with the English language. sigh.

Worse Than I Had Feared

2007-02-15T11:16:00.000-08:00

This is the movie they make about me?!

I must go call my friends Jupiter Jones, Pete Crenshaw, and Bob Andrews. Only they can understand my pain and outrage at this moment.

...and the Mystery of the Totally Bleeping Empty Soundstage

2007-02-07T07:03:00.000-08:00

There are times when my cover interferes with my true purpose. Lately, I have been going undercover on set and the different hours and work have proved very difficult for good snooping. It should be ideal -- a warehouse with seventy-five people running around, most of whom are not exactly sure what each person does -- what could be better? Alas, my cover gig has me wandering around behind one or two people and virtually tied to their sides. It doesn't leave me very much time for snooping, or anything else, really.

And I write this as one particularly foggy detective. I arrived on set for another day of feigning joy at my cover only to find that the call time had been pushed back to a decent hour and I had not been notified of such. I could have been in my sweet, cozy bed instead of standing in an empty warehouse with someone else's cappuccino in my hand at 6:50 a.m. Well, at least it gives me time to poke around without any criminals trying to knock a set down onto me. Note to self: look into this miscommunication further. Perhaps production office is on to me and is trying to sabotage my investigation?

At any rate, I write this as a very tired and soul-crushed investigator. I think it's time to get selfish. I need to find a way to protect my time better and actually have some time to work on solving these mysteries. That will probably mean telling George and Bess no brunch and no seeing them for a while, which is too bad since I would vastly prefer seeing them to posing as a hapless assistant on a tv show. They also make the work of posing as aforementioned hapless assistant much more bearable. Still...to solve this crime I may have to go hide in a bunker and not see anyone for quite some time.

....and the Warm Welcome to Hollywood

2007-02-01T13:07:00.000-08:00

In my undercover role, I attended a production meeting earlier today. I wanted to use the opportunity to suss out several dubious characters. Neither of my possible suspects did anything to dampen my suspicions when in the middle of the meeting, during a disagreement on how *exactly* a body could be killed with a blunt object, the first called his sweet unsuspecting assistant into the room, and proceeded to grab the assistant from behind in a tight grip and bludgeon him with an empty Kleenex box.

The other man broke in. "No, no, no!" he cried. I relaxed for a moment, until --

"HERE'S how he did it!" he instructed, grabbing the box from the first man. Then he seized the assistant, turned him away from his body and started beating him with the box on a different part of his back. "See? Sharp blows," he explained. He released the assistant and they continued their discussion.

The assistant watched them both for a moment.

"Was...there...anything else you wanted?" he asked meekly after a minute or so.

They both glanced up at him, surprised to see him still standing there.

"No, we're good. We'll call you if we need you again."

...and the Gift of Basically Anything That's Awesome

2007-01-29T04:06:00.000-08:00

I have the severest girl-crush on Mindy Kaling. I love that she sort of got on the Hollywood radar by co-writing and co-performing in Matt & Ben, she seems cool and funny and like she'd be fun to hang out with along with a bunch of girls as you all drained about nine pitchers of margaritas, and she is the author of the for-my-money funniest (non-AD**) moment of tv in the past decade*, the opening of The Office episode "The Injury":

MICHAEL SCOTT
I enjoy having breakfast in bed. I like waking up to the smell of bacon, sue me. And since I don't have a butler, I have to do it myself. So most nights before I go to bed, I will lay six strips of bacon out on my George Foreman grill. Then, I go to sleep. When I wake up. I plug in the grill. Then I go back to sleep again. Then I wake up to the smell of crackling bacon. It is delicious, it's good for me -- it's the perfect way to start the day. Today I got up, I stepped on the grill, and it clamped down on my foot. That's it. I don't see what's so hard to believe about that.

The first time I saw that, I literally cried during that part and then rewound it six times.

Annnnnnyway, she has a blog -- mindyephron.blogspot.com --and it only serves to convince me even more of her awesomeness. Anyone who wants to drive a Mini, but hesitates momentarily because it'd be "like driving the automotive equivalent of the Gilmore Girls", and then shrugs it off because she thinks the shows actually okay --that is a girl with whom I really want to be friends!

She is funny, but there are also some very valuable tips on there -- practically everything on it, I do want to track down and purchase! I knew she'd be someone awesome to talk to about makeup and shoes, and now it feels like a one-sided version of that conversation is actually happening.

* narrowly beating out "dropping the hard J" from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

** My Personal Top Ten AD Quotes:

10.
Tobias Fünke: Right, I forgot, here in the States, you call it a *sausage* in the mouth.
Michael: We just call it a sausage.

9.
Michael Bluth: Do you know what they do to people who commit treason?
George Sr.: First time.
Michael Bluth: I've never heard of a second.

8.
Buster: Yes. I create a diversion, and you grab George Michael and go. We need a name. Maybe "Operation Hot Mother".
Michael: No, le-let's try to top that.

7.
Michael Bluth: I need you to do something to my mom that I cannot do. Maybe some Afternoon Delight.
Oscar: Ah. Now the question is, how do I get it in her?
Narrator: Oscar thought that Michael was referring to a particular brand of cannibus called "Afternoon Delight". It was known for the ability to slow down reflexes.
Michael Bluth: I don't want any details...
Oscar: Maybe I'll put it in her brownie...
Michael Bluth: Hey.

6.
Michael Bluth: You know what you do? You go buy yourself a tape recorder and record yourself for a whole day. You might be surprised at some of your phrasing.

5.
Lindsay Funke: Did you enjoy your meal, Mom? You drank it fast enough.
Lucille: Not as much as you enjoyed yours. You want the belt to buckle, not your chair.
[server sets a dessert of Bananas Foster on fire]
Lucille: You might want to let that fire go out before you stick your face in it.
Lindsay Funke: That's funny, 'cause I was gonna say "You might wanna lean away from that fire since you're soaked in alcohol."
Lucille: Mine was better.

4.
Gob: [as Franklin] What's the matter with you?
Gob: [in the present] Franklin said some things Whitey wasn't ready to hear.
Michael: Gob, weren't you also mercilessly beaten outside of a club in Torrance for that act?
Gob: He also said some things that African-American-y wasn't ready to hear either.

3.
Michael Bluth: [calling from prison, taking about his brother, Gob] I've got a nice hard cot with his name on it.
Lucille: You would do that to your brother?
Michael Bluth: I said "cot".

2.
George Michael Bluth: Don't you always say "family first"?
Michael: Yes, I do. But that is not a family. Okay? They're a bunch of greedy, selfish people who have our nose. And Aunt Lindsay.
George Michael Bluth: She's not my real aunt?
Michael: Not her real nose. Got a picture of her when she was 14 in a swimming cap. She looks like a falcon.

1.
Gob: It's a mainstay of the magician's toolkit, like how clowns always have a rag soaked in ether.

...and the Gift of the Swaggering Suzerain

2007-01-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

Now is the time of year when resolutions are sorely tested. It's easy enough to glide through the first week or two on the excitement of the New Year -- new resolutions and routines, clean slates...anyone can eat healthily and floss every day for two weeks. But now...now is the trying time.

I believe in resolutions. Yes, everyone fails at them in some measure. But if you fail at your resolution 30% of the time, you've still created a positive new habit in your life 70% of the time. Less smoking is better than more smoking; some exercise is better than none; every little bit counts, and we should be proud of all those little efforts. This year, in addition to my Resolutions for 2007 and my Goals for 2007 and my '101 in 1001 Days' List (essentially, a Just-Under-Three-Years Plan), I made my first group resolution. Along with several old chums from school, I pledged to emulate Brett Ratner --

Wait! Where are you going?! Don't leave! Keep reading!

I know what you're thinking. Oh god, no. It's bad enough to have to deal with one of him...I can't deal with the idea of others trying to copy him -- striving to turn themselves into pervy hacks.

But here's the thing: yeah, he kinda sucks. We all know it. Everyone knows it. I'm sure that when Al Quaeda guys are asked "Now why exactly do you hate America?", they simply sigh, open their laptops, click on his bookmarked IMDB page and rest their case with exhibit A. Below is just a sampling of Brett Ratner on Brett Ratner:

on X-Men: The Last Stand:
INTERVIEWER: So what do you think the people criticizing you will say when they actually see the film?
RATNER: Oh, I think they'll be eating crow! I think so. Because the movie came out great. I'm really proud of it.

on Rush Hour 3:
INTERVIEWER: Can you give us any idea what the storyline will be in this one?
RATNER: Well, in the first one, Jackie [Chan] was in LA; he was the fish out of water. In the second one, Chris [Tucker] went to Hong Kong. In this one, they're both going to Paris. So they're both gonna be the fish out of water; they're both not going to speak the language.

on just how good he is:
People who get to know me not on a superficial level, not by my work, but get to know me for who I am – shows that I’m not just the hack or the commercial sell out. I have respect from Toback and Polanski and all these guys because I’m a real filmmaker. Whether or not you like the genre I’m in, you can’t deny I know what I’m doing. I’m not leaving it up to the actors. There’s some point of view. And you’ll see it in the making of – I was watching it the other day, and you see me coming up with this idea, that idea, I piece it together and how I make it work.

If you really, really know films and you watch my films you’ll know my inspirations. It’s like if you watch Boogie Nights, although his are a little more obvious....Every scene in [my] movie comes from another film.

on assessing his work:
RATNER: But I’ll tell you what, and I swear to God I don’t know any other filmmaker of who this is true – there is not one frame of any movie I’ve done that I go, ‘Ugh.’
INTERVIEWER: Really? You always hear directors saying, ‘I love that movie except…’
RATNER: Even Michael Mann will say, ‘I’ll look at it but there are things I would change.’ The point is that when I see my editor’s assembly – and there is not another director, and I want you to ask every director you talk to, say, ‘How do you feel when you watch your editor’s assembly?’ I guarantee to you that 99.99% of them will say, ‘I feel like hanging myself. I want to die. I couldn’t live with what I saw. It was painful.’ When I walk out of the room after my editor’s cut? ‘My God! I made a movie! I made a movie that works!’ It’s not that I can’t believe it, it’s just that I’m so fucking psyched.

God bless him, he has never had a moment of self-doubt. He is where he is today because he truly thinks he is legen-wait for it-dary. He wholly believes in his legen-wait for it-dary-ness. Not for him the myth of the tortured, doubting artist. He goes full-throttle after whatever he wants and never lets himself be plagued by the notion that he isn't good enough, or an idea of his is played out or derivative, or that a story doesn't make sense/has been seen before/isn't that imaginative/shows a want of taste and subtlety.

And he gets his movies made. And people -- very talented people -- want to work with him. His faults don't hurt him -- he's Teflon. He is truly a testament to where one can go if one decides not to listen to self-doubt.

So in 2007, my (delightful and very talented) friends and I have pledged to follow the Way of the Ratner.

No more putting off a good idea because we can't get it just right. No more procrastination out of a secret fear that we are not ready to pull off the story yet. No more looking at a film or story or script we've finished and cringing because it's not perfect. No way! It's 2007 and we are so awesome! We are totally fucking psyched! And in 2008, we'll be directing X-Men features and executive producing television shows, while still directing music videos for the crazy lady who thinks she is like a butterfly.

DD-Approved Detective Gear, Part 2

2007-01-02T05:25:00.000-08:00

I have finally found the perfect gift for the fashionable girl detective.

Yes, Hannukah and Christmas are long gone, but I am going to once again make a push for people to begin celebrating the Feast of the Epiphany (Jan 6). Doing so has untold advantages -- gift givers have extra time to shop for gifts; everyone gets a presenty lift just as the post-holiday blues begin to set in; the whole "12 Days of Christmas" thing is illuminated nicely with a starting and ending date; and presents are sensibly exchanged on a holiday which celebrates gift-giving rather than one commemorating the harsh consequences of poor travel planning, namely, labor in a barn. (Incidentally, had I been Mary in that scenario, my child would have grown up without a birthday, for the entire event would have been filed under That Which We Shall Not Speak Of Again, Much Less Commemorate Annually, JOSEPH.) Yes, I am convinced that this is the year public sentiment will finally embrace Epiphany celebrations.

I digress. Back to my point:

Pretty, right? Even better -- it's a magnifying glass!! How fantastic is that?! At last, my days of constantly carrying an unwieldy and oversized magnifying glass with me wherever I go (see right) are through!

Ned Who?

2006-12-18T23:42:00.000-08:00

There are only two men for whom I would leave my Emerson-attending beau.

Here they are:

I'm not the only one who notices this, right? That slowly the two loves of my life have been merging into one even more perfect man who sings heartbreaking ballads through a mouthful of gravel and has a rocket of an arm which he sometimes uses to throw into triple coverage? That IS what's going on here, right?

...and the Quest for a Convivial Colleague

2006-12-14T11:14:00.000-08:00

So....I've been away for a while. Almost two months.

I've started to write a number of times, but truthfully, it's difficult at the moment. I began this blog as a way of keeping my friends up-to-date about my undercover work in the land of television.

Well, it blows. My advice to both detectives and budding television writers: don't trust anybody.

As a detective, you'll overlook a critical suspect. As (a detective working undercover as) a lowly assistant, you will find your boss, your coworkers, your friends, as well as your enemies lying to you.

I miss thugs and hoodlums who only tried to steal fortunes from old widowed aunts and run me off the road and down into steep ravines. I hope my case here is almost finished.

...and the Wisdom of the Irascible Irish

2006-10-12T16:44:00.000-07:00

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe go fuck yourself." Dignam, The Departed

Fantastic line. Fantastic part. Pretty fantastic movie. It's a great ride, but Mark Wahlberg steals every scene; it doesn't hurt that he gets the best lines in a movie full of quotable bits.

The point is: I can learn a lot from Dignam. I plan to answer all questions posed to me at work with that reply.

It's so frustrating. There's a lot of workplace making-nice gestures that are simply givens in Hollywood. They may be of questionable sincerity, but they are pro forma. These include birthdays. Everyone makes sure to send fruit baskets and cards, flowers and wine, whatever; they sing songs and hire bands and present cakes.

Recently there has been a rash of them at work. It's become a little bit difficult politically, because people have begun comparing the amount of attention and money spent on each other. Which, let me tell ya, does not make me yearn to celebrate the ingrates' birthdays.

Now, as an overworked, exhausted showrunner who's worrying about the cut for the 7th episode and the Act 3 out for the 9th episode and the outline revision for the 10th episode, there is NOTHING on earth he could possibly care less about than these little birthday celebrations.

And yet...every once in a while he weighs in vehemently and vetoes something and forces the details to all change. So while I would happily not bother him with any of it, for that reason and because it's his money, I try to keep him updated. I know he's at his wits' end with it, so I try to limit the number of times I bother him, but when I discovered that it was one of his colleagues birthday today, I thought I should give him a heads-up. Better for me to tell him and him not to care than for me to not mention it and find out later that it was a huge deal.

I told him. He stared at me and for a moment I feared that this very nice man was going to choke a bitch. And that the bitch would be me. Instead he shook his head and told me to get therapy. He said I was unreasonably attached to birthday celebrations, shook his head at me again, and walked off.

I stared back open-mouthed and outraged. I can't fully express how much I have loathed these birthday details and how little I care whether we order the tuna rolls or the artichoke dip for the special luncheons. This month of birthdays and its constantly shifting logistics have been a blight on my existence. And now he thinks I'm the one who wants to do all this?! And now I'm going to have the rep as the weirdly-obsessed-with-birthdays assistant?

So from now on, rather than keeping my employer up to date on details which he clearly wishes to know nothing about, I will respond with the wisdom of Dignam:

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe go fuck yourself.

Works in every situation.

....and the Case of the Idiotic Illustration

2006-10-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

Okay, so last week was pretty rough, but things here are slowly getting better. The situation -- and certain people specifically -- may not be as bad as I once thought they were. So I can relax and stop being Sandra Bernhard, but I also want to use this experience to remind me not to relax completely. I can't speak my mind as freely as I do to my friends or family. I can keep my opinions to myself.
Basically, I simply need keep my big mouth shut.

Discretion is a hard thing to learn. I'm not being facetious. Keeping a constant flow of information from one office to approximately fifteen different parties is my basic job description, but at any point in time, all those people need different versions of the information, but still enough of the basic information to be on the same page. Knowing who should know what and who doesn't need to know what is a difficult thing to stay on top of.

(pause)

Ironically, my boss just walked up behind me and saw me writing this. Sigh. So, my failure re: the subject of paragraph two may have just reversed the subject of paragraph one.

I should go.

...and the Mystery of the False Familiars

2006-09-25T23:22:00.000-07:00

Everyone warns you about Hollywood. You'll get stabbed in the back. Oh, the slicksters will sell you out with a smile. People repeat the hoary cliches again and again.

Now truthfully, television BARELY counts as Hollywood. And I have met so many lovely, creative, fun, genuine people since moving here. And I'm trying to concentrate on that fact, because....they don't seem to be where I work.

I am surrounded by people who can't quite hide the gleam in their eyes as they stare at the target on my back. People I've made an effort to get to know and be friendly with. In each case, I thought of the person as a friendly coworker -- same team! -- and in a couple of cases, I absolutely considered ourselves friends.

I know when things changed (beginning of last week), but I don't know why, exactly. It's clear there's been talking between parties. And I am trying hard not to take things personally, because truly, with human beings, you never know the full story with someone. People have a million things on their mind, not all of which can be me. I could be making assumptions, being paranoid, or just taking small moments too personally.

But it's disheartening, because who wants to go to work surrounded by circling vultures? And if this is what it's like at the assistant level, you know it doesn't get any easier moving up. It's also unnecessary -- we're not fighting for a limited number of positions; we all have jobs and (one would think) would want to make that as pleasant an experience as possible.

It makes me sad. It makes me reconsider all my friendships. All of them, not just the ones at this workplace. Maybe I can't ever really be honest with anyone with whom I work. Maybe I can't expect the level of loyalty and trust I am generally inclined to give (until I have a reason not to) from other people. Maybe the only friends with whom I can be open are George and Bess and people who have nothing to do with "the industry" at all. But that is just about impossible for me. I can't really keep up the aloof routine very well; I have a pretty open personality, being the vivacious titian-haired girl that I am.

It also makes me angry, because I've tried to be a good friend and now feel that I will be screwed over by that very impulse. For trusting that I had found some like-minded souls.

Don't be self-deprecating. Don't apologize. Don't whine. Don't volunteer information -- about yourself, your friends, your show, your theories.

That is where my investigation has led.

...and the Unmasking of the Deceptive Dissembler

2006-08-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

To Whomever Is Pretending To Be Justin Timberlake:

Why do you keep exhorting me to "get my sexy on"? Why do you continue to assure me that you are "bringing sexy back"? Finally, why do you keep insisting that you are Justin Timberlake when you are clearly an imposter?

My internets tell me that you are in fact Justin Timberlake, but I am dubious. I am quite sure that you are not he. Justin Timberlake sings great, fun pop songs and dances in his videos. You, on the other hand, have made and are now performing a terrible, over-produced song and appear in a video in which you alternately wear a kerchief and wander about a club looking confused. Sir, if those are the qualifications for bringing sexy back, I must inform you that I brought it back YEARS ago.

I am afraid I must insist that you cease and desist with the using of the good Mr. Timberlake's name and (sortof)likeness. I must also insist that you stop claiming to be bringing back that which, as stated above, has already been brought back.

Thank you,

Diana Dare

P.S. Yes, I am aware, sir, that in addition to the "kerchief-rocking" (your word) and the club wandering, you do at one point jump from balcony to balcony of your fancy but bugged/wired hotel. While I will grant you that this activity is sexier than the two I mentioned, again it is ground well covered by yours truly. As one who balcony-jumped while you were but a young Mouseketeer, I am the prior - and therefore, original - bringer back of sexy. Stop this pretense and please go find the real JT.

P.P.S. Should you find him, please let him know that Britney would be realllllly excited to see him should they happen to bump into each other at the Coffee Bean in Malibu at say, 2 pm this Saturday. Or whenever works for him. Just let her know. She says it's totally cool if he texts her. Just don't call cuz Kevin might get all worked up about it even though it's totally nothing. Right? I mean she totally knows that it's nothing. DUH. Well, nothing now. She did really love you but now it's just totally two friends happening to run into each other as they search out delicious iced coffee drinks and maybe if Kevin ever worked a day in his life instead of ordering up another set of pet sharks, he'd know how refreshing an iced blended could be after a strenuous day of comeback tour preparations and not get worked up over something that is OBVIOUSLY just a friends thing.

...and the Curse of the Broken Plot

2006-08-04T22:42:00.000-07:00

Frequently, one makes a plan. Frequently things do not go according to the plan. It is then that both writers and girl detectives are reminded of the importance of two character traits: adaptability and perseverance.

Woody Allen said that 80 percent of success is showing up. If that's the case, I'd say another 19% is how quickly and how well you can formulate a backup plan once you show up and find the situation entirely amiss. Perhaps you arrive at your family reunion only to find your entire extended family missing, captured by aliens. Perhaps an old friend calls you up out of the blue and wants to meet, but when you do, you suddenly realize that you have walked into a trap. Suppose you go to the party of the summer in your favorite cocktail dress and realize it is a lame affair and the three people attending are all wearing khaki shorts of some kind.

If there is one thing my sleuthing has taught me, it is always to have a backup plan. Know your exits. Think about what they won't see coming. Close off options mentally and force yourself to come up with an alternative so that should that option end up closed off, you don't have to sweat it.

One of the differences between staff writers and more seasoned writers is how attached they become to their story elements. As writers, we're all looking for that great twist or hook that elicits gasps or cheers or that socked in the gut feeling, and they're not that easy to come up with, so naturally the writer gets attached to their cool idea -- in a lot of cases you're writing 59 pages so that you can write those 2 pages. It's the part of which you're the proudest, the apple of your eye. And chances are someone will tell you it has to go. It might not even have anything to do with the element itself -- maybe another show on the network is doing something too close to it a week earlier, or some element is too expensive, or the actor refuses to have red things near her -- but it's gone. Now what?

Don't waste time crying over the dead. They're dead. Get on with it.

Which brings me to perseverance. Perseverance is a funny thing - it's so much more effective than you would imagine it could be. If you truly devote energy to a pursuit for a long time, you will reach a certain level of competence, even if you don't have a great deal of talent. It's true of the clarinet, yoga, race car driving, even writing.

In my undercover gigs, I have learned a great many skills: bareback riding in the circus, handgliding off mountains, cliff diving in Acaupauloco, calf wrangling on the dude ranch. I will let you in on a secret: despite my vivacious nature and my sparkling intelligence, I was not very gifted at any of those endeavors. But the job called for it, and I practiced, and soon I could pass for a pro and then the bad guys relaxed. They got careless and I found the necessary clue and cracked the case.

But I only learned these things by getting back up on the horse, mountain, cliff, or calf and trying again. And I'd like to think that at some point, I will have climbed back up on enough animals and natural rock formations and not have to do it anymore, but deep down I know that I will. There will always be another bull to ride for at least eight seconds, or another evil ringmaster to fool into thinking that I am a natural-born carnie. And there will always be another story that I need to break and rebreak and rebreak again.

I got a great opportunity recently and I'm trying to prove myself worthy. Chief McGinnis invited me in and presented me with a tough case. He asked me for my thoughts. I asked a few questions and thought for a bit. Finally I gave him my answer: I outlined it all, told him how the criminals could've pulled off the job. It wasn't a bad answer. It made sense. Logically, it could have happened. But this was a genius crime, and my explanation was sorely lacking in genius. It was textbook. By-the-numbers. It was not what the chief needed. I was initially proud to have figured out a way the crime could have been pulled off, only to realize that my answer still wasn't right. Back to the drawing board. Look at the facts again, and find another way.

Piratey thought of the day: I was back in River Heights this weekend to work this case that I just mentioned, and got to spend some time with my friends and their toddler, whom I hadn't seen since he was a baby. We naturally discussed pirates. I inquired as to whether he planned to take his pet cat on his pirate ship when he left his home for a life of sailing and plundering, and he shook his head at me solemnly. He explained. "No, you can't take cats. They don't stay on your shoulders." He sighed wearily, as only one who has tested the shoulder-balancing ability of all the animals can. "Only parrots do." I think this kid is nine kinds of brilliant.

My point? Pirates adapt and persist. As should I. As should we all.

...and the Evidence of the Extra

2006-07-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

So shooting is underway on the television show I am investigating. Dailies have begun coming in, and it's fascinating to watch which takes work and which don't. There are some takes that don't succeed for mundane reasons - boom in the shot, flubbed lines, but other takes fail when the unexpected occurs. The dead dog doesn't play dead. The child runs for his life with a big smile on his face. Or maybe you have an insane background player.

Actors have it rough out here. It is an unforgiving and unfair industry to everyone, but to actors in particular. It's said all the time in a genial, ha ha way that actors are crazy. I am telling you in a non-genial, no laughing way: the great majority of them are nuts. Bonkers.

There are people who have great amounts of talent and who also have a very specific personality that is self-aware, secure, pragmatic, and comfortable with uncertainty. Those make up 1% of the actors out here and they should continue to act, because they are awesome. For the rest of the people out here, I truly believe it's a personality-destroying occupation. The tool most actors counteract the forces that work to crush any normal person is delusion. Heaping amounts of delusion. However, it doesn't work all the time, so through the delusion one can occasionally glimpse the yawning chasm of insecurity.

I want to emphasize that I don't blame them -- I think that is the normal human reaction to pursuing a line of work with constant rejection, no meritocracy, a out-of-whack emphasis on looks, no end of bitchiness, and a common motivator of fear. I think it's how 99% of people would end up. But bottom line, they're nuts.

Which brings me to extras. Some extras are just extras - they think it's a fun, painless way to make $75 or $100 a day. There's an extra on ER who's been an extra daily since it aired. I really want them to let him direct an episode sometime - after 11 seasons of watching production every day, he'd probably get them to make their day by lunch.

Other extras are actors trying to break in. This is a great idea as long as you don't get stuck in extra limbo. It gets you experience on a set, shows you how everything works, and after a few times, an extra is often thrown a bone - made a featured extra or given a line, especially if they've proven themselves sane and responsible and the production people know they need SAG points.

But there is extra limbo. People who extra for years doing no other work, yet still believe they are going to make it as a star. People who believe this is a giant step in their career, when if I can equate it to something writing-wise, it's sort of like having specs. It's a way to get in to the circle that seems knowledgeable. This isn't the "good" circle, merely the "has a clue" circle. Some people never leave the extras circle, and some of those people are in our dailies. And it's fantastic. I spent an evening recently bursting into peals of laughter with some assts and writers as we watched a set of dailies in which the woman in the background of one scene effectively destroyed take after take with her acting.

The scene was set in a nice restaurant. This woman in the background was framed nicely between the two leads having dinner at the table in the foreground.

The first take went pretty well, the lead actors hit all the unspoken back and forth beats of the scene, ending with a detente. The scene ends with a nice little moment of the characters reconsidering each other. The actors regard each other for a beat and then, in the background....YAAAAAAWWWNNNNNNNN. Extra Lady started yawning. A feeding time at the zoo yawn. It's so funny. It's so beautifully timed with their little actorly moment. If she planned it, I'd think she was brilliant.

In subsequent takes, she became so absorbed in the scene between the two leads occuring at the table next to hers that she simply turned straight to the dinner table and watched. When there was a suspenseful moment in their conversation, she held her breath. She then progressed to leaning toward the table as if waiting for the answer. I think she may have created a whole backstory that her dinner date (who valiantly kept cutting his pork chop and trying to silently talk to her as his "date" ignored him and stared at the table next door) had been rude and she was giving him the silent treatment when who should appear at the table next to hers than her friend Barney whom she hadn't seen since junior high and her motivation was to eavesdrop on the conversation. Or maybe she just had no awareness that she kept ceasing to act and instead stared gape-mouthed at the two actors in the scene.

I know she probably can't ever be hired again, but I hope she becomes our every-day-for-eleven-seasons extra. If only for the enviable stomach muscles I'd develop from laughing.

...and the Mystery of All the Vanishing Hours of My Day

2006-07-12T12:58:00.000-07:00

I have discovered that it is difficult to be either a detective or a writer while one's cover takes up 14 hours a day. Note to self: in future, showrunner asst makes for lousy cover job, as you spend large chunks of the day tied to desk, away from enticing mysteries, and will probably not have time to buy food, take out the garbage or brush your hair, much less solve a case.

Emmy nominations? Yes, that was over a week ago, but if you think I'm running late, you'll have to get in line behind my laundry, my cats, my mechanic, my friends, and my landlord to scold me about it. I'm trying, y'all.

Right. The Emmys. If you personally are nominated for an Emmy, then I imagine they are pretty exciting. Otherwise, I think no one in the world, including people working in television, care at all about the Emmys. Like the Oscars, they tend to play it safe, award old favorites, and award based on past work rather than the actual submission. Unlike the Oscars, Clooney doesn't attend these days and the gift bag does not include a trip to a Caribbean island.

Speaking of the Caribbean, I had spam in my email account labeled "Pirate Survey" this morning -- it was a survey for people who had seen the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie. But just for a second, my heart had leapt, thinking that someone had sent me the results of their survey of pirates. Wouldn't that be wonderful? What do you suppose the questions would be: how many striped shirts do you own? What is the name of your parrot? And of course: what's your favorite letter of the alphabet? (answer: ARRRRRRRRRRR!)

The Emmys. Right. There are always a few people around who manage to get their knickers twisted about the crime against mankind that is the omission of this show or that actor, but I so fully expect the nominations list to suck that i'm just happily surprised when those doing the nominating get it right. Yeah, Lauren Graham unjustly continues to be the primetime version of Susan Lucci, but without even the nominations to console her, and Battlestar Galactica is a much better show than West Wing, but come on, what are you expecting?

So let's celebrate the happy surprises this year:

* "Trapped in the Closet" was nominated for Outstanding Animated Feature.

* Not a damn housewife in the bunch, whew. (yeah, yeah, Alfre Woodard is nominated, but she's not one of the original monsters whom we all loathe. Alfre, like Felicity, we merely pity for being leagues above the material in terms of talent and class.)

* Jaime Pressly - yaay, girl! I've loved you since "It's already been brought-en." And after that New Yorker article on you a couple of years ago that bluntly pointed out that you had another 24-30 months to make it or not at all, I'm even more glad that you got a role you could really knock out of the park.

* Allison Janney - she doesn't really deserve an Emmy this year at all for CJ, mostly because the writing for her this year kinda blew, but I still want her to win every award for which she is ever nominated, especially every award having to do with CJ Cregg.

* Andre Braugher - I think it's weird that Thief is defined as a miniseries, but boy howdy, he is one good actor and likewise deserves to be nominated for and to win every award that he possibly can. Here's hoping he can beat the Pope and Gandhi.

* Kate Winslet for Extras. So awesome. She does drama so well that it's easy to overlook the great comic moments she has in most of those roles, and how well she does them. It really makes me want to see her in a Christopher Guest movie.

* Best Comedy nominations for Arrested Development, Scrubs, and The Office. I thought the chances of all three getting nominated were non-existent, and seeing all three right up there where they should be makes me glow.

A couple of random thoughts:

* How on earth do they pick the nominees for Best Lighting for a Sitcom?

*As great as he is on Boston Legal, if I had to pick one award for William Shatner, I think I would prefer that he win for the History Special 'How William Shatner Changed the World', because REALLY??!!! There's a documentary produced by The History Channel about HOW WILLIAM SHATNER HAS CHANGED THE WORLD? Did Esperanto catch on while I wasn't looking? Is his horrible Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds THAT horrible? Whuh? And yet, as floored as I am, it'd be so awesome to see him win that. Especially given that we could have to hear Rosie O'Donnell yammering on and on about her dumb inclusive family cruise.

And even though not two paragraphs ago I mocked anyone who cares about the Emmys enough to feel disgust, I must put myself in that category long enough to add:

* Truly, Emmy voters, what the hell is with you and Two and a Half Men?

* Find me a writer outside of the Grey's Anatomy staff who thinks the second half of It's the End of the World, As We Know It belonged on television, much less a list of the best episodes on television. Even Shonda knows it was bad. She does. She wrote it while she was sick as a dog, in virtually no time at all, and I mean this quite sincerely, that is an Impressive and Amazing and Incredibly Difficult to Do. But everyone knows that it was awful, including her. She had to explain what happened in the episode to about 1/3 of the people who wrote to her about the episode. One out of every three people could not tell what had happened during the episode. That alone should get you knocked off a list of contenders.

All right, my cover job demands that I go take some notes now.

DD-Approved Detective Gear

2006-06-27T16:29:00.000-07:00

My roadster, frankly, has seen better days. My father hasn't seen fit to buy me a new one in ages, not that I blame him. A girl should be able to make a car last a long time, and I would, if I weren't always getting into car chases, or finding myself followed by a mysterious dark sedan, or being run off the road, or stopping at the sight of some intrigue along the side of the road. My car simply wears out faster than the cars of my non-detecting peers.

So when my new employer gave me the keys to his new sedan and asked me to deliver a package, I took them happily. As I opened the trunk of the car to deposit the package, I noticed something intruiging. The car was equipped with an anti-trap device! There is a handle one can pull from the inside of the trunk if one happens to find onself locked inside. I believe these are typically included as basically a child safety device, in case a particularly rambunctious child should lock herself inside the trunk. But not on the Ford Limited Five Hundred. No, they pretty much include it because they expect you to be kidnapped by mobsters. The icon on the anti-trap mechanism actually shows a little stick figure man jumping out of the trunk and then a dotted little path and arrow indicating "run away!"

It's the running away directive that makes it genius.

And plucky detective-approved. I love a car that assumes its driver lives such an exciting life that she will at some point find herself locked in the trunk of her own car.

...and the Pattern in the Puzzle

2006-06-27T16:10:00.000-07:00

I am flummoxed at the moment. A new mystery has presented itself, and I have tried to attack the puzzle with vigor and derring-do, yet I remain confused. I’ve uncovered the connections; the clues lie before me. They must mean something, but what?? I haven’t quite pieced it together. If only someone would try to drive my sporty roadster off the road, I could get a look at the thug and use his identity as a clue!

I cannot go into detail, because the case is Top Secret. But I can use a similar experience to illustrate my situation.

I knew of a man at Emerson. I didn’t know him personally, but I had seen him around when I visited Ned, my boyfriend. Ned, similarly, knew of him but did not actually know him, since he wasn't an Omega Chi Epsilon brother. I will call this man Sergei.

Sergei and I never officially met, but the universe had a way of inserting him into my life. I once walked in on him having sex in a study carrel Ned had reserved. Another time he tried to argue a case against my father, Carson, and lost. But I remember him most vividly from the night he ran a red light and slammed his pizza delivery truck into my roadster in the middle of the intersection. Burt Eddleton, George, Ned and I were all in the car. I was merely shaken up, but Ned and George got bruises and scratches, and Burt had a huge concussion. His head swelled up like a melon and he developed amnesia and memory loss! Waiting for the ambulance that night, I thought of finally introducing myself to Sergei, but I was so angry at him for running the red light and concussing my friends that I decided against it. I never was formally introduced to him.

More recently I was in Prague on a case. One night I decided to take a break from the case and try and have some fun. I found myself at a rave taking place on a mysterious houseboat. There I was introduced to another man; I’ll call him Bob. My Czech friend went to find me an alcoholic beverage, leaving me alone with Bob. I began to talk to Bob. He told me he was engaged and very happy. I said “Congratulations, that’s wonderful.” He then lunged for me and started kissing me. In the end, this did not relate to the case.

Just lately I have learn that Sergei and Bob are working in a bookstore together. More curiously, the owner of the bookstore once lived next door to Burt Eddleton.
It seems like that should mean something. Something besides the fact that I should never walk into that bookstore. But what is the connection exactly? Surely it means something, portends something. What can it all mean??

...and the Riddle in the Refueling

2006-06-19T14:44:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in weeks. And not even because I have been distracted by a new case. I feel the way I did after I'd solved my first case and all the hoopla had started to die down. I didn't have my second case. My friends called me a detective, but was it true? One little case -- it could be a fluke. In the end, another case turned up. And then another, and another. At Lilac Inn, Shadow Ranch, Red Gate Farm, Larkspur Lane, everywhere I turned. I fell into a rhythm. Now it's second nature. I know where to look. I know when to be patient and when to press. Most importantly, I know one will turn up.

Why can't writing be like that? I feel like a fraud, the wannabe who won't ever be. It's scary, and yet, at the moment, even though I need to, I can't write. I feel so tapped out.

I'm working at a new job, as my father's law office has been tied up with some boring real estate claims. Not much work and no hope of cases. At least while working there, however, there was ample time throughout the day to write. Not so here. There is time in little fits and starts, but finishing anything more than a one or two page scene isn't manageable. Of course, what I'm working on at the moment (play, not spec) doesn't break down easily into two-page chunks.

In my experience, playwriting is a more meandering process. The form is less restrictive, and it bleeds over into the approach. Instead of having a beat sheet that spells out exactly what the beginning, middle, and end of each scene is, I have a general idea of where the play is going, what the scenes are, what order the scenes are in, and so on. I know that I'm writing a scene where a boyfriend and girlfriend are having a fight over mailing a letter that's not actually about mailing a letter, but I don't know where the argument will wander. In my case, it turned out to include baseball and that instantly informed their other scenes -- connections opened up -- and suddenly baseball becames a part of my play.

Each different form of dramatic writing offers different luxuries and constraints. A play allows two characters to sit and talk -- the exact thing you are warned against including in tv and film. The characters might even have a conversation that wanders over several topics and then circles back to the original point. That's not to say that flabby writing is allowable -- one still needs a tough editorial eye -- but the reigns are loosened a bit and there's simply more time to explore an idea in multiple ways within a scene from a play.

While I'm happy to have the luxury of "to page 3 and beyond!" after writing several specs which featured lots of short scenes, it's not the writing that's conducive to being squeezed in between answering calls, making copies, and generally staying on top of everything going on in a writers' room and production office.

There's also the tougher problem of this general feeling of emptiness. Not in a grand metaphysical "I can't go on!" way, but more of an ennui-lite/Sartre for Beginners type of way. I feel like I haven't done, read, written, or lived anything but television in the past few months, and that kind of narrowly focused living frankly doesn't make one a very interesting person. I want to take a break and just go do stuff for a month or so -- read up on pirates, learn to surf, plant a garden, spend more time getting to know my neighbors, watch some Truffaut movies that I've meant to have seen but haven't -- but it all keeps falling to the wayside. I need crumbling walls, black keys, haunted showboats, and kachina dolls; I have soda order forms and drive-on requests.

I thought that there'd be a breathing period after staffing season, but it appears not to be the case. It's a happy dilemma having people wanting to read your stuff; now I just have to *produce* the genius stuff so they can read it.

I keep telling myself if I can just get through project X, I'm taking 2 weeks off, guilt-free, to just read up on whatever catches my eye and do something that does not involve little people in a box. Maybe I'll go to a dude ranch or ski resort with Bess and George and scare up some intrigue.

Which just leaves the small problem of motoring through project X.

I think I need a standing apptmt with the UCLA Law Library. Woman enters, does not leave until two scenes are written. Repeat every night until finished.

Send all your "get focused" vibes my way, y'all.

...and the Intrigue in the Ashes

2006-06-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, I have stumbled upon a new mystery! I arrived at work to find firetrucks surrounding my place of employment. Several alleys and streets were blocked off, and helicopters were buzzing overhead. Stage 27 was on fire!

Chief McGinnis thinks it was an accident, but I'm not so sure. I have several theories at this point, but even more questions. What was shooting on Stage 27 anyway? Who were all those mysterious workers seen entering and exiting at all times of day? Why did the fire spread to a nearby stage when the fire department learned of the fire almost immediately? Why do they keep motioning me to stay away from the site of the fire? What are they trying to hide? Was this the work of a disgruntled employee? Perhaps a rival studio? A starlet desperate to get out of her contract for a movie that was clearly going south?

Theory #1: Arsonist aiming for ruining the MTV Movie Awards but confused event date (Friday and Sat) with the air date (this coming Thurs). Attempt to save us from painfully unfunny Jessica Alba comedy bits failed, but arsonist wins my grudging respect.

Theory #2: Accidental fire caused by problem with wiring/light/employee cigarette. Not much of a mystery. Much more exciting if arson.

Theory #3: Arsonist actually independent filmmaker using stage after hours for his one big effects scene when his inexperienced stunts coordinator (just a couple points shy of his SAG card) made an unfortunate "shouldn't be a problem" call. If so, film crew was able to dismantle and run away very quickly. Check all recent film school graduates against their school's track teams. Follow up with any directors who hold suspiciously good times in the 400.

Theory #4: Arsonist wasn't aiming for Stage 27 at all, but rather hoping to get a toasty blaze going that would then spread to nearby stages -- the actual goal all along. Wait a minute....I'm in one of those nearby stages. Make list of potential enemies. Investigate those with arson or smoking in backgrounds. Think, think. What were they trying to destroy? (Besides me?) Keep eye on crew -- see if George will go undercover as grip.

I'm so excited. I haven't had a good mystery for months!

...and the Case of the Fumbled Finales

2006-05-22T23:47:00.000-07:00

Am I alone in finding the recent batch of season/series finales terribly underwhelming?

It's a difficult thing to do, wrapping up everything with a neat little bow, leaving no dangling plot threads or thematic lumps. Undeniably difficult. Endings are harder than beginnings, in television and in life.

But unlike life, when endings can sneak up on you and kick you in the teeth, leaving you on your back with the wind knocked out of you, gasping for air and spitting blood, in television, you know they're coming. Yes, perhaps your show will be unceremoniously yanked from the schedule and you'll be caught unawares, but even in those cases, there are usually clouds gathering on the horizon for a while. And to the majority of shows, I say: It's In May. It's Your Twenty-Second Episode. Plan For It.

Overall, they were pretty weak, but in a few pointed cases, they were actively bad and harmful to the series.

First up, Gilmore Girls. I don’t care what anyone says, Amy Sherman-Palladino and Daniel Palladino wrote the finale of Gilmore Girls as a kiss-off to Warner Bros. They must have. The alternative possibility is that they fell so seriously off course they didn’t even realize they fell off course. Which, if either of them watched an episode this year, should have been achingly clear. If this was actually an honest attempt at a good season finale, man, they really do need the rest. It’s certainly been a demoralizing year to be a Gilmore Girls fan. Gone are the two characters whom I thought it would be great to know if they existed; they were chicas you wanted to hang out with. And now, they have been replaced by two incredibly whiny women whose antics would not be seen as charming anywhere outside of a television set.

Season Five featured character 180s all over the place, but all of this has been covered by a large group of television critics and angry fans, so I’ll try to focus just on the finale. The season finale which saw Rory lose her boyfriend to Paris and a Rupert Murdoch stand-in who suddenly grew a conscience, Luke insist more and more unreasonably that his child and his soon-to-be wife never meet, Lorelai lose the plot completely and insist that Luke elope with her at that instant or never get married to her, break down, cry, and finally wind up devastated in Christopher’s bed. Yup, that finale.

Lauren Graham is magic, but even she couldn’t save this.

And then there’s the almost equally cool Sherilyn Fenn, playing April’s worried single mother – a character who could have had a realistically prickly friendship with Lorelai. It would have been fun to watch these two play that together over the course of a season. Competitiveness and jealousy wrestling with a recognition of a kindred spirit. Both cute, young single mothers trying to raise preternaturally verbal young women – they’ve got a lot in common. Instead Sherilyn winds up saddled with the role of the villain who says anything to cause conflict. Her convoluted reasoning that she doesn’t want her daughter to have any contact with her father’s fiancé until they are married makes zero sense. Particularly since she was fine with her daughter conducting a very public paternity test by herself while she presumably watched from the sidelines amused at her zany pluckiness or her plucky zaniness. She’s crazy, is what I’m saying.

And fine, Sherilyn Fenn rocks and deserves better, but at least she’s a new character and perhaps this new character is nuts. But when Lorelai and Rory and Luke – the core three – all go nuts the same season...well, at least now she’s got company.

The GG finale was followed by Veronica Mars. A friend had been dismissing the second season of this show all year, growing more and more vocal. I kept the faith, convinced that the writers could pull it off. Soon it will all make sense, I told her. Soon, it’ll all come together and we’ll be amazed. She shook her head sadly. She’s much better at knowing when to write something off than I am. I clung to hope even as the number of episodes dwindled. After I watched the finale, I sat there disappointed. It felt like betrayal. This show was once so good and this season was just a flippin’ mess. The guy giving off bad guy vibes since the second episode actually is the bad guy?! What suspense! And poor teenaged Beaver is not a reluctant murderer so desperate to keep his horrible secret hidden that he attempts to silence someone only to have it backfire and leave him as the accidental murderer of eight teens. That I would’ve bought and even loved. But Evil Eyeliner Beaver as a sociopath with a body count that just keeps rising – it felt false every step of the way. The great twists of last year’s final two episodes were replaced with uneven plotting and stop-and-lurch storytelling. Or maybe I just miss Lily. Thank God for Big Love.

I called my friend.

“You were right,” I whispered, still in a daze “This show is a jerk boyfriend. I get it now. He’s a jerk. He’s not really nice. He doesn’t really love me.”

“Took you long enough,” she muttered. “Only took him breaking your arm.”

The worst part of the finale was undoing one of the most perfect hours of television ever by rewriting it so that this year’s villain, in addition to killing over a dozen people, also happened to rape her and lie about it. It undid so much wonderful storytelling and added to it in such a clunky, off way. What was a resolution that drew storylines together while elegantly mirroring classic film noir is now the unlikely scenario wherein two guys at a party each separately find a passed out girl in the back bedroom and decide to have sex with her within an hour of each other, with underwear being pulled off and then put back on in between each unpleasant occasion, each unaware of each other, with no witnesses. Or rape kit. It’s possible…but why would you undo something that worked so well for THAT?

Moving onto Alias. Wow, the chick shows really biffed it this year. Watching Alias has become like hanging out with an old friend with whom you no longer have anything in common, because your old friend is now kind of sucky. And phoning it in. I was the most faithful of Alias viewers until Season Four broke me, taking with it much of my faith in humanity. But hey, it was ending, they were getting the whole gang back together, and I had to see how it ended.

The final run-up to the end held glimpses of the FUN that Alias used to be – any moment when Bradley Cooper was back onscreen, Jack handing Sydney a gun while she’s in labor and barking “Cover your mother!”, Spy Daddy’s Babysitters In Black, any scene with Spy Daddy, Peyton finally looking a little spy-ish as she shoots a plane out of the sky with a RPG – but the end? Come on, writers! I know everyone’s tired and you and the actors and everyone wanted this to end two years ago, and everyone’s jealous/resentful at the way J.J. can just scamper off when he wants (but on the other hand: 8+ months, including a press tour, with the Wee Crazy One, so maybe the whole thing's a draw, fellas) but you are paid a lot of money and it’s only one more episode and oh my god, how hard is it to make it GOOD?!! Aaauuuuuugghhhh!

And then they killed SpyDaddy. Oh come on. Seriously. Screw that. They killed off SpyDaddy because he was the character everyone cared most about and loved the most. Yes, even more than Syd. And because they couldn’t figure out anything about Rambaldi or that the Italian countryside doesn’t feature Himalayan mountains with ice caves, they just shrugged and said, “If we kill him, everyone will cry and we can peace out of this thing.” Boo! SpyDaddy was supposed to stay in the spying game, reuniting every so often with SpyMommy (who was also supposed to live) while Syd and Vaughn retire happily to (chemistry-free) married life on some beach. THAT is what was supposed to happen.

Then, just when matters couldn't get any worse, Lena Olin showed up. Syd tracked her down and found out that her evil mastermind of a mother basically has the same plan as everyone from Rhett Butler to Dick Cheney. Profiteering? Wow. Pretty damn weak.

So SpyMommy is bad and evil and SpyDaddy is wonderful and good, and honestly, the resolution of the SpyFam bothers me more than anything. Because we all knew all along that they were pulling this Rambaldi stuff out of their bums. But the reason I watched and loved Alias is that it used the spy genre as a metaphor for being in a family and growing up within a dysfunctional or broken family. And Syd was raised with the idea of one parent as the hero and the other as the villain, and then it flipped. But she was young and prone to black and white thinking – one of her parents was the good guy, the other was the bad guy. And both her parents were revealed over time to be complicated, difficult people who loved her but had poor ways of showing it. They were parents who had made bad decisions raising her, sometimes ostensibly to “protect” her from the other parent. These “protections” weren’t seen by Sydney as that, but rather as betrayals. Why did you leave me? Why did you lie to me? Those were the questions she was left with again and again as she sought to figure out whose truth to believe, which parent to trust, and whether they could maybe both have some ownership of the truth.

The show spun that metaphor out so assuredly, until the writers stopped caring about it. And in the finale – the last 47 (hee) minutes of its life -- they undid it all! All that work building up a show’s mythology, wiped out like that. Whoops, turns out Syd was right all along, before she knew anything. One’s the good guy; one’s the bad guy.

Not-J.J. did better on Lost, but honestly, I haven’t been watching that carefully. I plan to grab the DVDs and actually sit down and watch them in a marathon session, because my distracted viewing of four minutes here and there during commercial breaks has left me…actually, not that far behind most viewers. I wasn’t thrilled by the finale, but for all the flaws of the show, they have some of the best *moments* of television. “We’re the good guys.” The big foot. And the ice station with the phone to Penelope! And it may be that they are too happy to sacrifice logic for those moments, but honestly? I always love them. I really do. Plus, Clancy Brown!

Grey's Anatomy. Honestly, this show is just so bad that I can't even talk about it anymore. No Grey's. Okay just a little. A prom? Loretta Devine keeps silent about her knowledge of her husband's affair for 25 years and a flippin' PROM gets it out of her?! McDreamy, god, you rival the drama queen antics of most 12-year-old girls. And Izzie, please leave medicine and take your dead boyfriend with you. Your friends protecting you isn't loyalty; it's criminal. Is is possible for the Chief to be weaker and more ineffectual? ("I'm here to get answers! Or maybe I'll just listen to you all mope about your g.d. love lives instead of talking about how you participated in the almost-killling of a patient.") Christine behaves like no person on the planet ever has or ever will. Ever. And Izzie, even though I think you are crazy, I still think you are very, very pretty. I just think this show is so lazy in its ethics. If a likable character does something despicable (Izzy, Meredith), not only are we supposed to understand it, we are supposed to support it, because a FRIEND did it. I can't get with that. When a friend of mine does something awful, like say, compares me to Meredith Grey ("not looks, just her personality and her whole character"), I cannot support her in that terrible act. I also feel like I might want to kill both my friend and myself, but that's neither here nor there.

So to recap:

Gilmore Girls = way to unwrite Seasons 1-3 by changing the characters into unrecognizable crazies

Veronica Mars = way to unwrite Season 1 because Veronica can’t understand rape (in upcoming Season 3) unless she’s been raped.

Alias = way to undo the overarching mythology of your show, and to do it without WIGS!

Lost = once you’re fine with all Bad Robot shows eventually turning to crap, it’s actually lot of fun.

Grey's Anatomy = She meant it as a compliment, but how is that even possible?????

There is one bright shining spot in all of this. The Office. Oh, The Office. This half-hour comedy is delivering more dramatically satisfying moments than most of the one-hours on television. When Jim quietly confessed “I’m in love with you” to Pam in the parking lot, I actually gasped. Twenty-seven episodes of build-up and lost opportunities and dancing around the unspoken, obvious truth finally crashed down around Jim and Pam. When’s the last time you gasped at something on TV? (me: last season’s Alias finale…which, yeah, we know how that worked out.) So many big moments on television at the moment involve conspiracy theories, murders, prison breaks, serial rapists, severed body parts, lost relatives, and once again for good measure murder, but The Office got a gasp out of Jim finally -- finally -- saying what he had to say. It was a small, human moment, the kind most of us will have or have had, unlike the uncovering of conspiracy theories, murder, prison break, serial rapists, severed body parts, or lost relatives – which makes the gasp it elicited from me all the more impressive.

...and The Clue of the Unhappy Temp

2006-05-20T10:17:00.000-07:00

So Ryan Howard, the best temp ever, had this to say in a recent interview when asked for advice on breaking into television writing. Very interesting, and a lot of food for thought.

"Yeah, my advice is, the most traditional path, and there’s no harm at all in trying it, is to write sample scripts of your favorite shows, because those are always eventually if you do become a writer are used as your samples that you send to a show to prove that you can write comedy or drama if that’s what you wanna do. But these days I think a better path to stand out especially people coming out of college, is to do something that is very clearly you and your voice that people could discover. I did standup and Greg saw me do it which led to me being hired on the show, because in standup you can really tell what someone’s voice and style is as a writer. I mean I also had writing samples, and those are good to have too. Like I think the Lonely Island guys and Andy Samberg and them on SNL, they were basically discovered by making internet shorts and they were good enough that they found a following, so I’d say anything that you can do that really makes your writing entertaining and stands out and able to stand on it’s own as entertainment right away. Anything that you think could entertain your friends or anyone, I’d work hard and do it. And I think that’s also the best way to develop as a writer because I spent a year doing standup without getting a laugh. Really, when I started, the audience will teach you what’s funny and smart and I think it’s great to get out there and try and make something entertaining and interesting rather than write sample script after sample script."

You can check out the rest of the interview here.

...and the Secret of the Two Empty Bottles

2006-05-19T07:56:00.000-07:00

I'm just a little devastated at the moment.

Last night started so well, too.

I got together with some writer friends whom I adore. Great funny people, most of whom are in a similar situation as myself -- a little excited and a little nervous about staffing, but still a little bit hopeful based on some positive reception to their work. Bright Young Things, that's us. So we were gathered, talking about the ins and outs of being a BYT, and it slowly dawned on me that all my paranoid, neurotic thoughts were sadly, neither paranoid or neurotic.

WRITER #1: okay, weren't you guys surprised there was a secret handshake?
WRITER #2: I know! And a secret cave.
WRITER #1: I know!
WRITER #2: A secret cave. I had no idea. No idea.
WRITER #3: And when that stone wall in the cave moved and you saw --
WRITER #4: the GIANT screen and all the computers!! I know!!
WRITER #3: Oh my god.
WRITER #2: Seriously. Oh my god.
WRITER #2: Blown away. Who knew?
WRITER #1: Did you guys have to practice the handshake or did you get it right away?
WRITER #2: I got it right away.
WRITER #3: Yeah.
WRITER #4: Me too.
WRITER #1: Well I feel like an idiot. D, what about you?

Pause.

ME: There's a handshake?

Laughter.

ME: No, seriously. There's a handshake?

Everyone starts to realize.

WRITER #1: Yeah. You know.
WRITER #4: The handshake.
WRITER #2: You met Mr. X, right?
ME: Yeah, but --
WRITER #2: The handshake.
ME: He never said anything about a handshake.

Silence.

WRITER #3: It's no big deal.
WRITER #1: Totally.
ME: You said there was a cave. A secret cave, with the wall of computers.
WRITER #2: I don't think it's that important.
ME: There's a bank of computers mounted into the walls of an underground cave that you need a secret handshake to get into but you don't think it's important.
WRITER #3: It's really more of a lair than a cave. I mean, it's homey. There's couches and movie screens and snacks and Fiji water --

Everyone glares at Writer #3.

WRITER #3: But I didn't see much else there. It's nothing.
WRITER #1: It's not that cool. You're not missing anything.
WRITER #2: I don't get it. You met Mr. X.
WRITER #4: Only five people got taught the handshake.
WRITER #3: I heard that too.
WRITER #2: Right. Five. Us. 1,2,3,4, and Diana.
WRITER #3: Well, 1,2,3,4....
WRITER #1: Maybe he’s gonna tell you and he just hasn't yet.
WRITER #4: Yeah.
WRITER #3: No. #6 met with Mr. X two weeks ago.
WRITER #2: Oh man. And he's always carrying that Fiji water bottle.
WRITER #4: He could've gotten it at the store.
WRITER #3: Or the lair.
ME: Do you have more wine around here?
WRITER #2: But why wouldn't Mr. X tell you?
WRITER #3: Well, he only teaches you the secret handshake if you’re good. I mean, that's what Mr. X said. When he taught me the handshake and took me to the underground lair and we watched the advance copy of X-Men 3 on the giant screen.
ME: I'm gonna go check in the kitchen.

So I went to the kitchen, found the wine, and didn't leave any for anybody else. ( I'm sure they have plenty in their well-stocked underground lair anyway.) At which point, I became That Drunk Girl and left everyone shaking their heads, all "And she wonders why she didn't get taught the handshake? Look at her." Writer #3 nodded, then pointed out that I also had lousy act breaks.

And now I feel ill from wine and regret.

...and the Curse of Heart Palpitations

2006-05-16T10:27:00.000-07:00

It's staffing season in Hollywood, which basically equates to the old "hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror". Like Texas Hold 'Em. Or war, if you're an idiot who's lost all perspective. (As a side note, I cannot adequately express how much I LOVE it when people compare their mundane problems to real-life tragedies or situations of import. Of all human foibles, hideous analogies caused by solipsism delight me the most.)

I sit and try to write and every so often get a piece of news about staffing that shifts everything around again. Who's going to which show, who's showrunning what, who's submitted where...it keeps changing and every little adjustment, good or bad, causes my stomach to lurch. Coffee has become my enemy because I'm already wired and jittery, and any more caffeine pushes me over into visible shakes. I had to tell my best friend -- the cappuccino whom I meet every morning before we head into work together -- that we just couldn't do this for the next few weeks. She was heartbroken but understood. Sort of. She's Italian and she takes these things very hard...

So I try to write. I try to remember that it only makes sense to focus on what I can control, which at the moment is the blank screen in front of me. But when I'm vibrating at a low frequency at all times from fear and excitement and dread, the act of sitting down becomes impossible, much less writing while sitting. I'd love to be able to focus on something -- anything -- for more than twenty seconds.

Perhaps I should investigate how to do this next, because at the moment, I have no idea. I should go ask my friend who went to live on a mountain top with the Buddhist monks. I think they're Buddhist. I hope they are. I hope Hollywood hasn't affected my detecting skills to the point that important details of my friends' lives are not registering because they are not job related. Oh dear. Anyway, he's living on a mountain top and meditating up to eight hours a day. I wonder if I could do that or if I would actually without exaggeration die if I attempted something like that right now. Perhaps I would only go mad.

The closest I have come to finding some kind of meditation is watching the Wes Anderson AmEx spot over and over on youtube. I liked the M. Night one just fine, but this one...come on! sigh. I love him so. I do. I love him. I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is. (okay, I hate that movie as I hate few things in this life, and if hell has movies, I will be seeing that one on a loop, but in this case, that paticular quote really does sum up Wes and me perfectly.)

...and the Mystery of the Casting Debacle

2006-05-07T06:00:00.000-07:00

I bet you thought I was never going to post again. It has been awhile, I admit. My apologies. I have been dealing with some difficult news. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Ned Nickerson:

Here he is again:

Where to begin?

The guy who played one of the kids baby-sat by Vin Diesel in The Pacifier is playing my Emerson College-attending boyfriend?! Is he old enough to spell "college"?!

This is some fresh hell.

First of all, let me just say point out how traumatizing it is to have your life captured on film and to have someone cast as yourself. In my case, it's happened several times. It's always nerve-wracking.

And here's what I will be next year when the movie comes out:

Now.

As an aside, how hard is it to cast a female who has read one of my books? I don't know a way to say this modestly, but I would think it would take actual work to stumble upon a girl who has not picked up a book featuring me. There are hundreds of books to choose from, and most take a good eighty minutes (tops) to read? Not to brag or anything, but I'm sort of an American icon and all that, so maybe just once, one of these actresses could pick up a book about one of my many adventures before embarking upon them as "research".

And this new one, giving interviews that explain who I am. That's right, the "star" of Aquamarine is explaining to people who Nancy Drew is. And under insult to injury, you may also file that fact that she said I was "kind of like the Barbie of the 1930s".

I fear for this production.

I fear I am going to be hipped up. Oh, they are going to put me in those leg warmers for your arms, aren't they?

It's obvious what they want to do. Why must they send me to the Hollywood Hills? Whither River Heights? Yes, I may occasionally accompany my father Jimmy Cooper, er, Carson Drew on one of his business trips, but they usually do not end with me becoming enrolled in Hollywood High. I am mildly psyched about the Mini and the Blackberry which I will inevitably be given, but why must I investigate the excesses of young Hollywood? Is it because they plan to make lots of self-referential jokes about how they actually are the something terrible we fear (see also: Josie and the Pussycats)? I fear it is. The real Josie called me for months after that thing, depressed as all get out. I tried to console her, but really what are you gonna do once you see this onscreen? Good on her for having the sense to be depressed about it.

On a Josie related side note: Please please PLEASE let's move past the era where referencing something equals a joke. When did that happen? And why? Mentioning Jamba Juice or Abercrombie or Lindsay Lohan is not a joke. It's acknowledging that they exist both in the real world and in the world of the film/show/story, which....is not a joke. Meta peaked with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead in the late 60s. To still be pulling this schtick nearly forty years later, when the novelty (which yes, may have sparked a philosophical examination of and shift in narrative theory) has worn off seems like nothing besides vanity, so please please please, help me out on this one.

Don't you miss the days when I looked like this?

I do too.

A Black Day

2006-04-07T10:40:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-03T16:37:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-01T15:26:00.000-08:00

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...

Memories of Azteca Boy

2006-03-16T17:05:00.000-08:00

So, as I was rather condescendingly told the other day, I've come a long way in the past year. I was not smoking a Virginia Slims at the time, no, but yes, it does seem like I should have been. And drinking some Tab.

But this should give you a sense of where I was a year ago...still in Chicago and not stagnant, really. Just bored and looking around for distraction at every turn.

Now I have a palm tree in my "backyard" and a dying lemon tree that I hope I can revive and I am sick on gummi worms. My friend rasah and I recently discovered our mutual reliance on gummi worms while writing. They are so satisfying during bouts of stressed-out writing, I swear. If only you didn't get sick after a pound and a half of them...

So anyway... here's last year:

I have a new crush. It is similar to most of my crushes in that it is born completely out of boredom, yet still manages to be entertainingly diverting. His name is Restaurant Boyfriend (RB). That is not his real name. He comes into the restaurant a lot, and I wish he were my boyfriend, so that is how he got his name. He comes in during the week a lot for lunch. He looks like the guy, who, when they're casting a bunch of buddies for Matt Damon's next movie, would get the first call. He’s always reading, which makes me happy. He has a White Sox cap, which also makes me happy, and he’s always very polite and tips well, which again, makes me happy. It is also proof that he loves me. RB proves he loves me often in lots of little ways.

Things Restaurant Boyfriend has done that proves he loves me:
1. Asked for hot sauce
2. Asked for toast
3. Said “sure” when I asked if he wanted more water
4. Asked for his check
5. Paid his check
6. Tipped 40%
7. Tipped Fannie 40% when she was his waitress, just to make me jealous
8. Sat in my section
9. Said “bye” while leaving the restaurant
**10. Said ‘hey” while he walked past me waiting at a bus stop once at night.

** This "hey" indicates two important things: a) he has memorized my features whilst dreaming of me enough that he can not be thrown by a ginormous feature-obscuring purple knit hat, and 2)more importantly, he does not hold dressing for warmth at the Serious Expense of Any Sense of Style against his future love.

Restaurant Boyfriend first came to the forefront of the crush list when Dane and I were playing a game called If You Had to Date One of the Customers Who Would It Be? It’s a simple game; I imagine you can figure it out. RB was everyone’s choice. Everyone wanted to date Restaurant Boyfriend. Dane thought he was intriguing because he makes prolonged direct eye contact in a way that is not creepy, but merely interested. That is another good point about RB, but it doesn’t prove that he likes Dane, because RB does that to everyone.

On the other hand, he always says hi to me, and once or twice, when I asked him if his current book was good, he would say “yeah, it’s really interesting” or “it is, but it’s so sad” or something like that. That is when it became clear that, even though everyone wanted to date him, he really wanted me. If he played If You Had to Date One of the Waitstaff Who Is Female, Straight, Under 5’4”, And Not From the South, he would totally pick me. Because he totally loves me.

He has a girlfriend. I learned the sad truth when I was talking to Fannie about Restaurant Boyfriend. At the time (pre-playing IYHTDOOTCWWIB) his name was Azteca Guy, because he always ordered the Azteca Bowl (black beans, brown rice, chicken, tomatoes, green onions, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and cilantro.) She thought his name was Latina Guy, because on the weekends he always ordered the Latina Omeleta (eggs, black beans, tomatoes, green onions, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and cilantro). Yeah, I didn’t name the entrees.

On the weekends, he comes in earlier and therefore orders breakfast. That is when he brings the girlfriend (TG). My poor weekday-working self did not know about TG until Fannie and I straightened out our confusion regarding Restaurant Boyfriend’s many names. “Oh, you mean Latina Guy,” she had said. In response to my puzzled expression (no, no, his name was Azteca Guy!), she clarified: “He comes in on the weekends with his girlfriend?”

Sadly, chillingly, it was true. I started working weekends soon after, and saw her for my very self. TG has dyed red hair and wears a lot of makeup, but in a cool way. Even more sadly and chillingly, she seems very nice. Clearly wrong for him, we all agree, but very nice. (Veggie burger, miso sauce on the side). Fannie told me they live together. I guess that makes his dog actually their dog. It seems there is a lot of work to be done. I would feel terribly guilty breaking them up, even for as good a reason as my and Restaurant Boyfriend’s obvious true love for each other, so I must orchestrate some happenings.

First, I must find The Girlfriend a proper boyfriend. I think a musician would be good. Someone wild, someone who is not a laidback baseball fan with a dog and a lot of books. A musician with a dog would be workable, however. After I find The Musician (TM), I must arrange for him to meet TG. Then TG must fall so wildly in love with TM that she will engage in a wild affair until the guilt consumes her and she'll tell RB that she must leave him. He will be broken-hearted, it’s true, but only for a brief time. Shortly thereafter TM will bring his roadies by to move TG out one day while RB is out, so he won’t even have to move all the damn furniture and sort the CDs. I want to spare him as much pain as possible.

Then, Restaurant Boyfriend will come in to the restaurant, and I will sense his sadness. Mostly I will sense it because I will have caused it, but also a little because we’re meant to be together. We will talk about whatever book he is reading at the time (I think it will be a book of Raymond Carver short stories. Note to self: purchase book of Raymond Carver short stories and arrange for TM to leave behind when he packs up all TG’s books.), and then we will talk about how musicians suck, and how I don’t get how some girls find them attractive. At some point he will tell me his name so I don’t have to write Restaurant Boyfriend on the wedding announcement.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it. All I know is that it seems like knowing how to cook huevos rancheros would help.

London Girl

2006-03-15T15:40:00.000-08:00

You Belong in London

A little old fashioned, and a little modern.
A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock.
A unique woman like you needs a city that offers everything.
No wonder you and London will get along so well.

What City Do You Belong In?

I was trying for Venice, but London's not a bad back-up...

Oh, and I want Dane to know that the next entry is for him.

People Are Awesome, Pt 2

2006-03-09T13:56:00.000-08:00

So if all the crazies from the tort cases weren't enough to convince me that people are awesome, recent news features three more examples.

Exhibit A:
Andrew Fastow of Enron didn't just cook the books. He eventually cut a deal with the prosecution to testify against Skilling, but before he cut the deal, he played hardball for awhile. Prosecutors looked at his tax returns, found a bunch of cheating on them, and planned to use this against him. He told them his wife had filed the returns. Prosecutors, still playing hardball, told them they'd prosecute her and send her to jail. He said fine. They did, and she did. She was in jail for A YEAR before Fastow switched his story and admitted that he'd done the taxes and had let her take the fall. I can only hope someone in prison is assisting her with her divorce proceedings.

from my old city of Chicago, Exhibit B:
Sister Claudette Marie Muhammed of the Nation of Islam was serving on a hate crime and anti-discrimination task force. She invited her fellow commissioners to hear Farrakhan speak at the Nation of Islam's Saviour's Day. In his remarks, Farrakhan accused "filthy Jews" and "wicked Jews" of promoting lesbianism and homosexuality through Hollywood, which of course they control. He also warned of the Zionists who were manipulating the government. She refused to distance herself from Farrakhan and his remarks, leading to what I can only imagine were some rather tense meetings concerning hate crime legislation. Five members of the commission have quit so far. Her response: she is the victim here. The members who quit? "They need to come back or shut up," her chief of staff said. "And leave me alone," she added.

The really awesome part of this is that the governor who appointed the commission's members, Rod Blagojevich, had no idea that he'd appointed someone from the Nation of Islam to the commission. Sister Claudette Marie Muhammed is Farrakhan's chief of protocol and national director of community outreach for the Nation of Islam. I can't imagine it took a lot of vetting to find that out. On the other hand...he didn't realize the Daily Show wasn't a real news show.

and finally, Exhibit C:
Christophe Fauviau is the overzealous tennis dad who poisoned his children's tennis match opponents. HE POISONED A BUNCH OF CHILDREN SO HIS KIDS COULD WIN TENNIS MATCHES. He slipped the anti-anxiety drug Temesta into the water bottles of players scheduled to compete against his kids. TWENTY-SEVEN TIMES!! These incidents resulted in collapse and hospitalization in several cases, including that of an 11-year-old girl. Faviau's tampering eventually led to the death of a player. One of his son's opponents drove home from the match, fell asleep at the wheel, crashed his car and died. (Drowsiness is a side effect of Temesta, which was found in the man's system.)

Wow. People, huh?

People Are Awesome, Pt 1

2006-03-09T10:34:00.000-08:00

Tom, my brother in law school, helped me out tremendously the other night. I'm writing a spec for a legal show, and needed ridiculous tort cases. I asked him if he knew of any; here's his reply:

Here are some of my favorite cases from Tort class last year. Because torts deals with injuries (“there are limbs falling off and blood spraying everywhere,” as my professor would say), some of these cases are funny only in a dark way. Some of them are old cases, if that matters.

1) Osterlind v. Hill (1928)
A guy rents canoes to two very drunk guys, who go out on the lake and capsize. One of the drunk guys manages to hang on to the boat for 30 minutes, loudly calling for help. The boat owner hears his cries and does absolutely nothing (the court doesn’t explain what the owner was doing while this was happening, but I like to think he was rocking on his porch), and the drunk guy eventually releases his hold on the canoe and drowns. This case is funny because A) of how big an asshole the boat owner was, and B) the court reluctantly concluded that the owner was not liable to the families of the drunk guys because a person does not have a legal duty to rescue.

2) Tarasoff v. Regents of the University of California (1976)
Tarasoff is a truly sad case and not funny at all, but it is worth mentioning because it is interesting and very famous. It basically involved some foreign guy who kissed Tarasoff on New Year’s Eve, misinterpreted that to mean that they had a deep romance or were engaged, and was offended and angered when she basically told him it was no big deal. He told his shrink that he was going to kill an unnamed girl, and the shrink didn’t report this to the cops. He shortly thereafter went to Tarasoff’s residence and murdered her. I guess this case might be funny in that foreign people have goofy customs that we can laugh at.

3) McGuiggan v. New England Tel. and Tel. Co. (1986)
A kid graduates high school; his parents throw him a party. He and his buddies drink there, and then leave in a car. The kid, riding shotgun, feels sick and leans his head out to puke, and cracks his head on a telephone pole, resulting in death. This case is funny because A) it reminds me of crazy college times (there but for the grace of God went I), and B) the parents sued the telephone company, and the indignant telephone company, feeling little remorse for the grieving parents, sued them right back on the grounds that they provided the kids alcohol and were therefore responsible for their son’s death.

4) Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad Co. (1928)
Probably the most famous tort case ever. Two guy are racing to catch a train that is pulling out of the station. One of them makes it, but the other guy (who is carrying a package) jumps onto the train and totters immediately like he is about to fall off. Two guards on the train push and yank him onto the train to prevent him from falling off, and in the commotion the man drops his package. The package contained some kind of fireworks, which explode when the package is dropped. The force of the explosion causes tiles to fall on the head of a lady who is standing 30 feet away. This case is funny because A) a lady minding her own business was hit in the head with tiles, and B) the judge ruled against here in her lawsuit against the train company.

5) Riss v. City of New York (1968)
Linda Riss rejected a suitor, Burton Pugach. As the court says “this miscreant, masquerading as a respectable attorney, repeatedly threatened to have Linda killed or maimed if she did not yield to him.” She became engaged to another man, and Pugach warned her that this was “her last chance.” She went to the cops, who dismissed the matter as a lover’s quarrel. Pugach then hired three thugs who went up to Riss and threw lye in her face, blinding her in one eye and scarring her face permanently.

What makes this case great is the subsequent history.Pugach now claims that he hired the thugs just to beat Riss up, not throw lye in her face. He proposed to her on TV (because he wasn’t allowed near her) after serving 14 years in jail, and SHE SAID YES!!!!!!! She has explained her decision to marry him by citing Christian forgiveness, blaming the New York cops for the incident, and relying on the ADVICE OF A FREAKING FORTUNE TELLER!! He has recently made the exact same threats to his mistress that he made to Riss, but Riss was still willing to testify on his behalf. Torts are stranger than fiction.

6) Mathias v. Actor Economy Lodging, Inc. (2002)
Kind of a funny case about a motel with rampant bedbug problem. The plaintiffs, former customers of the motel, sued and each got $5,000 in compensatory damages but $186,000 in punitive damages (punitive damages being used to punish offenders for particularly egregious misconduct). This motel sounds gross beyond words. This excerpt from Judge Posner’s opinion, with its parenthetical observation and its Posneresque tangent on ticks, always cracks me up:

“The infestation continued and began to reach farcical proportions, as when a guest, after complaining of having been bitten repeatedly by insects while asleep in his room in the hotel was moved to another room only to discover insects there; and within 18 minutes of being moved to a third room he discovered insects in that room as well and had to be moved still again. (Odd that at that point he didn't flee the motel.) By July, the motel's management was acknowledging to EcoLab that there was a "major problem with bed bugs" and that all that was being done about it was "chasing them from room to room." Desk clerks were instructed to call the "bedbugs" "ticks," apparently on the theory that customers would be less alarmed, though in fact ticks are more dangerous than bedbugs because they spread Lyme Disease and Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Rooms that the motel had placed on "Do not rent, bugs in room" status nevertheless were rented.”

7) Koffman v. Garnett (2003)
This case involved a middle school football coach who, upset about his team’s poor tackling during their first game of the season, demonstrated proper tackling form for his team at the first practice after the loss. The problem was that a) the coach weighed 260 lbs. and the person he tackled was 144 lb.s, and b) he gave no warning to the poor kid that he was going to tackle him. As the court says:

“Garnett [the coach] ordered Andy to hold a football and stand ‘upright and motionless’ so that Garnett could explain the proper tackling technique. Then Garnett, without further warning, thrust his arms around Andy’s body, lifted him ‘off his feet by two feet or more,’ and slammed him to the ground . . . the force of the tackle broke the humerus bone in Andy’s left arm.”

This makes me laugh because the coach sounds like a walking caricature: the middle-aged, frustrated former athlete unleashing his rage on frightened kids by “coaching.”

My First Post

2006-03-02T00:46:00.000-08:00

Here it is y'all! The world breathlessly waiting for the arrival of another blog...

Nothing like sitting a firm five years behind the zeitgeist.

DD