cynicgrl

Bottom Ten

2010-12-17T00:45:00.000-08:00

Top Ten, Schmop Ten.

Every year around this time, they're everywhere. And every year, though I find them reductive and mostly dull, I read 'em (okay, skim 'em), think I'll actually buy one or two of the books, download some of that music, see that weird Indie film from March that I missed. Then I don't. Or I decide I just Really Don't Understand Movie Critics because that shit just wasn't that good. Except for number 7, which should have been number 1, you jackass.

And then I do the same thing the following year.

What we need--okay, what I need--is a bottom ten. Cause the good stuff? Frankly, we all know about it already, we've all (sort of) agreed, in some collective unconscious way that That Thing Is Good. (Even if it's not to our taste; fine, it's "quality".) But the bad stuff? Really, we can't call it out enough. It needs the bright light of criticism--and shame--shone upon it so it will wither and die. Please.

So: Here are the ten ubiquitous things from 2010 that we--okay I--am really fucking sick of. Stuff that needs to Go Away in 2011. (Seriously, for the children. Okay, for me.) I provide no category. No tiny fiefdom to prove my specific expertise, throwing in just enough obscure crap to impress the shit out of everyone, just enough popular successes to prove I'm not a snob. Screw that. When it comes to shit I hate--I'm a generalist.

1. Sarah fucking god damned shit-for-brains Palin. She has her own TV show. How did this happen? No one gave Dan Quayle a second thought, much less his own TV show. Want to talk about Jack Kemp? No! Of course you don't! It's ludicrous that someone who's had so little actual impact on the actual world, through her actual...actions (not other peoples' assessments of her and her "profile" on the "scene"), gets as much play as she does. She's a willfully ignorant, venal, fame whore. She needs to go away. And take her clod-headed children with her.

2. Joel McHale. I know some of you love him. But really, isn't it time he wiped that smug grin off his face? Does someone that tall and good looking really need to push the superior, hipper than thou, glib thing? He's handsome! He's over six feet! He's funny! He has two shows! He's so much better than you in every way! And he knows it! It's piling on a little, isn't it?

3. Jersey Shore. Not the actual show or their stupid "books" or even the people themselves--I really couldn't give a crap. But as a cultural reference/punch line. If I hear one more smart person (the President for god's sake) say their ridiculous names for easy laughs and street cred...enough. Let's do better. A tiny little show like this on a psychotic, desperate and dying cable network really doesn't require this much attention. Let's not speak of it/them again, okay? You can watch them, if you must (who am I to talk; I watch The Real Housewives of New York), but let's just not make mention of them.

4. Harem pants. They weren't pretty or flattering the first time around, they sure aren't now. Back away from them, people, you will be so embarrassed in five years.

5. Rhymey, pop culture portmanteaus. Take one word. Take another word that modifies it and mash them together to make a new word that sort of somehow rhymes with the first word. You're a fucking genius! No, you're not. Put fucking "bromance" and "sheconomy" and "sexting" and "slackademic" back in your fucking desk. Your magazine's going under and this shit isn't going to save you.

6. Inception. It wasn't complex. It was incoherent. Let's stop pretending otherwise, okay? It's possible we're actually embarrassing ourselves.

7. Those floppy, flaccid, crocheted, beret type beanies all the young ladies are wearing. They're clearly not keeping anyone warm, and the way they're always sliding off the side of your head? They're trying to escape. Buy a smart fedora for style, a cozy woolen cap for warmth or call it a day. These just look dopey.

8. Enough with the fucking vampires and zombies. Seriously. Do we really need this many iterations of...anything? A gazillion freaking vampire movies, two vampire series currently on TV, how many books series, all these zombie books and mash-ups and movies and shows? Do we have to beat to death (pun: intended!) every single god damned trope any possibly well intentioned writer decides to play with? Let's try leaving well enough alone for once, please. (That said, if a real zombie would like to eat Sarah Palin...I got no problem with that.)

9. My Spam. Not all spam. I'm sure some spam is okay; slightly annoying, but ultimately harmless, like paper cuts and 1-ply toilet paper. But my spam is really ticking me off. For some reason, the spam gods have decided I desperately and pretty exclusively need: ink & toner cartridges, business cards and replacement hips. For the record: I do not. I would like, for 2011, new spam. Even spam hawking different prosthetics would be okay (condyloid joint? fine!), though I'm really hoping for some out of the box thinking by the spam jockeys. Try selling me taxidermy chemicals or refurbished car batteries. Just because why not.

10. Packaging. When did we start having to encase even the most benign consumer goods in titanium strength plastic, affixed with the kind of industrial adhesive that keeps rockets from breaking up when they hit the earth's atmosphere? Seriously? It's eyeliner, not the crown fucking jewels. And the giant box that holds a small bottle, which is in turn half empty? Just...why? Not only does this smack of a looming ecological disaster, it's just fucking annoying.

And I really don't need to be any more annoyed. As I'm sure you can tell.

2010-12-08T14:40:00.001-08:00

For most of my life, I have had a perfect romance with sleep. It was basically love at first sight. I caught a glimpse of the bewitching netherworld of Morpheus and promptly fell.

Asleep.

I've always loved going to bed, staying in bed, sleeping in, sleeping late. As a kid, I remember being so happy to be in bed, I would swaddle myself up tight and--despite being a person who tends towards melancholy--actually smile. Even (weird, but true) squeal with something that I can only describe as: joy. (At some point, the inexplicable word, "Cozy-co!" became part of the proceedings as well.) My favorite toys as a kid were stuffed animals--sleep buddies. For a time in grade school, I would set my alarm clock for 2 or 3 am, just so I could wake up and then fully delight in falling asleep again. I remember vividly as a teenager not hoping I'd never feel the invariably inappropriately timed, painful, full body exhaustion of adolescence--but that I would feel it when I was near a bed. How glorious that would be! To not have to fight the super-villain "Drouser" in 8th grade study hall, but just surrender, give in, fall into that sweet silence. And once I got to college and experienced the sometime sleep deprivation that goes with studying long hours at the wrong time, all I wanted to do on school breaks was sleep until I couldn't sleep anymore.

In fact, though, sleeping until I couldn't sleep anymore seemed a crazy, nonsensical desire. When would that ever happen? When would I not be able to sleep? Coffee with lunch? I see that and raise you a double shot espresso at 11pm. Two hour snoozer in the middle of the day? Pshaw, it was just a prelude to the bliss. Jet lag? What, exactly, is that? Nothing that would ever keep me awake.

Because nothing ever could keep me awake. I could sleep in cars (only as a passenger--usually), at loud parties (literally, once, right next to a pounding speaker the size of a water buffalo), on the subway (yes, I missed a stop once), while having my hair blown dry (many, many times; so warm). Sleep was my constant companion, my most reliable friend. The Calgon that could always, no matter, what, take me away. When I'd see a movie about someone trapped in solitary confinement, chaffing every moment, scratching at the walls, I'd think, "Come on; why not just have a nice nap?"

But then. What happened? I'm not sure. At some point (it's fuzzy, frankly; I was half asleep), night became...complicated. There was waking. More than once a night, and without my alarm clock purposely set to 3am. This wasn't a loopy trick orchestrated to birth a second slumber; this waking meant business. This waking meant staying awake. A half hour that turned into 45 minutes, that turned into an hour that turned into rage that turned into sanctimony. (I was up! From 2:10 to 4:45! And I'm awake and walking and talking now! Do you feel sorry for me? I really wish you would.)

Suddenly a nap in the afternoon always meant an interrupted night's sleep. The idea of getting 8 hours, deep and straight, became a chimera, as hard to capture as a dream. After a lifetime of reveling in sleep, luxuriating in sleep, loving sleep unconditionally and being loved unconditionally back...I find myself, well: getting dumped.

Sleep is dumping me. I keep hoping--tonight we'll be happy together! But it never really, truly happens. For the most part...sleep is distracted. Only half there. Sleep just won't commit; I can't get sleep to settle down with me. We're not on the same schedule. We've grown apart. Sleep doesn't understand my needs.

Sleep's heading out for a pack of cigarettes. And I'm pretty sure he's not coming back.

And now I'm getting mad. Every night, I wait for sleep, more and more angry and tense, awaiting an arrival that, if it comes, will be obligatory at best. "Fine. Go. I'm over you." But really, inside, I'm thinking, "Wait! No, come back! I need you!"

Naturally, here, as in the third act of any romantic melodrama: we turn to drugs.

Ah, the drugs. The Tylenol PMs, the Ambiens, the Lunestas. Nice, helpful for a while, cozy but...ultimately, in the end, sad substitutions for the real thing. Like a last ditch, desperate attempt to save the marriage by booking two weeks in Cancun. Yeah, you get a little of that old magic back but...it's temporary. It's false. It's forced. In the end, it...ends. And you have to wake up and smell the coffee. Of course--it's morning already.

So: sigh. I'm not sure this is a break up I can get over. I can't decide: screw sleep. I'll be happy with...photography. Miniatures. Home beer brewing.

But I won't be. Sleep is irreplaceable. Like oxygen and talking and basic cable. Without it, I'm nothing.

So I just have to keep trying to make it work. Every. Damn. Night.

No matter how tired it makes me.

Ben Wright Is -- A Bildungsroman in Status Updates

2010-06-13T07:58:00.000-07:00

Ben Wright is born! Hellloooo world!

Ben Wright is what is this icky goo all over me? Bath, please? Thnxmuch.

Ben Wright is constantly crying. All. The. Time. Explain?

Ben Wright is boobs=yum. I mean for reals. Thnx Mom!

Ben Wright just threw up. Remind me to Never. Do. That. Again.

Ben Wright is finally focusing. Liked fuzzy blur better; way too much stuff around, much of it disgusting. (*coughs it* Grandpa's feet.)

Ben Wright is sitting in his own poop. Not as gross as you'd think!

Ben Wright is, holy cow, walking! And falling. Ouchies!

Ben Wright is shocked he made Mom cry just by saying, "Mom". Sweet.

Ben Wright is not liking this "little sister" person one bit.

Ben Wright is not admitting he just tried to "kill" little sister by piling all his stuffed animals on top of her. Please, she could breath just fine.

Ben Wright is thinking "first day of school" is code for "your life is over".

Ben Wright is Zach's blood brother, 4evah. (Duuude!)

Ben Wright is Miss Tompkins kind of looks like Mom, but curvier, shinier and smilier. I'm okay with it. Like...really okay.

Ben Wright is the shreddingest shredder ever. Love me, love my deck.

Ben Wright is selling three decks. Anyone? Cheap!

Ben Wright is PSAT stands for Piss Shit Ass Test.

Ben Wright is boobs=yum. (Thanks, Meliss...oops!)

Ben Wright is back on the market. Ladies?

Ben Wright is pissed to discover that his Dad is an asshole.

Ben Wright is looooving college! Safety school my ass!

Ben Wright is, yeah, just threw up. Again. Afraid I'm not going to die. (Thanks, Dad.) Gin+O.J. is the devil's drink.

Ben Wright is convinced James Joyce is God. "The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea." Yes; that.

Ben Wright is thinking ties are retarded. I mean, seriously. It's like a noose. A pretty, silky noose.

Ben Wright is floored to find out that Zach F. is in Dental School. How the Dude has fallen!

Ben Wright is a working stiff. (Yeah, I said "stiff"; boss is haaawwtt!)

Ben Wright is looking for work again. SUX.

Ben Wright is trying out the Left Coast. Just the way I hang. (Hah!)

Ben Wright is pretty sure he just met his wife. Next: figure out if her name is Susan or Suzanne.

Ben Wright is freaked the fuck OUT; it's CELIA. But oh...Celia. Yeah. Good chance we are done here.

Ben Wright is convinced that realtors are aliens sent here to torture us. C? Thoughts?

Ben Wright is Holy Shit; Question=Popped! Dad? Get out your handkerchief, Mom's gonna be weeping!

Ben Wright is Hammock in tropics+Delicious Cocktail+Wife (Wife!!)=Fucking Heaven.

Ben Wright is looking for someone to kill that bastard in HR. Oh, and that fuckface with the Saab who keeps parking in my spot.

Ben Wright is a Dad! WTF!?!?! Fucker is amazing! Stinky, but amazing!

Ben Wright is covered in milky upchuck and so fucking tired he might just...I...wait...Penny farthing...mayonnaise... What?

Ben Wright is amazed at how much shit is in the garage. Particularly since the CAR isn't in there.

Ben Wright is pretty sure his heart just broke in two. Lincoln+little lunchbox+Buzz Lightyear backpack+waving good bye from bus steps=seriously, just kill me now.

Ben Wright is finally aware of what it means to be 'wrapped around someone's little finger'. Her name is Francesca, she weighs 7 lbs., 4 oz. and she looks like she Knows Everything.

Ben Wright is looking for a good accountant. Anyone?

Ben Wright is pretty sure we don't need a house this big, but what the hell, it's only money!

Ben Wright is a little freaked out by the size of his monthly nut. When did we become these people?

Ben Wright is, yeah, we didn't need a house that big. Downsizing is good.

Ben Wright is an idiot. Downsizing sux balls.

Ben Wright is so fucking shocked by how expensive college is now he might just let these two ingrates fend for themselves.

Ben Wright is on his second million. Now if he could only find the first 1,823,761.

Ben Wright is thinking about his Dad. Every. Damn. Day. *Sigh*

Ben Wright is amazed to discover the love of his life. And her name is golf!

Ben Wright is promising his beloved C that he won't spend every Saturday on the links. (It's gotta rain sometime!)

Ben Wright is throwing out that AARP mailer; not yet people!

Ben Wright is thinking a certain son could call a little more often no matter how 'crazy-busy' he is. And a certain daughter is pretty fucking perfect, so the fact that she still doesn't have a serious boyfriend=vexing.

Ben Wright is convinced grand-children are the Greatest Thing Ever; cute, adoring AND returnable!

Ben Wright is doing a 180 on legalizing pot. Whatever, bring it on. Big Daddy needs a bong hit.

Ben Wright is delighted and amazed by how good his wife still looks. Day-um, woman! What're you still doing with this old geezer?

Ben Wright is confused about this Medicare "donut hole". Anyone? C? Mitch? Bueller?

Ben Wright is at Francesca and Wendy's wedding on the Cape. Bring on the G&Ts ladies! (And you both look stunning. I wasn't crying, I just got something in my eye, okay?)

Ben Wright is disturbed by the color and texture of his calves. What the hell is going on down there and why did no one prepare me for this?

Ben Wright is spending too much time at Costco. Yes, the rotisserie chicken is delicious and the gross quantities of Glucosamine and Chondroitin are great, but 'making a day of it' is just depressing.

Ben Wright is surprised by how much he enjoys a comfortable chair, an open window, some world music and a Patrick O'Brien novel. Weird.

Ben Wright is asking, "What?" a lot more than he'd like.

Ben Wright is sitting in his own poop. Just as gross as you'd...

Get With the Program

2010-04-07T13:35:00.000-07:00

In June, NBCU plans a week in which programming will emphasize healthy eating and exercise: The idea is that viewers will watch the shows and then spring into action. "It's about incorporating a marketer's message into a thematic environment," says Mike Pilot, president of sales and marketing at NBC Universal.-- Wall St. Journal, 4/7/2010

For some reason (that frankly I still haven't unpacked in my mind, so bear with me) this mind-controll-y directive bugs me more than NBC's semi-annual "green initiative", which had producers writing environmentally friendly story-lines into their episodes. Somehow, that seemed positive, for the good of the world at large, a community based, "we're all in this together" kind of thing. Watch Liz Lemon recycle! Kind of makes you want to do it too, right? Nothing wrong with that. Recycle away everyone! Let's save the planet!

This though...has a weird tinge of the Mommy Dearest State about it, doesn't it? The wicked, controlling 'parent-eye', knocking a Moon-Pie out of young Suzie's hand and slow-driving the car next to her while she jogs her way into the Little Miss Texas pageant. Probably I'm over thinking this. I'm sure I am. But look; doesn't the very casting of television shows tell us to be healthy, thin, do Pilates and never age? Do we really need them to work entire plots around the idea? Do we need to turn this sub-text into...what's it called?...text?

Moreover, the very roots of drama come from conflict and great characters are borne of specificity and idiosyncrasy. The idea of every character on TV suddenly becoming a vegan, tee totaling, gluten-free, marathon running, backyard composter? Kind of saps them of some much needed humanity, doesn't it? Some of the quirks and flaws that makes a character appealing, engaging, lovable? Watchable? Call me crazy, but I don't so much like "righteous" as a character trait.

Which of course got me thinking: Imagine if some of the all time great TV shows had to deal with shit like this? I mean, save 30Rock (and occasionally--still--The Office, and every now and then Parks & Recreation) there's nothing really fantastic or any particularly memorable characters on NBC right now. So bottom line, they're just slapping "Eat Your Daily 5!" stickers on the deck chairs on the Titanic. But just think what some classic shows would be like if they got this kind of network request...

The Rockford Files; Rockford's doctor tells him that spare tire around his middle isn't doing his heart any good, and his stress levels are way too high (oh, that Rocky! not to mention Angel!), so he starts taking yoga on the beach. After an exaggerated eye roll during Happy Baby Pose, Jimbo suffers a minor stroke.

Kojak; Kojak finds out he has 16 cavaties so he decides to give up the Tootsie-Pops. He starts chewing on celery stalks instead and consequently is so aggravated by gas pain and bloating that he beats a perp to death with his belt buckle.

Mary Tyler Moore Show; Mary thinks everyone would benefit from a daily speed-walking regime. The first morning, Murray and Georgette are the only ones who show up. Lou claims that he "hates walking". Ted tries to make it up to Mary by speed-walking around the set, so Lou beats him to death with his belt buckle.

Cheers; Norm and Cliff make a 'sobriety pact' and both quit drinking. They are written out of the show, which is then renamed, Cheer.

Roseanne; In a cross-network 'stunt', Roseanne and Dan go on The Biggest Loser, Couples. They lose a combined 236 lbs, divorce and send their kids to work on other shows.

The Sopranos; Dr. Melfi suggests Tony exercise and start eating right to deal with his depression. He beats her to death with his belt buckle.

Sex and the City; Samantha decides to quite drinking AND smoking, subsequently gains fifteen pounds and is shocked to find that all the guys who hit on her think she's a tranny. She's even more shocked to find out that they're right.

It's Just Mean

2010-03-17T17:40:00.000-07:00

At one point, some in the group opposed to the Democrats' reform plan appeared to lecture and mock a man who held a green placard saying he had Parkinson's disease. "If you are looking for a handout, you are in the wrong end of town," one guy told the man with the placard. Another person could be seen in Columbus Dispatch video throwing dollar bills at the unidentified man, who was sitting on the ground. --From an article by Tom Diemer in Politics Daily

So once again, the vocal, angry Right are up and protesting. Because health care reform might actually be getting close to legislative success (flawed though it is) and Fox News told them to. Where these people find the time--and the energy--I'll never know. But what's really striking to me about this particular nugget--and if you watch the video from the Columbus Dispatch it's even more vivid and appalling--is just how hateful these people are. And I mean that literally; they are full of hate. The man who threw dollar bills at the (utterly silent) gentleman sitting on the ground, started screaming at one point, his voice rising to the hysterical, shrill pitch of a wolverine in heat. He was literally spitting hate all over the place. The display was so egregious almost all the MSNBC hosts highlighted it yesterday. Ed Schultz called it "gross". I couldn't agree more. The complete lack of civility, even common decency, was shocking and very, very sad.

And it made me realize, once again, why I could never be a Conservative Republican or date a Conservative Republican or at this point, have a cordial lunch with a Conservative Republican. These people are, quite simply, mean. Now, I'll admit it: I'm no picnic on the grass myself. As any readers of this blog, or random folks in line at the Ralph's, know, I can be a straight up, unapologetic bitch. But I hope a) I reserve my bitchiness for people who make themselves into nice big ol' targets--the self-important, the entitled, the aggressively, purposefully stupid and b) I come hard-wired with a healthy dollop of Semitic self-loathing, which I think keeps me from being totally insufferable.

But the more I see of the vocal, pointed spear-head of the Republican party--which I think is just a distilled bolus of everything the quieter, more mainstream "center" believes--the more convinced I am that anyone who identifies themselves as a believer of this ideology in fact, bottom line, just believes this: "I matter; you don't". That's it. This isn't a nuanced political philosophy at all, George Will and David Brooks and Tony Blankley and their fine vocabularies be damned. It's just the caterwauling of a schoolyard bully: "Get out of the sandbox, it's MINE!"

Think about it. What are their core beliefs?
A) Lower taxes. Why? I want more money for ME ME ME!
B) Smaller government. Why? I don't want to pay taxes (see A) and the government might help OTHER people and I don't CARE about other people, I care about ME ME ME!
C) Little regulation on business. Why? I own/might own/dream of owning a business someday and when I do...don't tell ME ME ME what to do! If I want to pay my workers $4 a day that's MY business and if I want to spew toxins into the local water table or create complex financial services that are nothing more than legalized gambling and bring down the entire economy--tough titties!
D) Rigid immigration laws. Why? I don't like people I don't know and sure don't want them in my country! They are not ME!
E) Strong military. Why? People who live in other countries are not ME so what the hell; kill 'em!

I think--I hope--the Progressive/Liberal/Democratic ideology is simply more humane. Civilized. Compassionate. Empathetic. Isn't the entire Progressive movement founded on ideals of helping the disenfranchised, social justice, empowering the powerless? Ideals that are, at their core...kind. To me, it's become just that simple. Progressives care about everyone. Conservatives care about themselves, their families and their friends (maybe)--in that order (if the wife steps outta line, she is gone). They can claim all they want that their point of view is just another, legitimate political approach. But I'm starting to think it has nothing to do with the "art or science concerned with guiding or influencing governmental policy"--the definition of politics. Because that would mean they have some interest in actually governing--which implies some level of concern and interest in the populace--and I really don't think they do. They just want that sandbox all to themselves. So you there, sitting on the ground, with Parkinson's? Get out.

RX for SNL

2010-03-14T09:25:00.000-07:00

I know this isn't a new thought. People say it every season, in different guises. But really, I just have to add my voice to the chorus (cacophony?), because, as the two or three of you who read this know: I blog when I'm pissed.

Saturday Night Live sucks. (I said it wasn't an original idea.) So yeah, we've heard it all before. It's such a familiar complaint there is backlash to its backlash; it's actually an on-line commenters' cliche to moan, "Oh don't start with the whole, SNL was better back in the John Belushi/Eddie Murphy/Phil Hartman/Tina Fey days, blah blah blah..." Yes, it does have a little echo of "That music you kids listen to is just noise!" But separate my complaint from the "It was better back when" idea for a moment. The fact is, I'm not at all sure it was (entirely) "better back when..." Namely, because "back when..." we were either 9 or stoned. (Hopefully, not both.) And truly: those bees weren't really that funny. So let's just stipulate: SNL has displayed wides swings in quality over 35 years--how could it not?--and even within seasons and episodes. Let's take the historical comparison off the table. Let's talk about now.

So again: right now, SNL just straight up sucks. It really, really does. And I'm watching, honestly. I was thrilled Zach Galifinaikis was hosting, made sure to DVR it in case I got home late. Only to be wildly disappointed. How could SNL squander such a weird and wonderful talent? Does this point to a necrotic center at the heart of the current incarnation of SNL? Lately, the show feels lazy and behind the curve and most importantly, embarrassingly unfunny.

I admit, I have a weird relationship with SNL. So many people I love and trust utterly stopped watching it years ago, or only dip in occasionally (like when Tina Fey deliciously skewered Caribou Barbie during the 2008 campaign). Why do I keep watching? (Besides the sad fact that I'm often home Saturday nights at 11:30. Topic for another post. Maybe.) A lot of it is just...habit I suppose. I grew up with this show. I watched it as a little kid, as a teenager, as a young adult. It feels like an integral part of the weekend, like sleeping in and seeing what new movies are opening. And too, SNL has always felt...important somehow, as the comedy touchstone of the day. Like a silly sister to the New York Times, it's the "show of record". If SNL does something right (like much of their 2008 campaign coverage, or anything that fantastic Justin Timberlake touches) people talk about it. And let's face it, in today's wildly diffuse media world, anything 'people are talking about', I don't want to miss. But man, SNL is not rewarding my loyalty lately.

The sketches are way too reliant (as they have been intermittently for years) on spoofing TV, which I've never quite gotten. Silly game shows and talk shows? Really? Are they so prevalent in our culture that they need spoofing? Last night they went--again--to the bizarre well of some made up, 1960s faux Password. Just so Kristin Wiig (whom I generally love) could play her narcissistic, ignoramus actress character (who lives entirely in the effed up recesses of Wiig's delightful brain; which is...charming? but not necessarily funny), and Jude Law could rock a Russian accent and an outrageously enlarged dance belt. (I could have said "comically enlarged" but...no.) The 'humor' came from Wiig's character always saying the word she's supposed to get her partner to say (which we've seen her do numerous times before; it was funny once) and Law's cultural confusion (saying vodka is something you drink for breakfast). Ha. Ha ha ha...oh. Sigh. So: Old, used, skit we've seen before that wasn't that funny to start with, combined with Soviet bloc jokes. Really? Is this the stuff that's coursing through the cultural body--Bizarr-o world Margo Channings and 'wodka'-loving Ruskies-- and needs the sharp-eyed skewering of a weekly comedy and satire show?

And so also: the political humor on SNL is alarmingly stale, which in particular saddens me. This should be a place a show like SNL shines. I know the show's never been quite as political as people remember, or as sharp (Chevy Chase constantly toppling over wasn't really a clever take on Gerald Ford). But it does have a history of addressing politics, Weekend Update is the MediCare of the show ("Hands off!") and considering the shitstorm that is contemporary American politics right now, they really should be all over this. There's so much to make fun of out there, whether it's the whacked out Tea Partiers or Glenn Beck or Rahm Emanuel (admittedly, they did a funny, expletive-laden Rahm sketch a few weeks ago) or Michelle Malkin or David Patterson or 'The Family" or D.C. gridlock, or our President smoking (our President smokes!)...why can't they find something in all of this? The Daily Show and the Colbert Report do it four days a week. When SNL tries, they so often fail it's painful to watch. Last week's opener mocked Harry Reid. Harry Reid=not funny. Making fun of Harry Reid? Still=not funny. This week they got on the (former) Congressman Eric Massa bandwagon, with a lame "exit interview". There was literally nothing in the sketch that (kind of) Massa hasn't actually said. The guy admitted to tickling his staffers. Isn't there a way to spin such a wildly weird confession into something even weirder and actually, you know, funny? (Crazy idea: Glenn Beck bitch-slapping Massa after his appearance on Beck's show? Something there? Maybe? Massa and Emanuel in the Congressional shower? Come on, do I have to do everything around here?!)

Complaining about the quality of someone else's work is easy; doing the work is hard. I know the rigors of a weekly show can be deadly. But here's the thing: there are so many great writers out of work right now (I know some of them) that it just pisses me off that the writers on SNL aren't doing a better job. What's going on here? The staff is huge--30 writers according to a blog I found (7 women; just saying). It's obviously an amazing gig, resume wise. They've added some 'new blood' in the past few years, but from what I've heard and read, the environment is so competitive and hierarchical and calcified it's almost impossible for new writers to get their sketches on the air. But...what could the newbies possibly be pitching that's less trenchant and less funny than a sketch about a fake 1960s game show?

I know: who the eff am I? But in one girls' opinion: Lorne, shake this shit up. Implement some new rules for a couple of weeks and just see what happens. Honestly, sadly, this shit can't get much worse. So:

NO sketches that have been done before; I know: But we already have the sets!, but Jesus h. Christ, humor is about surprise. Third time? "What Up With That" isn't surprising any more. And it's certainly not funny.

While we're at it: No skits about any type of "show" at all. Instead of spoofing TV why not just spoof the world? (It's really quite big, you know.) Unctuous game show hosts, clueless contestants and self-obsessed, semi-celebrities just aren't all that new, interesting or worthy of (more) attention.

No Andy Samberg digital short in which he camera hogs as a pathetic dude doing white guy hip hop. (Anyone else as sick of this piss ant as I am?) Give it--and him and us, please--a rest. He's not a genius. It's possible that "Dick in a Box" was an anomaly. Moving on.

Tell Kristin Wiig she has to come up with a new character, or two. She just has to. She possibly is a genius. Make her prove it again and we will fall in love with her again.

When you're all sitting around 30Rock? Try reading the newspaper. Closely. There is some whacked out crazy shit going on out there (not just D.C.; big business anyone?!) and if the giant staff of SNL can't riff on any of it...they may need to be pink slipped. Seriously. And in today's world, there should be plenty of people to take their places.

KILL LOL

2009-09-01T18:26:00.000-07:00

It's time for a moratorium on LOL.

I get the need for snappy abbreviations--I text, I'm cool, I'm down with the kids--but come on, people: it's been years with this fucking thing. Shouldn't it have run its course? Gone the way of "neat" and "chick" and "daddy-o"? Where's the new new thing from urban dictionary.com to replace this old clunker?

Moreover, let's face it: it's a lie. Maybe--maybe--when people write it as a response, there is a chance they might actually have L'lled Out Loud at some incredibly hilarious bon mot. But when they write it after their own inane, breathtakingly unfunny comment? Really? "I need a glass of red wine. LOL." Seriously? You thought to yourself "I need a glass of red wine" and then you laughed out loud? If that's true, you really should not be drinking.

Frankly, in situations like the aforementioned, people use this because they're too lazy to say something more genuine and true. It's not "I need a glass of red wine boy that's hilarious isn't it? and aren't I a zany wag?" It's "I need a glass of wine. But don't worry (Mom), I'm not an alcoholic, I just had a crap day."

Now is that so hard?

If something is genuinely funny, there should be alternatives. (Don't even get me started on LOLs crazy, inbred cousins: LMAO, ROFL. Let's face it: if it were possible to 'laugh your ass off'--if laughing were a genuine aerobic activity--the world would be a much better--not to mention thinner--place. And the only people who Roll on the Floor Laughing are in mental hospitals.) But since there don't seem to be any spiffy new acronyms cropping up from the street to convey wit, I feel the need to take it upon myself to offer up a couple of new ideas. Just so we can retire the LOL and send it to the wherever old logisms go when they're no longer neo...

My suggestions:

JK: Just Kidding. No idea why this isn't In Common Usage. It's not particularly exciting, but at least it's fucking precise. That's what we all actually mean half the time we (and when I say "we" I mean "you") type LOL.

TIC: Tongue In Cheek. You know that works. If you require a little flourish: TPFIC: Tongue Planted Firmly In Cheek.

YMML: You Made Me Laugh. Simple. Truthful. And only one more key stroke than the dreaded LOL. (Which, when you think of it, also sounds icky in your head, doesn't it? I don't even like looking at it, cause "lol" paints an image of a gobstopper stuck in someone's throat. While "Ymml" just seems like you got a whiff of something delicious.)

IS: I Snorted. For those precious, rare times when a friend's rapier wit actually made you gag.

IKBIL: I Kid Because I Love. To make sure things aren't misinterpreted and feelings aren't inadvertently hurt; gently takes the sting out of your buckshot snark.

And of course, there's always this: Ha! An actually word. That conveys levity and enjoyment--simply, efficiently and economically.

Amazing, this English language thing we got going here.

Buy America

2009-08-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

You know that famous Calvin Coolidge quote, "The business of the American people is business"? I've been thinking a lot about that lately, while watching the country get caught in this vile shit storm of 'town hells' and Fox news lies and our tall, lithe president apparently standing so straight because he's afraid he's misplaced his spine--all as we try to do something so seemingly morally 'right' as improve our health care system to make it more fair, accessible and effective. It shouldn't even be a question that we need changes, but the rabid right is essentially proposing that we do nothing. They're barely even admitting the status quo is flawed (one of those Fox news lies is the oft repeated mantra that we have "the best health care in the world"; in upside-downy world maybe...).

Paul Krugman (fantasy dad) reported this week that when news broke that White House was waffling on the so-called 'public option', the stock prices of the big insurance companies got nice little bumps. So it's pretty obvious where they stand; on a wad of Twenties. It's been reported they take home up to 30% of every consumer dollar in profits--which is more than the law allows casinos to bank. Your insurance company is making a tidier profit than The Flamingo. On your health. A little crazy, right? (As for all the wing nuts at those town halls? They truly do seem to be a nice, florid cross-section of stubbornly uninformed, ugly Americans. If they aren't obvious shills for the medical/health care/big pharma industries, they're surely unwitting dupes. It's embarrassing, frankly.)

So it's all about money. Cold, hard, cash. A few very wealthy, very invested businessmen who make a living off of our health--or more precisely, our illness--just don't want reform. They like their mini-mansions too much. That's pretty much it. It's not any more complicated than that. We unfortunately have a system that makes health care a commodity like anything else: toilet paper, MP3 players, flip flops. And if someone is selling you something, they want to make a profit on it. The business of America really is business, no matter what.

In trying to refute the entire notion of a public option, I've heard some Republicans (shouldn't we just start calling them Republicants, btw?) say the public option wouldn't be fair--to the insurance companies (and gosh knows, the government should be all about making things fair for corporations...). I heard California Republican congressmen John Campbell say, essentially, "Why should there be a government run option for health care to provide competition? The government doesn't make furniture or shoes to give those industries competition." This argument is so specious and despicable it's almost impossible to debate. The man is equating chairs with health care. Saying that since the government doesn't provide us inexpensive, non-profit La-z-boys it shouldn't provide us inexpensive, non-profit life-saving heart surgery. Lovely.

With that kind of thinking it feels like you have to take a beat, triangulate, try to reason; there's a crazy person in the house, take some deep breaths and back away. But I think we should be doing the opposite: Going Big or Going Home. I actually think the fact that there's even an issue about the government being involved in this at all is the problem. Maybe we're tip-toeing around a bigger concept here. I mean, what is the basic function of the government? To take care of its citizenry, yes? The right wing is all about defense and security. Why? If not about just proving they have bigger balls (and admittedly, it might be), then it's ostensibly to stop other people from killing us. If we can spend seemingly unlimited amounts of money making sure that some foreign entity doesn't invade and start slaughtering us, why shouldn't we spend money making sure that diseases don't invade and start slaughtering us? In fact, in some ways we do: everyone is all too happy to have the CDC whipping up batches of swine flu vaccine--to protect the citizenry. Isn't that what health care should be? Protecting the citizenry from unnecessary death or preventable suffering?

I understand that Obama wanted to get what he could, start with something that seemed doable and non-threatening to the entrenched interests, maybe work reform incrementally. But as the wacky right distorts and lies and screams and froths at the mouth, filled with misinformation and free-floating rage, I have to think the moral argument wasn't big or compelling enough. If they're this upset now? Maybe we should have just asked the big questions and shot the big wad. Maybe we shouldn't be arguing fine points about how to enable everyone to afford health insurance. Maybe we should be arguing about why health insurance even exists.

Why shouldn't health care fall into the same category that other 'essential' services? The government (whether national or local) makes sure we have police and fire departments, clean water, safe medications, salmonella-free food...so why shouldn't it make sure we don't die of an undiagnosed tumor or untreated diabetes? To my way of thinking, making health care something we have to 'negotiate' for in the 'marketplace' is positively perverse. If your house is on fire, do you have to 'shop around' for the cheapest engine company? Do you get a better price on your tap water than your neighbor does because you work for a big corporation and she's self- employed? Do you have to find a nice 'plan' to buy into just in case you ever need to call a cop? Can you imagine? "I couldn't afford police insurance, so when someone was breaking into my house I just waited it out in the bathroom and hoped for the best."

Of course, the fact is we all do buy into such a plan: by paying our taxes. So yes, I am in fact suggesting that health care be covered by our taxes. Crazy talk, I know. Positively Socialist! But let's be honest here; we have 'socialist' systems already--taxes we all pay to provide essential services for the public good. So why are we are we drawing the line at health care, pretty much the most 'essential service' of all? (If you don't have your health...) Maybe Obama should just say: Sure, fine. I'm a Socialist. Unless you live in the woods, off the grid, and eat bark, you kind of are too. If you drove to this here town meetin' on a public road, you're just as much of a pinko as I am. So just sit down, open up and say, "Ahh".

A Poem

2009-07-01T10:46:00.000-07:00

Once every year or two a poem comes to me. Sometimes on a hike, sometimes driving, sometimes when my head hits the pillow. Until now, I have written them down, stuffed them in drawers and forgotten about them. But now I have a blog, so I can share my flashes of poesy with the world.
Or, you know, you three.

Sleeping With The Animals

Zoey
sleeps curled in the Vee of my knees,
tiny twitching, dreaming
girly dreams of dainty things
like pretty clothes and fangs.

Gus
slumbers beside me,
his fur soft as a doyenne's stole,
snores cutting the night
like a serrated knife, trying in vain
to carve a coconut. But

Eddie
lies on the floor,
my sleeping dog prince,
silent, stately, his heavy head cradled
by his sizable paws.
Dreaming of more ways to be
inscrutable.

I Am A Bad Person (OR: STFU)

2009-06-22T16:06:00.000-07:00

About this blog: I probably should have called it Free-Floating Rage. Sure, I'm cynical, the world is a cold, unforgiving place full of chaos and disappointment and wet laundry, blah blah blah: whatever. What I really am is ticked. "Appalled" is one of my favorite words. An ex used to mock me for so often being 'aghast'. He was wrong about a lot, but sadly, not about that; shit annoys me. And now I'm an annoyed person with a venue; I blog because I'm pissed. So I got a little pissed off with the lazy, too self-important, asinine Facebook status updates. And boom, few days later, blog entry. [See previous: How are you? (Don't Answer That.)]

I should have waited a few weeks. It turns out among my 100+ "friends" I've got a couple of Status Update Abusers, but nothing compared to what a friend of mine has lurking on her Facebook page. She is, unfortunately, Facebook friends with the mother of all status update abusers. A status update abuser so aggressive in her inanity and egotism and vanity and literalism and twee self congratulation that, well, frankly, she has to be read to be believed. My friend has graciously shared some of the greatest hits with me, so I can share them with you.

These status updates almost require no editorializing. Because they are simply so...odious. So mind numbingly dumb, so utterly cliche-ridden, so filled with nuggets of information so dull, so glaring and desperate in their passive-aggressive quest for affirmation, so gigantically pompous and preening even as they pretend to be so humble and down to earth. So teeth achingly upbeat. So stomach lurchingly enthusiastic. They are simply impossible not to hate. This is Status Update Abuse on a grand, operatic scale. This woman--we'll call her Sunny (unbelievably, not her real name)--is to the average Status Update Abuser what Tiger Woods is to a weekend duffer. What Jeffrey Dahmer is to someone who accidentally drove over the neighbor's dog and broke its leg.

And what's worse? Our Sunny is a writer. Like for real; she gets paid a freaking big salary to write for a living. Which is just...terrifying. If you're a writer, shouldn't you make the tiniest effort to make these little sentences somewhat representative of your abilities at your chosen vocation? A well chosen word here, a slice of irony there, a soupcon of humor to the side? As a professional writer, shouldn't your Facebook update be a place to show off a bit, unfettered by commerce? Bite-sized morsels of your craft to share with your friends? I mean, shouldn't you try to make them that? Occasionally? If Sunny is trying...well then once again, it's confirmed: the world is just not fair. Cause this bitch (as you will see) has a job. And I'm in my pajamas. (And, oh, by the way: I’m bitter. I’m a bitterina in her pajamas.)

Notes: I swear on my blogspotted soul that every word of Sunny's is verbatim. (My comments will be in parenthesis. Cause, you know, I can't help it. I'm pissed.) I've also included virtually every one she wrote for months; I only omitted ones that were literally so fucking boring that I couldn't bear to read them again, much less comment on them. But for the most part, it's all here. Also, I've redacted any of her friends' names and some other identifiers. And obviously, these go backwards in time, cause that's the way we found them and I was too lazy to do otherwise. I'm blogging about her, not writing her annotated fucking biography.

And this will be mean. Consider yourself warned.

The walls in my office are so bare. I've never had so much wall space to fill...what to do. Hmmm. (What to do, indeed. Why not hike on over to Pier One and pick out some pretty little pre-framed repro French soda pop posters? Go on the Internets and buy some one- sheets from your favorite movies? Get some rolls of plain wall paper and DIY up a fun 'comments wall' for your colleagues? Of course not; because she doesn't really give a fuck that her walls her bare. She just wants us to know how big her fucking office is. Yeah, well, fuck you.)

Just iChated with my baby girl and heading back to the room to pitch stories for [REDACTED]. Need more coffee. ("The room" for the "non-pros" out there, is the "writers room". Cause she has a job, see. On a show on the TV machine! I just figured that out! Even though she didn't really say, see, she just...oh, fuck her. )

Roasting my gfriend [REDACTED] who is turning 40 on Sunday! The roast will either be hilarious or make everyone incredibly uncomfortable! (Nobody gives a shit. Also: you're a writer, try using an active verb every once in a while. Moron.)

People, I have my own bathroom in my office!! C'mon! I have arrived! Off to meet the other writers. (Yes, we know. You have a job, with an office, with its own bathroom. Fuck. You.)

First day of work! Feels more like the first day if school. I hope the cool kids like me. (Bitch, please: no one likes you.)

Big day. Notes on Christmas feature followed by reading of some new & old plays. We're doing a show for Ovarian Cancer Research in August! (Ovarian Cancer and exclamation points--they go together like peanut butter and poo.)

Just got back from the Playa Vista farmers market with my sweet girl. We had tons of fun! She loves dogs and there were many. Now she naps (A baby who loves dogs; what are the chances. I'm so bored I'm going to kill myself.)

Looks as though Carradine died of autoerotic asphyxiation. That bums me out. Friends, please, just masterbate the normal safe way. Thanx. (Boy, you are compassionate and 'edgy'. Fuck you. Also, you don’t know how to spell ‘masturbate’? Seriously, what kind of writer are you?)

Going to enjoy my last weekend before I start work. Yup, this week I start! So excited. ("Start work"? Hunh, did you get a job? Really? Good for you, Sunn...No, never mind. Fuck you.)

Adult acne, c'mon! You took many of my teen years now leave my face alone! I'm in my thirties for crying out loud! (Back. Away. From. The. Exclamation. Points.)

Had to reschedule OWN meeting cause Jamie Gertz, who pitches with me, got called in to do more eps of "entourage". Got all cute for nothing! (OMG! You know Jamie Gertz!?! You 'pitch' with Jamie Gertz!?! OMG, you are so freaking cool!!! No, you're not. Fuck you.)

Pitching reality show to OWN today. Oprah's Network. Pretty excited! Then day of writing. Must finish feature before I start "[REDACTED]". (OMG! Did you perchance get a job??!?! On a TV show?? See, it's hard to tell, cause you only wrote the first word of the show's name, cause you're so inside... Which is so cool! That you're so, like, 'in the know' and part of the 'industry' that you can just toss off a quarter of a show's name cause...cause that's what...wait...hey, does anyone love dryer lint as much as I do? Lint; soft.)

Can't wait to see Conan's second show...especially now that the pressure of night one is off. (It's so cute that you're worried about ‘Conan’! Like he's your friend. Omygod, is he your friend!?! OMG, that's really cool! No, it's not. You're a fucking fuckwit.)

It's official, I've got a job! Yippee! Celebrating with a diet coke. Yup, I know how to party. (Aw...humility [celebrating with diet coke] in the face of Hollywood success. Sunny, you are just so...real. Down to earth. Menschy. Normal. No you're not. Fuck you.)

June. Really? 2009 is already half over. Man, I've got to get cranking on the new years resolutions. There is still time! (No there isn’t. Plus: no one cares.)

Friday already? What happened to this week? I think I spent a good portion of it watching HGTV and eating guacamole. (Wait, at the end of a week there is a day called...Friday?!?! Seriously? Holy crap. I gotta go throw up.)

After a week of trying to get through I broke down and pumped old lefty. Feeling much better. Don't know what I'm talking about? Lucky U! (Riiiight. If we 'don't know what you're talking about' we're 'lucky'. Lucky, childless, barren, unloved, dusty old hags. You, conversely, have a baby that sucks its food out of your tits! Congratufuckinglations.)

Lovely weekend! Today went on family walk to the large fountain near our house where ducks live. My baby girl loves the ducks! Twas rad! (Note, if you will, the ironic juxtaposition of the archaic 'twas' with the contemporary parlance 'rad'. Think Yaddo has any openings this year? No? What about Tehran?)

Heading up to Santa Barbara for a wedding. Got coffee, a good book and my hubby beside me. Missing baby girl already. Otherwise, perfect! (Otherwise, you're an idiot.)

Wearing cold cabbage leaves in my bra to reduce engorgement now that I'm officially done breast feeding. This is the opposite of hot! (Again with the exclamation points. Just stop it, you crazy twat.)

At dermatologist. Cute old couple next to me. Woman: "Wendy is visiting you today. You remember your daughter, Wendy?" He says, "no". Sad! (Yes, Alzheimer's is so, so "sad!" Exclamation point sad. Dumb shit asshole.)

I was never an actual "smoker" but I would have one a year. When necessary. But right now I'd kill for one. Instead will have a diet coke. (Oh, dear! What, oh what has befallen your perfect life that you'd kill for a cigarette? Well, I must ask! I mean, I know you don't really want anyone to actually know what's going on or you would have been more explanatory, so I will be as subtle and discreet as possible when I pose my question ON YOUR FUCKING FACEBOOK PAGE. Fuckwit.)

And the sun comes out. Exciting week. Might get a cool job. Might get a cool house. Right now am going to get a hot coffee. (See what she did there? With the "cool/cool" and then the "hot"? This woman is a wordsmith people. A wordsmith.)

Food Poisoning sucks! But it does make me very grateful that most of the time I'm pretty healthy. Excited to be healthy again soon. (Wait, what? Food poisoning sucks? Really? The projectile vomiting and flop sweating and chills and fecal urgency and liqui-poo all 'suck'? Hunh. "Food poisoning sucks." Good to know.)

The weather is boo today. Gonna run errands with my girl and have a date with my dude tonight. Not sure what we're doing yet but excited! (The weather and running errands: The information to share when there are literally no words bland enough to describe the color of your eye snot.)

First draft of Xmas movie turned in! Celebrating with froyo from the Bigg Chill. Weekend, I'm so glad you are here!! (What is this "weekend" thing she's so excited about? I just don't...get her.)

Babies are miracles!! (You know what? No, they're not. Anything that can be the result of a horny 16 year old hate-fucking a girl in his parents' garage is not a 'miracle'. Also, Miss Cliche Mc’duh’stein? Go fuck yourself.)

I am happy. Blissfully grateful and very happy! (Didn't I just tell you to go fuck yourself?)

It's official. I have left the William Morris Agency and am now with UTA. Loved my time with WMA but it was time to move on! Excited! (The truth: the new WME fired her. But, bitch did score a new agent, so fuck her.)

My hubby and I are in [REDACTED] Magazine as a "Power Couple" (we're at the end of the article). C'mon! Pretty fun! (No, it's not 'pretty fun'. Playing Jenga is 'pretty fun'. Riding a moped is 'pretty fun'. The fact that you and your 'hubby' are considered a 'power couple' is yet another piece of evidence that the world is coming to an end.)

My daughter has weaned herself and it's official, my boobs are back to normal. I shall miss you huge porn-worthy boobs. Until baby #2. (Because you will of course have baby #2, just like that, easy-peasy, like everything else in your charmed mother fucking life. You will not turn out to have some obscure congenital defect that means your ovaries are filled with Skittles, which monthly leak a thin gruel of brightly colored sugar water out of your vadge. Because that would just be too good to be true. For me.)

Having a lovely dinner with [REDACTED and REDACTED]...just ordered salmon. So excited to eat!! (We have to know what you just ordered for dinner? And where/when are you typing this thing? At the table? On the crapper? Jesus. Seriously; just die, okay?)

At Alloy in the middle of a meeting and they wanted me to Tweet to the world and see who would reply. Give us some love!! (Really? That's what they wanted? For you to 'tweet to the world'. Or did they just crave, with every cell in their bodies and on the graves of all their forebearers, that you would, for the 30 seconds you were 'tweeting', just SHUT THE FUCK UP?)

Back from my day out. Now gonna watch my baby sleep for a minute, kiss my dude and then watch Biggest Loser! Aw yeahh! Happy cinco de mayo! (Seriously? Happy fuck you.)

At Universal taking a meeting and Diablo Cody just walked by. Awesome! (And this is how we know that this bitch cannot really, truly be a writer of any value at all. Because every writer of any value, and those of no real value but some self awareness and heart, fucking loathe Diablo Cody.)

In need of a hug. This waiting is rough stuff. Am currently done with 1 meeting and at a Starbucks working on X-mas movie til my next apt. (Okay, writer girl? 'apt' is not the abbreviation for 'appointment' as you think it is and want us to think it is so we know how fucking in demand you are. 'Apt' means 'apartment'. So you just told everyone you're waiting for your next apartment. I guess I spent all of staffing season waiting for my next split-level. But I’d be happy to give you a hug. If by ‘hug’ you mean ‘kick in the face’.)

Working on the Christmas movie today and prepping for a week of many meetings. Excited to have options! Writing gods, give momma a J.O.B.! (Give me a G.U.N.)

Big day 2day with back 2 back meetings. This time nxt month I'll know what the rest of my year will be. Time 2 jump in shower and get cute! (While you're in there, how 'bout downing a bottle of Lever 2000, chasing it with a couple capfuls of Tegrin and calling it a day, mmkay?)

Back in my little office. Time to make some magic happen. (Oh my god. Is that...some irony there? I mean, it’s hard to tell, because it’s such a cliché, but "make some magic happen" could be a little self-deprecating writers' joke, because she can't possibly believe her work is so 'magical' that it...no, she probably actually does think she makes magic. Twat.)

Morning pitch meeting was cancelled. Throws off my whole day. Oye! Drinking my almond milk sugar free vanilla latte and reassessing. (This post is so boring, despite misspellings, as to literally not inspire even the most obvious snarky response. It's official: bitch is too stupid to make fun of. [With thanks to ‘The Hangover’.])

Writing all day today. Deadlines are looming. All I can think about is lunch. (All I can think about is how much I would enjoy punching you in the neck.)

Craving the Salmon Quinoa salad at AXE. Must work now. xo ('xo'??? What the fuck?)

Working on the Christmas movie today. Ate my left over Mozza for lunch. Yum! Tonight Thai with the girls and watching "Romy & Michelle". (I thought I told you to shut the fuck up.)

Rad day of writing on the Christmas movie & my sweet boy just brought me some peanut butter froyo from Bigg Chill w/ nonfat hot fudge. Mmm (Translation: My husband is better than yours, if you even have one, you sad, sad bitch I Facebook friended on the picket line that one time.)

Spin class. CHECK. Kiss baby & hubby. CHECK. Prepped fish 4 dinner which is marinating in fridge. CHECK. Wrote 15 pages of movie...UGH (CHECK? No: Check, please.)

Stuck. How do I know I'm having a block? I was about to take the FB "Which TWILIGHT character are you?" test and I haven't even read it! (Oh my God! She hasn't even read 'Twilight'! Cause she so deep and literate she doesn't read that shit! And yet, I am fairly positive she has a subscription to OKAY! magazine.)

Dropped my shoes off at a cobbler. Yup, recycling, y'all. Now I sit to write...just as the sun comes out. It's a sign! Yeah! (Wow. Is it possible the sun rises and sets around the schedule of the most boring human on earth?)

Had lovely breakfast with [REDACTED] at Urth Cafe and ran into Cardellini. Lovely! Back home to hang with my girl. Will write when she naps! (I'll show you lovely, you name dropping little whore. Also, if ‘the girl’ is not currently napping, why are you on Facebook? Note: you’re a terrible mother.)

Outline approved for Christmas movie. Have 4 weeks for 1st draft & made organic baby food from scratch this morn. Feeling like a power mom (Um, bitch? Real 'power moms' don't have time for fucking Facebook you shithead.)

Bfast w/ a g-friend @ John O'Groates. Then power day @ Mark Gordon Co. on the rom-com. Must stick to the WW! Gained 4 lbs in last 2 weeks! (Power mom, power day. WTF, is this bitch on drugs? Actually, I hope so; it would explain so much.)

Baby napping. Husband napping. Sitting with my coffee and my BUST Magazine (it's a feminist mag). Taking a breath. Later? Family swim! (Later for me: finally getting that popcorn hull out between my teeth (they're those white things in my mouth).)

11 rows away from the stage. Seeing Eddie Izzard. Got a coffee, a brownie and my fella. Awesome date nite. Pretty sure I'm gettin lucky. (The fact that she likes Eddie Izzard proves that There Is No God. The fact that she’s ‘gettin lucky’ proves that Guys Will Fuck Anything.)

Teaching a writing seminar in Beverly Hills. Giving back. Feels good. (Giving back? Are you fucking kidding me? By regurgitating whatever bullcrap you remember from the Robert McKee weekend class you took ten years ago to some Bev Hills fucking hausfraus? Fuck you, you fucking clueless fuckwit.)

Just nabbed tickets to see Eddie Izzard this weekend. The good news just keeps on coming. A much needed date night with my fella is close! (The good news just keeps on coming? Like global warming and Darfur and North Korean nukes and journalists in jail and Swine flu and the sub-mortgage crises and imploding banks and the Craig’s List killer and Iran on fire? That good news? Idiot.)

Done with the pilot. Everyone is happy! Killer meeting at the CW and back to the Christmas movie!! It's all happening! Give Momma a job! (Give me a bucket.)

They prefer the draft two drafts ago! Really? The one I finished a week ago and loved! REALLY?!? Now they decide that one rocks! Wow. (In truth, they hate all the drafts but are too stupid to find a way to tell you. If there is any justice in the world, you will soon be replaced. But I am not placing bets on that one.)

So tired...too many project at the moment. Must get through this next few weeks and then mini break. And back on the WW. So hungry... (Yes, ‘too much work’; what most Americans are worried about. Sunny: she's just like us.)

Okay, FINAL pilot rewrite before it goes out and afternoon pitch meetings with Jamie Gertz & David Broome for reality show. Fingers crossed (You know what would be better? Fingers down throat.)

Prepping for my bday party this weekend. Kind of forgot. Been so work focused. Luckily my friends are helping. Thank God! ("Kind of forgot" your own birthday. Right. Just: bitch, puleeze.)

Time to retire the phrase "Yeah Baby" said like Austin Powers. Working on the pilot today...must finish this next draft by Friday. Oye! (She’s worried about retiring ‘yeah baby’? I were her, I’d be much more worried about the apparent rip in the space time continuum that’s hovering right above her fucking head.)

Wearing the red triangle bikini today. Is my ass hanging out? Yes. Do I care? Nope. I am now THAT person. The mom that is over vanity. (Clearly, per everything we have read so far, this woman does not know what the word "vanity" actually means.)

I did it! I rocked the black and white bikini. It helped that there were old ladies everywhere wearing their bikinis. They inspired me! (And...there's our proof.)

Just landed in Hawaii and have an awesome rental car upgrade! Aloha!! To the hotel!! (Rental car upgrades. On the list of things important enough to write down, right in between, "That burp tasted like Cheerios," and "Look, cows.")

And there we have it: Sunny, Her Life and Incredibly Boring, Self Involved Times. There’s more—much more—but my sanity and kitten-weak will to live are in enough trouble as it is. Just know, that if I ever run into this bitch, I will definitely, absolutely, without a doubt ask her for a job.

How Are You? (Don't Answer That.)

2009-04-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

Here's one thing you should know: I love Facebook. I am a True Believer in Facebook. I am to Facebook what 13-year-old girls are to Twilight. I am to Facebook what single man-boys are to Guitar Hero. I check it constantly. I love seeing what my FB peeps are up to. I think reconnecting with old friends is actually a good thing--kept, as it is, at a nice, comfy, digital remove. I adore the faux Scrabble. I totally dig knowing what cousins 20 years my junior are thinking. (Like to keep up with 'the kids'.) I utterly enjoyed following a friend's trip in virtual real time as she uploaded her pictures onto FB daily.

In fact, I think Facebook is a brilliant invention, one of the few that does exactly what it was designed to do, and does it well. It has not--as of yet--become a bastardized version of itself, tweaked by its own success and mutated by its own users into Something Else. (The way MySpace, for instance, started as a promotional site for bands but turned into, apparently, Facebook 1.0. The way Craig's List began as a nice, shared cyber-bulletin board for finding roommates and used bicycles but metastasized into a marketplace for white slavers and serial killers.) Facebook--despite growing pains and terms of usage scandals and awkward new page lay-outs--seems to still do what it promised it would do: create and maintain an Internet community.

And I love the status update. I'm probably, truth be told, a status update abuser. Particularly with the old layout, where your status update hovered atop your 'home page' forever? I changed that thing constantly. I changed that thing when the wind blew weird, when the dog belched, when Keith Olbermann expressed righteous indignation. Any little, silly thing or oh-so-clever solipsistic thought that flew into my addled brain made it into that rectangular box.

But there is status update abuse and there is Status Update Abuse. Some of you people need to back away from the laptop. Stop. It. Really. The complaining, the bragging, the blah blah blah. If it's not at least a little witty, informative, interesting, day brightening...I'm gonna say it. I don't think we care.

But there they are anyway: The Complainers. I can mock them because: I am them. I complain on my status update like lucky people poop: every day.
I have a headache.
I still have a headache.
Headache: Day Three. (This is fun stuff, right?)
I try to make them somewhat informative (Don't park on Highland after 3; you'll get towed just like I did). Or even better, a little entertaining (3am, the cat's snoring like Ernest Borgnine after a Baja bender.) But I can't lie. Bottom line, I'm just a grouch.

Nevertheless, I pale--pale--in comparison to the major league Complainers. These are some serious, professional, don't even, Complainers. Their complaints are intimate, sad, shocking, depressing, graphic. About planes missed and babies up-chucking and mothers dying and illnesses caught. All on Facebook. Where people know you just wrote that. Obviously, everyone's entitled to bitch. I'm bitching right now. But folks: that shit just makes me feel bad. And honestly, I feel bad enough already. Can you dial it back, just a bit?

Then there are The Braggers. Now, honestly, I just feel bad for the Complainers. The Braggers are the ones I loathe. You got the all out, swaggering tools: "Trying to decide between the Land Rover and the Land Cruiser." Really? Instead, how about trying to decide whether your kids get asthma or cancer from the belching fumes you're going to spew into the air so you can drive around in a pimped out station wagon pretending you're taller than you are? How about trying to decide whether you're an asshole or a douchebag. What's that you say? Oh, right: both.

Then you have your 'passy-aggressy' "I'm-gonna-say-something-mildly-curious-to-get-you-to-ask-me-what's-up!" braggers. Like this beaut: "First day of work jitters!" Oh, Lordy, now we have to ask: New job? Where? Good for you! Then they answer and it's all so, "Well, I don't want to brag, but...". And then of course they do brag (I mean, you asked!). I just want to channel Aaron Altman: Keep it to yourself.

Then there are the STOs. State The Obvious. Anyone who has ever written as their status update "TGIF!" needs to be forced to eat at TGIFs. And not just on Fridays. If whatever you're thinking seems like something a 3rd grade teacher might write on a sheet of oak tag, you know, maybe you don't need to share that with your 164 friends. If whatever you're thinking isn't even a little specific, a little fresh, a little goddamn interesting: no need to write it down and make me read it, mmkay? Just, well, try a little harder. Please?

Personally, I wish everyone would just aspire to my favorite status update category: The Quippers. Cause that's what a status update should be, right? Droll, pithy little comment. The news of the day's bon mot. A laugh, a smile for your Facebook community. A quip. I must confess, this is the group I would choose to live in if I could choose. Unfortunately, the funny chooses you. So though I try, mostly I leave it to Richard. (He knows who he is.)

This is a theory I have about the Internet; it's not only the greatest communication and information and connectivity device of all time. It's also a magnifier. It not only gives us more, it allows us to be more. More informed, more connected; yes, fabulous, love it. But also more crazy, more neurotic, more paranoid, more creepy. Thirty years ago someone who might have liked the occasional bit of porn actually had to leave their house and face a shopkeeper and buy it. Now: that person can fill their hard drive (no pun intended) with so much porn they never have to leave the house. Ever. Icky. A fan of Joseph Cotton circa 1943 might have bought copies of Photoplay and Modern Screen and cut out pictures and articles of Joe and glued them into a scrapbook. Harmless. Today, there are multiple Zac Efron fan sites. Whole websites. Built by fans. In their free time. Just...for the love of Zac Efron. Creepy. In 1989 some guy spent too much time driving back and forth in front of his girlfriend's house; now he can download her credit report. Actionable.

Facebook Status Updates can be a little like that. Just too much. A passing, casual comment shared at a party or in an elevator would be promptly forgotten. Now, as a Status Update, that comment is magnified and takes on so much--too much--meaning. It's posted, people. Posted. Think about that. Would you write that thought on an index card and pin it to your jacket? And wear it around all day? Probs not, I'm thinking. So just...have a little discretion, okay? Think twice before you post. Cause if it's just complaining, or saying something we all know, or bragging for the sake of bragging? Yeah, you might get some positive reinforcement. A comment on your comment. Maybe the old thumbs up. Probably nothing at all. But what if the people reading that comment sneer in the privacy of their homes/offices/cubicles? And people who previously might have found you mildly irritating? Don't look now: they just unfriended you. See? Magnified.

Paper Cut

2009-03-23T11:56:00.000-07:00

Oh, the "Fempire". A tiny, exclusive, moneyed emirate, perched in the hills, where its denizens can look down on the hoi polloi toiling below in the flat lands. Kind of like Andorra, but with yoga mats.

Apparently--thank goodness--I'm not the only one who found the article in yesterday's New York Times a bracing antidote to any germs of self-worth that might have been metastasizing inside me. Well done, New York Times and (journalist) Deborah Schoeneman! Good job Dana Fox, Diablo Cody, Liz Meriwether and Lorene Scafaria! Now I hate myself even more than I did before! I know that wasn't your intention (well, I'm pretty sure), but what a great side effect. Just sit down with these groovy galpals in Hollywood, talk about their dogs and their matching bespoke necklaces, and their Hollywood Hills homes, and their limousine rides to their movie premieres...and bingo: less successful writers everywhere start Googling, "suicide, techniques".

Of course, these women are allowed to be successful. My evolved, logical side knows that as far as female genes behind the cameras in Hollywood goes, the more the better. But my reptilian brain is toggling between wanting to go all Collyer brothers and never leave my house again and considering sneaky ways to give all four of them scabies. I think it's the "entourage" part of it all. As irritating as Diablo Cody is on her own (when oh when will everyone realize this "femperor" has no clothes?) I could just cast her aside as another annoying anomaly. But grouped together like this, these chicks--I'm sorry--are just hateful. And they did the grouping themselves, so it's not old Deborah Schoeneman's fault. Naming their little clique? Last girls I knew who christened their posse were the "Flagpole Girls". In elementary school. And all the inside crap and smutty gifts and liturgy...let's face it: as hip as these chicks are, this is just a sorority with better lodgings. And I freaking hate sororities. For all the high minded reasons. But also because they'd never ask me to join.

Maybe if "Fempire" were men. Maybe if they were novelists. Maybe if they lived in Portland. Anything to separate these babes in Hollywoodland from my experiences. Anything except their ability to "command seven figures" for their star-laden scripts, that is.

I know you're not supposed to compare yourself to other people. We're all valuable in our own right, blah blah blah. But I just can't help it. Horrible confession: I'm a jealous, vicious bitch. There, I said it. Any time I hear about anyone that's in any way bumping into the bubble that is My Life, I do an elaborate compare/contrast to try to make myself feel better. For instance: High School Nemesis is married with children. Ah, but she lives in Ohio and is a dentist. I am the glamour girl in L.A. I have hugged Hugh Jackman! I have had dinner with Jon Hamm! Whew. Potential self-flagellation averted. Some part of me is better. I can carry on.

But lately, sadly, this has been getting harder and harder to do. People I know--actually know--are successful (in my field), are in happy relationships, have nice homes, aren't recovering alcoholics, etc. etc. I can't find a slow leak in their bubble that makes my bubble look bigger and shinier and...bubblier. This has been my horrifying realization: at a certain point, you're no longer a Late Bloomer. You're just a Loser. And that's when paeans to younger, prettier, more successful people hanging around together doing your exact job in the New York Times can really, really, well...hurt. So that's the real thought for today: Ouch.

Invisible Stuff

2009-03-16T23:01:00.000-07:00

Warning to people of faith: The following will offend you. Sorry. (Sort of.)

I finally tucked in the other night and watched Religulous, Bill Maher's scathing look at organized religion; it was well worth the 3.99 on pay-per-view. And then I read Frank Rich's column in the Sunday Times, in which he commented--hopefully--on the waning of the Religious Way of American Life; there are more people claiming 'no religious affiliation' than ever before. Nevertheless, we're still a nation of remarkably faithful church/temple/mosque/yoga yurt-goers. Much more so than other industrialized nations.

What the hell is with us? Maher incisively and hilariously skewers all the silliness of believing in some giant, invisible, all powerful "sky-man" (as John Oliver cheekily put it on The Daily Show) who has the time to manipulate the outcome of football games but leaves Darfur littered with corpses. Not to mention the general absurdity of the bible ("a talking snake? really?"). And the insanity (okay: stupidity) of taking said book literally. With a few clever montages and some bracing on-screen factoids, the movie limns all the hypocrisy, all the flimsy justification, all the general wackjob-itude of believing whole-heartedly in these thousand year old fairy tales. I mean, really: no one believes Rumpelstiltskin spun gold from straw, so why do people believe a Jewish carpenter turned water into wine?

But here's the thing: seems to me religion--sadly--isn't the only farcical, invisible thing we've decided to believe in. The "faith" we put in things we can't see or touch or smell or quantify in any way at all is rampant. I think we've been caught--for a while now (eight years? maaybee...)--in a kind of collective, willful ignorance. We've been having a hoe-down and doing a dumb, happy dance to a tune we can't even hear.

For people with anti-biotics and computers and statistics we believe in a lot of invisible stuff. We put our faith in invisible stuff. We get unbridled joy and a feeling of safety and entertainment value and sense of import and urgency out of Invisible Stuff. Like, for instance, just for starters:

--God, natch
--Money in your 401(k)
--Love and/or "a real connection" on any dating reality show
--All sorts of Byzantine financial transactions that don't make sense to anyone
--WMD
--The value of your house
--Anti-oxidants
--Anything that 'reduces the look of fine lines and wrinkles'
--That Patrick Dempsey's hair just looks that way

What do we get out of all this? Ever-lasting childhood, that's what. We're not just chumps, we're children, living out not even an extended adolescence (fuck, adolescents do nothing but question the status quo; I wish we were adolescents) but an extended toddler-hood. We are actually slobbering, sticky three-year-olds who believe anything someone taller, older, cooler, richer, prettier or On TV tells us to believe. Regardless of fact, regardless of evidence. We might as well assume we'll get rich by putting errant teeth under our pillows.

Maher ends his movie by saying, among other things: Grow up. And despite the fact that most of the time I feel like a 12 year old weepily singling along to Janis Ian songs, I've got to agree. Maybe it's time we stopped believing in voodoo and magic in place of science, and smoke and mirrors light shows in the place of actual balances in actual brick and mortar banks. It's time we stopped think 'reality shows' are really...real. It's time we looked at something like the cold hard truth and lived our lives and fashioned our economy and developed products based on fact and empirical evidence, instead of wisps of pretty twinkling lights. It might not be fun, it might not be comforting, it might not be easy. But at least it'll be grown-up. At least it'll be real. Cause here's the thing about invisible stuff; when you need it most, it might turn out not to just be invisible. It might turn out to be non-existent.

Poof

2009-03-12T00:04:00.000-07:00

There was money. And then there wasn't. Simple as that. There was this nice number; not a huge number, not a rich person's number, but a number that I could use, that could help me out, that could make things easier. Right there, in my bank account. A surprise, yes, but not impossible in the fickle business in which I work. Money comes in dribs and drabs, sometimes when you expect it, sometimes not. So it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. And after making a couple of phone calls to check it out, it seemed more than possible. It seemed probable.

But then: poof. Adios. Gonzo. A computer blip. Human error. Bank mistake. The having it, not the not having it. It was never mine to begin with. A fantasy. A chimera. A cruel joke.

And boom: I got an up close and personal experience with this, our second Great Depression. There was money. And then there wasn't.

That's pretty much it, right? The Dow is at 14,000+, then it's below 7,000. Where did it go? Citibank is worth 60something a share, then it's worth less than a biggie pack of Orbit White Bubblemint. Say what now? Investors have millions with Bernie Madoff and then they're paupers. Howzzat? And just like my 'phantom money' (that's what I call it; the phantom money) this is my belief: it was never there to begin with. We all acted like it was there, we felt cozy and comfortable like it was there, we spent like it was there, but it never was. The "money" we thought we "had" was just a bunch of black slashes on a white computer screen.

Look: Donkey. <-- That is not a real donkey. That is just some black slashes on a computer screen that looks like 'donkey' and makes you think 'donkey' but it is not actually a donkey.

Now, I'm a fantasist; I admit it. For the few days I (thought I) had that money, my life was swell. I exhaled. I actually felt a sense of calm descend, an unexpected smile curl the corners of my mouth. I even toasted with friends. I thought I was about to live a life (relatively) free of stress and worry and bizarre nightmares of becoming a crazy homeless woman living under the 405. I actually imagined...buying things. Books from the bookstore and not the 'used' section of Amazon. Getting a facial. A cloud of equanimity even settled over me, in place of my worst fears: if my computer continues chipping off little pieces of itself and finally there's nothing left but the F9 key, my life won't be over. The new 17inch environmentally friendly Mac will be mine.

But that's me. I make shit up for a (sporadic) living and I'm afraid of math. But can everyone in the country be fantasists? Can our entire economic system be an illusion? Can all those smart young best and brightest master of the universe Turk-types on Wall Street be delusional or liars--or both? Apparently, yes. We all believed. We believed in "Zero interest for one year!" on over-stuffed sectionals from LivingSpaces. We believed in "You've been pre-approved!". We believed in "No money down mortgages". No money down mortgages. Didn't anybody think, "Um...that...can't be right. I mean, for an entire house? Seriously?" Apparently not.

This fall I did some canvassing for Obama in Las Vegas. And in the worst neighborhood you could possibly imagine--an arid, flat, chained up mongrels, surrounded by used car dealerships Appalachia kind of place--people would open the doors of their small, sadly shabby homes and inside would be...a 52" flat screen TV. Flat screen TVs in every house. Two, three thousand dollar TVs. Everywhere. People bought those TVs--poor people, people who were un-employed or under employed or barely employed, people with too many bills who lived paycheck to paycheck--with money they didn't have. Phantom money. Black slashes on a white computer screen.

If we get through this in any kind of intact--please, let's get through this--I just hope we can all remember: This is not a donkey.

"i gave my power away"

2009-02-26T18:11:00.000-08:00

Who would have thought Top Chef would provide a teachable moment that had nothing to do with skinning an eel or how strong redfish is? (BTW: am I the only one who thought "redfish" was something Dr. Seuss made up?) But Wednesday night's lamentable finale did just that. Carla Hall--dear, Beeker manque, hootie hoo Carla--who had won over fans and judges alike with her exuberance and soulful cooking and delightful goofiness, lost tragically; so tragically she wasn't even in the running at the end.

And why? Bad choices, forgotten details, over thinking her menu, poor time management? Probably, sure; all of the above. But everyone made mistakes: Stefan decided to freeze salmon halibut carpaccio before serving it--in a pool of melted fishwater (delish!)--and delivered a dessert the judges deemed dated and pedestrian. Hosea presented a sashimi trio that everyone agreed was bland and poorly seasoned, lacking the most obvious thing in the world: salt. So how did Carla's few mistakes snowball enough to prove fatal?

She admitted it Thursday on NPR: she second guessed herself. Presented with some ideas by her appointed sous chef (Casey, a runner-up from a previous season), Carla thought, "Okay, let's try it." Yeah, let's "try" cooking the beef 'sous vide'--a technique Carla had never done before (and which involves a plastic bag; sorry, but it seems a little Shake-n-Bake to me...). Let's try making souffles (who doesn't know how temperamental souffles are!?! wasn't this a Three's Company episode?) instead of the tartlet she'd planned. Presented with ideas from (let's face it) a subordinate--'sous' means under, after all--Carla said, "Okay, good idea there, Casey." Carla, ever kind, ever compassionate, ever open minded. She succumbed to the Achilles (high) heel of women everywhere: she decided to be a team player when in fact she needed to be just the opposite. She needed to not just have a vision, but also the confidence and dedication to stick to it. She needed to lead.

Why do we (women) do this? We lean towards empathy, kindness, compassion. We care about the group, often at expense of ourselves. (Every Mom, ever, yes?) We want everyone else to feel included; we want to hear opinions from all quarters. And that's all great. I love that about us. But when the task at hand doesn't call for a team response, when you're competing for Top Chef, not Top Kitchen Crew...sisters, I hate to say this, but: man up.

Look at how Carla's male competitors treated their sous chefs; like number twos. Hosea and Stefan looked at their sous chefs and saw Watsons to their Holmes, Spocks to their Kirks, Dwights to their Michaels. Carla looked at Casey, hugged her in solidarity, and saw Thelma and Louise. And yes: together, hands held, they drove off a damn cliff.

Is this why there's still a glass ceiling? (And there is: look up the stats--they're shocking.) That when push comes to shove we look for consensus when we should be decisive? And here's an even more frightening thought: what if we're not looking for consensus because we're so frigging nice? What if we're looking for consensus because we're--gulp--just freaking scared? In the myriad post mortems Carla has admitted she had a loss of confidence. This, from New York Magazine on line:

"When you are in a situation and you’ve done it on your own and you try to keep everything together, as soon as there is somebody in front of you who has been through it, you almost exhale at that point and say ‘Oh my God, thank God I have help!’ And you’re like, ‘okay, let me lean on you, let me listen, what do you have for me? Let me take some of your energy.’ And I think I did a little bit too much of that and I gave my power away."

Wow. Maybe we're not just tragically nice team players. Could we actually be...pussies? Is that possible? I mean, I know I'm a pussy, but I'm sitting in a dark room commentating. Carla was a competitor. Carla cooked her ass off. Carla had it going on.

Scarily, the recent event this most reminded me of? Hilary Clinton's presidential campaign. Remember her? The runner-up? Even though a tremendous amount of time and energy went into making us all believe that Clinton would be "ready to lead" on "day one"--and maybe she would have been--the inside dope on the campaign was that a real lack of leadership was exactly Clinton's problem.

In a Sept 2008 article in The Atlantic, Joshua Green writes, "...her advisers couldn't execute strategy; they routinely attacked and undermined each other, and Clinton never forced a resolution." After reviewing of a trove of internal campaign documents, Green comes to this conclusion: "...Clinton’s loss derived not from any specific decision she made but rather from the preponderance of the many she did not make. Her hesitancy and habit of avoiding hard choices exacted a price that eventually sank her chances at the presidency." Of the internecine squabbles inside the campaign, apparently, "Clinton herself could never quite decide who was right." Could this be what was at the root of Clinton's routinely criticized "triangulating"? Not hoping to be all things to all people out of a callous political expediency but a sadly familiar, junior high school terror that the mean girls won't invite us to their sleep-overs?

Oh, god. Is Hilary Clinton--strong, bad-ass, pant-suited, snarky, smart as shit Hilary Clinton--a pussy too?!!?

I'm not suggesting we vanquish fear: obviously, that's impossible. But clearly men have figured out a way to feel fear but do it anyway. To never betray that they're afraid. To act like they're on top of it and in charge (even when they--so often--aren't; even when they bollocks up the entire goddamned world). Maybe we need to just take some acting classes and learn to behave "as if". Maybe Carla felt she needed help from Casey; but she clearly should have acted like she didn't and stuck stubbornly to her own style.

By the end of the Top Chef finale it was clear Carla knew that was her mistake. When asked why she should be Top Chef she swallowed a clear desire to say what she's admitted since: "I gave my power away." Even as it was utterly clear that that was absolutely what she'd done, Carla put the best face on it she could and only talked about her strengths, tried to throw a soupcon of braggadocio into the pot. Unfortunately, it was too late; the sauce was already broken.

paul krugman: fantasy dad

2009-02-23T16:07:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm not entirely sure if Paul Krugman is even old enough to be my Dad, but he's so wise and has such gravitas that he seems awfully Dad-like. (The beard helps.) So I have this urge to call home, chat with Mom (about the Oscars) for a bit and then say, "Can you put Dad on? Does he have a minute?" Cause I have a lot of questions for him.

This was in a Washington Post article about today's fresh hell on the stock market and the past year's overall decline: "The total value of all shares of companies on the Dow has dwindled to $2.45 trillion, down from $4.51 trillion." Okaaay. I literally can't even do the math to figure out the actually amount the market has lost. Does the calculator on the Mac dock go up to a trillion? More importantly: exactly how many zeros are in a trillion? Seriously, is a trillion even a real number or something kids make up when their parents ask them 'how much do you love me?' (A kagillion!) No matter: it's a lot of money. Something like--ball park--$2 trillion has been lost, yes? That is a shit pot lot, lot, lot of money. That is, like, more money than Titanic made. That is more money than Oprah has.

So this is my question for Paul/Dad: Where. Did. It. Go?

Seriously.

Where? It just...disappeared? If it can just disappear, then...was it ever really there to begin with? (Is this too existential a query regarding the stock market?) I really, really want to know. If this $2 trillion was never really there to begin with, then our previous "good economy" wasn't really...real. It was just numbers on a balance sheet? So...that couldn't have been very good to begin with, right?

And people make this whole fuss about the 'irresponsible' homeowners who are now upside down on their mortgage, i.e., they owe more than their home is worth. But again, if the value of their home went down due to the generally sucky economy and crashed real estate market, how is that their fault? That prior "value" seems to have been based on...nothing, right? If it can just...go down like that? So then the whole real estate bubble is really, really, truly a bubble: not just because it can "burst", but because it only really exists when it's filled with air.

Is our whole economy based on mass hysteria and...air? (Dad? Are you even listening? I get the sense you're watching The NewsHour...no, I don't want to talk to Mom again!)

This kind of freaks me out. Is our whole economy one of those kid's birthday party entertainer's bubble cubes filled with cigarette smoke? Those look so cool, so magical, so unlikely. But then they burst. And all you have left is the sick taste of Pall Mall's and Pledge on your tongue and a deep sense of disappointment in your heart.

revenge fantasies. yum!

2009-02-21T10:56:00.000-08:00

I know I'm not the only one who's having a hard time paying attention to the news; even my political junkie Mom has admitted to mainlining novels and bridge instead of her former drug of choice: MSNBC. It's just too damn scary out there. You can only hear so many times that we're in the worst economic slump since the depression before you start to feel, you know: depressed.

So I've decided to get angry instead. And not at the 'state of the world' or vague entities like 'the banks' or 'sub-prime lenders' or 'the Republicans'--at actual, living, specific people. I was leaning in this direction when I saw Bill Maher on Friday night--who, for all his flagrant, frat boy misogyny does say some wickedly funny, smart things--advocate actually killing a couple of to-be-named-later bankers. Which, while admittedly disturbing, was a strangely satisfying idea. Just...up and whack them! For the catharsis, for the possible deterrent effect and just, well, for the kicky fun of it!

Public executions may be going a bit too far, but there are definitely some particular people out there who are just plain Pissing Me Off. And since my splenetic letter to that dingbat John Thune didn't even warrant a form e-mail response (or better yet: an FBI file; fingers crossed!) I'm going to play out some fantasies here.

John Boehner: A persistent blocked tear duct would be good, so he'd be forever wet eyed and drippy. You want to cry? You're so upset? You feel so deeply? Then fine: cry. All. The. Time. Maybe the eye (ooh...both eyes!) could even be mildly infected, kind of red and rheumy so everyone will think he has conjunctivitis and no one will ask him to join in their congressional reindeer games.

Bobby Jindal: If he doesn't want Louisiana's portion of the stimulus package I think a) he should no longer be eligible for his personal portion of Louisiana's budget--i.e, his salary. b) He should have to live with a family of five in a FEMA trailer, right next to the pungent, rotting mess that used to be their house. c) to ensure he can't gain any presidential traction just because he's "cute", he should have to walk around permanently with one of those creepy Abu Ghraib bags on his head.

Bernie Madoff: It's absurd that this assface is still living in his opulent New York apartment. But I actually think jail is too good for him too. This douchey sociopath gets to sit around reading Jeffrey Archer novels and writing his own 'inside the big house' blog? I don't think so. I say he has to go work as a maid. And not just for someone he ripped off--for the maid the people he ripped off had to fire. And they can make him wear the silly little costume of their choice; French chambermaid? Sure. But giant cockroach would be fine too--not just for the visual perfection, but also because it would be just that much harder to fold a hospital corner with pincers for hands. At night old Bernie will have to tuck into some efficiency off the Major Deegan Expressway. Possibly with a semi-retarded, mouth breathing cashier from the Big Apple named Toby for a roommate.

Michele Bachman: This lying, soulless, whack-doodle should have her tongue super-glued to the roof of her mouth. That way, she can think all the outrageous, wildly untrue, heartless, just-to-the-right-of-Pol-Pot crap she wants. But when she goes on talk radio all anyone will hear is, "Gnnnmngrrchl."

John Thain: He of the $1400 garbage can. This tin-eared, Mr. Potter ass-hole should have to actually be a garbage man. Hanging on the back of the truck, wearing olive green coveralls, the whole bit. Hopefully, he will constantly be engulfed by the revolting fug of rancid broccoli water. And poop.

To end on a more fun, upbeat note--a fantasy crush I forgot last week: Julian Schnabel. The ego, the self-absorption, the genius, the genius, the genius. Amazingly talented film-maker (I actually like his movie-making more than his art), captivating raconteur. Big, burly, bearded, brilliant. Frankly, I want for nothing more. I'm even okay with the silly, yellow sunglasses. Sigh.

thought for the day!

2009-02-19T07:57:00.000-08:00

Hey, other tragically unemployed and mordantly depressed people: it's true what the happy people say; a shower really does help. How do you know it's time to shower? If you can't remember the last time you showered.

Best Headline of the Day (maybe ever); "Extinct Bird Seen; Eaten."

that's why they call it a 'job'

2009-02-18T11:45:00.000-08:00

Today's irritant: Craig's list job postings. This is officially proof that the untended, 'openspace' internet Doesn't Really Work. I get how fabulous and free and unfettered by commercialization Craig's List is. And for selling an old couch or Hollywood Bowl box seats you suddenly can't use, or finding someone to teach you the glockenspeil, it's genuinely a fabulous thing.

For job hunting? This thing blows. Blows giant chunks of half-digested kibble. The relevant M-W.com definition of 'job'? "A regular remunerative position." I.e., labor for which the worker is compensated with cash U.S. money. Not....this: check it:

I am shooting an ultra low budget horror film project in the coming months and need my hand written script to be typed up in Final Draft. I need a super cool, motivated team member to help me type because I am a very slow typist. Project should only take 1 to 2 sessions in a low-key, professional environment. Not a cash job but credit and meals provided. A great opportunity to work on an independent film with a gung-ho film director. I look forward to hearing from you soon!

Did you notice sentence number four? The one that starts, "Not a cash job..." Are you fucking kidding me? You need your fucking sucky script typed and you're not even willing to pay some poor sap 10 bucks an hour to pick her way through your Kevin Spacey, psycho-killer from Se7en scrawl? Because this is a "great opportunity"? Um...NO. It's not. A "great opportunity" is interning as Steven Soderbergh's on-set assistant while he shoots in Thailand. A "great opportunity" is being Barack Obama's body man. Typing some bottom feeder's crap slasher script is in no way a great opportunity.

I don't care how slow you type, you tool, if you're so effing 'gung-ho' just hunt and peck your way through it while you're watching Adult Swim, asshole. In the amount of time you took posting (even typing!) this stupid ad you could have finished page one.

Then there's this one, in the actual 'jobs' category, like this might actually have something to do with "work" for "money".

We are seeking excellent writers with impressive resumes on IMDb, and who also have connections for getting us in front of the right people. That would definitely get you producer as well as writer credit. These projects are for both TV and feature film, and are both drama and comedy. WE DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM ANYONE WHO THINKS HE/SHE IS A GREAT WRITER, AND CLAIMS THAT THEY HAVE CONNECTIONS, BUT TRULY IS NOT AND DON'T. PLEASE DON'T WASTE OUR TIME! Thank you.

Check out the righteous indignation of those caps, man! Wow. They have clearly been burned, baby, burned, by some devious wannabe writer who took advantage of their...what the fuck is it they're offering again? I have actually NO IDEA what the gig is. What does that "excellent writer" get in return for sharing all their contacts with these these high class individuals? And what writer with ANY IMDb credits in their RIGHT MIND needs these fuckers?!?! IMDb doesn't start listing a writer until he or she actually has something serious in development or pre-production--or frankly, usually, produced. Jesus Christ on the cross, why does an actual WORKING writer need some assface who can't even write a legible ad? With proper grammar and complete sentences and clarity of thought? The mind reels, frankly.

Craig, honey, baby. Love you, love your list. But, please: any way to make "job listings" actually list, real...what's the word?...jobs?

hello blue monday

2009-02-17T00:48:00.001-08:00

Q: Is it possible for me to keep this going three days in a row?
Apparently not; it's 12:48am, Tues, so missed Monday completely. These are my excuses:

Incipient cold.
Took a friend to the airport.
It's raining.
Nothing of note happening.

Except:

I am finding it harder and harder to actually read the news. During the last administration, as bad as things were, there was something to look forward to: throwing the bastards out. In particular, during the last year, the election provided an undeniable electricity and frisson to it all. A giant horse race of the most vital consequences. It was like watching a year long tennis match being played with scimitars on an island in a shark infested moat.

Plus: reading all the terrible things Bush and Co. were up to gave a name to any inchoate rage. There was a perverse thrill to the righteous indignation of it all.

Now? I just feel sad and scared and worried. Worried I'll be living under an overpass soon, worried there will be hobos again, worried our wonderful president couldn't bring an end to this shit storm even if he actually WERE the messiah.
Maybe I scare easily.
Maybe we really are well and truly FUCKED.
Either way, the New York Times is Just Not Helping.

Of no particular import at all:
What the hell is up with that Saving Grace show? Anyone? Why do all the characters' emotions--rage, fear, lust, indignation, joy, delight, whatever--seem pitched higher than a baroque opera? Are they all manics on crack? What's with all the laughing? These people laugh at anything, hysterically. Really; like hysterics, like mental patients, like Bard freshman after a nice spongy bowl of loamy, pungent weed. And they're all crazy Jesus freaks? Is that what the show is about? Hysterical, over-sexed, Jesus freak cops? Why again? (And incidentally, the oh-so-cleverly named "Grace"--get it? clev-urr--has the sinewy, taut body of a Pilates instructor, but she seems to subsist on beer and fries and Froot Loops? Riiiight.)

Those are my rantings for the day: I may be getting a cold. It's raining. I can't read the paper anymore. And Holly Hunter is officially chapping my ass.

reinventing v-day

2009-02-15T15:44:00.000-08:00

Q: Why is there a ridiculous, completely secular, purely commercial holiday to make us all feel bad about ourselves? For single people--even happy ones, for chrissake--the days leading up to this explosion of heart shaped trinkets and cheap, waxy chocolates is just a constant stream of unkosher salt being poured in our singleton wounds. Every store you walk into, every other cheesoid commercial. (Teddy bears dressed as 'love bandits'? Seriously?) Who really enjoys this crap? I have heard more people complain, dread and literally have to gird their loins for the onslaught of Valentine's Day than I have ever heard people admit even the tiniest shred of excitement about it. Frankly, couples don't fare much better; they either find the pressure intolerable or the whole thing just a giant, needlessly expensive, pain in the ass. Parents of small children get roped into making Valentines for every Ashley and Trevor in their kids' class. And the kids who get forgotten in the chaos turn into instant bitterinas. Which, while it will doubtless turn them into interesting adults with good stories to tell as emo singer songwriters or stand up comedians, ain't pretty on a five year old. (Believe me. I know.)

The only people who seem to enjoy this shitstorm are apparently newly dating 25 year old girls--the ones prone to bedrooms festooned with floral prints and closets filled with 'cute tops'. The ones whose boyfriends were busy yesterday buying red roses (the originality could make your head explode!) at the Ralph's. Red roses. From the Ralph's. Wow. What a keeper!

How big could this group possibly be? And why the hell do they need their own holiday? Could we also have a holiday for bald-headed tax attorneys or lesbian grandmothers? A holiday I could really get behind? (Well, the second one anyway...) Isn't this whole thing just a giant waste of money? Particularly in its current state of bloat? (Side bar: Why does every 'holiday' in America now last at least a month? Halloween bleeds right into Thanksgiving, which bleeds right into Christmas, which bleeds right into New Years' and on and on. It's like we're in a perpetual state of Buy Stupid Crap You Don't Need.) With the current state of our economy I know people are supposed to try to keep spending, but wouldn't it be better if we bought things like, oh, food and clothing? (Foil wrapped chocolate hearts and pink panties don't count.)

Okay. I've complained enough. It's over. And the fact is, I had a fabulous Valentine's Day, with amazing friends eating a terrific dinner, drinking fine wine and topping it off with decadent cupcakes. But of course, luckily, I can do that anytime I want. Without the red foil and chubby winged babies.

it begins

2009-02-14T09:26:00.000-08:00

So people tell me I should do this 'blog thing'. I resist. I have nothing to say. I am not particularly funny, or insightful, or connected or brilliant. Then I read some other peoples' blogs and I find out: neither are they. So.

Here I am.

Today's idea: my response to a post on The Daily Beast supposedly listing interesting, funny, compelling, 'geeky' (she said it, not me) dreamy boys to counter the dull, 'shellacked' 'Sexiest Men Alive' from People magazine. This is apparently a Valentine's Day feature, which actually strikes me as rather perverse; last time I checked if you're spending Valentine's Day thinking about Clive Owen and you are not Mrs. Clive Owen, then you are dangerously close to Rupert Pupkin/sending-yourself-roses-at-work territory and you should be sharing your thoughts with a mental health professional, not a bunch of bored loners cruising the internet on a Saturday morning. But that's just me.

Anyway. This chick makes a big point of how dull and obvious the standard lists are, how who cares about Patrick Dempsey and Matthew McConaughey blah blah blah--and then she starts her wildly inventive list of hotties with...the aforementioned Clive Owen. Yeah, that's way out of the box there, sister. Crazy talk! Who are you!? Clive Owen?!?

Girl: Get. In. Line. Behind half the female population on the planet. Most of the male population. My mother.

Next up: Ryan Gosling and Kyle Chandler. Now, I loves me my Ryan Gosling--I think he's an explosively good actor; if you put Half-Nelson next to Lars and the Real Girl we're talking Ryan is the Real Deal. But...unexpected? Geeky? And Kyle Chandler? Also: delicious, fine actor, but he is so perfectly, classically handsome he was cast in King Kong as a square-jawed, 30's matinee idol. This is not an iconoclastic choice.

She throws in some curveballs--the Flight of the Conchords guys, some CEO I've never heard of--but by and large this was not an interesting, thought-provoking list. This is the list of someone whose fantasies include Hawaiian vacations and walking on the beach at sunset. This the list of someone who thinks she discovered The Office because she liked the American version before it won any awards. This is a tampon commercial.

So: Here are my interesting crushable guy choices. It's hardly definitive, not even that well thought out; just the people I could think of today, in no particular order. Maybe if I keep the blog going I will make this a regular feature: Fantasy Crush of the Day or something. That's just the kind of self-involved crap bloggers indulge in all the time, isn't it?

1. Eddie Izzard. With or without the skirt, this guy is sex on a stick. Handsome face, cute accent, sure sure; what he's really got is the fastest, wittiest, craziest mind on the planet. He can go from wildly intellectual, hilarious surveys of World History--in French--to wacky little scenarios about giraffes communicating with each other without making any sound. Proof that the most important sex organ is the brain.

2. Jon Stewart. This is my idea of an obvious choice. Who the fuck doesn't like Jon Stewart? Humorless right wing tools and morons. He's not only witty but impassioned, wildly intelligent and--seemingly--a really nice guy. The dreamy poster boy for smarty pants, Upper West Side, lefty girls. Like me.

3. Philip Seymour Hoffman. Such a good actor, so subtle, so smart. But also has this underhanded, sneaky sexiness. Something about how his eyes smile when he does, how you feel like you can see him thinking, how he looks like he's really enjoying food when he eats, something about how unaffected he seems. How imperfect he knows he is. Seems like a guy who'd spend the whole day in bed with you, reading, snacking, making out. Delish.

4. Dennis Leary. Again, hi-fucking-larious. Fast thinking, fast talking, with a sharpened edge of outrage that is nicely tempered by a dash of well earned self-loathing. Doesn't suffer fools, but also seems to really enjoy other, smart, funny people (see: he and Jon Stewart together) and has been married to the same woman for years. Awesome.

5. Keith Olbermann. Talk about outrage. While sometimes he can just go on, his sense of justice has been so utterly warranted and necessary that he seems like some kind of national freaking hero. Saying what needs to be said, speaking truth to power, calling a spade a spade (or a criminal a criminal: i.e., Dick Cheney), you gotta love him for his consistency and passion and sheer brains. Not humorless either, he can laugh at himself and has that guys' guy love of sports that brings him down to earth. Plus, as David Letterman has pointed out, he has an enormous head. And you know what that means.

6. Michael Chabon. Great writer. Phenomenal writer. Genius writer. Inventive beyond belief, with a use of language that is just stunning and a humanity that is peerless. He's also tall and charming and funny. And he loves his wife and kids. Damn.

7. Jon Meacham. Writer, journalist, editor, awesome talk show guest. Voracious intellect wrapped in a delightfully self-deprecating, witty, Southern Gentleman package. (That slight touch of Tennessee in his accent is the ribbon on this smartly wrapped package.) He seems slightly out of time, like he would've fit perfectly in 50's New York, having cocktails at lunch and pounding out his pieces for Newsweek on a typewriter. Great, crinkly eyes too. And fantastic hair.

8. Craig Ferguson. A comic/actor/talk-show host who wrote a novel? A good novel that displayed a whacked-out, delightful intellect? Sign me up. His rambling, half-silly, half-genius 'monologues' are the funniest, most inventive on TV, while his willingness--nay desire--to dress up and look like an idiot for a laugh (Michael Caine in Space? Aquaman?) just makes him seem like the epitome of a good sport. And the fact that he effortlessly tosses around 'maybe I'm gay' jokes just shows how comfy he is in his own sexuality. His past as a drunk humanizes him beyond belief. And he just seems like a nice guy. Sadly, just got married. Well, sadly for me.

9. Hooman Majd. I actually don't know much about this bloke--just that he's an Iranian-American writer/intellectual of some note, an engrossing talk show guest, and has a lovely accent and speaking voice. He just seems Old Worldy and gentlemanly and sophisticated. Plus, he's just plain handsome and has very elegant hands. Good enough for me.

10. Neil deGrasse Tyson. The go-to astrophysicist for every talk show, he's the director of the Hayden Planetarium, a writer and raconteur and generally witty science guy. If the solar system needed a host, Tyson would be it. He makes the cold expanses of space seem interesting and warm. He seems interesting and warm. He seems like he'd make a great husband. I have no idea why. But scientists, man, are just plain cool.

Okay kids. That's all she wrote for today. Let's see if I manage to open this thing again. Didn't work the last time I tried, but hey, never hurt to keep trying. Unless you're, you know, Hitler.