Yeh!!!!!!

So I met this guy, Josh Berkowitz, at Busby's a little over month ago. We talked for a bit outside while my roommate macked on some guy. He asked for my e-mail, I gave it to him, and the guy my roommate was chatting up got fresh, so we left.

He e-mailed me a few days later. I e-mailed him back. We agreed to go walk down the Venice strand sometime, and then my grandfather died, so I cancelled, and that was that. When I returned to LA I wasn't really in the mood for dating, and the details I'd been culling weren't helping him anyway:

"I'm thirty"

"Are you into jews"

[This is him being not particularly cute]

[This is his e-mails lacking periods or commas]


So time passed, and I didn't write him back, and it was a generally wonderful month for me. I ate at several fine sushi restaurants and alternated hanging out with Hollywood hardbodies and good friends at home. Veronica Mars premiered. I can't say that I gave much thought to Josh Berkowitz and his poorly punctuated electronic mail messages.

Checking my e-mail this morning, I'm not sure Josh can say the same.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Josh Berkowitz [josh_berkowitz@verizon.net]
Date: Sep 29, 2005 10:22 PM
Subject: I'm so happy...
To: Miss Blotto [miss.blotto@gmail.com]



…I’m leaving LA…and all these fucked up, flaky people and their bullshit behind...



Yeh!!!!!!

------------- End message -------------


Godspeed, Josh Berkowitz. The period still eludes you, but I'm glad you've met the comma at last.

Oh, Tom DeLay, You Crazy Cat

Press conference?



Or slow devourment via biblical serpents?

Would Hire Someone With The Email-Reply-To "monkey bizness"?

Here's to creative types.

Denny K.'s Writing Challenge:An Exploration

Looks like I've attracted some attention!



An Exploration of Miss Blotto's "EPISODE ONE"
by Dr. J. R. Tilghman, ph.D
(excerpted)

Ms. Blotto's (indeed, we must not ignore her decision to abide by the maritally-specific "Miss") prose poem, EPISODE ONE, defies description, yet hits close to the heart.

Who is the poem's speaker? Its persona? Signs point to the protagonist of Charlotte Perkins Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper," of which Blotto was a known admirer: Blotto has re-imagined the narrator's gleeful descent into the dark, dank chasm of post-partum madness. While EPISODE ONE's persona enjoys the darkness of her despair's pit, she (for it is most certainly a she; see the distinctly feminine italics and namby-pamby expresses ambivalence at its dankness. With this line, Blotto expresses disdain for the term "moist."

Who would disagree? Ms. Blotto is a woman of the people.

Ms. Blotto's reference to "definitely" refers, of course, to the finite nature of being, decision, and emotion. That her persona feels certain of her emotions is only cosmic irony--perhaps cruelly so.

The poem turns with the onomatopoetic "GAAAAH." Despite its debatability as an actual word, it punctuates the piece with commentary on the futility of faith, as the double AAs, shorthand for Alcoholics Anonymous, imply a cyclical repetition of the 12-step program, so famously rooted in Christianity. The speaker has descended so far as to escape the reach of admitting one's addiction to the Lord, the albatross and "seagull" that attempts to extricate her.

But upon closer inspection her parting cry, "A seagull!" is a mere Chekhovian afterthought: an explanatory joke and clue for the reader, at which the more seasoned diviners of poetry may most heartily--even tenderly--chuckle.


--------------


Also, check out Ari Fleischer's quote last year on why the President wouldn't try to reduce American energy consumption.

"The president believes that it's an American way of life."

That it is, Mr. President. That it is.

Denny K.'s Writing Challenge

Dennis issued me a challenge over IM.


DKisGOD: write about. life. as a worm.
DKisGOD: in a hole.
DKisGOD: near the sea
DKisGOD: and avoiding a horrible screaming seagull death every day
DKisGOD: DO IT
DKisGOD: Denny K's writing challenge
DKisGOD: Episode 1




EPISODE ONE
Dark. Dark. Dank. Dreary.

I like dark.

Not so much the dank.

Definitely not the dreary.

GAAAAH! A seagull!

fin

The Inner Monologue of My Cat, Mildred(Currently in Heat)

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH baby yeah just like that. YOWZA! Penetrate me!

Check it out, a bookcase. Hey there, sailor. How YOU doin'?!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Fuck, a RUG!!! OH GOD OH GOD yesyesyesyesyesyesyes rollgruntoooooooooooh that's good. Wanna see my ass? Yeah, there it is. Check check, check it out. Me love you long time.

SPRING BREAK IS AWESOME.

Really hit me this time. From BEHIND!! GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR baby!

...

...

...


Let's cuddle.


(She goes to spay doctor SOON).

My Night In TiVo: A Recap

What the fuck, man. Josh Schwartz, you had the best show on television. The soaptastic crapbox that is The O.C. somehow, inexplicably, trounced the intrigues of Lost, The Sopranos's scarily accurate, detailed Jerseyisms, and almost but not entirely, the general awesomeness of Veronica Mars.

And yes, there were a lot of made-up words in that last paragraph, but back to the subject, Josh. What's going on? It's like you've stopped caring. It's like you think, "Okay, well, I came up with this pop-culture phenomenon and made a fuckton of money before I turned 26 and now that I'm 28 I can just rest on my laurels and make all these meta references and NO ONE WILL NOTICE but oh Joshy-boy, I know when my allegiance is being tested, and Season 3, Josh, is just a little too reminiscent of my high school junior year AP week.

What's that? You say it's hard, finding new people for Julie to marry, new horrible outfits over which to drape Mischa Barton, new things for Ryan to react against in terribly inappropriate ways? I don't care, Josh! If 90210 could do it, so can you. These are rich, beautiful Southern Californians, Josh. If historical TV viewership patterns say anything, it's that these are the most interesting people in the world. YOU CAN FIND SOMETHING.

No, Josh, no. "We're trying to create a mythology" doesn't work here. A faux O.C. set in the Valley is not a mythology. Shows that say you can reneg on $200,000 from a loan shark and get away with a few light slams might want us to believe in magic, but mythology... no.

No, Josh. No. Josh, please, be---oh boy, here comes Tyra.

BE QUIET! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? STOP IT!! I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE YELLED AT A BOY LIKE THIS! WHEN MY MOTHER YELLS LIKE THIS IT'S BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME! I WAS ROOTING FOR YOU! WE WERE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU! HOW DARE YOU! LEARN SOMETHING FROM THIS! WHEN YOU GO TO BED AT NIGHT YOU LAY THERE AND YOU TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOURSELF BECAUSE NOBODY'S GOING TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOU. YOU ROLLIN' YOUR EYES YOU ACT LIKE IT'S 'CAUSE YOU HEARD IT ALL BEFORE. YOU HEARD IT ALL BEFORE? YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE THE HELL I COME FROM. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH. BUT I'M NOT A VICTIM. I GROW FROM IT AND I LEARN. Take responsibility for yourself.




Thank you.

Craig's Sensitive Tastes

Someone flagged my "Come work for the Porn Co." posting. It's gone now.

I did get 8 responses, though.

And none of them were funny. The tops of their resumes went something like "Objective: Seeking a career with a company that will offer opportunity for growth and a chance to prove myself. I thrive on building strong team environments, and I will go out above and beyond to complete job deadlines, without sacrificing quality."


Yawn.

Craig's sweet list

This is what I posted on CL yesterday:

Post-production editorial house in Santa Monica specializing in TV commercials and music videos needs a full-time runner who can also help out with client services (arranging cheese plates, etc.). Fun, easygoing atmosphere with opportunities for advancement. On-site chef (lunch and breakfast provided). Health benefits after 90 days. Must have car and work efficiently, enthusiastically, and proactively. Ideal for those interested in film/video editing and general post-production.

Fax resume to Meghan at 310.---.----. or email meghan@--------.

After receiving the 150th reply for my shitty posting---I mean, cheese plates?---I decided to take it down. But I spent $25 of Cut+Run's hard-earned cash on this ad, and I have it for 30 days, during which I may edit at will. Who am I to let broadband go to waste?

New post::

Adult video pay-per-view production facility seeking videologger. So-so pay, but the perks are undeniable.

Postings and Resumes and Craigslist, Oh My!

We've decided to hire a new runner, about which I'm very happy, and in deference to my distaste for our usual fall-back temp runner guy, the producers have decided placed me in charge of the search! They don't know it's my last month yet. But my imminent departure aside, can you imagine my excitement? The last time I wielded this much power was when I directed a student production of West Side Story and got to deliberately mispronounce the auditoners' names. As you can see, I wield might with benevolence.

I am picky about the runner. I spend a lot of time with the runner and constantly ask him/her to do vaguely unpleasant things, and if they do not light up at the thought of an 18th visit to Tacos Por Favor, or a trip to the crosstown Peet's for one small black coffee, or having to eat lunch at 4 because this shit needs to get to Lime now, I label them a "pussy" and stop laughing at their jokes.

So I kicked off my thorough, no-stone-unturned search for LA's brightest and most thoroughly servile in the laziest possible way, by posting on Craigslist. In the past four hours, I have had seventy replies.

?!

Seventy replies. At least seventy people out there in Craigslist world really, really want to pick up our glorified dry-cleaning. Have I mentioned that the runner job sucks? Really, it sucks. However, most of the applicants do as well; I've placed 85% of these replies in my "Resumes: Unthrilling" folder, created exactly for this purpose.

But for you dear readers, particularly those fresh from graduation, I offer what I have learned, in the guise of a little experiential exercise in How To Get Someone To Bother Printing Your Resume. Follow instructions carefully, and oh, what skills you shall acquire!

Post a job on Craigslist. It should sound kind of cool.

Watch the replies come in.

Then, prepare. Getting through these replies will require stamina, as there will be a lot and many will be ugly, so eat a Luna Bar, and then get to reading.

You will read cover letters lacking capitalization. After the first three, see if you have any desire to open cover letters or even resumes sent as attachments. Watch how quickly your eyes inure to "perfect for this position," "opportunity," and "quick learner," and wonder if, actually, all of these applicants are the same person, thinking that this is actually a kind of raffle, and the more they email you the same shit under different names, the better chance they have. Time how long you're willing to decipher resumes formatted as "wek BA jfnh% 2004 drfgj:::::%BASkjhAkjhNlkjhTkljhAlkjhkjhMkjgh::::College %%%"

And then see how anyone with a vaguely good, yet still appropriate joke immediately goes into the "Resumes: Me Likey" folder. Learn firsthand the positive effect of light name-dropping. Learn from these people. Learn! And then do.


I get to conduct the first round of interviews. I wonder how I'll mispronounce "Smith."

Office Party/Poor Richard

Will I ever attend another office party? I believe I have been spoiled: will my next office, where and whenever I might find it, throw soirees with semi-exotic hula-hoop dancers and tequila "tastings"? Stop yawning, readers in PR. Take notes: hula-hoops. Hot girl-on-girl hula hoop action. Yes. EggFurious and SerialDater go into more detail.

Anyway.

I saw a preview for the presumably assy new Jennifer Love Hewitt show, The Ghost Whisperer, and realized that I worked with the actor playing her husband last summer, on a pretty terrific production of Richard II (not to be confused with Richard III: Richard II was a Hot Richard. This guy played him. And I got to tie him up every night for the prison scene; it was kind of awesome. And now he's on this assy show).

The trade-off of the trade: eke out a living collaborating and mining Shakespeare with your fellow actors and stage artists, creating this electric piece of art, and practicing the always awesome stage combat, or sixty thousand-ish bucks for a pilot where you hold a semi-has-been actor and whisper "But you have a gift!"

Actually, I think most guys wouldn't mind getting paychecks to hang out in bed with Jennifer Love Hewitt. Even if the bedroom is surrounded by PAs. And has no walls.

So, David Conrad, I wish you luck: you were always nice to me, and are extremely good-looking. I hope your show survives, but somehow I do not think that the success of Lost stems from Matthew Fox's time on Party of Five. Prepare thyself.

Guest Blogging

I posted at the DK Blog today.

So you can read my thoughts on right-wing interpretations of March of the Penguins there.



Penguins! Penguins! AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

September 12th

I remember this day four years ago, when I woke up next to my friend P. in Delta Sig (no, not like that). He, J., B., and I had holed up there for the night, drinking wine, crying, and talking about how we didn't know what to say. It was the first time since 9:40 that I'd been away from a television, and it was good. I had changed out of the dress I'd been wearing in class, when I'd found out. It was this white, Austen-esque empire-waisted column, and had felt ridiculous in the wake of all the melted steel.

There was a television in there, but we'd killed it after Diane Sawyer. I remember that she signed off by talking, rather eloquently, about the final whoosh of paper that flew out around downtown as the towers collapsed. We were glad to be with other Mid-Atlantic natives. The kids from Virginia and Colorado were nice about it, but they didn't understand.

Anyway, on September 12th we woke up and maybe ate something and commented that it seemed rather soon for a memorial service. I saw Missy Bird-Vogel on the walkway, wearing a wifebeater reading "Home of the Brave." Flags had sprouted overnight. My Muslim roommate was incensed about the images of Palestinians on CNN.

I attended the memorial for a few minutes, but no more than that. I applied a flag sticker to my car and watched only the teensiest bit of TV, the bits I couldn't help missing as I walked through the Bryan Center. I was okay with seeing Giuliani, but images of Bush made me wince--I wasn't convinced that he'd ever been to New York. At that point I still wasn't sure who'd died. I made arrangements to go home.

So four years later, when I drive long distances, I don't see flags draped on every overpass, and I when I see a plane I don't wait for it to drop out of the sky, my car's flag sticker is peeling around the edges, and I still distrust cable news. I roll my eyes, firmly, when I see "Freedom Tower" in print (I have yet to hear it aloud without the mocking quotes). I wonder what normal people will call the building once it's done. No one calls Sixth Avenue "The Avenue of the Americas," after all. I discussed this with my MoMA friend, a spectacularly intelligent and verbally adept young man, as he showed me a model of one of the contenders, recently acquired by the museum (also some Marcel Dzama drawings, but we'll save those for another day). We came to a disheartening blank.

So what's changed? On September 12, 2001, I felt paranoia, dread, general illness, and a sick, determined kernel of hope. I really thought we would mobilize, beat those bastards to a pulp, and protect the world from such things for the rest of time.

You could do that in four years, I think. It's a while: a bachelor's degree. A term. The lifespan of my first algae-eater, Alice.

Yeah... on this September 12th, all I can say is I'd be more comfortable with Alice in office.

My Night in TiVo: A Recap

As a newly minted O.C. (er... L.A.C.) resident, I feel it is my honor and duty to report on that "pop culture phenomenon," The O.C., and its relationship with the real California. My hope is to fill in the void left by Laguna Beach, and having seen and almost spoken with three of its castmembers, I feel uniquely qualified to give you this insider view.

I quickly realized that whining about how no one in Orange County calls it anything but Orange County is no fun, so instead, I bring you this week's installment of Attempts to Academicize Popular Television.

This week:

Homoeroticism and Magical Realism in Newport Beach

The episode opens with a dizzying, blue-tinted flashback, as Trey gets rushed to the ER. Ryan has magically gotten a haircut on his way to the hospital. Magical realism bullet point #1: One's appearance shifts to mirror the inner workings of the soul. There is a term for this, but it escapes me. Ignominy? A brief online poll of my English major friends yields nothing. But whatever: Ryan's newly cropped head represents both the cleansing of his soul, vis-a-vis his brother's demise, and the eradication of the self, again, vis-a-vis his brother's demise.

But ahhhh! It was only a dream. Except it happened. Then more things, blahpity blippity boo, banter banter banter, boring boring boring, and we're at the SURIAK Rehabilitation Mansion For Wealthy Folk. Magical realism bullet point #2: Symbolism invading the everyday life. SURIAK, after all, might as well be named after an IKEA shelving unit, and is all that's holding Kiki up. Perhaps it is a metal shelving unit, indicative of the tin-foil tang that alcohol, jealousy, and internalized feelings of low self-worth that Kirsten tasted daily. Jeri Ryan, also resting atop SURIAK's brackets, stares longingly at the Kiki throughout group therapy: clearly, homoeroticism and a (possibly/probably) obsessive girl-crush will pave recovery's rocky road.

Commercials! More stuff! Then... more stuff... blah blah blah, fun times on "Catalina Island" that are clearly filmed on either Manhattan Beach or El Segundo (25-year-olds as 17-year-olds, cavorting on fictional sands... loosely defined relationships with time and space! Magical realism bullet point #3!). Marissa has also had that braid snaking around her forehead through the last six costume changes; I cannot even contemplate this, lest my neurons explode.

Ok, now for the good stuff. Normal young women might watch for Ben McKenzie's cowlick or Adam Brody's charmingly underdeveloped arm muscles, but I watch for Julie Cooper, and Julie Cooper, you did not let me down. Travelling shots from her lace-up gladiator sandal heels reveal her in her element, blackmailing nurses and gunshot victims and possibly even that pillow in her hands ("You don't want to smother the Evil Brother? Do you like having all your feathers?). This isn't even magical realism: it's just magic. Julie gets what she wants. For now. Don't you get it? In Magical Realism the villain gets thwarted.

More stuff, bleh bleh bleh, they decide to go on a boat sometime in the early afternoon yet apparently take seven hours to get to the pier, blip blop bloop, Kirsten and Jeri "I Am The Borg" Ryan have coffee (homoeroticismhomoeroticism), Ryan is once again in jail, Marissa and Summer wear striped smocks in solidarity of Ryan's cause (perhaps not magical realism, but a thematic unifier, no?), Marissa yells at Trey, Trey repents, and more stuff happens... whatever. I'm spent.

A pre-haircut Ben/Ryan swirls among the vortex of Forty Deuce:



California, here I come...

Hee

Got this from Jossip:



"What?" you're saying. "A screenshot of Cheney doing political damage control? Big whoop." But no, my friend, no. You must imagine the sound and animation, as in the background, a passerby is telling the Veep to "fuck off." Our generic CNN reporter insinuates that this has been a theme of the week, but Dick denies. Quicktime here.


Also, literally no one has walked by my desk without grabbing the new Vanity Fair, caressing Paris's lightly pixelated, 2-dimensional breasts, featured on this month's cover, and exclaiming, "The fuck?!"



I, for one, am more concerned with those riding pants.

Full Circle

Several of you know the saga of FedEx Boy. We were briefly involved, and he signaled the end of his interest by asking for my address. So he could FedEx me my stuff. Nothing like signing for your own rejection.

Despite the gaffe, we kept hanging out and made an effort at friendship that eventually combusted. I later found his hat at my place. I didn't want to return the FedEx favor, so I left it on the floor, letting clothing and books and SallieMae loan payment confirmation slips pile over it. It didn't resurface for a while (I'm not very neat).

Anyway, in yesterday's big "extraneous stuff" purge I found this hat yet again.

Did I:

1. FedEx it?
2. Leave it on the floor, to resurface again midst the next purge?
3. Use it as a feeble excuse to get back in touch?
4. Donate it to a Katrina victim?

How well does the reader know Meghan?

I Bet Girls Named Katrina Are Really Hating Mom and Dad Right Now

A while back, McSweeneys.net had this great little piece called "Although I like a good George W. Bush joke as much as the next guy, some of them seem gratuitous and mean-spirited." You know, like:

Q: How many eggs does it take to make a good omelet?

A: Three. By the way, Tom DeLay is a hypocrite of the highest order.


Which is, you know, true, but this whole week's been like that. Like:

Q: What should we do about the New Orleans evacuees?

A: I don't know, but let's kick Bush's ass!


Or maybe, I don't know, work on a solution? Take all the energy going into talking about what's going wrong and try to make something go right?

The lefties are not behaving as I would like. As a matter of fact, they are behaving like righties. Leadership? Anyone? With our new chief justice:



waiting in the wings, we need it.

(Yeah, I know I've made the joke before. Fuck off. It's a dancing kid in short pants: it's funny).

This site is a lot more gripping than anything on CNN or from the NY Times. It's like dispatches from the apocalypse.

Also, the Red Cross takes credit cards. So does, weirdly, the Barry Manilow Fund. Which matches donations, which then get matched again by the Man himself ($1 becomes $3! Magic!). It's his atonement for "Mandy."

Rehab is For Quitters

If such is true, and rehab is for quitters, then I'm in for the long haul.

Time spent at Shakespeare Theatre before quitting: 2 months.
At Time Out: 3 months.
Current position: At 4 months.

Haven't quit yet, but am looking at a departure in ~1 month. I will get my purchase order log in order, self-actualize and conquer my actualization queue, learn me some Avid, and then it's Sayonara, Mrs. Kackelman.

There's nothing like a funeral to get your ass in gear, and make you realize there is more to life than Christie's travel plans.

So yeah, I'm quitting my job. T minus 30 starts... now. (Maybe T minus 40).

If anyone knows how to put together a really good fake waitress/barkeep resume, please leave in a comment below.

I start volunteering at 826 this Saturday. Yay feelgood chitlins givingback!

Conversations With My Friend The Videologger

"Eaten breakfast?"

"No, let's eat."

"Muffins are good today."

"Not so into muffins."

"Talked to my little sister this morning. She told me she got married last weekend."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, we were all supposed to go San Diego but I couldn't, so she and her boyfriend got married."

"..."

"They haven't told our parents yet, but she's going to change her name, so they'll figure it out when the mail starts coming."

I foresee a long and happy union.

Trishelle

A coworker was kind enough to get me at the airport and suggested we go back to James Beach for an employee's going away shindig. I was unenthusiastic, but it turned out to be a fantastic idea: people who will politely say "Nice to see you back" at the office were instead screaming my name. Popularity!

Anyway, a bit later I was playing pool with some of these coworkers-turned best friends, and one of the girls at the table looked awfully familiar.

"Who is that?" coworkers hissed, in between cigarettes and shots of Captain. I looked. I studied. Those wide-set eyes, that sweet, blank smile--

Trishelle.

You know. Come on, you know you do. The linchpin of The Real World: Las Vegas. Threesome Trishelle. Bulimia Trishelle. Pregnancy Scare Trishelle. The Trishelle that you (or maybe just Dennis and I) have seen on The Surreal Life, Kill Reality, Battle of the Network Reality Stars, and Celebrity Poker Showdown (she was terrible). I was playing pool with fucking Trishelle. And beating her. I'd make fun of her here but she was really, really sweet. We got to talking abut ESPN and... something... and how she's from a small town, and how she's terrible at poker (could've told you that one, babe) and then I got so excited I peed myself. No, I mean I had to excuse myself and call Dennis. I prepared myself for the inevitable, uncontrollable screaming and irrational attempts to get himself to the bar before she left. Oh, what a delight it would be!

"Hello?"

"DENNIS I AM PLAYING POOL WITH TRISHELLE RIGHT NOW!!!!!"

"Um... where are you?"

"TRISHELLE!!!!!! I'M PLAYING POOL WITH TRISHELLE!!!!!!!"

"Oh. That's great."

His speech displayed a pronounced lack of any exclamatory punctuation. Dennis, my favorite reality-television fanboy, could care less that I was about to school our second-favorite Surreal Lifer at the table. Onward through the address book: K.! K. was the first person to ever tell me about Trishelle. Surely she would appreciate the occasion.

"K.! I'm playing pool with Trishelle!"

"Um, Meg... I'm kind of sleeping."

Pah. Trishelle, you made my night.