ManWhore.com

Do you like the way I rock it? Boy, you know, it's so cha-ot-ic.
--B. Spears, 2005

Brit, you hit the nail just right. Just in case your computer screen hasn't yet contracted gonorrhea, Kevin Federline's new website just launched, and... boy.

I understand that you may value your eyes and therefore decline to visit KevinFederline.com, so I'll give you a rundown. It's bizarre. First you get a collage of "false tabloid" US Weekly and In Touch clips detailing the rise and alleged fall of Brit & Kevin + Federletus, finishing with "BRIT TO KEVIN: SHAPE UP!" and fading to black. Then some kind of PowerPoint effect tool ushers in Kevin's message:

"Now that I have your full attention... Never judge a book by its cover!"

"Book," "weekly tabloid"... it's all the same chez Spears. Then the mild threat:

"I'm coming... 2006!"

There is then a montage of champagne bottles spurting their delightful bubbly spirits in a way that does not at all bring to mind erections, sexual release, and/or orgiastic climax, and is totally fucking creepy.

I took a break here, to search for some rusty nails with which to put out my own eyes; yet before I could commence this sweet, sweet blindness, I had gotten to the main page. Meet the man himself: Kevin enjoys "horseback riding, long walks on the beach and the wind whipping through my hair. Ha ha ha." Fascinating, no? Also, in a turn that gives my ocular self-mutilatory desires pause, his new single, "PopoZao" hits the online music community Jan. 1. Perhaps I will turn on my eardrums instead.

Popo. Popov. Zao.

Zao.

Yao.

Yaaaaoooooooooo.

Zaaaooooooooo.

My ears! Yet this Federlinian mating call is Kryptonite to Moesha actresses and Louisianian child stars alike.

I'd like to've heard that conversation at the Malibu compound.

"Wassup, I'm gonn' have ma own site on the Internets! Britney baby,--naw, honey, can ya put that thing down for a minute, it won't die or nuthin', I know, I've done this before babe-- Brit, I wanna WEBSITE! Can you just host it for me? Babe? ZAOOOOOOOO! Yeah, that's right. Oh, and where's your checkbook, it's not in your bag."

Slightly less worrisome: the free verse of Rosie.com. Gives J.J. Redick a run for his money.

Yesssss

I feel so, like, validated. I was kind of bracing myself for the Beast.
-------------------------------

You are

Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman 77% Superman 75% Spider-Man 75% Supergirl 72% Robin 70% Green Lantern 70% Hulk 65% Iron Man 60% Batman 55% Catwoman 55% The Flash 50%

You are a beautiful princess with great strength of character.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

I Like To Roast

The Whole Foods meat man said 18 minutes per pound at 350. But what if we threw out the roast wrapper before recording its poundage?

Several options, but Brother Blotto and I opted to bring the roast into the potty room.



I recommend weighing yourself without the roast first, particularly if the roast is ten pounds. The logic escapes you when you look at the scale and DEAR GOD I AM WAY FATTER THAN I THOUGHT I WAS.


But then you do the necessary subtraction and realize you're holding a ten-pound hunk of only partially defrosted raw beef.

I should be on the Food Network:


"I just love a good Sunday Roast! It's so easy!"

Even when it got stuck in the oven still only partially defrosted and was mooing at the center at dinnertime.

We still ate it, though.



Merry Christmas!

On Time At The Homestead

Ok, I have to admit: I bitch about the weather, but I love New Jersey. Maybe not all of New Jersey, like I don't particularly care for Camden or the Parkway south of the Amboys when there are tolls every .3 miles, but where I live is just so familiar and snotty and seasonal, and it's great. No, I cannot leave the house without a sweater, fleece, backup jacket, and gloves. Yes, I want to decapitate the majority of the 12-year-olds carrying LV pochettes and oh-so-bitchy ovrehighlighted 27-year-old mother-of-twos with their ugly, screaming, slick-haired, be-Polo-ed children in their overloaded fucking MacLaren strollers at the Mall at Short Hills. But so what? I mean, my dog's here.

Last time I was here I entered my room (which isn't even my childhood room--Little Sister and I swapped after graduation) to find unassembled exercise equipment, a cracked window, and my bedspread encrusted with animal hair. And... where's my pillow? I think Mother took my dismay to heart and turned it into a charming cubby, replete with new pillow and framed family photos on the desk.

Unfortunately, the microfill body pillow sprung a leak my first night. Due to the static cling caused by dry, cold New Jersey air, I've been discovering these grainy microdots everywhere for the day or so, like I rubbed down with exfoliating cream and shirked on the rinse.

Anyway, I posted early today, at the crack of 10:30 AM, because I'm about to start baking. No you pothead, I mean cookies. With three pounds of butter and two dozen eggs in the house, I'm not liable to cease until 6.

TK:

DK's Christmas Gift To Me: A Photo Essay

Update: New Jersey is FUCKING FREEZING.

5:30 AM: Am up and awake, waiting for my cab.
5:40 AM: Am up and on the phone, screaming quietly at the cab company, waiting for my cab.
5:50 AM: Am up and on the phone, frantically calling for a new cab.
6:00 AM: In cab.
6:48 AM: Am denied check-in, as flight is in less than 30 minutes. Thanks, cab.
6:50 AM: Have cajoled and begged Monte, the United check-in man, to check me in. Thanks, Monte!
6:53 AM: Cut entire security line while guard's back turns.
6:54 AM: Begin airport-length sprint to gate.
7:00 AM: Wheeze, slow to brisk walk.
7:14:30AM: Arrive at gate. Luggage handle has broken from my ancient wheelie-bag and won't slide back in. Thrust ancient wheelie bag on random man and hope for the best.
7:15 AM: Take off.

And after all that...

See title.

The Wrap

Ooh, I'm a starfucker. Met BJ Novak from The Office last night (I don't care about him being on it, but I do care that he wrote the "Diversity Day" episode) and attempted to get him to fall in love with me because he is hilarious and adorable. I don't think it worked.

Tonight, however, put last night to shame, as I met more or less the entire cast of Arrested Development, the best show on television.

I unfortunately did not meet Portia de Rossi, who was not at the party and therefore did not bring Ellen. Ellen and the AD creator hate each other.

My date informed me that Portia and Ellen suck face immediately after every Ellen taping.

You learn these things at wrap parties.

Rubbed elbows with George Michael, who is 12. And Maeby. And Real David Cross. And Father-Uncle Jeffrey Tambor! And Buster, which was very unnerving because he was acting normal! And Jason "Teen Wolf 2" Bateman. Jason claimed to have heard all about me. He said he was a big fan. Yes, he was lying. But he was lying for me.

I hear the guest stars are shits, with the notable exception of Henry Winkler.

(Phew).

(Like you'd want to find out the Fonz is a shit?)

Do you get what I'm talking about?

Because you should. Because the show is awesome. Cancelled, but awesome.

So watch the DVDs, already!

And appreciate Real David Cross!

The Daters Abound

A veritable melange of dating activity among MB's friends lately.

A sampling:

-
My older roommate.

I think she's husband-hunting.

She posted some personal ads online and is now meeting multiple Alans and Jims for coffee. She does not consider men under 30. Several have been in the Peace Corps.

-
My younger roommate.

L. works the JDate angle, holding the young Jews to exacting standards. Forget to call? Bye! Snide to the cat? Later! Dislike Gaslite karaoke/the 80s cover band at 2020 on Fridays? Not even a text message.

Boys love her.

Her father pays for the membership.

-
K. met a cute guy on the plane over Thanksgiving ("He is cute, Meg. I mean, cute).

Yes, he's mindnumbingly boring.

Yes, he has halitosis.

But, you know... he's cute.

She decided things were through over the weekend, but not before he coerced her into sitting on Santa's lap at the Grove.

"So then I had to pay $25 for two 5x7s of me and some dude I don't even like."

-
SerialDater was about to dump her Prada-shoe-giving oncologist man-friend, but then he gave her a trip to Kauai for Christmas.


-
Once, I met some dude from the Internet for coffee. He hadn't shaved his neck. That was a couple months ago. Like... 6? 8?

-
I need to get out more.

Sensitivity

So I go to help out at the tutoring office today. The woman in charge asks me to file all these folders with info on former students. There are a lot of them. "Dead students," she calls them.

"Although I really shouldn't say that," she continues, looking at a particularly fat file. I assure her that I know what she means.

"No," she says. "I mean, this one student actually passed away."


Meghan's first, sensitive thought: So can I throw away her file?

Cowboys In Love

What a weekend. Feline hysterectomy! The industrial supply distribution prom! Cowboys in love!

1. Mildred got her lady parts removed on Friday. Her previously merely runty appearance is now compounded by her shaved belly, stitches, and indentations on either side of her midsection. It was great when she first got home and was still sedated yet unable to sit, reduced to wandering around the apartment with her lolling head and crazy drug eyes. Aw poor kitty.

Later that night met up with the not-late but still-great high school bestie Pina at El Carmen, who always inspires me. Seriously! Inspires me heartily to drink SoCo and lime.

2. K. wrangled me a date to her company Christmas party. I know what you're thinking---Hollywood Christmas party? Santa babies in Mean Girls maribou miniskirts downing Jaeger with sleazy agent types, aw yeeeeeeeeah! but no, my friends, it was in Long Beach. It was at a hotel and featured taffeta gowns and stiff hairdos, a photographer for the couples, and dinner: a prom without the awkward high school skin issues and plus an open bar. I ate two lobster tails and Dennis wrangled a Secret Game Hen second entree. He had learned nothing from his overeating at the CAA Christmas party the night before. And then we danced! And frolicked! And mocked K.'s ex to an almost-but-not-quite tiresome degree. A good night.

3. We saw Brokeback Mountain at the Grove yesterday. I was about as pathetic as my cat looks, blubbering like a leaky showerhead through much of it, but take issue with several friends' claims that I was still weeping outside the theater. I was just confused by all the tap dancers in Mean Girls maribou miniskirts that suddenly appeared in front of the exit. Can't they tell the difference?

Help!

I need awesomely bad reality show names. Dancing With The Stars, But Can They Sing?, and Who Wants To Marry A Multi-Millionaire have all been taken by actual reality TV. It's for a writing project.

E-mail me! Leave a comment! I've already got some involving little people, so you can leave those home.

Barbara Walters's Dream

In 1997, Barbara Walters had a dream.

"Four women! One successful! One funny! One black! One annoying!

FOUR WOMEN, ONE SHOW!

I shall call it... THE VIEW!"

Yeah, I know you don't watch The View. If you're reading this you're most likely a) under 38, b) possess a working brain, or c) are reading this at the office. Any or all of these imply you do not spend your mornings with daytime TV. But there have been changes since 1997, and I feel obligated to share them with you.

Miss Blotto: watching The View so you don't have to.

First, Meredith "Don't I Look Great Yet Not In A Preserved Way?" Vieira.



Meredith has remained unchanged. She's the only one who could carry a show on her own. She is consequently the only one worth watching, and exceptionally boring to write about here. On to an easier target:

Star Jones Reynolds.



Where to begin? It seems that when Barbara picked Star as her token black host, she decided to kill two birds and also pick the most annoying black woman alive. But Star... she has staying power. I think her body has an inverse relationship with America's hatred, growing thinner and stepping closer to attractiveness the more everyone mocks her fully product-placed wedding and obvious puppet of a husband. "You wanna fuck with me, America? JUST TRY!!!!!!!!"

Also, I think she sits up at night with her diary, confessing how much she hates pretending to fight with Saint Meredith on the air.

Joy Behar.



I confuse her with Joy Philbin.

And finally... Elisabeth.

Oh, Elisabeth.



I mean, I liked her on Survivor: Australia. Who didn't? After that dramatic tribal council when she was supposed to get voted off and they gave Jerri the boot instead, the entire second floor of my dorm spontaneously combusted with surprise and joy.

But now she's some perpetually pregnant NFL wife with bad highlights and uninformed opinions, which she thankfully never shares anyway, and it's sad. She's destroyed my memory of that younger, happier Elisabeth, who wasn't convinced that emergency contraception is an abortion pill. Elisabeth, honey---if you're already pregnant, it'll just make you nauseous. Read it on the Internets. Go design a shoe.

She's nominally better than the original Young Blonde Host, Debbie Matenopoulouspoulousravides. Remember her? She's on the TV Guide channel now, and not at all bitter about it. She inspired that "Dare Debbie" skit, where the three other hosts would force Debbie to take increasingly death-defying dares in hopes of her early demise. Buying out a contract is expensive, y'know.

?!

Oscar winner Charlize Theron
Oscar winner Frances McDormand
Oscar nominee Sophie Okenedo
Oscar nominee Pete Postlethwaite

all read the Aeon Flux script

and thought

"Yeeee-ah!"

I Fucked Wendy Pepper

I'm flipping through the first season marathon of Project Runway, DVRed today. This self-proclaimed "Prada of reality shows" is awesome, people.

Except... for right now.

We'll come back to this in a moment. First, a history. Back when I was unemployed and living with my parents, a state to whose return I constantly fear, I spent a lot of time moping around in the basement watching Bravo. PR kept me sane. I'm not proud, but that's the way it was. In between developing my pasty tan and chauffeuring my sister to soccer, I worked part-time at SYPNYM (Small Yet Prestigious New York Magazine), performing research, starting this blog, and generally dicking around New York.

And although the dichotomy of my New Jersey and New York lives was apparent, I noticed one place where the twain did meet, and that place was Project Runway. People would actually talk about it. Hipsters walked around Williamsburg with t-shirts reading "I Fucked Wendy Pepper." Wendy Pepper! Project Runway's own odious, skunk-haired matron responsible for most of the back-stabbing and bitching and who designed several truly unforgivable crimes of fashion. My Bravo habit was not lone.

I'm currently watching the second-to-last episode, when said odious Wendy edged out the adorable, effeminate Austin for the Final Fashion Week Three. Yes, it's a reality show, but my heart is not stone: it hurts.

Ok, I'm on to the finale. This was awesome: it's two months later, and when Wendy shows up, it's no more Wendy, but Mrs. Pepper to you, bitch! She's gotten rid of the skunk stripe, wears clothes that fit, and flexes the claws in full view. Wendy... is scaring me. But it's ok, she still loses.

Watch the reruns! Listen to Jay as he proclaims not to have taken the bitch's dye! Ponder exactly who drew that mustache on Wendy's daughter's photo (my money's on Kevin). Season two starts Wednesday, and y'all best be setting your TiVo.

Wendy's first Project Runway design, which for some mystifying reason did not get her sent immediately home:

Goodbye, World

It was good knowing you, human interaction, and nature and weather, you weren't too bad either.

But the DVR man just left, so I'm going to take some time and get to know Moxi, my new boyfriend.

No, he doesn't like to cuddle. But he can pause live TV. And what he lacks in height he makes up for in his user-intuitive interface and desire to watch Barefoot Contessa whenever the Food Network feels like airing it. Even if the Daily Show is on at the same time.

I LOVE YOU, DVR MAN.

Oh, Happy Day

It was a happy day yesterday. Duke beat Indiana. I met up with an old acquaintance. Dennis and I went and stared at Adam Sandler at the bar, because we are tools.

And Defamer published my bitchy little Nellie McKay story!

My story. On Defamer! Validating me! Validation! Yes!

Boys? Anywhere?

I volunteer at a writing center staffed almost exclusively by charmingly scruffy literate types, who wear Oxford shirts and have progressive views on partnership.

My second home on Brockton boasts a male model and his good-looking friend, who hang out on the couch and like to hug.

I live in a city with the largest population of hot straight men ANYWHERE, and...

I am in like with no one.

I thought I kind of liked a few guys.

Not really.

I was just making myself feel better.

The only guy I really like is Michael Scofield, and he's on TV. And if I met him in real life I wouldn't like him, because he'd be an escaped convict with a staring problem.

Compatible boys. WHERE ARE YOU.

Call me.

A Poem For Nick Lachey, On This First Thanksgiving Alone

My dearest puppy Nick,
My favorite Newlywed,
Who waited until marriage
For Jessica to bed---

And on that fateful night,
When her belt you did unsee,
Was it her creepy father
Who handed you the key?

"Have fun while it can last you,"
The sheisty pastor warned,
"For when Soul-O releases,
By the critics you'll be gored."

"Taste my daughter's lips!
Feast on her Dessert!
Her 102-pound frame
Will soon with Johnny Knoxville flirt."

"You've been a right good sport
Maintaining the big sham
Standing up to Bonnie Fuller
And Janice Min out on the lam."

"It is time, my son, to let you fly!
Transcend 98 Degrees.
Stark hooking up with Ashlee
Bring Us Weekly to its knees!"

A Happy Turkey Day?

Celebrities have it in for us.

This is the only explanation for the actual, certain, for-real-this-time announcement of Nick and Jessica's separation to break on our November day of thanks.

Kim Wanna Be On Top...

Tyra, what's going on?

Last week, you eliminate Lisa, I suspect because she had stopped doing crazy shit like urinating in adult diapers for kicks and drunk-talking to the Cousin It plant, and I actually almost forgot dressing up like a crack whore and offering the models cookies. Every commercial break this week I would turn to C. and sigh, "I miss Lisa!"

I do, Lisa. I do. Come back to me, Lisa. Come back to Top Model Mountain.

But then THIS week, just when I think you've grown a BRAIN, Tyra, you DO NOT ELIMINATE THE VILE, VILE BRE.

I know you and the judges keep saying she looks kind of like you, Tyra, but she doesn't. She is no rib-eating, bootylicious Angel if you know what I mean, and even if she were, the chick is... you know... simple.

Ok, fine, I think she's a retard.

And whatever. You want keep the saucer-eared lapsed Jehovah's Witness Jayla who does not sleep with a night light, fine. You want the mannish Nik, go ahead.

But to cut Kim?

Why Kim?



Kim, the androgynous Wesleyan student who's into chicks, was my personal favorite top model, and tonight you cut her free.

Tyra.

You kept VILE, SIMPLE BRE. Even after she stole all of Nicole's energy drinks.

I don't know what to do with you.

Martha Mode

Yes, Martha's Apprentice is assy, and her daytime show isn't much better (whatever happened to Martha Stewart Living? With the notecards and the edible glue, and her delightfully icy, perfectionist demeanor that simultaneously inspired and deadened the frosty detail-oriented Susie Homemaker in all of us?).

Yet I cannot really mock Martha TV, as I think most people would need to take a great deal of drugs to experience what is simply Martha's day to day existence. Sometimes I get into Martha modes myself. I like them.

As of today, I'm staying in CA for Thanksgiving and so invited myself to Dennis and Kristy's for their formerly 9-guest, now 16-person dinner. They'll let me in, but Kristy says I am to bring stuffing.

Stuffing. Stuffing's not hard. You can buy stuffing mix at Whole Foods that's really good, actually.

But...

Would Martha buy stuffing mix?

No. No no no. I woke up this morning ready to channel my inner Martha, and Whole Foods bag o' stuffing wasn't really in the plan. I launched a company and sewed my own duvet covers before you finished your morning shower, sold some insider stocks on E-Trade, and got out the KitchenAid. An olive oil boule and garlic-onion loaf have since materialized on my counter. I have Rachael Ray on in the background, and I and my oversized Polo buttondown laugh in her face. Would Martha say "Yum-o" or run around in too-tight jeans? I think not.

There's an almond cake in the oven now.

After that I'll take the teeth from live kittens and make necklaces for Satan.

After that, a quick canter 'round the ranch, and time for bed!

King Tut... (imagine Steve Martin singing on SNL)... King Tut...

If the many statues of the Boy King from LACMA's now-departed Treasures of King Tut and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs exhibit is to be believed:

King Tut wore flip-flops.

Also, had man boobs.

DK Party Aftermath Update Continued

Euge walked home last night, blind drunk, from West Hollywood to West LA. It was apparently very tiring, because at one point he laid down next to the road and took a nap.

DK Birthday Aftermath: UPDATE

Currently at the DK/KK abode. Just finished a Starbucks the size of my head. Feel much better. Went through DK PartyCam pics and several embarrassing situations for several people who are not me are now digitally documented! Happiness! Am very glad I was out of DK PartyCam's reach at end of night.

"So what did I miss?"
"Sean's smelly hands this morning."

Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.

DK Birthday: The Aftermath

Blacked out on my way home. Was fortunately in the reliable K.'s car, although my roommate tells me K. was less than pleased with my useless, useless state. Had been POSITIVE I'd end up at Dennis's and left my keys and toothbrush there. The keys may have been technically more important last night, but I'm really mourning the toothbrush this morning.

My head hurts.

Mom, no e-mails about how you think I'm an alcoholic. Special occasion.

The DK Birthday

We are all very excited for DK's birthday extravaganza later tonight. The planned pregaming and cabbing and Abbey-ing are a mere preamble to the massive dance blowout we will attend, and if it happens to not be there, start, at The Factory. There will be gays! And Asians! And pop music! Also, a deep selection from Dennis's breadth of friends across LA to make merry and binge drink.

Then DK will take pictures of me with a weird face at an unflattering angle and post them online.

A Love Story

Today was our first Storytelling & Bookmaking field trip at 826. We're the destination--a class comes in, writes most of a story together, and it's printed and bound while they each write their own ending. They're writing for this invisible publisher, Mr. (or when I do it next week, Mrs.) Barnacle, a cantankerous old person living in the basement who yells at them over a loudspeaker and fires staff at will. Somehow, I have made this sound simple. It is not.

Anyway, today's class wrote an action-packed saga about Ooblah the space pirate (perhaps their parents watched Firefly. I don't know). They were nearing the climax of The Adventures of Ooblah and Googoo when the story facilitator asked what happens next.

"Ooblah thinks it's the end!" Marlon shouts from the back. "So he turns and tells Googoo that he loves her!"

And despite the fact that this is seriously the most cliched thing that could happen in a story, and that these are 8-to-9-year-olds who should eschew this "love" stuff, the entire room, staff, volunteers, and kiddies alike, shrieked and went "Awwwwwwwww!"



It stayed in. Mr. Barnacle liked it, too.



Also, my East Coast friends: today, 76 and sunny. Eat it.

Check It Out!

The NY Times has gotten over its potty-training thing and moved on: today's paper had a couple of interesting articles about abortion and OTC contraception. For instance, the congressional General Accounting Office found today that the FDA didn't follow its usual protocol when it decided to reject Plan B, which its own nonprescription drug department considered safe.

My congressman has called it a "subversion" of science. Yay Congressman!

Oh, except that talking doesn't change anything.

In the same edition, some drudged up documents that freakin' Samuel A. Alito wrote in 1985 saying that the Constitution does not protect abortion and how he is a committed conservative, deeply influenced by... wait for it...

Barry Goldwater.

Alito once voted in a case to force a woman to notify her husband before having an abortion. Should she get his permission before an appendectomy, too? Or if she has to pee?

Also, Jump, Little Children is breaking up, my cat has worms, and my friends are pissing me off. I am cranky.

BALLS.

Yummy

Kitty took a poop while I was changing her litter.

Bits of it were waving at me.

We're going to the vet.

Also, I'm really excited for the new Harry Potter movie.

Still reading my blog?

Today In Spam

From: Kim Bacon
To: mpjordan@alumni.duke.edu
Subject: fat is a disaster

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

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What Possibly Went Through Fiona Apple's Head Before Her Transcendent Set At Largo Last Night

Okay, okay... they're doing readings first. Okay, that's cool. I hope that they don't care I'm leaving my hair up in this bun-thing. It looks kind of slovenly. Oh God. It is slovenly, I am slovenly, I want to go home...

Okay they're laughing at the readings. Okay, that's cool. Even if I like accidentally kick something or burp on myself they'll just think it's part of the act. Jesus, what's that guy reading? Hm. Kind of funny, actually. Okay. Okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay...

Okay this is not cool. Why am I here. This is such bullshit. The world is such bullshit! Man, I thought I'd stopped saying that. Are they going to realize this is a new band and we've practiced for like a day? Maybe I should tell them. I need to have a talk with the band. I mean, this is a benefit show. These have to be nice people. They'll understand? Maybe? I should go talk to the band...

Whatever, they don't have to act all scared of me, it's not like I yelled. Okay, last opener. Oh, Zach is funny. Check it out, he's drinking from that lady's glass. Fuck he's finishing up. Fuck. Fuck. Okay I'm just going to go up there and stand next to him and maybe no one will recognize me. Yeah, that's what I'll do. Okay, I'm standing here, Zach old buddy, want to tell them who I am?

Now I will act extremely awkward, eschew audience banter, drive my self into a miniature depression, and perform my little fucking heart out.

The Great Outdoors, as in That John Candy Movie, rather than Actual Nature

Yaf is here!

MB: Let us go experience The Great Outdoors!
Y: Let's!
MB: To the Santa Monica Mountains! Despite the $7 parking fee, we shall for a few hours retreat from the civilized world, attune our spirits, and align our souls!
Y: Ok!
MB: This hike is great!
Y: Very refreshing.
MB: What is that yonder? I daresay a piece of litter!
Y: Let us pack it out.
MB: I shall get it. What do you think it is?

(pause: careful examination).

Y: My friend, I believe it is a poo-rag.

Love, Hate

Went to the Abbey last night.

Love the Abbey.

Going to the Farmer's Market in a minute.

Love the Farmer's Market.

Just finished reading the paper and am convinced, once again, that there is a conspiracy to drag America into some kind of 1950s redux-world.

Hate Republicans.

And evangelicals. Will start hating Jesus soon if his creepier followers don't sit down and shut up. Like, you're the son of God, man. Get some better friends.

Indoor Voices

I've been volunteering at 826LA for a little over a month now--first on the weekends, but now tutoring during the week. It's my way of assuaging that liberal guilt over making my rent money by tutoring perfectly smart Brentwood School/Harvard-Westlake/Crossroads kids in their charmingly oversized homes. I go from being part of the solution in the afternoon to part of the problem in the evenings, but I've got to eat, okay?

So anyway. Most of the 826 tutors are vaguely employed writers or work on some kind of unpredictable freelance basis, a creative and interesting bunch. Indeed, part of 826's initial draw was the abundance of attractive, presumbaly artsy males on its website. Last night the center had a reading of tutors' work. Some of it was very bad: the snoozer of an opening story, the poetry comparing the Thai sex trade to freedom and excitement, rather than the far more accurate global shame and oppression. Some of it was very good: a handsome bearded man, laced with tattoos, read a chapter from his new novel. He interrupted himself near the beginning:

"Anyone here from Texas? 'Cause I mean, it's set there, but I just made this shit up."

That was pretty good. And this other guy read a bit about furniture arrangement and poetic feet, which was quite hilarious, if crowd-specific. I mean, can you make jokes about trochees to crowds that don't include out-of-work writers? Likely not, but an underemployed writer I am, and laugh I did.

Then it got really good. Theresa Soto read from her poetry, and it was fucking awesome. I even stole a copy of one of them. Experimental form, Filipino references, ding-sounds--whatever, it was totally sweet. Theresa Soto, people. Write it down.

I went home, suitably headfucked, and sent a cover letter/resume to the Huffington Post. I spotted several typos the next morning, and was told by my contact there that they did not go unnoticed. Go Blue Devils.

Mr. Saddle Ranch: Part Two

Dear reader, you may or may not remember my dear friend K. meeting some middle-aged porker at Saddle Ranch who professed his love immediately and invited her to party with Hef and his Haunted Honies on Halloween. You do? Because you most likely live outside LA and therefore there are not such abnormal freakazoids waiting to pick you up whereever you go out, so this might actually stick out in your memory? Right. Well, it's gotten even better!

So, he kept calling. K. eventually picked up and they talked a little, and it turns out Mr. "Isn't My Car Sweet?" is retired from his former career. Taking into account the yellow flash car, the regularity at Saddle Ranch, the familiarity with the Playboy Mansion, and drawing from the four types of people who have and do such things, was he a:

a) producer
b) producer
c) opener of Spearmint Rhino Gentlemen's Clubs
d) producer

You answered C? I know, not that hard. Producers don't really hang out at Saddle Ranch.

Mr. Rhino has continued calling. Mr. Rhino has purchased and sent Katie a gift. Shannen Doherty is on The View? Sorry, got distracted. But isn't her career supposed to be over? Anyway. Mr. Rhino called yesterday while K. and some of us were playing Scattergories, and we got to listen in!

"You are really phenomenal."
"I don't want you to think I'm just some guy laying a line on you."
"I'll buy you a Corvette if I have to!"

K. claims she cannot accept a Corvette.

And seriously, she's right. A Corvette? If we're talking sports cars and sugar daddies we should really go Benz.

Scalito

Introducing Samuel A. Alito, Jr., nicknamed "Scalito" for his ideological similarities to Scalia. I don't know by whom. His fraternity buddies?

Ew.

At least no boogying babies this time.



Kind of boring without them, actually.

But still... Republicans. Ew.

The Del Gershmonster Strikes!

My dear friend K. Del Gershmonster and friends went out the other night. To Saddle Ranch! Mechanical bull-rides! Urban cowboy! Yay! K., our chic friend D., the wired-differently-from-the-rest-of-us P., and P.'s friend the professional wrestler. A party waiting to happen, that foursome.

At the end of the night, a waiter comes up to K.

"Hi... um... yeah, one of our regulars? Over there? It's his birthday. And, um... he's in love with you?"

So after some cajoling and guilting and pleading looks K. goes and talks to this fat, middle-aged Yeshiva type who apparently drives a yellow Lamborighini. After several awkward overtures, K. puts him out of his misery and gives him her number ("It was his birthday."). Ten minutes later, as P. begins puking in the car, she has a voicemail.

"Hi... I know this seems forward... but you're one of the most incredible women I've ever met. If you're not doing anything... I mean, I'm sure you are, but if you're not, I would love to take you out tomorrow, to the Playboy Mansion... they're having a Halloween party... please, give me a call..."

This would only ever happen to K. Alas, she did not go, and cannot therefore report on the veracity of any claims regarding said Mansion or the accuracy of E!'s popular Playboy Mansion program, The Girls Next Door, featuring Hef's Live-In Hos. Is Kira actually that retarded? Are Holly's boobs made of cement, or do they just look that way? We'll never know.


Saddle Ranch? Who the fuck's a regular at Saddle Ranch?

The Mind Melts

I'm not into music. It's somewhat shameful, but true. I love the musicals of Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, and Jason Robert Brown; I love Bjork, Gwen Stefani, The Stones, The Beastie Boys, and Ben Folds Five; I really love the choral works of Benjamin Britten and everything by Grieg; I kind of love going to see opener indie bands with lead singers who wear pantyhose over their faces, but other than that--meh. Whatever. I work best in silence.

And then I discovered Nellie McKay.

Seriously, I'm so excited about this that John Cleese was hanging out at my coffee shop today and I don't even want to write about it. Although it was pretty funny when the barista's groupies ignored him and then screamed, "BYE JOHN CLEESE!" when he left, and then started making out with his muffin. "Look, John Cleese's bite marks! I'm kissing King Arthur!"

But... yeah. Back to Nellie McKay.

Where have I been? Her album, the charmingly titled Get Away From Me features songs like "Clonie." Clonie! She's talking to her clone! Who's the apple of her eye?

Clonie!

And there's more! The equally fucked up "Sari" is rattled off in the manner of Eminem, were he to hang out with Ani DiFranco and/or Doris Day. And in "Ding-Dong" she becomes addicted to gin because her cat dies and then they drag her off to like the asylum or something, I'm not really sure actually, but it's kind of 40s-style and damn catchy.

And who gets a double album deal for their relatively unmarketable debut collection when they're 19? Although she's probably 20 by now. The album came out a while ago (K.'s dad, who's in his sixties, has known of her for a while). Where have I been?

Where have you been? Go download her album! Now! And then send her a thank-you check for melting your brain.

Joooooooooan

Dennis came over yesterday and we played with his new eleventy billion dollar camera.



Awwww! Kitty! (Dennis calls her Joan).

We then took frolicky pictures by the ocean walk.



I FEEL it! In the EYES! FIERCE! (Everything I know about picture posing I learned from America's Next Top Model).

Um... Dennis and I have a lot of free time.


He also takes great party pictures. Except for maybe when he very furtively follows me down the hall when I am leaving a particular party to take shots like this:



where I look all sketchy but am really just pressing the elevator button, and then posts them on ImageStation with suggestive, misleading captions about why and when I am leaving, and with whom, Dennis.

But then I laugh, and all is well.

The Englilsh Majors

Okay, so I put up with my fair share of English major jokes in college. All the comments about the Trinity College of Arts and Crafts, the constant notings of our department's rampant grade inflation, and general reminders that I had chosen to study a field spectacular in its nonrelevance to the working world. I took this abuse smugly, because, after all, English majors are a, if not rare, special breed of person, immune to things like reality. We are the savants, man. Get with it.

Yeah so when the English alumni e-mail list, used three times a year for the newsletter, started getting random spam, my brilliant compatriots replied-to-all the following (Best Of below):

Best Pomposity
I am receiving returned emails purporting to have come from you. Please
stop using my address as your return address.

Best Free Verse
i have no clue how i got on this list/ it must be a virus
thanks

Best Pithy Nonsense
Get in touch with Duke & leave me out of your inane loop on this.
Other than a slip of paper with an "BA" on it, I have no affiliation
with Duke & I certainly have no interest in leaving your return
addresses on any of my correspondence.

Best Empty Threat
If I get any more e-mails from anyone associated with Duke I will pursue all of you legally. I have no idea who you are.


Strongbad writes more coherently than this. A bunch of Yellow Darts, all of them.

+5! Nickname still cool!



Also, the long-neglected Weekend Report:

1. Learned: I have no game.
2. Obtained: sweet new hat that makes me look like a yeti.

And I wonder about #1.

Gwennie Gwen Gwen

I'm going Gwen Stefani's show at the Hollywood Bowl tonight; it will be my fourth time seeing her live since I first developed my Gwen girlcrush at age 14. True love, people: it doesn't die. I was choosing my outfit to wear to the concert and this went through my head:

"Oooh! I could wear my plaid pants! With a white shirt!"

I then realized this is exactly what I wore the first time I saw No Doubt.

In eighth grade.

Celebrity Stretching

David Duchovny was in my yoga class this morning. Agent Fox Mulder, searching for his flexible inner Zen. The truth is out there, Fox. Now shiva'asana! Now!

I Caved

You know what? I'm sick of it. I'm done. For the last year, I've been hooking my thumbs in my belt loops every time I might have to bend over, premptively hiking up my jeans, and then sneaking a look behind me as I reach for my dropped pencil. Sometimes I pull up my underwear, too, because as much as you don't need to see my undies, you really don't need to see my butt cleavage.

It's the low-rise jeans.

I'm sorry, I'm sick of them. They've gone from attractively hip-slung to leg warmers that connect on top. They're all comfortably loose in the legs and then come together in a cinch to keep them from falling down, curving inward right around that squishy roll of upper hip, turning it into two rolls, and making even the most toned of abdominals look like a muffin top.

Not to mention not particularly-toned-abdominals.

So you know what? Something had to be done. And I did it.

I bought high-waisted jeans today.

And I am wearing them.

With pride.

Feel Dirty, Not In Good Way

K. and I were supposed to hike this morning, but I left my phone in the car and missed her call.

Turns out she had invited a friend along. That friend also invited a friend, who in turn invited another friend. Friendship, it seems, is everywhere. K. discovered that this friend thrice-removed is back with her former boyfriend. Who I used to date. It didn't end well. It kind of ended because of her.

K. was very sweet and said she wasn't very toned, which means "tall and thin without having to work out, but you're my best friend and she's not." Glad I slept in. I feel fat. Ew. Ew.

I 'Depend' On You

The New York Times. The Gray Lady. All the news that's fit to print. Thanks to my parents' print subscription, I can bypass that TimesSelect shit and read it all online for free. And I do.

This is great, because then I know (or feel like I know) everything: the plight of Pakistani earthquake survivors, Maureen Dowd's nicknames for the douchier members of the government, all about Carol Channing's new cabaret, and let's not forget the really important stuff, like toilet training. Yes. In the last four days, there have been three articles on not even general, but infant-specific toilet training. Each article points the reader to www.diaperfreebaby.org, and extols DFB's message of... um... diaper-free babies...

In today's article, because apparently this is the kind of thing that breaks throughout the week:

Parents in at least 75 countries, including India, Kenya and Greenland, embrace the practice, with Chinese babies often wearing pants with split bottoms for easy squatting (available for $1 in Chinatown, according to savvy mothers in New York).

Split knickers? How early eighteenth-century France. Naughty!

But we must address the naysayers:

Another mother in Toys "R" Us, who offered her opinion but wanted to remain anonymous, was aghast at the notion. "Have you read Freud?" she asked, worrying about the method's long-term effects. "I imagine it's going to come out in sexual ways."

Um, right. This is totally the face of latent perversion:



Also: Toys "R" Us? This is your scientific polling ground? The store has a ferris wheel in the middle. Is Geoffrey the Giraffe suddenly a Ph.D in early and largely disproved psychological theory?

And this is interesting and all, but I'm 22. Ok, 24, but whatever dudes, just get off DFB's payroll, give me some Sunday Styles, and let's all get on with our lives.

I have to pee.

The Shitshow

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Nooooooo!!!

Nick and Jessica deny divorce rumors.

Whatever, when it does actually happen, I'll just link to the post below.

Again.

Yessssss!!!

You heard it here first, kids. Or you heard it from... somewhere else. Actually, you heard it here a few months ago.

What's happening to celebrity couples? Brad and Jen... Nick and Jessica... Paris and Man Paris... next you know, there'll be a Note From Beyond that Carrie left Big for some ballet dancer.

Anyway, point to Janice Min. Big scoop, right? I can hear the enraged thump-thump-thump of advance US Weeklys hitting Bonnie Fuller's assistant at Star from all the way out here.

On Signs And Signings With The Autograph Woman

My dear friend Colby called yesterday, offering birthday congratulations: 24 rounds, and I had bested death once again. I met Colby at writing camp when I was 17. Oh, those halcyon days of writing camp. We'd sit around and discuss comma splices and King Lear and I'd think to myself, "College is going to be just like this!"

Anyway, before he even got out the second word of wishes, I had this flash of connection.

Zadie Smith. I was going to a Zadie Smith reading that night!

Colby had gone to one years ago, and, in a slightly overenthusiastic but ultimately effective ploy to impress this Zadie fangirl from Austin, made and displayed a large sign saying "ZADIE, WILL YOU MARRY ME?" Zadie declined but signed the sign, allowing Colby and the Austin girl to live happily for quite some time.

Later on, I found a piece Ms. Smith wrote about that self-same book tour. Near the beginning:

In a Barnes and Noble in Union Square, I sign books for a really long time. In the queue is one young man holding a giant sign that reads: Zadie Will You Marry Me with no commas or discernable punctuation. I tell him no – he is on the short side, and only seventeen years old, and his hair is left too long at the ears – also, I have in mind a man who knows what a question mark is. He steps aside. I feel relief – and yet there will come a time when that boy seems, in retrospect, to be the great highlight of this particular queue. For in his wake come a seemingly endless line of sweet, spiky-haired, insistent women who want to give me presents. They give me earrings made out of amber, Annie DiFranco CD’s, and plot suggestions. They wear khaki shorts and t-shirts representing either the city they came from, or a cartoon cat.

Yeah, she's a little bitchy, right? But so good. Just look how she... wait! I know that guy! Ahhhhh! Colby had been immortalized by certainly the best writer of our generation, albeit incorrectly (he is quite tall; he was 19; he and proper punctuation are on intimate terms. The hair thing might have been on).

Colby is the inimitable sort who will hold signs and ask loud, incredibly intelligent, funny questions, and get described in peripheral essays by high-profile writers, so it came as no surprise. One time he showed a photo of me reading Ulysses in a bikini (because Colby would have such things) to Dave Eggers, who signed it in crayon:

HI MEGHAN. NICE BEACH. DE

He and Colby might have things in common.

I, however, am not that sort. I attend readings and sit in the back, and get very excited if the writer drops something and I pick it up for them; their "Thank you" is the stuff of my dreams. I am there to osmose their genius and bear witness. It isn't a bad way to be, but it's quiet.

Maybe it's reaching 24 (I am OLD!), but last night I let that go, slowly. The reading was at 826, a non-profit writing center at which I volunteer. I was in the hall when she came out, and I followed her down, osmosing: noting her shoes, her skin, her impossible cheekbones. Zadie Smith is a writer even Dennis could love.


Very pretty, no? I took my seat, a plum one near the front, and listened. The audience asked questions. Several made me wince. I winced so hard at one that my hair fell in my face, and as I brushed it out she called on me. My surprise must have come through, because she smiled in apology.

"I'm sorry," and then, addressing the room, "she was just touching her hair."

Have you ever felt that you were under a spotlight, that it had suddenly flicked on and everyone on Earth was now watching, waiting for you to perform? Oddly, this was my prompt: I asked a question. When she sat to sign books, I was first in line, gave her my pen ("Don't, you'll never see it again." "It's okay--I steal them from work.")

I told her about my friend who had held up the sign and her eyes widened in recognition.

"I wrote about him!"

And then we talked for a bit. I gave her two books to sign, a brand-new (unread) copy of On Beauty and a dog-eared, marked-up, sun-bleached White Teeth.

"Meghan, what is this?" she asked. I replied that it was well-read. "It looks as though it were dipped in coffee." Ms. Smith and I might have differing opinions on the way to treat books. But we talked a bit more. We had a little conversation. I didn't even mention that it was my birthday. It may as well have been May 5th. Do you understand what was happening here? Zadie Smith was smiling at me! She is not notorious for indulging strangers; I think she was genuinely amused--piqued, even--by my anecdotes! I do not pretend that we are now friends, or that she'll remember me as she does Colby, but I felt very good.



(the beatific, glowing writer addresses her parish)


She signed my book:

To Meghan

hair-twister,
friend of Colby,


Zadie Smith xo

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.

Lancaster

Lancaster, PA is the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and a bit of a parable on Modern America. Founded by those who wished to practice their rather repressive and extreme religion freely, it is still the tight core of brick buildings they laboriously constructed, peppered with horses and buggies and children in straw hats with hoop toys, but encased in an ever-encroaching donut of highways and outlet malls. It used to be that everything you bought in Lancaster was made in Lancaster. This was when Lancaster was a mere town, or "community," but Lancaster is now a city, and in cities, things are made in China.

My Grandpa Ray was raised Mennonite (kind of like Amish, but with electricity, and clothing with more than one type of wool) but left the faith for Lutheranism when he married Ethel Drue. I never met Grandma Druie--she died when I was four, and her son didn't marry my mother until I was six (for those of you drawing a tree, yes, that means Grandpa Ray and I were not related by blood. For those of you now thinking "So he wasn't really your grandfather," I have a variety of phrases and gestures, none of which I would have said or practiced in front of Grandpa Ray).

I have been to Lancaster many times. In Lancaster, I have watched Amish children sneak into arcades, accompanied my mother on seemingly endless quilt-shopping excursions, built snowmen, eaten lemon chicken, and helped my dad, Scott, illegally release our overgrown goldfish into the pond at Long's Park. I have nice Lancastrian memories, and until now, when I just typed "Lancastrian," never equated it to anything involving the War of the Roses: that is how specific I am about Lancaster. This past week was likely my last visit. For a while, at least.

We arrived at the Woodcrest Villa Mennonite Home Community in the late morning. Uncle "Big Man" Jim ran out to greet us, Grandpa Ray's old gray cap pulled low over his eyes. He boogied on the parking lot as we began to unload the car, and then hoisted my brother over his shoulder and threw him into a bush. We laughed. Aunt "Sweetheart" Cindy came out as well, and we all pointed at my brother's sherbert-colored, collar-popped polo, now spackled with mud and pine needles. This continued until Scott joined us, and I hugged him, and the salt began to flow.

Ray's neighbor Al accosted us as we walked towards the apartment.

"Whaddya want?" he snarled, in his high-waisted pants and undershirt. "Whaddya want?"

The triptych of Jersey faces on me and my siblings prepared to cut him at the knees, but then he smiled.

"I'm sorry about Ray," he said. "I'm head of the pool league, and he was mighty good." My sister, now alerted to the presence of a pool room at the Woodcrest Villa Mennonite Home Community, thought of little else through the rest of the day.

"Want to play me in pool?"

"Can we check out the pool room?"

"POOL!!"

She had been bequeathed one of Grandpa Ray's hand-carved ping-pong paddles, but started to look enviously at the pool cue, assigned to my brother.

Al, the neighbor, invited us to play before we left. Or anytime. I began to gather that the almost eerily robust health of my grandfather was less unusual among the Mennonite elders than the rest of the country. The faces around the Mennonite home were lined but never craggy and spoke sensibly, with appropriate volume.

Scott and Cindy had gone through most of the apartment the day before, laying out Grandpa Ray's collection of pocket watches, and drawing straws for who would get the coffee table and chair against the sofa.

"Who got the gun?" my brother asked.

I went back outside and looked at the car. His golf cap was in the back seat, a sweater and his clubs in the trunk. The week before he had shot an 85. Had he been planning to break this recent record for his nonagenarian years?

I remembered his last visit, in October, when we'd gone into New York and he'd been accosted by a man dressed up as a piece of Sorrento cheese, and we'd watched the second presidential debate together and he patiently tolerated my screaming at the television. I don't think he loved my bleeding liberalism, or my emotional and sometimes irrational hatred of the President, but I give him credit for staying in the room. And for chuckling about the Sorrento cheese man.

His visits were not infrequent, but he never stayed more than a day or two. No dawdling: up early and out on the road, goodbyes said the night before. He didn't like delay. Delay meant he would stand there, hat in right hand, change jangling in the left, tapping his feet.

Cindy told me how he'd died: he'd picked up some friends and dropped them at the golf course, but began to feel unwell and asked one to drive him home. They were talking, and then they weren't. And then his friend looked over, and his head was down. No delay.

We didn't stay long Sunday--just spent some time with the family and packed up the golf clubs and such. Monday was very nice, spent in New York with a variety of old friends I was happy to see--Colby, CK, Paul, Jordan, traffic at the tunnel, the Egon Schiele paintings at MoMA...

The burial was Tuesday, but there's no real need to write about that.

Before, in the morning, we went to the Lancaster Market, where I had developed a taste for chocolate pudding at a young age. At 23, I was more interested in the $1.50 pints of raspberries, and the white net caps worn by the ladies selling them. As we left we passed an Amish horse and buggy from behind. A little boy was waving out its back opening. My sister had us slow down, and took a picture as she passed.


Snark returns soon, I swear. Thanks for all the emails.

Later For Now

I've been reading a lot lately, from punditry in book form and epic poems to Mel Brooks screenplays, high-quality post-modern fiction, and my own shitty drivels circa 2001, trying to synthesize something resembling a style, and preferably a snappy one. The result of reading so much excellence, it seems, is that whenever I write something on paper I tend to draw a line after page two, declare it crap, and start something else. While the doggedness might be laudable, the syntax it produces is not. I've been moping.

I realized in Jersey last week that I miss the East something fierce: its compact energy, and refusal to let you hold still: that it holds most of my friends and near-all of my family. I've been thinking that maybe I treated the move too lightly, that I didn't put enough weight on the distance.

My grandfather died this morning.

He was 92 and on his way to the golf ourse. He lived the definition of a full and satisfied life. Perhaps when I return, I'll get back on track.

What My Little Sister Would Like To Hear

So I went out to The Dime last night 'cause I'm friends with the bouncer 'cause I know all the important B-people (bouncers, bartenders... bagboys...) 'cause I'm a hot 20something like that and because I'm under 30 and not a total mutant I must know everyone, and Lindsay Lohan spilled her virgin vodka tonic like all over my Chloe purse and was so embarrassed, so we went to the bathroom together and bonded and now I'm getting a walk-on in that Minnesota movie but only the parts being shot in LA.

Wait, you thought I stayed in? With my cat? Watching Laguna Beach? After a field trip to the library? Do I look like a loser?

Sunday At The Office

I'm not going to pretend I like Sunday at the office.

Saturday At The Office

I had some mild anger when the alarm went off this morning. Alarms and Saturday don't mix. Work and Saturday don't mix.

Or do they?

I passed some yard sales on the walk to work. No yard sales on Monday. No paperback Dave Eggers memoirs for a buck on Monday. Not even on Tuesday! Wednesday and Thursday might offer scores of Mexicans wishing me a good morning as they line the sidewalks outside OSH, but walk to work on Saturday and spend it in sweet, solitary silence.

I arrived at the office a little late (due to yard sales). Good thing there's no one there to notice.

No calls on Saturday. No creepy FedEx man on Saturday. Scores of coffee drinks and delicious food charged all to the company on Saturday, for no good reason other than... it's Saturday. We get paid 1.5 times as much because it's Saturday. Saturday has magical powers.

Yes, I am okay with being here, this Saturday.

Though maybe not next Saturday. They can't have yard sales every week.

On Sunday (rather than Saturday) at the office.