Casualty of Party

So I tripped and fell at our party on Saturday, which featured the entire staff of BWR Public Relations, beers of the world, and two bottles of tequila gone bone dry by 1AM. Anyway, I had to call Mrs. Blotto the next morning.

"Mom, I sprained my ankle. What do I do?"

(All medical, financial, and major personal decisions will likely go through Mrs. Blotto until at least 2007).

Mother Blotto kindly refrained from putting "party last night" and "sprained ankle this morning" together, and advised me to purchase an Aircast (headquartered in Summit, NJ!).

I never understood the point of the Aircast until I spent a day and night wrapped in an Ace bandage. My poor, dainty, size 6.5 mangled purple-and green lower appendage!



To the surgical supply store! I can take the limping, the good-natured office taunts of "Gimpy Goon", and the forced residency on the couch, where I watch and secretly enjoy the ABC Family channel with my roommate. But this? This shit is nasty.

Those Crazy Mexicans

How shall I begin to describe Mexican craziness? It isn't just limited to their "hola"s and "good morning"s as I make my solitary walk to work each morning (Mexicans are the only Angelenos, aside from me, who tolerate open air for more than 25 seconds on weekday mornings; additionally, I learned to walk to work in New York, where the only thing you wish fellow passersby is to fuck off should they bump into you), or their government's thing for currency devaluation.

Fortunately, I no longer have to ponder Mexican craziness, as the good people at the Mexican postal service have released a series of postage stamp, "Curious George Meets Stepin Fetchit," asking the relevant questions for me:


Is it their pride in art, and their dapper manners?



Their eagerness in everything, or, should you prefer, the ability to stand idly by?



Or just their love of schooling and Aunt Jemina?




Ah! Such a celebration of that Mexicali culture! I can barely handle it. Next it'll be Pop Art renditions of the PRI, US Immigration Officials, and the Ford Pinto.

Mackenzie Speers, 10th GraderMisdirects Her Mail

An Open Letter To Oprah Winfrey
from Mackenzie Speers, 10th Grader

deer oprah,

U are such a biatch. how could U make tom do that on ur show. THom is my man and katy is supernicee how could U make him jump up and down like that!!! and you kept saying he is gone but he is not GONE becuz he wuz rite their! Y do U ruin peoplez lives like that! U are a bad person and im sew glad that the hermys people woodnt let U into there store and i kant beleive U R mad becuz they said it wuz becuz U look nOrTh aFrIcAn. it is carma! how duz it feel NOW, oprah?! haha U are such a bitch.

MaCkEnZiE


A Tome To Matt Lauer
from Mackenzie Speers, 10th Grader

deer maTT LaUeR,

i kant believe you kept interrruppting tom CrUiSe on yr stupid show! toM has been a sciENtristologist for YEARS and U R lucky he even talked to you! hoW do U no that ritalyn isnt just a conspeeracy and street drug! my little bROther has been on ritalyn for years and he is a SPAZ! maybe if he joined scientologisty he woodn't be so F-ING wierd! and i no it is a street drug cuz my friends snort my little brotherz ritalyn in our driveway and the driveway is the street so U better apologize!

MaCkEnZiE


A Short Note to Those BBC Pranksters
from Mackenzie Speers, 10th Grader

deer squirty microfone people,

haha i kant beleive U did that U R big a-HoLeS but U R funny.

MaCkEnZiE


America's future: secure.

Social Climbing at the Jersey Homestead

I Side With Scalia, Rehnquist, and Thomas: WTF

Justices, 5-4, Back Seizure of Property for Development
"A divided Supreme Court ruled Thursday that local governments may seize people's homes and businesses against their will for private development in a decision anxiously awaited in communities where economic growth often is at war with individual property rights."

Perhaps the Brits had it right at Yorktown, playing the ditty "The World Turned Upside Down" while General Cornwallis handed his pride, nuts, and cocktail party desirability over to Washington and called it a war. I wonder how it played out. Did George look bemusedly at Charles Earl, while Charles Earl stared back, resignedly osmosing the irony of the moment? Did they know that rip-offs of this ironic gravitas would play out endlessly on movie and television screens in the centuries to come? Since this was the eighteenth century, probably not, but I bet neither would've appreciated The Patriot. Though they might've liked how everyone had all their teeth.

"Georgie," Charles Earl might have said. "Well fought. Despite your flagrant abuse of every convention of war, I admire how you stuck with it, even when morale was low. I predict that the US's future illustrious leaders will follow that same idea when attacking random nations for poorly conceived reasons, and the world will blossom for it."

And General George might have smiled politely, because, after all, the guy had lost his army, tea supply, and thirteen original colonies, and thought "This dipshit has no idea what he's talking about." And then he signed the treaty negotiations, tipped his tri-pointed hat, and went home to Mount Vernon, only to find that it had been razed to make way for a shopping mall.

Actually, a shopping mall parking lot. Because apparently, that's the kind of right he'd been fighting for.

Reason #63 I Will Not Last As An Assistant

Yesterday I wrote an Evite for my boss.

Today:

"Maggie."

Whatever. Closer than usual.

"I made some changes."

Edited Evite message says "Meghan can do way better than this."



I should've gone to grad school.

Dennis Kwan, Pied Piper of El Porto

Sandy frivolity! Drunken limbo! Polo-shirted bon vivance! These things, and many other completely unfounded fantasies, came to mind when K. announced her intention of a birthday bonfire on the beach. We've seen too many episodes of Entourage.

Reality: apocalyptic winds. Sweatshirts all around. Police cruisers shone their lights and ordered us the fuck off the sand at 10:10. Sweeet. Quick conference moved the party to Sharkees, the Manhattan Beach bar resembling a tiki, rather than honky-tonk, themed Brother Jimmy's. K.: not so thrilled.

"Who the fuck is going to come all the way out to Manhattan Beach to go to Sharkees?"

Apparently, everyone. McMaster-Carr Industrial Supply Co. supervisors to CAA underlings to trust-funded Brown babies. Hollywoodites. New Jerseyites. Santa Monicans. 80% of a rather crowded dive bar there just to celebrate dear K.'s completion of her 23rd year. Drinks! Drinks! Polo-shirts! Bon vivance!

1:30: last call. 2:00: lights coming on. End the merriment? I don't think so.

Dennis Kwan, purveyor of hilarity, pulls a full size boombox out of his pocket. Or somewhere--it was a big f-ing boombox. Usher's "Yeah!" fills the El Porto strip, and our own Radio Raheem leads us down the sidewalk to TB's. Throngs of revelers cut box steps and swung from lampposts, following right behind.

The Piper's Pics

South Beach Diet: Day 3!

Check it out--only three days without carbs or butter, and I'm freaking Lohanorexic! I never knew it was this easy!

(Dennis's Photoshop skills have absolutely nothing to do with this sudden transformation, which is visible only in digital pictures).

Hot... or Not?

Understanding the democratic process is important. Get to know your senators, and then, most importantly, make your voice heard--and vote!

(Tip: Jon Corzine. The Marxian beard with the Goldmanian millions... hot).

Why I Am Not A Reporter

The type of top-flight crackerjack reporting one expects from a university-affiliated paper.

No shit, Sherlock.

Portrait With Iced Tea

.

At KP's 5-year reunion. Note white trellis in background: setting to many a drama at middle school dances. Note also large iced tea pitcher in foreground. This stuff was a time machine. No one tells you about this kind of dining-hall sense memory, but they should.

In Honor Of Katie's 23rd Year...

Jen (pictured) and Melissa are coming to town for Katie's birthday. Should be good times.

What am I saying? These girls are special snowflakes. Watch out, LA. It's the Invasion Of The Jerseyites, and it isn't going to be pretty.

Because I never posted any reunion pics, here are a couple more of those coolest girls alive. The smartest bunch of retards you'll ever meet.

(Shown here killing brain cells).

Step 1: I Have A Problem

Dennis is obsessed with Ami Sushi.

"AMI SUSHI!!!", right after "Wanna do a shot?", could be his catchphrase.

He took me to experience the Ami Sushi last night.

Wait, hold on, you might be asking. Why this emphasis on Dennis and Ami Sushi? Did Dennis consume an ill-prepared and therefore deadly fugu, leaving the 5' 3.75" Meghan to physically carry his 6' 7" frame to the UCLA Med Center, in a feat of God-and-adrenaline-given strength? Or perhaps Meghan and Dennis performed a dine-and-dash! Or did they leave the restaurant, get lost, and ask for directions from a random guy who turned out to be Harvey Keitel?

No; you show touching faith in me. Like so many of my anecdotes, this one's headed straight up my ass.*

Ami Sushi is very good, but it is not very popular. The waiters stand about, shouting Japanese greetings to all who enter before returning to their chat sessions, or calculating exactly how little they're making in tips on empty tables. I should not be alarmed, Dennis assured me. It's just on a dead street. It's still good.

Dennis is my reality-TV enabler. His TiVo has changed my life. With Dennis I watched Keenyah bloat on bagels and lose the America's Next Top Model title to Naima. With Dennis I mulled over how Rob and Amber kicked everyone's ass on The Amazing Race until some very obvious producer intervention screwed them over. With Dennis I experienced the subversive joy of watching 3 consecutive episodes of American Idol in 12 minutes! We are not picky: we watch Strip Search and Kept, and even made it through the second episode of Britney and Kevin: Chaotic (but no more--even we have limits. Actually, Dennis might still watch it. I'm not sure).

Anyway, since Dennis is a reality-TV connoisseur, one might expect that when a true G-list limited-run E! reality series personality enters Ami Sushi, Dennis would be the one to kick me under the table and start making faces.

But he wasn't. When Princess Ann Claire entered Dennis's beloved Westwood eatery, I was. And then it got worse: I listened in on her conversation, filed away her tete-a-tete with the waiter ("And is the sushi prepared with any oil or fat?"), and lost my inner battle to refrain from listening to her accent and glance periodically her way.

Come ON.

The show was on during my unemployment period, but... come on. Love Is In The Heir? Are you kidding? It doesn't even have the "I was so stoned I couldn't change the channel" watchability factor of Gastineau Girls. I have a problem. Like Kirsten on The OC,** I'm admitting it. I look to a higher power to guide me through.

When we rose to leave, I heard one last snippet from the budding country western singer/peripheral Iranian royal:

"I'm really starting to focus. I have to invest in my career. Now that people" and here she cocks her head, ever so slightly, in my direction, "recognize me."

I am so embarrassed.





*YES, I read David Sedaris. I steal. I'm a thieflet. Get over it.
**Won't anyone else miss how Kirsten was always a little bit of a wino?

A Poem For Michael Jackson, On The Occasion Of Your Acquittal

You're Bad--You're Bad--
Your June Gloom
Lifts
in the Afternoon!
Let the Sun shine
Forever plainly
Upon
Your Shrouded Face--

Dance upon your Chariot,
For
To Neverland you fly!

The Entire Office Is Gathered Around My Desk, Demanding Control Of The Radio To Listen To The Michael Jackson Verdict.

Good thing his sister isn't here.

An Eventful Weekend

First, sightings: Entourage's Kevin Connolly at Shelter (It was dark. He is short), and the latest stale Cheez Doodle of a Bachelor at the movies. Yeah, yeah---it was a lukewarm weekend on that front. Not so lukewarm...


EroticaLA at the LA Convention Center. Four young ladies, four VIP passes, one used Toyota, and one singular mission: porn.

I know lots about porn. It comes with having lived with a roommate whose book collection consisted largely of titles like "The Body Project" and "Jane Sexes It Up," or perhaps from making my home mere miles from the San Fernando "Pornucopia" Valley. Or perhaps it's because of my college proclivity towards classes like The History of Western Sexuality, Literature and Sexual Violence, etc. Learn here about the commodification of sex and money vis a vis two dead white guys! (Culanth 191M: Sex and Money. I got an A).

But I digress! I digress! Back to EroticaLA!

Perhaps I digress because I took painstakingly embarrassing pictures throughout the entire expo with the intention of posting a massive photoblog with witty captions and everything, and am now unable to shake the freakin images out of my camera.

Here's where, on a sweet photoblog, I'd post a picture of me trying to shake pictures out of my camera.

So until I figure that out, highlights in verbal form:

1. RealDolls looking like real fake women! Real fake women involved in a decapitating car accident, since they had neither arms nor legs.

2. Large numbers of women named "Harmony" meeting their fans. Their... older... fans.

3. Goodie bags. I got a sweet foam hat that says "Show me your tits." I wondered aloud why it was topped with foam frog eyes and sunglasses. Michele set me straight:

"Those are boobs, girlfriend."
"But what's with the flower?"
"Boobs with tats, girlfriend! Boobs with tats and a displaced bikini!"

I also now have an extensive collection of things that (I think) go up butts.

4. Bonnie, AVN sales big shot and our contact for the day, sold Rockman his banner for $3k. Woooooo! I would've linked to Rockman here but I don't know his website, and I'm at work, and I like my job, so I'm not going to look.

5. Ever seen a 45-foot inflatable schlong? Because I have.

6. So after a few hours, I was porned out. The billboard-sized banners of T&A were an unsettling contrast with the general unsexiness of the LA Convention Center (though the truly unnerved were probably the Tony Robbins Motivational Speaking attendees in the auditorium next door), and, honestly, once you've seen one possum-shaped vibrator, you've seen them all. I went into the convention already numbed to porn--studying the theory'll do that, pronto--but in a true miracle of reverse-saturation, I actually broke through my desensitization and began to feel slightly nauseous. Sex is cool and all, but does its fetishization really require 3 days and 30k square feet? And who are the people paying $30 a day to be there? And what does it come to, when 48-year-old men stand on line to take pictures with fake-smiling women in ass shorts, and not out of a sense of irony? Yes--Meghan's cool and practiced detachment came to a test. I'd forgotten the different levels on which the world is weird.

7. I waited on line for porn stars to sign pictures for my gay friend Dennis.

8. Porn stars are just fake blondes with bad teeth.

Yes! Yessssssssssssss!

I am going to an expo tomorrow, and I am a VIP. Seriously. This is in no way contradictory to any previous posts, by the way. It's all about the swag.

No! Nooooooooooo!

I have four IM buddies--regular, consistent instant-messaging fiends. They are friends on California time, from SoCal to Nor, predictably online at the office, ready to commiserate, to trade amusing links, to narrate the inanities of the workday, who take no offense when I disappear for a hundred and twenty minutes at a go. They get me through the day.

THEY ARE ALL GONE.

With whom will I play online chatty Cathy? Or share my latest Gawker find? Or narrate the hijinks of Stewart the chihuahua mutt, who one of our editors brings in occasionally and is really damn amusing? I need these things to finish the day. It's my modern addiction.

Clarification

So almost 80% of my regular readers (the 4 of you) have contacted me with questions regarding this sabbatical from the men-folk.

Clarification: I'm not ditching my wild party girl life. There is no wild party girl life to ditch. They will not miss me at Spider Room. Q's, maybe... But I would rather end up with a career like this guy's than this chick's (though I bet the chick makes more), so it's time to take a break and focus and spend evenings writing. Rather than primping/drinking/wondering whose number that is in my phone. It will be a month of sweatpants, my friends, and I am salivating.

But don't worry. I'm sure I'll still have many exciting things to report. I could go back to Spaceland, or camp out at Bed and Bath for some celebrity stalking. DNASTY managed to make MassiveBank Assistant, Flora Fanatucci, and The Mystery of the Disappearing Toner a scream!

DNASTY also got a $650k book deal. I want dumber friends.

There Will Be Neither Gain Nor Loss Of Life On This Trip

Miss Blotto is giving up young men in a non-platonic capacity for the next three months. Secretly, this means that she hopes Mr. Not-So-Blotto will come along and force her to reconsider, but since the odds of that are on par with Lindsay Lohan looking good blonde (ahem), let's assume it's for real.

I was inspired by Project WILD's rulebook, which among the lesser verbotens (no deodorant; no dying; no watches) includes the iron-clad "no hooking up" policy. I had fun on those trips. I experienced personal growth. Why not treat life in LA like a 10-day backpacking trip in western North Carolina?

No reason is why not!

For those of you into gambling, my pseudo-Lenten sacrifice officially starts today. Average guess for the maintenance of this new non-habit is at 9 days, but I personally think I'm being lowballed, and will last at least 19.

Fun With Virtual Newsprint

Which New York Times Op-Ed Columnist Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

I am Maureen Dowd!

That's cool, because she's smart. And foxy.

And, um... female.


Yet, whatever Gawker might say, the Times's true street value lies not in an Op-Ed Section featuring both Kristof and Friedman, but whether you know anyone in the Arts section. So this past weekend's Times had a personal street value of ~$788,956,487, because MY friend, DeVon Jackson, achieved every agentless young New York actor's FREAKIN WET DREAM. Actually, it's the wet dream of older, agented actors as well. It's just awesome. He is a talent to watch, my friends. Let us all join him in congratulations, and watch Meghan turn the teensiest bit green with envy.

Big Weekend at the Jersey Homestead/Menagerie

Obtained: a feverishly purring kitten.

Incidentally, this is how my family treats their pets:



Also obtained: a new minivan. My family's new hobby is puchasing cool toys only after I've left the home.

Spacing in Spaceland

I first read about Silver Lake in high school. Seventeen, of all magazines, ran an item on the LA neighborhood, with pictures of Beck and mentions of thrift shops. Go teen rags. Who knew.

S. from work took me to Silver Lake last night, to Club Spaceland to see Out Hud. He had driven to San Diego and back the night before to see that very same Out Hud, and had been gearing up for this show the entire week. "Meghan, can you even sleep in anticipation of Out Hud? Can you even speak?" S. really likes Out Hud. S. also finds my musical apathy and utterly mainstream, mundane musical tastes appalling. Spaceland and Out Hud: the cure.

We arrived at Spaceland, where I endured merciless mockery for never having been there. I eventually caved, claiming to actually live at the place, only always in such a marijuana/alcohol haze that I'd managed to forget the gold lame and glittery midnight decor:

It's all coming back! Where's my polyester shirt? I'm indie! I'm a liar!

I went to prep school and through rush at a private university; I own Polo shirts and move my hips when I dance. I am many things: I am not indie.

The first band, a three-piece guitarless ensemble, went on, and I kind of dug it. The thing about indie is that it doesn't matter. The girls wear men's pants, unflattering without purpose, and don't brush their asymmetrical bangs. Glasses do not exist outside of thick plastic frames. You just stop asking the usual questions, such as "Why does the drummer have pantyhose over his face?" or "Why is the bassist wearing nothing but navy briefs and skin?" or "Where's the singer?" You just stand there, doing that strange indie dance that comes from the shoulders, knowing that the answer is "Why not?" And after 18 weekends doing the opposite at places like Prey, that's kind of refreshing.

Though it continues to confuse me that all these indie kids dress like extras from a color-distorted version of Peggy Sue Got Married. Is it reclaiming the conservative? The implication of falsies? Twisted parental tribute? I'll never know.

Oh, and Out Hud was pretty rocking. Out Hud.

Poetic Justice, Nasty Girl, Nipplegate...

This lady just walked into my office. She kind of looks like Janet Jackson, only with a massive, massive booty.

Oh wait, it is Janet Jackson. I'll go offer her a beverage. I'll just set it on that shelf she's got going on back there.