October 2005 Archives

I just found out that a member of my writers' group sold her spec to "Boston Legal"!!!  Of course, it doesn't hurt that she works for David Kelley, or that she recently told him she had "more to contribute to the company than three-hole punching."  Ballsy gal was right.  And I salute her.  Speaking of three-hole punching, I need to pack mine up for the big move.  Right after I answer the phone and make the coffee.  Sigh...  

I am officially taking non-porn-related suggestions for a Halloween costume.  So on your mark, get set, ho... I mean, go.

A conversation with my mother, regarding a Saturday Halloween party my parents are attending:

Me:  So what are you going as?

Mom:  A biker chick.  But I don't think I'm very convincing.

Me:  Hmmmm.... Probably not.  What should I be?  I mean, I could cop out and be J.Lo.  For the fourth year in a row.

Mom:  You know who you should be?  Roller Girl!

Long, long pause.

Me:  Uh, you do know she's a porn star, right?

Mom:  I know.  That's why it's funny.

Me:  So what are you implying?

Mom:  (giggle, giggle)

I'm not sure, but I think my mom insulted me.   

 

We are preparing for an office move.  I don't know how many of you out there have moved offices in your lifetime, but it's a pain in the ass that I would not hesitate to compare to having your hand gnawed off by a pack scabes-infested rats.  I am calling all over town looking for boxes, and G-Money is panicked that the half and half will go bad on the fifteen minute drive over to the new place.  I, however, would be thrilled if I hadn't just spilled coffee all over my foot (why did I wear flipflops today?  Oh, cause socks are for crackheads, that's why).  Would I be thrilled because a.) I got to watch "The O.C." pilot for the first time last night and am reaffirmed in my belief that Doug Liman belongs among the ranks of Coppola, Scorcese, and God; b.)  I finished the rewrite of my B-list celebrity stalking script; or c.) I get my own office on the lot.

That's right, folks, it's C!!!  Never have I ever had my own office.  Although, G-Money was quick to warn me about the downside. 

G- Money:  Now don't get too excited.  There aren't any windows, and it's not much bigger than your cubicle, and it's more than likely full of asbestos.

Me:  (jumping up and down, clapping) That is so awesome!

G-Money:  I mean, like, a LOT of asbestos.

Me:  Cool!!

G-Money:  I mean A LOT.

It doesn't matter how many times she tells me I'm going to be inhaling a deadly substance for fourteen hour periods over the next six months.  At least I can visit explicit websites, or chew with my mouth open, or shut my door and talk shit about people.  If I die, I die happy, because having my own office, be it riddled with ants, asbestos, or bad karma, is perhaps a healthier accomplishment than watching the entire second season of "24" all in one sitting.  Although, if I hadn't done that, who knows if I ever would have gotten my own office?   

 

 

G-Money bought me lunch today.  Why, you ask?  Because she flat-out f%$#ing rules, that's why.  I followed up the delectable parmesan and avocado salad with a nice cup of hot chocolate, and now I'm straight chillin', waiting for the weekend to start.  I'll be venturing to the Valley to visit The Honeybee tonight, but I just realized I left my passport at home.  Ouch.  Cheap shot.  More later, when I kick the collective ass of our neighboring office.  Since when is blasting "Rock the Casbah" appropriate behavior for a Friday afternoon when I have to drive to the Valley?

Oh, my God!  A weekday without a xanga update from me!  How did you all survive it?  And by "you all," I mean the lone stalker with no teeth who dials up from his serial killer cabin in the woods.  To him I say, yes, I am available Friday night.  No, but seriously, seriously, yesterday was one of the longest days at work.  Ever.  And the fact that H-Berts asked if I was Dakota Fanning's stunt double in "Dreamer" didn't help.  Luckily, I got to go home to... a stale bowl of Cheerios and a crying stint on the couch, wherein Max looked up at me with his sad, soulful eyes and said, "Stop your cryin,' bitch, 'Criminal Minds' is on."  I love "Criminal Minds."  It is the saddest sack sorry piece of serial killer shit the geezer network has put on the air since "Diagnosis Murder."  Okay, I don't know if that's a CBS show, but it does involve geezers.  Back to the matter at hand.  If you have ever seen "Silence of the Lambs," "Helter, Skelter," "Copycat," "Law & Order," or hell, even a particularly despicable episode of "Murder, She Wrote," your mind will reel at the ridiculous claptrap that goes on during this show.  You'll catch yourself saying, "Wait, it's supposed to be a reveal that shooting someone in the face is pesonal?  But we learned that back in 1991, when Sam Waterston first succumbed to the invasion of a staff shrink."  Seriously, it feels like these writers do their research from back episodes of early 90s procedural dramas.  But what can I say, I still watch it.  But only because Max likes it.  And for those of you wondering, yes, Max is a cat.  Shut up.    

For the first time since I started working here, I have made a damn tasty pot of coffee!  In fact, said coffee is so very tasty that I might just top off the afternoon with a second cup.  Caffeine seems to be the only cure for the dizziness, nauseau, and general feeling-like-warmed over shit-ness I've been experiencing these past couple of days.  If I've snapped at you, or told you that if you don't shut the fuck up, I'll hit you so hard you'll have to spread the cheeks of your ass to smile, I apologize.  It's just that lately I've wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and watch "Go" with Max snoozing on my stomach (or, if not Max, someone of my own species - I'm not picky) and a well-worn copy of "Lolita" on my nightstand for whenever Timothy Olyphant fails to fulfill my perversion quota. 

Oh, Cameron Crowe.  You've done it again.  You've made a movie based on your own cool life and the quirky girls who fall in love with you.  I have several things to say about this.

1.)  Fuck quirky girls.  If I have to see one more failed screen attempt of a guy falling in love with a girl for her wacky antics, I'm going to puke.  There are a few prime examples.  Natalie Portman aka "I'm wacky because I bury my dead animals in the back yard and Zach Braff finds that bewitching."  Kate Hudson aka "I'm wacky because I'm fucking a rock star who treats me like shit and I have cool hair."  And last, Kirsten Dunst aka "I'm wacky because I have a ridiculous excuse for a Southern accent and fight the machine by discussing "they" with Orlando Bloom."  Guys, you're not falling in love with them because they're quirky.  You're falling in love with them because they're hot, and any attempts at cuteness are superfluous.  We all know they're your wet dreams - you don't need to try to give them a personality.  I want to see these couples in forty years, when Natalie's world weary look is acutally earned and her eating disorder has given her a lovely case of osteoperosis.  Will you still be charmed when she's conducting funerals in the back yard, Zach?  Or will you tell her to shut her wrinkled yapper cause you're trying to watch the game?  My guess is the latter.

2.)  Elizabethtown is a myth.  No one in Kentucky calls it that, and if Cameron had done one iota of research, he'd know that it's referred to as "E-town."  Yes, because of the ecstacy, you sick fucks.

3.)  I hate movies that try to show people falling in love through witty banter.  It's boring to everyone else but the two involved in said relationship.  Give me "Bonnie and Clyde" any day.  They don't have to have hours of conversation - they're too busy killing people and robbing banks, but damnit if you don't know from that first shared laugh that these two are made for each other.  Oh, and Faye Dunaway makes Natalie Portman look like Margaret Thatcher's ugly twin on a bad hair day.

 

If you love me, you will hand deliver Jim Beam to my door at some point this weekend. 

My bosses are playing tricks on me.  They love to hold off telling me they're not coming in until about three in the afternoon, at which point, if I'm good, I can catch Oprah as well as a flick (as long as it's a comedy - they tend to be shorter).  However, around noon today, it occurred to me that they're not coming in at all this week.  I was trying to remember the last time I saw them - Friday?  Labor Day? - but to no avail.  Alas, today has been a celebration of David O. Russell, chocolate raspberry research, and holiday travel plans. Oh, and the massage chair in G-Money's office.  Can't go wrong with mechanical vibration.  Although, G-Money's parting words to me last night did kind of freak me out.  In a voice weary with creation, she decried, "Melissa, whatever you do, don't grow up to be a television showrunner."  No worries, G-Money, I'll settle for doing sweet fuck-all.  Which is what I'm off to accomplish right now... 

The Honeybee has been bitching that I never mention her on my blog (and by "never" she must mean "within the past three weeks," because that's how long this charade of prose has been going on), so I thought I'd give her a little shout-out.  Check out www.honeybeemanor.com if you're into video games, anime, or, uh, honeybees.  Also, she has been kind enough to post (read:  steal) a couple of my recipes, one for artichoke dip, the other for chess pie, so if you're hungry and have some spare cornmeal lying around, preheat that oven and get to baking! 

This morning I rang up my folks, and they did what I'll generously title the "annoying phone shuffle."  This means that either a.) they will both pick up different phones and talk maddeningly over each other about who died, dated, or divorced or b.) if one of them doesn't want to talk to me, they'll attempt to hand me off to the other.  What they don't know is that I can still hear them.  "Is something wrong?"  "No, she's just calling to say hi."  "Oh, well, tell her I said hi."  "No, talk to her."  "Do I have to?"  You get the idea.  This morning when I called, here's what transpired:

Mom:  (to Dad) It's your daughter.

Dad:  Who?

Mom:  Very funny.

Dad picks up the phone.

Dad:  Karen?

Me:  Very funny. 

My dad love, love, loves to pretend he has several thousand illegitimate children scattered throughout the continental U.S.  He's been doing this since I was five, when, after my first sleepover, I called him to come pick me up.

Five Year Old Me:  Dad?

Dad:  I'm not your father.

Of course, I threw it back in his face several years later, when he told me I couldn't get my ears pierced.

Dad:  No.

Ten Year Old Me:  Why not?

Dad:  Because I'm your father, and I said so.

Ten Year Old Me:  How do you know you're my father?

That shut him up.  It was my mother who couldn't stop giggling.  But I'm pretty sure my smart-assery proves what a DNA test would:  I am my father's daughter, and it's nice to know that, no matter how far away I am or how lonely I'm feeling, my dad will still pretend there's some question about my parentage.  So thanks for that, Dad.  And you should be glad it wasn't Karen this morning - we both know she only calls when she needs dough for heroin and clean needles.  What a whore.

 

Quick shout-out to the Designated Driver, who just delivered cheese fries and ranch dressing to my office.  I'm so glad I was born in the age of Island's... and Ortho... and bulimia.  Haha, I kid.  Geez, lighten up, would ya?  If you got that pun and are still speaking to me, you are a loser. 

My xanga gift to you today is a movie recommendation.  I know you might not trust my taste, what with my endless recantings of "Dawson's" past, but do yourself a favor and see "To Have and Have Not," with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.  Not only do those two appear to be pleasuring each other as soon as they lock eyes, but the script was based on a Hemingway short story and penned by none other than William Faulkner, the lord of the Southern incest stereotype and the run-on sentence.  How one masters both I haven't a clue, but I'm not the kind to question the talent of a fucked-up genius.

Also, I apologize to everyone for being lame this weekend.  I didn't mean to fall asleep at 9 PM Saturday watching reruns of "Little House on the Prairie."  But damned if that Nelly Olsen isn't the dirtiest little whore in Walnut Grove.  Luckily, Laura and Mary didn't tell her that leaf was poison ivy... Ah, chuckle.  Inside joke.

Stop the presses.  Yesterday, I got to try my hand at some writing for the show.  "Wow!," you might think, "She's really moving up in the world."  And before you ask me what I was doing - tying the A story in with the B, punching up jokes - let me just clarify something.  Writers like to drink.  So much so that they will abandon their work to down a few margaritas at the El Torito which is a mere hop, skip, and jump away from our offices.  To their credit, said margaritas do pack more punch than Soda Popinski on a Stoli binge (like that reference?  It's from this new game I developed, called "Name all the Characters in Mike Tyson's Punch-Out").  Last night, after a fierce seven hours in the room, H-Berts gave me the following heads up. 

H-Berts:  We're going to El Torito.

Me:  But you promised the network they'd get the log-lines tonight--

H-Berts:  Oh.... riggghhhtttt... You write them.  I'm going to shoot some Cuervo.

If you are an avid reader of my blog (hahahahahaha - that's a good one), you'll remember my description of a log-line when discussing Dawson's.  "Dawson and Pacey use the Capeside Regatta to wage war for Joey's affections."  Now we all know how that backfired on Dawson.  Luckily, with the help of my sharp wit and H-Berts's tequila-blurred vision, I fared quite well, and The WB was duly impressed with my one-liners.

I, however, will only be duly impressed with you if you can name all the characters in Mike Tyson's Punch-Out. 

       

I'm a bright girl.  Need a trashy romance novel translated from French, Russian, Old English (it's more than just furniture polish), or Latin?  Call me.  An explanation of re-ification and its impact in establishing societal fact?  I'm all over it.  But there are several situations that cause my powers of observation to catch a case of perpetual head-up-assery (now  that's Old English, my friend).  Now if you know me at all, you understand that I am vaguely socially retarded.  I have bouts of magnetism, but those are mostly alcohol-induced, and I would much rather lie in bed staring at the wall than (gasp!) answer my phone.  Hey, at least I'm not one of those girls who sits around waiting for guys to call.  I just sit around.  At a party, I'm more likely to stand in the corner drinking by myself than say hi to someone I don't know.  So, again, pretty silly, right?  However, here's the question:  does it make me soooo socially retarded that I can't see the appeal of Dawson Leery?  First there was the peacoat, then there was that hairstyle that was too ridiculous to even be called a mullet (you know the one - the long wave in the back, with the even middle part that made the 'do look like Dawson's personal version of devil horns?), but now, oh, now there's no turning back.  In a fit of infantile rage, Dawson My-Forehead's-Bitten-Off-More-Than-It-Can-Chew Leery tried to crash poor Pacey's boat in the Capeside Regatta.  The nerve, thinking that aggression would win him Joey's affection!  He should be killed off the show.  I think the perfect season 4 premiere would be me running Dawson over with a bus.  However, since I don't remember doing a 2-episode arc on Season 4, I'm guessing it's gonna be more like Pacey and Joey, all glowing from doing it non-stop, sharing a group hug with a tearful Dawson upon their return from Key West.  After all, hugs are all you get when you try to bully your way into a girl's heart and her Tom Cruise-infested pants.     

OH -- MY -- GOD!

http://people.aol.com/people/articles/0,19736,1114381,00.html

Did they actually do it?  Or was it like the Satanic rape scene I'm so fond of in "Rosemary's Baby," with Ruth Gordon muttering about the "chocolate mouse?" 

Can't... write... more.  Must... throw up.  Why, TomKat, why?

 

10 years ago I

attended my first haunted forest (I was never big on the whole "you're going to be shut in this coffin/impaled by this pitchfork/served as a midnight snack to this fat-ass zombie" dynamic of Halloween).  I know I'm getting awful specific with my dates, but I remember because my friend who's named after Farrah Fawcett and I were arm in arm, teeth chattering, scared out of our Gap overalls, when this werewolf with a chainsaw came running after her.  Good ole Farrah, being the Kentucky gal she is, didn't bother to scream.  Instead, she suckerpunched that damnable beast right in the kisser.  If werewolves enjoy kissing, it was a sad night for that one.  Until he realized "Teen Wolf" was on USA.

5 years ago I

had moved on to that mecca of learning known as Vanderbilt.  Instead of spending my time ironing my cocktail dresses for the football games (what kind of fucked up place requires semi-formal attire for sucking on a beer funnel?), I, along with my irascible friends, had half the campus convinced that I was Heather Graham's sister.  And these people were said to be bright... To that end, I worked on a project which, to date, is probably my favorite mockumentary of all time, "Graham Crackers."  If you want a copy, send me ten bucks and some more beer for my funnel. 

1 year ago I

was going through a hermit phase.  I hated anyone who tried to call me.  Not sure why... Oh, and if you called and didn't leave a message, I probably still hate you.  Pet peeves, people.  With me, they're like riptides.  Go with the flow, and you'll make it out alive.  I'm more likely to forgive you for stealing my boyfriend than not leaving a message.  Of course, at this point, you'd be stealing nothing but smog-filled air, but that is neither here nor there.  Smog-filled air never hurt me, but you did, when you didn't leave a message.  Fucker.

 

5 Snacks I Enjoy

string cheese, apples with peanut butter, Cheez-its, ginger snaps, and "Graham Crackers." 

5 Things I would do with 100 Million Dollars

your dad, five times.  Oh, and I'd probably give a lot of it to charity.  Abused animals and cancerous children are the way to make my cynical heart skip a beat and send my tear ducts into double overtime.  I would care more about battered women, except I'm a Southern gal, and we are trained early in our shotgun usage. 

5 places I would run away to
Yalta (there's a tiny castle on this cliff overlooking the Black Sea that takes two hours to walk up to - next time I'm going through a hermit phase, I'm there), Saint Petersburg (Russia, not Florida, you idjit.  I'm not prepped for shuffleboard and cottage cheese just yet), wherever my mom is (because I'm a better person whenever I even think about her), I dug Monte Carlo the two days I was there, and I'll always feel at home in Manhattan (those four other burroughs can suck it), cause I can get lost there.  

5 things I would never ever ever wear to be seen
Please.  Have you seen my wardrobe?  I'll wear anything.  Two years ago, when my pal The Newly Married Gal was sleeping on my sofa in New York, she called me at work one day and said, "I'm tired of looking at all your clothes.  I'm going to throw some of them out, because you should not wear them in public."  I came home to five Hefty bags full of Limited-circa-1995 apparel.  And I was sad to see it go... 

5 favorite TV shows
Family Guy

Roseanne

The O.C.

Pepper Dennis

Just the Ten of Us

5 bad habits

blogging, social smoking while home alone, watching "Home Alone," taking my birth control pill, claustrophobia

5 biggest joys
watching "Home Alone," writing and drinking, preferably at the same time, Sarah Polley, taking a breath of smog-filled air as me

My Only Toys

Potbelly, my stuffed bear my dad got me the day I was born.  Except apparently he's gone all L.A. and taken up Pilates, cause his potbelly's disappeared.

Email, aka the passive aggressive's most vital tool of communication

5 fictional characters I would date
Ben Covington aka Scott Speedman from "Felicity" - although he thinks too much, then shares his feelings.  That gets annoying.  I think he'd be good for a one-night stand, over and over and over.

Pacey Whitter aka Josh Jackson from "Dawson's" - I wouldn't date him, though.  I would want a ring on my finger from him, stat.  I'm just that smitten.

James Franco - he's so hot I don't believe he's a real person. 

Steve Buscemi - Yes, I have what my friend Successful Writer calls "the Buscemi gene."  This term can be defined as the explanation for a young, most likely hot, girl's desire to date someone who looks, for all intents and purposes, like the pedophilic janitor from your middle school.

 

 

5 People I'm Tagging:

No one.  You think I give a damn about your life?  Okay, you're right, I do.  Why don't you call me up and leave me a message about it?

I got no sleep last night.  For those of you who don't know, we have a new addition to our 1635 family.  His name is Max, he's orange, and he has more hair than a sheep waiting in line for the shearer.  Except he's not a sheep, he's a cat.  A cat who, when I'm sleeping on my side, likes to occupy the skyward part of my hip until I inadvertently roll over on my stomach and send him careening to the floor.  The fierce meowing that follows never fails to attract Peter's attention, except Peter, with his dashing tuxedo coat, terrifies Max.  I think it's because Max feels underdressed when he's around him.  Or perhaps he feels pressure to marry...  Regardless, I spent the night alternately trying to coax Max out of hiding and chase Peter away.  Such a comedy of errors hasn't been enacted in my bedroom since I dated The Psycho.  That's right, the one who, after an intense makeout session, would request that I Mapquest his route from my place to that of the girl he was really obsessed with.  And he couldn't believe it when I quit returning his calls!  How did I ever let that one get away?