March 2006 Archives

Four days till we premiere, folks, and you know what that means!  That's right, this place is a virtual mecca for muffin baskets, mylar balloons, and general debauchery.  All the excitement is serving me well.  I'm eating again, finally.  In fact, I polished off an entire Combination #13 at Paco's Wednesday night.  I asked the Designated Driver if she had any theories as to why I was chowing down on a chimichanga like it was going out of style (But were chimichangas ever actually in style?  I mean, deep fried meet rolled in sour cream?  Not so sexy, I 'spose).  She replied, "Because you're happy."  And she's kinda right.  I've felt more like myself this past week than I have in months.  Maybe it's work, maybe it's because I've been very productive on the writing front, maybe it's because I've discovered that Alice Munro is a kick-ass writer, and reading kick-ass literature is always a pick-me-up in my book... Regardless, happiness has ensued, for however long.  It doesn't matter, I'm just going to try to enjoy it.  And tonight I'm seeing Date Boy again, but I'm gonna tell him I've had it with the Friday dates.  It's everything I can do to lug myself up our apartment stairs and fling myself into bed after a long week of work.  Top that all off with a normal 10 PM departure time, and I don't think I'm just being a psycho girl beast by asking him for Saturday or Sunday requests.  Plus, I'm about as attractive as Delta Burke when I'm tired, with a disposition to match. 

And everybody, please set your Tivos (or just plain watch) for the WB Tuesday at 9 PM!!!!     

Safari Barbie's husband emailed me this morning to say that he's unhappy with the scene selections for his Juilliard (am I even spelling this correctly?  Probably not, because I am a dolt) showcase, and would I be so kind as to send him some of my own stuff (read:  crap)?  Suffice it to say, I was flattered, if not a bit terrified.  So I've spent a greater part of the day combing through said crap, and it's kind of like reading old journals.  "Today I ate a turkey sandwich and then someone put gum in my hair.  The end."  But I thought I'd share a couple choice snippets of dialogue with you:

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SUMMER

Carmen San Diego called.  She wants to know where in the world your brain was when you thought you could trick me into a date!

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WILL

I was going to post a long entry here about "Saved!," which I watched this afternoon on brief hiatus, as H-Berts and G-Money are working from home.  Instead, I decided I'd rather do something fun - aka write several scathing letters to Sprint, the three credit bureaus, and the Consumer Protection Division of the Attorney General's office.  Why, you ask?  Because I am being erased as a person.  Remember how Sprint couldn't check my credit last month?  It's still going on.  And let me tell you, people, I am the queen of the scathing letter.  I compose them in my mind every day, say when the Commissary forgets to add tartar sauce to my Conspiracy Crab Cakes, or when a boy tells me he's not ready for a relationship and I find out he's actually just dating someone behind my back, or when I go home to Kentucky and my parents have rearranged the furniture without my consent.  I'm not much for change, and I'm about as adaptable as a sledgehammer covered in molasses.  Some people call me close-minded - I prefer the term sensitive.  It's a rare moment, however, when I actually get to send said scathing letters, so when I do, rest assured they're going Return Receipt Requested.  Next time bureaucracy's got you down, demand the sauce on the side, cut that pseudo-cheating bastard out of your life, and Fight the Machine! 

I was all set, all set, I tell you, to cut the remainder of Max's toenails on Saturday night, when the Designated Driver arrived home with a brand new copy of "Big Trouble in Little China."  Now I know you're all asking yourselves, "But Melissa, aren't you a multi-tasker?  Didn't you write your entire grad school thesis while re-playing Seasons One and Two of Family Guy?"  The answer to both these questions is yes.  And therefore it comes as no surprise that my Old English translation of the Life of St. Cecelia, coupled with an analysis of her shockingly tense chaste marriage, holds a great deal of 1980s pop culture references.  My filmmaker friend asked me at brunch on Saturday, "How do you write?"  I was more than a little taken aback by the question, but then I realized he was asking me my pattern, my habits, the signals that let my brain know it's time to get down to business.  And I had to answer, without hesitation, "Television."  He found this absolutely mind-boggling, but I tried to explain.  See, it's scary, sitting down in front of an empty computer screen, or, worse, 120 pages you've managed to build and now must take apart, line by line, word by word, to find out what's working and what's not and how and why.  In certain instances, it's been known to send my heart racing and my fingers fumbling for a tumbler of vodka I've forgotten to pour.  But somehow, somewhere, my mind tells me if Rachael Ray's yakking about EVOO, or Tony Shalhoub wondering if he left the oven on, nothing too bad can happen.  Nothing too serious is going on.  I'm not pursuing a dream, not giving myself some sort of self-indulgent therapy.  I'm just watching a cooking show.  And, in the meantime, jotting down some crap.

So what, you might ask, does all this pseudo-philosophizing (Joey Potter to Dawson Leery, circa Season Two - come on, people, you can't make this shit up!) have to do with an old Kurt Russell movie and Max's toenails?  Well, here's the sad truth of it.  I was too riveted by Kurt's stonewashed denim, his poor excuse for a mullet, and his incapability of doing anything smoothly to multi-task.  He created such a fallible hero, one who didn't know everything right off the bat (like Segal, or Van Damme, or any of the other testosterone-dipped freaks) and wasn't afraid to be wrong (as referenced by the hair).  I kind of love him, and therefore the movie, for it.  So thank you, John Carpenter.

As I was writing this, the Fiery Redhead called from NYC, wanting to know when I was coming for a visit.  I just said the following words I thought I'd never say:  "I don't think I'll ever be able to take time off again."       

Tonight would be the perfect night to curl up with a fifth of Scotch and a good novel.  Alas, my trip to the library must be delayed until tomorrow, but I am very excited, because finally, finally, finally, the book I had on hold, written by one of my fiction professors at Vanderbilt, has come in.  Seems a lot of people are checking it out here on the West coast.  You should too, if you can find it.  Her name is Leah Stewart, and the novel is called "The Myth of You and Me."  Her first novel, "Body of a Girl," is an extremely vivid account of a female reporter who becomes obssessed with a murder victim (another woman her age) whose death she's investigating.  There's procedural drama, there's the indie music scene, there's even a spellbinding portrayal of first-time heroin use.  Not only is Leah an extremely talented writer, she was hands-down the best writing teacher I've ever had.  See, it's hard, in college, especially a snooty-ass, type A college like Vandy, to foster a constructive environment for writers.  Everyone is at the age and skill level where they're so insecure about their own work that they have no idea how to properly articulate a critique of another's.  I have my own rule that I use now, which I think is helpful - I never point out a problem unless I can offer potential solutions.  This keeps me from giving general notes like "your characters aren't well-defined," or "your structure could use some help," or, my personal favorite, "you suck."  And I think a lot of this was generated by Leah, who, although she made us read our work aloud, kept insecurities at bay and gave us some sort of safe haven to create.  Granted, there was fear.  There will always be fear when you're sharing something you care deeply about, but Leah made sure the class was making our work better, not making us afraid to work.  So if you have a few minutes to kill, stop by her website ( www.leahstewart.com ) and see what all the fuss is about. 

My phone has been ringing off the hook this morning, with one boss calling on one line, one on another, then the art department calling my cell phone - I haven't been this popular since I read palms in high school (this was an extremely helpful and accurate dramatic device, most prevalent around the time of Homecoming and Prom, when I would spin my web of matchmaker-dom, aka getting the boys to grow some balls and ask the girls out).  Lucky for all of us here that the P.A. has switched us from Starbucks (otherwise known as "scorched to shit" or "tastes like a five-day ashtray") to Dunkin' Donuts coffee.  Otherwise, my head might have long since imploded.  So anyway, yes, three lines ringing at once, so I've been forced to start daydreaming about the weekend. Here is what I have (tentatively) planned:

Friday - Get out of work by 9:30, hopefully, then off to see a play with Date Boy, unless I am too frazzled from said work and have to cancel.  Mom has forbidden me to cancel on him at all, but especially because of work.  She says I hide from commitment because of my job - I say I hide from commitment because most men (and I'm not saying all, mind you) are commitment-phobic freak assholes.  So really I'm just putting them through said commitment-phobic paces when I say things like "I know this is only our second date, but what do you think about a weekend away in wine country?," or "When do I get to see if I hit it off with your parents?," or, my personal favorite, "I've set aside some time this weekend for us to pick out china patterns."  Gets 'em every time... and then I don't have to waste my time on them.

Saturday - Brunch with the NY Filmmaker and his Angelic Fiancee (his words, not mine, although she is a sweet gal) at Hugo's.  Then to the grocery (I'm trying out a couple new recipes this weekend) and home for Dawson's with The Other Me!  The jury's still out on Saturday night, although my guess is it will involve some wine, some Law & Order, and the clipping of Max's back nails.  We did his front ones last weekend, and boy was there one frisky feline on our hands.  So I'm gonna go ahead and budget two hours in for that, preferably pre-wine.

Sunday - Laundry, pilot revisions (I think I broke some serious ground on this yesterday), then drinks with the Talent Agent, who is upset with me because a.) I've rescheduled on him twice, and b.) I never take advantage of the fact that he's put my name on the list at Ivar every weekend since October 2004, and not once have I shown up.  See previous paragraph, wherein I describe the better things I have to do.  I'm just not the clubbing type.  I'm more the sit at home and watch television while clipping the cat's toenails type.  In fact, I haven't had fun at a club since 2001, when I was in Russia, in love with the Only Boy I've Every Loved, and we were doing vodka shots while slovenly grooving to Duran, Duran in a re-vamped bomb shelter. 

Also, I still read palms, so if you need to know your future, just call me up.  Beware, though, now that I'm supporting myself, I'll charge you 10 bucks.   

   

This morning, I got a genuine look into the world of an Executive Producer when I attended the spotting session for our third episode.  A spotting session, despite its somewhat controversial name, is when you go sit in the editing room for two hours and watch the cut to make sure all the sound effects, music cues, and dialogue are in order.  G-Money, however, has refused to go to any meeting whose title features the word "spotting" because "That's gross."  So I am now training to take over said function.  It's a bit tedious, what with all the stopping and starting and re-cuing, but then you get quotes that are solid gold, such as "Can we insert the sound of a stretching penis here?"  I don't know what that sound is, exactly, but I'm almost certain it's painful.  

In other news, today is the Designated Driver's birthday!  Yay for the day she was brought into this world!  

And for all of you wondering about the date last night, I've decided yesterday's gloating will have to suffice for now.  This blog is exclusively for my superficial self.  But I am unusually cheerful today, whatever happens in the future.

 

So all this huffing and puffing about being off the market, and then there was this great date on Friday, and I've already been asked out (by the same guy, nonetheless - imagaine that!) again for tonight and this coming Friday.  I really don't have enough clothes for such a hectic dating schedule - I will have to re-wear some Diesel at least once.  And look, if you're gonna give me shit for putting myself back on the market after one decent date, just know that I tried and tried to deter him.  He asked me where I wanted to go on Friday, I said the hospital where our children would be born (this is a great line to use if you are wondering about the guy's intentions - or if you're a psychotic crazy girl beast).  Anyway, it's been awhile since I've had a guy actively pursuing me, as in he has a suggestion of where to go and when before he calls me, he's made reservations, he solidifies weekend plans early in the week, and he fucking comes to my door to pick me up.  And I don't care how much girls say they don't need to be treated like girls, guys, beware, that is a vicious, passive aggressive lie.  Read our minds, bring us flowers, and know that you should be very afraid.   

Today as the P.A. and I were toasting English muffins in the break room, another assistant walked in and made the following proclamation:  "I think you should have to apply to have children."  Now, I have often had this thought.  Every day, I see stupid people, ugly people (although I guess this doesn't apply, since I live in L.A. and all), bad-tempered people, and worst of all, people who don't know how to drive.  And I think, God, I hope you and/or your significant other is on birth control.  But I don't take my fascist tendencies any further than that.  This guy, however, was serious.  He began declaring his thoughts on government requirements for procreation, at which point the P.A.'s disbelieving head nearly exploded with rage.  Don't get me wrong, I hate stupid, playa-hatin', unworthy cads just as much as the next gal, but there's one thing I hate more:  smarmy, rich white men who project their faux family values onto me.  I might be kinda smart, kinda funny (definitely debatable), maybe even kinda cute on a day when my face isn't red with fury, but no way, no how do I think I'm better qualified than anyone else to throw my genes in the proverbial pool.  That's a job more suited for a jackass.     

OMG, OMG, OMG.  They killed Tony Almeida on "24" last night.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all torn up about it, but I can think of no better way to go than in a crying Jack Bauer's arms.  The fact that it got me all misty-eyed was certainly a feat, considering I was raising the roof only moments before when that hobbit on a power trip bit the dust in a pool of his own bile.  BUT.... here's the kicker... I've been walking around all day in bit of a funk, considering Tony's death.  I had trouble getting out of bed, trouble picking out my outfit of jeans and a t-shirt, trouble swallowing my peanut butter sandwich at lunch.  All because of poor, poor Tony.  And THEN, just now, I'm staring at my computer screen, trying not to drool with boredom, when I hear "Excuse me."  I look up, and who is it but TONY FUCKING ALMEIDA, aka Carlos Bernard, wondering where Room 215 is.  And that sappy dollface fucking smiled at me as he said, "Thanks" and walked away.   

The bosses are currently cranking "Whoomp, There It Is" at full volume.  I think they need the lyrics, and I'm a little ashamed to walk in there and start singing along.  That was definitely one of my faves circa 1995 (or was it 1994?  or is it still one of my faves?  Yeah, yeah, I think it is).  In other news, abbylovesdancing's dance performance was absolutely superb.  Anyone who doesn't live in the L.A. area should certainly hop on a plane - it's worth the trip!  Congratulations on a job well done, Abby! 

Several pleasant things have happened today, and I must admit they have more than made up for the fact that Fox lost my paycheck!  I may be slightly poor heading into the weekend, but:

1.) Had lunch with the Other Me.  Or, rather, showed up at the Century City food court, at which point I had been instructed to call her cell for her exact coordinates, but woe is me, I just got a new phone and the only numbers I have are those of my blood relatives!  Yikes!  And yes, I know, that is exactly the sort of excuse that, if a guy pulled with me, I'd never speak to him again.  After scouring the place with no trace of my faux-twin, I ordered falafel and sat chomping on it by the escalator.  When I had finished eating, I stomped inside to search for a trashcan (flakiness does not suit me).  Lo and behold, there was the Other Me, sitting with the Ex Boss, one of my favorite people in the entire world, Ex Sort of Faux Boss (you know what, screw it, let's just call them "my old office minus The Great Man"), and Ex Boss's friend The Geico Commercial Actor.  I joined them for post-food chat, most of which revolved around Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

2.)  When I returned to my current office, who was waiting there but one of our writing producers, the very one, in fact, who read my O.C.  And she brought me a sampler of chocolates from Boule!  You know how you get some chocolate samplers and you know you can stop eating because you'll eventually get to one that's bad (like, for example, chocolate creamsicle)?  That doesn't happen with Boule.  Holy.  Shit.  I've already eaten half the friggin' sampler. 

So yes, presents, Ex Boss back from New York, and I still have some falafel waiting for me in the fridge.  Today ain't so bad.

        

Brace yourselves.  I thought the time of secret admirers ended circa third grade (this was also the year Sarah Arnold and I quit making retainers out of paper clips - yeah, don't ask).  However, I have just received the following - I'll generously title it a poem - from an anonymous admirer, via interoffice mail:

Mysterious

Empathetic

Listener

Idealist

Sensitive

Spontaneously Combusts

Admired

Guessing from the majority of these adjectives, said person has only seen me at high tide of a caffeine wave.  But it's nice to know he (for he definitely has boy handwriting) thinks enough of me to use a different colored Sharpie for each letter in my name.  Which he also printed in block.  And let me tell you, that takes effort.

I would just like to point out that, aside from Chlydia, you all did a really shitty job with the movie recommendations.  But never fear, I love you anyway, and I must apologize for the crankiness.  I was at work until 10:30 last night, then back again at 9.  Not too horrible, I know, but what can I say?  Complaining is my thing.  And anyway, it's not like I'd be doing anything at home besides falling asleep during "Law & Order:  SVU."  It's sad when a show like that becomes the closest thing you have to a sex life... Sigh.  Really, I only regret working late on that rare night when an opportunity for fun presents itself.  This has happened, oh, about twice in my life since high school.  And then it happened again today.  The Irish Asian just IM'ed me:

IA : Hey what time are you getting out tonight?

Me : Probably not early. I was here till 10:30 last night. Why?

IA : I got a dinner reservation at Campanile in Hollywood, where they have this gourmet grilled cheese night on Thursday nights.

Me : Oh, crap! That sounds so nice.

IA : Yeah, you would freak out over this place. It's great.

Me : I totally would.

Me : Well, gosh, you shouldn't have even told me! Now I'm all upset.

IA : I'm all upset too.

Me : As you should be. This is all your fault.

IA : I should look at my role in all of this

Me : Indeed you should.

It's one thing when work is keeping me from any kind of meaningful relationship, but when it comes between me and gourmet grilled cheese, consider yourselves warned, heads will roll. 

I have just realized that my weekend is, relatively speaking, free.  I'm actually going to go do some volunteer work Saturday morning (although not for Project Angel Food, and yes I am bitter about it, thank you very little), then I'm having early drinks with the Irish Asian Saturday evening, Sunday afternoon is abbylovesdancing's, well, dance performance, and Sunday evening The Other Me is coming over for Dawson's.  Hmmm... now that I've spelled it out, I guess my weekend's not all that free, but I will have several spare hours, and with said spare hours I have decided to watch movies!  So I am officially taking recommendations.  There's nothing I hate more than having to make decisions, so suggest away, my dears!  Movies you love, movies that make you cry, movies that leave you quivering in a corner, nauseous and exhilirated at the same time (that was "Requiem for a Dream" for me), movies that shout "Scotty doesn't know!", movies that make you wanna have a cigarette, or call up that best friend you quit speaking to ten years ago.  Movies that make you forget everything else except the world they build around you.  And... GO!

I have debated posting about this, because it's really weird and creepy.  However, I have decided yes, the time is now, because it's also kind of funny.  As some of you know, we at 1635 had a party a couple of weekends ago.  If you were invited and didn't make it, please consider us no longer friends.  If you weren't invited, it's because I don't like you and we never were friends.  Moving on, we had a party.  People were tipsy, people were happy, people were falling all over each other with sloppy kisses.  Except for me, of course, being off the market and all.  I contented myself with shots of Knob Creek over the kitchen sink with the Tennis Pro.  BUT THEN, a boy who shall remain fake-nameless, since I have, in fact, mentioned him on this blog in passing (suffice it to say I know him through work and have only met him twice) showed up.  It was 1 AM, I hope to God he was drunk, and at first I thought nothing of him asking for a tour of the apartment.  When we got to my room and he SHUT THE DOOR, however, my red alert button started to go off.  First of all, he'd only been there five minutes, and already he's being pretty fucking forward.  THEN, he lies down on my bed, shoes and all, and asks, "Can we have a sleepover?"  Hahahahahaha!  Yeah, right, you lazy fucking horndog.  There's nothing worse than a guy who is so desperate to get laid and yet so unwilling to put forth any effort.  And how dare him get anywhere near my bed!  I'm not one for letting people sleep in the same room as me, so if you've ever been allowed in my bed, you are one lucky fucker, let me tell you.  And if you're the boy in question, treating me like I'm a naive college slut and have no idea what you're trying to pull, drive home, put in a porn, and GO FUCK YOURSELF! 

There.  I feel better.  Although I'm not sure if he does, after I kicked him to the curb.  Oh, well.  Like I care...     

Mom and Dad have left, it's raining, and the coffee at the office has long since gotten cold.  That being said, I can't help but be thankful for the weekend.  The rents got in Thursday evening.  I picked them up at LAX and brought them back to set, where RR made herself a cozy niche right next to Mom.  H-Berts, in a burst of Southern hospitality, scored them headsets and sides, and damned if my dad isn't already talking Nielsen ratings and pre-empts.  So easy to be bit by the bug, I tell you what.  The rest of the weekend was a bit of a blur, with lots of eating, lots of bourbon and movie-watching at my parents' hotel, and general coziness.  I dropped them off at the aiport this morning and prayed for a busy day.  My wish was granted - I haven't been off the phone for longer than five minutes total.  I almost want someone to yell at me so I have a good reason to cry.  But they won't.  Damn these nice people I work with. 

In other good news, I got an email from Ballsy Gal, whom you guys might remember from "Boston Legal."  She just finished reading the pilot I wrote, and here is what she had to say:

 "T his is the problem with reading your stuff-- I always enjoy it and tend to have trouble thinking of notes!  My feeling is always, well, that was great. In general, I am always really impressed, especially with your dialogue and character work."

Sigh... no wonder I miss her in writers' group!  Also, I've been "hired," as in, by someone I don't know and to whom I don't owe any favors, to read and critique their script.  It's a weird feeling, reading a script for money.  In my younger years, I always swore I'd never do it - crazy principles (because I would never in a million years pay someone to read my work - but then again, I kind of have a lot of people who'll do it for free, while if you don't live here, that's difficult) and whatnot.  But right now I need money for a massage and a decent bottle of red.  Being off the market is expensive. 

I apologize for my continued lack of entries.  But I've noticed it in pretty much everyone else this week, so I don't feel too guilty.  Maybe it's just a circumstance of the times.  I do have some news to report.  For the first time ever, I have failed to return a library book by its settled due date.  Also last night I got home from work, threw on my PJs, and proceeded to eat shredded parmesan cheese right out of the container while watching Criminal Minds.  Clearly, I am becoming a delinquent member of society.  I am happy, though, because today Mom and Dad are arriving from Kentucky!  I am trying to convince them to move out here, a conversation that goes pretty much like this:

Me:  Move to California.

Dad:  Move home.

Mom:  Don't move home.  There's nothing for you here.  I've done extensive research in the online personal ads, and you're not compatible with anyone.  But, if you did move home, you wouldn't have to work and could just concentrate on your writing while I feed you cheesecake and homemade bread.  But don't move home.  It would be no good for you.