5-Apr-2006
Friday, I went to the mix for our second episode. The mix is where they do final sound, basically, and ours is at Sony, in a movie-theater like room where they provide you legal pads and pencils for your notes. You also get free tacos, which keep you from hearing any of the sound effects since you're crunching on a hard shell. As we were walking out, G-Money stopped H-Berts and me, pointing to this lovely little brick place. "Hey, what happened in that building?" H-Berts replied, "Oh, don't you remember? We were in a meeting on the first floor of that building the day CVG (their agent) called to tell us we got our first writing job (on 90210)." And we just stood there, right in the midst of the Sony lot, staring at that building. Pretty fucking nifty, if you ask me.
Here's where the evening went south. I left Sony at around 9:30, having received a text from Date Boy saying he was running late to the bar we were going to. That's a problem. Not the lateness. The text message. I hate text messaging. I don't understand it. I haven't quite figured out how to retrieve texts on my phone, so for about an hour, I thought he'd sent me a text that just said, "Running" instead of "Running late. Be there at 10." So let me set the scene for you: It's raining, I'm starving (I have a tapeworm), it's close to 10 PM (read: past my bedtime), and to top it all off, I have a splitting headache. You can see where this is going... I get to the bar, and there's a line down the block. The valet parking is full, and there is literally not a spot in all of Santa Monica. So I call Date Boy. Four times, leaving him messages about my progress. The fourth one was "I'm sorry, I'm tired, I'm dying, I'm going home." And so I did.
Saturday, I had brunch with Ballsy Gal, aka the chick who wrote that "Boston Legal." I hadn't seen her since September, and success has done... absolutely nothing to her. Which is the way you can tell someone is going to keep being successful. She's just plain classy, that one. I did learn a very cool trick from her. You know how, in breakfast places, they always give you really shitty fruit, like canteloupe and honeydew, instead of the stuff you really want, like strawberries and bananas and kiwi? Ballsy Gal solves that problem very easily, with a breezy delivery to the waiter of, "If I eat any form of melon, my throat will close." It's not true, of course, but who's gonna take a chance with that?
That night, I traveled to the Valley to visit the Honeybee and her boyfriend. We made raclettes and watched Not Another Teen Movie, during half of which their landlord's huge Rotweiller was lying right next to me.
Sunday, I took Max to the vet, where he was very brave and didn't cry once. The Designated Driver went with me (Thank God!), and I was so happy to have her there, as I was pacing back and forth when the doctor took Max away to get his shots. He gave me this look, as the vet dragged him away, one of those "Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me" looks, and I almost lost it. I can never have children. I'll morph into a gigantic nerve of stress and bad karma.
And that, folks, was my weekend. The week... we'll get to that later. Right now, I need a nonfat double capp.
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