10-Aug-2006

Yesterday, I got a call from RR's manager's assistant (say THAT five times fast) asking if I wanted to go hiking on Saturday.  Now, I am an extremely guarded person, so naturally there are some preliminary questions I feel I must put forth.  First and foremost, define the term "hiking."  See, I've learned from (bad) experience that some crackpots in California do not differentiate between "hiking" and "rock climbing."  The former, I'm fine with, so long as I'm not sporting my Gap flip flops; the latter, well, I'd rather die.  I mean, come on, people, we work in the entertainment industry, so I know all you fuckwits have seen the first ten minutes of CLIFFHANGER.  That one scene was enough to put me off both rock climbing and rocks in general.  Throw a pebble at me and I'll have a panic attack.  No, no, RR's manager's assistant assured me, it's not rock climbing, it's hiking, as in, about three of you could fit on the path.  Fine.  You know all that shit you learned in middle school bonding workshops?  (Not bondage, mind you - those workshops came later).  You know what I'm talking about here - the trust fall, the spirit fingers, the goddamn high ropes course?  Well, I am not ashamed to admit that I did NOT go on that high ropes course, I sat at the bottom and drank Capri Sun while the rest of my class frolicked in the trees.  I'm sure some of you must be thinking what a wimp I am, but, look, I've pretty much known who I was and what I wanted since I was circa six months old.  There will be no pushing of the envelope here, especially not when said envelope is made of trees in which I decidedly do not wish to frolic.  And you know what?  I'm still smart, and I'm still hot, and I'm still the only one of you to have seen BRAIN DONORS.  So get off my back.  I'm hiking eight miles on Saturday morning at 7 AM.