September 2007 Archives

My brain is fried.  My heart is cold.  My soul is dark.  And yet, I am still happy.  How is that possible, you ask?  It's possible because we won our demographic (aka the only thing that matters) and premiered to the highest ratings in our timeslot the network has seen for over two years.  So suck on that, hatas!!!  Additionally, I've gotten mad props from my bosses regarding the web content I've been writing, including the note that I captured one of the character's voices very well (you'll just have to check the website after we air next week to read all this outstanding material).  To top it all off, HOUSE is done, and I've drafted almost half of my next spec. 

How am I rewarding myself?  By seeing THE GAME PLAN, immediately followed by THE KINGDOM tomorrow.  I figure it will be a rip-roaring, bipolar-inducing good time. 

Enjoy your weekends, everyone, and to those who watched Wednesday, I love you!!!

My father and I have an odd relationship, mainly because we are basically the same person - overly sensitive, moody, reactionary, oh, and we love to laugh.  When I was young, he thought it was the funniest thing in the world when I called to him, "Dad!" and he would respond, "I'm not really your father."  He did not think it was so funny when he would tell me to empty the dishwasher, and I would respond, "You can't make me.  You're not really my father." 

Dad loved nothing more than when the neighbor girls/friends of mine would ring our doorbell and ask if I could come out and play.  Although his token response was, "I'm sorry.  She can't.  She died in a car accident this morning," my stupid slut friends, who had heard this line eight times or more, would more often than not burst into tears whilst my father held in a laugh, and I giggled silently around the corner.  At least I knew someone would be sad about my death. 

Today, I received an email forward from Dad.  I do not enjoy forwards - I have learned of loved ones' deaths in forwards, of parasites living in bras, of hypodermic needles in gas pumps.  Does one ever really receive good news in a forward?  No.  This one from Dad was no different, except it was meant to be humorous.  Because it was a fat man who had painted his butt cheeks, when paired together as they so often are, to look like a jack-o-lantern. 

So Dad called:

Dad:  Did you get my forward?

Me:  Yes.  Just know that I hate forwards, and you don't have to send them to me.

Dad:  But this one was funny.

Me:  I'm saying that, as a rule, I don't like forwards.  Don't send them to me.

Dad: Did you open it?

Me:  Yes.

Dad:  And it was funny.

Me:  It was a fat man's ass painted orange.

Dad:  See?  Funny!

Oh, dear, oh, dear, the premiere party is tomorrow and I have been on one of the kicks I like to call "the upside of hunger" for the past five days.  I shall have to do some serious downing of some sort of molasses/cayenne pepper/arsenic concoction if I want my legs to be acceptable for the skanky skirt I plan on donning tomorrow.  I believe my workout Saturday kicked my appetite into high gear.  I hiked seven miles, then went to a salsa class.  A beginning salsa class, mind you, and, more importantly, my first salsa class, so I didn't count on learning the moves enough to actually burn any calories.  I had imagined myself merely standing in the middle of the room, sans male companion (my guy friend was twenty minutes late, since people in LA forget how to drive when it's raining), whilst everyone else partnered up, and then I would make a mad dash for a cheeseburger at the restaurant next door.  But it was not meant to be.  Instead, I found myself drenched in sweat (mainly from one of my partners, a sweaty old man who wore braces and a track suit) and starving. 

Luckily, Cliffhanger was at the mall a mere stone's throw from my house (because she is nearly always at the mall), so she picked me up and we went and ate barbecue.  Lots of barbecue, and hush puppies, and cornbread.  Only an hour later, while watching THE HUNTING PARTY (did that movie make anyone else really want to go to Bosnia?  No?  Okay... losers...), my stomach began to growl.  I was hungry AGAIN!  So Cliffhanger toted me to yet another restaurant, where we ate chicken pot pie and cobbler, and I forgot my hunger, for the time being at least.  Until I woke up in the middle of the night and ate my leftovers. 

Last night was a repeat, since I had dinner with the Staff Writer, ate half his chicken and wouldn't let him have a bite of gnocchi, instead finishing it all myself.  Then I made him pay the check.  I wonder if I'll see him again soon...

Now it's off to dinner.  Night night!   

No, no, not out of my apartment, don't you worry, Designated Driver.  The title of this entry refers to yesterday morning.  I was walking from my building to my car, which was parked on the street, when I noticed a semi tractor-trailer blocking an ENTIRE LANE of traffic on my street (which, by the way, is a very busy street).  The tractor-trailer was also blocking my car, and, since I needed to retrieve it immediately to avoid being over fifteen minutes late for work (which in my time translates to "punctual"), I panicked when I couldn't find any driver, occupant, or legal guardian of said truck.  The only person present, in fact, was a man strongly resembling George Lopez, parked in a beat-up Honda Accord behind the tractor-trailer.  When I asked him what was going on, he replied, "Don't know.  But it sucks, doesn't it?"  Then he proceeded to ask what my rent was.  Oh, right.  Like I'm going to have that conversation with you, George Lopez wannabe in your Honda, strangely parked behind this truck and perusing the newspaper.  What exactly are you doing here, if not raping and pillaging?  So I told him I didn't know what my rent was, but that I was now going to be late for work, thanks to the morons who'd left their tractor-trailer running and blocking an entire lane on my very busy street.  Ten minutes later, when still no one had approached the cab, I called the Designated Driver to inform her that I would never be parking on the street again and to connect me to the police.  She rolled her eyes (I couldn't see her, but I know that's what she was doing) and gave me the number of the closest police station.  I was holding when a very large, very disgruntled moving man lumbered out of a neighboring building and stared at me like I was crazy, "You need me to move the truck or something?"  I replied, "Um.  Yes."  "Okay," says he, and proceeds to take out his cell phone and make a call.  "Sir?"  I reminded him I was still there.  "I'll be with you in a minute," said he.  "No.  I'm already really late for work.  Move the fucking truck now," I replied.  "And I said I'd be with you in a minute," he continued.  So then I started screaming at him.  I actually cussed him out, and I didn't (and still don't) feel one ounce of guilt.  Turns out, there were three moving men - aka no reason one of their fat asses couldn't have parked themselves in the cab and cranked up the adult contemporary tunes.  I got their license plate, cab number, etc., and I plan on writing a letter to United Van Lines if I ever work myself into a tizzy thinking about it again.  But I cussed out a really large, really intimidating man!  How cool is that?  Maybe not the kindest thing to do, but those guys were total douchebags, and I rarely get the balls to say what I think, so I'm chalking this up to the victory category.  Also on the bright side, if my car gets vandalized within the next few days, I'll know whodunnit.  

In other news, Cliffhanger was the first to request that I bestow the Plus One to the premiere party on her, so all you other quacks are just too slow.  Plus, I owe her bigtime for not inviting her to the Pepper wrap party - what can I say?  Back then, she wasn't indispensable. 

Okay, okay, so we all know that working in this business has some perks - free lunch, ring pops on the craft service truck, getting to stand next to people hotter than myself.  A show's premiere and wrap parties should be counted among these perks, and I have just received my invitation to the former.  The paper in question states, "You and a guest are invited to attend..."   Hmmm... It also carefully specifies that "Red Carpet Arrivals Begin at 8 PM."  Again... hmmm... I have two predicaments here - first off, should I bring a guest?  The obvious answer is yes, of course.  But the Tennis Pro, my arm candy of choice at these shindigs for the past three years, has up and moved to Chicago, as if he knew that this party would pop up and I would be left to avoid the red carpet all by myself.  Damn him.  

So who wants to go with me?  Free food, cool new show, but NO STEPPING ON THE RED CARPET, lest you think yourself as important as an ACTOR.     

There is a trend - well, I'm not sure if it's a trend, per se, but anything that pisses me off I like to consider a trend, because I like to believe it will go away.  I'm still waiting for women to stop falling all over themselves for vile chick flicks like BEACHES and SIXTEEN CANDLES, and to realize that HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU was written by a man with bad bleach streaks and a beer gut.  HE'S not that into me?  Yeah, I'm really okay with that. 

Although not started by the band (and here I use the term loosely) Train, I must still blame them for this trend.  And yes, I know I despise Train.  They rhyme words with themselves - life with life, for example.  Listen, Train, WERE YOU SO HIGH ON DISPLACED LUST DURING THIRD GRADE POETRY CLASS THAT YOU DIDN'T PICK UP THE LESSON THAT THIS IS PURE LAZINESS?  Yes, you can break the "rules" of poetry, but if you break the rules, you must also break ground.  Have you broken ground?  What's that?  No?  You only write music because you think you will get more blow jobs in supermarket parking lots once you snag that has-been dream gig of playing a Von's opening?  Well, that certainly explains a lot. 

It DOES NOT explain why, why you felt the need to encourage the image of the "quirky girl" with your godawful ballad "Meet Virginia."  You know the one - "She doesn't own a dress/her hair is always a mess/if you catch her stealing she won't confess."  Wait, wait... stop right there.  Is Virginia a homeless person?  Cause she sure as fuck sounds like one.  Also, her "daddy wrestles alligators" - further proof of her family's dire financial state -is wrestling alligators even a paying gig?  And let's not forget she "wears high heels when she exercises/ain't that beautiful?"  Um, no.  No it is not.  It's downright stupid, unless dear Virginia is cruisin' for a bruisin' on her non-dress owning ass.  To that end, WHY does she bother with high heels if she doesn't own a dress and her hair is always a mess?  It's like an ugly person wearing makeup and getting a mani/pedi - save your money!  And what kind of exercise is Virginia doing where high heels are even a feasible option?  Is she Sweatin' to the Oldies?  That's the only thing I can think of that might provide the degree of low impact which Virginia and her four inch heels crave.  So what have we learned?  That yes, Virginia is beautiful, if you like the stupid, homeless, Richard-Simmons-worshiping type.

I will give radio stations credit for stopping the torturous overplaying of that song a year and a half after its release.  But now there is a new song, I don't know who sings it, a Train tribute band, perhaps, or another boy wanting to get blown for strumming his strings.  All I know is I nearly vomited on my drive home last night when I heard these lyrics - "She thinks her cowboy hat makes her look fat." 

JESUS CHRIST - not  another one!!!  Not another crazy quirky girl who has CRAZY OPINIONS about everything except anything that matters.  And by the way, there's another word for you if you think a cowboy hat makes you look fat - it's not quirky, it's not cute, it's ANOREXIC.

Now there is one girl I like, one subject of a ballad I admire, and that's Delilah.  Delilah is awesome, because she doesn't have her head stuck up her ass.  She's dumping this dumbass blow-job seeking guitar player because he can't support her, and he's moved thousands of miles away to make it as a musician while she finishes school.  Delilah's basically saying, thanks for your loyalty, douchebag (read in a facetious tone), but it's gonna take more than a simple ballad to win me back.  Actions speak louder than lyrics - if I had my choice, I'd inspire the former.   

Thank you, Delilah. 

Some of you may know that I work on the Universal lot.  There are pros and cons to this situation.

Pros -

--The commissary actually has good food, unlike Fox, where they sell crab cakes for two dollars and don't permit you to sue them after you acquire a vicious case of food poisoning from said too-good-to-be-true cheap crab cakes. 

--Universal is the only lot that feels like an actual lot.  You can tour the Bates Motel on your golf cart, or swing by Cabot Cove and wave hello to Jessica Fletcher.  My favorite thing to do of an afternoon is to "Save The Clock Tower!" 

Cons -

--Since it is the only lot that feels like an actual lot, it capitalizes on this trait.  Every fifteen minutes, a string of four trams carrying overweight tourists chugs under my office window with some sickeningly upbeat music and an Alfred Hitchcock voiceover, "My name is Alfred Hitchcock," he chants as the celebratory carnival music churns.  Sounds like the tram ride from hell, if you ask me.

But the worst is when you are walking across the lot and the tram catches up to you.  Because then the fat tourists lean out the sides with their Wal-Mart digital cameras and scream things like, "Are you an actress?  Can I have your autograph?"  AND THEY TAKE YOUR PICTURE!!!  There is no reasoning with them.  I have tried countless times to explain that I am a Writers' Assistant, not even a writer, that they have in fact never heard of me, and do I look like I've had Botox and a boob job?  In case you've never seen me, take my word for it - no, I do not. 

--The security on this lot is ridiculous.  From the guard who waves me through the gate every morning with a, "Have a great day, Beautiful!" to the lard ass who stopped me and one of our writers as we strolled down New York street yesterday.  Keep in mind we were just strolling, stretching our legs, and we saw a fake fruit stand set up on the sidewalk.  So of course we went over to see if the fruit was real.  But as the writer I was with reached out to touch a pear, lard ass greeted us with a, "Stop, sir!  Do not under any circumstances touch that fruit!"  He proceeded to ask for our badges, then released us with an explanation that that fruit belonged to a production, and we should never have touched it in the first place.  "But, but," I wanted to sputter, "We just wanted to see if it was real!"  Now I know what it must feel like to be a man.   

Yes,  I'm back.  I have discovered that I really do not care for posting my personal and private near-idiotic musings on the web, so I'm returning to my falsely prolific self here on my very own website, courtesy of the Honeybee and her Significant Other.  Where have I been, you ask?  Working, writing, and alienating all my friends.  Also, I have been suffering from horrible headaches, so I'm trying to come to terms with this new brain tumor that has lodged itself betwixt my brain and skull.  Or this allergy to something that has bloomed in this intolerable heat.  You know, whichever one of those from which my ailment happens to stem.  Should I joke about a brain tumor?  Probably not, but I did it in the HOUSE spec I just finished, so why not here? 

This weekend, not one, but two insufferably retarded boys stood me up for dinner - one on Friday, one on Saturday.  I will not hold it against them, but I will not make weekend plans with them ever again.  I don't mind getting stood up on weeknights, but weekends, two hours prior to the actual event?  No way.  I even said to the Saturday boy after Friday boy canceled, "Hey, are we still on for tomorrow, because if we're not, that's fine, but let me know now, because I want to make other plans."  He replied, "No.  We're still on."  Then I get a text at 7:30 PM the following night (aka Saturday, the night we had plans) saying he was sick and had spent the day helping his friends move.  Now, I have to applaud him - he thought of not one, but two relatively lame excuses.  One must give him credit for being an overachiever in the white lying category.  However, I do not like being stuck at home two weekend nights in a row, with no time to make alternate plans because everyone is already out doing whatever or whomever. 

I am also not one to mope longer than a few minutes over lost plans, especially when I am already in my pajamas and falling asleep on the couch due to the horrible headache/brain tumor/allergy (and maybe I am allergic to my brain tumor).  So I finished the aforementioned HOUSE spec and worked on my novel, then watched a little SIBERIADE, courtesy of one of our Co-EPs who knows of my fascination with Russia.  Much better than having to make conversation with someone else who would rather be at home. 

Thank you all for bearing with me - it's good to be back!!!