Okay, So She Doesn't Have to Die

Allright, my darlings. It's put up or shut up time.

I have got to become okay with my ex's new girlfriend or else I will lose a golden opportunity.

Now, in theory, it's okay (and preferred, even) that the ex have a new someone to go out with, laugh with, give sensual massages to, and watch bad movies with. That's the way this works. You break up with someone so they have the chance to find love while you sort your shit out and hopefully get some tail along the way. That is the valiant thing to do. That is what I set out to do.

But that poison always creeps in when you know they exist, right? That poison called Doubt...hey, hold on a second, don't you judge me. You've felt this way too. You love it, you set it free, and it goes out and fucks some chick you don't know who probably has a way better rack than you do and doesn't EVER have ingrown bikini line hairs. It makes you feel like shit. It makes you focus on your flaws, and create ones that don't even exist. Maybe the poison ebbs and flows in your system--hey, we all have bad days--but it's there.

Now, if I'm not okay with her and start making nice when she comes around, I won't become the "Girl Friday" of a seriously great up-and-coming sketch comedy group. I have the opportunity to help a group of really talented guys get their shit together and become a Comedy Juggernaut. But with everything, my darlings, the positives come with a cost.

I've got to flash toothy grins and make jokes. I've got to compliment her hair and those FABulous slacks. I have to appreciate her for the nice person that she most likely is. I have to be A GROWN UP.

I don't think it will be a problem. For the first few encounters I'm sure I'll have to take a trip to the gym and work upwards of my normal heart rate to get the poison out of my system, but I can do it. I believe in these guys. I believe in my friends. I believe in myself. I believe that acting like the bigger person will MAKE you the bigger person. Fuck, man. Who signed up for this life? It wasn't quite what I expected. Maybe if I am real good, someone will give me a pony. That would be hott.

Growed. g

Lyrics that hit home today

Tell me, am I right to think
that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride
and slowly growing old together?


*what a nice thing to say to someone*

Ouch

Wow, my darlings. What should have been a marvelous Friday, complete with easier work load and a fun night out, turned into a minor disaster.

I want someone to bring me some soup, or at least insist in a futile "she'll never take me up on this" kind of way. I got one offer earlier, I guess, so I could have soup if I really wanted it. Here's why I need chicken noodles and sodium in a can:

This morning I worked out, ate right, had a nice soapy shower, and did 30 minutes worth of work. Then it happened. I discovered that I was coming down with a bladder infection. FAST. Having had one about 4 years ago, I raced out of the office and straight to my (old) drugs. Then it was to the clinic for a long ass, mildly painful wait. They said that things looked pretty bad and maybe there are major things wrong. But they just patted me gingerly on the head and gave me more drugs...so I have that going for me.

I tried to watch Dawn of the Dead, and the sight of people eating other people was making me really sick. So, I switched over to Kid Stays in the Picture which was infinitely more tolerable. I can handle metaphorical eating of other people in Hollywood, just not actual.

So I'm sitting here on a Friday night after having taken a long nap. I am no longer tired. I need to go into work tomorrow to make up for the missed day. I feel like a total sick loser. Wait, being vulnerable and lonely is unattractive. I am eliminating my chances of getting laid by one of you, my darlings--as if the bladder infection wasn't enough. Dang. Now I don't have soup OR a nice, strong man around.

I would place an electronic smiley face here if I could make one that conveyed a sense of tongue in cheek, witty, I'm just joshing kind of vibe. But the meds are keeping me from finding the right keys.

Doped. g

True words

This whole train crash thing here in Glendale is pretty mortifying. This nimrod who wussed out of suicide ended up killing 11 people and injuring 200. Did he think that only he would be affected by the impact? Who is this guy? Couldn't we have educated him better so he would understand that there are better ways to off yourself? Boy.

Today on the news, as I was listening to survivor's stories and interviews with this dude's ex-wife's family, I felt that dull ache in my tummy that's associated with tragedy.

But then I heard something that really got to me. A fireman was onscreen telling the story of a man he found who was trapped under some wreckage. Lying near him was a letter to his family written in his own blood. It said that he loved his wife and children. Once again, to reiterate, it was written in his blood. The tears started pouring down my face.

You know what the beautiful part is? He didn't die. They rescued him. They picked up that note, put him on a stretcher, and saved that wonderful man's life. That note didn't contain his last words. It contained a declaration of his love for the people who mattered to him.

A special man-friend told me recently, "You need to learn what love is...I'm going to go watch Alias."

Forget the Alias part, because I understand that it's a good show and its siren song is irresistible--particularly when your then-girlfriend is having some emotional issues and she's not letting you help her.

I think most of us need some enlightenment. We ought to learn from this train-wreck victim. Maybe lay hands on him or something and figure out how this works. The desire and strength that lies inside this man must be intense.

I'm going to tell somebody I love them today. And I'm going to mean it. It's a good start, right?

Mwa (that was a kiss). g

Betrayed by Precipitation

*If the rain is getting to you today, you might want to save this blog for later in the week*

If you could see me now, my darlings, you would notice that I look like that sad cartoon dog Droopy. This rain, that normally holds me in its cozy, cloudy wetness has betrayed me. Every drop that falls sinks my heart just a little bit lower.

Seriously, rain is NOT good for my psyche right now.

I have let stress take hold in my stomach area and I feel super sick. Every thought that goes through my head involves some form of self-deprecation and woe. I blame it all on the rain...the first little bit of rain brings all the oil on the streets to the surface, and that's about where I am right now.

I am oily.

I feel backed-up. So many things to say, ideas to explore, people to thank, and tears to shed that I don't quite know what to do with myself. I sure as shit am not working...the vids will have to wait. I have whining to do.

A friend wrote about how every time he got upset, every time he was convinced that his life was shit, he thought of a girl he read about in USA Today who was born without bones in her face. She was essentially faceless. And THAT is hardship--not the fact that he got dumped or he has an unpublished novel. I applaud him for his insight and perspective. But today, I want to be dramatic. I want to sigh loudly and bite my lip in despair. I want to be tortured today. I'm going to save his thoroughly true and mature realization about the girl without a face for tomorrow. Today I want to be the Edgar Allan Poe of SoCal. Without the creepy heart-beating-in-the-floorboards thing.

This rain makes me want to think of lonliness and being left behind. About going home before the after-party begins. There will be no alcohol and laughter for me, by gum. There will just be echoes of me scolding myself while walking down the dark West Hollywood streets, wrapping my sweater a little tighter around me. Cherishing each rare smile. Thanking the heavens for quiet, deep sleep.

Man, it looks like I need to eat breakfast. My blood sugar is way low. Keep your eye out for Part II of this blog, entitled "Hooray for the Breakfast of Champions and its Power to Save Me From the Depths of Wednesday Despair."

ho-hum. g

Class 5 Rapids

No matter how many enlightening thoughts I have, I'm still human. I'm still going through something. I still forget the things I wrote a mere two hours before. I still cry hysterically and yell at myself while driving my car south on the 5 freeway. Oops. That was an overshare.

I was hiking today and I had some flashbacks of my white water rafting trip in Honduras. I hate the water, which makes my advanced SCUBA certification odd. But yet, I still went on this particular day trip complete with class 5 rapids and lots and lots of water.

We got in the raft. We started down the calm waters, remarking on the scenery and how much "fun" we were having. Then we came around a bend and saw the first rapid. As we sailed into it, I choked. I cowered in fear and prayed for it to end. And sure enough, the raft tipped and we ended up in the water. You want to hear something freaky? I had to push my way through various anonymous body parts to break the surface. I was panicked.

I knew it was all my fault. I knew I had to go against instinct and lean into the rushing white water in order to get us through safely, but I didn't. I recoiled. I took the little bitch way out. I failed miserably.

Well, for the rest of that horrifying ride, I leaned into those rapids. I faced them head on, and to hell with what would happen to me. I wasn't going to let myself or my boat mates down. We were only just drying out, after all.

It dawned on me today that pain is the same as those rapids. You have to face it, feel it, and embrace it in order to get through it. There is no easy little bitch fix...if you don't take emotional stress on, it will tip your meek ass over. You've got to lean all the way in, feel the spray, and give the white water Crazy Eyes.

In this case, "giving the white water Crazy Eyes" translates to "listen to sappy music and weep openly while writing poor metaphors." Whatever. You know what I mean. There's no easy answer, my darlings. We can only do our best to acknowledge the issues in our lives and try to fix them. Wow, easier said than done.

Squish. g

My Ass is Sore

Yeah, I said it. There it is, for the world to see. I had a workout on Saturday that took me to new heights of physical exertion. I was doing some bicep curls, and I almost spontaneously burst into tears. I was not in pain, nor was I upset--there were just so many chemicals rushing through my body trying to help me complete that last fucking set of curls that I overloaded. I am so glad I didn't cry in front of Warren Beatty.

He has me doing walking lunges. I believe that the aforementioned lunges are of the Devil, and are the true key to my success. This is why I hate them, just like the bike. When I do these lunges, I critique myself so heavily it's hard to complete them...and they also just burn. Like the white hot heat of a thousand suns, they burn.

In order to deal with this overflowing emotion and self-doubt during the dreaded exercise, I pretend I am a famous figure in history doing lunges. Imagine for a moment that you are Martha Washington, waiting for ole Wooden Teeth George to get home from his little jaunt on the Potomac. Then do a lunge. Imagine your skirt getting all messed up, and how frustrating that must be. Your bonnet gets all sweaty and those perfect spiral curls framing your face lose their spring.

Pretend you're Jack the Ripper, preparing for a kill and limbering up a little. Imagine there is a knife in your hand. And you are wearing a top hat. That's right, make a face. Give yourself "Crazy Eyes." And maddog the prostitutes in the room with you. So what if they're little old ladies doing the StairMaster? This is Fantasy Lunge Land, where anything is possible.

Maybe you're Tiny Tim, and you are desperately trying to play the ukelele AND do a lunge. "Tip toe (inhale, bend) through the tulips (exhale, stand up)..."

Neil Armstrong? Betsy Ross? C. Thomas Howell of "The Outsiders" fame? Marie Curie?

At the very least, trying to think of a new historical figure makes me forget how much my behind aches. And giggling is much better than screaming...

Fresh. g

Loosen up, whites

So last night I was reintroduced to the joy of spendovers. One of my very best pals Sir Magness is wrapping up work here in the city while his fiancee and baby (affectionately known as G Digital Fresh, thanks to the Pimp Name site) are about 100 miles away in their new digs.

So, we wanted to hang out. RobMag also needed a place to stay. So, we ate some dinner, had some laughs, and pulled out the ole futon. And sure enough, just as it was in days of yore, the minute I turned the lights out we started chatting non-stop. I had forgotten how fun this is. Do y'all remember how fuckin' sweet spendovers could be? Secrets, laughs, Ouija, and someone making pancakes in the morning. Anyway, now we can talk about grown-up shit AND freeze each other's underwear (you're lucky I didn't get my hands on those boxer briefs, Fly R!).

*Please note: The amazing RobMag has become the only man I am not Involved With who has experienced the "Grae falling asleep" phenomenon. When gearing up for sleep, I have a short life span after becoming horizontal in the dark. I have learned to cram in all the good talkin' fast, because sometimes I fall asleep in the middle of sentences. Now that I've explained this to you, you'll be prepared at our spendover for my sudden silence and steady breathing.*

Spendovers are the bomb, my darlings. We CAN, in fact, have people over (even of the opposite sex), chat with them, laugh, talk about hand job techniques, and then go to bed. Period. This is fun stuff. Just another example of the beautiful things that life bestows upon me.

Your homework: Invite a friend over! Have a PJ party! Insist that everyone get goofy jammies and slippers, then eat cheesecake and lots of ranch dressing. Remember that we're all in this together! And turning the lights off lets people talk about the shit that really matters!

Here's what happened after my night of giggling and fun:

Warren Beatty/my trainer really whooped my ass. I am feeling the burn as I have never felt it before. I am struggling. He says, "Live in this moment and focus on what is happening. This will pass. Have some joy for this moment." and I immediately think I would have more joy if my goddamn abdomen wasn't on fire, but then I realized: he is right. After my moment of zen, he follows up with, "Look at all these white people. So uptight." So I am both enlightened and perplexed.

As I finish the set of what I call CRUNCHES OF DEATH, PAIN, DESTRUCTION, and HAND PUPPETS (so it's a little wordy, f off), I realize that Bill has taught me the secret of meditation and why it is so powerful. We live in fear of the future, and skip the joys and realities of RIGHT NOW.

The bottom line is this: Have a spendover. Enjoy your friends. Appreciate your life. Love this minute. And loosen the fuck up, whites.

Cracka! g

Shedding a Name, Gaining a 'Tude

I just want you, my darlings, to be the first to know:

I am changing my name.

I have already gone through the transformation from Gretchen to Grae, and now it is happening again. Soon, I will become

DEVIOUS HONEY DRAKE LARGE

Yes, I know--a bold move. But one that I am ready for. Are you ready for YOUR pimp name?

http://www.playerappreciate.com/pimphandle.asp



From now all, all correspondence coming my way should be addressed to "Devious Honey." You can include "Drake Large" if you're being formal.

'Nuff said. g

A Message from The Animals-UPDATE

**PLEASE NOTE THE VENUE CHANGE**

My darlings, if you need something fun to do this Saturday the 22nd besides get all excited about my upcoming birthday on Monday, pull your wallets out and GO SEE THIS SHOW. They are a sketch comedy group that won't make you pissed that you missed out on sock-darning night at the old folks' home (in LA, there's a lot of that).

You'll laugh so hard that snot will come out of your nose but you will still get laid because of your whimsy and charm. That's just the magic of the Animals.

On a side note, these guys all have huge units.


Okay, here's the news:

DATE: Saturday the 22nd
LOCATION: The Evidence Room, 2220 Beverly Blvd (213.381.7118)
COVER CHARGE: $5
SCHEDULE:
Doors open at 9:00PM
Umbrellas at 9:30
Special Guest at 10:15
ANIMALS FROM THE FUTURE at 10:30!!!

Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone else:

So, you've been wondering how many Vicodin-and-bourbon cocktails it takes to get
rid of that nagging sense of despair and ennui that's been dogging you for the
last few months, haven't you?  Well, I have an answer to that question...AS MANY
AS IT TAKES. 

Medical advice aside, I have something else to combat that crushing existential
angst and it's better for your liver: A BRAND-NEW ANIMALS FROM THE FUTURE
SHOW!!!!!!!!!! 

But there's so much more!  You will also witness the musical stylings of
Umbrellas, the musical moniker of one Michael Suter who will sweetly rock your
face off, then have you asking him to autograph your detached face.  Yeah.  He's
that good.

BUT THAT'S NOT ALL.  We will also have a VERY SPECIAL SURPRISE GUEST who will
make the gazelles gambol in the garden like Gary Glitter.  Intrigued?  A little
frightened?

Did I mention that there will be a myriad of other entertainments to keep that
idiotic smile plastered to your face all night?  Raise your hand if you like
Twister...

(chorus of little kids sings:  FUCK YEAH.)

We're really proud of this show and we hope all of you who have enjoyed the
other shows will join us in what we hope is our new home at CIA.  Tell your
friends, come down and drink yourself into a sketch comedy stupor.  If I've left
anything out of this invite, please let me know and I'll make something up... 

love and rockets,

Mel and the Animals from the Future

The Gift of Black Dudes with Dreadlocks

I realized last night, with a jolt brought by the heavens, that life has handed me several guardian angels in the form of tall black men with dreadlocks. How f'ing cool is THAT?!

Angel #1: In my old building, I used to see this guy on the street around Hollywood. Our eyes would always meet and we would smile. He had a nice energy about him. Then, I was in the elevator going up to my floor, and he steps in. He's telling another guy that it gets SO HOT at Magic Mountain that black people just spontaneously combust all the time. I laughed, and introduced myself. I didn't know he lived in my building. Sean went on to be a great Hollywood presence in my life. It was always so nice to see him, chat, and get some perspective on all the goings-on in my life. He brought me a smile almost every day and helped me through some sad times.

Angel #2: My Jetta was crapping out on me a lot. It had been in the shop WAY too long for a brand new car, and I was sad and scared. When I was picking my car up once, I was waiting for the service manager to get the hell off the phone and I saw this rather imposing-looking TALL black man with dreadlocks. I wondered why his hip self would own a VW. I tried to stay out of his way, because he seemed upset about the car. Just as I was deciding this, he turns around, looks at me, and says, "Your car is all busted up too, huh?" and he has this soft, gentle voice that shocks me.

We get to talking, he offers me a hug because "Baby, neither one of our cars is workin', we need to stick together," and then he tells me to go to another dealership. He says they always fix his problems and they are the "Bomb." He said when I go there, I was to ask for Willie Rocket and tell him that Rambo sent me. I wondered if this would get my car fixed or get me a pound of cocaine. But I did...and lo and behold, those geniuses fixed my car. Been running like a dream ever since.

Angel #3: At the same time as the above, the AFI film festival was going on. I was sitting outside the theater waiting for a friend and it started to sprinkle. I looked up and saw a guy standing next to me, and we got to talking. He was a product specialist for Audi and proceeded to tell me who I should call at VolksWagen of America, what I should say, and how often I should do it. It helped point me in the right direction to complain effectively.

Angel #4: I was working out at the gym, participating in a particularly strange and unattractive exercise (boy, is it going to make my ass look fab, though). My trainer was cheering me on, and a tall black man with Grey dreadlocks walks up beside us. He is staring at me, but not rudely. It was like he was in the forest looking at a flower that only he saw or something poetic like that.

My trainer Bill says, "Have you met Skip yet?" I shake my head and sweat some more. Skip comes over, grabs my hand, shakes it, holds onto it, and says, "You are beautiful." and I say, "Thanks, Skip, so are you." as I huff and puff and continue to do this awkward exercise that involves me lifting my hips up as I squeeze my legs together (which is becoming more and mose sexual by the moment). He holds onto my hand, and goes on. "Your energy brought you here, my darling. Your amazing energy brought you to Bill, and this gym, and you are going to be successful. There are no mistakes in life. You are here for a reason." and I was pretty flabbergasted. He started to sing a song for me, something like, "Grae, sweet Grae, you are a lovely lady..." with a tune similar to that of Edelweiss.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, got off the machine, and flashed the brightest smile I could manage. Funny how life brings you things just when you need them. Do you think this means that Doug E. Doug from Cool Runnings might be one of my angels, too? I hope so. Only if he wears those Dwayne Wayne flip-top shades, though.

Dope. g

Baby, It's a Wild World

There is some weird stuff happening in this world. I think everyone is attuned to the cosmic waves telling us that in 2005, there will be no jive. It will be a great year. All your dreams will come true, you will get a pony for Christmas, etc. But I've heard some disconcerting things in the past few days that are really making my right eyebrow raise.

Foremost: Your pets can get frequent flier miles. Someone at United's card-making company actually has to print out a Frequent Flyer card that says in raised letters "Sparky" or "FuFu." That is awesome. But why stop there? Let's give them picture IDs on the back, so that way Reefer the Doberman can't give his card to Stella the poodle and scam the already-faltering airlines. Don't let animals start abusing US!

Hooray for Animal Rights!!

Next: There was this dude who was all over the news yesterday for going into the dentist with a toothache. It had been going on for some time, so they took an x-ray. There was a four inch nail in his head. He didn't know how it got there. But it was just gently resting on the front part of his brain.

We all know this happens all the time. I find it unbelievable that four inches of metal would find it's way into your body's communciations center without you noticing at some point, but hey. This world is full of unexplainable shit. Jon Lennon got shot but Yoko still lives, that's one of those things for sure. Want another? Why do the French spell Bologna like that? What is with their language, anyway?

I also wonder why this guy got on the news. Did Sanjay Gupta of CNN snort his v8 out his nose when some doctor told the story over danish and coffee? Mmm. Danish. Mm. Nails.

What do people who have gone through such traumas do with the foreign object that pierced them? I would save it, definetly. I think he should build some sort of commemorative helmet, or a dog house...and just put the nail in the top like an antenna. Maybe put a little tinsel on it.

moving on...

Option C: In Germany, men will be competing against each other in a reality show that races their sperm. Yeah, they're getting guys from all walks of life--celebrities, old dudes, health nuts, and the rest all to go to a sperm bank, make the donation in a test tube, and it will be shuttled to the studio. Then a chemical that is similar to the one secreted by an egg will be put into swimming reach, and the spermies will race each other.

This is, like, car-accident reality TV. I would absolutely watch this show. I would name all 500,000 of the soap-opera star's sperm and cheer them on. I would pick the vegan to win, just because I know that his sperm are too pale and sickly to make it. I would secretly hope that other sperm would turn gay and flee from the scene, not wanting to be a part of this heterosexual charade.

Wow. And the winner gets a Porsche. This has all those baby-loving feminist hags in a frenzy...."This is immoral!" they shout while clubbing a man over the head with their fake Fendi purses. "This is giving people the wrong idea! The prize should be a baby! Not a Porsche!"

Now, quite frankly, if science and the rules of nature got turned on their ear and I could fuck the most virile man AND receive a pricey sportscar instead of an unwanted pregnancy, I would be into that (Wait a minute. Some girls do that right now. Hey...) Maybe we should consult God on this one. Is it really that important to keep the population growing? Can't we instead embark on a journey to destroy the environment AND get laid more often sans consequences?

No more birth control! Give me some driving gloves!

Vroom vroom! g

Can't Escape Fate

It's Saturday. I am out enjoying some fine fine comedy with a disarmingly-charming gentleman. We are eating some good food, drinking some pleasant libations, and laughing a lot.

All of a sudden, the next performer gets on stage. I don't recognize his name, but as he turns and faces the audience, I feel like I know him from somewhere. And then he says the magic words: He's Just Not That Into You.

Silly me. I thought I was going to see some comedy. I thought I was out having fun. I thought my belly was full and my palat was nicely moistened. But no. I was here to face my demons.

Greg Behrendt didn't really talk about the book much. He glossed over it, since it's not that funny and no one at the club really cared. There was probably that one girl sitting against the back wall whose best male friend of 7 years "doesn't want to ruin their friendship" and she was hoping to get Greg to autograph the book after the show. Anyway. Even though the topic of his set was not the book or much having to do with its contents, I felt like it was a sign. I needed to close the brief chapter of my life that involved the ideas held within that damned books' pages and the unfortunate feelings of insecurity and uncertainty that I felt after reading it.

Here's the deal. When you look through my archives and read "Blogs are Ruining My Life," you'll see a different me. That one was riddled with negative coincidence and lots of bad mojo in the bloodstream. I feel like I have made major steps to rid myself of said mojo, as I promised certain Important Individuals in my life (myself included) that I would.

Here's what I've realized from all my recent conversations and emails...and also through my Luddite ex's archives, which I continued to pick over.

It doesn't matter what other people think or feel about something. It matters what YOU think or feel about it. Now, please don't misunderstand, my darlings. I'm not saying that other people don't matter. I'm not telling you to live exclusively for yourself. What I'm saying is that the whole problem with Love, Confidence, and The Rest is that we count on other people to give it to us. We feel like maybe we've got it, but then we look outside of ourselves to get that validation. And we always end up disappointed. No one knows exactly what you need but You.

The fact that you love someone with all your heart unconditionally is what matters. The fact that you can experience that wholesomeness within yourself, and that you met that someone is the important part--not that they return your love. Some people cannot make themselves give a shit about others when it really comes down to brass tacks. The fact that YOU CAN is beautiful.

What matters is that you wake your ass up and go for a walk, eat right, and develop discipline within yourself. Not that someone tells you you're hot. When you can be proud of the job you've done, you don't NEED a compliment. Remember that Animal Instinct tells people how to treat each other. We react to what's there. Some people just have that Thing that makes other people want to be around them, compliment them, and jump in the sack with them. There's a certain kind of calm that surrounds people who have their shit together. The rest of the population can be just as charming, but not nearly as magnetic.

Enough preaching. I realized that everybody goes through a moment of self-doubt. Sometimes people deal with intense surges of emotion in a way that stings you. They just need room to work through it and it has nothing to do with...well, nothing to do with me and how agressive I am in a relationship, specifically.

If you love it, set it free. Wow, you know what?! I always thought that statement applied to others, but it's true for you, too. If you love yourself, then just let yourself go. It will all fall into place. Whoah. I am blowing my own mind with this stuff, my darlings.

And when I say "let yourself go," I do NOT mean, like, eat whatever you want and get all fat and stuff. That would be way gross.

Yummy! g

A Sweaty Smile

This morning, I dragged my ass out of bed ridiculously early, as I sometimes do, so I could go work out. I started off on the bike. I hate the bike. In fact, I hate it so much that I'm sure it holds the key to my permanent physical fitness. It is the Darth Vader to my Luke, and I have a sinking feeling that the exercise bike is my Daddy. Anyway. I was busy actively hating the bike and hoping that the hate would get my heart rate higher so I wouldn't have to pedal more.

I was on there for awhile. Longer than I should have been. It became clear to me that the hate was not raising my heart rate. It was just making me cranky. Just as I was trying to decide which machine to switch to, a music video came on the television in front of me. I had been ignoring the channel, as California is currently suffering from one major meteorological/geological crisis after another and the news footage was both riveting and sad. Anyway, for some reason, my eyes shifted away from that horrible mudslide scene and landed on...

...Pink.

Normally I wouldn't give Pink a second glance. Only one of her songs is on my iPod, so why bother? If I ever ran into her in a social setting I would give her a big pat on the back for her successes, but I would do that knowing I didn't contribute to them (I downloaded that one song off Limewire for free! Eek!). Anyway, here she is, with some other crappy song, and she is dressed up as a saloon girl. She is spending the whole time assaulting people, I think because she was outraged over the treatment of a horse...?.... Anyway, there she was, running around, breaking bottles over people's heads, and getting thrown in the clink, etc. The whole time I feel an uncomfortable stirring in my soul. This isn't unusual for me while watching a Pink video. But this time was different...

It suddenly dawned on me. As my body worked to burn fat at a staggering heartrate of 137, I realized that she looked just like my favorite comedian Eddie Izzard. I'm talking Exactly.

For the rest of our short time together, I pretended that Pink WAS Eddie Izzard, and that every bottle she broke and table she overturned was accompanied not by the syrupy-sweet, inane pop music coming over the loudspeakers, but by some witticism about European architecture or the Pope.

"Guns don't kill people, people kill people. And so do monkeys when you give them a gun. Now take THAT!" as Pink Izzard sails overhead on a chandelier.

"We prounounce Herbs HHHERB, because there's a fucking H in it. Get offa me!" and throws a man across the room.

Then, in my head, as sweat poured down my face, I thought about Pink Izzard freeing the supposedly mistreated horses while grabbing another saloon girl and throwing her over his shoulder. All while speaking French. "The mouse is under the table."

I smiled. Then I wiped the sweat off my forehead. I thanked Pink and Eddie Izzard for helping me escape the torture of the exercise bike for a few precious minutes. Then I quickly switched to the treadmill and another television. Wolf Blitzer, unfortunately, did not inspire nearly the same whimsy. Surprise, suprise.

Tad-Dau! g

Take One For The Team

Hello my darlings. Drop whatever you are doing (including reading this) and go to this site.

www.strindbergandhelium.com

It has brought many a smile to the weary.

Now GO!

P.S. Check out www.milkyelephant.com and go exploring. You won't be sorry!!

Farewell, my Friend

I work at a super-de-duper small business. For the longest time, it was just me and my two bosses. They brought in another boss/partner. Then, they hired a photo editor who is super nice. It was getting more crowded and more fun to be in the office.

When one of the boss-men told me that there would be a new editor moving in, I was wary. This wasn't just any guy. He used to be that bosses' partner. After hearing stories involving adoration and genuflecting, I developed an image of him in my head that made him seem kind of like Steve McQueen of the editing world. Or maybe Ganesha. Or maybe an an eight-armed Bullit?...Whatever. Anyway, this larger-than-life guy entering my workspace was a daunting prospect. What if he was a total dick? Whåt if he made me look bad? And worst of all, what if he actually Worked All The Time? I was worrying myself sick.

When David got here, within the first thirty seconds of meeting him, my fears were assuaged. He was a nice, normal guy (only two arms, not eight). He stood around with his hands shoved in his Sean-John jeans pockets--except for a firm handshake here and there. He made inappropriate jokes. He gave my boss a hard time about smoking. And best of all, he immediately wanted to go to lunch.

Over the next few weeks, I discovered that David is really phenomenal. He sems to effortlesly walk the fine line between being a sensitive, caring guy, and a totally charming retard who isn't paying attention to what you're saying. It works for him. He is incredibly intelligent too, and has a penchant for understanding politics AND the reason that I like having my nails done.

We had some good times. We caught some flicks together, and got a pint of Guinness at a favorite bar. We treated each other to lunch. He got me a rockin' Christmas present (and I messed his up by making it while I was drunk). We complained, laughed, and indulged each other's tales of love and sadness. I had a really great time while he was here.

But you see, my darlings, David was always destined for other things. These other things involved him coming to LA, making me adore him, and then leaving to NYC to go back to school. What a jerk.

He's gone now. And the office is feeling REALLY empty. I sit here alone, wishing that we could have hung out more, or made just one more Office reference. Maybe gone back to my fav restaurant KoTo (Korean Tofu) to return that roll of Scotch tape they gave us so we could wrap Mark's Christmas present. I would really like to have one last ride in his rented Hyundai that consists of him making a mess with his egg-and-cheese croissant and me silently judging him.

The next time I'm in a store, I'll be waiting for his voice to break through the silence, louder than is necesary, repeating "Grae? Grae?" over and over until long after we've spotted each other and I'm laughing too hard to answer.

Have fun in NYC, you little presh. "Keep the windows up and your thoughts pure."

Big ups. g

When You're Here

My apartment suffers from being exposed to the elements. Yes, there's insulation, and no, there aren't any broken windows or anything, but it's a self-contained little space that was originally meant for maids. I only got a small dose of how hot it could get in the summer--luckily, I was at work for the hottest part of the day, and it always got chilly at night (thank you, Hollywood Hills). Summer came to a close. Now, these days, the cold seems to penetrate every facet of my life. The loft I work in is like a cave. My car's seat warmers have been acting funny. And this beloved apartment of mine has turned into a meat locker that I sleep in.

For the first time in months, I didn't notice the temperature.

Even though it was pouring outside, and I wore my black "these-are-for-protecting-your-feet-from-glass-in-the-summer" thongs outside to open the gate, I didn't even have to scurry for my blue polar fleece robe when I came back into the room. I could come in and breathe a little first. I could feel these lungs of mine fill with glorious cloudy-day air and rejoice in my steady heartbeat.

And Then I put on the robe.

But the point is, for a small slice of time in this largely upside-down world of mine, I felt at peace. Even with that terrible mouthful of mint chocolate covered graham cracker, I was enjoying myself. Heck, even when the overly-minty taste lingered in my mouth, I still felt okay about it all. Wilco was on the telly and I was singing along, goddamnit. For the first time in months, nothing was bothering me enough to register. Things that have weighed me down my whole life just went up in smoke. No self consciousness, no guilt, no fear.

It was such a lovely night.

As I lay here in my bed, next to my big picture window, I am wrapped in that polar fleece robe staring at the fog. I am listening to the sounds of the rain and letting the comforting white noise take me back to that night. And I believe that my smile is bright enough to land planes and bring weary travelers to safety. Even though the planes are landing in Burbank and the weary travelers are really just coked out personal assistants coming home from the gym.

Love. g

The Ten Best Films of 04

I always say that choosing my fav films is like choosing between children--some are from past relationships, you were young for others, some aren't as smart as the rest, etc, but you love them all the same. Here they are, from 10 to 1. May I add, Sir Wes Anderson, that it put me in physical pain to bump Life Aquatic off the list. I actually lost sleep over this. Seriously, my 2 o'clock nap was all shot to hell. Read on...

10. The Incredibles- Pixar has brought so much joy to my life that there is no WAY I would stay away from one of their films. After enduring the El Cap stage show and my viewing companion threatening a child's life, this film had the power to take me away from my pain. I also have a special place in my heart for films that make wee tots and my parents chuckle at the same time. No fair using force fields!

9. Metallica Some Kind of Monster- Shame on me for thinking this was a film about a band I liked ten years ago making an album. It was, in fact, a film about how (and listen to me close here) Rock stars are just like us. They managed to show larger-than-life icons as they really are: insecure, uninspired, petty, uncertain, affectionate, and beautiful. James Hetfield, the original badass, needs therapy, for Chrissake. Lars likes to collect art. They get ripped off by people and have to suffer through auditions. The film showed me that ultimately, our experiences and fears are what keep up together and sometimes make a great fucking band.

8. Tale of Two Sisters- When a family desperately struggles to erase the past, we call it a drama. When you can find one of the aforementioned family members dead but still moving in a closet, we call it a "I Need New Shorts" horror flick. We all know by now that the Asians are doing things with horror that Americans have yet to really understand. This one had mastered that thing I can only refer to as "righteous cinematic chi" and took it to another level. Tears of fear actually streamed down my face at one point. The guys on either side of me were laughing uncomfortably. The perfect scared trio.

7. Shaun of the Dead- I had a bootleg copy of this film for a month before I even knew what it was. After being properly admonished for my oversight (later I would say, "I'm sorry, Sean,"), we had a big, impromptu screening and the magic was unleashed. Zombies are my favorite monster, and this has become one of the strongest films of the genre. Funny and touching with great makeup. Way to go limeys, ya hit it out of the park.

6. Hotel Rwanda- I put this film on for two reasons: first, it had me from Hello. I haven't been so affected by a film and its story for a long time. This means excellent writing and excellent performances all around, which brings me to the next reason. Don Cheadle is fast becoming one of the most prolific performers of our time. He slips into a character so completely that he disasppears. I never even recognize how great a job he's doing until I leave the theater. The are only a few certainties in life: death, taxes, and the fact that Don Cheadle is an indispensable, timeless part of cinema.

5. Kill Bill 2- The first one was chock full of great sound design, phenomenal fighting, and sweet music. This one was a tongue-in-cheek , wacky, homage thrill ride. I officially picked up my celluloid spoon and ate this one up, saying "More please." Darryl Hannah is a bad ass, Michael Madsen is a hard ass, Uma has a nice ass. If you were to inject me with truth serum I would tell you that this film is tons of fun and full of the kind of piss and vinegar that movies are missing these days.

4. I Heart Huckabees- The first time I saw this film, I was sitting next to a perfect stranger. When the Huckabees Rollercoaster ride began, we had no choice but to rely on each other to make it to the end. We would steal quick glances at each other and mouth, "Can you believe this?!" and any combination of "brilliant," "fucking" and "genius." Congratulations to the very French Miss Isabelle Huppert for showing that those frogs really CAN get muddy prettier than the rest of us. I dare you to find a better onscreen team this year than the Tomlin/Hoffman dynamo, and somebody call MarkyMark and tell him never to work with anybody but David O. Russell again. Jude Law also got a bit of a reaming here, to say the least, and how nice was it to watch that?! "There's glass between us." It's going to take some major DVD replay for me to understand the infinite nature of this film. This is a fine wine film. Better with age. Which brings me to..

3. Sideways- I took my PapaBear to see this. I thought he might stay away from a film about middle-aged men raising heck for fear of being inspired. Through this film, complete with another introspective, painfully beautiful Giamatti performance, he just kept patting my arm in appreciation. He sighed happily when Thomas Hayden Church lit up the screen with his weirdly charming, post-modern, whiz bang portrayal of Jack. When Virginia Madsen's melodic voice flooded my ears, saying beautiful things about about Miles novel, it transported me back to a fond memory of my own. This film gives you a beautiful buzz, and the hangover is bliss.

2. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind- There are a lot of reasons that this film was great--screenplay, directing, cinematography, acting. But the reason this film hit me so hard was because of the question asked on its one sheet:

"Would you erase me?"

Among the oversized kitchen tables, hair dye, crazily shifting scenes, and crumbling beach houses, all I could think about were the horrible-wonderful-beautiful-contemptible things I've seen and done in this world. I always have to follow this film with one Jamesons, neat. And I nurse it. I always wonder what I would erase if I had the chance, or who would get rid of me. Who am I kidding? I usually get more than one Jamesons in there. These are important life questions.

1. The Aviator- May I begin by saying that I don't give two shits about Howard Hughes or airplanes. About 45 minutes into the film, I realized that the theater had fallen away from my consciousness. I also realized that my face was contorted into what could only be described as total movie-geekdom. It took me over.

I thought Jamie Foxx had the best actor Oscar all sewn up, but Leo is really giving him a run for his money. As much as I hate to admit it, the kid has talent. Even when he's rolling around on the floor naked with airplanes flying across his back, I buy it hook line and sinker. Cate Blanchett is zooming to the top of the "National Treasure" charts, too.

I could write a novel about the genius color correction, but I'll spare you. What I will tell you to watch for is a great little touch towards the last part of the film. When the Senate hearings begin, there is one particular flash bulb that goes off and has a unique sound. It is accompanied by one weirdly brilliant frame of--well, watch it again. It's a nice little Christmas present from uncle Marty. It is weird to want to open-mouth kiss your Uncle Marty as a thank you??

...just wondering.

FILMS TO WATCH FOR IN 2005:
Ong Bak: Thai Warrior: this film was at the AFI film fest and will absolutely be on my list next year, barring another phenomenal lineup like 2004. Tony Jaa is a Muy-Thai boxer, and this action flick is so intense I could barely speak upon exiting the theater. He works without wires (and for the first 15 minutes of the film without good acting, either). He sails through the air and performs stunts that will blow your mind. Go see it in the spring and be amazed.

OldBoy: this is a Korean film that a pal brought over, courtesy of 20/20 video. A man is held hostage for 15 years by an unknown captor and is suddenly released. What follows may seem predictible, but look the F out, 'cause this movie never fails to suprise. Made in 2003, getting a March 2005 US release. Sweet!

Honorable Mentions/a.k.a. "It Hurts Me To Leave You Behind, Babies":

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy
Spanglish
Enduring Love
Lost Skeleton of Cadavra
Super Size Me
Maria Full of Grace
Napoleon Dynamite
Garden State
Harold and Kumar go to White Castle
Saved!
Tarnation
Dawn of the Dead
Team America: World Police
Hero
Cellular
Finding Neverland

I Heart Traffic

Allright my darlings...for Christmas I received what is to go down in history as one of the greatest gifts OF ALL TIME. "Is she exaggerating?" you ask. The answer is NO. I am not prone to exaggeration when it comes to gadgets. It either rocks or does not.

"What is this gadget?" you're wondering. "And why is Grae so convinced she knows my inner monologue?" My papa bear gave me Sirius satellite radio for both my car and home...although daunting to hook up, it is phenomenal. I hope terrestrial radio goes down in flames. My car rides have gone from zero to 60 in NO TIME AT ALL (did ya like that car humor? Huh? Bueller?...)

Satellite radio has the power to make everyone on the planet happy. It can stop road rage. It can slice, dice, and julienne fries. It might stop the war in Iraq. It will keep that affair you had with your pool boy a secret. My Precious has been activated for three days, and I feel comfortable making the declaration that SATELLITE RADIO COULD VERY WELL SAVE CIVILIZATION FROM AN UNTIMELY END.

Case in point: The other night, the Mighty G calls me up. She is all in a tizzy about having to spend her entire day off dealing with the yahoo's at AT&T. She lost her cell phone and they were unprepared to deal with this problem (and her). When the Mighty G gets a bee in her bonnet, you look out. Step aside, because that bitch is intense and will snap your neck before you can say "nighttime minutes." Anyway, she is on a verbal rampage and my ear is starting to hurt. I let her get it all out. Okay, I actually let her get about half of it out, because after 24 solid minutes of her screaming things like, "How do they put their shoes on in the morning, those stupid jackasses?! How dare they lose all my voicemail messages!" I can't take it anymore. I tell her that we're going to either see a movie or drink. She gets in the car and is on her way.

We begin the night by climbing into my Jetta. She is tired and a little ragged. She is annoyed that I don't have it properly installed yet and have to put some wires and the Sirius receiver in her lap. Her breathing is labored and angry. Then she starts flipping channels, remarking on how varied the selction is. "Radio Prague?!" she squeals. WIth each turn of the knob, she lightens up.

Then it happened.

"Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard.

Top-of-the-lungs singing ensues. Laughter. Inquisitions as to what the lyrics actually fucking mean, since they make little to no sense.

And the night was saved.

Now that the problem of tunage is solved, one problem remains. My commutes to work, the VW shop, the store, etc, are all too short. I don't have enough time to enjoy my satellite. So get in your cars and drive, Angelinos. Mama wants to hear some Paula Abdul, Elton John, and Ween...all on one station.

KaPow!g

The Profile of A Man whose Brains You Banged Out

So, my ex. We broke up because I am busy overhauling my life. I am doing spring cleaning and shedding baggage both literally and figuratively. I needed some time. Because things weren't perfect with me (or even close), our relationship was suffering. And in spite of his better judgement, he let me go. We talked to each other over the holiday, we exchanged gifts, we hugged. We had some special fun alone time.

**Inner Monologue: Why do I feel so comfortable exorcising all these demons in front of the whole world? Who am I kidding, there are like two people reading this.**

Anyway, I miss him terribly but I know, somehwere deep inside me past the pain and worry, that we're doing the right thing. He told me he's seeing a fine young lady who contacted him via online personals. Good for him. Ease the pain. Meet a new gal. Have a little fun. And of course the masochist had to look him up and see how he was representing himself.

I can see why she wanted to contact him. He's charming, witty, and low key, but he also says some things that would make one think he's a real tiger in the sack. It got me thinking about how interesting it is to hear one write about oneself on a personals page. You never mention the fact that you cheated on her once, or that you thought many times of killing his dog. You say that you have been described as "passionate" and that you don't have an animal, no, but you LOVE other people's pets.

We're all a bunch of fucking liars.

It's not really attractive to be hard on yourself. But it's interesting how we set ourselves up as the prize at the end of the "Getting to Know Me" Maze, and at every turn, the person desperately trying to win us gets loaded down by a new piece of the puzzle. While wandering through this maze, finding out about people's families, their history of disease, their favorite food, what makes them despise other people, and all that other stuff, I'm reminded of the Shining. That little Redrum kid is really fucking cold in that snow and just wants his crazy daddy to stop chasing him with an axe.

So, who is Jack Nicholson in this half-assed metaphor? I think he's our own pasts. We're trying to make it out alive, with a partner, but all we hear is shrubbery being ripped apart while the arctic Colorado wind blows.

I hope he ends up happy. I hope she's not a conniving bitch that hurts his feelings. I want his friends to like her. I hope that she enjoys his love of El Torito and the fact that he oftentimes will pick up his guitar and start playing just as everyone gets ready to walk out the door. Also, he DOES NOT like to swim and she should respect that.

She better not be like Shelley Duvall. Otherwise, I'll hack that bathroom door open myself and take her ass to the cleaners.

Wrigley.g

Larry is not the King of MY Media

Boy, oh boy. Don't fuck with my movies, people. Fuck with other countries, the environment, the military, education, whatever. But DO NOT toy with celluloid. Do not debase it into a putrid, steaming pile of dung by associating it with people who have absolutely no relevance in the film world.

Now, don't get me wrong. I went to film school. At first glance, I'm one of "those people." Although I consider myself to be a filmmaker and not a film student (there's a big difference), I do have that sense of privilege that allows me to make judgements on who should/shouldn't be listened to or EVEN ALLOWED TO SPEAK regarding movies. Rex Reed? He can say a little something. Even that tool Peter Travers from Rolling Stone is allowed a comment here and there. But LARRY KING? I ask you, my darlings, the question to end all questions:

What in the world qualifies this man, the "King Of All Media," to utter even a syllable of film criticism?

I am sure it's safe to assume that he sees some flicks between taking care of his 80 children and 5 ex wives. I know that he can string together a coherent sentence, and has in fact published many a book on politics and wars and stuff. He can interview someone like nobody's business. And King can steal the shoes right off your feet without you noticing (no, seriously, he was arrested for larceny in '71). But none of this has anything to do with knowing movies.

The thing that has me all riled up are some national radio commericals for Phantom of the Opera. On a personal note, I am fighting my desire to see this, because I was fascinated with the musical as a youngster but I KNOW that Joel Schumaker has fucked it up somehow. It would just be too hurtful to be sitting in those Cinerama Dome seats while wisps of memories from the '91 stage show at the Buell theater in CO came lilting back to me...

Anyway. Apparently their only good pull quote from any person of note whatsoever is that "Larry King says this movie is PHENOMENAL." That was, of course, a paraphrase. The first time I heard the ad I was vaguely suspicious. Then I continued my drive to work singing along with Neil Diamond. The second time I heard it I said, "Wait one goddamn minute you JERK OFF," and the child in the open-windowed car next to me started to cry. See what you did, Larry King?!

I was stewing over this when watching an ad for the old-news National Treasure. All of a sudden, among the poorly hidden pleas of "Seriously guys, PLEASE see this again? We swear you'll like it better this time," was the quote "Best Movie of The Year!" with my favorite name underneath.

I'm going to wrap this up now by painting a picture of me sitting on a comfy leather couch at my dad's house. This commericial, thankfully, has ended. My mouth is open, my hands pressed to my cheeks. I am having trouble breathing normally. I certainly can't speak. My stepsister Lauren casually says, "Isn't he that old grasshopper-looking guy that wears those ugly suspenders?"

From the mouths of babes.
Wrigley.g

Blogs are Ruining my Life

I didn't find out about this goddamn technology until about June. I guess I was behind the trend.

Can we first talk about the word blog? It is the epitome of ugly and directly reflects how stupid most technology-related lingo is getting. I hate buzz words. It's even ugly to say. It sounds like a skin condition .

While we're on the subject, I REALLY hate the fact that so many nouns are getting turned into verbs. I was at lunch with a Hollywood pal. I am in the middle of a heartfelt story about a childhood friend whose family was always so nice to me, and how much I would like to find her and reminisce. He interrupts me and messes up my flow to blurt out: "Have you Googled her?" Not only does this sound like some gross euphemism for doing it, but it debased my beautiful, inspiring story into some catch phrase. I was mildly offended. Think about the last time you mentioned that you were going to miss your fav TV show. Someone will very likely say, "You can just TiVo it." TiVo is a thing and not an action. A friend in Denver told me that apparently in his hood, gelato is suffering the same fate. Gelato?! Have some fucking dignity, people.

Anyway, I digress. Let's talk more about these weB Log thingies and why they're taking me on an emotional rollercoaster ride.

See, the thing is, that some blogs bring me joy. Others bring me pain. I have a good friend who recently broke up with his girlfriend. She wasn't just a normal girlfriend--she was a terror. It took him about 2 or so years to get away from her, and the final nail in their relationship coffin was him moving to another state. It was that bad. Anyway, this girl is sure that she is God's gift to the West Coast-no, God's gift to the world.

This girl has posted her profile on one of those online "Here I am, aren't I great? And if you're ever in the area, let's fuck or do drugs together" sites. She has one picture of herself on these that makes her look like some hip, edgy model. This site also allows you to post your own blogs. Hers are the reason I joined the site.

When she writes, she veils her typos and run-on sentences with a delicate layer of "Seriously, I am well-balanced and NOT a psycho." Therefore, everything is slanted in such a way that NEVER tells the real story. I know for a fact that one weekend she called her ex about 15 times in two days, and then went on her blog to explain that she was "in the fourth stage of grieving" that involves her hiding out in her room, not taking a shower, and not talking to anyone. She didn't mention that this was because the guy she had been trying to talk to 15 different times wouldn't pick up the phone. It's these kinds of things that make me smile. I think about the poor guys who will be drawn in by these halfway competent ramblings of hers, and how sorry they'll be after they fuck her.

Tonight, I just came home after seeing a movie with my good friend, The Mighty G. After great conversation and a great picture, I was all set to reenact the Saturday night ritual of turning on SNL only to immediately change the channel. I also planned on brushing my teeth, maybe drinking some tea, and then going to bed. I made the mistake of straying from the plans and checking my email. In it was the first of the 2004 Top 10 Films lists. These things are done by some of my favorite movie geek pals so we have yet another excuse to wax rhetoric about movies. As if we don't do enough of that already.

Anyway, this one was from the King of Movie Geeks, the man who enthralls and wows them all. He is also my ex-ex boyfriend. Last year, the actual email was chock full of his every thought about the films of 2003. This year, shit got all technical. My ex, everyone's favorite Luddite, sent us all a link to his blog. I clicked the link. I skimmed the list. It was safe and without surprise, for the most part. So my nosy ass, never satisfied, took a peek at his archives.

May I say right here and now that this man is a phenomenal fucking writer. It's a quality few possess, and he's got it in spades. The boy can command a pen. And so I knew that I would get some great giggles, maybe some tears, and a couple of deep insights into his life. He makes a paragraph about ABBA more intense than fucking War and Peace.

It occurred to me that maybe a blog or two might mention me. It was quite the opposite. Stories leapt from the girlfriend before me to the one after. I was mentioned nowhere. I didn't exist. I felt, as I clicked from blog to blog, that the insignificance that floats over my head these days is justified.

That book entitled, "He's Just Not that Into You" mentions that when men are interested, they persue. There is no excuse, no shyness, no fear that will keep them from hunting their prey. And as I'm reading this, I'm thinking that maybe no one that I've ever been with has ever really been that into me. I, by nature, am an aggressive lady. I do maybe a little more work at a relationship than I should. I am reminded about this guy that I have a ginormous crush on. We've been out a couple of times (in what capacity, I'm not sure). But I asked for his number and write most of the emails. And what happens? In his review of the films we saw one day, he refers to me on his site as his "friend Grae." Not, "this super cute girl I'm seeing" or "this woman who is way too good for me" or "this movie maven that I am absolutely mad about." Perhaps this is a lot to ask for from a movie review site-- but I couldn't help being disappointed. Then this whole new blog problem happens tonight, and I feel small. I feel like sucker who isn't worth writing about. No one is gushing about how cute I look in bathrobes or how witty/scathing my comments about "Beyond the Sea" were. Is nothing that I do noteworthy? Can't we ask our cyber-audiences "Where's the bread and cheese at?!"?! Anything, for Chrissake? Am I totally fucking forgettable?

One man in my life wrote a song about me. It was touching, catchy, and ridiculously hot of him.

I dumped him so I could "find myself." Everyone loses.

Tonight, this ugly Blog has thwarted what was shaping up to be a really nice night. I am haunted. I feel like a jerk. I am making huge mistakes at every turn. I would love to be mentioned as the goddess people pretend I am in this technology I despise. That's why I set up this blog for myself. Somebody's got to talk about me. Judge me if you want, but I'm just like you. Don't we all want to be the one that people remember for the rest of their lives? Don't we all want to share that one piece of information or insight that changes lives? Even if these emotional artificats only exist in this cyberspace, ruled by size limits and connection speeds, well, that's something.

Wrigley.g