Hillary Swank is a Sell Out and a Communist

No, no, that's not right. She's just "a girl from a trailer park with a dream."

Wow.

It's Monday, my darlings, and I wanted to share some things with you that I thought were amusing, thought-provoking and totally rocking. So, this is the

MONDAY MORNING SMORGASBORD

-A friend of mine just told me in a very candid way that he now has a "bit of a girlfriend." I think this is a great way to put it. "Lay off Mom, we've been dating three weeks, I just have a bit of a girl." This also begs the question of "Which bit?" How much is a bit in technical terms? And what's the next step? A ginormous amount of a girlfriend?

That's awesome. Way to go, guy. I really like that. I like that in the same way that I like the term "special lady friend" instead of girlfriend. (That was a phrase coined by the always-suave MLCIII.) A bit of a special lady friend. I am sounding sarcastic, I think, but I am for the reals on this one: I like this idea. Quantify your relationships. We had a little sex. We are dating a skotch (sp?). The possiblities are endless. Don't ever be vague about where something is heading! Be direct! Place a value on intangible things like you would on things that actually exist! No longer will we only feel comfortable saying "I ate a lot of food at the Sizzler." We can also say "I would like a touch of him in my life! Just a touch, now! Go easy!"

-Just stop for a second and take yourself back to last night's Oscars. Virginia Madsen, stunning actress in this year's Sideways, brought her mom to the show with her. She also looked super hot. As she was being interviewed by a painfully-bad Roger Ebert, imagine her precious bro Michael Madsen sitting at home.

Picture him in a dirty wife-beater and boxers, holding a lukewarm can of Natty Light in front of the TV. As Virginia and Mom wow the crowd with their poise and beauty, he drunkenly lists all of his acting credits, of which there are many, goddamnit.

He will shock the imaginary fans in his empty living room with tales about Ashton Kutcher giving him an autographed trucker cap on the set of My Bosses' Daughter...he will wow the furniture with his story about how the whale in Free Willy 2 was a conservative republican and voted for Bush in '88. He is also getting very, very drunk. Eventually, he just starts screaming "Oh, really, Ginny? From Candyman to THIS? You were always mom's favorite!" and silent tears stream down his face as he pictures Hillary Swank with no clothes on.

-My trainer, aka Warren Beatty/Buddha strikes again. I was complaining of a slight pain in my left elbow that was keeping me from doing dips properly. He looked at me, looked THROUGH me even, and said, "I don't know, kid. Tie a couple of apples to it. Now do some lunges." and I was so bewildered by this comment that I didn't even bother to think about how much I hate lunges.

I am still pondering this true meaning of this statement.

-Cruising around the Pacific Design Center on Saturday, admiring the lights, the crisp night air, the company. Smiling. Laughing. Buttoning up the ole jean jacket. Loving life. And then it happened. Clive Owen walking towards us on the opposite side of the sidewalk.

Backstory: I have been a fan of his for a long time, before all this James Bond hype and Closer attention. I was one of three people to see Croupier. I love this man. I would iron his socks if he asked. Even if they were dirty. Even if they had poo on them, in fact.

Back to Saturday: I see Clive. I freeze. I freeze in mid-f'ing-step. And he looked over. And he kind of nodded his head at us.

The only thing anyone on the street could hear an instant later, over the sounds of portable generators and cars whizzing by, was the sound of me yelling "Holy Mother of FUCK."

Classy.

-Al Ruddy accepted the Oscar for Best Picture last night. He also once threatened to kick my friend's ass. My friend, having been in the biz for years now, was helping out a lady friend (but not a Special lady friend) by letting her stay at his house. She was a nut job. She also liked knives.

This chick would cry when he would cut his hedges because he was hurting the bushes. And she and Roman Polanski got along famously. Not a coincidence.

Anyway, one beautiful day my pal walks into his house. NutJob is coming at him with a knife. He grabs her and "puts her down hard." He steps on her neck and takes away the knife. Then he kicks her out.

She ran to Al Ruddy, who was working over at Paramount with Roman at the time. She tells them the story but leaves out the part about her charging at him with a sharp object in her hand. Al, known for his masculinity and general height, calls my friend in that deep voice of his and says "That's it. I'm on my way over. I'm going to kick your ass, buddy."

He never came. Mark came that close to being pummeled by this year's Best Picture winner.

Mark also told me that the assistant cameraman for The Godfather was from one of the biggest mafia families in NYC. I will forever refer to him as "Jimmy Focus Puller."

yowser. g

My friend the Iolan Wonder

*In part 2 of the Friend Appreciation series, HellCat reflects on her best friend of 7ish years, Iolan Wonder, and their shared fondness for pornography.*

So my gal pal of forever and four days is writing a book. This is a new and somewhat randomly-discovered passion of hers. I'll let her tell you the premise of the book herself, but let's just say that if you had to put it in a general category, it would rhyme with Rex but start with an S.

I just got done reading a couple of her sample chapters. Let me tell you my darlings--this book might save many youngsters from sexual suicide. I was engaged by this book--I found myself transported back to a time when I needed more down-to-earth and basic education about doing it so I could feel better about growing up. And doing it.

Anyway, her second chapter reminded me of how I discovered that porn can be a fun thing to share with your friends and loved ones. I remember one night, a few of us were really bored. In fact, I think we had missed a special screening of Meet Joe Black (which I still haven't seen) and we were searching for an activity. Cue the suspenseful music. A bunch of 18 year olds with some cash, a car, and nothing to do. Trouble!

We got on the highway and one of the seedier elements of the group told me to keep heading south (no pun intended). I exited when he directed me to, and did a double-take when he commanded me to turn right off the service road. "But Jerry," said a wee HellCat, "there's no road here." I flashed my brights into the thick patch of trees and other scary southern foliage and discovered that there WAS a road there. It was just small, dirty, and covered with paint-dinging pebbles. Against my better judgement, and apologizing to my Jeep Cherokee, I turned. As we bumbled down the road, I couldn't shake the feeling that Jerry was going to kill us all.

All of a sudden, a neon XXX light appeared. The little shack it was perched on was almost an afterthought. I was in awe of this place. In my memory, it's very dark except for that overwhelming red light. Dust kind of settled in your mouth when you stopped moving to take it all in. A stray dog affectionately referred to as Nips by the regulars was humping Fritz's leg.

We rented Deep Throat, Behind the Green Door, and Devil in Miss Jones. We returned to our co-op and made it through them all (except for the last half of Miss Jones, which I still say is inferior). I finally excused myself from that 5th floor room and went back to mine on the first. I wanted to shower in bleach. I didn't know exactly what kind of portal I had opened in this Universe, but I knew that talking to my parents would never be the same. I was marked. Tainted. Porned.

I couldn't even call my boyfriend for a couple days.

Then I came out of my haze. Porn is super! It serves many purposes! It can be instructional or hysterical! Shock your friends! Wow your dates! So much porn, so little time.

Here's where Iola comes in. She has always inspired me to do things that are just a little bit outside my comfort zone. When I met her at our freshman orientation, she was prim and proper. Very polite. A nice girl. But when I spotted the very same skirt that Rose McGowan wore in Scream casually hanging out of her suitcase, her secret was out: she was a wild woman trapped in an A student's body.

I quickly decided to bring her into the new world I discovered. She loved it. We laughed and laughed. I bought her a burnt orange-colored vibrator for her birthday ("To put the UT school spirit in you," was on the gift tag). We went dancing and flirted with boys we didn't know. We read sex books. We got tattoos. Soon, our love of finding new porn spread to our friends. We've seen AssWoman in Wonderland, Encino Housewife Hookers 4, some Italian thing that was NOT worth the trouble (stick to designing fabulous footwear, Italy), and countless others about firefighters, guys dressed up in seal costumes, clowns, and copy machine repairmen. We've seen dudes dancing naked while wearing their socks and shoes. We've seen chicks watching dwarves have sex, and guys with birdcages over their torsos have work done on their mm-mm. We've seen a lot of things on that little glowing box.

And it really brings people together.

A lot of the people that I've seen porn with are still my very close pals. But Iola is different. We're compadres, in this together, like it or not. Chicks that watch XXX movies together, stay together. So cheers to you and your book, girl. And when you make it to Letterman's couch, ask him what porn he has hidden in the den. You KNOW he's got some f'd up stuff in there.

clear heels rule. g

When the Mighty G Speaks

You guys, this woman is too much. The Mighty G once again reminds me that life is too rich to be taken seriously.

I get a phone call today around 4:15. The G is at Ralph's. Wait! Backstory: last night I turned down her offer of a night on the town because I had my Cranky Pants on. I took a hot shower, moisturized well, watched some Will and Grace (I wasn't kidding about the addiction) and went to dreamy-dream land. Anyway.

We had spoken earlier today about how things are never as bad as they seem. I have a face, therefore my woes over my fluctuating chemicals and confused heart is nothing. I have a face. A face with bones in it that invites people to come over and chat instead of causing them to run and scream in fear. Yes, the Mighty G reminded me that because I had dimples people can see and eye sockets that these baby blues rest in securely, life cannot be as bad as I think. She also threatened to serenade me with Journey songs until I got my head out of my ass. Just another nugget of gold from the tiny dynamo I call one of my best buds.

Anyway, back to this phone call. Here I am, tortured by the clock, wishing for 6PM or maybe a death that will not come. The phone vibrates. I look at it and wonder why "Trouble" (as she is listed in my celly) is calling. I flip open the phone. She is agitated.

"Grae?" she says, out of breath. "I'm in the Ralph's and I had a realization."

I commented on how that isn't something you hear everyday. She chucked briefly but continued. "You know why you REALLY don't get to be depressed?"

I braced myself. She was starting to yell.

"You have nailed a couple/few of the hottest guys ever IN THE SAME FISCAL YEAR."

Stop for a moment, why don't you, and picture my friend, the Mighty G. She is about two inches tall, with flippy dark brown and auburn hair (ever-so-stylishly highlighted by the Fabulous Mizz Pat). She often is found with her arms crossed, silently judging others. There is always a twinkle in her eye that either means she loves you or is going to stick you with the shiv she has hidden in her pants pocket (she's Mexican).

So this woman is standing in the middle of Ralph's, perhaps in the sausage aisle or near the condoms. Or maybe she was just picking up some Cheddar cheese--who knows, with this one. But regardless, she is in the grocery store yelling at me through a cell phone.

"Seriously, Grae. You don't get to be depressed EVER again." and although she doesn't have all her facts completely right, the truth of her statement remains. I really don't get to be depressed. Not only for the above reason, but because I have a face and also beacuse shit really isn't that bad.

Stop for a minute and think how this applies to you. You have a face. You can read (and thanks for choosing to do that here). You can wrinkle the skin on your nose and make it all cute. Maybe you have nice lips or abs or are really smart. Maybe you have a great talent for art or making people laugh. Most likely, you have at least one quality that makes people think about you when you're not around. So loosen up, whites. Be thankful for what you've got. Pinch yourself on the bottom or pat yourself on the back, whatever tickles your fancy. You are great. No go get 'em, tiger.

rawwr. g

Post-script: The Mighty G, aka Thunder, has declared that I be sorrow-free for 6 weeks because of her realization. I just received this email. And I quote: "I called you at 4:19 p.m. Feb 23 2005  If you so much as say to me that you feel "woozy" and six weeks from that date haven't passed I will violate you with a crowbar."

I love my friends.

Psychotic MakeBelieve

I was listening to the radio this morning, as I always do on my way to work. I was winding through the streets of Silverlake, admiring all the murals and averting my eyes from the more aggressive-looking street people. And all of a sudden, there was this woman calling Howard Stern. She told her story, which involves mental illness, Princess Di, and Star Search. Riveting.

This woman has a phenomenal singing voice, so she claims. If her speaking voice was any indication, then her singing voice must sound like a cross between breaking glass and nails on a chalkboard. Lovely. She was spending all her time trying to find ways to audition for the new season of Star Search. She was convinced that, after she won, she would be crowned Princess of America. When that happened, Princess Di would come out of hiding with Tupac Shakur in tow. The End.

Here's a fun game to play today: Faking Mental Illness. Don't get me wrong, my darlings, I am not making light of the burdens that many people in this world carry on their crazy backs everyday...but for a minute, lighten the fuck up. Make up a crazy person fantasy. Want to hear mine?

My recent obsession with Will and Grace leads me to believe that I live in the same apartment building as Will, Grace, Jack, and Karen. Every time I walk in the gates I am convinced I see them walking in the other direction, hurrying off to a new wacky adventure. When they're not off at their gay cooking classes or absconding with pornographic materials starring themselves, I have them over for tea and crumpets, and we all just laugh and laugh. The role of Karen is played by my sock monkey, and my plastic flamingo Arnold does the remaining characters. Arnold went to Juliard, you know.

Anyway. I become convinced that if Karen/sock monkey will give me the code to the nearby Savings and Loan's vault, I can get she and Grace enough money to decorate Karen's mom's apartment the right way (without Rosario having to lug stuff up the stairs). Well, wouldn't you know, she sends me the code via their secure internet site (that I only had to spend a couple minutes hacking), I borrow the money from the bank, and then I wish Karen/sock monkey a happy journey as she blasts off into space on that beautiful unicorn. I also take a stray marmot hostage and begin calling it Just Jack. We eat crumpets (or stale pigeon doo) until we pass out up in the apartment.

That was off the top of my head, people. Come on, let's play. You be C. Thomas Howell and I'll be his broken, sad soul. No? George Clooney and Thomas Jefferson? Anything?

You guys are no fun.

party poopers. g

Exhaustion

You know how sometimes, there just isn't anything left to give people? You just feel maxed out? That is me this morning. I have no idea how to solve people's problems, to console them, or make things better on any level. The rain is falling heavily on the roof and it is deafening. I just want to go home.

I blame the AMC theaters for this surge of helplessness. I made the mistake of seeing Constantine last night. The theater was boiling and I had no utensils to eat my Pollo Bowl with--so no protein and carbs for me. At the midpoint, I felt dizzy like I was going to pass out. I needed sugar, and fast. I abandoned my healthy lifestyle for fear of my cheek making contact with the floor of theater 16...and the chocolate and soda didn't really help. I had to eat some salt after that, because I still felt dizzy...and that only leveled me out enough to have minimal conversation and a fitful sleep.

When I woke up this morning I was reminded that there are some things people face that are completely out of my control and I can do nothing to fix them. I offer support and nuzzles on the neck. And that doesn't really take away the pain, when it comes down to it. Is the best support I can offer my absence?

I need some enlightenment here. Today, my ever-so-slightly imbalanced chemicals are getting the better of me. I am exhausted.

zzzz. g

The Last Fuck You

Hunter S. Thompson and Sandra Dee are dead. Same day. Different reasons. Sandy, sugar-sweet 60s icon, and Hunter, King of The Scarily Smart Drug Enthusiasts. She died from kidney disease at 63. Hunter shot himself at 67.

Do yourself a favor and buy Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (the book, you asshole). Read it right after you watch some Gidget. Don't forget the kleenex--today is a sad day.

tear. g

Come and Get it, LiLo

Okay, my darlings. The gloves are off. No, seriously. I was wearing my neon green fingerless gloves this morning and I just took them off. What prompted such a drastic action, you ask? Why have I willingly plummeted back to the realms of the hopelessly un-hip?

Lindsay Lohan is totally out of control.

We all read US Weekly. We see the stories on Access Hollywood. Come on, admit it. You catch it, if even just in passing. You can't live in our society and consider yourself up to speed with pop culture unless you know something about this girl and what the media machine says she is allegedly doing. She charmed us in the remake of the Parent Trap. We nodded our heads in pleasant surprise at Freaky Friday. And now, that nod has been replaced with a judgemental shake. Mean Girls was great, but Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen? It's symbolic of the downfall of our little angel LiLo.

The girl's parents are fighting over who gets her money, and PapaBear is famous for being a touch violent. She got "That 70's show" guy Fez to go all Kabbalah on us, and then ended it (I thought they were getting MARRIED! I hid in my room for days when I found out). Does she have fake boobs or not? The color of her skin has helped us coin the phrase tanorexic (which I still think makes no sense). She parties. She teaches us which Juicy Couture clothes are cool to wear. And now she's really gone and done it.

She is filming an untitled project in New Orleans. And, just like her last shoot (Herbie: Fully Loaded), she is fucking it all up. According to our friends at Entertainment Tonight, Star magazine, etc, her stand-in is getting a full workout, since Lindsay doesn't like doing rehearsals. When she finally gets in the shot, she flubs her lines. Luckily, she has little time on the set to mess shit up because she has several ailments that keep her bedridden. This has slowed the production almost to a halt.

Despite the sickness, she has been spotted at every hot nightclub in the city dancing on tables, frantically text messaging friends, and wreaking general havoc on Louisianian soil. She must take a lot of Airborne to recover that quickly.

We also know about Linday's relationship with everyone's favorite party girl Tara Reid. Recently, when Tara joined us all back in the World of the Sober for a solid fifteen minutes, she stopped popping ping pong balls out of her hoo-hah for quarters to feed the SkyBar jukebox and declared that Lindsay needs to calm down a little.

*editor's note: After giving the statement, satisfied with her new-found sense of righteousness, Tara hopped on an issue bus and set out to establish her HandJobs for People Who Take Care of Kids foundation.*

So what do we do about this young lady? How can WE, the little people, help LiLo? Well, I'm done sitting around and letting this situation escalate.

I CHALLENGE LINDSAY LOHAN TO A MUDWRESTLING MATCH.

That's right. In order to save this girl, I am going to strip down to my white Fred Segal tank top and Victoria's Secret flirty-yet-feminine boxers and GET DIRTY. If I win, she stays out of bars and hangs out only at roller rinks and the movies. In addition, she only kisses boys with tongue on the second date, and continues doing inoffensive, competent pictures that the whole family can enjoy. She can keep the implants, too.

If she is able to topple my nearly six-foot figure, then she can do whatever she wants. She can bite off a chunk of Hilary Duff's face and show it to her, or she could have anal with Marlon Wayans...or Hillary Duff. Whatever she wants.

This is Los Angeles, people. The Land of the Free and Prettier than You. We can make this happen. We can save this girl from a horrible demise. Do you ever want to see Little Lindsay emerge from a Little Armenia alley in smeared black eyeliner, orange daisy dukes and a grease-stained, unraveling tube top offering BJs for a frapuccino? No. You don't. Neither do I. Come support us at our wrestling match. It's for the good of our nation.

dirty. g

Super Jew Wednesday

So I've always had a thing for Jews.

It kind of dawned on me last night as my friends were discussing online dating sites. Some of them belong to the imaginary club I like to call "The Most Jew-rific of the Jews," which really just means they have that particular distinguished profile and are probably partial to Hebrew National hot dogs. One of them wears a lot of sweaters, too.

Anyway, it came up that some of their friends use that kosher dating site called "J Date" to meet more Jews in the 'hood. "That's nice," you might be thinking. "People of a certain faith and culture coming together to teach others and brighten their world with their love." Uh, no. Sorry to break your idealistic utopian bubble, but the conversation consisted of words like "sperm receptacle" and "horror"...and "oy" as an afterthought. Not once did anyone say something like temple or Shabbos.

In fact, one of my friends told a story about a guy she knows who is famous for being the "Terror of JDate." He dates a high-volume of ladies from the site, has sex with them, and moves on without losing any bounce in his Hasidic curls. I was intrigued by this. What must it be like to terrorize an online dating service? One that caters to a famously oppressed and touchy group! How scandalous!

All of this was swirling around in my head. I was sitting in the corner of a nice little pub on a comfy red velvet bench, sipping my soda water and laughing a lot. And then it happened. I realized I have a thing for Jewish dudes. Although there are several important exceptions to this rule (you know who you are, Dippy), a number of guys that I have been hot and heavy with were tall, solidly built non-believers in Jesus. Wow.

I woke up this morning and the mixture of information and curiosity had thickened in my head. The first thing I did when I sat down was went online and made a beeline for jdate.com. You have to go through the registration process to see other profiles. I hesitated. It would be disrespectful to complete this profile. I would anger people. It would only prove that I am, in fact, mostly German. And that I have no soul.

So I did it.

There were pulldown menus asking me my ethnicity. "Oh shit," I thought. "What does Ashkenazi mean? Are they the cool ones?" I picked the one that had a meaning I understood and sounded the most attractive ("mixed ethnic"). I go to Synagogue on high holidays, and I keep kosher at home only.

Considering that I was just trying to get through the setup to see some profiles, I sighed in disgust when I saw text fields. They asked about my ideal first date, who I am, and who I want to meet. I wrote the lamest shit you could think of, and was exasperated every time it told me that "100 characters is the minimum" when I tried to advance too quickly. I wrote things like "I want to find someone who enjoys laughing, dogs, power walks, and killing Jesus." I erased the last part and wrote in "candlelit dinners" because I am a pussy.

I was becoming increasingly excited to become part of this exclusive club. What did other Jewish people like to do on the weekends? What were their pictures like? Aside from the fact that lots of my pals are Jewish to varying degrees, I felt like this mystery that surrounds them (maybe the same one that helped their people cross the Red Sea) was suddenly surrounding me too. At that moment, there was a knock at the door and the Vons delivery guy was standing there. Jewish. I smiled, arched an eyebrow, and let my newfound JAPpiness show. It worked. He totally wanted to give me something kosher. Heh heh...

Anyway, I finally got back to the computer after putting away our cloven-hooved frozen goods and shellfish pops. Apparently my perception of the ideal relationship is "two people caring about each other and not giving up when things get difficult." Barf. I clicked on as many directly oppositional character traits that I could find, like "easygoing" and "wild," and "artistic" and "practical." I found myself fantasizing about being able to click a button that said "self-loathing" or "as Jewish as Orlando Bloom is straight."

The mess continued on for the better part of the hour. I wrote the stupidest, most cliche tripe I could come up with and clicked on the dumbest options around. I eat both vegan and fast food. I love every activity that these jokers could come up with including but not limited to Canasta. It became a challenge to build a person that was every Jewish man's ideal. The profile was in-depth and managed to say nothing about me.

And it worked.

Without a picture or a screen name indicating any sort of personality whatsoever, much less anything else, I have NINE MESSAGES waiting for me in my inbox. NINE. In a space of 3 hours. Is this really the state of dating in the Jewish community? Fresh blood in the water stirs up all the sharks existing in Los Angeles county?! Are they ALL known as the Terror of JDate to their friends? Does my profile make me look like an easy mark? Seriously, my baat mitzvah wasn't yesterday, boys.

But now a new roadblock exists in my Quest to Masquerade as a Jew! Thanks to these dollar-savvy bastards, I can't claim my messages and see who wants to get under my hagorah until I fork over 35 bucks. Since I am a Gentile and not actually a Jewish banker like I had put on my profile, I cannot really afford to pay these lovely people for their services.

So I bounced this off a few of my precious inner circle peeps. And they're giving me money. Apparently it is really important to some of you that I find out who these guys are. Will I contact them? Are they suckers? Will they reference the kabbala in instant message? Should I tell them my name is Esther? And most importantly, will I confess that I am a shiksa who just loves cruising Fairfax between Santa Monica and 3rd, relishing my steamy fantasies?

If I make it to $34.95, you're going to hear all about it here. Oh yes, my darlings, you can count on that.

matzah makes me hotza. g

Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?

A part of me has died today.

I had two copies of the same DVD. I knew that the extra copy of Lord of the Rings: Two Towers had come from Best Buy. "No problem," I thought. "I can exchange it for the new Donnie Darko Director's Cut. I love you so, precious Best Buy." After my workout today, I headed over there, DVD in hand. I jauntily stepped up to the counter at the entrance, flashed what Ben the Best Buy employee called a "million-dollar smile," got my little pink "they didn't steal this" sticker, and picked out some DVDs to purchase.

I'll admit that there was an air of cockiness about me as I cruised through those aisles, carelessly tossing Fear and Loathing Criterion Collection and the entire Eerie Indiana series in my little basket. I'm not scared to say that I was at home in this store, where I have purchased so many electronics it would make your head spin. With service plans, nonetheless.

Donnie Darko in hand, I walked to the Customer Service Center. That smile was firmly in place, hand outstretched and ready for a quick and painless transaction. I was visualizing me on my couch, all curled up in my kimono sans underpants, watching the extra features. Laughing gaily at the Kevin Smith commentary. Loving life. Possibly munching on a Fuji Apple.

Then, a short dumpy Columbian woman named Miranda brought it all crashing down around my ears. "May I see your receipt?" she asked.

"Oh, it was a gift. But it came from here. See the sticker? I just want to make an exchange if I could."

"Gift receipt?" she said without feeling. Was that contempt in her eyes? Or glaucoma?

"No, I don't have one." When my neighbor handed the gift over to me, I didn't have the heart to tell her I already owned it. I figured I would quietly return it and we could STILL watch Two Towers when she came over to visit. No harm, no foul. Miranda was getting visibly agitated as I shifted from one foot to the other, searching for a solution. In a quick flash of genius I said, "I've been able to do this before. Did I mention that it still has the Best Buy sticker on it?"

"We only allowed that during Christmas." her putty-colored khakis strained against her thighs, making a noise only audible to dogs and jilted customers.

"See how it has the sticker on it, though? You're really beautiful."

And she exhaled sharply, rolled her eyes skyward, and said "There's nothing I can do for you."

I walked away, back past Ben at the counter. He looked at me and my moist eyes. "You didn't have a receipt, did you?" Suddenly all that kindness was gone. "Get the fuck out."

At least that's what I think he said.

I drove away, and a lone tear rolled down my cheek. Best Buy, my precious provider of cordless phones, LCD projection TVs, speaker stands, DVD players, CDs, and DVD goodness had turned its back on me. I was no longer special.

I wanted to march back in there, Reward Zone card in hand, and pull out a pair of scissors in the middle of the store. "What does this actually MEAN?" I would wail. "You don't value me as a customer or a person. You just use me and abuse me, eager for your next shot to see the inside of my wallet. Well, you can kiss my patronage goodbye, you're no better than Mussolini or Tonya Harding." I would cut the card up into eight equal pieces, in front of God and everyone. Then I would find Mister Buy himself and put each sharp piece of wretched plastic in his mouth and light him on fire.

I am hurting, my darlings. Something I believed in has been revealed as a lie. A big, fat no-returns-without-receipt lie. My heart feels heavy. I need a nap. I also need to return this f'ing DVD. Life is shit.

forsook. g

It's Everywhere

-Two beautiful women sit at a table in a chic cafe. Their heads are often thrown back by the deep, loud laughter coming out of their mouths. One woman keeps adjusting her yellow cashmere cardigan that hands around her perfectly tanned shoulders. Finally, after doing this several times, the other woman lovingly leans across the table and fixes it for her so it stays. The woman wearing the cardigan grabs the other woman's hand and kisses it gently.

-In a grocery store, a young man and a woman wander down the frozen food aisle. Their eyes are bloodshot, and they are giggling constantly. They find their way to the frozen pizza, and they spend a solid fifteen minutes pondering one pizza versus the other. Suddenly, he arbitrarily picks one and grabs one out of the freezer. She squeals with delight, and they kiss. They walk to the checkout line hand in hand.

-At the movies, there is a couple in the back hidden by the dim lights. They are close together, and there is little movement between them. As they enter, people politely avert their eyes because they know why the shape continues to change slightly but doesn't separate. Even after the movie has ended the two remain in their seats, as though they haven't noticed the lights have come up.

-A man in his early 30s gives the hotel desk clerk his credit card. His wife doesn't know that he has reserved the hotel's finest suite for them, and that he has booked her a massage with the finest masseuse that side of the Mississip. He figured that she deserved it for all the years she worked while he persued his masters degree. In only 2 short hours she will come home from work and find a car there waiting, ready to bring her over. The man takes the key he has just been handed and turns it over a few times in his palm. His smile wrinkles his nose, just how it did when they were in high school and she asked him to the Homecoming Dance.

-She carefully adds the finishing touch to his Valentine. Lots and lots of glitter. She knows that it will be the most impressive one in the class and that she will absolutely win his adoration. She can't lose. It is lovingly slipped into a large envelope and his name is printed on it in all capital letters. She holds it to her chest for a brief instant and wishes herself luck that she knows she will not need.

It's all around you, my darlings. Even if you don't have the thing you think you need this holiday, open your eyes and remember that life is full of gorgeous little moments.

You should be glad you are here to witness them.

Happy Valentine's Day. g

All my friends know the Low Rider

I just heard the coolest thing. And by "coolest," I mean totally lame in real life, and great for the fickle world of Fashion Sense.

The Virginia State Legislature has instituted a low-riding pants fine. If anyone is caught exposing their undies in a lewd manner, they'll be fined 50 smackers and have to appear in court.

Now, I am in agreement with Cher and Dionne of "Clueless" fame: pants that don't fit are super stupid and in a perfect world should be banned. There should be a fashion policeman in every store, saying things like, "Now son, those don't quite fit right. Don't you want to show off your package to all those nice folks out there? Just hand over these size 42s for a respectably slim, hot 34. Atta boy...slowly...no sudden moves...here's one with a little stretch to it, don't be frightened..." This, as we already know, is not a perfect world, so guys get to wear whatever they want.

In the recent past, thank Christ, they have started choosing correctly. Skinny pants are back, thanks to the old school rockers like Jack White and everyone in the Strokes. This has tipped the Fashion Balance, forcing gents to at least come to the middle ground of pants that fit snugly around their precious little narrow man-hips. Rarely can a male be seen sporting jeans that could house a few Ethiopians, barely clinging to his frame with one of those braided belts. If they ever pop up, they are ridiculed back into hiding at the rave or the Jon's supermarket.

Apparently in Richmond we still have a problem. I guess Fabrizio can't reach everybody. Don't they have Diesel stores in Virginia? Why don't these guys get it? Buy pants that fit and chicks will gladly take them off you. Suddenly, with pants that fit, you can stop using your hands to perpetuate this neverending bottom-bearing farce. Instead, your hands have all this free time to fondle breasts or do some great drugs with celebrities. Think of the possibilities, youngsters! YOU COULD BE COOL AGAIN.

This is a huge victory for fashion. In reality, though, it's been met with raised eyebrows. Is this sort of punishment geared toward black males? Won't this whole court thing take their parents away from work and kind of mess things up? The woman sponsoring the bill is black. One of the bill's biggest opponents is black, too. This could get messy.

And I ask you, my darlings, what new clashes between the private sector's fashion choices and state legislatures are in store for us? Will Cali ever tell Paris that little dogs are totally yesterday's news? Will Iowa tell their farmers to get nicer boots? I find myself occasionally offended by other's fashion decisions...can we make a bill to get them to stop?

On a side note, I think we should get the guys from Queer Eye For The Straight Guy to be our town Fashion Police. They can be pulled around town on a gilded chariot. "What kind of horses will pull it?" you ask, in your adorable naive way. "Not horses," I say with a naughty wink, "Chippendales dancers."

Next Week: Grae solves the Israeli-Palestinian conflict with fabulous Ikea furniture and chewy snacks with lots of nougat.

Done and Done. g

Ring Ring...Psych

Upon my return to the book which is the source of my despair, He's Just Not that Into You, I am learning more truths. The big'un? If he's not calling, he doesn't care.

Even guys, with their charming cluelessness, know how to work a fucking phone. If you're on their mind, they call. It occurs to them. It doesn't matter why they have you on the brain--maybe they're busy appreciating renaissance-period art, and think that your love of post-modernsim warrants a good old-fashioned ribbing. Maybe they're thinking of you in that black lacy number giving a lap dance. Whatever. They call.

We know this from the courting period, when it is important to impress. We know that guys can, in fact, get their shit together and dial digits. Even if they have fat ass fingers and little to no brain power, they call. They also are generally resourceful enough to substitute some other form of communication for phoning if the dial tone scares them in a deep dark place.

So, when the phone sits dormant, when that special ringtone is absent from your consciousness, and there is no pleasant and familiar vibration in your pocket, it hits you.

You don't matter.

He is somewhere else, doing someone/thing else and doesn't give a flying fig about you or your day or your schedule for the weekend. He ain't telling you no stories. Hopefully, you too are doing someone/thing else and it doesn't even occur to you until you are ready to pass out from coming so hard or laughing so deeply or digesting such a full belly of fine foods. Or all of those things.

When you realize this, you will be better off. The pain ebbs away eventually and it morphs into a truth. Soon it becomes a callous and you accept that things work out the way they're supposed to.

Zinger. g

Bitches, You Talk Too Much

Hey ladies. We're friends, right? We can talk like adults, right? You can take some constructive criticism from me, yes?

Stop the talking.

Chicks certainly talk too much. We forget that dudes need some silence to make the magic happen. Some of us deal with the kind of cocksucker that wishes his bitch wouldn't talk at all and would just get To Work (that's what you get for taking home your customers from Hooters, dumb ass). The majority of us, though, are used to dealing with men who enjoy attractive women who can think their way out of a paper bag. They might find it cute that you enjoy Steinbeck and have something to say about foreign policy. But, my darlings, even those guys still like a moment of silence so they can think about how you look naked.

This is coming from one of the wordiest wordsmiths out there, by the way. I love chatting people up and learning more about their lives. I am comfortable in almost any situation, and that comes from the fact that I know my audience. I can talk some jive if you feel like it, or I can pop in some SAT-caliber words and start an old fashioned debate. I pride myself on being pretty versatile.

I am having to learn this lesson just like you. I have been observing men lately and realizing that my whole "independent (talkative) woman" act isn't a complete turn-on. I never let guys be guys. I get a little weirded out when dudes do all the paying. I have to make an effort to make things even so no one thinks I'm taking advantage.

What has this attitude gotten me? Lots of mixed signals and dead ends. I'm not sure that some guys know what to make of my self-assured "I don't need you" vibe. I speak my mind and I don't take anybody's shit for too long. I wear a rhinestone belt buckle that spells out "Anal." I am not sure what that has to do with the topic, but now you know.

Anyway, my approach isn't working.

A chick came on Howard Stern and said "I'm a New York 8, why can't I get a date?" and the answer was that she was annoying. She talked all the time, never let anyone tell her ANYTHING, and she was way too overbearing. Take a lesson from women like this, my beloved girlfriends. It's not you against the world. Sometimes when you let that side of you peek out, the one that likes it when boys smack you on the ass and buy you lingerie, it makes you that much more attractive. We are multi-faceted, goddamnit. We can like Dostoyefsky, play poker, AND let a guy put a jacket over a puddle to ensure our safe travels. That's what living in this century is all about. Shut the fuck up and let him do you, for Chrissake. Then play a different game the next night. Rejoice in girliness. Who's with me?

tickle fight. g

A Tough Question

I am guilty of fearing the future and missing the moment. I think most of us are. This subject has taken up a large share of my thoughts lately. My spidey-sense is telling me that it's time for me to suck it up and learn something valuable about myself. Something that I have chosen not to learn so far...and I think this whole "living in the NOW" is part of it.

Answers reveal themselves in weird ways. Sometimes Warren Beatty is sent to you, for instance, to reveal life's truths AND make your ass pitch perfect.

I don't have any goals that warrant constant life-manipulation. I think life is wasted if you try TOO hard. Confidence and a little effort is all it takes to get through the day, week, and year. I was sitting here, in the empty office, thinking about the future in a curious, "Hey, I've never really considered this" kind of way.

Where do you see yourself in ten years? Take a minute to really answer this question. Don't immediately say "I'm going to be a successful author/actor/proctologist." Really think about it. What is your gut telling you? Are you going to change paths from attempting to become a Senator to becoming a farmer? Will you be married? Will you have a child that you resent? Any traveling, any sex with strangers? A near-fatal accident? Newfound religion? Disease that you miraculously recover from?

Don't think about what you WANT. Think about what really happens to people. We're young and full of dreams, but we can go either way. Outrageously successful or blinding failures. Which one are you? Your answer might surprise you.

But it's difficult to be surprised when you can't really answer the question. I personally don't even want to WRITE some of the possibilities that are dancing on the edges of my brain. I feel like it might unleash some kind of prophecy that will hang over my head for the rest of my life. Now THAT'S fear of the future.

Ten years ago, I had my first serious boyfriend. We would escape to the local park and make out in his car. Usually we would come home late and try really hard to look like we weren't doing anything wrong with our rumpled clothing and over-bright eyes. We would get hassled by the cops for being out late at night. We felt invincible because we were crafty and were the leads of every play at school. The Lunch Bunch (the unofficial clique name) would have lunches (of course) at my boyf's house, make movies, laugh, and play Super Mario Kart. We flooded the basement once ("Righty TIGHTY!"). We drank. We kissed. We experimented. We got in trouble with our parents.

I never dreamed that in a decade I would live in LA. I play poker as many Tuesday nights as I can. I worked at a movie theater and met some of the greatest characters my life will ever know. I've edited some movies, had some screenings, won some contests. I have developed a love of yoga, acupuncture, and eating well, although I am still not a fucking vegetarian. I have learned what it feels like to get dumped by the guy you thought was the One, as well as dump the guy I think is the One. I have figured out what great sex is and the fact that you don't have it with everybody. I have a way better wardrobe than I did then. I've seen everyone go through pain, accidents, deaths, and fights. I've been homeless. I've cried a lot, laughed even more.

So what's in store? The whole point is not to think too much. Life is scary, but we just cruise through it with superficial fear--generally, we always make it through. We don't have real, bone-crushing fear, because that would render us unable to function. That kind of trepidation comes from REALLY stopping to think what might happen. Try to relax and edge out ALL that doubt, my darlings. Even superficial fear can ruin your day.

Lefty lucy. g

Food for Thought

This morning I woke up, hit the gym, and immediately had my mind Blown by Warrren Beatty/my trainer. I had no sooner started my hip adductors when he looked at me and my workout partner Janna and said, "I'm on a new head trip today, ladies. Own where you're at." and I kind of rolled my eyes in secret. He said, "People always want to be where they're not. If they're married, they want to be divorced...and the moment is here. Now." and he took a sip of his coffee. We all pondered that as our thighs burned from the weights. It's like he knew what's been spinning in my head for the past few weeks. Now THAT'S a good trainer.

The other thing, my darlings, is another deep meaningful thought from your friend and mine, Sir Eddie Furlong. If you recall, Eddie was arrested in '04 for attempting to free a tank of lobsters from a Kentucky supermarket. When asked why, he defiantly and courageously stated, "All I did was free their little claws, man. Lobsters are people too."

Yum. g

JACKPOT!

That's right, my darlings. I want to live in Jackpot, Nevada. Not the City of Sin, no. Not anywhere but this little town full of dreams called Jackpot.

Here I was, sitting at my computer and enjoying a frosty Diet Snapple (Lemon Iced Tea, to be exact). I popped open that shiny green cap and found out that, sadly, I did NOT win a new VW Convertible. Which, on a side note, is a good thing because I have no faith left in the Volkswagen brand.

Oh, you German devils, selling us your sub-par vehicles with door handles that peel and CD players that short circuit! To hell with your 40k warranty! Ach! I spit on the graves of your Nazi ancestors!

Sorry. My own Jetta problems getting the better of me.

Anyway, I didn't win. But, those nice folks at Snapple provided me with a little-known "fun" fact. There is a town in NV named Jackpot. I happen to think this is adorable. Imagine what life would be like in a quaint little desert town named Jackpot...

You wake up in the morning, throw your tanned, perfectly toned legs over the edge of the bed and yawn. You stretch, look over at your dashing, well-endowed husband who is playfully begging you to have a morning romp. "Oh no," you say with a smile, "You know that Billy Crudup and I are going for a hike with the orphans. How else will those little ones get any vitamin D if we don't take them out in the sun?" and your husband smiles, kisses you with tongue, and takes a shower.

As Beaudreau (your husband) runs off to work at some highly-paying low stress job, you thank god you don't have any obnoxious children ruining your perfect landscaping, peeing in your piano-shaped pool, or climbing up your Eames-style armoir containing all your designer clothes and jumping onto your NASA space-foam mattress.

You go for a hike with the orphans and BillyBo (your pet name for Mr. Crudup). You pick some wild flowers, sing some John Cougar Mellancamp, and listen as BillyBo makes up fake MasterCard ads.

"Pound of coke. $1000. High-profile hookers. $4000. Hiking with Orphans and you? Priceless." and you laugh and laugh.

The little orphans are happy...and also dirtier than they were before. You and BIllyBo laugh because you didn't think that was possible. When you arrive home, you eat a nice lunch of leafy greens with a lemon vinagrette, and some tomato and mozzarella sandwiches.

You have just settled down for your afternoon of watching famous foreign film while Tammy, the Vietnamese version of Donna Sommer, gives you a manicure and a pedicure. Here in Jackpot, Tammy speaks English all the time and never makes fun of you to her Vietnamese girlfriends in Vietnamese while she scrubs away your callouses. She does a full set for you and paints little polka dots on your toes, and stays to chat. Tammy loves Fellini, and says Amarcord is her favorite movie. You two have so much in common!

Beaudreau comes home at 4, like he always does. You take him up on that nice little romp idea he had in the morning, and then go to the neighborhood block party. There are fireworks, good friends, romantic kisses with your betrothed, and apple pie. Everyone has a chair, and everyone feels the beauty of the desert night sinking in around them. You spend the last moments of the night happy that you moved here from Paris, Switzerland, or Schenectady, whatever "paradise" you inhabited before, and you share the warmth that comes only from true happiness.

The next morning it all starts again. Such is life here in Jackpot, NV, where everyone is happy and no one has more than one arm.

Um. Wait a minute. That went south in the final moments. I think maybe life in Jackpot isn't what it was cracked up to be. Give me dirty streets, the homeless, gross fast food, and broken dreams. We're all better off here.

Triple Salchow! g

America and The Other Guys

I spent time on the treadmill this weekend watching the coverage of the election (and election violence) in Iraq. It really hit me that some people understand the importance of participating in your government. This is because they haven't had the right to speak up for ages. They walked to those polls risking Death so they could make their index finger all inky and show it to CNN reporters. Some people died. Some people murdered others. It is intense.

Obviously, in America, we casually stroll to the polls sometimes if we feel like it. Even in the last Presidential race that tons of people seemed to care about, only an average number of folks showed up. Ho hum. We had election parties, everyone went home depressed, and then we sent each other angry emails the next day. And as far as local elections go, I myself often have more important things to do on voting day, like trim my cuticles or heat up a chicken pot pie in the oven (which takes forever, in case you don't know).

What is to become of us as a nation? Where are we heading with our laziness and apathy?

Well, I now have realize that we're not headed for the Danger Zone. We have desire and beliefs. Americans are willing to turn off Sex and the City and fight for something.

Sony's music division has postponed the release of Fiona Apple's follow-up album to the juggernaut release sometimes known as "When the Pawn..." (or "Title" for the real fans). And if juggernaut means embarrassing flop, then that's what I mean. I'm not sure of the actual definition, since I'm propping my foot on my dictionary and it's just SO comfortable I don't want to move it.

They are telling Ms. Apple that her new album, approximately five years in the works, is not commercial enough and they won't put it out. They won't even give Ms. Apple a single.

Well, this was it for we Land Of The Free-ers. This was the last straw. They couldn't do this to US in the good ole land of the Red White and Blue. What did we do, you ask, to fight this injustice, this commercially-driven greed and heartlessness?

Six people showed up at Sony music to hang out on the street and stare angrily at the doors. Not one measly person, oh Sony-that-is-of-Satan, and not an overwhelming seven. SIX. Boo YAH. Six twenty-something people stood outside, sometimes letting out a whoop or a high five in support of their favorite artist. There was even a Scottish-American dude there. How Hot is that?

Apparently they like her because her "lyrics mean something" and she's has so much more integrity than that "Fucking tramp Britney Spears."

*Please note: I do not use quotation marks freely. That is a genuine quote from a 22-year-old woman standing in front of the doors.*

Although they agreed across the board that they would not allow Sony execs to throw poo at them in exchange for the album's release, they still stood there. They spoke their mind. To each other. In ear shot of others. And I bet those Sony bastard's ears just BURNED as those little angels stood outside, hovering on their clouds of righteousness and goodness as they hummed a few bars of "Criminal."

Yeah, we showed them. This a victory for all of us. Don't you feel better now?

Rock the vote. g