You Mean War of the AWESOMES (pt. 2)

War of the Worlds is a phenomenal film. This one will stand up against the test of time and continue to make audiences putty in its celluloid hands. The story is tried and true, obviously. We know it, and we've even seen another version of it onscreen. However, this one takes the stakes of over-saturation that threatened its success and yanks them out of the ground, allowing the film to soar into the stratosphere. Previous interpretations, celebrity gossip, and religion could not stop this juggernaut.

Let's begin with the plot itself. There is something about this particular vision of the story that sucks the audience member in and makes them the target, right along with Tommy and Dakota. A friend had an excellent point that I would like to repeat: there is no omniscient audience in this film. We experience things as the characters do, and that makes it scarier. Keeping in step with films like Signs, we are stuck in the basement with these people in peril, and we know what they know. Which is nothing. During the ferry sequence? We see few wide shots until the shit actually goes down--we're caught on the boat with them, and only when our heroes get far away do we see that this is much worse than we originally imagined.

This results in your HellCat feeling absolutely sick to my stomach for the last half of the film. How would they escape? Where can they even go? How are WE going to make it through this?

Although the film is basically just our heroes running like chickens with their heads cut off (by aliens) and not much else, Spielberg manages to work his magic anyway. Thank you, Friedman and Koepp for writing in some nice moments. These fucking professionals know that sometimes, characters make decisions that will change the course of the story...and they don't have to document the moment like Bill Pullman does in Independence Day, either. It can just be a look, with a little tear forming in the corner of an eye. Bless these men for letting the characters take the quiet, classy way out. Not once can I think of a moment where they overdid it. This is one of the reasons that the movie will hold up to numerous viewings 20 years down the road, unlike the previously mentioned Will Smith Alien-Punching fiasco.

(Can I please take a moment to say that I actually just re-watched "ID" with my family, and it holds up, for the most part. If you can ignore the cheesy swelling music, one-liners, and occasional shitty-looking fire effect, then it works really well. But you must make allowances for the film, no question. It's like your vaguely irritating and acne-scarred second cousin who always shows up to reunions--he's not a bad person, but you have to make an effort to like him. He ain't flawless.)

Anyway, the effects were stellar. We all knew they would be. No sense in dwelling on that. The aliens looked great, were fucking scary, and rode in on bolts of lightning. You can't get much cooler than that, really. But! Notice that no landmarks were destroyed. What's this? Audiences can care about a film that involves the destruction of our planet without the first targets being the Statue of Liberty and the White House?! Zounds! We sure can if the destruction is as compelling as this film makes it.

As far as particular sequences go, I think that the initial reveal of the alien in NYC was terrifying. When that church front moves about a half block away from the rest of the church, I nearly shat myself. Then, the concrete taking a deep "breath" nearly gave me a seizure. Think about that. This scene nearly left me a smelly, tongue-swallowing motherfucker. No lie.

Tim Robbins shows up, and lets us all believe for approximately 10 seconds that he is normal and things might be okay for awhile. The audience doesn't even have time to ponder that, as we immediately get turned on our ear with the fantastic Hitchcockian tension of the aliens trying to find them in the cellar. Wind it up with the phenomenal "what happened behind that closed door" moment, and you've got yourself a killer end of the second act. All I have to say is, that's what happens when you let Democrats run things.

I think I was the first one in my area of the theater to realize that the aliens were actually fertilizing the planet with human blood. Can I repeat that for effect? Of course I can, this is my goddamn article. THEY WERE FERTILIZING THE PLANET WITH HUMAN BLOOD. And Tom Cruise found that out because he GOT SOME ON HIM. I let out an audible groan that had my movie-watching buddy Smith's eyebrows raised in curiosity...that remains one of the most awful, horrible realizations I've had in a movie since I realized that Howard the Duck was not, in fact, a real duck.

Let me spend a moment defending everyone's fav wacko, Mister Cruise. There is a reason he's a movie star and we've been forking over our hard-earned cash to watch him dance in his undies and fly planes and swing samurai swords. He's great. Case closed. I loved how this team let this character be a little more aware of his surroundings than is customary for our "running away from harm" characters. Keep an eye out the next time you see this film for the way he studies the creatures by giving just a second-longer glance than everyone around him. The little things about this character make me buy everything he does hook, line, and sinker.

Let's talk about this missteps. Real quick. The same pal I mentioned earlier had ANOTHER great point that the whole "machines buried for millions of years underground" thing didn't hold weight. It is kind of silly. If they put them there millions of years ago, how did they know humans would show up? And how could humans have avoided hitting them with subway systems and sewers and stuff? Hmm.

And the end? Oh, the end. Can't we PLEASE let Robby die?! I already came to terms with it. I had wiped my tears and moved on already. And then I had to take it all back. In addition, the fact that the rest of the family looked sparkling clean and unshaken made me cringe. Can we at least get some fucking ash on their face? Could they maybe put down that glass of hot chocolate? Can we get the wardrobe department to put a tear in their cardigans?! Why is the city in ruins, but this family is unscathed? AND THEIR SON HAS COME BACK TO LIFE? Bullshit, I say! Bullshit!

These not-so-wonderful script elements are outweighed by the rest of the film, so they can be swept under the metaphorical carpet in my mind. They are acceptable. If that's all they messed up, then okay. I'll take it. Compared to other summer flicks, these mistakes are miniscule. It's a victimless crime, like punching someone in the dark, as Nelson says.

WOTW is the first time in years that I have walked into a summer blockbuster that I was excited for, and walked out even MORE excited. I was doing little dances of joy. I wanted to make movies again. I couldn't stop giggling. You read part one, you saw how crazy I was. I was transported back to the days where I thought movies would always wow me, and would always deliver a wonderful evening. Back before I was hurt, before the rains came.

So, I don't give a fuck what you think. If you didn't like it, fine. But you're dead wrong. This film will live on, with each beautiful element aging like a box of fine wine that I will always want to sip from. Enjoy the rest of the summer, kids, but it ain't always going to be like this. We have to sit through lots of Hulks and Riddicks and Helsings to get to gems like this, so get your Jordan Almonds and prepare yourself.

amoebas rule. g

You Mean War of the AWESOMES (pt. 1)

SPOILER! SPOILER! Seriously, don't make me waste any more time mentioning that these next two entires are big, fat, joyous spoilers for the latest Spielberg flick War of the Worlds. Heard of it? You will...

Holy living fuck. Can I jump right to the bottom line here? Some movies manage to balance a story, living breathing chracters, and wicked special effects and turn it into a delightful menagerie of wonder. I haven't felt this giddy since I was a wee lass watching Jurassic Park.

War of the Worlds is a force to be reckoned with. I already want to go back and see it again. I am on an adrenaline rush that will last for a couple more hours, easy. Are you sensing that my sentences are choppy, and there is a decided lack of structure to my paragraphs? I can barely type the correct letters here, I'm so excited.

Sister Mary Francis! This is what movie-watching is all about!

This movie made me want to be a part of this industry all over again.

I was a little annoyed with the TomKat shit...all the publicity...all the speculation...it put me off my feed a little. A little. And two minutes into this flick, I forgot it all ever happened. I was drawn in, transcending myself and my problems and my uncomfortable bra and the fact that Adam Scott of Aviator and Monster In-Law fame thought I was funny and made eyes at me. None of that mattered.

All that mattered what that Ray was not the best dad in the world who had to protect his children when he didn't know how, and that Rachel was scared, and Robby was brave and cavalier and cocky. And people were dying. And no one knew what to do.

This movie is fucking scary. The whole second half made me nauseated, I was so scared. These aliens are badasses and they were here to wipe us out. US. Not the people on the goddamn screen my darlings, US.

I am not even going to launch into the specifics of why I thought this movie was one of the most satisfying flicks I've seen in a long time. I am just going to let my fingers express how happy my heart is right now. I am going to let my heart keep beating at rabbit-speed, and let my cheeks ache from the smiling.

I'll explain myself better in the second half of this essay, which I will write after I have gotten some sleep and returned to the Land of the People Who Might Not Have Seen This Movie Yet. It's not necessarily a place I want to be, but I will return to it nonetheless.

Right now, just know that this movie is not to be missed. Get that Hollywood Big Budget Films Suck chip off your shoulder and see this remake. Learn why this story couldn't lose, and see how it achieves a spot in my honored and exclusive DVD collection PRONTO, NO QUESTION. THE CAPITAL LETTERS MEAN THAT I AM FUCKING SERIOUS.

And no, for those of you wondering, I have not ingested any foreign substances into my body except for a Baja Fresh burrito. Maybe the chicken was bad, sure, but I'll take it!

Stay tuned for the more coherent PART TWO. g

Past My Bedtime...

I stayed up late, devouring this book "A Million Little Pieces." James Frey managed to suck me into this world, where I was educating myself on what addiction feels like and how addicts act and what happens to people around them. I nearly ripped the book of its spine finishing it, I was so engrossed. As the tears roll down my face, I feel sad that the journey has ended. I knew the people he spoke of in the novel. As each page turned, I felt more and more like they were my ex, my friends from school, lovers, that guy in the BMW that cut me off in Hollywood today, and people from my future.

I think maybe I am finally starting to get it.

My biggest problem in dealing with DJ lately is that I know that I have read what depression and the rest of his problems look like on paper. But past my minor addiction to chocolate and haute couture, I do not UNDERSTAND what he is going through. I feel like it's important to make that word mean something important. I get it, sure, but I do not UNDERSTAND.

After reading this book, I feel so much more enlightened. I saw the problems he had communicating with his parents, who didn't understand either. I saw how much he hated himself. I saw the depth of his terror when he thought about The Fury inside him. I felt like he let me inside to see all the things I was having trouble imagining.

Some people have called his memoir a self-aggrandizing piece of trash that is poorly written and representative of the disgusting excess of the bourgeoisie. To me, though, it is a wake up call. It is a beautiful bell ringing in my ear, showing me that I don't have the answers and that is okay. I can't do anything to help and that is fine. If I want to hold this closely to me, I must let it go.

If eating the pages would bring this lesson closer to me, I would do it.

Weeks ago, when I purchased this book along with two others, I had no idea what it was. I just thought the whole "waking up on an airplane with no front teeth and a hole in your cheek" thing sounded fucked up. Of course, the others I bought were the ones I read first, and this came along right when I needed it most.

Two weeks ago, it would have meant less. Tonight, it means everything. This morning, it has brought me peace.

rest. g

Lighten Up

The past few days have been pretty heavy. I know, my darlings, that you're no stranger to this declaration. As I stepped out of the shower, I remembered that I have the power to take my day in a certain direction. I could be mopey and sad and cry uncontrollably, or I could put on a flirty ensemble and chew some gum in a seductive manner.

So I did both. First came the crying fit. Then came the blue velour skirt and Juicy Fruit. I also moisturized extra well and pretended that I wanted my hair to do what it's doing right now.

I remember when my dad and I would go SCUBA diving in the Gulf of Mexico when I was younger. We would go out on a boat that held about ten other people including crew, and travel to the middle of the gulf to a place called the Flower Gardens. It was always fun, to be out there with my dad.

Sometimes, though, I got seasick. I wouldn't say that I got sick regularly enough to KNOW that I'll get nauseated every time land disappears from my sight, but I do recall a couple of times where things were really nasty. The only thing that helped me feel better was getting in the water and swimming down where the whole suspended-in-air feeling took over.

The last thing I wanted to do was get into a wetsuit, put on heavy gear, and then take a six-foot fall off the side of the boat into the waves. But I knew that once I got in and could descend, I would find peace.

That's sort of what needs to happen right now, I think. I am fighting the inevitable here, and there's only so much time before I am forced to technicolor yawn over the side of the rail and jump in the water.

So, here I go. Loading up the gear, zipping up the suit. No, you won't have to push me. I can get in on my own, thanks.

Thanks. g

Clinging

I feel like today is an exercise in trying to hang on. No, nothing is specifically wrong. The sky is blue and the breeze is blowing.

Something's just not quite right.

I cracked open a new book today, entitled "A Million Little Pieces," by James Frey. It is his account of 6 weeks in rehab. He checked in after he awoke on a plane that he didn't put himself on, with a hole in his cheek, a broken nose, various bodily fluids collecting on his clothes, and sans four front teeth.

I have been steadily turning the pages, getting more and more ill. I know nothing of pain or suffering. The night my parents stayed up waiting for me to return after an adventure that kept me out until 4 AM is nothing compared to what this dude's parents saw.

Sweet Jesus, I hope DJ doesn't end up like this guy.

For the past few days, I have only been keeping a half-step ahead of the anxiety and sadness. Every once in a while, it makes a move and threatens to disturb me. I am tormented by thoughts of him, and what it is actually going to take to get him to straighten up and be the man he could have been. At this point, I'd like for him to have slightly better-than-average odds of staying alive. That's all I'm asking.

I don't know what it's like to be addicted to something they put you in a hospital for--I've discussed this. What will be his moment? Will he end up with dental work and a missing chunk of time from his life? Or will he just end up dead?

In a perfect world, I could get him to stop just by sending him the lyrics of our favorite Billy Joel song with a small note saying, "It doesn't have to be like this." Maybe, in a ballsy move, I could send him this novel and write the same thing on the inside cover. He would frown, read the inscription, and re-read it. He might throw the book across the room, or crumple up the lyrics. Then, he would sit on his bed, in his purple room, and hold his head in his hands. He would remember how much fun we had when life was all about watching movies, eating as much Chick-Fil-A as we could handle, and fucking around in his basement. Suddenly, he would slam his fist into his palm and want to reclaim his life.

He would check in to a magical rehab clinic, where his desire to self-medicate would be quelled and his meds would kick in. He would pick up his guitar and write a chart-topping song. And, on the day that he walked out of those doors, he would understand that the sun was shining in celebration of his triumph.

...And the metaphorical hammer comes out and smashes this dream to pieces....

Because life rarely works out like this. Sandra Bullock really mislead us in "28 Days." Rarely do addicts see success early on. Just ask Augusten Burroughs. Jesus, just ask anyone. Who can stop cramming their faces full of hamburgers and coca colas? Who stops shopping? Which one of the holier-than-thou motherfuckers wandering this Earth can say that they tackled their dirty little secret the first fucking time they tried?

Even I'm not that high and mighty.

So, my darlings, this weighs heavily on my mind. It's hard to appreciate wonderful weather and all the amazing things life has to offer when someone you love is slowly killing themselves.

I guess eventually this will not be such a hot topic. I will soon accept the inevitable, and continue taking my digestive supplements and working out. I will chase health and weath and enlightenment, and soon he will be a distant memory. How depressing.

sunshine. g

Changing your Perspective

This morning I rolled over, opened my eyes, and was overcome with sadness. I couldn't shake it as I put on my gym shorts and tank top and fixed my energy shake. As I got into my car, I realized that the loud, smashing chords coming from my White Stripes CD sounded like my insides felt. I knew what was bothering me. I knew why I was upset.

This entire chapter of my life is over.

I place a high value on the people I surround myself with. They are a part of me, somewhere a little to the left of my spleen and above my gall bladder. They are all special. I consider them part of what makes me who I am...

...and two of the most important ones are gone.

I don't mean that they've died or anything. I just mean that officially, two of them are no longer around and available for me anymore. They have moved on. They are somewhere else, in a land that does not know I exist. Or it's at least trying to forget, anyway.

These two people were the ones that I held closest to me. I sought their guidance and their love in some pretty rough times...and even when I left them, I always returned. Their importance always brought me back. It was hard to be without them. Now, we've all reached a point, for one reason or another, where there's no looking back.

I went on a hike so I could have a chat with myself. I needed to straighten some things out. I needed to talk with the big guy himself, get the chemicals flowing, and stop feeling terrible.

Although I do, in fact, have a face and do not know what true suffering is, I was still feeling bad. I know that when my head gets like this I need to rise above it...literally. The canyons were a callin'.

As my heart pumped furiously and my breath became scarce, I realized that there are two ways I can go. I can dig my heels in, scream bloody murder, and get some premature wrinkles on my face. The other option is to cherish what I had, and have faith that things will work out the way they should in the end. Maybe someday things won't be like this. Perhaps, down the line, everyone will get what they want.

I need to learn how to draw strength from the fact that I miss them terribly. I need to make every important moment a testament to them. And every time I look out over this wonderful, crazy city, I'll know that my faith is all I've got. I'm thinking of you, boys. Always.

what a view. g

My Addiction

I have addiction on the brain. Usually, it's not something that the cops need to know about, but they more often than not they end up costing you a lot of bucks. Sometimes, when you tell other people about yours, they kind of wrinkle their noses and silently judge you. And you might not always feel comfortable letting other people know you're even addicted to it in the first place.

As always, I have been turning the microscope on myself. What will be my downfall? What fatal flaw does my character have in this play?

The answer? Panties. Feel uncomfortable yet? You will.

I was cruising around the mall yesterday. I saw a man and a woman, hand in hand, smiling at each other. They were walking, and the woman caught sight of something and started veering towards it. The man was unawares, as he was scratching a bug bite and looking at his forearm. All of a sudden, he looked up in the direction they're heading and yanked back on his lady friend's arm. "Oh no. No. Uh-uh. No way." he said. He began backpedaling, like an animal does when you try to drag it through the door to the vet's office. She was laughing (thank goodness) and chasing after him. I wondered what store can create such a rift between two lovers...and I saw that it was Victoria's Secret, in the midst of a semi-annual sale.

I tried to steer clear of it. The bright colors, lace, and multitude of cranky women was almost enough to discourage me. Almost. Instead, a calm came over me (Panty Auto-Pilot?) and I wandered straight over to the bins marked M.

"I don't have to buy anything. I can just look," I thought haughtily to myself. Then, that familiar feeling washed over me. The intense desire to acquire just "one more pair of tangas," and "something else in that adorable color pink" was too much for me. I began to load up a bag that magically appeared on my arm from some comrade nearby.

It's almost like I blacked out. I can't really remember sifting through the bins, but somehow, when I came to, I had a partially filled sack with underpants. There were blue ones with polka dots, a pair of short shorts, a tank top, and a pair of periwinkle brazilian tangas edged in navy blue.

"Where did this all come from?" I wondered aloud. The lady next to me looked up with a hint of sadness in her eyes as she added a pair of yellow striped bikini bottoms to her pile. She shook her head with a manic jolt as if to say, "Just pull out your credit card and get the fuck out while you still can. Save yourself, sister!"

I remembered the last time this happened. On that trip, I had compromised what I had thought was a cardinal rule: No panties with the little peek-a-boo hole in the back. Are y'all familiar with this model? About 6 months ago, panties started popping up in our consciousness that have little, quarter-sized holes right at the top of the butt crack. They are fastened together with laces or cute buttons or ribbons. I was initially mortified, thinking that only tiny thin girls with perfect asses were allowed to wear these in catalogs, and never in real life.

Then, on that one fateful day, I saw some pairs that were on sale, cute, and with tasteful-sized cutouts that didn't scream "I like Anal, come over and bring some Courvoisier with you." I thought they would be a nice change from the norm, so I adopted them and took them home. Dagnabbit, I was right. They're presh. They earned a spot in the regular rotation.

It was that group of newbies that made me realize my underwear drawer was getting maxed out. Armed with the fierce determination to slash and burn the collection of unmentionables that I am now mentioning, I moved out the old cotton pairs that were too big and faded from many faithful years in combat. I couldn't help but think of that feminine secret that special undies are for when company will be seeing them, and cotton is for everyday comfortability. What a stupid rule! Hot underwear can be super comfortable, too. Maybe even more so, in fact. So, I stopped buying the 100% cotton ones, figuring that the ones I already own will do just fine. Not every day can be a rhinestone-studded thong day, after all.

Ever since, I have been buying specialty pairs. I feel as though this makes a statement such as, if asked, I will be happy to take my pants off! And I will do it WITH PRIDE! Yes, ye non-believers! I know that I am always daring, adventurous, and choosing to sheath my swimsuit area in a fine selection of lycra and other stretchy fabrics! Take THAT, establishment! This girl has gone WILD! If she gets in a car accident (knock on wood), the medics will be wowed by her choice of sassy string bikinis or lacy bootie shorts!

As a result of this new "stick it to ya" attitude, my backpack will be slightly heavier upon my return to LA. If anyone in security chooses to examine my bags closer, I might get a Hot Date out of it.

search me. g

Saved

I deserved a great day today. After a night of restless sleep and nightmares when I actually DID sleep, I awoke feeling empty and sad over what transpired last night. I was still laughing too, of course, because that "you never loved me" text was really genius, but that's not the point.

I spent the day reminiscing with old friends. I laughed so hard that my abs are burning...

Thomas and I grabbed some Mexican food at our favorite joint Benny's. If I had to describe my old teacher Thomas, I would say he's like Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, if that character also loved Linda Ronstadt, disco, dirty jokes, and making fun of stupid people.

He entertained me with stories of one bi-polar teacher that decided, out of the clear blue, that "talking was an addiction" and thus remained silent for 2 weeks out of principle. He also threw in a description of the senior prank this year...it involved the seniors getting a hold of the graduating classes' mailing addresses (given to them by the bi-polar teacher during one of his chemical spikes). They sent out letters stating that their graduation site is under construction, so the ceremony had to be held in the high school auditorium. Since it is too small, a lottery would be performed to see who would actually walk in the ceremony.

Now, a quick call to the school alleviated any parental concern...if they happened to miss the fact that the principal's name was spelled wrong in the signature line and that it was not on official South High letterhead. I guess the office phone line was ringing off the hook that day.

Then, it was off to dinner with MPoor! I was particularly excited about this reunion, since we haven't seen each other in about 5 years. I went to his prom with him my senior year...and he remains one of my favorite people of all time. Recently, he found me on myspace and we have been communicating ever since.

We ate some lovely Italian food and chatted up the waiter. We reminisced, ate, talked about movies, ate some more, and discussed our (fascinating)lives. It was great to sit across the table from this man for 3 hours and reconnect. Warm fuzzies are dancing in my tummy knowing that some things don't change, and some people will always be wonderful.

So, as I sign off for the night, worry not for me, my darlings. Soon, the diary-esque stint that this blog has been on will come to an end, and instead I will talk about watching Deadwood in my undies. But there will be some life lesson in it.

snuggle. g

So This is What it's Come To

**PLEASE NOTE: This is the fourth installment of the "Rocky Mountain High" series. In case you hadn't picked up on it yet, these entires are geared more towards being diary entries than anything else, so read at your own risk. If I don't write, I might blow a gasket and not make it back to LA. And we don't want that to happen now, do we? DO WE?!**

I was having such a lovely night. My family and I were partaking in Independence Day, laughing at the cheesy music and remarking on the relatively-advanced effects. We were munching on pork chops and baked potato, enjoying the breeze...

...and then he called.

I haven't spoken to the coke-addicted ex since he ditched me Thursday. He left me a message yesterday, expressing a desire to discuss some off-color comments I had made about his illness and recovery that had hurt his feelings. I called back, thanking him for the call and inviting him to call ME back. Tonight, the phone rang.

Rewind: When we were driving home from the airport, I inquired about what he was doing these days to be healthy and depression-free. I mentioned, perhaps not as gently as I should have, that sometimes one's chemicals are changed by diet and lifestyle, and this might help his medication take hold. Maybe he could change his life.

I guess that was self-righteous of me. I don't know what it's like to be him. I don't know what it's like to want to kill myself, or to punch someone in the face while I'm having sex with them (except by accident), or have doctor after doctor fail you and make you feel like a fucking nutcase. I don't know. I don't understand. I never will.

This didn't stop him from trying to explain. He called me and began this condescending explanation of his illness, and when I said "Thank you for reaching out to me and explaining this to me instead of letting it fester," I thought that would be enough. He wasn't satisfied by that and kept imploring me to UNDERSTAND. "I just want you to understand. I don't want you to thank me for explaining. I want you to understand." It dawned on me that this begging stemmed from the fact that he had been downing vodka perriers all night long and thought he comprehended what the fuck he was rambling about.

Well, I got hot under the collar. He couldn't tell me what he wanted the end result of this conversation to be. He mumbled something about wanting to strip this problem down to it's barest form and for the lines of communication to open. That did it. I went on a rampage.

I asked him how he thought that his meds would take effect if he kept drinking and doing coke. I told him that I know his family is full of addicts and sickies, and that he was living too hard to even start to get better. I also mentioned it was not okay with me that he left me to rot because his liquor was more important. He didn't give a shit about my safety, and didn't give a shit about me, so that made him an addict AND a prick.

"I know! Why else do you think I go to therapy and a psychiatrist? What, do you think I'm a fucking retard?!" he said.

"I'm beginning to wonder," I said. And he hung up.

The Mighty G figures (via phone) that he is so loaded he'll never be able to find my house and slash my parent's tires or throw a molotov cocktail through my window (knock on wood). I also predict that we will never speak again, and my last words to him will be an implication that I think he is mentally deficient.

I'm not sorry I said any of that. I am not sorry that I gave him a hard time. Maybe I should have some remorse, but I don't. I would give up lots of things in this life if it meant he could function in this world.

But that's not the way it works.

Guess this is one for the history books, my darlings. And I didn't even get to see the end of my movie. What a fucking night.

g

(Editor's note: This was not, in fact, the last conversation we were destined to have. He has been texting me, first accusing me of being "cold so that it's easier to write [him] off." The second message said "fuck you. you never loved me"

He didn't even put a period at the end of the sentence. I guess that means we really are through.

*This note brought to you by the people at T-Mobile. Keeping people connected.* )

Peliculas Con mi Mama

If the cinema-junkie element of my personality has to be attributed to someone, I guess it would be my mom. This is the woman who grew up going to the picture show for a nickel, and watching the same flick all day long until it got dark. She would walk home reliving the dance steps or intense dialogue of the films she watched, and has barely forgotten them to this day. This woman has even decorated her home in a style straight out of some elegant 50s picture, like The Man Who Knew Too Much or Showboat or something. No, seriously, we have an entire room done in peach that no one can walk in without her carping about it.

Anyway, these days, when I come home, the only thing my family can do together is watch sports or movies. So, I am responsible for everything involving the latter--fixing the cable, hooking up the VCR correctly, or choosing the film fare for the night.

You gotta be careful with the films my parents see these days. They only dig certain kinds of NEW films. If you were to get them The Eddie Duchin Story or Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, you know that the reaction will be favorable. However, suggest going to see Mr. and Mrs. Smith at the local multiplex and they'll give you the full exaplanation as to why they have to wash their hair that night.

They generally like action flicks with stars they recognize like Arnold Schwarzenegger. I got them to watch Phone Booth even though they didn't know who Colin Farrell is, and they ended up enjoying it (they didn't even know he is Irish!). My mom likes watching some scary movies, even though when I showed her Scream she had to stop the video and excuse herself four times to get either water or an aspirin before Drew Barrymore was even dead.

They're not nuts about documentaries, but will put up with them if the topic is easy to follow. My sister showed them Super Size Me last night and they were adequately horrified and outraged...kind of the same way they felt when she showed them Farenheit 911. Except of course, that they felt horrified FOR George Bush.

This trip, my mom has said some stuff that makes me take pause. I suggested we watch DeLovely because she loves Cole Porter. I had heard her say "Ashley Judd sure is talented. She is so popular right now! It's good to know that one of the Judds is on the right track," so I figured that she might get a kick out of it. For some reason, she was less than enthused (hates the gays?) and instead suggested we rent Mulholland Drive. For those of you who don't know her, my mom knows nothing of David Lynch and would not be one of his biggest fans. I asked her why she wanted to see it, and she said, "Because it's obviously about that street right by your house in California! Why else?!"

She went on to mention that she wanted to see a "ton" of movies that came out around the same time as Mulholland Drive. For a minute I actually wrinkled my nose and tried to think of some suggestions, and then it hit me: Mom probably thinks that Finding Nemo , Airplane, and The French Connection came out at the same time as Mullholland Drive.

So, it was a lost cause. She's going to have to find her hastily-scribbled "Movies to Rent" list that she makes when she knows I'm coming into town if she wants me to take her suggestions into account at the Blockbuster.

She also randomly mentioned that she is positive Morgan Freeman's popularity comes from the blackheads on his cheekbones. My sister gently explained that those are freckles, and my mom responded "Well, my freckles don't look like that!" I'm hoping this means that my mom is completely color blind and doesn't realize that she is a WASP and Morgan Freeman is black. More than likely though, it means that she is getting older and has no idea what she is saying.

She is currently going through the TV listings that come in the Rocky Mountain News and reading every movie on TV tonight, starting at 8PM. She also likes to decide between films based on the stars next to the name. What mom hasn't considered is that some sad, anonymous soul over at RMN does this for a living, and most likely hates film. Maybe this person, let's call her Imogene, failed out of grade school and has spent her entire life blaming her failure on the fact that Jurassic Park gave her unrealistic expectations of life. And now she has worked her way from selling glowy earrings at Red Rocks concerts to the Star Person at the Rocky Mountain News, and she has a taste for blood in her mouth.

Moms just asked me if I would rather watch Spiderman 2 or Wild Things. That sweet, sweet, clueless woman.

Regardless of all this madness, I must raise my cyber-glass to her and toast to her and her love of celluloid. Thanks, Moms. Tonight I'll bring home The Bone Collector and we can all eat some popcorn.

Praise Be

This morning, my cell phone alarm went off at 6:15 AM as planned. It was time to get ready for church. My parents have gone Turbo-Christian, and this is part of their weekly routine. Having said that, we are still able to conduct conversations without them trying to convert me, so I choose to support them in their endeavor and attend church with them when I'm in town.

I was at a wedding yesterday and mentioned that I thought I could wear the same ensemble to church. When I put it the white tank top and brown fitted jacket on, my mom said, "Oh, honey, that's too revealing." My sister tried to stick up for the Max Azria top, to no avail (it must be from his Heathen Collection). Mom did back off a little, saying that maybe that outfit was appropriate for the SECOND service, but not for the first one we were attending. I mentioned that the second services everywhere were attended by the loose women, but she only giggled a little and looked mostly disturbed by that idea.

When we finally arrived, we were an hour early for the service. Mom likes to get there way early while it's quiet. Unfortunately, that also means that she's always shushing us. My sister blew her nose in the bathroom, and outside the bathroom door my mom whispered, "Shhh!"

When people started arriving, that's when the introductions started. My sister is the award-winning songwriter (buy her CD here). Unfortunately, no one understands or cares about film editors, so my mom turned me into the "Editor, Director, Actress, and Singer" even though I have only acted once in the past 6 years and only sing in my shower.

She also mentioned that one of the films that I directed went to Sundance. Amid the fake oohs from the listener (who barely knew what Sundance was), I could only help but think "I was actually the cinematographer." But whatever. I wish that I had been introducing myself, so I could say that I am the "Editor, Contortionist, Director, Shuffleboard Champion, Actress." Then I would have ripped my sweater open to reveal the shirt that says "Jane Fonda is my hero." Maybe I could top that off by running onto the stage and attempting to sing a hymn, but instead of saying "Jesus" or "Him" I would say "Homeboy."

The service was uneventful. I figured that since I had made it through the doors without instantaneously combusting, the rest was cake. While Pastor Shaddix was up there, discussing Exodus or something, I was trying to recall my naughtiest sexual encounters, times when I had used the Lord's name in vain, and my last flag-burning rampage. Still, no combusting. I think God was distracted by a choir member's garish pink hat.

We walked out of the service and into my parent's Senior Bible Study. When I entered, I noticed that the room smelled like Chanel No. 5 with a slight tinge of disillusionment mixed in. These cute oldsters were all puttering around, talking about things like the recent picnic and their hips. When my sister and I walked in, it was like they could sense the strength of our pulses and they instinctively stretched their withered fingers towards us, mouths open, chanting for either blood or denture glue. I couldn't tell which.

We were bombarded. My parents sit in the back row, and all these people pride themselves on being the obnoxious ones. Their nickname? "The Backsliders." We were forced to join these ruffians as our mom once again began her embellished introductions to the surging crowd.

The man presiding over the study looked exactly like Lewis Arquette. Most of the time, noise was coming out of his mouth, but they weren't coherent words. Every once in a while, he would say an actual sentence, but mostly there was just a gentle white noise eminating from his mouth. The geriatric population in the audience responded in kind while constantly bobbing their heads, reminding me of Skexxies, except nice.

When we exited the building, I felt a huge weight lift off my chest. I had heard my mom say numerous times that her daughters were living in LA, "where Satan does most of his PR." As I sat in the backseat of the Jeep, speeding away from the holy place, I smiled to myself over that observation. It's one of those funny-because-it's-true things. Mama doesn't know the half of it.

bless us. g

Denver, Land of Excitement

My early morning flight consisted of me grabbing a blanket and pillow, sitting down, nodding at the person on my left, and then drooling on myself for two hours while in a deep, dreamless sleep.

I awoke to exit the plane, and was immediately hit the wave of nausea and worry that comes from realizing a person with a cocaine/pill/booze addiction is going to be your ride...if he shows up. Luckily, after scanning the crowd, I spotted his avaiators among the crowd. Further investigation revealed a purposely-messy haircut, a black Prada polo, skinny jeans, and ankle boots. This was definetly my boy.

I had felt funny all morning. My lip was numb, my stomach hurt, and I was short of breath. As we drove to downtown Denver to get some lunch, the situation worsened. By the time we sat down to lunch, I was shaking. As luck would have it, the Almighty had arranged for DJ to pick me up that day so he could see my symptoms and inform me that I was not going to die. I was, according to him, having a panic attack. I guess the stress of returning home and seeing old friends was a little too much for me.

My beloved manic depressive ex is a walking pharmacy. So, we rode home with lunch in hand. He offered me one of his Lithium, and after I refused, he gave me one tiny Colonipin and a foot rub intead.

But the night was just beginning.

The plan was that I would be the designated driver for a group of 12-20 women celebrating Whip's wedding. We started off the night with party games, like sculpting penises out of Play Doh and dropping cocktail weiners into a simulated vagina made out of a moonshine jug. We also pinned the naughty bits on the Muscular Fireman poster (Oh, come on. He wanted it. Look how he was dressed).

The real challenge came with the cherry-eating contest. The woman who could ingest the entire bowl of cherries and whipped cream first would regain her virginity, and this one really got us all revved up. I didn't win (apparently Shawna, Whip's step-sister, needed her virginity back a little more than I did. No comment.).

Before we left the hotel room, I was bestowed with the Spirit Award. The prize? A purple vibrator. Hoorah! Sadly, I was not provided with batteries, and the vibe taunted me the entire night.

We dressed up Whip in her "Buck for A Suck" tank top covered in LifeSavers, gave her a pink boa, and set out for the bars. We were armed with penis straws, penis keychains, flavored lube, and copious amounts of cash. Downtown Denver was in trouble.

The first bar was made painfully aware of our presence, because Whip was forced to climb on a chair and announce "I'm getting married Saturday and would anyone like to suck a LifeSaver off my shirt?" A line formed, and I found myself disturbed that everyone in it looked both suspicious and hungry at the same time. We toasted numerous times, talked about ye days of olde, and swore a lot, all at an inappropriately loud volume. Everyone really loved us. We decided to spread the drunken joy over to Market street and got into the car.

I was driving an Expedition, and our directions to the next bar were bad. This caused me to have to occasionally careen around the street, regardless of city ordinances or pedestrian presence. I just kept screaming, "Look out, I'm from Los Angeles!" as the Humpty Dance blared on the car speakers.

The minute I dropped the girls off at the dance club, some guy ran off with Shawna's purse. He pushed her, she fell, and the cops came. They were followed by an ambulance AND a firetruck, although she only had a mildly-twisted ankle. Eventually, she insisted that they load her in the ambulance and Whip ushered us into the bar. As I cast a backward glance towards the vehicle carrying my newly-virginal friend, I saw her batting her eyelashes at the medic and touching her collar bones in that "Check out my knockers just south of here" kind of way. I knew our little girl was going to be just fine, so I entered the bar.

We asked the DJ to play "Let's Talk About Sex," and we all climbed onto tables, benches, and large men's backs in order to dance properly. A few songs later, someone produced breakfast burritos, and we piled back in the car to return home.

I had a plan for the night. I would get my stuff back from DJ and crash on his couch, then return to my house and say hi to my 'rents who would have just gotten back into town. But DJ wasn't answering his phone or text messages.

So I was forced to break into my own house.

About an hour after I broke-and-entered the good old 2550 estate, my celly blows up. DJ is almost completely incoherent, and I am trying to explain that I need my stuff back. He is drunk beyond repair, saying something crazy about not being able to get my stuff back to me...and it was that moment that I realize something upsetting. I have no extra clothes to wear. When my born-again Christian parents arrived home later that day, I would have to wear the same clothes I had worn to the bachelorette party. This wouldn't have been an issue if I had been wearing something appropriate. But no, I had to be "in the moment" and "wild."

I was wearing a tee shirt that said "Vagina is For Lovers."

I was panicked.

When I awoke the next morning, I went through my closet in hopes of finding something to wear. All I came up with were an old genie costume, a button down shirt large enough to fit Refrigerator Perry in it, and some pleather pants. I was fucked.

That morning, I was able to negotiate the return of my clothes. I asked for a ride to the Whole Foods to get something to eat, and as DJ dropped me off, I waltzed in towards the hot food counter. My shoulder brushed against another woman's, and I said "Excuse me." She smiled at me, and I realized too late that it was DJ's EX (who I have mentioned before in previous blogs). The one who he punched in the face while fucking her. Who spent her days stalking his family and breaking the side-view mirrors on his car.

I kept walking. I went into the bathroom and pondered my escape. There was none, so I boldly exited and went to find something organic to curb my hunger. And by bold I mean I scurried around, biting my lip and laughing manically while glancing over my shoulder. I caught her once behind me, squinty eyes and all, holding a plastic fork in her hand. She followed me around the store that way, and I finally walked up to a security guard named Chet and said, "Hey! Do I know you? No? Weren't you in that one movie with Jean Claude VanDamme? Universal Soldier? Oh, but you LOOK like Dolph Lundgren." and she walked out. I didn't stop trying to convince Chet he was a movie star until I saw her drive away in her faded blue hatchback.

I have been here exactly 32 hours. What lies in store for the next 112? Someone say a prayer for me, this could get rough.

rocky mountain high. g

Let the Summer Begin

ATTN: This entry is one big quasi-spoiler. Pass it up if you don't want to hear my thoughts on Batman Begins!

Smith, the Cop, and R-Dawg and I trekked over to Downtown Disneyland to see Christian Bale dress up in a bat suit and fight crime last night at midnight.

We were buzzed off the ginormous mugs of Hefeweizen we all drank at ESPN Zone (I had to hold mine with two hands, and could barely lift it to my mouth. And I work out!). We were primed and ready, armed with coffee to stay awake and good conversation to keep the juices flowing.

On a scale of 1 to 10 on the Bat-Tastic meter, I have to rate it a 7.

I had little to no idea what was even happening until the third act. The fight scenes were reminiscent of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, where every shot was framed so tightly and cut so fast that you couldn't tell who was winning or whose ear that was. You just heard a beating taking place. I found this disappointing. I wanted to see more wide shots exhibiting those fine asses the men worked so hard to sculpt. Smith had a great point--even Tim Burton could pull that off.

The "Big Threat to Gotham" that Batman had to shut down was really forced. It took a REALLY long time to figure out what this convoluted plan even was, much less how they were going to pull off the crime and what the fuck the monorail had to do with anything. They made it very clear that Wayne Enterprises was in the center of the city, though, and that was important for some reason. That's the only really clear piece of information in the film, and it's relatively useless.

There was something in there about a giant vaporizer, and some hallucinogen in the water...that much I got...but the climax was hard to latch onto.

Having said that, the movie has ABSOLUTELY revived the franchise. This movie was a lukewarm origin film that has a great cast, a great look, and some great toys. Alfred, as always, is the greatest character ever. Katie Holmes did a decent job as the love interest fighting for the common good, Liam was wonderful to watch, and Christian Bale is by far the most well-rounded Batman of all time.

When Batman responds to a terrified inquiry about his identity, the writers gave a delightful nod to Michael Keaton. "I'm Batman." Bale said. And I have to be honest, I got a little excited. Sexually. It was totally amazing. I was sold, and I want to see more of this man fighting crime.

So, go see this one. If you already did, then be proud of that. And let's go see the next one together, shall we? Rumor has it that Chris Nolan wants Liev Schreiber as Two Face, and Crispin Glover as the Joker. Sign me the eff up.

proud batmobile slut. g

I'll Assimilate if You'll Have Sex With Me

I've been ignoring the reports about the "TomKat" juggernaut because I am going to see both of their movies and I don't want to contribute any more money or attention to the subject. They've already got me and my hard-earned cash.

Today, their strange evolution as a couple has seeped into my consciousness...I stumbled across an internet site dedicated to rumors that they are definitely getting married next month, and are SO in love. I also watched the iFilm clip of Tom's "crack addict on Oprah's couch" routine. And thanks to CNN, I have learned that Katie has converted to Scientology. She's living in Tom's house, and apparently you can't get in there unless you give up Aspirin, read that creepy Dianetics book, and call Isaac Hayes to declare that you're just like him.

This is not a new topic, my darlings. This subject is all over the tube. We all remember Charlotte on Sex and the City converting to Judaism for that bald guy she married, and Ray Romano made a living for 9 years talking about it. That is only the tip of the nighttime programming iceburg.

I am thinking of ways that I have done this in my own life. What things have I given up or adopted when spending a lot of time with someone?

In seventh grade, Jake Perry convinced me that Stone Temple Pilots were all gods among men, and we would prove that by playing them really loudly while we were on the phone everyday after school. (editor's note: A year after Jake and I broke up, I returned to the school to see a play they were putting on, starring him. He faked amnesia to avoid speaking to me. This would imply that I had continuously called/bothered him for that period of time, but we actually never spoke once. Jake was just being a drama queen.)

My freshman year of high school, Jason was a year older than me and played varsity football. I ran the chains that determined first downs for every single game, even though the team was terrible and always lost. (editor's note: I thought he was a super cool stud, but I lived with the acute fear that I would snag his lip on my braces or something equally traumatic. Therefore, I avoided making out with him as much as possible. When we broke up, I convinced him it was his idea. I still ran the chains, though.)

I had a brief affair with The Gazzer, who owned a white rat and collected rocks. I couldn't manage to get into either one, which I think contributed to our demise as an item. I cherish the Tiger's Eye he gave me, though. He also liked my perfume. I still wear it because of how he descibed it once while we were laying under the stars on a cold Denver night. He said "You smell like home...and also like paper, kind of."

I began my career as a drama fag because of Ian. I also ate a lot of quesadillas because that was his favorite food (that was, not coincidentally, my fat year of high school). Casey liked raves, and I never left his side while he was visiting from Gunnison. I put my hair in two buns on my head and wore neon-colored see-through clothing, the whole shmear. No glowy sticks though.

DJ got me into the habit of frequenting Tower Records at 11:30 and leafing through any and every magazine there. He also got me hooked on the band Third Eye Blind and puka shell necklaces. I also own a myriad of corsets because of him...was that an overshare??

Everyone's Favorite Luddite, aka The Enigma, unleashed my DVD-purchasing desires, as well as my love for chicken pot pies. MLCIII convinced me that the Beastie Boys were not infidels and that rock and roll will save the world...and also that tummy rubs really CAN make all the bad things go away.

Some of the things I've picked up along the way have stuck, and others are but a distant memory. Luckily, though, gonorrhea stays forever.

Just jokes. It's herpes that sticks.

homina. g

Ex-istential Dilemma

I have made plans twice tonight, and twice they have been cancelled. It looks like S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night is the time to catch up on my NetFlix and take extra special care of myself. Maybe a pedicure. I started surfing the 'net, just for funsies, and I ended up on myspace.

Recently, my first major boyfriend wanted to add me as his friend. He dumped me my sophomore year of college, causing me to continuously bang my fists on the floor of my apartment and listen to the Magnolia soundtrack non-stop, but we were able to salvage the relationship and have remained friends.

Anyway, his life fascinates me. I pride myself on being a good girl's wild girl. I am responsible and take good care of myself, but I indulge my wild side and love being naughty. As it turns out, I am a fucking nun compared to my ex. He was in and out of college, moving from town to town, and giving a real patchwork feel to his life...but the story gets more interesting from there...

Although most people would classify him a fuck up, he remains an enigma that plays the guitar. Therefore, he is ridiculously attractive to someone who doesn't know better. He has slashed and burned the Forest of Hot Women...and I have a feeling that combined with his drug use and alcoholism, just looking at him these days will give you a nasty case of Hep-C.

Back to tonight. I ended up on myspace. I saw his sister's profile and I clicked on her blog. It was some diatribe about how shitty rumors are, and how people who ruin other people's lives suck (which is devastating, even more so when you're 19, like Al is). I scroll down and find DJ's ex-girlfriend's response to Al's blog...and it shocked me.

Apparently, according to this young lady, DJ cheated on her with some skag (he has a weakness for skags, by the way, present company excluded). Even though he did this, he proposed to his ex and kept sleeping with the other woman. He threw her stuff out of a second-story window, and (gasp!) spread rumors about her via text message. This, of course, makes him a monster. How dare he text someone?! What a villain!

She continues to allege that he pushed her some, and cut up her hand somehow...but the worst part of the blog was that his ex is convinced that DJ likes to punch women with closed fists while having sex with them.

I don't remember it quite like that, but I guess people's tastes can change.

After reading her fiery blog, I am also wondering if he just liked punching HER in the face while having sex with her.

This is the man who whisked me away to NYC when we were young and in love, and bought me jewelry and expensive dinners. He said "I love you" like it ripped his heart out to utter the words, and he thought I was so hot that his head looked like it might rocket into the heavens if I took my clothes off. This guy was a sensitive, beautiful artist who ran warm water over his hands before they made contact with my skin (as to not make me uncomfortable in the cold Denver weather). He rarely raised his voice to me, much less punched me in the face.

It's strange where we all end up. One day you're watching SouthPark with someone in their basement and wishing they would kiss you, and the next you're hoping they don't stick a shiv in your side when they give you a ride home from the airport.

new york state of mind. g

Reaching the Dyke Quotient

I volunteer with the Young Storytellers Program. For you faithful readers, I have described it before as being one of the greatest things I have ever done...we help kids write plays and get actors to perform their pieces for them. Anyway, school is out for summer, and the mentors are antsy.

We decided to join in a softball league.

Now, I've played ball on and off for 13 years now. I've played slow and fast pitch softball and baseball. I play center field, but can manage at third and pride myself on being intimidating because of the "I will kill you dead" look that fastens itself to my face when on the field. I have never been a fast runner, but I try for all I'm worth and count on my long legs to make up for what my muscle lacks in speed. I feel like I've seen lots of teams and lots of players, and nothing really surprises me.

This league, however, takes the cake. Nothing can be normal in Hollywood. We're playing against major management companies and agencies, like William Morris, Creative Artists Agency, ICM, Disney, the Hollywood Reporter, and Variety. My heckling consists of taunts like, "THAT'LL teach you to give Episode 3 a bad review!" and "Should have gotten a pay or play deal for Val Kilmer, huh?"

And the other cool part? I am playing with some celebritites...although there's only one I care about. NITRO, from American Gladiators. I watched the hell out of that show when I was younger, and he was one of my favorite gladiators. Now, he's my favorite first baseman.

I want to go back to, say, 1992 on a Saturday night while I'm up late watching the re-run of the show. I want to lean down in little HellCat's ear and whisper, "In 13 years, you'll be patting Nitro's behind and joking around about pulled muscles...and you'll be playing softball, too." I don't think little HellCat would believe me.

The best part is that Dan is a really nice guy (AND he uses the bat named "The Nitro"). Everyone else is sweet, too. This league is very dissimilar to the last baseball league I played in, where we were the badasses and took it a little TOO seriously.

We were the Taos Corndogs, and our arch enemies were the 21st street Mortherfuckers ("We were too busy fucking your mother to practice"). The Motherfuckers were all dirty hippies, and played without shoes and sometimes without gloves. If you took your eyes away from the game for a second, you might miss one of the outfielders stripping down to their bare behinds and doing a little hippie dance. And the best part was that they really DID smell like patchouli and corn chips, so our taunts were funny AND true.

I'm glad this league isn't like that. So far, we're slaughtering the competition, but we're doing it the classy way.

Is it wrong of me to want Dan to show up in his red white and blue wrestling leotard?

snug. g

Marry me, Robert

I put Smith in charge of our Tuesday night plans. I thought that we would be doing something low key, maybe having some of his infamous tuna spaghetti while watching a Godard pic, or maybe Heavy Metal. If we were feeling crazy, it might be martinis at Musso and Frank...but I underestimated Smith, my darlings.

We ended up in the OC eating taquitos with a cop and a latent homosexual.

We knew these people, don't get me wrong. His friend is a cop, and the Cop has a friend that he met at the gym who is the latent homosexual (big shocker there). Both nice guys. And the guacamole was phenom. No, that wasn't code for anything.

Smith, the Cop, and your HellCat all went out to the exotic bar Fitzgeralds to karaoke. We ordered our beers and scoped the scene. The bar had maybe 10 people in it, and you could tell that this is what they did every Tuesday.

There was one woman there who I will refer to as "Stevie," because of her affinity for Fleetwood Mac and long skirts. She looked like she had either just gotten off work or had gone home and dressed up for the occasion. Whenever she wasn't singing some mid-70s "wounded woman" tune off key, she was playing cribbage on an electronic machine in the corner.

A biker couple staked out the back of the bar and set up shop. I could have sworn that the DJ called them Chowder Boy and Lana, but I couldn't be sure. Lana was really skinny and was living pretty hard. Every time she'd miss a word on a song, she would hit her head with the palm of her hand, and it took her a minute to get her courage back. Her fav songs were by Van Morrison and Elton John. Chowder complimented her choices, as he preferred Ides of March. They were fond of strangers and were really, really drunk.

Uncle Rico was there...or at least a man who looks like a musclehead version of the Napoleon Dynamite character. This guy got up on stage and was so burdened by his own talent that he had to sit on the stool to sing. He chose songs from pussy-getting bands like Stone Temple Pilots...but still sat alone at his table, because Stevie wasn't interested and she was the only woman in the bar who was sans male protection.

The crowd in the front consisted of the ROTC kids from high school that never actually joined the military. Their moment in the sun was a rousing cover of the MIB rap that actually included synchronized dancing. Otherwise, they blew it every time by singing shit like "C'est La Vie," by S Club 7. The tiny one (who you could tell was a hit with the boys) couldn't even make a dent in Paula Abdul's "Straight Up." They also didn't clap for anyone else in the bar.

After I checked out the competition, I am feeling good about my choices of "Hurts So Good" and back-up on "Brandi."

I was talking to the copper about the possibility of doing some Neil Diamond. We were laughing, enjoying our ales. All of a sudden, a hand claps over my shoulder. I look over, and a man is standing there. This is not just any man. He had weathered skin, like he'd been hitching rides to Cali from, say, Abu Dhabi. His eyes were wide-set and bloodshot, and the more he stood there, the more he reminded me of a bulldog puppy that had too much kibble, if kibble meant booze. Atop his head sat a straw cowboy hat with a Jack Daniels bandanna wrapped around it.

He has a huge grin on his face and says with his outdoor voice, "Hi! Is this the only book around?!" referring to our Karaoke bible. I am stunned speechless at how rock and fucking roll this man is. The Cop, used to men of this caliber, says "Oh, man, actually, you can get one over next to the DJ. He has tons." and the guy says, "Thanks, man! Right on." and he toddles off to the karaoke stand and grabs two books. He examined them, front and back, then put one down for no apparent reason.

He kind of disappeared for awhile, and karaoke marched on. Then, all of a sudden, I hear the DJ say "Next up is Robert!" and nothing happened. "Robert?" he repeated tentatively. Then, from the direction of the john, comes my bulldog. He races towards the stage, hooting and hollaring, but somehow not spilling the beer he had in his left hand.

He leapt onstage and kind of lost his equilibrium. The room held its collective breath as he swayed back and forth, but he soon straightened up. An air of calm came over him. He composed himself. Some familiar guitar chords played over the speakers. Robert's ears perked up, and he took a deep breath.

"AC/DC! YESSS!" poured from his mouth like a sock in the gut, knocking everyone in the room on their ass. He picked up his lager and took a swig that couldn't have possibly fit in a human mouth and the first few words were already playing. He realized what was happening and started begging the DJ to restart the song. The DJ complied, not knowing what Robert was capable of if he didn't get his rockin'.

What followed was the finest rendition of "You Shook Me" that I have ever heard. It was as though he was in short pants and a newsboy cap, and was channeling Bon Scott. I was watching a rock and roll angel sing his holy song only to me. And he even rubbed his legs on the "knockin' me out with those American thighs" line.

It was genius. I was almost weeping with joy. Ever since I heard that song as a wee HellCat, I had been waiting for this moment to set me free.

I was pondering asking him to marry me, under the condition that he sang that song (as well as other famous rock hits) for all time. I would totally wash Robert's undies in return. Totally.

Just when I thought life couldn't get any more exciting, he followed up 30 minutes later with "Patience." He screamed the lyrics in all the wrong places, and gulped beer during all the musical interludes.

When he got offstage, I stood to greet him. He smiled sloppily, and I was wondering what kind of disturbance in the space-time continuum it would make if I kissed him with tongues. Instead I just raised my glass and said, "You...rock." and he nodded his head and squinted his eyes (presumably to see who was addressing him) and said, "I used to be in a band called Metal Mouth." and then he trotted away.

Driving home that night, I couldn't help but wonder what life would be like with Robert. He had seduced me with his siren song...and I fear that no karaoke singing will ever satisfy me as much. If Robert and I were an item, I would have to scour thrift stores to obtain more skin-tight white lycra dresses. I would have to grow my hair out and tease it within an inch of its life. And when I woke up in the morning, after a cocaine-fueled bender involving seven other people, a Honeybaked Ham, a monkey named Sonny, and a motorcycle, I would have to own a red flannel with cigarette burns it in to cover myself as I fixed eggs on a hotplate.

It doesn't sound too bad, actually.

dirty deeds, done cheap. g

Back to School

So, this morning, HellCat goes back to class. That's right, she's making herself more attractive in the editing world by learning 3D motion programs. I have a great job title and good references behind me, now all I need is some more software knowledge.

So, today, I am brown-bagging it and wearing knee socks. And a pleated skirt. I figure that if I suck at After Effects, at least I can do a Basic Instinct leg cross and come out on top. I don't think we're getting grades in this class, though. Oh, well!

I am reminiscing about teachers I've had, like old Mister Page. He was my sixth grade social studies teacher, and a mean bastard. He had lips that stretched all the way across his face like a fish. I think he hated the world because of it. He always requested Miss Silver to be his substitute. Miss Silver was about 100 years old, and wore open-toed shoes with pantyhose on. This wouldn't have been more than a minor faux pas, except that she had these freakish block-feet, like someone had bound her feet or something when she was young. We had trouble focusing on making her life hell because we couldn't take our eyes off her feet.

In high school, there was that one woman who was scared of M&Ms, so the class would sometimes lob them towards her desk in the middle of class while her back was turned. She would always look to see what the noise was, even though she should have known. It would take a minute for her to find it on her desk, and then she would recoil in horror and squeal. She used to brush it off her desk with a piece of paper and look at us accusingly. I hope she was faking it...but something tells me she wasn't that good of an actress. We'll never know.

I had one math teacher who would stick Playboy mags in his Algebra text while we were taking tests. He wasn't there more than a year, let me tell you. And another math teacher hated our Gifted and Talented class so much that he would yell at us at every opportunity. We didn't learn much because he spent so much time yelling. One day, after he claimed we had misbehaved in an assembly, he got so mad that he cracked a yardstick over Carl Frerich's desk and broke it. Carl claimed he got a splinter in his face, but he was a total fucking idiot, so no one believed him.

We were so middle class and privileged that we were outraged. We plotted our revenge. One day, he set himself up better than we could have ever hoped. He had brought his pet raccoon to class and was returning it to its cage in the back room. So, we locked him in. The only problem was that the phone was in there, and he called the Vice Principal and she stormed up there to let him out.

One time, when cell phones were relatively new and no one had one, Buff Holbrook (yes, that was his real name) sat in Ms. Keyes 9th grade English class and called her phone line. She picked it up and he was able to fun on her for about three minutes before she realized who it was.

Miss Barnhill, my Spanish teacher, had an obsession with New Order. The drama teacher, affectionately known as Thomas, would sometimes share stories about Mardi Gras and describe the most obscene costumes in detail (like a naked man who wore nothing but a cast-iron skillet placed strategically over his swimsuit area. He was Peter Pan! Get it?!). Our principal was an ex-bodyguard for Aerosmith.

Sometimes people tell me that when I describe my life, it sounds like a Coca-Cola comemrcial. I think they're right.

Enough rememberizing. I am off to immerse myself in the world of learning. Suddenly, I am having to resist the urge to fake sickness and watch TV all day. Some things never change...

whine. g

All Choked Up

I went to bed at 845 on a Friday night. I am not sure I've done that since the mid-nineties, or maybe once when I had a 4AM call the next day. I WISH I had something like that happening so I wouldn't seem like such a loser. However, all that's on the plate today is a softball game and a free screening of a film.

Something is wrong, my darlings.

I have been trying really hard to keep myself under control. I have been carefully tending to the dam that's holding my emotions back, allowing myself a moment or two of introspection and then closing it off before things get ugly.

Now, I'm tired. I am tired of not feeling anything, and of not being able to say it. I am sick of being vague to protect everyone from what may be hormonally-based statements that are wilted from the steam of the fear percolating in my belly.

Wow, who's PMSing?

I don't even know where to begin. I need to make some calls, put down some shit for people to pick up. But my thoughts have reached the spin cycle, and nothing makes sense. I'm so concerned with being eloquent and fair and focusing on the REAL problem that I can't say anything at all. As a result, I haven't been saying anything. But you can see the forced silence in my eyes. I can never hide anything genuine...because it shows up in these blues of mine. Even though the mouth is smiling, the eyes are sad. I can feel it.

I don't even feel better after writing this. I don't know what else to say.

546 AM. g

Abundance

There is some movie where a forlorn chracter moans and groans about how sometimes your heart fills with so much love it feels like it will burst open from the pressure. I can't remember which one it is, or why I might have felt like punching that character in the face when I first heard the line...

...but I kind of feel that way right now.

My free time has forced me to sit by myself, in the quiet and peace, and reflect on my life. I find myself returning to all the faces that occupy my world, and thinking about why they are here, and their importance to me.

All of you bring so much to my consciousness that I would miss otherwise. There is such magic within you, it makes me better than I was before. It teaches me to rise above what I am, and see what I can be. With you, I can better realize my potential.

The way You look when we laugh together, or when we share a slice of eggplant pizza. The way it feels to have Your arms around me in the warm rays of early morning sun. Facts You spew. The breeze You create when You push wisps of your rock star hair out of Your eyes. The way You listen to me while we hike and talk about our concerns and triumphs. Your call after a long silence.

So many wonderful friends, so many precious moments.

It seems like recently, every time I feel the breeze blowing mercifully through my windows, I am overcome with the feeling that things are going to be okay. It doesn't mean things are perfect, or that there aren't hardships to overcome, but I know that they will pass.

Maybe it's the Diet Coke talking, but life is wonderful in its imperfections.

shine. g

Sometimes