The daVinci Code Can Suck It

If you think that for one second I am going to sit in a movie theater for over 2 hours just to see that tres adorable French lady run around and break codes with a creepily long-haired Tom Hanks, you're fucking nuts.

I want to see explosions and animated animals eating garbage. Also, I am interested in seeing how people deal with being stranded on an island after a plane crash, as well as how my favorite modern day Nancy Drew will solve the murder of her best friend.

So, summer is here, and it's all about popcorn in the dark in conjunction with a heavily used Netflix account.

In fact, I can't even write any more because I am busy planning my media discovery.

Check back with you soon. g

Protons and Neutrons Hate Me

This is me losing my mind. See me? Sitting here, in an empty office, hungry but unable to eat, with only half-applied makeup on and a bra that totally does not match this outfit? My mind is blown, my darlings, and it is because of my living environment.

I keep crashing hard drives. This is the second one in a week. Is there static in my room that has decided to wage war on my computer equipment? Perhaps it has set up some sort of kamikaze run once a day, and editing/bill-paying be damned, I am powerless against it.

I am getting to know the data recovery man very well (much like my tow truck driver, Frank). The data-recovery specialist's name is Tony, he drives a red Scion and likes it except for the cupholders, and has a nice girlfriend who lives in the valley. She is nice, except for several obsessive-compulsive behaviors about dishwashing and dog hair.

THIS IS MORE THAN I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT TONY.

I don't understand why I am being karmically punished. Was it because of the homeless guy I accidentally laughed at last week when he begged me to share my Baja Fresh? Or perhaps the blind child I stood in front of silently while she called out "Who's there? Who's there?"

Nah. It must be my power strip.

Anyway, I cancelled all my social events this week except for ONE in order to recover the data from the last hard drive that died. I was editing, capturing, watching Veronica Mars, and praying. My prayers went unanswered. I spent 9 hours total recapturing work that I just lost for the second time. I believe this is the exact situation "Wtf?!" was created for.

So, if you never see me again, my darlings, it is because I am caught within my own personal purgatory, capturing, losing, and re-capturing data for the rest of time. No more movies, oral, or trips to Disneyland. Nope, just me, sitting alone, brow furrowed and sexily lit by the blue light of my soon-to-fail external drive.

It's been nice knowing you. g

An Anecdote From my Man-Friend

There's a guy who comes to the Store open mic every week who calls himself Boon Shak-a-lak-a. He is homeless, black and gay. He wears a necklace whose beads are basically three-inch wooden rhino statues. His clothes are scrawled, everywhere, in permanent marker, with bizarre black-power and gay-rights and I'm-insane slogans of his own devising. I've never seen him perform because the Store BANNED HIM; he can sign up for the list and watch the show, but he is never ever picked.

Yesterday I overheard him saying to another crazy homeless open micer: "I don't see why people think Dane Cook is so funny."

I guess there's a comforting lesson in that; as you fall into madness, your good taste will be the last thing to go.

Hollywood: Land of Ass

I'm having a "Calgon take me away" kind of week. As I was driving to work, I neede to restore balance by looking at the world through Hellcat-vision glasses (with naughty librarian frames). I was imagining a perfect life. For instance, I passed Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles and remarked on how lucky I am that it is actually good for my heart.

Adam Corolla was on the radio, and I thought about the time I got to open-palm slap him one time, just for fun.

I was not driving my Jetta in this morning fantasyland, either. In fact, I was cruising down the road in a Lexus SC430 that is renowned for being the most efficient hybrid ever.

I was rocking the Dreamworld today.

That is, until the butt showed up.

A small, faded red hatchback was parked on the side of the road. A man was crouched on the street next to it, frantically looking for something he dropped down near the gas pedal. He must have really needed that 'lude or whatever it was that he had dropped, because he was able to completely ignore the breeze that was whipping past his entirely exposed posterior.

I was particularly mortified because his ass was really red and chapped. This was a residential area, for chrissakes. There are children who live 25 feet away who have some innocence left. They cling to it desperately enough, they don't need Joe SchmuckButt ruining their whole year of kindergarten in one, fleeting search for an eight ball remnant.

It rubbed me the wrong way. Not the ass itself, thank god, but just its presence.

This reminded me of a time recently when I was on my way home from the gym and saw another ass. It belonged to a homeless man pushing a cart filled with newspaper, platform shoes, and chicken wire. I shrugged it off, assuming that he was on his way to the homeless shelter to create a life size papier mache drag queen that he would bring to life using a toaster, some vaseline, and a 1/2 cup of Tang. No big deal.

As the memory passed, I remembered incredulously that I chose to live here. I never saw shit like this is Austin. Adults only showed their bottoms when they were wearing assless chaps to the gay bar, or while running naked through the capitol building. You know, places where kids are terrified and keep their faces buried in their lunchboxes, only stealing a glance at the outside world when they hear their name called by a tall, shaven-headed lesbian friend of their mom's from the vegan co-op.

Apparently my Rosy-Hellcat-Imagination Glasses weren't strong enough for AssMan. Until next time, nefarious villain...

zounds. g

That's Certainly a First

Picture it: Thursday night, 11ish. Late night fun runs at a premium for both me and my man friend, as we both have to rise early. I am tired after a long, nerve-wracking week, and especially after an interesting-but-late-running play. He tells me to come over, as I am only a few blocks away, because he has an idea of how to snap me out of my mini-funk (or funk-ette, as the easterners say).

I keep him on the phone for fear of One: getting lost in Silverlake, and B: to stay awake. As I round the corner to his door, he is waiting for me. My Sexy Spidey Sense is tingling, so I make sure to hit the bathroom and pull a Clark Kent from Working Girl to Sex Kitten Who Can Save the World With One Handjob.

You can picture what happens next. My week and my exhaustion slowly slip away from me, as we are in the throes and he is really giving me the Executive Star Treatment. Then, in a moment of femininity, I say "You have great ideas, cowboy" (Yes, this is how I talk in bed). "Got any more?" There is a beat, and I realize how ridiculous my question is. I would be the only one out of the two of us prepared to utter some kind of dissertation on naughty naughty sex stuff. My man is busy and the brain-feeeding blood is locacted south of his cranium. So I giggle. Then he giggles. Someone says something about stream of consciousness, and we are off and running.

"Apple."

"Uh...Thursday."

"Canteen."

""Metairie, LA."

"Peanut Butter."

"Motorcycle."

And then it happened. I said it. I don't know where it came from, nor do I know where it went after it left my mouth. All I know is that he was still inside me when I said "Knight Rider."

I know for sure that that hasn't happened before. We broke into peals of laughter that shook the Tularosa Manor. Upon revisiting that moment, however, I feel a little uneasy. Do I have a Hasselhoff thing? Was "Baywatch" next? Or "SpongeBob Square Pants?" Do I have to buy his album(s) now? Does this officially make me German?

I don't know.

I think I'm gonna need your support on this one.

kit. g

The End of an Era

The good news is that I got a gig that will keep me from worrying about my bills, my rent, my savings account, and my addiction to shopping.

However, it marks the end of my free-wheeling, happy-go-lucky year of freelance. I find myself sitting here, hoping to make my last day as a free employee something special, but I am rooted to the futon feeling a sense of loss instead.

Do you remember, dear friend, how we could get together for lunch in the middle of the day, without worry of how long we spent talking about our boyfriends and moving and problems with my dog? Or the time we snuck out to see two movies in one day, right in the middle of the week? Or how about the trips to the museum and the beach? I held meetings, ate good food, got it on, and managed to escape whenever time allowed. I was a slave to no one on those days, living life and answering only to myself and the occasional deadline. It was a wonderful year.

Biggie, you were right. Mo' money, mo' problems.

I am young and vibrant, living life to its fullest, and I managed to beat the system for awhile. But no more. It's back to direct deposit and packed lunches. Associate producers and visits from the suits. Vacation? What's that? 6-day trips in the middle of April? It will all seem like a fairytale.

Don't get me wrong, I am happy for the opportunity. I feel like the next part of my life is beginning. I am cautiously stepping through the Door That Leads to The Rest of My Life, and I am excited and hopeful. But boy, it sure was nice to play this game by my own rules.

I just keep telling myself that the world of production is one that encourages lots and lots of breaks. Shows last for several weeks, then life is quiet again. You made enough money to go to Prague for 8 weeks. Then, back to the daily grind. Win, lose. Win again, and back to losing.

I guess losing destitution is kind of nice. I guess I could be winning here. It's not so hard to envision it that way. In fact, the folks over there all seem to be so nice and the job seems so tailored to me...Yeah, that's right. It all works out the way it's supposed to, Hellcat. Chin up. Some people in the world are homeless and have no marketable skills. Also, some people have monkey hearts and others have tumors. I don't know where I'm going with this line of reasoning but it's helping somehow.

But the point is that I will no longer be available for mid-week debauchery until after 6PM. But I will be able to afford that plastic surgery! So I have that going for me.

i love la. g