Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Dropping Some Knowledge

NEVER ASK QUESTIONS. Because if you don't ask, you won't get answers--and you can avoid exchanges like the one below, where I was asking my boyfriend why employers check credit scores:

boy: A bad credit score means you have poor character.

me: why?
what has caused that shitf?

Sent at 2:32 PM on Tuesday

boy: Because, they can? And some Smart People sat down and did a Study which showed that people with poor credit scores make worse employees. I mean, it's the same reason they run a criminal background check. It's a indicator of how you'll perform as an employee. If you have poor credit, it means you're lazy and shiftless. In the cases where that's not accurate, oh well...it falls in the noise. If you fire 10 people because they have bad credit, and eight or nine would have been bad employees, avoiding those problems is more than worth (at least in actuarial terms) what you would have gained from the one or two good employees.

me: hmm

boy: It's all about the numbers in a more and more purely capitalistic society. "How can the corporation make the most money for the stockholders?"
It comes down to money.
And science.

me: ahhh

Sent at 2:37 PM on Tuesday

boy: Let's say you have 1000 employees, and you run a credit check on them. And let's say that scientific studies show that employees with a FICO score lower than 600 are 5x more likely to steal, take more sick days, and are generally less productive. Let's say that you can quatitate that to mean that each employee with a FICO score less than 600 costs the company $10000/year more than an employee with a FICO score greater than 600. Then, you find that 50 of your employees have a FICO score under that. A consultant comes in and says, "well, it's going to cost you $25000 to replace these employees."
Of course you do it.

me: Oh, I get it.
So what you're saying is
it's gay

boy: Now, if this theory that a lower FICO score makes you a worse employee becomes conventional wisdom in management circles (as it has), you don't have a choice. Because, especially if you're a publicly traded company, your stockholders will accuse you of not maximizing profit, which is a federal crime.

Sent at 2:42 PM on Tuesday

boy: So, you develop HR policies based on these management consultants, studies and conventional wisdom which say, "we run a criminal background check and credit report on all new hires. Any new hires that have a FICO of less than 600 are to be immediately terminated for cause."
And that gets put down in an HR manual...
And it becomes inviolate.

me: wow.

boy: That's how your credit score becomes an indicator of your employement prospects, especially in a competitive market.

me: Yeah...

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Bitten by Inexpensive Fashion

Much has been written about Sarah Jessica Parker's inexpensive clothing line, Bitten. Found exclusively at Steve and Barry's, the line features laid-back clothing that purportedly looks good on all body types. While some people have gotten behind the line's ethos of real clothes for real women (Bitten's sizes range from 2-22) many reviews have been catty at best. Many fashion writers are dismissing the line as a publicity stunt aimed at people who live in the flyover states who still order Cosmos when they're out with the girls.

What I haven't seen is a review from someone who has actually worn the clothes. So while this is not complete in any way, I'm taking this opportunity to do my own review of Bitten's wearability.

I'm always on the lookout for a good pair of jeans. Like a comfortable bra, this is a never ending quest. I was in love with my Gap Long & Lean jeans. I would basically buy a new pair anytime I had extra money (they are about $60). Then they started falling apart. After about a year, as with all Gap pants, they started unraveling, leaving unsightly holes everywhere.

After my Gap jeans were left in tatters, I got a pair of Old Navy Low Rise Boot Cut jeans. They were only about $25 and had a slim, flattering cut. My only problem with them is that the stretch that makes them so comfortable causes them to sag within a few hours of putting them on. Either I wear a belt or I'm stuck tugging at them all day.

This is why, when I saw that the Bitten Jeans were only $15, I headed straight over to Steve & Barry's. I tried on the Boot Cut jeans and found them to be almost identical to the Old Navy pair I owned in cut and fit. The only difference is these have a darker rinse, which dresses them up a bit. Unfortunately, another similarity is the stretch. These are even worse than the Old Navy jeans in terms of falling straight off of me. When you have a pair of jeans like that sag, you go from cute to dumpy real fast.

Another fashion staple for me during the summer is flip-flops. I wear these way more than I should, and have the tan lines and dirty feet to prove it. New York is dirty and I was tired of scrubbing the black grime off of my feet before bed. I decided that switching to a black flat would be a cute way to ditch the flops. The problem with flats though, is that when you do a lot of walking in them, they start to smell. Bad. So I didn't want to spend a lot of money on something that I would probably have to burn at the end of the summer. Enter SJP.
I got these comfy little guys for $10 and I wear them almost daily.

My next excursion was right before my family reunion in Tennessee. I generally wear jeans in summer and haven't owned a pair of shorts in years. However, it was Nashville in June and I had become obsessed with the short-shorts and wedge heel look. I figured Bitten would be a cheap way to test it out.

I bought the trouser shorts ($10), but decided to forgo the boob-belt option (pictured above left on the "real girl" [bullshit] model).
The problem with these isn't the problem I thought I'd have. Instead of them riding up, they fall down just like the jeans. The shorts are deceptively not stretchy, but that doesn't keep them from practically ending up around my knees at any given moment. Adding a cute belt wouldn't help either, as these shorts are not equipped with belt loops.

I paired them with this fantastic pair of blue, peep-toed wedges for $10, which my boyfriend dubbed my "stripper shoes."

The fact is, he's just uncomfortable because I tower over him when I wear them. He says I'm passive-aggressively trying to be superior to him, which I totally am. So does admitting this fact bump it from passive-aggressive to actively aggressive?


The point is, These shoes + the falling down shorts + drinking on an empty stomach = Kona falling on her ass. A lot.

The Verdict:
For the price, you cannot beat this clothing line. The items are cute and inexpensive enough that if they fall apart, it really will not matter. The only problem is the sizing. The shoes run small (I bought both pairs in a size above what I usually wear) and the pants/shorts either run big or stretch way too much. When I went back to buy the shorts, I tried on the jeans in a smaller size. They were a little tight and had they been the first pair I tried on, there was no way I would have gotten them (hello, muffin top). However, based on my experience with the pair of jeans that fit me well in the dressing room, my guess is that the too-small pair would end up looking normal on me.

If you have a Steve and Barry's in your mall, I highly recommend checking this line out and if it doesn't work out for you, you're basically out the price of a couple of drinks or a dinner at a mid-priced chain restaurant. You've wasted your money on much worse.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Random Conversations with Family Members #8

Kali: So, you and your boyfriend have to sleep in dad and Holly's bed with four dogs. Is that going to be awkward for you guys?
Me: What? Why would we do that? We're going to sleep on the air mattress.
Kali: Nope. They took it with them.
Me: Dammit.
Kali: Yeah. That's where dad and Holly do the nasty.
Me: Ack!
Kali: Hahahahahahaha. I hope they changed the sheets!
Me: Why? Just...why?
Kali: Hahahahahahhaa. Sorry. I'm a little drunk right now.
Me: It's not even 1:00.
Kali: Yeah, I don't really have a job.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

I scream, you scream, we all scream for cleverly diguised terrorism

"Honey, what the fuck is this?"

I was digging through my boyfriend's closet trying to find things to throw away. We were moving in together and I thought it was important to get rid of as much of his crap as possible so I can keep as much of my crap as possible.

"It's a bug-out bag."

"A What? Nevermind. I don't want to know."

Of course, he wouldn't be him if he didn't explain to me that the black backpack I was holding that contained an old leather jacket, a new pair of Payless sneakers, a bag of rice, some tea bags and a few glowsticks was on hand in case the shit went down and he had to get the hell out of dodge. In his heart, he's kind of a survivalist, and on his surface, he's completely paranoid. Since moving in together, we've had multiple conversations about weather and terrorism-related emergency plans. For him, a bomb in lower Manhattan or a class 5 hurricane are very real threats that need to be planned for accordingly.

To his credit, when we have these conversations, at some point he'll look at me sheepishly and ask, "do you think I'm crazy?" I always assure him that I don't and tell him that I'll go along with whatever plan he thinks is best. The way I see it, if he wants to buy a propane-powered generator, it's no skin off my teeth.

What I won't tell him, however, is how I may have stumbled onto the greatest, most insidious terrorism plot we've been faced with yet: ice cream.

My first job when I moved to the city two years ago put me in Times Square for about 8 hours a day, six days a week. While that may sound horrible (it was), there were a few perks, namely, free shit.

Whether it was a middle-aged dude with a rocket pack full of Starbucks coffee, a wannabe model with packs of gum or Scientologists with granola bars, Times Square is full of underemployed folks just itching to give you free samples of crap you don't want or need until it's free. To this day, I have a cupboard full of various Tetley teas because my roommate at the time shoved about a dozen canisters in his backpack and brought them home, never to be consumed.

The point is, nothing will get a power-walking New Yorker to stop dead in his tracks faster than free shit. It is our city's greatest weakness, and I fear, our future downfall.

Case in point: Yesterday, I'm walking around the financial district, kind of in search of lunch, but mostly killing time so I didn't have to be in the office. As I passed the dozens of striped umbrellas that housed the standard fare of hot dogs, pretzels, gyros and unidentified meat on a stick, I saw one that looked delightfully out of place. It was a bright orange umbrella--attached to an ice cream cooler. Even better, there didn't appear to be any money changing hands. Immediately, I lined up. Several middle-aged office workers followed my lead, a few of whom had no idea what the line was for, but figured it must be for something good.

As I was standing there, I was struck by the fact that neither the umbrella nor the comely young men scooping out the ice cream had any signage. In fact, there was no indication at all as to who these men were or why they were giving us ice cream. They were scooping it out and we were eating it. That's it. There were no Deal or No Deal-like models trying to get us to sign up for a credit card, open a checking account, or even visit a new ice cream store that was opening up. It was just two guys giving away free ice cream without explanation or expectation.

I started nervously looking around, suddenly overcome with the feeling that I was a cow in a chute going towards the slaughterhouse. Shit. Wasn't "don't take candy from strangers" one of the first rules you learned as a kid? Yet here I was, 26-years-old and standing in line to take a frozen treat from completely random men. Sure, it looks like harmless ice cream, but it could be laced with strychnine or a time-released drug that will turn me into a flesh-eater within 24-hours. As bad ass as that would be, it's not really the way I want to go out (at least not yet).

Then I started thinking, if I were a terrorist, this is exactly what I would do. I would set up posts all over the city and give away free food laced with something time-delayed, allowing me to kill or maim as many people as possible, while still giving me time to make a clean getaway. Airports and monuments have security, but no one's going to argue with a dude giving away free ice cream. It's just not done.

I started to get a little panicky. Is standing in this line going to make me a part of history? Like, the bad part? I see something, should I say something, like the subway ads tell me to? Should I raise the question to one of my line compatriots? Should I just run? Should I take a picture so I can give it to Good Morning America and cry with Diane after all of these people become cannibals?

"Who wants a chocolate cone?"

"I do."

Let me tell you, it was good. Although, not as good as the orange sorbet I went back for today.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Where are they now? The Daily Show edition

I went to a taping of The Daily Show back in March (It was, of course, awesome) and it got me thinking: What the hell ever happened to Vance DeGeneres? Seriously. Where the crap did that guy go? He was awesome.

Cut to a dark club in New Orleans about two weeks ago. The boy took me to Jazz Fest and we were at a Cowboy Mouth show (they had that one song, that one year, about that girl). I was standing there just looking at the band, who I knew nothing about. The boy is going all crazy because they're his favorite band in the world and he's seen them roughly 100 million times. I tried to pay attention to the show (which was actually quite good) but I kept on staring at the rhythm guitarist. He looked so oddly familiar. I just couldn't place it though.

Me: Honey, who's the guitar player?
Boy: Uh, I don't know. Some heroin-addict Keith Richards wannabe.
Me: He looks familiar...
Boy: Woooooooooooooooo!

Now this was starting to bug me. Luckily, Fred, the lead singer, is a chatty sort. Actually, I shouldn't say "luckily." The dude wouldn't stop talking. He kept on telling us that we weren't loud enough, or we weren't dancing enough, or whatever. It was pissing me off--I mean, seriously. Dude. I'm paying you fucking money. You're putting on a show for me. Now stop telling me what to do and play your damn songs so I can go home. Fuck.


During one of his monologues, Fred referred to "Vance's" new guitar.

Holy Shit.

The heroin-addict Keith Richards wannabe is VANCE FREAKING DEGENERES!

It blew my mind. He went from a Daily Show correspondent to a guitarist for a New Orleans rock/punk-type band. It was the greatest discovery ever made. So for those of you who have been mourning for Vance, you can stop. I found him (and I totally don't think he's on the horse, so don't worry).

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

U-S-A! U-S-A!

Did you know that America owns space? Because according to the last page of the new passports, we totally do.

Suck it, Canada.


Nothing funny about the last couple of days. Our favorite g15 gives his thoughts. All of our hearts go out to everyone affected. Love goes out to Catelyn at Tech. We'll be back next Wednesday with a new episode of the funny.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Scientology is a Cult

I know, I know. But it bears repeating. Especially after this bullshit.

Way to win the award for Fastest Opportunistic Vultures to Land after a Tragedy. Assholes.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Play me a song...

So I was knocked out on Benedryl last night (something to which I am becoming deliciously addicted to) when I hear the Ba-Ching! of doom indicating that I have a new text message. I rubbed my inexplicably puffy eyes (seriously. I've developed some sort of weird skin condition and my eyelids have been swollen since Monday) and look at the cable box. 2:45. Shit. I grab my phone and it's the boy. He's text-messaged me to let me know that Kurt Vonnegut has died. I assume he thought I needed to know this at 2:30 in the morning because before he discovered the Television Without Pity book, my copy of Breakfast of Champions was his preferred bathroom reading when he was at my apartment.

So after I called him and ascertained that indeed, that was all he needed to tell me and nothing else bad was going on, I tried to get back to sleep. But I couldn't. Not even the siren song of Benedryl could lull me into a slumber. Then I realized I had a Billy Joel song stuck in my head. I didn't know how Vonnegut died, but maybe my subconscious thought it was a "heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack," because I had "Moving Out" playing on a continuous loop in my brain. So naturally my thoughts turned to Billy Joel. Or more specifically, the ghost of Billy Joel.

Now, I'm aware that Billy Joel isn't dead. However, I don't think this precludes Billy Joel's ghost from knocking about. And what if he did? What if Billy Joel's ghost visited you and hung out and gave you advice and stuff?

It would be amazing.

You'd have Billy Joel, at his piano, kind of floating over your left shoulder and just hanging out with you as you went about your business. He would play songs for you as you walked down the street, but if you were tired of hearing "New York Minute" for the frillionth time, he would be totally cool with you busting out your Ipod while he just tinkered quietly with some new material.

But the ghost of Billy Joel is so much more than a soundtrack. He'd give you advice as well. And since he's at his piano anyway and always trying to add to his canon, he'll sing your advice to you.

"Woahh, woahh, ooooh, girl. Dontcha go givin' that guy your number. He looks like he'll eat all of your food and then ask to borrow your metrocard and never return it-it-it-it-it-it. Oh, yeah!" Totally helpful, right?

Sure, except there's a downside to ghost of Billy Joel. He'll hang out with you and give you advice, but all of his advice somehow always ends with you crashing your car into a tree on Long Island. That's why, at roughly 3 am. I made the decision to hold out for the ghost of Elton John.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

I'm totally famous, y'all!

Okay, not at all. But still, a girl can dream, right?

It's funny how I don't talk about the stuff I've been doing for g14 because I'm crazy self-conscious and David loves putting me in uncomfortable situations and making me embarrass myself all over the internets.

However, when he told me that g14 had been featured on blip TV, I was excited for them. They spotlighted The 80s Son video as well as Stone & McGregor, in which I play Miss (don't call me crazy) Parker. So here you go. G14 is featured about two thirds of the way in and there's a 3-second clip of me with the camera practically up my nose on a website that isn't run by my friends.

Dina Kaplan, a co-founder and Chief Operating Officer of blip.tv, reviews cool picks of the week the The Ointment, Sweaty Robot, and g14 Productions. (3 minutes).

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Random Conversations with Family Members #7

A phone conversation with my dad...

Dad: Hey, have you talked to your brother or [older] sister lately?
Me: No, not recently.
Dad: Yeah, me neither. Somebody should probably call them so they know they're still part of the family and everything.
Me: Probably.
Dad: I've got your sister here. I've also got your mother. Does anyone want to talk to Kona? Ha. Nobody gives a shit about you.
Me: Fair enough.
Dad: Alright, I'll see you on Friday.

Friday, March 23, 2007


I distinctly remember sitting around the house for years, watching TV and never being able to answer what I thought was a simple question: why are local commercials so god-awful? It didn't seem so difficult. You write a commercial, it's good, so it gets produced. The end. Right?

Not even close.

It wasn't until I graduated college and actually got a job writing local commercials that I realized that they were inherently bad--it's the nature of the medium. Business owners do not trust you. They know what they want, and what they want is for their neighbors to say "Oh, I saw your baby on TV. She is adorable!" You can try to steer them in a different direction, you can cajole, you can tell them outright that they are wasting their money if they put what they want on the air. 99 times out of 100, they will not listen to you.

Invariably, customers will choose to have all of their employees out in front of the store saying, "come visit us today!" in unison. Never mind that you can never understand what the hell people are saying in unison, they want their employees in the spot, dammit! They also want their daughter with the speech impediment to list every single thing they have in their inventory in thirty seconds. It'll be amazing.

After a while, you die inside and you give up. You forget how to write anything that doesn't include the phrase "for all your ________ needs." This is why local commercials suck. This is why local commercials will always suck. It's a depressing fact, but a fact nonetheless.

It's been nearly two years since I've written a commercial, but there's still a small part of me that hurts every time I see a bad one--because I know what the people went through who made it. So when I went to the UCB Theater earlier this week and saw the video below, my first thought was "FUCK YOU."

Not fucking funny. Except, totally funny. Damn you, Krohmpf.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The 80s Son

This is the best/most disturbing thing I've seen in a long time. Thank you, g14.

Another site for me not to update

Part of the reason that I've had such a difficult time updating this site is because I can't write. The other part is that I spend too much letting celebrity news chew holes in my brain like syphilis. So, as part of my therapy, I present to you, The Hollywood Flash. It's basically a place where I can get all of this stuff out of my head; It's taking up too much room and I'd really like to be able to remember how to do long division.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Crying, sometimes over you, sometimes not.

As I was shoved up against a man's knees and breathing in a mixture of sweat and stale urine on the 1 train last week, I noticed something that should have been more unusual: the woman standing next to me was crying. Our eyes accidentally met in that awkward shared-commute kind of way, and I saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. The look on her face wasn't one of embarrassment, as you might think, but one of resignation. It was a look that said, "Yeah. I'm on a subway, it's rush hour, and I'm crying. What're you gonna do?" I liked that look because it was a look I understood.

For someone with a paralyzing fear of crying in public, I have shed more than my fair share of tears in this city. Bunny wrote about her experience with New York City crying awhile back--it isn't just me, people. The big apple is drowning in tears. I don't know how to explain this phenomenon, other than by attributing it to the sense of anonymity that goes along with living here. None of these people know you or give a shit about your problems. It's easy to convince yourself that you're invisible, and in many respects, it's true.

I have cried everywhere in this city. I've cried while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. I've cried while waiting for the light to change. I've cried while hailing a cab and, like the woman next to me, I've cried on the subway. Oh, how I've cried on the subway.

I've cried on the 6 train platform in Soho as a relationship I thought had promise disintegrated. I've cried on the uptown 2 because everything seemed to be falling apart at the same time. I've cried on the downtown F, on the uptown A. I've even cried on New Jersey Transit.

I've stood at the waters edge, under the baking sun, as a boy broke my heart from hundreds of miles away, my tears mixing with my sweat. I've cried in the snow and had my snot freeze to my upper lip. I've cried in a Starbucks while sipping a hot chocolate, I've cried in an Au Bon Pain while eating soup. I've sat on a bench and texted while I cried, I've sprawled out on the grass and cried on the phone. I have cried in this city.

Out of all the times the tears fell in inappropriate and public places, there wasn't one person who ever did more than offer me a sideways glance. No concerned old ladies asked if I was okay, dear. No wrinkly men offered me a hankie. No creepy dudes on the corner told me I'd be a lot prettier if I smiled, girl. No mother, sitting on the train with her kids, offered me an encouraging smile. Thank Jesus.

When your life feels like it's so out of control that weeping on mass transit seems like reasonable and appropriate behavior, the last thing you need is a "you'll get through it" smile and head nod from a stranger. No, what you need is for the people to get their bags out of the freakin' doors so they can close and you can get home to your dog and your Tivo'd episodes of Law & Order.

As we passed by the Upper West Side, Columbia and Harlem, the woman standing next to me just stared out of the window and cried. As I stood there, our shoulders touching, her music leaking out of her ear buds, the only thing I could think was, "why? Why, why, why, oh why do you have to be standing in front of the only two empty seats in this entire car?"

Friday, February 23, 2007

But what about THE CHILDREN???

She shaved her head, she got tattoos, she went to rehab three times in three days. To say Britney Spears has had a rough week would be an understatement. Girlfriend has had a rough couple of years. I was sitting at my desk this morning, watching the video of her bashing in a car with an umbrella and thinking that the widely-held belief that marrying K-Fed signaled rock bottom seems so...quaint now.

We didn't like Kevin Federline from the beginning. From his stringy hair to his insistence on wearing manpris for every occasion, to his weasly little eyes, we did not want him near our Britney. The guy was obviously a freeloader, obviously only after her for her money, and was obviously going to get her pregnant as soon as humanly possible in order to ensure a permanent stake in her fortune. He was the skeevy guy at the club who comes up behind you and starts grinding on your ass before you even see his face.

Throughout their marriage, Britney was seen as the good guy. Sure, she got herself into a bad situation. She's obviously made mistakes, but she's not to blame. She was a CHILD STAR. She can't possibly be held accountable. Through the Red Bull, Marlboros and Cheetos, we stuck by her. We kept thinking it was a phase that she would soon outgrow.

When she filed for divorce last October, we felt vindicated. She finally wised up. She was doing what was best for her and her boys. And then? Paris Hilton.

On the New York City subway system, there are these terrible posters put up by Health and Human Services that offer basic parenting tips like, "Never, ever shake a baby","Don't leave your infant in the bathtub unattended" and "Don't put your baby to sleep in your bed, do a bunch of heroin, nod off and roll on top of your baby, killing him, like Christopher did to Adriana's dog on "The Sopranos." I know no one in L.A. uses their subway system, so perhaps the city could erect billboards that say something along the lines of, "Hey, do you have kids? Do you want to have kids? Are you perhaps passing by a playground or a Toys R Us on the way home from work and run the risk of accidentally making eye-contact with a child? Then stay the fuck away from Paris Hilton. Seriously. Her shit is airborne."

I try to stay away from the pearl-clutching judgment calls as much as possible, but when you have two small sons, you do not need to be running around with Paris Hilton, flashing your lady business to strangers. It is completely unnecessary. Rent some Baby Einstein DVDs and try to undue the damage genetics have already done to your children.

So fast forward to today. After months of Cesarean scar flashing, stripper outfit borrowing, drinking, vomiting, and alleged drug use, Britney has been locked away. The dust is beginning to settle, and who is coming out as the winner? None other than Fed-Ex himself.

Yep, Kevin Federline, king of the cornrows, bad rapping and illegitimate children is looking pretty damn good right now. His threat to have Britney's hair tested for drugs is reportedly a big reason why she shaved her head. The dude is pissed. And who can blame him? He's been vilified in the press sense the moment we learned his name, yet there have been no blind items featuring him snorting coke in a bathroom stall. There have been no pictures of his vomit staining the floor of his SUV. He may be a douchebag, but I doubt he would put his kids at risk like Britney probably has. I mean, seriously.

I picture a day with Britney and her kids starting out like that episode of jackass where Johnny Knoxville pretends to leave his baby on top of the car and then drives off. You know that shit has happened more than once. You know what else I'm sure has happened more than once? Britney coming home with Jayden in her arms, putting down her keys and her bag, and then hanging the baby on the coat rack, followed closely by her nanny who just sighs, shakes her head, and wordlessly gets the little munchkin down, taking the airplane bottle of vodka that Brit has been using as a pacifier out of his mouth.

K-Fed's day with the kids probably involves a lot of propping them up on pillows next to cardboard cutouts of celebrities, and then playing his CD while he lip-syncs and dances in front of his adoring fans. Sure, it's still not an ideal living condition, but when the poor kids have these two parents to choose from, it's really the best they can hope for. Well, second best. I hear Queen Latifah is looking to adopt some American kids and everyone knows that lesbians make the best mommies.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

If only the job interview was at a cancer center...

Many people, when they have a bad week, turn to the sweet, comforting embrace of alcohol to make themselves feel better. While I see nothing objectively wrong with curling up with your good friends Jack and Johnny, I have a thing about not drinking when I'm sad. Because of this character flaw, I usually treat a bad day with a double dose of SVU and VH1 Celebreality programming.

Sometimes, though not nearly as often as one would hope, something better comes along. Perhaps a friend is visiting, or one of your favorite bands is coming to town and you think to yourself, "you know, this week was pretty shitty, but motherfucking Paradise City (The G&R tribute band that is so awesome that Axl Rose's feelings of comparative inadequecy is the real reason for Chinese Democracy's interminable delay) is playing in Jersey, so nothing else matters."

Yesterday, I had an experience that surpassed even hearing "Paradise City" performed by a man who has devoted his life to keeping the flaccid 80s Cock Rock movement alive: I got a phone call from Elizabeth.

Now, this wasn't a typical Elizabeth phone call in that she didn't once mention how I was going to die alone or how nobody could ever love me. Those phone calls are so common they are hardly worth mentioning and definitely not worth writing about. This time she had news.

Apparently, Justin Timberlake is coming to Richmond and a local radio station was giving away tickets, as they do. Since these tickets are a pretty hot commodity, the station, Q94, figured people would do just about anything to get them. They were right. Our friend Rachel shaved her head bald for Justin Timberlake tickets. But that's not the best part. The best part? She had a job interview that afternoon. For a job she really wanted. But wait--that's still not the best part. The BEST best part is that it was a second interview. So these people have definitely met her before and have definitely seen her with hair.

Now if this wouldn't inject some brightness into a dark, miserable week, then you should just fall asleep on some train tracks, because you're already dead inside.

Rachel (far right) and Rachel (third from left)

The only thing left to say is "thank you."

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

I am a failure

Okay, so I'm working on like, 3 different entries right now. One I like but is taking longer than I wanted it to, one that I don't like and have kind of given up on, and one that only exists in my head.

I also have some potentially fun news, but I'm awaiting outside confirmation.

So, basically, I've got nothing. Hence the title.

On an unrelated note, isn't Heroes a great show? I'm in love.

Monday, January 29, 2007

This show is going to be great...when you get killed off. Part 1

For every tight ensemble cast on television (Friends, Entourage, Arrested Development) you have three that feature a cast that's generally awesome--if it weren't for that one "actor."

You know the one: His acting is so wooden, he could be replaced with a giant log with branches for hands and either nobody would notice, or the show would actually improve. Or you have the woman who is so over-the-top in all of her "acting" choices that just watching the other more talented actors in the cast react to her histrionics would be entertaining, if she weren't so damn annoying.

I love television and those with ensemble casts are my favorite. When I ask myself why, I can only think it's because I hate myself. Every time a casting director gets an ensemble 99% right, the 1% that is so wrong just makes me die inside. Below are my first two entries in the category of
Worst Actor/Actress in an Otherwise Enjoyable Show.

My first nominee: Misha "I'm the only one on this cast who is actually high-school age, yet I look older than the woman playing my mother and sound like I've been on a diet of cigarettes and Quaaludes since the mid-70s" Barton of the soon-to-be-canceled The O.C.

Before she moved to Orange County and started drinking a bunch, she was best known as the girl who vomited everywhere in The Sixth Sense. Over three seasons of The O.C., she drank a lot, whined, wore ugly hats and failed to ever change her facial expressions. She brought every scene she was in to a grinding halt and annoyed the audience (and, I suspect, the cast and crew) so much that she was finally, mercifully killed off at the end of Season three.

The entertainment writers who are attributing The O.C.'s actual death to Marissa Cooper's fictional one say so only because they haven't watched the show since Season one. And who could blame them? Even Barton herself has said that the show couldn't survive without her. But really, what else would she say? When you have so little self-awareness that you would leave the house looking like this, it's a miracle that she can string together a sentence at all.

My second nomination is Elizabeth Rohm, the ex-ADA on the original Law & Order.

She joined the cast before I moved to New York and I almost didn't because of her. Sure, Giuliani cleaned up Times Square, but apparently you can catch a cold that can last several years. Every line she said sounded like the "before" in a NyQuil commercial. I was pretty terrified of the killer cold strain that seemingly infected the streets of New York, until I realized that she was the only one afflicted. Then I realized that it wasn't a cold at all--she just sucks.

Her acting runs the gamut from B to C: Bitchy to Confused, and when the camera rested on her eyes, you could see clear through to the back of her skull.

After inflicting her upon a helpless viewing public for either two or twelve seasons (it's really just a blur of pain and blonde highlights at this point) the writers heard from on high that they could finally get rid of her--and get rid of her they did; saddling her with the best out-of-left-field exit line in the history of television: "Is it because I'm a lesbian?" The confusion and exasperation in Sam Waterston's eyes as he replies, "No" is a vindicating moment for the viewers, as now we know that we have not been alone in our pain.

Those are my first two nominations of many. Still to come: Anorexic leading ladies and a man who is so intense, he makes me feel dirty from the inside out.