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."

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.

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.

Random Conversations with Family Members #6

Special Christmas Edition

Christmas morning 2005:

Kali: Sweet. Starbucks!
Me: How come I didn't get a Starbucks gift card?
Kali: Hehe, loser.
Mom: Oh, I don't know. I guess I wasn't sure that you have them up there.
Me: Mom. I live in New York City. I'm pretty sure there's a Starbucks in my bathroom.
Mom: Well, I didn't know that. You know, it makes sense though. Every time I see a picture of those Olsen girls in People, they have a Starbucks cup in their hand.

Awkward...

I didn't write a lot of notes in high school, or very much bad poetry in middle school, but it's always fun to come across what I've saved from that time. The notes are good for nostalgia purposes, and the poetry, while horrible, was never made public, so it doesn't really bother me. There was, however, this one time in elementary school...

This is a case in which the writing itself is unimportant, because what really mattered was the subject matter. This isn't some pathetic poetry that I put into a notebook and never showed to anyone or a painful love-letter, it's something I thought was so amazing that I needed to share it with the entire 5th grade at Cool Spring Elementary.

I moved around a lot when I was little. I went to 9 elementary schools by the time my parents divorced when I was in the third grade. The combination of constantly being the new kid and my parents seeing no need to actually put me around children my own age basically made me into a social retard. I couldn't identify with other kids and was painfully shy.

I discovered early on that reading was a great way to stay busy and not talk to people (not to mention that it looked like you didn't care that they weren't talking to you). My parents loved the fact that I read a lot because it kept me out of their hair. I had no problem getting money to buy more books.

One day, in the 5th grade, I'm at a bar with my dad and I ask him for book money. He orders another beer and gives me a ten. I go around the corner to the drug store and buy a book. I go back to the bar, sit back on my stool and start reading. The book is really good.

Around the same time, we have a project in school. We have to pick a book and write a short play based on it. This was elementary school, so the "play" was only supposed to be a page or two long. My friend Steve did his on Freckle Juice.

Well, the book I was reading was so amazing that I had to use it. I started writing. And I couldn't stop. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I held casting sessions with confused-looking classmates during recess. I made copies of what turned into an 11-page epic and gave them their scripts. Then it was performance day.

We performed our scenes in front of not only our class, but the neighboring 5th grade class as well. I was excited. My play was amazing and I knew everyone would love it.

We started the play. The main character was Missy, a pretty, popular high schooler. She had a dreamy boyfriend and great friends with whom she had giggly sleepover parties. Then Missy was murdered.

My attention to detail in my writing meant that one of my 11-year-old classmates enacted putting a log onto another of my classmates to ensure that she would drown in five inches of water. Steve Chose a Judy Blume book. I chose Missy's Murder, a true crime book about a girl who was beaten and drowned by her best friend.

I remember looking around and seeing the uneasy, fearful looks on my teacher's and classmates faces. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized that I had been so caught up in my own head that I had completely misjudged the situation. This was clearly not my time to shine.