the ocean

Temporarily Yours

This morning my temporary secretary began the day by coming in half an hour late and announcing that she needed to get some coffee because she had a terrible hangover. She disappeared to parts unknown for well over two hours in the middle of the day, and spent most of the time she was actually sitting at her desk reading Us Weekly and playing FreeCell. She also corrected me on my grammar (incorrectly) on three separate occasions.

Good help is so hard to find.

My regular secretary and I have a sort of uneasy truce. She's nice to me and rolls her eyes when I tell her about the ridiculous things my superiors sometimes ask me to do, and I look the other way on the fake sick days and frequent leaving at 4:30. She doesn't do too awful much for me in terms of work, but I'm actually fairly self sufficient as far as those things go. I like making my own copies and I even know how to use the fax machine. When it comes to time entry I'm admittedly a little bit stumped.

But every time I have a temp, it's a very scary thing. Sometimes they're missing teeth or have facial tattoos. They frequently call me by the wrong name or hum loudly at their desks. And sometimes they want to be my very, very best friend, in a Single White Female sort of way.

I hope my regular secretary gets over her scabies soon.

Value City!

In anticipation of my upcoming move, I am pleased to offer the following fine items for sale:

-- One country/western style couch, complete with red wine stain and suspicious white marks that definitely, definitely predate the time I caught my old roommate having sex on the item. Perfect for square dance halls or schools for the blind.

-- One IKEA dresser, built from finest plywood, leans slightly to the left. Has been sitting on back deck for approximately eight months; resident family of muskrats included.

-- One torn-up carpet square, mistaken for a bath mat and tossed in the washer. Looks as though someone killed Grover.

-- One "Hitch" hat. Need not have seen "Hitch" to purchase.

-- One VHS videotape, entitled "History of the Big Ten," unopened. Narrated by Edward James Olmos.

-- One badly-scratched coffee table, known to safely hold up to 180 pounds of drunken, gyrating human.

-- Two non-working speakers designed to be used with a stereo no one has made since 1987.

Let the bidding begin!

Adventures in Dining

I am not the world's most adventurous eater. I count among my favorite dishes both macaroni and cheese and sandwiches, and I do not enjoy restaurants where they stuff foods into other foods or purposely set things on fire. Until I was roughly 23, I didn't even like pizza, and I told everyone I met I was allergic to tomatoes so as to avoid being asked to "just give it a try." To me, if God had wanted us to eat raw fish, he would have covered them in chocolate and put them in a box marked "Hostess." So I have never been the biggest sushi fan.

But last night was my friend's birthday party, and she wanted us all to go for sushi, so I gave it another whirl. I tried to stick to mainly cream-cheese-based dishes so as to break myself in gently, but damned if they still didn't insist on sticking cucumber in everything. To me, cucumber is like crunchy water with a slightly bitter aftertaste, and I just don't see the point. The crab tempura was slightly better, as I would probably eat a VHS copy of The Wedding Planner if you deep fried it, but there was still a bit of a tentacle thing going on with it, and I generally don't like to eat anything that could be the villain in a science fiction movie. I actually didn't even know that crabs have tentacles; it could be that they just brought us the wrong dish and I didn't know it.

So the bottom line is that I am probably not moving to Japan any time soon. Although it was still a fairly good night thanks to a lot of cheap champagne. Maybe Totts should merge with the raw fish people.

V for Very Large

Did I mention that I saw "V for Vendetta" this weekend? At the IMAX theater on Navy Pier, which was an entertainment in and of itself. Before the show we had $13 salads at one of the many fine tourist-gouging establishments on the Pier; I was tempted to take a $5 ride on the Ferris wheel as well, but then I realized I'm not retarded or from Missouri. I also had never seen a movie that wasn't about sharks or space at an IMAX, so I really enjoyed the simple thrill of seeing Natalie Portman's chrome dome magnified to thirty feet in diameter. It's good that someone's finally figured out how to take the learning out of the big screen.

Anyway, as to the movie itself, I thought it was pretty good. I haven't always been on the Portman express (I thought Angela Lansbury would have been about as convincing as the stripper in Closer), but she really sold me here. She did a great fake British accent in the Gwyneth/Madonna tradition, and managed to sob heavily without getting a case of fetus face. The main problem with the movie was the fact that the hero wore a mask literally the whole time, which A) meant he had about as much emotional range as Jessica Biel and B) made his voice kind of lispy and tough to understand. Although I have to say I was glad we didn't have a big facial deformity reveal, a la Phantom of the Opera. It generally just ends up looking like Jessica Simpson before the Proactiv.

On the Town

Yet another very full weekend has just passed. Friday involved yet another iteration of my show, this time with a slight buzz on my part, induced by a strange combination of sleep deprivation and overly strong generic brand rum and cokes. It was of course far more amusing for me that way, though it did have the slight side effect of me forgetting to bow at the end. Or not forgetting so much as running in the other direction. I guess my incredibly modesty is only amplified with drink.

And speaking of drink, Saturday we took Roommate Liz to the Brauhuas for her almost birthday. I meant to take my camera and capture some colorful candids for you folks, but in all my sneaking around the house (I thought the event was to be a surprise; in fact it was not) I forgot to bring it. So you will simply have to imagine the sight of our sixty-something waitress wearing a low-cut peasant blouse and girdle, and settle for a word picture of my impromptu Fiddler on the Roof-style dance (complete with low kicks) when the accordion player broke into "Hava Nagila." Perhaps it is better that way.

And to complete the mess, there was definite karaoke. I dedicated a cover of "From a Distance" to Roommate Liz, and then joined her in a lift-tastic version of "I've Had The Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing. A fortysomething gentleman with his shirt open to his navel told us that we were amazing; I am sure it was not just the PBR talking.

A Journey Into the Past

I have begun going through the thousands of unnecessary objects I have saved throughout my three years in my current apartment in preparation for my move. It's a fairly hilarious process, and not just because I can't believe I somehow kept a book of terrible poetry written by my neighbor and a Steak N Shake hat. No, it's also funny because I get little glimpses of the very weird and apparently very prolific person I have been.

For instance, I found a copy of the closing argument I wrote for a mock trial in law school. It was the case of Fordyce v. Felton, a very contentious battery case involving an ex-model-and-heroin-junkie ably portrayed on the stand by one Roommate Liz. Now, most people just kind of throw something together at the last minute for this stuff, realizing that it does, of course, have no real impact of any kind for anyone at all. But I apparently wrote an impassioned three-page corker, urging the jury to ignore the "cloud of deception" presented by the defense and "make Mr. Fordyce in some small part whole again." As I recall, we, lost, although I like to think the case is still pending on fake appeal.

I also found some rather amusing caricatures I drew of my law school classmates, including the girl who talked about horses all the time (pictured riding a stallion with her hair blowing in the wind) and the middle-aged former television newscaster who related every case we read to something that had happened in her own life (pictured with a gavel in one hand and a microphone in the other). I don't care what Jasper Johns says, I had a lot of artistic talent.

Meanderings

In case you're wondering, I ended up pitching a plot line where Jake cons Charlie into signing a permission slip that Alan had already refused to sign, leading to a hilarious dispute about parenting styles and an equally gut busting role reversal, in which Charlie became the "disciplinarian" and Alan the "free spirit." I'm thinking next I should tackle a "Courting Alex" or maybe move into the exciting world of tampon commercials. That's where you really hear your prose sing!

And have I mentioned that I finally saw Good Night, and Good Luck? It was really good, in a making-you-feel-ashamed-of-yourself kind of way. Mainly I just wanted to get glasses like George Clooney's. Oh, and start chain smoking like pretty much everybody in the movie. People were so cool back in the black and white days!

On a completely unrelated note, since transitions are totally overrated, I am a terrible Catholic. I had a roast beef sandwich for lunch on Ash Wednesday, and it was completely premeditated. I guess I just kind of figured that it's tough to worship a God who will condemn people for liking Arby's. Although if he wanted to smite that oven mitt guy, that'd be fine with me.

Inside the Writer's Studio

I'm taking a new screenwriting class, and my assignment for this week is to pitch an episode of Two and a Half Men. This poses a bit of a problem, as I have seen only one episode of Two and a Half Men in my life, in my screenwriting class last week, and that alone was enough to cause me to doubt my desire to live. Far be it from me to detract from the amazing immobile-faced acting of Charlie Sheen, but I'm not sure if I can capture the subtlety of the three separate vomit jokes I saw on display without more of an introduction to the series. For instance, is the whole thing being presented ironically? Is the comic premise just the fact that they centered a sitcom around an '80s actor whose last credit was in one of those clip shows on VH1? Or is it some postmodern gag where they based a show entire on the discarded musings of Bruce Vilanch? Any input would be appreciated.

Until then, here are my suggested story lines for Two and a Half Men:

-- Charlie dies.
-- Jake is removed by DCFS.
-- Alan goes to Space Camp.
-- Charlie falls into the hands of Muslim extremists, with hilarious consequences.
-- Rose is a completely non-dimensional character.
-- Jake is harassed by a bully at school, who constantly reminds him that his dad was in Superman IV.
-- Evelyn gets trapped in an old refrigerator while playing with friends at the dump.
-- Alan realizes he is profoundly gay.
-- Judith purchases a novelty t-shirt, with hilarious consequences.
-- Charlie dies.

I think I've got a really good start on this one. Who can wait for class?!

Loose Ends

To begin with, I forgot to mention that one of the corporate officers I met with during Connecticut Madness 2000 looked very much like Victoria Jackson, of Saturday Night Live and Celebrity Fit Club 2 fame. She and I really bonded over our enjoyment of big salads and high-quality photocopiers, and I can't believe I left her out of my travelogue.

Then, from the world of television, I feel I've been very remiss in my coverage of Project Runway. Giant pink '80s prom dresses aside, I couldn't be happier that Chloe won, as she is wee and has five hundred sisters and seems to complete all of her projects the night before they're due, just like some sort of fashion term paper. I know that everyone really liked Danny, but I felt that he had too much hair and liked his wood shop handbags just a little too much. At least we can all agree that Santino was one of the Top Five Worst Human Beings Ever, just below Hitler but above Charlie Sheen.

I also should mention that I gorged myself on California Pizza Kitchen, watched about half an hour of Pride and Prejudice, and then fell asleep on my couch at 11:30 last night. In case there was any lingering doubt that I am exceedingly lame. Next week I plan to take up lanyard making, just to cement my status.

Welcome to Connecticut, Bitch!

I am not a person who enjoys getting up early in the morning. The way I see it, if God had intended us to wake up before sunrise, he wouldn't have invented alcohol or prime time television. In fact, pretty much the first thing I do every morning when I get up is pray for death. (The next thing I do is grab a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and check to see what Robin Baumgarten is up to on WGN, though, so don't call the Teen Suicide Hotline on me just yet.) So I did not exactly enjoy rising to the dulcet tones of Mexican Hat Dance from my cell phone at 3:30 yesterday morning. But the thought of an amazing day in Connecticut (state slogan: Full of Surprises) had me practically leaping into my action slacks and "I Loves Me Kitty" t-shirt.

Though the airport was practically deserted, security still managed to take about an hour. I honestly believe they were "warming up" for the day by giving each other patdowns while making surly remarks. Luckily, they were well practiced by the time I got there; a particularly menacing pen in my work bag nearly earned me a body cavity search.

Connecticut itself was attractive enough (they have the "nice" strip malls where they put a little bit of crown molding under the light up letters that say Applebees), though I honestly didn't see enough of it to really make a report. I was on the ground there for less than eight hours, and spent almost all of that in a conference room. Conference rooms in Connecticut are pretty nice, although they should have more of the chocolate muffins.

Then, on the way back, we got put in a holding pattern over Northwest Indiana. Even being in a holding pattern over Indiana I felt a sudden urge to ban Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret and watch television shows about fishing. Needless to say, it is nice to be home.

Another Op'nin, Another Show

So a sketch show I helped write is opening this Friday. I'm not in it or anything, so you shouldn't come out hoping to catch a furtive glimpse of my bare backside (although I have written twelve nude scenes into it, as is my policy), but I think it will actually be pretty good. It has a Baby Jessica sketch in it, which is always timely, and a whole lot of jokes about Our Lord and Savior. Plus I think one of the actors once modeled for SEARS. And not the appliance department; we're talking ladies' fashions here. So come see the softer side!

The process of getting there has at times been horrible. Writing by committee isn't my favorite thing in the world, and I find it difficult to take people seriously as humorists when they cite their influences as Jennifer Lopez and Urkel. I can recall a night when I spent half an hour trying to convince someone that child murder was probably not the most fertile comic territory. But eventually, we pulled it all together, and got down to the important business of mocking yuppies and writing songs that rhyme "Aiken" with "gay kin."

I realize that being invited so someone's student sketch show is about as exciting as being invited to someone's hysterectomy, but if you're in Chicago and you're interested, drop me a line and I can give you the details...

Oscar Watch

I attended a swanky Oscar party last night at Friend Amy's home. I say it was "swanky" because there was more than one dish served that involved seafood and the drinks were mixed rather than poured from a box. Roommate Liz and I had planned (threatened?) to come dressed as Brokeback Mountain's lovelorn cowboys, but due to poor weather and general laziness we decided instead to go as nothing. Which is too bad, because I had a hat picked out and everything. Maybe I'll wear it to Connecticut this Friday.

Of the ceremonies themselves, I have several observations. First, Reese Witherspoon, while most likely a lovely person and most definitely a recipient of my undying love ever since Election, has a chin so sharp I fear she'll impale someone should she ever trip and fall. Most likely her husband, who really needs to work on his "supportive and not at all threatened by my spouse's professional success" face. Second, the set looked like it was created by a thirteen year old girl. Modeled on her Lisa Frank notebook. All it needed was a rainbow kitten. Third, seating Jack Nicholson next to Keira Knightly is like putting Al Roker next to a freezer full of Haagen-Das; eventually, someone is going to get eaten.

And finally, I don't care if it is for a movie, Tom Hanks needs to cut his damned hair. Every time I see him I just wonder if maybe a tanker ran aground up there.

A Life on the Stage

Last night I saw a high school production of "The King & I" in the suburbs. I have always been a huge fan of amateur theatricals (I think awkwardness is fun) and musical testaments to polygamy (I even penned a rock opera entitled "Mormon!"), and this was no exception. The show featured tons of white people hopefully painting on "Egyptian eyes" in an attempt to look like they're from Thailand and child actors who frequently scanned the audience mid-song to look for their parents, which really added to my experience. Oh, and there was a florist set up in the lobby in case you felt an urge to congratulate someone. You've got to love capitalism in action!

Of course, I have my own checkered high school theatrical past. I specialized in playing people named Billy who tap danced without provocation and members of destitute and/or downtrodden classes; generally, these roles did not coincide. I think the highlight of my career was when one of my directors accidentally left me and several cast members stranded at an area grade school wearing 1940s costumes. My straw boater and bow tie really made the long walk back much more comfortable. I also completed a week-long run of Anything Goes with a horrendous case of bronchitis. At times, I feared that that particular Billy would end up dueting with an iron lung.

If only life could be more like the drama club. As it is, people hardly ever applaud me when I finish an appellate brief.

Exotic Destinations

I am going to Connecticut for work next Friday. I'd always kind of hoped to be sent somewhere really cool, like Vegas or space, but apparently there aren't any medical device suppliers in those places, so it's Connecticut for me. It's my first big trip for work, and I'm kind of excited -- do you think they'll reimburse me for crack and hookers if I bring a receipt?

No, I'm actually going to be there for less than twelve hours. And I have to take a 6:30 AM flight out of O'Hare. I don't care what your religious beliefs are; I guarantee you there is no God at 6:30 AM at O'Hare International Airport. Although there is a Cinnabon.

What do you do in Connecticut when you're only there for 12 hours? Is there a Museum of WASPishness or something? Should I stop by the White Pants Store?

Send me your suggestions and you could win a prize! I mean, technically anything COULD happen.