And she said it a lot.

Hi. Talk about having nothing to add on a topic.

I was actually sitting here, wondering why I kept free-associating the notion of "boobies" with the idea of "rented cummerbunds" and the sense memory of "Goldschlagger concealed in Poland Spring bottles." And then it hit me:

I'll take "Things I Haven't Seen Since Prom Night" for $500, please.

Back when I was in Monks' Night Out, every Sunday rehearsal started with about an hour of Three Line Scenes. You had to try them over and over until everybody voted that your scene worked. It made you say stupid things like: "Hey, Sis, I just crashed Mom's car -- and it's her birthday!!"

But for me the harder part was being the second guy, the one who is miming some kind of action and had to respond to the first line in a way that set up a joke for the next line. So first you had to think up some kind of miming that wasn't writing, reading, sewing or washing dishes. It had to be an action that could be both maintained and easily interrupted (You can't have someone enter while you're surfing, otherwise you're being a dick to the other guy who's trying to come up with a relation, situation and joke). Then you had to hear the set-up this person was giving you and find a way to respond that clearly set up the punchline. And the action can't be so crazy that the person is forced to comment on it. You're supposed to be just "doing something" without having to say what it is, and not turn the scene into "Two guys fishing."

"You failed the test."

He says that to you, and that's all you've got. He's not allowed to ask a question. He just has to say something that establishes where you are, who you are, -- some sort of grounding.

You keep on brushing your teeth, or tying your shoe or whatever.

"I'll give you five thousand dollars to say I passed."

He leans back, stares at you. He's got to make the joke here. It's his turn.

"We went through this last week, Mr. President."

It's not perfect, but it would have passed.

Back when we'd get stuck on that third line, one of my friends would always turn to his scene partner and use for his third line: "I love you." Then they'd hug. It was funny every damn time because there's so much tension between those lines, when you can hear someone think, when they just want to say the right line so they can get off the stage because it's early on a Sunday and it's hot and there's no air conditioning in the club, and everybody's cranky.

I do not miss the Three Line Scene.

The saddest sentence about Nigella's wedding story? "Saatchi notoriously hates parties."

That's sadder than when one of your funny friends dates a girl with no sense of humor, one who stares at you funny and wants to leave early, and is always whispering something in his ear before looking around the room with a terrified look in her eye.

Nigella. Call me. We'll go get Uma and have a throw-down in my kitchen.

Wow, that's hot.

Does anyone have Uma's phone number?

I now wonder if I have the wrong "Daniel" on my Friendster.

True: last night I watched Clue. Also true: I had to go out and rent it. My copy apparently lives at my mother's house.

I got some mail regarding today's boob-heavy entry (heh), from a girl claiming to be named "Kansas." So, I guess strippers read my site, too. Yay, strippers! I love your boobs.

I have a suggestion for Alex.  As a small breasted women- it rarely happens that a man checks out my rack- however I do still notice when they do. (One thing we can agree men are not is subtle!) But unlike well-endowed girls who are annyoed that the guy has no clue what color their eyes are- my girls are starved for some eye affection.   So if you want to practice your technique- lavish you skills on a small breasted women- give her a little rush the likes of which she doesn't see too often.  I love it when a guy checks me out (well to be honest he is getting more Victoria and less me but you get the point.)  So enjoy honing your techniques on the flat chested and then see if you skills can make it to the next level!

And just so you know, Alex wrote with only this to say when I told him about today's entry: "Precious, precious breast essays..."

It's that kind of dirty Friday, y'all.

The blog works.

A large group of friends made up of a typical sampling of the overall New York demographic (eight Vassar graduates and one very smart older brother) were sitting outside at a Park Slope bar during the height of the Friendster craze (fifteen minutes and .01 seconds ago, as the clichéd, Warholian math works out), and I outlined what I thought the problem with the site was, which I will quote here in its entirety. Sidebar: when you put yourself in quotes, you LOVE yourself. But anyway:

"We can dance around it all we want and say that we're on it just to run user searches on other people who can also quote Clue in its entirety -- which is also everyone I ALREADY KNOW -- but the true intent of that site is for one purpose and one purpose alone: to get me laid. And hi. It's not working. Because unlike specifically-purposed online dating sites, this one hides behind a layer of bizarre social propriety, as if to say, 'A long-term relationship would be fine and all, but it's just not as fulfilling as getting a witty testimonial from a co-worker. By the way, don't I look sexy and mysterious in this picture of me taken five years ago?' Screw that noise. It's a dating service and I intend to use it as such."

So I customized my gallery to find someone who looked, acted, and quoted Clue just as I did, and found a candidate who lived six blocks away. His name was Daniel. Our date was weird and he never called. So, Daniel? If you're out there? And you've learned how to read? I want my good name back. And I've never meant that with such damning literalness.

I'm pulling the plug on the count of 3. And I can count backwards with alarming speed.

I'm thinking I'm going to have to lose SiteMeter in order to make the blog work. That's frustrating.

Dan and I are thinking about breaking up with Friendster. Why? Because it does nothing. It means nothing. It reminds me of Ben Kingsley with his suitcase of chess certificates, floating them all over the room. "You want the Friendster? Here. Here's fifty friends. Here's sixty friends. Your network is 679,002,044 people. It means nothing. They mean nothing."

When Heather Chandler, Anne Heche and a cat are a part of your Friendster, when you're "Just Here To Help" but there's nothing or nobody to help, when you're upset that one of your friends wrote a better testimonial for another one of your friends, when you're actually hurting your synapses trying to remember who someone asking to be your friend is, then it's time to move on.

Friendster is the Internet's slam book. Dan, I say we dump that shit.

And, most importantly, I always include a title line on a new post. ALWAYS.

I'm Dan. I write for TWoP. I do pro-bono work for the most basic of cable. I'm about to be a famous librettist at a site I had planned on opportunistically linking below, only to note that Pam had done so in my stead on the right. Instead, here's something even more personal, and filled with pretty, pretty pictures.

Oh, and I also have a weirdly elaborate Friendster profile, but I'm thinking of taking myself off of that site as it often makes me feel weirdly bad about myself. Explain this?

And, for what it's worth, I too have been dancing the Maximize/Minimize Tango in order to read the blog.

Damn. Couldn't take out the Pam from the description of Dan. Where does Pam end and I begin?

Accoring to Robyn, those of you having problems seeing the blog might try minimizing and then maximizing the window. I don't want you to have to do that because that's stupid, so I'm working on it. But as we used to say in the tech world, there's your current "workaround."

New journal entry. I talk about boobs even more than usual. I'm seven.

I decided my blog needed a sidekick. Actually, I'm not sure who decided. It may have been Dan's brilliant plan. Huh. Welcome to the world's longest continuing conversation.

Regardless, welcome Dan. Post often. Perhaps you should give some kind of introduction that's less pamie-centric so people know more about you.

In other news: some of you still can't see the blog, which is frustrating, which may be due to SiteMeter, which is also frustrating.

In other, other news, I finished the draft of Unfinished Script From Hell. I celebrate today by proofing the sixth draft of Contest Script Close To My Heart, and working on Television Pilot That I'll Never Sell But I'll Try Because That's What I'm Supposed To Do.

And maybe I should update the journal, because the only people who have found the blog so far are the ones who enter through the index page or who read Damn Hell Ass Kings.

Uh, yeah, I just wrote out my to-do list on my blog. What's it to you?

I'm sorry the last journal entry made so many of you think that I was recently married. It's "Recently Married People Like Me." Not "Recently Married People Like Me."

I promise to tell you if I ever get married.

Look at me! I'm famous on the Pamie Internet Show!

I told Pamie that the sole purpose of her website was, from this point forward, to finally illustrate to the masses the difference between a journal and a blog. It is her public service. It is her Peace Corps assignment. As a reward for clarifying Squishy 3.0's mission statement, I was rewarded with a blog password. You have no idea how much it rocks. Look at me! Me me me me me! Once more, I'm famous in that way where I'm totally famous except for the part where anyone knows who I am. But still, this is a step up. If she's Pamie and we're not, I'm at least Pamie Lite to her Pamie Ultras. Mmmmm...cigarettes.

To that end, I promise that I won't use my posting privileges to tell you mundane stories about MY life, as that's not why you've come here. This isn't about me. I'm here to support Pamie. I'm the Andy to her Conan. The non-piano-playing-Paul to her Dave. The all-of-O-Town to her Diane Warren.

Oh, and this morning I spilled a leaky cup of coffee all over myself. But that's a story for another day.

Pam: stee just made me a Stoli Vanilla and Coke.

Dan: Mmm. Do you like it?

Pam: Well, I've never really had one before. I don't think, as a drink, it works, actually. But we have a lot of Stoli Vanilla here.

Dan: I ordered it once in front of you, and I do believe what you said to me then was, "Dan. This is what five-year olds would drink if they were allowed."

Pam: I stand by that statement. This is a drink for boozy children.

Dan: Yes.

Pam: I reused that joke, I think. I may have said it to Allison or Anna Beth before.

Dan: You know where you should rehash it again?

Pam: Hmm?

Dan: On your shiny new blog.

So, I've figured out how to update to Netscape 6 or something on the Mac, and I changed SiteMeter to understand Blogger, but there are still some problems. Thanks for being so patient, and especially to those of you who have helped me out with suggestions and explanations.

Northwest Indiana seems to think WGAW was written by my mom.

Mom couldn't be happier to see her name on that site, even though she's been lumped as one of those crappy "chic lit" authors. (That's when you write about Prada, right?)

Does this site look funny on Netscape? I'm using the oldest version of IE in the world (which I hate) but I can't update for some reason on this Mac, and it won't let me change my home page. And the version of Netscape I have crashes every three seconds. I'm in a browsing hell. I'm on OS 9, so I can't use Safari.

A blog is like you guys hearing the tiny thoughts in my head that normally nobody gets to hear. I'm not sure if this makes you the lucky one.

New review in the Philadelphia City Paper. One of my favorite things about reviews is getting listed next to some of my favorite authors, like Chuck Palahniuk (or in this case, Arthur Nersesian).

I wonder if the criticism about the Instant Messaging section is because I didn't use the common shorthand we often see on IM, and how when you read a transcript it looks like people are interrupting each other, since one inevitably types faster than the other. But then they also said LDobler's dad is dying, which evens everything out in my opinion.

But it is a flattering review, and mentions TWoP, so I'm happy. And it's appropriately snarky.

In other news, this week I've been rejected by the Austin Film Festival three times. That's quite an accomplishment, don't you think?

If I was any good at design, I'd have pretty little things to put next to the items on my index page. But I am not good at making things pretty. Therefore my webpages look like they're designed by Yoko Ono.

Scandal! By the time I found out about this (through my referral logs), Dearest What's-Her-Name had already taken down the site. This isn't the first time I've seen my stuff stolen on other sites. One time Beth helped me out with some girl in Hong Kong who stole the entire Lillith entry and changed the name to her cat. That's messed up, stealing a dead cat story. I don't ever want to have that kind of karma.

(If you don't have TWA access, the thread's about a LiveJournaler who was stealing from several other journals and posting the entires as her own. If you don't know what LiveJournal is, I can't help ya.)

But I guess this proves one thing: Dana, InvincibleGirl, Omar, PG, Uncle Bob, Anna Beth and I are no Journaling Cabal, if it took this long for her legions of fans to figure out there was something funny going on.

So I'm getting with the program. I've created a blog. Why? Well, because some days I don't feel like updating four or five pages just to write an entry. Some days I don't have much to say, and when that happens I'll avoid updating completely.

I shouldn't limit myself.

So here's where I'll jot down the little things, the tiny stories, the funny bits I don't want to forget. Here's where I'll remind myself and let you know that I'm horribly behind in my email, and if you think I'm ignoring you to create blogs and learn Blogger stuff and revamp stee's site, then yeah, you're right. But at least you know I'm feeling guilty about it.

There's an unfinished script a few feet away from me tapping its toes, too. Sorry, unfinished script. I'm sorry that I let myself get caught up learning web software from two years ago rather than give you the attention you deserve.

Aren't you excited? You get meaningless little tid-bits of non-information instead of one carefully crafted journal entry every few days!

That's what a blog is.

Now there's no confusion. This is the blog. That is my journal.

I love them both.

stee.

You can thank me later.

Appropriate song playing as I figure out how to make an archive: "Idiots Rule."

I cannot believe I waited this long to do use the easiest posting software of all time. I am a moron. I feel like I just bought my first VCR.

Wow. All this time I could have done quick updates here. Blogging! I'm the Yakov of the Internet.