I love that Couch Baron can walk down the street and give an update.

Hi Dan!! Why didn't you tell me that LA was so much fun?

Jeff would say hi back, Dan, but he's fallen asleep on my couch. I'm that much fun.

When all of you get your books published, I think you'll find it strange when people decide to review who they think you are as a person when writing their Amazon.com reviews. "Pamie is not a weak writer," starts the latest one-star review, which then goes on to call me "desperate".

It's also not often you'll see a review that mentions the author by her online handle, but my reviews are filled with "Pamie." Fun stuff.

Hi, Jeff!

stee: My hip hurts this morning.
pamie: Is it from going: [smacks hip with fist] "Dammit! I HATE the Yankees!" [repeatedly smacks both hips with both fists] "Why? Why? Why?"
stee: Perhaps.

Sorry about your loss Dan, stee, Boston, people who root for underdogs, etc.

I've been a bit absent from the site for this week because my friend Jeff is in town, and before he got here I was busy getting stuff finished so I could take him around town. One of my favorite things is to get someone who usually had an eyebrow raised toward Los Angeles to eventually mutter, "When I move here eventually, I want to live there." And if you can't get them to say that after seeing either Hancock Park or Los Feliz, there's nothing you can do. But it never fails. (If all else fails, Dan, I take them to Far Vista, of course. Fun stuff.)

Also for some reason visitors in town seem to get treated to burlesque shows, which we happen to be seeing tonight, again because of a friend's birthday. Perhaps we'll bump into The Perry again.

All of this is to say I'm sorry I've been a little neglectful. But there's a big weekend coming up. Fancy show tonight, music show tomorrow, AIDS Walk on Sunday, and David Blaine's coming out of his box. (Thanks for helping me make him the number one search item last month.) And here's an article on the woman who's been screaming, "Y'all don't know! Y'all don't know! We're in love! Y'all shut up! He LOVE me! Y'all don't know!" Also: she might be part Nazi.

Sorry, Allison, but God won't let Beyonce kiss Britney, Madonna or you.

Some of you have been here long enough to remember my friends Weldon and Martinique. Their first baby was born last week. I can't wait to meet you, Austin Weldon Hector Phillips. (or is it Hector Weldon? You can correct me in person.)

Finally, I have a new Gilmore Girls recap up.

Oh, for the LOVE!

Ever since Pamie taught me the wonders of the Ice Bats and then copped to hating watching sporting events on television because of the constant and unrelenting crowd noise, I have spared her most talk of baseball. Also, once I made her come to a Dodgers game with me, which rocked more because of the unexpected Eddie Money cameo than anything else. So I know it seems surprising that I should launch into a rambling speech about professional sports here, of all places. But seriously, here I go:

I hate the Yankees. I hate them hate them hate them, and I've hated them for a very long time. I hate their pinstripes and their smugness and their constant supremacy. I hate the fact that I already have six emails in my inbox from people telling me how stupid and jealous and probably ugly I am, and I probably eat babies and I don't know what it is to love. I hate that they've caused me to fight with the people I love, and I hate that she was right all along, really.

But it's three years later. And I've tried to learn. But I just can't help it. I really, really hate them. Hate. Them.

It's the top of the 10th inning of Game Seven, and I have a lot to do. And yet here I sit, in the usual deep groove I've carved for myself on my couch, laptop conveniently on lap, thinking about how early I need to be up tomorrow, watching the 10th inning, and hating the Yankees. I hate that I'm typing so fast because I want this posted before the Yankees win this game and go to the World Series. Again.

Right now, more than anything, I hate the Yankees because of the Cubs. If the Cubs had beaten the Marlins, I wouldn't mind the Yankees going to the World Series, because that match-up, in some strange way, is almost a more interesting one than Cubs/Red Sox. This is because a Chicago/Boston meeting would be a meeting of the underdog versus the underdog. We'd want the whole thing to end in a pretty, darling tie. But Cubs/Yankees would be the classic David/Goliath thing. Respectively. The saddest sacks against, well, the happiest. But the Marlins beat the Cubs, and now things need to stay interesting. And soon the Yankees will beat the Red Sox, and the two teams in the World Series will be no more interesting to the common populace than Atlanta versus Oakland or San Diego versus Minnesota. Yes, you guys. There is a team in Minnesota.

In another somewhat cynical way, even if the Red Sox beat the Yankees, they still haven't done anything. Supposedly, this team is cursed, not having won a Championship since 1918. They have to win it ALL before the curse will be broken. So even if they beat the Yankees (and remember...they won't), they still have to get past the Marlins. And the Marlins of 2003 are like the Mets of 1986. Everyone was rooting for the other team. The team that isn't going to win.

Oooh. Bottom of the 10th. I'll bet it's about to end. No time to proofread.

Prove me wrong, Boston. PROVE ME WRONG.

Dan. I [gerund] [verb] you, because you are the [superlative].

Real World Melissa is fixing to read Why Girls Are Weird. [thanks, Annie, for the link].

But many of you have sent me this:



Between the library and you guys, I figure someone can help poor Calvin to the correct book.

One of the best movie reviews I've ever read was Lisa Schwarzbaum's Entertainment Weekly review of Chocolat, the twee little nominated-for-Best-Picture-by-accident nightmare of a film you only woke up during when your friend nudged you in the ribs four hours into it and loudly whispered, "See, I TOLD you Johnny Depp was in this." EW noted that the film was "manufactured from a proprietary recipe based on focus group data about what consumers enjoy most in a Miramax movie," and it's true that the movie feels like it's been generated by the HeartStringPuller2000 and spat out by a Hollywood that forgot movies used to be based on actual life and not just on other movies.

Yesterday, I had the pointed misfortune of seeing another such movie which, for various political reasons, I am not yet at liberty to reveal. Its genre is completely different from the movie mentioned above, but for its genre, I felt like I was watching yet another retread of "that kind of film." That is, an award-begging prestige movie, unwilling to take any real artistic chances in assuming that we come to the film with a fully realized vocabulary of its style, simply because we've seen so many movies like it.

So I've decided to review it. But, due to my limitations in actually revealing the film I've chosen to review, I've decided that the best compromise is to do it Mad Libs style. So follow along and answer with "butt" as many times as you want as we travel back to our childhoods in...

A Trip To The Movies With Djb

Fade up on [Name Of Starlet In Film], riding a [Non-Motorized Vehicle] and revealing no sign of the eventual [Psychological Condition] that would ultimately cripple her and lead to her [Life-Ending Noun]. She is soon to meet [Name Of Actor You've Never Heard Of], and the two embark on a wild love affair of passion mixed with infidelity, which is perhaps an inadvertent retelling of [Name Of Starlet In Film]'s real-life failed relationship with [Name Of Talentless Actor Who Can't Write, Either].

The trouble with the [Film Genre], especially one about [Name Of Title Character], is that it's so one-dimensional. You have to know everything about [Name Of Title Character] coming in, but there's a paradox in the reality that real fans of [Name Of Title Character] will never be satisfied by a two-hour simplification of her life. I, for one, don't believe for a [Miniscule Measure Of Time] that the cause of [Name Of Title Character]'s downfall was her husband's [Violation Of Marriage Vows], which was, as the film would like me to believe, not only the reason for her eventual downfall but ALSO the inspiration for her decision to [Verb] the [Thing That Rings] [A Type Of Container]. Add in depressing shots of the [Western European Country] countryside, a sky without a [Yellow Glowing Orb], and moodily-blowing leaves that are a metaphor for all that is sad about the human condition, and you'll hardly be able to stop yourself from sticking your own head in the [Large Kitchen Appliance] before [Extraneous Runtime] have elapsed. Enjoy.

[Adjective] stuff, eh, Pamie?

My latest Tarzan recap is up.

I couldn't sleep last night, and woke up three hours after I finally fell asleep. So, I'm weak and weepy and grumpy. I go to Bookslut for comfort. And what's her first news item? This crime against the senses, a pact between Celine Dion and Anne Geddes that will surely startle, rattle and frighten us in our most unsuspecting moments. The worst is I can already see the calendar line that will be creepier than those stuffed kids at the Farmer's Market who are playing Hide and Seek forever and ever and ever.

Pinky rehashes her Remote Control experience. You know you're jealous.

By the way, I'm apparently the only person who hasn't seen my interview in this month's Bitch Magazine. My issue hasn't arrived yet. (Again, you can get your own here.)

And then I wrote a new entry about being a bitch, a feminist, and a theatre patron.

My interview with Erica Beeney ran today.