Stacey's in Gawker.

Trash and M. Giant have awesome news.

I picked up my wedding dress today. Anybody have a great LA place they trust for alterations?

I am so tired.

I should be working on the book. It's open. I read a few pages here and there, and decide it's the worst thing I've ever written, as it's about that time during the first draft that one decides these things. It's hard to focus. We finished shooting the pilot today, spending many hours in the hot sun. It's embarrassing to say how exhausted the sun can make you. There were people on the set in charge of lugging heavy boxes and equipment. They were covered in sweat, burning under the sun. And I'm shielding my eyes, trying to rewrite a line for the ending, complaining about how my feet hurt. Not the same thing at all.

I'm now in the cool of the local coffee shop, but my brain isn't interested in coming up with any more words to write. I've started and stopped this entry alone about five times. My fingers feel like it's still time to work. I have the desire to keep writing, mostly fueled out of the guilt of not having enough time to work on the book over the past couple of weeks. I'm trying to keep to this deadline, but one thousand words of crap is just a thousand words I'll be deleting in a two weeks when I'm rewriting.

Brain babbling. No good words. Saw the Pixies. Dave Grohl was there, and he liked the show more than anybody else in the entire Greek Theater, rocking out up front in the pit. He didn't even seem to mind when the Pixies played the same song twice, once as an encore.

Saw the Beastie Boys, which was awesome. They're all like, "Ch-ch-check it! I'm fucking FORTY! WORD!"

Oh, yeah. Tired. But not as tired as the woman sitting next to me at this coffee shop, who has fallen asleep, hands in her lap, snoring.

email...

Comments Addict DeAnn is doing a walk for diabetes.

oh, the woman next to me just woke up by snoring loud enough to scare herself. man, that cracks me up with that happens. i liked her better sleeping, as she's a sniffer. only thing worse than a sniffer is the whistler.

why am i still typing?

what am i doing awake? i'm so tired.
i can't possibly post this.
but it's just this little button and i click it and then this will be up and i won't feel guilty for not posting anything today because for some reason i need to tell you that i went to a pixies show or it's like it didn't happen because i decided about ten years ago to write on the internet and now I CAN'T STOP. What am I doing here? Why are we all here, reading this? I'm not train-wrecky enough to be one of those journals that you check three times a day (I have three of those, three journals I can't stop reading because they continue to do the stupidest things, and man, it's a guilty pleasure. A terrible, wonderful guilty pleasure). Then I go ahead and have real-life friends who write online, so I can't stop checking their websites, the electronic equivalent of riding my bike past their house seven times a day. I don't ever open up solitaire or play an online game, but there are websites I just stare at, just open up and stare at, like an episode of Oprah, hoping it'll pass ten minutes while my brain hits reset.

Am I still typing? Are you still reading?

Now sleepy-sniffy woman is coughing. A raspy cough that makes me think she's carrying something and now I'm going to have it. Except I won't get it as I've been on antibiotics for six months and will be on them through the rest of the year.

Blood tests came back normal. No diabetes, for those of you checking me three times a day wondering when I'll crack and admit I'm not a real person and there is no book and I don't live in Los Angeles and stee is my brother.

How is it that Dan can be at every show any of us do at any time? He's like Hermione with that time travel pendant.

i'm stalling and i should be recapping. i have to be home to recap. sniffy, coughy woman is reading something on her laptop. i should check my stats.

i shouldn't post this.

why will i?

oh, thank you, friday. i'm so tired. so...tired...

(countdown to losin' it? t-minus three months and one week.)

can't work brain no more. words stupid. book pause. no. shh. sniff. snore. cough. friday. yay.

Oh, wireless internet. How beautiful you are.

I'm actually on a shoot, right now. I'm sitting on the floor next to a monitor. The director is blocking out the next scene. The producers are discussing how they think it should look. I'm finished making script changes. Everyone is now teasing me for working on my blog, so here:

I wrote something for Friends of the Heroes that posted today.

Which one of you did this?

Subject: Oh my dearest Pamie!
Date: September 21, 2004 10:51:33 PM PDT
To: pamie@pamie.com

My God, you are lovely. Please allow me to wisk you away on a romantic journey with my magical flying carriage and my sarcastic horse, Whiskers. We shall see the stars, grasp heaven in our interlocked hands, and later return to the suite, where I shall prepare for you a candlelight dinner and serenade you with tunes that I wrote in the morning.

Oh, that your beauty has touched my heart, Pamie!

With longing and desire to hold you so close,

- Michael Jones, musician and author of 'The Gentleman's Guide to Doin' it From Behind'

Ray, I'm looking in your direction.

Doug,

Maybe you've come by pamie.com today to find out why I haven't called you yet. It would be the first time I haven't called on your birthday in the seventeen years we've known each other. And this day's even more important-- this being your thirtieth birthday. You know I tried. I guess your number has changed since last year. Oddly enough, the man with your number's name is also Doug, but different wife, different last name, and certainly a different voice than the one I've come to quickly identify over the almost two decades we've known each other.

Please call or send an email. I'm going to try to find your email address when I get home tonight. You know I would never forget your birthday.