pamie.com/blog

wow.

Did I really just spend six and a half hours at a Starbucks? My editor is going to be so proud of me.

I don't have an entry. I just wanted to let you know that things are going to be a little weird around here for the next day or two as AB finishes the redesign. I have no idea what kind of mojo she's going to be doing, but there's a chance that links will be a little wonky and stuff will be confusing... or maybe it'll all be seamless because she's a damn genius.

I have had about fifty cups of coffee this weekend. I'm now shaking. Bye, Berkeley.

"and somedays they last longer than others."

Friday morning. No sleep. Have to get to the airport. My bones ache and I'm sure I haven't packed everything I need. I don't have the strength to think. I make it to the shuttle. I turn on the iPod, loud. Shuffle plays cruel tricks.

I make it to the airport and I'm so exhausted and distracted that I keep looking up, expecting to see someone I know. I can't focus on my computer. I can't focus. Last night was long. I can't believe I'm on my way to a wedding reception while everyone else is still here.

The women seated behind me during the flight are so obnoxious, they bring out the worst in me. The only way I can keep from asking them to shut up is to write down the ridiculousness coming out of their mouths. The three of them -- a mother, daughter and young friend, are poring over gossip magazines.

Did you hear they wanted Sela Ward for Desperate Housewives but they went with Teri Hatcher?
I think it's good that they're going to change up the cast. She'll be on it next year, then? Will they replace everybody?
No, I think they meant Sela Ward was going to have the part before the show started.
How could she be on it before the show? Did it used to be on before it was on?
Like in London?
That's a good question. Maybe. I must have read it wrong.

Oh, God. Kill yourselves. Please kill yourselves.

Did you know Ben Affleck is 32? So's Jennifer. Isn't that perfect?
Isn't Sienna Miller so skinny you want to die?
No wonder Jude Law keeps going back to her. With all their babies.
How did we find out about the nanny?
That nanny told.
So she made some money?
Yeah. And ruined two lives.

I want to put my music on to drown them, but I cannot. My Kid A ritual must wait for another ten minutes. Hurry up, take off.

I love Coco Cox. Super cute baby.
Are you going to see The Dukes of Hazzard? I might, to see that one girl.

My brain is screaming, "That one girl is on every single page of that magazine you call the news! Read! Don't just look at pictures!"

Mom? Can I read that Jennifer Aniston article when you're done?
Isn't that sad, how she has to hear about Brad Pitt?
She's so brave.

Finally, finally, finally I can put my music on. Kid A washes over me. I breathe. The song changes to "How To Disappear Completely." The lyrics go past my head and into my body. I hear them everywhere.

That there
That's not me

I try to get some sleep, my head smashed against the plane, using the hood of my hoodie for the world's saddest pillow.

I go
Where I please

We are landing way too soon. I have a cup of much-needed coffee and an even more needed scone. "You look exhausted," stee says. His mother asks about last night's episode taping. I try to explain it without it sounding like a fake job.

I walk through walls
I float down the liffey

We drive to lunch. Something pops in the hood. Smoke everywhere. The car is unhappy.

I'm not here
This isn't happening

I get out of the car and lie on the street, staring at the sky. I'm dizzy. I look like a Berkeley bum.

I'm not here
I'm not here

After lunch I fall into a near coma sleep. It is brief. Time to get pretty for a wedding reception.

In a little while
I'll be gone

There are children everywhere. Pictures and stories and one house with four children under four. The eldest does everything he can to get a moment's attention from somebody. I complement his toy. He follows me out the front door.

"Will you be staying for dinner?" he asks.
"No, I have to go to this thing," I say.
"Oh. That's too bad."
"It must be hard work, taking care of all these kids," I say to him.
"I hate being the oldest. I hate it."
He sits on the ground. I crouch down with him. "Because you have to take care of everybody?"
"Because I'm always the one who gets in trouble for everything. Jacob hits me, and I try to be good, but then I have to hit him back, and then I get in trouble. I hate it."
"I wish I could tell you that won't always be the case. But it gets easier."
"I guess."
"I have to go. See ya, Ethan."

A woman I've never met before drives us to a street corner. I have no idea why she did, or who she was. When I'm in Berkeley, other people are literally behind the wheel.

The moment's already passed.
Yeah, it's gone.

"Hello, Hollywood."

This is the place where everybody calls us LA. stee wore sunglasses while we were outside. "You can take the boy out of Hollywood," one says. My dress? Hollywood. The shoes? Hollywood. The mojito? So fucking Hollywood. Berkeley boys love to mock. Old friends are reuniting. The "hellas" are flying.

There's no wedding at this wedding. No ceremony. No cake. No familiar rituals outside of a couple nice speeches. I give Skylar my digital camera. His pictures are impressive, for a five-year old. He takes terrible pictures of me, but great pictures of feet.

And I'm not here
This isn't happening.
I'm not here.
I'm not here.

We claim the bad kids corner early on. "The Berkeley Wives." This is the only group where I tend to sit with the women.

Everybody has a baby; I have shingles.

I find the bathroom. While waiting for my friend to return, I'm asked to dance. I'm salsa dancing with strangers. How did this happen?

Strobe lights and blown speakers
Fireworks and hurricanes

There are drinks. Catching up. They have stories about schools and vaccinations. I have stories about Dave Chappelle. stee sees an old girlfriend. I see the bottom of my fourth mojito.

Jeff tells me he now thinks of his life as potential entries for my website.

Rebecca, Darcy and I talk about old clothes, the kind we coveted when we were kids.

"I loved my Esprit denim jacket so much."
"Yes. And Benetton."
"Benetton. The place that makes you scream, 'Why can't I be Asian!?"

Darcy spills a full glass of wine into my lap.

I'm not here
This isn't happening

I quickly follow the wine with a glass of ice water. I am now sober, wet, and cold. Ha-ha. It's a real party now that someone's got a shoe filled with red wine.

By the time I get back from the bathroom, everybody's wasted. A heavy-set, red-faced human heart attack is talking to my friend. All I know about him is that he's got a gun on him right now. He looks at me and says, "Take that girl. Red Sweater Girl. You see her? Now, I don't know if she's married."

I hold up my hand. My friend tells him my husband's name. They went to school together.

"Well, clearly she has issues."

At first I think he's capping on my husband, but then I see he's not joking at all.

He stumbles from his position on the stairs, like a cliche. "Look at her. You can tell she has issues. Because she's a woman. And you never, ever, ever trust a woman."

I open my mouth. Take a deep breath. My newest friend, Pilar, shakes her head. "You don't want to do that," she says.

She's right. I know she's right. I grab my cell phone and put my head down.

I'm not here

"Look who's so LA with her cell phone."

Ben gets encouraged. "When this girl tells you off, you will never talk again, my brother. I don't know what Pam's gonna say to you, but it's gonna be perfect. Do it, Pam. Tell him. Tell him what you want to say."

Heart Attack's got his hands up. "Let's here it, girlie. What you got?"

Eyes on the phone, willing it to make a sound. It does. I leap for it.

It's Chito, with a text message from San Antonio. He's listening to Rilo Kiley's "Portions for Foxes."

I'm not here

I text him an R Kelly lyric about someone spilling wine on my dress and how I need some club soooodaaaa!

Ben is upset I haven't told off Heart Attack Gunman, who stumbled away. "Come on, Pam. Go over there and tell him off. I really want to see you do it. It'll be hilarious."

"I can't, Ben."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll tell him what's wrong with him, and I'll be right, and then he'll fall in love with me."

Ben thinks for a second. "Holy shit, that's exactly what's going to happen. You're right. Don't do it. Go back to your space phone, Hollywood."

stee shows up seconds later. "Hey, [Heart Attack Gunman] wants to say hi to you. He loves you. What happened?"

Ta da.

Heart Attack gunman spits dip into the restaurant fountain. Last call was almost an hour ago. The bride has handed out more wine. I'm still wet and cold. I test my phone's email feature. Turns out I can send, but not receive. It's useless.

I check messages. My coworker catches me up on what I missed.

Chito texts that while I'm at a Berkeley wedding, I should be careful not to have sex with a lesbian pastor.

Chito has won the text message game.

"How Hollywood is this girl with her phone?"

I don't know how to tell them I'm texting R Kelly-esque lyrics with a man in a dive bar in San Antonio. That's not LA. That's as close to Texas as you can get.

"Where is Ben?" I ask Darcy.

"All I know is that the last time I saw him, he was getting into a fight with a man on crutches."

Best line of the night.

Have I mentioned that this is actually fun? There hasn't been enough food, and I am one of the few who appears to be sober, and everybody's laughing and then --

We're kicked out. There are no cabs. Everybody's staying with their parents. There's nothing open to eat. We are screwed. Then Heart Attack Gunman begins shouting in the street, screaming at everybody and nobody, and I know we're soon fucked.

We put the bride and groom into the first cab. There is discussion of walking home. I think about walking for thirty minutes, uphill, in four-inch heels, and know there's just no way.

They give us the next cab. Sweet, wonderful people. I tip the driver fifty percent of the fare.

Triscuits for dinner. I drop into the bed. There is nothing more inside of me. I must rest.

I paid ten bucks for an internet connection today. I'm at a Starbucks in front of an open window. Recently someone drove a jeep through the front doors, because Starbucks is evil. Berkeley violence.

I have to write a few pages for AB because the redesign is almost finished. I'm almost done with the manuscript. But right now I really have to pee, and I don't know if I can ask total strangers to watch my stuff while I'm gone. Why did I just tell you that? My head isn't in the game. I'm not here. This isn't happening.

Dan hopes Casey likes his twelve year-old mix

In 1994, I found an unlabeled mix tape buried under the passenger seat of my car and named it "The Other Mix I Made For Casey." Casey was -- and continues to be -- a dear friend and one of my favorite people on the planet, and we discovered that our relationship was able to truly flourish once we stopped dating in junior high. I had made a mix tape for her when I was in 11th Grade and promptly lost it, forcing me to make her another one that wasn't nearly as good. Thus, this tape I discovered, though named "The Other Mix I Made For Casey," was really the FIRST mix, the gold standard, the Vatican I of high school mix tapes. It was better than all that had come before it. Better than "Four Bands I Like" (Crowded House, Squeeze, Split Enz, XTC). Better than "Assorted Singles and B-Sides" (Adam made one with the exact same name that was SO MUCH BETTER). Better even, with strange irony, than "Best Songs Ever" (a bunch of new stuff, one horrible misstep by a hot new band called the Spin Doctors, and a lazy Side Two that descended into nine consecutive Billy Joel songs, which...tsk tsk). It was also the first time I fully enforced the golden rule of straight-acting high school mix tapes: No Songs From Broadway Musicals Allowed. Sorry, Evita.

I'm sure I listened to this mix one billion times more than its recipient ever would have. To the best of my recollection, here's how it went. Welcome to my high school time capsule.

Break out your 90-minute Maxells, people. Here we go:

SIDE ONE

"Way Down Now" by World Party -- For some reason, I had it in my head for most of my mix tape career that the first song had to be something from the popular music scene. Y'know, to draw the listener in. Even though the album featuring this single was released in 1990. Whatever. The lyric "The clocks will all run backwards / All the sheep will have two heads / And Thursday night and Friday / Will be on Tuesday night instead" is still one of my favorites.

"I Won" by The Sundays -- God, I love that band. They put out one of my top ten favorite albums ever, "Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic" in 1989, and became the first salvo in the battle of contemplative girl groups that started the division between the music my brother listened to and the music I listened to. We had never disagreed on any music before The Sundays, and let me make it amply clear when I say that he does NOT like this band. But for me, they defined this period of my life. After a slightly lesser follow-up album that was so ethereal it went floating right over my head, the band broke up and I, as a direct result, had a nervous breakdown. I scoured the world looking for someone who could replace them and their lead singer's signature sound, and ended up wasting most of my discretionary income purchasing music by the likes of The Cranberries, Des'ree, and, at my low point, something called Tasmin Archer. When The Sundays unexpectedly reunited to put out one more album, "Static and Silence," I had the happiest senior year of college ever.

"Ten Feet Tall" by XTC -- Three minutes of pop perfection by a band that ranks second only to the Beatles in British pop. I'm not kidding. This song doesn't seem to be on iTunes, which is a total shame because you should all own it. It's effing great.

"Walking Down a Road" by Split Enz -- If any of you has even heard of this band, it's because of their one hit, "I Got You," written by Neil Finn after he took over the band and made them New Zealand's Most Famous Thing That Isn't A Joke About How Many Sheep New Zealand Has. This song is from their early, early days, when the band was fully fronted by Neil's older brother, Tim, who didn't know where songs began or ended. This song is prog-rock masquerading as early New Wave, and I'm not convinced it is New Wave and neither should you be. Later mix tapes featured more mix-tape-appropriate songs of theirs, such as "Ships" or "Nobody Takes Me Seriously" or "One Step Ahead." For some reason, I felt I needed to challenge the listener with a "you're in or you're out moment" early in the mix, so the third song was usually nine minutes long and not very good. (See also: "You Enjoy Myself" by Phish on "Winter Break Mix '94")

"Which Describes How You're Feeling" by They Might Be Giants -- You made it through that Split Enz song! Well done! Here's a really short song that all the kids will love. Frequently used alternates for this song included the superior "Letterbox" and the too-funny-for-its-own-good "Dinner Bell."

"Dirty Back Road" by The B-52s -- Look, I loved them just as much as anybody else, but if you're trying to be -- what's the word -- "not gay" in high school, you need to put on the B-52s song that leaves out the voice of Fred Schneider. In later years, I've stipulated that I would like "Dance This Mess Around" played at my funeral, so clearly I've gotten past all that. Nevertheless, great song.

"A Campfire Song" by 10,000 Maniacs -- Sorry again to the brother who was trying to relate to me musically during this period. Gah, I even dragged him to a concert of theirs at Jones Beach. At least I was in college by the time I started listening to Tori Amos. He would have fucking killed me if he'd heard that shit going on in the house.

"Could've Been Anyone" by Aimee Mann -- Now this is kind of a weird one. As anyone who knows me knows, I love Aimee Mann and always have. I discovered her solo work on a CD sampler from a new record label called "Imago," which featured two songs, "I Should've Known" and its b-side, "Jimmy Hoffa Jokes." Also on this sampler CD were the early works of a young Paula Cole (shut up, her first album was kind of good) and a bluesy lady named Suzanne Rhatigan who put out one album and then disappeared in an almost epic way. Imago went belly-up right after Aimee's first album, and I have been chasing her around the planet, watching her career ever since. Her first solo album, entitled "Whatever," has one of the best pop songs ("I Should've Known") and one of the best break-up songs ("Stupid Thing") and one of the best story songs ("I've Had It") I've ever heard. The song on this mix, frankly, is not one of the album's best, but I think the reason it was on there is because it was Aimee at her most conventionally poppy: verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, instrumental solo, chorus, fade. Which is the part of Aimee I fell in love with to begin with.

"Half Harvest" by Michael Penn -- Weird that this song comes right after an Aimee Mann song, even though this mix was made before these two were married. I wonder if they met originally because they were seated next to each other on this mix.

"Exhuming McCarthy" by R.E.M. -- "You're beautiful, more beautiful than me. Honorable, more honorable than me. Loyal to the Bank of America."

"The Key to her Ferrari" by Thomas Dolby -- He who blinded you with science had quite a career after that song, and this is one of my favorites. From the brilliant spoken opening ("There was one room in her house that was always kept locked. It was...the garage!") to the truly disgusting monologue in the middle (you'll have to look that up), this song rolls and is so very much fun to sing when you're driving alone. I would sometimes throw "Airhead" on if I needed a less aggressive Dolby song, but this was a hell of a way to end Side One on a light note. Particularly considering what was going to happen next.

SIDE TWO

"Golgi Apparatus" by Phish -- I'm not going to lie to you. In early 1993, I barely knew anything about Phish. I had been to just one concert and was just starting to dip a toe into the musical juggernaut that vacuumed the discretionary income out of my wallet for the next five years. This song was the most mix-appropriate because, like my other new love Aimee Mann, this song sounded the most like what I was listening to at the time. Nevertheless, this Side Two kick-off was a shot across the bow: I had exciting new music on the horizon and it was not to be ignored. It was like Dylan plugging in for the first time. I had come far, baby.

"Dies Irae" from Mozart's Requiem -- But not THAT far.

"I'm Looking Through You" by the Beatles -- Not that far at ALL. See that? Try something new like Phish, and the backlash will be great and swift. Notice as I continued to wallow in the familiar.

"Canary in a Coalmine" -- Ah, now we're back on track, but still kicking it old school. Nothing makes me feel more nostalgic for my middle school days of sitting in my basement playing video games on the Commodore 64 than the middle three albums of the Police. By the time I put this song on Casey's mix, I was already hearkening back to those times. Hello, the game "Hardball"? I could still beat you today, if I hadn't let my mom throw that computer out a couple of years ago.

"Shoot You Down" by Apb -- Apb was an 80s Scottish band who made one killer fucking song. I don't even know why I know this, but it's great.

"Vanishing Girl" by the Dukes of Stratosphear -- I've discussed this song elsewhere on the blog once or twice, but DoS was the name XTC took on when they wanted to do more weird-ass, psychedelic, silly stuff. This is still one of my favorite pop songs, and helped create a loophole in my policy of not allowing myself to include two songs by the same artist on any mix tape. A big, big no-no.

"Slightly Drunk" by Squeeze -- Words cannot even describe the greatness of this song. Also included by Squeeze on mixes before and after: "In Quintessence," "Mumbo Jumbo," "It's Not Cricket," Stranger Than the Stranger on the Shore," "Labeled with Love," Picadilly," "Woman's World," "Cigarette of a Single Man," "Can't Hold On," and "The Prisoner." And ninety others. I liked Squeeze.

"Souvenir" by Billy Joel -- Shut up and just be glad I had already included a 10,000 Maniacs song so I couldn't end this thing with "Verdi Cries."

Dan is stuck on the 405

Dear drivers of Southern California:

The exit to Ventura Blvd. off the 405 North is closed. It has been closed since June, and will not be reopened until September.

Look closer. There's a sign a full three miles before the (closed, by the way) exit that reads, in no uncertain terms, "VENTURA BLVD. EXIT CLOSED." And then there is yet another sign, just after the Sunset exit, advertising the next three exits (Sepulveda / Mulholland / Ventura) and containing the mileage from that spot to each of those exits. On the "Ventura" section of the sign, over where the mileage should be, appears instead a gigantic orange card reading, "VENTURA BLVD. EXIT CLOSED." Which it has been. Since June. So let's take for granted for just one quick second that I'm not the only driver who has taken notice of Ventura Boulevard and its current adventures in closedishness.

Mere yards after the (closed) off ramp for Ventura Blvd. is the fabled 405/101 connector. Three lanes continue north on the 405, taking daring riders deep into the Valley, up to Sacramento, and out to Neptune (or so I would imagine). The other two lanes merge onto the 101, which takes its southbound travelers, such as myself, back out of the Valley and straight on 'til Hollywood. This is one of the busiest merges on the planet, and I wouldn't dare think to take this route home (or anywhere) if I left work before 9PM, as my strange and strenuous schedule often dictates. Still, even after 10 or 11 some nights I've spent delays of countless hours staring off at the facade of the Sherman Oaks Galleria, thinking idly about how I once wanted to live in it.

It's always been bad, but the 405/101 connector has, since June, become a source of such unrelenting despair that I'm thinking of renouncing the freeways altogether. Why is it getting worse? Is it because there are too many people in LA? No. Is it an influx in the number of people working on the Westside and trying vainly at the end of the day to get anywhere but the Westside? No. It's one thing, plain and simple: entitled assholes who think they're really awesome.

Here's what people do: they wait until the exit lane for Ventura Blvd. appears, go a million miles an hour in the exit lane for a quarter of a mile, and then, at the last second, try and zip back into the 101 exit lanes, just like that. Except that there is no zipping, because now there's a double merge going on, and they are responsible for the backup that they're attempting to avoid. They saved five seconds and cost us all twenty minutes, rather than waiting in line like everyone else. They're the LA equivalent of people who hold the subway doors while their friend is at the top of the stairs, charging a single ride and waiting for his receipt. People who are important enough to hold up rush hour for millions of other people, as long as they get home when it's convenient for them.

In my estimation, there are three possibilities for why you, fellow drivers, would use that lane:

1) You're lost and confused. Uh-huh. Unless you've got Saskatchewan plates on your car, I call bullshit.

2) You honestly didn't know the Ventura Blvd. exit was closed, in which case you should have your license taken away from you immediately as you are obviously senile and blind.

3) You are entitled assholes.

I know I haven't lived here as long as some of you, but my understanding is that the place I'm from and the place you're from are filled with people who speak the same language. And in that language, the words "VENTURA BLVD. EXIT CLOSED" mean one thing. They mean "get outta that fucking lane because it's not FOR you." There's no reason to be in it in the first place.

That's right. A post about the traffic in LA. Next week: smog...it's so smoggy!

Best as always,
Dan

"So I lit a firecracker, went off in my eye."

to: pamie@pamie.com
date: August 2, 2005 10:59:24 AM PDT
subject: (no subject)

I had A dream that I was At My House And I was Crying for mys sister that I haven't seen in a long time.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

-MEAGAN

I don't know why Meagan thinks I can interpret her dreams. I've never met Meagan, so I'm not sure what led her to sending me an email about her REM memories.

Just taking a shot here, Meagan, but I'm guessing you miss your sister. I know how that feels. I haven't seen my sister in a long time. I love her very much, and whenever I stop to think about how little I've seen her since I left for college, it is heartbreaking. If you count up all the hours and lined them up consecutively, perhaps we've seen each other for about a month in the past twelve years. It's not enough time. I constantly feel like I'm missing out on her life, and there's nothing we can really do about it. I want her to succeed, she wants me to succeed, and we don't want to live the same kind of life. We never have. From when we were little, as much as we loved each other, we never wanted to be all that much alike. It makes sense that we shot out in wildly different paths. Both of us would accuse the other one of taking the harder road.

As for why you were crying in your dream, I have a few theories. I recently had a dream where I couldn't stop crying. A friend told me it was my brain dealing with the stuff I don't stop to let it handle, getting out the emotions I'm keeping bottled up.

I laugh very easily, but I don't usually cry unless I stop to do it. Not like Holly Hunter in Broadcast News. It's not that deliberate, like on a schedule. But I have gotten very good at keeping a straight face if I think my tears are only going to worsen the situation. At some of my saddest times I've been completely stone-faced. At goodbyes and bad news and terrifying moments when the only thing that makes sense is to cry buckets, I freeze up. Remember how Ma Joad went the entire night with her dead mother in the wagon and she never cried out once, never shed a tear? When Pa tried to hold her in the morning, she said, "Don't. I'm alright until you touch me." That's me. I'm fine until someone I love touches me. And then it's all over. Then I'm gone.

A few years ago I had a year when I thought I was never going to stop crying. Everything was so overwhelming I felt like every inhale was another shaky sob. When I got out from under that year, I was a different person. It felt like I'd done decades of crying in those horrible months when I couldn't figure out what I was going to do with myself.

Last year, during all the wedding planning, I cried easily again. But this time it was over the happiest things. I'm not usually a happy crier, but that was a pretty intense time, planning a ceremony while buying a house and starting a new job. I cried at the mere thought of things back then, the concepts of love. I wept like a baby all through my wedding rehearsal, but at the actual ceremony there was only one time that I choked up. On the word "sister." One deep breath (and apparently a heavy application of the word "Dude") and I was back.

I don't usually weep when something's sweet or romantic. Tears don't fall out of my eyes if I laugh too hard. There are very few commercials that get me going. I can only remember one right now, and I don't think it made me weep that second time. Yes, I cried at Terms of Endearment. As much as Liz likes to tease that I have a cold, black heart, I still cry with a sad movie. But I suppose that's still a moment of someone touching me, telling me it's okay to cry. Someone else is in pain, too.

One monologue I had in the Aspen show was about a night I was driving home from my graveyard shift at the reality show, and a song came on the radio that got me all depressed and maudlin about my dad. Only once I found out it was by Evanescense that I lost it, because it was all too pathetic. In the monologue (as it was that night) I'm crying hysterically, still driving, still trying to maintain in that way we do when we lose it inside the safety of our cars, when we're hurling ourselves seventy-five miles an hour to keep up with traffic, while losing our shit behind the steering wheel. And every time I did that monologue, I was in that car again. Talk about purging a memory.

That song is also on one of the Karaoke Revolutions. And it used to make me misty from the first three notes. "Shit, this song really is sad," Sara commented once. "No wonder, Pam." But now I can hear it and it doesn't do anything. I can talk about this monologue with you now, and I'm not tearing up. I beat it out of me through repetition. I'm back to being stone-faced, because I cannot deal with being that sad about it anymore.

That's what happened with my sister, I guess. I cannot handle how sad it is when I think about how rarely I get to see her. I love her so much, but I cannot be with her. Our lives aren't on the same path. Maybe someday she can come and visit for a while. She's hoping I one day have a guesthouse and a few dogs I need her to take care of. And I know part of me is working to make that dream come true, so that we can play games in the pool again, eat peanut butter and fluff sandwiches in our swimsuits, and call each other "Crazy Sister." But for now I cannot let myself dwell on it, because it would be so sad that I'd end up quitting my job, selling my house and hauling my life over to her front doorstep, cats and husband and all, and I'd try to find a way to keep her by my side. She'd be miserable. I'd be miserable. It would be the worst thing ever. But I'd have done it. And she'd know how much I love her. She could never say I didn't want to destroy my life for her.

Hey, Meagan. I hear you. I don't know what to tell you, but I know what it's like to miss someone so much you just want to sit still, At Your House, and cry forever.

I'm such an asshole.

Here is my public apology.

Dear stee and Dan,

I resisted looking up the rules, because once stee was so adamant that I was wrong, I started to realize that my fifteen-year old recollection of the nuances of scoring pool might be a bit... off. But I couldn't resist Wonder Killing myself.

Apparently you do not lose the game if you scratch on the break. It's considered a foul, and goes behind the line. But, the opponent then has the option of (1) accepting the table in position and shooting, or (2) having the balls reracked and having the option of shooting the opening break himself or allowing the offending player to rebreak. So you can call for a rerack, but the game isn't a loss. I'm sorry. Dan, this means you and I never won a single game once stee showed up. See you tomorrow.

BUT, there is a rule called Safety. Ha-ha! Except that I thought it meant pretty much the opposite of what it actually means. So... awkward.

I have nothing else to add here except I'm really sorry I gave you snotty looks and "Gah"'ed all over the place, trying to act like a badass. You were right. I was wrong. You are awesome. I am sorry.

I'm still not going to use the pussy bridge.

-p

pop stand

Chris Kula makes me laugh like a dork. Today's entry is a perfect example.

click.

It's time for me to take a new author photo. Some of you may remember how spectacularly the last one was received. I was tired of talking about my long hair in the old shot. It had been in two books, three periodicals and an Aspen promo. It was two years old. Time for an update.

And to be honest, I'm a huge fan of Tom's work.

One photo deadline was about three days ago. I tried to have stee snap a decent digital. His favorite photo makes me look like a Hooters girl, crazy hair and enormous boobs in my "America Is Scary" t-shirt.

"What?" he protested. "It's hot."

"It's indecent. I'm supposed to be endearing. That makes me look like I'm gonna bang your boyfriend."

"My boyfriend?"

"You know what I mean."

I think his photographer feelings were hurt.

It was Tom who said, "Bring all the girly things that make you look pretty." This was his only request. But I spent too much time in front of the computer this morning, which meant I was rushing to make it to Tom's on time. I put on one outfit, and shoved in a bag: one black dress, one pink Glarkware shirt, my Radiohead shirt, and a black button down.

I showed up at his house. "Your hair is different," he said.

"Yeah, is that okay?"

"I like it. It used to be mousy."

"Mousy?"

Jen, Tom's roommate, shot me this, "Yeah, he's good with a word, isn't he?" eyebrow.

Tom didn't even stammer. "Yep," he said. "Just like a rat."

I flung the clothes across Tom's couch. "This is... happy Pam? Dressed-up Pam... uh, here's Pam in a Radiohead shirt..."

(I'm really not good at a lot of this girl stuff.)

Jen was the first to say, "What you're wearing now is good." Tom agreed, and I was glad, as it was what I was hoping I could wear for the picture.

I was done with makeup in less than five minutes (again: not so girly), and we were off.

Tom keeps the camera snapping, always talking, making it easy to forget there are any photos being taken at all. You know when he's happy with a shot he just took. He takes the slightest pause and then you hear this quiet, "Good." A friend of Tom's was keeping security for us while we punk-rocked a piece of Hollywood for our background.

"Could you two try having a conversation?" Tom asked.

"It'd be easier if you could talk to me," I said to Tom's friend. "So I'm not talking in the pictures."

"Blah, blah, blah," he said.

"No, say something real," I said. "Tell me something. How do you start a conversation?"

He snaps right back, "What are you wearing?"

It resulted in a hilarious picture of me caught completely off-guard, halfway between confusion and laughter.

We upload the camera onto Tom's computer and I learn the following:

1. When sitting down, if I'm at all self-conscious, I will slouch. Joey Potter slouching. When did I start doing that?

2. My smirk is out of control. There are so many shots where you can see me trying to figure out what Tom's thinking. I look like I'm keeping a secret, or trying to do long division in my head.

3. I will never like my hair. Mousy or no.

4. Tom takes a pretty picture.

5. Digital cameras are magic.

"You do better looking straight into the camera," Tom said to me as we were looking over the hundred or so pictures of my head.

"Oh. Okay."

"This must be hard," he said. "Staring at yourself."

"Uh, yeah. That's why I'm having you pick the best ones."

Tom and Jen point at the monitor, discussing which ones they like the best. I try to look at it like it's someone else's head, someone else's giant forehead, someone else's weird eyebrow cowlick.

We pick two for the overdue deadline. That picture will be about one inch by one inch, so we find a good close-up. We have more time to pick the photo for the book.

Always self-conscious, I ask what he meant by how I take a better picture looking straight into the camera.

What I assume he means before he answers: Because then we can't see that weird bump on your nose.

What he actually says to me: You have a very symmetrical face. There are all these studies about how we're attracted to that. If someone doesn't have a symmetrical face, then they look better turning their head to the side, because it offsets the lack of symmetry.

(And if I turn my head, you see the bump on my nose. I can't help it, people! I can't take a compliment without finding the backhand.)

All of which is to say, if you're in Los Angeles and you need a fantastic photographer, I know a guy. He makes me feel pretty.

photo by: Thomas Hargis

(I realize I have now spent the entire weekend talking about other people calling me pretty. Sorry. I'll try not to be such a princess. Humor me, people. I just turned thirty.)

on the way home.

EXT. LOS ANGELES STREET -- DAY

A YOUNG WOMAN WAITS AT THE CROSSWALK, FIDDLING WITH HER PURSE, LOST IN THOUGHT. A YOUNG, ATTRACTIVE, AFRICAN-AMERICAN MAN APPROACHES HER. HE'S HOLDING A PIECE OF PAPER AND A PENCIL, LIKE HE HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED.

MAN
I just saw you in the bookstore, and I wanted to come out here... I never do this... and I don't mean anything by this, I just had to tell you... you are a beautiful woman.

WOMAN
Oh! Thank you.

SHE TUCKS BACK HER HAIR, LOOKS HIM OVER AND IS SURPRISED AT HOW NORMAL HE LOOKS, AS THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO HER WITH SOBER STRANGERS.

MAN
No, really. I just... I had to tell you. Just so, I don't know why I had to tell you. But I did. I needed to. You needed to know. Not that... I don't know.

WOMAN
Thanks.

MAN
What's your name?

WOMAN
Pam.

SHE THINKS: SHOULD HAVE SAID "PAMELA." SOUNDS MUCH PRETTIER. WHY DOES IT MATTER? IT DOES.

MAN
I'm Christopher.

WOMAN
Nice to meet you.

THE LIGHT TURNS GREEN. SHE STEPS ONTO THE CURB.

MAN
Uh, hey! Where are you from?

WOMAN
I live around here.

SHE DOESN'T. BUT IT SOUNDS BETTER THAN "I'M MARRIED."

WOMAN (cont)
Have a nice day, Christopher. And thanks.

MAN
I live around here too! Maybe I'll see you.

WOMAN
Bye.

FLASHBACK

INT. CROWDED HOLLYWOOD MOVIE THEATRE -- THAT MORNING

THE YOUNG WOMAN IS WATCHING A TRAILER. THE STRANGER NEXT TO HER NUDGES HER ELBOW.

STRANGER
(GESTURING TO SCREEN) I worked on that.

WOMAN
Hey, congratulations!

THE TRAILER CHANGES TO ONE WITH A SERIOUSLY HOT BRUNETTE WOMAN TAKING OFF HER BRA. THE WOMAN NUDGES THE MAN.

WOMAN
That's me.

THE STRANGER HOLDS UP HIS FIST FOR HER TO DAP. SHE PUNCHES IT LIGHTLY.

END OF FLASHBACK

INT. CORNER STORE - A FEW MINUTES LATER

THE CASHIER INCORRECTLY RINGS UP THE WOMAN'S PURCHASE. IT SAYS $0.71.

WOMAN
I'll take it!

CASHIER
Oh, ha-ha! I see you have the money, though.

THEY STARE AT THE CASH IN HER HAND.

WOMAN
Looks like I do.

MAN
Tell you what. You keep coming here, and if you ever don't have enough, I'll give it to you for seventy-one cents.

WOMAN
Oh.

MAN
I'm serious. Today you have the money, but you might not tomorrow. And that's when you can just take it. For you. Just promise to come back and see me again.

WOMAN
Well, thank you.

WOMAN WALKS BACK TO HER CAR WONDERING, "WHAT THE HELL? THIS STUFF NEVER HAPPENS TO ME. MARRIAGE SURE DOES MAKE YOU ATTRACTIVE TO OTHER PEOPLE. EITHER THAT, OR I MUST REMEMBER TO WEAR THIS HOT PINK TANK TOP EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE."

a conversation with chito.

PAMIE
Hello?

CHITO
Aw, shit, Pam. How's it goin', girl?

PAMIE
Good. What's up?

CHITO
I am watching... have you seen R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet?"

PAMIE
No.

CHITO
Are you watching VH-1 right now?

PAMIE
No, not presently.

CHITO
I am. You have to turn it on.

PAMIE
Let me tell you something about time zones.

CHITO
Okay, well, whatever is right now central time, you need to be watching your time, because this shit is awesome. Five part R. Kelly -- all five videos for "Trapped in the Closet."

PAMIE
Five?

CHITO
Five. You think it'll just be one, and then... there are four more. It's great!

PAMIE
I...

CHITO
And this is like, he's serious. He really thinks this is music. He says "door" just like in "I Believe I Can Fly."

PAMIE
I don't know what that means.

CHITO
R. Kelly is having a fight with some woman right now.

PAMIE
I thought he was trapped in a closet. Is it like "Blue Velvet?"

CHITO
Okay. Say you wake up in the morning, and you have to go to the store. That's an R. Kelly song. Right there. "I woke up, I put on some socks, and got into my car because I had to go to the SAAAAAafewaaaay!"

PAMIE
Uh-huh.

CHITO
"I had to buy some asparrrrrraguuuuus! It was on saaaaaaAAAaaale!"

PAMIE
I get it.

CHITO
Oh, he's having an argument with a lady. Oh, this is the funniest shit. You have to watch this. Turn it on right now.

PAMIE
It's not on right now.

CHITO
I wish it was! Oh! I don't want to ruin this for you. You have to just watch it.

PAMIE
Okay, TiVo says it's on at 12:30. It just says "Special."

CHITO
God, it is really special. And listen, when you watch it? Don't delete it. Because you're going to want to watch this like, many times to get its full impact. Oh! R. Kelly just got a ticket.

PAMIE
"I got a speeeeding ticket. And now I'll have to go to defeeeensive driiiiving! Maybe at Comedy Schooool!"

CHITO
You got it, girl. You can now write the collective works of R. Kelly.

PAMIE
Never had one lesson!

CHITO
"My last speeding ticket still hasn't been resolved, so now my ride might be taken under posEEEESsssioon!"

PAMIE
"And my last ticket was a load of crap because it said I did a rolling stop when really I was just LAAAATE for a MEEEEEting!"

CHITO
I've already successfully converted several daily events until successful versions of this song. "Today I woke up my daughters, and then I toooook a shiiiiit! Had to wiiiipe my assssss!"

PAMIE
This is how R. Kelly got in trouble in the first place.

CHITO
Pam! Turn this on!

PAMIE
I've set the TiVo! And now TiVo is going to think I like R. Kelly. And it will one day be used in a court of law as evidence against me.

CHITO
I'm going to have to stay up so late tonight to watch this shit, and I do not care. Oh, God, R. Kelly. Thank you for this masterpiece. I have a court case in the morning, and I have to represent this drive-by, and I do not care. Oh, this is amazing. I don't want to spoil it for you. How late do you stay up?

PAMIE
Pretty late.

CHITO
Oh, he just -- I... oh, man. Oh, man! R. Kelly. He really thinks this is good! This is incredible. I had to make sure you saw this.

PAMIE
I appreciate you thinking of me.

CHITO
You know I had to call you.

PAMIE
Well, thank you. Because I didn't have a blog entry for today. And thanks for giving me something to look forward to tonight.

CHITO
Oh, I have to hang up. I... R. Kelly, man. This is... Bye.

[PAMIE hangs up. Three minutes later, a text message from Chito arrives: OMG IT IS UNRELENTING.]

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