If You Like it Dirty Late at Night, Well....

 There's something about late night television that you should accept: no one gives a shit about Jay or Dave anymore. Jay's a terminally unhip schlub who stole Conan O'Brien's career and Dave, while much more palatable and edgy, is still getting up there in years and pulls the same tie-adjusting-slightly-corny tics and tricks he's been using for thirty years. I love you Dave, but I can only take two decades of the Top Ten not being very funny.

Plus the format is tired. Clapclapclap, monologue with jokes about something that happened two days ago, band plays filler, pre-taped bit, then big name guest comes out, ego stroke, small time guest comes out to plug book or TV show (because TV stars are C-list compared to film stars), then possible musical guest, good night.

So the rigamarole of the late-night talk show is depressingly familiar and hard to upend. I'm not a big Kimmel fan, although I loved the Lost specials he did when the show was going off the air. But he often feels like too much of a shill for ABC, like they take corporate synergy WAY too seriously. He pokes a little fun at the latest Dancing With the Stars castoff, but it's all a bit glossy for me. Jimmy Fallon is funny, amiable, cool, and young, but I'm not a big "funny song" kind of girl, and his energy is a bit nervous. Fallon does get points for coming up with original and fun stuff to do with his celebrities that don't include eliciting the same five stories from these actors that everyone on a press junket gets. One other problem with Fallon: he's on at the same time as the one guy who gives late night viewers a subversive, smart, and strange option (granted you can stay up late enough.)

Craig in his "poorly-lit basement"

Craig Ferguson has always been funny, intelligent, and self-deprecating. Late night guys have to be. But I knew he was really something special when he came on the air after his dad died. Ferguson improvs his monologues, so they can get a little tangential and silly; but this night, January 30, 2006 -- Ferguson spoke directly from his heart, eulogizing his father with a mix of rueful and hysterical stories and effectively introduced the audience to a vividly drawn picture of his beloved parent. For a variety TV host to open himself up like that, to turn his pain and grief into something universal and FUNNY….I was bawling and laughing and moved, profoundly. You can watch it for yourself here and here.

And so my dedication to this Scottish (now-naturalized) crazy person began, and no matter my work schedule I try to religiously watch him. Repeat viewing is rewarded by this show -- jokes carry over into the next night, sometimes for weeks, and there's a plethora of regular guests who have running gags (Kristen Bell, Lauren Graham, Chris Hardwick,) plus puppets who open the show (Sid the potty-mouthed bunny, Wavy the stoner cajun alligator,) and a gay robot  skeleton sidekick named Geoff Peterson. Gay. Robot. Skeleton sidekick.

Geoff is literally a stationary robot with a skeleton head, a metal mohawk, and a cheap suit draped with Mardi Gras beads. He has his own podium on stage, and as voiced by the exceptionally talented Josh Robert Thompson, he is the perfect representation of the silly slyness that Ferguson's show lives and breathes. It shouldn't work -- you can see Geoff's a bucket of parts cobbled together by Grant from Mythbusters, and he can't move very much, and he's got cold LED lights for eyes. But the writers, the voice, and Craig himself have imbued this inanimate object with a fucking soul, I swear to god. And Geoff has become integral to the show -- Thompson is off for two weeks right now, during which time they have plugged celebrities into his chair to be the voice of Geoff. Alfred Molina, Thomas Lennon, and Larry King all had a go last week. This week it's been ladies, and while Lauren Graham kinda bombed, Paula Poundstone and Angela Kinsey have saved some face since then. All of these performers gamely shared a desire to play -- to play along, to play with expectations, to play up the sheer strangeness of this late night experiment.

Larry King as Geoff - note the suspenders

The Late Late Show is the only television show of its kind that has won a Peabody award--for an hour-long interview with Desmond Tutu in which Ferguson displayed vast knowledge of South Africa's geo-political history-- while also staging awesome lip-synced numbers to punk songs in French and Duran Duran covers of "White Lines." The Late Late Show went highbrow and became "Le Late Late Show avec Craig Ferguson" for a week when Craig, Geoff, and Kristen Bell went to Paris and shot a week's worth of shows in and around the city. Mind you, there was zero real studio. They had no permits. They literally set up a card table on the sidewalk and slid through Versailles with socks on, because it seemed like the thing to do. And then the next day there's a "mouth organ" joke and an obscure Doctor Who reference. It's like a post-modern, Henson-less Muppet Show with more dirty jokes.

So if you are into the late-night talk show thing and have yet to give Craig Ferguson a go, please please do yourself a favor. Watch him, once, and tell me that he isn't the most original thing you've seen after midnight (outside of Adult Swim.) And watch some of the stuff from the Paris shows if you can't stay up that late. SO totally worth it.

The Emmys are Dead. Long Live the Emmys

Bow ties are cool.

Seeing as how TV takes up a huge portion of free time, considering that I study it and love and want to stick it in my pocket to cherish forever, well, then the Emmys should be the pinnacle of my TV-watching year.

It is not.

I hate sure things. I hate it when the same shows or people are awarded the highest prize in their respective fields five, six, nine times. A few wins in a row, sure, particularly if the competition is nil. But predictability breeds irritation, and so many amazing accomplishments are left out in the cold on a regular basis that the Emmys can be a slog and a half. Last night's broadcast surprised me a couple of times, but I was disappointed more than I wasn't.

A breakdown now of the best, worst, and most blah moments.

In the category of "Took You Long Enough":

Sorry Connie. RIP FNL.

Kyle Chandler winning for his portrayal of Coach Eric Taylor on Friday Night Lights. FNL is  poignant, funny, compelling, and so chock full of amazing performances that  the fact that it took 5 years for it to be recognized at all by the Academy is a travesty. Chandler's performances have never wavered, and he deserved this, big time. As did Producer/Writer Jason Katims, who won for writing FNL. HOWEVER. Connie Britton's snub in the Best Actress category was a terrible mistake, no matter how great Julianna Margulies is on The Good Wife. Then, to add insult to injury, Chandler forgot to thank Britton by name during his acceptance and tried to correct his mistake after his mike had been turned off. Sigh. Tami Taylor, we love you.

In the category of "Normal-Looking Women Are Award-Worthy Too":

Melissa McCarthy winning for Mike and Molly (not a great show, but she is the real deal) was not only heartening for non-size-2 funny women, but it gave the nominated actresses in the comedy category a chance to show solidarity and make us laugh by joining hands on stage and pretending it was a Miss America contest. Amy Poehler should've won, because Parks and Recreation is a stroke of genius, but McCarthy is deserving too.

Did she win this year? Knope.

And Margo Martindale, a middle aged woman of some physical presence won the Emmy for her role as Mags on last season's Justified. If you watch this show, you know why she won. If you don't, try to catch up on both seasons so you can soak up Martindale's country-fried Machiavellian matriarch who doesn't think twice about cutting off her own kin's fingers. Shakespeare couldn't have written her any better.

The award for "Are You F*#king Kidding Me" goes to:

The producers of the Emmys, for allowing Charlie Sheen to come out on stage and present an award. What Sheen said is irrelevant, other than to say he didn't annihilate the broadcast. The sheer stuntiness of his presence was gross and SO four months ago. And it was made worse later in the show when Jon Cryer and Ashton Kutcher presented and felt the need to reference Sheen again. Let him fade into the ether. Please.

The "Cripes That's Boring" award for unnecessary repeat wins:

Amazing Race. The reality competition show that is nearly impossible to beat won again last night over shows like Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance. Here's the thing, though-- Amazing Race is a very very good show, but how in the hell can any other program compete with one that is FILMED AROUND THE WORLD? Visually it's an insurmountable challenge. Shots of designers cutting fabric in a work room, or teams racing across China? It makes this category so dull.

Mad Men. I adore this show, in all of its snail's-pace-slow-burn-repressed-emotional glory. And last year was a great year for Don Draper and company. But the Mad Men love-fest prevented the last year of Friday Night Lights from winning the award it deserved.

The Daily Show. Yes, yes, they're genius. Are they nine-years-in-a-row genius? No. At the very least Stephen Colbert deserves some big ups. And can Craig Ferguson get a damn nomination?

In the "Missed Opportunities" group:

I mean, come on. Kristen Wiig rules.

Kristen Wiig losing for her virtuosity on Saturday Night Live. Julie Bowen's win for playing Clare on Modern Family is deserved, sure, but MF will be around for a while and Wiig has been carrying SNL for years now. Let's hope she doesn't quit the show before being recognized by the Academy. and can someone get Julie Bowen a cheeseburger, please? She's got that ropy TV-star look going on.

Ignoring Louis CK in both the writing and acting categories. Louie, the show, is a perverse exercise in what TV could be if the creative types were allowed as much freedom as movie makers. CK writes, acts, directs, and edits every show with little to no input from his network, and that kind of true maverick-ness should be held up on a pedestal and fawned over.

Walton Goggins was magnetic and intense as Boyd Crowder on Justified last season, and it would've been perfect if he had joined Margo Martindale in the winner's circle. This disappointment is tempered somewhat by the fact that Peter Dinklage is an amazing actor, and dead sexy. The floppy hair is working for him.

Confidence is hot.

And in the "Too Much of a Good Thing" category:

I really wanted Parks and Recreation to win Best Comedy. The show is a little strange, sweetly neurotic, full of detailed and loving performances by Amy Poehler, Nick Offerman, Adam Scott, and everyone else. There wasn't a single episode last season in which I didn't have to rewind my DVR to catch the jokes I missed while I was busy peeing my pants. Then I realized the exact same could be said about Modern Family. So we, the viewing public, are lucky that the two funniest shows on TV aren't on the same night opposite each other.

QUICK HITS, LOVE/HATE STYLE

Love:
Leonard Nimoy describing Jane Lynch as alternately "mannish" and "womanish" in the show open. Also in the open, the entire Mad Men portion. "Women can marry women now. Hey there Peggy."

Hate:
Clare Danes shook her hair out of her eyes 743 times while presenting an award with Hugh Laurie. Jesus, get the girl a bobby pin.

Love:
FBI agents Dunham and Booth (aka Anna Torv from Fringe and David Boreanaz from Bones) together on stage. Thank you Fox, for your synergistic prowess.

Hate:
The Canadian Tenors have lovely voices. But their singing during the In Memoriam segment was off-putting.

Love:
Ty Burrell's carefully constructed and hilarious acceptance speech about his father, and Guy Pearce's deliciously bawdy one.

Hate:
Never ever ever make Zachary Levi, Joel McHale and Cobie Smulders et al. do something like the Emmy Tones again.

Love:
During the Lonely Island musical number we got to see Michael Bolton as Jack Sparrow, three dudes freaking Bill Macy, and an Ed Helms/Maya Rudolph/John Stamos three way.

Hate:
Lonely Island-type comedy songs. They irritate me, although it might just be Andy Samberg.

Love:
The pithy comments when people were walking to the stage. "Game of Thrones is filmed on location in Awesomeland."

Also Love:
Jane Lynch: "People wonder why I'm a lesbian. Ladies and gentlemen, the cast of Entourage!" She was appropriately edgy and perpetually charming as host.

That's it for this year. We'll see if my faves get recognized next year. Don't hold your breath, cast of Fringe. Or Katey Sagal.

P.S. Best dress: Kate Winslet. Worst: Julianna Margulies. She looked like a bathroom tile.

My Stunted Creativity is Your Gain

I spend entirely too much time with my nose to my smartphone, playing Yahtzee Adventure and lamenting my current career stallage, silently pissing and moaning about my lack of opportunity.
Today is the day I realized the internet is its own opportunity, and my idiot brain and idiot hands are all that is needed to create my own outlet for the ridiculous number of words that clog my head at any given moment on any given day. I say "idiot" because it's an obvious solution, an obvious fix, and I tend towards the Type-A-know-it-all class of folks, so…I loathe admitting that I've been my own enemy. Idiot.

Steve from Collider.com and me at Wonder Con

Truthfully, I LIKE getting in my own way. I must! I do it early and often. I secretly judge acquaintances who thrive on relationship drama, but I don't know that my perpetual procrastination and refusal to live up to my potential is really any better. I thrive on career drama. To my loving husband who is awesome: you really suck at giving me any bullshit to obsess over. Could you please consider a) smearing a random lipstick on your collar, b) telling me "you look fat in that," or c) smacking one of my friends on the ass? It would help get my mind off my work, or lack thereof. Thanks.

I've decide to throw my bag of self-sabotaging tricks out the window, though, and just do it, this, blogging-- for fun. I remember when writing and the idea of writing was fun before anything else. Hmph.

So this is what you're gonna get: some snark, a lot of geeky adulation and sincere fangirl wistfulness, and a deep love and understanding of television in particular. I'll include reviews and speculation and coverage of genre entertainment of all kinds, plus comic books, movies, fiction (like, real books,) and the artists that produce and create the bright and shiny escapism we all consume. I like to recommend huge swaths of books and TV shows, so expect dips into my library too.

I will eventually branch into the podcasting realm, because if there's one thing I'm better at than anything, it's talking. Consider yourselves forewarned.

"Fat Person" is Not a Career Path

I have a real problem with Carnie Wilson. Not just the regular issues with her that everyone has—I have an issue with her being professionally fat. For the last 10 years she has been on countless shows, in countless magazines, relating her struggle with weight. Celebrity Fit Club, a new reality show, Carnie Wilson: Unstapled…And this week she’s on Dr. Oz, talking about how to lose her extra weight “forever” this time. Seriously? She’s the only C-lister you could find who has extra jiggle? She’s one of millions of Americans who have this same problem, and millions of people would give their right arm to have access to the nutritionists, doctors, and personal trainers that her money can provide for her. Thousands of people apply for the chance to be on “The Biggest Loser” every season, but Carnie’s the best you could get? The neediest person? No.

So to watch another interminable segment with her crying, talking about how she screwed up after her gastric bypass (also something millions of people wish they could afford) is just too much for me to take. Carnie! You can sing. You can write a book. But you should be taking responsibility for your own mistakes, not trotting them out on national television. How much longer are we supposed to care about your inability to follow directions? Do you want us to feel sorry for you? I don’t feel sorry for recovering drunks who fall off the wagon and crash their car into someone’s house. So you get nothing.

Your Kids Need to Masturbate

A teacher in Utah (figures!) is under fire for "crossing a line" in her 8th grade sex-ed instruction. While the school won't give any details about the alleged misconduct, a parent is quoted as saying his kid learned about "anal sex, oral sex, masturbation, mechanical instruments to enhance masturbation and historical instances of self-abortion with a hanger." Are 14 year olds too young to hear any of this? Recent statistics have shown that oral sex amongst junior high students has risen meteorically in the last decade; so they're already familiar with the concept. And even when I was in junior high there was always the girl that was kind of slutty and did things other girls wouldn't. Don't you think that if kids (especially girls) were taught the truth about the exchange of sex for power they would be less likely to make bad decisions? They might be less likely to try to keep that hot guy by objectifying themselves and giving away the cow for free, so to speak.

Now, I'm not really sure why the discussion of anal sex would come up in 8th grade, other than to tell the girls that it's not true that women like it or that it's not really sex. This "not really sex" attitude can be directly tied to the proliferation of abstinence-only education, by the way. Telling teenagers that intercourse is a sin and will either saddle you with a baby or give a disease that will make your parts fall off only leads their underdeveloped brains to think, "Well, then, I'll avoid real sex, but stick whatever I want wherever else I want and it doesn't count!" And if the majority of this country is so hot and bothered to reduce the number of abortions women get, wouldn't historical instances of the terror of illegal abortion help them make up their minds about risky sex? If they were getting proper birth control education, also, we would have a real chance to reduce abortion rates. Instead you get idiot girls who just learned to shave their legs having babies that are doomed to grow up and repeat the cycle. These are the people who end up on Maury Povich, you know.

And the masturbation information? AWESOME. Boys get a crash course from the minute they hit puberty, obviously; but girls are left twisting in the wind when it comes to honest discourse about their bodies and what we're built for. Masturbation is just as important to girls and it has been to boys since time immemorial--more so, I think, since girls are usually the ones prostrating themselves for approval and using sex to get love. If all teenagers spent more time fondling themselves at home instead of groping in a car or wherever they do it nowadays, we'd all be better off.

Originally written 6.08

Don't Get Your Nerd On Without Me

Comic-Con has descended on San Diego, geeks in a thick blanket over the city like locusts devouring a midwest crop. The geeks, my brethren, they gnaw at the new movie and TV footage unveiled there; they gnash their chompers at the bastardization of precious geek-verse commodities; their antennae wiggle waggle when they detect Olivia Munn from Attack of the Show anywhere nearby. These are my people, as my husband likes to remind me.

When I was a little kid I was positive I was going to grow up to have superpowers or be a vampire. And when I say positive, I mean pillowcase-on-the-shoulders, jumping off the couch, waiting for my mad flying skills to kick in. And why wouldn't it happen? I wanted it badly enough. I was a relatively well-behaved child, which is to say I had ethics even when I was being a brat. I could use my powers for good, not evil, with a couple of brief pit-stops for mischief or good-natured trickery. No super-villainy. As a vampire I would only feed on evil-doers, of course. And then I'd be able to amass a great fortune and travel the world and have long flowy hair and perfect skin. I would scrunch my face up and concentrate on moving that pencil over there with my mind. I would stay perfectly still and close my eyes and will myself to hear people's thoughts. Now I'm a good judge of character, and very occasionally I'm a little bit psychic, but I'm also visible and bound by gravity and of average strength. Not super.

All those people at Comic-Con? They aren't super either. Maybe it's that we're not willing to contain our imaginations. Maybe it's that we needed to fit in somewhere, and the best place we fit

is on alternate planets, in other galaxies, anywhere but here. Maybe we have a predilection for homemade costumes made from shiny synthetic fibers and a vast collection of Pogs we need to get rid of. It makes no difference, because the last thing a Comic-Con attendee is going to do is pass judgment on a person according to socially-mandated standards of "normal." If you get Green Lantern and The Green Hornet mixed up, though, stop drop and roll, dude. Get out of there.

I know Comic-Con is TOO BIG. I've been there. It's lines for years and crowds like you've never seen outside of countries with severe civil unrest; it's embarrassing to see some studios and execs pimp projects like freak show barkers. There are people at Comic-Con who have never even picked up a comic book, much less held one by its spine with gloves on. I don't give a flying fig. The purists are still there. The ones who tied the pillow case around their shoulders and jumped off the couch. I am them. We are a tribe.

Originally written 7.09

Megan Fox Can Do Whatever She Wants

Let's spend a minute, shall we, extolling the virtues of the non-manufactured movie star. The celebrity who refuses to let his or her publicist craft tidy little soundbites for public consumption that always contain the words "grateful," or "fortunate," or "team effort."

Let us praise the actors and actresses who don't seem to care one whit what reporters or media types think or blog about them; and who figure the fans of their movies will either like them as people or they won't. These are the people who seem the most authentic out of all the shiny happy Hollywood confections that are trotted out on our screens on a daily basis. They get irritated, and show it. They are perfectly comfortable with themselves (as much as anyone can be) and they don't hold back with the sardonic or the personal information just because their current film appeals to tweens. They are rarely apologetic, but typically VERY compelling on screen--probably because they let their insides show on their outsides already.

I'm talking about people like Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox from the Transformers movies. Shia is well known for running off at the mouth and offering up information that might make a less squeamish person urp in their Wheaties. I am not squeamish, though, and therefore find it amusing and, yes, strange, that he finds his mother the sexiest woman alive, or that he watched his parents have sex and smoke weed and engage in all-around bohemian activities. Megan Fox has already admitted to being bisexual and entertaining a serious crush on a stripper; she's claimed to essentially be a man in a girl's body; and she's talked about the fact that she loves smoking pot and doesn't get why everyone's so effing bent out of shape about it. Katherine Heigl from Grey's Anatomy is notoriously plain-spoken, and might have tanked her movie career because of that fact. But in a business that is molded and injected with artifice as a rule, even abrasive bluntness is an applause-worthy quality. Bloggers, media critics, and the like have called this sort of behavior in stars inappropriate, diarrhea of the mouth, yadda yadda; and I don't agree. Those critics seem to be trying to get actors to all fit in the same neat little box, where they act well and look good and try to avoid any pesky human foibles. Boo to that.

Now, this is where I make a distinction. There are actors who say what they want to, and never come off as inapporpriate. Take Tom Hanks. That guy doesn't give pat answers to anything, doesn't come off as generic or practiced--he comes off as the single nicest guy on the frickin' planet because he probably IS that guy. On the flip side, actors like Sean Penn say whatever the hell they want, too, but very easily project "I'm an asshole" with every answer because he's defensive any time anyone asks him anything, even if it's about ice cream or puppies.

Encourage spontaneity in our celebrities. Encourage spontaneity in yourself. Don't think about every single thing you say before you say it. Unless it's really racist or something. That's just rude.

Originally written 6.09

Idiot vs. Shrew--Place Your Bets!

These were my initial impressions of the Jon and Kate Plus 8 nightmare, summer of 2009:

I hate covering reality programming in my entertainment reports. Unless it's a competition show like American Idol, Top Chef, or So You Think You Can Dance, reality shows tend to leave me covered in an oily film that won't budge with any amount of Ajax and vigorous rubbing. So when the Jon and Kate Plus 8 drama started to unfurl a couple of months ago, I held off as long as I could.

I had seen the show, I was familiar with the archetypes represented by overbearing and bossy Kate and laid-back (catatonic?) Jon. Yes, she had a tendency to emasculate. No, he had very little idea what was actually going on at any given moment. The children are all very cute and age-appropriately irritating. Fine, capitalize on your ridiculous decision to bring sextuplets into the world. You can afford their therapy when they grow up. And then came the adultery and lying and cries of "woe is me with my huge house and motorcycle and free vacations--all these cameras are just too much!" And that's when it became a publicity juggernaut.

So now the Gosselins are doing the decidedly un-Christian thing and calling it quits on their marriage with no visible attempt to get counseling or outside help. The show will continue taping after a brief hiatus, since they owe TLC 40 episodes this year-- and we the viewer will get to watch these kids transition through one of the most difficult periods of their lives. It's just gross. TLC and both parents will shower them with more presents, more trips, more toys, in an effort to keep them happy enough to smile and giggle and act like kids who do NOT have freshly divorced parents. This whole situation and the fact that any of the Gosselin children will be able to see their parents' marriage implode on tape for eternity is how people end up drinking themselves to death, or getting married 7 times, or getting knocked up at 16. This is how people end up with tassles on their boobs with a stage name like Dusty or Blaze.

Jon's attitude on the "special episode" was ridiculous. He let Kate rule the roost, huh? Perhaps because she was the one who gathered together all of the disparate pieces of their lives, public and private, and kept them on track. Jon, in the meantime, acts out like one of the children when he feels slighted, instead of having a real live conversation with his wife. Maybe if he had spent more time reading and less time flirting in high school he'd be articulate enough to communicate his needs. Jon is going to end up one of those sad sack paunchy guys with a suspiciously full head of hair-plugged hair that attempts to fit into the Big City lifestyle and recapture his early 20's as if he had never contributed to the creation of 8 defenseless yet powerfully noisy small people. "Hey hey," he'll say all swagger and bratty frat boy attitude, and try to pass himself off as a swinging single who just happened to have some TV exposure once a long time ago. And then the girls will recognize him and throw drinks in his face and kick him in the shins because he's got 8 FRICKIN' KIDS and should act like it. He's an immature tool.

And the first person to come up with a reality show that blends that dating show The Cougar and a Brady Bunch style reality show tracking blended families should sign Kate up now. It'll be her weekend to have all 8 of hers, and she'll go on a group date with some random man that has 7 kids of his own and then they'll get married and film it and call it Kate and Dean Plus 15! or whatever. Before then she will have abruptly switched her public persona from one who is overbearing and mean to the one who wanted to work the marriage out, and she'll have climbed up on her cross and firmly nailed herself there.

And the kids will hate them forever.

Moderation Is For Suckers

This is when I lay my drug philosophy out on the table. Marijuana is not a drug. Pot, grass, ganja, chronic, smoke, dope, reefer, the kind bud, trees, sticky-icky...all words for a plant that already grows on the planet, that doesn't kill people on their first try, and that doesn't in any way make people so violent that they want to slice you with an exacto knife.

I've experimented with many a chemically-based narcotic (not recently,obviously--I'm too old for the hangover and I really like sleep now); and some of my worst memories are directly connected to that period in my life. Meth can make you insane, crawling with phantom bugs and picking at your own skin; acid won't go away until it runs its course, and god forbid you kick off your trip on a bad note, in which case you're stuck in an alternate reality for hours. Cocaine makes people talk your face off about incredibly ridiculous topics, and is cost prohibitive. Prescription drugs are an illusion-- there's less stigma because doctors give them out, but the danger they pose is exponentially higher than a drug like pot because everyone has access to them. Opiates string you out and turn you into Amy Winehouse. Ecstasy leads to bad decisions of a sexual nature for a lot of people, and it melts your brain (evidenced by the ridiculousness of rave culture.) PCP can make you capable of ripping someone's arms off and beating them with 'em (although I don't think people do PCP anymore.)

And every terrible decision I've made between the ages of 16 and 23 can be linked to the single most dangerous drug of all-- alcohol. I was a big whiskey girl. Jack Daniel's if I was broke, Maker's Mark if I wasn't. Double shots with a Jack and Coke chaser. Double shots with a beer chaser. Kamikazes, lemon drops, dirty martinis. Flaming Dr. Peppers and Irish car bombs. If it was a relaxed evening at home, vodka collins or a greyhound. I loved drinking and getting drunk the way mamas love their babies. And when I quit, 6 1/2 years ago, it was the hardest thing I'd ever done. Because booze makes you feel powerful. Sexy, confident, above it all. You are a vision of sophistication and swank. Until you black out every day and knock people over and gain 50 pounds, and start to lose your friends and the guy you love.

But guess what? Pot doesn't do any of those things. It doesn't make you want to eviscerate people. It makes you a bit hungry for chocolate and peanut butter. It doesn't make you lie to your family while you turn around and sell their silver. It does make you want to invest in surround sound for your entertainment system for the next time you watch "300." It doesn't lead you to vehicular manslaughter. It does make Jim Carrey funnier.

In an ideal world no one would self-medicate because we'd all be as happy as baby animals in the springtime. We'd all be able to deal with our pain, our insecurity, our ill-fitting skin. But it's not. And drugs are a part of our culture. Can we get realistic please? Can we prioritize? Can we fight meth and X like the scourge they are and leave marijuana out of it? Because seriously-- no one was ever killed or robbed by a hopped-up pothead. He or she was far too busy journaling about the existential nature of Snoopy.

Originally written 1.08

Stop Having Children, All of You

One of the topics on a talk show I produced once was open birth records, and whether or not adult adoptees should have the right to seek out their birth parents, even in closed adoptions. There were a lot of adoption stories, from every perspective, and then there was this one caller. She didn’t make it on the air. She cried, and unloaded a tragic tale of having eight babies when she was very young, and how she had to give them all up for adoption, and she thought about them all the time, and could I please tell the whole world for her?

I was disturbed on a few levels, not the least of which was the extent to which the crying made me uncomfortable. Most of all I couldn’t get past the eight children. EIGHT. Even pre-birth-control-pill, I can’t forgive it. Gross overpopulation of the planet combined with the economic realities of having children should be enough to discourage rampant breeding, but it’s not. Just because we are biologically capable of bearing multiple children doesn’t mean we should ignore all of our higher brain function. We aren’t animals, and a litter of mini-me’s (mini-them’s?) only tells me that a person is narcissistic. It isn’t people like Stephen Hawking or Joss Whedon or Tina Fey who are having five kids. It’s Jethro and Lita in the rental house on the corner with the toys all over the lawn, and the stolen cable, and the kids all covered in canned cheese product. I can’t make sense of encouraging that.

What does make sense, if someone is wired to want a large family and has closely examined his or her motivations, is to do everything in their power to adopt a child. I know it’s hard, I know it’s expensive, I know little white babies are scarce and Angelina Jolie adopted the rest. But it makes more sense to share some of that love and attention with children who weren’t wanted when they were accidentally foisted onto the planet. They have no one to love them, to tuck them in at night and cherish them. That, to me, is profound, and worthy. I get that some people don’t think they are capable of loving a child that they didn’t make in their image; again, examine the narcissism and look deeper. We are all capable.

Originally written 11.07

Step Away From the Buffy

There are a few things I deem holy. Untouchable. So incredibly perfect in their creation that should anyone except the original creator decide to toy with it, I will personally spearhead the revolution. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is one of these holy things. I have neither the time nor the patience to explain exactly why the TV series with the funny name is so deeply ingrained in my consciousness; suffice to say that the characters are in my blood; the writer and creator, Joss Whedon, pulls words out of my head and strings them together in such a way that I look like a philistine; and the mythology is so layered, so analogous to the tormented adolescent existence that I am grateful, every day, for having had the TV show for 7 years. Now there are comic book tie-ins by Master Whedon, adding to the canon and allowing folks like me to continue to revel in the misadventures of the Scooby gang.

So what has my proverbial panties in a twist? This news story. The director of the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie (remember that suck-fest? Kristy Swanson? Donald Sutherland?) is going to take the conceit-- a Chosen one, fighting demons and vampires and all matter of undeadness-- and make a new movie out of it. Without Joss Whedon. Whedon wrote the movie, true--but watched as directors and producers turned it into something too Velveeta to even be called cheeseball. He then took it back and crafted what we know as Buffy from that point on. So the original director maintained some rights to the idea, obviously, and now wants to jump on the "vampires everywhere" bandwagon evidenced by the Twilight series, HBO's True Blood, the CW's new Vampire Diaries coming in the fall, and on and on.

To which I say, just try it. Scores of Whedon fans will revolt, there will be metaphorical blood in the streets, and her project will die a terrible death if she tries to tie this to the Buffy franchise in any way. Let it stand on its own, or try to get Joss in on the project, but never, never, NEVER bastardize my Buffy. And leave Angel alone while you're at it.

UPDATE: Variety is reporting that the head of Vertigo Entertainment, the studio trying to get this off the ground, is saying "Studios are looking for a franchise and vampires are relevant again." WTF? Money-grubbing-intellectual-property-raping jackass.

Originally written 3.09

Carrie Prejean - Ridiculous.

It's not like gay marriage comes up in my entertainment reports often. And it's not like this issue is really about gay marriage. But, for the record, I'm a big supporter. Like, I think it's ridiculous we even have to debate a person's civil rights. Duh. She's definitely not representing me as a Californian. But I digress.

Her stance on gay marriage is NOT why Carrie Prejean should have her Miss California sash ripped off her body faster than you can say "Your nipple's showing!" She needs to have her crown, her sash, her cash award, her cache, her all-of-it taken from her because she lied about two separate sets of "semi-nude" pictures AND she's using her status as Miss California USA to endorse a political movement that wasn't approved by the Miss USA pageant.

I'm telling you right now--I don't care about her answer to Perez Hilton's question. Hilton is a bad example of your everyday gay person that lives all across the US. He's shrill and over-the-top; he's also a hack gossip columnist who gets off making other people feel badly about themselves. So he was baiting Prejean, make no mistake. And yes, she could have been more articulate, but she's allowed to think whatever she wants--this is American. And she is totally, completely hot in her pictures. Not the point. What I DO care about is that slimy Trump character commenting that the pictures she took when she was 17(!) and in her underwear were "in many cases, absolutely magnificent photos." He made no comment at all about the second set of pictures that were released that showed her entire breast, nip and all, and were taken a year before the Miss USA pageant. Then what the hell is the contract for in the first place? If he is going to allow the girls in his pageant to violate their contracts multiple times and still keep their title, what message is that sending? If Carrie Prejean had less attractive breasts, or was a brunette, or had NOT stirred up such a firestorm with her politically incorrect answer on stage, would she still have her crown? How exactly is it OK that a runner-up has now stolen all of the spotlight from the actual winner (Miss North Carolina, if you forgot)?

Miss Nevada 2006, Katie Rees, had her title stripped after pictures showed up of her kissing girls at a party--let's ask her what she thinks about Prejean and her charmed life right now? "An accurate word to describe me is irate."

At least everyone's little girls can grow up with the knowledge that they can, indeed, get a boob job paid for by someone else, pose "semi-nude," and breach a contract as long as they're hot and Donald Trump is still a perv.

Originally written 4.09

Everything Kills You

This is me, out here on my limb. I don’t care if cake is bad for me. Or sunlight. I don’t care if TV rots my brain, or if I drink too little or too much water. I don’t much care if I’m running late to most things, or if I use too much butter in my mashed potatoes. My cell phone might irradiate my brain. Soda rots your teeth. Too much cheese hardens your arteries, not enough cheese makes you breakable. Chocolate releases endorphins on par with sex, but it gives you pimples and makes you fat. Alcohol will make you insane and steal away your judgment, but red wine is OK for pregnant women.

We live in a society that tells you everything will kill you; and we like it that way. We are desperate to live forever, to endure, but this is not an example of our fortitude of spirit. There is a permeating fear of death, of the cycle, of the natural order of things. We fight to add years to our lives, all the time ignoring the fact that your life has left the station without you. All the wheatgrass, fish oil, and pilates in the world can’t replace the soul-soothing affirmation of one moment of appreciation for your planet and your people. Trees, oceans, children, deserts, Grandparents, animals, sunshine, your best friend from 3rd grade…these are what define our presence on the planet. Not our cholesterol levels or the antioxidant content of blueberries. We spend less time with what we love and more time in self-flagellation at the altar of Never Good Enough.

Everything and anything can kill you or cure you. The obsession with perfect health in this society is contrary to Darwinian principle and the natural order of things. Try to remember that anything at all can end your time on this earth, and whether or not you went to the gym that day won't matter a bit. But you might wish you had had more cake. Or mayonnaise.

Originally written 7.08