Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

I Think I'm Paranoid

I hate it when I can't sleep because it's too hot and my boss keeps walking in to check on me.  I could really use a nap, people.

My hair is doing really strange things today, by the way.  I'm not sure what happened, but it all stood up this morning like it was holding a vigil for some reason, and it has yet to relax.  I totally look like a Parasaurolophus or something:

Well, I take better care of my skin and nails, but you get the idea.  Anyway, I cut all my hair off not that long ago, and it's actually kind of refreshing to have my hair short enough where it'll stand up and stuff.  Before, I had only two modes: Acceptable, or Hat Day.  Hat Day is hard when it's 8 million degrees outside, y'all.  Although it's actually been pretty cool the last few, go fig.

Domino is in town, too, by the way.  It's actually pretty cool, although I haven't really had a chance to see much of her.  We all got drinks on Saturday, but I wasn't feeling very good, so we didn't stay out long.  She was supposed to come meet me for coffee this afternoon, but...dude, NOBODY wants to drive out to the Valley.  Not if you have to, certainly not if it's optional.  So I excused her from that, but will see her tonight.  It's weird -- she moved ten months ago, but somehow it feels like it's been so much longer.

Anyway, we met for drinks at this pub -- it's a great place, but...okay, people, it's where He Who Shall Not Be Named used to hang out with his friends.  Like, the ONLY place they used to hang out, and do you know why?  Do you?  Guess.  No, don't guess, because you'll never get it, it's that stupid.  It's the only place they used to hang out, because they didn't know of any other bars.  IN LOS ANGELES.  I mean...what can truly be said about that?  The statement mocks itself with dry sarcasm, right?

Anyway, I bring this up to put you in my frame of mind on Saturday.  EVERY time someone entered the bar, I would look up in a panic, worried that it was him.  This seems totally irrational, I know, but HE was totally irrational, as if you need the brush-up lesson on the Kafka nightmare that was my relationship with HWSNBN.  Anyway, I would sit there, feeling like everyone was staring at me and texting YOU KNOW WHO that I was at the bar, and OMG!!1!  I did run into HWSNBN once after I dumped him and he freaked out and I worried he would stab me or May Day one night.  I should clarify: I saw him once after all that, at Target, but he didn't see me and I turned and literally RAN for the door like the place was on fire.  He might have seen me as I ran away, but there was no confrontation and that's all I care about.

I know, I sound crazy.  But the thing is, my life is SO GOOD without HWSNBN in it, and I have no desire to upset that balance.  Not for an evening, not for five minutes.  He was on a downward spiral like a water slide, and I spent six months with him dragging me along after him.  Done.  Anyway, he didn't show, and that makes me very happy.

At any rate, we're doing something tonight, and it should be a lot less harrowing, methinks.  After all, we're going to a different bar.

Send in the Clones

At one point over the weekend, my ex-girlfriend Honey Ryder turned to me and said, "You know, you seem really happy now -- happier than you used to be."  I turned to her and I said, "Your girlfriend is EXACTLY LIKE ME.  What up with that?"

Actually, I didn't say that, because it would've been awkward, but I was thinking it.  However, I'm already digressing.  I went up and spent the weekend with Ulrich, and we had a very nice time.  We had a tasty dinner at a little bistro around the corner from his apartment, we snuck Sofia into the movies (and seriously -- at the risk of sounding like a total alchie, I cannot recommend this enough; it's fun and kind of romantic, and it really makes bad movies a lot more enjoyable, but it's probably totally illegal so I'm lying, I was coerced, and you didn't hear it from me), and we went wine-tasting with my ex-girlfriend and her girlfriend.

We'd been planning this trip ever since she came down to visit a couple months ago, and it was great to meet her girlfriend.  I said it last time, but it's surreal to see her again -- in some ways it feels like we could slip right back into the pattern our friendship always followed, but in other ways that would be like trying to squeeze into a shoe that just doesn't fit anymore.  We went wine-tasting and had some insightful conversations -- she endorsed my boyfriend and I her girlfriend -- and at the end of the night they left to head back to their hotel.  After they had gone, I asked Ulrich a question:

Me: So.  I really like Honey's girlfriend, Randa.  But...did she REMIND you of anyone?  Anyone you KNOW?

Ulrich: Like who?

Me:  I don't know...like, ME?

He didn't see it right away, but when he looked at the photos he'd taken, he kind of gasped.  I mean, we weren't exactly TWINS, but along with some marked physical similarities in build and coloring, we had the same sense of humor and had a lot of significant interests in common.  I'm certainly not reporting this in an egotistical fashion -- it may just be that my ex-girlfriend is attracted to a certain type.  Kind of a specific type, but there you go.  It was kind of funny, in an SWF sort of way.

The other fun thing is that Ulrich's air mattress (shut up -- he's in school again) has sprung a series of leaks.  He couldn't find all of them, though, so every half-hour or so we'd sink all the way to the floor and he'd have to reinflate.  I pointed out that if we flooded the apartment, we could hold the mattress under the water and find out where the leaks were, but he wasn't very open to the idea.

Anyway, it was a pleasant weekend.  And now I want champagne.

I've Heard of Dry Counties, But THIS is RIDICULOUS

To kick things off, I'd like to throw my hat into the ring on the latest Studio 60, which has been even-handedly lauded and decried elsewhere on these internets by other such bottom-feeding, borderline-illiterate, uncultured bloggers like myself. For the record, I also think Sorkin has a definite talent and the show has unquestionable potential, but he's wasted its value by converting it into a platform from which he can preach his intellectual superiority and his distaste for people who don't like his work. Furthermore, Sorkie, if you're going to spend an hour prating about commedia dell'arte to prove how Smart you are, perhaps you should encourage your cast to PRONOUNCE THE WORDS CORRECTLY. The other way...sort of undermines your point, you see what I'm saying?

Anyway, my weekend was a pretty good one. Honey Rider came to town and Ulrich and Argyle joined me in meeting her and her friends for drinks. My fears proved largely unfounded -- except for one instance where she listed certain historical events, which had resulted in our first Big Fight, out of sequence and made me sound unfairly like a crazy person, and then one where she sort of intimated that I was a big ol' drag queen in high school (not true) -- and we generally had a really nice reunion. Except for the part where the owner of the restaurant snapped at us for "meeting our friends" there, then made us move away from the bar and sit at a booth where our waitress lectured us like four-year-olds because we were "splitting up her section" and made us move AGAIN, where the owner confronted us for switching seats, and then the waitress proceeded to snipe at us for ordering water in between our drinks, asked me very condescendingly if I wouldn't like to "BUY some water", and then tried not only to CUT US OFF FROM WATER (water, people) altogether, but got on Argyle's case when she tried to sneak around her and order water from the bar. So we won't be going back to The Dresden anytime soon.

The rest of the weekend was fairly uneventful, though, and Ulrich returned to school early Monday morning. Tit always following Tat, last night I joined Argyle in meeting a friend of hers who was in town for the evening. The friend was nice, as were all the other assembled personages, but...well, let me put it this way: in three hours of conversation, not a one of them asked me anything about myself. Not that I have to be The Center Of Attention, mind you, but when you're talking with people, it's nice to be acknowledged as part of the conversation as opposed to just, say, the audience. It actually reminded me a lot of when I was in college, which in turn reminded me of why I don't hang out with those people anymore. Again, they were all very nice (both my friends and Argyle's), but I don't like having to jockey for the lectern in a group of friends.

And now, I have work that must be done.

Hey, (Ex-)Girlfriend!

I've spent the day marshalling my thoughts and repressing all the strange, anxiety-causing curiosity that overwhelms me whenever I'm in a position such as this one. You see, as I mentioned somewhere upblog of here, my ex-girlfriend Honey Rider is in town. Tonight. And we are meeting for drinks in a scant two hours.

I don't know why I'm nervous. She and I have been through our ups and downs already, finally achieving some kind of stasis, but we haven't seen each other in...I actually don't know how long. At least five years, probably more. We haven't really corresponded in about that long either, our periodic emails being stilted in the way you might expect of two high school sweethearts who realized they were both gay and stopped dating, but didn't have a frame of reference for any kind of traditional "friendship", per se, as they'd only ever been paramours. Ulrich is coming with me, as is Argyle, so it's not like I'll be without my posse (she will bring hers as well -- I'm thinking of it as sort of a Sharks/Jets meet-cute, but hopefully with better music) (sorry, West Side Story lovers, but I'm...not a Bernstein fan).

My point is, I don't really expect there to be anything dredged up from the past; we were teenagers, and my dusty recollections are of a lot of overblown squabbles centered around the typical molehills of adolescent relationships. But she has had a history of waiting until time saps the color of memories and then repainting things to suit herself. I have a history of countering with accurate, if also somewhat re-tinted, accounts from my own perspective, and then there are thorns in everyone's paws. Of course, we've all grown up a lot over the last five years.

I think my real source of perturbation comes from the fact that, it having been so long, we really might not have anything to say to each other. We'll catch up on friends from our yesteryears, share our professional horror stories (and have I got some doozies to share), and then...what? I have no idea, and that always freaks me out.

But I guess I'll know in a couple hours.

Guess Who's Coming To Recriminate?

Tonight, Ulrich and I ran into an a rather famous actress at the Fancy Grocery Store, and I immediately humiliated myself by announcing quite proudly that she and I shared a birthday.  She was very gracious, but written all over her face were the words, "Oh, great, another Crazy -- let's try not to get stabbed."  I heard a lot of "happy birthday" and had to stress carefully that I knew it wasn't actually our mutual birthday today, but just that I thought it was an interesting bit of trivia.  I mean, to ME.  Admittedly, it makes no difference to her that some dude in the grocery store is also a Pisces, but it was good news to me, and I wanted to share.  Is that so wrong?

Another thing I did this week was receive a very ominous email from Honey Ryder, my ex-girlfriend.  Yes, you read that right.  She sent me a little "hey, haven't talked to you in a couple of years since that time I TOTALLY FREAKED YOU OUT, and I thought I'd see how you were doing!  Oh, also, I'M COMING TO TOWN.  SEE YOU SOON," message.  I have mere weeks to prepare.

On the heels of this -- and I mean, IMMEDIATELY on the heels of this -- I got an email from the girl I pseudo-dated after Honey and I broke up.  Again, you read that right.  Don't judge, it was a very confusing time for me.  Anyway, Girl #2, whom we shall refer to as Ingrid (for reasons that are my own), and I rode a rather bizarre roller coaster at the end of my senior year in high school, in which there were a lot of things we didn't say to each other, and which ended with her sort of never speaking to me again.  Until, you know, MONDAY, when she wrote me an email out of the blue.

Then today I got a message from ANOTHER girl I knew in high school (although I don't *think* I dated this one -- my memory's a little foggy on her), but I can't bring myself to read it yet, because I'm starting to shake in my boots at the thought of what else is coming down the pike.  I REALLY need to commit Friendstercide, y'all.  Wearing a homing beacon on the internet is proving bad for my constitution.

So the big question before the court is, do I try to gather unto me all the people I know in order to create a protective buffer zone for when Honey comes to town?  Or do I go for what's behind Door Number Two: protective isolation?  It may prove wiser to have as few witnesses as possible to whatever embarrassing truths about Teenage Dr. No may come to light.

I'll be grappling with these heady problems all weekend, while Ulrich and I are out of town, staying in a spacious B&B, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, hoping there aren't as many gay-hating rednecks in those particular mountains of California as have been reported elsewhere.  We did buy a twenty-eight-year-old bottle of wine to bring with us (what we were doing at the Fancy Grocery Store), so failing all else, I can probably drink my way to a solution. 

I suppose if I can survive that, I can survive anything.

Zach Braff Needs to Stop Sending Me All These Love Letters

So it's Friday the 13th, y'all, and you know what that means! Well, maybe you don't, so let me tell you: it means that everyone across the nation is celebrating their Lucky Day!

Seriously, I think everyone I've ever met has confided in me that Friday the 13th is their "Lucky Day". Some bad shit will go down and I'll shrug and go, "Well, it is Friday the 13th!" and they'll get this shocked expression and bubble, "Which is, like, so crazy because Friday the 13th is actually my Lucky Day!" Well, aren't you an original. It's amazing how all these longstanding superstitions are actually antithetical to the documented truth. Hey, maybe later we can break a mirror for good luck!

Whatever. Friday the 13th is a day like any other day. Nothing happens today that couldn't happen last week or next week or any other day. Well, except for USA's Friday the 13th Marathon, which I guess makes it a good day in my opinion. I love cheesy horror movies, especially when they've been edited for television, and Friday the 13th is by far my favorite franchise of the bunch. Better than Halloween, better than Prom Night, better than Nightmare on Elm Street, and much, much better than Night of the Living Crapfest. Excuse me -- "Dead". Well, except for Friday the 13th Part V: The New Beginning. That movie is dead to me. Go for parts 1-4 and 7. 7 rocks my world.

As for my part, I'm pretty indifferent about Friday the 13th, the day. I mean, sure, the power here has already cut out three times -- the last time in the middle of writing this entry, as a matter of fact -- but at least I put my underwear on the right way this morning. Admittedly, last Friday the 13th sucked rocks big time. I was frazzled and starved, and I had an hour-long interview that took three and a half hours, during which time my car got towed and impounded. However, that was also the night that Jessica took May Day and I out for head-sized margaritas, I got drunk for the first time, and we hollered at Reba McIntyre when her porsche pulled up to the light outside Kinko's while our drunk asses were trying to bust in so I could pick up my order -- Kinko's was closed, people. Kinko's. Closed! -- and Reba waved at us and we freaked out. Ah, that was a good night.

And speaking of Jessica, run, don't walk, to her diary, ultratart.com, because she's got an important message she's trying to get out. I fully endorse the cause and feel exactly the same way, so imagine it's both of us saying those things. Well, the first part, the second half is all her.

Which brings us to the final item on our agenda. Dude, Zach Braff needs to stop sending me all these love letters! I'm serious. It's beginning to freak me out! It all started pretty innocent, I guess; a couple years ago, I started seeing his picture in magazines and ads for his new show, Scrubs (Thursday nights at 8:30 EST on NBC), and I was like, "Hmmm, I could almost swear he's looking right at me!" That's when I started getting the letters. They were cleverly disguised as fliers and credit card offers, and the occasional Have You Seen Me? leaflet, but the code was an obvious one to crack. Take this one, for instance:

You could already be a winner!

Yes, that's right, you and two of your friends could be heading to Las Vegas on a free flight from KLM Airlines, riding in style in a lavishly appointed limo with a private driver. All you have to do is fill out the attached form and mail it back within 30 days!

Like, please. Obviously, it's a friggin' proposal! "Two friends"? He so means my parents. He wants to meet my parents! And Vegas? Who goes to Vegas except to get married by an Elvis impersonator in a whirlwind ceremony at a makeshift wedding chapel sandwiched between an IHOP and a brothel? And 'the attached form' he wants me to fill out is plainly some kind of cleverly disguised marriage license.

And as if the constant letters weren't bad enough, now I'm getting these phone calls. You know, where there's a moment of silence, and then "Cathy" from "AT&T" picks up (like that's her real name) and starts delivering me coded messages from Zach about how much he loves me. Last night was the final straw, however. I tuned in to Scrubs, just out of curiosity, of course, and there's Zach Braff, making flirty eyes at me and saying things like, "Hey, go out with me," directly at me! Like, he's not even trying to hide any more! And then, at the end of the episode, he shamelessly shucked his shirt and started shaking his ass for my benefit. I mean, not that I'm complaining or anything, but he really needs to deal with this obsession before he becomes dangerous. I think tonight I'll go find his house and hide in the bushes with my telephoto lens and nightvision goggles, just to make sure he's not doing something crazy like trying to break into my apartment so he can steal back the hair I took off his jacket last week when I tracked him down at The Bistro and snuck into the coat room. Man, it's tough having a celebrity stalker. You can get into all kinds of trouble! Fortunately, today is my Lucky Day.

Rolling The Dice

All right, kids, I'm back. Don't everybody jump at once.

They're painting the office today, so the place looks like Davy Jones' locker or something. I mean, there is crap everywhere. Plus which, no one but me is actually working in the office, so it's going to be lots and lots of fun. Only take out 'fun' and replace it with 'aggravation'. Especially since everyone and their Aunt Lillian keeps traipsing through here, goggling at the mess, and then getting all up in my business about it. Like I give a crap. Then the phone starts ringing and I start getting frustrated. Argh. Seriously. The phone has rung twenty times since I started this entry.

So this weekend was pretty good. Less sitting on my ass and more proactive moving and shaking. My roommate and I got proactively lost trying to attend a party on Saturday night, which was interesting. Seriously. We'd even been to this apartment before, and somehow we ended up driving up and down this street looking for number 110, which, it appeared, no longer existed. We found it after we did some mental gymnastics and took a grand leap of faith.

Another thing I did this weekend? Gave my phone number to someone. This may not seem so huge, but it's the first time I've ever done that before. I know, it's not like I won an Olympic gold medal for the standing long jump, or anything, but for shy, retiring me, it was a great accomplishment. I mean, it's always flattering when someone comes up and gives you their number (less so when they honk at you from the street and start catcalling out the window, like that's really going to turn you on), but I always feel embarrassed giving mine away. Not to mention presumptuous.

Anyway, my roomie (here on out known as May Day) and I decided to head for a coffee shop in a toney neighborhood on Sunday morning (I mean, why not, right?), and when we walked in, I saw The. Most. Gorgeous. Man. Ever. I mean, he was supermodelicious with his tallness and his great cheekbones and soulful eyes and all that shit. So I, of course, lose all ability to speak English--

Super Hot Guy: Hi...what would you like?

Me: Buh...um...I'll, with croissant, uh...um, there's coffee!

I'm so smooth. Of course, I couldn't exactly say, "I'll have a tall, hot you with whipped cream and a shot of hot lovin'," could I? So I just stared blankly at him until it was time to leave. Finally, May Day egged me on until I finally decided to bite the proverbial bullet and take a chance for once, and I gave him my phone number. Not that he'll ever use it, of course. He was way too hot for the likes of me - I'm serious; this guy was so hot I had to look at him through a hole in a paper plate - but at least I finally made a move, right?

I feel good.