Flip the bird? Whatayou, retahdid?

Flipping the bird, flipping out over dead birds, throwing people in jail for using unconventional ads in admittedly poorly choiced locations. Ah, the world of post-911 when dealing with the out of the ordinary.

OK, make Turner pay for all of the man hours, etc, that were wasted by the overreaction in Boston to a blinking neon cartoon flipping the bird, but are we seriously saying that we're going to jail the ad guys who were doing their jobs? I won't even get into the fact that these guys are also artists and we're stepping all over their freedom of expression. What hangs me up about this? Is this: "Turner said the devices have been in place for two to three weeks in 10 cities: Boston; New York; Los Angeles; Chicago; Atlanta; Seattle; Portland, Ore.; Austin, Texas; San Francisco; and Philadelphia. As soon as the company realized the Boston problem, it said, law enforcement officials were told of their locations in all 10 cities." - AP reports

TWO to THREE WEEKS. In New York?! LA?! No reaction. The article even quotes an official in Seattle who was like, Yeah we took them down, but no one in our City Hall is claiming criminal negligence against a cartoon. Or he might have just said no one called 911 over them. Because they're cartoons.

In Austin we wigged when a bunch of birds died, but you didn't see us calling in the freaking Coast Guard over a CARTOON. Ok, we're not on a coast, and I need to chill about the fact that it's, you know, animated, but I think my point is still a valid one. This is ridiculous and Boston is just embarrassed that they went through all of this over an ad, and now they want someone to prosecute over it. It's wicked bs, and they need to pull the punch.

"I have a relatively good track record, sometimes I miss."

I always cringe whenever I see Pat Robertson's name in a headline, not just because he gives Christians a bad name, but because he's also quite the narcissist separate from any confessed beliefs.

But this "God told me this is going to happen" nonsense has got to stop. He's not freaking psychic. All he's doing is taking the current trend and predicting obvious outcomes.

Even if God were speaking to him, he wouldn't be telling him that we're about to get nuked; he would be asking him to zip it.

God [booming voice]: "Patrick. Patrick! Whoa, take it easy. You're going to give yourself a heart attack. Yes, Patrick, I know I've never spoken to you directly before, and you know that. But that's not the story everyone else is getting, is it? Pat, seriously, I'm going to need you to stop telling anyone who will listen that I speak to you. These folks are having a hard enough time these days without you trying to scare them, and in my name, no less. Oh, and tell Falwell to shut it too."

Yeah, I think God says "folks." You don't?

Anyway, this is my point. It's bad enough that we've had Pat and Jerry out there for the last twenty years muddying up the waters about what a Christian looks and sounds like, but if Pat's really going to try to say that we're psychic, now, I'm going to need him to share. If I have to put up with him being such a vocally public ass, then in return I should get to be psychic too.

God: "Jessica, I already told you where your phone was -- don't get selfish."

Ring, Ring. "Hello?" "Yeah, hi, this is God. You're a moron."

Wow. It's November. I don't know how that happened.

So I lost my phone this past week. I looked EVERYWHERE. Tore my apartment UP. It was not in my apartment. Searched and searched through my car. Emailed friends and begged them to look. And all the while, I'm trying really hard not to flip out. I'm just praying that God will somehow resolve this, even though I'm quickly getting to the point where I don't see how that's possible.

The last time I remembered having it was Sunday night. So I look for it Monday. Tuesday I really start to worry, because I realize that I don't have insurance on it and that gets expensive, kiddos. Looking. Looking. Looking some more. Frustration level's getting a little higher. Still actively NOT freaking out. Wednesday morning, I got out to my car to go to work (*I have a job, woo-hoo!*) and I climb in, thinking about that stupid cell, and, even though I know it's not in the car, I think to myself: "God, please just let it be in the car." I have no more than completed that thought -- the little cartoon bubble with the sentence, "God, please just let it be in the car" is still hanging in the air -- and I hear my phone start ringing. Somewhere in the car. Of course, then I still couldn't find it for another day, but that's more about me needing to clean out my car than it is about the fact that God has such an awesome sense of humor.

Wanna buy a kidney?

First off, my apologies to anyone out there who still might be checking in with me. I know I haven't had much to say for the last month. Looking for work is rough, and I'm not very pleasant company right now, so really I was doing you a favor.

I've been in Austin about four weeks now. I'm in an apartment, so Leander and I are not homeless, and I'm looking for work. Yes, that's right, I've been looking for four straight weeks. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "That's really not that long."

And you would be wrong about that.

It is, really, that long. When you think that you'll come in, sign up with a couple of temp agencies and be a phone-answerer-for-hire whilst you look for something permanent, and between the FIVE agencies you sign up with, you get two one-day assignments in four weeks, you realize that four weeks is, in fact, a very long time.

So basically, I'm being humbled, but I'm not yet humble. Translation: my moods are constantly fluctuating from ecstatic to be living in this wonderful town again to so despondent about never again working that I start surfing the net to see how much my kidneys are worth. Both kidneys.

In the hours that I'm not pounding the pavement for a cushy HR job, I've been rereading Anne Lammott's stuff. In one of her books (I think it might have been Operating Instructions) she talks about how during WWII, children in orphanages in Europe who had been abandoned or misplaced during all of the chaos would often have trouble sleeping. They'd been starving and lost, and now that they were some place warm, with food, they still couldn't sleep. So someone figured out a way to comfort them. They gave the children pieces of bread to hold onto while they slept. Not to eat, because they had plenty of food, but just tangible evidence that they were being cared for, fed and kept safe.

First of all, obviously, things could be so much worse. I can't find a job, but there are almost no Nazis in my neighborhood, and it's plenty warm in Texas in August. But I can identify with having trouble sleeping, anxiety and insecurity.

After reading this, the one permanent job that I have been able to find is working five hours a week on Saturday mornings baking bread at a local bakery. I knead dough, carry pans, man the counter. I love to bake, so this was a lovely opportunity in and of itself, but the divine appointment of this was not missed by yours truly. Anyway, it's fun, challenging, and most importantly, it's my tangible evidence that I'm being cared for, fed and kept safe.

I'm not getting rid of the Anne Lamott

So things are progressing with the big move. One week from today I will be, let's see... somewhere near Flagstaff. Then I'll be in Lubbock for the weekend. Then it's Austin.

Over the next week I'll be packing, weeding out everything I don't need and just generally freaking out.

In addition to the general, non-specific freak-out are the major things that keep going wrong. To wit: Leander had to take an emergency trip to the vet; I got really bad food poisoning Monday night; one of my school loans is experiencing some really fun upheaval that I won't get into but which is biting me in the ass; and I have to sort my books.

I know this last one doesn't sound like a big deal, but it is, my friend. It is. I'm a writer, damnit. And I should not be asked to have to ever let go of a book that has in any way, shape or form contributed to my craft, my world view, or most importantly, my sense of humor. Nevertheless, right now my requirement is that I must have picked it up to reread it or reference it in some way within the last two years, otherwise it goes. So, that's been quite a few of them, because John Grisham has written some stinkers, and I don't absolutely have to have that book on interviewing that I loved in college. But, that's actually been one of the many, many things rotating through my mind as I try to fall asleep at night. Should I get rid of these things? If they've shaped me in any way, shouldn't I hold on to them?

But today I realized what I need to be appreciating about this move: the ability to cleanse, and through that the ability to be the woman who I really want to be. By going to live in this town that I've always considered home, I'm being a more honest representation of myself. And this small thing -- only keeping the books that I really need and use -- there's something very honest about that, something much closer to what that happy Austinite looks like.

Still. I do think I'll hold onto Creative Interviewing.

Bird Dance of the Hunter

My cousins (Heather and Sara) were visiting a couple of weeks ago, and they brought Heather's seven-year-old Madison and two-year-old Hunter. First of all, this was an insanely fun and insanely dysfunctional week. Many, many, many things went horribly awry. But, overall, I'm hoping we'll remember it fondly.

Actually, I know that I will. Because what I keep thinking back on was the little old man bird dance.

The Saturday night that they were in town, I had my friend Annette (who is also from Texas) over and we made pizza. Well, more accurately, Annette (who has taught the first grade and was really, very good at it) and Madison made the pizzas.

Hunter has a touch of what the professionals call "separation anxiety." Translated for the lay person: he screams like he's being pinched every time Heather leaves the room. Sara did that when she was a kid, which we remind her of constantly. No reason to add that. But she did. Remember that, Sara? We do.

Anyway, while we're hanging out watching Nette and Maddie make the pies, Heather is slipping out the back door every so often to get some laundry done before they had to leave the next night. At one point, we're all in the living room and Heather slips out. This time, Hunter observes this, and starts to get a little worked up. Annette observes this and the fact that five seconds before Hunter had been randomly sprinting around the room. So, being the amazing child communicator that she is, she too starts randomly running around the room.

She's running around and she's yelling that this is really fun, that she forgot how much fun it was to run around willy-nilly. And, needless to say, this has gotten Madison and Hunter's attention, and they both need little encouragement to adopt the willy-nilly behavior as well. And here comes the absolute best part of the evening.

As a part of the general merriment, Hunter starts doing this little dance. Picture what a little old man looks like when he's hunched over, and has his hands clutched together behind his back. Now picture a two-year-old imitating that while kind of marching in circles. Yeah, it was that awesome.

There's this little man who's caught the vibe that it's time to get silly and is offering his contribution. He's got this look of concentration as he slowly turns, arms behind him, bent at the waist. This little purposeful revelry.

That was, by far, my absolute favorite part of the entire week. This sweet, quiet boy who can read a room and entertain it perfectly, all the while keeping an eye on the back door and the return of his number one fan. (Who upon entering with her load of clothes, saw us laughing to the point of tears and asked, "Did Hunter do his bird dance?")

Who has a sweet face?

July 10th-ish

So in the last week, my car has been impounded, my roommate's told me she's moving out in five days, my cell phone's been ripped in half (by a 2-year-old), and I've had my first migraine. It's time to get the hell out of here.

I thought I was going to be moving back to Austin in August, but things have progressed without me, and it's looking now like I'll be moving the first week in July. Yeah. I know. I'm pretty freaked by just how quickly that will be here.

It will always have a place in the steam pipe trunk distribution venue of my heart

The show airs its last new episode Sunday night. And when I say the show, I of course mean the one show that I never miss, ever. That I plan weekend activities around. Last Sunday night some friends wanted to meet for karaoke at around 8. I left my apartment to meet up with them at 8:59. (And am I glad I did? Well, last week's episode, Institutional Memory, was the best episode of the season.)

But anyway. Once the show's gone, they'll still being running it endlessly on Bravo, I'm sure, and I'm also sure I'll be buying every DVD. But this will be the last time that I'll sit in front of my television and watch a fresh, new story about these characters whom I've come to love unfold before me.

So I gotta find something to fill the void. I think it'll take more than one show, honestly. I think there are three shows that I'll need. The first, the most obvious, is the new Sorkin show, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. The second is Battlestar Galactica. The third: The Office.

No matter what, this show shaped my politics, influenced my wit, and most importantly, informs my writing. Not that way. And I'll cherish the DVDs and try my best to write my own stories that might bring the same laughter, poignancy and introspection that this show has brought to me.

Revisionist Pickles

There is a billboard on my way into work. It's near the intersection of Hollywood and Highland, facing toward Franklin, and it's of the new Texas Jalepeno Whopper from Burger King. Don't even get me started on the bizarre decision to market "Texas" to Los Angeles. My point is that every morning I stare at that 3-story burger, and you know what bugs?

The pickles are drawn in.

They clearly went into photoshop and digitally added pickles. I'm guessing that this is because the jalepenos figure prominently into the overall arrangement of the burger and they felt that non-Texans couldn't figure out that that those were the peppers and not just pale pickle slices and would, I guess, get real confused and refuse to buy the burger? I don't know. What I do know is that it looks like someone grabbed a kelly green sharpie and doctored the burger art right before they went to print.

Is there some sort of life lesson in that? Don't try to rewrite history to please what would look right because then you're forgetting that people can spot half-assed Sharpie cover-up when they see it? That sounds good.

Because will you really be able to think of anything else?

So, in honor of today's opening weekend, we have the slogans that I've decided to have printed on placards that I will then hold up while I stand in front of a theater showing that particular film.

• He bought a sonogram machine.
• "You don't know the history of psychiatry, OK?"
• Vitamins and exercise.
• He's changed her name to Kate.
• Was your baby born a week before your film hit theaters?
• I think he was serious about eating the placenta.
• "You're glib."
• "I'm 'intense'."

Let me know if you think of any. I'll just be rotating these throughout the weekend.

ETA: Hang on, Billy Crudup is in this?! The hell?! Why didn't anyone tell me Billy Crudup was in this? ... Yeah, I'm still not going.

"I ha woot canow"

You'd get that post title if you've watched... actually, you know what, you probably know what show I'm going to say there, so I'll just move on.

I woke up this morning in a world of pain. I have a tooth that's been hurting off and on, and yesterday it hurt and I thought I should make an appointment. But I have some fairly deep-seeded anxiety issues about the dentist that I won't bore you with here. Needless to say, my threshold of pain was going to have to supercede my level of anxiety and this morning at around 5 am, pain won out.

So I went to my very nice dentist, whom I've been avoiding like the bird flu, and he was like "Thanks for putting this off, genius, we're going to have to go right in." So, prescription ibuprofen is my friend, and my sister is pissed at me for being at work right now and not at home in bed, but the upside to an emergency root canal? I get to say this: "A secwet pwan to figh infwation?!!"

I know this is a little Oprah-y, but read it anyway

Akeelah and the Bee is bringing some attention to this from Marianne Williamson's Our Deepest Fear in "A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of A Course in Miracles."

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." --Marianne Williamson

I hate the NBC promo monkeys

So I was all geared up to watch the episode "Requiem" of West Wing on Sunday night. According to the promos for the episode it was going to be an entire ep dedicated to the life and passing of one of the most central characters, Leo.

Yeah, not so much.

It was a beautiful teaser, with the six core characters, CJ, Toby, Josh, Donna, the president and first lady all preparing to go to the funeral, and then at the funeral we hear the liturgy and pan over almost all of the characters who have been affected by Leo. That was lovely. Cut to credits.

Then, we get about a third of the remaining episode including reminiscences about him (much of which, interestingly enough, I think was actually John Spencer memories that they were bringing up, b/c they were new to us and sounded more like things he'd do and not Leo), but the rest was about CJ and Danny, Donna and Josh, and the SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE. Almost ten minutes of what should have been an entirely Leo-centric episode spent on who would be the new SOH. So. Disappointing. We don't need three new tertiary characters introduced, writers, and we sure as hell don't need to spend ten minutes on them, kay? We've got four fucking episodes left. God.

If I'd been prepared to expect an episode that in part dealt with the death of Leo, but the rest of which was business as usual, I probably could have enjoyed the episode more -- especially the stuff with CJ and Danny and getting to see Amy (ever-fabulous Mary Louise Parker) stir things up one last time with Josh and Donna. But because of those damned promo monkeys, all I could think during those scenes was "get back to the Leo stuff, get back to LEO."

So, in place of what this episode could have been:
Noel
Bartlet for America
Crackpots and These Women
He Shall from Time to Time
Running Mates
Guns Not Butter

And from the pilot:
Donna: And what was the cause of the accident?
Leo: What are you, from State Farm? Go. Do a job, would ya?
Donna: I’m just...
Leo: He was swerving to avoid a tree.
Donna: And what happened?
Leo: He was unsuccessful.

Indie bands are cool, Indie rockumentaries about indie bands are coolest

So, my friends Andrea, Brady, Kurt and Shane worked on this rockumentary called Last Dispatch, and now they're getting to see the fruits of their labor -- or some rock analogy I'm too musically illiterate to know. (Trailer)

Basically, the film is the story of the last concert of the band Dispatch, one of the most successfull un-signed (to a major label) bands of all time. The concert was in Boston summer 2004, they had over 100,000 kids show up. Anyway, it's the lead up to the concert and where these guys are in their careers and relationships with one another.

I got to see it (finally, Andrea) a couple of weeks ago, and as a lot of you already know, I loved it. (Isn't that the hugest relief ever when a friend is working on a project and they ask you to evaluate it? Trust me, it totally is.)

I'd never heard of the band, and I immediately fell in love with them. I can't imagine how satisfying the film would be for people who have heard of them, much less hardcore fans (can you say DVD sales? yeah, all 100,000 of those kids are watching for this DVD to go on sale).

Anyway. I love parenthesies.

But my point is that they're screening Last Dispatch in New York and Chicago in the next couple of weeks. If you're in the area, check it out, it's well worth the price of admission. See screening info below.

And once you do see it, come back and let me know what you thought.

"LAST DISPATCH" SCREENING DATES:
New York City
APRIL 21-27, 2006
The Village East Cinemas
181 Second Ave. (at 12th Street)
Ph: (212) 529-6998
(Weeklong engagement)

Chicago
APRIL 28, 2006
Park West Theater
8pm
(One show)

I asked if she thanked him for taking one for the team

This is a surreal world I'm living in. My sister (Republican Jenny) was working this morning and she looked up to see Andy Card standing in her doorway. Apparently he was saying his good-byes to WH staff. It's just weird to call my sister while I'm commuting to work and that's the answer to: "Guess who was in my office this morning."

It's the truth

Sent to me from my similarly displaced sister (living in DC):

"I have said that Texas is a state of mind, but I think it is more than that. It is a mystique closely approximating a religion. And this is true to the extent that people either passionately love Texas or passionately hate it ... For all its enormous range of space, climate, and physical appearance, and for all the internal squabbles, contentions, and strivings, Texas has a tight cohesiveness perhaps stronger than any other section of America. Rich, poor, Panhandle, Gulf, city, country, Texas is the obsession, the proper study and the passionate possession of all Texans." - John Steinbeck, 1962

I'm off-book! ... sort of

Okay. Let's see if I can get this from memory:

I don't know anything about love. I don't want to know anything. I hate love. [Can you believe that's my first line?!]

It's what you asked me when you were on leave a year ago, isn't it? [Oops, the line's "It's what you asked a year ago when you were on leave, isn't it?" Damnit.]

I can't marry anyone, Peter. I've got to stay at home. Father needs me.

He needs me more! I'm sorry, Peter.

I know it's what girls always say in books, but, I do love you as a brother, Peter. I wouldn't lose you as a brother for anything. We've been like that ever since we were little and started playing together, you and Orin and Hazel and I. So please don't let this come between us. [I always leave the "ever" out of this speech.]

Don't be stupid, Peter.

Do you think I care about that -- that --

Folks say more than their prayers. [I have know idea what this means, and hold no hope that I will be able to in any way sell it.]

No one around here, that's sure. He comes from out west. Grandfather Hamel happened to meet him in NY, and took a fancy to him. And Mother met him at Grandfather's house. [Rarely remember the "happened" here.]

I don't know as much about him as you think. Oh, he did tell me the story of his life to make himself out romantic, but I didn't pay much attention. He went to sea when he was young, and was in California for the Gold Rush. He's sailed all over the world. He's lived on a South Sea island once, so he says. [This speech KICKS MY ASS. This is the first time I've screwed up the very simple first sentence. It's supposed to be "I don't know much about him in spite of what you think. Great. New places to screw up. I always get stuck at "He went to sea... ]

That's his job -- being romantic. [My favorite line.] But I don't want to talk anymore about him.

Witnessing Inaction

"The present Western policy of playing down genocide and hoping it will peter out has proved to be bankrupt practically as well as morally. Granted, there are no neat solutions in Darfur. But ignoring brutality has only magnified it, and it's just shameful to pretend not to notice the terrified villagers here, huddling with their children each night and wondering when they are going to be massacred." - Nicholas Kristof, columnist, writing from the Chad-Sudan border of increasing violence by Sudanese militias in the region, including cross-border raids against villagers in Chad.
Source: The New York Times

"It is a very tricky thing to dramatize because you have to get into how the government rationalizes inaction and how they sort of stiff-arm the horror and sort of pooh-pooh any real action as something that would be naïve. We are not as a country too naïve to establish democracy in Iraq, but apparently we are too naïve to put an end to babies being thrown into fires." - Bradley Whitford on writing an episode of the West Wing about the genocide in Darfur. The transript is from a podcast Whitford did for "Bearing Witness for Darfur: Can We Prevent Genocide in the Sudan?" an off-shoot of Voices on Genocide Prevention, a podcasting service of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Uncertain Stage Fright

For those who don't know this story, allow me to briefly recap. I took a directors workshop last month with Judith Weston. Basically, the class was an acting class populated by directors. It was eight hours a day for three days. We'd have to get up in front of the class a few times a day. Repetition exercises, monologues, scenes, improv. And, well, I loved it. And I don't think I sucked. At least according to some of the people in class with me, I didn't.

So, for some ridiculous reason, I've signed up for her Masters Class. Starting on Thursday March 30, we'll be working with two plays from a "master", in this case Eugene O'Neill, and we're to have a monologue from Long Day's Journey Into Night or Mourning Becomes Electra memorized for the first class.

Let me be clear about something: I could not be more scared.

I'm taking the class because, as Mike Nichols says, directing is creating a safe environment for an actor to "open a vein." And while that's yucky, it's true. So. I think learning what actors go through for that process can only improve my ability as a director to empathize.

But, the class starts THIS THURSDAY. And, I have to memorize a MONOLOGUE. Plus, it's expensive.

Something being difficult or scary is never an appropriate reason not to do it, yeah, yeah, I know that. And yes, some of the best things I've done in my life scared the living crap out of me. Here's what I'm taking as reassurance: "The future is uncertain... but this uncertainty is at the very heart of human creativity," Ilya Prigogine. Substitute "uncertain" for "stark, raving terror" -- it's not as melodic, but far more accurate.