The Worst News Ever

Well, that was unexpected.

The Patriots are not supposed to lose. After an 18-0 season, going into the Superbowl playing the Giants should have been a breeze. A cakewalk. The Red Sox win the World Series another year, the Celtics have made a comeback to become one of the best teams in the league, and the Bruins…well, God love them, they try. But the Pats were a shoe-in. No sweat. The Giants SUCK. They SUCK! This WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME TOM? CAN YOU MAKE ONE GOOD THROW? OR WOULD YOU JUST RATHER STAND THERE UNTIL THEY TACKLE YOU? APPARENTLY YOU WOULD. AND BILL, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO WEAR A FUCKING RED SWEATSHIRT? WHY?!

Ahem.

There were parts of the game that felt familiar to me, but in the wrong context. As a Boston sports fan, I’ve suffered endless disappointment -- heart-wrenching, cringe-worthy, devastating disappointment at the hands of the Red Sox. The feeling of getting your hopes up, making it so far, only to have it ripped from your hands and shoved down your throat. But the Patriots are not supposed to cause this kind of disappointment. The Red Sox are the abusive boyfriend that we could never break up with, the unemployed alcoholic who kept beating the shit out of us but we could never say no to and kept coming back to. The Patriots were the nice, handsome guy who never failed to let us nurse our wounds or cry on his shoulder; who was successful and had a good job and came from a nice family. After another harsh blow by the Sox every October, we could readily turn to the reliable Pats to bring us to a happy victory in the post season. But now the tables have turned. The Red Sox have cleaned up their act and gotten their shit together. And the Patriots are the ones who got our hopes up and brought us all the way to the end, only to blindside us with a backhand blow that we never saw coming.

In the last few nailbiting minutes, I also felt the same feeling I got every time my team in high school, whether it be field hockey, basketball, or lacrosse, suddenly found ourselves down but with the possibility of a comeback with little time left. I can still vividly picture the faces and reactions of all my coaches when we would come running to the sidelines during a timeout, whether down a goal with one minute left or down five points with five minutes left. My lacrosse coach always remained calm, icily dishing out a play command, with no need to raise her voice because we were all perfectly aware of the suicides and five miler we’d be running after the game if we lost. My basketball coach would yell, emphasizing each individual word as if it would give us the extra oomph we needed to get ahead. My field hockey coach never said a word. We would all run over, and I would be the one rattling off instructions to everyone while she stood there silently, and when I finished, I’d look to her for a nod before we got back on the field. (Varsity captain, thank you very much.) My lacrosse coach at NYU was a screamer. What every situation had in common was the same heart-pounding anxiety, the same anxiety I felt while watching the final minutes of the game tonight. The only difference was that this time I couldn’t run out onto the field, completely fired up and ready to do whatever it took to win. I had to sit there, literally on the edge of my seat, Lauren’s fingernails digging into my arm, chewing my fingernails off as the final seconds ticked down. And then had to stop myself from throwing plates on the ground, smashing my mom’s crystal bowl, and stabbing a fork in my eye.

On a different, but lighter note, my mother is the only person I know who would serve salsa con queso in a Tiffany’s crystal bowl, and have quiche at a superbowl party.

My dad is now fuming in his study, probably dreading work tomorrow since he does most of his business with New York, and I am fuming on the couch, dreading going back to New York tomorrow.

At least I didn’t have to watch the game with any Giants fans.

Yet Another Reason Why I Hate New Years

I broke my FUCKING ankle.

And have to have surgery on it. Two days after I have my oral surgery tomorrow. Which will leave me on crutches for a minimum of a month.

My life is a JOKE.

This Week's Rants and Raves

Instead of packing for a month at home, where I am going tomorrow, I've decided to do a post of some of the things I'm loving and hating currently. First and foremost: the events of Tuesday night. I was supposed to go to the party that Model Behavior was hosting in Soho, and I invited my friend Shel to come with me. Shel's sister was in town visiting her, who I am not a huge fan of. She's two years younger than us, incredibly self centered, and an all-around ditz. Not to mention, sin of all sins, she can not handle her liquor. Shel also really wanted to go to this bar in the East Village called Angels and Kings that she and my other friend (and Shel's roommate) Julia frequent pretty often, mostly because it's owned by Pete Wentz, the "frontman" of a band I hate, Fall Out Boy. I know. They're really into that whole "emo" band scene, and I, clearly, am not. Apparently, Pete was supposed to be DJing on Tuesday night. So I agreed to go with the two of them to the bar for a little while before we went to the party. They came over to my apartment to have some drinks before we went, and by the time we got to the bar, it was about 12:15. Pete wasn't there, and ended up not even showing up, which was completely insignificant to me, but Shel and her sister were disappointed. Apparently there were also a bunch of other guys from other semi-famous bands that Shel is obsessed with. For example, some guy named Gabe from some band called Cobra Starship. Shel was practically having a panic attack, but was too shy to say anything to him. Since I have never heard of this person and wouldn't know him from any of the other wannabe-hipsters in the place, I took it upon myself to talk to him. So I approached him, told him my friend loved his band but was too shy to come up and talk to him. He introduced himself, asked me my name, and asked who my friend was. I pointed her out, and he came over a few minutes later to say hi. To his credit, he was incredibly nice, and I thanked him later for making her night. Meanwhile, Shel's idiotic sister is drunk off two weak vodka crans, has found some guy who she thought was a girl, and made out with him/her, because apparently making out with a girl does not count as cheating on your boyfriend. How does one make this mistake? Well, in such an establishment where the boys are wearing tighter jeans than me, have the body of a preteen girl, and have longer hair than I do, it could be confusing. But when she pointed out the victim to Shel and I, we both could immediately tell that she was a he. Nice one! So she is whining and moaning about what to do about her boyfriend, Shel is still not over the Gabe situation, and as it is now approaching 1:15, I am trying to get us out of there. Twenty minutes later, I have reached my limit. I'm waiting outside for the two of them after they told me fifteen minutes earlier that they were going to the bathroom and would meet me outside. I'm commiserating with the bouncer, who clearly hates his job. I barge back inside, find both of them talking to some dudes, and demand that we leave. Now. One of the dudes gives me a douchey look and says to Shel, "Your friend is kinda feisty. I like it." Even if I wasn't already thoroughly annoyed, that certainly would have done it. I grab both of them and head for the door, but suddenly the sister can't find her fucking coat. Great. We are finally in a cab and getting to the location of the party, only to find that it has ended. Shel feels really bad about the situation, but I was still really, really, pissed off that I missed a party that I later heard was a rousing success, and would have been indefinitely more fun than where I ended up instead. UGH.

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It is disgusting to me how politicians are spending more time talking shit about each other than actually making legitimate and convincing points. And their Christmas/Holiday television commercials make me want to vomit.


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Tomorrow, I'll be heading home to Boston via Amtrak. After far too many trips on the disaster that is the Fung Wah bus, and one attempt at flying via JetBlue which took a total travel time of seven hours, of which 40 minutes were actually spent in-flight, I've decided to stick with the train. I usually don't mind it because I actually enjoy traveling by train, but not during holidays, not when I have far too much luggage (and I will), and not on the Regional service (as opposed to the Acela), which is always--ALWAYS--delayed. Since I will be out of New York for a month, packing is going to be impossible. Especially with the added burden of somehow transporting the Christmas gifts I've purchased. I originally didn't want to do my Christmas shopping in the city before I got home specifically because of that reason, but no way in hell am I going near a shopping mall after I get home on December 22nd. I managed to do some of it online and have it delivered to my parents' house, but I still had to do some in-store shopping. I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to get my bags, and gifts, to Penn Station and on the train. I'm sure it will be really entertaining for those that are lucky enough to observe it.

On a similar note, it will be a mystery how I survive a month at "home" without completely losing my mind.


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And now on a lighter note, some things I think are awesome: first and foremost, the iTunes Alarm Clock. If you're someone like me who hates the sound of her alarm so much that hearing it elsewhere causes heart palpitations and a cold sweat, this will be a godsend. You can set several different alarms, for different times or different days, and set what music you want it to use. So, instead of being woken up by some awful beeping, you can awake to the sounds of whatever your musical taste prefers. It can shuffle through your entire library, or start from the beginning, or you can use a playlist. So now, I awake to G. Love and Special Sauce, get out of bed to Brendan Benson, wash my face and brush my teeth to Ari Hest and Tom Waits, and stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear to the sounds of Prince and Regina Spektor. And best of all, if you don't like to leave your computer up and running all night, the computer will wake itself from sleep mode when the alarm is supposed to go off. Nice!


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If you're ever in the downtown-ish area, I strongly reccomend you try Tavalon. I'm a big tea drinker, and I stumbled upon this place as it's sort of on the way during one of my commutes. It's located on 14th street between 5th and University Place, and it's actually good enough to get me to brave 14th street. Granted, the stretch of sidewalk that Tavalon is on isn't quite as bad as, say, 14th between University and Broadway, but it's still 14th street. But, the chai at Tavalon is worth it, in my opinion.


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Britney Spears' 16-year-old sister is pregnant. Christmas came early this year!

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Those that know me know that I have a serious thing for Anderson Cooper. I would say its a healthy obsession, which I'm aware is an oxymoron. I also will remain in denial about his homosexuality until I hear it from the silver fox himself. And it goes without saying that age is not an issue. I watch his broadcast every night, sometimes more than once as it's aired several times. I read his book when I was in Africa last summer and it blew my mind. Everything I was never able to explain about why I went, why I couldn't rest until I could go, and what it meant to me, he perfectly put into words. I highly recommend it to anyone, but it might not resonate as much with others as it did with me. He's one of the people I admire most, and it's no secret that I can be more attracted to someone for his mind than anything else.

But it doesn't hurt that he looks like this:







He didn't really do anything special or noteworthy this week, but if I'm doing any sort of list involving things I like, he automatically gets a spot on it. And in case you were wondering, he's 40. As far as I'm concerned, it's just a number.

Christmas is in 4 days? What?!

Chivalry Is Dead, But Sometimes Revives Itself Briefly

Thursday night, my roommates and some friends and I went out to a bar that is notorious for being the watering hole of preppy, yuppie, "young professionals" or so they are sometimes called. I know what you're thinking..."So why in God's name would you go there?" Well, because last time they had a pretty decent live band and we actually had a pretty good time.

Second time around: not so much. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it was previously, which normally would be something I'd prefer. I hate, hate, hate, overcrowded bars where you can't move or breathe and you get someone's elbow to the face or drink spilled on you every time you turn around. Especially when it's one of those crowds where, being a girl, you get looked up and down by every single dude as you're walking through the crowd just trying to find the goddamn bathroom.

So, it wasn't crowded. And it wasn't fun. We found ourselves to be somewhat bored. Out of nowhere, this pretty drunk guy stumbles over and starts asking me if he can buy me a drink, to which I (politely) decline. He is persistent. Won't leave me alone. I'm trying watch the Bruins game on the TV, and there is only so much a girl can take. At one point, I actually turn around to get back to the game, which apparently sets him off. He flips out and starts yelling obscenities at me before storming away. One of my roommates, Ganz, witnessed the entire episode and wants to go after him and punch him, but I convinced her not to. I didn't want her to get kicked out, even though I was significantly shaken up. I can honestly say that I've never been verbally assaulted by a guy just because I rejected him at a bar. It was obscene, and made me feel rather ill.

About twenty minutes later, one of my other roommates arrives with her boyfriend, Dan, who is also one of my good friends and lived with me in London. Ganz is still heated about the situation, and immediately tells them what happened. They are both horrified, and Dan decides he's going to go say something to the Asshole, who is now stumbling around the bar. I am not sure this is a good idea, because I really just wanted to forget about the whole thing, not to mention the guy is about twice Dan's size. But he's determined.

So he approaches the Asshole and taps him on the shoulder. At this point I stopped watching, but a few minutes later, the Asshole comes over to me and apologizes profusely. He offers to buy me a drink (again) to make up for it, but at this point I want nothing more to do with him, so I say no. He leaves.

I thanked Dan over and over, not simply for getting the Asshole to apologize, because frankly I didn't care, but because he was not only willing to "protect" me, if that's even the right word, but determined to do so. I'm not the type of girl that swoons when a guy opens a door for me or picks up the check, but the fact that he certainly didn't have to do it but insisted on doing it anyway really struck me. Most of my guy friends from home, who are practically family to me, probably wouldn't have done the same. Not because they don't care about me as much as Dan does, but because it simply wouldn't have occurred to them. And if it did, they would have taken the guy outside, punched him a couple times in the face, and called it a night. And probably would have gotten arrested in the process. (They are the type of guys that love to get in fights. Obnoxious.)

Moral of the story? Not sure exactly. This is not one of those "hint, hint, guys: this is what you SHOULD be doing" stories. Rather, just an instance that I was touched by and felt it deserved to be shared.

Also, this is what I get for trying to watch a hockey game at a bar. Fuck.

The Writer's Strike Is Ruining My Life, Part I

Before I say anything, I feel it necessary to clarify: I AM A WRITER. My degree is in screenwriting, with a concentration in television writing. I've been writing since I could pick up a pen. I wrote my first play when I was six. (My mom and I starred in it. For the record, my dad thought it was phenomenal. It had 8 lines.) I've always identified myself as a writer, until I started identifying myself as a producer.

That being said, it's also important to note that I work and study in this business, and have been hearing about nothing but the strike for months now; even before it started and it was just a rumor, everyone was talking about it. So let's just say I know my fair share about what the issues are. And yes, I think the argument of the writers is grounded in a worthwhile cause. They deserve to get paid for their work like everyone else. It's no one's fault that none of these issues were in their contract before because no one can predict how successful new forms of media can be. Fair enough.

However. HOW-FUCKING-EVER. What are they fighting over, really? They want 2.5%. That's the number they're going for, which can be pennies to some people and millions to others. Is it fair that the same people who get pennies have to be out of work and
support their families at the risk of losing their homes, cars, children's education? At this time of year?

"Well, that's what being in a union is all about, unity through good times and bad." Alright, fair enough. But what about people who aren't in the union but are forced to be unemployed because of the strike? Like crew members? Who, for the record, don't get paid all too well either, in most cases.

And here's the kicker. When the strike is all said and done and finally a deal is reached, whenever the hell that may be, I'll let you in on a little secret. They ain't gonna get 2.5%. Studios and producers are not going to just give them what they want. So we're looking at something in the middle, like 1.25%.

1.25%.

People are out of work for months, millions of dollars are lost, some people's careers could be permanently ruined. For 1.25%.

So how is this affecting me? Well, who knows when this will all end, but I can cross that bridge when I come to it. I currently work for a talent agency, the name of which I'd rather not share. But we represent a lot of actors, big and small, as well as producers, directors, writers, authors (there's a difference), comedians, etc. And yes, business is still running because there are plenty of scripts that have already been written, in terms of film. (The film industry will most likely not feel the effects of the strike) But for all the people we cast in television, we're beginning to hit a wall. Things are getting quiet. Really quiet. And we all know what that means...less business=less money. Not good.

So before this gets any more lengthy, let me summarize why, exactly, the strike sucks. People outside of the industry don't comprehend how many people this effects.

So the writers aren't working and the producers aren't working --> crew isn't working -->actors aren't working -->agents aren't working --> agencies aren't getting a lot of business --> ME=FUCKED.

So yes, the argument of the writers is legit. But will it be worth it in the long run? Only time will tell. Personally, I think the answer is no. And in the mean time, it's making my life hell. And obviously, I am the most important person IN THE WORLD.