So here goes, stream-of-consciousness, while simultaneously watching "American Idol."
Speaking of which, I am as addicted to the show as ever. As I type this, David Osmond is on my TV set auditioning. Not only he is one of THE Osmonds -- and therefore hot, talented and full of Mormon goodness -- but he also has MS and until recently was confined to a wheelchair before miraculously being able to walk one day. Think the judges will put him through to Hollywood?
You can bet your magic underwear!
He can rock my tabernacle anytime.
Wait, is that creepy?
As for the new judge, Kara DioGuardi, a k a Crazy Paula's future replacement, I like her. She had me at "bitch."
I recently enjoyed a visit from my parents, Phy & Lew, who stopped in San Diego for four days en route to a two-week Hawaii vacation. I simply have accepted the fact that my parents, who are in their 60s and 70s, have a far more glamorous and fun-filled life than I ever will.
Feisty Phy, seen here in fabulous neck-wear.
My parents stayed down the street from us at a charming little guest house, which worked out well until Phy pissed off the owner's half-crazed Vietnam-vet son by asking for orange juice instead of apple juice. (Perhaps "orange juice" triggered unpleasant associations with Agent Orange.)
Traumatized by his furious reaction, Phy changed her itinerary, extending the Hawaii leg by three days. So with only one night in San Diego now on their way back East, they're staying with BW and me. In fact, they're sleeping in our room. Speaking of being traumatized.
Lew and Phy make a BW sandwich.
Prior to their return, I have something of an odyssey ahead of me. Tomorrow I drive to Ventura for a comedy gig (details of which are here). According to Google Maps (which is far superior to Mapquest), that's 184 miles of driving, which should take three hours and four minutes, or -- and this is the part that makes me queesy -- UP TO FOUR HOURS AND 50 MINUTES IN TRAFFIC. And of course, this being Southern California, traffic is assured.
Hell on Earth.
As mentioned previously on this page, I am a terribly spastic driver. And this will be my first time driving solo up the Coast. (Not that you can tell you're on the Coast, since you almost never glimpse any water for the entire hideous drive.)
To add insult to (I hope no) injury, I have to leave Ventura Friday morning and drive to Palm Springs, where a large group of us are gathering to celebrate CW's birthday. (It's a surprise, so don't tell him.) Google Maps says that that's yet another 158 miles -- two hours and 34 minutes or UP TO FOUR HOURS AND 40 MINUTES WITH TRAFFIC. I've never been to Palm Springs, but I'm told that on Fridays during the winter months, every single person who lives in Los Angeles leaves the city and drives to Palm Springs. Should be a fun drive.
I'm actually not spending the night in Ventura. The cheapest motel I could find is 15 miles away, in some place called Camarillo. According to Wikipedia, Camarillo is home to the Ventura County Sheriff's Department Academy, as well as the VCSD Air Unit, SWAT Unit, Bomb Squad and Reserve Officer Academy. I will feel very safe there. And a little turned on.
Welcome to Camarillo; you are under arrest.
All joking aside, I really am freaking out about all this solo driving. I am doing everything I can to relax myself, including leaving about five hours earlier than necessary. I also bought an audio book -- Richard Yates's "Revolutionary Road," on which the movie is based. It's recorded on nine CDs, with a total running time of 11 hours. I figure even a SoCal traffic jam can't outlast that.
I also have America's "Ventura Highway" running through my head on a continuous loop. And now, so do you. (Sorry, Tommy.)
Speaking of which, I am as addicted to the show as ever. As I type this, David Osmond is on my TV set auditioning. Not only he is one of THE Osmonds -- and therefore hot, talented and full of Mormon goodness -- but he also has MS and until recently was confined to a wheelchair before miraculously being able to walk one day. Think the judges will put him through to Hollywood?
You can bet your magic underwear!
He can rock my tabernacle anytime.
Wait, is that creepy?
As for the new judge, Kara DioGuardi, a k a Crazy Paula's future replacement, I like her. She had me at "bitch."
I recently enjoyed a visit from my parents, Phy & Lew, who stopped in San Diego for four days en route to a two-week Hawaii vacation. I simply have accepted the fact that my parents, who are in their 60s and 70s, have a far more glamorous and fun-filled life than I ever will.
Feisty Phy, seen here in fabulous neck-wear.
My parents stayed down the street from us at a charming little guest house, which worked out well until Phy pissed off the owner's half-crazed Vietnam-vet son by asking for orange juice instead of apple juice. (Perhaps "orange juice" triggered unpleasant associations with Agent Orange.)
Traumatized by his furious reaction, Phy changed her itinerary, extending the Hawaii leg by three days. So with only one night in San Diego now on their way back East, they're staying with BW and me. In fact, they're sleeping in our room. Speaking of being traumatized.
Lew and Phy make a BW sandwich.
Prior to their return, I have something of an odyssey ahead of me. Tomorrow I drive to Ventura for a comedy gig (details of which are here). According to Google Maps (which is far superior to Mapquest), that's 184 miles of driving, which should take three hours and four minutes, or -- and this is the part that makes me queesy -- UP TO FOUR HOURS AND 50 MINUTES IN TRAFFIC. And of course, this being Southern California, traffic is assured.
Hell on Earth.
As mentioned previously on this page, I am a terribly spastic driver. And this will be my first time driving solo up the Coast. (Not that you can tell you're on the Coast, since you almost never glimpse any water for the entire hideous drive.)
To add insult to (I hope no) injury, I have to leave Ventura Friday morning and drive to Palm Springs, where a large group of us are gathering to celebrate CW's birthday. (It's a surprise, so don't tell him.) Google Maps says that that's yet another 158 miles -- two hours and 34 minutes or UP TO FOUR HOURS AND 40 MINUTES WITH TRAFFIC. I've never been to Palm Springs, but I'm told that on Fridays during the winter months, every single person who lives in Los Angeles leaves the city and drives to Palm Springs. Should be a fun drive.
I'm actually not spending the night in Ventura. The cheapest motel I could find is 15 miles away, in some place called Camarillo. According to Wikipedia, Camarillo is home to the Ventura County Sheriff's Department Academy, as well as the VCSD Air Unit, SWAT Unit, Bomb Squad and Reserve Officer Academy. I will feel very safe there. And a little turned on.
Welcome to Camarillo; you are under arrest.
All joking aside, I really am freaking out about all this solo driving. I am doing everything I can to relax myself, including leaving about five hours earlier than necessary. I also bought an audio book -- Richard Yates's "Revolutionary Road," on which the movie is based. It's recorded on nine CDs, with a total running time of 11 hours. I figure even a SoCal traffic jam can't outlast that.
I also have America's "Ventura Highway" running through my head on a continuous loop. And now, so do you. (Sorry, Tommy.)
Actually, it's a pretty kick-ass song.
OK, before I go, my friend Rebecca recently asked me which of the five Best Picture Oscar nominees I'd most recommend she go see. This was the first year I received DVD screeners of all five -- I'm a member of the Writer's Guild from when I briefly worked at WABC a million years ago -- and so I was able to give an informed opinion (albeit just an opinion) and rank them as follows, from best to worst:
1) "Milk" -- By far, and not just because I'm a homo. An epic masterpiece with the best peformances of the year.
2) "Frost Nixon" -- Slow but fascinating, and Langella is scary-good.
3) "The Reader" -- A major bummer, but powerful. And Winslet deserves to win.
4) "Slumdog Millionaire" -- I'm not digging this as much as everyone else. It's moving and vibrant and all that, but once you get the premise, it becomes sort of tiresome.
5) "Benjamin Button" -- An achievement in makeup alone. Total snoozefest.
I also added that had they been nominated, I would have ranked two more as follows:
1.5) "Doubt"
3.5) "The Wrestler"
Milk takes the cake.
One last thing: My finger is now unsplinted. Well, except at night when Dr. O'Hayon still wants me to wear the splint. It feels stiff and weird, and I still can't bend it normally. But at long last it's more or less straight. Unlike its owner.
Ok, enough! I have to get to bed and rest up for Ventura Highway. I'll bring my camera along for the ride and enter a full report upon my return.
Homo nervous. ♥
