Present Imperfect

He's Not Sorry

May 27, 2004

Today, I shall tell the story of How I Was Humiliated for Television.

I wasn't going to, because I think mentioning Morrissey on my home page (That song really was playing on the radio when I wrote it. Honest.) and then in two blog posts in a row might give one the idea that I am a crazy Morrissey stalker, and puleeeze...I haven't been one of those for a good, oh, 13 years now.

Anyhoo...On Tuesday, Jennifer and I drove to CBS in Studio City to be in the audience of Pepsi Smash! (I'm not sure if there is an exclamation mark in the title of this show, but there should be, really.), the latest attempt by the WB to cash in on those crazy kids and their love for the "rock-and-roll" musics.

We went because I discovered, purely by chance, that Morrissey was supposed to play a coupla songs there, and that a mere 700 people would get in. I thought this would give us a good chance to be spat upon by Morrissey, and I owed this to my 15-year-old self. She did save my life in Calcutta that one time, after all.

Although we did have free tickets in hand, we were a bit worried that the show staff would not let us in because, according to the Pepsi Smash! Web site, "YOU MUST BE AT LEAST 16 YRS OLD AND APPEAR TO BE NO OLDER THEN 25 YRS OLD." It occurred to us that merely dressing in every piece of clothing we had ever purchased from Urban Outfitters still wouldn't cut it and that the security guards would just look at our IDs and and turn us away, in a strange reversal of the traditional bar bounce. We were also concerned that, since "tickets are issued in excess of capacity," we would be turned away if we didn't get there very, very early.

Instead, we got in with no problem (other than having to remove my studded leather belt [stop laughing] to go through the metal detector), were issued black wristbands and were told to stand in the section marked with a black sign. We were there so early that we got to witness the parade of color-coded kids and spent a great deal of time trying to decipher what each wristband might indicate about the person wearing it.

Naturally, I assumed that black wristbands meant "put me as far away from a camera as possible because I am old." I was only partly right: The black wristband section could have been a casting call for Freaks and Geeks: The Next Generation. As more people began to file in, it became clear that the guestlist divas had issued black wristbands to The Overweight, The Tragically Acne Afflicted, The Over-Enthusiastic Yearbook Staffers (ah, memories...), The Bizarre Even By Southern California High School Standards and Cool Kids In Vintage Clothes We Can't Sell on TV. At first, I was saddened. But after about an hour and a half, I began to think I wouldn't want it any other way. 15-year-old me certainly belonged in the black wristband section, and I was doing it all for her. In fact, 30-year-old me belonged in the black wristband section, if only because there was no gray wristband section for Women Who Suffer Lower-Back Pain When They Stand for Too Long.

Some of the other sections were a little hard to peg, but it looked as though yellow wristbands were for Scantily Clad Girls, purple wristbands were for Hot Asian Girls and dark blue wristbands were for Girls Who Could Be in Diesel Ads.

To make an already very long story short[er], we waited outside the studio for three hours, until the production staff started escorting people in by their sections. The black wristband section was last, which concerned me, as I was sure someone would just announce that the studio was full and all the black wristbanded people would have to take their sorry, freaky asses home. But no! Not only did we get in, we were escorted to the floor, right next to the stage. My teenage dreams of Morrissey spittle were about to come true.

Or so I thought.

When the overly tanned emcee came on to "hype us up!" and encourage a lot of "high energy!", he also made a point of telling us what artists would be performing that night...and the list (which we all knew already) did NOT include Morrissey (which we most certainly did NOT know already).

I was told much, much later that evening by the guy who walked us to the parking lot that they had posted signs about Morrissey's same-day cancellation, but I told him that amongst the myriad of public "high energy!" announcements made both outside and inside the studio, one of them could have been "oh, P.S., Morrissey is a no-show." It was pretty clear (at least in the black wristband section) that there were plenty of people there to see Morrissey who did not get the news, either. How about the girl in the "Viva Moz" jacket? Or the girl who held up a little "MORRISSEY!" sign when the cameras started rolling? Did they think that was just a funnily spelled tribute to Alanis Morissette (who also played that evening, and to whom I gave a lot of fake props because Camera 6 was on me the whole time and I have to give my fans my very best performance. "Remember Jennifer and Bronwyn from Season Two of Pepsi Smash!? They were awesome! Why don't they bring them back?!")

Phantom Planet was also there, and since I remember them from before they could buy beer, it wasn't a total loss. I wish I could have incited the Moz crowd to start chanting and breaking things, but we're a peaceful lot overall. Instead, I sold out and smiled and cheered and tried to look as under 25 as I possibly could.

See for yourself: You can watch the whole sordid affair on the WB, June 10th at 8 p.m. (7 Central!)

100 Candles

May 24, 2004

Well, bust out the me-shaped piñata, because this is my 100th Blog Post!

I wanted it to be, you know, special, like with someone I love...but instead I'll just spend it yammering on about nothing in particular. Story of my life, really.

The Keane album comes out tomorrow domestically, but because I'm the Luckiest Girl in the World, Eric bought the import for me while I was in Pittsburgh. And already my assertion that "these kids are gonna be HUGE" is right on the money: the album is #1 in Britain with Morrissey trailing behind at #2.

Which reminds me that Morrissey is hilarious.

In the Virgin Megastore bookstore yesterday, I browsed the fiction section with crossed arms and smell face. I think it's high time for a chick-lit backlash. Have you seen the cover to that inane Plum Sykes book? And before you (who?) say anything: No, I have NOT read it. I am never, ever going to read it. I do not want a Harry Winston diamond. I do not want a weekend in the Hamptons. I do not want a private jet to Nice. I do not want them, Sam I am.

These books are shallow, creepshow instruction manuals for how to land a "catch" or "survive the dating scene." They have absolutely nothing to do with how to enjoy this short life either with a kind person who likes you or, fuck it, without one. But you know what? If you need an instruction manual for that, I don't think a $16 paperback is going to do you much good.

Then again, I guess if you want a rich, traditionally handsome boyfriend with a sexy job, then in order to beat the competition you are probably going to have to pull on your assiest pair of Joe's Jeans, don a diaphanous halter and strap on the hair extensions. Please, be my guest. Because if you don't know by now that all the good, funny ones are up to their (probably) bespectacled eyeballs in student loans or credit card debt, you deserve the guy who calls out your name while he's pounding a $1000-an-hour whore. (Awww...how sweet!)

Did I say that out loud?

Three Rivers, One Shoelace

May 19, 2004

I have returned from Pittsburgh with aluminum foil wounds and broken heels on the aforementioned new shoes. But a good time was had by all and this weekend made me miss Pittsburgh a lot. They seem to be turning things around in the city culturally, but I'm not sure if that will translate to reversing the population decline. Keeping people in the city means giving them good jobs and I'm not sure if those are readily available. For me, though, the temptation of moving back is that I wouldn't need a full-time office job. Kit and I could start our own business and--horror of horrors--Eric and I could actually afford a nice house.

But you can't go home again, can you?

And there's something to be said for the anonymity inherent in a city of millions. Um, public Weblog aside, obviously...

Unrelated to anything at all, I just got done reading this article about Christie's Conan Doyle auction. Seems there may be foul play involved:

Adding to the sense of unease is the mysterious death of Richard Lancelyn Green, a leading Conan Doyle scholar and private collector, and a vociferous opponent of the sale. On March 27 Mr. Lancelyn Green, 50, a former chairman of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London and the author of several well-received books on Conan Doyle, was found garroted to death, strangled by a shoelace wrapped around a wooden kitchen spoon used to tighten its grip.

Well, either foul play or Mr. Green was having a helluva time tying his shoes. Poor guy.

No Pollen, Just Paint

May 14, 2004

Well, I'm off to Pittsburgh for the festivities surrounding the 10th anniversary of the Warhol Museum. Two of my bestest Chatham friends, Teekie and Kit, have helped organize the "Flowers Observed, Flowers Transformed" opening and after-party. I bought a dress and shoes and everything.

I'm bringing my bigass digicam, and maybe I'll even take pictures. I am really horrible at photo-documenting my life. This is because I have a bigass digicam. I want this wee thing, but I'm going to have to recover from the dress and shoes and airline ticket purchases first. I was a very, very bad girl (but a very, very good consumer whore) this month.

"Those are my juniper bushes!"

May 10, 2004

Item! Last night I dreamt that I joined the Polyphonic Spree. It was nice getting paid to tour the world and sing in a manner much more half-assed than I do in the car, even. The dream also featured a haunted school subplot, but I've forgotten it now...probably because of all the imaginary weed I was given before taking the stage with the Polyphonic Spree.

Item! The Brooks Brothers poet. Hope springs eternal for the rest of us bookish chumps in the retail apparel industry.

Item! Eric and I saw Monty Python's Life of Brian yesterday and I found myself laughing in anticipation of all my favorite bits, particularly the stoning scene, "alms for an ex-leper," the Latin lesson and John Cleese's laugh after the second mention of Nortius Maximus.

More! Giant! Squid!

May 04, 2004

Yay! An article about everybody's favorite elusive deep-sea creature! Plus a neato illustration! Check it out:

The researchers studied one of the squid's smallest features, a bonelike particle called a statolith that is not much larger than a grain of sand. Statoliths, which are found in the squid's head and help it maintain equilibrium, grow through the buildup of calcium carbonate in discrete rings.

Dr. Landman analyzed isotopes of oxygen in statoliths from three southern giant squid, Architeuthis sanctipauli, from the Pacific Ocean. Like all specimens, these were caught in fishing nets or washed ashore. The proportion of isotopes gives an indication of the water temperature the squid lived in, and temperature can be related to depth.

That's really the only interesting bit. The giant squid's still not talking. The mysterious bastard.