the slack daily

Separated at Birth?

WLTV's Gary Vaynerchuk brings the thunder:

UFC's Matt Serra will hopefully bring the thunder in the next couple of minutes:

Edited to add: damn, that was BS. Yeah, he was losing, but they called it way too early. 

My So-Called Meta Life.

Y'know what I like to do when I can't sleep?  Google myself.  It's the quickest act of ego-onanism that the Internet allows.

My longtime readers are familiar with the Slackmistress-or-Diablo? phenomenon. Diablo herself even commented on the vlog.  And what I thought first was a joke became very real when even her stalker made a beeline for me at the NBC picket location.  I made the joke that I wanted my own stalker, so I could be stabbed on my own merits, thank you.

Cut to last night: during my google search, I find my name listed in The Pussy Ranch's comments section.

A reader of hers saw me at the Hollywood Rally and tried to get a good picture.  (Warning: picture is of my ass.  Clothed, thankfully.)  It's like personal faux paparazzi!*

*I should note that I am thankful that no one pointed out the obvious you're-30-pounds-heavier and the polar opposite writing career trajectory, and that I'm beyond flattered by the comparison.

Being Genuine is the New Irony.

My husband has a saying, and that's Being Genuine is the New Irony.  We invoke it when we encounter hipster douchebags, people who think that they're cooler/better/awesomer (okay that's not even a word)/funnier/savvier/worldier/just plain better than everyone else because of the cocktails they drink, the concerts they attend, the new media people they know, the guest lists they're on, the places they hang out or the fact that they got a table AND got served during rush hour brunch at Doughboys.  And of course we mean Irony in the most unironic sense, because even irony ain't what it used to be.

Last Saturday saw Will and I heading out to West Los Angeles to the Skirball Museum.  I was taking him to see Bob Dylan's American Journey, where not only do you get to see part-and-parcel of Dylan's life but you even get to sit in with his band.  We watched movies and played drums and  generally Bob Dylan'd ourselves out.  As we trekked over to the opposite side of the museum to grab a late lunch, we passed a sign for an exhibit about balloon hats.   I caught a snippet of the sign as I passed by. 

BALLOON HAT EXPERIENCE? I said to Will.  I gotta get a photo of this.

Like a hipster douchebag, I took a photo and chuckled smugly to Will.  I told him we just had to go in to see the ludicrousness of the "balloon hat experience."

I walked into the brightly lit room and saw the first photo and I couldn't catch my breath. Have you ever read the phrase overcome by emotion?  There were photos from Kosovo, photos from Rwanda, photos from Nigeria.  There were photos from New Orleans and photos from Oklahoma.  There were photos taken amidst poverty and tragedy, photos of old people and photos of children, and they were all smiling.

Laughing.

While wearing balloon hats.

It was real and it was pure and it was joy, and it was mostly in places where you wouldn't expect joy to exist, much less survive.

I react to art in a visceral way, but I've never had the experience of walking into something fully prepared to make fun of it and been knocked flat on my ass in mere seconds.   Had I been alone, I would have just let the tears leak down my cheeks but I choked them back, shaking my head over and over, repeating this is amazing. 

It was a small moment in a series of moments in my life where I am forced to remind myself that I am lucky - and every one of you who is reading this right now, YOU are lucky.  For the most part, we live in a world of our own creation. We have a roofs over our head and food in our bellies and opportunities at our fingertips if we just reach out and grab it.  We have families and if we don't have families we have friends and if you don't have friends you've got people in this electronic universe who care about you.

How amazing is that?

And for me, that's the balloon hat experience.


The Inflatable Crown runs until April 6th, 2008 at the Skirball.   

Close Encounters of the NON-Celebrity Kind: Diablo Cody, Part Three.

Further to my run-in with Diablo Cody's #1 Fan, I present to you video of the event to show you that I do not make this shit up:

I didn't realize my friend Patty was taping us until about halfway through the video.  At the end when you hear Tomàs answer that phone call?  He totally faked that to get me outta there.

Could I sound more nasally?

Diablo à Deux, or I'd Like to Get Stabbed on My Own Merit.

Back in November, at the beginning of the WGA Strike, I was mistaken for Juno screenwriter Diablo Cody.

 

I even provided a handy Slackmistress-or-Diablo? guide which you can find here or here.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Kate Coe at Mediabistro's Fishbowl-LA alerted me to a blog written by an aspiring screenwriter named Rodney.  Rodney, although not a member of the WGA, has been out on the picket lines supporting us.  Rodney also has nine things in common with Diablo Cody.

Rodney has been trying to get in touch with Diablo, presumably to share those nine things.  Rodney also has started to picket at NBC - the same place where I picket.

Today I showed up wearing something akin to the outfit I'm wearing in the picture above.  I arrived at the corner of Alameda and Olive when my friend Tomàs grabbed me.

That guy over there is obsessed with Diablo Cody, he told me.

Is that the guy with the blog? I asked.  Because that guy is cra--

Before I could finish, Tomàs exclaimed I can't believe it about your Oscar Nomination!  You're so young!  And to think you used to be a stripper.

Without missing a beat, I answered.  I know, but it's weird since they mention the stripper thing so much I always feel like everyone's trying to picture me naked.

The man made a beeline for me - so quickly, in fact, that I was convinced that I was about to be stabbed.   Those fleeting moments weren't about my husband or my dog, but the fact that I was about to be stabbed because this guy thought I was someone else. 

Dammit, I want to get stabbed on my own merits.

He stuck out his hand.  I'm Rodney, Diablo, I've been trying to get a hold of you, I sent you a message through MySpace.

He oozed insane but I felt terrible.  Plus I didn't want to get stabbed.  I'm sorry, I told him, it's a joke everyone plays on me when I show up.  People think I look like Diablo Cody, but I'm Nina. I stuck out my hand for him to shake.

Oh, he said, well, you look like her.  Are you a writer?

I am, I wrote for 17 episodes of Lizzie McGuire, as well as a bunch of animation, I told him.

Oh, I bet you're nice like her.

Um, thanks?  Well, good luck with your quest--

I have nine things in common with her, he continued.  D'you know we're both from Minnesota?

Actually I'm pretty sure she's from Illinois, she grew up not far from where I grew up, I told him.  So it's really more like eight things.

At this point Tomàs and our friends Patty and Arturo took a couple of photos* and dragged me to safety.

Diablo, I rode the crazy train as your amateur lookalike for you this time.  But next time, doll, you're on your own!

*Coming soon!

Victor. Echo. November.

It's a very complicated case... a lot of ins and outs, a lot of what-have-yous. And a lot of strands to keep in my head, man. A lot of strands in old Duder's head.  --The Big Lebowski

My friend Kate Coe, an editor at MediaBistro, has been outed as a CIA covert operative!  According to the site, she's been dispatched to Fishbowl-LA to assist in the cover-up of the alleged hit on artist and filmmaker Theresa Duncan, and assigned the job of destroying Duncan's - and her boyfriend, digital artist  Jeremy Blake's - reputation.

The operation is so covert that even Kate herself didn't know she was a CIA operative.  Clearly we've got a Manchurian Candidate situation.  The switch has been thrown, her microchip has been activated, her only goal: to assassinate the reputation of an occasional blogger, screenwriter, and artist.

I can't believe it. Nowhere, I mean no-freaking-where in her bio does it say she's CIA. Why aren't my tax dollars at work ruining my reputation?   Where's my cool CIA baseball cap?  Why have I been calling her Kate and her calling me Nina WHEN WE COULD HAVE BEEN USING CODE NAMES?

C'mon, hook a girl up.  I look great in black!

Dr. Venture: Why are you naked?

Brock: To prey on their fear, move like an animal, to feel the kill.

Dr. Venture: Alright, now you're scaring me. What's going on?

Brock: I dunno. (holding the decapitated head of a guild henchman) But judging from these goggles, it's The Guild. Seems like you made it to the big league, what'd you do?

Dr. Venture: Nothing! I was just sitting here, watching the worst porno ever. Is that a head?

(More, at Gawker.)

Speaking of secret payouts, I have this question to ask: why is it the people who ask to borrow money from you, citing thins like rent check and car payments, always seem to have enough money for haircuts and tattoos and expensive dinners out?   Then they don't get evicted and their cars don't get repossessed, and they end up tattoo'd, fed and fabulous.  Did I miss out on the slice of that fat money cake?  Am I immune to the siren's song of savoury crepes for brunch?

Am I the only sucker paying my bills?

Edited to add, 7:02pm: Thanks to Vintage Caveman for noting that I have been added to the blacklist!  I expect the black helicopters bearing my CIA orientation kit shortly. 

More Fun in Tinseltown.

Remember when my manager's assistant asked hey, do you have a blog?  (If not, go here.)

Well, a few short days after the New Year, I saw that he had sent me an email.  Odd, I thought, as he rarely sends email (or uses the Internet, as evidenced by his juno.com address.) 

Maybe this is a brand new year, I thought.  Maybe this is the year something's set up, maybe this is the year that it doesn't take eight months to set a meeting and when we do go into the meeting we'll be prepared and it won't be like that time that we were expected to pitch an entire series in the room for a line of toys we had never seen before, maybe this is the year where he follows up on meetings after we've followed up the most we can, maybe this is the year when we do the research on what's selling where and ask him for an introduction that he doesn't ignore the request and then tell us, eight weeks later that his 'phone call wasn't returned' or that he 'doesn't know anyone.' 

Maybe, just maybe, this is the year, I thought.

I clicked on the email:

One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school. His name was Kyle.It looked like he was carrying all of his books...

(The rest can be read here.)

The email continued:

It's National Friendship Week. Show your friends how much you care. Send this to everyone you consider a FRIEND.

If it comes back to you, then you'll know you have a circle of friends. WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS LETTER, YOU'RE REQUESTED TO SEND IT TO AT LEAST 10 PEOPLE, INCLUDING THE PERSON WHO SENT IT TO YOU.

...

Curious, said Older SlackBrother J., that our career makes him think of suicide.

Needless to say, I didn't send it back.

I Make Boys Cry.

I don't write much about my job at the gym because I don't give it too much thought.  I show up, I'm pleasant, I do my job, I come home.  It's easy and it's mindless and while I take it seriously, it's just a small part of my routine. 

Friday morning, Instruktor came in.  He teaches a class and uses the gym for private training sessions.  The gym owner, BOS$, used to not charge him a rental fee for the private sessions, but he took advantage of her generosity one too many times by going over the hours that the front desk staff is supposed to be there, which ended up costing her money so that he could make more.  Now she charges him what is a nominal fee, still not the going rate but moreso to keep him in line.  This long boring story doesn't affect me in the slightest so I don't really care, except for the fact that it is part of my responsibility on Fridays to collect the fee from him.  He has a tendency to take advantage of the rules, and I had been instructed by BOS$ that we can lay down the law.

Two Fridays ago he said he'd be back with a check (which would be well under $100) and I reminded him that we were only open until 2pm.  He promised to be back, called a wee bit later to say he was on his way, and then never showed up.  I left a note for the next front desk person to collect the fee from him, and made a mental note to remind him the next time I saw him.

That day was yesterday.  He showed up at 6am to train a private client. 

Can I talk to you for a sec? I asked.

Sure.

Listen, last Friday you said you'd be back with the check and you weren't.  It's just that part of my job is to collect this check from you, BOS$ said the agreement is that you pay on Fridays.

But I paid on Saturday.

I know, I continued, and I totally understand that shit happens, except that you promised you'd be back and then didn't come back.  Plus it puts me in the position where I'm not doing part of my job, y'know?   

Whoa.

Hey, no biggie, I continued, I just wanted to give you a heads-up.

Y'know, it was my birthday that Friday and my friends threw me a party that was a surprise---

Oh cool, happy belated birthday.

He left to train his client and I didn't think anything of it until the end of my shift.

Is BOS$ around? Instruktor asked.  He wouldn't look me in the eye.

Sure, I responded, but I think she's in the women's locker room.  You want me to get her?

He nodded.  I went into the locker room and found BOS$.  On the off chance that the morning's interaction was what he wanted to talk to her about, I told her what happened. 

I wasn't weird about it or anything, I told her, I was just telling him that he's got to pay.

BOS$ and Instruktor went around the corner and emerged nearly 10 minutes later.  Instruktor then came up to me at the desk.

I want to talk to you about this morning, he said.  I think you were very disrespectful to me, and I haven't done anything to deserve you talking to me in that way.

I considered, for a moment, telling him that he was being an overly sensitive wuss and I was simply reminding him, in a clear and direct manner, that he's actually the one at fault because he wasn't honoring his end of the agreement.  But then I thought, screw it, it's just easier to apologize.  When it comes to apologies, I don't believe in qualifying them with a "...but I was right" or "the circumstances were..."  It's easier to just apologize and let it go.

I'm sorry, I told him.  I said it in my voice that I use to greet every client of the gym, that I use when I see BOS$ come in, that I use when answering their phone. I really am.

Your tone was so disrespectful and I have never in my life been talked to that way---

I took a deep breath, smiled and reiterated.  Well, I am sorry.

Your tone, I have done nothing, ever to deserve such treatment from you.  I am always respectful and I am so completely taken aback.

Then I apologize, it certainly wasn't my intention.

He continued.  I just, I can't believe that you would---

Listen, Instruktor, I was simply being direct and clear about an issue that came up that I didn't want coming up again.  I didn't think I had a tone, it was not my intention to be disrespectful, and I'm sorry.  I'm not exactly sure what else I can tell you.

I was beginning to have a tone.

Now you're being direct and clear, he said, but this morning, this morning you were absolutely horrible--

I bit my tongue, thinking buddy, I can be a grade-A bitch and when I'm being absolutely horrible, trust me, we'll all know, but BOS$ came by and said she apologized, get over it and went in her office.

Instruktor left, but not before I could call after him hey, I need your check for this week!

I followed BOS$ into her office.  What the hell?  I swear to you, if I thought there had been an issue this morning I would have said something to you first thing.  I was talking to him like I'm talking to you right now.

Oh, I know, she assured me.  But I just have to share, when he was telling me about it---

Yeah?

He was crying.

I made him CRY?

Yeah.  Imagine if you actually had a tone.

So I'm not in trouble?

Hell, I think you're everyone's hero.

Later that day, younger slackbrother j. came in to take care of some stuff.  Everyone relived the moment. j. looked at me. 

You made totally buff grown man weep without doing anything?

Yeah.

Mom's gonna be so proud.

I know.

Except that, she actually is gonna be proud.

I know!

Maybe I should reconsider that career in the Dominatrix Arts...

You Wanna See Something Really Scary?

Scary:

It was 2:13am, I remember because I grabbed my cell phone imagining that the alarm had woken me up.  A few seconds later I realized it wasn't the alarm but the sound of a dog barking.  Our dog barking. 

Our dog who never, ever barks in the house was in the living room.  Barking.

I shook Will awake and we stumbled into the living room.  Daisy was at the front door, barking and growling and sounding like a menace.  Will started to unlock the door, but I pointed at the peephole.  He looked through.  Nothing.

Maybe it was a cat, he said.

This house is surrounded by cats, she hasn't barked at them before.

Maybe a cat with a gun?

Whatever it was, our watchdog scared it away.

Scarier:

It was 7:32am, and Will had left for work about fifteen minutes earlier.  I had finished up my morning conference call and was getting some work done when my cell phone rang.  The caller ID read "Will - Mobile."

What's up?

I just got hit, he said.

Panic washed over me.  Are you okay?

I'm fine, but can you come get me?  I'm in the Whole Foods parking lot.

I stashed Daisy in her crate and grabbed my car keys.  Five minutes later, I was on the scene.  His front right fender was smashed in, making the car inoperable, but otherwise okay.  I hugged him and asked if he was hurt.  Again, he told me no.

The other driver shook my hand and apologized and as they exchanged information and went over what was to happen next, I checked out the bright blue Mustang he was standing in front of.  It hadn't sustained any damage.  Odd, I thought.  Until I overheard a snippet of conversation:

...they're coming down hard on truck drivers lately.

It was that moment I spotted the enormous semi parked in the middle of the street.

You got hit by a SEMI?!

I forgot to mention that part?

A wave of nausea hit me.  You got hit by a semi in your little car and you're totally, completely okay.

I am.

I hugged him again, and after his car was towed we got him checked out.  He is totally and completely fine.  But I told him his next car is going to have twelve airbags and a reinforced steel cage and jetpacks and pillows and a laser-beam with flesh-eating tigers on it.  I hope he's okay with that.

Scariest:

Anne Frank-Dragonball Z Fan Fiction.

Anne sighed as she sat in her room, staring at her wall. She just finished writing in her diary, and had nothing to do. Life was boring in the Secret Annex, but it was better than the alternative. It was alright talking to Peter and Margot, but they were both such quiet people, unlike the always active Anne. All of a sudden, a flash of light appeared in the room! Anne jumped back, stifling a scream. Before she could run out the closed door she noticed that the person who appeared in the flash was not a Nazi officer, but someone who she had never seen before! His clothes were very strange, and his hair was in a spiky style that was totally new to her. She stood against the wall, wary of the stranger, but he walked towards her and smiled, extending a hand. "My name is Goku."

This is Your Life.

I cannot even begin to explain how surreal the last few days have been, or how I imagine the next few ones will be.  If you haven't been paying attention, I'm getting married on Thursday.  Me.  Married.  I know.

It didn't hit me until Will came home with half of a large sheet cake that they had given him at work, along with a card and a wedding gift.  The card didn't have pictures of Gary Larsen cows playing it cool or a snarky saying or even a black and white picture of a dog (I get many of those, but I love every one).  No, it was a heavy pink and cream card signed by a bunch of people I've never met, wishing him well - wishing me well.  The cake was so big it takes up a full shelf in our fridge.

Holy crap, I'm getting married.

I'm making lists and folding skirts and shirts and selecting shoes (two pairs of boots, one pair of dressy sandals, one pair of casual sandals, two pairs of flip flops and my wedding shoes) and every so often it hits me that I'm not just going to Vegas, I am going to Vegas to get married.  At 5:30pm I walk in on the arm of  SlackDad, and by 5:45 I can check "married" on the next form I fill out.  The best advice given to me and to Will has been just be in the moment, because it goes too fast.  My goal is just to relax and enjoy.

Thursday I'm hoping that I'll get a moment to stand up in front of all of our guests and say a few words, the most important two being thank you.  I'd like to take this moment to say the same to my - our - reading audience.  You were there the day we first met.  You were there for that first Detective Post.  Many of you are going to be there virtually when we get married.  You've been nothing but supportive, even if sometimes that support was hey you moron, you should date him.

So here's my moment. THANK YOU.

Will's got our seating music available for download on today's blog.  Piglet writes about her feelings on the wedding of two people she's never met.  Me, I'm nervous and jittery and a wee bit scared, as I'm taking the big gamble.  But in this case, I know I'm the House.  And the House always wins.