Michael

It’s taken me a full day to wade through my ocean of tears and snot to write this. MJ’s death hit me like a sliding glass door I didn’t know was closed. See! I’m so distraught, I’m writing shitty similes. Yes, part of my turbulent reaction is connected to the people I’ve lost unexpectedly to heart attacks. The shock of that kind of death is something you never get used to -- the finality of it burns, and worse still, you feel helpless over your inability to stop it.

But the greater part of my sadness has to do with the fact that we grew up with Michael. He was a staple of our childhood. My brother used to dress up like him -- leather jacket, white socks, black loafers, the works -- and we’d put on performances for my parents in our kitchen to “Billie Jean” and “Bad”. Nostalgia's a whiny bastard, and it's hard enough to manage without losing an icon of pop culture, one of our strongest links to the past, so abruptly.

There, I said it. Icon. And it only took me two paragraphs.

We loved MJ for his bold fashion statements -- there was a perfect blend of tightness and sparkles.

We loved him for his visionary dance moves -- the pelvic thrusts, the twirl/crotch-grabbing combo, the bent leg sideways kick, the balancing-on-toes move, and of course, the moonwalk.

Most of all, we loved him for the MUSIC -- Thriller is positively transcendent. His music makes you feel.

We can see all of what was best about Jackson in his performance of "Billie Jean" on Motown 25: Yesterday, Today, Forever:



But if we loved him for those things, we also loved him for his descent into looney town, or at least I did -- the SARS masks, the dangling-babies-from-hotel-balconies, the never-ending rhinoplasties, the pajama pants in court.

The uncomfortable truth is that the King of Pop was also our greatest icon of hypocrisy -- juxtapose "Heal the World" with child molestation charges. (Brilliant! Where does he come up with this stuff?!) Chris Rock breaks it down for us in his 2004 Never Scared performance:



It's difficult to reconcile the two sides of Michael. I'm of the camp that chooses to divorce his onstage brilliance from what he did offstage. I need to, in order to dance wildly to "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" without a guilty conscience. To appreciate the man who gave us so much.

I think a lot of us had this deep-seated hope that one day he would emerge from his cavern of moral ineptitude, unzip the bleached-stained body suit he'd been hiding under, only to reveal that it was all a hoax. The man we fell in love with back in 1982 was still the truest version. The real MJ.

That's where I'm residing with this one. In the past.

Facing Facts

I'm trying to pinpoint the exact moment Facebook became an essential part of my existence. When did I start to believe that I could not function on a daily basis without it?

Probably around the time I stopped working and moved back in with my mom. (Sigh) So, by my own admission, addiction to the Face increases exponentially in relation to having nothing better to do. It's a direct proportionality:

Facebook Addiction = No Life

Sobering.

Makes sense, though. Facebook serves as the perfect substitute for the real thing. You have people, social interaction, music, pictures, vibrating hamsters, even happy hour -- a typical Friday night for most of us, except this one exists between you and a computer screen. And that's not even the worst part. The worst part about the Face is that it turns you into a jittery, insecure bundle of neuroses.

Exhibit A:

"Fuck a duck. My status update isn't funny enough. It's been up for, like, a full 20 minutes, and no one has commented yet! It hasn't even gotten a thumbs up. I should delete it and think of something sexier. How does Julie Klam always get 50 people to comment on hers?! Damn. That's it. I need new friends. Friends that will back me up, and comment on my status updates."

Exhibit B:

"Shiit, can I friend someone I've never met before? I mean, I don't want to come off as a creepy stalker, but he's so cute! And we have mutual friends. Isn't that enough? Or do I have to wait for face to face interaction? And how much we talkin 'bout -- one group outing in WeHo? Two 'accidental' encounters at Urth? And when I write on his wall, how should I approach it -- inside joke, flirtatious banter, or feigned naiveté about one of his hobbies?"

Exhibit C:

"OMG, my photo comments are so not up to par! What is wrong with me? I had a nightmare that I wrote embarrassing comments on a high school acquaintance's entire album of Cancún photos. When I woke up, sweating and panting at 4 am, I ran to my computer to double check that it was all a dream. I was prepared to erase 47 comments."*

Ah, the humanity. I marvel at the people who have yet to cave to the lure of the Face. The fact that they have no desire whatsoever to be a part of it is nothing short of miraculous. I envy them.

For those of you who are unsure about your addiction level, I've broken it down into two categories:

Inappropriate Activity

• Compulsively checking your news feed -- ie, refreshing the page every 10 minutes
  
• Obsessing over the comments on your ex's wall -- ie, "Who the hell is Rebecca? She looks like a ho bag in her prof pic."
• Strategically plotting when to unleash a new photo album -- ie, "My pictures will have a greater chance of visibility on Monday and Tuesday afternoons between 2-4 pm 'cause that's when most people are bored at work. And, as we all know, increased visibility means greater likelihood of photo comments!"
  
• Intensely stalking someone -- ie, copying the address from one of his house party event pages and pasting it into Google Maps

Appropriate Activity

• Using the status update function to promote your blog or website -- ie, "Michael is marrying http://5secondfilms.com/."
• Reconnecting with friends from elementary school -- ie, joining the group "I Survived Chatsworth Hills Academy in the 80s"
  
• Mildly stalking someone -- ie, reading your new crush's interests and favorite quotations (This section was invented for moderate stalkers -- no one reads that stuff except the person crushing on you!)

If you find yourself feeling listless or slightly nauseous after no Facebook activity for only a day, that's generally not a good sign. I would consult your physician (therapist) immediately.

In conclusion, I would like to call attention to the fact that I just spent an hour of my life writing a blog post about how I spend too much time preoccupied with the Face. Progress!

OMG! That Is So Cute!

I LOVE people who

Pick dirt from their finger nails with a fork at the dinner table.

Talk in movie theatres.

Converse with a self-righteous, I'm-going-to-save-the-world affectation.

View life as a competition.

Put their boyfriends' needs above their own.

Make you feel guilty for eating meat. As you're eating it, of course.

Surrender themselves to Jesus.

Hate reading. Books are so old school!

Use passive-aggressive behavior to get what they want.

Think anorexia is hot.

Are smarter, funnier and sexier than I am.

Let frugality run their lives.

Won't take "no" for an answer. Especially would-be rapists.

Push you to be the very best version of yourself. Especially Oprah.

Use blog posts to air their dirty laundry. My ex has a small wang!

Have no desire to see the world. Seeing the world is so pretentious.

Fart on your face.

Love Song

If your LOVE sounded like a SONG, what song would you want it to sound like?

I've always wanted to get asked this question. Actually, that's not true. I just thought of it yesterday. But I'm asking myself now. Because I can. Granted, I'm not in love, or close to anything resembling love. Except for the nagging crush I have on that cute pitcher in my co-ed softball league. We've never spoken, but I know we're destined to be together.

So I guess this is more a matter of what I would want my love to sound like once I find it. And here it is:

"The Kiss" -- composed by Trevor Jones and Randy Edelman, The Last of the Mohicans

I chose this song because it encapsulates everything love should be, but isn't. At least not in a society that watches The Bachelor and Rock of Love often enough to keep them on the air. Where's the angst? Where's the loss and suffering? Where's the sacrifice, people?! Love used to mean something. You had to toil for love. But now it's as if the word gets prostituted so carelessly -- people jump at the chance to say it as quickly and as often as possible -- that it's become an empty sentiment, trite and unremarkable. I want my love to be extraordinary. I want it to be Daniel Day in Mohicans. Zhivago-worthy.

And after I've lost love -- either to death, or to a perky and petite paralegal named Kimberly ('cause life usually works itself out in cliches, right?) -- I would want it to sound something like this:

"Barbara Allen" -- performed by John Travolta in A Love Song for Bobby Long

I'm curious, what song would you like your love to sound like?

Honorable mentions:

"Cry to Me" -- Solomon Burke (featured in Dirty Dancing)

"Feeling Good" -- Nina Simone >> Actually, this song is sex. Topic for a future post...

"Kissing You" -- performed by Des'ree in William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet

"Walk Away" -- Ben Harper

"Clair de Lune" -- Debussy

Damn, I Wish I Wrote That!

Chalk it up to boredom or lack of a social life. Or maybe it's just that I tend to get addicted to things that make me laugh. Whatever the explanation, I've seen my favorite films bundles of times -- so much so that the dialogue is embedded deep in my subconscious. Normally, my redundant viewing wouldn't be a problem. So I have a hobby. So I have a tried-and-true method for falling asleep at night. Good for me. But, increasingly, I've noticed that, throughout the course of my daily discourse, witty quips involuntarily fly out of my mouth and I have no clue as to their origin. Until it dawns on me: "Oh, that's Lucas from Empire Records." Or, "Ah, I'm doing Robert Downey, Jr., fourth season, Ally McBeal."

Why is this a problem? Well, it's a problem because the line between fiction and reality has become blurred (and I don't even have the luxury of blaming it on psychotropics). It's a problem because, apparently, I'm not as naturally witty as I thought I was. And because, well, dammit, why didn't I write that line first?!

I'm not talking about the magical bits of dialogue that are performance-based. Val Kilmer's "huckleberry" in Tombstone. Bill Murray's "ahoy" in What about Bob? Johnny Depp's "savvy" in Pirates. Or Napoleon's "gosh" in Dynamite. Those lines are timeless because of the actors' inflection or comedic timing.

Instead, I'm talking about dialogue that stands the test of time purely based on its content, regardless of the actor's delivery. A small collection:

I need more out of this relationship than I'm willing to put in. I think I deserve better, don't you? Hey, I know this is hard on you. It would be hard on me too, if I broke up with me. I know what you're losing. (Strangers with Candy)

If heaven is such a wonderful place, then how come being crucified is such a big fucking sacrifice? (Igby Goes Down)

Phil: Who's your perfect guy?

Rita: First of all, he's too humble to know he's perfect.
Phil: That's me.
Rita: He's intelligent, supportive, funny...

Phil: Intelligent, supportive, funny...me, me, me.

(Groundhog Day)

Well, opinions are like assholes, honey. Everybody's got one and everybody thinks everybody else's stinks. (Home for the Holidays)

Wanda: To call you stupid would be an insult to stupid people! I've known sheep that could outwit you. I've worn dresses with higher IQs. But you think you're an intellectual, don't you, ape?
Otto West: Apes don't read philosophy.
Wanda: Yes they do, Otto. They just don't understand it. Now let me correct you on a couple of things, OK? Aristotle was not Belgian. The central message of Buddhism is not "Every man for himself." And the London Underground is not a political movement. Those are all mistakes, Otto. I looked them up.

(A Fish Called Wanda)

In some instances, a film's dialogue reads great on the page, but it becomes even better when mixed with grade "A" acting chops. The result is classic material that soars -- every screenwriters dream come true, I imagine. A few:

Kelly Scott: Tents? We're staying in tents?

Sheriff Hank Keough: I told you...two days we'd have to camp.

Kelly Scott: Yes, camp. But I thought that meant Ramada Inn. I never heard tents. Will there be toilets?

Jack Wells: Maybe we should just take you back.

Kelly Scott: Why? Because I prefer a toilet? Maybe I should just wipe myself with some leafy little piece of poison oak. And then I can spend the whole day scratchin' my ass, blendin' in with the natives.

(Bridget Fonda as Kelly Scott in Lake Placid)

By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me. (Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada)

I'm not shooting for a "successful" relationship at this point. I'm just looking for something that will prevent me from throwing myself in front of a bus. I'm keeping my expectations very, very low. Basically, I'm just looking for a mammal. That's my bottom line. And I'm really very flexible on that, too. (Janeane Garofalo as Lucille in Bye Bye Love)

I don't have to write the next great American novel. I'd settle for just one fantastic line of dialogue that makes it onto the big screen. A word, even. Like the "kid" in "Here's looking at you, kid." (double ref: Casablanca and The Holiday)

As I continue to finesse my one line of history-making dialogue, I'm curious, what lines of dialogue do you wish you had written?

Delish

This is a story about the roommate from hell. The real one.

Top three offenses:

1. Stumbles into my room, loudly and unannounced, open beer in hand, droplets flying every which way, to tell me she just killed a cockroach in the kitchen with her Chaco toe-thong sandals.

2. Uses my razor. Without asking. To tidy her nether bits. Then leaves behind an unsavory parting gift: a cornucopia of pubes wedged in the blade, jetting out at odd angles. They just lie there, mocking me. (I've been through 7 razors in two months.)

3. Three is too good to squeeze into a sentence or two. The long version is as follows:

My roomie is a loquacious alcoholic who barters sex for blunts and is currently in the throes of an all-emotional breakdown over her torrid love affair with a married man, who, for the purposes of this post, will be assigned the pseudonym "Libidinous Merv." Apparently, she's been involved in this mercurial lovefest for the past several months. And it seems that I have entered the story in the middle of Act Two: that tumultuous post-honeymoon period / pre-breakup showdown phase. It's been a non-stop whirlwind of sex, drugs, and alcohol, with a healthy dose of deceit tossed in for good measure. I feel like I'm living in my very own Jerry Springer. Let's take a peak...

Libidinous Merv -- a paradoxical blend of compassion ("He's so awesome. No, you don't even know. He's, like, the most sensitive guy ever!") and selfishness (He is, after all, having an affair) -- is one of the premier drug dealers in the area. He has three little girls, and just last month his "fuckin crazy Dominican" wife, Betina -- one part Sherlock Holmes, two parts Mike Tyson -- tracked down my roomie in some obscure watering hole and wailed on her 'til the bouncers interceded. Wife-y walked away with bloody knuckles and a retributive sense of territorial triumph, while mistress hobbled home to nurse a black eye and a split lip. Despite these unfortunate setbacks, however, my roomie remains unfazed. She will not be deterred. Her resilience is one for the books.

Sometimes, if I'm lucky, she brings the affair home with her. Those are the really special nights. So far, they've broken our living room futon twice, cracked a lava lamp, and smashed her full-length bedroom mirror into a thousand tiny shards. (Evidently, they like it rough.) Between the pigeon-like cooing moans (him), the guttural roars (her), and the inordinate amount of what I've taken to referring to as "fornication debris" in our common living areas, it's easy to mistake my apartment for a lion's den. TMI? Yea, well, that's what I said when she revealed, in a blaze of inebriated disclosure, that she called Merv's house four times and masturbated on the machine for his whole family to hear. Yea, go ahead, marinate in that one for a while. Let it simmer. (PS -- nothing screams "Psychotic!" quite like a needy adulteress hopped up on X.)

To add insult to injury, last month she performed an unsolicited Victoria's Secret fashion show for my viewing (dis)pleasure. Apparently, they had a weekend sex romp planned (in our living room), so she went on a $200 shopping spree for new lingerie. When she told me she wanted to get my input on her new buys, I thought she was just gonna take 'em out of the bag and hold 'em up like most people do when they're showing off new purchases. But no. >> I'm folding my laundry, minding my own business, never considering for a moment that my open door would prove to be a liability, when out of nowhere she comes strutting down the hallway straight toward me. I shrieked, "Holy shit!" and jumped back in fear. I had to quickly convert my scream of horror into one of beguiled amazement so as not to offend -- no small feat, even for a seasoned bullshitter like myself. You see, my roomie makes me look like Nicole Richie circa Spring 2006. On top of which, she's got bulging, cartoonish eyes that look like they're gonna pop out of their sockets at any moment. Seriously, one overzealous head jerk or unexpected twitch and those babies are dangling by a thread (or optic nerve, to be exact). >> In nothing but a see-through lace negligee, and with the Pussycat Dolls streaming in the background -- "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?" -- she tried, in vain, to channel Gisele, straight up catwalk style. It was woefully painful.

"You like it?" she asked earnestly.

"You know it," I said between clenched teeth and a plastic smile.

She then proceeded to ask me if she looked better with or without a bra. I will spare you the details of that gruesome little exercise in cleavage exposure. Needless to say, I've been scarred.

(All facetiousness aside for a moment, her lack of self-consciousness is actually inspiring. I mean, she really puts it out there, gibbly bits and all, take it or leave it. I envy her her bodily confidence.)

So what, if anything, can be gleaned from this unabashed display of human inanity? What can we take away from this seemingly willful, and tragically persistent, lapse in good judgment? Well, for one, don't screw around with married men. You'll get your ass kicked. Second, you always take a risk using Craig's roommate finder.

Lesson learned.