The Madcap Gaffes

Is here.

So long, Pink Floyd lyric LiveJournal...

I'll be letting my paid LiveJournal account at this URL expire when the time comes up in about a month. I'm working on new digs and a new format. For anyone that cares, I'll let you know where you can find me when the time comes.

I know modern sports fans are supposed to be cynical and unhappy and complain about everything that's wrong with their game. Some, like the people who foolishly believe that there was ever a "Golden Age" of Hollywood reigned by nothing but glamour, happiness, and artistic purity, probably even yearn for the imaginary years where sports was just about the game and nobody cared if they made money or got famous as long as their fans were happy and they could donate ponies to children's hospitals. No age ever existed, and I have no doubt that there are just as many - if not more, given that leagues are larger - guys playing today with heart and dedication as there has always been. The media just got better at profiling the douchebags and self-promotion rose to a professional artform. I'll save any rants about corporate and commercial exploitation for another time.

That's because yesterday's NHL "Winter Classic" was awesome. A few glitches with the ice aside, it went off almost perfect. Despite the cold, the stadium was packed with 70,000+ fans that traveled from all over the US and Canada, the players looked as giddy as little kids on Christmas morning, and the NHL's Golden Boy, Sidney Crosby, even scored the winning goal for his team in the overtime shoot-out (and a slight aside - Bob Costas' story about an unpleasant encounter he once had with Goldie Goldthorpe when he was a budding, 21-year-old sports reporter was priceless). It was a ton of fun to watch. I must have been a blast to actually be there. I still think it wasn't all that bright of an idea to stage it on New Year's Day when there is so much football to compete with, but the whole event kind of restored a little bit of my faith in the National Hockey League.

I hope they do it every year.

UPDATE: The cynic rears his head, though hockey-bashing is a pretty regular venture at ESPN. "Somebody could have gotten hurt!" Give me a bleeping break. These are big boys - professional hockey players, for goodness sake - many of whom grew up playing on outdoor ponds and rinks, in the cold, with snow in their eyes, on bad ice with chips and kinks in it. And of course the style of play was slower because the puck moved differently in reaction to the weather conditions. It's not like anyone's recommending the entire game be moved outdoors full time. Given the number of people in the comments who responded to Scott Burnside's pessimistic article by either calling him a stupid grump or noting that they were non-fans who stumbled on the game while channel surfing and ended up staying put because it was so entertaining to watch, I'd say he's outnumbered. Wasn't roping in new fans the whole point of the game? Heaven forbid that happens so that ESPN might actually have to pay the sport a little respect now and then.

*I finally saw Atonement. Maybe it was just the months and months of critical praise that had been heaped on it that left me disappointed, but it was definitely a let-down. I'm not one of those "the movie can never be as good as the book" snobs, but I think there's something about the novel that just didn't translate well. There's not much to work with in terms of the story - a young, foolish girl tells a lie that ruins a man's life and feels really bad about it when she's old enough to realize the gravity of what she had done, most of it set to the back drop of World War II. But there were too many long shots of characters staring meaningfully into space, an otherwise useless 30 minute "war is hell" scene, and one of those overbearing musical scores that shout "feel! emotion! HERE!" It wasn't awful, but it's not something I'm anxious to see again.

*The Gateway to Hell is located somewhere within the confines of the Del Amo Mall in Torrance, California. That is the only thing that could possibly explain the existence of a place so evil. It's beyond huge and hard enough to navigate when you aren't surrounded by thousands of people still pissed off that it took them an hour to park their car.

*It seems like every book I've read in the last month has been about either murder or war and it's getting pretty damn depressing. I've skipped a few titles down the stack and will pick up Ed Willes' Gretzky to Lemieux: The Story of the 1987 Canada Cup. I don't care if it's boring, badly written, horribly edited, and turns out to be more about the native plant life of Alberta than hockey. As long as nobody dies in it, I'll be happy.

*I now have somewhere around $200 in Starbucks gift cards. I don't think I'll have to pay for a cup of coffee for the next year year. It's pretty awesome.

*I have dragged my aunt kicking and screaming into the 21st Century by setting up the DVD player that my parents bought her for Christmas. I now get calls from her about twice a day asking some sort of highly technical question like "how do I get it to play?"

*I finally got around to watching the 2007 Stanley Cup DVD I've had for months. I was on the edge of my seat, even covering my eyes for part of it, especially during the series against Detroit. I had to remind myself more than once that I knew how it was going to end. Duh.

*Anybody need a scenic calendar of American landmarks? I got about 20 this year from customers and clients.

*Sorry, honey. I'll give you the part about not particularly enjoying the "inappropriate touching," but you were a bleeping ice bunny. Big tits and make-up are not unreasonable job requirements. I don't have a problem with cheerleaders and ice bunnies (or "Power Players," as they are absurdly named in Anaheim), but it gets a wee bit annoying when women actively (and in the cases where they're somewhat high-profile, even viciously) pursue positions on those type of squads and then turn around to complain that the ogling men aren't taking the time to recognize the profundity of their inner tortured poet.

*Which reminds me, I caught about eight seconds of a paid programming advert for "Girls Gone Wild" during my last bout with insomnia, and all I have to say about those brief, suffering moments is that any guy who has ever bought or watched one of those things on purpose is a goddamm LOSER. Seriously, just buy regular porn like a real man.

That's probably it until next year. Have a Happy New Year, everybody!

I got tagged by Tommy for this Christmas meme, so in the only display of Christmas spirit I intend on expressing this year outside of buying my nephews presents, here you go:

1) Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
2) Share Christmas facts about yourself.
3) Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4) Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. Wrapping or gift bags?

Both.

2. Real or artificial tree?

I don't put up a tree. I live alone, Christmas decorations don't really cheer me up, and they're otherwise a pain to put up just to take down a few weeks later. In other words, I'm too damn lazy. Personal aside: this drives my step-mother nuts. She's German and very rigid about these things. It's Christmas. You're supposed to put up decorations and play only Christmas music and watch Christmas movies and eat Christmas food. It's almost as if she was told boogey man stories about some secret police force that will come to your house if aren't displaying enough holiday spirit and throw you in a Christmas gulag for crimes against the season. When my parents still lived out here in L.A., she'd show up at my apartment every year with one of those pre-decorated mini-trees and various other crap like stockings and Santa figurines because it kept her awake at night that I didn't have Christmas shit all over the place. I was sad when they moved to a different state, except for the relief that I would not have to put up with her Christmas OCD anymore.

3. When do you put up the tree?

See above.

4. When do you take the tree down?

Ibid.

5. Do you like eggnog?

No. I hate it, even if there's booze in it.

6. Favorite gift received as a child?

Stuffed Snoopy.

7. Do you have a nativity scene?

Nope.

8. Worst Christmas gift you ever received?

It was the year Grandma decided that instead of a check, she was going to send me an ugly sweater that I never wore.

(And seriously - the person who gave Tommy socks in a GI Joe Motorcycle box is plain cruel. Why not just put cat turds that spell out "FUCK YOU" inside and show your real contempt?)

9. Mail or email Christmas cards?

Neither. I'm not a total Scrooge, but people have never come to expect Christmas cards from me, so why break tradition?

10. Favorite Christmas movie?

It's a Wonderful Life.

11. When do you start shopping for Christmas?

The only real Christmas tradition I have established for myself as an adult is to wait to do my shopping until the last minute and then make a pledge to not do the same thing next year. And then do the same thing next year.

12. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?

My sister makes prime rib every year.

13. Clear lights or colored?

Colored, but I have those hanging all over the place all year long.

14. Favorite Christmas song?

I don't have one.

15. Travel at Christmas or stay at home?

Stay home.

16. Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer?

Let's see...um, Pronger and Nixon and Dundee and Blixer? Something like that? In other words, no.

17. Angel or star on the top of your tree?

I think it would be difficult to put either on top of a tree I don't have.

18. Open your presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning?

Christmas Eve.

19. Most annoying thing about this time of year?

How early some people start celebrating it. A local radio station switched to their annual "All Christmas/All the time" format a week before Thanksgiving. Stores start their Christmas! Sale! blitz around that time as well. Some years, I look more forward to the end of the holiday than the holiday itself. It seems to happen earlier and earlier every year, to the point where I can see the day where Macy's starts putting up their decorations in June.

20. What do you leave for Santa?

Nothing specific, but he knows he's welcome to anything in the fridge.

21. Least favorite holiday song?

I think the one song that gets on my nerves the most is "Do They Know It's Christmas" by that Band-Aid charity the Brits did about 20 years ago (Jeez, has it been that long? That makes me feel old). Over the last five years or so, I've noticed a lot of bloggers pick on that song for it's provincial stupidity and ignorance ("nothing ever grows" in a continent covered in jungles? "No rain or rivers flow"? None? Really? "Do they know it's Christmas?" More appropriately, do they even care? Etc., etc. I think my favorite line is "there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas time." Poor dears. There won't be snow in Los Angeles either. Please send me money!). I mean, charity is a wonderful idea, but you shouldn't insult the beneficiaries of your efforts by applying stereotypes that describe about 30% of their homeland to the entire continent.

22. Do you decorate your tree with any specific theme or color?

If I had one, I probably wouldn't. I prefer crazy trees with lots of color and silly ornaments and fun, home-made stuff like popcorn garland, not those neat, symmetric, perfectly trimmed kind.

23. Favorite ornament?

The Grinch one wins over the two others that I actually own just in case I ever decide to get around to actually putting up a tree some year.

<----- end of meme ----->

I'm going to break the rules and not tag anyone, because I'm a rebel like that, but if anyone else thinks this looks like fun, give it a go and drop a link in the comments.

Oh yeah...and MERRY CHRISTMAS!

I don't like reality television. I'm not a snob about it. If other people enjoy it, good for them. But I have to draw the line at this crap. I saw a bunch of previews for it yesterday and I find the premise of this "game show" absolutely disgusting. Contestants come on and agree to be strapped to a lie detector while answering a series of intensely personal questions. Anyone who can make it through 21 questions without setting off the detector wins $50,000. The thing is, they're not just innocuous questions that can only harm or embarrass the contestants themselves, like "how many times a week do you masturbate?" It's stuff like "are there things about your spouse that you can't stand?" and "have you ever told a serious lie to your mother?"

The kind of questions where other people who have not agreed to be party to this show get hurt. And they're making no disguise of this in the previews. "Watch marriages get wrecked and families torn apart!" For entertainment? No thanks. It's one thing if you want to make an asshole of yourself on "Big Brother" or be stupid enough to let Paris Hilton mind your kids for a day just to get a little attention. It's another thing entirely to put yourself in a position where you know that people you are supposed to love might suffer for the shot at fleeting fame and quick cash.

I saw I Am Legend yesterday. I like Will Smith enough that I could watch him recite the stock report and be entertained, but I was still slightly worried that this movie would be along the lines of the borefest that was Castaway (two hours of Tom Hanks talking to a volleyball? ZZZZZZzzzz). It wasn't. It was actually really, really good. Smith had to basically carry half of the movie by himself, and he did an excellent job. His character was a guy who hadn't had any human social contact in three years and develops a mild psychosis as a result - he talks to mannequins, gives them names, even hits on one of the pretty ones - but he never grandstands it in that grating I am playing the part of a crazy person!!!! fashion. To be able to pull that off in a believable, engrossing way, to have your character be central to a movie yet still be secondary to the story and where it's heading, is an exceptionally difficult thing to do, and Smith nailed it. I love that guy.

That, and it's really nice to get back to having choices at the box office that don't involve somebody else shoving their political conscience down my throat (then turning around when it bombs after being panned as crap and blaming me because I was too stupid/apathetic/socially unaware to go see it. Talk about not getting it - maybe the reason people are skipping movies about Iraq is because we've had to digest the horrible news of it day after day, and that, when the time comes to put our feet up, we just might not have to watch more goddamm war). Hail to the end of Really Important Movie™ season!

1) There are always fanboys/girs there who have to turn it in to a pissing contest to prove that they are the one fan who is the bestest and knows the most about just everything.

2) The jackass who always has to say "you clearly know nothing about [insert sport here]" when someone has stated an opinion or anything else that is not a cut and dry, provable matter of fact.

3) The super-jackass who has to insist that you are "clearly not a fan" when you do not worship a team and all of their players/coaches/managers from head to toe 100% without question.

4) The condescending buttmunch who always has to show up when people are upset about a player being traded who feels it is his duty to explain to everyone that sports is a business and that these things happen.

No shit, Sherlock.

It looks like one of my favorite players from the Ducks is going to get traded to St. Louis. As I am writing this, it's just a rumor, but a reliable one. I toddled over to the Ducks board at their official site (not to post, just to read up on the speculation) and a lot of other people aren't happy as well. But sure enough, Uppity Dickwad Guy made his appearance to enlighten us all about the way things work in professional sports. I know the way they work. I know guys get sent up and down and are regularly passed around the league like herpes at a Weather Underground meeting. That doesn't mean I have to like it. Joseph Smith on a crutch, do people of this sort also tell someone who's hurt when their grandmother passes away that they shouldn't be upset because she was in hospital and, like, people totally die in those places all the time? Give me a bleeping break.

PS - I slipped away to check on the updates and it's just been confirmed. Farewell, #19. Take care of him, St. Louis.

When you're a public figure, there is such a thing. While most of us can quietly leave off or shroud habits like excessive drinking from our resumes, a celebrity famous for it cannot. The same goes for any other kind of behavior that might seem detrimental to the marketability of a film or television show (see: Tom Cruise). That's why I was pretty surprised when Katherine Heigl made some flippant remark not too long ago about how hard it was for her to love Knocked Up. She's since back-pedaled from the comment and is now saying it was the bestest, grooviest experience of her life. Even if her contract didn't require her to refrain from speaking negatively about the film in public, having things on your invisible resume like "tends to talk shit about the movies she's been in shortly after they are released on DVD" isn't exactly going to make people excited about working with you.

I especially love some of the comments attached to the article linked above (yes, I went there) in the vein of OhMyGod! Freespeech! Sheisentitledtoheropinion! It's not like the FBI arrested her and threw her in jail for what she said. She is only owed free speech by the government; it doesn't mean she shouldn't have to suffer any consequences when she says something stupid. Of course she's entitled to her opinion. But she'd be smart to know there are times when she should keep it to herself.

Ahhh, is there anything that says "douchebag" louder than a director who thinks his film failed because we were just too stupid to get it? Here's Guy Ritchie claiming Revolver was almost universally panned because it was "too intellectually taxing."

I mean, we've deliberately made it more complex than the first one because we wanted people to have a hard time working it out. But we found that, once you fuckin' spell it out, people still have a hard enough time trying to piece it all together, even when you tell them what it is in the first three lines.

He also blames the way the film was marketed for its failure. I get as ticked off as anyone when trailers are misleading, but from what I've read, nobody that was trashing this movie wrote "I went in expecting Goodfellas with British accents and got a philosophical dissertation on the human inner struggle with conflict, identity, and evil." Most of it was just long-winded variations on essentially saying "it was crap."

I can't wait to see it.

Dear Ducks,
Please beat Calgary.

Thanks,
Emily

Update:  Super thanks. 4 to 1.  That's the Ducks I've been missing

I finished Under the Banner of Heaven over the weekend. I'd had a general understanding of Mormon history before; the stuff you learn briefly in school and the whitewashed version given officially by the Church. I hadn't realized until now how violent and completely at odds with outsiders the Mormons were for a great deal of their early history. It certainly raised some questions for me, as far as pondering the difference between claims of religious persecution merely on account of beliefs and being treated with hostility because of your behavior towards others. I don't suppose I'd respond very kindly to several hundred people moving in next door and snubbing their noses at me while cursing about my eternal damnation for not belonging to their One True Church either. And it wouldn't be because I didn't agree with the tenants of that Church in any way. I've never been bothered by religion, at least until someone gets in my face and even then, it ain't their Pie in the Sky that irks me. It's the way they force it down my throat no matter how many times I say "no, thank you."

It's kind of interesting that some of the people that howl the loudest about being persecuted for their religion are the ones least likely to grant tolerance to the beliefs of others. Well, actually, it's frankly kind of annoying, but certainly something to think about.

Blood atonement. I Googled that little practice earlier in the week and ended up sick to my stomach. I'm very conflicted; I've only met a handful of Mormons in my life, but the ones that I've known have always been very kind, gentle, polite people. There is, however, something really unsettling about any religion that aggressively adopts an "us versus them" mentality as Mormonism undoubtedly did in its earliest days. It's true, every church pretty much thinks of themselves as the only True Believers that are destined for Salvation. The difference is the extent to which they feel justified in the mistreatment of outsiders because of it. The "Saints" once thought it gave them the right to guiltlessly slit the throats of anyone they perceived as an enemy, justifiably or not.

And that's just the mainstream Church. Add fundamentalism to the equation, and you've pretty much got anarchy. I find it a little more than convenient that the exact people Ron Lafferty was ordered to kill by God just happened to be the bitches that had the nerve to talk back. Besides, this is an omnipotent Creator we're talking about. The Guy who can snap his fingers and utter "let there be light," and so there is light. I don't imagine it would require Him very much effort to remove one mere puny human were that His will. It's not like those tablets Moses brought down from the Mount read "Thou shalt not kill, unless I come to you in a vision and order you otherwise." For a lot of the history of Mormonism and their belief that members can directly talk to God, He sure does manage to tell a whole bunch of people exactly what they want to hear.

I also find it questionaly favorable that Joseph Smith, struggling with the opposition of his horny urges in contrast to his religious piety, would find validation for both via word from God that it was his Earthly duty to marry and screw as many women as possible. Polygamy may be a practice long purged from the mainstream church, but the wounds of Joseph's "revelation" remain very much alive today.

Luckily, God came to me in a vision and informed me that it was my celestial duty to drink vodka for lunch every day, so I won't have to think about it too hard for very much longer.

I got some kind of food poisoning yesterday. I don't know where from, but I woke up in the middle of the night and just started vomiting. And it was that awful puke, on an empty stomach, nothing-but-bile crap. My joints were aching so bad, I couldn't get back to sleep, and my mouth was dry, but any time I tried to drink water, I'd just spit it up again.

It's going to be a looooooong day.

Dear Person Who Came Up With The Lame Idea In The First Place,
I will never refer to the Ducks/Kings rivalry as the "Freeway Face-Off." I would think that you might have learned from ESPN2 and that chick in Mean Girls who tried to make "fetch" happen that you cannot force nicknames on people. The ones that stick almost always evolve by their own and grow in popularity because they catch on with fans naturally. While I must admit that the winner in that dumb contest was the least whince-inducing of the finalists, I shudder to think of how stupid other entries not chosen must have been by comparison.

The worst part is the anticipation of the media hopelessly trying to shove this nickname down the throats of fans for months and months to come until it becomes clear that nobody's interested in tossing it around. If the absurd fanfare leading up to announcing the winner weren't ludicrous enough, I think the low voter turn-out (4,800 in a market that easily puts 6 times that many butts in arena seats a week) might have given you a clue as to the lack of enthusiasm.

I started reading Under The Banner of Heaven by John Krakauer this weekend. I probably won't post much about it until I'm finished, but Holy CRAP. It's basically a chronicle of polygamist communities of the Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints (a moniker refuted by mainstream Mormons, who claim these people have been ex-communicated from the church and thus lay no legitimate claim to the title of "Mormon"). In brief, these people, and especially the warped leadership, are fucked up. Not just in respect to the multiple wives whose only purpose is to be "given" to husbands to bear their children until their ovaries turn to rubber. Try and wrap your mind around this:

As his sixth wife, Debbie became a stepmother to Blackmore's thirty-one kids, most of whom were older than she was. And because he happened to be the father of Debbie's own stepmother, Mem, she unwittingly became a stepmother to her stepmother, and thus a stepgrandmother to herself.

And:

One of Debbie's stepchildren is Alaire Blackmore, seven years older than Debbie, who had been adopted by Ray Blackmore at birth. When Alaire was eighteen, she was married to Ray, her own adoptive father. Alaire was thus cowife to Debbie as well as Debbie's stepdaughter. After Ray died, Alair was married to Debbie's father; when Winston assumed power she was taken from Debbie's dad and married to Winston - her own brother by adoption.

What's even more frightening is the rigid, unflinching belief that the word of God, or more specifically, the interpretation of it as ordered by the community's leaders, actually makes these people assume they are above the law. If they think God has ordered them to kill, rape, or steal, they oblige without guilt and believe themselves to be persecuted for their religious beliefs on the rare occasions they are punished by the law. The towns of Hildale/Colorado City bordering between Utah and Arizona are situated in such a fashion that they're essentially cut-off from outsiders. The sheriff, local police, mayor, and all people in positions of authority (in their case, I can rightfully say men) are entirely members of the Fundamentalist sect, so those who are abused or expelled for the slightest of infringements have nobody to appeal to and nowhere to run. It's quite sad.

So, what does an insomniac without cable do at 1:30 in the morning for entertainment? Today, I watched a horrid paid program hawking a collection of songs from the 60s. For four easy payments of $29.95, I could have owned the same over-played crap that the local oldies station has on loop for free. It was actually kind of morbidly awesome - it featured Baby Boomers (50 is the new 20!!!) waxing nostalgic about all the wonderful memories that come flooding back when they hear all these super special, they-don't-make-'em-like-this-anymore, groovy jams, man. Wait a minute. I thought if you could remember the 60s, it meant you weren't there?

All I can say is thank gawd they don't make them like that anymore. For all of the crabbing we're subjected to by the back-in-my-day folks, they sure as hell don't have much to brag about. Most of the songs featured were either generic hits that have long since been turned into elevator musak or the soundtrack for mediocre romantic comedies or completely forgotten one-hit wonders by bands with names like Bubble Puppy and Toad Mushroom Groomers (I only made one of those up. Guess which?). Nearly all of the video clips they showed were obviously being lip synched on ridiculously decorated stages by performers that looked like deer in headlights, except with big hair and frilly shirts. I also learned that if I had to buy all of these CDs separately, it would cost me thousands of dollars! Try again, gramps. If I actually bought the handful of songs in the compilation that didn't make me sick from iTunes, it would cost me around twenty bucks.

On another note, I finally saw American Gangster this weekend. It's a good movie that could have been great. Take away the gratuitous sex scene, the pointless delving into the private life of Russell Crowe's character (seriously...is this a movie about Frank Lucas or Richie Roberts? Make it one or both, but not 2/3 one, 1/4 the other. Focus, Mr. Scott), and the rounding-up-the-bad-guys-as-the-empire-comes-crashing-down cliché of a montage, and it would have been perfect. But speaking of the 60s (and American Gangster), if for some reason in a couple thousand years the only trace of our modern culture that is left are movies, people are going to wind up thinking that the only thing anyone between 1965 and 1973 ever watched on television was news footage of the Vietnam War.

Michele wrote about her reaction to recently re-reading Go Ask Alice after also having first encounterd it when she was around 12 years old. She called "bullshit" the same as I did a few weeks ago and a lot of the chatter has had me remembering some of the real horror stories from back in the old days of my wasted youth. The kind of stories that could possibly genuinely frighten people away from drugs, not the fictional warblings pulled from the ass of a well-meaning but inexperienced goody two shoes.

I was never addicted to any drugs myself (unless you count cigarettes), but I've known more than a few people who were. I'm finally at the point where I refuse to be involved with anyone who uses hard drugs, recreationally or otherwise. There's too much heartache in watching someone you care about wreck their life and health. Too much potential for disaster. Too many chances to be taken advantage of by someone who is making regretful choices, some of which I might wind up bearing their unfortunate ends on me. Forget it. No more.

Years ago, I quit school and came back home to L.A. for a couple of years. I wasn't taking it serious enough to justify the money spent on tuition and books. I was wasting the time I should have spent studying doing worthless shit. I needed to take a break from it, and coming back to live with my parents was the best grounding experience I could have had. It worked. When I finally returned to finish my degree, I studied hard, learned a lot, and refused to take the luxury of something like education for granted.

During those two years, I had a friend from high school - let's call her "Alice" here, shall we? - who was living with an aunt, working retail in the mall to earn money. Because of our work schedules, we never saw each other during the week, but I'd usually spend the weekends at her house, since her aunt almost always stayed at her boyfriend's place Friday through Sunday. This left us alone to party and stay up all night drinking and doing lines of speed. The speed for me was only a weekend indulgence and something I never touched or sought out on my own when I wasn't hanging out with Alice. It was recreational. I never jonesed out for more when there wasn't any around. I never had urges to pick up the phone and place an order with Dr. Feelgood. And I never, EVER would bring illegal drugs into my parents' home. I always drew the line there, always respected their disapproval in that sense.

I thought it was pretty much the same for Alice. I would find out much later that it wasn't. She was basically snorting the stuff all week long. After things came to a head and she eventually cleaned up, she admitted that she had never once shown up for work sober. She had been on speed every single day that she was employed at that store in the mall. I learned things much worse from a mutual friend (from here on, simply "MF") of ours later. That she was sleeping with a nearby dealer to get her fix for free. That she'd go as many as five or six nights without sleep. I'd figured Alice had been dabbling a little more than I had outside of the weekend, since she had lost a lot of weight and sometimes looked as crappy as you'd expect a person who has missed three straight nights of sleep to appear. I wasn't that concerned; she insisted her use was only occasional and that - here it comes - she could quit any time she wanted.

During that time, Alice had a crush on a guy I'll just call "D." Her interest was initially returned by D, but waned once he began to notice that she had a problem with drugs. Speed to go up, pot to go down, booze for the hell of it and not a break in between. Not that it mattered in the long run. D was planning on moving to Rhode Island and she'd be one of the things he left behind. I never met D or any of his friends. I had no clue who they were, but on one of his last nights in town, they threw a going away party for his cross-country send off. MF was marginally acquainted with some of them, and told me that she'd heard that nobody really wanted Alice to come to the party. They were that kind of crowd; the kind who didn't really approve of drugs, recreational or otherwise. Alice managed to wrangle a guilt-induced invitation out of the people throwing the party anyway. I don't know if she was clueless about their collective attitude or wanted to see D so badly she just plain didn't care. At any rate, she was determined to show up, unwelcome or not.

I arrived at Alice's place on Friday night as regularly scheduled. MF had been there for a couple of days. Both of them looked like nuked death. MF admitted they'd been awake and on speed for most of the week; it was horrible. I was so disgusted, I skipped the snort fest and piled into MF's car to head out to D's party. I don't know what I was thinking at that moment. I wasn't even high and should have known better than to get in a car headed for the freeway with a driver who hadn't slept in five days. MF almost crashed. TWICE. I can't remember ever being so frightened while riding in a car, before or since. When we finally got to D's house, the sense of relief was overwhelming. There were a couple of moments on the way where I was sure I wouldn't live to see it.

When we went inside, you could feel it. I have never, ever had so many people look at me with such complete and utter contempt. Mind you, I knew NOBODY at this party. I'd just showed up with Alice because she wanted me to meet D before he left town. The plan was to drop her off, and MF and I would go to a coffee shop for a couple of hours to let her say goodbye. But the eyes of everyone in the room, who either knew about Alice and her little problem personally or by reputation, were glaring at us. It didn't matter that I wasn't a complete speed freak skank myself. I was guilty by association. I didn't want to leave Alice there to deal with all of the hatred alone, but I wanted to hang around in a house filled with people boring their eyes at me like I'd just re-introduced small pox into the species a hell of a lot less. So MF and I left.

While we sat at the coffee shop, I'd made up my mind. I couldn't watch this happen anymore. I wanted out. After tonight, I would tell Alice that she had a problem and seriously needed to quit, either on her own or with help. I would stand by her through anything. I'd handcuff myself to her to make sure she couldn't see any dealers. I'd hold her hair out of her face while she puked her way through withdrawals. I'd hug her while she was shaking. Anything she needed. But if she didn't quit? If she wanted to keep doing this to herself? Good-bye. I would not be her friend anymore until that changed. I had to do it. Standing by, watching someone you've known for years and love dearly while not doing anything is worse than destroying yourself along with them. At least in this case, one of us still had some sense in our head and it was about time I exercized it. Quit or get out of my life. Period.

When we went back to D's house to pick her up, things went pretty much as I expected. Alice was in tears when she got in the car. I did the best I could to help, hugging her and listening to her talk about how cold everybody was. How they treated her like a diseased leper (well, they had the "diseased" part right, anyway), while the people who didn't ignore her would be flat out rude to her. With one exception - a nice girl who had come to sit with her and keep her company while she waited for us to take her home. Alice told me all about this kind person; her name, where she was from, what her personality was like. She even recounted their "Brendan versus Dylan" discussion about which guy from "90210" was cuter. I was grateful for that much. At least someone there didn't treat her like crap warmed over, even if it only made a small difference.

I decided to wait for my "quit or else" speech until the next day. Alice had been through enough emotional upset for one night and she was hardly in any frame of mind to digest and comprehend anything more. I'd save it for the morning after she'd gotten some desperately needed sleep. I wanted to make what I said matter the most to her, when she'd really hear me and take what I was saying seriously.

It turns out I never needed to use my speech. She'd decided herself the following morning that she needed to give it up. She did it all on her own and I have never been more proud of her than I was when she made that decision. She needed help and knew it herself without having to be threatened with one of her oldest friends checking out of her life. She hasn't touched that shit drug known as speed since and neither have I.

About a year later, D gave her a call from Rhode Island. He had wanted to check up on her (and find out if, basically, she was still alive). She told him she was sober and had been since the night they last spoke. She was happy, well-adjusted, and hadn't looked back or been tempted. She was glad to have drugs out of her life and to be moving forward in a positive and healthy way. D was relieved. He'd spent a lot of the last year worried about her, wondering if she was okay. Ever since that night of his party, when she'd shown up high, off of her head, briefly babbling to him incoherently, and then spending the rest of the night sitting in a corner, talking to a doll as if it were a living person.

That girl, the one from Wisconsin, the friendly one, the one who liked Dylan better than Brandon was a fucking DOLL. That's how far out of your mind drugs can take you, how badly they can distort reality.

I wish the story ended there. I'd always been curious about MF's drug abuse. She had multiple sclerosis and told me that her speed use regularly compounded the symptoms of it. I never understood why she would make an already horrible disease that much worse. But she did, though she was more like me in that respect. Her drug use was largely reserved for weekends or special occasions. One day, I called her up just to say hello and she sounded horrible. Like she was shaking and couldn't breathe. She had no idea what was wrong with her, and said she didn't really have the energy to talk and would call me back when she felt better. She never did. She died three days later. None of us ever really found out what killed her. Her parents were too distraught and nobody had the heart to ask what happened. I'd always suspected it had something to do with speed; following Alice's moment of clarity, MF had started dating Speed Dealer Fuck Buddy that used to give Alice the free drugs for sex, and I know that MF had no doubt begun to snort and smoke more frequently once they got together. Not that I fully want to know. I don't give a shit what the coroner's report read. Somebody I cared about is gone. The rest of the details don't matter.

Dear Britney,
How are you? I hear things have not been going well as of late, but I'm really hoping your new album and possibly some long-term psychiatric care can help turn things around for you. I have to be honest, I was never really a fan of your music, but I always appreciated your talents as an entertainer. You were good at your job. Now, I'm not really a kick-'em-while-they're-down kind of gal (except when it comes to that bitch Paris Hilton. Hell, I'd kick her when she was dead), so I'm not going to wallow in your current status as fallen idol. But I understand you were recently looking at property in Hermosa Beach, a nearby town where I like to spend a great deal of my leisure time, and I think there are some things you should know about the place that your realtor probably didn't tell you.

First of all, the crime here is terrible. Don't believe the statistics. Those are actually a sick revenge joke played out by the producers of the former television show "Riptide." Think of Hermosa as Compton for whiteys that like to surf. I mean, you can not even define carnage until you've witnessed a showdown between the Pier Avenue Crips against the Comedy Store Bloods. Ask Jay Leno. He knows. He almost died here.

Hardly a day goes by when a small child isn't dragged off by a wild urban dingo. Look it up. It happens a lot. You do, after all, have your boys to think of.

Yes, there are a few bars here that would probably be within walking distance to your home, which is nice for you, since you wouldn't have to drive drunk anymore, but the only people who hang out there are old dudes with hair growing out of their ears that like to tell stories about the Depression and recount their favorite "Three Stooges" episodes. Take my word for it. You do not want to see this for yourself.

Also, you should know that sharks in this area have evolved to the point where they can grow legs and walk on land in order to eat people. For reasons local scientists have not yet sorted out, they seem to have a special proclivity for selecting young women fond of chewing bubble gum that excessively use the word "y'all." I think you know what that means.

Finally, I can assure you that taking up residence in this sleepy little beach town will make you an instant enemy of your immediate neighbors, who, let's face it, probably hate your guts as it is. All of this is a matter of objective, mathematical fact, at least to a person stupid enough to believe it. Britney, I am counting on you to be that person. Trust me, you want to stay away. I only have your best interests selflessly at heart.

Warm regards,
PYM

Okay, so I've gone off on Really Important Movie™ season here before. Luckily, we're coming off of it this year with at least a couple of decent films (if I don't see American Gangster by the end of this weekend, I might slit my wrists. I've managed to numb waiting for Before the Devil Knows You're Dead with alcohol, though I can feel the need to shift to more potent pharmacopia creeping in) that don't look like they're purporting to make big, brave political statements, when all they really do is wallow in their own self-righteous hubris while preaching to the choir. I won't moan any further about the blatant "FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION" nature of most of the films that come out this time of year.

But...if I read one more review that contains the words "this is a film that every American should/has a duty to/must see," I'm going to take up torturing small animals to work out my frustration. Well, so I won't literally do that, but I might rip the head off of a teddy bear or something.

For Jeebus' sake. It's a fucking movie.

I know films can be moving, thoughtful, memorable, and start great conversations. However, if a subject is so damn important that Americans, or anybody else, should feel obligated to learn something about it, the last place they need to go about educating themselves on the subject is a movie theater. Hell, you'll read more reliable information about the war in Iraq from Wikipedia than something as politicized as In The Valley of Ellah (pssst - if y'all can't even get a simple word like "waybill" right, how accurately are you depicting a concept as large and complicated as war?). Not only are the "everybody should see this" shitheads elitist morons who actually think they learned something important after watching a Robert Redford movie, they're assuming the motivations (or lack thereof) for everyone who won't see them. No, I do not skip high-minded (and usually low-brained) political dramas because I'm not smart enough to understand them or I'm not a civic-minded person who doesn't take compassion, charity, and social responsibility as seriously as I should. I do think those things are important. I do not, however, think going to the movies is a gesture of solidarity with my comrades in the struggle against oppression and injustice. I suffered the pain of sitting through Dead Man Walking and, last time I checked, no legislature in the country called a special session to re-think their policy on the death penalty. If I want to be educated about something to the point where there's actual merit to my knowledge as opposed to learning everything I know about Afghanistan from a soliloquy by Tommy Lee Jones, I'll read a book by a credentialed or well-studied scholar. That's the irony of people who think they're super-special and smart for writing/directing/starring in/seeing those types of movies. Only a numbskull would think of sitting in a dark theater and watching drama pulled from the imaginations of artists as an educational experience.