Oh... my... god.... I'M ALIVE!!!

Just thought I'd let you all know.

Found my cell phone in the cubby today. I think it had been in there for somewhere around two weeks. Interestingly enough I only had two missed calls. I'll take that to mean that you all are aware of my phonephobia and don't want to put the effort into calling me when odds are I will hide under the bed until the ringing stops.

Well, lets see... what am I up to? I'm the Art Director for a film that may or may not actually happen. And, um... I'm a skilled relaxer. I think that should be a profession. I, my dear readers, would be highly qualified.

Hmm... I think I'll go off on a tangent now.

When I think of my elementary school Music Teacher, I think of various things. First of all, she is the only person I have ever known that is literally shaped like a triangle. Really, she is. Hips from coast-to-coast and the tiniest little ankles you've ever seen. She'd always wear stretch-pants too. The ones with stirrups. And sweaters with balls of yarn on them...

I also remember that she lived next to Stephanie. And man, did she hate Stephanie. Steph knew it too - and the dislike was definitely mutual. One time Stephanie convinced me that we should do something mean to Ms. Russem (Russom? Come on, I was in third grade... like I'm supposed to know how to spell her name). So what did we do? We put poop in a bag on her doorstep. Or, you know... faux-poo. Some odd concoction of Hersey's Syrup and cocoa powder. (That's the kind of criminal mind I have.)

But what really sticks out about Ms. Triangle is that she had a very limited repertoire as far as the songs she taught the kids. So, in my three years at McKinley Elementary School I sang the same damn songs year after year.

"Child of the Universe, let your spirit fly (ay, ay). You are the chosen one to try and touch the sky."

That's the chorus. Yap. It's a winner.

But what I've been singing in my head non-stop for the last few hours are the lyrics to one of the verses.

"I am only a grain of sand, tossed by water and wind... but there are many grains of sand... where do I fit in?"

It's almost poetic. You know, except the lame chords and the isosceles conductor I just can't stop picturing. Oh - and the strong stench of cheddar.

For those of you who have not heard -- Ryan and I have decided to move back to Salem. (Come on, that was a transition. We're grains of sand -- get it?!?)

Giving up? Maybe. Failed? Perhaps. You could look at it any way... and I suppose people will.

Some people have told us that we've had more success in a year than others have in ten. I believe it. We've done a lot. Worked on television, movies, commercials... behind the scenes, in front of the camera... I think we've seen most of the business. Enough of it to have a pretty solid grasp on what lies ahead.

And, in the end, a future in Los Angeles doesn't look like the one we want. Yeah, ideally Ryan would become a famous movie star so we could live in Oregon and he'd fly south for work. But even as I'm typing that... it doesn't sound so ideal.

Turns out we're not city-folk. Not happy in the mess of things. And the business too... we've found we're not as cutthroat, not as relentless. Not because we can't be, but because we don't want to be.

Truthfully, we always pictured ourselves ending up in a town like Salem. And it was fun to move away and experience Los Angeles... cause if we didn't we'd always wonder about what we missed. I think it's safe to say we know what we'd miss and we're okay with that now...

Except, of course ... Loren, Dave and Tim. OMG I WILL MISS YOU!

[/begins forming evil plan to make them move to Salem]

Read more »

Yeah, he's gone. And so's the show. Dead to me.

They not only killed off Vaughn, they wrote off Weiss. Knocking off the romantic lead and the sidekick in the first two episodes? Who thought up that stunningly horrendous idea?

JJ... I am ashamed to have touted your brilliance. Go back to Lost.

I'm going to watch Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy.

Maybe I'll watch a the Mamut a couple times. Yeah... that'll cheer me up.

...y que paso?

Read more »

Yup, that's right. There is a chance (some say it's more than a chance - it's a reality) that Michael Vaughn's character is killed off in the first half of the fifth season of that show that we call Alias.

The MV Shipper world has erupted into a state of mass hysteria, and terrible things are happening. Not the least of which is that my favorite fanfic author has ceased writing (mid fic!) and will only continue if the rumors are denied. Can you believe it? Not that I blame her...

So what does any self respecting Vartan worshiper do? Why, they launch a campaign, of course!

www.mvcampaign.com

That's right, The Safe House and VartanHos have combined with previously unaffiliated fans to form The MV Campaign. Which, as you can see by the main page, is three-fold.

When we do it we do it right.

Not that I'm an active member, but you bet your ass I'm cheering for them from the wings.

Some of my favorite war chants:

"Ask SpyDaddy: We Can't Lose Vaughn."

"If Vaughn's Not There, I'm Not There... And I'm Taking My Wallet With Me!"

The MV Campaign has been mentioned in the New York Post and Entertainment Tonight... plus numerous others...

But [/sob] it seems that all the efforts were for naught. Recent inside leakage confirms that August 17th was Vartan's last day filming, and that his funeral was one of the scenes.

*A moment of silence*

Many fans are hoping this is some big hoax, but most are accepting it as truth and vowing not to watch Season Five, or to stop watching after he is killed off.

As for me... I haven't decided. Guess I fall into the first category.

... I'm going to go cry now while I wait for the third season of West Wing to arrive in the mail. A show can't let you down if you don't have soulmates to root for...

[/sob again]

Read more »

I’m willing to guess that the ratio of stores to exhibits in Sea World leans largely in favor of stores. Each time you enter a darkened tunnel to survey the not-so-wild life you are motored through, told not to dawdle and promptly discarded in to the gift shop. And by “the” gift shop, I mean the penguin shop, the dolphin shop, the arctic shop, the Shamu shop, the shark shop. It is a 100% guarantee that if you just walked through the polar bears you will soon be faced with their fuzzy, beanbag miniatures. The children’s water park even has a children’s water apparel shop adjacent (in case you left your water-wings at home). There are shops by the restaurants that sell platters, glasses and assorted kitchen paraphernalia (in case … yeah, no clue). It’s quite obscene really. I’m surprised I made it out alive.

As Ryan and I walked through the gauntlet of Shamu miniatures at the “Shamu Shop” we wondered what might happen if Shamu were to pass on to the great blue beyond. Would they tell us? It seems like something the public has a right to know – but at the same time you have to wonder… what would happen to the sea of black and white plush? Would they dispose of it? Would they rename it? Would people want to buy paraphernalia riddled with the name of a dead orca? My guess is no.

Instead, the Sea World trainers would tearfully gather under the cover of night at the ocean shore as a giant crane lifted the gigantic hunk of blubber onto a makeshift raft. They would start the clap that is woefully choreographed and toss a match, igniting the pyre in a traditional Viking burial. Then they would return to work the next day to face the remaining whales. Through their tear-swollen faces they would be forced to decide which one can be spray painted to most resemble their beloved predecessor.

That was what we assumed, of course, until we were introduced to Shamu’s offspring. That’s right… the untrained calf in the middle of the pool is none other than… Shamu!

Shamu and Shamu.

So if I call Sea World and ask to talk to Shamu – which one would they put on the phone?

Read more »

I can’t sleep.

My brain just won’t – turn off.

And don’t get me wrong… I’m not claiming to be some super-genius whose brain won’t quit because I’m thinking of ways to alter the course of humanity. I’m just saying the damn thing won’t stop working long enough to give me a moment’s peace.

I’ve always had trouble going to sleep. I would lie in bed for probably an hour or two every night when I was growing up before finally drifting off. Throughout the years it really hasn’t changed much. There was a brief period during my freshman year of college when I managed to fall asleep within five minutes of hitting the pillow. I am told that was also a period filled with snoring, and can attest to the fact that it was accompanied by much drooling. I think I had a little trouble adjusting to college life and actually physically exhausted myself for the first time in history.

Although… I’m exhausted now and it’s doing me no good.

These days the one to two hour limbo time is turning into three or four. Last night it was five. Well… I say five only because after hour five I got up and out of bed so I could get on with the day.

I tried sleeping pills a few times – no luck. I think I’m just destined not to sleep at night.

I seem to have better luck sleeping during the day… maybe I really am a vampire…

Anyway.

As I lay in bed, mind churning, I wonder why exactly I must think of these things rather than go to sleep. I mean, there’s nothing really earth-shattering about any of them. Sometimes they’re reminders to myself – don’t forget to pay the rent, haircut Tuesday, you forgot to call Mom back, etc.

Those are the only ones I can rationalize as actually needing to be running through my head.

The others?

Last night I spent a good 20 minutes trying to figure out what Mary Chapin Carpenter meant when she sang, “Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.”

Is one of these options supposed to be the pleasant one? It would seem from the next line (Sometimes it all comes together, then sometimes you’re the fool in love) that it’s a sometimes you win, sometimes you lose scenario. But who is the winner in the bug/windshield pairing? The disemboweled insect or the sheet of glass with bug juice smeared all over it? That’s like saying sometimes you’re the bird crap and sometimes you’re the head it lands on. Who wants to be either?

Why does this keep me up at night? Don’t I have better things to do with my time?

Are you listening, Subconscious??? Shut OFF!

Read more »

As I lay awake in bed at 6am, I am accosted by the sounds of morning routine.

Alarms beep faintly in the distance, only barely audible as the sounds echo on the courtyard walls.

My neighbor slides open her closet door.

A car honks to unlock.

The garage gate screeches open.

A lump forms in my throat as I thank whatever power has allowed me to remain in bed.

I have a deeply rooted fear of actually becoming a part of the workforce. The sheer horror of it hits me at least once a day. And the worst part about it – I know it’s coming. One day… whether next week or two months from now… I’m going to be listening to the radio, thick with static, as it shakes me from my dreams at an ungodly hour.

I’m not okay with this. Is it healthy to constantly fear the day reality steps up to the plate?

I got a letter in the mail a few days ago. It was from me. High School Allie, to be exact.

High School Allie apparently did not share the same apprehension as I do today.

On the day before graduation, my Physics teacher (Mr. Lampert) had the class sit down and write letters to themselves which he would send out in five years time. We were instructed to tell our future selves where we thought we would be, what we thought we might be doing and remind ourselves of our previous goals.

High School Allie obviously had other things on her mind.

Inside my letter are several pictures I vaguely remember Mr. Lampert printing off his desk jet. I cut out the ones of my friends and myself and pasted them across the notebook paper. Also included is a fortune cookie that reads: Pack your bags! You are bound for an exciting destination to the far east. Uhuh.

The text of the letter says…

Allie –

Hey there. It is one day until graduation. How exciting! I plan to go to Willamette and study abroad at least one year (Europe hopefully). Good luck! Become an actress!

Then I go on to list four people I should call.

Oh, High School Allie – did you not know yourself at all? Didn’t you know you have an irrational distaste for telephone conversations and an inherent fear of calling people? Shouldn’t you have told yourself to shoot off an email or two?

And “Good luck! Become an actress!” – is that for real? Did you honestly think that was going to happen?

The thing that really disappoints me (besides the guilt that comes with the acknowledgement that not only did I not go abroad, I did not become an actress, nor do I intend to call those four people) is that High School Allie, in all her paranoia about schoolwork and getting As, couldn’t take the time out to actually write a quality letter? For shame.

It appears I wasn’t the only one in a hurry to finish sixth period and get in line for a chance at good placement in the ceremony seating chart. Attached to my letter is another sheet of notebook paper covered in chicken scratch. I take consolation in the fact that my friends had science second period and the people I managed to convince to write something to my future self were little more than acquaintances. But still… the only thing any of them had to say was “good luck” and “I’m sure you’re still a great person.” One of them took the time to remind me my nickname was Shmallie. Man. My friends were creative.

The kicker is the message from Mr. Lampert. He wrote that he was sure that by the time this letter reached me I would be a student teacher making others smile the way I made him smile every day.

Oh ow. The guilt… it hurts… the shame of it all.

Oh Shmallie, what have you become?

And should you be disappointed?

Read more »