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]

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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?

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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!

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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?

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Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish.

The echo of the water as it slams into porcelain reaches her across the great expanse of mustard yellow. Each drop that lands chips away at her sanity.

Perhaps if it were rhythmic she wouldn’t be so irritated.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish splash splish.

Inhale.

Splash splish.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Water never seems to stop. She can think of nothing as tediously unrelenting as a dripping faucet. Something about its composition must make it so painfully persistent – but she can’t imagine what. What drives something to push forward?

The drop forms at the tip of the rusted metal spout. Time is not on his side, however… it’s only a matter of seconds before the next drop hurls itself down the pipe and threatens to overtake the first. The next drop may land somewhere else, or it may just pass him by. But he can’t take any chances. The utter horror of the third possibility is what causes him to plummet. To leap into oblivion. If he didn’t… he would lose himself. If he allowed the next drop to collide – to merge into one – he would no longer exist. And that is a risk no drop can take.

Splish splash splish.

Three heroic drops launch themselves forward. They don’t know how it will end… but they know it’s worth the risk. They know what lies behind them, and they’re certain that’s not where they long to be.

Splash.

She wishes they would stop. Perhaps if they realized the only thing that lay ahead was another pipe. Another dark tunnel. Another ill-advised leap.

Turning on her side, she finds herself face to face with a digital display.

3:27

It seems the only thing as persistent as a leaky faucet is the passage of time.

She carefully removes the blanket and slips silently out of bed. She doesn’t want to disturb him. Though she doubts any noise on her part will. If he can sleep through the pounding of water as it smashes into the tub – he can sleep through the next world war.

Padding stealthily to the bathroom she surveys her options.

Logic.

She can reason with them. Convince the drops that there is nothing to jump for. Nothing beneficial about moving forward. No hope for a future any different than their current, daily droll.

But then, when has water ever responded to a rational plea?

The second option seems more likely.

Clamping her fingers tightly around the chilled metal knob, she twists it clockwise. The knob resists.

Of course it does.

She wraps her left hand around the remaining exposed metal and leans forward before turning the knob with all the strength she can muster. It remains unresponsive. The only thing that appears to budge is the skin of her palm as it rips and burns.

The screams of the drops increase in volume, only to be outdone by the thud as they sprawl helplessly on final contact.

Releasing her death grip on the knob, she retreats into the sink. She runs the flushed pink flesh of her hand under the cool water before reaching for a towel. As it absorbs the moisture from her hands, a solution presents itself.

Throwing the towel beneath the spout of the tub, she finds herself uncharacteristically pleased. It may not silence the screams… but it will soften the impact.

One step at a time.

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The following is an excerpt from Black Eyes of Boston, an article on MSN Entertainment about Bostonians who give the town a bad name:

I've saved the worst for last. In the long and distinguished line of actors who have seen their careers crash and burn due to horrific role choices, Ben Affleck tops a list where the second-place finisher isn't even in the same solar system. At one time, he and his talented buddy Matt Damon were the toast of Boston, after winning the Oscar for penning "Good Will Hunting." But now, Ben has managed to fall so far from A-list celebrity status, he finds himself playing celebrity poker and competing for Hollywood roles with Steve Guttenberg and the guy who played Turbo in the "Breakin'" movies.

Through quirky, challenging roles, Damon seems genuinely sincere in exploring the craft of acting. Affleck takes such mind-numbing roles that they couldn't entertain a group of chimpanzees after they ate a batch of pot brownies. And I don't care how much fame or fortune he acquires, to me, Affleck was the clown in high school who joined the drama club in an attempt to make out with the chick who lacked confidence but appreciated theater.

The guy is a complete sham. He touts himself as a maniacal Red Sox fan, but I'd be willing to bet that before he became famous, Affleck never stepped foot in Fenway Park more than 10 times. Sure, when playoff time comes around, he escorts J.Lo or Jennifer Garner to their box seats wearing a glove, hoping to catch a foul ball and carrying on like a diehard, but true citizens of Red Sox nation know that deep down, Ben would rather be back at the Ritz Carlton catching the last 15 minutes of "JAG" and making an appointment to have his chest waxed.

Man, he drives me nuts.

Beautifully said, Chris Coakley - you have a way with words. You forgot, however, to add onto the long list of Affleck's major flaws -- HE RUINED MY SHOW!!

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