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Anyone wanna try their hand at grantwriting? Anyone? Anyone? Something “D-O-O” economics? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? I guess trial-by-fire isn’t everyone’s idea of a good time.

No, that’s okay, I’ll do it myself….

It wouldn’t be half so bad if that ice cream truck playing four repetitive bars of “Turkey in the Straw” left the neighborhood for a while. Up and down the street, up and down. The Doppler Effect’s kinda cool, though: if I were to make a film in which I played a serial killer slaughtering clowns for fun and profit, that’d be my soundtrack.

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RealiTV: Stuck at home while Jonno attended his yoga class (first Belle and Sebastian, now this–he’s gone phishy-commie-pinko-hippie on me), I found myself tidying up and listening to the TV, waiting for my weekly hour of Simpsons reruns. I kept switching back and forth between Fox’s new American High (confirmation that their target demographic is now almost as young as the WB’s) and the Republican National Convention.

Of the two, American High wins on reality points. I mean, at least they’re featuring–a la Real World–a high school-age homo. I can relate to that. The RNC, on the other hand was a little too creepy to be believable (hello, bringing on The Rock?), although they did have a gay speaker. Of course, it would have been nice if they’d allowed him to talk about civil rights instead of the oh-so-sterile international trade agenda….

Side benefit: Fox featured a very sassy anti-meth ad during the AH run. A stylish twenty-something scrubbed her house clean with a toothbrush while a happy song about crank played in the background. All in all, a very soft-sell anti-drug ad. Probably a little more effective in the long run. I wonder what took ’em so long to figure it out.

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Somehow this Yahoo search led to me: “sarah michelle gellar pie”.

Given my distinct lack of affection for la Gellar, the idea of having her pudgy, bleached-blonde WBody ground up into little meatballs and used as the daily special at Mr. Gyros sounds positively smashing. Not that I’d want to eat her, mind you–if I want bitter I’ll have a Campari and soda–but it’s the thought that counts.

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So many comings-out I’ve had recently. Now, add one more to the list: yes, I was a debate geek. I did a little LD (the policy topics my junior and senior years were really dull: water treatment, zzzzzzz), but my best events were Original Oratory, Humorous/Dramatic Interp, Duo Reading, and Duet Acting.

My high school once kicked NFL and CFL ass, but by the time I got there, they’d long since dropped the debate program. Luckily, our speech teacher wanted to start things up again, and within the first few weeks of my 10th grade year, she’d corralled four of us into a ragtag group of competitors. We did surprisingly well; even at our first tournament I walked with a 2nd place Prose Interp (a category I later came to despise) and a 1st place Duet. Hot stuff, no?

A small point of interest: one of my fellow teammates (the one with whom I shared the aforementioned Duet trophy and with whom I was inexplicably matched up for the rest of my high school years) went on to do very well for herself. There’s a pic of her somewhere on this site. Who could it be? First one to get it right wins a special token of my esteem….

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Dear Steve:

Thank you for your correspondence, but we regret to inform you that Ms. Ciccone has been dead for some time now. She suffered near fatal injuries during the filming of Dick Tracy, and although she made a jaw-dropping recovery around the time of Erotica‘s release, she soon experienced a massive relapse. She was so weak by the time Alan Parker chose her for the lead in Evita, we all knew death would not be long for her. She died at the wrap party for that film in a freak mehendi poisoning. The case is still under investigation, so we are not at liberty to discuss the particulars, but signs currently point to a disgruntled woman who auditioned for a walk-on part as an elephant seal in the “Cherish” video, was rejected, and then later acquired a position as a chambermaid in Ms. Ciccone’s home under an assumed name.

Thankfully, Ms. Ciccone’s forward-thinking backers had planned for just such an incident and hired Regina Belle at a much reduced rate (she isn’t working much these days, now is she?) to sing new material, and brought on Debbie/Deborah Gibson to serve as a body double for a limited number of live performances. Of course, most of Ms. Ciccone’s appearances these days are on video, made from splicings of old footage and new, digitally enhanced work, based on Ms. Gibson’s languid movements in a specially designed electronic catsuit. We are unfamiliar with the specifics of this process, but the results have been very impressive, have they not?

Of course, this is all classified information, and it is given with the understanding that you will keep it private. Should you choose to violate this implied agreement, let us just say that (a) we know where you live, and (b) little Lourdes has taken very well to her private handgun lessons. We hope you gather our meaning.

Thinking of you during this time of grief, we remain,

Carlisle, Martika, & Hoffs, Partners in Law

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Like most superheroes, I could be using my powers for good–“powers” in this case meaning time alone in my house. I could be organizing my three-foot-high stack of miscellaneous bills, stickynotes, and ungraded mid-terms. I could be emptying trash cans and washing dishes. I could be mopping, for chrissake.

But like many who have come before me, I am weak. I have been swallowed up by the dark side, revelling in the Seven Deadly Sins and even thinking up some new ones. My latest invention is “Sluttony.” Sloth + Gluttony = Sluttony. It refers to my habit of eating copious amounts of food while laying in bed watching repeats of National Geographic specials I’ve seen five times already. Of course, now that I look at it, it could have other meanings, too. Like gorging yourself on…well, I’ll leave it to your imagination.

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If anyone sees my boyfriend this afternoon, tell him that I miss him dearly and that the house is, indeed, still standing, although I broke a glass pitcher yesterday because it wasn’t able to handle the half-gallon of still-hot iced tea I’d just made. (The hounds and I avoided the glass shrapnel, and the sound was kinda cool, so everything worked out fine.) You can give him a kiss, too, if you like.

Oh. One more thing: ask him to call or email me at some point. I just want to know that he’s still alive and that his friends haven’t secretly set him up with a job and an apartment or anything. Nothing serious.