"He'll sit there and go, Dipsy... Po... Dipsy... Po. I honestly don't think he knows colors. Just Teletubbies."


The Oscars are tonight.

Hmm, hmm, hmm. IFP Independent Spirit Awards. Hmm. Bill Murray won, yay. Bill Murray rocks because he was in Ghostbusters. Patricia Clarkson did not win. Shoreh Roxaboxen did, but whatever. I didn't watch most of it, because I was tired, but I did catch the sing-a-longs for American Splendor and In America, and Tom McCarthy winning for The Station Agent. But, anyway, I loved the whole In America skit. "I told you not to wear the same outfit as me!" Heh, heh, heh. And Djimon Hounsou won!!! Yay for Djimon.

Kelly Ripa's kids names are so all-over-the-board. Michael, Lola, and Joaquin. What the frick? Michael, Elizabeth, and John all match. What was wrong with having all normal names, all trendy names, or all pretentious names? Jeebus!


Rented Mario Kart, so don't be surprised if I'm drowned in my obsession and don't post for the next five days.

I've decided to hold a Oscar party amongst my family in revenge for the Fake Sick's Super Bowl party, which so unceremoniously involved the Naked Boob Halftime Show. Therefore, I'm working on finding Entertainment Weekly's printable Oscar ballot things as I've purloined the one my mother printed out to make copies from. Mutti and Vati have gone out to see Fifty First Dates, much to my mother's chagrin.

Me: What are you doing?
Mom: Looking for an alternative to 50 First Dates.
Me: Oh, how about 21 Grams?
Mom: Imagine your father in that. He'd probably leave early, like in 12 Monkeys. He wouldn't get it.
Me: Like British humor.
Mom: Exactly. (Long pause, more mindess mother-daughter chatter.) Maybe Welcome to Mooseport? Maybe over my dead, bitter body. Along Came Polly? Hm. No.
Me: You're not allowed to see Miracle without me. You already saw The Station Agent without me.
Mom: He didn't like that.
Me: Oh, why not?
Mom: Midgets.

I love my mom for making a single noun explain everything. Someone should write a Mother's Day card about that so I can give it to her.

I seriously want the Sims 2. Maybe after Fake Sick and I pitch in and buy Mario Kart Double Dash (which is expensive, addictive cyber-cocaine) for our Cute Purple Game Cube.

Not only do I have a flip-flop addiction, I also apparently have a video game addiction. Please note that Mario Kart, The Sims, and Rollercoaster Tycoon are the only video games I like at all, or have some scrap of talent at. But, seriously, y'all, go to The Sims 2

My dishwasher is making these horrible serial killer noises. Jeebus. Argh.

OH, YAY!! The Independent Spirit Awards are on at 9:00 tonight on Bravo. And they rerun at two in the morning. So I think I'll just watch the first time around, as I will most likely be home and not watching something else. (My parents are Trading Spaces fiends.) I might miss the pre-show, but that's what wireimage.com is for.

And bravo.com is not an actual website. Argh.

FakeSick now has decided that, since he is ill, everyone else's life must stand still for him. Actually, he thinks that whether he's sick or not, but he's even worse today.

Me: Take the dog out. I'm getting ready.
FS: Fine, but you have to take her in. Because I'm sick.

Oh, shut up. Hopefully my mother will take me to see a movie tonight or this afternoon (like we'd planned before the Fake Sick ruined it all) so I can Get Out of the House. And hopefully the Independent Spirit Awards rerun after they're done because I don't think I'll be able to watch them first time around. I'm looking it up on bravo.com.

The EvilDog, we'll call her Stupid, as she answers to that anyway, is bouncing on her butt again. I think she does this when she stupidly gets stuck on the rug. Oh, jeez.


The Fake Sick can't just ruin one day of my weekend, apparently. Oh, no. He's staying home tomorrow, too. And, knowing him, he will ruin my plans for Sunday by sitting on the couch, gagging, snorting, and watching ESPN on a day that should be devoted entirely to the Academy Awards.

In happier news, I went shopping anyway tonight and I found Camp Nowhere, which brings fond memories of my childhood and me trying to lipstick Mariana, on DVD at Barnes and Noble. I also found a book on Love, Actually, which I didn't buy but I flipped through all the parts involving Emma Thompson. They had an interview with her in the back, and her answer to the question of what her worst Christmas present ever was, "A half-eaten candy bar from my Aunt Mill. She wasn't well." So then I started laughing and all of Barnes and Noble was staring at me. And I bought a bag, and Entertainment Weekly, and flip-flops, and Jolly Ranchers, and Starburst lip gloss. And all of it was cheap, which was, of course, the best part.

I have a serious shoe addiction I need to cure. Especially red shoes. I yammered on all night about how "Oh, that shoe is fabulous, too bad it doesn't come in red" and quite possibly drove my mother to tears.

I'm off to watch Camp Nowhere. Good times, good times.

Hm. Update on the Fake Sick. He thinks that coughing at random intervals and snorting snot up his nasal canal is going to fool me. Argh. So, thank you, dear younger brother, for usurping my cough-and-cold, destroyificating my weekend, and being an all around annhole. (Annhole is the term for people who are like Ann Coulter. Not that Fake Sick is that fracking crazy yet.)

Fametracker has its' Rasco P. Soultrain awards up: Rasco P. Soultrain Awards Patricia Clarkson is the winner of the William H. Macy H!ITG Memorial Graduation Award. (For those of you not in the loop, a H!ITG is a "Hey, it's that guy!") It sort of reads like someone as equally Patricia Clarkson-worshipping as me wrote it, so y'alls gotsta go read that too. Even if she does not win The Oscar Which She So Deserves, she won that, and Fametracker is what really counts. Not the Oscars, whose members happen to contain Carmine Caridi (someone I hadn't heard of before he became an Official Bad Movie Pirate) and who will probably bestow Best Actress on the woman from Mighty Joe Young. Argh.

Argh is my word of the day, I think. It's better than my alternatives, which I gave up because THE Jesus died on THE cross for THE people. (/End of Unnecessary Mel Gibson Mocking.)

I'm writing this during computer class, since I already finished what I needed to do and whatnot.

Oh, jeebus.

I'm sort of depressed. I just wish that I had parents who could pick up on Fake Sick (my brother) and Real Sick (me.) Know who got the last cough pill this morning? Fake Sick. Know who got to stay home from school? Fake Sick. Know who successfully ruined the nice, quiet weekend of awards shows I had planned? Fake Sick.



Fametracker.com's Inside the Oscar Star Chamber 2004 is officially my favorite part of the Oscar season. That is some funny stuff, y'all, so if you're wondering why I'll go around making bizarre, lewd comments about all the Oscar nominees for a few days, it's probably spawned from this. And, I loved this bit: "Cold Mountain was hardly nominated for anything." "What, did Harvey [Weinstein]'s check bounce?" Heh, heh, heh.


An Official Press Release from Catherine

I have made a decision. For Lent, I will be giving up profanity of any kind. So don't think I've gone soft when I call people "fracking beaches" an awful lot.

And now for something entirely different...

I am waiting patiently for the moment I will get to go watch my shiny new DVD of Pieces of April. Eeeek. So exciting, y'all. Mariana is such a Nice Friend.

Waiting to take an essay test in literature. Not enjoying it. Where is my lit teacher? Argh.

My friend is talking about America's Next Top Model. Which is not very interesting at all. I've determined that Models Have Issues.


Anyway. Am copying a CD as I type this lovely, witty entry because I discovered that just because the computer says you can't run other programs while burning a CD, that doesn't mean you can't. It just means the computer is stupid. Except the burning just takes a lot longer. But this may be related to the fact that I'm burning an incredibly long Wilco CD. The first and the last song are both roughly seven minutes long on this disc, apparently. I am in love with Wilco. And you heard it here first.

"Snowflakes are like angels. They fall on your head." --Mariana, in a highly boring art class most of our class utilized as screwing-off time. Except we were not the morons who demoralized the classroom door with pictures of the elderly from old National Geographics or made bling-bling that said "Jesus" and "$" with Mardi Gras beads and sticky gold paper. We aren't that stupid, yet, just slightly demented, honestly.

Speaking of Mariana, she is being a Nice Friend and getting me Pieces of April on DVD as a Late Birthday Present. And since Evangeline bought me Home for the Holidays and my mom got me Sense and Sensibility and Betty gave me Raising Arizona, my DVD collection is in the works of being a shrine to My Idols and Dysfunctional Families Everywhere. When I have the monopoly on writing independent films about disgustingly dysfunctional families, no one will ever wonder why.

Why is it that two minutes ago the burner said burning would take two more minutes and now it says it will take thirteen more minutes? Argh.


More thoughts:

-I had a very interesting birthday party yesterday. Oh, yes. And watching Home for the Holidays right after made it obscenely better. My aunt Mary is totally Joanne Larson (alias Cynthia Stevenson, who may have a monopoly on every good bitchy mom role in Hollywood.)

-I told you they looked good. Oh, yes they did. I think my blog should be the Official Awards Season Blog of
  • Holly Hunter
  • and
  • Patricia Clarkson
  • .

    -I want to be on the fictional cooking show of Princess Di and her Beloved Aunt. Oh my gods does that sound like fun.

    It's a double angry-letter day, oh yes it is.

    A Letter to the SAG

    Dear Screen Actors Guild,
    I expected better of you. I was actually optimistic about your nominees. I mean, Station Agent for best ensemble, a total of three nominations for Patricia Clarkson! Obviously, going with the Best Choice on Your Ballots was a bit too hard for you people. I'll admit that I'm not too upset about Meryl Streep winning over Emma Thompson (I mean, it's the Screen Actors Guild, and Meryl Streep is God For Actors), and I'm happy Johnny Depp won, but other than that? Squinty! Tim Robbins! Charlize Theron! Let's be like every other awards show. But my Favorite Nominees, at least the ones who showed up, all looked Very Nice. So that gives us something to applaud them for, as we obviously cannot applaud for them as the winners.

    Love, Catherine.

    A Letter to the People who Don't Use Punctuation in their Away Messages

    Dear Punctuationless Bastards,
    We can't tell what you're saying, because all your sentences run together when you use no periods. Stupid moron asses.

    Love, Catherine.


    Hm. Random Thoughts from me for the Night of Saturday, February 21, 2004.

    -Nobody is online. I wish someone would get online. Princess Di? Mariana/Marinara?

    -I'm reading a book with a protagonist named Pagan. Now who, for the love of God, would name their daughter Pagan? This isn't even some weird sci-fi book where characters can get away with having strange names, either. The author should just have named her Sarah or Jessica and gotten along with it. Pagan is not even a good name for a fictional character. I mean, really, even if someone doesn't honor God or whatever, it's not nice to name them Pagan. I think I will invent characters named Pagan and Heath-short-for-Heathen. Heh.

    -I think Laurie on Trading Spaces is having some lipliner issues tonight. Did anyone else notice this? And Hildi's flower bathroom made me tear up a bit. The last time I cried over something on TV was when Sophie's Choice was on, and before that it was Sally's impression of Crush-the-Finding-Nemo-turtle on Mike's Super Short Show (not deserving of bold, sorry) on the Disney Channel. Bad things make me cry.

    -You would be amazed at the fabulousal CD collection at our local library. I think I may have gone a bit overboard in checking out: the Chicago soundtrack, the School of Rock soundtrack, a Nick Drake retrospective, Radiohead's Kid A, When the Pawn... by Fiona Apple, a Cranberries CD, Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and the Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack (laugh if you want to. But I can't hate a movie with Parker Posey. And Fametrackers reccomended the CD.) And I also checked out a bunch of books, too. But no magazines, since their Entertainment Weeklys are suspiciously missing. I haven't told my mother about this yet. I think she might become clinically depressed again when I tell her.

    Going to the library today. My mom works downtown by the Best Library Ever, so she's dropping me off before she works and picking me up when she leaves. She seems to think I will get bored spending at least two hours at the library. Me. Bored, at a library. A library with books and CDs and magazines and videos. And tables. And quiet time, something I vastly need before our entire extended family tyrranizes (sorry, Angie) our house tomorrow afternoon, and also before I have to clean the toilets. For someone who can't shut up, I really enjoy my quiet time, away from my mother, brother, father, etc. I can just sit there and read or whatever, and not be interrupted to let the dog out and whatnot.

    Sigh. I love quiet today. Tomorrow, I will also love quiet. Until the SAG Awards broadcast, at least.


    Quotes from my Life

    Me: Bitch stole my name, yo. [Later:] I cannot believe I said "bitch stole my name, yo." (Long pause.) That was actually quite funny.

    Princess Di: I'm enfulged in the internet games. It's like being eaten alive!

    Franny: I mean, I say stupid things but even I know not to say things like that! (About a certain classmate saying that no states joined the Confederacy after South Carolina because, "South Carolina is still part of our country today!")

    In other news...
    Hallie Todd seriously needs to work more. She's fabulously sarcastic and I like her. I will watch Lizzie McGuire for her if I have nothing better to do, because she manages to look like she's having no fun at all being sarcastic and having cute hair and, well, she probably isn't. But she makes it look like it would be fun to be in her sarcastic, cute-haired presence. There you have it. My not-so-secret secret confession.

    And, in awards-show news...
    THE SCREEN ACTORS GUILD AWARDS ARE IN TWO DAYS. I heart the SAG Awards, largely because they just give out award after award and don't bother stopping and actors also heart Patricia Clarkson and Holly Hunter and Emma Thompson and Bill Murray and Johnny Depp and might possibly not so much heart Renee Zellweger. Or at least I hope so. Gods.

    I've had a really bad day. I don't know. I had to deal with little kids and was forced to listen to "Milkshake" seven hundred times (or at least it feels like that much.) I'm still rewriting my goddamn first scene and my stomach hurts and I fell flat on my ass in front of the entire preschool class. And they laughed at me. And I think I'm majorly fucking up my math grade again. I think I should be able to pay the school not to take math, as I will go out of my way to find a career that involves nothing more than basic algebra, and no geometry. And I have stupid, demented student-led conferences in a week or something like that and I really shouldn't blog while I'm upset but I do anyway.

    Hm. Hm. Think happy thoughts. Puppies, ice cream, fat people falling down.

    If I ever get a fish his name will be Prince Chandler Kitty-The-Second Eugene. Betty's mom had a fish named Kitty (yes, as in cat) who died last week, so I feel I must honor Kitty.

    Also? Once girls hit puberty and middle school, they become bitchy and thin and somehow unceremoniously feel the right to call normal-sized, sweet girls "fat." If you're reading this, you know who you are and you know you have no right to be doing that. And I don't think you realize how much you piss people off because of your ugly, stupid shallowness. I never would have pegged some of you as bitches. But you are. And you heard it from me first, because, quite frankly, I'm not afraid to say it to any of you stick-figures that would be knocked over by a slight breeze and never be able to pick yourselves up again.

    Maybe that's why I'm so pissed. Other than my tanking algebra grade. I think our middle school is infested with morons. Hopefully these bitches will get smarter when they hit seventh and eighth grade. Jesus.


    Catherine's Oscar Fashion Predictions

    Not that I'm very good at this sort of thing. But, you know, I'll try.

    Patricia Clarkson will wear red shoes. I bet you any money she does. And Holly Hunter, my other favorite nominee will be wearing Vera Wang. Those two weren't hard, just observant. And... um... Renee Zellweger will look ugly and squinty. Keisha Castle-Hughes will be much better dressed than Charlize Theron, who will wear something predictable and boring that everyone will rave over for no good reason at all. Also predictably dressed will be Nicole Kidman if she bothers to show up. Diane Keaton will wear gloves.

    And all the men will wear predictable, boring tuxedos. Except for Sting who will wear his typical uniform of hey-look-at-me-I-am-a-tantric-sex-rock-god. And Johnny Depp is bound to wear something weird, as much as I love him.

    And you know what I realized, while talking to Evangeline? I really am Miss Kenton from Remains of the Day. I never shut up ever and people yell at me about it, I'm quite energetic, and my huffy walk is the perfect Miss Kenton walk. I think they should remake that movie when I'm of age, just so I can be the Snarky British Housekeeper Known as Miss Kenton. Except maybe they could give her a first name.

    Hmm. Allrighty. According to Blogger, I officially have a large blog. This should not make me as happy as it does. But it does.

    I can't really think of anything to say. Went on a field trip to see a mediocre preduction of West Side Story today. Maria sang like a goat and we had the most obnoxious audience ever, I swear. I think they all had worms eating away at their brains or something, because the kids next to us had to say, "Jose!" forty bazillion times, and then the boys behind us kept singing "I Feel Pretty" through the whole production. Come on. This is not a sing-along Disney video. Jesus.

    In case you can't tell, I'm the Theater Etiquette Nazi. I refuse to see Saturday matinees of kids' movies because I continually have to turn around and say "please stop talking, we're trying to watch the movie" (when I really mean: "Stop talking! I did not pay eight and a half dollars to listen to you talk, you assbastards!") or "please stop kicking my seat" to little kids. And, you know what? I don't really care if I'm mean to the little brats. Their parents should tell them not to talk or not to kick seats. My mom always did. And it's not just the kiddies. Oh, no. Adults, especially the elderly, are even worse. Adults are just rude and the elderly tend to state the painfully obvious in highly loud tones, because, you know, their hearing aid battery is draining hazardous chemicals into their brains or something. They like to say "Bye-bye [insert name of dead character here]!" a lot, also.

    And that is the story of why you never want to be stuck in a theater with me. And there's a slight chance we might have another snow day tomorrow, and, since I go to a catholic school, I'll never have to make it up! Bwahahaha.

    Oh, gods. Hallie is IMing "I Feel Pretty" to me. Oy with the prettiness already.


    My friends and I? We have an innate need to make everything more complicated than it really, truly is. And you know who we can blame for all this? The theoretical beings of Adam and Eve. And we can blame God for Theoretical Adam and Eve, so, therefore, everything is God's fault. Take that, God. You bastard.

    Yes, in fact, I am feeling bitter. However could you tell?

    As some of you may have noticed, I changed my template. I realized, in looking at other blogs, that everyone and their brother has my old template.

    Dear Harvey Whinestein,
    Cold Mountain was not nominated because it was three hours of suckiness. And it had ugly hats. Note that this worked for Howard's End, but not for your movie. Hmm.

    And, yes, I forgot my Oscar-themed entry yesterday and I'm quite ashamed. So you'll be getting two today. (Oh, shut up. You only have eleven more to live through, then my recap. You'll live.)

    Those last three sentences? Were so mom-like of me I'm prepared to make my kids vomit Chicken McNuggets.


    Why O.J. Simpson Is Wholly Responsible for my Unnatural Aversion to Chicken McNuggets

    The day of the OJ Simpson trial, my mother was quite entranced with the TV broadcast of it, and I, not having the same criminal justice fixation, was not. I really just wanted to have a Happy Meal and pitched a fit until my mother agreed to go to McDonald's. She doesn't particularly like doing things for me, like feeding me, that make her a Nice Mom when she could be watching a murder trial, though, so the moment I got my nice little Happy Meal she barked: "Eat fast." So I did, and I vomitted all over the shiny surface of our plastic table booth and I've never stuck a Chicken McNugget in my mouth since. So, Mr. Simpson, don't you feel guilty for robbing me of my simple pleasure of Chicken McNuggets? Do ya? Huh?

    Sometimes, I worry myself.

    My parents have dashed off to a 7:00 meeting with my health/gym teacher, who either:
    a) is a pathological liar
    b) is deluded
    c) hates me

    If you ask me, 7:00 in the morning is a bit early to be dealing with any of those options.


    Just discovered that I missed Holly Hunter on Leno a few weeks ago, which also means I missed Holly Hunter throwing a baseball crappily and that sort of just ruined my day.

    Hm. What else. No school today. Princess Di, you are not online, and that makes me quite sad.

    Ooh. Fametracker has Sean Penn's fame audit up. Reading, reading, reading. I have to admit, as much as I'm annoyed by him, Sean Penn is a fantabulous actor. But I still want Bill Murray to win Best Actor, dammit! Someone on the IMDB message boards was wondering why I was on the Go Keisha Castle-Hughes Bandwagon.

    Worked a little on Love is Nothing. Damn, that is a good title. I'm rather proud of that title. And I used the line, "Put that in your psychology book and smoke it!" which I'm sure is destined to become a classic quote in the same vein as "Gimme back that baby, you warthog from hell!"


    Catherine's Future Oscar Gowns

    Okay. I saw this dress today, thanks to a Fametracker, and I decided it would have been my Future Oscar Gown had it not: a) been worn already by someone else or b) been strapless, as I have nothing to keep that up.

    So now I am looking for Future Oscar Gowns for when I have to go up and give my Witty Acceptance Speech. And not having much luck. And I have no idea how to title my links, so now they look rather ugly. I hate ugly URLs. So here is my list:
    1. The Aforementioned Purloined Gown.
    2. I hate to be stereotypical, but just about anything in Vera Wang's spring collection, which you can view on . Those are pretty fracking dresses. I especially like the green one at the end of the spring collection. I wish I looked good in green, as opposed to looking like I have leukemia. Perhaps I could special-order it in black.
    3. Okay. Am scouring Alexander McQueen for something I could actually pull off. Not succeeding. Wow. Most of this is quite eccentric and a bit foofy for someone who is only 5'1". So now I'm looking at Armani and Fametrackering. Nothing is striking me as awards showsy, and I'm tired. So when I go up to accept my award, looking like Sofia Coppola dressed in some random black dress (except I will be so very unceremoniously wearing red shoes) that looks terrible on me, you will know why: I have Clothing ADD. And Restless Leg Disease.

    Hm. More on screewriting.

    Dear Whoever wrote Screenwriting For Dummies: You spelled both of Shannen Doherty's names wrong. And I don't like hearing that I have construction workers playing basketball in my brain, thankyouverymuch. But at least you leased me some room for artistry, unlike Skip of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Screenwriting, who wants me to write my ideas in a completely mainstream, crappy manner for no good reason at all. And if I ever attend a screenwriting seminar of my own accord, please just shoot me.

    Anyway. I have 16 emails. Oh, gods gods gods.

    I'm no longer at Angie's. I'm at my rather boring house now.

    Saw Adaptation last night, and Mostly Martha. Meryl Streep was terribly good in the former, and hilarious, and now I will go around calling people "fat fucks" forever and ever amen. But the end? I was quite lost and laughing shamefully hard. Mostly Martha was also very good. Angie and I felt so smart because we were drinking chamomile tea and watching this artsy, English-subtitled film.

    In other news, I am predicting Patricia Clarkson to win the best supporting actress Oscar. Why, you may ask? Okay. Renee Zellweger and Shoreh Andgslfjdlkjfladfadroo (I don't know how to spell it) will split the vote. Holly Hunter isn't going to win because thirteen's producers weren't smart and released it in August. Marcia Gay Harden already won and her nose is squishy, not that this has anything to do with anything. If this happens, I will throw the Oscar voters a party. Also, I'm jumping on the Bill Murray-not-Sean Penn for Best Actor bandwagon. Because Bill Murray was in Ghostbusters and Sean Penn was not. Best Actress? Go Whale Rider girl!! Beat the fake-uglies. Although I can't say I'd be terribly upset if Samantha Morton won either. Best Supporting Actor should go to... erm... let's say Djimon Hounsou because he's the only one I can remember at the moment who is not Tim Robbins. And I desperately want Best Original Screenplay to go to Finding Nemo.

    And that is the end of my rant on the suction of the Oscars. None of those people are going to win. Well, perhaps in my head they will.


    Alllrighty then. I'm at Angie's house updating my blog. And I have no idea what to say.

    Oh, wait: When is someone going to make a screenwriting book for people that want to write a screenplay they like, not a screenplay some stupid producer will? They do not understand that some people write screenplays without the idea of selling them in mind. In fact, I hadn't thought about selling mine at all until Princess Di brought it up. Although I suppose, if they were to get the right people (no matter how unrealistic) I wouldn't mind selling it. But I'd still be sad. Grrr.

    That is all, all, all.



    Reminds you of an ex-lover: I've never had an ex-lover. Let's pretend that... erm... oh there is no point in answering this.
    Favorite song of all time: hmm... there's so many. It changes every hour.
    Makes you laugh: "I am Cow."
    You never want to hear again: Anything by Hilary Duff, alias Daddyfucker.
    You'd like to wake up to: hmmm.... I'd have to say that PJ Harvey's entire album "Dry" would be excellent to wake up to.
    You'd like to fall asleep to: Dido's "Life for Rent" album, or "As You Turn to Go" by the Magnetic Fields.
    Reminds you of the person you're into now: Hmm. As I don't know the person I'm into now personally, I don't feel I can answer this properly.
    A ridiculous song: Ridiculously bad? "Milkshake" by Kelis.
    Makes you think of being alone: "Maggie May" by Suzanne Vega and Texas' "I'll See it Through." Oh, god, and "Hallelujah" by Jeff Buckley. I listen to a lot of lonely music.
    Perks you up: There's a lot of them. Lately it's been "Sleepy California" by Her Space Holiday.
    Makes you wanna go nuts: "Milkshake," especially when Les Poulets (the prostitutes) sing it.
    Reminds you of a mean person: "Milkshake." Surprise, surprise.

    Hrm. Posting a comment on Angie's journal. Y'all can now email me at MrWilcoxIAmDemented@hellokitty.com (now my internet life matches. I have never been so proud. Except I'm a bit too lazy to change my journal name. Oh, you know.)

    Mariana-- I almost typed Marinara there--- and I took it upon ourselves to steal Betty's fatuous frog bouncy ball and stick it in one of our volcano projects for science. It was rather funny until she found it and chucked it very hard at my thigh from about three inches away. So we tried to, very seriously, be mad at her but we kept giggling so that all went to pot, pardon the old-lady expression.

    Had shitloads of homework. Felt the need to type entirely in fragments. Mutti and I had a conversation about Pieces of April:
    Mutti: Well, you haven't seen it, how do you know you're going to like it?
    Me: Because I read the script book at Barnes and Noble.
    Mutti: So?
    Me: So, it was a good script.
    Mutti: Who made you the Script Judge?
    Me: You were the one who asked.

    She is very strange. And she's seriously watching TV at the moment, Princess Di. Hee.


    Princess Di is seriously the best person ever online. She rocks my face, and everyone else's, off.

    Di on the fact that she's supposed to be reading the Bible:
    Di: I've only read twenty verses.
    Me: Oh my gods. Are you dyslexic or something?
    Di: I seriously think I am. Well, I read words backwards sometimes. And numbers, too. Oh! 23 verses!
    Me: Or is that 32?

    Di on my cynicism:
    Di: You're very cynical today.
    Me: I am every day.
    Di: Well, it's especially obvious tonight.

    Oh. In case y'all didn't hear, I actually came in first on a Mario Kart race. I know, I know. Mariana and Di have probably hyperventilated while reading this. But Snaggletooth Betty was right there, making Chicken 1-2-3 and fingering the raw meat. She likes raw meat. Heh, heh, heh.

    Enjoy me before Betty kills me, okay?


    Have you ever noticed that a stupid person can say something... well, not intelligent, but not quite as insipid as the other things they say, and it still sounds stupid? Even a simple question, such as, "Are we doing writing or grammar in language arts today?" can sound entirely fatuous coming from these people, because they just talk stupidly. Of course, when this conversation goes on you must assume they're the most brain-dead being ever to walk this planet:
    Other Person: How are you getting to college?
    Stupid Person: In a car.

    That is all.


    For those of you who would like to join my screenplay cult, Princess Di is the Official First Member and will therefore get thanked in my Witty Acceptance Speech when I win any writing award. But, if you want to be part of the cult, e-mail me: missfirecracker13@yahoo.com

    I'm really regretting adding "13" to the end of missfirecracker, which was such a cool email address before I had to do that.

    And also: Colored iPods (http://www.colorwarepc.com/products/accessories.aspx). That is all.

    Hrm. I don't really have much to say today. Um. I think Hallie is having a nervous breakdown of some sort.

    I think I need coffee.

    There is no good TV on tonight. Damn the TV Gods.

    My brother is hearing silent screeching sounds. Well, it's nice to know Deaf Boy's hearing SOMETHING for once, as he obviously can't hear me tell him to pick up the phone or get ready for Boy Scouts. Jeebus.


    Hmm. I think I just got yelled at by the moderator on Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing for being an honest troll-feeder. Oopsie poopsie. I suppose she doesn't understand I'm not taking this seriously in any manner, as Princess Di knows very well...

    Angie--- Thanks for copying the Suzanne Vega CD, I lurve it.


    Princess Di and I are torturing this poor Princess69 on the Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing message boards. She seems to think she is very intelligent and got 100% on the SATs. Seriously, guys, I think you all need to see this: http://users.boardnation.com/~badbabynames/index.php?board=4;action=display;threadid=1867

    Please register and join Di and I in all our tormenting fun. And note that her husband is having triplets, because she is apparently a seahorse. Hee.

    Oh my gods. I must share this story about Princess Di's Beloved Aunt, who will answer to nothing but Beloved Aunt. Heh. Anyway, back in the olden days when she was a smoker, she sprayed her hair with hairspray and then lit a cigarette and lit her hair on fire. Hee. I can just picture Beloved Aunt's hair on fire, although I have no idea what she looks like. Anyway.

    Now Di believes she has a scar from being stabbed with a fork as a small child. Then again, I have lots of mysterious scars too, and I like to think they're from... I dunno. Something traumatizing.

    Hrm. Won't be blogging as much today due to the fact that I'm going with my cousin Angie to a boat launching, which is supposed to be Very Cool. (My brother went to one in the summer and my uncle got it on tape and it made a very big splash-- I like big splashes-- and apparently it's even cooler when they launch them in the winter.)

    Also, I believe we'll be eating lunch at McDonald's. I know it's bad for you and all, but my plan is to eat as many greasy French fries as I can before my metabolism slows down when I'm old. (No, I really don't like the idea of my metabolism slowing down and having to eat things that aren't entirely carbohydrates. Oh, god, I suppose I still will, I'll just go for a run afterward or something.)

    Oh, gods. That last sentence? Made me really depressed. And now I may have to second-guess my extra fries.
    No. Sorry about that. I lied. Still eating greasy fries.

    I thought Lauren Holly was Kathie Lee Gifford when the previews for Just Desserts came on the TV Guide Channel (aka the Lesley Ann Machado Channel) for no reason at all yesterday. That was frightening.

    Also: I'm beginning to think my mother is truly deranged. I called my dog a butthead (I know, I'm so mature) today, and she said, "don't call your mother a butthead!" and acted all offended using, "well, unh-unh-unh" noises. Oh, gods.

    I'm off to watch my tape of Patricia Clarkson's interview on The View.
    Yes, that depresses me also, "The View" part.


    I promise I won't ever blog this much in one day again but:
    Hallie: I cannot imagine calling a little tiny baby Maude. Wow. That was redundant.
    Me: Well, yes, little tiny baby is a redundant phrase in itself, because I sort of feel like saying, "No, really? As opposed to the gigantic fat babies that destroy towns?"

    Sometimes I make myself laugh. Now is one of those times.

    My friend Princess Di is so funny. Awful is Di's word of the day, I believe. She's watching Dr. Phil at the moment and being obscenely amused over it. If I were the Television Without Pity people, I would pay Di to do Dr. Phil recaps. "Oh my god! The granny just told the granddaughter that she was fat and that her husband would leave her if she got any fatter! It's awful! I so love the drama." Hee.

    [Oh, gods, now PsychoGranny is talking about never speaking to FatGranddaughter ever again. Hee. Please note that this is Di talking, so if something entirely different happened on your episode of Dr. Phil, don't yell at me.]

    Evangeline said "All hail the CuteBlog!" in her email to me this morning. Y'all gotta listen to Angie. (Aw. My friends rock my face off.)

    Our elderly neighbors across the street are chasing their granddaughter around. It looks like some form of torture. Poor kid. The grandfather looks like John Candy, I think, and my dad is always talking about him dying of heart disease, largely because he has a snowblower and my father doesn't.

    That's a really sad note to end an entry on, so I'm adding this sentence.

    I've succumbed. I've watched The View. I even taped the portions involving Patricia Clarkson. She is just that cool. And she and I are on the same page about hockey being sexy.

    I was on the phone with Hallie at the time, discussing how sexy hockey is. God almighty, it's some sort of unwritten law that hockey players are hot.

    Snow days are just the best. I've been working on my screenplay and watching TV all morning. Speaking of my screenplay, I'm no longer mad at it and I've stopped calling it the Damn Screenplay. Now I'll refer to it as "the screenplay" or "Love is Nothing" (my fantabulous title for it; I'm not very good at titling so I'm quite proud of that.) But of course I'm at the point where everything starts going downhill to Depressingville, like the eleven-page-estimated opus I refer to as The Dinner Scene. You know what's really even more depressing? I like writing the depressing parts. I just make it so that everyone is dead before it takes place and, therefore, I don't need to kill anyone off.

    I should eat.

    SNOW DAY!!

    Like I said to my lovely cousin Angie (hee... it's short for Evangeline, not Angela...), I think I just reverted back to being four years old.

    Is it sad that I am willing to see Miracle because hockey is sexy and Patricia Clarkson is the shit?

    And is it even sadder that I will be tuning into The View at 10:00 when she comes on?

    Please don't answer that.


    Ello luvvies!

    This is my first post on my shiny new blog (tm pamie.) Thanks to y'all who are reading this, either because I forced you to under pain of death because you're a nice friend or because you read my journal and I sent you here. Don't worry. I'm still keeping up with the journal. I was just frustrated by temporary formatting issues and decided to go with a blog for when my diary-x journal upsets me.

    My father and I are doing Donald Trump impressions at the moment. Oh, the joys of family bonding.

    Anyone else watch Oliver Beene last night? Charlotte cracks me up. "I just got called an adulterous whore!" I know it's not a good show, but who says I have to watch good TV just because I'm an entertainment snob. I never said I was a sitcom snob, did I?

    And that concludes my very long first blog post.