worst interview EVER

well, that was a disaster.

i neglected to include one crucial scenario in yesterday's post about waiting: when you wait, and then your phone rings, and -- out of the blue -- the person with whom you'd requested an interview (but from whom you have not yet received any kind of yes, no or maybe answer) is on the line, ready to be interviewed. immediately.

crap!

thankfully, the fellow in question today was merely a supplementary "expert source" for a pet story, so it's not like george clooney was on the other end of the phone, tapping his fingers and making charming remarks while i scrambled. and the fellow in question was a rather gruff, humourless guy who sounded like he was being forced into this interview by a superior and really not interested in speaking to me.

i, of course, was in my pyjamas and getting ready to have breakfast when the phone rang, so i didn't have anything ready. i told him i'd call him back in three minutes, which i did...after quickly getting my tape recorder, grabbing a tape and setting up the phone to record what i was sure would be bland commentary.

we chatted, he was informative (though terse) and, just as i was about to launch into my final question, i suddenly realized the tape recorder had stopped recording. OMG, when did THAT happen? how much of the interview had i lost?? nothing i did could make the recorder start up again, so i just gave up. once i got off the phone, realizing instantly that i'd now have to start over with a new expert source and do another interview, i took out the tape to see that it was somehow melted right at the spot where it had stopped. i have no idea how or why this happened, but i suspect it has something to do with me grabbing the first tape i saw...which had previously contained a very delightful interview with lauren graham...conducted, oh, seven years ago? perhaps the tape was just plain old.

whatever. time to move on.

[epilogue: so, four hours and exactly one efficient phone call later, i found a replacement expert (a vet), had a fantastic (informative, friendly, fun) interview and even wound up with an invitation to come visit his clinic for a tour so that, when i adopt a feline friend of my own, i'll already have a vet!]

waiting

despite the name of this blog, i fully realize that i haven’t actually written a whole lot about writing. especially screenwriting, which has been rather nonexistent these days. it’s mostly because i think me writing about me writing would be incredibly boring and sound a lot like indulgent navel-gazing. even though i’ve had quite a few independent writing gigs of late (i.e., stand-alone pieces and not like the steady, weekly columnist gig i had at TVG), there haven’t been many high-profile celebrity interviews (until now), and i’m not sure anyone cares about me researching flowers or chatting with amateur athletes or trying to find famous fathers who were crappy to their kids.

but the one common thread linking all these recent assignments has been: waiting.

waiting for calls and/or emails to be returned. waiting for publicists to pick up the phone or hit “send.” there are only so many times you, as the waiting writer, can send gentle reminders that, you know, you need to hear from them in order to move forward. right now i am eye-deep in waiting. this morning, i put out seven calls to seven different publicists or assistants or general PR departments and, as of this minute (10:41pm ET), i’ve heard back from two. not with replies of “absolutely! we’d love to participate!”, but simply with messages of “I’ll check with him and let you know if he’s interested...” which is fine at this point. just a quick signal flare to acknowledge receipt of my plea. it’s to be expected. but only two? disappointing.

[as an aside: neither one came from camp hennessy, though, for anyone keeping track. hers should have been the easiest of them all – i was just calling to get the contact info for her PR folks. just a name and a number. that’s all. it would take, literally, 20 seconds to give me. alas, no. (i should point out that i’ve interviewed jill before and she was WONDERFUL, so i’m hoping for a repeat.)]

the waiting isn’t limited to celebrity subjects, either. many times, when trying to get in touch with ordinary folks – a professor, an optometrist, a personal trainer – i’ve waited in futility and have actually had to move on. call someone else. how hard is it to call me back to say, “thank you, but i’m not interested”?

evidently, quite hard. i’m happy to pick someone new, but i’d rather person A officially decline before i try person B. just last week, after one such waiting-and-moving-on incident, i had the president of a farming association call me THREE WEEKS after i’d initially sent an email request for info (an email in which i specifically outlined my deadline and timetable). i’d already submitted the story by the time he called...and then he wouldn’t get off the phone. i thanked him, and said that my deadline had passed, but he kept right on going. “did you talk about *this*? what about *that*? do you need someone to interview for *the other thing*?”

um, no, sir, i don’t. i did two weeks ago, and found alternative sources, so how’s about we just say goodbye and hang up?

the main problem with waiting is the potential for one of several things to occur: 1) all of sudden, EVERYBODY calls back at once and wants to do the interview at the same time; 2) no one ever calls back and you wind up searching for replacements and starting the process over again...with more waiting; 3) people hem and haw and dangle false hope before your eyes and THEN decline at the last minute, forcing you to scramble to play the subs; or 4) you wait, and wait, and wait, and watch time tick by, and wait some more...only to finally conduct the interview and realize, to your horror, that your subject is profoundly meh.

and, really, there’s not a lot you can do about the whole waiting thing. except wait for the waiting to be over. i am SO hoping someone, anyone, calls back tomorrow.

perhaps the coolest hotel rooms in toronto

have kids? coming to toronto? check out the coolest hotel rooms EVER for anyone under 12...or, you know, anyone over 12 who's a kid at heart. they're only available through the summer and are admittedly kind of pricey but, man, they've GOT to be a kid's dream come true.

in non-cool news: it remains sweltering. i'm pretty sure the air is so humid that i could wring out my clothes and carpets and gappy drapes and actually collect water. thunderstorms are en route...and so is a call from jill hennessy's camp, hopefully.

and now, the weather forecast...

mother nature is going through menopause, and she's taking toronto with her.

it's going to be crazy hot here for the next few days. today? sunny with a high of 31C/89F, but a humidex of around 40C/105F.

tomorrow? sunny. 31C/89F. humidex of 42C/108F.

wednesday? sunny, with thunderstorms (likely violent, as always) in the pm. 30C/88F. humidex around 40C/105F.

the new drapes have been hung but, because i'm a complete idiot, i didn't realize that the measurements on each pack of two panels was for the *combined* width of both panels. so, when i bought three packs (totalling six panels), i thought i'd have MORE than enough to cover all my living room windows. in a word: no. i need another pack of two...and will now have to wait until YB and i make a trip back to the states (july? august?) to go back to target for one more pack. in the meantime, i have gappy drapes. but i'm hoping the ones that have been hung will prevent at least some of the afternoon heat from seeping into my apartment.

i also have a new writing assignment that involves interviewing a whole bunch of famous canadians, so that should be cool. i just have to figure out how to track them all down now...

the Big Birthday Post

yep, it’s my birthday.

well, for another hour and ten minutes, anyway.

heaps of thanks to all who posted birthday greetings or sent me cards (paper or electronic) – all were very much appreciated! it was nice to come home to dancing celery, espanish celebrations and solidarity amongst those of us who prefer our toronto summers remain below 25C.

anyhoo...

so. buffalo. mom and i were there for two days, and what a pair of days it was:

* we ate at panera twice (a light dinner and dessert on friday, and breakfast this morning).

* we ate at the cheesecake factory yesterday, where we each had the lunch-size (which was still GIGANTIC) rigatoni with roasted-tomato sauce...and i had one of the fancy-schmancy blended-ice beverages as a pre-birthday treat.

* we had a very late lunch – of blueberry pancakes (me) and a raspberry belgian waffle (mom) – at the original pancake house on friday afternoon...the place is open until 9pm, and we reasoned that it would be much easier having “breakfast” at 2:45pm than trying to get a table on saturday or sunday morning. the place was deserted, and our meal was FABULOUS! and cheap!

* we had lunch at ted’s hot dogs, one of our favourite buffalo eateries and home of the best hot dogs i’ve ever had, this afternoon...and i snagged two of their (temporary) logo tats. :-D

* i treated mom to a cold stone creamery experience, where we each enjoyed one of their deeeeeelicious signature creations (she had the “coffee lovers only” and i opted for the “founder’s favorite"). so very very good.

* we stayed at the marriott amherst as a “treat” to ourselves. we learned that, in future, we will not “treat” ourselves to the treat-free marriott with its inflated prices and, instead, will return to the very reasonably priced, very clean and very quiet red roof inn that’s right next door. it’s literally 30 feet away and about half the price for twice the experience. a shortlist of our stay:

1) we asked for as quiet a room as possible, and were placed three doors down the hall from several banquet rooms. on the first floor. in a wheelchair accessible room...which meant no counters at all in the bathroom (um, where are we supposed to put stuff? on the bed??), no hooks (um, where are we supposed to hang stuff? on the doorknob? oh wait, there IS no doorknob, because the room had...), no doorknob (pocket doors that, given their weight, must have been made of three inches of steel painted to look like wood) and no kleenex. there were, however, thick, down duvets on the beds...handy for those brisk summer days when the temperatures hover around 80F. ?!

2) further to the lack of quiet, there was a steady stream of foot traffic in and out of the building, right past our door, for much of friday night. last night, the banquet halls were filled with boisterous groups having meetings and get-togethers. when, at 11:15pm, the party was still going on in the hall and we could hear it very clearly over the sound of our TV, i called the front desk and asked when the festivities were scheduled to end, because the noise in our quiet room was very loud. “oh, it was supposed to end at 11,” said the girl at the front desk. they didn’t clear out until after 11:30pm...which is fine and good and to be expected on a saturday night, but not when one has specifically asked for quiet.

3) because we’re environmentally conscious folks and take green matters seriously, we don’t require fresh towels and bed linens more than once a week. so, since we were only staying two nights, we didn’t need or want fresh towels or bed linens. i called the front desk on friday evening and asked if it would be possible to decline housekeeping services for saturday, explaining the reasons – there would be nothing for the housekeeping staff to do, and we were quite happy to use the same towels for another day. “no problem,” said the woman on the other end of the guest-services phone. “i’ll let them know not to do your room tomorrow.” great! do i even need to tell you that mom and i returned to our room last night to see that housekeeping had been there, and had replaced all the towels, and had taken the $2 that i’d left, sort of obscured from view deep in the room, as a test to see if they’d been in there? ‘cause they had, and they did and they did. again, it’s not so much the new towels that peeved me, but the complete disregard for my preference AND the previous night’s promise. whatever.

4) both mornings, just before 8am, some kind of alien generator started up somewhere within the building walls. it was loud, and sounded a bit like a helicopter awaiting lift-off outside our window. (i checked. there was no helicopter outside our window. nor a lawnmower. nor a harley. we have no idea where the thudding, vibrating noise came from or what might have been causing it.)

5) upon checkout, the front-desk clerk cheerfully asked me, “so, how was everything with your stay?!” i replied, “to be honest, it was kind of disappointing.” i told her all of the above, and she just stared at me with a smile stuck on her face. she apologized for the room location, and said she thinks we were placed in our room because that was the only area of the hotel not housing groups of visitors for the weekend. “yeah, but the meeting rooms hosted them,” i pointed out. she agreed, sort of shrugged her shoulders in an “oh well, can’t really do anything about it now...” way and then handed me my receipt. allow me to reiterate that our subsequent stays in buffalo will take place at the red roof inn.

* this morning, we went to mass. mom goes every sunday, even when away from home, so i went with her. all was going well until the girl standing in the pew behind me sneezed what can only be described as an EXPLOSIVE sneeze that literally sprayed the back of my upper right arm with heaven knows what. it was like something out of punk’d and it was grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrosssssssssssssssssss. she hadn’t covered her mouth, not even a little, and so everything was unleashed in a big, messy torrent right behind me. i excused myself, went to the restroom to wipe myself off and to try not to gag, then returned to my seat to see that the “spray” (read: runny snot...I AM NOT JOKING) was still on the bench. OMG. i nearly ran out. i calmly began searching through my bag to see if i had any kleenex or napkins or anything to cover the offending mucous. when mom noticed the commotion, she quietly asked what was going on. i explained. she immediately handed me a kleenex and then we both slid our bums about three feet away from where we’d been sitting and, more importantly, out of the line of fire. ewwwwwwwwwwwww.

* we shopped. a lot. we bought a trunk full of stuff and probably could have found more, but we reined in our urge to splurge. i managed to get everything on my list, plus a bunch of stuff i only remembered once we’d arrived (“OMG! baby ruths! of course!”). i tell you, there's nothing like buying a shirt for $2. i even managed a problem-free purchase at penneys!

it was a lovely weekend away, and we had a very nice time. today, we drove home to my parents’ house for my official birthday dinner, prepared by young beatrix: chicken fajitas (BEYOND delicious, and YB’s own recipe) with CAKE for dessert. it was a devil’s food cake with homemade vanilla-marshmallow icing. i took five pieces home with me. i expect them to last through tuesday. my mom bought me a bunch of cat-rearing equipment (litter box, carrier, poop scooper) in advance of the feline landing, assorted household stuff and melanie C’s two latest CDs. YB bought me a giant digital clock and gave me an I.O.U. for a cordless phone...which was a rather elaborate art project! all in all, a very cool haul. i only just finished putting stuff away around 10pm.

now it’s after 11:40pm, and there are only about 20 minutes left in my birthday. time to do some reflecting, some planning and some evaluating...the annual “what did i do this past year, what will i do this next year?” recap and forecast.

it’s going to be a long night.

a birthday in buffalo

first thing tomorrow morning, my mom and i will be heading down to buffalo, NY, for the weekend. it's a belated mother's day gift for her, and an early birthday treat for me. so, with lists in hand and stomachs ready to partake of a crap-laden feast, we'll drive southeast in what is presently promising to be absolutely gorgeous weather (sunny, breezy and 70F).

we'll hit all the buffalo/amherst staples like walden galleria, boulevard mall, eastern hills mall (which simply refuses to die despite drastically waning attendance over the past 10 years) and a whole heap o'targets. i'll have a couple of krispy kreme donuts at some point, and we'll likely wind up at the brand new cheesecake factory for my birthday lunch on sunday. at least one breakfast or afternoon coffee break will take place at the panera bread company, and i suspect one breakfast might happen at...OMG...the original pancake house. best. pancakes. EVER. though, with a looooooooooong wait for a table on weekends, we may opt out.

my "to-buy" list is rather eclectic and includes items like scented bleach (we don't have that here) and jelly belly jelly beans (SO much cheaper at wegman's than anywhere in canada), orange tic tacs and socks, curtains (window panels, actually) and ice cream, frozen dinners and fluoride rinse. as ever, we're also going with the hope of a great JC Penney sale in our hearts...this despite the trials of my most recent shopping trip to that store.

so, until sunday, happy weekend to all!

(btw, moob, Ratatouille was cute, but long and not as pizzazzy as previous pixar flicks.)

another day, another list of random items

* i am totally addicted to the show Miami Ink. i find it incredibly soothing to watch, almost meditative, and i have no idea why. i also think ami james is one of the sexiest men on television. so is darren. so is nuñez. so is chris. so is yoshi. and even the tempestous -- and dismissed -- kat von d was hot. the longer i watch MI, the more i give serious thought to a tattoo. although, i blame that in part on...

* the stunning, tatted-out women of the rat city roller girls. moviepie's linda was lucky enough to attend the world premiere of Blood on the Fast Track, the RCRG documentary, at SIFF. she got to learn all about my favourite skater, burnett down, and hang with the rollergirls and their pals. i doubt it'll play TIFF, but a gal can dream. why must their season end in august, before i can head west to watch them jam?

* it's been an eventful 24 hours here at casa vittoria:

1) last night, it was a Hell House flashback: one of the residents of my floor, a woman of indeterminate tenancy (i have no idea which apartment is hers), had what can only be described as a temper tantrum for THREE HOURS, from midnight to 3am. at one point, around 2:30am, she woke me from my already-restless slumber by standing out in the hallway and SHRIEKING. then she stomped back to her unit and slammed the door. WTF???? our super is a pint-sized woman in her 60s, so i didn't do what i always did at Hell House and call her immediately. but if it happens again tonight, she'll get the call. let her call the police on the psycho down the hall.


2) violent thunderstorms blasted through toronto around 2:30 this afternoon. as soon as the powerful spray of rain blew into my apartment through the half-closed windows (nonetheless wetting all my carpets in under 10 seconds), i closed them. mother nature laughed. about a minute later, i heard a dripping sound. water was POURING out of the tracks of my CLOSED window panes. i have three windows in the living room, and water was running down the walls at each one. ditto the window in my bedroom. the rain continued to pound against the windows with such force that there was no way to fix the situation until it stopped. TWO rolls of paper towels later, the rain let up enough for me to adjust the panes so that this won't happen again.

3) shortly after the rain subsided and calmer weather moved into the area, two big, flying, beetle-like insects made their presence known. one flew out at my from my bedroom curtains, and the other flew at me from out of nowhere in the living room. the latter resulted in a 20 minute search and destroy mission, since it managed to vanish while i procured my insect-intruder destruction devices. it eventually fled underneath my microwave. as any bug killer will tell you, that makes destroying your frightful, flying friends extrememly difficult. i did kill it, but not without a lot of effort and buckets of sweat (did i mention it was about 84F and huuuuuuuumid in my apartment while all this was going on? no? it was.) my heart rate is only now, several hours later, returning to normal, but i'm still jumpy.

4) thankfully, there is a cool breeze blowing into my apartment now. ICK! along with the sudden arrival of the pungent smell of skunk. good grief. it is STRONG.

* tomorrow, i'm going to a screening of Evan Almighty, and thursday it's Ratatouille. summer-movie season is great.

* they're laying new, bright-blue turf at the university of toronto's varsity stadium and, from the smell, i think it's toxic. it's like new-carpet smell x. 1000. walk anywhere around the stadium and try not to wince. hot weather isn't helping matters, either. as an aside, they're also shooting the newest American Pie movie on campus.

* what did you have for dinner today?

i'm sorry, i have to wait until WHEN to see this?

in news that will surprise absolutely no one, this will likely be my favourite new series of the 2007-08 TV season.

that promo kicks ASS. too bad the show doesn't start until january.

what the frick, ellen?

little lord fauntleroy called.
he'd like his outfit back.

puttin' on shorts!

looking for me?

i'm over at my Worldwide Short Film Festival diary, where i'll be posting through sunday. so, c'mon over! you can read all about the shorts i'm seeing and the people i'm meeting...including my delightful encounter with my all-time favourite fest programmer!

note: do not be alarmed if you pop over to 'musings and find yourself looking at an entry about the seattle film festival. it's a shared blog, so some of my friends out west are blogging concurrently about what they're seeing at their fave film fest.

the fan club

summer has apparently arrived early for toronto. the weather's been unseasonably warm, off and on, since early may, and we're now having longer and longer stretches of hot temperatures. i don't have air conditioning, and haven't been in my new apartment long enough to determine whether i need to get it. my apartment faces north, so it's spared the bulk of the scorching sunlight until about 5:30pm...when the sun shifts far enough north to bathe my wall of windows in heat until it sets around 8:40pm. right now, i have blinds...which minimize the light but don't really do much to insulate my place against warmth. curtains will be next, since they do a lot to cut down on how much baking my apartment will do. there's also the carefully timed opening and closing of windows -- open fully after 9pm and through the night until 9am, then close once the temperatures outside exceed those inside.

aaaanyway...i've always had ceiling fans, and they did a lot to help me cope with the summers in my previous AC-free apartment, where the windows faced south and west and were basically in the sun all day, every day. so, i brought them along to the new place and, today, have added another ally to their battle against the summertime heat: a standing fan! it was an early birthday present, and it looks sort of like the one pictured here, but mine is a lovely shade of green and kind of retro-looking. i assembled it this morning and turned it on to test it. holy crap! even on the lowest possible setting, it blasts air with such force that one might think it's powered by a jet engine. this could work!

in other news, the Worldwide Short Film Festival starts today, and i'll be covering it for the 'Pie. starting tonight (or tomorrow morning, depending on my energy level), you'll be able to check out my WWSFF diary over at moviepie musings. i don't relish standing outside in line when the forecast is calling for temperatures around 88F (with a humidex pushing that number closer to 96F), but hopefully i'll be able to come home, turn on my fans and not melt completely.

addendum: the noon-hour forecast now calls for a humidex of 40C/104F this afternoon. i see a frappucino in my future...

tip: don’t do heavy interviews when you’re feeling hormonal

lately, i’ve been fortunate enough to have writing assignments drop into my lap – a wonderful, glorious thing for any writer. one of those gigs involved interviewing a well-known singer and his mom about her battle with breast cancer and its affect on her son’s life at the height of his career. (for all the details, pick up the october issue of Canadian Living magazine.)

so, i interviewed the son yesterday, and it was lovely. he was thoughtful and talkative, and we chatted in a big Elvis-themed lounge at his record label’s offices. i was apprehensive in advance because of the subject matter we’d be tackling – it’s one thing to interview a celebrity about her new movie or his latest fitness regime, but quite another when you have to find out what it was like to have a parent diagnosed with a potentially fatal disease. i mean, what if he started to cry?? what if i started to cry?? i’m a huge sap and will cry at the drop of a hat, so this was a serious concern, especially given that we’d be chatting in person and i’d be unable to hide behind my telephone receiver. thankfully, neither one of us wept...though i did notice him getting slightly choked up a couple of times.

today, however, i interviewed his mother, who became the first interview subject to ever make me cry. we talked on the phone, and she was wonderful, so i was at least able to avoid blubbering right in her face. but as soon as i heard her voice cracking – as she was relating the mother’s day present her son gave her during her treatment – i lost it. (just to clarify: i wasn’t outright weeping or anything, but i was choked up enough to have to struggle to get out my next question.) i blame it on hormones. yeah, that’s the ticket. hormones.

anyway, just so i’m not alone: she told me that her son gave her this book. she’d read it to him as a child, and he gave it to her as an adult.

if you don’t tear up reading that, you’re dead inside. (warning to my friends who do cry easily: get kleenex before reading.) after we’d finished the interview, i looked up the book, read the story, bawled accordingly, and then read the story behind the story, which is just as moving.

thunderstorm ponderings: why can’t sandra bullock rob a casino?

so, a band of rather nasty thunderstorms moved through toronto around 5pm today, bringing with it high winds, heavy rain and a deeeeelightful drop in temperatures. it went from 88F to 68F in about 15 minutes. sometimes, mother nature does toss me a bone.

as i pulled up the blinds on my wall of windows and watched day turn to night, i paused to reflect on the following:



* why is there no Ocean’s 11 or 12 or 13 featuring an all-female cast? i mean, if george and brad and matt and don can all get together to make a fun caper flick, why can’t gwyneth and cameron and sandra and emma (thompson, because i ♥ her)? or drew and cate and hilary and halle? heck, any combination of 11 actress of A- and B-list calibre would do. does hollywood think no one would come to that party? i’d be first in line! it should be noted that there is a female-driven heist movie in the works but, despite co-starring diane keaton and queen latifah, it also stars scientology robot and soulless humanoid katie holmes, which means i will not be first in line. this thought crossed my mind when an Ocean’s 13 commercial ran on the TV behind me.

* why, whenever i have to have my blood taken, does every single medical technician prepping the needle and tubes refuse to believe that they won’t be able to find a usable vein in my right arm? each time, as they reach for my right arm, i say, “the veins in there are hidden. they’re tiny. no one can ever find them. please use my left arm, where the veins are also tiny but somewhat find-able.” and, each time, i get the exact same response. “well, i’ll just give it a try!” WHY? they never find a vein. NEVER. and yet each plucky pricker somehow believes that she will be christopher columbus, discovering the arterial wonders of my right arm. SHE WON’T. this thought crossed my mind as i watched the storm and looked down at the big purple bruise in the crook of my left arm, from which the blood was eventually taken.

* for all its revamping and retooling, Canada’s Next Top Model is nothing more than an hour of available advertising space for anyone who wants their products shamelessly placed throughout the show. it is RIDICULOUS how obvious the product placement is on this show. brand names are always very clearly turned to camera, with contestants often extolling an item's virtues in dialogue so scripted it’s laughable. “i’m hungry. OMG, i’m going to make one of these Delisio™ pizzas! i absolutely LOVE Delisio™ pizzas! while i wait for it to bake, i’m going to apply some of this Olay™ moisturizer. i just love how it makes my skin SO soft!” spotting each shameless plug would make for an excellent drinking game, though you’d likely be rendered unconscious before the first commercial break. this thought crossed my mind as i looked out the window at the street below and wondered how or why anyone would go out for a walk in this weather...if he was a CNTM contestant, he’d have blown away by now.

* sami the cat, as pictured in a previous entry, has been adopted. not by me. while a part of me was sad that i’d missed my chance, a bigger part of me knows that the OSPCA gets dozens of new cats every month, most of which are thoroughly lovable. this thought crossed my mind when the windows vibrated after an exceptionally loud thunderclap and i thought, “if i had a cat, i wonder if it would be afraid of thunderstorms.”

ice cream: what's your scoop?

baskin robbins' mint chocolate chip ice cream. perfection in a cup.

so, before last night's serena ryder show, several of us were discussing ice cream -- specifically, ice cream as dinner. and, all day today, i've been jonesing for some mint chocolate-chip. badly. unfortunately, there isn't a baskin robbins anywhere around here and, even if there were, i have a hard time shelling out $3 for a single, microscopic scoop of anything.

anyway, this all brings me to my question for today: what's your favourite flavour of ice cream?

please post your pick in the comments section, with or without reasons for your choice.

c'mon, you know you wanna! don't just surf off this blog thinking, "well, i do love a good lemon ice from time to time..." without sharing that with the rest of us. who doesn't love a good ice-cream discussion?

go!

serena ryder threw down...and so did we!

just hit “play” and let this song, my new favourite, go while you read...


so, tonight was the taping of Live at the Rehearsal Hall** with canadian singer-songwriter serena ryder and, despite having only a cursory knowledge of who she was before sitting down for the show, i’m now a fan. that girl RAWKS! even better is the fact that all LATRH shows put you, at most, 30 feet from the stage, so you're always right up close to the artist in question. serena blew the roof off the joint; she’s only 23 years old, but is fiercely talented, and we all enjoyed the 80-minute show. it wasn’t 74 minutes. it wasn’t 77. it was 80. and these 80 minutes are ridiculously important.

why, you ask?

because, before each LATRH taping, a couple of the CHUM publicists, my friend heather (my routine “plus one”) and i wager on how long the taping will take. it began as a harmless, amiable game...a lark...a delightful diversion. “how long do you think this’ll go?” i don’t even remember which one of us was the first to pose that seemingly benign question. but, being a monica geller to the core, i can’t resist a competition, no matter how frivolous. so, it was, as they say, ON and a bloodsport was born.

admittedly, our game is flawed. we don’t, as alison pointed out at the end of tonight’s gig, have an actual set of rules. this leaves potentially perilous room for conflict and appeals when it comes to the declaration of a winner. normally, the “official” running time is measured from the moment the artist steps onstage to the moment he or she leaves the stage. tonight, the taping ended...but serena stayed onstage to do a “bonus” (not for TV) song. so, when was the actual end of the concert? heather felt she’d won, since her predicted time came closest to the end time of the taped portion. nancy, though, was declared the winner again (a “three-peat,” as she herself proudly announced) because she’d guessed 80 minutes and we were dismissed at minute 81. as for me, i lost no matter how you slice it. or time it.

at stake tonight was an even bigger prize than ever before (to be fair, the only “prize” nancy previously enjoyed was a certificate and bragging rights). laura (who recused herself from the proceedings because she'd attended the sound check and thus had insider info on what the night might hold in store) offered to procure a trophy and a sash (omg!) to present to tonight’s winner. that trophy will then change hands at each LATRH taping to come according to whoever wins. so, nancy gets the inaugural sparkly delights, but i plan to stake my claim next go-‘round. and, next time, we may need to assign judges (referees? officials?) for a final ruling. oh, and rules. we’re going to need some rules.

what makes all this even more hilarious (or tedious, if you’re already bored silly) is the fact that so many people at the shows are now aware of our game and interested in the outcome. alison pointed out that, when the “bonus” song was announced, she noticed (from her seat at the rear of the room) nancy and i immediately conferring and assumed (correctly) that were debating what this additional song would mean where an endtime was concerned. "does this count? do we count this song or is it over already???"

then, after it really was all over, a few people came up to us to ask, “who won?” the fact that we’re now that transparent is so pathetically, brilliantly funny. or sad. or both. yes, we're big nerds. and we don't care.

so, anyway, congrats nancy. whatEVER. you once again threw down and owned the timecode. *yawn* but savour your victory while you can, for i fear it will be snatched from you the next time we all sit down at bravo!

** note: for anyone interested in watching the show on bravo!, it airs on july 3rd.

one more serena song as i bid you goodnight...

overheated monday-evening randomness

just because it’s monday and it's warm and my attention span seems to be taking an extended weekend...

* it has been very hot in toronto for the past few days. as such, my apartment has also been quite toasty (a steady 27C/80F). then, last night, rain moved in and so did a cold front. the temperatures outside dropped...but my glorious, wall-to-wall windows face due north, have comparatively small windows that actually open and nary a breeze wafted in. thus, even though the temperatures outside have cooled considerably, it hasn’t dipped below 25C in here yet.

* i’m considering adopting a cat. i go back and forth on the subject almost daily. on the one hand, i love animals and have always wanted a furry pet (we had fish and birds growing up, and neither species was particularly interested in cuddling or playtime). it would be nice to have another living, breathing, huggable being in this big apartment with me, and i certainly now have the space for a feline friend. but on the other hand, it’s sort of like adopting a child – suddenly, i’ll have a dependant. i won’t be able to just pack up and head out on a road trip with young beatrix. i’ll need a cat sitter. there will be vet bills and food and toys to buy. good grief, what if something goes wrong? will i become a cliché? the single gal, home alone with a microwave dinner and her cat? it’s a decision i don’t want to take lightly because i don’t want to be one of those twits who adopt an animal and then bring it back to the SPCA three weeks later because they changed their mind or the cat peed on the bed or the dog ate the remote. OMG, what if i get a cat and it pees on my bed? anyway, if i do adopt, it will be from the glorious york region OSPCA, where the cats roam free in giant rooms (and, sometimes, throughout the facility) instead of being put in cages. so, they’re socialized and much more relaxed, which allows visitors to get a good sense of their little personalities. anyway, for those of you clicking the link, young beatrix and i visited the OSPCA on saturday and i’ve been considering the following cats: avalon (this is the one my mom likes), fifi (at least i think it was fifi), lola, page (whom we nicknamed “little monkey” because she was so spastically adorable) and sami (pictured), who reeeally stole my heart but whose long hair worries me. i’m a neat freak. i need a cat with a clean bum.

* orange tic tacs are addictive. i can eat them like candy. but only the ones from the U.S., which are actually orange in colour. speaking of U.S. snacks, you get more sunchips per bag in the states than you do in canada.

* tonight, i’m heading to bravo! for a “live at the rehearsal hall” concert featuring serena ryder. i am woefully uneducated where her music is concerned, but the LATRH gigs are always a blast regardless of who’s performing.

* are you watching So You Think You Can Dance? if not, why not? it is one of my favourite summer-season reality shows. host cat deeley is fantastic, the judges rawk and the contestants are jaw-droppingly talented. my fave summer-season reality show is, of course, Big Brother, which will take over my life for three months starting sometime in late june or early july. On the Lot is tanking badly, and will likely be off the air completely in a week or two and, despite a huge injection of money (clearly culled from a thousand corporate sponsors whose products are shamelessly placed throughout the show), Canada’s Next Top Model remains tragically irrelevant. can you name who won last year? neither can i, and i watched it.

* did you see jessica biel do nothing to combat those lesbian rumours with last night’s near liplock with sarah silverman at the MTV Movie Awards? if not, you can watch it here. watch for a sudden surge in gossip items about JB and justin timberlake “seen canoodling at L.A. hotspot [insert name of random club here]” where a “source” will undoubtedly claim that “the two of them couldn’t keep their hands off each other!” (for the uninitiated, these items are often planted by PR folks and are usually all structured the exact same way.)

* i saw Surf’s Up on saturday morning and loved it. mario cantone’s “mike the plover” was my favourite character. review coming soon at the ‘pie.

that’s all. i think i’ll make kraft dinner for my pre-show meal. with CAKE for dessert! and then an hour+ walk to the studio.

behold the magnificence of Mr. Brooks (my official 'pie review)

Mr. Brooks isn’t just a movie, it’s a time machine. All you need to do is dim the lights and settle in, and you’re magically transported back to 1990... the last time three of this film’s four stars had relevant, bankable careers and an audience that actually had any interest in watching them on the big screen in this kind of ‘90s-era, fromage-laden thriller.

More than that, though, Mr. Brooks looks to be the best worst movie that will be released in 2007—it is so spectacularly bad that it’s almost brilliant in its crappiness and I fully expect it to clean up at next year’s Razzie Awards. I was tempted to leave this review to Moviepie’s Eric, whose analytical mastery when dissecting bad movies is unparalleled, but there’s so much fodder for discussion that I’m sure we could both write about it and still have material left over.

The first 15 minutes of the film sets the absurdist tone and tells you everything you’ll need to know in order to enjoy the ridiculousness that follows. The supremely miscast Kevin Costner is cardboard-box magnate (that’s right, he’s made a fortune manufacturing boxes) Earl Brooks. I will wait while you make your own Costner-cardboard jokes. Earl has a loving, non-entity of a wife played by Marg Helgenberger, and her sole purpose in the film seems to be set dressing. But piles of money and a comely missus aren’t enough to satisfy Mr. Brooks—he’s also a serial killer and no, his modus operandi isn’t boring his victims to death. Instead, Mr. Brooks fancies himself an “artist,” who throws clay as a hobby and takes artsy photographs of his murder victims after he shoots them in the face and rearranges the bodies. [At this point in the film I wasn’t sure which was the more frightening concept: Kevin Costner killing people or Kevin Costner making art.]

Oh, I’m sorry, did I forget to mention that William Hurt stars as Marshall, the homicidal voice inside Mr. Brooks’ head, who manifests himself in the form of, well, William Hurt? Standing and sitting and walking and talking with Mr. Brooks, just like another character except for the fact that, you know, he’s invisible and Mr. Brooks is the only person who can see him? Seriously. Marshall is occasionally referred to by Mr. Brooks as a sickness or a disease, but he’s like the world’s most destructive imaginary friend. It’s Marshall who, like a demented enabler, encourages Mr. Brooks to kill because it’s Marshall who’s got the hardcore bloodlust. As a result, the audience is treated to countless scenes of Mr. Brooks and Marshall chatting, plotting and, best of all when you’re viewing the film as an unintentional comedy, laughing uproariously in a supposed-to-be-psychotic-but-instead-hilarious, head-thrown-back, mwa-ha-ha-haaaa way not seen since the Wicked Witch of the West taunted Dorothy.

Enter Demi Moore as tough-as-nails lady cop Tracy Atwood, a police detective who’s been tracking Mr. Brooks—whom she’s nicknamed “the Thumbprint Killer” for his habit of “signing” his murderous tableaus with the bloody thumbprints of his victims—for years. You know she’s tough-as-nails because she smacks gum (that appears and disappears depending on the scene, the take and the attention span of the continuity person), walks with an exaggerated swagger and doesn’t take crap from anybody. She doesn’t do things by the book, this Tracy Atwood. Hell, no! She’s a loose cannon! She’s put a ton of nefarious nasties with colorful monikers behind bars, but Mr. Brooks has always eluded her. She wants to get him. She needs to get him. It’s like a hunger, and their cat-and-mouse relationship tips its clown hat to Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter in a totally cheapened, laughable way. Unfortunately for Atwood, one of her previous collars—the Hangman Killer, so nicknamed because he always hung his victims in public places after their deaths—has escaped from custody and is super-thirsty for vengeance. Throw in a money-grubbing, boy-toy husband (Jason Lewis) divorcing her for a $5 million settlement (oh yeah, Tracy’s also a wealthy heiress!) and you’ve got one lady cop with a very full plate.

You would think that the plot as I’ve described it so far, with the actors involved, would be enough to make a pretty crappy thriller, right? You’d be wrong because the filmmakers have one more ace up their sleeve in the form of manic comedian and sometimes actor Dane Cook, who joins the fray as manic voyeur and sometimes idiot “Mr. Smith.” Mr. Smith likes watching his neighbors have sex and is the sole witness when said amorous couple become Mr. Brooks’ latest victims. The trailers would have you believe that Mr. Smith is ready to rat out Mr. Brooks... but no. Instead, he wants to join in. Much to Marshall’s delight—and, really, he seems to delight in anything remotely twisted—Mr. Smith wants to be an apprentice to the Thumbprint Killer. Fun!

Are you keeping track? Because, by my count, we’ve now got one ballsy lady cop and four murderers (yes, I’m including Marshall). By the time the film finally rolls its closing credits, the number of killers rises to five—possibly six!—thanks to yet another dippy subplot. All this and so much more baloney crammed into under 120 minutes of pure, unadulterated cheese! How can you not be running out of your house to see this right now?!

I have no idea where or when the movie derails, but it’s kind of a goner right from the outset when, to the twitters of amusement from audience members, text appears onscreen—before the film even starts—that warns us the “hunger” has returned to Mr. Brooks. It’s hard to take things seriously after that when it’s so obvious that the filmmakers are trying so very earnestly to be serious. Director Bruce A. Evans has only made one other film—1992’s Christian Slater cop movie Kuffs —and I’m inclined to believe that he didn’t use the past 14 years honing his craft. Mr. Brooks is played out with a collective straight face by all involved, and that just makes it that much better... or worse, depending on your perspective.

The overwrought dialogue and way over-the-top performances do nothing but chip away at the film’s already-flimsy credibility as a thriller. How can anyone be expected to be scared or intrigued or thrilled when you have Dane Cook actually uttering the line, “I have to take a crap so bad right now!”? When William Hurt launches into his umpteenth scenery-chewing rant about the joys of murder, practically licking his chops in anticipation, how can we not burst into fits of giggles? And by the time Costner’s insufferably bland Mr. Brooks takes out his treasure trove of “disguises” (handlebar moustache, anyone?), it’s physically impossible not to throw your hands up in surrender and just laugh out loud.

The casting? With the exception of Hurt, who seems tailor-made for his role (see also: his identical performance in A History of Violence), everyone is wrong. For some reason, someone thought Mr. Brooks being “quiet and unassuming” should translate to “dull and uninteresting.” Instead of Costner, this story should have starred, say, John Malkovich or Gary Oldman or someone who can be quiet and appropriately creepy in a way that sends chills—not yawns—up your spine. Demi Moore was okay, I suppose, but the best actress for the gig? No. And Dane Cook’s spastic Mr. Smith would have been less goofy and perhaps more menacing in the skilled hands of someone like Joseph Gordon-Levitt... though, to be fair, I don’t think I’d want to have JGL stuck uttering the insipid dialogue given to Mr. Smith. So nevermind.

For all its ludicrous posturing as an edge-of-your-seat experience, Mr. Brooks does feature several surprisingly graphic (and LOUD) scenes intended to jar the audience out of its collective slumber. Clearly inspired by Se7en and inserted to prove that this is truly a Serious Scary Movie, those moments feel offensively exploitative and out of place. They don’t serve the story—better to leave such images to our imaginations, which can conjure up far more terrifying scenarios, than to throw in gore for gore’s sake.

All this said, I will wait with breathless anticipation for the world to behold the splendor of Mr. Brooks in all its moronic glory. If this doesn’t become an instant classic alongside clunkers like Gigli, Gothika and Catwoman, I will be very surprised. Enjoy it as a comedy, and reject it as a big-screen suspense yarn.

OMG! it's time for the NATIONAL SPELLING BEE!

OMG.

stop the presses!

set your VCRs!

it is once again time for the scripps national spelling bee, airing *tomorrow* (thu.) night at 8pm ET on ABC.



the annual bee championships always reminds me of my time as a listings writer at TVG, when a group of us would anxiously gather 'round the office television to watch the finals as they were broadcast live on TSN (because, in those days, spelling was considered a sport). to this day, i have not been able to find people as enthusiastic about, and invested in, watching this alphabetical circus as i did back in the day. sure, maybe it was because we were all avoiding doing actual work and would have been thrilled about anything that took us away from our desks for an hour, but still. good times. (as an aside, we'd all run back to our desks at the commercial break, write some copy and then run back when the bee returned.)

by now, my viewing comrades have scattered to the four winds, but i always think of them -- and our all-time favourite competitor, rebecca sealfon (shown above, in all her freaky, spastic glory) -- when i tune in on my own.

okay, which one of you has been handing out my new address?

because, this morning, i encountered one of these in my kitchen. i thought i'd left friends like this behind when i moved out of Hell House. and yet, there it was. they've found me again.

for the uninitiated, or those who just screamed like a little girl, that is a house centipede. they're beyond freaky-looking, but completely harmless to humans. in fact, they actually *eat* all kinds of smaller insects. but i still do not like them in my home.

house centipedes and i do not have an amicable history. no, if you recall, they would often scare the bejesus out of me at my previous apartment...running out from heaven knows where as soon as the sun set and planting themselves on my bedroom wall. or my bathroom floor. or back on my bedroom wall. i hermetically SEALED my last place, and blamed my frequent visitors on the fact that the building was more than 80 years old, built of (probably rotting) wood and plaster and likely home to all sorts of nefarious nasties, both human and otherwise.

so, imagine my shock, terror and chagrin when i met my little roommate this morning. this building is CONCRETE, fer cryin' out loud! and i'm more than five stories off the ground! WHY DO THESE INSECTS LOVE ME SO?

tonight's random house-centipede factoid: they have a life span of up to SIX YEARS. six years, people.

*sigh*

a crappy night in 10 easy steps

the women of IBTC.
1. buy a $25 ticket to Itty Bitty Titty Committee, the closing-night film at the inside/out film festival. tell yourself that, despite the little voice in your head shrieking in horror at the cost, the price is worth it because you love director jamie babbit’s work, and this is a closing-night screening that includes a post-film party with jamie babbit, and there are several actors you enjoy in the movie, and you never know whom you might meet while waiting in line or sitting in the theater. raise expectations to dangerous levels.

2. plan to walk from home to yonge and bloor (where you’re meeting your movie-going pal for dinner before the movie) in order to get some exercise. look out your window as you’re getting ready to leave and see that it is POURING rain. lament that you should have gone for a walk in the morning, when it was just cloudy out, instead of staying in your pyjamas and watching movies on TBS. reevaluate your need for exercise. get an extra subway token and take transit instead.

3. hem and haw endlessly over what to have for dinner. waffle back and forth between assorted fast-food chains. drive yourself, and your dining companion, batty. eventually settle on a sub. bite in and realize your sub has been made on the world’s driest bread. choke down ¾ of the arid sandwich, aided by copious amounts of root beer, before saying “uncle” and giving up. lament that you didn’t get the harvey’s veggie-burger combo instead. hope that the copious amounts of root beer don’t come back to haunt you and your bladder halfway through the movie you’re about to see.

4. head to the theater and get in line. rejoice that it is no longer raining. make sure to stand under a big tree. bob and weave to avoid the random splurts of rainwater that have collected on the tree leaves and splatter down upon you every time a breeze blows or a bird lands on a branch or a lady bug alights from a twig. hope that a giant blob of water does not land directly on your eye, thereby soaking your lashes and causing your mascara to run in a decidedly unflattering manner.

5. wait. stand in line and wait. inhale the second-hand cigarette smoke drifting over from your less-considerate linemates, who decide to light up four feet from you. cling to your high expectations as they begin to fizzle rapidly, but keep hope alive that maybe, just maybe, you'll meet someone interesting. begin to doubt that’ll happen with each passing minute. wipe more dripping water from your forehead. check your watch and realize you’ve now been standing in line for half an hour. sigh.

6. finally get into the theater and delight in the fact that your preferred seats are still vacant. hooray! quickly snatch them and settle in. watch the rest of the audience file in. begin to feel very, very old as you realize the average age of the majority of attendees is probably 21. spot Man Boobs (!), one of the notorious ticket scammers who frequent preview screenings, sitting across the way. recoil in horror. repeatedly move out of the way as indecisive seat seekers go in and out of your row, wave to friends, leave, return, signal to other friends, leave again, and return again. wonder quietly to yourself if the couple making out two rows up will continue to lock lips throughout the film.

7. smile broadly when it looks like the movie’s about to begin. witness your smile melt as the festival staffers introducing the screening spend 20 minutes yammering on before even dimming the lights. frown and pout when they announce that director jamie babbit, who’d been promised as a guest for the night, won’t be coming. fold your arms and harumph. ask yourself, once again, WHY you paid $25 for this experience. notice that the makeout couple have cooled their jets. admit to yourself that you’re just jealous.

8. watch the movie. wait for it to get good. heave sigh after sigh as you realize it’s not going to get good. like, ever. shift in your seat because you’re struggling not to leave. wonder how a director that talented could make a movie this disappointing. count the continuity errors. notice yourself counting continuity errors and wonder if that’s a sign you’ve made a costly error in judgment with this flick. check your watch. muffle a groan when you discover you still have 40 minutes left before it's over. kiss your expectations goodbye. speaking of kissing, remark that the makeout couple are still paying attention to the screen and not each other. wonder what you’re clearly missing. realize the answer is: not being part of the target demographic.

9. leave. actively avoid the eager ushers gleefully thrusting audience ballots in your face and resist the urge to say, “trust me. my vote isn’t going to help this movie win anything.” squeeze past the women packing the lobby and take one last look around to see if there's anyone with whom you might want to chat or exchange flirty glances. there is not. walk away from the theater with your movie-going pal, who disliked the film as much as you did, and dissect exactly what you hated and why. decide to skip the party because you’re still getting over a cold and, besides, the movie wasn't anything to celebrate. tell yourself you will NOT be sucked in like this again. have unpleasant flashbacks to last year's big stinker, Loving Annabelle. let a combination of frustration, sadness, anger and ennui wash over you as you head towards the subway. stop to buy cookies on the way because you feel like you deserve at least one treat tonight.

10. get home. take out cookies. bite in. realize immediately that they are very stale. bemoan your crappy evening, but find comfort in the fact that misery loves company and at least you didn’t have to go through it all alone. blog about it.