Googling Is Such Sweet Sorrow.

I really screwed the pooch on this one. Yesterday, for the first time ever, someone found my blog via a Google search. I’ve had my site updated on Google for over a month and this is the first time that’s happened. What did this mystery surfer find upon visiting my blog? A pointless, brief post about some study about tall people being smarter than short people. What if Mystery Surfer had been short? I just ruined his/her day. What if Mystery Surfer had been tall? Now I’ve just gone and pissed off the tall segment of my small readership.

That said, even if I had been on my game yesterday, I doubt I would have been able to hook in Mystery Surfer. There just aren’t many topics of discussion that interest me right now. I am working on dueling projects (a pitch and a pilot) and attempting to overcome the claustrophobic, lethargy-inducing experience of work day in and day out. The only thing I could possibly think to write about is Ryan Seacrest.

A better man could rouse to action a fiery bunch of malcontents keen to oust Ryan Seacrest from his morning radio spot and current stature in the zeitgeist. Me? I can only think to start a website called fireryanseacrest.com.

On this site I’d do recaps of segments of his radio show, belittling the self-proclaimed metrosexual for his irrelevance, capriciousness, passive aggression and flat out bitchiness.

This morning, for instance, Mr. Seacrest and the desiccated remains of gossip hound Ellen K discussed a “news item” wherein Kevin Federline guested on CSI the other day. He was approached by a friend of Zombie Ellen who put out her hand to introduce herself to him. One of K-Fed’s handlers told her, “Uh, he’s Kevin Federline. He doesn’t do that.” So, Ryan and Ellen chuckled at the notion that Kevin Federline thinks he’s an elite star who doesn’t need to formally introduce himself. Ryan Seacrest cited Tom Hanks as someone who doesn’t have to introduce himself. David Spade might have to from time to time, though. And then -- here’s the kicker – he said, “Well, there’s one celebrity who might have to introduce himself.” Ellen: “Who’s that?” Ryan: “Brian Dunkelmann. Who’s that guy?” And then slam into commercials.

Who is Brian Dunkelmann and why should we care? Oh, we absolutely should not care at all, but Brian Dunkelmann was the American Idol co-host in its first season. Essentially, Ryan Seacrest won the solo hosting gig by default: Dunkelmann walked away. Now that guy lives in relative obscurity while Ryan Seacrest attains fame and fortune for no other reason than that he showed up for work.

To be clear: Seacrest’s fame doesn’t bother me so much, it’s his cattiness that does. Why would you take a cheap shot at Dunkelmann, Asscrest? Because you can? That’s real classy.

I hate the idea that people who move out to LA turn on KIIS FM and listen to this guy and think this is what LA is like. In truth, Asscrest perfectly reflects trendy, vapid, hollow, feckless, pussy LA people to a T, but that doesn’t mean that I or anyone else must accept this doosh and what he stands for. And what does he stand for? Following the crowd. Going with the flow. Doing what everybody else does. Being hip. Being cool. What’s the new flavor that everyone’s getting at Starbucks? Who are you wearing? Where did you get your ass waxed?

I realize that writing about this yesterday probably would have scared off Mystery Surfer. Still, I feel like I didn’t put my best foot forward. So, if you happen to come to this blog again, Google-Referred Web Surfer, perhaps you will find this rant of a post more to your liking, or at least pique your interest enough to check out past writings. You can read my Snakes on a Plane review. Or you can read about one of my freakishly vivid dreams here, here, here and here.

I doubt I will start fireryanseacrest.com any time soon. If someone else wishes to try it, just remember that I came up with the idea first, and I’ll at least want to be one of the site editors.

Edited to add: A Google search of the phrase "fire ryan seacrest" turned up a whopping 9 results. 9!!!

She Incited Me with Science.

I’m going to file this report under Scientists with an Agenda.

If you didn’t click the link to read the thing, here’s a summary:

“As adults, taller individuals are more likely to select into higher paying occupations that require more advanced verbal and numerical skills and greater intelligence, for which they earn handsome returns.”

You can find the abstract and ordering information (if you’re really interested) here.

The Agenda these two female scientists are advancing, I believe, is that these women are smart scientists worthy of their peers’ approval. According to the internet article, they are both 5’8”, taller than the average female. I think they are trying to use their study to gain acceptance into their own scientific community.

There are plenty of average or below average-sized people in this world who are super smart and plenty of above average-sized people who are dumber than sin (NBA, I’m looking in your direction).

I like how every year or so there’s some article like this. I like that every year I feel a tinge of misery when someone brings up my height and then claims that it is the reason for my station in life. Truth be told, my station in life is more likely the result of laziness coupled with my degree (and possibly from where I received my degree).

********
A lot of you inquired about the TV show I hinted at in my last post. All will be revealed in due time. I simply do not want to spread any information before I have all the details hammered out. Right now, my attention is on completing a pitch for a TV show.

*******
I’ve had a headache for 48 consecutive hours. It’s sucking the life out of me. Kinda like watching Will & Grace for an hour.

*******
Music suggestion: I don’t have one. But I do have a movie suggestion. If you get bored this weekend, have a drink, get together a group of friends and go see Beer Fest. Hilarious stuff.

Writing for Television.

Those of you who know me are aware of my interest – nay, desire – nay, passion – nay, obsession! – in writing for television. Given that I am a neophyte writer, the odds of me getting a staff job on a network show stands at… oh, I don’t know… I never could retain the odds-making lesson in my statistics class.

But let me try to break it down a little bit. Things are about to get a little Socratic Methody, so, don’t be alarmed.

First, let us suppose that there are 85 scripted television shows in primetime., half hour and hour-long combined, comprised of 10-person writing staffs. This gives us a figure of 850 staff writers.

Next, let us suppose that the Writers Guild of America (both East & West) represents 18,000 television and play writers both in good standing and not staffed on a scripted primetime show.

Now let us suppose that out of the 18,000 unemployed, but experienced TV and play writers, 12,000 are over 40 years of age. Subtracting the older members (as most would not take story editor – bottom rung – staff positions) leaves us with a figure of 6,000 unemployed TV and playwrights with existing credits and experience. Those 6,000 are trying to fill the same 850 slots that I and other non-represented neophytes are eyeballing from afar.

Therefore, I have decided that it is in my best interest to strike out on my own and create my own series that I can write, produce and direct. With time, I plan to build an audience and distribute it on a recognizable platform in the hopes of drawing attention and, eventually, interested parties.

Part of the reason for the infrequent updates has been the development of this show. I don’t want to say much about it right now. I will simply say that I plan to do a comedy series, with the intention of posting it on YouTube and/or MySpace video. This is the future, my friends. This is the workaround to the lack of experience/who you know/who your father is (or was)/I didn’t go to USC or UCLA wall: The Internets.

Laughing About Love.

I owe my humble readership a discussion on my short script, Thine Own Self, if only because I promised one a month ago when I put up my last post. I will get to that discussion another time. I don’t really want to talk about that story.

Instead, I’d like to talk about snakes. No. I just did that. Okay. Forget that. Instead of snakes, why not… umm, love?

Love. Wow. That’s a complicated topic. Vague, too. Maybe not love. Maybe relationships? Nah. Too complex. My girlfriend? Well, she’s complex, too. But, I do know my relationship with her better than the topic of relationships. That’s a good point, me. I think I’ll write about my relationship with my girlfriend. But I’ll keep it brief so as to be less gushy.

Why less gushy? Because she’s great. She continues to surprise me and the more I learn about her, the more I like. I think she was sent to this planet from another world. Or, at the very least, she grew up in some part of this world with which I am not familiar. She’s just different.

I’m still the same dopey, schlubby, awkward and problem-causing guy, though. In my efforts to corner my feelings, cram them into a glass case of emotion where they should be observed and not explored, and use comedy as a means of deflecting deeper issues, I’ve gone so far as to nickname my girlfriend WomanWhoIsMakingASeriousCasetobeMyWife. I like the unnecessarily lengthy handle, but it’s problematic for a variety of reasons, chief among them:

• It sort of implies that I am examining her like a judge or jury, looking for facts and other details that will lead me to the judgment that she ought to be my wife.
• It’s not a nickname intended for her. It’s a cheap and easy way for me to describe how I feel about her to other people. She deserves better than cheap and easy anything.
• It runs the risk of lessening the impact of how I feel/how she knows I feel about her/how others perceive how I feel about her by kind of turning my feelings into a punchline.

That I’m even discussing this ON MY BLOG is problematic. But a part of me thinks that by putting myself on blast (it’s a slang term; I only slightly know what it means) that I can change it. Change what exactly, I’m not sure. I will say this: I laugh at this label on the surface, because I think it’s a little bit funny, because it’s so clunky. But my feelings for her are not clunky. I am not looking to rush our relationship, not even a little bit. I can honestly say that there’s just something completely special about her. And I like that. I love that. I like her kind of surprises.

On the other hand, I’m still the guy I’ve always been. As many of you know, that could be most problematic of all.

I Want This Motherfuckin’ Writer’s Block Off My Motherfuckin’ Brain!

I am very truly sorry for the long an unexpected delay. There just hasn’t been anything of import to write about lately. But I am forcing myself to write today just to get it going again, because I have something to turn in next week.

So, I saw Snakes on a Plane last night. Here is my brief review:

Snakes on a Plane is a terrible, awful, god-awful, gross, crummy, cheesy,crappy, lousy, beastly, bad, bad, bad movie. But I enjoyed the hell out of it.

The long review is actually about the experience of seeing this movie. I saw this in Westwood, UCLA’s neighborhood, so it was a bunch of college-aged to late 20s peeps who were definitely in on the joke of the film. There were people with S on a P t-shirts, rubber snakes, you name it. Based on a quick survey of the crowd, I’d say that if The Daily Show was new last night, a significant chunk of its audience did not tune in.

When my group sat down, the place was boisterous, loud, but more jovial than juvenile. We were there to see Sam Jackson fuck up some snakes, you know what I’m sayin’???!?! When the lights went down and after we endured some bad New Line Cinema trailers (seriously, New Line – you guys just fucking suck) the movie started. And we all laughed and enjoyed ourselves. It was as if the spirit of Mystery Science Theater 3000 inhabited us all and we took to riffing on the film out-loud for the duration. I was not annoyed by this and I daresay the majority of the packed house wasn’t either. It was a communal experience, like those urine troughs at the ballpark, and we were collectively pissing on this film to the delight of no one else but us.

Some running gags from last night:

“Red Bull!”: Shouted any time there was product placement. There was a can of red bull in the first 5 minutes, a case of Red Bull within the first 7.5 and an empty can in a police evidence bag within the first 10.

“Fuck ‘em up!”: The dude who shouted this three times in the first fifteen minutes delivered it perfectly, and that’s what was so funny. He said it whenever Sam Jackson was on screen and was in the midst of some conflict. Also delivered towards the end when Sam Jackson and Julianna Marguiles are sharing a moment.

“Snakevision!”: Every time the movie switched to a snake’s POV. Which it does. A lot.

“Whammy!”: Every time something snake-related, action-related, sexual innuendo-related occurred when David Koechner was on screen. You’ll remember that he played Champ Kind in Anchorman, and that character’s catch phrase was “Whammy!”

“Hissssssssss”: Oh my god. The hissing. Many, many times throughout the movie – no less than a dozen times by my count – did the vast majority – say, 80% -- of the audience break out into a haunting hiss. Usually whenever the mood became foreboding or snakes were foreshadowed. Or whenever there was a problem with the plane or an argument between the passengers. My group did not participate in the hissing. To be honest, we were all a little creeped out whenever it happened, because it really sounded like there were motherfuckin’ snakes in our motherfuckin’ theater!

As the movie ended and the credits rolled, the music video for Cobra Starship’s single “Snakes on a Plane” played. I shit you not, everybody not in my group SANG ALONG WITH THE SONG. It was unreal. And the commercialism of it all made me sick to my stomach.

It was a great experience that rivals – but doesn’t surpass – seeing the Special Edition re-release of the original Star Wars back in high school. That night was unreal. It was especially awesome because the movie wasn’t vomit-inducingly bad. But last night’s crowd really was the jelly on the spoon that helped the medicine go down.