This Afternoon In Drama

It Wouldn't Be Thanksgiving Without The Sound of X-Box First Person Shooter Games (Tonight, Rainbow Six) Coming Through The Wall

I don't know if Jonathan Brandis is a big enough star to warrant vast amounts of suicide commentary (From TV Guide: "CAUSE OF DEATH: The death of 27-year-old actor Jonathan Brandis has been officially ruled a suicide. According to a coroner's report, the SeaQuest DSV star hung himself with a nylon rope in the hallway of his Los Angeles apartment complex on Nov. 11. He was found unconscious that night and rushed to a hospital, where he died the next day. Most recently, Brandis had a starring role in the ABC drama pilot 111 Gramercy Park."). But, already being fascinated by any suicide, I am particularly intrigued by his because, as far as I can tell from past press, Jonathan didn't seem to be a "cry for helper." Or, at least, not in any Hollywood, public way. He was, aside from being an "actor," invisible-- no drug overdoses, no bashing in of cop cars, no searching-for-my-real-identity risky indie movie roles. While I have always contended that to be able to complete suicide takes a very particular, determined, and rare person, and that this sincere quality of suicide-preparedness is seldomly visible (or at least, usually, not in obvious ways), I think that the self-inflicted death of a blond, blue-eyed actor, who is still getting work, is going to raise so many testimonials of "this wasn't who he really was" and "this must be the result of a recent depression" that Jonathan will be one of the quickest "stars" to get written over as a troubled, beautiful cherub. People interviewed about him in "People" will insist that had he just gotten to the "doctor," he would have been "fine." I get the feeling that Jonathan will be a tough one for the public to equate with the inner impulses that go into desiring to hang oneself in the hallway with nylon rope. Even I have a little bit of a fantastical image of him, since he starred in the sequel to The Neverending Story-- and while it was no Neverending Story 1, I do remember the Tiger Beat Spreads and the general joy that the entertainment world expressed at his debut, at having found a new, dreamy, ocean-eyed fox.

On the way up to Los Altos for Thanksgiving, Brett and I listened to David Sedaris's CD reading of "Naked" (I am on my Mac 5.0 laptop and it refuses to let me italicize, by the way), and David tells the story of his Ya-Ya, a black-clad, smelly Greek woman who used to keep a fish in an incredibly dirty jar on the windowsill. And when, one day, Ya-Ya came home and the fish was no longer in the murky, disgusting jar, she concluded that it had jumped to its death in the alley below. At this point, Amy Sedaris (I think) pipes in as the accented voice of Ya-Ya, and asks something like, "Why did fish have the suicide? It so pretty."

And this, in general, is how everyone seems to respond to the suicide of people who are not spectacularly ugly or pathetic (which are, weirdly enough, most, since to be spectacularly ugly or pathetic is harder than you think), so in the case of Jonathan Brandis, I can only imagine what "fans" are going to do to totally muddy his intentions and life.

While You Were Sleeping

Whoa, look what happened. It's Jonathan Lipnicki. You know, the Jerry Maguire kid.

Mouvang

Posts will be few over the next week, what with the move, the life upheaval, the drive to Los Altos, the eating of the turkey, the explaining to guests at the table why I do not eat vegetables, the 30th birthday of the boyfriend, the __th birthday of the mother, the law school essay sent to me out of the blue by the guy who used to copy off of me in high school math and who wants me to read it and rework it and make it "great" so he can be admitted because I am a "writer" and he sent another email checking to make sure I received the essay this afternoon, the hallucinations that I keep having upon waking up from naps where I think objects are addressing me-- like my clock radio is giving a joking report on my life or today, my bathroom mirror is writing my name and my nicknames in its fogged up self over and over and over when it is not fogged nor literate at all.

This Side Up

My apartment is mostly packed up, and I am ready to move in a physical "yes, I am packed up movers, so you may move my boxes into your truck" way, but overwhelmed by the idea of Living with a Boyfriend and Sharing a Mailbox and also in total confusion at how My Berkeley TA's Face Became Familiar and Beloved by Me. These are all titles for future novels.

I have a problem (yes, another one) where I project my own feelings onto inanimate objects, and so while I think that all the papers, paperclips, and unpaired socks that I threw away today are sobbing in the dumpster, contemplating the vastness of the landfill to which they are headed and the endless loneliness that awaits, I am truly devasted by the thought of what the things that I threw away with eyes (googly and whatnot) are going through.

Maybe She's Born With It, Maybe It's Doggie Make-up?

Today I was buying hay for my rabbit when I saw the "Critter Glitter" display next to the register. There was a picture of a dog on it, a dog that looked like a canine Cyndi Lauper. Except almost crying. I locked eyes with the real kittens to the left, who put their tiny little paws up to the bars of their cage and went, "Meow, meow...but what if we are sold to someone who wants to put "Critter Glitter" in our 'bangs'?" And my heart filled with woe and I wanted to take them all home.

"I developed Critter Glitter and Color-Wands because so many little girls and young women enjoy putting glitter and color streaks in their hair for parties and holidays," says Dr. Dawn Currie Thomas, president of Veterinarian's Best Inc."

You know what Dr. Dawn? Maybe certain "little girls and young women" care about putting glitter and color streaks" in their own hair, but I can guarantee you, Dr. Dawn, that the pets of the worlds don't give a shit about being sparkly or new-wave or ready-at-a-minute's-notice for the next candy rave. What's next, doctor, temporary "cat-toos"?

Dr. Dawn, you are awful.

Sickness Fades: Hopefully TV Psychic Powers Return

I guessed the wrong rose recipient yesterday, and I attribute this to 2 reasons:

1. Not having seen this picture of Bob's ex-wife pre-finale. If Bob's intent was to find a replacement for the woman who dumped him via crushing Post-It note, then Estella was obviously his girl.

2. I had the theory right, but applied it wrong: While it is true that many seek mates that mirror them as closely as possible, this depends on the Bachelor actually wanting to find someone like himself. And, because Not Fat Anymore, Okay Guys? Bob is looking to run away from his past, to flee from the pain, the sorrow, the extra fifty pounds that he gained post-divorce and knee surgery, he would not want a girl that reminds him of who he really is. Kelly Jo is Midwestern and kind of tacky and kind of shiny (and was kind starting to look like she had been putting on some stress pounds). Bob seeks to forget himself and sets out in the opposite direction: Estella, she of the Beverly Hills flat-ironed hair, she of the collarbones jutting out of her chest, she of the rewritten history/ aka future.

Plus, K.J.? What was with the dress? The dress with the silvertone charm connecting the red rayon fabric that barely covered your boobages, the dress with the "Wow, I haven't seen that since my last visit to the swapmeet in '91" three-string spaghetti back? As soon as I saw you had put on a wraparound rhinestone bracelet, the elegant evening cousin of the slap-on jewelry best worn with acid-washed overalls and double layer socks, I knew it was over.

Not that there's anything wrong with this fashion in and of itself, but K.J., you haven't been paying attention to the major word that gets floated around The Bachelor every season: Classy. The ladies claim that they are classy, unlike their competitors. The Bachelor says, "I want a classy lady." And really, no one using the word even thinks about the boundaries of its definition or why "class" is even something important to possess and/or exercise, but everyone just knows that it's key. Scrambling to get ahold of this elusive and mythic class, Bob uses obvious markers to identify which qualities in a mate will bring him closer to his next guest appearance on Oprah-- and while he probably couldn't make a definite list of them (even of what he's looking for), he knows that frosted shadow looks bad on TV.

Antibiotics Are Kicking My Ass

While I can't exactly recommend it, there is something kind of special about having woken up for the past three mornings at 4 a.m. and throwing up for an hour. The nausea makes me sensitive to everything in the world-- I am bonded to the toilet, to each strand of hair I'm holding back, to the pounding of my heart in my ears. And I feel like I'm sort of achieving something that early in the morning. Like I'm being productive. When I'm finished, I have the pride of child, wanting my mom to put my vomit up on her kitchen fridge, knowing that I just put all my best effort into some hardcore puking while everyone else is sleeping with lazy stomachs. I feel like I'm a champ at the end.

During my sick downtime, one thought has been preoccupying me especially: In the new Kay's Jewerly commercial, the one where the guy asks his girlfriend if she believes in Santa as they are strolling through a Christmas wonderland, the guy, to me, is clearly Jewish. And he strongly signifies Jewishness, in the way that if Kay's had put out a breakdown for a waspy suitor, they would have ended up with a certain kind of guy too. It's boggling to me why Kay's decided to cast this way. He's supposed to be really tight with Santa-- Saint Nick even shows up at the end in a cab to take the couple to...I don't know. Midnight mass? I just don't get it.

In TV news:
-- Tonight is The Bachelor finale. And right now I think Kelly Jo wins, based on the fact that in the promo for the episode, she has unleashed her natural curl for her final date. Puts some gel in it, greases it up, and turns out looking exactly like Bob. It's been proven that the majority of people like to find mates who remind them of themselves, and that's why I think she might have this thing in the bag.
-- TV Guide online makes me happy for two reasons today:

"PARIS DOES DAVE
Hotel heiress-turned-sex tape siren Paris Hilton will do damage control on Late Show with David Letterman next Wednesday."

(And the National Enquirer reports that there's supposedly a tape deux floating around, featuring Paris and a Playboy playmate.)

"UP AND CATWALKING
The second edition of America's Top Model debuts Jan. 13, UPN confirmed today. Tyra Banks returns as mentor/judge."

We're back to the subject of throwing up, full circle. That's why I'm a "writer."

Whirling Feverish

So sick. My throat glands are frenching each other. But hey, why is no one blurbing anymore? My editor's friends with Mary Gaitskill and asked her to read the galley, but she's no longer blurbing. My favorite college professor is very tight with Margaret Atwood. She's not blurbing anymore. She even wrote a poem about it. My agent had dinner with Alice Sebold's agent and slipped her a galley, but it is widely known that Alice is not blurbing. Donna Tartt is not only not blurbing, but also not considering the re-optioning of the film rights to The Secret History after Gwynnie's brother's option ran out. I have a really fun email relationship with a certain Famous Author, who does not blurb "unless personal relationships will be sundered for all time if I don't," and I am absolutely not into this sundering.

I've been warned that since I don't have close relationships with any Famous Authors who could help the sales of the book, it's going to be next to impossible to get a blurb from an author who is a) visible and b) meaningful to the people who would be interested in the subject of my novel. In the exact words of someone affiliated with the book, "As we all know, without a personal connection, the chances of a quote are slim to nil." It's left in the hands of my agents and editor, who are able to talk to people. If you've ever seen me at a party, you know why I am not much help in this arena.

Awhile ago I had the "genius" idea of writing Jeffrey Eugenides a stunningly lame letter, since our first books center around similar subjects and themes. But I have no idea if it even ever got to him because I only had the address of his publisher, and maybe there's an intern over there who intercepted. Still giggling.

Tonight, feverish, I have decided it's a GREAT idea to list some of the big, ideal authors along with glowing phrases, so that if any one of these authors is googling him/herself (a pretty common occurrence, I feel) along with flattering descriptions, he/she will land here. Great. And I don't know what's supposed to happen from that point foward, but here's some of the authors whose names have been tossed around in discussions as being beneficial to my "being read." I connect to them on at least one level: that of sort-of-Jewishness, that of youngishness, that of suicideness, that of young-women's narrativeness. I'm wishing for my co-ed, youngish , casually Jewish, suicidal audience. Readers don't have to be things at once. Oh yeah, sidenote: Don't kill yourselves until after pressing "one click ordering" on Amazon.

"Best author ever." "Best writer in the world." "Best author on the planet." "His books make me weep with joy." "Her books make me weep with joy." "The highest talent." "Genius of our decade/generation/century." "With highest praise." "No one comes close." "Deserves a Pulitzer." "Deserves a Booker." "My god." "My goddess." "The one author that keeps me from killing myself." "The writer that gets me out of bed in the morning." "The author in all of my sexual fantasies." "The author that puts all others to shame."
In no particular order, just pasted from an email memo:
Jeffrey Eugenides, Joan Didion, Chuck Palahniuk, Alice Sebold, Margaret Atwood, Jane Hamilton, Alice Hoffman, Mary Gaitskill, Bret Easton Ellis, Donna Tartt, Zadie Smith, Myla Goldberg, Susanna Kayson, Adam Haslett, Gary Shteyngart, Jonathan Safran Foer, Joseph Weisberg, Lynda Barry, Ann Packer, Sarah Vowell, Lauren Slater (Hey Lauren Slater, I love you. Seriously. More on you tomorrow.), Louise Erdrich, Richard Price, Monica Ali and my books are packed up for the move so I can't look among them, and I feel like I'm about to pass out, but uhhhhhhhhh.

I don't know.

Joe Millionaire II is crying on the TV.

Strep to this

I'm just turning off comments from here on out. They're not doing anything for me and, after my sooooort-of friend/ object of non-sexual obsession from Brown, Mike, pointed out to me this morning (in a out of the blue email) that he is not only disappointed in me for wanting comments, but for having a blog itself, I have even become sick of the commenting on the comments. And just sick in general. Peace out, I'm going to the Burbank emergency clinic now.