N.Y. Boy in L.A.

A self-proclaimed New York Snob, Elizabeth Cooke doesn’t believe in living anywhere else.

A youth of the 60s, she is a follower of Kerouac, a hater of Bush, and would marry her packs of Parliament Lights if it were legal. With a mop of red hair and a penchant for black sweaters, Liz is one of those liberal kool kats you’d spot in old photos from the original Woodstock in which she could be testing out every drug known to man. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine her knocking back shots of whiskey at an underground jazz club somewhere in the West Village, swaying to the tunes of a saxophonist named Johnny K and bopping to the bass in a haze of smoke (of course, back when you could puff on cancer sticks in New York establishments).

Her signature rasp of a voice stands out among the faculty of Iona Preparatory. Liz, or Ms. Cooke to her students, teaches English and acts as a moderator of the drama club at the all-boys high school located in the northern heights of New Rochelle. She instructs an array of academics - dumb jocks, bookish loners, closeted artists - yet she silently knows who will succeed and do her proud in the future. She has her "special boys."

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The 1:15 a.m. Metro North train leaving Grand Central usually arrives at the New Rochelle station at approximately 1:47. My day in the city had ended. My stomach was filled with the tasty cuisine of Elmo, the Chelsea restaurant that introduced me to the passion fruit cosmo, and I was coming off the high of Magnolia Bakery cupcakes and seeing Jake Gyllenhaal walk down Bleeker Street.

Just as I was about to let the iPod lull me into a disco nap, I caught a glimpse of reddish brown hair and heard that unmistakable voice, that distinct smoker’s cough.

"Ms. Cooke?"

Before she could walk into the next car in search of a seat, Liz Cooke, follower of Kerouac, hater of Bush, turned around and did a double take.

"Oh my God," she rasped.

"Hiko Mitsuzuka. Class of ‘98?" The woman has seen a lot of boys pass through that prep factory in the past eight years, give her a chance.

"Of course! Oh my God." She turned to the bald gentleman who was carrying her jacket. Her husband, Gus. Another member of the Class of Woodstock ‘69.

The woman who was sitting in the row across from me got up and offered the seats to them so we could talk further. The "talk" was more of a review of names we knew from way back when. She asked about who I kept in touch with (sadly, a few), who was doing what (jobs, not drugs), and most importantly, what the hell have I been doing since I kissed those graffiti-free hallways of Iona goodbye. Turns out I was only one of two guys from my circle of friends who had moved off, out of town, out of state. When Ms. Cooke ("You can call me Liz now") learned of my move to La-La land, she seemed a little surprised and asked the two questions that always hit me when I come back to New York: "You like it? Ever think about moving back?"

I told her I loved it. I can’t imagine not living there.

"Wow, that’s good. Normally, I don’t hear that. Me? I can’t stand California." Spoken like a typical New Yorker. "You roller skate to the hottubs?"

Liz went on to repeat this bizarre roller skate comment later in the conversation. Apparently she thinks all Angelenos favor a good roll on the beach and pruning of the fingers in boiling water. As she stuttered off a list of more names from our past I noticed how she rocked back and forth in her seat, the glaze in her eyes.

My high school English teacher was drunk…or something else.

"Gus and I are coming back from watching a friend play a session in the Village. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m a little out of it, if you know what I mean."

Cut to my mental images: aging hipsters wearing berets and porkpie hats, smoke clouds, shots of whiskey…

I had to stifle a laugh. If the boys of Iona could see this now.

Liz beamed over my class, saying how special my group of friends were (damn right we were). I flashed back to our AP English class trip to Broadway to see Christopher Plummer perform in the one-man "Barrymore." There was the Tom Stoppard play in Hudson Park. The readings of Allen Ginsberg during an October thunderstorm. The acapella spring musical we endured ("My Favorite Year," if you’re wondering, in which I played a Phillipino boxer who was married to a brassy Jewish matriarch). My first fall play, a quartet of one-acts in which I had a non-speaking role as a supermarket shopper in "Ten Items or Less." My first cast party during which the boys participated in a Spice Girls lip-synch-off with the girls of The Ursuline School. Speech and debate tournaments. New Year’s Eve sleepovers. Reading "The Great Gatsby" and briefly romanticizing over the glitz of 1920s high society. Shouting out the lyrics to Meredith Brooks’s "Bitch" during dress rehearsals in the school gymnasium…

It is one thing to take a stroll down memory lane, but when the memory floodgates are opened, one flies down what I like to call the Nostalgia Highway.

And after this past weekend, I could have used an EZ-Pass.

I see a pattern developing during my visits to New York. Regardless of the nature of my trip, I will always run into at least one person from my past who will ask me those same questions I faced on that late-night commuter rail.

Here’s the thing. The first day back is always the same. The jarring differences between both cities hit me. At first, the idea of living in New York (city or elsewhere) loses its appeal to me. Sure, the energy is contagious, but the enclosure of the buildings can be stifling. I prefer some open flatlands now, the idea of driving out to places and seeing the scenery change, not feeling trapped on an island made of concrete and glass. I know some New Yorkers who never venture out beyond the George Washington Bridge. To them, travelling to Jersey is out of the question; Long Island is the beachy country to frequent during the summer. To them, I say go beyond the twenty or so miles. Realize there’s a whole country out there. NYC is arguably the center of the world, and if your pride is as big as Ms. Cooke’s, I mean Liz’s, it’s the center of the universe. You have good reason to feel that way. But may I suggest toning it down a notch. Open your mind and acknowledge the unexplored gems the rest of the nation has to offer.

Frankly, get over yourselves.

Wake up and notice why Manhattanites are starting to migrate out of the city. It’s an ironic move. New Yorkers boast about how great they have it, piquing the interest of newbies who move in to see what all the fuss is about, thus increasing the demand for new condominiums and high-rises (I never witnessed so much construction before) and increasing the dollar signs on property leases. Then, it’s out with the old, in with the new.

New York Friend #1: "I have everything I want within walking distance."

To which I reply, "Wonderful, but how many times can you stomach the same Thai take-out, the same artsy coffeeshop, the same neighborhood pub, the same face you want to avoid on the subway?"

Walking in the city will eventually bring you past the same landmarks…and then you have to walk back home. Sure, it’s good for the heart, all that cardio. But there’s a benefit to all the driving we do here in the City of Angels: We go further, we see more. Those aging NYC natives are getting the picture. They want to see more as well.

I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Every street I turn down in Westchester serves me a flashback. Central Avenue: checking out the then-new Barnes and Noble in Hartsdale to buy Anne Rice’s "Queen of the Damned" on a frigid winter night. Wilmot Road: walking in the mud on the side of the road during a rainstorm to catch the bus down on North Avenue. Quaker Ridge Road: shelling out five bucks to walk through the New Rochelle Chamber of Commerce’s annual Haunted House and worrying I wouldn’t make it back home in time to catch the network television premiere of "A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child" (oh TiVo, where were you in 1992?).

And then I return to Los Angeles. I see the friends I have made, the unofficial family I have adopted, and I am welcomed back into the fold. I am surrounded by a rare few who share my trivial obsessions with the giggle-inducing references of "Veronica Mars," the random delight taken from a forgotten Jefferson Starship single, the totally odd sighting of Al Pacino in the West Hollywood Target, and the rejuvenation Rosie has thankfully delivered to "The View." Yes, we’re industry freaks. Get over it.

To say that I’m bicoastal is to repeat myself. That chapter was finished a while ago. What I am now is something different. What I am now is open, ready to catch the fastballs of the West that will propel me into the New, into the Next. What I am now is home.

And for the record: I’ve never gone roller skating. And hottubs? They’re called Jacuzzis. And I love ‘em.

H.P.M.

*Did I mention? Liz hates blogs too.

A disturbing trend is popping up in bookstores across America.

It is something that has bothered me for some time, and being the formerly enormous bookworm that I am (God, I was such the sad sight in the seventh grade), I feel an obligation towards tomorrow’s semi-literate generation to address this matter.

The "quality" young-adult novels I obsessed over during the early 90s are on the verge of extinction. The books my peers and I enjoyed not so long ago are hardly visible among the shelves of every Barnes & Borders throughout the land. No longer do the names Francine Pascal, Christopher Pike or R.L. Stine grace the uncracked spines of paperbacks. Instead, oversized softcovers with increasingly large fonts and flashy images of teen fashionistas, mystical creatures, and drugged-out deviants are taking over the reading sections that used to be found near the "baby" books. It seems as if the retailers want to avoid insulting their young readers by forcing them to hover near "Where’s Waldo" and "The Berestein Bears."

While I do appreciate the clever cover art and more sophisticated subject matter of today’s young-adult novels, I worry that the serialized teen thrillers of yesteryear will completely vanish off the shelves. How many frickin’ fantasy volumes featuring domesticated dragons and young warriors can one reader stomach? Next year Harry Potter will hang up the broomstick and bid adieu to Hogwarts; let it be! Do publishers really think readers will come back for the next rip-off over and over?

"Toto, I don’t think we’re in Sweet Valley anymore."

The epidemic goes beyond the fantasy genre. It looks like the publishers are grooming a new generation of chick-lit fans and "Sex and the City"-holics as well. Series like "The A-List" and "It Girl" flaunt attractive bodies in party atmospheres and fab dwellings, never skimping on the doses of melodrama. These superficial selections are the literary equivalent to "Laguna Beach."

The language is even more daring nowadays. Characters scream expletives and make sexual references usually reserved for a "Nip/Tuck" script. And since it is a pre-req to have cafes in bookstores nowadays, the kiddies are getting high on caffiene while skimming the pages of "Rhymes With Witches" (an honest-to-God title I spotted).

And it’s not like I still read these quasi-novels. I just like to walk by the YA stacks and glance at what new releases are out there. Please. I have graduated to big boy books. I have. Pay no attention to that R.L. Stine sitting on my living room shelf…

My Sunday trip to the new Borders superstore in Century City was an eye-opening visit. First and foremost, I headed to the Seattle’s Best Coffee cafe to receive my free Rewards-members-only 12-ounce drink. Trying not to be rude to customers as I chatted with my mom on the phone, I made my way past the new James Patterson table and around the bargain bins to find the YA books ironically nestled in between Romance and Sci-Fi/Fantasy. A few titles jumped out at me ("Ooh, a new Buffy novelization based on events occurring after the series finale"). The new hardcover from Ned Vizzini, "It’s Kind of a Funny Story," sat there, dying to be purchased with my 25% off coupon. I did what I had to do - pluck it from its nest and give it a new home in my library.

Seriously though, the guy’s a refreshing new writer. He’s a 25-year-old former prep-school kid from NYC who knows someone who knows me. I’m still a little shady on the connections, but we’re MySpace pals and I am a fan. His last novel, "Be More Chill," was on many top-10 lists (including my bible, Entertainment Weekly), and I’m sure some movie producer is adapting the shit out of it right now. It was one of the best books I had read in a long time: http://www.amazon.com/Be-More-Chill-Ned-Vizzini/dp/0786809965/sr=8-1/qid=1158885842/ref=pd_bbs_1/002-8720577-0386448?ie=UTF8&s=books

I left Borders disappointed that none of the novels I grew up with were prominently displayed for all to peruse. That girl holding the seventy-eighth installment of "The Princess Diaries" will never be thrilled by the character-driven whodunit that is Christopher Pike’s "Final Friends" trilogy. The skateboarder-lookin’ muppet frantically searching for trivia books on Tony Hawk will never know about the social commentary hidden within the pages of Todd Strasser’s "The Wave" (who remembers that haunting Afterschool Special?).

When you get down to it though, the fact is: I’m aging and losing my grip on something I loved and enjoyed years ago.

Getting older is certainly not a pretty thing. Just ask Paul Haggis. Last night at the Arclight I caught "The Last Kiss," the Zach Braff downer of a dramedy whose trailer I’ve been playing once a week on Quicktime. I enjoyed the film. Blythe Danner was typically superb. That opening-titles song by Snow Patrol still plays on repeat in my brain. However, the film’s message about turning 30, letting go of an age of innocence, and confronting identity crises took a backseat to the other theme that slapped me in the face:

Men are whiny pussies.

Warning: Spoilers ahead (but if you’ve seen the trailer, this doesn’t give away much)…The four male characters of the film (five, if you include Tom Wilkinson’s dad role) are afraid to face reality. Eric Christian Olsen (Kenny) doesn’t mind ice fishing and bedding every hot Pussycat Doll applicant who crosses his panty-littered path. Casey Affleck (Chris) doesn’t want to live in a loveless marriage with his baby’s mama because she’s always criticizing him and the baby’s always crying. Michael Weston (Izzy) is depressingly desperate to get his long-time girlfriend back and ends up leaving town on a road trip to Mexico. And Zach Braff (Michael) is so scared shitless about committing to his pregnant girlfriend of three years that he literally flirts with disaster in the form of co-ed Rachel Bilson, who, in one scene, pathetically tries to mimic Natalie Portman’s kookiness from "Garden State" but gets the movie’s most thought-provoking line: "The world is moving so fast now that we start freaking out way before our parents did…because we don’t ever stop to breathe anymore."

Thanks, Rachel. Note taken.

And mentally filed away.

Off to be whiny,

H.P.M.

While I stood next to a giggly Kathy Griffin and shook hands with Lance Bass and his reality-TV leftover of a boyfriend, I spotted Howie D. of the Backstreet Boys getting ready in his VIP booth for the birthday cake that was being carried across the dancefloor where Nicole Ritchie’s boyfriend spun some beats. Kevin, AJ, Nick and the younger Carter, Aaron, started singing "Happy Birthday," the rest of the club chiming in over the throbbing bass.

Rewind for a minute: My friend Rex invited me to be his plus one at the Dorough Lupus Foundation party at LAX, the Hollywood "club of the minute." His publicist, the energetic Mina, got us past the VIP line and slapped some bracelets on us for the open bar. Several people stopped Rex as we inched our way through poseurs and pee-ons, shouting out "Lloyd! We love you, man!" Needless to say, those toting their miniscule digicams just had to take pics with him, proof that they got to meet one of the stars of "Entourage."

Little did I know my evening would end up resembling an episode of the HBO comedy.

Go ahead and roll your eyes. I certainly did. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what I was getting into when I accepted the invite. A small spectacle it was. Another vapid get-together disguised as a noble charity event. I’m too lazy to go over all the details because I now believe that none of it matters. I could go on and describe my dinner at Oprah’s birthday party (in an alternate universe, of course) and know that it serves no purpose whatsoever.

The dropping of famous names is an unofficial tradition in Los Angeles you simply cannot avoid (same for New York, I’m sure). Halle Berry likes Body Factory protein shakes? Better go get yourself one! You’re with the Metcalfe party? Sorry, Jesse’s running late with the rest of this posse, so please wait in line with the rest of ‘em. Kate Bosworth ordered a large green tea yogurt at Pinkberry? Shut up! SIDEBAR: Pinkberry is all the rage here in L.A. Lines out the door. All-natural yumminess. It deserves its own chapter someday.

And I feel like a little part of me dies inside every time I have to resort to this practice. It’s as if my soul slightly withers when I try to prove my importance to some shallow creature whose career is steeped in Hyping Up The Trivial. But it feels damn good once you get past that velvet rope. It feels good to be validated in your selection of non-dairy dessert. The self-esteem gets a boost. The chin rises a little higher. The heart blackens just a little.

I consider my namedropping a necessity for these chapters. It comes with the description of the scenery. How can you describe a forest without mentioning the trees?

Labor Day weekend did not consist of any big names, but there were places and things to note. Saturday: a trip to Palm Springs to raid the Desert Hills Outlets (I look forward to debuting my twenty-dollar Calvin Klein blazer in New York at the end of the month). Sunday: Brunch at Mani’s Bakery (I happen to know one of the co-owners) followed by a macrobiotic dessert at M Cafe on Melrose, a self-treated screening of "Step Up" in Century City (Channing Tatum doing his best ghetto-Neanderthal act), a Hot in Hollywood committee dinner at the home of one Ms. Lisa Field, and a late-night visit to the Abbey with my friend Matt, who just returned from Hawaii and wanted to do some much-needed catching up. Coincidentally enough, both of us were on antibiotics during the past few days, so no alcohol was consumed…Here’s where I interrupt my itinerary breakdown for some backstory:

The antibiotics were prescribed to me due to the staph infection I caught last Wednesday. What seemed to be a spider bite near my elbow grew worse, and it was painful to rest my arm at my desk. Cassie, my boss (God love her), and the rest of my co-workers looked after me, advising me to go to Urgent Care before the bump on my arm (pictured, via Google images) grew to the size of a golf ball from Hell. On Thursday I left work early to check myself into the Beverly Hills Urgent Care center, where a doctor poked a hole in my arm with a needle and drained the nastiness from my lucky limb. And to top it all off: my old insurance policy lapsed, and my Anonymous Content plan doesn’t start for another three weeks. Perfect timing, no?

Monday was mostly spent on a sailboat parked in Marina Del Rey, munching on various barbeque goodness and salt-and-vinegar Lays. Said nautical vehicle belonged to Jenn’s friend Rae and her rock singer hubby, Cashew, of the Prix. Again no alcohol was consumed, but I think the sun got to me, which couldn’t have been good for the medication I was taking. Eek. The rest of the evening consisted of scarfing down meatball and zucchini pizza in Silverlake while watching the enjoyable bitchiness of Mandy Moore in "Saved" and the flawless complexion of Julianne Moore in "The Forgotten."

Ephiphany of the Week: While pumping my legs on an elliptical machine at the gym, situated between two blondes, I noticed the one on my right reading an US Weekly from 2003. First I thought, Did she have nothing better to read while pretending to burn calories like the rest of us? Then, I realized the magazine could be the perfect time capsule for future generations to discover. Think about it. One issue can speak volumes about our culture of the time - what we wore (back in ‘03 porkpie hats were the hot item), who was popular (Cameron Diaz dating Justin Timberlake? C’mon!), and what was a must-see at the theaters (Johnny Depp as a pirate? Nah!). Imagine how mindblowing it would be to dig up an issue of People from 2006 in 2032 (that is, if the world hasn’t blown up or been submerged in water by all the icecaps by then)?

Ephiphany done. Next…

With summer finally behind us (overrated, if you ask me), we look forward to what passes as foliage, the boxes of Halloween candy lined up in stores (seriously, I already have my costume picked out), and the eventual, good-ol’ American chaos we call The Holidays.

Just think: 109 days ’til Christmas.

Start shopping. Like, now.

H.P.M.

There is "worn out." There is "tired."

And then there is flat-out, ridiculously insane exhaustion.

‘Tis 2:28 AM on Sunday morning, August 13, and I am attempting to start a new entry based on one of the most mentally and physically draining days of my life. I must finish before the vanilla-coated Tylenol PM kicks in.

Previously on "Hiko"…I had mentioned that I was a coordinator for a celeb-filled event called Hot in Hollywood, a one-night-only show benefitting the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. Last night was the main event. Picture me with a headset and clipboard, running around like a beheaded chicken on cocaine and you might come close to visualizing what I went through. I was in charge of 80 volunteers. That’s 80 people whose names all sounded the same, 80 individuals for whom I was responsible, 80 pairs of eyes that would turn to me whenever they had a question ("Who do we let into VIP?" "Does the ATM machine in the lobby work?" "Where’s the cash bar?"). And it didn’t help that my fifth week at Anonymous had been my busiest (Boss in Bucharest, insurance drama with our XBox shoot, etc).

On the menu: Making sure Jaime Pressly’s dressing room was perfectly scented with candles and bouquets. Sending two volunteers to get four cases of bottled water to replenish the green room. Running out of parking passes in the VIP lot. Trying to find a handler for Shar Jackson (yes, the former Mrs. K-Fed) who was scheduled to deliver a statistics speech on AIDS among women of minorities (the one heavy moment of the night). Catching a glimpse of the actor from "Passions" who performed a disco number with an actress who’s starring in a new network drama premiering this fall. Checking in with my security guys to make sure the VIP rooftop cabana didn’t fill to capacity. Checking in with the front house to make sure tickets were selling. Checking in with Matt Czuchry from "Gilmore Girls" to see if his stalker was waiting for him backstage…Checking my pulse to make sure I wouldn’t fall into cardiac arrest.

Three years ago I had been an attending volunteer at one of these types of events. And now, as a Man With A Clipboard, I was exposed to the underbelly of the dog-and-pony show. Running on the fuel of popcorn I had consumed earlier that afternoon at a screening of "Pulse" (Godawful, in case you’re wondering), I moved my feet and darted to and from each post throughout the crowded venue. Yes, it was hell, but at the end of it all, we raised over $70,000. We brought awareness to hundreds of people, touched thousands of lives - all that feel-good crap.

And of course, it wouldn’t be a Hollywood benefit without gift bags. Here’s where I cut to the chase - nothing to write home about. Just rest easy knowing I can get $75 off my next session at Hollywood Tan.

I did make new friends and acquaintances out of this spectacle. My MySpace profile got a few extra connections out of it as well. And all of this is why my butt was firmly planted on the couch in front of the TV all day Sunday.

‘Twas the beginning of the end of a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it summer.

Most of my summer was spent obsessing over a new rock band I discovered on iTunes as a Free Download of the Week. Under the Influence of Giants debuted in stores last Tuesday, and I am seeing them perform live for a third time this Thursday. Hello, I am a Giant junkie.

Last Thursday I saw them perform at the Key Club on Sunset with Jenn. The kids waiting outside were just that…kids (Unfortunately it was an all-ages gig). Dressed to the nines in slutty-peasant one-pieces, as if lifted from an episode of "Laguna Beach," or worse,"The Hills," these material girls stood on the curb like they were practicing poses for certain future nighttime jobs. Jenn and I looked at each other and shook our heads trying to comprehend the motives of these born-in-1990 Paris wannabes. I had a good laugh.

The show started near 11. Aaron, the lead singer who could be the love child of Mick Jagger and Barry Gibb, encouraged everyone to dance and stay for the afterparty which was originally guest-list-only (naturally, I’ve attached a pic). I later managed to get my poster signed by David, one of the guitarists and backup vocals, while geekily informing him how I bought their album with the bonus remix disc that is available only at Best Buy.

Luckily my obsession has now been redirected at the film "Little Miss Sunshine" (it’s going on my top 10 for ‘06) and Christina Aguilera’s "Back to Basics" (same for music).

There are few albums one highly anticipates, and when said album is actually purchased, little does one know that some expectations can be shattered.

Or swiped into oblivion by a wrecking ball.

Ladies and gents, if you thought Miss Christina Aguilera-Bratman could NEVER top the masterful "Stripped," please think again. "Back to Basics" is the most mesmerizing melting pot of jazz, soul, hip-hop, and sweeping Danny Elfman-esque orchestration (yes, you read that correctly) ever to fall upon listeners’ ears. To simply call it a pop album would be like calling Mount Rushmore a pile of rocks. Normally, I wouldn’t push a CD (let alone a double-disc) so strongly, but "B2B" deserves the praise it has been receiving from reviewers. Bow your heads in shame, all you Rihannas/Nelly Furtados/Cassies of the world. And Christina? Get your dress and acceptance speech ready for the 2007 Grammys.

I’m sure my next obsession is waiting for me around the corner of next month, but while I dwell in the present I shall continue to ride out the rest of August like the nagging bull that it is. And by "ride" I mean "check the following off my calendar": attend a dinner with the HIH committee, a red-carpet benefit at LAX (the club), a Michael Kors party on Rodeo, a screening of "Snakes on a Plane," a rock concert in Echo Park, a work luncheon at Ivy by the Shore, a guest-list-only function at Geisha House, get-togethers for the Emmys and VMAs (can anything top the suckage of last year’s mess in Miami?), and finally…three more birthday parties.

Bring on the long nights, the chill, the dead leaves. Bring on the launch of The CW.

I’m ready for fall now.

H.P.M.

"It’s like someone’s shaking the bed."

You hear the blinds on the window move as if a slight wind has rustled them, but you remember the window is closed, so that can only mean one thing: Earthquake.

My mother always assumed the entire West Coast would fall into the Pacific the moment she’d arrive in Los Angeles. She liked to amuse the rest of the family with her catastrophic visions of the first time she’d visit her only child on the other side of the country.

I am happy to report the earth never crumbled and swallowed the Southland whole during the four trips my mother made to L.A. No crackling of the boulevards. No flash floods. No raging fires.

I remember my first EQ. It had been on the morning of the day before Halloween 2004 (the farms of the Midwest have roosters; southern Californians have the San Andreas fault). It lasted three seconds. I sat up in bed expecting an intruder in my room. All was quiet. The digital clock read 8:00. "Cool," I whispered, realizing what had just occurred. Later that morning I walked down to the kitchen and, like a kid spying Santa Claus flying through the night, I asked my roommate, "Did you feel the earthquake this morning?" Leah shook her head no and carried on with her breakfast. Of course she didn’t; the girl’s from San Diego. For the natives a little shaking of the earth is as mundane as buttering toast.

Too bad "Baby’s First Earthquake" wasn’t included as an entry in the baby book my mother kept in the early 80s.

I still get a kick out of the whole thing. Like this morning. 5 AM. The bed shook (for all the wrong reasons). The blinds rattled. All in two blinks of an eye. My mind conjured up images of the 1974 disaster flick in which Charlton Heston had to rescue Ava Gardner and Genevieve Bujold in a city ripped apart by devastation…and George Kennedy’s scowl.

I was obsessed with disaster films as a little kid. "The Towering Inferno" (a before-its-time "Backdraft"). "Meteor" (a before-its-time "Armageddon"). "Airport" (a before-its-time "Snakes on a Plane"). I studied the TV Guide as my second Bible and watched these movies whenever they aired on TBS or TNT. For my fourth-grade science project I did earthquakes, complete with the wrecked model town I had built for my non-existent train set. In the sixth grade I played the pivotal scene from "The Day After" on a loop as a part of my project on nuclear energy.

Death and destruction - it’s what’s for dinner.

Needless to say, I did not need the early wake-up call from my friendly neighborhood plate shift. My schedule has been filled to the brim with…well, work…and the extracurricular activities in which I have been involved. That’s right. You’re looking at (or receiving this from) the volunteer coordinator for "Hot in Hollywood," a celebrity-filled charity event benefitting the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. I had my first meeting with the board last week at Starbucks. Tonight is a barbeque for board members who will be offering progress reports as we near the party date, August 12. My report? I still have a crapload of people to contact and wrangle on my list.

For more information on how you can help, visit: http://www.hotinhollywood.org OR http://www.myspace.com/hotinhollywood.

My other venture is that of the theater kind. Troupe West is a non-profit organization founded by some of my alumni friends who performed in BU Stage Troupe back in Boston. Together we will try to put on a small show in the fall, theater space permitting. TW’s first stab at it took place this past April at the Raven Playhouse in North Hollywood, a small blackbox reminiscent of the one we played in during college.

During those more innocent, rent-free days, I was exposed to the drama behind the dramas performed in our little underground theater at the Armory on West Campus. Playing a Jewish doctor in "Six Degrees of Separation," I enjoyed the ethnicity-blind casting. However, a line or two had to be altered since the actor playing my son was Korean. "I mean, I’m Jewish. My grandparents died in the War." The persecuted group in question was easily switchable with "Japanese." Then, it was sophomore year that saw me play another doc, a guy actually named Doc, in "West Side Story." Please refrain from your Jet or Shark riffs. Thank God I didn’t have to embarrass myself in an elaborate dance number. I still shudder at the memory of frosting my hair gray for the part.

Theater people are a hoot. The in-jokes. The marijuana-tinged cast parties. The biting sarcasm that manages to stay fresh despite the post-ironic times we live in. I look forward to what we’ll do, who we’ll touch, where we’ll drink when the curtain falls.

Next thing you know, you’ll be getting headshots of me attached to future emails.

As. If.

Earthquake-proofing my bedroom when I get home,
H.P.M.

One of my favorite movies of all time had piqued my interest in jumping into the fun mess of L.A. culture. This was the film that had made me curious about the randomly desperate lives that populated the very unglam spots of the city.

"Go" came out in theaters in April of 1999. I was a freshman in college, clueless yet collected in my thoughts concerning what I wanted to be when I grew up. To the eyes of a just-turned 19-year-old, Los Angeles seemed like a vast fairground of chemically-charged social circles and numerous possibilities that would rival any Choose Your Own Adventure entry.

"Life begins at 3 AM."

The tagline for the film suggested excitement could be found on the other side of the night. Another world came alive after midnight. You could buy yourself a ticket to some dangerous fun, live on the edge, that whole spicy enchilada.

Now, if you’re expecting a story about how I cruised downtown L.A. and stole a credit card from a drug dealer whose prostitute girlfriend shot my neighbor while interrupting a threeway involving a Scotish midget named McFeely…go rent a DVD from your local Blockbuster. The most daring thing I’ve ever done (this week) was steal Coffee Mate creamers from the snack bar at the Ford Amphitheatre.

As I drove home at two in the morning from a Saturday night screening at the Vista in Silverlake, I stopped at the Vons supermarket on Sunset to purchase some cereal and milk for my Sunday morning plop-on-the-couch-and-watch-TV ritual. The doors slid open as I squinted at the near-nuclear flourescent lighting in the store. I navigated my cart through the labrynth of baked goods and dental hygene products, past racks of publications picking on the latest anorexic Sundance starlet, glided by gallons of cheap wine and imported ales on sale for those looking for a last-minute way to drown sorrows that will always come back to torment.

I reached the cereal aisle, a gauntlet of colorful packages promising wholesomeness and natural flavors, cartoon action figures buried under mounds of sugary morsels, and most importantly, a slimmer waist within ten days. A Hispanic clerk was stocking the shelves while Backstreet Boys’ "Shape of My Heart" played over the loudspeakers. He let out a startling "Shit," left his cartload of boxes and walked away, apparently upset over a mistake he had made. But his anger was short-lived; he proceeded to sing along to the boy band ballad as he disappeared from sight. I grabbed my Honey Bunches of Oats (damn Vons for not carrying my Special K Yogurt & Berries) and headed to the dairy section.

A young dude was hanging out by the milk. He wore a striped polo and gray cargos. The standard Silverlakian hipster. I imagined Katie Holmes and Sarah Polley playing Dead Celebrities in the freezer behind the shelves of orange juice (seriously, just watch the movie). I also imagined this guy was probably sleepless and craving some eggwhites to scramble as a late-night health snack. Scenario A: He was up all night writing in his cramped studio off Vermont Avenue and thought a stroll to his neighborhood grocer would help him clear his head. Scenario B: Guy was a dealer looking for some sweets to satisfy the sugar craving he got from all the Ecstacy he consumed at 4100 Bar and mistook the dairy section for the candy corner.

I grabbed my quart of skim and checked out. My nightly commute home would take me down Sunset to Highland, Highland to Olympic, Olympic to the ubiquitous La Cienega. I coasted along the empty three-laned street, my window down, my iPod blaring some Groove Armada, the perfect soundtrack for an afterhours run among the phantom traffic of Miracle Mile.

While I drove I recounted the busy day I had completed. Helping Swaga paint the living room and entryway in his new condo. Attending the "Book of Daniel" Outfest screening at the DGA Theater and reuniting with some the writers of a television treasure too few tried. It had been good to see Jack and some of the crew. Afterwards, Steve Kmetko had moderated a discussion panel and Q&A with Jack and some of the actors. Everyone, the panelists and those in the audience, had expressed their sorrow and frustration over the unnecessary "controversy" and early cancellation.

There is a hypocritical, Nazi-like minority in this country that has a very powerful voice and will do everything in its capacity to bring down harmless change and those who simply want to express their feelings…But my soapbox is in the shop, so I’ll save this for another day. Instead, THIS IS WHERE I PROUDLY PLUG AWAY: "THE BOOK OF DANIEL" ON DVD SEPTEMBER 26. Visit your Best Buys and Targets and Circuit Cities and make a purchase, won’t you?

The remainder of my Saturday called for a quick trip to the gym. I had neglected to go for a week, and my energy levels had been that of an octogenerian librarian sipping chamomile in a La-Z-Boy chair. Dinner for the evening had taken place at Cheebo with Molly (my first time). Drinks were on the house (Molls knew the bartender). I was on the floor. Next: said screening at the Vista. And…

Back to my drive…

I arrived at my beloved South Bedford, climbed the stairs to my apartment, and collapsed into bed. No discreet drug trades in littered alleyways. No neon raves in abandoned warehouses. No car chases throughout the potholed streets of Inglewood. Just me. And my toothbrush. And some dreams about deadlines and timeshares in far-off places.

3 AM came and went, but my life had already been in progress.

H.P.M.

Blanche: "Dorothy, have you ever heard of something called Dirty Dancing?"

Dorothy: "Of course, Blanche. They did it in that movie."

Rose: "What movie?"

Dorothy: "’Lawrence of Arabia,’ Rose."

My summer nights have been hot and steamy, watching "Golden Girls" DVDs, laughing every time Dorothy throws Rose into that bedroom closet during the opening credits.

My summer days have been sweltering, commuting to Encino (yes, as in the Encino where Pauly Shore dug up a Neanderthal Brendan Frasier in that 1992 frat-friendly gem) to do some part-time personal assisting, e-mailing resumes, getting leads, getting a MySpace fix every five minutes, getting caffienated with my Tinseltown brethren, interviewing to be an assistant to the guy who produced "Independence Day" and "Stargate," and landing a job as the assistant to the head of production and one of the executive producers at Anonymous Content (http://www.anonymouscontent.com/anonymouscontent.htm). I’ll let that do all the explaining.

And these are just some of the blokes with whom I share a spacious office loft: http://hs.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000798&l=955bf&id=1237320054

The heat is rising. My bank account is falling. The days are longer. My summer reading attention span is shortening. TV is a desolate wasteland of conniving contestants and dancing dunces. I have friends who live in a wasteland of their own. I am beginning to see patterns. Jobs don’t turn out to be the positions we dreamed about. Our hopes of three years ago gradually erode. Uncertainty is a constant companion we’d like to ignore and evict from our mental guesthouses. We want, want, want, and instead we find ourselves settling, settling, settling. The time between May and August is no longer one of frolicking and leisure. Rather, it’s a time to reassess, decompress, and type away our anguish, stress, and blah-ness into blogs very few eyes will read.

During the 4th of July (4oJ) weekend, the invites poured in. I love the names hosts and hostesses give their soirees. "Pee in the Pool Party." "School of Vodka." "Grills and Buoys Club: BBQ in the Marina." "It’s My Birthday and I’ll Smoke If I Want To." I myself am guilty of a few punny names for gatherings I’ve coordinated. "Dirty Flirty Thirty" shall read across Evites come March 2010.

Thank the heavens I haven’t been completely jobless during this summer. I’ve seen what those unemployed industry types do. We fill our time with trivial things. We study "Feng Shui for Dummies." We sit on the sidewalk patios of Los Feliz bistros, drinking wine, flirting with the foreign waitstaff, wondering if the home phone number scribbled on the bill is a bold enough move to deliver the much-needed jolt to our love life ("Thanks for extra glass of merlot. If you wanna grab drinks elsewhere, call me…"). We talk about the dick actor who’s standing a few yards away, smoking some Kents, pretending he’s the usual Hot Stuff, hoping to be photographed by "People" (Stars, They’re Just Like Us!). We scrounge up enough cash to sit in an air-conditioned theater and check out the latest CGI wizardry in movies that consistently open at Number 1 then drop more than fifty percent in revenue the following weekend.

Here at the offices of Anonymous Content, the days are either super slow or super chaotic. A constantly revolving door sends different production teams into our building. They set up, prep for shoots, go into production, and then wrap it up within days. So far, some of the directors my boss manages have landed gigs with Foster Farms (look for those kooky chickens!), XBox, and Lexus.

And I continue to sit, my iPod speakers on low, calling Argentina to make sure one of our producers has received the proper insurance forms for an upcoming project, thinking how sweet it would be to work from our London offices, wondering what this weekend has up its tanned sleeves.

The latte I had made in our kitchen did little to help eradicate the exhaustion that hit me this morning. How was I supposed to know I’d be getting in at 2 a.m. after networking with some of the Outfest people at an OBar afterparty last night? The mojitos were free. That cranberry and stoli? Wave a drink ticket in front of Mr. Bartender, and no cash needed. Passing chicken fingers and bruscheta? Don’t mind if I do nibble. Check please.

Break out the DVDs, rev up the TiVo. I’m staying in tonight.

Heading back to the kitchen to grab a protein shake,

H.P.M.

…thus far:

1. "Mission: Impossible III" - Can we say, "Alias: The Movie"? Well done, J.J. And Tom, I almost forgive you for turkey-bastering Katie with your demon seed. (8/10)

2. "X-Men: The Last Stand" - Dislike Brett Ratner, but not his films. Famke kicked ass. Characters die. Hope the spin-offs don’t become the "Superman IV"s of the new millenium. We missed you, Mr. Singer. (7/10)

3. "Poseidon" - What I expected: cheesy banter, awesome effects. The one summer movie that coulda been a little longer. The wave hits after, like, the first 15 minutes! (6/10)

4. "The DaVinci Code" - Aaron Eckhart would’ve been a better Robert Langdon. The chick from "Amelie" and Gandalf were perfectly cast. Pretty true to the book. Overall, pretty square. (6/10)

5. "The Lake House" - Tres disappointmont. (4/10)

6. "An Inconvenient Truth." - No "Fahrenheit 9/11," but Al sure did his job scaring me into loving Mother Earth. Stay for the inspiring Melissa Etheridge song during the nifty end credits. (8/10)

7. "Cars" - Quite the surprise. These animated machines had more character development than the cut-outs in most movies released this year. Bravo. (9/10)

8. "Superman Returns" - Mr. Singer went a little too crazy on the nostalgia factor, leaving little room for originality. Bosworth, trying to channel the holy spirit of Hepburn, is no Kidder. Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed. The 2 hours flew by. Pluses: the airplane scene and the wildly entertaining Parker Posey. (7/10)

9. "The Devil Wears Prada" - Or, as I like to call it, "The Meryl Can Do Anything." Streep sweeps the scenes with just the right amount of poisonous panache. Fashion claps to the editor who put together Anne Hathaway’s costume-change montage to Madonna’s "Vogue." Props to the music supervisor for adding Alanis’s "Crazy." Applause for Emily Blunt’s pitch-perfect Brit bitch as the first assistant. (9/10)

10. "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest" - Johnny was in full form. Keira kicked pirate booty. Orlando continued to smolder. Bruckheimer bombed away. Despite the complex story (secondary characters keep reiterating key plot points to keep you in the action), my swash was buckled, though unsatisfied. (6/10)

11. "You, Me & Dupree" - (Screened for free, thank God) Do not even bother. I didn’t think I could hate Owen Wilson this much. And: feel embarrassed for Michael Douglas (3/10).

12. "Accepted" - (Screened back in February. Opens in August) A "Revenge of the Nerds" for GenY, perhaps the next "American Pie". Sleeper hit written all over it. Make sure your bladder’s empty before viewing; you may just pee laughing. (8/10)

Trying not to eat too much popcorn and looking forward to "Miami Vice," "Pulse," "Little Miss Sunshine" and "Lady in the Water,"

H.P.M.

…is that a crime?

Back in January of 2004, I returned to Los Angeles from my annual holiday visit in New York and discovered that the Party Station on 103.1 FM had turned into an indie rock station. For those of you who regularly listen to this now, just remember who had that slot before.

While I enjoy the occasional guitar riff and slit-my-wrist lyrics from a garage band on the rise (and realize this blog is two years overdue), I like having the option of tuning into a station that will remix Coldplay and have Madonna’s latest dancefloor anthem in its top 10. It’s another alternative to the top 40 formats that play the same hip-hop/angsty teen rock singles every 40 minutes. I was deeply hurt that my "party station" had collapsed. No longer did I have my aural Red Bull to help me get pumped for a night at the bars and clubs. No soundtrack for the montage of costume changes I’d go through in my bedroom (which vintage T-shirt would pair well with my FCUK jeans and white trainers?).

New York has its own party station, KTU, on 103.5 FM. It’s been thriving ever since the late 90s, when dance elbowed its way into pop. How come L.A. can’t catch up? Is the dance culture in Los Angeles dying or did it ever exist at all? What does it say about New York? Do the clubheads over there have easier access to the the latest in house, trance and electronica simply because they share the same ocean with eastern Europe? Even San Francisco has its own dance destination on 92.7 FM, "The Beat of the Bay." What’s up with that?

Every time I go back to New York I tune into the stations I loved when I was in high school. During the first week of this month, the #1 Most Requested song on Z100, the sister station of L.A.’s KIIS, was "And She Said" by Lucas Prata, a disposable Euro-esque house track. I have yet to hear the single on L.A.’s radio waves. Granted, the radio in my car has been dead for months, limiting me to what’s out there, what’s hot, what "the kids are listening to nowadays."

Some of my West Coast native friends haven’t even heard of the songs that were a part of the soundtrack to my high school career back East. Crush’s "Jellyhead" anyone? How about "Coco Jamboo" by Mr. President? No? Hands off my iPod then.

There is a glimmer of hope, however. After 10PM on weeknights, L.A.’s KBIG 104.3 presents Thump Radio, a collection of dance tracks and remixes (domestic and imported) that are on the rise or at the top of their respective charts. Problem though: You’d have to be a night security guard or late-shift 7-Eleven cashier to enjoy these beats.

American pop music is more powerful than ever, but is it progressive? Look at the lists on iTunes and iTunes UK and compare. What’s wrong with a little more dance on our airwaves? Feel the different beats, people.

Mix it up. Shake the booty. Feel the energy.

Thank you.

H.P.M.

Shoving four dollar bills through the slot to the woman behind the bulletproof glass, I say "Two tokens please."

"Tokens?" The attitude hits me, and then I remember.

I am handed a Metrocard instead. Ah, yes. No longer does the New York City Subway run on tokens anymore. I have been away for so long now, I forget that things have changed. They always do.

"The only constant is change." - BT

Summer in New York. Return to my roots.

The first thing that always hits me when I walk off the plane is the smell. And the humidity. L.A. this ain’t. Then, it’s the same: I maneuver my way through foot traffic to reach the curbside area so I can jump into my father’s moving Nissan as my parents inch their way pass taxis and driverless limos. Hugs and kisses will have to wait once we reach the Thruway Diner for a late-night nosh and park the car.

And things have indeed changed…

Trump is building more skyscrapers in my "little" New Rochelle. Condos have gone up by Five Islands Park. The Food Emporium has transformed into an Equinox. The white picket fence leading to the entrance of my parents’ apartment has been ripped out of the ground; a water fountain now stands in a patch of gravel. And that blue house over on Davis? Red.

My five-day visit to the Right Coast started with a subway ride into Manhattan on Friday. Walked Broadway in the torrential rain. Ate some doesn’t-taste-like-this-anywhere-else pizza. Met friends. Hopped from bar to bar. Three beers and three cocktails later, I found myself scarfing down chocolate chip pancakes at a diner on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen at two in the morning. I woke up a little after nine on the Upper West Side hangoverless and craving an old-fashioned bagel with fat-full cream cheese. Nothing tastes like that carby goodness smeared with Temp Tee as you’re riding a bus to catch your subway ride back to the Bronx.

Saturday saw me flashing back to my high school days (ah, those 90s) as I watched my valedictorian cousin Lauren (the one who was diapers last week?) deliver her speech and bring the family (well, more like her dad) to tears. She blew the rest of her class out of the academic waters - full-tuition scholarships, a summer program at Oxford, and other credits that couldn’t fit on the graduation program. Diploma in hand, she posed for pics under an umbrella outside Blessed Sacrament Church, where I had received my first penance, communion, and confirmation years ago at the elementary school just around the corner. I remember the school masses, the readings up at the dais, the giggling behind hymnals as my classmates and I listened to a bum fart and snore his way through the rehearsal for our first communion ceremony. If that church could talk…

Sunday was the party at Villa Nova Restaurant in Pelham, the same catering hall where my cousin’s baptism party was held eighteen years ago. More memories there. A sweet sixteen party in the fall of ‘96. A graduation bash on the second floor for the Class of ‘98. Wedding showers. Birthday parties. One thing they had in common: the awesome baked ziti and white wine. Yum and yum.
More family. More fuss. More food. It was an exhausting day.

My Tuesday fllight back to Los Angeles took off from JFK on time, and as I sat back in my seat, cradling Anderson Cooper’s memoir under my arm and listening to the neighboring Australian couple excitedly whisper about Brendan Fraser sitting in the cabin ahead of us, I wished I had had an extra day or two to spend in New York.

All of that melancholic reminiscence flew out the pressure-sealed window once I landed in L.A. I had work to look forward to, acquaintances to call, friends to lunch with, resumes to pimp, RSVPs to make. Like a salmon being thrown back into a rushing stream, I jumped back into my network and caught up with all the buzz.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled programming…

This past Sunday I accepted a day job working on the breakdown crew for a vintage auto show on Rodeo Drive. Kathleen hooked me up with the gig and together we arrived on the scene. Lunch for the crew was supplied by the Luxe Hotel. We ate wraps and sipped some iced tea on the penthouse balcony which overlooked the boutiques and trendy trattorias of the Beverly Hills block.

What followed was one of the most fabulous evenings of my life. We were the last two to stick around and make sure Rodeo Drive was returned to its normal chicness. After a little shopping in Guess? I met Kathleen back at the Luxe, where the hotel manager, the ultra-suave Jersey-born Jonathan, had bought us a round of drinks for "working so hard out there." I gladly accepted my French Martini and joined Kathleen, who had already befriended a pair of cocktail-swilling Austrailian women on the sidewalk patio.

Lindy and Rhonda were children’s fashion designers from Melbourne who were in Los Angeles via New York for business. Both were elegantly dressed and appeared to have had a penchant for pinot noir. Realizing our Thai dinner plans in Hollywood would fall through, Kathleen and I ordered some appetizers and chatted up a storm with the friendly Aussies. Rhonda gushed over her wonderful children, all in their 20s, and Lindy bragged about her precious 9-year-old son. Rhonda soon insisted on buying us another round, and who were we to turn down more free booze? We raised our glasses, smiles all around. "Here’s to meeting fabulous new friends," Rhonda toasted.

Conversation ranged from exotic cities we’ve visited to criticisms on the current administration in the U.S. I had the pleasure of introducing the ladies to the creamy decadence of mac ‘n cheese; Lindy couldn’t get enough of the food orgasms. Jonathan brought out more bottles of wine for all to enjoy, "on the house" nonetheless. I ran to the restroom to do a quick costume change and show off the new tee I had purchased earlier. Everyone loved the fabric and design. Dessert was a caramelized pear tart a la mode, compliments of the chef, and I was sure my stomach would stretch out the shirt to a new size. We made sure our waitress, Martine, was in on the fun as well. She sat down for a minute to share her excitement of moving to New York City to pursue a career on Broadway. We all wished her luck and continued to revel in the magical feast that was laid out before us. More chatter followed. I entertained the table with my 40-year-old-woman-who-goes-to-Heaven joke. Rhonda and I talked music. Lindy told Kathleen about the joys of motherhood. Pictures were taken. Business cards were exchanged (Of course I’ve attached some visuals for you).

By the time I finished my second martini, Kathleen was finishing her third and the ladies were on their second bottle. It was nearing midnight, and the bill arrived. Rhonda took it before anyone could argue and charged it to her room. I was utterly grateful and hugged Rhonda farewell as she and Lindy left to return to their rooms and prep for their morning flight to the East Coast. Kathleen, Jonathan, and I remained, taking in the night, the quiet of Rodeo Drive, the amazing generosity of two fiftysomething fashionistas from Melbourne. Who knew the day would end like this? Would we keep in touch? Or was this just a once-in-a-lifetime experience to cherish and jot down in a diary? I will hold onto their contact info in hopes of communicating with them someday. Perhaps a future trip Down Under? Maybe a rendezvous in Manhattan over more martinis?

God, what a night. What could top it?

Certainly not tonight, which was the release party for "The Devil Wears Prada" at iCandy. The open bar was the only incentive to go. After two Smirnoffs, Karim, Pearl, and I quickly became bored of the scene (what, no Anne Hathaway cameo?), bailed, and met Swaga and Kerry for frozen yogurt down the street. My buzz soon wore off after tasting some Carbolite raspberry truffle and oohing over the cute puppies that walked by us on Santa Monica Boulevard. It seemed as if everyone was out for a walk on this longest day of the year.

Tomorrow I hope to trek out to The Viper Room on Sunset to see an awesome new band perform. Under the Influence of Giants is straight out of Thousands Oaks, California, and I can’t get their first single, "Mama’s Room," out of my head. Picture a new millennium Bee Gees with an indie rock flavor. Pretty catchy. They are the latest addition to my personalized summer mix album (track listing to be found on Myspace). I highly suggest Limewiring or iTuning them sometime.

And whatever you do on there, avoid the new Paris Hilton single, "Stars Are Blind." I cringe even as I write this. Winner of the Most Overly-Produced Piece of Ear-Bleeding Noise Pollution of 2006. Someone, get it off the radio - please.

And in an attempt to squeeze more infotainment into this chapter, I gladly share with you these final tidbits: The Snow Patrol music video/trailer for Zach Braff’s September drama, "The Last Kiss" is available to watch on his website. Looks like the perfect companion film to "Garden State." I am officially psyched…."Footballers’ Wives" started its fourth season on BBC America with spousal abuse, a rape, and a baby smothered to death by a Pug (brilliant)…"The Lake House" was a disappointment (Sandra, come on!)…Nelly Furtado is the Beyonce of Summer ‘06…Madonna’s Confessions World Tour was the best concert I’ve ever experienced…and I’ve gotten a new haircut…well, more like a buzz…

School’s out, kids. Wear sunscreen.

H.P.M.