N.Y. Boy in L.A.

Why is it that we lack more and more spirit during the holidays as we get older and older?

One widely understood reason is that cynicism settles in. We know this is the time of year when retailers go to drastic measures to convince us that money is no object when it comes to purchasing that hi-tech, digital doodad or ginormous boxed set of goodies. We see through the capitalist charades. However, we still enjoy the those holiday blends at our local coffeehouses and buy a shiny tin of it knowing the contents will be stale and uninteresting come January 1. We can’t help but feel a little tingle inside when we see baristas slip on those snowflake-covered sleeves onto our steaming cups of caffiene. Why does December need to be the only time of giving? Why not spread the cheer evenly throughout the year? ‘Tis the season? There should be no season, just everyday. But this is how we do it in our American corporate-driven culture. God bless us for thinking about our fellow man for only a few days out of a few hundred.

Another reason is depression. Having all of those happy messages pounded into our brains only reminds us of the shitty goings-on in our gloomy lives. Songs about sun-challenged snowmen and colorful ornaments can ironically have the opposite effect on most of us. A candy cane from my office Secret Santa? Thanks, I’ll sharpen it into a stake and pierce my cold heart by the watercooler.

And don’t get me started on those Salvation Army bell ringers. Doesn’t Miss Beg-for-Change know I’ve donated to charities during the past year? Why do I have to drop in some dollars now when I’ve already raised money for the AIDS Walk back in October and bought those God-awful chocolate bars to support a 10-year-old leukemia patient?

I also love it when I see greeting signs aimed to please all walks of religion and creed. No longer can you wish the public a Merry Christmas. Every base needs to be covered. It’s so PC, it makes me want to regurgitate the gingerbread man I ate for dessert last night.

Whatever.

Remember: You only have 6 more shopping days ’til Holiday (thanks Amy Poehler).

Gin and tonic in hand, raffle tickets sitting in my pocket, and the latest Madonna blaring all around me, I braved the Kenneth Cole-scented gauntlet that was the holiday fundraiser thrown by the Junior Hollywood Radio and Television Society last Tuesday night.

You’d think I would become tired of the young Hollywood scene, but when there is an open bar, raffle prizes, and a hefty gift bag thrown in, I do not hesitate to don my Tuesday best and spritz myself with a little DKNY.

First was parking. I drove to my secret spot off Lauren Canyon above Sunset; there was no way I was going to put myself through the vehicular hell of valet. Second was the wait outside Privilege, or what used to be the club known as Shelter. I briefly chatted with a girl named Erin who survived the giant layoffs at Warner Brothers, and spotted my friend Zadoc, fresh off his promotion to Lit Coordinator at Paradigm, working the will call tables (he’s a board member). Next was the beeline towards the raffle tables. I’m still crossing my fingers for the HBO DVD set and spa treatment package.

Due to my admirable ability to arrive early/on-time, I jumped on my first drink without waiting in line. I couldn’t keep track of how many random acquaintances I bumped into. Alan, a super-friendly set PA I first met during my Carsey-Werner days. Tyson, the blonde BU alum who was an actress on "Bay State" and is now over at NBCUniversal. Chad, another BUer I had met once at a party during my senior year, now an L.A. newbie. Adam, the assistant to the Sony exec I talk to over the phone almost every day. And Jeff, the former roommate of a friend who sits at a desk for a development exec at ForgotTheName studio.

My friend Pearl finally showed up with her United Talent Agency posse; they had a table reserved for them in a little velvet enclave that was poorly candlelit. We headed back to the bar, which was now covered by a swarm of industryites, and waited a good twenty minutes for our drinks. I asked myself: why do we put ourselves through this? What masochistic tendencies do we possess that allows us to squish ourselves into a claustrophobic and noisy space, kill our feet standing around for an eternity for a cocktail we’ll consume in half the time, and maneuver our way through a crowd of conflicting colognes without getting an elbow jab in the ribs and a splash of cosmo on our just-purchased Dolce & Gabbana? And forget having a conversation on a cell phone. Why bother answering your Motorola razor just to receive updates from the friend who is still waiting outside in the cold, trying to woo the bouncer/hot-girl-with-a-clipboard who will never let him in?

This morning, while waiting in line for my peppermint mocha-vanilla ice blended at Coffee Bean, a woman standing in front of me, chatting furiously on her cell, ordered her extra foamy latte ("Very foamy! I like a lot of foam!") and never looked up at the barista, who I’m sure wanted to throw the steaming contents of the cup in her face. This woman paid no attention whatsover to those around her. Once she got her order, she jetted out the door before the obligatory "Have a nice day" could be muttered by the college-aged coffee server.

I hope a ghost in chains visits that callous witch come December 24.

We are now less than three weeks away from the last day of the year, and normally, dear readers, you’d find a year-in-review rant provided by yours truly. Well, I’m here to tell you that this year…you will find nothing has changed. <taking a swig of water> Ahem…

First, a personal look back:

January was a craptacular time in my life - unemployed, filling in a horrible temp position at a management firm that was going down the tubes, having a near-soap-opera-like breakdown, getting drenched by the rain that flooded the city, and feeling bluer than a corpse at the bottom of the Hudson River. Spring offered a much-needed ray of light. I found myself back at Carsey-Werner, working on a pilot with old friends and co-workers. It was a two-month gig that felt like going back home. However, the pilot was never picked up; my bubble was popped. Summer was near. I worked my connections, freelanced for a former boss, temped for a friend, and though the skies were sunny and clear, my career was in a fog. Then came July 20, the day I met Jack Kenny over a cup of coffee on Sunset. I swear I could hear the angels singing for me as I walked back to my car as a newly appointed assistant to the showrunner of an NBC drama. Autumn found me comfortably situated in an office on La Brea, working for a big-time producer, living in a manor, and growing attached to a Great Dane that woke me up every morning at eight. Destination reached…well, kind of. NBC cut the order short to 7 episodes of "The Book of Daniel," and production in New York stopped after Thanksgiving, three months earlier than expected. At least we got an airdate…

***BIG NOTE: "THE BOOK OF DANIEL" WILL DEBUT ON NBC JANUARY 6 AT 9:00PM AS A TWO-HOUR PREMIERE EVENT. You’ve probably been catching the quirky network promos (I just viewed them minutes ago). Not only do I want you lovely, beautiful people to tune in and watch, I want you to shout it from the rooftops and tell your friends/co-workers/significant others/mailmen/grocery store clerks/OB-GYNs to watch as well. Hell, TiVo it to your heart’s content if you can.

…And now for our 2005 pop-culture portion of the program:

Tom knocked up Katie. Ashton said "I do." Mother Nature bitchslapped Mother Earth with Katrina, Wilma, and her other cronies. Summer movies were lame. We lost Gilligan as well as the Fisher clan on "Six Feet Under." Britney popped out Sean Preston. Oprah and Dave made nice. Bush’s approval rating plummeted (as expected). And we all couldn’t escape the phenomenon I like to call "Mariah: Ressurrected."

Movie Picks of 2005:

1. "Crash" - a gripping character study about messed-up Los Angelenos.
2. "Heights" - a gripping character drama about, what else, messed-up Manhattanites (Glenn Close stealing the show, of course).
3. "War of the Worlds" - the most exciting and shocking popcorn flick of ‘05.
4. "Bride and Prejudice" - colorful, vibrant, and refreshing cross-cultural magic…I dare you not to smile throughout its entirety. Plus, you get to see Sayid from "Lost" dance in a musical number!
5. "Jarhead" - one of the most visually beautiful (and polarizing) movies of the year.
6. "King Kong" - Peter Jackson could remake "Ishtar" and probably get another Oscar nod out of it.
7. "Brokeback Mountain" - Simply calling it "a gay cowboy movie" is a disservice to Ang Lee’s poignant portrait of an epic romance and powerhouse performances by a cast of young Hollywood heavyhitters.
8. "Rent" - not quite what I had hoped for a big-screen adaptation, but the music and performances are still exhilirating 10 years after debuting on the Great White Way.
9. "Batman Begins" - Deeply psychological and intellectual is how I like my comic book movies.

Other Notables:
1. Cameron Diaz and Toni Collette in "In Her Shoes"
2. Steve Carell in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin"
3. The now teenagers in "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire"
4. Newcomer Bryan Greenburg in "Prime"
5. "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe"

Music Picks of 2005 (if you haven’t heard them, take a trip to iTunes now):

1. "Ashes" by Embrace - A stand-up-and-feel-awesome anthem by a worthy Coldplay clone.
2. "Hung Up" by Madonna - Best Dance Record of the Year. Period.
3. "Music" by Leela James - An achingly soulful commentary on the current state of pop music.
4. Backstreet Boys’ video for "Just Want You to Know" - Who knew these aging "boys" could make the funniest and most brilliant video of their careers? It’s all about the mullets.
5. "1 Thing" by Amerie - Call it the poor man’s "Crazy in Love," you can’t help but shake that proverbial booty.
6. Daniel Powter’s self-titled debut album - Think of him as a one-man British Maroon 5. But with a higher pitched voice. Only available on iTunes, not in U.S. stores (tsk-tsk, America).
7. "Crazy" by Alanis Morissette - The future Mrs. Ryan Reynolds covers what she calls one of her favorite songs (Remember those Gap ads?). The James Michaels Mix is the one to download and the one featured in the video in which our once-angsty angel goes glam and delivers a nifty surprise ending.
8. "Steppin’ Out" by Kaskade - I featured this deejay’s groovy lounge track on my Myspace page.
9. "Did You Get My Message?" by Jason Mraz featuring an uncredited Rachael Yamagata - A bluesy track from the singer-songwriter’s sophomoric outing about how we can easily misinterpret each other.
10. "Pon de Replay" by Rihanna - Disposable, yes. But that’s what irresistible summer tracks are.

TV Picks of 2005:

1. "Veronica Mars" (UPN) - More than just a New Millennium Nancy Drew. I finally got around to Netflixing the first season before getting lost in the second, and I have found one of the best written dramas on TV today. Lily’s murder. The bus crash. And Logan! Almost makes me want to say, "Buffy who?"
2. The second-season premiere of "Lost" (ABC) - Whoa.
3. "Kept" on VH1 - Jerry Hall + 12 American dudes clueless in Europe = 1 summer guilty pleasure.
4. "Battlestar Galactica" - Sci-Fi Channel’s still got it.
5. "How I Met Your Mother" (CBS) - Cute. Fresh. A long-overdue jolt to the sitcom system. And who knew Neil Patrick Harris could play such an enjoyable cad?

Disappointments:
1. "The O.C." - B.O.R.I.N.G.
2. "Alias" - The death of Vaughn? Please. You know Syd’s baby daddy ain’t gone, and I don’t want to like the new cast. And yes, I’m not surprised this is its final season. At least they brought Sark back.

If you’ve made it this far in this entry, congrats! I had just as much fun writing it. I look forward to having more fun brainstorming my next entry when I go back to New York to collect more fodder while handing out gifts, enjoying the winter chill, and devouring calories so astronomical the highest dosage of TrimSpa couldn’t burn off.

Hoping all of your New Year’s resolutions last more than a week,

H.P.M

"Drench yourself in words unspoken. Live your life with arms wide open. Today is where your book begins. The rest is still unwritten."   –  Natasha Bedingfield

My savings account had been hungry for some money.

For the past three years I had starved it silly, promising it would be filled with whatever supplementary income came my way under miraculous circumstances. It waited and waited. And waited some more. Some funds would eventually trickle in from my similarly ravenous checking account. Twenty-five dollars automatically journey across the land of electronic transfers at the end of each month and find solace in the empty wasteland that is Hiko’s Savings.

"Feed me, Hiko."

Just like the mutant flytrap in "Little Shop of Horrors," my savings account cried for some tasty fundage, and I kept making empty promises, knowing extra cash was far off the radar.

But then came the checks from my boss for housesitting during September and October. Just what I needed. I could treat myself to a sushi dinner and buy those rechargeable batteries for my digital camera at Target. My income had become slightly more disposable, and my savings account was treated to the fiscal feast it was dying for.

Suddenly, the engine light on my Focus flicked on. Something was wrong. My car was in need of a check-up. Check-ups cost money. Five hundred dollars to be exact, taken from my account, for two engine valves that needed to be replaced.

And of course, they were parts that weren’t covered under my warranty. It’s always something, isn’t it?

I have just finished my one-week stay at San Sebastian. I proudly played Thanksgiving Host for the first time. Nine guests, six bottles of wine, and two trays of stuffing conspired to make a wonderful evening that eventually resulted in serious food comas (got the attached pics to document it). Perhaps it was the inhaling of the dozens of appetizers that led to my demise.

Turkey Day ‘05 started with Razzie waking me up at eight for her morning pee in the backyard. By nine I had the Macy’s Parade playing on the flatscreen in the kitchen, listening to Matt and Katie’s silly commentary on the various floats which invaded lower Manhattan. Thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Today, I now know Arthur’s eyeglasses are wider than four windshields and that it takes eight hundred gallons of bird feed to satisfy the Big Bird float.

I TiVoed the rest of the parade so I could take the dog on a hike in the hills before guests started showing up at the gate. It was beautiful. As I stood at one of the viewpoints of the trail, I pictured kitchens across Los Angeles filled with the aromas of homemade pies, thick gravy, and freshly baked biscuits, Atkins permitting. The stuffing that I had mixed with my bare hands the night before went in the oven promptly at one. I mashed up the yams and marshmallowed the hell out of them before sprinkling cinnamon and brown sugar on top. Aforementioned appetizers were consumed around three, more guests showed up before four, and the turkey arrived an hour late due to traffic in Beverly Hills.

There was none of that "What I am thankful for" bullcrap at the dining table. No grace was uttered. Hands were not held for a moment of silence. My holiday companions and I dived right in, taking a scoopful of this and a forkful of that. Wine was poured generously, and mashed potatoes were devoured quietly. Bits of conversation floated over the string bean casserole, and to make sure everyone was on the same page, we all offered our own sound bites on the Nick and Jessica breakup. Within five minutes everyone dropped their utensils, rubbed their stomachs, and had the same painful expression on their faces.

It was time to retire to the media room.

The second half of the evening consisted of a round of SceneIt on the big screen, helpings of apple crisp, pumpkin pie, and chocolate mousse pie with ice cream, and a viewing of an episode from "The Golden Girls" (got the third season DVD last week). Watching those saucy seniors made us reflect on our own lives, where would we be in thirty years, what would we be doing with ourselves. For anyone over 35 who is reading this, forgive us for already feeling old at 25.

It’s as if someone had flicked on a rapid-aging switch when I hit that quarter-century mark.

I know I’ve reached 25 when my friends decide to leave a club before 1am. I also know it when we are in said club for the Madonna CD release party, and all of the under-21 kids (it was an 18+ event we attended two weeks ago) don’t know the words to the Material Mom’s songs pre-1990 (sad, but seemed to be true).

25 is when I started hanging out with married couples. I am now acquainted with husbands and wives! The proof is in the invitations to housewarming breakfasts, complete with crying toddlers and crayon-covered coffee tables.

How did this happen?

25 is also when your favorite singers/bands release their greatest hits compilations. Granted, most of these artists have been out for less than a decade. 25 is when "sleeping in" means waking up at 10 in the morning instead of after noon. It is when you look forward to the Sunday paper to collect coupons from your local supermarket. It is when the following retailers lose all of their allure: Abercrombie & Fitch, Hot Topic, American Eagle, Pacific Sunwear. It is when NPR becomes programmed on your radio dial. It is when your close friends start throwing words around like "real estate broker," "stock portfolio," "high school reunion," and "call it a night."

Apparently, it’s when you start to think too much about the future.

One by one, my friends departed, bellies full and smiles brightened. My Thanksgiving had been a hit.

I stayed in bed for most of the following day. Razzie was just as worn out. She kept me company as I watched DVD after DVD. It was when I finished viewing the behind-the-scenes featurettes on "War of the Worlds" that I realized a threat far greater than hostile aliens was hovering above me and my fellow Angelenos - holiday shopping at the malls. It was Black Friday. Do I dare step foot in the Glendale Galleria to brave the fierce foot traffic, succumb to the irresistible sales, and avoid being plowed down by speeding strollers? No. I wait (especially when I completed most of my purchases right after Halloween - booyah!).

As another page is ripped off the calendar, bringing us closer to Santa Sunday, I won’t panic over crossing off the remainder of my shopping list. No worries whatsover.

In the end, I always give good gift.

- H.P.M.

October 25, 2005:
I confess to being thoroughly unAmerican for the following reasons:

1. I’ve never carved a pumpkin during my childhood (I finally lost my jack-o-lantern virginity at the ripe age of 24).
2. I’ve never eaten SPAM.
3. I’ve never seen "Aladdin" (shoot me).
4. I never dug "Seinfeld."

And usually I’m the one who blows a gasket when someone doesn’t jump on a pop-culture bandwagon. But it’s true; George Costanza annoys me, and my Disney experience will never be complete. And I’m okay with it.

October 27, 2005:
In New York City you’d be fortunate to get a decent view of the metropolis from a 25th-floor apartment. In Los Angeles, all you need is a 4th-floor space to see the entire lay of the land. Sadly, the first thing that greets me from my office window is a ginormous power plant that juices up West Hollywood and most of L.A. proper. Since my office faces west, I can make out the skyscrapers of Century City, smog permitting. Today is one of those off-white, gloomy days that would be fitting for a Ray Bradbury vignette in which the world was nearing a quiet apocalypse brought on by sinister forces unseen.

Perfect Halloween weather.

October 29, 2005:
Would you believe I’m already experiencing 90s nostalgia? Just finished burning a 90s mix CD called "Nineties Nirvana." I can’t help that I’m a product of the Instantaneous Gratification Age during which I need to revisit a past that has barely passed. So, without further fanfare, here’s the playlist:

1. "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket
2. "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover" by Sophie B. Hawkins
3. "Shy Guy" by Diana King (from the "Bad Boys" soundtrack)
4. "Sweet Surrender" by Sarah McLaughlin (from the Queen of Lillith Fair)
5. "Return to Innocence" by Enigma
6. "Every Day of the Week" by Jade ("90210" soundtrack anyone?)
7. "Push" by Matchbox 20 (from my college hunting days)
8. "If You Could Only See" by Tonic
9. "Creep" by TLC (memories of my first high school dance in the gymnasium of Ursuline)
10. "You Learn" by Alanis Morrisette (an all-time fave)
11. "Criminal" by Fiona Apple (I remember listening to this on my Gap Grooves CD)
12. "All That She Wants" by Ace of Base (from Jeanette Tanner’s 14th birthday party at some club in New Rochelle)
13. "Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Hands" by Primitive Radio Gods
14. "Lovefool" by The Cardigans (listening to this on the van ride back from a forensics tournament in Natick, MA)
15. "Dreamlover" by Mariah Carey (I remember the video constantly running on VH1)
16. "Found Out About You" by Gin Blossoms (just screams GenX)
17. "Stay (I Missed You)" by Lisa Loeb and Nine Stories (a definitive 90s track)
18. "Everything Falls Apart" by Dog’s Eye View
19. "Love Can Move Mountains" by Celine Dion (couldn’t help it…bowing head in shame)

You too can relive the Clinton era by purchasing this nifty mix of hits for a low introductory price of $12.99, plus shipping and fondling…I mean, handling.

October 31st, 2005:
Halloween weekend kicked off with some pumpkin carving and Indian dinner at Doug’s while "Friday the 13th Part 3" played on the tube. A costume party in Burbank, thrown by a former co-worker and his wife, followed at ten. I was happy to see Grant and Laura properly decorated for the occassion - bleeding candles, skull punch bowl, body outlines chalked on the driveway, tombstones in the backyard. Finally, someone got it right. When my 30-minute cameo was done, I jetted back to Hollywood for a birthday party at White Lotus, where the deejay spun tired old hip-hop and sloppily scratched Gwen’s "Hollaback Girl." There I was, sitting in the VIP booth, my ears nearly bleeding from the blasphemous remix. Come on! How can you mess up Gwen? The birthday girl in question, my friend Ramina (another former co-worker), didn’t seem to mind shelling out the bucks for the room, where a bottle of Ketel One went for $250. Ketel was later joined by Jack, Absolut and the necessary mixers; I cringe to think about the total on the tab at the end of the night.

Another cameo was called for on Saturday when I was invited to the party of our writer’s assistant, Joe, in North Hollywood. He and his wife offered Jell-O shots at the strobe-lighted doorway. I helped myself to three and then popped two Pepcid AC tablets, which I learned could prevent the dreaded Asian glow.

I had been running late as it was. I took some snapshots of Joe, who was dressed as Will Ferrell from the now-famous "SNL" skit spoofing Blue Oyster Cult (remember cowbell), and headed to THE party of the weekend: "Halloween 2005," hosted by Doug, Alex, Paolo, Jim, and Mark. I realized I was beyond fashionably late when I parked by the driveway and saw the throng of party people oozing out onto the porch, into the driveway, and in the backyard where a port-a-potty stood like an ancient monument built for the bowel-movement-challenged (the boys had construction workers redoing their property earlier that week).

Carrying a plastic bag full of Absolut Citron and several bottles of Smirnoff Twists, I made it through the fog-shrouded entrance, stepped into the couchless living room where I recognized no one, and beelined to the kitchen, which was filled to capacity with various boys and girls who vultured over a veggie platter and several bags of chocolates. Alex, decked out in neon raver gear, managed a "Welcome" through the candied pacifier he sucked on, and told me to grab a drink before the bar was run dry. I parked my punk-rock ass on the patio near some friends I hadn’t seen since the last major social gathering and small-talked my way through the catty chatter.

Throughout the night I kept directing people’s eyes to my hair. It was just as pointless as ‘NSYNC’s Greatest Hits CD because no one could tell I had dyed it black for my costume. Thanks for nothing Clairol Natural Instincts for Men! "Your eyeshadow is great though," was a typical follow-up response.

My costume was a rebellious collision of couture. The metal chain necklace was courtesy of the Great Dane I was babysitting. The black mesh, fingerless gloves were five bucks from Jetrag. The pinstriped pants were Gap. The black-and-white tee, Express. The black vest was taken from my Bob Mackie suit. And the skinny red tie was Barneys New York via my boss’s closet. Some thought I was channeling Billy Joe from Green Day or Brandon Flowers of the Killers, but I like to consider my look "Generic Contemporary Rockstar."

November 1, 2005:
The West Hollywood Halloween Carnivale is known to attact many walks of life, all 350,000 of them. Last night, Kerry, Swaga and I dived into the chaos. There were the obligatory drag queens, the fake cops, and scandalous costumes of the God-what-were-they-thinking variety. Suffice to say, low-riders should NOT be worn to display one’s pubes.

I was ready to be festive and hit The Abbey for one of their signature martinis. After squeezing through the mass of masked madness on the boulevard and waiting in line with dozens of fellow cocktail-craving cuckoos, I got my mixed berry on the rocks…in a plastic cup. Damage: $12 (the non-holiday price is $10). I gulped that shit down like a camel enjoying a fountain of Evian after braving the Sahara. It was after I finished the last raspberry at the bottom of my cup when I remembered I hadn’t taken any Pepcid beforehand.

Damn.

We did two laps around The Abbey and decided to hit Motherlode around the corner. There, I hit my wall. Would it be presumptious to say I felt like someone had slipped a roofie into my martini? I could not stand up. Therefore, I became friends with a nearby parking meter.

NOTE: I’d like to point out that I have never vomited from alcohol consumption…

…And I wasn’t going to break that tradition. Swaga and his co-worker, Dan, ushered me in and placed me on a stool at the end of the bar. I ordered a cup of water from the bartender who wore the most flaming red wig I have ever seen. I slurped it up, ice and all, and ordered another. And another. And another…Hiko, meet hydration. Hydration, Hiko.

Needless to say, I was fine after my agua intake. We were ready to see what other festivities were waiting down the boulevard. I couldn’t count how many Napoleon Dynamites and Clockwork Orange uniforms I spotted as we headed towards O Bar.

November 2, 2005:
Overheard in my office: "She’s not a lesbian. She’s just a vagina gardener."

November 3, 2005:
Since NBC has cut our order down to 7 episodes (!), production will wrap in New York shortly after Thanksgiving. This means there won’t be any New York office to visit when I fly back on December 16. It is now likely I may have to stay in L.A. to assist my boss through post-production and fly out to NYC a few days later than planned.

This recent bummer of a development had hit some of us hard. Unfortunately, the writing staff had to find out when "Variety" printed the story before Jack could break it to us. I had had prior knowledge of it because I had been on that fateful conference call with the president of the network. I had to keep mum until word was official.

What is that? Is that the sound of everyone’s career taking a plunge?

This is where I beg all of you to spread the word, watch "The Book of Daniel" in January on NBC, and give us the ratings that will blow the proverbial socks off the network.

Thank you.

Only in L.A. can you trek to a downtown warehouse district to buy designer labels at a Guess sample sale in an abandoned factory. Only in L.A. can you sit in a movie theater where 90% of the audience will remain seated to watch the end credits and spot the friend or acquaintance who worked on the film (shout-out to my girl Michelle, who did wardrobe for "Elizabethtown"). Only in L.A. can you be offered a politically correct version of a fortune cookie at an art exhibit so unstylish it’s stylish.

Fact: Los Angeles is a member of that small group of metropolises known as "Select Cities," you know, the ones that are mentioned at the end of movie ads: "’Corpse Bride,’ September 14 in select cities. Opens everywhere September 24." Like our bizzaro twin, New York, we get to preview the latest in cinema, couture, and cuisine. Little Andy McHick in Blandville, Wyoming will someday dream of moving to a select city. Hell, his hometown has finally entered "botox" into their vocabulary; that’s how behind they are, and little Andy wants to live in the now and not wait several months for the latest John Varvatos to hit stores.

It is easy to take pride in living in a select city. You can sample the best of all worlds. Drive down Fairfax and you’re smelling the rich aromas of Little Ethiopia. Take a wrong turn in downtown L.A. and suddenly you’re munching on sushi and edamame in Little Tokyo…

I will stop here before I turn into a total Frommer’s Guide to Los Angeles. This is how I am. My stream of consciousness goes into overdrive sometimes, and I don’t know what random ramblings will pour onto this electronic page. One moment I’m contemplating the possibilities of Ashlee Simpson getting run over by an 18-wheeler, and next I’m wondering how I will ever finish reading the remaining 700 pages of "The Goblet of Fire" before the fourth Harry Potter film hits theaters next month.

So, a heads-up - If my chapter veers off course at every paragraph, forgive me. This is my current mental state of mind, and I am connected to a Starbucks IV drip as I finger-dance my way across this keyboard.

After catching a screening (one of many this week) of Jake Gyllenhaal’s "Jarhead" on Sunday night, I regrettably drove through McDonald’s for a double cheeseburger and noticed a sign in the cashier window that read: SAUCE POLICY. I had to laugh, and the cashier at the window looked at me as if I were a schizo who had stolen a Ford and acted upon his impulses to terrorize the fast-food chains of greater Hollywood. I’m sure those lucky guys and gals at Mickey D’s get visits from passengers of the Crazy Train all the time.

For the curious dieters who have sworn off all things caloric, their Sauce Policy is as follows:

1 Sauce = 6 piece (Chicken McNuggets)
2 Sauce = 10 piece
4 Sauce = 20 piece

Apparently the McDonald’s management doesn’t know how to use their plural nouns. Doesn’t everyone need at least two packets of sauce for a 6-piece meal? I like submerging my chicken product in barbeque goodness. It’s the American way to eat pretend pollo; drench it to death in whatever condiment your at-risk heart desires.

It has come to my attention that many friends of mine are suffering from Twentysomethingitis. My writing partner IMed me this morning, feeling unusually down:

"I think our industry is so depressing - even when it’s going well…it takes a lot of energy to maintain relationships with a lot of people."

Well said, Jen. It is emotionally draining to keep yourself beeping on the industry radar. Can’t we all just get along…without getting along?

Before she instantly sent me this epiphanic message, my other dear friend Swaga (that’s pronounced SHaa-ga) gave me the full report (via IM as well) on a date gone bad from last night. How bad? Said Date brought him to a Chinese dinner followed by a visit to Date’s bed-ridden friend with cancer and a guitar serenade at Date’s apartment, culminating in the self-unzipping of Date’s pants with the promise, "This is never going to work." Fast-forward to an uncomfortable ride home in Date’s car. Needless to say, Swaga was confused and frustrated. Notch #143 on the Wall of Bad Dates.

I can’t make this shit up.

And here we have two symptoms of Twentysomethingitis: Career dilemmas and neverending quests for that perfect someone who can handle your luggage and make you feel beautiful in bed the next morning. Other cases have been known to suffer from student-loan debt, with which I am all too familiar, parental dependence, and general indecisiveness. If you or someone you know suffers from Twentysomethingitis, take a hard dose of Indifference mixed with a shot of Hopeforthebest. Side effects have been known to include: regular venting to peers over brunch, continuous cynicism, and consumption of entire pints of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked (or McDonald’s drive-thru visitations). Consult your physician before taking these medications.

My seven-week run of San Sebastian is nearing the end. But don’t shed any tears just yet. I will return to my hovel of an apartment for four nights next week when my boss is back in town. I shall then return to the manse for the long Halloween weekend and stay there again during the week of Thanksgiving. I can’t wait to pop a Butterball in that gorgeous oven. Ah, the culinary possibilities - mashed potatoes, creamed cauliflower, string bean casserole…

And I can use as many different types of sauce as I want.

Thanks to the hundreds of books I read as an unbelievably dorkish pre-adolescent, I became the top speller at my elementary school back in New Rochelle. The early 90s was not only a time when grunge ruled the world, it was a time when Hiko rocked the spelling bees (and I say it with pride, dammit).

That’s why it was embarrassing when my mother informed me of a misspelling (or two) in my last chapter. Let us rewind:

"Walking up the hill, I can admire the archetecture of the Frank Lloyd Wright buidling that is crumbling from past mudslides and walk the dirt paths beneath the Griffith Park Observatory."

If you can spot the mistakes, I applaud you and apologize for such an easily avoidable typo. "Architecture" and "building" are the words that will now haunt me in my sleep. Next time I see my proofreader, I shall fire him and blacklist him from the industry of Chapter E-Mailing. I’ll make sure he never gets a job in this town again!

So, in an attempt to polish my reputation as an anal-retentive master of the written (and spelled) word, I humbly acknowledge my error and promise you my next foul-up will be as likely as a Jonathan Taylor Thomas comeback.

Off my chest. Back to basics.

Lately, I have been feeling compelled to express how frightening it is to see 2005 whiz by. Didn’t I just vote for Kerry last month? Has George already been through the first year of his second term?

The older you get, the faster time flies because you busy yourself with so much crap — You have bills to stress over. You have relationships to maintain. There are deadlines to meet. Certain ABC dramas need to be TiVoed. Dinner reservations need to be made. You have doctor appointments to reschedule. The paperback novel that’s been sitting on your nightstand should stop collecting dust; it won’t read itself. You need to make a cameo at the "Family Guy" DVD movie premiere afterparty so you can wait behind Drew Barrymore and Michael Keaton at the open bar. And of course, there’s that damn UPS package to pick up downtown, disrupting your work, because the stupid deliverymen who came to your house at God-knows-what-hour couldn’t just LEAVE IT AT THE GATE.

While getting through Week 5 at San Sebastian, I have been bombarded by random thoughts and realizations which, I feel, need to be recorded as a personal manifesto of sorts. Sample me this:

1. I am amazed at how Gracie, one of the cats, can excrete so much in the litter box. Last night I had sifted out a huge mass of dried urine the size of Wisconsin.

2. I could spend three hours curled up on a plush club chair in the back corner of a Barnes & Noble with a vanilla latte, a few magazines, and a great suspense novel, but never have I had the chance.

3. I love Skittles. I really do.

3a. This just in: I can’t believe Katie Holmes is preggers (just leaked to me from a friend of a friend at "Access Hollywood").

4. I think I’m becoming one of those people who go crazy when their child/pet has a bowel movement. Whenever Razzie "makes a poopy," I shower her with love and congratulate her on a job well excreted…Then, I have to hold my nose while picking up the mound (READ: mound) of shite.

5. Drew Barrymore is quite petite in person.

6. I am showing signs of my age by preferring VH1 over MTV; I am also starting to realize the kids are getting younger on "The Real World."

7. Do I now call Ashton Mr. Demi Moore, or Demi Mrs. Kutcher? (For those of you who didn’t get the memo, they’ve gotten hitched)

8. I truly cannot tolerate Top 40 radio anymore. I now appreciate pop gems from the 80s and enjoy more British imports, be it from television, cinema, or music. Plus, my iPod is B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

9. I know living in Los Angeles is living in one of the few multicultural bubbles in this country, and every place on the outside is a scary place to visit.

Two Thursday nights ago I had an unbashedly L.A. moment when I got myself on the guest list for a Getty-sponsored photography exhibit at a warehouse gallery on La Brea. Huge white walls that curved into the floor displayed the pictures of photojournalists who had covered memorable global events, from the original Live Aid in England to the devastating effects of the December tsunami. A laptop DJ worked his tunes in the corner. The appetizers of choice were tender beef skewers, cream cheese wontons, and shrimp rolls. The open bar was a little table set up on a patio covered by a tin roof, offering beverages, cheap wine, and cheaper beer. After standing in an airless room and watching the main presentation, I slipped outside, received my free print, and noticed servers passing around chocolate-covered fortune cookies, or as they called them, New Age Wisdom cookies.

"What do you call them?" I asked the sassy, mocha-skinned girl who handed me a napkin, forgetting the back of my Lacoste polo was soaked with sweat.

"It’s the politically correct name for them," she said in a tone that really said, "Please, do you honestly THINK I’m serious? I’m just making fun of the pretentious bullshit that oozes from these parties."

We liked her immediately. This girl was ready to call it quits, ditch the serving trays, hop in her friend’s Saturn, and hit up the clubs. She seemed to be a member of the species known as Unemployedicus Actressian. I forget her name, but she was a hoot and continued to pass her politically-correct pop-ems with a 100-watt smile and a little shake of the hips.

New Age Wisdom cookie? What caterer picked that name out of his ass?

I was able to put the night behind me on the following morning when I slipped out of the office for my weekly, one-block excursion to Target and had a run-in with Leornardo DiCaprio, who was carrying a bullseye-covered shopping bag. Who knew The Aviator appreciated on-sale jersey-knit bedspreads and three-for-one Pledge wipes? Golly gee. If this were an episode of "Entourage," we would have slapped hands, done a "whassup," and promise to do dinner at The Spanish Kitchen on La Cienega. Alas, after seeing Titanic Boy hop in a convertible Beamer with two bodyguard-esque beefmen, I did my walk through Target and snatched up "Desperate Housewives" on DVD.

Speaking of the Wisteria Lane women, that leads me to…

10. What is up with Alfre Woodard and who is locked up in her basement?

Last Sunday I took my father, who was visiting L.A. before jetting over to Japan, to Movieline’s Hollywood Style Awards at the Pacific Design Center. Hoping to give him a taste of some Hollywood glamour with some A-list celebs, we were served with a mediocre event with B-list talent instead. Nicole Ritchie made Lara Flynn Boyle look obese. Carmen Electra didn’t look so good as a blonde. But Gina Gershon was surprisingly articulate in her humorous presentation for Star Designer of the Year.

The afterparty was pretty cool. Up-and-coming designers had decorated a space at the PDC called the Young Hollywood Home, where future magazine parties will be held. A mountain of Twinkies and truffles tempted dieters of all types. Macaroni and cheese cupcakes were passed around in little wrappers. Cold Thai noodles in miniature boxes were consumed at the Belvedere vodka bar. The theme appeared to be Asian-Fusion-Meets-Comfort-Food. If you ask me, it seemed more like Montezuma’s Revenge waiting to happen.

I am looking forward to many things right now. I am looking forward to the weekend (I’m sure all of you are). I look forward to having a bunch of friends over Saturday night for what I had thought would be my last weekend at the manse (It appears my housesitting abilities are needed for another two weeks). I look forward to kicking butt while playing Taboo. I look forward to receiving my first three DVDs from Netflix (many gracias to the "Family Guy" premiere party giftbag that featured a free 3-month membership). I look forward to seeing "In Her Shoes" with Cameron Diaz (not WITH her, but starring her — my celebrity ties aren’t THAT great). Finally, I look forward to the eventual hell that will be shopping for a kickass Halloween costume. Retailers on Melrose, beware.

A heads-up to those of you back East: I have booked my flight for Christmas. The East Coast will be graced with my presence from December 16 to January 4. Update the Palm pilots. Pencil it in the calendars. Shout it from the foliage-covered rooftops. I will be working in the New York offices with Jack the week before the holiday; he’s paying for my flight in return for housesitting during Thanksgiving. Who’s an awesome boss?