Ordinary Extraordinary

Open Letter: KROQ Edition

Dear KROQ,

Are you trying to prevent people from buying tickets to this year's Acoustic Christmas? That's the only possible explanation I can think of for the convoluted way in which you've handled the event.

First, there was the overblown buildup to the announcements of each night's line-up. Normally I would have been out right there, but the line-ups were so good that I begrudginly agreed to stand by for purchase information.

Next came the ruling that tickets would only be available to KROQ Street Team members. I seriously resent being forced to sign up for your marketing vehicle in order to spend my money on your event, but fine - I gritted my teeth and signed up to get spammed.

Then there was the interminable waiting for ticket information. Acoustic Christmas is this weekend, but on-sale information wasn't sent out until about twenty minutes ago. KROQ used to be above that type of false, unnecessary hype but not anymore, it seems.

At last, the ticket information. Great! Except for three little things:

1) The tickets go on sale at 5pm and 6pm tomorrow. When most adults are, you know, WORKING or driving home from working. Hardly a good time to be in front of a computer. But I guess it's ok since the server will no doubt get overloaded within 10 minutes and lock most people out anyway.

2) Then there's this little gem: Sales to this event will be restricted to residents of Los Angeles, Orange, Riverside, San Bernardino, and Ventura Counties. Residency will be based on credit card billing address. Orders by residents outside Los Angeles, Orange, Riverside, San Bernardino, and Ventura Counties will be canceled without notice and refunds given. What? Why?

3) And finally: $187.00 a pair? Seriously?

So... I jumped through all of your freaking hoops only to be told that tickets will be outside my budget and go on sale at a time that I can't possibly hope to be in front of a computer to make my purchase (even if I could afford it). Awesome.

KROQ, WTF are you thinking?

No love,
Me

P.S. I'd also like to add an extra-special "Fuck you" to Ticketmaster for charging people $2.50 MORE for printing their tickets at home. Because somehow using my printer, and my ink, costs Ticketmaster more money? Right.

Open Letter: MTV Edition

Dear MTV,

You fought a hard battle to resuscitate the VMAs. Really, you did. After watching your ratings tank for the last couple of years, you decided to put all your chips in on one last hand with a new location, new format, and new categories. A valiant effort.

However, I think it's safe to say that you lost that hand; it's time to back away from the table and head back to your hotel suite to sleep it off. Maybe when you wake up, it will all have been a bad dream.

Your first mistake was signing Britney up to open the show. Not only has she not had an album out since 2004, she's a complete trainwreck. Unsurprisingly, she wandered through her choreography and mumbled through her lip-sync, looking slightly confused and lost in the bright lights the whole time. She was painful to watch, but it was moderately entertaining to watch the audience members try to keep a straight face when the cameras panned across them.

Your second mistake was Sarah Silverman. As has been proven countless times before, she is not funny when she's put in any kind of hosting situation. Scripted comedy? FIne. Stand up? Fine? But she is not good at hosting and you people need to stop making her try. Plus, did she really need to do so many Britney jokes? The audience was already squirming from Britney's performance, the tired old jokes about her cooch and her kids were totally unnecessary.

Your third mistake was the new categories. "Monster SIngle of the Year" essentially translates to "Most Overplayed Song of the Year" and "Quadruple Threat of the Year" is just... stupid. Stop it. Just stop it.

There were some mistakes on the technical side too. Please fire whoever designed the seating arrangement. It should never take a winner more than 45 seconds to get to the stage; watching Beyonce squeeze her way between tables didn't exactly make for compelling television. If you insist on having the tables that close together so they can be danced on later, at least have the good sense to put the nominees at the front and on the outside edges so they have some hope of getting on the stage to accept their awards in a reasonable amount of time.

Also, please fire your Graphics department. The robotic nomination packages got old really, really fast.

All that being said, there were some highlights. Chris Brown gave an absolutely phenomenal performance (which should have opened the show) and Justin totally gets a round of applause for asking (twice!) that you "play more damn videos." The suite parties were way more entertaining than the main show and hey, at least now we know the title of the next Indiana Jones movie. But a handful of highlights does not a good show make.

I realize that I'm dating myself with this question, but do you remember when the Video Music Awards were about, I don't know... music? And videos?

Yeah, neither do I.

Perhaps next year you'd like to refresh everyone's memory?

No Love,
Me

Open Letter: Weather Edition

Dear Mother Nature,

It is 7:30 at night and it is still almost 100 degrees outside. It is 90 degrees in my living room. My cats are panting, my brain is melting, and I've been sweating for three days.

This is NOT OK.

If it's going to be this hot, could you at least lay off the humidity? We don't do humidity here in Southern California and it is making us CRAZY. We are liable to snap at any moment.

Your prompt attention to this matter is greatly appreciated; I think I just heard my basil plants burst into spontaneous flames.

Best,
Amandarin

Open Letter: Political Edition

Dear Tony Snow,

I've always thought you were a likeable guy. Hey, anyone who calls Bush "impotent" and "an embarassment" is ok in my book.

(Which reminds me: Where, exactly, did your principles and opinions go? Ah, nevermind. That's a question for another letter. Back to the matter at hand.)

I've always thought you were a decent fellow. You're a musician! You're a philosopher! Once upon a time, you even had original thoughts! (ahem) As such, I developed a bit of a soft spot for you and was vastly sympathetic when you were performing your duties as press secretary in between chemotherapy sessions. However, it is safe to say that my sympathy has run out.

You're leaving your position as White House press secretary because of financial hardship?

Eat me, rich boy.

No seriously: eat me. I am poor and made of ramen. Tasty!

Look, you've been in the position less than 18 months, during which time you've earned at LEAST $200K. Before accepting this illustrious job, you were on both FOX News and your own nationally syndicated radio show. You've been a nationally syndicated columnist, a television host, and a political commentator.  I find it extremely hard to believe that your family will be standing in line for foodstamps anytime soon.

I can understand wanting to get as far away from this administration as possible, really I can, so give us a reason we can stomach. Say you hate the buffoon in the Oval Office, say you suddenly remembered that you have principles (ahem), say that you want to spend more time with your family, but please: don't tell us you have to step down because of the terrible financial strain. We will be forced to laugh in your face.

Repeatedly. And loudly.

No Love,
Me

Open Letters: Work Edition

This afternoon, I received the following email*:

Hi,

I know you bent over backwards to accomodate us doing a shoot at Your Studio next Tuesday, but now we can't do it that day. Can we do it April 12th, right in the middle of your biggiest & nastiest production schedule and two weeks past the date after which the Senior Vice President said we couldn't get into the studio under any circumstances? I know you're going to say no, so I'm copying the SVP in the misguided belief that he'll make you say yes.

kthxbye,
Clueless Moron

Although I sent a properly professional response, I really WANTED to send this one:

Dear Clueless,

So you'd like to cancel your studio time for next week.

The studio time that we didn't want to give you in the first place, but that you insisted was ohmygodabsolutelytheonlypossibletimeever that you could shoot your commercial? The studio time that necessitated my re-scheduling god & everybody in order to accomodate YOUR fire drill? That studio time?

You're canceling it?

Awesome.

Oh, and you'd like to have some time in the middle of our busiest month? You mean the month when all of my regular shows will be in production, two will be moving to new sets & timeslots, and two more will be loading-in / teching / rehearsing for their premieres in April?

Unfortunately, I will be unable to accomodate your request at this time.

Not just NO, not just HELLO NO, but areyoufuckingcrazy? NO and don'tmakemecomeoverthereandbeatyouwithashovel NO.

Yes, the Senior Vice President will tell you exactly the same thing.

Please go die in a fire.

No love,
Me

This is why I'm not allowed to bring a gun to work.

Completely unrelated point: I've been getting a lot of traffic from the Bones forum over at Television Without Pity since someone was nice enough to link to my post about the show. Welcome, fellow Bones fans!

_____
*OK, I may have taken some creative liberties in the translation, but you get the gist of it.

Open Letters: Asshole Edition

You might say it's been a weekend.

Dear Jackass,

When you attempt to follow me into a secured ATM vestibule by jamming your foot in the door when I open it, please do not be surprised when I ask you to use your own card to gain entry. It's 11pm on a Saturday night, there are no open stores or houses within shouting distance, and I am not an idiot. The proper response to my request is "Oh, sure" not "What are you, some kind of paranoid fucking bitch?"

I hope your mother/sister/wife/girlfriend gets mugged by someone for whom she held open the door.

No Love,
Me

*****

Dear Overgrown Frat Boy,

I'm so glad that you and your cronies have discovered Bootie. I know it seems unbelievable that a club this good should exist so far east of the Sunset strip, but it does. Yes, the music really is awesome. Yes, the drinks really are strong. And yes, I AM a fat girl dancing front and center on stage next to the DJ (and looking damn fine doing it, too).

Try to contain your shock next time, m'kay?

Pointing at me, whispering to the girl hanging on you and then making a big theatrical production of snickering is really not necessary, you juvenile prick. It is only out of respect for Party Ben that I did not walk to the front of the stage and kick your smug, capped teeth right out of your face.

Grow up.

No Love,
Me

P.S. A special note to the blonde bitch who kept jabbing her elbow into my back and staring daggers at me: Yes, three of us did intentionally dance ourselves between you & your friends and Party Ben. He's working and doesn't need your drunk asses grinding up on him or slamming into the table and making his CDs skip. Buy him a drink after the set. Much good may it do you!

*****

Dear Plumber Chauvinist Pig,

When you have been called to my house to clear a blockage on the common sewer line, I expect that you will do a thorough job. (I also expect that you'll talk to me and not to my male neighbor who has been at work all night and doesn't know when his bathroom started backing up nevermind when mine did but let's start with the basics, shall we?) In this case, a thorough job means snaking the sink drain, the shower drain AND the common line. The landlord has called you to my house before, you know that the drains are old and problematic.

So, when I ask you to snake the shower before you pack up your equipment (since I noticed you hadn't done it) please do not tell me that "Everything costs money, sweetheart." When I calmly ask how much this basic preventative service will cost, saying "Twenty dollars, cash" will send up a huge, waving, red flag.

Please don't be surprised when I ask you to add that $20 to the receipt you're handing me to sign and and to provide me with a copy of said receipt. The response to my reasonable request is to do so, NOT to call me a "fucking bitch" and then scream obscenities at me.

No, you may not tell me to "fucking deal" and leave without giving me a receipt. No, you may not scribble a receipt on the back of my grocery list when I just watched you write a receipt that has a carbon copy. No, you may not accuse me of trying to "work outside the system" (wtf?) when I tell you that I am entitled to a receipt.

You tried to con yourself into an extra $20 and got caught. By a girl. Deal.

Shut your fucking mouth and give me a copy of the receipt.

No Love,
Me

Open Letter

Dear Thief Teenager Who Delivered My Thai Food,

I understand that you deliver Thai food for a living. I understand that the hourly wage is shit. I understand that most people tip delivery men & women poorly. I understand that these things in combination have made you cranky and entitled.

HOWEVER.

Walking, nay running, off with the $20 I handed you when I looked down to figure out how much change to ask for was stealing. The bill was $12.83, did you really think I was going to tip you more than $7?

No, clearly you didn't. Otherwise you would have stood there patiently until I told you to keep the change.

While you were running away with my change, I was on the phone with your manager. You'd better thank your lucky stars that I'm in a good mood this evening; he offered to make you drive back to my house with my change but I declined.

I was planning on tipping you $5 or so because hey, I understand how crappy your job is, but you were so goddamned entitled that you chose to steal my money instead.

Next time I order Thai food, I'll have exact change waiting for you.

In pennies.

No love,
Me

Open Letter

Dear Cathy Gould,

I know you are outraged that Madrid's Fashion Week has banned unhealthfully-thin models, but I call foul on your accusation that these measures will harm the careers of "naturally gazelle-like" models.

No such species exists "naturally." Do you see the model pictured in the article linked above? She has no breasts, no ass, and her collarbone, sternum, ribcage, and humerus are all clearly visible. That's not natural.

Allright, maybe three or four women on earth maintain such a slender physique due to genetics, but the rest maintain it through a variety (or combination) of absuses: drugs, eating disorders, extreme exercise. That's not natural either.

This is not about discrimination; this is about the fashion industry taking some measure of responsibility for the "ideal" that it presents to the world. You cannot parade these women around as the absolute pinnacle of fashion & grace and then act surprised when millions of young women and girls destroy their health emulating them. Is it entirely the fault of the fashion industry? Of course not, but that does not mean that your industry is blameless.

This is also not about censoring the designers' creativity. If clothing designers are so concerned that the artistry of their design will be ruined by human curves, I respectfully suggest that they change careers. Perhaps a perfectly smooth, flat, canvas would be less offensive.

Or, they could always send their creations down the runway on an army of mechanized mannequins - all of the personality with none of those pesky human flaws!

The fact is that runway models are now so far removed from the "average" woman as to be ridiculous. No one is suggesting that designers start creating clothes for 5'7" size 14s (though I'd love to see that) and sending them down the runway; this is simply a move towards projecting a more healthful image of women. If we're going to objectify, why would we pick a sickly-looking target?

Madrid is not alone; the Mayor of Milan has already said that she will campaign for a similar ban at Milan's Fashion Week. It won't be long before this new, more healthful version of the runway model spreads throughout the industry.

Your only course of action is to grit your teeth, suck it, up, and order a few sandwiches for your models.

Best,
Amandarin

Open Letter

Dear Asshole Who Dented My Car,

You left two gashes on my rear passenger side door, one of which is more than a foot long and both of which include chips of your paint. There's no way you could have done that type of damage without noticing.

You could have at least left a fucking note.

Please die in a fire.

No love,
Me

P.S. What kind of urban assault vehicle were you driving that you could put a dent that big above the handle of my rear door? I drive an Escape for heaven's sake!

Open Letters

It was an interesting drive home. I have some things to say.

Dear Future Darwin Award Winner Motorcyclist,

YOU are the reason that safety conscious, law-abiding bikers have a bad name. Weaving in and out of rush hour traffic at 60 mph was dangerous enough - did you not notice the cars swerving out of your way? But when you decided to use the SIDEWALK as a third lane I wanted to open my passenger side door into you. You are not on a bicycle, you are on a motorcycle. You do not belong on the sidewalk. Ever. It would have been worth sacrificing my door to keep your ass off the streets for awhile.

Seriously, the SIDEWALK? What the fuck were you thinking? You nearly hit that jogger and her dog, and the guy trying to back out his driveway was certainly surprised to see you come flying out from behind that bush on your (really badly painted) yellow crotch rocket.

To top it off, you had the audacity to flip off the driver of the box truck who nearly changed lanes into you... because you were riding in his blind spot while trying to pass him on the right.

He should have hit you.

No love,
Me

Dear Future Roadkill Teenage Boys in Shiny New Cars,

Cahuenga Blvd is not the California Speedway. You and your buddy are not driving race cars, you are driving economy sedans. Chasing each other up Cahuenga in rush hour and then honking at / yelling at everyone else on the road for getting in the middle of your "game" almost guarantees that someone is going to run you over with their Hummer.

I laughed outright when you both went screaming under the bridge, spotted the cop sitting in the shadows, and then both hit your brakes so hard your tires squealed.

Subtle kids. Really subtle.

No love,
Me

Dear Compensation Man Hummer Driver,

You drive a BRIGHT ORANGE Hummer that is slammed, chromed, and covered in expedition lights. It's a ridiculous vehicle under the best of circumstances, but when it breaks down and you and your buddy are struggling unsuccessfully to push it to the side of the road? You are not allowed to be pissed when people heckle you as they drive past.

There's just too much material... their heads might explode if they kept all those jokes bottled up inside.

No love,
Me

Gotta love commuting.

Open Letter

Dear Anonymous Psycho,

Yes you. The one who called me and harassed me at 2am this morning, posing as a rabid fan of this website. You know who you are.

So do I.

And now? So does the Sheriff's Department.

I'll admit that you threw me when first you called; I'm not at my best when woken from a dead sleep. But when you used jargon inconsistent with the "old lady" you were trying to portray, I was wary. When you mentioned information available to only a select few, I was suspicious. When I hung up and saw the same calling card number you'd used in January on my Caller ID, I was certain.

Twenty minutes later, a Sheriff's Deputy officially opened your file.

Your logic in continuing to seek me out is flawed - the outcome you're angling for will never come as a result of attacking me. As I'm sure you learned today, it is actually only driving you farther from your goal.

My patience has run out; I have less than zero tolerance for this behavior. Consider this your final warning: stay away from me.

It would be unwise to underestimate the gravity of these words.

Do not fuck with me.

-Amandarin

Open Letter

Dear America,

I hate you.

For so many reasons, really, but tonight I hate you for voting off the only contestant with even a shred of originality and talent.

I can't really say I'm surprised, though. This may not be the first time that I've called in to question your ability to make good decisions via group vote.

You're going to vote for the annoying girl again aren't you? AREN'T YOU?

I know she's from Los Angeles and is therefore supposed to be my hometown girl, but damn. She's just as vapid and irritating as that twit who won last year.

Hate I tell you. Full of hate.

Just one more nail in the coffin that holds my faith in humanity.

Grrr,
Amandarin

Programming Note

Note to ABC:

Knock it off.

When you quick-cut to a nominee just before the envelope is opened, cut to the presenter, then (surprise!) cut back to the nominee on whom you were just focused? You've gone well beyond foreshadowing into the realm of telegraphing and it makes for awful television.

Don't make me come down there.

It's not me, it's you

Dear TJ,

I love you baby. Really, I do. Your selection of wholesome, reasonably priced food is dizzying in its breadth. Your crew members are so friendly and knowledgeable that I wonder if you've put something strange in the employee water cooler. Your selection of cheeses alone is enough to make me declare my unending devotion to you above all other stores, but one thing is holding me back. One thing is keeping me from linking my arm through yours and skipping merrily into Happily Ever After...

Your parking lot. It's too small. I know I said that size doesn't matter, but I lied. It does matter.

Why oh why must all of your stores be built with completely inadequate parking lots in neighborhoods where there is no additional parking available anywhere? Why do you taunt me with your stores full of delicious foods only to make me ceaselessly circle your tiny lot like a hungry buzzard?

You like it, don't you? Watching us fight for space in your precious lot? I know you were secretly thrilled when that woman tried to back me into traffic last night and later confronted me in the produce section. I bet you liked watching as I flayed her with my sharp tongue.

Damn you for weaving this spell around me. You know that I can't leave you, can't walk away from all that we share. You had me at "Would you like a Fearless Flyer?"

Amandarin

Open Letter

Dear Universe,

Since I know that you are flooded with requests around the holidays, I'm putting mine in early in the hopes that it will be met in a timely fashion: I need a new job. I would much rather transition smoothly to a better position than flounder on unemployment for awhile before grabbing desperately at the first offer to come my way, so I'd be pleased if you could help point me in the direction of my next career choice.

I am an incredibly savvy Production Coordinator with diverse skills and a talent for thinking on my feet. Though I've been working in live entertainment for the last several years, I would like to take this opportunity to transition into film or television production. I realize that those are two very broad sections of the industry, so I am open to the variety of opportunities that may present themselves.

Your prompt reply is appreciated, Universe; I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Best Regards,
Amandarin

At least it's not the worst possible time of year to be looking for a new job in my industry. Oh, wait...

Wind Under Their Tails

Dear demon hellcats Oscar & Taylor,

I don't know WHAT has gotten into you since we've moved to the new house, but the rules have not changed.

You are still not allowed up on the counters, tables or (this is new) stove top.

You are still not allowed to scale the fireplace to get to the mantle.

You are still not allowed to claw the couch.

You are still not allowed to claw the curtains, especially when you then get *stuck* with your paws above your head and have to yowl like a banshee until I come rescue you.

You are still not allowed to go outside and launching yourself full-force at the window screen will NOT help your cause.

So far today I've lost the glass in two framed pictures, two candle holders, one glass of orange juice, one vase, and one plate of toast because of your antics so just KNOCK IT OFF.

And while we're at it, I'd like to amend the Rules List to encompass some things that you've never tried before but are definitely Not Allowed To Do:

You are not allowed to sneak into the kitchen cupboard and scare the bejeezus out of me when I open it to retrieve a tea bag. Mostly because doing so involves getting on the counters, but also because I don't need the heart attack.

You are not allowed to dig in the litterbox as though you are trying to escape from rabid coyotes, thus flinging cat litter EVERYWHERE within a six foot radius. I don't know why you started doing this, Oscar, but now would be a fantastic time to stop.

You are not allowed in the refrigerator. Ever. Under any circumstances. No amount of indignant meowing will change this rule.

You are not allowed to sneak into the linen closet and wallow all over the clean sheets and towels, thus covering everything in a fine layer of cat hair. Also, there is the aforementioned heart attack problem with me opening the closet to find you there. How on *earth* did you get up to that third shelf, Taylor?

I am totally allowed to laugh at you when you skid out on the hardwood floors after trying to take the corner too fast and end up sliding into the wall. You are, in turn, totally allowed to look offended and lick your paws imperiously.

It's a good thing you guys are cute. And that you keep me warm at night.

Aggravated,
The Management

Mix-up

Dear Weather Gods,

I have just stepped out of my office to find it raining. In September. I know that in other parts of the country rain is likely to occur at any time, but here in Southern California rain is a Winter affliction and as such we should not see any of the evil sky water until at least January. The fact that the sun is still shining in spite of the pouring rain leads me to believe that this is some sort of bug in the weather-scheduling software that can be quickly patched.

At least I hope it's a bug in the software... I'd hate to think that you find it amusing to watch Southern Californians run for cover and attempt to navigate the freeways after they have become high-speed Slip-n-Slides.

Your prompt attention this this matter would be greatly appreciated.

Best,
Amandarin

Open Letter

Dear NBC Ad Executives who thought that three people having a "casual conversation" about the new Fall lineup would be make for charming and engaging radio spots,

Please die in a fire.

No love,
Me

Open Letter

Dear asshat who decided that it was inappropriate for me to wait until the pedestrians were clear before I turned left;

You must have been in some rush if you felt that it would be a good idea to pull around me to make your left turn, nearly ripping the bumper off the back of my car and scaring the old woman crossing the street half to death in the process.

I hope that your grandmother gets hit in a crosswalk.

-Amandarin

Message

Life has been kicking my ass lately. I promise to return with actual content soon but, in the meantime, I have a small message to transmit:

***

Dear Universe,

Fuck off.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
amandarin

***