Terribly-Happy.com -- The Archive

Prompted by loyal reader Cassandra, I went back and started looking through some old, old entries. Man, there's a lot of silly stuff back there. Contests, quizzes, hunger strikes.

I sometimes miss that tone, the buildup and payoff to creating pseudo online events. I think maybe I may do a little more of that soon now that LCP and our touring is winding down a bit. I just remember them taking so much time and energy that I ended up neglecting people in my life and other things I needed to be doing. Still, though, Cosa's hunger strike was a good time. For me, not for her.

And while we're looking back, why don't you go buy some Moichandise? I hear an Australian band wants to put one of those photos of Supermodel Patti on their demo album cover.

The e-mail subject header gave me pause. (Even more pause than "Family Mass Orgasm.")

It said "Copperfield sued me too."

To which I had to respond, via e-mail, "Er, he never sued me."

Apparently, someone did get sued, maybe for a similar reason, but seeing as how it's been two years since I wrote that entry and have heard not a peep from the Lord of Illusions, I guess I'm still safe. (Is there a statute of limitations on calling someone a Claudia Schiffer-loving Insane-O-Brain?) Still, it might have been nice to get a cease and desist from the Copperfield Camp. Disappearing ink, maybe? Flash paper that could combust as soon as I opened it?

The guy who e-mailed me said he couldn't talk about the details of his case until it goes public, so I'll let you know when I know. Who knew the Diabolical Master of Darkness and Puffy Tucked-In Shirts was also litigious?

Today's special:

"Family mass orgasm"

Somebody at that spam/porn company really deserves a raise.

In the LAX third floor terminal, there's the Expedia Lounge, a bar with lots of TVs and laptop hookups at every table. Of course, it's love for me.

I'm with Nick, Joaquin and Mical, and we're having drinks and waiting three hours until our flight. We spent the morning at Venice Beach where I bought T-shirts and we ate like kings, then walked the beach. Venice Beach was so cool I thought to myself, "Wow, a WB comedic drama set here might have actually worked." But alas.

Last night was stupendous. I can't even go into it right now. I'm going to try to write about it on the flight or after I get back. But there was our performance, other troupes whom we love, after-drinks at a hot spot where we talked to some celebrities (or at least celebrities to us) and crossed paths strangely again with a Mr. Fred Willard.

My head hurts from lack of sleep and I'm just kind of coasting along until the flight. But this trip was so much fun in so short a time, so much overload on the senses and so full of, "Wow, how could I ever have pictured myself here," that the last two and a half days are just a sun-coated blur with wonderful temperatures and so many jokes that I won't remember 1/20th of them.

I feel good. Wiped and ready to go home, but good.

Resting by the pool. Photo by Supermodel Patti

It's not nice to gloat when you're having a nice day, especially when it's a Tuesday, when the probability that others are having a similarly good day is low-to-none. (If it were a regular Tuesday, I would be spiteful and angry, like a raccoon poked in the ribs by aggressive boys.)

But today is good and I can't deny it. I'm about to lose control and I think I like it.

Took a direct flight to L.A. that was so smooth and trouble free (American Airlines, not the fetid Continental this time) that I didn't even notice the takeoff and landing. Mical, Nick and I took turns with the twin GameBoy Advances I brought and multiplayer Puyo Pop'd the time away.

We got to the cheap hotel in Hollywood in style and found it to be more than adequate (it bordered on "above satisfactory," in fact). Then we had a great greasy breakfast (it was only 8 a.m. L.A. time even though we'd all been up for what seemed like days), hung out at a lovely and tasteful authentic Los Angeles home and then came back around for some great Thai food. Da-yum! Good times. The weather here is a little overcast and cool, breezy, perfect for relaxing on a back porch and thanking your deity of choice that you're not at work, in an office, staring at a computer screen. And? A Jamba Juice within walking distance.

We rehearse tonight, then we perform tomorrow evening. It's sorta work and we're here for a specific purpose, but damn if this doesn't feel like a vacation.

My XL Blog entry is up. They've downplayed my maroon eyes, which is all right by me. You'll notice (if you're prone to noticing) that there's some overlap with things I've written here. Please stop noticing that. It's making me nervous.

I also got a little link happy toward the end. Weird. Blogging about a blog entry I wrote somewhere else. Is that Meta Meta? Mister Mister? Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam?

Remember: Write to Omar's bosses and tell them how your love for me is fine and granulated, like sands in the old Days of Our Lives hourglass.

Today's my last day here before our L.A. trip. I don't know if it's nerves or just that I was anticipating a heavy workload today to make up for my time off, but I've been kind of irritable, moody and sleep-deprived for the last few days. I was truly alarmed yesterday morning when I woke up and saw two strange and foreign objects resting comfortably under my eyes.

Sometimes I get dark circles under my eyes (usually Thursday or Friday if I haven't been sleeping well during the week), but on this Sunday morning, I looked in the mirror and saw two puffy, very uninvited pieces of skin just jutting out under my eyeballs. They were very thin, horizontal and pouty, like slutty models.

I kind of panicked, unsure if it was allergies or lack of sleep or what. I went straight to the freezer and wrapped some ice in paper towels and commenced to freeze my eyes for a few minues until the swelling went down. I was simultaneously determined to rid myself of these under-the-eye invaders while also fearing the long-term effect of freezing my actual eyeballs.

Can you do that? Freeze your eye? Would it cause you to see awful, frozen things, like in a Japanese horror movie?

In time, these wacky puffy slits under my eyes did retreat, but not without filling me with dread. Maybe they've been there every morning and I was just too bleary to notice. But now, I'll be doing lower-eye region checks every morning to see that they don't return. Will I have to invest in a cold compact for my eyes? Do they come in blue?

At that time of the morning, I am filled with questions, but can barely wake myself up enough to look for the answers.

Later today my first XL Blog entry (I know, it was supposed to be up Saturday. it's a long story not worth going into) should be posted. I'll link you up prop'ah when it goes live. Also, I'm taking down the novel exerpt late tonight before I leave town.

It just feels like a damn Monday today, doesn't it?

You wouldn't think you could walk in looking for a pastel yellow shirt for a skit and then find, right there in the front, four varying shades of yellow men's shirts. Three don't fit. The one that does still seems overpriced at $7.99.

Two copies of Fran Drescher's autobiography in the book section.

I pick up a book of essays by Dan Rather (he writes essays?) and a book of Raymond Carver short stories. I'm on a short story kick since I devoured Brownsville by Oscar Casares. If you do nothing else this week, please pick up a copy of this book. It's cheap and it's wonderful.

There are old videos, cassette tapes, CDs and computer CD-ROMs, but no DVDs yet. I wonder when all these $5.99 and $9.99 DVDs we're all buying of movies like Corky Romano are going to start getting scratched up and end up at Goodwill.

I can't believe that anyone would buy a used pair of women's panties like the ones carefully hung up right there. My god. For real, folks. Shirts, pants, shoes, hats, sure. But panties?

I wonder if these big-ass Hitachi speakers are any good.

There's a woman sitting in the middle of Goodwill, at the outside table they're trying to sell. She watches everyone as they pass as if she's afraid somebody's going to buy the wood-top table out from under her. After a few minutes, she calls her husband on the phone.

A man is trying on hats for his girlfriend.

They're selling "The World's Greatest Drain Sucker," a scary-looking blue plunger.

They take credit cards?

From Le Divorce, by Diane Johnson:

But I admire Roxy's poems, I don't mean otherwise. I wish I could find two screwy words and put them together so that they fizz, like she can. It always surprises me to read Roxy's poems, because in person, the way she talks, she just sounds like a normal person, you wouldn't have thought her thoughts would be odd and complicated.