An Open Invitation to George Clooney.

Anytime.

Anytime, Mr. Clooney. It doesn’t have to be dinner, although I make an excellent whatever-you-want-to-eat. Lunch. Coffee. I have three different ways to make coffee at arm’s reach right now. You could come for breakfast. A glass of wine. Tooth-brushing time. I’m way more entertaining than Joel Stein. I can say that without a single shred of evidence because I’m just that ridiculous. (And you’re just that George Clooney.)

Also, you’re welcome to investigate that strange noise coming from the bedroom.

(It’s me.)

The Cure: Disintegration

Song: “Love Song

The sound of The Cure reminds me of my first year I moved to Houston. I went to two different schools in that time, and it was a huge switch from living in Jackson, Mississsippi. The music changed completely. Back in Jackson, I was pretty much on my own in terms of finding music to listen to. I read Rolling Stone like it was a handbook to getting out of that town. I was already the weird one back then, earning the nickname “Satanic” because I liked Guns n’ Roses and Metallica much more than anything Top 40 had to offer. But once I moved to Texas, that’s when I first heard The Cure. Boy, did everything change after that. Continue reading

weezer countdown

just a few hours left

I’m really just killing time, now. I’m sorta pretending this is New Year’s Eve, as I really don’t have any great plans for tomorrow yet. We’ll think of something. But for right now, Rivers Cuomo better kiss me at midnight.

I’m also hiding from email. Apparently the Austin American Statesman has done it again, and yesterday’s front page of the technology section had a giant picture of my head with the question “Is Pamela Ribon Hot Or Not?”

Dude. I have ex-boyfriends in that damn town. I can never go home again.

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Paper Trail

out of control.

I spent all day finishing up my recap for Gilmore Girls, which is up. If you hate waiting around to read about notification on the new Gilmores here, you can always sign up for the mailing list at MBTV.

Then I did some phone calls, had lunch/dinner, had more phone calls, opened mail, read some journals and now suddenly it’s like seven. But the strange thing is in LA, 7 is still the late afternoon. I’m not used to that. Everything seems to start later here. Morning events start around ten. Which I’m not complaining about. But it’s a rare event that I’m in bed before three in the morning. It’s like I found an entire city that lives on my time.

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