Some Star-Spangled Banter.

As I was driving in my car earlier this morning, listening to my favorite latin music station (Latino 96.3), the DJs began discussing a song that was released a few days ago, a Spanish language version of the American national anthem, "The Star-Spangled Banner." The song in question, "Nuestro Himno," has created quite a lot of controversy in its few days of existence (due in part to the timing of its release, right before this coming Monday's "Day Without Immigrants"), to the point that even our illustrious President has been asked to weigh in on the subject. The man behind the the new song, British music producer Adam Kidron, claims that the song is not intended to put up language barriers or divide Americans, but rather to serve as a unifying force, enabling immigrants who have not yet achieved fluency in English to understand and appreciate the message of the anthem. What exactly is the problem with this? Look: no one is suggesting that "Nuestro Himno" replace "The Star-Spangled Banner" as the national anthem; I sincerely doubt people will be expected to stand at baseball games and sing in Spanish, and this isn't the first step in an insidious foreign plot to subvert the national language. This is an intercultural celebration of what is great about the United States. Why do we Americans have such a chip on our collective shoulder? We complain incessantly about how the rest of the world doesn't appreciate what we do and what we stand for, but if someone tries to love us slightly differently from how we demand, we spit their face. There you have it: America is officially The Worst Girlfriend Ever.

Thinking about the furor generated by the release of this song got me to reflect on another relatively recent controversy concerning messages of American patriotism: the argument about the wording of the Pledge of Allegiance. I don't quite understand the uproar that has been caused by the suggestion of removing the words "under God" from the line "one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." The Pledge has actually gone through 3 incarnations since it was first written by Francis Bellamy in 1892. In fact, until 1954, the Pledge did not even include the words "under God" - they were inserted into the oath by Congress after some aggressive campaigning on the part of various Christian groups. So you see, it's not really disrespectful to suggest changing the wording of the Pledge of Allegiance, if it has already been revised multiple times since its conception. Plus, the last 2 changes were made almost exactly 30 years apart from each other, the last one being in 1954; you could say that it's now past time for another verbal facelift.

Let us not ignore that when this country was still a collection of colonies, many of them were founded by people trying to escape persecution of their respective religions. They came to this land to freely practice whatever religious faith they followed, without fear of reprisal. (Granted, whether or not they wanted Muslims, Jews, Catholics, Buddhists, and Hindus to share in this freedom is up for debate.) I know that some of the more extreme Christian groups in this country are fond of complaining about how the United States is being turned into a godless nation and their right to worship freely is being threatened; I would point out to them that no one is infringing on their ability to worship how they please, and in all fairness they should extend the same courtesy to those who follow a different faith, or even no faith at all. History has shown us that you do not necessarily need to be Christian to be a moral and upstanding citizen, and vice versa.

On a side note, it seems to me that pledging allegiance to an inanimate object - such as oh, say, a flag - comes dangerously close to practicing idolatry. So, to those who are scandalized by the blasphemy of attempting to merely remove what was awkwardly added in the first place, I would suggest that you read your Ten Commandments before you cast the first stone.

Color Me Your Color, Baby.

Well, we’re now up to the latter half of season 10 of Friends, and the apartment is slowly coming together. All furniture (aside from my bed) has been sold or donated, my kitchen has been emptied of all food and pots and pans, and stacks of papers, books, and DVDs lean precariously throughout my little studio. Yes, Dear Readers, I know: this all must be just fascinating for you.

Okay, okay... here's a little Hollywood bitchiness for you, one last hurrah before I start going on and on about Africa and the Peace Corps and kissing babies and my impending run for Congress in 2021. I’m sure many of you are familiar with the famed flakiness of Californians, and Angelenos in particular... Now, I ain't being a hater when I say this, because, honestly, it's all true. And boy, is it hitting home for me, now more than ever. You see, on top of packing and my other preparations to leave LA, I am also attempting to schedule last-minute, last-time hang-out sessions with many friends and acquaintances all over town. These very nice people are threatening me with everything up to (and including) castration if I leave without hanging with so-and-so one more time, but when I try to nail these eager friends down on a specific time or even DAY, I get the ol' "Yeah, I might be free sometime later in the week... Dude, you should totally call me!" Dude. I been callin', I been textin', in one case I even holla'd. Seriously, I really don't have the time to play these fun little Hollywood mind games right now. If you want to see me before I leave town, how about this: you call me.

Man, if only I had another 2 months left in town, so we could do this little dance properly: you have your assistant pencil me in for a lunch sometime 3 weeks from now (no, I'm not available anytime before then, it's impossible), we'll reserve a table at Spago; I'll reschedule the morning of, because I'm absolutely swamped with the responsibilities of my powerful, incredibly demanding job; but maybe we can move lunch to sometime next week (of course we can't, because now it's your turn to cancel, so you don't look too eager or unpopular). A month-and-a-half from now, you say? Something just opened up? Fabulous, hook it up! (But call back in a minute, so you can tell my assistant, because I don't deal with the scheduling.) But let's not do Spago - too trendy, too many industry types there... shall we say Barney Greengrass? Oh, and I'll bill it to the company, but I'm going to have to change your title to executive vice president, because it looks just a tad more impressive to those snoops in Accounting. Love you, mean it, ciao. Now... when should we have drinks?

Ah, I'm really going to miss this place.

-Dabbler

P.S. Points to anyone who gets the reference in the title.

P.P.S. Without googling it.

Escape from L.A.

My big LA send-off shindig was a few days ago, and my lungs have finally stopped feeling like ash. It was all I could have wished for: a glorious night under the stars, with nearly all the friends I have made in this town (as well as quite a few new people whom I regret I will not get to know better), crowded onto the top deck of the Formosa Cafe in West Hollywood; I am proud that I was able to put together an event like this all by myself. I am also proud that I behaved myself the entire night... no black-outs, no drunken tackling of unfortunate women, no destruction of burger restaurants. Yes, this time I was a perfectly affable host, right up until the bartender announced "Last call," whereupon I slammed down several shots and inhaled the last of my cigarettes. (What? I had to get my kicks in somewhere.) And now, with less than a week before I fly out to the east coast, it is time to get organized. Yeah, okay then.

A big part of how I have made such a successful career of dabbling is that I am a compulsive procrastinator, with a diagnosed case of adult ADHD. I know, everyone delays, everyone puts off... but no one can claim to have made as much an art of it as I. For the past 3 days, despite my honest-to-God best efforts, I appear to have accomplished... well, nothing, in all of my multiple aborted attempts to pack up my studio apartment and sell off my furniture. Right now, it looks like I have at least managed to move everything in my apartment around quite nicely - to the point that it looks like I experienced a violently psychotic episode. Tables and chairs lay strewn about, halfway taken apart, because in the middle of removing the legs from my glass-top coffee table I decided I needed a break and spent the rest of the afternoon watching Entourage episodes. Then I needed to take a break from that to order pizza with my next-door neighbors, and eat until the food coma washed over me so I had to retire to my bed to nap it off. My first official day of unemplyoment, and I'm already falling apart.

Well, not tomorrow! Tomorrow I will work: I will sell my furniture to thrift shops or donate to charities; I will call to confirm my appointment to ship my car; I will put aside the cigarettes, but not the booze (never the booze); I will pack, I will clean, I will be productive with what little time I have left, so for once in my entire life I am not left panicking at the Zero Hour! Or, maybe instead I will finish watching the 9th season of Friends. I don't know, it's a little early to tell right now.

Topic of Cancer.

My departure from Hollywood and all things Californian is imminent; my last day working at the agency is this Friday, and a week after that I fly back east to spend some quality time with friends and family before shipping out to Africa.

I have a trusty new cell phone, which I have already managed to drop once. I have sturdy, trendy Ikea furniture I am hawking to bidders, an expensive item of which shattered on its way to a buyer last night. After obnoxiously harassing my car insurance company and the California DMV for weeks, I am now cleared to get my car repaired of all recently-incurred damages before I ship it out east next Friday. Utilities are in the process of being cancelled, apartment is (kinda) getting organized, and I am training my replacement at the office, desperately pretending I know what I'm doing. In my little free time, I am starting drink like a fish and chain-smoke like a chimney, before going back to multi-tasking 20 different personal matters while maintaining the phone lines at my Hollywood job. Stress: it’s what’s for dinner.

Change is in the winds, Dear Readers. I am not panicking yet, but I can feel the storm building in the back of my brain. My star sign is Cancer, and in many ways I am a classic example of the type: I am sentimental, nostalgic, and I crave security and familiarity. With all these tendencies, the current happenings in my life are for me a whirling nightmare of anxiety – and yet, I am simultaneously exhilarated by the events I have set in motion. In 2 months, I will have been living in Africa for over 2 weeks. I have no idea what awaits me, which terrifies my inner control-freak; but I am about to embark on a grand adventure into the world, which thrills the wanderlust dreamer within me.

One evening a few weeks ago, as I was killing some time before a party, staring into the fountain at the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood, I came to an epiphany of sorts. When I was very young, perhaps around 6 years of age, I wanted to see as much of the world as possible, to see all the wonderful things I had seen in movies for myself, with my own eyes. I wanted to live in New York City and feel the city rush, to live in Los Angeles and see the Hollywood Sign rising above me in the hills, to explore castles in Europe and savannahs and jungles in Africa. Now, in my mid-20s, I have braved the teeming streets of Times Square during rush hour, brushed shoulders with the power players of Tinseltown, crawled through ancient strongholds in England, and come within a few tantalizing feet of touching the “D” of the Hollywood Sign with my hand… right before being pursued by an LAPD helicopter for trespassing. And now I am on the verge of traveling thousands of miles to live and work in West Africa, to begin a whole new set of adventures and experiences. I realized in that moment, gazing into that fountain, that I am incredibly lucky. Despite my perpetual frustration with not yet figuring out what I want to do with my life, or finding that one person I want to spend it with, I have been blessed with the chance to make my childhood dreams reality. In fact, it is perhaps because of my dissatisfaction and curiosity that I have been allowed to experience so much; if I had found what I wanted right away, I never would have gone any further. And viewed from that perspective, I am damn thankful for everything that has led me up to this point.

I realize, of course, that I won’t be thinking of this tomorrow, when I’m cursing my miserable lot in life because I have misplaced a crucial contract, been overcharged on my electricity bill, or scalded myself with another cup of coffee. But it’s important to sometimes take a step back from the minutiae of your life and look at the puzzle as a whole.

See? Quintessential Cancer.

The Great Cell Phone Massacre of '06.

Apologies, Dear Readers, for my relatively sparse correspondence this week. I have been distracted as of late, with annoying "real world" problems, such as preparing for my replacment at work, trying to sell my apartment furniture before the big move, and organizing a kick-ass going-away party.

And then there is my cell phone.

In recent weeks, many of my possessions have been spontaneously falling apart on me. Until today, I was handling it all with (what I thought was) remarkable patience and poise. There was my car, but its damages can be easily attributed to the 2-accidents-in-1-weekend phenomenon from a month ago, rather than to some malicious cosmic entity. Then my VCR broke a few weeks ago, followed by my DVD player 1 week later, and I resorted to watching movies on my laptop computer. Around that time my wristwatch also broke, so I started keeping track of the time on my cellular phone instead. Then one day, the phone suddenly stopped getting a signal in my apartment, so I began stepping outside in order to have a phone conversation; a week after that, my phone refused to receive a signal even there, so I had to walk to the edge of the street outside my building in order to continue enjoying cellular service; then, 2 weeks ago, my cell phone's display screen stopped working, which made calling people in my address book difficult and reading text messages impossible. And here is where the fun begins...

Finally deciding that something must be done, I visit a Cingular store (for my service is "supplied" by Cingular Wireless) this past weekend, in order to get my phone either repaired or replaced. It is there that I discover my 1-year warranty on the phone expired literally The Day before its screen died, and I am thus expected to pay over $100 to get it replaced. I point out the fantastic coincidence that my phone stopped working 24 hours after its insurance coverage ended, and the Cingular employee there takes pity on me, types something into his computer, and informs me he has extended my warranty for an additional week so I can send my phone in for a free replacement. All I need do is call the number he hands me, and a new phone will be mailed to me within days. As a matter of fact, this is not the case, because upon trying the number I learn that Cingular's repair hotline is closed on the weekend; however, I am content to wait until Monday to try again, pleased with the knowledge that - for once - my cell phone company is not going to try to screw me.

Come Monday, I call the service hotline and, after being on hold for over half an hour, am informed that, regardless of what the Cingular store employee promised me, my warranty was not extended, and I will have to pay the $100-something fee for a new phone. Re-explaining my situation, I am able to convince the sympathetic customer service representative to make an exception in my case and extend my warranty, and he transfers me over to the exchanges department. After being kept on hold for another 20 minutes, I speak to yet another operator, make all the arrangements, and then am I told once again that there is no mention in my file of any warranty extension, and I must pay a hefty fee (ballpark figure of $100) for any repairs or exchanges. At this point, my patience runs out, and I demand to speak to a supervisor. On hold for 5 minutes, then the operator gets back on the line and announces they will extend my warranty after all. Flushed with triumph and pride for taking charge of the situation so awesomely, I agree to pay extra for express shipping, thrilled that in 2 days I will receive a brand-new, fully-functioning replacement phone.

Cut to 4 days later: Friday, today. Have not received my phone, have not received any updates. Start to worry that maybe I was not so triumphant or awesome after all. Call Cingular Wireless, give them my confirmation number... and I am told that the order was CANCELLED the day after I made it, because phones that have been owned for less than a month cannot be exchanged. Blood begins pounding in my head as I explain... as... calmly... as... possible... that I have owned my current phone for over a year. The operator checks his records and then sees "someone" made a mistake and cancelled the order because they thought I purchased my phone in April 2006, not 2005. They apologize for the confusion, and assure me that the phone will be sent as speedily as possible -- but I am aware that I will be charged $115 because the warranty expired, right?

Memo to corporate executives of Cingular Wireless: may you and all your kind burn in a hell run by your very own "customer service" operators. I cannot possibly express how much pain and sorrow I wish upon your heads right now -- simply know that I am usually not a violent person, but right now I would gleefully sodomize each and every one of you with samples from your line of cellular products, your screams for mercy sweet ringtones to my ears. Until I leave the country, sleep with both eyes open, you miserable bastards.

On Free Speech and My Blog.

Unlike some people, such as my more controversially-inclined comrade White Dade, I do reserve the right to delete comments from my blog. I have no problem with allowing comments to be posted that are critical of me or my opinions, or express thoughts that I personally disagree with, but there is a line. Anything I find overtly racist, sexist, or generally hate-mongering will be allowed no commenting space. Who determines what is offensive and what is not? Why, me, of course. To those who ask, "Isn't that subjective reasoning, and a conflict of interests," I reply, "Yes, and get over it." This blog is a Dabblocracy, Dear Readers, which I rule with a benevolent-yet-iron fist.

Please pardon my outburst, but I hate trolls.

The Mark of Irony.

How cool is this?! I knew those French were good for something! Do you know how much easier my life would be if I could include this symbol in everyday conversation? Hell, think of how much easier everyone's life would be... you could write things like "I think President Bush is doing a great job؟", and no one would misunderstand (or misunderestimate) you. Sure, most of the fun in using irony is in its subtlety (broadcasting the fact that you're being facetious kind of weakens your point's impact), but think of what a boon this would be to stupid people everywhere, who just cannot comprehend irony - or its lovely stepsister, sarcasm - no matter how hard they try. We should demand that this symbol be integrated into popular use, for the good of the whole. The language barrier would finally be breached! Come on! Who's with me?!

-Dabbler

P.S. Am I the only one excited here?

P.P.S. I am not a French-hater. They have contributed many other wonderful things to the world: baguettes, champagne, pasteurization and rabies vaccinations (both inventions of Louis Pasteur), the literary works of Alexandre Dumas, mimes, the guillotine, and those funny little hats.

Update:
Apparently I am not the first to reclaim this wonderful innovation. Kevin Larson beat me to it by 3 entire months. I think I'll blame the French for this...

MYspace. Not YourSpace.

Dear Girl-I-Dated-for-Several-Weeks-but-Have-Not-Heard-from-in- the-Few-Months-Since-You-Stomped-on-My-Dignity-with-Your-Uggs: if you want to try to be friends now, I would prefer it if you returned my last phone call, instead of contacting me on MySpace with a request to add you to my friends list. Please keep in mind that I haven't heard from you since the beginning of January, when I left you a phone message asking if you were okay, because I knew that you had left work not feeling well; I never got an answer. I tried to be friends, I made the effort, and you shot it down by playing the silence card. And now, this is how you get back in touch with me. How quaint. Understand this: I don't add strangers to my friends list; why would I add someone with whom I actually have a reason to be angry? I am sorely tempted to not even give you the courtesy of denying the add request, and just let it hang unanswered. I would call you to explain all this, about how you hurt and embarrassed me, and why I think your request is inappropriate -- but I deleted your number from my phone a while ago.

The Glamorous Life of (Waiting on) the Stars.

I received the following question today from an anonymous commentator:

"Do you think being an assistant at an agency can eventually get you a position as a personal assistant to an A or B list actor? Bc that's what I want to do, and u didn't mention that in ur list (agent, producer, executive, director, etc.)"

Well, Anonymous, I do not pretend to be an expert in these matters, but here is my opinion after over a year of toiling away in Hollywood: yes, working as an assistant at an agency can eventually land you a job as a personal assistant to an A- or B-List actor. The way this usually happens is an assistant working for a big agent forms a bond with his/her boss' clients, and they may either try to recruit him/her ("What are you doing working there? You should be with me!"), or the assistant might ask the agent to recommend him/her if a client is looking for a new assistant. A friend of mine did just that several months ago, after having given his agent boss a year of good work, and is now the assistant to the writers behind one of the biggest movies coming out this summer. (A third possible route is when the assistant stupidly decides to solicit clients without first asking the agent's permission, creating an unnecessary enemy of the jilted boss.)

Be warned, however: there isn't always much opportunity for growth in a personal assistant job. Such a position rarely develops into a producing or directing deal (although there are exceptions to the rule), and an actor boss will almost certainly feel threatened by an assistant who also wants to act. If I may be so bold, I would recommend that you pick up a copy of the book, It's All Your Fault : How To Make It As A Hollywood Assistant, which gives a detailed breakdown of how to get and what to expect from pretty much any assistant job in Hollywood. Another veritable fountain of useful information is Assistant/Atlas, the patron blogging saint of Hollywood assistants, who was able to escape his indentured servitude at an agency and find employment as a writer for television.

And now, that's quite enough of me playing the wizened Hollywood sage. Please stay tuned for more posts of the dabbling persuasion! Some Bat Time, Same Bat Blog.

Update:
I should add that when interviewing for an assistant position, it would be best not to mention the fact that you plan on using the job as a springboard to another. No prospective employer likes to hear that.

Dabbler ♥'s His Job. (Kinda.)

My recent attempt at songwriting seems to have struck a chord, so to speak, with my audience; suddenly I am receiving all kinds of attention and comments, ranging from a pastry chef in Wisconsin, to a creatively weary New Yorker, to the mighty Assistant/Atlas of Hollywood. I am simultaneously thrilled and apprehensive about the response; I knew that poking fun at my job, even in a joking way, had its risks… After I posted The Agency Blues I showed it to a fellow assistant at the agency, a man whose opinion I trust, and watched him blanch as he read it. After he was done, he gave me a look and said tactfully, “It’s a little… angry, isn’t it?” Uh-oh. There is now the remote possibility that my sudden blip of blogging fame may have some previously unforeseen consequences, should word continue to spread (i.e., me getting fired from the agency before I can quit).

In light of this new development, I have decided to take the time to point out some of the positive aspects of working in an agency, in order to mollify any injured fellow assistants and encourage future sharks in suits to take the plunge, as well as to unabashedly cover my ass. And yes, there are positive aspects.

Benefits of being a talent agency assistant include: it is The perfect entry-level job to transition to anywhere else in the entertainment industry; having the opportunity to mix with famous people on an almost daily basis (by "mix with" I of course mean "fetch their low-fat, no-sugar, iced mocha latte"); receiving advance notice on the best new movies and shows coming out; and, perhaps most importantly, attractive actresses are more likely to sleep with you. Out of all of these, the first on the list is - in my opinion - the biggest reason why anyone headed to Hollywood should strongly consider applying to become an assistant at an agency. Whether you want to eventually become an agent, producer, executive, director, or writer, the job experience is invaluable, as working for Hollywood’s middlemen exposes you to a generous portion of the inner workings and important names of the business. Finally, for all the crap agents get in this town (and on this blog), if you get yourself a good one, one who really believes in his/her clients and will fight to get them what they deserve, you've got the best ally you could ever possibly have... doing all kinds of things for you that you'd really rather not know about.

Now, all that being said, I do not wish to retract anything I wrote in The Agency Blues. I got the blues, and I got them bad. It is time for me to take a breather from Hollywood, to rejuvenate my creative drive and ambitions, and gain some more experience out there in the “real” world. I'm tired of dabbling here -- when I come back I want a definite idea of what I want to be and how I'm going to do it. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll come back wanting to be an agent. Doubtful... but possible.

So, Dear Readers, please read on... your humble Dabbler is not yet done with the land of sun, stars, and sin. And Dear Boss (and Boss’ Boss), please don’t fire me.

Hollywood Is the New Olympus.

It's 3:30am and I can't sleep, so I will take a moment to reflect on a conversation I had with a good friend earlier this evening. We got to talking about a certain, now-infamous, couch-jumping movie god, and how his very public antics over the past year have forced us to look at him in a whole new light. My friend asked what had happened to the man, and I replied that he had probably always been that way but until now had stayed more private about his life. Then we considered other celebrities out there who, in the last several months, have seemingly thrown open the doors to their closets and let the skeletons come sashaying out; from the ones who have embraced extreme religion, to the ones who have made reality shows chronicling their day-to-day bizarreness, a trend seems to be forming. Instead of the old days in Hollywood, where stars would do anything but murder their mothers* in order to convince you they were 100% healthy/normal/perfect, today's crop of celebs appear determined to show you just how, er, unique they can get.

The thing is, they probably all were already crazy to begin with. It's not like some switch suddenly flipped in their heads... they have been hiding their inner freak and have only just now decided to invite the rest of us along for the ride. There probably comes a point in an A-List actor's career where they figure, "Screw it: I'm rich enough and successful enough to stop caring what people think of me!" And then they break out the floral tutu they've been hiding in the mothballs. In a way, you've got to admire it -- they have transcended the human condition of social anxiety. They are going to let all their eccentric habits and fixations hang out there in the open, for all of us to see, because they can afford to longer be embarrassed or scared. Ah yes, the American Dream.

When you think about it, celebrities are, in a way, like the new Greek pantheon; they're all partying it up in their bungalows and mansions on their Mount Olympus, while we mortals watch them enviously, worshipping them yet secretly relishing it when they fall. I mean, the Greek gods really only were a bunch of beautiful, powerful people prone to extreme fits of jealousy and rage. And the whole immortality twist? Our Mount Hollywood group has the next best things: botox and collagen.

Back to the conversation with my friend... eventually, I asked him, "So if you got to that point where you were famous and rich enough to let your craziness out of the closet, what would you do?" He responded immediately that he would stop wearing pants. He would go out in public wearing nice button-down shirts with stylish footwear and the works -- but no pants, no boxers, no briefs. He said he would also hit the talk-show circuit to aggressively push his theories on the dangers of wearing pants. I kid you not. I really do have the most interesting friends.

And you, Dear Reader, what would you do? What sick, harmless, hilarious little obsession would you let loose, once you had finally bought everything you could possibly want and earned the love and adoration of the little people? I bet you money that mine's better...

*Update:
I should add that some stars of the past did do anything up to and including murdering family members in order to maintain their wholesome public image. My apologies for giving any impressions to the contrary.

The Agency Blues

I may regret this particular post, but I've spent too much time on it to scrap it now. It's a little song I've been working on, a glimpse of that glamorous Hollywood life, à la Swimming with Sharks. Granted, I'm no lyricist, but bear with me. Oh, and to any of my agency friends who may be reading this: I kid, I kid.

THE AGENCY BLUES

Well I woke up this mornin',
Hit my clock's snooze.
Already feel them:
The Agency Blues.

Eat some cold breakfast,
Tighten my tie,
Who's that square in the mirror?
I try not to cry.

CHORUS:
How long must I labor here,
Payin' my show bizness dues?
My life's in development hell,
Case of the Agency Blues.

Pick up the trades
When I get into work.
Don't even read them,
'Cause they're boring as dirt.

I help to make deals,
For shows I don't see,
Repping the people
I once wanted to be.

CHORUS

A night out with friends
Sure would be sweet,
But I left work at 10
And God, am I beat.

I try to stay cheerful
'Cause whining's for wimps,
But the people I work with
Are glorified pimps.

CHORUS

A man's got to work,
Success is the goal,
But piece by small piece
I'm selling my soul.

Someday I'll make it,
Escape from this grind,
Get discovered or maybe
Just go out of my mind.

Wonder... how much longer,
How much pride can I lose?
My friends, they're calling me sell-out,
My parents are starting to have their doubts,
And I'm just trying to shut them out:

Those straight to video,
Unscripted gameshow,
Hacktastic, gimmicky
Ta-lent A-gen-cy Blu-ues.

Happy Friday, everyone! Great weekends to all... as they say in this town: Love you, mean it, lunch.

Zen and the Art of Milkshake Madness.

Yesterday at work, I could not get those damnable lyrics to the Kelis song "Milkshake" out of my head:

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,
And they're like,
It’s better than yours,
Damn right its better than yours.
I can teach you,
But I have to charge.

Reasoning that if I was going to have to suffer like this then I wanted some company, I spent a good part of the afternoon IM'ing these same lyrics to other assistants throughout the agency, hoping the song would dig itself as deep into their brains as it had mine. And wouldn’t you know it? It worked. At one point, I had half the assistants on just my hallway alone, muttering angrily (yet softly) to themselves, "La la-la la la,” as they rolled calls, filed paperwork, and tried desperately not to let their agent bosses catch them chanting that irresistible mantra-from-hell. I just grinned the sweet grin of self-satisfaction and went back to my work.

I just may be starting to snap. Or, perhaps I have passed beyond the mental boundary of merely not caring anymore, and reached another state of consciousness. Oh, I'm still laboring away dutifully, but there is now a sense of giddiness - almost glee - behind my actions. This is a whole new level of apathy… but here's the irony: now that I am no longer feverishly invested in my work, I'm doing it better than I ever have before. My confidence and performance levels are up absurdly high, and I'm multi-tasking like a fiend. Others are noticing this change within me, and assume that it's merely excitement at my impending departure. This may be a factor, but it can’t be the only one; I’ve left jobs before (oh, so many), and while I may have been euphoric shortly before leaving, I've never been uber-productive.

Hell, when I’m done with the Peace Corps, I might come back to this agency and apply for another assistant position... Someone needs to keep things lively in the halls with a healthy combination of inner peace and insolence.

Clarification: Business vs. Pleasure.

Some of my friends are finally starting to pay attention to the fact that in very short order I will no longer be in this country (USA), or even on this continent (North America). As they ponder this, they are also beginning to pore over some of the finer details of my situation.

Yes, I am working in a program titled "Girls' Education and Empowerment," and yet I, your humble Dabbler, am not (nor have I ever been) a woman, so my assignment is a little ironic in that respect. To my credit, I did actually bring up this concern to my placement officers when I accepted the invitation, something along the lines of: "You do realize I'm a guy, right?" They do.

Additionally, a number of my college friends are getting a real kick out of my assignment location, because in the past I have dated several women of color, and I myself am (very) white. *Gasp* So, now I am going to join the Peace Corps to work with young, underprivileged, African women for 2 years. Yeah, laugh it up, you freakin' comedians. Suspicious coincidences notwithstanding, I swear to you, Gentle Reader, that I am going to be good. Or at least try really hard. I am not going overseas in order to get laid; I am going to learn, and to take some pride for once in the work that I am doing. If I wanted to get laid, I could just walk the few blocks up to Sunset Boulevard from my apartment any time of night, wave a few 20s, and find out if awkward British movie stars really do have all the fun.

The Definition of "Civil War."

Officials in the Bush Administration are fond of using the same argument tactics popular in preschool playgrounds everywhere: if someone says something you don't like, you immediately counter it with the answer "NO," with no need for piddling details (such as logic or evidence) to back up your point. They might as well start adding insults to their arguments, along the lines of "poopy-mouth" and "stupid-head." The President, Vice President, and Secretary of Defense all insist, in spite of three years of a bloody stalemate with an insurgency that shows no signs of giving up, that the nation of Iraq is not currently in the throes of civil war. In fact, they claim, the country is making great strides towards democracy and stability. This naturally begs the question, for all those not thoroughly familiar with the term: what exactly is the definition of "civil war?"

The most commonly accepted definition appears to be fairly broad, according to Princeton University's WordNet ("a war between factions in the same country") or Merriam-Webster Dictionary Online ("a war between opposing groups of citizens of the same country"). However, to really give this issue a thorough assessment, I will turn to a much more detailed and particular definition of "civil war," as supplied by the acclaimed news site, GlobalSecurity.org:

"A war between factions of the same country; there are five criteria for international recognition of this status: the contestants must control territory, have a functioning government, enjoy some foreign recognition, have identifiable regular armed forces, and engage in major military operations."

Now let's go down the checklist for criteria, shall we? The contestant currently known as "the insurgency" does indeed control territory, as multiple areas in Iraq are cited as being militant strongholds. I dare say the insurgency also enjoys a great deal of foreign recognition, not the least from our own President, who references the group in nearly every speech he makes. As far as engaging in major military operations... well, that all depends on what you define "major" to be. Do daily bombings and ambushes (not to mention regular discovery of mass executions) count? The last two requirements for certified civil war status - possession of a functioning government and identifiable regular armed forces - are where we get a little hung up. To my knowledge (although the CIA or NSA may dispute me on this one), we have no idea if or how the insurgency is organized; it could be made up of independent groups all working separately towards a shared goal, or it could be an elaborate organization with an intricate chain of command. Furthermore, the difficulty our troops regularly experience in distinguishing enemy combatants from civilians is perhaps the chief reason why we are having difficulty overcoming the insurgency. Still, I would argue that the "legitimate" Iraqi government is itself hardly a functioning one, and the insurgency's forces' resistance to formal identification is perhaps the largest contributing reason to their continued existence and effectiveness. Thus, I am inclined to cast my vote in giving the conflict in Iraq the official title of civil war. Knowing our President, however, I am sure he would rush to point out that because two out of the five requisite distinctions for bestowing this label are not present, then it cannot be termed as such.

The Bush Administration is indeed waging a successful war: one of semantics and euphemisms.

Bottom line: no matter which end of the political spectrum you subscribe to, you really must admit that our country is currently being run by jackasses.

Casualties of Coffee.

Coffee: 1
Dabbler: 0

It has happened again: I am seated at my desk at work, trying hard to clean the stains on my tie, and my left hand is sporting yet another burn mark.

I have this "thing," wherein when I carry hot beverages, I must spill them. Usually on myself. I am not joking, and I am not exaggerating: literally every time I go out to buy coffee, at least some of it ends up out of the cup and on my shoes. This is not a compulsion -- it is not as though I feel some sort of need to bathe my hands in searing hot coffee; nor do I believe I have a subconscious desire to punish or hurt myself (well, at least not with coffee). It is simply one of those laws of nature, much like the famous Murphy's Law: "If Dabbler is holding a cup of some hot liquid - be it coffee, tea, or chicken noodle soup - then he must spill a portion of said liquid, preferably upon his own person." And it really is only with hot stuff. Cold drinks? No problem... I can carry several at a time, with no fear of dropping or spillage (unless they're alcoholic, and I've had a few).

And yet, I love my morning coffee. I love it so much, in fact, that I am willing to suffer this masochistic ritual on a daily basis. It is as though God is telling me: "You can have your coffee... but you must pay for it in blood."

Sign of the Times.

Query: if Imette St. Guillen, the New York City grad student whose recent murder has created a shockwave of media coverage, had been less attractive, would the crime have been less horrendous? Every time her story comes up in the televised news, the reporters repeatedly emphasize how beautiful she was, immediately following up with how horrific her slaying was. Is the message they are trying to convey that ugly people do not have as much a right to live? Or is it just not as tragic when they die?

Please do not mistake my sarcasm for lack of sympathy for Imette, or for her poor family. I am honestly appalled, not only by how her life was ended, but also simply that it was. The fact that she had just finished studying to pursue a career in criminal justice just makes the whole affair more heartbreaking. However, I am also disturbed by the media frenzy that has resulted from her murder, and the obvious relish some of these news anchors appear to take in the gory details of the affair. Yes, people, I know that a combined package of sex and death sells, but can you at least pretend that you are not enjoying it so much?

The Sweet Link of Success.

Ladies, gentlemen, and the guy who mistakenly opened this webpage thinking it was a porn site: I have received a link from a genuine blogebrity! Larry, the brains behind This Is What We Do Now, has heard my plaintive electronic cry for love and acceptance, and has generously offered to link to this here weblog. I am flattered, honored, overcome, and ecstatic (and pretty happy, too), and so I thought I would publicly acknowledge his gesture. Oh, and you should probably check out his blog... love him or hate him, the man always gets an extreme reaction from his audience, and he's a damn good writer. That being said, you really should check out all of the pages I have linked to, because I am a truly discerning (i.e., stuck-up) reader, and these guys and gals all have interesting and/or hilarious things to say.

Okay, enough with the blogger love. I need to get back to work. By "work," of course, I mean "surfing the gossip sites to find out if it was Jessica Simpson who did that thing with this guy in the bathroom stall of that club, or if it was really Paris Hilton with that other guy... all the while simultaneously juggling phone calls and typing up actually relevant documents for my boss." You know that point you get to at a job where you begin to resent being asked to perform the tasks you were allegedly hired to do? Yeah, me neither.

A City Scorned.

Like any angry girlfriend who makes known her displeasure at the end of a relationship, Los Angeles has just thrown her equivalent of a frying pan at me in our domestic dispute. Over this past weekend (i.e., the past 48 hours), I have been involved in 2 vehicular accidents, both coincidentally on my way to breakfast. This is what I get for waking up early and trying to be productive on a weekend. Needless to say, I was especially wary this morning as I walked to Coffee Bean from the office to pick up a bite to eat; I find that things tend to happen in 3's, and the cosmic irony of me getting hit by a car - while perhaps hilarious - is rather low on my "Things to Do Before I leave Hollywood" List.

Oh, LA... can we not progress to the next stage of breaking up, that of denial and one last romp in the hay "for old time's sake?" Know this: although I may be moving on to see other cities, you will always have a special place in my heart. We've had our fun, haven't we? Remember the time I sneaked up to the Hollywood Sign, and then the LAPD chased me in a helicopter; or my birthday party last year where I made a drunken fool of myself on the roof of the Formosa Cafe in front of all of my coworkers, and then proceeded to cheerfully tear apart that local burger joint; or when I decided it would be fun and not at all potentially disastrous or awkward to date a fellow assistant at my agency? Yes, we will always have the memories... and unfortunately, the pictures to prove it, too. But this is something I have to do by myself now. As much as it hurts me to hurt you, I have to be selfish and see if there's someone else out there who fits me better.

And hey, we can always still be friends, right?

"Oh Africa, Brave Africa."

"It was... a laugh riot." -Patrick Bateman, American Psycho

It is official: I am going to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. Last week I received and accepted an invitation to serve in a small, land-locked country in West Africa, to work in their relatively new Girls' Education and Empowerment program. In essence, my job will be to assist in improving the literacy rate of women in the area, by working with schools and community groups to improve access to, and the quality of, education for girls. My secondary objective will be to serve as an AIDS awareness educator, something that apparently all Peace Corps Volunteers in Africa take on as a responsibility. Needless to say, I will be receiving a few months of on-site training before I am released into the figurative wild to go forth and do good.

Right now I am simultaneously excited and terrified. My family has been very supportive, as have the few friends who know thus far. Even The Guy Snoring Above Me is excited for me (he has been extra loud as of late to show his enthusiasm). Now that it's officially official that I'm going (officially), I feel very adrift -- the fact that in several weeks I will be leaving this country for 2 years does not seem real at all, even though I have given notice at work and am making preparations to pack my apartment and sell all my furniture. Speaking of which, anyone want to buy a bed? Some chairs? No? It's all quality Ikea... nothing but the best!