The Chronicles Of Jessica

I had to take down my last entry about the untimely end of my most recent job, because I was working real hard at trying to find ANOTHER job, and I realized that if anyone did an internet search on me, that would be the first thing to pop up. I haven't yet figured out how to make myself sound appealing to potential employers and tell the truth at the same time. But I can't really feel too bad; if it's a problem for me imagine what Robert Blake must be going through. The "Beretta" reunion show must just seem to him like a shining unreachable star.

I've found myself watching a lot of trash t.v. lately, on account of my new roomate Mel. She loves the stuff. Actually I suspect that she just really enjoys the boob tube no matter what's on but I've failed to test this theory since I realized recently that our precious pirated cable doesn't include C-Span or the country music network. Anyway, last night I got sucked into "America's Top Model." It made me want to throw anthrax at all the participants, it was so awful.

Basically, each of the prospective models (or 'head cases') has to compete in a challenge every week in order to progress to the next level of the contest. This week they each had to do a photo shoot with Janice Dickinson, who is apparently a former model who now earns her living as a photographer. (I guess being a sniping Botox harpy in lip gloss is just a hobby for Jan.)

Janice oozed around for the entire show, alternately yelling at and making faux homoerotic advances towards the contestants. Why no one took it upon themselves to punch her lights out, I really cannot say. But Janice would have been equally within her rights to want to maim one of them, because they were the biggest group of insufferable stuck-up hoors that I've ever seen in one place. They whined, they complained, they wept openly. They criticized one another's ass fat, they crowed over non-existent wrinkles. They were ridiculously unlikeable; the only one I could remotely even stand was the plus-sized girl, and it was probably only because she didn't seem to speak much english. And of course the plus-size girl got kicked off in the end. Please, don't let me get me started on the fallacy of the plus-sized modelling phenomenon. Serenity now!

I mean really, is it just me or is television unbearably horrible? It makes me want to drink Pledge or something. I know I'm risking sounding like a sad old lady, longing for the good old days, but I remember when there was all kinds of good stuff on to watch on tv. And if they didn't have anything at least halfway decent to put on, the network would just throw up that funny screen with the vertical colored bars on it and call it a night. I don't know, I always looked to those colored bars as a sort of personal instruction. If I couldn't sleep in the middle of the night and there wasn't anything on to watch, well I'd know that was God's way of saying read a book.

Sigh. Everything changes. It can really get to you. They're (and by "they" I mean The Man) are always trying to improve on stuff that really just did not need fixing. What's with all the fake fruit in cereal, for example? Special K with real strawberries! Um, I think not. (Real strawberries come off of a vine and stain your white linen dress after you accidentally ingest too much champagne while you're trying to eat sexily in front of your hot cousin at the family wedding buffet table. Ask me how I know.)If you want fruit, can't you just cut it up onto the cereal like a normal person? We're so strapped for time we can't manage that amount of effort? Eventually they'll probably give us a little plastic wrapped 'fruit patch', we'll just adhere it to one butt cheek and that will be the end of it. All your essential vitamins and minerals for the day.

I went along with popcorn from the microwave and I gave in to compact disc technology, but things are getting out of hand. I do long for the good old days.

I like that old time rock and roll.

I need to regroup. If anyone knows where I can get a sweet deal on some Happy Days dvds, give me a shout.

I haven't felt the ping of inspiration to write much of anything lately. Don't know why, but there just hasn't seemed to be a wealth of topics on which to turn my keenly observant eye. I blame it partly on the weather, and that fact that I'm always drunk.

It really does just seem to be raining all the time now in New York and I have to say that I strenuously object. I know that no one really prefers rainy weather, but I have to take particular exception on behalf of New Yorkers - it really is so much more of a pain in the ass here than most places. You constantly have to do this umbrella-pedestrian cirque de soleil type maneuvering all the time to keep from putting out someone's eye, all the time trying to protect your own head from getting punctured by someone else's wayward rain gear. And it only needs to rain for about fifteen minutes to back up all the gutters on the island so you're always having to gauge the depth and width of these massive lakes on every curb you come across. Generally the wind is also blowing so hard that it flips your umbrella inside out at least a couple of times a day so that you wind up wrestling with it and cursing at it and ultimately tossing it into the closest garbage can, until you realize a block or two later that any protection is better than nothing, at which point you have to slink back to the garbage can and fish the thing out and in the meantime you've gotten soaked and your umbrella has gotten something all over it which looks like pesto but probably isn't.

A lot of women here have taken to buying these really brightly colored rainboots with stripes and hearts and flowers and yodas and stuff like that all over them. It's definitely a good solution to ruining your regular shoes, but...nah. I tried a pair on once and I looked like Dakota Fanning's troglodytic older stepsister. This isn't a good look for a grown woman, let's face it.

And here's something else I've been thinking about lately - what's with all the freakish spitting? Everywhere I go, men are expactorating onto the nearest available horizontal surface; the sidewalk, the street, the freakin' subway tracks. The subway tracks! EWWW! I mean spitting in general, ew, but the subway tracks, that is some serious repugnance. And they never look embarassed, even when I shoot them this look that says, "You and your spittle disgust me." Nothing from them, not the merest hint of sheepishness. If I got caught hocking a loogey (which is an enormous 'if') you can bet I'd have the manners to look like I felt bad about it.

Yeah, that's right. I was raised classy.

Good news on the career front: I'll be doing another stint at Shenandoah Shaksepeare (now the American Shakespeare Center - insert awe here) starting in Januray. First off is a VERY funny play with a VERY funny guy, Paul Fidalgo. I.LOVE.PAUL.FIDALGO. He is brilliant and funny and amazingly talented and kind of easy on the eyes. I mean I don't want to do it with him or anything but I'm very excited to be working with him.

(Paul, did that joke cross the line? I don't need to get beat up by any women who have laid claim to you, especially since the only one I know of has at least eight inches on me. And fights with swords. Please advise.)

I think you can visit his website through my links page...anyway the show is GREATER TUNA and we are the only two people in it. Sort of a star vehicle, if you will. We each play like eight or nine people. After that is another Actor's Renaissance Season! Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the theatre! ROMEO AND JULIET, TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE and two other plays you haven't heard of. Good times. And my Christopher will be there for part of the time, which is happiness pie for me. Not to mention I get hang time with my Ma and Chaz, two thumbs up.

Before that, in December, I'm doing an original Christmas show with the VERY funny Joe Wack (no more sex jokes, he's married) and I'll have a link or something up for that soon...if I can figure out how....damn my useless liberal arts education!