Today my amazing story editor leaves the sweltering West Coast to join the ranks of the abs&boobs wakeboarding show. When called upon for words of advice, I had a few. Take one apple cider vinegar pill each day to stave off the mosquitoes. Drive to Gimli now and then for pickerel burgers. And prepare yourself for working with the Three Bears. One producer's too hot. One's too cold. And one's just right.
Waiting on my hands for word on work and whether last year's juggle will be replaced with another. Inevitably, the discussion of television comes up: what we watch, what we like (these things aren't mutually exclusive). And while I know there are people out there who eat up Desperate Housewives and House and Gilmore Girls, time and time again I find myself with scribes of a feather. Twin Peaks. The Singing Detective. Freaks & Geeks. Lost. Deadwood. Buffy. Six Feet Under (narm!). Anything that Ricky Gervais has so much as glanced at. Spaced. Rescue Me. And, just so we're all on the real same page: Battlestar Galactica.
Touchstones are important. Not only to know that you're with likeminded people, but that you're headed in a likeminded direction. Take that show from last summer. We all watched or liked the same shows, but had such different touchstones that the thing ended up being a mishmash. The producers wanted to make 90210. The head writer seemed to be going for something more like Dawson's Creek. I wanted Veronica Mars. Another writer wanted to make it like Buffy. The consultant wanted to collect a paycheque. The actors wanted it to be like The O.C. And the directors? I think they had The Beachcombers in mind. All sort of similar in tone, right, but totally different in terms of stakes. The worst that'll happen on 90210? Brenda has a hissy fit and Dylan sulks. On The O.C.? The skeletal chick who went sapphic throws a hissy fit and Chino sulks then picks a fight with someone twice his size. (I gave up midway through second season). On Buffy? Kidnapping, slice'n'dicing, hijinx. We have stakes! On Veronica Mars? Well, her best friend wound up dead. Dead!!! Stakes!!!
Coulda woulda shoulda. So, yeah, I ended up collected the paycheques too. And now that I'm bound to a mortgage and need more furniture, I'm not complaining in the slightest. This is the first week I've had off, truly off, for about two years. Last night, the young hot lad and I went to Crescent Beach. If his every move is learned, as he claims, from the writing staff of a certain show about four women that's really about gay men, then last night's episode was the one wherein Miranda gets with the king of PDAs. So if I didn't know for certain that his parents live in Winnipeg, it wouldn't have been unrealistic to have expected to see them strolling along the beach at about midnight last night as clothes were tossed assunder. Er, um, asunder.
