Don't Get Me Started
 - by Bonnie Gillespie
Extra Padding

ExtraPadding.com

September 26, 2002 - There's Got To Be a Way To Make Money off of This
August 22, 2002 - Rubber Necking
July 25, 2002 - Enders
June 27, 2002 - The Eighth Deadly Sin
May 23, 2002 - That Which Does Not Kill You...
April 25, 2002 - Engaged to Dread
March 22, 2002 - I'm a Prick
February 15, 2002 - Postage Due
January 31, 2002 - Resolute
November 22, 2001 - Gobble Gobble
November 8, 2001 - My New Favorite TV Show
October 25, 2001 - Guest Advertisements for TheNews?
October 18, 2001 - October
October 4, 2001 - A Break from the Ordinary
September 20, 2001 - My Favorite Sport
September 6, 2001 - Guest Additions to EntertainmentNews?
August 30, 2001 - Tune In, Drink Up?
August 16, 2001 - Can an Insomniac Still Dream?
August 2, 2001 - My Favorite Tool
July 19, 2001 - Call Me!
July 5, 2001 - Top 17.4 Ways to Piss Me Off
June 7, 2001 - Stuff You Can't Get in LA
May 24, 2001 - When Did I Get So Old?
May 10, 2001 - The Pop Culture Challenge
April 26, 2001 - Boys Are Dorks
April 12, 2001 - MOH, I Didn't Even Know You Were an Acronym
March 29, 2001 - Oscar Wrapola, Baby
March 22, 2001 - Oscar Picks
March 8, 2001 - I Could Never Leave the House
February 22, 2001 - Choosing My Religion
February 8, 2001 - Long Hair for Life?
January 25, 2001 - Earning a Living
January 11, 2001 - Delta's Dirty Secrets

Here's Joni's 2000 Oscar Wrap, which helped land her the Entertainment News? job at ExtraPadding.com.

My friend has cancer.

As I write this, I am seated next to her. Between us is a hanging rack of various drugs, all dripping into her body through a PICC line.

During the second of three drugs administered via IV push, she sucked on a Popsicle. The cold is supposed to keep her mouth from developing sores.

Her wig is on crooked, but it's kind of cute that way. She has the cutest wig of everyone in the chemo facility: lovely blonde streaks through a dark brown mass of hair thicker than hers ever was. She was more stressed about losing her hair than she had been about losing her breasts, but she's into being bald now. She's whipped off her wig in public a few times now, and it's always in an inspired show of solidarity for someone else on this journey.

By her 35th birthday, she'll be through with this mess. That will be a huge celebration. But my friend celebrates every day. Even when she's tossing her cookies, she's laughing about it. Even when she can't see straight, she's joking about her hallucinations. She has faced death several times over and still finds joy in her life.

I had to give her an injection the other day. You go through so much with your friends and you never imagine that you will be inserting a needle into a tummy... but then the need is there and you do it. Period.

My friend has cancer - but in a few months, she will have a body in which no cancer cells can survive. And then, if she's lucky, she'll be clean for another ten years. Maybe.

There are no guarantees - but we all know that. So, with each mechanically-measured drip from the Omni-Flow 4000 Plus, another prayer goes forth: that my friend is not just surviving cancer, but kicking its ass.

Being engaged is pretty fantastic. I highly recommend it. I have been engaged for five months now and have another five months of being engaged to go.

The first hour and a half of being engaged, I was speechless. Yes - me: speechless.

Something I never anticipated about being engaged was the permission complete strangers feel they have to ask about the wedding just because they recognize a piece of jewelry as a representation of engagement. Even stranger is my willingness to share intimate details about my wedding plans with anyone who asks.

The plans themselves are pretty sparse, actually. I'm pretty anti-wedding. I just attended a $35,000 170-guest affair and the bulldog of a wedding planner alone has turned my stomach. I'm hoping to do our wedding at about one-tenth the scale, all the way around.

One of the biggest issues, currently is the family. Mine is fractured and dysfunctional, as most families are. My fiancé's is no better. One major difference is that his family is happy to stay out - way out - of our lives. Mine is not. Of course, I'm too politely southern and female to tell my folks where to stick their overblown fantasies of how my wedding should be. Don't let anyone fool you: being a Southern Belle in 2002 sucks.

That's not entirely true, but it is true enough, where wedding days are concerned.

Currently, I'm considering elopement. Now, if I can only convince my fiancé that it's a great idea!

'Til then, I'm going to milk this heavy ring finger. "Yes. Someone wants me. Someone wants the whole world to see that I am his and no one else's." Never
mind the stress that the WEDDING has already caused... being ENGAGED rocks.

Recently, I began engaging in a practice that makes me almost entirely "Hollywood."

Acupuncture.

I took my friend to her appointment and decided to ask whether these folks could ease my headaches with some ancient needology. Sure enough, they can!

Sign me up!

So, now twice a week, I lie on a table wearing nothing but a blue paper ass-exposing robe thing while three Asians put needles into my head, neck, arms, stomach, legs, and feet. Then, they connect the needles to some sort of electromagnetic generator (SO not an ancient eastern medicine technique) and turn out the lights. Within a few moments, I am filled with sharp pulses of energy. A woman has entered the room to put a heat lamp near my skin and burn marijuana-scented sage over my toes. And so my treatment begins.

I know I'm supposed to be at peace. I know I am supposed to breathe deeply and fall into a meditative state. I am supposed to let the energy flow through me and feel stronger, renewed.

Here's what I'm doing instead: envisioning experiencing an earthquake during a treatment. I imagine the ten of us, each in private rooms, emerging to evacuate the building. We are mostly naked, filled with needles, and attached to battery chargers. Can you imagine the sight of the street below - filled with human pincushions?

When the clinicians come in to remove my needles, they always say, "Wow. You're not afraid of needles?" I guess this is an indication of the fact that I let the doctor put dozens of needles in at once, whereas many patients will only endure a few per treatment. As the clinicians remove needles one after the other, they marvel at my willingness to have so many needles inserted at once.

No. I'm not afraid of needles. The scariest part of acupuncture is the San Andreas Fault.

I'm going to start right off by saying that I have no idea whether these things exist in places other than LA and New York, but I'm writing about them anyway because they rock my frickin' world.

Postcard racks.

Have you seen these things? I remember the first one I spied. I was on vacation from UGA (combined with a radio conference for WUOG) in New York. This was August of 1996, just after the Olympic Games. I remember that because my hair was short and blonde, which was how I'd worn it for my job as Technology Coordinator at the Olympic Soccer Stadium. Not that this has anything to do with anything -- it's just how I remember when things happen.

I was eating with our music director at a cool dive in the Village with a sidewalk elevator/lift thingy outside the window. Dew Drop Inn was the place. On the wall between the restroom doors, there was this rack of postcards. Twenty different kinds of postcards and about 100 of each kind, in handy little slots.

I wondered if I could nab a few of these postcards and send them home to friends, bragging about stealing postcards during my first trip to New York in 20 years (and that previous trip was before I'd think about writing postcards home, I'm sure). Then I saw the statement, "Free Cards Brought to you by... blah blah blah." No idea what the "blah blah blah" was, now, because I was enchanted by the words Free Cards.

New York was my new favorite place to shop for stationery.

And then, one summer later, when I visited LA... holy shit... postcard racks. In every restaurant.

That may just be why I moved here. I can't recall.

See, postcards are cheap to mail. I think we're at 21 cents postage on a postcard these days, and that's about what I remember letters going for, back when I was a kid with pen pals all over the country (and Canada, eh, but those hosers required extra postage, so I didn't write to them as often). And I can just about say everything I'd need to say to catch someone up on my life in the space of a postcard.

Yeah, I know... hard to believe... but trust me, if I have more than a postcard's worth to say, I just scrawl my URL and make people drive up my hit counter.

I'm realizing that I write a lot about writing. How does that phrase go? "I write, therefore I... write?" Yeah, that seems about accurate.

Okay, where was I?

See, I have this whole OCD-organizational fetish thing going on. So, I can't just pick up postcards. I have to categorize them when I get home with them. Yes, it's true. I have an entire box filled with blank postcards, free from these racks, all in some sort of systematic filing strata, the evidence of years of accumulation.

I could write a postcard a day to every person in my address book for the rest of my life and never run out of postcards.

This can't be healthy.

Okay. I am the most thoughtful friend on the planet.

If your birthday is in January.

See, every year, I promise myself (since I don't make resolutions) that I will stay on top of my correspondence, beginning with remembering my friends' birthdays. So, if your birthday is in January and I know about it, you will receive a card from me.

Pretty sad that none of my other friends will ever know this side of me, as they may or may not receive acknowledgment of their birth.

I'm glad that, with email greeting cards, I can set up birthday cards to go out on a certain date. Maybe now, I can just try to visit the greetings sites at the beginning of each month or something, and get all of my cards done at once. Hmm, that's a good goal. Still, I know folks like receiving cards in the mail. I do.

I also drink more water in January. Another of those pledges to myself... a gallon a day! This year, I was in Utah for most of January. The Park City altitude really did a number on my body, so it's a dang good thing I was over-doing the water intake. I've been told that most of the water I drank left my body via my mouth as I breathed. Damn. All that work for nothing.

Now I'm back in LA and peeing a lot.

I suppose that can't be bad.

Oh! I've got it! I'll start bringing a stack of birthday cards and postage to the bathroom. That way, I can use the extra time on the can to keep up with those birthday cards all year 'round.

Better hope I have your email address!

Once upon a time, I was a vegetarian. I'm not sure why. Oh, wait, I remember. I'd had my wisdom teeth extracted and I ended up not eating for the entire summer I turned 15. I got blissfully anorexic. When I started eating again, I never added meat back in.

Well, not never. I think I went about three years without eating meat. I ate seafood, since that didn't walk around or get milked or anything, but I was a pretty dang good vegetarian, I think.

No one ever really noticed that I didn't eat turkey at Thanksgiving. I'd eat dressing and gravy, so why should anyone expect that I had a little wedge of white meat hidden under my cranberry sauce? I guess I wasn't a great vegetarian after all. There's turkey broth in the gravy, right?

Oh well.

My most traumatic Thanksgiving dinner took place in Calabassas, California, in 1993. I was away from home for the first Thanksgiving of my young life. My boss, a musical artist manager, fancied himself my LA-based father figure, and called my mother to tell her I'd be having a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at his home.

I asked if I could bring anything, as good southern girls do, and was told just to bring myself; his wife would have everything prepared. Truth be told, his wife was more of a supervisor in that kitchen; directing traffic made up of four non-English-speaking employees. I chose to hang out in the study with my boss, a record label exec, and Meat Loaf's business manager. I had more in common with them, somehow.

Dinner is served. Why are there raisins and walnuts in my cranberry sauce? How is oyster stuffing considered a complementary dressing for turkey? And where are the mashed potatoes? Where is the candied marshmallow glaze across the sweet potatoes? Where is all the beloved Thanksgiving starch? And why are we drinking wine? I'm expecting iced tea so sweet a spoon stands up in the glass.

I miss home.

Give me over-cooked green beans, five different casserole dishes, and cranberry sauce with rings on it, fresh from the can. Then, I'll be able to pass out after Thanksgiving dinner like every other loyal American former vegetarian: properly stuffed, in front of the television, hoping to be woken up for pecan pie, pumpkin pie, and banana pudding with Nilla Wafers.

Tiramisu is for communists.

I am not even going to begin to be disturbed by the fact that my columns make it seem as though I value TV above any human social interaction. That's not productive behavior (though it may be something worth being disturbed over... later).

A month ago, having given up on "Saturday Night Live" just after the "Weekend Update" segment, I flipped through my non-cable TV choices and came across a new show, syndicated, begging to be watched (by me, anyway), "Cheaters."

One segment and I was forever hooked. "Cheaters" has become my heroin. If you are in my house at 11:55pm Saturday, you will be prepped for the upcoming hour in a, "Get ready or leave now," speech of sorts. I am not interested in what you think about the show, nor what you think it says about me that I love this show. I just want you to hold all commentary until the commercial breaks. Of course, gasps and exclamations of, "Oh my gawd!" are expected and encouraged.

"Cheaters" encourages viewers to contact their office in Dallas. From Cheaters.com: "Thank you for considering "Cheaters'" licensed detectives to assist you with your matter. "Cheaters" wishes only the best outcome for you." This is what's so amazing about this show (and its propaganda): while viewers are watching unfaithful spouses with unknowing (or oblivious) boy toys or bimbos, producers are selling the premise as a service to the "Client" who has "hired" them (of course, there is no charge for the tailing, recording, and confronting of the "Suspect"... just the right to broadcast it).

"Exercise your right to know the truth," is the tagline to a commercial break. While host Tony Grand (a pseudonym), all tan and dressed in black like some reject from a Johnny Cash/George Hamilton Revue in Vegas, hugs a "Client," he shows her a video montage of her beloved engaging in non-monogamous behavior (my favorite clip included the hubby tossing a used condom from a car window after having gotten frisky with the couple's roommate... who is also the "Client's" sister). She falls into the host's arms, weeping uncontrollably.

What do you know? The "Suspect" and his mistress are together right now, engaging in vehicular sex, yet again (lots of sex-in-cars on this show, by the way). "Yes, Sarah, it's true. We have them under surveillance in a parking lot near his workplace. They are currently engaging in sexual activity... in your car." Sarah gasps as the camera closes in for a more dramatic shot. "Do you want to confront them now?" Suddenly, with the realization that the infidelity is in her Infinity, Sarah's tears dry up and she gets furious, wailing, "You bet your ass I do!"

And this is just in the first 15 minutes of this hour-long schlock-fest!! Oh, yes... we get two cases, plus follow-up interviews with "Suspects" from previous shows; a sort of "Where Are They Now" report on whether or not couples tried to work through the cheating issue.

Here's where it gets really good: every couple tries to work it out, gets into rehab, or comes back to speak to "Cheaters'" producers (on-camera, of course), meaning that the show has committed a public service.

This is considered healing Television. You've got it... all of that drama is just a set-up for the self-righteous, scared-straight line of BS that comes at the end of the show. We all leave the show filled with warm fuzzies and the satisfied glow of knowing that we can work through the trauma of our personal lives.

This is exactly what the world needs: hope that a little hidden-camera action and a production crew-slash-posse can heal the world... one couple at a time.

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I love October. I'm not sure why. I can't remember ever not liking October, so I'm guessing I was conceived in October and that's why I dig the month so much.

But there are other reasons too.

October is when it turns cold. Well, at least in places that have seasons. In LA, I guess it turns cold in October too, but it's not the same thing. Back East, I could always count on bundling up to leave the house on crisp October mornings. "Dress in layers," my roommate would remind me. Yes, of course, since it'll be warmer in the afternoon at some point. Layers are good. A little tank top, a mock-turtleneck shirt, a sweater (cardigans are good). Yes. That's good. Even the ex-boyfriend's leather jacket to top it all off. Hmm. Cold is good.

Too cold is not good, though. I'm a weather wimp. I hate extreme temperatures. I'll complain when it's warmer than 82°F in the summer, and bitch like Hell when the temperature drops below 50 ever. That is why I live in Los Angeles. It is a haven for weather wimps.

October is when we go back to Standard Time, which I appreciate. I don't really like the whole Daylight Savings Time premise. I think it's so cool that there are places in the world that completely ignore this tradition (and let's face it, if it's not mandatory, it's just a tradition) and laugh about our little clock-changing ritual. Since I don't keep "regular hours" of any sort, I have no issue with the number of hours of daylight. Daylight is overrated. Well... except when I'm deprived of it. I have that thing where I get more depressed in the winter time just because of the lack of sunlight. Hell, I don't care if it's a real "condition" or not, but it allows me to have an "out" for eating extra chocolate and nesting in January.

"October" is the title of a song by the band The Disciples. This is a band that spawned other bands you may have heard of (Black Crowes, Butthole Surfers, Drivin' and Cryin'). This band won Battle of the Bands at North Springs High School in 1986 and their prize was the pressing of a single. The B side of "Can't Live Without You" is "October" and I, being the non-mainstream type that I am, always preferred that B-side non-hit.

October is when the leaves match my hair color. Well, at least the leaves in Boston. I remember going to Quincy Market in October for several years in a row and marveling over the breeze, the smell, the chill, and the colors of the leaves. I miss that. Palm trees don't change color (except when the fronds are dead and fall off onto your car).

October is when Braves Fever really sets in. I have been a Braves fan since I was a kid. I even loved the Braves when they were the worst in the league. That's when we could get the best seats at the stadium (for $4). But when the Braves went from Worst to First in one season... oh, man, that was an October I will never forget. All of the professors at UGA were willing to forgive us delays in turning in assignments, as we were all up so late watching the Braves spank the Dodgers in stupid pacific time. Oops... I live in LA now, I'd better reel that in. Oh wait, I live in LA. No one here cares about sports. Duh!

October 31st is Halloween. That's my favorite holiday. I love dressing up. I love taking kids trick-or-treating and pretending that I'm doing it for them. I love entering contests at bars and winning Best Conceptual Costume (because I'm never literal). I love haunted houses and Halloween parties and masquerades of any kind. That's a big contributing factor to my love of October, I'm sure. Freshman year at UGA, one of my dorm mates noticed that we had a Friday the 13th that October. She pondered, "Wouldn't it be scary if one year Halloween fell on a Friday 13th?" She was serious. If Reed Hall was "Friends," this girl was "Joey."

October is when I start to feel energy shift. It's like the end of the year is coming and October is our last chance to make something of the year before the stupid holidays rush in and keep us from being productive (or even sane). I feel all the potential of the new year ahead in October. Maybe that's why New Year's Eve and New Year's Day have never meant a dang thing to me.

I'm over here with my magnum of champagne and pointy hat in the eighth-tenth month of the year!

A young writer/friend of mine asked recently whether I found it hard to write comedy in the face of tragic events. The answer is, "I don't know." I haven't written anything funny since September 9th. That's when I turned in my piece about LA Car Chases. Gosh, I hope that was funny. It was meant to be. I think my funny-meter needs recalibrating now.

And it's not just me.

As I write this essay, it is nine months since my mother passed away. I miss her every day. I remember, for the first few weeks after she died, I'd walk around, see people out in public, and wonder, "How can I know what loss you've experienced?" It occurred to me that we never know what someone else may be facing, yet we treat one another as if we know how we all feel. We haven't a clue.

I considered grabbing an old essay, dusting it off, and turning it in, hoping that the humor would endure and that everyone would be satisfied with another cynical rant. And then I thought about the kids I mentor. I am a cyber-mentor to a handful of students at a school in New York. How can I ask them to let their feelings come through their writing, when I choose not to do the same?

So, what's my point?

Well, I think it has something to do with an activity that takes place right outside my front door every day.

I live on the street that leads, although complicatedly, to the Hollywood Sign. The view from right in front of my apartment is awesome (in the non-'80s sense of the word). Every day, several cars stop right in front of my front door so that the drivers may get out, snap a quick photo of the sign, and then hop back in to see if they can get closer without getting lost (they cannot).

Recently, the neighbor across the street sat on her balcony, enjoying the view and a phone call. After a driver stopped and interrupted her to ask the best route toward the sign, she resumed her conversation, now complaining about the constant tourist parade we, the residents of the Hollywood Hills, endure. She was clearly very disturbed that she, because of where she lived, had to answer questions of non-English-speaking, elderly, or clueless tourists.

I say, pass the burden to me. I love where I live. I love my life. And I am well-aware of the fact that countless others wish they had the life that I, too frequently, take for granted.

So, is it hard to write comedy in the face of tragedy? Yes. Will I still do it? Yes. I must. I have worked my ass off to live the life I lead, and I do not take for granted a single gift included in this life. I miss my mother every day, but there is not a day she lived since my birth in which she doubted how much I loved her.

I love what I do. I love where I live. I love the people in my life. And I love giving complicated directions to gawking tourists in rental cars.

As football season begins and Psycho sports wood, I began to reflect on my favorite sport: the High Speed Chase.

There was a time when I just thought I enjoyed the thrill of watching, from the comfort of my living room, the helicopter view of the inevitable end to some guy's wild ride. Then it hit me: in a city where sports fans are more fickle than teenage girls, we DO, in fact, have our own Official Sport. It is, most definitely, the High Speed Chase.

I mean, look at the parallels: sports fans of the more, shall we say, traditional nature, know the stats of every player on every team. Okay. I used to teach traffic school for the Improv Comedy Club, so I know the point violation and accompanying fine associated with each bold maneuver my car chase dude executes.

Sports fans cannot be interrupted when their sporting events come on TV. All right, just try to distract me while a car chase is on.

Football fans can predict which team will win, and by how much, but they still choose to watch the game as it unfolds, cheering and screaming at their TV sets. Me too. I know the cop will win. He always does. Whether the guy being chased has stolen the car, tossed drugs from the window, hit unknowing cross-traffic during his chase, or started running just to avoid that damn third strike, he will, unquestionably, be caught. Will it be a spike strip that flattens his tires? Will it be a PIT maneuver that ends the chase? Will his family and friends rush the street as he drives through his own neighborhood? Will he try to flee on foot after the car chase itself ends? All of those variables make my sport of choice exciting, and just the same as my football fan friends, I watch from the edge of my seat.

Now, I don't know much about football commentary. I personally prefer NBA basketball and Major League Baseball, when it comes to watching sporting events. But, I'll assume, for the sake of this comparison, that football announcers are just as annoying, with their attempts at humor and droll observations of the, well, obvious, as my favorite newscasters are in covering the play-by-play of a Car Chase. These pretty idiots chime in with their, "Oooh! He narrowly missed that pedestrian!" and "We're not sure what started this chase, buy since we've joined the pursuit, we've seen erratic behavior on the part of the suspect as he drives, sometimes on the wrong side of the street."

Last week, one of my heroes on KCAL-9 made the comment that the Geo Metro being pursued was, "the type of car you want in this situation, as its fuel efficiency will keep you on the road for hours longer than some other cars." Oh my God. Did this woman just recommend a car for use in High Speed Chases? Well, I guess it's no different than Howie Long hawking Radio Shack products. And there was that weekend that sales on Range Rovers skyrocketed in the LA area after one in a High Speed Chase survived three popped tires and an off-road pursuit better than any other car in recent Car Chase history.

Anyway, I realized that the only thing different about my favorite sport is the fact that I can't look at TV Guide to know when it will air. What I can do, however, is listen for choppers overhead. If they are hovering in small circles, I know what's going on, and I head for the remote! Of course, I could sign up for the service [PursuitWatch.com] that pages you when a High Speed Chase is on in your area, but I don't think they notify you quickly enough. Still, I may try it. It's never as much fun watching the highlights on the evening news as it is watching the sport live! Now, if I could just find a way to buy tickets to ride in that helicopter....

Bob Hope's doctors decided to not release him from the hospital this weekend, mainly due to the fact that he has been dead for three years. His "people" are still attempting to get him released, propped up on a balcony, and waving to fans with the aid of pulleys before the end of the month. No rush. He'll still be dead, his doctors assure me.

Jennifer Lopez and boy toy Chris Judd have spent the weekend in bed in a major Hawaii hotspot. According to sources, the real hotspot is somewhere between P.Diddy's checkbook and J.Lo's ass cheeks. Chris Judd, when asked to identify the hotspot on a map, asked, "What's a map?"

Former Posh Spice, Victoria Beckham reveals in her new autobiography, "Learning to Fly," that she was, at one time, obsessed with her body. Former fans of the Spice Girls commented that they were relieved to hear this, seeing as her body should have at least one party obsessed with it.

Okay, so I'm watching a rerun of "Friends." It's the one with Susan Sarandon and she's some hoity-toity soap star teaching Joey how to take over her role on "Days of Our Lives" -- which is, of course, not shot in New York, where "Friends" is set, but that's okay, since "Friends" is also not shot in New York. Whatever. That's not what this is about.

So, this soap character is famous for two things: slapping her costars and throwing drinks in their faces.

Now, I've seen "Friends" enough to know that these characters drink coffee. Lots and lots of coffee -- and usually only when they're at Central Perk. In this particular episode, the gang has inexplicably switched to water -- and everyone has a nice tall glass of it while hanging out at Joey's apartment.

Guess why.

Yup. Susan Sarandon is going to be there after sleeping with Joey (yeah, whatever) one afternoon and every single person in the room will have a glass of water ready for Susan's hydro-tossing needs.

Oh, wait. There was one other episode in which the gang imbibed delicious New York city water: the one with Brook Shields as Joey's love interest. See, she'd seen him on "Days of Our Lives" and started stalking him. Good thing she was gorgeous. They had some sex (yeah, whatever) and when he broke it off with her, sure enough, the entire gang was assembled in his apartment, swilling the clear stuff, just waiting for the opportunity to soak him for sport.

I have no problem with water-drinking or even water-tossing, for that matter. Here's my thing: of course your character is going to get wet. See all that water? Joey, I know you're an idiot, but you could see that coming, right? I mean, there's never ever ever ever ever water unless you're gonna be wearing it.

I hope he understands this.

Whenever I see reruns of "NewsRadio" I want coffee. I don't drink coffee, but these folks rely on it so heavily that I find myself craving the stuff -- which, by the way, was found by Berkeley researchers to contain more carcinogens than a cigarette... ew -- and I don't even own a coffee maker.

When I used to smoke, watching "Reality Bites" made me want to chain smoke. Watching "Chocolat" made me want to binge on chocolate. "Pulp Fiction" made me want to, well... you see where this is going.

It's a good thing I don't have cable. I understand there's a lot of sex there.

So I have this affliction I've named Summer Insomnia. Every summer since 1990, I've gone as long as ten weeks with no sleep. It started with a migraine. I don't really get migraines anymore, so I think now it's become a psychosomatic habit.

I really thought I'd get through this summer without a visit from the insomnia fairy. Then August 5th hit. Some sort of post-full moon heat wave crashed into the Hollywood Hills and I couldn't get to sleep. "No matter," I thought. "'Tis just one night." Yeah, right.

So... here's what I've learned this time around:

• Oprah comes on twice a day.
• So do Leno & Conan.
• Newspapers are delivered between 3:10am and 3:50am.
• The mailman lady wears shorts.
• My landlady's cat was originally named Adventure, but he never really responded to it. He likes Alphie better.
• The upstairs neighbor's sex life is much less interesting than it was a few months ago.
• My dial-up connection is fastest and most reliable before 5am.
• I eat less food but more frequently when I don't sleep.
• With all these hours, I still procrastinate.
• Every game of Free Cell is, in fact, winable.
• Madame Cleo is on every channel at some point each day.
• I see dead people.
• Unwanted hair removal is a national epidemic.

So, maybe I just haven't been paying attention. Based on the hours of infomercials I've logged this month, I'd guess that the average woman spends a great deal of time focused on the removal of her unwanted hair.

Wow. I guess I need to be grateful for my pale, Irish-Scottish... uh, roots. I'm sorry, my brunette sisters. I always thought "removal of unwanted hair" meant pulling a stray off of your tongue.

There are two types of people in this world: those who have the ability to assemble Ikea furniture and those who do not.

Perhaps there are more than those two types, but there are - for certain - those two.

For those whom the word Ikea has no meaning, I'll elaborate. Ikea is the company that furnishes the MTV Real World houses. It's a store whose furniture designs are in the homes of every LA resident I know.

Ikea furniture is packed in boxes. Contents of these boxes include particle-board (pressed potato flakes) slats with holes bored through mid-way; smaller slats with different holes, some bored through all the way; a crisp white sheet of paper with drawings (no words) indicating the box inventory and the state of said inventory, once assembled properly; assorted screws and dowels; and - most essentially - an Allen Wrench. These are the ingredients for ultra-mod furniture of the '90s (and yes, I do mean '90s).

Most of this furniture is inexpensive enough to toss with each move, mainly important because the disassembly/reassembly or transportation of assembled Ikea furniture tends to render the furniture items unusable - or, at the very least, unstable.

Know this: the only tool necessary in assembling Ikea furniture is an Allen Wrench.

I once was asked to assist a client in assembling a computer desk for the computer I'd been hired to integrate into the existing network. When I mentioned that this work would be at my regular consultant rate, the client paid someone else in the office to do it. When I re-entered the room a few hours later, the desk was... well, what my Mom would call "catty-whompus" and none... none of the screw-type items had been used. In fact, the crisp white instruction sheet remained folded neatly in its air-tight plastic wrapping. Turns out the employee had selected a power drill and hammer as the tools of choice in constructing his masterpiece.

I'd always had a "he-rubs-me-the-wrong-way" sort of relationship with this guy and now I knew why. People who know how to assemble Ikea furniture should only be subjected to interactions with others who know what to do with an Allen Wrench. This has become my opening line when meeting Potential Mr. Bonnie Gillespies:

"Finish this sentence. Ikea furniture is best assembled using _____."

Correct answers include the word Allen. Incorrect ones come from other tools.

There is a shared moment in which we are all out of control. We sit, strapped into our overpriced seats, inside an illogically massive transportation device, and we just let go. We have no choice.

We may control the climate with those efficient and effective fish-eye air holes. We may control the light cast upon our reading material. We may even control what we hear as we escape to the monophonic melodies of some forgettable recording artist.

Can I control whether you'll talk to me, your neighbor at 30,000 feet? Nope. Can I control whether I'll speak English when you do talk to me? You betcha.

No matter how many calls you've made from your cell phone prior to boarding, no matter how many times you've opened your laptop at the gate, there is a moment, corporate wannabe, when you can do nothing but think - not do. Takeoff is the great equalizer.

Yesterday I went for my smog check - or what is called in every other state an emissions inspection. The technician struck up a conversation with me about cell phones - and how he doesn't understand, when he comes to work at 5am, who all these other people on the road are talking to - and why it can't wait until they stop driving. Just then, a cabbie drove up, cell phone firmly attached to ear, and the technician gestured toward him as if to say, "See?"

He told me he'd lived in this country for 13 years and didn't have a cell phone. I quickly did inventory: cell phone, pager, voicemail, palm pilot, laptop, desktop, über-access.

So, I went on cell phone hiatus. I waited patiently at the ARCO station, knowing I could make the ten phone calls in my mental outbox in an hour when I returned home.

Today, as I sit at LAX, awaiting a flight that leaves six hours after the flight on which I was booked, I feel smugly judgmental as each passerby makes an urgent, too-good-for-a-pay-phone call, rather than talking with their travel companions. And, sadly, I realize how much work I could've gotten done, had I my cell phone with me today.

Instead, I've read, I've written, I've talked (with humans right here at the airport with me), I've consolidated my many lists, and I've flirted with a boy way too young for me - but who was just served a beer, so he can't be that young.

Oh, I'd get into much less trouble if I had my cell phone. But would I have enjoyed my day at the Museum of Modern Travel?

Why would I want to write an article about the things that piss me off? Aren't I just arming the masses with the best ammo that way? Well, here's my theory: this list already does exist somewhere out there. It must, otherwise people who say they love me - as well as complete strangers - wouldn't keep doing these things. I figure, the list is out there, and its title has been changed to "Things Bonnie Loves, So Keep It Up" or something.

Since you all mean well, I'm sure, I'm going to take this opportunity to show the list, in its entirety, and explain why said items are on the list.

 1. Punctuate Incorrectly. Let's get it straight: y'all is a contraction of the words YOU and ALL, not YA and WILL. '70s is the proper shortening of 1970s. See, the apostrophe goes where the 19 once was. Quit writing "Did ya'll see That 70's Show?" or I will have to kill you.

 2. Be Anal About the "I Before E" Rule. Remember, there is that part about "except after C" - like in received. Also, it's WEIRD, not WIERD. It just is. Look it up.

 3. Pronounce Common Words Incorrectly. It's supposedly -- see the D in there? No B. It's supposedly. I guess I just figure, if it's been a joke on "Friends," everyone should be doing it right by now. Sheesh. Now, one exception to this rule is if you're doing that cool hipster-speak thing like Katy [HorridScope] does. That's effin' coolio, y'know?

 4. Be Redundant. Make ATM "ATM Machine." Make PIN "PIN Number." Make SAT "SAT Test." Make HIV "the HIV Virus." For the love of God, people, what do you think the letters in the acronyms stand for?

 5. Write in Ricki Lakese. I know it SOUNDS like "would of" but it's "would have." I know it SOUNDS like "alright" but it's "all right." I don't care if you say it wrong, just make sure, when you write it down, you get it right (except in the case of item number three, and then I do care if you say it wrong). Oh, and that reminds me, it's EXCEPT, not ACCEPT, when used like I just did right there. Of course, I reserve the right to change the spelling of words like CRAP to KEY-WRAP and YEA to YAY. I know YEA is correct, but YAY just seems to really capture the mood better.

 6. Ask Me if I Know What You Mean. Listen. I'm not an idiot. If I need you to clarify what you just said, I will ask you to do so. You do not need to follow every statement with the question, "Do you know what I mean?" just so I'll nod or respond or somehow interact with you. I'm not ignoring you if I'm silent after you speak. I'm thinking. Well, that or listing all of the grammatical errors you just made.

 7. Take Me Personally. See, every time I mention item number six, Joni [of Entertainment News? fame] busts on me for making fun of her. She loves to ask if I know what she means. She's been doing it for twenty years. She's allowed. Now, if she takes number six personally, I'm gonna have to smack her! It's like that Jeff Goldblum sketch in Saturday Night Live with Rob Schneider. Rob's homeless and playing a guitar, yet he yells at Jeff with each donation. "I'm not looking for your pity! I don't need your money!" Then he sings, "This isn't just a song. I really need the money." This is not one of those times, Joni. For everyone else, every one of these items is about you.

 8. Create Increments that Don't Exist. When the radio station has a contest and the DJ says he wants the 98.7th caller, I almost drive my car up a building. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS 7/10 OF A CALLER. Yes, I know this article is called Top 17.4 Ways to Piss Me Off... it's a joke. I get it. Item eight also applies to saying things like 110%. Now, you can have an increase of 110% but there is no such thing as "Giving 110%." Coaches, take note.

 9. Say "awholenother." This has always bothered me. I understand that certain phrases and terms make their way into everyday conversation and in fact join the ranks of the dictionary listings. Still, when I see a film or TV show in which someone says awholenother, I scream. See, somewhere, in print, there was a script for that scene, and I can't imagine someone actually typing AWHOLENOTHER. In fact, I'm queasy just having typed it three times myself.

10. Take up 2 Parking Spots. I have a tiny car. So, if you take up a spot and a half, I don't really care. I'll fit. But you stupid SUV owners who think you'd better park at an angle to protect your baby from dings, don't be surprised if you find me parked under you. Yeah, that'll show you! Okay, I guess I've got no pull on that one. I'll let it go.

11. Ignore Instructions. I get notices for jobs every day. These are not job lists, but actual friends and associates looking for help doing such and such, and I am too busy right now to take on another new client. What do I do? I forward the email, along with originating sender contact information, to my many friends in search of work. What do they do? Email me, "Oh, Bonnie, this sounds PERFECT for me. Do you want me to attach my resumé? Oh, I think I just will, so that you can review it and tell me when I can interview. Oh, I also have a friend who's interested in that job you emailed me about last week [which frickin' one?]. Could you call her and give her all the details?" Forget a reference, my friend. It's like that test they gave in the third grade about reading all instructions before doing a single item. Last item says, "ignore all other items, sign your name at the top of this page, and turn it in." I think every one of my friends failed that test. Sigh.

12. Forward Urban Myths and Chain Emails. I think I have reached my tolerance level on this one. I used to say to people who complained about forwards, "Hey, you have a delete icon. Use it." Well, now I'm getting pretty antsy. I guess I've been online long enough now to have seen every single thing no fewer than eight times. Tell ya what: Bill Gates sends you that check for $100,000 for forwarding that email to a million people, you give me a call.

13. Make a Stupid Slogan for Your Product. Advertisers, get it straight: there are people out here who really, really, really want to throw something at the TV when you choose to be stupid. Psycho would insist that this includes hiring Blue Man Group as your pitchmen. I would say, a much more egregious fault is advertising tampons, then using the tag line, "So comfortable! You can't even feel them." THEM?!? HOW MANY ARE YOU PUTTING IN? Jesus!

14. Act Shocked When I Answer the Phone. Yes, I never answer the phone. That is true. Well, almost true. Sometimes I do. When I do, should you greet me with, "Oh my God! You answered the phone," from here on out, I pledge to hang up on your ass and block your number forever. End of topic.

15. Say "No Comment." Got a newsflash for ya: "No Comment" is, in fact, a comment.

16. Be Fake. Here's my favorite: you come to me, with your fake nails, your fake tan, your fake boobs, and you ask me, "Do you dye your hair?" Bitch, please! In the interest of full disclosure, I do use a rinse that washes out (so it says on the box) in 24 shampoos. I use that about once every nine months or so, when I feel like my hair looks drab. Last time I did it, I ended up using my exact natural color. Yes, I am brilliant. I know.

17. Take Me Seriously. This is just venting, folks, and, yes, I guess it goes along with item number seven, but get over it. The other day, as I was doing my Nurse Bonnie duties, Dawn asked, "This is going to end up in a column, isn't it?" Yep, it is. It always is. If you're in my life, you're out, baby. So, if you take yourself too seriously to be written about, you'd better let me know that before you do anything interesting in front of me.

I just realized I've become my 10th grade History teacher. He was such a meanie to everyone in class that, on the first day, he asked for anyone who didn't want to be made fun of to slip him a little note on that day, or else he'd consider them fair game for the whole quarter. Hmm... I'm different in a good way, though: I won't make fun of 15-year-olds. Too fragile. See what it did to me?

I'm not from Los Angeles. No one is. Well, Rose is, but she's different. All of the tens of thousands of LA Natives are different. But they don't count. There are all of these Transplant Pseudo-Natives. It is said that, once you've passed the 18-month mark in LA, you have become a native. No thanks.

Of course, I know better than to complain about LA while choosing to make my life here. That habit just invites people to say, "Well, if you hate LA so much, then leave!" I did just that in 1994, but it was also because of the Northridge Quake and my persistent migraines. So why am I back?

Ah, who knows? I'm not into the Big Club Scene. I don't go out of my way to attend swanky premieres or see show tapings, except when someone visits me from out of town. I never go to the beach. I rarely drive with the top down, for that matter. I do have an agent, a cell phone, a pager, a Palm Pilot, a roadster, an "in" at several cool places, and a network of anorexic, surgically-enhanced so-called friends.

My two-digit dress size makes me abnormal out here, at least in certain circles. I believe there are two distinct LAs... maybe more. But for sure, there are two. In one, I am too big, too old, too southern, too intelligent, and too opinionated to be considered average. In the other, I am a goddess. I am self-sufficient, clever, witty, buxom, outspoken, and charming. And where do I spend my time? Begging to be permitted to sit at the Cool Kids' Table in the cafeteria.

Yeah, well... I'm getting over that. I have a whole lot more fun surrounding myself with people who appreciate me for who I am, not for how much money I could earn them, if properly cast, made-up, starved, trained, and packaged. Does this mean I've had some Oprah-worthy epiphany? Nah. Just means I'll let myself off the hook every now and then, when I don't get cast in The Next Big Thing that really is tomorrow's canceled series.

'Til then, I'll continue my quest for the things you really treasure in a place like LA: a patch of lawn, a clear-sky day, a smile from a stranger (and not the kind of smile that makes you want to take a bath), laughter, honesty, Krispy Kreme donuts, Chick-fil-A sandwiches, serious queso dip (which NO ONE out here understands), punctual mail delivery, and sweet iced tea.

I'm not sure when it happened. I can't really pinpoint a particular moment of realizing, "Hmm, this feels harder to do than it did the last time I did it. I must be getting older." No, it was more like, "Why am I so sore? Why am I so tired? Why would I rather go to bed with a good book than that hot guy over there, if it means having to do the work of flirting, catching, cleaning, and cooking the damn thing? Why am I acting 80?!?"

So often, I'm sure I'm still a teenager. Nothing much has changed, in terms of my likes and dislikes. Too much perfume or cologne still pisses me off. Bass thumping so loudly from a car's speakers that the street cracks still annoys me. These aren't new traits of the Grumpy Old Hag I've become. I still firmly believe that weekly massage and chiropractic adjustments could bring about world peace. I still know Robyn Hitchcock is a genius and John Cusack will marry me the instant he meets me. Yep, same beliefs for over 15 years now. And I enjoy a cherry popsickle today as much as I did after playing all day on the Slip-n-Slide in the front yard.

Of course, there's the gradual wrinkle I notice once every few months. I have to pluck and tweeze and things that I never had to as a teenager. My fingernails won't stay long all at the same time and I no longer have the time to paint little portraits on them with acrylic paint. I don't spend hours trimming split ends off my hair. I use moisturizer religiously. It takes much longer to bounce back from illness, a drunken bender, or a fall (and somehow I've gotten much more clumsy these days).

But when did I start making noises when getting into and out of my car? When did I start saying, "Oy," under my breath when getting out of bed? When did I start squinting so often that it feels strange to force relaxation into that spot just above my left eyebrow?

Maybe those things happened just as gradually as the ability to find joy in a familiar song, passion over a new idea, and unconditional love for a dear friend. Perhaps it's just a by-product of the years passing, that my mind - and my body - find pleasure in the simple things. Maybe it's all part of the grand scheme of things and I'm becoming a wise soul. Or, could it be, just possibly, that I'm a lazy old coot who is grumpy and needs a nap? Yeah. That sounds about right. Now get off my yard before I come after you with this cane!

Once I was dining with some of my more literary friends and was interrupted by one of them. "Bonnie," Dawn began, "you've made five TV references in the past ten minutes and, since I don't own a television, I find it difficult to keep up with your analogies."

I was speechless.

First of all, get a TV! Second, if you're gonna be The Freak with No TV, then you should just keep to yourself that you can't keep up with my stories. Third, what's so wrong about using TV to help make a point?

I called my friend Chip, who owns a CyberHouse I covet like you wouldn't believe. "Chip," I whined, "why did I feel like such an outcast after she made that comment?"

Chip proceeded to tell me the tale of his recent weekend getaway with some of our favorite nerdy friends. "Kate decided that we all make too many pop culture references, considering how intelligent we all are."

"That's not the point!" I interrupted.

"I know!" Chip agreed. "But she threw down the Pop Culture Challenge for the weekend." Immediately, I remembered the short-lived Lifetime Television game show, Debt, in which Wink Martindale would reward contestants with a repayment of their life's debt, perhaps even double that reward, based on the contestant's sudden-death turn with their Favorite Pop Culture Category. I remembered seeing several people choke on questions that I knew the answers to, even though the categories weren't ones on my Expert List. I decided, if I ever go on the show, I'd use Beverly Hills, 90210 - The Brenda Years, since I know every word to every episode within that era. See, it's always smarter to use a show rather than a film, since a film is so short, by comparison. The question could be about another film on which the cinematographer of your favorite film worked. Choosing a band is good, but you have to know with what other bands the bassist played or on what label they first recorded. Nah, I had it right: BH9, Brenda Style.

But that's not what Chip meant. Kate's challenge to the group of friends - and this was not to win a debt-free life or anything - was to make no pop culture references for the entire weekend. Ugh! That just sounds painful! And why would anyone do this voluntarily?

I'm constantly adding to the list of shows that will air on My Ideal TV Network. This is actually funny, since now, with TiVo, Replay, and that overpriced Microsux version of the same thing, My Ideal TV Network actually exists. You just tell the darn thing what you want to see and there ya go! Once it airs somewhere, you've nabbed it. Of course, I was thinking more along the lines of programming all the shows that never aired (and never will be run, even after having been shot, due to early cancellation, networks' greed, advertisers -- ah, don't get me started). For instance, I'd have a network of Relativity (that adorable show between Thirty-Something and My So-Called Life); Class of '96 (the quickly-canceled Fox episodic between Bev9 and Melrose Place); of course, Bev9, MP, and other such candy; Partners and any other show created by or starring friends of mine; Freaks & Geeks; Match Game, Pyramid, and other classics from the Game Show Network; The Donny & Marie Variety Hour; Iron Chef; Family Guy (a brilliant cartoon that has disappeared this season); and finally, E! True Hollywood Stories, VH-1 Before They Were Stars and Where Are They Now, A&E Biography, and any other true story thingy.

Oh, man! I can't wait to have TiVo!

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Chip said they were able to rise to Kate's Pop Culture Challenge. "Did you become better people for it?" I asked.

Chip's deadpan response: "It was the worst weekend of my life."

Flirting is such a difficult thing. Actually, it's quite simple, but the language is so easily misunderstood. It's like you want to be sure you speak the same version of Flirtage and not some bastardized Esperanto before you invest a minute in what can be an exhausting process. Still, flirting is healthy and it's fun, even when done with someone with whom there's no potential.

For example, flirting with gay guys is the best! They really appreciate the art form, so they play right along, even though there's nary a stir from their nether regions during said flirting. Last night, I had such fun with my new best friend Nelson that he has made a commitment to me. Yep, he's going to introduce me as his girlfriend the next time his dad comes through town. Hey, it's not the first time I've played beard.

In high school, I was certain that I would be the mother of David's children. His sister Faith assures me that I can still do this, just that I'll have to give the kids to David and his husband Mark. Okay, that's not really what I had in mind.

John, my friend of eleven years who has been "out" for seven of those, has told me I am one of only three women for whom he'd "go back" for a night of heterosexuality. I know there's a compliment in there somewhere.

The worst feeling is that moment in which you realize you're flirting with someone who has no interest in you. Not because they're gay, but because you're too fat or too old or too smart or too loud or too similar to their last girlfriend or not the right religion or whatever stupid Jerry Seinfeldian excuse for not being into a woman they choose to come up with. Of course, in Los Angeles, I'm way too frequently conned by the guy who'll flirt, then reveal that he'd prefer fake boobs, fake tan, fake nose, and a stapled stomach to someone with her own curves, her natural alabaster skin tone, original facial parts, and healthy appetite. Oh, gosh, I'm sorry... am I too real for LA? Nine times out of ten, yep! Most of the time, it's a non-native Angelino who finds me interesting. Remember, though, Native = 2 Years or More in LA, so I've gotta get 'em quick! Maybe I can set up a booth at the airport. It works for Moonies, right?

On the 4th of March, I went from being Bonnie Gillespie to being Maid of Honor.

My phone rang at 8am - and this was on a Sunday - so you know that hour is obscene. I let the voicemail pick up; I'm sleeping. Fifteen minutes later, another call. Roll over, cover my head with a pillow, and let the caller go to voicemail again. A few hours later, I take a shower and then check the voicemail. It's Sissa.

Sissa is Melissa. She was an exec staff member at the radio station I advised back in grad school. She became my little sister and I became her big sister. It was a slow evolution, our friendship, but one that enriched my life and continues to do so, years later. Once I realized Melissa was becoming my best friend, I began calling her Sissa. In my mind, that's short for Melissa. In her mind, that's slang for Sister, so she calls me Sissa too. I will never, ever correct her on that one. I am honored to be called Sissa by my best friend.

Okay, so I'm checking my voicemail. Before she's said five words, I know. "Oh my God, he proposed," I'm thinking. Then, in her calmest voice, Sissa confirms my suspicion with the words, "We'll be home all day." Not, "I'll..." but "we'll...."  I know, at that moment, I'll be attending a wedding. Wow, maybe I'll even be in it. Then I call her back. Certain of the reply to come, I say, "Tell me everything."

My best friend says, "What are you doing next April and will you be my Maid of Honor?" Oh my God... Maid of Honor? I am stunned. I mean, I'm honored beyond belief and I'm screaming with delight. But suddenly, I realize, my whole life has changed.

The last wedding I was in was my brother's. It was 1976. My mother made my sunshine yellow, butterfly-sleeved, floor-length dress, complete with God's-eye pattern stitched into the bodice. I was the flower girl, which meant I walked down the aisle just before my future sister-in-law, dropping rose petals from my white basket. I thought it was my wedding! I thought that my sister-in-law would come live with us at our house, not that my brother would leave us. What trauma! Somehow, I've not been the same since they returned from the Bahamas, bringing me a multi-colored dollar bill with a picture of some lady on it.

So, here comes my second wedding. Wait, that's not true. I was in my dad's second wedding, and in my mom's second wedding too. But both nuptial rituals resulted in years of therapy, so I'll leave those out. Okay, so this is my second wedding. And I'm Maid of Honor. Gee, no pressure!

I'm trying to think of the last wedding I attended. It was my buddy David's big day and I'd not yet met his fiancee, Kim. So, during communion, which we all went up to the alter to share, David elbowed a praying Kim and said, "Kim, that's Bonnie!" I was even more shocked when she whispered, "Hey! David's told me so much about you! Thanks for coming!" I mouthed the words, "We can do this later, y'know?" We all got a big laugh out of that one.

Oh, there's also been Big Debbie's wedding to Big Evert. At the reception, Debbie drank champagne from the bottle before the official first toast. Luckily, I snapped a quick photo of that!

I have all of these strange duties as MOH (I learned that acronym from visiting one of the dozens of websites designed for pre-newlyweds. My biggest concern, other than losing a pound a week between now and the wedding (yes, that's like 55 pounds, but I can dream), is how to plan a wedding that will take place in Florida, for my best friend, who lives in Kentucky, while I'm out here, in Los Angeles. Can we do this whole thing online?

Okay, so here's how I won the Oscar Pool for the second year in a row. I didn't bet the list I'd made for my column here. Just moments before the award show began, and after hours of watching Joan toss it to Melissa, I jotted down who I thought would win. Not who I thought should win, not who I'd heard would win, but who I thought would win. I beat out my friends and managed to make notes along the way. Now I'll share them with you.

Pre-show's best moment was seeing Joan kiss the ass of the new E! CEO. Worst, was hearing her say, "It's great to see the Asians here."  It's like she's at a party, going, "Oh, look, there's the Goldsteins. Oh, and the Johnsons came. Oh, and I'm so glad the Asians made it." What an idiot!

E! had this thing going called a Sizzle Meter, and you could go online and rank whomever Joan was interviewing. It was in poor taste to leave the graphic up when Sting's final score was revealed (a 2 on a scale of 1 to 10).

I do want to thank Joan Rivers for wearing a dress with netting across her back. Since the camera angle takes in more of her back than anything else, I think I speak for everyone when I say thank you for covering that skin well.

Winona Ryder... what were you thinking? Your hair's a mess, your eyes are all black and smudged... oh, I get it, she'd just watched "Edward Scissorhands" and got all nostalgic.

I'm very glad to know that Ellen Burstyn won the Independent Spirit Award Saturday night. That makes it okay that she didn't get the Oscar.

Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson... what a cute couple! They did Goldie and Kurt proud.

I saw Siguorney Weaver autographing someone's bottled water. That was sweet. Loved her dress. She actually looked quite classy... for an old broad.

Speaking of old broads, Judi Dench was just gorgeous. You go, girl!

On the red carpet, I'd said, "Oh, thank God Jennifer Lopez covered up her breasts with this dress. Then I saw the twins. Now I know what J-Lo stands for.

My epiphany of the night: I live my life like an interviewer on the red carpet. I'm listening to you. I'm asking (somewhat) intelligent questions. I'm right there with you. But I'm constantly looking just over your shoulder, in case someone better is coming up the path. Now, that's deep.

Um, Juliette Binoche, uh, Madonna overdid the pearl thing in the mid-80s. And what bad hair! Matched only by those scary gloves. Wow! What a fashion don't!

Marcia Gay Harden - gorgeous! And right behind her, there's Joaquin Phoenix, jumping up to give high-fives to the folks in the bleachers. Pretty cool. I feel really bad for the stars who start arriving at 3pm. But, the chaos at 4:50pm is way too much. I wonder if they could have the actors take numbers, like at a deli, and arrive in that order. Sounds fair to me!

Okay, James Coburn, are you doing your own private tribute to "Shadow of the Vampire" or do you just want to look worse than your tin-foil wrapped wife?

Angelina Jolie looked great. She dressed like a grown-up and she left Billy Bob and her brother at home.

Faye Dunaway, on whom I usually bag, looked great. Good for her! But Frances McDormand, put on some makeup when you go to the Oscars, for God's sake!

Willem Dafoe is such a cutie pie. Casey and I watched "Wild at Heart" Saturday night, so I'm in a good mood toward him even more than when I wrote up my predictions.

Ashley Judd with some bad hair -- oh, man, she got dressed with Juliette Binoche!

I liked how unflappable the older stars were, when interviewed by various media types. Morgan Freeman, Anthony Hopkins, just too cool.

Chris Connally? Who knew you could go from being on MTV to landing a big gig on... oh, wait, it's just ABC. Never mind. Lateral move.

Julia and Benjamin are a royal couple. Wow. They just look like movie stars. Casey tells me a story about seeing Ben and his brothers in a head shop in San Francisco last Christmas Eve. Then he asks me to edit the story so that it's clear the head shop is also a place to buy hippie bracelets and hats and things. So there.

The awards begin. Steve's already cracking me up. I'm sorry, but Russell Crowe is still a dang sourpuss. Get a sense of humor!  Steve Martin is funny!

Oh, here's that Pepsi commercial everyone is talking about. The consensus at the party is that every girl under 16 will now want her navel pierced just like Britney. Oy vey!

Okay, what's the facial hair thing? Ben Stiller, you're at the Oscars, wash your face! Leni tells me it's cool, it's indie, it's rebellious. Whatever, it's unshaven Ben. Clean it up and comb your hair while you're at it.

Sting looks like Celine Dion whilst he sings. Have we gotten that old?

Dustin Hoffman, is that a rug on your head? If so, can't you afford better?

Sarah Jessica Parker, for the first time, has lovely hair. I've always bagged on her stringy hair. Now, instead, I'll bag on her dress. It was fine, but where was the rest of it? This ain't HBO, sweetheart. Cover up those bowlegs.

Next Pepsi commercial. As a stockholder in the Coca-Cola company, I must protest the idea that people who work for Coke would ever drink Pepsi. It's just not true. People who work for Coke have been brainwashed since birth and will burst into flames with just one sip of that Pepsi swill. Pepsi, stick to making tacos and chicken and pizza and leave the beverage market to the professionals. Of course, I don't even drink soda, but I still have a vested interest, dammit!

Bob Dole makes a comment to his dog, upon seeing Britney, "Easy boy!" Leni suggests he's talking to his Viagra-assisted penis and not to the dog. We laugh about this for the rest of the commercial break.

Oh, shit, I didn't know Billy Barty died. He was so great in "Foul Play."

Augh! Another Ben with a micro-beard. The worst part of it is, they work to get their facial hair to look like that. What a waste!

We notice that Jennifer Lopez is in a camera shot that crops her tighter than other presenters. Hmm... why is that? Leni comes up with another quip: "Elvis' hips, J-Lo's nips!" More laughter.

Casey deduces that Danny DeVito wants better eyesight, since he's wearing shades and eating carrot sticks. We're an intellectual group at this Oscar party, lemme tell ya.

Hillary Swank! Oh my God, where did those boobs come from? And those hips? We decide she's pregnant. I'd bet money on it!

Russell Crowe wins? Oh, shit, I didn't take into account the fact that he should've won last year for "The Insider." Oh, they were feeling bad. I totally didn't add that fact into the mix. Oh well, at least I still won the pool.

Thank you, Julie Andrews, for having had no work done. It's so nice to see a woman look her age. Especially in this town!

Okay, Paul Newman could be 100 and I'd do him in a heartbeat. He's just that damn sexy.

Casey makes a comment here about how a Hollywood exec can make a producer feel "like he's got an endless supply of jelly beans in his underwear." No one knows what this means, but Casey made guacamole, so we think it's brilliant (or maybe it's because we had cheap wine).

I'm so proud of my fellow Georgia gal, Julia, for showing all those teeth and being giddy and happy. We southern belles know how to share our joy!

The screenplay adapter from "Traffic" looks like David E. Kelley, no?

Oh, I'm so glad I was wrong about the Best Director winner. Go, Steven! That's a well-deserved win.

Look at those "Gladiator" producers. That's a bunch of rich, white, impotent republicans if I ever saw any. They were financiers, not artists! Boo, hiss!

Considering only 5600 voters make up the Academy, I'm surprised there weren't more surprises. Okay, so besides the fact that the night ended with a big downer on Best Picture, I still collected my money with the proper amount of gloating, promising to continue my streak at next year's Oscar party, wherever that may be. Of course, it is my intention to attend an Oscar party thrown by the studio who put out my next film. That may put a cramp in my betting, but I bet it'll be a hell of a lot more fun to be catty about everyone else when I've got my own dose coming up from Joan and Missy. Do you think I can pull off wearing jeans?

Okay, so we're gearing up for the event that was so much cooler when it fell on a weekday. Yep, up until a couple of years ago, Oscar Day was an official day off from work. So, now it's on a Sunday, Billy's not hosting, and every employer knows to expect hangovers and Oscar Pool Collections come Monday.

Last year, I won the Pool at the party I attended. I'd seen exactly one of the nominated films. I passed out before hour one of the award ceremony. But I knew how to vote. Mainly, I know how to do this because of my secret weapon: My Cousin Joni. The reason my Oscar Picks are Subject to Change, at this point, is because Joni's predictions don't come to me until much closer to the witching hour, like on Oscar day.

Until then, here's what I'll predict on my own.

PICTURE
Oooh! I've seen two of these. Can you guess which two? I think the winner will be "CT,HD," even though it's already going to win the Foreign Language Film. If something really amazing were going to happen, I'd say "Traffic" would win, but Best Director would go to Ang Lee.

ACTOR
Wow, I would so love to see Javier win, just because he's so damn hot. Russell Crowe can suck a fart out of my ass for being such a bad sport at the Golden Globes. I doubt he'll do too well, being considered the Official Homewrecker of 2000 (and that's a tough race to win in Hollywood). However, just like Norm McDonald used to say on SNL, "Germans love David Hasselhoff," I think "people love Tom Hanks." It's weird, but they just love him! And he gained and lost all that weight, that hair, and had some sort of sporting equipment as a costar, right? All that aside, my pick is Ed Harris, because he's gone overlooked far too many times - and he really worked his ass off on "Pollock." Of course, I haven't seen any of the nominated performances.

ACTRESS
Please, oh, God, please, let Ellen Burstyn win! What a goddess! And, I'm pretty sure Oscar's not into boobs, so Julia's will have to rest on either side of her Golden Globe instead this year. Of course, when I interviewed Christian Slater's mom, who cast "The Contender," she predicted Joan Allen would win. I think she's probably right - and not just because she called to say her son loved my column.

SUPPORTING ACTOR
As much as I love [to look at] Benicio del Toro, I think Willem Dafoe will win this one. What a stud!

SUPPORTING ACTRESS
I adore Judi Dench, and I actually saw "Chocolat," so I can also say I really liked her job and not just her body of work. I think Goldie Hawn Junior got her goods on Golden Globe night, and sharing the category with Marge from "Fargo" won't help her. I wonder if the Academy will reward Julie Walters, simply because "Billy Elliot" is under-nominated. There's always one really nice shocker, and this may be the one. I'm going to place my bet on Marcia Gay Harden. How 'bout that?

DIRECTOR
Steven deserves it for "Traffic" but he won't get it. The night belongs to Ang Lee. Hope he has as much fun as Roberto Benini did.

ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY
Oscar doesn't like Cameron Crowe, so even though that was probably a better script, I'm thinking Lee Hall, for the under-nominated reason mentioned above. Gladiator's going to be shut out (and thank God). Besides, scripts with more than one screenwriter tend to be more like "Get Over It" or any other crappy teen movie that'll be forgotten before the trailer ends.

ADAPTED SCREENPLAY
I'd love for it to be Robert Nelson Jacobs, because I met him at the screening for "Chocolat" and thought his responses to people who doubted some of his choices in adaptation were honest, intelligent, and well-justified. I'd love to see the Coens win, just because I know they'll liven up the acceptance speech portion of the night. "Wonder Boys" has gotten good press. "Traffic,"
I'm sure, is worthy. I just see a "CT,HD" sweep - forget my earlier rule about multiple screenwriters. It's an action flick and it's a foreign film. All bets are off.

FOREIGN LANGUAGE FILM
"CT,HD." Thanks, everyone else, for playing.

CINEMATOGRAPHY
I think "CT,HD" could do it, but I also think "Gladiator" will get a few pity votes, this being one of them.

FILM EDITING
"CT,HD."

ORIGINAL SCORE
This category always gets me... but I'm thinking John Williams always does pretty well on these things. So, assuming "CT,HD" and "Gladiator" split their votes up, that's a win for "The Patriot."

ORIGINAL SONG
Bob Dylan. It's a tough year, and, what?? no Phil Collins?? No Marc Shaiman?? Well, then it has to be Dylan.

DOCUMENTARY FEATURE
No idea. I need to read up on what "they" are saying about this category. Just based on titles, I'll go with "Sound and Fury." Why not?

DOCUMENTARY SHORT SUBJECT
Gosh, for a minute, I thought "Big Mama" was "Big Mama's House" and I wondered how Martin Lawrence's "I wanna be Eddie Murphy" flick could be considered short. Again, I'll guess, and I'll go on titles, and choose "The Man on Lincoln's Nose." What the hell?

ANIMATED SHORT
No clue. "The Periwig-Maker"?? Sounds good to me.

LIVE-ACTION SHORT
"Quiero Ser..." gets my vote.

ART DIRECTION
Yip yip yip for Yip! "CT,HD" continues its sweep.

COSTUME DESIGN
Tougher, and I'd love to say Yip, again, but I think either "Gladiator" will be thrown a bone here, or maybe "Grinch" will see some gravy. Doubt it, though. Cast my vote for "CT,HD" yet again.

MAKEUP
Ah, well... if Willem weren't enough of a kick-ass actor for this film, his makeup surely helped. However, "Grinch" was some serious makeup, and for many more people. So, it's a tough call, but I'll go with "Grinch" by a nose hair.

SOUND
Maybe "Cast Away," just so it can get a little something, but more likely "Gladiator," since everyone's going to be feeling sorry for its absence in larger categories, and it's a way to reward the film without rewarding Sir Russell Sourpuss.

SOUND EFFECTS EDITING
What fucking bad choices. "U-571" because it has fewer old farts in it.

VISUAL EFFECTS
"Perfect Storm." No one liked "Hollow Man," even though its effects were top-notch.

There ya go!  I'll let you know once my cousin's opinions get stirred into my own. Take care!

I don't understand the Unabomber. Remember him? I remember, back in grad school, seeing his manifesto printed in the New York Times and thinking, "Y'know, he's not crazy. He just really, really hates technology." Now, maybe that's not an accurate summary, but that's what I was thinking at the time.

Today, I'm thinking that I could live like he did, alone in the woods in a shack with none of the technological conveniences of the day. I could do without watching television, listening to music, knowing what time it is, talking on the telephone. I love to write letters, so I could still communicate, much like the Unabomber did (sans bombs, of course). I love to read, and there's daylight for that, since, in this scenario, I would have no electricity. I don't cook, so the kitchen is a non-issue. I could totally remove myself from all types of communication.

As long as I had the Internet.

For example, I can log on to Pink Dot and order food, drinks, sundries, household goods aplenty. Yes, there's a Ralph's 1/2 block from my apartment, but I'd rather go to PDquick.com and click on the list they've created, showing me everything I've ever ordered from them, and have the heavy things brought right to my apartment for just a few bucks more than it would cost to get dressed, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and walk to Ralph's (and that takes too much time, once you factor in wandering up and down the aisles, standing in line, schlepping the bags home).

I can read all of the news on my favorite websites. I can post on boards where people with common interests live and lurk. I can update my website a dozen times, manage my eCircles, and shop, all from home. Amazon.com loves me. Think I'm overstating it?  Well, like Pink Dot, they keep up with my purchases. They also, bless their hearts, keep up with items I own that did not come from their site. More importantly, they care what I think about these things that I own. When no one in the world cares about me, Amazon.com wants to know if I like the things I've filled my shelves with. Oh, they are so sweet! I've ranked over 600 items, just so they can suggest the perfect Robyn Hitchcock CD, the coolest toys, and books written just for me.

Of course, if I'm here living the Unabomber life, I can't listen to the CDs they've recommended I buy. I can't watch the videos they suggest I add to my collection. That's okay. I don't need technology. I'll use Launch.com to hear music and watch some streaming video on some of those sites that have yet to go out of business. Let me add those lists to my bookmark file on the Palm Pilot. Oh, I'll just beam it over later.

Okay, so where was I? Oh, yeah, living without technology.... I don't know what the big deal is. I mean, it's not like I'm unreasonable. My iBook and my Palm Pilot (which really isn't a Palm Pilot, it's a Visor) aren't technology. They're pets!

Oh, wait. Maybe I'm not up for a technology-free existence. I'm just lazy. Whew! That's better. I can totally live with that. www.lazybutts.com? Hmm....

I'm not Catholic. I'm not Jewish (though I've been told I could pass -- it's all those Jewish ex-boyfriends, I s'pose). I'm not really anything, though I have things I believe that get me through each day and all of that stuff. Still, I don't go to a building and pray each week. I pray pretty much daily and I usually do that in bed, as I'm falling asleep, and even more while I'm driving. I'm not so much asking for things, when I pray, but really just being thankful for all the wonderful things that make up my life.

But it's almost that time again. Lent. Yup, I'm not Catholic but I always, always give up something for Lent. I figure, I can do without anything for 40 days. I mean, if I can't, then I'm a pretty big wus. And I know I've got will power. Anyone who's lost and gained hundreds of pounds over a dozen or so years knows how to show self control. At least for 40 days.

In 1999, after having lost 37 pounds, selling everything I owned, and moving out here to Los Angeles, I gave up COMPLAINING for Lent. I needed to give that up, let me tell you. I'd been working for a month with this borderline personality business owner who made every day in the office an absolute excuse for suicide (each day, I hoped it'd be hers, not mine) and had found a way to bitch my ass off every day about my psycho ex-roommate, my boss, not getting to eat chocolate, my pseudo-boyfriend's need for phone sex, etc. Complaining had to stop. So I gave it up.

That was a long 40 days. At first, I did a lot of complaining inside my head, which I decided had to stop as well. What's the point of giving something up if you're still thinking it loud and clear inside your head? Imagine, each time you think of complaining about something, anything, shutting yourself up. It kept me quite busy, honestly.

In 2000, I gave up GOSSIPING. I'd been working in a much better office, and only part-time, since I was beginning to earn more money doing freelance web design, pet-sitting, and acting. But my one or two days per week in this office provided me with lots of opportunity to engage in the good old fashioned office chit chat. I guess I appeared non-threatening, since I was hardly ever there, so everyone would tell me every piece of dirt they had on everyone else. I learned a lot. Oh, the temptation! Yeah, I knew what I needed to give up for Lent that year.

So, here it is, another opportunity to rid myself of some behavior. You've noticed I don't give up coffee or chocolate or smoking or drinking or swearing or something more traditional. Not sure why that is, exactly. Maybe because I'm sort of "faking" this Lent thing, not being Catholic and all.

Any suggestions for my 2001 Lenten Luau? Just email 'em to me. Winning suggestion will be, well, given up for Lent and written about in a future column. Woo hoo! Doesn't that sound like fun?

I refuse to get my hair cut.

No, I don't have some odd phobia (well, I do - I have a cotton ball phobia - but that's not what this column's about, so, for right now, I don't have a phobia), I just cannot get my hair cut.

I can excuse away my all-one-length, hip-grazing red hair by saying, "I'm an actress!  I can't cut my hair." Okay, that works. Here's why: When you are an actor, you are expected to show up for auditions looking like your headshot, which arrived in the hands of the casting directors (hopefully) well before your arrival. One of the biggest Hollywood pet peeves, from my understanding, is the air-brushed, glamour-shot-looking headshot, when the actor then shows up, less air-brushed, less glamorous. You piss off people that way.

I've been told, almost on 80% of the auditions I've attended, "Oh, it's so nice that your headshot looks like you!" Seems logical that it would, but I'm not into touch ups. I wear just a little makeup, so there's just a trace of it on me in my headshots. I have freckles. Those show up. I have blue eyes. Those show up shiny and light in those black and white 8-by-10s. I am a curvy, big girl, and I have what's called a 3/4 headshot that doesn't crop off my hips or boobs (this really shocks people, as I am told, "It's great that you use a headshot that shows your ass." - Are you kidding me? I show up for a day's work on the set, my ass shows up too. Who would I fool sticking my head on Julia Roberts' body? Sure, it might get me in the door, but my own ass following me around the corner would get me thrown out. I'd rather go legit). I also have, in my headshots, long, long hair.

Getting a haircut, and I mean more than just a trim, means not only getting a haircut (a staggering $125 venture just for a cut and style, when you start out with such long hair in Los Angeles), but getting new headshots. That's a new photo session, new proof sheets, new 8-by-10s, new prints, and a new supply of 'em to cart over to my agents' offices. It's also new photo postcards, photo business cards, photo mail inserts. Face it, I don't have an extra $600 lying around so that I can get a haircut right now.

But, this is just an excuse.

I have headshots from my last session that I could use, just by cropping them so that no one sees where my hair ends. No casting director would scream at me for entering a room with shorter hair than they thought I had, if it had been just their assumption that gave me longer hair than the photo indicated, right?

No, I refuse to get my hair cut because I watch too many court shows on TV.

I'm not talking quality television like "The Practice" and "Law & Order" - though I do watch those shows too. I don't mean CourtTV (I don't have cable). I'm talking about Judge Judy, The People's Court with her hubby, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Mathis, Judge Mills Lane, Curtis Court, Moral Court, Divorce Court, Judge Hatchett, and reruns of good ol' Judge Wapner's People's Court. If there is a court show on, I'll watch it... unless it's on up against any Brenda-weilding episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210" or a rerun of "Match Game."

These court shows have taught me a lot about life. Forget book learning! Forget talk shows and the (ha ha) local news! Watch court shows.

The average Joe or Josaphine (Judge Jerry's bailiff's name) gets up in front of the esteemed (or at least judgmental) entertainment professional and presents his or her case, supplying paperwork, photos, and other assorted pieces of evidence.

Including bags of hair.

In the past few weeks, while I've been planning "the big haircut" (actually preparing for a pretty major cut with some style and layers and things from which I can never turn back), I've noticed an enormous amount of hair being presented in these courts. And it's not all worn in on heads - it's in bags - the only transportation device appropriate for hair that's been burned, damaged, or processed off the head in the hands of an evil stylist-slash-defendant.

Look, if I'm going to get booked on a TV court show, I'm going to look damn good. Why risk getting my big break while holding a bagful of my own hair?

Okay, I love house-sitting. It's one of the dozen or so jobs I work so that I can pursue my acting career. So, when I complain about things that go on while I house-sit, I do so with the understanding that I'm really hypocritical, since I wouldn't give up the gigs for anything.

However, at this moment, I have a pug on my shoulders. Yes, a pug. Moses, the coolest, smartest, ugliest, snortiest pug on the planet, is hiding from Ruby, the prettiest, dumbest, most-in-need-of-Ritalin Sheppard/Lab mix puppy on that same planet. These two, supposedly, peacefully co-exist, but while I'm here, I'm not seeing any of that.

Of course, I don't understand dogs to begin with, so maybe it's a sweet, friendly thing when one clenches its mighty jaw around the snout of the other. I just know that that's the sort of behavior that gets me escorted out of trendy LA clubs. Maybe I go to the wrong clubs.

Anyway, while house-sitting, I usually get depressed over the fact that I surrender my free time during the most popular travel days of the year to pick up poop or scoop litter and live in a palace I could never afford. This time, I'm not depressed, despite the fact that I've been hearing constant messages on the machine, congratulating said palace-owner on her recent Golden Globe nomination. I'm not jealous. No, not at all! Even though I was sure that my birthday would be listed on Entertainment Tonight by the year 1990, I still believe that it shall be in 2001. That doesn't make me unreasonable, it means I have goals, dammit.

One of my goals, when I house-sit, is to take bubble baths. I have only a stand-up shower in my crash pad of an apartment, so this is a biggie. Other goals include watching cable TV (since I don't have cable) and using the kitchen (since I don't have one of those either). Even though I don't know how to cook, it's important to me to do more than microwave a frozen dinner, since I can do that much in my crash pad. Here, I can heat up Spaghetti-Os with Meatballs on the stove (which I did yesterday, for breakfast -- yummy).

Last night, after tiring out the puppy and convincing the pug not to carry away my socks, I began filling the bathtub with the usual water and some delicious smelling imported bubble stuff. I lit candles, put on some music, and eased into the tub. I thought the water could stand to be hotter, so I let some of it out, and began to add some more, full-blast on hot. I began to relax and breathe in the aroma of mango or whatever when I realized the water entering the bath was ice cold.

"Hmm," I wondered aloud, as I changed the temperature to the extreme other direction, figuring I'd somehow become inept at reading "H" and "C" and knowing what those letters mean. Nope, the water was still cold. "Well, this sucks," I told Moses, who was eying the bubbles, playfully. Figuring that the water heater just needed to replenish itself, I began washing my hair. Yeah, that was smart. I had to rinse this stuff out eventually, and, you guessed it, the water never heated up.

What a disaster! I'm now taking a tepid bath, rinsing my hair with icy water, not giving a shit about the mango stuff and all of this in front of a snorting pug. I'm outraged! Is this what I'm getting paid for?

Oh, wait... no, it's not. Duh! Back to cable TV.

Now, I know better than to put this "out there." It means my pass-riding days are over. And trust me, I do fear the Delta Gods. But there is something that only members of the Delta Royal Family share and it's time the rest of you knew.

I have a kinship with fellow Delta Brats that I didn't discover until college. See, we've been socialized to keep this lifestyle to ourselves. Now I know why.

I realize that people will not feel sorry for me when they know that my complaints relate directly to my lifetime of free flights, often in First Class. Okay, I'll admit it; it sounds petty to gripe about the rules when you're getting something for free. Still, it's time the truth is told about my childhood and Delta Airlines.

One important note, in case you Delta Spies are reading this and want to tell me that things have changed: I know things have changed. I still ride on pass, albeit a three-cents-a-mile version of the pass, and I know that now things aren't as strict, but the past did still happen the way I remember it, and it must be exposed!

When I was a child, even a teenager, taking a Delta flight meant putting on my Sunday Best. A nice dress, uncomfortable shoes, and always, always pantyhose. The idea behind the dress code is simple: We want those who fly Delta to appear as classy as the airline itself. If we can control the appearance of a percentage of the passengers, the other passengers may begin to show up in clothing other than ripped up jeans and flip-flops. Yeah, that's logical.

Well, when you're riding on a pass card, you know you might not get on the plane at all. You fly "space-available" and that means you only get on the plane if there's a seat not occupied by a paying customer. This is why I often end up in First Class - those are the seats that don't sell out, generally. Okay, but since I'm basically in competition with my fellow pass-riders for those coveted empty seats, I like to size up my competition. Here's how:  one of my favorite games to p