insomnia haiku

The two Michael Jacksons

Here's the thing about working in cubicles -- or, more particularly, working in cubicles in an entertainment-based area of a company.

"Michael Jackson had a heart attack." It was announced, and repeated, and spread... But then, someone said, in a louder-than-conversation-level voice, "What?! He's dead! TMZ reported it," and the ripples went all around the floor from section to section, voices raised in increasing interest and alarm, people murmuring and then gasping and talking and speculating and what is the truth?

So a colleague and I, after figuring there wasn't much we could do news-wise, went uptown for a screening. By this time, it was pretty much confirmed that Michael Jackson was dead. We got off the subway and it was so surreal; nearly every person we passed on the street was on their cell phone, saying, "Michael Jackson died?" I'm not exaggerating. We heard it everywhere -- from the woman on her phone behind us, who may have been eavesdropping on our conversation ("Someone's saying Michael Jackson died!"), the woman as we crossed the street ("Did you hear Michael Jackson died?") and a guy in the theater as we were looking for seats ("I'm still waiting, but CNN hasn't confirmed it yet").

My colleague said he was heartbroken by the news of Michael Jackson's death, because he once idolized him. I said to him, to me, there are two Michael Jacksons. There's the guy who was the talented musical genius we all admired; and then there was the freakazoid psycho of the last few years, who named his kid Blanket. And if I'm being honest, that first guy died a long time ago. He's the one I want to remember, the kid who sang "The Love You Save" in the Jackson Five, the boy who stood on his toes and grabbed us and made us gasp, the guy who made walking on the moon seem like the most beautiful and impossible thing we've ever seen or attempted.

And now he's inexplicably dead, and it's hard to know how to react. Michael Jackson may have been a freak, but "Thriller" was the first album I ever bought (on cassette tape!), and I will never ever forget that. So cheers to you, Michael Jackson. Also Farrah Fawcett, who kinda got robbed. And Ed McMahon. And to all of you: Live your life off the wall. If you ever practiced the moonwalk at home in your bedroom, then ... make it mean something. Somehow.

Seth Rogen is adorable and funny and all, but, uh ... no.

My favorite new website by far: fmylife. I'd heard people mention it but hadn't actually looked at it until this weekend, and I tell you, it is both cathartic and addictive. I'm not even going to ruin it for you by quoting any of the stories here. Just go check it out. I guarantee you it'll make you feel better about you own life -- or at least laugh at the misfortunes of others.

Also: I interviewed Seth Rogen on Friday. Interviews make me nervous, to be honest; but I think this one turned out OK. As for the co-worker who said that she'd rather have sex with Rogen than Brad Pitt -- which, hand to God, she really and truly said -- she started retracting that statement the next day, claiming that if the two actors came up to her in a bar, she might actually go with Pitt, because how often is it that Brad Pitt offers to sleep with you? Whereas Seth Rogen is the kind of guy you might actually be able to get.

On the one hand, no fair taking back what you said! I don't care how much alcohol you'd had! On the other hand ... well, good point. (Of course I would have no such dilemma in the first place, because, duh, Brad Pitt.)

The evolution of Jen

Not that long ago, somebody asked me why I feel sorry for Jennifer Aniston. My answer was that it must suck having to see your ex-husband and his girlfriend splashed on every magazine cover everywhere, and listen to them blabbing nonstop about how they fell in love while you were still married.

But there's another reason, as exemplified by the following two interview excerpts.

From her September 2005 Vanity Fair interview, post-Brad breakup:

"It's out there. It will happen. There's an amazing man that's wandering the streets right now who's the father of my children. In five years I would hope to be married and have a kid."

And from her interview with the UK's You magazine, published just three days ago (and let's keep in mind that shortly after she gave this interview, John Mayer dumped her):

"Whoever said that every relationship has to last for ever? That’s hoping for too much ... I have never been a woman who dreams about getting married and having children and having that house in Connecticut. On the contrary, I’ve always gone with the flow."

Wait ... what? Aren't those two sentiments exactly the opposite? Really, I think two things are pretty clear. 1) She used to be impossibly, heartbreakingly (perhaps stupidly) idealistic, and 2) JOHN MAYER BROKE HER. Either way -- sad.

Halal's Kitchen

I thought you could Google anything. I was wrong.

I started thinking about halal street-cart food tonight, namely chicken and rice, and I wondered how to make it. (It's not a coincidence that I have become obsessed with Top Chef, and there was a marathon recently -- as Bravo does -- so I DVRed a bunch of episodes from Season One, and I just watched the street food episode, hence the craving; and by the way, that guy Stephen is an ASS.) Not that hard to find a recipe, right? Wrong. Couldn't find one anywhere, no matter how I searched.

So now I've got halal food on the brain -- and in all my searches, while no recipes surfaced, two carts located relatively near my office did keep coming up, each with its slavish devotees. You know what I'm thinking... Taste test! One of them, Kwik Meal, is on 45th and Sixth Avenue, a little farther afield than I normally go for lunch, but doable. Apparently the guy at this cart used to cook at the Russian Tea Room, and has incredible lamb.

The other cart, known simply as 53rd and 6th, is a block away from my office but only serves after 8pm -- and whenever I've been near there when the cart's present, the line is always huge, scaring me off. I mean, not only would I have to stick around midtown and wait in line after already being annoyed to be at work so late, but the food would also be cold by the time I got home -- cuz what am I going to do, take it back to my desk? Nuh-uh. But this cart is wildly popular, it's often deemed the best street food in the city, and it was an entrant at the Vendy Awards last year, which I was fortunate enough to attend with Annah and friends. (My favorite was the Arepa Lady from Queens.) Unfortunately, even though the 53rd and 6th guys kindly served me a platter after the deadline, I had only taken one bite before spilling the contents of the container all over the concrete. Tragic.

At any rate, my mission, should I choose to accept it: Sample from both carts and declare a winner, if possible. Easy! Ha. I think I'm going to give Kwik Meal a try tomorrow (technically today), Friday. Wish me luck.   

Out of death comes betting

I have fallen into the predictable and unfortunate habit of only blogging on the weekends. I do occasionally blog for work, and I've linked to that in the right-hand column, but that's really not the same at all, is it? So I vow that, going forward, I will post here at least once (if not more!) during the week, even if only to say, "Work sucks and I'm swamped aaauuuggh but Prison Break was awesome this week." Won't that be fun for you?

(But speaking of TV, I am consistently amazed at how good a show Friday Night Lights is. I always kind of forget about it, and I don't feel compelled to make it appointment television every week -- in fact I never remember when it's on -- but then I do end up catching it off my DVR, and it just blows me away. Please watch it.)

And now on to more important things. Anna Nicole Smith died, which is awful and shocking and very sad for the baby, of course. May Anna Nicole rest in peace. I hope she at least found some happiness somewhere during the last year.

But -- if I may now be so crass -- her death bring us to the most pressing question of all: Who will be next to die? Celebrities always die in threes, of course. I'm guessing, for the sake of variety, it'll be one political figure and somebody else in entertainment, but somebody old. My vote? Fidel Castro and Kirk Douglas. (Someone at work hopefully suggested Dick Cheney for the political figure, but he's been looking pretty robust lately.) Other candidates: Roger Ebert (I hate to say it, but it wouldn't surprise me), Strom Thurmond, Brooke Astor (she's 104!), Lady Bird Johnson (94), Walter Cronkite. How 'bout y'all? Wanna take a crack at it?

OK, I think I've been morbid enough for one day. On a lighter note ... hmm, I can't think of anything. Resolved: Post on a lighter note tomorrow.

Promoting global diplomacy via Jordan Catalano

Recently, well over half the people stumbling upon Insomnia Haiku have been looking for the picture of a half-nekkid Jared Leto that I posted a while back. The weird thing is, these hits have come via foreign editions of Google Images—the French Google Images, the German Google Images, the Canadian Google Images (yes, that is so foreign). Tracing one referring address back got me to Google Pildiotsing, and I can't for the life of me tell what country that's supposed to be from. (The referring address itself is images.google.com/imgres) Based on the tagline, "Kõige laiahaardelisem pildiotsing veebis," I'm going to guess that it's... Finland? Help me out here, people.

While I'm baffled at why and how my Jared Leto photo is generating all this European interest—sorry, Canada, I meant international interest—I would like to welcome my foreign visitors with open arms. So, wilkommen! G'day, eh? Oui, Jared Leto est beau. Il est beau indeed.

Oh, and while you're here, please let me reassure you that we don't like George Bush either. Thanks. Just wanted to clear that up.

I hear Adam Brody's in a band, too... I'll get the Kleenex ready

Peter Gallagher was ten feet away from me today, at work. For reals! There is a small recording studio of some sort right next to my cubicle, which is usually most annoying because they (meaning the folks at AOL Radio) have listening parties or DJ sessions or whatever they are at 5 p.m. sometimes; and believe you me, I'm a big fan of music you can dance to—I'm wicked down with the fresh beats, and what have you—but trying to get mounds of work done while a remake of "You Spin Me Round" blasts at a gazillion decibels right next to your desk is, well, it doesn't necessarily make me want to get up and dance. And last week, they had the door to the studio open, and when somebody asked one of the guys from AOL Radio if they could close it since people were trying to work, he said sorry but no, because it got hot in the room. Sigh.

Anyway. Peter Gallagher. One of my colleagues came down to my desk to inform me that, according to one of the guys at AOL Radio, it was going to be loud for a couple of hours, because Peter Gallagher was going to be recording some songs. I perked up. "Is he coming here?" I asked. She gave me a look. "He's right there!" she whispered, motioning to the hallway. Now, the metal strip at the top of my cubicle happens to obscure neatly the face of anyone who happens to be standing... exactly where Peter Gallagher was standing. But I could see his hair and his forehead. I'd recognize those eyebrows anywhere. "Sandy!" I wanted to yell. "Sandy, I went to Berkeley, too!" He was wearing a green sweater the color of Kermit. Once his chit-chat with the AOL Radio folks was over, he went into the studio and sang Lucinda Williams's "Still I Long for Your Kiss," messing up the words a couple times before he got it right. He has sort of a throaty voice in the Joe Cocker mold. After a few takes, everyone applauded, and then he sang a song I've never heard before. He came outside, signed a piece of paper, shook the hands of a few people in the office ("It doesn't suck!" he joked about people's surprised reaction to his album—and he sounded just like Sandy Cohen when he said it), and then he left, sans fanfare.

I never saw his face all that well, and I didn't say boo to him. I was trying to play it cool, you see. One of my co-workers had a better plan, though; he walked down the hallway to get some water, and as he passed he made eye contact with Peter Gallagher, and they did the nod and the "hey." Dammit. Men are so much better at this. I was kind of hoping he'd ask me for a pen or something. Maybe I should've faked a coughing fit. Or, as my roommate later suggested, I should've sneezed a bunch of times, and he'd have had to say "bless you." See? Men really do have a knack for this.

I guess Peter Gallagher's got an album out, hence the mini-session promotion. And also (warning: complete non sequitur ahead), apparently Boalt, the law school at U.C. Berkeley, now offers a Sandy Cohen Fellowship for students who want to become public defenders. Which is both admirable and profoundly dorky—just like Sandy Cohen. And, I would like to think, Peter Gallagher.

Katie Holmes: not the impressionable naïf we all thought she was

I'm not going to comment on the impending TomKitten, just because, where to begin? The mind reels. But I did want to draw your attention to the gallery of AP photos attached to the ABC News article about the, uh, nascent spawn. Click on the blue bar marked "See Tom and Katie Through the Months." In four out of six of the photos (including the one on the main page), Katie is . . . clutching Tom in some way.

One might say that she's simply tall and needs something to lean on, and that Tom is standing in here for the silver-tipped cane. Or it could be that she's insecure, afraid of losing her man. But I suggest a more insidious explanation: Tom is not the mastermind behind this dastardly relationship, oh, no. It's Katie who has somehow gotten to him and is pulling the strings. Perhaps she has some secret on him—photos of him and his gay lover, perhaps? Incorrigible proof that Scientology is a fraud? The script for Mission Impossible 4? Whatever the reason, she's got him under her thumb, and she's hanging onto him because she knows he would otherwise try to escape. Just look at the gleam in her eye. She's been planning this since she was a little girl, after all. Oh, Katie. You clever, evil girl.

She didn't say it, but I will: Brad Pitt is an asshole

Note: In honor of my new job, I have changed my blog template. Also, I was bored. For whatever it's worth, this design is called Powell Street. San Francisco shout-out!

At Newark Airport on my way to San Francisco last week, I wasted five bucks (or whatever it was) on a copy of Vanity Fair, since I am a gossipmonger and vulnerable to PR and was shamefully curious to read the interview with Jennifer Aniston. What amused me to no end is that the letter from the editor, Graydon Carter, went on and on about the investigative journalism and biting commentary in the magazine, yet made no mention of the celebrity fluff for which 90 percent of its readers had bought the issue in the first place. (I know that number's a little high. I'm not counting subscribers. I also know that last sentence was really convoluted. Shut up.)

I finished the article while waiting to board, slept on the flight, and accidentally left the magazine at my friend's place in Berkeley without having read anything besides the inteview. It's probably just as well, since the magazine weighed twice as much as my computer, and I was getting huge red welts on my shoulder from lugging both of them around. One of them had to go. It wasn't going to be the computer.

As for the article itself? (I know you're dying to know.) Well, either Jennifer Aniston is a terrific actor, or she's a far stronger person than I will ever be. Not once does she call Brad Pitt a nasty name or whine, accuse, or otherwise lash out in any way. Granted, she bursts into tears about five times during the interview—which took place over the course of several days—but she seems to be keeping it together fairly well, considering that her estranged husband has been traipsing around the world with another woman and playing father to her kids. I know I would've been pissed as all-get-out, and there's no way I would have been able to hide that from an interviewer. Then again, maybe this is why Jennifer Aniston makes the big bucks.

For the record, Jen (yes, we are on a first-name, nickname basis now) says that Brad told her nothing had happened between him and Angelina before the breakup, and she says, "I choose to believe my husband, though nothing would surprise me at this point." (That's a paraphrase, obviously, since I don't have the magazine anymore.) She says she's not an idiot, and realizes that they were attracted to each other on the set, even if nothing was technically going on. She also claims that the constant time apart during their marriage took its toll, and that she wanted to work on their issues, but he just sort of checked out. And she charges that the rumor that he wanted to have children, but that she wanted to put her career first, is blatantly and maliciously untrue. If she comes off as being angry at Brad about anything, it's that he didn't put a stop to those rumors when he could have.

As I said, the lack of finger-pointing on her part is remarkable. But she says that her parents divorced when she was young, and her mother was very bitter for a long time, and she doesn't want that to happen to her. Even if she doesn't say so in as many words, Brad comes off as kind of immature, extremely insensitive, and a little bit—OK, a lot—of a jerk for allowing his new relationship to be rubbed in Jen's face every time she turns on the TV or opens a magazine. But one thing in the interview has really stayed with me, as embarrassing as it is for me to admit that I got value from a celebrity interview. Ahem. So, Jen said that she's been seeing a therapist for years, and her therapist tells her that "Even if it's 98 percent the other person's fault, it's 2 percent yours." The point being that while you have little to no control over the 98 percent, it's your responsibility to focus on the 2 percent. I may be a therapy simpleton, but I find that pretty fucking profound. If I ever become rich and famous, or even just rich, I'm hiring Jennifer Aniston's therapist.

By the way, I just discovered that someone had scanned the interview and posted it, here. So you can just read the whole thing for yourself. I could have mentioned this up top and saved you the trouble of reading the entire post, but I'm cruel that way.

A prince, a Nobel laureate, and Michael Jackson walk into a bar

Yes, I know Saul Bellow died, and so did Prince Rainier. But let's keep our focus on the important news of the day, people: Michael Jackson's former maid once saw Jackson showering with an eight-year-old boy.

I would tie this all together somehow, but really, I've got nothing.