the chicago dispLAcement ®

I’m a little slow when it comes to television hype. I got into Sex and the City only after watching the series finale. I finally understood why everyone loved Family Guy when watching an episode eight years after it premiered. (I have yet to jump on board The Simpsons train.) And it was only three months ago that I finally saw American Idol.

I never needed to watch American Idol to know who was getting the boot. With each new season, a huge billboard goes up on Pico Boulevard – and I’m assuming other major streets around LA – that displays the headshots of the top ten contestants. And every week, one unfortunate soul gets a huge, humiliating, red ‘X’ plastered over his or her face. So it never occurred to me to tune in until one evening when my boyfriend and I couldn’t find anything good on TV. That’s when we caught one of the audition episodes.

Though critiquing the contestants – especially the crazies – was entertainment enough, my bf and I were fascinated by what the judges had to say… and whether or not we concurred with their opinions. To our collective horror, we seemed to be locked in agreement with virtually every assessment that Nicki Minaj gave to each singer. Also, I discovered an inverse relationship between Minaj’s outfits and her performance reviews: the crazier she looked, the saner her advice was. My boyfriend and I gasped several times at her innate wisdom. She’s like a bleached blonde Buddha.

Carey on the other hand… It’s a good thing that she can sing because that girl cannot give a decent critique to save her life. Most of the time, she simply blurts out a series of “dah-lings” and “you’re so you” and “I love what you’re wearing.” But I can’t really fault her. Though the Mariah of today is a far cry from the chick that came on the scene with “Vision of Love,” she’s still got the goods. Because she’s such a phenomenal singer, though, I don’t think she understands how to talk to someone so obviously below her. It’s like asking Meryl Streep to explain the finer points of acting to Megan Fox.

From what I hear, I missed the heyday of American Idol judging. Apparently watching Simon Cowell eviscerate contestants was entertainment at its finest. Meh…. I tuned into The X Factor once to see what the hubbub was about, but the only thing offensive about Cowell was his ridiculously tight T-shirt.

However, my boyfriend was taking great offense to a certain wannabe Idol: Lazaro Arbos. Now when we first met this shy, unassuming contestant, we were as enamored of him as the rest of America. Lazaro has a stutter, yet he still found the courage and perseverance to audition. You go, Lazaro! So when my bf and I found out that he had made it to the top ten, we were thrilled. But by the next show, we were looking guiltily at one another, both of us thinking the same thing… Lazaro had to go. For the record, Lazaro’s stutter isn’t an issue when he sings, so don’t get all in a tizzy that we’re discriminatory a-holes. Plain and simple, he wasn’t as strong a singer as the rest of the crew. In fact, he was easily at the back of the pack, vocally speaking. But week after week, just like his namesake, Lazaro would keep rising from the dead and live on for another show. And my boyfriend would get increasingly more indignant with each non-Lazaro elimination. Mind you, this is a man who graciously smiles each time that my beloved Blackhawks steamroll his broken down Red Wings, which incidentally happened during each of their meet-ups this season, but I digress… He simply could not accept the fact that America was pity-voting Lazaro to the top.

Though mildly surprised, I accepted it. Dancing with the Stars has already taught me that the American public doesn’t know its cha cha from its samba when it comes to judging good dancers. How else do you explain Kristie Alley, Rob Kardashian, and Bristol Palin all making it to the finals? I figure that American Idol voters know just as little about singing talent. (Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood are statistical aberrations.)

But finally justice was served. Last week, Lazaro got his walking papers, my bf was appeased, and sanity was restored to the American Idol world. If I’m honest, though, watching last night’s episode without Lazaro was a tad boring. Here’s hoping that Mariah and Nicki finally give America what it wants: a stiletto throwing, hair extension pulling, fake fingernail breaking catfight.

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So last Sunday the 85^th Academy Awards happened, and they were marvelous. All you people who take the higher moral ground and refuse to watch the Oscars, you totally missed out. The show was ridiculous and cringe-worthy and hilarious. Honestly, it was by far more entertaining than actual movies I’ve seen this year. (Ahem, The Watch.)

But don’t worry. I’m not about to go through a play-by-play of Meryl Streep’s attempt to free her wedgie on national television or Jennifer Lawrence’s face plant, though they definitely were some of the show’s finer moments. Another highlight was the tacky use of the Jaws theme song to boot chatty Oscar winners off stage, especially when the crew who won Visual Effects for Life of Pi were trying to bring awareness to the plight of overworked and underpaid VFX houses. Well done, time wranglers.

And though it sounds like I’m just another hater, I do it because I care. Really. I love the Oscars. I loved Christoph Waltz’s classy acknowledgement of his fellow nominees. I loved Jennifer Hudson’s crazy awesome – and live! – performance of “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going.” (Sorry, Catherine Zeta-Jones, but the jig is up.) And there wasn’t a single moment of Daniel Day-Lewis’s acceptance speech that I didn’t adore. Can he just win every year?

But what I’m beginning to realize is that the Oscars broadcast isn’t the real entertainment. It’s the scathing next-day review of whatever celebrity had the unfortunate honor of hosting it. And apparently singing a truly rousing rendition of “We Saw Your Boobs” is not enough to endear Seth MacFarlane to the Oscar-viewing public. Who knew?

Um… Anyone who has ever watched even five minutes of Family Guy, that’s who. People, this is the man who wrote a film about a beer-guzzling, pot-smoking, girl-ogling stuffed teddy bear. And guess what? That movie has grossed more than $200 million in the United States alone. So it should come as no surprise that MacFarlane would come to the Oscars with his finest and crassest jokes in tow.

Since that memorable performance, I’ve seen numerous headlines calling MacFarlane sexist, misogynistic, a rape glorifier… Seriously? Instead of pointing fingers at the guy who simply called out the fact that some actresses bared their breasts on camera, why not question the filmmakers who felt that seeing those breasts was necessary to conveying their stories? Talk about shooting the messenger. Not to mention the fact that those actresses were likely paid handsomely for their roles. Not to mention x2 that if you look closely at MacFarlane’s bit, the cutaways to Naomi Watts, Jennifer Lawrence, and Charlize Theron show them in attire different from what they wore to the Oscars. Meaning, they taped it ahead of time. Meaning x2, those women were in on the joke. Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.

So can we all just lighten up a bit? Look, I’m not saying that singing about women’s breasts is the creative choice I would have made had I been hosting the Oscars. And given the high esteem in which the Academy Awards are supposedly held, it did seem rather odd to do a song and dance number about boobies. I can only imagine what Fred Astaire or Audrey Hepburn would have thought had they been in attendance. That said, I have no doubt that those who were in attendance were more than happy to swap out their indignation for their $50K goody bags and call it a night.

What I don’t get is why people keep signing up for this gig. With the exception of the fabulous Ms. Fey and the magnificent Ms. Poehler – because obviously they can do no wrong – most celebrities get destroyed by the public after hosting an awards show. I don’t think that Seth MacFarlane is misogynistic, though he may very well be masochistic.

Whatever floats your boat, Seth.

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I guess you could say that some of today’s television shows have catchy theme songs. Most people could probably recognize the open to Modern Family. Unfortunately, I think just as many people would instantly know Two and a Half Men as well. But with few exceptions, most network programs have super boring or nonexistent opens.

What happened? Back in the day, the theme songs were just as memorable as the shows themselves. Sometimes more so. I couldn’t tell you a single plotline from The Facts of Life, but hells yeah, I could sing you the open. And Cheers. And Three’s Company. I bet I could do a decent rendition of Diff’rent Strokes, too. Props to Alan Thicke.

As with most songs, whether they’re sung on television or radio, you form lasting recollections of them because of the moment or time period they evoke. But perhaps more branded into my memory are not the theme songs from the shows that I watched, but rather those that my father liked. Which, by the way, were all totally depressing.

I always knew when my dad had tuned into M*A*S*H because suddenly I would be overwhelmed by an inexplicable wave of sadness. Given that the open to M*A*S*H is called “Suicide Is Painless,” I think my reaction to hearing it was entirely apropos. That said, I barely knew my ABCs when M*A*S*H went off the air, so I’m not sure if having such feelings of melancholy were healthy for a kid my age, especially on a weekly basis. And here’s a fun fact… M*A*S*H was Emmy-nominated 11 times… for Outstanding Comedy Series.

Same goes for Hill Street Blues. Not the Emmy nominations for being a comedy. At least the academy – or whoever decided the votes – had the sense to recognize that the show was as depressing as its theme song and called it a drama. What I’m referring to is the sorrow I would experience while watching it on the couch with my dad, blankie in hand and thumb in mouth. Coping mechanisms.

And apparently I’m not the only one who went through television-induced depression during my formative years. Just the other night, my boyfriend and I discovered that we both suffer from Taxi post-traumatic stress disorder. Taxi was the worst of the despondent 1980s theme songs.

Now I realize that all the songs I’m mentioning have received high praise for their quality and composition and whatever other musical terms apply. So I’m not saying that they’re bad songs. But I am saying that they made me want to throw down a few sleeping pills with my chocolate milk and call it a night.

The thing about Taxi is that the entire show was depressing. The theme song was only the precursor to what would be 22 minutes of miserable characters and an even more miserable backdrop. No wonder Christopher Lloyd was always drugged out. I wish I could erase all memory of Sunshine Cab Company, too.

I must have a very different sense of humor from adults of the late ’70s and early ’80s. Like M*A*S*H, Taxi was Emmy-nominated multiple times – and won most of those nominations – for Outstanding Comedy Series. In fact, it was up against M*A*S*H three times – and trumped the Korean War “comedy” each year. It also beat out Mork & Mindy. Whaaat?

But I suppose even the tried and true sitcoms of the 1980s had their darker moments. I still remember the Family Ties episode when Alex battled his grief over a friend’s death. And what about when Carol Seaver’s boyfriend died? I wept many tears over Matthew Perry that night.

You don’t see that too often in primetime television anymore. I can’t imagine shows like Parks & Recreation or New Girl tackling teen drunk driving. Maybe because there are no teens on either show, but that’s beside the point. To be totally honest, though, I prefer it that way. I like my comedy straight up, and after a long day of work, all I want to do is tap out to Leslie Knope’s bubbling enthusiasm and Jess Day’s adorkableness. Though shows like M*A*S*H and Taxi may have their place among the greats of television programming, I’m content to let others explore the depths of their despair with them in syndication.

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Graduation time is here. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed students the world over are donning their caps and gowns as they bid farewell to high school and college. It’s also that time of year when noted celebrities give profound commencement speeches about the purpose of life and why you should floss your teeth everyday.

My opinion? Those lovely speeches are wasted on the wrong people.

Once upon a time, I too was a high school senior. In fact, I was the one giving a speech at my graduation, as I was the class salutatorian. Being salutatorian is a dubious honor at best. Does anyone care – or even remember – who placed second in a presidential election? Or more importantly, the Super Bowl? Yet you would think that since I fared well academically I would have been off and running come college, ready to tackle the world with both arms.

Nope.

I floundered during my first few years of school. In fact, I failed college, both academically and pretty much in every other way as well. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing or what I wanted. I only went to my *first* college anyway because my best friend applied there. She decided to do the pre-med sequence, and that sounded pretty good, so I did, too. I figured that becoming a doctor was the natural choice for me. After all, I had won my high school’s science award. However, not only did I perform horribly in every single one of those classes, but also I realized that I wasn’t that upset about it. Yet it was the not being upset that upset me. Even more disturbing was that the courses I enjoyed the most were – horror of horrors – the acting classes I was taking to fulfill my general education requirements. What the hell was happening to me?

I applaud the college freshmen that know exactly what they want out of life and how they’re going to get it. I fell into the latter category, though; I was an eighteen-year-old with a long road ahead of one or two hits and many misses before I realized what my life should be. A total of four schools and two degrees later, I am just finally beginning to somewhat feel that maybe I’m perhaps getting close to possibly figuring out what I might be good at… I think. Moreover, if you had told my eighteen-year-old self that I would one day be a writer living in LA, she probably wouldn’t have believed it. Partly because I never thought a career could be something that didn’t feel like work, and partly because I never thought I would willingly move somewhere with worse traffic than Chicago.

That’s not to say everyone should go about it my own winding way. On the contrary, I took a few licks here and there that I would very much like to forget. Yet those mistakes taught me the most valuable lessons. FYI, never enter into a living arrangement with a friend who is less than 100% financially reliable. If even once you have to convince yourself, “No, really, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” then run – don’t walk – from the leasing office. Now that’s something I wish someone had told me when I graduated high school.

Taking stock of your life at the end of high school or college is like getting a car wash in the middle of a Midwestern winter. It’ll be covered with ice and salt again in fifteen minutes, so what’s the point? Graduates may think they know it all, but the truth of the matter is that it takes a few years – or decades – before the pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, that’s exactly when those eloquent speeches might actually mean something to us.

For all of you who now pull all-nighters because of a colicky baby rather than a chem final… For anyone who prefers to blow off steam with a nice cup of chamomile tea instead of a keg stand… Now’s the time to hit up YouTube. Search “commencement speech.” At the top of the results is Steve Jobs’ 2005 Stanford commencement address. Take a minute (or 15 of them) to watch it.

Done yet? Cool. Pretty much everything he says is awesome, and certainly his words regarding death now hold a greater poignancy because of his passing last October. However, I’m drawn to the part about connecting the dots. As he states, you can’t connect them going forward. Most twenty-two year olds have accumulated zero dots to connect anyway, so they can’t really understand what he means, but hopefully the rest of us do. Looking back on the years since high school and college, can you see the connections? Regardless of any missteps you may have taken along the way, can you see the picture of your life taking shape? It’s like those dotted images in kiddie coloring books. It can be difficult at times to make out what it’s supposed to be, but then all of sudden you see the blooming rose or soaring eagle. If you too can look back at your life and see something beautiful, then congratulations. Better than any 4.0 GPA or graduation honor, that’s something truly worth celebrating.

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I haven’t been shy about the love affair I have with my alma mater. In fact I adore it so much that I finagled my way onto the National Alumni Board over the summer. This from a girl who spent the first thirteen years of her education at the same school but never once thought of running for class office.

So last weekend all of us board members were flown into Chicago for Alumni Weekend. I was very excited and ready to proudly represent my school as an ambassador. I even thought that perhaps I could impart my “real world” wisdom to new alums in need of guidance and support.

Then I regressed back into college mode.

First, the living arrangements. I was going to be sharing a hotel room with one of my good friends. It was totally awesome. Just like being in a dorm again. We talked. We laughed. We watched Mr. Mom and ate Ben & Jerry’s. The only thing that had really changed this time was that someone else was making my bed each morning and I didn’t have to wear flip-flops while taking a shower.

Second, the bad eating habits. If I wasn’t in class during college, you could most likely find me at Taco Bell or McDonald’s. Sadly I’ve never had a fast metabolism and weighed a good thirty pounds more than I do now. Though I have since become smarter about my meal choices, all that went out the window the moment I was back on campus. Both fruit and pastries were offered during our first breakfast meeting; I completely ignored the berries and melon and grabbed two cheese danishes instead. At lunch I had maybe one bite of my apple but made sure my bag of potato chips was completely finished off. In fact, ninety percent of what I ate over the weekend consisted of very tasty but very bad for you carbohydrates like coffee cake, pasta, French fries, hash browns and grits. No wonder my pants have been feeling snug all week.

Third, the late nights and early mornings. For the record, I’m a champion sleeper. I can doze off at 8pm and still sleep in until noon the next day. Though given my roommate situation, most evenings were spent chatting for hours on end before finally passing out from exhaustion. And forget sleeping in until noon. We were expected on campus at 8am both Friday and Saturday. One of those early morning dates was with a 5K run around the lake. Did I mention that it was raining most of the weekend? I had forgotten that Chicagoans don’t pay much attention to inclement weather. I doubt they even consider rain in that category at all. Needless to say, the run was not cancelled. Yet the exhilaration of racing past Soldier Field as a rainbow gleamed overhead was well worth my soaked-to-the-bone attire. It also guaranteed that I would stay bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the rest of the day despite sleep deprivation. P.S. I naively allowed myself to believe that rainbow signaled a win for my beloved Bears against the Packers the next day. Stupid rainbow.

Fourth, the awesome friendships. I must admit that I was a tad nervous to meet my fellow board members. Relatively speaking I was a newbie; many of my peers had been active alumni members for years. It was just like the first day of class all over again. My stomach was swimming with anxiety and excitement. Of course everyone was great and after just a few hours it felt like I had known them for years. Once it was time to fly back to LA, I knew I had made life-long friendships with some really amazing people. If I had more time, I would have made everyone a mixed CD.

Lastly, the excitement that you just might be doing something worthwhile with your life. At the risk of sounding like Pollyanna, I really loved this weekend because it felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I can remember experiencing the same thrill after watching a really amazing movie in class and imagining someday I would make a film that could have the same effect on others. Though it went by much too fast, last weekend restored my faith that everyone can make a difference. We still have a long way to go, but just like that first day of school, you have to start somewhere.

There was only one thing that truly bummed me out about last weekend… Not once did I get carded. I may still feel like a college student at times, but apparently I no longer look like one.

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I remember exactly three things about preschool. One, those uncomfortable cots we were forced to sleep on during naptime. (Whatever kid wetted their cot first promptly ended our afternoon siesta.) Two, this obnoxious curly-haired boy who always tried to body check me anytime I wasn’t paying attention to his whereabouts. Hated him. Three, our drawing hour. Everyday, our preschool teachers – Ms. Pretzel and Ms. Cookie, though I have my doubts those were their real names – would arrange all the tables lengthwise and have us kids draw to our hearts’ content. Once during one of these sessions, the kid to my left tapped me on the shoulder and shyly asked, “What do you think of my drawing?” Upon a few moments of quiet reflection, I answered, “That’s not a drawing. That’s just scribbles.”

I’ve always had a discerning eye for art. Whether it’s the newest acquisition to the Art Institute or my seven-year-old nephew’s latest masterpiece, I will say exactly what I think about said creation. Granted, I never took a single art history class in college, but whatever, I know good art when I see it. Likewise, I have seen many, many duds in my time.

Yet I try to give the benefit of the doubt. This became standard practice during my Columbia College days. From my first class to my last, I was watching student films of various… appeal, let’s say. Though most of them were not intended to be experimental pieces, usually I was at a complete loss as far as what was going on. But they were my classmates. I wanted to support them, so at the very least I would offer up a sincere “great camera work” or “loved the sound design” even when I couldn’t retell the storyline had a gun been put to my head. Plus, who was I to judge? I certainly wasn’t cranking out cinematic perfection. In fact, my first film came back from the lab completely black. Whoops. Needless to say, I felt a little hypocritical when critiquing others’ work.

But I like to judge, and I think we should judge. That’s how we figure out what’s good and what’s not. Granted, critiquing art is about the most subjective thing on the planet, but why does everyone tiptoe around what they really think? If you don’t like something, just say so. As an artist, it’s totally unrealistic to think that everyone is going to love what we do all the time, but that’s exactly what we want. We encourage people to sugarcoat their opinions, coddling our sensitive egos so that our creative fire isn’t doused or some other equally pathetic metaphor. Thing is, you don’t see that much in any other profession. When a doctor amputates the wrong leg, I doubt his patient pats him on the back and says, “It’s okay. You meant well.” Sure, watching a bad movie isn’t the same as losing a perfectly functioning limb; it’s worse.

It’s like that ridiculous trend of giving every kid at a sporting event a trophy. No. No. No. That’s not how it works. If little Timmy crosses the finish line last, then by definition he is not as good as the kid who crosses first. Period. She deserves the praise, not him. Yet now the general consensus is that every child should get a ribbon to keep his or her self-esteem intact. Know what? It’s a cold, cruel world out there. The sooner little Timmy finds out that running the hundred in thirty seconds is really pretty awful, the better. Plus, kids don’t care about winning if they’re rewarded the same after losing. I promise you they’ll happily let someone else blaze that trail of glory if they’re still guaranteed a new video game no matter if they finish first or fifth.

The bottom line is that it’s okay to be critical. Sure, it should be done with tact and hopefully some positive reinforcement of how to do better next time. It’s not much help when someone says, “Anna, your trailer was worthless.” (True story.) But the fact that Mr. Tough Guy Behind A Computer Screen didn’t dig my trailer isn’t in and of itself a tragedy. Just inspires me to do better next time. Likewise, not every one of these blog posts is gonna have them rolling in the aisles. I’m not gonna be batting a thousand every week. Not every piece of coal can be turned into a diamond. I can keep going like this forever…

You get my point. Is Michelangelo a genius? Absolutely. Did Shakespeare write some pretty amazing stuff? Of course. Am I even close to that kind of artistic perfection? Not a chance, and that’s okay. For now. But Mr. Stuart Smalley’s mantra of being good enough isn’t good enough for me. It shouldn’t be good enough for you either. Remember… Goonies never say die.

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Casablanca. Lawrence of Arabia. The Godfather. Cinematic classics, right? All Oscar winners. All important enough to be preserved by the National Film Registry. Usually get solid props on whatever “Top 100” list is released every few months. I get it. They’re decent films. I’ve got no qualms with them.

I don’t love any of them either. Sure, I respect them. There’s no denying the amazing acting, excellent camera work and compelling storylines, but an Oscar-worthy performance isn’t going to comfort me when I’m down and out with a cold. A well-shot film won’t see me through a bad day. Even if it’s not a bad day – maybe I just need a little background noise during a Saturday afternoon of cleaning and doing laundry – On the Waterfront won’t be the film I’m reaching for.

The Goonies. Footloose. Anything by John Hughes. These are the movies I love. The DVDs I would grab if fleeing a house fire. Perhaps none of them have a “Best Picture” stamp of approval, but who really cares? When I’m hating everything about the world, all I have to do is watch ten minutes of This Is Spinal Tap to make me feel human again. If asked to choose between Citizen Kane and Strange Brew, I would promptly reply, “Hand me a beer, eh?”

Yet while my devotion to Girls Just Want to Have Fun and Better Off Dead remains resolute, I have never been able to muster that same nostalgic love for one particular film, E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, the very first movie I ever saw in a theatre. Long story short, it was a horrifyingly traumatic experience. E.T. completely freaked me out; I refused to even look at the screen. I just sat in my dad’s lap, my little arms strangling his neck while staring at the projection window the entire time. Especially terrifying was that opening scene in the forest. I can’t really tell you anything else about it since I wasn’t actually watching the movie, but it was hella scary. I remember that much.

Multiple times my dad tried to undo my death grip and convince me that E.T. was really a good guy. No need to be afraid. He was just a pudgy alien who loved little kids (just like me!) and liked to kick back with a Coors every once in a while. Regardless, something about those huge bug eyes, spindly fingers and extendable neck totally creeped me out.

For years afterwards I had an E.T. complex. He was such a little dude that hypothetically speaking, he could be anywhere in our house. Upon entering the bathroom, I automatically would pull back the shower curtain. Just in case. Upon entering the living room, I would look behind the chairs. Just in case. I sometimes even checked under the bed. (This complex was probably somewhat complicated by the clown in Poltergeist as well; yet another film my father let me watch way too young. Thanks, Dad. A special shout-out also goes to Mr. Spielberg.) Needless to say, I never watched E.T. again.

So a few weeks ago, my friends tell me about some screenings around town featuring some of my favorite flicks: Back to the Future, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off… and E.T. “Okay,” I thought, “this is a good thing. I’m an adult now. I’ll be with my friends. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

The evening started out iffy. Within moments of the opening credits, I involuntarily grabbed my friend’s arm. Hard. But now that a few decades have gone by, I can conclusively say that the forest scene is scary. The music. The shadows. That weird creature fleeing from those ominous-looking strangers. Little kid or not, that part of the movie is freaky. However, I’m happy to report that I successfully restrained myself from climbing into my friend’s lap.

As the movie progressed, my emotions eventually evolved from fear to happiness to full-on waterworks. Holy cow. Maybe that’s why I hated E.T. so much as a kid. It’s so sad when he gets sick. I couldn’t take it when I saw him lying in that stream. Poor little guy. And when the mom leaves him all alone in the bathroom? You’re a monster if you didn’t shed at least a few tears when he reached out for Elliot.

*SPOILER ALERT* But has anyone really not seen this movie yet? Anyway. The worst is the goodbye scene. I once read that Spielberg shot the film in chronological order to evoke authentic responses at the end from the child actors. Knowing this only made me cry harder. So sad! (Though I was somewhat distracted by the number of times they felt the need to show Dee Wallace kneeling and then standing up again during that sequence. What was that about?)

Okay, so I’m officially an E.T. fan, which means that I now love every single movie ever made during the 1980s. (Notable exception: Never Cry Wolf.) However, can’t say that I’ll ever buy the DVD. Or watch that movie alone. E.T. may be cute and cuddly, but he can easily hide in several of my closets. Not about to take that chance.

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Living in LA, you tend to see celebrities every once in a while. However, as I have never dined at The Ivy or snorted blow at Trousdale, I don’t come across these freaks of nature in the usual places. Most often I’m grabbing a coffee or debating what kind of potatoes to buy when I catch a glimpse of Kate Bosworth ordering around her assistant in the produce aisle (true story). I’m usually caught off guard and therefore do a hard double take to make sure that person is who I really think she is. Yet upon confirming her identity, I immediately turn back my attention to the potatoes because I don’t want to be that person. You know, the one who runs up to Kate and babbles on about how I loved her in Blue Crush (again, true story). Once you do that, you’re not really a person anymore. You’re just a fan. You’re the freak of nature.

Even when spotting someone whom I truly admire, I try to remain a cool customer. No big deal if my celebrity crush is sitting next to me in a restaurant. No matter if it’s my birthday and I’m feeling somewhat entitled to disturb his romantic evening with a very attractive hussy. I won’t say anything, even when both his dinner date and mine excuse themselves, leaving just the two of us in the room. I will not make a peep, only stare creepily as he plays with his iPhone.

But we all have a weakness. We all have that one actor/athlete/American Idol who makes us smile and instantly gush, “I love them!” And we really do. We love their sense of humor or how they broke the record for most combined return touchdowns. We love their unique voice or how magnificent they were in The King’s Speech.

Me? I love Tina Fey, and I’m not alone. Millions of people love her. It’s obvious why. The lady is funny. The lady is smart. The lady is super sexy because of the previously stated qualities. And lucky me, I got to see her in person the other night.

I found out through the Twitterverse that Fey was promoting her new book by having a Q&A with another well-respected entertainer, Steve Martin. Now I’m not one to make rash purchases – I will circle Target a full two times while thinking long and hard if I really need those $3.99 pair of boot socks – but that’s exactly what I did when I read that fateful tweet. I needed to be in the presence of my celebrity girl crush.

Fast-forward to that evening. One of my dear friends and I were seeing Fey together. I knew it was going to be a special night because (1) the Blackhawks had finally won a game against Vancouver, thus avoiding a shameful first round sweep and (2) that dear friend surprised me with a copy of Bossypants for the book signing after the main event. I was gonna get face time with Tina Fey!

Not surprisingly, the Q&A was awesome. Fey and Martin were hilarious, though they could have read from the dictionary the entire time and I still would have laughed my head off. The only real downer was that it lasted just an hour. Had I not a book in my hands to guarantee some Fey action later on, I would have left a wee bit disappointed.

Yet as the crowd filtered out of the auditorium, it became clear that many, many people shared my celebrity girl crush. I started to get a little nervous. Was she really going to sign all of our books? Um, no. After many minutes of standing in a massively bloated line snaking toward her table, we began to hear rule upon rule barked at us from some buzzkill ushers.

“If you don’t have a book, you can’t wait in line to see Tina Fey!”

“There will be no personalization for your book. Tina Fey will be signing only her name!”

“Tina Fey has a plane to catch! Tina Fey will be signing books for only one hour!”

“If you preordered your book, it is already signed! If it is already signed, Tina Fey will not be signing your book again!”

Wow. What a bunch of party poopers. But then suddenly there she was… We made eye contact. She smiled. I smiled back. She signed my book. I said thank you. She said thank you back. I walked away. It was magical.

I’ll heart you forever, Tina Fey.

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The evening started innocently enough. I was meeting up with friends, all Columbia College grads, for a night of vegan food and zombie gore. The perfect yin-yang combination.

As we greeted each other with hugs and hellos, a call came in that two more would be joining us. Fantastic. The more the merrier, right? Lovely people they were, one of them in fact another CCC connection. Since I was sitting closer to the couple than the rest of my friends, and because I had never met them before, I began asking questions. Found out that he was born and raised in Chicago. Still lived there. She lived there as well. Lovely.

Adding to the loveliness of that evening was the weather. It just so happened to be one of the warmest nights in LA over the past few months. So warm that we decided to sit outside for dinner. Yet about halfway through our meal, one of my friends got the chills and put on her coat. With that small gesture, the evening took a turn…

“I swore I would never become one of those people who needed to wear a jacket in seventy degree weather,” said my friend as she slid into her pea coat. I nodded in solidarity. However, the breeze had indeed turned a tad brisk over the past half-hour, and I was secretly wishing for a jacket myself. Two of my other friends then chimed in, woefully noting just how chilly it’s been in Los Angeles over the last several weeks. We soundly agreed that it was “about time” the weather began to cooperate in SoCal.

The Chicago couple was conspicuously quiet as we continued our tirade regarding the intolerable sixty degree weather as of late. Picking up on their lack of sympathy, I began to feel a wee bit bashful. Quickly, I covered with a joke: “I know you guys just had the third worst storm in Chicago history, but it’s been cold in LA!” They kindly obliged my comment with a courtesy laugh. I then realized that though it would have been well warranted, they didn’t join the conversation with their own complaints about the Midwest’s miserable winter this year. No whining about the multiple feet of snow dumped on the city over the last three months. No complaining about the freezing temps endured for days at a time. Nope. Nothing.

For some reason the lyrics to “One of These Things” from Sesame Street were suddenly bouncing through my head, and that’s when it hit me. My friends and I had changed… Mutated in fact. No longer were we the friendly, yet hearty Midwesterners of just a few years back. We had become La La lobotomized.

It got worse; we started talking about The Industry. Totally my fault. I hadn’t seen my friends in a while, so naturally I began to ask what everyone had been up to lately. (I like to ask questions, okay?) One friend mentioned the crazy hours she was currently working for The Celebrity Apprentice.  My other friends also work in television, so of course their jobs became part of the discussion as well.

On the one hand, that’s what you do when you hang out with friends; you talk about your lives. On the other hand, your job sometimes becomes your life when living in Los Angeles. If you work ten to twelve hours a day at the studio/production company/on set, then yes, that is your life whether you like it or not. Therefore, it can easily dominate the conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, though, we didn’t totally ignore our Windy City friends. We continued with our inquiries. Turns out they were road-tripping around the western US for a few weeks. Had we more time, I would have kept going with the questions. For instance: “Did you know that Rahm Emanuel is Ari Emanuel’s brother? Who’s Ari Emanuel? Hello! Don’t you watch Entourage?” However, we were already late for the zombie apocalypse and had to get a move on. The couple hopped into their car, and all of us locals hopped into another. The plan was to have our guests follow us to the theatre since they had no idea where they were going. Fair enough… Yet upon arrival, we realized there was nowhere to park. In a matter of seconds we unanimously decided that the very nice couple from Chicago was on their own. Our transformation to the dark side was complete.

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I have a confession to make. I don’t really “get” the theatre.

I blame growing up in the eighties. When I wasn’t watching MTV, I was playing Super Mario Bros. When I wasn’t playing Super Mario Bros., I was reading Sweet Valley Twins. Going to see a play or musical wasn’t on the radar. As a kid the closest I ever got to a stage was watching the high schoolers sing and dance during our school’s annual Octoberfest program, but as they constantly broke character, I was quickly disillusioned by the notion that the theatre could do anything for me. I preferred my make believe to be projected from the television in my living room.

It wasn’t until college that an attempt was made to cultivate a love for the theatre, yet even then it was somewhat forced. To fulfill a gen-ed credit I took a theatre appreciation class and at best tolerated the endless lectures explaining proscenium arches and stage left versus stage right. Not long afterwards I was given the chance to attend a real live musical currently in town. I walked into the theatre that night with serious misgivings, but upon hearing the first verse of “Memory,” I finally forgot that on stage was a grown woman dressed up as a past her prime feline. I was hooked. For the next several years, I went to as many musicals as I could: Cats, Miss Saigon, Les Miserables, Chicago, Rent. Being in the same room with people pretending to be nineteenth century French ex-convicts or Prohibition-era murderesses was still a bit strange for me, but I was able to get past it while listening to “On My Own” or watching Bob Fosse’s mesmerizing choreography.

Plays, on the other hand, have continued to be a problem. I realize that thousands of years before anybody ever heard of an AMC theatre or HBO, there was the stage. And I love reading Greek tragedy. I adore Shakespeare. Even Tennessee Williams is pretty cool. Regardless, sitting in a theatre and watching actors act feels odd. So in your face.

During grad school, I had a very dear friend who worked at the South Coast Repertory and would graciously give me tickets to the plays; I saw this as a second chance to finally appreciate this ancient art form. Instead I just kept thinking up hypothetical catastrophes. What if there was an earthquake right now? What if the power went out? What if I ran up on stage and ripped off all my clothes? I was dying for something to happen that would force the actors to break that fourth wall. They weren’t in ancient Troy or Romeo’s Verona. They were in Orange County, California, and hundreds of people were watching them in a darkened theatre. I had a mean compulsion to stand up and shout, “I know you know we’re here!”

And speaking of clothes getting ripped off… The worst is when the characters have to get sexy. Once that happens, forget it. I am totally out of the story. Sure, I probably have some maturity issues to work out, but come on, it’s just weird for an audience to watch people getting it on. Is anybody even paying attention to the play anymore? Because I’m not. I’m just wondering if the actors in question are as uncomfortable as I am.

However, my biggest issue with the theatre is the occasional bad acting. Now I know bad acting abounds in film and television, yet should I encounter it, I simply walk out of the room or turn off the TV. Not so easy in the theatre. Once it becomes obvious that an actor is really, really bad, I experience a kind of discomfort similar to what happens when watching an ice skater fall during her program. But this time there’s no off button. I can’t just change the channel. I have to sit there and endure an endless parade of falls for the next hour and a half.

So… last weekend I attended a friend’s play. Completely in the dark (pun intended) regarding its origin or storyline, I knew only two things: my friend was in it and there was no intermission. This last bit of information concerned me somewhat, but as my friend is a fantastic actor, I figured that watching him perform would hopefully make the time fly by.

Steve didn’t disappoint. He was great. However, I needn’t have worried in the first place. At some point during the performance, maybe a half-hour in, maybe later, I suddenly noticed that I was leaning forward in my seat. I had forgotten about not having an intermission. I had forgotten that we weren’t really in the Bronx. Instead, I was hanging on every word each character said, wondering how this story would end, but at the same time not wanting it to end at all. I loved this play.

I’ve watched hundreds of movies; most of them are not that good. Yet it’s films like It Happened One Night and Raiders of the Lost Ark and This is Spinal Tap that keep me coming back for more. Have I seen hundreds of plays? No. Not even close. Yet for years I’ve been condemning the entire art form based on the few I had seen and not liked. That’s hardly fair. Having had the opportunity to enjoy Savage in Limbo made me realize that as with many other things in life, I simply had made a snap judgment on something of which I knew very little.

Though I wouldn’t have minded a little Mr. Mistoffelees number thrown in. Just to mix it up a bit.

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