Adventures in Adventuring

I woke up this morning thinking about the Adventure Center. For those of you who didn’t grow up in Topeka, KS in the 80’s, the Adventure Center was THE event of the year for local grade schoolers. It was a program designed by the local school system to introduce concepts like “getting a job” and “learning to handle finances” in a safe and nurturing environment, but all we knew was that you got to sing songs every morning and eat interesting stuff and choose – CHOOSE! – what you wanted to do each day! Would you rather learn how to read cue cards and make a commercial or make mosaic ashtrays? (I think my mom still has mine somewhere…) Would you rather learn how to make granola or pretend to be a banker? It was staggering to have such freedom. If you were in the commercial class, some kids got to learn how to run the camera, some got to write the ad, some got to direct it and some lucky, lucky kids got to be in it.

It doesn’t take Einstein to figure out who loudmouthed her way into that job.

We learned how to write checks and balance checkbooks and count back money (which came in handy during my waitressing years) but the best part was the last day – the day where you got to choose your job. On the final day at the Adventure Center you got to act like an adult. In a big room they’d set up a mock town, complete with a general store, post office and bank and… and…. could it be? A real, working telephone system! That may not sound like much today but trust me, Operator was “the” job to have. You know those old fashioned “Number, please?” jobbies? The kind with the wires and the plugs and a person you had to go through in order to get your call placed? All the power, the control, was in one person’s tiny fists! Now imagine little Ali McKinney, drunk with power, stationed behind the booth. It was just as spectacular as you would imagine.
On job day, all the granola that had been made in the granola making classes was for sale in the town grocery store and the commercials that were made in the commercial making class (that happened to be pitching – you guessed it – granola) aired in all the classrooms. In order to buy the granola you had to work a job, all of which had different pay rates depending on the skill required and the amount of fun you’d have doing it (which, come to think of it, was great preparation for the real world). Somehow they made this all extremely interesting and exciting, no mean feat when you’re teaching 7-year-olds about financial solvency.

Sadly, the Adventure Center shut down after a few years. I can’t imagine why. It seems like we need more things like that – things that’ll help prepare kids for the future without scaring the living shit out of them. Seems like there are enough creative people in T-town to get that thing up and running again… (ahem, Missy, Jeff, Kayla, Ted, Val, Ed, GIB, ahem.)

R.I.P. Adventure Center. While you were around you were, oh yes you were, awesome.

God IS great!

This clip made me smirk. Not because of what the guy's saying (assuming there is a creator of this universe, which I do, I agree that there are many, many amazing things on this planet that seem designed specifically for the continuation of life. Like, say, bananas) or because Kirk Yes-I-Had-A-Poster-Of-Him-On-My-Wall-And-Continued-To-Love-Him-Even-When-He-Went-On-That-Ridiculous-Pritikin-Diet Cameron is sitting next to him. None of those I mind. It's the Public Television, Channel 13 backdrop that gave me the giggles. If you're going to talk about God's brilliance, at least go out and sit next to a real lake, fellas. (While you're at it, don't forget to mention that monkeys and apes eat bananas too. It's not exclusively human fruit, dudes.)

http://www.break.com/index/kirkbanana.html

Thanks to Stef for the link.

Another thing Alisha loves

So this no-sugar thing (I know, I know, let it go already) is still biting my ass. But I have found something that makes it hella easier - stevia. Know about this stuff? It's a plant from Japan (she thinks) that's roughly 150 times sweeter than sugar. It's completely natural, no chemical crap to make your eyeballs fall out (NutraSweet, I'm talking to you). They recommend it for diabetics because it regulates blood sugar. It's controversial because it hasn't been FDA approved as a sweetner - only as a "nutritional suppliment" (apparently when rodents were fed truckloads of the stuff there were "inconclusive" results. Again, hello NutraSweet) but c'mon, only a moron would eat it by the bucketful. (Although if they started putting it in pop and candy and cereal - which has been proposed many times - Americans might edge up on that.)

Pro-stevia websites say that the FDA won't approve it because it's cheap and easy to grow and they can't figure out how to make money from it. (Or get kick backs from the companies who figure out how to make money from it.) The Japanese have been using it for thousands of years without a single reported problem. Alls I know is it makes my nasty herbal tea much more palatable and it takes very little. One shake and I'm good. Find it at any health food store.

There ain't no man!

Find the man in the beans! Somewhere in this picture is a man. Look hard - he's there.

Doctors have concluded that if you find the man in the coffee beans in 3 seconds, your right half of your brain is better developed than most people. If you find the man between 3 seconds and 1 minute, your right half of the brain is developed normally. If you find the man between 1 minute and 3 minutes, then the right half of your brain is functioning slowly and you need to eat more protein. If you have not found the man after 3 minutes, the advice is to look for more of this type of exercise to make that part of the brain stronger.

It took me roughly a minute although it was hard to time it, what with my reading and re-reading of the instructions and all the random "There's no man! THERE'S NO MAN!" squawkings. But I think it took a minute. And I'll cling to that until the end of my days. (Thanks to Mare-Mare for this one.)

Wait - what?!

Granted, I don't know much about the art of sleuthing but how in the hell foul play NOT being considered here?

Dammit.

So a few months ago I applied to for a writing job at a big name wine company. They wanted somebody to blog on their newly redesigned site. Fun, right? The catch? We had to blog as their mascot.

A monkey.

Figuring I could blog with the best of 'em, I gave it a go. I monkeyed around, monkeyed it up, monkeyd... some more. And I thought I did a pretty good job, all things considered. Alas, no bookee for my monkey.

Today I decided to check it out and see what kind of corporate suckey-upey hack the hired instead of me. I read. I... kept reading. I... begrudgingly admit that the writer is pretty damn good. Dammit. Pithy, smart, doesn't hit you over the head too hard with the monkey references. It's a tightrope and I'm be gobsmacked if the writer doesn't do a fine job walking it. Perhaps even finer than me. Dammit.

Go here if you want to check out what I'm not writing.

I want to be a movie star

I read this – and I may have it wrong – but I read that Julia Roberts is making $34,000 per week on Broadway.

Is that true? Because if that’s true, I’m going to scream.

It’s true, isn’t it?

I can’t figure out how to work the TV at Baby’s house and I’m too embarrassed to ask Baby's Mama how to work it for fear that she’d think I spend my time watching Punk’d instead of her beloved offspring. Instead, I’m reading a New York Magazine article discussing whether or not Julia Roberts is an actress. (The writer’s take: Yes. Mine: Yes. Just not on stage.) But I cannot, will not get over the fact that she’s making more per week than most people make in a year – and, if the critics are to be believed, she SUCKS in the part. This is not jealously talking, no, no. Okay, there’s a little jealousy talking but come on, anyone making $34,000 a week at a job where you don’t have to show up for work until 7:30 at night gets a little ribbing.

I'm blogging... I'm blogging...

For the past two days I’ve had that song “Sixteen Tons” going through my head. (I think that’s what it’s called…) You know, “You move sixteen tons, what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.” (There are more words but that’s all I know.) People were singing it at catering the other night as we made a human chain for the 500 lugs of plates and glassware. All these tiny actresses in tuxedos chaining twenty pound crates, warbling like old black men. Since then it hasn’t left my head (minus a brief intermission for Lionel Richie’s “Hello”).

Guess what today is? No seriously, just guess. It’s FREE CONE DAY AT BEN & JERRY’S. Also known as ALISHA’S FAVORITE DAY, LIKE, EVER. Or at least it was Alisha’s favorite day until she decided to go off sugar. Sure, B&J probably have a sugar free concoction but I guarantee it tastes like ass. Sugar free ASS. Thank God I didn’t ever take up smoking. If I’m this whiny over sugar and caffeine, imagine the nic fits…

Oh, here’s a good word I just learned, courtesy of the Ricky Gervais podcast: “whinge”. (Pronounced “whinge”.) Aparently it’s the British word for “whine”. Like many British things, it's better than the American version. Like “bullocks” instead of “bullshit” or “crikey” instead of… um… Dan made a good point when he brought up British TV. (I mean, “telly”. See? Cute!) Nobody on British television is attractive. I mean, not NOBODY (hello there, Dr. Who) but for the most part people on telly look like people, versus people on TV who look anorexic and unusually orange. And they all have quirky teeth, which I happen to find rather attractive. Nobody on American TV has quirky teeth (unless "unusually large and bright" counts).

(*Please note, the author would eat her own shoe if it meant whiter teeth.)

So apparently Chad and Hilary aren’t working it out. I saw some video of Chad on a dinner date with some young thing who gave him a kiss that didn’t speak of friendship (although it might’ve spoken in tongues). Hilary has been spotted with some buff workout partner but he could be her trainer, who knows. Still, if Chad’s making out with Young Miss, chances are things are ka-put. I’m bummed about this one. I can’t even bring myself to mock it – unlike Brad and Angie. (It’s just a matter of time, folks!) Speaking of crazy relationships, did anyone catch the news that Denise Richards is now dating Ritchie Sambora? Which wouldn't make a bleep in my radar EXCEPT that she used to be best friends with Heather Locklear AND she and Heather live RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO EACH OTHER! Now that's seriously fucked up. In the best, most gossiplicious way.

Mrs. Alisha Who...

So the honey and I sat down to watch the new Dr. Who last night for date night. Lest you think this unromantic, two words: CHRISTOPHER. ECCLESTON. (Before you get all "But what about your poor husband?" check out his blond - ahem - companion. Chickie's about 800 degrees of scorching hot so my man ain't exactly suffering.)

Anyway, THE DOCTOR. The show is hit-or-miss but the one constant is my big eared, uber-intense British boyfriend. No matter how corny the special effects, no matter how ridiculous the plot line, I know he'll be there with a piercing glance and his long, leather coat and his crazy British teeth and... is it getting hot in here?

I've seen the man nude. I have. It's all, er, out there in the film "Jude". I can't remember much but I know I've seen his tackle. (Mom, stop reading this.)

I miss caffeine.

A quick update on life sugar-free:

Still pretty much sucks.

Funny funny ha-ha

Here's a shameless plug for the hubby's site. He's actually posting with some frequency - he even redesigned the thing. I should warn you - it's taken a turn toward the geek. I'm just sayin'.

Deep breath in...

Well, Day 1 of no sugar/no caffeine and technically I'm already cheating. (Although I prefer not to think of it less like "cheating" and more like "weaning".) I did put soymilk in my HERBAL (coff, gag) tea this morning and it does contain cane extract which YES, technically, is sugar, yes. YES. Fine.

Do I have a raging headache? Yep.
Am I grumpy? Yep.
Will I probably yell at a guest tonight? (Maybe just in my head, but boy will it be loud.) Yep.

Mostly I'm worried that I'll lose my funny. I'm used to writing while hopped up. Hemingway had his booze. Some other famous writer had his something or other. (Loss of caffeine makes you forgetful.) I had my gigantic Superman mug of tea with 3 or 4 tablespoons of sugar. Yes, you read that amount right. I fear for my comedy.

I'll just stick with "Bill".

My husband.

So APPARENTLY our fish has a new name. While I was busy toying with monikers like Dubloon (so adorable, just like him!) or Salty Joe (Aaarg!), my husband was busy coming up with this.

I'm putting my foot down when it comes to naming the kids.

Set phasers to "Freak"

So I've been reading this book about the Big Bang. Shit is crazy. How come they couldn't make physics interesting in high school? C'mon, light years? Amazing! The fact that we feel solid when we're actually not? Amazing! The idea that there was nothing - not light not dark not nothing but nothing - before the Bang? Amazing! And am I the only idiot who didn't realize that dinosaurs were around for 193 million years? I mean I knew they were around for awhile but I thought it was closer to like a million years. No, no. 193 MILLION YEARS! Craaaaazy!

Speaking of crazy, with all this hubub about the Tomtot, it's easy to forget that the man has two other kids. Poor bastards. They've got a nutter for a father and an absent, Botoxed wonder for a mom. I guess that's what therapy is for.

Oh wait...

Speaking of crazy (once again) starting tomorrow, no sugar or caffeine. I'm feeling a little anxious about it, I ain't gonna front. I plan on polishing off the bag of Newman's Own sandwich cookies and then cleaning out the cupboards. I know Val weaned herself off slowly but I'm more of an all-or-nothing gal. If there's room to cheat then by golly I will. I suspect I'll hate life for a few weeks and then feel great. Although when I first moved to LA I did one of those whole body cleanses where you eliminate all allergy producing substances (wheat, dairy, fats, sugar, caffeine) and everybody kept telling me I'd feel spectacular and I kept waiting and waiting and waiting to feel anything other than intensely, mind-numbingly angry. (It probably didn't help that I was working at a bakery.) Finally a co-worker went next door to the pizza shop, bought a bag of garlic knots and shoved one into my mouth.

Hopefully it'll go better this time.

It can't be as bad as a silent birth, right? Right?

Yes kiddies, it's that time again. The time where I make some grand pronouncement about my latest life-changing plan to stop drinking caffeine and eating sugar or some such nonsense because I read somewhere that it's bad for you and while I'm at it, maybe I'll lay off the dairy too because milk causes mucus and blah and blah and blaaaaaah.

That said, starting Saturday - no more sugar and caffeine. (I'm still holding on to dairy for the time being. A girl's gotta have something to cling to.) Of course I'm starting it on a day when I'm catering which should make me extra bitchtastic but I read that the 22nd is a good day to start a new project according to this moon signs book... and I'll stop talking now.

But yes, no sugar. No caffeine. Except for special occasions. I'll be sure to let you know how it's going. I expect it'll go pretty fucking badly. (I'm so sorry, husband. And cats. And co-workers.) I know Val kicked sugar for awhile so it can be done. I don't know how I'll get through the day without caffeine, though.

That was not the name I, for one, expected.

Well it finally happened.

Missy, this one's for you.

I give you John Corbett.

Heh.

For all you baldies out there. (You know who you are...)

I just had two glasses of wine.

So we have a new member of the family. One with fins. Yes, we gots ourselves a little fishy friend and the cats could not be more freaked out. Matt has a Betta at work and I thought it'd be nice to have one here in the apartment, seeing as how fish are supposed to be calming and I'm a Pisces and it's gotta be a good feng shui water element and... I'll stop now. The cats must've stared at that tank for four hours last night and every time I woke up, all I could see was Val silhouetted at the end of the bed, frozen, obsessed. It's like cat TV. Or swimming bait.

We haven't named their little brother yet. I'm gunning for Dubloon (thanks Panda) but Matt is partial to Salty Joe. (I also suggested Captain D's but he didn't seem to think it was funny.) Right now he's just "Fish face" or "Fish-fish" or "Fish". (Can't wait until it's time to name a kid!) He's a cute little red fella with disentigrating fins (we're medicating him, because why on earth would I choose a healthy one?) so if you have any names, I'm open to suggestions.

Lemme tell you how it's done

Sorry about the lacksadaisical posting; computer went ka-blooey for a few days amd the weather's been nice. (A girl's gotta take advantage of the gloriousness before temps soar and the city starts its summer stinkfest.)

I swear, during these first few days of nice weather New Yorkers lose their freaking minds. It's like they're so thrilled not to be bundled head to toe in Polartec that they forget that they're still required to wear clothes. Which would be okay (if a bit ego mangling) if the city were populated by models, but the people wearing the least amount of clothing always seem to be the people who should think twice. I don't care if your stomach is flat as the Midwestern prairie, unless you're a toddler I don't want to see your tummy.

- Flip flops
I fully cop to committing this fashion faux pas. Last summer I wore my chocolate brown flappers up and down the avenue. Sure my feet were filthy and calloused and covered in dog piss and garbage and dirt and muddy, bacteria-laden gutter water but dammit, I was cool.

I have seen the error of my ways. Nobody's feet should ever - EVER - come that close to the streets. It's just nasty.

- Pantyhose with open-toed sandals
Tourists, I'm talking to you.

- Bare midriffs
I don't care if they're pierced or tattooed or bedazzled, see above.

- No bra
Why? Seriously, why? It isn't sexy unless you're on a catwalk, in a movie, or on a photo shoot where they can be professionally wrangled. Not only is it tacky but ladies, proper support helps keep the girls from sagging later in life. Think of the future!

(And yes, I know I could rag on frat boys with their open-air crotch grabbing and backwards baseball caps or the wannabe gangstas with their stupid baggy-ass pants (when will that trend be done?) but I'll save that for another day.)

My job here is done. For now.

Lions and paparrazi and jeers! Oh my!

Just think, Katie might be giving birth RIGHT NOW! (quietly. very quietly.) I find it hilarious that the reasoning behind Scientologists "silent birth" is because regular birth is psychological scarring. (Seems to me, being brought up in that church would do plenty of that.) They believe that if the child enters a world of noise and chaos it'll be damaged emotionally, after the calming silence of the womb. Anne Archer actually said (and I probably misquote) "If you say things like 'Push! Push!' it can have a negative effect on the child later on."

That's cracktastic.

Of course they're choosing to ignore the fact that it's PRETTY FARTING LOUD in the womb. Experts say it's louder than a vaccuum. At least Scientologists have clarified that the mother can make some noise and, thankfully, have drugs - just no talking. (Although complete silence - and no medication - is preferred.)

Clearly Tom had to go for a young'un. No self-respecting 30 year old would ever put up with this shit.

And kudos to Missy for grabbing this one! Now this is baby birthing, celebrity style. (Or superhero style. Or crazytown style, but I still love it.)

Oh look honey, a crappity-whine-snit!

Do you ever feel like you're scrambling and staying in one place all at the same time? I can't seem to get motivated to write because I don't have any new stories to share and I can't get motivated to push for the auditions or catering work whose ridiculousity fuels them. I feel like sitting. Planting stuff, maybe. Eating Cadbury eggs. (They only come once a year!) But then I get crazy when I look around and see all these people Energizer Bunnying their careers and start spiraling about needing to catch up.

Are there people who just wake up, go to their studio (or computer) and paint or write or do whatever it is they do and somehow manage to stay in shape, keep the house clean AND pay the bills? I know they exist - I read about them in O Magazine - but that whole "Follow Your Bliss" thing was clearly not entended for people with day jobs.

I'm not sure why I feel the pressure of a time limit on the stuff. I mean, the game is only over when you're dead. How do you all deal?

The sky, she is falling.

Moving South of Goofytown for a sec - what's this about us maybe dropping a nuclear device on Iran? The Powers are denying it but the leak is absurdly credible. Now I don't know shit about politics but I do know that that particular maneuver sounds like the worst. possible. idea. ever. I heard Hilary speak at a private event the other week and she was very, very clear: Iran is frightening.

All I know is, if we drop a bomb we're getting the hell out of NYC. Fast.

Right?

So I sent my pitch to a second, larger paper and got a note from the Features editor, passing it on to the Arts and Entertainment editor. Which feels like progress although I suspect it's closer to... not progress? A different, more official "no"? But it's something and we'll see, right?

Yi.

So Gwyneth and Coldplay named their baby Moses.

Moses.

I realize I'm in the minority when I say that I don't mind Apple as a name. It's kind of perky and sweet, you know? Sort of like "Poppy" or "Sadie" or "Zooey". But Moses? Man, that shit is heavy (not to mention hard to live up to). Not only are his parents a huge rock star and an even huger movie star, but his name is MOSES . Get the kid a couch and put the shrink on retainer 'cause I think this little guy's gonna have some issues. (Speaking of, rumor has it that Tom wants to name the baby "Hubbard". Which is about eighteen different kinds of fantastic, if you ask me.)

Bless you Bald and Effective. Bless you.

I come back... to this.

Mental Jukebox

I think I'm going to start a new segment addressing the inevitably gawdawful song that loops through my brain each a.m.

Today's toe-tapper: "Too Legit To Quit"

Wish you could've been there.

Dan over at Bald and Effective sent me this party pic from my birthday bash.
Yes, that's me as a drunken puppet. (Well, the puppet was sober. The human? Not so much.)

So. Mad.

I'm just not going to cry about the fact that I just lost an entire post. A post that I just got done writing. I'm just not going to cry and pound my fists and stomp my feet and curse really, really loudly because there are more important things in the world than my rants about $20 manicures and Jessica Simpson's ridiculous decision to star in the new Baywatch movie. I will not fume over losing my soft and gentle golf clap to Tori Spelling's (surprisingly good) new TV show (although her new fiancee's choice in tats has got to go. Dude, lay off the ink already) or the fact that this will be my last post for a few days because we're flying to St. Louis. (Matt's aunt and uncle are celebrating their 5oth wedding anniversary. That's half a century, folks. What's the gift for that?)

Did I mention $20 manicures?

Maybe I should've paced...

I went out for an industrial for a mental illness medication the other day. They actually faxed the sides over ahead of time which is unheard of. Once I got them I understood why - it was a full on monologue. The character was described as an actress, 35. ("She's pacing, with large theatrical arm gestures. Something is definitely off." Which describes almost every musical theater actress I know.)

At first I was all offended that I was being sent out for the mid-thirties character (versus the dewy skinned but unfortunately schitzophrenic 22-year-old) but then I caught sight of the dreaded "elbow droop" and had to accept the truth. (You can Botox and exercise all you want but nothing gives away your age like that tell-tale flap of skin.) The casting director was a sweet fella but seemed to have as much invested in his job as I do in dentistry.

"Oooookay, remember that she is REAL so just make it very conversational. Like you're talking to your therapist."

"While pacing with large, theatrical arm gestures?" I helpfully smart assed.

"Mmm, yes."

The writer and producer were there, seated behind two enormous cue cards. They told me the same thing as casting dude; conversational but crazy. But not too crazy. (But a little crazy.) Righty. So I started. I skipped the pacing part and just concentrated on the crazy. It was kind of fun, allowing myself to be as uninhibited as I absolutely can't in most theatrical auditions. They kept stopping me to tweak things; a little faster here, not so big here. It went well. They even checked if I was free on the shoot dates - always a good sign. (The producer actually asked if I was certain that I wasn't going to book something recurring, referring to the SVU appearance on my resume. Uh, yeah, I'm sure.)

Got the call a few days ago - I'm on hold. It's not a booking, but my agent said it looked pretty likely.

Which means there's no way in hell I'm getting it.

(*UPDATE - I didn't get it.)

Huh.

My friend Walter passed on this bit of info. Interesting... but not interesting enough to get me out of bed at 1 am. (Unlike that time in college when everyone was freaking out about Nostradamous' prediction that the world was going to end and my roommate put on a crash helmet and stood in the middle of the parking lot.)

Anyhow -

On Wednesday of this week, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 in the morning, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06.

That won't ever happen again.

Or will it?