Californication: The Tour Continues

Updated 1:33pm Evan on the challenges of nudity and sex scenes in Californication.

Evan Handler Discusses Sex Scenes in Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

Updated 12:25pm David on Directing David.

David Duchovny on Directing for Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

Updated: a couple of more photos while we wait for the videos to process.

Here is a mini-clip (eventually two or three) from last night's Q&A panel. I highly recommend heading over to the LA Times website and checking it periodically. They were professionally taping the event for the web, and their footage will be a billion times better than this. But if you need a Duchovny fix before then...

(will also be posting on Big Light, so if you can't see the vids here, try over there at network.biglight.com)

A Little Tour Through Californication

For all of you who sent good vibes my way, these are for you. :)

(keep refreshing, they should show up as I add them).

In line

In line at Californication. Saw Zellie and a couple of others I recognized. About 30 people. I'm sweaty and collapsed on the floor. But I'm here! Now I just need to get in.

Update: awesome seats in 2nd live row. Not too close, but close enough. Everyone is getting in I think.

Californication Q&A

I’ve gotten a couple of emails on this because of the tweets.
Yes! I hope to be attending the Californication Q&A and Screening event tonight. But I’m not a member of the Hollywood Foreign Press. Shockingly, I’m also not a member of the television Academy. I’ve not been invited to vote for the SAG awards, either. The event is sold out. My odds aren’t looking good. However, I have responded, and I’m on the Standby list.

Now, let us pray:

Oh, LA Times Envelope Series,
Which art all powerful;
hallowed be thy name;
thy capricious will be done,
in Hollywood as it is in heaven.
Give me this day, my Duchovny fix.
And forgive my blank stare and panic.
Absolutely lead me into temptation;
but deliver me from the arresting officer with minimal bail.
For thine is the panel,
the power, and the hotness,
for ever and ever.
Priority guild and association members please adopt me.
Amen.

I’d like to say that I’ll be updating this site tonight from line, but that’s likely to be difficult. I will be tweeting tonight, though. If I get in, you’ll at least get your Duchovny fashion report at @katedating on twitter. The event starts at 7:30pm, so line reports will be before that, and then minimal updates while the event is ongoing.

That was Awkward

Uh… oh my.

The afternoon started innocently enough. It was like any other late afternoon of any other work week. I was walking to the jeep parked on one of the lower levels of my parking garage at work. As usual, I was in a daze, contemplating both cutting myself at the prospect of an upcoming work debacle (please, it will be) and whether or not I’d respond to the invitation to the Global Green event (and apparently landing on, “Nah, I think I’ll call it an early night instead”).

I know I should pay more attention to the people around me. Grant it, I work in a pretty upscale area and financial districts are more known for fraud than violence -- although now that I think about it a woman was killed across the street in a parking garage going to her car in the late afternoon (sheesh, bitter soon-to-be-ex-husbands). Anyway, I wasn’t expecting anything unusual to occur. But Murphy’s Law being what it is…

I think, perhaps, possibly, that I may have, entirely inadvertently (of course) interrupted some sort of sexual act. I think.

And no, smartasses, it’s not because it’s been so long that I don’t recognize it anymore. I have a very vivid memory of elegantly scrolled parchment and vows being spoken, so I absolutely remember how these things are supposed to go—thank you very much. I’m just not quite sure what I saw. Maybe the guy was just sleepy?

Here is the back story:

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve seen these two people at work talking as I have been leaving for the day. For the most part that talking has been outside by the one restaurant. In the last two weeks, I’ve noticed the woman standing by the guy’s truck waiting for him. Then the other day, as I was pulling out (that’s what he said), I noticed that they were both chatting inside his truck.

This time, I was whistling a happy tune, and I thought I was alone in my section of the garage. I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t carrying on a one person rant (because when you live alone a long time, you do tend to start carrying on highly involved conversations with yourself… or is that just the insanity taking over? Eh, whichever). I got into my car. I turned to put my bag in the back, and noticed hair swinging—the woman had just popped forward in the passenger seat. I didn’t think anything of it—I figured she was alone in the truck waiting for him. I pulled on my seatbelt, and then all of a sudden, I see the guy sitting up with his back to the driver’s side door.

Odd. What was he… oh my.

Naturally, I very subtly snapped my head and eyes around to the front (with only a slight whiplash to show for it) and got the hell out of there.

First thing the next morning, I accosted my work colleague, J, in order to explain what I had seen to get a guy’s perspective. His exact words were:

J: So you think she was giving him a hummer? Nice! He is now my hero. He is living the dream. Tell me everything.

Kate: No, I think he was actually… uh… helping her out.

J: How would that work?

Kate: [stares blankly trying to figure out how to get this point across without actually describing this act]

[more silence]

Kate: Um, well, his head was in her lap, so…

J: Right, but that can’t be easy from that angle.

Kate: When there’s a will…

J: I’m walking you to your car tonight.

Alas, J was tied up with actual work when I was leaving, so I was under strict orders to text him immediately after leaving the garage if the dynamic duo was at it again.

But for the first time in months, the truck wasn’t parked there. It was nowhere on the lower level. I’ve scared them off. And worse, I had to dash J’s hopes of torrid tales from the parking garage. He took it like a trooper, though, when I finally told him 2 hours later what had (not) happened.

(texting)

J: Well????

Kate: Truck wasn’t there! First time in months.

J: Geez—don’t make me wait that long! Wasn’t sure if you were filming them or kidnapped into sex slavery or what!!

Kate: It was the most excitement anyone has had at work in a long time. It’s oddly disappointing

J: I’m kind of disappointed too. So, thanks for that.

Kate: That’s sick.

J: If by sick, you mean “awesome”, then yes, yes I am. Who wouldn’t want to catch people doing it in the parking garage at work.

Kate: Well, the truck is gone.

J: Damn it. You ruined it. Way to go.

Kate: Yeah, like that’s the first time a guy has said that to me.

And so ends the saga of maybe sex in the parking garage. It was easily the most interesting thing that has happened in years at my place of employ. And since I put the tight in uptight (wait, that sounds very, very wrong), I think you should all be proud of my amusement (once I got over the extreme embarrassment). I didn’t think about calling the cops once.

Of course, when I saw the guy again… well, I couldn’t look at him. Because I know that he knows that I know that… uh…

Yeah, something funky was going on.

SON OF A…

SON OF A…

I know I should have learned my lesson with the whole George Clooney event fiasco. It was an important lesson—always read your junk mail because on occasion what looks like junk mail is actually an opportunity to stare glassy-eyed at someone dreamy… and then have bouncers remove you from the room because you’re making the talent uneasy. It’s every girl’s dream.

And I did, technically, learn that lesson. I did open the mail I got from Global Green USA. They were having their annual Millennium Awards. But I then made a thousand excuses to not go. It was a large donation. I would have been alone because I would have taken B to meet Leonardo (who was there, by the way), but she has a lot of things going on right now. All I could picture was me standing alone in the corner, nursing a single drink all night, not talking to anybody (but to myself in long, rambling muttered rants that would have scared the other donors) before the crushing weight of my folly took over, and I skittered out the door.

Yes, that is seriously the scenario I envisioned when I pictured myself at this event. So, I did what I always do—I put the invitation aside, and did my best Scarlett impression, “Fiddle Dee Dee, I’ll think about that tomorrow”, and never did. What I did not adequately picture was who would be there to entertain me while I hid in the corner behind a plant.

Please enjoy these pictures of David Duchovny at Global Green USA’s event last evening. The one I didn’t go to even though I had an invitation. The one that I could have gone to instead of watching the Cavs lose last night. The one that would have put me into a room with him rather than in an audience. The one that would have allowed me to approach him as an equal (or at least not as a crazed fan). The one that would have put me into proximity with a man who I actually have something to say to now (rather than all the other occasions where I just sort of stare at him blankly as the panic grows inside me, and then I run and hide when he says, “Hi”.)

http://www.mitchpileggi.net/Duchovny/Global_Green_Awards/default.htm

Why do I do this? Why do I consistently shoot myself in the foot at every freakin’ opportunity? And maybe I wouldn’t have talked to David, but there were about 100,000 other very interesting, attractive, charitable people there (grant it, all of them probably had dates) who would have been very interesting to talk to—if for no other reason because we have upcoming charity events, and I’d like to get them involved. But NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. No, I couldn’t possibly do that. That would have been too easy (and by easy, I mean excruciatingly difficult, yet probably worth it).

SON OF A BITCH!

I suck. And not in an interesting way that men like.

Mini: Archie Finally Pops the Question

It took 65 years, but Archie realized that dating two women for eternity was unlikely to work. He finally asked one of his long-time girlfriends to marry him.
65 years.

Well, in the face of that perseverance, it really doesn’t make the 10 years I spent with the EX seem all that momentous. I was clearly a slacker who should have held out a little longer.

But I’m wondering what you do if you are the one he didn’t choose? “Well, we dated for 65 years, but it just didn’t work out. He said we didn’t have enough in common for a long-term relationship.” How exactly do you start over after something like that? I mean, will her friends say things like “At least you never got married, so you don’t have to get a divorce.” Or maybe the old standby, “At least you never had kids” because that one definitely makes you feel better after wasting 65 years of your life.

Anyway, I won’t spoil it here, but if you are curious where Archie finally fell in the eternal “Betty” or “Veronica” debate, here you go:

Adventure Dates

A male reader (shush, men do so read this blog… grant it, it’s usually by accident when they get a google alert for Gillian Anderson or the anal bleaching tag, but they do end up here) once sent me a link to an adventure dating package. Initially, I was confused. Honestly, my idea of adventure dating is speaking to a man in daylight after he’s accidentally doused me in Starbucks coffee (because why else would he be talking to me).

This was a bit more complicated.

Essentially, the first date involved ropes (I’m finding that’s a big element to all dating in Los Angeles), some carabiners and perhaps a harness. I’d have to rent these items, but I know some of you are now surreptitiously looking under the bed for your own. No judgments. [Oh, who am I kidding? I so judge.] You will then be rappelling down the side of a cliff-kind of thing (technical talk) into a cave or cavern type area. Presumably, you and your date are somehow spotting each other in this endeavor. Perhaps it’s a trust building exercise. Then you explore something.

Yeah.

I have trust issues and intestinal difficulty during times of stress. So, while to some people, this date would seem like an ideal way to get to know someone in a perfectly legitimate and safe way, this is what I hear:

Some strange man is going to come to your apartment. He’s going to tell you to get into his car, although you know better than to do that. He has ropes in his car. He menacingly tells you that those ropes are for you. He will then drive you to the desert without another soul in sight, throw you off a cliff-face, while you desperately cling to some twine that you hope holds your Häagen-Dazs enhanced weight. Then if you survive that, your reward is being trapped at the bottom of a crevice, with no cell signal, while the strange man who threw you down there, joins you. And there’s no bathroom.

Tempting.

But no.

Keep those suggestions coming, though.

Attention Spam Emailers

Presumably the point of sending out emails regarding penis enlargement is to make the enlargement process (or at least the result) sound a) possible and b) appealing. That has always been my assumption. What you should not do is make it sound scary.

Case in point, the subject line of the last spam I received: “Get deeper in her entrails”.

Entrails?

ENTRAILS???

Does the word “entrails” sound in any way seductive to any of you? Because, frankly, it sounds more like helpful hints for serial killers than would-be Don Juans.

Maybe they are reaching out to soothsayers specializing on the reading of entrails to tell the future? Though, sadly, if they are reading your entrails, I’ve got a pretty good idea that your “future” is looking pretty damn finite.

The word brings to mind disembowelment. Grant it, I haven’t been on a date in a while, so maybe things have changed, but “Hey, baby, let me disembowel you” is not sexy. Also not sexy -- conversations like, “I just had a procedure that will allow me to pierce your colon”. Or am I wrong? Are you guys signing up for that? Because if you are, I am so not dating again.

Also, not to be picky, but your standard, every day guy/girl action doesn’t generally involve entrails being stimulated. So, is this supposed to be some sort clarion call to anal dwellers, or is this guy so damn big now that he’s tearing through everything in the way and going straight for your viscera? Again, I’m voting no. There is absolutely such a thing as “too big” and, ladies, we have found it.

We have got to put our collective foot down. We’ve allowed ourselves to be plucked, waxed, bleached and vaginally rejuvenated. I say, we draw the line in the sand at men who want to lance our intestines in order to feel more manly.

Who is with me?

More On That

You’re thinking to yourself, “Why the hell is she on Twitter?” Or, “Yippee, we get to see endless scrolls of informative posts like, ‘Still not dating’ and ‘Really, still not dating’. These are valid concerns—concerns, I will ignore, of course.

Naturally, I think each and every one of you should be subjected to my profound thoughts as I have them. But since I don’t like people, and thus can’t have you actually around me, twitter is an excellent way to subject you to them without actually subjecting myself to real, social interaction. God bless technology.

But it’s also to help ease the torment of events like this past Saturday. I was invited to a wedding. Ooooh! I heard that. I heard you all go “Oh, oh” and “Glad it wasn’t me”. Being of (relatively) sound mind, single and over a certain age, my approach to wedding attendance has all the exuberance of someone contemplating their walk to the gallows. But had I been on twitter, I could have shared insightful messages like, “Only single girl at the table. Dancing has started. Must cut myself now.”

Oh, I joke a little. The wedding was lovely. The couple is perfect together. I even knew most of the people at my table, and had some fun (might have been champagne related, but I think the company was generally good). But with Twitter at my disposal, I could have looked busy when I was sitting alone rather than just… um… alone.

But the best news is I’m absolutely convinced that should I ever date again, Twitter is coming with me. I can’t see how sending endless updates to my followers could in any way damage a date. After all, I live to serve as a warning to others. Plus, I can ask for real time advice rather than waiting until after the date in order to endlessly rehash what went wrong with friends. I mean, what went right… of course.

I am poised for something. And sure, it’s possible that insanity is actually what is right around the corner rather than opportunity. Never fear. I’ll smuggle the iPhone into the rubber room with me to make sure you don’t miss the ranting.

Twitter

For those of you who are inclined, I am now on twitter! I'm not sure how good I'll be at it, but I'm willing to give it a go. I imagine it will be somewhere between that first failed attempt at speaking to a guy at Starbucks and my continued failures to date George Clooney. So... good times!

This is me: http://twitter.com/KateDating

Eww

http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSTRE54B61920090512?feedType=RSS&feedName=healthNews&rpc=22&sp=true

Damn it! Listen up, whores, stop ruining it for everybody else. I used to like kissing. I remember kissing. Ok, it’s a vague memory, but still I remember liking it. More than that, I think I was pretty good at it. But I don’t want to kiss somebody (after the appropriate 40 date waiting period) and have HPV and gonorrheal pharyngitis running through my mind.

Have you seen the movie “Demolition Man”? That’s where we are headed people. It’s very nearly sea shell and virtual-fondling city. There are many, many movies out there that I’d like to find coming true around me—this is not one of them.

Clearly, I long for a more refined time when all I had to wonder was, “Where did he pick up that move?” when a long-term boyfriend suddenly threw in a tongue sweep of my teeth into the mix after two years.

[Random side rant—what was up with that move? I’m sure there are people out there who are into that, but whenever that move is sprung on me, I feel like he’s trying out to be my dental hygienist. I don’t get how it’s sexy. And how are you supposed to respond exactly? There is no sensation on the front of my teeth, my head is snapping back because the guy is trying to shove his tongue into the sides of my mouth to complete the sweep, and the guy always look like they are supposed to get some sort of prize when they finally complete the maneuver. Unless I’m actually making out with a dentist, knock it off. /end random side rant]

But seriously, what more warning do people need before they start making the rampant sexually transmitted disease flow a real consideration? If there are actually open, swollen and oozing pustules on his face and penis, would that do it? Sigh. Probably not.

How do you use those sea shells?

Fight

The EX and I never fought. Or rather, we fought all the time, but did it in such a refined and appropriate manner that even people in the same room would have been uncertain as to the nature of our interaction. We made passive-aggressive behavior our bitch, and I’m proud to say I can still pick up a fight (or as we liked to call it “discussion”) mid-thought 10 years after the fact. I am skilled. I am woman. Hear me roar.

But the closest thing to a real fight (you know, one other people would actually recognize) we ever had was over an address book. An address book. The entire thing left me convinced that civilization will doom itself not by succumbing to the coming plague (although I plan to use that as an excuse to have Fridays off this summer), but because a massive war will break out over the following exchange:

Ex: I’ve asked you not to do that.

Me: No you didn’t. Had you asked me not to do that before we would have had this fight then.

The scenario seems relatively harmless, doesn’t it? Doesn’t sound like something that would house seven years of resentment in it. Oh, but you aren’t as skilled at repressed disappointment and failed expectations as we were. Don’t fret. Few people are.

How did it start?

The EX and I were going about our business. It was a normal evening. We both had long days at work. I went into his office to call a mutual friend about seeing a movie that weekend. I couldn’t remember her phone number off the top of my head, so I opened his address book to find it. I called, left a message as she was not at home, and left the office to get ready for bed.

Upon entering the bedroom, The EX was pulling down covers and tossing pillows. It wasn’t that he was being particularly violent with the innocent bedding—he wasn’t. But gone was his usual flair for elegant movement. The short jerky motions were code for, “I’m displeased, but I will go to bed harboring this resentment rather than sullying a perfectly good snit with actual discourse.” Well, too bad. So, I pushed and was rewarded with, “I’ve asked you not to use my address book without my permission”. Which I followed quickly with the rejoinder outlined above. And then there was silence. And I left the room.

I know, those of you from more “yelling” and “throwing” backgrounds are thinking, “That’s it? That was the big fight?” It was huge for us because there was direct confrontation for at least 10 seconds. But in reality, the actual fight lasted for days. I couldn’t begin to understand this boundary of his. So, I did what any other sane woman would do in this situation—I beat the issue to death and then shot it.

Naturally, I started with suspicion. Though he had never given me reason to believe that he would cheat, I started wondering what it was in the address book that he didn’t want me to see because my brain could not even begin to believe that it was as simple as a personal space issue. Perhaps in reality he had stuck a receipt for a lovely future gift in the address book and didn’t want to spoil the surprise. I’ll tell you right now, at the time, that possibility didn’t even begin to cross my mind. So, confrontation number two occurred. He became defensive, which I immediately took as an admission of guilt—even though any rational person would actually become defensive when confronted with that sort of subtle questioning. And by subtle, I mean, “What was in there you didn’t want me to see?” Yeah, yeah. I’ve since looked up the definition of subtle, thanks.

He tried to explain to me that the address book was personal-- as though this completely reasonable yet totally inadequate explanation should have been the end of it. I suggested that we had experienced quite a number of very personal things in the previous seven years and that looking up the phone number of a mutual friend wasn’t one of them. Prompting the following:

Me: I let you into my body. I think you can let me into your address
book.
EX: But that’s just sex.

And then my head exploded with the force of global, thermo-nuclear war.

Gentleman, if any of you read this blog, please understand that the “But that’s just sex” statement presented to your girlfriend of seven years is potentially more lethal than plutonium. Try to realize that before you open your mouth and insert your size 13s.

On the upside, it was the end of the fight. On the downside, it was probably one of the biggest signals that while I was on the “soul mate” train (as opposed to Soul Train) headed north, the relationship itself was on an express south. Naturally, it took another three years for me to realize that I didn’t even have a ticket for the trip.

How had we gone from the forever exchanges to “frankly, we’re not close enough for you to get use my address book”? And maybe it was just me. Maybe I just didn’t understand that he needed a boundary with the person he lived with, and he had chosen that one. But, obviously, it still remains with me years after the fact. I suppose my brain is still trying to work it out so that if I do engage in interpersonal communications ever again, I’ll see the signs faster. Or maybe I’m just thinking about it because I haven’t transferred all my contact information into my new phone.

Kate, making grudge-holding an art form for the new millennium.

Sext

Half of you reading the title thought, “Wow, it’s been so long, she doesn’t even know how to spell it anymore”. To you people, I’m thinking something snarky.

Half of you reading this thought, “I do that”. It is you people who I need to understand.

The concept of “sexting” has just recently come into my consciousness. At first, I thought it just meant a bit of harmless, sexy flirting via informal messaging medium (ie the text message).
Then I read about some 18 year old being labeled a sex offender because he forwarded to his friends naked pictures of his 16 year old girlfriend after a fight with her. There are so many things wrong with that story, but let’s just focus on the actual concept.

Sexting is not just sexy talk—it is often the exchange of naked or semi-naked photos via text. Remember when you just had to worry about those silly polaroids (or in my case, daguerreotypes) getting misplaced? Now, in a blink of an eye, it’s not just the garbage man who gets an eyeful. No, now it is the entire eastern seaboard with one erroneous click of the send button—or malicious click.

Ever start sending an email or a text to someone, but send it to the wrong person accidentally? Yeah. I’ve done that at work. I sent a personal email, and it accidentally went to one of the partners instead. I only thank God to this day that it was relatively innocent about the joys of joining the group in LA. Now picture this happening with something naked. Can you imagine the horror?

I’m involved with a group that does charity work. Let’s think for a moment if one of our phones accidentally sent a naked text to one of our stored contacts. It’s difficult to argue your professionalism after that one.

Oh, and don’t forget drunk dialing. After a couple of shots of tequila (or in my case, a quarter of a glass of white wine spritzer), all sorts of very bad ideas suddenly sound brilliant and the invention of “send to all contacts” has just made this scenario all the more devastating.

And let’s not kid ourselves here, text messages aren’t private. Your communications provider can access these things, too. So, the next time you think to yourself, “I’m going to send my boyfriend, George Clooney, something sexy” try imagining half of AT&T looking at it, too.

Of course, it is not only the fear of someone unintended seeing these photos that keeps me from doing some salacious posing. No one needs to see me naked. I try to see that as little as possible. I’m at least partially convinced that there is a very real possibility of creating a massive communications black out if tried this. Seriously. I’m just trying to save you people from the retinal scarring.

You can thank me by sending your stories of where you have already accidentally sent something embarrassing astray so I can kick back with some popcorn and properly enjoy the evening.

Kate, who will always fear the errant click, in LA

I Do That

Men don’t date their little sisters. Now, for the most part, this is a very, very good thing. In fact, in all but one particular situation, it is the response you want. Unfortunately, this sane and appropriate response, may actually keep me single forever. Confused? Let me explain.

I am every man’s little sister. Obviously, no blood relation to any of these men—I am, in fact, an only child. Nevertheless…. It’s not just because I’m short or occasionally youthful looking (if you forget the unfortunate jowl situation). It’s something that I didn’t even realize I was doing.

I make myself into the little sister.

I think because I am constantly unnerved by interactions with strangers, I go out of my way to make strangers feel more comfortable when I am forced to deal with them (unless, of course, I’m ignoring them entirely—but that’s another story). For me, comfortable means presenting a non-threatening demeanor; so non-threatening that a man never sees me as anyone even remotely intriguing.

But it doesn’t stop there. It isn’t just strangers. It appears to be all men. And I’ve started wondering if the goal is to try to make the men comfortable, or to keep them at arm’s length.

Take the following situations into consideration.

Scenario #1
There was a boy who was interested in my friend and me. Apparently, as I found out much later, he was in the middle of contemplating which one of us he would pursue (lucky us). We were getting together in a group for an event. I showed up looking casual (inspired by Laura Ashley) and talking about my personal assessment of which team had a better quarterback. My friend showed up in a mini-skirt, black stockings and tossing her hair. Yeah. I’m betting you can work out how that scenario turned out.

Scenario #2
A guy says something borderline obnoxious, but with a rakish smile. Most of my friends would do something coquettish. I am 100% more likely to stick out my tongue and/or smack him in the arm than anyone else I know.

Scenario #3
A man, who I know somewhat, offered to take me out for drinks. He’s not unattractive. Naturally, I respond with an adorably wrinkled nose and “fine, but there need to be televisions because the playoffs have started”.

So, let’s put this into a potential future context. Let’s picture me trying to have a conversation with a lovely specimen of the male gender. Who should we pick today? David Duchovny, it is. Now, despite the fact that he and I have encountered each other (purely platonic, naturally) on numerous occasions, I am colossally bad at having a conversation with him (as I believe I’ve pointed out before). If I were to encounter him at any point in the next 3 months he is in town filming, which of the following is most likely to occur:

1. We will engage in a heated exchange about how Lebron should never even consider leaving the Cavs for the Knicks, and that Dave is a tool for even suggesting it.
2. He’ll say something enchantingly wry, and I’ll yell, “I’m telling Frank!”
3. He’ll say something enchanting and just the slightest bit suggestive, and I’ll respond with “Ewwwww” and smack him on the arm.
4. Our conversation will be entirely mundane, but the highlight will be my attire—sweats and pigtails after not showering for two days, eyebrows that have taken on a life of their own and a maniacal need to keep my arms down because I’ve just realized that I forgot to shave, and I’m wearing a tank top.

Please begin voting. Not fair choosing “all of the above”.

Charity

For my readers who are X-Files fans, this one is for you. For those of you who aren’t X-Files fans— how do I know you? Kidding. Kidding. Just look away for a moment.

I Want to Believe (aka X-Files 2)
Want to own an authentic, signed piece of X-Files memorabilia? IBG is running auctions now and 100% of the proceeds will go to benefit Neurofibromatosis!

IBG is very excited to announce that a signed theatrical poster for “I Want to Believe”, donated by Fox Studios, is now available on eBay to benefit NF.

The poster is the international "snow" version and approximately 27" wide x 40" long. It is gorgeous, in great condition and autographed by Gillian Anderson (signed during her recent visit), David Duchovny (the first to sign when he was in town for the SAG awards), Chris Carter and Frank Spotnitz specifically to benefit NF. Gillian Anderson's signature is in black. Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz and David Duchovny signed in silver.

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=170317538731&ssPageName=ADME:L:LCA:US:1123

Neurofibromatosis (NF) is a genetic disorder of the nervous system which causes tumors to form on the nerves anywhere in the body at any time. This progressive disorder affects all races, all ethnic groups and both sexes equally. NF is one of the most common genetic disorders in the United States (one in every 3,000 to 4,000 births).


The Complete X-Files at Book Soup (aka How to spend an evening with Gillian Anderson, Frank Spotnitz and Matt Hurwitz Without Really Trying)

The DVD of the uncut footage of the Book Soup event to promote the release of “The Complete X-Files”, which featured a Q&A with Gillian Anderson, Frank Spotnitz and Matt Hurwitz, is now available. The DVD is available through IBG (http://allthings.inspiredbygillian.com/store) for $10 plus shipping -- 100% of the proceeds from the sale of this DVD will go to support Off The Street Kids (http://offthestreetkids.org). Your donation gives you an opportunity to be one of the initial contributors supporting the development of this vitally necessary program.

Off The Street Kids (OTSK), a start-up charity supported by Gillian Anderson, seeks to respond to the needs of marginalized youth who are forced to leave care in South Africa at the age of 18 when state funding ceases. Many of these young people return to the streets because they have neither the skills to support themselves nor a home to return to. OTSK aims to help the youth find training, further education and long term employment to prevent them from having to return to the streets.

DVD includes the complete footage (including seven additional minutes of footage not clipped on Big Light). Alison Groves has edited the DVD. In doing so, she was able to boost the sound, and add captions for the questions that were harder to hear. Alison also included a selection of photographs from the event taken by fans.

Additional DVD Details:

Matt, Gillian and Frank footage runs roughly 20 minutes (and includes about 6 minutes of footage with Gillian that was not previously posted on Big Light)

1. What was it like for you to hear from new fans (Matt to Frank)?
2. Did you have any memorable fan experiences during the ramp up to the last movie (to Gillian)?
3. How were you able to balance work and life (to Gillian)?
4. Why are you here (to Gillian)?
5. Are you going to have any more auctions (to Gillian)?
6. Were there any pictures or stories in the book that you’ve forgotten (to Gillian and Frank)?
7. What was the most challenging episode to film (to Gillian and Frank)?
8. Any guest actors that you enjoyed working with or learned from (Matt to Gillian and Frank)?
9. What was the biggest difference between filming in Vancouver and Los Angeles (to Gillian and Frank)?
10. Any word about X-Files 3 (to Frank)?
11. Question regarding the artwork in “all things” (to Gillian)?
12. Do you plan on directing more (to Gillian)?
13. What are you working on right now (to Gillian)?
14. How is the baby (to Gillian)?
15. When did you realize how big X-Files was (to Gillian and Frank)?
16. Did you guys have fans showing up in Vancouver to catch you filming (Matt to Gillian)?

Matt and Frank additional Q&A runs additional 6:30 minutes (filmed off-tripod).
1. Question about the missing end of the sentence on pg. 68 (to Matt)?
2. Any cool stories about behind the scenes things (to Frank)?
3. When does Part 2 of the book come out and what was your process (to Frank and Matt)?
4. Who did the inserts and how were they chosen (to Matt)?

And a brief cameo by Mat Beck.

* Based on our experience with the NF XF DVD, we feel confident that even fans outside the U.S. will be able to view the DVD on your computer systems. Orders will be sent out starting the week of March 30.

Victimless

I freely admit that I don’t really know how the fancy interweb works. I have some basic skills. I can type. On occasion, I’ve been aware enough to check email. However, I’m a bit fuzzy on the ramifications of certain things that should be innocuous.

For instance…

Let’s say that, perhaps, one evening you are feeling a little blue. Just for argument’s sake, pretend it was your birthday. Pretend there was some wine involved. Imagine that your computer was running and google was whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

What’s a single girl to do?

Should you be punished merely because you might have, perhaps, possibly, under the influence of a mid-life crisis and pinot noir, googled an ex-boyfriend? It’s not like it’s really wrong. I mean, Facebook is all about tracking down and spying on people you know, so it’s practically socially acceptable to google every now and again and again and again. It’s not backtracking on all your fabulous personal growth. They won’t take your chip away. It’s just… um… a tiny bit of succumbing to temptation.

So, it’s completely wrong that it can come back to haunt you. Whatever happened to the theory behind victimless crime? Live and let google!

I just found a service that allows you to find out all the people (presumably through their computer IDs) that have searched for your name—every, single person. This could be bad. This could be very bad. And not even because I have something to hide—because I don’t… you know, mostly. But a little harmless stalking of an ex is the right of every person who has ever been dumped. They should never be able to find out that you put in his name, his wife’s name and divorce in a search engine… a couple of times. Just to use a completely theoretical example, of course.

Also, what if you pay for the service and find out that no one has looked for your name—ever. I mean, I can see huge therapy bills for legions of people who consider themselves to be web famous. It’s completely disheartening to go from “legend in your own time” to “legend in your own mind”.

Sigh. I’ve learned my lesson. I guess the next time temptation strikes, I’ll just have to do the responsible, mature, adult thing.

Use someone else’s computer.

Kate

Garbage

Do you ever notice things that you don't recognize in your garbage? It just happened to me, and I was completely stumped. I must have looked it with furrowed brow for at least a minute. What was this strange empty container doing in my garbage, and how did it get there? Did it have friends? Did it have a party when I was at work? It would explain the odd looks I get from my plants when I return home at the end of the day.

Did I mention the garbage bag I was staring at was my kitchen garbage bag... still in my kitchen? It can only mean one thing: my apartment is possessed. It's the most logical conclusion.

Handprints

Just as an aside before I regale you with my latest not-so-profound observation. Today on Facebook, The Ex turned up under the always helpful for stalkers section “People You Might Know”. And, as luck would have it, today is also his birthday. That universe…what a kidder.

And onward…

I actually had a second today where I wanted to focus on cleaning the apartment. This doesn’t happen very often, so I jumped on it when the motivation hit. I opened the blinds in the bedroom, which had to be a shock for the neighbors. Don’t worry, I was fully clothed (I don’t want to be sued for inflicting that kind of trauma on people), but the room doesn’t see natural light all that frequently. I was so annoyed because despite the fact that I rarely open the blinds, there were handprints on the window. So, being in an industrious mood, I set about cleaning the window. Imagine my surprise when I couldn’t clean off the handprints… because they were on the outside of the window.

Did I mention that I live on the top floor?

Yeah.

I’m just going to assume that one of the painters or tree trimmers who has been in the complex over the last few weeks had to touch the windows for a completely innocuous and non-creepy reason.

But this was not the first odd handprint moment of my day. The first one actually occurred in the elevator at work. It started innocently enough. There were a number of people in the elevator with me. Naturally, none of us were talking to each other, and we were all avoiding anything that might resemble eye contact.

Now, I’m creative with my avoidance techniques. Some people go straight for the floor numbers. It’s safe and somewhat useful. But it’s also completely predictable. Some people try to mix it up a little bit by staring at the floor.

I decided to throw them all by staring up at the mirrored ceiling. Just as I was enjoying my walk on the wild side, I noticed that it’s entirely possible that someone else had been enjoying a much wilder ride. Again, I’m sure there is a completely innocuous reason while two female (or at least feminine) handprints were on the mirrored ceiling of the elevator. Perhaps a very tall girl was stretching? Perhaps someone decided to get out in between floors by popping open the ceiling and climbing up the cables. Or…. Eh, only the security guard at the monitor knows for sure.

Handprints—one of today’s great mysteries.

Kate

Aging

Anybody miss me? I’ve actually aged a year since I’ve written for this blog. No, seriously, I’m an entire year older even though I’ve only been gone for about 2 weeks. I’m not sure how that happened. My friend Pen posited that it had something to do with me going to a karaoke bar with a group of people on a Saturday night. She personally lost time (an entire hour from what I understand). I tried to point out that it had more to do with that DST thing, but she stands firm. We tested the theory out again the following Saturday when I attended a charity event—also at night. No lost time reported, but there was some earth shifting, so that fit.

Regardless of the whole “lost time” issue, this aging thing is confusing me. I don’t feel like an adult. I still feel about 24 only with substantially less stamina and no love life to speak of. Also, I do have somewhat less grasp on the socially acceptable uses for avocadoes, but I think that’s a California thing.

Because I feel 24, I kept hoping that my parents would call and that the conversation would go something like this.

Parents: “We lied about your age to get you into school earlier”.
Me: “So, I’m really a year younger?”
Parents: “A tiny bit more, actually.”
Me: “I see. How much younger?”
Parents: “Ten years.”
Me: “Sweet.”

It isn’t important that 10 years is awfully hard to fake. I felt that this scenario was a strong possibility. Still waiting for that call.

Because I’ve been gone so long, I’m sending you a treat. Also, I think we can all agree that I should work for “The Onion”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jd4tugPM83c

And as a teaser, my next blog is definitely (probably) going to be about this guy:

http://news.aol.com/article/man-has-two-wives/391268?icid=mainmaindl1link4http%3A%2F%2Fnews.aol.com%2Farticle%2Fman-has-two-wives%2F391268

Kate, still waiting for that call, in Los Angeles