Starbucks Is The Giver Of Life, And All That Is Good In This Cruel, Cruel World

So. I am a huge fan of text messaging. Huge. If there is a ever a petition demanding that all communication not done face-to-face must transpire solely through text messaging/E-Mail, I will sign it several times. And I’m not including IMs which, while they can be useful, also make me profoundly nervous, since you cannot determine exactly who sees you online, unless you are willing to block a large portion of your friends, or make many different screen names.

But there is a catch to all this glorious technology. It has unquestionably increased the stress in my life to a critical level. Not overall, of course – merely when said technology is being employed. Using text messaging can, in fact, make you a nervous wreck and a total asshole.

I am one of those people who answer a text as soon as it is received. I even respond to text messages that need no response: “C U in 5.” “OK, see you then.” (I am also one of those lunatics who insists on proper spelling in my texts). I do this solely to ensure that the other person knows I have received said text, and that I am in a similar mindframe.

Most people do not do this. Most people are not as paranoid as I am, either. If there is a delay of any sort, beyond a few minutes, I become nervous. I begin to worry something horrible has happened to the other person or, worse, that they are mad at me. And that is when I start to act like a rejected girlfriend or celebrity stalker.

I begin to obsessively check my texts, wondering if something has gone wrong with my phone in particular, or who the whole text messaging system in general. I wonder if the undead have risen, and chewed on the wires that make text messaging possible. I worry that all my friends have gotten together and decided I am a bitch, despite the facts that A) most of my friends dislike each other, and B) they are all well aware of my bitchiness. Finally, I start text messaging them completely random things, desperate for a response. “My roommate is annoying.” “Do you want to get food tonight?” “WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME?”

Most of the time, this behavior is viewed with weary tolerance by my friends. They emerge from the subway/shower/nap/orgy that has kept them from receiving my texts, only to discover a plethora of messages that would hold up exceptionally well in court as signs of my insanity.

I can have whole fights with people over text messaging – without a single response on their side.
“Cool, I’ll see you then.”
“Ha ha, they’re playing that song you like that sucks.”
“Are you coming over next week?”
“You there?”
“Dude, are you pissed?”
“Answer me!”
“You know what? If you don’t want to talk to me, just say so!”
“Fuck you and everything you hold dear!”

Needless to say, this can be slightly disconcerting for a friend who happens to temporarily be without a signal.

I know this is irrational, unhealthy behavior. I accept that. But I’m not going to change. I am an advocate for speedy text messaging responses. I demand timeliness in my communications. And yes, while simply CALLING people would solve many of the above issues, I refuse to do so. I hate talking on the phone. It strikes me as invasive. Which is a story for another post.

Why am I blathering about this? Two reasons. One: to inspire others to respond quickly to texts, and hopefully cause others to experience the same paranoia I do. Then we can start a support group. Two: I text messaged two of my friends last night, before bed. They haven’t responded. And I’m running out of texts.

NOTE: I did not write the promised Sex post because I want people to respond to my damn entries. I’m holding Sex hostage! Also, I left my notes at home, and am typing this up at work.

SECOND NOTE: I saw The Simpsons Movie this weekend, and it proved that my earlier assertions of brilliance are all too true. Also, it was funny as hell and I actually cried at one point, but let’s focus solely on my genius. FOCUS.

UP NEXT: Either the much-heralded Sex post, or I’ll whine incessantly about job interviews. Your pick: howling orgasms or, “So where do you see yourself in ten years?”

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I Have Mosquito Bites On My Legs That Might Make Me Dead

So, I'm a genius. I know, I know, you're all shocked. But here's why:

I know why The Simpsons will always be a better loved and more highly regarded show than Family Guy.

Superficially, the shows are identical. They both feature middle-class white (or yellow) families. The husband is an idiot. The wife is hot, and usually much smarter than her man. There are three children, and a dog. One of the children is very bright, one is an idiot, and one is just sort of 'there.' They both have massive amounts of pop culture references and celebrity guests.

Of course, there are differences. The dog in Family Guy is an actual character, as is the baby. Marge and Homer have much larger extended families. Family Guy treads closer to the edge of surrealism, while The Simpsons keeps its feet firmly in 'reality' (except for the Halloween episodes, which are incidental).

So, why do I believe - nay, KNOW - that Family Guy will NEVER be The Simpsons?

Love. Yes, a corny answer. Deeply corny. Even for me. But it's true.

The characters on Family Guy do not love each other. Oh, Lois and Peter have a few 'sweet' moments, although they seem deeply manufactured. But they openly despise their only daughter, and tend to ignore their other children, when they're not being nasty or manipulative. In fact, the only affection that seems genuine is that of Brian, the DOG, who has romantic feelings for Lois and genuine concern for the much-abused Meg.

But I never have felt like these characters give a shit about anyone else. They are self-involved, selfish, vain people who enjoy belittling their 'loved ones.' I'm not saying this isn't funny. It can be fucking hysterical. The scatalogical humor of the show can be remarkable, and it's very clever. But that's all it is. It's clever. And this issue is exacerbated by the fact that the creators seem to consider this shallowness to be a profound statement on something. Like an commentary on Americans.

Maybe it is. But watching the show, no matter how fun it may be, is fleeting entertainment. The plot has no purpose. It's just a string of weird, mean-spirited jokes. You might think I hate the show - I don't (I own the first three seasons). I think it's funny, and smart, and highly irreverent. But it leaves me cold.

Watch The Simpsons, and you'll realize something: the characters all love each other. The Simpsons is one of only two cartoons that can make me CRY (the other is the long-cancelled epic genius of Gargoyles). Remember the episode where Homer became smart, and bonded with Lisa? Then decided it was too much for him, and became dumb again? But first he wrote her that beautiful letter? Yep. Sobbed like a prison bitch.

And then there are the episodes surrounding Marge and Homer's courtship, which still strikes me as one of the most authentic romances on television, animation or not. There's one line I insist is one of the most romantic EVER. Homer says that he has all these voices in his head that are always saying different things, but when he looks at Marge, "they all say yes."

Even Homer and Bart - famous for strangling violence and insane practical jokes - have genuine affection (and even admiration) for each other. Watching that show, I never ever doubt that there are real emotions behind this family. Even Maggie (who's basically a non-entity sight-gag) had that episode where she ran away to find Marge.

There are dozens of other examples, but I fear many of you have already stopped reading. Those of you who ARE still reading should beat the fucking shit out of those idiots who stopped, and maybe set their pubes on fire. Think about it.

But I digress. The Simpsons Movie came out today, to rave reviews (much to my relief, although I was going to see it if it caused immediate insanity and a nasty rash), and I was wondering how this show had survived for seventeen years. And the answer, trite as it may be, is love. Of course, the show is also brilliantly funny and remarkably intelligent, and puts most 'serious' shows to total shame.

But the bottom line is love. These characters care for each other. And audiences see that, even if they don't verbalize it. No matter how much this family goes through, and how much they fight and argue and commit weird acts and upset powerful celebrities, at the end of the day, they're there for each other. I can honestly say I love these characters.

I enjoy the members of the Griffin family, and watch it with pleasure. But it will never reverbrate, will never have the cultural significance that The Simpsons enjoys. Because Matt Groening has created an insane, weird, dysfunctional, ill-educated (except for Lisa), immature family. And they love each other in a way that doesn't require explanation. And so do we.

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And I Don't Know How To Use My Phone, Either

So, a major publishing company has fallen. Our E-Mail isn’t working today. Meaning I have even less work than usual. Meaning I finally have time to offer a real update. But I don’t feel like it. Instead, I’m going to tell you what I’ve done today.
• Scheduled an interview for a full-time job here in Adult Editorial, so I can get paid to basically do this. It’s tomorrow. Of course, I immediately wished I had scheduled it for Monday, so I would have more time to pick out an outfit, then wash it. I haven’t done laundry in a while. I bring a few outfits home to Jersey, do them there, and subsist on that each week.
• Planned all the book readings I’m going to for the next month or so. My shrink suggested it. Don’t judge me.
• Added about a hundred more books to my amazon wishlist.
• Counted the number of buttons on my phone (31, not including the receiver).
• Drank two large bottles of Diet Coke. Tried to figure out secret ingredients in Coke. Nearly blew up computer in attempt. Lost interest.
• Finished Crooked Little Vein, which is like love in book form.
• Read a manuscript.
• Sent increasingly panic-stricken text messages to my friend Esse, who is supposed to come over tonight, because the idea of being alone with my roommate fills me with fear. And urine.
• Spent roughly twenty minutes pondering the moral and ethical implications of spitting in my roommate’s shampoo. Decided against it, due to DNA testing.
• Spent roughly forty minutes trying to figure out how I could manage to lose TWO iPods, one of which is not mine, both of which are expected to be given to someone tomorrow.
• Wondered why the hell it’s called a Jitney.
• Pondered the sexuality of one of my coworkers.
• Discovered that in fact I have the only working E-Mail in the entire office, due to a glitch in the system, and because I forgot to turn it off last night. Decided against informing anyone.

Lunch was weird, too. I was with Kay, the Art Department intern, and Jay from upstairs. A random lady walked over to our table and sat near us. Kay was picking at her leftovers. The older lady – by no means homeless – asked if she could finish Kay’s food. And did. Never in my entire life have I seen that happen. It was essentially a What The Fuck moment.

What a thrilling life I do lead. Tomorrow I have a job interview, AND I’m going to the Hamptons to mooch off of my rich aunt’s beach house. Even though I hate the beach. I do, however, love getting away from the evil blonde baby-eater I live with. Or ostrich-fucker. She needs a new nickname. Any ideas?

May your E-Mail work all day, and may Tom Cruise stay away from your couch,
- LV

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An Open Letter To Warren Ellis That May Result In My Incarceration, Although I Sincerely Hope Not As That Would Ruin My Weekend Plans

Dear Mr. Ellis,

I just wrote a very long and excessively creepy blog entry to you. Then I decided that my awkward sarcasm may not translate particularly well over the internet, and that I don't want to go to jail for having a bad sense of humor. So.

You. Are. GOD. Or would be, if I were not a pagan atheist who makes up gods on the spot when cranky/amused, such as the Gods of Organs, or the God of People Farting In Elevators. But Crooked Little Vein is so good it might inspire me to start a religion based around the idea that you have amazing powers us mere mortals cannot comprehend. The fact that you also wrote Transmetropolitan simply confirms that you shall forever be immortalized in the Panthen Of Good Gods Of ElleVee's World. Or something.

So here's the deal: You keep writing. I will keep buying the things you write, and force everyone I know to buy Crooked Little Vein, including my octogenarian grandmother. And if reading it kills her, I will blame it on her inherent crankiness and bribe the police. So you will make money, and I will go to jail for lying to the police. And I will read your books in jail, in between knife fights and work-out sessions and doing laundry and trying not to get violated in the shower, which is apparently all that happens in jail, from what I've seen on Oz.

OK. I just wanted to say that your book is beautiful and funny and twisted and heartbreaking and honest and mesmerizing, and that I love every diseased word. It just came out much weirder and more unwholesome than I had intended.

In conclusion, Mr. Ellis, I love your work. You are a great writer, and I am happy to own this book. And the cover kicks ass. But I hope I never meet you, because I'll probably stutter and cry, and feel exceedingly uncomfortable about this very weird, caffeine-inspired entry.

I just reread this post, and nearly deleted it for a second time. But I really want to say something about this book, and this is as coherent as I can be after a long day at work, and hiding in my room from my psychotic roommate, who may be feasting on the broken souls of former American Idol contestants.

Crooked Little Vein is my favorite novel of the year. Hands down. And you, Mr. Ellis, have forever changed the way I look at Godzilla.

Love (from a safe, police-approved distance),
- LV

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Mexican Chain Restaurants Are Bad For Everybody And Destroying The Fabric Of Our Lives (Cotton)

OK, we are all going to protest Chipotle. I went on chipotlefan.com to see how many calories my food was - 782. Now that is a LOT of fucking calories. Like, an obscene number. Then I had a lemon slice from Starbucks with 500 calories, and I feel sick.

I don't normally do calorie-counting, but COME ON! That is DISGUSTING. OK, I accept responsibility for the lemon slice. I knew it wasn't going to be good for me (but five HUNDRED?! What the FUCK?), but I ordered chicken tacos, no chips, no guac, nada. All right, I DID get sour cream. But not NEARLY enough to warrant so many calories. I could DIE from this!

Add in my breakfast, and Elle is sitting (sickly) at 1,662 calories for the day. OK, problem shall be dealt with. I don't think I can eat anything else today, because my stomach is very very cross with the sudden influx of nasty food, and I took my medicine, so I can minimize the damage. But SERIOUSLY. It takes a lot to make me this annoyed. And this has done it. I feel like spewing.

It wasn't even good food. How depressing is that? And now I'm royally broke, when I said I wouldn't eat out anymore. Whatever. No dinner, because I feel like dying, and all will be well.

But seriously. Protest Chipotle. Or demand they display their nutrition info. When I asked, they laughed. In retrospect, that should have tipped me off.

Odd Thomas was a surprisingly wonderful book. Next is A Thousand Splendid Suns.

I'm going to stop writing - I feel really sick.

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OK, for some reason, when I post from work I can't have a title. Which is probably a sign from the Gods of Publishing or the Gods of Hiring ElleVee So She Doesn't Have To Sell Her Organs For Food Money. But I digress.

My roommate is evil. EVIL. I'm sorry, but I need a moment's rant. After a long day at work, I come home intending to watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force and hold back tears of exhaustion. Instead, we have the following conversation:

Her: What are you watching?
Me: Aqua Teen.
Her: Oh, that's too bad. I was going to hang out with you, but now I can't. I don't like that show.
Me: You could try to like it.
Her: I have. I'll be in my room.
Me: I can hang out in here when you're watching Sex and the City.
Her: But you like that show.
Me: I used to. Before you made me watch every episode over ten times.

Then she later accused me of causing her to waste two hours of her life playing Tetris while I watched TV.

Here'a an update on work:
* Distribute roughly 1,000 books throughout the office.
- DONE. I distributed Cool Daddy Rat, Hey Mr. Choo Choo, Christopher Counting, Uncle Bobby's Wedding, and Stand Tall, Abe Lincoln. My back hurts, and I dropped one hundred copies of Mr. Choo Choo on my foot, but hey, who's complaining?
* Check the contact information for over 600 independent bookstores.
- I'm on page two. There are thirty-six. I don't want to talk about it. Anyone up for buying independent bookstores and turning them into rest homes for stressed-out readers?
* Read 175-page manuscript and write reader's report.
- DONE. And it was really good, incidentally. I'm hoping the title will change, so I'll hold off on saying what it is. But seriously, I nearly cried at my desk. Probably while the mysterious Intern Hiring Person strolled by.
* Read and edit 251-page manuscript and write reader's report.
- That's next. No problem, right? It would be, if I knew who the hell had given my the manuscript. She didn't introduce herself. Just shoved a box of paper into my hands, told me she needed it by the end of the week, and ran off laughing evilly. She also set fire to my hair.
* Handle slush (need I say more?)
- We are ignoring the ever-growing slush pile. If I don't look at it, it's not there. Maybe I can ask the Lady With No Name But Many Manuscripts to burn it next time she stops by.
* Have meeting with president of imprint to discuss Dean Koontz project.
- Pushed back to next Monday. AND she's buying me a sandwich. I'm hoping it comes with 'You're Hired!' mayo, as opposed to 'You're Getting Escorted Off The Premises' mustard.
* Write flap copy for children's book (and edit it).
- DONE. And she liked it! At least enough that she didn't spit in my face, or cry.
* Attend meeting on OTHER manuscript to determine if it goes to publishers.
- Moved to tomorrow. I read the book. I have opinions. What else do they want from me? They already have my TEARS.
*ave ANOTHER meeting with president of imprint to determine whether or not to purchase entirely different manuscript, which I just finished commenting on.
- Hasn't been mentioned. We're going to put it with the slush, and pretend it never existed.

And that pretty much sums up Life in The City. I have two minutes before I can ran screaming out of the building. I'm going to the Strand Annex today, because I EARNED my money, and to Klatch, an amazing coffee shop in the Financial District. You all should go. Their quiche could bring around world peace. Unless you're lactose intolerant. We don't want YOUR kind.

May your day be cool and not-sweaty, and may the crazy serial killer decide you look like too much of a fighter to bother with.
- LV

Title: Do Not Wear Platform Shoes When Lifting Fifty-Pound Boxes Unless You Really Hate Your Ankles

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All Hail Spider Jerusalem, President of My Attack Ovaries

A Brief Look At ElleVee's Week:

• Distribute roughly 1,000 books throughout the office.
• Check the contact information for over 600 independent bookstores
• Read 175-page manuscript and write reader's report
• Read and edit 251-page manuscript and write reader's report
• Handle slush (need I say more?)
• Have meeting with president of imprint to discuss Dean Koontz project
• Write flap copy for children's book (and edit it)
• Attend meeting on OTHER manuscript to determine if it goes to publishers.
• Have ANOTHER meeting with president of imprint to determine whether or not to purchase entirely different manuscript, which I just finished commenting on.

People keep giving me manuscripts to read. Which is a nice change from reading slush (one being written by published or soon-to-be-published authors, the other being written by the same people who flash you on the subway). But it's a lot of pressure.

I have decided that this is punishment for last week. The Gods of Publishing saw me sitting at my desk, whining about slush, playing around on LibraryThing.com and Amazon.com, and judged me unworthy. I have sinned, and this is my penance. Stupid Gods of Publishing.

I'll keep you updated on these projects as they occur. All I can say so far is that nobody needs to worry about Barnes & Noble or Borders taking over the bookstore market. In fact, maybe they should buy a few more bookstores. CRUSH THE LITTLE GUY! CONFORM!

I can't decide if I should go to the Strand today or not. Because, you know, I have so much free time. So, so much free time.

In other news, Warren Ellis is now the God of My Brain. Hurrah to him, and may he be a benevolent god.

For some reason the evil 'Title' part of this page is not obeying me, so here is the title I intended for this post:

"All Hail Spider Jerusalem, President of My Attack Ovaries."

Yeah. Think about it. DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND?! Read Transmetropolitan, and all will make sense. In your ENTIRE LIFE. I need to go home.

EDIT: Now the title is where it belongs. The world is where it should be. Sort of.

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My Desk Is Very Messy, And Will Probably Be The Reason I Do Not Get Hired Full-Time

Dear Would-Be Writers,
Please stop sending me your submissions. They are making me angry and twitchy. WHY CAN NOBODY SPELL? I have a theory it’s all the same, demented person with hundreds of different personalities, sending me increasingly crappy stories. Send your stories to other publishers. Just for a few days. I need a break. OR AT LEAST CHECK YOUR SPELLING DEAR LORD THE SPELLING!
Love and Kisses, ElleVee

There’s been a lot of slush today, none of it good. Paying somebody to publish your book does not mean you are a good writer – it means you have enough money to publish a book. THAT. IS. IT.

The Fourth was boring, because I was too lazy to do anything. I slept in, which I enjoyed, then spent most of the day sitting on the roof in the cold, cloudy weather reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, which was great. Probably my favorite of his books.

Then I watched Notes On A Scandal with my crazy roommate, who didn’t ‘get’ the movie. I made egg in a basket (the only thing I can actually cook that will not kill me or make me throw up), and went to bed early.

Tonight I’m meeting up with my old journalism class in Union Square for food and drinking.

It’s a slow day. Can you tell?

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Amy Winehouse Is Awesome And Should Be My Friend

Things I Am Really Worried About

• That I will not be offered a job at the end of my internship, despite all my hard work, and will have to go work at Abercrombie & Fitch.
• That a very famous author will laugh at my book proposal. Then beat me unconscious with a copy of Phantoms.
• That when the zombie uprising comes, I will panic and aim for their feet.
• That my roommate will lose control of her bloodlust and feast upon my sweet, sweet flesh.
• That my apartment situation will crash and burn in a fiery ball of whining and insanity, and I will be forced to live in a house constructed entirely out of books and DVDs. Or worse, in New Jersey.
• That the release date for Will Christopher Baer’s book will be pushed back, reducing me to a hollow shell of the human condition.
• That my uncle will not recover from liver cancer.
• That the Transformers movie will be as bad as I think it will.
• Clowns.

That’s all for now. Back to work. May your day be pleasant, and may the zombie clowns get lost on the way to your home. Unless you like zombie clowns, in which case may they swarm upon you and hold a kick-ass party.

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