I'm Audi 5000

I'm conducting a little experiment, kids. For the time being, or perhaps forever, I am moving shop. Please visit me at heypretty.typepad.com. This includes even more scintillating commentary on The Hills, Justin Bobby, et al.

Pardon the appearance, as I am just learning how to use its features and get settled. Although cleaner and more elegant, it's not as intuitive as Blogger. If anyone can help me with sidebar links for instance, I'd be mucho appreciative.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up?

Frequent readers will note that once every six months or so I identify a new career that I think I might like to pursue. They've run the gamut over the years, the most recent ones being Green Urban Developer and Journalist. Well, this week I have a new one: Librarian.

Think about it. Librarians are involved with some of the coolest activities on earth:

1.) Reading books
2.) Research
3.) Using creative problem solving techniques to answer questions
4.) Promoting literacy
5.) Promoting the spread of information and potentially influencing social change
6.) Upholding 1st Amendment Rights and fighting censorship
7.) Spreading ideas


All of these activities are ones that I feel quite passionately about so it is therefore somewhat strange that this occupation is just now occurring to me. I mean, I practically lived in the library in college and in my current life I insist on surrounding myself with books at basically all times. I also have a life-long fascination with information, and how it's structured and presented.

It's not just because librarianism is hip and getting hipper by the day either nor because Parker Posey's character in Party Girl ultimately became one.

The job just speaks to me on so many different levels.

Having just had this epiphany yesterday it's too soon to say if it will stick. But I am looking into becoming a library volunteer somewhere, perhaps at the DC Public Library or Provisions. Right now, I can't think of anything cooler.

Justin Bobby, WTF?

Much has been spoken in recent months regarding the alleged Lauren Conrad/Jason Whaler video tape; if it even exists; who leaked the idea of it; how the idea of it ended Conrad's friendship with former BBF Heidi Montag; and how the idea of it will shape Season 3 of Conrad's MTV "reality" show, The Hills.

But for me this season, the most fascinating aspect of the Hills as got to be the enigma that is Justin Bobby. For those uninitiated into the spectacular train wreck that is the Hills, allow me to explain. Justin Bobby is a former paramour of one of the show's leading women. He has recently re-entered her life and is trying to win back her affections. But that isn't what makes Justin Bobby the perplexingly fascinating male specimen that he is. No, Justin Bobby is an enigma wrapped in a riddle, shrouded by mystery simply for the shear way in which he inhabits his Justin Bobby-ness. Let's break him down.

1.) His name is Justin, yet his friends call him Bobby. Interesting, why is this? It's not as if the word "Bobby" has anything to do with the word "Justin." Moreover, Justin announced this fact to Lauren and her friend Lo as if it made all the sense in the world and didn't require further explanation. Was Justin Bobby purposely being opaque, or is he simply too stupid to understand that this real name-nickname dissonance needed additional elucidation? Regardless, Lauren and Lo christened him Justin Bobby and it seems rather clear to me that a phenomenon has been born.

2.) His look. With his mangy chin length hair, big eyes, and knit cap, Justin Bobby seems to be channeling some sort of Jared Leto/Kurt Cobain persona. Were this 1994 I would completely get it, as that look was definitely the paradigm for male attractiveness in many circles. But this being 2007, I thought we were over that. Unless of course, Justin Bobby is seeking to revive grunge, something that I myself have been secretly praying for. In addition to really loving me some crunchy, loud, melodic hard rock music, I miss the days of being considered fashion-forward for my love of flannel. Francis Bean Cobain however, is rapidly reaching an age where she could have influence over the cultural zeitgeist, so I will cross my fingers that she comes through for me in the event that Justin Bobby drops the ball. Anyway, Justin Bobby doesn't strike me as particularly cute or hot. But he's a character on The Hills, which is all about promoting glitz and glamour, so perhaps I'm just not plugged into what is considered cute and hot anymore.

3.) His delivery. He meets Audrina for dinner, and claims to not understand the menu. Is Justin Bobby too stupid to understand a restaurant menu, or is he carefully cultivating an image of casual cool defined by the fact that he is way above reading menus and simply cannot be bothered?


It is my goal to answer these questions. It is therefore with pleasure that I announce my intention to embark on a several month-long research initiative to probe and explore the endless depths that is Justin Bobby. I vow to watch every episode of the Hills and analyze every sentence uttered by this young man until I can fully answer and explain all of which I have just presented to you.

In other news, did you read about this?

And...I just received a spam email with the subject line, They Dived Head-downwards off of it, howling frantically. Wow.

In the comments section, tell me what your take on Justin Bobby is.

An Open Letter To Lindsay Lohan's Publicist

Boy, are you completely falling down on the job. Have you even represented a celebrity before? God, I've only ever done non-profit PR and even I can tell that you're f'ing up big time. Here, let me help you.

When repping a celeb you have two primary tactics at your disposal: getting your girl into the media and getting your girl out of the media. Got that? In or out. Now. As we all know, our little Li-Lo has very little trouble getting into the media. Heck, our little Marilyn-in-training blows her nose and flash bulbs pop. But the staying out part? I hate to break this to you, but this is a young lady who came of age in Hollywood, experienced some lackluster parenting and has since developed a mighty substance abuse problem. She is at this time, in no way capable of keeping herself out of the media. It just ain't gonna happen. That however, is where you come in. Pay off the paparazzi, hire a double who looks just like her to act properly in public (like a real life version of Parent Trap--how meta, I know!), construct large mirrors and set up huge smoke machines all over the greater LA region, do SOMETHING to get this girl out of the tabloids.

Then, send her to rehab. And I when I say rehab, I mean just that. A place with lots of doctors and other experts who can help her get well. Not a spa where she gets to f*ck around all day and riding horses and getting facials. Leave her there for a while to dry out.

Okay, so about that acting career. First, have you stopped to ask her if she really wants an acting career? Because maybe all this to-do is her acting up in order to get out of acting. Maybe she'd prefer a quieter scene where she goes to college, gets a job, rents an apartment with her best gal pal and lives for whatever the lastest designer knock-offs are being churned out in any given season by H&M. Woah, wouldn't that make for a genius reality show? It would be like that show with Danny Bonaduci meets The Hills, only low rent. Anyway.

Let's assume she does want to act. There's still the problem of insurance and the fact that nobody wants to insure her because then their movies can't get bonded, which is bad for some reason I don't know about and am too lazy to Google. If memory serves, a similar thing happened to my future husband, Robert Downey Jr. (as opposed to my other future husband, CJ from Top Chef). Bob D. Jr's representation decided that the only thing he could do was to do some cheaper indie films for a while. This was good in many respects, chief among them that he got to lie a bit lower for a while, work at what he loved, and remind people of his talent. Several years into this endeavor, my darling Bob D. Jr has nice little career going and is a widely respected master of his craft.

I suggest that our Li-Lo take similar measures in order to repair her tarnished public image. Girlfriend is only 21. It's certainly not too late for her to thrive if she's advised by people with brains who have her best interests at heart.

If you require any assistance launching or maintaining this strategy, please let me know. My services are available at the very reasonable price of $600 dollars an hour. Give me a jingle and we'll chat.

The Criminal Justice System And You

Several of you have wondered why I chose not to press charges against W, who kicked my door in last week in a drunken attempt to find a place to sleep. To those of you who viewed his actions as reckless and dangerous, I hear you and I agree. However, our city's criminal justice system is a tricky thing. Like that of many cities, it is bogged down with cases, many pertaining to serious issues such as rape, homicide, kidnapping and a host of other atrocities. Have you ever noticed how frustrating it can be to get what you want from the system? That is because the system is currently over-taxed with actual serious issues.

Not that having your door kicked in by a drunk in the middle of the night isn't an issue, because it is, but adding yet another case and set of bureaucratic pressures to our city's criminal justice system seemed irresponsible and unnecessary. And I'm not saying that the system is only there for criminals either. I know that in part, it exists to keep us safe. But adding another case to the system just seemed like I'd ultimately be doing more harm than good, that the resources used to address my problem could better used making sure that people who actually harm other people are taken care of in the best way possible.

This is not to say that I'm letting the issue slide. Compensations are being arranged. The perp now has my landlord to deal with, which will be punishment plenty.

I tell you all this not because I feel a need to justify my actions, but to offer another perspective on things. Next time you feel inclined to call the police about a matter in your life, please think long and hard before doing so. Just because a resource is there, it doesn't mean that its necessarily appropriate to use it.



In other news...I haven't posted all week because I was out of town. But, here I am. Not much news to report, other than I have decided that it's time to start putting out feelers for finding a new job. I can't leave just yet due to the fact that I feel somewhat obligated to see a project here out to it's end. That, and 46 turns 47 tomorrow. I have contemplated changing his nickname, but I feel that the original one can stay in place. After all, as I told him last week, 47 is the new 46.

Adventures With the DC Police

Perhaps it's my years as a radical leftist, but I've never been a huge fan of law enforcement officials. Everything from their uniforms with their dumb shiny badges, those aviator shades many of them insist on wearing, and their ridiculous swagger bugs the sh*t out of me. Not to mention the fact that many completely abuse their positions of power, and when they confiscate your drugs, they often keep 'em for themselves.

It was therefore with hesitancy that I called DC's finest yesterday afternoon to file a report on the damages inflicted upon the poor decaying manse I call home. But I did so anyway, because it seemed like the civically responsible thing to do, and apparently part of being an adult is doing civically responsible things. They arrived after about an hour's wait.

There was two of them, male and female. They walked with the swagger I so detest and indeed their uniforms threatened to blind me with all of their bling. But I was nice to them, downright charming in fact, because they were there to help me.

I showed them the damages and they looked at me with confusion. Did I want to press charges?

I considered that option for a second thinking how funny that would be but quickly decided against it. Having your fellow citizens arrested merely for your own entertainment seems irresponsible and probably not very conducive to fostering good karma.

Am I *sure* I didn't want to press charges? The male officer's eyes lit up with glee every time he asked.

Yes, I am sure. No charges will be pressed. This time.

Next time he comes over you can call us, the male one told me. And then we can *you know* which he said while pantomiming putting handcuffs on a person. This was actually rather funny and probably the most enriching aspect of the whole experience. I can mimic a police officer arresting someone like I'm some sort of insider. Catch me at the next blogger happy hour and I will show you how it's done. Then you too can be as awesome as I.

The female officers informed me that by not pressing charges, this is really a civil matter that I will need to work out myself. I informed her that I was already in communication with the perp' and that I was handling it my own way.

They wanted to know why I called them. I told them I thought I was supposed to. They guffawed. The female one was looking at me all judgmental-like, probably questioning my choices in men, something I sometimes wonder about myself. Really, when you meet a guy at a bar, how are you supposed to know that he might be a really crazy drunk with a penchant for kicking in peoples' doors? He seemed like a better catch than the guy I met that summer who wanted me to help him break into a person's house to steal their stereo. Or the coke-head British Indieblue waiter. And for the most part he was a fun person to date. I was unemployed so he bought me drinks all the time and listened to my fascinating accounts of not working and what it was like to apply for jobs and live off of a budget of 12 dollars a day. I was miles away from wanting to find a life partner, and this one seemed just a good of a guy as any to waste some time with.

Anyway. My judgment in other people has never been very good. I'm not one of those people who just looks at a person, decides yes or no, and always makes the right choice. I invite people into my life who turn out to be complete flakes; who are only using me as a rebound girl; who befriend my friends and then dump me; who gab with me about the boys I like and then end up making out with them at parties. I am entirely too trusting, an irony for somebody as sarcastic and cynical in real life as I. On any given week, my life is a roller coaster of personal dramas. It has been pointed out that I thrive on such sh*t, and to some extent that's true. I like to keep things interesting. I hate boredom. And I am slowly learning to pick and choose the drama I invite into my life. In order to hurt less.

Eventually the cops left. I had a few cocktails. 46 came over (first visit to my house ever) and we drank some more. Because some situations simply call for that kind of thing and this was one of them. I've been scared that 46 would think less of me because I live in a dilapidated group house but he really liked it. He was able to appreciate the home's quirks and he likes my decorating sense (lots of dark wood, some antiques, lots of art work, tons of books, and lots of textiles, none of which match but all seem to go together in an odd way. And tons of crap on the floor--intentional, I swear!). So that was a relief and it made me like him even more. I am growing to find all of the quirks in our relationship endearing and funny. We're quite a pair. On the one hand he lectures me on my wild ways, but then he turns around and eggs me on. He calls me a "terror" and yet I think that's one of the qualities he likes best in me.

But that's somewhat off track, isn't it?

So, long story short--don't bother filing a police report in DC if you don't want to press charges. And if you do want to press charges, I have a new police officer friend who would be more than happy to help you out there.

Night of the Ex-Whatever Convergences

Could a representative from the Universe kindly explain to me what the f**k was going on last night? Why it was that two of my most vexing and saga-esque ex-whatevers decided to make themselves present in my life?

Remember over a year ago when I penned an educational missive for you all on why people lock their doors? For those of you who weren't HP readers at the time, the reason people lock their back doors is: to keep unwanted characters out of their homes. Because sometimes a drunk ex decides it would be a good idea to crash somewhere in your home even though he's been told a million times that he is never welcome in your house ever again.

Yet sometimes, even locking one's doors can't guarantee your security. Sometimes a person decides to bust down your door, tearing the frame and decimating the lock all because they are too cheap to pay for a cab home. Note to drunk men in DC: Baby Jesus gave us taxis for a reason--to transport your drunk ass home from Adams Morgan because at the age of 32 you still haven't learned what your tolerance level is.

I suppose I should have taken his three text messages and two drunken voicemail messages as a warning. The one about all the crazy, dirty awful s*x we could have if he came over was hilarious enough for me to save for 46 to listen to later, but I naively thought that if I ignored him, he'd go away. Not you know, that he'd inflict costly damage on to my house for the sake of finding a place to sleep for the night.

I also should have personally escorted him from our home rather than trusting he'd make his way out, as he completely spooked one of my other female roommates. At least the message I received from him this morning (left at 4-something am) telling me he'd left his cell phone somewhere in our house was a small consolation prize.

While all this was happening, another ex-whatever was texting me to ask me "whatcha doin?" Of course, the logical response to such a question very early on a Thursday would be "sleeping", not say, "fending off the advances of drunken exes who break into people's houses late at night."

While all of this is very annoying and jarring, I do understand that in the long run, I have little to complain about. I know that my situation will never be as bad as that of an acquaintance who had somebody bust into her home in the middle of the night about a year ago, to very different and far more unsettling ends. Still, I can't help but think of how often we take our perceived security for granted. How often I sleep with my window wide open, walk home from the metro alone after dark, or fall asleep at night convinced that merely a locked door can keep the potential dangers of the world at bay.

HP Rocks Out

It turns out that I possess a hidden musical talent that's been buried for the past 30 years, patiently waiting to acknowledged so that it can grow and bloom.

Last night I was helping 46 find some songs to play for an upcoming gig. Browsing through his collection of music books, I find myself staring at the sheet music for Sunshine of Your Love by Cream.

"This song," I sighed "makes me want to take up the guitar. I love the opening notes."

"It's not very difficult," says 46. "Here, take my guitar and I'll show you how to play it."

I take the instrument and lay it across my lap, he shows me which frets to put my fingers on. We go over the first three notes, which I play several times, before moving on to the next three, and finally the three after that. I don't hit the strings perfectly every time, in fact, sometimes I hit the wrong one altogether. Sometimes I forget a note and declare my desire to give up. 46 ignores my protests.

"Give up? Are you kidding? You're a natural. Look how easily you're picking this up and how much you're getting into it."

He's right. When I can manage to remember the notes, I'm golden. As I hit each one, my torso sways along with my almost perfect rhythm. I am recreating the bravado I so cherish within those 9 opening notes. I am, dare I say it...? Rocking out.

"You think I'm really a natural?" I say shyly, 90% believing him but also thinking he may just be humoring me. "I've sucked at every instrument I've ever attempted--flute, cello, electric bass. Why would I be good at this one all of a sudden?"

Mr. 46 of course, cannot answer. He simply ells me to keep practicing. I do, until my vision becomes a little blurry and I grow tired, no longer hitting my notes with any sort of precision. I stop.

"Why'd you stop?" he asks

"Because I'm a little drunk and somewhat high, and I'm having trouble seeing the strings."

46 laughs at me.

"[HP] Every great rock guitarist has made a career of playing drunk and high. You're already well on your way to becoming a rock star."