Welcome to my Monday night, ladies and germans.

I'm sitting in our office that's beside our bedroom and I sense Dara in there, in an unsettled sleep, unconsciously awaiting my sliding in beside her, tugging the covers up to our necks and muttering a sleepy "I love you". There's a fan blowing cool, jasmine air in from our dead backyard and an empty glass where some scotch sat by my left hand.

Damn. How was your evening?

Did you feel it yesterday? The earth move, baby? That's right, after 4 months of researching, outlining, and opening and closing Word documents with reckless abandon, I wrote a god damned page of my book. The opening page. Numero uno. Shit, it felt as though I had a tumor removed from my eyeball. Or something.

Not that it means that I'm necessarily gonna finish it, or continue it, or make some sort of regular schedule to whack away at it. Oh no, it means none of that. It basically means...well, I started writing again.

I hate it. HAAAATE writing. You remember that feeling in high school of walking into a test not having studied for it? Wha? Well fuck you, you test-cramming nerd, but I remember that sinking, desperate, hopeless pit in my heart. That's what writing does on a bad day. Conversely, when it's all flowing, it's the best thing ever. Except for group sex, natch.

daaaaaanggg...where does the time go? I'll tells ya where: Viva La Bam (http://www.mtv.com/onair/viva_la_bam/). I'm back writing season 2 and it's eating my time alive.

One of the other writers has been doing a spinning class and invited me n' Dara to take it with him last week. It farking rocked! We jumped back into it last night and holy Rosetta Stone, my fucking legs are like rubber - Trojan brand...extra large.

This show is such a mess. I mean, the finished product is pretty funny, but the road to the end result is riddled with raccoon carcasses and potholes. It seems that the show is basically scripted this year; each episode has a loose outline. Very loose. Like "your mom" loose. Ha. And it needs to be scripted deeper, but the production crew shooting in Philly doesn't seem to think so, so we get back batches of tapes to screen that have major plot holes in them. This sets off an eddy of fucktitude because now, I and the other 2 writers, have to either: A. Make do with what we have and edit together a show with some sort of congruity, or B. Tell the crew that we need certain scenes shot to fill in the blanks. If you ask me, if they asked us, the WRITERS of the show, to WRITE the episode and THEN THEY FUCKING SHOOT IT, wouldn't that make all of our lives slightly more delicious-o.

But then again, whaddo I know. I just work here. And masturbate in their shitter.

End of communication

People suck.

Last night, the wife picked me up from work and whisked us to an Italian joint in Burbank. Wine, h'ors d'oevres, good chatting. Thennnnn...this cunt of an asshole bitch at the table next to us gets a rusty fingernail in her cooch about not getting immediate service (the place was slamming and there was only one waiter and one busboy). Her "boyfriend" - whom I suspect she was banging on the side because her marriage is shit because she has black pudding where her heart should be - shows up a few minutes later. She then brags her tits off about how cool she is for letting the waiter have it for making her wait.

Reality: He apologised and explained to her he's working the entire place himself and gets her wine to her immediately. She accepted and thanked him.

Fin.

So, our waiter has gelled hair, kinda spikey but not anything one wouldn't see on, say, Matt LeBlanc, and he approaches to take their order. First thing out of pudlicker's mouth? "I have to ask: The hair, is it on purpose?"

Jesus, people suck.

so my friend Brian Ray - www.daaspunk.com - wants to host a web site for me. That's quite cool. He actually came up with a genius idea that made me go "hmmmm...". I'll be spending the next few days drumming up ideas to get to him so we can start this byotch up.

Started back at Dakota Films on the 2nd season of "Viva La Bam" (http://www.mtv.com/onair/viva_la_bam/). The offices are about 2 miles from my house, which cuts down on the odds of another freeway shooting.

Went to the wrap party for Disney's "Home on the Range" last night. It was the best 1 1/2 hour nap I've gotten. Such a shame: Disney used to mean quality. Now it's all just a flaming pile of shit. I would've been more entertained by a "fartiste" - someone who can fart on command and do different songs and such. that would be hilarious.

Dara's getting ready for us to go out. We're off to "Crazy Girls', a gentlemen's club on LaBrea in Hollywood. It was her idea.

I love my wife.

Oh yea, last weekend, I saw a motorcyclist laying on the pavement in Burbank with his bike imbedded in somebody's bumper. He'd been thrown a good 15 feet. His name was Javier, and he said he hurt all over. I told him "Helluva way to spend a Sunday afternoon." He said, "yeah."

HAve you ever kept a document up on your computer so's you look busy when you ain't? How about going to the utility closet and just standing there?

Nah, me neither.