From tragedy to perfect in one hour or less

Why oh why was Love Monkey so tedious? I mean, adding some rock n' roll songs and a John Mayer sound-alike does not a good show make. A sad lesson here is that not all formulaic entertainment is as good as White Chicks. Also sad--at least on a personal level--is that I'll probably tune in next week. Something about how it all worked out in the end (for those of you've TiVo'ed and not yet viewed, skip over this next li'l bit)...I mean this guy speaks his mind about the importance of being in the music business for the music, damn it, and not for making a buck. He delivers such impassioned words in a meeting amongst colleagues and boss and then gets fired for such passion. So very Jerry Maguire. THEN his girlfriend, whom he's not that into, dumps him. THEN THEN, the hot new act (John Mayer sound-alike) that he wanted to sign is being wooed by his ex-employer, Goliath Records. Could things suck worse?! Heck, no! They couldn't suck worse. Praise Jah for his bff, an attractive woman who has a boyfriend but may really have a thing for our hero. Meanwhile, our wallowing hero begins to notice said bff until he meets a hottie. AND for being a decent guy to a fellow music-guy, got offered a job at that guy's label--smaller than Goliath and "about the music." Our hero is home. What's more, this smaller label--we'll call it, uh, David--just signed the John Mayer sound-alike AND the hottie he met at the bar WORKS at this label!!!

[Welcome back, TiVo folks...]

I guess another reason why I may tune into Love Monkey again is because it's like a mirror of my own life. Let's take a look at some recent events at Camp Starpower:

I woke up the other morning to yet another glorious Los Angeles day--blue sky, cool breeze, sunshine and plam trees. I noted that my hair had been kissed by the sun and was extra-lightened to a rich auburn. In fact, if I was not mistaken, my hair was even richer and wavier and auburner than its usual rich and wavy auburnness. I slathered on some fake bronzing lotion ala fellow-Irish-girl-in-tantown Lindsay Lohan and headed out into the day. If I recall correctly, I was wearing an understated tiara, rhinestone-studded "QT" baby-tee, low-rise pencil denim skirt, (for lack of a better term) "high-rise" thong, and 4 inch heels. I looked really good, you guys--but I had to, since I had a meeting at work with important clients. So after a quick peer at the ocean from my building's steps, I proceeded to my car and set off for work.

Now it was way too pretty a day to think about the world's problems so I passed on NPR and slipped in one of my fave CDs of all time, The Bangles Greatest Hits. While singing "If She Knew What She Wants" at the top of my lungs and thinking about the Big Meeting and how I was sure to wow the clients with my knowledge of the issues and totally hot butt cleavage, I looked in the mirror on the driver's-side-flippy-block-the-sun thing and noticed a total lack of mascara on one of my eyelashes. I'd only be wowing them with my complete lack of attention to detail walking into the office like that! So I immediately fished the mascara out of my purse, pulled the flippy thing down further to be at a more strategic mascara-fixing angle, when--out of NOWHERE--a car was suddenly in front of me and stopped.

Now I'd slowed a little bit before the crash--I always slow down dramatically when applying make-up of any kind, for safety--so it could have been a lot worse. Try telling that to the guy whose car I hit, though. So we pulled over (as in, he could totally still drive his car. Shees.) Still, he was soooo mad, saying it was all my fault, blah blah blah. His strong jaw clenched in anger, he demanded my phone number and insurance information. I demanded to know what time it was since I was going to be late for a meeting. He was all, "You're not the only one with meetings around here. Just because I don't have my tiara on doesn't mean I don't have big important work to do." He said this last part in a whiny baby girl voice which, as a feminist who chooses to wear tiaras, I was pissed. But I was also professional and had a meeting to get to. So, rather than fake-lament the teensy amount of damage I did to his big Earth-killing SUV, I apologized (as if it were my fault, gah), reminded him he had my info, and dashed off to work.

I park my semi-crashed car in the garage (I should have been singing "Manic Monday" with all the chaos of the morning), and set in with that little hop-run that are all heels and pencil skirts allow when you're trying to get somewhere fast and hop-run hop-run hop-run across the street, down the hall, towards the office. I am late. The meeting was scheduled to start 10 minutes before my now postponed arrival. And if I had an aeroplane, I still couldn't make it on time... So as I near the office door, expecting the worst reaction from my boss, frowns from the clients and shit! I never got to fix my mascara! Euyavuys, could it get any worse? I mean, could it? (On the way in, I think my reflection showed my auburn was even a little less rich, a little more brown. If this weren't LA and this were a made-up story, I'd totally make it start to rain at this point. Everything is terrible--what if I get fired for blowing the Big Meeting?)

I get my wits about me and turn the office door, nearly wincing at the impending doom. And there's nothing. Nothing but PRAISE, that is! My boss and two of the three client contacts were lined up in the entrance of our office, complimenting me on my outfit, butt cleavage, and, most of all, sheer professionalism. I was all, "But I'm late. ?" "No, no, Sam called and explained the whole thing," says Boss. I was confused, "Who's Sam?" Client contact 1 explains, "Let us give you a hint: 'I may not wear a tiara, but...'" No way. In the little girl whiny voice and everything. I brightened, "Am I getting punk'd?" "Ha! That's for famous people. You're not famous!" (Thanks, boss.) Client contact 1 pipes up again, "Well, not famous yet, that is." Client contact 2 continues, "First of all, Sam's very sorry for his mood this morning--he's not only a business man--on his way to this meeting, in fact--but he's also a producer and he'd just found out the leading lady for his new film is pregnant with Brad's, er, is pregnant and cannot take the role after all. And shooting starts tomorrow." Client contact 1 continues, "Anyway, Sam was so impressed with your calm demeanor at the accident site--though he knew you must have been angry--he figured you'd be a bang-up actress. Get it? Bang-up?" (Ahh, car crash humor.) Client contact 2 butts in, "He does think you'd make a great actress...well, after we get that mascara issue worked out." (Wince.) Boss rains on the parade, "Um, what about the work we have to do here?" Client contact 1, "It's a go! You get the contract!" "Great! But who's going to do it--Starpower's the best we got!" Client contacts 1 and 2 in unison, "And now she's the best we got!" Laughter all around.

So that's why I can watch Love Monkey. I can totally relate.