This weekend I was stung by a yellow jacket while filming a scene for a movie, and then things got better because it rained last night while I was playing poker and I discussed Boggle and Snakes on a Plane and the Cowboys and a scotch tasting in the Valley that I'm thinking of attending. There was a little dog there and as he instigated a play-fight with me, I told him that he'd be a great dog if he was six times the size he is. He then looked quite depressed and walked away. Driving home the rainy streets smelled like... well, the inside of my car, because I had my windows rolled up as I listened to the aggressively-pretty and death-focused new album from Death Cab For Cutie and tried not to feel like a character from The O.C., which was fairly easy because I'm pretty sure none of the characters on that show drive a 17 year-old Honda with no air conditioning. Except maybe that troublesome, dangerous brother with the coke habit and the rape habit, but he's on a Greyhound brooding his way across the country right now, isn't he. I'm in a cafe right now waiting for the details on a blind script deal I am apparently receiving from one of the television studios. I have never received a blind deal. In fact, I'm unclear exactly what it means. But perhaps it will lead to my creating my own personal O.C., except my show is about assassins, and I won't wait for the second season to introduce a lesbian affair. There is a woman with a rather attractive face walking outside under the threatening skies, crossing back and forth across the street. Aside from her inability to decide on which side of Colorado Blvd. she'd like to stand, she is perfectly normal, except for her behind, which looks like it would require two seats in a movie theatre. Unfittingly big. Problematically big. I see she has now acquired a bottle of Mountain Dew. I don't know what to say about that, other than something about BASE jumping, perhaps. Today I watched The War At Home, but the Michael Rapaport sitcom, not that 'Nam movie that Emilio Estevez directed. Neither Wars at Home were very good, by the way. I have Thunderbolt and Lightfoot waiting for me from Netflix. Netflix has quickly become a more guilt-riddled part of my life than I ever would have imagined. Everyone in their omnipresent banner ads always looks so happy about the whole DVD-delivery thing. One of the ads should really have someone about to go out for the evening, shooting back a guilty glance at the red envelope sitting half-buried on the coffee table, containing the DVD of Klute. What's the difference between Surface, Supernatural, Threshold, and Invasion? And did anyone else notice the irony in changing the name from Fathom, to Surface, because, like, aren't those two things exact opposites? There is a guy sitting across from me wearing a Giants cap. I'm wearing an A's cap. I feel that we should fight or something. People who looked better fat: Roger Ebert, Al Roker, John Popper. I can't think of any others right now.