Epistolary Blog

Epistle to Kristen Wiig

To my dearest darling Kristen:

I hate you.  I hate the Target lady and I hate it when Aunt Linda reviews movies on Weekend Update and I can’t believe these people have become recurring characters.  But perhaps what I hate most about you is that you haven’t paid your dues.  I hate it that you just showed up on SNL one day and promptly began appearing in, like, EVERY SKETCH.  WTF?  SNL just canned several actors who had been there for years, and the writers must have forgotten all about poor Maya Rudolph while she was on maternity leave because they NEVER write a sketch for HER anymore.  But somehow you just popped up out of nowhere and instantly became the star of the show.  Sure, Amy Poehler is in every sketch, too, but she’s been around since 2001 and is just so darn loveable.

What gives, Wiig?  You’re a newbie, you’re not that funny, and yet you’re getting tons of screen time.  Are you sleeping with Lorne Michaels?

Love,

Lauren

Epistolary Thoughts on Common WB Guest Stars & Epistolary Holiday Wishes

To my dearest darling readers:

All that thinking about recycled television plots got me thinking about recycled television actors, particularly those of the WB drama variety.  It’s a wonder that the folks over at the WB weren’t more concerned that their young audience would be confused when Cliff, Capeside’s resident jock, reappeared as Noel, Felicity’s favorite RA, or when Dean, Stars Hollow’s resident grocery bagger, and CJ, the recovering alcoholic/peer counselor who slept with Audrey and then started dating Jen, turned out to be brothers in search of the supernatural being that killed their mother, or when Joey Potter’s moody, mysterious, and well-read boyfriend Eddie and Rory’s moody, mysterious, and well-read boyfriend Jess wound up on other WB dramas which got canned almost immediately.

I would have to say that my favorite recycled WB drama actor is Chad Michael Murray.  I love that he played Chilton’s resident preppy asshole Tristan.  I love that he two-timed Jen and then asked Joey Potter to sing lead in his band in spite of her terrible voice. I love that he further fueled the Duff/Lohan feud by bringing Hilary to the premiere of Freaky Friday.  And I love that he finally got his own WB drama and then promptly married all of his costars.  Chad, I salute you.

A close second is Leann Hunley, who played both Tamara Jacobs, cradle-robber and holder of the Pacey Witter v-card, and Logan Huntzberger's gold-digging mother.

By far my least favorite recycled WB drama actor is Sherilyn Fenn.  Remember when she played that bitchy restaurant manager who hit on Pacey?   And then he got the restaurant staff to go on strike and she got fired?  But then afterward his car wouldn’t start and he reluctantly accepted a ride home from her?  And then she had a sort of high-speed existential crisis and narrowly avoided crashing her car and killing them both?  Yeah.  Me neither.  And then she played Jess' father's girlfriend in that episode of Gilmore Girls in which Jess ran away to California and was supposed to start his own spin-off series but didn't.  And now she plays Anna Nardini on Gilmore Girls, and it would have been such an interesting role if the evil Amy Sherman-Palladino had made Anna at all charming—perhaps Luke’s feelings for Anna would have resurfaced, and his relationship with Lorelai would have been jeopardized, and for that we would have wanted to hate Anna, but she would have been so charming that we would have liked her in spite of ourselves.  That would have been a much more interesting role for Sherilyn than the one that she got, which consisted mainly of being nonsensically distrustful of Lorelai.  And now in the masterful hands of assclown David S. Rosenthal, Anna continues to be a one-dimensional villain, depriving Luke of time with their daughter.  Poor Sherilyn is really a victim of bad writing, but she doesn’t help things by delivering every line in the same huffy, matter-of-fact manner.

Anyway.  My boyfriend and I spent Christmas at my parents’ house in New Jersey.  My parents gave my boyfriend an Xbox, a gift which will surely eliminate the need for my boyfriend and I to speak to one another, which is nice.  Also, I will from now on post only videos of myself singing karaoke and playing Dance Dance Revolution in the comfort of my living room.  Sweet.

I hope you all had a merry Christmas and a happy Hanukkah and are in the midst of a happy Kwanzaa.  I still remember the first year I noticed Kwanzaa’s existence.  It was 1996 and I was fourteen.  “What’s Kwanzaa?” I wondered aloud as I sat in architecture class.  Suddenly, Russel, the supercute black guy who sat behind me (he was two years older than I was and had never spoken to me before), gave me this answer: “It’s black Christmas.”  My heart skipped a beat.

I ran into Russel at a bar in my hometown the other night.  He didn’t remember my name, or that we had taken architecture and run track together, but he did think I looked vaguely familiar, which the fourteen-year-old girl inside me found very flattering.  He wound up talking to my boyfriend about how during recovery from knee surgery he’d had to poop with his splinted leg stuck straight out in front of him, and somehow this did not at all detract from my romanticized remembrance of the high school him.  Anyway, my reunion with Russel, a decade after my Kwanzaa inquiry, inspired me to do some research.  So I read up on Kwanzaa, a week-long celebration during which an increasing number of symbolic candles are lit each night, and I must say that it does NOT sound like black Christmas.  It does, however, sound an awful lot like black Hanukkah.

I wish you all a happy and healthy new year.

Love,

Lauren

Epistolary Thoughts on Common Plot Devices

To my dearest darling readers:

I’ve been thinking a lot about plot lately and I thought I’d share my musings with my devoted readers.  (Hi, Mom.)  I’ve come to subscribe to the theory that there is a finite number of plots, and fiction writers simply recycle these plots over and over again.  This theory is affirmed by the sitcom plot déjà vu I experience with increasing frequency.

Have you ever noticed that every sitcom has a Cyrano de Bergerac episode?  This nineteenth-century French play has been recycled countless times by American television.  Will and Grace put a gay spin on Cyrano when Will fed lines to Jack, who needed help wooing Patrick Dempsey.  Will, of course, wound up falling for McDreamy, too.  South Park put a cynical spin on Cyrano when Cartman gave such romantic advice as, “Even though what she's saying now isn't interesting at all, you say, ‘Wow.  That is very interesting.  Please tell me more,’” to Jimmy, who needed help getting laid.  And Roseanne put a meta spin on Cyrano when the show’s titular heroine fed lines to her sister Jackie, who was playing Roxanne in the Lanford Community Theater production of the play.

My favorite sitcom plot device is one I like to call “Stuck Together.”  Surely you’ve noticed the abundance of television scenarios in which two characters in desperate need of an excuse to interact get stuck somewhere, often in a supply closet, an elevator, or a walk-in freezer.  I can’t think of any classic works of literature in which this cheap device is employed, but countless television shows come to mind: the prom episode of Saved by the Bell in which Jessie Spano and Albert Clifford Slater get locked in the boiler room, for example.  Let me also remind you of the Dawson’s Creek episode in which Joey Potter and the weaselly Drue Valentine get locked in the yacht club storage closet and of the Dawson’s Creek episode in which Joey and Pacey spend a night locked in a Kmart.  Full House also used this device liberally.  Note the episode in which Uncle Jesse and Michelle get locked in an auto mechanic’s garage and miss Michelle’s birthday party, the episode in which Uncle Jesse and Joey get locked in the basement and no one comes to let them out because the red light that indicates that they are not to be disturbed is on, and the episode in which Uncle Jesse and Kimmy Gibbler get locked in the Smash Club supply closet and miss most of the club’s opening night.  Given his propensity for getting locked in places, it’s a wonder the other characters ever agreed to go anywhere with Uncle Jesse.

My very favorite Stuck Together episode is the episode of Felicity in which Felicity and Julie get stuck in a subway car together for several hours, and their fight over Ben comes to a head.  Perhaps what I like so much about this episode is that it combines the Stuck Together device with another oft-recycled plot: the Twelve Angry Men plot, employed whenever any television character has jury duty.  (See 7th Heaven episode “Twelve Angry People” and Picket Fences episode "System Down.")  The other subway passengers form an impromptu jury and weigh in on the girls’ dispute.  It’s really well done.  I wonder if this is the future of fiction: plot hybrids.

As a reader and television viewer, I find familiar plots comforting.  In fact, Keeping Up Appearances, a British series in which every single episode has the exact same plot, is one of my favorite shows.  As a writer, believing that there is a finite number of dramatic situations lifts the pressure to create an original plot; the art of plotting is reduced to selecting an item or two from a finite list.

Love,

Lauren

Epistle to Britney Spears

To my dearest darling Britney:

There is only one circumstance in which accidentally baring one’s snatch is understandable, and that one circumstance is this:

It’s December of your junior year of college, and you’ve just finished your exams.  You decide that before heading home for Christmas you will spend a night on campus celebrating.  Unfortunately, you haven’t done laundry in weeks in anticipation of taking all your dirty clothes home and having your mother wash them and you therefore have nothing to wear.  Seriously.  Nothing.  You’ve been going commando for days.  All that’s left in your closet are things you hate and things you purchased as a joke.  From the former category you select a black wool skirt your mother bought you from J. Crew and from the latter you select a purple pleather tube top with a purple faux fur band around the top that you bought at Contempo Casuals two years earlier.  You don this ensemble reluctantly and commence celebrating.  After a few too many drinks, you sit down and momentarily forget that you must keep your legs crossed or at the very least together, exposing yourself briefly to a boy named Greg who lives on your hall.

But other than that one circumstance, there is really no excuse.

Love,

Lauren

Epistle to Katie Holmes

To My Dearest Darling Katie:

Look.  I’ve always hated your half-smile and your singing voice, both of which received far too much precious Dawson’s Creek screen time, and I was very disappointed by your Vanity Fair spread.  But I write you this epistle not to discuss Dawson’s Creek or Jane Sarkin’s ineptitude.  Rather, I write to discuss your recent wedding.

Your fabulous Italian wedding, Katie, was not at all the sort of wedding I would have wanted.  I’d like to think that if I were rich and famous and marrying a movie star, I’d still be able to keep it real.  For example, I would insist that my entire wedding party wear Chuck Taylors.  Chucks are appropriate for every occasion.  And I wouldn’t select a five-tiered white chocolate wedding cake with marzipan roses and white chocolate chips.  First of all, no one likes white chocolate or marzipan.  And second of all, there is no cake yummier than Carvel ice cream cake.  That is why my wedding cake would be Cookie Puss stacked on top of the Fudgie the Whale.

I certainly wouldn’t want Andrea Bocelli to be my wedding singer.  I would hire my favorite disco cover band, Motor Booty Affair.  I discovered MBA last month, and these boys totally rocked my world.  The feeling was mutual: I rocked their world so hard that they posted this supersweet photo of me on their website.  I’m flattered.  Anyway, MBA would play KC and the Sunshine Band covers throughout my entire reception, with the only two exceptions being my first dance, during which they would play The Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself,” and the karaoke portion of my reception, during which they would back me while I sang “Material Girl” and “Love Will Keep Us Together.”  I suppose that if I were rich and famous, I would be able to hire KC and the Sunshine Band themselves, but somehow I don’t think that would be as much fun.

As for the guest list, I would invite the people who have been closest to me throughout my life, not a handful of random celebrity acquaintances like J Lo and Marc Anthony, Will and Jada Pinkett Smith, Posh Spice, Brook Shields, Richard Gere, Jim Carrey, and Jenny McCarthy.  (Actually, I sort of love it that Jenny McCarthy managed to score an invite to your wedding.)  Where were your Dawson’s Creek castmates, Katie?  Didn’t they play an integral role in both your on- and off-screen coming of age?  When the 90210 kids get married they invite each other—except for Shannon Doherty, of course.  Shouldn’t the Dawson’s Creek kids do the same?

Lastly, I’d like to discuss the religious aspects of your ceremony.  I’d like to think that if I were rich and famous and marrying a member of a religious cult, I’d still insist on having my own pastor perform a ceremony congruous with my own beliefs.  Katie, how could you have agreed to a Scientologist ceremony?  I understand how Scientology might seem appealing at first, how one might be lured in by personality tests and E-Meter readings.  We all believe that our personalities and experiences and memories are unique and special and worthy of examination.  Celebrities, I imagine, believe this quite strongly, as it is constantly affirmed by fans and photographers.  It’s no wonder that so many people, and so many celebrities in particular, get sucked into Scientology: it appeals to our narcissism.  But wake up and smell the aliens, Katie.  Joey Potter never would have fallen for this shit.

Sorry, Katie, but your wedding totally sucked.  Better luck next time.

Love,

Lauren