Bad, bad blogger. Bad, bad updater.

What can I say, except that in addition to this blog there's the one for work, the one for the band, the one for the faded but still present obsession, and there's one they're trying to get me to contribute to but I need more hours in the day if I'm going to think about that one.

And generally, by the time I'm home from work, I'm about out of ideas. Everybody wants ideas these days, but getting the ideas I think are neat or interesting or fun accepted by whoever wants those ideas seems the challenge. Also, the place that most wants my ideas these days is cutting my paycheck, but they're also asking me to do things that — as Peter Sagal from "Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me" might say — are Not My Job. What's the old much-abused saying — "First they came to me and said, 'Contribute to our blog, because it is the new and cool thing,' and I spoke up and said,' Sure.' Then they came to me and said, 'Produce, interview and appear visually in our video pieces from film festivals,' and I spoke up and said, 'Okay.' Then they said, 'Come up with issue ideas, because we love new ideas,' and I spoke up and said, 'Well, all right then.' And then they came and said, 'Come up with issue ideas that are guaranteed to sell ads or you may suddenly not be valuable to us any more,' and by that time there was no way I could protest. Now, of course, if any of these job augmentations (read: not what I was hired for, even remotely) came with a subsequent bump in salary, I'd probably have been all right, if still a bit uncomfortable at the last bit (I grew up in a time when we were taught that editorial and advertising were church and state — but these days in the U.S. even church and state isn't as church and state as it once was, so I guess stop bitching at the Way Things Once Were is the message).

Still, it's hard to complain overly loud, because I get to do things like go to the "Sex and the City" premiere at Radio City last Tuesday. (Little did I know that there were fools willing to fork over $19K for my ticket.) I went with Cameron, and knew ahead of time it would be a madhouse — you don't do a premiere at Radio City Music Hall and not hand out the tickets ahead of time and expect things to run smoothly — and I was rewarded by a block and a half queue just to get the Will Call Tickets.

And then it rained. Up umbrellas, out poke eyeballs, drip drip drip on your head from the runoff. And you know what? Of all of the people in this world who should be taken out in a street and beaten severely? People who use golf umbrellas off of a course. Listen to me, people: If the ratio of umbrella skin to your own head is greater than 3-1, put it away. Or I will beat you with your own enormous umbrella myself. I sense these are the people who answer their cell phones during movies, too.

Anyway, because as we discovered yesterday I'm all entitled and up in myself, I figured there had to be a better way. Maybe … a press line was mere feet away and here we were, waiting with the regular folk! This was not to be borne, especially not in the rain. Cameron held the space and I headed to the top of the line, which was only the near top of the line because they had metal fence barricades corralling the very head of the line off to the side, and every few minutes they'd lop off another 20 people to actually get under the tent to retrieve tickets. As I arrived, one Southern-accented blonde woman was insisting to someone with a walkie-talkie: "Really, I need to get in there. I'm responsible for 10 percent of this film's budget!" I backed her up and told them: "Let her in — she's the New York State Film Commissioner!" At which point she turned and laughed and said hello.

So it was like that. Well, as I stood and waited to see if a studio rep would come over so I could beg entry on my own merits, the line shifted forward a bit. I shifted along, and suddenly I was in among the mass of umbrellas and cranky patrons. I called Cameron. No answer. I texted: Come here now. And she came.

Soon enough we were inside — and really, even if you have no reason to go to Radio City Music Hall for an event, get a tour. It is an art deco wonderland and has amazing acoustics. We wandered in the lobby to do what my high school friend Valerie once called "seeing and being seen," and we saw a lot of young women dressed as if they had been in the movie, in their best shoes and best dresses and their best eagle eyes, hoping to see someone famous. We saw Dean Winters and Ann Coulter. "Let's move to the left," I emphasized to Cameron once we confirmed it was the she-devil. "Way left."

The film started late, of course. They never start on time. Film executive thanked everybody, brought on the charity rep for whom the event was benefiting, brought on the director/writer, Michael Patrick King. King then introduced the lesser cast members in the audience, then brought "the girls" up on stage. I know it's cute and it's a cute film and all that, but y'know, past the age of 25 calling a woman a "girl" is demeaning in a way that gives me hives. I don't get all gooey being called a "girl," as if someone could mistake me for one, oooh, look how young I am — I just begin to wonder what's up with the eyesight of the person calling me that. (NB: There are exceptions, of course.)

And I actually liked it. I thought I was going to be bored, or it would be depressing, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I never watched the show for itself; I only cared if Chris Noth was in it, and he's all over this version. He's also got some incredibly romantic shit to say, as well as make goo-goo eyes at Carrie, so that works for me. I think he's kind of a goony goofball in real life who doesn't care much about personal dress habits (all evidence bears me out on this) but he was HOTT in this film. I could revitalize my obsession given enough energy, but, see above for energy, lack thereof.

So here's where you get the high and low of the evening: I got to go to the after-party at the Museum of Modern Art. It's a nice space they use for these fetes, with a wide-open lower level and a wide staircase that leads to a substantial balcony where you can look down on all of the beautifully-coiffed folks. The low is I really had an assigned mission: Get a quote from one of the "girls." Unfortunately, the "girls" were all united in that they'd done all their talking on the red carpet (don't get me started on the insanity of the red carpet) and they weren't talking now. But, I was informed, Kristin Davis (Charlotte) was leaving in 15 minutes and she'd talk to me on the way out, so stand here at the bottom of the staircase. Which I did.

For an hour.

Cameron was a doll: She grabbed me a Cosmo or two (when they ran out of Cosmo mix she brought a "Miranda," which was a little tart and not very delicious), and even attempted to get in Chris Noth's personal space for a quote, but got blown off by his agent. And then, after all this time I said "Fuck it" and went upstairs to find another publicist, who confirmed for me that Davis had already left. "Didn't you see her?" Um. Apparently not.

So I went and got some food and ate in the garden with Cameron and enjoyed the last dregs of the party, which shut down sometime around midnight.

And that, I suppose, is why complaining about the gig and its demands is a little selfish of me. I suppose.

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For the record: Went to California. Got food poisoning the second day. (The first day was great: I took it as vacation and went to the "Law & Order: SVU" writers offices on the Universal Lot for the book and got lots of great quotes and information.) Then for the rest of the trip I just felt not quite right, was getting tired at 1pm and then crashing, so I came home early. Even canceled my trip to Monterey for Memorial Day Weekend. Le sigh: Will have to relax sometime … later this year. Club Med, anyone?