An elite is inevitable...

...while the disgruntled majority celebrates the return of the ninety-nine cent double cheeseburger.

And on this, the 250th anniversary of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's birth, I find myself contemplating on which side of the culture binary I belong.

Of course, I'd like to imagine myself in the former category. After all, I didn't go to expensive private school X, then expensive Ivy League college Y, to spend my life with people in puffy NFL jackets whose weekend dreams include dry humping future dental hygienists on the dance floor to "Laffy Taffy" before capping off the night with tequila shots and a blacked-out h-job session.

But then again, I can't help but notice just how darn plebeian I can be. Today, for example, I've spent several hours (ahhh, the benefits of unemployment) listening to my favorite radio station here in Los Angeles, which has dedicated its entire day of programming to the works of W.A.M. (not to be confused with WHAM! whose musical library has been guiding sexually ambiguous youth through the progressive life stages of hot-pink-spandex-wearing-gender-construct-free teenagers to quiet lives of pharmacist-by-day-truck-stop-frequenter-by-night desperation since 1983). And while I sit here, enjoying the genius that is Mozart’s Prague Symphony, about every thirty seconds my mind flashes back to Matthew McConaughey's chicken dance.

Seriously.

You see, I was fortunate enough last night to attend a concert by the talented James McMurtry, and who should be among the crowd of about a hundred but Mr. McConaughey and a bored looking Penelope Cruz. Now, the last thing I want this blog to turn into an "Oh man, I may have waited in line for three hours to get in to the club, but at least I wasn't passed out in a mixture of blow and thrown-up Spago foie gras like that idiot Lindsay Lohan" type gossip rag. There's Defamer for that. No, I choose to keep celebrity gushing to a minimum because, frankly, it's embarrassing for all of us.

I only bring it up because last night I, along with pretty much everyone else there, kept being distracted from McMurtry's singing by McConaughey's dancing and the sporadic pop of Penelope's bubble gum. And granted, while there was something impressive in how rhythmically and persistently the Sahara "star" (it's easier to write "star" than "protagonist of a cinematic Buchenwald") could alternate between his crouches and neck extensions, it was more impressive in way that a three-legged cat is impressive, rather than the "get this guy on Dancing with the Stars!" way.

More to the point, I found myself getting physically angry over the fact that I was letting this celebrity become the focal point of my night, rather than the talented musician performing on stage. And then I found myself getting angry over the fact that I was getting angry over a celebrity, rather than enjoying the talented musician performing on stage… ad infinitum.

But now, as I look back on it, trying to figure out if I ought to give up my dream of a subscription to The Metropolitan Opera for a subscription to the Spice channel and a case of PBR, I actually think I can rest assured. You see, after much thought, I’m confident that I would have been staring at the moron doing the chicken dance while his pretty girlfriend stood bored nearby regardless of their celebrity status. And I would have had similar wishes as I watched - namely that the seemingly pacifist McMurtry would suddenly raise his acoustic over said dancer's head and send him dancing to an early grave.

Like I said, I'm still working on that zen thing.

Anyway, the important thing is that, once again, the forces of elitism have reclaimed their dominant position in the heart and mind of this Hollywood neophyte, and all is well with the world.

Although I do have a difficult time accounting for the fact that I nearly crapped my pants with joy when I noticed a guy in the audience who looked just like Leonardo DiCaprio trying to keep a low profile. Although I'm pretty sure the fact that he didn't respond to my shouts of "Leo! LEO! Let me be a part of your entourage!" as he drove off in his Civic proved it probably wasn't him.

Damn you, Jack Dawson. Damn you for taking my heart down with you into those icy waters.

A sense of timing is the mark of genius...

A sense of irony is the mark of over-education.

I was informed today that I "didn't have quite enough experience" to qualify for an unpaid internship with a (for the sake of any potential future career) here unnamed production company. Likely because when asked to provide sample coverage on a script I later learned they particularly enjoyed, I employed such words as "amateur," "one-dimensional," "mundane," and "physically difficult to get through." This all in the first paragraph, by the way.

But I suppose the Rumination of the Night revolves not so much around differing ideologies, but rather the fact that I'm pretty sure I didn't get the job because the "Head of Development" (read: gets a sweet business card, but still has to dash out of the office whenever the boss requires a cinnamon dolce latte from Starbucks) with whom I interviewed could detect my aversion to him.

And the thing is, I don't know why I felt it. I've made a conscious effort over the past few months to become a better person. I've even started going to effing yoga classes at the gym to get in touch with whatever it is yoga is supposed to get you in touch with (the tao/inner peace/thick-eyebrowed Persian housewives). Yet, despite my efforts, I still find myself constantly judging others like...well, I could make a Simon Cowell reference here, but then I'd have to hunt down a rubber band, a baggie of ice, and a sharp knife.

So, back to this HOD, who shall remain anonymous (Hint 1: his first name is the same as my roommate's. Hint 2: his last name sounds like Endicott. Hint 3: okay, his last name is Endicott). I'm sitting there, trying to b.s. my way into his thinking that all I've ever wanted to do with my life is answer phones and make sure the filing cabinets are properly alphabetized, but I can't stop staring at his pastel brown shirt, his carefully selected thrift-store tie, his large forehead flanked by spindly blonde hair, and his hands folded like he's just waiting for Wes-friggin'-Anderson to cast him in “Rushmore II: Max’s Revenge,” thinking that if it came down to making this month's rent or paying God to have the lighting fixture come crashing down on this guy’s head, I would gladly sacrifice my credit record.

Perhaps the saddest thing is that I think I actually do know why I spent the whole time judging him, but it took writing this to figure it out. Which is that in an email exchange the night before, he jokingly suggested I call him "Captain, O' My Captain." Now, an expert on modern American Poetry I did not expect him to be; however, anybody who's seen "Dead Poets Society" should be well aware not only of Whitman's panegyric to our suicidal closet-case of a sixteenth president, but also of the correct phrasing of his poem, courtesy of Robin Williams in a role second only to his eponymous lead in "Patch Adams."

So, in short, I didn't get a job (though I don't know if an unpaid internship in which my level of importance falls somewhere between the stapler and the magazine rack technically qualifies as a "job") because of these darned elitist tendencies I can't seem to shake.

Carpe diem, bitches.

In the land of the blind...

...the man with the most durable groin cup is king.

Here in Los Angeles, as an "aspiring screenwriter" (read: destined to a career in fluffery), I often feel as though I were strolling about in a backward g-string. And I don't just mean that literally.

All of this serving as preface to the following Rumination of the Night: if the producers of "Skating With Celebrities" - which replaced "Arrested Development" on Fox - don't rely on their assistants to hide the razor blades and/or electronic appliances every time they draw a warm bath, then I may just have to throw in the towel on this whole entertainment industry here and now.

So, if anybody should happen to know said producers' PA's, I would appreciate it if you could please forward my query so I can finally get some sleep at night.

And if you get a chance, ask if they're hiring.