Jake, my friend from Columbia and ex-co-worker at the collection agency, called today. He wanted me to prank call a fellow employee of his just to heckle him. I called Brian and pretended to be the husband of Treeva Jo. I told him that I didn't appreciate strange men leaving messages for my wife and that I would be happy to beat her for writing a returned check. Brian was scared shitless. Ah, but it reminded me of the good old days of working in collections. Unlike the restaurant industry, I didn't have to pretend to like rude people. I didn't have to kiss ass for money. But I'm not complaining about Red Rock. I make more money there in one night than I did in one week at the collection agency.

In other bland, boring news, I watched Gilda today. More than any other genre, the classic film noirs of the 1940s and '50s make me want to be involved in the film industry. Few women are as beautiful as Rita Hayworth, and watching her heavily censored strip tease in Gilda was far more provocative than anything Tara Reid, Jennifer Lopez or Britney Spears have ever done or will ever do. Granted, the lines are a bit schlocky. "If I'd been a ranch, they would have named me The Bar Nothing," Gilda says to one admirer. Right. Because we all know what that's supposed to mean...