Cold, Sick, Missing Marissa Cooper

André and I saw Borat yesterday. We’d eaten Chinese food beforehand and done some shopping, and by the time we finally found our seats—nearly alone in our theater while the one next door was packed for some kids’ movie, the star apparently doing autographs in the lobby—we were ready.

The film was genuinely great. Not quite as perfect as I’d built it up in my head, but when Borat and Azamat started wrestling naked on that hotel bed I heard every person in the room lose their composure at once. Every person except two older gentlemen near the back, who either wandered in by accident or had come expecting an actual documentary about Kazakhstan. They didn’t laugh once. What still gets me is that nobody walked out.

Now I’m sick. The first cold of the season arrives and I fold immediately. Hot milk and honey, tea, blankets, the television. My World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade beta key finally showed up too—after Blizzard apparently had a whole technical crisis distributing the emails—which feels like either perfect or terrible timing depending on how honest I’m being about my priorities. I’ll probably sell it. I need the money more than I need to spend two months in a beta version of Outland.

This morning I watched the first episode of the new O.C. season and it was awful in exactly the way I’d braced for. Her name never came up once. Ryan put her things in a dumpster without a word. That was grief, apparently—silence and disposal—and the show committed to it with real conviction. I respect that. I still sat with a hollow feeling for an hour afterward. And Taylor Townsend is in the opening credits now, which I knew was coming and still wasn’t ready for.

Julian’s birthday party is tonight. I feel like garbage, so we’ll see. The new South Park is queued up regardless.