Sunday, June 15, 2008

CatP.A.C.K.

I hardly ever remember my dreams anymore. About ten years ago, I had a series of dreams that were so mind-numbingly dull (ie - a dream about drinking milk; a dream that factually taught me the proper way to make pancakes, etc.) that my brain simply made a decision -- if my dreams aren't worth remembering, I simply won't remember them. So, from then on, I'd remember perhaps a dream or two a year.

Last week, I had a very vivid dream, and it wasn't boring. I dreamt a TV episode. A pilot, in fact, to a TV show that doesn't exist. In its entirety.

Now, this wasn't a dream of me watching TV. And it wasn't a 'behind-the-scenes' making-of an episode. It was an episode itself, played (with no commercial interruption!), for sole purpose of entertaining my unconscious brain.

The show was starring me, my brother, my dad and ten talking cats. We were a crack squad of do-gooders who were all that stood between an evil zombie horde and total world domination. You read right (I assume) -- it's a show that pits the male members of my family and ten talking cats against zombies.

Since this was the 'pilot episode,' most of the time was spent establishing the situation and introducing the characters. My dad, brother and I were freedom fighters dedicated to fighting zombies, who, as far as I could tell, had already taken over much of the world. We were squirreled away in our base of operations (which happens to be my parent's house), and much of the episode was about stopping the zombies from getting inside. The zombies came up with many assorted (and somewhat complex) schemes to gain entrance to our base, but they all failed (probably because zombies are not known for their brilliant tactical minds . . .). They finally decided to send ten werewolves into my parent's garage to, I suppose, ambush us when we went out to do grocery shopping or something. But my dad and I (I have no idea where my brother went) somehow managed to turn the ten werewolves into ten talking cats (I think it involved scratching the werewolves on the chin . . .). The ten talking cats then decided to join our team in stopping the zombies.

Each cat had a different, one-dimensional personality and the dream took its time to introduce each one. There was the leader cat, the warrior cat, the prissy cat, the scaredy cat, the wise, old cat etc. When it came right down to it, though, they were just cats. Besides the fact that they talked and had 'personalities,' they had no special powers, and, I have no idea how, against zombies, they could possibly be of any help. Case in point, when my character had to later investigate the garage again. When I came back in to the house, I heard the cats hiding. When I announced that it was just me, they all jumped out of their hiding places -- the pockets of assorted coats, hung on a coat rack. They all had the same cowardly reaction, except for the scaredy cat, who made a point of biting my finger in fear when he jumped down.

Here's the best part -- in my dream, the show had a name. It was called 'CatP.A.C.K.' I know that the acronym stands for something, but I have no idea what it could possibly be (Protectors Against Cranium Konsumers? People and Cats Killing (zombies)? Profoundly Awful Crappy Kaka?). I think that maybe 'pack' was harkening back to the fact that they were once werewolves . . . I don't know. I also don't know if this was supposed to be an action show or a comedy . . . What I do know is that I woke up with this being my first conscious thought -- "What the hell was that?"

It's weird -- I'd think that the lesson to this dream is that I watch too much TV -- but I don't even own a TV anymore. So, maybe what this dream is telling me is that I need to watch more TV . . . Or, maybe, this was my brain telling me that I should actually make this show. Maybe I'll dream more fully written episodes of 'CatP.A.C.K.' and just make the series solely based on what I dream about. In any case, stay tuned . . .

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Transylvania Part 2 -- the Revenge!

Thursday, May 22, 2008


I'm still in Romania. It's still an interesting place. I'm still exhausted, but I'm trying to get the interesting things down before I sleep them out of my system. Here a smattering of the aforementioned interesting things . . .

- There are many, many peasants in Romania. I'm not talking 'poor people,' and I'm not talking 'pheasants' (though there are wild pheasants running around too). These people are straight-out-of-the-history-books peasants. They are exact replicas of the extras you see in movies such as 'Frankenstein,' 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' ("I'm not dead yet!"), and 'Henry V.' They are people of the land, using the exact same tools and wearing the exact same type of clothes as their ancestors did a thousand years ago. I see some herding cattle across the street with a stick with a leather tail attached to the end. People with homemade pitchforks gather fresh hay and put them in horse-drawn carts. The most fascinating thing to see, though, is that they use actual scythes to reap grass on the side of the road. Honest-to-god Grim Reaper scythes. These tools have been around, unchanged, for thousands of years. The only difference that I can guess between these peasants and their great-great-great- great- great- great- great-grandfathers is that the newer models probably own cell phones . . .

- Speaking of cell phones, Romanian people REALLY like to use them. I know we Americans get a bad rap for being a 'rude' people (and maybe we are), but our cell phone etiquette puts theirs to shame (or at least should). Here are the cell phone rules for Romanians, as far as I can tell: 1. Your cell phone must have the most annoying ring-tone you can find and must be set to the highest possible volume. 2. Your cell phone must always be on. Always! Turning your phone off or setting it to vibrate will result in an immediate and agonizing death. 3. If your cell phone rings, you MUST pick it up, regardless of the situation. There are NO exceptions. On the first day of the educational symposium I was helping to film, schoolchildren were brought in to hear the stories of actual Holocaust survivors. During this three hour event, cell phones were going off left and right – and not from the students. From the teachers! One teacher excused himself from the room about six times, as his cell phone blared a techno beat with someone in a heavy accent screaming "HALLO? HALLO? HALLO?" It only got worse on subsequent days where there were only adults in the room. Every single symposium participant whose cell phone went off answered the phone. Most people quickly got up from their chairs and ran out of the room, putting the phone to their ears as they reached the door, and throughout the four day event, only one of participants looked guilty (she pulled the cell phone out of her purse, answered it, and very quietly, from her chair, whispered something to the effect of "I can't answer my phone right now . . ."). One of the helpers of the event, a Romanian kid of about 19 named Tommy, went with me and another American, Adam, to film a Holocaust survivor giving a tour of the city, talking about how things changed since the 1930s (Most of the tour went like this – "This house used to belong to the Long family. They were bakers. They had five children. They all died in Auschwitz. That house belonged to the Fried family. They made jewelry. I went to school with their daughter. They all died in Auschwitz . . . " (There were a few survivors, but not many . . .)). Anyway, Tommy had an expensive, shoulder-mounted video camera (the one I transported from the states), and whenever his phone rang, he would throw his camera off his shoulder and grab his cell phone, regardless of the fact that the survivor was in the middle of an interview. The American who was with me, one of Tommy's bosses, yelled at him. "Tommy, what the hell are you doing?!? Get off your damn cell phone!" Tommy would respond, "I cannot do this!" and looked at Adam like he asked him to castrate himself . . .

- Romanian radio is interesting. It seems like every station plays a random mix of Romanian and American music. The American music is a hodgepodge of songs that, for the most part, I haven't heard of in years. It's almost like we sold them wholesale to countries like Romania . . . I heard both Eddie Murphy's one-hit-wonder "Party All the Time" and Patrick Swayze's one-hit-wonder "She's Like the Wind" on the same day. I heard "Ice Ice Baby" and "What Is Love (Baby Don't Hurt Me)." I heard Abba and, what I think were the first few bars of an Elvis song, but the channel got changed. I obviously don't understand what the radio DJs are saying, but in what I assume to be a preview of the music played, he mentioned Britney Spears and Kenny Loggins in the same sentence. It's kind of funny how in the US, songs by Britney Spears and Kenny Loggins would be on totally separate radio stations (both of which I most likely would stay away from . . . ), but I think in Romania, there are absolutely no difference between a techno song, a rap song and an oldie. They're all just "American."

- It was sunny and pleasant every single day I was here (except for today), and thunderstormed every single night. The power went off in the town three nights in a row . . .

- One of those nights, Adam and I had the car we were using stolen. By Tommy. Here is the story: We had just finished the second to last day of the symposium, which was totally draining. Adam, Tommy and I decided to go to a restaurant and have some food before going back to the house and passing out for our 7:00 wake up the next morning. This was actually the first time I would be eating out since I have been here, and was looking forward to eating something new. At the restaurant, we met up with Daniel, the historian and curator of the museum, and a group of Israelis who were attending the seminar. We joined them for dinner. During the course of the meal, some of the Israelis mentioned that they never got to tour the museum and were leaving the next day. Daniel obliged them by giving them a tour after hours. So, Daniel and a group of Israelis got up and headed into his car for the tour. Tommy mentioned that he needed to get something from Adam's rental car's trunk and went with them. As we continued eating with the remaining Israelis, Adam looked out the window and said, "Is that my car?" I looked out the window too, and saw his blue Fiat leaving the lot. Tommy was a (more-or-less) trusted employee and we knew where he lived, so we weren't terribly worried. Plus, we had another group of guests to stay with, so we both kept calm. I assumed it was some kind of misunderstanding, and that, perhaps, they had taken that car instead of Daniel's. We finished our dinner and the rest of the Israelis left. We went to the lot and looked around. Both Adam and Daniel's cars were gone. The sun was setting and black clouds were forming overhead. We waited a few minutes outside the restaurant, but it soon started absolutely pouring, and we were forced back in. The power went out and the light from the bolts of lightning showed that the parking lot was becoming a lake. By this point, Adam was frantically calling Tommy and Daniel, but because of the storm, the phones weren't working (I know this because Tommy and Daniel are Romanians and would have picked up their phones no matter what if Adam had gotten through). Finally, after about 45 minutes of non-stop dialing, Adam got through to Daniel. "Daniel, what the hell happened? Tommy took my car and we have no way of getting home. Get back here now, and bring Tommy!" He hung up. We waited another half hour in darkness. Nobody showed up. Adam began to call again, and eventually got through. "Daniel, where are you? You're still at the museum! Get back here! NOW!" A short time later, Daniel and Tommy drove to the restaurant parking lot. It was still pouring. I got up to run into the car, but Adam stopped me. "For making us wait, they're going to have to come in and get us," he said. Daniel came in, sopping wet. "Where's Tommy?" Adam asked, angrily. "He will be picking you up now in your car," replied Daniel. "I now have to drop the Israelis at the hotel." And he ran off. He jumped into his car and drove off. Tommy followed him in Adam's rental. "What the fuck?!?" Adam cried. He tried to frantically call again, and eventually got through. Forty-five minutes later, they were back. I wondered what kind of excuse Tommy had for what just happened. The only thing he said was, "Daniel's car got stuck in the mud." I still have no idea what went on . . .

That's it for now. I'll probably write one more post about my Romanian trip, including my adventure riding a horse and a few other stories. Stay tuned!

Transylvania

Sunday, May 18, 2008

My trip to Romania got off to an inauspicious start. I arrived at the Newark airport over two hours early and was past security and in my departure area with about two hours to spare. I purposefully packed everything into a carry-on bag and a camcorder bag because I had a transfer in Dusseldorf and didn't want anything to be lost or smashed, but my bag was three times the weight limit (and, according to the customs lady, too large anyway), so my bag had to be checked. Nothing I could do. So, I checked it in, and if my camcorder, or my boss's laptop was damaged as the assorted workmen of the three airports threw my bag around like a sack of potatoes, I left it to the fates to decide if it was lost or damaged. I kept my camcorder bag, which contained a brand new, professional camcorder, which my boss, Alex, received in the mail right before my journey . . . at least that would be safe . . .

At Newark, I decided to kill some time by going to the only restaurant that was in the area – a Sam Adams Lounge. I ordered a chicken sandwich and a lager. I drink beer about twice a year (I actually can't stand the stuff), but for some reason beyond me, decided to order a tall glass. I was going to Germany, then transferring to Hungary and driving to Romania. The heart of beer country. The idea of going to some American joint and ordering a beer right before my flight hit me on an ironic level. I need to work on curtailing this aspect to my personality . . .

Sitting in my seat on the waiting station, I was called by the intercom to the check-in desk shortly before the flight was to call passengers to board. Apparently, I was supposed to go straight up to the desk and get a new ticket, but (even though this was explained to me) I didn't do it because I didn't understand. So, with a few minutes until the plane boarded, I was called by intercom to arrive at the desk. I went to the desk and they said to me (in a thick accent that I didn't understand, but assumed to be Welsh) that because I didn't 'check-in' I was to be given the last seat available on the flight. The woman said, "I'm sorry, but it's going to be a 'metal' seat." She handed me my new ticket. I was confused. Why was I being given a 'metal seat'? What did that even mean? Was there a seat made of cold, rusted metal on the side of the plane for the last person that signed in? Why would any company do this? I stood at the desk and asked, "what does this mean?" There were four ladies at the desk, but they all ignored me. I stood there for another minute and repeated, "what does this mean? 'Metal Seat?'" Finally, one of the ladies looked my way. "What?" she said. "What does that mean? A 'metal seat.' What does that mean?" The woman (who was African-American and obviously not Welsh) explained. "She didn't say 'metal.' She said, 'middle.'"

"Ohhh," I replied. This was not a good start . . . If I couldn't understand someone who could technically speak English, how was I supposed to get by in Romania?

I got in the plane and sat in my middle seat. Not only was it between two people, but it was between two people who also happened to be in the aisle. In other words, I was the person as far from the windows of the plane as possible. It was okay. The people sitting next to me didn't' say a word to me (I prefer this) and there was not a single screaming baby on the plane. In the 8 hour flight, I probably got two to three hours of sleep, before I rushed to my connecting flight in Dusseldorf to Budapest.

It was kind of weird. The flight, much like the one from Newark to Dusseldorf, was in two languages. In fact, it was in the exact two languages as the previous flight – German and English. I wonder how the Hungarians on the flight felt about this – flying to their own nation and not hearing their language on the flight. Not my problem, I suppose . . .

I had time to kill when I arrived in Budapest. The guy who would be driving me to Romania would not be arriving for another few hours. I've heard a lot of talk about the 'Americanization' or the 'Capitalization' of the world and how bad it is, but let me tell you – when you're travelling to another country, totally exhausted, alone and unable to speak the language, you're damn thankful that everyone in the airport speaks English and that there are places to buy a coca-cola.

After a couple of groggy hours in the Budapest airport, the guy that was to drive me to Romania arrived from his flight and we went off in a rental car (a Fiat!) to Romania. The roads of Eastern Europe are exactly as I remembered them from ten years ago – terrifying. They are rickety, windy, one-lane roads with no speed limit. If you were stuck behind a car or truck you didn't think went fast enough, you could overtake them by going into oncoming traffic. There were a couple of times we were almost clipped by mac trucks . . . Fun!

Transylvania's an interesting place. The area is beautiful, with green, rolling hills, and there is lots and lots of open land. The towns themselves, though, are literally crumbling apart. I'm pretty sure there hasn't been a new building built in the last fifty years. Everything is dusty and in some places, if you touch a wall, it will literally crumble in loose concrete chunks. Everyone here is nice enough, and most people speak at least three languages – Romanian (which, I found out, is closely related to Italian), Hungarian (which is closely related to nothing), and (thankfully) English. Some of the younger people speak English fluently. I've gotten by, so far, knowing about three words of Hungarian. "Yes," "good" and "thank you."

Here are some other things I've noticed about this place – People don't smoke as much here as I thought they would. I'd say I see people smoking more in New York than Romania on any given day. Storks are common here and they build nests of about six feet in diameter on top of telephone polls. They make a weird clicking noise that sounds like a party-favor. The frogs here sound like ducks. I hear quacking at the nearby pond and there's nothing there but frogs (which, when we first arrived, a young man was firing at with an air rifle. This was seriously the first thing I saw when I got out of the car . . .). There are tons of stray dogs. Nobody owns dogs as indoor pets, and they would probably be kicked or shot if they were to enter a house. They are outdoor animals. There are stray cats too. And chickens. Lots of chickens on the side of the road. There might be a few stray people too . . . This is definitely not a wealthy area.

The town is made up of Christians and Gypsies. I think the groups keep pretty separate, but I didn't see any ill-will expressed from one group to the other. The Gypsies are exactly as you'd imagine them to be. The women wear bright, flowery muumuus with red babushkas. One of the men I saw was wearing a fancy top-hat with a wife-beater and had a salt-and-pepper handlebar moustache. He was driving his family on a horse-driven hay cart. This is a fairly common sight here. At parties (I've gone to two so far), Gypsies are hired as entertainment. A family of male Gypsies play the fiddle, bass and accordion, led by an old, snaggle-toothed man. A boy, no older than ten, was also in the band. They were excellent.

Every meal – breakfast, lunch and dinner – is served with a shot glass and a small bottle of slivovitz. I think if I stay here much longer, I'll get sick of the stuff . . .

Everything here is fresh. I am pretty sure there is no grocery store in town. The eggs come straight from the family's chickens. The chickens come from the family's eggs. In the afternoon, I walked outside the house, and two freshly-skinned lambs were lying on the table. Blood was literally dripping from the table's cracks and onto the ground. Later that night, we had lamb for dinner, served on that very same table . . . it was actually pretty tasty . . .

I guess that's it for now. So far, as far as I know, I have encountered no vampires . . .

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

The Return of Your Favorite Show

Monday, May 15, 2006

The Return of Your Favorite Show

Today is a bittersweet day for many of us. One of the smartest, funniest, most heartfelt shows of all time aired its last episode not one hour ago. I am, of course, talking about The West Wing -- a tv show that brought the walk 'n talk to unparalleled heights of excellence.

I, for one, am very sad to see a show of this caliber go off the air. Especially when I feel that it ended prematurely. There was at least one more season of quality stories that could be told. So, to both honor the series and to offer a smidgen of hope that it can be reborn, I present the West Wing season-that-never-was:

Before I get into the synopsis, let me say when I feel this season needs to take place. Sure, we could look into the new Santos administration, but I feel that there was plenty of untapped potential in the original cast, who, in my opinion, is the greatest ensemble ever to grace the screen. So, this season-that-never-was will take place during the classic years of the Bartlet administration. Probably the perfect place would be when creator Aaron Sorkin left after season 4, especially since season 5 is generally considered to blow.

Here we go:

-Zoey, the President's daughter, has been captured by terrorists. President Bartlet goes undercover to rescue her, but is discovered by the cell. Now he and the terrorist leader must battle it out in a caged knife-fight in which there could only be ONE survivor. To make matters even more intense, if the President loses, the terrorist becomes the new leader of the free world!

-President Bartlet's mother-in-law is coming to visit, and we all know that means trouble! It seems that Abbey's mother always thought of the President as a good-for-nothing slug-about and that her daughter could've done better -- no matter what President Bartlet does to please her. It's just the President's luck when the country is placed in a national crisis with an impending transportation strike. To make matters worse, his mother-in-law took the bus to get to the White House, and won't be leaving until the mess is sorted out!

-While clearing out a long-abandoned room of the White House, Charlie discovers a magical mirror that is a portal to another dimension! Charlie gets sucked into the mirror, and out comes a mustachioed Charlie doppelganger. Nobody seems to suspect anything except for CJ, but can she figure out what happened before the red moon rises and Charlie is trapped forever?

-It turns out that the legend of Frankenstein's monster is true, and that Thomas Jefferson transported the slumbering beast in the basement of the White House as a scientific curiosity. Now the monster has awakened and has captured anyone who dares go down there. It turns out that there are a lot of brave people in the White House, as only the President and Margaret remain free. Can they figure out a way to put the monster back to sleep?

-In a very special episode, Toby is discovered to be addicted to opium! His friends in the West Wing band together to get him off the drug, but is their intervention enough, or will Toby's way with words convince them to join him in his sinful drug den?

-Here we go again! The President hit his head while reaching for a pen under his desk, and caught a bad case of amnesia! It's up to the West-Wingers to help him regain his memory before the State of the Union later that night, and keep news of his situation from falling into the hands of Rex Nutley, a newspaper reporter who has had it in for the President ever since Bartlet allegedly ran over his dog.

-A nuclear bomb is about to go off in the White House, and due to a gas leak that knocked everyone else out, only Josh can disarm it! The only problem is that his unique brand of wit is useless against the automated timer. Josh needs to find another way of saving the DC area against total destruction!

-At the West Wing's annual science fair, Dr. Farfenhosen's aging device goes haywire, and turns the West Wing staff into a bunch of toddlers! Now the President and Charlie have to keep those rambunctious rascals under control until a cure can be found -- and keep an eye out for a kidnapper who has been making the rounds in their area. They thought running a country is tough!

-Leo is alone again on Christmas and contemplates suicide. An angel appears and shows Leo what life would be like if President Bartlet were never born. Leo is confused until he learns that he is just a character in one of Josh's spicy-food-induced dreams.

-There is a traitor in the West Wing! Very important documents of national security have disappeared, and Leo is on the case to find out who sold out his country. He eventually narrows his list of suspects to Josh, Donna, CJ and the newly introduced West Wing character, Boris. Leo decides not to take any more chances and puts them all in front of a firing squad, until it is discovered that Boris' pet opossum was stealing the papers and using them to make her nest.

-Season Finale: The terrorist leader that kidnapped Zoey is back, and out for revenge! He's also become an unstoppable cyborg, and this time the President can't possibly stop him alone! The West Wingers must put aside the petty differences that has recently torn them apart, and band together to stop this un-American killing machine!

I have more ideas where these come from, but to find out what they are, you'll have to see them on TV. So, if anyone on the now defunct West Wing is reading this blog call me. Let's work something out. Okay.

Dogs Suck at Practical Jokes . . .

Monday, April 03, 2006

Last Saturday, as an April Fool's joke, my brother's dog violently destroyed my sister's cat.
Nobody in the family found it very funny. I think that the dog was going for "funny on a cosmic level," but it just didn't work.

My sister, who has had some previous problems with keeping things that she loves alive around her (boyfriends, previous pets (who were also killed by dogs), etc) has been crying for two days straight. My mom isn't faring much better. My dad, who was the one to pull the dog away during the disembowling process, described it as the worst thing he's ever encountered in his entire life. My brother is very wisely keeping himself and the dog out of sight.

I'm not doing very well myself. I only knew the cat for two months, but it really, really grew on me. I'm not a cat person, but I really came to love it. It was, far and away, the cutest, most personable cat I'd ever come across. She made Tibby (my old roommate's cat, who I also like) seem like a Nazi taking a dump on a baby. She was just really, really adorable.

Unfortunately, my brother's dog is also really, really adorable (in that wolfish way). I love my brother's dog too. Only now, I don't know how to react to him. I know he did what he was genetically programmed to do: Attack, kill and eat anything outside of his gene-pool that's smaller than he is. In that way, he was a good dog -- but he was also a bad member of the family. Family members don't slaughter and consume other members of the family. It's rude.

So, I'd like to pour one out to my sister's cat.

Tzilla, wherever you are, I'm sorry we can't play anymore. You were a great cat, and I'll miss you forever.

The Danny Show

Thursday, March 16, 2006

The Danny Show

This is my first time writing a blog, so please, as a reader, be gentle . . .

With that written, uhhh, hello. I've wanted to write one of these blog-things for a while now, but I've never felt that I've had anything important enough to write about. I read some of my friend's blogs and they're insightful and personal and passionate. They write about inner-growth and self-discovery, and I always feel a little inadequate in expressing these pontifications. The only inner-growth in me are tumors and I've discovered myself quite enough for my taste. Furthermore, the things I get passionate about are really superficial and don't seem to be important enough for other people to read about -- like my outrage that Fox cancelled Arrested Development, how much the new GI Joe sucks, and my belief that President Bush is what happens when the devil and a retard mate (you can choose which one is which with George Sr. and Barbara).


I feel like I finally found something important enough to write about: my feelings on God. Now I don't know if God really exists (and none of you do either) but IF he does, I think I figured out why he created us (if we didn't create him).

Here it is: We were put on this earth to entertain him. We're God's TV. Each one of us is a different show, and he checks in on us to see what wacky adventure we've gotten ourselves into this time. I'll say this for the human race -- we may be cruel and destructive, but we're very entertaining. What other explanation could there be? The wars, the extreme poverty, the abused children, the other crap -- this is not the will of a kind God. It is, however, the will of a God that wants quality entertainment. I can respect this. If we were put on this planet for any other reason, then God seriously screwed up.

I bring this up because I feel that my life occasionally receives a bit of divine intervention -- and I can understand why. I don't live an especially interesting life, and I feel like sometimes God gets bored. Fair enough (I do too). I swear, the timing of some things in my life have the hackneyed plausibility of an episode of Mr. Belvedere. Usually these instances of suspect timing or wacky misunderstandings involved women (specifically my inability to get any -- some of them are pretty funny), but recently, he's been interfering with my job. Apparently, me being unemployed is funny to God. After having a job in the field of my choice (cartoons) in New York, I decided to give LA a try. For 9 months, I sent out resumes and met with people to try to get back in the industry. For 9 months, I didn't hear a peep. I got literally zero responses from the hundreds of jobs I applied to. So, I decide to stop wasting my savings and head back to the east coast. Two days into my drive across the country I get a call. It's someone who wants to interview me. The position was perfect for me. It was exactly what I was qualified for, and was exactly what I wanted to do. Could I interview tomorrow? The boss will be on a trip for the rest of week, so that was the only time they could fit me in.

Ha ha. God, that's a good one. To end this little tale, I arranged speak with them next week with the plans to get on a plane and pretend I still lived there -- but when I called them at the planned time, I ended up speaking directly to the person they ended up hiring.
I probably sound bitter, but I'm not. It would just make me feel better to know that God, in some capacity, is interfering in my life and having a jolly old time. It'll hopefully keep me from being cancelled for a while . . .