I had a fairly disastrous day at work today, particularly since my foot decided it wanted to suddenly slam back into Excruciating Pain Mode shortly after lunch.

It seems to be doing better now after a whole lot of ice, but on top of the tinsel-covered holiday hell I’m already deeply embroiled in, it was not fun. After a day like today, all I wanted to do was come home and wallow in self-pity.

But then, I read stories like 250,000 households evacuated in San Diego because of fire, and I remember: Things could be a lot worse.

Two items today that together are a real great way to kick off the week:

First, last night there were some serious Santa Ana winds blowing, and my power (and the power to the rest of my block) went out. To SoCal Edison’s credit, it was back on within the hour.

However, one key item in my apartment building seems to have been permanently injured by the flickering of the power before it finally died: The hot water heater.

That’s right, my apartment building has NO hot water. I lived with having cold water for laundry, figuring the soap was fine for most dirt, and the heat from the dryer would kill just about everything else.

The real problem occurred when I first discovered the lack of hot water…when I jumped in the shower after I came home from the gym, and thought I was about to freeze solid.

I shower at home when I go to the gym because the showers at my gym are horror-movie level disgusting. After freezing my ass off, waiting in vain for the water to warm up, I briefly reconsidered going back to the gym. Then I decided it was better to freeze.

After considering options (although forgetting a few: I thought of a couple people I could have called later to beg for the use of their unfrozen showers), I decided to run a bath, and then boil a bunch of water in the hopes of at least making things livably lukewarm.

That worked decently, except for the fact that my bathtub doesn’t really seal off too well, so there was a slow draining that caused a minor race against the clock in terms of completing my ablutions.

I still had to gut out a minute of rinsing in the ice-cold shower water, but all in all, it could have been a lot worse.

Secondly, this story went up (and continues to go up in pieces), which makes me rather pessimistic about the strike. Nikki Finke, who runs Deadline Hollywood, can be rather full of herself, but she’s also usually right on the money in terms of predicting what’s going to happen.

The gist of that story for those who don’t feel like reading the inside-baseball account is that a large number of the moguls are willing to let the writers walk, losses at the box office and the ratings be damned.

The whole thing is shaping up to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions, although I can’t imagine that either the Governator or Mayor Villaraigosa won’t step in and try to smack some sense into these people, given how fiscally disastrous a strike would be for the L.A. economy.

The last big Hollywood strike, a 22 week writers’ strike in ’88, cost the studios alone over $500 million, and the ripple effect into the local economy was well over a billion.

I don’t think it’s a stretch at all to say between inflation and the significantly larger entertainment business, this strike could cost L.A. a billion dollars a month.

As for me, I’m stocking up on Ramen and canned goods and cat food, and battening down the hatches.

I’m lucky enough that I think my bosses will have enough for me to do (and enough reserve funds) to keep me at least partially employed through the end of the year. But if the strike drags on for four or five months, I don’t know how long they can continue to justify paying me.

The sad thing is, I’m far better off than most. If the writers walk November 1st, most of my friends will be out of work by Thanksgiving. And accepted wisdom is if they walk then, there’s no way they’re back before the first of the year.

There will be some feature production, as anything that’s already got a script is going to get made, but it’s not going to be nearly enough to make up for the huge number of TV people who suddenly become unemployed.

I keep hearing the argument that I shouldn’t stress about it because there’s nothing I can do about it. While it’s true that I have no control over this mess, that just makes me stress about it even more.

I tend to get more worried about things I can’t control because I can’t do anything about them. If I can do something, then I get up and do it and it’s done. All I can do now is sit on the sidelines and hope these guys don’t wind up driving this whole industry over a cliff.

Sadly, the consensus seems to be that both sides are so pissed off at each other that they don’t realize they’re about to do just that.

I had not even been considering seeing wholly unnecessary sequel Elizabeth: The Golden Age until I read Tim’s magnificent review of it in all its glorious awfulness.

Now, I have to see it. This is why Tim should be writing reviews for a living. God bless Rotten Tomatoes for adding him to the Tomatometer, giving him at least some of the exposure he richly deserves.

If you’re going to have a show where all the actors are singing popular songs, wouldn’t it be best to get license to versions of the songs where they’re not being drowned out by the original singers?

I mean, I’d have loved to hear Hugh Jackman, a legitimately great singer, sing Sympathy For The Devil. But as the show is doing things, you can barely hear him over Mick Jagger. Although I will concede, it’s probably a mercy to hear Debbie Harry drowning out a severely botoxed Melanie Griffith.

Anyone who’s seen Viva Blackpool, the BBC show on which this is based: Do they do it that way on VB? Because frankly, I don’t see this method working at ALL on the Brits.

Also, Hugh Jackman’s hairdresser should be arrested for crimes against the straight women and gay men of America. Seriously, he’s got a lesbian mullet. That ain’t right.

Almost a month into the season, I can now declare an official winner: Pushing Daisies.

I’d absolutely loved the first two episodes, with their bizarre hyper-techincolor acid trip set design, extremely strong acting, and cute (but without crossing the fine line into too cute) stories.

I was worried, however, because both episodes were directed by Barry Sonnenfeld, who directed Men in Black and The Addams Family, and whose excellent, ebullient visual storytelling leaned heavily on what turned out to be an absolutely obscene budget.

You saw every penny of the lavish spending on the screen, but in the world of television, that kind of outlay over 22 weeks becomes simply unsustainable.

So unsustainable, in fact, that ABC actually took the draconian step of banning Sonnenfeld from directing future episodes and slashing the budget to the bone. I worried that without the wild, inspired world they were able to paint with all that money, the whole house of cards would fall down.

I’m pleased to report that the writing of this week’s episode was inspired enough that I barely noticed the more drab and dimly lit surroundings.

Trying to explain what actually happens in the show is a bit of a mess. The basic premise is moderately understandable (though is annoyingly reiterated in every episode thus far): The main character touches a dead person once, they are resurrected. If he touches them again, they die, and stay dead.

If he does not touch them again to re-kill them in a minute, however, someone or something nearby will die in their place. He uses this power to help solve murders, and collect rewards. Oh, and he also revives dead fruit to make delicious pies at his awesomely named pie restaurant, the Pie Hole.

But trying to capture the texture of this show in words is totally impossible, other than to say it’s the most wildly inventive show I’ve seen in some time, and it’s clear that both the writers and the production designers have found themselves some truly excellent hallucinogens.

If you’re willing to read some spoilers, professional TV critic Alan Sepinwall sums up why this ridiculousness works a lot better than I can. Even he can’t capture the true level of weirdness, so if you haven’t seen any of the episodes yet, you should try and get the ABC.com streaming to work for you, and watch whatever episodes they have up.

Pushing Daisies‘ weird, wild house of cards could still all collapse in on itself. I’ll certainly admit to some misgivings about how long they can sustain the delicate balance they’ve struck. But until it does collapse, missing it would be a real shame.

I have a story I recently learned about from my mom to share with those of you who are having kids. You are a percentage of my group of friends which is increasing at an alarming rate, so I feel a need to warn you.

This is the story of what happens when a joke goes too far. This is the true story of my grandfather and his three younger brothers.

My grandfather was the firstborn, and his parents named him Tom. His next youngest brother came along, and he was named Richard, and called Dick. Naturally, the third brother was, in due course, named Harry.

And then, my great-grandparents had a surprise. So they wound up with Tom, Dick, Harry…and Bobby.

Bobby, as you might imagine, wound up with something of a complex. It is widely suspected within mom’s family that his family’s naming scheme contributed to his eventual drinking problem.

So please, my friends, name your children well, and avoid silly naming schemes. For the sake of your childrens’ future sanity, do not be like my great-grandparents.

Chicago was awesome. The game was ridiculous. Reuniafest was everything I’d hoped for and then some. I didn’t get to see everyone I wanted to see since I was only in town for two and a half days, but I got to see a decent number of y’all, which was great.

I didn’t want to come back, and I so do not want to go back to work tomorrow. Stupid reality.

Anyway, a few odds and ends from the weekend:

- Nate and I stayed with Mark, and that led to my favorite Inappropriate Joke of the weekend, which was that we were off having threesomes, but they were the worst threesomes ever because absolutely no one was getting what they wanted.

- [whining]I hate my foot. Hate hate hate hate hate. It hurt all weekend, I kept having to sit on barstools instead of actually standing to talk to people, I repeatedly had to leave early because it hurt, and I blew about $50 on cabs I probably wouldn’t have blown if I could walk more than a few blocks without feeling like my leg was going to fall off. This horseshit better end soon.[/whining]

- Man, I’ve gotten spoiled living in California where you basically can’t smoke anywhere indoors. My throat is still killing me from trying to shout over the music in several smoke-filled bars, and all my clothes smell like they spent the weekend at the bottom of an ashtray. You guys will love life when the ban goes into effect at the beginning of the year.

- So for those of you who heard me panicking about the potential writers’ strike, here’s a fairly good summary of why TV people in particular are panicking about this.

- On the flight back, as we were coming in for a landing, I got some sort of air bubble in my sinuses, leading to some of the most excruciating pain I’ve felt in several years. And I include everything involved in my foot ridiculousness in that. Fortunately, it managed to dissipate by the time we landed, but I’m still feeling residual pain. Ow.

What a waste.

The pilot was way better than I’d heard it would be, particularly the excellent fight scenes, and I thought this could turn into a good show. But what false optimism it gave me has quickly been dissolved by the second and third episodes.

I’ve come to agree with the critics: Michelle Ryan is disastrously miscast as the lead. I was hoping the weaknesses she showed in the pilot would go away as she got more comfortable in the role, but they’re still there all the way through the third episode. She makes the character seem obnoxiously wishy-washy, and when you’re supposed to be a superhero, that’s the kiss of death.

Katee Sackhoff is by far the best part of the show as “The First Bionic Woman,” as she refers to herself in the pilot. The way Sackhoff is instantly and totally confident in her role no matter how ridiculous her character’s story becomes only makes Ryan’s miscasting all the more glaring.

I will say, the hysterically funny levels of LESBIAN SUBTEXT! (it’s about that subtle) between the two [Les]Bionic Women are aaaaalmost worth suffering through another episode.

Unfortunately, the show’s not nearly compelling enough to keep watching. I guess I’m just going to have to start getting Battlestar Galactica DVDs from Netflix. Mmmm…Starbuck…

It is a hell of a lot harder to drag yourself out of bed to go to the gym at 5:45 AM when it’s pitch black outside than when it’s at least a little bit light out.

At least if it’s a little light out, you get the sense that maybe, somewhere, other people are awake. That illusion disappears in the pitch black.

Ah, fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

As the potential armageddon draws closer and on a day when I’m not as tired, I’ll go into more detail about exactly what a strike would mean, both to the industry in general and to me in particular.

Suffice to say for now, I’m becoming very, very glad that I’m going to be in Chicago this weekend, away from the HOLLYWOOD STRIKEWATCH! madness seizing this town.