Did you think that I had abandoned you? Did you think that I was never ever coming back to write about my sad little syndication efforts?

Did you even notice that I was gone?

You totally didn't, did you?

Whatever.

Well, I have been. I've been gone for a while, now! But it's only because I've been busy stalking down the likes of The Click Five, The Veronicas, Clay Aiken, Howie Day, Ryan Cabrera, Ashlee Simpson, and more. I'm doing it all for you.

Or, at least that's what I tell myself. The truth is that I shamelessly use this show to get next to people far cooler than I'll ever be, in hopes that their suave existence might rub off on me a little. So far, it hasn't. I'll keep you posted on that, though.

Also, you'll notice that just to the right and down the column a bit, I have added interview downloads. There are also friends-only downloads available at MySpace. I thought it might be a nice audible reference point for the entries. They may or may not have been heavily edited so that I don't sound like a dumbass.

(I'm just sayin'.)

I hope your holidays were fantastic! I spent mine in Houston, being a well-behaved young lady around my family. However, in the days just before Christmas, I was in Las Vegas at the Radio Music Awards. Talk about drunken debauchery galore! If there is one single awards event where celebrities congregate, liquor themselves into either a manic frenzy or catatonic stupor, and perform erratic displays of substance-influenced idiocy - the likes of which tabloids would maim and kill to get photographic evidence of - the RMAs are it.

Or, so I hear.

Buzz Craven, one of my favorite people in the entire world (despite the fact that I see him roughly once every five years), jetted into Vegas from L.A. to experience the madness with me. The whole ordeal is not only celebrity-laden, but also a congregation of radio and label types from all corners of the country, and it's a feeding ground for those of us who like easy targets to sharpen our jaded, sardonic tongues on. It just so happens that Buzz and I are both jaded and sardonic. We also lack what some might say is absolutely necessary to survive in an industry like this: an ego the size of North America. We aren't the type to show up at the RMAs, check in, immediately consider ourselves to be celebrity by association, and head out to the casinos to saunter around with our obnoxious, bright red VIP passes (which serve no purpose other than getting the DJs into RMA-related events, and aren't even necessary for that, as Buzz had absolutely no credentials and walked into everything without receiving so much as a cocked eyebrow) hanging around our necks. There are many, many people who do that, though, and the two of us really enjoyed making fun of those people. Some wore more than one VIP pass, as a matter of fact, to signify their great importance.



We quickly struck up a game of "find the industry folk!" It was almost an unfair undertaking, for the "industry folk" were so easy to find.

On our second day in Vegas (which felt like our second year), Buzz and I stumbled into the Aladdin Starbucks, desperate for a caffeine kick to counteract the effects of our previous late-night casino adventures, where I'm told that I not only assaulted Bryce from Lifehouse, but also made plans to cut some studio tracks with Trick Trick, hit on Ne-Yo, and told Natasha Bedingfield that I had a girl-crush on her. We were waiting in line when I grinned, nudged Buzz, and said, "I spy a label person." I was referring to a small man clad in black at the counter. He was spouting off specific instructions for his nonfat, double-shot, triple-foam mocha something-or-other, and as he did so, he ran his hands through his platinum blonde hair. Repeatedly. He looked around, nodding and beaming at those in line behind him, shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, straightened his shirt, and played with his cell phone. The entire self-important performance smacked of a New York corner office at a major record label.

Buzz blinked at me and shook his head. "Please tell me you recognize him."

I studied the man again. "No. I do not."

"That's K.K."

(K.K. is the nickname I am assigning, simply to avoid being sued when the residual embarrassment from the forthcoming story sets in. I'll give you a clue, though. It starts with Kato, and ends with Kaelin.)

"Who?"

"K.K.!"

"Seriously?"

"YES!"

"Oh."

I found out mere hours later that K.K. was making the undignified RMA rounds to promote his upcoming last-shot reality show. After that, I didn't give him a second thought. It never occurred to me that I would be unfortunate enough to encounter him again.

Alas, I did at the Aladdin elevators, post-party the night of the ceremony. I hadn't actually attended the party, mind you. I'd skimmed the D-list celebrity selection, surveyed the appetizer spread, found them both to be unsatisfactory, and headed to New York, New York to lose the better portion of my savings account before returning to the hotel.

K.K., however, had attended the party. Lingered at the party, even. Hell, by all indication, he'd been perched on a bar stool for its entirety. He had the swagger of someone who'd been drinking excessively for several hours (or days) and the malicious personal odor to match.

"How do I know you?" he slurred in lieu of an actual greeting.

"You don't," I replied, punching the "up" button.

"But I do know you!" K.K. insisted.

"You don't."

"I do!"

"Oh, but you don't!"

I argued with him while the elevator crept downward, repeatedly assuring him that I'd never exchanged words with him before that very moment, only to be disputed every time. When the doors finally opened, I stepped on and pushed the button for my floor, hoping against hope that this unstable little man would take the next one. He didn't, so I scooted against the back wall in an attempt to put as much physical distance as possible between us and prayed that the elevator ascend more quickly than it had descended.

The doors closed, and K.K. fell forward, pressing his face against the crack between them until a bright, red line ran down his cheek. As we headed up, he resumed something that resembled human posture, turned around, and beamed at me as though he'd not spoken to me moments before. "Well, hey!" he exclaimed.

"Hi," I answered dully, wondering what on earth I'd done to deserve such an elevator ride.

"Whereareyougoing?"

"My floor," I snapped, pointing at the panel of buttons. "That's why that little number right there is all lit up."

He glanced at the panel, then whipped his head back around at me, throwing his inebriated body out of whack again. Once he'd succumbed to, and then recovered from the lack of equilibrium, he smiled at me.

"Well...whereamIgoing?"

"I have no idea. I'm pretty sure that you and I are not on the same floor."

K.K.'s face fell as the elevator stopped. "Oh."

I stepped around him and into the hallway, giving a backwards wave when I heard him say goodbye. To the best of my knowledge, he rode the elevator right back down since he never bothered to push a button. I briefly worried that he might not find his way, but then decided that the bellboys get paid the big bucks for a reason.

I also briefly worried that maybe that was part of his reality show. Perhaps his show is centered around his drunken elevator mishaps. Maybe there was a hidden camera that I was unaware of.

Or, maybe I'm such a big deal now that Ashton Kutcher was punking me! That must be it.

Haha! Good one, Ash! Call me! We'll do lunch!