She Loves Me

In the past week, I have learned something very valuable about human nature: People can change.

OK, this is not entirely correct in light of what I learned. More accurately, cats can change. But really, when it comes right down to it...aren't cats people too? People who sleep 23 ¾ hours a day, poop in a strategically-hidden box, and every so often hack up a chunk of fur the size of Mama Cass? I think they are.

As some of you know, John and I have two cats, Fergus and Claire. From the beginning, Fergus has taken to me and Claire has taken to John. We didn't plan it that way, it's just how it ended up working out. On the first night we had the kitties, Fergus, a little orange lump barely bigger than the palm of my hand, fell dead asleep on my chest and snored so loud that the air blowing out of his tiny pink nose gave me windburn. From that moment on, I was a pile of Jell-O in his soft, white-mittened paws.

Claire, though, proved more challenging. With John, she's always been affectionate, hiding all day and only emerging when he comes home. She lets him pet her, scratch her, brush her, kiss her, hold her, snuggle with her. With me, if she deigned to show herself at all in my presence, she stiffly suffered my love for as long as she could take it -- usually about six seconds -- before fleeing the room in terror.

This could very well all go back to a traumatic incident in Claire's childhood. An incident in which I, admittedly, played a key role. We only had the cats for a few weeks, and I was vacuuming the kitchen floor. At this time in their lives, both cats were fearless and curious kittens, and the vacuum intrigued them more than scared the cat-piss out of them. Anyway, I got a little too close to Claire with the hose attachment, and her tail got sucked up in it. In my defense, she has a very long fluffy tail, and I of course didn't mean to suck it up.

She instantly started shrieking, and when I realized what I'd done, I freaked out. I turned off the vacuum cleaner, thereby setting her tail free, though now it was all frizzy and smelled of Hawaiian Paradise Carpet Fresh. Claire whipped around to make sure everything was still intact and, a millisecond later, was gone -- under the bed, the desk, behind the couch. And in many ways, she never returned to me. Sure, she did come out of hiding at one point to try to maul me in my sleep, but that doesn't count. What does count is that, after the incident with the vacuum, she never felt entirely comfortable with me.

Until last week.

My mom FedExed us a box of fresh vegetables from her garden. And Ms. Claire loves boxes. I mean, really loves boxes. All the expensive cat toys in the world don't thrill her as much as a plain old cardboard box. She will play with it, inspect it, sit in it, lay in it, sleep in it. If we moved the food dish closer, she'd eat in it. If we moved the litterbox closer, she'd figure out a way to projectile poo so she wouldn't have to leave it. That's how much she loves boxes.

Though she's had many to enjoy over the years, this box my mom sent (once I removed the vegetables) made the usually-serious Claire as giddy and playful as a puppy. Even Fergus, who doesn't enjoy boxes like his sister, though he's often tormented her by sitting in them when she gets out to pee, knew better than to mess with Claire's new box. This piece of cardboard seems specifically designed for her: it perfectly fits her body. As far as she's concerned, this box is the greatest gift she's ever been given.

Since this momentous event in her young life, Claire has been opening to me. She no longer runs at the sight of me. She no longer cowers in fear when I reach out to stroke her. She no longer rolls her eyes when she hears me speaking lovey-dovey kitty-speak.

Most surprisingly, and satisfyingly, I woke up to the sound of her meowing the other night at about three in the morning. I went to her, to make sure everything was OK in her box, and it seems she just wanted a little love from her Little Daddy (and yes, John is Big Daddy). After a few minutes of petting and calming words, I went back to bed...and guess who followed me? Claire jumped right up in bed beside me, snuggled against my side, and as I fell back asleep, I reached my arm out to hold her. Most miraculously of all, she let me.

I don't know what brought all of this on, but clearly the arrival of the box signified something huge to her. Or maybe she's finally forgiven me for the vacuum cleaner mishap. Or maybe she's growing up. Or maybe I am.

Fergus, for his part, has taken all of this in the gentlemanly stride I've come to expect from him. He's had no problem "sharing" his Little Daddy, and I ensure that he and I still have plenty of cuddle time. If anything, I suspect he's slightly relieved that Claire has managed to win a piece of my heart: that's a few minutes less each day that he has to suffer copious showers of kisses and adorable kitty-speak.

Throughout all of this, though, I know Ms. Claire will always be John's girl. She still waits for him at the back door at the end of the day. She still cries until he lays down on the floor with her and rubs her belly. She still hops in bed with him when the alarm goes off to receive her morning dose of Big Daddy.

But now I know that somewhere in that feline heart, I have a place. And that thrills me more than all the cardboard boxes in the world.

The Proust Questionnaire

James Lipton, the sorta creepy but insanely well-researched host of "Inside the Actors Studio", always ends each of his interviews with the Proust Questionnaire. This questionnaire, despite Lipton's assertions otherwise, was not designed by the great French writer Marcel Proust; Proust was just the most notable personality to answer the questions after their initial discovery. Proust found them among the papers of his friend Antoinette (daughter of future French President Felix Faure) with the title "An Album to Record Thoughts, Feelings, Etc". Apparently, it was quite common for the wealthy of that time to posit such philosophical questions to themselves and their confidantes. Proust took this informal poll around 1890, when he would've been 19 years old.

The popularity of this questionnaire was revived in 1975 on the French talk show "Apostrophes", hosted by Bernard Pivot (Lipton's hero). Pivot put the questions, in a slightly condensed and updated format, to his guests during every broadcast. Lipton was inspired by this and chose to do the same on his own show; it's typically the highlight of the already-insightful program.

Since Proust intrigues me, and I'll probably never be a guest on "Inside the Actors Studio", I thought it would be fun to take the Proust Questionnaire -- both the original version discovered in Antoinette Faure's papers and the revamped one by Bernard Pivot.


Original Questionnaire

What is your favorite virtue [that you possess]?
My great capacity to love.

What are your favorite qualities in a man?
Sensitivity.

What are your favorite qualities in a woman?
Strength.

What is your chief characteristic?
Compassion and self-preservation.

What do you appreciate the most in your friends?
They hear me.

What is your main fault?
My tendency to be inauthentic.

What is your favorite occupation?
Writer. Actor. Homesteader.

What is your idea of happiness?
Living in the moment. Being authentic. Being heard. Being far away from Boston.

What is your idea of misery?
Living in Boston the rest of my life. Getting trapped in a cycle of disappointment and inauthenticity.

If not yourself, who would you be?
A dog.

Where would you like to live?
Vermont. Venice. Amsterdam.

What is your favorite color and flower?
Colors: earth tones. Flowers: orchids; the flowers of the Dove tree.

Who are your favorite prose authors?
Doris Lessing. Erica Jong. Augusten Burroughs.

Who are your favorite poets?
Mark Doty. Mary Oliver. Claudia Emerson. Anne Sexton.

Who are your favorite heroes/heroines in fiction?
Anna Wulf from "The Golden Notebook". Veronika from "Veronika Decides to Die". Morris the Moose from "Morris Goes to School".

Who are your favorite painters and composers?
Painters: Klimt, Chagall, Whistler, Rothko. Composers: Philip Glass, Edward Elgar.

Who are your heroes/heroines in real life?
John. Edith. Rupert.

What characters in history do you most dislike?
Hitler. The Bush family.

Who are your heroes/heroines in history?
Gautama Buddha. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Harvey Milk. Rosa Parks. MLK, Jr. Oscar Wilde.

What are your favorite food and drink?
Cheap black olives from a can. VitaminWater's Vital-T.

What are your favorite names?
Dashiell. Jude.

What do you hate the most?
Ignorance. Shallowness. Rudeness. Oppression. Loud noises, loud people, loud cities.

What military event do you admire the most?
Violence just begets more violence, so I admire all military events when they are over and everyone gets to come home.

What reform do you admire the most?
The Obama Administration.

What natural talent would you like to be gifted with?
I'd love to be an opera tenor.

How do you wish to die?
In my sleep.

What is your present state of mind?
Exhausted.

For what fault do you have the most tolerance?
Sci-fi addiction.

What is your favorite motto?
There is no possible way I can narrow it down to a single phrase. Here's three: "This too shall pass" (Jewish proverb); "Think wrongly, if you please, but in all cases think for yourself" (Doris Lessing); "Beat it, ya 50-year-old mattress!" (Sophia to Blanche, "The Golden Girls").


"Inside the Actors Studio" Version

What is your favorite word?
Brevity.

What is your least favorite word?
Gun.

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
The written word. Silence. John. Adrien Brody.

What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Crowds. Stupidity. Bad movies.

What sound or noise do you love?
Fergus's squeak.

What sound or noise do you hate?
An animal in pain (I grew up near a slaughterhouse). Car alarms. Gunfire.

What is your favorite curse word?
Poopsticks.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Meditation teacher. Actor. Opera singer (as mentioned above).

What profession would you not like to do?
Accountant. Tollbooth cashier. Flight attendant.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? 

"Thank you for loving all of my movies...now come, let me hold you to my bosom." (Bear in mind: God = Meryl Streep).

Three Poems by Matthew Dickman

These are my favorite kinds of posts to write. I always get a little giddy when I discover a new artist whose work touches me in an unexpectedly profound and moving way. In the most recent issue of "The New Yorker", I came across a poem by a relatively new-on-the-scene young poet named Matthew Dickman (who won the 2008 American Poetry Review/Honickman First Book Prize in Poetry). The poem, "Trouble", struck a chord deep within me, and I immediately hopped online to find more of Dickman's work. I've included three of my favorites here.

Trouble

Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.

Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.

Love

We fall in love at weddings and auctions, over glasses
of wine in Italian restaurants where plastic grapes hang
on the lattice, our bodies throb
in the checkout line, the bus stop, at basketball games
and we can’t keep our hands off each other
until we can—
so we turn to rubber masks and handcuffs,
falling in love again.
We go to movies and sit in the air conditioned dark
with strangers who are in love
with heroes like Peter Parker
who loves a girl he can’t have
because he loves saving the world in red and blue tights
more than he would love to have her ankles wrapped around
his waist or his tongue between her legs.
While we watch films
in which famous people play famous people
who experience pain,
the boy who sold us popcorn loves the girl
who sold us our tickets
and stares at the runs in her stockings
every night,
even though she is in love
with the skinny kid who sold her cigarettes at the 7-11,
and if the world had any compassion
it would let the two of them pass
a Marlboro Light back and forth
until their fingers eventually touched, their mouths
sucking and blowing.
If the world knew how
the light bulb loved the socket
then we would all be better off.
We could all dive head first into the sticky parts.
We could make sweat a religion
and praise the holiness of smelliness.

I am going to stop here,
on this dark night,
on this country road,
where country songs
come from, and kiss her, this woman, below the trees
which are below the stars,
which are below desire.
There is a music to it, I hear it.
Johnny Rotten, Biggie Smalls, Johan Sebastian Bach, I don’t care
what they say—
I loved you the way my mouth loves teeth,
the way a boy I know would risk it all for a purple dinosaur,
who, truth be known, loved him.

In the Midwest, fields of corn are in love
with a scarecrow, his potato-sack head
and straw body, hanging out among the dog-eared stalks
like a farm-Christ full of love.

Turning on the radio I hear
how AM loves FM the way my mother loved Elvis
whose hips all young girls loved, sitting around the television
in a poodle skirt and bobby socks.
He LOVED ME TENDER so much
that I was born after a long night of Black-Russians
and Canasta while “Jailhouse Rock” rocked.

Stamps love envelopes, the licking proves it—
just look at my dog
who obviously loves himself with an intensity
no human being could sustain, though you can’t say
we don’t try.

In High school I once cruised
a MacDonald’s drive-thru butt-naked
on a dare from a beautiful Sophomore,
only to be swallowed up by a grief
born from super-size or no super-size.

Years later I met a woman
named Heavy Metal Goddess
at a party where she brought her husband,
leading him through the dance floor by a leash,
while in Texas cockroaches love with such abandon
that they wear their skeletons on the outside.

Once a baby lizard loved me so completely,
he moved into my apartment and died of hunger.

No one loves war,
but I know a man
who loves tanks so much he wishes he had one
to pick up the groceries, drive his wife to work,
drop his daughter off at school with her Little Mermaid
lunch box, a note hidden inside
next to the apple, folded
with a love that can be translated into any language: I HOPE
YOU DO NOT SUFFER.

Grief

When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla
you must count yourself lucky.
You must offer her what’s left
of your dinner, the book you were trying to finish
you must put aside,
and make her a place to sit at the foot of your bed,
her eyes moving from the clock
to the television and back again.
I am not afraid. She has been here before
and now I can recognize her gait
as she approaches the house.
Some nights, when I know she’s coming,
I unlock the door, lie down on my back,
and count her steps
from the street to the porch.
Tonight she brings a pencil and a ream of paper,
tells me to write down
everyone I have ever known,
and we separate them between the living and the dead
so she can pick each name at random.
I play her favorite Willie Nelson album
because she misses Texas
but I don’t ask why.
She hums a little,
the way my brother does when he gardens.
We sit for an hour
while she tells me how unreasonable I’ve been,
crying in the checkout line,
refusing to eat, refusing to shower,
all the smoking and all the drinking.
Eventually she puts one of her heavy
purple arms around me, leans
her head against mine,
and all of a sudden things are feeling romantic.
So I tell her,
things are feeling romantic.
She pulls another name, this time
from the dead,
and turns to me in that way that parents do
so you feel embarrassed or ashamed of something.
Romantic? she says,
reading the name out loud, slowly,
so I am aware of each syllable, each vowel
wrapping around the bones like new muscle,
the sound of that person’s body
and how reckless it is,
how careless that his name is in one pile and not the other.

The Cover Craziness Continues: It's the Ladies' Turn!

I had such a disproportionately awesome time critiquing "gay novel" cover art in a previous post, that I felt compelled to share the snark and see if "lesbian novel" cover art was just as rife with possibility. And boy oh boy, is it ever! A quick Google search turned up page upon page of delectable romances, mysteries, adventures, erotica, and science fiction, all written for ladies who love ladies (and probably a few straight men who get off on the idea).

Narrowing the field down to ten choices was tough; those popular pulp novels from the 1950s, which seemed to be rather obsessed with "womanly lovin'", could've easily taken all ten spots. But I think I've achieved a nice balance of the old and new. Yet regardless of when they were written, one thing is clear:

These books are classics...by the cover art alone.





"Dear Jeebus, thank you for sending Geraldine to me. She is an angel. An angel with ginormous holster hips and the tongue of an anoura fistulata bat. She makes me so happy and doesn't even ask me to remove my jewels for our trysts.

"Thank you, too, for the genius product known as the Ogilvie Home Perm. Without it, I could never look my best for Geraldine (though, personally, I think her blue hair could use a little Miss Clairol).

"Please don't let my husband ever find out about this affair. He would make me give Geraldine up and return to his rancid pickle. And I don't like pickles. I only married him because he promised to keep me in French-whore-pink lipstick and Lee Press-Ons for the rest of my life.

"Also, I'm praying to you so hard right now that I seem to have quashed my breasts and possibly scraped off my left nipple with my bracelet. Please let Geraldine accept me with my new deformities.

"Amen."





Oh, this is a good one. Lots going on here. Here are my observations:

• The chick in the uniform has got to be Hilary Swank. I'm impressed. Two Oscars, big horsey teeth that must take hours to brush, AND she manages to find the time to pose for lesbian romance/sci-fi novel covers! What can't she do?!?
• Given her pasty white skin, limp yellow hair, and soulless gaze, I think the lady in the chair might be dead. No further guardianship necessary.
• And I also think Hilary Swank may have accidentally killed her. In her overzealousness to protect, she seems to have one eye out the window for any potential intruder, all the while unknowingly planting her sword into the shoulder of the one she's trying to keep safe. Oh, Hilary! Someone take away her Oscars STAT.
• If I'm wrong, and I hope I am (for there's nothing sadder than an unrealized lesbian experience), I want to give a little word of warning to the haggard dyke in the chair, who seems a tad innocent and naive: Honey, that sword isn't real. It's store-bought. That's how it's done. Trust me. I learned the hard way.
• If this novel is as good as it looks, I'm voting for a film version, a sort of remake of "The Bodyguard". Ms. Swank and one of the Olsen twins can star. It doesn't matter which Olsen twin. They both look like the walking dead, too.

I don't know about you, but this is how I always come to the airport: half-dressed, no shoes or socks, no shirt, and still pulling my pants up over my thong. What a relief to know I'm not the only one!

And just how the hell did this woman get through the security checkpoint? I mean, those Nazis don't even let you through with a Slurpee, let alone barefooted and boobies to the wind. What's her secret?

Also, check out the great big liver-spotted man-hand clutching the briefcase. Methinks that stewardess is hiding more than just in-flight pretzels under her uniform....





This is my favorite one on the list. What better way to scream "Lesbian Romance" than a shot of the open road, the purply sky at dawn, and a lumbering big rig? You know the ladies behind the wheel of that sucker are no lipstick-wearing, stiletto-loving gals. These are hardcore womyn with flannel shirts, lumberjack boots, a gross of Slim Jims, and Anne Murray blaring from the radio.

I must read this one. My mind is soaring at the thought of the delicious sex scenes that take place in the 2x2 sleeping compartment of that truck. NOTHING says "sexy" like love on 18 wheels.





Apparently, Satan is not only a lesbian, but he is a lesbian with an immaculately-groomed Van Dyck goatee. Satan must be on some hormones.

Speaking of hormones, check out Brunhilda beating the living shit out of that wimpy-ass straight dude. She should just abandon the pathetic whip, though, and pummel him with her Breasts of Terror.

And isn't that a young Bette Davis cowering submissively in the background? Oh Bette, we hardly knew ye!





Oh hell no! If I saw this group of lesbians walking down the street, I'd drop my man-purse and run screaming and flailing in the opposite direction. These are some scary, scary Sister Girls. Even the praying one looks like she could pull out a switchblade at any minute and cut a bitch.

The second Sister Girl from the bottom is the one who frightens me the most. With her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, not to mention a bunch of glittery stars falling all over the damn place, that chick wants all men DEAD. She wants testicle stew for breakfast, wang salad for lunch, and prostate pie for dinner. Ew. That even made me cringe. Prostate pie. Blech!

But I do give these ladies props for their flawless weaves.





Lesbian in the Foreground: "Michelle! Michelle, come back! Come back RIGHT NOW or my baby's mutant arm will crush you!"

Lesbian in the Background: "Screw you, Wendy! I can't stand any more stinky diapers, baby puke, or C-section scars! I'm going to live in the dumpster."

Lesbian in the Foreground: "But I love you, Michelle. We had such fun together: listening to Janis Ian, making our own granola, dressing the baby up like kd lang. Please don't go! If you leave me, I'll stab you with my ice-pick chin!"

Lesbian in the Background: "You don't scare me! I carry a tomahawk in these jeans!"

Lesbian in the Foreground: "Well at least give me my dogs back."

Lesbian in the Background: "Hell no! I'm going to live in the dumpsters, and I'll probably get tired of eating chicken bones and pizza crust every night."

Lesbian in the Foreground: "Nooooooooooooo!"





This is SO not funny. They've obviously stolen the likeness of my beloved Tori Amos for the cover of this book. Someone must pay.

And what the hell did they put on her feet? Are those shoes or some kind of lesbian torture device I know nothing about? No wonder she looks frozen to that spot, contorted in agony -- those shoes have completely eaten her knees!

Yes, someone must pay DEARLY.





Imagine. Helen Hunt a psychotic lesbian killer. Who woulda thought?

I love the dead chick, though. She makes this cover. I think they sketched her about thirty minutes AFTER rigor mortis set in. Poor thing. Oh well, at least Phyllis Diller can have her wig back.

And just look at that pitiful hetero chump relegated to black and white in the background. Sorry, Detective, I know you're mesmerized by Helen's elf shoes, but she is most certainly not interested in anything you've got to offer. Besides, she's already scanning the horizon for her next victim.

Wait a minute. I think she's spotted her target. Is that her "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" co-star Sarah Jessica Parker she's looking at? I think it is! Go for it, Helen! GO FOR IT!





To be honest, I don't have anything to say about this cover; I find it pretty blah. But I had to include it on this list because...well, check out the name of the author.

Yup, folks, it's THAT Lynne Cheney! The wife of Dick Cheney, that compassionate paragon of moral rectitude (har-har-har) known as our vice-president, once wrote a steamy lesbian romance!

Now I know that Dick is something like 400 years old and is more than likely damn-near blind. But if I were him, I'd be on the lookout. If he had any sense, he'd be checking her out every time she came home from "Bible study" for any signs of a pussy mustache.

What am I talking about? We all know he has no sense. So rock on, Lynne. Do what you gotta do, girl. But I fully expect to see you in the next gay pride parade with Dykes on Bikes.

Everything's Coming Up "Nightrose"

Eighteen years ago, when I was first becoming interested in the genre, I read a romance novel that I've never forgotten. It's lived on the periphery of my memory ever since, and as I read more and more historical romances over the ensuing years, I inevitably compared them all to this one early tale that had introduced me to the world of affordable paperback love stories. Typically, I found all other romances to fall short of the spectacular tale spun by Dorothy Garlock in her 1990 novel "Nightrose".

A few weeks ago, I got my hands on a used copy of "Nightrose" and trembled with anticipation at rereading it (as only booksluts like myself can tremble over a book). I was excited to see if the story was as great as I remembered, or if it had somehow changed over the last eighteen years. I knew I had changed, so the idea that the novel had as well, for better or worse, was a very real possibility. And I was right. "Nightrose" had indeed undergone a transformation. It was even BETTER than I remembered.

There could be a few reasons for this, all of which are plausible. Perhaps I've read so many second-rate romances that I now recognize a truly good one for the rarity it is. Perhaps, as someone who has tried his hand at writing one of these things, I've come to respect the monumental challenges presented by writing not only a believable, logical love story (for what is logical about falling in love?), but an historically accurate document of a certain time period. Or perhaps I've just grown up and could relate more realistically to this story of love, compromise, and second chances. Whatever the reason, I now regard "Nightrose" as my favorite romance novel -- and certainly one of the best ever written.

I've always felt a certain affinity with the novel's author, Dorothy Garlock. Like me, she is an Iowan with a fond attachment to the land and the stories associated with it. In fact, I lived and worked for years in the same town Garlock calls home, and though a small community, I can't recall ever having run into her. That may be for the best, as I probably would've groveled at the feet of such a celebrated writer; Garlock, now in her sixties, was one of the pioneers of the American romance novel: the grand dame of the frontier love story.

This title is well-earned, as is evidenced in "Nightrose". Garlock constructs a story that is so much more than your dime-store bodice-ripper. Though much of it revolves around the relationship between strong-willed spitfire Katy and determined charmer Garrick, the book is much grander in scope than it first appears. It is really the story of an entire town, once deserted and left to rot, that comes brilliantly back to life, and the diverse, interesting people that populate it.

"Nightrose" takes place in Montana Territory, 1874. Twenty-one-year-old Katy, her older sister Mary, and Mary's young daughter Theresa have been abandoned; they are the only residents of the desolate ghost town of Trinity. Mary's loser-husband Roy has run off in hopes of striking gold, and though he left with the promise to return one day, wealthy and successful, to his wife and daughter, no one is holding their breath. The three young ladies are forced by necessity to leave behind their ramshackle cabin on the outskirts and take up residence in the most unlikely of places: the town funerary. They are completely alone and living off the land, with just a cow, a derringer, and whatever left-behind foodstuffs they can salvage from the forsaken buildings and homes.

Enter Garrick Rowe. Tall, muscled, Greek, and imposing. He sets up camp across from the funerary in the town jail. The ladies are uncomfortably aware of him, tracking his every move, though unsure of his motives in Trinity. He, too, is keeping tabs on them. What in the hell are two grown women and a little girl still doing in this forgotten place?

So begins the brilliant "Nightrose". Their paths soon cross, sparks fly, all manner of people come and go throughout the town, shots are fired and blood is shed, and all the while Katy and Garrick are drawn closer together. The focus of the novel gradually expands to include the stories of not only Mary and Theresa, but those of the entire growing community descending upon Trinity, as well as the stories of Garrick's friends and acquaintances in the "metropolis" of Virginia City.

Of course, there are villains as well. And not just one lowly scoundrel, but several shady schemers with different malicious agendas. Even using the word "villains" to describe these people is too generous. They fall more into the "Mega-Douchebags Who Deserve to be Castrated" category. I tend to dislike romances where the villains are this thoroughly evil, without even the slightest hint of humanity, but in Garlock's deft hands, these characters serve a greater purpose than just being total pricks. Their collective presence is simply another obstacle that Katy and Garrick, and the town itself, must overcome on the journey to wholeness and contentment. Much like the hardships of living hand-to-mouth off the land, or being submissive to the whims of the weather, or existing under constant threat of attack from God-only-knows-who, these villains are one more hurdle to be overcome. And since all romances rely on a Happily Ever After (the main reason I enjoy them so), this overcoming is triumphant and exhilarating.

One of the aspects of "Nightrose" I found so impressive was the masterful way Garlock is able to walk the line between creating a story that is completely true to the traditional roles and accepted attitudes of the novel's era, all the while remaining respectful of the sensitivities of modern readers. Many romance novelists don't get this; they strive for historical accuracy and end up with offensive stereotypes (blithering, submissive women and violent, aggressive men). But Garlock's characters are different: they are three-dimensional creations with rich inner worlds and capabilities of great thought and understanding. Katy is perhaps the most headstrong heroine I've encountered in a romance novel, often to the point of being stubborn and delusional, and Garrick is so bloody determined to make Katy "his" that he more than once crosses the line into the territory of controlling and obsessive -- but these traits in our hero and heroine are not cemented. Like all of us, Katy and Garrick have the ability to change, and this fact is perhaps Garlock's greatest success as a storyteller. Her characters slowly transform themselves, or let themselves be transformed by "the power of love", however you choose to look at it. They think, they feel, they come to realizations about themselves and one another. Katy examines the nature of her initially strong (and extreme) aversion to Garrick, and she gets to the root of the problem to see just how flawed her reasoning is. Garrick, too, realizes that if he's ever going to woo Katy with the passion he feels in his heart, he's going to have to take a step back, make compromises, and concentrate on her thoughts, needs, and dreams. Whether these transformations are historically likely is not really relevant. What is relevant is that the author is courageous enough to imbue her characters with something truly timeless: GOOD SENSE.

All of this makes for a very believable and entertaining love story, an easy unfolding and revealing of emotions between two very interesting characters. And swarming around this main romance are several others, just as believable, notably Mary's own burgeoning relationship with Garrick's right-hand-man, the burly, furry Irishman Hank Weston.

Yet each of Garlock's characters -- not just the ones in the throes of la passion -- are equally strong, memorable, and unique. The brusque but tender she-hulk Mrs. Chandler, owner of the eatery. The handsome and sensitive mercantile proprietor Elias Glossberg. Nan Neal, a sassy illiterate showgirl who rocks Virginia City. The spunky working gals of The Beehive, Trinity's very own whorehouse. I even liked Mary's daughter, five-year-old Theresa, and I typically find kids in romance novels to be annoying and distracting. But Theresa is precocious and endearing; it's easy to see how she enchants those around her.

Then there are the love scenes, which Garlock handles elegantly and sensually, without ever tipping over into the unseemly or unrefined. There is a lot of kissing in this book. A lot of kissing. Pages of it, in fact; from a peck on the cheek to a full-out French, and all of it is tasteful and classy (it's a special writer who can make a tongue down the throat come across as romantic and soft). And I loved the fact that Garrick was Greek; imagining his fine-ass bod was a pleasure for me, and clearly for Ms. Garlock as well. I also loved that Katy wasn't some heaving-bosomed sex kitten. She had boobs proportionate to her frame (read: SMALL), and while she approached her lovemaking with abandon and great joy, I always got the impression she kept her eye on the bigger picture: she loves this man, and he loves her. Thus, the sex became something more than sex (another fact that many romance novelists completely miss).

Garlock's prose is luminous. She has the power to transport you wherever her words are in any particular moment. As "Nightrose" is so much more than your everyday historical romance, her talent as a storyteller is immense. While she could have focused solely on Katy and Garrick, she chose to make this a much larger love story: the romancing of an entire town. In this sense, I almost want to suggest that "Nightrose" is less of a romance novel and more of a good old fashioned Western. With really hot love scenes.

Finally, the cover. Not only can this book be held up as an example of how great historical romance novels can be, but the cover art is also exemplary (at least it is on the edition I read, the original 1990 publication pictured above). For one thing, the characters actually LOOK like the characters in the book; in fact, they look just as I had imagined them. There's also no submissive embrace or cheap excuse to show skin (though Garrick is shirtless, with his back to us, on the cover); there is instead a pose that appears as if they are running into one another's arms. This is much more believable than some awful cover depicting, say, Katy's nipple shadow and the outline of Garrick's twelve-inch bratwurst as they cavort in the mountains with swans and horses creepily watching. Like the book it envelops, the cover is dignified yet fun.

If you've never read a romance novel, but have fallen under the impression that they are somehow sub-par or tawdry, "Nightrose" is for you; not only will it prove your theory wrong, but you'll have a hell of a lot of fun in the process. If you are a romance reader who's never really come across a decent one, "Nightrose" is also for you; this is a book that could be used as a shining example in "Romance Writing 101". Even if romance novels hold no interest for you, but big epic stories about people and places of a bygone era are more up your alley, then "Nightrose" is an excellent choice here as well; it plays out in the mind with all the sweeping majesty of a classic Western movie.

The Alchemy of Thought

If you're like me, and Jeebus help you if you are, you've wondered what exactly Rodin's "The Thinker" is pondering so diligently. Several options come to mind. Perhaps something along the lines of, "Goddamn my ass hurts from sitting on this tree stump for 106 years!", or, "Sakes alive, my hot muscly thighs could shatter a marble!". But I'd like to think he's ruminating over more philosophical matters, like the ones that have been churning through the muck of my own brain lately: "What is thought? Are thoughts, by their very nature, innately powerful things that shape our lives? Or are thoughts no more than mental pictures, only as potent as the roles we assign them? Or maybe God, in her infinite wisdom, foresaw the upward trajectory of movie ticket prices and decided to give each of us our own built-in megaplex? Or are thoughts not really esoteric images at all, but predestined and clearly mapped-out tangibles that were written long ago, before we ever slid from the womb and pooped in our Pampers?".

Yup, these are the kinds of thoughts that have been plaguing me as of late. Especially that poop-in-the-Pampers business. I mean, how were we ever able to do a #2 and then just happily SIT IN IT till someone bothered to change us? These are the big questions that Plato, Kant, and Ayn Rand totally missed.

As interesting as the topic of doody is for me, that's not what this post is about. I'm more interested in exploring the nature of this pesky Thought Business. It's really been tripping me up the last few weeks, and I need to get to the bottom of it.

But -- ACK! -- that's much easier said than done. Since the beginning of time people have been trying to get to the bottom of the Thought Business. It's an eternally baffling subject. The world's greatest religions, philosophers, scientists, and artists have contemplated it for centuries, and I daresay we're no closer to figuring it out now than we were when the Buddha took a seat under The Bodhi Tree.

In Buddhism, dealing mindfully with the Thought Business is the crux of the entire religion. The Buddha taught that if we skillfully, with great awareness and compassion, sit with our thoughts, note them, watch them, and then let them go, we will begin to experience freedom from suffering. This theory is one that appeals to me greatly, and is one that I try to explore in my everyday life. It is hugely, often frustratingly, challenging, but the small tastes of liberation you pick up here and there are enough to keep you going back for more. Contrary to what many think about Buddhism in general, and meditation in particular, the goal is not detachment. The goal is NON-attachment, which is quite different. Detachment implies a total cutting-off, a great ignoring of reality. Non-attachment can be defined as, quite simply, not clinging. With non-attachment, we see our thoughts, we take note of them, and we let them go with ease...because we are not attached, or clinging desperately, to them. We've allowed them. We've acknowledged them. We've said "buh-bye" to them.

Is this cold? Not at all. You see, what you're doing in meditation is forcing yourself to live in the moment, with just the thoughts in your head and the action of the world around you occurring this very instant. Using the skill of non-attachment, we relish the good times that much more because we are wonderfully awake for every moment. Similarly, we are able to be equally present for the bad times, as we know full well that they, too, shall pass.

From this perspective, one can make all sorts of positive changes. When you exist in and accept fully the reality of the moment, then the freedom to be a vessel for change is limitless. Here's a whacked-out example: In moment A, I experience a bit of hilarity and glee when Miss USA falls on her ass during the Miss Universe pageant; in moment B (an instant later), I feel badly for her because she's perky, and -- while watching perky people fall down is always fun -- she's probably suffering, even though that big plastic smile is rubber-cemented to her face; in moment C (another instant later), I think how much embarrassment it would save if Miss Universe passed a law stating that contestants cannot wear floor-length gowns for their own safety; this leads, in the next instant, to moment D, in which I decide to start a petition supporting just such an idea. Fast-forward to moment Z, and in next year's pageant, all the ladies are wearing sensible though classy pantsuits -- all except for Miss Vatican City, who refuses to wear pants for religious reasons. Instead, she wears a papal smock. You see the point I'm making with this. It's a silly example, I know, but hopefully my moral is not lost in the mirth of Miss USA's sore tuchus.

What I've learned from Buddhism is this: you are not your thoughts. Your thoughts are thoughts and you are you. How you respond to your thoughts, what you do with them -- this is what defines who you are.

Though my faith in Buddhism has not wavered, it's lately become impossible for me to put all of this into practice. For no other reason than both my brain and body are exhausted, and sitting quietly in any one place for more than a few minutes results in a deep, coma-like state. So this unfortunate fact has propelled me into further investigation down some much different roads in the Thought Business.

One road led me to an unexpected place, back to a book I read last year. Though I found the ideas in it no more helpful now than I did then, I was nonetheless reminded of them when examining the nature of thought. The book is called "The Secret". Most of you have probably heard of it. It's sold millions of copies and inspired everything from movies to more books to "exciting" new ways to start a business. The secret of "The Secret" is pretty simple and is the polar opposite of Buddhism. It teaches us to not just monitor our thoughts, but to control, manipulate, and shape them to create our own reality. OK, you're thinking, that doesn't sound too far-fetched. Ah, but let me continue. The entire lesson plan of "The Secret" was given to us by some chick whose name I forget -- and, quite frankly, I don't want to look it up because this chick-whose-name-I-can't-recall already has far too much money from these teachings and doesn't merit further publicity. Anyhow, she did not develop "The Secret" herself: they were channeled through her by some ancient sage named Abraham. Not the Abraham from the Bible, not Abraham Lincoln, and not Oscar-winning actor F. Murray Abraham. This Abraham was a prophet of some kind that lived centuries ago, and for whatever reason, he chose chick-whose-name-I-can't-recall to be the vessel for his teachings.

And these teachings, which the masses have flocked to and gobbled up, are so elementary that they border on the ridiculous. "The Secret" says that in order to get something we want, all we have to do is think about it. Meditate on it, imagine it, put it in a time-frame, and never stop clinging to that thought. And voilà! You will get whatever it is you want. In the same vein, you are instructed not to allow any bad thoughts in, not even the tiniest shred of doubt, because, according to "The Secret", these thoughts, intentions, and ideas have just as much power as the good ones. If you suppress your natural skeptical instinct and pretend it's not there, you will surely attain what you've always desired.

So I tried this last summer. I figured I had nothing to lose. I followed Abraham's directions and meditated on something I really wanted. I imagined $10,000 in my checking account by the first of the following month; I put so much power and energy into this thought that by the end of my daily meditations, I was salivating and giddy with anticipation. Well, I don't need to tell you that the $10K never showed up in my checking account. Despite my month-long meditation practice, despite my desperate desire to believe in "The Secret", and, for all intents and purposes, despite my better judgment (but, in keeping with the rules, I did not allow this last thought to enter my thinking). So if you see $10,000 laying around, please send it to me. It's mine. Abraham said I could have it.

Remembering this experience took me down another road in the Thought Business. I read last week that Randy Pausch, the computer science professor made famous for his speech (and subsequent book) "The Last Lecture", died from cancer. Dr. Pausch knew he was dying when he gave his final lecture, called "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams", which is a big part of the reason so many millions have been inspired by it. He was a great speaker/speechwriter, and in "The Last Lecture", he avoids the morbid and sentimental, has a warm sense of humor, and just seems like an all-around good egg. I watched the entire speech on YouTube (see link above), and while I was touched, I was not necessarily inspired.

I don't really want to say a lot about this, out of respect for Dr. Pausch's legacy and the hoards of people he has inspired. Far be it for me to judge what someone else finds inspirational and utilizes to motivate major positive change. But I will say this. In his lecture, Dr. Pausch expounds on the idea that all of our childhood thoughts and dreams are attainable. Some may need tweaking or modifying, but all in all, they can be easily reached with diligence and hard work. This is a really comforting theory, if not overly simplistic. I mean, of course it's relatively easy for someone who had an idyllic childhood, a perfect family, a genius IQ, opportunities offered him at every step, early tenure in his professorial career, and loads of money and esteem. Of course it's easy for someone like that to achieve his childhood dreams.

Talk to the African-American single mother of four kids (who herself was raised by an African-American single mother), who works three jobs, none of which pay the bills, who lives in a studio apartment in the roughest section of town because it's the only place she can afford, but who makes too much money from those three minimum-wage jobs to qualify for food stamps or public assistance, who would love to go to college but when the hell is she going to find the time?, and who prays every day that her children make it home from school without being shot. Yeah, ask her how easy it is for her to attain her childhood dreams.

I'm not trying to sound bitchy here. I just have to acknowledge the fact that Dr. Pausch's words and experience, while nice and motivational and quotable, are not indicative of what life is like for many of us. Thoughts that drive us when we are young are not always feasible once we grow old. When I was a kid, my thoughts revolved around being Joan Collins, becoming an actor and winning an Oscar before the age of 30. Well, I'm now 31, and, while my Alexis Carrington phase is thankfully over, why do I still not have my acting career or my Oscar? Because I need to eat.

Yet another road in my thought investigation came in the form of "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho. After reading the life-changing "Veronika Decides to Die", I figured "The Alchemist" -- Coelho's seminal work -- should be next on my list. Though I enjoyed the book, it didn't come close to doing what "Veronika" did for me. This is due in large part to the fact that Veronika's story was an intimate and personal exploration of the hidden mores of society, while "The Alchemist" was a great big readable fable, grand in scope and large in ideas.

What "The Alchemist" teaches is that all of our thoughts, all of our dreams, all of our lives, have already been written. It is translated into the word Maktub, or "It is written". We are told that when we possess certain thoughts and ideas about who we are and what we want in life, the energy of the entire world is already constantly working with us to make those thoughts and ideas a reality. We may not realize it, but it's happening nonetheless. This implies there is some Grand Plan here, a blueprint for our lives that existed long before we did, and the only thing we have to do is tune into our thoughts and dreams. But this, too, is overly simplistic. It's kind and comforting, yes, but is it realistic? I mean, when I cross the street at a pedestrian intersection, with the "WALK" light illuminated, and still nearly get flattened by some douchebag in a suit driving his SUV while talking on a cell phone, I have a really hard time believing this world is working in collusion with me to make my fondest thoughts and dreams come true. I know I'm a pessimist, but I just can't give the world that much credit. This place in which we all live can be pretty ugly. And if what "The Alchemist" teaches is true, do I really even want what a world such as ours is going to spit up at me?

The most satisfying answer I have received on my quest for the true essence of the Thought Business came from an unlikely source. I recently read a collection of essays entitled, appropriately enough, "Magical Thinking", written by Augusten Burroughs. Now I adore Augusten Burroughs. I want to have his babies. Not his actual babies, of course; he has a longtime partner who seems to be a very, very nice guy. But I want to have Augusten's theoretical babies. You see, in the title essay from "Magical Thinking", Burroughs has given me the most understandable insight into the nature of thought.

Burroughs proclaims that in order to work with your thoughts and reach your goals, you don't sit and watch your thoughts, you don't manipulate them, you don't give them more credence and realism than they deserve, and you don't view them as unalterable. Instead, you control the WORLD with your thoughts. This is all tongue-in-cheek, of course, but there is undeniable sense to it. He writes,

"I believe in the baby Jesus. And I believe he is handsome and lives in the sky with his pet cow. I believe that it is essential the cow like you. And if you pet the cow with your mind, it will lick your hand and give you cash. But if you make the cow angry, it will turn away from you, forget you exist, and your life will fall into shambles. I believe that as long as the cow likes you, you can get what you want."

Later, Burroughs advises a friend who is down on his luck:

"Either you've made the baby Jesus mad or his pet cow hates you....You need to conjure images of a cow in a field of green, munching grass. Then you need to reach out and scratch between his ears."

In this hilarious vision, what Burroughs is saying is that the cow allows us favors if we're nice to him. And these favors consist of the cow letting us use our own thoughts to control the world. In another example, he tells of an absolute bitch-on-wheels of a boss he once had, whom he wished would get run over by a bus. A short time later, after he'd left that job, she died of an aneurism. "That's even better than a bus," Burroughs muses.

So maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Maybe the key to the Thought Business is actually less of a looking-inward and more of a peering-out. Maybe it's all about focusing on the world -- this dark, icky place -- and molding it to my thoughts. If Augusten Burroughs can kill some raging hag with only his thoughts, then surely I can get a book published that makes me millions of dollars....

There. I just put that out there. Now I will control this awful world to fit that thought.

And maybe Rodin's "The Thinker" isn't reflecting on the nature of thought at all. Maybe he's just wondering about the location of the nearest cow pasture.

Just a Bunch of Mischief: A Review of the Film "Mamma Mia!"

"Mamma Mia!" is the gayest movie ever made. It's big, splashy, colorful, campy, and absolute crap. And you know what? I loved every minute of it.

What's so refreshing about this film -- which, admittedly, took a little time for me to figure out -- is that it tries to be nothing more than it is. It's an ABBA musical for Christ's sake! Let me say that again. It's an ABBA musical. If you're expecting Bertolt Brecht or Kurt Weill (or hell, even Andrew Lloyd Webber), you've come to the wrong movie. This is just pure fun and fluff. "Mamma Mia!" isn't going for the gold here. It's going for something like sheet metal. And it succeeds beautifully.

Yet I didn't understand this for the first twenty minutes or so. As soon as Meryl came barreling onto the screen in her rolled-up denim overalls with the broken strap, I cringed and said, "O Meryl! Why hast Thou forsaken me?". It took me a while to realize that Meryl, along with the rest of the cast and crew, knew exactly what they were doing. I doubt anyone involved with this production was under the impression they were making a grand, deep, complex piece of musical genius. It is, after all -- and say it with me now! -- an ABBA musical. The cast of actors, most of whom are known for their serious dramatic abilities, let down their collective hair and just have fun. The result? "Mamma Mia!" is a rocking, rollicking, raucous good time.

In my bizarre and overactive imagination, I imagine director Phyllida Lloyd, who helmed the original stage version, giving the following direction to her actors at the first read-through:


To Amanda Seyfried (Sophie): "Just be sassy and make lots of big eyes."




To Stellan Skarsgård (Bill): "Look bored. Look REALLY bored."



To Pierce Brosnan (Sam): "OK, Remington Steele, you're only here because we need some hotness. Keep your shirt unbuttoned to the navel, or completely off, as much as you can. And please, for the sake of the children, don't sing unless you absolutely have to."


To Colin Firth (Harry): "Squint your eyes a lot and look baffled, like you're wondering what the hell a hot piece like yourself is even doing in this movie to begin with."

To Julie Walters (Rosie) and Christine Baranski (Tanya): "Blow it out of the water, girls. Walk off with the scenery. The gays love that."

To Meryl Streep (Donna): "Do whatever the hell you want! You're MERYL STREEP!"

Now, in any other movie, these sorts of cardboard characters would really piss me off. But in "Mamma Mia!", they are perfect, fitting in seamlessly with the bright hues of the film, the spontaneous eruption into nearly all of ABBA's greatest hits, and the simple, sweet plot that brings it all together.

The story takes place on a remote Greek island, where 20-year-old Sophie is about to be married and decides to invite three of her mother Donna's ex-boyfriends to the wedding. Of these three, one is Sophie's father, but no one is sure which. And that's about it for plot.

Don't be misled. This isn't a musicalization of a Maury "Which One of These Men is My Baby's Daddy?" Povich episode. "Mamma Mia!" would never stoop to something as serious and thought-provoking as "Maury".

And the music is, of course, great; I defy anyone not to get swept up in the catchy cotton candy sweetness of the songs. My favorite, though, was "Dancing Queen", a song which has been played to death in recent years. Lloyd and her team reinvent "Dancing Queen" and turn it into a fantastic feminist manifesto. Donna, Rosie, and Tanya go flitting through the Greek hillside as they sing, releasing all the women in the village from their archaic and traditional roles, until everyone ends up on the docks. This leads to the inevitable, gleeful jumping-in to the sapphire waters of the Aegean.

Another standout is Christine Baranski bringing down the house with one of my least-favorite ABBA songs, "Does Your Mother Know?". She belts the song in true diva fashion to a beach full of shirtless, muscly young men, who are, of course, all lusting after her 50-year-old ass. Baranski transforms the number into an innuendo-laden, laugh-out-loud romp. Both she and Julie Walters are so divinely over-the-top in this film that you can't wait to see what they'll do next. They do not disappoint.

Despite the pervasive fluffiness of "Mamma Mia!", Streep is given one moment to show off her dramatic mettle. Standing on a rocky cliff, working a bright red shawl, she belts "The Winner Takes It All" with palpable passion and heartbreak. It is one of the film's more unforgettable moments.

And no, Pierce Brosnan cannot sing. Not even a little bit. Every time he's called upon to croak out a number, it sounds like he's taking a massive dump in his Speedos. But this, like everything else in "Mamma Mia!", is intentional. You're supposed to laugh. That, above all else, is what this movie is about.

Worth a special shout-out is the film's Greek chorus. Random heads popping up at precisely the right moment to sing back-up, or native villagers sweeping across the screen with supporting vocals and carefree dance moves. Never has the term "Greek chorus" been used so literally.

I'm so glad I saw "Mamma Mia!". I enjoyed it far more than I ever would "The Dark Knight" or "Hancock". But then again, how could I not? It's an ABBA musical!

My Resignation Letter to the Airlines of the World

Dear Airlines of the World:

Please accept this letter as notification of my intention to never fly again. I just can't keep putting myself through it. Every time I think I'll be OK, and on the flight to my destination I am typically OK, but always, always, on return flights home, I freak out.

True, this could be because I don't wish to actually return home. And I use the word home loosely, since it's tough for me to classify Boston as such a place. Boston is more of a holding area for me. Not unlike purgatory. Purgatory with Duck Boat Tours.

While it may be true that my freak-outs are physical manifestations of my unhappiness and discontent with Boston, they are undoubtedly instigated by the various conditions that arise from flying. Namely, turbulence. Or, as I call it, Incontinence at 40,000 Feet. All it takes is one or two little shakes, and as far as I'm concerned, my life is over. No matter how minor the turbulence may be, by the time it's abated I have already gone through my mental Death Checklist:

• Have I previously stated, clearly and concisely, my desire to be cremated? Wait, that doesn't matter. At least I'll save my parents a few bucks at the crematorium. They like to clip coupons and get bargains. They'll appreciate my going this way.
• Are all of my assets and affairs in order? Ohh, right...what assets and affairs? I leave behind a pile of debt, two cats, and the only affair to consider is my imaginary one with Adrien Brody.
• Did I accomplish everything I wanted to in this life? Umm, no. Hell no. But at least now I can have cocktails (because I damn well better be able to drink in the afterlife) with Marlene Dietrich, Heath Ledger, and Estelle Getty. That'd be sweet.
• Do the people I love know that I love them? Of course they do. I mean, I never sent out construction paper hearts with doily borders saying so, but I'm sure they know.
• If they make a TV movie out of this air disaster, who will play me? Well, that's easy, and I've surely stated this intention repeatedly in my life. The choice is obvious: Bea Arthur.
  

With the items of my Death Checklist ticked off, I'm as prepared as I'll ever be for that plane to plummet to Earth. I then spend the remainder of the flight awaiting the inevitable.

So you see, this is emotional torture, and I simply cannot put myself through it again. Especially after what happened the other day....

I had a doctor's appointment in Chicago on Friday, and John and I did a sort of whirlwind day-trip. We left at 6:00am, flew to Chicago, went to the appointment, hung out in the Windy City, and flew back to Boston at 11:00pm. And sure enough, as soon as that damn homeward-bound plane took off, the turbulence started.

I recently read a very helpful book about how to incorporate various Buddhist thoughts and principles into daily life. In one example, the author relayed an experience she had on an airplane. Though she'd never been prone to panic attacks or a fear of flying in the past, she suddenly found herself a nervous wreck on an airplane before it took off. She called for the flight attendant, who was very receptive and asked if she'd like to talk with the pilot. The author agreed, and the pilot emerged from the cockpit. He reassured the author that he would get her where she needed to go, safely and smoothly, and listened to and calmed all of her concerns and panic-inducing scenarios. She immediately relaxed, and mid-flight the pilot sent her a handwritten note, via the flight attendant, reiterating his promise to get her to her destination safely and what an honor it was to serve her. To this day, the author keeps this note with her whenever she flies: a talisman of serenity and assurance.

The moral of this story is that even in our darkest hours, if we just have the courage to reach out, people will be there for us. If we're falling, our compatriots will catch us. We're all part of one big human family, and we all look out for each other.

Well, on board Friday's flight, I clearly had the bitter stepchildren of the family, because this was not my experience at all when I tried to implement the author's strategy.

Once the seatbelt sign dinged off, I told John the story I've just relayed here, and how I was going to do something brave and reach out to the professionals on board to help me. I made my way to the back of the plane, where two flight attendants were stationed.

"Excuse me," I said, "I was hoping you could give me some advice. I'm not the best flyer, and I'm freaking out a bit at the moment. What do you usually tell people to help them deal with this?"

Flight Attendant #1 looked at me blankly for a moment, before turning to her colleague.

"I don't know," she said. "Phil, what do you usually tell people?"

"What?" Flight Attendant #2 replied. "I wasn't listening."

"People who are afraid to fly. What do you tell them?" she repeated.

"Oh, you'll be fine!" Phil assured me, with all the sincerity of an in-flight beverage can. "Would you like some ginger ale?"

No I don't want any fucking ginger ale, I thought. I want a handwritten note from the pilot, quelling my fears and saying "Thanks for flying this ghetto airline that delayed your flight for some unknown reason for three goddamn hours". Also, I'd like a photo of him in just his little commander's cap.

I didn't say this, of course. I declined the ginger ale, and Flight Attendant #1 chimed in.

"What don't you like?" she asked. Finally! Now we're getting somewhere!

"Is it the loss of control?" she continued. "The pressure changes? The turbulence?"

Bingo. "Yes!" I said, "The turbulence. I can't handle it."

"Well, there's not supposed to be any. Keep yourself distracted. Just don't think about it," she advised absently and returned to stocking the beverage cart.

"You'll be fine," Flight Attendant #2 repeated.

"Umm, thanks," I muttered, and went back to my seat, dejected.

Once securely buckled back in, my panic not transformed in the slightest, I pulled out the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of me. I didn't have the focus to read the book I had brought along, but maybe I could still follow #1's advice and keep myself distracted. The magazine was romantically titled "Hemispheres", and on the cover was a picture of...a great big ship.

This was surely a sign. I wasn't meant to fly ever again. I was meant to stick to land travel, relying on cars, trains, and great big shiny ships like the one beckoning me from the glossy cover of "Hemispheres". I started planning out all my future travel. There is still so much of Europe I haven't seen, but that's OK! The QE2 is back in business and more luxurious than ever! Sure, I'll have to sell a kidney and maybe one of my cat's paws to be able to afford a ticket, but it isn't air travel and I have no problem with ships or boats. Choppy waters don't bother me, I don't get seasick, and buxom young sailors...ah yes, this is the grand plan. I could disembark in Southampton and train it all around Europe. I might even be able to go to parts of Asia and Africa as well, via train or boat, but I'm still researching that. All I know is the heavens opened up and dropped an undeniable sign in my securely-buckled lap. The sign read, FUCK FLYING!

So, Airlines of the World, I turn in my frequent flyer cards, my personal collection of vomit bags, and my velor neck pillow. I will not be needing them again. It's not that I need to feel coddled and fawned over when I'm on a plane, but I do expect to be heard and, at least to a small extent, cared for. I mean, flying is ridiculously expensive for someone in my income bracket, and we don't even get a shitty meal or a heavily-edited-for-content movie anymore! The least you can do is allay my fears with a little more compassion than a plastic two-ounce cup of Canada Dry. I shudder to think how I would've been treated had I been outwardly freaking out as much as I was inwardly. Gasping for air, sweating profusely, heart racing, soiling the seat...would I still have been instructed to keep myself distracted? "Oh, you'll be fine! Just ignore that warm puddle of stink you're sitting in!"

Not that you give a fat toad's butt. I understand that airlines the world over are in dire straits and struggling mightily to avoid bankruptcy. May I suggest grounding your fleet and investing in some lovely ships, trains, and comfortable multi-passenger automobiles? I'm sure I'm not the only one who would support such a move, but I realize that this suggestion is one that you are unlikely to consider.

When it comes to bankruptcy, foreclosure, unemployment, and skyrocketing gas prices, I'd like to impart a little wisdom a wise old sage once gave to me.

Just don't think about it.

Safely on the Ground,
Donn Saylor

Forever Our Girl: Estelle Getty, 1923-2008

It's always sad when a piece of your childhood dies. My heart broke a little when I heard that Estelle Getty, the well-loved, Emmy-winning actress who played Sophia on "The Golden Girls", passed away this morning. Getty had been in declining health for the last few years, suffering from Lewy Body Dementia, and died at 5:35 a.m., surrounded by family and caregivers at her Hollywood Hills home. She was 84.

I grew up on "The Golden Girls" and Sophia Petrillo. Viewed as something of a weirdo in my small Midwestern hometown, I lived most of my childhood on the sidelines. But one thing I always counted on was Saturday night, 8:00, NBC: "The Golden Girls". There was, for one divine half-hour, a welcome escape -- a place I could go where I knew everything was OK, I was OK, and I could laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more.

I've seen every episode of "The Golden Girls" at least a dozen times. By the time I was struggling with my demons as a young adult, the show was being broadcast in reruns on Lifetime (television for women and gay men). Even through those lean years, the Girls still brought great humor and hope into my life.

In fact, they still do. I can watch episodes now I've seen countless times in the past, to which I know the entire script. And I am STILL able to laugh till the tears fall.

This is thanks in no small part to Estelle Getty. The woman was a comic genius. Her Sophia was a consistently masterful portrayal for seven years straight. It is, quite simply, one of the greatest performances in television history. Getty's comic timing, deadpan delivery, and mousy little frame contributed a major element to "The Golden Girl"'s status as a television classic. And no one -- absolutely no one -- can deliver a one-liner like Estelle.

She was born in New York City in 1923. Getty, as a young woman, started her career as a stand-up comic and actress, performing mainly in the "borscht belt" of the Catskills and the Yiddish theater. But marriage and motherhood, as well as disapproving parents, took priority, and Getty devoted herself to her family. Over the years, she occasionally acted here and there in regional theater and Off-Broadway, often working office jobs during the day to make ends meet.

It was until she was 59 that her first big break came, in the form of Harvey Fierstein's play "Torch Song Trilogy" in 1982. Her role as Fierstein's mother stole the show, and even to this day remains one of the most talked-about theatrical performances of the last thirty years.

And "Torch Song" led to her second big break, the role that would propel her to stardom and make her a household name. At the age of 62, Getty won the role of Sophia Petrillo on "The Golden Girls", playing the mother of Bea Arthur (who, incidentally, is actually one year older than Getty). For her work, Getty was nominated for an Emmy Award every single year of the show's run, winning once, and she also received a Golden Globe. The show was a massive hit the first time around, and remains so today.

But let's not forget Getty's activism. Long before it was chic or fashionable, Estelle Getty was a vocal supporter of gay rights and AIDS awareness. Remember, folks, this was back in the 80s, when celebrities didn't touch topics like this. Proving she was just as tough and lovable as her titular character, Getty did something truly noble. She spoke for those of us who had no voice. She called for people like me to be treated like, well, people. She fought for us.

Thank you, Estelle. Thank you for your talent, your humor, your voice, and your heart. Thank you for being a friend.

You will be missed.

What better way to remember this legendary little lady than a few classic moments with Sophia and the Girls. Enjoy the clips below. The last two are some of the most hysterical scenes of the entire series.



Sophia & Picasso



Sophia Rents a Porno



Sophia as Sonny & Dorothy as Cher



"Lesbian Lovers of Miami"

Coming [Back] to "Terms"

It's easy to criticize "Terms of Endearment". Let's face it: because of the last half-hour of the film, it is now only remembered as a sentimental tearjerker with nothing important to say and nothing of substance to offer the viewer (outside of a good, long, cathartic cry). Even my own husband, in the final moments of the film, exclaimed in frustration, "I get it! Just get on with it already!". While I sat there uncontrollably weeping, hooked into this movie that I'd seen several times before, my response to John's outburst was a moment of shock; I couldn't believe someone else was not able to see what I was seeing. Despite my numerous viewings over the years, I had never watched "Terms of Endearment" with the clarity and appreciation as I did this time around.

This film is not, contrary to what you may have been led to believe, a big weepy melodrama. And this is the precise reason that "Terms of Endearment", based on Larry McMurtry's novel, was so unique and powerful when it was released in 1983 -- and remains so today. Before "Terms", movies that culminated in a key character's death (usually of a terminal illness) were big weepy melodramas. I'm thinking of "Love Story", "Doctor Zhivago", and even one I particularly enjoy, "Now, Voyager", just to name a few.

But "Terms" is different. The hour-and-forty-minutes leading up to the tragic finale can't be, and shouldn't be, discounted. Director/adapter James L. Brooks and the exceptional cast come brilliantly together to make movie magic. The story is wonderfully quirky, encompassing all manner of poignant, and often hilarious, subjects: mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, dating and sex, love and marriage, children and parents, friends and lovers. But it is this quirkiness that gives "Terms of Endearment" its most potent, enduring gift: it is utterly, raucously, heartbreakingly REAL. The unadorned reality makes the comedy that much funnier...and, of course, the tragedy that much more devastating. Perhaps this reason more than any other is why most people only remember "Terms" as a five-hankie tearjerker.

Yet how fearless honesty got misconstrued as big-screen soap opera is beyond me. The only reason that comes to mind is that the unabashed realism of the movie, which unarguably presented us with a cold hard look at the death of a loved one, was, for many, entirely too uncomfortable and close to home. So what better way to deal with it than to laugh it off, to ignore the discomfort and the painful feelings it arouses, and relegate it to the realm of the maudlin, the mushy, and the melodramatic? "Hmph! A story about REAL LIFE?!? That'll learn 'em!" Well, that's a cop-out.

"Terms of Endearment" is the story of the relationship between spunky, discriminating widow Aurora Greenway (Shirley MacLaine) and her endearingly oddball daughter Emma (Debra Winger). Buzzing around this main relationship are several others: Emma and her lovable loser husband Flap (Jeff Daniels); Aurora and her horny ex-astronaut neighbor Garrett (Jack Nicholson); Emma and her vastly different children, two sons and a daughter; Flap and his student/mistress; Emma and her man-on-the-side (John Lithgow); Aurora and her eternally-devoted circle of Texan suitors (among them, an adorable Danny DeVito); Emma and her best friend Patsy (Lisa Hart Carroll); Aurora and her faithful maid Rosie, who's also sort of a more-accessible mother figure for Emma. So you see, tossing this movie into a category of "mindless fluff designed to illicit tears" is offensive. This is a story first and foremost of relationships. In all their bizarre, frustrating, comic, and yes, even sad, beauty.

It had probably been ten or more years since I last saw "Terms of Endearment". Perhaps because I'm a much different person now than I was then serves as the reason that last night's viewing seemed like an altogether new experience. I picked up on things I hadn't noticed before. Scenes that didn't affect me in the past now provoked gales of laughter, or rivers of tears. I recognized the absolute genius of the script. I saw the performances differently; I saw the relationships differently; I saw the characters differently. As a result, I saw myself differently. I don't need to tell you: only truly exceptional movies have this power.

Shirley MacLaine won a much-deserved Oscar for her work here. In a mile-long resume of flawless performances, it is Aurora Greenway for which MacLaine will perhaps be best-remembered. She is simply extraordinary every second she is onscreen. Hell, she deserved the Oscar for the now-legendary "Give my daughter the shot!" scene alone. But MacLaine goes above and beyond the "spunky older gal" image of Aurora and succeeds beautifully in doing something next-to-impossible: she creates a character with whom we both empathize and sympathize -- and whom we both love and hate in equal measure. As controlling and "proper" as her Aurora is, she is a flawed but forgivable character. Just like all of us.

MacLaine brings this universality to light with great humor, depth, and authentic human emotion. And what she learns in the end is maybe what we all learn in the end: that no matter how controlling and "proper" we are, there are some things we can't control. To see Aurora grasp this is to glimpse some of the finest acting ever put on screen.

In addition to the aforementioned scene, there were two others in which MacLaine really stood out to me during this latest viewing. One is when Emma first calls Aurora to let her know that she's sick. Aurora hangs up the phone, and though the scene is short, its wrenching honesty comes flying through the screen, hitting us with the realization of where this story is headed. Aurora stands and embraces Rosie, telling her, "Rosie, our girl is sick...." Every moment of this exchange is brutally truthful. Watch the reactions. Watch the mannerisms. Watch these woman absorb the painful reality at the exact moment we do. In a movie flowing with authentic and sincere moments, this is perhaps the finest.

The other scene that stuck out to me, which was a bit more challenging but nonetheless a knock-you-on-your-ass depiction of pure honesty, was "the deathbed scene". Aurora is sitting by Emma's bedside. Emma wakes, turns to her mother, and weakly smiles. The camera then fixes on Aurora, which is a wonderfully unconventional touch, as one would expect all eyes to be trained on Emma at this pivotal moment. As we are watching Aurora, Emma dies, and we only know this by Aurora's reaction: she turns away.

Let me say that again.

She turns away.

There was no motherly smile in return to her daughter's. There was no rushing to her aid, no calling of nurses, no big hysterical breakdowns. There was just the heartbreaking honesty of someone smacked square in the jaw with death: a turning away. This might seem cold, and maybe it is. But how many of us would react in exactly the same way? How do we know how we will react when faced with something like this?

And if your heart hasn't already been torn out and Mexican-Hat-Danced on by this point, the moments that follow this will surely make it happen. Yet one thing is for sure: you won't find a single instant of dishonesty or insincerity. Everything...all of it...is terribly real. Too real.

I always knew MacLaine was spectacular in "Terms of Endearment". But I committed this latest viewing to looking closer at Debra Winger's work (inspired, no doubt, by reading her masterpiece of a memoir), and I was blown away by this performance to which I had not previously paid much attention. In watching her, I discovered something huge about this movie: while it's true that MacLaine's Aurora is the "showier" role, it is Winger's Emma that gives the film its sturdy, sensitive spine. And Winger, just 27 when "Terms" was made, does this with the deft talent of the truly phenomenal actress she is. She is so natural, so smoothly organic, that it's ridiculously easy to dismiss the massive complexities which drive Emma as nothing more than idiosyncratic. Yet everything about Winger's performance -- from the biggest emotional expressions to the smallest mannerisms and habits -- are carefully studied and genuinely executed. This is an unconventional, brave, and completely raw performance. It is something to be watched closely because, while MacLaine may get the best lines of the movie, Winger manages to get the heart.

She plays her Emma as a woman who's never really fit seamlessly into the roles she's been assigned in life: daughter, wife, mother, and, eventually, tragic heroine. She's waited a lifetime for the house with the white picket fence and the ship with sails of silk and a trove of gold bullion. In the meantime, she's marched to the beat of her own drummer while trying to make sense of the craziness of her life. It is this fact -- as well, I think, as a last peacemaking effort in her turbulent relationship with her mother -- that I feel propels that final, resigned, wan smile from her hospital bed. Emma has made her peace with a life spent on the edge -- and a mother simultaneously pulling her away from and pushing her closer to it.

One scene in particular between Aurora and Emma really glared brightly at me. It's toward the end, in the hospital, and the two women are talking.

Aurora: "I just don't want to fight anymore."
Emma: "What do you mean? When do we fight?"
Aurora: "WHEN do we FIGHT? I always think of us as fighting!"
Emma: "That's because you're never satisfied with me."

That last line cut me to the core. I think we can all relate to this exchange on some level, especially when it comes to our parents. And MacLaine and Winger, so awake in the moment, let this dialog become a realization for Aurora and Emma as well. It's a breathtaking scene.

And then there's Jack Nicholson, portraying...Jack Nicholson! Actually, his character's name is "Garrett Breedlove", but it might as well be "Jack Nicholson". With the exception of "About Schmidt", which I adored, Nicholson pretty much plays himself in every film he's in. Don't get me wrong, Jack's good at playing Jack. But I'm good at playing Donn -- and I don't have the multi-million dollar paychecks and three Academy Awards to show for it. Nicholson won his second Oscar for "Terms", and this was only because of Shirley MacLaine. The give-and-take between these two actors -- and the white-hot sparks that fly -- are definite highlights of the film. In their scenes together, MacLaine seems to almost be taking a step back in order to let Jack do his Jack Schtick. The result is remarkably successful, and their onscreen chemistry is dynamic. It is a great actress that can do this for a fellow actor, selflessly shifting the balance of the scene so the other actor can shine. And it is a secure actor who can allow an actress to do this for him.

So as you can plainly see, "Terms of Endearment" is not the farcical swan song that many would have you believe. As further proof, it should be noted that "Terms" won five Oscars, including Best Picture, and is regarded by the vast majority of film experts to be among the best movies ever made. Clearly, this is more than a syrupy, mawkish cornfest. Indeed, "Terms of Endearment" is a singular, witty, and altogether real testament to the ties that bind -- and sometimes strangle.