One Monkey Don't Stop No Show

The Best Blankin' Game Show Ever

2010-06-21T15:11:00.007-04:00

There are an infinite number of reasons why I enjoy working from home, but at the top of the list is the fact that I get to schedule my day around one of my new favorite television shows.

Well, it isn't exactly new.

Actually...it's older than I am.

Here. I'll give you a clue:

_____ Game

If you filled in the blank with 'Match,' then a little bell has just sounded, indicating that you've given the correct answer, and one of us is going to end up kissing Richard Dawson on the mouth. That's how things work on Match Game.

Now, there have been several incarnations of Match Game. The original version began airing in 1962 as a live, black and white broadcast from New York City. It went off the air in '69 but was revived in a bright (and I mean bright) full-color format in 1973, recorded "live on tape" in Hollywood. The '70s run of the show is typically the era that most people remember when they think of Match Game. The show experienced brief resurrections in 1990 and 1998, but those versions never quite off the ground.

But Match Game's glory days couldn't be beat. Gene Rayburn was the show's original host in the 1960s, and he returned with the show in '73. Rayburn had a goofy lovability, and though he sometimes went over the top, he never stole the comic thunder from the panelists, who were the real stars of the show. Every episode opened with Gene--typically wearing a business suit with ginormous lapels (ah, the '70s!)--walking across the orange set to retrieve his microphone, which was the size of a yard stick.

Let's explore that set for a minute. Covering the floor and stairs of Match Game's stage was bright orange shag carpeting. And, as if that wasn't enough orange for America, the walls were also orange. But the best part was the giant spinning disc on which the two contestants came whirling around at the opening of every show. When a game was over, the winner would join Gene at the Super Match board--which was manually operated (by, I assume, a dwarf)--and the losing contestant would whirl backstage on the giant spinning disc, waving gaily at the panelists and audience, proclaiming what a wonderful time they've had. Of course, before the Spin of Shame, Gene always assured the loser they would receive a wonderful parting gift, which, in those days, was probably a year's supply of Rice-A-Roni or a gross of Ogilvie Home Perm solution. Who wouldn't be gleeful after learning of gifts like these?

But be warned. If your eyes are even remotely sensitive to light, you may want to wear protective lenses before viewing Match Game. All that bright orange is enough to make your retinas detach.

Just disregard the whole set because, if--like me--thinly-veiled dirty jokes, dry humor, and endless double entendres are your thing, then Match Game is a good match for you.

The panelists were the highlight of every show. Each week featured different stars, but there were always a few that remained consistent. The regulars were Richard Dawson, he of Family Feud fame, who would smoke cigarettes, kiss on anything with a vagina, and flirt so openly and hungrily that you have to wonder if he didn't have a Fleshlight under that desk. But I give Richard a lot of credit; he ruled at Match Game! That guy could match practically any contestant, no matter how odd an answer may be (and there were some doozies).

Another regular panelist was Charles Nelson Reilly. Today, Reilly is mostly known from his appearances on Match Game, but in actuality, he was really quite an accomplished actor, having an extensive theater resume and a Tony Award. There's no denying, however, that pipe-smoking Reilly's greatest role may have been portraying himself on Match Game. Campy and unapologetically flamboyant, he was one of the first out gay men on television. To be fair, he never said it outright on the show, but it was constantly hinted at and lovingly joked about; it was something he did not hide. I, of course, respect him for that, but I also respect the fact that the guy was friggin' hilarious. The funniest Charles moments came when he would reply to a question in his butch persona, named Chuck--whose voice was much deeper than Reilly's natural voice--and talk about "pickin' up chicks." Comedy gold, I tell ya.

The other regular was my personal favorite, the amazing Brett Somers. Now, to be fair, Match Game was pretty much Brett's claim to fame. She occasionally acted but was mostly known for being the wife of Jack The Odd Couple Klugman. They separated in 1974 but remained married until Somers's death in 2007; Klugman was the butt of many of Brett's jokes on the show. Despite the fact few probably considered her a star, Brett was fantastic. She seemed to have a different wig for every taping, she often wore dark, oversized glasses, and there were constant jokes about her being an alcoholic. She had a razor-sharp wit and a deadpan delivery, and the show's funniest moments were the hilarious sparring matches between she and Charles.

Over the years, there were many guest stars and several semi-regular panelists. Among the semi-regulars were Bert Convy, Nipsey Russell, Kaye Stevens, the hysterically funny Marcia Wallace, the dingy Joyce Bulifant, and the undisputed queen of game shows, Betty White. But my semi-regular of choice was the wonderful Fannie Flagg. Flagg was an actress and singer, but her biggest success came after Match Game, when she became an accomplished novelist. She wrote Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe (and the script for the movie) and was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for the novel and an Oscar for the film. She's written several more novels, and I've read all her work. Her books are laugh-out-loud funny and incredibly poignant, offering truly authentic slice-of-life, small town stories with humor and heart.

Flagg gave what is, in my opinion, the best--and funniest--response in Match Game history. Here's the fill-in-the-blank: "Frank said, 'I grew up in a really rough neighborhood. It was so rough that instead of dribbling a basketball, we dribbled a ________.'" The other panelists gave their answers, and then they got to Fannie, whose answer was: "Nun." I still laugh about that answer. I love you, Fannie--and not just for that amazing fried-egg sweatshirt!

So if you're ever finding yourself in front of the television around 11:30 a.m. EST, I highly recommend tuning into the Game Show Network for two back-to-back episodes of Match Game. They are just a lot of fun to watch and harken back to a bygone era in American television. An era when you could smoke and drink cocktails on TV, when you couldn't say dirty words outright but could say everything but, when a collection of now almost-forgotten stars had the opportunity to shine brightly.

But never as brightly as the orange shag carpet.

My Idol Journey: A Skeptic Gives "American Idol" a Chance

2010-05-28T17:21:00.018-04:00

Before this year, I prided myself on the fact that I'd never watched a single episode of American Idol. I just didn't think it was my kind of show. From what I had heard (and had seen through umpteen YouTube clips), it seemed to be just a bunch of kids singing in a decidedly pop style in a heated competition for a dubious title. Pop music and competitions are among my Most Hated Things, so of course I steered clear of this show.

And Simon Cowell--oy vey. Talk about my Most Hated Things. Try as I might, even after having given in and watched the ninth season of Idol, I still can't find much good to say about this guy. I just hope he sleeps well at night, on top of the millions of dollars he's made from crushing the dreams of young people.

But while my feelings for Mr. Cowell are unchanged, my feelings for American Idol have changed considerably. After moving to a remote stretch of Vermont late last year, I learned pretty quickly that television was going to become my new best friend. So when Idol rolled around in January, I bit the bullet and decided to watch.

And I was pleasantly surprised.

Now, from what people have told me, this season of the show was its weakest yet. But being that I had no barometer on which to judge this season versus previous ones, I found myself enthralled from the first week of auditions to this week's finale.

And this is what I learned....

It's really hard not to become emotionally invested in American Idol. The whole premise of the show is set up in such a way that your emotions are constantly being played into. Whether laughing (the obviously way-past-the-Idol-age-limit General Larry Platt performing his masterpiece "Pants on the Ground"), crying (Katie Stevens doing the show for her Alzheimer's-stricken grandmother; the accident that nearly cost Casey James his ability to play guitar; the birth of Michael "Big Mike" Lynche's baby during Hollywood Week), or warming the cockles of the heart (endearing Southern girl Vanessa--my early-on favorite--with the sweet, pristine, Emmylou Harris-like soprano, who was excited to go to Hollywood because she was going to get to ride on an "air-o-plane"), this show pulls out all the stops in its efforts to maneuver its way into your heart. And for me, at least, it worked.

Ellen DeGeneres makes everything better. I know she got mixed reviews for her inaugural season in the judge's chair, but in my mind, Ellen can do no wrong. Sure, she's not a music industry professional. And yeah, maybe she could have been more critical (constructively critical, that is, not Simon Cowell Critical). But Ellen is just good, real people, in my humble opinion. Her voice on the panel was an important one: the voice of a fan. I thought she did a bang-up job.

Ryan Seacrest is kinda creepy. It may be because he works, like, a gazillion jobs, but Ryan struck me as really out of touch and sometimes his behavior or choice of words really baffled me. Remember him dancing around like a goon during Tim Urban's "Can't Help Falling in Love"? Or asking Lee DeWyze who among his fellow contestants should be sent packing? Really, dude, not professional. At all. Is this what passes for a TV host nowadays?

The "expert" judges have no fucking idea what they're talking about. I don't lump Ellen into the category of "expert judge," for the simple reason that she's not one (and I think she'd probably agree). Randy Jackson, Kara DioGuardi, and Simon Cowell are the resident "experts." And those three don't know shit. I found myself liking Randy the best out of the trio, mainly because his booing of Simon during Cowell's introduction at the opening of every episode made me laugh hysterically. I knew it was coming, but I laughed every damn time. That's some good shit right there, Randy (or do you prefer "Dawg"?).

Anyway, despite my warm fuzzies for Mr. Jackson, those judges have no clue how to critique music. (Let's not forget: Simon's biggest pre-Idol claim to fame, at least stateside, was as a music producer for the fucking Teletubbies.)

During every single episode, the three would give wildly varied criticism and would often do something truly infuriating. They would chastise a performer for "playing it safe" or "not taking any risks." So, the next week, said performer would do something different, stepping out of his/her comfort zone. And how did the judges reply? Mostly something along the lines of: "Why are you doing something risky?" or "That was awful! You should stick to what you know!" (Sidebar: I do agree with their opinions on Tim Urban's truly bizarre, reggae-soaked version of "Under My Thumb." That wasn't just outside Urban's comfort zone. That was outside of humanity's comfort zone. I, for one, just wanted Tim to stop singing and take his shirt off. Am I alone on this one? Anyone? Anyone?)

But let's remember that the judges' opinions are just that: opinions. (And these, of course, are mine). For instance, they didn't much like Casey James's rendition of "Mrs. Robinson," calling it "lazy" and lacking in substance. While many probably agreed with this summation, I couldn't have disagreed more. When I look back on my first-season Idol experience, one of the few performances I will remember will be Casey sitting on the edge of the stage, strumming a mandolin, and singing a sweet, simple, sensual, and sensitive version of "Mrs. Robinson." Then again, I thought Casey was hands-down the most talented male of the season. Not only is he hotter than a Baptist preacher's wife at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast (that's a line from The Golden Girls), but his smoky, bluesy voice has the power to give me instant wood. 'Nuff said.

The judges also seemed to have a select few they liked to pick on. One was Tim, and I definitely see why they singled him out: he was decent enough, but he really didn't deserve to be there. However, they also picked on some truly amazing performers, like Siobhan Magnus and Didi Benami, two contestants that I adored. Going into the semi-finals, Crystal Bowersox (whose "If It Makes You Happy" during Hollywood Week made me a lifelong fan), Casey, Siobhan, and Didi were my favorites. But as the competition progressed, the judges really nitpicked at Siobhan and Didi in particular, and the voters took their cues from the judges. Didi finished in 10th place, Siobhan in sixth--certainly not bad, but they both deserved to go much further in the competition. I mean, Didi's "Play with Fire" and Siobhan's "Paint It Black," both during Rolling Stones week, were nothing short of phenomenal.

Final point on this matter: the judges can't be trusted to be a harbinger of what all of America likes or dislikes.

The most talented contestant doesn't always win. Now let me just say that I have nothing against Lee DeWyze. He's very talented and, among all the contestants, certainly showed the most growth. And, as the judges pointed out ad nauseum, "That's what 'dis show is all abouuuuuuut!"

But did Lee deserve to win over Crystal (who hit it out of the park night after night, leaving her competition in the dust)? Not in my book. Which leads me to the final--and perhaps most telling--thing I learned while watching American Idol:

Texting-savvy, prepubescent girls dominate the Idol fanbase. And this is why, I think, Lee took the crown. 12-year-old girls the world over swooned for his cute looks, rock star voice, and sincere, aw-shucks demeanor.

While I can't argue that Lee is certainly a good, solid singer, I do take umbrage with the judges' assertions that Lee "feels the music" and is "emotionally available." I only saw him truly feel a song twice: during his performance of "The Boxer" during his trip home and in his stunning, chill-inducing rendition of "Hallelujah."

Other than these two performances, I never got the impression Lee was feeling much of anything. He more often than not looked like a deer in headlights up there, stiff as a board and utterly expressionless. To me, the sign of a truly good performer is one who feels the words he/she is singing. Lee often came across as someone who could sing--but not necessarily FEEL. And I think the two go hand-in-hand.

Which is why MamaSox should have won. Crystal never gave a bad performance; she was on top of her game in every single episode. Granted, she's more my kind of singer than Lee is. She's got that whole dreadlocked, gap-toothed, curvy-figured, my-heart-and-soul-are-in-my-pipes, hippie-chick thing that I have a soft spot for. But she also knows just who she is. Crystal is not a young artist "searching for her identity." She is comfortable in her own skin, and her awe-inspiring ability to consistently bring down the house (my house, at least) was proof of that.

It is for these precise reasons she did not win. I mean, a 12-year-old girl may not necessarily feel comfortable watching a strong, assured, unconventionally beautiful young woman who knows her own power as she sings her heart out with unharnessed passion. I would even venture to say that a lot of girls probably felt threatened by Crystal because, let's face it, in adolescence none of us knows who we are. Hence MamaSox's runner-up finish. That's the only logic I can put to Lee's win (Lee, incidentally, bombed during all three of his songs on the night of the final vote; Crystal, on the other hand, hit home run after home run. Her "Up to the Mountain" had me face-down on the sofa, weeping.)

Everyone over the age of 30 that I either talked to or heard discussing Idol was convinced Crystal was the best of the season. But most of us 30+ folks probably don't have the mad texting skills (or the free time) of the preteen set, who can text in their votes at rapid-fire pace.

Oh, and for the record, I did vote. Every single time.

And they were all for you, Crystal. You'll always be my first American Idol.

The Monkey Returns

2010-05-28T17:06:00.002-04:00

It's been a long time--a little over a year since I've written a post. A lot has changed, the biggest change being that I finally moved to rural Vermont, leaving behind the City of a Million Headaches (a.k.a. Boston). Serenity has once again seeped into my life, and I've got my fingers poised on the keyboard. I'm ready to bang some blog posts--figuratively speaking.

For what it's worth, it's good to be back in the blogosphere.

Thanks for reading.

This is lovely...

2009-05-15T10:12:00.001-04:00

Check it out.

Lunch Poem for F.S. by Jonathan Galassi

2009-05-09T19:34:00.004-04:00

(Note from Donn: I freakin' LOVE this poem!)

The dirty sunlight in the clerestory
windows of our faux-Parisian lair
lends a streaky, half-forgiving glow
to yet another summit with no purpose:
duck and iron Pinot Noir and double
decaf espresso, sheer necessities
for urban inmates who still keep the faith
with a wan cerise velvet banquette
and eye-level mirror lit with faces
a John-the-Baptist puritan might judge
corrupt with too much liquid happiness.
But it is happiness
to lounge in semi-silence while the day
downshifts and natter on about the shit
that passes for Shinola but we know
is only sauce for the gander.
It’s not that we’re against the war,
we’re against them: the boobs, the pimps,
the Know-It-Alls, the True Believers—everyone
who isn’t here awash in downtown gold
inhaling the exhaust of Burgundy . . .
Loafing, gloating, having it our way
Friday afternoon at Montrachet.

Dear Susan Boyle

2009-04-20T17:41:00.004-04:00

So I know this clip is making the rounds in a major way. And I couldn't be more thrilled.

Susan, you are simply incredible. Thank you for your talent -- and for reminding us where REAL beauty comes from.

And thank you for doing what you're doing, from all of us who wish we had the chance.

You are bliss. You are inspiration.

xoxoxo

-d.s.

Ithaka by C.P. Cavafy

2009-04-08T18:20:00.003-04:00

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon--don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon--you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind--
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

Vermont Love

2009-04-07T18:38:00.005-04:00

(John and me in Vermont)

And the lovin' continues!

The universe is clearly trying to tell me something. If Iowa is my true home, then I've long considered Vermont to be my adopted home. Even though I live in the cesspool known as Boston, I long to move to Vermont.

And today, gay marriage was made legal. John and I could move there and not be second-class citizens.

Hooray, Vermont!

Iowa Love

2009-04-03T19:29:00.003-04:00

I have never been more proud of my home state as I am at this moment.

And I hope this sends a message to all those who think Iowa is some hick backwater full of rednecks. It isn't. I put up with more homophobia in San Francisco than I did in rural Iowa, and that's no lie.

To quote the Iowa motto: "Our liberties we prize and our rights we will maintain." Today's ruling proves this motto is more than just lip service.

It is Truth.

Way to go, Iowa!

Because fart jokes never get old...

2009-03-28T11:41:00.004-04:00

For an amazing collection of videos featuring animals reacting to farts, visit Urlesque.

Natasha Richardson, 1963-2009

2009-03-21T17:24:00.004-04:00

Natasha in her Tony-winning performance as Sally Bowles in Cabaret.

I first fell in love with Natasha--and Liam Neeson--after seeing this photo of the two of them in Anna Christie in 1993.

Rest in peace, Natasha.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

2009-03-16T18:15:00.003-04:00

My life goes on in endless song
Above earths lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble in their fear
And hear their death knell ringing,
When friends rejoice both far and near
How can I keep from singing?

In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging,
When friends by shame are undefiled
How can I keep from singing?

A hymn by Robert Wadsworth Lowry, reworked and with an extra verse by Pete Seeger.

Click here to hear Enya's version.

Sweet Bonnie Bramlett

2009-02-28T17:02:00.007-05:00

Like many of my generation, my first exposure to Bonnie Bramlett was when she was a featured player on Roseanne for a couple of seasons in the early nineties. To my knowledge, she only sang twice on the show, but both times were amazing. I used to pray they'd let her sing in every episode.

Little did I know what a legend she was. Bramlett was one-half of the duo Delaney and Bonnie in the late sixties and early seventies before embarking on a solo career (Sweet Bonnie Bramlett being her first solo album, in 1973). Prior to meeting and marrying Delaney (who sadly passed away in December of last year), Bonnie was the first and only white member of the Ikettes, the back-up singers for Ike and Tina Turner. In the last forty-odd years, she's put out several albums and done some acting here and there.

And that voice! My God! I can't even describe it. It's like her soul is in her voicebox.

Click here to hear Bonnie bring down the house, singing the hell out of "You Really Got a Hold on Me", from Roseanne.

And here's a more recent number: Bonnie doing "Superstar" live onstage. Many artists have covered this song (notably The Carpenters and Bette Midler), but they ain't got nothin' on Bonnie. The pristine emotion she lets loose with this number is devastating. The heartbreak -- and the talent -- in this performance will knock you out of your chair.

Learn more about the amazing Bonnie Bramlett on her website.

Letter by Jean Valentine

2009-02-25T19:33:00.004-05:00

The hornet holds on to the curtain, winter
sleep. Rubs her legs. Climbs the curtain.
Behind her the cedars sleep lightly,

like guests. But I am the guest.
The ghost cars climb the ghost highway. Even my hand
over the page adds to the ‘room tone’: the little

constant wind. The effort of becoming. These words
are my life. The effort
of loving the un-become. To make the suffering

visible. The un-become love: What we
lost, a leaf, what we cherish, a leaf.
One leaf of grass. I'm sending you this seed-pod,

this red ribbon, my tongue,
these two red ribbons, my mouth,

my other mouth,
—but the other world—blindly I guzzle
the swimming milk of its seed field flower—

Sean Penn

2009-02-23T19:39:00.004-05:00

"…For those who saw the signs of hatred as our cars drove in tonight, I think that it is a good time for those who voted for the ban against gay marriage to sit and reflect, and anticipate their great shame, and the shame in their grandchildren's eyes, if they continue that way of support. We’ve got to have equal rights for everyone...I’m very, very proud to live in a country that is willing to elect an elegant man president, and a country who, for all its toughness, creates courageous artists."

-Sean Penn, in his Oscar acceptance speech

Amen, Sean!

Looking into Oscar's crystal balls....

2009-02-20T16:27:00.004-05:00

It’s my favorite time of year: OSCAR TIME! And I have predictions!

Wanna hear ‘em? Here it goes:

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frost/Nixon
Milk
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire

Who Will Win: Slumdog Millionaire.

Who Should Win: Though I don’t think any of these films are worthy of a Best Picture Oscar, I think the finest on this list is surely Slumdog. The film is ridiculously unrealistic, but therein lies its charm: it is, after all, a modern day fairy tale. The two best films of last year, Rachel Getting Married and Revolutionary Road, were, sadly, not nominated.

Dark Horse: Milk. I found the script wildly uneven, but Gus Van Sant’s direction was inspired and the performances were nothing short of miraculous. I could see this winning for two reasons: A) the snubbing of another Big Gay Movie, 2005’s brilliant Brokeback Mountain (did Crash REALLY deserve a Best Picture Oscar?), may have given some Academy members a guilty conscience; and B) in the aftermath of Prop 8, Hollywood wants to show its support for 'da gays.

BEST DIRECTOR NOMINEES
Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire
David Fincher, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Ron Howard, Frost/Nixon
Stephen Daldry, The Reader
Gus Van Sant, Milk

Who Will Win: Boyle.

Who Should Win: Boyle. Again, because Slumdog is the best of this lot.

Dark Horse: Van Sant. For explanation, see my above reasoning as to why Milk is a dark horse for the Best Picture award.

BEST ACTOR NOMINEES
Richard Jenkins, The Visitor
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Sean Penn, Milk
Brad Pitt, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler

Who Will Win: Too close to call. Penn and Rourke are neck and neck.

Who Should Win: Mickey Rourke. Never in my life would I have thought Mickey Rourke deserved an Oscar over Sean Penn, but, alas, this year is an exception. Both were brilliant in their respective films, and I’d be happy with either of them nabbing the statuette. And Penn’s performance was studied, brave, and fiery. But when it comes to plunging the depths of human emotion, Rourke has all these guys beat. He takes his larger-than-life character – former pro wrestler Randy “The Ram” – and subtly, honestly makes him someone with whom we can all relate. It’s one of the best performances I’ve seen in recent years.

Dark Horse: There isn’t one. This is between Penn and Rourke to the bloody end.

BEST ACTRESS NOMINEES
Anne Hathaway, Rachel Getting Married
Angelina Jolie, Changeling
Melissa Leo, Frozen River
Meryl Streep, Doubt
Kate Winslet, The Reader

Who Will Win: Winslet. She deserved a nomination for Revolutionary Road, but winning for The Reader is a pretty good consolation prize. Plus, she’s one of our greatest younger actresses and has been nominated five times previously. She deserves the award more for her body of work and less for this singled-out performance.

Who Should Win: Anne Hathaway. Her performance in the astounding Rachel Getting Married was pitch-perfect. As a just-out-of-rehab black sheep in her upper middle class suburban family, Hathaway is a raw nerve of energy, an open wound exposed to the air for the first time in ages. I adore all these performances, and Streep and Winslet have always been favorites of mine, but no one here can touch what Hathaway did in Rachel.

Dark Horse: Meryl Streep. Never, ever count Meryl out of the running for any award. When it comes to actresses, there has never been a greater one than Streep.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR NOMINEES
Josh Brolin, Milk
Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Robert Downey Jr., Tropic Thunder
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Doubt
Michael Shannon, Revolutionary Road

Who Will Win: Ledger.

Who Should Win: Ledger. If for no other reason than to give him the award he deserved to win for Brokeback.

Dark Horse: Brolin. With his roles as Dan White in Milk and what’s-his-name in W., this year showed the acting chops of this talented thespian.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS NOMINEES
Amy Adams, Doubt
Penélope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Viola Davis, Doubt
Taraji P. Henson, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Marisa Tomei, The Wrestler

Who Will Win: Cruz. With Winslet’s supporting turn in The Reader inexplicably up for the leading category award, Cruz stands the best chance of winning. She’s also won a slew of critics’ prizes for this performance. And again, two of the year’s most incredible supporting performances were from Rachel Getting Married: Rosemarie DeWitt and the great Debra Winger, but they were both criminally overlooked.

Who Should Win: Viola Davis. Even had DeWitt and Winger been nominated, there still wouldn’t be a contest in my mind. Davis deserves this award, hands down. In an all-too-short, explosive scene, she walks away with the entire film—not easy to do when you’re playing opposite Meryl Streep. Davis’s work in Doubt is one of the greatest supporting performances I’ve ever seen. Vulnerable, fearless, emotionally naked, and ferocious, this is a legendary performance.

Dark Horse: Amy Adams. Though I don’t think she merits an Oscar for her work in Doubt, Adams is an amazingly talented, intensely likeable actress. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Academy noticed that by giving her the statuette.

Random Thought #721894

2009-02-17T19:06:00.002-05:00

Sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office today, I leafed through an issue of Rolling Stone from last summer. For some reason, my doctor's office--part of a Harvard hospital--cannot provide current reading material. Only seven-month-old donations from the homeless shelter.

Anyhoo.

Then-presidential nominee Barack Obama was on the cover, and the issue was filled with election drama, Obama versus McCain.

And I took a great big sigh of relief. For once, America got it right. Even in the midst of our current turmoil, I am so, so glad we elected the right man for the job.

And I love this photo of him.

Marianne Moore

2009-02-16T18:26:00.002-05:00

"Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads."

-Marianne Moore

Love Song by David P. Young

2009-02-14T15:04:00.007-05:00

I guess your beauty doesn’t
bother you, you wear it easy
and walk across the driveway
so casual and right it makes
my heart weigh twenty pounds
as I back out and wave
thinking She’s my summer
peaches, corn, long moondawn dusks
watermelons chilling in a tub
of ice and water: mirrored there
the great midsummer sky
rolling with clouds and treetops
and down by the lake
the wild canaries
swinging on the horse mint
all morning long.

Painting: View from the Window, on the Olcha, 1915, by Marc Chagall

My Little Orange Man

2009-02-13T10:47:00.003-05:00

Fergus Saylor-Beck

Koala saved from Australian wildfires

2009-02-10T19:59:00.003-05:00

Click here for the story of this adorable fella.

My Grandmother’s Love Letters by Hart Crane

2009-02-09T19:04:00.004-05:00

There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

And I ask myself:

“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?”

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

Hart Crane, 1899-1932

Georgia O'Keeffe

2009-02-06T19:07:00.001-05:00

“I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life -- and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.”

-Georgia O'Keeffe

In Memoriam

2009-02-01T18:51:00.008-05:00

Wolfie

"To call him a dog hardly seems to do him justice, though inasmuch as he had four legs, a tail, and barked, I admit he was, to all outward appearances. But to those who knew him well, he was a perfect gentleman." -Hermione Gingold

Writ on the Eve of My 32nd Birthday by Gregory Corso

2009-01-30T18:40:00.000-05:00

a slow thoughtful spontaneous poem

I am 32 years old
and finally I look my age, if not more.

Is it a good face what’s no more a boy’s face?
It seems fatter. And my hair,
it’s stopped being curly. Is my nose big?
The lips are the same.
And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time.
32 and no wife, no baby; no baby hurts,
but there’s lots of time.
I don’t act silly any more.
And because of it I have to hear from so-called friends:
“You’ve changed. You used to be so crazy so great.”
They are not comfortable with me when I’m serious.
Let them go to the Radio City Music Hall.
32; saw all of Europe, met millions of people;
was great for some, terrible for others.
I remember my 31st year when I cried:
“To think I may have to go another 31 years!”
I don’t feel that way this birthday.
I feel I want to be wise with white hair in a tall library
in a deep chair by a fireplace.
Another year in which I stole nothing.
8 years now and haven’t stole a thing!
I stopped stealing!
But I still lie at times,
and still am shameless yet ashamed when it comes
to asking for money.
32 years old and four hard real funny sad bad wonderful
books of poetry
—the world owes me a million dollars.
I think I had a pretty weird 32 years.
And it weren’t up to me, none of it.
No choice of two roads; if there were,
I don’t doubt I’d have chosen both.
I like to think chance had it I play the bell.
The clue, perhaps, is in my unabashed declaration:
“I’m good example there’s such a thing as called soul.”
I love poetry because it makes me love
and presents me life.
And of all the fires that die in me,
there’s one burns like the sun;
it might not make day my personal life,
my association with people,
or my behavior toward society,
but it does tell me my soul has a shadow.

© 1962 by New Directions Publishing Corporation

2009-01-30T18:27:00.004-05:00

Turtle, Swan by Mark Doty

2009-01-29T17:58:00.003-05:00

(Note: This is one of my favorite poems ever. Mark Doty is a personal hero of mine, and the beauty, the naked honesty, the luminous force of this poem is a perfect example why. Enjoy.)

Because the road to our house
is a back road, meadowlands punctuated
by gravel quarry and lumberyard,
there are unexpected travelers
some nights on our way home from work.
Once, on the lawn of the Tool

and Die Company, a swan;
the word doesn't convey the shock
of the thing, white architecture
rippling like a pond's rain-pocked skin,
beak lifting to hiss at my approach.
Magisterial, set down in elegant authority,

he let us know exactly how close we might come.
After a week of long rains
that filled the marsh until it poured
across the road to make in low woods
a new heaven for toads,
a snapping turtle lumbered down the center

of the asphalt like an ambulatory helmet.
His long tail dragged, blunt head jutting out
of the lapidary prehistoric sleep of shell.
We'd have lifted him from the road
but thought he might bend his long neck back
to snap. I tried herding him; he rushed,

though we didn't think those blocky legs
could hurry -- then ambled back
to the center of the road, a target
for kids who'd delight in the crush
of something slow with the look
of primeval invulnerability. He turned

the blunt spear point of his jaws,
puffing his undermouth like a bullfrog,
and snapped at your shoe,
vising a beakful of -- thank God --
leather. You had to shake him loose. We left him
to his own devices, talked on the way home

of what must lead him to new marsh
or old home ground. The next day you saw,
one town over, remains of shell
in front of the little liquor store. I argued
it was too far from where we'd seen him,
too small to be his...though who could tell

what the day's heat might have taken
from his body. For days he became a stain,
a blotch that could have been merely
oil. I did not want to believe that
was what we saw alive in the firm center
of his authority and right

to walk the center of the road,
head up like a missionary moving certainly
into the country of his hopes.
In the movies in this small town
I stopped for popcorn while you went ahead
to claim seats. When I entered the cool dark

I saw straight couples everywhere,
no single silhouette who might be you.
I walked those two aisles too small
to lose anyone and thought of a book
I read in seventh grade, "Stranger Than Science,"
in which a man simply walked away,

at a picnic, and was,
in the act of striding forward
to examine a flower, gone.
By the time the previews ended
I was nearly in tears -- then realized
the head of one-half the couple in the first row

was only your leather jacket propped in the seat
that would be mine. I don't think I remember
anything of the first half of the movie.
I don't know what happened to the swan. I read
every week of some man's lover showing
the first symptoms, the night sweat

or casual flu, and then the wasting begins
and the disappearance a day at a time.
I don't know what happened to the swan;
I don't know if the stain on the street
was our turtle or some other. I don't know
where these things we meet and know briefly,

as well as we can or they will let us,
go. I only know that I do not want you
-- you with your white and muscular wings
that rise and ripple beneath or above me,
your magnificent neck, eyes the deep mottled autumnal colors
of polished tortoise -- I do not want you ever to die.

China's gay penguins get hitched!

2009-01-28T18:28:00.006-05:00

Click here to read the story.

The penguins are also adoptive parents, and zookeepers say they are the best parents in the zoo. Here is an older photo of the happy couple. They are the two behind the fence, in conversation with their next door neighbor.

John Updike, 1932-2009

2009-01-27T15:58:00.002-05:00

"Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them."

-John Updike

Click here for Updike's obituary in The New York Times.

Soren Kierkegaard

2009-01-26T11:22:00.003-05:00

"Once you label me, you negate me."

-Soren Kierkegaard

Slow Dance by Matthew Dickman

2009-01-21T20:19:00.003-05:00

More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dining room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about
how all the stars in the sky are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-chord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a sheer white dress
covered in a million beads
slinks toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scraping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutan slow dance.

© Matthew Dickman

Our President

2009-01-20T17:57:00.003-05:00

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

...For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

-Barack Obama, from his inaugural address

New England Winter by Erica Jong

2009-01-19T17:02:00.006-05:00

Testing the soul's mettle,
the frost heaves
holes in the roads
to the heart,
the glass forest
raises up its branches
to praise all things
that catch the light
then melt.
The forest floor is white,
but here & there a boulder rises
with its glacial arrogance
& brooks that bubble
under the sheets of ice
remind us that the tundra of the soul
will soften
just a little
towards the spring.

Image: Garden Under Snow, 1879 by Paul Gauguin

Andrew Wyeth, 1917-2009

2009-01-17T09:28:00.005-05:00

Christina Olson - 1947

Click here for Wyeth's obituary in The New York Times.

"Hudson River, January 15, 2009, 3:30 p.m." by Donn Saylor

2009-01-15T20:49:00.003-05:00

And from gelid iron skies, the pearly
insistence of the Airbus 320 glided
(there’s no other word for it), creamily,
into the boreal Hudson:
archangel banished on an augustly controlled
descent.
Just after takeoff, the pilot – Svengali in
the clouds, no doubt, all but seducing the
coy strati, plump, today, with new snow –
reported a “double bird strike”; then,
moments later, to the souls onboard who were,
this January afternoon, masquerading as
people: “Brace for
impact.”
The impact, as it turned out, was a soft
settling onto a watery tarmac: shallow,
icy, but a great pair of steely arms for a
wayward plane to find its peace after such
bedlam.
And it is the thought of such bedlam – so
adamant, so absolute – that brings me a gutful
of forked-tongued terror whenever I fly. There
has always seemed, to me, something
not right
about a mighty, mighty manmade flying machine
that can be disquieted so easily by “choppy air”,
that can be victim to any number of altitudinous
Armageddons,
that can be felled by a flock of turned-around
sparrows. My fourth grade history teacher once
recounted the story of a race between the then-new
steam engine and the seemingly archaic horse. The horse,
as we all know, won the race.
And sometimes, birds
can be horses too.

© 2008 by Donn Saylor

Oscar Wilde

2009-01-14T11:14:00.007-05:00

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

-Oscar Wilde

Two Poems by Claudia Emerson

2009-01-13T10:34:00.003-05:00

Aftermath

I think by now it is time for the second cutting.
I imagine the field, the one above the last

house we rented, has lain in convalescence
long enough. The hawk has taken back the air

above new grass, and the doe again can hide
her young. I can tell you now I crossed

that field, weeks before the first pass of the blade,
through grass and briars, fog — the night itself

to my thighs, my skirt pulled up that high.
I came to what had been our house and stood outside.

I saw her in it. She reminded me of me —
with her hair black and long as mine had been —

as she moved in and then away from the sharp
frame the window made of the darkness.

I confess that last house was the coldest
I kept. In it, I became formless as fog, crossing

the walls, formless as your breath as it rose
from your mouth to disappear in the air above you.

You see, aftermath is easier, opening
again the wound along its numb scar; it is the sentence

spoken the second time — truer, perhaps,
with the blunt edge of a practiced tongue.

The Spanish Lover

There were warnings: he had, at forty, never
married; he was too close to his mother,
calling her by her given name, Manuela,
ah, Manuela — like a lover; even her face

had bled, even the walls, giving birth to him;
she still had saved all of his baby teeth
except the one he had yet to lose, a small
eyetooth embedded, stubborn in the gum.

I would eat an artichoke down to its heart,
then feed the heart to him. It was enough
that he was not you — and utterly foreign,
related to no one. So it was not love.

So it ended badly, but to some relief.
I was again alone in my bed, but not
invisible as I had been to you —
and I had learned that when I drank sherry

I was drinking a chalk-white landscape, a distant
poor soil; that such vines have to suffer; and that
champagne can be kept effervescent by putting
a knife in the open mouth of the bottle.

© 2005 by Claudia Emerson

The Afternoon Sun by C.P. Cavafy

2009-01-10T17:11:00.001-05:00

This room, how well I know it.
Now they’re renting it, and the one next to it,
as offices. The whole house has become
an office building for agents, businessmen, companies.

This room, how familiar it is.

The couch was here, near the door,
a Turkish carpet in front of it.
Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases.
On the right—no, opposite—a wardrobe with a mirror.
In the middle the table where he wrote,
and the three big wicker chairs.
Beside the window the bed
where we made love so many times.

They must still be around somewhere, those old things.

Beside the window the bed;
the afternoon sun used to touch half of it.

. . . One afternoon at four o’clock we separated
for a week only. . . And then—
that week became forever.

Translated By Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

Herman Hesse

2009-01-09T11:12:00.008-05:00

"If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn't part of ourselves doesn't disturb us."

-Herman Hesse

Rare Anne Sexton Clips

2009-01-08T09:53:00.002-05:00

The drama, the madness, and the genius of Anne Sexton...

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

2009-01-06T18:10:00.010-05:00

I want you to know

one thing.

You know how this is:

if I look

at the crystal moon, at the red branch

of the slow autumn at my window,

if I touch

near the fire

the impalpable ash

or the wrinkled body of the log,

everything carries me to you,

as if everything that exists,

aromas, light, metals,

were little boats

that sail

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,

if little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly

you forget me

do not look for me,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,

the wind of banners

that passes through my life,

and you decide

to leave me at the shore

of the heart where I have roots,

remember

that on that day,

at that hour,

I shall lift my arms

and my roots will set off

to seek another land.

But

if each day,

each hour,

you feel that you are destined for me

with implacable sweetness,

if each day a flower

climbs up to your lips to seek me,

ah my love, ah my own,

in me all that fire is repeated,

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,

my love feeds on your love, beloved,

and as long as you live it will be in your arms

without leaving mine.

Translated by Donald S. Walsh

Milan Kundera

2009-01-05T09:37:00.005-05:00

"All great novels, all true novels, are bisexual." -Milan Kundera

An Amazing Recipe

2009-01-04T11:39:00.005-05:00

My mother-in-law made this dish for John and I at Christmas, and we both fell madly in love with it. I prepared it the other night, and not only is it one of the best meals ever, but it's insanely simple. If you're a curry fan, give this one a shot; you won't be disappointed. Also, don't skip the fennel seeds -- they are the secret to the Awesome.

Curried Carrots & Lentils

1/2 cup dried red lentils

1 1/2 cups water

3 carrots, cut into 2 inch pieces

1/2 cup chopped onion

1/4 cup golden raisins

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon curry powder

1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds

black pepper, to taste

1. Combine the lentils and 1/2 cup of the water in a 2-quart microwave-safe casserole. Cover, and cook at full power for 5 minutes. (If the water foams and spills over, which mine did, replace it with 1 or 2 tablespoons more water.)

2. Stir in the carrots and another 1/2 cup of the water. Cover, and cook 5 minutes.

3. Stir in the remaining 1/2 cup water and all the other ingredients. Cover, and cook 5 minutes.

4. Serve immediately.

*Note that cooking times will vary with the power of your microwave. Mine took considerably longer than the recipe states; on the last cook (step 3), I had to microwave it for 15 minutes total, checking it every 5 minutes and giving it a little stir. So just keep an eye on it. Trust me, it's worth the vigilance.

Source: New Basics Cookbook

Archaic Torso of Apollo by Rainer Maria Rilke

2009-01-03T09:50:00.005-05:00

We cannot know his legendary head

with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso

is still suffused with brilliance from inside,

like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise

that curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could

a smile run through the placid hips and thighs

to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced

beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders

and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,

burst like a star: for here there is no place

that does not see you. You must change your life.

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program...

2009-01-02T14:59:00.002-05:00

So I know I said I was going to take some time off from blogging, but I've changed my mind. I'm going to continue with a slightly altered approach and just focus on the little items that stick in my mind. Pretty pictures. Good poetry. Amazing quotes. Maybe a commentary or two.

In short, all the things that comprise this monkey mind.

She Loves Me

2008-08-14T15:27:00.007-04:00

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

2008-08-10T17:22:00.012-04:00

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

2008-08-08T21:30:00.005-04:00

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!

2008-08-06T17:04:00.011-04:00

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"

2008-08-05T09:25:00.006-04:00

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

2008-07-31T22:10:00.010-04:00

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!"

2008-07-30T09:38:00.019-04:00

"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

2008-07-27T18:57:00.007-04:00

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

2008-07-22T19:25:00.005-04:00

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"

2008-07-20T07:36:00.007-04:00

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.

Grabbing the Book By the Cover: The Craptacular World of Bad Cover Art

2008-07-18T18:52:00.009-04:00

There are several websites out there devoted to "critiquing" book cover art in a funny way. My favorite by far is written by the Smart Bitches over at Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. In their "Cover Snark" series of posts, the ladies raucously dissect the truly awful covers of select romance novels. Their observations are downright hilarious -- and I don't mean in a "haha funny" kind of way. I mean in a tears-running-down-your-cheeks, spit-your-sodee-
pop-across-the-room, poo-a-little-in-your-dungarees kind of way.

Inspired by this, I decided to seek out some "gay novels" and examine their cover art. Incidentally, I throw my nonexistent man-titties to the wind and run like hell from any book that bills itself as a "gay novel"...but some of the covers I stumbled upon were just too rife with possibility to ignore. I could create an entirely separate blog devoted to tearing these big gay book covers new assholes. Which, when you think about it, would come in handy for the heroes.

And who the hell comes up with these things? I mean, really, this has me dumbfounded. Obviously these covers were created by graduates of the Draw the Turtle & Go to Art School Academy.

Standing Guy: "Jeebus Christ, can't a man walk down the street in his granny-panties without encountering a naked weeping homo?"

Crying Guy: "I'm sorry. I've just come from the doctor, and I found out there is a family of illegal immigrants living in my hunchback."

Standing Guy: "Oh man, that sucks. Now will you kindly stop punching my fucking leg?"

I could go on for ages about this one. Let's break it down:

OK, so dude in the back is kinda hot. But why is he messing with a red-headed firecrotch who appears to have razor-sharp nipples?
I'll tell you why. Look at Big Red's MASSIVE JUNK. That is not normal. Either he's had a testicular saline injection, or there's some kind of rodent in those jodhpurs. Presumably, a guinea pig.
For a book called "Discreet Young Gentlemen", they sure as hell aren't very discreet. In addition to porking in open view of Dracula's castle, there is also some shady voyeur making no attempt to be sneaky by watching from his carriage.
Speaking of the carriage, why does the horse have five legs?
Where'd they get that lamp? Crate and Barrel? Pier One? Me likes.

Well...it's good to see Erik Estrada can still get some honest work.

And isn't that the same hairdo worn by Marla Gibbs in the last seasons of "227"?

"Clem, you has one hot ass. However, there seems to be an oddly-shaped tumor protruding from your left hip. Let's git you to Doc Mead before we play Hide the Musket."

Also, notice the strange threesome silhouette in the corner. Actually, that might not be a threesome, since the two forms on the left seem to have two heads sharing the same body. I don't know about you, but I hate it when people spontaneously grow out of my back.

And I can only guess the form on the right of these two is an Old West transsexual with leaking, poorly-sculpted implants. Have we learned nothing from Tara Reid?

Oh shit, this one DEFINITELY has had a testicular saline injection. You know how I can tell? Because it's bleeding! Check out the trail of blood down the middle of that shiny thing he's wearing. Someone clearly couldn't stop himself and now his ballsack has ruptured. Way to go, Cylon!

Since this guy clearly has no brains, I think it's a nice touch that he's decided to have his phone number tattooed across his chest. He also seems to be microchipped in the neck. Good boy. This way you won't stray too far from home and disturb the intelligent people.

Speaking of intelligent, how cool is it that the R2-D2 knock-off in the background has a Dustbuster for a hand??? I love it! Does he do housecalls?

Photographic Evidence #6,032,855,712 in the ongoing case of Why Mullets Are Not Sexy. The blond one is also in desperate need of a creme rinse. Let's just hope the ransom involves Vidal Sassoon is some way.

You know, blondie's hair looks a lot like Barbra Streisand's on the cover of her "Wet" album.

WAIT! Hold it just a goshdarned minute! This confirms my suspicions that Barbra is really a gay man. Babs, is that you? Barbra can you hear me?

WTF?

Honestly, WTF is this? The longer I stare at it, the more options I can see.

Ohhh, I get it. It's one of those Magic Eye pictures.

Is that Jude Law in the white banana hammock? If so, I need to run out and buy this book STAT.

And who's the pathetic fag hag kneeling in the ruins like she's about to blow one of these guys? Honey, you're barking up the wrong column. I dig your Marlo Thomas/"That Girl" hair, though.

Don't you wish we could all do this? Fly through the air by emitting copious amounts of jizz from our hands and feet? It must also be handy to be able to store books in your hair. Some guys have all the luck.

Finally! A horsehung hero NOT into body modification. Hot standing dude is sure proud of that anaconda he's managed to squeeze into his riding pants, but then again, who wouldn't be? And just look at the pure awe in the eyes of the little twinkie catcher kneeling before him. He reminds me of one of the urchins in "Oliver": "Please, Sir, may I have some more?".

These two lovebirds better be careful, though. Clearly, that vase is going to come smashing down on Twinkie's head any moment now. The table holding the roses is on its last legs, evidenced by the dangerous angle to which it is leaning. Also, I would imagine it would be really uncomfortable to have rollicking romance-novel-sex with an oval portrait of Barbara Bush staring down at you. But maybe that's just me.

Something to Say: Writing for Art, for Therapy, for Self...and for the World

2008-07-15T09:21:00.009-04:00

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little." -Anne Lamott

I've come to realize recently, as I write more and more and integrate the practice into my daily routine, that writing is not a path for everyone. In addition to the isolation that is necessary for the creation of art, writing is a therapeutic process. Much like meditation, or psychoanalysis, writing is primarily a system of sitting with one's thoughts -- the good, the bad, and the ugly -- and translating them into something workable. Even if what you're writing is the furthest thing from yourself or your own experiences, it is your thoughts, and only your thoughts, that construct, color, and influence your writing.

This can be a frightening, intimidating fact for most people, in much the same way that meditation and therapy can be. Who wants to sit quietly with their thoughts? Who wants to dredge up their soul and every ounce of their history just to write a decent sentence? Who wants to try to make sense of our truly fucked-up world?

Hmm. I do.

In Buddhism, there is a meditation practice called Metta, or loving-kindness. In this technique, you wish happiness, health, safety, and freedom to first yourself, then a mentor, a loved one, a "neutral person" (someone you neither love nor hate, like the 7-11 cashier or the big African lady who sells chunky tacky jewelry at the T station), an enemy, and, finally, all beings everywhere. It's a very uplifting style of meditation, and when you're finished with a Metta sitting, you often feel quite good. As if you've just done something to help the entire world.

Though you're writing may not help the entire world, the process of writing can be much the same. As writers, we are trying -- through our tireless inspection of ourselves -- to understand this Earth we all share. Instead of sending our loving intention through our writing (which, of course, is possible), we are sending our thoughts to ourselves, certain people in particular and the world as a whole, in a grand attempt to make sense of it all. It is our passion for understanding that drives us, and attaining any kind of true knowledge or understanding is always beneficial to not just the student, but the universe entire. Our writing is our love letter (or, in some cases, our hate mail) to the world.

This action of trying to figure out who we are and what it all means is an unspoken rule, or standard, in the writing process. There are all sorts of rules out there when it comes to the process of putting words to paper, but, as in all areas of life, certain rules work for certain people. Even those who buck traditional guidelines are still adhering to some set of rules, even if they are of their own fashioning.

Many great writers have shared their rules with us. Hemingway found it imperative -- so imperative that he made them his first two rules for writers -- to use short words and short sentences. George Orwell agreed with this less-is-more theory in his own set of rules, the last of which particularly like: "Break any of these rules sooner than saying anything outright barbarous." One of my favorite writers, Erica Jong, has a list of twenty rules for writers, all of which are practical, powerful, and can be applied to other areas of life as well. But Jong's "hidden" twenty-first rule is my favorite: "There are no rules."

What Jong is saying is exactly my point. There's no definitive set of rigid instructions a writer must follow. Just as we create our own art, we create our own rules for the creation of that art. The one common denominator, though, throughout the process of said creation is the either conscious or unconscious desire to understand ourselves. I'm a firm believer that we all just want to be heard, or, in the case of the writer, read. Not for sales, or money, or fame. But for understanding, empathy, and communion.

Just as the great majority of writing rules are not universal, neither are the ways in which writers approach their work, even on the most basic levels. For instance, I once read that Jong writes all of her novels in longhand on a yellow legal pad. As much as I adore her, this would never, ever work for me. I have never been able to seriously write with pen and paper; even from the first poems I wrote in my teens, I pecked them out on a Smith Corona word processor the size of a Ford Festiva. I need the feel and the sound of a keyboard beneath my fingertips: this sensory experience excites and inspires me. Indeed, in between rapidly-flying thoughts, in moments of downtime, my fingers are usually still resting on the keys, stroking them in a nearly sensual way. But the biggest reason I require a computer to write is that it's the only way my hands can keep up with my thoughts. I have true monkey mind, hence the name and totally random content of my blog), and my thoughts and ideas are constantly swinging from limb to limb and connecting to other ideas and thoughts. I am typically focused enough to keep all of them on whatever it is I'm writing, but I still need to get them out onto the page. Editing can come later. And I type about 100 words per minute, so my fingers do a pretty good job of keep step with the "idea monkeys" careening through my head.

Additionally, though I'm all for editing -- that fundamental process of weeding your word-garden -- as a step in the method, I'm not a writer who does tons and tons of drafts. I constantly second-guess myself, so poring over a manuscript dozens of times does nothing but make me more and more unsure about what I've created. A psychic once told me that I must always follow my first instinct in life. To this end, my first instinct usually emerges in the first draft. Not always, but usually. Going back and changing my intention invariably damages the integrity of my writing. Proofreading, editing, doing a little more research on certain topics...all of these I can handle. Redrafting my work to the point where even I don't recognize it is not a wise path for me to follow. I'd rather be rejected for telling my truth in the first draft than be loved for feeding cowpies to the reader in the 70th.

One big thing I've noted about my writing is the tendency I have toward the autobiographical, even if what I'm writing is as far away from autobiography as one can get. When I was immersed in writing my romance novel, I noticed that aspects of both myself and others in my life were popping up in my characters. Being that a heterosexual historical romance novel is light years away from any experience I've had in my own life, this integration of real people into its story was entirely unconscious. For example, I based one of my characters on my friend Molly: her personality, physicality, and sense of humor; I even named her Molly. It wasn't until later that I fully realized this.

Employing this technique, however unconscious, can be risky. It's a sort of opening-up of our real lives and showing it to the world. The chances of getting hurt, or hurting others, are significant. To give another Erica Jong scenario, when she published "Fear of Flying", many felt the book was a thinly-veiled autobiography. Jong has neither confirmed nor denied this, though there are indeed many similarities to her own life. This opening-up caused great rifts in her family, and though the book was published 35 years ago, one of her sisters, Suzanna Daou, publicly confronted her during a lecture just a few months ago. She resented what she felt was Jong's unnecessary "exposé" of Daou's life all those years ago. "'Fear of Flying' has been a thorn in my flesh for thirty-five years," Daou commented. So you see, inserting people from your own life, or even aspects of those people, could very possibly cause some great pain. And not pain that goes away quickly. Thirty-five years is a long time to carry resentment, especially when it's targeted toward someone as vital as a sibling. But just as Daou's truth is her own, so too is Jong's. I guess the bottom line is this: write your truth, always and forever, but it's not worth risking a valued relationship. If it's someone you hate, it's a different story. Go ahead and make that mean-ass meter maid a serial killer in your novel. Unless, of course, she's your sister.

This is an observation I have to keep a close eye on in my writing. As much as I love to write, I also love the people in my life. My writing may end up in the bargain bin of Half Price Books. My loved ones, more than likely, will not.

But all of this brings me back to the theory that self-knowledge is the silent undercurrent to all writing. Examining what rules work for us, how we approach our craft, what tools we use and don't use, and the inherent risks in baring our souls, are all pathways forged in purpose of a higher goal: to make sense of our lives and, by extension, the world. In our struggle for understanding, we all have something to say that is important, powerful, and of immeasurable value to at least one reader out there. Even if that one reader is the one who wrote it.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say."

Wildlife Documentaries: Not Just For Stoners Anymore!

2008-07-14T19:19:00.010-04:00

When I was livin' the dazed life during my pot-smoking years, one of my favorite things to do was toke up, eat tortilla chips dipped in cream cheese and salsa (try it, it's orgasmic), and watch wildlife documentaries. In fact, I knew a lot of stoners who enjoyed these types of programs. Though, for them, I think it had less to do with educational merit and more to do with not being able to reach the remote.

Anyway.

There were certain subjects, however, in which I was not particularly interested. Snakes, for one. I don't really care for them, and wildlife documentarians always seem to profile the kinds of snakes who are able to dislocate their jaw and swallow entire Mexican villages. The insect shows were another that I often skipped. I don't have a problem with insects per se, but when the camera is that damn close and they all have eyes like Heather Graham, I'm a bit uncomfortable.

For the most part, though, wildlife documentaries provided me with good, solid entertainment. Nonetheless, I hadn't watched one in years, at least since I put down the bong -- and also because John and I are cable-less peasants. Until the other night, when I caught a show on PBS (yup, PBS on a Saturday night -- there are only two words for that: Party. Animal.) profiling the wild horses of the Rocky Mountains. Horses aren't as fascinating to me as, say, manatees, or orphaned flying squirrel babies, but I have nothing against them -- and it had been years since I watched a show like this -- so I settled in for an hour of wholesome viewing pleasure.

The wild horsey program was filmed and narrated by this fantastic holster-hipped lesbian, whose name escapes me. She spent several years intermittently tracking and following a particular band of wild horses in the Rockies. From what I understand, wild horses live and travel in small packs, led by a dominant mare (feminist horses! -- who knew?!?), a few additional mares, their foals, immature horses of both sexes, as well as a lead stallion. Sometimes there are also less-dominant males in the pack, who prefer to stay on the fringes of the band. These are the gay uncles, I'm assuming.

Most of the show was centered around one horse: a beautiful, nearly stark-white creature, whom the filmmaker christened with the pretty lame-ass name of Cloud. We watched Cloud grow from an unsure, wobbly-legged foal into a handsome full-grown stallion. We also got to know several of the other horses in his life, including his doting mama, his siblings, his pack's feisty and protective lead stallion, and his friend, a blue roan paint horse that, after being plucked from the wild and rounded up for auction, the filmmaker ended up adopting. My favorite amongst these was one of Cloud's sisters, who was a total slut. She hadn't even arrived at full maturity, and the amazing little tramp was shaking her ass in the face of every male on the mountainside. I expect to see her on "Maury" next week.

The whole experience of this show was really insightful and a lot of fun. True, it was a bit different watching this kind of program stone-cold sober -- mainly because I could actually follow what was going on. Cloud and his entourage just warmed my heart; they lived basically and simply, looked out for one another with unconditional devotion, and asked nothing more than the necessities: a little pasture, a little love, a little sun. In a way, I envy them.

All this got me to thinking how cool it would be to become a wildlife documentary filmmaker. I mean, I could never do it. There's no way I have the physical stamina to schlep up and down mountains and through rain forests with a camera strapped to my shoulder and a backpack on my back, lugging a little red wagon stocked with books, all manner of Body Shop products, and an endless supply of Sour Patch Kids. I also don't possess the scientific knowledge to know much about my subjects. You're talking to a guy who dropped high school biology mid-year so he could VOLUNTARILY join the crayons-and-circles-of-paper class.

But observing, documenting, and living with the animals in such an intimate way would be so intriguing. Which led me to the logical thought, Hey! I could do this without leaving the comfort of my own home! So I, inspired by a horse-loving lesbian I've never met, spent the day yesterday observing the cats and making mental notes of their every move. It would help if, when you get to the next section, you imagine a soft British voice reading the words aloud; this will give the full effect of my very own wildlife documentary. Ladies and gentleman, enjoy the show.

National ~~Pornogr~~Geographic Presents
"Tracking the Elusive Wild Housecat"
with your host, Donn Brody-Streep
(sorry, my agent FORCED me to change my last name)

"It is 5 a.m. Our subjects have been up all night: playing, scratching their scratching post, rolling around on the kitchen carpet in an attempt to clog the evil vacuum cleaner yet again, and tearing up and down the hallway, thereby terrorizing the downstairs neighbors. Our two subjects are a breed of the elusive wild housecat; there is a lean orange male named Fergus, and a rotund black-and-white female named Claire.

"When their handlers have not gotten out of bed by 8:00, Fergus begins jumping atop the bed and darting across their heads before fleeing the room...only to return moments later and do the same thing again -- repeatedly. Fergus, typically quiet, is something of a chatterbox in the mornings. More accurately, he's a squeakbox, since the creature doesn't seem to know how to meow. Claire is fairly silent, less interested in her handlers and more focused on sitting on a single square foot of a corner of the aforementioned kitchen carpet. Indeed, this is the spot she stays for most of the day and night.

"Once the handlers have started their day, Fergus continues squeaking with great urgency, though nothing seems to be wrong. The food dish is mostly full, the water is changed and clean, and the litterbox is freshly de-pooped. Having tired himself out, Fergus retires to the living room window, where he gazes into the top of a huge tree and wishes bloody death on those fucking birds.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Whenever the handlers walk by, she emits a small meow and rolls with some effort onto her back. One would think this is an open invitation for a belly rub. However, every time the handlers reach down to pet her, she jumps away, startled, as if she's never seen them before in her life. She calms herself by going to the food dish and eating.

"As the morning progresses, Fergus grows bored of his window seat, hops down, and slips under the bed. This is what wild housecat experts call his "happy place". He curls up in a ball and falls asleep. This is how he spends the remainder of the morning and the entirety of the afternoon.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Occasionally she gets up to eat, but then returns.

"Throughout the afternoon, Fergus is conspicuously absent, while his sister stays on high alert at her station. When a handler walks by with a particular footstep she doesn't like, she jumps back, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her post.

"Late afternoon. Fergus has emerged from his happy place, soft and warm and eyes barely open. He rubs across the calves of his handlers, ignores Claire, and has a drink of water and a bite to eat. After this, he disappears into the litterbox for a few minutes, in view of his sister who is watching from her corner of carpet. He gives her a disgusted look. She jumps up, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her corner.

"As darkness falls, Fergus is snuggled on the bed with his handlers, one of whom is reading a book, the other watching a movie containing aliens, spaceships, and Pia Zadora. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Claire rises wearily and now she, too, must use the litterbox. She is in there for an inordinately long period of time, as after she has pottied, she seems to enjoy scratching the hell out of the interior side of the litterbox. Once the novelty wears off, she goes to the food dish and returns to her corner of carpet.

"Night has arrived and the handlers are turning in. Fergus lays at their feet awhile, until he's sure they're asleep, before hopping off the bed to prepare for a night of play.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet."

Her Turbulent Brilliance: The Artistic Fire of Debra Winger

2008-07-13T08:36:00.013-04:00

Once upon a time, in a mythical land called Hollywood, during an era of polyester leisure suits, wide lapels, and halter tops, there was a young actress who exploded onto the silver screen with a fierce intelligence and fiery integrity. Her fresh, apple-cheeked beauty and uncompromising standards led her to star in some of the biggest films of that period, many of which are now considered classics. She worked with such passion, drive, and natural talent that, despite her young age, she completely bypassed the label of "starlet" and instead shot to the stratospheric brand of "serious actress". By 29, she was a major box office draw, a respected thespian, and had been nominated for two Leading Actress Academy Awards.

Throughout this startling ascent, stories, rumors, and gossip slowly began to show cracks in the plastic foundation of the fairy tale. She was blunt, outspoken, oftentimes tactless. She was called "difficult", openly and unapologetically clashing with some of the biggest names in the business (including Robert Redford, Richard Gere, Shirley MacLaine, Steve Martin, and director Taylor Hackford). She was also regarded as something of a party girl: drinking, drugging, and having several high-profile relationships and affairs (including one with then-governor of Nebraska Bob Kerrey). A 1983 "Life" magazine profile was bylined, "Why the star of 'An Officer and a Gentleman' is such an outrageous free spirit". Perhaps she was TOO free for the tastes of many.

The foundation started its hasty erosion when she began to become more famous for the roles she didn't play than the ones she did. She turned down (or quit) half a dozen films throughout the latter part of the 80s and into the early 90s; these films eventually became wildly successful blockbusters. The film work she did choose to do was often met with disinterest, perhaps because of her reputation, or perhaps because Hollywood has a short memory: a star's descent can be just as stealthy and absolute as its initial sparkling trajectory. Whatever the reason, her talent was still unshakable, ever-present, and impossible to ignore. In 1993, she received a third Oscar nomination for Best Actress.

After a few more forgettable films, the actress -- now, in Hollywood terms, a woman "of a certain age" -- did something no one saw coming.

She disappeared.

It was such a thorough and complete vanishing act that a documentary film was made in 2002, in which the filmmaker (actress Rosanna Arquette), went in search of her.

Her sudden absence from show business was baffling to many; after all, you don't just turn your back on stardom, no matter its position in the cosmos. How could this actress, so celebrated, admired, and, yes, even despised, just go away of her own accord? How could she give it all up to disappear into "civilian life" -- and a life in the country no less? How could she throw in the towel for the trowel? How could she sacrifice the plastic fairy tale foundation for the indestructible, embracing foundation of earth and stone? Who does she think she is? Did we ever know her? Who is she?

Her name is Debra Winger.

And, as it turns out, we didn't ever really know her. The 53-year-old mother, humanitarian, and actress has just released her memoirs, entitled "Undiscovered". But this is not your typical celebrity autobiography. There's no juicy gossip here and very little name-dropping. There is no conventional chronology of a life and career, no routine storytelling detailing the rise and fall of a celebrated performer. What there is is a collection of reflections: random thoughts, brilliant flashes of insight, recorded dreams, recalled memories, and poetry. Winger gives us less of the facade and more of the brave, complex motivations behind it. In doing this, she has created an entirely new form of memoir, one that is at once raw, witty, intelligent, and altogether inspiring. The result is a powerful and unique glimpse into the mind of a true artist.

"Undiscovered" resonated with me for so many reasons. Too many, in fact, for me to go into them all here. It's safe to say that much of the book sliced through many of my misconceptions and emotional boundaries and pierced me -- challenged me -- in the most personal of places: my own authenticity. "Authenticity is not a goal for the faint-hearted," Winger writes. "I have started on this journey, and I want to continue with grace." Unlikely as it may seem, "Undiscovered" is a lesson in grace...and, also unlikely as it might be, Debra Winger has become one of my teachers.

I've stated before how compelling, and sometimes uncomfortable, it is that certain books find us at the exact point in our lives when we need to hear what they have to say. On the heels of "Veronika Decides to Die", a book that met this criteria with aplomb, the gentle, knowing beauty of "Undiscovered" has slipped into my hands. It, too, has found me when I most needed its insights. It has found me when I needed to be found.

Some of you may know that in my late teens and early twenties, I attempted a foray into show business. I lived in L.A., auditioned for agents, managers, directors, and casting directors, and even found the odd job now and then. It didn't take me long, though, to realize that my passion for acting had a cut clean through the middle: my passionate love of the craft (which, even to this day, has not waned) was only rivaled by my passionate hatred for "the business". I took a great big heaving sigh of relief when Winger admits that, from the very beginning of her career all the way up to the present, "I love the work and don't much care for the business."

Winger's show biz experience, of course, was worlds different than my own. I obviously never came close to achieving the fame she did (oh, how I would LOVE to be nominated for Best Actress!). But the emotional undercurrent is the same. Look at it like this: show business is first and foremost a business, which means the top priority is making money, which means any initial contact or opportunities that may be presented are based on one thing and one thing only: looks. It is, at least in the beginning, not a matter of talent, not even in the smallest way. The powers-that-be are more interested in your physical appeal than any skill, integrity, or passion you might have. Pretty people = pretty money. I was once at a call-back audition where the director, who had praised and fawned over me the previous day, told me to go home because "he had problems with my looks". Gee, I'm sorry my nose is here and my eyes are there and my jeans don't hug my ass just so. Did you happen to notice that I can act?

Then, if one is lucky enough to actually land a job, there are more physical demands to be met. You are required to fashion yourself in certain ways. For example, if you're playing a sexy role, then you'd better ooze sex 24/7 for the sake of the film. Objectification is huge. Who's going to go see a movie about a sexy superhero when the actor who plays him just wants to live in the mountains and be a hippie when he's not at work? You've been assigned a persona -- not just a character -- and you need to play it to the hilt. Sometimes, actors don't even have to try at this. They are naturally attractive and then, given the nature of the role, they are objectified into icons of sex. This was the case with Winger after "Urban Cowboy" was released. She was just an actress playing a role, but the world saw her as some sort of revolutionary new sex symbol. I'm sure the mechanical bull scene didn't hurt that outcome. But all Winger felt was, I'm an actor. I just want to do my job. I just want to tell the truth.

But there's not a lot of room for truth in Hollywood.

Add to this movie-mix all matter of legalities to tend to, executives to bow to, and egos to assuage. Winger, like me, is not a traditional method actor, though certain intensive approaches are in place. We are both more interested in diving head-first into a character until that character infiltrates every pore, every crevice both external and internal. We want to go the edge of that character's reality and totally lose ourselves in the process. This is good acting, this is truth. And as you try to best portray your character, you have others around you constantly telling you that your authenticity, your TRUTH, are wrong. To survive in this world, you need to either bow out, or develop a thick protective skin. I chose the former. Winger chose the latter.

And, as time went on, this protection translated itself into a reputation of being difficult. What in her own mind were precautionary measures taken to allow her to simply focus on the work, were, to others, aggression and hostility. And Winger does not disagree with this perception of her during that time. In "Undiscovered", she looks back and "cringes" when she thinks of how she treated people. By her own admission, she was raunchy and often rude. This was the version of herself she felt she had to put out there. To stay safe. To stay separated from the politics of the business. To stay wholly devoted to the one thing she loved above all others: acting. Though the results on the screen speak for the remarkable success of this second skin, the relationships she had with co-workers speak something much different.

I've heard it said (and I can neither vouch for nor advocate the efficacy of this statement, as Winger discusses it nowhere in her book) that during those early successes she was a cocaine addict, and during "Terms of Endearment" she was in the process of getting clean. This, coupled with her finely-honed defense mechanism, could be the reason for the friction between herself and co-star Shirley MacLaine. Their disagreements and battles while making the film have become part of Hollywood legend. But whatever happened between the two actresses (I, for the record, am a huge fan of MacLaine), it was transformed into magic once put on film. "Terms of Endearment" is a modern masterpiece, and both women are phenomenal in it. The two were pitted against one another at the Oscars that year, both nominated for Best Actress. MacLaine won, but on the way to the podium to accept the statuette, she stopped to embrace Winger and whispered, "Half of this belongs to you." Winger replied, without missing a beat, "And I'll take half of it." In her acceptance speech, MacLaine acknowledged Winger's "turbulent brilliance" and the expert thoroughness with which she executed the role. Click here to see the speech (and hey, Rock Hudson and Liza Minelli presenting: it doesn't get much gayer than that!).

Over the next twelve years, Winger made a variety of films, none of which were terribly successful. The exception was 1993's "Shadowlands", where she did some terrific work as American poet Joy Gresham; she was again Oscar-nominated. During this time, she devoted her energies to being a mother (Winger has two sons, one with Timothy Hutton, born in 1987, and another with current husband Arliss Howard, born in 1997). But after "Shadowlands", there were a few more movies, and then...the disappearance.

This retreat from all things Hollywood is what makes up the bulk of "Undiscovered". For the first time in her life, Winger has an opportunity to embrace the quiet, and she does it like she does everything else: with passion and artistic fire. Moving to the remote countryside in upstate New York, she begins a fearless introspection and reflects on her life and career, dissecting her own behavior and choices, examining the natural world with the wonder of a poet, and embracing a life of simplicity. Motherhood, gardening, writing. That's all she needs. This idea of simplicity, living with just the essentials in the wilds of the country, appeals greatly to me. I heard with inspiring identification and breathtaking clarity every single word she wrote. Through Winger's self-awareness, I am beginning to touch upon my own.

Like "Veronika Decides to Die", "Undiscovered" has done something quite huge, and a little scary, for me. It's forced me to ask questions, to look inward and inquire further, to examine my own choices, barriers, strengths, weaknesses, and direction. "The possibility exists," Winger writes, "for all of us, at any age, to imbue our days with a breath fully taken, the thought fully formed, and the emotion wholeheartedly felt. How often do we? We are full of undisclosed fear, unexpressed resentment, and a feeling that there will be a time in the future when we will get to it."

Thank you for helping me get to it, Ms. Winger. Through examples like yours, I hope to do it with grace.

Doin' It For Myself!

2008-07-12T11:15:00.012-04:00

Yesterday John introduced me to a really fascinating site called Instructables. This is a place where users can submit step-by-step instructions on how to create all manner of do-it-yourself projects, from the practical (ice-box air conditioners; recipes) to the creative (wall art; jewelry) to the downright bizarre (square watermelons; stripper poles). It's really a great resource, with a trove of knowledge for people like me.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "But Donn! You're gay, artistic, and resourceful. Surely you must be adept and handy at do-it-yourself projects!" Well, you're wrong. I don't have the patience nor the leaps of imagination required by these sorts of tasks. I can look at words on a page, or letters on a keyboard, and see entire worlds just waiting to be explored. But when I look at a two-by-four and a roll of cheesecloth, I see a two-by-four and a roll of cheesecloth. There are limits to my creative prowess.

I am less Bob Vila and more Mary Bellows. Who is Mary Bellows, you ask? Back in the 70s, Mary Bellows hosted a do-it-yourself home improvement show on Canadian public television. The show was called, appropriately, "Do It For Yourself". However, Mary couldn't do anything for herself. She was completely inept, a total dunce with a bowl-cut and bellbottoms, and all of her projects were fantastic failures. The show was meant to be serious; instead, it was high comedy. I remember clearly one episode where Mary undertook the chore of installing a new toilet in the basement bathroom. Try as she might, she just could not get the bottom of the toilet to lay flat against the floor; the blasted crapper refused to budge from its strange sloping angle. It was stuck in such a way that should anyone ever attempt to use it, they would slip right off the seat like it was a porcelain slide. At a loss as to how to proceed, Mary looked frantically around the cluttered basement...and spotted an old bicycle in the corner. She then turned to the camera and said, "I know! I'll put the BIKE on it!" She fetched the rusty old bike and hoisted it atop the toilet, with the noble thought that the bicycle would apply enough pressure to get the loo to sit flush against the floor. Throughout this farce (and in many other episodes as well), Mary's dog, Zeke, who was her co-host on the show and infinitely more intelligent than she, was darting around the room, in and out of the frame. Occasionally she'd interrupt her masterpiece, reach into her groovy white apron, and toss a dog biscuit across the studio. "Go get the doggie cookie, Zeke!" she'd shout. "Go get the doggie cookie!" Poor Zeke.

I have tried to find a clip of this show, or even a picture of Mary, to share with you, but there's next to nothing online about her. Perhaps she is now a dramatic recluse holed up in some Canadian mansion: the Greta Garbo of Winnipeg. However, I did track this down, and sadly, it's the best I can do. It's a picture of the "Do It For Yourself" book she wrote. I'm more than a little amazed she knew how to work a pencil or maybe even -- more impressively -- a typewriter.

But that is precisely what's so nifty about us sentient creatures. In times that require us to be resourceful, we can be resourceful. Perhaps I was too quick to count myself out of the do-it-yourself world; perhaps I CAN offer some hands-on practical advice for taking back your power and building some shit.

Yes. Yes, I can! Mary Bellows taught me that.

So I searched through my vise-grip memory for something, anything, that I crafted myself in recent years. And lo and behold, the answer was right before me. Literally. I made my desk myself!

Without further ado, here are my step-by-step, do-it-yourself instructions for

How to Build a Crackhouse Desk

1. The first thing you need to do is go to your local dairy and get some milk crates. Being vegan, I would never normally suggest you patronize your local dairy, but since this is in the spirit of recycling, I figure it all balances out. You will need four crates total, all the same size so they are easily stackable. You can buy cheap plastic crates at your neighborhood box-store, but these tend to be flimsy and unreliable. The dairy crates are quite strong.

2. Take your milk crates home and scrub the hell out of them, removing all traces of milk, pus, hormones, and udder crusties. After drying out the crates, turn one of them onto its side and measure the length from front to back (the open end to the bottom); add an inch or two for good measure. While you're busy doing this, you may want to let your cats sit in the other crates. Cats seem to enjoy this. At least for a few minutes -- until they find something more entertaining, like a wad of paper, a dust bunny, or licking their naughties.

3. Next you will need to figure out the right length for your desk. Mine is about five feet long and two feet wide (the two feet being the length of the milk crates plus an inch or two). To determine this, deduce where the desk will be placed and how much space you will need both on top of the desk and underneath for your legs. Record your measurements.

4. Once you have this information, it's time to go to The Lesbian Capital of the World, otherwise known as Home Depot. There is a shady area in the back of every Home Depot where you can find "remainder" boards for remarkably low prices (five bucks or so). These are pieces of lumber of varying size, shape, and thickness, that for whatever reason, Home Depot has deemed unfit for sale to people who have money. But these social outcasts of the elite lumber community are perfect for broke-ass bitches like me. You just want to be selective and look carefully at every one. Don't choose one with deep splits or cracks; this board has to be strong enough to hold a computer monitor, keyboard, and an obese cat. Discolored boards are fine. Also, of course, you want to select a board that is at least somewhat close to the measurements you require. It doesn't have to be precise, but it should be in the ballpark. For example, don't buy a moldy wooden rod expecting it to be sturdy enough to support your office wares.

5. Now is the fun part. It's time to visit The Frugal Gay Male Capital of the World, otherwise known as Target. Once you've purchased your Icee from the snack bar and retrieved your red plastic cart, go to the Home section and marvel at the wide array of tablecloths, runners, throws, and tapestries. You will be using this to cover the wood, so don't buy some ass-ugly embarrassment. When selecting, it's wise to keep in mind the approximate length and width of the board you've just purchased from Lesbianville. Also, you probably don't want to choose a covering material that's too soft or fluffy. The pen will stab right through the paper on which you're trying to write. Trust me on this.

6. We're almost done! Now that you're full of Icee goodness and you have your desktop cover, just place the crates on their sides, and stack one on top of the other, creating a two-crate pedestal. Repeat the process with remaining crates. (Be sure to dump the cats out first, should they have rekindled their attraction to the crates.) Put the crates where you want either end of your crackhouse desk to be, with the open sides of the crates facing outward. You can use this space to store various sundries, office supplies, books, painkillers, or chocolate. Then place the retard board lengthwise on top of the crates, readjusting both the board and the crates as needed to ensure maximum sturdiness and support at both ends. This may be a good time to test out the strength. Grab the obese cat and place her atop the desk. If she doesn't fall through, you're good to proceed.

7. Finally, fit your covering over the top of the desk. This will more than likely require some folding, draping, or, if you're particularly adventurous, cutting. I don't recommend this, since scissors frighten me. After the cover is comfortably in place, arrange your stuff on the desk just how you like it. If you require a firm writing surface, consider buying a rectangle of Plexi-glass or, if you're particularly wealthy, a beveled piece of glass. This is also an aesthetically-pleasing way to display pictures, photos, or notes, by slipping them beneath the glass. I have a nudie man calendar under mine. Lastly, push your chair in and admire your handiwork. Just seven easy steps, a few dollars spent, and voilà! A crackhouse desk!

As much fun as this has been, I really need to go now. I know that as soon as Canadian public television reads this post, I will be getting a phone call.

Hopefully Zeke is still with us. I'm going to need a sidekick.

The Hotness, Part 2: The Ten Sexiest Actors

2008-07-11T09:48:00.022-04:00

Well. I hope you've all recovered from yesterday's Unbridled Ecstasy Fest, a.k.a. my list of choices for The Top Ten Sexiest Actresses. Actually, I hope you've recovered and then some, because today we move on to the fellas!

It should come as no surprise that compiling this list of The Top Ten Sexiest Actors was infinitely more challenging than putting yesterday's catalog together . In fact, at one point in my first draft, I had nearly thirty names on the roster. Narrowing it down to ten was harder than -- well, harder than me assembling this list. But I do think I've made some good choices; at the least, I've released an inordinately high amount of serotonin into my brain, which is never a bad thing.

So grab a fork and some A-1, sit back, and sink your teeth into these Grade A, USDA choice hunks of man-meat. Buon appetito.

The Gentlemen

10. Joaquin Phoenix. Dark, brooding, intense, AND vegan, Joaquin Phoenix is a man after my own heart. There's that piercing stare that seems to see clear through anyone and anything in its path; those thick, suggestively-arched eyebrows; even that Average Joe body is wildly sexy. But Phoenix, 33, is not your Average Joe. In between dazzlingly complex movie roles, while his peers are lounging on the beaches of St. Tropez or boinking 18-year-old starlets, Phoenix is fighting for animal rights and working with native tribes in the Amazon. I wonder how you say "I want to have your babies" in Yawanawa?

9. Djimon Hounsou. In one of my favorite episodes of "Designing Women", a rather amorous client takes an instant liking to Anthony, the African-American deliveryman, and says, "I hope you don't find this racist, but where ever did you find this big black beautiful buck?". This line came back to me the instant I first laid eyes on actor-model Djimon Hounsou, who is so stunningly beautiful that I was left speechless. With his unerring style and grace, Honsou, 44, has set aflame both the big screen and the world's most renowned catwalks. Despite an imposing stage presence, his film performances are studied and emotionally-centered (his roles in both "In America" and "Blood Diamond" will break your heart). Barrel-chested, with a soft, sensuous face and an erotic baritone of a voice that can shake one down in even the naughtiest of places, Djimon Hounsou is a walking tribute to the powers of elegance, diversity, talent...and yes, even sex.

8. Ralph Fiennes. Ralph Fiennes is serious. Seriously talented: see "Schindler's List", "The English Patient", "The End of the Affair", "Spider", "The Constant Gardner"; the man is electric. Seriously serious: Fiennes, 45, rarely smiles; when he does, it looks about as natural as a rabid cougar playing tiddlywinks. And of course, seriously sexy: the lack of smile only enhances Fiennes' esoteric sex appeal -- hooded eyes that are surprisingly bright (and the most paralyzing shade of icy blue), a chiseled angular nose, wan skin belying the raging vitality churning beneath, and a lustrous golden timbre wrapping around words while wrapping around your very soul. Yup. That's pretty serious: seriously fucking HOT.

7. Jonathan Rhys Meyers. His lips, which look as if they were sculpted by hand in replication of some Greek god, and eyes the color and strength of cold hard steel, are worthy topics alone to swoon over in this paragraph. But Jonathan Rhys Meyers, 30, is far more intricate than his flawless face (and body) reveal. The tremendously gifted actor is equally adept at playing contemporary characters ("Velvet Goldmine", "Match Point") and historical icons ("The Tudors", "The Lion in Winter", and my personal favorite, "Titus"); he has the uncanny knack of imbuing his roles with a mixture of a bad boy's swaggering bravado, a naive innocence bordering on purity, and an uninhibited sexual energy (this energy, I think, is something innate in Rhys Meyers: a natural extension of who he is). It's amazing to watch him pull this combination off so successfully. Hell, it's amazing to watch him just standing there.

6. Sendhil Ramamurthy. Whenever a straight guy comments on the undeniable hotness of a male celebrity, I always take note. This was the case with my friend Mitch, who's as straight and secure as they come. But even he had to admit his lust for "Heroes" star Sendhil Ramamurthy. I will confess I didn't know much about the 34-year-old actor before Mitch's disclosure, but I'm so grateful I've been introduced to Ramamurthy's sizzling hotness. The lambent copper skin, sumptuous chocolatey eyes, thick mass of jet curls, lean, lickable (did I just say that?) frame: if it's enough to turn a straight man, you KNOW it's gotta be good.

5. Christian Bale. Christian Bale can do no wrong in my book. Maybe it's because we share the same birthday. Maybe it's because I fell head over heels for him when I was a young'un watching those craptacular movies "Swing Kids" and "Newsies". Maybe it's because he's one of the most talented (and underrated) actors working today. Who am I kidding? It's because he's blisteringly sexy. Whether buffed to chiseled perfection ("American Psycho", "Batman Begins") or slim and scrumptious ("Little Women", "Velvet Goldmine"), Bale, 34, lifts the label of "classic good looks" to a new standard of sexiness.

4. Jake Gyllenhaal. Let us now look at a Timeline of Hotness, shall we? Jake Gyllenhaal was cute before the gay cowboy movie; beautiful during the gay cowboy movie; and hotter than a fried egg cooked on the belly of a hooker just released from a Death Valley prison after the gay cowboy movie. The 27-year-old has done some pretty impressive work in his short career, with "Brokeback" of course being a standout. With his enchanting gaze of wonderment, strong masculine jawline, and pristine, clean-cut good looks, no other actor in recent memory has so totally captured the erotic fantasies of women and gay men everywhere. Gyllenhaal, much like yesterday's pick Scarlett Johansson, is a young actor on the precipice of superstardom. And we are all the luckier for it.

3. Liev Schreiber. Gather round y'all, it's time for another true story. I once worked in a ginormous office building, and I'd occasionally run into this guy on my cigarette breaks who looked very similar to Liev Schreiber. Being the nutcase that I am, I transferred my crush on Liev to this lookalike, and soon I had coordinated all of my smoke breaks with his. We chatted from time to time (he only spoke to me because he wanted to pork one of my female colleagues), and though he was a nice guy, he was -- alas -- not my Liev. Schreiber, 40, is a somewhat unconventional-looking sex symbol -- yet it is precisely in that unorthodoxy that his libidinous charms reside. Round-cheeked, squinty-eyed, and gravelly-voiced, he comes off as a rough-around-the-edges type but is in actuality quite graceful, stylish, and a helluva good actor. He also has a mysterious quality that makes him look like he's hiding something -- and oh what fun I'd have trying to solve that mystery....

2. Daniel Day-Lewis. A few short years ago, there was no way you could tell me that, should I ever write a Top Ten Sexiest Actors list, anyone but Daniel Day-Lewis would be #1. Though things have changed, and Daniel has slipped to the none-too-shabby #2 spot, it is not at all a reflection on the intense talent, sexiness, and magnetism of this iconic actor. Day-Lewis, 51, is rightfully regarded as one of the finest actors of our time, delivering powerhouse performances every time he sets foot before a camera. His unrivaled talent, though, often overshadows his equally powerful beauty: classic bone structure; dark, almost menacingly sexy eyes; and a regal, sensuous demeanor that is a throwback to some of the great leading men of Hollywood's golden age. Oh, and he looks great in a loincloth.

1. Adrien Brody. Oh, PLEASE. Like you didn't see this one coming for miles. There's not much more I can say about my Adrien that I haven't already salivated over in previous posts. Except this. I would let Adrien Brody, 35, do things to me with just his nose -- things that I wouldn't let anyone else do with...with, well, other body parts. Enough said. Actually,

I think that may have been TOO much said. (BONUS: If you want to witness the event that nearly caused me to have a testicular explosion, check out Adrien accepting his Oscar from my #2 sexiest actress, Halle Berry. This is hardcore porn for me.)

And so wraps up my lists for The Top Ten Sexiest Actors and Actresses. In closing, I'd just like to say that these were the two most draining posts I've ever written. Lesson learned: writing about sex is almost as fun, hot, and exhausting as actually doing it.

I need a shower.

The Hotness, Part 1: The Ten Sexiest Actresses

2008-07-10T09:23:00.014-04:00

I have just realized, with horror, that I haven't done a "list" post for several days now. For shame! We all know how I luvs me some lists.

I have also realized the Debbie Downer tone of my last few postings, so I've decided it was high time to roll out the barrel of monkeys and write a light, fun list. I debated back and forth for a while on what the topic should be. After much internal struggle, strife, and bloodshed (OK, not really), I've chosen to present to you my Top Ten Sexiest Actors and Actresses. I'm splitting this into two separate posts; I'll cover the women -- erm, excuse me -- the womyn today, and the fellas tomorrow.

Now. A couple of things to remember. Firstly, this is not a list of my picks for The Sexiest Actors and Actresses of All Time. It's my list for those actors and actresses working (and alive) today. As much as I love classic film and its stars, I needed to narrow down the porking field.

Also, it's important to know that the sexiest thing in the world to me is talent. Sexier than the most sparkling eyes, tightest abs, largest boobs, or biggest schlong. I think this fact is evident in all my selections.

Finally, these are my choices. Just my opinions, my tastes, my attractions. You'll probably disagree, or at the least be a little shocked, at some of my picks. If you've stumbled upon this post looking for the names of Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts, you may as well stumble on. You won't find those names here. Admittedly, a few of my picks are conventional, but most are not. Though my tastes tend to defy any particular type or style, one thing is consistent: I don't do cream cheese. And when it comes to contemporary Hollywood -- to quote the immortal words of Clairee Belcher -- "they all look like they were carved out of cream cheese."

I'm not saying you may not find slight traces of creaminess here, but for the most part, my list is entirely vegan and damn HAWT. Bon Appetit.

The Ladies

10. Marion Cotillard. In the greatest performance by an actress I've seen in 10+ years, Marion Cotillard utterly transformed herself to play the titular "Piaf". The transformation was so successful (Cotillard shaved back her hairline and shaved off her eyebrows), that the beauty of the 32-year-old Parisian was completely unrecognizable. But damn: look what was hiding under that immense talent. A delicate heart-shaped face. Glowing china-doll skin. Eyes emitting a light that is at once radiant and mysterious. It's enough to make a hot-blooded gay break into a cold sweat. Marion, if you need help polishing your Oscar, call me.

9. Lynn Whitfield. I've had a massive girl-crush on Lynn Whitfield ever since "The Josephine Baker Story" in 1991. Even in more recent fare, like [one of my personal favorites] "Eve's Bayou" and the TV show "Without a Trace", the 55-year-old actress proves she's still got it. With her intense, imploring gaze, stunning smile, and regal elegance, not to mention her drool-inducing recreation of Josephine Baker's famed banana dance, Lynn Whitfield is a childhood crush that still makes my granny-panties moist.

8. Catherine Deneuve. Class, thy name is Catherine Deneuve. Yes, she's old enough to be my mother (in fact, she's the same age as my mom -- a number I won't disclose here because my mom will kill me), yet Deneuve's breathtaking combination of style, class and subtle sexual mystery are not only worthy of a spot on this list, but a high-ranking slot on The Sexiest People Who Ever Walked the Earth list as well. Deneuve possesses an ageless grace, stunning good looks, and an immense talent that is all but obsolete in the contemporary Hollywood landscape.

7. Meryl Streep. Because this is a Top Ten List, and Meryl deserves a place on EVERY Top Ten List. It's in the Bible.

6. Scarlett Johansson. Oh, Miss Scarlett! In a time when most young starlets Johansson's age (23) are running wild, drinking and drugging and creating scandal with every step, Scarlett Johansson is a true anomaly. She's rarely seen in public, does not discuss her personal life, and chooses impressive and diverse roles to best showcase her ever-growing talent. It also doesn't hurt that she's a ravishing beauty. Curvy and voluptuous, with full pouty lips, lush features, and eyes that emanate a wisdom far beyond her years, this young actress is poised on the threshold of greatness.

5. Tilda Swinton. Tilda Swinton is not your typical Hollywood sex symbol. Hers is a sexiness that radiates from a striking, ethereal, and unconventional woman, who has created a life and career around bucking tradition and challenging accepted ideas of beauty. Her shock of red hair, ghostly skin, penetrating emerald eyes, and unique style lend her the haunting exquisitenesses of a noblewoman plucked from the annals of history. Swinton, 47, also has a remarkably androgynous quality, which she wields with great sophistication and soul-baring sensuality.

4. Jessica Lange. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know she's had a little work done, but Jessica Lange remains -- and shall always remain -- one of the great beauties of all time. Now 59, both Lange's sex appeal and talent seem to increase with age. Just when I think she can't top her last performance, she comes along and one-ups herself. Just when I think she can't possibly get any hotter, she ages another year and shows all those young plastic bitches how it's done. The lush, shapely figure, dramatic, angular face, and that voice -- holy crap, that voice! So throaty and languid and positively dripping with sex. Excuse me, I think something just happened in my pants.

3. Kate Winslet. Screw Hepburn, this is the real winner of the title, "The Great Kate". Not only did Winslet, 32, have FIVE Oscar nominations by the age of 30 (and another at 31), but she has managed to avoid the Hollywood drudgery and remain true to her art. After "Titanic", she could've easily become the next Julia or Angelina; instead she did a terrific little art film no one saw called "Hideous Kinky". Today she floats effortlessly between independent and mainstream films, but always opts for the most fascinating of characters. Yet talent is just one part of Winslet's knock-out beauty. She's also extremely sexy and earthy -- and she's actually shaped like a real woman, something she is both proud of and unapologetic about. And the beauty in that speaks for itself.

2. Halle Berry. Just look at her. Forget "Catwoman" and "The Flintstones", and just stare at that warm brown gaze, flawless mocha skin, and perfectly sensual poise. Remember "Introducing Dorothy Dandridge" and "Monster's Ball", and behold the captivating sexiness and talent of the first woman of color to win a Best Actress Oscar. Watch her acceptance speech again (one of the most authentic and genuine ever), and you'll see that the physical beauty of Halle Berry (41 -- and a new mother!) ain't nothin' compared to what's inside. That, my friends, is true beauty.

1. Cate Blanchett. The following is a true story. Though I'd loved Cate Blanchett for a while (she blew me away in "Elizabeth", "The Shipping News", "The Gift" -- pretty much anything she's ever done), it wasn't until "Lord of the Rings" that I fell in love with her. While watching her in the rather small role of Galadriel, I locked eyes with Blanchett, my heart fell to my knees, and I said aloud, "THAT is the face of heaven." Like Swinton, Blanchett's beauty is almost ethereal, I'd even go so far as to say celestial, in its otherworldliness. And it's all edged with an undeniable sex appeal, a raw erotic power that could turn me faster than a charred pancake. Blanchett, a 39-year-old married mother of two sons, has also proved herself as a style icon: it's impossible for her to set foot on a red carpet without burning the damn thing up. She too, of course, is worthy of "The Great Kate (Cate)" title (Hmmm....CATFIGHT!), consistently turning in the most impressive performances of any actor in recent memory (rent "The Aviator" and see her Oscar-winning turn as Hepburn; it's my favorite Blanchett performance). I think it can safely be said that she is well on her way to becoming the next Meryl Streep -- and, well, we all know how I feel about her.

WHEW! I'm spent. Now I'm going to have a cigarette, roll over, and go to sleep. Was it good for you too?

And tomorrow...THE MEN!

They're Coming to Take Me Away!: A Review of "Veronika Decides to Die" by Paulo Coelho

2008-07-09T08:40:00.019-04:00

As my friend Patricia says, "Don't get your knickers in a bunch."

This is not a review or recommendation like the great majority of others I've written on this blog: for once, I am not critiquing a "depressing" book (the type -- don't think I haven't noticed -- that has become my choice reading material for the last several months). In fact, the only thing truly depressing about Paulo Coelho's 1998 novel "Veronika Decides to Die" is the title itself. The story it encompasses is actually one of the most -- if not the most -- positive, inspiring, insightful, and life-affirming books I've ever read. So, please, before you're put off by the novel's rather bleak title, hear me out. This book just might change your life.

On a skeletal level, the tale revolves around Veronika, a 24-year-old Slovenian woman, who decides to commit suicide. She is not particularly sad, or clinically depressed, or crazy; on the other hand, she is also not particularly happy, or content, or fulfilled. She's just...well, she's just pretty meh about her life. Everything that comprises her existence has left her feeling empty and inauthentic: her job as a librarian, her popularity with men, her circle of friends and family. She views it all with such an intense disinterest that she can only regard her present life as the result of a series of disastrous choices she's made in the past, and her future life as a plodding, painful, monotonous marching-on of the routines she has established: a long, slow, and not-very-graceful waltz to the grave. When debating the option between spending the rest of her considerable number of days waking in the morning, sitting in a windowless cube for eight hours, going home, having dinner, watching TV, and going to bed -- before doing it all over again and again, ad infinitum -- and the prospect of ending her own life, Veronika chooses death. Making this decision is her way of taking back control, of being heard, and it thus gives her a terrific sense of empowerment -- much to her own surprise: it's been ages since she's felt anything at all.

And so our eponymous heroine one evening takes handfuls of sleeping pills and prepares herself for death, with an excitement bordering on giddiness. This is the end of the entire awful routine, and she herself has chosen it. She closes her eyes and waits for the blessed finish.

When she opens her eyes, she briefly thinks she's entered an afterlife of some sort (an afterlife, incidentally, that she never really believed in). Until she sees the horrible fluorescent light bulb over her head: there is NO way heaven would have fluorescent lighting. That's when she learns the acrid truth of her situation. She has not died, she has just emerged from a coma, and she is "safe" within the walls of Villete, Slovenia's privately-funded, less-than-ethical mental hospital. The doctor then tells her that although she failed at ending her own life in one fell swoop, she has irreparably damaged her heart from the overdose, and there's no chance of recovery. She will be dead within days.

And this is where Veronika's journey begins. So, too, does ours.

Now. I say this is the plot on a "skeletal level" because "Veronika Decides to Die" is so much more than a linear, entertaining story. It is a great, majestic book of ideas: ideas that, if we allow them into our hearts, can not only be a terrific reading experience, but a transformative life experience as well.

As Veronika goes about life in the institution, she inadvertently affects the lives of several of the patients and staff members. In turn, we learn their stories as well, and how this peculiar young woman on the threshold of death has inexplicably inspired them to reevaluate their own lives. It's not the typical warm, fuzzy, feel-good Hollywoodized standard of Dying Lady Touches the Lives of All She Encounters. Not by any means. What Veronika inspires is beyond sentimental, even beyond the reminder that we all have the power to change our own lives. What she inspires is revolution.

Hers is a path of ever-increasing awareness, both of her self and the world. This, of course, leads to some big questions. How is one supposed to be an individual in a world full of people who are all doing the exact same thing day in and day out? Where, and how, does the life and mind of a nontraditional thinker, like an artist, musician, writer, or any other creative, fit into this societal mold of required conformity? Why is it that on one hand we receive continuous messages that we are unique and must embrace our individuality, and on the other that the only path to contentment and fulfillment is a 9-5 job, marriage, and a house in the suburbs? What does it mean to be "crazy"? Is it primarily a state of total biochemical mind-fuck, or is it more the condition of a bunch of people who just want to think for and be true to themselves, regardless of society's expectations and demands? And on the flip side of the coin, what exactly does it mean to be "sane"? Does it insinuate some better, more realistic and healthier hold on life, or is it just a term created for the accepted actions of the status quo? Who in this life is truly crazy? The ones locked in mental institutions the world over? Or the cube-dwellers and clockwatchers, the tract-housing owners and parents of 2.5 children, the SUV drivers and flocks of sheep masquerading as people? This is just a sampling of the inquiries put forth on Veronika's journey, and the riddles, complexities, and philosophies inherent in questions like these are what make her story so unique and powerful.

It's relatively safe to say, I think, without the men in white coming to take me away, that I identified on many levels with Veronika. Yet I also identified with the myriad other characters, or, at the very least, saw in them people from my own life. Though this book is sometimes unsettling in its provocativeness, it is this aspect of identification that makes it so comforting. Just maybe we aren't alone in all of this great nutty chaos called life. Despite the individuality that society simultaneously scorns and supports, we still share a lot of common threads. Perhaps, I thought with hope while reading "Veronika Decides to Die", perhaps I'm not the only one asking questions.

And if we all start to ask questions, the revolution is not far off.

This is the first book I've read by Paulo Coelho. I've come to learn that Coelho's books fall into the categories of either "really loved" or "really hated". Critics seem to really hate them, citing them as no more than touchy-feely, New Age prose from a not-very-skilled novelist. Audiences, however, love them. His trademark work, "The Alchemist", has sold more than 65 million copies and has been translated into 56 languages; in all, his entire canon of work has sold more than 100 million copies in 150 countries in 66 languages. I have already ordered my copy of "The Alchemist" and look forward to reading it; I can't imagine, however, that it could come close to doing for me what "Veronika" has done.

It's interesting, and somewhat eerie, that certain books come into our lives precisely when we need to read them. I've had "Veronika Decides to Die" sitting on my shelf for about eight years. I bought it, thought it looked good, and promptly ignored it. But for some reason, last week I walked straight to the bookshelf and pulled out this book, as if driven by some unseen force. When I started to read it (and, unlike most critics, I found it extremely well-written: crisp, poetic, and deceptively simple), I could not stop. I wanted to eat it whole, devour it in one sitting, but something told me to savor it: that a story like this doesn't come along very often. So I heeded this voice (Was it instinct? Was it my cat? Was it God? Was it Meryl Streep?), and savored the novel in small portions, really taking the time to process and digest the ideas it put forth and finding how they fit into my own life.

This is a time when I really needed this book, and I can't explain how it found me after all these years. I've been through some intense personal obstacles lately (which I'm trying to find a way to blog about in a healthy, constructive way), and I needed to hear Veronika's tale. I needed to be reminded that it's OK -- I mean, really OK -- to say Fuck you and follow your heart. I needed to know that I don't have to sit in a cubicle and answer phones all day, or start a family, or happily agree with everyone I meet and suppress my own opinions and desires, to be a valid and vital member of society. I needed to be told that even though I have made some unconventional choices in my life -- some good, some bad -- and often opted for the alternate route, I am no less, and no more, a human being than anyone else.

And I needed to know that despite it all, I am not alone.

Origins of War: The Enduring Genius of "The Lion in Winter"

2008-07-06T10:31:00.023-04:00

"Of course he has a knife, he always has a knife, we all have knives! It's 1183 and we are barbarians! How clear we make it. Oh, my piglets, we are the origins of war: not history's forces, nor the times, nor justice, nor the lack of it, nor causes, nor religions, nor ideas, nor kinds of government, nor any other thing. We are the killers. We breed wars. We carry it like syphilis inside. Dead bodies rot in field and stream because the living ones are rotten. For the love of God, can't we love one another just a little? That's how peace begins. We have so much to love each other for. We have such possibilities, my children. We could change the world." -Eleanor of Aquitaine, The Lion in Winter

These words strike the icy Queen Eleanor in a rare moment of wistful tenderness and compassionate philosophy. In a play (and eventually, two film versions) bursting with fantastic, memorable dialog, this is one of my favorite passages. It stands out not only because of its uncharacteristic sensitivity, but also because its message is just as pertinent today as it was in 1183. Perhaps more so.

Be warned, though: this rather open-hearted monologue is not commonplace in "The Lion in Winter", playwright James Goldman's 1966 raging inferno of family discord and political intrigue. The majority of TLIW is devoted to examining -- minutely, explosively, and often uncomfortably -- the treacherous deceit, vitriolic emotion, and long-buried secrets between members of what could very well be the world's first dysfunctional family. In fact, this medieval clan -- King Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and their three surviving sons -- just might win the title of Most Dysfunctional Family of All Time.

Maybe we should give them trophies or something? Nah, they'd just use them to beat the hell out of each other.

And there's no shortage of beatings in "The Lion in Winter". If you doubt Eleanor's assertion that war begins at home, this royally fucked-up family spends the entirety of a delicious, tense, and entertaining play proving just how right she is.

TLIW is set during a Christmas Court at Henry's castle in Chinon, France. For this blessed and brutal occasion, Henry has decided to bring together his estranged family. There is his wife, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, who, ten years ago, he had arrested and exiled to a remote English castle for organizing one-too-many civil wars against him. There is their eldest son (and Eleanor's favorite), Richard, a dashing though ruthless soldier and war hero. There is Geoffrey, the long-ignored middle son who has grown into a cold, calculating menace of palpable energy and crafty intelligence. The youngest son (and Henry's favorite), Prince John, is a chubby, pimply teenage buffoon who holds fast to his simplistic ideals and boyish view of the world, even living as he does in the crossfire of an eternally-warring family.

Add to this mix King Philip of France, an invited honored guest to the family Christmas. Philip is a young king, but his approach is deceptively simple and open. He, like his royal hosts, is of course hiding a few secrets and strategies of his own to further his political position. And then there is Alais, Philip's sister, who has long been an adopted member of the English royal family: Eleanor raised her as a daughter from a young age, though the two have grown apart. It may have something to do with the fact that Alais, now an attractive young woman, has openly become Henry's mistress.

This assemblage of characters, come together for the not-so-merry Christmas Court, arrive at Chinon with their swords drawn and their agendas on the table. You see, Henry is getting older and needs to name an heir to the throne. He of course wants young John, his favored child. Eleanor, his banished Queen, wants her pride and joy Richard to get the title. Geoffrey knows he has a popsicle's chance in hell of being king, being as out-of-favor as he is with both his parents, so he has been devising numerous ways to alienate his brothers from Mom and Dad's affection -- thus making him the only choice for king. Philip is at the bloody buffet so that he can see to it that the terms of his sister Alais's dowry are met. Long ago, Alais was "given" to the English court to be groomed as a future queen for John, in exchange for France's rich and fertile lands of the Vexin. His sister is now grown, still unmarried, porking the King, AND England has the Vexin. Alais, for her own part, has the least-political agenda of them all: she desperately loves old Henry and simply wants to be with him.

With all of these schemes to acquire the throne, the characters of "The Lion in Winter" go at one another with a ferocity that is sometimes witty -- and sometimes quite terrifying -- in its dark descent. It's difficult to take your eyes off of, but it is imperative to pay very close attention. The power and plans and schemes change hands, change course, and change intent so often that one must always be on top of the wickedly entertaining game. If not, it's easy to get lost and impossible to find your way back again. The story is complicated but not inscrutable. The key to understanding all of it is to always remember that in those days, power meant one thing and one thing only: Land. Spouses, your own children, your friends, enemies, riches, and popularity were not indicative of power. It was a time when a bunch of egomaniacal men with bad teeth lived in a perpetual contest of "Whose is Bigger?". But instead of measuring penis-size, they were measuring land.

It's impossible to forget, though, that the principal characters of TLIW are a family. This fact churns and roils like lava below each and every one of their exchanges with one another. They love and despise each other in equal measure. Someone could be embraced with a loving familial bear-hug just as easily as they could end up face-down in the eggnog. As Henry says delightfully in one scene, "What shall we hang...the holly, or each other?"

Historically, this yuletide gathering never happened. Though the agendas of the characters are no doubt accurate, there is no historical evidence they ever assembled at any time to duke it out with one another. This does not detract from the drama and entertainment of their tale for a second. In fact, it makes it even more fascinating, adding an interesting "What if?" to the lives of these power players of history.

Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine were mesmerizing historical figures in their own right. Henry was, for all intents and purposes, a popular and successful king, large and imposing and fiery. But like all kings of the era, Henry was something of a scoundrel in his personal affairs (pun very much intended). In addition to fathering an unknown number of illegitimate children, he openly cheated on Eleanor with a variety of mistresses, including his longtime love Rosamund (who remained a source of great hatred for Eleanor, even years after Rosamund's death, as is evidenced in TLIW), and of course, Alais Capet.

Eleanor of Aquitaine, equally complex, was undoubtedly a woman ahead of her time. She wielded great power (read: Land) and authority wherever she went. In a time when women were relegated to the home (or castle) to be absorbed in their needlework or the raising of dozens of children, Eleanor went off and fought wars. She memorably fought in the Crusades ("I dressed my maids as Amazons and rode bare-breasted halfway to Damascus. Louis had a seizure and I damn near died of windburn...but the troops were dazzled!" she remembers in TLIW). She was married at the time to Louis VII, making her Queen of France, but she had this first marriage annulled once she met Henry ("We shattered the commandments on the spot!" she boasts, remembering her first meeting with Henry). Once she had married him and become Queen of England, she firmly established Henry II's power, for it was Eleanor who brought with her all the land, titles, and wealth. Without her, he never could've attained the power he eventually exerted. She loved him passionately and happily shared her nobility with him. But the marriage was strained; Eleanor was more than likely just as adulterous as her husband, and, as we see all too clearly in TLIW, neither were really cut out to be doting parents. Once their sons had grown, she started to influence and conspire with her children to rebel against their father. The ensuing battles did nothing to help the couple's relationship (where the hell was Dr. Phil???), and Henry banished her to a life of isolation in various castles around England...though, interestingly, he never divorced her.

This makes for a great back-story, but it's not at all necessary to know about any of it when you watch "The Lion in Winter". It all comes up -- trust me, it ALL comes up -- throughout the story, giving us a firm grasp of the turbulent foundations that created these characters. They wear their histories like great unwieldy chains, clanging them violently against one another -- and themselves -- in their despairing efforts to be free.

"The Lion in Winter" opened on Broadway in 1966, with Robert Preston as Henry and the terrific British actress Rosemary Harris as Eleanor. Harris won a Tony for her performance.

Two years later, the legendary film version was released. With its taut direction (by Anthony Harvey), soaring performances (Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor, Peter O'Toole as Henry, Anthony Hopkins, in his film debut, as Richard, and a young, blindingly handsome Timothy Dalton as Philip), majestic, ominous score (by John Barry), and Margaret Furse's impressive costumes, the movie has rightfully claimed its place as one of the greatest of all time. From the opening shot of two swords locking forcefully in the air, we know we are in for the ride of our lives.

Hepburn won her third Oscar for her work here. Most of you know I've never been a huge Hepburn fan, but her performance in TLIW is the one exception. This is simply one of the best female performances ever committed to film. Her complete immersion into the body and soul of this character is exhilarating. She plays her Eleanor with a studied restraint, though all the wicked planning, cunning deceptions, and complicated emotional terrain are constantly, visibly, boiling beneath the surface. They spill out in careful measure, with impeccable timing, from the treacherous gleam in her cat-like eyes, the dirging lilt of her gravelly voice, and the rigid monster of her small weary body. It is truly something to behold.

Matching her step-for-step is Peter O'Toole. O'Toole's Henry is a big, booming, burly bear of a man, imposing and intimidating. But he too is noticeably strained, to the point of near-madness, by his own history and his warring family. While O'Toole successfully manages to send Henry's rage exploding through the castle roof, he is equally adept at going in the opposite direction: letting us glimpse the heartbreak of a king, who, for perhaps the first time, is understanding his failure as a man. It is a riveting portrayal and proves why O'Toole ranks among our finest actors.

The trick to filming (or staging) "The Lion in Winter" is to realize that the entire thing is a matter of keeping the balls (get your mind out of the gutter) in the air. The story demands the pace to be desperate and frantic, and the balls must constantly be flying back and forth between the actors. The balls must never have the chance to touch the ground.

Unfortunately, in the 2003 film version, the balls do drop from time to time. This is no fault of the actors (who I'll get to in a minute), but rather a misjudgment in direction. This is the only problem I had with the remake. While the 1968 version used tight close-ups and scenes played out in cold, isolated rooms, thereby heightening the in-your-face psychology of this mighty messed-up clan, the 2003 version employs big, open shots and wide angles and intimate scenes filmed with all manner of servants, kingsmen, ladies-in-waiting, court jesters, and peasantry milling about. Director Andrei Konchalovsky misses the mark here by inadvertently lowering the frenetic pace. Luckily, the rest of the film is damn near flawless and more than makes up for it.

This is thanks in large part to the actors, who are, pardon my Olde English, fucking brilliant. In the tradition of its predecessor, the remake's cast is sparkling, daring, and perhaps even a bit unconventional. Judging these performances against those of the original cast, though, is unfair. First and foremost, actors act differently today than they did forty years ago. Also, no two actors are going to approach the same character in exactly the same way. The two films may share a story and nearly-identical script (Goldman wrote both film versions as well), but they are two different lions, so to speak.

Patrick Stewart is Henry. For all you sci-fi geeks, there's no Captain Picard to whack off to here, so don't say you haven't been warned. For my part, I love Patrick Stewart. Once, when I lived in LA, I was in an elevator with him, just the two of us, and I wanted to speak so badly but all that came out was the nervous giggling of a nun in a cucumber patch. He is beautiful, though, and did a damn fine job pushing that elevator button. If memory serves, he did say "Hello"; I replied with, "Teeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Anyway, I digress.

Patrick Stewart is Henry. He makes some really interesting choices in his portrayal, and they all work with remarkable success. His Henry is not quite the loud, terrifying tyrant of O'Toole's imagining (though Stewart does have some powerfully enraged scenes in that beautiful lush baritone of his); he is more focused on Henry's sensitivity. His performance is the character study of a man on the verge of a complete emotional collapse, worn away by a life spent in the thick of both internal and external war. Stewart also brings out a raw sexuality in his Henry; his interactions with Alais, and even at times with Eleanor, are laced with sensual intimations and a physicality bordering on seduction. It's easy to see why women fell for this man, and fell hard. It's a new and fearless take on an old character, and the result is refreshingly poignant.

And then there is Glenn Close as Eleanor. Now, Glenn Close is not only one of my favorite actresses, but she's also my all-time favorite person to watch have an emotional breakdown. She is in touch with something that can almost be called primal. It's mesmerizing to watch. But mental breakdowns aside (and Close has a few truly heartbreaking ones in TLIW), this performance is perhaps the finest of her career -- a career rich with flawless performances. Unlike Hepburn, Close's Eleanor is a much more accessible character. Though she attempts to hide it beneath layers of ice and malice, for fear of being perceived as "weak", this Eleanor wears her emotions on her billowing sleeve. Close is clued in even to the tiniest smidgen of feeling coursing through her labyrinthine character. Even when she's proclaiming the opposite of what she feels, we can read every painful truth on Eleanor's radiantly mask-like face. She's also a much more maternal character than Hepburn's. While it was difficult to find any sense of motherly affection in The Great Kate's Eleanor, Close does not make us doubt for a second that Eleanor did indeed love her children. But as such a constantly scheming and underhanded character, one can't look to Eleanor's words as the truth in her heart. We must look into Close's eyes, and the truth -- sometimes warm, sometimes cutting -- is there. She plays Eleanor with a raging fire: a winning mix of devotion and deception, rage and sadness, delicious wit and devastating melancholy.

The 2003 cast is rounded out by a team of strong performances from some up-and-coming young actors. The intense, talented [and one of my pretend boyfriends] Jonathan Rhys-Meyers is a moving, unconventional Philip. Andrew Howard as Richard and Rafe Spall as John are both solid and effecting. As Geoffrey, John Light is pitch-perfect: he has the shifty eyes, cautious bearing, and emotional coldness of the ignored young duke. (Interestingly, both actors to play Geoffrey on film, John Castle in the original, and John Light in the remake, are almost painfully sexy actors, as if to say, "Well, Geoff was surely ignored and unloved, but he was DAMN HOT!" Both actors, incidentally, do a stellar job.) Julia Vysotskaya, a ravishing Russian actress, shines as Alais, providing a heightened and often over-the-top story with its very fragile human center. Like Close, Vysotskaya's face is a breathtaking canvas of human emotion, and her Alais's utter heartbreak and confusion is so tangible that we can almost reach out and touch it.

One more thing I love about "The Lion in Winter". Amidst all the secrets that come to light throughout the course of the story, it is revealed that Richard and Philip were, at one time, lovers. The 1968 film is surprisingly daring and commendable in its handling of this scene, but the 2003 version, of course, is able to do a bit more with it. Howard and Rhys-Meyers slip into this scene with bravery and abandon, and the result is not only tremendously moving but quite sexy as well. Though there's no sex (come on, it's 1183 and there are people behind the tapestries!), the sexual tension and erotic energy between these two is raw and honest. It's better than any porno I've ever seen.

The messages and themes of "The Lion in Winter" are many and intricate. What it all comes down to, I think, is that you can pick your friends, you can pick your lovers, but you can't pick the tyrannical king, exiled queen, and brood of rivals you're born into. We make the best of it. We've always made the best of it. Even in 1183, they were making the best of it. But just remember: war starts at home. So, too, does peace.

As Eleanor says in one scene, "What family doesn't have its ups and downs?".

A scene from the 1968 version of "The Lion in Winter".

The trailer for the 2003 version of "The Lion in Winter".

A Touch of Frost (Or, My New Pretend Girlfriend)

2008-07-03T09:54:00.012-04:00

I don't do reality television. I can't. I'm not allowed. I realized long ago that it is impossible for me to watch a reality TV show and NOT get emotionally involved to the point of disturbance.

Case in point: a couple of years back, John and I caught a random episode of "Wife Swap". "Wife Swap" is a series that takes two vastly different wives/mothers from two vastly different families and has them trade places for two weeks, cameras documenting every move and thought. Though the show can get quite heated and dramatic, the particular episode we caught was one of the tamer experiments. But I was nonetheless so emotionally entangled in the unfolding dynamics that I was haunted by these people for some time afterward.

"How do you think Nancy is doing?" I asked John, a few weeks after we had seen the show.

"Who's Nancy?" John replied.

"You know, from 'Wife Swap'. I think about her all the time. I wonder how she's readjusted to life at home."

"What are you talking about?"

And John was right. What the hell was I talking about? I didn't know Nancy, and there was no good reason she should impede my thoughts from one single hour of questionably-entertaining entertainment.

So ever since that epiphany, I've steered cleared of most reality shows, for my own sanity and serenity if for nothing else. Some of the "lighter" reality programs, I admit, I've been drawn into. I watched a talent competition, appropriately titled "America's Got Talent", all last summer, but when the insanely gifted and luminous Butterscotch failed to win, I swore I'd never watch the show again. (And yes, I voted for her -- until I maxed out on how many votes I could cast.)

And I'm embarrassed to confess that I even got sucked into some far seedier reality TV fare while on a business trip to Florida last year. Sitting in a hotel room that made even "The Golden Girl"'s living room look tasteful, I watched marathons of the dating shows "Flavor of Love", "A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila", and, God help me, "I Love New York". These shows are the lowest forms human of "entertainment", ranking somewhere below amateur porn yet above "The 700 Club". But still, I was emotionally enthralled by these crapfests. I mean, Flavor Flav is mentally retarded, isn't he? He has to be. And Tila Tequila is a great big moron for eliminating that adorably funny and sweet hot piece of Italian sausage known as Domenico. And New York, a.k.a. Tiffany Pollard! Christ on a cross! She has got to be the most disgusting human being to ever walk the planet. Though it was AWESOME when she was a contestant on "Flavor of Love" and Pumkin spit on her! I LOVE PUMKIN. And New York was born a man, wasn't she?

UGH. You see! It's happening again! Just writing about it gets me all reabsorbed and worked up. No, no, no. Ick, ick, ick. Reality TV and me are a love affair that was never meant to be.

Until Jo Frost.

Now I had caught Frost's show "Supernanny" a few times over the last couple of years. I was always into it, but I consciously kept myself at a remove from the inner emotional landscape of what I was watching for fear of getting too involved. If you don't know "Supernanny", it's a relatively simple premise. Parents with out-of-control children, who are unruly at best and downright terrorizing at worst, contact Frost to come into their homes and lives to instill some wisdom, sense, and order. She also shows up and departs in a fantastic car.

Last night I stumbled upon "Supernanny" again, and I realized how brilliant this show really is. It's far and away light years above any of the other tasteless piles of reality television poop that now stink up the airwaves. And this is all because of Jo Frost. While what she is doing onscreen may be entertainment to us, she is also providing a valuable, and I would even go so far as to say highly effective, service to families in a true state of crisis.

An airy and sugary Mary Poppins knock-off she is not. Frost is direct, firm, bluntly honest, and a stern, unwavering taskmaster. But what makes both her show and her work so wildly successful is not that she's some mean nanny-monster hard-ass. Everything she does, every word, every step, every breath, comes from a place of great love and concern and a sincere desire to help people. You can feel that watching her. She's not going to sugarcoat anything; she has no problem bringing both parents and children to tears in her efforts to make them wake up to the reality in which they are living. She holds parents responsible, as they should be, but instead of raking them over the coals about their failures, she jumps in and teaches them HOW to be parents. It's an amazing thing to watch. It's also amazing to watch her with children. Her personality, her choice of words, and her actions toward kids hardly waver or differ from her interaction with adults. Frost doesn't talk down to these children. She talks to them like they're human beings; she treats them as if they understand every word and every rule she's laying out. And you know what? They do.

There is struggle at first, with both the parents and the kids. There always is. This not only makes for good television, but it's also reality. Frost's unshakable commitment and approach does not yield. If you've taken the step of calling her into your lives, you'd better be ready to shut up, open up, and shape up. She takes no prisoners, and she'll call you out on all your inauthenticity and excuses, no matter how big or small you are. But she also recognizes success and improvement, from the tiniest, seemingly-non significant detail to the biggest breakthrough, and praises these things with genuine thrill and pride. Hers is a love that is palpable, poignant, and always passionate.

By the end of every show, there is always some degree (usually an extreme degree) of success. What's more is that both the parents and children are all completely respectful and appreciative of what Frost has given them. She may have had to open their eyes with some hard tactics, but the results speak for themselves. I guess you could say her families fall in love with her as I have.

In the episode I saw last night, which I'm sure was a rerun given the time of year, was about an affluent Chinese-American couple, both dentists, living in San Francisco with five absolutely adorable though wildly out-of-control children all under the age of ten. The breakthoughs Frost made with this family, notably with the eldest son, were breathtaking. It's not just that she sweeps in and shows parents how to be parents and kids how to be respectful, functioning members of society. It's that she teaches everyone how to be a family. In these dark days, this is a beautiful, powerful, and not easy thing to accomplish. My admiration for Ms. Frost knows no bounds. She is someone who walks the walk and talks the talk. We should all be so lucky.

Jo Frost, who turned 38 just a few days ago, was born and raised in London and has had extensive experience working as a nanny in both the UK and stateside. She has written three books on childcare, and, in addition to the US version of "Supernanny", has also starred in the UK version. By all accounts, she is as endearing and sincere as she appears on her show, and about as far away from our current ideas of "celebrity" as one can get. According to one source I came upon, when she is not filming the show, Frost lives her with widowed father in London. She pretty much keeps out of the limelight, graciously allowing the power of her life's work to speak for itself. She is a class-act, through and through.

And what's also so important and unique about Jo Frost is that she is perhaps the first and only reality television show personality who actually deserves her own show. In a reality TV universe filled with mentally-challenged ex-rock stars, big mean trannies, and fake bisexual chicks, Frost is a breath of fresh air. Curvy and beautiful, witty and honest, consummately professional and a valuable expert in her field, there is no one like Jo Frost.

I'd love to meet her someday, but I don't think it would really be wise. I mean, I'm sure I would just blather on like a fawning psychotic, and she would surely take me to task for that.

I'd probably end up in the Reflection Chair.

You're the Top: The Five Best Over-the-Top Performances

2008-06-27T21:58:00.014-04:00

Whenever I watch a movie and observe actors at work, I am always tuned into the little moments of a performance. In my opinion, 99.9% of the time the key to a decent performance lies in the subtlety and restraint an actor brings to a role. Walking the line between the genuinely powerful and the ridiculously melodramatic can be a tricky one; indeed, it's a line that even the most gifted of actors cross at least once.

Yet there are exceptions to the "nuance = great acting" theory. There are some roles that require an over-the-top portrayal in order to present the extreme realities and natures of the character and/or the story being told. Watching an actor totally devour the scenery and catapult through the roof, when it's done right, can be a damn entertaining experience.

Here are my picks for The Five Best Over-the-Top Performances. These choices are by no means bad performances (four out of the five were nominated for Oscars). They are human explosives detonating before our eyes to best serve their characters and the films in which those characters play. And they're also a hell of a lot of fun.

5. Peter Finch, "Network" (1976). Peter Finch was one of the greatest actors who ever lived (if you doubt me, rent "Sunday Bloody Sunday"). But it is his role as the slowly-crumbling newscaster Howard Beale in "Network" that will forever be his trademark performance. Finch, who won a posthumous Best Actor Oscar for his work here, has so many terrific scenes; his Howard is a whacked-out time-bomb lamenting corporate greed, American ignorance, and the soulless crap factory called television. It's an important performance that Finch fuels with a frightening bravado. He's mad as hell and isn't going to take it anymore -- but, thankfully, he takes us along for this wild ride to bedlam...and, in many ways, to truth.

4. Robert DeNiro, "Cape Fear" (1991). When it comes to nut-job psychopaths, no one can compete with Robert DeNiro's Max Cady. Just released from prison, Cady exacts a sadistic, menacing, and gory revenge on the lawyer (and the family of the lawyer) whom he felt was responsible for his imprisonment. It's such a riveting over-the-top performance, perfectly in keeping with Cady's psychotic gravitas, that it's next to impossible to take your eyes off him. It's not easy to be the standout in a luminous cast of acting heavyweights -- DeNiro shares the screen with Nick Nolte, Jessica Lange, and Juliette Lewis -- but his overboard (and I mean that quite literally) Max Cady is a crap-in-your-pants bogeyman that often had me saying, "Oh, there are other actors in this movie?".

3. Faye Dunaway, "Mommie Dearest" (1981). Let's face it: the only reason "Mommie Dearest" remains so memorable and such an important pillar of popular culture is because of Faye Dunaway's iconic performance as Joan Crawford. What's so unsettling and entertaining about this portrayal is that it's more than likely pretty close to how the real Joan behaved (at least if daughter Christina is to be believed). Even today, it's easy to laugh at Dunaway's extremes in this role, and it's hard to tell whether or not she approached the character with this campy intent. Legend has it that before the film was released, the buzz was that Dunaway had given a powerful and serious dramatic performance. The end result, regardless of it's original intent, was nothing serious or dramatic, but it sure as hell was powerful. Dunaway chews the scenery with such ferocity that it's amazing there were any sets still standing on the studio lot after filming wrapped. And where, I ask you, where we would we be without lines like: "NO. WIRE. HANGERS!"; "Tina! Bring me the ax!"; and, my personal favorite, "I am not one of your FANS!"? Hell, the drag queens alone owe a huge debt to Faye Dunaway's brilliantly insane performance. Note: the clip below is a "best-of" collection of Faye/Joan's crazier moments. Look for another of my favorite Christina lines: "Jesus Christ". Classic.

2. Diane Ladd, "Wild at Heart" (1990). Filmmaker David Lynch has given the world a variety of over-the-top performances by a variety of actors. You might even say that an over-the-top performance is a prerequisite for any actor in a David Lynch film. Among the best, Grace Zabriskie in "Inland Empire", Dennis Hopper in "Blue Velvet", and Catherine E. Coulson (in a fantastically hammy performance as the well-remembered Log Lady) in "Twin Peaks". But towering above all of them is Diane Ladd and her stellar grenade of a performance in "Wild at Heart". Ladd plays Marietta Fortune, an obsessed and unbalanced mother doing everything she can to get her beloved daughter (played by Ladd's real-life daughter Laura Dern) back from the likes of smarmy Nicholas Cage (and really, who can blame her?). This performance is absolutely delicious: Ladd's choices for her character are by turns strange, terrifying, brave, disturbing, perverse -- and consistently effective. She doesn't so much chew the scenery as she does swallow it whole and throw it all back up (see clip below). Oh, and she likes lipstick. A lot.

1. Gloria Swanson, "Sunset Blvd." (1950). Norma Desmond could easily rank as one of the greatest characters in the history of film. And that is only so because of Gloria Swanson's unforgettable performance. Desmond, once a superstar of silent film, has grown weird and reclusive in her Hollywood mansion, with just her dead chimp and an ex-husband-turned-personal-servant for companionship. But when struggling writer Joe Gillis (the awesome William Holden) enters her life, Desmond's entire existence is transformed into something that is simultaneously hopeful and tragic. It bears mentioning that Swanson herself was a bit of a waning star in those days, which just adds to the bravery and intensity of her performance. Her work here is about as far from realism as one can get: Swanson's Norma is all singsong voice, buggy eyes, and grand sweeping gestures. But this is precisely what makes the performance so flawless. Silent film actors had to do everything big and exaggerated in order to successfully pull off a role, and Norma Desmond, so lost and delusional, is still trapped in that soundless era of her youthful fame.

The Anchoring Absurdity of Art

2008-06-22T17:46:00.005-04:00

Recently, my friend Leanne wrote a terrific blog post illustrating the craziness and interpretations of art. In high school, she painted a picture of a mushroom and turned it in to her art teacher. The teacher was blown away by the image on the canvas: an adolescent's compelling, disturbing commentary on nuclear warfare. The painting was entered into a contest and won a prize. But all along, Leanne thought she had just painted a mushroom sitting on her kitchen table.

This reminded me of another story, about a friend of mine who, as a child, was being tested to see if he needed to be in the "special" class. Sitting at his desk, big chunky crayons in hand, he was told to draw a picture. Any picture. So he drew the bloody crucifixion of Jesus, complete with a crown of thorns, spears in the side, and nails driven into flesh. The teacher was aghast and immediately called his parents. "Are you an overly religious family?" she asked concernedly, imagining, I'm sure, all sorts of religious indoctrination and ritual abuse. His mother replied honestly, "No. Not at all." Later, when he was home from school, his mom asked him why in the world he would draw something like Christ's gory crucifixion. He answered, "I thought I was supposed to draw something IMPORTANT!". A week later the letter from the school came: he had been chosen as the newest member of the "special" class.

Alas, this is the story of all art. It's nothing new. It's been happening since the beginning of time. For instance, John Singer Sargent's 1884 painting "Portrait of Madame X" scandalized Paris because of it's suggestions of aggressive sexuality and unabashed I-want-to-fuck-you-like-an-animal eroticism. The refined, respected socialite who posed for the painting was nearly ruined by her portrait's shocking reception. She would forever after be viewed as a big ol' French ho.

Looking at the painting today, it's difficult to find even a hint of the pornography seen by Parisian society circa 1884. It's a breathtaking work of art, but c'mon: it makes Sesame Street look like a gay bondage film.

As Leanne brilliantly observed, "Art is absurd, so enjoy it." All art is subjective, thereby opening it to criticisms and interpretations of the wildest ideas, thereby assigning we silly humans to the role of judge, jury, and executioner. And we all know that as a rule, people are pretty absurd. So perhaps it would be more accurate to say, "The people who view art are absurd, so enjoy it." Sargent's "Madame X" wasn't controversial or anarchic or inspiring back-alley blow jobs when it was sitting on the easel to dry. We're the ones who slapped it with scandal.

This line of thinking can be applied to any art form. Take my frequent criticisms of movies and books. As much as I'd like to think that I am the ultimate authority in such things, and therefore deserve a crown and scepter, I begrudgingly acknowledge that my movie and book reviews are just my opinions. I'd venture to guess that your opinions would be quite different than my own. There are works of art you may like that I don't. For example, I know a lot of people who enjoyed that dirty toilet bowl of a movie called "Troy". I know people who snatch up Danielle Steel books faster than Winona Ryder at Barney's. I even know some people who don't particularly care for Meryl Streep. Though those in the latter category deserve to be beaten with a blunt object, I'm pretty much OK with each of us harboring differing opinions. Our own absurdities give art its power.

But it must be said that art, no matter how absurd we make it, is vital. Not to mention that for many of us, art is something more: a reason to get up in the morning, an escape, a catharsis, an anchor that keeps our feet planted in this world but our imaginations in the ether. People need art and everything that goes along with it. It is only through art, and all its attendant absurdities, that we are able to digest our own experiences and find meaning in them.

So is art absurd? Of course it is. We make it so, for the simple reason that we are absurd.

Is art meant to be enjoyed? Absolutely. Enjoyed, analyzed, criticized, and inspected as a mirror of our own realities, existing to show us what we cannot otherwise readily see.

The absurdities of art are the main thoroughfares through which we discover ourselves and the world. They reveal all the insanities of life that we are meant to unearth. It requires great devotion, and for so many of us, it commands each moment of our lives. To quote Jean Cocteau, "Art is not a pastime, but a priesthood."

Communion (Or, Confessions of a Theater Queen)

2008-06-19T09:22:00.006-04:00

"When you come into the theater, you have to be willing to say, 'We're all here to undergo a communion, to find out what the hell is going on in this world.' If you're not willing to say that, what you get is entertainment instead of art, and poor entertainment at that." -David Mamet

Damn Judi Dench!

This is all her fault.

Several days ago, I posted a YouTube clip of Dame Judi's phenomenal interpretation of "Send in the Clowns" from the musical "A Little Night Music". If you haven't watched this yet, do so now and I promise I won't hurt you. Watching this flawless performance will give you a better idea of the fever that has gripped me since posting the clip.

Most people know that I'm a bit of a theater queen. I own this title unabashedly, as live theater is a vital nutrient to my own happiness and sanity. I've always wanted to be an actor, for as long as I can remember. I went to acting school after high school, I "pounded the pavement" in L.A. for a few years thereafter, then I promptly abandoned those dreams for a more "sensible" life. Interpretation: I handed in my lifelong dreams of the stage in order to sell my oh-so-valuable "customer service skills" and how fast I type and how good I am at Excel. Old dreams do indeed die hard. And for me, they don't die at all.

They live somewhere just below the surface. Even now, writing is my passion, but I still regard myself as an actor who likes to write. I view my world through the lens of a performer, which, I think, is similar to that of a writer -- yet they are not the same animal. I am fortunate, I suppose, that I can digest the universe as both, but the actor in me often feels slightly more authentic than the writer. It's as if I could get up on a stage in the warm blinding arm of a spotlight and perform this blog entry for you in an infinitely more effective way than I can write it here. It's tricky. I love acting and I love writing. And the sad fact is, it's nearly impossible to make a living doing either.

After falling in love with Dench's "Clowns", I happened upon an old forgotten CD: the soundtrack to the musical version of "Sunset Blvd". I was lucky enough to see this show in its pre-Broadway days, with Glenn Close as Norma Desmond. It was one of those performances that defies words (once again, you can hear the actor in me trying to play the writer). Close was electrifying, in a way I've never seen before or since. How else can you explain the magnitude of a performer who gets a standing ovation before she even gets on stage? When you encounter a stage presence that majestic, it's an experience that sticks with you...and I, being so young at the time, was shaped by it. "Sunset Blvd" was a musical plagued with inner drama, lawsuits, and mixed reviews. But it will always be my favorite musical: for the memorable songs, the lush and sweeping orchestrations, the gothic, behemoth sets, the extraordinary performances...and for it's complete claim on my impressionable young heart.

So while I was sucked back into 1950 Hollywood and Norma Desmond's turbulent turban, it was not hard for me to remember the starry-eyed kid I was at the time I saw it. I was so full of youthful vigor, surprising balls, and theatrical dreams. At that time, I never thought it was a question of If. I thought it was a question of When.

Enter the Tony Awards. Sunday night, a gay man's dream: the best and brightest of Broadway getting a rare television spotlight. For the first time ever, I watched the entire show (I never used to sit through all the musical numbers). I was transfixed. I was that kid again, albeit older, with less hair, dark circles under the eyes, and massive credit card debt. I was startled that that kid even still existed. I thought he was bludgeoned to death years ago by one too many office jobs or serving gigs. At best, I thought he was probably forever trapped in a four-sided cubicle, with an inbox full of emails outlining how he has violated company policy by asking questions of the wrong people.

Imagine my surprise. He's still alive. And he was fed -- there's no other word for it -- by the magic of the theater.

Patti LuPone, arguably the greatest musical theater actress of our time, and one of my favorites, sang a song from "Gypsy", in the role she eventually won a Tony for later in the evening (her second, after winning for "Evita" 29 years ago). The song, "Everything's Coming Up Roses", and "Gypsy" itself, are of course classics of the genre. But I've always viewed them as a bit tired, over-produced, and consistently revived (the show was revived just a couple of years ago with Bernadette Peters) despite a decades-old expiration date. Well, I should've known better. LuPone does nothing half-assed, and it is impossible for her not to pour her heart into everything she does. She TORE UP "Everything's Coming Up Roses" and brought the house down. The audience thundered to it's feet: the only full-house standing ovation of the evening. She breathed new life, a complex emotional terrain, and a fevered desperation to her impeccable performance. My heart swelled as I watched: this is the power of the theater. This is the power of a great performer. This is LIFE. This...this is what it's all about.

Now, if you may permit me, I have a personal connection with Patti LuPone. I've always been a big fan. Hell, when I was a kid, I played the cassette of her "Patti LuPone Live" so many times the tape wore away to smithereens. I saw her on Broadway about ten years ago in the play "Master Class", where she played the great opera diva Maria Callas. Her performance as Callas was of course amazing -- but "Master Class" is a play. Not a musical. She did not sing. Flash forward to 2005, just before I moved to Boston. Patti came to Minneapolis for a concert, her one-woman show for her album "Matters of the Heart". My mom and I went, and somehow we managed to get front row center seats. Patti was just steps away from me. I was mesmerized, in absolute awe the entire time. Remember that LuPone is first and foremost a musical theater actress. She's used to singing her songs to someone else on the stage. Being this was a solo show, just Patti, her piano accompanist, and a string quartet, there were no other performers onstage with which to connect. And so, she chose me. It was obvious. I was sitting right there in front of her, and she sang nearly every song to me. Our gazes locked, our passions united, I was lucky enough to become a part of Patti's performance. During her final number, she gave me roses. What's also interesting to note is that during her bows, when she came out to receive the roaring standing ovation we had given her, she was weeping with gratitude. I don't mean a little tear. I mean she was sobbing with thanks and appreciation. It was the most honest, authentic response I've ever seen a performer give to an audience's reaction. She felt it. She felt us. She winked at me. If an audience is a mirror for the person onstage, Patti certainly felt our respect and adoration...and returned it back to us tenfold. Patti LuPone's generosity as an entertainer is like nothing I've ever witnessed.

This is precisely the reason I cannot so easily abandon my own dreams of the stage. When everything falls into place, and the stars are aligned just so, the relationship between an actor and his/her audience can transcend all parties involved to a place that can only be called magical. It's not about where you're sitting, or what the set looks like, or even if you like what's being performed. It's about a connection: a group of people, varied and diverse and never again to be assembled together, sharing the same air and space in order to experience life at its fullest. It doesn't happen every time. But oh, when it does happen....

On Tuesday, John and I went with our friend Elizabeth to see the great Broadway singer Brian Stokes Mitchell in concert at Boston Symphony Hall. Mitchell is a true Broadway leading man (The New York Times christened him "Broadway's Last Leading Man"). Not only does he ooze class and grace, but he's got this big beautiful bass voice that shakes you to your very soul. It's a voice I just want to curl up in and go to sleep. Though we were perched in the third balcony cheap seats, I could not have had a better experience had I been sitting up there beside him. With all these theater dreams sprung anew, I embraced every minute of his performance. And then, near the end of the show, something totally unexpected happened. Mitchell did a song that I've since learned (thanks, Google!) is an old Bruce Hornsby song from the 80s. It's called "Hooray for Tom", and it's performed from the viewpoint of a little boy. I didn't see this coming...but I started crying during this song like I haven't cried in ages. In fact, I was still crying yesterday. Unfortunately, Mitchell's version of "Hooray for Tom" is not available online, but you can hear Bruce Hornsby's original version by going here. This song struck really deep within me, and I feel like something has forever changed. What it might be I haven't entirely figured out yet. All I know is that I can't go back to how I was before. I need to reevaluate my own life and my own dreams. I need to give further thought and respect to all those plans I had when I was a kid.

And who knows? Maybe someday they'll say hooray for me.

Augusten and the Wolf: A Review of "A Wolf at the Table" by Augusten Burroughs

2008-06-14T08:49:00.007-04:00

Wherever Augusten Burroughs wants to take me, I am willing to go.

I am a die-hard fan of the 42-year-old writer, best known for his raucous, endearing memoir "Running With Scissors". "Scissors" examined, with great sensitivity and acerbic wit, his adolescence spent in the bizarre home of his mother's psychiatrist, where she pretty much abandoned him as a teenager. The book was terrifically successful, inspired a feature film of the same name, and put Burroughs on the literary map. And though I certainly enjoyed "Scissors", it was his next book, 2003's "Dry", that really knocked me on my keister. Employing his usual humor and depth of feeling, "Dry" is a recounting of Burroughs's chemical dependence and recovery and is one of the few books I've ever read that almost identically mirrors my personal experiences (we even went to the same rehab!). "Dry" could have easily been my own autobiography.

It is for these reasons that I trust Augusten Burroughs implicitly. If I had a literary kindred spirit, he'd probably be it. The places he needs to go, I've discovered, are also the places I need to go. Though the great majority of our life experiences couldn't be more different, Burroughs's brave examination of the few we do share is enough to give me the courage to look at my own life. It is a process. It is often slow. And it's comforting to know that when we undertake such a process, we may be lucky enough to have a fearless writer who has tread the path before us. The great poet Theodore Roethke wrote, "This shaking keeps me steady. I should know./What falls away is always. And is near./I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow./I learn by going where I have to go."

Yet even after all of this, I was not prepared for where Augusten Burroughs took me in his latest book, "A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of My Father". Forgoing his trademark quirky humor and uncanny knack for making the downright weird completely entertaining, Burroughs undertakes a harrowing, heartbreaking dissection of his inaccessible father and the impact such a figure had on a young, impressionable boy.

Now, anyone who knows me realizes that I have a bit of a flirtation with the dark side. I enjoy a lot of books, movies, and music that some might label "depressing". I'm not afraid of human emotion, or, more specifically, bleak human emotion. But I have to admit that "A Wolf at the Table" is probably the saddest book I've ever read. My chest constricted, my stomach in knots, a lump lodged in my throat, my heart simply cracked more and more with each turn of the page.

But none of this -- not one word -- is written for shock value or sensationalist entertainment. While Burroughs is courageously retelling the story of his childhood, he is simultaneously (and equally courageously) piecing together what it all means. What it did both for and to him. How it shaped, defined, and destroyed various aspects of his being. You'll find no psychobabble or Freudian theory here. What you will find is a very human story. And what may at first seem devastating and crushing ultimately ends up surprisingly inspiring: the truth, which we all know is oftentimes a painful path to forge, really can set us free. This book is an important one, even for those of us who had good dads (and I have a great one), if for no other reason than to make us appreciate what we were lucky enough to have. Some weren't so fortunate.

"A Wolf at the Table" takes place in the pre-"Running With Scissors" years, when Augusten was a young boy living with his parents and peculiarly-absent older brother. His father, a bitter, violent alcoholic who often spilled over into the realm of the sociopathic, was a dark presence of immeasurable terror to the whole family. Yet he was consistently moreso to Augusten, who he really never had time for. From the boy dressing up like the family dog (whom his father always had time for) in order to get his dad's attention, to trying to decipher exactly what his dad is doing hovering over his bed in the dark, to attempting to find a father figure amongst a group of construction workers who come to work on their house, it's amazing that the young Burroughs even survived such a sad and terrorized upbringing. And it gets far worse before it gets better. After his father kills his beloved guinea pig (the scene where Augusten discovers this is one I will never, ever forget), the boy effectively turns on his dad, and so begins an explosive, enraged, emotional tug-of-war between the two. Tragically, even on his father's deathbed, it still rages.

While "A Wolf at the Table" is a departure from the typical Burroughs wit, it is also a mature, terrifying, and totally haunting story. If you're expecting "Running With Scissors II", you've come to the wrong place. But if you're interested in going where you need to go, then there is no better guide than Augusten Burroughs.

There Is a Way to Be Good Again: Examining the Book & Film Versions of "The Kite Runner"

2008-06-11T18:29:00.004-04:00

Whenever a book (or movie, or TV show, or play, or musical act) manages to capture the hearts and minds of the popular consciousness, I tend to run screaming in the opposite direction. This is more than likely because I don't really like people all that much (don't worry: you're fine; it's the others I don't care for); therefore, I do not trust their opinions. I mean, come on. Great taste-challenged hoards of people buy Britney Spears CDs, drool over "American Idol", and flock to see Adam Sandler movies. In this perspective, I hope it's easier to see why I refuse to participate in anything the general public makes "popular".

However, there was one book for which I broke my anti-mainstream rule: "The Kite Runner", Khaled Hosseini's wildly successful 2003 novel about two boys growing up in war-torn Afghanistan, and the brutal act of violence that divides them forever. I was drawn to the book for a couple of reasons. One, and I know this is sorta lame, was the cover. The beautifully dark and earthy illustration piqued my curiosity about the story contained between the covers. Another reason I was intrigued was the fact that several people (fellow book-lovers), for whom I have a great deal of respect, recommended the book to me as a great story with exceptional writing. The final, and probably most profound, influence to read it was the subject matter. The entire region of the Middle East has always been a political hotbed of controversy and strife, now more so than ever. I was impressed, and more than a little surprised, that so many people took to this book, since we all know that the American public is easily misled (see: George W. Bush's "war on terror"). I was shocked that the book-buying masses were able to set aside the political propaganda and make a story about the Middle East so massively successful. These reasons, I figured, were strong enough for me to pick up "The Kite Runner".

And I'm so glad I did. I absolutely loved the book. It affected me in ways I never could have imagined, even going so far as to tap into my own buried memories of pain and violence. At one point in the book, I even became physically sick; it's also one of the few books I've read in which I wept openly. That's how much I identified with these characters. They were so completely real, so totally compelling, that I saw the story of these two Afghan boys through the lens of my own experience. It is a great book that can do this.

"The Kite Runner" is the story of Amir and Hassan, childhood friends and constant companions (Hassan is the son of Amir's household servant/right-hand man). After a devastating act of terror, Amir, so guilty that he did not help his friend in his time of distress, turns his back on Hassan. This sets in motion a chain of tragic events that carries the boys through to adulthood, amidst the ever-growing, ever-terrifying societal unrest of Afghanistan. The story is heartbreaking, but in the end there is such a sense of redemption, of forgiveness, that it's nearly impossible not to view this dark tale with anything less than an unshakable sense of hope. Amir's journey to authenticity is one to which many of us can relate, and, sadly, so too is Hassan's brutalization.

Given the acclaim of the book, I wasn't surprised when I heard it was being adapted into a motion picture. Being an eternal fatalist -- and also realizing what Hollywood has done to oh-so-many great novels -- I was skeptical. How, I wondered, could even the greatest filmmaker successfully translate the themes of this psychologically intense and layered book to the panorama of the big screen? And, of course, I immediately imagined them casting the entire thing with white actors running around the desert speaking American English. Yup, I was sure the Hollywoodization of this incredible story would be an utter fiasco.

I was wrong. The film version of "The Kite Runner" is not only (for the most part) fully dedicated to the story of the novel, but it's cast with Middle Eastern actors actually speaking Persian! Director Marc Forester and screenwriter David Benioff breathe eloquent life into Hosseini's emotionally-complex tale. There are no "big name" Hollywood actors, the majority of the film is in subtitles, and the story is often tremendously disturbing. But these are precisely why the film works so well and is on par with the quality of the book on which it is based.

For me, the most impressive aspect of the movie version was the performance of the adorable Ahmad Khan Mahmoodzada as young Hassan. In his film debut, this kid is nothing short of masterful. He can convey more with his eyes and cherubic face than most actors can with their entire bodies. He is a revelation. His work here is nuanced, intelligent, and absolutely heartbreaking.

There are many morals to the story of Amir and Hassan, but none so powerful as the line spoken to Amir by Hassan's father: "There is a way to be good again." "The Kite Runner" shows us that even in our bleakest hours there are opportunities for salvation, and that it's never too late to right the wrongs of the past.

Clowning Around

2008-06-07T21:04:00.005-04:00

In an old episode of "The Golden Girls", Blanche's brother comes for a visit and reveals to Rose that he's gay. Rose, unable to keep the secret, tells Dorothy, who in turn refuses to tell Sophia. Sophia, however, is convinced she can figure the secret out. After asking Blanche's brother a few nonsensical questions, she tells Dorothy that she's cracked the secret: Blanche's brother is gay. Dorothy asks how she figured it out, and Sophia responds, "I heard him singing in the shower. He's the only man I ever knew who knew all the words to 'Send in the Clowns'."

This is a fitting introduction to this post. "Send in the Clowns" (a Stephen Sondheim song from his 1973 musical "A Little Night Music") is one of those tunes that has somehow managed to endear itself to the gay community. Along with "Over the Rainbow", and pretty much anything by Streisand and Midler, "Send in the Clowns" is a powerful torch song almost always performed by a diva.

And pretty much every diva has covered it at some point. Streisand, Judy Collins, Grace Jones, Elizabeth Taylor, Angela Lansbury, Glenn Close, Glynis Johns have all recorded "Send in the Clowns".

I've always liked the song; indeed, it's the only song I still remember how to play on the piano. The lyrics speak beautifully of love lost, opportunities squandered, and last chances at happiness. It is divinely sad.

But after hearing Dame Judi Dench's version, my like for "Send in the Clowns" escalated to love. And I also realized that, despite the long list of impressive talents who have covered the tune, none of them got it right, or at least as spot-on, as Dench did in the 1996 West End revival of "A Little Night Music". While the other divas follow the obvious route of belting the song and exaggerating its melodramatic splendor, Dench presents it as it was meant to be performed: subtle, raw, emotionally devastating, and undeniably quiet in its sheer power.

"Send in the Clowns" is not a song meant for a singer. It's a song meant for an actress. And they don't get much better than Judi Dench.

Before her rendition, the first minute and a half of the clip below is an interview with Dame Judi. It's important to watch this to understand the backstory of the song -- clearly something the other cover artists didn't comprehend.

Grab the Kleenex and enjoy.

Eureka!: Rediscovering Class

2008-06-05T10:45:00.004-04:00

I've often lamented in these pages the long, painful, regrettable death of Class. We as a people have forgotten how to be classy. How to open the door for people and how to say thank you when the waitress brings the food and how to give up your seat on the train to Gigantor the Pregnant Lady. How to smile at the angry 7/11 cashier even though you know (and likely understand) that he won't smile back and how to give an extra dollar to the tollbooth attendant so the next car that goes through your lane won't have to pay today and how to get down the suitcase from the overhead compartment so it doesn't decimate the little old lady who can't maneuver its great bulk. We've forgotten these things, somewhere in the giant web of our instant gratification-ADD-MeMeMe! society.

But just when I think all hope is lost, and we will never regain our Class, I read a quote from Barack Obama. And once again, Obama proves that he is a modern prophet of Class, and more than likely our last chance to restore our collective Class. As a nation. As world citizens. As human beings.

I withdrew my support for Hillary a few months ago, but I've never stopped admiring and respecting her. Just because she resorted to some typically political courses of action doesn't mean for a second that my adoration for Mrs. Clinton has waned. I desperately want to see her continue her good work, and I even more desperately want to see her as Vice President.

Barack on Hillary:

"We've certainly had our differences over the last sixteen months. But as someone who's shared a stage with her many times, I can tell you that what gets Hillary Clinton up in the morning - even in the face of tough odds - is exactly what sent her and Bill Clinton to sign up for their first campaign in Texas all those years ago; what sent her to work at the Children's Defense Fund and made her fight for health care as First Lady; what led her to the United States Senate and fueled her barrier-breaking campaign for the presidency - an unyielding desire to improve the lives of ordinary Americans, no matter how difficult the fight may be. And you can rest assured that when we finally win the battle for universal health care in this country, she will be central to that victory. When we transform our energy policy and lift our children out of poverty, it will be because she worked to help make it happen. Our party and our country are better off because of her, and I am a better candidate for having had the honor to compete with Hillary Rodham Clinton."

It couldn't have been better-stated. You are a class act, Mr. Obama.

The Secret Lives of Cats

2008-06-04T11:40:00.007-04:00

I think my cats are hiding something from me.

OK, in all actuality, I think they're hiding a lot of somethings from me.

It's already been established that, while I love my cats, I am at heart a dog person. My domestic animal experience extends to that of the canine variety, and I've come to know the personalities of pooches pretty well. It's not like it's that hard. Reading a dog's face is infinitely easier than reading a cat's. When you look at a dog, it doesn't take Hercule Poirot to figure out what the dog is thinking. They wear their emotions on their fur. There's no mystery, no pretense. Dogs are unashamedly honest.

Not so with felines. Cats' faces are considerably more inscrutable. It's perfectly feasible to have a cat for years and assume that the cat likes you. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, the cat tires of the charade and tries to maul your bald head in your sleep. And yes, this happened to me. A while back, I was in a deep, unshakable sleep -- dreaming of, I'm sure, either car accidents or my teeth falling out (I dream of these two things all the time) -- and when I woke up, I felt something sticky on my head. I rubbed my hand across my scalp, only to pull back back a blood-smeared palm. Then I saw my pillow, and it too was covered in drying blood. I had no idea what could've happened -- I hadn't even woken up!

And that's when I spotted Claire, sitting in the corner, leveling me with her maniacal stare, and meticulously cleaning, what I can only assume, was my blood from her chubby paws. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my cat tried to murder me in my sleep.

I don't know why I was so surprised, really. Claire has always preferred John, and she's made no effort to prove otherwise. She'll allow me to pet her, for about two seconds, before she flees the room in terror. John, however, can massage her saggy belly, scratch her head and ears, and soothingly brush away the copious amounts of loose hair she wears like a midget woolly mammoth.

But I never thought she was homicidal. Sure, she's sort of a spazz, but I've always been drawn to spazzes, and the ones I've known had never tried to maim me. It was clear to me after that night that Claire wanted one thing and one thing only from me: my death.

Since the evening of the attempted murder, she and I have made a truce. I forgave her for trying to scalp me, and she agreed to give the vegan cat food a shot and not eat anymore rubber bands. It was a fair trade. Over time, she's even allowed me to pet her. Once for an entire ten seconds, a record for us.

Yet I can't shake the feeling that both Claire and Fergus (who genuinely does like me and doesn't try to bump me off) have some secrets behind those unreadable whiskered grins.

Let's take Fergus first. He has several nicknames in our house, but the ones we most often use are Gus and Squeak. The latter name comes from the fact that Fergus can't meow. Try as he might, and oftentimes he seems to be trying quite earnestly, all that comes out is a slight, high-pitched squeak. He is very squeakative in the mornings, and becomes less so as the day goes on. Since all his squeaks sound the same, it's hard to deduce what exactly he's trying to communicate. He comes across with a great sense of urgency, especially considering that he only squeaks when he's looking right at you. He rarely squeaks from the other room; it's usually when he's right in front you, eyes locked with yours, that he lets out an urgent squeak. I've been trying to translate said squeaks in an effort to respond to his concerns, and I can narrow it down to the following:

1. "I enjoy sitting in the living room window and looking into that big tree. But those fucking birds drive me crazy. Will you kindly shoot them?"

2. "My sister is a sociopath. Your attempted murder is only the beginning of her wicked plans. Please give me the phone so I can call juvy."

3. "I need bus fare to Washington, D.C. I have been named a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador and must be there to accept my plaque. Then I'm off to the Congo with Angelina Jolie!"

Of all of these, number 2 sounds the most plausible. Though, being Fergus is my little orange angel, I cannot entirely rule out number 3.

But Claire has an agenda of her own. Firstly, I suspect she enjoys Internet chat rooms. Somehow she has learned how to turn John's computer on, which in my mind can mean only one thing: Claire is sick of living in a houseful of disinterested men (two gay and another who has lost his sexual organs) and wants to meet a nice heterosexual bachelor with working genitalia. Who can blame her?

Secondly, I think she's a closet Buddhist. Claire rarely gets into things (that's more Fergus's domain), but one thing she consistently pushes over and rolls to the center of the room is a small jade Buddha figurine my mom gave to me. Claire is fascinated by it, and even when I scold her about the situation, she refuses to budge. Her dedication to the dharma is just that strong. However, if I allow this theory, then it would be highly unlikely she is a serial killer-in-training.

There is so much going on in their brains that I may never figure it out. Cats are an unsolvable mystery, and I think they like it that way. Why give up all your secrets, when the magical reality you create by not doing so is endlessly interesting? In that, cats are selfless.