The Alchemy of Thought

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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




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



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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Resignation Letter to the Airlines of the World

Dear Airlines of the World:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just don't think about it.

Safely on the Ground,
Donn Saylor

Forever Our Girl: Estelle Getty, 1923-2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will be missed.

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



Sophia & Picasso



Sophia Rents a Porno



Sophia as Sonny & Dorothy as Cher



"Lesbian Lovers of Miami"

Coming [Back] to "Terms"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me say that again.

She turns away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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!

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 PornogrGeographic 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

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!

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.