The Sheila Variations

"There is no joy in Mudville..."

Two towns, apparently, claim to be "Mudville", where the "mighty Casey" struck out, so spectacularly.

Despite assurances from many in the literary world that the poem is not based on truth, two towns INSIST it really happened. Their entire collective identity depends on it.

My nephew Cashel, although he owns Casey at the Bat (of COURSE he does!!) doesn't really like it. I asked him if he wanted me to read it to him during my last visit, and he hesitated just slightly. I said, "No?"

Cashel said bluntly, "It's too sad."

I have to say, I agree. You can't get much sadder than mighty Casey striking out.

For anyone who has no idea what I am talking about, I give to you:

CASEY AT THE BAT

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day,
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville-- mighty Casey has struck out.

Can't live without...

the following 5 songs:

Like Dan says - and see his list here: If I did this each week, I probably would come up with different songs - although there are some old stand-bys which never leave me. I'm trying to pick the songs which have been my faves through the years. Not just a momentary whim.

I shall now blurt out the first 5 songs that come to mind:

1. "Rape Me" - Nirvana - Kurt Cobain's "f-you" to MTV - It makes you want to trash your own apartment. Starts quiet, goes shriek-y loud, gets quiet again - the typical Nirvana pattern, but it works, dammit, it works. (This was a toss-up with "Lithium" - another Nirvana favorite - but what the hell. I'm going with "Rape Me")

2. "In My Life" - The Beatles - One of my favorite songs of all time. If I did this list next week, "In My Life" would be on it again.

"There are places I remember
All my life
Though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone
And some remain..."

Through all the different phases of my life - that song has come up again and again and again - and each time I hear something different in it. A new lesson.

3. "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Lookin' For" - U2

This song makes the hair on the back of my neck rise up. Chill-time. Might be my favorite U2 song, and that's saying a lot.

4. Lonesome When You Go - Shawn Colvin's cover of the Bob Dylan song

No offense to Bob - but when Shawn does it - and I feel like either jumping off a bridge or running through a field naked with joy. I can't decide. Another song that morphs with time. I have had absolutely profound experiences, sitting listening to this song. Like soul-growth moments.

I've seen love go by my door
It's never been this close before
Never been so easy or so slow.
Been shooting in the dark too long
When somethin's not right it's wrong
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Dragon clouds so high above
I've only known careless love,
It's always hit me from below.
This time around it's more correct
Right on target, so direct,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Purple clover, Queen Anne lace,
Crimson hair across your face,
You could make me cry if you don't know.
Can't remember what I was thinkin' of
You might be spoilin' me too much, love,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Flowers on the hillside, bloomin' crazy,
Crickets talkin' back and forth in rhyme,
Blue river runnin' slow and lazy,
I could stay with you forever
And never realize the time.

Situations have ended sad,
Relationships have all been bad.
Mine've been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud.
But there's no way I can compare
All those scenes to this affair,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Yer gonna make me wonder what I'm doin',
Stayin' far behind without you.
Yer gonna make me wonder what I'm sayin',
Yer gonna make me give myself a good talkin' to.

I'll look for you in old Honolulu,
San Francisco, Ashtabula,
Yer gonna have to leave me now, I know.
But I'll see you in the sky above,
In the tall grass, in the ones I love,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

And it's Shawn Colvin's LIVE version which clutches at my heart. Always has.

5. American Pie - Don McLean

I will never stop wondering about this song. I will never gain CERTAINTY about this song. I am never DONE with listening to this song.

More Laughter

I never get sick of flipping through gallerie of Lileks' Regrettable Food.

Just rediscovered this one: Party Cake Houses

Crying with laughter over the first picture in the gallery where a child appears. Oh, and the Thanksgiving cake, too - Lileks' comments are riotous.

Potentially not work-safe. If you can get into trouble at work for random guffaws of laughter.

An O'Malley Announcement

My cousin Kerry O'Malley will appear tomorrow night, Thursday, April 1st, in an episode of Without a Trace. 10 pm. CBS.

Tony Goldwyn plays twins - and Kerry plays his girlfriend's best friend.

Tune in!!

A favorite anecdote

An impatient producer (is there any other kind) visited the set of legendary film director John Ford.

The producer said to Ford: "You are two weeks behind schedule!! This is an outrage!"

John Ford then picked up the script, ripped out 20 pages, and barked back, "Now we're two weeks ahead of schedule."

A note to the writers of biographies

Here's a couple of tips from your humblest reader.

You really should avoid a couple of words and phrases if you want to be considered a good writer of biography.

I will supply these phrases for you here. Take notes.

DO NOT USE THE WORD "perhaps".
DO NOT USE THE PHRASE "must have been"
DO NOT USE THE PHRASE "One assumes..."

Or - if you really MUST make assumptions, and use these words and phrases, please please please use them sparingly.

You are NOT a novelist. You are NOT writing fiction.

The biography of Ben Franklin I am reading right now (The First American, by H.W. Brands) is filled with the words "perhaps" and "must have been". There is also a gentle smattering of "One assumes". But it's the "perhaps's" that are getting me DOWN.

The story itself is good enough for me to continue - but I get frustrated.

If there is no actual physical evidence (letters, eye-witness accounts of conversations, etc.) that Franklin's wife was bummed out about his infidelities - (she wrote no letters about it, she did not keep a journal - Like the majority of women in her time, she leaves no written record of what was going on with her) then do not ASSUME. Do not try to "fill in the blanks". So there's a blank in your story - so what? You're a biographer. You are dealing with found material. Suck it up.

H.W. Brands, faced with the "blank" of Mrs. Franklin's response to Ben's philandering, doesn't just state: "There is no record of what Mrs. Franklin thought about all of this." Instead, he goes off into flights of fancy about what "must have been" going on in her head.

This is only one example from the book. It's full of "perhaps" moments.

It's driving me batty.

Benjamin Franklin left enough written information on himself behind to last a LIFETIME. You don't need to ADD stuff.

Do not miss this extraordinary photo-journal

I feel like I got lost in another world.

Lena, a motorcycle-chick from Kiev, rides through the ghost-town of Chernobyl, and takes pictures every step of the way.

Really - I cannot recommend it enough. I was blown away.

She goes into abandoned houses, abandoned schools - she sees the objects people left behind - obviously fleeing in a panic. Family photos, children's dolls ...

There are wild horses living in the deserted town now. Lena gets an amazing photo of the herd of them galloping by.

Since Chernobyl occurred in 1985, before the fall of Communism, she notes all of the old Communist propaganda on the walls - a room filled with flags, in preparation for the Labor Day in May ... a true ghost-town, relics of a past now disappeared.

One thing that blew me away:

On the approach to Chernobyl, to let you know you are close - there is a huge sculpture of an egg. In the middle of the road. Apparently, someone from Germany sent it to the town, or maybe placed it there on their own.

The egg - to symbolize the possibility of new life, new beginnings - in this polluted terrifying environment.

Her photos are phenomenal. Go. Go now and click through.

(via LoboWalk)

"Off-uh-suh! Off-uh-suh!"

Sunday night:

In a deep sleep. Like I was drowning. I was sleeping over my friend Allison's, who lives in the Village. We had watched some of The Office on DVD - which is one of the funniest freakin' things I have ever seen in my life. I felt almost - voracious about it. LIke: I need to see the ENTIRE series RIGHT NOW.

Then we went to sleep. I was in a deep black pit of sleep the second my head hit the pillow.

Strangely, like an echo, it was all very unreal ... I heard someone screaming. It took a long long time for the screams to reach my consciousness. I have no idea how long they went on, but I do know I fought waking up. Like a maniac. I must have heard the screams for 10, 15 minutes before I finally woke.

What really woke me up was Allison waking up next to me - she was gasping, "What the hell is going on?" and getting on her knees to look out her window.

It was a man screaming outside. Screaming over and over and over the same word:

"OFFICER! OFFICER! OFFICER!"

Only add to that a New York accent, and his own speech pattern, and it sounded like this:

"OFF-UH-SUH! OFF-UH-SUH! OFF-UH-SUH!"

Over and over and over and over again.

Allison and I, on our knees, groggy, looked out the window and saw, across the street, a massive fire in what was the trash area in front of a building. It was a conflagration. The flames were huge, high, and licking up against the first-story windows of this building.

It was 3 in the morning. Nobody was up.

This man - who was screaming "OFF-UH-SUH" over and over - was obviously a nocturnal fringe-dweller type. His clothes were ragged, torn apart ... but he was the hero of the night. He woke up the block. He did not stop. He did not give up.

He dashed up past the flames, and banged on the front door of the building. Screaming at the top of his lungs. He couldn't bang on the first-story window, because the flames were too high.

It was terrifying.

Allison immediately called 911 and reported the fire.

Mr. "Off-uh-suh" man was a one-man fire department. Allison eventually put on her slippers and ran downstairs to help him.

There was a Vespa parked at the end of the block, with a little blanket over it. He ran over to it and yanked the covering off - the Vespa crashed into the car behind it - but he didn't care. He ran back to the flames and tossed the blanket over it. Which did some good, for a second, but then flames erupted forth again.

This entire time, he never stopped screaming.

It did the job.

Finally, from my perch at Allison's window, I could see sleepy people peeking out of the first-floor apartment.

Immediately (the rush of adrenaline and survival-instinct is intense) a man in his pajamas (who lived in that apartment) came racing out onto the front steps, with a garbage can filled with water - he poured it onto the flames - and then raced back inside. Another woman who had been awakened ran out onto the front steps in her nightgown, with a cooking pot full of water and dumped THAT onto the flames. The conflagration continued.

Mr. Garbage-Can Man kept racing in and out of his house, filling up his garbage can, dumping it onto the flames, and running back inside.

I loved Garbage-Can Man. I was like: Good for you, dude. Get that water, dump it on ... keep going ... you're doing GREAT.

The fire department arrived in, literally, 2 minutes. (Which is comforting. The speed of the response.)

Must have been a slow night, though, because 3 trucks and 20 firemen showed up. It felt like the entire FDNY was outside my window.

My God. The vision on the street below was enough to provide me with fireman fantasy-fodder for weeks to come. Allison, who came back upstairs, knelt beside me, and we just watched. It became a people-watching fest, now that we knew the fire would be put out. Nobody hurt.

A man emerged from his apartment, and watched the whole thing on his steps.

Allison murmured, "Look at his slippers."

I looked, and they were these big fuzzy slippers. He was a grown man, in his 30s, with a robe on, and big fuzzy slippers.

The vulnerability of people ... at night ...

We just LAUGHED with love for the slipper-man across the way.

And we also fell in love with every fireman. Stomping around, all with their separate jobs, working together, in their big black FDNY ponchos with day-glo yellow stripes ...

The "Off-uh-suh" hero had disappeared.

But he was definitely the Man of the Hour. In my mind!

Music Recommendation

For an existential crisis, I highly suggest choosing the soundtrack of Evanescence.

And rock out, man.

It's hard Nirvana-esque rock, with this chick who sings like ... a devil, or an angel ... Hard to tell which side she is on. It's like Kurt Cobain. Kurt had the face of a little cherub, and the raucous screaming voice of a devil writhing in torment.

Evanescence best played at top-volume. Annoy your neighbors. Lose your mind.

Very good to combat angst, melancholy, and regret.

10 year anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death fast approaching ...

Bastard.

Cosmic Tumblers Clicking Down

Yesterday was my dear friend Ann Marie's birthday.

When I met Ann Marie (please forgive me - but it was on March 13, 1992 - I'm insane, and my journals are insane and autistic) - it had been a long time since I had made a new girlfriend. It's hard to make new friends, when you are an adult. At least, it's hard for me. But Ann Marie and I ... as adults ... exploded into such an insane friendship, along the lines of 10 year olds on the playground ... that it was as though we were catching up on lost time. Like we SHOULD have been friends as children.

Our friendship was one of passionate intensity, massive psychic connections, and rabid coincidences. Some weird coincidence would come up, Ann Marie and I would glance at each other, and she would nod calmly, stating in a flat voice, "Cosmic tumblers."

I remember there was one moment, when we were in a larger group, and we said an entire random sentence in complete unison.

There was a pause.

Phil, a mutual friend, then said, "You guys really do speak in unison more than anybody else I have ever met."

Ann said casually, "We share one brain."

Ann Marie and I cracked each other up like NOBODY'S business. There was one 24 hour period where we were inseparable, and where – I swear – we laughed non-stop for about 22 of the 24 hours. We were out of control. We begged for mercy. We thought we would never get back to normal, we thought we would have to quit our jobs because we couldn't stop laughing. Later, we referred to this as our "epic day", which eventually morphed into us calling it our "Beowulf Day."

"Member on the Beowulf Day when …."

March 13, 1992 was a snowy Friday. I had just moved to Chicago from Los Angeles, and was living with my friend Jackie, and in deep mourning over the ending of a relationship. There was one infamous day when Jackie and I made the mistake of watching The Way We Were. I was lying on the couch, and I was wearing a bandana around my head. I was fine one moment, and then the next moment I was SO not fine. Thrashing about in sobs. Jackie later described me as a "weeping chemo victim on my couch" – because of the bandana. Anyway, I was convinced that I would be in mourning for a long long long time.

Then March 13 came along.

In that night alone, I would meet 3 people who would become absolutely essential, not only to my time in Chicago, but to my life in general. Each one of them was what I would term an "angel", in one way or another.

And I met them all in that one seemingly random night.

Like Ann Marie would say: "Cosmic tumblers".

Jackie and I went to her favorite improv comedy club, and saw a show. We both were recovering from bronchitis, and had not been out in a long time. March 13 was really my first night out on the town, since coming to Chicago. For the first week or so, I was too much of a "thrashing chemo victim" to go out. And then along came the prison of bronchitis so March 13 was representative of freedom.

That night, after the show, Jackie and I were hanging out in the bar downstairs. And a random man charged over to me (he waited until Jackie was in the bathroom to make his move) and said, "Who ARE you? I've never seen you here before. WHO ARE YOU, man?" He kept calling me "man" which I found amusing, and endearing. He was a little bit insane, but I liked him a lot. He was a comedian. He made me laugh. He brought me over to his table of friends to introduce me. He was there with another guy and two girls. Both girls smiled up at me, friendly. There was none of that competitive energy that goes on between women sometimes.

It was over a year later, when Ann Marie and I finally became friends, that we put two and two together – and realized that we had actually met on that night. I was the "redhead" who had come over to their table, and she was the "friendly girl" smiling up at me.

Basically, we met before we met.

We were in awe of that. I had no idea, when I shook hands with Phil's friends, that one of them would become my new best friend.

Phil (that was the guy's name) ended up asking me for my phone number. I gave it to him.

Again, it was over a year later when I realized that there was actually a CONTEST going on between Phil and Ann Marie: who could get a phone number the first, over the course of that evening? HAHA. Phil won by scoring my number. I had no idea that I was part of some contest. I remember giving him my phone number, then he walked me to the door of the bar to say good-bye, I was leaving – and, unbeknownst to me, he walked back into the bar, and held up the scrap of paper triumphantly, as everyone broke into cheers. How ridiculous!!

Ann and I were HOWLING with laughter a year later when we put all of this together.

The third person I met that night was the infamous "Max" – another improv comedian (who starred in last week's journal entry). Phil and I were getting to know each other, talking, flirting, etc. The bar was crowded. Slowly I became aware of someone tapping me on my back. Softly. Insistently. It went on for WAY too long before I realized it was deliberate. I turned and there was Max – tapping me. For no particular reason. Or, not for any reason I could surmise. I had never met him before. Never spoken to him. I said, "Uh – yes?" He shrugged, laughed like a crazy person.

Basically, in his own insane way, he was trying to move in on Phil's territory. He inserted himself into our conversation. Phil kept trying to get rid of him, but Max would not go away. It wasn't that Max overwhelmed me with charm, or his good looks, or his smoothness. He was the opposite of smooth. Tapping me like he was an 8 year old kid, and then having NOTHING to say when I gave him my attention.

Max finally gave up, and yet there was something about him. He made an impression.

I gave my phone number to Phil … and it wasn't until months later – in the middle of that summer – that I met Max again, basically. Same way as it had happened with Ann Marie.

We all met that snowy night in March, and then went our separate ways for many months, and then we all met again – months later. And I am still friends with all of them. Strange. Meant to be. March 13, 1992 was a "meant to be" kind of night.

I formally met Ann Marie while we were both in line for the bathroom at Lounge Ax, during a Pat show. I liked her instantly. It is hard to define her funniness. First of all, she is sharp as a tack. She has a way with words. Dammit, she has a way with words.

"New Year's Eve is like open-mike night at Alcoholics Anonymous," is just one example.

But it got to the point where all I had to do was look at her, and I would burst into laughter.

There were times during our friendship when I called her, in tears, at 3 am. And she would, as we called it, "talk me out of the clock-tower." There were times during our friendship when she called me, in tears, at 3 am. And I would "talk her out of the clock-tower."

When I moved to New York, one of the parting gifts she gave me was a little replica of a clock-tower. To remind me of her presence, even though we now would be separated.

She and I went to Ireland for the millennium. We stayed in a bed and breakfast in Dublin, and for the most part, hung out in the city – but we did take jaunts out into the countryside. We had a riotous time (well, except for when I contracted influenza and spent 2 days in bed, like a huge disembodied head sticking out of the covers).

We met up with two guys on our first night there – and they invited us to a private party for the millennium, which was just as well – because Dublin basically could not have cared less about Millennium Mania. The pubs closed at 10 pm, 11 pm, just like normal.

But there we were, at a private party in a pub off O'Connell Street, dancing about like maniacs with 80 year old men, 25 year old guys, and 4 year old girls. A multi-generational party, with live music, alcohol flowing, and general merriment and insanity. They all embraced "the American girls" with pride, love, and acceptance. When it became the year 2000, Ann Marie and I were standing in a circle with a rowdy group, all of us clutching pints of Guinness, singing "Sweet Caroline" at the TOPS of our lungs. We were beside ourselves with joy. We kept looking at each other, like: Is this the most fun you have ever had in your life??

I haven't seen Ann in a couple of years, which is rather sad. I haven't been back to Chicago since 2000 – the longest I have gone without a visit since I moved away.

But the bond remains with Ann Marie, my "dear friend" – my "cosmic tumbler" friend, my psychic twin.

Happy birthday, friend …

Here's to the hope that you get whatever you want in life. You deserve it.

Farewell, Mr. Cooke

Alistair Cooke is dead.

This man was an integral part of my childhood. Masterpiece Theatre, while not always geared to children, sometimes had mini-series which were, indeed, masterpieces for kids. I remember them vividly. They were RICHly done, beautifully realized. How sad I am that there isn't such a thing now.

The Prince and the Pauper. Heidi. Ballet Shoes (which was one of my favorite books as a kid, too ... To see it acted out was a pleasure beyond belief).

The Flame Trees of Thika, with my girl Hayley Mills ... I was older when that came out ... but damn, it was awesome.

I remember the beginning credits. The long slow pan over a desk, showing objects: a globe, a magnifying glass, the gold-lettered leather-bound piles of books (always the classics) - with the mountingly exciting music. The camera pan ending with Alistair Cooke, sitting there in his leather wing-chair, explaining to us what we were about to see.

His explanations were easy to grasp, he provided context. I ate up his every word. Loved his voice, too. I can hear it in my ears now!

Cooke said, when he retired last month: "I have had much enjoyment in doing these talks and hope that some of it has passed over to the listeners, to all of whom I now say thank you for your loyalty and goodbye."

Tony Blair said: "He was really one of the greatest broadcasters of all time, and we shall feel his loss very, very keenly indeed."

Indeed.

Update: Don't miss Patrick Belton's eloquent post on Cooke.

Eternal Sunshine

Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

-- Alexander Pope, from "Eloisa to Abelard"

Warning: The following is not a review!

I have often felt "unequal" to the task of "resign"ing "passion", of one kind or another. At times, it is the hardest thing in the world to do. Amputees talk about feeling the ghost of their missing limbs - and there have been times in my life when whatever "passion" I was trying to "resign" came across to me like the ghost of an amputated limb. Where is it?? Where is it?? I miss that passion ... I can still FEEL it alive in me ... and yet the dream is dead. (Isn't that from a Jackson Browne lyric? I believe it is.)

Trying to find "peace" again - peace of mind, peace in the soul, whatever - is strenuous. Sometimes, I have thought it was impossible. I would throw up my hands in defeat. "Okay. I cannot get over this on my own. I will always miss this person. Always."

And there are those people in my past who, yes, I will always miss. The amputee never stops missing the foot, but he gets used to living without it. That's the best analogy I can think of.

But while I am in the midst of the passion, or in the midst of trying to 'resign' a passion, trying to make my mind "spotless" - my sense is that: The perpetual loss of this person is going to sap the rest of my life of joy, peace, love. It is tragic. It feels tragic.

Time usually does away with such extremes.

I miss certain people. All the time. All the time I miss them. And yet - it's okay. For the most part. It's okay, and it's right that I miss them. They had a huge impact on my life, I loved them dearly once upon a time, and so missing them is part of the landscape. It's bittersweet, yes, but it's livable. It does become bearable.

I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind last night. I was engrossed from beginning to end, on multiple levels - but afterwards - afterwards - came a bit of a meltdown. My brain full of thoughts. I felt heavy with thinking. So much, the movie brought up so much. I had wacko dreams all night, woke up with no memory of any of them, and then sat at my kitchen table from 6 am til 8:30 drinking coffee, and writing. Writing out my thoughts.

I'm still not even sure what my thoughts are.

I've got a couple of ghosts. Definitely. You could probably even sense them around me, if you were attuned to that kind of thing. I'm not saying I'm unique at all. We've all got stuff we carry around with us. The detritus of life. Flotsam, jetsam, whatever.

This would be all the stuff you bring to the "memory-erasure" doctor in the film. I've got a nice big shoebox of letters which I could hand over. It's all there.

At the moment, in my life, I am not sitting around living in the past. Regretting stuff. At least not how I used to. I don't sit around over my shoebox of relics, and mourn the days gone by.

However - there are times - times when I least expect it - when I am literally ambushed by a memory.

Memories are interesting that way. They're connected to the senses. (Mostly to smell, by the way. This is why you can get a whiff of apple pie baking, and suddenly be transported back 30 years in time.) I can work to resolve whatever residual issues I have with this or that person, I can forgive them, I can forgive myself, I can talk about it with friends, decide what happened, try to figure out the problems - BLAH BLAH - but no way will the mind ever become "spotless". Stuff does not just vanish. Sunshine is not eternal.

I'll be strolling down the street, minding my own business, and hear a snippet of a song from a car - and feel like I got the wind knocked out of me, a memory rushing back, a sense of a person long gone suddenly right THERE - all from the sound of the song.

Just one example.

It happens very rarely. But it does happen.

It's not exactly a pleasant feeling. I certainly wouldn't say that those moments were pleasant. It's a reminder of the amputated foot.

But I wouldn't choose to have those memories completely erased (if I could, I mean, like in the movie.)

Sometimes, in my irrational moments, I'll think: Jesus, when will it END? Will I be 70 years old and having a freak out every time I hear Lady Marmalade? When the hell will it END????

Well. Maybe that's just who I am. Heart of glass and all. Not too many people get in there with me (I mean, in my heart) - but when they do it is impossible for me to get them out. Love does not turn to hate with me. It just doesn't. I have wished that it would. "God, it would be so much EASIER if I could just HATE this person!!!" So perhaps that is just one of my lots in life, and I should just take note of it. (For example: "Tell DJ to leave 'Lady Marmalade' off play-list at my wedding reception - AT ALL COSTS. Refuse to pay him if 'Lady Marmalade' is heard at any time.")

Yes, I have a memory of hugging a certain man, and touching his face and his eyebrows and his cheek-bones - "memorizing" it. Because it was a good-bye. I felt like my heart was breaking. My heart literally HURT. As though I had banged it up, and there were an actual bruise.

But I also have a memory of sitting on his lap, and talking about JD Salinger, and laughing like maniacs.

Both exist. Both memories say to me: HE. The agony of the good-bye - and the hilarity of our conversations, the accord I felt with this human being.

I had never really thought about it all that much, though. I don't think too much anymore about certain things, certain people, because - like I said - I do not want to live in the past, and spend too much time regretting things.

I am fortunate to have loved a couple of people with all my heart. I am fortunate. (Say it again, Sheila, maybe you'll believe it the third time.)

There's another good-bye memory. In the airport in San Francisco. I was boarding the plane by myself, and I turned around - and saw him - standing back there, watching me leave - and because of how the light was, he was completely in shadow, and looked like a black-paper-cut-out of a man, with his hand raised in farewell.

I saw that and thought I would not be able to bear the pain. Whatever you want to call it. The psychic pain. My heart was pushing up out of my chest.

However. I did survive it. Of course I did.

And when I think about that man, my first boyfriend, the first image that comes to mind is certainly not the black paper cut out. It's the uproarious laughter, it's the making up songs, reading books together, etc.

I don't mean to sound too Pollyanna-ish here. Like: "Embrace the bad with the good! There are so many good things in the world!!" I've had enough of agonizing good-byes, frankly. I don't want to have another such good-bye ever again.

So much does the heart re-bound from such things that, again, I feel: If I had to go through another such good-bye, I might not survive.

Funny. The heart doesn't learn. At least mine doesn't.

The ending of the film packed a huge punch for me. I felt this weird tragic hope inside of me, tears are in my eyes right now - I thought: God. Life just beats people up, doesn't it. Heartache just keeps coming. It never ends. You either say Yes to life or you say No. You get busy living or you get busy dying.

I will always miss those I have let go of. This doesn't have to be a tragedy, I guess. I guess it can be a massive fierce gift. I could not "subdue", I could not "renounce my love, my life, myself" - even though sometimes I have YEARNED for that. I have yearned to renounce "my love" because I just wanted some peace of mind. God, just let this end! Let me sleep at night! WILL I MISS THIS PERSON FOREVER?

This is what I was thinking and writing about this morning.

Maybe it sounds like the movie upset me. I suppose it did, but not completely in a bad way. It stirred shit up. Sometimes you can get too rigid. Too inflexible in how you tell yourself the story of your own life. If you get my meaning.

I was completely wrapped up in the journey of these two people. I was rooting for them so hard - I didn't even realize I was, until the very end. It seemed to MATTER to me, so MUCH, that they give it another go.

And then, when the movie ended, all I could do was think about my own life.

The proof of a meaningful piece of art - when you walk away and you start talking about yourself. When the work of art maybe reveals something to you about yourself. Makes you think about your choices, who you are.

So I spent the morning amongst my ghosts. Reacquainting myself with them, the memories I love, the memories I am glad have dimmed with time ... Cherishing all of them, though. All of those memories.

I would not choose to have any of them erased.

-- Heart of Glass, signing off.

Diary Friday

A mercilessly long Diary Friday, for those of you who enjoy reading ancient exploits from my life.

It's the story of an "adventure"-packed weekend, during my time in Chicago. I thought of this entry early this morning - before I even remembered it was "Diary Friday". I thought of it because of the movie last night: Eternal Sunshine...

I'll talk more about that later.

I moved to Chicago in early 1992. I had broken up with a long-term boyfriend. I soon developed a MASSIVE crush on a guy whom I call Max. All names have been changed. (Well, except for Mitchell and Jackie.)

The tone is EXTREMELY melodramatic. I use words like "catastrophic" and "tragic" - and yet I am talking about a guy I have a crush on, or whatever.

If this seems silly to you, please recall that when I took that "What is your heart made of" quiz a while back - I came up with the answer "GLASS".

July 20, 1992

Ah, Monday. 8:40 am. This has been one of the most out of control weekends I have ever had in my life. It's gonna take me a couple days to adjust myself to weekday life. But by then, it may be Friday, and it will start all over again. Every night this weekend was some crazed hours-long event, and every morning I would wake up in a state of identity crisis. "Who am I??" But it has been a blast. I am not ready to chill out yet. I am not ready to be a sober and upstanding citizen again.

Let's start at the very beginning. A very good place to start …

Friday night. Jackie was staying in, she's been sick for about 3 weeks. She still isn't strong enough to go out and worship Bacchus for 5 hours on some kind of crazed binge. I was bored with having lonely health-conscious weekends. It's summer. My summer so far has had NO adventures. I need intrigue. Basically, I wanted to go to an improv show, and see if I could strike up a conversation with Max - or something like that.

So what did I do? I called Mitchell. Of course. He is such a POSITIVE source. He makes you feel like you can do anything.

I said, "Should I go see his show tonight? If I go, I'll be going alone!"

Mitchell made no bones about it. "Oh, God," he said with scorn. "Why are you even asking me? Go!"

"Really? Even though I'll be sitting there in the audience by myself?" The thought horrified me.

"Oh, please." (More scorn from Mitchell.) "Just go. Why not? What have you got to lose? Okay – let's look at the worst-case scenario. You walk in. He sees you and he has an expression on his face like, 'Oh, shit – she's here' – and let's say he totally blows you off – then what do you do? Strike up a conversation with someone else and end up having a BLAST. Look at it this way – the only expectation you should have for the evening is that you have fun. Expect no more, and expect no less. Don't go there to be with Max. Go to have fun."

And that's what I did. I did exactly what Mitchell told me to do, and what he prophesied came true, down to the letter.

I wore my black bowler. Like in Unbearable Lightness of Being. I am out of control. I walked to the club. It was a gorgeous night. I was nervous. I kept repeating over and over to myself: "I'm just gonna have fun. I'm just gonna HAVE FUN." But it was nerve-wracking to be going alone. I had no buffer. I had no girlfriends to bury myself in if something catastrophic happened.

I know next to nothing about Max. I almost don't want to know any more about him. At the moment, he is shrouded in mystery. He has a devastating charm. He is uncannily irresistible. I am shocked at how irresistible I find him. He's got a good heart, and a good soul, he has a playful sense of humor, he's child-like, always looking for fun – but he is also self-destructive. He's reckless. He's wild. Truly wild. He has a gift, for improv. It's innate. But – he's aimless with that gift. He takes it for granted.

I don't know him at all, but I am sure that girls fall down for him like ninepins.

I approached the club. I came so close to just turning around and going home. I felt so rattled. What am I doing? I was like: my feelings for this guy I don't know are out of control. But then, the thought of chickening out and going home, all dressed up in a damn bowler hat with nowhere to go, bummed me out. Why not have an adventure? Take a risk. Play ball. Run fast. Fall down. Get hurt. Remember that life is about the journey, not the destination. Get burnt. Laugh. Cry.

Also – dammit – why be such a defeatist?? It's not guaranteed that things are not going to turn out well. See this thing through.

So I did.

I bought a beer downstairs and then went upstairs to the theatre. Cool as a cuke? Yeah, right. Normally, I'm there with a big crowd of girlfriends, or with Jackie. I bought a ticket. Went and sat at a corner table. Did a quick scan of the crowd and didn't see him. I felt incredibly tense. Girlfriends are the best buffers for moments like this. But I weathered the storm. I sucked down my beer. I looked up, and Max was coming straight over to me. He had a bandana on his head. He looked like Axl Rose or something. Tough. The battered jeans. The white T-shirt. The bandana. And there I sat. By myself. Wearing a bowler hat. I felt like a jackass. He's fearless. For whatever reason, his fearlessness plus the bandana gives him a mythical status in my mind.

He said, "Did you get my message?"

"Yes. I found it very cryptic."

"I thought it was fitting." His maniacal smiling eyes.

"My message was equally cryptic, I suppose."

He said, "You came alone – you didn't bring 20 friends to fill up the house?" He asked how Jackie was doing, how she was feeling … and then he went off to do his show.

The first team that performed were very very bad. There were some awful moments when I literally wanted to go shrieking into the void rather than deal with the MESS up on that stage. Max, of course, was not on that team.

His team went. They are all guys – no women – and that night I saw one of the most brilliant pieces of improv I have ever seen. And I have seen a lot of improv. The audience didn't even laugh half the time – it was too brilliant – we just watched this story come to fruition before our eyes. These guys are genius. They have it individually, but they have it more so as a group. They read each other's minds. They create a full-fledged show on the spot, but it has none of that loosey-goosey feel. They have the structure of it down to a science, everyone has their roles, their strengths – there is complete trust between them all. You cannot feel that the structure inhibits them. To guys like this, the structure of the improv-game gives them complete freedom. Technique/structure/limitations – these are the things that set you free.

The subject they were given from the audience was "assassinations", and within the first 5 minutes, Max was assassinated by one of his team members – and the whole show then became a documentary, like in the beginning of Citizen Kane – or a PBS special about what had happened world-wide because Max had been assassinated – the uproar – the grief – the youth movements - the billion-dollar efforts to "reanimate" his body – the Senate arguments, the espionage, the international intrigue, the revenge plotted by his junior high school football team, the impact of Max's death apparently spanned the continents – and in back of every single scene, Max would stand on a higher platform or a chair, and he would always be in some kind of frozen jolly pose – he would become a poster of himself, or a statue of himself. Max throwing a football, Max frozen in a hysterically-laughing pose. During the Senate arguments, in the back of the Senate there was a portrait of Max looking scholarly and wise. Whenever there was a scene in a "car", Max would suddenly become a hood ornament.

It was – it was just hysterical. And brilliant. They work so well together as a team. There is this unspoken communication, and understanding …

[Ed: Many years later, I was having a drink with Max in New York. We reminisced. I told him that, to this day, the most brilliant improv show I had ever seen was one his team had done. He pounced: "Which one was it?" "The one where you were assassinated in the first 5 minutes." He nodded, immediately. "Yup. I remember that. We reached some other level that night. As a team, I mean. We broke all the rules, but it didn't matter. I wish it had been video-taped." It was nice to know, years later, that my perspective on the genius of that show was not just because I had such a huge crush on bandana-wearing Max at the time.]

After they took their bows, the lights came up, and suddenly I was attacked by such intense anxiety that I got up and left instantly. I had gotten one glimpse of Max talking to some girl, and I suddenly felt SO BAD – like I was sitting there waiting for him (even though I WAS sitting there waiting for him) – It felt so bad it was like I suddenly had food poisoning. I had to get OUT of there. I felt pathetic. And so I literally fled the scene.

Turns out, the girl he had been talking to was his brother's damn girlfriend. I'm such an idiot. Also, Max had not noticed me fleeing, because he had gone into the back to the bathroom (this all came out the next day when he called me). So anyway, he came out from the bathroom and looked around for me, and poof, I was gone. Thinking back on all of this, I think: That is pretty damn rude, Sheila. You can't even say "Good show"?

I guess I would rather be rude than pathetic.

So I took off and went for a walk around the block.

Lord knows why human beings occasionally behave in such a manner. Why is it such a tragedy that I find Max irresistible? Why is that a bad thing? Why wouldn't he be flattered by my regard for him? Why is it like I am in junior-high, terrified that he will find out?

I walked around Wrigleyville, in my bowler hat, until it finally occurred to me that I was behaving like an idiot. So I headed back to the club. I just had a tiny nervous breakdown and needed to get some air.

And I charged back into the bar, like a lunatic on a mission.

Mitchell and I were HOWLING about my behavior, later, when I told him the whole story.

But all of this was a moot point anyhow, because, to my chagrin, I discovered that Max had already left. To where, I had no idea. I assumed he had taken off with the girl I had seen him talking to after the show. (Again - I'm an idiot. He had been looking for ME and I had taken off.) He and I were 2 ships passing.

I scanned the bar like an assassin. It, of course, was filled with improv comedians. But no Max. He had gone. I knew it. I was sure that if he were anywhere on the premise, my crazy antennae would pick up on it. Once I discovered he had already left, all my tension fled, because who the hell CARES anymore. So I flopped down at the bar and had a beer. I became totally relaxed.

Before I finished my beer, the bartender came down to my end of the bar and said, "The group down there at the other end of the bar wants to buy you a shot."

"What? Really?"

I peered down the bar – the group was 3 people, 2 guys and a girl. The girl is a cocktail waitress up in the comedy club. She was beaming at me, a huge happy friendly smile – she was the one who had sent me the shot.

But here's the weird thing: One of the guys in the group was that guy who had written me the infamous note months ago. He was on stage – performing – Let me reiterate: He was onstage. Performing. And as he ran off, after taking his bow, he dropped a note on my table that said, "Can I call you?" I was in the audience. I was an audience member. It was infamous. Of course, I never called the number he provided. It was just a funny weird thing. I didn't remember his name, but I certainly remembered his face, because he looks like … Montgomery Clift. Or Peter Gallagher or something. Kind of bizarrely gorgeous. Black hair, white skin, black eyebrows.

He's so good-looking you kind of want to laugh in his face.

The cocktail waitress was beckoning to me. "Come and join us!"

I walked down to join them, laughing inside to myself – because the words of Mitchell reverberated through my ears: "Strike up a conversation with someone else, and have a blast." We all introduced ourselves. Shook hands.

I was buzzed enough to want to say right away to Mr. Montgomery Clift, "You wrote me a note months ago" but I didn't. I pretended I had never seen the dude before in my life. I told myself that he probably didn't remember me. He only saw me that one time. And it was months ago. February? Something like that.

His name is John. The waitress' name is Nancy. She was so sweet – insisted on buying me drinks. She was so welcoming to me, so effervescent – Of course, now I know that she was completely operating for John. Buttering me up FOR him. She was the one who took the initiative to get me over there into their group so that he could take it from there.

Let me talk about the evening from John's point of view.

He performs in an improv team as well, but not Max's team. He was sitting in the audience waiting for the show to start, and in I stalked, alone, wearing a bowler hat, with a huge chip on my shoulder. (He told me all of this later.) I had a chip on my shoulder, obviously, because I was having a nervous breakdown. But John didn't know that. He just thought that I looked kind of tough and stern. Meanwhile, I was QUAKING.

He saw me, and thought to myself, "Holy shit. That's that girl." He said to Nancy, his friend, "That's that redheaded girl. I wrote her a note a couple months ago, gave her my phone number. She never called me."

Nancy, Miss Match-maker, said, "Want to send her over a drink?"

He said No. Absolutely not. He doesn't like to meet someone that way. (He'd apparently rather write a note to a redheaded audience member while he is performing) … So, anyway – the show ended. John saw me pay my tab, stand up, and leave immediately. (I'm a lunatic.) He told me later he was bummed about it, and he told Nancy, "She left."

Ah well. Life goes on. John, Nancy, and another friend went downstairs to the bar and proceeded to swill alcohol down their throats at a feverish rate.

And before you know it, I reappeared. (After my refreshing walk around Wrigley Field.) John said that I totally "made an entrance" – with a tough combative "I'm back" expression on my face. HAHA. Nancy saw me re-enter, and turned to John and said gleefully, "She's back! She's back!" (Ah, a woman with a sense of sisterhood. Love it.) John was laying low, waiting for his chance to make his move towards me. Nancy, however, was determined to get me over to join their group.

"Let's send her a shot!"

John freaked - "No no no---"

"Come on, John! Let me send her a shot then. It'll be from me."

"Nancy – no – wait – no…"

John is kind of shy and awkward, as is obvious. He doesn't have the fearlessness of Max. Max wouldn't send me over a drink, though. He'd just walk up to me and say, "Give me your phone number. Right now." Which is pretty much how we met.

Nancy hailed down the bartender, despite John's protests. I love women who are in other women's corners. Cause I'm in their corners.

So anyway. Of course when I joined the group, I knew none of this (John's whole side of things). All I knew was that Nancy was great, she had sent me over a shot, and that John was the guy who had slipped me that nutso note during one of his shows.

Almost right away, John and I started talking. I don't even know what the hell we talked about. But he's got a dry self-deprecating sense of humor – as do I – and a lot of our conversation involved self-deprecation. Much laughter. We told extremely abbreviated versions of our life stories to each other. He revealed more than I did. I'm a Sphinx.

He was a ballet dancer. Moved to New York from California.

His laugh is great. He shows true delight, throwing back his head at whatever self-deprecatory thing I said. He wasn't like a lot of good-looking guys – who are good-looking and also aloof, remote, detached. You know the type. John was very accessible.

At some point, we realized that we both had been, at one point, in therapy. So we began throwing around the self-help lingo, and once we started, we COULD NOT STOP. He would tease me about whatever, and I would say, "I really don't feel that you are validating me" and he would burst out laughing in my face. Once we hooked ourselves up to the self-help train, the laughter never stopped. I said the words, "I think that you are projecting your issues onto me" probably about 100 times that night. "No, no, no, that is a projection." And every single time I said it, he would throw back his head and HOWL.

"Projecting." "Is that a projection?" "Oh, never mind. I'm probably just projecting." "These are MY issues that I am now projecting onto you."

Why did we find this so comedic? I don't know. But we did.

Eventually, after about an hour of hanging out and talking he said, "Want to come to a party with all of us?"

Mitchell was my guardian angel this weekend. I said sure.

We got to the party, a big group of us. I had some party anxiety going on, but it ended up being low-key to the point of being boring. I hung out in the corner with John. Our group was much rowdier than the rest of the party.

At one point, John dropped an entire platter of horseradish dip face-down onto the floor. The platter shattered, and the dip was SPLAT – all over the hardwood floor at this nice low-key party. The look on the man's face. I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud. I was the only one who laughed. But he had this kind of blank yet totally mortified stare. Then, while there was this crippling embarrassment going on, John was racing around like a madman, yelling at the hostess because she had begun to clean it up: "YOU HAVE TO LET ME CLEAN IT UP!!"

During his cleaning-up mania, he collided with some guy he didn't know, and said to the guy, point-blank, "Oh. I'm sorry. You represent all of my father issues."

This was completely for my benefit, and I LOST IT. I still laugh every time I think about John saying that – and the guy's confused blank stare – hahahaha. Still laughing. I was crying with laughter.

Another girl showed up at the party who is a good friend of John's. She was very pretty. Pale freckled skin, dark hair, dark eyebrows, very Irish-looking. I was introduced to her. She seemed very funky, very likable. She was obviously very much into John, but she didn't look at me with exposed claws.

The thing about it was – I am still into Max, even though I am behaving like a paranoid insecure lunatic when it comes to it. I could feel that John was into me, I mean – there was the clue of the damn note from months ago – but John's not really my type. However – I was having a hell of an adventure with him that night. "You represent all my father issues." Etc.

So anyway, I didn't know how to say to Julie, "Don't worry. I'm not into John." That sounds kind of obnoxious. However, it wasn't really an issue because she and I started talking, and immediately could feel that – we had the same sense of humor. The same sensibility. We clicked.

There was this one other guy who had driven us to the party, and he was hanging out talking to John. His name was Greg. Perfectly nice human being. But so pumped up that he literally could not bring his arms down to his sides. His head looked like a pinhead on a massive neck. Obviously, I am not painting a pretty picture here. Julie and I had a whispered conversation about how we did not find overly-pumped-up guys attractive. I had in my mind Max' casual athletic rumpled form, and I'm sure Julie was thinking about Mr. Ballerina Man cleaning up the horseradish dip in the corner.

At one point, John was obviously getting antsy. So was I. I felt like my energy was too wild for this subdued party where there were plates of hors doevres and small-talk chit-chat. There wasn't even any music playing. And then there were the 4 of us – John, Julie, Greg, and I – huddled in the corner, having a riotous time. Greg was our Designated Driver, since he does not drink.

After the agonizing horseradish-dip faux pas, John wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

He said to the 3 of us - "Hey – let's go dancing. Anyone want to go dancing?"

I was so full of pent-up energy that going dancing sounded perfect. The 4 of us bagged the party and went club-hopping. I hugged the hostess goodbye. Had no idea who she was. Hugged her as though she is my long-lost sister.

On the sidewalk, began the planning. The 4 of us trying to decide where to go.

Here's a fact: Get a group of creative actor-types together, and have them try to come to some sort of consensus about "where should we go", and they will NOT BE ABLE TO DO IT. I have noticed this inevitable truth for many many years. We decided to hash it out in the car.

As we crossed the street to the car, suddenly I turned to John and said, "You wrote me a note a couple months ago, didn't you?"

"Yeah. I did."

And that was all we said.

It was kind of funny. It was suddenly like he and I had a "past". As ridiculous as that is.

John and I sat in the back, and the 4 of us drove around aimlessly, trying to decide where to go. He and I hadn't said anything else, since the "you wrote me a note" exchange, but then he said, breaking the silence, "I remember I said I was 'enchanted' with you."

"Oh yeah. I had forgotten about that part."

He burst out laughing. "You forgot THAT part??" (Like: what girl in her right mind would forget that some anonymous guy sent her a note and said he was "enchanted"? But all I remembered was that he gave me his phone number and said "Please call" and that I didn't call.)

Finally, the 4 of us decided to go to Vortex – a hopping gay dance club. I've never been there.

We stopped by John's apartment so he could get money. Mr. Pinhead Greg was totally paranoid about going to a gay bar. We all just had to laugh at him. We laughed in his face. He was saying things like, "People will think I'm gay." At first I thought he was kidding, like making fun of people who WOULD say things like that, but then I realized he was serious. Julie and I were both saying to Greg, "Well, we're just going there to dance. That's what we want to do. Dance. That's it." We finally convinced Greg that all would be all right, and that nothing terrible would happen to him.

Now here is something hysterical.

We were all in John's little apartment. There were pictures of him dancing – he teaches ballet at a studio, I think. But anyway, here's the HILARIOUS thing – he was on the national tour of Chippendales. This information came out, while we were all in his apartment, and he told us he didn't actually strip – he was one of 4 trained dancers on the tour – and they didn't take their clothes off – they were real dancers … John went into this enormous elaborate rambling soliloquy to me, rationalizing his time as a Chippendale, making sure it was clear that he didn’t strip. I did not say a WORD.

Finally, he stepped back, and said, deadpan, "Man. Listen to me justify."

He was a Chippendale. I think that is one of the funniest things I have ever heard in my life.

Julie and I tried to make him show us some of his Chippendale routines, but – with wounded dignity – he refused.

We cruised to Vortex. The sidewalk outside was crowded with young gay boys in white T-shirts. There was a 7 dollar cover but in half an hour there would be no cover, so we walked down the street to a greasy tile-bound fluorescent-lit burger joint with tables outside. We bought some fries and we hung out until there was no cover.

Julie and I, meanwhile, had become lifelong friends. We were discussing our work-out routines, and laughing hysterically. John had subsided into a kind of gloomy silence. Staring at the two of us morosely. Now there was no reason for him to feel left out. He could have joined in. But he did not. He and I had been standing in line at the greasy burger place. We were surrounded by seamy nocturnal people. We ourselves were seamy nocturnal people.

And suddenly, John turned to me, out of the blue, and said, "So why were you at the show by yourself tonight?"

I lied. "My friend's been sick. I've been bored. So I decided to give myself a night out." I mean, it's not a total lie – it's just that he knows Max, and nothing is set with Max – we haven't even gone out yet – so … I just lied. Lied right in his face.

John didn't buy it at all. He said, "Come on. Why were you really at the show alone?"

I did not respond. I ignored him completely.

He said, "You were there to see a guy, weren't you?" I still did not respond. And somehow – dammit – he guessed the entire thing, without me saying a word. He went on, "Max. Right? You were there to see Max." I have no idea how he guessed. My face betrayed me in that moment. I blushed. DAMMIT. I blushed. John saw the blush and freaked out. "I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT." I still had not said one cotton-picking word. John was having a conversation with himself. He raged on, "That Max."

Okay, so that intrigued me. Why did he say Max's name like that. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing. I've lost 2 girls I liked to Max." He suddenly was in a rage, against the pattern in his life, of having girls he likes falling for Max. But I had no idea that I was fitting into some vicious circle of John's! So I just did not say anything. He descended into bitterness.

"What is it about Max? What IS it about him??" He was demanding this of me.

Okay. Time to come clean. No need to lie to the guy. I was loving having an adventure with him, but I must not fly under false colors.

"I find Max uncannily irresistible." I said, point-blank.

John then plummeted into some morose pit, and it made matters worse that his friend Julie and I were getting along so well.

A couple of days later, John called me to apologize for his behavior. For being so morbid and bitter. Those were his exact words. "I apologize for being morbid and bitter. You can go out with whoever you want to go out with."

Er ... thanks. I just MET you! Ha.

So bizarre.

Finally, after wolfing down our fries, we headed back to Vortex. The 4 of us took over the entire damn dance floor. We danced in a massive spastic mode for two and a half hours. We were drenched in sweat. We COULD NOT STOP.

At one point, John announced, above the music, "Oh my God. I am in a frenzy."

We all were. Julie had on my bowler hat, and the two of us were jumping up and down and laughing and losing our minds like primates in the wild. At one point, John, Julie and I had our arms round each other, and we were all, as one, jumping up and down, and laughing like maniacs. We were disheveled. It was wonderful. I got out every bit of pent-up energy I've been carrying around. The music was relentless.

At one point – 2 hours into our spastic dancing – John shouted at me over the music, "Max isn't here dancing with you, is he?"

Pause. I gave him this tired look, as though I have known him all my life. "No, John. He isn't."

What the hell have I gotten myself into. But I maintain that I am innocent. I have no agenda. Nothing. And no, I wasn't with Max in that moment, but I also didn't feel that I was with John. However – I was grateful to John for taking me along on his adventure, and for including me in his wonderful group of friends. To a person, they were all amazing with me.

We danced until they kicked us out. We were soaked with sweat. It was 4 am. Greg dropped us off, one by one. We came to the end of my street and I said, "You guys – I just had so much fun with all of you tonight. Thank you SO MUCH."

Julie said, "Sheila, gimme your number. We should go out sometime."

She pulled out a lipstick and wrote my number down across some brochure. In retrospect, I just think that is so hilarious: after such an evening, who do I give my number to? The one other FEMALE. Poor John. He was muttering to himself in this morose and self-deprecating way, "God … women … look at that … female bonding …"

He has a defeatist attitude.

John got out and said, "Call me. You still have my number." (I had told him that I still had the note somewhere. He was like: YOU DO NOT.)

The next morning - Jackie and I had planned to meet for breakfast. It was a beautiful morning. I had this kind of stunned internal reaction to the adventures of the night before … I never have adventures like that. I never meet 10 new people in a night. I am coming out of my shell, I guess. I mean – there I was – at 1 a.m. – crammed in the back seat of a random car, careening towards a dance club – and I didn't know ANYBODY in that car before that night. Life is a grand adventure.

Jackie and I had a rapturous breakfast. We sat outside at an umbrella table. We laughed like hyenas. I had to take my glasses off and wipe my eyes. Tears of laughter. I was telling her the whole story of the adventure, and we were snorting and guffawing with laughter. The story was a panorama: parties, and horseradish dip, and dance music, and me suddenly finding myself caught in a triangle between these two new guys. I drank about 8 cups of coffee. It was good to be awake and outside, and laughing.

It was Saturday. We spent the whole day together outside. We had no time limits, nowhere to be, nothing to do but be together. We took a long walk. It was a hot sticky beautiful day. We went into stores when we felt like it, we got Italian ices, we went to a huge street fair. I had a kind of disturbing moment with a rather aggressive mime. We went to Sidewalk sales. We pawed through piles of old records. I bought some small colored glass bottles. She and I must have walked over 10 miles on Saturday.

That night, David and Maria were making dinner for all of us. We were gonna all hang out at their place, and have coffee, cheese cake, maybe play some Pictionary. Then I had plans to get together for drinks with someone from class.

Jackie and I finally parted, and I walked home. It had been a full day.

And here is how I was feeling, in terms of the men:

I basically KNEW in my heart that I would never ever talk to Max again. I would NEVER hear from him again. It was over, before it even began. It just felt that way.

And John – should I call him? How did I feel about John? Do I really want to star, in an unwitting way, in some competitive drama between these two men? NO I do not. I want no part of that.

But if the Max thing was totally over, and I was SURE that it was, then … why shouldn't I call John? True, I do not find John "uncannily irresistible". I just don't. You can't fake that kind of stuff. However, at odd moments, "You represent all of my father issues" would flash into my mind, and I would burst out laughing. He's a riot. He's entertaining. But – would I call him? I did not know, and I decided to just chill out. I had said to Jackie with utter seriousness, "I am gonna just try to chill out … for a day. Or so." She had laughed in my face. I didn't want to DO anything. Not about Max, not about John. I would just see how things fell into place.

Of course, in a matter of 24 hours, they BOTH had called me. I didn't have to do a damn thing. They were calling me left and right.

But Max got to me first. Yay.

However, I had no idea, on Saturday, that that would occur. As far as I was concerned, I was done with the both of them. I came home. Chilled out with Sammy. Cleaned. Played music. Whatever.

Then the phone rings, and it was Max. I know it sounds stupid, based on my behavior from the night before, but I truly believed I would never hear from him again. I didn't even consider the possibility that he would call me. I hadn't ruled out the possibility that I might call him – but – it never once occurred to me (because I'm dense as mud) that he would call me.

The second I heard his voice, my knees gave out, and I sat down on the floor. (So much for chilling out)

"Well. Hello, Max."

He got right to the point. "You shot out of there like a bat out of hell last night."

"Yeah, but I came back. You had already left."

"What?" He sounded chagrined. "I went down into the bar, had a beer, and then I left – because my brother was having a party."

I felt like a jackass. So I lied. "Well, the show was done – so I went downstairs – talked to the bartender for a while …" (which was true. She and I had had a conversation for about 10 or 15 minutes.) So I told him the whole entire truth, except I left out the fact that I felt like I had food poisoning because of my anxiety, and I had to go out and take a 25 minute walk around the neighborhood. I left that part out.

Max picked up on it, though, like a detective. "You were gone a long time, missy."

Missy?

"We must have just missed each other or something." I said.

Then somehow, we started talking about his show – and I was quite blunt. "Okay, listen. I just want to say that – that show is one of the most incredible things I have ever seen you guys do. It's actually one of the most incredible improv shows I've ever seen. I really have no words, actually."

I know that he is incapable of saying a plain old "Thanks" but I could tell that my praise pleased him. I could feel it. Psychically.

Max reminds me, at times, of Tom Hanks in Big. He is 12 years old. And yet – his body is 26 years old. But – it's not that he's immature. No. It's more that he is free, and wise – with the child's wisdom. But also – he would take it into his head to jump off the top of his house to see if he could fly. Like that kind of thing. He's reckless like a child, but also wise. He is not aloof. He does not have an aloof bone in his body. He is not "cool". He seems to have no awareness of his irresistibility. Or if he does – it doesn't make him aloof and detached and cocky. He's not tricky. (Oh, how I hate tricky men.) Max is very straightforward. Like Tom Hanks in Big.

A "cool" guy would not have called me and said, "Where the hell did you disappear to last night?" Max did.

So after talking for a while, he said, in that straightforward way, "So, what are you doing tonight, missy?"

What the hell is up with the "missy" thing? Where did that come from?

I said, "Oh, I'm going over my friends house. Dinner. Stuff like that. And then I have to have a drink with another friend … And then …"

It was time for me to stop being such a damn coward, such a damn baby, and come clean. It is not bad that I find him uncannily irresistible. It is not a thing to be ashamed of. He deserved to be in on the secret.

I teetered on the precipice for one second, and then took the leap:

"And then, I want to see you."

"Oh. So I'm gonna be the THIRD person you see tonight." Joking scornful tone, but with a hint of seriousness.

Hm.

I said, "Actually. No. Change of plans. I'm gonna blow off the drink with the friend. So you'll be the second person I see tonight. If that's cool with you."

"Good choice, missy. Good choise."

Missy? What the hell?

So we decided that we would meet up after his show that night. I hung up, and just sat there for a second, my head swirling with thoughts.

He called me. Didn't see THAT one coming.

Realizing something: I'm a coward. He's more courageous than me. He's not afraid. I need to stop being afraid too.

Anyway. We did meet up later that night, but that's a whole other story, and my fingers are tired from all this writing.

Here's what I realized this weekend:

I make such a big deal out of GUYS acting aloof, and remote, and detached, and playing it cool. When really, the truth of the matter is, it has been ME who has been acting aloof and remote. Like going to see Max's show, and then walking away without saying good-bye or good show. I did this because I was afraid he would know I "liked" him. I was afraid I would look pathetic. So I ran away.

Time to stop that. Stop the aloofness. I like Max. He knows. He likes me back. He doesn't care that I know. Get over yourself, Sheila. Come out of that shell.

Throw your homework onto the fire…
Come out and find the one that you love…

I have lost my bearings

At least for the moment.

This has occurred because of two events:

1. I had a run-in with an "s" in my shower this morning. I had to kill it 10 times. It was like a Die Hard "s".

2. I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind last night. Ruminations to follow, when I regain my emotional footing.

Bitch-slapping run riot

I was a bit embarrassed yesterday by my ridiculous bitch-slap of Olivier Martinez's poor English skills.

Then I read Lileks today and he is bitch-slapping everyone.

He bitch-slaps the people hired to do "ridiculous customer interrogation at check out." Oooh, I hate that, too. I never realize that I can refuse to give them my name. From now on I will. Or I will just make something up. "My name is Eleanor of Aquitaine and I am between addresses right now. Don't send me any damn coupons."

He bitch-slaps Sam's Club.

He refers to Discover Card as "The Gummo Marx of charge cards".

He bitch-slaps Panasonic for their crapola design.

He directly addresses HBO, randomly: "Attention, HBO, makers of Rainbow Fish: nice little children’s book, if a tad socialistic. Lousy animated series. In fact all your animated series are pathetic; Paddington Bear feels about as English as Jacques Tati, and “The Neverending Story” finally lives up to its name."

There's more, but you'll have to go check it out yourself. It's dee-lish.

Headline on Yahoo Entertainment News

"JACKSON CAN'T HEAL THE WORLD".

This is shocking shocking news. All these years, I have honestly believed that Michael Jackson COULD heal the world. I feel so betrayed.

What's on my mind today?

Watched High Fidelity last night for, oh, the 10th time. It revisits all my old haunts from Chicago:

-- The Music Box
-- The L train
-- The crashing surf and the spectacular skyline view down by the Aquarium
-- The famous Biograph - which is right across the street from Lounge Ax - a music club that is no longer there, sadly. Lounge Ax was my home away from home for a good 3 years.
-- And the scene where they go to see Lisa Bonet play is at Lounge Ax - the interior is actually the Lounge Ax interior - I barely see the scene when I watch the movie. I'm too busy drinking in the background.

There's even a scene of John Cusack entering Lounge Ax - the sidewalk in front of the club. I have had many potent moments on that stretch of pavement.

But what's really on my mind today is John Cusack, screaming out his window at his departing girlfriend, screaming about how she will never make it to his "Top 5 Breakup Scenes" - she's not important enough, she hasn't hurt him enough (of course, she has reduced him to a man screaming out his window ... but that's okay - the characters who lie to themselves are the most interesting...)

And he finishes his rant screaming at her:

"If you really wanted to mess me up, you should have gotten to me earlier!"

Anyway. That's what's on my mind today.

Correct me if I'm wrong ...

but did I just bitch-slap Olivier Martinez in my post below about "Taking Lives"?

Did I actually take out a can of wup-ass on Olivier Martinez??

What is my PROBLEM?

This is on the level of "DON'T EVEN TRY, CHIPS", and I realize it. A bit too late, but I do realize the ridiculousness of - in these terrifying violent days - actually taking the time to yell at Olivier Martinez about his word pronunciation ...

I can be such a jag-off. I take everything so personally and I get all worked up over CHiPs even trying...

I love this - this is comedy

Patrick Belton at Oxblog links to a BBC Magazine piece, calling upon its readers to write an entire short story (tag-team style) using only cliches.

The BBC provided the first line which was:

Giles flew in on the red eye from the Big Apple, knowing he was caught between a rock and a hard place.

Go there - NOW - and read the rest of the tale.

I love it when people just run with a joke. As I kept reading, each sentence provided by different readers all over the UK - it got funnier and funnier.

Montreal - Quebec - what's the difference??

I saw "Taking Lives" last night. I actually really liked it although there were many implausible elements. I'm not enough of an analytical forensic thinker to tell you WHAT exactly was implausible, but my "bullshit, red flag" buzzer went off with regularity. However, you don't go see a thriller like that for complete plausibility. I went because I love the acting of Angelina Jolie - I think she would be interesting reading a telephone book. Also, I love the acting of Ethan Hawke. Both were wonderful - their work was subtle, and most of it had to do with the camera watching them THINKING. The best part of movie acting. Just put the camera on someone and watch them think.

Also, my favorite actress - Gena Rowlands - has a small part in it. It makes me happy whenever I see her working. That deep tough-dame voice, smoked with cigarettes and scotch ... Damn. She's amazing.

But here's the deal:

They make this HUGE thing about it being set in Montreal. The title cards tell us, blatantly: "MONTREAL".

Then, there is a sweeping shot of the city which CLEARLY is not Montreal. It is CLEARLY Quebec. A huge helicopter shot of the fortress on the cliff... which, I don't know, maybe I'm insane - but I see that building and I immediately know where I am. It's recognizable. It would be like having a lingering shot of the Empire State Building, as the title cards read: "ST. LOUIS".

There were some scenes obviously shot in Old Montreal, and there was a big chase scene through a jazz festival in this huge open-campus area - where I cavorted myself when a film I was in played in the Montreal Film Festival. That was easily recognizable as Montreal.

I mean, I think that Quebec is way more cinematically spectacular than Montreal - the cliffs, the hill, the buildings ... but ... er ... then set the damn thing in Quebec. We don't care!!

Also, it's pretty funny, but the film makes the cops in Montreal look like absolute boneheads. They need the American FBI agent to come in and help.

And one last thing: OLIVIER MARTINEZ CANNOT SPEAK ENGLISH SO THAT I CAN UNDERSTAND HIM. He is cute and all, but his English is incomprehensible. It's like Penelope Cruz. Can't understand a word that girl says.

Work on your damn speech, people. Half of Martinez's important dialogue was lost. It took me 5 minutes to figure out that he had been talking about "DNA samples". I heard the words and thought: "What the hell is he saying?"

One last thing: The audience was made up of entire rowdy families, with small children, on outings. Small children? Not infants, but 4 year olds, 5 year olds. This is a very violent movie.

People are idiots.

Snapshots o' Cashel

So much to say, so much to describe. Jean - if I'm forgetting anything, please chime in.

Cashel - my dear little white-haired boy. In his cute little corduroys.

Okay, so here are some of the highlights:

-- I was up at 7 am one morning, and so was Cashel and his mother. Outside, the snow was falling. NPR was playing, coffee was brewing. I made Cashel some EXTREMELY complicated toast, made to his order. I had to "put the butter on where I can see it" (he likes the butter to be in chunks, not evenly melted) - then I had to sprinkle said butter-chunks with sugar - and then sprinkle over that a light frosting of cinnamon. Following the cinnamon, I had to spread it all out evenly, over the toast. And then after that, I had to go take a damn nap because putting together that toast-concoction under his watching eyes was far too much for me.

-- Second of all, during our 7 am morning-time together, there was some interview with Edmund Hillary on NPR, but it was basically background. Cashel and I were discussing Batman, among other things. But suddenly, we heard the words "Shackleton" come out of the radio. Cashel stopped, alert. Then he informed me bluntly, "Ernest Shackleton's boats got crushed in the ice because they were wood and they hadn't invented steel boats yet."

I hadn't yet had my first cup of joe. I struggled to deal with this. I said, trying to add my two cents, "Yeah, I've seen the pictures of the boat being crushed!"

I saw this hit Cashel, he pondered it seriously, and then stated, putting two and two together, "So cameras were invented then." As opposed to steel boats. Smarty-pants.

I said, "Yes. Cameras were invented then. But they weren't like your mom's, small enough to fit in her pocket. They were huge."

Cashel looked thoughtful. He was trying to work out, for himself, the timeline of technological innovation involved in Ernest Shackleton's failed journey. Then a look of enormous worry floated over his face, and he looked up at me, piercingly, "But nobody was on the boat when it got crushed."

"Oh no. They were all off, standing on the ice, watching."

Phew. Cashel was quite concerned.

-- Somehow, over the weekend, I found myself describing the concept of the Big Bang to Cashel. I figure it's not too advanced for a boy who understands the innovation of steel, in terms of exploratory trips to the Antarctic.

It was so hilarious, because as I tried to describe it, I could see him just freaking out, with the awe of it all, trying to comprehend it. "And so everything in the universe, Cashel, EVERYTHING - even planets like Jupiter and everything - was all crushed together into a tiny tiny ball - about this big - " He gawked at the tiny-ness I showed him. "And even though it was so tiny, the ball was so heavy that if you dropped it, it would make a huge hole in the earth and fall right through--" Cashel BURST out laughing, in excitement, in fear. "And then - the pressure got too much in that small ball - and it EXPLODED - and in .546789234567 seconds the entire universe was created."

Cashel sat in stunned silence, contemplating this amazing thing. Then he stated in a ponderous important voice, "And that was the Dawn of Time."

-- Around the time of the Big Bang conversation - well, actually, after I described the Big Bang to him, it became a theme of the weekend. Jean and I were driving with Cashel and his friend in the backseat, and I could hear Cashel describing the Big Bang to his friend, using my exact words. It's scary, that power!! Anyway - Cashel had his own elaborations on the Big Bang theme, which he proceeded to share, eloquently, with his friend.

"And at first - everything was very bad - and going crazy - and the Old Gods were making everything go very bad - but then came the New Gods - the Titans - and they cleaned everything up - it was the Titans who came along and made the bad Old Gods go away..."

(Cashel's friend must have been like: "Is this what the whole afternoon is going to be like?")

Cashel kept going on his explanation: "Before the Titans came, everything was chouse." This was an unknown word - The "ch" was said the way you would say "checkers", and the "ouse" was said like "house". "Chouse."

Jean and I heard that word, glanced at each other, and then Jean said, "Everything was what, honey?"

Cashel said, "You know. Chouse. Like - everything is bad, and going crazy."

Chaos. Fucking chaos.

The kid is reading Edith Hamilton's mythology, he is 6 years old, he saw the word "chaos", he calls it "chouse", but he knows it means when everything is going out of control.

We were pretty much blown away by that.

Jean said, "Chaos. That's how you say that word. Chaos. But you're right - it means everything going crazy and bad."

Cashel was not embarrassed at having gotten the word wrong - he immediately corrected it - saying it carefully - "Chaos. The Titans got rid of the Chaos."

HEART-CRACK.

-- We went to go see Cashel compete in something called "the Pinewood Derby". It's a Cub Scout thing. (Cashel's only a Tiger Cub, but they're still involved). I was never a Cub Scout so I have never heard of such a thing. I was stuck in Brownie purgatory, making stupid duffel bags, and grumbling about how there was no fun, no ceremony in Brownies. What the pinewood derby is is: All the little boys get these pinewood cars, they have to be 5 ounces each - you put wheels on them - you paint them however you want - and then they have a day of races.

There's almost too much to even describe in this experience. I sat in the stalls at a little grade school with my sister, Cashel's mother, Cashel's grandfather - and watched the pinewood derby. Watching Cashel in action, watching how he was socially - reveling in all of these little precious obnoxious little souls - It was potent, and a bit overwhelming.

We were all collectively nervous about Cashel's car. We don't know anything about making cars. We don't know how to paint a car, etc., but we all worked on it the night before, and I have to say - it looked pretty damn cool.

And Cashel made it to the semi-finals. The first time his car won a race, Cashel's mom shrieked out, "YEEEOWWW!!!" in an embarrassing display of partisanship which we all found totally hysterical. This was not a crowd really given to overt displays of enthusiasm.

Cashel, to be honest, couldn't really have cared less. All of the other little kids had to be CONSTANTLY reminded not to run when they were near the track. Cashel never needed the reminder. He strolled about the gym like he was John Wayne. He never hurries. It was hilarious - we were watching him saunter around like a cowboy. At one point, he seemed on the verge of getting upset, as he was walking to his place at the end of the track, and he called out, randomly, to no one in particular, "I'M SUCH A SLOW POKE!"

He walks to the beat of his own drummer.

The Cub Scout leaders KILLED ME. These men were amazing. They took their jobs seriously - but not too seriously. These grown men, in Boy Scouts uniforms, making sure everything got done, quieting everyone down with a signal (two fingers up in the air - they never called out, "QUIET" - you had to pay attention, and if you saw the signal, you had to put up YOUR fingers, until the whole room caught on, and quiet descended - I liked that, because it kept everyone on their toes. You were all a part of something, it takes cooperation to make a room of small Cub Scouts and Tiger Cubs be quiet - and they all cooperated when they saw the sign.)

Cashel lost when he got to the semi-finals. He shed some tears when he sat back down with us, tears of disappointment, but he soon rebounded. He is a brave little man.

I'm overwhelmed, at times, by his courage. He's been through so much, so much "chouse". He's a good little man.

-- Other things discussed and done over the weekend:

-- Major talks about Cro-Magnon man. Cashel informing us that "the husbands" went out and hunted the Wooly Mammoths. I loved that. "The husbands." As though there were little Cro-Magnon marriage ceremonies. Cashel is highly knowledgeable about Cro-Magnon man.

-- He discovered that I have an irrational fear of spiders. He took full advantage of it. He made a pipe-cleaner spider and kept placing it on my notebook, beside my cup, it kept turning up where I least expected it.

-- We all watched Toy Story 2 (for the 8 billionith time) and had a great time, laughing like maniacs. Mr. Potato Head was KILLING US. His wife packing his bag before they left on their journey to save Woody, she saying, "I'm going to pack your angry eyes..."

-- Jean spearheaded a project to make Mr. Potato Heads using real potatoes. A group trip to Wal-Mart ensued. Much fun was had by all.

-- We took turns reading out loud to him at night. His little giggles beside me, as I read Uncle Wiggly.

-- I love how he is still little enough to submit to sitting on our laps. He loves that. I read to him with him on my lap. I will MISS that when he gets too old!!

-- As I hugged him good-bye I said, "We're definitely coming up again!" He said, "Next weekend?" Heart-crack.

"And that was the Dawn of Time...."

"brothers and sisters, sisters and brothers, ain't we everyo-one..."

A co-worker is buying for her niece the big pink paperback of Free to be You and Me, created by Marlo Thomas 5,000 years ago (read: my childhood).

Free to Be You and Me was HUGE to my generation and I am glad to see it is being passed on. It's VERY 1970s. You know: women can do whatever they want to do, and men can be sensitive ... and blah blah blah - but the best thing about Free to Be You and Me was that it wasn't preachy at all. It was clever. It was witty.

Marlo Thomas called in favors from all of her old friends, to write sketches, write songs, perform on the album. Her friends include luminaries such as Shel Silverstein, Mel Brooks, etc. People with wit, humor. Non-treacly types.

Also, it's hilarious.

My friends and I (all of whom comment on my blog - you will recognize the names Beth and Betsy) were in a production of this when we were ... 11? Something like that.

Does anyone else out there have any intense Free to Be You and Me memories?

Here are a couple of mine:

"There's a land that I see
where the children are free
And I say it ain't far
To this land from where we are
Take my hand, come along
Lend your voice to my song
Come along, take my hand
And we'll li-ive
In the land
Where the children run free
In the land
Of a green country
In the land
Where the horses are free
And you and me are free to be
You and me..."

I can hear the music in my head right now. I feel like I am 8 years old right now.

What else?

"You're bald! You're bald as a ping-pong ball, are you bald!"

"Brothers and sisters
Sisters and brothers
Ain't we every-o-one
Brothers and sisters
Sisters and brothers
Every brother's father
Every mother's so-on..."

"It's all right to cry
Crying gets the sad out of you
It's all right to cry
It might make you feel better..."

"Ladies first! Ladies first!" "BU-URP!"

Anyone else remember anything?

My sister Jean the rock star

Last night, for St. Patrick's Day, my sister had a gig at the Ocean Mist (the shack-bar on the beach I mention often) - singing 6 U2 songs with a friend of hers who is a guitar-player, and who runs the weekly open mike there. Oh MAN if I could have seen that ... Seen Jean wailing out the U2 songs. She's got a great voice. I haven't heard the tales of her experience yet, but I can't wait.

Jean's a middle-school teacher but she has the heart and soul of Joan Jett.

I ended up doing nothing for St. Patrick's Day, as much of a travesty as that might seem. I had plans to go to Molly's Shebeen, one of my favorite pubs in the city, and have some Guinness, some shepherd's pie, and maybe even dance a jig. It's happened before.

But a couple of the friends backed out at last minute for various reasons - and so I just made my merry way home. Through the accumulating snow.

I made dinner. I drank pink lemonade. (I know! It's so pathetic!!) I watched the snow fall. I felt hormonally emotional. I watched "Moonstruck" and laughed out loud. Haven't seen it in years.

"I see a wolf in every person I ever met ... and I see a wolf in you."

"Old man. You give those dogs one more plate of my food and I'll kick you til you're dead."

"I LOST MY HAND! I LOST MY HAND! I LOST MY HAND!"

The entire spectacle of Vincent Gardenia. He's so hilarious.

"Pop, I got news."
"Let's go into the kitchen."

I know this is completely not an exciting post, full of Irish revelry and whiskey-soaked craic and clattering lines of riverdancing children ... but I can't help it.

Jean's the rock-star of the family, in this moment. Wish I had been there.

A wee beannacht

... to all my readers, to the people who come to me every day, and correspond with me, and keep me on my toes, and share their lives with me ... It's kind of amazing, having a blog, when you think about it. I am grateful for each and every one of you. (Well, maybe not that bitch from Norway who stirred up shit in my Madrid posts...) Just kidding.

Anyway, a blessing (beannacht) for you all, on St. Patrick's Day:

Go nueire an Bothar leat.
Go raibh an ghaoth go Brach ag bo chul.
Go lonrai an ghrian go te ar aghaidh
Go dtite an bhaistead go min ar do phairceanna.
Agus go mbuailimid le cheile aris
Go geoinni Dia i mbos A Laimhe Thu.

(I translated that myself so I hope to God it doesn't say: "May you all trip over the curb and skin your knees.")

English below:

May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine upon your face
May the rains fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Three Kings Revisited

Last night, I watched Three Kings, one of my favorite movies. Hadn't seen it in a long time. Definitely hadn't seen it since this latest war in Iraq.

I loved it when I first saw it, years ago, with David and Mitchell. We all were a bit blown away by it. (Not to mention getting to see Marky Mark in his long johns running across the desert. Ouch.) But now I see that the film is prophetic. Prescient. It understood the situation in southern Iraq (well, in all of Iraq, but mostly the situation with the Shia rebellion in the south, and the brutal crushing of that rebellion, and the impact that that has had on international affairs) - this film predicted the world we are living in right now.

And yet it is a complex film. There aren't any easy answers. Every single person in it is a 3-D human being.

I love the Iraqi rebel at the end who refuses to come with them to Iran. Says to George Clooney, "No, I will stay here. I will fight Saddam."

They shake hands. Solemnly. Solemn eye contact. They are two men who understand each other. Who like each other, across the cultural divide. Clooney respects his choice to stay and fight Saddam. The man drives off.

I had this sense of doom, of dying hope ... what will happen to that man? (I realize he's a fictional character.) But for those like him - and there were many like him - the entire country was held prisoner by its own leader - A tyrant is never loved. He is feared, but he is never loved.

I also love the Iraqi prisoner, who joins forces with the Americans to help them get the gold, and also to take them all to Iran. That actor looked so familiar, and then it came to me: He also played the Maori father in Whale Rider. What a wonderful actor!! Cliff Curtis. Damn!

When they all are hiding from the tear gas in the caves, Curtis' character says to the 3 Americans, knowing that they have assumed all kinds of things about him, because, after all, they do not understand the complexity of Iraq, and what is really going on in that country: anyway, he tells them he went to college in the United States, and then came back to open up some hotels in Karbala, and he was mostly pissed because the Americans had "bombed all my cafes".

This is a practical entrepreneurial view of life, it is not just a country of desert peasants, it is a country trying to get ahead, filled with people trying to live their lives, support their families, enjoy their work, get paid. People are not political pamphlets. No matter what your background, your ethnicity, your religion: you can understand a man who wants to have a good job so he can support his family. A universal truth.

He says to George Clooney later, "We just want to live life. Have a good business."

The film is strangely moving. It's very deep. The transformation of the American soldiers from greedy thieves to men who have an understanding of the complexity of the situation they have found themselves in - amazing. Their sudden realization, when looking at the poverty-struck people in Karbala, scooping up the spilled milk out of the dusty streets, desperate for food, fearing for their lives - the Americans watching this, realizing that maybe there is a chance to use their military power to do some good. Even if it is just a drop in the bucket. A drop in the bucket in this case being helping some Iraqi refugees get into Iran, completely disobeying American policy towards Iran.

The 3 Kings give up their egos, the ego of the victor (remember the opening scenes, with all the soldiers dancing and drinking and waving American flags) - to something more graceful, and with more depth. More human understanding. Nobody really won in that situation. Kuwait was "liberated", yes, but the Shiites in the south were lambs for the slaughter. It happened under the eyes of the world. Saving the Shiites was not what we were there for.

I loved when they all were crowded into the back of the Humvee, on their way to the Iranian border - Iraqi refugees, 2 of the 3 American Kings - and then a couple of other American soldiers who had come out to meet them, secretly, with medical supplies and the news reporter. And Mark Wahlberg's character (he'll always be Marky Mark to me) says to the new Americans in the group - "Have you guys met everyone? This is Kayid ... this is Abdul ..."

Shaking hands all around, as the Humvee pulls out, now a getaway car.

The humanity of that moment.

Fantastic film. Groundbreaking, I think. It was kind of ignored when it first came out - we saw it in a nearly empty theatre - yet I believe that it will be looked back upon as a pretty important moment, in terms of movie-making.

Winter has me in its grip

The snow fell pretty much all day yesterday. It was rather odd, after the relatively balmy weather of last week. The snow did not turn to rain, it continued to accumulate, and I had to struggle through drifts in my inappropriate shoes to get to my doorway.

I woke up this morning to see icicles hanging off the tree branches outside, and my window sills drifted with snow.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard the cries of the geese returning. A sure sign of spring. Where did the geese go? Are they all right? They hang out at the reservoir by my house ... but do they freak when it snows? Do they hide? Do they die? I worried about them obsessively this morning.

Pay it forward

Last night, I had a long and riotous conversation with my friend Mitchell, and a brief interlude when Alex got onto the phone, and we raved about our lives, and James Joyce, and many other topics.

Mitchell was telling me about his upcoming summer job - when he will be - er - what exactly is your title, Mitchell? - with Circus Smirkus - a traveling circus, "where kids from across the US and around the world collaborate with professional circus coaches to immerse themselves in exciting, entertaining, and life-enhancing adventures under the Big Top!" Mitchell is very involved in these kids lives. He loves them. He is invested in their futures. And they love him right back. One of the kids from last summer (this is Mitchell's second season with the circus) recently called Mitchell to tell him about his triumph as a wrestler, and that he had also been accepted into one of the best culinary schools in the country - a goal he had confessed to Mitchell last summer. Many of these kids come from nothing, they have had a tough road ... and their exposure to life outside their small realm in many cases saves their lives. They come to the circus camp and they have to learn discipline, being on time, having respect for authority, going farther than they think they can, pushing themselves beyond what they think are their limits ... all life-skills which will serve them so well.

Mitchell said, in re: culinary-school kid, "He got the letter from the school, and he called me. How cool is that?"

I wrote an essay a while back about a teacher who, in my estimation, saved Mitchell's life when she read Stuart Little to the class.

So when Mitchell was telling me about how amazing these kids are, and how great it is to see them succeed in life - I said, "You know what you're doing here, my friend? You are paying it forward, baby. You are doing the Stuart Little pay it forward."

Mitchell started hollering, "I'M PAYIN' IT FORWARD, MAN, I'M PAYIN' IT FORWARD!"

I calmed down. I said, "I actually hated that movie."

Mitchell said, "I did, too. It was so sickly sweet that I think I developed Type A diabetes while watching it."

I howled. Type A diabetes? Not any other type?

I love how Mitchell's mind works.

Firsts, Lasts

Since I just can't get my act together to post anything original, here is a questionnaire-thingy making the rounds. I picked it up from Tony Pierce.

I'm gonna blow right through it, see what the hell comes out.

Other bloggers' answers:
More: Here's Dan's list. My favorite line: "I fear: clowns".

Here's Emily's.

Here's Bill's.

And here's Rad Rad World's. This part is my favorite: "HAVE A CRUSH: A weird little man crush on Bruce Willis". Man-crush. Love it.

And here's Mark Lippert's answers. I liked this answer: "GET MOTION SICKNESS: Only during The Blair Witch Project." I went to that movie with a friend who had to leave because she started feeling dizzy and nauseous.

Our very own Mike R fills out the questionnaire. The fact that he is "searching for" Carole Lombard makes him OKAY in my book!! Love that woman.

Big Stupid Tommy. I also get weepy every time I see Field of Dreams, and Ray says to his dad, "Have a catch?"

Kinuk's answers. Read what she had for breakfast. It made my mouth water and made me think: Jeez, scarfing down a yogurt as you charge down 8th Avenue is no way to have the first meal of the morning.

Congratulations to Ben Kepple, for filling out his questionnaire in first-person singular. I can't even believe he dropped the royal "we" but he DID.

It's cool, in a weird way. You learn stuff about people when you read questionnaires like this. Sure, you learn stuff in a kind of pointilistic way, but still, it's interesting.

FIRSTS
First job: clerk, Kingston Free Library
First screen name: can't remember. It was an AOL screen name.
First self purchased CD: I'm gonna go with "first self-purchased album" because I am as old as Methuseleh. My first self-purchased album was ELO's "Time"
First piercing/tattoo: Ears pierced at age 15, tattoo on shoulder, age whatever
First true love: Antonio
First enemy: Miss Rogers, my 4th grade teacher. She sucks.

LASTS
Last big car ride: Drove to Maine with my sister, doing it again this weekend
Last kiss: from a man named Erik whose nickname was "Crazy Erik". Let's just say that the nickname suited his personality perfectly. In the best way, possible.
Last library book checked out: Damn, not in ages. I buy books. I'm nuts like that
Last movie seen: Whale Rider, rented it the other night. Amazing
Last beverage drank: Water.
Last food consumed: Chicken with vegetables.
Last phone call: With Maria
Last CD played: The Eminem Show
Last annoyance: how slow my computer is
Last pop drank: ginger ale, last night
Last ice cream eaten: don't eat ice cream
Last time scolded: drawing a blank.
Last shirt worn: black sweater

I....
I AM: a morning person
I WANT: to be published, and to get married
I HAVE: 2 huge boxes of index cards in my closet, where I keep detailed notes on world events. They're crazy. A work-in-progress, obviously
I WISH: that I had a time-machine and could travel about
I HATE: close-mindedness, hardness of heart. I also hate hate HATE coconut
I FEAR: going blind
I HEAR: that Billy Bob Thornton never cheated on Angelina - his infidelity was just a rumor
I SEARCH: for knowledge, for the perfect lipstick
I WONDER: if I'll have kids
I REGRET: that a certain blue-eyed man and I never gave it a real shot
I LOVE: the movie Encino Man. Think it's hilarious.
I ALWAYS: screen my phone calls
I AM NOT: a crook
I DANCE: in front of my mirror, on occasion, with Foo Fighters or Nirvana blaring
I SING: the body electric
I CRY: at that commercial for the cell phones where the woman is on the bus, listening to her son play the piano at a school concert over her cell phone.

YES or NO:
YOU KEEP A DIARY: Yes. More so in the past than now
YOU LIKE TO COOK: No - but I do anyway.
YOU HAVE A SECRET YOU HAVE NOT SHARED WITH ANYONE: Yes

DO YOU...?
HAVE A CRUSH: Does Ewan McGregor count?
WANT TO GET MARRIED: yes
GET MOTION SICKNESS: No. I am a roller-coaster afficianado, and I love it when New York cabbies drive like maniacs.
THINK YOURE A HEALTH FREAK: Not really. But I wash my hands obsessively throughout the day
CURRENT HAIR COLOR: Red
EYE COLOR: Grey
BIRTHPLACE: Beantown

FAVORITES
NUMBER: 7
COLOR: purple
DAY: Thursday is a good day
MONTH: November
SONG(S): At the moment, "14th Street" by Rufus Wainwright
SEASON: autumn
DRINK: scotch and soda

PREFERENCES
CUDDLE OR MAKE OUT: Make out. I hate cuddling.
CHOCOLATE MILK, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: I don't do chocolate
MILK, DARK OR WHITE CHOCOLATE: I don't do chocolate
VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE: I don't do chocolate

IN THE LAST 24 HRS, HAVE YOU...
CRIED? No
HELPED SOMEONE? Held open door for old man
BOUGHT SOMETHING? Yes. Yogurt. Coffee.
GOTTEN SICK? No
GONE TO THE MOVIES? No
SAID 'i love you'?: No
WRITTEN A REAL LETTER: Yes - to my grandmother
TALKED TO AN EX?: No
MISSED AN EX?: Every day
WRITTEN IN A JOURNAL?: No. Well, my blog, of course!
HAD A SERIOUS TALK?: No
MISSED SOMEONE? Yes
HUGGED SOMEONE? No
MADE A GIRL MOAN? Not that I'm aware of, but you never know.

Hush'd

Hush'd Be the Camps Today
May 4, 1865
by Walt Whitman

Hush'd be the camps today,
And soldiers let us drape our war-worn weapons,
And each with musing soul retire to celebrate,
Our dear commander's death.
No more for him life's stormy conflicts,
Nor victory, nor defeat -- no more time's dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.
But sing poet in our name,
Sing of the love we bore him -- because you, dweller in camps, know it truly.
As they invault the coffin there,
Sing -- as they close the doors of earth upon him -- one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

Beauty

Sheer beauty.

I've got the blues today. My voice is on mute. But that collapsing ice wall is awe-inspiring, and I wanted to post it.

Also, came across an amusing quote. Here it is:

"You mean, like a book?" - Justin Timberlake, when asked for the best thing he read all year

My self-imposed reading list

It was my President's Day extravaganza which catapulted me into mania.

I have begun a tear through biographies of the Founding Fathers. Some I have read already, some are new.

Last year, I read David McCullough's stupendous achievement, John Adams. Unbelievable. The book, even in paperback, has to weigh 15 pounds.

But after Presidents Day, I made up a list - and have been tearing on through it.

-- I read a biography of Alexander Hamilton.

-- I re-read the correspondence of John and Abigail Adams. Never fails to take my breath away.

-- I read a biography of Thomas Jefferson (I know - there are so many out there - but I wanted a standard one - not a "let's re-open the case of Thomas Jefferson" blah blah. I wanted your basic biography without any axes to grind. I found one. Finished that last week.)

-- This week, I started a biography of Ben Franklin. It is called The First American. He is blowing me away. How he basically tripped over the discovery of wind-surfing, at, like, the age of 13, because he didn't want to stop flying his kite while he was swimming. He wanted to be able to do BOTH activities, simultaneously. Right now, he just moved to London for the first time, in the 1720s, on the false promises of some lying governor, who told him he would set him up as a printer in London ... It all turned out to be a lie, the governor had no connections in London - but of course Ben Franklin, after struggling a bit, landed on his feet. But now he's heading back to Philadelphia. I'll probably talk more about what I'm learning in this biography at a later date.

After Ben?

I need to "do" George Washington.

Founding Fathers reading list. I should probably go to the Strand. They have an enormous American history section, with 2nd hand books - which are usually the best.

More girlie goodness

My friend Betsy had HER birthday on Friday. What with the Spain bombings, I forgot all about it.

Betsy and I have been friends since 5th grade. I do not remember how the friendship blossomed (Bets - do you?) - but it must have been a pretty instantaneous connection.

The main thrust of the start of our friendship was our shared love (should we say OBSESSION) for the musical of "Oliver Twist". We went into a world of our own with this obsession. We would sit on top of the jungle gym at recess and sing through the entire score, song by song, with a crowd of children listening to us. We were a Rhode Island version of Maria Von Trapp, apparently.

Betsy and I wrote a book together. It was called "What Lies Below the Well". I wish I still had that manuscript. It was a mixture of Lion, Witch and Wardrobe, and Oliver Twist.

At one point, one character peers down the well and says, "I see something down there!"

Another character says, "What do you see?"

First character replies, "A long thin winding staircase without any bannister!"

(It's a line from a song in Oliver, for those who are, sadly, not in the know.)

Imagine how thrilled we were when, in 6th grade, the school musical was announced, and it was going to be "Oliver".

Betsy (11 years old) was cast as Nancy, the whore with a heart of gold.

I was cast as the Artful Dodger, the mischievous pickpocket who acts as Oliver's guide. "Consider yourself - AT home - Consider yourself - one of the family..."

I even did a Cockney accent. I was committed.

Betsy and I leapt up and down in the hallways at school, when we heard the news, and cried, and hugged.

Our friendship has spanned the decades.

Other jokes through the years:

-- We always spoke in English accents. We thought people would be impressed. Why, I have no idea.

-- We would walk from her house to the gym on the University campus after school and go swimming for an hour. Chattering the entire time to one another in English accents. For some reason, we liked to pretend that we had to walk 20 miles to get to the gym. That was part of our game. One or the other of us would sigh, in a British accent, "10 more miles!"

-- We used to sit in her room after school and tape ourselves doing skits which we thought were supremely hilarious. Betsy would play her autoharp and I would sing. Now THAT is a funny image. The autoharp!!

-- Betsy's father, an Episcopal priest, ran a camp in the north of Rhode Island - a work camp. It was a tree farm, and kids would flock to the camp every summer to work the tree farm. A work camp where you would have Bible study classes, and go out and cut trees down all day. I know, it sounds so fun, right? I went every summer. Even though I am Catholic. It was so freakin' FUN. There was one week called "Music Camp", which was hilariously fun. The whole camp took music workshops, acting workshops, put on a musical ... All while living in little cabins in the woods, and working on the tree farm as well. We would wake up at 7 in the morning and all run to go to church, which was held in a huge drafty barn. I guess you could say I had some of my first intense spritual experiences at camp. God seemed realler there. And now - in a beautiful "all is right with the world" kind of way: Betsy runs Music Camp.

-- There have been times when I laughed so hard with Betsy I thought I might perish off the face of the earth.

-- One day, in high school, during "spirit week" (did you all ever have spirit week? School spirit week - where one day would be Hawaiian Day, one day would be Pajama Day - and you would come to school in costumes?) Anyway, Betsy and Mere, another great friend, were hanging out in the school library in their pajamas, during study hall. They were in a slapstick mood. Wearing your pajamas as you ride a school bus will do that to you. They had waterguns, and they began to chase each other through the stacks, ambushing each other in true Charlie's Angels style. Mrs. Wood, the rather imperious librarian, came around the corner and said, sternly, "Girls. Do I need to send you down to the principal's office, or do you need a babysitter?" Bad move - to give the girls a choice. Betsy and Mere glanced at each other, then looked back at Mrs. Wood and said, in unison: "I think we need a babysitter."

-- Betsy made her own dress for the senior prom. A lace extravaganza the exact style of which, unfortunately, ended up on a Leeza Gibbons show many years later, entitled: "Embarrassing Fashions from the 80s." It's okay, Bets. You looked great.

-- Betsy is one of the most loving supportive and friendly women I know. She is "good people", you know what I mean? She understands struggle - she is one of those people that you can go to with your problems, or when you're panicking about something stupid - because she will understand.

-- She never really says what you might expect her to say. Her wisdom is her own.

You're the best, dear Betsy. Happy birthday.

Trivial post on girlie-girl topics

The gloom of world-events has descended upon me. I will shake it off by telling the story of my Saturday night, with a slight digression into girlie-girl trivia.

Saturday night was the 40th birthday bash of one of my dearest and oldest friends, Brooke. I have known Brooke since I was 17 years old. We went to college together. Our friendship is long and deep. With many hilarious interludes. Despite our status as grown women, there are still occasions where she and I become like 16 year olds, bopping to the tunes we picked out at the jukebox, giggling about our friends, and gossiping like magpies.

The party was held at a huge warehouse-loft space in the meat-packing district. The cobblestoned meat-packing district on the far west side of lower Manhattan.

It felt like everyone that I have ever known was there.

The college crowd ... so many of us living in New York City ... still intricately involved in each other's lives. It is such a blessing. And, I think, rather odd and rare.

My first boyfriend was there, to give you an indication of the level of weirdness.

The party spanned many hours. I drank martinis. I lolled about on random couches with old friends, talking the night away. Deep talk, talk of renewing old ties, uproarious laughter about our adventures of old.

I would look around and see people I have known since I was a teenager, clustered in different groups, laughing, interrupting each other, talking.

We have all known one another for 20 years. The amazing thing is that this was not really a "reunion", of any kind. We don't need a reunion since we all still see each other with an almost every-day regularity. I am a person who nurtures my friendships, I never let people go if I love them once. I feel very lucky.

At one point, a couple of us talked about it: It has been 20 years. We are all still friends. I still talk to them on the phone, I have get-togethers with the college girlfriends once or twice a month, there is a continuity in our friendships ... I made the comment that it is not just "luck". It is a combination of luck and will. We willed this to occur.

Now, onto the girlie-girl part of things:

I primped for this party for 3 hours. This is not my style, but I succumbed to it whole-heartedly.

I went a little bit insane, with the primping. Let's just say that once the primping began, it took on the character of a run-away train. But a very very specific run-away train.

--The outfit was carefully chosen. Long black billowing Lana Turner-esque pants, a little black sheath top, and then this deep-maroon lace shirt to go over the sheath ... The lace thing clings to my form, so that when it's on, my arms actually look like they are covered in Maori tattooes or something.

--I bought new shoes. The heels are teeteringly high, and the shoes themselves are the latest style. By that I mean: the toe of the shoe comes out to a point, so that you look like the Wicked Witch of the West. My shoes will be out of style next year, but I figured I would participate in the trend.

-- I broke out the hot rollers. By the time I was done, my head was a cascade of boingy-bong curls.

-- Here is the level of insanity: My lipstick matched my nail polish matched my earrings. That is a coup d'etat of fashion obsessive-compulsive-disorder rarely accomplished in the world of Sheila Low-Maintenance O'Malley.

-- I actually used a magazine article on eye shadow application to do my eyes. I was quite proud of myself. I normally have no patience for makeup. I throw on some mascara, some lipstick, and I'm good to go. But for this party, I went all out. Embarrassingly so.

I was not alone. Everyone showed up at this party looking like a million bucks. All of the women, including myself, had fabulous cleavage on display. We all remarked on it, admiring one another's racks..

"Look at Liz's cleavage! Awesome!"

"Wow - your boobs look amazing."

"The boobs around me are absolutely spectacular. A very good showing."

Etc. etc.

I sat on the couch with the first boyfriend and we howled with laughter about our 2 month trip cross-country years ago. At the time, the trip seemed like a never-ending odyssey of pain and tragedy, but time has dulled all of that, and now all we can see is the comedy.

Our thwarted night of camping at Roosevelt National Park ... the camp stove leaking onto boyfriend's sleeping bag ... I mean, honestly. The camp stove leak was a tragedy on the level of an entire civilization dying. And on Saturday night, all we had to say was, "Member the camp stove?" and we rolled around the couch in laughter.

We also were guffawing about this STUPID song I made up, during our trip, about prairie dogs, sung to the tune of "On the Street Where You Live", from My Fair Lady. It's so stupid, so comical, so RIDICULOUS.

It was fun to laugh with him again. After so many years.

We sang "happy birthday" to Brooke at exactly 1:04 am, the time of her actual birth.

And Mary, one of Brooke's friends, said, "I have an idea - why doesn't everyone sing a song - that reminds them of Brooke - We'll go around, and everyone will sing something!"

I could feel the ripples of fear and discomfort.

My friend David, another old college buddy, leapt into the fray. He said, "Oh, I've got a good one. I can't sing or anything ... and maybe I won't remember the words ... but this song, more than anything, reminds me of Brooke."

And David - a big burly football-playing man, a father of two - stood there and sang, a capella, "Still Crazy After All These Years".

The candles flickering around the loft space, the darkness of the meat-packing district outside, and all of my friends - my friends for 20 + years now - standing around, listening to him belt out the song. He sang it with such openness, such passion (I saw his wife well up with tears as he sang) - It was such an acknowledgement. Such a gift. God. It was amazing. I felt like I had to be the most blessed woman on the planet.

I met my old lover on the street last night
She seemed so glad to see me I just smiled
And we talked about some old times and we drank ourselves some beer
Still crazy after all these years
I'm not the kind of man who tends to socialize
I seem to lean on old familiar ways
And I aint no fool for love songs
That whisper in my ears
Still crazy afler all these years
Oh, still crazy after all these years
Now I sit by my window
And I watch the cars
I fear I'll do some damage
One fine day
But I would not be convicted
By a jury of my peers
Still crazy after all these years
Oh, still crazy
Still crazy
Still crazy after all these years

We all just erupted into cheers and applause when he finished, hugging each other, laughing, in tears.

Still crazy after all these years.

I must say

The world is too much with me, late and soon

And Israel, too

11 dead.

Police said the bombers may have been trying to blow themselves up near chemicals, causing far greater loss of life.

It's evil. That's all there is to it. Choosing a location in order to ensure far greater loss of life.

Forces of chaos and darkness gaining power.

Oh Jeez

It's always a bit alarming when you wake up and find yourself being hit with an Insta-bombardment.

Unfortunately, the title of my post below "Shared Grief" is obviously revealed as a fallacy, since many, apparently, do not "share the grief" with the Spaniards. (Read the comments.)

Well, bully to them for being so close-minded and cold.

My heart is with Spain today. If there were people who supported terrorists in that country, perhaps their hearts will change, now that the war has been brought to their doorstep. After all, this happened for many of us in America.

I will speak for myself: my complacence, my intellectual curiosity about world events (as opposed to a gut-level understanding), my feeling that it was always "over there" was given an enormous shock on a blindingly-blue-skied day 4 years ago.

Many of us in America had to have a very steep learning curve.

Let us give Spain that room as well, people.

Or you know what? Perhaps being attacked like this WON'T change the hearts of many people - but I can't control that - and I don't even GIVE a shit about that right now. All I can think of is that line of body bags, with cell phones ringing off the hook. I cannot hear about such a thing and not just ACHE for those trying to call their loved ones. At a time like this, that is all that matters.

Or - whatever. Do whatever the hell you want to do, but I intend to give Spain that room. That learning curve. I stand by them.

You can't understand certain things until they happen to you. Like childbirth, or the death of a parent, or a violent terrorist attack right on your soil. And I'm a New Yorker. I experienced it first-hand.

Yes, I remember the photo of the gleeful ignorant Spanish girls, at an anti-war protest in Madrid, wearing suicide belts and bikinis. I was horrified at the image. Horrified.

But ... er ... because of that ... because there were anti-war protests in the country ... I'm not going to feel terrible because 200 innocent people were just slaughtered?

Fuck off. That's not who I am. That's not how I live my life in this world. Fuck off.

There are ignorant people in every country.

This week, my heart is with the innocent people who were cruelly murdered, on their way to work, and on their way to school. My heart is with the men and women who are now widows, the children who are now orphans.

/begin bitter sarcastic tone
And you know what?? Oh my GOD, maybe some of those people on those trains were anti-war!! Maybe some of the people on those trains hated the US!! Maybe some of the people on those trains DIDN'T AGREE WITH EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY OPINIONS! How DARE they?? Don't they know that I am ALWAYS RIGHT???
/end bitter sarcastic tone

There is nothing that I have more contempt for, in this moment, than people who hold that blinkered political-filter view.

My heart is with Spain. Just like my heart was with the people of Iran when they had the massive earthquake. They're human beings. Jesus Christ.

We're talking about precious human life here.

I share grief with Spain. I say it proudly.

And now.

Off to the White Horse Tavern. The famed White Horse Tavern. To cavort with some friends.

A necessary respite.

Everyone. Have a safe and fun weekend.

Shared grief

Leave it to Michele

Something has been eating away at me - and I remembered a post from last month, written by Michele, who (as she so often does) puts into words what is bugging me:

I've managed to keep a lot of friends who are so liberal they make Indymedia look like NewsMax. I manage to still be friends with people who are anti-war, who poke fun at my politics or march against the things I stand for - and vote against them, too. I've accepted that basic fact that everyone is different. If I stopped talking to people who have values opposite mine, I would be a very lonely person.

Me too.

Comment

I saw a picture at one of the demonstrations in Spain today. A kid holding up a sign which said, in Spanish, "We were all on that train."

I feel that way today with the people of Spain. I felt that way when the massacre happened in Bali.

We do not know yet who committed this atrocity in Spain. It is not for me to speculate.

But in terms of the larger picture - I am with Samuel Huntington, in some respects - and I agree with his theory that what we are seeing now is a "clash of civilizations". World wars will never be the same, where one clear-cut country wages war against another clear-cut country. This is an entire civilization attacking another civilization. Because of its IDEAS. It is much more amorphous, harder to pin down. The "root causes" float about, sticking together, coming apart, like mercury. Nobody can even agree on what the hell is going on.

I talked with my friend David about this the other night.

Change, adapt, or die out. A civilization that cannot adapt will not survive.

Western civilization has had its ups and downs. It has not been an ever-increasing road uphill, to greater and greater heights of glory and perfection. There is no such thing as a Utopia. The journey has been a mess. Chaotic. Only with the long perspective of centuries can you look back on it and figure out what happened, how certain things came to be, how certain movements or certain pamphlets or certain philosophers helped shape our world. The Age of Enlightenment, the Age of Reason transformed our civilization. Separation of church and state, rendering Caesar's stuff to Caesar and God's stuff to God - This is a new concept. It is RADICAL. Revolutionary.

It took us a long time to get there, and we still (obviously), (in this country and in others), struggle with what exactly that means. Separation of church and state. Separation of powers. Power-sharing. Bloodless transfers of power. This shit continues to blow my mind, when I look at the bloody chaos of so much of the rest of the world.

It has taken centuries of philosphers, theologians, writers, poets to formulate these ideas, to fight things out, hash things out, to argue, debate, find the checks, find the balances, learn the value of giving UP some of your individual power for the good of the GROUP ...

This shit is hard stuff. It requires vigilance, restraint, and debate.

I don't care who you are in the world, or what nation you belong to. If you also feel that you were on that train in Spain - if you also feel that the values of this civilization (liberty, equality, freedom of religion, separate the Caesar from God) - then you are my kin.

We are the same. We were all on that train.

Quote

"I don't know what you could say about a day in which you have seen four beautiful sunsets."

- John Glenn

Diary Friday

A long rambling journal entry I wrote some years back on the nature of happiness. For some reason, after the chaos of yesterday - it came to mind. Happiness is meant to be fleeting, momentary. It is not meant to last, time immemorial. It is just not the nature of the beast.

At least that's how I see it.

May 1993

Happiness is such a weird thing. I no longer know what it is. The word itself seems silly to me. Simplistic. Joy sounds more appropriate. Appropriately fleeting, more indicative of the actual thing. A flash, a burst, a revelation – here – and vivid and true and wonderful and then gone.

A moment.

But I appreciate such moments. I try to anyway.

Like standing in the back at Lounge Ax, with Max [Ed: an old flame.] We were watching the show [Ed: a Pat McCurdy show], and at some point, a joke started between us. I kept calling him "mean-spirited." I would say something, and he would make some face, or react in some cranky way, and I would say, "No need for such a hostile face", and it all boiled down to me calling him (or at least his facial expressions) "mean-spirited." It wouldn't even be part of a sentence. He'd give me a look, or make some cranky comment, and I would state flatly, "Mean-spirited."

The first time I said it, we got into this big brou-haha.

He jerked himself up when I said it, and balked at it. "Mean-spirited? I'm not mean-spirited. That wasn't a mean-spirited face."

"Uh. It was totally mean-spirited."

Even his so-called mean-spiritedness makes me laugh.

So after that, because he seemed so sensitive about it (maybe touchy is a better word), I couldn't stop myself. Also, sorry, but they WERE mean-spirited faces! Not seriously mean-spirited, but in that pissy irritable short-tempered cranky way he has at times. So anyway, I would say something, and he would argue me in this cranky tone, and I would reply, in a tired voice, "Mean-spirited."

The third or fourth time it happened (with a big argument after each one: "Mean-spirited? That wasn't mean-spirited! I'm not mean-spirited!") – he confronted me. I was laughing in his face. I was teasing him. He was such an easy target.

He exploded: "I'M NOT MEAN-SPIRITED."

I did an imitation of his cranky face, and said, "That was mean-spirited."

"You think that was mean-spirited?? Well, how 'bout this?" He made a face.

I labeled it. "Mean-spirited."

"This?" He made another face.

"Oh God. So mean-spirited."

Another face. I nodded. "Very mean-spirited."

This charade went on and on and on. If anyone had been watching us from afar, they would have had no clue what the hell we were doing. He just kept making face after face after face after face, mean-spirited scowly faces (but each subtly different) – with me saying, right in his face, "Mean-spirited. Mean-spirited. Mean-spirited. Mean-spirited. Mean-spirited." An innocent bystander would have taken one look at that and thought: What the hell is going on over there?

He was a cranky slide show. I provided commentary.

Then he made one totally goofy face, different from all the others. God, I can see it now. Big buggy eyes, a goofy huge smile – he looked retarded and very happy. I started to say, out of habit, "Mean-spirited" but then – I just broke down into laughs – and said, "Okay, that was just funny."

It made him laugh too. He could feel how funny the face was.

And then later, after the show, we were deciding what we wanted to do next – Maybe he asked me what I wanted to do – and for whatever reason, I got shy, I felt insecure, whatever, and I answered his question, in kind of a little-girl voice, "I don't know … what do you want to do?"

Basically, I became a jackass.

It just slipped out.

And he pounced on it, and said, imitating my baby-voice, "I don't know – what do you want to do??"

I said, "Woah. Mean-spirited."

Max said (and this was his best line of the night): "Mean-spirited? No, that wasn't mean-spirited. That was even handed."

I just ROARED with laughter. "You are so right!!"

He laughed too. It was a great laugh. It felt good. The whole thing suddenly just felt so good, so unembattled. So free.

To me, that is the meaning of joy.

Happiness is not a word I "get", as I have said. At least on a huge scale. I don't believe that there is such a thing as a "happy" person. How could there be? Maybe you get to a point in your life when you are over your wild mood swings and caring so much about stuff that you have a nervous breakdown every 10 minutes, and you can say, "Well, I take the good with the bad." (Or "bad with good" is probably a better way to put it) "I take the bad with the good, and all in all, I can say that I am happy. It is a good life."

But I'm not sure about that.

I have flashes, sensations, moments – like the "mean-spirited" game with Max – but mostly these sensations of happiness are tied up with images, sensory reality. These are the things I subconsciously hold onto when I plummet.

Here are some of the images that stay in my brain – actually, no. Not even in my brain. They are remembered images. Not thoughts or plans or ideas, or anything cerebral. All of this stuff is remembered in my soul, in my DNA. Most of these sensations of joy last a second, if that long. But in that second, I seem to live a fuller life, and see things in a more vivid way, and I take a huge breath of freezing air, and everything that comes after that moment of joy is colored by it. How could it not be?

I was walking home from an audition. Mitchell and I had just moved to Ashland. I live about a 20 minute walk away from Shiel Park, where the audition was. It was light out when I walked there, and dark when I got out of the audition. I shouldn't have walked home. I realize that now. But I was new to the neighborhood. I cut over to Ashland on Irving Park (a mistake.) Irving Park is a street that is basically falling apart. People roam the streets, no one stays in their apartments, everyone just roams about. The sidewalk stoops were crowded – but only with men. There was not a woman to be seen on the streets.

So I was walking by the stoops, all dressed up, and within moments, Irving Park became Street O' Catcalls.

I did my usual "I am deaf I am blind I am dumb" act. Although I did have a couple of fluttery internal moments, keeping my eye on Ashland at the end of the block. Determined. Determined that I would not be ambushed.

Despite all of this, it was a beautiful night. Warm, blue-black, and high up in the sky behind me – a golden full moon.

I did not stop to moon-gaze though. Obviously.

But then – across the street from me – I saw an amazing thing. And I couldn't help myself. I stopped, and stared.

Across the street was what looked like an old abandoned house. Blackened, falling apart, sagging, broken windows, but someone obviously lived there. There were straggly curtains blowing out of the broken windows. There was a porch, with a roof over it, and 2nd story broken windows looking out onto the roof. And sitting on that porch-roof, on the very edge, watching the cars go by, checking out all the action, was this gorgeous black and white husky dog. He looked like a wolf. Like a wild wolf, sitting on a roof on Irving Park. You just knew his eyes were that ice-blue. He looked like a wild animal in the middle of the decaying urban landscape. Incredible. He just looked so COOL, and sailing above him, behind the house, was the glowing moon, and he was just the COOLEST dog. That's all I can say. He was so COOL. Just sitting there, on the roof. I suddenly did not care about the hissing men on the stoop behind me. I stopped and just looked at the haunted house, who the hell lives in that blackened place, the moon above, and the damn DOG.

I was all the way across the street but I whistled to get the attention of the wolf. I didn't think he'd hear me, but he did. His head shot my way, ears sticking up, alert, and he STARED at me. We stared at each other. He was spectacular. I couldn't see his eyes that far away, but I could feel his attention on me. Those icy husky eyes. Like Max's eyes.

Looking at the dog, eye contact with the dog, the moon, the house … I felt something. Something big. It moved me.

Happy?

I don't know. Something. Joy. Joy in the image. Joy in the sensory details. The entire image was 100% satisfying to me. Sheer pleasure in what I see and hear.

This is what I value. This is how I recognize joy.

Here's another image, or set of images that I hold dear. I turn them over and over, smoothing them like moonstones in my head, because the images soothe me.

It was a Saturday night. I was kind of down. Hormonal, maybe. Can't remember why. I was blue. Trying valiantly to shake it. I had had acting class with Bobby that day, and during a sensory exercise, something popped inside me, something I hadn't felt there at all – I hadn't felt any pressure of something that needed to burst, or something hidden I needed to express – but something was there – and suddenly I was screaming and pounding my fists on the floor. Like a maniac. It was exhausting. And fun. But I was wiped out. David drove me and Bobby home. Bobby was very pleased about the work done by everyone in class. He said, flatly, "Today, in particular, you all looked like inmates in an insane asylum." A high compliment indeed.

That evening, Mitchell and I were going over to David and Maria's for dinner. We stood on the Belmont L platform, waiting for the train.

It was a wild night. Windy. Dark. A big big storm was coming. It was in the air. You could smell it in the air. I love storms, and I love to be out in a storm. Something rises up in me, big and strong and excited and fierce, to meet the storm. It was already night, but you could still tell that the sky was thick with clouds.

The L platform for some reason was crowded with rowdy obnoxious high school students. About 20 of them. Mitchell and I separated ourselves from them, and stood down the platform a-ways. Two 14 (or so) year old girls were sitting on the steps of the transfer platform. They had long hair whipping around their faces, big jackets, they were talking too loud, and too much, and they were blowing bubbles. Constantly. The wind was so fierce and so strong that the two girls would just hold out their arms into the wind and let a stream of bubbles fly away.

It was borderline obnoxious, because I kind of wanted to concentrate on the storm, but after a while – I liked it. The bubbles were magic. Incessant. Like harbingers of something, something special.

The L platform lights are a swimmy orange. They make everything look very weird. They turn your skin a sicky grey color. The bubbles were floating and careening through this orange, then across the tracks and away …

From the Belmont L, you can see, in the distance, the Sears Tower, monstrosity that it is, red lights flashing. The clouds weren't low enough to cut off the top of the Tower. And in the sky, down around the Sears Tower, was one of the most violent and amazing lightning storms I have ever seen.

It was mesmerizing. I didn't want the train to come.

There was no thunder. Just lightning.

We watched the lightning show downtown as though we were little kids watching fireworks. I gasped. I clapped my hands. It exhilarated me.

The sky was a really thick deep blue, dark-grey, and the lightning was blinding white, and constant. Forks forking off of other forks, lighting up the whole sky, being reflected in the glossy black walls of the Sears Tower. The Sears Tower, standing its ground in the middle of all this. The huge wind. The bubbles all around us, filling the air.

Mitchell and I just stood there, and soaked it all in. The many many elements of the scene. I opened my heart to it.

And suddenly, Mitchell was hugging me. This tight tight hug. I hugged him back, and we held onto each other, in complete awe of the beauty of the night, hugging amidst the wind and the bubbles.

I found joy in that moment. Not happiness, that word is shallow to me. But deep and profound joy. It stays with me. I did not have to reach for the sensation. It was suddenly just there. And it stays with me.

From Instapundit

The address of the Spanish embassy:

2375 Pennsylvania Ave. N.W. - Washington, D.C. 20037
202.452.0100

(thanks Glenn, for the info)

Remember how the world stood still for us in the aftermath of September 11. (Thanks Michele - Even today, years after 2001, looking through these photos, I am overwhelmed by love and humility.) How people from across the world visited our embassies, lit candles, left cards and notes. Had moments of silence ... from Moscow to Denmark to Berlin.

The Spanish deserve just as much.

From Miss Jones: A list of all the Spanish consulates.

One last thing, from one of Michele's commenters: "1800flowers.com demands a first and last name. Inocencio Aris is the ambassador to the UN, and should suffice. I stuck "(or any official)" on the same line as his last name, just in case."

Spain

It's so terrible. Jesus.

The Command Post is covering it.

My thoughts, prayers, love, sympathy are with the people of Spain today. Horrible.

God be with them.

In regards to ETA, Al-Qaeda, and terrorist plots - go and visit Jane Galt. She has asked some questions of her readers - questions that I have asked myself, from time to time. Looks like it is going to be a very good discussion.

Update: Letter from Al Qaeda, apparently claiming responsibility. No link on Fox News yet. But here's what Reuters in Dubai says:

A letter purporting to come from Osama bin Laden (news - web sites)'s al Qaeda network claimed responsibility for the train bombings in Spain on Thursday, calling them strikes against "crusaders," a London-based Arabic newspaper said.

"We have succeeded in infiltrating the heart of crusader Europe and struck one of the bases of the crusader alliance," said the letter which called the attacks "Operation Death Trains." There was no way of authenticating the letter, a copy of which was faxed to Reuters' office in Dubai by the London-based al-Quds al-Arabi newspaper.

The letter bore the signature "Abu Hafs al-Masri Brigades." The newspaper received similar letters from the same brigade claiming responsibility on behalf of al Qaeda for a November bombing of two synagogues in Turkey and the August bombing of the U.N. headquarters in Baghdad.

Update:
Allison at An Unsealed Room responds. Don't miss it.

Ah, for a spotless mind

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind opens on March 19.

I am looking forward to seeing this film with even more impatience and anticipation than I felt for Miracle. I CAN'T WAIT.

I was thrilled to read the extended piece in the Sunday Times about it, and about Gondry, the director - who has teamed up with Charlie Kaufman (screenwriter for Adaptation).

"Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" is exceptionally good, a strange and touching romance about Joel and Clementine, a mismatched couple played by Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet, who choose to have their memories of each other erased after they break up. Most of the action takes place on the night the technicians — including Mark Ruffalo and Elijah Wood — are eliminating Joel's memories as he sleeps, and he recalls the relationship even while he's forgetting it.

With his poignant, toned-down performance, this may be the best work Jim Carrey has ever done. The intricate Charlie Kaufman script offers the mind-games of "Being John Malkovich" and "Adaptation," and then some. Yet this is distinctly a Michel Gondry film, and not simply because he collaborated on the story. The emotional warmth and tenderness — qualities not usually found in a brash Carrey blockbuster or a cerebral Kaufman screenplay — are typical of Mr. Gondry's work, drawn heavily from his own dreams and memories. "Eternal Sunshine" is filled with wit and magical images: Ms. Winslet's hair is bright blue one day, orange the next; Ms. Winslet and Mr. Carrey awake in a bed on a snowy beach. But it is also something of a love song to memory itself, arguing that even our painful memories should be treasured — as a hedge against the future, if not as tokens of love.

So exciting.

Sometimes when you see a preview 287 times you get to the point where either

A. You feel you have already seen the entire film because the preview gives it all away, and so you feel no burning need to go see it when it actually opens

B. You are already SICK of the film by the time it opens. It has jumped the shark before anyone has even seen the damn thing.

C. You wonder to yourself: "Wow. Seems like the studio is over-promoting this, or pushing it on us way too early. There must be something wrong with that film." (The Life of David Gale was a case in point. I saw that preview so many times that I experienced A, B, and then C in succession. And when the film came out, and got laughably horrible reviews, and promptly disappeared, I felt vindicated in my hatred of the film based on the damn preview.)

Anyway. I have seen the preview of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind probably 10 or 11 times by now.

In my opinion - that preview should be studied in film school. Or marketing school. Or in a class with a title like: "How to construct a really great film preview" - I'm sure that class exists somewhere.

And there is definitely an art in constructing a good preview. Some previews are so exciting and create such a burning need in the audience to see them that crowds burst into applause. Others provoke laughter, when obviously you are supposed to be serious.

I remember seeing the preview for Swimfan, and somehow - the preview BOMBED. It is supposed to be a serious thriller, a kind of Fatal Attraction, and the audience burst out laughing throughout the whole thing. It would be interesting to analyze it, frame by frame: What went wrong, why isn't this conveying what we want it to convey ... blah blah blah...

But for whatever reason, as many times as I have seen the preview for Eternal Sunshine, I have not gotten sick of it. I am STILL eager to see the film.

I suppose if Jim Carrey makes you gag and you hate him, you might not have my response. I love the guy, and I'll go see him do anything.

But it's not at all about who's in the thing. The preview succeeds for other reasons.

The music, for one. The choice of music could not be more perfect, more exciting.

But there's more: There are strange images in the preview - unexplained - poetic - like something in a dream. I want to go see the film, to see how these strange images fit together.

A double bed standing alone on a windswept snowy beach. Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet curled up under the covers.

The two of them running through what looks like a library, darkened book shelves, with a flashlight beam pursuing them.

A door opening, and there is Elijah Wood standing there, wearing glasses with slinky-like coils popping down, a goofy grin on his face.

An elephant strolling down Broadway, through a packed Times Square.

Kate Winslet's hair changes color and style in every scene you see her in. Her hair is bright pink, her hair is Little Orphan Annie orange, her hair is blue. (Love her. Love her.)

All while the music pounds. It's the magic of advertising, I suppose. The first time I saw the preview, the audience all started clapping at the end of it - and I could feel the buzz around me. (As opposed to feeling the scorn, derision, and humorous contempt - like you can feel with bombs like Swimfan).

I said to my friend Allison, "That is a classic example of a GREAT preview. It should be studied."

Which made me nervous. Could it be a great preview for a terrible movie? The preview for Life of David Gale was powerful. Riveting. (At least the first couple of times I saw it.) However, once the thing opened, the good preview was revealed as the rickety facade it was. A facade hiding emptiness.

You can't fool an audience forever.

Anyway. This is a long and rambling and trivial post. The preview for Eternal Sunshine continued to excite me, despite my nagging worries: "Is this another Life of David Gale?" So the big ol' piece in the New York Times is even more thrilling.

I wonder if this will be one of those movies. Those special gem-like movies. Like Being John Malkovich or something. A movie that can't, honestly, be compared to anything else - because it is so much the personal vision of one person.

Can't wait!

"They also serve"

John Milton wrote the sonnet "On His Blindness" to himself, to his own encroaching blindness.

I have a fear of going blind myself. (My eyesight is phenomenally bad). My fear of blindness verges on the phobic. It is usually at 3 am, on a sleepless night, when I become CONVINCED that I am going blind, and I will have no one to take care of me, and I don't know how I would survive, and I'm all alone in the world, and I'm going blind, I'm going blind ... You know. The 3 am panic-cycle. Or who knows - maybe you DON'T know about the 3 am panic-cycle, but I definitely do.

John Milton, going blind himself, had to dictate his writing to his daughters, his relatives at the end of his life. ... Some say he did his best work after he became blind. He kept every word he had written in his head, he could see it on the page. Such genius is hard to imagine, hard to comprehend.

Jorge Luis Borges said in a lecture on Milton: "He sacrificed his sight, and then he remembered his first desire, that of being a poet." Blindness catapulted Milton's work to a new level. Similar to what happened to Beethoven's composing, following going deaf.

I think the following poem, "On His Blindness" is one of the best poems ever written.

On His Blindness
by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bar his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.

Once were warriors

Rented Once Were Warriors last night, and saw it (again) last night. I saw it when it first came out, and remember sitting, kind of silent and stunned, as the credits rolled. With the hard-hard almost violent rock music playing over the end titles, rock mixed with Maori sounds, stamping feet, heavy heavy drums and wailing voices. So friggin' powerful. You just sit there and stare at the screen. At least that was my response.

I knew it was wrenching. Forgot how much.

There's a reason why most reviewers put this film in their "Top 100 Films of All Time" lists.

Roger Ebert said, in regards to the two main actors, Temuera Morrison and Rena Owen, "You don't often see acting like this in the movies. They bring the Academy Awards into perspective."

So true.

Acting that raw, that good, that unforgiving, that relentless is rare. It raises the bar for other actors, definitely. Stop being so damn safe.

Had nightmares last night.

Rena Owen's final speech, standing in the wind by her car, talking to Jake ... My God. It's so powerful you just sit there, stunned.

"Our people once were warriors..."

Powerful unforgiving relentless film.

Tonight I should watch something like Blue Crush or Bring it On or Blast from the Past to balance things out.

Rented last night -

School of Rock. I loved Every. Stinking. Second. Could not get enough.

Of COURSE the parents had to be present for the Battle of the Bands at the end ... but even though it was predictable, it was not predictably executed. Huge difference.

All the kids seemed like real kids, not cutesy little Hollywood ideas of kids, precocious, annoying, mini-adults. The kids killed me. All their little problems, worries, dreams.

Jack Black was totally that guy, that rock and roll guy we all know ... who knows every drum solo, every guitar solo, every back-up singer - on every album from 1968 to 1982. And who not only has this information in his head, but has theories about it. My brother is kind of like that.

I had to watch the big finale twice. Realizing, as the credits kept rolling: "Okay. That was so satisfying that I actually need to see that again. Right now."

Paul Winfield, RIP

Oh, I am sad right now ... Paul Winfield, a fine fine actor, is dead.

My parents let me stay up late to see Sounder when I was about 9 or 10 - that movie had an enormous impact on me. So enormous that even though I did not see that film again until a couple months ago, I remembered certain scenes almost frame for frame. I sat in my apartment, watching it recently, my eyes filled with tears almost the whole time.

Cicely Tyson is, without a doubt, one of our national treasures. What she does doesn't even look like acting half the time. It seems that she really just becomes these different people.

And Paul Winfield in this film - my God. He plays the vibrant hard-working husband of Cicely Tyson, the father of this farming family - trying to keep it all together. He goes out hunting every day with his young son, and his hunting dog, Sounder.

It never occurred to me until much much later to ask the question: Why is the movie called Sounder? It's not about the hunting dog. At least not exactly.

And yet - the movie could not be called anything else.

I remember sitting in the living room at Paul Avenue, watching this kind of horrible and unfair story unfold. The father sent away to prison (unfairly - oooh, my young blood burned with the unfairness) - and the awful moment of Sounder disappearing ... I thought I couldn't take it. I thought I might have to go up into my room, and not watch the end.

The second to last shot of the film is emblazoned in my brain. It is so movingly done, so SIMPLY done, that it could not possibly be improved upon.

The green fields out the kitchen window, the sunlight beating down, the long winding dirt road up the hill ... Cicely Tyson, face bathed in sweat, washing dishes at the window. She glances out, casually, not looking for anything in particular ... and suddenly - at the top of a hill - you can see a figure. A small figure.

Too far away to see his features.

But she knows who he is. She knows her husband has returned.

And my God, she just drops everything and races out of the house and starts running, running, running, as fast as she can up that hill ... and the kids start running after her .... and she is in an absolute abandonment of joy. It is astonishing. She's not even laughing. She is in that emotional place where joy is so intense it actually feels like pain. God. It's tremendous.

And Paul Winfield, now with a limp, and a walking stick, starts coming down the hill towards her, slowly, awkwardly ... and then faster and faster ... his body struggling to move as quickly as he wants it to.

The embrace. The family embrace.

I remember watching all of this as a little kid, feeling literally as though I were the Grinch, and my heart was pushing up out of my chest. I glanced over at my mother, who is not a "crier", not really ... and she was in tears. I knew then that what I had seen was unbelievable, I could trust my eyes, I could trust my Grinch-heart. This movie was IMPORTANT.

Winfield had a long and distinguished career.

But to me, he will always always be "the father in Sounder".

Thanks for sharing your gift with all of us, Mr. Winfield. You were one of the best.

Heard it through the grapevine

Victor Davis Hanson has a blog now.

In one of his entries, he discusses ellipses:

Always beware of those little dots when someone has an ax to grind.

(via LGF)

Introducing Alexandra Billings

She takes a bit of introduction, I suppose.

But first: her comments on the Oscars. Too many gems to count, but one I love is:

Peter Jackson. You've got two Oscars, you can now afford a comb.

And this:

To The President of The Academy. We love you. Thank you for the show. For the Love of everything that's Holy: Stay Home.

I first saw Alexandra Billings when I was living in Chicago and she appeared in a musical spoof of the play "Hamlet". The show was a massive hit. So massive that it kind of wouldn't go away ... It kept just running and running and running ... I saw it about 5 times. My friend Mitchell was in one of the versions, he played Polonius, (spoofed in the show as a completely bombastic blow-hard).

In the original version of the show, Alex played Gertrude. The campiest most hilarious most inappropriate Gertrude you have ever seen. One of her numbers was entitled, "Mamma is a Boy's Best Friend", as I recall, which gives you some idea of the sensibility of the show. Gertrude slithering all over her son Hamlet, whispering "Mamma is a Boy's Best Friend" in his ear.

Also, every time Hamlet started his "To be or not to be" soliloquy, he would be interrupted.

He would take his position, center stage, hold up his hand in a Master Thespus manner, clear his throat, and say, "To be or not to b----"

Knock on the door.

This would happen 3 or 4 times. Camp-humor. Hilarious.

I remember going to see it a couple of times, because one of my favorite old flames of ALL TIME (you got that?? I must shout it: OF ALL TIME) played Claudius to her Gertrude. His Claudius was a simpering conniving soulless moron without a brain in his head, completely dominated by his sexed-up wife.

(Ann Marie: Member the evening we went to see Hamlet and I sent a gourd backstage to the old flame? Why couldn't I just have bought him a bouquet like a normal person? Why a gourd? I suppose it's better than a photograph of the back of my eyeball - but STILL!)

The show was only an hour long, and I remember literally laughing, out loud, from beginning to end.

Alex was a wonder. She was ferocious about getting laughs. Not in a desperate way ... although perhaps there was some desperation. Having known a couple of wonderful comedians, they have a NEED to make you laugh. And sometimes you don't laugh, and sometimes you do, but their need to make you laugh exists, regardless. Desperation for laughs without a comedic GIFT is terrible, and makes an audience squirm. But Alex was like a comedy carpet, unfurling out endlessly. You could not believe how consistently hilarious she was. She decided WHERE she would get a laugh, and without seeming to break a sweat, she would succeed.

I don't really know Alex that well, although she and my dear friend Mitchell are very very good friends.

I have met Alex a couple of times ... and she seems so cool and so fabulous that I admit, I feel like a stuttering junior high school kid looking up at one of the cool seniors. I would shake her hand, grinning like Forrest Gump, grinning just as wide as Forrest and just as vacantly.

Will Alex think I'm cool? What if I'm not funny when I talk to Alex?

She has gone on to create a highly successful cabaret career for herself - although I probably shouldn't even label it in such a limited way. She's written a one-woman show, she's toured with it - she's worked at Steppenwolf, she's won a Joseph Jefferson Award (a very big deal in Chicago) - Her resume goes on for days.

I had met Alex maybe once or twice, the couple of times I had gone to see MY FAVORITE OLD FLAME EVER in Hamlet - The Musical. I had heard a lot about her, because of Mitchell's growing friendship with her. I knew she was tough as nails, I knew she was a happily married transgendered female, and I knew that she was talented as all hell. Everyone wanted to work with Alex.

But basically, our contact was, "Sheila, this is Alex" "Alex, this is Sheila."

A month or so after September 11, I had a dream - my first dream in ages. Certainly my first dream since September 11. I only remember it because I never have dreams anymore, and also - I associate the dream with the terror, panic, and chaos of the months following that horrible day.

In the dream, there was a nuclear holocaust, which pretty much only affected New Jersey and Manhattan. It was like that movie The Day After. You just knew: It's over. I am going to die. But the bomb had already been dropped - and the sky was a heavy crayon-black. You knew you could not escape, but everyone was trying to anyway.

Everyone was trying to get to the ocean, everyone in Manhattan and in Jersey were trying to get onto the New Jersey turnpike, towards the Atlantic. But there were too many cars. It was like the roads were backed up from Cape May to lower Manhattan. You could not get out. Literally.

There was panic. People were running, and screaming, with their hair on fire, their clothes falling off. The bomb had already been dropped, that blackness in the sky was the fallout, and we were trapped - we could not get out.

I was alone in the dream. I was climbing down the cliffs from Jersey Heights down into Hoboken, looking at the blackened smoking skyline of Manhattan and seeing the roads below me, filled with cars, stalled cars as far as the eye could see.

And suddenly - climbing down the cliff with me - was Alex, who was hugely pregnant in my dream. Maybe 8 or 9 months along.

She was not panicked. Not at all. She knew what to do, she took me in hand, she knew a way out. She was on some other plane of thought, entirely.

"We're gonna get to the ocean," she said, as she climbed down the cliff, huge belly in front of her, moving gracefully and certainly. "I know the way."

I do not know why Alex showed up in my dream during that crazy time, I do not know why I would dream about her when I have had so little contact with her ... but for some reason, in my mind, and perhaps it is because of how caring and wonderful she has been to my friend Mitchell, she would be that person. That person who would know the way out of the nuclear fallout. Carrying new life with her.

I have recently discovered that Alexandra Billings loves my little blog over here, and reads me all the time. When I found that out, again I felt like the goof-ball junior high school student grinning gawkily up at the glamorous (transgendered) senior.

In her online journal, she has a very pointed entry on one aspect of gay marriage, an aspect I had not considered before, because, although I am for gay marriage, I am not gay - and so there are subtleties of the issue I miss.

Alex addresses the people racing to San Francisco to get married:

...we began talking about a few same sex couples who are flying to San Fran and marrying legally after being only friends. Their marriage is a sham. They're not in love, they never were in love and they have no plans to settle down. They're doing it for "The Cause."...

How in the world are we to get anywhere if people begin making a mockery of marriage NOW?! I just have this vision of bubble headed gay people running willy nilly down the street waving marriage certificates in straight people's faces and cackling like Joan Crawford at a cocktail party. Although however amusing that may be, I have to say, this isn't a game. What those people are doing is irresponsible and stereotypical. Don't feed the public's idea of what Gay Marriage would be, ADD to it.

"Bubble headed gay people running willy nilly down the street waving marriage certificates in straight people's faces and cackling like Joan Crawford at a cocktail party."

Welcome to the blogroll, Alex.

I find this very amusing

Dan, at ObscuroRant, has a description of the Irish-American "grill lady in the cafeteria" which just tickled my damn Irish-American funny bone.

Secretly she wishes she had a job scrubbing floors so that her children could tell maudlin tales of the terrible suffering poor old mother endured for them...If you ask her for fries with that, you are now adding yet another occurrence to the long list of persecutions endured by the Irish through out history.

A gentle meditative moment

When I reflect upon the fact that Jayson Blair, that lying whining lazy opportunistic conniving son-of-a-bitch, has named his memoir Burning Down My Master's House...

I want to put my fist through a wall.

/end of gentle meditative moment

Damn

Spalding Gray's body found in the East River.

Somewhere I guess I was holding out hope. That the man was holed up in a Nantucket cabin or something. Working on something new, maybe having a nervous breakdown, but not dead.

I can say, even though this is sad, and I didn't know the man ... at least his body was found. Now his family can have the closure of a burial, memorials can happen - the man can be acknowledged. An important part of grief.

But still. It's sad.

Spalding Gray. Your writing and your one-man pieces were an inspiration not only to me, but to many others.

You will be very missed.

(via McCabe)

A little perspective

For those of you who anticipate with dread that this is going to be one of the ugliest election campaigns in recent history, (and I count myself as one of these people - I feel sick at the thought of how far away November is and I am considering moving to Monaco or Ibitha or something where I never have to hear about any of this nonsense again - actually, to be totally safe, I should move to somewhere like Myanmar, or Chad) - go and read some tales about Thomas Jefferson's election campaign. The bloodless "Jeffersonian revolution".

I read it last night, as I sat in a stalled train outside New Haven, an electrical wire thrashing up the tracks towards me, and thought: Woah. Woah. This is as ugly as it gets.

Our recent IKKY politicians did not invent vitriol and nasty tactics. We have not invented dirty pool. We don't play any dirtier than they played back then.

THAT election campaign was nasty.

However, it's only March. And things are already pretty nasty.

God, I cannot bear the thought of having to go through this campaign. It's insufferable.

Snapshots

-- Huge full moon over the ocean. Massive swells coming onto the rocks. Silver moon-path trembling in the water.

-- Talking with my dad in the living room about all kinds of topics. I came into the room at one point, and Victor Davis Hanson was on Book TV, being interviewed, and I bombarded my dad with an embarrassing amount of biographical information about Hanson. I knew WAY too much about him.

-- Grey and brown landscape. A snow-chill in the air.

-- Sitting in the kitchen with my mom, watching the birds have a feast at the bird feeder. I could sit there and watch them all day. The nuthatch walking head-first down the tree trunk. Their little bird eyeballs staring in the kitchen window at us as they peck for their food. The shy ground-feeding cardinal, holding back in a nearby bush, waiting until the coast was clear. My mother said, at one point, "See the cardinal? He's waiting." I looked out the window. Couldn't see him. Everything brown, dried up, wintry. My mother said, "He's in that bush by the path..." I leaned forward 2 more inches, and boom - there he was. Fire-engine red, chubby, sitting in the middle of a bare brown bush, strategizing his move to the bird feeder. A blazing red flash of color, like a flag in the middle of the dullness.

-- Moonlight so bright that the trees cast shadows on the lawn. You could have read by the light of the moon.

-- Stopped off at the local 2nd hand bookstore, one of my normal pitstops. Found a tiny battered Book of Common Prayer, (an old one, not revised into modern PC language) - with someone's notes in the margins. Also, my favorite part, there were three silk ribbons, used as bookmarks, attached to the spine of the book. At the bottom of each of the ribbons was a small metal charm - one was a heart, one a cross, and one an anchor. Faith, Hope, Charity. This purchase was 3 bucks, but I considered it a small treasure.

-- My mother and I went to watch my sister teach a class. Jean teaches at a middle school. She is known as "Miss O'Malley". My mother and I sat in the back, and watched my sister teach. They were learning about topic sentences, and constructing papers. They are junior high kids. Everyone has braces. The main thing I noticed was the boys: some boys are like little Hobbits, 3 feet tall, with small squeaky voices. They are still little boys. Other boys are big tall strapping 5'9 figures, with deep voices. And yet, inside, they are only 12 years old. The horrors of adolescence. But I was very moved, sitting in the back, watching all these kids listening to my sister, turning around to smile shyly at us in the back on occasion. Hands up in the air, little voices saying, "Oh! Oh! Miss O'Malley!" Heartcrack. Very proud of my sister. She's a born teacher. They all seemed like very good kids, too. When my mother and I walked in, "Miss O'Malley" introduced us, and literally, they all waved, smiled, and said, "Hi!" I could write a whole post about watching my sister teach.

-- Evening spent with "Miss O'Malley". We went to the Bon Vue. (Or, as it is known to the college kids who frequent the joint: "The Bon Zoo".) A big rambling bar, right on the beach. Because it's spring break, and I live in a university town, the "Zoo" was dead. Nobody was there. Jean and I had a great night. Talking, talking, talking, talking. It was wonderful. And we also sweet-talked the "DJ" (although he balked at that title) to play exactly what we told him to. I gave him a list, ticking it off my fingers, and he nodded, shortly, after each request. "Eminem. Nirvana. Metallica. Foo Fighters." Jean chimed in: "Craig David." For the rest of the night, we had our own personal Music Manager. As we talked about everything under the sun.

-- I slept until 11:30. This is positively unheard of behavior.

-- I did not emerge from my pajamas that first day until 2 pm.

-- Evening gathering at my friend Mere's house. The high school gang. Wine. Sushi. Calzones. Wheat Thins. What more can one ask. Mere, Betsy, Beth, and Michele. We sat in Mere's living room, we drank, we ate. At one point (guys, if you're reading this, it's the "Bone and Cave" moment) I was literally choking with laughter, tears on my face. I was still laughing about "Bone and Cave" the next morning. Don't know if I can really describe the joke - but trust me - we all LOST it. We had all wanted to get together because of the recent unthinkable tragedy of our friend Glenda. Some of us knew her, some of us did not, Michele knew her better than all of us ... but when something as awful as that happens, it is a shock of reality. We wanted to be together. I have the best friends in the world.

-- Morning with the parents. Watching the birds. Endless fascination.

-- Drove down to the infamous Ocean Mist, where Jean ("Miss O'Malley") was working. The rickety shack bar on stilts, leaning into the ocean. A beach hang-out. Everyone goes there for brunch on Sunday mornings. Standing on the windy deck, holding Bloody Marys, (garnished with huge celery stalks and a shrimp) looking out at the ocean, the waves rolling right beneath the deck. As I walked down the street to get to "the Mist", I actually could feel the pounding of the surf in the ground (like that scene in Jurassic Park, when they can feel the T-Rex coming.) I could feel the impact of the ocean in the earth.

-- I slept like a rock my entire time home. 8 or 9 hours a night. Unheard of.

-- Sad news: Bess Eaton Coffee (the best coffee in the world - don't argue with me - I don't want to hear it) has been bought out by Dunkin Donuts. This is a tragedy. I hate it when that happens. I need to stock up on Bess Eaton coffee for the inevitable day.

-- I managed to find the time to curl up in an armchair for a good hour or so and just read. Asked my mom questions about her visit to Monticello, because I remembered her raving about it to me.

-- Just want to say this right here and now: My friends are the best. I thank God for them every day. My family is the best, too. I thank God for them every day.

My thoughts and prayers are with the parents of my childhood friend Glenda, who must be experiencing a horror right now I cannot imagine. I am a lucky woman. I would say that I was blessed.

Amtrak Hell

This is probably interesting to nobody but myself, because who the hell cares about other people's hellish travel stories?

My hellish commute back to New York last night was not quite as horrific as my commute to Rhode Island this past Christmas (which culminated in me shouting out to an empty street: "I need a HUSBAND. WHERE IS MY HUSBAND?") - but it was close.

I get on the train at 6 pm. It is a chilly evening. I have a bottle of water, and my Thomas Jefferson biography. I am due to get into Manhattan at 11:05.

We get to New Haven. Normally, there is about a 10 minute stop-over in New Haven, but last night it went on a bit longer than normal. Maybe half an hour. No announcements, nothing.

However, I was deeply engrossed in Thomas Jefferson's diplomatic journey in Paris, and did not notice at all.

Finally, snap-crackle-pop, an announcement came:

"As you all have noticed, we have been sitting here for a long time. We have just gotten word that an electrical wire has fallen onto the tracks up ahead of us - and we will need to wait here in the station until the tracks have been cleared. We will let you know as soon as we hear anything."

I barely looked up from my book.

Half an hour more goes by.

The announcer comes back on and gives a RAMBLING update, providing us with way too much information - which ended up, in all the confusion, sounding like the electrical wire was going to somehow travel down the tracks and fry us all up in a fiery mesh.

"The tracks cannot be cleared .... 3 tracks are affected ... no trains can come in or out of New Haven ... they're still working to clear that wire off the tracks..."

Again, I got an image of a live-wire, raging around out of control like a dragon, a mere 30 feet away. Like that horrible final scene in Ice Storm.

Then they tell us that we have to transfer to a Metro North train, which will take us to Grand Central. The entire trainfull of people makes a mad dash to get onto the Metro North. Normal behavior disappears. Everyone shoves to get to the front of the line. I hate everybody, I hate people who shove when there is nowhere for the people in front of you to go. I checked out, emotionally, and kept my nose in my Jefferson book. I could lose myself in a book anywhere.

Metro North creeps out of New Haven. Good to be moving again, and yet I could not get out of my head the alarming image of a live electrical wire thrashing about uncontrollably on the tracks ahead of us.

With no announcement, the train stops. We sit there for 15 minutes.

I become convinced that at any moment we are going to be incincerated in a fiery mesh. But the anxiety is not enough for me to put down my book.

Then - snap-crackle-pop, the announcement comes: "We have to go back to New Haven. They cannot clear all the tracks for us to pass by."

Audible groans. Everyone on their cell phones. I remain cool and collected, because there is only so much we can control in life, and I hate whiners. Especially in situations like that, where you clearly are not in charge of your own destiny. What is the point of groaning and complaining? Take a deep breath, and shut up.

However, it was pretty grim. We get off the train station, we are a crowd of literally hundreds of people who have nowhere to go, no way to get out of New Haven, and the temperature is plummeting. I was not dressed for winter. People were baffled, nobody seemed to be in charge - there were no announcements or updates. We basically just were told that trains in and out of New Haven were cut off from the south.

Exhausted, disoriented, the entire train-load of people shuffle down the stairs into the cavernous empty New Haven station. It is now 10 o'clock at night. There are a couple of cops who start to tell us what is happening ... we all gather around them, as though they are Santa Clauses. The New Haven MTA cops were, in general, fantastic. They were patient with us, they were humorous - they also accepted the fact that people were stressed out, exhausted, annoyed - and they answered the same questions 5,000 times. I was very impressed with them.

There was a bus, shuttling back and forth between Bridgeport (the next train station) - where we could pick up Metro North to NYC. However, there was only one bus going back and forth - and hundreds of people who needed to get on that damn bus. It was going to be a long night.

People finally gave up waiting, and went to either get hotels in New Haven - or groups of people chipped in and got car services down to NYC.

I stood in the throng outside the train station, and waited for the bus to return from Bridgeport. They did not have more than one bus shuttling people back and forth, which added to the anxiety and annoyance.

When the bus arrived, it is hard to describe the mob mentality. We all KNEW that if we did not get on that bus - it meant that we had yet another hour to wait outside in the cold night. It seemed desperately urgent, to each one of us, that we be on that damn bus. However - obviously - not all of us could fit. I was the last person to squeeze on the bus. (Standing room only) - luggage everywhere, piled up, people standing all along the aisle, jammed up against each other. The poor people behind me who were not allowed to squoosh themselves onto the bus were visibly distressed. I do not blame them.

I stood all the way to Bridgeport. It's about a half an hour trip.

By that point, the milk of human kindness was again in evidence, which always happens in crises.

Yes, there are those dipshits who, the second things don't go their way, start to freak out, complain, bitch, moan, and try to get themselves first in line. But the opposite is also true.

There was a young kid carrying a hockey stick, wearing a winter hat, who had been standing outside in the throngs, and had apparently struck up a conversation with a small fur-clad woman who was not a day over 85. When the bus came, and everyone started shoving forward - this kid called out to the cops, "Is there any way she can get to the front of the line, and get on the bus?" Chivalry towards this ancient woman, who had already dragged her bags off trains, onto trains, up stairs, down stairs - with no help.

Anyway, the cops complied, and made the shoving whiners clear a path for hockey-kid and old-woman (He carried her bags.) The two of them sat together, and talked the entire way to Bridgeport.

I was standing over them, and listened to the entire conversation, just loving the both of them. I am not sure how this came up, but I heard the old woman say, "Well, then you must be familiar with Mike Aruzione..." which - I thought was so HILARIOUS. Mike Aruzione, of course, was the captain of the US Olympic hockey team in 1980, the one who made the winning goal ("The Goal") against the Russians. The hockey-playing kid was from Boston, and so the two of them started talking, in-depth, about hockey, of all things.

They discussed the 1980 winter olympics.

She said something like, "Well, remember, though, that they didn't win the gold medal with the game against Russia - They still had to beat Finland..."

Ha ha ha I loved that.

She was teeny, and as wrinkled-up as a piece of old lace, but I heard her laugh ringing out through the bus, as the two of them talked about hockey the entire way to Bridgeport.

People are beautiful.

We stood about on the Bridgeport platform, freezing, sleepy, waiting ...

Finally, the train came. And thank the good Lord above there were plenty of seats. We still had over an hour until we got to New York, and by this point it was midnight. I found 3 empty seats, laid myself down, and slept the whole way there.

When I emerged from the vast echoey coliseum of Grand Central, I was greeted by freezing air, stinging rain, and absolutely no taxi cabs.

I stood in the middle of the street, arm in the air, for half an hour, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. One cab finally pulled over, and this woman, who had literally been hiding behind me, leaped out in front of me and jumped in the cab.

As the cab pulled away, I screamed right at the closed window. "YOU BITCH!"

People are not beautiful.

Everyone has a breaking point. That woman played dirty pool, and I will not countenance such unfair tactics.

But a cab pulled over 2 seconds later. I got in, and bargained a price with the driver, who literally was Salman Rushdie's identical twin.

Salman got me home in half an hour.

It was 2 in the morning.

I still feel out of it. In a fog.

Winter has gripped New York again. Snow falling this morning, a snowy mist hiding the skyline at the end of my street, and a dark low look to the sky.

It's good to be home.

Childhood favorites

It's a grey day. Grey and windy. I'm going home to Rhode Island for the weekend. Can't wait. Hanging out with the parents, hanging out with the sister, hanging out with the high school crowd.

However - I am feeling misanthropic today. And irritated. The big bad city is getting on my nerves. Definitely time for a couple of days away. I need to breathe the salt air, and take a walk on the beach.

And so all of this misanthropy naturally got me to thinking about favorite TV shows of my childhood. (Makes perfect sense.)

I wasn't a huge TV-watcher as a kid, but what I did love, I loved with a passion which burned me up at night. I would count the days until "my shows" were on. I would feel that life was not worth living if one of them was pre-empted.

I'm sure I'm forgetting some - but here are some old favorites which come immediately to mind: (oh, and I'm counting TV movies)

-- 3-2-1 Contact: I was absolutely ADDICTED to this classic PBS show. The Bloodhound Gang! I wanted to be part of the Bloodhound Gang.

Co-ontact
It's the a-answer
It's the mo-tion
When everything happens...
Co-ontact...

Later: I became ADDICTED to Eight is Enough, but only with the advent of Ralph Macchio. The rest of the eight kids kind of freaked me out with their feathered hair and late 70s adolescent sexuality ... but Ralph Macchio? The troubled new addition to the family? Oh, I could not get enough.

Sesame Street. Of course. A favorite to this day. Mr. Hooper, Big Bird, Maria (I always loved the feisty Maria), Bert and Ernie ... Cookie Monster, who was just a big walking blue Id ... and all the others. I grew up on this show. Magic.

Little House on the Prairie I had read all the books. I was absolutely in love with the show. I think especially because the main character was a little girl about my age. I loved the show so much that my mom (God bless her) actually made me a little bonnet, which I wore to school. I was 16 years old at the time. (No, just kidding. I was 8 or 9 years old). Here is Betsy's analysis of Little House. Do not miss it.

Land of the Lost I can say with all honesty that this show changed my life. Although HOW it did this I could not tell you. I mean: HOLLY! I absolutely loved Holly. Her relationship with the gentle baby brontosaurus ... and just the whole conceit of the show ... I DUG it. It filled my imagination with possibilities - I wanted to crawl into the television and join that "routine expedition" with Marshall, Will and Holly. Also, Holly's clothes were directly responsible for my fashion choices during the ages of 10 and 11. I had long braids, I wore plaid shirts, blue jeans, and "wallabies". Member those? LOVED. THIS. SHOW.

There was an after-school special which rocked my planet, and I cannot remember the name of it. It was something like: "Shhhh. So-and-so is coming to get me." (The name in place of "so and so" was something like: 'Marv Hammerman' - It was a long strange name) Terrible title, I know - but it was about this little kid, who was mercilessly teased at school - and this big bully kid would follow him home every day, and beat him up, torment him, whatever. The teased kid was terrified, would hide in the bathroom after school, blah blah.

Member after-school specials? Do they still have those? I think they were on Wednesday afternoons, and you would come home from school, and it would be on from 4 to 5, and I loved them! But this one about the tormented kid trying to outrun "Marv Hammerman" touched my sensitive soul. It ends in this manner: A group of boys (Marv Hammerman is not one of them) follow the tormented kid home, and attack him. They're beating him up, everything is going well for them, when along comes the dreaded Marv Hammerman ... And you think: Uh-oh. He's gonna make things much worse - he's scary - he's mean ... And Marv takes in the scene, the 6 kids attacking the one, and he says, "Come on, cut it out. He's had enough."

Why did that touch my heart so?? I absolutely loved that after-school special, and would closely watch the TV pages, to see when it would be on.

What else did I love?

Bless the Beasts and the Children. A TV movie, which I have never forgotten. I saw it way too young, it upset me deeply - but I am grateful for having seen it too young. Soul-growth.

The Gong Show My God. Remember The Gong Show? The man with the paper bag on his head? I loved that show.

I cannot include CHiPs on this list. I just cannot. It is too shameful.

Donny and Marie "I'm a little bit country..." "I'm a little bit rock and roll..." LOVED those two. I would huddle up next to the television with my tape recorder, taping their duets. I loved Marie's voice. Little did I know that 20 years later I would work for Donny Osmond's security detail in Chicago. Very strange. Beth - didn't you love Donny and Marie, too? (hee hee)

Cosmos I mean, please. Come on. I could not get enough.

Masterpiece Theatre Farewell, Alistair Cooke! You were as much a part of my childhood as ... oh, I don't know ... Jessica Savitch! That voice! Masterpiece Theatre had some of the most exciting programs I had ever seen in my life. I still remember "The Prince and the Pauper". Thrilling. I remember their fabulous mini-series version of "Ballet Shoes" (one of my favorite childhood books, as you will recall...) What else did I see? Uh - "The Flame Trees of Thika" with the delicious Hayley Mills ... unbelievable! I watched the entirety of that one with my parents. A great memory.

And how could I forget ... there was a TV movie called Orphan Train. Does anyone else remember this??? Jill Eikenberry (later on LA Law) played an English woman who somehow (can't remember) ended up taking a train-load of homeless orphans out into the Wild West of America, during the 1800s, to place them with farming families. I really need to see that movie again. It was an exhilarating experience, I fell in love with it, I loved the story, I wanted to be IN the story. I still remember one of the orphans, a bitter angry Liverpudlian named, appropriately, Liverpool. I LOVED Liverpool. In my memory, this movie was all about the triumph of the human spirit, and also - the essential goodness of people. That you should not judge people if they are ugly, or poor, or have ugly clothes ... Every person deserves a chance.

And then there was Square Pegs and its one fated season. But I was addicted to it. Addicted. How many shows last only one season and you never ever remember them again? But this one - people still talk about. The geeks of the world, united. I related to each one of them, in different ways. They were validating.

Oh, and of course - Happy Days. My favorite character was the Fonz. Remember the Christmas episode when he lied to Richie and said, "Oh, you don't have to invite me over ... I got a great family ... I go home every Christmas ... we open presents ... we have stockings ..." But then - later - Richie somehow peeks in on Fonz on Christmas Eve and he is sitting by himself, alone at his table, eating macaroni out of a can. Does anyone remember this? Fonzie lied, to save his pride. But it all turned out all right in the end.

Until the show jumped the shark, once and for all.

Hitchens on gay marriage

On the op-ed page of the Wall Street Journal. Hitchens. A hero of mine. That caustic irreverent articulate scruffy demon!

Here's a couple of things:

What do I really know about this, when I ask myself? I know that homosexuality is innate in our species, and perhaps in other species also, and thus that it is nonsense to speak of it as an offense to "nature," and nonsense on stilts to speak of it as an offense to any presumable Creator (belief in whose intentions is Andrew [Sullivan's] problem and not mine). I know that homosexuality is a form of love, not just a form of sex, and thus that it deserves respect if not reverence. I know that our theocratic enemies are, and that our former totalitarian enemies were, ugly and paranoid on the point.

Also:

Why are the advocates of the one and only and immemorial man-woman marriage apparently so chronically insecure? On the same floor as the Hitchens family live two chaps, who are as clearly spliced as any couple I know. They hold responsible Washington jobs, they take an interest in the civic health of the city, and they help raise the children of a previous marriage into which one of them had entered. (Never forget, by the way, the forgotten hell that was the consequence of pressure for gay people to try to marry heterosexuals and make a go of things.)

In any domestic emergency involving my wife or daughter, I would probably turn first to these neighbors. The only discomfiting thing I find about their domestic arrangements is their practice of clasping hands for grace before meals. I can't make myself feel that my own marriage is undermined, or rather would be undermined, if they could legally tie the knot. Would I dance at their wedding? Undoubtedly, and always assuming I would be asked. Would my tenderly nurtured daughter go into shock? I can't see it happening.

Me neither.

But it is his last point that makes me grin:

When I become bored or irritated by the gay marriage battle--and I do, I sometimes do--I like to picture the writhing faces and hoarse yells of the mullahs and the fanatics. Godless hedonistic America, not content with allowing divorce and pornography, has taken from us our holy Taliban and our upright Saddam. It sends Jews and unveiled female soldiers to our lands, and soon unnatural brotherhood will be in the armed forces of the infidels. And now the godless have an election where all they discuss is the weddings of men to men and women to women! And then I relax, and smile, and ask my neighbors over, to repay the many drinks and kind gestures that I owe them.

Hitchens does make vocal his concern (and my concern) about "grandstanding" judges, mayors, and elected officials. But then he writes:

...surely this problem, and not sexuality, ought to be the province of constitutional law. The Texas sodomy statute, for example, should have been struck down or repealed not as a "rights" or "equal protection" matter, but because it was an attempt to instate the teachings of a book that not all of us regard as holy, and to make an establishment of religion. Nothing can possibly violate the letter and spirit of the Constitution more than that.

Not to be contradictory here, but Amen.

Is the Dodo winning?

I seem to recall saying recently, in some comment somewhere on this blog: "In the current climate, it is amazing that schools even have valedictorians anymore."

Here's a brief piece in The New Criterion about "the decision of the Nashville, Tennessee school system to abolish its honor roll because it had become 'an apparent source of embarrassment for some underachievers.' "

Er - you feel embarrassed you're not on the Honor Roll? My advice? Uh ... work a little bit harder. Get a tutor. Do your homework. Try to keep up. Do your damndest to get your ass on the Honor Roll.

And if you don't make it? Well - not everybody can come in first. That's just the way it goes.

A little "embarrassment" won't kill you, for God's sake!

It's a Caucus race, indeed. Where "everybody wins".

Progress

Here's another quote:

"If the automobile had followed the same development cycle as the computer, a Rolls-Royce would today cost $100, get a million miles per gallon, and explode once a year, killing everyone inside."

-- Robert X. Cringely, InfoWorld magazine

One can only hope

"Postmodern theory presents itself as a way of thinking that exists by itself, and not the product of personal choices. Most people outgrow it when they stop feeling insecure or threatened."

- Edward Mendelson

Don't tell the folks at PETA

This story is pretty grim.

It involves a certain evening drive through the streets of southern Rhode Island with my dear friend Jackie. An evening that ended up involving a couple of dead animals.

We were in college. Jackie is one of the funniest people I have ever met. She is like a finely-tuned instrument, hooked into the comedic spheres.

Here's a Jackie story, before I get to the story of animal-carnage:

One evening, Jackie, another friend and I, had a very debauched wine-soaked evening at my house. This was also during college. We drank an inordinate amount of wine, and sat around the table, absolutely out of control with laughter for a good 2 hours. Then, as one, we all stumbled into bed, where we all fell asleep. My bed was a double bed, with 3 of us passed out in it.

The next morning, HURTING with the hangovers, we woke up at the same time. Each one of us moaning, squinting, holding onto her temples ....

But did Jackie say, "Man, I am so hungover."

Did Jackie say, "I feel like crap!"

No. Jackie opened her eyes, spent half a second contemplating how bad she felt, and then said in a flat voice, "You could tap my liver and feed communion to a small Catholic church."

And now - onto the animal-slaying.

Jackie and I were restless one night. We had nothing to do. I have no idea why. We both were in college. Jackie had a car. And ... we were kind of driving around aimlessly. I don't know where we were going, maybe down to the beach, something.

As we drove down Rte 108, we felt a thud, a sickening thud, and then, filling the air immediately, the unmistakable scent of skunk.

We both gasped, as we drove on.

"Oh no!"

"Did we just kill an animal!"

"Oh shit, we just killed something!"

(We both love animals. I mean, we don't love skunks in particular, but still - we were upset that we had just careened over one.)

Jackie, upset, felt compelled to turn around and go check. So we did a U-turn, and slowly drove back to the murderous spot. Skunk-scent filled the air. Jackie slowed down to almost a crawl, and as we crept by the spot, we both peered out at the dead skunk in the road.

Neither of us said a word.

A bit chagrined, we turned the car around again, and drove on. Feeling bad for the skunk, yes, but hey, life goes on. We have to keep going ... we have to keep driving around ... (for what purpose, girls?)

Literally, only a quarter of a mile later, a small white mouse raced out into the middle of the road and we careened right over it, killing it instantly.

Jackie and I both started SCREAMING.

"Ahhhh! Did you see that??"

"Did we just kill a mouse too?"

"What is going on??"

Jackie murmured in a grim tone, "Next thing we're gonna see is a stallion galloping towards us."

We were on the edge of hysterical laughter, but it also struck as so odd ... that we would murder 2 animals in less than 20 seconds.

Jackie said, hunched over the wheel, "I better get off the road before I kill something else."

The moments passed, and the situation started seeming funnier and funnier to us. We were crying tears of laughter about the carnage we had left behind, up and down Route 108. We kept making jokes about larger and larger animals we were going to kill as the night went on.

Ha ha. Funny, funny.

We kept driving. We were down near the beach, on a larger road than 108 - with 2 lanes on either side of the yellow line. It was a dark night.

Killing the animals had put us in kind of a giddy hilarious mood. I know that sounds insane and unfeeling, but it is the truth.

But then - We careened around a corner and suddenly - we saw something huge and dead lying in the middle of the road.

She and I freaked out.

"Oh my God - there's something dead in the road..."

"What is it?"

"Sheila - what is going on??? What is going on tonight?"

This dead thing was in the center lane, and there were cars approaching, so we couldn't just stop right there to investigate. We pulled over into the breakdown lane, and got out of the car.

It was a dark night but by the light of the streetlamps, we saw that it was a massive Husky dog. Massive. A massive dead fur ball in the middle of the street. A gorgeous dog. Obviously a beloved pet. We were sad for it. We looked up and down the road, but most of the houses didn't have any lights on. We wanted to knock on some doors. We wanted to get out there and check the dog's collar for the contact information so we could contact the owners. But the dead dog was lying at a curve of the street, where cars could come whipping around in the dark, and not see us before they hit us.

And ... sorry to say ... but that was what we witnessed happen ... over and over and over and over ... with that dog in the street.

We saw it get hit over and over and over again.

The dog was flying up through the air. The dog was splattering down again on the street. And then a car would come around that curve and send the dog flying up into the air again.

Jackie and I, watching this, were doing three things:

We were screaming at the tops of our lungs. We were crying hysterically. And we were laughing hysterically.

Oh, it was beyond horrible to see that dog get hit 20 times.

We finally realized that we could not get out to that dog to drag it off the road without risking getting killed ourselves, so completely out of control - screaming and crying and also ACHING with laughter - we drove over to my ex-boyfriend's beach house - He lived a couple streets away.

I was probably in a very conspicuous fight with him at the time (we were always fighting and snarling at each other). So there I was on his doorstep, and he was beyond surprised to see us there. He opened the door, and Jackie and I, crying and laughing like maniacs, screamed right in his face, "Can we use your phone? Can we use your phone?"

All of this only became truly amusing much later. When it was all over.

My favorite memory of that weird evening of carnage is Jackie huddled over the wheel, muttering, "I've gotta get off the road..."

Jefferson and Locke

An excerpt from Paul Johnson's sweeping A History of the American People:

[Thomas Jefferson's] first hero was his fellow-Virginian Patrick Henry, who seemed to be everything Jefferson was not: a firebrand, a man of extremes, a rabble-rouser, and an unreflective man of action - Jefferson was 17 when he met him and he was present in 1765 when Henry acquired instant fame for his flamboyant denunciation of the Stamp Act. Jefferson admired him no doubt for possessing the one gift he himself lacked -- the power to rouse men's emotions by the spoken word.

Jefferson had a more important quality, however: the power to analyze a historical situation in depth, to propose a course of conduct, and present it in such a way as to shape the minds of a deliberative assembly ... It was Jefferson, in 1774, who encapsulated the entire debate in one brilliant treatise -- Summary View of the Rights of British America...

Jefferson relied heavily on Chapter Five of John Locke's Second Treatise on Government, which set out the virtues of a meritocracy, in which men rise by virtue, talent, and industry. Locke argued that the acquisition of weath, even on a large scale, was neither unjust nor morally wrong, provided it was fairly acquired. So, he said, society is necessarily stratified, but by merit, not by birth. This doctrine of industry as opposed to idleness as the determining factor in a just society militated strongly against kings, against governments of nobles and their placemen, in favor of representative republicanism.

Jefferson's achievement, in his tract, was to graft onto Locke's meritocratic structures two themes which became the dominant leitmotifs of the Revolutionary struggle. The first was the primacy of individual rights: "The God who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time: the hand of force may destroy, but cannot disjoin them." Equally important was the placing of these rights within the context of Jefferson's deep and in a sense more fundamental commitment to popular sovereignty. "From the nature of things, every society must at all times possess within itself the sovereign powers of legislation."

It was Jefferson's linking of popular sovereignty with liberty, both rooted in a divine plan, and further legitimized by ancient practice and the English tradition, which gave the American colonists such a strong, clear, and plausible conceptual basis for their action. Neither the British government nor the American loyalists produced arguments which had a fraction of this power. They could appeal to the law as it stood, and duty as they saw it, but that was all. Just as the rebels won the media battle (in America) from the start, so they rapidly won the ideological battle too.

I need to take a moment

to say good-bye to a house. The parents of two old friends of mine, sisters, have moved.

I spent about as much time at that house during high school as I did at my own.

I would walk up the driveway, to be greeted by the rambunctious barking of Stormy, the Doberman. When I first met Stormy, I thought I would have a nervous breakdown. Stormy looked like a vicious killer. Then, of course, she turned out to be the sweetest happiest dog imaginable.

So much happened in that house.

Mere and I, one of my best friends since 8th grade, would hang around in her room, listening to records. We loved music. ELO was a big thing, Soft Cell, The Clash, The Go-Gos, The Police...

I can still see Mere's room. The view out the window, the trees, the cool jewelry, the makeup mirror, the afghan on the bed ...

Mere and I worked on a scene from Taste of Honey for our acting class. We rehearsed it in the tool-shed out back, on a shivery winter day, both of us all bundled up. Do you remember that, Mere? I was playing your mother, a lower-class British floozy. And I had to scream at you, in a British accent, "You're askin' for a bloody good hidin'!!" And we could never get through it without laughing.

And so - if anyone had been listening - the neighbors would have heard my repeated shriek from the tool-shed: "You're askin' for a bloody good hidin'!" and then the two of us breaking up into gales of laughter.

Mere's mother always kept Grey Poupon in the fridge for me.

Sometimes I would walk into the house, with Stormy bounding all over me, and Mere would be standing in the kitchen, grinning, holding up the Grey Poupon.

Mere, Jayne (her sister), and another friend Dolores filmed an entire 2-hour movie in this house. It is called The Troubled Days and Nights of Husbands, Wives, Lovers, and Children, in Hope and Despair.

We were in high school. We would banish Mere and Jayne's parents from the house for an entire day, and then film - all over the house. We all played multiple parts. We used almost every room in the house. We sashayed around in prom gowns, we dressed up as men should the scene call for it, we had fake mustaches, we had musical interludes, where we would suddenly break out into music videos. We had so much fun that we still laugh about it today.

When Mere got married, and we all were bridesmaids, we all bustled about getting ready in Mere's room - the room where we had all had so many hilarious sleepovers in high school. We put on our velvet dresses, we painted our nails almost-black, we had our hair put up into French braids with holly in it ... snow fell outside.

In the early days of high school, or maybe it was in junior high, we all had a "punk party" at Mere's house. It was a bunch of girls, all dressed up as our idea of punk, hanging around in Mere's living room, playing music, and taking pictures of ourselves. I still have those pictures. They're hysterical. We were 13. We wanted to be punk renegades on the streets of London, but instead - we were just Rhode Island school girls. Betsy, Beth, Kate, Jayne, Dolores, Mere .... all punked out ... with bowls of Doritos and bottles of soda on the table in the background.

Mere, Jayne, and I would have movie-fests at their house. We not only would rent the movies, but in those days we had to rent the VCR too. And everyone would convene. Betsy, Beth, Kate, all of us .... lying around in the living room, watching 3 movies in one day.

We had Mere's wedding shower in that living room.

Once, on a freezing snowy day, I waited for the bus, which would take me to visit my friends. The bus never came. And so - Lord knows why - I walked all the way there. Through the snow. It's about 5 miles. I was wearing black high-top sneakers. I was freezing. I arrived at their house 2 hours after I was supposed to arrive, tramping up the icy steps with bright red cheeks, to the volley of Stormy's barking, and Mere and Jayne peeking out at me, like: "Where the hell have you been???"

We would convene at the house on Main Street, and then walk up the hill into town, to hang out at the mall.

We would convene at the house on Main Street, and then walk a couple of blocks in the other direction to go to the movies. We got in line for the second Indiana Jones movie there, people circling the block.

Anyway. There are too many memories to count. What I am grateful for is that, for the most part, I am still friends with all of those beautiful girls - we have segued into adult friendship gracefully. But I will miss that house, because it seems to contain so many memories, so much of my high school experience, and my high school self. When I go home to visit, and stop by to say Hello - there she is - all over the place: my 15 year old self, my 16 year old self, my 23 year old self getting ready for Mere's wedding. And there are all my friends - in all their different incarnations - all the different times and places and memories ...

It will be sad to not have that to go to anymore. A thread of connection broken.

However, as I said to the Barefoot Kitchen Witch a while back - the memories are not IN the house itself. The memories are in our heads, our hearts. They are ours.

But still - Thanks for the memories, Main Street. I had a lot of fun in that house.

Good-bye!

A Must-Read

Betrayed by Europe: An Expatriate’s Lament, by Nidra Poller.

An elegy for France.

For me, the monuments are crumbling. The glistening golden dome of Les Invalides. The châteaux and the triumphal arches, the obelisks, the bux om fountains, the wrought-iron balconies, the slightly tipsy 18th-century apartment buildings, the rivers winding through those darling towns and cities. How can so much beauty cover such deep cowardice? I lash myself to the mast and close my senses to the sirens, while my heart rings with pride for "the land of the free and the home of the brave."

We are not free in France. I know the difference. I come from a free country. A rough and ready, clumsy, slapped together, tacky country where people say wow and gosh and shop at Costco. A country so vast I haven’t the faintest idea where I would put myself. A homeland I would have liked to keep at a distance, visit with pleasure, and leave with relief. A native land I walked out on with belated adolescent insouciance. A foreign land where I was born because Europe vomited up my grandparents as it is now coughing up me and mine.

Reading it has made me extremely melancholy.

A couple of excerpts, and that's all - You must go read it yourself. It's one of the saddest things I have read in a long time:

I never thought of myself as an expatriate; I’d let my American identity slip away while retaining the free-floating grace of being a foreigner. Instead, I’d been a "European," picking up after a brief interruption not exactly where my family had left off—not Budapest, not Przemysl, those were places we would not go back to—but Europe and all it could boast of. Beautiful cities that are really lived in, monuments at every street corner, savoir faire, craftsmanship, savoir vivre, boutiques, refinement, manners, health care, free education, history, French windows and parquet floors.

And . . . the Shoah? I came back to be European and, irony of ironies, Europe is showing me why my grandparents left. For a novelist and student of history, this is a fantastic experience. For a grandmother, it is agony. How can I explain to French grandchildren whose very existence is the consequence of my once flighty decision that I cannot entrust them to their native land? But how can I lead them to safety if I myself do not know how to go home?

And then this admission:

I will have to change my way of looking at things. To some extent, I already have changed my way of looking at things. The post-Thanksgiving stampedes at the shopping mall? How I would have slathered them with leftist contempt decades ago. Today I see them as expressions of the common man’s patriotism. No, the malls are not for me, I cannot live in a suburb; but it is incomparably better for people to shop their nation to prosperity than to be marching in the streets of Paris for jihad against the Jews or demonstrating for higher wages, shorter hours, and "justice" in Palestine.

The question is, how would I fit into the picture? Walking down a street in Brookline, Massachusetts, I can recognize myself, barely. But months of snow? I couldn’t take it. Washington? Too square. New York? Perfect in theory, but in practice too frantic, and too expensive. Wouldn’t it be great to reconnect with family, coast-to-coast cousins and nephews and nieces with their children, all so bright and energetic? Yes, but with grandchildren off to college so far away it might as well be Siberia or South Africa, I’d see them once a year if I was lucky.

Where, then?

Poller describes her background:

I am, or was, the first American-born generation in a family that fled Europe before World War I: a lesson in the wisdom of leaving before it is too late. Now I am the first stage in the story of a three-generation "French" family. Why don’t people just pick up and go while they still can? It’s always the same. There is an ailing grandmother, a son in medical school, a daughter who just got married, a business too good to throw away and not good enough to sell. There are in-laws and obligations and unfinished business and . . . hope. Hope that it will all blow over. That people will come to their senses, reason win out, normal life resume. And so, blinded by hope, people minimize danger and cling to an imagined stability.

This woman can write. I will be sure to buy her book, when it is published.

Go read the whole thing. It makes me sad.

(via Andrea Harris)

Au revoir

I'm off for the night.

Let us all, who have seen the Pink Panther movies, have a moment of appreciation for the brilliance and weirdness and savagery of Cato.

Cato. I mean, just THINK about Cato for a second.

Sound of change

Yesterday, I was woken up before my alarm clock by the echoing call of returning wild geese, flying over my apartment.

I love the sound of the ocean, I love the sound of rain on the roof, I love the sound of wind ... yes. But there's nothing I love more than the sound of wild geese.

It means to me:

A quickening in the blood, the seasons changing ... The geese know about it before we do - and they let us know in their call: "We've come back ... we've come back ... get ready for the change ... it's coming..."

The Oscars - My Take on the Proceedings on a Specific Level

Okay, so I got the uber-take out of the way - Now let's talk about my stream-of-conscious impression of other stuff:

Like:

-- Uma Thurman's dress was ridiculous.

-- Nicole Kidman must stop injecting botox into her forehead. She is too young to be doing that, and she is starting to look like Elizabeth I.

-- Susan Sarandon looked gorgeous. I loved the tears in her eyes when Tim gave his speech.

-- The Blake Edwards tribute was one of my favorite parts of the night. We all were just HOWLING watching those old Pink Panther clips. The entire bar erupting into laughter ... Peter Sellars - GOD, I LOVE THAT MAN.

"Ah yes....it's all coming back to me now..." (crash bang boom)

"That was a priceless Steinway!"
"Not anymore."

And Blake Edwards on the wheelchair ramming through the fake wall was hysterical. I loved that Jim Carrey gave the award. Perfect.

I have got to go and watch all those Pink Panthers again.

-- I always get all choked up when the technical guys and special effects guys and sound guys come up to get their awards. These are the invisible geniuses - the tech geeks - the computer geeks - and yet they are so proud to be a part of these great collaborations. They kill me. Love them all.

-- Charlize Theron was too tan.

-- However, one of the tie-breaking questions being bandied about at the Oscar party - was: "What color dress will Charlize wear?" The guesses were mainly gold, or blue. I went with white. I won.

-- I thought Billy Crystal did a great job. Just looking at his face makes me laugh.

-- I hate Renee Zellwegger. I can't wait until her star sets. She's too pleased with herself. Her career is the result of great managers, not something like true raw talent. The response to her speech was pretty tepid, so I think I'm not alone in feeling this way.

-- I loved all the Hobbit boys sitting together. And I loved Peter Jackson sitting with - was that his wife? With the flowers in her black hair? You just could tell that the whole cast and crew just went NUTS in New Zealand for the last 3 years. Must be a strange adjustment, coming back.

-- Oh, and I LOVED during the red carpet, the 4 Hobbit boys being waylaid by Joan Rivers. She was talking to all of them, and Sean Astin's phone rang during this, and he took the call. Go, Sean.

-- Allison Krauss is gorgeous, incredible - her voice goes right through me.
I love both of those songs.

-- Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara are two of my own personal idols. How psyched were they, two improv comedians of all things, performing at the Oscars a duet? Catherine O'Hara playing her damn autoharp with that sanctimonious look on her face was freakin' hysterical.

-- I love Scarlett Johannson. Love her.

The Oscars - My Take on the Proceedings on an Uber Level

I was at an Oscars party. There were ballots drawn, door prizes, everyone sat around checking off nominees on their scorecards, everyone was TOTALLY into it. Not one griper to spoil our fun.

I know it's fun and all to bitch and moan about the Oscars - but my experience watching them is always a bit different.

I love the human spectacle ... I love the high-pitched emotions, I love the tears, I love the acknowledgement of parents, dead and alive, I love seeing them in the audience, reacting, laughing ... Everyone describes it as "egotist central", blah blah, but I just do not see it that way. I'm an actor. What I see are a bunch of people coming together who feel so fortunate that they are actually able to be paid, and not only just paid, but honored for doing what they do. Everyone makes fun of movie stars when they talk about being "artists", and being "thrilled to be nominated", but I am telling you: Coming from a place of struggle, and ambition and hopes and dreams, I take those people at their word for it.

Only if you have toiled in obscurity for however long, doing shitty plays on the lower east side, maintaining your hope that someday you will MAKE something of yourself, telling YOURSELF over and over and over again: "You have a right to be here, you have a right to call yourself an actor..." - because you must tell it to yourself, because nobody ELSE is going to say it to you - to feel like you have given up all hope, to feel like you will never "make it" ... and then ... to find yourself in that crowd, being honored for your work - whether you win or not ...

I don't look at those statements in a cynical light. It IS an honor to be nominated.

Not only that - but the awards themselves, and the judgment of talent is completely subjective.

Well, not completely.

I will say that there is obviously, to any discerning person, a world of difference between Tim Robbins' performance in Mystic River, and what it demands of the actor - and, say, Will Ferrell's performance in Elf.

I'm not saying I think one is "better" - I am talking about the level of commitment and courage required to pull off a role.

How can one say that Sean Penn's performance is BETTER than Bill Murray's? It is merely a matter of opinion. They both achieved greatness in their roles. Bill McCabe thinks Ken Watanabe should have won Best Supporting Actor. I think Bill is insane for thinking that, even though Watanabe is great, but I think that nobody could have topped Tim Robbins in Mystic River.

It is just opinion. It's a matter of taste.

I am babbling on like this because I was very sad that Bill Murray "lost", although I thought Sean Penn's performance in Mystic River was astounding. At that level, I really can see why Dustin Hoffman made that famous speech years ago, when accepting his Oscar for Kramer vs. Kramer:

"I refuse to say that I BEAT Jack Lemmon..."

Yes. Yes.

In a way, I wish that there were no winners. That the 5 nominees would be the ones chosen as winners.

It's apples and oranges.

I don't want to be killed for saying this - but In America was my favorite movie I saw last year. I don't think it was BETTER than Lord of the Rings, because I don't look at it that way. I see it as a matter of taste. Samantha Morton's acting in that film puts everybody else in that category to shame. She is RAW, man. Her acting is bold, it is not a show-off, it is courageous. Watch the scene where she thinks she is going to lose her baby ... It is the kind of acting that does not impress with its showiness, it has nothing to do with an accent, a new look, a good publicist ... It is REAL.

Bravo, woman. Bravo.

Is her performance less impressive because she didn't "win"?

Absolutely not!

Some of the greatest actors in the world haven't won Oscars.

Bill Murray gave the performance of his life in Lost in Translation. It was full of heart, it was full of pathos ... He took his own persona and mellowed it, saddened it ... It was truly brave.

I hope he continues to get roles that challenge him, and challenge our assumptions of him. He is a national treasure.

And so I cannot think that Sean Penn BEAT Bill Murray.

Why else do actors always get up there and praise their fellow nominees? I remember Gwyneth Paltrow bawling, "I don't feel worthy to be up here..."

People may look at her statement in a cynical light, that all actors are attention-whores, and power-grubbing megalomaniacs.

People who think that do not know that many actors.

Actors are some of the most generous humble loving people on the face of this earth. They have chosen one of the most difficult professions to make it in. They must accept that the chances of even making a living are very very slim. Every single person in that auditorium knows that.

That's why actors talk about their craft in a tone of high calling. That's why we call it art.

We must believe that what we do really could matter, that we could possibly make a difference in someone's life through our performance ... because the cards are stacked against us.

And so I applaud ALL the nominees. It was an amazing year, I think. For actors.

Benicio del Torro - his performance in 21 Grams is one of the most complex and unbelievable pieces of acting I have seen in a long time. Great work, dude.

Bill Murray - I cherish his performance in Lost in Translation. I cherish that whole movie.

Sofia Coppola - Unbelievable that she was the first American woman to be nominated in that category. Unbelievable. Don't tell me it's not a big ol' boy's club out there. Good for her. Nobody GAVE her that movie. She used her father, yes, but nobody outside of her family has ever wanted to give her a goddamn thing. Remember how the very same people who applauded her accomplishment last night were BRUTAL when she had the "audacity" to try to act in her father's movie. Stay strong, Sofia. Keep writing. Keep doing what you do best.

Sean Penn - The man is a genius. He gave two incredible performances this year. It seems that there is nothing he can't do. And yet he approaches his work with such humility. He couldn't transform himself that much if he didn't have humility. His acting consistently reveals stuff to me about MYSELF - and this has been true with his work for years. He's astonishing.

Tim Robbins - His acting in Mystic River is not only the best performance I have seen in the last 5 years - but it was a complete surprise coming from Robbins. I do not think Robbins is without talent, but I have found his work in the last 10 years to be kind of smirky. What we in the biz call "commenting on his own work". He always seems to be winking at the audience. In Mystic River he threw all that away and completely transformed.

Peter Jackson - A stupendous accomplishment. He deserved all the awards he got. But because I am me, I will say this: The Lord of the Rings trilogy would not have been possible without the gorgeous and terrifying Heavenly Creatures, made by Jackson years ago, a film I am haunted by to this day. If you want to see an artist at work, without the special effects, go check out that film. In my opinion, the Ring Trilogy, even with all its spectacular effects, was, in essence, an "art film", a "mood piece" and that is why it so touched people. Jackson didn't just go for the effects, for the surface - If he had, we would not have responded to that film in such an intense way. Jackson went for the relationships, for the characters, for the creation of an entire WORLD. That's why those films work on such a deep level. I don't believe that Jackson would have been able to accomplish that if he hadn't already proved how amazing he was with actors and with creating imaginary fantastical realms in the terrifying Heavenly Creatures. See that flick. Really.

Jackson deserves everything he got. The commitment it took, the imagination, the courage, the vision ... People will be watching those films long after Jackson dies. He has left a legacy that will continue. Amazing.

I talk so much about all of this because I feel protective towards actors. I know people love them, but I know people make fun of them too.

I love actors. I love everything about them. I love how they believe in what they do, I love how they love other actors, I love them in their neuroses, I love them in their generosity - I love them when they get insecure, I love them when they need help, I love them when they shine ... I love watching moments like - was it Sean Penn? I wish I could remember who it was. But some big actor, before the show started, came across the aisle to shake the hand of the Whale Rider actress ... and her kind of overwhelmed look - and his serious sweet face, shaking her hand, obviously saying something like, "You are so amazing ... thank you so much for that movie..." I believe them when they say "It was an honor to be nominated", and when I saw Bill Murray's face when he lost - I suddenly remembered Dustin Hoffman's speech those many years ago - and I thought:

No. Bill Murray has not LOST. Bill Murray has not lost ANYTHING. Bill Murray has enriched my life with his performance in that film. I hope that other directors will give him chances like that again.