The Sheila Variations

The creepy underground facility ...

I'm not big on conspiracy theories, as fascinating as I find them. (Ahem.) But there is a certain organization where I make an exception. You know how conspiracy theorists will believe anything - as long as it supports their view that there is, in fact, a man behind the curtain? They totally believe. It's not that they believe IN the man behind the curtain. It's that: they believe that there actually IS a man behind the curtain. I don't. There is no man behind the curtain. We're all just trying to find our way. There is no Uber-knowledge. Nobody knows all. You can't get up high enough to see the whole picture. Even if you are King of the World. You just have to struggle through, try to make a difference in your own small way - however that may be - and take a healthily skeptical stance towards everything you read - and do your best to be reasonable, compassionate, and intelligent. Conspiracy theorists have vast webs of fantasy going on ... because they truly believe that there is a curtain out there - and if they could just draw it back - they would come to a place where everything MAKES SENSE. Connections from here to there, A leads to B, and so on. They are waiting for that Uber "A-ha" moment. I don't quite succumb to that mindset myself.

Except.

With a certain band of volcano-worshipping e-meter-reading antidepressant-hating nutjobs, I find myself in the realm of the conspiracy theorists. I'll believe anything. I believe there IS a man behind the curtain. I also believe that I know his name. I believe the organization itself is capable of keeping a secret (although the Internet is cramping their Xenu-phobic style) ... I also believe that the organization itself of which I speak is capable of being - uhm - ORGANIZED (as opposed to, say, any government organization whatsoever. I don't believe government could organize itself to tie its own shoes if it put its mind to it. I think it's kind of cute that conspiracy theorists have such a naive belief in the capability of bureaucracy to be efficient, organized, and secretive. So no. I just can't succumb to any vast conspiracy theory when it comes to government agencies.) But C0$? I leap willingly into Area 51 land.

So here we go.

Check this weirdness out. I have always had a feeling (based on NO PROOF) that something fishy was up with the deal struck between the IRS and the culty-wulties. It just didn't feel right to me. (See? Conspiracy theory madness. It's all based on "feelings". But still. I trust my instincts. I'm like Miss Clavel. "Something is not right!")

Howard Hawks

It's Howard Hawks' birthday today. My #1 favorite director of all time. I have more I want to compile - he's just so huge to me - but for now - here are some choice quotes.

To me, he's the all-time greatest movie director. No one else even comes close.

"When Wayne saw Clift the first time he said, 'Howard, think we can get anything going between that kid and myself?' I said, 'I think you can.' After two scenes he said, 'You're right. He can hold his own, anyway, but I don't think we can make a fight.' I said, 'Duke, if you fall down and I kick you in the jaw, that would be quite a fight. Don't you think so?' He said, 'Okay.' And that was all there was to it. We did it that way. It took us three days to make Montgomery Clift look good enough to be pitted against Wayne because he didn't know how to punch or move when we rehearsed."

-- Howard Hawks on filming Red River (Hawks had seen Clift onstage in New York in a Tennessee Williams play "You Touched Me" - based on the marriage of Mr and Mrs DH Lawrence- an interesting marriage to say the least. This was when movie directors still gave a shit about the stage, and realized that the best actors were there - and he didn't forget Clift - A couple years after seeing the play, Hawks offered him the role in Red River. Clift said no. Perhaps intimidated by the material, by how different it was from the normally elegant and tormented things he had done. Hawks persisted. It paid off.)

(Howard Hawks, John Wayne, Joanne Dru on location for Red River)

"Cary [Grant] was so fun on this picture [Bringing Up Baby]. He was fatter, and at this point his boiling energy was at its peak. We would laugh from morning to night. Hawks was fun too. He usually got to work late. Cary and I were always there early. Everyone contributed anything and everything they could think of to that script."

-- Katharine Hepburn

(Hepburn and Grant in Bringing Up Baby)

From Cary Grant by Richard Schickel:

Hawks liked to reverse things, to do the simple opposite of what the audience expected of actors, of a comic situation. Hepburn, for example, had previously done a certain amount of noble suffering and a certain amount of romantic dithering, too. He thought the business of making her not merely headstrong, but entirely thoughtless would be funny. "I think it's fun to have a woman dominant ..." Hawks would drawl in that off-hand way of his. Same way with Grant. "Such a great receiver," the director was heard to murmur years later. Why not take that air of not being all present and accounted for that he had shown here and there in his work and develop it into the core of a comic character.

But it was not in Hawks' nature, or Grant's either, to let the matter rest there. There may be something sympathetic about a nebbish, but there is nothing funny about him. So they added a certain crankiness to Grant's character - a crabby, exasperated, put-upon quality. After all, the man was a scientist, a rationalist, when he wasn't being distracted. What, logically, would be his response to the sheer impracticality and heedlessness of Hepburn's character when the full import of their consequences to him dawned? Obviously, it would be fuming fury, suppressed only by the demands of propriety (so many of her assaults on him occured in public, a golf course, a nightclub, her aunt's dinner table, a police station) and politeness (she was, after all, a woman, and he could vaguely remember from childhood that you were supposed to be polite to them, even protect them, as they were 'the weaker sex.')

Well, this was splendid. This was even historic. Grant would use this comically-stated balefulness often in the future.

That picture makes me laugh every time I look at it. He is so horrified and so TRAPPED in his own life.

I wrote a big long post on Hawks' views on women and the gender wars.

From Cary Grant by Richard Schickel:

And it was perhaps only Hawks who could have got him to don the absurd goucho pants and oversized panama hat -- soignee on the way to camp - that he wears in Only Angels Have Wings. He is the ramrodder of an air service flying the mail out of the banana port of Barranca, through a mountain pass with the worst weather in the socked-in history of movie aviation to ... somewhere or other. Talk about your Hawksian group! They are old and young, smart and dumb, brave and brave (even the cowardly interloper is only misunderstood). They have built a barrier against the outside world otu of overlapping dialogue and Hawks' much-vaunted 'professionalism', which consists of doing whatever job is at hand and not counting the cost, let alone sentimentalizing it.

(Howard Hawks and Jean Arthur, on the set of Only Angels Have Wings)

From Cary Grant by Richard Schickel:

In short, [His Girl Friday is a tour de force for both Grant and Hawks, a testing of their limits. Could Hawks quick-march a comedy so fast that no one stopped to think about the stench of the sinkholes we were being hustled past (there is the tragic murderer about to face the gallows hereabouts, and more municipal corruption that one dare contemplate)? Yes, he could. And Grant? Could he keep his frenzy concentrated, never let it deteriorate into something we might understand as unattractive desperation? Yes, he could. When he throws out his front page to accommodate news of a murderer's escape and alleged capture by his newspaper, he is capable of ordering Hitler and the war in Ethiopia banished to the comic page, but ordering the story about chickens retained on page one. "That's human interest," he cries, and we must indulge him. His single-minded devotion to the awful standards of tabloid journalism is a form of innocence of other-worldliness, the flip and noisy side of his devotion in Bringing Up Baby's intercostal clavicle, not to be understood as anti-social or mean-spirited. In a way, this was his ultimate test: cou;ld he make even charmlessness charming? Yes, he could.

(Grant and Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday)

Howard Hawks, Humphrey Bogart, Delores Moran, and Walter Brennan - during the filming of To Have and Have Not.

Bacall and Bogart in The Big Sleep

Shivers.

Look at that list of films. And even with all of that - which would be enough to put him in the history books forever - it's just the beginning.

Uhm ...

... speaking of "favorite sites on the Internet"....

I've got such a wicked crush on him.

Cannot stop laughing.

"You can see here how the family continued the tradition of torturing children with terrible outfits..."

And the whole "because it's how I felt on the inside" photo made me laugh out loud. But also: look at the smiling girl BESIDE him! That's just as funny!

Laughter.

"Here's Dad, contemplating the possibility someone switched out his blonde sporty football kid with an evil gay Paul Lynde homonculous somewhere along the way."....

Can't stop laughing.

Diary Friday

The continuing stoooooory of Sheila's fall semester in senior year of high school. heh heh I know ... what is more important than THIS?? Whatever, I'm happy with my blog, and what I blog about. So. To re-cap: I asked TS to the Homecoming Dance. He said yes. Thanksgiving happened - I had a 3 day break from Picnic rehearsals, and all HELL BROKE LOOSE.

NOVEMBER 23

It seems like every time I write, my mood or my attitudes have changed. If I had written right after the dance, I would have been writing in an ecstatic happy mood. But then on Thanksgiving came the Homecoming Football Game and everything changed. [hahahaha Ain't that always the way] Now I'm just really pissed off.

Okay. I had a pretty good time at the dance. It was very strange. I wore my dad's huge maroon sweater (that I love like I love my dark glasses), my pearls, my green and maroon 40s style skirt, and my grey flats. I love the outfit cause the sweater is long, the skirt is too - I look very thin, and languid - almost like the pictures you see of women in the 20s. It's comfortable too.

I wasn't even nervous for the dance. Diary - everything changed after Tuesday, which I still have to tell. I almost didn't want to go to the dance. I actually looked at it as though it were an ordeal to plow through. I wasn't psyched. It was just a void in my mind.

My life! I mean, Saturday and Sunday were so TS oriented - and then Tuesday - Tuesday was so Brett oriented it was unbelievable. Tuesday still feels so great. I have been putting off writing about it cause it was so flawless and wonderful that I know the words won't come to me. [I have no memory of why "Tuesday" was so great. But I'm sure 16 year old Sheila will eventually find the words]

I started to get psyched for the dance on the way to pick up J. There was a nervousness in me, a tension. Tuesday grew a little blurry. [Tuesday. The axis on which the entire world spins.] Do you know how confused I am? [Not half as confused as I am] Block out one thing to have a good time at another - that's what I was doing.

We got to the dance. Streamers were up, music was playing, there was a buffet and tables set up. I sort of settled down to have a good time. TS wasn't there yet. In fact, no alumnae were there yet. People started coming. Betsy and Kate came. Both looked beautiful. It was a comfort to see them because I started getting so nervous that I wanted to go home. I hadn't thought the dance out at all - how I'd greet him, if we'd get our picture taken, what would happen. I've never gone to a dance with a guy, so I had no idea what to do.

It started to get crowded. I kept my eye on teh door. I saw DW come in! [He was the guy I loved from afar 5 million years ago, in my JUNIOR year.] All that shit about looking forward to seeing him and being on firm ground was just that - BULL SHIT. The minute I saw that oh-so-familiar face - will I never be over the jerk? - I felt a lurch, a stab. I flailed my arms out to clutch J.'s hand. I sometimes stand and stare at him. I loved him more than anything I have ever loved before. WOW. That's really strange. I feel light years away from the crazy turbulent totally wild time when I liked him. So I just stared at him in wonder. What was it about him? Good LORD. What was it about him that made me love him that much and for that long? J. shook me, yelling, "Sheila! You are regressing into your junior year! Stop! Come back before it's too late!" [hahahaha]

Then we both really started to laugh hard. I don't know why - but I felt really uptight, really stiff - I was just waiting for TS, I was dreading seeing him. I knew it would be awkward cause I know myself that well. All I wanted to do was GO HOME and avoid the awkwardness and avoid him.

Around 8:30, I caught a glimpse of him coming in. He had on his dark glasses. Good Lord, is he gorgeous. J. was saying, "Sheila, I hate you."

I couldn't stand it he looked so good. He was wearing a black blazer, black pants, white shirt, a black bow tie, shiny black shoes, and black suspenders (I discovered them later) - And then the glasses. He is so cool. [Uhm - the "I discovered them later" is rather racy, is it not? I swear, I did not mean it that way at the time. By the way: Go, TS, for dressing up like that. He was kind of classic like that.]

He came over to our crowd and said hello. I just said, "Hello, TS", with my chin buried in my turtleneck. That's what I do when I feel awkward. Either that or I put my string of pearls in my mouth, or I finger my earlobe. [Very Bogart of you!] You know I'm feeling insecure when I touch my earlobe over and over. It's a dead giveaway. [Just a small heads up, Diary, so "you" know when I'm feeling awkward!] I am sure I was doing all three things simultaneously at that point. [That's quite an image. Almost like the Jennifer Jason Leigh school of acting.] It was awful having everyone just looking at us. I felt so dumb. I was the personification of the word INSECURE. I hate feeling that way more than anything else. I didn't know WHAT I was supposed to be doing. Well, no problem. We said hello to each other and then for the next excruciating 45 minutes didn't even speak to each other.

Oh Diary.

Oh GOD.

[hahaha I love that. I cry out to my journal. Then I realize I totally need to go higher up in the chain and cry out to God.]

He went off to say hello to all his old buddies, milling around, but half the time we were standing about 10 feet apart. He was standing with Matt M and Matt C - I was with J, Kate, and Betsy.

It was awful.

Betsy kept ordering me not to slump, keep my head held high. She kept reminding me that I was in control here. I have nver felt more out of control. It was like I was dying a very slow very painful death. We were standing so close to each other and ignoring each other. At least, we were physically ignoring each other. I was so mentally aware of him I thought I was dying. I would have left if my friends hadn't chained me down. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just go up to him and ask him to dance. He was with his buddies, I was with mine.

All I wanted to do was go home. Then I started getting pissed.

I went over my conversation with him on the phone - and I certainly did ask him to the dance. Cause J. said, "Maybe he thought you only meant - well, I'll see you there" - but no - I said, "Would you like to go with me?" So why weren't we talking?

Betsy said, "Sheila, that's the way it always happens." [I love you, Betsy. You are 17 years old, but you have the wisdom of the ages!!] "Just give it time, Sheila. Everyone's uptight now."

It didn't help to see DW strolling by every 5 seconds.

I said, "If he doesn't ask me to dance, then we are not dancing tonight."

And I really did mean it.

But 10 minutes later, I broke that promise. [hahahahaha] Finally, TS came over to our little crowd and we stood around making jokes, etc. And right then, I broke my promise to myself. But I'm sorry - the time had come. I was sick of bullshitting and pretending we weren't on a date. So I just said to him, right in front of everyone, "Want to dance?"

He reeled backwards as though I had shoved him and said, "Hey, I'm really disappointed, Sheila. I was gonna ask you!"

(Well, why didn't you, you BUM)

But off we went and bopped around. He dances so funny. I LOVE it. He looks so cute. He has a sense of humor as he dances too - the music at the dance was bad, so we went up to ask for our favorites - Frankie Goes to Hollywood, B-52s, Animal House [omigod, the memories] - we're into the same stuff. We talked as we danced - about how weird it felt for him to come back to high school [he was 19 - out of high school for a couple years] - and how we didn't like the music - I can't fake dance. Dancing, for me, is generated out of a real joy with the music. I think the same thing goes for him because he would suddenly realize that he was dancing with his hands in his pockets. We just laughed about that. I still felt self-conscious and - I wasn't having a good time at all. My chin was in my turtleneck, basically. [hahahahaha]

As we danced, TS gently tugged the sweater down - so he could see my mouth - then he nudged me and said, "It's all right."

I couldn't really hear it because of the music but I could see his mouth. Right then, things felt a little better, and for the first time I looked at him like my friend. I don't have to be scared of him. He's my FRIEND.

After a while, all the lights went out except for the big glittering silver ball, and it was the first slow song. I was talking with J. and Kate, and all of a sudden I felt someone pinch me from behind on the waist. Of course it was him. Then he sort of gestured his head towards the darkened dance floor - like a little "C'mon." So I followed him out onto the floor, we found a little clear spot - he turned to face me, and there we were slow dancing. But our arms weren't around each other. That would have been too much. My right hand was in his left hand, his hand on my back - my arm around his neck. We dance like that in Picnic! It was cool - because even though we danced with that space between us - I felt so close to him. I mean, we've never really touched except for that one time we hugged - so I didn't mind the awkwardness suddenly, because the awkwardness felt natural. (You know?) And sweet.

We were so together that a nuclear war could not have separated us. [bwahahahahahahahahaha]

Then the damn fast music started again. Bruce Springsteen's song came on [uhm - which one, Sheila? Does he only have one??] - and TS was doing an imitation of Bruce that had me ROLLING - and Kathy S (who I think is wonderful) was nearby dancing with Kevin O. - and for some reason the four of us just became hysterical - we were like this hysterically laughing foursome.

And so the dance went on. We would dance some, then mingle some.

Cris F. was there. I just love that boy. He came up to me: "Dates. I want specific dates!" [So sweet. He meant 'dates' of Picnic.]

We all got our pictures taken. [I still have it somewhere. And no - my chin is not in my turtleneck in the picture] The picture was me, Kate, J., Lisa, Betsy, TS, Cris, and Mr. Crothers. [ha! First of all: Mere- where were you?? Also Beth: where were you?]

I didn't speak to DW. He totally ignored me. But I hardly noticed until later. [Triumph!] The last half-hour of the dance, I just stood and talked to J. Then Kate and Betsy came over. Betsy left because her knees swelled up and she couldn't walk. The poor kid! She just got over mono. Anne came over,a nd we just blabbed. I have no idea what about. I was the only one of my friends who brought anyone to the dance - and it was just so alien to me to be at a dance with a guy, because - dances have always been for me a miserable time that reaffirms that I have no boyfriend and that no one will ever approach me and that I will always be alone.

Then came the last song. Always a slow one. This time it was Purple Rain. [OF COURSE IT WAS!!!] That song is so slow that it almost sounds unnatural and it is very very long. I didn't know where TS was. Then suddenly he was standing next to me and everyone was looking at him. I suppose he was compelled to make a joke but he was funny. He came over, everyone looked at him expectantly, everyone knew what he wanted - and so he was, "Well, see you around!" and pretended to walk away. Everyone burst out laughing and then he gestured to me - and we went off to dance.

There were times during Purple Rain when I'd feel his hand suddenly squeeze mine, or his hand on my back hold me tighter - and I'd feel everything inside me cave in, like I was falling hundreds of feet - or like when you lie down on hot sand in the summer and your stomach crumbles in - It was this jolting crumbling inside.

When the lights came on, and the music faded - I didn't want to stop. I didn't want to go off and find my dad [Gotta love the parents, comin' to pick up their teenage degenerate children at random dances left and right.] It was as though - I felt like this fragile wine goblet. I felt like one shove would jolt me, shatter. We all sort of milled around - and then TS said, "Well, I see my buddies drifting around so ---" Then I said, "Bye." and he flipped his fingers at me in a wave, and walked off.

I somehow managed to find my coat, find J., and say goodbye to all my friends. I was just in space - I felt shaken, dazed, didn't know what to do with myself. As we left, we passed TS standing with the two Matts. We glanced at each other and smiled. He threw a streamer at me. And for this one instant - we were smiling at each other, and it felt very private, like we were the only two in the gym.

Then I went home.

________________________________________________________

[Yes, that line is there. To note "end of story" or "shift in tone coming up", or something like that]

Okay so now that I've recreated for you hjow I felt at the dance - How I feel now doesn't change how the dance felt - but now - Yesterday was the Homecoming Game. We lost - but not by much. Most of it was fun cause Jayne was home - she looks wonderful. Mere was there - what a help she has been to me - and Anne, and Betsy and J. But J. was playing her cymbals so I didn't get to see much of her. [That sentence makes me laugh out loud. J. played the flute in the band ... but for sporting events, she had to play the cymbals and it SO PISSED HER OFF ... I have vivid memories of J's pissed face, underneath her big band hat, clanging her cymbals together - just in a RAGE about it. hahahahaha]

I got really into the game when we started winning. [Fairweather fan] Betsy was clutching the fence and screaming. She turned to me after the touchdown that gave us the lead [Oh, and guess who was quarterback! The famous Keith M.!] - and her eyes were round Os and her mouth was a round O - and we both were jumping and screeching and hugging and going perfectly berserk. We all were. I was glued to the fence.

Millions of alumnae were there. Sherri, JENNY B., Sam G - I went over to say hi after the game. Diary, I just passionately love him. [He was an awesome person.] When I caught a glimpse of him, I almost screamed, "SAM IS HERE!" He is about my favorite person on earth - I see him like once a year. Seeing Jenny was terrific. She looks just beautiful - I went running over to her - big tight bear hug - I love that girl!

And Heather C - I grew really really close to her last year in Math. At the dance, when I was slow-dancing with TS, I heard this, "Sheila! Sheila!" And she was there, dancing with Peter Garvey next to us. We both let go of our guys to hug each other - It almost surprised me because she was so popular in high school, and beautiful, and we had become good friends.

Matt B was at the game. And Bobby R. They improve with age. How do they live with themselves, being so gorgeous? And Crissy J was crowned Homecoming Queen - that sweet lovable totally WONDERFUL girl. We have great kids in our class.

So now what keeps making me madder:

I kept my eyes open for TS but I didn't see him until he was sort of strolling by us. I called out, "Hello, TS!" and waved my pom pom at him to show him where we were. He waved and came over. [Again: Beth, where are you??] He said hello to everybody, all of us as though we all were the same, and then off he went to join his buddies. Not a damn word to me.

The whole game was just like the first 45 minutes of the dance. Both of us standing in our own groups, 10 feet away, not communicating. But I forgot about it after a while because I was thrown into such a delirium by the game. But I was constantly peripherally aware of him. We both had on hightops. I mean, he didn't even really say hi to me - and then he totally ignored me. So I thought: "Fine" and had a great catch-up talk with Jayne. I haven't been able to write to her because I've been so busy but we just talked. I filled her in on Brett - she told me about college - and for the rest - we just watched the game and screamed our lungs out. I mean, we're seniors. This is our last football game. It sort of hit me in the middle of it and then I really started getting involved and becoming a maniac. [Good for you, girl, for realizing that this would be the end ... and throwing yourself even MORE into the moment.] It was awful to lose when we came so close. And Narragansett won in the last damn 45 seconds. It was awful.

[Okay, so now comes some rage. My entire handwriting changes. It gets larger, and I am pressing the pen down onto the page.]

Then after the game, I was standing there with Betsy, Beth [Oh! There you are!] and Mere - [which I just love - since the 3 of us are all still close close close ... We're getting together on Saturday night!] - and suddenly TS was with us - I wasn't really in the group - I was standing on the edge, looking onto the field - so I didn't hear him come over. I just heard his voice. He didn't even look at me. He didn't say good-bye to me. He didn't even say goodbye - he just turned and walked away. He didn't even look at me.

I am still so angry about this.

I started to feel even more confused and dumb, like, "Did I come on too strong at the dance?" Oh please. If I came on too strong, then ... [Then I had written something - a long something - which I vigorously crossed out. I cannot read what's underneath the scribbles]

Come on.

I look over all our dates and one of the most important things to me is trust - trusting a person to recognize vulnerability, be gentle -

Chirst. I understand having to be protected. God, I wrote the book about needing to be protected - but God, when I'm vulnerable - which I totally was - I can't atke it when he makes a flip remark - because then I have to check myself, like: "Uh oh - I was feeling too much - I let him in too much."

I've thought about this a lot.

I have to watch myself when I am with him. Then I think of Picnic and Brett, and how I don't have to watch myself there - and I am totally fed up. I do not have to put up with it. I mean, I did for a while because i was so flattered and excited to actually be going on dates - and with TS! But I'd come home from those dates cringing over how dumb I felt, or how inadequate -

He didn't say goodbye to me.

Fine.

FINE

I DON'T NEED ANYONE WHO MAKES ME FEEL TINY. AND IT'S NOT FUNNY. I HAVE ENOUGH PROBLEMS WITH MY SELF-IMAGE AS IT IS. I DON'T NEED TO BE WITH SOMEONE WHO MAKES ME FEEL TINY. And I will NOT anymore. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO MAKE ME FEEL DUMB JUST BECAUSE HE FEELS INSECURE.

So this is an overview of everything between us.

I am SO SO ANGRY RIGHT NOW.

I WANT TO SLUG HIM.

I WANT TO RIP SOMETHING APART.

I AM FURIOUS.

NOVEMBER 24

I'm still mad. [hahahahahaha]

I just got off the phone with Kate - we went up to Mama's for Thanksgiving and I was talking to Lisa about all of it - and that's when I really started getting mad. When he didn't say goodbye to me - right in front of me - I thought I would start to cry - but now I'm just furious.

Kate said to me on the phone, "Maybe I should just shut up and let you work it out - but just so you know: whenever you mention TS, you practically start yelling, Sheila."

Then when I think about last Tuesday [again with the Tuesday??] and I realize that one night of close best-friendship with Brett made me feel 1,000,000 times better than 4 months of dates with TS. It's just not worth it. Fuck romance. Seriously. I would choose friendship over FRIENDSHIP. This bullshit is NOT worth it.

Fuck him. Fuck HIM.

Other Picnic entries:

Part 1. The audition
Part 2: The callbacks, getting into the play
Part 3: First meeting with the director
Part 4. The calm before the storm ... the time before rehearsals started ... memorizing lines, etc.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!
Part 12. Rehearsals! Life! Going crazy!
Part 13. The rehearsal when the play clicks into place, emotionally.
Part 14. Opening night approaching. Homecoming Dance approaching.

Excuse me ...

.. but Prince was on American Idol last night. I still haven't recovered. It was like I saw my entire life flash before me ... I have SO MANY MEMORIES attached to Prince songs, and there he was ... with those HOT BABES doing Laugh-in-esque go-go dancing, although robotically. It was, frankly, smokin' hot and I lost my mind. I mean ... he is such a showman.

SHIIIIIIT. I love Prince and I have been ignoring him for way too long.

My jaw literally dropped when he came out.

All the stars came out last night - I mean: DIONNE WARWICK AND FECKIN' BURT BACHARACH!!!!!!! I can't stand it. I cannot stand it. Bacharach looked kinda rickety, but come on - he's an octogenarian, practically - but what a nice vibe he has, what ease he has, right?? And Dionne. Talk about ease. Please. She looked fantastic, and she sounded even better.

Mary J. Blige came on and pretty much showed, in person, why Katherine McPhee sucks. Katherine McPhee sucks, people. I will not lower my standards of what I expect from performers just because the American Idol people are amateurs. Nope. I'm with Simon on that one. Will people PAY to see you do that? Does it stand up to real performers? To my mind, Katherine is a glorified version (prettied up by stylists) of a musical-theatre geek, on a community theater level. She's stiff - she looked like she didn't know HOW to commit to the arm movements in "I'm every woman" - she kept glancing at the girls on either side of her ... EW. She's a very lucky girl to have gotten that far on so little natural ability. Maybe she has a pretty vibrato, and white teeth but in terms of putting herself out there? Actually USING herself? Actually sharing herself? She SUCKS. Give me Taylor any day. He seems to know who he is, and he is not shy about sharing it. And THAT is what a star is ... way more than the voice. (I also don't think McPhee is all that good a singer. I just don't. She has about 10 notes where she can feel confident - and that's not enough. Or - it's certainly not enough if you're going to be stiff, precious, cautious, and afraid to move your arms. I find her INTENSELY BORING to watch.) But back to Mary J. Blige ... I've always liked her, but watching her last night was truly remarkable. She just GOES for it when she sings. There is no barrier between herself, her voice, and her audience. She lets her talent flow - I just loved how generous she was to Elliot too, holding his hand, but still: I got goosebumps watching her.

But let's get back to Prince.

Holy mackerel. He looked great, he sounded great - and I'm serious: about 10 separate VERY SPECIFIC memories floated through my head as I watched him.

Prince. I'm a fan of his for life - in the same way that I'm a fan of Margaret Atwood's for life - even through her bad books, her pretentious nonsense - don't care. I'll buy every damn book she writes. Same with Prince. I don't care what he does, become a symbol (literally), tattoo stuff on his body, pose nude, go into hiding like Kane ... whatever. He's incredible. I just forgot about him for a while.

Prince showing up made the night for me. The memories .... good, bad, ugly, life-changing ... I've got so many that are attached to his music. Need to buy a ton of his albums - I used to have them all (on CASSETTE TAPE) and this must be rectified. I can't not have Prince in my life anymore.

Oh yeah. And congrats, Taylor! I'm psyched for you. You deserve it.

But for me the whole night was about Mary J. Blige and Prince. Now THOSE people are stars.

The Books: "I Am the Cheese" (Robert Cormier)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is I Am the Cheese by Robert Cormier.

Okay. I remember reading THIS book, again, in 8th grade - it was again on the curriculum - I think I read it a couple times after that, because I liked it. It's another terrifying and dark book - and there's a revelation at the very very end which is truly upsetting. Although, to be honest, I can't remember what that revelation is. Does anyone remember? It's been so long since I read this one.

Here's what I remember:

-- There's a kid. He's bicycling. The bicycle is a big deal.
-- The kid has "blanks" in his memory. He also "blanks" out in his present - kind of like Sybil describes in the movie when she says, "One time, I woke up and I was two years older." The kid's mind is protecting him from something. But what??
-- Interspersed through the narrative are these odd "interview" sequences ... a Q&A ... or it feels sometimes like an interrogation ... Who is interrogating who? Why?
-- Uhm ... help ... no more memory of PLOT
-- I think the Witness Protection Program has something to do with the plot ... the boy's family was in the program?
-- But for some reason he either has amnesia, or ... something ... he's blocking out something HORRIBLE and the interrogation (which sometimes is gentle, sometimes more aggressive) is designed to "help" him remember ... But ... who is the interrogator? You kind of get the sense of a government agency there ... A cold bureaucratic faceless person ...
-- And the ending is quite horrible. Although I can't remember the ending. It's something like: The boy realizes that the entire thing has been in his mind??

Basically the final revelation of the book is that the boy - the narrator of this thing - the boy we have come to love and root for - is actually quite mad. He's lost his mind. All he can do is "keep pedaling" ... but the bike is in his mind. In his reality he is locked up in a mental institution and will be for the rest of his life ... because he knows government secrets? He saw something he shouldn't have? I CAN'T REMEMBER. I also have "blanks" when it comes to the plot of this book.

It's a gripping book - at least I remember it as being gripping - and there is something very very scary in realizing that nothing is as it seems ... The truth of the book unfolds slowly, Cormier lets you sweat it out ... You start to put the pieces together, but it's all still vague and unclear ... until you have the horrible "A-ha" moment at the end.

If anyone remembers the plot of this damn book, please leave it in the comments!!

I've told you what I remember.

Here's an excerpt from one of the interrogation scenes. See how bureaucratic the tapes are - the labels, the dates ... this is in huge contrast with the OTHER narrative, the first-person narrative of the boy ... It's all kind of terrifying.

From I Am the Cheese by Robert Cormier.

TAPE OZK013
0800
date deleted T-A

T. You are looking well this morning.
A. Thank you.
T. You are alert.
A. I feel alert.
T. We are making excellent progress, are we not?
A. A lot of things are clearer now. Not everything. But enough. They give me the chills sometimes but the chills are better than the blanks.
T. Good. I mentioned the necessity of specific details.
A. You're always talking about specifics - what kind of specifics?
T. I mean specific details as opposed to general information.
A. You mean, details of our lives in Monument and how we came to be there?
T. Yes, that, of course. Also, the why's of your presence in Monument.
A. But I've told you that. My father gave testimony. And this placed him in danger.
T. Did he ever tell you about his testimony, its nature?
A. No. There wasn't time.
T. What do you mean - there wasn't time?
(9-second interval)
A. I don't know. I'm not sure.
T. You appear troubled. You are frowning. Is anything the matter?

Like a cloud hanging in the distance, in his mind, something dark lurking there. And the edge of panic again, a shiver in his bones, deep in his marrow ...

T. Perhaps this line of questioning is disturbing you. Why not let the thoughts flow freely?
A. All right. It's just that, for a minute there, I felt the blankness again. There are still blanks, you know.
T. And we shall fill those blanks eventually. Think of how far we have come to this point.
A. Do we still have a long way to go?
T. That depends.
A. You mean, it depends on me?
T. To a certain extent, yes. And on these sessions. And the medicine. Tell me, did you grow close to your father after you had discovered the truth of the situation?
A. Yes. We spent a lot of time together. He kept apologizing for the predicament he had placed me in, had placed my mother in, too. But I was proud of him, really. I mean, he had done what he believed to be right. He had given up his career ...

He remembered asking his father, tentatively, afraid that he was invading his privacy, how much it had hurt him to start life over, to give up his old life, his career, his friends. Adam thought how terrible it would be if he had to leave Monument now, to give up Amy, and start again in a new town, a new section of the country.

"Of course it hurt, Adam," his father said. "But it hurt your mother most of all. I didn't mind leaving Blount - I had always figured that my career lay elsewhere. I had those dreams a young guy has, dreams of going to distant places, fame, all that stuff. But your mother loved Blount, the people especially. The hardest thing for me - and I still miss it - was giving up the newspaper work. I still hope that the situation will change and I'll be able to get back in the business someday. Grey figured it was too risky for me to continue in the same profession. Insurance didn't appeal to me. But the Department always keeps its eyes out for legitimate businesses they can buy or take over that one of their witnesses can operate. The insurance agency was available for me at the time. We had to build a new life, Adam. It was hard, naturally. But when you think of the alternative, we were glad to have a chance. There's always fear, though. Even today. Grey said our tracks are covered. Three bodies cremated ten years ago in Blount, New York. But who knows? Who really knows?"

"Why does Mr. Grey come here to Monument so often?"

"To keep in touch. He brings a special bonus of money twice a year. He also drops in to keep me up to date on developments. He also brings reassurances that we're still safe. Once in a while, he probes my memory for some lost fact, some overlooked detail that subsequent developments have made important. And there's another reason. He's never mentioned this reason - I only suspect it. I think he's keeping an eye on me."

"But why?"

"I don't really know. Maybe to see that I haven't been reached by the other side."

They were always on the move during these conversations, talking in snatches as they strolled the streets, visited the bazaar at St. Jude's Church, exchanging information as Adam aimed the ball at three wooden bottles arranged in a pyramid. Once they went to a drive-in movie and his father had turned down the speaker while they conversed. A John Wayne film was on the screen - Adam had forgotten the title. But he remembered asking his father why all these precautions with Mr. Grey were necessary ten years after testimony and threats.

Watching John Wayne swagger across the street, gun riding low on his hip, his father said, "Because nobody knows how powerful these organizations - maybe there's more than one - are today. Nobody knows how far they might have penetrated the government."

Adam was reluctant to use a certain word but he went ahead anyway, pulling his eyes away from John Wayne on the screen. "Does it involve the Mafia, Dad?" The word sounded ridiculous coming from him - melodramatic, belonging on a movie scsreen, maybe, but not in their lives.

"I can't say who or what, Adam. For your own protection. Anyway, the Mafia is only a handy word for people to use. There are a lot of words to describe the same thing. As far as time is concerned, the evidence I gave has been used and reused. But there's a catch. No one knows whether I divulged all the information, everything I knew. That's another reason for all this surveillance. And maybe it's the real reason for Grey's trips here. He keeps probing for more information and I tell him there isn't anymore, that I've held nothing back. And he just looks at me. That look gives me the chills. Sometimes, I think I'm an annoyance to him, an embarrassment. Sometimes, when he visits, we sit there like enemies. Or as if we're playing a crazy game that neither of us believes in anymore but the game has to go on ...

T. This information your father talked about. Did he ever reveal its nature?
A. No.
T. Weren't you curious about it? After all, the information changed your lives.
A. He said he couldn't tell me, for my own protection, and I didn't press him for the information.
T. He said he told Grey that he was not holding anything back. Was he specific to you about that?
A. I don't know what you mean.
T. I mean, did you ever ask him whether he was telling Grey the truth or whether he was just being clever?
(9-second interval)
T. Why this sudden silence? You are looking at me in a strange manner.
A. I think it's just the opposite. You're looking at me very strangely. It reminds me of what my father said about Mr. Grey. My father said the look on Mr. Grey's face gave him the chills. As if they were enemies. And that's the way you were looking at me a minute ago, that look on your face when you asked about the information --
T. I am sorry that you were disturbed by the expression on my face. I, too, am human. I have headaches, upset stomachs at times. I slept badly last night. Perhaps that's what you saw reflected on my face.
A. It's good to find out you're human. Sometimes I doubt it.
T. I understand. It is just as well if you take out your anger on me. I don't mind.
A. I don't know what you're talking about.
T. Whenever we approach truths, basic truths that you've been trying to deny or hide, you turn upon me. But I understand. I am the only other target that's available.
A. What do you mean - the only other target? Who's the first target then?
T. Don't you know?
A. You mean - me? I get tired of all this - the way you twist things all the time.
T. You see? The anger again. Just as it happened when we were approaching an important area.
A. What area?
T. The information your father had, the information you say he didn't give you.
(15-second interval)

And the winner of the Eurovision song contest is ....

Lordi!

That's one of the funniest most genius pictures I've ever seen. And I adore the caption:

Lordi, the winners of Eurovision Song Contest, at a press conference in Helsinki, Finland on Monday May 22, 2006.

Such matter of fact language. And then THAT is the picture???

hahahahahahahaha

It's not as funny as this classic bit of humor (which I still am unable to look at, despite repeated viewings, without literally falling apart in laughter) - but it's up there. I mean ... just that the caption says "at a press conference" and ... LOOK AT HIM!! Or it could be a her. What do I know. I LOVE IT.

Congrats, Finnish Monster-men!!

GO EUROVISION!

A big week

1. Doin' the commencement speech at your alma mater

2. And a couple days later ...

Throwin' out the first pitch at Fenway? Sox/Yankees game?

EX-SQUEEZE ME???

HOLY CRAP!!!!

Thanks, Siobhan, for the photo. AHHHHHHHHHHHH

Trouble in paradise

Wanna see another new obsession? Check it out. A blog devoted to "pre-code cinema". I'm in HEAVEN. Here's one post on the evolution of the "Deco Lady". But there is so much more on that site - mainly images - but many that I have never seen. I've only begun to explore it - it's riveting.

If Charlie Parker was a gunslinger ...

Wanna see my new obsession? Check it out. Keep on scrolling. Amazing images. Hypnotic.

Never give all the heart

Even after all this time, even after everything ... my heart can still skip a beat. Isn't it funny, too, how it actually feels like your heart skips a beat? Like a little physical flutter of excitement - a pause, and then a speeding-up. The physiological response of emotion. Like "heartache". The heart actually hurts when it is broken. This is not a revelation, by any means. Smarter people than yours truly have recognized that. I often wonder about it, though. I don't wonder about it at 3:30 in the morning AS I'm pressing down on my chest, trying to ease the ache in my heart - an ache that feels REAL - the emotions are what is real, the experiential reality is what is actually going on - but still. The heart actually hurts. What is that? The pain does seem to come from the region of the heart, which is truly amazing, if you think about it. It's just an organ. But so much emotion goes on in there. Pain and joy emanate from that area of the chest. Remarkable.

And after all this time, after all the heartACHE, it is amazing to learn that the heart can still skip a beat. It hasn't forgotten.

The Books: "After the First Death" (Robert Cormier)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is After the First Death by Robert Cormier. They had us read this book in 8th grade. I remember the experience vividly. I hadn't ever read a book for school that affected me so deeply. I couldn't put it down. And yet that book stalked my nightmares for months - and in some ways it still does. I am kind of shocked it was on the curriculum - like: I would have a hard time getting through the book NOW - and yet, as always, I am so glad I read it. Even if it really really really upset me.

It's about three guys, three self-proclaimed freedom fighters - who hijack a schoolbus full of kids - Their plan is to hold it and make all of these political demands, get the United States to blah blah blah - I can't remember. It is not said WHERE the guys are from. They reminisce about their "homeland" - but their names are indistinct, the homeland is never named, and besides - it's not the point. The book is about senseless violence - senseless political violence. You wake up one morning, you go off to go to work, and the subway car you're in explodes. End of your life. Done. You're on the front lines of some invisible war - there's war everywhere - even if it hasn't been declared. Cormier's book was quite prophetic, in many ways. Anyway - even though this is a book for kids, it's UPSETTING, man. I mean, the first sentence is: "I keep thinking I have a tunnel in my chest." (I have to just interject - hahaha I'm interrupting myself: Cormier is also a spectacular writer. Just top-notch.) Like - it's truly terrifying. Also - there isn't one narrator. The book switches back and forth. We are in the head of Miro, one of the hijackers (and his sections are third-person) ... we are in the head of Kate, I think her name is - she's driving the bus that morning - she's young and beautiful - an amazing character - there's another narrator, too - a first-person narrator, whose sections obviously take place AFTER all of the events of the book. So there's an eerie retrospective feeling to the book, even as the events unfold. It's truly horrible.

I mean - there are guns. They board the bus and hand out candy - candy laced with tranquilizers, so all the little kids pass out - no trouble for the moment. Then - very quickly - one of the kids dies. Bad reaction to the drug. He dies. Horrifying. They sit on the bus on a bridge and wait for their demands to be met. It's stiflingly hot in the bus. The police scramble around outside, trying to come up with a plan. It's like Beslan.

Meanwhile - if I recall correctly - Miro, who is the least secure of the hijackers - he seems kind of sensitive, actually, like he doesn't know what he's doing - he's just following the lead of Artkin, who is much more ruthless and has more experience. But anyway: Miro, who has been living the life of a revolutionary, a totally male life - gets this weird helpless pathetic crush on Kate, the bus driver - he is completely distracted by her, he tries to make her more comfortable - all while pointing his gun at her, of course, he tells her not to worry, he opens up to her slightly ... Then when we switch to Kate's narration, we see that she senses that she has an "in" with Miro - that she can USE his crush on her to get her and the kids out of this predicament. So she does. Miro, a naive follower, is helpless in front of this pretty bus driver, who flirts with him, and tries to get him to let the kids go outside for a minute, pee in the bushes, stretch their legs, whatever. You love Kate- she's smart, she's suddenly put in the position that no bus driver ever wants to be in ... but she steps up to the plate heroically. She's a great character. She's someone who lingers in the memory long after you finish the book.

The whole thing is just awful. The ending is even more awful. I couldn't believe how it ended. But of course - if you look back at the first sentence, you can tell which way the wind will blow in this wrenching book. Also, the title!! Which, of course, is half of a quote from Dylan Thomas: "After the first death there is no other."

But a truly great book. I highly recommend it. Cormier's books are always really dark - but this one, to my taste, is his darkest.

It's kind of like a Sweet Hereafter for teenagers. Not that there are terrorists in Sweet Hereafter - but how the tragedy of the schoolbus completely rips a town apart. No way to recover.

Here's an excerpt. Proceed at your own risk. I found this book unbearable as a 13 year old - even as I couldn't put it down, even as I LIVED that book - I found it unbearable - and it's still unbearable now.

From After the First Death by Robert Cormier.

Okay. She wasn't panicky. She listened to the boy, telling herself to be sharp, alert, on her toes, cheerleading herself onward. She knew the boy's name was Miro and the man was Artkin. She'd heard them exchanging names a few moments ago, and somehow the realization that they had names restored a sense of normality to the situation, reduced the degree of terror that had engulfed her during the bus ride to the bridge. Miro, Artkin was much better than the boy, the man, rendering them human. And yet what this boy named Miro was telling her now was inhuman, a horror story. The child was dead.

"Murdered," she said, the word leaping to her lips, an alien word she had never uttered before in its real meaning.

"Not murdered, miss," the boy said. "It was an accident. We were told the drugs were safe, but this boy died."

"Does this mean the other kids are in danger, too?"

"No. We have checked them all - you can see for yourself - and they are normal. Perhaps this boy had a weak heart. Or he was allergic to the drugs." He pronouced "allergic" as three separate words.

Kate turned to look at the children. They were still subdued, although some yawned and stirred restlessly in their seats.

"We want you to help us with the children," the boy said. "Take care of them. See to their needs. This will convince you that we mean them no harm."

"How long are we going to be here?" she asked. She nodded toward the man, who was going from seat to seat, touching the children, their foreheads, their cheeks, speaking to them gently and soothingly. "He said it would be all over when we reached the bridge."

Miro thought fast. "We have had a chance of plans. Because of the death of the boy. We will be here a bit longer."

"How long?" she asked, pressing on, sensing a sudden uncertainty in the boy.

He shrugged. "No one knows, really. A few hours."

At that moment, a noise at the door claimed her attention. The big lumbering man who had forced open the door with a crowbar was back at the door again. He shattered the windows in the door with a rock.

"What's he doing?" she asked.

The man groke the glass with a glowering intensity, looking neither at the girl nor at Miro.

"He is breaking the glass to put a lock on the door so that it cannot be opened with the handle there," Miro said.

Her glance went automatically to the emergency door on the left halfway down the bus. The boy did not miss the direction her eyes had taken. He did not smile; he seemed incapable of smiling. But his eyes brightened. "The emergency door will be locked with a clamp," he said. "And the windows - we will seal the windows shut. It is useless to think of escaping."

She felt mildly claustrophobic and also transparent, as if the boy could see right into her mind. Turning away, she saw the man standing now at the seat where the dead boy lay. She wondered which child was dead and yet, in a way, she didn't want to know. An anonymous death didn't seem so terrible. She didn't really know any of the children, anyway, although their faces were familiar from the few times she'd substituted for her uncle. She'd heard them call each other by name - Tommy, Karen, Monique. But she couldn't place names with faces.

"May I see the child?" she asked. And realized she didn't really want to see the child. Not a dead child. But she felt it was her responsibility to see him, to corroborate the fact of his death.

Miro paused.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Kate. Kate Forrester."

"My name is Miro," he said. He realized that this was perhaps the first time he had ever introduced himself to anyone. Usually, he was anonymous. Or Artkin would say, "The boy's name is Miro" when they encountered strangers.

Kate pretended that she hadn't learned his name earlier. "And your friend's name?" she asked.

"Artkin," he said.

The huge man outside the bus was now testing the lock. Kate didn't care to know his name. His name would only establish his existence in her life, and he was so ugly and menacing that she didn't want to acknowledge him at all. She glanced at the van and saw the black fellow at the wheel, staring into space, as if in a dream world of his own, not really here in the van, on the bridge.

"Please," Kate said. "May I see the child?"

Miro shrugged. "We are going to be together for a while on this bus. You should call me Miro and I should call you Kate." Miro found the words difficult to say, particularly to a girl and an American girl at that. But Artkin had told him to win her confidence.

The girl didn't answer. Miro, flustered, turned away and then beckoned her to follow him. He led her to the center of the bus. "She wants to see him," he told Artkin.

Kate drew a deep breath and looked down. The child lay still, as if asleep. His pallor had a bluish tint. Miro also looked, seeing the child from the girl's viewpoint, wondering what she thought. Had she ever seen a dead person before? Probably not; not in her well-scrubbed American world. The girl shuddered slightly. "Come," Miro said. She looked grateful as she turned away from the child. At least she had not fainted. Her flesh was pale, however, and this somehow made her blond hair more pronounced, more radiant. He realized that American boys would consider her beautiful.

Artkin accompanied them to the front of the bus.

"What happens now?" Kate asked. Would she ever forget that blue child on the bus seat?

"As far as your part is concerned, miss," Artkin said, "it will consist mostly of waiting. For a few hours. We have sent messages and are waiting for a reply. Meanwhile, you will care for the children. They will be awakening soon. I want you to reassure them. Most of all, keep them in control, keep them quiet."

Kate closed her eyes. The migraine reasserted itself, digging into her forehead. The blue face of the dead child floated in the darkness. She realized she didn't even know his name. Escaping from that face, she opened her eyes to confront the two strangers before her. The full import of what was going on suddenly rushed into full and terrible comprehension.

"I know what you are," she said. She did not recognize her voice: it was strident, off key, too loud in her ears, the voice of a stranger. "You're holding us hostage and you've made demands. You're going to hold us here until the demands are met. You're --" she faltered, unable to say the word. Hijackers. Her mind was crowded with newspaper headlines and television newscasts of hijackings all over the world, gunfire and explosions, innocent persons killed, even children.

"This is no concern of yours," Artkin said, his voice cold, the words snapping like whips. "The children are your concern. Nothing else. See to the children."

She drew back as if he had struck her.

Turning to Miro, Artkin said: "It is time for the masks."

She saw them take the masks out of their jackets. They pulled them over their heads. They had suddenly become grotesque, monstrous, figures escaped from her worst nightmares. And she saw her own doom in the masks.

She wet her pants so badly that the trickles down her thighs were like the caresses of moist and obscene fingers.

More Charles Dana Gibson ...

This one is called "Their First Quarrel".

Look at the haughty profiles! Look at the hair! On both of them!!

Madonna on the mount

The comments to this post from Joe. My. God.are HILARIOUS.

The photo of Madonna up on that huge cross is everywhere and I'm sorry ... It just makes me laugh. Like ... babe. Please. Get down. It's okay that you're 72 years old. We forgive you. She looks so TEENY and ... ultimately strange ... I don't know, there's something amusing to me in that image. She seems miniaturized or something. I also find amusing all the "outrage" out there: "Oooh, I'm so outraged that Madonna is messing with religion!" Guys. The chick has been doing this stuff for 55 years now. You haven't gotten used to it yet?

I am more disturbed by the incongruity of her red blouse against the mirrored background.

But anyway: back to Joe's funny commenters:

Here are a couple of my personal favorites:

"crimeney. she's standing on a platform. can't she just hang there like every other savior?"

And

"Hey, MY Jesus didn't use backing tapes during HIS sermon on the mount."

And

"Our Lady of Pathetic Career Revival Attempts, pray for us."

But this comment has got to be the best one:

"Remember that Evita's preserved body traveled around the world for years before they finally stuck her into a tomb."

The Books: "Luvvy and the Girls" (Natalie Savage Carlson)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is now long-forgotten (if it was ever even known??) - Luvvy and the Girls by Natalie Savage Carlson. Carlson wrote a ton of books in the late 60s, early 70s - and actually I think she's still writing - but anyway, this book Luvvy and the Girls was in my local library, and it was one of my favorites. I have just learned (from that Amazon link) that it is a sequel to another book - I had no idea. I just read the "Luvvy" one.

It had everything that captivated me as a kid:

-- a bunch of girls
-- boarding school
-- no parents in sight
-- strict nuns
-- random bouts with tuberculosis and scarlet fever
-- oh yeah, and it takes place in 1915 so all the girls wear sailor dresses ...

All of this stuff was the stuff of my own fantasies!! Even though the nuns were strict, and sometimes very unfair ... I kind of wanted to be in that boarding school, and wear my hair in a long braid with a bow at the back of my neck, and wear middy blouses, and dark scratchy wool tights, etc etc etc.

I have no idea where I got my copy of this book. It is the hardcover that I remember from my childhood - and I have had it for years. It has traveled with me across the country in all of my moves - so I'm not sure where I found it. On the first blank page, there is written in pencil: $3.00 Newport author. Hmmmm. The plot thickens. Carlson is from Newport?? I must have found it at a second-hand bookstore somewhere - and I am imagining that I must have found it at a second-hand bookstore in Rhode Island, where such things as "Newport author" really mean something. A local author, etc.

Anyway, I loved this book. Haven't read it in a bazillion years but I still like having it around.

So Luvvy is 12 years old. She has a couple of older sisters - most of whom go to a Catholic boarding school. She has had to wait until she is old enough - and now, in the year 1915 - she is going to go join her sisters at the Academy. It's so exciting. She gets to be with her sisters, she gets to "go away", she is on her way to being grown up. Of course once she gets there, she has to deal with the girls in her OWN year - and all the typical things happen, except in a 1915 Catholic way ... competitive stuff, jealousies, misunderstandings .. but also good friendships, a deeper relationship with her sisters - and also her OWN journey towards being a young woman.

Funny - all of these themes still interest me - and it's one of the reasons why I find the Harry Potter books so transporting. Magic shmagic - it's the thought of all of those KIDS at a boarding school - with NO PARENTS - having to work out their own relationships, and grow up and deal with personality problems, etc etc that really hooks me in.

Here's an excerpt. I always loved this, as a kid, because it really gives you the sense that it takes place in another time. The candy was different!! That's a good writer: using details like the kinds of candy the girls would eat as a way to put you back in that 1915 world.

From Luvvy and the Girls by Natalie Savage Carlson.

The girls looked forward to Saturday. Especially Luvvy. By the end of the week, the convent walls seemed closing in on her. She wanted to get out on the city streets and see adults -- real people who weren't nuns -- and cars driving around and horses pulling carts and busy shops.

It was a relief to take off the juvenile apron for the afternoon. The dye in the black sateen did have a queer, unpleasant smell - like singed chicken feathers. Then she put on the new blue suit with its high waist and longer skirt. She caressed her purse with the bright nickel inside.

Again she was exasperated at being a Little Girl. They could spend only a nickel in town, but the Big Girls were allowed a dime from their allowances. Lucky Big Girls! Next year, she would have a whole dime to spend. If she returned next year.

Each Satruday the important decision was how to spend the money. A nickel would buy a bag of candy at the Misses Beckley's shop or an ice cream cone at Dutrow's confectionary or two big, sour pickles at Zimmerman's. Of coruse there were the luscious meringues at Dutrow's - great balls of ice cream inside a meringue shell - but they cost a quarter, so no one could afford them until Commencement Week, when they could spend all the money left in their yearly allowances.

"I don't know whether to buy a cone or operas," said Luvvy.

Operas were a delicious kind of taffy that no one in the world but the Beckleys knew how to make. It was said that they had been offered big sums of money for their recipe, but refused to reveal the secret.

"I'm going to buy pickles and a cone," said Betsey. "Since you only have a nickel to spend, Luvvy, I'll give you a bite of my pickles."

"And I'll share my candy with you," offered Hetty. "Maybe I'll buy a cone too." She opened her handbag and looked at the shiny dime. "But why don't I buy the cones for Luvvy and me? You, Betsey, buy the pickles and operas. And we'll share them."

"But I don't want to divide two pickles among three people," said Betsey. "I want all of one for myself. And what about my ice cream cone?"

"I'm all mixed up now," said Hetty. "Let's see. My dime will buy the cones and yours the pickles and operas. And we can use Luvvy's nickel for operas too, so we'll have lots of candy to take back.

The girls walked two abreast in a long procession with Sister Mary Rose at the head, and Sister Veronica bringing up the rear with the Very Littles Girl clinging to her hand.

By the time they reached Dutrow's, Luvvy decided to buy her own ice cream cone.

"That will leave fifteen cents between Betsey and me after I pay for mine," Hetty reckoned, "so we'll buy five cents worth of pickles and ten cents worth of operas to divide. You can have a whole pickle, Betsey, and give the others to Luvvy. And if you help buy the operas, Luvvy and I will give you the cone parts and just eat the ice cream from them. They really taste as good, you know."

They ate their cones inside the confectionary shop because eating was not allowed on the street. It was a very unladylike practice.

Luvvy ate slowly to savor each taste of the cold sweet ball. Because she was so slow, milky trickles ran down the side and Betsey complained, "You're getting my cone all soggy." So Luvvy licked upward, sculpturing the ice cream into a snowy peak, enjoying the icy touch to her tongue and the creamy film left on her lips.

She wondered if all these gallons of ice cream had been turned by hand as they did it in the home freezer, with Mama sprinkling salt on the ice from time to time.

Proud, happy

My cousin Mike was asked to give the commencement speech at his alma mater UNH this year. What a proud and amazing moment!!

I just read his speech - forwarded to me by his sister - and tears are rolling down my face.

Congrats, cousin. Ya done good good good.

The Books: "Louly" (Carol Ryrie Brink)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is one that I loved without measure when I was a kid- Louly by Carol Ryrie Brink. Brink's more famous book was Caddie Woodlawn - which she basically wrote because her grandmother had been a child of pioneer parents - and she had all of these amazing stories about life on the frontier (in Wisconsin) back then. You can still find that book in Barnes & Noble. But Louly was always my favorite of her books - and that one is VERY hard to find. I found my copy online and when it arrived - it was not a hip modern paperback - it was an old library book, and the exact book that I remembered: hardcover, with a plastic covering over the cover - and a beautiful watercolor on the front cover, of a girl in a middy blouse, standing on some platform with red white and blue bunting - and her hand is in the air - she is making a speech. She's a young girl. This is Louly, the wonderful heroine of this book.

Louly is about a group of friends in 1908 - Louly is a couple of years older than the main group of friends, and they all really look up to her. Not only that - but they want to be like her. Louly is a great character. She's 13 years old - and she doesn't really fit in. She's not domestic, she doesn't care about domestic things - she doesn't have a good friend her own age - she's an independent spirit - and she wants to be an actress. She has a gift for storytelling and rhetoric. She makes up these elaborate make-believe games for her friends (but it's telling that Louly is pretty much hanging around with kids who are 10 years old ... she's on the cusp of becoming a young woman, and a part of her seems to resist it). She's a magical creature. All of the 10 year old crowd SO look up to her.

I just LOVED this book when I was 10, 11 years old ... and it was so so cool to have the little package arrive recently, with this book from my childhood inside. I had forgotten so much. I couldn't stop looking through it - all the illustrations came back to me, certain sections: Louly's triumph at the speech contest, sleeping outside in the tent, two of the kids in the story are named after characters in The Mikado ... It was amazing how much of it I remembered.

I'm so glad to have it again!!

Here's a section I remember vividly - all of the kids sleeping in the backyard in a tent. It seems to capture the thrill of such childhood moments perfectly.

From Louly by Carol Ryrie Brink.

So they had a banquet, and after the supper dishes were done, Louly played the piano and they sang "Down by the Old Mill Stream" and "Oh, Susannah!" and "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny."

"Suffering cats!" exclaimed Ko-Ko on his way upstairs to bed. "I hope this doesn't go on all night."

"It won't," said Louly. "We're just waiting for the fall of darkness." It was one of the longest days of summer, but when it finally grew dark the girls undressed in Louly's room and put on their robes and slippers. Louly lighted the kerosene lantern that was part of the camping equipment, and led the way downstairs and out the back door.

The tent gleamed large and pale in the starlight. A cool breeze had come up to blow away the heat of the afternoon. Nobody said a word - it was almost scary. The three younger girls followed Louly's bobbing lantern in a ghostly procession across the grass to the entrance of the tent. They had already spread their blankets and comforters on the canvas floor and each camper knew which quarter of the space belonged to her. There was a fresh, dewy smell of crushed grass. When Louly took the lantern into the tent, the walls suddenly glowed a warm orange color, and the shadows of the girls inside the tent loomed large and queerly shaped, like moving figures in a magic-lantern show.

Chrys was the last one in the procession and before she ducked under the tent flap, she stood for a moment looking up at the sky. There seemed to be more stars in the sky than she had ever noticed before, and the Milky Way was like a far, mysterious river. Even her little sleeping porch had never seemed so much outdoors as this.

Cordy stuck her head out of the tent flap. "Hurry up, Chrys, if we don't put out the lantern, we'll have a flock of mosquitoes."

Chrys shivered a little and came in to creep silently into her blankets.

"Tell us a story, Louly," Cordy said when the lantern was extinguished.

"Not really a story," Louly said, "but listen! Imagine we're really out in the forest in the mountains. What do you hear?"

"I hear mosquitoes singing," said Cordy.

"Something more," said Louly in her play-like voice.

"I hear a cricket," said Poo-Bah.

"No, no," Louly said. "Listen harder! Don't you hear it? It's the mountain stream, falling over the cliff and rushing down the gorge."

"That's the breeze in the box-elder tree," said Cordy.

"Listen harder!" Louly said. "Use your imaginations. The stream is rushing down beside our tent. Can't you hear it? Can't you feel the cool, fresh spray?"

Chrys lay quite still, and goose flesh came out all over her. She felt the spray of the imaginary stream like tiny prickles of ice all up and down her spine. It was even colder and fresher than the spray from the lawn sprinkler.

"Are there bears?" asked Poo-Bah.

"Certainly not," said Louly. "Billy is just outside the tent and this is a magic forest where nothing will hurt us. But sometimes, over the sound of the river, you can hear a hoot owl saying, 'Who? Who?' He is the sentinel of the forest and he and Billy are guarding us. And in the morning we'll drop our lines in the river and catch a trout for breakfast."

"I'd rather have Shredded Wheat, Louly."

"All right," Louly said. "Go to sleep now, everybody. Last one asleep is a tardy turtle."

"Louly, do you know when you go to sleep? I don't."

"Nobody does," said Louly. "How could you?"

Silence descended on the tent in the magic forest.

Chrys lay awake thinking: "In the dark woods, the mountain stream is falling. It rushes down, down, down, among the forest trees. The spray is like white horses leaping and bounding. Their manes and tails are gleaming in the starlight. They are going to join the river of the Milky Way."

She said it over to herself several times. It felt like a poem. "But it hasn't any rhymes or moral, so it can't be a poem," she thought. "Maybe tomorrow I can put it into rhymes." But sometimes getting a good thought into the strait jacket of rhyme seemed to spoil the good thought and nothing worthwhile was left. She sighed and then she said her good thought about the river over again to herself. She was the last one in the tent to go to sleep, and she did not know when it happened.

Fu Manchu in Soho

First contact:

She approached from the south side of town, having gotten off at the wrong subway stop. She had the address clutched in her hand, the only person she knew would be her new friend Amy - who had invited her. Her stilettoes clickered on the sidewalk.

The party was at a storefront art gallery in Soho on a bombed-out grafittied block. People raged out onto the sidewalk. Painters, B-level rock stars, blue-haired girls in dog collars chained to their boyfriends, and writers, and multimedia gurus, and off-Broadway actors and performance artists . Oil paintings stacked up against the walls. If you wanted to look at the artist's work, you had to dig through it. There wasn't enough wall space to show his stuff - his paintings were huge, massive canvases. Deep colors, moody urban scenes, fire escapes, a yellow window in the midnight blue, a glimpse of a girl in a negligee. A small back room with a big industrial sink served as the drink area. Mayhem. Hard stuff, a keg, gallon jugs of wine, paper cups, paint-stained sink.

She knew no one. She could not find Amy, although she squinted closely at every glowing blonde-haired woman there. She joined the raging crowd. She stood and looked at the paintings, falling up into those deep dark midnight blues. No one looked at her twice. There was no need to be intimidated. It was a party.

Metallica pounded out of the huge mounted speakers, she could feel the beat in her DNA, it shook the walls. The space was so small there was no room to navigate. A girl with jet-black hair, plastic platform boots, and ripped fishnets did lines of coke off the windowsill, jammed up against the wall with her gorgeous Sinead- O'Connor-bald friend. She could pick out the art dealers without even having to be told that they were there. She could tell by how they looked at the paintings. Even at a coke-fueled renegade party in a ratty storefront, the art dealers were recognizable. Someone shouted, "TURN IT UP" and even though she could not believe the music could get any louder ... it then did. Metallica. Pounding. Mindless. The jammed-in crowd was moving - as one. Jumping. Thrashing. No boundaries between people. Arms in the air, pumping - people lost in the moment. It could not be resisted. She knew no one. But there she was - thrashing around - lost - lost ... lost ... Music that loud and that insistent breaks you apart at the molecules. Exhilaration. And a feeling that life can never get back to normal. Thrashing in a bombed-out gallery with strangers. A feeling that life should always be like this.

Then she saw Amy, through the open door, out on the sidewalk. Her hair blonde and gleaming, leather pants, little black-rimmed glasses. They did not know each other that well yet. This was their first "date". There was a feeling between them that this friendship could become important. Extricating herself from Metallica, she pushed her way through the throngs to come outside, out of the pound of the sound, the black gleaming concrete landscape stretching out, east, west, north. Amy stood on the sidewalk talking to a tall beefy guy who had a teeny thin Fu Manchu beard coming out of his beefy chin. He was smoking, and guffawing with laughter. Later she would think that his laugh was one of the best laughs she had ever heard. Amy saw her, and started screaming with excitement: "Oh my God!!! You came! I am so excited!!!" Then a big rowdy hug, jumping up and down together, laughing.

She noticed Fu Manchu watching them hug. He grinned at her, as she was being hugged by Amy. He stated, to no one in particular, "I love female bonding." He seemed to mean it.

Amy pulled back and said, "Oh! Have you two met?"

"No." she said.

Fu Manchu had not taken his eyes off of her. "Nope." He held out his hand. They shook. He smiled at her, didn't let go. Suddenly it was not a handshake. It was an odd meeting of the minds. She couldn't look away. Like he was a cobra or something. And he was not breaking the moment.

"Want a drink?" he said.

She nodded.

He pushed himself into the party, the wall of thrashing people, on a mission.

It was a moment. Noticeable only to the two of them. She couldn't even label it. If she had never met him again, she still would have remembered him. Something ... something ... something in the grin, the observational stance, "I love female bonding", holding onto her hand, smiling at her ... something ... something ... there was something about him ... Had they met before? It seemed so.

He never did come back with her drink. He must have gotten distracted.

So that was it. For the moment. It would be a year and a half before they would meet again.

The Books: "The Children of Green Knowe" (Lucy M. Boston)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf was given to me by Jean - The Children of Green Knowe by by L. M. Boston. Now - it appears that this book has been re-released - but my copy is an old hardcover - and on the front page is a huge note from some librarian: DISCARD. There are old-time black and white illustrations - and it has a cover that is kind of curling off in places. This is from a series of books (the so-and-so at Green Knowe) - and the one that we were totally obsessed with was The River at Green Knowe. We just LOVED that book - and I honestly cannot remember why. But I am sure we had very good taste. We were just OBSESSED with it.

Looking at the list of "Green Knowe" books on Amazon - it seems like The River at Green Knowe is not as popular- it doesn't appear to have been re-released in paperback form.

Jean - why did we love that book so much??

Anyway - Jean came across The Children of Green Knowe at a yard sale, or a library sale ... and of course immediately bought it for me.

The opening of the book kind of explains to me why we loved these books so much - It's just chock FULL of British atmosphere. It's like all those great books about kids being shunted off to relatives, on train carriages ... Secret Garden, or Lion Witch and Wardrobe ... little kids on their own, making their way ...

From what I remember, this book is about a little boy who goes to stay with his great-grandmother at a place called Green Knowe. She lives in an old old house - almost like a castle - and from the moment he arrives very odd things start happening. Magical things. There's a portrait in one of the rooms - an old oil painting of three children who used to live in the house way back in the 17th century. Great-grandmother tells her great-grandson stories about these kids .. and the little boy eventually starts to sense that the kids are still in the house. He finds their toys ... he thinks he sees them, etc. etc. The way LM Boston describes this house ... it's like the house in Lion Witch and Wardrobe - You just SO want to explore this house!!

Here's the first couple of paragraphs. Great writing, in my opinion.

From The Children of Green Knowe by by L. M. Boston.

A little boy was sitting in the corner of a railway carriage looking out at the rain, which was splashing against the windows and blotching downward in an ugly, dirty way. He was not the only person in the carriage, but the others were strangers to him. He was alone as usual. There were two women opposite him, a fat one and a thin one, and they talked without stopping, smacking their lips in between sentences and seeming to enjoy what they said as much as if it were something to eat. They were knitting all the time, and whenever the train stopped the click-clack of their needles was loud and clear like two clocks. It was a stopping train - more stop than go - and it had been crawling along through the flooded country for a long time. Everywhere there was water - not sea or rivers or lakes, but just senseless flood water with the rain splashing into it. Sometimes the railway lines were covered by it, and then the train-noise was quite different, softer than a boat.

"I wish it was the Flood," thought the boy, "and that I was going to the Ark. That would be fun! Like the circus. Perhaps Noah had a whip and made all the animals go round and round for exercise. What a noise there would be, with the lions roaring, elephants trumpeting, pigs squealing, pigs braying, horses whinnying, bulls bellowing, and cocks and hens always thinking theyh were going to be trodden on but unable to fly up on to the roof, where all the other birds were singing, screaming, twittering, squawking and cooing. What must it have sounded like, coming along on the tide? And did Mrs. Noah just knit, knit, and take no notice?"

The two women opposite him were getting ready for the next station. They packed up their knitting and collected their parcels and then sat staring at the little boy. He had a thin face and very large eyes; he looked patient and rather sad. They seemed to notice him for the first time.

"What's your name, son?" asked the fat woman suddenly. "I've never seen you on this train before." This was always a question he dreaded. Was he to say his unexpected real name or his silly pet names?

"Toseland," he said.

"Toseland! That's a real old-fashioned name in these parts. There's Fen Toseland, and Toseland St. Agnes and Toseland Gunning. What's your Christian name?"

"That is it - Toseland."

"Do your mum and dad live round here, son?"

"No, they live in Burma."

"Fancy that now! That's a long way away. Where are you going, then?"

"I don't know. That is, I'm going to my great-granmother Oldknow at Green Noah. The station in Penny Soaky."

"That's the next station after this. We get out here. Don't forget - the next station. And make sure there's some dry land before you get out of the train. The floods are bad there. Bye-bye, cheerio."

They got out, shouting, and joking with the porters and kissing the people who had come to meet them. They started off into the hissing rain as if they loved it. Toseland heard the fat woman's loud voice saying, "Oh, I don't mind this. I like it, it's our home-rain, not like that dirty London water."

The train jogged on again and now Toseland was quite alone. He wished he had a family like other people - brothers and sisters, even if his father were away. His mother was dead. He had a stepmother but he hardly knew her and was miserably shy of her. He had been at a boarding-school, and for the last holidays he had been left behind to stay with the head mistress, Miss Spudd, and her old father. They meant to be kind to him, but they never spoke to him without saying 'dear'. It was "Finish up your porridge, dear, we don't want you to get thin", or "Put on your coat, dear, we don't want you to catch cold", or "Get ready for church, dear, we don't want you to grow up to be a heathen." And every day after breakfast, "Run along to your room, dear, we want to read the papers."

But now his great-grandmother Oldknow had written that he was to come and live with her. He had never seen her, but she was his own great-grandmother, and that was something. Of course she would be very old. He thought of some old people he had seen who were so old that it frightened him. He wondered if she would be frighteningly old. He began to feel afraid already, and to shake it off he thought about Green Noah and Penny Soaky. What queer names! Green Noah was pure mystery, but Penny Soaky was friendly like a joke.

Suddenly the train stopped, and the porters were shouting, "Penny Soaky! Penny Soaky! Penny Soaky!" Toseland had no sooner got the door open than a man wearing a taxi driver's hat came along calling:

"Anybody here for Green Noah? Are you Master Toseland for Green Noah?"

"Oh yes, please. It's me."

"This your luggage? Two more in the van? You stand here out of the rain while I get it."

There were a few houses to be seen on one side of the line, and on the other nothing but flooded fields with hedges standing in the water.

"Come along," said the taxi-man. "I've put all your luggage in the car. It'll be dark before we get there and we've got to go through a lot of water."

"Is it deep?"

"Not so deep, I hope, that we can't get through."

"If it rains forty days and forty nights will it be a real flood?"

"Sure enough it would."

Toseland sat by the driver and they set off. The windscreen wipers made two clear fans on the windscreen through which he could see the road half covered with water, with ditches brimming on the other side. When they came near the bridge that crossed the river, the road disappeared under water altogether and they seemed to drive into the side of the river with a great splash that flew up against the windows; but it was only a few inches deep, and then they reached the humpbacked bridge and went up and over it, and down again into deeper water on the other side. This time they drove very carefully like bathers walking out into cold water. The car crept along making wide ripples.

"We don't want to stick here," said the driver, "this car don't float."

They came safely through that side too, and now the headlights were turned on, for it was growing dark, and Toseland could see nothing but rain and dazzle..

"Is it far?" he asked.

"Not very, but we have to go a long way round to get past the floods. Green Noah stands almost in the middle of it now, because the river runs alongside the garden. Once you get there you won't be able to get out again till the flood goes down."

"How will I get in, then?"

"Can you swim?"

"Yes, I did twenty strokes last summer. Will that be enough?"

"You'll have to do better than that. Perhaps if you felt yourself sinking you could manage a few more?"

"But it's quite dark. How will I know where to swim to?"

The driver laughed. "Don't you worry. Mrs. Oldknow will never let you drown. She'll see you get there all right. Now here we are. At least, I can't go any further." Toseland pushed the car door open and looked out. It had stopped raining. The car was standing in a lane of shallow water that stretched out into the dark in front and behind. The driver was wearing Wellington boots, and he got out and paddled round the car. Toseland was afraid that he would be left now to go on as best he could by himself. He did not like to show that he was afraid, so he tried another way of finding out.

"If I am going to swim," he said, "what will you do with my luggage?"

"You haven't got no gum boots, have you?" said the driver. "Come on, get on my shoulders and we'll have a look round to see if anyone's coming to meet you." Toseland climbed on to his shoulders and they set off, but almost at once they heard the sound of oars, and a lantern came round the corner of the land rocking on the bows of a rowing boat. A man called out, "Is that Master Toseland?" The driver shouted back, "Is that Mr. Boggis?" but Toseland was speechless with relief and delight.

"Good evening, Master Toseland," said Mr. Boggis, holding up the lantern to look at him, while Toseland looked too, and saw a nice old cherry-red face with bright blue eyes. "Pleased to meet you. I knew your mother when she was your size. I bet you were wondering how you were going to get home?" It was nice to hear somebody talking about 'home' in that way. Toseland felt much happier, and now he knew that the driver had been teasing him, so he grinned and said: "I was going to swim."

The boat was moored to somebody's garden gate while the two men put the trunk and tuck-box into it.

"You'll be all right now," said the taxi-man. "Good night to you both."

"Good night, and thank you," said Toseland.

Under-rated movies: #8

8. Searching for Bobby Fischer

This movie was a mild hit. I know people who count it as one of their favorite films. I am one of them. None of the actors were nominated for Oscars - which I find rather odd - Ben Kingsley, Larry Fishburne, Joe Montegna - all give top-notch performances - not just top-notch compared to their peers, but top-notch compared to all the rest of the work they have done. I know Ben Kingsley (excuse me: SIR Ben Kingsley) has been highly decorated, and he's nominated pretty much every time he acts. His work in Schindler's List is one of those raise-the-bar performances for actors everywhere. But his work as Bruce Pandolfini, the intense all-work-no-play chess coach, in Bobby Fischer is one of my personal favorites in all of his performances. It's not just good - it gets me right in the throat.

I am not objective about this film. I just flat out love it. Why do I love it? Because the scenes that work - work every time I see them - and I see this movie, on average, once a month. Larry Fishburne, too ... a guy whose career is so long that it's hard to even judge it yet - he's still a relatively young man - and in my opinion his Ike Turner was a tour de force - Angela Basset was good - but Larry Fishburne was frighteningly GREAT. However - his performance here as Vinnie - the homeless guy who sits in Washington Square Park playing chess - who befriends this little chess-playing prodigy - and teaches him the renegade style of the street, as opposed to the classical strategy - is just a masterpiece. Oscars do not measure the worth of a performance, obviously. Fishburne wasn't even nominated in 1993. But he is AWESOME. He has some moments which give me goosebumps every time I see the film. I sit there watching the movie and I look forward to seeing those moments again, even though it will be the 20th time.

Steven Zaillian, the director, made a conscious choice when he cast the film to find kids who actually could play chess. He wanted chess players FIRST - and hopefully he could find a kid who loved chess, who knew the game - and who also could handle the demands of the script. Max Pomeranc, the kid he chose as the lead, is kind of extraordinary. You forget you are not watching a real kid. He seems like a real little boy. His face is expressive, open - and yet strangely inscrutable when he plays chess. Which is PERFECT. He's not cute or precocious - like so many other little kid actors that make you want to vomit. The success of that one bit of casting MAKES the movie. It launches it out of maudlin "ooh look at the cute little kid" land into "wow, look at what this family has to go through ..." It's about the STORY. Little kids so often detract from the story because they are not good enough actors. This little kid is never anything less than totally believable.

Watch his scenes with Ben Kingsley. The chess-coaching scenes. Those are TOUGH scenes. And he has to act with Ben Kingsley! But those are two-way scenes, make no mistake about it. Ben Kingsley is marvelous with the kid - and the kid is marvelous up against the great Sir Ben. The scenes are filled with tension, silence, battle of the wills ... I love when the kid is struggling to figure out his next move, staring at the pieces. Ben realizes that he is trying to figure it out intellectually - and so he reaches out and knocks all of the chess pieces off the board onto the floor. It's an electric moment - it comes as a complete surprise. You can see the little kid's eyes bug out - he looks up at Ben Kingsley like: "Are you insane??" But Kingsley's point is: You have to know the board so well that you can feel the next move that has to come ... there is an inevitability to chess (at least when the great masters of it play) - so even without the pieces on the board you should be able to strategize, move, "see" where you need to go.

Joe Mantegna is great as the father who at first kind of scoffs his kids' talent ... and slowly becomes so wrapped up in it that it is his OWN ego that is being gratified. HE's the one with the son who's a genius. He becomes arrogant, tough, harder on his kid ... He has a journey to go through as well.

All of these characters are beautifully drawn, and perfectly played.

And the story itself ... I don't care if it's a formula. What - you think there are a gazillion different stories to tell? There aren't. There are maybe 10 stories - told over and over and over - in different ways. Formulas can WORK if they are imbued with life, humanity, surprise.

This film is one of my favorite films ever made. It just works.

Favorite moments:

-- the first chess game Mantegna plays with his kid, when he thinks that he will EASILY beat his kid. The kid doesn't want to show his father up, so he lets his dad win. The mother (an underused Joan Allen) murmurs to her husband, "He just let you win. Play again." They play again. The game spans an entire afternoon - mainly because Mantegna quickly realizes that his son is WAY out of his league. The filming of each move of this chess game is masterfully done - it's funny, subtle - you get the sense of the passing of time - the kid is on the phone, he's in his room, he's now taking a bath - all while the father is agonizing over his next move. The kid runs downstairs when it's his turn, quickly looks at the board, moves his next piece, and runs out of the room again, back to his phone call. It's hilarious. The ending of that scene GIVES ME GOOSEBUMPS EVERY TIME. Kid runs downstairs - takes a look - moves the chess pieces - runs back upstairs. Calls downstairs, "Dad - can we go to the zoo now??" Father calls back up: "The game's not over yet!" Kid calls back casually, "Yes it is!" Father chuckles, and calls back, "No, it's not!" Kid is bouncing his ball against the wall, calls back: "Yes, it is!" Suddenly, Mantegna looks at the board closer ... and with a great zooming in of the lens - you can see by the chess pieces - that he is trapped. Or - he WILL be trapped in another 4 or 5 moves. It is over. There is no way out. GREAT scene. Way better than I just described it.

-- the first meeting between Fishburne and the kid in the park. With the chess piece, the baseball, the rain pouring down. Goosebumps.

-- the intensity of Joe Mantegna's face, the intensity of his voice when he says to the bitchy teacher (played by Laura Linney) who has said to him, "I think Josh might be spending too much time on this chess thing ..." Cut back to Mantegna - and you can just feel the emotion rising - it's scary - "Chess thing? Excuse me? Chess thing?" And then - voom - the veil draws back, and out comes the full emotional power of this actor: "He's better at this ... than I've ever been at anything in my life... He's better at this ... than you'll ever be, at anything." DAMN it is a powerful moment. I have a lump in my throat just typing this out. THAT is a good actor. Who - when the moment comes when he has to show up - in all his power, and emotion, and talent - shows up. That moment is a perfect example of what it means to just show up. That's why it works. It's not an "acted" moment. It's an experienced moment. Mantegna reaches out of the screen there - it's fantastic.

-- the final chess match in Chicago - with Fishburne and Kingsley both watching on the monitors from outside the room - and both of them yelling (or muttering) instructions at their kid (who can't hear them) ... Of course their instructions are completely contradictory - but that's the whole point. That's the beauty of this film. It's a poem of praise to the game of chess itself ... you can feel the love in every frame.

Can you tell I love this movie?

No objectivity. It's a gem.

The Books: "Tiger Eyes" (Judy Blume)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

My personal favorite of Judy Blume's: Tiger Eyes. I have the same copy that I had when I was a teenager - and this is just flat out a good book with a good story. Davey is 16 years old (Davey's a girl, by the way) - and her father is murdered in his 7-11 store. There are two kids in the family - Davey and her younger brother - and Davey's mom is incapacitated by grief - so she ends up moving the entire family out to New Mexico to stay with relatives. Davey is 16, and is still reeling from the loss of her father ... (and also, through the grief, etc. - the loss of her mother - who is no longer there for her) - and she is kind of overwhelmed by the strange beauty and difference of New Mexico. Everything seems surreal. Judy Blume's writing has never been better. Davey starts to go hiking down in the canyon every day, just to get away, have some alone time - and during her first hike she meets a guy who calls himself Wolf. Wolf is just one of the best characters - I remember having such a crush on him when I was a teenager reading this book. He's kind of a solid listening presence - Davey has a lot of secrets, a lot of things she's hiding - he doesn't push, he doesn't try to get sexual with her - they become friends. Because Davey's father was randomly killed, she sees the world as a dangerous threatening place - it's not easy for her to trust.

I don't know - I just love this book.

I'll excerpt the first meeting between Davey and Wolf. Davey has climbed to the bottom of the canyon - in a reverie about her lost father. She is beside herself with grief. She stands there and starts shouting, "Daddy?? Daddy?" - she hears the echo coming back. Then along comes Wolf.

Listen to how she writes dialogue. It's so simple - yet it sounds so REAL. That takes real writing chops.

From Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume

Then I hear a voice, answering mine and it isn't my echo.

"Hey ... hey down there," it calls.

I spin around, trying to find it.

"Hey ... are you all right?"

I catch a glimpse of him. He is standing half way up the canyon and is partly hidden by a tree.

"Who ... me?" I ask, as if it might be someone else.

"Yeah ... you," he calls, as he begins to climb down. I shade my eyes from the sun and see that he is very sure footed. He is not slipping or sliding or falling, the way I did.

He reaches the bottom quickly and comes toward me. He is about nineteen or twenty, wearing faded cut-offs, hiking boots with wool socks sticking out over the tops and no shirt. He has a knapsack on his back. He is maybe 5'9", with suntanned skin and dark hair.

"I thought you were in trouble," he says. "The way you were calling ..."

His eyes are dark brown.

No, I say. I'm fine.

"What are you doing down here?" He sounds less friendly now.

"Thinking," I tell him. "Is there a law against thinking?" The truth is, I am scared out of my mind. My heart is pounding. Suppose he's a crazy, I think. Suppose he's a rapist or worse. If he is, I'm in for it. I have to prepare myself. There's no way I'm going to let him take me by surprise. I know what to do. I'll smash his head in with a rock. A rock. I have to find the right rock. I scan the ground and see a good one, not ten feet away. I move toward it, slowly, wishing I had my breadknife with me.

"No law against thinking," he says, "except that you're alone."

He's probably a junkie. He probably comes to the canyon to shoot up, I think, or to trip or just to get stoned.

"So ... I'm alone," I say, sounding bitchier by the minute. "Is there a law against that?" I am standing right in front of the rock now. All I have to do is bend over, pick it up, and wham ...

"No, but there should be," he says.

"Oh, yeah ... why?" I am having trouble following our conversation but I know it is best to keep him talking. The longer he talks the less likely that he'll attack. I read that somewhere.

"Who's going to get help if you need it?" he asks me.

I think that's an interesting question, coming from him. I keep my eye on the rock. Every muscle in my body is tensed and ready to spring into action, if necessary.

"Suppose you trip and fall ..." he begins.

"Suppose you do? You're alone too, aren't you?" Yes, that's good. Put some fear into him. Let him think that maybe I'm the crazy, waiting, waiting to pounce on him in the silence of the canyon.

"I've had plenty of experience," he says.

"And how do you know I haven't?"

Then he laughs. His teeth are very white against his suntanned skin. "You don't know your ass from your armpit," he says.

Elbow, I think. He means elbow. "Listen, Machoman," I say, looking him in the eye. "Buzz off!" I sound really tough.

But all he does is laugh again. "Are you always so bitchy?"

"No," I say. "Just when I feel like it."

"You're new around here." He says this as a statement, not a question.

"So what if I am?"

"Hey, relax ... I'm not going to bite you. All I'm trying to say is next time, bring a friend. It's safer that way."

"I don't have any friends."

"Find some," he tells me. He bends over and I panic, thinking that he is going for my rock. That he is going to use it on me. But all he does is pick up a handful of stones. He jiggles them around in his hand. Then, without looking at me he says, "Who are you so pissed off at, anyway?"

"The world!" I tell him, without even thinking about it. I am surprised by my answer to his question and by the anger in my voice. It is the first time I realize I am not only sad about my father, but angry, too. Angry that he had to die. And angry at whoever killed him.

He sits down on a rock, opens his knapsack and pulls out a bottle of water. I watch, as he takes a swig. I am so thirsty I can hardly stand it. The inside of my mouth is dried out. My tongue feels thick and furry. I would do anything for a drink of water.

He must sense this because he looks at me and says, "You're thirsty."

"A little," I tell him, licking my parched lips.

"You came into the canyon without a water bottle?"

"I forgot it," I lie. "It's home."

"Here ..." He passes his to me. I am so relieved I feel like crying. I mean to take a quick swig, but once it's to my lips I can't stop. I drink and drink until he takes it from me.

"Easy," he says, "or you'll get sick."

I begin to relax. He's not out to get me after all.

"What's your name?" I ask him.

"You can call me Wolf."

"Is that a first name or a last name?"

"Either," he says.

"Oh." I can't think of anything else to say.

He stands, puts the water bottle back into his knapsack, stretches and says, "Okay ... let's go."

"Go?" I shouldn't have let down my guard. "Where?"

"Back up," he says. "It's one o'clock. I've got an appointment at two."

"So, go," I tell him.

"You're going with me."

"Really!" I say.

"Yeah ... really."

"Guess again," I say.

"I'm not about to leave you down here by yourself. I'm not in the mood to be called by Search and Rescue later. I have other things to do."

"Search and Rescue?"

"Right."

I think about the fourteen-year-old boy who was killed by a falling rock and about the woman who broke her leg and went into shock and I wonder if Wolf was called in then. But I don't ask him. Instead I say, "I'm tougher than I look."

"Sure you are. Let's go. I'm in a hurry."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You see anybody you can trust more?"

I look around. He begins to walk away. I decide to follow him.

He climbs quickly. I try to step exactly where he does.

After a while I ask him if he goes to school around here.

He doesn't answer.

I say it again, louder. "You go to school around here, Wolf?"

"The more you talk the harder time you're going to have climbing," he says, without turning around.

Okay, I think. So I'm having trouble keeping up. So I'm breathing hard. So I'm a little out of shape. So what? I don't say any of this. Instead I watch the muscles in his legs. I notice how brown and smooth the skin is on his back, how his hair hangs just past the nape of his neck, how narrow his hips are, how strong his arms and shoulders look.

As if he knows what I am thinking, he turns. "How're you doing?"

"Okay. Just fine. I told you, I'm tough." I wipe the sweat off my face with the back of my hand.

Wolf turns and begins to climb again.

I follow him, then trip on a rock and skin my knee. I feel like crying out but I don't. I have to hurry to catch up with him. He doesn't seem to notice.

Finally, we reach the top and Wolf walks me to my bicycle and then, out to the road. I wonder if I will have the strength to ride home, then I remember that it will be almost all downhill.

Wolf leans against a tree, chewing on a piece of grass.

"Well, thanks," I say. "Thanks for the water and the guided tour."

He nods. We are both quiet for a minute. Then he says, "Get yourself a decent pair of boots. Adidas are okay for tennis, not rock climbing. And next time, bring a water bottle."

I get on my bicycle.

"What's your name?" he asks me, as I am about to pedal away.

I think for a minute before answering. When I do face him and say, "You can call me Tiger."

"Is that a first name or a last name?"

"Neither!" I say and this time I do pedal away. I know that he's watching me, but I don't turn around. I can hear him laughing.

And I laugh too.

Under-rated movies # 7

7. In a Lonely Place

Bogart's deepest and most pained performance. It's completely overlooked - or - not completely - People who are film-buffs know this movie, or Nicholas Ray buffs - Bogdonovich's essay about Bogart is why I sought this film out - Bogdonovich is unequivocally a fan of this performance. He references it as often as he can - it's so funny - I think he is really determined to get this film back into regular circulation.

You know how Bogart, even though he gets burnt by dames from time to time, seems to skate through situations with a slight grin - as though the disappointments of the world are not for him? No, no, not him - he'll never be hurt too bad - he's too much of a realist. Or if he DOES get hurt - he will handle it in a way that does not break him. He will still stand tall. He may have a secret hurt (oh, Ilse!!) - but he will go on. This is the romance of Bogart. This is why we don't just love Bogart, we admire him.

The Bogart we see in film after film would never have an existential crisis, a crisis of faith, a dark dark night of the soul. There are exceptions to this, of course - but the exceptions just prove the rule. Or he has SCENES within a film that show his capacity for emotion - to give depth to the character - but those moments where the character lets it all out are (heh heh) out-of-character. Like the scene in Casablanca comes to mind: where he sits with his bottle and goes back into the flashback ... Good moment - it's a lesson in how to act a close-up. I swear! But that's an out of character moment for Rick - it's a low moment, a drunken moment ... The overall impression of Rick is not that he's a broken man. Bogart doesn't do broken. The "strawberries" interrogation scene in Caine Mutiny is another exception - but that also just proves the rule - because that character is truly mad.

But something different is going on in In a Lonely Place - a film that has been largely ignored by the general public, as well as by Bogart fans - who seem to prefer his snarky detached stance. Maybe that Bogart stance makes them feel better about themselves. The hoards of guys out there who want to BE Bogart ... might feel rather uneasy watching him in In a Lonely Place - and mistake their own unease for Bogart giving a bad performance, if that makes sense. (By this I mean, they cannot adjust their own ideas of the actor in question - and so they write the performance off, out of hand ... because it's not what they "need" from the actor. I can think of many examples of this.) Now sometimes an actor's performance just sucks - but that is NOT the case with Bogart here - and this performance should take its place at the top of the list, when people reference great Bogart parts. But there's a fan-faction who need Bogart to be a certain way, because it validates certain things in them - the best things: honor, character, etc. - To see him as a bitter repressed sour-puss screenwriter, who cannot control himself - who is deeply unhappy, and also deeply repressed - who CAN'T do the right thing ... perhaps to the point of murder - where he's not just detached, but on the fringes of a breakdown ... well, that would make those guys in the audience maybe look at themSELVES in a different way. So they brush off the performance. "Ah, that's not REALLY Bogart." I don't blame these guys, by the way, for having this serious identification thing going on with Bogart ... it makes perfect sense. I only mind it if it means they will not accept him in this, his greatest part.

It's close to home. This is a film about Hollywood (Bogart didn't make many of those). And not only is it a film about Hollywood but it's about the lowest man on the totem pole: the writer. It's a biting and VERY angry look at the world of show business, very much ahead of its time. Hollywood has always been a navel-gazing place - there are tons of films about making films ... It's hard to do it well. In a Lonely Place is one of the best films made about "the business". (Others on the list would be: All About Eve, Sunset Boulevard - and I would also say King of Comedy. Scary movie about the underbelly of celebrity.)

Bogart's character ends up falling in love with Gloria ("I'm just a girl who cain't say no") Grahame - a woman with a wonderful mushy face, sharp alert eyes - and the two of them have some GREAT scenes together. This is a movie about and for grown-ups. These are two grown-ups drawn to each other. She's a smart woman, maybe a bit worn down by life. She gets by. But she has character. Bogart never did well with floozies - the pairings were never satisfying. Bogart did well with sassy smart ladies.

But watch how it goes downhill. As Bogart's life unravels in the film - he begins to cling to her tighter and tighter. She is no longer a woman with a wonderful mushy face and smart eyes. She is his salvation. His life preserver. He's desperate. She must not abandon him. She must not be allowed to abandon him. Things start to get ugly and a little bit creepy. She starts to get scared of him.

It's truly disorienting to watch this film the first time. You are so used to the Bogart persona, so you assume you know where it's all gonna go ... and then you realize ... slowly ... that things are NOT going that way ... that this guy is NOT a "winner" - he's scrabbling for a foothold, and he is slowly losing it. He's in agony. He begins to take it out on the people around him, the people he loves. You see him cutting himself loose from the actual salvation he needs.

To compare: Imagine a Rick in Casablanca who - instead of saying to Sam that dark night in the cafe - "If she can stand it, I can! Play the song!" - instead he jumps on Sam, slaps his face, holds him down, and strangles him until Sam agrees to play the song. Imagine a Rick who punches Ilse in the face.

This is the territory we are in in In a Lonely Place. And instead of it looking like a "character role", or like Bogart "acting" - I always get the sense that I am watching the part that is the closest to Bogart's actual self. It feels like the most personal work I've ever seen of his. It is a truly painful movie to watch. (And yet - I recommend it so so highly!)

To watch a movie star of his caliber mess with his own image so deliberately and so WELL is truly breathtaking. There's a moment in a restaurant when Bogart, in an impulsive moment of rage, reaches out and knocks his agent's glasses off his head. The first time I saw the film I had to rewind this moment 10 times. It's so violent - even though it's just a person's glasses. And it's not movie violence - which can have a tendency to seem rather planned out or stagy. It feels like real violence. You know how sometimes public outings can go suddenly very wrong? From out of nowhere? Like - you're doing fine, and suddenly you're having a fight with your spouse that is so intense that you can't back out of it ... That's what this moment is like. Something is revealed - such an intense betrayal - that Bogart's character cannot deal with it in a social way - and quick as a whip, reaches out and bangs his agents' glasses off his face.

This is a spontaneous moment. You really feel Bogart letting his own rage out. Rage at his own career. At not being taken seriously. At being trapped at a studio that did not respect him as it should. At working for NOTHING. He knew the salaries of Grant and Gable and Cooper. He knew he was being screwed. He was a big star ... but on some deep level, he was truly not liked, and he knew it. But this is all really personal stuff ... stuff of resentment, and shame, and buried humiliation. Stuff that Bogart never put into his roles. Why should he? His thing was detachment, backed up by strong moral character - a guy who would come through when you need him.

The reality was much MUCH darker - and it is in In a Lonely Place that Bogart explores it. So often when a great actor with an established style "explores" another angle - it's a disaster. This is a triumph. It's FASCINATING to watch Bogart - you literally do not know what he will do next.

I think fanatical Bogart fans didn't want their image of Bogart messed with - and so they ignored this film.

Their loss, man. It's their loss.

Diary Friday

More Picnic ... although this one has more to do with what was going on outside of Picnic. I can hear in my own writing that I was getting kind of manic. I also have boyfriend problems.

November 18

The Homecoming Dance is this Wednesday. If I wasn't so busy - if I wasn't even in Picnic - I know that I would have called TS [That's okay, Sheila. If you don't go to the Homecoming Dance in the 1980s, then you will go see "Poseidon" with him in 2006! Never fear!] - but just being in Picnic is making my life so complicated. I mean, I'm enjoying it so much, but it's kind of like culture shock. No one can know how terrific everyone is, how much they make me feel like I belong - that is culture shock, and I spend a lot of time wondering: "How can they like me?" But they DO!

After last Tuesday's rehearsal, I had just watched Liz really weep during that last scene - and it made me - instead of, getting high it made me really down. It was a lot of things. Tuesday sucked as a day. I had read in school that sometimes pregnat Jewish women in concentration camps had their legs tied together during labor - I couldn't believe the shock of hatred that I felt. Pure hatred. That started it.

When Kimber gave us notes after rehearsal, I sat quietly on the stage. I felt so down. It hit me that time is running out, and soon Picnic won't be a part of my everyday life anymore. Diary - what will I do - I'm gonna wither away and die - I am. I was sitting opposite from Brett. He kept nudging my knee with his foot and smiling at me. But even that made me feel like crying. People being nice to me makes me cry - especially him. They love me. Oh, I can't help it but think Why? He just kept giving me these fond friendly smiles that were cracking my heart. After Kimber's notes, Lenny offered me a ride. I said, "Sure" very unenthusiastically. Lenny's kind of a leech. He's always just touching my shoulder, and I feel like saying, "Lenny, just go away." He offers me a ride a lot but usually someone else offers before he does. I mean, I can't say no to him and then say yes to Joanna or Brett 2 minutes later. Besides, I'm not scared of him. He's about a foot shorter than I am. [hahahahahaha]

I was quite a drip - I got my stuff, but I felt depressed. I just felt very lost and very alienated and lone. I felt like I was gonna start crying any damn minute and that confused me because I didn't know why. Lenny had to go get his stuff together in the guys dressing room so I just stood in the lounge. Brett came out from backstage and saw me. He is SO NICE. He came to me and hugged me - God, did I need that - and he said as he hugged me, "God, we are really gonna miss you when all this is over!" [How did he know?? How did he know that that was what I was dreading?] He said, "You better come around and visit us." I will too. That's the only way I'll make it. Somehow, he instinctively pinpointed what was bugging me - and he knew - he was right. I said into his shoulder, "You've been such a good friend to me," and he squeezed me tighter. Then Lenny came along saying, "Ready to go?"

I backed away from Brett. Here's the thing. I don't have a crush on Brett. I just have this fondness for him - and he seems to have this friendly loving air and I really sense it, pick up on it, respond to it, love it.

Lenny sort of whirlwinded by ["whirlwinded"? Oh my God, I so love that and need to use it all the time now], yelling goodbye to people - I called goodbye to other Picnic people too - and said, "Goodnight Brett" - really casually - as I walked by him, and he grinned at me, really warmly, very REAL, and reached out and squeezed my hand and said, "Good night."

The thing is - it doesn't feel sappy and goopy. It's just friendly.

Last night I suddenly had the urge to call TS, talk to him, I miss him, I couldn't get him out of my mind. Picnic has boosted my confidence. Brett was right. I really don't feel afraid of TS anymore - afraid of being open or vulnerable. I think a lot that if TS had gotten into Picnic too, it'd be really hard for me to have him there. Because I ask him, "How's your life?" and he can't even give me a straight answer - so he makes me feel like an idiot for asking it - as though it were this big infringement on his privacy - I suppose I have been brooding about him lately. So last night I went into my parents room to call him. The line was busy about 5 times. I tried Kate, Beth, J. - No one was home. God, I had this need to talk to someone.

Finally I heard it ring. (Oh Diary, it felt so identical to the time I called DW - when I heard the ring, I almost felt this desperation - hesitation - I hadn't planned at all what to say or how to say it.)

H. answered - asked who was calling. I said, "Sheila." God, Diary - just telling her my name made me feel so scared and unshielded. Then I heard her voice way in the distance, "TS! It's Sheila on the phone!" What was he thinking about? I heard these clattering footsteps and then his voice. The minute I heard his voice, I warmed to it. I could feel my nervousness crack away. I still felt awkward (Good Lord, I'll always feel awkward). But his voice when he said, "Hi" - it was really drawn out. I could almost see his smile. The TS grin when things get deep. Even when I'm not with him, or looking at him, I sit there and flinch - I cover my eyes, wring my sweater, tug at my hair. I had NO idea how to start. It's been so so so long since we talked. So there was this pause after the "Hi"s and I jumped in. Sink or swim. All or nothing.

So I -- I became myself. I said, "TS, I called to say that I'm sorry about how long we haven't talked. It's been so long and I'm sorry." [Jesus, 16 year old Sheila, you are my hero right now.]

All this time I have been thinking, "Well, shit, it can't be life or death to TS either. Otherwise he would have called. How important can it be to him?" But when I said that, he immediately said, simultaneously with me, "I know - yeah - I know" - Like it's been something he has noticed, and does think about it.

[Excuse me if I have a more cynical response now. That's what experience will do to you.

Oh - and this entry appears to just end there - to be picked up later, I suppose.]

NOVEMBER 21

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. I have a 3-day break in which to catch you up with EVERYTHING. Because tonight is the Homecoming Dance, which I asked TS to during that conversation I left off with. But I don't know what I'm feeling. DW will be at the dance too - all alumnae are invited back - and strangely enough, I'm looking forward to seeing DW. I'm so unshaky about him now. I am on firm ground.

But the whole TS thing. Oh Diary, you are honestly the only one I can tell this to in full detail because my friends are bored to death hearing graphic descriptions of every rehearsal - but in here (when I have the time) I can tell it all. I haven't nearly told it all. There's so much. It'ls piling up.

I think it's rare for a person to have a truly honest to God unblemished A plus day but yesterday - looking over my entire life - that was the most fun I think I have ever had, the happiest I've ever been. I think about it and I still feel warm and GOOD inside. Yesterday was the best day of my life. (And don't read that as a cliche.) [Hahahaha I am preemptively chastising my own journal.]

First of all, I missed periods 2, 3, and 4 (Physiology, English, and Drama) because our Drama class went to see the Looking Glass Theatre's production of Antigone. I was so so psyched to see it cause Marvin was gonna be in it. You don't know how much I was looking forward to it or how much I really liked him at the party. He was so nice. I won't forget it. He offered me a beer. I said, "No thanks". and totally casually, he said, "Well, we have alternate drinks if you want, soda ..." I don't know why but just that one moment made me feel so great, it put me straightaway at ease, cause I had gone to that party trembling - thining that I would be forced to drink [hahahahaha] or made to feel dumb if I didn't. And he DIDN'T CARE that I was in high school. We talked as though there was no age difference. He really made an impression on me, I guess, and he's in Antigone - and I was afraid that he wouldn't remember me.

He was wonderful as Creon. He was better than everyone else, I think. When he first came on, I almost squealed, "Oh! There he is!" All I could think of, though, was him with his spiked hair, his "I'm scared" sign, and bugged eyes. It felt so special - I don't know - I just really felt "in" - like - I know him - from my whole other life outside of high school, that is so important to me, and so with me every second - It's weird to have this whole other life without my friends. I am not used to it. I have to rely on myself. Especially with Brett. The interpretation is left up to me cause no one else is there to tell me what they see.

Oh yesterday. [love was such an easy game to play ...] I still can't believe how purely wonderful it was.

After the play, they were gonna set up Creon's trial and have people in the audience participate, call up witnesses from the cast, etc. There was about a 10 minute break, and Marvin was just sitting on the edge of the stage, looking out.

Then something happened to me. I got so shy. It felt like I wanted to go ask him to dance, for Pete's sake. I only wanted to go say hi! I mean, it's not even like I have a crush on him. I don't know why I'm so shy. Or afraid. I get so sick of it, but I can't help it. It was like this Start/Stop thing. But I knew that I really just wanted to go say hi and I'd be really mad if I didn't. Kate knew, Kate understood. She prodded me. "Just go do it, Sheil. Go on. He's alone. Go. I love you."

The strength her words gave me! [hahaha I am so dramatic. But it is all sincere.] So I took a deep breath and stood up. I remember thinking - "Here I go." I know it doesn't seem like a biggie, but it honestly was to me. So I went down the aisle towards him.

________________________________________________
[Yes - that line is really there, drawn by me. I completely stop in the middle of this CLIFFHANGER ... and change topics.]

Just came home from the Homecoming Dance. All I'm gonna do this vacation is write in here. Maybe I'll come up with some answers.

Tuesday, November 20 - (remember that date as THE best day of my life so far) - and today were so wonderful. I mean this morning I was still bouncing off the walls.

November 22 Thanksgiving

Here I am in the car. We're on our way up to Mama's. I really hope today cheers me up because I'm not doing too well. I don't know what to do. Everything is so bizarre right now because it's all happening at once. I'm at a loss. On Saturday night - on the phone with TS - once I got out my first "I'm sorry we don't talk anymore" - it wasn't me doing all the work. For once in my life. [Enjoy it while it lasts, Sheil-babe!] He was saying how awful he felt - "I called you a few times, but you were never home." I was thinking inside - Thank God. He has been thinking of me. Then, even better, he said, "I wrote you a letter but I haven't gotten a chance to send it." I felt like everything inside me caved in. A boy cares about me? It moves me. It makes me feel sad for some reason. I don't know. It's so hard to get down to the point with TS, because he always has to tell jokes. I feel so unworthy all the time. But then I try to convince myself to cut the crap and then I feel all warm and choked up inside. That happened to me on the phone, just thinking about him sitting down to write to me, noticing our lack of contact and wanting to do something about it. I want to read that letter. I almost wish I hadn't called so that I could have gotten it. But he told me some of what the letter said. It said, "Sheila, please call me. Please call me." Am I worthy? I'm so touched and emotional and very deeply in love. [hahahahahaha] My heart is bursting. I am bursting.

But then when I'm at rehearsal, I totally forget about TS. [hahahahahaha] Things are moving at break-neck speed. My emotions are flying. I am a crazy woman.

Boy has Picnic helped me. I really do think it's Picnic's fault. I can say my feelings so much more honestly now. I mean, I can express what I'm feeling, come right out and say it.

And we admitted things to each other that we never talk about. It's always underlying thoughts when I'm with him, like, "Why do I act like such a flake, only with him?" "Why am I so scared?" "Why am I awkward?" But I never say these things to him. I am afraid he will laugh at me. And he would. Probably without knowing it hurt me. Whenever either of us tries to say something serious, TS gets real uneasy and makes a joke or a flip remark. It bugs me. Maybe I'm a serious person. I mean, laughing is my favorite thing in the world - but I like talking seriously about important things better. I get scared with TS. I really have this feeling that he would laugh at me. But oh my God - on the phone - I am so crazy about him! I am CRAZY about him. I am FLIPPING over him.

He said, "We're awkward with each other, Sheila."

Oh really, TS? I hadn't noticed.

Then - oh dear - he said, "I'm not awkward with anyone but you."

When I told Anne that, she said, "Shit." [hahahahahahahaha]

I sat there and I could feel myself oozing in eternal directions. ["oozing in eternal directions"???? That's kind of fabulous.] I felt tension in my arms and necks. We talked about how bad we felt, it was this big outpouring.

He said to me, "When I saw you at Anne's, I thought you were gonna shoot me."

Oh my God, it bothered him like it bothered me. We had a really long talk - very subtle hints towards talking about "us" but not quite confronting it. It'll take a lot to get TS to confront anything. He said to me, "I wrote you a letter because it's hard for me to say it out loud, or to your face, or over the phone ..." [or in a smoke signal, or in Morse code, or from a space ship, or from deep inside the well, or from the airplane, or from the trapeze ...]

Finally he told me he had to go because he had to call Matt to see if they were gonna go see a play, so I said, "Fine. Sure." And after a pause he said, "Thanks for calling." Sincerely.

When we hung up I felt so good about myself. I wished that I could slap myself on the back. I wanted to scream: SHEILA, I LOVE BEING YOU! I was trembling.

About a 1/2 hour later, he called back, saying that Matt had already left so he obviously called to just talk more with me. We just blabbed, about movies, cable TV [that brand-new technology!!], Picnic -

I get nauseated thinking how close Picnic is.

And just before we hung up, I remembered that the Homecoming Dance was this Wednesday. So I said, "Wait a minute" - and he waited and I sat there quietly, trying to compose myself. I have never asked a guy anwhere spur of the moment. It takes me a day to get up my courage. He waited, and I just - I thought I could feel myself get scared and shaky but I finally blurted, "Are you free Wednesday night?" He said, "Yeah. Why." I said, "Well - there's the Homecoming Dance at school ... " So he said yes, and we planned to just meet at the gym.

Then we hung up.

I had to go sit down to think this over. I didn't have time to think about it before, so it was almost a breather for me. Like: "Dear Lord, I'm going to a semiformal dance with him."

Other Picnic entries:

Part 1. The audition
Part 2: The callbacks, getting into the play
Part 3: First meeting with the director
Part 4. The calm before the storm ... the time before rehearsals started ... memorizing lines, etc.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!
Part 12. Rehearsals! Life! Going crazy!
Part 13. The rehearsal when the play clicks into place, emotionally.

Some light reading

I'm tearing my way through Viktor Klemperer's Language of the Third Reich. Can't put it down. I've been waiting to read this a long long time. When I stayed with Carrie in Belfast - ("Take a right after you see the mural of the chicks with the guns....") I saw that her husband had it on his shelf. I didn't even know it was published! So exciting because Klemperer references his ongoing project all the time in his diaries. It, to me, is why his diaries are so invaluable. Of course any first-hand perspective is invaluable - but as a philologist, a linguistically oriented person - also a Jew - married to an Aryan - living in Dresden ... and he took to analyzing the language of fascism and totalism as well as he could - even without access to books and newspapers. (An example here and here but his diary is FULL of this stuff - and the Language of the Third Reich is his compiling all of that information into one book.) Anyway - it's out, and I'm reading it. So good. So interesting. I'm taking tons of notes.

And today 2 books arrived from Barnes & Noble that I just ordered (I get a discount cause of my membership card):

a biography of James Madison and also a book about Madison and Hamilton and the Constitution.

Hmmm. I'm thinkin' I'll go with the Madison/Hamilton one first. After I leave the Third Reich, that is.

Busted!!

Cashel and I had a long conversation about his most recent projects, and his upcoming projects. The talk turned to Kung Food Guy.

"Auntie Sheila," said Cashel over the phone, "I went to your blog and saw that you put my movie up."

Uhm. You "went to my blog"? You read my blog, Cashel? Also, the way he said blog - in this odd accent - "blawg" - kills me.

"You did? Member you told me it was okay, Cash?"

hahah I was afraid he would suddenly sue me for copyright violation or something.

He said, excitedly, "Oh, I know! But Auntie Sheila ... who are all those people who made comments??"

I felt like saying "Damned if I know" - hahaha - but I said, "Oh ... uhm ... they're my friends, Cash. They all liked your movie."

Cashel said, "I know! Last time I checked there was 32 comments!"

Last time I checked? You counted? The image of him coming back to my blog to see what other people were saying ... hahaha He was truly confused about who all those people were.

But more than that, he said:

"How did those people know about Stretchy Colorado?"

Oops.

"Uhm, I told them, Cash."

Cashel went on. "I was really surprised to hear someone talk about the banana sergeant."

Oops.

I said, "I'm sorry, Cash - I told them about the banana sergeant too." Auntie Sheila's a loudmouth.

"Oh, I don't care! I actually think that I WILL make a comic about Stretchy Colorado." Love it when little kids say "actually". Cashel says it all the time, and it kills me.

"Great idea! I love Stretchy. The whole banana sergeant thing was when you were really little - you probably don't even remember it, do you?"

Cashel did not. I described to him the card. I could hear and feel the silence of his listening emanating thru the wire. It was hilarious. He said something like, "Oh yeah" at the end - in a tone of: "Yes, that sounds like my work."

Cashel then took us back to the "blawg" and "all those people": "You know what, though, Auntie Sheila? I think you have to tell them about Garl."

Oops.

I said, "Garl is really cool, Cash."

Cash got all excited and said, "And someone in your comments said I should do a sequel to Kung Food Guy???" (Uhm - Mere? That would be you, I believe.) "Well, tell that person that I'm working on it."

Mere? He's working on it.

He then told me the entire plot. Which, you know, took about 2 seconds. The Kung Food Guy franchise is not known for its intricate plot.

But it sounds like it's gonna be a good one!

Under-rated movies: #6

6. Four Daughters

Here is another nearly-forgotten film (even though at the time it was nominated for Oscars left and right). It was directed by Hungarian-born Michael Curtiz, the man responsible, naturally, for such little-known art-house films as The Sea Wolf, Casablanca, Yankee Doodle Dandy, Mildred Pierce and The Adventures of Robin Hood. Four Daughters was done the same year as Robin Hood (1938), and was basically a vehicle for a new leading man named Jeffrey Lynn.

Unfortunately for Lynn, the smaller part of the outsider who barges into the family's neat little existence, was given to John Garfield from New York, in his film debut. Garfield is in the film for, maybe, half an hour, but he's all you can look at when he is on screen. When he's not in a scene, you keep wondering when he will show up again. He brings with him a sense of the unpredictable. He's dangerous. He's sexy. Jeffrey Lynn didn't stand a chance, even though he might have been a fine actor.

John Garfield is Marlon Brando 10 years before Marlon Brando. (He was actually the producer's first choice to play Stanley in Streetcar on Broadway.) He is the introduction of a new kind of acting, he is the introduction of the sexiness of the anti-hero .

I've got a real soft spot for John Garfield (Jules Garfinkle was his real name, his good friends all still called him "Jules-y".) It is so worth it to keep your eye open for this hard-to-find film, which isn't even on DVD. Keep your eye open for listings on TCM. The picture has a good story, and the 4 daughters of the title are wonderful and natural and funny, but Garfield is the reason to see it. He is a message from the future.

His style - his naturalistic style - even the way he smokes a cigarette - foreshadows Brando, Pacino, Duvall.

Steven Vineberg wrote a book about Method actors (Method Actors: Three Generations of an American Acting Style), and while it can be a bit tiresome and academic, there's a lot of value in it, and he devotes an entire chapter to Garfield in Four Daughters.
Listen to Vineberg's description of Garfield:

But the particularly independent nature of the role (Mickey is an outsider, never truly integrated into the family) liberated Garfield. Unshaven, his eyes half-closed, his hair mussed, his hat battered and his tie loose, he makes such a striking first entrance that it's probably not an exaggeration to say he was a star by the end of the reel

His first entrance is all it would take to make the entire audience lean forward and go: "Who the hell is that?"

Vineberg goes on:

It's a theatrical entrance: He thrusts himself into the Lemps' living room, bums a cigarette from Felix, and starts right in on the wisecracks, disdaining everything in the Lemp household as "normal" and "domestic". What Garfield does is bring Odets's street-wise rebel, with his dark Semitic looks, into a small-town middle-class house full of Gentiles. Borden isn't written as Jewish, of course: Because of Hollywood's Jewish studio heads' obsession with assimilation (their terror of anti-Semitism), Garfield wans't allowed to play specifically Jewish characters until after the war. But in a sense he never played anything else, because he was always drawing so closely on himself. In this early performance, you can spot a slight staginess, a trace of theatrical self-consciosness, but he's got more dynamic presence and genuine banked energy than anyone else on screen, and his acting carries infinitely more wit and authority than that of his dimpled costafs. Four Daughters is a carefully cultivated Norman Rockwell fantasy, but Garfield is an emissary from the real world. It's only when he's on screen that we believe there's a Depression going on outside the Lemp household.

It's one of those completely forgotten moments of genius. I have heard people proclaim that Ed Norton's debut in Primal Fear was one of the most powerful debuts in cinema history. People who say that must have very short memories. Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not? Or Garfield in Four Daughters?

It is a star-making moment.

Vineberg says he "broods through the film like a ghetto Heathcliff." This type of acting has become not only so common now, but cliched to some degree, and it can be hard to realize how truly revolutionary Garfield was at the time.

The best thing about Four Daughters is that you can see the two acting styles up side by side. Nothing wrong with any of the daughters in the film; as a matter of fact, they are uniformly adorable, and they don't push, or over-act. But they're recognizable types. Garfield, by resisting labels entirely, takes all the focus, just by entering the room. He actually seems HUMAN.

More:

Garfield carries this stuff off by displaying a bright-eyed tough-hide sincerity (and he's most successful when he throws his lines away). In his scenes with Priscilla Lane he's a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, eager to make a good impression but not sure how to go about it. Ann tries to straighten Mickey out, to infect him with her wholesome optimism, but he stays resolutely bent. Even his manner of sitting on a couch -- his hip thrown sideways, his leg twisted -- has a renegade quality to it ...

Garfield plays outsiders like Mickey Borden brilliantly - injured men with restless, brooding minds and a feeling of entrapment that amounts almost to paranoia. In fact, he rarely plays anything else. Mickey touches us most when he's standing apart from the other characters, watching the Lemp family hijinks around the Christmas tree; though they've tried to include him, he feels naturally left out.

Garfield's debut still seems fresh and dangerous to contemporary eyes.

More Under-rated Movies

1. Ball of Fire

2. Only Angels Have Wings

3. Dogfight

4. Zero Effect

5. Manhattan Murder Mystery

6. Four Daughters

7. In a Lonely Place

8. Searching for Bobby Fischer

9. Joe vs. the Volcano

10. Something's Gotta Give

11. Truly, Madly, Deeply

12. Mr. Lucky

13. Eye of God

14. Love and Basketball

15. Kwik Stop

Honesty

Alex and I have talked before about how our blogs inform each other ... we were reading each other's sites even before we became friends, really. We had Mitchell in common, and also she had been in a show with Window-Boy and had taken note of his "crazy girlfriend" who sent him a "kumquat" backstage, instead of a bouquet or a note. Yup. That was me. But this was YEARS ago - before she was even really friends with Mitchell. hahaha I love that. Alex, sitting backstage, putting on makeup, and watching Window-Boy unwrap a small orange gourd, sent to him by some nutsy girl. (Uhm. Me.) I sent him a gourd (IT WAS NOT A KUMQUAT) wrapped in a paper bag and I had written on the gourd: Have a good show. Window-Boy loved it. Everyone else in the cast who saw him unwrap a GOURD thought that he was obviously dating a lunatic. There is truth in both sides.

But now here Alex and I are - years later, and not only have we spent time together in person, but we have nearly died from lack of oxygen during laughing fits on her porch (Alex declaring, like a Roman senator: "It was manipulation at its zenith!" There was a pause, and I gently corrected her: "Xenu." After that? Laughter so long that we thought we would die.) - we had adventure after adventure after adventure after adventure in LA (please realize that for the two of us running the damn dishwasher could possibly be an adventure - but those links there are some legitimate adventures involving failed brakes, dead bodies, floating heads of Ronnie Hubman and confrontations with his cult-minions on Hollywood Boulevard) Anyway - I felt like I was her friend before we met, but now that we've spent so much time together, fuggedaboutit. Friends for life, man.

And her wife Chrisanne too - these are two powerhouse personalities. People I felt I could love within 5 minutes of meeting them.

Anyway, Alex and I have talked a couple of times about how it is we read one another - it's very specific. It's almost like we are pushing one another to become better and more honest writers. It's kind of too deep and involved to get into - and that suddenly reminds me (DOH) of the blog we created together which I have totally neglected - way too busy this spring!!

So I read her post this morning, and felt again, the cold clear breath of honesty there. Even when she admits she lies. That's the bravest kind of honesty, actually. You can't get more authentic than that.

Precious. The woman is precious to me.

Under-rated movies ...

Here are some of Anne's choices.

Love to read stuff like this.

I'll be posting my next 5 under-rated movies at some point today.

Mona ya Guppeeeee

To my siblings: A huge article about the Eurovision song contest. Which SO obsessed us when we were in Ireland as kids. Or - maybe I should say it obsessed Jean and me. Brendan was too busy accidentally putting salt on his corn flakes, and taking naps, and Siobhan was 4 years old, screaming at Irish children who stared at her inappropriately in the library. YOU GO, SIOBHAN! STICK UP FOR YOURSELF! You are only 2 feet tall, but you have dignity!!

Meanwhile, Jean and I became so wrapped up in the Eurovision song contest that we would literally hijack the television at whatever B &B we were staying in. "We have to get back from the monastery we're looking at by 8 pm because Eurovision is on!!" we would plead with our parents. Monastery shmonastery. Let's see some pop music! Sung in languages we do not understand!

Our two favorite songs were performed by Sweden and Cypress. We did not understand the language. But to this day, we can still sing the tune ... and our made-up lyrics.

Song from Sweden - sung by two blonde hottie women:

"Dag after dag
Goin' for a long way I can say
Dag after dag
Goin' for a long way I can say-ayyyy
And when I wake up this mornin'
I know where I am goin'
Who's got it all?
Neww-ewww Yo-ork
Dag after dag"

What the hell? As our family careened over the Burren in our tiny car, Jean and I, scrunched in the back seat, would sing that "song" at the top of our lungs.

Then there was some gorgeous dark-haired woman from Cypress - who would stand totally still onstage, a la Katherine McPhee ...

I only remember the title, and this is in our own butchered interpretation of what she was saying in her native tongue:

Mona ya Guppee

That was her song. Her big hit. Mona ya Guppee. Don't ask me what it means, but it was very melancholy.

Eurovision is not known by Americans at all - however, it was responsible for launching Riverdance - but the O'Malley kids have HUGE memories of the time in Ireland when the song contest took over our entire lives. We were SO. INTO. IT.

Peteb has made a joke that - because whoever wins the Eurovision song contest (whatever country, I mean) - then has to host the contest the next year - and for the last 30 years (hahahaha, whatever) Ireland has won - for many years, the announcer would open the contest saying, "Here we are, broadcasting yet again from Dublin ..."

I have always wished they would broadcast the thing here - and now it looks like that might happen.

And when I wake up this morning
I know where I am going
Who's got it all?
New-ew Yoo-ork
Dag after dag ....

Words to live by, people, words to live by.

The Books: "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" (Judy Blume)

Next book on the shelf ...

The immortal Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume.

Now I just can NOT approve of the cover. I remember what the cover was when I had it as a kid. Or I sort of do - Here's what I remember: It was a drawing of a girl, the cover itself was kind of a pale lemon yellow, Margaret was sitting at a vanity in front of a mirror - and ... er ... that's it. But it was a drawing, not a goofy photograph. I can't stand these under-designed stock-photo book covers nowadays. It's fine for crap books but a book beloved by generations?? I should keep my eye open in second-hand bookstores for older copies of "Margaret" because the cover of my brand new one is plain old ikky.

Not much needs to be said about this book. Pretty much every woman who is in a certain age range, read this book as a kid, or I guess now they call them tweens (which I despise by the way. Tween? No. Stop it with the tween nonsense.) I read this book in 4th or 5th grade - and I remember how it rocked my world. It taught me what would happen. Now thanks to 4th and 5th grade, I did have basic sperm + egg education, I had learned about sex, and Mrs. Kahn had split up the class by gender - and had a private class with the girls where she told us all about menstruation. Which gave all of us a pretty bad couple of days, I'll tell you that. Suddenly the girls in the class were EONS older than the boys. We were weighted down by our secret knowledge, our secret fear. We were going to BLEED. From our VAGINAS. For THIRTY TO FORTY YEARS. Uhm. Excuse me? You gotta be kidding me, right? Did it hurt? Was it like a CUT? How much blood? Do you have to just lie in bed? How do you stop it from coming out? Basically: WHAT THE FUCK???????????

We were secretly comforted that it would happen to all of us - and also, that it obviously had happened to our mothers, our babysitters, our teachers ... everyone. Our teacher, standing up in front of the class, was a woman. So ... at some point during the school year ... did she teach a class while she had her period? Oh ... so ... you can still live your life ... even though you are BLEEDING from your VAGINA ... I had no older sister, remember - there were some girls in our class who were already hip to the whole period thing. I was not. My best friend J. was not. We would have these secret whispered conferences, very much like the ones in Are you there God - saying: "Okay, when you get it - you have to PROMISE me to tell me everything." Etc. We even wrote a vow that we both signed: "I promise that when I get my period I will tell you everything. Signed: _____________."

So anyway - into this void of anxiety (I thank God that I had sex ed in grade school - at least I knew what was coming!!) came Judy Blume and Margaret. Somehow - we all read it. This obviously was not a book read out loud to the class, or anything - but it spread like wildfire, and we all read it. There was a waiting list to take it out of the library. Which makes me laugh to think of. All of these little anxious girls, waiting to read a "first person" experience of this whole period thing.

And how I remember it is: Margaret moves to a new town. She is in sixth grade. She becomes friends with a couple of other girls, who are all much more ... teenager-y than she - they all have bras, they are counting the days til they get their period, they can't wait ... it almost becomes like a competition - who's gonna get it first? But on a surface level: the book tells you what it feels like, what to expect - from a girl who was "just like us".

I recently bought the book again and re-read it. I haven't read it since 4th grade. And it's amazing how much MORE there is to the book. There's so much going on: Margaret's relationship to God, she talks to him every day - and it's almost casual - like she always starts with "Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret." There's a lot of religion in the book, too. Margaret is Jewish - but it's only a cultural Jewishness - they never go to synagogue, etc. Margaret's new friends all go to either Sunday school or Hebrew school and Margaret feels left out, so she starts going around with her friends on every weekend - to either church or synagogue - to see which one she likes. Her parents are not wacky about this development - but she goes anyway. These are some pretty heavy issues for a kids book - but the great thing about Judy Blume is that she is all about the character. You just get into Margaret's world and everything follows from there.

It's also a great story showing the sometimes treacherous dealings of little girls. Nothing beats Cat's Eye in that regard - NOTHING - but Margaret, in its own adolescent way, takes on the same topic. How mean little girls can be to each other.

Margaret is trying to grow up. She realizes that not being a "kid" anymore is really really hard. And yet she wants to get her period, and she wishes her boobs would grow - she is still completely flat, and it really really bums her out.

You know what? It's a wonderful book, actually. I have re-confirmed my opinion about it by just re-reading it. People snicker about it, which - I don't know. I just don't like that. As though little girls getting their periods are somehow silly, or not a worthy topic for an author to take on. Judy Blume doesn't stand above the experience - she gets right down on the level of the girls going thru it. The whole menstrutation thing has a lot of emotion attached to it - either you can't wait for it to happen, or you dread it because you're only 10 or 11 and you're not ready to stop being a kid yet. What will it mean? How will it change me? The Margaret book helps lead the way.

So kudos, Judy Blume. Kudos for not just writing a great "issue book" but also writing a fun story. I enjoyed re-reading it as an adult.

From Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume.

After school we went straight to Nancy's. Before we started our official meeting we talked about Mr. Benedict and his project. We all agreed it was crazy and none of us could think of a single idea.

Then Nancy called the role. "Veronica?"

"I'm here," Gretchen said.

"Kimberly?"

"I'm here," Janie said.

"Mavis?"

"I'm here," I said.

"And so am I ... Alexandra." Nancy closed the roll book. "Well, let's get to it. We all feel each other's backs to make sure we're wearing our bras."

We all were.

"What size did you get, Janie?" Gretchen asked.

"I got a Gro-Bra," Janie said.

"Me too," I said.

"Me too!" Gretchen laughed.

"Not me," Nancy said, proudly. "Mine's a thirty-two double A."

We were all impressed.

"If you ever want to get out of those baby bras you have to exercise," she told us.

"What kind of exercise?" Gretchen asked.

"Like this," Nancy said. She made fists, bent her arms at the elbow and moved them back and forth, sticking her chest way out. She said, "I must -- I must -- I must increase my bust." She said it over and over. We copied her movements and chanted with her. "We must - we must - we must increase our bust!"

"Good," Nancy told us. "Do it thirty-five times a day and I promise you'll see the results."

"Now, for our Boy Books," Gretchen said. "Is everybody ready?"

We put our Boy Books on the floor and Nancy picked them up, one at a time. She read each one and passed it around for the rest of us to see. Janie's was first. She had sevevn names listed. Number one was Philip Leroy. Gretchen had four names. Number one was Philip Leroy. Nancy listed eighteen boys. I didn't even know eighteen boys! And number one was Philip Leroy. When Nancy got to my Boy Book she choked on an ice cube from her glass of coke. When she stopped choking she read, "Number one -- Philip Leroy." Everybody giggled. "Number two -- Jay Hassler. How come you picked him?"

I was getting mad. I mean, she didn't ask the others why they liked this one or that one, so why should I have to tell? I raised my eyebrows at Nancy, then looked away. She got the message.

When we were through, Nancy opened her bedroom door. There were Evan and Moose, eavesdropping. They followed us down the stairs and outside. When Nancy said, "Get lost, we're busy," Evan and Moose burst out laughing.

They shouted, "We must -- we must -- we must increase our bust!" Then they fell on the grass and rolled over and over laughing so hard I hoped they would both wet their pants.

Under-rated movies

I got this idea from Self-styled Siren - another awesome film-nut site I've becomed addicted to. Scroll through her archives. Try to resist her. You will not be able to.

So here is what THIS post is about:

"10 movies you consider overlooked, underrated, offbeat and in general deserving of not being forgotten." (Check out her choices - very very interesting.)

One limitation: The films chosen must not have won any major award - or been nominated for Best Picture.

I chose more than 10 - although I will just start off with 5 here. This has been a post I've been working on for a couple of days now - more to come! I also cheated, on occasion, with the award thing, as you will see. But I did not choose any movie that won for Best Picture- I kept that a solid rule.

So here you have it:

Movies you consider overlooked, underrated, offbeat and in general deserving of not being forgotten.

THE FIRST FIVE

1. Ball of Fire

One of the most delightful comedic and good-hearted films ever made. I saw it the first time last year, promptly bought it, and have since seen it probably once a month ever since. That trend shows no sign of abating. Written by Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett, and directed by Howard Hawks (I mean, come ON!!) - it's the story of 8 professors, who live basically in an ivory tower - they have been comissioned to write an encyclopedia. The "head" of this group of professors is Bertram Potts, played by a wonderfully stuffy and awkward (and charming) Gary Cooper. He's a linguistics professor. He realizes he needs to understand more about modern slang, especially because he lives such a cloistered life. So he goes out onto the streets to find out how real people talk. In the process, he meets Sugarpuss O'Shea - YES. That is her name!! Sugarpuss O'Shea is a nightclub singer - who ends up having some pretty shady Mob connections - and she is played by Barbara Stanwyck in what is, in my opinion, one of her best performances. Even though; how does one choose, right? But she is so earthy, so lovable, so ... so HUMAN here. Sugarpuss ends up moving into the ivory tower with all of the professors (each one is played by a recognizable and beloved character actor - they are all so so funny and distinct!) - and they all basically fall in love with her. But no one falls harder than the bumblingly intellectual (what? Gary Cooper??) Professor Potts. It's a wonderful love story, it's got a bitingly funny script (which also has great heart) - Stanwyck has a monologue at the end about why she loves the goofball Potts and listen to the words:

"I love him because he's the kind of guy who gets drunk on a glass of buttermilk, and I love the way he blushes right up over his ears. I love him because he doesn't know how to kiss, the jerk!"

People just don't really write like that for the movies anymore. I mean, read that line again. God, it's so good.

And Gary Cooper plays what we might call the "Cary Grant part" - the stuffy kind of baffled awkward guy - who is loosened up by the female, who waltzes in (or rhumbas in, as the case is here) - and knocks over all his nice little chess pieces. Cooper and Stanwyck together just sizzle, and spark.

I know a lot of people love this movie - as a matter of fact it was a couple of readers on this here blog who told me I NEEDED to see this movie, seeing as I was so in love with Howard Hawks' stuff. So I know it has its defenders - but still - my wish for it is to have its place in the canon.

2. Only Angels Have Wings

Awesomely enough, this film was "Movie of the Day" on IMDB yesterday. And yes - it did win an Oscar for its special effects - an Oscar that was created BECAUSE of Only Angels Have Wings and its aviation scenes - which still have the power to stun today. And also, I realize that this film is generally accepted as one of Howard Hawks' best, and one of Cary Grant's sexiest performances - and if you Google around for old reviews of this film, you are hard-pressed to find a bad one. It works on every level it needs to work. The story is Howard Hawks' (he knew the people this film was about, he knew "those guys" - it was a REAL world he was describing) - and written by Jules Furthman - also a collaborator on other Hawks masterpieces: The Big Sleep, Rio Bravo, To Have and Have Not - and a ton more. The men had an affinity for one another, in their macho understanding of the world, the importance of male relationships, the craziness (and yet the fascination) of women, the centrality of ACTION - Hawks saw the world in terms of ACTION, what people DO. Anyway - I can't say enough about Only Angels Have Wings. It's a fantastic example of the whole "Howard Hawks woman" post I wrote in response to this film when I first saw it.

Also - Cary Grant is so good, in general, that he is taken for granted. Check him out here. Never has he been so CRANKY (although crankiness is one of his defining characteristics - whether it be in a comic situation - Bringing Up Baby - or a dark situation - Notorious) - but in Only Angels Have Wings he takes the crankiness to another level, an almost MEAN level. Cary Grant? Mean? Watch him. He also seems like he has never had so much fun as an actor. He owns every moment. It's his sexiest performance.

All the secondary characters are fantastic - Dutchie, the Kid, Kilgallen (the pilot who ruined his reputation when he bailed out of his burning plane - leaving his mechanic to die in the crash), Bonnie Lee (played by the funny Jean Arthur) - the showgirl stranded in the banana republic for a week - who falls helplessly in love with Cary Grant's character - they are all real people.

And watch Rita Hayworth, man, in her first big part after escaping from the OCD clutches of Howard Hughes' control. She's a classy and a smart DAME - the kind of woman Hawks adored, and chased, and fantasized about - in his real life, and in all of his films. Howard Hawks "got" the whole Rita Hayworth woman thing. Not too many men did. They only saw her boobs, and tried to exploit her sex appeal (look at how she was badly used in other films - except for Gilda which was another film that "got" her). Rita Hayworth was NOT a sexpot - when she was cast just as a sexpot, she suffered and was not good. But when she was cast as a mature woman, who happened to be that sexy - she just GLEAMS off the screen. Why do you think all those GIs plastered her posters all over their walls? The body, yes - but lots of girls have great bodies. Great bodies are a dime a dozen in Hollywood. It was that OTHER thing, that sensuousness. For example, when she takes off her gloves during her song in Gilda -- it is a shockingly revealing and erotic moment - and all she is doing is taking off her GLOVES. (Oh I forgot - someone posted a link to that clip a while back - here it is - watch all the way to the end) Her sexuality wasn't a joke, or something to be toyed with. She appeared to OWN it. And that always makes certain types of men very very nervous - and so they needed to demonize her, and cast her as trash. Hawks was, of course, interested in her boobs, too - no surprise there because the woman was, frankly, a babealicious babealolio - but beauty or sex appeal NEVER did it for him alone. He needed the brains, the insolence, the smarts as well. Think about it - Hawks is responsible for Slim in To Have and Have Not - a woman MORE insolent than Bogart, who gives as good as she gets. THAT was Hawks' ultimate fantasy, and in film after film after film, he was searching for that "type". He finally found her in Bacall - but it was an ongoing thing for him. He was macho. Tough. He wanted a woman who could keep up.

A dame like Rita Hayworth was all woman, but she could keep up.

AWESOME film, one of my favorite films ever made. If you haven't seen it yet - do yourself a favor. It's wonderful.

3. Dogfight

It's just one of my favorite movies, that's all. So I feel protective of it. I hover over it. I remember when I lived with Jen, my roommate for a gazillion years - she somehow hadn't seen it, and I kept using it as a reference point - until finally she said, "Okay. Let's rent it. I need to see it." It was SO fun introducing her to it. She said early on in the film, "God ... I want him to start liking her! This is painful to watch!" I was like: "Wait ... just wait ..."

I've known people who wouldn't see the film based on a brief plot synopsis - and I understand that, I really do. A bunch of Marines hold a "dogfight" - where the contest is: who can bring the ugliest girl? Sounds pretty mean-spirited and sexist, and it is. But the movie uses the Dogfight to launch itself into another realm - where two random strangers - a Marine and a lonely girl who wants to be a folk singer - connect, over one long LONG night ... the night before he ships out to "this place called Vietnam." It's 1963. A couple of weeks before Kennedy is assassinated. The film is obviously about loss of innocence. But in some respects, it's also about what we GAIN when we lose our innocence.

Rose, played beautifully by Lily Taylor, is an idealist. She has a big bouffant hairdo. She lives with her mother. She is plump. She has no life. She lives in a dream world of folk singers - Odetta, Woody Guthrie, Joan Baez ... she is passionate, yet she has no experience.

Eddie Birdlace, on the other hand, played by River Phoenix in one of his best and most nuanced performances, is all muscle, brawn, and rage. He's defensive, pissed, and arrogant. He thinks the dogfight is hilarious. He picks Rose to go - only because he struck out with every other "dog" he asked. But he gets a bit more than he bargained for with Rose. She gets dressed up to go to the party (not knowing it's a dogfight) - and although she may look kind of silly to contemporary eyes (with her teased hair, her silly pouffy dress) - Eddie looks at her and realizes she is no dog. But instead of being attracted to her, he's just pissed because now he'll lose the dogfight. Eddie greets the entire world with anger.

But over the course of this one whole night - these two change one another. That sounds so goopy. But it's not handled goopily in the film. They go out to dinner, they talk, they argue about all kinds of things - the war, movies, folk music - and slowly, they start to actually HEAR what the other person is saying. Eddie stops seeing her as a "dog", or as a folk-singer wannabe loser. Rose stops seeing him as a war-mongering asshole who gets his kicks out of a DOGFIGHT. She doesn't like things about him, he doesn't like things about her - but over the course of this night, they begin to find unbelievable comfort in one another's presence. Their first kiss (picture above - and it's her first kiss ever in her life) is eleeeeeeeeectric. Sizzle shazam!!

Roger Ebert writes in his review:

I wonder if you will like the final scene in "Dogfight." Some people have found it tacked on. I feel the movie needs it - grows because of it. I won't reveal what happens. I will say it is handled with great delicacy, that the buildup is just right, and that Savoca and Comfort were right to realize that, in the final moments, nothing needs to be explained.

It's one of the sweetest love stories ever put on film. See it. If you haven't seen it, see it.

4. Zero Effect

Uhm, Zero? Whatcha doin' up there on that bed?

David Cornelius wrote, in his review:

As played by Bill Pullman in his best performance to date, Zero is both the model of insanity and the model of genius. Pullman manages to make the character work by believing so deeply in him; his Zero is not a caricature, although he may do cartoonish things. He’s the straight man and the comic sidekick rolled into one. He says the weirdest, silliest damn things you’d ever heard, only he has total faith that every word he speaks is serious business. (Making things more complex, some of the stuff he says is serious business, and the contrast of the serious stuff to the goofy stuff only makes his character’s thoughts all the more profound.)

Yes, yes, and yes.

And he ends his review with:

And so “Zero Effect” works in so many ways. Its comedy is sharp, its mystery sharper. Its characters are bright and lively and endlessly watchable. This underrated, hidden gem of a movie could very well be the best mystery you’ve never seen (unless, of course, you’ve seen it, in which case it becomes one of the best you have seen, but I digress). Zero is Holmes, and Fletch, and so much more, but most of all, he’s describable only as himself. Daryl Zero is a movie character for the ages.

"Underrated hidden gem" indeed. I was very pleased to see, after my Bill Pullman extravaganza, how many people referenced Zero Effect. It has a cult following - which means, by its very definition, that it is underrated.

Show me a better performance by an actor that year, or any year, come to think of it. The 5 best actor nominees in 1998 were Roberto Benigni (Life is Beautiful), Tom Hanks (Saving Private Ryan), Ian McKellen (Gods and Monsters), Nick Nolte (Affliction), and Ed Norton (American History X). Some fine performances, a couple of mediocre performances (in my opinion), and only one great performance (Nolte's, if you're interested in my take on it). Bill Pullman's work in Zero Effect is up there with Nolte's - although the material isn't as wrenching (which is what the Academy loves - wrenching material) - Pullman's acting is as believable, as intense, as fanTASTIC as Nick Nolte's fierce and unforgettable turn in Affliction. And yet for all intents and purposes, Bill Pullman's work was completely ignored - except by the critics, and the small group of fans who continue to support this film.

But it's not just Pullman that makes this movie good. It's got a great plot, really good supporting characters, and a script (written by Jake Kasdan - who also directed it) that would make any actor DROOL to say those lines.

Zero does a voiceover throughout - telling us his philsophy on life, and how it is that he is "the world's greatest detective." Zero's drawling cynical alert voice could fit in in any 1940s film noir. He's Sam Spade on amphetamines. If Bill Pullman had been working in the 1930s and 1940s, I truly believe he would have been one of the biggest and most bankable stars. Imagine him in a screwball comedy. Can't you just see it?? Imagine him in a smouldering Big Sleep noir. It fits perfectly. But in this day and age? Bill Pullman usually gets TOTALLY miscast as the Wasp-y boring boyfriend the lead actress leaves for the REAL leading man. But in Zero Effect we get the full scope of what I am not ashamed to call Pullman's genius.

Listen to how Pullman does that voiceover. Not for one SECOND do you not think it is Zero speaking.

"A few words here about following people. People know they're being followed when they turn around and see someone following them. They can't tell they're being followed if you get there first."

Pullman doesn't "act" this part. He inhabits it.

5. Manhattan Murder Mystery

When the films of Woody Allen are discussed - this title rarely comes up. I'm not saying it's on par with Annie Hall or Radio Days - but this is a post about under-rated films - and I think Manhattan Murder Mystery was so under-rated as to be completely ignored. Some people don't like it when Woody Allen gets silly. I think he should get silly more often.

This is Woody Allen at his silliest. Diane Keaton and Woody Allen play a married couple, who are openly getting a tiny bit bored in their relationship. Not enough to have an affair, or to divorce ... but juuuuust enough to make the two of them a bit restless. Diane Keaton becomes CONVINCED that their kindly elderly next-door neighbor has murdered his wife. She begins to "investigate" the crime, even going so far as to break into this man's apartment to "look for clues". Let me make something clear: Diane Keaton's character is not a licensed detective. She's not a cop. She is a bored housewife, skulking around inappropriately in someone else's apartment..

Meanwhile, Woody Allen, who plays a book publisher, is "courting" an author - played to the HILT by Anjelica Huston - a woman who says, "I put myself through college playing poker." A woman who never takes off her sunglasses. A woman who stalks into rooms wearing head-to-toe black leather, who uses words like "perp" in casual conversation ("So the perp then says ..."), sucks up all the male attention, and stares other women down, making anyone in the room who happens to have a vagina feel TOTALLY irrelevant and invisible. She is so so so funny in this film.

The married couple -Diane and Woody - are kind of growing apart ... and eventually it is this "murder" that brings them back together.

I saw this film on a rainy afternoon in Chicago, with Mitchell - when it first came out. The movie theatre was nearly empty. And Mitchell and I howled and howled with laughter, as the hijinx ensue in this film. There's one insane 6-way scene - where the group of friends (who are now involved in the "homicide investigation") try to trick the "murderer" by playing him a fake spliced-together tape-recorded phone call that accuses him of the crime. It's Woody, Diane, Anjelica, Alan Alda (who is at his smarmy funniest best here), Ron Rivkin and Joy Behar ... all of them wrestling with 6 separate tape recorders, Anjelica Huston acting as the conductor - It's one of the most comedic scenes in a film since What's Up Doc. And I'm not talking about American Pie or Something About Mary which is what passes for humor nowadays. I'm talking about true COMEDY - comedy that comes from out of the situation, comes from characters who are desperate ...

The movie has perfect pitch. It's Woody at his most optimistic, his most kind.

It's also an undiscovered comedic gold mine.

More under-rated movies to come ... whenever ... this will be ongoing ...

"The work is not written in English, or in any other language, as language is commonly known."

Heh heh heh

From the archives: a baffled review of Finnegans Wake - thanks, peteb, for sending it along. By the way: WHERE ARE YOU?

No, just kidding. I'm sure you, you know, have a life and everything. I just miss you.

Back to the article: It's very funny reading. I love how he says that this is a book where "all is considered".

That's pretty much the size of it.

And listen to THIS language:

"In twenty years' time, with sufficient study and with the aid of the commentary that will doubtless arise, one might be ready for an attempt to appraise it."

heh heh heh heh

There was a great story in The Boston Globe recently (found it!!) about a group of people who get together once a week - at a pub, of course - and discuss Finnegans Wake - but here's the deal: They read a PAGE A WEEK. They have now been meeting for, uhm, 10 years? And just so you understand ME, the girl who is writing this post: If I lived in Boston, I would so party-crash that group. I want in.

That, to me, is a great night out, and a worthy way to spend your time.

I read Finnegans Wake in ... I'll have to check the date ... I think it was 1998. It was a year when I was, to put it mildly, not doing well. I needed a big CHALLENGE to take my mind off my problems. So I took out Finnegans Wake and - like my dad suggested - I read it out loud.

Believe it or not, the book makes total sense when read out loud. Or - not TOTAL sense, maybe - but it seems like it's meant to be spoken. You hear the connections, the onomotopeia, the alliteration - and although it appears to be a made-up language, it is not gibberish, and there is, also, a kind of narrative there.

It was great.

That reviewer, baffled as he was, kind of hits the nail on the head when he writes:

What he is attempting, I imagine, is to employ language as a new medium, breaking down all grammatical usages, all time space values, all ordinary conceptions of context. Compared with this, Ulysses is a first-form primer.

Reminds me of that great quote from Nora Joyce, Jimmy's wife - the one he wrote Ulysses in honor of. (Imagine having arguably the greatest book of the 20th century - the book that, in TS Eliot's words "killed the 19th century" - be written to commemorate the day YOU came into the author's life. Uhm - thanks?) But anyway - Finnegans Wake was his crazy follow-up to Ulysses - it took him 17 years to "finish" it - and even as he sent it to the publisher, he was changing stuff, rearranging things, adding commas, subtracting commas.

Ulysses, often described as "difficult", was a cakewalk compared to Finnegans Wake - which went into language in a way nobody else had before. Or - who did - Chaucer, maybe? I mean, it was THAT much of a revolution!!

Nora - who was considered by many of Jimmy's literati friends - to be semi-illiterate - an earthy girl who didn't "get" his work, said, long after his death: "Everyone is always askin' me about Ulysses. Finnegans Wake is the really important book."

Anyway - here's the original 1939 review. Love it!

The Books: "Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself" (Judy Blume)

Next book on the shelf ... .

Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself by Judy Blume.

In the author's note at the end of this book, Blume reveals that this is her most autobiographical book. The book takes place in the late 1940s - after WWII - Sally J. Freedman and her family move to Miami Beach - Sally is in the 5th grade, I believe, and she's worried about making friends. (Also, there are hints of adult unhappiness on the fringes of this book - Sally absorbs her parents troubles, etc.) But Sally has this whole secret LIFE going on - to combat her anxiety. She "makes up stories" - which is really just another word for "daydreaming" - but it's how Sally negotiates life. It may be seen as an "escape" - but look at what Judy Blume was eventually able to do with such childiish "daydreaming". Sally's family is Jewish, and they had relatives back in Poland who were killed by the Nazis - and Sally is haunted by one of those relatives - Lila, who died in a concentration camp. Sally can't stop thinking about Lila, and making up alternate endings for Lila. Sally also has violent revenge fantasies, where she meets Hitler face to face. Judy Blume writes all of these fantasies out, too - as though they are happening. It's a really fun book to read - Sally was one of my favorites of her characters. The family moves to Miami Beach, and they have a weird recluse-ish next-door neighbor - and even though everyone knows that Hitler died - Sally becomes convinced that Hitler did NOT actually die, and this man is Hitler, in hiding. She writes him threatening letters (in her head) letting him know that she's onto him, she's got his number, he will not escape.

You can tell that this was a really personal book for Judy Blume.

But I had no idea about that when I was a kid - I just loved Sally, and I really related to her.

Here is an excerpt, where you see her making up one of her "stories".

From Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself by Judy Blume.

Bounce ... catch ... bounce ... catch ... Sally was tossing her Spalding ball against the side of the house. The supper that Ma Fanny was cooking smelled good. Sally guessed it was roast chicken. Bounce ... catch ... bounce ... catch ... She had time for just a short story before Ma Fanny called her in to eat. At least when she made up the stories inside her head she didn't have to worry about who would play what. That was such a waste of time. Let's see, Sally thought, thinking up a title.

Sally Saves Lila

It is during the war. President Roosevelt asks for volunteers to go to Europe to help.

Sally is the first on line.

How old are you? the Head of Volunteers ask.

I'm ten, Sally tells her, but I'm smart ... and strong ... and tough.

Yes, I can see that, the Head says. Okay, I'm going to take a chance and send you ... your ship leaves in an hour.

Thank you, Sally says, you won't be sorry you chose me.

Good luck, the Head says.

Sally salutes, slings her duffle bag over her shoulder and boards the ship.

When she arrives in Europe she realizes that she has forgotten her toothpaste. She goes into the first Rexall's she sees and selects a tube of Ipana, for the smile of beauty. Then she feels hungry. It must be lunchtime. She finds a deli and orders a salami sandwich on rye and a Coke to go. She takes her lunch to the park across the street and finds a sunny bench. She unwraps her sandwich but before she takes her first bite she hears someone crying.

Sally investigates. After all, she has come to Europe to help. It is a woman, huddled on the ground next to a tall tree. Her hands cover her face, muffling her sobs. She is dressed in rags.

Sally goes to her side. Are you hungry? she asks.

The woman does not respond so Sally holds out her sandwich. It's salami, she says. Doesn't it smell good?

Kosher? the woman asks.

Yes, Sally tells her. Kosher salami is the only kind I like.

Me too, the woman says. She reaches for the sandwich and wolfs it down, her back to Sally.

How long has it been since you've eaten? Sally asks.

Days ... weeks ... months ... I don't know anymore.

Where do you live?

I have no home ... no family ... no friends ... all gone ... gone ... Finally she turns around and faces Sally. Even though her hair is filthy and her big eyes are red and swollen and most of her teeth are missing, Sally knows her instantly. Lila!

At the sound of her name the woman tries to stand up and run but she is so weak she falls to the ground, beating it with her fists. I knew you would catch me ... sooner or later ... I knew I could never escape ... but I won't go back to Dachau ... not ever ... I'll die right here ... right now ... She pulls a knife from her pocket and aims it at her heart.

No! Sally says, springing to her feet. She wrestles the knife away from Lila. You don't understand ... I'm here to help ...

You're not with the Gestapo? Lila asks.

No, I'm with the Volunteers of America. I'm Sally J. Freedman, from New Jersey ... I'm your cousin, once removed ...

You mean you're Louise's daughter?

Sally nods.

You mean you're Tante Fanny's granddaughter?

Sally nods again.

I can't believe it ... I can't believe it ... just when I'd given up all hope. Sally and Lila embrace.

Where's Tante Rose? Sally asks.

Lila begins to cry again. My mother is dead. We dug the hole together. For five months, every night, we dug the hole ... until finally it was ready ... and just when we were going to escape they caught Mama and sent her to the showers. That night I crawled through the hole myself and came out in the forest and I ran and ran and I've been running ever since ... but not anymore ... I'm too tired ... too tired to run ...

It's all over now, Sally tells Lila. You're safe. I'm taking you home with me. You can share my room. My father will make you new teeth. He's a very good dentist.

How can I ever thank you? Lila asks.

Don't even try ... I'm just doing my job.

The next day, after Lila has a bath and shampoo, a good night's sleep and a big breakfast in bed, she and Sally board the ship for New Jersey. On the way Lila develops a sore throat and a fever of 103. Sally puts her to bed, gives her ginger ale to sip and keeps a cold cloth on her forehead. She sits at Lila's bedside and tells her stories until Lila is well again.

When they gete home Sally is a hero. There is a big parade in her honor on Broad Street and everyone cheers. The people watching from the windows in the office buildings threw confetti, the way Sally did when Admiral Halsey came home at the end of the war.

The Books: "Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great" (Judy Blume)

Moving right along with my daily book excerpt thing. I am now actually done with my history/american biography bookshelf, sniff, sniff. It didn't take me as long to get through as the first bookshelf - because the first bookshelf is mostly plays, and those are much smaller, so you can fit more of them on the shelves!!

So the NEXT bookshelf I'm going to tackle (I'm so obsessive) is my shelf of all my beloved children's books! I am so excited! Many of these books I have had since I was literally 6 years old. Others I tracked down, once I was an adult - and there are still more that I need to find - I love children's books, and my young adult books ... They are more treasured to me than any other of the books in my library. Because I have loved them longest.

I hope those of you who read these excerpts find some of your favorites here, too!

So to start off? We've got some Judy Blume. JUDY BLUME. I read them all when I was a kid ... and I was particularly excited, as a child, because one of her heroines was named after me. My 4th grade teacher Miss Rogers (who was, in general, a bitch, who shamed me for not understanding fractions, and I credit HER with my mental block towards mathematics - BITCH - I will never forgive her for that) read Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great outloud to the class - this was my first introduction to Judy Blume's books. I LOVE Sheila the Great. She's such a great character.

So that's the first book on the shelf: Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great by Judy Blume.

Sheila Tubman is in 5th grade. She lives in New York City with her family. She has an older sister Libby who is VERY condescending. The book takes place during summer vacation when the family leaves the city for the summer and lives in Tarrytown ... right down the street from Sleepy Hollow. Sheila is kind of a scaredy-cat - she is terrified of the Headless Horseman, terrified of swimming (she has never learned how), terrified of s's (that's my girl), scared of dogs - she will go out of her way to avoid dogs - and has a whole catalog of secret fears. But on the other hand, she acts like a superhero, she has a huge ego, and she refers to herself as Sheila the Great. She doesn't know who she is. Is she the scaredy cat? Or is she the brave bossy hero? Which side of her personality will win out? Over the course of the summer, she has all of these learning experiences - makes new friends, she takes swimming lessons (some of the best parts of the book) - and, in general, learns to conquer some of her fears.

I love this book. Judy Blume is awesome awesome awesome.

Here's an excerpt from the first chapter. It's funny - I haven't read this book in years, since I was a little kid!! But all the details came back to me when I looked over this chapter this morning: Sheila gulping down orange juice, forgetting the milk, Libby's ballet shoes...

(Also, my copy - which I just ordered - appears to have been updated. There is reference to a CD player. There was, recently, a brou-haha because Judy Blume updated Are You There God - which is about getting your first period. That original book had reference to pads with belts - which, of course, are no longer in use. I don't believe there was any reference to tampons. It was a different time. Judy Blume went through and updated it, for girls of this generation - so that it would be relevant to their first-menstruation experiences. So anyway, back to Sheila the Great; It probably said "turntable" or "record player" in the original)

The goodness of Judy Blume's books, for me, is in the DETAILS. Notice all the details she gets in here. It's good writing - yes, for a 10 year old reader - but good writing. It's also very funny.

From Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great by Judy Blume

Henry was right. Ten flights up is a long walk. By the time I got to my floor I was huffing and puffing so hard I had to sit down on the landing and rest. Little drips of sweat ran from my face down to my neck. Still, I think it's pretty smart of me to pretend that I hate Turtle because he smells. I always hold my nose when I see Peter coming with him. That way Peter will never know the truth!

After a few minutes I wiped my face with the back of my hand and walked down the hall to our apartment. Mrs. Reese is the only person on our floor with a dog. And I don't worry too much about her. Because her dog is so small she carries him around in her arms. She calls him Baby and knits him little sweaters to wear.

I pushed open our apartment door and went straight into the kitchen to get something to drink.

"Is that you, Sheila?" my mother called.

"Yes," I answered.

"Did you have fun at Laurie's?"

"Yes," I said, gulping down a whole can of apple juice.

"Is it still hot out?" Mom asked.

"Yes."

"Did you remember to bring home a quart of milk?"

Oh oh! I knew I forgot something.

"Sheila ... did you bring home the milk?" Mom called again.

"No ... I forgot."

I went into the living room then. My mother was reading a book. The CD player was on and my sister Libby was twirling around in her pink toe slippers. She is thirteen and thinks she's a great ballerina. I could hold my nose for the way Libby dances, but I'd get into big trouble if I did.

My mother said, "You better go back down and get the milk, Sheila."

I flipped into the big chair that tilts back and said, "I can't, Mom. I'm dead. I just walked up the stairs."

"Don't tell me the elevatory is out of order!" Mom said.

"No."

"Then why did you walk up ten flights of stairs?"

"I don't know," I said. "I just felt like it."

"Sheila, that was a very foolish thing to do in this heat," Mom told me. "Now go into your room and lie down for a while before supper."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do. Libby will go to the store and get the milk."

Libby did three flying leaps before she said, "Can't you see I'm in the middle of a routine?"

"Your routine can wait," Mom said. "I need the milk for supper and Daddy will be home soon."

"But, Mother! I'm in my leotard," Libby said.

Libby used to say Mom, like me. But since she started junior high, it's Mother this and Mother that. She is very strange.

Mom told Libby, "You can put a skirt over your leotard and nobody will notice." Then she looked at me. "Sheila, what are you waiting for? I said go and lie down."

"Okay ... okay," I said. "I'm going." I took off my shoes and arranged them on the floor so that the toes pointed toward my bedroom.

I line them up every day before my father comes home. It's part of a private game Daddy and I play. I am always hiding somewhere and Daddy has to find me. His only clue is my shoes. I invented this game when I was seven and we've been playing it ever since.

Libby said when she was ten she acted a lot more grown-up than me. I think she missed out on some good fun. Anyway, Daddy would be disappointed if I stopped playing our game.

Libby and I share a bedroom. I stretched out on my bed while Libby turned the closet upside down looking for a skirt.

"You are a pain!" she said to me. "You know that, Sheila? You are a real live pain!"

I didn't answer her.

"Why'd you walk up the stairs ... huh?"

I still didn't answer.

"Did you see a dog in the elevator? I'll bet that's it. I'll bet Mrs. Reese was in the elevator with Baby."

"Wrong!" I said.

Libby finally found a skirt and pulled it on over her leotard. "Then I'll bet it was Peter Hatcher and Turtle."

"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't," I said.

"Chicken chicken chicken," Libby called as she left.

I put my hands over my ears to show I wasn't even listening.

Princess Bride ...

A wonderful post of observations about that beloved movie. That's one of my new favorite sites by the way. Burt Bacharach and the Princess Bride? What could be better?

The Books: "His Excellency: George Washington" (Joseph Ellis)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is His Excellency: George Washington by Joseph Ellis

Hard to believe but this is the last book on this particular bookshelf (at least the last one I've READ. I hav a biography of Lincoln I haven't read yet, Henry Adams' book, as well as McCullough's Trumna bio - but I haven't read those). So this will be the last excerpt from the particular bookshelf. The "play" bookshelf felt like it went on forever - I guess because play scripts are so small, you can fit more of them on the shelves.

Anyhoo - this is Ellis' latest book, a superb biography of George Washington. But it's a biography in the Ellis style - it's more of a character analysis, an assessment of who this man was in Ellis' eyes. Ellis is open about the fact that this is his own personal interpretation (based on research, of course). He's not like many other biographers who basically say: "This is the way this person was, and I am right about it." Ellis can back up his interpretation with facts - but that's one of the reasons why I love Ellis' books sooo much and I am DYING for him to write another one.

I thought I'd post an excerpt from the end of the book, where Ellis takes the long view. To me, the way he writes about those guys (in his Adams biography, in Founding Brothers, in his Jefferson bio) - it just makes them come alive, fully human, flawed, mysterious, interesting.

His Excellency: George Washington by Joseph Ellis

In effect, there were two distinct creative moments in the American founding, the winning of independence and the invention of nationhood, and Washington was the central figure in both creations. No one else in the founding generation could match these revolutionary credentials, so no one else could plausibly challenge his place atop the American version of Mount Olympus. Whatever minor missteps he made along the way, his judgment on all the major political and military questions had invariably proved prescient, as if he had known where history was headed; or, perhaps, as if the future had felt compelled to align itself with his choices. He was that rarest of men: a supremely realistic visionary, a prudent prophet whose final position on slavery served as the capstone to a career devoted to getting the big things right. His genius was his judgment.

But where did that come from? Clearly, it did not emanate from books or formal education, places where it is customary and often correct to look for the wellspring that filled the minds of such eminent colleagues as Adams, Jefferson, and Madison with their guiding ideas. Though it might seem sacrilegious to suggest Washington's powers of judgment derived in part from the fact that his mind was uncluttered with sophisticated intellectual preconceptions. As much a self-made man as Franklin, the self he made was less protean and more primal because his education was more elemental. From his youthful experience on the Virginia frontier as an adventurer and soldier he had internalized a visceral understanding of the arbitrary and capricious ways of the world. Without ever reading Thucydides, Hobbes, or Calvin, he had concluded that men and nations were driven by interests rather than ideals, and that surrendering control to another was invariably harmful, often fatal.

Armed with these basic convictions, he was capable of remarkably unblinkered and unburdened response to the increasingly consequential decisions that history placed before him. He no more expected George III and his ministers to respond to conciliatory pleas from the American colonists than he expected Indians to surrender their tribal lands without a fight. He took it for granted that the slaves at Mount Vernon would not work unless closely supervised. He presumed that the Articles of Confederation would collapse in failure or be replaced by a more energetic and empowered federal government, for the same reasons that militia volunteers could never defeat the British army. It also was quite predictable that the purportedly self-enacting ideals of the French Revolution would lead to tragedy and tyranny. With the exception of his Potomac dream, a huge geographic miscalculation, he was incapable of illusion, fully attuned to the specter of evil in the world. All of which inoculated him against the grand illusion of the age, the presumption that there was a natural order in human affairs that would generate perfect harmony once, in Diderot's phrase, the last king was strangled with the entrails of the last priest. For Washington, the American Revolution was not about destroying political power, as it was for Jefferson, but rather seizing it and using it wisely. Ultimately, his life was all about power: facing it, taming it, channeling it, projecting it. His remarkably reliable judgment derived from his elemental understanding of how power worked in the world.

David Thomson: Madonna

As requested, here is Thomson's vicious essay on Madonna. Now I'm not as angry with Madonna - except for her whole Kabbalah nonsense - and I've always loved her music. I find her fake-British persona EXTREMELY ANNOYING. Nothin' worse than a phony. I liked her better when she was an ambitious tramp from Detroit. Also, her latest photo shoot in W magazine is amaaaaaaazing.

But you want vitriol? Here is Thomson on Madonna. Speaking of vitriol, this essay is NICE compared to what he wrote on Michael Eisner.

I think Thomson's point about Madonna's disappointment ... is really really intuitive. I don't think anyone has ever used that word to describe her before: "disappointed" - I mean, who would? She's a millionaire. But I really think he's onto something there.

Essay on Madonna:

Imagine that you are watching something that especially moves you - your two-year-old child eating profiteroles; Joe Montana moving down the field; dawn at the Canyonn de Chelly; or the close of Ugetsu Monogatari, whatever. Your communion with this spectacvle is suddenly ruptured by what we will call a commercial break. This is all the more disturbing in that you did not know that what you were watching (the medium) was subject to such intrusions. You did not know the technology was yet available to come between you and the entire air and sky at Canyon de Chelly. But "they" have managed it, and the ad zips up every horizon. In that disaster, the ad -- I suggeset -- should be the insolent, in-your-face "attitude" of Ms. Ciccone. There is no need for a product. There is nothing in Madonna to be advertise, except for her ironic, deflecting contempt. She is an ad for advertising; she is the famousness of celebrity; and a fit vehicle for an unusual kind of serial-killing movie - one in which photography poisons the world.

You know the argument: guns, for example, are helpless things that only serve those who use them - guns may dispose of would-be rapists and murderers; guns permit the animals that provide meat to be killed swiftly; guns allow the exercise and pleasure of hunting; and armaments manufacturers build schools and hospitals.

Similarly, moving images have been a field for the dreams of Ozu, Hawks, Ophuls, etc. Photography has brought into being Lartigue, Ansel Adams, etc. But in addition, movie and photography are advertising, fashion spreads, and Madonn and Truth or Dare.

There is no going back, and no way of not wondering whether somewhere along the way wrong paths have been taken. I am reminded of the image of Warren Beatty in Truth or Dare, in dark glasses, trying to edge away, trying to defy the camera with nothingness, and eventually marveling that anyone could suppose this Madonna has any life "off" camera. It is one of the great tragic images in modern film, not least because Mr. Beatty has evidently recognized the horrendous question, what is he doing there? And what are we doing watching?

Perhaps a case can be made for Madonna as singer and dancer. But as an actress, she is the person who got out of the empty car -- I speak as someone who saw her on stage in David Mamet's Speed-the-Plow (where it was possible to lose sight and thought of her even as she walked across stage). But she hardly needs talent, so great is her "artistic integrity," and there are those ready to call her satire and her indifference the most audacious strokes of Dada. She has her defenders, and I suspect she loathes them even more than she scorns her enemies. She is disappointed about something, and hugely driven by resentment.

She appeared in A Certain Sacrifice, Desperately Seeking Susan and Vision Quest. She did a song for At Close Range, and she appeared in Shanghai Surprise -- both of which involved Sean Penn, to whom, briefly, she was married. She appeared in Who's That Girl, Bloodhounds of Broadway, Dick Tracy, Shadows and Fog and -- seemingly furious that Sharon Stone has so effortlessly mocked and surpassed her in Basic Instinct - in Body of Evidence, as an actress in Dangerous Game.

The burden did not lighten: she made appearances in Blue in the Face, Four Rooms, Girl 6 - and then all the ads said she was Evita - no matter that she managed hardly any emotional involvement, and again seemed incapable of understanding the nature of acting. Still, nothing before had been as fatuous as The Next Best Thing. Since then - as you may have heard - she has had a child with her new husband, the English director Guy Ritchie. Cross your fingers for the babe and ignore her siblings - The Hire: Star. She and her husband did a remake of Swept Away - and it was, wherever it played.

The Books: "George Washington : A Life" (Willard Sterne Randall)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is George Washington : A Life by Willard Sterne Randall

A huge book - this was the first biography I've ever read of Washington, actually. My main interests had been John Adams and Thomas Jefferson for years ... and somehow I took Washington for granted. So it was quite a revelation to read about the tremendous scope of his whole life, how he became a soldier, how he began to become irritated by Britain - and for him it was primarily economic. That was where it began for him. They were keeping him from making choices, in who to trade to, buy from ... they were taxing the shit out of him ... He became obsessed with getting around all of this, and so he made changes in his crops - he was determined to become self-sufficient. Eventually, this translated into: we need to be independent. But I was really interested in his journey - so different from the other men I've been studying.

So many good Washington stories. It's real goosebump territory, if you know what I mean.

Here's an excerpt about the winter of 1775-76. One of my favorite stories of the Revolutionary War is the hijacking of the cannons and the moving of the cannons over a damn mountain range. It's just ... you know. Goosebumps.

From George Washington : A Life by Willard Sterne Randall

Increasingly as the winter went by the talk in Washington's camp reflected the mood in Congress. The nonimportation agreement was expanded as the British tightened the coastal naval blockade. With spring the Americans expected an onslaught of fresh British armies. Many Americans began to believe it was high time to give up on reconciliation with England and declare American independence. This growing movement received a considerable boost when Washington's army suddenly acquired a large supply of modern artillery. In November 1775 Washington had dispatched his massive young artillerist, a tall, deep-voiced, 280-pound former bookseller named Henry Knox, to fetch the cannon Benedict Arnold had seized at Crown Point and Ticonderoga. Knox waited until the Hudson River froze over and then, with requisitional teams of oxen scarcely bigger than himself, towed a long column of sledges bristling with fifty-nine French- and British-forged cannon over the Berkshire Mountains along the route of the present-day Massachusetts Turnpike. His arrival in Framingham heralded the birth of a state-of-the-art American army.

By February, Washington was ready to use his new weaponry, and when on March 8 he learned from a spy inside Boston that the British command had received orders to evacuate, he decided to make political capital out of their departure by seizing the high ground of Dorchester Heights and fortifying it overnight. Anything less than a careful and quick movement would court disaster and the loss not only of his new artillery but of his army. Colonel Rufus Putnam submitted a plan to Washington on which he decided to gamble everything. Thousands of men were put to work making large frames of timber in which gabions, fascines, and bales of hay could be hauled quickly up on Dorchester Heights. The woven gabions were to be filled with earth; the hay was to be covered with as much dirt as the men could dig. Large branches, cut from nearby orchards, were sharpened to act as protective abatis to slow and ensnare infantry. Barrels of earth were readied to roll down on attackers.

By the night of March first, everything was ready. Washington put "Old Put," Israel Putnam, the hero of Bunker Hill, in command and designated John Sullivan of New Hampshire and Nathaniel Greene of Rhode Island in charge of the divisions. To cover the noise of thousands of men and their carts and draft animals Washington began an artillery barrage that night and resumed it the next night. On the night of March 4 the exchange of cannon fire was heavy. Around 7 p.m., 2000 men headed for Dorchester Heights, 800 infantry screening 1,200 workmenn who threw up breastworks and laid out the redoubts for the cannon as 300 oxcarts brought up the tools, the gabions, the fascines. A fresh work party relieved them toward dawn; by this time there were two redoubts lined with cannon infantry.

The British were stunned when dawn revealed the night's work. Washington's artillery could fire easily into Boston and sink any Royal Navy ship. Howe's first reaction was to attack. He assembled troops and barges, but a storm scattered his landing craft, giving him time to ponder the possibility of another Bunker Hill. He had already decided to abandon Boston. He decided another attack was impossible and ordered the evacuation to begin. On St. Patrick's Day, March 17, three weeks after Washington's cannon appeared on Dorchester Heights the last British transport crowded with the loyal English subjects of Massachusetts and everything Howe's army could carry off sailed from Boston harbor. Washington had his first great victory.

The British retreat made Washington a popular hero. Harvard College granted him an honorary degree, Doctor of Laws for honoria causa, and Congress struck him a gold medal. But the real effect of his success at holding an army of farm boys and fishermen together under the glower of the British army for nearly a year was to convince Americans that men like John Adams - considered radicals a year before - were behaving rationally when they said America was ready to become a self-supporting nation. Only six weeks after Howe's withdrawal to Nova Scotia, Richard Henry Lee of Virginia introduced a motion in Congress that "these states are and have right to be free and independent states." As members of Congress hurried home to obtain authorization to vote for - or against - independence, Washington prepared to ward off the powerful counterattack he expected any day from the British. On July 4, when Congress voted narrowly to declare American independence, John Adams could have been speaking for his friend Washington when he wrote to Abigail Adams, "The revolution is now complete: all that remains is a war."

David Thomson snippets ...

Okay, so I have been devouring David Thomson's massive 20 pound book The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated .

The snippets I've excerpted below are just a tiny FRACTION of what he writes about all these people - his essay on Fred Astaire goes to 3 pages.

A couple things before we move on:

-- If you roll your eyes at people who take films seriously, then these snippets will annoy the crap out of you. So to you people? Go away. Honestly, I like to talk about all this stuff in a serious way, and have no interest in DEFENDING that to the eye-rollers. This is for people who LOVE films and like to talk about them as art, and who never put quotations around the word art - unless it's BAD or pretentious art. But to those of you who actually believe there is such a thing as art, and artists are not to be sneered at on principle - then yay for you, you are my friend, and please read on.

-- I didn't post these because I agree with every sentiment. I am just ADDICTED to how this guy writes. ADDICTED. He just knows how to turn a phrase.

His essay on Madonna is one of the most blistering and vicious essays I think I have ever read. And I laughed out loud as I read it, because he explains his hatred of her and what she represents so well - but he just HATES HER.

His hatred brings out real goodies - but his love of people, and how he can express it, gives me goosebumps.

He's a marvelous writer, and my list of "Films I have to see" is growing by leaps and bounds!

David Thomson: Fred Astaire

Fred Astaire, Cyd Charisse "Silk Stockings"

"I have suggested that he could have been Jekyll to Cagney's Hyde. Astaire was also very near to Jay Gatsby, an insignificant man, bent on easing public occasions.

I was struck by this when taking some students through an extract from Silk Stockings (57, Rouben Mamoulian). The excerpt we were approaching was the sequence in which Astaire and Cyd Charisse dance across several deserted film sets. It is one of the greatest of movie-dance sequences: a compendium of moving camera, wide screen, counterpointed rhythms, and the intriguing contrast of masterful Astaire and frigid Charisse. But before the dancing begins, there is a prelude. Charisse arrives by car at the studio gates and Astaire, muttering, 'Hallo, hallo ...' hobbles over to meet her. That movement kept us from the dance, because it was exquisite, original, and Astaire. The emotion of the moment - of lovers reunited - hardly seems to strike him. But ask him to move from A to B, and he is aroused.

This touches on a vital principle: that it is often preferable to have a movie actor who moves well than one who "understands" the part. A director ought to be able to explain a part, but very few men or women can move well in front of a camera. In The Big Sleep, there are numerous shots of Bogart simply walking across rooms: they draw us to the resilient alertness of his screen personality as surely as the acid dialogue. Bogart's lounging freedom captures our hopes. With Astaire this effect is far more concentrated, because it is his single asset."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Fred Astaire

David Thomson: George Arliss

"You can tell his Disraeli from his Voltaire because the former has a spit curl on his forehead and the latter wears a mobcap, and it's in the scrupulous deployment of makeup and costume that Arliss shines. Not that he stints as an actor - he gives it all he's got, and though that's often far too much, it's honest work; he believes in these creations, and he has great charm if you don't mind its calculated quality. Actually, what you're seeing here is the last traces of English stage acting from the turn of the century."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on George Arliss

David Thomson: Bibi Andersson

"She needed such a holiday to prepare for one of the most harrowing female roles the screen has presented: Nurse Alma in Persona (66, Bergman). That this masterpiece owed so much to Bibi Andersson was acknowledgement of her greater emotional experience. She was thirty now, and in that astonishing scene where Liv Ullmann and she look into the camera as if it were a mirror, and Ullmann arranges Andersson's hair, it is as if Bergman were saying, 'Look what time has done. Look what a creature this is.' Alma talks throughout Persona but is never answered, so that her own insecurity and instability grow. Technically the part calls for domination of timing, speech, and movement that exposes the chasms in the soul. And it was in showing that breakdown, in reliving Alma's experience of the orgy on the beach years before, in deliberately leaving glass on the gravel, and in realizing with awe and panic that she is only another character for the supposedly sick actress, that Andersson herself seemed one of the most tormented women in cinema."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Bibi Andersson

David Thomson: Paul Thomas Anderson

"It is also the case that anyone as good and smart as Anderson should be more perceptibly self-critical. In fact, Magnolia is his most youthful and indulgent film -- and Hard Eight, his best and most austere. But there are poetic mysteries in the first film that come closer to pretension in Magnolia. In other words, Anderson is not handling himself well. He is drawing fire upon his own vulnerabilities. But is there any other way?

No other American director working today has such sad, tender, and smart ways of looking into the depths of society, or for feeling out their poignant juxtapositions. He writes great, ragged speeches, and he is like a fond parent with his family of actors. All his three films so far have used John Reilly, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Philip Baker Hall. In addition, he has done remarkable things with such diverse figures as Tom Cruise, Julianne Moore, and Burt Reynolds. His way of blessing actors is so very close to his wish to rescue people from their drabness. Sooner or later, it will be perceived how desperately concerned he is about the society called America.

Of course, Magnolia is like Short Cuts in that both films are symphonies attempting to take in everything. They have the ambition of an Ives, say, who could hardly get his work played, let alone make it popular. Altman has learned cunning ways of making that ambition into a career. But he's older and far less kind. Anderson's energy and aspirations are destined to collide with Hollywood thinking, and he may be too young and too good to learn subterfuge. If he is as good as he thinks he is (and I think he is), there are bloody battles to come. But no one has a better chance of offering us new narrative forms for our movies."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Paul Thomas Anderson

David Thomson: Pedro Almodóvar

(I'll see any movie Almodóvar does. Love him!!)

Thomson writes:

"Almodóvar was one of the most welcome explosions of the eighties and a sign of the new Spain. Whereas Carlos Saura (nearly twenty years older than Almodóvar) made intensely measured and psychologically reflective films, with the innate secrecy of someone raised under the Franco regime, Almodóvar is excessive, garish, outlandishly inventive, and irrepressible. He is openly gay, devoted to sexual confusion, and eternally committed to the chance of love. His mode is satiric yet generous and free from moralizing. He has remarked on his debt not just to Hitchcock, Wilder, Buñuel, but to Frank Tashlin. Indeed, there is a cartoonlike abandon and delirium in his best films and a complete faith in the torrential subconscious. But his generous, affectionate nature is all his own."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Pedro Almodóvar

David Thomson: Woody Allen

"Allen's development in the eighties, his rate of work, and the sophistication of narrative were all seemingly devoted to ideas and attitudes against the grain of that decade. Yet Allen's audience relied on urban yuppies, and his films only fostered that group's self-satisfaction. He has tried darker views -- in Stardust Memories and Crimes and Misdemeanors -- and he has become very skilled with extensive, seething social contexts in which one piece of behavior is made more complex by the doings of others. He has fascinating ideas and ambitions as a screenwriter. Yet which Allen film challenges or threatens us, or burns into our memories? The films may run together - are we certain where that joke or this meeting occurred? Sometimes the context is so large as to be blurred, escape and slipperiness become more facile. There is something in Allen that always makes fun of ego, privacy, and obsession, and so with all his proclaimed inwardness he seems fearful of letting characters possess large inner lives. He makes many cameos of loneliness, but these are too often cute snapshots rather than tributes to an intractable condition.

But who else in American film provokes such arguments? And if Allen now faces a crisis because of his own behavior, we should recollect how smart and resourceful he is. Perhaps his indefatigable unconscious mind knew he needed trouble and disruption. That does not seek to excuse any damage he has done. But suppose real damage could become his subject - as opposed to wisecracks about it? If Allen could be persuaded to quit his own films as actor and work more sparingly, with unmistakable lead actors (as opposed to a stock company of guest shots), then there is still a chance that he could create something close to gravity. For he is the most inquiring dramatist at work in American film. He could yet be the kind of writer desperately needed by Coppola, Scorsese, and so many others.

By the end of the twentieth century, it was clear that Allen's fecundity was chronic -- though economics and his break with producer Jean Doumanian were further threats to the automatic one-film-a-year routine. Or was it that the routine, the momentum, kept Allen from proper examination of his work? Had habit overwhelmed the chance of art? It seemed to me that there was a wave of restored excellence -- Everyone, Harry, and Celebrity -- which came close to a really novel and brave scrutiny of modern reputation. But then Woody darted away into his own cuteness.

So there's too much - or too little reflection. Still, there are Annie Hall, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Radio Days, Deconstructing Harry. That's four brilliant films that no one else could have dreamed of. And that's what it's all about."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Woody Allen

David Thomson: Robert Aldrich

Aldrich hails from Cranston, Rhode Island, by the way!

Here is a bit from Thomson's essay on him:

"Kiss Me Deadly is still one of the best, and most surprising American films of the 1950s, a lucid transformation of pulp Spillane into a vicious insolent allegory of violence, corruption, and forbidding futures in America. Did overbearing producers and more restrictive censorship push Aldrich into a disciplined and even ironic evocation of brutality? Did the cheerfulness of the fifties allow such glittering darkness to slip through?"

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Robert Aldrich

David Thomson: Anouk Aimee

"Lola (60, Jacques Demy) came as a surprise and a relief: at last she was allowed to giggle, flutter, to be animated, and to breathe a cryptic song into the camera -- "C'est moi. C'est Lola." The most magical of the New Wave films, Lola freed Princess Anouk and allowed her the flighty, romantic self-absorption of a chambermaid. However, Anouk's newfound freedom did not result in an organized career, although she may not have cared too much, then or now. It must be said that serious roles have sometimes found her wanting. Perhaps so handsome and commanding a woman is really frivolous: certainly Lola has that effortless beauty that comes from relaxation."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Anouk Aim�e

David Thomson: James Agee

"He was far from reliable -- he could write off Kane as a reservoir of hackneyed tricks, and he was of the opinion that Chaplin and Huston were without equal in America. But he wrote like someone who had not just viewed the movie but been in it -- out with it, as if it were a girl, drinking with it; driving in the night with it. That direct physical response was new, it was done with terrific dash and insight, and it surely intuited the way people responded to movies in the forties. It was also, it seems to me, a powerful influence on Pauline Kael -- I have a fond dream of the two of them snarling at each other, like the characters in The African Queen."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on James Agee

David Thomson: Isabelle Adjani

"There is something so frank, so modern in her feelings, yet so classical in her aura, so passionate and so wounded, that Isabelle Adjani seems made to play Sarah Bernhardt one day. Why not? She is a natural wearer of costume capable of making us believe that the "period" world we are watching is happening now. She is bold, a mistress of her career, and has been a fiercely equal partner in her romantic relationships with Bruno Nuytten, Warrn Beatty, and Daniel Day-Lewis."

From David Thomson's The New Biographical Dictionary of Film : Expanded and Updated

Essay on Isabelle Adjani

The rose tattoo: Part 1

This story is typical. Many of my friends who were here at that time have similar stories. Articles were even written about such things. But this is my version of the story. I haven't written before about my frustration with the one-upmanship I sense in a lot of people when they tell their stories from that day, and from that time ... "Oh yeah? Well, this is what happened to ME" ... etc. It just seems inappropriate, considering the topic. We all have stories to tell. This is mine.

I was trapped in Hoboken for the couple of days following the day. I haven't written about those days - but maybe someday I will. The people I met, the ... the way it was ... Surreal is one of the words that really comes, when I try to call up the feeling in Hoboken during those days.

Then Friday. September 14. The tunnel was back open for traffic. Maybe it was time to go back into the city, and go to work. Maybe it was time to start up life again.

But oh. How odd the feeling. How almost wrong.

It must be said that things did not feel "normal" here for months. Slowly but surely you would start to see reassuring signs of normal life ... people eating at sidewalk cafes, people walking and laughing ... even such moments as seeing two people laughing seemed like an enormous triumph back then. Literally everything else was put on hold for months. I'm just trying to set up the unreality of September 14. If months later life still felt stilted, and different from Before ... then September 14 was truly Surreal Land. Crisis Mode. Panic Mode. Survival Mode. What have you. People were still hoping for rescues from the wreckage. The 14th was the day of President Bush's visit to Ground Zero so there was, in general, a really panicked and yet focused energy in the city. Panicked and also focused? How can that be? I don't know but that's what it was like. Fighter jets swooped around the periphery of the city all day. So it felt extremely safe ... but it also felt extremely precarious. The way it must feel in other war-torn countries all the time. We in Manhattan were enormous targets. And so we needed to be protected. Those fighter jets swooping by were alarming - because no other airplanes were in the sky yet. All commercial aircraft travel was stopped for three days ... and the eeriness of having no planes flying over Manhattan was palpable. You didn't even NOTICE how often planes fly overhead until there were none. The skies were blazingly empty. And now, I have to say, even years later - I am much more attuned to the air traffic overhead. I hear the planes. I am aware when they go by. My ears prick up if one sounds like it's "too low".

So September 14th was an eerie quiet day, except for the occasional roar of a fighter jet. These were the days of the Missing Person posters. The pictures, the smiling faces, the defining characteristics (which always slayed my heart: "Scar on stomach." "Mole on lower back." Like ... there is such despair in these descriptions. There is an open acknowledgement that whatever will be found of this person, this beloved wife, daughter, family member, will be a fragment. And yet there is also such courage in these minute descriptions. The survivors, those searching for their beloved, know that they must be SPECIFIC, in this identification process, even though their hearts have shattered. They must be HELPFUL, and provide as much information as they can. And so they did. Over and over and over, plastered across every wall in Manhattan. "Topaz ring on pinky finger." "Birthmark on right side of forehead." "Scar on collarbone." "Braces on upper row of teeth." "Tattoo of rose on left hip.") ... and crowds of people standing before every Poster they passed. You had to look. It seemed like you were OBLIGATED to look. The faces called out from their snapshot blur. "Look. Look at me." You could not go from Point A to Point B without looking at 20 posters. I have some pictures of those walls of posters. Hard to look at now. And eventually ... at some point in October ... in one fell swoop ... all the posters disappeared. You never see any remnants of them now. Gone. As painful as it was to have to constantly walk by walls of smiling (now dead) faces ... it was even more painful to have the posters NOT be there.

Smoke still billowed up into the air from downtown, and when the wind changed - everyone over in Hoboken felt it. Our eyes stung, our throats hurt - there was a reason we all had surgical masks in our backpacks.

I went to my busstop that morning. I did not at all feel ready to get back into a normal routine ... I was still in Surreal Land and not ready to come out. But there I was, putting one foot in front of the other. Instead of going to the busstop I normally went to, on 7th ... I went to the one on 9th ... which was the busstop I had gone to on the morning of September 11, for no particular reason ... but it was just odd that I would have broken my routine on that day, of all days. On September 14, I woke up early, and walked over to 9th Street, and now - in looking back on it - I think I can see that I not only was unwilling to go back into the routine I had Before, I knew that nothing could "go back" to being the way it was. So Before that day I had always waited for the bus on 7th. But on that day, on the day it happened, I had been at 9th. So from then on out, I would wait for the bus at 9th Street.

My heart was in my throat. Unlike many others, I was not in Manhattan on that day - I had been trying to get into Manhattan when they closed all the tunnels and turned all our busses around. I know we all felt trapped. And there were those in Manhattan who were trapped, in reverse, and could not get home. My friend's husband basically hitched a ride back to Jersey in some guy's motorboat on September 11. People with boats were basically just motoring over to lower Manhattan, and picking people up there ... all on their own. It brings a lump to my throat, even today. "You need a ride back to Jersey? Hop on!" Dust-covered financial executives clambering onto the deck of a motor boat, trying over and over and over again to get through to their wives, their husbands, on cell phones.

The entire city had not yet bounced back into autonomous individuals, wrapped up in our own private concerns. Everyone just talked to each other. You would turn to the person sitting next to you and say, "How you doin'? You holding up?" Strangers conversed. We all had horror stories - it wasn't so much about sharing horror stories yet. It was more about a truthful: How are you? You doing okay? Hang in there. The bus was filled with conversations like that. Many of us were going into the city for the first time since that day, and you could sense the anxiety. Instead of just sitting alone with the anxiety, which is what you normally do in this town where we are all on top of each other, you would share it. You would blurt out to your seatmate, "I'm feeling so anxious right now." And your seatmate would say, "Yeah, me too. It's so weird, right?" The guy sitting next to me on the bus was a pudgy young guy, in his early 30s, wearing a baseball hat. He had black circles under his eyes. As we approached the causeway - the causeway where we all saw the second plane hit the World Trade Center - my anxiety started to affect my breathing. I wanted to shout, "STOP THE BUS. Lemme off. I'm not ready for this!" Pudgy-baseball boy turned to me and said, "This is kind of freaky, huh?" I said, "Totally. I'm quietly freaking out right now." No separation between us. A two-way flow of energy. We were together. I said, going right to the heart of the matter (that was also what it was like in those days following - everyone just went right to the heart of the matter), "You okay?" Unlike normal life, where when someone asks, "How are you doing?" you are EXPECTED to say, "Fine" - in those heightened days - the question "How are you doing?" was actually a valid question. You actually wanted to know how someone was doing. It was a heart-of-the-matter question, not just bullshit politeness where you are expected to LIE, even if you are NOT doing okay. He said, "My best friend's missing." "Oh my God. I'm so so sorry." He said, "Yeah. I'm going to meet his mom - who's arriving this morning at Port Authority - and we're gonna go around to all the hospitals. See if we can find him." "Oh God. Good luck." Those were the days when you still could believe that there might be some injured unidentified person at a hospital somewhere.

We approached the entrance to the Tunnel. Now nobody on the bus began jibbering like a lunatic - or openly panicking - but the FEELING was there, you could tell. Everyone was just gritting teeth, hanging on, sucking it up, and moving forward. We will not be stopped. It is just a Tunnel. It is OUR city. And we are going to go back into OUR city.

Over the entrances to the Tunnel - 3 in all - were massive American flags. I had never seen them up there before - maybe they had always been there, but I had never perceived them. It was so so reassuring to see them. Especially because the entrance to the Tunnel was swarming with National Guardsmen, cops, and military vehicles. Every vehicle was being stopped. There was a sense of, again, panicked focus. Everyone buckling down, doing what needed to be done.

We entered the gleaming Tunnel, and as we moved slowly through - I closed my eyes. I don't really get that freaky feeling going underwater that some people do - I try not to think about it - but that day was different. Every moment felt precarious. We had seen those towers come down. We had watched planes crash into the gleaming glass. Those were the days of bomb scares, and the Brooklyn Bridge being threatened, and it felt like, at any moment, anything could happen. Because ... 3 days before ... something unthinkable had occurred. Everyone had to readjust their assumptions about reality. Again, those who live in war-torn countries already have a much better grasp on the ephemeral nature of steel and brick, they know that nothing is forever, they know that at any second the air around you can burst into flame. Well, we were now learning that first-hand.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is is that I started to feel a bit of panic as we descended into the tunnel. It was like a gleaming coffin. At any second it could blow up. OR - even worse ... for the 3 minutes that we were underwater, something horrible could happen up on land ... the Empire State Building could blow up, a suicide bomber could detonate Port Authority ... what would happen during those 3 minutes of being out of contact with the above-water world?? I just wanted to get to the other side. Just get me to the other side. Get me to the other side. Get me to the other side. Get me to the other side.

And I know this sounds weird and far-fetched (but just wait ... September 14 is just beginning) - but the moment we left the world behind and entered the tunnel, Pudgy Baseball Cap man reached out and took my hand. His hands were ice-cold, and yet also sweaty. The man was not well. I could feel his broken heart through his hand. Somehow I knew that he didn't reach out for my hand because he sensed I needed it. He reached out for my hand because he needed it. He could not be alone in that moment. He needed human contact.

I know in my heart (at least now I know it) that this man's best friend was never found. Or at least he wasn't found in any hospital. This man's best friend was dead. Killed either in the collapse of the building, or when the planes first hit. Entire medical teams had set up tents along the West Side Highway, thinking that soon they would be overrun with injured. A friend of mine volunteered in those tents, making coffee and sandwiches for the doctors and nurses. And nobody ever showed up. The tents remained empty. The doctors and nurses would stand outside, staring downtown at the mushroom cloud coming up from where the towers used to be, smoking cigarettes, pacing, and waiting. Waiting for all the bloody people to come. Nobody came. So now I can look back and I know that the poor mother who had just taken a bus to Port Authority, in order to wander around the city with her son's best friend, looking for their missing person ... never got her son back. But on that morning, on that morning of panic and focus and energy ... I still had hope. We all did. It had only happened three days before. People could TOTALLY still be alive in that wreckage. People could TOTALLY be in a coma at St. Vincent's and just be waiting to be identified! Tattoo of rose on left hip.

I have no idea if Pudgy Baseball Cap man was embarrassed about reaching out for me. I don't think so. I don't think he went over it in his mind: "Should I ...? Is it totally weak or pathetic-looking if I want to hold her hand ...?" I think he just did it. It was not weak. It was strong. It was a moment of humanity in the middle of those crazy days. I held his hand, his sweaty clammy hand, and closed my eyes, and just waited for the tunnel to end.

Once we shot out on the other side - he let my hand go. And then - totally as one - we both turned all the way around, to peer out the window for the spire of the Empire State Building. It was instinctive. So strange. It was like we were one being. Neither of us had said to the other, "I am just scared that something is going to explode while we are under water" but obviously it had been on his mind too. There was the spire, the beautiful spire, looking foreshortened from our perspective at the Lincoln Tunnel. It was just an odd moment - how he let go of my hand - and then, like we had choreographed it, we both turned around in our seats, and looked up, up, up.

He glanced at me and grinned in a pale kind of way, a grin that didn't reach his bleak eyes, and said, "It's still there."

"Yup. It's still there."

As we got off the bus, I said, "I really hope you find your friend."

"Thanks a lot."

And off he went. I was alone now. I missed him already.

Part II to come.

The Books: "Thomas Jefferson : A Life" (Willard Sterne Randall)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is Thomas Jefferson : A Life by Willard Sterne Randall

Now I like Willard Sterne Randall's books - I read his one on Hamilton, his one on Washington, and this enormous one on Jefferson. It truly is enormous - and my particular copy has really small print, which is a bit of a challenge. This is the problem when you have bad eyes. Anyhoo ... It was published in 1994, I believe - and sadly he seems hell-bent on making the claim that Jefferson was NOT sexually involved with Sally Hemings. He seems strangely invested in the fact that Jefferson did NOT screw around with her. I just don't have that anxiety - and therefore, he seems a little bit untrustworthy as a biographer. The whole DNA study published its results in 1998 and obviously nobody can ever say, without a shadow of a doubt, "He slept with her and fathered children" ... but it also seems to me that you cannot say the OPPOSITE, without a shadow of a doubt either. Ya know why? Cause we weren't there. Mkay? Hitchens, in his book on Jefferson, gets very frustrated in his unbelievably articulate way with biographers like Randall - saying that make no mistake, there is racism in such defensiveness. Randall's just one in a long long long line of biographers who pooh-pooh the rumors - he's not the only one. Jefferson has had overly protective biographers for YEARS. And this isn't about yanking him off his mountaintop, and sullying his reputation. This is about what might or might not have happened. In my mind, it is completely not inconceivable that Jefferson would have messed around with a slave - not at all - he was ambivalent enough about his own slaveowner status, and in denial enough about the fact that he even HAD slaves (the entire design of Monticello reinforces this - He put effort into HIDING the slaves) ... Again, none of this, to me, makes Jefferson a limb of Satan. He was a man of his time, and I just find it all INTERESTING. I would rather look at the rumors with open eyes, rather than say "No. That could not have happened" right up front. What are you so afraid of, Randall? What are you protecting??

BUT his over-protectiveness of Jefferson is not enough for me to NOT recommend this book. I really like Randall's writing, I like his incorporation of primary documents (I think his books are filled with more of his subjects' words than his own words - and I really like that) - and it's very in-depth. It's a good old-fashioned massive biography, and if you want to get a good linear look at Jefferson's life, I can recommend this book.

I'm going to post an excerpt about Jefferson's intellectual influences. I always love it when biographers include that kind of stuff in their books ... what books did this person read? What books did he own? What were his main influences?

Thomas Jefferson : A Life by Willard Sterne Randall

Beginning in 1770, shortly after British troops shot down Boston protestors in the Boston Massacre, Jefferson had begun studying systems of government, following Diderot's injunction in that Bible of the Englightenment, the Encyclopedie: "Everything must be examined, everything must be shaken up, without exception and without circumspection." He was not seeking a philosophical system to adopt whole. As Merrill Peterson has pointed out, Jefferson "was distrustful of philosophical systems generally," considering them "prisms of the mind." He regarded thought as a tool for reshaping life, not for absorbing some grand design. His thinking was pragmatic, always as unfinished as his house at Monticello would be. But that was the whole point with both his thinking and his constructions, the doing of them. The delight was to finish neither, but to revise, constantly. He borrowed fully to assemble an eclectic set of principles which, he believed, provided the greatest flexibility, dynamism, durability. To prepare for the future, he reached back. He brushed aside whole systems. Years later, asked to be a godfather, he refused: "I had never sense enough to comprehend the articles of faith of the Church," he replied. Already a confirmed deist who believed in natural religion and morality, he regarded the clergy of the established Church of England as part of the problems of the British Empire, not as a solution. In concluding his brief in the Lunan case in 1774, he had written, "In truth, the alliance between church and state in England has ever made their judges accomplices in the frauds of the clergy, and even bolder than they are." It was at about this time, this fecund summer of 1774, that, questioning the legal foundations of the established church, he penned a little essay in his commonplace book under the title, "Whether Christianity is a Part of the Common Law."

For nearly fifteen years, Jefferson had followed the developments and writers of the Enlightenment, which had its roots in early eighteenth-century England. His three personal patron saints were Bacon, Newton, and Locke. While remaining a nominal Anglican and serving as a parish vestryman, Jefferson had drifted away from the Church of England as a student about the time he had begun to study "moral sense" Enlightenment philosophy under the tutelage of Dr. Small at William and Mary. As an old man, he wrote to John Adams in 1823:

I can never join Calvin in addressing his God. He was indeed an atheist, which I can never be; or rather his religion was demonism. If ever man worshipped a false God, he did ... not the God whom you and I acknowledge and adore, the Creator and benevolent Governor of the world, but a demon of malignant spirit.

His commonplace books contain numerous excerpts from the religious thoughts of Locke and Shaftesbury and his disciple Francis Hutcheson. A third-generation Presbyterian minister, Hutcheson gave enormously popular lectures at the University of Edinburgh, included James Boswell and David Hume among his students, had rejected Calvinist orthodoxy, and was once tried by the Presbytery of Glasgow for teaching "false and dangerous" doctrines. Hutcheson's "moral sense" philosophy asserted that moral goodness could be measured by the extent to which one's actions promoted the happiness of others. He also agreed that it was possible to experience a God-given knowledge of good and evil without resorting to the studying of God. Moral-sense philosophy weighed virtue in social terms: "That action is best which accomplishes the greatest happiness for the greatest numbers." One of Hutcheson's disciples, Thomas Reid, held that "moral truths" could be divided into truths "self-evident to every man whose understanding and moral faculty are ripe" and truths that had to be "deduced by reasoning from those that are self-evident." Another Scottish exponent of the moral-sense school was Henry Home, Lord Kames, whose thoughts Jefferson commonplaced copiously and who was listed under three headings in Jefferson's book-buying recommednation to Skipwith in 1771. Jefferson's study of Kames as early as 1767 led to his conviction that primogeniture in Virginia, the law requiring the leaving of all property to the firstborn son, had been unjustly transported from England and become early entrenched there. Jefferson had studied Kames's Essays on the Principles of Morals and Natural Religion during his student days, his boyish marginal notations surviving in one of the few books to escape the flames at Shadwell. From Kames, young Jefferson learned that "there is a principle of benevolence in man which prompts him to an equal pursuit of the happiness of all." There were echoes of Kames in contemporary Scot Adam Smith's philosophical writings. "All constitutions of government," Smith wrote, "are valued only in proportion as they tend to promote the happiness of those who live under them." And there were echoes of all these Scottish moral philosophers in Jefferson's political writings between 1774 and 1776.

If Jefferson had any religious credo, it was a utilitarian faith in progress. With Bacon, he believed that mysteries beyond human understanding should be set aside so that the mind was freed to attack real obstacles to happiness in life. Like the philosopher Baron de Holbach, who wrote that "man is unhappy only because he does not know nature," he believed that enlightenment provided a route to happiness. If man studied nature, he could bring himself into harmony with the natural order of his environment and use its laws to set himself free. He saw this as the pursuit of happiness that was his right as well as his deepest desire. Because there were individual definitions of happiness, societies needed the freedom that would allow pluralism and tolerance. Jefferson believed that limitless progress was possible, that man had all the "necessities" for progress, if not perfection:

Although I do not, with some enthusiasts, believe that the human condition will ever advance to such a state of perfection as that there shall no longer be pain or vice in the world, yet I believe it susceptible to much improvement and, most of all, in matters of government and religion, and that the diffusion of knowledge among people is to be the instrument by which it is effected.

It is not from the Scottish religious reformers but from English and European writers of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Age of Reason that Jefferson drew his evolving notions of government. From Bacon, the grandfather of the English Enlightenment, Jefferson had learned to use his powers of observation and question any opinion, regardless of its source. He adhered to Bacon's admonition to apply reason and learning to the functions of government to improve society. Jefferson was influenced by Newton's Principia, which held that the universe was a great clock invented, made, and set in motion by a deity, but he had adapted Newton's view to his own quest for a world of order and harmony. Like Newton, Jefferson did not believe in miracles. Jefferson's third hero from the time of his boyhood studies was Locke, who had joined the empiricism of Bacon and Newton to the realm of politics. Locke's An Essay Concerning Human Understanding for the first time fed his natural optimism and gave him hope that mankind could be improved by education. From Locke and his Scottish adherents, Jefferson had adopted the theory of the Second Treatise of Government that legitimate authority to govern was derived from the consent of the governed, which had first been granted while mankind had still been in a "state of nature" when all human beings were by right free and equal. Locke underpinned all of Jefferson's political thought.

Two things

From Tanya.

Two of Your Everyday Essentials
1. Floss
2. Coffee

Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now
1. Skirt
2. Sweater

Two Things You Want in a Relationship
1. Humor
2. a sense of making-it-up-as-we-go

Two Things That Scare You
1. Old age - or rather - being alone in old age
2. s's

Two Truths
1. I'm a little bit obsessed with my new dust-buster. I vacuum every day. Which is rather excessive because my apartment is teeny. I just like to.
2. I once had 3 dates on the same day.

Two Things that Appeal to You In a Guy/Girl
1. Curiosity
2. Self-awareness (which usually translates into: being able to listen, being able to tell a good story, an all-around good companion)

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies
1. The whole index-card catalog-of-countries thing that I do. It could take over my life, so I really need to be careful with how much time I spend on it. If the CIA ever calls ... I'll be ready with my own database.
2. Reading out loud. I LOVE to read out loud. To myself, obviously. I just enjoy it, and find it so relaxing.

Two Things You Want Really Badly
I'm superstitious so I always feel weird about saying this stuff out loud. Perhaps I shouldn't even say superstitious - fatalistic might be better. So I'll keep it benign.
1. Travel through Iran and then go on and travel thru Central Asia
2. Something else that I know what it is but I'm not putting it down here

Two Places You Want to go on Vacation
1. Iran - I think we covered that
2. Tashkent - Samarqand - Bukhara - Kara Kum desert, etc.

Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die
More privacy issues here. Ehm ...
1. Novel published
2. Other thing that I won't share here

Two Things You Are Thinking About Now
1. What an impertinent question
2. Going for a run later today

Two Things in Your Nightstand
1. I can sense what you THINK I will say, what you EXPECT I will say. But no. That is in my underwear drawer, thank you very much. In my nightstand: I store my bag of cheapo tea lights, to break out whenever I have people over
2. My little ancient Book of Common Prayer

Two Stores You Shop At
1. TJ Maxx
2. Marshall's

Two people I haven't talked to in a while
1. Jackie
2. Jean

Two favorite places
1. My apartment on a rainy morning with nothing to do the rest of the day
2. On the deck at the Ocean Mist on a summer night with my sisters, my friends, my brother, the waves crashing beneath the deck, the sun going down, the seagulls bobbing on the waves

A real-life Degas

Dancers perform during a dress rehearsal for the ballet 'The Sleeping Beauty' at the Royal Opera House in London, May 12, 2006. The first public performance of the ballet will be on May 15, 2006. REUTERS/Steve Lewis

Poseidon notes

These notes are completely stream-of-conscious - along the lines of what I did with the abysmal Day After Tomorrow which, whaddya know, also had Emmy Rossum in it. Not a good sign.

And as I wrote this thing I suddenly got VERY angry about Andre Braugher. hahahahahaha Like - I am in a RAGE about Andre Braugher right now.

Onward. My notes on Poseidon.

-- The opening shot is a masterpiece. It has to be a combination of CGI and actual footage but it's seamless. Huge swooping shot up out of the ocean, you see the ship, looming above, the camera swoops up and around ... moving down the side of the ship, slowly moving higher and higher - so you get a sense of the length - the camera moves down and hones in on one guy jogging on the deck, the camera moves along with him, we see it is Josh Lucas - then the camera swooops away, leaving him, and continues on the side - although pulling out to sea a little bit - so we get some distance - the camera moves on and on down the ship - and then swoops around the front of the boat - where we catch up, yet again with Josh Lucas - who is now jogging along here - it all is one shot - the camera moves in, out, around - we go in towards the outdoor swimming pool, the camera moves back out - hovers along the side of the deck, moves back out to sea, so you can see the entire boat - then hones in, yet again, on a small figure - stretching on one of the decks - camera moves in on him - we see it is Josh Lucas yet again ... and this time the camera skips over the railing of the deck, swoops around behind him, we get to see his head silhouetted against the vast ocean, then the camera moves around so we get a full-on CLOSEUP - of his face looking out to ocean - and then, the camera slowly pans out so we can see what we can see - a gorgeous sunset over the sea. End of shot.

That was inCREDIBLY boring to type - but it was a pretty cool feat, however they did it. Only problem is: it TOTALLY called attention to itself. And I am so so so sick of camera-moves like that unless they have something to do with the story. I guess you could say it was showing us how massive Poseidon was - but it felt really self-indulgent. And also immediately pulled you out of the story.

I was not sitting there thinking: "Hmmm, I wonder who this Josh Lucas character is." I wasn't thinking, "Wow, look at that huge boat." I was thinking: "I wonder if those are little CGI people on the deck ... now how did he make THAT look seamless ... I wonder what's real and what's not."

Movie directors: knock this shit OFF. I don't give a shit that you have all the toys in the world. Stuff like this leaves me COLD and you are losing your ability to tell stories. You have lost the plot. You're like itty bitty geeky boys with Legos and while it's cute when you're 8, nobody's fucking impressed when you're a grown man. Or - only other GEEKS are impressed. If you don't see yourself as primarily a storyteller - then shame on you. Give me Howard Hawks over you and your little geek-boy toys any day. Again: if you use the toys to good effect, to serve the story, to create another world, to intensify the belief, etc. - then good for you. But if you just use those toys because they're there, and why not? Kiss my ass with that nonsense. And I actually have LIKED some of Wolfgang Petersen's stuff - Das Boot in particular.

Now please realize that this was only the FIRST SHOT in the movie. That kinda tells you where we are going from here.

-- Somehow Petersen manages to make everyone look like they are in a TV movie. Something about his lens - the way he shoots people's faces. Kurt Russell is a movie star. But even he ended up seeming rather flat and 2-dimensional. This is Petersen's fault, not Russell's.

-- Richard Dreyfuss was acting up a storm. It was truly entertaining.

-- I did not believe for ONE SECOND, not ONE SECOND, that Andre Braugher was "Captain" of that ship. He was so unconvincing that it was almost laughable. Dude: it's a small part. You're the captain. Step up to the plate and make me believe it. Otherwise, I laugh in your face. His eyes were dead, too. He didn't know what he was doing. Compare that to the briefer role of the "Captain" in Titanic. That guy had even LESS screen time that Mr. Dummy-Dum Braugher - but I totally believed that he was the captain, that was his ship, yadda yadda. I must admit I am biased here. I have never thought that Andre Braugher was as good an actor as HE thought he was.

-- What the hell was Fergie doing in this movie?? hahahaha It was so ridiculous - people in the audience literally laughed out loud at some of her "acting" moments.

-- Kurt Russell is, as always, great, and very fun to watch. But ... the whole overprotective father thing was contrived and poorly written and ... kind of ikky. He tells her to button up her blouse while at the poker table? Also - if he felt that that shirt was immodest, then I believe he needs to join a Mennonite colony, because obviously the modern world is too much for him. I have no idea what was supposed to be happening with the father-daughter thing - it was just a set-up for "tension" later - but Petersen doesn't realize that the damn boat tipping over is tension enough.

-- TS referred to this kind of extraneous "human-interest" detail as ... shit, I can't remember his exact wording: I think "situational motivation" - or "unnecessary situational motivation". I'll have to ask him the exact wording because it's a perfect example of what was wrong with this movie (and many other movies, as well) It's the Freudian influence - the "but WHY" influence - which is SOMETIMES appropriate, but it's not ALWAYS appropriate - and in movies like Poseidon it's truly annoying. There's a sense that we need to know WHY someone behaves that way ... as opposed to just letting them behave and letting the audience figure it out. We have to be spoonfed REASONS. Stupid. Just let the disaster unfold, and let people react to it. Here's the deal: what is the plot of this movie? A boat tips over and people try to escape. It is through their struggle to get out that we get to know them - but the MAIN THING is the getting out of the boat - NOT the fact that the father inexplicably disapproves of the daughter's choice in men. Also - are we honestly supposed to believe that Emmy Rossum was a teenager? Sorry - I'll get to Rossum's horrible-ness later. TS said that Petersen was "focusing on the wrong things, mainly" and I totally agree. There was one LONG extended moment when stupid Emmy Rossum whom I now despise was weeping over her father's death. Meanwhile: fire is raging at her heels. Water is surging into the area. There are live electrical wires shooting sparks. The boat is now tipping up on its edge. And there she is a-boo-hooing about her own personal loss. I'm like: "Cry LATER, bitchie! But for now? Get your ass up that ladder!" And Petersen lingered on her crying ... and her boyfriend was comforting her and telling her she had to go on ... and the whole thing was lachrymose and ridiculous. It made her look like a stupid character. It made Emmy Rossum look like a bad actress, too (which is not hard to do, but again, I'll get to that later.)

The point of the movie is the disaster. Plain and simple. I honestly don't care about the father-daughter dynamic.

-- Josh Lucas is best when he is directed to keep it simple, rein it in, and underplay. Think of his wonderful wonderful acting in Beautiful Mind. I think he's the reason to see that movie, actually. His performance, for me, (well, his and Paul Bettany's) are really the shining moments of that film. He's WONDERFUL in it. But for whatever reason ... he hasn't become a major star. And I think he needs to stop trying. He is a supporting player, not a major star. But he KIND OF has the good looks ... but not REALLY ... Anyhoo, he's cast as the guy who decides to get out of the upside-down ballroom ... against the advice of the "captain" Andre Braugher. Lucas' character must have taken one look at that "captain" and thought: "He is so not convincing to me as an authority figure. He's no captain, and I am so out of here." So anyway, back to Lucas. His character is supposed to be Mr. I'm on my own, Mr. Whoo-hoo No Strings On Me. Fine. Whatever. Good character. I am not convinced by his acting, but whatever, I got the point. But there's a point later in the film, where one of the little band of escapees dies ... and Josh Lucas has a close-up where he looks absolutely devastated ... and then he turns away, and begins to weep. SO UNCONVINCING. It made Lucas look bad, again. It made Lucas look like a self-indulgent actor. And maybe he is - who knows. Maybe he wanted to have that weeping moment ... but I doubt it. I think it was in the script, and he had to do it. But I don't like that character because he suddenly cracks open and we see he has feeeeeeeeelings ... I like that character because he keeps. moving, forward. You would WISH to be hooked up with a guy like him during an emergency. So when Lucas started crying, I thought: Damn. That is so so stupid. Lucas should sue for how dumb he is being made to look right now. Stop your whining, bitchie, and keep moving!

-- The special effects - of the wave, etc. - are shockingly bad. It just didn't look real enough. And like it or not - if you are going to have a scene where an enormous ocean liner tips its ass up out of the water, with the propellers high in the air, half of the boat submerged ... If you are going to do a scene like that, then you just need to deal with the fact that it has already been done, and on a grand scale, that looked completely real. Don't act like you're re-inventing the wheel. The Poseidon had its big ass up out of the water - and something about the size of the waves, the quality of the water ... you just could tell it was a model. Bummer.

-- Richard Dreyfuss had a little glittery diamond earring in one ear. I love him. I love his intensity.

-- Are Emmy Rossum's 15 minutes up yet? I was sick of her 3 years ago. She was bad in Mystic River - glowing in a presentational sugar-sweet way at her daddy, practically telegraphing to us: "Hi! I'm about to be murdered!!" - but I think she is a very obvious and presentational actress who is getting shockingly huge jobs on no talent. She was dreadful in Day After Tomorrow. Please. Go away.

-- How on EARTH did those people know their way around the boat? It was like they had an intrinsic understanding of watertight compartments, and bunkers filling with water, and how the valves would open if you flood the chamber, and where the propeller tube was ... I don't know. Maybe it's me. But if I was wandering around in an UPSIDE DOWN OCEAN LINER ... would I understand the bulkhead system, and how to reverse the propellers, so that the suction created would blah blah blah ... Totally unrealistic. But enjoyable. Josh Lucas peering at maps of the ship with his flashlight, saying, 'The watertight compartments are this way ... if we open this valve here ... we should be flooded to the next compartment..." Dude. ARE YOU SURE? How on EARTH do you know that???

-- Kevin Dillon adds to his long resume of pathetic characters. They are all trying to sidle across a metal beam - with fire and surging water all around ... And suddenly in the middle of all of this ... he starts to make fun of Kurt Russell who was the Mayor of New York ... and making fun of his daughter ... making lewd remarks ... and instead of Kurt Russell just bitch-slapping him which seems to me would be more realistic - you have FLAMES surging up OUT OF THE UPSIDE DOWN CHAMBER ... Anyway, instead of having Kurt say, "Dude. Time and place. You hate me. Whatever. Now go across the beam ..." Russell is forced (by Petersen) to sit there and listen to the diatribe, as though it has truly rocked his world to hear someone insult him ... and we can see Emmy Rossum's horrible-actress face in the background, with huge eyes, feeling SO SAD that someone is insulting her daddy ... Uhm. What planet are these people from? Go across the damn metal beam and stop dicking about with your stupid personal problems. Might I remind you that you are in AN UPSIDE DOWN BOAT. Who CARES that Kevin Dillon is a disgruntled voter? So anyway, Dillon starts out across the metal beam, cackling evilly, and taking swigs from his flask. heh heh TS whispered to me, "What do you want to bet, he's about to die." Then - of course - crash bang boom - disgruntled drunken New Yorker dies in a fiery mesh. Oh well. Moving right along!

-- I have this to say. There is a scene in an empty elevator shaft which is worth the price of admission, in my opinion. It was truly horrifying and suspenseful. Suspenseful? I could barely watch it. That scene is an example of why, I think, we go to disaster movies. We can't help but put ourselves in those people's shoes. We think: "How would I respond? Would I be brave? Would I pull through? How would I conduct myself??" That scene was nearly unwatchable, it was so damn frightening.

-- Oh! And guess who had a small part!! Good old Rico from 6 Feet under - I have MISSED seeing him on a weekly basis!!

-- Oh - and yet another TRULY horrifying scene was when they all were crawling up the shaft. The water was coming in behind them - but the shaft was pressing in on them - and one of the girls was claustrophobic (of course) - but she didn't just sketch in the outline of being claustrophobic - she truly WENT THERE in her performance. If you know people who have claustrophobia, then it is literally no joke. Her panic and desperation to get out of that small confined space was so palpable that I had to put my hands over my eyes.

-- There's a moment at the very end when the remaining survivors escape - they get to this perfectly blown-up raft ... and something about the waves, with the big ship in the background - it just looked very fake and Land of the Lost-y - but anyway, they all heave themselves into the raft ... and Josh Lucas sort of flops onto his back, and starts to laugh. And then he just laughs and laughs and laughs. Dumb. Is it supposed to be a catharsis? Or is he just breaking down emotionally? It looks like neither. It makes Lucas look like a bad and self-indulgent actor - which again, maybe the case - but the director should definitely protect an actor from his own bad habits. It's part of being a director. I didn't get the big long belly laugh. Maybe it worked in rehearsal? Maybe it seemed like a good idea? No.

Twas not a good idea.

-- Kurt Russell had the Shelley Winters part. Without the bouffant, of course. But somehow the scene of sacrifice just ... didn't pack the punch it did in the original. Maybe because Kurt Russell, the character, was such a winner, a "hero" - he was a fireman, he was macho, he was rich, etc. Who CARES if a guy like that is heroic? I mean, yay, he's heroic, whatevs, but it doesn't have the same impact as someone who is ... whiny, overweight, querulous, and downtrodden by life ... like the Winters character. To see HER overcome her own ego, her own ... self-involvement ... and do something so heroic ... Hell, she won a damn Oscar for that very reason. We are not at all surprised that the Kurt Russell character would be so selfless, and so brave. Of COURSE he would be. But Shelley?

-- I just want to say again that I was bummed about the fake-ness of the wave. Richard Dreyfuss was on deck and actually SAW the wave before it hit - and his response to it - his reaction shots - were FAR more horrifying than the actual "visual" of the wave. I was more frightened from what I saw in Dreyfuss' eyes - than in what they created digitally. God bless actors. They don't need all that digital stuff, when you get right down to it. Dreyfuss conveyed to me absolute horror and disbelief and also ... like: Nobody on earth has ever lived to tell the tale of seeing such a big wave. Sailors, obviously have been confrtoned with such monsters - but we have very few live-witness accounts of rogue waves. So Dreyfuss, with his own imagination, his own talent ... projected to us in the audience the absolute terror of what it would be like to see such a monster-wall of water comin' at ya.

Happy birthday to ...

That's Katharine Hepburn in her "dressing room" on the "set" of African Queen. One of my favorite pictures of her ever. And today is her birthday.

HEPBURN QUOTABLES:

"I just don't like to be half-good. It drives me insane. And I'm willing to do anything to try to be really good. I'm very aware when I'm very good -- and I like to be very, very good. Oh, I think perfection is the only standard for people who are stars."

"Marriage is not a natural institution -- otherwise why sign a contract for it?"

"I can't stand Mary of Scotland. I think she was an absolute ass. I thought Elizabeth was absolutely right to have her condemned to death."

"Being an actor is a humiliating experience. Because you are selling yourself to the public, your face, your personality, and that is humiliating. As you get older, it becomes more humiliating, because you've got less to sell."

HEPBURN ANECDOTES:

1. Barbara Walters interviewed Hepburn, and asked the penetrating question: "Kate, you always wear pants. Do you even own a skirt?"

Hepburn replied: "I have one, Miss Walters. I'll wear it to your funeral."

2. There was an enormous hemlock tree in the front yard of the Hepburn home in Hartford. Kate loved to climb high up into the branches, and hang out up there. Apparently, a neighbor in the next yard saw Kate perched up high, and called over to Kate's mother: "Kate is up way too high!"

Kate Hepburn's mother replied, "Sh. Don't scare Kate. She doesn't know it's dangerous."

3. I love this story of her initial struggle with the comedy of Bringing Up Baby. Look at how willing she was to just say: I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. HELP ME. Very rare.

So much more to say. I still miss her.

I'm in heaven ...

because of this HUGE post on Burt Bacharach.

Cannot get enough. Of course, because of how my mind works Burt Bacharach now always reminds me of him ... but that's okay. It's a funny memory.

Happy birthday, Burt!

Diary Friday

Next installment in the Picnic adventure.

Part 1. The audition
Part 2: The callbacks, getting into the play
Part 3: First meeting with the director
Part 4. The calm before the storm ... the time before rehearsals started ... memorizing lines, etc.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!
Part 12. Rehearsals! Life! Going crazy!

I love these couple of entries because - there's a moment in every rehearsal period where the show CLICKS. You "get it". It might not be perfect, you might still have stuff to work out - but the thing, as a whole, CLICKS. These entries describe that moment. I would never have such a meltdown NOW (like the one I describe in the entry below - it's a very beginning-actress kind of thing to do, to just dissolve into tears like that) - but this was the first time I really felt the potential of what acting could be. I had arrived.

NOVEMBER 13

Things are happening too fast to even write them down. [That's called Life, Sheila.] Every day is a new adventure. I wake up and think, "I wonder what's gonna happen today!"

Tonight's rehearsal -- Diary, I am so high! I'm still fizzling and excited - Tonight was the best it's ever felt. The best I feel I've ever done as an actress. It was incredible. But rough. Before I enter for my date - I wanted to get myself honest-to-God nervous - totally panicked - Because I haven't been before - I haven't REALLY felt nervous - and I don't think that later, when he goes with Madge - I have really felt heartbroken.

Oh Diary.

Tonight was SO WONDERFUL. I feel so good about what I did! I spent about 5 minutes alone backstage, pacing crazily, getting out of breath - just the physicality of all of that made me nervous. I recollect those nauseating moments before TS dates, or before I asked DW to dance. It really helped me. And my scene with Joanna - the "How do you talk to boys" scene - the pauses felt so real. I felt real. She was giving me so much and it was real. It was so nervewracking. And then - when Eric started to dance with Joanna - and they were waltzing really close, eyes closed - I couldn't bear my own feelings. I felt cracked in two. I actually felt this. I was not acting. It was SCARY. Playing someone so much like myself, experiencing things that really hurt - and I imagined myself as Millie after the Picnic - lying in bed with tears rolling down my cheeks, and feeling despair that - Tomorrow is the first day of school - oh my God - I can't go back there - Total despair.

And everything.

I burst out crying - Brett came running over - Liz came running over - and said her line, "What happened?" And Brett said his line, "I smell whiskey, Mrs. Owens", smoothing down my hair. Liz reached out and hugged me.

Last night I really started seeing Joanna as my sister. She is not an actress - she is my sister. I really have to work on my relationship with her.

November 15

I had a riotous 3 day weekend. But I just came home from rehearsal. Diary - this is gonna be like trying to describe the retreat. But dear Lord, this was right up there with that!

Last night was really bad. First of all, tonight we videotaped it to watch it later and see our mistakes. At first I felt really removed from it - I was just saying my lines, and it bummed me out. I didn't know what was wrong.

Then during Act II, some of us had to get there early so Brian Jones could choreograph. That was WICKED FUN. [Brian!! Scroll down here to take a look at this man's EXTRAORDINARY career. He's a celebrity in Rhode Island, certainly - I've been out to dinner with him and we can barely get two sentences out because of all the people who stop by to say Hello and Thank you. His fame is larger than Rhode Island, though - anyone who is still a vaudeville freak, or a tap-dancing fanatic has probably heard of Brian Jones. All I can say is - he is absolutely amazing. And here's a strange time-travel moment: Years and years and years later - I went to Liz's wedding - the girl mentioned in these posts all the time. And Brian was there - I hadn't seen him in a couple of years - and he and I literally spent HOURS at the wedding reception dancing together. You haven't danced until you've been led by Brian. You literally CANNOT look bad when you dance with him. Brian and I could not stop. We would dance out of the French doors, we danced around the patio, we would dance up and down the steps, we would dance back IN the French doors, we went from room to room ... Literally. For hours. So much fun. Anyway - just too funny to see this "first encounter" with him - here in my teenage diary.] Jitterbug, lindy, foxtrot. I'm not very good but it was fun. Joanne is one of my favorite people in the world - I love her so much no one would even believe it. Everybody.

So I did my screaming in Act II, and I was feeling it - I wanted to scream even louder, I wanted to break something - but it didn't feel like I did it right. I know when it feels right cause I feel it. So I was disappointed in myself. God, Act II is murder for me.

The support that everyone gives everyone - the emotional pitch of the show is so high - and someone is always there to rub your back, or hug you - You can't be alone when you're coming apart and everybody knows it and understands.

So Act III.

Joanna was telling me how she felt she had to get in touch with Madge's emotional life. Without it - Act III looks impossible to her.

Tonight, she must have prepped for that for so long. When she came on for that last scene, she was trembling. She was -- Oh God -- When Eric runs off and she falls on the sistern sobbing - I'm on the porch, Brett is hunched on Mrs. Potts' porch, and Liz is near Joanna. Diary, Joanna was weeping hysterically. She had never done that before. Oh God, I'm starting to cry again. Usually I just stand up there on the porch, looking stricken, not knowing what I'm supposed to be doing. But tonight -- Eric ran off and I looked at her face, and it cracked and crumbled and her hands went up over her eyes - and she fell on the sistern crying loud - crying real. I started to cry just watching her. Then when Liz said, "At least you didn't marry him, " and Joanna just - all out cried, "I would have - I would have."

Oh my God.

I happened to glance at Brett as she said that one line and tears were streaming down his cheeks. His face was bent down.

I couldn't really let go, though, and just cry - because my last scene is not a crying scene. So I did it - I got off stage - and I was uncontrollably shaking. My arms were almost flapping. I watched the rest of the play from the wings. And what kept popping into my head was the Healing. [A thing we did at the religious retreat I keep talking about.] I was holding onto a pole backstage, and crying my head off - I've never felt that way before - Oh my God. Then the scene finished and for about 10 minutes, nobody said a word, but just went around hugging each other.

I will never forget this.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Joanne. Her eyes were pouring buckets. We must have hugged for 2 minutes - we hugged and hugged and hugged - just crying and crying - It felt like that time in the hall when I was in Kate's arms, and just gripping her shoulders and crying like I'd never ever cry again.

I love these people so much. Oh my God. I love them so much.

Then Jojanna came over asking, "What's the matter?" She didn't know that it was her that caused it all. She went all out - and suddenly, we all got the sadness of the play. But she didn't get why Joanne and I were crying and hugging.

I'm open to these people and I don't care. I trust them. Then the three of us hugged - I have never felt so close to them. There were no sounds backstage but muffled sobbing. It was indescribable. I'm not even gonna try.

Then Linda came over. I love that woman. She's 34, but she is so hip! [Wow. On many levels.] Everyone's so warm and loving. We all were just split wide open.

I went to go get a drink - I couldn't stop crying, I'm still not done - I was shaking, too. I stood at the bubbler for a long time. And everyone that went by touched me. I almost couldn't bear it. Joe, Eric - the tenderness in them.

We were all propping each other up. I felt so together with them. Especially when we went into the Green Room to watch the videotape. The togetherness was so there. The bonds! I was just drifting around trying to calm myself down. I went into the Green Room where all these old sofas are. I just went to a couch and sat. Myh arms and shoulders were shaking uncontrollably - once you get started you can't stop and everything just flooded me and it's overwhelming and beautiful. But more overwhelming than beautiful because I kept crying. I just couldn't help it.

Everybody was moving around - setting up pillows, pulling in the couches. Brett stood there looking at me. I didn't look back because it's hard for me to communicate whenn I'm crying. I might as well hang it up and jump in a coffin for all the good I am. But when he was looking at me, I knew that it was with fondness and tenderness and love. And that I was safe with him.

IF ONLY ALL THE PEOPLE IN THE WORLD COULD BE THIS WAY!!! [I cannot express how large those letters are. Also, after it - is a smiley face, AND a sad face. It's never just ONE with me - there's ALWAYS sad-face mixed in with smiley-face.] After a long time of him just looking at me, and me crying - he leaned over to me and said, "Aren't you gonna give me a hug?"

Diary, I have so much to be grateful for. That I have a friend like him. I am so grateful.

He gestured for me to stand up and he murmured, "Come here" and there I was, holding onto him. And right then I knew that romance or not - it doesn't matter. I love him like I love Jay or Ted or Jeff. I would be totally satisfied with him as a friend. Because he could be my best friend. He really could. I wanted to squeeze him til he couldn't breathe.

Love is love. I don't care what kind.

I love them all. I really really do.

My heart is full.

After we watched the tape, we sat around and talked with Kimber. Everyone was so worked up. Before Kimber left, he came back and kissed Liz on the top of her head. Everyone just cracked up. Very un-Kimberish. It was terrific.

After he left, some of us sat in the lounge and talked. Liz, Brett, Joe, me, Eric. Tomorrow night there's gonna be another party at Brett's - only for Picnic people. The next morning, Liz, Joanna and I have a photo call at 10:00 so we are sleeping over. I am sleeping over at Brett. Our plans may change and I may sleep at Liz's sorority. That's what I told my mom. Dear Lord, this college world is a different world, isn't it?

They were all making plans to go out for a drink. Brett invited me along, but oh, it was agonizing. I really wanted to but I had to say no. It was already 11. Brett said, "Well - know that you are welcome anyway."

There's more, though. I was still blown away and trembling from the rehearsal. What had happened during and after would creep in my mind and I'd feel a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes again.

Then I went back into the theatre to get my stuff and Brett was there gathering his stuff together. We were all really wired and emotional.

And he said, "I am in the mood to get drunk."

I said, "Be careful driving."

Oh Diary - he stopped and looked at me with this SMILE. Fond - warm - wonderful smile - and he came over and kissed me on the cheek.

What a night, huh?

The Books: "Thomas Jefferson : Author of America" (Christopher Hitchens)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is Thomas Jefferson : Author of America by Christopher Hitchens.

I admit it. I'm a Hitchens addict. I am also a US History addict - so this book was a particular delight. It's part of the REALLY cool "Eminent lives" series. They're little books - this is not a full-blown biography - it's more of a very pointed analysis of certain events. In that typical Hitchens voice which I find so addictive. How does he do it? How does he write so much and still manage to drink so much alcohol? The guy is everywhere. His book reviews, his columns for Vanity Fair, his columns for Atlantic, his books, his op-ed columns - I'm in awe. It was really fun to see his interpretation of Jefferson.

And because Hitchens is also such a wordsmith - I figured I'd excerpt the section where he analyzes the Declaration of Independence.

From Thomas Jefferson : Author of America by Christopher Hitchens.

It was partly as a result of a compromise that Jefferson was appointed to the committee charged with drawing up the Declaration. The author of the resolutions calling upon the thirteen colonies to announce independence, to form "a confederation and perpetual union," and to seek overseas recognition and military alliances was Richard Henry Lee, himself a Virginian. But he was needed at home, and Congress needed a Virginian just as it needed some New Englanders and some delegates from the middle colonies. John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Roger Sherman of Connecticut, and Robert Livingston of New York comprised the rest of the drafting group.

There is no other example in history, apart from the composition of the King James version of the Bible, in which great words and concepts have been fused into poetic prose by the banal processes of a committee. And, as with the extraordinary convocation of religious scholars that met at Hampton Court under the direction of Lancelot Andrewes in 1604, and with the later gathering of polymaths and revolutionaries at Philadelphia in 1776, the explanation lies partly in the simultaneous emergence, under the pressure of a commonly understood moment of crisis and transition, of like-minded philosophers and men of action. Modesty deserves its tribute here, too: a determination to do the best that could be commonly wrought was a great corrective to vanity. Thomas Jefferson's modesty was sometimes of the false kind. We have too many instances of him protesting, throughout his political ascent, that the honor is too great, the burden too heavy, the eminence too high. (Rather as the Speaker of the House of Commons is still ceremonially dragged to his chair on his inauguration, as if being compelled to assume his commanding role.) However, someone had to pull together a first draft, and we have it on the word of his longtime rival John Adams that Jefferson's reticence in the matter was on this occasion fairly swiftly overcome. He was generally thought to be the better writer and the finer advocate: one might wish to have seen a Franklin version -- which might at least have contained one joke -- but it was not to be.

Several years were to elapse before Jefferson was acknowledged as the author of the Declaration, or until the words themselves had so to speak "sunk in" and begun to resonate as they still do. So it is further evidence of his amour propre, as well as of his sense of history and rhetoric, that he always resented the changes that the Congress made to his original. These are reproduced, as parallel text, in his own Autobiography, and have been as exhaustively scrutinized as the intellectual sources on which Jefferson called when he repaired to a modest boarding house for seventeen days, with only a slave valet named Jupiter, brought from Monticello, at his disposal.

The most potent works, observes the oppressed and haunted Winston Smith in George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, where he's read the supposedly "secret" book of the forbidden opposition, are the ones that tell you what you already know. (And, in the "Dictionary of Newspeak" that closes that novel, a certain paragraph of prose is given as an example of something that could not be translated into "Newspeak" terms. The paragraph begins, "We hold these truths to be self-evident ...") Jefferson and Paine had this in common in that year of revolution; they had the gift of pithily summarizing what was already understood, and then of moving an already mobilized audience to follow an inexorable logic. But they also had to overcome an insecurity and indecision that is difficult for us, employing retrospect, to comprehend. Let not, in such circumstances, the trumpet give off an uncertain sound. So, after a deceptively modest and courteous paragraph that assumes the duty of making a full explanation and of manifesting "decent respect," the very first sentence of the actual declaration roundly states that certain truths are -- crucial words -- self-evident.

This style -- terse and pungent, yet fringed with elegance -- allied the plain language of Thomas Paine to the loftier expositions of John Locke, from whose 1690 Second Treatise on Civil Government some of the argument derived. (It is of interest that Locke, who wrote of slavery that it was "so vile and miserable an Estate of Man ... that 'tis hardly to be conceived that an Englishman, much less a Gentleman, should plead for it," was also the draftsman for an absolutist slaveholding "Fundamental Constitution" of the Carolinas in 1669.) Jefferson radicalized Locke by grounding human equality on the observable facts of nature and the common human condition. Having originally written that rights are derived 'from that equal creation," he amended the thought to say that men were "endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights," thus perhaps attempting to forestall any conflict between Deists and Christians. And, where Locke had spoken of "life, liberty, and property" as being natural rights, Jefferson famously wrote "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." We differ still on whether this means seeking happiness of rather happiness itself as a pursuit, but given the advantageous social position occupied by most of the delegates at Philadelphia, it is very striking indeed that either notion should have taken precedence over property. The clear need of the hour was for inspiration (and property rights were to be restored to their customary throne when the Constitution came to be written), but "the pursuit of happiness" belongs to that limited group of lapidary phrases that has changed history, and it seems that the delegates realized this as soon as they heard it.

Thomas Jefferson, indeed, is one of the small handful of people to have his very name associated with a form of democracy. The word was not in common use at the time, and was not always employed positively in any case. (John Adams tended to say "democratical" when he meant unsound or subversive.) But the idea that government arose from the people and was not a gift to them or an imposition upon them, was perhaps the most radical element in the Declaration. Jefferson was later to compare government with clothing as "the badge of lost innocence," drawing from the myth of original nakedness and guilt in the Garden of Eden. Paine in his Common Sense had said, "Society is produced by our wants and government by our wickedness." As a compromise between government as a necessary evil - or an inevitable one - and in the course of a bill of complaint against a hereditary monarch, the Declaration proposed the idea of "the consent of the governed" and thus launched the experiment we call American, or sometimes Jeffersonian, democracy.

Paperback cover art

Two really cool posts:

These images are, frankly, to die for. I want to crawl into those images and never leave. EVER. The one with the piano might be my favorite - but it's hard to choose. Each one is evocative of a whole smoky noir world.

And here's Dan's post - Dan found a terrific archive of ... psychedelic paperback covers for scifi fantasy books - follow his link.

The Books: "American Sphinx : The Character of Thomas Jefferson" (Joseph Ellis)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is American Sphinx : The Character of Thomas Jefferson by Joseph ("Yeah. I was in 'Nam. DOH.") Ellis.

My favorite of all of his contemplative biographies - he really just hits his stride here. Jefferson, too, is more of an enigma than John Adams was - Adams was pretty much whatyou see is what you get - He also unburdened himself to his wife in letter after letter after letter - so he really had an intimate personal relationship with someone where he could really be himself, flaws and all. Jefferson didn't really have that. Perhaps the closest he came to it was with Adams himself at the ends of their lives when they renewed their friendship. But even then ... you can feel his formal manner protecting ... what? Protecting something.

Speaking personally - having read the correspondence between Adams and Jefferson - I can say that Jefferson's brief brief moments of deep feeling are so so moving, more so than Adams' more regular effusions - because you sense that these moments really COST Jefferson something. You feel for him. You get the sense that Jefferson might have had to lie down after writing the letter of condolence to John Adams on the death of Abigail. Open feeling did not come easily to him.

He's an enigma. A political animal. A lovelorn suitor (his letters to women are revealing as well - in their teasing almost coquettish tone - except with Abigail - he got the sense that that crap would not fly with HER). A farmer and inventor. Full of contradictions. Unreconcilable. He did not reconcile any of his contradictions by the time he died - they were all still there - but that's what makes him an interesting study. He tended to see the world in a polar-opposite kind of way. Most people who are political animals do. There's THIS way that will counteract THAT way. Jefferson seemed to believe that harmony could, actually be achieved on this earth. I disagree with him - uhm - look at all of human history - but that whole polar-opposite thing is one of the reasons why the Declaration of Independence is such a TIMELESS document. Perhaps its goals (at least its humanist goals) can never be fully achieved - but also perhaps they aren't meant to be. Perhaps their real role in human history (and that second paragraph is what people know by heart - and not just Americans - it's not a goal for ONE people, it's a goal for all humanity - it's universal, therein lies the appeal) but anyway - perhaps that second paragraph can never be actually achieved - but is a constant reminder of the GOOD that is in us, of man's inherent dignity. Never forget your rights as a human being. Never ever forget it. Those rights must ALWAYS be fought for. The rest of the document, with its King George did THIS to us, did THAT to us - is more easily achieved - it's a checklist. But that second paragraph? Is it a utopia? Have we ever achieved it? I don't think so (and I believe I've expressed here before my distrust of people who get all googly-eyed with excitement over utopias) - and perhaps Jefferson did believe that it was achievable, I don't know. Now let me go off in my own contemplation: I think ugliness truly HURT Thomas Jefferson. I think he preferred solitude, quiet, and purity. People who prefer those things can have a rough time when they come down off the mountaintop. HOWEVER, on the flip side of that - Jefferson was a master political manipulator. He SAID he wanted to retire, yet he had Madison reporting to him left and right about what was going on. I think both sides are true. I don't think one side is a lie, and the other side is the REAL Jefferson. I think he truly loved purity, solitude, and quiet intellectual contemplations. I think he truly did detest the ugliness that came out of people when they played politics hard. I think he wished the world was a nicer calmer place. But I also think he couldn't have backed out of politics if he tried. He needed to be in the game, as ugly as it could get. And he played it ugly himself. But then somehow - with Madison as his front-man, he could somehow claim that he had nothing to do with it ...

None of this is reconciled. So Ellis picked a good title for his book, I'm thinkin'.

Jefferson's discomfort with irreconcilable differences was really made clear (at least to us - years in the future) during the French Revolution. I often wonder what he REALLY thought about it. He was actually THERE during some of the main events of that bloody revolution - and his letters are well-known. Adams was horrified at the excesses of the revolution. Jefferson stood by it - in what seemed at the time like a breezy indifference to horror. He seemed to RELISH the blood running in the streets, etc. As long as the king was put down! Same thing with Shays Rebellion. Abigail wrote him a letter about the rebellion and how frightening she found it - how fragile was civil society ... and he wrote back his now-famous letter saying "I like a little revolution now and then ... it's like a storm that clears the atmosphere." Abigail was horrified. It seems that Jefferson was one of those men who wanted constant revolution. And there was a side of him that did.

Hoo hoo. I'll stop now.

Ellis' book is not set up like a typical biography. He chooses certain chunks of years - and analyses what was going on there, and how it created or revealed "the charater of Thomas Jefferson". It's fascinating - it's for true junkies like myself. If you want a more typical biography, or if you don't know that much about Jefferson - then this probably isn't the one to start with. But if you're already a bit down the Jeffersonian path, I HIGHLY recommend this one.

I'll post an excerpt about the French Revolution.

From American Sphinx : The Character of Thomas Jefferson by Joseph Ellis.

So much history happened in prerevolutionary France during the last two years of Jefferson's ministry that it is not easy to summarize his shifting political positions, except perhaps to say that he presumed that France would emerge from the ferment as some kind of constitutional monarchy. Despite his earlier characterizations of the French king as a drunken sot, completely out of touch with the needs and frustrations of the French people, by the summer of 1788 he had come to regard Louis as an enlightened ruler who was anxious to play a crucial role in forging political alliances between the nobility and the members of the Third Estate. (In the end Louis XVI turned out to be like George III, fated to do precisely the wrong thing at just the right time, what Jefferson called "a machine for making revolutions.") But his fondest hopes for the recovery of political stability rested with the group of moderate and enlightened aristocrats, led by his good friend Lafayette, called the Patriots or the Patriot Party. Although he was prepared to acknowledge that the situations were fundamentally different, Jefferson seemed to regard the Patriots in France as counterparts to the Federalists in America; they were "sensible of the abusive government under which they lived, longed for occasions of reforming it" and were dedicated to "the establishment of a constitution which shall assure ... a good degree of liberty." Lafayette was cast in the role of a French Madison, orchestrating the essential compromises among the different factions and thereby consolidating the energies of the revolution within a political framework that institutionalized the maximum gains that historical circumstances would allow.

Jefferson was prepared to recognize that those circumstances were not ideal. The deeply rooted class divisions of French society were on display during the debates within the Estates-General that he attended in May and June 1789, as were the still-powerful legacies of feudalism, which had all but vanished in America but in Versailles took on the highly virulent and visible form of costumed lords and courtly processions. Given these entrenched impediments to a fully flowered revolution along American lines, Jefferson advised his friends in the Patriot Party to settle for the English consitutional model, supplemented by one important American addition - that is, he recommended the retention of the French monarchy, though with vastly reduced powers, the creation of a bicameral legislature with the upper chamber reserved for the clergy and nobility and -- the American contribution -- the insistence on a declaration of rights that protected basic liberties from violation by kings, lords or even elected legislators. Characteristically, he devoted most of his time and energy to drafting the Charter of Rights, which called for the abolition of all pecuniary privileges and exemptions enjoyed by the nobility, civilian rule over the military, equal treatment under the law and a modified version of freedom of the press. With France as with America, his fondest political topic was not the artful arrangement of government power but rather the cordoning off of a region where no government power could exist. He conveyed his draft to Lafayette in June 1789; it served as the basis for the Declaration of Rights that Lafayette presented to the National Assembly the following month.

By that time Jefferson was confident that the danger of disintegration and violent revolution had been averted. "The great crisis being now over," he wrote to Jay, "I shall not have a matter interesting enough to trouble you with as often as I have lately." The Estates-General had not taken his advice and established a separate chamber for the clergy and nobility, but enough of the privileged classes had gone over to the Third Estate to make the newly established National Assembly a representative, if somewhat unwieldy, body. Nevertheless, as he explained to Tom Paine on July 11, 1789, the French Revolution was effectively over. "The National assembly (for that is the name they take) ... are now in complete and undisputed possession of sovereignty. The executive and the aristocracy are now at their feet. The mass of the nation, the mass of the clergy, and the army are with them. They have prostrated the old government, and are now beginning to build one from the foundation."

The following day Paris exploded in a series of riots and mob actions that have been memorialized in countless histories, novels and films on the French Revolution: the assault on the Customs House, the stoning and eventual massacre of the royal cavalry; the storming of the Bastille and subsequent beheading and dismemberment of its garrison. After five days of random violence and massive demonstrations, Jefferson described to Jay the scene as Louis XVI returned to the capital, with Lafayette at his side, to be greeted by "about 60,000 citizens of all forms and conditions armed with the muskets of the Bastille and ... pistols, swords, pikes, pruning hooks, sythes, etc." and all shouting "vive la nation."

If one were to conjure up a scene designed to weaken Jefferson's faith in the inherent benevolence of popular movements or to shake his apparent serenity toward popular rebellions, one could hardly do better. Therefore it is worth noting that, though shocked at first by the random and savage character of the mob violence, he never questioned his belief in the essential rightness of the cause or the ultimate triumph of its progressive principles. His letters to Jay and Madison described the carnage of July 1789 as an unfortunate but temporary aberration that in no way called into question the prospect for an enduring and peaceful political settlement. He seemed to regard the spasm of violence as the product of a misguided decision by the king or his ministers to increase the troop strength in the city rather than as ominous evidence of deep and irreconcilable class resentments. By early August, in fact, he was convinced that the storm (shades of Shays's Rebellion) had passed the future looked clear and bright: "Quiet is so well established here that I think there is nothing further to be appreheded. The harvest is so near that there is nothing to fear from the want of bread. The National assembly are wise, firm and moderate. They will establish the English constitution, purged or its numerous and capital defects."

It was in this brave and buoyant mood that Jefferson sat down on September 6, 1789, to write what has subsequently proved to be one of the most famous letters in his vast correspondence. "The course of reflection in which we are immersed here on the elementary principles of society," he explained to Madison, "has presented the question to my mind." The question itself was not entirely new. It was "Whether one generation of men has a right to bind another," which Jefferson claimed had implications that had not been sufficiently appreciated in either Europe or America. His answer to the question had the kind of unequivocal ring that he normally reserved for documents like the Declaration of Independence. "I set out on this ground," he announced, "which I suppose to be self-evident, that the earth belongs in usufruct to the living."

Exactly what Jefferson meant by this proposition has been the subject of endless debate among historians for some time. In the letter itself Jefferson seemed to be advocating some version of generational sovereignty. "We seem not to perceive," as he put it to Madison, "that, by the law of nature, one generation is to another as one independent nation is to another." He produced elaborate calculations based on Buffon's demographic tables to show that, on average, a generation lasted about nineteen years. It therefore followed from the principle - "the earth belongs always to the living generations" - that all personal and national debst, all laws, even all constitutions, should expire after that time.

Madison, always the gentle critic of Jeffersonian ideas, complimented Jefferson on his "interesting reflections," then proceeded to demolish the idea of generational sovereignty, which was not really an idea at all, he suggested, but rather a dangerous fantasy. In the course of presenting his argument, Jefferson had asked Madison to imagine "a whole generation of men to be born on the same day, to attain mature age on the same day, and to die on the same day." Here, Madison observed not so diplomatically, was the chief clue that Jefferson was engaged in magic more than political philosophy. For there is not, and never can be, a generation in Jefferson's pure sense of the term. Generational cohorts simply do not come into the world as discrete units. There is instead a seamless web of arrivals and departures, along with an analogous web of obligatory connections between past and present generations. These connections are not only unavoidable but absolutely essential for the continuation of civilized society.

Madison did not say it, but the whole tenor of his response implied that Jefferson's letter was an inadvertent repudiation of all the painstaking work that he and his Federalist colleagues had been doing for the past two years. For Jefferson's idea (or, if you will, fantasy) struck at the very stability and long-term legality that the new Constitution was designed to assure. The notion that all laws, contractual obligations and hard-won constitutional precedents would lapse every nineteen or twenty years was a recipe for anarchy. Like Jefferson's earlier remark about wanting to see "a little rebellion now and then," which it seemed to echo, the generational argument struck Madison as an utterly irresponsible and positively dangerous example of indulged speculation and just the kind of abstract reasoning that gave French political thinkers a reputation for building castles in the air.

As usual, Jefferson listened to Madison's advice. He never put forward his generational argument as a serious legislative proposal, and he refrained from ever mentioning the matter to Madison again. But whatever practical problems the idea posed, whatever its inadequacies as a realistic rationale for legal reform, he clung to it tenaciously, introducing it in conversations and letters for the rest of his life. If, as Madison had suggested, the core of the idea was incompatible with the way the world actually worked, it was compatible with the way Jefferson's mind worked. Indeed, there is no single statement in the vast literature by and about Jefferson that provides as clear and deep a look into his thinking about the way the world ought to work. The notion that "the earth belongs to the living" is in fact a many-faceted product of his political imagination that brings together in one place his essential obsessions and core convictions.

Collage of influence

.... from childhood.

There are a couple missing - I just could not find adequate images for them - they are so obscure, and I need the images to make this complete. I'll keep searching.

Collage of Influence

I literally have no words about Andrea McArdle ... and how much she means to me. I have never seen her perform - but I had the Annie album ... and it was one of the most influential presents I was ever given. She was MY AGE - or thereabouts. And ... LOOK AT WHAT SHE WAS DOING. Hugely inspirational.

I can't speak. All I can say is I loved him.

Not as sexy as the Fonz ... but hahahahahahaha I loved this show. LOOK AT HIS FACE. heh heh heh Laughing!! I was a bit young for it - I hadn't hit puberty yet - so it was a little bit squishy-ikky-teenagery for me ... but I loved him.

This is how I prefer to remember Jack Wild. God bless him. What a great little performance he gave. It totally transported me.

I look at this image below and I pretty much see my whole childhood. Loved his voice, his twinkly eyes ... I seem to recall a Prince and the Pauper they did which blew me away. I loved stories about orphans, paupers, little ragamuffins, parent-less survivors ... (you can probably see that theme in this entire collage - from The Fonz to Dodger.)

More orphans. GREAT TV movie. Jill Eikenberry - although at the time she was just Emma Symms to me. I had no idea who she was as an actress - but she WAS that character to me!

Sunday nights. The excitement of seeing Tinkerbell swoop by ... and touch the tip of the castle with her wand ... knowing that some GREAT show was going to follow ... beyond compare. So many memories.

Ahem. Anyone know who this is? I was obsessed with him when I was ... 7. He was my whole life.

Of course. My mom made me a bonnet that I could wear to school. I was a geek. But we all were. Little House was very very big at that time. I always related to Laura, the wild independent one. Look at Michael Landon's hair! HAHAHAHAHAHA

LOVE HIM.

Oh my god. Anyone remember this movie? SO ridiculous!! I adored it. Even though the mother did wear a patchwork skirt that I felt a little embarrassed about. I still remember the little girl hiding from the grizzly. Timothy Treadwell has now taught us that that scene was TOTALLY unrealistic ... but still. It was very effective when I was 8 years old, and about the age of the girl hiding from the grizzly. LOVED this movie.

After-school special that just CRACKED my HEART. Life-altering. Truly life-altering. About a kid (Lance Kerwin, yet again) being bullied at school by this big monster kid Marv Hammerman. The ending was killer. Did anyone else see this movie?? It was great.

Terrifying movie about Polygamy. Big Love can suck it with its nice bourgeois version of a misogynistic bullshit practice. Am I supposed to care about the second wife's credit card problems when SHE IS A SECOND WIFE??? Babe, you got bigger issues than debt, sorry.

Anyhoo. Child Bride of Feckin' Short Creek. Was it as good as I remember it? I have no idea. Haven't seen it since. Diane Lane. Helen Hunt. Conrad Bain. I had NO business watching this movie. I must have been babysitting or something. It freaked me OUT. Also - because Mr. Drummond - MR. DRUMMOND - played the evil polygamist leader who married Helen Hunt - and broke her spirit! MR. DRUMMOND!!! Like I said - I had no business seeing that movie.

And of course, as we have discussed today:

Even just seeing their faces give me a thrill of memory. How much did I want to be Tia??

Oh, and please, let us not forget:

Marshall, Will and

I dressed like her. I had braids, a plaid shirt, jeans, and WALLABIES. Member those? I called them wallbies. Not hush puppies. She was my fashion guru. Which really shows you how insane I was back then.

So ... with two exceptions (when I find good images, I'll add them) - these were the "influences " (outside of books and education) on me. These were rehearsals for myself. Rehearsals of obsession.

Then came Ralph Macchio in Eight is Enough - which I wrote about. Right as I hit puberty ...

There was something different in that one ... I was growing up. And because of that - I felt I needed to escape even MORE. I still feel that way, and I've been grown up a long time now. I deal with the real world as much as I can - but when it comes time to escape? I jump out of that plane without any parachute, man. Let's just GO.

But all of this CHILDHOOD stuff (Tia, Laura Ingalls, Artful Dodger) was wiped away in one fell swoop ...

by the following ...

Uhm. No longer was I interested in bowl-cut Lance Kerwin, struggling with his voice changing, and school bullies. No longer was I interested in the problems of ... er .... polygamist child-brides. Ahem.

Han Solo was a MAN.

I sat there watching that damn scene (at a drive-in, no less - crammed in a car with all of my cousins) - and felt like:

Okay. Lance Kerwin is my PAST. HAN SOLO is the future.

Those wachovia ads ...

are everywhere now - and actually, I find the ads very moving... with a friendly-looking banker walking to another bank in the rain in order to get the passport from the vault ... on time for the student to make his flight ... the banker who gives his client his home phone number so that on a Sunday the banker can help the delivery guy solve his problem in order that supplies will get to Katrina victims on time ... The personal touch!

Wachovia. They really watch ovah yah, know what I mean?

But then the voiceover says:

"At Wachovia, we are absolutely obsessed with customer satisfaction."

Woah. Back OFF, Wachovia. Get a LIFE.

It sounds a little desperate and stalker-ish to me. Also, it's not JUST "obsessed" - which is bad enough when you're talking about your BANK. It's "absolutely obsessed" - which adds on to the creep factor. In general, if someone uses adverbs all the time, they are not to be trusted. (Ahem. Tom Croooze. He is KING of adverbs. Nothing is ever "great", or "wonderful" or "incredible". It's "absolutely great." "How is Kate?" "Absolutely wonderful. Absolutely great. She is magnificent. Absolutely magnificent." My e-meter is goin' off the charts now, Tom, just so you know. I think you need a sec check PRONTO. Cut out those adverbs and I might buy your line of bull malarkey.)

Excessive use of adverbs = empty-souled emotional black hole.

So back to Wachovia. I think COMMITMENT is a far better word for a bank to use than "absolutely obsessed".

I mean, hell, I'd love it if my banker would walk down the street to another vault on a Sunday in order to get my passport out of hock - making his way over the sidewalks underneath his umbrella, smiling a private smile at the good work that he does ... I would love it if I had my banker's home phone number ... but I don't want ANYONE to be "absolutely obsessed" with me. Just back OFF, Wachovia. How 'bout you be COMMITTED to my satisfaction not OBSESSED with it, mkay?

Every time I hear it (and the ads appear to be on all the damn time now) I kind of laugh. It's so EMOTIONAL. Even though the voiceover voice is measured and calm, there is a sonic-boom SCREAM of desperation beneath the calm ... like a wasted girl at a frat party who believes the guy she's doing jello shots with is her soulmate - the sloshy tears, the recriminations after only 10 minutes of knowing each other ... the creepy Fatal Attraction potential ... "Absolutely obsessed" is actually TOO invested in someone's satisfaction.

There's a fine line between "absolutely obsessed" and a bunny boiling on the stove.

The Books: "Alexander Hamilton : A Life" (Willard Sterne Randall)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is Alexander Hamilton : A Life by Willard Sterne Randall. Now that the Chernow biography of Hamilton has come out - there's probably no need to read this one (unless you're a junkie like me). Everything you could ever want to know about Hamilton is in the Chernow ... but I have a fondness for this book, as well as a fondness for Willard Sterne Randall's writing - I've read three of his biographies - one of Washington, one of Jefferson, and this one - and I really do like his style. Sadly, he seemed to have a vested interest in proving that Jefferson DIDN'T have an affair with Sally Hemings - and so he is definitely on the wrong side of history - It's kind of painful to read his Jefferson book for that reason. Like, I read it, thinking: What are you so afraid of, buddy? Why is it so horrifying to contemplate that he DID sleep with her? How you can be so SURE that he never did sleep with her? I mean - how can you stand here in the 1990s and be so CERTAIN of what happened in the private life of a man over 200 years ago - where do you get that arrogance? Why are you so intent on telling me there is "no evidence to support" blah blah blah. I know most writers of biographies have agendas - but I prefer them to be a little bit more artfully hidden.

So skip his book on Jefferson - but read his one on Hamilton. He doesn't have the same weird need to PROTECT Hamilton like he did with Jefferson - and the book is better for it.

One of the great things about Randall's writing (I've noticed it in all three of his books) is his reliance on primary documents - He quotes extensively from letters, diary entries, newspaper articles, speeches - His books are filled with block quotes - and I am ALL ABOUT the block quotes.

Now - nobody wrote more than Alexander Hamilton. I mean, from a very early age the boy was a wunderkind. I'll be studying Alexander Hamilton until I shuffle off this mortal coil. He, to me, is the dark horse of that group. Completely independent, out of nowhere, brilliant to the point of being intimidating (to his contemporaries and to me), prophetic, fearless, hated, complex ... I LOVE reading about this guy. He excites me.

During the Constitutional Congress in 1787 - he stood up at one point and talked for SIX HOURS STRAIGHT. Oh man, what I would not give to have been there that day. He had notes (as a matter of fact, I SAW those notes when I went to the Hamilton exhibit at the New York Historical Society - little scratchings on a page) - but he didn't look down at them. He knew what he had to say. And he said it - for six hours. It was a breathtaking accomplishment - even in that room filled with men who are still known for their own breathtaking accomplishments.

So here's an excerpt describing his six-hour marathon. And thank goodness that James Madison took extensive notes of the entire proceedings - recording every word everyone said, like an autistic lunatic. Thanks, Jimmy!

One of my favorite Hamiltonian quotes is below. It didn't come from his six-hour speech but a couple days later - during the arguments following his plan - It's the last blockquote in the excerpt. Words to live by, man, words to live by.

From Alexander Hamilton : A Life by Willard Sterne Randall.

Two days into an intense three-day debate on the New Jersey Plan, Hamilton asked President Washington if he could have the floor. It was early in the session of June 18 when the tall, thin, angular-faced New Yorker in elegant black and white stood and began a six-hour speech. Carefully prepared notes lay beside him, but he did not have to consult them. Madison, deeply impressed, recorded the scene:

Mr. Hamilton [said that he] had been hitherto silent on the business before the Convention, partly from respect to others whose superior abilities, age, and experience rendered him unwilling to bring forward ideas dissimilar to theirs and partly from his delicate situation with respect to his own state.

Madison was wrong about Hamilton's silence. He had already made two key motions. But, as it would later turn out, Madison was dead right about Hamilton's delicate situation in the New York delegation, where he was sure to be outvoted - and in bloc voting that meant nullified - by the pro-Clinton delegates. But that also meant he had nothing to lose. While Hamilton declared that he could not possibly accede to the views of his fellow New Yorkers, he said that the crisis "which now marked our affairs was too serious to permit any scruples whatever to prevail over the duty imposed on every man to contribute his efforts for the public safety and happiness."

Hamilton felt he was "obliged therefore to declare himself unfriendly" to both the Virginia and the New Jersey plans. He was "particularly opposed" to Paterson's small-state plan. No amendment of the Confederation that left the states sovereign "could possibly answer." Yet he was "much discouraged" by the "amazing" number of delegates who expected the "desired blessings" by merely substituting a federal national government for a loose-knit confederation of sovereign states. He agreed with Randolph of Virginia that "we owe it to our country to do in this emergency whatever we should deem essential to its happiness." To do anything less, jsut because it was "not clearly within our pwoers, would be to sacrifice the means to the end."

To Hamilton, all the defects lay with the states. Massachusetts was feeling the lack of a "certain portion of military force that is absolutely necessary":

All the passions we see, of avarice, ambition, interest, which govern most individuals and all public bodies, fall into the current of the states and do not flow into the stream of the general [national] government ... How then are all these evils to be avoided? Only by such a complete sovereignty in the general government as will turn all the strong principles and passions [to] its side.

Hamilton argued that Paterson's plan provided no remedy. Small states like New Jersey and North Carolina, "not being commercial states and [only] contributing to the wealth of the commercial ones," could never meet proportional tax quotas as Randolph of Virginia had proposed. "They will and must fail in their duty, their example will be followed, and the Union itself will be dissolved." What, then, was to be done? The expense of a national government over so great an extent of land would be "formidable" unless the cost of state government diminished. He did not mean to shock public opinion but he favored "extinguishing" the state governments: "they are not necessary for any of the great purposes of commerce, revenue or agriculture." What would work better would be "district tribunals: corporations for local purposes." The "only difficulty of a serious nature" which he foresaw was in drawing public officials from the edges to the center of the national community. "Moderate wages" would only "be a bait to little demagogues." Hamilton's views "almost led him to despair," Madison noted, "that a republican government could be established over so great an extent." In his private opinion, Madison wrote of Hamilton, "he had no scruple in declaring, supported as he was by so many of the wise and good, that the British government was the best in the world." He dared to say this because, he said, he had seen a profound shift in public opinion as the members of Congress who were the most tenacious republicans were as loud as anyone in declaiming against "the vices of democracy." He agreed with Necker, the French finance minister, who viewed the British Parliament as "the only government in the world 'which unites public strength with individual security.'"

Many in his audience reeling at such heresy in a Revolutionary council, Hamilton raced on:

In every community where industry is encouraged, there will be a division of it into the few and the many. Hence, separate interests will arise. There will be debtors and creditors. Give all power to the many, they will oppress the few. Give all power to the few, they will oppress the many. Both, therefore, ought to have power, that each may defend itself against the other.

Hamilton submitted "a sketch of his plan" to the Committee of the Whole, warning that "the people" outside the convention's walls would not adopt either the Virginia or the New Jersey plans. Hamilton said he saw the Union dissolving. "He seees evils in the states which must soon cure the people of their fondness for democracies," reported Madison.

Hamilton then read aloud his own plan of government. He proposed a two-house Supreme Legislative Power "in two distinct bodies of men": an elected assembly, elected by free men, serving three-year terms, and a lifetime senate, like the English House of Lords but not hereditary, serving "during good behavior." The senators would be chosen by electors chosen by the people, would form "a permanent barrier against every pernicious innovation." Judges also would be elected by the people and serve during good behavior. The supreme executive would be a governor chosen in the same fashion, for life, but only during good behavior: could there be "a good government without a good executive"? This "governor" -- Hamilton did not use the word "president" -- would be able to veto "all laws about to be passed" and would be in charge of executing the laws. He would be "the commander in chief of the land and naval forces and of the militia." He would have "with the advice and approbation of the Senate" the power of making all treaties. He would appoint the heads of the departments of finance, war, and foreign affairs. He would nominate all ambassadors subject to Senate approval, and he would "have the power of pardoning all offenses but treason," which would require the assent of Congress.

In one brilliant, six-hour, standup oration that left the convention stunned, Alexander Hamilton, with only the exception of term limits and the rules and qualifications of voters, laid out what would become the basic framework of the United States government. Off and on for the next few days, he rose to defend portions of his plan. Hamilton's plan coincided with the Virginia Plan on the major premise that there should be three branches of a national government, legislative, executive, and judiciary. On June 19, when the revised Virginia Plan came out of committee, he rose to elaborate on where his plan differed. His suggestion that the states should be abolished had drawn sharp criticism overnight. By "abolish", he meant their authority must be lessened. It should be "indefinite," but they should be left as "subordinate jurisdictions," as Persia within the Roman Empire. That same day, he rose again to contest a part of the Virginia Plan written by Luther Martin of Maryland that said the thirteen states were "in a state of nature," the old argument of philosopher John Locke. But Hamilton found James Wilson of Pennsylvania's resolution more palatable: the states had won their independence from Great Britain not individually but collectively. He did not fear combinations of states. The large states, Virginia and Massachusetts, were separated by too great distance.

Once again, on June 21, he rose to challenge Charles Cotesworth Pinckney of South Carolina, who wanted Congress to be elected by the state legislation. Without direct election by the people, Congress would be "engrafted" to state governments that could dwindle and die. The same day, he remained adamant on the term of representatives to the lower house. Three years in office was better than a shorter term because too frequent elections made the "people listless to them." He argued against letting state governments pay national salaries: "Those who pay are masters of those who are paid." And he argued vigorously against the holding of more than one public office:

Take mankind in general, they are vicious - their passions may be operated upon. Take mankind as they are, and what are they governed by? Their passions. There may be in every government a few choice spirits, who may act from more worthy motives [but] one great error is that we suppose mankind more honest than they are. Our prevailing passions are ambition and interest. Wise government should avail itself of those passions, to make them subservient to the public good.

And then, sure that no one at the convention would follow his advice, he went home.

Grade school snapshots

I remember sitting outside the classroom with Betsy, and we had a little old turntable - extension cord going into the room - and we played The Beatles - this one. Over and over. The green apple in the center of the vinyl spinning round and round.

I remember the brou-haha when Steve W. put his head through a window. He was running a race with another kid and he couldn't stop himself and went plummeting through the kindergarden window head-first. Betsy and I, blissfully listening to the Beatles across the playground, were called out of our reverie by the tragedy. (He was fine, by the way, eventually - but it was a very bloody scary day at the grade school!)

I remember we would traipse through the woods looking for Indian arrowheads. We always believed we found some. Those woods were crawling with arrowheads.

I remember the smell of the kickball, the squeaky feel of it in my hands. The dust in the field.

I remember the dome on the playground. The dome. Where little children could break their frickin' BACKS during recess. And there we were, dangling all over it, like little chimps. The dome is no longer. We all laughed about it and how dangerous it was at our reunion.

For some reason I remember so vividly that we had a 'debate' in 6th grade. We had teams - and we were assigned a position on a certain topic - and we had to research it and then debate our side. It was great practice because even if you actually disagreed with the side you were assigned to - you had to debate FOR that side. A good debater doesn't only rely on personal conviction. Debating is a SKILL. Of course we were 11 years old - but the whole thing was very serious. The boys had to wear suits, the girls dressed up - there was a lectern - we had to each go up, make our speech, listen to the opposing side - and then come up and make our rebuttals. It was great because we had to work as teams. (Uhm - did I say we were 11?) The topic was: Does violence in cartoons have an effect on the kids who watch them? Funny - at this point, we were pretty much talkin' about ROADRUNNER, mkay?? I was on the side that the Roadrunner's antics DO have a negative effect on kids. (Uhm - us.) Now I already had strong opinions about this and felt that cartoons did NOT have a bad effect on kids. I watched Roadrunner every week and you didn't see me dropping anvils on people willy-nilly. But I took my position and I stuck to it. My debate partner was Andrew W. This was at the HEIGHT of our love affair which culminated in a certain spitball. Ahem. My love for him was beyond anything I have ever felt for any other man. I swear to God. My heart just SOARED at the smallest thing. I remember I had to go up to make a rebuttal - one kid on the other side had said, "But we see the creatures in cartoon get right back up again after getting thrown off a cliff - it's obvious that they're okay and that it's fake." Oooh, I saw my in and I took it!! I got up and said, "So if the characters in cartoons DON'T get hurt when they fall off a cliff, then what will stop kids from saying 'I won't get hurt if I throw myself off a cliff.'" And I heard Andrew mutter, "Yes!" behind me, as though I were Mike Eruzione making a goal or something. We won the debate. It was a glorious peak in my love life.

I remember, more than anything else, that Betsy and I were so into Oliver! (I mean, besides the Beatles) that every single day we would perch on top of the jungle gym at the recess and sing through the entire score. You think I exaggerate? I do not. We even sang Boy for Sale. We sang it ALL. And here's the best part: crowds of small children would gather around the bottom of the jungle gym and listen. Betsy and I were totally the BOMB. Oh - and even better than that: the school play in 6th grade was Oliver. Betsy and I had a freak-out about this that is difficult to describe or even re-live. We were FIERCE. We HAD to be in this show. I can't remember if there were auditions - but I do remember the day when the cast was announced by our music teacher, Mrs. Shea (she was also my piano teacher). Mrs. Shea read out: "Nancy will be played by Betsy!" HUGE gasp from behind me - Betsy was sitting behind me - hand clamped over her mouth - HUGE eyes. Then: "The Artful Dodger will be played by Sheila!" HUGE gasp from me - and Betsy's hands gripped onto my shoulders from behind - literally clawing at me with tense excitement. And finally: "Fagan will be played by J!" J was sitting next to Betsy - another great friend - and this bit of casting was TRULY the wild card. Nobody saw this one coming. Betsy and I - while we were thrilled to get those great parts - kinda knew we would be cast ... but J. as Fagan ... Nobody was more surprised than J. I remember turning around to gape at her in utter shock and wonder, and she had slid herself all the way down in her seat, until her torso was completely truncated. Her eyes were enormous, glimmering, terrified, thrilled.

I remember a fish tank smashed and my hand got cut open. I stlil have the scar.

Two things were paramount in my life as influences: Land of the Lost and Little House on the Prairie. Oh, and Witch Mountain too. Tia? Fuggedaboutit. I wanted to BE her.

From flowers to fishes

A while back Roo (a costume designer and wonderful blogger) completed a flower hat - one of her assignments in the costume shop she works in. Check it out!

So for the past couple of months her next assignment has been to create a "fish hat".

Her work is phenomenal. Check out the finished product.

The Books: "The First American: The Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin" (H.W. Brands)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is The First American: The Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin by H.W. Brands.

As you can probably tell I have arranged my American History biographies (we're in that section now, in case you didn't notice) by TOPIC, rather than by author. Believe me, I have agonized over whether or not this was the right choice. I am still not sure, and periodically I arrange all the biographies by author's name ... but there's something I really like about seeing all of the John Adams books next to each other, the Washington books, etc.

The First American is a big hefty fun book - I am sure there are better-written biographies of Franklin out there - this one was just the most recent. I enjoyed it, even though it's obviously a rather "typical" book. I like it for its breadth - but that's really just because of who Franklin was. Any biography of Franklin is necessarily going to be massive. He had such a deep life, such a long life - with so many different facets. It's really kind of astonishing. His commitment to civic duty - his practical bent - ("Let's set up a fire department like the one I saw in England ..." "Let's create a public lending library ...") - It's just awe-inspiring. There are still people like that today, of course - self-starters - people who don't WAIT for stuff to be given to them - and when you read any biography of Ben Franklin, you kind of start to think that you should never wait for anything, that you should go right ahead and do it yourself. Get people involved! Invest in the community! Figure out what needs to be done, and get the community to do it. Self-sufficiency. He was just a master at all of this. Or - yes. He was a master. But it's more that - it just seems that that's who he WAS. I don't know, I never met the guy - but he seems like a very positive can-do personality. He backed it up with intimidating brain power, obviously - but he just seems very very likable to me. And of course people would want to get on board with his schemes. And all of this is without even mentioning his role in the American Revolution!

I knew immediately the excerpt I wanted to post. This is one of the main reasons that I feel like I would have LIKED Ben Franklin. He was such a NUT. He was 16 years old and an apprentice in his brother's printing shop in Boston - they produced the paper The Courant. Only I can't remember what was going on with the father, exactly - but Ben's brother James was running the show. There was quite a bit of sturm and drang here - James Franklin despised Cotton Mather (which you just didn't do at that time) and put scathing attacks on Mather into his paper. Mather fought back - the establishment fought back - James reached out for allies in the community (many of whom were sick to death of Mather's pious bullshit.) Anyway - they got people in the community to write "op eds" in support of the paper (all under pseudonyms, of course).

And ... I am just so in love with what Ben Franklin - a kid of SIXTEEN - did.

So creative! So HUMOROUS! One of his main things was: never attack directly. You lose half your audience that way. Learn to make your points in a subtler way. Do it through humor. Or aphorisms. Make people LAUGH, soften them up - they'll be more inclined to agree with you.

Anyway, here's the excerpt. Ben Franklin creates a persona - and completely channels her personality. It's an act of transformation, of ... acting, if you will. I just LOVE it.

From The First American: The Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin by H.W. Brands.

Consequently it was with pleasure that James awoke one morning to discover beneath the door of the print shop a contribution from a genuine outsider. Actually, this contributor was not an outsider at all; it was Ben Franklin, who had observed the genesis of the Courant and its challenge to Mather and the Massachusetts hierarchy but who conspicuously had not been invited to join the undertaking. Because he had not - and because he realized that James might be less than enthusiastic about his younger brother's participation in the new project - Ben carefully disguised his handwriting and signed the letter "Silence Dogood". James read the missive with growing delight - which increased the more from his appreciation that the author's very name tweaked Cotton Mather, whose recently published Silentarius followed his earlier Bonifacius, or Essays to Do Good. James shared the Dogood letter with his colleagues; they registered equal approval. James ran it in the April 2, 1722, issue of the Courant.

Mrs. Dogood introduced herself to Courant patrons by chaffing them for the contemporary unwillingness "either to commend or dispraise what they read until they are in some measure informed who or what the author of it is, whether he be poor or rich, old or young, a scholar or a leather apron man." She (Ben Franklin, rather) proceeded to mock this timidity by fabricating a fanciful background for herself. She had, she said, been born at sea en route from the old England to New England. But the joy surrounding her birth had turned to sorrow almost at once when a huge wave swept across the deck of the vessel and carried her celebrating father to his watery doom. It was a misfortune, Silence said, "which though I was not then capable of knowing, I shall never be able to forget."

The death of her father had made an indigent of her mother, with the result that the infant Silence was placed in foster care outside Boston, where she passed her childhood "in vanity and idleness" until being bound over to a country minister, "a pious good-natured young man and a bachelor." This godly fellow instructed the girl in all that was necessary for the female sex to learn - "needlework, writing, arithmetic, &c." (Had James known of Ben's earlier defense of education for girls, he might have guessed the identity of Silence Dogood at this point.) Because she displayed a head for books, the minister allowed her the run of his library, "which though it was but small, yet it was well chose to inform the understanding rightly and enable the mind to frame great and noble ideas." This bucolic idyll was interrupted briefly by the news that her poor mother had died - "leaving me as it were by my self, having no relations on earth within my knowledge" - but soon enough it resumed. "I passed away the time with a mixture of profit and pleasure, having no affliction but what was imaginary and created in my own fancy; as nothing is more common with us women than to be grieving for nothing when we have nothing else to grieve for."

Almost certainly none of the readers of the Courant guessed that this ironically knowing voice belonged to a sixteen-year-old boy; neither did James, who inserted after Silence Dogood's first epistle an invitation for more. Any such additional missives could be delivered to the printing house or to the candle shop of Josiah Franklin. "No questions shall be asked of the bearer."

Ben later said he felt "exquisite pleasure" at the approbation this first effort in journalism elicited; he took particular satisfaction from listening to james and the others guess who the anonymous author might be. "None were named but men of some character among us for learning ad ingenuity." During the next six months Ben continued his correspondence, delivering fifteen Dogood letters in all.

His topics ranged from love to learning to lamenting the death of dear ones. As in the first letter, insight and irony were evenly matched. Silence related how, to her astonishment, her ministerial benefactor presently essayed to woo her. "There is certainly scarce any part of a man's life in which he appears more silly and ridiculous than when he makes his first onset in courtship." (As Ben was of an age, if not an economic condition, to consider courtship, the reader who knows the identity of Silence Dogood discerns a certain dawning in him of the difficulties of the endeavor.) But gratitude inclined Silence to accept his suit, leading to wedlock and "the height of conjugal love and mutual endearments", not to mention "two likely girls and a boy." Tragically, her husband was carried off by illness almost as suddenly as her father had been swept away by the ocean, and Silence was left to look after herself and her offspring. Yet, as she assured readers, especially the men among them: "I could be easily persuaded to marry again ... I am courteous and affable, good humoured (unless I am first provoked) and handsome, and sometimes witty."

Silence satirized the state of higher education in Boston, lampooning Harvard College - the alma mater of Cotton Mather, among other establishment influentials - as a snobbish ivory tower where students "learn little more than how to carry themselves handsomely and enter a room genteelly (which might as well be acquired at a dancing school) and from whence they return, after abundance of trouble and charge, as great blockheads as ever, only more proud and conceited." She chided men for being as foolish as the women they criticized for idleness and folly: "Are not the men to blame for their folly in maintaining us in idleness?" She scoffed at women for silliness equal to men's - how else to explain hoop petticoats, those "monstrous topsy-turvy mortar pieces" that looked more like "engines of war" than ornaments of the fair sex. Having experienced multiple deaths in her family, she offered a formula for eulogizing departed loved ones, pointing out that tears were the easier to elicit the more unexpected and violent the demise. "It will be best if he went away suddenly, being killed, drowned, or froze to death." The address in such a case ought to include a litany of melancholic expressions such as "dreadful, deadly, cruel cold death, unhappy fate, weeping eyes." An experienced speaker would wring the maximal lachrymation from an audience, but in a pinch anyone could deliver the doleful sentiments. "Put them into the empty skull of some young Harvard (but in case you have ne'er a one at hand, you may use your own)." Rhymes were nice: "power, flower; quiver, shiver; grieve us, leave us." A concluding flourish was the mark of a really distinguished graveside encomium. "If you can procure a scrap of Latin to put at the end, it will garnish it mightily."

Had they come from the pen of a mature writer, the Dogood letters would deserve to be considered a delightful example of social satire. Coming as they did from the pen of a mere youth, they reveal emerging genius. Some of what Franklin wrote he might have experienced indirectly; some he extrapolated from his reading; much he must simply have imagined. But the tone is uniformly confident and true to the character he created. Silence is irreverent and full of herself, yet she brings most readers - the proud and pwerful excepted - into the realm of her sympathy. They laugh when she laughs, and laugh at whom she laughs at. She is one of the more memorable minor characters of American literature, and all the more memorable for being the creation of a sixteen-year-old boy.

My super super

Okay so when I moved into the apartment where I live now the super was a man I rarely saw named Mohammed who was generally surly and rude whenever I would ask him for something - and then - when the fire department arrived in the middle of the night - causing one of my dearest held fantasies to come true in one beautiful moment ("Who here's wearin' Sierra?") - Mohammed HID in his apartment. Literally. HID. During a fire emergency. Dude. You're a super. You just ... that is SO not how a super is supposed to act during an emergency. Please stop hiding. I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE BECAUSE CIGARETTE SMOKE CONTINUES TO WAFT OUT FROM UNDER THE DOOR. Mohammed was kind of a loser. I actually felt kind of bad for him. It can't be a nice life- HIDING behind your apartment door, when those pesky tenants start knocking, telling you that the entire fire department has arrived. Also, during the tenure of Mohammed - I have to say that there were some bug issues. I shiver to even say it outloud, because I fear a repeat of the debacle. I lived directly over Mohammed's pad - and I think he was just hidin' out down there, with dirty dishes in the sink, CALLING to the bugs to COME VISIT HIM.

Mohammed disappeared without a trace and suddenly - with no announcement - a new super moved in. And I slowly began to notice changes about the place ... it was subtle, but ... eventually all-pervasive.

Here are some of her attributes:

-- She is a hot Latin woman. She wears fuzzy pink cloche hats in the winter, matching gloves, polka-dot sundresses in the summer, and bright red lipstick.

-- In the summer months - she takes a big beach umbrella out into our backyard (right outside my window) and lies out there, sunning herself, wearing a string bikini. I found this alarming the first time I saw it - because I wasn't ready for it - and nobody is ever in our backyard - but now I find her summer rituals comforting.

-- She scrubs the floors of the stairwell like clockwork - and also scrubs the floors in the basement - very important, due to the garbage bins down there. She is on the frontlines of the battle of the bugs. She takes it seroiusly.

-- She wears fancy cowboy boots and hot outfits.

-- At Christmastime, she procured a small Christmas tree, and fake Christmas presents and put it up in our lobby.

-- She also has procured cheap (but nice-looking) Oriental rugs to put in the lobby as well as the foyer by the mailboxes. Before her - it was just cold kind of dingy tile. Well done, super.

-- She does her laundry every Sunday morning - and hangs it out on clotheslines in our backyard. It is pleasingly old-fashioned of her - and I completely understand because the drier in our building SUCKS. I love to look out and see laundry on the line. However, most of her laundry appears to be sexy underwear, which she breezily strings up on the line for all the surrounding neighbors to see. Again, the first time I saw a billowing line of silken bras RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW, I was alarmed - but now I find it comforting. Meanwhile, she suns herself beneath her own drying lingerie in the backyard - lying on a blanket, wearing a string bikini. I know I've mentioned that but I believe it bears mentioning again.

-- There is no longer a musty dingy smell in our public stairwells. It now always smells clean and ... kind of astringent-ish - but that's COMFORTING in an urban environment. You feel SAFE from the BUGS.

But here's my favorite part. (Can you tell I love this woman?)

Her Sunday ritual is obviously similar to mine. We CLEAN. We are DOMESTIC. Her apartment is right below mine - and so I know that she does her laundry - takes it out back - strings it up - and then goes to town on the basement. I can hear vacuum cleaner, etc.

And what music does she blast? Can you guess? Because she BLASTS music. I can actually FEEL the music through the floor.

She's hot, she's probably in her 40s, she's got dark skin, a hot body, a Spanish accent - and every Sunday morning what music does she blast?

John Denver's Greatest Hits.

I just love people. I truly do. You never ever know what they're gonna do. Just by looking at her I would never have guessed that John Denver's Greatest Hits would be her "motivation to clean EVERYTHING IN SIGHT" music - but apparently it is.

To quote Philadelphia Story: "The time to make up your mind about people ... is never."

I bet, too, if the entire fire department showed up at 2 am one night because of a random alarm going off (please, God willing, let it happen again) ... she'd be the first to greet them at the door. Probably wearing some hot nightie, and lipstick perfectly applied. There would be no cowering out of sight! She would face her duties as super with a clear head and perfectly-mascaraed open eyes.

The Books: "The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin" (Benjamin Franklin)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin by Benjamin Franklin

A must-read. I struggled with which excerpt to choose. I love the part when he decides to be a vegetarian (which he pretty much was for his whole life). I love his determination to be perfect - and his whole journey with that - making charts with all of the virtues, checking them off. I love his discussions of the books that really helped him, the people who took a shine to him. But it's so unvarnished - that's why I love it. You get a sense of what an amazing character he was - going to England at so young an age, being swindled out of his money, having to make his own way ...

He also was such an earthy kind of person. Or - at least he admitted his earthiness. You totally get the sense of the frolics he's having left and right, with this or that girl ... His main revelation in life was that moderation was the key to all that was good. He liked to drink. In moderation. He was a vegetarian. But he didn't make it a religion. He was moderate about it. He liked the ladies. In moderation. He had massive appetites - and as long as he kept them a bit under control, they were fine. I don't know - I just really like that about him.

I love the excerpt I've chosen. It's advice about writing - advice that REALLY resonates with me. It's why I can't read the majority of political blogs. They're too certain they are RIGHT. And that kind of certainty, in my opinion, makes for terrible writing. Boring terrible harangues. Franklin's advice, while about writing, also ends up being a philosophy of life - it gets into deeper issues, not just writing issues - and it's stuff I don't care to discuss - but Franklin's writing advice goes a long way towards understanding who he was, why he was beloved the world round, why some people despised him, and why his career was so long and fruitful. Also - his scientific inquiries fall under this category as well ... His inquisitive mind, his curiosity, his ability to - even as a grown man - look at the natural world and say: "Why is it LIKE that?" His ability to take NOTHING for granted. All of this also seems to come under the philosophy he puts out in the second paragraph below. It's not about not having opinions or having ideas. Not at all! It's about how you express them - Is the point to just walk around feeling that you were right? Well, if it is - then good luck with persuading anyone to come to your side. People, in general, do not like to hang around self-righteous jagoffs. But what if the point is to persuade?? Are you able to ADJUST how you express yourself so that it is not so odious to others? The powers of persuasion ... Franklin was a master at it. Reading this book, you realize he was such a master at persuasion because he PRACTICED it.

Oh - it was great - last week I went to the Library Company of Philadelphia. Founded by Franklin (and his buddies) in 1731. That reading room!!!!! DROOLING OVER THE READING ROOM. (I wrote a bit about the Library Company here.)

Franklin is, of course, everywhere in Philadelphia - even more so than William Penn. Franklin has trickled down to the most trivial level of life. Franklin Liquors. Franklin Cafe. Franklin Bar & Grill. Franklin Mall. Franklin Lingerie. Just pop his name onto the beginning and you've got yourself a business!!

From The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin by Benjamin Franklin

While I was intent on improving my language I met with an English grammar (I think it was Greenwood's) having at the end of it two little sketches on the arts of rhetoric and logic, the latter finishing with a dispute in the Socratic method; and soon after I procured Xenophon's Memorable Things of Socrates, wherein there are many examples of the same method. I was charmed with it, adopted it, dropped my abrupt contradictions and positive argumentation, and put on the humble inquirer. And being then, from reading Shaftesbury and Collins, made a doubter, as I already was in many points of our religious doctrines, I found this method the safest for myself and very embarrassing to those against whom I used it; therefore I took delight in it, practiced it continually, and grew very artful and expert in drawing people even of superior knowledge into concessions the consequence of which they did not foresee, entangling them in difficulties out of which they could not extricate themselves, and so obtaining victories that neither myself nor my cause always deserved.

I continued this method some few years, but gradually left it, retaining only the habit of expressing myself in terms of modest diffidence, never using, when I advanced anything that may possibly be disputed, the words certainly, undoubtedly, or any others that give the air of positiveness to an opinion; but rather say, I conceive or apprehend a thing to be so and so; It appears to me, or I should not think it so or so, for such and such reasons; or, I imagine it to be so; or, It is so, if I am not mistaken. This habit, I believe, has been of great advantage to me when I have had occasion to inculcate my opinions and persuade men into measures that I have been from time to time engaged in promoting. And as the chief ends of conversation are to inform or to be informed, to please or to persuade, I wish well-meaning and sensible men would not lessen their power of doing good by a positive assuming manner that seldom fails to disgust, tends to create opposition, and to defeat most of those purposes for which speech was given to us. In fact, if you wish to instruct others, a positive dogmatical manner in advancing your sentiments may occasion opposition and prevent a candid attention. If you desire instruction and improvement from others, you should not at the same time express yourself fixed in your present opinions. Modest and sensible men, who do not love disputation, will leave you undisturbed in the possession of your errors. In adopting such a manner, you can seldom expect to please your hearers or obtain the concurrence you desire. Pope judiciously observes --

"Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown proposed as things forgot."

He also commended it to us

"To speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence."

And he might have joined with this line that which he has coupled with another, I think, less properly --

"For want of modesty is want of sense."

If you ask, Why less propoerly? I must repeat the lines,

"Immodest words admit of no defense,
For want of modesty is want of sense."

Now, is not the want of sense, where a man is so unfortunate as to want it, some apology for his want of modesty? And would not the lines stand more justly thus?

"Immodest words admit but this defense,
That want of modesty is want of sense."

This, however, I should submit to better judgments.

"Where I come from"

A while ago I took a writing class at the 92nd Street Y - it was GREAT. We had random cool assignments - and I really stretched myself.

We had one assignment - we could write whatever we want - but whatever we wrote had to have two things:

1. It had to take place in the 1960s
2. It had to start with the words "Where I come from"

When we all read our pieces outloud - it was just AMAZING to read the differences, to see people's creativity - and where it led them. Some people honed in, of course, of the more stereotypical image of the 60s - drugs and the sexual revolution and hippies - Others didn't go that route at all. They just wrote a story that happened to take place in the 1960s. It was just so so cool.

I interviewed my great-aunt Joan for what I wrote - she was hugely helpful (she's a nun) and also put out a call on the blog for people to share any personal stories they might have had about MY topic. I've put it all together here - using some of those stories, making up others, and trying to give a sense of that time and how momentous it was for Catholics.

Anyway - I just dug up my piece today and thought I'd share it. I already want to edit the SHIT out of it - but whatever, that always happens. I'll post it as I wrote it.

WHERE I COME FROM

Where I come from, Latin wasn't a dead language. Mass began with: "In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Introibo ad altare Dei." Where I come from, south Boston, everyone is Catholic.

I was born on a holy day, I can't remember which one, but I know it was a Wednesday. July 15, 1945. Four days later, my mother left me in the care of one of my older sisters and went to confession. Father O'Brien sat behind the grate, and my mother, mantilla pinned hastily to her head, blurted out her horrible sin: she had missed mass on a holy day. There was a brief pause, and then came Father O'Brien's voice, the brogue of western Ireland still strong on his tongue: "Molly, am I mistaken , or did you not just give birth?" "Yes, Father. I gave birth on the holy day." There was another pause and then: "Molly. For God's sake, the Lord forgives you. Go home. Rest." My mother loved to tell that story. She regaled her sisters with it, on long summer evenings in our cramped back yard, as they sat around, all 6 of them, drinking vodka tonics in the cool of twilight, letting their kids run wild through the streets until it was time for bed. My mother and her sisters did competing imitations of Father O'Brien, a priest who had baptized them, confirmed them, married them, and then baptized their children.

Where I come from, you don't miss mass lightly, even if you just gave birth, and your breasts are leaking milk, and you can barely walk. You get your ass in the pew.

My grandmother gave me her rosary beads as a gift for my confirmation, and I loved them. I loved the sparkle, and I loved them because grown-ups had them, and I was fifteen, on the cusp. I still have them, even though I haven't done the rosary in ages. I find it very meditative actually, a wonderful practice, but for some reason now, I resist. There's something there that cuts too deep. It's mysterious. And yet I look at my rosary beads - the multi-faceted rainbow-sparkles, the old silver crucifix dangling on the end, the solidity of the object and yet also its grace - and all I can see is my grandmother, brogue still strong in her voice, even after forty years in this country, her pale-as-paper wrinkled hands, the raw bony fingers moving from stone to stone to stone, hop-skipping from one to the next as though she were in a creek and she needed to get to the other side. The imprint of my grandmother is there in the beads, an afterimage. I can't say the Hail Mary anymore without feeling my throat clog up, burning tears at the back of my eyes. Why? The emotion feels like loss, but that baffles me.

I found church very boring as a kid, especially the Latin part, although I grew to have an appreciation for it once everything changed. But still. To a child, that mass was the height of psychological boredom, meant to break you. It almost drove me to hysteria.

Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison

Good grief. But I loved the mysticism hovering on the edges of all the rigidity, the glimpses of a mystery at the heart of the mass. Sometimes, usually during the Lenten masses, when everything got horribly solemn, it would be as though a sheer curtain fluttered back, giving me a seconds-only view of a glorious awful world of pain and beauty and redemption. But those were just moments. For the most part, it was insufferable. The quiet chill face of Mary stared down from her niche up on the altar. She didn't really care. She was above it all. But when I said the rosary, to myself at night, in the way my grandmother taught me, I felt like I got closer. Closer to Mary, certainly, but it was more about getting close to the wordlessness at the heart of the entire ritual.

When "For the kingdom, and the power and the glory are yours, now and forever" was tacked on to the Lord's Prayer after Vatican II, my father (never a zealot really, his Catholicism was more of a cultural thing, an Irish thing) was outraged. Not for any theological reason, he couldn't back up his opinion with verse and chapter from the Bible. No. He was outraged because that was how the Protestants had always said the prayer, and to my father "Protestant" was a dirty word. And when, after Vatican II, they introduced the "sign of peace" into the mass, where the congregation turns to each other and shakes hands, saying, "Peace be with you", my father stopped going to church altogether, which nearly broke my mother's heart. But he wouldn't bend. He stood over the smoking grill in the backyard, turning hamburgers over, railing on and on about it. "Goddammit, Molly, I don't go to church to make friends."

Pope John XXIII, during the Second Ecumenical Council, said that the church needed to "open a window", and open it they did. My grandmother died in 1962, so she missed the opening of the window, although she did live long enough to see "one of ours" elected President of the United States. Oh, I remember her laughing, on election day, that open-throated guffaw we all loved. She sat in her kitchen, listening to the election returns coming in on the radio, a gleam of tears in her eyes. She kept saying, over and over, "I never thought I'd see the day. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I never thought I'd see the day." And then that laugh - free and loud. Not only was he "one of ours" because he was Catholic, but he was from Boston, and he was Irish. It was a great great day for all of us.

When Kennedy was assassinated a year later, my grandmother was already dead and buried. As awful as it all was for our country, in and of itself, there were a couple of moments, during that breathless excruciating time, when I would think, thankfully, "I'm so glad she didn't live to see this. It would have killed her."

Two years after the assassination came the tumult of Vatican II. Every morning, I woke up in my dorm room at the small women's Catholic college I went to in Connecticut, and rushed downstairs in my robe and curlers, to pick up the New York Times from Sister Agnes, and bring it back up to my room. My roommate Moira would make instant coffee, and I would read aloud the latest dispatches from Rome. No more "In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Introibo ad altare Dei." Now it was "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. I will go to the altar of God." It was still an incantation, a call to worship, only it was now in English. Traditions upended, altered, shifted, thrown out, preserved but only in different forms.

I wondered what my grandmother would have had to say about all of it. The Latin mass was her tradition, and also her connection to her girlhood home in Ireland. What would it have done to her to give it up? Many adapted to the changes in the Mass, and many were unable to adapt, and instead drove three hours on Sunday mornings to the one church in the one county in the next state that still had a Latin mass on Sunday.

Although the Catholic Church remained, almost none of the old rituals survived the opening of the window. And now my rosary beads might as well be a relic from an ancient archaeological dig, for people in the present-day to puzzle over, and speculate about what they were once used for.

Culture snapshots: I am way behind everyone else

-- I had a couple hours to kill in the train station - waiting to go down to Philadelphia - and so I bought The Da Vinci Code - which I have not read. I had read the first page of it 2 years ago, and rolled my eyes at the breathless almost-constantly italicized prose. I knew I wanted to read it - because it's a phenomenon and I want to be up to date but I decided to wait for it to come out in paperback. Ahem. YEARS WENT BY. No paperback. Unbelievable!!!! Well, finally - they have released it in paperback - just in time for the movie coming out - so I bought it. And I started to read it. And I finished it a day and a half later. I could not put the thing down. It is complete BALDERDASH but I still could not put it down. I had NO idea what would happen ... although I guessed that Teabing was too good to be true (not immediately - but when he turned out to be a bad guy, I realized I had been waiting for that moment) ... Anyway. My first assessment of the prose, based on the first page, was accurate. Everything is italicized. Everything is a cliffhanger. But ... but ... you MUST turn the page. YOU MUST. It's obvious why it is such a crazy bestseller. I just HAD to find out what would happen. And at the end - at Rosslyn - I even got a little misty with the whole family reunion thing. It is not high art, and it is not great literature - but it so works in its own little genre that I have just got to tip my hat. I don't read books like that - I just don't - give me Bronte or Dickens or Joyce, please, I get impatient with modern fiction. Especially runaway bestsellers. It's just not my taste. I like WRITERS who can WRITE. Ian McEwan, John McGahern, Michael Chabon, AS Byatt. The writing hooks me in. And Dan Brown is not a good writer. But this? This ... story? This ... phenom? I. Could. Not. Put. It. Down. And I had really long days in Philadelphia. I would wake up at 5 am - walk across the street to the Dunkin Donuts in the dark dawn - get a coffee - go back to my motel room (Please ....... Shirts & Shoes Required) - set myself up at the little table, and do some of my work - for an hour or so ... and then ... my fingers itching, the book radiating a magnetic force ... I would open Da Vinci Code. Hats off, Dan Brown. Couldn't put the damn thing down, balderdash and all!!

-- Watched all of Greys Anatomy - the first season - none of which I had seen before. I have honestly just become a HUGE fan of this show. It's so DIFFERENT from other "hospital shows" and I can't quite pinpoint the difference. Perhaps it's because it's really about the inner emotional life of "Grey" herself ... with her perceptive and melancholy voiceovers opening and closing the show. It's about her growth as a human being, her journey. And also - it seems that the REAL theme of the show has nothing to do with medicine. The REAL theme is relationships - and even more than that: unrequited love. That feeling you get when you love someone so much that you ache ... but you can't have them ... and because you are an adult and not a kid, you have to suck it up, and be a good sport about it, and life moves on, and I'm okay, and we can both behave like adults ... but the reality is is that it ACHES. There's something very sad and very bittersweet flitting around on the outskirts of this show. The music choices, the voiceovers, the way certain situations are resolved (I am thinking of the one show where Izzy is angry at her mother, she never speaks to her mother ... and yet she spends the entire show trying to make cupcakes like her mom did ... and they aren't coming out right, yet she won't call her for the missing ingredient ... The cupcakes are a side plot ... and yet they keep coming up, in a recurring way, throughout the episode - so the last moment of the show, when we see Izzy pick up the phone, and say, "Hi Mom ... it's Cricket ..." - it just packs a huge punch.) The show really EARNS its weekly catharsis. Catharsis is actually easy to come by - and lots of shows generate fake drama in order that the audience will be on the edge of their seats. The show Third Watch was one long extended fake drama. Yuk. But Grey's Anatomy seems to really invest in each and every one of those characters ... they are all REAL ... so that when the end of each episode comes, we in the audience are actually left with some real feelings about them. Whatever response they get from us is EARNED.

The Books: "Samuel Adams : The Father of American Independence" (Dennis Brindell Fradin)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is Samuel Adams : The Father of American Independence by Dennis Brindell Fradin

This book was sent to me by ricki! It's an over-size hardcover - and it's filled with paintings, woodcuts, engravings, newspaper cartoons from the time ... It's a really rich book that way, in terms of images, and I love to flip through it. John Adams was a really successful lawyer before the Revolution came along. Washington was a rich dude who had distinguished himself as a soldier. Franklin - fuggedaboutit - what DIDN'T the guy succeed in? Sam Adams, though, really didn't have much going on for himself except his rage at the British - he wasn't Mr. Successful like all the rest of them - but when it came time to rebel? He was at the top of his game. It was his moment. Without the American Revolution, Benjamin Franklin would still have made it into the history books. Even just as a philanthropist and general smarty-pants. But the American Revolution MADE Sam Adams - without it, he would have been completely forgotten. I find that one of the most interesting things about him. How certain people merge with certain moments in time ... It is as though they were MEANT to be born at that time. Sam Adams was a perfect example of right man- right time. He needed a CAUSE to bring out his particular brand of energy and genius. I mean, I guess they all did - but he REALLY did, because he didn't have too much else going for him. He was the kind of guy who get others fired up. He was inspirational, fierce, tireless ... When he spoke (or wrote) - people listened.

Here's an excerpt about the most famous protest he organized.

Samuel Adams : The Father of American Independence by Dennis Brindell Fradin

The first of the tea ships, the Dartmouth, arrived in Boston Harbor on November 28, followed soon after by the Eleanor and the Beaver. The Sons of Liberty posted armed guards at Griffin's Wharf to watch over the three ships and make sure that the agents did not try to sneak the tea ashore. Meanwhile, Samuel Adams was whipping the patriots into a frenzy, as demonstrated by a message that he sent to towns near Boston in late November:

Now brethren, we are reduced to this dilemma, either to sit down quiet under this and every other burden that our enemies shall see fit to lay upon us as good-natured slaves, or rise and resist this and every other plan laid for our destruction, as becomes wise freemen. In this extremity we earnestly request your advice, and that you would give us the earliest intelligence of the sense your several towns have of the present gloomy situation of our affairs.

By mid-December Adams had completed the details of his secret plan. On Thursday, December 16, the largest public gathering in Boston had ever held in its 143-year history took place at the Old South Meeting House. About five thousand Bostonians and two thousand people from outlying areas crowded into and around the church. Since Boston's population was about seventeen thousand, nearly every adult in the Massachusetts capital must have attended this gigantic town meeting.

The townspeople decided to send a final request asking that Hutchinson send away the tea ships. As they awaited the governor's answer, people in the meeting house stood up and made defiant speeches. One man hinted at what was coming by saying: "Who knows how tea will mingle with salt water?" His comment drew loud applause. Finally, at about six at night, the messenger returned with the response that Samuel Adams and nearly everyone else had expected: Hutchinson absolutely refused to send the tea ships back to England.

Samuel Adams then arose and faced the multitude of angry Bostonians. "This meeting can do nothing more to save the country!" he shouted. These words were a prearranged signal to forty or fifty men, disguised as Indians, who were posted at the church entrance.

"Boston Harbor a teapot tonight!" whooped the "Indians", waving their hatchets. The war party set off along Milk Street toward Griffin's Wharf. As the crowd emptied out of the Old South, John Hancock was heard to say, "Let every man do what is right in his own eyes!" Many in the crowd decided to help the "Indians" dispose of the tea, for by this time everyone knew the purpose of the hatchets.

Not counting spectators, the mob contained about a hundred and fifty people by the time it reached Griffin's Wharf. Most of their identities remain unknown, but we do know that Paul Revere was among them. By the light of torches and lanterns, the men boarded the three ships, smashed open the 342 chests (some sources say 340) with their hatchets, then dumped all the tea into Boston Harbor.

Their mission accomplished, the Bostonians marched home to the tooting of a fife. As the men joked about having turned Boston Harbor into a "teapot", Admiral John Montagu of the British Navy stuck his head out of a window and said, "Well, boys, you've had a fine, pleasant evening for your Indian caper. But mind, he who dances must pay the fiddler." A leader of the tea party shouted back, "Oh, never mind, Admiral. Just come out here, if you please, and we'll settle the bill in two minutes!"

Most Bostonians considered the destruction of the tea a brave and necessary act of defiance. Even John Adams, who loathed violence and destruction, said that the Boston Tea Pary was "the most magnificent act" the patriots had yet perpetrated. But no one was happier than Samuel Adams, who on New Year's Eve of 1773 wrote a letter to a friend about the events of December 16. "You cannot imagine the height of joy that sparkles in the eyes and animates the [faces] as well as the hearts of all [Bostonians," he wrote. Also on December 31, the Boston Gazette printed a New Year's message from Samuel Adams charged with the highly emotional style he was using to move his fellow Americans closer to war:

To all Nations under Heaven, know ye, that the PEOPLE of the AMERICAN WORLD are Millions strong - countless Legions compose their ARMY OF FREEMEN ... AMERICA now stands with the Scale of JUSTICE in one Hand, and the Sword of VENGEANCE in the other ... Let the Britons fear to do any more so wickedly as they have done, for the HERCULEAN ARM of this NEW WORLD is lifted up - and Woe be to them on whom it falls! -- At the Beat of the Drum, she can call five Hundred Thousand of her SONS to ARMS ... Therefore, ye that are wise, make Peace with her, take Shelter under her Wings, that ye may shine by the Reflection of her Glory.

May the NEW YEAR shine propitious on the NEW WORLD - and VIRTUE and LIBERTY reign here without a Foe, until rolling Years shall measure Time no more.

The Books: "Passionate Sage: The Character and Legacy of John Adams" (Joseph Ellis)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is Passionate Sage: The Character and Legacy of John Adams by Joseph Ellis

In addition to Founding Brothers Ellis has these other books which don't qualify exactly as biographies - they are more like contemplations. I LOVE them. There's American Sphinx - about Thomas Jefferson, and His Excellency - about George Washington. Passionate Sage is Ellis' contemplation on the "character and legacy of John Adams". He's really good at this type of writing.

Here's an excerpt from Passionate Sage - where Ellis talks about Adams' autobiography. All of the founders were aware that future generations would be watching them - Adams more than most. Adams felt he got the short end of the stick, in terms of securing a legacy for himself. I love John Adams for a ton of reasons that have to do with what he actually DID - but I also love John Adams the most of all "those guys" because of how openly human he was. There he is - warts and all. His insecurities, his vanities, his never-ending yowl of "It's not FAIR ... why does HE get the credit for that??"

From Passionate Sage: The Character and Legacy of John Adams by Joseph Ellis

Adams' autobiography, on the other hand, was less like a well-crafted work of literature than an open wound, a text that requires no "deconstructing" because it was never "constructed" in the first place. Like Adams's life, it was impulsive, exuberant, and candid. And its theme, as well as its form, was the exact opposite of Franklin's. It was about self-doubt and failure rather than self-fulfillment and success, about the ironic ravages of history rather than the triumph of the individual. When Adams eventually read Franklin's autobiography in 1818, he admitted defeat: "My own appears, upon retrospection, a dull dreary unfruitful Waste." But then defeat and failure in the face of American popular opinion had always been his dominant message. In that sense, Adams's autobiography was a clumsy model for his great-grandson's masterpiece, The Education of Henry Adams, as well as an anguished exprssion of the dark and hidden underside of Franklin's beguilingly happy narrative.

Villains and intriuges had always played a crucial role in Adams's thinking about the American Revolution, although it was usually British leaders like Lord North or American Loyalists like Thomas Hutchinson who bore the brunt of Adams's accusations of conspiracy in the 1760s and 1770s. (As Adams once put it, "Mr. Hutchinson never drank a Cup of Tea in his life without Contemplating the Connectio between that Tea, and his Promotion.") Now, in the autobiography, after an opening section that described his early years as a student, grammar school teacher, and country lawyer, he got down to the serious business of eviscerating his enemies on the American side.

Alexander Hamilton - no surprise here - was the chief villain. The fact that Hamilton had only recently died in a duel with Aaron Burr, Adams declared, was no cause for mercy. Adams claimed to feel no obligation "to suffer my Character to lie under infamous Calumnies, because the Author of them, with a Pistol Bullet through his Spinal Marrow, died a Penitent." During the final year of his presidency Adams had periodically terrified the High Federalists and startled the members of his cabinet with outbursts against Hamilton. But he had not seen fit to record his personal feelings toward the unofficial leader of the Federalist faithful. And he had adopted a stately pose in the wake of Hamilton's slanderous and scandalous Letter ... Concerning the Public Conduct and Character of John Adams... All the while, however, the suppressed anger had been throbbing away inside him. Now the invective poured out. Hamilton was a "Creole Bolingbroke ... Born on a Speck more obscure than Corsica ... as ambitious as Bonaparte, though less courageous, and, save for me, would have involved us in a foreign war with France & a civil war with ourselves." Writing to his good friend Judge Francis Vanderkemp at the same time, he amplified his accusation: Hamilton was "a bastard brat of a Scotch pedlar," who lived constantly "in a delirium of Ambition" and who "had fixed his Eye on the highest Station in America and ... hated every man young or old who Stood in his Way." To Rush, he acknowledged that such diatribes against the man regarded as "the Sovereign Pontiff of Federalism" would probably cause "all his Cardinals ... to excite the whole Church to excommunicate and Anathematize me." But Adams claimed to be unfazed, adding: "It was time for a Protestant Separation." It was the closest he ever came to a direct assertion of what was his de facto desertion of the Federalist Party. If Hamilton was, as his worshippers claimed, the guiding light of Federalism, it was a light that deserved to go out.

Tom Paine ranked as second only to Hamilton in Adams's version of the American rogues gallery. Paine, wrote Adams, was "a Disastrous Meteor", "a disgrace to the moral Character and Understanding of the Age." Everyone knew that Benjamin Rush had given him the title for his wildly popular pamphlet, Common Sense, and that the arguments about the inevitability of American independence that Pain advanced had, in fact, been circulating throughout the colonies since 1760. In the midst of the accelerating events of early 1776, when Common Sense first appeared, Adams's initial reaction had been more generous, though even then he was somewhat wary. Paine's pamphlet, he oted then, contained "a great deal of good sense, delivered in a clear, simple, concise and nervous Style." In fact, it was the electricity and accessibility of the prose that caught his attention, causing Adams to recognize that Paine's message was identical to his won -- the American Revolution was both inevitable and natural -- but that he himself "could not have written anything in so manly and striking a style ..." What worried him then was Paine's endorsement of a single house legislature as the prescribed form of government for the new states, a prescription that revealed that "this Writer has a better Hand at pulling down than building." What worried him in his autobiography was the credit Paine had received for his elegant statement of the obvious. Paine was a mere cypher, a nonentity in the Continental Congress. Worse, Paine was "the Satyr of the Age ... a mongrel between Pigg and Puppy, begotten by a wild Boar on a Butch Wolf." Only if one wished to call the eighteenth century "the Age of Frivolity" could one call it "the Age of Paine".

The verdict on what he called "the American untouchables" -- Jefferson, Franklin, and Washington -- was decidedly less vitriolic, but sufficiently equivocal to sense Adams's ego throbbing just beneath the surface. All three American greats served as an illustration of the principle "that Eloquence in public Assemblies is not the surest road to Fame and Preferment, at least unless it be used with great caution, very rarely, and with great Reserve." This was the lesson of "eternal taciturnity" that Adams preached to John Quincy and anyone else who would listen, and it derived from Adams's sure but somewhat neurotic sense that, as "the Atlas of Indepedence" who made the fierce and ferocious speeches that were needed to assure separation from England in the Continental Congress, he inevitably made lifelong enemies. The rule seemed to be that men who played leading roles in controversies became controversial. Jefferson, on the other hand, "had attended his duty in the House [the Second Continental Congress] but a very small part of the time and when there had never spoken in public." Adams recalled, with a mingled sense of admiration and accusation, that "during the whole Time I sat with him in Congress, I never heard him utter three sentences together."

Diary Friday

Next installment in the Picnic adventure.

Part 1. The audition
Part 2: The callbacks, getting into the play
Part 3: First meeting with the director
Part 4. The calm before the storm ... the time before rehearsals started ... memorizing lines, etc.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!

In this next one - the repercussions of dropping out of the religious retreat started to really hit me. Also, my general non-stop busy-ness was starting to wear me down.

NOVEMBER 9

School has been horrendous this week. Oh dear Lord. But it's the last week of the quarter so all the teachers are heaping on the work. I can't miss a day. This week, I had 3 papers due in English, my French journal - Next Tuesday I have a practical in Physiology and I haven't even seen the bones yet. [hahahahahahaha] I have so much work. And I also have rehearsals every night from 7 to 11. It is all wearing me out. I have no time. I need time. Time to myself. Time to think. I have none at all.

Also, the retreat is this weekend. In fact, it's going on right now. Honestly, it really hasn't hit me yet - that I wasn't gonna be there. Something that I've been praying for to happen for so long. Lisa, Betsy, Kate, Ricky - I won't be there. Last night after I got home from work [work?? You still go to your job?? Quit the damn job, at least for the quarter!!!] I sat at the dining room table and did caritas for a while. It tore me apart. All of those people I love so much. And writing those letters - just writing them ripped me apart. I just burst into tears at the table. Part of it was exhaustion. I really am worn paper-thin. Also, it was TS' birthday. I bought him a card but I didn't have time to call him or see him.

And I thought that I'd be able to go to the Closing [at the end of the weekend retreat, there's a big closing ceremony - where families come, friends, whoever] - I didn't know that it started at 4. I went to Betsy's before rehearsal to give her my caritas. I felt so droopy, utterly depressed. I am going through really rough times. I sleep in school. I have never looked as bad as I do now. And when Betsy told me that the Closing was at 4:00, I froze. Heap boulders on me. She drove me up to the theatre, and when I got out of the car, I was near tears. I just stood there. The sky! Quickly scudding clouds, and the huge silver full moon peeking out. It was chillyl\ and windy and vast. Before I got out of the car I leaned over to Betsy and we hugged really tight. I said, "Have a beautiful weekend." And she said, "Thanks, honey." As she drove away, I could only whimper inside, "I want to be there." I felt so empty and desolate.

That retreat was gonna be SO special. It was so so so hard to give it up. It still hadn't hit me. Doing caritas was what did it to m e. I was so tired anyway. Before rehearsal I really tried to get myself under control - but I couldn't. I just felt bland and empty inside.

But then during rehearsal - it felt so great. I felt so secure. We did Act I and Act II. In Act II, I have to scream and cry and go running off stage where I throw up - Thursday was the first time I really felt it. I really felt it. I screamed, "MADGE IS THE PRETTY ONE! MADGET IS THE PRETTY ONE!" I shoved Joanna away from me - I felt it all inside me - and I went running offstage. I really did feel sick inside. Oh Diary. It's very weird, but we all stay in character on and off stage. I can feel myself just ... being Millie all the time. We did Act II about 3 times, and each time I flew off - Brett was waiting there. He held out his arms to me. Or he took my arm and pulled me over to him. Then he just held me until our cue. He smoothed my hair. I was still Millie, though. It's creepy. I wasn't Sheila. I was Millie, and I was sick, and I was not pretty like my sister. Millie and Alan have this special bond anyway. But Brett was gentle - and at one point - I could hear his heart beating. I could hear it when he swallowed. I could hear and feel his heart.

My favorite part is Act II because I totally go crazy. And when I go crazy, someone is there to comfort me, help me come down. Then when he leads me back onstage, I'm still groggy and depressed - Liz comes over to me -

On Thursday, it was scary - I just stood up there - and it was all too much. The retreat, being Millie, acting, feeling, loving - being hugged and feeling loved - I just stood up there weeping. It was so real that it wasn't even "acting". But it was scary. I don't ever want a boyfriend. It's all too much for me.

Thursday's rehearsal was weird cause of what was going on in my real life - but it was really hard and really scary to put myself through that scene so many times - I have to fall on my knees, sobbing, "I wanna die! I wanna die!" I never really felt anything in that scene until Thursday. And suddenly - I really wanted to die. How can I want to do that in front of a huge group of strangers I don't even know? Just doing it in front of the cast was scary enough. I just SCREECHED, as I staggered around the stage, "MADGE IS THE PRETTY ONE!" It was scary - crying and running backstage - I am Millie.

We had like a 15-minute break so I went down in the house to just sit and look over my lines, and I remembered that on Tuesday's and Wednesday's rehearsal - we did the Alan-Millie scene. Talk about putting your real feelings on stage! Rough. Kate said, "It's unbelievable - the undercurrent beneath your scenes." I mean, Picnic is not acting. It's being. Acting is something to avoid. Kimber said, "There is a difference between playing an emotion and having an emotion." When he said that, it all clicked for me. Immediately.

It's sort of contradictory, but it's easier to just let yourself feel whatever is going on in the scene than to reach for the emotion that you think you should be having - but it is so so hard to let yourself go through it, to actually experience it.

The scene I have with Alan is the hardest one I have, I think. Because it's real - not just cause it's Brett - but because I feel myself freezing up. I feel myself trying to put up a shield because of rejection. I always want to cry during that scene, because it's rough. I can feel my own awkwardness - and I just remember DW - and how I would try to tell him how I felt about him - and I honestly don't know if I can do that in front of an audience. Kate said to me, "Yes, you will be expressing yourself, but you're going to touch people." I hope so. [I love how my friend Kate appears to be taking the role of acting coach. She wasn't even at the rehearsals! But obviously I had told her all about it, in great detail.]

Anyways, I was sitting in the house and I was thinking about that scene and how it didn't feel right yet. So I got up and went over to Brett who was fumbling around in his duffel bag and I said, "Brett?" He straightened to look at me and I told him that I was sort of having trouble with it. The first thing he said was, "Is it me?" I said, "No - no - I just feel a million miles away from the whole scene --" He interrupted me and said, "Follow me." He walked down to the far front corner of the house and sat in a seat and I sat next to him. He had a pipe in his mouth (he uses it to get into an Alan frame of mind) - and we started talking about. We went through it.

Then he said, "Okay, let's try it." When we're onstage - he sits on the porch steps - I sit on the cistern - so we aren't really physically close - but right then, we were touching - our knees and elbows were touching - For me, the scene had never felt real before - and suddenly, there, it felt real. I couldn't stand how close I felt to him - Some things happened that had never happened before onstage. He said to me, "I'm glad you like me, Millie." And then - our eyes locked - I was drawn to him - It wasn't acting. It was an actual conversation. A real conversaion. Finally I said, "I don't expect you to do anything about it. I just wanted to tell you." [Man. Art imitates life.]

After I said that line, I felt this big relief - and he smiled at me - really slowly - and then, very cautiously, we became Brett and Sheila again. I could feel myself trying to feel my way back into myself. Brett said, "That felt really good. We had some moments in there we've never had before."

In that small conversation - as Alan and Millie, and also as Brett and Sheila - I really felt like his close friend. And - I am. That's the whole thing. I really am. And that makes me so happy.

On Thursday, he was acting really bummed. Whenever Hal and Madge have their love scene, he leaves. I heard him say to Joanne, "I really can't watch the scene cause it really bumes me out."

I know how he feels. I'm not onstage when Joanna says, "Mom, tell Millie I never meant it all the times I said I hated her. Tell her I've always been proud that I've had such a smart sister" - I sit backstage and I just start crying. Every time I hear those words. It's scary when the acting and livng become real, and you can't tell where you end and where the character starts.

Later on, Brett was just standing backstage and we were waiting for our cue - I looked over at him, and he was standing absolutely still. I said, "How ya doin', Brett?" He looked at me and made this grimace face. He whispered, "I can't watch that Hal/Madge scene. As Alan, it really depresses me." I nodded. He stepped forward and hugged me. He said, "I wish sometimes that Kimber would just tell people what to do. Not show them." Brett has a clean nice smell.

Diary, I want to really really fall in love someday. I want to have so much love in my heart that it honestly aches. [Careful what you wish for there, girlie.]

There's more to tell.

First of all: the play's coming together great. We are down to run-throughs. They're moving the set in soon. I LOVE IT. I CAN'T WAIT. Thursday night Brett drove me and Joe home. Joe lay down in the backseat so I sat up front with Brett. It was cool. I mean, in a way, I really do love him - I adore him actually - I have a huge crush - but I love them all. I really do love them all. They are all good kind people, and I love them.

Oh! And Brett thought I was 18! I said in the car, "Well, when I get my driver's license, I'll drive everyone around."

He glanced at me. "Wait - aren't you 18?"

I wasn't about to lie to him. I shook my head, staring at him through the dark.

He said, "17?" I said, "16." [hahahahahahahahaha] He didn't say anything - pulled into the driveway. As I got out, Joe climbed into the front and as they pulled out and drove away, I was standing on the porch and we were yelling lines from the play back and forth at 11:30 at night. It was so funny.

They're my friends. My good friends.

Tonight's rehearsal was even better. We did Act II and Act III. I tore offstage after my screaming in Act II - It felt alive, vital, crystal clear - It's hard playing a part so like myself - because it's me that I am exposing.

Act II is the hardest. I have to stand there, dying of awkwardness, trying to get up the courage to ask Madge, "How do you talk to boys?" That is the hardest scene because - it could have been extracted from my damn Diary.

"Madge -- do you think he'll like me?"

"When it comes to boys, I'm absolutely ignorant."

It's so hard. It's very very hard. It hurts because it's real.

Reherasal ended and Brett glanced at me. "Need a ride?" I said, "Sure! Thank you!"

Happiness. Contentmet. Why are those sometimes more hard to bear than grief? I can't stand how happy I am now. The minute I walk into high school, it drops. I slump in my chair. All I can think about is Picnic, Kansas, Millie - Brett, Eric, Joanna, Joanne, Liz, Joe, Jennifer, Linda - Once I walk into high school I start getting worried about things, thing that disappear with them because they're already out of high school - they're open and caring - Oh, and also - when I am with them, I feel beautiful. [To my high school friends: I know I also felt the same way about you guys. hahahaha Just have to put that in here!! I think I meant just the actual larger atmosphere of high school.] I mean, I know I'm not ravishingly gorgeous - but - when I'm at the theatre, I feel beautiful. At high school, I am moody and odd. I stick out like a sore thumb.

I gathered my stuff together. I don't want to pinpoint my emotions in the moment. It just felt good. For a minute, it was awkward - cause Joanna came over and offered me a ride and I didn't want to sound like, "Oh - I'm going with Brett ..." My insecurities rattled through me. I was so worried that she went home in a rage at me. [hahahaha I'm sure she was fine, Sheila. It's okay. Calm down. Always so so worried.] I said, "Oh - thank you but Brett's going that way ..." I know the words sound snobby - but everybody knows I'm not a snob. We all yelled goodbye to her and Brett said, "Okay - could you wait just a sec - I have to go to my locker." I lit up in a phony way. "Just like high school!" He whirled around to me and started strangling me. We walked into the back hall and Joe sort of intercepted Brett and Brett looked at me and said, "Could I have just a minute with him?" I almost laughed. I said, "Of COURSE!" But - I feel like such a tagalong sometimes. Such a ... I don't know - just awkward. Of course I started thinking, "They're talking about me." Blah blah, I'm so dumb. The world doesn't rotate around me. At least not exactly around me, [bwahahahahahahaha] So I sat on a lounge bench feeling dumb dumb dumb dumb, wishing I had gone with Joanna. After a while, I heard Brett call my name from the guy's dressing room. I guess Joe had left. So I wandered down there sort of cautiously. I don't know what I was expecting in there. Brett called out to me, "Come on in - Don't worry - the wall isn't lined with urinals." [I love that he read my mind THROUGH THE WALLS] Well, it looked just like the girls dressing room - a long table lined with lit mirrors, sinks, lockers. He was standing there putting his tap shoes into his duffel bag. He told me how much fun tap classes are. He was raving about it. We had about three false starts. We got all the way out of the building when he realized he had forgot his script. So we went running back in to get it. We got to the lobby when he stopped. He had forgot his jacket. One more time - he forgot his keys. Ths time he dropped his bag right next to me, said, "Just wait here" and went running back into the theatre.

And finally we were ready to go. We went outside. It was dark and sort of drizzling. The ground was wet. It was a beautiful cool night. Quiet. It was about 11:30 by the time we got out so the parking lot was deserted. We didn't even talk. I was so aware of the clicking of my shoes. I was just walking and enjoying the sky and being with him.

The silence isn't uncomfortable. With TS - no matter how at ease I am with him - there's that little bit that makes it awkward. Silences are AWFUL. TS will start humming. I rack my brains for SOMETHING to say. I hate that. Anne once said to me, "I think our friendship is so cool cause we can just sit and be quiet with each other."

We had just done Act III. And at one point during that last group scene, I glanced around - as Millie - and saw Brett crying. He had tears in his eyes - it moved me - watching anybody cry, as you know, makes me cry. But watching him. It made me ache inside.

So as we walked towards the parking lot, I said to him suddenly, "You are so good." I suppose out of the blue that does sound pretty weird cause he glanced at me like WHAT? and I said, "You're such a good actor, Brett." He was sort of laughing and saying, "What made you say that?" And I said, "Oh, I was just watching you today. It was real." We then had to scramble through the ditch to get to the parking lot, and as he climbed up onto the pavement he said, "I'm not just saying this to be modest, but I'm really not. I've got a lot to learn. I've put SO MUCH time into this one. I mean, Alan is so opposite from me. I'm just trying to get a handle on him.

Oh. An actor. He's serious about it. And he is one of the nicest people I have ever met. I'm not exaggerating or bullshitting. I MEAN IT.

Okay, we got to his car and he unlocked my door. Right before I got in, this girl's voice called from a nearby car: "Brett? Could I talk to you for a minute?" I didn't know who it was but I imeediatley thought that it was Joanna [hahahaha Like she would be like: "Brett? Can I talk to you? I really wanted to drive Sheila home tonight and I really feel like you one-upped me in a way that pisses me off." hahahaha I was so insecure!] Brett grinned at me, opened the car door for me, and said, "I'll be right with you" - and I got in - wishing I were dead, wishing I had called for a ride, wishing that the ground would swallow me up so that I could disappear forever.

I waited about 10 minutes. Raindrops started pelting the windows. I kept glancing over at the other car. Brett was leaning in the passenger side window and talking. I DIDN'T WANT TO BE THERE. I have never felt so trapped. I sat in Brett's car with my hand over my eyes - 10 minutes of aloneness and awkwardness. I kept thinking, "I should have gone with Joanna."

Finally Brett came back over and got in. It was really raining now. I love the silence in a car with the rain on the roof, so close. He closed the door. The streetlamps were shining so I could see his face. When he got in the atmosphere between us was really charged. He smiled apologetically at me - I smiled back - but his eyes looked sad somehow. I wasn't about to ask "What" or "Who was that?" (I would have DIED first.) But (I admit humbly) I was also dying to know. But I didn't want him to feel like he had to tell me, so I didn't say anything. I just smiled at him. He sat in his seat and sighed, still grinning at me. Maybe I looked a little sad too. I don't know. While sitting in that car, waiting for him, I suddenly felt totally alone in the world - with the rain closing in on me.

We just sat there quietly. I was staring out at the rain and I could feel that he was looking at me. But it was impossible for me to look at him. I felt like a tagalong. Very young. Brett waved his hand in front of my face to see if I was there, so I smiled at him. Diary, I don't know what happened to me during that 10 minute wait, but I couldn't talk. I just couldn't talk. I like Brett in this way that makes me feel helpless sometimes. When he hugs me backstage, I feel this strength coming from him. It makes me feel strong too.

He didn't start the car yet. We were both just sitting there, smiling sadly. Brett sighed again, really deeply and said, "If you'll pardon the expression: Women!" I laughed a little bit and said, "I'm sorry!" "Yeah. As of now you are a spokeswoman for your sex. Sorry about that." I just shrugged, I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't like: "What was that all about? Who was that girl? Why did she want to talk to you?"

But I didn't have to ask because he told me anyway. Thinking about the talk we had ... He always makes me feel better. Or - at ease. He makes me feel good about myself, and I get to relax when I am with him.

After a silence he said, "Remember Carla from the party?" [The chick who waited til the last minute to get a costume!]

I nodded. "I liked her."

"I know, so do I. She's a nice girl - but I don't know - maybe I'm giving her the wrong idea. I don't mean to. This always happens to me. She's acting like such a wounded puppy about it too. She's been sitting out in her car waiting for me for an hour. It's really hurting me - I want to let her down, like 'Sorry, I just don't care that way for you' - but if only she wouldn't act like such a wounded puppy!"

I am not even gonna try to explain how I felt listening to him. [hahahahaha] In the car, with the rain, talking about things with him - life and love - not just Picnic - I said to him (and I don't know where this came from) "I know how she feels." [Uhm ... do you REALLY not know where that came from???]

I DO! I acted just like Carla with DW - I'd hang around like crazy for him, loitering, waiting. It was horrible.

Brett said, "I know you know. I know it hurts. But what am I supposed to do? A while ago, I invited a few people over for dinner - Liz, and her too - and I guess she got the wrong idea or something. Because she said to me, 'You want to go for a walk?' So I said 'Sure!' You know - so we went for a walk on the beach and, I don't know, she just started getting weird - this always seems to happen. Like last summer I worked with this girl and we had a really close relationship. I mean, it might have gone somewhere, but then she called me up and said, 'We're getting too serious.' I was like - What? Where did that come from?"

I was just listening. I couldn't think of anything to say. Finally I said, "I've never been on your end."

He said, "It's just as bad." "Have you told her how you feel?" And he said, "I've tried - but how do I got about it - I mean, she's making me feel awful right now the way she's acting about it." I didn't say anything, just listened. He was staring straight forward out the window. I felt overwhelmed by it. I still do. That we were really honestly talking. He was sharing something with me. I felt so ... proud or something. Finally, he looked at me and smiled. The silence grew. That's another thing: I can look him in the eye. Then he said, finally, "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here. Probably sit here and just talk to myself." He started the car.

I was clutching my script in my hands. I was tingling. I could feel my toes curl, my hair bristle ... [what the fuck? Are you Elpheba?] I felt everything. I'll never forget our conversation. [which is rather amusing because until I re-read this entry this morning, I had completely forgotten this whole thing.]

Honesty is so beautiful.

The car kept stalling cause of the wet. It stalled at a light. It stalled on South road- and he pulled over - turned it off - and we sat for a minute, waiting. Darkness, speckled windshield. I wanted to hold his hand. Not necessarily romantically. It doesn't make a difference to me. I have a crush, so what. But I love this guy. I want to be a good friend to him.

When the car started again, Brett started off the conversation with, "So enough about me! What's up with you?"

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I leaned my head back. He looked at me. "What? It looks like something's on your mind." [See - these are the reasons that I loved Brett, and that I still love Brett. Not just for what he gave me back then but for who he is today. He takes you seriously. He's intuitive. Like ... that little moment: "It looks like something's on your mind." Having a guy even NOTICE that something was going on outside his little universe - was a new thing for me. And to have him SAY it ... It was hugely relaxing for me. Changed my life - and it changed what I expected of men - later on, when I would have boyfriends, etc. Already - my friendship with Brett had made me see my relationship with TS in a new light.]

When I said honesty is hard - I mean it. I knew what I wanted to say but it took me so long to get it out. The awkwardness with myself is still there. I said, "It's just that - it's really rough going back to high school after a rehearsal like tonight - I want everything there to be like it is in the theatre - and it just isn't."

Brett said, "Well - we can be ourselves." "Brett - then why do I --" He knew before I finished what I was gonna say. And he said, "Because. You're mature. You are somehow out of that mindset. I mean, if you were high school-ish - we all would have blown you off long ago. I mean, you'll find that the majority of people in college are high school types, and immature - but you've already found a group. And you belong with us. You're one of us." There was a long pause, and then he exploded, "Sheila. You told me you were 16. It freaked me out. 16?"

Right then he pulled into the driveway. I opened the door, just slightly so that the light came on and I turned back to somehow say good night or thank you to him. Don't ask me how I knew it, but I somehow knew or felt that he was going to hug me - what was in his eyes and smile said so much more than anything - I could see the hug there - but I am a JERK - he didn't hug me. That's why I feel dumb saying that he would have hugged me - he was going to - I could feel it in his smile - that's where it was. I think something in my face made him not hug me. I really think that's what it is. I didn't give him a chance. It's all blurry to me now. [Really? Sounds to me like you are describing every moment in excruciating detail!]

So no, he didn't hug me, but his smile warmed me to the tips of my toes. Then he reached out and touched my hair.

I said, "Thank you, Brett."

He said, "See you tomorrow morning."

I got out of the car. My heart was pounding. I could feel my upper arms straining because I just wanted to SQUEEZE HIM. As I ran past the front of the car, I waved to him through the windshield and as he pulled out, he beeped good-bye.

The Books: "John Adams" (David McCullough)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is John Adams by David McCullough

You know, I read a lot of biographies and most of them are kinda crappy. I read them for the TOPIC mainly. I have a crappy biography of Gary Cooper - which is written so salaciously and so badly (I mean, it's also so much fun) - but I have it because I love Gary Cooper, and there are some great anecdotes in there. But sometimes a biography comes along (and it's very rarely) that re-defines the entire genre, raises the bar, throws down a gauntlet to other writers - whatever you want to call it. And it's a short short list. When book reviewers talk about high-water-mark biographies there aren't many on their list. The same titles referenced over and over: Juliet Barker's book about the Brontes. It is generally agreed that Barker was one of those gauntlet-throwers. She makes all other biographies pale in comparison. The standard Bronte biography before Barker's had been written OVER A CENTURY BEFORE ... by someone who KNEW Charlotte Bronte. Woah. Barker went straight into the heart of the Bronte myth, and wrote a massive exhaustively researched book which actually made readers have to re-think the Brontes. The myth is so enduring of Haworth Parsonage, etc., and the wild Bronte girls, and their isolation ... but Barker researched EVERYTHING - the footnotes are almost as long as the book. We have financial statements, and leases, and grocery lists - all used as evidence - I mean, it's a stunning accomplishment. It came out in th 80s or 90s, I think, and you can STILL see it referenced on an almost weekly basis in various book reviews. Richard Ellmann's biography of James Joyce. Another gauntlet. Gerald Clarke's Capote. That book came out years ago and it is telling that nobody has even tried to compete with it. Nobody has said, "Let ME write a biography of Capote ... " Because ... why bother after that one? Scott Berg's biography of Lindbergh was also hailed as a high-water-mark of the genre - the access he had to Anne Lindbergh's private papers was unprecedented. These are the ones I can think of off the top of my head - biographies that made a real STIR -not just because they were best-sellers but because they really made reviewers and readers look at the actual genre, and realize the possibilities of it. All of this is a lead-up to say that David McCullough's biography of John Adams is one of the best biographies I have ever read - it's on the short short list of greatest books I have EVER read, fiction or non-fiction. John Adams is having a bit of a resurgence right now - a couple of other people have come out with biographies of Adams since McCullough's book took the entire damn world by storm (there were a couple months there where you couldn't take a subway ride without seeing SOMEONE reading that book - it was so so cool) - but McCullough's book is so commanding, so readable, so ... GOOD ... that all biographies now have to compete with his. He is the guy to reach. Same with anyone who would want to write a biography of Joyce. Like it or not, you have to compete with Ellmann's book.

I LOVED McCullough's book. I love him, in general.

My whole family read this book (naturally - we're all such Adams freaks) ... and I remember Siobhan and I just LAUGHING about the anecdote in the following excerpt. It's my favorite anecdote in the whole book. I just love the image of it so much that it almost makes me nervous.

It's from 1776. The Declaration has been signed. There was the disastrous battle of Long Island (disastrous for the rebels, I mean) ... when Washington, in the dead of night, removed his troops across the Hudson. A retreat. Adams, when he heard the news, replied, "In general our generals were outgeneralled."

Lord Howe requests a conference with some of the delegates of the Continental Congress - who were all in Philadelphia. Adams was unanimously chosen as one of the delegates who should go (the conference was going to be on Staten Island). Benjamin Franklin was also chosen - and Edward Rutledge.

What happens on the journey just ... I picture it and I just LOVE IT. Thank God these guys kept diaries.

From John Adams by David McCullough

They were to meet His Lordship on Staten Island, and on the morning of September 9, in "fine sunshine", they set off, the whole city aware of what was happening. Franklin and Rutledge each rode in a high, two-wheeled chaise, accompanied by a servant. Adams went on horseback, accompanied by Joseph Bass. Congress, in the meanwhile, could only sit and wait, while in New York the admiral's brother, General Howe, temporarily suspended operations against the rebels.

Free of the city, out of doors and riding again, Adams felt a wave of relief from his cares and woes, even to the point of finding Edward Rutledge an acceptable companion. The road across New Jersey was filled with soldiers marching to join Washington, mainly Pensylvania men in long, brown coats. But for the "straggling and loitering" to be seen, it would have been an encouraging spectacle.

The journey consumed two days. With the road crowded, progress was slow and dusty. At New Brunswick, the inn was so full, Adams and Franklin had to share the same bed in a tiny room with only one small window. Before turning in, when Adams moved to close the window against the night air, Franklin objected, declaring they would suffocate. Contrary to convention, Franklin believed in the benefits of fresh air at night and had published his theories on the question. "People often catch cold from one another when shut up together in small close rooms," he had written, stressing "it is the frowzy corrupt air from animal substances, and the perspired matter from our bodies, which, being long confined in beds not lately used, and clothes not lately worn ... obtains that kind of putridity which infects us, and occasions the colds observed upon sleeping in, wearing, or turning over, such beds [and] clothes." He wished to have the window remain open, Franklin informed Adams.

"I answered that I was afraid of the evening air," Adams would write, recounting the memorable scene. "Dr. Franklin replied, 'The air within this chamber will soon be, and indeed is now worse than that without doors. Come, open the window and come to bed, and I will convince you. I believe you are not acquainted with my theory of colds.' " Adams assured Franklin he had read his theories; they did not match his own experience, Adams said, but he would be glad to hear them again.

So the two eminent bedfellows lay side-by-side in the dark, the window open, Franklin expounding, as Adams remembered, "upon air and cold and respiration and perspiration, with which I was so much amused that I soon fell asleep."

Brotherly love

Just a few words:

My show went great!! Nightfly came with his girlfriend - I've never met either of them - so that was SO cool and it was just so nice that they made the effort to come out. Thanks, guys!

Also - it just goes to show you that a little self-publicity works - because a woman who reads me (but hasn't yet commented) came to the show, just on the basis of my own post about it. SO NICE!!!! It took me a second to even realize that that was what had happened. "Wait a second ... you just ... read about it on my site ... and decided to come? Do you comment on my blog? No? Uhm ... what???' So so nice! Also, she was with a guy who looks so damn familiar that I am still haunted by it. He said he had the same feeling - so I know it will come to me at 3 am where I had met him before.

Anyway - it was so so nice that you all came out. Truly! It meant a lot.

David was there, with my good friends Bill and Bob.

Bob seemed rather morose afterwards. The piece had troubled him. He has a teenage daughter. David (who ... uhm ... WHAT WOULD I DO WITHOUT HIM??) - he's now seen the damn piece 3 times, and so he can give me a play-by-play critique of how it was different from the other times ... he's really seen the piece develop. But anyway, David said to Bob, "So ... what did you think of Sheila's piece?"

Bob said, morosely, "I think women need to be protected. I feel like they need to be driven around in armored cars."

I'm sorry - I started laughing hysterically as I typed that out.

It was SUCH a funny and heartfelt response. Speaking as the father of a teenage girl. Wanting to protect her from future heartache, etc. It was hysterical. I mean - not hysterical that he was so upset - but it was hysterical (and beautiful) that that was his response to the piece. It was also hysterical just HOW he said it. His eyes were on the TV (we were out in a bar) - he didn't look at me, or move his eyes, his face didn't change - but then he came out with THAT.

This other woman came up to me in the lobby and started shouting at me about how her ex-fiance still lived in her neighborhood, and how she couldn't avoid seeing him, and how much it pissed her off, and how he looked like so many other people, so she kept THINKING she saw him ... She didn't even say "Good show." to me - it was AWESOME. People just randomly come up to me and start talking about their own relationships, or whatever. It's so great! This happens all the time when I do the piece, and it's one of my favorite parts of the experience: people come up to me and start talking about themselves. Best. Response. Ever. Anyway, she just HAD to tell me about her ex-fiance living in her neighborhood - and she went on and on, and her voice got louder, and more annoyed, and I asked, innocently, "When did you guys break up?" She replied, "15 years ago." Long silence. Craig then said, with a deadpan face, "But you're over it, right?" Long pause - then we all just BURST into laughter.

So. Back to business. No, I have not been locked up in an armored car for the last 3 days - despite Bob's recommendation - I've been tromping around Philadelphia, getting a bit sunburnt ... and I was able to visit the haunts of all my favorite dudes!!!

And I just need to say this:

In my hotel, there was a sign in the lobby that said, exactly:

Please .......
Shirts & Shoes required

I found the ellipses fascinating. I kept saying it in my head - the way it was written. It wasn't just dot-dot-dot ... It was 7 dots. Yes. I counted. It made it seem like they had been pleading with customers over and over to put on shirts and shoes and finally had been reduced to begging. PLEASE .... I BEG YOU ... PUT ON A DAMN SHIRT!

There's a hell of a lot of EMOTION in that long long ellipses.

I am now home - only to find that my DVD of the first season of Grey's Anatomy has arrived! So I am going to climb into bed, put on pajamas, put aloe on my damn sunburn, and lose myself in a necessary escape. I'm burnt out right now. Literally.

Oh wait. I'll put on pajamas before I climb into bed.

I am fried.

More on Philly later.

I used to live in Philadelphia so there's always this strange rather disorienting sense of deja vu when I go there.

In the end ...

after all else has washed away ... what people are left with is love. There's a shocked silence that falls over people, as they realize what has been lost ... but after that, after they recover - what they are left with is the love.

And to me ... this is what love felt like. Not looked like. But felt like.

Swooning. Supported. Safe.

It is not that important to know who you are. It is important to know what you do. And then do it like Hercules. -- Stella Adler

This is the only choice facing me. Every day I face it. Because all else has washed away.

What is it that I do? I know what I do.

Okay, then. So do it like Hercules.

Happy birthday, Empire State Building!

On May 1, 1931 the Empire State Building officially opened. Herbert Hoover, President at the time, pressed a button from DC and all the lights came on.

I can see that building from the end of my street. It is RIGHT THERE. It's a part of my everyday life. It looms now ... in the unbalanced skyline. It is a precious building to me - to all of us who live here. And probably to many people who DON'T live here. It is alone now. In the months after September 11, there were times when I would stare up at that spire, literally praying for it to never go away. "Please ... don't let anything happen to that building ... oh God ... please ..."

In honor of the birthday of this extraordinary landmark, I'm going to re-post something I wrote awhile back. It's about my trip to Baltimore to hang out with two guys I had never met before. Such nerve I had!!

Here's the post:

I had a terrible dream last night that something happened to the Empire State Building. Overnight, it was as though an earthquake had happened - only a very neat earthquake - which opened up an abyss down the side of the building, separating the parts from one another. It was mysterious why this had happened. But New Yorkers woke up, and everybody noticed it.

And panic ensued immediately. New York woke up in panic mode.

I was clinging to something, very high up - staring at the opened crack down the side of the building - knowing it meant something very very bad. But it was mysterious. It was like the monoliths in 2001, or the lights suddenly appearing over Mexico City in Signs. Something's happening. Something already has happened.

As I said, I was very high up, above the streets - and I could hear everyone screaming below. The air filled with screams.

Just like on September 11. That's one of the things I remember about that day. The air filled with screams.

The first time I left New York City after September 11 was for a weekend in Baltimore at the end of September - I was going to visit 2 guys I had never met before in my life. But we had become friends in an online kind of way, in the summer before September 11. I felt no fear, NONE, as I went to meet these strangers. There was no danger. I was aware of no danger. My friends thought I was insane. "What do you know about these guys? Who are they? What are their phone numbers? Call me every day while you're down there..." Etc.

Well, suffice it to say - that they were 2 of the loveliest men I have ever met, and they treated me like a refugee from a war-torn country. Which, indeed, I was. At that time.

One of them is still a good friend of mine, and comments on this blog often. I will ALWAYS have a soft spot in my heart for these guys. I went down there on the train, and I was - to put it mildly - a mess. I didn't want to leave New York. I was still not sleeping. The city had not recovered. By the end of September, we were into the time of funerals. Every day there were funerals. The drones of bagpipes filled the air at all times - replacing the screams of September 11. I can't explain it. I had not recovered - nothing was normal.

I almost didn't go down to Baltimore, because I felt too much anxiety leaving my city. What if something else happened? I couldn't not be there! If an explosion was going to happen, then dammit - I wanted to be exploded too. It's MY city, Goddammit.

My 2 new online friends were voices of calm and reason. All of America was affected by what happened that day. But I was their friend from New York City, and they assured me that everything was going to be all right, and when I got down to Baltimore, they would show me around, they would take me out to dinner, they would take care of everything. No worries, no worries, no worries ...

I am still amazed that these guys came into my life. I called them "my Baltimore Boys".

On the day I was to leave, I had an extended anxiety attack. I was taking the Path to 33d Street and then walking over to Penn Station to take the train out of town. At every second, I thought I'd turn back. I could not leave the city yet. The whole damn island of Manhattan felt like an illusion. While I was in Baltimore, the entire thing could be liquidated. My home ... my home ... my family ... my sister ... my brother ... Cashel ... all of them there ... I could not be separated from them ...

I got off at 33rd Street and made my way to the stairs up to the street.

The station was packed with people. It was a Friday afternoon, your regular rush hour.

And suddenly - with no warning - NONE - everyone started to run. People were screaming. There was a mad RUSH for the stairs. I had no idea what had happened. What was happening? But I was part of that crowd - and the second the movement began, the crowd movement, I started to run too. Something was going to explode, something was in the subway station ... There must be a REASON why everyone is running, right??

People were pushing and shoving, frantically, to get out of the station up to the street. I had my bags for the weekend. I couldn't catch my breath.

It was completely catching. The panic.

And I emerged onto the nightmare of the street - it's a block away from the Empire State Building - you have to crane your neck way way back to see the spindle - and there had been some sort of bomb scare. Which is probably highly normal for the Empire State Building - but in those late September days of 2001 - nothing seemed more fragile, more courageous, more precious and easily destroyed - than the Empire State Building. I would stare at it from my kitchen window in Hoboken, the only building in Manhattan visible to me. At least now. I used to be able to see the twin towers, but now ... there was just one building left. The Empire State Building looked ENORMOUS. A huge target.

The streets were blocked off around the Empire State Building. Cops and National Guardsmen were literally everywhere. I am not exaggerating. It felt like we were under siege. The crowd (of which I was a part) was running this way - that way - panicked - trying to get away from the building, running towards the building - shouting at the cops, "WHAT'S GOING ON?" The cops were hollering at the crowd - "GET BACK. GET BACK."

You have to remember the context of those days.

I started running down 34th Street, holding my suitcase. People were running, all around me. Some were running, as they were talking on their cells. The sound of sirens filled the air. As I ran, I kept looking back over my shoulder at the Empire State Building's spindle ... it looked so fragile you could snap it. I was WILLING it to still exist.

This all probably sounds really crazy. But there was such a crowd dynamic in New York in those days. At any moment, the crowds on the sidewalk were liable to start running. For no reason.

Oh, and randomly - in the middle of this crowd panic - something very very strange happened.

A woman grabbed onto my hand. I was literally running towards Penn Station. I was completely convinced that the Empire State Building was going to explode behind me ... like in a movie. So a woman grabbed onto me. Stopped me. I looked at her with my crazy eyes.

And she said something so unbelievably incomprehensible to me - that I had to ask her to repeat it. She was speaking in English, do not get me wrong, but in that moment, what she said was so absurd, so out of place, that I could not, for the life of me, understand what she was saying.

Here is what she said:

"Do you have any idea where I could buy a Boggle game?"

I'm not kidding.

We're in the middle of a Midtown-wide Bomb Scare, and she's looking for Boggle.

It was only later that I was able to laugh about this. I did an imitation of the moment later for my friend Jen and we were crying with laughter. My insane running, looking over my shoulder, etc., and then this calm oblivious woman basically asking me to point her in the direction of Toys R Us.

I said, "Huh?"

She said, smiling, unaware somehow of the crowd running at her from the direction of Broadway, "Can you tell me where I might find a game of Boggle?"

I should have said, "Up your ass, lady. Why don't you try there?"

But I pointed wildly uptown, and screamed, as I ran away from her, "THERE'S A TOYS R US ON THE CORNER OF 45TH AND BROADWAY - TRY THERE..."

Absurd.

Those days were so absurd.

Penn Station in those days was one of the most moving and mournful places on earth. You walked down the huge corridor to get to the terminal, and the walls were, first of all, lined with National Guardsmen and women who all looked about 12 years old. Second of all, the walls were plastered with notes from all over the world. And commuters and passersby would stop to read the notes. People were always weeping in that corridor. I would weep in that corridor. I think I read every note, over those weeks. There were notes from entire classrooms of 2nd graders in Tulsa, there were notes from fire departments the world over ... clumsy English spelling from the fire department in Germany ... there were notes from individual people, "Hang in there..." "We love you" "We will not forget" - there were letters in every language imaginable. Some were written by little kids who obviously had just learned how to write. So their sentiments were blunt. "I am very sad about the dead people. My dad says it's okay to cry though." Stuff like that. It was a corridor of mourning. Lined with people in military dress, and filled with crying people.

My God.

So the panic was still going on, as I entered Penn Station. I felt like I was making a getaway from a war zone, being air-lifted out of Nigeria or something. Everything dissolving into chaos behind me.

Now mind you: This was just an anxiety attack I was having. New York was still there when I got back. The Empire State Building was still there when I got back. But everything was messed up in my head, I couldn't sleep - no one could - It felt like we were on the brink of utter destruction. It was only September 28.

I got on the train, my breathing high in my chest, and everything in me was saying: Don't go. Don't go. If the Empire State Building explodes, you will want to be here. You will want to be here for your city.

But ... the train pulled away from the station ... and I was off. I felt insane. Wild-eyed.

Boggle? What?

When we emerged into New Jersey, I could see the whole of the city spread out to my left, glimmering, and tragic. The gaping hole of lower Manhattan hurt me, like an actual wound. It doesn't really anymore, but it did then. And I stared at that spindle of the Empire State Building, the tallest building, in the center of the island ... teetering ... It looked so ... small. It looked like - wow, it would take absolutely nothing to get rid of that building! And I stared at it, craning my neck backwards, tears running down my face, until I couldn't see it anymore.

I arrived in Baltimore to meet these 2 strange men, in this state of mind.

We had never met. We knew what we all looked like, pictures had been exchanged ... but nothing else.

And these men were my heroes. They took care of me. They showed me the sights. They listened to me talk. They were sensitive. I couldn't talk about anything else. And I needed to have the TV on at all times, in case something happened. They were fine with that. They introduced me to their friends as "our refugee". They gave me (why?? I have no idea!! I was a stranger to them!!) 2 days away from the stench of death and the bomb scares. They were kind enough to take me in. I was, to put it mildly, NO FUN to be around. This was not a whoo-hoo kind of weekend. I was jumpy, and tearful, and needy, and a little bit insane. They expected nothing from me. They just wanted to take care of me, and give me some time away. They were thrilled to be able to do that for me.

Writing this down, I realize it doesn't make all that much sense.

But I'll alway be grateful to my Baltimore Boys for their kindness to me during that weekend. I will never ever forget it.

And one of them has remained a true friend. For which I am also very grateful.

They weren't really meeting "the real Sheila" that weekend. Who I was that weekend is not who I am normally, obviously. I couldn't stop shaking, all through our first dinner out - I sat at the Mexican restaurant, shivering, as though they had the AC on full blast. Then I said I wanted to go to a bar where they had a TV, because I had to make sure nothing had happened to the Empire State Building. They did whatever I wanted. "You need a TV, darlin'? Okay, then, we'll take you to a TV."

These men were miracles to me.

Nothing was normal. We all clung to one another, and for a couple of days at least, I was away from it. I needed to get away.

When I returned to New York a day and a half later, I came back into Penn Station at about 9 o'clock at night. It was rainy and dark.

And the sadness hit me like a wall. It wasn't MY sadness, per se. I didn't own any more sadness than anyone else. It was like there was a wall of grief around the city. And I was stepping back into that atmosphere. I am telling you: I could feel it the second I got off the train. It was in the air, between the molecules ... it WAS the air.

The Books: "Adams Vs. Jefferson: The Tumultuous Election of 1800" (John Ferling)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next book in my American history section is Adams Vs. Jefferson: The Tumultuous Election of 1800 by John Ferling

So whoo-hoo American Revolution, right? I'll be studying it forever - it's an endless topic, I love it all. But the election of 1800 ... John Adams the incumbent, with Thomas Jefferson "campaigning" (ahem - sitting on his hilltop in Virginia pretending he wasn't campaigning - oh no, politics are disgusting - who, me? I'm just a farmer ... Move along without me ...) is where things REALLY get interesting. I think it's so funny and kind of cute how some people think politcs are played so DIRTY now ... that in one glorious time in the past, campaigns weren't so ugly and so personal. I really wonder what glorious time in the past these people are referring to. They have no idea what they are talking about, frankly. The election of 1800 has to be one of the dirtiest elections (in terms of how both candidates played it) EVER in the history of our country. And it was the THIRD ELECTION. Mkay? Politcs have ALWAYS been personal. The media has ALWAYS been biased. Yay for you if you want to live in some fantasy utopia world where things USED to be great and NOW they suck - but it's not true.

I think the election of 1800 is one of the most pivotal moments in our nation's history - up there with the American Revolution and the Civil War. Well, and also - George Washington "stepping down" from the Presidency - with a peaceful handover of power to the next guy coming in. I think THAT is one of the most important moments in our collective history as well. John Adams became the second President. And nobody on the opposing side was lined up against the wall and shot. Nobody was run out of town on a rail. An unprecedented event in human history. But then we come to the election of 1800 - and the real birth of party politics in this country. I wrote a couple of posts about it, if you're interested. Here's one. Here's another one.

It was exciting for me because last year a book came out which focused ONLY on the election of 1800 - which was very exciting, because normally that election is just folded into a larger story - part of John Adams' long life-story, or told as part of the life story of Thomas Jefferson - but Ferling's book honed in on that one event. (There was another book that came out at around the same time - by Susan Dunn - and I read that as well, but I don't think she's a good writer. Ferling is much better, although he does use the word "Indeed" too much. Just stop with the "Indeed". The same could be said of Glenn Reynolds. Enough. Find another word. Otherwise: YAWN.)

Here's an excerpt about the clash between Jefferson and Hamilton.

From Adams Vs. Jefferson: The Tumultuous Election of 1800 by John Ferling

Hamilton caused Jefferson the greatest concern. By late 1790 Jefferson suspected a concurrence of Hamiltonianism and royalism. Madison surely had filled him in on what he had gleaned of Hamilton's private thinking during the Nationalist battles in the 1780s, including a recapitulation of a remarkably unabashed pro-monarchist speech that the New Yorker had given at the Constitutional Convention. In addition, Jefferson leanred some things at first hand, ahving personally heard Hamilton extol the merits of the British system. Jefferson was coming to believe that the "ultimate object" of Hamilton and his followers was to "prepare the way for a change, from the present republican form of government, to that of a monarchy, of which the English constitution is to be the model." Indeed, he had grown certain that the Hamiltonians were "panting after ... [and] itching for crowns, coronets and mitres," and that the economic revolution that the Treasury Secretary envisioned was part and parcel of a transformation to the British way of things. Jefferson saw too that funding had unleashed a speculative craze in New York and other commercial hubs. A hot mass of feelings, Jefferson exclaimed that America was being transformed into a "gaming table". Already, he contended, the new national government was imperiled by the financial mania. A "corrupt squadron of paper dealers," whom he labeled as "stockjobbers" driven solely by pecuniary interests, had surfaced within Congress, and the day was coming when they and their kind would have the resources to sway a congressional majority. Furthermore, Jefferson cautioned, their gamester ethic would corrode the traditional frugality and industry that had defined the American character. Jefferson believed Hamilton and his compatriots were taking America for a ride along the same sordid path that adulterated Europe had traveled. During 1790 the notion took shape in Jefferson's mind that unless Hamilton was stopped, America would someday be dominated by huge financial institutions. Commercial avarice would dominate the national mores, and ever larger chunks of the American population would become the propertyless denizens of vast, squalid cities. This, Jefferson believed to the very marrow of his bones, was no way for free people to live. Indeed, those who lived in such a checkered society would not be free, and as they lost their independence, republicanism would be relegated to the scrap heap of the past.

Jefferson never wavered in his judgment of Hamiltonianism. The conclusions that he reached in 1790 presaged the decade of fiery partisanship that lay ahead, for Jefferson saw his disagreement with Hamilton not merely as a difference between men or a clash over policy but as a deep ideological rift. This was a view with which Hamilton concurred. Indeed, it was this sense of a titanic struggle between rival ideologies that in large measure brought to the politics of the 1790s a passion only occasionally equalled in America's political history. What loomed, virtually all activists understood, was a political war to shape the American future, possibly for all time, as it was widely presumed that what was put in place in the first days of the new Republica would not be easily changed by subsequent generations. Perhaps too, as the historians Stanley Elkins and Eric McKitrick theorized, the politics of the 1790s took on a supercharged quality because those who participated were revolutionaries. It was not just that Hamilton, Jefferson, Madison, and those in Congress and the state governments had played active roles in the American Revolution. They had a revolutionary mentality. Not only were they audacious, they were visionaries. They beheld an American vista for which they had been willing to die after 1775. For them, the politics of the 1790s was about the ultimate realization of their often grandiose dreams, and it meant that the politics battles of the decade were almost literally fought on a battlefield.