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 pe