The Sheila Variations

Fall 1995: Acting Notebook

Going through all these old notebooks - I came across the notebooks I kept during grad school. At first they start out all work, no play ... which is interesting in and of itself - but the notebooks I kept over the last 2 years, this sort of manic hilarity started to infuse all of them - and there were times reading some of them where I was HOWLING. The comments from Sam - my great acting teacher and mentor (he came into my life in 1996 - so he's not in this particular notebook). He was so irreverent, and yet also so brilliant. The things that are said in acting class sometimes ... are just the funniest things in the world. Because what we are working on is SERIOUS. And yet ... there is a level of absurdity to the entire endeavor. I always loved that dichotomy.

Anyway, here's the notebook I kept about my acting classes and stuff I was working on - my first fall in New York.

It's a mix. This is kind of the serious all-work-no-play notebook. Book lists. Quotes. Personal ruminations. Acting notes. Mish-mash. A lot of this is just me trying to work stuff out - character stuff, writing questions to myself, answering them, contemplating ... I guess I find it hard to believe that this was written so soon after this stuff. It was quite a year.

FALL 1995

Make Voyages.
Attempt them.
That's all there is.
-- T. Williams

Bobby: "Acting is not so much about letting people in. It's about letting you out."

Well, might it not be part of an actor's expertise to produce what is real?
-- Nicholas Mosley

Sept. 1
Watching Dog Day Afternoon with David.
David: "Did you see how when he was screaming - his whole throat and body remained relaxed? That's acting technique."

Sept. 5
Tomorrow. 10 am. Orientation begins. Total unknown. I am positively unprepared. And also pretty okay with that. Walk in with confidence. You know you're not cocky. Breathe in the air. Remember EVERYTHING. You belong here. You have been invited. Remember that audition. Remember how you felt. You felt validated without one soul telling you you did good. You knew it.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.

Set yourself up only to be open, receptive, a sponge, ready to be hurt, ready to be wrong, ready to learn. Run screaming into the void.

Run from safety.

Even in small ways. Be yourself. But see, that has never been the real struggle for me. I carry my snail shell around with me. I hide til I know it's safe. I can't do that here. I must stop setting up barriers, inventing things to be afraid of, reasons to run away. Take your moment, Sheila. Own your own life. I am the sorceress. I dreamt of this, and now it has happened.

Don't be afraid. Remember Michael whispering to me over and over and over in the pitch darkness - I will never forget it - fear is death fear is death fear is death, Sheila, fear is death ... Tears sliding down my cheeks. Michael whispering, "That's right, Sheila - cry - scream - laugh - " From whence all this fear? I do not know.

Feel the fear and run through it screaming.

So tomorrow. Walk slowly. Take your time. Be conscious of your breathing. Be open. I am here for a reason. My feelings are mine. My life is mine.

Also. Remember your angel.

Know that you are not alone and never will be so.

Sept. 7
Boloslovsky - read more Boloslovsky

Anne Jackson: "Actors are braver than astronauts."

Meisner: conflict
Conflict is not just a quarrel. Conflict results from the glue between people. Conflict results when you ask the question, "Can either of those people walk away from that?" and the answer is no.

I don't know how this has happened - but so much of who I am is because of him.

Sally Field: razor blades inside, scraping herself raw - Then, just before it's time - letting that inner stuff start to bleed. Make herself available.

How painful this all has been for me. Moving. Leaving my home, my dear friends, my man. And yet I know now why I subjected myself to all of that. I sit in that darkened room - and there were times when I couldn't stop myself from smiling. I'm home. Here is where I should be.

Sept. 12
"calm brilliant power" - David

Sensory work: as if it were the last thing we were going to explore on this earth. Give it that importance.

Lee Strasberg: "If I ask for an apple, just a slice would be fine. Just don't give me 4 or 5 oranges."

Sept. 13
The key to the treasure chest is the 5 senses.

Concentrate. Focus. Engage your will

Sept. 15 - workshop with Estelle Parsons

she talked of Nijinsky

"Have faith in your gift"

"Bring your instrument to the playing space"

"I am my Stradivarius."

Sunday 17th Watched Scarface

What I saw at work there: besides all the character work that he buried - fucking buried himself in - I saw total utter Zen-like relaxation. No tension in the face, the throat - The ACTOR was relaxed - the CHARACTER was tense.

This is what I believe to be my greatest challenge. This is my goal - what I want - and what I will strive for.

Relaxation.

Walking down the street today after seeing Scarface - thinking about Pacino's relaxation - I remembered Kenny's favorite story about Ruth Nelson. When asked the key to acting, she said: "Love and relaxation."

Mary Stuart Masterson:
"I need to do what I can do to do a good job - not try to be a good girl."

On Chris Walken: "the relaxation with which he works is extraordinary" - Wow

On Johnny Depp: "He is a really safe place for me."

"You learn by observing."

"Practice the art of letting go. Don't try so hard to do it. Try to let it do you."

She said, "If you have a structure - then you have freedom." I so believe that. Madeleine L'Engle taught me that. I still am learning a way to work. You can't wait for inspiration. You have to work whether inspiration comes or not.

9-20
Stanislavsky: "In relaxation lay the whole secret, the whole soul of creativeness on the stage. All the rest would come from this state and perception of physical freedom."

Tuesday Sept. 26 Thinking about Action. Strasberg says that action is the most essential element in acting. I think people forget that about Strasberg. They get all caught up in the controversy of effective memory and forget that above all else, says Strasberg, is action. That's what I see in Lily Taylor's work. All of it. She tackles a scene with action. She is Doing. The reality of the Doing. Holly Hunter is that kind of actor, too. Action. What are you DOING?

"Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away." -- Helen Keller

10-2 Lee Grant She spoke of Meisner. Neighborhood Playhouse: -- breaking down a play so that there isn't a mystery - work thru the mystery. You want something - how badly you want it is what makes it exciting. Meisner taught: Keep your secrets precious.

"I like my secrets. It's where your juice comes from."

"Say yes to everything."

"When I get up to do a tough scene - I just have to trust that all the living I've done will be there."

She brought up Trust a lot

She said she lives and feels more intensely in her work, her acting, than she feels in her real life. Same with me.

10-6 Let the leap of faith immerse you in imaginary circumstances.

"Don't be afraid that it will take you nowhere." - E. Parsons

John Strasberg workshop
Think organically.

He said: "Boredom is very important in life. It helps you feel when something is wrong."

"Don't push through. Just direct yourself towards the life you imagine."

"It is in the accident/in the moment of silence that you find out who you are."

10-16 FAYE DUNAWAY
Kazan said to her: "You must not be ashamed of your emotions."

"The rhythms of being an actress - 1. Intensity, 2. Letting it out. It's like a heartbeat." - Faye D.

Faye: "The world of acting leaves nerve endings exposed. You have to learn that if they are touched, you won't die."

On Chinatown: "I tried to give that character a voice full of money."

On Days of the Condor: "That was very interior".

Pinter said: "No answers, no labels, just investigation."

Faye: "The character doesn't know what she is doing, she doesn't know what is in her subconscious - but the actress does. You have to gear up towards the moment of release."

On Network: "I just had to play that one like a bat out of hell."

On acting, in general: "I like to get in my own little world and play. It's private."

On Mommie Dearest: "There was a rift in that woman's psyche. I played the entire performance from inside that rift."

On Mommie Dearest: "It was really supposed to be more like a piece of kabuki - rather than realistic."

On Mickey Rourke in Barfly: "He works for 4 months before doing a role in order to throw it all away the seconds the cameras start to roll and find something else."

Faye: "When the cameras are rolling, I have permission to be the best of myself."

10-20
Working on The Loveliest Afternoon of the Year by John Guare

Remember what the title of the play is. Think more upon this.

-- 11 months of silence
-- What do I do all day?
-- Why? Why don't I speak to anyone?
-- I moved to NYC from Ohio. Why?
-- surrounded by piles of murder mysteries - what is that about?

I have moved to NYC from Ohio to find my soulmate. I know I'll have a better chance of finding him here. So I will wait. I will see what comes my way. And I would rather die than be without him. Literally.

He says to me: "You've saved my life." Likewise for me.

"I want to be married. I like you. I'd like to be married to you."

"Why fall in love with anybody? You just get hurt. I'm young. I'm pretty. I don't need anybody."

I am ready for love. I live in an empty apartment filled with murder mysteries I'm afraid to read.

I'm pretty. I know I'm pretty. This is why I cannot understand why no one will speak to me. Prettiness. Think more about that.

Uncle Vanya
"Life here is dreary and stupid and sordid." - Astrov

10-24
Elizabeth: "By breaking a pattern - we're already unlocking cages in the psyche."

10-26
Concentrate. Relax. Focus. Think of focus as a liquid thing - so that you can pour it. Be in my soul.

11-13 Glenn Close "Bring your whole day onto the stage with you." - Mike Nichols

She likes to work totally within the imagination. Within a character - she likes to have "a library of images from the character's life."

"I have to love whatever character I'm playing."

On live theatre: "Good live theatre should disturb molecules. An audience should come out of the theatre a little rearranged."

2 Character Play - T. William
'Fear is a monster" - ????

I mention a doctor (a psychiatrist?)

Magnust/Artists Management guaranteed press coverage

Felice says I "rage against fascism" to the press - what is that about? Like Stella Adler?

When I first walk in - where am I coming from? Felice says - "I called you" - was I passed out in the dressing room? We arrived at the theatre and I blacked out in the dressing room.

We have had two disastrous seasons in a row - we have no place to return to - we have to go on.

I told Felice to cut his play. What do I think needs to be cut? When I do cut, why? What do I cut? If I'm supposed to start the play at the window: how does the play really start? Is the first line really "who are you calling?"

Are we twins?

The cablegram: when do I notice it? Does he notice me notice it?

Sunflower: Here he says he saw the flower. At the end, I say it. Which way is it?

Esoteric astrology. Need costume jewelry for this part. T-strap shoes. Vintage dress.

Agoraphobia. Nuclear holocaust. Paralyzing self-consciousness.

I don't want to get lost in the play. He does. One of us has to be in touch with reality or we will never come back. He'll kill us both. I have to keep one foot out of the play.

"Fear is a monster" - some kind of incantation (taught by Father?) - to keep the fear back - is it something he would say before astrology readings (me and Felix under a blanket of tents - listening)

My Painting Project [the following image is pasted into my notebook. My assignment was: write a monologue for this woman - what would she say, whose hat is that on the radiator, who is she - and at some point - during the monologue - assume the pose - so that you "become" the painting - for just a moment. It's one of the best acting projects I've ever been assigned. Seriously. True high point. So these are my notes on creating this whole little show out of nothing. ]

-- Scott Joplin - "Solace"
-- stillness
-- smoking
-- contemplation
-- he loves me. He told me when he left last night.
-- stand at window, staring out.
-- he is too much for me. I am gonna fuck this up.

I can't do this. No way.
You're too much for me. Way too much. I don't like how I'm feeling right now. Something's happening to me. When you leave me - I am set adrift. I wander.
I'm afraid to go outside.
Everything hurts.
The air is full of glass.
I did not feel this way before I knew you. Other people can do this. Have relationships and things. But I can't. I am not made right.
When we make love I feel like I have a chance at a life.
I love you. You're nothing special, either, so I don't understand this.
I don't want to get involved. I don't get involved.
You're so fucking nice about all of this. I can't figure that part out. I know I'm a bitch. I'm a bitch on purpose.
In your presence I am disarmed.
I know what people think when they see me. I know what men think. I know who they think I will be. And I don't disappoint them.
Ever since we started sleeping together, I've been having this dream. It has to do with icebergs. Icebergs scare the shit out of me. Most of an iceberg is underwater. Why does that scare me so much? It just does. Huge skyscrapers of ice - and you see 20 feet of it. Same dream every time. I go into it and I know what's coming, I know the end, and I get ready - I succumb to the inevitable in the dream. It's like I'm blind - I can feel myself moving thru space - not space - but moving - and there is something ahead of me. Then boom! Suddenly I can see - and my entire view is this massive fucking iceberg.
I'm not stupid. I know what the dream means.
I want you to see all of me, not just the tip. I want you to see me. But I don't know how to do it. I am going to fuck this up. I might even fuck it up on purpose. Please. Don't let me do that.
You ever see pictures of what happens when an iceberg melts? It's not a popsicle melting on a hot summer sidewalk. It's huge fucking chunks of ice crashing into the water. That's an iceberg melting.

Need:
-- stool
-- black fringe
-- scarf
-- Daily News
-- little table

2 Character Play
p. 327 - he tells me to "stop repeating" - what am I repeating?

Then comes the section about the opal. It ends with Felice, p. 328 - "Nothing could be unlucky that looks so lovely" -

Why do the sunflowers scare me? Are they a sign we are near the end of the play? Then comes the cablegram section. Seeing it really pulls me out of the play. Am I stalling? Avoiding the sunflowers? But then he brings us back to the sunflower. I seem to be trying to avoid it. Then I say: "Front yard? Now I know you're fooling." What is that about? Where else would they be? He goes off on the sunflowers - I seem to cut him off - strike the piano - I want to get off the subject.

Question: the card isn't really there - but this event really happened. We both GO with the Citizens relief thing - it's like it's a shared memory we are re-living

p. 333 - I seem to wrestle us back to the script. "What's next on the agenda?"
p. 334 - I totally break and look out at the audience: "I don't want to do next" -

Questions:
Who is Fox? Normally he makes our hotel reservations. Is he the tour manager.
Villa Lobos. Brasilianas?
Who is Franz? I want him to get me coffee. He was supposed to call me to the stage. Stage manager?
Eleanor of Aquitaine
caro
I say "a state theatre of a state unknown" - are we in a Communist country? Touring theatres?

Our house in New Bethesda
sunflowers: were they really as tall as the house?
Felice describes us "a recluse brother and his sister"
I say about the flower: "It would be a monster of nature - not marvel - if it existed at all, and I know that it doesn't."
He imagined the monster flower?

Were we children when the event happened?

My secretiveness has served me well. And it no longer does. It is hurting me. I am hiding. Why is revealing such a shameful thing for me?

Wherefore is the shame?

As Olympia Dukakis said - these things like shame, and fear - they have to come with us - come on stage with us - be put into our work.

Uncle Vanya
What does this character want
My marriage - ???
"It wasn't my fault"
This conversation with Sonya would not take place in the day
The air has cleared from the storm
Gout: huge swelling ankles and feet, feet spilling over top of shoes
Boredom - the jumping off place
It is one a.m.
Almost a sleepwalking atmosphere
Vanya just hit on me
The tension between Sonya and me - she's been "sulking" - and no. I do not love her father. She sees me. She's got my number. I feel I need to talk to her about it.
*I am married to her Father. I am 10 years younger than she is.
Music. What have I given up? How talented was I?
Am I in love with Astrov?
Do I sleep with my husband anymore?
How much does he repulse me?
Have I had missed moments with Sonya before? Have I ever tried to connect with her before?
We've had no space
What's the hook here.
Can woman trust each other?
Sonya's unrequited love for Astrov - I relate to it. I also know that he does not love her. I can see it.

In the script:
Serebyakov says: "Ask my wife to come here" when I am right there
Does this happen a lot? I am invisible to him.
I am not invisible to Astrov. Or Vanya. Or Sonya.

When I open up to her - don't assume she wants to make up too. Risk. Higher stakes. Unknown territory. I could be hurt.

Sonya tells me about Astrov and his trees - then in our scene, I tell her about it. I tell her as though she has never told it to me. I have been mulling over what she said about Astrov in my mind. It impressed me.

Opposites. Remember opposites. Cover up how needy you are.

Happiness is not possible for me. I must give up on the hope for love in my life. Guilt: I don't love her father. Tap into that guilt more. I am faithful to him.

One must trust people or life becomes impossible.

I met Alexander when I was 17. He was a sort of celebrity in St. Petersburg. I had just started studying at the College of Music. I had read some of his essays on art and was awed by his brilliance. He kissed my hand when we were introduced. He said he could tell that my soul was on fire. And my soul was on fire when I played the piano. I was swept away. He was married, though. Years went by where I did not see him. I had a very unhappy love affair with another musician. A violinist. I fell in love. He did too. Then he fell out of love with me - suddenly - and married someone else. I stopped playing the piano. Then Alexander sought me out - he was now a widow. I was 25. He courted me beautifully. I had such heartache. He made me feel cured. Here he was again, after all those years. Destiny. He made me feel alive again. He worshipped my beauty. He called me a goddess. We married after only 3 weeks of courtship. I was very lonely. I had no one else in my life. I thought he was a genius. I loved his genius.

Never forget the underbelly. Astrov. Astrov occupies all of my fantasies. I am not free to have him. And Sonya is a threat. Not sexually. But he could marry her. I do need love - but not from Sonya. I need it from him

POWER! - There's the edge. Use your power.

Rocky: things I notice and love Part 2

This is a multiple-part observation about a moment that lasts all of 20 seconds in the movie.

I am sick.

I want to talk about the scene where Rocky gets up in the middle of the night (the night before the fight) and gets up to go down to walk around the empty sporting arena. There are a couple of other scenes that inform this tiny little scene - and I'll talk about them too.

The scene (Rocky getting up in the middle of the night) - and how it is handled - so delicately and subtly - make me realize how PANDERING so many film-makers are today (or writers, or directors - or maybe it's just "the suits", who knows who to blame). They think people are stupid (and you know what, a lot of people are) so they feel the need to spell everything out for the retards in the audience. So a couple of things are NOT spelled out in this tiny silent scene with no dialogue that says WORLDS about what is going on. It's a 20 second scene. No speech. But there is so much to notice.

1. Rocky is sleeping on the couch. You see him lying there on the couch, it's the middle of the night, and his eyes are wide open.

A couple things here:

-- he's sleeping on the couch even though it's after Adrian has moved in. Now there have been a couple of moments leading up to this - in OTHER scenes - but nothing is spelled out too clearly, there is no conversation about why he is sleeping on the couch ...

After Rocky's first disastrous day of "working out" - when he can barely get to the top of the museum steps, when he has the fight with Paulie in the meat locker ("Are you balling her?" "'Hey. Don't talk dirty about your sister.") and then Rocky punches the meat ... he goes over to hang out with Adrian (she's in her old-lady pink bathrobe - the wardrobe is so great in this movie. Oh, and Talia Shire dressed herself. Those are all HER clothes - there was no money for wardrobe on this film - they all dressed themselves. So that gives another level to how brilliant Talia Shire was.)

So. Rocky sits on the couch like a big lump and he's a wreck. His hands are bloody from the meat - he is sweaty - and completely exhausted. Everything hurts. Adrian starts to make tentative love-making moves - he resists. Which is new ... when would Rocky ever NOT want to be connected? To anybody? Not just a sexual thing ... I mean, connection. He's a guy who looks for human moments. He's kind of lonely, you know? Instead of breaking the guy's thumbs on the docks, he starts to give advice. ("You should have planned ahead. You should have planned ahead.") He picks up the freezing bum on the street and hauls him into the bar. He banters not just with Adrian in the petshop, but with her boss. You know that kind of guy? A real social animal. He is looking for connection with everyone (think of the little girl he drags away from hanging out on the corner ... tries to give her advice ... Think of his "friendship" with the loan shark ... with the bartender ... Rocky is not a cold guy. He's isolated - but he would rather not be. His natural milieu is human interaction.). So anyway, to see Rocky push her hands away is ... we haven't seen this part of him yet in the movie. It's disconcerting and a little bit upsetting. But what's happening is: he's starting to take himself seriously. And when you start to actually take yourself seriously, and not say stuff like, "Yeah, I box ...but more like a hobby, you know?" ... then certain anxieties come up. Because now you have to actually work and risk. He is now facing the fact that he is not good enough to fight Creed. He is in way over his head. He has no illusions (which, I think, is one of the most appealing parts of this guy). And so instead of being just taken up with the moment to moment of life, like he is in the beginning of the movie (he goes to the gym, he stops off at the pet shop every day to tell a joke, he drives around with the loan shark, he talks to his turtles ... he has no real obligations ... he has nowhere to really BE ...) - instead of THAT ... now he actually has to start working, and focusing ... and investing in himself. This is a tough tough transition for Rocky. It goes against eveyrthing he knows, and the way he is wired. It's almost embarrassing for him. To take yourself seriously. He's a big lug, a child of the streets. You never want to be caught dead taking things too seriously in that environment. You'll get the shit kicked out of you. And what if you fail? What if you fail so big that everybody KNOWS you failed? If you say stuff like, "I box like a hobby..." then that protects you from ever having everybody SEE your disappointment.

He says something like, "I'm tired, Adrian ... no fooling around, okay?" But Adrian is blossoming now, she has roots, she is becoming her own person - so she persists, and tries to kiss him - and he gets annoyed. He says something like, "No fooling around during training. I need to stay strong." He says it with impatience and exhaustion. Again, it's a disorienting moment. Rocky is becoming an individual, singular, his own man. Finally. Adrian feels rejected and says, "Are you serious?" He says, "Yeah." There's this long still pause between them and he can't deal with it anymore, he just wants some SPACE, he had a terrible morning, he's totally out of shape, and for the first time ... he's scared. He's scared of facing Creed. It seems an insurmountable challenge.

When he pursues Adrian at the beginning of the movie - she's IT, in terms of his life, and what he has to look forward to. She's all he has going on, his awkward courtship of her is pretty much the only thing he focuses on. But now ... he has other obligations, other "promises to keep". And that's an awkward transition for Rocky. He pulls back the reins from her abruptly in that one scene, and it's painful - for both of them. He doesn't know how to balance. He says something to her like, "Why don't you go make the meat?" He brought over a package of meat from Paulie - and Adrian says, "Okay. I'll go make the meat." She goes. She's not in a huff, she's not being passive-aggressive - nothing like that. She's just trying to survive - survive the moment to moment with this man. It's overwhelming, when you're that much in love with someone. You become too connected, it's hard to deal with the realities of life ... because you're just so totally ga-ga. I speak from experience, obviously.

Rocky sits on the couch and watches her go. He's wearing the black winter hat, his hair is sweaty, hanging down from underneath the hat, he's wrapped up in a blue blanket, and his hands are completely torn up from hitting that beef. And it's such an eloquent silent moment. He's just as disoriented as she is. It's disorienting ... to suddenly start taking yourself seriously, after a lifetime of calling yourself a "bum", and having nothing much to do all day. It's not just a blast of Rocky theme music and there he is being triumphant, because YAY he believes in himself!!! You have to earn that. Rocky has to earn that. He's got to go through some hard times before he gets the payoff. In one of the interviews with Stallone on my DVD he references this scene when he pushes Adrian away - and says something like, "This is probably the most confused moment of Rocky's life up until that point." Stallone conveys all of this in the scene with no dialogue - it's my favorite kind of acting. Simple, clear, and yet very layered.

Rocky knows he can't just leave it this way with Adrian so he gets up (and he looks like a little old man, or a squaw or something - huddled in this blue blanket) - and shuffles over to the kitchen door. You can hear her bustling about in there. He says, "Yo." Of course. Then they have a silent little make-up scene. Or, not totally silent - she comes out - and has this kind of awkward moment - she doesn't know whether to hug him or not - so she walks back into the kitchen - and he can't deal with that, so he says again, "Hey." And back she comes- and he puts his arms around her - says, "I'm sorry" - and the last moment of the scene is him resting his chin on the top of her head, which is buried in his chest - and heaving this deep deep sigh. Great scene. I love the sigh at the end. It's complex. It's not a simple movie. A simple movie would have underscored that whole scene with sappy music, it would have been chock-full of closeups - of his or her face - which would telegraph: HE'S FEELING THIS, or SHE'S FEELING THIS ... and the resolution of the scene would be much more simple. Like; Yay, they made up! Rocky's strong now! No. Rocky is still scared, and nervous, and knows he's out of shape. But he also knows he has to balance a couple of balls in the air now - as opposed to only one, or none. He has to start training for real, he has to start to become an athlete. This is going to take WORK. But he also has to still be a good boyfriend. He has to do BOTH. That scene is about (in my opinion), Rocky learning that he's got to grow the fuck UP. So the deep deep sigh at the end, a sigh to himself really ... is so eloquent. It says it all. If you can do it without dialogue, screenwriters, then DO it. Imagine how bad it would have been if Rocky had said to her, in that moment, "I'm just realizing how out of shape I am, yo. I feel confused and I need some space. I can't screw you right now, Adrian, cause I gotta take myself seriously as a boxer, you know, yo?" I mean, it sounds so stupid writing it out - but how many scripts do we see that explain every human emotion in dialogue - when in reality so much of life (especially the hard stuff, the insecure stuff) is left unsaid?

That scene ends. With Rocky holding Adrian, but he looks so beat up - you can tell it hurts to even stand.

It is my theory, however, that they do end up making love after that - even though he's said "no fooling around". I think that because of the NEXT scene and what happens therein - and because I think there are no accidents in this script. Stallone is too good. So. We have the scene with Adrian coming on to him, and Rocky saying, "No fooling around."

Next scene: we are in the boxing gym. Rocky is in his filthy sweat suit (it's hysterical to notice how different he looks from the rest of the people in the gym) - punching on a bag like a MANIAC. He's drenched in sweat, and he is kind of all over the place. I don't know much about boxing but I do know that while he obviously looks very strong here - he also looks wild. Not like a real boxer yet. But he's going like crazy. Mick comes over and starts shouting at him about his lack of technique - and gets somebody to tie a string around Rocky's ankles. Mick growls, "This cured Rocky Marciano ... If you can still punch and hit to the body with your legs tied ... now you have balance. Now you become a very dangerous person." (Or: "poy-son", in Mick's accent). Rocky is a bit more docile now (docile meaning: he is accepting Mick as his coach, he "takes the coaching" rather than try to fight it). So he lets Mick tie up his legs. Mick keeps growling at him about balance, blah blah ... and at some point, two girls come up and ask Rocky for his autograph. He's obviously become a local celebrity. Rocky - who still has no focus, no discipline - is completely swayed by the request, even though it comes in the middle of a training session - and you can see him start to say "Sure" - before Mick ROARS at the two girls: "GET OUTTA HERE." Everything kind of stops ... the girls cower, and move backwards. Mick then takes the coaching to the next level, the psychological and comes back to Rocky saying, "And another thing. LAY OFF THAT PET SHOP DAME." Rocky, guileless, says, "Yeah, but I really like this girl, Mick." Mick ROARS: "THEN LET HER TRAIN YOU!" Rocky stops, doesn't say anything - you kind of expect him to let Mickey have it there - or to fight back, or something - Rocky doesn't take too kindly to being yelled at. But then he says, with this air of concession (it's a very funny moment, I love it - watch the expression on his face - I can't explain why I love it, I just do, it's so honest): "All right. No more foolin' around." And Mick nods, satisfied - and they go back to their training. Mick shouts, "WOMEN WEAKEN LEGS!" Rocky, punching the bag, repeats the phrase - he's kind of laughing, though - like it feels a little bit silly, but he's getting into the mode now, getting into the boxer mode. "Women ... weaken ... legs ..." PUNCH PUNCH PUNCH

Okay. So. There are the two scenes. In one we see Rocky push Adrian off, knowing he has to be strong. The scene ends with the two of them in a weary sort of battered embrace. Next scene - Mick brings it up - maybe he can tell that Rocky is distracted, or easily distracted ... Adrian's on his mind - whatever it is ... I'm sure athletic coaches (the good ones) are totally in tune with whatever the hell is going on with athletes to whom they are committed. That's why I think that Rocky did mess around with Adrian the day before. Despite his pushing her off initially. He did mess around with her - and Mickey can sense it. Rocky tries to defend himself - "I really like this girl, Mick!" but Mickey is having NONE of it.

So now ... what began as a vague plea to Adrian, based on nothing but his own instinct, and a little bit of fear at how far he has to go with this training - ("I need to stay strong, Adrian") - has now become a commitment. A commitment to himself, to doing his personal best in the fight with Creed - to actually following through on stuff. (That's why I love when he says to the guy on the docks in the beginning of the movie, "You should have planned ahead." Ha. You NEVER see Rocky "planning ahead" in the start of this movie. He's a moment to moment dude. There are no "plans" in his world. His only plan is to buy some more turtle food so he can try to court Adrian again. Maybe fight in some skeezy club once a month. This is not a guy with plans, yet here he is chastising this poor sack of a man, "You should have planned ahead.")

So after the big training montage - the famous one - we then suddenly are in the quiet little room where Rocky (and now Adrian) live. It's dark. Rocky is lying on the couch. Adrian is lying in bed. Nothing is explained or spelled out - and yet everything seems okay. Rocky has obviously made up his mind - and so they live like that, and it's okay. Because they're both growing up. And no way could Rocky sleep in the same bed with her and not get distracted. No way is this guy a "cuddle and spoon" kind of guy. Nope. So on the couch he is.

To me - those elements all add up (except they're just pieces ... and they don't fit together perfectly - just like they don't in life ... there are still cracks there, gaps in what we know about what happened) ... to a picture of Rocky getting serious about his training (at least in a psychological way - which sometimes is just as important as the physical) and knowing he has to lay off the sex for the duration. Maybe that's not true for all athletes - but for him it is - and the pieces that lead up to that moment are perfectly placed, I think. It's a little story within a story, as far as I'm concerned ... and that's what makes up a great movie, a movie I can watch over and over again.

2. The second thing I want to say about this scene is this (and it's subtle - I didn't notice it the first time, or the second time ... and now, funnily enough, it's ALL I can see!!): Adrian's decorating of Rocky's apartment.

Remember what that apartment looked like in the beginning scenes when he is there alone.

And now Adrian is there, she's his "roommate".

A lesser movie, a movie that thinks we, the audience, are mentally challenged, would have given us an Adrian montage, of her cleaning up the joint, putting her feminine stamp on that masculine bachelor nightmare of an apartment. We would have seen her dusting, scrubbing, tacking up nice pictures, blah blah. So we would "get it". We would "notice" the work that had been done. THAT'S a film that annoys me - a film that wants to be congratulated for the work that has been done - work that SHOULD be done in EVERY film. Why should I congratulate you for what you SHOULD be doing? So if they had put in an "Adrian cleaning montage" - then we, in the audience, would fully appreciate how detailed the art direction was in the film. So many movies operate like this. Not Rocky. We're in the apartment - and next time you see the movie - just notice how much that apartment has changed. It's beautiful. We only see it in passing - as Rocky gets up and puts on his coat and leaves - with one last look at the sleeping Adrian before he goes.

But it's everywhere. Her touch is everywhere.

It's Christmas time - so there's a little Christmas tree over in the corner. There are stockings hung up on the wall around the Rocky Marciano poster. Also a nice collage of boxing magazine covers featuring "The Italian Stallion". On that crappy wall over by the fridge - behind the front door - she has now put up all this flowered contact paper. It's on the wall, on the fronts of the drawers ... it doesn't look great - but it is a bold attempt at prettiness and civilization. Instead of the cluttered shelf behind the bed with the crosses and the bottles of Noxzema (which, sorry, I just love that detail - that Rocky is all about Noxzema) - there is a neat little shelf with a stereo on it. Or a radio - who knows what it is. And she's put up contact paper all around the bed - a black and white pattern ... It's decorating. It's her way of decorating. She probably lived with Paulie in their parents house ... and never got to put her stamp on things. Oh - and on the little bureau below the mirror - you can see a black and white framed photograph, candid, of the two of them, Rocky and Adrian. She's hugging him from behind and they're both laughing. Again: none of this is lingered on - to tell us: LOOK HERE. There are no close-ups of the contact paper, or the candid photo ... The main focus of the scene is that Rocky is troubled, it's the middle of the night, and for some reason he's putting on his coat and going outside. That's what we SHOULD be focused on. I'm just talking now as someone who has now seen this movie 8 times in the last 5 days. The thing about the change in his apartment - and the detail that is there - (oh, and the couch is a new one, too - the disaster couch from the beginning of the movie is gone - it is now a scratchy plaid couch) - anyway: the thing about it is: If you get it, you get it. If you don't, you don't. Maybe you'll get it the second time you see it. So instead of it being a telegraphing moment: See how she has changed the apartment?? - it continues on to feel like a slice of life.

Intimate. A whole world going on between the scenes. These people don't just live when the camera is pointing at them. Stuff is going on in between. This is life we're looking at ... not fiction.

Here's part 1!

Handy Randy

The sad-sack story of Handy Randy. (That's my new favorite blog, by the way.) I LOVE her. I love her writing. She makes me laugh, she takes great pictures, her personality sparkles off the page ... and she also practices her Ethel Merman impersonation when she is alone in her house. What is not to love about that.

Thanks, Robert Frost

Thanks, Robert Frost by David Ray

Do you have hope for the future?
someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied,
that it will turn out to have been all right
for what it was, something we can accept,
mistakes made by the selves we had to be,
not able to be, perhaps, what we wished,
or what looking back half the time it seems
we could so easily have been, or ought...
The future, yes, and even for the past,
that it will become something we can bear.
And I too, and my children, so I hope,
will recall as not too heavy the tug
of those albatrosses I sadly placed
upon their tender necks. Hope for the past,
yes, old Frost, your words provide that courage,
and it brings strange peace that itself passes
into past, easier to bear because
you said it, rather casually, as snow
went on falling in Vermont years ago.

Obsession:

This just arrived.

Look, I don't mess around.

Gluttonous ...

I feel gluttonous just LOOKING at this list of lists. Eventually I must do them all. Of course.

I'll do a quick pass-thru - but I definitely need to go into more detail. Some of these list ideas are SO fun.

Worst Books Ever, or Five Hours of My Life I'll Never Get Back

Definitely The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. I didn't even last 5 hours. What a piece of shit.

Books I Have Lied About Reading

I once told someone I had read Cannery Row when I hadn't.

Books I Have Lied About Liking

Women Who Run with the Wolves. It just seemed easier to agree, rather than not. Grease the wheels of life, baby. Be nice.

Book-to-Movie Adaptations Where, Frankly, the Movie Was Better

Ordinary People (although the book is great, too)

I'll think more about this ...

Books I Used to Love, of Which I Am Now Ashamed

Hm. I'll have to think about that. I'm not ashamed of much.

Best Book Titles of All Time

I think Wrinkle in Time is one of the greatest book titles ever.

I'll have to really go into this one.

Books That I Expected to Be Dirtier

All DH Lawrence.

My Real Guilty-Pleasure Reads, and Not the Decoys I Talk About Openly

The Story of O.

Also all of Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty books.

See? I'm not ashamed of much.

Books You Must Read Before You Die, but Would Rather Die Than Read

Remembrance of Things Past

Books I Refused to Read for a Long Time Because too Many (or the Wrong) People Recommended Them

The Shipping News comes to mind. Once I read it, I realized: Oh. THAT'S why everyone told me I had to read it.

Books I Read Only After Seeing the Movie

will come back to this ...

Books I Most Often Try to Persuade Other People to Read

I don't really do that anymore. Probably Ryzsard Kapuscinski's stuff.

But a couple of other recommendations come to mind. I recommend specific books to specific people. Like recommending the Lindbergh biography to Allison. It's huge, it's exhaustive - I knew she would LOVE it. But I wouldn't recommend that to everyone. So it's not general

Authors I Wish Had Written More Books Already

Ryzsard Kapucinsky. sniff sniff

And, believe it or not, Madeleine L'Engle. She's written like 80 books but I still want more.

I'll come back to this one.

Overused Plot Points That Drive Me Nuts

needs more thought

Books in Which I Liked the Secondary Characters Better Than the Main Character, or Books in Which I Wanted to Beat the Main Character Senseless with a Tire Iron

hahahaha This is a great question. I'll come back to it

Books I Lied About Reading and Then Wrote an A+ Term Paper On

Genius. Well, the whole Country Wife nonsense in college comes to mind ... a story which I have yet to tell on this blog.

Books I Lied About Reading/Liking Solely to Look Smart/Pretentious

I don't really do that.

Books I Wish I Hadn't Finished, or Worst. Ending. Ever.

Hmm. Not sure I understand this one. I'll think more upon it.

Books I Read after Oprah Recommended Them

I don't really do that.

Books I Will Never Read Precisely Because Oprah Recommends Them

Ha. Nope, I don't do that either. She's chosen some great books.

Literary Characters I've Developed Crushes On

Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice

Claude Collier (from Lives of the Saints - pitter PAT!

Cal from East of Eden

John from The Pigman

Books I Only Read to Impress Other People

I don't really do that.

Best Books Not to Read from Start to Finish, or Best Bathroom Books

David Thomson's Encyclopedia of Film. Best bathroom book ever.

Books I Shouldn't Admit Made Me Cry Like a Baby

I rarely cry reading books. The ones that have made me cry I freely admit. No shame.

Books I Only Read for the Title

good question. I will come back to it.

Books I Re-Read When I Have Nothing Else to Read

Possession. I'm re-reading that right now.

I also re-read Margaret Atwood's short stories.

I read Robert Kaplan when I've got nothing else to read.

And all Nancy Lemann books

Books People Keep Recommending That, Frankly, Sucked Ass

I read Nicholas Sparks' The Notebook on a recommendation (from a good friend) and I am serious when I say: I NEVER took a book recommendation from him again. I also didn't tell him how I felt about it - because why do that?

Books My Teacher Made Me Read That I Really, Really Liked

Tale of 2 Cities - in high school
Also The Pigman in 8th grade - and all of Robert Cormier's stuff. I still love those books.

Books My Teacher Made Me read That Made Me Question the Value of My Education

awesome one. I'll come back to that.

Books That Made Me Want to Have Sex with at Least One Character

I definitely would like to have sex with Mr. Darcy

Also Bud White in LA Confidential

What was the name of the young man in Atonement? Robbie? I should put him on the list too, probably.

Books I Actually Read but Got a Poorer Grade on the Paper I Wrote on the Subject Than My Best Friend Who Did Not Read the Book

Oh God, I have so many of these. It used to drive me INSANE. I'll come up with some examples.

Books I Read Because the Author Looked Hot

Huh?

Books I've Read Aloud

I read aloud a lot. Possession is a great read-out-loud book due to all of the different voices and poets and excerpts - I find that really fun. But I read out loud all the time ... it relaxes me.

Books I Love Even Though the Last Twenty Pages Made No Damn Sense

Books I Have Written a Prequel/Sequel to in My Own Head

Beautiful question ... i'll come back to it

Books I Keep Meaning to Read, but Then I See Something Shiny

well, that was the point of the whole From the Stacks challenge - which I completed in December! Stop getting distyracted! Read those books you already have on the stacks!

Books I Will Go to the Mattresses for, Even Though I Hate the Writer

I'll go to the mattress for a lot of things. I'll go to the mattress against censorship, against whiny anti-intellectual commentary (usually incorporating the word "latte" as though that is some kind of shorthand that we all can understand. Here's a hint: You look lazy when you use it too much. You look like an asshole. What the hell is wrong with "latte"? Unless you want to live in an echo chamber where everybody nods, and snickers about "latte" - and who knows, maybe you do - then you need to realize that that big huge CHIP you have on your shoulder about a certain kind of coffee drink makes me tune you out.) And maybe you don't care about having people listen to you. So be it. Just tellin' ya what it looks like over here. So writers who are attacked for THESE types of reasons ... as opposed to their books? I don't care WHAT they wrote. I'm sticking up for them.

Books You Must Read Because You Must Mock

I don't do that. Waste of time

Worst How-To Books Ever

I can't answer that on the grounds that I will incriminate myself

Books That Were on the 'To Be Read' List the Longest

War and Peace has been on my "to be read" list since the late 1980s.

Books I Hated Having to Read in School, But Love Now

Oh, I adore this question. Moby Dick is the first one. Tess of the D'urbevilles is another.

Books Whose References Have Worked Their Way into My Household Lexicon

Lives of the Saints by Nancy Lemann has definitely influenced how I talk. I should write more about that.

Books I've Never Read But Have Read the Cliffnotes Version

Oh. The Country Wife. That's a play. It's also a story I have never told on this blog. But I will someday.

Books I've Read Because I Liked Their Cover Design/Font

Hopeful Monsters by Nicholas Mosley - which is so scary because it is now one of my favorite books ever ... and I picked it up cause I liked the COVER DESIGN. Horrible to imagine not encountering that book.

Books Which, When It Comes Right Down to It, I Would Have No Problem Burning

Ha! Well - I have principles, you know. I stand by them. I despise Fred Phelps, but I wouldn't burn his books. If he wrote one. Which I highly doubt. I boycott publications, that's how I deal with it. I boycott magazines and online publications who publish the people I hate. And for me this is some sacrifice because ... well, a lot of them are good magazines. I don't BURN the magazines who publish these people. I just refuse to support them, with clicks, page views, or my hard-earned money.

Books Which I Read Only for the Sex Scenes

I think we covered this above.

Actually, too, there's a Ken Follett novel - and I'm not even sure what book it is - or why I read it ... but there's a sex scene in it which, I think, is one of the best ones I've ever read. Not for being sexy or anything - but for being REAL, and poignant ... It certainly sticks in my mind, whatever book it is. I'll check the title when I get home, I think I have it somewhere.

Books I Pretend to Like So People Won't Think I'm a Snob, or Books I Pretend to Like So I Won't Hurt Your Feelings

Now I never pretended to like The Notebook to make my friend feel better. I didn't say to him, "You LIKED that?" I would never do that. I was polite. I thanked him for the recommendation and left it at that. Actually, David and I were just laughing about this the other night. People (on the blog, not in my life) sometimes get defensive or kind of confrontational with me. I know it's out of insecurity, but whatever, it's tiresome. So someone will give a dig, like: "So do you not think Tom Clancy is a valid writer then?" They project a snobby attitude onto me ... for whatever reason that has nothing to do with me. Look. Here's the dealio. You don't make me read Nicholas Sparks and I won't force you to read Ulysses. But don't project your bullshit onto me. We got a deal? I read what I read because my tastes lead me that way.

Oh, and I think it's so hysterical that people think I'm a snob when two posts below this one I'm raving about how I can't wait to see Rhinestone.

Books with Covers So Embarrassing You Can't Read Them in Public

My friend Liz and I were laughing about this. She and I were talking about this book and dammit, now I can't remember the title ... it had something to do with "the domestic and the erotic" - it was a self-help book - but it sounded very VERY interesting - and Liz thought it was great, but she showed me the cover which had a fishnetted leg on it ... and it was very sexy looking ... and said she just could not read it on the train. She had to hide what she was reading. I actually want to read that book (whatever it was) but I would feel a bit embarrassed about just reading it openly on the subway.

Books You Are Sorry You Didn't Read Decades Ago

I'll think more on that.

See what I mean ... gluttonous. I can't even answer the questions properly.

More lists over here.

Temple Bar ... ick

Really interesting interview with Patrick McCabe about his most recent novel. This part fascinated me:

That said, the characters who represent the ways of the old valley are also shape-changing murderers, which lends a degree of satire to any wistful depictions of a lost Ireland.

?If you look at some of the old cowboy songs that started out as kind of campfire ballads, they are absolutely scatological and profane. The tension is when you yearn for something that wasn?t there in the first place ? some lost paradise.? But just as ?auld? Ireland fetishists are lampooned, so too is modern life. Here is Temple Bar, ?the epicentre of Dublin?s hedonistic empire, a playground exclusively populated by louche adolescent Euro-ramblers and indigenous chemical-fuelled youths vertiginously wading in the currents of an ever-expanding opalescent ocean, shorn of history and oblivious of religion.?

I read the passage back to McCabe. ?Slouchers,? he smiles. I say he must really loathe Dublin, but he shakes his head. ?It?s only harsh in the context of the character. In fact, I like it.?

His comments on Temple Bar are so right on. "louche adolescent Euro-ramblers" indeed - and 'stag parties' - with wasted guys vomiting on the sidewalk, and acting like complete assholes. It apparently became such a problem that the Irish tourist board actually addressed it ... trying to actually discourage huge tourist trips to "visit" Temple Bar.

Also - that whole "lost Ireland" thing ... reminded me of my conversation with Eamon in the echoey Ice Bar in Dublin. I'll post it below. I wrote it a couple years ago - I thought that maybe some Irish people would be mad at me for writing such a piece ... but funnily enough, the Irish Examiner ended up writing about it - and using it as a launching-off spot ... to talk about the changes (some of them unpleasant) going on in Ireland. I still get emails about the piece I wrote - mostly from Irish people, and not one of them has been hostile. So that's pretty cool. I certainly didn't mean it in a hostile way, or in a "oh, where is the green land of leprechauns I have fantasized about?" - that kind of Irish-American bull shit - the kind of person who would prefer to see Ireland remain impoverished, so that the fantasy won't be disturbed about the "auld country". I meant the piece in a purely observational way ... and I include myself in that. I am not perfect, or impartial. There was a part of me that was very put off by Seamus, and what I saw at the Ice Bar. That's the part of me that doesn't want anything to change. But then along came Eamon ...

Anyway, here it is. It's called ROAD WORKS AHEAD

Road Works Ahead

I'm standing in The Ice Bar at the Four Seasons Hotel in Dublin, sipping a tall drink with so many layers it looks like an overachieving jello-mold, green-white-clear-white-green. It is a work of art, but it has no taste. I think it's a mojito but I really can't be sure. With the exchange rate being what it is, the drink costs as much as my entire monthly electric bill.

The Ice Bar is a scene. I hail from Manhattan where, if you despise "scenes", as I do, you must verge off the beaten track, you must rely on word-of-mouth, you must be persistent in finding quiet pubs where you can relax. Otherwise you'll find yourself on a Friday night smack-dab in the middle of some hideous scene, sipping a wildly overpriced drink, feeling fatter than everyone else on the planet, and wondering, "Wow. Am I a total bitch or is everyone here incredibly shallow?"

Dublin is not "sceney". It is not "cool." Dublin is the kind of place where you can sit down in some unadorned dusty pub, and five minutes later find yourself deeply embroiled in a great conversation with a stranger, a stranger you could, conceivably, talk to all night. Dublin is relaxed, it is sociable. The opposite of sociable is, of course, "cool".

Well, it's a new Dublin now. Ireland is in the EU, money is pouring into the economy, and now Dublin needs a place called The Ice Bar, where the elite can congregate and consume. To see and be seen in the scene. I had no desire to go to The Ice Bar. None. However, we knew someone who knew someone who once went to school with a bartender there, and so we made our way to the palatial Four Seasons Hotel to check it out.

An Irish friend heard of our plans and gave us navigation tips for The Ice Bar experience. "Oh, so what you're gonna be seein' tonight then is cool Dublin. It's all about the phones and the clothes and bein' cool. So keep yourselves cool. And do not pay for a single drink. Look pretty, look approachable, and some man will pick up the tab. I will be very angry if I hear that you paid anything for one of those ridiculous drinks."

We took her advice seriously. We sprayed perfume on our wrists. We did our hair. We carefully defined the creases of our eyelids with smoky shadow. The primping felt like a grim duty. Cool Dublin is no fun. No fun at all.

The Ice Bar is a high airy white space, filled with confusing echoes. The noise is deafening. There are very few places to sit, and maneuvering through the bar is difficult. It is also nearly impossible to get to the bar itself to order your jello-mold. And once you're at the bar, it takes forever to attract the attention of the bartender. Everyone mills about, standing, talking at the tops of their lungs, doing battle with the echoes. In order to use the bathroom, you must venture out into the frightening hotel lobby, overwhelmingly plush and hushed, with flower arrangements, deep carpets and curly-cued chairs. The bathrooms are like something out of Versailles, and you feel embarrassed urinating in such a luscious immaculate setting. Not to mention the fact that the bathroom is where the dolled-up gorgeous-smelling teetering-heeled Irish women congregate, jabbering on their cell phones as they re-do their makeup. Gorgeous intimidating Amazons.

My eyelids may be smokily defined but I am wearing a biker's jacket, and I look like the lumpen proletariat party-crashing the rich folks' cocktail hour. I'm the buxom Irish maid scarfing wine in the pantry.

The bartender with whom we have a thrice-removed connection is nice enough, welcoming, although too busy to chat. We find empty spots at the bar, elbowed in by the Amazons, and we let him prepare drinks for us. Due to the green-white-clear nature of such drinks, they take twenty minutes to arrive. They are beautiful, with garnishes of mint, but I feel distinctly like an imposter sipping it. Like someone is going to race over and demand my Ice-Bar Identity-Card, because I obviously don't belong.

Now let me be clear. I do not yearn for the "good old days" of Irish famines and a gazillion % emigration and dark store-fronts on Sundays. What is happening now is a boom. I imagine someday the boom will collapse, like all booms do, and people will settle down, and the economy will stabilize. But Dublin, in the early years of the 21st century, has the manic energy, the gleaming greed of all boom towns in all eras. It is now Ireland's turn. Ireland has never had a turn. For the rest of my stay, I hang out in little pubs called McSorley's or The Four Provinces, meet funny down-to-earth people, drink whiskey, and have a grand old time.

But meanwhile, the forces of change and progress are upending this conservative society. The entire country appears to be under construction. By the end of our jaunts through the southern and western counties, my friend and I would laugh every time we saw another sign proclaiming "ROAD WORKS AHEAD". Road Works Ahead? Really. What a shock. The cranes and bulldozers and mountains of dirt everywhere are visible proof of what is happening. A country building itself up, digging down for a new foundation.

My friend's camera sits on the bar, and an enormous gentlemen beside me, waiting for his drink, says, "Is that yours?" He is huge. He has no neck. He is wearing a pinkie ring. A pinkie ring? In Ireland?

I reply, "No, it's my friend's."

"Oh, because I was going to tell you that I had that camera, but then I upgraded from my Nikon 2000 to a Minolta 5 million, and I also got a new digital blah-blah-blah which has video capabilities as well as a satellite hook up, 8000 megabytes of storage space, and my very own room with a view."

This entire monologue is unsolicited. I don't know how to respond, mainly because I have no idea what he is talking about, and so I struggle with my own facial expression. Does he need me to be impressed? What the HELL is he babbling about? It's all brand-names and numbers.

He isn't done yet.

"I'm very big on the upgrading. I now have two fully-loaded Mercs with 10-wheel drive and purple-tinted skylights, seat-warmer pads and a talking GPS system ?"

Honestly. He doesn't need me as a partner in this charade, this mockery of the word "conversation". If I walk away, he would keep talking into thin air. Maybe he has some compulsive-talking disorder. Mercs? Then I put it together. Mercedes Benz. Wow. This dude is pathetic. Not because he has "two Mercs", but because without even finding out my name, he has to blurt out all of his possessions. He is a materialistic Rainman.

The list of perks in the Mercs goes on. And on.

Again, I struggle with my own face, trying to wrench it into some mildly interested mask, and not let the outright boredom trickle down over my features.

Irish men, while sometimes rowdy, and never shy, are always polite. They know how to introduce themselves, they know how to ask for your name, and they always remember the name. One phrase you never hear in Ireland is: "Sorry, what was your name again?" Their good manners are instinctive in that respect. But Huge-Merc-Dude, while he speaks with an Irish accent, has none of the usual charm of the Irish Man. This is what money does. I feel like I am in a time-machine, and have suddenly been transported into a yuppie happy hour down on Wall Street, circa 1986, surrounded by blind self-interested greed.

He's still talking.

"And it has a Microwave-oven in the back, as well as TiVo, 20 horsepower engines ? and magnetic force fields around the ?"

After ten days of invigorating back-and-forth banter with people all around the country, it takes me a while to even register this gentleman's rudeness. And once I do, the guy is toast.

I interrupt the compulsive cataloguing. "What's your name." It's not a question. It's a command.

"Seamus."

Now I no longer worry about my facial expression. Now I am openly annoyed. "I'm Sheila."

A look of uncertainty wafts across Seamus' large ruddy face.

As always, the second I speak I give myself away as a visitor. I look like an Irish local wherever I go, and so I am now accustomed to the immediate response to my American accent.

"You're from the States?" Seamus asks, his first question of me. I can tell he has already lost interest. Not because I'm from the States, but because he literally could not care less about me, where I'm from, who I am ? what a boring topic compared to videos and cars and cameras.

"Yes. I'm from the States. Nice to meet you, Seamus." I'm blunt. I turn my back on him and leave him alone, and happier probably, with visions of gadgetry dancing in his head.

Guys like Seamus are a dime a dozen in New York City. But it is disorienting to meet one here. Maybe people's personalities change once they walk through the vaulted white doors of The Ice Bar. Maybe the echo-chamber of the bar does something to people's listening capabilities. Maybe if I met Seamus at McSorley's or The Four Provinces he wouldn't have been so pathetically eager to impress. I have no idea. I just know that if he listed one more "perk" at me, I might punch him in his fat head.

I put down my mint-julep or whatever it is, and order a beer. Fuck it. I'm a member of the proletariat and proud of it.

When Eamon first speaks to me, I have my guard up, a leftover from Seamus. How quickly one becomes jaded, hard. But with Eamon I go back into familiar Irish territory: talk that occurs spontaneously, takes on a life of its own. It is easy to keep the tennis ball in the air. Eamon grew up with the bartender we had come to see, they were childhood friends. Eamon lived in America for the last ten years, and has now come home for a three-month stay. He doesn't know what he wants to do next, and so he's moved home with his mother while he figures it out. He had been living in New Jersey, so he and I have a lot to discuss. We love the same pubs in Manhattan. We talk about Puck Fair, and Swift's. We talk about music, we exchange email addresses. The conversation is lovely, light, it's fun. Seamus recedes into the past.

Eamon and I get around to discussing The Ice Bar, and the deeper significance of such a place. I don't want to criticize his country, and I also don't want to be one of those obnoxious Irish-Americans who would prefer Ireland to be backwards and poor so that my fantasies of the place will remain undisturbed.

But Eamon takes a humorous view. "People come to The Ice Bar just to be seen, y'know?"

"Yeah, that's what it seems like."

"They'll come here for a quick drink, and then go off to a funner venue. Where they can watch rugby and have a bit of craic."

Indeed, I have noticed three distinct waves of people come and go. Eamon is right. People were not settling in at The Ice Bar. It's a pit stop, something they have to do.

Eamon says, "I've got my local where I hang out. I came here tonight to see Liam."

We glance at Liam, busily concocting complicated drinks for the hoarding masses, pushing up against the bar. There is the incessant ring of cell phones in the air.

"Not much time to talk to him, eh?" I say.

"No, indeed."

We discuss the economic boom, and how Ireland now has to deal with immigrants from different cultures for the first time in its history. Eamon is positive about it. Most everyone I talked to in Ireland takes a positive view of these new developments.

"I think it's a good thing for this country, you know?" Eamon says. "Immigrants bring a lot of energy with them, just like the Irish did when they moved to America."

I have not thought of it like that. "Good point."

"So a lot of people are grumbling now about immigrants taking jobs away from the Irish, but I still think it's really good for Ireland. We've never had to deal with any of this before, and I think the people coming here from India or Africa or wherever are bringing a lot of good things with them. It's opening Ireland up to the world."

The echoes of The Ice Bar ricochet over our heads. Missing us completely. I can hear him, he can hear me.

"You know, Eamon, it's interesting. I'm of Irish heritage, but I'm American. Obviously. And there is a huge contingency of Irish-Americans who don't want Ireland to be modern and successful, because it messes up their ideas about the 'old country'."

"Oh, Sheila, you've got that one so right."

"And half the time, these people have never even BEEN to Ireland."

"Right right right."

"If these people came here now, and saw that ? Oh. My. God. ? you guys have highways under construction and cell phones and an Ice Bar ? they would be devastated. They would feel betrayed."

Eamon starts laughing.

I say, "As an Irishman, does that drive you crazy?"

"Oh, I guess they just want to know where they came from. I understand that's important to Americans."

"But the Irish-Americans I'm talking about seem literally BUMMED that there are no more famines. They love that whole martyr thing. They aren't interested in getting to know Ireland now. All they care about is the famine and the Troubles. That's it."

Eamon pounces on this. "Sheila, you are very right on that score. To them, Ireland is the famine and the Troubles, but you have forgotten one item on your list, one very important item, that lies between the famine and the Troubles, and this one item has done more to sentimentalize this country than any other ? and it is called The Quiet Man."

I burst into laughter.

Eamon goes on, laughing too. "The Quiet Man is the reason for that Irish-American attitude."

I have to 'fess up: "The Quiet Man is great, though."

"Oh, I love the movie! John Ford, all that, his Irishness was very important to him indeed, but Americans see that movie and come to Ireland looking for that world. They think all Irish women are going to be Maureen O'Hara throwing pots and pans at them."

"That's so hilarious. So true."

In a world of 1847, The Quiet Man, and the Troubles, there would be no room for an Ice Bar.

The Ice Bar is one of the most obnoxious places I have ever been, but I now think that its obnoxiousness is a sign of hopeful growth for Ireland. What kind of person would begrudge this island, with its pained long history, a bit of success, a bit of money to spend? What kind of person would wish that Seamus didn't have two "fully-loaded Mercs", and instead had to tool around in a beat-up jalopy he shared with his six siblings? Who would prefer that Ireland remain narrow, hard-bitten, and hungry?

Eamon and I, before we parted ways, raise a toast to Ireland as it is now, to its future, to its success.

"May Ireland continue to flourish," says I, holding up my beer.

"Amen," says he.

And as we clink glasses in that white echo-mad place filled with fashion models and pinkie-ringed Seamuses, the epitome of the new "cool" Dublin, Eamon says what is, perhaps, the warmest friendliest word in the Irish language: "Slᩮte!"

It moves me. To hear that particular word in that ice-cool place. The old traditions alongside the new. Nothing is lost. It moves me to see Eamon's kind human grin as he says it.

Slᩮte.

Slᩮte to the new Ireland, Slᩮte to fat-headed Seamus, Slᩮte to The Ice Bar, and Slᩮte to road works ahead.

Obsession: some struggles

So. The obsession with Sylvester Stallone is moving right along. Going quite well, thanks for asking.

Sadly, the blossoming obsession means I must see movies like Judge Dredd and Demolition Man (in some cases, I need to RE-watch them - because, let's not forget, I've always been into Stallone ... it's just that now I have kicked it up a notch) ... but obviously I can always find something to latch onto, something to enjoy. Like Tango & Cash. Come on. Ridiculous. FUN. 2 of my favorite guys.

So the obsession is going as planned - it's just that there's so much CRAP to slog thru as well. There's even that hard-to-find p0rn0 movie he made before Rocky ... I think the Germans have released it or something ... I did a little bit of inquiring. That's the level to which I have stooped. THANKS, SLY! I think I might know where I can find a copy - there are a couple shops in Greenwich Village I could check out. Wouldn't surprise me at all if they had it. The funny thing is is that after Rocky was released and Stallone became so famous and important - the p0rn movie was re-released - and they called it The Italian Stallion. Trying to cash in. I think they cut out all the X-rated bits, though, which left the movie about half an hour long. Anyway, it sounds hilarious and I need to see it.

Now I happen to be a person that loves a little bit of CRAP ... like, I think Rhinestone is adorable, for example - I love that movie ... but I'll sit through all the other stuff as well. I feel it is my duty, as a Stallone maniac.

I'm seeing Lords of Flatbush tomorrow and I'm so excited that I feel like a 7 year old kid on Christmas Eve. Like ... I can't sleep or think. Sly? The Fonz? Brooklyn in the 50s? All of those guys on the cusp of major - not even just stardom - but PHENOM-dom.

I am beside myself.

I've got another Rocky post in the works. Just stuff I notice and love. More to come.

And don't even THINK I won't liveblog Rhinestone when the time comes.

That time WILL come and I need to be ready. Emotionally.

the collective trance on 41st street

I've been thinking a lot about "gym behavior". That whole "being private in public" thing that happens at a gym. I'm not really a gym girl - I like to run outside, and get the sense of movement, of actually going somewhere - but it's finally cold here ... so I'm gym-ming it up on a daily basis. I love the sense of everyone there, in their own Idahos, doing whatever it is they do to work out, and we're all there together, but we might as well all be alone. I find gyms intimidating - but once I realized that nobody even sees me ... I can deal with it, and go off into MY own Idaho, and it's quite relaxing. Then there's locker room behavior, and casual nakedness in front of strangers, and just doing the things that normally you do only in front of your own mirror, or your husband ... slapping on deodorant, for example ... and wandering around in stages of undress, while chatting on your cell phone, meeting up with friends later, talking to your boyfriend about the Thai food you're gonna pick up on your way home ... all of that locker room stuff. Again, since we're ALL doing it at the same time there's something really anonymous about it ... and it COULD lead to total cacophony ... but the way I experience it is: I zone OUT. I am in my own Idaho. I do my gym thing. I sweat it up. I sauna it up. I chat on my phone. I slap on the deodorant. I bullshit with the guy waiting in line with me for the weights. I move on. It's almost like we're all in a collective trance. And since it's winter the windows totally steam up. So I'm on the treadmill, and I know that outside is 41st Street, and the new NY Times building going up across the way, and passersby rush along, bundled up in snorkle coats, and there's the nutso blinking neon a block away in Times Square... but I can't see any of it. Due to the FOG, the body heat, the condensation on the windows.

I look forward to going into that collective trance on a daily basis.

Tee hee ...

Check out the comments section: I feel like Borat right now. (Comments at 1:59 a.m., and then again at 3:00 pm and 3:09 pm). So strange and so funny - People get really worked UP and my post has already made it to the first page of Google searches for "Peter Gatien" which is rather frightening because the entire thing is made-up and there are many nutso people out there. I felt obligated to put up a disclaimer because I was afraid that Gatien would come after me, or be mad or something because I'm just making shit up, as though it's real. But still ... I'm gonna leave comments open down there, just so I can see who shows up to tell "Alexa" that she's horrible - or awesome - whatever the case may be. I love it. Punked! Also it just goes to show you how polarizing Gatien still is. hahaha It's great.

Brando

Stanley Crouch analyzes him - I honestly don't know if I've ever read anything more insightful and thought-provoking about Brando, and what he really is doing. It's a very nuanced take. Here's part of the piece ... but most certainly read the whole thing.

Reflections in a Golden Eye (1967), like any superior film, benefits greatly from the DVD format and the revisions it makes possible. The inclusion of the experimental gold and sepia tone, which was removed from the print shortly after the film was released, allows the audience of our moment to see a film that most did not when it was available in theaters. We now have director John Huston's vision intact. We also have Brando in one of the boldest performances ever given by an actor on screen. What validates that last claim is the exemplary courage of Brando's egoless deep sea dive into his character, Maj. Penderton, whose desperate and arrogantly veiled pathos tellingly overflows twice. The character's central problem is his feeling of inadequacy, of being less that he should, and his terrible loneliness because of the difficulty of handling his attraction to men.

Brando reaches a nearly matchless desolation in the first instance of overflowing when his attempt to secretly equal his wife's control of her stallion is thwarted by the horse's power, which he cannot meet with the necessary combination of confident ease and equally confident force. When the stallion smells his fear, it is spooked into running through blueberry bushes that tear the animal's flesh and cut the face of the rider. The humiliation felt by a man facing the terrible pain of his limitations is far more intimate than cutting embarrassment?Brando evokes a moment of horrifying pathos. One thinks of Olivier's well-remembered theater cry after Oedipus has plucked his eyes out, for which the actor used the image of a seal shrieking when its tongue is stuck to the ice until it's clubbed to death by hunters. In the case of Brando's Maj. Penderton, the feeling is banked neither by having a tantrum nor by brutalizing the stallion with a tree branch; the violent action only deepens his sorrow to such a degree that the failed horseman slowly descends into apologetic sobs that cannot be held down. If a more shattering moment is available on film, I would like to know what it is.

This is brilliant analysis. Detailed, incisive ... One of the problems with most commentary about acting is that there is absolutely no understanding of the degree of difficulty ... or the rarity of certain things.

I've said it before - but it would be like a sportswriter who has no idea why a triple play is important and doesn't give it its due, for degree of difficulty - or the sheer fact of how rare one is.

Here's the whole thing.

Rocky: things I notice and love Part 1

-- how Mr. Gazzo takes a gasp off of an inhaler before bitching Rocky out for not breaking the guy's thumbs. What a detail. The inhaler. I LOVE actors, man. I have no idea why he gave the character asthma (it's not in the script) but he did ... and it's just fascinating.

-- Rocky's glasses. He puts them on in the backseat of the car with the loan shark, as he writes down his assignments for the next day. You know that he swiped those from a drugstore. They are the goofiest most inappropriate looking glasses. GREAT character choice.

-- How Adrian has pinned her watch to her sweater. Interesting detail.

-- the terrifically awkward moment when Rocky asks Adrian out (the first time - in the pet store) - and she is so shy that she doesn't even acknowledge that it has happened. He says, "Great game down at the Spectrum tonight ..." (he's not looking at her - pretending to look at the dogs, or whatever) - Adrian cleans the bird cage - nothing ... Rocky then says, "Want to go to a basketball game?" Not looking at her. Then a quick glance at her. She does not even look at him. And then right after that - Rocky moves on - as though it never even happened. As though he didn't just ask her out.

-- I love how Rocky bitches out Paulie in the bathroom: "I need a Cadillac to connect with your sister, or what?" Paulie is hunched over, trying to comb his 4 strands of hair in the tiny shard of mirror that is left on the wall. Beautiful. Every element of that scene: the dialogue, the set, the relationship ...

-- how in the beginning of the movie Rocky is a thug. By the end of the movie he has become an athlete. Like - in the first jogging-at-dawn scene - you can just tell that Rocky never gets up and jogs. Jog? Are you crazy? He's got the Converse on, it's dawn, his sweat suit is filthy (and hysterical - he looks so ridiculous in it - kind of chunky and pudgy) - and he does a few desultory stretches against the building - and then off he goes. He looks creaky. Not used to running. It's so eloquent - that shot.

-- I love how when Rocky first takes Adrian into his apartment he says to her, "You hungry? I think I got some donuts. Maybe some soda." She shakes her head. He says, "No? I got some cupcakes." She shakes her head. "I think I got some chocolate in there." She shakes her head. He says, "No? Okay." Uhm - donuts, soda, cupcakes, and chocolate. Perfect.

-- He sits on his couch, and tries to get her to join him. He says, "It's a nice couch, I don't know." Rocky. It is NOT a nice couch. There are beer bottles stuck in between the couch and the wall, the necks of the bottles hovering along the back of the couch like organ pipes. You have placed newspapers over the holes in the couch. A crumpled dirty blanket lies on half of a cushion. Now - there's no shame in being poor, Rocky. But that is NOT a nice couch.

-- Wonderful change of scene: Rocky comes home after the fight in the first scene. Talks to Cuff and Link. You know, that famous scene. He wanders around his disgusting apartment. You get the sense of his isolation. He has a beat-up face, band-aids on his eyebrow - a black eye - he goes to the fridge, takes out an ice tray, cracks it on top of the fridge - so a couple of ice cubes pop out into his hand. Some cubes go on the floor, he doesn't care. He takes the cubes and walks to his bed (you can so get the aches and pains in how he walks ...) - lies on the bed - it's a single bed - you can see a big wooden cross behind him - religious memorabilia on the shelf - and he lies on bed, his leg kind of curled up - and puts the ice cubes against his cut eye. And just lies there, with this ... battered look on his face, man. This battered flat dead-eyed look. The pose, the look says it all. This man is ALONE. But then: NEXT SHOT: we're inside the pet shop, it's daylight, and we see Rocky walk up to the window, from the outside - and he starts to tap and wave at the puppies - and his face is totally different. He glances up - waves at Adrian - there's still something a bit shy there, he's maybe trying to play up how unthreatening he is?? - but I just love that cut. We go from the violent guy lying in his single bed, no expression on his face, aching and throbbing from injuries ... to him trying to tell jokes to Adrian, trying to draw her out, make her laugh ... And BOTH of these things are true. Neither side is a pose. He is violent. Or - he has capability of great violence when he is in the ring, or when he feels threatened or disrespected. But then - he's sweet and ... kind to Adrian ... he takes just the right tone with her. There's no condescension there. He is truly interested in her. He's not just interested in her when she takes the glasses off later. He already thinks she is pretty. Anyway - I love that transition - that we go from one scene to another. Very effective.

-- I love the moment when Rocky goes to his locker, takes the lock - does the combination - but it won't open. He tries the combination again. No luck. So what does he do? He takes off his hat - takes a slip of paper out of the lining - which obviously has the combination on it for safekeeping - checks it, and tries the lock again. I just LOVE that detail. That was Stallone's idea - nobody told him to do that. He knew that Rocky was enough of a realist, and enough of a ... well, Rocky knew that the possibility of him forgetting his combination was pretty high ... so he put the combination in a place where he could get to it, where it would always be on him if he needed it. It is tiny details like this - that make up a great character. A 3-dimensional character. It's not just all the big things - his heart, his soul, his drive, his kindness, his struggle - The character itself is revealed in the fact that he is the kind of guy who keeps his locker combination on a slip of paper in the lining of his hat. Gorgeous.

Jan. to March 1995 Diary flotsam and jetsam

Quotes, snippets, fragments ... some of this I don't remember at all ... some is as vivid to me as a newsreel flickering of my own life before my own eyes ... I never go thru old journals - except the old high school ones for Diary Friday, but yesterday I went through some of them from this crazy 3-month period in Chicago (or, I should say - one of MANY crazy 3 month periods in Chicago) - I wasn't sure why I picked those particular journals out of the box, it was very random (seemingly) - but it soon became clear to me why those were the ones I chose to browse through. I was HOWLING with laughter at points, but ... there was other stuff, too. Quiet, memories, the whole thing coming back to me. Deep in thought these days. I've got stuff to do. (Ann - some of this stuff was just making me GUFFAW.)

Joe: "Member in Pulp Fiction --"
Ann: "No, see now, that was Sheila."

Ann: "Is that the one where your hair is different?"
Me: "No, that's your fantasy."

Me: "I'm just gonna be myself--"
Ann: "I think you should. Of course, if you need to be married ..."

Me: "I think M. knew he could show up and I would let him know I wanted him to be there --"
Ann: "Or you'd blatantly ignore him like that night at the Wrigleyside."

Fragments from M.'s improv show
"Thank you, Gore Vidal."

"Gash - Like a Wound - is offended."

"I wish I was a deformed midget.

1/13/95
Guess who crash-bang-boomed back into my life this week? M. We're quite a pair. I can't discuss the chemistry anymore (but of course I still will) - but it just exists. We're friends. M. is my friend. I really can see myself now paging him from a scary L platform somewhere and he'd come and save me. How do I BEGIN? Being with M. - after a year - is so familiar. It's like my maroon sweater or something. Oh, who KNOWS. I adore him. Like this is a surprise. It's a surprise to him, I think.

Mitchell: "Something has happened that I keep forgetting."

Me: "Isn't it great that M. is back in my life?"
Ann: "I think it's totally great, even though you know this is only going to lead to haikus and humidifiers."

Snippets from M.'s improv show
"I usually save an extra seat for the Narrator."

Roy, the Idiot Man-Child from the Service Station

"You're not even a zoologist!"

"Of course, we need to park on a street where there is a raging fire." - Me and Ann

Exchange between casting agent and M.
Casting agent: "The character is constantly getting into situations he needs to get out of. He's also a hopeless romantic. Do you think you can do that?"
M.: "I like acting."

M. to me, on that horrible night: "There are traction issues that you just can't understand."

Fragments - from M.'s improv show
"Leave some room, John!"

"I like working with pigs!"

"You're gonna have to wear an eyepatch!"

From Vindication:
I have not the constitution, the education, the ability to concentrate. I fear for my sanity sometimes. There are days when I am on the edge of tears. Sometimes I am so restless I do not know what to do. Sometimes I can talk all night, like King George, you know. I am too, too happy, and in the same day I can be sad beyond hope. Sometimes teaching the girls is all I can do. Sometimes I am magnificent at it. Sometimes I do not know what to do with myself, my hands, my eyes. I want to fling myself down on the grass, embrace it, thank it, each little stem of it. I want a beautiful blue dress, shimmery, the color of the ocean. I want to be the ocean and the clouds. No, not the clouds, that is too far away.

"Well, that will make you more three-dimensional." - Me (weaving a web of lies with Ann Marie)

"You sent the man 30 haikus. I don't think he'll mind if you come to a couple of his shows." - Ann

We were all talking about what our "type" was. I had just come back from a weekend with M. I said, "My type of guy punctuates each sentence with a shot of Rumpelmans."

Me to M.: "I have a kinder-whore appeal ... or at least so I've been told."

Joey, talking to the television, as we watched 30something: "These are nice people, Susannah. They want to like you because they love Garry."

I'm forever under lock and key
As you pass thru me

M.: "There came a point when I was - whatever, it was clear to my parents that I had to be having sex by that time - I was 23, whatever - and my mom said something to me like, 'Well, at least you're not having sex,' and I had to say, 'Mom. Look, I'm having sex.' and she said, 'I'm glad you're not having sex.' Total denial. She couldn't even hear what I was saying. I think my mom could walk in on me actually having sex, and she'd be like, 'I'm so glad you're studying!'"

From the party 12/10/94
"These Oreos are insanely delicious." - Joey

"You just never know what will happen with broccoli." - Me

"I just kicked a pig." - Ann

Heard simultaneously by Ann:
Me: (with a mouth full of food) "I have an eating disorder."
Mitchell: "I can honestly say I've never slept with ----- oh, wait --- yes, I have."

George and Ann, providing dialogue to an old movie, with the sound turned down:
George: "That's why your dancing frustrates me - because I can't move!"
Ann: "Well, don't you think I understand that? I mean, look at my eyebrows!"

Ann: "I was thinking about your life the other day ..."

2/20/95
Me: Hi, honey.
M.: Hi, spanky.

Jackie: "The symptoms of this disease are: trouble with social skills .... long legs ... developing breasts as a man - and small tightly formed gonads."

2/24/95
M. calls my house - Jackie picks up.
Jackie: "Hello. Tony's Pizza Palace."
M.: "I'd like a Sheila to go."
Jackie: "And what would you like on that?"
M.: "Nothing."

2/23/95
Me: "I have my period."
M.: "What else is new."

Me to M. (and I was dead serious): "It would totally not surprise me if I disappeared into a white slavery sex ring at some point."

Me to Mitchell (about M.): "Isn't he so sweet?"
Mitchell: "He is. He is sweet." Long pause. "He's a lunatic."

Mitchell: "The improv jam is pushing all my buttons."

Mitchell to me: "If you say 'improv jam' one more time, I'm going to scream at the top of my lungs."

2/26/95
Crying in M.'s arms - it was, God, 3 am? I said later, "Sorry for crying like such a werewolf." Not aware that werewolves were big criers. But anyway, I couldn't stop. It wasn't sadness, though. I had been so wound up for about a week, and then I relaxed with him, and started to cry, and then I couldn't stop. For about an hour. Poor man. I kept saying to him, "Don't be scared - the tears are good tears ... I'm happy ... I'm so happy ..." He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, he was holding me, and he said, drily, "I hope you don't mind if I just take your word for it that you're happy, okay? I mean, you're fucking crying ..." "I'm just happy, M, I'm happy ..." "Okay, okay, you're happy. Christ."

1/13/95
7 a.m. Jazz Bulls. The place closed its doors at 6 a.m. M. was working - so there was grey weird light seeping into the basement windows. Everything looked weird. Pre-dawn. It felt like we were the only 2 people on the earth. M. said, "You want some coffee before you go to work?" "You mean ... go out?" I didn't think there'd be time for that. He scoffed at the "out" question. "No - I can make you coffee here. You want some?" "God, yes." I hoisted myself up onto the bar and sat there as M made a pot of coffee. His pants were totally ripped by that loony Christine bitch. I loved watching him shuffle around dealing with filters and coffee and water. He was adorable. All the while we were talking about us. I told him how comfortable I felt with him. At one point I fell into a depression, having to go to work after being up all night. I said, "I can't believe I'm going to work right now."

He was standing with his back to me, pouring coffee. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Just black. And strong. And please don't say 'You like it like you like your men' or whatever. Everyone says that."

He poured sugar and cream into his own coffee, handed me mine, which I began to devour (it didn't even make a dent in my exhaustion) and then stood there, stirring his own coffee. We were lost in our own thoughts. He was deep in contemplation. Turns out, it was about me - but I didn't guess that in that moment. He was just pondering me, perched on top of the counter, pale, sipping the coffee he made for me, in the dawn-lit bar where he works, half an hour away from having to go to my job.

He turned to stare at me, still stirring his coffee. He looked at me for a long time. Contemplatively. I didn't ask what he was looking at me like that for. I just looked back at him. Then he said - slowly - choosing his words - or, no - not choosing his words - M. doesn't really do that - but slowly, as though this idea had just occurred to him and surprised him: "You must really like me."

That is SUCH a funny moment if I really ponder it. I've known this guy for 3 years, and now he says, in a tone of awe, "You must really like me!" It was so sincere. I started laughing. "Of course I like you. What are you, a moron?" Laughing at him. "You didn't know that I like you?"

"Well - no - I mean, I know you like me. But, I mean, you must like me. You've gotten no sleep because of me, and you're about to go to work - I mean, there's not too many people I'd do that for." (He didn't say if he'd do it for me or not.) "I think it's rare."

I felt like I should say something, but I didn't know what to say. M. sensed that in me, because he said, quickly, reassuring, "No, I mean - it's cool - that you like me - I mean ... I guess I just didn't know." He went back into contemplative stirring-coffee mode.

"Well, now you know." I said.

We drank coffee, not talking, the air clear between us. Both of us thinking. About the other. He gets shy. Like he doesn't want to say too much, or ruin anything.

He said, looking down into his coffee, "I feel like there's not a word evolved enough for what we are."

Fragile moment. I didn't speak. I let it hover. He had more to say. I knew it. He said, "You have always struck me, from the very beginning as ... someone who ... wanted to different than what you are."

That was an ambiguous thing to say. I saw 2 possible interpretations - or, no, actually - now I see the 2 interpretations - but this is how I took it at the time: Sheila, you have been trying to be something you're not.

So I felt a little chilled by that. I pursued it. "What do you ..."

He meant what he had said - but it wasn't the negative interpretation that I put on it. He meant that: I'm not satisfied anymore with being unhappy, repressed, uptight - and I am determined to get over myself, and get better, push through these barriers I have up.

I did not know that he had perceived that from the beginning. I remember him saying to me on a tequila-soaked summer's eve, when I was all upset and weepy, "Your journey ... has just begun." He knew. How did he know?

He explained what he meant: "The first time we went out ... " (neither of us know how to define this whole damn thing - we have no words - there are not words evolved enough for what we are) "Well - I told you this - you were so - " (he stopped talking, and then kind of hugged his arms around himself, put his head down - to show how closed I was and uptight) "And I wasn't -- sure how to handle it ... I wasn't sure if you ..." (unfinished sentence, wincing expression, awkward, shy) "But then ... you kept ..." (stopped himself - and smiled - and I knew what he meant. I had kept calling him, kept making myself available - he didn't say it in a mean way. It's the truth.) I said, grinning, "I kept coming back for more, huh." "Well ... yeah ... so I figured ... Okay ... This person is ..." (all of this accompanied with those subtle facial expressions and hand gestures he does - we transcend words - the expression and the gesture he made conveyed my whole life: pushing through, frustrated, upset, sick of being upset ... wanting to be happy. He saw all that?) I nodded in agreement with his interpretation of me. He said, nearly unable to get it out - too awkward and vulnerable, "So ... it's kind of cool, Sheila ... to see how you have progressed. It's ..." He stopped. It's like I was inside of him. Like he could hear those words "how you have progressed" and to him they suddenly sounded patronizing. But no. They were not. I said, softly, "It is cool, M. It is cool."

The obsession ...

... continues apace.

It has gone to the next logical step.

More to come.

Robbie BARRRRRNS

Part 2. Photos of the blessed event here.

How much would I have loved to be there?

It hurts. That's how much.

"Ralph Macchio was my main squeeze for a long time"

I am in love with this post by Mejack. Read the whole thing, please. It's glorious.

On multiple levels.

First of all: the content. Ralph Macchio. I mean, what is not to love. He is also in the Rocky Balboa continuum so it's not TOO much of a segue for me.

I love her wording here too:

They were giggling about the IRONY of owning these movies. I wanted to wax on-wax off their asses. I am SO SICK of the IRONY. I am tired of the ironic Rainbow Brite shiny jackets and the ironic leg warmers. I am tired of the ironic PBR's in the dive bar that, ironically, has a jukebox that only plays 80's songs. Seriously. Is it really necessary that one has to be slightly self deprecating and clever with semi-obscure retro references at all times? Stop it. Enough Already. Everyone likes kitchy/campy things from past decades (like me with my Leif Garrett fascination) but most people, except the Hoopleheads, don't need to endlessly squawk on about the CLEVER IRONY of it all and make poor fashion choices to further demonstrate their cleverness.

I wanted to wax on-wax off their asses.

I'm with you, girl. Enough.

And may I say this: I love how, in your youth, you seemed to be consistently telling people you were closer to certain celebrities than you actually were. I love that.

"Yeah, Wolfman Jack's my uncle. Whatever. No big deal."

"Yeah, I was born in the same hospital as Ponyboy. Yeah, whatever, no big deal."

It's this yearning for closeness, closeness to the BURNING GLOW of their stardom.

I remember telling you at our American Idol night about how "Ralph Macchio saved my life" ... and I felt little to no judgment from you (which I truly appreciated) ... and here's that post I told you about. It's long. It's about your dear childhood "friend", Ralph Macchio.

Ack

If I had known it would be chosen as a Link of the Day - I would have edited the damn thing. I wrote it in about 20 seconds of fevered fangirl excitement.

But still: thanks, Keith! I appreciate it. I love those Links of the Day.

ROCKY

ROCKY

ROCKY

ROCKY

Brawn

It's hard for me to picture him as sick. It's hard for me to picture him fragile, weak, even though there were always elements of his body that seemed patched together, Frankenstein-esque. This was a man who had been battered to a pulp, shattered, and left for dead on the side of the street. This was a man who had had to be put back together, who had to learn to walk again at age 20. But he had come back. This was all before I met him, but that body - the body he had before the disaster - haunted me. It hovered