REPOST: Is Worth...

Assisi en il Cuore Verde

 

Fingertips trail ancient walls, the occasional tree gets hugged; the mood of a city filters in through my senses. Years later, a sound or scent or taste will take me right back. Even better, I have only to call the experience up in memory to know how a place felt. I've learned that snapping pics along the way tends to inhibit, rather than inspire this process.

During the first leg of my first European journey, I took reams of pictures. The Moms recorded video and snapped photos of every train station and street corner across five countries. And for a while, their camera-enthusiasm was infectious and I clicked along with them. My prepared travel mode; plugged into my CD player, the book in my hand a handy camouflage; was great for savoring a city and it's denizens. In addition to providing a soundtrack for my memories, the music calmed me during the hectic rush between taxis, trains and buses. Reading a book is a great way to observe unobserved. And because Rory Gilmore and I were separated at birth (omigosh...just realized, that the phrase "could be my daughter" is more applicable...ouch) far too many books weighed down my luggage when the trip began. I developed the habit of leaving them behind when they were. To this day, I wonder about the travels of those who read them after me...and whether they were as freaked out as I was by the ending of Carol O'Connell's "Judas Child".

Giving up my camera however, was, like most good things that happen while traveling, an accident. Five weeks into the trip, the Moms had gone. My travel partner and I were spending two weeks at a resort just outside of Assisi. A resort, which, due to an extended fight  with my friend and the determined pursuit of the Neapolitan handy man, was feeling just a tad cramped. So a beautiful snowy day found me in Siena, a couple of trains and a bus away...without my camera

Dang it.

Only, not so much.

I remember scattering pigeons as I crossed the piazza, cursing my forgetfulness. I can feel the suspicious gazes directed at me from the white haired ladies on the bench ahead. I walked all over old Siena that day, not missing my camera nearly as much as I thought I would. And then I found it.

Down some side street, I will never find again was a gallery of modern art. They were just opened, some of the rooms had not yet been finished. The art...it was mostly okay. Some pedestrian, some self-consciously cool, with a couple of truly awful and brilliant pieces thrown in. I went up and up and up,  and was on the roof. To this day, I'm not sure whether it was the installation or the view which first took my breath. Maybe it was one of those moments where art and life collide to create an impression far more evocative than either could on its own. It's true, I know; a good photo of the scene would be more descriptive than words. Instead the experience is private, jealously guarded in my own heart.

An immortal moment...something in Siena which exists only for me.

Alas and Alack' My Dear Friends....

I've been the victim of a confluence of events that can only happen to *me*. There are those who might suggest my bed was made by me and now I should lie in it. Whether or not those people are right, it's extremely tactless of them to say so now.

So I have two handsets for my phone. For the longest time only one had a decent battery. And yes, I know that's stupid because every once in a while the thought does occur, 'this is dumb, what if something happens to the good phone battery, you will have no access to your outside world'.

However  when push comes to shove, I always find reasons for not buying a fresh battery for the juice-less phone. Generally variations on...I'm too cheap. Besides, what are the chances the good phone battery dies without days, yea, weeks of notice?

'Hello, Ancient Master  Dropper of Phones (me<---)!' I say to myself 'ehm, clumsy much?' But I make it a point not to listen to advice from myself, particularly when it's given in that specific *tone*. Of course, last Monday, after dropping the phone and managing (somehow) to break the battery but not the phone. I wished I had listened...regardless of Tone.

After eBaying myself a couple of phone batteries (I'm educable, if slow); the batteries seem slow to arrive. A couple of days past their due date, I discover that I' have neglected to update the eBay shipping address after my last move. Hah, yes....genius.

Have I mentioned the juiceless battery is being a complete and utter jerk? Juice-less is a teensy understatement; as the battery seems to have just enough power to light the little caller id screen. Now I get to watch helplessly as unanswerable calls come in.  Let me just say this, I now understand why dogs hate cats. Have you ever watched a cat sit just out of reach of a dog barking itself into a myocardial infarction? Phone = cat. Me = dog.

Looking forward to talking to you (at last!) very soon,

REPOSTED From Email: Midlife Crisis, Anyone?

So my biological clock started ticking the other day...loudly. It's funny because said timepiece has been dormant for so much of my life, I was pretty well convinced the notion of an alarm which goes off somewhere in a woman's DNA and starts demanding babies was a myth; like unicorns, fairies and comfortable heels;  perpetrated upon womankind by our mothers and Madison Avenue.

I've never experienced a strong desire for children of my own. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE  children. I ADORE children. Like any non-cyborg human being, I've always found babies irresistible. There is nothing which compares to the warm, loving weight of an infant in your arms, except for the "there but for the grace of God go I" breath of relief with which I hand said infant over to Mommy or Daddy at the appointed time. I've spent most of my life taking care of kids. While it's true that babies are cute and cuddly my preference has always been for the sentient years.  The experiences and conversations to be had after a child discovers Mom and Dad are not the literal center of the universe, for me,  hold a special and intense magic. From, a toddler's first "Why?", I am spellbound. Even so, even so...just as certainly as I knew at eight or nine, caring for children would play a big part in my life, I knew with equal conviction that I did not want to raise children in this system of things and that if Jehovah granted me a measure of contentment, I'd wait until the new one; when I can be the kind of mother I've always wanted to be.

So now what? Is it time to knock a man over the head, drag him down the aisle and make him the father of dozens of fat babies (Firefly shout out)? Um, not so much. The thing which never ceases to amaze me about existential crises...is the mundane-ness of the fix. Several biggish things have kind of happened all at once. I've turned 35, one of my major milestone ages. After years of annoying, debilitating and confusing health issues I have a diagnosis which makes sense of it all; and my companion of fifteen years, a small, fiercely loyal, utterly obnoxious feline who has been with me since she was 1 month old is sick for the first, and probably, last time in her life.

It's this last straw which jump-started the clock. What will it be like when the only heart beat which truly belongs to my life is my own? My body was preparing an answer before my brain even knew the question. Babies! Clear evidence that DNA/emotions/clocks (biological or otherwise) have no I.Q. whatsoever.  Is it time for children? No.

However it is time for something; time to begin the process of letting go, time to give a very old kitty permission  to find her natural resting place when the time comes. To that end, I stumbled upon a couple of very good, very funny books for animal people. The first is "Tell Me Where It Hurts" which is written by veterinary surgeon (I know, I know, but I"m way more squeamish than you and loved it) Nick Trout (yes, as in the fish), it is funny and it is elegant. I'm taking a break from the current audiobook to write this, because it's great for navel-gazers of all stripes, animal person or not. The book is "It's Okay To Miss The Bed On The First Jump" by John O'Hurley...fun-E and great for where my head is now.

All of this to ask the question of the people from whom I most want to know their answers: What was your last/most significant midlife/existential crisis? And how did you/did it resolve it/itself? It's nearing midnight as I sit working through this particular knot in my psyche, my friends. Help me out.
Much love,
Maya

Cover His Face,...He Died Young

When I got the news, I would have given anything for it not to be true. Day and night, for many weeks this poem ran through my head.

~Jason, my baby brother.

1975-2004

ELAINE

OH, come again to Astolat!
  I will not ask you to be kind.
And you may go when you will go,
  And I will stay behind.

I will not say how dear you are,
  Or ask you if you hold me dear,
Or trouble you with things for you
  The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot,
  So very still the lake shall be,
You could not guess--though you should guess--
  What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden-walk,
  The garden-seat so very wide,
You needs must think--if you should think--
  The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away,
  I'd watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
  And smile,--if you should smile. 

--Second April, by Edna St Vincent Millay

It Was Like A Mafia Don's Funeral

She was a little runt of a stray...but wow, talk about personality, she had wayy more than her share.

She had no front claws (I hated to, but she kept her claws out all the time, I still bear the scars), she was teeny tiny, old and rickety, but still made huge dogs cringe.She has defended her territory against all manner of intruder; from three-year old kid to fully grown realtor.

Even with me, the only human she adored; Nina was cranky and demanding. Every little inch the curmudgeonly; "you kids get off my lawn!" lovable. 

These qualities and many more besides made her memorable. I wish I had a nickel for every time my friends have said: "How's your crazy cat?" "How's Nina doing?" "Do you still have Nina" "How's your cat? She does not like me."

And then late last year, she began to get sick. Really sick. Not "you made me move one too many times so now I'm gonna pull out all my hair' sick. But, 'there's a funny little thing under my tongue. Did I hurt myself when I pulled out all my fur' sick and 'I can't groom myself, even thought it's my favorite thing', sick.

I felt the ticking for months. The clock counting down the minutes to the end of our time together.

When she came home with me, I was twenty and she could fit in the palm of my hand. The kittens at the shelter were sleeping balls of fur. All except for this adorable, svelte black kitten, who curiously tested the air in my direction. When the lady came in to open it's cage, all of the kittens woke up. And suddenly I was eye to eye with a fluffy grey and black striped tabby with huge green eyes and a very pink nose. It was Nina. She started to purr. And I was lost.

She was afraid of wind. And hands...but not feet. At first I was always stepping on her because she'd follow me into a room and curl up behind my heel. She loved french fries. But only if they were hot. She did not like children. She did like men. There was another kitty in the mirror, but Nina would only try to get at it if she thought I wasn't looking.. Being laughed at offended her dignity.  And she preferred to drink her water by dipping a paw and licking it dry.

I tried denial until it became delusional. I tried bargaining.until the deal-breaker. When 'I can't groom myself, even thought it's my favorite thing', sick,  became "I can no longer eat," sick. Sitting in the car on the way to the vet's I was still hoping, hoping, I was wrong. I knew what I was preparing to do and yet could not imagine coming home with an empty carrier.

My grief did not surprise me. My friends did. My former roommate and 'sister from another mother' surprised me with flowers and a card. Another bought an orchid. All called, or wrote, or in some way honored the loss of my crazy feline friend.  And honestly, given her personality...the outpouring of support surprised me a little. It was a little like a Mafia don's funeral. Either that, or the measure of true and dear friendship.

...A Thousand Words

I'm shy.

Sort of.

Not really.

Okay, it's like this. It's my face. I have zero control over what appears on it. Every stray thought and emotion starts in my eyes and makes its way over my lips and cheeks (complete with wait for it...a visible blush. Lovely!) and into my eyebrows.There are few people who like playing their cards close to the chest more than I. There are even fewer who are as spectacularly bad at it as I am.

Want to know what Maya *really* thinks? Ask her a question and then watch her face.

Perhaps, there is some lingering tribal suspicion regarding little soul-sucking boxes, perhaps not. At any rate, the notion of my naked soul, preserved in the moment for whomever cares to see; sets off reflexive butterflies in my gut. The idea of seeing revealed and preserved some stray thought not covered by my personal Freedom of Information Act freaks me out. So when "smile pretty for the camera" time comes around; what would I do? Go blank and paste on a smile.

This is crazy. I know it's crazy. None of us can expect to move through the world completely invulnerable. Our vulnerability is what elicits the best of human emotion in others; compassion, empathy, generosity, protectiveness, love.

Still, in my younger days, my primary goal was self-containment. This woman was an island. Looking back, I realize few people were more ill-equipped for that role than I. At my core, I feel deeply connected to humanity, it is in my nature to love deeply and forgive freely.I'm a sap. Such people are rarely invulnerable. Why was I so afraid for others to catch a glimpse of that girl?

Nowadays I'm better. But still, If you want a great picture of me, don't let me see you comin'.

REPOST: Is Worth...

Fingertips trail ancient walls, the occasional tree gets hugged; the mood of a city filters in through my senses. Years later, a sound or scent or taste will take me right back. Even better, I have only to call the experience up in memory to know how a place felt. I've learned that snapping pics along the way tends to inhibit, rather than inspire this process.

During the first leg of my first European journey, I took reams of pictures. The Moms recorded video and snapped photos of every train station and street corner across five countries. And for a while, their camera-enthusiasm was infectious and I clicked along with them. My prepared travel mode; plugged into my CD player, the book in my hand a handy camouflage; was great for savoring a city and it's denizens. In addition to providing a soundtrack for my memories, the music calmed me during the hectic rush between taxis, trains and buses. Reading a book is a great way to observe unobserved. And because Rory Gilmore and I were separated at birth (omigosh...just realized, that the phrase "could be my daughter" is more applicable...ouch) far too many books weighed down my luggage when the trip began. I developed the habit of leaving them behind when they were. To this day, I wonder about the travels of those who read them after me...and whether they were as freaked out as I was by the ending of Carol O'Connell's "Judas Child".

Giving up my camera however, was, like most good things that happen while traveling, an accident. Five weeks into the trip, the Moms had gone. My travel partner and I were spending two weeks at a resort just outside of Assisi. A resort, which, due to an extended fight  with my friend and the determined pursuit of the Neapolitan handy man, was feeling just a tad cramped. So a beautiful snowy day found me in Siena, a couple of trains and a bus away...without my camera

Dang it.

Only, not so much.

I remember scattering pigeons as I crossed the piazza, cursing my forgetfulness. I can feel the suspicious gazes directed at me from the white haired ladies on the bench ahead. I walked all over old Siena that day, not missing my camera nearly as much as I thought I would. And then I found it.

Down some side street, I will never find again was a gallery of modern art. They were just opened, some of the rooms had not yet been finished. The art...it was mostly okay. Some pedestrian, some self-consciously cool, with a couple of truly awful and brilliant pieces thrown in. I went up and up and up,  and was on the roof. To this day, I'm not sure whether it was the installation or the view which first took my breath. Maybe it was one of those moments where art and life collide to create an impression far more evocative than either could on its own. It's true, I know; a good photo of the scene would be more descriptive than words. Instead the experience is private, jealously guarded in my own heart.

An immortal moment...something in Siena which exists only for me.

Thursday Thirteen: Thirteen Things I Wish I Hadn't Never

1. Said nice things about Mimmo. When that guy asked me to tell him what I thought of Mimmo in Italian, my response should have been two words; "Troppo giovane".

2. Started pretending I can add and subtract. I. Cannot. Balance a checkbook. It's online banking for me, baby!

3. Told a certain person he could come see me. We weren't just on different continents, we were on different planes of existence.

4. Started Tweeting. 'Cause now, even though I rarely tweet; I still think about tweeting when I'm not tweeting.

5. Finished my screenplay. Um...'cause I don't exactly know what to do with myself...hence, the blog.

6. Left when the vet told me I shouldn't stay while he put down my cat. I promised her I'd be with her. There will always be a blank space where I should find the end of our lives together.

7.  Had root canal. Whoof!

8. Started watching The Bachelor again. They pullllled me back in.

9. Been at my brother's funeral. It was a circus.

10. Let my mother co-opt my relationship with my niece. I was very ill at the time, but I should have fought harder to have her brought to see me.

11. Heard the song, 'I Shot The Sheriff'. The version which continues to play in my head is a really bad rendition by an American Idol hopeful. Yikes.

12. Tried sushi. I had no idea how much I'd love it; or how much I'd miss it now that I have nooo money.

13. Been exposed to the Thursday Thirteen. Now I'm completely hooked.

Tags: thursday thirteen, meme, death, siblings, italy, cfs, cfids, regret




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So...Spring Has Sprung

I should be happy, I know. I am kind of, almost happy. The weather is beautiful; which is wonderful. But I'm filled with dread.

Heat intolerance. One of my least favorite ME/CFS symptoms, looms in my non-to-distant future. I have Spring Fever and I want to rejoice with everyone else. But there's this doomsday countdown taking place inside of me. How many days, weeks until my body feels as though it's cooking from the inside? How long until the recurrent low grade fever becomes an ever-present mid grade fever? Heavens to Betsy, I really want to love Spring and look forward to Summer, I really, really do...oh well.

The Roses of Victory. . .Or the Smell of De Feet?

My current situation has me thinking a lot about success and failure and fear; fear of success for which there is no roadmap; or failure that is public, humiliating and makes one look foolish for having tried at all. I'm alright by the way, safely ensconced with friends in beautiful Trinity County. Getting better, getting stronger and thinking about next steps.

I've always felt there was glory in Attempt. Something beautiful and even sacred in the process of inspiration and bringing an idea into reality. But I've always held my hand . . . attempted, but without really risking enough to either succeed or fail completely. So many dreams deferred, but none ridden into the dust of defeat or soaring on the wings of victory; but always that bizarre purgatory of . . . almost or . . . eventually.

Next steps, geographically at any rate will most probably see me in Holland before the year is out, either temporarily or permanently. What next for Maya/de Bergerac . . . the kid herself? Well, if you know your cinema history that last sentence was a bit of a hint. What should be my next goal?

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm tired of whiny whimper-y half-keistered failure. The ones that make it hard put for anyone to blame me for the situation, even if they can't fully comprehend the circumstances. I'm also sick of half-stepped victory, the ones where I execute a 'unique' idea 'wisely' (French, for a watering down brilliant inspiration) and get part of what I want, but not the whole enchilada. I still look like an 'eccentric' to my more straight-laced friends without having felt either the cleansing burn of an idea going up in flames or the vindication of victory.

So for my next number, I've decided on a new motto. If I fail . . . fail spectacularly.

He-hee, the very thought makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. What a thrill. My entire life has felt like a high-wire act attempting to balance my own nature against the desire to act, and be seen to act, wisely. My natural wish to get out and do something astonishing has always been tempered by a wish to blend; which, um . . . I never have, but 'hope springs' . . you know. The rational I think was that as long as I acted wisely and was seen to do so, how ever 'out there' the plan I'd been working on seemed to others, I would always have a safety net when I really needed it. It's in the unspoken family contract.

Now I say, what the hay.

Will the real General Cranky please stand up?

I live in San Francisco. I'm in San Francisco. I am living in San Francisco. Weird. I've lived twenty-five years of my not terribly big, not terribly interesting life, in one not terribly big, not terribly interesting town on the outskirts of the Bay Area. But now, I've moved to the City on the Bay, where everything is considerably larger...except for me. I am sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean and soon my body will collapse into itself, unable to bear the pressure of the vast, dark, deep. It's an odd feeling. You spend your life surrounded by people. The same people. That isn't what it sounds like. It's not boring, or confining or annoying. Okay...it is all of those things. But it just isn't those things. There is comfort in living your life among people who have known you all of your life. People who know your moods without explanation. Growing up in a semi-small town is a little like living in the theme song to CHEERS. However, being grown up in a semi-small town make you remember the first word of that song. "Sometimes." There comes a point when you would like to change, or would like people to notice the changes you've already made by treating you differently. But of course they don't. You're like wallpaper. They looked at you once when you were nine and haven't really taken a look to note the changes the years have wrought. Anyway, enough whining, presently, I will sort myself out. Yes, I feel a little isolated. Yes, this is a big adjustment. But yes, I'm glad I'm here and yes I love this city. And yes, soon, you'll have to watch my dust. ---dB

Tags: san francisco, moving, small town, personality

Thursday Thirteen: Thirteen Things I Would Never Leave Behind

Thirteen Things I Would Never Leave Behind. In no particular order. Oh, and books will probably be heavily represented. 1. A 1935 edition of Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand 2. The story of my life.  An old boss and dear friend gave me a journal from Rag and Bone Bindery just before  I left them to make my first trip to Europe. They're quite lovely, handmade, acid-free paper and bound in natural materials like cork and silk.  2. A paperback copy of Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte. There's an interesting reference in it about the dangers of thoughtless people (as in, 'she's not cruel, merely thoughtless') and it's quite a nice read. But it's special to me because I picked it up at a bookstore in Venice. The first book I'd seen that was writen in English for many weeks. 3.  My ring, which for the moment is lost. Ever have one of those items you feel some deep connection to; that no matter how many times or how far away you misplace it, it always comes back to you? I bought this silver ring from a sales rep of the now defunct Mineralore. It's silver with a gold starburst and a blue tourmaline set in the center. It was the first piece of real jewelry I ever bought. 4. My love bag. I've kept every congratulatory or loving letter or card ever sent me.  And sometimes, when times get ruff, I find comfort in reading them to remember I am loved. 5.  My notebooks. They contain my ideas and some of the best writing I've ever done.  6. My laptop. It contains my ideas and some of the best writing I've ever done. 7. A passel of silk handkerchiefs. I love them and yes I have actually used them to blow my nose. There is no graceful way of blowing the schnoz, and I'm not a cute crier; a fluttery hanky adds a dash of drama. But mostly they're used to clean my glasses. 8. My cashmere sweater. I read somewhere that every woman should have at least one cashmere sweater and I couldn't agree more. Mine came dirt cheap from Ebay but it's so pretty and soft. It's a reminder of and hope for prettier and softer times.   9. An antique art deco tea set from Czechoslovakia. This was also an Ebay find. When it arrived there was actually a card which said whose anniversary it was for and the year 1935. A card which I have most foolishly lost. 10. This wonderful soft knit cardigan I call my Holland sweater. I bought it as (what I thought of at the time of purchase) an inadequate replacement for one stolen by an old roommate. But it's grown on me tree-mendously since then. 12. A paperback copy of Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. She is one of the most undersung poets of the 20th century and her work connects very deeply. This book has all of my notes and markings, including those written while reading Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay the intimate biography written by Nancy Milford. 13. Pinkerton the feline.  Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. (leave your link in comments, I¿ll add you here!)

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Tags: thursday thirteen, books, meme, stories

A little something I wrote a while ago.

Yes. Cause love it or hate it (and there are plenty on either side of that particular fence) Oprah is Queen of America. She is certainly the most influential woman and possibly the most influential person in the United States. Personally, I go back and forth on whether to love her, hate her or forget her. But anyone who can get America reading Faulkner! and Tolstoy! forever wins a place in my heart.

The brouhaha over James Frey illustrates the peril faced by by public figures for whom the perception of the line between public persona and private become blurred. I'm talking about Professional Personalities, not actors. Feeling as though we have the right to know whether Brad Pitt prefers boxers or briefs does not make him a Professional Personality (though I do have concerns about what that feeling makes us). Pitt does not use his personal life as fodder for his public career. It's those people who come into our homes over the television screen every morning or afternoon with stories about their husbands, children, pets and what they did over the weekend, who earn the designation Professional Personality.

When the Oprah expressed her support via telephone during Frey's appearance on the Larry King show saying among other things that the 'emotional truth' was what was important. I think she was speaking for herself, the private individual who was unutterably moved by the experience of reading Frey's book; and that this assessment, gauging the book by the impact of its emotional truth is perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, making that statement in a public forum is problematic; because she's not merely a private individual. Her Professional Personality has standards and an image associated with it that may have little to do with how she feels about herself privately. Her PP is bigger; living in corporations, brands, on the air waves and is owned by us 'we the people'. Years ago, we decided that we liked Oprah and as we do when we like people we conferred upon her certain rights and privileges and demand of her certain standards and practices. This is why it is that when she likes a book, it becomes a bestseller, when she makes a call to the Larry King Show it makes headlines. As a PP she doesn't have the luxury, as I do, of calling and expressing her private opinions without hearing from thousands of people about violations of certain of the standards and practices.

Rather like the CEO of a candy bar company sitting at his desk, happily munching a chocolate bar he's just removed from a taffy bar wrapper. He is perfectly within his rights to enjoy eating the irregulars. It's just going to get thrown away and the candy is perfectly good. What he can't do is sell these mislabeled bars to Raley's and sell them to us as taffy bars.

In Oprah's case, a person can understand her wish to withdraw the public statement of a private sentiment, without calling into question her sincerity. It's the way in which it was done. To take Frey apart on national television was an unnecessary cruelty. It isn't Frey's fault that instead of lacing her fingers in her lap, she chose to dial the Larry King Show. But for that phone call, she would not have tried clean up her public (and again, voluntary) comments, by ripping Frey a new one in front of millions of people. But once she did choose to speak up for Frey, I can't help thinking, the correct and even-handed thing would have been to make a statement on the show making her apologies to the public and retracting her words of the previous week.

As for Frey, he was drug addict, what a shock that an addict would lie. Why is everyone getting so hysterical? In fact, the only people who rival drug addicts for mendacity is the writer of an autobiography. Imagine the number of lies that have gone into memoirs of some of the most notable figures of our time. Fiction? Science fiction some of it. It is nearly impossible for any one person to tell the truth about themselves.

It's impossible not to feel for Frey. He did the back-breaking, heart-rending work of coming out the right side of addiction alive. He wrote a book. When he wrote it, there is no way he could have imagined his life or his 'life' would end up under such an enormous microscope. According to some reports he first submitted his manuscript to publishers as a work of fiction and had it rejected, he then resubmitted as a memoir without changing anything, and Doubleday chose to publish. Whose fault is that? My opinion...Frey might be cashing a check, but he's also taking most of the fire. Considering the many demons he already wrestles with...well let's just say many a man has been broken by far less. The only one who really makes out in this fire storm is the publisher...they are laughing all the way to the bank.

Tags: oprah, james frey, books, fraud, authors, memoirs, television

What I'm Reading Now

So I just finished this book called A Way Through The Wood. It's by a guy named Nigel Balchin about . . .Gosh, that's a tough one. I want to say it's about the unraveling of a marriage, but there's a lot more to it than that. It's about conscience and the manner in which we are human. It's beautiful, complicated and a page-turner.

It was recently made into a film starring Tom Wilkinson, Emily Watson and Rupert Everett (if you read the book, you'll know that no one but Everett could play the character of Bule)called Seperate Lies. I haven't seen the movie and probably won't. The book has left me plenty satisfied. It might be difficult to find, but I definitely recommend making the effort.

Technorati Tags: books, literature, emily watson, nigel balchin, rupert everett, tom wilkinson

Seriously....can we talk about how much I hate that song? Why is it then, that I can't get the song out of my head? Not even the version generally acknowledged to be a classic;  but the nightmarish American Idol version sung by one of those turkeys from the 'Worst of the Worst' show.

I shot the sher-i-i-iff...but I did not shoot the de-pu-teeee....

Lud.

 Am I in hell?

Technorati Tags: i shot the sheriff, songs, annoying songs, lyrics, bakery, writing

Happy Friday

Happy Friday All!!! Heh. Okay. That was fun.  Now on to the good stuff......................... And there we have a problem. I'm afraid today's is a post of all flash and no substance. Come to think of it, not that much flash either. Sorry guys, I'm pretty out of it, this cold is kicking my behind. 
I've been watching Raines, the new show with Jeff Goldblum. Imagine my delight to have a date with Goldblum every week, there is no such thing as too much of him as far as I'm concerned. Watching the pilot marked the continuation of an encouraging trend for viewing public. 
 What eerie trend is that? That of heavy talents...sheesh, Hollywood-speak. I'll say it; artists on hiatus from moviemaking are playing on a blue box near you. Writers like Aaron Sorkin (Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip), David Mamet (The Unit), Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco (The Black Donnellys); actors like Sally Field, Minnie Driver and yes, Jeff Goldblum.
And now, directors. Imagine my surprise when to find Frank Darabont's name in the credits of the aired pilot of Raines. Yes, Frank Darabont that Frank Darabont, of Shawshank Redemption and Green Mile fame. He also directed a beautiful little film starring Jim Carrey called The Majestic.
Does this mean television is getting better? I don't know about that. There seems to be a Taj Mahal/Streets of Calcutta dynamic going on. There seems to be less middle ground in quality than there was ten or fifteen years ago. There was plenty of mediocre TV, don't get me wrong; and I don't know that there was more or better good TV.  But it does feel as if there were more fair to middlin' shows and much less that was truly objectionable. Um, Simple Life anyone? Throw a dart and hit just about any reality show currently on the air to find another example.
TV is much better for people like me than it has been in a long time. I love turning on the tube to watch Field or Goldblum work. I love  knowing without seeing the credits; like recognizing the style of a composer, that Mamet penned this week's episode of The Unit. Now if we could only get a Zwick/Herskovitz offering back on the air, then I'll know true happiness.         


Technorati Tags: raines, jeff goldblum, david mamet, aaron sorkin, bobby moresco, paul haggis, televsion, sally field, minnie driver, frank darabont

I. Hate. Everybody.

So I have a cold right now and you all know what that means...I. Hate. Everybody. There's this fabulous list that The Sophisticated Writer came up with, number 6 is my personal favorite. In my current state of mind I would indeed like breathe on all the people who've ever really ticked me off. I'm nothing if not generous. Soph and some other bloggers have a tradition called the Thursday Thirteen, which is basically exactly what it sounds like. So . . . this Thursday I'm writing my own list. And I'm calling it:

#1 Thirteen Persons/Entities With Whom I'd Like to Share My Cold 1. The people who killed the electric car. I remember seeing the ads and being excited about the prospect of having an EV one day soon. Did you know that GM has crushed almost all of their electric cars? They revoked the leases of the owners once they and their pals managed to get California's emissions law quashed. Even threatened them with legal action if they refused to turn the cars over. Though protesters (many of whom were formerly EV drivers) offered 1.9 million dollars for the remaining 78 cars, GM took took them off to be crushed anyway. I'd no idea. Great movie: Who Killed the Electric Car? 2. My doctor; because he's been absolutely clueless about my illness. Going to see him means two hours of misery plus three days of recovery for 15 minutes of conversation, during which he never even looks me in the eye. 3. Buena Vista for not releasing the third season of Once and Again to DVD. Still. 4. Whoever it was that decided to change Popular from the truly sensitive and funny comedy-drama of the first few episodes into the bizarro plastic teen dark comedy that I really want to stop watching. 5. Telemarketing companies who call and then put me on hold. 6. Parents in grocery stores who force me to listen to them tell their kids, 'This is the last time I'm going to tell you.' . . . Ten times. 7. Movie critics who love the sight of their own words more than they do movies. 8. Film actors who are ignorant of their film history. Brad Pitt...this means you and well, almost every UPN 'actor' ever to tread a soundstage. 9. My upstairs neighbor who seems to enjoy moving furniture while having a party at 2 am. 10. People who drive slow in the fast lane. 11. People who drive fast in the slow lane. 12. People who always always bring the conversation back to themselves. 'You have cancer?! Wow that's awful. You know my neighbors' dog had cancer and they were simply devastated, I actually watched their three-year old when they took it to the vet to be put to sleep. Amazing, isn't it?' 13. Anyone who says, "To make a long story short . . . " 'Cause by the time they do it's always too late. And really . . .we're talking. . .I've got the time to listen. Links to other Thursday Thirteens! (leave your link in comments, I¿ll add you here!)

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It¿s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants



Technorati Tags: cold, sick, thursday thirteen, list, meme

So I took the Matrix Persona Quiz..

I openly admit to being a quiz junkie. I know IknowIknow most online quizzes are junk themselves. But I can't help it, it's the teacher's pet reflex coming back to haunt me. Or maybe, it's just that I like answers. Whenever life gets annoying or I'm working a puzzle, I find some comfort in going to one of those quiz pages and and answering my brains out. I ran across this one a while ago and took it again today. The first result was Morpheus as you can see.





You are Morpheus, from "The Matrix." You
have strong faith in yourself and those around
you. A true leader, you are relentless in your
pursuit.

What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Tonight...well I was a bit dry and needed something to post (you know, the whole 30 in 30 thing)so I hunted down the poll and took it again, thinking to show off my Morpheus-ness to you guys.  But this was the result:

What Matrix Persona Are You?

You are The Oracle, from "The Matrix." Wise, kind, honest- is there anything slightly negative about you? You are genuinely supportive of others. Careful not to let people take advantage of you, though.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla | Join | Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

 Huh. Wonder what that means? 


Technorati Tags: matrix quiz, morpheus, oracle, quizzes

AFI? Schm-AFI...We'll Make Our Own List

As an upstart movie snob I of course take severe issue with the AFI's Top 100 Movies of the last century. They are, in my opinion either insane or deluded. Okay...and so am I...maybe...a little bit.
The point is that movie-watching is an incredibly personal experience, I'm less interested in the what than in the why.  Artists especially are deeply infuenced by film, or perhaps are merely able to do a better job of articulating the whys and wherefores for everyone else. At any rate, I'm starting a list and would love to know what you think.
What, are the five most important films in your film-watchin' career and why? 
I'm starting the list with my top 5, in no particular order.
Bringing Up Baby (1938, Howard Hawks)
Night of the Hunter (1955, Charles Laughton)
The Browning Version (1951, Anthoy Asquith)
Tango (1998, Carlos Saura)
All About Eve (1950, Joseph L. Mankiewicz)
These five films have had the greatest (I'm pretty sure about this) impact on my career as a film buff. Seeing each one changed something in the way I watched movies forever after. 
Howard Hawk's Bringing Up Baby was my introduction to the world of the screwball comedy. I'd no idea it was possible to laugh so much during a movie that didn't involve  bodily function humor.
My brother and I saw Laughton's Night of the Hunter one afternoon when we were supposed to be doing our homework. I think it came on like, A&E, when they used to show classic films. I had literally never been so frightened in the middle of the day. That began my love affair with thrillers in black and white.
The Browning Versionis a film I saw more recently. I'd heard of it of course, but had only the vaguest idea of it's existence. I don't remember now why I Netflix'd it, only that it blew me away. On the surface, it is a film in which very little happens but just under the surface, plays a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. I've always been fascinated by the ability of the movies to show us two completely opposite realities at once. Asquith's The Browning Version is a defining example.
 Seriously, I've had musicals on the brain since early childhood but until Tango, I never knew the power a musical film can exert. Saura's Tango tells complicated stories, a private story of memory and regret,a human one of tyranny and oppression. The film is beautifully shot by Il Maestro, Vittorio Storaro and  uses the Argentine Tango as most peope have never seen it, as its narrator.
All About Eve? Bette Davis, 'nough said.
But of course, I'm gonna say more. This is the movie that helped me fall in love with the theatre (spelled 're' please darlings) and the idea of acting. 

The Ol' One-Two. Or a little something I like to call; 'Thirty in Thirty'. Or why Wil Wheaton is ruining my life

So I'm a fan of Wil Wheaton's blog. It was required reading for a loooong time. Then I lost track for a while, went through a time of no computer and then he went through a period of no blog, ships passing in the night. Anyway, I started reading again yesterday. My timing could not have been worse.  Sadly, for me I can never resist a challenge whether it's a book meme or a challenge to do thirty posts in thirty days. Suffice it to say, right now I hate everybody.  Hah! Didja miss me? Ready? Well, here we go.