It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over

Wow, how about this crazy month of blog posts? And all while writing two spec scripts and a term paper about Cary Grant and Alfred Hitchcock? Whoa.

I totally owe my professor an apology. Contrary to my smart ass remarks in class, blogging did NOT slow down my work on other projects or distract me. In fact, it often served as a warm up/reassurance that I always have something to say. Not always something smart or useful or funny, but at least it's something. And isn't that the reasoning that launched a thousand blogs?

My professor's other big point was that a writer's blog is a valuable tool for promoting the writer. I'm not sure Cali-for-nyaaah really proves that point, but by way of apologizing for doubting him earlier, I will embrace this advice as well.

In these crazy days of YouTube and the like, this isn't quite the novel idea it was when we first made it, but I'm still terribly proud of this short film, made with my fellow members of Teatro Bastardo. In my most hopeful moments, I dream of selling a pilot to the CW, getting my tv prof to come on as the show runner and hiring all the Bastards to 20 week writing contracts.

I miss those guys like crazy, and never more than when I watch this video and remember the day we sat around the table brainstorming an idea that, frankly, was in terribly bad taste when we started, and probably still isn't particularly appropriate.

Ah, fuck appropriate.

P.S. You'll need Windows Media Player.

Done and ... Let Me Get Back to You on That

Hitchcock paper is written, proofed (thanks Michael!), printed out and in my bag as I sit in the Student Production Office. It doesn't have page numbers, thanks to a last minute bug with Word for Mac (boo!), but is otherwise in good shape.

I fairly itch to work on a) my pilot and b) a third pass on my Grey's spec, but alas, I have to go attend the final Hitchcock lecture.

In the meantime, here's a line of dialogue overheard at the cafeteria. The speaker is a young woman, around 20, addressing a table of mixed gender friends.

"You guys, don't I totally seem like the sequin type?"

This comment was met with universal agreement, and then the discussion turned to "nudist phases," which everyone at the table admitted to having at some point in their early years. I can only assume that conversations of this type are blooming all over campus, as people are forging the kind of earnest, unshatterable friendships that come out of trading slightly embarrassing anecdotes while under tremendous amounts of stress.

Unless, of course, you're a graduate student in the writing program, in which case you eat by yourself so you can hurry out to your car afterwards and grab your laptop for a quick 15 minutes of blogging before class.

The Artist's Way of Hand-Holding

If you're an aspiring writer and wondering how to get started, there's no shortage of places to look. Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way" has definitely helped me take myself seriously as an, ahem, artist. David Allen's "Getting Things Done" (which I always misremember as "Get to Done") has lots of good advice on managing workflow. Recently, a buncha screenwriting websites have been pointing readers to this list of fixes for writer's block, courtesy of Maggie.

But there's another condition that I only recently discovered. I'm used to procrastinating, I'm used to writer's block, I'm even used to all-consuming self-doubt. Yet until last week, I had never experienced what I like to called "my inner freaked out 12-year-old."

If you've ever known a 7th grader to spend an entire day constructing a diorama on the subject of photosynthesis or glaciers or Pablo Picasso, despite the fact that one's junior high GPA has little/no bearing on one's long term success in life, then you've probably witnessed the freaked out 12-year-old phenomenon.

Sometimes there are warning signs. Spending 30 minutes in Walgreens, unable to decide between the six pieces of posterboard available as a possible backdrop for the aforementioned project. A particularly intense posture--sitting on one's knees, forehead braced on your non-dominant hand, eyes boring into your work as you veeeery carefully print a caption underneath a printed out picture of an aloe plant/moraine/palomino. An exasperated note in your pre-adolescent voice as you tell your well-meaning parent to "go awaaaaaaay."

Certain preconditions can indicate an increased probability of freaked out 12-year-old. I did not have high powered, Harvard-educated lawyers for parents, but apparently some individuals of this stripe can drive even the most laid back 12-year-old into a frenzy inside of two hours.

I was not such a 12-year-old, for the simple fact that I was so convinced that I was a total genius, and as such, should not have to work hard to get good grades. Hahahahahaha! Yes, well, that's what I thought. And given that I was reading at a 12th grade level by age 9, it must be admitted that a lot of the time, I didn't have to work hard to get good grades. (As long as you don't count math as a subject. Or science. Or music.)

But even though I wasn't that kind of kid at age 12, it turns out, I very much am that kind of kid now. For weeks now, I've had this perpetual weight pressing me into the ground--I have so much to do, I have so little time, it has to be good, it's not good enough yet, how am I ever going to get this all done.

And the truth is, when you get to this place, all the morning pages and action lists in the world will not help you. It's not about procrastination or being blocked--it's about feeling like you have more work to do than you have breath in your body. Which, in fairness, you probably do. I think the leading cause of freaked out 12-year-olds isn't a lack of perspective, but unfortunately, an excess of perspective, an overwhelming awareness of exactly how much you have ahead of you.

It helps if I think of my workload as a plate full of Brussel sprouts. When they're well made, I love Brussel sprouts, and I love having eaten Brussel sprouts--nothing makes me feel more virtuous. But even so, a heaping plate of one food, any food, can be overwhelming.

1. Throw in some treats. My mother in law has a kick ass recipe that involves bacon and, I think, balsamic vinegar. So one way to keep moving forward is to throw some treats in there. Maybe a short nap, or a latte that, strictly speaking, you don't especially need.

2. Bite size pieces. My to do list at the start of this month had, like, four things on it: Thesis, Grey's spec, Hitchcock paper, pilot. By last week, I was so sick of staring at those same four items I could have screamed. So I turned it into a much longer list of smaller tasks.

3. Do the easy stuff first. Once in a while, I'll order Brussel sprouts and find that only the outside of each little sprout tastes good--the insides are bland and unpleasant to chew. So I start with the littlest sprouts, the ones that have the best surface-to-volume ratio, to build up my enthusiasm. This month of blog posts has served much the same purpose.

4. Cut corners. Okay, I'll eat the sprout, but I'll be damned if you can make me eat the stalk. So when I'm feeling overwhelmed, I trim off the particularly firm base of each sprout and hide it under a bread crust. Similarly, I've found that I can get through anything if I just flail away at it, with no thought of whether it's actually good. Good is for second and third drafts. With first drafts, I'll settle for done.

I'm sure there's other stuff I could try. For weeks now, I've refused to go to the movies, or hang out with friends, or generally socialize for more than 10 minutes, and in retrospect, that's probably been less than productive. But my spec has been mailed off, my Hitchcock paper is a thorough proof-read away from being done, my pilot is coming along and my thesis ... isn't due for two more weeks. Point being, my inner 12-year-old has come very, very, very close to freaking out, bursting into tears and locking herself in her room, but she hasn't done it. Bit by bit, sneaked viewing of "Prison Break" by piece of peppermint bark*, she's hung in there. And that's enough for me.

*I don't, as a rule, recommend sweets. When your head feels like a Cadillac Escalade, the last thing you need is a blood sugar crash.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

Especially if you have no clue what that might be.

Exhibit A: My least favorite day of the year is the 24 hour period beginning directly after dessert on Christmas Day and continuing until the following afternoon. What is there to look forward to? To plan for? To work on? You're adrift in a sea of great books and CDs, and really, it's all too much to process.

Exhibit B: My most favorite day of the year is the 24 hour period immediately preceding the opening of Christmas gifts. Oh, the anticipation, the excitement, the hope--will people like the gifts you got them? Is that Mrs. Scotto at the door with leftover tiramisu? Do we have any nutmeg for the eggnog? Ah, good times.

Exhibit C: I had more fun planning my birthday dinner last year than I had actually attending my birthday dinner. I know this is true because, as it happened, we had to cancel the birthday dinner and to my surprise, I didn't mind at all. A couple days later, we decided on the spur of the moment to do a raincheck at a neighborhood place. My only real complaint was that I didn't have the fun of looking forward to that dinner as well.

Exhibit D: As I work on my 8 million projects (really just 4, but who's counting?), I keep thinking "I should pull the plug on X and focus on W, Y & Z." But then I think "Yeah, but that means X is done. And I'm not happy with it being done in its current state." Which means, for those of you playing along at home, that I am deliberately making myself work to the point of exhaustion because *that seems like more fun* than accepting what I've got so far and moving on.

Everybody Dance Now

I once spent a very entertaining evening with Alex, a then 12-year-old boy with a consuming interest in Dragon Ball Z. He had invented a super hero, entirely of his own creation, who was completely undefeatable. It reminded me so strongly of the many, many times in my life when I wished I were secretly invulnerable.

Last year, while the Honda was getting an oil change, I went for a walk in the surrounding neighborhood of Santa Monica. On one leg of my journey, I passed a father doing yard work while his two young (8 and 6, I'm guessing) sons rode impossibly small BMX bicycles up and down the side walk. The dad had set up a ramp, maybe 6 inches at its highest point, and while he trimmed the hedges, the boys took turns taking the ramp at the greatest speed they could muster with less than 2 feet of leg to employ at the pedals. They were not getting much "air", as the experts might say.

But as the older boy passed me, headed back towards the starting line, I overheard something. As he rode up and down the sidewalk, totally absorbed in this not-at-all dangerous stunt performing, he was humming the base line of the song frequently played beneath the introduction of basketball players at NBA games. You've probably heard it. It goes: DUN dun DUN, Dunt dun dun DUUN dun...Are you ready for this?

When I wonder why the hell I torture myself like this, fighting an uphill battle against way too much work in way too little time, I remember Alex and boys like him, and try to lose myself so completely in my work that it becomes play, and if Michael walks by my desk, all he'll hear is me, humming to myself "DUN dun DUN, Dunt dun dun DUUN dun..."

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Much of the inspiration for my participation in NaNoBloMo--or whatever you want to call this blog-a-day thing I'm doing--comes from a very enthusiastic, very encouraging professor, who has a blog of his own here.

He's not a writing professor. I don't want to blow his cover--he's not as much about putting it all out there on the internet as some of us--but you could say his class was kind of a semester long membership in the Girl/Boy Scouts of Hollywood. Not exactly how to start a fire or tie a knot, but how to keep going when you're down on yourself, how not to blow your first big check on a Porche. That kind of thing.

Here's the thing--which you'll notice if you visit his blog: He has enthusiasm to BURN. I think maybe that's how he heats his house on cold winter nights--just throws a brick of enthusiasm on the fire and watches the flames roar. So even though it goes very much against my own instincts to be optimistic or look towards the future with anything other than a cynical sneer, I will now attempt to enthusiastically outline my goals:

1. A kick-ass term paper about the roles of Cary Grant in the films of Hitchcock. Length: 12-14 pages. Best qualities: Thoughtful, well-researched, coherently reasoned, and hopefully, an entertaining read for my poor D.A., who has to plow through a couple hundred pages of Hitchcock papers before the semester is over. Due: 11/29. Current status: Strong first draft, needs a polish and citations.

2. An excellent second draft spec for "Grey's Anatomy." Length: 55-60 pages. Best qualities: Continue to nail the voices of the characters, while heightening the drama of the storylines I'm weaving through the episode. Plotting that is tight, engaging and even a little anxious making. With, ideally, some humor thrown in for good measure. Due: 11/29. Current status: Half a first draft.

3. An interesting pilot script to submit for the Josh Schwarz Fellowship. Length: 55-60 pages. Best qualities: Funny, smart, original and coherent. Due: 12/1. Current status: A partial outline.

4. A promising first draft of my thesis script. Length: 100 pages. Best qualities: Heartfelt, hilarious, engaging. Due: 12/11, with a possible extension to 12/18 if I ask nicely. Current status: Fully outlined, 25 pages written.

If I'm absolutely honest about it, I should probably trim one of the things off the list--and the pilot is the only thing even remotely optional. But I can't help it--I've been working on story for so long, I just can't bring myself to pull the plug. But it's been weeks since I didn't have a continual pile of things to do, and sometimes it occurs to me, I can't keep this up, can I? But then I again, I also never thought I'd have 25 posts in 25 days.

Thanksgiving Aftermath

After a few hours hard work, Michael tucks into a well-deserved meal.



And exactly what did all his efforts produce? Take a look:



I've said it before, I'll say it again--I am a really lucky woman.

A Thanksgiving Slide Show

As you can see, Christmas has already come to Santa Monica, with the traditional decorations of a festively-lit tree and a water-spewing topiary dinosaur.











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The cats are also grateful today--because they have a couch to sit on.

Me, I'm grateful for my favorite Santa Monica landmark...the clock tower!

If I Were Behind On My Term Paper

I personally love the title of OJ Simpson's now cancelled book, "If I Did It." I imagine it took them a while to narrow it down from the various also-rans:

"If I Had Done It"
"If I Were a Murderer--and I'm Not Saying I Am."
"Hypothetically Speaking, If I Wanted to Kill My Ex-Wife and Her Friend..."
"Maybe I Did...and Maybe I Did"
"I'm Not Saying, I'm Just Saying."
"Okay, Let's Say I Did It"

Can we therefore expect more such titles from ReganBooks? Personally, I'd love to read...

"If I Did Steal Two Elections" by Karl Rove
"If I Had Used Steroids" by Mark McGwire
"If I Had Boned My Intern" by Bill Clinton
"If I Am An Ass Hat," by Rush Limbaugh
"If It Was a Giant Mistake to Invade Iraq," by Donald Rumsfeld
"If I Had Married Liza for Her Money," by David Gest
"If I Had Married Brittany for Her Money," by K-Fed
"If I Had Married Katie to Fight Rumors I Am Gay (Because I Totally Am Not Gay at All)," by Tom Cruise

Huh.

I'm deep in the throes of a term paper on Cary Grant's roles in the four Hitchcock films--which is a fascinating subject, btw.

But here's the thing that dumbfounds me: Over and over, Grant makes films that are beloved by modern audiences--"Holiday" and "Bringing Up Baby" leap to mind--that were flops in their day. I don't get it. And here's another odd thing: two of the definitive roles ("The Awful Truth" and "Arsenic and Old Lace") that fans most embrace? Are in two movies that he hated making, with directors who, he thought, didn't get him.

Then, weirdly, years later, Grant makes "An Affair to Remember," with the "Awful Truth" director Leo McCarey. He seems to have enjoyed making the film--but the end result is dreadful. Someone should have forbidden McCarey to put any more adorably imps on film. (shudder.)

Last thing: I don't even care about Grant's sexuality at this point, but why is it so hard to get a straight (ha ha) answer from anyone? One book insists Grant was having an affair with his roommate Randolph Scott. Another doesn't even mention that the two lived together for years. (In Santa Monica! Woot!) Still another snorts derisively at the very idea (honestly!) that Grant was less than a red-blooded het. It's not that some books are trashier than others--it's that some trade in a perceived conventional wisdom, and others exist in a universe where that conventional wisdom has never seen the light of day. It's bewildering.

No, No, No, No, No. No.

I've done enough improv to have lost any and all lingering shame over making a fool out of myself in public. (If you can swing it, I recommend this highly. I only wish I'd developed this skill in college--I would have saved a fortune on all the alcohol I consumed to short circuit my over-developed self consciousness.)

But no, I am not ever going to apply for a slot on "The Amazing Race," high humiliation tolerance or no.

1. I cannot drive stick.

2. The first time I was required to move up/down from any point more than 12 feet off the ground, I would start projectile vomiting and not stop until the producers let me out of the task.

3. Michael. Lactose intolerance. A world of dairy and languages we do not speak. 'Nuff said.

4. I cannot drive stick.

5. My non-European geography is realllllly spotty.

6. First day I go more than 4 hours without coffee, I'll walk out.

7. When I'm running late--even for a coffee date--I get so anxious I'm almost nauseous. The idea of EVERY DAY agonizing over whether/how late we're running? Hell. Total hell.

Recipe for Kate's Dream TV Show

Another homework-assignment-as-post. This time answering the question: What is my idea of a great TV show?

Ideally, it's an hour-long drama ... I love a lot of sitcoms, but they feel like friends from work you run into on the street. Your time together is so short, you really only have time for a hello, a quick cliff notes on their life at the moment and a good-bye. I much prefer meeting old friends for dinner, or having them over for an evening. Lots of time to catch up, no need to rush. That's the way I like my television.

With a season commitment from the network ... It's very hard for me to enjoy shows that might vanish before my eyes. I've been burned too many times before--"Cupid" and "Nothing Sacred" both leap to mind. It's so depressing to watch 8 episodes of a show and then find the rest of the season has vanished into the mist. This year, my love for "Veronica Mars" has been tempered by my lingering fear that I would be left holding the bag when the CW decided to cut their losses. I just read that VM got an order for a 20-episode season. Not exactly what the industry calls "the back nine," but close enough for me.

And a girl protagonist ... Michael teases me about this, but in fairness, I think most people have a powerful need to see stories about themselves or at least, individuals like them. Growing up, I was used to glimpsing the ladies in minidresses working tirelessly in the background behind Kirk and Spock, waiting patiently for the glimpse of Mary Jane in between action scenes on Spiderman. I no longer remember who was the first full-on girl hero I saw on screen. Chronologically, it was probably Princess Leia, but I don't remember very much about my first exposure to "Star Wars." Cognitively, it was either the Bionic Woman or Wonder Woman, both of which I would have watched every night of my life if allowed. Think about it: The only people you've ever seen do brave or amazing things are people so totally unlike you as to be aliens. Little girls can't look at Capt. Kirk and think "I'm going to grow up to be just like him." Then one day, someone who looks like an adult version of yourself karate kicks a bad guy. Who wouldn't be in love?

With an awesome right hook ... I have taken a solemn vow not to write any more scenes in which a girl beats the crap out of a heavy bag, nor to automatically revere any television program or movie in which a girl kicks ass. But again, I saw a lot of women in short skirts squealing as bikers shoved them into the dirt, or clenching their fists helplessly as their boyfriends were pummeled by neighborhood toughs. The day I saw Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar, not Kristy Swanson, I'm afraid) roundhouse a vampire, I almost fell off my chair.

And a complicated personal life... "Buffy" and "Xena" premiered at roughly the same time, and I remember hearing an NPR piece about girl-centric television. I believe an excerpt of dialogue referenced a vampire who was dressed like El Debarge. Hmmm, I thought. Sounds interesting. Then, quite by accident, I heard a radio commercial for "Buffy," in which a deep-voiced man described that Buffy was irresistibly drawn ("Who are you?" a girl interjects) to the One. Man. She. Must. Not. Be. With. ("Don't touch me," a man demands.) Dude, that is one complicated relationship. I was hooked before I saw the first episode. Over the years, I've refined this category to...


Good people making bad decisions and vice versa. The classic in this category is "The X-Files." No doubt, Fox Mulder had his reasons for wanting to uncover certain conspiracies--but it was hopeless. He was outmatched, outwitted, outschemed every step of the way. But he never stopped trying--despite the ever-present temptation to let it go and bed down with Scully. In the same category, the evil vampire Spike's crush on Buffy, and the inexplicably noble things that lead him to do will stay with me for a long time. (I will now publicly admit that I once dreamt that Spike showed up at my apartment, devastated by Buffy's cruel treatment, and I sat him down and urged him to get over her, because she was no good for him. It wasn't sexual at all--and I know that's hard to believe, if you've seen James Marsters with his shirt off. Seriously, I was just so sorry for the poor guy.) But above all else, what I really need is ...

Flawless long-term plotting. David Lynch made an excellent start with "Twin Peaks," but the guy had no idea how to hold together a television series. I believe Chris Carter meant well when he started "The X-Files," but Fox had him over a barrel, and he had no choice but to stretch out the story. And the further he stretched it, the more the seams showed. I'm inclined to think that J.J. Abrams, though by all accounts a good guy and a visionary, just doesn't have long-term storytelling chops. (It was "Alias" that taught me the difference between good fight choreography and bad--and that even the best fight choreography in the world can't help you if your viewer doesn't doubt for a minute that your heroine is going to get away scott free.) The acknowledged master, of course, is the same guy who taught me the importance of ...

Stories that help you get through the day. Nobody likes to be preached at or made to feel stupid. But somehow, without sounding sanctimonious, Joss Whedon and the Buffy writing staff taught me a lot about what it means to be an adult: The hard decisions that have to be made, the compromises you make, the way people can surprise you--and perhaps most of all, the importance of being true to yourself, whatever limits life places on you.

A Glimpse Behind the Curtain

John August--whose screenwriting blog is fantastically useful--has an all-purpose bio posted on his website today. His advice is to customize it as needed. By happy coincidence, I also need a bio for a couple upcoming submissions. And I'm still trying to post every day through the end of November. So, here goes:

Kate hails from Oak Park, Il, hometown of the writer Ernest Hemingway, actor Tom Lennon, and humorist Michael Gerber*. The oldest of five children, she found escape from the rambunctious insanity of her siblings through the work of Jane Austen and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Inspired to spend the rest of her life safely encased in an imaginary world of her own making, she dedicated herself to telling the fictional adventures of a series of dark-haired, dark-eyed misunderstood loners. To this end, she earned a bachelor's degree in philosophy and English from the University of Wisconsin at Madison, where she very nearly failed out of 16 mm Film Production, and to her great surprise, won a couple of awards for her senior project, a short collection of poems. Stumbling into the nascent world of interactive game design, she wrote trivia questions for "You Don't Know Jack" until the collapse of the domestic CD-ROM market forced her into unemployment. During the long search for another writing job, Kate got married, did a lot of improv and wrote three spec scripts for "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." They were uniformly terrible, but the first 10 pages were good enough to secure her a spot at USC's School of Cinema Television. She and her fella currently live in Santa Monica with their three cats, while Kate completes her MFA.


*Kate has never met Ernest Hemingway, but she once held Mr. Lennon's pants for him during a costume change for a high school production of "The Foreigner." She is currently Mr. Gerber's "wife with benefits." If you know what I mean. Yeah, they're doing it.

It's the Little Things

Why don't we give more respect to the actors who read audiobooks? A great performance can save a mediocre audiobook--and a mediocre performance can damn an otherwise fantastic audiobook.

I just finished Carl Hiaasen's "Skinny Dip," and through its 13+ hours, Stephen Hoye never wavered. Men, women, young, old, educated, backwoods and every where in between, he nailed them all. Could Meryl Streep do as well? I doubt it.

My hat's off to you, Mr. Hoye, for a job well done!

(Honorable mention goes to Frank Muller, who did an equally good job with "Tishomingo Blues." I don't usually laugh out loud at Elmore Leonard, but thanks to Mr. Muller's hard work, I did.)

P.S. If you own an iPod, you have to check out www.audible.com's incredibly easy-to-use library of back episodes of "Fresh Air" and the like.

Texas &%$#ing Hold'Em

That's the game of choice they play in the new "Casino Royale." (Makes dismissive noise.) Has Bond switched over to margaritas, too?

I can think of no good reason to swap out the actual card game featured in the novel and countless previous Bond films--baccarat--for the crazy new game all the young'uns are so keen on. If you have no idea how the game is played, watching it explained on screen is a treat, because if you don't have $10,000 to lose in the next 10 minutes, you'll never play baccarat in real life. It's the game the Japanese tourists are playing at the lush tables in the softly-lit side rooms you walk past on your way to the craps table. It's insane-o high stakes blackjack, with a little French thrown in for good measure. What's not to love?

I'll probably see the new Bond movie once the hell weeks are behind me and I have the time to spare, but I hate this impulse to dumb things down, make them accessible, protect people from feeling a tiny spark of confusion as they watch a movie. Don't feel bad, guys! James Bond's not so different from you--see, he even plays Texas Hold'em, just like you!

Great! Now I can fantasize about being someone who's exactly like me. Awesome.

I Wanna Be a Song Girl

Some kind of athletic thing was going on this evening on campus, and actual honest-to-god Song Girls or aspiring Song Girls or distaff Song Girls were clustered around the Lyons Center, in various states of warm up.

I don't, actually, want to be a Song Girl. But I'm always fascinated by any subset of a new culture, including the curious support system of semi-pro cheering and musical accompaniment that surrounds every major college football team.

It made me remember an afternoon, the summer of my 14th year. I had just gotten a word processor--my first--and combined with my 8th grade typing class, I was quickly becoming a writing fool. Yet the more I wrote, the more I felt pulled in a hundred directions. I wanted to be a marine biologist. And a private detective. And a newspaper reporter. And possibly a space captain, if faster-than-light interplanetary travel was invented sometime in the next 30 years.

I didn't know which way to go. But hilariously, the one option I didn't think of is the one that is glaringly obvious to me now. Anyone as consumed by her own imagination as I was in my 14th year has only possible future career: Fiction writer.

Daniel Dennett=Asshat

In high school philosophy (yeah, that's right--and? It wasn't even a Jesuit school. OPRF Huskies in the hizzie, yo!), we read an essay called "I Am Daniel Dennett's Brain." Like all 17-year-olds, I was happily entertained by the mind-blowing thought experiment of parsing off your consciousness into an entirely different place and not even realizing you're not, technically, in the body you consider to be "you."

So all due props to Mr. Dennett for being a wicked smart mofo.

But that said? The guy is an asshat.

Maybe that's an occupational hazard for philosophers--I imagine a couple middle aged Greek guys were effin' pissed at Socrates' bone-headed refusal to seek a compromise that didn't result in him drinking a hemlock latte.

Recently, Dennett had some fairly complicated health issues, and against all expectations, some people prayed for his recovery. When Dennett was well enough to set hand to keyboard, the first thing he did was chastise those folks for embracing a kind of medieval voodoo anti-science. "Thanks, I appreciated it, but did you also sacrifice a goat?" is an actual question he's refrained from asking his compassionate acquaintances.

I am ashamed for Dennett that he can't make this very fundamental leap. Whatever people say, the vast majority of our actions are motivated by self-interest. Let's not make a big deal out of it. You know, self interest is like boogers. Everybody's got some in there somewhere. If you don't, you've got a much bigger problem on your hands.

Look, I don't doubt that many religions claim that various rituals and sacraments are for the benefit of someone else, but c'mon! If you've ever prayed in your life, you know who it benefits first and foremost: The pray-er, not the prayee. So much of the torment of human existence is denying what you really feel, what you really think. When you pray, the first thing you do is give in and admit what is most on your mind. That in and of itself generates tremendous relief.

Now, I know, in some traditions, prayers often take the form of hoping fervently to be something other than what one actually is. But isn't that too, a fundamental acknowledgement of what is foremost on your mind? I don't want to be gay. I want to be pregnant. I don't want to die. Before you can say those things out loud, don't you first have to say them to yourself, privately? And yes, perhaps, you will be persuaded to hope for things that are not strictly good for you. But if that's the case, it's not that you don't know how to pray. It's that you don't know your own heart.

(If my definition of prayer sounds a lot like meditation, well, duh.)

So can someone explain to me why I, who took and dropped logic 3 times before I finally passed, can figure this out and Dennett cannot?

Or how about this? Why do I know that it is a shitheel move to chastise people who wished you well? Maybe crapping all over people is Dennett's version of a coping mechanism, but if so, crapping all over Dennett is mine. Here's my prayer: Don't let me slip into such hard-hearted obstinacy that I push away the good will of others, rather than acknowledge that not every moment of life is best used for relentlessly proving that I'm right.

The K List

My favorite part of every O: Oprah magazine is "The O List: Some Things That I Think Are Just Great!" In a bad month, it's an assortment of crap various publicists have sent to O magazine lately. In a good month, it's like shopping next to Oprah. Wow, stay with that image for a minute...

I have my own list. The aforementioned espresso pot, of course, has a place of honor on the K List. But also:

Clear, golf-ball sized white lights, strung across light posts. Whether for a festival or, as on Santa Monica's Main Street, just a regular part of the streetscape, I think these are awesome. They make me feel like I'm on set of "Cinema Paradisio." Or possibly Barry Levinson's "Avalon." Anyway, they're cool.

Chicken salad with curry and raisins. Oh Jesus, where have you been all my life? How many years have I wasted, eating other kinds of chicken salad when I could have been eating you, chicken salad with curry and raisins?

Dansko clogs. Recently declared "unwearably hideous" in (ahem) a certain Midwestern newspaper, I would not be able to leave the house 4 days out of 6 if not for clogs. They give me a little height, but with good arch support and walkability. The only downside: Once every six weeks, I fall off the heel and drop like a sack of potatoes. It's not pretty.

Advil Gel Caps. If I had these in 1996-2000, I would have spent $1000 less on migraine medication. Three of these babies can knock out all but the most pernicious proto-migraine. (P.S. It's pretty easy to spend $1000 on migraine medication over 4 years; my pills retail for $20+ a piece, and I used to get migraines, oh, every four weeks or so. And sometimes it took more than one pill to knock out the lil' fucker.)

Prosecco. Yes, yes, of course I love champagne. But it takes some serious work to kill off a bottle of Veuve, and who wants to let a $35 bottle of champagne go flat? To me, prosecco is a delicious and much more affordable alternative. And because it's a little less nuanced, I don't mind so much if it's not absolutely teaming with bubbles the next day.

Rhetorical Questions Answered, Pt. 1

In checking out various links for yesterday's post, I stumbled upon Maureen Ryan's Watcher column for the Chicago Tribune. In her last installment, she asked why no one ever writes about women who are competent, intelligent, in great relationships and still interesting. The original piece has been taken down, but a revised version is here.

I can answer that question. Such women--hell, such men--don't show up on television because it's almost impossible to tell a story about them that an audience would watch for FIVE YEARS.

One of the best screenwriting professors I've had began his first class with the admonition that as writers, we must never be boring. He broke the idea of boredom into two root causes:

1. Overwhelming confusion - When we don't know who to care about, what to care about, or why we should care about it. With all due respect to Fellini, when I think of his later work, this is the exact emotion that washes over me--uncomprehending boredom.

2. Total certainty - When we know exactly who our protagonist is, what they're going to do next and why, and how it's going to turn out. I had a hefty dose of this experience while rewatching "Rope" recently. If you know where it's going, sitting through a screening is draining--you just run out of things to think about. Ditto the experience of sitting through a Catholic mass celebrated by a priest with no particular gift for sermons.

The cure for both conditions, according to my professor, was to walk the delicate line between hope and fear. Continuously give your audience something specific to hope for, but never stop supplying hints that the exact thing they fear most might come to pass.

This particular class has completely reshaped my writing, but even if I didn't find it helpful advice, I can't deny that it's validity is proven anew almost daily. Another Hitchcock film, "The Wrong Man," drove me right to the brink of insanity because I had nothing to hope for throughout it's two hour running time. The poor schlub protagonist had literally NOT ONE CLUE about how to fend off the advances of the aggressively lazy detectives who suspected him of a crime he didn't commit. The Hitchcock Ex Machina ending did not surprise me, except that I was actually more angry, not less, when the credits rolled without providing a hint of closure.

Which brings me to Ms. Ryan's question: Why would I watch a show in which I had nothing to fear? If my hero is intelligent, competent and in a great relationship, then really, what could possibly stand in her way? Every criminal, no matter how devious or evil, would be caught by my gifted protagonist. Every wrong would be righted. And she would continue through life, knowing only success at every turn.

Not only does that sound unbelievably boring, I also have to say my protagonist sounds like an insufferable goody-goody. Bleh. I'd always wonder "Doesn't she ever doubt herself? Doesn't she ever screw up?" And if she never doubts herself, and never screws up, then what do we have in common? And if she's nothing like me, then how can I identify with her long enough to get through 42 minutes of plot every week?

Where Do I Get My News?

I start my day with the New York Times. I don't know why. I wasn't even that big a fan of the New York Times when I lived in New York. But when I moved back to Chicago, I lost all patience with the Chicago Tribune as a source of information.

For starters, any violent or sensational news that happens anywhere in the tri-state area will appear above the fold--either real or virtual. And the Trib is supposedly the respectable paper in town. Why is it I am reluctant to get my news from a paper that will headline an 11-year-old boy abandoned at the Taste of Chicago for a whole week?

This is not a recent development either. For a long swath of the 90s, Bob Greene ran approximately 9000 columns on the outrage of a biological parent being able to reclaim a child that had been put up for adoption without his knowledge. He would drag out one tragic five minute interaction between the adopted parents and the child (Baby M?) outside a courtroom. "And with that, Ms. Adopted Mom reached into her bag and handed her child a box of raisins. But for how long would mother and child be able to share moments like this? Tomorrow: A biological father who doesn't even know if his child prefers juice boxes or chocolate milk." For weeks, months, years on end. (And the whole time, he refused to acknowledge the fundamental logical inconsistency in his columns: If it had been his biological child, he would have fought to the death for custody and everyone who read his columns knew it.)

A lot of the columnists do not even live up to this standard--the auto critic Jim Mateja has had a baldly pro-SUV, anti-fuel efficiency stance for as long as I've been alive. If he's ever written critically of an SUV's abysmal fuel mileage, I've missed it.

So I begin my day by scanning the New York Times. Then I hop over to the Wall Street Journal. Then I check with the Trib, to make sure Chicago hasn't fallen in the lake. And then, because I now I live in Los Angeles, I go to the L.A. Times. And what I find makes my blood run cold.

The L.A. Times is owned by the Tribune company. Half the stories are reprints from the Trib. FROM THE TRIB! IN CHICAGO! Or vice versa! Way to inspire faith, guys. How can you serve the reclusive, cold-weather-trapped readers in Chicago and the outdoorsy, sunshine-drenched readers in L.A. with the same piece? How? (Oh, by the way, both the Trib and the L.A. Times reprint a lot of NYT stories. So there's another reason to cut out the middle man.)

(Seriously, the two cities have very, very little in common. Chicago is so weather driven that the gyms all have tiny tvs on the cardio machines. Los Angeles is so appearance driven that I've only found one gym with tiny tvs--one gym in an entire city! Chicago has a viable public transit system used by everyone from $11K welfare moms to $200K lawyers. In Los Angeles, nobody takes the bus unless they have to. And don't even get me started on restaurant desserts. I haven't had a decent tiramisu in six months.)

The headlines on the L.A. Times front page leave me ice cold. Okay, right now, the NYT top head reads: "Incoming Democrats Put Populism Before Ideology." The subhead reads: "Newly elected Democrats say they were given a rare opportunity by voters, many of them independents and Republicans, and now they have to produce."

I am heartily glad to hear this. I think I understand what this story has to say, and although I don't have time to read it right now, I'd happily look through it if I were on a two hour plane ride.

Meanwhile, red hot nails couldn't make me read the L.A. Times "Centrist path in Congress may rile Democrats' base" or the accompanying subhead "After toppling GOP in a hard-fought election, Democratic leaders find themselves in another difficult struggle -- with their own supporters."

I'm embarrassed to say that I'm not a sharp enough media critic to spot the key difference between these two stories, but I know I'd read one and line my cat's litter box with the other.

In little ways, the New York Times taught me about my adopted home when I lived there. Although I didn't read it every day and the Metro Diaries or whatever it was called (that weekly collection of Reader's Digest-like twee observations about our fair city) was a little much for me to take, I did eventually gain an understanding of the different populations of Manhattan, Queens, Staten Island, etc.

I keep TRYING to read the L.A. Times, but I just can't do it. I'm more likely to read all the Los Angeles-related pieces in the NYT than I am to read LAT. (In fact, I often feel like an NYT piece is more accessible, because it starts by explaining to me why I should care/think about the person/place/thing the article mentions.)

But I'm not a geographist. I will happily read stories about any quadrant of the planet, if it seems worth my time. I might be slightly more intrigued by some place I actually know, but not by much. Yet, oddly, I have already read the Alabama-centric "Sports Artist Sued for Mixing Crimson and Tide" (NYT) and I can't bear to even try reading "Pasadena facility honors marine." I've never been to Alabama, I don't watch football and I adore Pasadena. So, go figure.

I do listen to a lot of NPR, and that's where I get the majority of my CA news. My other news sources: Slate (although they are so relentlessly contrarian that just reading the headlines is a little exhausting), Consumer Reports, Ain't It Cool News and if forced, The Daily Trojan. (Although they did have a fascinating article on cruising last month--I'm waiting for the day "Veronica Mars" does a cruising plot.)

Yes, of course, I almost forgot my other "must read" stop: Television Without Pity

Love/Hate

I love flu shots. I love the idea of being protected from a nasty cold that would sack me like a rookie quarterback for a week and a half, minimum. To be in graduate school is to be in a two-year-long haze of not enough sleep, not enough vitamin C, too much vitamin coffee--basically I'm a compromised immune system on legs.

I hate shots qua shots. Hate needles, hate pokings with sharp objects of any kind. I tried to cure this by giving plasma in college then spending the money on sushi. Now, I often get an irresistible craving for sushi after any and all injects. Come to think of it, I had sushi for lunch after my flu shot.

I love my imagination--I have great, trippy dreams that I'm genuinely sorry to leave. Last night I dreamt about the Doctor--the British one, who travels through time.

I hate that I imagine things turning out badly far more often than the opposite. I was convinced I'd all-but-failed a tricky Hitchcock midterm two weeks ago. Nope, did fine. I was convinced the Republican gerrymandering had turned the country into a partisan battlefield. Nope, turns out the gerrymandering may have cost the Republicans a lot of seats. (Where did I learn this? In the Wall Street Journal of all places. Although I am always telling people that the reporting bears no resemblance to the editorial pages.)

I love my iPod. I'm now addicted to a few hands of solitaire and 20 minutes of an audiobook as I fall asleep every night.

I hate that my iPod has a life expectancy of 8 months (it's 16 months old, and the little guys are known for dying the day after their 2 years of coverage expires.) I just pray it holds out until the "true video ipod" arrives. I bought our current iPod for a cross-country roadtrip, and it salted my biscuits but good to discover four months later that it had been replaced by a smaller, lighter machine THAT PLAYED TV. Damn you to hell, Apple. But seriously, hurry up with that true video iPod, because I can't wait to buy one.

I love Senator Barak Obama. No joke: Every time I hear him speak, tears well up in my eyes. I know now what it means to live in a time with great leaders, and what it must have felt like to lose JFK, MLK, RFK in the space of ten years.

I hate that I cannot delight in Sen. Obama's work without dreading a) the day he gets nailed for a dumb mistake or b) his never getting nailed for a dumb mistake and some idiot takes a shot at him. Maybe this comes from growing up in the wake of the aforementioned assassinations--and living with a man who has never gotten past the death of John Lennon--but I just assume this world is too screwed up for someone like that to get very far. I was openly relieved to read in the Chicago Tribune that Obama had covered part of the cost of a fence between his property and the parcel next door--and said parcel belonged to one of the 8 million corrupt Illinois politicos wandering around Chicago. It was a small mistake, easily rectified, and Obama wrote a letter acknowledging as much. A couple more like that--giving a Girl School $5 extra change for a couple boxes of Thin Mints, putting too much postage on a postcard--and I'll sleep better at night.

I love that I spend my days making stuff up and trying to get good enough at it that someone would pay me to make stuff up for them.

I hate that it took me this long to figure out that this is what I wanted to do with my life.

Wish List, Part 2

Two years ago, I was so shaken by the election that I bought and ate 2 lbs of peppermint bark within 48 hours of the polls closing.

A lot has changed. For one thing, I now live in a climate that makes eating even 2 oz of peppermint bark a serious challenge. Really, you can't eat chocolate in 85 degree weather. It can't be done.

I've been thinking about it, and I've decided I only really need three things:

1. Fix the health care system so Michael can get some kind of practical insurance that doesn't cost $450 a month.

2. Stop holding people for 24-36 months without an open and just review of the evidence against them. Also, generally, undo the habeas corpus wrecking of the last 5 years.

3. Legislate the mandatory distribution of birth control and Plan B to interested women, regardless of the pharmacist's religious beliefs.

Michael adds, and I see no reason to disagree:

4. Don't frickin' privatize social security.

Cool? I'm not even remotely qualified to suggest a solution for Iraq, so I'll leave that to more experienced folks to fix. I don't need impeachments, or smack downs or pissing matches. (Okay, maybe a tiny smack down on pro-life pharmcists. Like stripping them of their licenses or forcing them to become nurse's aides. But not more than that. I mean, let's not make them wear punitive t-shirts or headbands. Although we could. Let's have some dignity.)

So if I could just have those four things, that would be awesome.

Getting Over It, Moving On

Wednesdays are insane for me, so I'm gonna go back to the big sack 'o old posts.

This topic is still a little raw, because it discusses the work of a man who just gave a certain School of Cinema-Television a certain $170 million endowment, and the only price he asked? Change the name to the School of Cinematic Arts. What word is missing in the new title? What word? Here's a hint: It's the word that represents the field I want to work in, and hopefully, make the kind of money that will allow me to make a few gifts of my own.

Oh, yeah, I'm bitter. First he took me for $9.25. Then he got to rewrite the words on my diploma. Fucker.

(I can just imagine the email I'm gonna get from the Dean if she stumbles upon this. C'est la vie.)

In all fairness, though, it must be admitted I have always had issues with badly written television and movies.

Yes, I said "badly written." Just "bad" is okay with me--I have always been very fond of the ancient and ramshackle Jennifer Connelly/David Bowie movie "Labyrinth", and not two weeks ago, watched Marlon Brando queen it up in "The Island of Dr. Moreau" with great pleasure. When everyone and everything about a movie broadcasts that they're only in it for the down payment on a summer house, I can rest easy in the knowledge that I'm in capable, if deeply silly, hands. On television, the entire "Star Trek" genre plays a similar role. Also "The Scarecrow and Mrs. King." But I digress.

What pushes me over the edge, however, is when certain people with certain words next to their names in the credits--words like "written by" or "executive producer"--make a concerted effort to do a good job, then at halftime decide to start stinking up the joint. That? That pisses me off.

So: Briefly, and only as the merest taste of what I think will probably be many years of bitching...

Things George Lucas Once Knew

1. Keep it personal. "Star Wars: A New Hope" begins with an establishing shot of a space battle and then cuts inside to two droids, trying to avoid getting blown to bits. C3PO observes that "Princess Leia won't get away this time." Why? Because he knows Princess Leia. Maybe 6 minutes later, Princess Leia is captured and brought to Darth Vader. The first words out of her mouth are "Lord Vader, only you could be so bold..." and Vader tells Leia "Don't act so surprised, your highness, you weren't on any mercy mission."

Note: THEY KNOW EACH OTHER! Maybe they don't send each other cards on Life Day, but clearly they know each other, at least by reputation.

Also: THEY ARE TALKING TO EACH OTHER.

Before I forget: WE CAN TELL THEY BOTH HAVE SOMETHING THEY WANT/NEED

By contrast, the primary villains in "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" are members of the Trade Federation. The heroic Jedi go to meet with the Trade Federation and the members ... DITCH THE MEETING to hide in a darkened room. Way to really pursue your interests, guys. And while they're scurrying around, we miss out on the chance to learn about them from their conversation with the Jedi, including, oh, I dunno, THEIR NAMES? Or say, maybe, WHAT THEY WANT?

2. Your character has a life. See also: Wants. Again, "SW:ANH" gives us Princess Leia sneaking around the ship, trying to avoid capture. Also, being held captive. Also, it is implied, being tortured. When we meet Luke Skywalker, he's a farm boy, doing farm boy things. When we meet Obi-Wan, he's an old Jedi, doing old Jedi things. Han Solo, drinking and doing business in a scummy bar.

Meanwhile in the prequels, people mainly walk down hallways and have conversations. In "Revenge of the Sith," Anakin and Padme have upwards of five conversations where, at most, SHE IS BRUSHING HER HAIR! Padme is a senator, the same job her daughter will hold in 19 years or so, but one of them is trying to evade capture and the other demonstrates a Jackie Kennedy-like fondness for changing outfits ever four hours.

Sweet Christ! "West Wing" has 42 straight minutes of conversations about government policy every week that manages to make it perfectly clear that the characters have lives (or try to, anyway) outside of their jobs. If Padme's not going to try to negotiate peace or arrange aid to afflicted planets or draft a speech urging that the Chancellor step down, maybe she could go for some pre-natal care? Or sew some baby clothes? Or eat a snack! Or take a bath! I don't care, but get off that goddamned sofa!

I'm not picking on Padme--Anakin similarly seems to do nothing but go into rooms in order to have a conversation with the person he finds there. If he's so interested in the Sith, why not go to the Jedi library and browse the Dark Side section? Or do some training drills? Or mediate in an effort to clear his mind?

3. More Is Not Always Better. "SW: ANH" starts in outer space, moves between Tatooine and various star ships (Millennium Falcon, Death Star), touches down briefly at a rebel base, the goes back into outer space. Basically, the whole movie takes place on two planets and a couple space craft. "Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back" has three planets, one asteroid, the Millenium Falcon and whatever Darth Vader is flying around in. "Star Wars: Return of the Jedi": two planets, a rebel base and another Death Star.

Are you starting to see a pattern here? "SW:TPM" has Naboo, underwater Naboo, Tatooine, Coruscant, and three different space voyages. "SW:Attack of the Clones" introduces 3 new planets, plus we spend time on Coruscant, Tatooine and Naboo. "SW: Revenge of the Sith" features another 3 new planets (NOT counting the three or four places in the Jedi slaughter montage), 25 minutes on a space craft, and short visits to Alderaan, Tatooine and Naboo.

The prequels burn through characters at a similar rate, which is probably why nobody seems to know anybody else. We figure out who Darth Maul is, and he dies. We spend two hours trying to figure out who Count Dooku is, put it together, then he dies in the first 20 minutes of the next movie. And then General Grievous comes out of nowhere and we have to find it in ourselves to hate this guy, even though he's just shown up.

Think about General Grievous. Now, think about Darth Vader. Or Boba Fett. Or even Jabba the Hutt? It's just easier to hate someone we've seen act like an asshole. Everytime an established asshole gets killed off, it takes the audience time to work up a new head of steam.

Speaking of steam, I'm running a little low. But there's more where this came from, oh much more.

Beloved Possessions, Pt. 1

This is a Cuisinart Rice Cooker. Yes, it cooks rice. But also, and more importantly, it cooks oatmeal. As you can see, it's shown here with the essential ingredients--oatmeal, brown sugar and Vietnamese cinnamon.

I don't know what I love more--that I can make oatmeal while screwing around in another room, or that I actually like the smell of oatmeal.

The convenience factor is huge--half a cup of oatmeal, another of skim milk, another of water, plug it in, walk away. When it clicks over: Yay! Oatmeal, creamy and delicious.

But the part where I LOVE oatmeal is pretty great too.

I have what scientists call "zero sense of nutritionally appropriate foods." It's not that I'll eat anything--I won't eat anything that tastes of Fake Grape, Fake Strawberry, or really any of the Fake Fruit flavors (I'm looking at you, Jolly Ranchers.) I'm also not big on dehydrated onion, whey or processed cheese--basically anything used to flavor a Frito-Lay brand product. (I have a Proustian relationship with Pringles Cheez-ums, but let's leave that aside.)

But I will--and do--eat things that are not part of a balanced diet. A lot of cheese--artisanal cheeses, made in quaint English farms, but still cheese. A fair amount of milk (see earlier post re: lattes, and today's list of oatmeal ingredients.) Salad only if I've made my own dressing, usually with 3 egg yolks and 1/4 lb of grated parmesano reggiano.

But miracles of miracles, oatmeal--that wonder food, that defeater of cholesterol, that cleaner-outer-of-colons--smells like heaven to me and tastes like ambrosia. I'd rather eat a bowl of oatmeal than a Cinnabon laced with equal amounts of cinnamon and sugar.

I don't know why. No one ever impressed upon me the deliciousness of oatmeal in my childhood. In fact, I much prefered Apples 'n Cinnamon flavored Cream of Wheat. (A food that now, I cannot even TRY to gag down. It takes like Glade Plug-In flavored gruel. What happened to my taste buds between my 18th and 21st birthdays? I went into college addicted to White Cheddar Cheese Wheatables and I came out with a fondness for Colston Basset Stilton, preferably aged by Neal's Yard.)

I hate to say it, but I think it might be in my DNA. My beloved oatmeal claims to be the authentic Irish article. If the good people at McCann's are to be believed, the Irish people have been sucking down their products since we first dragged ourselves out of the bog. I seldom attribute personal qualities to my heritage, but I don't see another explanation. I smell oatmeal and I fairly swoon with love. That's gotta be genetic.

Wish List

One summer, when I was reaching the high single digits, I set about a little strategic planning. First, I decided what I was going to wear on the first day of school.

Oh, wait, important detail: From mid-June through late August, I lived in a house that contained approximately 55 books.

A used book shop, ten minutes by bike, 30 minutes by foot, contained a close to a thousand additional titles, but only .5% of these were by any stretch readable. (Sample plot: Earth comes to terms with an invasion of gorgeous alien cat people. The inside cover teased an interspecies love scene which either never came to pass or was ripped out by a previous owner.)

Thirty minutes drive by car, a mall containing a B. Dalton contained a wealth of riches, but my allowance was about a dollar a week and this was not 1933. I.e., a dollar bought about 1/3 of a book, no more.

Also, I could not drive.

Nor could the only adult in the house (my mom.)

And in any case, we didn't have a car unless it was the weekend and my dad had come up from the city.

So basically, by mid-July I was so bored that my imagination could have powered the eastern seaboard. I'd read every printed word in a 2 mile radius, and I couldn't get any further on my 9-year-old legs.

Now that we've established the context: So, first I figured out what I was going to wear on the first day of school. Then I figured out what I was going to "go as" on Halloween. (Pixie, if you must know.) Then, I wrote my Christmas list. In mid-July.

It's not that I was a greedy child. I was just bored out of my mind. Okay, maybe I was a liiiiiiittle bit greedy. But in my defense, I had two, then eventually four siblings, and every single transaction in my young life was necessarily an elaborate negotiation. Not only could my parents not afford to satiate the every whim of five children, but God forbid any one of us inched so much as a micron north of the others in the continual "But X got Y and I only got Z" saga that was our childhood.

But in an odd reversal of some 20+ years of tradition, I haven't been able to cook up a Christmas list since the turn of the century. I go through the motions--people ask me for suggestions, I answer the best I can--but my heart's not in it. Not like the year I wanted the 11 1/2 inch tall Princess Leia. Or...no, it's pretty much been downhill since then.

And it's getting to be that time again--Saks just sent a silvery booklet of ideas, and the magazines are getting thick with "gift suggestions"--and I'm coming up as empty as ever. Or, to reference the lemon yellow handbag post below, the things I want for Christmas are not things common available as gifts.

Like, oh, a 12 page term paper on the roles of Cary Grant in the films of Alfred Hitchcock. I don't actually want the paper handed to me, I just want an extra 14 days to work on it.

Ditto the 60 page spec episode of "Grey's Anatomy" I'm supposed to turn in on 11/29. I'm more than happy to write the thing--looking forward to it, in fact. But why do I have to shove that work into the same month I'm writing...

A 60 page hour-long pilot spec for the USC writing division awards? Another great project that would be so much fun, if I didn't have to cram it into the same month that has to see me complete...

A 100 page draft of my thesis screenplay.

So basically, I need a time machine, a coffee bar installed in my living room and a miracle cure for my crippling sleep addiction.

Only 49 shopping days till Christmas!

Reduce, Recycle, Reuse

I watched an oddly compatible pair of movies back to back last night. First, a little history: I love a back to back moviethon. I can only do two in a row at a theater--we all have our limits. But at home, it's entirely possible for me to go through 5 or 6 hours of movies. Or just one, if the movie in question is the A&E miniseries "Pride & Prejudice."

The gold standard, which will probably never be equalled, was the late December viewing of "Elf", followed by "Bad Santa", both at the multiplex down the street from our old apartment in Chicago. And by the way, that's the order in which they have to be viewed--if you've never seen either, you can't start with "Bad Santa" and move onto "Elf." It's like eating Hostess Cupcakes after a 12 hour scotch binge. But somehow, it works the other way around.

Less successful was "The Incredibles" followed by "Shaun of the Dead." Poor Shaun never stood a chance. Also, we miscalculated the running time of "The Incredibles" and were almost 30 minutes late for the second film. But seriously, I'm not sure it's really fair to put any film up against a strong Pixar release. The best double bill is two minor-but-enjoyable features. I imagine "Labrynth" and "Lady Hawke" might make an enjoyable afternoon.

So back to "MI:3" and "Topaz." Both were required viewing for me, and happened to come in the same Netflix drop. And both fell disappointingly short of my expectations.

Right up front, let's face the elephant on screen: I can't identify with Tom Cruise. Maybe at one time I could, but he's like a non-person to me now. You know those tiny ears of corn on trays of crudite? I can't eat those, I don't know anyone who could, I don't know why anyone considers them food. Tom Cruise is a tiny ear of corn to me. He's an actor-like object, but he doesn't successfully register with me as someone I should care about. We can talk about why this is another time, but I think we all know, generally, why this might be. And it's not just 2006 Tom Cruise. It's all Tom Cruises. Even my beloved "A Few Good Men" is hard to take these days.

Surely, though, I can get through "MI:3" relatively unscathed. I was already falling out of like with Cruise in "War of the Worlds" and "Minority Report," and both movies held my interest completely. Answer: No.

Watching "MI:3" I become convinced, like the protagonist of a Phillip K. Dick novel, that something is Wrong with Ethan Hunt. His good guy demeanor is just an act, and deep down, he's an abusive, controlling dick who some rainy Thursday night will pull a "Star 80" on his wife, then conceal his crime by faking her tragic and fiery suicide with a car, a bridge and a big explosion.

So that's a problem. Other problem: Egregious abuse of the MacGuffin. Just because it doesn't MATTER what the MacGuffin is, that doesn't mean you should make a game out of not even VAGUELY referencing its identity for two hours. Take the MacGuffin out, and basically, you have a two hour fist fight, only with bombs and stuff.

That's the third problem: No emotional spine. No, I know, the wife. But I don't buy the wife. I just ... don't. See above, re: nice guy act. J.J. Abrams, I know, is very keen on the 48 hour-plus flashback. Good for him. I'm tired of it, but if it works, great. The problem, I'm afraid, is that seeing Mrs. Hunt tied to a chair with a gun pointed to her head makes me disbelieve that the entire engagement party thing even MEANS anything to Hunt, since clearly he's going to be Dragged Back In very shortly. Maybe it would have smarter to make them meet for the first time, or have their first Serious Date. But something went seriously wrong there, and I just never, never, never cared.

(Which is hilarious, because I first discovered J.J. Abrams through "Felicity," a show which used to grab me by the short hairs so powerfully that I would talk to the television from cold open to final credits.)


Then, I am sorry to say, Michael and I watched "Topaz." Here's a quirky fact: Two movies, almost 40 years apart, share a plot point--the use of microdots in spy craft. Huh.

Anyway, I love Alred Hitchcock. I love his anxious little heart and his devoted craftsmanship and his inventive filmmaking. But it's obvious he was getting tired towards the end--my God, the guy was ticking past 70--and he couldn't bring his A game. Also: The young Hitchcock had an energy and a passion for visual tricks that, because of the film stock and lighting of the time, worked brilliantly. As time went on, the film stock got better, more vivid, more fine-grained, and it betrayed all his old tricks mercilessly. Worse, he didn't have the reserves of energy that outwitting the technical limitations would require.

(I do not often compliment George Lucas, but I will say that he pulled off something quite remarkable with "Star Wars," largely because of a commitment to pushing the limits of the technology as far as it would go--a commitment young Hitch would have admired.)

Don't watch "Topaz." Just don't. Let your mind play over what you think it might be about, or the rumors you've heard about its plot, and let it go at that. And come to that, if you haven't seen "MI:3", skip that too.

Four Days, Four Posts

Who are we kidding? Obviously I've decided to take this NaBloPoMo thing seriously. I haven't posted this much since I got into grad school. Not to the point of being on any kind of list or having the official NaBloPoMo icon on my page, but still.

In many ways, I've waited my whole life for just such a phenomenon. NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) was never going to work for me--c'mon, a novel in a month? I recently took 14 days to write the first 30 pages of a Grey's Anatomy spec. (And in case you've never seen a tv script: It's mostly white space.)

I have severe quality control issues. As in: Nothing leaves my grip until it's been polished to a blinding perfection. Or I've worn myself down to an incoherent daze through lack of sleep and psychological abuse. So no way I turn out a novel in 30 days.

(Ironically, I will be turning out a spec pilot in 30 days. I have some notes, some characters, and some general plot ideas. On 12/1/06, I'm turning whatever I have into my department, for entry into something called the Josh Schwarz Fellowship.)

But NaBloPoMo? That's a month-long obsession I can buy into!

If the text of this month of entries is "Can Kate keep up her sworn vow to post every day for a month?", the subtext is "Can Kate blog for 30 days in a row without accidentally/on purpose stumbling onto a topic that would be better addressed offline?"

This to me is the great, delicious dilemma of all blogs, everywhere. The more raw, the more revealing (I'm looking at you, Dooce, and you, Mimi Smartypants, and most especially you, Shasta McNasty), the better. And yet, blinding honesty has its limits.

Since the dawn of the internet, total strangers have taken offense at the most innocently-meant posts--and of course, some not so innocently-meant. So as a card-carrying member of the Not a Nut Club, I try not to air laundry better dragged out in the privacy of my own apartment/diary/classroom. Because God only knows what kind of shit THAT would stir up. And I am a deeply conflict averse person.

But no, seriously. A blog shouldn't be an excuse to say/do inappropriate things. If such things are going to be said or done, say or do them in real life, to or in front of the relevent audience. Maybe easier said than done, especially from the far side of six years of doing improv. The ninth or tenth time a violent wave of humiliation washed over me, I just stopped caring.

It gets old. When I am well and truly embarrassed, I almost black out and when I come back, 2 seconds later, I have no idea what's happened in the intervening time. I have to surreptitiously check my pants to make sure I haven't voided my bowels. (This particular fear goes back to the physiological feeling of embarrassment, akin to being squeezed out as if I were a tube of toothpaste in the hand of a giant 3 year old. )

I mean, how many times can a human being go through that kinda of trauma and not develop some kind of defense against it?

Boy, I have wandered way, way, way off topic. All I meant to say was: It would be easy to cook up 30 posts if I could give voice to every petty, immature, ill-considered impulse that ever crosses my mind. But that's not really my style. If I'm going to commit to an idiotic personal decision, I'll do it in the real world, where the consequences will be so huge and unmistakable as to provide a valuable and v. funny anecdote I can share ... on my blog.

Sigh.

Oh My God!

Did everyone else know how easy it was to post photos to Blogger and they just forgot to tell me? Wow, it was almost impossible to put pictures up when we drove across the country--and now it's a piece of cake.

Anyway, this is my most prized possession, my Bialetti espresso pot. Technically, it makes four 2 oz shots of espresso, but I use it to make 2 shots, and it works like a dream.

Like most young adults, I have a powerful caffeine addiction, made worse by a dislike of coffee qua coffee. Keep in mind, I learned to like coffee by eating coffee ice cream at the University of Wisconsin. So for the last 5 years, I've been hitting the latte pretty hard--particularly over the last 3 years, when I've lived within walking distance of 2 or 3 Starbucks. But who likes to spend $4 a day on a coffee-flavored glass of warm skim milk?

I'm also old enough to have already tried owning an espresso machine. I think maybe every young couple has that moment in the housewares department, where they see the Krups espresso maker and think: Hey, we could make our own espresso! And it's only $99! Then they break up, and the smarter one "graciously" allows their ex to keep the machine, knowing perfectly well that it doesn't work and they never used it. (Because you need some serious pressure to make decent espresso, and it can't be produced in the tank of a $99 espresso machine.)

But magically, it can be produced in the cast aluminum belly of a $30 espresso pot. Add some skim milk, et voila! Latte!



This particular latte is made with cold milk--it was a warm day. But on chilly days, it takes no time to pour the milk into a sauce pan and heat it up while the Bialetti ticks over.

That's actually my favorite part--you have to be veeerrry quiet to hear the Bialetti do its magic. For 3-4 minutes, it's totally silent. Then it burbles very, very softly for about 30 seconds, and gives off one whiff of steam. If you miss the burble or the steam, you could stand around quite a while, waiting for your espresso. It's like waiting for a caffeine fairy to come and leave you a magical treat. You have to have faith.

No, Not Yet

Still don't really have anything original to say. But here's another archived post from an old, now-defunct blog. All closed societies have their little rituals and phrases that they use to insulate themselves from outsiders. And the marriage of two writers is very much a closed society. Here, then is...

The Glossary of Kate and Michael

Agathe Brchnya – A fictional housekeeper, employed by an equally fictional director of horror films, circa 1930-1937. Originally from Srebnia, an obscure province of no affiliation, nestled in the foothills of the Ural Mountains. Superstitious, pessimistic, cranky, loyal to a fault. Not above poisoning romantic rivals with a tincture. Handy with a poultice. Appears, unprompted, in our apartment from time to time, to hold forth on topics of the day. Once performed CPR on a beloved, but deceased chicken.

Asshat – Noun. Variation: Assclown. Slow-witted individual who disagrees with me.

Awesome – Adjective. Meaning varies greatly, depending on context. Can mean, literally, the best thing I’ve seen or heard in years. Or, ironically, something of profound ickiness. The latter usage is particularly common in reference to accounts of hopelessly passive aggressive and/or dysfunctional behavior.

Beefcake – Term of endearment. Inspired by cat who bears more than a passing resemblance to one of Mark McGuire’s forearms. She’s twelve pounds of feline muscle and appears several times in Jose Conseco’s new book.

Dead People TV – Noun. Any of the several television shows I watch obsessively, specifically “This person is dead, but who killed them?” (Law & Order); “This person is dead, but how did they die?” (CSI); “This person has disappeared and if we don’t find them, they might die!” (Without a Trace); “This person died so long ago, no one has any idea what killed them!” (Cold Case.)

Fizzle - Not a part of Snoop Dogg talk, but a cat whose actual name begins with an F. And pretty much, that's the only part of the actual name represented in "Fizzle." We are hardcore nicknamers.

Fortress of Solitude – State of being. A necessary phrase in an apartment where the bathroom door does not lock. Signifies biological processes best conducted in private.

Housed – Verb. As in “You’ve been housed!” Inspired by television show “House.” Features include being misdiagnosed several times, going into seizure 15 minutes after the opening credits, being groused at by your painkiller-addicted doctor, having your attending physicians debate the sanity of said painkiller-addicted doctor outside your room.

Jackington - A young man, much beloved, who does not walk with a cane or wear a top hat. And yet we insist on calling him Jackington.

Knucklehead – Noun. Listener to or participant in Knucklehead Radio.

Knucklehead Radio – Noun. Testosterone-soaked sports radio, specifically featuring callers who use any pretext to discuss the playoff chances of their favorite teams. The most knucklehead-host on knucklehead radio is King Knucklehead, a title currently held by one Mike North, of Chicago, Il.

Lickenstein - Not a typo. Another nickname for a cat, with a proclivity for licking. As I said, we take our nicknaming seriously.

Nocturne of the Damned – Proper noun. One of Agathe’s first films. She played Smette, the housekeeper. Also a synonym of any bad experience.

A: The Unemployment Office was a living hell.

B: A Nocturne of the Damned?

A: You said it.

Rockstar – Noun, adjective. All-purpose term of praise/acclaim, typically used in circumstances of extraordinary sacrifice and achievement. “You made callbacks? You are such a rockstar!”

Satan's Nut Sack - Our kitchen garbage can, or more specifically, the stench it produces under certain circumstances. We've tried everything but setting fire to the fucker and the stink just keeps coming back.

Shiny – Noun. Alt: The Shiny. Anything new, over-designed, technologically sophisticated, costly and coming with an instruction book thicker than “Pride and Prejudice.” Also, a compulsion to obtain same.

A: Ooh, look! A Razr!

B: Fight the shiny, Kate! Fight it!

A: Must … have … shiny…must … have…

B: That’s it, we’re leaving.


Tennessee Tuxedo – Term of endearment. Inspired by cat who appears to wear tuxedo. Same cat also known as “Spotfoot” for reasons you can probably put together.

Twilight of the Shrew – Proper noun. Another film from Agathe’s resume. She played Frette, the housekeeper. I think you're probably seeing the pattern here.

Vengepoop – Noun/Verb. Signifies smelly declaration of displeasure on the part of a cat. Usually found a few inches from litter box, but bathroom rugs are also fair game. See also Tennessee Tuxedo, the primary committer of vengepoops.

An Old Post, Reposted

I wrote this over a year ago, but in honor of NaBloPoMo, I'm posting it again:

The End of Secret Thoughts, The Beginning of a Nagging Concern

Yesterday, I heard an NPR story which filled me with a consuming despair.

It was a piece reviewing the value of what President Bush likes to call “an ownership society.” Just to be even-handed, the coverage began by interviewing a libertarian gentleman from the Cato Institute (again, spelling?)

To hear Johnny Libertarian tell it, this ownership society is a sweet deal. People get to own their retirement funds, their health care, their schools, you name it, instead of having to trust the government to line up these benefits for them. This is a good thing, because the government could take away those things at any time. Which on the most literal level is true, I suppose.

Later on, they had a communist or some such “alternative” perspective speak to the downsides of privatizing Social Security, and having provided two opinions about the same topic, the piece ended. Even though, bizarrely, no one had addressed the issue of lemon yellow handbags.

I have wanted a lemon yellow handbag for some time now. It started as an itch last summer and has steadily grown until I am nearly preoccupied with the need for a lemon yellow handbag. Not taxi yellow, not butter yellow, but lemon yellow.

I know, genius right? Lemon yellow is by far the most cheerful of the various yelline hues, but also? Very hard to wear--makes you look jaundiced. So the perfect solution would be a handbag, which could be held, yes, in the hand, or thrown over the shoulder, adding a nice hit of bright color.

You cannot buy a lemon yellow handbag for love or money. I know, I’ve looked. No such thing exists. Kate Spade shows signs of possibly doing a lemon yellow bag for summer, but that’s still months away. I’ve been on the hunt for a year and no dice. Not on Ebay, not in department stores, not in chic boutiques, not anywhere.

A lot of the things Libertarian Man thinks we should own are lemon yellow handbags. Good schools that don’t cost $30,000 a year in tuition? Affordable health insurance that covers the actual health problems you need insurance to pay for? Low-cost, reliable retirement account management? Nobody is selling these things. No one in corporate America has any interest in selling these things. I would LOVE to own these things, but they’re not for sale. They can’t be found. They are lemon yellow handbags.

I don't blame NPR for not pointing this out. I blame the Left. You can't interview someone about the lemon yellow handbag issue if no one is talking about it. The Left is dropping the ball on the lemon yellow handbag issue and it pisses me off.

The End of Nagging Concern, The Beginning of Secret Wants

Now that I think of it, I've wanted a lot of things that couldn't be found. What is it with me? Am I a lady Karl Lagerfeld? Am I the Diana Vreeland of the Midwest? Why do I want things I cannot have, that no one makes? Maybe I am unclear on the concept of shopping. I have also wanted, at various points:

* A Palm Pilot with a thumb keyboard, wifi and stereo headphone jack. Had to settle for two out of three.

* Round-toe, knee-high black leather boots with no more than a two inch heel. Impossible, can’t be found.

* Macaroni au gratin, made with gruyere, parmesan and bacon. Can only be found at Balthazar’s in NYC. I don’t live in NYC, so this is of no help to me. My solution was to make my own, but that’s no help when you need to buy some lunch and you’re miles away from you own house.

* A storefront Krispy Kreme within 5 minutes’ walk of either my home or work neighborhood. Again, no such thing. In my part of the world, Krispy Kremes are drive-up, drive-thru, drive-past. Walking doesn’t enter into it. The nearest one is a 40 minute car ride. What the hell is that? I’m going to drive 40 minutes to eat a chunk of flour fried in lard? Nice business plan, jerks.

* A wheat cracker with real cheese dusted on top. This used to exist, in the form of Keebler’s White Cheddar Cheese Wheatables. Maybe the perfect writing snack, I ate them by the box for years. They was discontinued in the mid-90s, plunging me into a creative block that lasted the rest of the century.

* An underwire bra with a cup that’s lined enough to prevent headlights, but not actually padded.

* A wrinkle-free white dress shirt with a flattering fit, made out of decent cloth. This existed, briefly, at Brooks Brothers, but they’ve changed the fabric they use, so now the shirts feel like they fell off a Lane Bryant delivery van.

* More Jane Austen books. You know, some people churn out two, three dozen books in a career. Not our Jane. When I kick off, she and I are going to have some words. Unless the afterlife is less St. Peter-and-choirs-angels and more becoming-one-with-the-universe-by-slowly decomposing-and-becoming-one-with-some-dirt-and-maggots. In which case, I guess I’ll have to let it go.

November 2006 Postscript: The following summer, J. Crew carried bright yellow tote bags, and I bought one. Last spring, a nice sales person at Nordstrom introduced me to Le Mystere's Dream Tisha bra. And at the end of this month, Verizon will let me buy a Treo 700p for the same price as a new customer. So that's 3 down, 6 to go, if you don't count the long term fix for public education or health insurance.