I love Whole Foods. When we began planning the move to Los Angeles, the first thing I did was map the location of every Whole Foods in the metropolitan area and draw a two-mile-wide circle around each scribbled "WF."
Partly that's because MG has a raft of food allergies that are much easier to deal with if you shop at a store that is fanatical about labeling every single ingredient in every single food item, down to the microns of solubized wheat protein in the dash of Worcestershire sauce mixed in with the yolks of their deviled eggs. (Which are, actually, from hell. Don't waste your money -- not nearly enough mayo, way way way too much yolk.)
Partly it's because we used to live in a neighborhood where the closest store WAS a Whole Foods, and we kinda fell in the habit of shopping there.
Partly it's because I have quite the budding addiction to charcuterie, particularly various terrines made with the livers of fattened water fowl.
Okay, look, let's not delve into questions who's-addicted-to-what. The point is, I am solidly pro-Whole Foods.
And yet.
When the two story underground garage is filled to capacity and backed up onto 23rd St., maybe things have gotten out of hand.
When traffic backed up on Wilshire because 23rd St. is jammed all the way into the intersection, maybe we need to reconsider our options.
When the line to get out of the store starts 30 feet inside the front door? Yeah, I think you get the picture.
Everyone was on their best behavior. I got a free piece of pizza for being such a patient customer, and thank god, the lines had been switched into one line/many registers, so you were directed to the next available cashier pretty quickly. But yes, it got a teeny tiny bit hairy there for a second.
One poor daffy lady, her hair in those giant volumizing curlers you always see J Lo wearing in the "behind the scenes" photos in magazines, wandered into the admirably uncrowded stretch open space in front of the registers, and made for cashier until an employee discreetly indicated the line of sixty seven customers stretching to the back of the store and then some.
She blanched, as well she might, for a few seconds later she would have been ripped limb from limb if the employee had not saved her from a life-ending gaffe. Free pizza can calm an unruly crowd, but it's powerless to slow an enraged mob.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Down the Rabbit Hole of Awesome
We saw Jack Gerber off to Joshua Tree yesterday morning, and then spent several hours flopped in a heap. It was fantastic to have Jack stay with us for the holidays, but we'd been in such complete host mode that we hadn't given any thought to what we'd do he left. After some laundry was put away and some Rice Krispie treats were made, I put one of our last Xmas movie rentals in and sat down with a gin and tonic to watch "The Last King of Scotland."
About an hour into it, MG announces that "Ball of Fire" is showing at the Aero at 7:30, in a double bill with "Twentieth Century." Good bye cozy night at home, hello brisk-if-somewhat-drunk walk to the Aero.
Over two years ago, I had a professor rave about "Ball of Fire," and I've been trying to see it ever since. There's a reason why it was hard to track down -- it came out on DVD this May, but before that, the last release was a VHS tape in 1998. And now that I've seen it, I can see why it is so fondly remembered.
Billy Wilder screenplay, Howard Hawks directs, Barbara Stanwyck shows some leg, Gary Cooper learns fisticuffs, Gene Krupa whips off two drum solos and a slew of old Hollwood contract players fill out the cast. (Henry Travers, the bulbous-nosed angel Clarence from "It's a Wonderful Life;"Oskar Homolka, the shifty husband from "Sabotage;" S.Z. Sakall, the plump, white-haired head waiter Carl from "Casablanca," as well as Leonid Kinskey, who was Sacha the bartender. And those are just the ones I recognized.)
The script itself is a model of hilarious elegance -- surprisingly so, considering it wasn't originally a stage play. The gold standard in this category would be "His Girl Friday," which clocks around with the efficiency of a Swiss watch. But my God, "Ball of Fire" takes this principle to an entirely new level, right down to the perfectly timed return of the garbage man. It has to be seen to be believed -- which is easily done, considering Amazon now has it on DVD
for $14.99.
Less elegant but possibly even funnier (God, is that possible? Sure the fabric of space/time cannot contain more funniness?) was the second feature, "Twentieth Century." Are you sitting down? Okay. Howard Hawks directs; screenplay by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur (as in "His Girl Friday") with uncredited punch up from Preston Sturges and Gene Fowler. Carole Lombard is hilarious and essentially topless for all but the first scene (the film opened in 1934, i.e., before the Hayes Code drained the filth and gratuitous nipple shots out of movies.) And? And? You want more? Yes, you do. And very wise you are, at that.
John Barrymore knocking it Out. Off. The. Park. It's a role that walks the razor's edge of self-parody, but Barrymore locks into character and does not come out for so much as a nanosecond of the entire film. Everything that hasn't worked in the last four Jim Carrey movies, the last eight Robin Williams movies, plus miscellaneous seconds of Adam Sandler and Billy Crystal's careers? Look ye to John Barrymore in "Twentieth Century" to find the solution.
How can a mortal man narrow his eyes and hiss "You... ameoba!" without imploding at the contained hilarity? I don't know. How can one human being deliver the line "The iron door is closed!" four times in one script and yet, somehow, make you laugh harder every time? The mind boggles.
The script, in all honesty, is more ramshackle than "Ball of Fire," but I don't mind, and I don't think you will either. It's another must own, and yes, Amazon.com has "Twentieth Century" too, for $12.99.
The WGA is still on strike, so I will point out that, of course, none of the guys I mentioned above -- Hecht, MacArthur, Sturges or Wilder -- gets dime one from these DVDs. But then, neither does any other writer whose work was produced before 1960. The WGA members sacrificed those payments in order to get the studios to pay residuals on all future projects. That's almost more astonishing that John Barrymore's performance in "Twentieth Century." Thousands of writers (and actors, and directors) giving up all right to compensation for past work, so other people could get paid in the future.
About an hour into it, MG announces that "Ball of Fire" is showing at the Aero at 7:30, in a double bill with "Twentieth Century." Good bye cozy night at home, hello brisk-if-somewhat-drunk walk to the Aero.
Over two years ago, I had a professor rave about "Ball of Fire," and I've been trying to see it ever since. There's a reason why it was hard to track down -- it came out on DVD this May, but before that, the last release was a VHS tape in 1998. And now that I've seen it, I can see why it is so fondly remembered.
Billy Wilder screenplay, Howard Hawks directs, Barbara Stanwyck shows some leg, Gary Cooper learns fisticuffs, Gene Krupa whips off two drum solos and a slew of old Hollwood contract players fill out the cast. (Henry Travers, the bulbous-nosed angel Clarence from "It's a Wonderful Life;"Oskar Homolka, the shifty husband from "Sabotage;" S.Z. Sakall, the plump, white-haired head waiter Carl from "Casablanca," as well as Leonid Kinskey, who was Sacha the bartender. And those are just the ones I recognized.)
The script itself is a model of hilarious elegance -- surprisingly so, considering it wasn't originally a stage play. The gold standard in this category would be "His Girl Friday," which clocks around with the efficiency of a Swiss watch. But my God, "Ball of Fire" takes this principle to an entirely new level, right down to the perfectly timed return of the garbage man. It has to be seen to be believed -- which is easily done, considering Amazon now has it on DVD
for $14.99.Less elegant but possibly even funnier (God, is that possible? Sure the fabric of space/time cannot contain more funniness?) was the second feature, "Twentieth Century." Are you sitting down? Okay. Howard Hawks directs; screenplay by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur (as in "His Girl Friday") with uncredited punch up from Preston Sturges and Gene Fowler. Carole Lombard is hilarious and essentially topless for all but the first scene (the film opened in 1934, i.e., before the Hayes Code drained the filth and gratuitous nipple shots out of movies.) And? And? You want more? Yes, you do. And very wise you are, at that.
John Barrymore knocking it Out. Off. The. Park. It's a role that walks the razor's edge of self-parody, but Barrymore locks into character and does not come out for so much as a nanosecond of the entire film. Everything that hasn't worked in the last four Jim Carrey movies, the last eight Robin Williams movies, plus miscellaneous seconds of Adam Sandler and Billy Crystal's careers? Look ye to John Barrymore in "Twentieth Century" to find the solution.
How can a mortal man narrow his eyes and hiss "You... ameoba!" without imploding at the contained hilarity? I don't know. How can one human being deliver the line "The iron door is closed!" four times in one script and yet, somehow, make you laugh harder every time? The mind boggles.
The script, in all honesty, is more ramshackle than "Ball of Fire," but I don't mind, and I don't think you will either. It's another must own, and yes, Amazon.com has "Twentieth Century"
too, for $12.99.The WGA is still on strike, so I will point out that, of course, none of the guys I mentioned above -- Hecht, MacArthur, Sturges or Wilder -- gets dime one from these DVDs. But then, neither does any other writer whose work was produced before 1960. The WGA members sacrificed those payments in order to get the studios to pay residuals on all future projects. That's almost more astonishing that John Barrymore's performance in "Twentieth Century." Thousands of writers (and actors, and directors) giving up all right to compensation for past work, so other people could get paid in the future.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
I Like That Throw Pillow, Dave
We got our very first Brocade Home catalog recently. In the new year, I will be embarking on a burnt-Earth mass mailing cancellation campaign, in which I will contact various companies and insist they take our names off their mailing lists.
(Hey, I don't make snide remarks about the way you spend the writers' strike, okay?)
Anyway, I am really glad Brocade Home managed to reach us before Catalog LockDown 2008 starts, because it seems to be the first home furnishings company dedicated to helping consumers decorate their home like the inside of the monolith from "2001."
You remember: Dave Bowman dies, or something, and then suddenly he's in this super weird hotel-room-like space? Ah, yeah, it's the part of the movie that looks like this:
(Hey, I don't make snide remarks about the way you spend the writers' strike, okay?)
Anyway, I am really glad Brocade Home managed to reach us before Catalog LockDown 2008 starts, because it seems to be the first home furnishings company dedicated to helping consumers decorate their home like the inside of the monolith from "2001."
You remember: Dave Bowman dies, or something, and then suddenly he's in this super weird hotel-room-like space? Ah, yeah, it's the part of the movie that looks like this:
Friday, December 28, 2007
It's All About Perspective
I watched an early third season "Grey's Anatomy" last night. (I think. Unless this is their fourth season. Which, if true, boggles the imagination.)
I'd like to think that my "Grey's" spec captures some of the energy and lightness of touch of the original, but I'm guessing not, considering I'm 0 for 5 in the big TV spec contests this year. (Disney, thoughtful folks, sent me my ding letter the week before Christmas.) And I don't have it in me to go back and give it another polish, so there's some sadness to the realization that the ship has sailed.
Anyway, my point is, I never thought I'd watch another episode of "Grey's." Last season, with the canceled wedding and this season's arrival of Lexi Grey broke me. I couldn't take any more.
But as it turns out, I am weak. And as it becomes clear that I will not see any new television until, MAYBE, mid-June, I'm starting to make accommodations. Like watching shows I previously considered unwatchable. And, very likely, catching up on "The Wire" before it's January premiere.
It's the same principle by which I put off doing laundry all day yesterday, only to despair at 5 p.m. when the power went out. Not just in my apartment, or my building, but the whole block. (A question I still haven't answered: If the power goes out and my car's in the garage, how do I get it out? And in the event of nuclear attack, does that mean we're gonna die of radiation poisoning because we can't get out of town? Confidential to gloomy protagonists: Don't bother leaving a comment about all the ways we'll die before getting a car out of the garage becomes an issue. Just... don't.)
I started to make various back up plants to accommodate our newly blacked-out condition, and then just as I was about to leave for the movies... the power came back on. I tell you, I did that laundry like it was one big soapy holiday.
I'd like to think that my "Grey's" spec captures some of the energy and lightness of touch of the original, but I'm guessing not, considering I'm 0 for 5 in the big TV spec contests this year. (Disney, thoughtful folks, sent me my ding letter the week before Christmas.) And I don't have it in me to go back and give it another polish, so there's some sadness to the realization that the ship has sailed.
Anyway, my point is, I never thought I'd watch another episode of "Grey's." Last season, with the canceled wedding and this season's arrival of Lexi Grey broke me. I couldn't take any more.
But as it turns out, I am weak. And as it becomes clear that I will not see any new television until, MAYBE, mid-June, I'm starting to make accommodations. Like watching shows I previously considered unwatchable. And, very likely, catching up on "The Wire" before it's January premiere.
It's the same principle by which I put off doing laundry all day yesterday, only to despair at 5 p.m. when the power went out. Not just in my apartment, or my building, but the whole block. (A question I still haven't answered: If the power goes out and my car's in the garage, how do I get it out? And in the event of nuclear attack, does that mean we're gonna die of radiation poisoning because we can't get out of town? Confidential to gloomy protagonists: Don't bother leaving a comment about all the ways we'll die before getting a car out of the garage becomes an issue. Just... don't.)
I started to make various back up plants to accommodate our newly blacked-out condition, and then just as I was about to leave for the movies... the power came back on. I tell you, I did that laundry like it was one big soapy holiday.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Also, That Frostbite Gag Went a Little Too Far into Gag Territory
I met a writer @ the Barham Gate picket last week who's working on some stuff for "The Red Star" comic book. I had never heard of "The Red Star," but the phrase "industrial magic" had me intrigued.
I got the first volume, issues 1-9, for Christmas, and bought the first half of volume 2 yesterday. And it is very, very good. It's a re-imagining of the 20th century if sorcery had been part of the industrial revolution. (I'm guessing that's the back story. I don't really know.)
It opens with a beautiful young Soviet officer (a Sorceress Major) named Maya, riding the cemetery train out to visit the grave of her husband Marcus, who died nine years ago in the state's crushing defeat in Al'istaan. It's Russia, and Afghanistan, and the collapse of the Soviet Union, only utterly different. And utterly delicious.
If I have one complaint, it's that the first installment opens with one brilliant wow idea, and then fails to really deliver on the promise of that idea. But it's still extremely inventive and awesome. Just not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe.
Speaking of things that are not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe: "Pirates of the Caribbean" is dead to me. I don't watch movies so I can walk out wondering how it will all end up. I watch moves so I KNOW how it all ends up. Suspense and cliffhangers are for television and the second installments of trilogies, dudes.
Boo to that. And also boo to picking Orlando Bloom over Johnny Depp. Although about an hour in, I did think "Orlando Bloom is the Cary Elwes of 2007" and by the third act, he showed up in full on Dread Pirate Roberts gear, down to the black head scarf.
(There are also a handful of dreadful anti-feminist implications in the final half hour of "Pirates of the Caribbean 3," which I will not touch with a ten foot pole. If you manage to write Keira Knightly into some kind of bad ass pirate queen role, and then leave her half naked in a dress on a beach, anything I might say on the subject would be wasted on you.)
I got the first volume, issues 1-9, for Christmas, and bought the first half of volume 2 yesterday. And it is very, very good. It's a re-imagining of the 20th century if sorcery had been part of the industrial revolution. (I'm guessing that's the back story. I don't really know.)
It opens with a beautiful young Soviet officer (a Sorceress Major) named Maya, riding the cemetery train out to visit the grave of her husband Marcus, who died nine years ago in the state's crushing defeat in Al'istaan. It's Russia, and Afghanistan, and the collapse of the Soviet Union, only utterly different. And utterly delicious.
If I have one complaint, it's that the first installment opens with one brilliant wow idea, and then fails to really deliver on the promise of that idea. But it's still extremely inventive and awesome. Just not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe.
Speaking of things that are not as awesome as the first 10 pages would have you believe: "Pirates of the Caribbean" is dead to me. I don't watch movies so I can walk out wondering how it will all end up. I watch moves so I KNOW how it all ends up. Suspense and cliffhangers are for television and the second installments of trilogies, dudes.
Boo to that. And also boo to picking Orlando Bloom over Johnny Depp. Although about an hour in, I did think "Orlando Bloom is the Cary Elwes of 2007" and by the third act, he showed up in full on Dread Pirate Roberts gear, down to the black head scarf.
(There are also a handful of dreadful anti-feminist implications in the final half hour of "Pirates of the Caribbean 3," which I will not touch with a ten foot pole. If you manage to write Keira Knightly into some kind of bad ass pirate queen role, and then leave her half naked in a dress on a beach, anything I might say on the subject would be wasted on you.)
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Happy Boxing Day
I meant to mention this before, but the holidays have a way of distracting one from such things. My once-and-future boss has an awesome piece in last Sunday's NYT Style section, here:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/23/fashion/23weiner.html?ref=fashion. Very honest and very funny, all at once.
In a nice trifecta of surprises, "Mad Men" showed up on both the Times' TV critics best-of-2007 lists AND got a name check in Bill Carter's piece about how HBO has messed up royally. As in, if HBO had developed "Mad Men" last year instead of wasting their time with "John From Cincinnati,"maybe HBO's reputation wouldn't be in the crapper now.
As for Christmas in Santa Monica: Good times. I think standing rib roast may be the go-to meal for festive occasions in #403 for quite some time. I've just about got the hang of it now, and even managed to simul-cook gravy, popovers and two side dishes in the last 20 minutes. (Kudos to my excellent support staff, Michael and Jack, who chopped, cleaned and prepped their hearts out.)
And today: Leftovers and third wave baking for a few folks who were out of town on Christmas proper.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/23/fashion/23weiner.html?ref=fashion. Very honest and very funny, all at once.
In a nice trifecta of surprises, "Mad Men" showed up on both the Times' TV critics best-of-2007 lists AND got a name check in Bill Carter's piece about how HBO has messed up royally. As in, if HBO had developed "Mad Men" last year instead of wasting their time with "John From Cincinnati,"maybe HBO's reputation wouldn't be in the crapper now.
As for Christmas in Santa Monica: Good times. I think standing rib roast may be the go-to meal for festive occasions in #403 for quite some time. I've just about got the hang of it now, and even managed to simul-cook gravy, popovers and two side dishes in the last 20 minutes. (Kudos to my excellent support staff, Michael and Jack, who chopped, cleaned and prepped their hearts out.)
And today: Leftovers and third wave baking for a few folks who were out of town on Christmas proper.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Interpretive Dance and Healing Little Girls
Who is more cool than the nurses working in the stem cell unit @ Children's Memorial in Chicago? Answer: Nobody.
The most awesome video I've ever seen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZlgrdIeDoo
P.S. Merry Christmas, Donna's marrow! Go you!
The most awesome video I've ever seen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZlgrdIeDoo
P.S. Merry Christmas, Donna's marrow! Go you!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Juno What? Jit Wasn't Bad.
I read the "Juno" screenplay before seeing the movie, and full disclosure, it made me eat my own heart with a grapefruit spoon. Funny, smart, original, on paper "Juno" is everything I've ever aspired to be as a screenwriter.
I was prepared to see the movie, and much like the first time I saw "Finding Nemo" or "O Brother Where Art Thou?", realize that someone already had the career of my dreams and despair that I would ever find my own spot in the sunlight. (Television very rarely fills me with such hopelessness, maybe because I realize that with so many hours of original television per year, there's always another shot at greatness. Movies are far dicier -- they take so much time and money, it seems there's just a finite number of chances to get it right.)
I liked "Juno" a lot. I probably shouldn't have read the screenplay before hand, but I couldn't help myself. A number of references went right over my head, but the ones I got ("Thundercats are go!") made me laugh. Even so, probably my favorite thing in the whole film is Paulie Bleeker's mumbled reply to Juno's claim that he's really cool and he doesn't even try. "I try really hard, actually."
Being me, I had problems with the film even so. (You may remember that the thing that dumbfounded me about "No Country for Old Men" was my complete inability to see something I would have changed or tweaked. I didn't like the ending, but I have no idea how to do it differently.)
Mainly, I didn't know what I was hoping for. Or, more precisely, I didn't know what I feared would happen. Juno is so capable, so steady, nothing seems to shake her. Even when (to avoid spoilers) the fates turn against her, it's hard to see what the problem is. She comes from a stable family, her stepmom already has maternal feelings towards the unborn child, and in her small Minnesota town, she's earned exactly one dirty look, one snide remark and a wide berth from her classmates. She reports that everyone makes fun of her behind her back, but we never see it, or the impact of that mocking on her ego. She's bulletproof.
Somehow in the course of making a movie about how a plucky heroine gets herself in a jam and manages to triumph, the writer and director managed to soften all the hard corners and rough spots of the jam, so it no longer seems like such a big deal.
Which, to check in for a minute with reality, is nuts. Teenage, out of wedlock, still a junior in high school pregnancy, is an extremely big deal.
I was, for all intents and purposes, vacuum sealed like a can of Hills Bros. coffee from birth until well into college. And I mean, well into college. But even so, the spectre of unplanned pregnancy loomed large through all four years of high school. What if this innocent flirtation blossomed into actual dating? And what if dating blossomed into necking? And what if... And right about then, I'd start working through exactly how screwed I would be if I got pregnant.
The disappointment of my teachers, the judgment of my peers, the awkward moments in health class. How would I take gym? What about the PSATs? The ACT? The SAT? The AP Exams? The upcoming production of "The Foreigner" that I was supposed to stage manage?
And that was just in the time it would take me to carry the trash from the back door to the alley.
So what I'm wondering is, how do you spend six months writing a screenplay, and a couple years making the resulting movie, and never touch on any of this? No one Juno likes and/or respects ever judges, criticizes or rejects her for the decision she makes. In other words, no one ever *tests* that incredible resolve and fortitude -- in fact, considering the comfy snuggly world she moves in, I'm not sure where that resolve and fortitude comes from. (Note, by the way, that even though her biological mom has ditched out on her, she's welcome and loved in her dad's new family -- and not spending her life traveling between the two households.)
Look, it was a sweet movie and I enjoyed it. All I'm saying is: If you're going to tell a story that, frankly, many millions of teenage girls have lived first hand, you might honor their suffering and experience by at least touching on some of the crap they had to deal with and yes, overcome. Otherwise, it's like opening "Saving Private Ryan" with shots of twenty soldiers skipping off a troop transport and up a garden path through a rose garden to have a little tea party before heading in country.
I was prepared to see the movie, and much like the first time I saw "Finding Nemo" or "O Brother Where Art Thou?", realize that someone already had the career of my dreams and despair that I would ever find my own spot in the sunlight. (Television very rarely fills me with such hopelessness, maybe because I realize that with so many hours of original television per year, there's always another shot at greatness. Movies are far dicier -- they take so much time and money, it seems there's just a finite number of chances to get it right.)
I liked "Juno" a lot. I probably shouldn't have read the screenplay before hand, but I couldn't help myself. A number of references went right over my head, but the ones I got ("Thundercats are go!") made me laugh. Even so, probably my favorite thing in the whole film is Paulie Bleeker's mumbled reply to Juno's claim that he's really cool and he doesn't even try. "I try really hard, actually."
Being me, I had problems with the film even so. (You may remember that the thing that dumbfounded me about "No Country for Old Men" was my complete inability to see something I would have changed or tweaked. I didn't like the ending, but I have no idea how to do it differently.)
Mainly, I didn't know what I was hoping for. Or, more precisely, I didn't know what I feared would happen. Juno is so capable, so steady, nothing seems to shake her. Even when (to avoid spoilers) the fates turn against her, it's hard to see what the problem is. She comes from a stable family, her stepmom already has maternal feelings towards the unborn child, and in her small Minnesota town, she's earned exactly one dirty look, one snide remark and a wide berth from her classmates. She reports that everyone makes fun of her behind her back, but we never see it, or the impact of that mocking on her ego. She's bulletproof.
Somehow in the course of making a movie about how a plucky heroine gets herself in a jam and manages to triumph, the writer and director managed to soften all the hard corners and rough spots of the jam, so it no longer seems like such a big deal.
Which, to check in for a minute with reality, is nuts. Teenage, out of wedlock, still a junior in high school pregnancy, is an extremely big deal.
I was, for all intents and purposes, vacuum sealed like a can of Hills Bros. coffee from birth until well into college. And I mean, well into college. But even so, the spectre of unplanned pregnancy loomed large through all four years of high school. What if this innocent flirtation blossomed into actual dating? And what if dating blossomed into necking? And what if... And right about then, I'd start working through exactly how screwed I would be if I got pregnant.
The disappointment of my teachers, the judgment of my peers, the awkward moments in health class. How would I take gym? What about the PSATs? The ACT? The SAT? The AP Exams? The upcoming production of "The Foreigner" that I was supposed to stage manage?
And that was just in the time it would take me to carry the trash from the back door to the alley.
So what I'm wondering is, how do you spend six months writing a screenplay, and a couple years making the resulting movie, and never touch on any of this? No one Juno likes and/or respects ever judges, criticizes or rejects her for the decision she makes. In other words, no one ever *tests* that incredible resolve and fortitude -- in fact, considering the comfy snuggly world she moves in, I'm not sure where that resolve and fortitude comes from. (Note, by the way, that even though her biological mom has ditched out on her, she's welcome and loved in her dad's new family -- and not spending her life traveling between the two households.)
Look, it was a sweet movie and I enjoyed it. All I'm saying is: If you're going to tell a story that, frankly, many millions of teenage girls have lived first hand, you might honor their suffering and experience by at least touching on some of the crap they had to deal with and yes, overcome. Otherwise, it's like opening "Saving Private Ryan" with shots of twenty soldiers skipping off a troop transport and up a garden path through a rose garden to have a little tea party before heading in country.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Eff You, Frank Capra...
Just saw "It's a Wonderful Life" with MG... and cried through almost 40% of the film, starting with the tearful scene of revelation with Mr. Gower and lingering through the walk to the car.
Okay, WHAT did Capra do? I don't get it. How can you put together a two-hour, by-the-numbers black and white classic and wring me out like a dishrag? How?
I don't get it, I don't like it, and if I ever meet Capra in the great beyond, he and me are gonna have words.
Okay, WHAT did Capra do? I don't get it. How can you put together a two-hour, by-the-numbers black and white classic and wring me out like a dishrag? How?
I don't get it, I don't like it, and if I ever meet Capra in the great beyond, he and me are gonna have words.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
And Don't Even Get Me Started on Hoagy Carmichael
I've seen "To Have or Have Not," hmmm, a dozen times. Maybe more. There's not a single good thing in the whole movie -- it's just a chaotic shambles. Ernest Hemingway hams it up in the source material, William Faulkner drinks his ass off as he wrote the script, Howard Hawks cribs major swaths of "Casablanca." And yet I love it so.
I love 19-year-old Lauren Bacall. Slim isn't the word. She's a size 0 by 2007 standards, and since it's 1943, she comes across the tallest drink of water to ever wear heels. I don't think any 19-year-old has ever been so glamorous or knowing before or sense.
Humphrey Bogart's earning his paycheck and checking out Ms. Bacall's rack whenever he thinks the camera isn't looking.
Walter Brennan is nailing what, conservatively, might be his 900th rummy role. He's got this crazy jittery walk and insists on asking people "Was you ever bit by a dead bee?"
But above all, I love the dialogue. Rich, campy, over the top and wonderful.
"You know how to whistle, doncha Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."
"A dead bee can sting ya just as bad as a live one, 'specially if he was mad when he died."
"Sometimes I know just what you're thinking. And sometimes... sometimes you're just a stinker."
I love 19-year-old Lauren Bacall. Slim isn't the word. She's a size 0 by 2007 standards, and since it's 1943, she comes across the tallest drink of water to ever wear heels. I don't think any 19-year-old has ever been so glamorous or knowing before or sense.
Humphrey Bogart's earning his paycheck and checking out Ms. Bacall's rack whenever he thinks the camera isn't looking.
Walter Brennan is nailing what, conservatively, might be his 900th rummy role. He's got this crazy jittery walk and insists on asking people "Was you ever bit by a dead bee?"
But above all, I love the dialogue. Rich, campy, over the top and wonderful.
"You know how to whistle, doncha Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."
"A dead bee can sting ya just as bad as a live one, 'specially if he was mad when he died."
"Sometimes I know just what you're thinking. And sometimes... sometimes you're just a stinker."
Friday, December 21, 2007
Bleh
Yet another one of these "men vs. ladies, who's funnier?" stories, here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7153584.stm.
I could give a shit about the methodology here, or whether a unicycle rider is, in fact, the idea test of humor.
Let's cut to the chase: Men are funnier. Period, end of story. Ask Christopher Hitchens if you don't believe me.
love,
Kate
P.S. I've given this a lot of thought, and at this date, have decided would *much* rather be the gender considered comedy deficient -- makes it much, much easier to crack people up when they don't see it coming. Poor men, y'all got Robin Williams blowing your cover. First time in my life I actually have something for which to thank Ann Coulter.
P.P.S. When are the surly 13 and 14-year-olds of the world going to rise up and give Hitchens the beat down of all time? He's totally stolen their gig -- saying half-assed shit, then refusing to admit there might be another perspective. That's been the entire raison d'etre of young teenagers for at least 50 years, and now Hitchens has razed all the usual topics to rubble. Mother Teresa wasn't so great; Hanukkah is a shitty holiday; we should scrap our government and start over. Not to mention the ballpoint pen tattoo of the Van Halen logo on his left hand. Jesus, dude, hurry up and die of alcohol poisoning before you ruin being a teenager forever.
I could give a shit about the methodology here, or whether a unicycle rider is, in fact, the idea test of humor.
Let's cut to the chase: Men are funnier. Period, end of story. Ask Christopher Hitchens if you don't believe me.
love,
Kate
P.S. I've given this a lot of thought, and at this date, have decided would *much* rather be the gender considered comedy deficient -- makes it much, much easier to crack people up when they don't see it coming. Poor men, y'all got Robin Williams blowing your cover. First time in my life I actually have something for which to thank Ann Coulter.
P.P.S. When are the surly 13 and 14-year-olds of the world going to rise up and give Hitchens the beat down of all time? He's totally stolen their gig -- saying half-assed shit, then refusing to admit there might be another perspective. That's been the entire raison d'etre of young teenagers for at least 50 years, and now Hitchens has razed all the usual topics to rubble. Mother Teresa wasn't so great; Hanukkah is a shitty holiday; we should scrap our government and start over. Not to mention the ballpoint pen tattoo of the Van Halen logo on his left hand. Jesus, dude, hurry up and die of alcohol poisoning before you ruin being a teenager forever.
P.P.S. When are the surly 13 and 14-year-olds of the world going to rise up and give Hitchens the beat down of all time? He's totally stolen their gig -- saying half-assed shit, then refusing to admit there might be another perspective. That's been the entire raison d'etre of young teenagers for at least 50 years, and now Hitchens has razed all the usual topics to rubble. Mother Teresa wasn't so great; Hanukkah is a shitty holiday; we should scrap our government and start over. Not to mention the ballpoint pen tattoo of the Van Halen logo on his left hand. Jesus, dude, hurry up and die of alcohol poisoning before you ruin being a teenager forever.Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sesame! It's Sesame!
Blogger has added a new filter for comments, which is a mercy because I really dislike having to personally moderate comments. Blargh, no thanks. So as of now, if you have a Gmail, LiveJournal, AOL, TypeKey or WordPress account, you can log in and comment with abandon. Have at it!
I only turned comment moderation on because I got spammed (no kidding) by a Norwegian male enhancement website. It was all Gs and those funny looking Os and the word "Viagra."
But it could be worse. Slate.com has a piece up this week, offering a wrap up of all the questions sent to Explainer which weren't answered in the last 12 months.
I used to get questions like this when I worked at iVillage and assembled reader queries for our team of experts. At times, you can scarcely believe the sender was actually able to turn on their computer, much less find your website.
These are Slate's questions, but like the requests I used to get, they fall under six basic categories:
Why Do You Ask? Actually, Never Mind. I Don't Want to Know.
• I haven't seen this in the news, but perhaps you could explain it anyway. Why do people feel like destroying things when angry?
• Why does having a foreign accent make a person seem more attractive?
• Is it possible in any way to prove that someone was on crack cocaine nine to 10 years ago?
• Which is the best hearing aid? Why are there so many different ones, and are the ones that allow you to hear others' conversations across the room legal?
• When a man lies to his lawyer to obtain a divorce from a wife of 47 years when she is ill and does not even know and cannot defend herself, is this legal, or perjury?
• If an unscrupulous bar owner was to mix diethylene to, say, whiskey, what would the effect be on the consumer?
When Stoned People Go Online
• Could you play sports in space, if you had a spacesuit?
• In Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Identity, he says that Jason Bourne can pack with great economy of space, allowing him to pack much more in a small bag than it would seem. How would one do this, and is it even a real thing?
• Can a baby get drunk off of nonalcoholic beer?
• Why are some cats softer to the touch than others? Is it possible I have the softest cat in the world?
• Why do men almost never win on ABC's Wheel of Fortune?
• Why don't we drop medical waste and nuclear waste into active volcanoes, the "ultimate high-temperature incinerators"?
• Can dogs be mentally retarded?
• When a fly lands on a ceiling, does it execute a barrel roll or an inside loop?
• If I drank a bunch of orange juice, which caused me to get heartburn, then ate a bunch of antacids, would it neutralize the vitamin C, thus providing no benefits from the ingested vitamin? If so, if you ate antacids continually, would you get scurvy?
I Can't Help You with Your Screenplay.
• What infections do viruses and microorganisms suffer from? My guess is none. They only suffer from random mutations and suffering caused (mostly by humans) by chemicals.
• What do the SWAT teams do to keep their fitness? Like, do they run for half an hour, or do five pressups?
• What would happen to the rest of the planets and the sun if Jupiter were to explode, or somehow leave our galaxy altogether?
Would it be possible to "shoot" someone with "lightning"? Like, a Taser with no electrodes.
Do Your Grandchildren Know You're Online?
• I have been looking for an old movie from about the late '60s. I was born in 1960 and watched it as a little kid. It was a Santa movie and it had the Devil in it. It was like the Devil was trying to stop Christmas. I remember the Devil was wearing red PJs. Santa has a magic powder that would make people sleep. It was a cute movie. Please help.
• Why don't long-haired football players, many of them of Polynesian descent, get their tresses tugged during their gridiron clash?
• Why do most reptiles go to sleep when you rub their bellies? I have done it myself with everything from domestic water dragons to wild alligators, but I heard recently that it is bad for them—and they only appear to be sleeping, when in fact they are having trouble breathing. Is this true?
• Mitt Romney is running for president. His father, George Romney, a former governor of Michigan, ran for president in 1968. Is "Mitt" named for the mitten-shape of Michigan?
• Why do male ice skaters have routines that are so feminine in execution? After all these years, there should be some kind of movements on ice that would be more masculine-looking. The gymnastics shows have them.
• There was the most beautiful sunset here in Indiana last evening. Would the California fires have anything to do with that?
• Why don't they build into cars a secret button for police to use, and when these people are trying to get away from police down the freeway and city streets at 100 mph, the following police car could push the button, making the engine on the speeding car stop? Surely there must be some smart person who could make this.
• I've been looking for information on how the word "dick" became an insult, especially since people still go by the name Dick. Why would anyone choose that name, when it has other meanings?!?!
Really, That's What You Want to Know?
• Very rare to find a hotel room with a light on the ceiling, they're usually floor lamps or desk lamps. Is there some structural reason for that??
On the Internet, No One Knows You're Dumb
• How do surface-dwelling fish survive monster sea storms?
• How often are presidents born, and how often do they die? Do they die in bunches, or on average every four years?
• Is there such a thing as "crazy eyes," where the whites go all the way around the corneas and makes the person look psycho, such as those of runaway bride Jennifer Wilbanks and wife-dismemberer Stephen Grant?
• I've always wanted to know why bald heads shine!!!
• If mountains are measured from sea level, then the 12,000-foot peaks in Colorado are only about 7,000 feet above Denver since they lie on a 5,000-foot-high plain. That being so, a one-foot rock lying on the ground becomes a 5,001-foot-high mountain. Do we need to address this differently, if it really matters at all?
• This may be a dumb question. Most people spell their names as first name, middle initial, and last name. But some people spell their name as initial, given name, and then last name. Is the initial before the given name their first name, and they go by their middle name? Or is the initial before the given name their middle initial? If it is their middle initial, why would you put it before your first name, because then it is not in the middle anymore? It seems like conservatives or Republicans are more likely to list their name starting with an initial.
• Is it "open sees me" or "open says me"?
I only turned comment moderation on because I got spammed (no kidding) by a Norwegian male enhancement website. It was all Gs and those funny looking Os and the word "Viagra."
But it could be worse. Slate.com has a piece up this week, offering a wrap up of all the questions sent to Explainer which weren't answered in the last 12 months.
I used to get questions like this when I worked at iVillage and assembled reader queries for our team of experts. At times, you can scarcely believe the sender was actually able to turn on their computer, much less find your website.
These are Slate's questions, but like the requests I used to get, they fall under six basic categories:
Why Do You Ask? Actually, Never Mind. I Don't Want to Know.
• I haven't seen this in the news, but perhaps you could explain it anyway. Why do people feel like destroying things when angry?
• Why does having a foreign accent make a person seem more attractive?
• Is it possible in any way to prove that someone was on crack cocaine nine to 10 years ago?
• Which is the best hearing aid? Why are there so many different ones, and are the ones that allow you to hear others' conversations across the room legal?
• When a man lies to his lawyer to obtain a divorce from a wife of 47 years when she is ill and does not even know and cannot defend herself, is this legal, or perjury?
• If an unscrupulous bar owner was to mix diethylene to, say, whiskey, what would the effect be on the consumer?
When Stoned People Go Online
• Could you play sports in space, if you had a spacesuit?
• In Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Identity, he says that Jason Bourne can pack with great economy of space, allowing him to pack much more in a small bag than it would seem. How would one do this, and is it even a real thing?
• Can a baby get drunk off of nonalcoholic beer?
• Why are some cats softer to the touch than others? Is it possible I have the softest cat in the world?
• Why do men almost never win on ABC's Wheel of Fortune?
• Why don't we drop medical waste and nuclear waste into active volcanoes, the "ultimate high-temperature incinerators"?
• Can dogs be mentally retarded?
• When a fly lands on a ceiling, does it execute a barrel roll or an inside loop?
• If I drank a bunch of orange juice, which caused me to get heartburn, then ate a bunch of antacids, would it neutralize the vitamin C, thus providing no benefits from the ingested vitamin? If so, if you ate antacids continually, would you get scurvy?
I Can't Help You with Your Screenplay.
• What infections do viruses and microorganisms suffer from? My guess is none. They only suffer from random mutations and suffering caused (mostly by humans) by chemicals.
• What do the SWAT teams do to keep their fitness? Like, do they run for half an hour, or do five pressups?
• What would happen to the rest of the planets and the sun if Jupiter were to explode, or somehow leave our galaxy altogether?
Would it be possible to "shoot" someone with "lightning"? Like, a Taser with no electrodes.
Do Your Grandchildren Know You're Online?
• I have been looking for an old movie from about the late '60s. I was born in 1960 and watched it as a little kid. It was a Santa movie and it had the Devil in it. It was like the Devil was trying to stop Christmas. I remember the Devil was wearing red PJs. Santa has a magic powder that would make people sleep. It was a cute movie. Please help.
• Why don't long-haired football players, many of them of Polynesian descent, get their tresses tugged during their gridiron clash?
• Why do most reptiles go to sleep when you rub their bellies? I have done it myself with everything from domestic water dragons to wild alligators, but I heard recently that it is bad for them—and they only appear to be sleeping, when in fact they are having trouble breathing. Is this true?
• Mitt Romney is running for president. His father, George Romney, a former governor of Michigan, ran for president in 1968. Is "Mitt" named for the mitten-shape of Michigan?
• Why do male ice skaters have routines that are so feminine in execution? After all these years, there should be some kind of movements on ice that would be more masculine-looking. The gymnastics shows have them.
• There was the most beautiful sunset here in Indiana last evening. Would the California fires have anything to do with that?
• Why don't they build into cars a secret button for police to use, and when these people are trying to get away from police down the freeway and city streets at 100 mph, the following police car could push the button, making the engine on the speeding car stop? Surely there must be some smart person who could make this.
• I've been looking for information on how the word "dick" became an insult, especially since people still go by the name Dick. Why would anyone choose that name, when it has other meanings?!?!
Really, That's What You Want to Know?
• Very rare to find a hotel room with a light on the ceiling, they're usually floor lamps or desk lamps. Is there some structural reason for that??
On the Internet, No One Knows You're Dumb
• How do surface-dwelling fish survive monster sea storms?
• How often are presidents born, and how often do they die? Do they die in bunches, or on average every four years?
• Is there such a thing as "crazy eyes," where the whites go all the way around the corneas and makes the person look psycho, such as those of runaway bride Jennifer Wilbanks and wife-dismemberer Stephen Grant?
• I've always wanted to know why bald heads shine!!!
• If mountains are measured from sea level, then the 12,000-foot peaks in Colorado are only about 7,000 feet above Denver since they lie on a 5,000-foot-high plain. That being so, a one-foot rock lying on the ground becomes a 5,001-foot-high mountain. Do we need to address this differently, if it really matters at all?
• This may be a dumb question. Most people spell their names as first name, middle initial, and last name. But some people spell their name as initial, given name, and then last name. Is the initial before the given name their first name, and they go by their middle name? Or is the initial before the given name their middle initial? If it is their middle initial, why would you put it before your first name, because then it is not in the middle anymore? It seems like conservatives or Republicans are more likely to list their name starting with an initial.
• Is it "open sees me" or "open says me"?
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
No One Talks About the Icy Speculum of the Marketplace
I am totally fascinated by the recent wave of bloggers and columnists scratching their heads and wondering what it means that two different 2007 movies feature pregnant ladies who decide not to have an abortion.
What's happening to this country? Does this mean it's cool to get knocked up by accident? Can we expect a spike in unplanned teenage pregnancies? Etc.
Yes, yes, all fascinating. Except for one thing: If you want to make a movie about people dealing with the fallout of pregnancy, you need someone to be pregnant.
And that's why the protagonists in "Knocked Up" and "Juno" don't have abortions. The characters justify their decisions in various ways, but that's really the bottom line. The same principle obtains in "Nine Months," but I don't recommend watching it to verify my claim. Just take my word for it.
The very, very bottom line is that film is a visual medium, and a lady doesn't get babylicious until the fourth month. Your best visual gags will take place between months six and nine -- when you are way, way past the point of no-return, abortionwise, both medically and culturally. Bump=baby.
I know I'm teetering on the edge of becoming an insufferable old bore. Two and a half years of film school has turned me into the narrative equivalent of the irritating economics major I worked with in New York, who insisted that taxes restrain economic activity. I hated his smug ass then -- and still retain a lingering hatred for Princeton alums as a result -- but I concede, he had a point. Not one worth extrapolating into the WSJ's stated policy of No Taxes Ever For Anyone, but a point nonetheless.
But just as reduced income will limit spending, it is also true that if you want characters to deal with a situation, you have to put them, irrevocably, in that situation, whether it's pregnancy or an office tower being held hostage by terrorists or a plane full of snakes. You have to deal with all the possible exits, and block them off, one by one.
And that, really, is the only reason why no one has an abortion in a movie about pregnancy.
What's happening to this country? Does this mean it's cool to get knocked up by accident? Can we expect a spike in unplanned teenage pregnancies? Etc.
Yes, yes, all fascinating. Except for one thing: If you want to make a movie about people dealing with the fallout of pregnancy, you need someone to be pregnant.
And that's why the protagonists in "Knocked Up" and "Juno" don't have abortions. The characters justify their decisions in various ways, but that's really the bottom line. The same principle obtains in "Nine Months," but I don't recommend watching it to verify my claim. Just take my word for it.
The very, very bottom line is that film is a visual medium, and a lady doesn't get babylicious until the fourth month. Your best visual gags will take place between months six and nine -- when you are way, way past the point of no-return, abortionwise, both medically and culturally. Bump=baby.
I know I'm teetering on the edge of becoming an insufferable old bore. Two and a half years of film school has turned me into the narrative equivalent of the irritating economics major I worked with in New York, who insisted that taxes restrain economic activity. I hated his smug ass then -- and still retain a lingering hatred for Princeton alums as a result -- but I concede, he had a point. Not one worth extrapolating into the WSJ's stated policy of No Taxes Ever For Anyone, but a point nonetheless.
But just as reduced income will limit spending, it is also true that if you want characters to deal with a situation, you have to put them, irrevocably, in that situation, whether it's pregnancy or an office tower being held hostage by terrorists or a plane full of snakes. You have to deal with all the possible exits, and block them off, one by one.
And that, really, is the only reason why no one has an abortion in a movie about pregnancy.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Today, It Came!
I am a born wine steward. Someone should hire me to acquire young vintages for their cellar, or possibly, assemble a small inventory of cheeses, to be aged right up to the threshold of perfection.
Because I am very good at waiting.
How good? A brief survey of the internet reveals that Palm-branded smartphones have been around since 2002. I've wanted one since the very first Treo 180 came into existence. I subsequently wanted, in order, a Tungsten W, a Treo 600, a Treo 650, a Treo 700 and a Treo 750.
But there is no reasoning with Kate's Ability to Wait. For wait she can, as long as necessary, for the Device of Her Dreams.
I've limped along with basic cellphones -- whatever model you can get for free when you sign a two year contract. For a while there, MG and I shared one phone, licking our wounds after a savage termination fee debacle when we moved to Los Angeles. In the same window of time, I've had two PDAs, a Palm IIIc and a Tungsten C. And I love that little Tungsten C, but oh my God, a fully-functional wifi device it is NOT. And yet I hung in there.
Back in June, with the dawn of the iPhone, I was sorely tempted. I hate AT&T's network and their customer service. I hated that the iPhone worked with the much slower EDGE network. And I wasn't a huge fan of the touchscreen keyboard. And still, I was tempted. But no.
No, I waited until yesterday, when the waters parted and Verizon released the Treo 755p -- designed to work on the lightning-fast EVDO network. Thoroughly QA'd to work out the bugs that filled page after page of angry forum comments all over the internet. And most importantly, not hooked up to the fearfully spotty Sprint.
I hesitated for a moment, then remembered that the next generation iPhone won't be out until this time next year, which really means the soonest I could possibly want it would be late 2009. Reader, I bought the phone.
Verizon, god bless them, piled on so many rebates and discounts that it knocked the $570 price down to $250. Even so, I had several long, miserable hours, when I discovered that the phone would not be black or silver, but a shade called "azure green."
I know it sounds ridiculous, but when you've waited FIVE YEARS to buy a smartphone, you'd like it to be a non-stupid color.
Happily, azure green is basically greenish grey, kind of a scarab-shell color, which I can live with. The internet access is wicked fast, the voice quality excellent. J'adore.
It was worth the wait. And now, happily, the future stretches ahead of me, unoccupied by ambitions or expectations.
For now.
Because I am very good at waiting.
How good? A brief survey of the internet reveals that Palm-branded smartphones have been around since 2002. I've wanted one since the very first Treo 180 came into existence. I subsequently wanted, in order, a Tungsten W, a Treo 600, a Treo 650, a Treo 700 and a Treo 750.
But there is no reasoning with Kate's Ability to Wait. For wait she can, as long as necessary, for the Device of Her Dreams.
I've limped along with basic cellphones -- whatever model you can get for free when you sign a two year contract. For a while there, MG and I shared one phone, licking our wounds after a savage termination fee debacle when we moved to Los Angeles. In the same window of time, I've had two PDAs, a Palm IIIc and a Tungsten C. And I love that little Tungsten C, but oh my God, a fully-functional wifi device it is NOT. And yet I hung in there.
Back in June, with the dawn of the iPhone, I was sorely tempted. I hate AT&T's network and their customer service. I hated that the iPhone worked with the much slower EDGE network. And I wasn't a huge fan of the touchscreen keyboard. And still, I was tempted. But no.
No, I waited until yesterday, when the waters parted and Verizon released the Treo 755p -- designed to work on the lightning-fast EVDO network. Thoroughly QA'd to work out the bugs that filled page after page of angry forum comments all over the internet. And most importantly, not hooked up to the fearfully spotty Sprint.
I hesitated for a moment, then remembered that the next generation iPhone won't be out until this time next year, which really means the soonest I could possibly want it would be late 2009. Reader, I bought the phone.
Verizon, god bless them, piled on so many rebates and discounts that it knocked the $570 price down to $250. Even so, I had several long, miserable hours, when I discovered that the phone would not be black or silver, but a shade called "azure green."
I know it sounds ridiculous, but when you've waited FIVE YEARS to buy a smartphone, you'd like it to be a non-stupid color.
Happily, azure green is basically greenish grey, kind of a scarab-shell color, which I can live with. The internet access is wicked fast, the voice quality excellent. J'adore.
It was worth the wait. And now, happily, the future stretches ahead of me, unoccupied by ambitions or expectations.
For now.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Get Thee Behind Me, Mushroom Pizza!
Writing on deadline will break you of bad habits faster than a mean nun with a ruler.
I still love sugar and chocolate and, especially, crusty bread. But every single one of these things makes me crash like a dosed-up heroin addict, and so I had to give them up in order to get my work done.
Now that the dust has settled, I'm having trouble going back to my old ways. I remember the crushing energy drop, the hours of lethargy, waiting for my blood sugar to normalize, and I just can't do it. For this reason, as much as any other, I have given up Peppermint Bark. Yes, you heard me. Me and the PBark, we're quitsville. Look, it's still minty delicious, and I still enjoy a small piece when I walk past a Williams-Sonoma. But that's it.
In a similar vein, I've shattered yet another barrier to the wheat-free life: Mac and cheese. In my version (stolen from here, and apparently, she stole it from Nigella), I roast a butternut squash then toss it with blue cheese and toasted pecans. I think it might be proof of God's existence.
I still love sugar and chocolate and, especially, crusty bread. But every single one of these things makes me crash like a dosed-up heroin addict, and so I had to give them up in order to get my work done.
Now that the dust has settled, I'm having trouble going back to my old ways. I remember the crushing energy drop, the hours of lethargy, waiting for my blood sugar to normalize, and I just can't do it. For this reason, as much as any other, I have given up Peppermint Bark. Yes, you heard me. Me and the PBark, we're quitsville. Look, it's still minty delicious, and I still enjoy a small piece when I walk past a Williams-Sonoma. But that's it.
In a similar vein, I've shattered yet another barrier to the wheat-free life: Mac and cheese. In my version (stolen from here, and apparently, she stole it from Nigella), I roast a butternut squash then toss it with blue cheese and toasted pecans. I think it might be proof of God's existence.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Like With Milk, Only To Chin Dimples
I am ridiculously loyal. It takes enormous, even catastrophic events to make me reconsider my allegiances.
Without realizing it, my loyalties have apparently transferred to "Mad Men," even though I was on the job for little more than a week, and physically in the office even less than that. The first sign was the great satisfaction I felt when the show racked up two Golden Globe nominations and three WGA nominations. It wasn't a personal satisfaction -- interns don't have that kind of influence on final cuts of episodes. But it gives me so much pleasure to see so much hard work rewarded.
Almost as good, the TV critic for my hometown paper, Maureen Ryan, put the show at the top of her list of Top Ten TV Shows of 2007. That's awesome. If I ever meet Ms. Ryan, I may have to kiss her on the mouth. I hope she doesn't mind.
On the other hand, I wish I had a wet, icy snowball, perfect aim and a spot outside the offices of New York magazine, so I could bean John Leonard in the ear for inexplicably labeling this same heavily-praised show one of the "Best Ideas that Went South." This from the same guy who thinks Anna Friel* is the best thing on television and "Women's Murder Club" as the best new show of the year.
In a month or two, the strike will end and I will no longer be an out of work assistant, nursing petty grudges. I will have to rise above all that and be mature and not post on the Television Without Pity boards about how Don Draper is not Jewish. Not that I ever did that. And I definitely didn't post any comments about the show's research and the meticulous attention to detail w/r/t the pronunciation of "keitan," the little-known Japanese suicide sub used in WWII.
But right now, I owe Mr. Leonard cold, hard one to the left ear.
*I am Friel-intolerant. It is embarrassing to me, but she makes me nuts. I came to the fall 2007 season expecting to love "Pushing Daisies," and tragically, discovered in the pilot that I cannot look at Anna Friel or hear her voice for more than 5 second together. She's the strobe light and I'm the epileptic. It's not fair or right, but it's how I feel.
Without realizing it, my loyalties have apparently transferred to "Mad Men," even though I was on the job for little more than a week, and physically in the office even less than that. The first sign was the great satisfaction I felt when the show racked up two Golden Globe nominations and three WGA nominations. It wasn't a personal satisfaction -- interns don't have that kind of influence on final cuts of episodes. But it gives me so much pleasure to see so much hard work rewarded.
Almost as good, the TV critic for my hometown paper, Maureen Ryan, put the show at the top of her list of Top Ten TV Shows of 2007. That's awesome. If I ever meet Ms. Ryan, I may have to kiss her on the mouth. I hope she doesn't mind.
On the other hand, I wish I had a wet, icy snowball, perfect aim and a spot outside the offices of New York magazine, so I could bean John Leonard in the ear for inexplicably labeling this same heavily-praised show one of the "Best Ideas that Went South." This from the same guy who thinks Anna Friel* is the best thing on television and "Women's Murder Club" as the best new show of the year.
In a month or two, the strike will end and I will no longer be an out of work assistant, nursing petty grudges. I will have to rise above all that and be mature and not post on the Television Without Pity boards about how Don Draper is not Jewish. Not that I ever did that. And I definitely didn't post any comments about the show's research and the meticulous attention to detail w/r/t the pronunciation of "keitan," the little-known Japanese suicide sub used in WWII.
But right now, I owe Mr. Leonard cold, hard one to the left ear.
*I am Friel-intolerant. It is embarrassing to me, but she makes me nuts. I came to the fall 2007 season expecting to love "Pushing Daisies," and tragically, discovered in the pilot that I cannot look at Anna Friel or hear her voice for more than 5 second together. She's the strobe light and I'm the epileptic. It's not fair or right, but it's how I feel.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
I Know, Global Warming!
I have angered Kate's Stomach. This is not good.
I don't know if it was the month and a half of remorseless focus on my thesis or if some internal chemical imbalance has righted itself. But those brief flashes of hunger I felt last weekend when MG's folks were here are back with a vengeance.
I got so hungry at 2 p.m. I had to actually stop and eat. That never happens. Then, having eaten, I got hungry again three hours later. WHAT THE HELL? It's almost like I'm alive or something.
It's possible, I suppose, that my anxiety about school was artificially suppressing my appetite. But then why am I now EXTRA hungry?
Clearly I need to think up something to worry about asap.
I don't know if it was the month and a half of remorseless focus on my thesis or if some internal chemical imbalance has righted itself. But those brief flashes of hunger I felt last weekend when MG's folks were here are back with a vengeance.
I got so hungry at 2 p.m. I had to actually stop and eat. That never happens. Then, having eaten, I got hungry again three hours later. WHAT THE HELL? It's almost like I'm alive or something.
It's possible, I suppose, that my anxiety about school was artificially suppressing my appetite. But then why am I now EXTRA hungry?
Clearly I need to think up something to worry about asap.
Friday, December 14, 2007
No Wants!
I could lie and say, I don't even know what a lolcat is, my mom sent me this and I thought it was funny. But that's not how I roll.
Yes, I have a lolcat problem. I routinely check icanhascheezburger.com for fresh, newly hilarious lolcat humor. I also quite enjoy LOLTHULHU, although it helps if you're somewhat familiar with H.P. Lovecraft. (MG wrote a hilarious H.P. Lovecraft/P.G. Wodehouse smashup about ten years ago, the best line of which involved some bluff colonel observing "I say, I think this Cthulu blighter wants to eat our soul, what." (Or words to that effect. I've begged MG to dig up this piece but he swears it's lost forever, so that means I get to make up whatever I want and claim he wrote it. Mwhwhahahahaha!)
The gradual unclenching of my brain continues apace. This morning I woke up without praying that I could sleep for several more years. That's a good sign.
I've also had some thoughts in the general vein of "You know what might be fun?" and the answer wasn't: "Hide in my closet until the end of the semester." MG and I are going to get a Christmas tree later today, and possibly take in a screening of "Juno," as well.
Also slowly drifting back to life is the part of my brain that looks to the future and thinks of things that might be nice to own in the not to distant future. You wouldn't guess that this is something your brain could stop doing, but mine can. My very sweet mother-in-law had an uphill battle last weekend, trying to figure out what I might like for Christmas, when all I could do was stare at sweaters as if they were a French verb I'd never seen before.
"I don't.... can you... is it something you *wear* or something you *eat*?"
Speaking of eating, that's a whole other category of fun. I was so unplugged from my appetite that all last weekend, I would grudgingly agree to go some where for a meal, even though I wasn't hungry. Then the second I sat down, I would be ravenously hungry. As in, starving.
That is also slowly improving, as I am realizing that I need to eat, then preparing and consuming food accordingly.
Anyway, the universe in its gracious way is helping me out. Just as I am starting to have some interest in Christmas presents, Cole Haan has marked down my favorite ballet flats and miracle of miracles, I think Verizon is actually going to release the Treo 755p in the next week.
And so the cycle of life continues. I think of things I want, and lo! they are available for purchase.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
NBC Hates Me
I love "30 Rock." It is, hands down, my favorite show on tv. (Sticklers for accuracy may want to note that three or four other shows are not even on the air right now.)
So why why why is so hard for NBC and my Tivo to get together, and you know, make sweet, sweet DVR love to each other?
Once again, a new episode of "30 Rock" has aired and I don't have it on my Tivo. And that sucks.
So why why why is so hard for NBC and my Tivo to get together, and you know, make sweet, sweet DVR love to each other?
Once again, a new episode of "30 Rock" has aired and I don't have it on my Tivo. And that sucks.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Still Can't Stop Blogging
Celebrated the conclusion of two years and four months of graduate school with the World's Strongest Gin and Tonic and a viewing of the long-anticipated "Battlestar Galactica: Razor," which had been waiting on my Tivo for just this moment.
BSG has been on hiatus for six months or more at this point, and I guess maybe that's why I had forgotten that the show Does Not Eff Around.
Holy Crap. I was literally putting it on pause every couple of minutes, just to brace myself for the next wave of hot hell.
After that, MG came out and we started to watch "Treasure of the Sierra Madre." I will say, the film has some obstacles to overcome. For one, we know there's treasure, so the long first act leading up to the moment when Ol' Man Prospector does his ridiculous scampering dance of We Done Found Us Some Gold! was hard to get through.
Then, like the world's slowest moving reality show, the prosperity starts to change Hardened Tough Guy Played by Humphrey Bogart, as he becomes suspicious and cold-hearted. Or possibly he suffered a concussion in that mine collapse. But then how to explain his strange return to sanity when it comes time to leave?
We hit pause and went to bed at the 1 hour, 20 minute mark, with still 55 minutes of "Sierra Madre" left. I, for one, am not looking forward to the almost-hour-long denouement. I have seen enough episodes of "The Twilight Zone" to know that when three guys strike it rich in the Mexican desert, with almost an hour to go until credits, they're gonna learn that Money Can't Save Your Life When You Do Battle with the Elements.
And that's not even getting into the non-logic of the total stranger who insists they let him mine with them, or the Bandito who, thanks to some racist characterization, was dumb enough to think the miners would sell THEIR ONLY WEAPONS to guys who would clearly SHOOT THEM and TAKE BACK THE MONEY right after the sale.
Aye Carumba indeed, my portly racist stereotype.
BSG has been on hiatus for six months or more at this point, and I guess maybe that's why I had forgotten that the show Does Not Eff Around.
Holy Crap. I was literally putting it on pause every couple of minutes, just to brace myself for the next wave of hot hell.
After that, MG came out and we started to watch "Treasure of the Sierra Madre." I will say, the film has some obstacles to overcome. For one, we know there's treasure, so the long first act leading up to the moment when Ol' Man Prospector does his ridiculous scampering dance of We Done Found Us Some Gold! was hard to get through.
Then, like the world's slowest moving reality show, the prosperity starts to change Hardened Tough Guy Played by Humphrey Bogart, as he becomes suspicious and cold-hearted. Or possibly he suffered a concussion in that mine collapse. But then how to explain his strange return to sanity when it comes time to leave?
We hit pause and went to bed at the 1 hour, 20 minute mark, with still 55 minutes of "Sierra Madre" left. I, for one, am not looking forward to the almost-hour-long denouement. I have seen enough episodes of "The Twilight Zone" to know that when three guys strike it rich in the Mexican desert, with almost an hour to go until credits, they're gonna learn that Money Can't Save Your Life When You Do Battle with the Elements.
And that's not even getting into the non-logic of the total stranger who insists they let him mine with them, or the Bandito who, thanks to some racist characterization, was dumb enough to think the miners would sell THEIR ONLY WEAPONS to guys who would clearly SHOOT THEM and TAKE BACK THE MONEY right after the sale.
Aye Carumba indeed, my portly racist stereotype.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Christmas Miracles
1. My long lost scarf arrived from Ireland. Technically not the lost scarf, but a replacement, yet I feared that it had been eaten by Customs and would never arrive. But no, it came yesterday afternoon.
2. With six hours of sleep, three caffeinated beverages, some sea salt and vinegar potato chips and the final hour of "The Winslow Boy," I managed to finish a draft of my rewrite homework.
3. Somehow, I am still awake and able to function well enough to do laundry. Which is a godsend, because I am down to my last pair of clean knickers.
4. MG has taken fantastic care of me through these last arduous weeks. This is not so much a miracle, as he is the best partner a girl could hope for, but in the spirit of being grateful for all the little things, he definitely belongs on the list.
5. I had two dollars discretionary money on my student ID and the film school's coffee stand was a) open, b) equipped with a working espresso machine and c) stocked with skim milk, so I could purchase what might be my very last medium non-fat latte for some years to come. It will be three years this February that MG and I sat on a bench outside Lucas, waiting for the school tour to start, when I decided to see if I could find a bathroom and discovered the Lucas Coffee Cart. Never in my life have I felt such a powerful desire to enroll in a school, as I felt at that moment.
6. Barring complete disaster, I have in fact finished my MFA. Only thing left is to get the fancy document in the mail.
2. With six hours of sleep, three caffeinated beverages, some sea salt and vinegar potato chips and the final hour of "The Winslow Boy," I managed to finish a draft of my rewrite homework.
3. Somehow, I am still awake and able to function well enough to do laundry. Which is a godsend, because I am down to my last pair of clean knickers.
4. MG has taken fantastic care of me through these last arduous weeks. This is not so much a miracle, as he is the best partner a girl could hope for, but in the spirit of being grateful for all the little things, he definitely belongs on the list.
5. I had two dollars discretionary money on my student ID and the film school's coffee stand was a) open, b) equipped with a working espresso machine and c) stocked with skim milk, so I could purchase what might be my very last medium non-fat latte for some years to come. It will be three years this February that MG and I sat on a bench outside Lucas, waiting for the school tour to start, when I decided to see if I could find a bathroom and discovered the Lucas Coffee Cart. Never in my life have I felt such a powerful desire to enroll in a school, as I felt at that moment.
6. Barring complete disaster, I have in fact finished my MFA. Only thing left is to get the fancy document in the mail.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Oh Dear God...
Pages written today: Zero.
Number of carb-craving vampires living in my stomach, whispering dark suggestions about an idiotically ill-advised trip to Pizzeria Mozza for a fungi misto special: One.
Hours remaining until I must stop writing, print the script and drive to campus: Twenty-two.
Number of remaining hours I will undoubtedly end up sleeping: Eight.
Therefore, remaining hours to work on this script: Fourteen.
How fucked I am right now: Very.
Number of carb-craving vampires living in my stomach, whispering dark suggestions about an idiotically ill-advised trip to Pizzeria Mozza for a fungi misto special: One.
Hours remaining until I must stop writing, print the script and drive to campus: Twenty-two.
Number of remaining hours I will undoubtedly end up sleeping: Eight.
Therefore, remaining hours to work on this script: Fourteen.
How fucked I am right now: Very.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
One Woman Dares to Ask...
Can you write an act and a half of a screenplay -- say, 50 pages or so -- in twenty-four hours?
Watch this space for the answer!
Watch this space for the answer!
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Friday, December 07, 2007
Drunk on Carbs
Okay, yes, I've cut back on bread 'n pasta and whatnot. And maybe I'm not as used to the White Stuff as I once was.
But I ate three piece of pizza this afternoon, and you would have thought I'd taken up smoking opium, I was so disoriented and tired.
Some smart person who knows about nutrition could probably explain how something like that happens, but the hell with it. I'm back on the no-bread bandwagon.
Well, except for that leftover slice in the fridge.
But I ate three piece of pizza this afternoon, and you would have thought I'd taken up smoking opium, I was so disoriented and tired.
Some smart person who knows about nutrition could probably explain how something like that happens, but the hell with it. I'm back on the no-bread bandwagon.
Well, except for that leftover slice in the fridge.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Don't Tell Her I Said So
Willa the calico is having an attack of the high spirits known in our apartment as the Skirballs. (This is the name of a performing arts center in Los Angeles, but for some reason suggests not so much culture as frantic cat hijinks.)
She has already ripped around the apartment a half dozen times, always going at such a clip that she's almost horizontal when she corners, the centrifugal force pulling her over as she goes. She's also jumped six inches at the sound of a New Yorker page being turned and leapt sidewise from a crouch into a full on run for the food bowl.
Speaking of the New Yorker, Louis Menand wrote a piece this week about diaries, which presents, as always, the temptation of spilling my guts via blog. So far, I've only gotten as far as being brutally honest about my cat's borderline psychosis.
You stumble upon blogs that allude to circumstances -- and you might even be able to guess those circumstances if you know the writer a little. But that's not the same thing as spelling out the gory details.
(I happened upon the blog of an ex-boyfriend once and discovered that he'd had an especially brutal break up in recent years. But he was so opaque about it, I have no way of knowing if I'm the heartless bint who effed him up or not. If so, I doubt my apology would do any good. If not, how egotistical of me to write him out of the blue with the assumption that I'd crushed him like a grape beneath my Dansko. Being me, I decided I probably was the heartless bint, and privately repented of my carelessness.)
There is a horrific scene in "Harriet the Spy," in which all her careful observations are laid bare when her classmates discover her notebook. I wonder what lesson other people took from that moment? Perhaps to keep one's notebooks carefully concealed from prying eyes? For me, I took it as an object lesson in never writing down things you don't want read by other people. And I've taken that lesson pretty seriously, although I did drink 'n diary in college, with predictably nightmarish results. (God, what would we do without shitty college roommates?)
In years past, I've searched the internet with a fine tooth comb for any and all accounts of aspiring television writers and their efforts to break in. The best of these -- a blog by a guy who landed an ABC/Disney Fellowship -- ended with the fellowship, then went behind a password-protected wall, and has now vanished from the face of the Web. There are enough aspiring writers out there that you would think at least one of them would have a tell-all blog.
But then I find myself not-quite-spelling-out where I intern, or who I interviewed with and for what job, and I see the real problem. It's not that I don't want other people to see what I'm up to, it's that I'm afraid to say it out loud, for fear it will all turn out to have been a lovely dream.
She has already ripped around the apartment a half dozen times, always going at such a clip that she's almost horizontal when she corners, the centrifugal force pulling her over as she goes. She's also jumped six inches at the sound of a New Yorker page being turned and leapt sidewise from a crouch into a full on run for the food bowl.
Speaking of the New Yorker, Louis Menand wrote a piece this week about diaries, which presents, as always, the temptation of spilling my guts via blog. So far, I've only gotten as far as being brutally honest about my cat's borderline psychosis.
You stumble upon blogs that allude to circumstances -- and you might even be able to guess those circumstances if you know the writer a little. But that's not the same thing as spelling out the gory details.
(I happened upon the blog of an ex-boyfriend once and discovered that he'd had an especially brutal break up in recent years. But he was so opaque about it, I have no way of knowing if I'm the heartless bint who effed him up or not. If so, I doubt my apology would do any good. If not, how egotistical of me to write him out of the blue with the assumption that I'd crushed him like a grape beneath my Dansko. Being me, I decided I probably was the heartless bint, and privately repented of my carelessness.)
There is a horrific scene in "Harriet the Spy," in which all her careful observations are laid bare when her classmates discover her notebook. I wonder what lesson other people took from that moment? Perhaps to keep one's notebooks carefully concealed from prying eyes? For me, I took it as an object lesson in never writing down things you don't want read by other people. And I've taken that lesson pretty seriously, although I did drink 'n diary in college, with predictably nightmarish results. (God, what would we do without shitty college roommates?)
In years past, I've searched the internet with a fine tooth comb for any and all accounts of aspiring television writers and their efforts to break in. The best of these -- a blog by a guy who landed an ABC/Disney Fellowship -- ended with the fellowship, then went behind a password-protected wall, and has now vanished from the face of the Web. There are enough aspiring writers out there that you would think at least one of them would have a tell-all blog.
But then I find myself not-quite-spelling-out where I intern, or who I interviewed with and for what job, and I see the real problem. It's not that I don't want other people to see what I'm up to, it's that I'm afraid to say it out loud, for fear it will all turn out to have been a lovely dream.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
This Can't End Well
I'm only ten minutes into this week's episode of "Project Runway," but this three trends/three person teams concept?
OMFG.
OMFG.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Can You Vote Like a Fifth Grader?
The WSJ has an article this week about some homeowners' feeling that the subprime bail out is "unfair." As in, if you got locked into an ARM and couldn't afford the reset, then you deserve whatever happens to you.
Although the wall between the editorial page and the newsroom is pretty solid at WSJ (and thank God, since I'm pretty sure the desiccated remains of Adam Smith are displayed, relic style, in the former), it's possible that this article represents the rare breach.
After all, the WSJ editorial page feels VERY STRONGLY that there should be NO TAXES EVER, but ESPECIALLY NOT ON RICH PEOPLE. (Their caps. I know, it's weird. And it's only those three phrases, but they allcap 'em every time.) And nothing triggers tax hikes like the government spending money to slow a runaway train aimed right at many thousands of middle class homeowners.
I will, for the moment, ignore the growing evidence that for months, if not not years, unethical mortgage brokers steered customers to subprime mortgages even when the customers qualified for regular loans, or better still, FHA loans, because it was more lucrative for the broker to do so. Let's just skip that part.
Let's go to the part where the government shouldn't help someone else out because it's unfair to you, because you made sure you weren't financially boned.
Since when did being a bratty oldest child become a legitimate political position? And I say that AS a bratty oldest child.
Is this a thing now? Are there going to be political positions based on all our darkest childhood moments? Will presidential candidates scuffle at the debates until a moderator tells them to knock it off -- and even then, maybe Edwards takes one last parting swing at Clinton?
In the same vein, I caught six seconds of an NPR piece which featured a woman saying "I don't want to pay to feed someone else's child breakfast at school every morning."
Right. No, good. Because that free breakfast is the equivalent of the free Clinique gift with purchase -- every kid for miles around is angling wildly for their bowl of Mini Wheats. And who wouldn't? Let's just have kids from low-income homes starve through seven hours of school. Screw lunch. If we're not serving breakfast, why not go whole hog. Fantastic. No absolutely, why feed other people's kids? Let'em starve.
Or better yet, let them drop out in the sixth grade when the frustration of trying to learn on an empty stomach finally becomes too much. Because packs of middle school drop outs roaming neighborhoods does wonders for property values. They're also great for not having your car stolen out of the garage in the middle of the night.
If we're all voting on what we consider fair, then I vote that I shouldn't have to pay for military-dictatorship levels of policing, just because some withered old bag doesn't want her tax dollars to be spent on Cheerios.
Although the wall between the editorial page and the newsroom is pretty solid at WSJ (and thank God, since I'm pretty sure the desiccated remains of Adam Smith are displayed, relic style, in the former), it's possible that this article represents the rare breach.
After all, the WSJ editorial page feels VERY STRONGLY that there should be NO TAXES EVER, but ESPECIALLY NOT ON RICH PEOPLE. (Their caps. I know, it's weird. And it's only those three phrases, but they allcap 'em every time.) And nothing triggers tax hikes like the government spending money to slow a runaway train aimed right at many thousands of middle class homeowners.
I will, for the moment, ignore the growing evidence that for months, if not not years, unethical mortgage brokers steered customers to subprime mortgages even when the customers qualified for regular loans, or better still, FHA loans, because it was more lucrative for the broker to do so. Let's just skip that part.
Let's go to the part where the government shouldn't help someone else out because it's unfair to you, because you made sure you weren't financially boned.
Since when did being a bratty oldest child become a legitimate political position? And I say that AS a bratty oldest child.
Is this a thing now? Are there going to be political positions based on all our darkest childhood moments? Will presidential candidates scuffle at the debates until a moderator tells them to knock it off -- and even then, maybe Edwards takes one last parting swing at Clinton?
In the same vein, I caught six seconds of an NPR piece which featured a woman saying "I don't want to pay to feed someone else's child breakfast at school every morning."
Right. No, good. Because that free breakfast is the equivalent of the free Clinique gift with purchase -- every kid for miles around is angling wildly for their bowl of Mini Wheats. And who wouldn't? Let's just have kids from low-income homes starve through seven hours of school. Screw lunch. If we're not serving breakfast, why not go whole hog. Fantastic. No absolutely, why feed other people's kids? Let'em starve.
Or better yet, let them drop out in the sixth grade when the frustration of trying to learn on an empty stomach finally becomes too much. Because packs of middle school drop outs roaming neighborhoods does wonders for property values. They're also great for not having your car stolen out of the garage in the middle of the night.
If we're all voting on what we consider fair, then I vote that I shouldn't have to pay for military-dictatorship levels of policing, just because some withered old bag doesn't want her tax dollars to be spent on Cheerios.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Can. Not. Stop. Blogging.
I know it's no longer November, and therefore, I no longer have to post every single day, but I kinda can't stop. It's addictive, forcing myself to completely shut down any/all self-censorship and just frickin' post.
I also cannot stop looking at Lolcats. I do not know what is worse -- that they make me laugh or that I can go through 20 pages of photos in the space of 15 minutes.
If James Joyce were alive today, his next book would be written in Lolcat. Iz funn to think lik kitteh.
Strangely, the rules of Lolcat are consistent enough that even a minor violation (a caption that says "pwease" instead of "pleez") sticks out like a sore thumb. Cats may have terrible spelling and in their eagerness, they may cut grammatical corners, but they don't lisp and they don't drop consonants.
In a related vein, I am haunted by the Chik-Fil-A commercial with parachuting cows. It's not just that the cows learned to parachute ... I mean, how did they get the parachute rigs on in the first place? Or find rigs that would fit them? And despite the absence of thumbs, they were also able to write the words "Eat Mor Chikin" on the parachutes.
And yet, through all of this, the cows never learned how to spell the words "More" and "Chicken"? Doesn't it seem like either of those things would have come up? You go to all the trouble to parachute into a football game and you don't even bother to spellcheck your parachute?
Maybe that's why your kind ends up in Happy Meals. Ever think of that, Bessie?
I also cannot stop looking at Lolcats. I do not know what is worse -- that they make me laugh or that I can go through 20 pages of photos in the space of 15 minutes.
If James Joyce were alive today, his next book would be written in Lolcat. Iz funn to think lik kitteh.
Strangely, the rules of Lolcat are consistent enough that even a minor violation (a caption that says "pwease" instead of "pleez") sticks out like a sore thumb. Cats may have terrible spelling and in their eagerness, they may cut grammatical corners, but they don't lisp and they don't drop consonants.
In a related vein, I am haunted by the Chik-Fil-A commercial with parachuting cows. It's not just that the cows learned to parachute ... I mean, how did they get the parachute rigs on in the first place? Or find rigs that would fit them? And despite the absence of thumbs, they were also able to write the words "Eat Mor Chikin" on the parachutes.
And yet, through all of this, the cows never learned how to spell the words "More" and "Chicken"? Doesn't it seem like either of those things would have come up? You go to all the trouble to parachute into a football game and you don't even bother to spellcheck your parachute?
Maybe that's why your kind ends up in Happy Meals. Ever think of that, Bessie?
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Drink the Kool-Aid
When all else fails, I write in front of the television.
On the couch, coffee at hand, laptop fired up, TV on. I need all four things -- the TV on when I'm at my desk just makes me turn around in my chair. On the couch with no TV and I surf the internet for hours. No coffee means I have to go get coffee. Laptop, obviously, because Final Draft doesn't work with a legal pad.
I'm not proud of this. I know better than to work in front of the TV. But no kidding, it works. I should stop fighting the idea that it's wrong and just give in -- maybe I'd be closer to 90 pages now.
But it also has to be a very specific kind of television. It has to be something I actually want to watch, which unfortunately for MG rules out football and UFO documentaries. Entertaining but not especially good movies on HBO are best. I did three pages watching "The Departed" and seven pages watching "Live Free or Die Hard."
(You may be saying to yourself, ten pages in four hours of movies? That sucks. And my grown-up brain agrees with you. It's not great. But its a fuckload better than zero pages in four hours of sitting at my desk, which is my grown-up brain's idea of a good work space. So I'm gonna go with my nine-year-old brain's idea of a work space for now.)
Some television I refuse to watch while writing -- "30 Rock," "House," "Reaper." Shows that I intend to watch with complete focus. And some shows, even though I don't like to admit it, are a little too terrifying/enjoyable to keep me company at the laptop.
Specifically, "Project Runway." I must have mentioned this before, that Tim Gunn is like the boiled down concentrate of every departmental chair, every professor emeritus of every MFA program in the nation. He's serene but interested, wise but fallible. (I read in the NYT, shortly after Liz Claibourne hired him as creative director, that the job enabled him to finally move out of a typical small NY apartment, which fits as well.)
The writers... I mean, designers, break my heart. They have such hopes for the future; they know what they do well; they know what they love. And they do the best they can to meet the challenges, never knowing if they've succeeded until the moment of truth.
Virtually every designer smiles and nods at his/her model on the catwalk, momentarily in love with their work all over again. The smile doesn't slip away until that horrifying moment when Michael Kors looks you in the eye and asks what you were thinking with the six foot long train.
Still more horrifying are the interviews with the designers who are OBLIVIOUS to the giant mistake directly in their path. Their colleagues see it. Tim Gunn sees it. But the smitten designer is so in love, so consumed with their plans, that they're blind to any and all possible problems.
Those moments send me reaching me for the Tivo remote, because in my frail state, I can't really take too much of what, bluntly, is full-on Kool-Aid Drinking. In fact, all creative endeavors contain hours and hours of Kool-Aid Drinking, but you don't know it at the time. And for all we know, it will turn out to be delicious, tasty Kool-Aid that will make us the envy of all our friends.
But, alas for reality television, you can't make an hour-long show out of nothing but calculated gambles that pay off brilliantly. Somebody has to fall on their face. And what every creative person fears, as they sit on their couch, typing away; or stand in their studio, studying the canvas; or strum a few chords and look at the scribbled lyrics they've got so far --- what we all fear is that this is the time we fall on our face. Yet if anything is gonna get done, we've got to set that fear aside and do the next thing. And the thing after that. And the thing after that.
On the couch, coffee at hand, laptop fired up, TV on. I need all four things -- the TV on when I'm at my desk just makes me turn around in my chair. On the couch with no TV and I surf the internet for hours. No coffee means I have to go get coffee. Laptop, obviously, because Final Draft doesn't work with a legal pad.
I'm not proud of this. I know better than to work in front of the TV. But no kidding, it works. I should stop fighting the idea that it's wrong and just give in -- maybe I'd be closer to 90 pages now.
But it also has to be a very specific kind of television. It has to be something I actually want to watch, which unfortunately for MG rules out football and UFO documentaries. Entertaining but not especially good movies on HBO are best. I did three pages watching "The Departed" and seven pages watching "Live Free or Die Hard."
(You may be saying to yourself, ten pages in four hours of movies? That sucks. And my grown-up brain agrees with you. It's not great. But its a fuckload better than zero pages in four hours of sitting at my desk, which is my grown-up brain's idea of a good work space. So I'm gonna go with my nine-year-old brain's idea of a work space for now.)
Some television I refuse to watch while writing -- "30 Rock," "House," "Reaper." Shows that I intend to watch with complete focus. And some shows, even though I don't like to admit it, are a little too terrifying/enjoyable to keep me company at the laptop.
Specifically, "Project Runway." I must have mentioned this before, that Tim Gunn is like the boiled down concentrate of every departmental chair, every professor emeritus of every MFA program in the nation. He's serene but interested, wise but fallible. (I read in the NYT, shortly after Liz Claibourne hired him as creative director, that the job enabled him to finally move out of a typical small NY apartment, which fits as well.)
The writers... I mean, designers, break my heart. They have such hopes for the future; they know what they do well; they know what they love. And they do the best they can to meet the challenges, never knowing if they've succeeded until the moment of truth.
Virtually every designer smiles and nods at his/her model on the catwalk, momentarily in love with their work all over again. The smile doesn't slip away until that horrifying moment when Michael Kors looks you in the eye and asks what you were thinking with the six foot long train.
Still more horrifying are the interviews with the designers who are OBLIVIOUS to the giant mistake directly in their path. Their colleagues see it. Tim Gunn sees it. But the smitten designer is so in love, so consumed with their plans, that they're blind to any and all possible problems.
Those moments send me reaching me for the Tivo remote, because in my frail state, I can't really take too much of what, bluntly, is full-on Kool-Aid Drinking. In fact, all creative endeavors contain hours and hours of Kool-Aid Drinking, but you don't know it at the time. And for all we know, it will turn out to be delicious, tasty Kool-Aid that will make us the envy of all our friends.
But, alas for reality television, you can't make an hour-long show out of nothing but calculated gambles that pay off brilliantly. Somebody has to fall on their face. And what every creative person fears, as they sit on their couch, typing away; or stand in their studio, studying the canvas; or strum a few chords and look at the scribbled lyrics they've got so far --- what we all fear is that this is the time we fall on our face. Yet if anything is gonna get done, we've got to set that fear aside and do the next thing. And the thing after that. And the thing after that.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
New Page Count
Forty one.
Nobody's saying they're good. Nobody's saying they're readable.
But there's forty one pages with stuff written on 'em, and I say: Thank frickin' God.
Nobody's saying they're good. Nobody's saying they're readable.
But there's forty one pages with stuff written on 'em, and I say: Thank frickin' God.
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