Lost Glove Found

Homage to the Great Films of 1991

2012-01-25T21:20:00.012-05:00

While I am waiting to make my plans to see this year's Oscar nominees, I have been contemplating this year's ramping-up-to-Oscar night "project". This started five years ago when my brother and I kept dragging our feet about seeing that year's nominees. I wasn't quite up for the brutal intensity of the Departed, and wasn't particularly rushing out to read subtitles on Clint Eastwood's 2 1/2 hour Letters from Iwo Jima. So we decided to rent some Academy Award winners from previous years we haven't seen. We managed only one - Midnight Cowboy - which ended up being the last thing the two of us did together before he died. Then two years ago, I was deeply committed to a month-long Meryl Streep-a-thon. This year, I've decided to re-examine particularly special years of great filmmaking.

1991 is my personal favorite year of film. While I don't want to take the charm out of it by over-intellectualizing, I am curious. Is it because I was 21 and found my appreciation shift and deepen? Was it that there happened to be more serious female-centered stories produced that year? Or did it signal a shift in pop culture as a whole.

So much for not over-analyzing...

The Academy Award for Best Picture that year went to the Silence of the Lambs. The big deal, Oscar-wise, about this film is, first, it was released in February, a huge no-no for a studio wishing to get any Oscar buzz (watch, after the telecast, there will be veritable wasteland of cinema until summer...) It is also still one of the few films to sweep Best Pic, Director, Screenplay, Actor, and Actress (you can look it up). While it's a difficult watch, I continue to love Silence of the Lambs on many levels, but mostly because I find Clarice Starling to be the greatest female character in film history. Pretty big statement, it's true, but she's an archetype - an intelligent innocent on a true hero's journey who ends up slaying a dragon and saving a princess in her smart and quiet way (without having to wear pleather pants and tote an Uzi...)

I genuinely love all of the films for Best Pic nominated that year - The Prince of Tides, JFK, Bugsy, and Beauty and the Beast (which caused a huge stir for being the first animated film ever nominated for Best Picture - and directly lead to a separate category). Along with a heap of other worthy contenders - Thelma & Louise, the Fisher King, the Commitments, Boyz in the Hood, Rambling Rose, Delicatessen, Barton Fink, and City Slickers (okay, that last one is technically not Oscar material, but charming nonetheless... and got Jack Palance some worthy attention for doing one-armed push-ups on stage when he accepted his award for Best Supporting Oscar...)

Consider any of the above solid recommendations when trying to fill in your depleting NetFlix queue.

What I remember most about that year's Academy Awards is that I was in my last year of college and the telecast fell on the night of one of my friend's 21st birthday. Because we were college students used to going out around 10:00 or later, I got to watch most of the show at my apartment before heading over to the friend's, where five of us would ultimately go out. I can remember us standing around the living room mesmerized by the ceremony, continually aborting our ill-attempts at leaving for the bars. There were arguments over whether or not Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis would ultimately cancel each other out for Best Actress or whether they might share it if one one over the other (as I remember correctly, I was rooting for Jodie Foster the whole time). The birthday girl was itching to get out of the house and I can't remember if she successful in getting us out before the final award or surrendered to the flurry, but it was a good year.

Will Blog for Oscar...

2012-01-24T22:28:00.005-05:00

God I'm a sucker.

After months of half-hearted attempts at diving back in, it inevitably takes this year's official announcement of the Academy Award nominations to fully kick things back into gear.

I can't lie and say my enthusiasm matches that of years past, but I've also come to a peaceful acceptance that my knowledge of and devotion to this phenomenon is way too deep and ingrained to be passed off as some lingering fancy of my youth.

The most recent evidence of this was discovering that today's announcement has penciled in on my datebook since I purchased it just before the first of the year. Along with birthdays, my weekly writing group, my annual exam appointment from the appointment card affixed to the fridge, is the Academy Award nominations, announced the fourth Tuesday of January (which I am careful to confirm on oscar.com).

Then I try hard to ignore the Golden Globe buzz (don't get me started on the bullshittiness of the Golden Globes, an organization that, despite its fore-runner status to the award season, has chosen to nominate Patch Adams and LaBamba for Best Picture, went on to grant Madonna with a statue for Best Actress, and inevitably create misguided hope for some actor or film who/that never expected attention in the first place - Albert Brooks in Drive and 50/50, for example...) Alas I was not successful this year, but am committed to moving on.

Onto the awards...

I won't post a list, given that by now you can find it anywhere (12-year old Lia would have truly loved such a convenience).

What jumps out first is the charm (and justice) of the Artist. I haven't yet seen this film, but I find it a perfect example of how a film made by an unknown (and foreign unknown to boot), filled with unknowns can rise and get recognized seemingly on its creative merits alone. Can't wait to see it.

On the opposite end of the collective love spectrum is Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Again, I haven't seen this film, so I can't properly comment. All I know is critics over-all hated it. To me, it feels like an example of people with exceptional influence muscling their way into an "Academy Award Nominated Film" credential to slap onto their marketing campaign. Of course I'm not naive enough to think this kind of stuff doesn't happen all the time, but I love when its blatancy is obvious.

Some of my favorite noms? Meryl, of course, that goes without saying. And I do think she has a good shot of winning this year (even though I say that every year, deep in my heart is feels more like a possibility than a hope this time...) Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids. I'd heard this rumored and dismissed it as one of those unlikely hangovers from the Golden Globes. But, unlike the other performances I simply didn't think were worthy of Oscar attention, I thought every moment of McCarthy in Bridesmaids was brilliant. She was so good that when I now see commercials for her sitcom Mike and Molly, I am constantly surprised at how pretty she actually is, based on how raw she was in the movie.

Of course I will always have a special place in my heart for what I refer to as all of the "non-famous" nominees - Best Live Action Short, Documentary Short, and Animated Short. What an absolute blast it must be to be at the award ceremony and enjoy all the pomp without having to wade through a sea of Melissa Rivers and Billy Bushes... And, those people always give the best speeches (one year a woman said, "You know you're in a different league when your dress to the event costs more than your film." Another thanked the Academy for seating her next to George Clooney during the nominees luncheon. Last year a winner no older than 25 shyly remarked that he really should have gotten a haircut (and he really should have...) Not that any of these speeches are particularly rousing, but certainly preferable to the blithering rambles that come from people you admire. That can be heartbreaking, truly.

My only disappointment was that the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo did not get a nom for Best Pic. Not that it deserved to be in that "top five" (match up the Best Director selections to see how it would have been had the whole top ten - another example of a blatant marketing manipulation) but it was scored better than Extremely Loud... I was pleased to see it get a Cinematography and Editing nomination (especially given my crush on Angus Wall.)

My next tasks are to see all of the films nominated for Best Pic. I went in with three under my belt. Six to go...

About Last Night

2011-02-28T19:37:00.002-05:00

Surely by now everyone has viewed a online slide show, read an article, Tweet, Facebook post or caught an Entertainment Tonight-type segment of last night's show. So I will concur, Anne Hathaway and James Franco, while charming and cute, seemed in way over their heads. Makes one realize just how hard a gig that hosting job is. I was already thinking about how they kind of seemed like they were hosting a high school variety show (albeit at a really good arts-focused private school), and then Franco came out in drag, which is exactly one of the types skits Dave Bevins and I wrote for ourselves when we co-hosted our high school variety show (but at the inner city west side not-arts-focused high school...)

I will say that the highlights of the evening for me were not re-capped on Access Hollywood and those were the non-celebrity winners. These people never fail to amuse me. They are in that enviable position of attending anonymously, enjoying all of the perks (one year, a nominee thanked the academy for seating her next to George Clooney at the nominees luncheon) without the barrage of annoying C and D level media outlets. The guy who won for Best Live Action Short came on stage with the shaggiest hair I've seen on a white guy and said, "I guess I should have gotten a haircut" and proceeded to thank his mother, who served as Craft Service (catering) on the film. Loved it.

As for the dresses, I loved Michelle Williams, Mila Kunis, Mandy Moore and Reese Witherspoon. I thought Cate Blanchett's dress was awful but I got an email from a friend today claiming her Best Dressed. And the special fashion correspondents on ET agreed. I guess I'm not all that fashion forward. I like the classic elegant look.

My favorite presenters were Russell Brand and Helen Miren. I think they should co-host next year. I think Aaron Sorkin gave the best speech.

But, alas, no surprises this year. Which I went in knowing, but still. It's always nice to hope. But, as I already said in an earlier post, it was a terrific year for film.

One Day to Oscar!

2011-02-26T14:08:00.006-05:00

So my plan to blog regularly leading up the Oscars was, obviously, not realized.

However, I did manage to see all ten nominees for Best Picture (as well as a fair amount of others). 2010 was indeed a good year for film. The biggest change in "gearing up to Oscar" is that there is so much media these days that there are rarely any surprises, and if there are, they are "predictable" surprises like one of the dark horse nominees in one of the Supporting categories. It renders the who-will-win speculations almost irrelevant. What is too bad is that the perpetual "Oscar news" almost never gets beyond the same sound bites. Which is a shame given all the potential to profile some stellar work.

So I'm not going to talk about who I think will win.

I can say that there was only one Best Pic nominee that I didn't like this year - Winter's Bone. Perhaps it was because I had high expectations. It's the lone quiet, low-budget indie pic of the group, an instant underdog. But God was it boring. Excruciating. Now there are some who will accuse me of not being patient, of not being able to appreciate the "subtleties" of such a film. To them I say, that is bull. I blame the editor. All of the scenes are full ones, meaning we are privy to every piece of the action - someone leaves their house, walks to the car, gets out of the car, walks to their destination, knocks on the door, waits, the door opens and they state their business, they enter the house, get settled, have a conversation, leave, walk to the car, drive, etc. Over and over and over. Properly edited, the whole thing could have taken forty minutes and not lost a single plot point.

On the other hand, 127 (which I wrote about last entry) is surprisingly exhilarating and uplifting story for being about a guy who is stuck in a canyon for five days and has to cut off his arm. Filmmaking at its best.

I was also pleasantly impressed by Blue Valentine, the small indie pic that wasn't nominated for Best Picture (but surely could have taken Winter's Bone's spot...) but got a nod for Michelle Williams for Best Actress. I'll admit, I was a bit afraid to see it which, for a film buff, can be an intoxicating notion. I was afraid because I'd heard it was intense, hard to watch. I was intrigued because I couldn't quite get a feel for why. Sometimes, if there is gratuitous violence or a one-dimensional display of victimization, I don't want those images stuck in my head. But I didn't find Blue Valentine hard to watch at all. Yes, I left the theater preoccupied by the dynamics and the subject matter, but I'll choose that any day over a movie that is just something to do to spend an evening.

What I liked about Blue Valentine most was the way the story was told. When we meet the two main characters - a blue-collar married couple with a young child - they are clearly at a crossroads in their marriage. It's hard to tell exactly what is wrong, but both are weary. The filmmakers jump back and forth in time, revealing various pieces of their history that build to an appropriate climax. What I love most is that, at the end, neither is clearly to blame. There a dozen major complexities that ultimately seal this couple's fate. I liked that it was not a story where you spent the movie rooting for someone you know will ultimately get away. At the end of this one, I found myself honestly hoping they could work it out.

In terms of the Oscar broadcast itself, I am really looking forward to seeing hosts James Franco and Anne Hathaway. I give the producers a lot of credit for going young. At the same time, Franco and Hathaway bring a sense of old-school charm to the table where it doesn't just seem like some old white guys are desperately baiting a younger demographic by bringing in some "young people".

Last year, right after the last Oscars, I was out in L.A. for the first time in my life. I got to take a tour of the Kodak Theater (the highlight of my trip) and love that I can watch and recognize certain places.

Sure would be nice to make it into that audience one day.

127 Hours

2011-01-30T20:01:00.003-05:00

James Franco is everywhere.

If you take away the movies (of which, according to imdb, there are six more to come just this year), there is the collection of short stories, a regular part on General Hospital (yes, the soap), the guest spot of 30 Rock, and an upcoming run on Broadway.

And he's co-hosting the Oscars this year...

I had not been a big Franco fan. I just chalked him up to a restless young star willing to be overexposed while his flame was hot. I think it was when the short stories came out and I accused him of doing the bait-and-switch (the "while I'm famous I might as well go ahead and cut my album" syndrome).

127 changed that for me. I now love James Franco. Or maybe I love Aron Ralston, the real-life climber Franco plays in the movie. Or Danny Boyle who directed it. Needless to say, I found it to be a great experience all-round. I doubt it will win anything on Oscar night, but it's worthy.

I didn't go in with any sort of expectations or knowing much at all (which is good for me and very, very rare). I knew the premise - basically, a hyper-active hiker gets trapped and cuts off his arm to save his life - and I knew the filming was fast-paced. A face-paced tale where the main character can't move most of the show? I was in, if only to see how Boyle pulled it off.

As you might imagine, this involves some flashback, but mostly fantasy, but here it works.

I'd heard the opening described as "jittery" which worried me a little. Jittery usually translates to bad hand-held camera which makes me nausous. But it's not like that. Boyle uses split screen and fast cuts in a surprising fluid fashion which manages to emphasize the action without the typcial "get it? this guy lives fast" rib poke.

I don't want to give away much more, but be prepared to come out of the show wanting to climb some mountains.

Oscar Season Begins!

2011-01-26T21:56:00.007-05:00

Sunday afternoon I was sitting at the bar at Max & Erma's having a late lunch, and the bartender asked me who I favored for one of the NFL playoff games. I smiled, knowing I had no good answer for this man who was surely just making friendly conversation. "Well, if you'll tell me whose playing," I said, "I can take a good guess."

I do, however, know that the nominations for the Academy Awards are announced on the last Tuesday of January...

Most of the nominees this year are a surprise to no one. But I think that has become a sign of the times. There is so much more media now-days that it is impossible for something to be "dug up" that hasn't already gotten a lot of attention.

One thing is for sure, 2010 was a good year for movies.

As far as the Best Pic nominees, I was hoping that the decision to have ten nominees (started last year) would have reverted back to five. But no. I'm not at all a fan of this decision, but I will refrain from this rant because no real good or insight can come from it.

As to the films nominated, there is no obvious "dud" or commercial favorite that has no business on the list, which is nice. For me, the clear forerunners are - The Social Network, The King's Speech, and True Grit. My personal favorite for the win is The Social Network. It has an engaging script (by Aaron Sorkin of West Wing fame) and great performances. But more than that, it is one of those rare "contemporary" films that manages to capture the essence of a not-so-distant past/present that feels very timely. What makes it intriguing is that we are able to view its success alongside a sea of less notable films, television shows, music, and books that are attempting to do the same thing and failing.

The King's Speech was very solid all-round, but I couldn't help feeling like it was very dated. The story is very linear and predictable (flawed noble underdog gets help from unlikely source and ultimately triumphs...) but Colin Firth deserves everything he's got coming to him, and there were a few scenes that were simply breathtaking in its cinematography. True Grit was also solid and touching. I'd love to see Hailee Steinfield (the fourteen year old making her debut) take home the Oscar for Supporting, but that category is exceptionally strong this year.

I won't go through the whole list, that gets tedious and boring. I can say that I only have four out of the ten shows to see (127 Hours, The Fighter, Inception, and Winter's Bone).

Last year, my gearing-up-for-the-Oscars project was to see as many Meryl Streep movies as I could to tip the proverbial scales in hope of a win for Streep for Julie and Julia. Alas, my efforts were in vain, but I have not given up the pursuit of a new project.

Tune in for further developments...

Official Reason I Have Not Been Posting

2010-12-15T20:45:00.002-05:00

Tonight I was at a birthday party and got the question, "Hey, why haven't you blogged?" It was my friend's mom who I'd forgotten had been a regular visitor...

When I started this blog, almost two years ago, I'd already been thinking about it for at least that long. One of the reasons I hesitated is that I didn't want to be one of those people who just stopped posting. It was one of my main peeves in a reading blogs. So I made an effort to post every five or six days. And I did that for the good part of those two years.

Then I stopped. I've turned into one of those people.

But with good reason. I have stopped because I am working on my manuscript. Truly. I'm more than half way through my fourth draft and with the new job eating away at formerly unlimited free time (not that I'm complaining about having a steady income...) I honestly do not have the head space to do both right now.

So if you've been one of the lovely people who continue to check in on me, I will return.

...especially when Oscar season begins...

Thoughts While Driving...

2010-09-22T22:20:00.007-04:00

So it's been a while. I know that.

And I miss it, the blogging, but quite frankly it's boring to talk about. However, I am surprised to find myself stopping short of writing every time I think of something. Of course much of it has to do with starting the new job. And I'm happy to yield my creative energies in that direction for a little while. But at some point I'm sure to find myself chomping at the bit.

In the meantime, here are some thoughts that have not quite made it into full-blown explorations.

- The other night I was driving home and came across the song "The Devil Went Down to Georgia". I laughed because I can remember thinking, as a kid, that the Devil totally won that competition. Listening now, it's clear that the Devil's piece was heavily reliant upon his back up band and all he really does is screech the bow menacingly back and forth across the strings. On the other hand, it was the 1970s I felt Johnny's solo seemed very old-fashioned-y hillbilly cornpone. It is now quite obvious that Johnny was the more technically adept fiddle player.

- Likewise, I heard Duran Duran and was reminded of another time when I was sure of what I believed, only to laugh now. I was at a slumber party for a youth organization I was involved in. The age range of the girls in attendance was eleven to sixteen, which makes for an interesting mix, but I was in the younger girl group and we simply thought it was cool that the older girls still (if somewhat begrudgingly) wanted to hang around with us. Anyway, we were watching Friday Night Videos (the poor man's MTV) and Hungry Like the Wolf came on. We were enthralled. Toward the end of the video there is a very explicit scene of a couple kissing, with prevalent tongue action. One of my friends let out an "Eww" and a few of us responded in kind. Looking over at the couch, I caught the eye of one of the sixteen year olds who, with arms folded, half rolled her eyes and said, "In a few years you'll like all of it and it'll all be just fine..."

- I bought a new car, which means I said goodbye to the Jeep. I kind of feel bad since at the end it was more like a good riddance (what with the gummy mess of tape from the roof stuck to my arm all day long and the miserably hot summer with no A/C). But there will be some day when I will miss it - the howdy-do waves from young men, the ease in parallel parking (okay, so I will admit I have not yet grown comfortable doing this in the new Nissan...) the general hipness it seemed to evoke in perfect strangers. But alas, when I gathered my last stray CD from it's crumb-covered floor and swung the door shut, I felt pretty satisfied.

- I am off on another adventure, leaving tomorrow to meet up with friends from graduate school in Vail, and remembering that I went out almost a year ago to help the friend with said house prepare it for ski season. I am eager to return to the lush countryside of Colorado and stand in awe of its vast beauty.

Okay, so that wasn't so hard. Now I've just got to find a way to sustain it...

The Ficus That Loves Me

2010-08-26T21:30:00.003-04:00

While moving into my apartment in Grandview in the fall of 1996, I was out at one of the big box stores, buying light bulbs or returning the wrong size window blinds (or something equally errand-y), when I impulse-bought a small potted ficus tree.

I knew nothing of plants. Even having grown up the daughter of an avid gardener, my knowledge and experience was embarrassingly low. Still, something compelled me and I heaved it into my cart filled with items for my new place.

Over the years, I've bought other plants, a spider plant here, an adopted aloe plant there. But they never lasted. The cat ate one, another simply refused to grow roots and could be lifted in and out of the pot at will, and another required more water than I could consistently remember to provide. But ficus has thrived.

It survived my time at COSI (where I worked 18-hour days for two solid months and once left glass from a shattered ceiling fan on my bedroom floor for four days). It survived the move to my home where I placed it in the middle of the large picture window, with the same sun it received in the apartment. At Christmas, I adorn it with a single strand of lights and top it with a Santa hat left over from college.

What I love most about the tree is it's gentle forgiveness. It doesn't require me to work for its reward. When I remember to prune it back, tiny leaves grow in and impress me; when I don't, it doesn't punish me. The other day, my friend Brooke, while waiting on me to go for a walk, wondered allowed if maybe the pot was too small. It took me a week and a half of thinking about it, purchasing (and then returning) a pot way too big, and inquiring about the right type of potting soil, but I finally got the plant settled into it's new digs.

Tonight I spread out newspaper and carefully went about my first-ever plant transplant. I've seen my mother perform dozens of these over the years and never once considered its point beyond an obligated task. But it felt good to do something for my ficus. A long over-due thank you of sorts.

Makes me consider getting another plant. But I probably won't anytime soon.

Running to Stand Still

2010-08-05T07:32:00.004-04:00

In a few hours a mini-van filled with writers will arrive in my driveway and swoop me away for a long weekend of reading and writing and generalized mixture of comraderie and solitude.

I've been looking forward to it all week. Well, longer than that, but the anticipation has ramped up considerably in tandem with a busy schedule full of unknowns.

It's no secret that I've been looking for consistent work for quite some time. For my whole adult life it sometimes seems, but, of course that's not quite an accurate perspective, just how I feel in the moment. However, in the past week, I've been in the early first-interview stages of three opportunites with great potential. As I've been busy juggling all of the proverbial balls and exhausting myself with the "what if" game, I've been itching to get my butt in on a porch swing and comb over comments from my manuscript.

The retreat place is a large former "hunting cabin" set up with a large living space and several small rooms with single beds and sinks. There is a large kitchen and dining area for leisurely meals, and, best of all, that sprawling back porch overlooking a creek. Last year we spent most of our time on that porch; quite a sight, all those open laptops among the trees.

But first I need to finish my lengthy to-do list...

The Domestic Life of Actors

2010-07-30T07:52:00.008-04:00

Last night I had the great fortune to score free "media tickets" for the touring show of Wicked, seated in the same section as local celebs like Colleen Marshall and Jym Ghanahl (my first real "press perk"). I had written an article for (614) in which I interviewed one of the actors, Justin Brill who plays the Munchkin-turned-Tin-Man, Boq, so I was excited to place headshot with a live person. I'd spoken to him on the phone about a month ago, where he was at home in Manhattan.

Between scenes of the show at the Ohio, I started to wonder how Brill might be enjoying Columbus so far. Which got me to thinking about the lives of actors, or really, the unconventional life of the professional artist.

When I 23 I spent one year in up-state New York working as a literary apprentice at a regional theater. While I had grown up being involved in drama and earned a bachelor's degree in theater, this was my first exposure to people who made their living in the arts. Most of our actors had moved to New York City to pursue acting only to end up spending months and months out of the year at various cities in the Midwest. This because all of the regional theaters from all over the country (not to mention the various touring groups) all audition in NYC.

So these actors, some in their 20s but most in their 30s and 40s, took up residence in a block of apartments rented by the theater and did their best to maintain their version of "daily life" on the road. Because I was young, I was only able to see them through a veil of idealized envy. They were, after all, getting paid for things me and my friends were doing for free to fill the balance of the monotonous job-job. They were all so cool, haning out each night in the cabaret after shows, drinking wine, smoking, telling amusing stories about their minor celebrity encounters in the business. They had a worldy wisdom that was intoxicating.

What I began to realize was a sort of fast-track emotional existence. Relationships of all kinds seemed to come quickly and easily. And then they were gone and on to the next gig. In some ways, this seemed exciting, something I found it difficult to grasp as I collected addresses and intended sincere continuations of my connections.

What I didn't realize until many years later was the inherent complexity of their lives. Many were divorced, a few had children that required much coordinating to either see or have with them. For them, there was no coming home at the end of the day and settling into a couch with a loved one or putting children to bed.

In my Wicked phone interview with Brill, he mentioned having just gotten married. "How does that work?" I asked, perhaps a little too pessimistically. "We're lucky," he said. "My wife happens to be the dance captain of this particular tour. That almost never happens."

I've seen many people who make it work, who manage to work out the tedious details to manage the conventions that ground them while that urgently pursue the passions they need in order to function properly in the world. All without the promise that any of it will pay off in any sort of tangible way.

But I thank them. From the bottom of my music-loving, theatre-appreciating, film-obsessed heart.

Old School Ode #8 - The Significance of Rick Springfield on the Development of the 12 Year Old Girl in 1982

2010-07-22T15:25:00.015-04:00

I do not have air conditioning in my Jeep. Luckily, I have my Dad's spare truck parked in my driveway for those days when rolled-down windows and bundled-up hair will just not cut it.

That vehicle has a tape deck. As much as I like the radio, I can only go so long before I feel the need to control what I am listening to. So I've taken to rummaging through my box of abandoned cassettes in my basement.

Which is how I've come to be listening to Rick Springfield's "Success Hasn't Spoiled Me Yet" almost non-stop for the past week.

To go on about how Springfield was a huge star in 1982 would be a redundant waste of time. Even those who don't care could not argue this point. What intrigues me now, however, is just how spot-on Springfield was in appealing to an almost exclusively prepubescent female audience, given he was in his thirties at the height of his popularity. One could argue this is creepy, but I'd like to try to give Springfield the benefit of a thorough consideration.

Let's start with the album cover of Success Hasn't Spoiled Me Yet:

I won't say it looks like something a twelve year old girl could pull off, but it absolutely appeals almost exclusively to that demographic. Anyone who ever picked up a Teen Beat in 1982 knew that Springfield had a dog named Ron. That he loved this dog enough to put him on one album cover (Working Class Dog) is one thing, but to bring him back and be humbled enough to eagerly play man-servant to said dog? That's altogether something else. Throw in the pink and the poodles and the silly posturing, you're not going to win over the Van Halen crowd.

I would imagine all teen idol types are under some sort of pressure to consistently appeal to the throngs of screaming girls. But unlike the guys in the Beatles who longed (rightfully so) to shed their teenybopper image, or George Michael's hidden-in-plain-sight homosexuality, Springfield's songs seemed a genuine expression of his inner landscape. I would imagine it might have been confusing as an artist to recognize a common maturity level between he and his audience, but he never seemed to fight this or condescend.

Springfield uses the terms "girl" a lot to describe the women in his songs. This might be offensive if he didn't also seem to refer to himself as a "boy." He has a song called "How Do You Talk To Girls" that is almost embarrassingly earnest in its longing to understand the opposite sex. How he manages to not sound like an emotionally stunted man-boy is astonishing.

Likewise, there is a song called "April 24, 1981" the title referring simply to the date of his father's death. The song is short, perhaps not even a minute, and the lyrics are simple

I know all your life you've wondered / About that step we all take alone / How far does the spirit travel on a journey / You must surely be near heaven / And it thrills me to the bone / To know Daddy knows the great Unknown.

Girls all over the world, girls who had never known one bit of loss in their lives, collectively wept over this song. While I had my musical crushes (forever having to point out Johnathon Cain from the Teen Beat centerfold Journey posters...) I was never the overt screamer. But there was something about Springfield that made it easy to fall for him. He appealed to many types of girls - the quiet, the pretty, nerdy, even the tough girls. At my school there were a trio of girls who were known for their allegiance to wearing black t-shirts featuring the icons of rock - Rush, the Doors and Ozzy - who were hard-core Rick devotees.

Perhaps I am overlooking the obvious charge that Springfield's songs were better than everyone gave him credit for. Should they be compared to even the pantheon of classic pop songs? Probably not, but as I strain to listen to my almost thirty-year-old thinly worn tape, I realize how easy it is to simply soak in the songs that I am not listening to for simply sentimental reasons.

I saw Springfield in concert when I was thirteen, fourteen, and twenty-seven. Going to the latter show, I worried that I had become like those middle-aged ladies you hear about going to see Tom Jones. But it was a huge crowd of all kinds of people - women as well as men, suburbanites and urban hipsters alike - all hovering around thirty at the time, all there to celebrate what we loved about Rick Springfield.

And he seemed genuinely proud that we'd finally come of age...

CAPA Summer Movie Series: The Love Affair Continues...

2010-07-17T16:55:00.005-04:00

If I am remembering correctly, last year, I had at least a couple posts professing my profound love for the Summer Movie Series that takes place at the Ohio Theater.

Every year, when I pick up the flyer (that I promptly tape to the door in my home office) I immediately scour the list, picking out about ten films I'd really like to see. I eventually had to learn to accept the fact that schedule conflicts and unforeseen circumstances would ultimately get in the way.

Setting the bar low (at one showing per summer) I learned I could congratulate myself if I exceeded that. Last year I saw three - The Day the Earth Stood Still, South Pacific, and Wings, the latter taking its place as my favorite CAPA Summer Movie Series viewing of all time (which is saying a lot considering I saw Gone With the Wind in 1980 when Columbus experienced a minor earthquake that shook the one-ton chandelier above our heads...)

See - http://lostglovefound.blogspot.com/2009/08/another-love-letter-to-capa-summer.html for that post...

I am proud to report that this year, I have well exceeded my minimal expectations with my fifth show last night. There are four more left, and I have plans to see two of them next week. Usually, my desire to be "cultured" is thwarted by my default "middlebrow" tastes. But I have come to recently appreciate art produced before my lifetime.

I will wait until the series is over before I comment individually on each movie. But, so far, there has not been a dud in the bunch.

Palms Up!

2010-07-08T08:51:00.006-04:00

Ten years ago, I was involved in a car accident that broke my arm in two places and required plates and screws. After a follow-up surgery almost a year later, considerable scar tissue built up, causing an unusual disability in my right hand.

I could not turn my right hand palm up.

Which you wouldn't think would be that big of a deal. And, all things considered, it's not. However, not being able to put my hand in that position often caused pain because some ancient muscle memory would suddenly want to turn in a way it couldn't. I also couldn't lift certain things because I couldn't get my hand up underneath something like, say, a table. Or when people say, "Put out your arms" and then load them up with things. I couldn't do that (but I can hardly complain about the "Sorry, I can't help you carry that heavy load," I was kinda glad to see my heavy-lifting days behind me...)

Anyway, the other day I was driving and noticed that I was gripping the steering wheel from below, something I have not been able to do for ten years. At first, I thought it was a fluke, that I was in some position where I'd always had range of motion. Once I got to my destination, I stood next to my car and flipped my palms up. It worked. I did it again, then again with increasing excitement (not realizing until late how ridiculous I must have looked to passing traffic.)

A week later, I am still intrigued by this latest, literal, breakthrough. I believe what has happened is that some of the scar tissue that had caused the hindrance has, after all of this time, broken up enough to allow me range of motion. I'm fairly certain of this as I can hear an accompanying crunching sound while flailing my hands about.

I'm sure there is some kind of metaphor that could go along with this, about some balance between acceptance and perseverance or the like. I'm just happy for the improvement.

Until I start getting calls to help people move...

Considering the Guinea Pig

2010-07-03T12:15:00.007-04:00

While I recently crossed the country for a pet-sitting gig, watching after a charmingly dim dog and a pair of low-maintenance cats, I'm not what one would call a "pet person." Perhaps this is due to the notion of how much energy it takes to raise one consistently drilled into my brain by my mother.

When I was a child, I was one of those kids who visited the elderly neighbors on a regular basis, finding some sort of specific comfort in the alien nature of their ancient knick-knacks and seemingly constant viewing of Lawrence Welk. And they had dogs, of the appropriately low-key variety. I loved these dogs and would have sworn at the time that they loved me, although looking back I can see how my exuberance (and tendency to want to dress them or cart them around in a wagon) was surely only tolerated.

I did, for a few months, have the only pet of my childhood, a hamster named Hammy (I know, an embarrassingly common name coming from such a creative child...) I pawed at that thing constantly, taking him out into the backyard, plopping him into the basket of my bicycle, wheeling at top speed down the alley while he poked his head out of the top, gripping on for dear life. It never once occurred to me what I might do if he suddenly jumped or flew out.

Anyway, I am reminded of all of this because I agree to pet-sit for my friend's daughter's guinea pig.

So Cookie and I have been co-habitating since Wednesday evening. She requires even less care than I had initially thought (which I'll admit was minimal), but her presence makes it impossible for me not to consider the life of a guinea pig.

If you don't already know, they don't seem to do much.

At first, I thought it was because they live in such tiny cages. That maybe they would somehow, with more space, be inclined to run and frolic.

But this doesn't seem to be the case.

So I went to the research. According to Wikipedia, "their strongest problem-solving strategy is motion. While guinea pigs can jump small obstacles, they are poor climbers, and are not particularly agile. They startle extremely easily, and will either freeze in place for long periods of time or run for cover with rapid, rapid, darting motions when they sense danger."

Yep. That seems to be more Cookie's style, perpetually darting into her purple plastic igloo whenever I enter the room. Which I find unfortunate, but it's not like I'm out to become some sort of rodent-whisperer. It would be nice to know that this animal had a pleasant visit, but essentially job is to make sure the pets aren't injured or die while their owners are out of town. Which is why I guess they make good pets for young children. That, and they're awfully cute.

Still, knowing it just sits there for hours upon hours, staring out into the cage from her igloo, kinda freaks me out...

Afraid of the Sea

2010-06-28T07:07:00.008-04:00

Corine Bailey Rae is a singer-songwriter who had a couple of modest hits from her eponymous debut record that came out in 2006. The first was a simple acoustic "Like a Star" that she performed at the 2007 Grammys in an elegant cocktail dress and no shoes, perched on a stool with only a guitar for accompaniment. The second was a old-school R&B-inspired "Put Your Records On" that ended up in the background of a lot of films and television episodes that year.

So I've been a fan.

When I heard she was releasing a follow-up disc entitled The Sea, I was rightfully excited. Until I learned it was heavily influenced by the recent death of her husband, who had died of an accidental drug overdose. Whoa, I thought. That's certainly not going to be light and playful like the others. I was intrigued, but not ready.

A few weeks passed and I was gearing up for a road trip and in need of some new, unfamiliar music. I browsed iTunes and came across The Sea. I downloaded it. In my car, I listened to the first few bars of the first track, got impatient because it didn't sound like the other, and moved on to something else. Truth is, I was scared of subject matter. I thought to myself, do I really want to risk interrupting my emotionally-neutral driving jag absorbing the artistic fallout of someone else's grief. The answer was no. And so I opted for the other music I'd recently downloaded - the Kinks, Kelly Clarkson, John Mayer, and the Black Keys. Talented folk, but nothing seemingly pre-loaded about listening.

Which got me thinking about my own manuscript.

I'll admit, as proud as I am of my progress, and as much as I feel mine is an important tale to tell, I constantly feel like I dance around uncomfortably when someone who doesn't know me asks (usually prompted by my open laptop at a bar or coffee shop) "So what's your manuscript about?" Explaining that my brother died and that it is an exploration into, not only that, but my family's response to the untimely or unusual illness in our family, usually grinds the once-light conversation to a frosty halt. It doesn't help when I over compensate by attempting to explain that it is also about the bonds of family and friendship and love, and also contains a fair amount of humor and pop culture references.

Which it does, but really, the light (or enlightening) exchange they may have been looking for is gone. Not quite like chatting it up with the person behind you in line at the grocery store, only to have them tell you they've had an abortion (this revealed before you've placed the last items of your cart onto the conveyor), but there is a considerable, immediate weight to the exchange that I cannot escape.

Getting back to the Corinne Bailey Rae, I was out pulling weeds in my yard the other day, listening to my iPod on shuffle, when an unfamiliar song came up. Usually when this happens, it means the song is one of those "duds" from an album download and causes me to bump it to the next offering. But this song, from the very beginning was this sultry tune undercut with a funky beat, and heavy on the B12 organ. A perfect new-but-sounds-old song.

I put down my trimmers, pulled off my gloves and checked to see how something so good could have gotten onto my iPod without my knowledge. It was "The Blackest Lily" by Rae, a track from "The Sea." It was then that I had done the same thing to her piece of art that I pre-accuse potential readers of doing to mine, assuming it will be too raw or heartbreaking to take. And perhaps it is. Perhaps my whole effort will end up being little more than an extended therapeutic exercise.

But I hope not.

In the meantime, I've openly re-examined Rae's "The Sea." I'm still not a fan of the opening track, and I don't love it in the same way I did her debut. But I'm no longer scared of entering into it based on my pre-conceived notions of how I think someone who has lost a spouse to drug abuse might approach a piece of art.

And I've been jamming out constantly to "The Blackest Lily" despite the fact that I have no idea what it means...

Can Art Save Us?

2010-06-22T17:06:00.016-04:00

So it's been a while since I've blogged.

And I've missed it.

More than I could have imagined.

What's been more interesting is the notion of how not writing for a few days has made me kinda, well, crazy. Perhaps more unsettled and discombobulated more than anything, but still. It's been kinda like what I imagine it means for someone to go off their meds. I don't mean to diminish the affect of medication for serious psychological issues, but it doesn't feel too far off on some level. I get all weepy and feel sorry for myself and don't want to go places and generally am not so fun to be around... Which is unfortunate for everyone (including me) because on my better days, I'm a pretty happy, insightful gal.

So why haven't I been writing? A couple of reasons. One, I just finished another draft of my manuscript and felt the need to take a mental rest while I wait for comments from a few smart readers. Also, I've been feeling the need to ramp up my job search considerably, endlessly combing the bowels of the internet for opportunities that match my unusual experience and skill set. Not that I think this is a bad idea, and it certainly has reduced my stress-level in that area. However, at the end of the day, the tangible outcome is difficult to qualify. I come to believe that halting the writing process is the more "responsible" thing to do, that it is something that I can come back to once I get myself "settled."

What I fail to realize, again and again, is just how unsettled I become. Ah, the irony. And it always takes me more than a few days of flailing to realize the source of my unrest. Part of me refuses to believe that something as simple as a post about a common pop song, or the edit of a sublimely perfect word, or 500 words on a local happening, or even an in-depth email can keep the existential what's-it-all-mean / why-bother-when-there's-so-much suffering dogs at bay.

Oh, but how it does.

Which gets me thinking about the emotional lives of those who chose to surround themselves with art. Growing up, I often found much peace in simply being among my family and watching TV, or listening to records with my brother, or even the endless hours spent bonding with friends playing pool in my basement and watching music videos. As an adult, I am pleased to be considerably more active, but I'll admit I will refuse to pull a single weed in my yard or walk a single step around the park without my iPod firmly attached to my hip. I find it difficult to read a book without marking a passage and transcribing it in my journal. The other night I forced myself to go to the Ohio Theater to see Some Like it Hot, and left the place postively gleeful.

Occasionally, I am suspicious. Surely this kind of delight can be achieved in other ways - human contact, comes to mind. And I have plenty of that in my life. Perhaps art "is" human contact, only delayed. Someone you've never met has a particular talent and has an experience. She writes a song about that experience, sitting alone in a room. Months later, an assembled team of highly skilled professionals have thier own experience crafting those songs into an album. A year later, a thousand miles away, one of those songs is chosen as a prom theme. Fifteen years later, that songwriter grows cynical and fades into obscurity. Until a filmmaker with a bit of a buzz, who hated the prom-song, but played the B-side over and over during his parents' divorce, offers the singer a chance to score a small but personal film that goes on to become the sleeper hit of a particular generation and inspires someone to write a book.

And on and on...

Of course, much of the above is high-level delusion. But I think smaller scales of that delusion is what keeps writers, painters, actors, musicians, and other creative people afloat. And sane. Until they decide they need to ditch it all in the name of responsibility. Not that being responsible isn't admirable. God knows irresponsible artists tend to turn into miserable dependents. And I know how lucky I am for the circumstances and advantages that allow me this kind of wandering existence without resorting to desperate measures. I just know for myself, when I get into a focused surge of needing to move into a new stage of my life, it is my creative side that often suffers most.

I just wish I'd keep forgetting this reality again and again.

Surfacing... or, perhaps, Blah Blah Blahblog...

2010-05-25T21:21:00.003-04:00

After six weeks or so of a break, I'm anxious to get back to emerging into my world of pop culture musings random observations.

I hope.

I've spent this time off working extraordinarily hard on a third draft of a manuscript I'd hoped to have been completed, but am not quite there. I am pretty proud nonetheless. My brain is truly jello but hope that means I've mined my noggin of some riches.

We'll see.

In the meantime, I'm on my way to Louisville (the place where I attended graduate school) to cheer on some friends who are completing their final leg of their own Master's Degree journey.

BTW - CAPA came out with their summer movie series list early this year. There are some goodies, including Singing in the Rain, a couple of Buster Keaton shorts, and Some Like it Hot.

I'll definitely hit the ground running with those when I get back.

A Blog Hiatus?

2010-04-13T14:24:00.003-04:00

When I originally signed myself up to blog (after thinking about it for a few years and, instead, getting others interested in blogging), what made me hesitate for so long was my own disappointment in reading blogs that just kinda "stopped." I felt duped. Here I'd been invested, on-board, if you will, with the writer, willing to engage in whatever came along.

Having this blog has been important to my growth as a writer.

My goal has always been to update every five days. Lately, I've been falling short. For good reason. I'm about half-way through a third draft of a full-length manuscript. What initially started as a look inside my experience of having lost my brother, is beginning to morph into a broader "family's response to illness." Despite the heavy themes, there is a healthy dose of humor and a, perhaps inevitable, pop-culture thread.

So I've decided to let myself off the hook for a bit with the blog, in order to put my head where it wants to be.

And hope to return soon-ish...

Things I Learned About LA While in LA

2010-04-05T16:07:00.007-04:00

Two weeks ago, I went out to LA on a sort of favor/job/adventure combo I couldn't pass up. It was a great opportunity to get some work done on my manuscript (which I did, despite the close proximity to cable, and my tendency to get sucked into it...) At the same time, I got to experience a particular sort of culture foreign to my daily life without feeling like I was merely a "tourist."

Turns out, I really love going into a completely new environment all alone. Despite an inevitable loneliness that eventually creeps in, there is a jolt of satisfaction that comes with getting acclimated. Every time I try to figure out my "tendencies," I've found them to often to be contradictory. Adaptive as I am to change, I am also highly grounded in the repetition of routine

What happens, then, when I find myself drawn with excitement to a new territory, is I spend an accelerated amount of energy getting myself settled. I become hyper-aware of my surroundings. Part of this is out of a feeling of safety, knowing, for instance, keys locked inside a car 1000 miles away from home becomes a much bigger issue than merely in the grocery store parking lot in one's own neighborhood. Another reason is the perpetual ticking clock. Knowing I might not pass this way again, I ever-aware of wasting my time (except, as noted, when it comes to the taunts of free cable... I'm not proud...)

So, while in LA, I bought a map, found a local coffee shop, and got to work. I was staying in a modest, yet hip (read, not extravagant yet not scary) neighborhood called Los Feliz. For anyone who remembers the movie Swingers, it was where the Derby, The Dresden Room, and much of the apartment scenes were shot. It also happens to only be a few miles from Hollywood Blvd and the Sunset Strip. Because I didn't want to be driving around and going into places alone at night (and because the sun didn't hit the glass front of the house I was staying until the late afternoon and tended to be cold in the morning) I'd do most of my "sight seeing" during the day.

Here's what I discovered:

- At any given time, you can find one of the following bands playing on an LA radio station - The Doors, Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, or Red Hot Chili Peppers.

- Skinny jeans and retro black plastic frame glasses don't seem to be going out of style anytime soon.

- Celebrity awareness is heightened. Even though I didn't spot a single celebrity, I felt constantly aware there were famous people everywhere, doing ordinary, everyday things. Now I understand why those first couple of pages of US magazine where Tobey Maguire is shown buying coffee are so popular. I never quite understood, and I'm not particularly proud of it, but there is a certainly an inertia to the culture that permeates the city.

- 1967 is alive and well in LA. I went to Venice Beach one afternoon and saw a sea of RVs awash with psychedelic markings. I find it interesting that in the 80s, Hippies had gone from being a youth-culture thing to being an amusing stereotype. You'd think that area, then would shift and become some epitome of "the last generation," like guys with tube socks and mullets and girls in pinstripe jeans and neon tops. But no. It's the 1960s forever at Venice Beach, baby.

- "Landmarks" aren't nearly as impressive as you'd think. The Capital Records building (which graces the cover of much of their product) is teeny and Chateau Marmont is disappointingly close to a McDonald's. I did manage to take a tour of the Kodak Theater (where the Oscars are held.) It was awesome. In a place where the souvenir shops still trade heavily in cheesey Marilyn Monroe memorabilia, it was really nice to see elegant photographs of some of the understated winners. The auditorium was under construction (Cirque du Soleil was digging a fifty-foot hole into the stage for their upcoming ten-year stay), but we did get to go out on into a box and walk through the hallway where the recipients go right after they win. That was cool...

I'm sure there are plenty of "non-industry" sites to indulge here in the City of Angels, but I'm afraid they will have to wait until my next jaunt out West. Or perhaps I'll next find myself with an opportunity to "help out" somewhere in Connecticut. I hear it's lovely there...

Cheater Post from LA

2010-03-24T10:43:00.003-04:00

I'd planned on shooting off some occasional updates from my West Coast adventure, but I've managed to develop a bit of a groove in in working on my manuscript and don't want to interrupt that...

Once I got over my initial hyper-alert state - making sure I didn't lock myself out of the house, or lose the animals, or flip the car driving up vertical surfaces, making sure I avoided sketchy areas of town - I've managed to settle into a bit of a routine. I've managed to find my way around the local "strip" (remember the Dresden Room and the Derby from Swingers? That area.) I get some writing started and people-watch. I've also been taking little mini-drives to get acclimated. I've been up and down the Sunset Strip and Hollywood Blvd. While it make seem less than the "LA experience," to see these places at 10:00 in the morning, but it's not like I'm about to hang out at the Whiskey A-Go-Go at night by myself. Being in early I avoid the risk of getting run down by Lindsey Lohan or Britney Spears...

The afternoon is when the sun comes in the brightest through the windows, a good time to get settled in a chair.

Oh, I did find out that the Kodak Theater (the one where the Oscars take place) have a tour. Cheesey as the other tourist-y stuff can be, I cannot miss that one.

Okay, so maybe not the cheater post I'd originally thought, but perhaps less organized than I'd intended...

Learning to Embrace My Ridiculous Life

2010-03-15T10:10:00.008-04:00

I'm sure I am not alone in my struggle in trying to balance a life anchored in practical responsibility but fueled by passionate adventure. The slightest shift toward either extreme can instantly throw me into a state of pre-occupation of determining what level is right for me.

When I landed a new job back in November, my life swung wildly toward the former. I was completely fine with this, as I'd been flailing, vocationally, for quite some time. But perhaps my attraction to this new job was too broad. I awoke each day, continually fascinated by the thrill of prepping for my day (did I mention it had been a while since I'd had regular, day-to-day employment...)

I found comfort in preparing my lunch, in filling up my messenger bag, in having just enough time to check my email before I left for the day. I reveled in my 3.9 mile drive, that there was exactly enough time to go to the gym and back during lunch. I liked that I had managed to develop "work relationships" beyond my small department so quickly - with the shipping/receiving guy and the HR lady. The use of a MacBook Pro that I could take home with me each night and over the weekend was a lovely perk.

There is nothing wrong with any of these fascinations, I know. However, none of this had anything to do with the job that I was hired to do. Not that I think this is why I lost my job. What happened was not my fault. However, I am willing to accept that the universe might just be nudging me out of a professional career in marketing... The jury is still out on that.

Where does that leave me? For now, I'm attempting to embrace the "adventure" side. Not that I don't do this, but I'm rarely able to do so without some significant justification, trepidation, and more than a hint of misplaced guilt and fear.

So when a friend from graduate school offered to fly me out to LA to pet set for eleven days while she is out of the country, I said, "Hell Yea." This is not to say that I plan to set up a bi-coastal doggie daycare or anything. But I do plan to take a copy of my manuscript and see if the sun and surf (did I mention she lives on the beach...) will stir up some inspiration.

And the Winner Is...

2010-03-08T08:04:00.005-05:00

The good news is, I won't have to boycott the Oscars. The bad news is, my attempts at tipping the scale in Meryl Streep's honor were not successful.

This year's show itself was quite impressive, dare I state "one of the absolute best in recent history?" Despite the nominees and the general atmosphere surrounding event, the show itself can be hit or miss depending on who is producing. This year's producer was a keeper, indeed, and should serve as a model for future broadcasts.

The most impressive feat? An across-the-board elimination of all the eye-roll-inducing show fat. The worst offender, the Irving J. Thalberg award? Gone! Never mentioned. I would apologize to all of the Irving J. Thalberg fans out there if I believed there were any. I don't mean to dismiss the accomplishments of anyone who managed any sort of artist longevity out there, but seriously, if someone like me had to wikipedia this man and the person receiving the award, does it really belong in the last half hour of the show, between the Best Actor and Actress awards?

Whew. I've been waiting years to get that off my chest...

As for the dance numbers that are such easy targets, they were finally done right. I don't know how, but the opening number with Neil Patrick Harris and a cast of a couple hundred dancers managed to be both elegant and jaunty and lavish and precise all at the same time. And the decision to cut the live performances of each Best Song nominee and replace it with a dance montage to all of the nominated scores? Genius. Who knew you could break dance to the score of Avatar?

The fashion? Perfect. Lots of silvers and golds. Nothing too wacky. No yellow. Old-time elegance that seemed new. My favorite dress? Demi Moore.

And my favorite element, the speeches, didn't disappoint. Yes, there were the ramblers, the starstruck. (On a side note, my advice to future nominees, even if you think you will not win, prepare something. It's only a few minutes and it will be the clip they play when you die.) The first great line was by the co-writer of the Best Song who thanked his wife and said, "I love you more than rainbows, Baby." Awesome. And the guy who won Best Animated short said it took him six years to make the short, adding, "I hope to make a feature and come back in 36 years."

James Taylor singing the Beatles' "In My Life" during the In Memoriam? Perfection. As was the tribute to John Hughes.

I even (or, I guess, especially) loved the tribute to Horror. When I'd first heard about it, I was skeptical. I took is as another desperate attempt to appeal to a younger audience. Which it was, but the desperation fell away and a new generation of Academy Award fans was conceived.

The pairing up Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin was just as good as everyone suspected they would be. I hope they keep that going for many years.

The only negative thing I can say is, I was disappointed there were no surprises. Perhaps the day of the Oscar night surprise winner (the Halle Barry or Marissa Tomei or other underdog) is over. Perhaps this is simply a result of too much media exposure. I don't know. But I will miss it.

Oh, and did anyone notice they brought back the, "And the winner is..." which had been formally replaced by the PC-laden "And the Oscar goes to..." I think that's a good sign. Of what I don't know, but it feels supremely right...

Oscar Afternoon!

2010-03-07T14:23:00.004-05:00

In about five hours, I will be sitting on the couch in my parent's living room, a piece of Domino's pizza in hand, waiting to hear the orchestra open the 82nd Academy Awards.

I've been a fan since before I was old enough to keep myself awake to see the whole broadcast (God knows I tried.) Since my enthusiasms for the show are so tightly woven into my family, I don't think any of us knew how we would proceed once my brother passed away three years ago. I skipped that first one altogether, as it was only a few weeks after the funeral. The next year, I think we were all pleasantly surprised after our initial reluctance. Last year was a blur, I had prepared by watching films, but when it came right down to it, I laid on the couch and drifted in and out of sleep.

But not this year.

This year, I am fully in. And I have preferences.

To begin, I will offer this update on the result of my Meryl-Streep-a-thon, my gimmick for this year. How did I do? Pretty well, I think, considering the sheer volume of films to consider and some availability hurdles.

Streep has made 42 films. Before my quest, I'd seen 19. I then watched 18 (that includes a re-watching of 3 films I hadn't seen for many years.) Not bad for four weeks. My favorite? Probably Sophie's Choice. You could say that was an easy answer, given it is considered her very finest performance. However, I had avoided the film for so many years, thinking it was too heavy to even watch, but found myself caught up in so many awesome elements.

The River Wild was another I was surprised to like. I knew it was an action/adventure show, but it hadn't gotten a lot of notice beyond that. But the script is tight, the tension taut throughout. Totally worth putting in your Netflix. I would also recommend Silkwood (still holds up), Postcards from the Edge (my personal favorite), One True Thing, Angels in America (where she outdoes even herself by playing an elderly rabbi and Ethel Rossenberg), Adaptation, The Devil Wears Prada, Julie & Julia, and It's Complicated.

What I would not recommend are: Falling in Love (bottom of the heap, uninteresting 1980s romance with Robert Dinero), Defending Your Life (Albert Brooks is a whiny boob and ends up with Streep anyway), Before and After (the kid from the Terminator does his best James Dean and makes you want to punch him in the face...on the plus side, Liam Neeson plays Streep's firey artist husband...), and Rendition (great cinematography, but a totally predictable post 9/11 political "drama.")

So I'm hoping that this effort has created some kind of karmic push in Streep's honor tonight.

As for the other films, while I was not thrilled by the addition of five more films into the Best Picture category (I will concede if anyone can convince me this was anything but a PR move...), I did manage to see eight of them. My favorite? Inglourious Basterds. I can't believe it has gotten no attention. It is a superb film, and completely worthy. However, I will not submit to the who will/who should debates. It is a peeve of mine. I believe that if you favor a particular film, you should stand by it, and that's what I'm doing. In the mean time, I will not be upset if any of the other front-runners win.

Except for the Blind Side. I will say, for the record, that if The Blind Side wins for Best Picture, I will stop watching the Academy Awards altogether...

Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

Adaptation Part 2

2010-03-03T10:11:00.006-05:00

So I'm into my third week of being home during the day. Not that it took much adjusting - I've been home during the day, on and off, for the better part of two years.

I am, however, getting much better at it.

I'm hoping that doesn't mean that I am slipping blissfully into a slothful existence. In the meantime, it is the awareness of a rationalized shift in perspective that I am enjoying right now.

For example, on the day that I lost my job, I was twenty minutes away from leaving the building to purchase a new car. I'd managed to stash some funds away, done a lot of online research, spent a few Saturdays test driving small 4WD vehicles in the mass snow (that was quite a lot of fun), solicited the opinion of some smart folk, and made my mind up. Much as I had loved my Jeep, I was dead sick of it. The back seat wobbled when I drove because I could never quite get it put back into place by myself. I could constantly hear the flap, flap, flapping of loose electrical tape that I'd used to try to secure a rip in the canvas top. And the thing was filthy. But I did nothing to ease my low-level irritation, because I was trading the damn thing in anyway...

Needless to say, I did not buy a new car. That Friday, however, was that one day when the sun came out long make us believe Spring might not be too far off... I deliberately left my hat and gloves behind and headed out on a mission. I stopped by the Jeep dealership and watched while a wirey little guy wrestled my back seat into submission. I stopped by the local hardware store, asked the resident old guy his advice on adhesive tape, and proceeded to fix my canvas top in the parking lot. Then I drove to the car wash, careful to point out the delicate areas that should avoid the powerwash wand.

All in all, I'm glad for the ability to make the best of things. Although I'm sure the loud noises and perpetually skipping CD player are eventually going to get to me. Hopefully by then, I'll have a new plan.

Adaptation

2010-02-26T11:00:00.004-05:00

A bit of a break from my Oscar-prep-Meryl-Streep-a-thon (only in blogging about it, though. My viewing numbers are growing as I continue my homage...)

So much has happened since I last posted. Well, actually, just one big thing happened, unexpectedly, that has thrown me off course, temporarily.

After almost three months at the first permanent-track job I've held in many, many years, I was unexpectedly let go. While I'm willing to reveal the details on an individual level, I don't wish to go into it in this forum. Like many others in this economy, I will say, I didn't see it coming (letting out a actual gasp when ushered into a conference room and given the news.)

I was still reveling in the glow of consistency - the steady paycheck, the making of my lunch, the daily exchange with co-workers. Despite my tendency to flail (or, perhaps because of it) I do find great comfort in routine. At the same time, I also have the tendency to make the best of things. Sometimes I wonder if I haven't perpetuated a kind of existence where I am continually making the best of things rather than gracefully avoiding certain circumstances.

I don't know.

What I do know is, that with every end to a job or position or contract, I have experienced an at-home saturation of influences combined with a hyper-focused clean and purge of my home, and this time is no exception. Given that I am a writer heavily influenced by pop-culture, I should expect this. However, the acceleration and depth is a surprise every time. Of course time and energy have a lot to do with it. There is something almost gleefully subversive to me about impulsively abandoning the organizing of my Christmas decorations to go see a movie at noon on Tuesday.

I cannot say I am any more certain on what's next. But I am less anxious about it. And apparently very open to music, movie and book reccomendations.

Countdown to Oscar - More Meryl

2010-02-17T07:13:00.004-05:00

Out of Africa was my brother's favorite movie of all time. For a long time I felt kinda guilty for not having ever seen it.

Now that I've watched it, I'm reminded why I'd been avoiding it.

As part of my Meryl-Streep-a-thon, I've been watching as many Streep films as I can get, one-at-a-time through NetFlix. I was looking forward to Out of Africa, mostly because I was pleasantly surprised by how "modern" Sophie's Choice seemed. I was in that mode to absorb an epitome-of-an-Oscar-film-film.

Or so I thought.

I really enjoyed the first 45 minutes. I was enraptured by lush landscape and beauty of Streep and Robert Redford. Then I plateaued and forced myself through the remaining hour and fifty-one minutes.

Wow, is it loooooonnnnnnggg.

I mean looooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnggg.

Like I mentioned with Kramer vs Kramer, part of it has to do with an acceleration of culture. Not to be condescending or argue for the hyper-cutting style better. It's just, we as an audience can grasp things more quickly. Or, more accurately, we are growing less tolerant of scenes where characters walk to their cars, get in the car, start and drive the car, get out and walk to where they're going. Unless there is a reason (the audience needs a breather after a tense scene.)

And I was under the impression that it was this great love story. My take (SPOILER ALERT) is, Streep's character gets dumped by her womanizing lover, only to enter into a marriage of convenience (she has money, he has a title) with another womanizer. The guy uses her money to turn what should have been a working farm into a coffee plantation which is doomed from the start. He takes off to God-knows-where right away, leaving her in charge of a whole staff whom she can't really afford, and infects her with syphilis. Eventually, she falls for Robert Redford, another womanizer who comes and goes as he pleases. They have some nice times, and yes he washes her hair, but mostly she's upset with him for not committing and he's upset with her for telling him what to do. Oh yeah, then he dies. And not in some dramatic, deathbed reveal, but in a "by the way, he crashed his plane."

I am glad I did not see this movie while my brother was still alive. I would surely have ruined it for him, much like I try hard to ruin Gandhi and Chariots of Fire.

But, once again, Meryl Streep is brilliant.

Next in the Queue, Falling in Love with Robert Dinero.

Countdown to Oscar: Best Choice

2010-02-11T22:21:00.004-05:00

To summarize the last post, in the past couple of years I have come up my own leading-up-to-the-Academy-Awards list of movies to see before the broadcast, usually centered around a theme. One year, it was all of the Best Picture winners I had not seen. This year, since I’m certain Meryl Streep will win Best Actress for Julie & Julie, I plan to see as many Streep films as I can before Oscar night.

Once I discovered I’ve seen most of them from the 2000s, and a fair number of others, I went back to the beginning of her career, the late seventies. So far, I have two under my belt. I watched Kramer vs Kramer over the weekend. She was as good as I remembered, but the film seemed very dated. Having to consider “the times” can get very tedious and borders on pandering. But it is true of this film. Kramer was one of the first critically acclaimed films whose main subject matter was divorce. While it deals with it skillfully, there’s very little that cannot be predicted at this point. Also, for only being 91 minutes, it drags.

But Streep is so raw as Joanna Kramer, a woman who, seems to have it together – just the right clothes, hairstyle, a smart elegance – until you realize she is so overwhelmed by her own sadness that she can hardly open her mouth without looking like she could cry. Not many actresses could pull this off without making you roll your eyes or want to throw up on yourself.

Because the films on my list are not easily accessible at Blockbuster anymore (I’m not judging, just stating a fact) I have to rely on NetFlix (which continually adds to my quality of life in ways I could not have predicted.) Yesterday Sophie’s Choice showed up in my mailbox.

I cannot say I’ve been looking forward to watching this. I’d not exactly been dreading, I simply knew it would be a vast understatement to call this film “heavy.” The only scene I’ve ever scene was the scene, you know, the choice. For a long time, I assumed I’d been duped by being shown that clip (probably during a segment of Charlie Rose with Streep as the guest), like being told the secret in the Crying Game or knowing that Thelma & Louise drive off the cliff at the end of the Thelma & Louise. Also, Sophie’s Choice had very few other Oscar nominations, so I figured it was a showcase of Streep’s acting ability only.

Not so.

This movie is a lovely, albeit haunting, film that truly stands up today in terms of pacing and nuance. Kevin Kline’s turn as Sophie’s charming but unpredictable and menacing lover kept the tension taut throughout the first half, until he disappears. And Peter MacNichol, probably best known as "The Biscuit" from Ally McBeal, plays the narrator, the innocent who is befriended by unstable the couple and quickly falls for them and gets sucked into their drama.

Then comes the flood. Even though we have since seen skillfully crafted Holocaust films, there is a fair amount in this film that still holds up and manages to surprise and horrify.

Up next, Out of Africa.

Countdown to Oscar: Meryl Streep-a-thon

2010-02-06T17:23:00.003-05:00

There are few people I have to inform of my longtime Academy Awards enthusiasms. In fact, I often feel the need to tone down my interest in order to avoid appearing like a complete freak. There is nothing more embarrassing than to wax on and on about one's passions, only to find the person on the receiving end either doesn’t care, or, worse yet, treats you as they would a special needs child who wants confirmation on their interest in Legos.

So I try to avoid coming off that way, but it doesn’t always work. Even my toned-down knowledge often dwarfs that of the average movie-goer. For example, starting in January, I mark my calendar for the day when the awards are announced (this year, February 2^nd) and eagerly check the Oscar.com for the nominations to be posted…

Which is not to say I’m always enthusiastic. I have not yet fully reconciled the part of me that is rational and understands that the movie business (and the television network business) is, after all, a business, and the other part of me who believes the artistic achievement should not be compromised.

For example, am I excited about the fact that there are now ten nominees for Best Picture? No, I am not. I might be if I didn’t think the decision wasn't exclusively motivated by the promotion of less worthy, more profitable film. My opinion is, if people only want to make money, there are far more exclusively lucrative industries to go into (pharmaceuticals or Tween clothing come to mind...)

Still, I will try to see as many of the nominated films as I stomach (except the Blindside. I will not see this. I don’t care how many people cried in the theater, I’m not yet convinced that anything happens that I cannot predict… I will whole-heatedly apologize if someone can prove that I am wrong…)

In addition to seeing the films nominated, I have in the past, also included some other kind of “at home” Oscar-homage-activity. This year, it will be to view as many Meryl Streep films as I can before the March 7^th broadbcast. Although she has been nominated sixteen times for an academy award (winning one of each – best supporting and best actress) she has not taken home the award home since 1982. I will go ahead and say, confidently, she will win this year for her portrayal of Julie and Julia.

In honor, I’ve set up a list of her movies that I either haven’t seen, or don’t have much recall. Since they are no longer readily available at Blockbuster, I’ve put several in my Netfilx queue.

1. Kramer Vs. Kramer

2. Sophie’s Choice

3. Falling in Love

4. Out of Africa

5. Heartburn

6. Ironweed

7. Before and After

I’m already halfway through Kramer Vs. Kramer. Even though she’s only appeared in approximately seven minutes of the film so far, her portrayal is devastatingly deep.

Meryl Streep may very well save this year’s Oscars for me.

Slow Down Fast Talkin Woman

2010-02-01T21:08:00.004-05:00

Two years ago, I did a Guest DJ stint on CD101, Columbus’ alternative rock station. The premise is a simple one – listeners are invited to email in a list of 12 songs. If your list is picked, you get to spend an hour in the CD101 studios with the afternoon DJ, Lesley James, while she plays your songs and asks you questions about the songs you selected

The whole thing is pretty idiot-proof, I was brought into the studio literally five minutes before I went on the air. The DJ pointed to a chair and a microphone, and promptly excused herself to go to the restroom.

I almost crapped my pants at the notion she might not return and I’d be stuck there by myself. “Ummm, hello Columbus?”

Obviously, she knew better than I and made it back in plenty of time. The hour was pretty uneventful. I was uncharacteristically quiet, mostly because I feared I would ramble and lose my point. So I was probably pretty boring, but I’ll admit I walked out of the studio with an incredible buzz of merely having my list picked.

When I heard that QFM96, the classic rock station offered the same sort of thing – “Ultimate Album Side,” I gave it a shot. Q-FM started out as straight-up rock station back in the late 70s and has only morphed into a “classic” rock station only because they have seemingly just stopped playing anything new past about 1989.

I’d consider the music of Q-FM to be “working class rock” – a blend of songs best imagined hearing through a paint-splattered boombox duct-taped to an industrial stool, or perhaps from the car speaker of a beat-up Mazda RX-7 while playing volleyball at a high school reunion picnic (given you, like me, went to high school at an Midwest, urban high school.) Petty and Chrissy, AC/DC and Queen.

Still, I wanted to mix it up a little, personalize it. So I picked my five deliberately chosen songs: “You Better You Bet” by the Who, “Straight On” by Heart, “Little Dreamer” by Van Halen, “You Better Run” by Pat Benetar, and “Goodbye to Romance” by Ozzy. I sent my email. I forgot about it.

Then I got a call from the DJ, made arrangements to pre-record (which, I’ll admit, I was a bit bummed I didn’t get to go into the studio, but got over when the guy told me for the third time how much he liked my list. I’m such a sucker…

I was on the air this past Friday. What amused me the most, was the sheer number of strip club advertisements that bookended the segment. Then again, who did I think the demographic was going to be tuning into a classic rock station at 9:00 on a Friday night?

The revelation I made (or rather, confirmation) was just how freaking fast I talk. Of course, this should surprise no one who has ever spoken to me.

Still. My god. I could barely understand me.

I was talking to my friend Bridgett about this, and wondering just how in the world she manages to continually listen to me without great difficulty. She explained, in her signature sensitivity, that it wasn’t that bad, but that, if she was honest, there were times when she felt like she was functioning like one of those CNN correspondents who have a delay in their earpiece. “I can usually grasp everything you’re saying,” she went on to explain, “but it sometimes takes me a minute or two to absorb everything.”

I’m forty. I’m not likely to make any lasting changes in my speech patterns. The best I can manage is when I’m doing a public reading of my writing. I deliberately slow way down because I know information will get lost. But it feels un-natural. It feels....... like......... I’m….tal-king.....…like…………………….this.

But I can’t wait to send in another list and do it again. The cute DJ told me I should.

And I totally believed him.

Rings

2010-01-27T15:27:00.004-05:00

I'm not sure when I first started wearing rings.

I wore a class ring in high school, with my name engraved on one side and a music note on the other. After that, I can remember a college neighbor teasing me about the spoon ring I wore. We had a on-going fake-antagonistic debate over who was correct. His theory was spoon rings were for children. My counter was, just because a girl in his third grade class happened to wear a spoon ring, didn't make them the exclusive realm of child-wear. Didn't children also wear shirts and belts? I don't think we ever came to a consensus, mostly because everyone we tried to have side with us simply didn't care. I don't remember when I stopped wearing the spoon ring; I probably lost it.

I may have mentioned I have a history of losing things...

Anyway. While still in college, I bought myself an opal ring (my birthstone) with money my parents gave me for my twenty-first birthday. It was a beautiful, modest ring I picked out specifically at Service Merchandise because of the two stripes of blueish purple in one of the two stones. I loved this ring. When my friend Jen told me soaking the stone in olive oil would keep the stone from drying out, it became one of our rituals when I went to visit she and her husband up in Cleveland. I'd walk in the door, she'd pour a small amount into a dish and I'd drop my ring in, retrieving it before I left on Sunday.

When I turned thirty, my Aunt Jo gave me one of my grandmother's rings. This ring and the 21st birthday ring were the only "sentimental" rings I've ever owned. When I lost both of them for several weeks, it upset me so much, that I once I found them, I placed them in my jewelry box until I could get over the stress of having lost them. This hasn't happened yet.

Which lead me to purchasing cheap, over-sized silver rings, usually from Kohl's or Target, sometimes from a street vendor at an art fair or while on vacation. It often takes several weeks for me to discover if one doesn't fit properly, or snags on things, or simply doesn't look right. Then I simply abandon the ring and eat the ten dollars.

Sometimes I worry that I wear too many rings, that I'm in danger of becoming "crazy ring lady." But I've decided if I keep it down to five, that seems reasonable. At least to me. Why does this concern me? Because I hate to admit I allowed a piece of men's jewelry to heavy influence my feelings about someone I dated. It wasn't the only factor that lead to my ending the relationship, but I would be lying if I said I could see myself easily getting past it.

One morning in church, a neighbor came with her grandson, who cuddled up next to me. I instinctively outstretched my palm toward him. He put his hand in mine and I gave it a playful little jaunty squeeze. The service had started so he leaned in and whispered, "Your rings are kinda hurting me a lot."

I went about removing them one by one and offered my hand again, which accepted. "How's that?" I asked.

"Good," he replied, and went about fishing my rings up up off the pew, one by one with a pencil and spinning them around.

One Year of Blogging

2010-01-22T22:08:00.006-05:00

From the first few blogs I'd ever read, I figured it to be a good medium for me.

Still, I resisted.

I couldn't really decide what I wanted the blog to be, I only knew what I didn't want it to be. I didn't want to have a rant blog. Like an episode of Surreal Life or Lawrence Welk, if I came across one I got sucked in and then chastise myself for blowing the whole hour I could have been doing anything, anything but watching Surreal Life or Lawrence Welk. I am embarrassed to admit I have, more than once, copy-and-pasted the body of a long rant and word-counted it. One thousand words on getting cut off in traffic, I think. Seriously, what can be sadder than that? Perhaps word-counting a blog post...

I also didn't want to get caught up in being too heavily pop-culture-y either. While it is true that I am more than a bit of a pop culture geek, I could foresee a forced obligation to spiral deeper and deeper into subjects I might only have a passing interest in. I didn't want to, say, start gathering more and more obscure information on the Oscars, because I happened to mention that I know all of the Best Picture Oscar winners from the year I was born (which happens to be true, but has limitations of how interesting that can be...)

So I waited a couple years, and pressed my friend Dougie into starting his blog (the very popular www.holyjuan.com.) I was able to gain a particular amount of pleasure from that.

Then I realized my underlying desire to write a blog was not going to go away. I deliberately did not link my name to it so that I might have an "out," while still leaving the door open for a professional website or blog if this one failed.

I've had 77 posts so far, an average of one every 4.7 days. One advantage is that it pushes me to write on a deadline, which ups my general productivity level. It also allows me an outlet to explore little nuggets of ideas that I can sometimes build up in my head to proportions undeserving of the actual idea. It allows me to tell the difference, almost right away, between those ideas that deserve some headspace, and those that should just fade away.

But I've enjoyed it and look forward to seeing what this next round brings.

"Thanks... You Always Know What I Like"

2010-01-16T10:02:00.009-05:00

Today is my brother's birthday. It is the third one since his passing; he would have been forty-three. The sting is significantly less than the previous years, for which makes me feel equally grateful and guilty.

One of the things I miss most (after being with him, of course), is picking out his present. For years, it has always been a book, movie, or CD. The CDs became more difficult, as he had everything, and didn't tend to like much new music (if there was a 24 hour Sinatra station, he would have tuned in and never changed the channel, except maybe to listen to Sting.)

In an effort to re-calibrate my gift-giving instincts, I would occasionally ask Kip to give a sort of status on what I already knew he liked. This is how I found out he'd over-saturated himself in Civil War titles and was backing off. In the last few years of his life, he's developed an interest in WWI, because there was not a lot of written. He never tired of Watergate, the topic of his undergraduate thesis, and there was little of this out there too.

Kip wasn't just interested in history. Of course there was contemporary politics, which I could never get my head around because, beyond the radical big-mouths (the Rush's, the Ann Coulter's, and he had all of those...) he had the books of the people I not only didn't recognize, I couldn't even identify their general job titles, and it made me feel dumb.

The pop culture books were always an option. Kip loved biographies and the hefty coffeetable-esque books of photography. Books on the history of the Oscars, vintage movie star bios, or heady tomes on the affects of a particular generation thrilled him.

On his fortieth birthday, I told Kip I would throw him any kind of party he wished. He opted for a quiet, small group of family and friends. He came over early and I was so proud of my find, I made him open it before anyone got there. It was a book that I cannot readily access (I just spent more time than I would care to admit trying to track it down...) but it was about the year 1973. More specifically, it was an exploration of popular culture during the Watergate era. I didn't even mind that he did not help get ready for his party because he was engrossed.

My brother died nineteen days after that party. His death was a shock and yet he had been very ill for a number of years leading up it. I was grateful that he was in the midst of lingering birthday celebratory events during those weeks.

A week before he died, he sent me a thank you card. "Thanks for hosting my birthday party. I had a great time. And thanks for my book, you always know what I like."

Everyday Pleasures #3 - Making Lists

2010-01-10T22:45:00.006-05:00

I love lists.

Having an ongoing list like having access to a constant supply of supreme satisfaction, doled out in teeny tiny doses throughout your whole life.

I suppose I've always made some sort of list as an adult - grocery, Saturday tasks, Christmas gifts to buy - but they were little more than torn pieces of paper shoved into a pocket and discarded. But it was at COSI, where the concept of multi-tasking took on a whole other dimension, where I was turned on to a whole new way of looking at list-making. I give credit to my friend Allen, who refuses to accept that credit because he picked it up from someone else.

The system is little more than adding a little box at the beginning of an item. When the item is completed, the box gets checked. If the task no longer exists, it gets crossed off. If the item is moved to another list, it gets shaded in. Even describing the act gives me a twinge of pleasure.

There are somethings I resist putting on the list - things I'm not sure I'm committed to doing, things that are difficult, things that cannot be easily reduced into a simple, note-worthy item. Sometimes, the only way to know how I feel about something is to jump in and add it, understanding the desire to add that check mark might just be the thing to put it over the edge.

This weekend, I had a deadline that I was resisting and, instead, went about "clearing out" the items on a lingering list. I used the fumes of that buzz to push through my resistance and got it done.

Looking Back, Looking Ahead, and Other Cliches'

2010-01-04T21:53:00.002-05:00

I’ll admit it, I’m a sucker for all those end of the year retrospective special editions of all the magazines I read. They are the issues I toss into the ever-growing crate of “keepsake magazines.” I see the collection as a sort of personal pop-culture time capsule. When I’m living in the nursing home, I expect to quite enjoy flipping through my vintage 1997s in search of an over-looked cinematic gem that will knock ‘em dead on movie night…

This year, we have added edition of looking back over the whole decade, which is both interesting and terrifying in a holy-shit-ten-more-years-have-zoomed-by kind of way, but amusing nonetheless.

Which got me to thinking about my own Year/Decade In Review.

Moments after I thought of this blog topic, I was watching CBS Sunday Morning, who, like all the other news outlets, had compiled their own end-of-the-year commentary. This one, like, perhaps some of the others, although I haven’t seen them, was terrifically depressing.

Jesus.

It went through the whole inauguration of W, to 9/11, the Iraq War, the decent of the economy, through the burst housing bubble and rampant unemployment.

Which got me to thinking about my own decade, admittedly, influenced by the dark despair of the CBS coverage. What I came up was this – I was in a car accident on the eve of the new millennium, and spent the balance of the following year having physical therapy, a second surgery, and engaging in a three-year-long lawsuit. I held some of the most low-level jobs (often simultaneously) and spent several months unemployed. I watched my brother get sick, suffer, and ultimately die. I witnessed mother go into the hospital for a “routine hip replacement” and come out facing a lengthy recovery from a broken leg. Just before Thanksgiving, I saw the final collapse of a significant, decade-long, on-again-off-again-turned-fully-defined relationship I had a lot, emotionally, riding on.

This flash of immediate reflection, understandably, depressed the hell out of me. Until I realized I had been unduly influenced. Not that these things did not happen to me in the past decade, but so did these – I bought a house, earned my MFA, went to Paris and Barcelona (as well as many cool domestic cities), maintained my weight, deepened my already deep friendships with the arrival of their children, got published, engaged in some personally-enriching relationships with men, significantly deepened my relationships with my family, and started the first permanent/appropriate job I’ve had in many, many years.

As for the future, who’s to say. I do know that I am profoundly more aware of my own path than I ever was at thirty. Perhaps that is a function of aging, but I hope not. I am looking forward to doing more of the same, at least the good, positive stuff, but with more purpose.

As any good resolution-type statement would put it.

Working - Part 1

2009-12-28T17:49:00.013-05:00

I've been talking about writing a book about work for quite a long time. The only problem is, I haven't finished editing/completely reconstructing the book I'm currently working on (which is a memoir examining the loss of my brother.) So I've refused to allow myself to do any sort of pre-writing or out-lining or treatments until I'm done with the first.

But, I figure blogging about it (since I'm already self-committed to trying to post something every five days) is altogether different...

It's no longer news that I am, after a long and tedious search, currently employed. I am still in the stage of being deliriously relieved, still able to viscerally remember that conflicted feeling of the stress of not having a job combined with the guilty freedom that comes with having so much time on my hand.

One thing I've discovered is how much I instantly delight in the early days of a new routine. The making my lunch while the coffee brews, the starting up of my computer while I get into the shower, the checking emails and making a concerted effort not to get absorbed into something that will, fifteen minutes later, cause me to flee from the house in a panic, applying eyeliner in the car.

Then there are the delights of the logistics of each particular job. Last summer, I worked downtown. Because it was early fall, it was perfect weather to walk the block and a half to the bus stop. Then at lunch, there was the small thrill of sitting among the other downtowners, nestled in the strategic sunlit spots between the buildings.

For this job, its the close proximity (2.9 miles to be exact, a drive so short it is rivaled only by my walking-distance fast-food job in high school) that I'm reveling in. Being able to run home and throw a load of laundry is (for now anyway) a small pleasure.

Then, of course, there is the job itself. Acclimating to new places among new people has always come easy for me. It took me many years to realize this is not the case for everyone. I naively assumed people who didn't take to new circumstances simply chose not to. I like having already aligned myself with allies at the reception desk, shipping, the warehouse, and finding out who brings in the good coffee.

Surely, as always happens, these minor thrills will be replaced with the stresses that come with increased responsibility. But I'm willing to take that on for some peace of mind in the other areas of my life.

Throw Your Arms Around the World at Christmastime

2009-12-22T07:24:00.012-05:00

I think I did a Christmas card topic on this a few years ago, but I've decided it bears repeating.

Christmas songs.

Every year I always think, I'm not sure I'm up for it, the same old "have yourselves" and "chestnuts roastings." I blame 93.3, which starts broadcasting their holiday music 24/7 on November 1. I've had to start purposely removing them from my pre-settings on my car radio to avoid routine irritation.

But by about December 6th or so, I'm ready.

I grew up going to church, so I'd learned all the Christmas staples early on. I'm not sure of my favorite, although it's hard to go wrong with a whispy rendition of Away in a Manger. My mom's favorite carol is O Come All Ye Faithful, so we sang that one a lot at bed time. I'll will say, the minor-chords of We Three Kings scared me a little.

The first "modern" carol I learned was Rockin Around the Christmas Tree. My fourth/fifth grade teacher taught our class this song in some elaborate gymnasium-style circle dance. I can remember being thrilled by the jaunty guitar riffs (or maybe I am only remembering the Hall and Oates version a few years later...)

Lately, there are three songs in heavy rotation on my iPod - a James Taylor version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (this was on his October Road CD that my brother and I listened to constantly the year I worked for him and the meloncholy tone often tears me up, but I cannot not listen); Sheryl Crow's take on The Christmas Song, complete with a Memphis-horns-worthy brass section; and a soul-melting rendition of Ava Maria by Chris Cornell (then again, I could listen to this man sing cat food commercials all day long...)

My favorite Christmas songs, though, will forever be the ones I heard in the early 80s. It was the birth of MTV, and, again, I was excited to discover a world beyond We Saw Three Ships. Billy Squire recorded a new song called Christmas is a Time to Say I Love You, and sang it with the entire staff at MTV during what looks like their holiday party. It played in heavy rotation among the already heavily rotated fifty or so original songs already playing in 1982. Elton John made a deliriously fun song/video called Step into Christmas, much of which he is engaged in a wobbly kick line with his band mates.

Of course, the grandaddy of all MTV-era Christmas songs is Do They Know it's Christmas. In November of 1984, Boomtown Rats lead man, Bob Geldolf, called in favors on all of his British buddies and sparked the trend famous-people-on-a-riser music (on a side note, anyone who hasn't seen the "Kidney Now" parody song on 30 Rock, should find it on YouTube).

When I first heard the song - or rather, saw the video - it was difficult to simply get over the novelty of having all of your favorite musicians together in the same room (this was before We Are the World and the string of other knock-offs.) Sting and Bono, Boy George, George Michael and the gals from Bananarama: a perfect marriage of abundant young hair and earnest expression.

I will shamefully admit that I began making fun of the song in my twenties - There won't be snow in Africa this Christmas... Far as I can tell, there's never snow in Africa ever. Do they know it's Christmas?.. Um, no, because they are Muslim and don't celebrate that particular holiday.

Maybe it is just a function of aging sentimentality, but my love for this song has returned with a ferocity I cannot fully articulate. Perhaps it is like looking at an old yearbook and marveling at the young faces of the musicians who are still recording today, perhaps it is the deepening understanding what it means to have so much when so many have so little.

Or maybe it is just the chimes. It's hard to resist a song with a rocking chime section...

Happy Holidays!

Three Shelves

2009-12-17T20:59:00.003-05:00

Historically, I've not been much of a grocery shopper. Even when I lived only a half-block from Kroger, I rarely made it over there more than a couple times a month.

What I didn't realize then was, the longer I put off shopping, the harder it became because I was trying to plan for a whole month rather than picking up things here and there to fill in with what I had.

I'm not sure when I made the switch. Even though I moved into a different neighborhood five years ago, I still go to my old Kroger, because they have "all my stuff" and I know where things are. I've also started shopping at Whole Foods which is way too far away to justify the extra expense, but I do love it so.

Anyway, at some point, probably because I was unemployed for the good part of two years and had an excess of free time on my hands, I've started going to the grocery with greater frequency, sometimes just to replenish my produce, which would positively baffle my twenty-five-year-old self. I've also found myself filling regularly filling in blanks of my regular stock of on-hand items, like honey and spices, chicken broth, beans, and on-sale jars of pasta sauce.

For years, I could store everything I bought at the grocery in 2/3rds of a shelf. Just last week I found myself clearing out a third shelf for bags of snacks that were starting to get smashed. What I love is that it came about without any deliberate effort.

Before you know it, I will be moving canned goods into an honest-to-god pantry in my basement (although foods for indefinite use still kinda freak me out, so maybe not just yet...)

The Road That No Longer Goes to That Place I Never Went

2009-12-12T18:35:00.004-05:00

The Target near my house was once a Drive-In Movie Theater, The Holiday, nestled into a giant wooded lot and adjacent to a tiny neighborhood consisting of two streets of small houses and a VFW hall.

I'm not sure how often we went to The Holiday. As a child, I can remember the thrill of wearing pajamas and sitting atop a nest of sleeping bags and pillows in the backseat of our 1971 Plymouth Fury. In high school, I sometimes went with friends who piled into the back of a pick-up. The night before graduation I watched the characters of Platoon shed their innocence, while I shed a little of my own with my prom date.

Needless to say, it is impossible for me not to think of the Holiday each and every time I pull into the Target parking lot. The narrow grassy strip, at the end of which held the ticket booth is still there.

As far as the neighborhood, one street survived the demolition. The other street (including the VFW hall) did not. If you are driving south on Wilson Road, as you approach Broad, you will see a road that goes about 100 feet and abruptly stops. That is the road that wound around behind the gas station (still there) and lead to the VFW hall. I never even laid eyes on the building.

You might wonder why a VFW hall could hold such intrigue to me. I am not a veteran, I do not like honky-tonk music. What that hall represents, however, is an event of my teen years that has grown to mythological status in my head. When I was a freshman in high school, I was a pretty nosey gal. One can argue that I still am, but now I am able to allow significantly larger quantities of information about people's lives pass me by without notice.

But not then.

I didn't want to miss anything, ever. And I rarely did. This is why, as I have mentioned before, I was always the last girl awake at a slumber party (that, and I was bound and determined never to have my hand submerged in warm water or my bra frozen...)

Anyway.

One night, my freshman year, a band made up of guys from my high school (one was a friend's brother), were playing at the VFW. Everyone was going. I could not, as I was out of town that weekend. This concert would have faded into a heap of other semi-interesting events had I not returned to school on Monday to find out just what I had missed out on - a popular couple had broken up, a mild-manner friend got into an actual fist fight, two unlikely people hooked up, and someone else got into major trouble when their parents found out they'd gone when told they weren't allowed.

I will fully admit that the scenarios I created in my head for weeks are, by now, wildly inaccurate and could not possibly stand up to the reality of what probably actually happened that night. But I love the myth just the same. It has taken on a life of its own.

Which is why, I believe, they don't just tear up that road and make it into the parking lot.

Lost Gloves Found...

2009-12-07T21:36:00.005-05:00

Tonight I took my friend's son to see a movie. He's nine. After being easily persuaded to drop more than a few tokens in the game room, (even though I knew we were rapidly approaching bed time), my "adult-in-charge" kicked in and I noticed he was not wearing gloves. I knew he'd left the house with them because, as we were bundling up he said, "Do you think I should take my gloves." I said he should and he did, so I knew they were at least with us when we left the house.

But there were more than a few places they could be - my car, the theater parking lot, the theater, the lobby, the hallway to the individual theaters, the game room.

I was instantly taken back to my own nine-year-old days and could physically recall that low-grade shame and panic of losing something else, again.

For those of you who don't know, I wrote an early entry explaining the name of this blog - that I was a former loser (of things) and now, for the most part, do pretty good at keeping track of what I have. I say "for the most part" because I do, still, tend to leave a good deal behind. However, they tend to be things like earrings and face lotion and pens. I don't tend to lose my purse or credit cards or other items that are cause for a higher level panic. Or perhaps it's just that now, as an adult, I have access to the means to replace my things without others being involved...

Anyway, Ely and I searched the car with no luck, and went back inside the movie theater. The concession cashier walkie-talkied a manager who went to look. I remembered that waiting feeling. The waiting while someone went to look for something I'd left, and the anticipation of either relief or doom.

In the car, we talked about strategies of how to remember not to forget things. I came up short because, while I can usually explain something in a way a kid can understand, the only things I could conjour were "adult" suggestions or empathetic antedotes on how I could remember feeling what I felt. I must have been offered tons of advice on this topic as a child, and I cannot recall a single one. After a silence, Ely said, "I'm just glad we found the gloves. My dad would have been really mad."

"I know buddy," I said. "I know."

Huge Sigh of Relief

2009-11-29T22:57:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow I start a new job.

That's right, a full-time, permanent, skills-appropriate, within-salary-range honest-to-god job.

I've been looking in earnest for two years (with three or four "filler" jobs I got as leads from friends.) The first thing I did when I got the news was retire my "job search log." This is really just a spiral notebook that I kept all my leads in. I didn't start keeping track of the exact numbers until June of this year. I had applied to 89 jobs since then - five interviews, two second interviews and one offer.

I went to the store this weekend and bought things to pack for my lunch. I also loaded up my iPod and have already picked out my "first day of work" clothes. I love those first days of work. If I thought about it long enough, perhaps I could examine if that is, perhaps, the reason why I've had so many...

But I won't.

I'm anxious to move forward and feel the benefits of going to work everyday in a place that fits.

Much as I Want to Resist, I Really Like That Song

2009-11-23T19:36:00.003-05:00

I won't even beat around the bush, the song is Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA..."

Yes, that's Hannah Montana.

I make this statement knowing that, in a mere month, after the inevitable airwave over-saturation, when I get my life-long fill and I can't escape it, I will be begging for the torture to stop.

Until that point, I will say it again, I like that song. It's really catchy.

The middle-brow music snob in me will not allow me to make that statement without qualifying it. What intrigues me is that in my listening, is that the song does not make me like Miley Cyrus and want to explore her work. In fact, part of my amazement is how much I like the song despite the sheer machinery invoked to alter her voice. (I watched her unadorned performance with Sheryl Crow on the VH1 Divas and felt bad... for her being so eager, so in awe of Crow, and yet so unequipped to pull off a live version of "If It Makes You Happy.")

Back to the song... I did a little poking around and discovered it was written by a guy named Lukasz Gottwald, who has also written songs for Kelly Clarkson, Pink, Avril Lavigne, and Katy Perry. What I find interesting is that I like all of these artists, despite the fact that I often consider myself older than their "target demographic." What they have in common that draws me in, appears to be this songwriter.

Which leads me to the value of a singular "voice" in the arts. Surely, this guy is somehow obligated to appeal to the particular qualities of the singer he writes for, but it's the guitar lick, the jaunty sway, the hook, that brings me in.

Hitting the Road, Hitting the Books!

2009-11-18T08:05:00.002-05:00

I year and a half ago, I graduated with my master's degree in writing. The program is "brief residency," meaning I traveled to Louisville twice a year for workshops and lectures and did the rest of the work from home, mailing it to an assigned mentor. Ever since, several friends from the program go back to visit, usually the final weekend of the residency, to just hang out and catch up.

This time I am going early, to meet up with some friends who have each completed a manuscript (as have I.) We're planning on spending the next couple of days holed up in a hotel room and having discussions of our work and really digging in.

The fact that I had two promising job interviews this week allows me to feel like I'm not just going to "play," that the timing is right to get this thing to the next stage.

Wish me happy insights!

My Biggest Fan, My Dad...

2009-11-12T18:28:00.004-05:00

Now, there's nothing inherently special about a parent being unequivocally bias toward one's child's abilities. Legends are made of fierce stage mom's of mediocre talent everywhere.

What makes me inclined to make such a statement is my own, recent acceptance that this is not something to constantly defelect.

That has not always been the case.

I can recall telephone conversations with my father where he would say, "I need a copy of that essay on ironing."

"Why, Dad?" I finally got smart enough to ask.

"Because Judy at the bank wants to read it."

While part of me is touched that my passion and efforts regularly surface in my father's daily tasks, the other part of me treads lightly. I try to explain that Judy at the bank really doesn't want to read my essay, that Judy at the bank finds my father charming and genuinely approves of his allegience to his daughter.

He takes this to mean that I have no self-confidence as a writer. He is offended that I don't think he has the ability to recognize quality writing. I don't believe this. My father has good taste. He also, as all good father's do, has a blind spot when it comes to his children.

So I've spent a fair amount of energy trying to resist this kind of attention from my father, as though accepting it somehow dimishes my credibility. Until I realized that there are many people who don't have this kind of support, who spend their whole lives soliciting their parent's approval. And so I surrendered to it. And it feels pretty good.

Just the other night, I'd dropped by my parents' to help my mom out with some tasks as she is still recovering from a broken leg (and who, also, it should be noted, is a proud supporter and good sport about being portrayed in print...) Dad walked in the door with a plastic grocery bag hooked over his arm. When I went to tell him that the new (614) magazine in which I had an article was out, he pointed to the bag. "I've got about seven copies already," and proceeded to stack them on the table.

A few days later he told me he had had lunch at Columbus Brewing Company. While waiting on a table, he saw two business men with (614)'s tucked underneath their arms being seated. He waited for them to get settled, approached them, and said, "Page 24," tapping the cover. He said he waited for them to finally turn the page, and continued, "My daughter wrote that."

I'd be a fool to not fully embrace this kind of support.

Double Dose of Dylan

2009-11-07T09:48:00.006-05:00

When I told people I was going to see Bob Dylan live, I got a variety of responses, almost none of them positive.

"Is he still alive?" was the common refrain from those under 45. Those older could often vividly recall being dragged to a show sometime in the mid-70s or late 80s. "That was the worst show I've ever been to in my life." With all this lackluster response, you'd think I'd be thwarted.

But no.

My goal here is not to spout the merits of Dylan's significance or convince you to like him. Admittedly, my interest came seemingly out of nowhere, and I thought I had set up pretty solid resistances.

My first real exposure to Bob Dylan was in the summer of 1994. I'd just returned home from living in Rochester, NY for a year. On one of my first nights back, I went out and met Peter, a fun, interesting, cute computer programmer/music enthusiast. We started dating and we were often at his place (I was living with my folks at the time.) Peter had great tastes in music and the stereo played all of the time - Van Morrison, Peter Gabriel, the newly released Counting Crows "August and Everything After", even some classic Journey. The only thing I had a hard time taking was some of the Tom Waits (although I could be easily swayed with the songs that incorporated carnival sounds) and the Dylan.

I just couldn't take the voice.

I don't remember what Peter might have said to try to convince me, but I wasn't having it. However, he did insist I go with him when Dylan played at the Ohio State Fair later that summer. I'd talked about taking Peter to the Fair since I'd met him (he was from Chicago and never been to any county or state fair and I was looking forward to being his guide.) The Dylan show at the end of the day was the compromise.

The fact that he was actually playing the Ohio State Fair was evidence enough for me of his lack of importance. There were only two reasons to play such a venue - you're either on your way up, or down. But we went, and I can remember being really impressed with the band. And the songs. I walked out, not converted, but impressed that I didn't hate the experience.

Three years later, I met and started dating Rob. He, too, had great tastes and played music constantly. But so did I. By this point, I was living in an apartment and the unspoken rule was whomever's place we were in got to decide the music, and I was a little more tolerant of being exposed to things outside of my realm, as long as it wasn't forced upon me.

"Time Out of Mind" came out around that time. It was in heavy rotation at Rob's, but I still didn't pay close attention. Over the next decade, as Rob and I would drift in and out of each other's lives, I noticed that Dylan remained a constant staple at his house. When I expressed my opposition, saying that being a bad singer when you were a singer was pretty big barrier, he said, "His voice is really not the point."

That didn't really go over very well and I refused to listen to any more for several years.

What did it for me was, not surprisingly, a movie. In 2007, Todd Haynes released "I'm Not There", an unconventional Dylan bio-pic that wooed the critics but confused regular audiences. I've read a lot of interviews and was intrigued. Instead of the traditional linear approach of following a life, Haynes chooses to assign six different "personas" to define Dylan - the impostor, the earnest folkie, the superstar, the family man, the poet, and the recluse.

This, I thought, is the future of narrative film.

From there, I started exploring Dylan's various "phases" and found myself more interested in the lesser-known stuff than the classics (not because I think they're better, but more because pop culture tends to over-saturate its heroes.) Then I picked up an audio-book version of "Chronicles," Dylan's long-awaited autobiography and was impressed by his constant struggle to remain true to his direction and expression. There has never been a time when this man has not produced the kind of work he wants to, with limited outside influence. Turns out he wants to play places like the Ohio State Fair and the Canton Civic Center. Some artists say that because they have no other choice. I think if someone like Bob Dylan wanted to regularly sell out arena venues, I'm sure some executive at Frito-Lay could make that happen.

Over the past year, I've added albums from his back-up-singer infused seventies period as well as the vastly under-rated Born Again records. Still, I will admit some of my favorite renditions are covers by other artists, but I'm gradually developing some immunities.

So I was looking forward to the opportunity to re-examine my Dylan live-show experience with all of this new-found fan status under my belt. The fact that I was able to enjoy one show with Allen, a former co-worker and long-time Dylan enthusiast, and the second with Rob, with whom I've been enjoying a recent, renewed relationship, was a real treat.

I'm not much of a concert reviewer. I will say, however, that it was, again, the band and the music that stirred me. Dylan is now old enough that his voice (once described by Bono as a dirt bowl yelp, bluesy street howl) has deepened into a tolerable, gravely monotone that almost functions like a harmonium.

And just when I thought I was immune to the over-played older stuff, I was caught up, just like a 1960's London teenager, in the exuberance that is "Like a Rolling Stone," Singing along, hands cupped around my mouth for effect, in an exaggerated declaration of long-vowel sounds:

How does it feeeeeeeeeeeeel
How does it feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel
To be on your oooooooooown
With no direction hooooooooooooome
Like a complete unknooooooooown
Like a rolling stoooooone

Another Article

2009-11-01T18:00:00.003-05:00

A few weeks ago, I interviewed the new CEO of the Columbus Symphony. My first face-to-face (I've done email exchanges and phone interviews, but there's something to sitting in front of someone having a conversation "for the record.")

Find it here - http://614columbus.com/magazine/11-01-2009/a-symphony-apart

Enjoy!

Hymns at the Gym

2009-10-27T12:33:00.006-04:00

I went to the gym today after a month hiatus. It felt good to get back into the routine. I even bought one of those devices where I can wear my iPod around my arm instead of tucking it into the waistband of my underwear.

I used to build playlists for exercise, but stopped when I found what motivated me one day, irritated me the next, or made me wonder why I thought a particular song made for a good workout song.

Too much effort for thirty minutes of cardio designed to relieve stress.

Now, I'm content to put it on shuffle and go on.

The afternoon before my mom went in for last week's minor surgery - one where we thought she would be conscious - a neighbor suggested she listen to music during the procedure. After browsing my music library that night and deciding my selections were more likely to irritate than soothe my mother, I went to iTunes and to search for hymns.

I had an earlier post where I talk about how picking out harmonies to the Sunday hymns is one of my consistent pleasures I can count on (I'd point it out, but, as you might have learned, I'm not yet so "interactively inclined.") So I thought some old-school, piano-based pew-hymal might be just the thing.

And I found some among the vast array of foofy televangelist renditions and goth-for-God groups. I handed my iPod to my mother in the waiting room, but, ultimately, it didn't work out. Not catching on to the right spinning motion needed to work the controls, she grew easily frustrated. And then she ended up being unconscious anyway.

I planned to delete them because, while I genuinely like the hymns, did not want to listen to them outside of church.

However, while at the gym this morning "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" came on, and I didn't forward it. I found it to be a pleasant surprise, tucked in between Pink's "Funhouse" and a Lucinda Williams cover of AC/DC's "It's a Long Way to the Top if You Want to Rock and Roll."

Old School Ode #7 - Camp Friends

2009-10-22T11:14:00.004-04:00

Tuesday morning I went to pick my mom up from her stint at a convelescent home, recovering from hip replacement-turned broken leg. As I walked in to get her, she came rolling out into the hallway saying, "I'll be right back, I have a few more addresses to get." I didn't understand at first, but when she handed me her little notebook to put in my purse, I got it. They were addresses of the friends and staff she had met over the past six weeks, people whom she wanted to send notes to when she got home.

This reminded me of my own notebook of addresses I had when I got home from camp.

There are certainly kids who were more immersed in "camp culture" than I (see "This American Life" for a borderline cultish version), but I was certainly a full-on participant. If there was a craft to complete, consider it done, a chore to be responsible for, you could count on me, a talent show to be had, you could find me, Indian-style on someone's bed, wearing a wig, brainstorming until the wee hours of the night. And if there were a social construct to fit into, I fell right into it. I was the disarming, funny, everyone's-friend-don't-want-anyone-to-fight gal with the goofy t-shirt and impressive tape collection.

I can still remember those personal dynamics, the girls who demanded to be picked up, the ones who got homesick, the ones who were born leaders and inevitable sociopaths. My first camp crush was on a boy whose name I only remember as Toad. He liked me back and that was good enough for me.

I can't tell you how many letters I actually sent once I got home from camp. I seem to recall a slew sent out while I sat at the orthodontist, being fitted for braces. But that's hardly the point. The gathering of the names, the saying closure of saying goodbye and believing you actually will keep in touch is totally worth it.

How You Want to Live Your Life

2009-10-16T11:08:00.006-04:00

My mom has been in a rehab/nursing facility for five weeks now, slated to go home next week. She was supposed to have been there for ten days, following a "routine" hip-replacement surgery. She is now recovering from a broken leg, a nasty stomach infection from the strong anti-biotic, and is concerned about the slow healing of the incision that needed suturing.

In visiting every day, walking the long halls of the facility, and interacting with the staff and other residents, I cannot help thinking about the complexities of our life experience. I am continually struck by the we are equally compacted by both the deliberate choices we make and circumstances we can not foresee.

In the first few weeks, I'll admit my main concerns were self-centered. I'd drive home thinking, I do not want to end up with some condition brought on by a lifetime of indifferent disregard of my body or mind.

But now that I've gotten used to being around people with health issues, I am starting to notice the personalities that emerge. Because I am an extrovert, I have found myself in the types of casual yet consistent relationships that I can recognize throughout my life. Wandering into the dining room to speak to friendly older gentleman sitting by himself reminded of wandering into my dorm's common area on the first night of college and making friends. I am comforted by the fact that, regardless of life-circumstances happen to befall me, I am likely to find connections with people.

Doesn't mean I'm not still highly motivated to eat better and get back to the gym...

On a Newsstand NearYou...

2009-10-08T08:38:00.003-04:00

Or conveniently located on line for your viewing pleasure...

I got a gig writing for the new monthly glossy, (614) Magazine.

Check it out.

http://614columbus.com/magazine/10-01-2009/on-the-death-of-post-modernism#

Next month I'm doing a piece on the Symphony. I think the editor thinks of me as the cultured grown-up of the group. I'm doing my best to step up.

Behold the Power of Cake...

2009-10-06T12:49:00.003-04:00

So I had a birthday over the weekend.

A big one.

It was an enormous amount of fun. Friends piled into my usually quiet house and I loved every moment of it. Especially a newly implemented tradition I intermittently refer to as either the Cake Parade or Cake Walk (this is only the third year I've done it, so I have some time to let a name settle.)

Anyway. All this really consists of is me picking up my own cake at Resch's bakery on Livingston Ave. and digging into that box with a fork on the drive back home. Then I proceed to spend the day taking the cake with me wherever I care to go, with a stack of plates and forks. Last year, the West High Homecoming parade came down my friend Mary's street, so I walked my cake over and enjoyed it with her family and other neighbors who either dropped by, or whom I saw on my way home.

This year, since I had a party (and I suppose it could be considered tacky to bring a half-eaten cake...) I got two cakes. I took a slice over to neighbors on both sides and had some for lunch.

Forget the presents (not that I don't like presents), forget the booze (although I did enjoy some delicious bourbon-soaked cherries...). Give me cake.

Rediscovering Some Old Friends

2009-09-29T11:20:00.007-04:00

In this time of an unstable economy, it becomes more difficult for me to justify spending money on entertainment. I still do but I feel increasingly guilty about it. So I've taken to digging back into my collection to see if that would lessen this constant desire to find something "new."

I'll admit, at first I wasn't so convinced. I have often, on my way out the door, rifled through my CDs to swap out a few mixes that I've gotten sick of playing. Once I'm in that mindset it's hard to be satisfied - No, no, no... Sick of that, reminds me of that person, or that time, or.... on and on.

But. Last weekend, while cleaning my house for guests coming this weekend, I was able to slow down and come across some disks I'd forgotten I loved. Because I had the time, I made a little pile and have been incorporating them in the rotation.

Sheryl Crow's self titled album is at the top of that list. It came out in 1996 and features her big hits "If It Makes You Happy" and "Everyday is a Winding Road" but, I swear I love every single song every time I play this disk. Beyond being well-crafted, there is a deliberately controlled yet highly vulnerable emotional thread that runs through the whole thing that appeals to me. It confirms the notion that even though craft is essential to a good product, artists use their life-experience as raw material.

If you like Sheryl Crow, but are a little sick of seeing her in the news talking about toliet-paper squares (an out-of context criticism, but still it distracts..) or hanging out with her celebrity friends, you should pick this up. My favorite tracks are "Sweet Rosalin," "Hard to Make a Stand," "Ordinary Morning," "Oh Marie"... (did I mention I love the whole thing?) Getting caught up in the whole essence of a complete piece of work is what I live for (and strive for as an artist in my own right...)

Willie Nelson's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is another re-find in heavy rotation on the turntable in my household. This was an impulse-buy as I was walking out of a record show several years ago. The ablum cover shot of Willie in his signature bandana and braids combined with a promient pair of early-eighties tennis shoes amused me. And it was a dollar.

But I'd never listened to it, not once. Until last weekend.

Willie sings a worthy cover of the title track, as well as "Mona Lisa," "Who's Sorry Now," and "Won't You Ride in My Little Red Wagon." This may be harder to find, but totally worth it.

Hard to say who's next, perhaps that Kajagoogoo cassette has some hidden gems after all...

Kind of Another Cheater Post

2009-09-24T15:18:00.002-04:00

So my mom had her hip replacement surgery two weeks ago (second hip, she had the right one done in May.) Things started out okay, she got through the surgery and first half of the rehab pretty smoothly.

Then things went rather wrong rather quickly. She started experiencing pain in her knee which, over the course of a few days, escalated into intense pain and imobility.

To make the story of two incredibly long days short, the hardware has slipped, fractured her femur, and she's about to go into surgery again to have it corrected.

What makes this a "cheater" post is that, while I had thought I'd get to a few of the ideas in my queue, anyone who's been in this "wait and see" mode with a patient (and I've had my share) there is an inclination to not want to do anything.

Still. I'm still committed to posting at least once a week.

Blog geek... who knew...

The Experiment is Over

2009-09-17T22:58:00.003-04:00

So I was a kid who grew up watching televison. Okay, so it's not like that makes me so unusual; that's almost like saying I was a kid who grew up liking candy...

Still.

Our family was one that revolved a fair amount around the events on television. My brother and I watched Batman and the Brady Bunch every day between school and dinner and the four of us settled in each night from 8 to bedtime. On family vacations, the Today Show was the first thing we heard in the morning and The Tonight Show was the last thing we heard before falling asleep.

Then we got QUBE, Columbus' first cable. That was the beginning of the end. I suspect a good 70 percent of my waking hours between the ages of 10 and 14 were spent watching either The Movie Channel or MTV.

So many would be surprised to know that I have never had cable in my home in my adult life. Part of that decision was restraint - I didn't quite trust that I would go to bed at a decent hour if there was a Behind the Music episode or Golden Girls rerun to be found. Another factor was cost - when you're intermittenly employed as I am, it's good to cut costs where you can.

I've also always had "issues" with most of the actual television sets I've accumulated over the years. Fifteen years ago, when I went to live in Rochester, New York for a year, my parents bought me a nineteen inch color set. It was great for a while, until I permanently lost the remote (how that happened is still a mystery), then it got banged around in the move home and the on/off button no longer recognized "off" so I had to unplug it from the wall to turn it off.

A few years later, I obtained a bigger model, with its own built-in swivel cabinet from a neighbor who failed to sell it at her garage sale. This was nice, until something went wonky with the contrast function and half of the scenes on any given show are too dark to see.

Which left me with the nine-inch portable DVD player I got for my birthday a few years ago. I love this thing, I can carry it around with me and listen to movies while I clean out the garage, make dinner, or put it on my nightstand for a late-night flick before I fall asleep. But then the switch to digital came around. That's where the "experiment" comes in.

We all knew it was coming, we were bombarded with commercials for a solid year, and then they extended it for an additional four months. I planned to ride it out, put off getting a converter box and wait until I couldn't possibly stand it.

And I made it through the whole summer, priding myself on not watching re-runs, not brainlessly watching something I didn't deliberately pick. I still watched, but documentaries, whole series of shows I'd been meaning to catch (or couldn't see because I don't have cable.)

But now I'm coming to the end. I've fully scoured the shelves of my library, I've about flushed out my queue in NetFlix. I'm eager for a little mindless veg in front of the tube. My birthday is around the corner. I want a brand new, digital, flatscreen televison. Perhaps even a Blue Ray player.

And if I get a job soon, I just might even get cable...

Holding Hands

2009-09-11T15:58:00.002-04:00

I was driving down Broad Street yesterday, and passed a family (or at least two adults and five children) walking together. They were in two rows, each adult on the side closest to the street, with a chain of two and then three children. What struck me about the scene (admittedly, a passing glimpse) was that two of the boys in the back row were shirtless and kindy stompy in their gate. They looked like that could be, perhaps, tough little kids. But that image was immediately softened by the image of them holding hands with each other and their mom.

Which got me to thinking about holding hands.

I had my first boyfriend when I was fifteen. He was six-foot-four and my whole hand could almost fit into the fleshy palm part of his. I liked holding hands with him and feeling small. Often, while holding hands in the movies, he would run one of his slender fingers through the center of my palm or stroke the outside top of my thumb. If I'd known about this earlier I would have, perhaps, tried a little harder to be less awkward around boys. This was something.

There is also something undeniably instinctual about holding hands with children. I am continually amazed at how the smallest gesture of merely opening your hand and moving it slightly toward a child can cause them to grasp onto yours. Except when they don't want to. And I get that. Sometimes I am even especially proud to find that a child is expressing their independence by declining the hand. Although it is a little sad to discover, even if you do see it coming.

Most of the kids I spent the most time with these days are moving out of the hand-holding stage. One of my best friends lives across the street and I've taken probably hundreds of walks with she and her family. On many of them, I have held her son's hand. I have teased him about having "sticky and/or sweaty boy hands." Of course it doesn't bother me enough to let go. But he, too, is eight and I suspect we are the beginning of the end...

I recently came across a photograph of my family at Kings Island. I am probably eight and I am holding my father's hand. Despite his seeming discomfort in being dressed in brown polyester slacks and matching polyester shirt-sleeve leisure shirt, and the existence of my side-ponytail, our holding hands looks like the most natural thing in the world.

My First Vogue

2009-09-03T20:46:00.001-04:00

Growing up, I was a voracious reader of magazines - Dynamite, Rolling Stone, 16, then 17, the occasional Marie Clare and Cosmo for the horoscope, perhaps a tip or two... But I was never much of a fashion mag gal. To me, then, high fashion was something to be mocked ("Look at the sleeves on that thing... do they really expect real people to wear that?")

I didn't ever consider that, no, no they don't, and that that's hardly the point...

Any peek at any photograph of me pre age-thirty will reveal I had little to know fashion sense. It's not that what I wore wasn't in style, it might have been, but only on a middle-aged JCPenney model. It wasn't like I suddenly "discovered" a sense of style in my thirties as much as I got smarter about wanting to look better and realizing I could look at friends who I trusted to be stylish and paid closer attention to what they were wearing (it also helped when women's casual fashion stopped defaulting to frumpy, thank you 1994.)

All of this lead up to simply say I finally purchased my very first issue of Vogue the other day. I will have to admit, the impulse was driven by more by my love for film than budding love of fashion. There is a new documentary coming out called "The September Issue" which is about Anna Wintour, the legendary editor of Vogue (for anyone who's seen "The Devil Wears Prada," she is the basis for Meryl Streep's character.) Anyway, I recently saw a trailer for the doc (as well as a 60 Minutes interview with her back in the Spring) and was very intrigued.

So I picked up a copy of said issue on impulse on afternoon while browsing through Barnes and Noble. A couple of days ago, I poured myself a glass of wine and started browsing. What I love about flipping through the pages is how each designer has his or her own distinct style (you can put a Dolce and Gabanna photograph next to a Marc Jabobs without the label and you'll definitely know who's who) there is a cohesiveness to the whole issue. This is cutting-edge style as it's being defined right now.

I still don't know how it all works, what makes something a trend while something else fall flat, but I feel better about depending on my smarts to help compensate for my inherent lack of fashion. I can tell you heels on shoes are now straight sticks affixed into the center of a heel, and most of the models resemble the lead singer from Missing Persons, sans the electrical tape. I'm not saying this to mock, honestly, I think it's kind of cool.

I just hope to God big, puffy sleeves aren't coming back into style. Seriously.

Foot Heater Weather...

2009-09-01T16:09:00.003-04:00

Some people just know - creepy old ladies with one glass eye who, in psychological thrillers, can accurately predict the coming of winter by merely squinting their eyes (or eye...), war vets who can predict rain by a slight tingling feeling around the piece of shrapnel lodged deep in their thigh.

For me it's my feet. My feet can tell me, no matter how much warmth I've generated overnight or how many layers of socks I stuff them in, that Fall is here.

And Fall seems to have officially ascended upon us, because I woke up this morning compelled to dig out my seven-inch square ceramic heater. While I'd rather not have to use it, I love this thing. In the winter, it follows me throughout the day. Sitting at my desk, checking emails in the morning, eating meals at my kitchen table, to work (depending on the place), and, finally, stretched out into the plug closest to the chair where I watch television.

The worst are times when I am working somewhere where, understandably, having these devices hooked up en-masse creates an enormous fire hazard. Then I'm just extra careful in my smuggling.

I'm sure we're still due a few Indian Summer Days, those don't-waste-em-let's-get-outside-quick delights, but I'd say you're pretty safe to change out the wardrobe and let the kids bust out the Grannimal corduroy combo.

(Do they still make Grannimals?...)

Helloo Colummbuss!

2009-08-27T09:10:00.005-04:00

So I took my eleven year-old goddaughter to see the Jonas Brothers Wednesday night.

While I was never the biggest boy-band follower, I find it difficult to pass up opportunities to be "the cool 'aunt'." Okay, now that I think about it, I might have to take that back. I did see Rick Springfield two years in a row, when I was twelve and thirteen, and appropriately swooned (albeit quietly in the awkward-girl manner... just because I wasn't a screamer doesn't mean I didn't know all the lyrics to every song and totally understand his pain when wrote that song about his Dad dying.)

Anyway.

What I loved most about the evening was observing the blend of how some things have changed tremendously, and other things remain exactly the same. The main difference, it should be no surprise, was the difference in technology. Verizon had this texting "station" set up in the lobby where you could send a text that would be displayed, one after another after another, on a big screen up in the arena. We got there early so we saw, perhaps, 1400 individual texts, most variations on the same theme - Scream if you love the Jonas Brothers... scream if you wanna marry Joe... Scream if you're from Upper Arlington... Despite the predictability of the message, it was impossible not to look away. My personal favorite was Scream if UR not here.

Kid after my own heart.

Another difference was the complexity of the staging. When I was twelve, it was a stage, a banner in the background, and some pyrotechnics that shot up from the floor. Any "special effects" were performed by the artists themselves (usually reduced to scaling their own equipment.) In the past several years, live shows have been taken to a whole other level. The Jonas Bros stage was a sprawling feat of set-design that took up a good chunk of the arena floor. The center stage also revolved in two directions (which, honestly, made me a bit nauseous, but I'm sure didn't bother the little girls at all.)

What remained the same, I was pleased to experience, was the genuine excitement of seeing a live show. I love the impractical enthusiasm that still exists only in the young or the profoundly naive. I played along, standing in the throng near the backstage door - certain that the Brothers were long inside the building - happy to relish in the optimism of what might happen. We rarely experience that emotion as adults and I kind of miss it. So, when asked, "Where do you think Nick should sign my t-shirt?" I took an earnest look and pointed to a space that looked good and said, "Here." "I thought so too," she said with a satisfied grin.

Another thing that remains unchanged is crowds still eat it up when you say their name. Doesn't matter the context - "Hello Columbus!" or "We love Columbus!" or even a chatty, "When we arrived in Columbus..." - we can't help ourselves.

70 West...Way Out West

2009-08-23T15:09:00.003-04:00

This past week I had an extrodinary opportunity to accompany a friend to Vail, Colorado (well, it was Edwards, but there are a lot of little teeny community/towns out there and Vail is the closest that people have heard of) to help prepare a home for ski season.

It was stunningly gorgeous out there. Although I used to ski back in high school, I was mediocre at best and certainly a place like Vail in the winter would be wasted on me. But being there in the summer is something all together different. It seems made for simply finding yourself in an elevated position and taking in the view (okay, so there are plenty of people hiking and mountain biking and such, but I was there to work so my leisure time was spent gaping at the landscape.)

Even the Wal-Mart seemed almost quaint nessled in the foothills of a huge mountain range.

While running errands one day, it occured to me that we were driving on Route 70, the very same Route 70 that runs just a few miles from my home. There was something very grounding about this revelation in a very freeing sort of way, as though I were still on a sort of tether, albeit a very long tether.

Perhaps I'm just finding a way to reconcile these twin desires of wanderlust and sentimentality.

Another Love Letter to the CAPA Summer Movie Series

2009-08-15T14:22:00.002-04:00

So much for the break... Sometimes inspiration just comes when it comes...

Went to see Wings at the Ohio last night. It was magical and important on many levels.

First of all, Wings was the first Best Picture Academy Award winner. Anyone who knows me knows my life-long immersion into all things Oscar and how important this ritual was/is to my family.

It was also the only silent film ever to win an Oscar. While I don't have a huge personal knowledge of silent film, I have been increasingly smitten with the silent-film-score, and the concept that there used to be people who worked in movie houses whose job it was to accompany the film on a piano or organ. For the past ten years, on and off, I've attended a trade show of sorts, the Cinevent, held at the Ramada in north Columbus. While I initially just wandered around the memorabilia room, occasionally I'd slip into showings of silent films. Once I discovered there would be a person playing the score live, I made it a point to see a couple every year. I've come to learn that sometimes there is specific sheet music for a specific film, but very often it has been lost and the accompanist is left to improvise according to the action.

Not an easy feat.

That was the case last night. The Ohio's "house" organist, Clark Wilson, who always plays for a half-hour before every show, played for the entire two-and-a-half hour epic. He played it all from memory. Talk about smitten. I didn't even notice this until my date leaned over and said, "How can he possibly remember all of that."

Speaking of which, while I'm not inclined to go into the direct details of my personal life in this medium, I will say, having a date at the Ohio with someone you really like doesn't get much better.

There's really no reason not to try to go. There are nine more movies. Perhaps I'll see you at Evil Dead II, Steel Magnolias or South Pacific.

Bit of a Brain Break

2009-08-13T14:15:00.003-04:00

I suppose, for all intent and purposes, this could be considered another "cheater post." Maybe. Bottom line is, I've started a couple entries, but all have been rather lackluster attempts at some typical meditation on daily life that this blog has become.

But, I've also managed to complete a manuscript lately. A draft, but, by far, the longest and most intensive thing that I've written. It is now in the hands of readers, and I am compelled to take a little rest until I ramp back up into revisions.

Feels good, though. Real good.

Viva La Jupiter Jump

2009-08-06T07:13:00.002-04:00

In almost forty years of life, I have missed the Ohio State Fair only one time, and that was back in 1978 when my parents went to Europe and my brother and I went to stay at our grandparents in Chillicothe (and even then, I'm wondering why we didn't finagle a little day-trip down to Columbus...)

Anyway, I've been twice this year, once with a friend a night (I haven't trolled the Midway since I was like seventeen, so that was pretty fun) and then yesterday with my mother (right when it opens, as is our custom.)

Instead of reporting on my goings-on, I thought I'd just offer some suggestions of some of my favorite things to maybe assist those who still need to go (you've got until this Sunday...)

If you think you want to go, but don't want to fight the crowd, consider going early. Gates open at 9 (although, it should be noted a lot of the buildings and things don't open until 10 or 11.) But here's what you can do. Have someone drop you off at the big Ohio gate at 11th Ave (there's a big turn-around for easy drop-off/pick-up.) Once inside the gate, you can go directly to the Mini Donut stand locate right in front of the Commercial Building. Get a bag of mini-donuts (there's enough to split) and a coffee and sit on one of the near-by picnic tables.

The Natural Resources Park is right behind the Commercial Building. It is open early. You can wander around the park, see Smokey the Bear although he's "sleeping" so you don't get the full affects of kids freaking out when he speaks their name (a brilliant bit of human coordination in action going on in this bit, like watching a good con act operate.) New this year is man-made kayak pond right in the middle of the park. I looks like they hold informational classes for people who want to learn. If it's still not 10 by the time you come out, you can wander through the Rabbits and Roosters building, say you saw some live things.

Food - Of course, it's hard to go wrong with Fair Food (unless you get the cheese on a stick; seriously, it's like a soggy piece of cornbread with a heap of runny cheese at the bottom...) but you should consider some of the things you can only get at the Fair. My all-time favorite is the Swiss cheese sandwich at the Dairy Building. Not much to it, but it is fresh, fresh, fresh (oh, it also contains a smear of butter, which freaks some people out, but I personally like it.) Equally good at the Dairy Building is a strawberry ice cream. I usually just have a bite of my mom's.

A piece of corn is also a great choice. My friend Kim used to get a piece every year when we were growing up. I declined, but now realize it was because I couldn't get over the smell of burning husks. But it doesn't taste like burning; it tastes like good, Ohio-grown corn. There are a couple of Bulk Candy bullpens. What's good about these is you can typically find candy you can't seem to find anywhere else (for me it's chocolate bullseyes and vanilla Tootsie Rolls.) Be warned, though, it's all pay-by-the-pound, they give you a basket and send you through a maze. Impulse-buying is very easy to do. You will be shocked to find that you just purchase twelve dollars in candy and will be too embarrassed to go back and replace it (my lesson from a few years ago...) Go easy.

A word on the exhibits. I hate when people go off and trash the Fair in a "it's not like it used to be." Those people tend to leave out all of the good things that replaced the crappy stuff back in the day. But, I will say the things like the crafts and things have dwindled considerably in volume and quality, so that's a little sad.

Likewise, the era of the etched locker-mirror is also over, and seemingly not replaced with a contemporary equivalent. My friend Bridie's mom mailed me one with the MTV logo with a note (I was cleaning out the basement. Bridie said I should mail it to you.) Of course I equally remember Def Leppard and Van Halen-adorned mirrors as well... There were plenty of over-sized, inflatable baseball bats, but, they seemed destined for another demographic.

I was, however, delighted to walk by one of the many rides flinging teenagers about and hear the song "The Final Countdown."

It's been several years since I've braved any rides (more a matter of the "temporary" nature of the rides than the rides themselves, althought there is that.) But the Sky Ride is a nice way to end the day, especially if you're there at the end of the night and you can get on at dusk.

I asked my mom if there were things my brother and I particularly liked to do at the Fair as kids. "Well, you always liked the rides," she said thoughtfully. "Most of them, but those inflatable ones in particular. If there was one of those in the vicinity, anywhere you went, your shoes were off and you were in it."

Old School Ode #6 - Riding the Window

2009-07-29T14:59:00.003-04:00

This is for the 35 and over crowd...

I've been watching Mad Men Season 2 on DVD, ramping up for the upcoming Season 3, and every time there is a shot of someone in a car, I can't help but think of the backseat window. Remember being allowed to crawl up into that tent-like space of glass and upholstery and bake in the sun? It wasn't even taboo or rebellious, it was simply a fact of riding in the family car.

The first family car I can remember was a chocolate brown 1971 Plymouth Fury. As if that couldn't be beat in size, my Dad then traded that in for a emerald green 1974 Cadaliac Coupe DeVille. The thing was a living room on wheels. The biggest thrill was when my brother became, literally, too big to fit himself in the window. Then it became all mine. The only problem became the inevitable fight when my dad would have to hit the breaks, sending me flying through the air and on top of my brother. Not my fault.

Obviously, I can understand the neccessity for change (and the very moment someone chimes in with a story of a friend of the family who was gravely injured this way, the bliss will be gone forever.) Still. The memory of something so common and yet so dangerous and now atiquated.

Riding in the hatchback of the Chevette was simply not the same.

Vicky Christina Barcelona

2009-07-28T12:11:00.003-04:00

So I rented the Woody Allen movie before I went on my trip, so that I would have some idea of the landscape. But then I stopped it half-way through because I was irritated by the dialogue (after forty years of filmmaking, Allen still insists on characters who speak in the neurotic, superior, brain tumble, only now it comes out the of the mouths of gorgeous twenty-somethings... but that's for another post...)

Anyway, once I got home, I found myself curious as to how certain places that I visited might have been portrayed in the film. So I put it in my Netflix queue. It showed up in my mailbox the other day. It was pretty interesting to realize how many things shifted into context. There really is a sort of "tourist-y" element to the film that appeals to me. It doesn't pretend to be authentic to Catalonian daily life. Instead it is told through the perspective of two Americans traveling abroad. They even did "tourist-y" things like Park Guell, Sagrada Familia, and La Padrera. It occurred to me that this was kind of like setting a movie in New York and having the characters be enthralled with the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building.

But, again, I found this an interesting, authentic even, way of portraying the way we (including the filmmaker, I assume) discover new places and then burrow down into them once the basic landscape is covered.

Still. I did find myself fast-forwarding through a lot of the dialogue. Geez.

The Day the Earth Stood Still

2009-07-25T21:26:00.004-04:00

Well, it's finally here... CAPA Summer Movie Series!

Yay!

And last night, Tom and I went to see the 1951 Sci-Fi classic. Okay, so I'll admit I didn't know much about the film except the fact that it starred Michael Rennie (and I only knew that because of the opening song from the Rocky Horror Picture Show that goes Michael Rennie was there the day the earth stood still, and told us where we stand...) and that it had a giant robot.

But I didn't care. I was just glad to be in the "air-conditioned splendor of the mighty pleasure-dome" that is the Ohio Theatre. What was super-cool was being able to play "host" to a first-timer, telling the tale of how I sat under the giant chandler in 1980 watching Gone With the Wind with my mother and watching it shake, only to find out later that Columbus had experienced an earthquake that no one felt except those in high places.

So one down. Oh, and if you go, the best seats are the front section in the balcony. You've gotta get there early because they fill up fast. People actually get there and camp out with a book. But the organist starts playing half an hour before show time.

Totally worth it.

Next up, Rebecca on Wed Aug 5th. I've already got one taker....

Tapas, Tapas, Tapas.

2009-07-23T17:42:00.004-04:00

In Barcelona, the big meal of the day is "Siesta", which takes place between 2 and 4 in the afternoon. Businesses close down and waiters are in no hurry to take your order (also, they are paid a livable wage and do not depend on tips to make up for their salary, which means they don't "have" to like you either.) Being on a trip made these outings very lingering and pleasurable.

Because they eat so late in the day, "dinner" is a lighter meal, between 8 and 10 at night. And the name of the game is tapas, small dishes that can be ordered and shared. This is what we did most nights. What made it nice for me is that I've not had a lot of exposure to authentic Spanish food, so it was good that everyone threw out a few choices from the menu and we shared them.

Among my favorites were bombas (little deep-fried potato-y things), Spanish omlette (overcooked version of a regular omlette that can be sliced like a pizza), Spanish almonds (softer than ours, almost square), and, I can't believe I'm saying this, but baby squid were pretty delicious.

I have always had a very midwestern pallate, so I'm pretty proud of myself for being "experimental" (especially with the baby squid advertised "in its own ink.")

Home from Barcelona!

2009-07-21T13:50:00.003-04:00

Hello Folks.

For those of you who didn't know about my trip, I traveled to Barcelona, Spain for twelve days with the MFA program at Spalding University during their "residency abroad" program. As a student, I attended the Paris trip two years ago and had a life-changing experience. This time, I went as a PGRA (post graduate resident assistant.) Hard as it is to admit, this experience was even better. I just got in last night after traveling all day and am still in the process of acclimating to being home. I suspect it will take some time to organize my thoughts and pictures, but am looking forward to sharing my experience.

My first impressions were how very large and metropolitan the city is. Also, it is located right on the coast of the Mediterranean, which gives it an added appeal. Can't wait to write in more detail.

In the meantime, I am glad to be home.

Another Cheater Post...

2009-07-08T09:43:00.004-04:00

So I'm headed out of town (I realize I'm probably not supposed to publicly announce that, so I'll disclaimer it by saying I have someone staying at my house and my neighbor once tackled a guy who was stealing another neighbor's mower in the middle of the night and sat on him until the police came....)

Anyway, hopefully I'll be able to post from the road with some interesting stories.

If not, I'll check in when I get home!

Happy 4th!

2009-07-04T07:33:00.003-04:00

A remembrance.

When I was a kid, our family would go to my Nan and Pap's, along with my aunt and uncle and cousin. They lived at the top of this hill and owned a decent chunk of the surrounding property. After cooking out (in the attached garage to avoid the heat), we would drag our lawn chairs out into the gravel driveway and wait for it to get dark.

My dad and uncle would go about setting up the fireworks while my brother, cousin, and I dug out the "snakes" (those black disk-like things that expanded into ropey smears on the sidewalk.) At dusk, everyone was in place. There were always a decent mix of cheap and more elaborate fireworks. Most worked the way they were advertised. Only one time did I feel at ill-at-ease, when a flying saucer device came shooting into the garage just over our ducked heads and smashed against the wall.

I should re-phrase that. It was the only time I felt ill-at-ease that night around my dad and uncle. My Pap was another story. He liked setting off the pinky-sized firecrackers that came braided together in packs of like fifty. Someone decided to give him a pack and a candle, a lopsided Christmas tree candle. He sat there throughout the night, lighting one after another, tossing them wherever he please.

Wherever he pleased.

Now, he never directly threw any fireworks at any of us, but he would routinely toss them into the gravel in front of your chair, at my Nan's feet as she brought out a tray of red, white, and blue cupcakes, and or into the smoldering remains of the grill. While I'm sure my mom considered taking away his candle, I think secretly we were all more than a little amused.

As long as one didn't end up in your lap.

Happy Independence Day!

I'm so proud, Comfest

2009-07-01T12:04:00.002-04:00

For you out-of-towners, Comfest (short for the Community Festival) is a Hippy-meets-Hipster gathering held in a small park in the Short North District of Columbus. In a nutshell, it is back-to-back bands, tents with political activism next to skirt-and-jewelry tents, food, and a Big-Gulp-sized beer in a souvenir mug displaying the Comfest logo winner (which always seems to resemble the last year's design, but not exactly...)

Good times, indeed.

According to their website, the festival has been in existence since 1972. But everyone I know started going in the early nineties. You could count on Mary Adam 12 being the headliner and you could easily meet up with people by saying "we'll be near that one tree by the road near the mainstage." In 2000, I was able to play Frisbee with some friends.

Not any more. And while my aging, curmudgeonly side finds this problematic (parking nightmares, long food lines, and a growing intolerance for drunken unpredictability), the young-at-heart optimist in me is thrilled (more bands, more food, growing mix of people co-existing peacefully.)

Every year it has gotten more and more populated, the festival literally bursting its borders and into downtown Columbus. But when I saw that the formerly modest "I Wish You Jazz" tent had been upgraded to a full-fledged stage at the corner of Goodale and Park, and the crowd ahead was officially a sea of heads, I thought how cool it was to be witnessing something grow, instead of lamenting a decline.

I did manage to find my friends, but not without significant cell-phone navigation. If you are interested in seeing photos of the bands, my friend Eric is posting his at www.flickr.com/photos/ericbroz (and managed to serve on the 12-2 AM clean-up crew... his energy and enthusiasm is unmatched, especially since he turned 40 last year and my turning 40 this year was my excuse for leaving at 8:30 one night...)

I do regret not getting a Comfest mug. Eric had just exited the line when I met up with him and I didn't want to wait. So if someone's got an extra they're willing to part with, I'd be willing to buy someone a Northstar chicken basil burrito in exchange.

RIP Boom Box

2009-06-25T07:19:00.011-04:00

Technologically delayed as I am, I do realize this is news to no one.

But I guess I always took for granted that one would always just be there, somewhere on the shelves of my nearby K-Mart when something went wrong with my old one. Not so. At least not the same form.

A few months ago I'd accidentally launched my old boom box off my bed in my sleep. I sometimes listen to audiobooks before I go to bed. Apparently that night it lead to some restless dreams and... Well, let's just say it's no longer functioning.

I have other devices. I love my iPod, and frequently listen to things on my computer. But the boom box is the thing I drag around with me - out in the yard pulling weeds, digging through my garage in search of something of my brothers, in the basement doing laundry - listening to books-on-tape I check out from the library.

So when my old one died, I went out to get another one. The standard know is a portable player with a spot for your iPod. Makes sense, and I'll probably eventually get one of these, but it doesn't help with the library audio books. So I asked a clerk, who was nice but treated me as though I'd come looking for flint-sticks to make fire. Together we found one portable player close to what I was looking for. But it only played CDs. No tape deck.

That's when I discovered it was really over.

Now, I know it's become an 80s cliche' - the tiny, zipper-clad break dancer with the boom box the size of a filing cabinet perched on his shoulder - but there was something incredibly liberating about being able to take music "out of the bedroom" which was where everyone I knew listened to albums. There were portable radios, sure, but you were at the mercy of the local DJs. In every group there was an opportunity to create a "personal soundtrack."

When I turned sixteen, I got carnations from my first boyfriend. For at least a year I carried cassette tapes around in the empty flower box and got attention about both. I drug that thing to band camp, parties, sleepovers, and weekend youth group retreats. I knew others who hauled their tapes around in a duffel bag.

Surely I'll get up to speed on downloading my audio-books on my iPod, but I'm sure going to miss grabbing that handle in my hand, finding just the right placement on the pavement (or flower bed, or dryer) and punching the play button with just the right amount of pressure.

RIP boom box...

Ushering in the Era of the Reasonably-sized Cookie

2009-06-22T11:18:00.003-04:00

I am currently sitting in Panera, enjoying a bottomless cup of coffee and one of their new offerings, the Petite Cookie. In fact, I specifically came to Panera today because of the petite cookie. I had a few decent leads on a few things, and wanted to treat myself with a little taste of toffee nut oatmeal or a perhaps a white chocolate "duet."

I wouldn't have done this before, gone to a coffee shop specifically for a cookie, because it has been impossible to find a cookie smaller than an average hubcap. It goes along with the general audacity ushered in in the mid-90s when one day it was suddenly perfectly normal to pay $1.75 for a 79 cent-worthy cup of black coffee.

And the tip jar. Seriously. That took some serious nervy genius to impliment the tip jar at a coffee joint. I feel that it's somehow supposed to balance out the fact that you are being served by someone with a PhD in Latin. Not that I am opposed to earning advanced degrees in things less than marketable... I have a Bachelors degree in Theatre and a masters in Creative Writing, after all... But seriously, the gal behind the counter at Chick Fil-A at the mall is running around just as much and I don't tip her.

I don't mean to be so snarky, I don't want this to become one of those kinds of blogs where I devote 1500 to how someone cut me off in traffic. But seriously, the $2.89 cookie is nothing more than pure, obvious greed. I dare propose that the complexities of the collapsing housing market and economy in general can be reduced to the over-sized cookie...

Which brings me to the delightful discovery of the Petite cookie offered at Panera. Just the perfect size, and .49 cents a piece. I even get two - a sugary chocolate or toffee nut, and a shortbread to cut the richness a bit.

I spark of hope for less than a buck. I think things are looking up.

My Fleeting Homeless Guy

2009-06-20T12:09:00.003-04:00

First, a little history. When it comes to people asking for money at freeway exits, my response is inconsistent. On one hand, I was raised by parents who are generous givers, and whom always roll down the window and give something. On the other hand, the campaign of a charity non-profit "give real change" (encouraging folks to give to them instead for the most effective use of funds) has always remained in my head. Of course, so has that fact that I have not yet ever given to this organization. Needless to say, pulling up next to someone holding a sign asking for help tends to fill me with a blend of anxiety, guilt, and ambivalence.

Anyway, on to the story at hand. I met him a couple of years ago. As soon as I began to slow to the traffic light, he reminded me of someone I might have worked with at the post office. I knew he wasn't, be the fact that he looked like he could have, somehow made me drawn to him.

So I rolled down my window and gave him some money and went on. The next day, I saw him again. This time I said, "Hey, what's your name?" I've never asked someone at an exit ramp his name. "Rambo," he answered. "Come again?" I said, thinking, Rambo, like the movie character? "Rambo," he confirmed.

The next time, I pulled up, I said, "Hey Rambo, how're ya doin today?" "Pretty good," he said, enthusiastically. "I had to spend the night in jail, but they washed my pants!" he said, smoothing his hand across the pant leg of worn jeans for effect. I jokingly told some friends that I admired his optimism. Later that night, I felt like a jerk for being condescending. Obviously this man was not some made-for-television caricature, and I knew better than to enter into some distorted fantasy of his life.

Still. There was something about this particular guy. Sometimes I'd come by his exit and there'd be someone else and I would be mad, like someone was infringing on my friend's territory. One day I came by and said, "How's it goin, Rambo." Well, something had happened to his tarp, it had gotten ripped and he was pretty pre-occupied by it. I thought, I can get this guy a new tarp. So I said goodbye, went home, and tried to figure out what I was going to do. I decided I would go back and ask him what he needed, maybe a tent? So I threw some things in a bag - some socks, a sweatshirt, a t-shirt or two - and drove back.

No Rambo. No more Rambo the next day. Or the next or the next. Soon, I forgot about it.

About a year later, I saw him. I rolled down my window, and like an old friend said, "Rambo! Where've you been!?" sticking out my arm to touch him. "Grove City!" he replied, as though it was the most exotic place and not just the nearest Columbus suburb. He grabbed my arm and I wasn't alarmed. I went home, dug the bag out from the bottom of my closet and went back. Gone again.

Then I got a new job and started taking 670. Several months passed. Then one day I was running errands and saw him at the bus stop right around the corner from my house. The first thing I noticed was how badly sunburned he was. I guess that's obvious, being outside all day, everyday, but it was worse than I'd ever seen. I was stopped at a light in the opposite direction and just watched him. He was agitated, pacing back and forth. I turned and passed him.

My first instinct was to give him a lift. Then my practical side kicked in, figuring it was not the best idea to allow an agitated homeless man into my car, connection or not. I was almost home when I thought I could at least turn back and give him some money. So I did. Rambo was gone. Probably on the bus, but who knew. That was last fall.

So yesterday I saw him, at the intersection of Wilson and Broad, near the bus stop. Again, I was driving the opposite direction. I should have just turned around. Instead I rushed home, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, stuffed the rest of the bag with snacks, and shoved a Popsicle in the top and headed out. By now you can see where this is headed. He was gone.

I'm not sure what this all means. Obviously there is something to this man's behavior that I am alternately fascinated by and then ashamed of myself for possibly exploiting. Perhaps I just need to remember the name of that organization and make a regular donation.

Viva La Chick Flick

2009-06-16T13:53:00.002-04:00

So last night I was across the street at my friend Brooke's, and she handed me a stack of DVD's I'd loaned to her. Among them was In Her Shoes, the Cameron Diaz/Toni Collette/Shirley Maclaine show from a few years ago. "This isn't mine," I said. Puzzled, Brooke finally answered, "Right, it's my mom's. But you should borrow it; I think you'll really like it."

I was hesitant. "You'll love it," usually fills me with the instant skepticism I get from my mom when I say, "you won't like it." On one hand, here's a built-in aversion to being categorized. On the other, I know from too much experience that I'm often disappointed when going in with raised expectations.

But I took the movie. For one, my TV is officially out (I'm riding out getting a new TV or converter box until I cave, probably when the new season starts in the fall...we'll see.) However, I'd heard that the movie was good, better than one might expect from something clearly marketed as a "chick flick." Then again, I'd heard the same thing about The Holiday, another Cameron Diaz film with Kate Winslet, and, god, was that a drippy, predictable, insulting mess...

But. In Her Shoes, a totally different story. It's a terrfic film, a great story, with rich subtle undertones, and yes, explores the lives of not one but three women. I'll admit, it takes on pretty cliched territory - two women (sisters) at opposite ends of the smart-to-pretty bell curve who are wounded from the same life event. But it's also very true. From the beginning of time it seems smart girls just want to be found attractive and pretty girls want to be taken seriously, all the while using the inert pretty/smart ness as a weapon against the other. And of course, all damaged people seem to be ultimately haunted by the same major life-events rooted in childhood. But we never seem to tire of seeing this dynamic played out (well, as well as it's done with skillful dialog, acting, and direction...)

Speaking of which, it's directed by Curtis Hanson (who directed LA Confidential and Wonder Boys and 8 Mile.) I highly recommend any of those as well.

And I'm going to try to remain a little more open to more of those "you should see this..."

Tom Petty Was Right...

2009-06-13T19:28:00.005-04:00

...About waiting, that is (but probably other stuff too, but that's for another post...)

I had a job interview last week. On Friday actually. It was significant because the job was the first "full time/permanent" position I've been in consideration of (without a built-in end date going in) in...well, I know, but I'm almost too embarrassed to say....

But it was a big deal. And it went great. I walked in and felt comfortable. Now, I can usually go into any place and "find my way" in it, no matter how short the time I'll inhabit it. But this was different. Perhaps it was eagerness at the opportunity mixed with more than just a hint of desperation in this unshaky job market. But I'd like to think it was more than that. The job is a marketing/project manager hybrid at a financial insurance company. And still, the place was filled with art and interesting people (not to suggest financial/insurance people can't be interesting... Still, the stereotypes typically exist for a reason.) But, as I always seem to say, I can't resist people who "aren't what they seem."

So I got there, spent about five minutes mesmerized by the intricate painting in the reception area, and was lead through a maze of old, converted apartments and into a small conference room. It was me at the head of the conference table with eight other people. I'm glad I didn't know that going in, I think I would have acted differently. Instead, people just kept coming in and shaking my hand and handing me business cards.

No matter how many interviews I go on, I still seemed to get tripped up on opening interview questions. And I usually know how they're going to start: "So, tell us about yourself..." I think it's because there is something too big and broad and un-nerving about this question. Think about it. The person asking has your resume right in front of them. They've allegedly read it, or you wouldn't be here. My inclination is to say, "what would you like to know?" But that would come off pretty snarky. Or clueless. But with this place, I just kinda started. I said, "perhaps I could just go over the history of my experience, touching on relevant things along the way." I've never said that before. I've never been so pro-active before. I didn't talk in circles and, although I could feel my face getting red, I could somehow feel I wasn't breaking out in hives, but instead just changed skin tones (which I confirmed in the car mirror on the way home...)

I do know they won't be making a decision soon, which also works in my favor as I am slated to go to Barcelona in July. Regardless of how it works out, it felt good to feel that, for perhaps the first time, that my career path of varied experience might work to my favor.

I'd still like to know sooner than later...

CAPA Summer Movie Series

2009-06-10T06:50:00.004-04:00

It's that time... Well, not quite yet. The movies don't start until July, but the cycle starts the moment I pick up my pocket-sized, accordion-style pamphlet at the Columbus Arts Festival.

I love the summer movie series. For those of you who don't live in Columbus, or who are unaware of this awesome phenomenon, every year CAPA selects a couple dozen classic films to be screened at the grand Ohio Theater downtown. My mom used to take my brother and I growing up. I do not remember my first film, but the most memorable was Gone With the Wind and not simply because it is a quintessential film. This was 1980 and Columbus experienced a mild earthquake that few people could even feel unless they were in a tall building. [I'm not lying here, you can look it up...] We were in the balcony, under the giant chandelier that shook slightly, but being directly under the two-ton glass fixture was pretty un-nerving. I thought the building was falling down. But then it stopped. And we continued to watch the last hour of movie, only discovering what had happened when the paper arrived the next morning.

I've had other great experiences there too - a terrific first date with a significant boyfriend seeing An American in Paris, seeing Some Like it Hot for the first time and being positively spellbound by every bit of it. Kip and I saw Animal House one year and a group next to us had come in full toga regalia. Dad and I saw Young Frankenstein, his absolute favorite film, and I sat there delighted to watch him laugh so hard and lines he's heard hundreds of times.

I love the recent inclusion of "crowd classics" - films that are not critical darlings but crowd favorites. Last year they screened Top Gun which I missed because I was out of town. But that would have been so great. Top Gun is perhaps the perfect date movie ever made.

Every year, I get my list and plan to see about ten and end up getting to go to maybe two or three. Here's the list. The ones highlighted are the ones I really want to see and am available for. If anyone wants to go, let me know and I'll make some group plans. Especially if you've never been. It's the best $4 you'll spend all summer.

July 17 - 19 = Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
July 22 - 23 = The Awful Truth
July 24 = The Day the Earth Stood Still
July 24 (late night) = Slap Shot
July 25 - 26 = Show Boat
July 29 - 31 = Dirty Harry
Aug 1 (10 AM) = Cartoon Capers
Aug 1 - 2 = King Kong (1939)
Aug 5 = Rebecca (Hitchcock)
Aug 7 = Dirty Dancing
Aug 8 -9 = The King and I
Aug 12 = The Male Animal
Aug 13 - 14 Wings (Silent film, 1st Academy Award Best Pic)
Aug 15 - 16 = Raiders of the Lost Art
Aug 19 - 20 = Spellbound (Hitchcock)
Aug 21 = Gold Diggers of 1933
Aug 21 (late night) = Evil Dead II
Aug 22 (10 AM) = Cartoon Capers
Aug 22 - 23 = Ben-Hur
Aug 26 - 27 = Road to Bali
Aug 28 = Steel Magnolias
Aug 29 - 30 = South Pacific

Old School Ode #5 - Field Day

2009-06-03T15:50:00.003-04:00

For being a child so completely unsuited for (and uninterested in) athletic activity, I loved the concept of Field Day. However, for having such a strong feeling, I have surprisingly few specific memories. But they are strong. They are of the obstacle course and construction paper winner's ribbons. Perhaps this is because I won a ribbon or two in the obstacle course.

There is something inherently awesome about the obstacle course. Not the Army or Battle of the Network Stars style, where the feats are still based in athletic achievement. But playground style, where the more ridiculous the task the better the course. Run over there, spin around seven times, and run (without falling down or throwing up) over to that place over there to limbo under an impossibly low broomstick, skip hard to the pogo stick, bounce three times, put on a pair of men's pants, fill them up with blown-up balloons, and head for the finish line.

Good times.

I was reminded of all this because I passed by West Broad School this afternoon and there was no doubt today was field day. All I could pick out as I tried to slow down and take it all in, was a race involving hippity-hops and another activity involving copious amounts of tennis balls. Had I not had a time schedule to keep, I surely would have turned back to check it out more thoroughly.

And just last week, when I was over visiting my friend Brooke across the street, her son Ely asked if I wanted to watch him go through the obstacle course he had just finished assembling. Of course I did. His dad agreed to participate. The first "obstacle" was crawling under a A-frame thing just big enough to fit a small eight-year-old boy. This did not deter Steve, who immediately uprooted the thing and flattened his son in an attempt to gain some leverage. Ely eventually wiggled his way free, ran a few circles around some pylons, putted a golf ball into a cup, and came across the finish line.

It was ridiculously beautiful.

Finding Solace in Music

2009-05-31T21:26:00.006-04:00

Now, this post is going to seem an obvious exploration to anyone who loves music, but, the older I get, the more surprised I am by the fact that I have not shed this teenage tendency. While I'm no longer inclined to run to my room, fling myself on my bed and crank up some Pat Benatar, there is a kernel of that urge in every impulse to be absorbed in something specific.

A few summers ago I spent several days in Paris. On one of our last days there, the group I was with went to Versailles. By that point in the trip, my brain was fried from a combination of jet lag, lack of sleep, grief, and an overwhelming influence of art. Walking through the vast indulgence that is Versailles, I felt incapable of processing any new information. I turned down the audio tour headset. Then I didn't feel like reading any of the signage located every couple of feet. Instead I dug out my iPod. David Byrne' 2001 release, Look Into the Eyeball, turned out to be what I needed. I floated through the rooms and felt comfortable just letting the art just wash over me in waves.

Likewise, my mom had hip-replacement surgery this past week. She did great and is recovering nicely, but I really do not like hospitals. The complication of surgery combined with an anxiety of not knowing and the tedium of waiting is an unsettling combination I find unlikely to master. On Sunday, we transported her to a rehabilitation facility, my dad driving her car, and me following behind in his vehicle. Anyone who knows my dad knows he has a nice car. Anyone who's ever riden in it knows it has an awesome sound system. Even though we were only traveling a few miles away, I came prepared, slipping Beck's Modern Guilt into my bag on the way out of my house. I got through about three songs on the way there, and finished off the rest on my way back to my parents' house. Like in Versailles, the instant the music I deliberately pooled into my ears, I felt better.

Released. Just like back in my bedroom, but in a totally new way.

Fitting in...

2009-05-27T15:20:00.008-04:00

I've always been a person enthusiastic about jumping right into organized activities and bonding with people over them. I loved going away for camp and coming home a week later with people I felt sure I'd stay connected with forever. In school I was "inside joke" girl; so much so that my yearbooks are filled with obscure references about hypothetical beach parties and nicknames that no longer make sense. Every time I go into a new work situation (which is often) I can find a lunch partner in no time at all.

And so it comes as no surprise that I have developed a great bond with folks whom I have met in my MFA program that I completed almost a year ago. I went back this week, to visit classmates who are still there, and to get a little work done uninterrupted by domestic chores and such.

Honestly I didn't know entirely what to expect. For those of you unaware of my program, it is a "brief residency" which has gained popularity in recent years by attracting mainly older and/or non-traditional students who are not in a position to pick up and move to some college town for two years to teach undergrads. Instead, there are two ten-day "residencies," twice a year, where students and faculty alike arrive from all over the United States for intensive workshopping and lectures and leave with an individual mentor whom they will work for the ensuing semester. It was everything I'd hoped it would be and more.

Still. Coming back someplace when your status has changed can be awkward. You don't want to be the loser-y burnout who is forever spotted playing hackey-sack on the Quad (okay, Spalding doesn't even have a Quad and I'll admit I've not once seen anyone playing hackey-sack...) But you get what I'm getting out.

But it turned out great. I ended up seeing most of the people I wanted to, had interesting interactions with new folk, and get an impressive amount of work done (if I do say so myself) while still managing to indulge in dinners and drinks with friends. And staying with a super cool new-ish friend who didn't mind not knowing how long I planned to "hang out."

The best thing about "fitting in" here is, like most places where people share your interests or mindset, there is no explanation needed. Most everyone just "gets it." After about ten years of feeling like a "writer" outside of this group I still find it necessary to buffer my answer with jobs I have had or am currently pursuing in order to make ends meet. It's quite lovely to not feel the need to do that.

In the same way it feels good to start singing camp songs and have someone join in. Not that I do that...often...

The Bob Seger Rejection

2009-05-22T07:48:00.005-04:00

So I have an essay called "The Bob Seger Receonciliation." It is, essentially, a short piece about three seperate bonding occurances involving Bob Seger music that forced me to reconsider being so smug about the man.

Anyway, it was one of the last pieces I wrote for my graduate collection during my MFA, and my mentor (who is very open and cool as a teacher but tends to be more traditional) really liked it, so I felt it "legitimate" enough to send out into the world of literary magazines.

In February I attended AWP, a very large writer's conference where most of the literary magazines have a table. As a writer, I find the process of walking up and down the aisles and phyically seeing the collection of publications and the people who run on work on the publicaton quite helpful. Because the "unsolicited submission" pile at most of these places is vast, much of the processes is, admittedly, a numbers game. However, I think there is something to the repeated advice that you take a look at old editions and try to place your work accordingly.

Being extroverted also helps. I have a bachelor's degree in theater. Amoung theater people, I am the wallflower. Around other writer's however, I can easily slip into loud-mouth rock star if I am not careful. But, having a knack for amusing small talk and the confidence in knowing what I want to do can give the slightest of edges.

Anyway, by the end of the conference I'd compiled a nice little list of publications and names and went home ready to match them up with the dozen or so submission-worthy essays.

Which lead me to send out a total of about twenty submissions, including "The Bob Seger Reconciliation" to a very cool, impressive reputable journal. That was in February. The lit mags are notoriously slow because of high submission rate combined with notoriously over-worked and under-paid staffs. In the past week, the rejections have started trickling in. Of course most were the sub-human two-by-three inch cheap-ass "no thanks" things that infuriate me (see end of 2/24 post...)

What I've been more pleased with, generally speaking, are the email exhanged. The editors seem to be more inclined to jot a note or two that acknowledge you are being responded to by a person and not just an elimination machine. Take the following:

Thanks for sending this for our consideration. We’ve read it with interest and have had more conversation about Bob Seger than any of us thought we ever would. In the end, this piece isn’t right for us. I’ll say, if you’d like to try us again, we’d be interested to read more of your work, though I think, compared to this piece, we’d be interested in longer work, if possible.

Isn't that nice? Makes me like this publication more and want to work towards pleasing them. Not in an obsessive, stalkery kind of way, but in a way that fuels the writing.

Just wanted to share...

A Thinking Gal's Chick Flick List - Part 2

2009-05-15T06:53:00.005-04:00

So the list picks up... (see 4/25/09 post for intro...)

Terms of Endearment - Some will say this is the quintessential tear jerker movie. And they would be right. However, it is also a brilliant portrayal of a mother/daughter who aren't that likable. They are the kind of people you wouldn't want to be stuck beside at Applebees having an argument. You'd be embarrassed for both of them. And the friends aren't all that impressive. Mostly, everyone is given a full-range of character that include complicated flaws and attractions.

The Piano - Fundamentally, this movie is a stunner of cinematography. You can't say that about many standard chick flicks. There's a blue wash over the whole thing that sets the tone for the whole thing. The love story here might be described as bizarre, but it is deeply passionate and ultimately quite tender. And that Anna Paquin, there's this terrific blend of little-kid innocence and old-soul wisdom that is hard to find in on-screen kids. There's a scene where she's telling these busy-body women this huge whopper of a lie that I can just watch again and again.

Remains of the Day - A few years ago I was working in the marketing department of a large company. My desk was at the edge of a "cave" of designers, all guys, all film fanatics. One day I mentioned my quandary of being a female film fan; that I rarely had "peers." I didn't want to discuss the upcoming Batman or Transformers or Indiana Jones movie. "Can't we, for one day, discuss the rich detail and vast scope of, say, "Remains of the Day?" I said to the copywriter who cracked me up everyday. "Um, no. No, I'm afraid we cannot to do that..." I tried to counter by saying it could be spun as a Top Gun kind of phenomenon, that kind of perfect guy/girl balance in the story of war and romance, only way, way more repressed. He wouldn't buy it... Oh, and in the movie Waiting for Guffman, one of the main characters shows off his Remains of the Day lunch box. I want one of those...

The Sweetest Thing - Now this one appeals to me because it is one of the only truly raunchy comedies starring thirty year old women. While I haven't seen women portrayed like this in film, I've worked with these women and roomed with a few in college. I haven't seen this in a while so I can't speak of the details, but I remember watching it and thinking, "Oh my God, I can't believe they're doing this." Always a good sign in my book.

Never Been Kissed - Now this is the one that is the most like a "traditional" teen comedy/chick flick combo. Drew Barrymore makes this one work because, unlike other actresses who they doll up and then put glasses on in order to signal "homely," she can actually pull off dowdy. The plot is typical, in that she is a mid-twenties journalist who disguises herself as a high school student, is embraced by the cool kids, only to learn a lesson about true friendship... But I bought it. I was right there through the transformation and didn't once roll my eyes.

So I'm not done. But I'm liking this idea of getting some movies a second look.

The Cheater Post

2009-05-08T17:25:00.002-04:00

I really do not like that I more than a week has gone by without a post...

And yet I have to leave my house in five minutes.

So I'm cheating. Admitedly, I am lame.

Lately most of my ideas (with the exception of the return to the Smart Girl Chick Flick post) are food related. I'm not sure how I feel about that except that it is probably a lighter outlet than the heavy manuscript I've been working on.

In short, Graeters now has pretzel cones.

Seriously. Pretzel cones. Genius. Go out and get one.

Happy Weekend!

Old School Ode #4 - The Ice Cream Truck

2009-04-29T21:35:00.007-04:00

I don't mean to sound all Andy-Rooney with the Did you ever notice grumpster rant, but, seriously, has anyone noticed that all of the ice cream trucks are now 1970's conversion vans plasters with stickers? Perhaps I am only speaking of my neighborhood, but seriously, there is something disconcerning about the image of children running out to buy ice cream from the same place their uncle Gary used to get high...

Anyway. It got me thinking about ice cream weather, or, more specifically Bomp Pop weather. I know it's getting close to being consistently warm when I impulsively buy a box of Bomb Pops at the grocery. Nothing says summer than the taste of red, white, and blue (or cherry, rasberry, and...what flavor is white? kind of like "palette cleanser.")

As a kid I wasn't a big ice cream truck freak. To be honest, it can be a stressful exercise for a kid - hearing the distant refrain of Farmer in the Dell, running inside to find the closest parent, pleading an urgent case, running to get the agreeing parent's closest wallet, running back outside, trying to determine the actual location of the truck, all to find yourself too late, the bumper almost out of eye range, and no energy left to run. It was just easier to get on your bike and ride up to Haney's for a Pepsi and tube of Pringles.

But, I do have one glorious ice cream truck memory.

In third grade there was this brother and sister who were new to our school. David and Dina. I don't know where they came from or whatever happened to them (my mom would know this, she remembers all of my former classmates) but I only remember that my brother and I hung around them the summer between 3rd and 4th. Dina had an end-of-the-year slumber party. They lived in the only apartment complex at the edge of our neighborhood. They had no front or backyard and this was before video games, cable and VHS. We were bored, it was hot, and there was an hour and a half before Donny and Marie came on.

We were sitting on the front steps when we heard it, the lovely tinkling beacon of hope. Dina's mom was right inside. She handed Dina a five dollar bill and we waited. The truck pulled up into the parking lot of the apartment complex. For a minute there was no sound except that of the repitive strains of Pop Goes the Weasel. Then everything changed. Doors flew open and kids we never knew existed came from everywhere and swarmed the truck.

We were first in line but stuck around and watched everyone. We told people it was our friends birthday. People made a big deal. We held up traffic. It is what I think every experience at the ice cream truck should be. Which is why I just buy the Bomb Pops at the start of each spring and have one at the end of a hot day.

Oh, and last summer I saw the ice cream "van" parked in front of the Silver Fox Lounge. Twice.

A Thinking Gal's Chick Flick List - A Sampling

2009-04-25T12:31:00.006-04:00

So my plan was to set out to create a top ten list of the "quintessential" smart-girl chick flicks. What I mean is films that have a woman (or women) as their main character and are critically acclaimed. So I made this list and sorted and re-sorted, trying to determine the perfect numbering based on staying power, personal appeal, and overall popularity.

Couldn't do it.

Ultimately I knew that as soon as I uploaded the thing there'd be a glaring omission and I'd have to back pedal and honestly, I really could be using the time to find a proper job...

So I've decided, instead, to just start out with some films I like, and let you know why I feel they deserves some attention.

My Personal Favorites
Coal Miner's Daughter - While I own this DVD, I only tend to see it when I'm in a hotel, flipping through the channels right before I go to sleep. There is something so timeless about the film's elements - the dialogue, the acting, the sets, the shots - it could have been made today. I also love that despite the rags-to-riches story, it never wallows in cliche. Sissy Spacek and Tommy Lee Jones together are a marvel. There is no part of this movie I can't watch again and again.

Postcards from the Edge - Another bio-pic (although this one is "loosely" based on Carrie Fisher's experiences as a washed-up actress coming out of rehab), this one was largely ignored when it came out in 1991. But come on, it's Meryl Streep and Shirley Maclaine. Together in the same movie. I had bought the book when I was a Junior in college and found it hysterical. When it came out on video I tried to loan it out to everyone I knew because I figured it didn't do well because of lack of marketing. But the lackluster, fake-polite response I got when people returned it made me realize it was probably never going to be a classic cult hit. There a million funny lines, but for a touching rendition of Ray Charles' "You Don't Know Me", look it up on You Tube.

Sense and Sensibility - In general, I'm not a huge fan of costume dramas. I have a hard time shifting gears into another time period and honestly I just end up getting distracted by all the decadence of the sets and costumes. But on this one, I was in right away. It's little more than women waiting around all day for people to visit, but there is the universal smart-girl/pretty-girl paradigm going on that makes it completely relatable. What gives it extra points is the dry humor and razor-sharp wit of Emma Thompson's DVD commentary. She talks about being humiliated during a screening of ninth graders in London; when it becomes obvious that she and Hugh Grant are love interests, someone shouted out, "Ew, she's old enough to be his mother." She is, in fact, only one year older than Hugh Grant. But don't get me started on age difference in Hollywood films...

Charlie's Angels (and Charlie's Angels Full Throttle) - Thinking, Lia. Really? Well, all I've got to say is I usually have to work myself up to see such and obvious, over-the-top action summer blockbuster. I have to go in saying, "It's summer, it's just for fun, get over it." But on both of these, the switch flipped and I was right there. Just the right blend of genuine girlishness and ass-kicking ridiculousness. I highly recommend it on a hot summer night after an uncalled for stressful week at work.

Thelma and Louise - Now, some people confuse this movie with an ass-kicking shoot-em up movie. Not so. Sure, one of them shoots a guy (but he was a real creep and there is a whole backstory dedicated to why), and the other's husband is a one-dimensional boffoun (but nothing happens to him), and they blow up that guy's truck (perhaps a bit harsh punishment for highway harassment...) but it's the overall filmaking that makes this one stand out. The script is nuanced and well-paced, the characters deep and developed, and, well, Ridley Scott directs. The New Mexico sky is a marvel and the slide guitar-infused score will just break your heart every time. And it's not true that all the guys are made out to be creeps. Michael Madsen is totally sympathetic as Louise's musician boyfriend and I believe it is Harvey Keitel's only "nice guy" role he's ever played.

Next Up
Terms of Endearment
The Piano
Remains of the Day
The Sweetest Thing
Never Been Kissed...

California Day Dreamin

2009-04-20T17:45:00.002-04:00

A childhood friend of mine who I don't see all that often, was coming to Huntington Beach for a conference. Knowing I am intermittenly employed, she asked if I would like to come along. As luck (or really just circumstance) would have it, I had a break between my placement "gigs." So I've come along. And here I am on a Monday afternoon, in from having roamed around my temporary "neighborhood."

One thing became very clear right away - this place is all about surfing. Now, this is not exactly a ground-breaking observation. I'm in California. Still. I'm used to seeing the trendy, rip-off California culture sprinkled all over - Jams from the 80s, the Billabong stickers on skateboards, The Beach Boys touring every state fair from Jersey to New Mexico.

Here, it's been interesting to see the vast variety of people changing into wet suits in the parking lot. And just in case you're curious, the VW bus is still king out here, and isn't necessarily a symbol of aging hippie burn out.

One thing they're not big on is WiFi internet access. Not even at Starbucks (well, they did, but you had to pay for it. You don't pay for WiFi in the Midwest...) But my search did lead me to a cool little neighborhood coffee shop (a tourist from Utah overheard me asking around and found me a place by accessing his iPod 3G.) It's a little further from the hotel than I'd like, but the walk will do me good.

'Sup

2009-04-15T08:21:00.003-04:00

Shortly after I bought my Jeep new in 2000 (after my Saturn was totalled), a co-worker informed me that I would now be obligated to particpate in what she referred to as "The Jeep Wave." The Jeep Wave is rather self-explanatory: it involves two drivers of Jeeps (Wranglers only, as far as I can ascertain) giving a salutation of acknowledgment as they pass one another on the street.

I listened politely and nodded at my co-worker, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but my first thought was, I'm not doing that. I'd imagined the roads populated with this very select kooky band of overly-enthusiastic oddballs flailing at one other. Then I forgot about it.

But almost immediately after I started driving the Jeep, I discovered she was right. The first "wave" I got was by a young guy: an unsmiling, baseball-hat-and-shades wearing, wouldn't-be-caught-dead-doing-something-uncool-looking fella. His hands were at 10 and 2, and when he passed, he brought two fingers up into a sort of modified fingers-together peace sign.

There are other variations. There is the four-fingers-up-palm-still-on-the-steering-wheel, there is the flat-out wave. Sometimes there is a nod, but it is hard to distinguish a nod at 40 mph.

And it's not just the boys, I've gotten waves from everyone - middle-aged moms, silver-haired gentleman, teenage girls on their cell phones. No one is too pre-occupied to give a wave. Usually. At first, I would only give the wave if waved to. If I gave a little wave and got no reply it made me feel oddly rejected, and I really didn't need that in my life. Then the wave just became instinctual. If I didn't get a wave back, I assumed the person wasn't paying attention, or was in the middle of a big fight, or was over the whole Jeep-waving thing, for which I simply felt sorry for them for being so cynical.

I've had my Jeep for nine years now. The Wave is strong as ever. Sometimes I'll be going to the grocery and get acknowledged half a dozen times before I even get there. It's nice.

And the Joy We Share As We Tarry There...

2009-04-10T18:20:00.004-04:00

Yesterday was Good Friday. While I have attended my childhood church regularly for the past five years (after a twenty year hiatis...) I sometimes consider myself a reluctant Christian. But I won't go into all of that now. My point is only that, when I'm outside of church my mind tends to wander into to the logical recesses of organized religion that have little to do with Faith. I am fully aware that often my commitment seems more linked to the community of people I am surrounded by and the activities planned than a true spiritual quest.

But I do believe in the music.

Perhaps that is condecending, but I believe it to be true in my heart. There is no where else on earth that I can hear music that stirs me quite like the music I hear cumulatively in church. Occassionally I am asked to give the opening Welcome and Announcements. On those Sundays, during the Prelude, I sit on a two-seater pew directly in front of the organ, the pipes directly above my head, enveloping me fully in the sound. Other Sundays, I sit next to my mother and we pick out the harmony during the hymns. Neither of us has ever bragged the best voice, but we are on pitch, loud, and, we can sing harmony.

Sometimes I play the piano, usually when the Music Director goes on vacation. We have a terrific orchestra - two keyboardists, a trumpet, trombone, clarinet, and flutist - but they get a break when he is off. Then it's just me and the grand piano. I try to pull out the old faithfuls, those hymns everyone knows and I love playing - Blessed Assurance, All Hail the Power of Jesus Name, Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee, and, of course, In the Garden.

Which brings me to this past Thursday. I attended my first Maundy Thursday service because I'd been asked to be involved in the program. I will admit that before the service I was feeling a little put out, as though I already go to church more regularly than I ever thought I would and I was working with the kids on the Easter Sunrise service program. So I was stewing a little, wondering what sort of thing I could have been doing that night instead. And then the orchestra started playing In the Garden. And I noticed that everyone who was coming in was singing to themself. And the more people noticed others singing to themselves, the louder everone became. My mood changed a little and I was patient to sit and listen and reflect.

If that's what church is, I've decided I'm okay with that for right now.

Criticizing the Criticism

2009-04-06T18:01:00.004-04:00

I started reading film reviews in the Columbus Dispatch when I was around thirteen. One summer I had a week-long babysitting gig for kids old enough to be able to play with their peers in the neighborhood and I started getting bored watching soap operas. So I started a scrapbook of movie reviews clipped from The Columbus Dispatch and People magazine and taped them to loose-leaf notebook paper. I can remember being genuinely upset when the movies I'd seen and loved uniformly received two stars. Who didn't love Sixteen Candles? The same middle-aged newspaper columnists who dismiss the mediocre audience-pleasers of today.

I'm not here to defend middle-brow blockbusters that go on to become beloved nostalgia films. I bring up the scrapbook to say that I have a significant history with reading criticism. The problem is that no one seems to criticize the criticism. Of course we delight in a rave review of something we love or blow off a stellar approval of something that bored us to no end. But I would love to see a small column, once a month even, examining what has been examined.

Sunday night I went to see Sunshine Cleaning. It was one of those right-films-at-the-right-time kind of personal films that is well-written, nuanced, and infused with passionate and gifted actors. The next morning, I was searching for the Suduko puzzle on break at work and saw a review. So I read it. The reviewer did not share my enthusiasm for the film. That's fine, I honestly have no problem with a differing opinion. What did bother me was that they got major points of the plot wrong (and then, of course, gave away the incorrect plot points.)

This has been on my mind on and off ever since. I think it is because I have toyed with the idea of writing criticism on and off for years. But I ultimately think I am not suited to it, all evidence to the contrary. I think it is because I cannot imagine the idea of one's "art" being entirely dependent upon judging someone else's art.

Everyday Pleasures #2 - Packing Your Lunch

2009-03-30T21:47:00.001-04:00

I started a new job last week. Another temporary "gig" but I like it. I'm scoring standardized tests from across the country for an educational publisher. Right now I'm grading 7th grade essay tests which I'll have to bring up again because it's been very interesting. I've also met some interesting people; a lot of overly-educated people (some with MBA's and PhD's) trying to fill in some employment gaps while looking for permanent work.

Anyway. Because my start time is a hard 8:00 and because the commute is across town, I have needed to streamline my "waking up and getting ready" process. In the past this has not been the smoothest of routines. Now, I find myself reveling in the perfect timing of a quarter pot of coffee brewed in time with a half sink-load of dishes. The thermos takes about 3/5's of the coffee and I pour the rest into a mug to take into the shower. I make a killer PB&J with 7 grain bread and fresh srawberry preserves. I went out and bought one of those soft lunch bag things - one that looks like an old-timey pail, but is fabric (and cute.) I pack fruit that is not brown. I rotate between two oreos or twenty-two (1 serving) of chocolate Teddy Grahams for dessert. I throw in a Women's One a Day Vitamin for good measure.

Sanctuary

2009-03-23T21:54:00.003-04:00

I went to the movies tonight. I've been going to a lot of movies lately. This might seem like an obvious statement but, with the exception of Oscar season, I tend to wait until things come out on DVD. But lately I've discovered a renewed interest in the theater-going experience.

I think part of it has to do with a deliberate effort to not get caught up in things that used to bother me. I'd start by counting the amount of coming attractions (not to mention the newly added commercials - over fifteen minutes! That's ...[calculation in head] __ % of the whole movie...) I try not to do that any more. Mostly, I try to come in late and coincide my entrance with the opening credits. Also, I used to be very pre-controlling of the crowd. I would exhaust myself by trying pre-determine the talkers or chair-kickers. I try not to do that any more. Not that it always works, this zen-attempt to just go, but it sure beats starting out every movie unnecessarily stressed out.

I'd forgotten how special a space the Drexel's main auditorium is. I love most theaters, just for being theaters. I'd say being in a theater is like being in church, but that's not true. Mostly because I already go to church and my experience is not the same. But there is a sacredness that I am always aware of. I tend to get my best ideas while sitting in a theater seat.

The architecture of the Drexel auditorium is not particularly grand or spectacular. But I did get the chance to sit and take it in this evening (I confused the time with one for a different cinema so I was early.) I concluded that the architecture was designed by a passionate craftsman on a tight budget. It is modest but purposefully classic in its beauty.

Because I was early, I got my choice of seats. So I picked my favorite option - the seventh seat of the seventh row, which put me pretty close to the middle. As others trickled in, an interesting thing occurred. Usually, the space in a theater is like that of an elevator, people tend to space themselves out. But the very next people (a couple) sat with only one seat between them and I. The next people did the same on the other side of me. At one point during the movie I looked around and counted sixteen people, no more than a few rows up and back. It was the most bonded I have ever felt with a crowd of strangers.

Everyday Pleasures #1 - The Shamrock Shake

2009-03-18T07:56:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was St. Pats Day. It has been years since I've actually gone out in the evening to engage in out-all celebratory merriment. I have to remind myself again and again as I'm getting ready on that morning to even wear green.

But every year, I do go through the McDonalds drive-thru and get a Shamrock Shake.

I love that it's not even advertised any more. I mean, it's McDonalds they advertise everything. And it's St. Patrick's Day. It's like someone in the advertising department just gave up one year and the lack of promotion just stuck. At the same time, it's not like there's any buzz or hype about it being this secret-handshake kind of thing either. Kinda weird. Still, I find a satisfying pleasure in suddenly remembering it's St. Patrick's Day and impulsively going to McDonalds. I keep expecting them to say "We don't have those any more." But no.

A woman in my writing group last night said she took her son a Shamrock Shake at his school after his lunch. That is the power and pleasure of a simple, special ritual. That kid will always remember that.

I will say, the Shamrock Shake has changed. It doesn't so much taste like mint chocolate chip ice cream as much as it tastes like it was flavored with Extra gum, the bright green kind that came out in the eighties. It's not that I find that flavor unpleasant. But, you know, in a gum, not a shake. Every time I took a slurp, I could not help thinking this is what it would taste like if you pryed a big wad of already chewed gum off of a dashboard somewhere and put in your mouth.

Eww, right? Still. I've already established an inertia with the Shamrock Shake that I've decided it's worth the two dollars to simply drive around all day with the pleasantly-colored whipped sensation in my cup holder...

Who's Afraid of A Clockwork Orange

2009-03-15T13:29:00.002-04:00

As a movie fan, I am frequently compelled to reconsider films I recognize as "classics" but have resisted seeing. It took me years to finally get around to watching The Godfather. Personally, I blame the surge of bad low-level mob Tarrantino rip-offs for saturating the genre for me. But, I did finally see it and was blown away (no pun intended.)

Then there is a whole other list of films I am conflicted about because I suspect they have something to teach me, either about the filmmaking or storytelling or the human condition. But they scare me. These include - The Shining, The Exorcist, Scarface, Apocalypse Now, Taxi Driver, Pulp Fiction, Eraserhead and, well of course, A Clockwork Orange.

I'm not entirely sure when A Clockwork Orange first entered my consciousness. It was released in 1971, much too early to have figured into my early life at all. By college I was certainly familiar with the image of Malcom MacDowell's eyes forced open to a barrage of images. Still, I knew very little about the plot. One night, a friend told a group of us that a friend of hers at another college was walking home by herself, very late, and a group of college guys came up behind her. One was whistling Singing in the Rain.

"Oh my God," one of my friends listening to the story said, and the teller gave an I know, right?" look.

"What?" I said, jealous to be left out.

"That's how my friend reacted," said the storyteller, "like Lia, when the guys walked past her, she just looked at them because they were staring at her, waiting for a reaction."

For those of you who don't know, there is a scene in A Clockwork Orange where the main character and his group of thugs terrorize a couple - tie up and beat the man and rape the wife - while singing Singing in the Rain (or is it whistling, I can't remember and I'm not about to go digging just to get it right...although I'm certainly not above doing this to get something correct).

While I was highly engaged in the debate over whether this friend was "saved" by not eliciting a fear response to these guys who obviously tried to scare her, I vowed never to see this movie because I specifically did not want this image in my head. Fast forward a dozen or so years. I impulsively put a Kubrick documentary in my Net Flix cue and it arrived in my mailbox one day.

Of course, the thing was loaded with Clockwork Orange clips, including the Singing in the Rain scene. At first, I relieved that it was not nearly as devistating as I'd built up these past, oh, twenty years or so. I was drawn to the excellence of the filmmaking (there is a scene where one of the thugs pushes another into a pool of water and the lighting and composition are unbelievably gorgeous - especially considering the subject matter is someone pushing someone into some water.)

So I decided to go ahead and rent the movie. And I didn't love it. Once I got over the techincal excellence (of which it holds up) I realized something. I don't avoid movies because they are "difficult." There are any number of films that I have willingly put myself through that I knew would be challenging - Leaving Las Vegas, Thelma & Louise, JFK, The Fisher King, The House of Sand and Fog, Into the Wild to name a few, but I've gone in willingly, in the attempt to deepen my world view.

When I look back up at the list of those movies I supposed to admire but am "afraid" of, I have come to understand that many represent a "look how awful we humans can be to each other." I realize that I am hesitant to accept this without some sort of hint at solution. I understand that others may argue with me on this, and that's okay.

My point is to simply say, I am no longer scared of A Clockwork Orange, but this doesn't mean I find it worthy of my admiration. Except that pool scene... and maybe those shots of the record store. And a couple of times when he speeds and slows the camera to control and enhance the pacing... Maybe i will have to watch it again. But I will fast forward throught the Singing in the Rain scene.

Old School Ode #3 - the Bicentennial Quarter

2009-03-09T22:20:00.007-04:00

I went through the drive-thru window at Wendys this afternoon. The cashier handed me change; among it a shiny silver disk etched with a Colonial drummer and star-circled victory torch.

Remember those?

The first time I ever saw one was under my pillow, in exchange for one of my teeth. I don't think I kept it (probably went right back into some sugar treat that by cause for fillings in other teeth) but I remember being enthralled by the idea of the "special edition-ness" of the thing.

I assume 1976 saw a plethora of Bicentennial over-saturation in the market place. I did a little research and came up with these promotions: The makers of Coffee Rich put out a "Bicentennial Kit" that included a copy of the Declaration of Independence and the ad headline Coffee Rich Started a Revolution in Good Taste. d-Con Insecticide included flag stickers and called themselves The People who are helping to free America from Bugs. Baskin Robbins sold red, white and blue ice cream cones.

But it wasn't all disposable trending. The Bicentennial supposedly also influenced the makers of School House Rock to launch "History Rock" (my personal favorite sub-category of that awesome show.) Come to think of it, my first lunch box was a 1776-influenced cartoon. It came with a free pack of gum.

Pulling out of Wendys, I put the quarter in the coin divot on my dashboard. I won't keep it for long, inevitably feeding it into meter when I'm running late and out of change. But its nice to see those things every once in a while...

My First Retraction...

2009-03-09T08:57:00.003-04:00

So I went by my parents house on Saturday. My dad says, "I told your mother about the fake eyelashes entry and she says her sistes never wore false eyelashes..."

"Is that a made-up story?" my mother added. Ouch.

In order to save my reputation from a James-Frey-like spanking, I take it back. I admit that I have no solid evidence that my aunts wore false eyelashes back in the 1960's and 70's. I jumped to the conclusion that the gaudy appendages came part and parcel with the masssively teased and sprayed giant hair (of which I have much evidence, by the way...)

In terms of the new wave of lashes, I saw the Watchmen over the weekend. Every woman in that movie (which, admittedly, was not many) wore them.

False Eyelashes Are the New Combover

2009-03-06T20:44:00.003-05:00

Has anyone else noticed the sheer volume of young celebrities who wear fake eyelashes? Even though it's been a trend for a few years now, I have a hard time accepting them. Now eye make-up, even the excessive, I understand. I've got a whole other entry ready to go concerning the true merits of eyeliner alone...

But the fake eyelashes, I don't understand them. Like the combover, no one's fooling anyone...

The first time it became a problem for me was in watching the Post 9/11 call in Tribute Show on television where singers and movie stars generated pledges for the families of the fallen fire fighters. Faith Hill sang a song. I don't remember the song because I could stop staring at her enormous black tangle on her face. It didn't help that she kept her eyes closed most of the time which made the things only that much more irreverent and frightening.

Now they're all over the media: on MTV (which I could just chalk up to flamboyant fashion), on television (which is harder to take when the actress in question is playing a school teacher or a nun.) Even Katie Couric has taken to donning the lazy face spiders. When she does I cannot hear a word she says. Someone on your show has a cure for cancer? Sorry, your eyelashes won't stop screaming at me. This is not unlike the inner voice that calls out combover, combover, combover while I'm watching an otherwise smart-seeming guest on Charlie Rose ... Look how far over that part is... and like four strands of hair...

Perhaps the notion of fake eyelashes seem so foreign because they skipped a generation. I've seen pictures of my aunts in them, and the women wearing them today look like they're playing dress up in mommy's room. Perhaps I just need to view them in the same light as the roll-bang of the eighties, something ridiculous but also rather impressive when you consider the commitment and skill it takes to execute such a thing.

Except Katie Couric. When interviewing the crazy president of Iraq, for God sake, Katie, take off those ridiculous lashes.

I am...Amber Pickles...

2009-03-03T14:01:00.005-05:00

I did something stupid yesterday.

In order to give my story a proper context, I have to first start by saying that, up until yesterday, I have resisted all peer-pressure to sign up on Facebook. I try not to be snotty about it. I know a great deal of people who love it and I am, at times, curious about all the connecting going on without me.

Part of it is a "been there/done that" feeling because I have a MySpace account. I understand that Facebook is "different," better, the new thing, I have a feeling it really isn't... I created a MySpace profile a few years ago, downloaded a few pictures and accepted friend requests from people I sat next to in choir. Another part of my resistance is, I watched a 60 Minutes episode with the guy who started Facebook who reminded me of the cagy politicians and CEO's you often see on 60 Minutes. I was also a bit startled by the fact that it uses a tracking system that monitors what you buy from other sites and sends that information to your friends. Another thing is, I'm slow and easily distracted. I don't need something else fighting for my attention.

Anyway, all of this to say, essentially, that I've had many reasons to avoid signing in. Then the nosey girl inside of me took over.

So, on an impulse, I went onto Facebook, thought I was giving a fake name with my a real (albeit older) email, and filled out no personal information so that I could "browse." Because the people of Facebook are obviously smarter than me, it instantly sent a message to everyone who had ever tried to search for me.

With the name Amber Pickles.

So, those of you who happened to wonder if I'd recently taken up a creative "side project," that is the boring story. The upside of the experience is that one of the first people to send me an email is someone who has attempted to be in touch with me on and off for a while. I have no interest in being in touch with this person. Not because of some long-simmering grudge or painful falling out, but for some more generalize feeling of not wanting to be in touch. And so I retain that right without having to deliberate over it all afternoon.

I will not be joining Facebook right away. But you can browse my not-recently-updated MySpace page...

Depressed About the Economy? Call My Dad

2009-03-02T09:49:00.006-05:00

I got up this morning and, despite finding some decent job leads yesterday, started feeling down. I think it was because I'm now in that "waiting" mode that comes between looking for work and the next round of looking for work.

So I called my dad, you know, just to "check in," and almost immediately started complaining about the how bad everything is. "Contrary to every one's belief," he said, "we will recover; we always do. We took a big dip back in 82 and things came around. People and companies get smarter, and then they comfortable and lazy and reckless and things fall apart. This happens over and over."

Now, I'm generally suspicious of over-generalized optimism. I tend to want to argue over how hopeless it seems. But then I got to thinking about how impressed I've always been about my father's ability to barrel forward throughout his whole life. He and my mother have always seemingly done the right things when it came to their collective life, jobs, home, finances, doing all the things you're "supposed to do," etc.

"Dad," I said, "How do you do it? Stay so positive, that is, and not lose your mind over this stuff?"

"I don't know," he answered, thinking about it for a few moments. "Maybe it was because I was 135 pounds high school and wanted to play football. I bugged and bugged the coach who finally put me in at the hardest positions for someone my size - linebacker and center. My sophomore year I got All County Honorable Mention, and 2nd team my Junior and Senior year."

Not sure how to fully embrace and apply that advice to my life, but it sure knocked away a little of the self pity. Hard to argue with that kind of drive, especially coming from a guy raised in Appalachia by a single mother who ended up retiring as Executive Vice President of a steel company and owner of two companies.

Old School Ode #2 - The Mall...

2009-03-01T14:52:00.005-05:00

In warmer months I walk around Westgate Park. Last winter, I decided to join the throng of retirees at the mall - usually Tuttle, sometimes Polaris - and that worked out pretty well. This year, no longer able to justify driving twenty minutes to walk for thirty, I decided Westland Mall (1.9 miles from my house) was a better choice.

Back in the day, Westland was a booming metropolis of teenage loitertude. But, over the past two decades, the major retailers either never came (no Gap, no Victoria Secret, no Chick Fil-A...) or have disappeared one by one (goodbye Limited and Limited Express, toot-a-loo Merry Go Round), leaving the place to an eclectic assortment of independent clothing and knick knack stores.

I hadn't stepped foot inside of Westland Mall for the better part of ten years. My reluctance was made up of a curious blend of sadness and generalized fear of the unknown. After a few weeks of deliberation, deciding the place was probably not crawling with roving drug dealers, I laced up my Nikes, powered up the iPod, and headed to the mall.

For the first few weeks I passed the time trying to remember all of the stores. Foxmoor there, Orange Julius over there, Chess King, Waldenbooks and The Art Works... Then I started a game where I tried to match the store with anyone I knew who worked there. I, myself, worked at Dimitrios, a sort of Greek Resturant/Pizza place hybrid (job #2.) I watched workers set up Santaland and marveled at the presence of an actual fat Santa with a real beard. I thought that was a good sign.

Now, I mostly pay attention to the people. I also wonder how it remains so clean and open for business. Out of the seventy retail spaces available, twenty-four are currently occupied. Only five are national chain stores (Sears, The Finish Line, Champs, J.B. Robinson Jewelers and The Great Steak Escape.) The BMV office (in the space that was once Wendy's Bridal) probably helps pay a good deal of the rent. Among the other tenants are a "New York" Tailor, the Westand Arcade, the Sherriff's Office Volunteer Center, and two Mexican restaurants.

This past Thursday, I was having coffee with some writer friends. When I mentioned that I'd been walking around Westland Mall, one of the men said, "Did you buy some crack?" I gave him the same look I used to give at college when people asked if I saw many guns when I went to West High School. Later that night I read in the paper that one of the Mexican restaurants had been invaded and 18 people arrested for selling heroin.

To be fair, the door from the resaurant into the mall was always pulled closed; in reterospect I'd often wondered if it was actually open for business or not.

Still. It has made me reluctant to return.

Home from the Job Fair

2009-02-26T08:03:00.008-05:00

My dad called the other day to tell me the Dispatch was holding a job fair at the Zoo. Instead of telling him how all other job fairs I've ever been to have been disappointing wastes of time, I just said, "Sounds good, I'll check it out."

And I meant it. All a part of this new perspective I'm trying to cultivate in order to stay open to possibilities and feel a little more settled.

So I drove up to the zoo and joined the huddled (but finely dressed) masses. The line was abuzz with friendly banter, people comparing stories of the starled looks from families with strollers on their way in to the zoo for the day. A young-ish man in a nice tweed jacket and serious glasses stepped out of line. "Would you look at that line," he said, clearly agitated, making an upward arm-sweeping gesture for effect. We instinctually followed his pointing, but everybody just kind of shrugged as if to say, It's a long line; what of it? He stepped back in line.

A few moments later he stepped back out, squinted up ahead and then peered behind him. I stood there and watched him as he spun his head back and forth from the front to the growing back of the line. I watched him try to form words with his mouth that were expelled only as the brewing sounds of agitation. I watched him look at us, the dozen or so in his direct orbit, with contempt. "This," he said, taking his attention back to the front of the line, "is the longest line I've ever seen.!." Moments later he stepped out of line and left altogether. I couldn't resist the opportunity to be amusing: "Well, that's one person we don't have to compete with." Everyone laughed and the line started to move.

Despite my open-mindedness, there was still very little to get excited about. I'd go into detail, but it just sounds petty. Obviously, most companies are struggling and any opportunity is better than none, but still, it was a pretty sobering experience.

What was interesting was the walk back to my car. I began to notice the people in line carefully studying the faces of those who were exiting. Being aware, I tried to remain neutral, figuring no one needed me to stink up their day. Back at my car, a man, another young-ish man, was exiting his car as I approached. "What's it like in there?" he said.

"Crowded," I said, carefully considering my words. He smiled and started to go on.

Then I called after him, "You might want to avoid the Zoo table, it's a long line and they're just offering seasonal for the water park right now. A couple others are like that too. I would just try to sneak in and pick up info about website and stuff."

"Thanks," he said, smiling and securing his portfolio under his arm.

Later on the news I heard that 2600 people attended that job fair.

What a Lovely Rejection

2009-02-24T07:42:00.006-05:00

Because I am a writer, perpetually single, and am frequently unemployed, I know a thing or two about rejection.

I do not say this to get people to feel sorry for me, just to say that not all rejections are equal.

One afternoon last week I went to the North Star Cafe, an excellent place to eat and be (I am frequently on their couch writing or reading.) On a whim, I filled out an application and had a conversation with an assitant manager. I'd talked myself into thinking this would be a good option for me, partially becuase they have offer insurance for anyone working over 25 hours and, well, the people there look pretty happy.

Yesterday I received a very nice rejection letter in the mail. Although it was a form letter, it was thoughtfully composed and reflected the feeling of passion I get whenever I eat there. Instead of staying in that weird limbo of did that woman even give my application to a manager... I am now able to move forward. I realize I have never had any real interest in working in food service, that my impulse was based on a frustration/desperation combo in my job search and an exhuberance for this organization.

My point is, even in their rejection, North Star continued to deepen my respect for what they are trying to do. And they included a coupon for a free meal. How classy is that?

I've had experiences like this as a writer as well. It is common for writers at the beginning of their careers, to submit to literary journals. These places publish unknown work and the credits earned at such a place are a legitimate stepping stone. These places are also notoriously flooded with submissions and understaffed. We all understand this. However, the magazines that make an effort to go beyond this fact, that at least attempt to remind a potential reader (ie, me) that they are enthusiastic about producing a quality publication, get my full-on support. A new, online magazine http://www.narrativemagazine.com/ sent me, perhaps the most inspiring rejection letter ever. It's made me link to them and visit often (and really want to be included.)

What irks the hell out of me is getting a two-and-a-half inch by four-inch slip of paper that has been sloppily cut with a paper cutter that says nothing more than We cannot accept your work.
This is not to say that I do not accept the general nature of rejection. When boiled down, all levels of rejection are little more than a negotiation of want (predicated, of course, on an infinite number of variables...)

So what do I want? I don't expect a free meal with every submission, but a whole freaking piece of paper (especially when it comes in an envelope and postage I'm suppling) is not too much to ask.