Boxing

Today I received a hardback copy of The Writer's Brush, a fifteen-pound coffee table book of mysterious provenance. It arrived in a bland, brown box with no return address or identifying marks; inside, there was no packaging, no note, and no explanation. If you sent me this book, please let me know so I can thank you appropriately.

I also received the Baz Luhrman Red Curtain Trilogy Box Set. This is less of a mystery: I found it on half.com for $15. Yay! But one of the movies is missing. Boo!

One of the boys in my office crinkled up his brow and told me I didn't strike him as the Luhrman/Leonardi diCaprio/pomo-musical-lovin' type. I guess folks at work only know me as that married, sarcastic Jewish vegetarian who proofreads other people's stuff for fun and doesn't eat sugar. ... Actually, that's pretty nail-on-the-head, isn't it?

ETA: Wow! My eBay/Half.com seller apologized like mad and overnighted me an ENTIRELY NEW BOX SET. This means I now have two copies each of the "Exclusive: Behind the Red Curtain" DVD, Moulin Rouge, and Strictly Ballroom. Takers?

Cosmo fever!

After a marketing blitz that began *months* ago and amped up to one weeklong, deafening SQUEEE!, Sex and the City made over $50 million in its first weekend, unseating Indiana Jones -- and people are surprised. In fact, Hollywood is still sort of peeking between its fingers, trying to figure out what happened. A NY Mag blogger tries to explain the phenomenon in terms the studios might understand: the women are like superheroes! And doesn't everyone like superheroes?

Choice quote:

No, not the kinds of female superheroes invented by men for men, vinyl-clad fantasies like Electra or Catwoman. The women of SATC don't fly or have awesome weapons or even drive very often — but they do save each other from bad guys.

This post helpfully breaks down an opening-night audience with pie charts and quotes.

I may as well admit, I absolutely contributed to the SATC orgy this weekend. Two friends and I structured our Saturday around getting tickets and then seats. I felt rather proud of myself for planning it all out well. Then the movie started, a sentimental moment made my eyes prick, and I realized the one thing I had forgotten: I was PMSing. This means I cry--plentifully, hard, and at the drop of a hat.

I usually deal with this by milking the cow, watching tragic West Wing eps. But there I was, far from my laptop and confronted with four sweet, flawed, familiar characters I had come to care about after years of watching and rewatching them. The tears, they did not stop. The movie is two and a half hours long; I estimate that I cried through at least forty-five minutes of it.

As embarrassing as it is, the weeping did accomplish something: I was too busy emoting to get worked up about the film's idiotic missteps, like Jennifer Hudson as Magical Negro, the one throwaway Charlotte subplot, and the last line. If you cry through something, you are almost guaranteed to come out feeling fond of it. Then, clearly drunk from dehydration, I bought Seasons 3 & 4 on DVD for a half zillion more femme points and $40. Je ne regrette rien.

chocolates in the bath

It's Sex and the City weekend! I'll bet NYT cover girl Emily Gould is thankful that Carrie Bradshaw has taken over to absorb the criticism of everyone who hates materialistic, solipsistic, oversexed women who have been liberated by feminism and the internets. (I did find it sort of ironic that when the worst of the shitstorm was bearing down on her, she was liveblogging a marathon viewing of the series.)

Meanwhile I've enjoyed rewatching some of the episodes, remembering both what I like about the series (Miranda!, Steve, latter-day yiddishe Charlotte) and what drives me crazy (Carrie, Big, Samantha when she's flirting). David Edelstein sums up my ambivalence, as well as how I think I'll feel about the movie. So does this video, starring and directed by one of my co-workers:

Choose your indigestion

The only thing more disturbing than John McCain rebuffing a calm, reasonable, sincere Ellen Degeneres on the subject of gay marriage?



A mummified fetus:

Both via Jezebel.

Enjoy your memorial day weekends!

Party Accomplished

It rained all over our housewarming on Sunday, our very first attempt at hosting a party in New York City. We had intended to debut our fab backyard and so, in addition to cleaning and readying the inside of our apartment, I weeded and scrubbed the deck chairs. Clearly, washing patio furniture is the NYC, rain-summoning equivalent of washing your car. But the food was great, and the drinks, custom made by our mixologist friend Marie, were better still. We got to show off our wedding swag -- because a registry is the #1 way to up the ante on your kitchenware -- and introduce folks from our different worlds who had never collided.

Mr. Ben and I were also captured taking some time off from prep work to enjoy ourselves at another party. (Thanks, Fauxtobooth!) There I met a Wii for the first time and discovered that though I am wretchedly bad at Wii Baseball and Wii Tennis, somehow I am a savant at Wii Bowling. Who knew?

Also, the only thing more fun than an inebriated congregation of like-minded individuals? An American history quiz. Knock yourself out, fellas. I got at 81.67% and it's a damn good thing I did, or else Swarthmore would ask for its American History degree back. And I have to admit, I was pretty scared throughout. Who the hell knows what battle happened at Yorktown vs. Saratoga?

Fun with Dick-Heads and Janes!

One of my coworkers, a fellow who is afraid of vegetables and took years to work up the courage to get a Legend of Zelda tattoo, likes to send me retro sexist imagery from the internets. This is partly because I've established myself as the Feminist of the office (I can't imagine how that happened). Despite my being card-carrying and all that, the Collective Leadership of the Feminist Cabal allowed me to retain my sense of humor. Each of these makes me giggle.

Two are from that Great Things repository, Boing Boing, and the last comes from the very ether.

Also, I have now been to L.A. and I'm adding it to my ever-growing list of Mediocre American Cities, right behind Tucson and Atlanta. Seriously, what the hell is the point of a "city" that's really an over-priced network of neighborhoods where parking costs a thousand dollars, gas costs even more, and the buildings are only one story high? I did like the ocean, though I only saw it from a distance since the foul weather (srsly!) kept us from the beach.

Though Seattle is kind of similar, being short, modern, and pretty spread out, at least it's verdant and pretty and has a more mellow vibe. There's something girl-next-door-ish about Seattle, whereas LA is that sorority-girl-next-door, and Tucson is that vacant-frat-boy-next-door. And Atlanta is the suit-next-door who doesn't give Halloween candy to trick or treaters.

Anyway, vacations are always nice and it was good to see my family & the folks I know who are stranded on that coast. Mr. Ben suggested, brilliantly, that we visit the UCB Theater out there, and Asssssssssscat, featuring Tim Meadows, was awesome. I liked its West Hollywood digs, too, as much as I liked anything I saw besides the Getty and the Getty villa. General warning, though, for anyone who wants to follow in our footsteps: you cannot buy tickets at the box office itself so make sure you do so on the 'nets before you leave home. If you run into issues, like we did, the coffee shop on the corner, across from the Scientology Castle, has free wireless. You're welcome.

For the first time, I'd rather have Showtime

I came late to the This American Life party, possibly because my parents only listened to the news on NPR and I never knew the station offered more. Over several years, I gradually broadened my public radio horizons until I am now a junkie. Brian Lehrer, Radio Lab, Morning Edition, even Jonathan Schwartz. I am a *monthly sustainer*, god help me.

This, of course, drives me further into deep blue-state-stereotype territory. As it is, I begin way too many sentences with "Oh! Have you read that piece in the New Yorker?"

Still, I am now at the TAL party. The food is great, the music is great, and I'm standing there, in a small group of funny dorks roughly my age, laughing at something once of them just said about the NYT Thursday Styles section, when I realize: HBO has lost its hold on me. Showtime has, in addition to TAL, Weeds, Californication, and Dexter. HBO? has reruns.

This is a jarring realization, but life goes on, the earth only spins in one direction, and we all must put our brave faces on as we march into an uncertain future.

When I listen to the podcasts at work, I picture Ira Glass as the Verizon guy (who apparently has a brain tumor?). This is embedded enough that last night, when I saw Ira Glass live at the TAL show at NYU, his voice felt disassociated from the guy onstage. Still, the two-hour multimedia extravaganza was fucking awesome, the best live show of anything I've seen since August: Osage County. And now I am stuck yearning for pay cable so that I could watch Season 2. Maybe WNYC will offer THAT as its thank you gift this spring!

Also: the Rebecca who introduced me to TAL has a new blog called the Opposite of Static, which is a lovely name. Maybe I only think that because it reflects a sentiment I agree with, that all of us are several different people simultaneously, the selves that we were & the selves we will be, and that we are morphing and changing and being holograms of ourselves at any given moment.

I have four Rebeccas. That seems excessive, doesn't it?

Irritating Ivy Leaguers

Male*
and
female.

Full disclosure: some of my best friends are Ivy Leaguers and my brother is Cornell class of '03. Although Cornell barely counts, right? Back me up, children of privilege!


*I know this link is old but I hadn't seen it before and perhaps you haven't either. I would hate for you to have missed out.

Bring it home, B.O.

Asheville <3's Obama, according to this short graphic series from the NYT, and western North Carolina is less sure of him (one character in the strip shouts from the sidelines, "He's a Muslim!"). This jives with what I saw when I was there: Obama signs all over! Interestingly, where there weren't Obama signs, there weren't McCain signs either, even in the wealthy, white Atlanta areas.

Obama seems to be moving with more purpose these days (cutting off the batshit crazy Jeremiah Wright, for one thing). Hopefully it will be enough. I can't handle this race much longer. I can't lose any more respect for the Clintons or Americans in general; it will be bad for my liver.

Kalamazoo and tigger too

birdy brain
Originally uploaded by charrow.

JJ, as depicted here in a piece of Charrow art, was one of our hosts for the past few days as Mr. Ben and I sojourned in the Southlands. These strange foreign lands, as it turned out, didn't feel as strange or foreign as I expected. In fact, Atlanta reminded me strongly of Seattle, only with more traffic and way less charm. People in Seattle also get bonus points for friendliness compared to their Southern counterparts, unless you count the bum in Asheville, NC, who, trying his hardest to make us feel at home, called after us, "Happy Hannukah!"

JJ was an excellent sport over the weekend in Asheville, where we were up to our chins in Judaica with Mr. Ben's family the entire time: she nibbled matzoh for breakfast without complaint and sat through both seders. Even when Mr. Ben's mom's SPP (straight person partner) Harry played Hebrew songs on his new harmonica with more exuberance than skill, JJ didn't flinch. A righteous woman, who can find her? Her worth is above rubies.

I realized during the service that these seders consist of lots of lying to God, and not just the standard "You're so merciful and gracious!" stuff. Just for example, there's a long prayer where the chorus goes, "It would have been enough!" -- i.e., if God had rescued us from Egypt but not parted the sea so we could get through, it would have been enough. The song continues, mentioning how the Lord brought us to the land of Israel and vanquished our enemies and built us the temple. But of course, if God had done one or even some of those things and not the rest, it wouldn't have been enough, not by a long shot. We wouldn't be here to tell the tale year after year.

Later, there's a true whopper set a beautiful, ghostly melody. It goes like this, roughly:
I have been young
And I have grown old
Yet never have I seen a good man starve.

I mean, please. We teach this stuff to children?

After the second seder Sunday night, without waiting for the dough to rise, we packed up the Honda and sped past Bob Jones University and Clemson U., the South blurring into fast food chains and churches in the dark outside my window. Charrow and JJ's Little Five Points apartment is beautiful, all old wood and bright colors and windows everywhere. Mr. Ben's mom's house was the same way, charming and well-lit. (Not that I can complain about real estate, but we do pay the same for our place as my MIL spends on hers, only hers includes several bedrooms, a backyard, a stained-glass pantry, and more nooks and crannies than an English muffin.)

I hadn't seen Charrow since she guest-starred as Maid of Honor in the production that was my wedding nine months ago. That is much too long. She and JJ will be moving up here in the fall and the fall cannot come fast enough.

Disturbia: Women Who Make Us All Look Bad edition

It's been a week for disquieting news from the womb-bearers. First, there's this new book by a plastic surgeon to help small children understand why their mommies are voluntarily going under the knife. There's no explanation given except the mother's dream of looking like a pageant winner.

To start with, the mother looks fine; by the end, post-procedures, she looks like a more exaggerated cartoonish version of herself, in hot pink no less. The once-skeptical daughter looks thrilled. Thanks, newly high femme Mom, for perpetuating irritating stereotypes! (Via Newsweek)

Next up, the abortion art installation from Yale, created by a student who inseminated herself and then induced miscarriages.

She speaks, yet she says nothing: "I believe strongly that art should be a medium for politics and ideologies, not just a commodity," Shvarts said. "I think that I'm creating a project that lives up to the standard of what art is supposed to be."

Uh huh. Well, does the project speak for itself?

The display of Schvarts' project will feature a large cube suspended from the ceiling of a room in the gallery of Green Hall. Schvarts will wrap hundreds of feet of plastic sheeting around this cube; lined between layers of the sheeting will be the blood from Schvarts' self-induced miscarriages mixed with Vaseline in order to prevent the blood from drying and to extend the blood throughout the plastic sheeting.

Schvarts will then project recorded videos onto the four sides of the cube. These videos, captured on a VHS camcorder, will show her experiencing miscarriages in her bathrooom tub, she said. Similar videos will be projected onto the walls of the room.

I think her uterine lining must be smarter than she is. This is why I kind of hate art. It gives people cover to be snotty & self-absorbed.

I have only divided outrage left for the Georgia belle who was scared to be Michelle Obama's roommate at Princeton. She and her mom are still semi-racist but reflect ruefully on their fears at the time. Michelle Obama turned out to be the stately, witty, graceful woman we all know, but she and the Southern GOP-member-to-be never exactly bonded. Perhaps out of guilt, the belle and her mother (who still doesn't believe in intermarriage) are considering voting for the big O. How many such sins do you supposed will be atoned for at the ballot box this year?

portrait of the teenager the artist used to be

One of the many dangers of Facebook is that someone from your past will scan in pictures from your past, the dark, shadowy, awkward, pale, bespectacled parts, the parts where you wore your brother's t-shirts and tended to stare at people. These pictures will appear for the world to see, including your newlywed, who will take one look and say, sounding almost impressed, "Wow! You look as bad as you possibly could!"

He lacks imagination. I could have boils, or bugs crawling on me. My skin could be peeling off along with leprous chunks of my nose. My hair could stick straight up high enough to be measured in inches like Marge Simpson's, the way it did from 2nd grade through 4th when my mom finally let me grow it long.

But the fact remains that the boy next to me looks about 4 years old and drugged, and I look like the 40 year old who drugged him. What is amazing, though, is that, when this picture was taken, one of us was already getting sexual attention from the opposite sex, serious adult-like attention, attention which occurred in the safety and comfort of a Jerry's Subs and Pizza bathroom. Prizes for anyone who guesses which of us that was!

six word memoirs

In the spirit of this project, I've been brainstorming six word memoirs of my time at Swarthmore for work. So far I've come up with:

“dorks everywhere! never been so happy”

“I learned to love my belly”

“School funded film about dancing tampons”

“They say, ‘Wait til college.’ They’re right.”

These are sort of rosy ... maybe I'll write a more cynical series. Ones for my actual life would be even harder. I could write one for Mr. Ben, who is finally getting sworn into the New York bar tomorrow morning: "After 3.5 years, attorney at last."

ETA: More cynical ones:

"Four full years of sensitivity training"

"Blissful navel gazing in ivory tower"

Stasis again

We have moved! And I have a new mantra, or a new blessing, rather: May everything that goes wrong be minor and manageable. We were lucky enough in that respect. A tire went flat only once the car it was attached to had come to rest close to 4th avenue, a street with not one but TWO tire shops in the immediate vicinity, as well as a couple gas stations.

The movers showed up a half an hour early, definitely before we were ready to receive them, but my mother, the brigadier general of Venezuela, preceded them and threw the apartment into shape.

The movers also asked, on the spot, for twice as much as we had agreed on. Luckily that had initially agreed to perform for so little that twice as much -- which we bargained down anyway -- still felt like a good deal.

Nobody broke anything or even really scratched anything. Nobody was lamed or maimed, although we were shamed a little when my mom saw the filth that accumulates in a fridge that goes uncleaned for years. Nothing we couldn't survive. In my head I am still the teenager who would recycle clothes rather than go to the bother of doing laundry, so I feel proud of myself that I voluntarily do dishes as soon as I'm done with them, even if scrubbing fridge shelves with regularity remains beyond me.

The new apartment feels somewhat magical. Doors! Who knows where those could lead? Doors are a slippery slope. For now we leave them all open. The first morning I ventured OUT of the bedroom to eat my cereal; and Mr. Ben followed me, knotting his tie while standing behind me. When I looked around and smiled at him, he replied sheepishly, "It's weird being farther away from you than this. I'm not used to it."

I haven't yet asked the washer/dryer to dance. It makes me shy. But the new stove works! And the backyard works! It sits there and looks pretty, just like it is supposed to. You know what also works? The free cable and the free wireless internet. Though both, I accept in advance, are probably temporary, for now I thumb my nose in the direction of Time Warner. Who needs you, Mr. Man? I got rhythm, I got music, I got our WEDDING VIDEO in three versions -- tall, venti, and super-sized -- and who could ask for anything more?

mini splurges

Ira Glass is coming! He who in my head looks like the nice nerdy guy from the Verizon commericals will be speaking at NYU and I will be there looking on adoringly. Although I don't usually manage to listen to the show on WNYC, the podcasts make for diversion at work. (As do, by the way, the Lovecasts. Dan Savage is so much more gentle with people on the phone than you'd expect.)

This makes for a great pop-media live troika for me this spring, since I'm also seeing Nellie McKay at Joe's Pub and Shalom Auslander at BAM. Have you read SA? You should! Unless you're my father, in which case, Dad, I apologize again. He bought the memoir Foreskin's Lament after I raved about it and he couldn't get through the first chapter; he ended up exchanging the book for two Klezmer CDs. (Oy.)

Mr. Ben and I are living in a construction site, or so it seems. We're moving this weekend and prep makes a mess: empty boxes from the liquor stores, half-filled suitcases, stuffed full bags of clothes to be donated. To add an extra frisson of tension, while I was cooking on Sunday night the gas went off. We called Con Ed yesterday and they informed us that they don't provide our gas.

Neither does our building, as further probing discovered.

So who does? Why have we been enjoying free gas for three years and why is it abruptly stopping now, a week before we move out? These and other stressful questions answered when we return.

i am what's wrong with this economy

Today I'm wearing a pair of jeans that fits. This may not mean much to many of you, but I have this problem with money where I feel guilty if I spend it. Money, to my mind, loooooooooves to live in the safety of the bank. If I separate it from my checking account, in my head I hear the screams of a chimpanzee being torn apart by a hyena. And if I separate it from my savings account? You don't even want to know.

But I managed to pass my debit card (no credit card for me!) over the counter of an actual, retail store this past weekend and in exchange I have a NEW PAIR OF JEANS. It's weird cuz I can feel them, which I can't with my jeans, since they are usually at least a size too big.

I've tried to talk to my older brother about my problems with money when he calls me from his iPhone on one of his weekly snowboarding jaunts. For some reason, he can't relate.

Now that I have been spared the opportunity to deliver my money to Brooklyn College like so much frankincense and myrrh, though, I'm thinking I can spend it on other things that might make me happy. My brainstorming has produced pitiful results, from lack of practice, I think:

- increase Netflix subscription from one movie at a time to TWO
- get cable (??)
- yoga
- acupressure/massage
- more jeans that fit. And maybe skirts!
- help keep this guy from getting elected

And here I begin to flail and sputter, my imagination overloading. What splurges have greatly increased your happiness?

a little ball of ester

A chronicle of death foretold:

WEDNESDAY
Having gotten tired of sitting passive waiting for the phone to ring, I called the school. An automated message reported that it was very sorry, but the admissions staff hadn't shown up for work.

THURSDAY
The admissions staff showed up! But they could tell me nothing. Could they transfer me to the English department? Certainly. But the English department knew nothing. Who would know something? The MFA people -- and they don't come in Thursdays and Fridays.

MONDAY 9:00
The MFA people don't get in til 12:30. (Wow, it must be nice to be an MFA person.)

MONDAY 12:30
Yes, we can tell you over the phone if you like. We're going to stutter and sound apologetic. No, you have not been accepted.

Now I am sad and would like to curl up in a corner. Unfortunately I am at work where corners are wanting and anyway are in full view of everyone; everyone would be rather curious. Being as it is St. Patrick's day, I should go off to a corner in a bar and get drunk. I will not, though. I will go home and, as I promised myself I would a few weeks ago, when I realized I wasn't going to get to rub shoulders with Michael Cunningham and Myla Goldberg after all, I will do some writing.

the art of sitting still

Goddammandblastit, I'm gonna go crazy at some point from the waiting. Brooklyn College did a round of notification by phone in late February during which I was *not* called; they have emitted not a peep since. I know because, so help me, I've started reading the frequently and frantically updated 2008 Admissions Blogs.

I am trying to remind myself of the following details, all of which are only Lightly to Moderately True:
- I don't care whether or not I get in (light)
- Whether or not I get in I am a worthwhile person (moderate)
- I can still be a writer without an MFA (moderate)
- An MFA program can't teach you persistence and dedication, which are the fundamental building blocks for an actual writing career (moderate)

What is very true is that I cared a lot less, and was a lot less nervous, before I did some rudimentary wandering around the internet two weeks ago and discovered the actual acceptance rate. Friends, why did I do this to myself, apply to only one really good really selective program with no back-up plan to help soothe the savage ego-beast?

It's enough to make a person consider finding peace in a $5,000, life-ruining embrace. (Mr. Spitzer, I vomit on you from a distance. You have THREE DAUGHTERS, you arrogant, irritating, disappointing, testosterone-driven douchebag. I hope your relevant sexual organs shrivel up like old carrots, not that I wish you any harm.)

I am also worried for friends who are hearing from other programs. Oh, March, what a blustery and frustrating month you are.

reader: marry him

It is make or break day for Hillary Clinton! Even Bill says she needs to win both Texas and Ohio to stay in the race; carrying Rhode Island (little ol' Rhode Island) won't be enough. New Hampshire seems so long ago now, and though I distinctly remember how much I wanted her to win under those circumstances, I have fallen out of touch with my intense sympathy for her. At this point I would like her to bow out gracefully. If only such a thing were possible. However, I am also glad that retains certain supporters -- Tina Fey, for one -- because I don't think, for example, that she's been such an utter embarrassment, such a miserable mistake, that she alone has set women back fifty years.

That article, by the way, turned me into a cartoon: my jaw dropped and my eyes bugged out as ten alarm clocks jangled loudly in the background. In that, I wasn't alone. As of right now "How Dumb Can We Get?" has generated over a thousand comments on the Post website. Its author, Charlotte Allen, exemplifies what I don't trust about women who don't have female friends, women who, like Maureen Dowd and Ann Coulter, are disdainful of "women" as a whole and get to think of themselves as "brilliant outliers." Isn't that convenient for them? And mustn't their mothers be proud?

As long as I have my Outraged Feminist hat on (and I'm hoping my hair looks okay when I take it off), I may as well mention an Atlantic Monthly article Marry Him. This has been around long enough for the controversy to simmer, boil over, and then fade to quiet, occasional snufflings of anger already but it's worth checking out if you haven't subjected yourself to its mind-boggling leaps of logic. In short, Lori Gottleib argues that because she, as a 40-something, never found the perfect man and had to proceed to the Plan B of single motherhood, anyone who is still single should settle, and ideally they should do so while they are hot (read: young) enough to command a high price on the open market.

Gottleib's use of the word "settling" is what makes her argument hard to take seriously, but I don't think her overall point -- that some women are led by our Disney-fied American culture to have unrealistic expectations of perfect romantic love with a perfect tall, rich, handsome man that will last forever -- is entirely wrong. I do think everyone learns at some point to adjust expectations to reality. When I was 16, I wanted either Rhett Butler or Noel Airman to rescue me from the doldrums of teenage virginity, depending on the day. Did I hold out for that? Clearly not. And I am extremely happy that I didn't. But if someone had described my going out with a guy who was not dapper, older, cruelly brilliant and forceful as settling, I would have bought a really mean incontinent dog just so the dog could piss all over the idiot's new shoes.

Gottleib gets on the Assumption Train and waves at us as it drives her straight into Crazytown. All women want children, she declares; all women must want what her, Gottleib's, friends want; and being married to a man you don't love is better than being alone, as long as you have a family. It's perplexing that she didn't consider why, if she's right and no married woman would trade places with a single one, the divorce rate is so high in this country. The truth is that people aren't willing, as a general rule, to be unhappy anymore. Women who aren't crazy about a man know that they're not going to be a happy chained to him for eternity, and why should they pretend otherwise? They'll just end up leaving those lackluster husbands for the handsome fiftysomething divorcees they meet and have a smoldering affair with at age 47.

Also, who says that these men want to marry women who are settling? Has anyone asked them? I thought American men these days, in the popular imagination, were the world's happiest bachelors.

Don't you think these ladies should have a picnic? Coulter can bring the salad, Gottleib the alcohol, and Allen the tart of self-hatred, and they can help themselves while gossiping about how they alone have it all figured out. Woody Allen can drop by about midway through the meal so that they can make eyes at him; then he'll catch a glimpse of Scarlet Johannson and go scurrying after her. They will murmur and nod and call this only natural.

don't wake me; i plan on sleeping

The Oscars! The Film Experience Blog pretty much captures my feelings about it. It was an international year, with all the acting awards going to (deserving) Europeans for small movies that nobody saw, so, naturally, I was happy. There was no Crash this year, or even a bloated, self-important genre picture like Dreamgirls or the Departed, to suck up some of the valuable energy and even-more-valuable awards.

The women generally looked like they had all received a memo from Gil Gates to participate in a virtual checkers match: half were black and half were red. My favorite from the red team was Her Majesty the Queen, Helen Mirren. I had no favorites from the black team. They were dull as dirt, even adorable little Juno MacGuff.

I was giggling at some of Jon Stewart's lines for a while: who, after all, can resist a good Gaydolph Tittler joke? He seemed to find himself pretty funny, too, or at least he seemed amused by the whole evening's endeavor, even as he was Trying more than he did in '06 to play the game. He was responsible for my single favorite moment of the evening, when he brought Marketa Irglova back onstage to give her short, eloquent speech about dreams.

Which brings me to the subtext of the evening. Barack Obama! Everyone was harping on "dreams" and "change," and what with the various languages and accents issuing from the microphone it really seemed to be his night.

developments

Post Brooklyn hipster haircut, I have a new celebrity doppelganger! We are not quite twins, as she is a blonde. (Also she is a mother and grieving ex-girlfriend and she's probably taller too.)

I'm finally catching my breath a bit having hosted 3 friends over the last 2 weekends and celebrated a V-Day and an anniversary. The last included good food and a trip to the Natural History museum where we had the following conversation:

E: How did they figure out what the speed of light is again?
B: I don't know. It must say here somewhere ...
E: (after fruitless searching) That's okay. I'll just go home and look it up on Wikipedia!

I also rounded out my viewing of the Best Picture contenders. I enjoyed and appreciated There Will Be Blood, which I thought was on a par with, and eerily similar to, the Coens' No Country For Old Men. Mysterious American monsters! The untamed West! The pointlessness of everything! Search for money, search for god, search for justice -- it all comes out in the wash. TWBB was less scary, more grim, and made me laugh out loud at points, while NCFOLM was concise and terse. Neither passed the Ms. test but both were interesting and intelligent enough that I didn't really mind.

Still, for my money the best movie of 2007 was 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days, which brilliantly captured life under a fascist regime that renders the smallest personal decisions needless complex and potentially life-threatening. If only the Academy, not to mention public opinion, didn't value men killing each other over women doing anything.

did i mention ... ?

"Dear Ester,

Our records indicate that you have submitted an application for the 324 Creative Writing - Fiction, M.F.A. for Fall 2008.

Your application is currently being reviewed by your graduate program. Please allow 14-21 business days for a decision.

NEXT STEPS...

1. Admissions will notify you of the decision on your application via mail.
2. Continue to check your application status for further updates."

14-21 business days! Yikes. It would be a part-time thing since I am currently quite happy with my secret internet full-time job, but a part-time thing I'd be excited about. The program hosts Michael Cunningham AND Myla Goldberg and it's a really good deal, money-wise. Starting April 1, I will live even closer to it too. Well, we will see. I'm practicing being calm about everything. If it happens, great; if it doesn't, then I'll gear up to finish my second draft on my own, sans guru.

Basically I'm trying to pretend, in a godless universe, that there is a god who will guide my path if I allow it. Anything to help me relax.

Meanwhile, happy distractions abound. Obama's winning more primaries, I just saw Eddie Izzard's new show live in Union Square, and my swatfriends keep rolling in. Two last weekend, including one all the way from Seattle, and another this coming weekend. The one from Seattle and I basically spent the two days holed up in my apartment laughing. Not a bad way to plow through time.

apartment apartment apartment

We are $6000 poorer but one rental apartment richer. Starting April 1, you must come over and live in our backyard, because did I mention we have a backyard? And a washer-dryer that's ours, just ours? Free laundry -- now that's worth $6000, just by itself.

I'm feeling nostalgic about Brooklyn Heights already. You've been a lovely neighborhood, Brooklyn Heights, or, as I've called you, Barely Brooklyn, or One-Foot-in -Manhattan Brooklyn. Still, I feel like we've taken full advantage of you. We've eaten at your restaurants, even the overpriced ones on Henry St. and the aggressively mediocre ones on Montague; we've crossed and recrossed the Brooklyn Bridge; we've watched the fireworks from the promenade. We've prayed in your one small Conservative synagogue. We've paid homage to the scattered statues of neighborhood hero Henry Ward Beecher. We've pointed out the Statue of Liberty to visitors and mooned over the beauty of the brownstones, and now it's time to move on.

Farewell, happy peaceful bourgeois neighborhood! Farewell, Egyptian greengrocer who knows our names and once asked me if I was Jewish and then, later, whether Jews were allowed to celebrate Thanksgiving. Farewell, Sahadi's and Perelandra! Farewell, kind neighbor with whom we share wireless internet and occasionally access to cable TV! You've been good to us and we'll miss you.

Hello, Target, Beacon's Closet, Oko, and to having more than one room! Hello, doors! Doors EVERYWHERE. I'm going to spend the first couple weeks opening and closing them just for the sheer wanton hell of it.

musical interlude II

To cleanse your palette of that vulgarity, here's some straight up inspiration.



This is why my heart trills for the man, and this is why my father dismisses him. He, my mother, and my uncle, all of them Clintonians, mocked me all weekend for being a naif. Obama, my father said, memorably, is the candidate of Unitarians, vegetarians, and college professors. He's a Hope-peddler! Maybe he's right. Still, how can you resist the call?

musical interlude

As I go off to my friend Tara Leigh's book release party for some wholesome fun, and then to my grandma's sure-to-be-awkward 95th birthday celebration this weekend, I leave you with the latest from Sarah Silverman.

No one has ever made [bleep!]ing Matt Damon such fun.

ETA: I don't think I made this clear enough. Tara Leigh's book is smart and insightful and funny and it made me cry on the subway even though I'd read the whole manuscript before. Of all my friends, she's one of the ones I'm proudest of. You should totally buy her book. Also, I'M IN IT. I'm a character in someone else's narrative! It's surreal yet awesome.

Activities

You know what's fun? Apartment hunting.

Actually I enjoy it way more than I should. Mr. Ben and I have already found one place worth paying a broker's fee for. We'll see what bizarre and unaccountable circumstances rise to stand in our way; but if none do, we'll be the proud owners -- well, renters -- of SPACE. Like a galaxy's worth. And a washer-dryer. That's the apartment equivalent of "... A NEW CAR!" (Frankly I'd rather have free convenient laundry than a Pontiac, anyway.)

This picture, by the way, comes straight from Craigslist. It is supposed to be making the apartment in question look attractive.

haduuuuuuuKEN!

Politics is a hilarious sport, as subtle and intricate as a game of Street Fighter II, and this article nicely captures the reasons why. Don't bother reading it though. I'll give you the Be Kind, Rewind-esque summary:

MCCAIN: [fearmongering half-truth and distortion about Romney]
ROMNEY: [inarticulate shriek of rage, followed by:] You say you're sorry!
MCCAIN: I will not say I'm sorry! YOU say you're sorry -- to the TROOPS!
ROMNEY: [whimper of defeat]
RANDOM ADOLESCENT OBSERVER: Ooh, snap!

Meanwhile, Obama has whomped Hillary in South Carolina by a 2:1 margin. Go team! But of course that doesn't silence the critics who are still whispering that America isn't ready for a black president. Dude, how dumb are you? That's not the question. Of course American isn't ready for a black president -- in the abstract. But people are always ready and willing to crown an individual an Exception.

Margaret Thatcher and Golda Meir were both wonderful examples of this phenomenon. I doubt whether either country, if polled, would have said it was ready for a female leader; certainly they haven't elected one since. But the right person at the right time can make at least the majority of the voters, in societies that remain racist, sexist, and generally closed-minded, look past those traits.

It's a bit like going gay for just one person. I feel like the country can go gay for Obama, if you follow my logic. It's not exactly Dr. King's dream fulfilled or anything, but it's a start.

WTF? / RIP

My reaction to Heath Ledger's untimely and mysterious demise at the hands of an Olsen twin? (You know they're implicated, even if the NYT had to take out the initial report that Heath died in Mary Kate's apartment and that he'd been seen earlier with Ashley.) Grief. Pure grief. And to ask, If you came back as a zombie, who would you bite first? I'd go for Ann Coulter, I think.

My coworker who sits next to me, chugging Target brand cough syrup, reflects and then answers, "I think I'd be a nice zombie."

Another coworker posts the following on his gchat:
Joaquin Phoenix found drowned in bathtab in Hannah Montana's Soho loft
Jake Gyllenhaal found crushed to death by rocks in Mischa Barton's apartment
Zac Efron found stabbed in Coolio's South American villa.
Christian Bale found slashed to ribbons in Rihanna’s Venezuelan thresher

I giggle and life goes on.

ETA: Jack Nicholson was involved somehow! I knew it! Seriously, how has that asshole outlived so many other actors and politicians and presidents?

racination

So many races! So many contests! It's all terribly exciting, now that the Democratic political field is almost as scattered as it could be (will John Edwards pick up a state already?) and the Oscars are about to be announced (NYMag puts its predictions on paper here). I hope NYMag is right at least on the Supporting Actress front -- two of my favorite roles of the year are there: Tilda Swinton in Michael Clayton and Cate Blanchett in I'm Not There.

Politics-wise, I've evolved from my original Pro-Drama stance of wanting as much of a contest as possible to a tentative Pro-Obama stance. Hillary is beginning to seem inevitable again; and so many minority groups are spurning Obama cuz it turns out, in a giant shocker, that white people aren't the only ones who are hostile to blacks. (Or is there another explanation?) That depresses me, so into the man's opens arms I run.

This weekend was all about small talk -- family Saturday, more family Sunday. At last discussion of the election adds a dash of friendly controversy to these gatherings. I suppose I could have spiced things up further by asking, "Can someone explain the appeal of Blue Velvet to me, please? I just saw the damn thing and was ten shades of underwhelmed. It reminded me of Belle du Jour, another 'classic' I couldn't watch all the way through. What gives?"

anonymous was a witty guy

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no really good quip can go unattributed. Any witty or wise quote with staying power must be tied to some great wit, usually dead, usually Winston Churchill or Oscar Wilde. Sometimes Dorothy Parker benefits from this phenomenon: for a long time, I assumed she was the one who said, "Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker." (It was Ogden Nash.) What are the odds I'm the only one?

I just learned that that famous flip line about politics, "Anyone who is under 40 and a Conservative has no heart; anyone who is over 40 and a Liberal has no brains," is an orphan, albeit one as sought after as Little Orphan Annie. People as disparate as Wendell Wilkie, George Bernard Shaw, and Otto Van Bismarck are reported to have coined the phrase.

I would have sworn it was Churchill.

OD'ing on empathy

I would like to make it known, before history gets written this evening, that I feel really bad for Hillary Clinton. Maybe I shouldn't: Lord knows she has power, position, significance, some comfortable amount of money, a house in Chappaqua, brains, a great daughter, and a place in history. She may even love her husband -- who knows?

Also, not everyone is ready to write her off, even if (when?) she does lose this evening.

All the same, lady queen looks like she's going down, and it saddens me. I do like the man who's flattening her; of course I'm an Obama girl. But the Obama boys in my office have are being pretty dismissive of the Hillster's fall from grace. How can they be so cruel? I mean, look at her! She wants this so much, and she's not the young, idealistic person she used to be. In fact, I think that's mostly what's working against her. She isn't just middle-aged, she is Middle Age. Get close enough to a picture of her and you can smell the deflated dreams, the settling, the compromises.

Get close enough to a picture of Barack Obama and your nose fills with the new car scent. Who doesn't want to buy a new car, especially if it's the same price as the used one? Even if the used one's a BMW?

I just feel bad for her, dammit. Despite everything, I like her and it hurts my heart a little that so few other people do.

mustang submerged

mustang submerged
Originally uploaded by wanakenahouse.

This, it must be said, is the car that brought us to Wanakena. When we arranged to rent a compact from Avis in Newark, NJ, we had no idea that they would provide us with a bright red Ford Mustang convertible. Who needs four wheel drive when you have all that MUSCLE?

More pictures at flickr!

rebound

Usually, I get very stressed out about traveling to and from Wanakena, my friend K-Ross's house in the mountains, and then I enjoy my time in the snowy wilderness immensely. This year I felt nowhere near so apprehensive in advance; but, while I enjoyed myself, I also didn't have the kind of heart-filling experience I have had in the past. Whether these things are related, I can't tell.

What is probably related is that about half of those who went this year were newfolks, a self-contained group of non-Swatties, and though they were perfectly nice, I felt a bit on the outskirts the whole time. Mostly I hung out with my small, great nucleus of friends, an experience that was cozy and lovely but not transcendent. Plus, once two of those friends ramped up the flirting and eying of each other, the prevailing narrative of the day became their courtship and then its culmination. (Of which I only watched the first part.)

Mr. Ben put in a superhuman effort to get us there, driving almost the entire way through a devouring snowstorm, after having slept only two hours of the last thirty. Listening to the last Harry Potter book on CD helped, but the unfortunate side effect was that he was more or less in a fugue state for much of the next day. Still, I think he had a good time. And it's lucky we didn't crash. Apparently we tempted fate by forgetting to "sit" before we left -- it's a very simple Russian tradition that consists, simply and entirely, of sitting quietly before getting up and moving into the car. We forgot, and, in consequence, LEFT OUR DOOR UNLOCKED. Nothing was stolen, thank God, but I don't think we'll neglect to "sit" again.

Once in Wanakena, we hung out in the sweat lodge, danced, ate, and tromped through the deep powdery snow. We also played a lot of games, especially once the strangers and half of my nucleus took off, leaving only K. Ross, Mr. Ben, the Rebbe and me alone with the leftovers. My favorite part of the experience was the outfit I wore New Year's Eve, which came courtesy of the Rebbe with an assist from one of the strangers. I felt like a 20's vixen. (Pictures TK!)

And now it's 2008. I can't believe this year is here already -- it's the one I thought would never come around. We had to offer blessings to each other over dinner, a process which freaked me out in the moment since I hate being put on the spot AND forced to be sincere at the same time, but the ones I offered the stranger next to me stand for pretty much everyone I know, certainly all of you: (1) good haircuts; (2) a Democratic government; and (3) the encountering of many new and surprising selves within the larger You. Happy new year!

winding down

In A.O. Scott's review of There Will Be Blood, he mentions, parenthetically, "Like most of the finest American directors working now, Mr. Anderson makes little on-screen time for women." I love P.T. Anderson. I love the Coen brothers. Most of the directors, in fact, that Tony's talking about are men I hold near and dear to my heart. But it's indisputable that they forget Abigail Adams's famous injunction: "...remember the ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the Ladies we are determined to foment a Rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation."

It's possible only the beginning of the quote applies to this particular cinematic situation.

Still, it bothers me. Last night, Mr. Ben and I watched Waitress, which meant that I have now completed 2007's Fertility Trifecta (the other two being, of course, Knocked Up and Juno). The movie had some entertaining moments and some good lines. Mostly, though, it felt like it was trying too hard to yank on the Steel Magnolias chain, and it lacked the credibility: there's something odd about watching Felicity and Jeremy Sisto, the creepy brother from Six Feet Under, affect Southern accents. At the end, the quirky-sweetness falls away from the movie's tone and it becomes a kind of Herstory uptopia, a You Go Girl!, Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle pastel fantasy.

Despite the movie's flaws, it's one of the few 2007 films that pass the Ms. test. Juno and the the Savages also do, bless their indie little hearts, and I'm sure Persepolis will. But I'm sure it's not a coincidence that all of those films come from source material written by women -- and, in the case of the Savages, a female director too. Why are women fundamentally uninteresting to otherwise edgy, intelligent, creative, broad-minded men?

Whatever the reason for the blind spot, I do think it's funny that directors will make exceptions for their wives: Frances McDormand is a Mrs. Coen and has played their most memorably vivid and interesting female character; Helena Bonham Carter, Burton's girlfriend and baby momma, serves the same function. Expand, fellas! Does Patricia Clarkson need to hook up with someone to get a real role?

Sweeney! SWEENEY!

One of the perks of having a father-in-law who lives locally? Sometimes you can get taken to dinner 'n' a movie. This is exciting under normal circumstances, but when "movie" = "SWEENEY TODD," something you're totally desperate to see, it's beyond thrilling.

I didn't realize at first that he agreed to take Mr. Ben and me to the movie the same way he agreed to take us to -- I shudder to think of this now -- The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a far less successful adaptation of a classic text. Luckily, he loved it. Does it even need be said that Mr. Ben and I did too? This was Tim Burton at his most grotesque, let loose on fantastic material. At times (the "By the Sea" dream sequence, where Mrs. Lovett fantasizes about how she & her homicidal lover could have a bourgeois life together, for example) Burton's macabre vision actually improves on the original.

Helena Bonham Carter has a range of about five notes, but she manages to put her own spin on a role I've now seen inhabited by extremely different actresses (Angela Lansbury, Christine Baranski, and Patti LuPone -- what could you imagine they would have in common?). ** SPOILER ALERT ** She makes the foolhardy love that Mrs. Lovett has for Sweeney moving rather than merely pathetic, and I loved her duet with Toby, "Not While I'm Around." I mean, talk about layered subtext. Little Toby is singing, thinking, "I finally have a home! This woman rescued me and I can't wait til I can rescue her in turn to communicate the depth of my affections!" and the mother figure is singing, thinking, "Oh, shit, I now have to kill this boy."

Part of the twisted charm of this show is that Sondheim wrote strikingly beautiful love songs for it and then put them in the most upsetting possible context. How would you like to sing an ode to "Pretty Women" with the man who had you jailed so he could rape your wife?

HBC and Johnny Depp as Sweeney are both made up to look like zombies (sexy zombies) only partially inhabiting the colorless world of Victorian London. In that respect, they match, and they feel right as a couple. Depp also has a surprisingly good voice, or good for the role anyway. This is true of the other cast members too. They make it work.

Mr. Ben and I realized that the cast is peopled with Slytherins: HBC, Alan Rickman, Timothy Spell (the man who plays the Beadle here and Peter Pettigrew there). This inevitably made me wonder how the Harry Potter movies would be as interpreted by Tim Burton. Oh, the things of which we can only dream ... But in fairness, Burton is a post-modernist; Sweeney is a pomo classic; HP is not. Burton doesn't seem to be at his best dealing with non-pomo material, as evidenced by virtually everything he's done since Nightmare Before Christmas.

Anyway. Sweeney left me weak in the knees, as the kids say, and I feel prepared to take on the movie that is both supposed to be excellent in its own right AND an excellent summation of the films of 2007: There Will Be Blood.

no, but underneath

Jonah Goldberg secretly loves me. He knows he does.

angry about things?

Someone pointed out that most of my entries are written on the topic of My Being Outraged About Something. That's horrible! I don't mean to be doing that. Most of the time I'm a very positive person. Right now, for example. I'm at my secret internet full-time job (not to be confused with the secret internet part-time job I held briefly last spring) and I like it! I really like it! The people are -- well, they're around me right now so I won't say much about them, but they're all my age, which makes "work" feel more like "summer camp."

We get our first paycheck today, in fact, I believe. That's pretty good for a week in which we've spent one day being oriented by playing name games; one day touring NYC campuses undercover (that really took me back); and three days now at a computer lab doing things that actually require thinking and creativity.

Also, I just saw Juno, this year's Little Miss Sunshine the same way No Country for Old Men is this year's the Departed. It was the best thing I'd seen in a long time, possibly since Pan's Labyrinth. It was as funny as Knocked Up but didn't make me feel dirty afterwards because it didn't seem to be saying that men and women are fundamentally different and can never get along, never never never, but they have to get & stay married anyway, just because.

Atonement--you know, the literary movie about War and Love and Betrayal and Big Ideas--was respectably good, especially in its first act, but it didn't move me nearly as much as the story of the adorable, snarky, midwestern 16 year old and her adorable, sweet sorta boyfriend. Mostly, and this is key: I believed it.

Oh, and Malcolm Gladwell! He wrote what I hope will be the definitive word on race and IQ. (God knows at least I'm not interested in reading more on the subject.) Basically, he reminds us that an IQ test is not like a blood test: you don't get objective results because one must TAKE an IQ test. Since it's active, the individual can't be separated from the results. Which is to say, someone who wasn't groomed to be sit down quietly and concentrate on a paper-and-pencil test is virtually bound to do less well than someone who was. Also, Gladwell has a way of making statistics legible without condescending to his readers. I appreciate that.

See? I like stuff! In fact, I like everything, except Ditchens and Howd.

quit yer hitchin

Happy Hannukah, everyone! You know, that harmless, minor Jewish holiday that exists in America as this country's paltry companion piece to Christmas, like a kid playing a kazoo on the sidelines as a confetti strewn marching band in full regalia, with cheerleaders and baton twirlers and gymnasts and everything, spends a month slowly parading by.

Don't think I bear Christmas any ill will. Sure, I used to; but we're cool now, we're cool. I've gotten to celebrate a secular version a couple times with Mr. Ben's dad's family. I've done it all, in fact: the evening service as St. Marks, a stocking filled with stuff hanging on the mantle for me, wrapped boxes glistening under the tree. I can understand how, if you grew up with that -- or, that plus some heartfelt religious traditions -- you'd long for it every year.

It's just not my holiday. All the same, you'd never see me go on a tirade like this about Christmas, let alone about poor, miserable, homely Hannukah! What is Christopher Hitchens thinking?

His rant, which I've read now twice and concluded makes not a speck of sense, seems to be saying that Hannukah is bad because it celebrates the triumph (for about fifteen minutes, once) of the ancient Hebrews over the Greeks. And who were the Greeks, asks Hitch? A culture that

had weaned many people away from the sacrifices, the circumcisions, the belief in a special relationship with God, and the other reactionary manifestations of an ancient and cruel faith.

Some religious Jews were annoyed that their countrymen were assimilating, so they rebelled against the imperial powers of the day and WON -- which, by the way, didn't happen often in Jewish history, so I'm sure it came as quite a shock to Judah the Maccabee; like my mother when she was convinced I wouldn't get into Swarthmore, Judah probably gave away his bottle of champagne.

And why does Hitch have a bee in his bonnet about this? Because to him it's a turning point. If the Jews hadn't won, we wouldn't have those pesky spin-off religions, Christianity (centered around, in his elegant phrase, the "alleged birth of the supposed Jesus of Nazareth") and Islam. No monotheistic religion would exist! Think of it! We'd all be wearing togas and drinking wine touched up with water and having sex with little boys, just like the pagan gods intended.

There is little more irritating to me than sloppy history, especially in combination with nostalgia for the imaginary utopias of earlier eras, "before the development of the whole of humanity was terribly retarded." (Wow, right?) I mean, yes, when I was 12, I did want to inhabit the world of Mists of Avalon, but even then I understood that it was *fiction* and anyway I was 12! There's no point in wishing ancient Greece back. No matter how much Hitch yearns for the homosocial, toga-wearing, gymasium-dwelling, slave-holding, vomitorium-scented days of a couple thousand years ago, that empire was sacked by the Romans. The ancient Hebrew did not kill Athens; and if Athens was able to fall, on any level, to a guerilla band of hammer-wielding mountain men, it certainly could not have been very stable to begin with. So lay off, would you, Hitch? Christ. You're putting me off my latkes.

links that make you think "so true!"

Via NYMag, a handy-dandy graphical guide to the depressing movies to choose from this holiday season!

Via People for the American Way, the hilarious parody Right Wing Facebook!

It's my last day in this office and I can't concentrate properly. Last night I went to a Mountain Goats concert at NYU and was distracted nearly the whole time by this kid making out with his girlfriend in front of me. There was something so mesmerizingly wrong about the pair of them: she was a normal looking 18-22 year old; he looked like a serial killer. Pale skin, old-fashioned nerd glasses, the kind of haircut you give your middle-schooler before he learns to rebel, and clothes to match. Why on earth were they sucking face for the length of the show? Was the girl under some kind of spell?

Then the Goats played The Best Ever Death Metal Band out of Denton as their final encore. There's nothing like a packed auditorium of undergraduates screaming, "Hail Satan!" to shake one out of a reverie.

Whee! Enchanted, that girliest of girl movies starring Amy Adams, won the box office match-up this past weekend, beating, by a long shot, Natalie Portman's trippy-sounding entry, Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium. Not that I contributed to Enchanted's success; I was too busy watching boy movies 1. I'm Not There and 2. No Country for Old Men, both of which I enjoyed and admired, although neither knocked my head off my shoulders.

I'm Not There at least breaks free of the tedious biopic formula in which the director attempts to psychoanalyze the subject based on a five minute snippet of his childhood, tracing all of his problems with women, for example, back to that time his mother put him in a closet. Todd Haynes doesn't try to understand Dylan at all; six actors portray different facets of the rocker, and the composite both serves as a good overall sense of the people Dylan has maybe been at different points AND a good example of the Being John Malkovich/Walt Whitman theory of identity. You know, that we contain multitudes.

The two standout Dylans are a little black boy who rides freight trains with his guitar, dressed like a Depression-era mini hobo, Sir-ing and Ma'am-ing and performing for the bemused 1959 adults he meets along the way as Grassroots Bob, and a b&w Cate Blanchett in fantastic drag who captures everything itchy, rangy, brilliant, and savage about Famous Bob.

As for No Country, aka this year's Departed, I liked it better than Nora Ephron did. (Caution: her piece contains spoilers, in case you care, when going to watch a bloodbath, exactly who dies.)

Mr. Ben and I went to his dad's house in Westchester for Thanksgiving with a swarm of Russians, which meant a feast lengthened by frequent cigarette breaks and toasts that made Ben's dad weep with laughter. He and/or Mr. Ben tried valiantly to translate but I only found the jokes perplexing, which made everyone else laugh harder. One gag began, "So, you remember Stalin" and went on to be about a man who had fathered three kids by three different women.
"Get it?" said Ben's dad at last having painstakingly explained.
"Yes," I said. "But what does that have to do with Stalin?"
The table roared.

Foodwise, everything that didn't have meat had mayonnaise. I ate a lot of bread and, at the debut of the fruit bowl come dessert-time, I fell on those melon cubes like they were my personal lord and savior. But the evening was definitely an experience.

jump the broom, pass the bar

Mr. Ben had cause for celebration this weekend so we ran a lot of errands. This is the way things work around here. But they were fun errands! Thanks to them, I traded in a few books I wasn't crazy about and got in return Best American Comics 2007 (f0r Mr. Ben) and Under the Banner of Heaven (for me). Barnes and Noble can be a regular lending library if you know how to game the system! And then, in a different store, I traded in a couple movies I wasn't crazy about and got in return Season One of the Gilmore Girls, a Madeline Peyroux CD, and Bruce Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on video.

Especially when the various birthday parties and friends and sleepovers and Buster Keaton shorts and Korean dinner and magical sandwich brunch were factored in, it was the best weekend I've had in a while. Mr. Ben and I hadn't gotten to spend that much uninterrupted time together since he started at the firm. Um, because clearly he's been spending too much time golfing at the club? Whose life am I living?

I did realize recently that my draconian regimen of no alcohol and no food with more than 25g of sugar has turned me into a new person. It's been months since my last anxiety attack, and that one was over the wedding weekend; and christ, if a person can't go shaky before they get married, then I don't know what. Anyway, it's wonderful not to have to worry all the time that I'm going to turn into a fragile, eplileptic mess, crumpled on the bathroom floor like a junkie trying to inject relief in the form of a children's book. (Before xanax, the Snicket series was worth its weight in gold.)

Even the time of year hasn't been stressing me out. I'm changing jobs but voluntarily and wow! what a difference that makes. The holidays seem to be arranging themselves nicely. The Scrabulous ratings system was instituted after my unlucky streak and before my current lucky one, so my rating is a whopping 1511. It's bound to go down and might never reach that pinnacle again -- thus, even though I know not what the numbers mean, I feel like I must enshrine them. And to top it all off, my sainted mother went dancing this past week in my high school prom dress. She promises pictures.

absurdism

Without realizing that Defective Yeti had declared this November to be National Novel Reading Month -- the novel in question being Catch 22 -- my book group also chose to sink its wine-stained teeth into Catch 22. I had read it before in high skool and I remembered three things:

1) Major Major Major Major!
2) War is crazy. In war there are no heroes, only people struggling to maintain their sanity; and if that, maybe, once in a while, coincides with Doing the Right Thing, then cool, but no one goes out of his way.
3) There are an awful lot of whores.

My memory proved accurate. It's not an easy read: the story loops back in on itself, tangential characters wander on and off screen, there are almost as many unnecessary adjectives as loose Italian women. In parts you really have to push yourself through but each time you're rewarded with a scene that's so good you wonder how anyone couldn't love this book.

And what struck me this time was how revolutionary this kind of myth-busting must have been when the book first came out. At this point, in a post-Vietnam world, we're accustomed to hearing that the people who fight for our freedom may have flaws, that not everyone who ventures out on a battlefield has pure and noble intentions. But this book is about World War II: The Good War, the one we're supposed be to be able to be proud of. These soldiers, described by Heller in all their specific grinning idiocy are members of our Greatest Generation. How did he get away with that? Even today it wouldn't be easy.

Despite its stylistic flaws, I think that courage is going to be my key takeaway from this reading. But um, I do wish there were one female character who wasn't an empty-headed, busty buffoon. On that note: in honor of whatshisname, another great white shark of mid-century American fiction who died this past weekend, Jezebel put together a roster of He-Man Woman Hating Club. Made me feel better about feeling alienated by so much "contemporary" lit. Read the comments too. They are pure and noble.

ETA: if this isn't enough bile for a Wednesday morning, here's some additional spewing, bubbling, volcanic hate for Maureen Dowd.

Decisions

Here I've been making pro / con lists, talking myself hoarse, giving myself wrinkles with all the thinking, and all this time I should have been consulting AstrologyZone.com:

Mars is still moving though Cancer, a sign that you are in the process of starting a brand new cycle. This is a process that will be ongoing for several months, ending on May 9 next year. During that time you'll be very busy, so you might want to pace yourself - these types of cycles can be exhausting, but also very exciting!

Mars does not come by that often, so it may help to know that the next time you'll have Mars in Cancer to give you an outstanding advantage, it will be August 2009. But next time you won't have several months to institute the changes you want so dearly, instead only a matter of weeks (which is much more typical a visit of Mars). As you see, you truly are in the catbird's seat.

The problem is that Mars is about to shut down when it goes retrograde from November 15 to January 30. During that phase you won't be able to access all the best qualities of Mars, which are assertive career action, determination, energy, and drive - so it is imperative that you make your most important initiations this month from November 1 to 14, your golden period. After that, you'll need to backtrack and course correct, and be ready to go at full throttle again in February.

Mars is the engine that runs your prestigious professional sector (tenth house), so this means that the coming two-and-a-half month period will not bring encouraging career developments. If you are not currently employed, or if you are anxious to leave your present position, you must be ready to begin your search in the first half of November, and to get as many interviews in at that time as you can. ...

November 4 could bring you a good career tip or breakthrough. That's a Sunday, but due to the fine angle of the Sun and Mars in Cancer, over this weekend you may see an interesting job listing on the Internet or in the paper, or get an email that brings an opportunity you will want to follow up on.

If you are in a creative field, you will be in top form. From November 9 onward, the date of the new moon, you will have an opportunity to put your stamp of individuality on a project that will become very dear to you. If an offer comes in that intrigues you at this time, take it seriously. ...

Pluto is the ruler of your fifth house of creativity. This powerful planet is about to meet with financially beneficial, expansive Jupiter. These two planets only meet in conjunction every thirteen years, and the last time they did was in very late 1994. These two planets are about to meet next month, on December 11. This is headline news, and it's been a conjunction I've been watching for several years - it is almost here!

Pluto conjunct Jupiter is a powerful indicator of success. Bill Gates has this conjunction in his natal chart, as does Warren Buffet. You will have this transiting conjunction in your chart next month, in your sixth house of work assignments. These two planets move very slowly but are already close enough to bring you benefits. Be alert to the kind of conversations and offers you are having now - something is in the wind and it could wind up being bigger than you ever assumed possible.

If 1994 or 1995 is important to you in some way because you began an endeavor or made a major decision, you will have the opportunity to advance that endeavor now or end it and start a completely new one. (Or, you can do both.) I point to those years, for that's when we had that last Jupiter to Pluto conjunction. That event gave me the opportunity to start a then very tiny website that I called Astrology Zone. At the time I really didn't realize that my life was changing forever. This type of experience could happen to you, for Jupiter and Pluto are meeting in the same part of the chart that it did for me, the sixth house. When opportunity knocks, it will be up to you to either run with it - or not. The future is always in your hands.

up to

It's funny how little time it takes a Monday morning to devour an aura of warm fuzz. Even though this weekend featured a hurricane, a long day's worth of travel to and from Connecticut for In-Law Family Time, a bad cold that kept me from enjoying Friday night's festivities at a fancy lawyer's house in Larchmont (complete with lobster bisque!), and several Serious Conversations, it still left me feeling well-balanced and happy. You know, temporarily.

Still, it's good to keep perspective. At least I'm not a sex worker who's just been told by someone in a position of authority that gang rape at gunpoint = merely "theft of services."

And at least exciting movies will be coming out soon. I haven't seen anything I've been crazy about this year. Ratatouille, Michael Clayton, and Knocked Up were all entertaining in their various ways, but I want to be rocked like I was by Children of Men and Pan's Labyrinth. Who will rock me? Johnny Depp as Sweeney Todd? The cast is promising; the trailer, less so. Philip Seymour Hoffman as brought to me by Tamara Jenkins? She was supposed to be my honors examiner, you know. Nicole Kidman as Mrs. Coulter? One of the many Bob Dylanses? Or the animated Marjane Satrapi? After the recent NYT Mag interview with her wherein she declaimed, "I'm not a feminist; I'm a humanist," and then went on to extoll the pleasures of smoking, I'm disappointed with the IRL version, but I can hold out hope for celluloid.

wisdom for the ages

"First rule: Do not use semicolons. ... All they do is show you've been to college. And I realize some of you may be having trouble deciding whether I am kidding or not. So from now on I will tell you when I'm kidding. For instance, join the National Guard or the Marines and teach democracy. I'm kidding. ... If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding."
-- K. Vonnegut, from A Man Without a Country

***

Lillian Gish Goes to Hell
Richard Siken

But she has been there before, has a suite
in fact, where she can swan and collapse
on a series of fainting couches: velveteen,
plush, gem-colored. In 1913, during the
production of A Good Little Devil, Lillian
collapsed from anemia. She took delight in
suffering for art. Although not a religious
man, Sartre was fascinated by suffering
as well, said Hell is other people and meant it.
Some like to suffer and some try to eliminate
desire. Buddha, God bless him, had a great
idea: whatever is subject to change is subject to
suffering. But let’s face it, he was fat and sat
around in his underwear, while we delight
in changing our wardrobes. You, terrible
in your solitude. Me, ruined and desperate
in my cowboy shirt with the pearly buttons
and significant stitching. We can suffer with
the best of them, Lil, effortlessly working off
our karma as the drunken father breaks down
the wooden door, or we roam, dying, through
the streets of Montmartre. I am no stranger
to love and I am not waiting for you, because
I believe we will be reborn, because I believe
everything, and I believe that we will meet
again and suffer together again. The future
belongs to China and yet I want to learn
French. This, too, is another kind of suffering.
Once, at a truck stop, I ate an entire banana
cream pie and half a pound of bacon, which
is a kind of suffering for some, but I felt
fucking great. You know this, you must know
this. We are lovely and full of desire, we die
so many times and come back here, to cross
paths. I didn’t fall off the roof, I was pushed.
I want neither revenge nor relief. I crave no
rescue. What I want, Lillian, is to be gigantic
and perfectly lit, to be with you again, carnal
in our reincarnation. The future will find us
handsome taikonauts in a small ship spinning
out of control, flawed by love and plunging
realistically toward the heart of a hellish sun.
In the future we will suffer together in outer
space and eat crème brûlée out of a silver tube.
The novelty never wears off, Lil. It never does.

***

"You don't gotta be a bitch to be competitive." -- Bianca, ANTM

everyone's a joker

I spent this afternoon in the All Souls Episcopal Church in Harlem. And I'm not even running for President!

Although I was not the only white person in the basement/auditorium, I'm pretty sure I was the only Jewish white girl. I mean, for that matter, I was one of the few women under 60 and one of the few not wearing a hat. Judging by the crowd, in fact, I can safely say, Hats are totally back! You heard it here first.

This all came about because Mr. Ben has decided to burn off some of his new job related stress by taking an African dance class in Brooklyn. How that ended up with him dancing in a church on 114th street I can't exactly explain but I was there to watch him, loyal little wife that I am; AND he got paid too. This means he is not only getting paid way more than I am to stare at a computer screen all day, he's also only getting paid way more than I am for his hobbies.

This reminds me a bit of one of the funniest quotes from this week's 30 Rock:

Jack: Where do you invest your money, Liz?
Liz: I have, like, twelve grand in checking.
Jack: Are you...an immigrant?

You all watch that show, right? That is the funniest show ever. I'm not sure, however, if it's actually funnier than my mother. You be the judge. This is from an email she sent because she and my father are running off to Mexico for two weeks.

If we don't surface by 11/4, the car broke down or the bandits got us. In either case, don't forget that we have travel/life insurance with AAA and life insurance with TransAmerica Life Insurance. There are a good deal of paid hours at Arthur Murray which someone should use because they're so expensive and remember that I keep personal files in my office. If you need to access them, don't laugh. I have wedding bills mixed with an incredible
number of job applications and South Beach Diet recipes all mixed together with other stuff. It represents a real cross-section of our family. ...
[If we need more money] as daddy says, open the yellow pages and look for a money lender.

Lastly, I went to the dentist the other day and had my teeth cleaned. The hygienist told me that I was terribly remiss in not brushing my tongue with my toothbrush. In retrospect, I never knew that such a practice was required and I realize that I never instructed my children to do so. So, in closing, be sure to brush your tongue with your toothbrush. It apparently removes dead cells, increases taste and makes your breath fresher. You heard it here first.

Priceless, right? I love being reminded that, in my father's head, it's still the 18th century. Also that should my parents disappear into the wilds of a resort in Yucatan, I can rest easy knowing my mother's last words to me were, "Brush your tongue."

cancer free since 1982!

Yesterday I was scheduled for the needle biopsy that's been freaking me out for a month. First there was one doctor who said it's probably nothing but get an ultrasound just in case.

Thirty days later, after the ultrasound, there was another doctor who said it's probably nothing but get a biopsy just in case.

Thirty days after that, there was a nurse and then another nurse and then finally a surgeon who said, "It's nothing!"

I said, thoroughly brainwashed by this point, "You don't want to poke me just in case?"

"No," she said. "There's nothing there to poke."

Here I am, alive and tumor-free (so far as I know), and yet after the giddiness evaporated the residual stress hit. Maybe I'd been repressing it. In any event, I'm taking it easy today. It's the last 70 degree day, according to NY1, and I'm going to suspend thinking about my future, try not to worry that the highly-recommended and respected surgeon is somehow wrong, maybe watch something mindless.

ETA: And then I saw my horoscope!

When issues get too complicated, you tend to withdraw into yourself until you've decided what to do. This is one of those times when it may seem easier to just sink quietly to the bottom of your cave and let the world flow by. However, this isn't in your best interest. Instead, select your most important feelings and share them with someone close to you.

The metaphors here aren't helping my headache. Sink to the bottom of my cave and let the world flow by -- I guess I'm in the sea then? Is this because I'm a Cancer? (Can't escape that word ...) Also I'm not sure I have Most Important Feelings. The phrase makes me a picture an Olympic winners platform. But what National Anthem would play when the gold medal for Most Important Feeling goes to Anxiety?

the time, she passes

It has been a week and a half of learning and growing. First, visiting my family in DC, I learned that I can sail! -- or at least be on a small sailboat for an entire afternoon without throwing up. This is remarkable, friends. I retain vivid memories of that time we went "whale watching" one stormy New Hampshire morning and I lasted about twenty minutes on the open seas before I found myself exiled to the boat's inner sanctum. There, lying on my back on a narrow wooden bench, it was my responsibility to contemplate whether life was truly worth living as, over and over, sea water rose to fill the porthole and then recede. Fill, recede, fill, recede. Conclusion: Nyet.

Nothing transforms someone into a Medieval philosopher faster than nausea.

And see how far I've come? I got on the boat with little to no trepidation, even thinking of the delicious sandwiches my mother had prepared for our three-hour tour. It was only when, two hours from shore, we hit some sustained turbulence generated by tugboats, ferries, and mammoth freight carriers, that I realized I was no longer enjoying being me. At least the sun was shining.

Soon after I returned to New York, however, autumn burst out with all the subtlety and grace of Steve Carrell in the Office. Rain, wind; everything howled; degrees dripped away. That combined with a friend's promotion made me all quarter-lifey. Where was I going? What was I doing? What did I aim for? Aspire to be? How happy was I supposed to be? What was my plan? Ye gods, was I supposed to have a plan, other than to make enough money to afford a Netflix subscription and a pair of shoes every once in a while?

The funk lasted off and on for a bit. Several things however have contributed to the return of my joie de vivre:

- an UWS walking tour that including one of my the city's only gated communities, Paumander Walk, a one-block stretch of beautiful, tiny, Tudor houses complete with rose gardens and free roaming housecats
- Scrabulous
- the makeover episode of America's Next Top Model
- a sleepover in Washington Heights
- learning that Myla Goldberg and Michael Cunningham are both teaching in the MFA fiction program at Brooklyn College
- Tilda Swinton in Michael Clayton, a badly titled movie that's nonetheless worth seeing, if you like dark, gritty, gripping sorts of things
- The prospect of Persepolis soon
- ETA: agreeing to look stupid on camera for the internets.