New mantra

New mantra
Originally uploaded by shorterstory.

A couple days ago, I had to use my lunchbreak to have a follow up doctor's appointment. I didn't have terribly high hopes: I expected to tell the doctor, yes, the pills work -- I was beginning to have an anxiety attack and they forestalled it, just as they should. (Well done, pills!)

Being a doctor, however, he couldn't help asking me more questions. At first I was somewhat embarrassed, being unused to this "therapy" thing. But he kept asking "Why?" to whatever I said and before I knew it I was telling him about my monster ex-roommate and how she made me FEEL.

It turned out that what stressed me out about her is not so dissimilar from what's stressed me out about the wedding: both relate to the very cliched sense I have that I'm not quite ready to be an adult yet. (I know! So rare among my age group.) While chiding me gently on this point, the doctor reached over and started scribbling something on a pad; then he handed the note to me.

I burst out laughing. "It must be true, 'cause it's on letterhead," I said.

We'll see how well my magic feather works the first time I really have to fly. But for now, suffice it to say that the idea of it -- and its presence in my bag -- makes me absurdly happy.

Like-Minded Companions

B: Oh no! The bathroom's locked.
Es: That's okay. I guess I'll just pee in my stockings.
Em: That's much worse than peeing in your pants. The stockings will trap the urine.
B: Although stockings will be easier to clean than pants would be.
Es: But what about my suede boots?

I've been gloriously spoiled lately in terms of society. Friends abounding! Friends everywhere! Look, there's one hiding the bushes, waiting to play breakfast Scrabble. And look, over there, a cluster of them -- they have the table all set for a dinner that will last until the restaurant closes. Behind you! Watch out! That one's going to make you spend the entire afternoon walking in the sunlight, down the spine of Boerum Hill and back and then over through Cobble Hill to Carrol Gardens for pizza and back to Brooklyn Heights so she can pass out in your bed. (Here, map.)

And on top of that, Mr. Ben, on his way back from a party in Williamsburg Saturday night, bought a hardcopy of the New York Times. I woke up like Sara Crewe, astonished to discover that, overnight, someone had effected such an important change in the room: there it sat, waiting for me, the huge darling paper bundle! I could pick sections, and spread out across my bed, and lounge in the warm light, turning pages, and for one all-too-brief moment not be looking at a computer screen.

It was a bliss in a blue plastic bag.

... Looking over that link to the story "Sarah Crewe" -- which FHB expanded into his fantastic children's novel, A Little Princess & which I read way too many times growing up -- I realize it was even more formative than I thought. Consider the following exchange between Sara and her somewhat dim friend Ermengarde:

"It sounds nicer than it seems in the book," [Ermengarde] would say. "I never cared about Mary, Queen of Scots, before, and I always hated the French Revolution, but you make it seem like a story."

"It is a story," Sara would answer. "They are all stories. Everything is a story--everything in this world. You are a story--I am a story--Miss Minchin is a story. You can make a story out of anything."

That's, like, my motto! It came from FHB and I didn't even consciously realize. Amazing.

I also realize, in retrospect, that Sara was a bit of a snot, and I'm completely in love with her over again.

baby's first wedding!

I didn't mean to write about Ann Coulter the last time I sat down to blog; I meant to say Congratulations HeidiRob! Mr. Ben and I spent two packed days in Delray Beach, Florida counting BMWs, enjoying the sunshine, and celebrating with our Very First friends to tie the knot. As you can tell from Mr. Ben's pictures, they did so in old world style.

Our friend K. Ross, much improved since getting knocked around by that renegade car several months ago, joined us, as did several other college folk I hadn't seen since graduation. We had an all-around lovely time, except for that moment when I let my guard down and was shanghaied by a drunk pot-smoking, menopausal relative who proceded to regale me for what felt like hours with stories of her pot smoking and menopause.

Still, overall, it was a vast improvement over the last wedding I attended as a nine year old, when I saw the priest keel over and die in the middle of the ceremony. The imposing Catholic Church had already been spooking me a little, what with those Stations of the Cross murals on the walls; seeing a man go down, and then a whole congregation fall to its knees while my family remained awkwardly seated in our pew as if we were somehow to blame, was nearly traumatizing. The HeidiRob wedding had no body count at all. Way to go, guys!

Obviously their wedding made me think about mine, but I won't bore you with those details. I just hope I remain as graceful under pressure as they did.

a modest proposal

Instead of banning a word that no one is allowed to use anyway except black people and Quentin Tarantino, why doesn't New York do something useful and necessary like banning Ann Coulter? True, she probably wouldn't set foot in our slanderous, treasonous, godless city, but in case she were tempted to have a meeting with her publisher or a wax and yet another micro-mini, I would love to have it on record that should she cross city limits, should the sun set on her presence in this sane corner of America, we will boil her in oil and feed her to the homeless.

What's that you say? My rhetoric makes me almost as bad as she is? Oh, my friends, if only that were true. Ann Coulter drinks of the fire of Mordor the way you or I might enjoy a lemonade. Her skin is synthetic, pieced together by sweatshop third-world labor, and her soul is made of the ash of Rome on which Nero fiddled. Nothing I could do could put me on the level of Ann Coulter. Seriously? She called John Edwards a "faggot." Seriously.

It's time for action. Big Apple! I call to you. AC is at least as harmful to my heart as trans fats, at least as toxic to my lungs as cigarette smoke. Let's start a nationwide trend, making it clear we have no room for such horror in our city.

"only Gay screen call"

Best news item not picked up by the press: before Anna Nicole Smith was Anna Nicole Smith, she had a lady lover! A serious one too. Observe:

Powledge recalls their first year together as one filled with happiness. The two exchanged vows of commitment on the diving board at Smith's home in Spring, and Smith gave Powledge a diamond ring. Smith avoided wearing a ring herself because of the questions it might raise, Powledge said.

They shared some wild times, frequently going out on drinking binges and not knowing how to get home. Smith once stopped her car and asked a passing jogger to drive them home after a particularly lively spell of inebriation.

The pair also got tattoos to declare their love for one another. Smith paid for a tattoo of her face and name to be inked across Powledge's shoulder blade, strategically placed to cover another woman's name there. Smith later received a tattoo of Powledge's initials below her bikini line, unable to display such art anywhere else on her body because of her career as a model.

Powledge blushes, giggles and covers her face with her hands when asked if Smith reciprocated her affections in the bedroom.

"She was very considerate. Very sweet. Very," she said bashfully.

Yikes! And: awesome!

Of course, the article's spin on ANS's lesbian liason is pretty dippy. It has to go out of its way to call Powledge "the plainer looking and less feminine of the pair" -- because God forbid we wander off the Butch Meets Femme page. And "affections in the bedroom"? Is there a less kinky way of refering to sex? Can you think of one? I'm really asking.

I'm impressed Powledge toughed out the relationship as long as she did, what with ANS making her wear "wigs and dresses to give herself a softer look in New York" once they moved to the Big Apple, not to mention ANS's "Real World"-type behavior: cheating, drinking, drugs. Eventually of course the women split and the article notes, wistfully, "No matter what the cause of Smith's death is ultimately determined to be, Powledge shares others' assessment that she likely died of a broken heart."

One of the things I find most fascinating about this story is that it adds complexity to ANS's performance of hetero desirability. In the same way that in M Butterfly, Song, the male lover disguised as the ideal woman, explains, "A man knows best how a woman is supposed to act," it makes sense that a queer woman would know how best to play the epitome of a straight woman.

But is this story threatening to her image somehow? Embarrassing? Overkill? Why hasn't it been picked up more broadly?

Will win, should win

The Oscars are tonight! I wish I cared, but friends, there's history here. The Oscars of 06 were an acid wash. And anyone else remember being run over by the LOTR: ROTK "choo-choo-choose me!" train in 04?

Still, I'll watch. Of course I'll watch. I'm the sort of viewer on whom Oscar depends: skeptical, vaguely irritated in advance, sure that redemption and understanding aren't going to be found at the bottom of this three-hour bottle but ready to drink to the last gulp anyhow. I'll find solace in forming opinions on the dresses and hoping Ellen says something witty, and I'll wish I'd had the stomach to see either of frontrunners Babel or the Departed.

But! One can always prognosticate:

WILL WIN BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY: Little Miss Sunshine (as a "thanks for playing!")
SHOULD WIN: Little Miss Sunshine (in sincere appreciation for how poignant and hilarious this take on the American family is)

WILL WIN BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY: The Departed
SHOULD WIN: Borat. I am all about the funny and I don't care how much of it was scripted.

WILL WIN BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR: Eddie Murphy
SHOULD WIN: Jackie Earle Haley, who has never appeared in a fat suit.

WILL WIN BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS: Jennifer Hudson. She has the best story and the most momentum. Still, I don't believe in giving Oscars for a person's first good performance. God knows it has done less than nothing for the careers of Kim Basinger, Halle Berry, Gwyneth Paltrow, Helen Hunt, Cuba Gooding Jr., Mira Sorvino ... In retrospect, aren't all of those choices ridiculous? What the Academy was actually doing there was rewarding someone pretty for trying, like giving a standing ovation when a dog rears up on its hind legs.

SHOULD WIN: Abigail Breslin, because I've never seen such an impressive, dare-i-say-inspiring? little kid performance; or Cate Blanchett for going toe-to-toe with Dame Judi Dench in a movie where the ferocious DJD sucked all of the oxygen out of the room.

WILL WIN BEST ACTOR: Forest Whitaker
SHOULD WIN: Clive Owen for Children of Men. Ryan Gosling was also good in his quiet, quiet way.

WILL WIN BEST ACTRESS: Helen Mirren

SHOULD WIN: This one's really hard. Kate Winslet put her all into Little Children, and WInslet's all is really something to see. Similarly Meryl Streep made Prada the delightful, shiver-inducing snarkfest that it was. But it really comes down to a contest between the British heavyweights, Dame Judi and Helen Mirren.

Sorry, DJD, but like everyone else, I have to go with Helen Mirren on this one too. Although as I mentioned, you were spellbinding in Notes on a Scandal, the best monster in a monster movie I'd seen in years, and I couldn't take my eyes off you, Mirren made me feel like I understood the Queen of England. That I even sympathized with her as she struggled to realize how she had become disconnected from her time and place, or rather how time and place surged forward without her. It was a strong, silent, bravura performance, full of inner conflict and grace and self-respect without vanity; and DJD, this just isn't your year. I don't blame you for staying home.

WILL WIN BEST DIRECTOR: Scorcese because blah blah legacy-cakes. Give the man an Oscar already so we can stop having this conversation every other year.
SHOULD WIN: Alfonso Cuaron for the harrowing, soulful Children of Men, especially the battle scenes of the last hour.

WILL WIN BEST PICTURE: Babel, in a repeat of the "See? We're Serious" phenomenon that brought us last year's utterly undeserving winner Crash. Unless voters really just wanted to be entertained and distracted this year, in which case The Departed

SHOULD WIN: I don't really know. Nothing completely thrilled me this year the way Hotel Rwanda, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, or Adaptation, recently, did. My top five for this year ended up being: Little Miss Sunshine, the Queen, Notes on a Scandal, Children of Men, and Inside Man. Oh Clive, when will the world love you like I do?

Note: How cute are these skirts? I wish I could buy every last one of them, except they're each so cute, I'd be as upstaged wearing one as I would be walking an adorable golden retriever puppy. Should I really pay $60 for that privilege? Or should I just get a puppy?

Look!

Someone else ranks and rates the Vows section too!

I'm don't 100% agree with the ratings system -- why do you couples get bonus points if the man is Jewish and the woman Asian? Also if David Denkins officiates, why does that not confer bonus points? Can you enlighten me?

Edited to clarify: I think the Vows section also requires two different ratings systems, one to measure how well each couple matches up to Antebellum Standards and one to measure Pure Eccentricity, because the Times, being a silver fox of a Grey Lady, appreciates the importance of both. When Hearsts marry Astors, when the girl is younger than the guy, when she's a teacher and he's in finance, the AS meter rises; and when bohemians/ethnics/gays/old people come together, the PE meter swoons and the NYT gets to feel virtuous for being so open-minded.

In both categories, however, some of the same rules apply: Ivy League diplomas are a must; famous ancestors help; Jews OK; send a face pic, and no fatties.

Queens for a day

You might not think it possible, but I assure you, it is a real -- if enjoyable -- condition: an overdose of honey. It can afflict you when you throw together pancakes for breakfast but forget the syrup, and are forced to resort to what other sweet things you have on hand, and then at the opposite end of the day, you dine at a Cretan restaurant whose name, S'agapo, translates to "I love you" and whose appetizers and desserts alike come preserved in delicious, delicious amber.

In between doses of honey, how did Mr. Ben and I celebrate turning six? By going to PS 1, of course! and then to the Museum of the Moving Image, where after playing around with the interactive exhibits we saw a 35mm print of the last film Orson Wells made, a Godard-ish essay/documentary called F for Fake.

The best part about the day though was that we were blessed with Good Subway Luck. If ever you have need to burrow into Queens, make sure you first appease the right spirits, because if the G comes speedily, and then the R does too, and then again, and THEN, to top it off, the 3, you will have a completely different day than if you're stuck waiting 20 frozen minutes for the privilege of riding on each.

On another note, I now have an rx. I haven't filled it yet, but I will, and then I will be SuperEster, or so I'm told. If I only become Ester-Who-Can-Make-It-Thru-the-Wedding-Planning, that'll be good too.

the kind of love

me: i want streamers, pink streamers that go all the way across the ceiling and all the way down to the floor. i want pink bears, four huge pink bears, one in each corner of the room, and a pink disco ball sprinkling pink light all over the room, and a stereo playing Carrie Underwood. ... what do you want for valentines day?

him: not to have to do any of that.

me: done.


little did i realize when i was a moony thirteen year old, upset that all my friends were "falling in love" while i wasn't -- while, in fact, the only boy who had professed love for me was a tall drink of water at summer camp who didn't know how else to say "please take your shirt off," the dumb punk -- that the ideal valentines day is when you feel no pressure to do anything. in fact i'm going drinking with a couple girls from The Nation after work (sugar-free cranberry juice for me, please!). maybe i'll learn something!

technically, i guess, i'm also cheating. i don't have to care about v-day because several days thereafter, mr. ben and i will turn six years old. that seems much more significant to me. six years old, ready for first grade and, apparently, marriage. and if, on a valentines day six years ago, some girl hadn't coldly turned down a rose offered by mr. ben, none of this would have happened. imagine.

hi friends.

I have nothing of serious interest to report, except that I'm okay. And maybe that's worth saying. Once I stablized last week (it actually took a few days to feel normal again) I had a week like many other weeks: I went to my friend Erin's house in Queens to play cards Wednesday;

spent Thursday evening with the remote, shuffling from Ugly Betty to The Office to Grey's Anatomy to Thirty Rock, wondering why the only shows I watch are packed into a two-hour time block;

had dinner with friends, saw a really cute new Spanish film, then hung around in the village drinking expensive tea on Friday;

and Saturday evening, Mr. Ben and I had pizza under the Brooklyn Bridge with his dad and his stepmom, and then listened to Barge Music from the last four seats available -- lined up on the side of the stage. I had a perfect, and perfectly surreal, view of the inside of the grand piano.

Sunday I did laundry, errands, cooked.

At no point did I mourn Anna Nicole Smith. At no point did I feel a twinge of satisfaction that I least I was demonstrably less crazy than the Astronut with the diaper and the pepper spray. I did however appreciate everyone's good wishes, and do. It's nice to feel supporting when you start taking steps.

tentative of stomach

Home sick. Again. Lately, what "sick" means is that I've recently had a panic attack that kept me up all night and I'm in intense recovery.

Even though I've been having the damn things semi-regular for over six months now, I've resisted medication. Why? That's a good question to ask yourself when you're shivering on the bathroom floor at 3:00 AM. The trouble is, you won't be able to answer it, since the cutest thing about a panic attack is how you can't make any decisions at all. My poor older brother -- who had flown in from UCLA for my grandma's birthday -- kept patiently asking me: "Do you want a blanket? Do you want some Tylenol PM?" To which I reasonably replied, "Um," and then, again, "um." And they say white people are articulate.

The funny thing is, my brother was supposed to be the sick one. The same airlines that won't let you take more than three ounces of shampoo on a plane let him fly with gastritis AND mono. You figure it out. He, as it turned out, looked and acted relatively normal; I was the one still in my pajamas the next day at 1:00 PM, shrouded in the blanket he'd finally coaxed me into accepting.

All of that is to say, I went to DC for the weekend to do some wedding stuff and celebrate my remarkable grandma's 94th birthday, and I succeeded in thoroughly freaking out my family. For my brother's various ailments, he has resorted to acupuncture, doctors in Beverly Hills who require valet parking, and a nutritionist; he's insisting I too try every option. Of course, since he's in LA, he's just doing what the LAkers do. But now that my family's seen my crazy up close and personal, they agree.

I finally made it back to Brooklyn and was prepared to sleep forever. Three hours into that plan, I woke up and realized: Mr. Ben wasn't here. Mr. Ben, who had decided to go yuppie for the weekend and ski/bond with law review folks in Utah, was due into JFK at 12:30 AM. Surely then by 3:30 AM he should be home; and yet he wasn't.

I checked the JFK website and CNN.com: no shampoo-related airplane crises to report. Not having any more detailed flight information than "he gets in at 12:30 from Utah," I couldn't get much help from anyone including Mr. Ben himself, whose phone had mysteriously died. There was nothing to be done but stay up all night, occasionally watching NYOne or old Grey's Anatomy episodes for company, and try not to panic overmuch about ending up one of those pre-widows on the news.

At 7:15 he came stumbling in, smurflike from the cold. Had he said a 12:30 arrival? Oops - he had meant he was taking a red eye, getting in around 5:30. Oh god, had I really waited ... ?

The remarkable thing is after all that I got dressed, put on my heavy coat, and actually left the apartment to go to work. Then I remembered two important details. One, I'd forgotten my Netflix envelope inside. And two, I had hardly slept now for four nights running; hadn't eaten in 36 hours; and if I even made it to the subway, I would doubtless end up falling onto the tracks and having to be saved by a future State of the Union attendee.

I made it back inside and slept past noon. Now I have to figure out how to make my life better.

Primary colors

I knew this (pre)election season would be exciting: what with Obama AND Hillary in the race, it's going to bring the racism and sexism out of everyone, even the people who think that the 21st century has parched them of both.

Case in point. Today, Joe Biden decided, fuck this exploratory committee nonsense -- he's going to straight out declare his intentions to run for Presidents. Five points for verve and style, Mr. Biden, and minus seventeen-hundred for substance:

Mr. Biden is equally skeptical—albeit in a slightly more backhanded way—about Mr. Obama. “I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy,” he said. “I mean, that’s a storybook, man.”

But—and the “but” was clearly inevitable—he doubts whether American voters are going to elect “a one-term, a guy who has served for four years in the Senate,” and added: “I don’t recall hearing a word from Barack about a plan or a tactic.”

Awesome! Well done, Mr. Biden, especially in the use of the word "clean." Perhaps Obama can use that as a tagline for his campaign: "Vote Barack! He's not nearly as dirty as those other black people. Like, you know, Frederick Douglas. And Martin Luther King, Jr."

Here's a guess. Joe Biden has macaca'ed himself right out of the gate. From here, his presidential ambitions with sputter, eventually die, and he will buy a yacht to share with Ted Kennedy and Gary Hart. They can name it "So Close, Yet So Far."

ETA: When I reported this to my brother, he responded, "That's not -that- racist." Is this something about which reasonable people can disagree?

death cannot stop true love

For continuity's sake, I should mention how amazing the Erin McKeown show was, although it feels like AGES ago, darling. E McK is as smashing as a tiny, adorable, Brown graduate with folky-jazzy sensibilities and a sharp sense of humor should be. When she cross-dresses, she's even cuter.

I've been wedded to Erin ever since I saw her a weekend-long folk festival even longer than ages ago. When I gave her my notebook to autograph, I'd forgotten that I had written my impressions of her performance at the top of the page. Naturally, seeing her name, she took the book from me and read what I'd written: "She's Bjorklike!"

Erin looked at me from across the table, as sternly as her babyface would allow. "Anyone who says I'm Bjorklike," she said, "is my Best Friend."

There ended up being a small army of us smashed into Joe's Pub to hear her, and she, there with the Little Big Band to promote her new Retro Redux album Sing You Sinners, did not disappoint. In short: every straight person has a list of people they'd go gay for. Erin McKeown tops mine.

On another note entirely (or not?), I've been thinking a lot about Bodies. Also last week, a friend persuaded me to see a Fat Activism documentary at NYU with her -- "fat" being the word the panelists themselves used, although apparently the word "size" has its proponents. FWIW, I'd prefer to use the word "size" because "fat" has such negative connotations to me. One panelist explained, "Fat is what I am, and it's who I am." While that may work for her, I found it disquieting. I'm very used to thinking of myself as a Self and my fat as the Other. If it's not quite a parasite, it's pretty close.

The documentary itself was short and simple. You can be fat and fit! (I know.) People of all shapes are deserving of respect! (I know.) And then it was over. Irritatingly, the discussion afterwards was moderated by a shameless gay bottle-blond gym bunny in a t-shirt that looked like it would have to be peeled off. He stood in the corner and tried to be all Oprah, nodding sympathetically when the panelists recounted experiences of discrimination. I wished I had darts to throw at his biceps.

The word "pride" came up more than once, and it really made me think. Why is it, in America, that we have to have these relationships with our bodies that come down to cycles of intense animosity and self-indulgence? No one ever says, you don't have to love your body -- just figure it's Good Enough. Possibly because that doesn't sell any products, either for dieting or for pampering. Possibly because it feels easier to go to the opposite pole than to settle down with Hillary in the lonely middle. (That should be a folk song.)

Michael Pollan's much-emailed NYT Mag piece this past weekend perfectly summed up what I wish the prevailing attitude was toward food/fat/bodies. Although I don't think it's perfect -- for one thing, he suggests picking one ethnicity and eating it:

Eat more like the French. Or the Japanese. Or the Italians. Or the Greeks. Confounding factors aside, people who eat according to the rules of a traditional food culture are generally healthier than we are. Any traditional diet will do: if it weren’t a healthy diet, the people who follow it wouldn’t still be around.

But what about those of us who love Thai food and Korean food and Japanese food and the occasional slice of pizza or dish of guacamole? Isn't the point of living in America that we don't have to be restricted to what our great grandparents ate? Mr. Ben also points out: "What about the Russians?" Not all surviving diets are worth emulating.

In general though I think he's so right we ought to throw him a parade. You don't need to obsess about food! Since we don't fully understand a carrot works, we can stop thinking we can get what you need from the carrot some other way; we can just eat the damn carrot. Our waists will forgive us, and hey, maybe we won't get cancer. It's not love or hate, pride or fear: it's fact based, it's reasonable, it's straightforward. I should read his book, I guess.

media overload

It's a little much for all of us, I have to imagine, when the Oscars are announced in the same week as the State of the Union speech is delivered. (In case you were playing a rousing game of strip poker last night and missed President Cornflower Blue, the state of the union is "strong.")

I have to say I was more pleased than expected with both results. Two of my favorite movies from this year, Little Miss Sunshine and The Queen, were both nominated for best picture, while Jack Nicholson gets to stay at home -- no doubt in white jockeys and a stained brown bathrobe, facing the TV in an armchair with sunglasses to shield him from the glow, grinning at nothing, stoned out of his gourd, scotch in hand and three illegal immigrants rubbing his feet. Oh, Jack, you Hunter Thompson wannabe.

On a more somber note, I guess now I really should see The Departed. And Babel. Unless someone reliable wants to see them for me and just give me an opinion I can use? Anyone?

The SOTU was made somewhat bearable by the presence of my favorite grandmother and yours, Nancy Pelosi, is a very nice mint green suit on the dais. She made Cheney, next to her, look even more like the Dark Lord he is, and when Bush said "Madame Speaker," he got the biggest roar of the night. Pelosi herself had to gavel for silence. It was awesome.

Other than that, he just said "terrorists" a bunch of times and "freedom" once or twice and he called it a night. His intention seemed to be to come off as bloody but unbowed; really, to me, he just seemed neutered, which is how I like my Republicans.

Tonight: Erin McKeown at Joe's Pub!

Wrong, wrong, wrong

For years I've been telling people about what I called "the Ms. test for movies," ever since I first read about it in a Ms. magazine when I was a summer intern at WIFP, a 1st amendment nonprofit. Is my memory muddled, or was Ms. quoting it from the place it originated, a Dykes to Watch Out For strip? The world may never know. At least I can attempt to set the record straight here: all credit belongs to A. Bechdel, friends, for this brilliant 3-part movie test:

1) Is there more than one female character? If so,
2) do the female characters talk, and if so,
3) about anything other than men?

You would be amazed at how many movies don't pass this test. Good movies. Great movies, even -- go ahead, count.

I don't think you need to self-flagellate over this, for what it's worth. A movie can flunk the Ms. Test -- I mean, the Liz Wallace via DTWOF and Ms. Test -- and still be quality. But for what it's worth, one of the reasons I've never been crazy about Scorsese is that virtually none of his movies pass the LWVDTWOFAMT Test. It's all-macho-all-the-time with Marty, with the glorious exception of Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, which you could say is the only Scorsese movie he's only made once and which almost no one talks about.

Is it so hard to have women be real people in good movies? I mean, even master-of-macho, Russell-Crowe-worshipping Ridley Scott has Thelma and Louise AND Alien on his resume.

Children of Men, I am happy to report (finally!), does not have this problem. There are three major female characters, one of whom is named "Kee." The name is something of a pun: the character herself is "key," and she also does represent, in a very real way, the energy and lifeforce -- you know, the qi -- of not only the film but the dystopian near-future in which the film is set. In 2027, the human race has stopped reproducing and is either grimly awaiting, or actively courting, death. It's all very Emily Dickinson.

The world is in chaos and, British propoganda claims, "only Britain soldiers on." Or so the government would like to pretend: the only advertising anywhere is for home suicide kits, and you know a civilization has really given up when it can't even be bothered to hawk beauty creams and liquor. Cuaron's direction uses the same narrative efficiency he displayed in Y Tu Mama Tambien, where he made every glance out a window educational: every British flag hangs limp, every street and car and building is crumbling at the edges, every billboard you see warns of immigrants or reminds you that "avoiding fertility tests is illegal."

That's the first third of the film: mood, setting, understanding. The second third is Clive Owen's journey from disaffected post-activist to a person who's alive and cares again, a progression the film accomplishes by, perversely, taking from him everyone he loves or depends on. The last third -- a fierce fight for survival -- is cribbed from the Battle of Algiers, as my fellow-filmgoer Bobby describes well enough that I don't feel the need to go into it (thanks, Bobby!) It's a punch to the gut, as visceral and important as anything I've seen in years.


As long as I'm gushing, I'd like to say how happy I am for America Ferrara, who rocked the Golden Globes by (a) winning, (b) looking fantastic, and (c) giving a short, eloquent speech that made everyone cry. Hat trick! And for a worthy cause, too: I really like her show, maybe even more than Gray's Anatomy at this point, b/c Ugly Betty serves its melodrama up with a spoonful of campy, campy sugar.

Day of Fun

Some people have weekends. Others have Days of Fun that begin in the village and end at Build a Bear!

His name is Krackden. I know because I have his birth certificate, and also because, when the computer made a mistake, I had to re-dictate his name to the chipper fellow at the cash register. That's K-R-A-C-K-D-E-N, with a K. And the scowl the chipper fellow gave me was absolutely worth it.

My friend Becca named hers The Best Little Bearhouse in Texas. Bearhouse for short.

pop quiz, hotshot

Q: What's better than a lingering dinner at Babbo to celebrate, at long last, an engagement or two?

A: Maybe Heaven. I don't know. I can't vouch for the quality of their cranberry upside-down cake with nutmeg gelatto.

how to have brunch

the best thing about living in new york city is the surfeit of new brunch places to discover. as a child, i was groomed to be a brunch-lover by my father, who set up camp in the kitchen on weekend mornings, spreading two newspapers across any available surface not covered by plates of smoked fish, bread, or fruit. while my brothers ran in and out, occasionally stopping -- to my horror -- to turn on and mindlessly watch some sports game, i learned to linger over food in companionable silence, at least until the paper turned up a detail to delicious not to share.

one always prefaced such sharings with, "listen to this," so as to introduce noise gently into the calm.

my routine has changed, of course, now that i live in the City of Brunch, where the custom is more to venture out for and make an event of the meal. but the spirit of thing remains constant: weekends are a luxury that should be appreciated; good food should be savored; a good bloody mary is a very fine thing.

today's outing to Downtown Atlantic (364 Atlantic Ave., if you're local & curious) was quite successful. i have high standards for brunch. the ideal place will combine relatively low prices, usually fixed at about/under $10, with a drink thrown in and if you're lucky french fries. the DA entrees were listed at a reasonable $8 without drinks, but they came accompanied by a basket of amazing sliced zucchini-carrot bread, and my veggie-n-ricotta frittata was huge enough for two meals -- and so much fun to say!

the alcoholic drinks they do offer are standard & on the expensive side; and i do believe that if one is going to partake before noon, one should never have to pay extra for the privilege. the soda, however, is bottomless. before you start partying too hardy about that, remember: the house always wins. drinking $3 worth of diet coke is not for the faint of heart.

of course, brunch is hardly brunch if it's not enjoyed in good company. mine was stellar. my neighborhood, once-college friend R., who has made much more pedestrian activities such as laundry & grocery shopping worthwhile, and i got to debrief about our respective holidays. i mused to her about why december was such a stressful month for me, what with family, travel, buying/receiving presents, realizing that the previous year i'd been unceremoniously canned, work stuff, and mr. ben's finals. she looked at me like i was nuts and said, "how could that NOT have been stressful?"

but now it's january. things are fresh, even the oddly springlike weather. thanks to R., i have, for the first time, my very own scrabble board. i plan on starting yoga this week, and seeing Children of Men (and A Prairie Home Companion, which i have from Netflix), and generally taking things slow. also, i plan on giggling periodically when i remember that saturday night i got dragged to what was supposed to be "burlesque" and was, in reality, topless amateur go-go-dancers -- as in, go go gadget pasties! yikes.

resolved

- to replace the battery in my computer (which is dead)
- to replace the battery in my phone (which is near dead)
- to go to the dentist (it won't kill me)
- to go to a therapist and deal with my anxiety so that it doesn't kill me
- to go to yoga, to help deal with both my regular anxiety and the anxiety that surrounds Actually Going to Therapy

phew! further:

- to revise Part 3 of my book so that more readers are satisfied with it. er, i mean, so that >i'm< more satisfied with it
- to start sending the book out
- to be in good emotional shape for the wedding
- to actively look forward to the wedding, if for no other reason than because it's an excuse to import friends from all over the country and put them in one room and say, "eat! dance! look at my dress!" and also kiss ben in public and have people clap.
- to feel more like an adult. i do believe it's possible. if i were living 150 years ago, i'd be married with 3 children by now and suffering from consumption. i can do my own taxes, okay? i pay my own rent, i take pills, i use tampons, i light matches, i clean bathrooms and dishes, i take out the trash, i read newspapers and listen to npr. i read Salon.com, for christ's sake!

more like an adult, ester. you can do it.

wow! blogger = google. weird.

happy 007, everyone. i'm less bleary than yesterday, my day-of-reentry after the drive down and over from the gloried adirondack town of Wanakena -- which, itself, was quite a journey from sandy, sunny Sanibel Island, FL. it was taxing on my delicate system to go from [family] to (friends), [south] to (north), [hot] to (cold), [cable] to (no-tv-at-all), [seafood] to (eating Fifi, the house mascot, a large, photogenic leek, about whom we sang: "Fifi, oh, Fifi, oh Fifi / the queen of our table's delight / we love you to death, our dear Fifi / and that's why we'll eat you tonight.") to make matters worse, a friend lent me her nasty cold; i've had it for over a week now. but it was all worth it, i'm pretty sure.

now that i'm back i'm more excited to see Children of Men than i have been to see anything in a long time. except the new version of Company on broadway which, heaven help me, i WILL get to, and soon.