Writin'

The worst writing I've seen in a while comes courtesy of the Washington Post, in an article called (appropriately) Blood on the Mountain:

High on the mountain, the sun has to fight its way down through the thick forest. The light takes on a spectral elegance, as if yellow diamonds are falling to the ground. ... But a murderer was in these woods, too. And he brought darkness to the light.

On the cheerier side of things, this interview with Meryl Streep in the Guardian almost made me want to see Mamma Mia!, despite my hatred of all things Abba. (I couldn't even sit through Muriel's Wedding, and I have abiding respect for Toni Collette.) The paper, for what it's worth, seems to agree with me:

Streep plays an older woman called Donna who runs a B&B on a Greek island which has been infected by a terrible plague: nobody can stop singing Abba songs, until some god, in the form of the end credits, intervenes.

For some reason, the reporter seems to think Streep has never done comedy, which ignores how hilarious she was in Adapation and Postcards from the Edge. Maybe the laughs didn't make it across the Atlantic.

Also, the website Cityfile, for which I had a Secret Internet Part-Time Job last year, has finally launched. I wrote about thirty profiles for them, including ones for such yellow diamonds as Ann Coulter, Lucianne Goldberg, Ken Auletta, the little Foer boy, and lots of others, including agents/editors whose names I've forgotten. Browse! It's fun.

"i got the gun, you got the briefcase"

Especially now that I've finished the second draft of my book and sent it out to its probable first round of rejections, my favorite thing to do is watch dead TV shows on DVD. First it was My So-Called Life, which I re-experienced, giddily, on Netflix. Now it's the Wire, which, being five or so seasons, is going to take me longer. I'd heard and ignored hype about this show for years, figuring it would be somewhere on the spectrum of Law and Order, Homicide, and the Sopranos: male-focused, testosterone-y cop drama with lots of posturing and blood-letting followed by snarky courtroom scenes. I could do without.

Only when someone whose artistic opinion I respect told me it was maybe better than the Sopranos did I finally decide to give it a chance. The first few episodes were fine, if a little rough, but to be fair, David Chase's folks didn't really get their act together immediately either. Around Disc 3 of Season 1, with the cohesion of the police group and the increased centrality of Omar, one of the more compelling "bad guys" I've seen on television, I realized I was really into it. And this clip, from an episode I haven't even seen yet, is a pretty good explication of why.

"Is there really such a thing as black holes?"

"Waaaaaaaaalllll-E." "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeevuh." That is what is going on inside my head, a constant loop of one adorable robot voice speaking to another adorable robot voice. If I could get a guarantee that my kids would be as cute as those little Pixar creations, I would have them. (That's one consideration not addressed by this otherwise thoughtful NYT magazine article about why Europeans won't breed. I mean, seriously, reproduction is a risk. What if your kids have terrible taste, or grow up to be barbaric, vote-rigging, African dictators instead of awesome neurologists?)

Without giving too much away, because you should really see the movie yourself and be surprised / delighted, Wall-E is essentially one long much more artistically-impressive Mac vs. PC commercial. One that makes clear that the future belongs to Macintosh. Also to females, maybe, for some reason. Do you think that's because Eve, the sleek, more advanced, little i-pod of a robot, needed to be female for the story to make sense, or because, like the hipsters & artists who love them, Macs are inherently feminine?

Putting aside the question of how something with no genitals or reproductive capability could be sexed at all, it was nice to see a non-princess female character in a starring role in an animated movie. A non-princess, non-love-interest character would be even more impressive. I can only think of a handful in the Pixar/Disney canon, and the standout is probably Dory in Finding Nemo, a movie also written by Wall-E auteur Andrew Stanton. Also the fabulous Edna in the Incredibles, which is still my favorite Pixar flick (or "Pick"). Interestingly -- not that I'm drawing conclusions -- Dory is voiced by a famous lesbian and Edna by a man.

The little girl sitting next to me at the sold-out Friday night showing I went to had lots of questions for her mother, including the one that's functioning as the title of this post. It was also pretty cute, although less cute than robot kissing. But, then, isn't everything?

"Dishonesty is the second best policy"

George Carlin is dead and I missed the Mermaid Day parade. At least other timelier folks took cameras: The story of *how* I missed the parade is a comedy of errors -- after all, I was there. At least I got to see some detritus/aftermath. Photos TK.

That picture of the mermen comes courtesy of JJ, who takes awesome pictures her own self. She and Charrow, my oldest & bestest, the fantastic creature who wore a tiger-print dress to my rehearsal dinner and then a suit to my wedding, will be moving here in the fall. Next summer we will all be arm and arm on W10th, yodeling at the passing sea creatures and painted 'mos. I cannot wait.

While sweating to the oldies in Atlanta, the team of Charrow & JJ has created these cards of which I am in dire need. They're like a ink blot test: do you see narcissism? Self-sufficiency? Energy independence? Masturbation? Confuse your friends! They're for sale here.

Things I Do To Endanger Myself

Twice so far today I've put my health at risk: first, I ate a raw tomato, which is currently the equivalent of eating a raw egg.

Then, this afternoon, against the specific advice of Anthony Bourdain, a man you do NOT want to cross, I bought half-price sushi at Chicken Deli. How could I resist eight California rolls for $2?

If I die, please tell the coroner I went to my grave thrifty. And make sure to order the pine box.

It *Is* In Washington, D.C. ...

Me: Mike, did you see this?
Mike: Oh my god! Racists are mean. Well, I guess they'll have to get used to calling it the Black House.
Me: The Darkie House. Or maybe they could just call it The Ghetto!

(link via Wonkette)

ETA: The GOP is shocked, shocked and appalled. It will not tolerate -- "or profit from" -- racism. I guess that means no more ObamaMonkeys, either, huh? Damn PC-police, always ruining the fun.

ups and downs

Governor Deval Patrick's daughter is heading off to home-of-the-homos Smith College in the fall, and she'll fit right in. Yay, Katherine! And well done, daddy Deval, who apparently is the a poster-child for PFLAG:

"he didn't know that I was gay [when he helped legalize gay marriage in the state]," the 18-year-old recalls. "So, for someone so publicly to fight for something that doesn't even affect him was just like, 'That’s my dad,' you know?" she says with a laugh. "That’s all I could think. I was very, very proud to be part of this family, and this state in general."

"It was great. I'm very glad," she adds, looking at her father. "Don't cry, Dad." Patrick's eyes are brimming with tears, prompting some good-natured teasing from his daughter. "He's done some good things," she says with a laugh, patting his arm. "I appreciate it. Want a tissue? Oh, God. He's a crier."

Less amazingly adorable? Strawberry Shortcake's hideous makeover:
They've taken a beloved, asexual childhood icon -- and they've tried to make her cool. Strawberry Shortcake isn't cool! She's Victorian! And she isn't supposed to look like the demon lovechild of the Little Mermaid and Polly Pocket in truly awful high-waisted pants. That's way worse than when Marvel unconsciously created Gay Ken in 1993:

it gave Ken a purple mesh T-shirt, a pierced ear and the name “Earring Magic Ken,” and it can set off a brand crisis on a global scale. ... Earring Magic Ken is the industry’s nightmare. The character, who had blond highlights in his hair and a leather vest, drew howls from consumers, who did not see him as a realistic boyfriend for Barbie.

Summer in the city!

All of a sudden I totally can't stop with the pictures. I got this from a very entertaining, globe-trotting LJ friend (not to be mistaken for a person I know in real life) and I feel that it's sort of appropriate, given the weather. The tagline at the top, in case you can't read it, says, "A tedious adventure-romance!"

Chase me down with poison-tipped spears if you must, but I have to admit I don't mind heat. Of course, this a little extreme, especially for early June. Luckily our apartment is a bit of a cave and has remained cool for the most part. We haven't had to turn on our A/C yet and we even managed to cook last night. Come visit! We have a hose we can spray you with in the backyard!

We packed our bathing suits when we down to Swarthmore this past weekend for Mr. Ben's five year reunion, thinking we could sneak down to the Crum. There was no time but I'm definitely putting it on the agenda for next year, when I am the star and Mr. Ben is the spouse. There were no non-Swarthmore spouses at his reunion, it should be said. Marrying a non-Swattie five years out is, apparently, as unthinkable as working for profit. Every conversation I had with someone led to them telling me about their good works or their Ph.D. program. "And what's *your* thesis about?" I asked, over and over again, batting my eyelashes like Scarlet O'Hara.

At breakfast on Sunday, I had the surreal experience of bonding over Henry Fielding with a boy I last saw dirty dancing on-stage with a friend of mine at Sager, Swarthmore's annual sextravanagza ("boys wear a dress, girls wear less!"). In fact I have a great picture of him pretending to bite her face. He's now doing a doctorate in British literature at UVA. Naturally.

On the subject of bad boy behavior, please do yourself a favor and read this amazing article about how McCain ditched his first wife after she was in a disfiguring car accident. Of course, we can't turn on our backs on every politician who commits a sexual indiscretion; we understand that tremendous, unfeeling egotists must screw around, trade up, be cruel, and generally make themselves feel sexy and powerful at the expense of their wives. So, as a society, we seem to set the bar pretty low: no transporting multiple hookers across state lines and no sex with children.

All the same, McCain's story takes my breath away. I mean, you know it's bad when people are willing to go on the record:

Ted Sampley, who fought with US Special Forces in Vietnam and is now a leading campaigner for veterans’ rights, said: ‘I have been following John McCain’s career for nearly 20 years. I know him personally. There is something wrong with this guy and let me tell you what it is – deceit.

‘When he came home and saw that Carol was not the beauty he left behind, he started running around on her almost right away. Everybody around him knew it. ‘Eventually he met Cindy and she was young and beautiful and very wealthy. At that point McCain just dumped Carol for something he thought was better.

‘This is a guy who makes such a big deal about his character. He has no character. He is a fake. If there was any character in that first marriage, it all belonged to Carol.’

Even Ross Perot joins the beat down!

Ross Perot, who paid her medical bills all those years ago, now believes that both Carol McCain and the American people have been taken in by a man who is unusually slick and cruel – even by the standards of modern politics.

‘McCain is the classic opportunist. He’s always reaching for attention and glory,’ he said. ‘After he came home, Carol walked with a limp. So he threw her over for a poster girl with big money from Arizona. And the rest is history.’

When a self-centered Texas billionaire calls you out, you know you're in trouble.

Ready, Set, O!

The primary season is blessedly, finally over. Slate's Hillary Death Watch moved her chances down to a red zero. And as to speculation that she should/could be put on the ticket -- an idea on par with inviting the Macbeths to come along on your summer vacation -- Beam had this to say:

Clinton's handling of the past two days has all but closed off the possibility of an Obama-Clinton ticket. And that's just one of the 78 reasons Clinton won't be veep. Obama could never run as anti-Washington yet pick the personification thereof as his second. Clinton would never be able to cede the spotlight, as VPs must. And Bill's presidential library would pose its own set of headaches, the Wall Street Journal reports today. If there were a Hillary Veepwatch, it would be hovering around 0 percent, too.

Please let it be true.

Meanwhile, isn't our new President-to-be handsome? Wasn't that fist bump great? And don't you think he should be outfitted in a mandatory bulletproof vest for the next five months?

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?