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.