Walter Matthau

Be prepared, I am about to say something that is almost never said. Thank God (or any diety, powerful public figure, or delicious nugat centered treat of your choice) for the 70's. I'll tell you why. The 70's allowed Walter Matthau to be a leading man.

That floppy hound dog face would barely be able to eek out a living as a character actor today. He certainly would be laughed out of a casting office if he dared come in for a leading role. Today, "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three" would have been cast with Tom Cruise or Bruce Willis as the grumbling, quick thinking chief of security for the New York Subway system. I've seen the guys who work the subway. Tom Cruise they ain't, but that doesn't make them any less interesting. In fact, I would argue that it makes them MORE interesting. Matthau turned this man not into a hyper-capable superman with a dirty t-shirt and a smoldering look, but into a real man. A man that might be your Dad. He wore a suit. He did his job. He got the bad guy through the strength of his intellect, not the size of his pecs or the caliber of his weapon.

"House Calls", a romantic comedy co-starring Glenda Jackson, would also have suffered with a pretty boy in the lead. Matthau is just so decent in his lechery and so damn likeable! He's so comfortable in his saggy, old before his time skin that there is not a trace of doubt in my mind that young women would throw themselves at him. Of course, his character is also a successful and recently widowed surgeon which may add to the appeal, but he's still Walter. Glorious, jowly, immensely funny Walter with his terrible posture and his rather glib speech that sounds like his tongue is just a little too big for his mouth. Wonderful Walter, with that twinkle in his eye and some unknown confidence in his pants. There is something truly engaging about him, his face, and his incredible personality.

Besides being a great personality, he had great skill as an actor that allowed his personality to come through no matter what. In "Bad News Bears" his drunken state was not just a joke. Even though there was humor in it, there was something ultimately human and sad about it. Matthau's Buttermaker is a guy you want to smack so hard that he shits teeth for weeks, but you don't because there is always the hope that he will wake up and make things right in the end. Matthau can inspire your faith even when he doesn't deserve it. Remember the scene when he gives poor little Tatum O'Neal the riot act and says unspeakably cruel things about not really wanting to have anything to do with her? Tatum leaves the dugout and Walter is left alone with his beer. He drinks it, but we see how hurting her truly hurt him. He couldn't help himself. That's when we understand something about people, about ourselves.

That is what a story is supposed to do. Not teach us or preach at us or numb us with art direction and special effects, but to show us a little something of ourselves in the most unexpected of places. There just isn't enough of that these days. Not enough interesting people making interesting choices. Sometimes I think my iMac on a skateboard with one of those stilted voices in SimpleText would make a better actor than the crop I see making films today. Of course, I know that is a gross exaggeration, but for the next few minutes I'd like you to think about how no one can really hold a candle to that gorgeous actor of an actor, Mr. Walter Matthau.

Don't fuck with me, I know what I am talking about even if you don't!

Okay. It looks like I need to be crystal clear about something and I thought I'd do it publicly. My dander is up and I am only going to say this one more time. This time I want you to hear what I am actually saying and try to keep your liberal panties from crawling so far up your ass that you misunderstand me- again. Here goes:

Several weeks ago I had sent out an email to a bunch of friends regarding a book I had read that struck an unexpected chord with me. I tire of explaining this but I'll try to keep my patience if you'll promise to hear me out before you start to point and cry "Heretic! Unbeliever! Neo-con soccer mom!" The book in question is "Smut: A Sex Industry Insider (and concerned father) Says Enough is Enough".

I realize the title has already irritated all you champions of the First Amendment (a glorious Amendment- I cannot deny) but this is where you actually get to honor said amendment by either opting NOT to read on or by giving me a chance to explain myself. The book is a long and angry essay about how "just change the channel" doesn't really work anymore as we are so innundated with adult (unfriendly adult) sexual imagery that we can't even escape it. It details how the sex industry pushes its way into our homes and public spaces and offers some tools for concerned parents while making a plea to just be reasonable. The point is to just play nice in spaces where young kids congregate, make the rough stuff available but for adults, and do it voluntarily so that Tipper Gore and Hillary Clinton can find better things to do with their time than trying to erradicate all obscenity from American life. I can't disagree. But something pissed me off. Throughout the book the author (whose name escapse me, sorry) kept repeating "I am NOT advocating a change to the First Amendment!", "I truly believe that if adults want pornography, they are entitled to have it" and so on and so forth. All right, I get the idea. He was simply asking for a little help from the Larry Flints of this world to just keep his public spaces a little bit less of a violent and sexual landmine for his daughter. (He lives in New York, I believe, and this might make a difference in how attacked he feels by glorified sex and violence) It became nauseating that he had to keep repeating how he believes in freedom of speech but that there is a time and a place for some things. I found it annoying that he had to keep saying it.

Now I am pissed off that I have to keep explaining myself. Why is it so hard to understand when someone says "please"? I really don't give a fuck what you do. I don't care what you might enjoy in your spare time. But if you can't watch porn at the office, why watch it on the roof mounted television in your car? Are you still suffering from the delusion that since you are in a little steel box you can pick your nose and jack off without anyone noticing? Can't we just practice a little common sense and keep things in an appropriate place just to be polite?

You see, now that I think about it, it isn't so much the content- boobs everywhere, rampant objectification of women, dry humping on MTV, dick jokes in prime time- that only bothers me a little bit. Honestly, I do what they say I should do- I turn it off. Let's face it, at 30 years old trailers for horror movies still scare me. I can't imagine what it would do to my son, so I don't risk it. What bothers me most is the disrespect and malice with which this stuff is pushed into the marketplace. Sure, I remember wanting to get under people's skin and that youthful desire to disturb the status quo. Fine. But have a fucking point, would you? Where's the fucking point? It's just mindless titilation and its crap. I'm not afraid to say it. We have to stop pretending that absolutely everything is "good" or valid for mass consummption. Some things are just crap, with no skill, no message, no craft and no heart. So I should be able to say it sucks and not have to be diplomatic about it.

There has been a wretched downward spiral in the intellectual and artistic value of our media culture. I don't think I can count the number of times I have read statements like this:

"I really don't have an agenda and I didn't tell this story to shock you. It is just a bunch of stuff that happened and you need to make up your mind for yourself."

Bullshit. Anyone who premptively tries to convince you that they aren't trying to shock you is clearly trying ot shock you. They are just being a chickenshit about it. Stand behind your product and shout out what you want to say loud and clear. Otherwise you are just spewing blood, guts, and hurting women for what purpose? Why? Because you had a bad childhood? Work it out in therapy and when you can say something with any value then come out and say it. Then we can have a discussion about it. But how the hell can we have a real discussion about trailers for slasher movies at 7:00 PM? Who are you trying to reach? I know what you are trying to do- boost your video rentals for 10- 12 year old birthday parties. What, so you can prime them for snuff films? Great.

Don't think I'm not pissed at the parents who rented slasher films for the slumber parties I attended. I'm 12 dude. I don't have any idea about sex and barely any comprehension at all of death and suddenly- after cake and ice cream- I find that the two are welded together with blood and jism. Fabulous. What the fuck were you thinking?

Sex and violence have always been around and they always will. There will always be people who get off on it. Unfortunately, the problem is that when there are people who get off on it, they are usually people who get off on freaking out other people with it. Just like religion. Religion is great- if you keep it to yourself. However, the ugly mole on the butt of religion is the idea that you must witness. You must spread the word. So while half the population is spreading the word the other half is trying to make them squirm by spreading their legs. In a way, both are really hateful when they are pressed on to people who don't want them.

I don't want to live in a world where things are not available. Just have a little respect. I don't want the government to get involved. They always screw it up. So why can't adults monitor themselves? Why must we continue to out-sex and out-murder our competition? Because we are too lazy to try something else? Come on!

A final note- for now...

There is something actors know, psychologists know, and now Malcolm Gladwell, author of "Blink" and "The Tipping Point" knows. We can affect how we feel on the inside by manipulating our environment and even our faces. Actors know, from firsthand experience, that any random adjustment of the body and facial features will illicet an emotional response not just from the person looking but from the person performing. This is how characters are born. This is how choices are made. This is part of the craft. There is a lot of argument in the acting community about "inside-out" versus "outside-in" methodologies. The truth is, they both work. Walk around for one minute with a smile on your face and it won't be long before it begins to feel honest. Scowl for a bit and see if you don't start to feel a little bitchy. The Broken Windows theory that is partially credited with a decline in violent crime in New York states, basically, that it is easier to be a good, law- abiding citizen with clean streets, well kept homes, and regular garbage removal. Our environment and how we choose to represent ourselves within that environment has a profound effect on who we are, how we behave and what we grow up to be. If I get kicked off the cutting edge list because I want my son to be a good person who cares for people and respects others then so be it. You can keep your oh-so-hip and meaningless club for youselves. I have better things to do.

Visiting Work

It was almost a year ago that Tom and I started filming "Pull"- a screenplay that I wrote and that we produced together. Due to a whole host of inconvenient life events (an unexpected move, a couple of unexpected jobs, a minor financial crisis, loss of access to free equipment, and general insanity) we have been unable to cut our indie masterpiece. Well, we have finally begun the process.

Last night I got to see about a quarter of the footage. I never watched the dailies as we were filming. After all, I was handling so many other elements of the production that I didn't have time to sit down and watch. And, of course, I had Sullivan when we weren't filming.

It was incredibly stressful. We shot a feature film in 10 days with a budget that made both our insurance man and our union reps literally point and laugh. As I said, I saw some of the footage last night and I would like to give them a big wet raspberry. It was hard, it was crazy, it made me more tired than I have ever been in my life.

I want to do it again!

In praise of the Hetero Man Friend

I love men. Always have. I am especially sympathetic to the Hetero Man. I think they get a pretty bad rap sometimes. That is not to say that I don't like Gay Man or Bi Man, but I would like to give a little appreciation to the much maligned and misunderstood Hetero Man.

There is a common misconception that Hetero Man is incapable of a real friendship with a woman. Apparently sex gets in the way and confuses Hetero Man and he is apt to make some poor choices. Well, I have indeed witnessed this phenomenon but have not seen their mistakes outnumber those of the common Hetero Woman. I just think we tend to demonize Hetero Man and that makes me sad. Some of my closest friends are Hetero Men. I know, that is supposed to be against the odds since I am a flaming hot Hetero Woman. The fact that I am married and have a child is rumored not to bother Hetero Man and I have been raised to believe that Hetero Man will stop at nothing to bag any woman who crosses his path. My personal expererience has shown me that nothing could be further from the truth. They can resist me...hey, wait a minute... that doesn't sound so good...

As my last post suggests, I was out on the town on Monday night. I didn't make any particular plans and I sure as hell didn't give anyone any notice. I just sent out a mass email and left a few voicemail messages and let it go at that. I was prepared to have an evening of solitude, although I was hoping for a little company. Luckily, I was rescued by 3 lovely Hetero Man Friends and a delightful and understanding Girl Friend. Ben and Keri (I hope I gave the correct spelling of Carrie, Kerry, Cary, Kerri...), Mark and Steve were kind enough to partake in a few beers and some interesting chit chat for the better part of the evening. Steve had just returned from a whirlwind trip in the UK the day before and was so jet lagged the poor boy was hardly up to his gold standard of obscene humor. However, he was kind enough to pepper his tired discourse with polite compliments about my wardrobe and healthy appearance. Of course, Ben and Mark did their best to fill the gaps with their own brand of ribald wit and musings on the merits of flirting, favorite beers, the sad state of Broadway and group sex.

Honestly, though, I do appreciate the fact that when I was pressed for information about this "vacation" and its purpose not one of them ran away screaming or made any uncomfortable excuses for having to get up early the next morning. I told them that my therapist had suggested I do this or risk having a breakdown. Certainly, I sensed a little pity as there was a bit of an uncomfortable silence but they rebounded quite nicely and ordered another round. They didn't try to drag anything out of me or try to fix me. They were just being good friends and I had a smashing good time.

I don't know how I've gotten so lucky, but I have had a lifetime full of really good Hetero Man Friends. I've found them rather easy to be with, entertaining to talk to, and rather honest, warm and affectionate. Hardly the stuff we are taught to believe of their species. No, they don't call to chat for no reason and it can be easy to fall out of touch with them but they also don't get jealous or bent out of shape very easily. I've always been pleasantly surprised by my Hetero Man Friendships. After all, when 3 guys (and a girlfirend!) go out of their way to hang out with an over stressed, married mom that's a very wonderful gesture of friendship- because you know they ain't gettin' any. And, every once in a while, I'll get a quick glimpse at what one of my Hetero Man Friends really thinks of me. To them it seems obvious that they respect and care for me, but sometimes I must admit that I underestimate their capacity for true friendship because they are not as demonstrative as my women friends. But I wouldn't want them to be. I like them just the way they are.

So, here's to my Hetero Man Friends, past, present and future. Salut.

Guilt- the breakfast of champions

I am leaving my family to themselves for the night. After a little meeting Tom and I have this afternoon with a producer, I will be heading to a fleabag in Manhattan for tonight and will not be home until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. This is at my therapist's urging as she feels I may be headed for a breakdown again and I want to avoid my having to go back on medication if it is at all possible. Now, this will illustrate the lengths to which I aid and abet my own illness...

I got up the nerve to ask Tom if he could take over for a couple of days. He, being the wonderful and loving person he is, just told me not to worry about it, that he would make it happen. There were several days I had to make plans to get a hotel, ride a train, whatever, but I could not justify the cost. $45 train ticket? No way. A $100.00 hotel room on top of it? Maybe I don't really need to go. I'll be fine, plus I don't want to miss our weekly play date on Tuesday, and what about the leftovers in the fridge? Even if I leave a note I know they won't eat them up and it will go bad! Who is going to pick up around the house? Do the laundry? Oh, and what about "poop time"? No one can do that but me, right? Anxiety creeps in disguised as logicical thinking.

What if Sullivan thinks I left because I didn't want to be with him?

The idea of abandonment is a big wieght crushing my insides into a big, grey mush. When Tom and I sat down to discuss finding a new home for our dog, Bukka (who has since died of his own accord) because of some behavioral and aging issues that we didn't think we could handle the thing that devastated me most about the conversation was not his actual leaving the home. It was the idea that he might, in his own doggie way, think that I left him out of sheer malice. You can't explain these things to a dog. A dog does not have the capacity to understand extenuating circumstances. To the dog it is a defect of his own "personality" (for lack of a better term) that has driven his pack away. It is much the same with children. You leave. Was it something I said? No, it must be something I AM. Oh God- to inflict that pain on another being is just too much responsibility for me.

After deciding that I would just stay out late on Monday night then come home and be around for breakfast on Tuesday and putter around I found myself crying hysterically in the shower. If I am home I won't be able to resist doing things for the family and they won't be able to resist letting me. No. I have to suck it up and leave for the night. A little clarity will do me good. So I found the cheapest shared bathroom hostel on the Upper West Side and made reservations for tonight. I had thought about doing a B&B in Brooklyn, but I found I just couldn't justify the expense. Hey, little steps, right? So I made the reservations and then I had this dream:

I had plotted to throw Sullivan out the window. I was going to be rid of him and move on with my life. The plan was to throw him out the window, make it look like a home invasion or something, then repel down the side of the building. Of course, in the process of all of this, I was feeling sick to my stomach but I had to go with the plan. Tom was a sort of shadowy, yet complicit figure hovering in the background. When the time came to throw him out the window, (and Sullivan was about 14-15 months old in the dream, not the chatty 3 1/2 year old he is now) Sullivan tripped and bumped himself. I picked him up and hugged him and began to weep uncontrollably because I didn't WANT to throw him out the window. Even so, it had come to this point and I had to decide which one of us it was going to be. I began kissing him all over and telling him that I loved him and yet it was totally ripping my heart in two that I was about to betray him. Then, as luck would have it, I was in the midst of a real home invasion. Big guys were scaling the side of the building and kicking out windows in order to gain access. There was a lot of noise and dust. I grabbed Sully and began fighting my way to the door. Then I woke up.

Yes, I know, in the end I protected him. But, to be honest, I have a hard time forgiving myself for wanting to throw him out the window in the first place. What is worse is that I am quite certain that on some level he knows it. I didn't plan this whole motherhood thing well. But who the hell knows what they are getting into when they start this whole thing? People tell you that it's a big responsibility and that you are the entire world for this tiny creature- but they can never tell you what that actually MEANS. Nor can they ever tell you how you are going to react to that kind of pressure. I thought I was most well equipped for the job. Maybe I was, but somewhere along the line I took it too far and it is hard to go back and make that left turn at Albequerque.

I have a date with the bogeyman tonight, and the bogeyman is me.

Musings on Time and Place

Sometimes I really miss Minneapolis. It's that certain lazy, midwestern guitar, more tinny sounding and with it's own mute agression that gets me. It's the sweet smell of spring mud and cigarette smoke mixed with the feeling of driving around with the windows open. Even that little bite of cold that reminds me summer is a fleeting experience that is best to enjoy rather than squander with complaints about the humidity. Of course, when I am in Minneapolis I find myself missing hot Brooklyn asphalt and the ever-present smell of garbage and urine that, on a good day, mixes with the sublime sent of blooming honeysuckle on the corner of Clinton and 4th.

Perhaps it isn't really Minneapolis that I am missing, but a piece of me that I have buried under layers of regret and confusion. Maybe I just miss feeling really young. You know, that kind of young where you could yell "Wahoo!" without being ironic. I am most likely confusing time and place.

I've never been cool, but I had always harbored the secret hope that one day I would be. One day I would turn heads and everyone would laugh at my jokes and people would want to be me. Maybe I would want to be me! Nothing has slaughtered my fragile sense of self more than moving to New York where being a little corn-fed white girl makes me positively boring or worse..."cute". After seven years I still feel like the wide-eyed country rube. My clothes aren't very chic, I'm still 20 lbs heavier than I'd like to be, I only speak English and enough restaurant French and Dora the Explorer Spanish to be completely useless in conversation with the well travelled party-goers that I've run into over the years. I'm 30. I'm a mom. Some people can make that look very exciting, but I just feel well worn. I feel a little bit like that neglected yet dependable white t-shirt in the bottom of your drawer that you break out on laundry days. Good enough to wear, but not nice enough to wear to dinner.

Now, when I look at the last four years, I've done quite a bit. I've done more than some of the biggest talkers that I know. Indulge me for a moment...

I have written and re-written a stageplay, produced it twice, directed it once, written two screenplays, produced and appeared in one of those screenplays (in addition to providing craft service, set design, costumes, casting, make-up, hair, and locations...), produced and directed another off-off Broadway production, created and taught a pre-school curriculum for a cooperative playgroup, posed nude (not for the playgroup!), created (and will be offering this fall) a class and performance series for actor/writers, and dabbled in coaching all while staying home to raise my son. Of the people I know who talk a good game (most being single/ childless) what I have come up with in product far exceeds their boasting. However, I defer to their bluster everytime. It's a skill I've never mastered. I guess I was raised to believe that promoting yourself was rude. Heaven help me if I was to be intentionally rude!

Maybe I feel these gymnastic feats of scheduling and sheer know-how would have been more appreciated in Minnesota. Here everyone writes a book everytime they sneeze. It's such an insufferably expressive culture here! It's hard to even talk to people in case you accidentally plagerize a witty comment from a previous conversation without properly acknowledging its source. Intellectual property is so important here. Possibily because it is the only property anyone can actually afford to own. Of course, the only time I've ever had an idea actually stolen (and stolen poorly, I might add) from me was in Minneapolis. Perhaps them country rubes ain't so dumb after all?

Well, regardless of where my career is or isn't going, I do find myself wishing I could be back tagging along with Joe Scrimshaw (if you are in Minneapolis, go see anything he does- honestly you won't regret it), going to The Artist's Quarter for organ night on Tuesdays with Tom, walking around the lakes and wondering if my car will start. I could have built something very comfortable for myself there, and I would have had free babysitters. But I didn't belong there. I would have been very comfortable riding coattails and I doubt I would have struck out on my own as I am about to this fall.

Is that the nostalgia? Fear of doing something all by myself? Time to grow up.

Yuck.

Hmm...

Have you noticed how news shows have started to subtitle English speaking people who have accents? In the recent coverage of bombings in London there have been all kinds of subtitles. What I find interesting is that, more often than not, the people who are subtitled are black. White people might be just as or more imperceptible, but it is the black people who get subtitles. Why is that, do you think?

Why Do Women's Magazines Suck?

Frankly, most things that are targeted to women are irritating. I don't mind admitting that I can be sappy. Any boy and his dog story will make me cry. All you have to do to get me to weep uncontrollably is sneak up on me and whisper "That's my Yeller..." But even so, I also enjoy watching countless hours of assassination documentaries on any of the Discovery channels. Why is sappy ass crap the only territory women rightfully occupy? I happen to know a grown man who cries every single time George Bailey returns to his beloved Bedford Falls and hugs his wife and his children. Granted, Capra is high brow sappy, but you don't have to be in possession of ovaries to fall prey to it.

Now, that is not to say that women do not kick ass in any field. Are you kidding? Who doesn't love Christianne Ahmanpour? But she's not doing news for WE or Lifetime. What I am talking about it how stuff for women, by women is the most vapid and useless crap out there for mass consumption. Granted, most magazines are crappy formulas without any real in depth information in them anyway, but to look at the cover of any woman's magazine is to be seriously brainwashed about what our priorities are.

This month's issue of O has seven teaser headlines on it. Of those seven, three have to do with food/ weight, one is "You vs. Her: Who's smarter, prettier, richer? Stop the mind games you just can't win", while interestingly enough you'll find a teaser at the bottom of the page inviting you to peruse private photos from Oprah's "legendary weekend" (Gee, don't compare yourself to anyone, but if you are so inclined, have a look at Oprah's lifestyle!), and then a guide to manners- 2005. Apparently we need to update ourselves annually about whether or not we should chew with our mouths open? Is this what women are all about? And, sadly, O is the more sophisticated woman's mag. It's certainly not as trashy as Cosmo (someone once called Cosmo the magazine for office sluts) but the insecurity it panders to is just as evident. It just approaches the insecurity from a different angle. Like the popular girl on the playground it pretends to be your best friend, but has an ulterior motive- your money and your loyalty.

Yes, this is where my consumer cynicism comes out to play.

Dove has a new ad campaign about "real women". In Midtown Manhattan there is a big billboard with a handful of regular sized women (still well shaped with no large puckers or stretch marks, but not exactly hard bodies either) all wearing white panties and bras. They are having a good time, and apparently their skin is very clean. Of course, I had suggested this approach nearly 15 years ago (and it is not an original thought) but my initial reaction upon seeing this was- oh they're just doing that because some dumbass has finally figured out that there is money to be made that way. As much as I wish we could see more regular women featured in the world at large, this campaign was not met with any joy on my part. I just felt cheap. Really, all this women's centered advertising and entertainment makes me feel cheap. Right now, even the appearance of John Cusak in yet another sappy romance makes me feel cheap.

These aren't the women I know. The hoochies on any reality TV show are nothing like the women I know. Current pop divas certainly aren't like the women I know. Things that concern me aren't featured in women's magazines, The View (EVIL! Spit, cough, splutter) or Oprah. I don't give a fuck about celebrity marriages, divorces, daliances, dresses, or diseases. It doesn't seem to matter much to any of the women I know either. I always knew that I was a little different, but is everyone I know that out of step? What does it really mean to be a woman?

What does it really mean to be a man?

Why do I even have to ask?

Harry Potter 6: No spoilers, I promise

Okay. I'm a grown woman. I've had lots of reading experience and I'd like to think I am fairly intelligent and well put together. However, I must admit that I have been shaken by my most recent Harry Potter experience.

Not in a bad way, no! Heavens no! I applaud Rowling for her... brutal honesty? And I do mean brutal! I truly enjoyed the full day that I escaped from my life to live with Harry and his friends. (Dude, will Ron and Hermione just get it on already? I've been waiting for it since Chamber of Secrets.) I am glad that Harry is getting the opportunity to grow and change as a real boy in those circumstances. Harry and his friends are not from Mayberry. Good. Perhaps the human truth inherent in the tale is why I was so upset with the outcome of The Half-Blood Prince.

You see, if you would have entered my kitchen aroun 9:00PM on Sunday June 17 you would have found me making mad circles around my kitchen, blinking back tears and muttering "no no no no no no!" to myself as I tried to stuff a cupcake into my mouth to kill the little HP Anxiety Demon that was flopping around in my stomach. Now, I've read a lot of books, but I haven't had that kind of reaction to the written word since I read Where the Red fern Grows as a kid. Now, Where the Red Fern Grows put me in a funk for about a week as I cried on and off about the tragic passing of two fine coon hounds by the names of Dan and Ann. I see that The Half Blood Prince will sit with me for a while as well.

Now, in retrospect the outcome was not necessarily a surprise. Actually, I saw it coming a few chapters ahead, but I still went nuts when it happened. Harold Bloom, you're a bright man and I respect your rather scholarly work, but if you are going to tell me that JK Rowling has no skill as a storyteller, I am sorry but you can kiss my big fat ass. I am a pretty tough critic. I see the smoke and the mirrors and I am hard to please (just ask anyone who has had the misfortune of asking me whether or not I liked Titanic.) so I will have to take my hat off to the mad mistress of Hogwarts for turning me into such a damn fool for one evening of my life. Kudos. And hurry up with that damn book 7, would ya?

(To those of you that have read it: RAB- is that Regulus Black? Any thoughts?)

Pining for the Fjords

A dear friend of mine is getting married in Oslo this August. To be honest, I was afraid of searching for flights because I am a little tight on cash right now and was afraid that expensive flights would dash my dreams of a brief respite from my motherly and wifely duties. I was feeling mighty low after searching and searching and finding very little under $900. I tried Priceline and I made a very low bid- hey a gal's gotta try, right? Well, they gave me a chance to make my trip as unpleasant as possible in return for a cheaper fare. I pulled out all the stops. I said I would take three connections both ways, I'd travel in a non-jet aircraft, I'd crawl across broken glass and then submit to hours of "pink belly" torture and taunts from skinny French women eating rich desserts. Alas, 'twas all for naught. Priceline thought my bid too low and then refused to let me make another bid. Apparently I had offended them and their carriers in my quest for value.

Tonight I may have found an affordable fare. Since my paranoia about pricey flights and broken vacation dreams keeps me up at night, I will not mention where I found it. I know you're all out there, waiting to buy up all the tickets on international flights to keep me from my desired destination. In fact, I've said too much already...

My other paranoia is my passport. I have some horrible feeling that I will purchase my flight and then my passport will be denied. It can't be possible, they won't ever let me leave the country, will they? I'm a treasured National Resource! If I am gone, who else will make paper top hats and serve goldfish crackers with cream cheese on the end of a straw so you can actually "fish" for your goldfish? Who will be there to do that?! (Incidentally, I discovered that goldfish- tasty though they are- are phenomenal when paired with cream cheese. So flippin' good!) Obviously, the economy would collapse if I were not here to drive sales for Pepperidge Farm and Philidelphia cream cheese to such lofty heights.

Of course I will be leaving Tom and Sullivan to themselves for nearly a week. The most time I have spent away from Sullivan in his life has been 28 hours. The fact that I have it counted by hours should give you a hint about how I feel about being away from him. I shudder to think what the house will look like when I get back.

I know I need this and need it desperately as I have been on round the clock duty for 3 1/2 years but...it all just sounds too good to be true! What would I be like if I was able to sleep, wake and drink when I wanted to? What would it be like to be able to use the bathroom by myself without a nosy little boy barging in declaring "But I NEED you!" What kind of woman would I be if I had time to actually look in the mirror and think about the clothing on my bod?! I guess I would need to buy some shoes besides the flip flops I am still wearing from last summer... (Sad, but true- I am the cheapest woman alive!)

In every family sitcom there is always an episode where Mom loses it and does something wacky like go on strike or run off for a week or some such nonsense. The family then learns that Mom's job is a thankless one and that they had better shape up and help out a little more often.

That would be nice. However, jewelry would suffice.

MAKE THEM STOP!

So the cast from the new Broadway musical Lennon is singing on the Today show. Why? Why? Why? I really enjoy Lennon's music and their corny renditions are ruining it! They're singing a medly. A MEDLY for Christ's sake! Yuck!

Come on, people. I've accepted the existance of the musical as a valid artistic expression, but why do they have to keep making these pat and corny choices? Imagine is a very sappy song. It is dripping with it. It's passable under Lennon's earnest voice (barely) but it is positively sickening when it has a choral arrangement with a bunch of self-consciously emoting musical theatre actors trying really hard to let you know they REALLY FEEL it. Then to be followed, in the afforementioned medly style, with Give Peace a Chance punctuated by a feeble exclamation of "Stop the WAR!", "Yeah!". They could have just as well said, "Shout if you like pizza!", "Yeah!". It was completely meaningless.

Look, I liked Hair- with all its faults. I enjoy a lot of the art and music that came out of the 60's and 70's, but I don't kid myself. That time has passed and trying to recreate that feeling is a big mistake. We would be much better off making plays, movies and music about where we actually are today. Instead of trying to rally the troops- so to speak- why can't we face our apathy and terror head on? Why can't we examine where we are as a society instead of constantly dredging up the past and deluding ourselves about what that past meant? It is upsetting because the past is not being used to learn from but merely to worship. This gets us nowhere.

Greg Kinnear was also on the Today Show pimping the remake of The Bad News Bears. Why? When Mathau was just so good? Besides, The Bad News Bears was of its time, now it means something totally different. I digress. Katie Couric took Kinnear to task for there being so many re-makes coming out of Hollywood at the moment. He threw his hands up and brushed it off as how everything in Hollywood is essentially a rip-off. How disconcerting because Johnny Depp basically had the same response in an interview about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It's always someone else's fault that there is only crap available to be made, and hey, an actor needs to make a living. If everyone knows there's an elephant in the cineplex then why are they complaining when no one wants to pay $10.00 a pop to go see it? It's the same fucking elephant. Do they think we don't notice?

I love you, but I'd like to miss you for awhile...

This blog won't always be about my kid. But I won't be able to help it for awhile. I've been home for 3 1/2 years and at the moment I am suffering from the stay-at-home-mom version of senioritis. CALGON! TAKE HIM AWAY! But not for more than a minute or I will have hysterical fits because I will have completely lost my compass and reason for being! Stay close to mommy, but for God's sake leave me alone!
Sullivan knows his Mom has gone round the bend and he is milkin' it! Don't ever have a smart kid. Worse yet, don't have a smart, adorable, charming kid because they will con you every time. There's a reason why he saves all the really juicy conversations for bedtime chats. All day long he doesn't have a thing to say, then just before it is time for lights out I hear this:
"Mom... if Bukka (our dog who recently passed) is dead, can he still see me? Did Bukka like me? Does he miss me?"
or
"Mom... tell me about when I was in your uterus..."
or
"Mom...my grandma that doesn't have a grandpa...is she lonely? Can I call her?"
Really, how can a self-respecting, open and honest Uber Parent put those conversations off until tomorrow? Of course, occasionally he slips up and miscalculates the urgency of the parent/ child discussion and I'll get something like this:
"Mom...are you fat?"
No. Now go to bed or I'll eat you.