Wave bye-bye, honey!

Seems ABC has elected not to play host to the Miss America Pageant anymore. I'm not surprised. As a brand, "Miss America" has utterly failed to keep pace with the times. In his TVWatch column for MediaPost, Wayne Friedman wisely sums it up:

Broadcasting & Cable (B&C) needed nearly 2,000 words to explain why "Miss America" failed. I'll explain it in five: The show is not entertaining.

Unbelievably, the producers of "Miss America" are blaming their crappy, declining numbers on a bad time period and "no marketing support." But we know the real answer: "Miss America", a forerunner, in a way, of today's reality TV, just can't cut it in an "America's Next Top Model" universe:

Good reality TV has the right mix of drama and beauty - not someone of modest talent and beauty. The talent portions of "Miss America" don't work. "The Flight of the Bumble Bee" on a tuba in a bikini isn't enough in a racy Maxim-crazed, "Desperate Housewives"-lurking TV viewing public. (Though, MTV's "Punk'd" might consider a short pitch).

I guess some people, like the one I lifted my ticket JPEG from, will be disappointed. But the rest of us, if the numbers don't lie, are going to be just as happy to see this Miss go the way of the restrictive foundation garment.

xxx c

Kinsey

My friend, Patty, with whom I saw Spanglish, has been bugging me mightily (albeit nicely) about seeing Kinsey, mainly because she wanted to know if she was the only one who found it a little, er, hard to get into. I am sorry to report that she is not alone in her experience; for a film that's all about bringing sex to the forefront, Kinsey is decidedly unsexy. It just floats along on its pretty pictures and clever editing (although the retro/CGI montage of the Kinsey team's data-collecting trek across America was pretty disturbing, visually) and nice Carter Burwell soundtrack. No teeth, no electricity, no surprises and a bizarre, wearying kind of self-importance. Did someone decide that dialing up the pomposity would make a big, bad s-e-x movie go down better (sorry) with a still-Puritannical American audience? I don't know how true-to-life Kinsey is, but I'm of the opinion that you either play fast and loose with the facts and make a great fucking film or you hew to them like a maniac and make a great fucking documentary.

Other than that, I'm not exactly sure why Kinsey doesn't work. The script seems sound enough, there are more great performances than you can shake a stick at and Kinsey's own trajectory is a pretty fascinating one. I'm frankly baffled, because I thought director Bill Condon's Gods and Monsters was a superb film, thought-provoking, moving and finely calibrated in its emotional portrayals. And it was a period piece, too, although it felt timeless where Kinsey feels more like it belongs alongside the bloated, bland Hollywood epics of the time it documents.

Ultimately, I'm just not interested in analyzing exactly where Kinsey falls down. I'd rather revisit the  11-year-old Ed Wood or Crumb or the 15-year-old Reversal of Fortune for a fifth time (each) than watch this logy, lumbering Quaalude of a mid-century throwback again.

xxx c

Book review: Sideways

In the acknowledgments of his mid-Coastal road-trip buddy novel, author Rex Pickett thanks co-screenwriters Alexander Payne (who also directed) and Jim Taylor for their faithful adaptation of Sideways to the screen.

I'd thank them, all right, but not for being faithful.

The events of the story are, in fact, almost identical, save the exclusion in the film of a strange boar-hunting odyssey (which, ironically, I can almost imagine Pickett thinking as he wrote it, "Damn! This'll be great in the movie!"). There is a strong sense of place in both the book and the film, Pickett is clearly a SoCal denizen who has either logged a lot of hours in a lot of mid-Coastal non-hotspots or he has a keen eye and deft hand for recreating them.

But the film is so much more charming and nuanced and relaxed than the book it was shocking. Pickett, according to his back-o'-book blurb, "is a screenwriter living in Los Angeles. This is his first novel." I know all of us writerly types are supposed to hew to the show-don't-tell maxim, but it's a screenwriter's stock in trade: let the pictures tell the story.

Instead, Pickett's novel is littered with insistent narrative assertions about the characters' smarts, sex appeal, inherent goodness beneath it all and, worst of all, their senses of humor. There is such extensive cataloguing of people's response to quips and jokes and witty one-liners that I actually stopped being annoyed and became fascinated. How many "i"s did this guy feel like he had to dot, anyway? Was this some kind of word-count padding? Or was it possible there existed a writer with lower self-esteem and belief in himself than me? Maybe I have a shot at this writing thing, after all...

The book did do an even better job than the film of piquing my fledgling interest in wine. But the film, with its confident, unapologetic and ultimately winning portrayal of complicated, flawed, but ultimately sympathetic characters, made me want to make art.

I wonder what Alexander Payne saw when he picked up the novel (or had it funneled to him by a minion or agent or however these things happen). Perhaps the answer lies in this archived Elvis Mitchell interview with Payne and Davis from KCRW's "The Treatment." I think I'm gonna have to listen. Sideways, the novel, isn't exactly a sow's ear. But it shares a pedigree with Sideways, the film, which is definitely a high-end jewel, and rare for being so.

xxx
c

the communicatrix lays down the law

Dear "Lurker": I was going to email you privately about your puzzling comment on my last post, but to my great surprise and dismay, "lurkie@lurkie.net" was not a legitimate email address! Perhaps you inadvertently misspelled something. Oh, well. I will just have to address your comment here.

You see, "Lurker," I'm really not sure why you would paste this particular letter to the editor of the Los Angeles Times into a comments section on my blog, mostly because you left no comment yourself. Is your purpose to let David Manos of Lancaster, CA put me in my place by assuring me that "The United States, as always, will give more aid through its governmental and private humanitarian organizations than any other nation in the face of global emergency"?

Perhaps you believe, as Mr. Manos might, my suggestion that the U.S. dial down the glamor of the inaugural festivities out of deference and respect for the suffering of a huge chunk of the world in the face of possibly the planet's greatest natural disaster in our lifetime is, indeed, a partisan one, and that I'm just another America-hating liberal wanting to cheat President Bush and his fellow partygoers out of a well-deserved good time?

Well, you're partially right. I guess I am appealing to our president's so-called Christian nature (what would Jesus do if 150,000 of God's children were wiped out in one fell swoop, I wonder?) and asking him to think twice about throwing a big fat party while Rome burns. However, it's nothing I wouldn't ask of John Kerry or any other Christian/Jew/Muslim/Atheist who might happen to be in the White House. It's just nice manners, I think.

But I do take issue with Mr. Manos' statistics, oh, wait...he didn't give any. So here's some...

In 1999, a year when Bill Clinton, for whom I voted, was still in office, the United States trailed five developed nations in aid as a proportion to GDP. See? Democrats are sucky (Source: the NY Times, via Business Statistics.)

"Of the 21 major donor nations, the United States ranked 16th in the quantity and quality of the population and reproductive-health projects that are supported by its foreign aid program, according to a new study released Tuesday by Population Action International (PAI), a Washington-based research and advocacy group." (Source: WorldRevolution.org)

Now, "Lurker," you of course were welcome to post your own statistics. In fact, there a some interesting ones posted on The Heritage Foundation's site you might want to check out. I don't agree with the writer's reasoning, but hey, last I checked, it was a free country.

However you can't post them here because I'm banning your IP address.

And from now on, I'm banning anyone else I catch playing post-'n'-ditch, too. If you want to engage in lively debate, fine. If you're here to drop an anonymous stinky poop on my site, uh-uh.

So, "Lurker," if you would like to comment, on your comment, or on anything else, please email me at communicatrix -at- gmail -dot- com and with a real name and email addy and we can talk about unblocking you.

Have a lovely day, everyone! You, too, "Lurker."

xxx c

Saying thanks, dammit!

I am unofficially on Day 3 of my first cold of the New Year, and, with the exception of getting the paper yesterday, am going on three days housebound. Honestly, I was so hungover on Saturday from whooping it up on Friday night with a bottle of Burgundy and my boy, Harry, that I've no idea whether I was sick with the actual cold that day, too. But I'm pretty sure my asshole move of Cup of Coffee #2 that afternoon marked the onset, although it might also have been my insistence on catching up with three weeks of email or researching HTML coding websites or working on a design job instead of adding a few much-needed hours to the sleep bank.

Anyway, I'm nothing if not an overachieving Do-Bee, and I'm pretty sure now that sickness is my body's way of making me do the things (e.g. read and catch up on movies and sleep) that normal people (i.e., those who find recreation enjoyable) look forward to. You'd think that the five months I spent ill and/or recuperating from my Crohn's onset would have made me better at this Enforced Relaxationâ„¢ thing, and you'd be right. But I'm guessing the recidivism rate is about as bad for workaholics as it is for other -holics, and good intentions notwithstanding, I tangle with my demons all the time.

Worse, I starting slipping down the woe-is-me slide this time, too. I mean, it is the new year, and we're all supposed to be at the fucking gym and scrubbing our grout with bleach and a toothbrush and all that other crap. And here I am, barely able to distill an Adobe PostScript file because I am so sick and brain-fogged and achy. Loser.

Well, enough. Enough, I say. Get a little perspective, I also say. Every part of me knows this is the road to nowhere. So I let it go for five seconds and damned if the Universe didn't grab my attention immediately by shouting the answer: THANKS.

THANKS ?!? For being sick!? This is an answer?! FUCK YOU, Universe!!!

To which the Universe replied, in the nicest way possible: no, asshole, GIVE thanks. Or maybe it was, "No, asshole, give. Thanks!" because the Universe is nothing if not polite.

So I went to Oxfam and donated $15. It's the minimum donation via credit card, but it's a lot of money for me these days, what with most of my TV spots in payment cycles 3 & 4 and nothing new booked since, oh, June, and a big copywriting job that I was kinda counting on whittled back to 1/3 of the original contract. (Ugh. See how easy it is for me to go down the dark path? Scary.) And I'm going to go back and give (gulp) $15 every time I feel myself dressing up for the pity party.

Result?

While I'd be lying if I said I felt like the fabulous, new, 2005 Colleen I long to be, I felt a lot better. I have friends and a home and even a little family left, which is more than a large chunk of the world has right now. And the cold? Well, this, too, shall pass. And probably pretty quickly.

I just hope it leaves the lesson behind.

xxx c

P.S. That tissue box above left is available here. Although I think the real Shakers would be cool if you put the $25 somewhere else. (Lots of old images didn't make the move during my migration from TypePad. Because TypePad, while excellent in many ways, is not great with the moving of images.)

ComforTV

I love TV like I love an ever-evolving list of items (peppermint tea, salted cashews and heavy blankets) that make me feel safe and comforted. Perhaps as I grow more adept at comforting myself in other ways (meditation? yoga? naps?), TV will lose its luster as my psychic pacifier, but for now, I've got it on a goodly chunk of the day, Judge Judy, King of the Hill, The Simpsons. And now, Monk.

This tidy little detective series has all of the elements that make a TV show comforting to me, predictible outcome, earnest characters, great theme music, and lots and lots of episodes. While I still love previous comfort shows, Dragnet, Mary Tyler Moore, Columbo, The Brady Bunch, I make it a policy to rotate my TV crack to avoid comfort show burnout.

Of course, I allow myself the occasional comfort binge, too. Every once in a blue Monday I'll indulge in an L&O jag and in my first cable days, I'd hunker down for a Labor Day switch-a-thon between Jerry Lewis and The Twilight Zone. New Year's Day is a notorious putter & butterâ„¢ day for me, one of the few times a year when I'll allow myself unfettered, guilt-free indulgence in whatever makes me happy that doesn't harm anyone else.

I must not be the only one who finds comfort in immersion; the episode that just ended (which, coincidentally, features two fine actors with whom I've worked in the past, Patrick Breen and the magnificent Jane Lynch) is part of a 24-hour Monk marathon on USA Network. So all the other addicts and I can watch crazy Adrian Monk set the world to rights in 60-minute increments and not do anything else. Except maybe move the party to the bedroom.

Lots of heavy blankets in the bedroom.

Happy New Year!

xxx c

Mini-me

Not only does my friend, Mat, have an encyclopedic knowledge of music, fine art and drama (from consumption, folks, not book learnin'), he's also an artist himself.

For several years now, he has created tiny puppet people of all types just because. They're insanely detailed, especially considering how small they are: most fit in my hand, and Mat, a tall, rangy type, has far larger (if more dextrous) fingers.

I'm gonna have to ask Mat's permission before I devote one of my TypePad photo albums to his work, but since he sent me this latest photo of my little ME, I figure I'm allowed to show it off if I like. Apparently inspired by me on stilts, which I especially love. (I didn't actually wear my glasses as the Weird Family Mom, but this is exactly how I felt at 7'2", for sure.)

Thanks, Mat. Now let's get back to our regularly scheduled lives as art observers.

Next stop, the Chocolate Room.

xxx c

Spanglish

I'll admit, I went into Spanglish not wanting to like it. I was one of three people who didn't like As Good As It Gets but my loathing was deep and pure enough for three million. My particular creative bugaboo has always been Wasted Potential, and believe you me, if you'd read Mark Andrus's brilliant, dark, tender, touching original screenplay for AGAIG, you'd be pissed off, too. I'm a lot older and a little bit wiser and I don't fall into deep, hopeless chasms of righteous indignation like I used to. Spanglish was...well, good. In a way. There are some charming scenes and some terrific laughs and some enchanting performances, Cloris Leachman is her usual crackerjack actor self, Adam Sandler has a few great moments and Paz Vega should be in every movie made until she dies.

Sadly, Spanglish was also very, very bad, in exactly the same way that AGAIG was. I'm beginning to think that the chief trick to good art is, as Albert Einstein said about, well, everything, to "make everything as simple as possible...but no simpler." Which is why it's as easy to go from rococco to kitsch as it is to go from Mies Van Der Roh to some tacky steel and glass box.

There's a real story about real people somewhere in Spanglish that I'd have liked to see. As the daughter of a charming, well-meaning, intelligent but often thoughtless drunk much like the one Leachman portrays, I know all about the damage mothers can inflict upon their children, and, by extension, their children's loved ones. But I don't know too many saints of the variety played by Sandler and Vega, who are given exactly one (delightful) flaw each, while poor Téa Leoni gets to play a skinny blonde antichrist. (Oh, and that whole thing about Leachman's character just giving up drinking after 60 years , and without anyone noticing for three weeks: Not. Gonna. Happen.)

To be fair to Brooks, had he cast a more inherently likeable actress (say, Renée Zellweger) as the unhappy Deborah Clasky, the character might have been a scoche more sympathetic. But it was his part to cast, he wrote and directed, and I'm guessing none of the producers had final creative control over casting, and he clearly opted for the shrillest of brittle harpies he could find. Maybe it's that i-dotting and t-crossing that's born of TV writing; after years of cramming problem, complication and resolution, plus a laugh every :30, into 22 minutes of sitcom, it's probably hard to recalibrate yourself to the delicate rhythms of (good) filmmaking.

But until he does, I'm afraid the James L. Brooks films I do see I'll see the way I saw Spanglish: free. Or on video.

After all, maybe they'll look better on the small screen.

xxx c

Susan Sontag

I have often said that I am just smart enough to realize how smart I'm not. This is never more in evidence than when I sit down to read Susan Sontag, which I have to do slowly, in a good, sturdy chair with plenty of sleep under my belt. Christopher Hitchens writes a beautiful eulogy for Sontag for Slate magazine, in which he puts into beautiful, succinct words one of the chief reasons I've always admired Sontag:

With that signature black-on-white swoosh in her hair, and her charismatic and hard-traveling style, she achieved something else worthy of note, the status of celebrity without any of the attendant tedium and squalor. She resolutely declined to say anything about her private life or to indulge those who wanted to speculate. The nearest to an indiscretion she ever came was an allusion to Middlemarch in the opening of her 1999 novel In America, where she seems to say that her one and only marriage was a mistake because she swiftly realized "not only that I was Dorothea but that, a few months earlier, I had married Mr. Casaubon.")

In the age of fame for being famous, quiet, earned celebrity is a rare and beautiful thing.

xxx c

Citizens of the world, unite

With the latest death count from the earthquake/tsunami passing 52,000, even a normally ethnocentric cocooner like me can't help but be moved to action. Maybe it's the sheer magnitude of the devastation. Maybe it's my embarrassment by the shamefully inadequate response by both our news sources (the lead story on the radio news just now was of property damage from flooding in, get this, Southern California) and our government ("stingy" doesn't begin to describe the paltry amount of initial aid we're sending) that's getting me off my ass. Or maybe it's just because this time, I know someone, my friend and fellow blogger, Evelyn Rodriguez, who was caught in the middle of the storm (her leg is broken, but she and her boyfriend are both alright).

Whatever the reason, my usual neat-'n'-tidy donation to the Red Cross didn't help and my extra blankets and clothes are apparently too far from the source of need to be of much help just now. So I figured what the hell, I'd do a little praying (I absolutely credit the prayers made by many friends and friends of friends for my pulling through the Crohn's onset over two years ago).

The answer, or part of it, anyway, came in a flash: get the U.S. to donate the amount we'd be spending on inaugural festivities to the relief effort. Atrios pointed out in a post today that as a country, our initial pledge of $15 million in relief was shameful next to the $30-40 million (plus security) that's earmarked for the inauguration, so I'm sure that's where the idea came from, but ordinarily, I'd say "harrumph!" and go back to my coffee.

Instead, I wrote two letters, one to President Bush, one to Senators Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer, asking that as a start, we scrap the festivities and donate the money to relief as a pledge of solidarity with our brothers in need. God knows I won't make much of a difference (and leading a crusade is not in my nature) but perhaps if the few of you that read me do the same with your own elected officials, we can get some action.

I'm posting my letters to cut and paste, if you like, but feel free to write your own.

To President Bush:

I'm sure that you are as saddened as the rest of the world over the devastation that the recent earthquake and subsequent tsunamis have wrought upon our friends in Southeast Asia.

I've been following the news with a growing heaviness of heart, not sure what I can do to help beyond the usual donation of money to relief organizations. The magnitude of the tragedy is so huge, I feel like extra attention must be paid.

While I was praying for the victims, an idea came to me: why not donate the money we as a country would be spending on our upcoming inaugural celebration to these people in need? Surely, we can't feel like celebrating on such a grand scale while there is so much suffering we could ease with a small sacrifice on our part?

I think that both the citizens of our great nation and the citizens of the world would be greatly served--and moved--by this simple act of generosity.

Please consider making this gift to the world in its time of need on behalf of the United States. Not only would it be a fitting and gracious gesture, it would be an extraordinary legacy for an American president to leave.

Sincerely,

Colleen Wainwright

And to Senators Boxer & Feinstein:

I'm sure you've been following the news of the devastation in Southeast Asia with the same horror and heaviness of heart as the rest of us.

I must add my own voice to that of thousands insisting that additional U.S. aid be sent to the victims.

As many have pointed out, we are sending but a fraction of the amount we will be spending on our upcoming inauguration--festivities that are somewhat inappropriate given the pain and suffering that hundreds of thousands will likely still be reeling from as they attempt to pick up the pieces of their lives.

Why not send the right message to the rest of the world and start by donating the amount we'd spend on the inauguration and having a simple swearing-in ceremony?

I hope you'll consider this type of measure specifically, and support the donation of greater relief in general. It is high time that Americans start recognizing we cannot be citizens of a truly great nation unless we are citizens of the world as well.

More links I've found interesting and/or helpful below. I hope all of you who are reading are well and safe, along with your loved ones.

xxx c

LINKS:

Up-to-date info and aid resources from worldchanging.com. Send an email to the President and your elected representatives here. The latest NASA photo of Mother Nature's fury (which is also the JPEG above left). Evelyn Rodriguez blogs about the devastation from Thailand.

UPDATE: Evelyn Rodriguez has posted a post-tsunami update from Bangkok. She's on her way home Thursday and her knee was just really cut up (she's on crutches) but not broken. Hey, I'm a shitty reporter with a flair for the dramatic. Evelyn, I'm just glad you're okay and coming home soon.

Home, sweet home

Yes, I had a good time in Chicago. Yes, it was great seeing my peeps and scarfing down my chicken Kalamata and seeing the Christmas decorations in the windows of Field's Macy's on State Street (brought to you, like everything else, by Target). Despite my fears going into it, I also had a good time at the (god help me) debutante ball that was my nominal reason for flying back to single-digit temperatures during the worst travel time of the year: the girls looked beautiful, the Chicago Hilton and Towers looked beautiful, even the Cardinal looked rather fetching in his lovely ruby robes. (Note: when meeting a cardinal of the Roman Catholic church, do not kiss his ring or bow to the ground, but shake his hand and greet him either as "your Eminence" or "Cardinal So-and-so." Also, put down your drink before you approach the White Wall of Deb Gowns, or suffer the wrath of a really scary Deb Mom. No, I'm not kidding.) But I've got to face facts: I just don't like hassle anymore, and traveling by air, especially in the post-9/11 universe to a cold-weather destination during a peak travel time, is a gigantic hassle. Too much unzipping of too much luggage filled with too many coats and sweaters and everything else in your closet because your L.A. tenure has outlasted the life of your Chicago winter wear. Enough, I say! (And I did say, to all my beloveds: see me in L.A. or see me some other time of the year. Buh-bye.)

I also don't like people encroaching on my space. Maybe it's a form of mild claustrophobia (I still have nightmares about the time I was carried off in a crush of people waiting for a city bus in, you got it, sub-zero temperatures in Chicago). Maybe it's the noxious omnipresence of mile-high flatulence, that peculiar cocktail of disinfectant and methane filterered through foam cushions into poorly recirculated air. Maybe it's the loss of control (I'm always working on the control thing). But about halfway through the FOUR HOUR Chicago/L.A. flight, packed to the gills with people who never see the inside of a plane except on the four highest-volume travel days of the year, I wanted to beat the vodka-swilling, armrest-hogging pituitary case in the seat next to me senseless with his own oversized Dell laptop. The only thing that stopped me was the realization that if I did, he would not suffer the slow torture of hearing loss brought on by listening to Top 40 Pop at full volume on his shitty headphones.

Yes, I know I'm being unreasonable. Yes, I have a sense of my own intolerance and foolishness. (A healthy one, so back off, Jackson.) But last night, I also had the first really good night's sleep I've had in a week. I like my 12.5 cubic feet or whatever it is of personal space and I'm not zen-mistress enough to be a good sport when it's encroached upon and the reward at the other end is either a week of insomnia and cold extremities or a fruitless half-hour at the baggage carousel (nimrods stuck my bag on an earlier plane without telling me) and an hour in an overcrowded SuperShuttle ("no more than 3 stops," my Aunt Fanny).

But part of getting where you want to be is accepting where you are right now, and I accept that I am so happy with warm toes in my little apartment in Los Angeles that I could weep for joy. Except that...it's just that...

Sigh.

I miss Chicago already.

xxx c

Stocking stuffer

Just in time for Christmas, the dazzling Hugh MacLeod has posted an outline for the book he's proposing.

If you're one of the three people who read me who haven't read Hugh, it's a nice introduction to his work. Of course, so is this. Or this.

Merry Christmas!

xxx
c

Closer to Python: My Mike Nichols Day, Part II

As I'm currently in the process of converting a play with music into a musical play, I'm newly fascinated by musical theater, especially the newer forms cropping up today: Avenue Q, Caroline or Change, all of Ken Roht's work, the Ramayana 2K4, which I guess better start calling itself R2K5 so it doesn't sign its checks wrong next year. Normally I have to wait for these things to come to the hinterlands (a.k.a., Los Angeles) or haul my carcass to New York, not an altogether unpleasant proposition, but generally a pricey one. So imagine my delight in learning that Spamalot!, the new Eric Idle musical based on material from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, was having its pre-Broadway run here in Chicago during my stay! For which I had already paid!

It's selling well, which is a good first sign. The Chicago run opened on Tuesday; I bought my ticket on Wednesday for Thursday, which was mostly sold out. Fortunately, the one good single ticket they had was really good: I was third row center at the Shubert, so I pretty much had Tim Curry, David Hyde Pierce and Hank Azaria singing in my lap for 2 1/2 hours (including intermission, so you know, not really).

They were all wonderful, as was much of the show. The supporting cast is staggeringly good; I particularly enjoyed the drag stylings of the very Python-esque Steve Rosen (who has some sort of Crohn's connection I'm anxious to bond over) and all I can say about Sara Ramirez is "you heard it here first, folks", that combination of good, gorgeous and funny comes along slightly less often than Halley's comet.

It's not an unqualified hit...yet. I'm hoping my issues with the show can be fixed in the Chicago run so it plays a good, long time in New York (and the hinterlands). Right now, it's a little draggy in parts, (especially Act One), it feels a bit repetitive and, for as clever as it often is, it's not clever enough. Maybe I've been spoiled by local (i.e., hinterland) geniuses like Ken Roht and Robert Prior, but I'm used to an extraordinarily high level of inventiveness; compared to Peace Squad Goes 99 or R2K4, Spamalot! does a lot of coasting on old material and not enough in the way of chewy surprises inside.

It's not devoid of them; I won't spoil anyone's possible future enjoyment by giving away all the treats, but there are some hilarious little fillips in many of the show's numbers, the kind of unexpected stuff that has you poking the person next to you and saying "look there!" and them poking you back to "no, look there!", which is pretty damned great. And the show as a whole does a great job of sending up musical theater.

But so did Peace Squad, and on a much tighter budget with far less lead time. Hell, I think we did send-ups on musical genres that hadn't been invented yet.

I wanted to give Spamalot! my unqualified love and affection, but at the end of the day (or the show), I just didn't feel like leaping to my feet like everyone else.

Nor did I feel like stopping by to congratulate Mike Nichols, the director of the hullaballoo, who was sitting there unrecognized for most of intermission (god, I love Chicago) along with his gorgeous wife. And I'm a big Mike Nichols fan, overall; I just wasn't feeling the love enough to blow his cover. (After all, what was I gonna say: congratulations...I didn't love your movie, either?)

In no way is this a pan of the show; I have no problem telling people to get their butts in the seats for this one. I only hope that by the time it gets to Broadway, it's as good as it can be...as it should be.

That is, as good as those shows in the hinterlands already are.

xxx c

Closer to Python: My Mike Nichols Day, Part I

The old McClurg Theatres are gone. It's kind of sad, among many other films, I remember seeing Lawrence of Arabia there (the re-release, sonny) as well as walking out of Ishtar. However, my disappointment was short-lived because they have been replaced a block away by the River East Theatres, a 20-count-'em-20, state-of-the-art theater complex with stadium seating (which is what happens when you finally let a short person design a movie house).

I dragged my friend, Jan, to see Closer. Well, not "dragged," exactly; I just warned her that I didn't think it was going to be very good, but that I wanted to see it anyway (we've been friends for over 40 years, so she's used to such perversity). Last year, I saw a stage production of Closer at my old acting studio in L.A. that was absolutely loathsome, not necessarily because of the performances (fairly strong) or production values (low-budget, but inventive and uniformly excellent) but because I felt the script was a modern example of a butt-naked emperor, albeit a well-spoken one. I remember leaving the theater that evening feeling not only vaguely unclean over my complicity in perpetrating a hateful, useless piece of "art," but with a gnawing feeling of anger that grew rather than dissipated with the passing days.

I am delighted to report that I feel precisely the same way about Mike Nichols's filmed version of the verbally facile Patrick Marber's play, Closer: it's a big fat shiny turd. (I'm mostly alone on this, but it's not the first time.)

The production values are superb, from the melancholic smart-and-lonely-loser songs of the soundtrack to the understated palette the designers use to dress and backdrop the actors. London itself has never looked more elegant, sad and chilly, in one scene where Natalie Portman is wearing a tank top in what you'd think would be summer, you want to throw a sweater over her little shoulders even before she mentions how cold she is. There is no respite to be had in any corner.

And that, I suppose some smarty-pants people will say, is the point: life is hard and love is brutal. To which I say "so what?" That's a revelation? That's a reason to drag my ass out in zero degree temperatures and pay $8.50 and give up two hours of my life?

Smarty-pants art is no longer acceptable. I don't care if you can write (really) pretty words and find (really, really) pretty people to say them. I need a little illumination with my non-news, thank you, along with some characters, even one character, I actually care about. If I want to see that life is hard (in London), I'll watch any Mike Leigh film. If I want to see that love is brutal, how about or Little Voice, The Lonely Passion of Miss Judith Hearne or even the original Alfie?

One note on the talents of the more visible people involved: they are uniformly top-notch. Each one of the cast delivers a pitch-perfect performance, and I have to say I was blown away by Julia Roberts who gives a far, far richer and more nuanced performance as Anna than she did as showy blowhard Erin Brockovich. And Mike Nichols has an excellent understanding of what motivates these people and how they interact with one another.

What I don't understand is his motivation for spending a year of his life on a project like this. I'm aggravated to have spent the two hours I did.

xxx c

*Which was, I realize now, a lovely piece of symmetry in that it was directed by Mike Nichols's former comedy partner, Elaine May.

100 Things I Learned in 2004, Part 2

I'm sipping a delicious Earl Grey Creme at Argo Tea, which in addition to having tasteful décor and such fine teas that I almost forget my abiding love of the Americano, has FREE FREE FREE WiFi. Fuck you, Starbucks.

And now, without further ado, communicatrix presents...

100 Things the Communicatrix Learned in 2004, Part 2:

1. There is no good time to fly out of LAX during the holidays.
2. If you have kids and you want to make sure they get what you want them to get, put it in writing.
3. The mixta salad at Patagonia trumps the mixed baby greens.
4. It is possible to have a crush on a couple.
5. Sometimes, you have to sell off your old love to facilitate a new one.
6. I cannot say "no" to the right font, even if it may only ever be used for the pro bono gig it's perfect for.
7. HBO is worth the extra 10 bucks a month.
8. Showtime is not.
9. STARZ really, really is not.
10. Ricky Gervais is a comedy god.
11. Sacha Baron Cohen is another one.
12. Sweetbreads aren't my thing.
13. After a certain age, it is better to travel less and stay in a hotel room than it is to travel frequently and couch-surf.
14. The Jewelry Exchange in Tustin is not only in Tustin.
15. That the Jewelry Exchange is also in Villa Park confirms that I never need visit the Jewelry Exchange in Tustin.
16. Ani Afshar, on the other hand, I could drop some serious coin at.
17. How to make a dot leader in Word.
18. How to make the numbers line up, too.
19. You can get yourself a really smokin' black-tie outfit for under $50.
20. Shoes included.
21. There is not a spam filter on earth that is any match for the volume of crap you will receive upon inquiring about stealth shopper services.
22. If you get a plantar's wart on your foot and ignore it for two years, eventually it will demand your attention by burrowing its way down to your heel bone and hurting like a mother.
23. You can go as long as a week between shampoos, provided you cool it with the product and don't let anyone get too close.
24. You cannot go longer than eight weeks between coloring appointments if you want to continue to pass for under-40.
25. Red lentil dal is a passable substitute for polenta.
26. They both taste better cold.
27. Life is exponentially more fun at 7'2", even if you have to duck a lot.
28. No matter how great a deal it seems at the time, don't get the free phone.
29. Especially if it's this one.
30. The Earl Grey Creme at Argo is freakily addictive and worth every penny.
31. Do not depend on your doctor to realize that the medication he is prescribing has as its main side effect something that could trigger a relapse of your preexisting condition, even if he refuses to prescribe a different medication because it would have a deleterious effect on the same preexisting condition.
32. If you are passing a resale store and the perfect game-show-host jacket for your upcoming production appears in your peripheral vision, do not, under any circumstances, turn your head to look at it.
33. If you decide to look anyway, you will get the most value for your automobile dollar by going through a broker.
34. There will come a time when you would rather drink antifreeze than another glass of Two-Buck Chuck.
35. If you were wondering whether it was the mercaptopurine, the mesolamine or the prednisone that was making your hair fall out, the answer is "yes."
36. Given enough cashews and cheese, even a chronically skinny person will pork out around the middle.
37. It's worth having a camera stuck up your ass for the fourth time in two years when the photo looks like this.
38. For a variety of reasons, Chicago is not my kind of town anymore.
39. For the time being, L.A. is.
40. If you slather chicken breasts with thyme and olive oil and bake them under a bed of thinly sliced onions for 350º for an hour, the result is chicken that tastes ridiculously good and not nearly enough onions.
41. When it comes to half-and-half yogurt, Medjool dates and Manchego cheese, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.
42. Once one's basic needs have been met, additional money has almost no bearing on personal happiness.
43. Magical things happen when you add the word “no” to your vocabulary.
44. Despite his legendary bad press and a lot of yelling, Joe Pytka is not only a good man but a kind and gracious one.
45. Selling your unwatched DVDs back to Blockbuster is amazingly freeing.
46. Purging clutter is oddly addictive.
47. Just keeping your sink clean really does make you feel a lot better.
48. Fear changes everything for the worse.
49. Love changes everything for the better.
50. Blogging rocks.

Read Part 1.

Tale of two cities

It is freezing in Chicago.

No, literally: the temperature is freezing here in Chicago and should drop down to about 7, that's s-e-v-e-n, degrees Fahrenheit by Christmas. Without the wind chill.

This is a beautiful city, and never more so than around the holidays. The air is clear (a good wind will do that) and the fairy-lit branches of the trees flanking Michigan Avenue look magically delicious in a way Beverly Hills palms only dream of. There's the same old nonsense there is everywhere this time of year, with people overextending themselves both financially and time-wise, but the hustle and bustle is more picturesque when everyone is rushing around all bundled up against the elements.

It is one of the major reasons I think I am done with Chicago as a place to live (the Universe has kicked my ass enough times that I know never to say "never", even though I just did).

Yes, L.A. has earthquakes and mudslides and unavoidable traffic that grows more heinous with each passing year. But L.A. is warm, and as I'm staring down middle age, that is not to be discounted.

What's more interesting to me is the other reason I doubt I'll move back here: Chicago just doesn't feel like home, and hasn't for a long time. Whereas the first time I set foot in L.A. as an adult, I immediately felt at ease. Correction: I got a taste of what it would feel like to be at ease. Just getting over my homesickness took two years (yes, you can long for a place you don't really love and that is no good for you, and if you don't believe me, you clearly don't have enough girlfriends who get involved with lousy men). Really digging on L.A. took at least another five, plus a divorce; it's hard to be "out" about loving your city when your spouse openly despises everything about it.

But 12 years (and many litmus-test trips back "home") later, I realize that I love Chicago the way most people love L.A., for short stretches of time. I like to walk and I like to get my Kalamata chicken fix at Athenian Room and I really, really like that I can take public transportation from where I am to somewhere I actually want to go. And then I like to get on a plane and go home: the place where I feel most like myself, the place where most of my friends live, the place where I am free to release my inner wacko without fear.

And, oh, yeah, the place that's 65º and sunny right this very second.

xxx
c

Me and my two cents

I'm not prone to giving advice, wait...yes, I am. Well, not unsolicited advice, shit, I do that, too. Sigh...

Okay: I love giving advice. I've been addicted to advice columns since I found Dear Abby on the funnies page (her hipper twin, Ann Landers, was in the Sun-Times and we were a Trib household all the way).

I especially enjoy advice on matters of the heart since I find love fascinating, although as regular readersknow, I spout off on pretty much anything within arm's reach. I loved Em & Lo, the erstwhile Nerve gals who write so well about sex, and subscribed to Salon.com not so I could keep up with their excellent news coverage but because I got tired of reading the Daily Pass ad to get to my Cary Tennis.

Ironically, though, ever since I actually have had some clue about How These Things Work, I have questioned my right to be an authority on (insert topic here). I'm definitely one of those women who suffers from Imposter Syndrome, as Jory Des Jardins describes it:

(Imposter Syndrome) is a fairly common condition that affects many women, particularly those who are achievement-oriented. It's a belief that one's accomplishments are not deserved, that one has somehow fooled the system and will inevitably be found out for the fake that she is.

As a well under-30 pup selling ads to clients twice my age, I remember having frequent "When Will They Find Out We Are Frauds" discussions with my then-boss back in the go-go '80s.

But, as usual, I digress.

I think that my youthful zeal for offering advice had more to do with my needing to be seen and valued than with any selfless desire to share the wealth. These days, I find it easier to resist offering unsolicited advice one-on-one. I figure if someone wants my goddam opinion, they can goddam well ask for it; if, on the other hand, they're just jaw-flapping, as my ex-husband used to say, and I have an excuse to walk away and not waste my valuable time and energy.

As an avid reader of Craig's List, however, I find my advice-giving buttons pushed pretty frequently, and the lure is strong. Fortunately, they make you jump through so many hoops to reply to a post that my ardor cools in advance at the prospect. In fact, I'm always shocked at how many people will jump on a lame thread in the Rants & Raves section; they must have really, really boring jobs.

But every once in a while, a post cries out to me. The poster seems to genuinely want an answer to a problem that speaks to my experience, and I have an extra ten or so minutes to devote to the issue. I consider it another way of giving back; lord knows enough people have helped me through the dark and murky times.

I won't repost this guy's entire plea for help since I don't have his permission, but suffice it to say he was experiencing some bewilderment on the dating front and, having given up entirely on meeting people in real-life venues like bars, he had now come to the conclusion that even the people looking online weren't really looking for a relationship. Worse, I could sense he was on the precipice overhanging The Dark Place; one stiff wind and we might lose him to the other side.

Here's what I had to say:

You know what? You're absolutely right...and you're absolutely wrong.

I'm a fairly cool chick (or so I've been told by some fairly cool people who didn't stand to gain anything by saying it) and I've met some pretty great guys online. And in bars. And through friends. And even, one unusual time, standing in front of a burning bus.

I've also met some equally heinous guys in each of those places. (Well, I only met the one guy in front of the burning bus.)

Point being, there are asshat chicks *and* cool chicks *everywhere*. If you're really looking for a cool one, why close off any reasonable avenue? Two caveats, though. First, in my experience, you do better if you're open but not Looking. Cool chicks can get a little turned off by guys too much on the prowl. (And nobody likes a needy person.)

And second, if you are burning out on any part of the process or developing any kind of an attitude about a particular avenue, stay away from it until you can jump back in with a better attitude. Don't date angry!

Now, I know Em & Lo would have been way funnier, and that Cary would have done a much more thoughtful job of dissecting the guy's modus operandi and even analyzing his intent. But sometimes, the best "advice" you can give is a little reassurance that this, too, shall pass, and that maybe it's a good idea to cool one's heels until one can approach the "problem" with an open mind and a fresh perspective. Especially when you don't really know the person asking the question. And as someone with extensive experience in online dating who had experienced burnout and the falling rate of return that accompanies it, I felt uniquely qualified, nay, compelled, to speak up. So I'm pretty sure I wasn't talking out of my ass.

Hopefully, I wasn't just flapping my jaw, either.

xxx c

You need more Scarlett in your life

One of the pleasures of working on the 99¢ show has been the amazing people I've gotten to meet from the cast and crew. Now one of those divine creatures is looking for a post-99 berth, and since she is such a remarkable young woman, I feel it my duty to the world to let it know that she is available. From Miss Scarlett:

Good Morning!

This is Scarlett Riley, O-Lan's niece, writing to let everyone know that I'm on the prowl for a paying position in the world. I'm here to develop my writing and my new-found love for the theater. I'm adaptable in any business situation. Coincidentally, I also consider myself to be a fast learner. I'm looking for any job in which I can be useful and challenged. Word of mouth got me my current part time job as a personal assistant-I thought I'd try my luck again. I'm also looking for a room for rent/studio if any of you know of a space avilable. If you hear of anything at all that reminds you of me please let me know and keep my number in mind. xxx-xxx-xxxx. This is my mobile phone where I can be reached at all times. Hope all is well and you have a very joyful holiday season!

Sincerely, Scarlett E. Riley

I cannot recommend young Scarlett enough, both as a worker and a Genuine Human Being. Sharp as a tack and sweet as pie, she always goes that extra mile, has an incredibly strong work ethic and a terrific attitude and skill set to match. If her understanding of text and theater is any example, I'll bet she's a kick-ass writer, to boot.

I wish I had both job and an apartment to give Scarlett, but since I do know a few people in Los Angeles via this and my other blog, I figure maybe one of my larger circle of L.A. friends and acquaintances can help.

I've blacked out her cell phone number because I feel funny broadcasting it without her permission, but contact me at communicatrix at gmail etc and I'll put you in touch.

And really, I can promise you this: if you help out Scarlett, especially job-wise, you're doing yourself the favor.

Happy holidays!

xxx c

Asshole Tax

I used to call my mistakes "lessons", as in, I didn't see the "No Parking/Street Cleaning" sign and got a $35 lesson or "I waited too long to buy so-and-so a birthday gift and had to FedEx it last minute for a $40 lesson." That is, I called them lessons until I realized I would likely repeat or, in fact, had repeated my errors and wasn't learning a damned thing from them, ergo the word "lesson" was a misnomer.

"Asshole Tax," however, was right on the money.

Think about it. Essentially, you're forking over a premium (tax) on top of what you'd ordinarily pay because you: (a) did not organize your time properly; (b) remember what you shouldn't have forgotten; or (c) otherwise wantonly disregarded the plainly obvious, i.e., acted like an asshole.

It's heavy on my mind because the holidays, with their crazy time compression, are typically a time of heavy Asshole Tax Assessment for me.

Paid $4 for a bottle of water at the airport because you were too slammed for time to pick up one at the supermarket? That's a $3.40 Asshole Tax.

Buying your hosts a (crappy) $15 bottle of wine because you forgot to add one to the cart at Trader Joe's? A $5-10 Asshole Tax, depending on how skinflinty you were to begin with.

Of course, there are circumstances under which Asshole Tax is not Asshole Tax, namely, when they fall under my other-favorite financial designator, Value For Your Dollar. Like this morning, when technically I had left myself enough time for (free) street parking but was too tired to hike the four blocks to the hair salon; I paid $2.50 to park a half-block from the salon and believe you me, I got every penny's worth.

Sometimes it gets tricky to discern between the two. For instance, if I pay for takeout because I am too busy to make myself dinner (because of dietary restrictions, I almost always have to make myself dinner), I could call it Asshole Tax because I didn't plan my time properly, but I could also call it Value For My Dollar since a well-balanced meal is probably going to serve me and my intestinal health better in the long run than calling yet another fistful of cashews and cheese (my fast food) "dinner." (Believe me, those 11-day hospital stays don't come cheap.)

What's fascinating to me about the Asshole Tax/Value For Your Dollar equation is how it is not at all amount-dependent. I know I'll grumble over every cent of gift shop Asshole Tax that those pantyhose/false eyelashes/tampons I forgot to pack for my upcoming trip will cost me. But I couldn't care less about the premium I'm going to pay to park my car at the airport for six days because I'll squeeze every drop of value out blowing off Super Shuttle.

Unless, of course, I've already missed the chance to make my parking reservations at a reasonably-priced lot.

Asshole Tax, here I come...

xxx c

Comic's comic

I've never been a huge fan of stand-up comedy, just like I've never been a huge fan of Westerns, musicals or reality TV. But I'm always up for exceptional examples from any genre, and Bill Hicks was an astonishing exception to the humdrum rule of stand-up.

Today would have been Hicks's 43rd birthday, and if you're unfamiliar with his peculiar brand of genius, reading up on him and his material will hip you to the enormity of the loss his untimely death was to the world.

xxx
c

Via Gawker.