Book review: The Lovely Bones

I'm suspicious of runaway-best-seller fiction. The few times I've broken down and grudgingly read it second-hand or leaning against the bookcase at Borders, I've invariably been proven right. Oprah's outreach program notwithstanding, it's so rare that a truly well-written book appeals to anything but a slim section of the book-buying public that really, it's safer just to stay home and ride these things out. Besides, I'm cheap.So I gave The Lovely Bones a wide berth when it first came out. On top of its status as freak super-seller, the violent murder that drives the story just wasn't a big draw for me. (Never made it through Dave Eggers's cancer book, either.) My outlook was black enough in my 20's and 30's to tint the rest of my days without ever having to dip into the existentialists again, and this is assuming the good, long life genetics would appear to have in store for me.

At the same time, that violent act was a draw, in its way. Given what I'm going through with my own work, finding the universal (and the funny) in the very specific (and oft-grim) reality of me and chronic illness, I was curious to see what she'd done with this dark little story to touch such a nerve.

What's clear from the beginning is that the violent act itself, while not gratuitous, is really a device, a jumping-off place, to explore the wherefore of connection. When I started the book, I was deeply afraid that the title referred to the sad leavings of the narrator's mortal self. (SPOILER FOR THOSE ON NEWS BLACKOUT THE PAST THREE YEARS: the story in The Lovely Bones is told by a murdered girl from her new residence in heaven.) But as The Lovely Bones wears on, the story slowly morphs from one of shock and bereavement and the desire to bring a killer to justice into the real story: how people come together and fall apart; how areas of overlap shift and change with events and need; how we find our way through change, even impossibly horrible, violent change that is thrust upon us, to the other side and our new selves.

These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections, sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent, that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredicatable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life.

Alice Sebold writes beautifully and clearly, which is a good thing. The story is fanciful enough; fancy writing would likely kill it. Still, I felt a little lost in the heaven sequences. I'm curious to see Peter Jackson's take on The Lovely Bones. While on the surface, it would seem to be wildly different subject matter for the Ring-master, I think Jackson's unparallelled ability to fabricate a world that feels whole and complete will serve this material well.

But do read the book first. Best-seller or no, it's a ripping good yarn.

xxx
c

UPDATE (12/3/08): In a shameless and transparent act of caving, I've been replacing book and DVD links with Amazon affiliate links throughout the site. I MAKE MONEY WHEN YOU CLICK ON THESE. Like, a full 1/4 cent or something. Whatever. I'm happy if you borrow it from a friend or the library, or buy it used (I like half.com and alibris online) or, praise Jeebus!, from your local independent dead tree retailer. Seriously. The main thing is, read. Absorb. Enjoy. Pass it on.

Project Life, by "Project Runway" Part III

In which we continue to draw Life Lessons from this season's surprise source of integral wisdom (and ripping-good reality TV), "Project Runway."

Lesson 10: There's No Room for Drama on a Deadline

In Episode 4, the designers had to go from working solo to a cluster fuck collaborating in teams! Of three designers each. Mon dieu et zut alors!

Team Kevin fell victim to the drama doldrums when a critical pattern piece went missing. Instead of spending valuable time figuring out a solution, they wasted it (apparently, I've still got to catch up) with infighting and hysteria. As Tim so sagely put it, “It was not essential that the pattern piece be found or that retribution be sought for a speculative thief. What was essential is that the design be finished in time for the runway judging.”

What precious commodity, time, energy, effort, are you frittering away on some “missing pattern piece” of your life when you could be getting on with things? Have you not read He's Just Not That Into You? Do you not get that this is not a dress (OMG!!! ROTFLMAO!!!) rehearsal? Lose the hair shirt! Drop the mantle, Drama Queen! Need I spell it out for you? Tick, tick, tick!!!

Lesson 11: Don't Fall on Your Sword!

Poor Vanessa. She learned this lesson the hard way. When the judges asked which member of the team was the weak link, Vanessa brought up her own inferior cutting skills. WTF?!? Don't aspiring couturiers watch "The Apprentice"? Tim knows the score: “Even when up against a wall and caught red-handed with the evidence, don't volunteer to receive the death sentence; you can't go backwards from there. I'm reminded of another Susan Hayward film (am I dating myself?) in which her character is accused of murder and imprisoned. It's called, I Want to Live! That's the spirit.”

Damn straight, it is! Be your own best friend and your bestest publicist! And if you've found yourself on P4 in the underground parking garage of self-esteem, well, then, fake it till you make it, baby! Do you think that if, say, the President of the United States made an egregious error of some sort or another that he'd throw up his hand and cry “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maximum culpa!”?! Do you think he'd even cry at all? 'Nuff said.

***

We're getting down to the wire. Only a few designers and a couple of episodes left. Tonight's VERY SPECIAL PROJECT RUNWAY is a pastiche of interviews with current and former program contestants. But don't call it padding; call it an opportunity to learn! Unless of course, you've got your whole life figured out and everything, Little Miss Buddha!

xxx c

"Medium"

Coming off of a self-imposed, five-year cable hiatus, it figures that my first real Destination TV airs on network. "Medium" (NBC, Mondays 10/9pm) stars Patricia Arquette as Arizona psychic Allison Dubois. Nominally a show about the super-dooper mental powers she employs in the service of various tricky cases for the D.A.'s office (she sees dead people), the real draw here is the juicy-real relationship Allison shares with her husband, Joe (Jake Weber). Yeah, they're both hot (they're TV stars!) and yeah, their exchanges are way better written than the usual i-dotting, t-crossing pap you see on TV (Glenn Gordon Caron of "Moonlighting" fame is at the helm, and his deft ear for dialogue is evident), but oh, oh, the restraint!

Example: upon returning home to find his lovely wife pouring herself yet another fatty vodka or family-sized glass of red (it quiets the voices), instead of a comment, cutting or no, or even a small-but-meaningful glance, we're treated to...nothing. Just the enormity of his pain as he takes in the whole picture and steamrolls over his own impulse to scream or smack her or take her in his arms and shake her before he collapses against her, weeping. Just that, with no fanfare.

Talk about an impulse to weep. I wasn't sure whether to sob with joy or leap to my feet with a "Hallelujah/A-men!" to the heavens and the network heads.

There's also a bunch of stuff in "Medium" about dreams and visions and all the other woo-woo stuff that generally fascinates me in real life, along with some flashy visual F/X-y stuff. But frankly, up against the anomaly of a real, live, everyday relationship on primetime TV, all that sparkly stuff feels...

Well, kinda ordinary.

xxx c

On the other side of fear, there's a small ink drawing

A year, no, probably closer to two years ago, I was at The Art Store (no, seriously, it's called "The Art Store") buying sumpin' or other, when I saw the sign on the locked glass case: "Koh-i-noor, 50% off." Now, if art stores (like computer stores and office supply stores) are to me as hardware stores are to most guys and jewelry stores are to most girls, the Rapidograph case is like where they keep the specialty-use Mikita saws or the anything if you're at Tiffany & Co. I could buy one of everything at the art store (or The Art Store) whether I needed one or not, but Rapidographs...well, shit, son, you need y'self at least five of those. For your different liiiine widths and whatnot...

To my credit, I did not slap down the Visa then and there; I actually left the store and thought about it for a week. (After making sure the sale would still be on, of course.) Then I came back, paid the man, and trotted off with my shiny new box of SEVEN, count 'em, SEVEN Rapidographs like the panting dog that I am. Upon reaching home, I immediately propped them up on a shelf to admire them in their pretty new case...and never touched them again.

Until yesterday, that is. I did under duress what I would not let myself do out of mere desire. Because while discussing a particular design job I'm working on right now, I threw out an idea that required drawing. By me. Now. (Idiot...idiot...)

For someone who grew up with a pen in her hand, I'm not a very good draw-er. I guess the problem was that I was using it to write at least as much as to draw. Because for every time I'd long to be Hilary Knight, I'd want just as fervently, or more so, to be Kay Thompson. R. Crumb, Edward Gorey, Aubrey Beardsley; Dorothy Parker, Charles Bukowski, Joan Didion. So many twisted, miserable lifestyles; so little time.

Ultimately, I decided I was a better writer than I was an artist. And since I couldn't be a great artist, I would go with my strong suit and let the drawing go entirely.

It's a shame, this idea I've held so long: that we can only do One Thing. That creativity can't express itself through multiple, if imperfect, outlets. That I must be truly great at something to earn the right to spend time working, or even playing, at it. I've probably missed out on a lot over the years because of it. But lately I've been finding that I enjoy dabbling, a little cooking, a little sewing, a little guitar-pickin', a little blogging. I'm finally loosening my iron grip on perfectionism as a way of life, and wouldn't you know, life's getting to be more fun. Messier, scarier, and even dirtier (all this fun leaves little time for scrubbing grout with a toothbrush), but a lot more fun.

So I must pause, briefly, to thank those brave, multitalented souls who came before me for putting themselves out there, for exploring their truths via their eclectic, complex selves, so fearlessly and inspiringly. Evelyn Rodriguez, a.k.a. The Zen Mistress of Business, who is a constant reminder that binary thinking is not not nearly as activating (not too mention fun) as a crazy cocktail of influences. Hugh MacLeod, who's crackerjack marketing-smart AND a draw-er of some of the funniest, filthiest cartoons ever AND doesn't see a disconnect with being both. My new bud, Michael Nobbs, who introduced me to peops like Trevor Romain and Danny Gregory, all of whom made it possible for me to believe that great art and great writing weren't mutually exclusive, that they could reside happily within the same sentient being, that one might actually inform and enrich the other.

You guys make it a little less scary to post this picture. And the idea of picking up a sketchbook at The Art Store positively thrilling.

xxx c

Hot chicks, cool cats - 20 bucks

My theater company, Evidence Room, turned 10 this year. We're celebrating with a kick-ass event/show/party tonight, tomorrow and Sunday: a live radio-concert restaging of our hit pulp/noir classic, No Orchids for Miss Blandish, by James Hadley Chase. Lots of cocktails, live music and aforementioned hot chicks/cool cats (theater company + L.A. = lots of good-looking people) and a killer show.

And in case you're not a regular, we also lay claim to the coolest party space in Los Angeles. No lie, Cy.

I'll be there tonight, with bells on. And heels. And a private stash, if you know the secret password...

xxx c

evidEnce room presents a speakeasy radio-play concert celebration: NO ORCHIDS FOR MISS BLANDISH by James Hadley Chase Fri - Sun, Feb 11-13 @ 8pm at evidEnce room 2220 Beverly Blvd (at Alvarado) Tickets $20 Info/Reservations: (213) 381-7118

Wake up! To a year of GOOD DESIGN!!!

Is this the year of the Rooster or the year of the Designer? Maybe it's both! All I know is I've got to be up when the rooster crows to keep up with all the design projects streaming through my in-box these days. And the money! Why, I may have to employ extra help just to count it all! Anyway, while it's really fun (really! it is!) working on cool-i-o stuff, I recognize the process can be a little daunting for those just getting their feet wet in the design world.

So, in keeping with The Communicatrix Goal of offering Useful Tips for Living and other valuable nuggets, here are a handful of tips to get you started on the road to graphic happiness:

1. When you find a new designer via the web, always ask for a detailed estimate. If you don't like it, you can always just ignore it. And don't be intimidated by pressure tactics like them "following up" with a "polite" email. After all, who's the customer, here? That's right, you!

2. Remember, a more complicated job requires more lead time. For example, while a business card should take no more than an hour or two, you should probably allow at least a day's turnaround for your company newsletter. Haste makes waste!

3. If you have ideas, be sure to share them with your designer before he or she starts working. Comments like "I think Comic Sans would be a great typeface to use for the body copy, don't you?" or "I like a heavy drop shadow on my headlines" not only are great thought-starters, they show your designer that you're not some rube who just fell off the design turnip truck!

4. By the same token, if a brain flash hits you at the last minute, by all means, don't hold back! A good designer won't be mad that you're changing everything at the last minute, they'll be thrilled that you care enough to make them look good!

5. Another way to be helpful is to give your designer lots and lots of fun clip art to use. TIP: When it comes to clip art, there's no such thing as too kooky! Don't worry if it looks a little jumble-y; matchy-matchy is out,  eclectic is in!

6. Don't let some hoity-toity graphic "designer" tell you how many typefaces is too many! If God didn't want us have a lot of fonts in our printed material, why would he have put so many on our computers? Stupid designers!

7. To make your newsletter stand out from the pack, try copying it onto colored stock. TIP: Different colors can change the mood completely: for a “serious” look, try mint green; for a fun, fruity look, how about grape? And nothing shouts "I Am Acme Widgets!" like a ream of Astrobrights: hot pink, neon orange, rock'em-sock'em lime, etc.

8. Graphic designers like to throw around big, confusing terms like "white space" and "that colored stock you copied the last newsletter on makes it a little hard to read" just to make themselves feel smart. Don't be fooled by fancy double-talk. If your newsletter was hard to read, your family would have told you!

9. If there's anything you don't like about the design, don't hurt your designer's feelings. Just ask for an "output" and once you get it home, cut, rearrange and paste to your own liking. Then just Xerox and, voila! you're a graphic designer! (TIP: If you copy it at extra light, the cut lines barely show at all.)

10. Finally, don't feel like you have to hire a designer just because other people are doing it. After all, if you own a computer with Microsoft Word and hands, you already have all the tools you need to produce fine graphic "design" in the comfort and privacy of your own home, and save wasted money, too!

Enjoy!

xxx c

Staying true to your Big Truth

I didn't know Loretta Palazzo personally back in her L.A. days, but I knew who she was. Most of us on the commercial acting circuit probably did, when your day job is casting director, a lot of Beer Chicks, Gen-Y Geeks and Gap-Casual Moms tend to know your name. But Loretta was memorable even in our world, and not just because she stood out in a sartorial sense. Putting aside her cat's-eye glasses, red-red lipstick and fantabulous retro-cool wardrobe (which, seemingly, held no duplication of outfits), Loretta was Loretta in spades. I have no idea how happy or unhappy she was with her life here, but she seemed centered in herself in a way that 99.99% of the people you meet here in Hollywood do not. And as far as I'm concerned, that puts you ahead of the game no matter where you're parking your carcass.

So I guess I wasn't especially surprised when I cracked open my new-favorite magazine, Budget Living, and saw Loretta's new life far, far from Hollywood splashed across its pages. There's a lot of churn here in The Place That Isn't A Place; most of us who come out here to pursue some Hollywood-y type of activity end up getting out sooner or later, and the high-tailing-it is pretty evenly distributed across the zero - to - medium-high success levels (although if you ever have the misfortune of screening a film with an auditorium full of SAG members, you'd think that every scraggly-ass background freakazoid who never worked was still living here).

Still, I was impressed by the manifestation of the life which Loretta and her now-husband, Matt Maranian (former character actor and co-author of the excellent off-kilter guide, L.A. Bizarro), dreamed up for themselves. It's aesthetically pleasing, yes (frankly, I'm ready to move in if the happy couple will have me) but what really knocks me out is the way their energy crackles off the page, both in the text and the photos. Clearly, these two remarkable people will settle for nothing less than exactly what they want, albeit in a quiet, self-assured way.

Compare that to the lives of not-so-quiet desperation led by so many of the denizens of La-La, and you start to see how radical Loretta and Matt and their bohemian, Vermonter lifestyle really are. They are in clear and firm possession of their own truth, it would appear, and were even before they piled their stuff in a truck and headed East.

I'm sensitive to this, you see; for a proponent of change, I'm often woefully slow to embrace it. It took me ten years to leave a business I knew I loathed after the first six months; similarly, I've overstayed my welcome in too many relationships out of a fear that to do otherwise would be an admission of weakness. Or maybe just out of fear, period.

Of course, the universe loves to use the ego-driven as its own, personal punching bags. After a series of blows to the head, heart and guts, I'd like to think I've taken the note, as we say in the trade.

But just to be on the safe side, I'm clipping these fine pages and slipping them into my 3-ring Super-Virgo binder of reminders. And if I ever feel myself forgetting the importance of checking in to see where I really and truly am (not to mention the magnificence of what can happen if I'm brave enough to be true to it) I can flip to those pages for a little reminder.

Of course, sometimes I think it'd be more expedient just to whap my big, fat, stoopit head with the thing. But you know, I'm also working on another little virtue called "patience."

Hopefully, as the saying so wryly goes, I'll hurry up and get some.

xxx c

PHOTOS: Douglas Friedman

MORE ON THE MOVE from Renaissance Matt in this article from SouthernVermont.com.

Book review: David Chelsea In Love

Several months ago, the Beverly Hills Public Library, a.k.a. the BHPL, a.k.a. The Greatest Library In All The Land, added a graphic novel section. This is perfect for people like me who are geeky enough to appreciate graphic novels but not geeky enough to frequent comix stores (and too cheap to buy any book over five bucks sight unseen via the internet).

The collection is pretty boy-heavy (as opposed to "pretty-boy heavy", next up: Eats, Shoots & Leaves) but there are a few items on the girlier end of the spectrum: Julie Doucet's My New York Diary, Harvey Pekar and Joyce Brabner's Our Cancer Year, Ghost World and suchlike. And that's what I like: story, story, story, the blacker, the better, but without all those silly superpowers and man-tights cluttering up the thing. To me, girly (read: auto/biographical) graphic novels combine the best of both childhood comix worlds, the human interaction of the Archie crowd in all its fascinating, Chekovian mundanity plus the firece filmic drawing of the Marvel house, minus the restraints of cartooning for kids.

David Chelsea gives gooooood autobiography; he's as dark and brooding and crazy as they come. He's also in possession of mad Rapidograph skills, which are rivalled only by his ability to employ them in pouring his messed-up life onto the page.

The story takes place mainly on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where Chelsea is (barely) eking out a living as an illustrator, and in his hometown of Portland, Oregon, where he travels (by bus!) in never-ending pursuit of the Girlfriend Action that eludes him in New York. Minnie, the central object of his affection, is a gawky philandering Portland actress; from the moment they meet cute at a party given by friends of Chelsea's sister, he's fairly obsessed by her. Of course, as one gigantic (literally) bundle of neuroses and bad judgment, she's the worst kind of person to get involved with. Narcissistic, solipsistic and completely unable to commit herself to one man or one city, Minnie keeps Chelsea teetering between the maddest kind of love and the worst kind of despair, much like Chelsea himself does with the women he treats as rest stops between bouts of Minnie.

Of course, the real love story in the book is the one between Chelsea and cartooning. At the end, in a sort of "where are they now" kind of summary, the now married-with-kids cartoonists admits to having given up la vida loca for the pleasures of true coupledom, which, as he says, he likes even better "even if it lacks the drama of a good graphic novel."

But the accompanying "photos" at the back of the book, really a series of photorealistic illustrations likely copied from real snaps, are as lovingly detailed as any manic sequence in David Chelsea in Love. He may not be the angst-ridden youth prowling the early-80s wilds of the East Village, but he's just as jiggy with the pen and ink as he ever was.

Let's hope he stays crazy-in-the-good-way for many, many years to come.

xxx
c

UPDATE (12/3/08): In a shameless and transparent act of caving, I've been replacing book and DVD links with Amazon affiliate links throughout the site. I MAKE MONEY WHEN YOU CLICK ON THESE. Like, a full 1/4 cent or something. Whatever. I'm happy if you borrow it from a friend or the library, or buy it used (I like half.com and alibris online) or, praise Jeebus!, from your local independent dead tree retailer. Seriously. The main thing is, read. Absorb. Enjoy. Pass it on.

Friday Mat Blogging

Tiny puppets Kim and Andy Share a love of cotton candy And a couch that's handy-dandy When they get to feeling randy.

Now here's a Friday gray cell bender: Guess their little puppet gender! (Hint: make a note of where you entered If you're slightly right of center.)

xxx c

Working 'clean'

In the end, the people who do what they believe in, who have something to believe in... in the end, they last longer.—Hugh MacLeod

Hugh MacLeod posts a little story today about a smart guy who lost his job for the right reason: he stayed true to his beliefs rather than the party line. The details of the story, and of Hugh's post, have to do with marketing and PR and the future of both; that's nominally what Hugh's about, and he's much better at defining his niche and sticking to it than I am (unless you can call "crazy generalist" a niche, in which case I'm on target 100% of the time).

But the nugget, the juice, the moral of the story is universal: in the end, the people who stay in touch with their own truth and make sure what they're doing aligns with that truth... in the end, hell, in the beginning and middle, too, although it may not seem so by traditional markers, they win. Maybe not at a particular job or relationship or pursuit, but in the über-sense: at work, at love, at life.

I talk a lot about how much I hated being in advertising; even more often, I club myself over the head about all those wasted years writing copy and sitting in stoopit meetings. But the truth is, up until my last few months as an employee, I always believed fervently in some aspect of what I was doing. (What can I say? I'm a dazzling mix of optimist and asshole.) And so really, on some level, I was right to stay; there was something still to be gained from the experience. (I am also a dazzling mix of 'slow' and 'learner'.)

To keep myself honest about where things sit on my own appropriateness spectrum for dharmic happiness, I've adopted a mantra that's also a helpful metaphor: work clean.

In the world of contamination control, "working clean" is methodology for keeping product or results pure; in the world of the communicatrix, it's about shining the cold, hard light of truth on anything and everything, then following through with the appropriate action in a timely fashion. (In the world of standup comedy, it's about making the joke safe for Christians and network television, but I'm strictly an agnostic, cable-viewing type.)

Once I'd put the idea of "working clean" in my head, it became harder to ignore the insalubrious and simpler figuring out what to do about it. Not easier, but simpler. (More pain and confusion has resulted from people confusing those two words than any other pair, with the possible exception of "love" and "lust".) Admitting that Being An Actress is no longer fulfilling the way it was 10 years ago has not been easy, but the truth of it is (painfully) clear and defining future actions much, much simpler and even, lord help me, kind of fun. Ending my last two relationships wasn't exactly what I'd characterize as "easy" (or fun, while we're at it), but man oh man, the swiftness and precision with which I was able to do it not only was humane, but downright elegant. You gotta love that.

Especially when you compare it to the exquisite misery I managed to make last for months or even years at a time in my younger, cloudier days. I don't know who I thought I was doing a favor by ignoring the gigantic elephant crapping in the corner, but it wasn't me. And given the volume and potency of elephant crap, it probably wasn't anyone else in the room with me, either.

Of course, this is all a work in progress. Learning where the light switch is (or, in the case of elephant crap, the push-broom and the Lysol) is only half of the equation. And I'd be a big, fat, un-clean-working liar if I said my life was the streamlined, aerodynamic model of zen efficiency I long for it to be. Working clean is a tool, but it's not a magic wand that's changed my life.

It has, however, made me much happier living it, dirt, elephant crap and all.

xxx c

UPDATE: David Parmet, the subject of Hugh's post, found this little entry via gapingvoid and posted a lovely comment below. What a man of grace! And smarts, too!

Anyone reading this who's in a position to help David out, either with leads or a big fat juicy PR/marketing job please do yourself a favor and jump on it. Let us create beautiful blog symmetry: fired for blog, rewarded tenfold by blog.

You can find David via his (non-marketing) blog here, or via email at david - at - parmet - dot - net. Merci!

Project Life, by "Project Runway" Part II

Whew! We're really behind on our Project Life/Project Runway Lessons, so I'm going to have to move a little faster to get us caught up. (Don't want to get caught in LIFE with our pants down, HAHAHA!) In Episode 2, the eleven remaining designers (sorry, Daniel, hopefully, you're making the most of your resources back in Hollywood) were each given a big bolt of cotton tubing and told to depict the deadly sin, ENVY, which is the enemy of LOVE. (NOTE: I did not know that last bit but I found it out on the internets, which are excellent for getting truthful information of all kinds).

For instance, another thing I learned is how much fashion design has in common with international diplomacy:

Lesson 4: Step Back and Be Objective

"One of Kara Saun's greatest strengths is her ability to objectify her work; that is, examine it as though someone else created it. This temporary disengagement gives her the ability to diagnose issues and prescribe solutions to her designs; solutions that work. Too frequently, our intentions and our efforts serve to impede our judgment."

—"Tim", from Project Runway

Wow. Condie's pretty lucky she's got a lock on that new gig! Sounds like Kara could give her a run for her money! Plus I bet KS would look better on TV in those foxy outfits. (Note to self: buy embroidery hoops to use as earrings.)

Lesson 5: Challenge Yourself

Okay, this one is easy. All Mario did was take his tubing, pull it over the model's head and make bloody bullet hole thingies to portray the envy because "the fashion industry is cut-throat, so his muse was shot." WTF?!? Lesson by Colleen: Get off your lazy ass. If you cannot get off your lazy ass, you lose.

Lesson 6: Edit

We should have known that Starr had an editing problem. I mean, look at her name: if she took away an "R," then she would be a real "Star" and maybe have a regular TV gig and a big wedding with a bunch of free stuff.

Anyway, Starr's first dress had too many tumors. (Don't ask.) Then she took a bunch off, which is EDITING, and she had...a dress with less tumors. But she lasted another round, which is more than Mario. Everything in moderation, including moderation. Didn't Ben Franklin say that? He was kind of an editor, sort of. You should edit more! More than that! More still!

Lesson 7: Be Yourself

Crab, crab, crab. These designers are always crabbing. For instance, Vanessa was crabbing that the challenges were too restrictive, that they didn't let Vanessa shine through. So Tim says: "Ask yourself what it is about your point of view and design philosophy that transcends all forms of presentation. Think: How would Balenciaga have morphed his work so that it would sell on QVC?"

Touché, my little rag trader, touché...

Lesson 8: Listen and Learn

Big fat old Wendy made it to the third challenge by the skin of her pinking shears. But did she act like the LEW-sah she might well have? No, ma'am-a-rama! As Wendy said herself of this opportunity to design "real" clothes, "If I can't design the winning dress for this challenge, then I shouldn't be here. I am Banana Republic!"

Be like Wendy. Take the note. Knock that chip off your shoulder. And when life hands you charmeuse, cut on the bias! (But carefully!)

Lesson 9: Make It Pretty

Poor Starr. As Tim says, "The dress for this challenge looked like a mixture of Poiret, Erte, harlequins, and jesters, worthy inspirations, indeed , but the color relationships, the proportions, the awkward jerking of the fabric as the model walked the runway all screamed "H-E-L-P!!" It was sad. Make it work. Make it pretty."

Bring the Pretty goes hand in hand with Lesson 6, Edit. After all, even the most exquisite Harry Winston jewelry looks likes poopoo if you wear it all at once. Apparently, Starr likes to drag out all the baubles for her weekly shop at the Ralphs. Sorry, Starr. Next time, make it pretty.

xxx c

P.S. Don't forget to watch Episode 8 tonight! The communicatrix is a little caught up in another show right now, but she'll be back on fashion track pretty darned soon!

Fat City

I bought an Oprah magazine on my evening walk to read in the tub tonight (gotta do something to make this semi-invalid lifestyle palatable) but when I got home and checked my email, I saw (cursed Yahoo!) that Fat City was on at 7. So much for that hot bath.

Have you seen Fat City? It's one of the great American 1970s movies and, after Sierra Madre and The Misfits, my favorite Huston flick. Not only does it have the strong sense of place that more and more I think is the main common denominator of the movies I love, it's set in L.A., it's got a killer soundtrack and it sports one of the greatest performances by an actress (Susan Tyrell) ever caught on film.

Fat City is nominally the story of two boxers, one, played by a peachy-faced Jeff Bridges, on the way up and the other, played by a not-too-craggy Stacy Keach, on the way out. But it's really a story about dreams and choices and what happens to the former when you don't keep a firm hand on the latter. There's a real spirit of my boy, Bukowski, about the thing, probably the wine-soaked Oma (Tyrell), the dingy residence hotels, the fringe dwellers pulling shifts at hopelessly dead-end jobs in a vain attempt to get a hair's breadth ahead of the eight ball.

Oh, hell. Just watch it. If you've got the Sundance Channel, it'll be on again Wednesday, February 9th at 3:35p and again on Sunday, the 13th at 12:20am.

And really, if one of you rich folk would TiVo it for me, I'd love that. Mostly because I'm dying to see what other gems the magical electronic box might unearth...

xxx c

"Nothing is stupid. Even stupid things aren't stupid."*

A book about blogging? No, wait, a self-published book about blogging by a bunch of bloggers, many of whom are relatively unknown even in the blogosphere and none of whom are exactly rocking slots one through ten on the New York Times bestseller list? Hey, they all laughed at Christopher Columbus (and probably, at some point, at the guys who wrote about it), too.

Intrepid business blogger Jon Strande hatched a stupid, ingenious plan for explaining blogging to the general (offline) public: collect a hundred, that's right, 100, bloggers and see what they had to say about it. Seriously. At the outset, that was the sum total of the plan.

But then an amazing thing happened. In typical bloggy fashion, the bloggers he invited suggested others, which in turn not only suggested a great method of collecting 100 bloggers but a means of illustrating the connectivity, joy and power of blogging in the construction of the book itself.

Here's how it ended up working: Jon invited the first 25 bloggers. They, in turn, invited 25 more. Their 25 invited another 25, and that 25 invited a final 25, for a total of 100 bloggers**, linked by blogging, just like...blogging!

Now that my little bloggy tree is established (me > half mad (former) spinster > Michael Nobbs > Trevor Romain), the next step is to come up with my post, er, chapter. I'd like for it to somehow reference one or all of my people, and at least a few of the other bloggers in the book, like Evelyn and Hugh, whose acquaintanceship was either directly or indirectly responsible for my participation. But that's my problem.

The problem I'd love your help with is selecting a post, or even a style or category of post, since I'm kind of all over the map, for inclusion. "Why I Blog" is going to be a biggish topic in the book, but don't let that stop you. If anyone out there reading this blog with any regularity has a strong opinion on which post I've blogged so far would be my best choice for this book, by all means, let me know, either in the comments section or, if you're shy, via email. Don't hold back, either; even if you think it's an inappropriate post for inclusion in a generic blogging book, there may be some useful information in your preference. For instance, I'm probably not going to choose that perennial crowd-pleaser, the Mrs. Potato Head manifesto, but if it resonates with enough people, I will think seriously about incorporating the elements that I think make it successful, like the list format, the rapier-like wit and the wink-wink/nudge-nudge.

Thanks for playing, everyone! And remember, there are no stupid ideas. Even stupid ideas aren't stupid.

xxx c

*Words to live by from Callie - 1st grader, via Trevor Romain's blog

**Well, we're close, anyway. The math alone makes my head spin, so I'm leaving the collection process to John and other, sturdier souls.

Sometimes joy is the work

About two years ago, when I'd recovered enough from the Crohn's to get out and about but not enough to do it for more than an hour or so at a time nor in combination with anything physically taxing like breathing, I undertook an experiment of sorts with my friend, Lisa. Lisa, like Debbie, Jan, the other Jan and most friends of great consequence in my life, is very good at lavishing time and money on herself, which sounds like a witty snipe but is, coming from me, the highest type of compliment. The product of a workaholic father who equated financial worth with the personal kind and an alcoholic mother whose money-management skills were so finely honed that she died $70,000 in debt, it took more than a little effort to pry a buck from my hands or me from behind the desk where I made it.

On the other end of the work-play spectrum, Lisa, who at that point would have chosen "chew own arm off" if given the choice between that and "clip coupon," was very good at buying retail, socializing in trendy bars and hosting "Sex and the City" parties at her well-appointed, fashionably-located, cable-TV-equipped bachelorette pad, at least, when she wasn't giving herself stomache aches over where next month's rent was coming from.

You get the picture.

So I'm hanging out with ol' Lisa (who is quite a bit younger than me, by the way, and therefore not old at all, except maybe to a third grader) and we hatch this plan: we're going to give each other assignments. One a week, every week, for an open-ended number of weeks, until we feel like some much-needed good habits are seeded. Lisa got assignments like "balance checkbook" or "find checkbook." I got assignments like "go to bookstore, browse for a minimum of one hour and buy at least one book for entertainment purposes only" because she knew if I was merely instructed to get a book for pleasure I would have opened the "to read" file in my Palm, found the titles of five or six instructive manuals on composting (you know, for when I eventually own a house with a backyard) and ordered them to be delivered to my branch library.

After much initial resistance all around, I'm happy to report that the experiment was largely a success. Lisa turned her hateful job into a career she loves and has her finances so well in hand that she recently added both call waiting and DSL after doing, o joy of joys, a comparative cost analysis of her telephony services. For my part, I not only bought myself a new car, a painting and digital cable (with HBO!!!), I actually got a second box so I could watch quality programming like "The Simpsons," "Law & Order" and reality TV on my G5, sometimes even when i wasn't working!

I was reminded of The Experiment last night while visiting my writing partner, a.k.a. The Other Jan. We'd finished working on our pilot and I was relaxing with a glass or three of wine after a delicious meal (which she cooked for us while I yakked on the phone), and now we were parked on her sofa to discuss the (free) seminar she'd taken last weekend. Taught by our former acting coach, it was, apparently, a compendium of The Forum and Lifestream and a few other all-Kool-Aid-drenched-roads-lead-to-Rome methods of self-actualization, but I was interested because (a) for the first time in the three years I've known her, The Other Jan is actually talking about quitting smoking and (b) I adhere to the tenet "Love the idea, hate the idealogue."

I got the Reader's Digest version, but there was still a lot of planning and thinking and writing, and at the end of our hour, I had a list of no less than 27 things I had to do to make myself a better person. Tomorrow. It's tiring stuff, this self-improvement, so we knocked back a couple of episodes of my new-favorite show and called it a night.

But a funny thing happened when I left TOJ's. Instead of being excited about the program, I felt a little anxious and depressed. They were all good actions, and eminently reasonable ones to take if I wanted to achieve the goals I'd established for myself, but something about them felt wrong. Too familiar. Too much work, not enough joy.

And then it hit me: for my particular goal, they were too much work. If my aim is (HUBRIS ALERT! HUBRIS ALERT!) to become a joyful conduit of truth and beauty in the world, maybe I'd be better served by focusing a little less on working at truth and a little more on the joy and beauty part. Not to say that a plan isn't great and work isn't necessary, but for overachieving micromanagers like myself, sometimes joy is the work and not-planning, an infinitely better plan.

So instead of working on my 27 things this morning, I slept in. And this afternoon, I played (not practiced) a little piano and baked a little SCD bread. I took myself to the bookstore and bought a stack of books. Of course, it was the used bookstore and I "bought" them with a credit, but they're mostly fun books (if you can call Sinclair Lewis "fun") and I spent one whole hour poking around the bookstore looking for them. And no, technically, I'm no closer to my life's purpose for it. But my self feels greatly improved, which is usually not the case at the end of a long, busy Saturday. Which makes me think that there's something to this doing less thing, or at least, a balance of doing-less with overdoing.

And now, if you'll excuse me, my book and I have an appointment with a large vodka-rocks in a long, hot bath...

xxx c

Photo by Tom-Tom via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license

Friday Mat Blogging

Here I sit, parked on my sofa (Rainy days make me a loaf-ah) Boy oh boy, how I could go-fa A DVD, like "Curb" or Bopha!

Oh! Hey! I know! I'll just stay home an' Watch the murdering Oklahoman Made when I was just a yeoman Was my bad acting a kind of omen...?

xxx c

A home of one's own, Part II.

Several years ago, while I was going though an unusual confluence of broke (career change), unemployed (cataclysmically idiotic SAG commercial strike) and dork (freshly discovered love of computers), I stumbled upon a little time-suckage device called "Epinions." Much like the blogosphere, Epinions was a virtual community where like-minded souls could: (a) "meet"; (b) exchange ideas; and (c) engage in conversation or debate, lively or otherwise (depending on the mindset of aforementioned souls). Nominally, we were all there to provide consumer information in the form of product and service reviews, but for many of us, especially those of us who reviewed less popular and hence, less profitable items, the real draw was (O, Hubris, thy Name is communicatrix) intellectual stimulation.

Of course, Change, merry prankster that he is, swooped in soon enough and decimated our virtual village. Egregious mismanagement and the incessant, petty shitcanning of reviews as "off-topic", off-color, or just plain smart-alecky by the newly established Asshole Majority drove most of the people I liked to go home and take their balls (ha!) with them. Sad, sad, sad. I left my old reviews on the site (ten bucks a year is ten bucks a year) but the joy had gone out of posting and my involvement with Epinions dwindled to the occasional stray email commenting on my most popular review and my subsequent reply.

I suppose there was a blogosphere back then, too, but as a carbuncle firmly planted on the butt-end of the Early Adopter demographic, it was not yet my time to explore it. Plus, the UIs were ugly. (Sorry, but they were.) Besides, the strike ended, I started booking like a maniac and I had a little cashola with which to shop again. (Also, because the Universe is nothing if not generous, my live-in relationship helpfully went on Orange Alert, thereby providing me with a seemlingly limitless source of time-suckage with no lengthy dial-up waits. But that is another story for another day.)

But the demise of Epinions left a void in my life and me and nature, we abhor a vacuum. I threw myself into my theater company (and, as a guest, anyone else's who'd have me); later, post-Crohn's, I became similarly obsessive about my involvement with the SCD Listserv, starting with rapacious reading at the front end of my illness curve, progressing to righteous diatribes on the necessity of "fanatical adherence" and the breathless posting of SCD "convenience food" discoveries (when you have to cook everything yourself, individually wrapped Baby Bel cheeses are indeed, a revelation).

In the end, though, it was no use. These groups I joined were...well, groups. And try as I might to fit in, I'm a freak, I'm a loner, I'm a lover, I'm a fighter, I'm everything but a joiner. Granted, when forced to attend large, festive gatherings I've gotten much, much better at imitating a person enjoying herself, but inside, my heart is gripped by fear and my brain is ticking off the minutes until I can safely escape to the blessed solitude of my car, my cave, or both. Whatever the reason, I just do better one-on-one, if not just plain one.

So here I am, several years later, blogging away. And while I've blogged about why I blog and blogged about my need for a safe space to explore my truth, I don't think it's even occurred to me until this very day how much I blog because it's become my artistic home, a safe house to play in conveniently located in a community full of like-minded souls whom I can visit for inspiration or companionship and from whom I can retreat into solitude as my spirit requires. Evelyn Rodriquez is there with sound advice or food for thought when I need her and cool when I need me some "me" time. (And vice-versa, of course.) Half-Mad Spinster went away on sabbatical for goodly chunk of time (and came back Half-Mad Married Lady!), but good neighbors that we are, we dropped by occasionally to make sure her house was still standing, and then, upon her return, welcomed her with much rejoicing if not a real-live shindig. Blogging is a two-way street (albeit a really long, twisty one that goes on and on and curls back on itself in unexpected ways). And my blog is a little live/work studio on that street.

So I (ahem) bang away here in my little bloggy space, making what I will of it. I thank you all (or, more appropriately, you both) for stopping by every once in awhile, mainly because it's fun but also because it forces me to keep things relatively clean and tidy.

And for those of you who dropped in accidentally, say, on your way to "'WOMEN SLAPPING' AND DOMINATION" or "black camel toe xxx", well, the door's to your left.

xxx c

Project Life, by "Project Runway"

You are a young¹, aspiring designer. You have a dream: wealth, fame and the possibility of immortality via your own couture label (plus maybe a low-end spin-off at Target®). When you are given the opportunity to compete for the realization of that dream, you jump on it. Nothing can stop you now! Nothing except...yourself. DUM DUM DUUUUUUM!!! Is it any wonder that Bravo's Project Runway is a runaway hit? This is no mere reality trifle exploiting the fashion world, this is an illumination of the human condition, of the triumphs we rejoice in and the tribulations we muddle through. Like all great works of art, by focusing intensely on the specific, Project Runway speaks eloquently to the general. And the Lessons of Project Runway are like the Lessons of Life (only more stylish and way funner to watch). Listen to Tim, Project Runway's designer-judge liaison-type person (and resident sage), and learn...

Lesson 1: Make It Work

For the materials with which you will construct your first creation, a fabulous couture dress, you are sent to the store, the grocery store.

No problem, ever-creative, you fabricate an fanciful frock from packing tape and strategically placed corn husks. You are a genius. You run off to attend to some details (how does one accessorize a husk dress? A tortilla tam? A Sno-Caps clutch?) and when you return, sacre bleu! The husks have dried and shrunken, leaving unseemly bald patches all over your glorious creation!

Do you panic? Do you cry out at the unfairness of the universe, rend your flesh, curse your ignorance of husk water retention? Heckers, no! You slap a bunch of husk shards on the blank parts, et voila: you not only save your dress but win your round, and immunity going into the next challenge!

So the next time tragedy parks itself on your couch with an oversize rolling duffel, remember: if Austin can resuscitate a couture dress under that kind of pressure, you can certainly fix an overly-cumined batch of chili or salvage your crappy relationship.

Better yet, give 'em both the heave-ho and make yourself your fixer-upper. Because let's face it, what are we really trying to fix when we work on our dresses?

That's right, people. That's right...

Lesson 2: Make The Most Of Your Resources

Daniel thought he was soooo smart.³ Everyone else was freaking out about how to make a grocery-store dress with only 50 bucks, and he fashions his from butcher paper and a garbage bag. But as Tim says,

For me, that statement was an instant uh-oh,because he wasn't fully utilizing the extent of his resources. It's a bit like saying that you have $500.00 to spend on an outfit at Banana Republic and you come away from it wearing a pair of [Banana Republic] boxer shorts and a [Banana Republic] scarf why? [NOTE: This comment, like Project Runway, brought to you by Banana Republic.]

If life gives you the equivalent of a $500 shopping spree, don't “chintz” out (LOL!!! ROTFLMAO!!!) at skivvies and a scarf. Unless, like, the undies are Hanro and the scarf is Hermes or something.

But seriously, use all the brains, beauty and talent you were born with⁴. To do anything less isn't humility, it's insulting. I mean, you don't see Paris letting the moss grow under her feet, do you? Ha. I think I've made my point.

Lesson 3: Candy, Not So Dandy

Whew! There are a lot of lessons packed into this episode! (Kinda like...life!)

Wendy crafted her creation out of candy, which the twin terrors of body heat and runway lights almost melted into, as Tim sez, (a) design too revealing even for cable TV! Yikes!

"Where is the life lesson in a melted candy dress?" I'll bet you're asking. Well, I'll tell you, smarty-pants: Choose the people surrounding you not for their sparkly appeal, but for their ability to make it through the long haul...and for their sparkly appeal.

------

Wow! That was hard and took a long time, too. I guess I'll come back later with more lessons. In the meantime, make sure you watch Project Runway tonight, Wednesday, on Bravo. Back-to-back episodes at 8pm/9pm! First, they each make a swimsuit. Then they make something else, I think together. Oh, bother. I'm too tired to watch the video clip and report back to you. My advice to you is look it up yourself.

Hey! I like giving advice, too! Maybe I should create a reality show where the contestants are all aspiring to be the advice people on reality shows!

xxx c

¹My bad! Not all of the Project Runway contestants are young. Project Runway prides itself on its diversity. For example, Kara Saun is black!* And Austin is gay! And Wendy, the old one, is also kind of fat! I heart diversity! And Project Runway, too!

²Sorry, I don't know his last name. I am new to the show since I am a dork who doesn't watch enough TV. Actually, I watch a lot of TV, but mostly reruns of Law & Order (comforting), King of the Hill (hilarious and comforting) and Judge Judy (disturbing but oddly comforting, and often hilarious). I will try to watch more TV in the future. But all the lesson titles are actually by TIM, called "Tim's Takes." Don't believe me? Go look it up!

³Only I guess he wasn't, 'cause he's not on the show anymore!

⁴And your trust fund, too, if you were born with one of those. Only don't spend it like a jackass. And tithe. Everyone should tithe. Maybe if you're rich, even double/triple/quadruple tithe. Oprah tithes, and she has lots of really nice clothes and shoes and stuff. But she is also nice, and changes the world for good. So I guess, if you're rich, call Oprah and ask her about the tithing thing. If you're that rich, you probably have her number or something anyway.

*And she is so the best one! I hope she wins. Hey! I just realized this is, like, a footnote in a footnote.**

**Wait, this is one, too! Cool!!

Stamp out hackting!

While searching for links for my last post, I was dismayed to find not a single definition, mention or even blog entry using a word I feel should be in wide circulation in the English language, hackting. Not being one to sit on my ass (and being a monstrously competitive type hellbent-for-leather to put my grubby thumbprint on the lexicon) I took time off from writing that post to submit the following definition to the Collins Word Exchange:

hackting (n) egregiously bad, superficial or ham-handed acting; performance undertaken for the sole purpose of adding to one's wealth or fame: "phoning it in"; from "hack" and "acting"; also “hacktor” (n) one who engages in hackting

After a brief registration (which will allow you to add other words you stumble upon or dream up by your own, very smart selves), you can submit this definition yourself. I of course think it's such a no-brainer they'll add it immediately, but it can't hurt to have a little backup!

Go here to register. I, along with critics and discerning, English-speaking performance patrons everywhere, thank you in advance for your support.

xxx c

The Station Agent

In my capacity as ornery cuss, unless I can screen them pre-buzz, I generally sit out wildly popular movies on principle. Often, this proves wise; in the case of a genuinely worthy film like Sideways or The Station Agent, I'm only punishing myself. That there are similarities between the films (strong sense of place, a rock-solid script, actors who look like real people) doesn't surprise me. I've always had a weakness for the indie film; I'll generally cut it more slack than a studio picture, just because I know that for as hard as it is to get any movie made the right way, the sheer force of will that's required to pull together the resources needed to make an indie deserves support.

But too often, indies piss away that good will with aggressively quirky stories or hackting. That The Station Agent is set in super-smalltown rural New Jersey and is populated with a train-loving dwarf/loner, a chatty Latino hot-truck operator with a lust for life, and a kooky painter who meets cute with the dwarf by nearly running him over not once but twice in her SUV, didn't bode well.

But the film unfolds slowly, ever so slowly, confident in the reality of the world it's creating, with beautiful, in-the-pocket performances by almost the entire cast (I had a wee problem with a couple of actors playing the local tough-guy losers winking at their characters instead of just playing them). I'm a fan of Patricia Clarkson's since her genius performance in High Art, and after seeing the unbelievably self-possessed Raven Goodwin knock it out of the park both in this and Lovely and Amazing I would like someone to please explain to me why this incredible little girl does not have a huge movie career, her own TV show or both.

Enough. It's on DVD now; if you're an asshole like me who sat it out while it was in the theaters, you can put it on your Netflix queue and no one will be the wiser.

xxx c

Goodbye, old friend

There were three major dream smackdowns in my fame-obsessed American girlhood: the realization that I did not have the stuff to be a ballerina; the realization that whether I (had) had it or not, I was now too old to be a Playboy centerfold; and the realization that I would never be a guest on Johnny Carson.

You kids might not understand, but before the age of multiple media outlets Johnny Carson was emblematic of Making It the way pink tutus were emblematic of Dance or airbrushed boobs were emblematic of Hot Babe. Maybe this is how the front-end Boomers felt about Ed Sullivan, but to me and my  generation, Johnny was it. It was late-night, it was every night and, while it was still a show, it was a show that happened in your bedroom rather than on a Burbank soundstage. As Gawker aptly (and concisely) put it today,

For an entire generation, he was a perpetual presence, a member of the family. Often he was funny, more often he was corny: but he was there every night to put a the punch line on another long day.

A member of the family, only famous and with really, really cool friends.

xxx
c