1000follies

Back...and Better Than Ever!!

2010-08-17T18:53:00.003-04:00

Hello, Patient Readers!!

I have been absent for so long that I am almost embarrassed to face you. However, my silence has been due to a long list of happy occurrences in my personal life. While I will catch you up in an upcoming post (or two), the reasons are pretty much as follows:

1)-Moving.
2)-Getting Engaged.
3)-Planning a Wedding.
4)-Going Back to Writing Full-Time.

Now that I have all of my ducks in a row, I will be back to posting regularly on a soon-to-be re-imagined 1000 Follies. Look for more in the coming weeks (really, no foolin' this time). See you soon!!

Moving House

2010-04-19T18:45:00.002-04:00

The Chef and I are moving in 10 days. The need to sort, pack, and clean is taking up ridiculous amounts of my time. While I hope to post a few things between now and the end of the month, it will likely be sporadic. I do have a nice bit of writing (or two) in the works for this site. Fingers crossed that I will find a few minutes to sneak off and put it into words for you!!

A Jam-Packed, Crammed-Full April

2010-04-11T20:30:00.002-04:00

Going into the first full-month of Spring, I had no idea that my calendar would end up being so sated with a long-list of engagements, obligations and events. After last year's 5-month long hiatus, I vowed (to myself, anyway) that I would not let my lovely readers down again. To keep up this end of the bargain, I am going to briefly step-away from my usual steadfast rule of never pre-writing posts. This week, I will be posting my writings on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I will be back to my regular, if eccentric, schedule on the 18th!!

Mae's Days, or: Things I Have Done Since My Last Post Instead of Blogging

2010-04-02T18:35:00.003-04:00

Visited family out-of-town. Ate way too much. Bonded.
Took too many meaningless, random photographs with my new camera.
Met my co-bestie Rebecca for drinks, hilarity, and catching up.
Continued the endless flat hunt. After much due diligence, we met the perfect place. We have asked it to co-habit with us. Answer pending.
Packed, not nearly enough.
Listened, obsessively, to John Hiatt's new release, The Open Road. Check it out.
Used the dog as an excuse to go on several long walks in the blissful Spring weather we have been enjoying in the Queen City.
Fell a bit deeper in love with The Chef.
Read Arna Bontemps' God Sends Sunday.
Worked too much.
Bought a breathtakingly cool mid-century modern chair here.
Found the perfect neighborhood bar--complete with incense, fairy lights, and pomegranate martinis--only because The Chef forced me to check it out. He was right, I was wrong.
Rode the Project Runway roller coaster. Anthony was out, then back in, then declared the (highly deserving) co-winner of last night's episode.
Purchased a brilliant pair of heels. Very high heels. Very high heels that rocked The Chef's world. They were worth every penny. I found them at one of my favourite shops in Columbus, The Emperor's Newest Clothes (the Short North location).
Ate at a Greek restaurant without ordering baklava.
Discovered that Jezebel can really piss me off. As much as you love or enjoy something, you will inevitably have a disagreement at some point.
Designed a new web-site (more on that soon, I promise).
Researched new laptop options.

Bobbed

2010-03-22T22:15:00.005-04:00

Every Winter, we hunker down for months of living in the dark while the world around us settles into its annual parade of decay. It is a long, cold walk beneath a frosty grey sky; weighed down by a claustrophobic cocoon of heavy, chafing clothing, propped up by salt-dirtied boots, there is little to do but wait for the warmth of better times. Weeks before the official arrival of Spring, perhaps heartened by a prematurely balmy day, we start sloughing off or burying the various vestiges of Winter-sweaters are folded and bagged, legs are slowly bared, and hairstyles change. Nothing ushers in the new post-doldrums season, for me, quite like a bob.

It is refreshing, liberating and, as the most modern of looks, eternally relevant. In F. Scott Fitzgerald's 1920 short story, "Bernice Bobs Her Hair", the heroine may have been duped into going under the barber's razor but she should not have been so worried: her hairstyle, lank as it may be, is iconic. Poor Bernice ushered in a decade that was to see the bob take over the world. At the start, it was scarcely-to-be-spoken of daring. By the time of Black Tuesday, everyone's Grandmother had given into the craze and bared her neck.

The bob, in all of its impressive variety, was worn by most silent movie stars. The otherwise antithetical Colleen Moore and Louise Brooks were both exemplars of the bob. Colleen's was a sportier, more approachable version than Louise's sleek, sexy take, yet they both owned the style. They remain very modern looking, even contemporary, girls because of that hair. It has stayed popular these last nine decades for a reason: it is as universally flattering as the little black dress or a great shade of red lipstick.

Every March/April, I am slowly overcome with the ever-increasing itch to lop off all of my hair. It is truly a seasonal thing. As soon as heat starts accompanying sunshine, I become obsessed with the idea of short hair. Sometimes, this works to my advantage. A year ago, I was growing my hair when the leaves turned green; as it had been a pixie the previous autumn, it was at a perfectly chic mid-chin level. This year, it is on the cusp of cascading past my shoulders. As I am aiming for Veronica Lake territory by December, it is crucial that I ignore the peer-pressure voice in my head that is advocating a good, old-fashioned whacking.

Although it is surely only a matter of time before I return to my favourite hairstyle, I have reached a compromise, one that I am hoping will allow me to keep an aesthetic detente going for at least a few more months: that Red Carpet darling, the faux-bob (also known as the did-she-or-didn't-she). Until I am psychically prepared to again take the plunge into bared neck-dom, I will fake it like so many others. When that day arrives, I will be able to say, like Bernice, "You see"--her words fell into an awkward pause--"I've done it."

Left to Right: Zelda Fitzgerald; Nancy Carroll; Colleen Moore.

Cameras and Cake

2010-03-22T21:26:00.005-04:00

I was lucky enough to spend a wonderful, and wonderfully busy, weekend with my mom. We shopped a little, ate a lot, and laughed even more. The only work-related task I accomplished was the purchase of a new, desperately needed, camera (more on that later). In appreciation of its five years of dedicated yet erratic service, I gave my old Kodak one more whirl by taking a few photographs of the dessert we made on Saturday.

Tomorrow, I will be back on task with something bookish, something cinematic, and something decorative.

Delicious Details: Thank you, England, for gifting the world with a ready-made Sponge Cake Mix. Though I love to bake from scratch, Sponge Cake is something I would never normally bother making. Enter "Green's Classic Sponge Recipe", one egg, some water, my Mother's elbow grease and voila! Robertson's Raspberry Jam is the yummy red center.

Obligatory "Green" Post in Honor of St. Patrick's Day (so I am not kicked off of the blogosphere)

2010-03-17T18:52:00.005-04:00

Even though it provides me with a ready excuse to drink, St. Patrick's Day leaves me disappointingly indifferent. I neither understand nor appreciate the fuss. However, I am a redhead; as such, it is pretty much guaranteed that I love the colour green. I do, in every shade. It accounts for a sizable amount of my wardrobe; I could easily wear a green garment every day for two weeks., without feeling even slightly pinched by the challenge. What I do not have, unfortunately, is a green thumb. It is terrifyingly difficult for me to keep plants alive. Once, several years ago, I managed to desiccate my best friend's large collection of African Violet houseplants; her sojourn to visit her sister in Germany lasted a mere 2 1/2 weeks. I followed her explicit directions to the very letter; all but 3 died.

I can manage to keep cacti alive for sustained periods; my current specimen has been in my possession for 3 months and counting. I also have a lovely, stark, and serene boxwood wreath hanging in my kitchen hall. I have been told that, with an occasional spritz, it can stay alive for years. We will see.

I am an anomaly within my family. My Mother, especially, has superior gardening skills. She designed, planted, and kept the loveliest English cottage garden in front of the house in which I grew up. To this day, no matter where she lives, she cultivates things that are both beautiful and, well, alive.I have always envied that ability, as well as the level of interest and dedication it takes to keep such an endeavour not only going but thriving. In several of my myriad fantasy lives, I have a wild, intensely colourful and artistic garden at my disposal (puttering around in it it seems like a quintessentially 1920's English writer hobby).In reality, I live not only in the city but in an entirely self-contained flat. Though there is a public park across the street, it is largely for walking dogs and playing children; the flowers are entirely mundane (to such a degree that even I, with my chronic flower-name amnesia, can recite every single kind with alacrity).

Unless I suddenly find myself mistress of a wee patch of land, coupled with a newly-realized power to maintain flora for more than 3 weeks' time, I will have to stay content with other people's efforts,a closet-full of green clothes, and fantastically verdant dreams.

Dress: Liberty of London for Target

Poetess in Motion

2010-03-13T18:34:00.001-05:00

Poetess in Motion by amisslis featuring Nine West bags

Where Books Are Dropping Like Flies

2010-03-13T15:49:00.004-05:00

I have worked in the same suburb of The Queen City, my adopted home, for three years. In that time, I have seen businesses come and go, at what I assume to be a normal rate. Even in a healthy economic climate, the retail landscape remains judiciously in flux; it usually comes as no big surprise to see occasional doors close. Any sizable mall is testament enough to this. Yet, over the last 13 months, there has been a sad trend in this otherwise jumping little town. In approximately a week's time, its remaining book-store will be gone.
Waldenbooks, though never a favourite of mine, was the first casualty. It disappeared from the mall after the 2008 holidays. It was replaced by a generic clothing store. Borders, located across the street, followed a few months later. The building remains empty, as does the hull of the Old Navy next door. Half Price Books formed the third side of the triangle. Fortunately, it is not going under. Rather, it is moving to a presumably better location 10 minutes away, to the next town over.
These are, of course, all large conglomerate chain stores. There were no Indie book sellers to go under; which, to my mind, is an even sadder statement. Of the 3, Half-Price Books is my favourite. It is not a bad little haunt to wander around in: there is a large, eclectic, ever-revolving selection of books and music. It is green to the extent that most items are used. The staff is friendly and not over-bearing, with a respectful amount of knowledge. (I will never forget over-hearing, many years ago in a different city, a customer ask a baffled and blank Waldenbooks clerk if they carried anything by Kerouac.)
The closure of 3 book stores may seem trifling. Those cavernous boxes will eventually be replaced by something else equally ephemeral. The world goes on, unblinking. Yet, for bibliophiles, the loss can dig down to a deeper place: it is not merely a matter of being inconvenienced by a longer drive.
The dream--and occasional reality--of dashing around the corner to browse randomly through stacks of books is finally, painfully gone. I cannot, somewhat leisurely, but to the countdown of a ticking lunch clock, make my way through my preferred shelves: Performing Arts followed, inexorably, by Literature, Reference, and Poetry. (Any left-over time being spent running up to a variety of entirely unrelated shiny books, spied from the corner of a wandering eye, like a literate crow.)
For those of us in love with it, reading is a complete and complex experience. It does not begin when you open the cover and turn to the first page. Selecting a book--and the myriad reasons that you can be drawn to one book over another--is an integral part of the process. It is the thrill of an intellectual, yet enticingly physical hunt.
This is, however, not an entirely personal and selfish lamentation. Every community needs to be artistically and intellectually enriched by at least a few of the businesses in its district. It cannot all be fast food joints and gas stations, mini-marts and office supply stores. A town that cannot, for whatever litany of reasons, support a bookstore, art gallery, or coffee shop while cheap, throw-away chains thrive, is poorer as a result.

Fever. Spring.

2010-03-07T15:57:00.004-05:00

"It's Spring Fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want--oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"-Mark Twain

After a long, cold, numbing Winter, it is all too easy to prematurely jump into the heady concept of Spring. I know full well that we have not seen the last of frost, icy rain, or flurries. Yet, all it takes is a bit of sunshine to make me dizzy with the thought of the warmth and languor of the upcoming season. The evenings remain hot-chocolate worthy--my car is still tinged with a delicate layer of frost most mornings--but I cannot stop myself from dreaming of bright-green grass and fire-flies, sun-dresses and sandals. I suppose that it is only natural to want to shrug off the freezing, fat, short days of Winter at the first tiny sign of newness and freshness. Every store in the country is in cahoots with this feeling: bathing suits and flip-flops have been lining the racks for weeks. The April issues of magazines are touting the turn of the season in glorious, lush, expensive colour. I am tempted to take the dog on long sojourns to the park across the street where, if the truth be named, the grass is still a sad, drab shade of semi-green.
March is, indeed, full of the last vestiges of Winter. The Academy Awards ceremony is tonight. College basketball play-off madness is nearly here. Though I can go outside without a jacket, there is a slight chill in the air, which becomes all too obvious as soon as a foot is set out of the sunshine. Mark Twain was quite correct in his assessment of Spring Fever. I have become antsy for something new, bright, and lovely; annually I associate it with the dawn of warm weather, the chirping of birds, a breeze turned comfortable. It can never, never get here soon enough. I base every good, strong hope for the near-future on its arrival. It is amazing how a gentle reminder-to-self to live in the moment, to not wish away even an inch of your life, can be so fruitless when at long-last sunshine and heat is dangled before you. Fever, indeed.
It is difficult to rein in this type of giddiness yet, I am beginning to think, upon actual consideration, worth the effort. There is nothing wrong with a few more mugs of hot chocolate or bowls of soup, a few more weeks where the dog curled up at my feet is welcoming rather than stifling. Perhaps I do not really need those Coach sandals or cotton-coloured bikini right this second. Sleeping under a blanket has its merits, after all; and so does enjoying the air that you are breathing right now, exactly where you are, even if it is a bit nippy.

Bookish Bliss: Silent Players by Anthony Slide

2010-03-06T21:27:00.003-05:00

One of the things that I am fervently anticipating about our upcoming move is the chance to free the rest of my book collection from the storage bin, where it has unhappily resided for the past 18 months. As most of you probably know, I own a lot of books. Though my collection is not as vast as my heart would dictate if it had free reign over my pocketbook, it is still large enough to make a small-town pubic library envious. Pondered in this light, purchasing another volume is probably not the most necessary action that I could take. However, for us feverish-reader types, there are certain books that speak to us at such a high, insistent pitch that they cannot, for long, be ignored. On such occasions, a benign browsing-trip to the book-store can turn into a pleading session between your heart and your wallet. This afternoon, the former trounced the latter; this is how I came to have Anthony Slide's 'Silent Players' in my possession.
I have a mania for Pre-1930's cinema. Anthony Slide was lucky enough to befriend many of the performers of that era while they were in their twilight years; he is also a fantastic film historian, with many wonderful, insightful genre books to his credit. Although I am a critical reader, I will never be a jaded one; thus, I am nearly crazy with delight over the thought of delving into this volume. There are books that you purposely seek out, and those that you casually happen upon. (It is a toss-up as to which anticipation is more acute.) This one fell into my lap, as I was idly time-killing at Half-Price Books with The Chef. Although I will likely rush through it, I am going to try my best to slowly savor this particular word-sensory experience. However it plays out, I promise to write about it here, in one form or another. Reading may be a solo practice but its impact is ultimately collective; the best books are meant to be shared.

Let's All Say This Together in Case We Have Forgotten-Characterization is Why Actors Should Win Awards or: Why Christoph Waltz Deserves an Oscar

2010-03-04T19:25:00.009-05:00

I love the glittery, hallowed, border-line kitschy pomp of the Academy Awards ceremony. The annual swagger-fest of self-love is always full of aesthetic delights and amusements; chock-a-block full of controversy, humour, ridiculousness, and genuinely heart-warming moments, it is ever entertaining. Stars, in all of their peacock-majesty, alight on the most famous red carpet in the world. This is where we, the fans, await; whether in person or sitting at home in our living rooms, we come to fawn, gape, admire and censure the entire whirring, colourful affair.
The experience is multi-faceted and highly individualistic; we all watch for different reasons. I love the dresses and the jewels--and the gossipy bonding opportunity shared with my mom. Yet, as a passionate cinema fan, ex-actress, and classic film writer, I come back year after year for that most elusive of things: a well-deserved win, one that is so right-feeling as to be virtually indisputable.
Last year, I was thrilled that Kate Winslet finally won a Best Actress statuette. She is my favourite actress (of my own generation, at any rate)--which makes the win personal, biased, and subjective. Her performance in 'The Reader' was certainly honest, sinewy, breathtaking. Her moment at the podium was , to most of us, long over-due. Yet, there are surely those who preferred another actress, another performance, for whatever mysterious, complex, or simple reason(s).
On this year's telecast, which airs on Sunday, 7 March, there is a single award that I am anticipating. Everything else can be shunted aside: the clothes, the accessories, the awkwardly long-winded acceptance speeches, all of the other golden accolades of the evening mean little next to this one presentation. Lifelong tradition or not, I am tuning in this year to watch Christoph Waltz ('Inglourious Basterds') walk away with the title of Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role.
Sure, it is seemingly easy to get behind the already awards-laden, critically lauded front-runner. He has won in his category at every major awards show of the season. Contenders rarely come this strong, especially when their performance is at the center of a popular commercial hit master-minded by the only director on the planet to enjoy rock-star like status. Yet, for all of this cache, for all of the silver-tongued words of praise, for all of the interviews, he remains largely unknown. He may be just below our consciousness, but his performance is not.
Occasionally, and to an entirely unpredictable pattern, an actor captures a character to scintillating, near-scientific perfection. You forget everything that came before, forget that you are watching a performance: you are deliciously in the moment. For a couple of hours, fiction attains primacy over reality. Being in the presence of a fully-realized character should be temporarily mind-altering. Waltz's urbane, gleeful, and horrifying Hans Landa does just that.
I do not worship without thought at the quirky, disheveled, disturbing altar of Quentin Tarantino. There is both much to love and revile in his work but when he gets it right, it is awe-inspiring. The script to 'Inglourious Basterds', also by Tarantino, is fantastic; the kind to make any writer envious.The bones of Hans Landa are laid out admirably, as scripted. Very little flesh-and-blood contribution from an actor would have been necessary to make him truly memorable; he was written that way. This makes Christoph Waltz's landing, and interpretation, of the role that much luckier for movie-goers.
In Tarantino's revisionist history, where hilarity and suffering cohabit in nearly every frame,Nazi Colonel Hans Landa is smooth, rotten-souled, honeyed, and terrifying. Evil has scarcely been more articulate. He's a hands-on, joyful killer of the innocent: the man clearly enjoys his work. There is no glimmer of redemption in this cold opportunist. Yet, Waltz as Landa mesmerises even as he terrifies. It is a rich, complex, brazen, center-of-the-spotlight performance. Many actors would have gone full-on ham with this role. Waltz, much more subtly, glimmers and thrives in a characterization that is startling; there is a sense of privileged acceptance, an acknowledgment of his great luck present in his brilliant performance, that is rare to see from an actor.
Hans Landa is, to my mind, the most fully satisfying film character in recent memory. This is not lionizing evil--he is chilling and too self-serving to have preserved even a breath of humanity. As such, he is appalling. It is not the role itself but the seamless, kinetic, unsettling inhabiting of the role accomplished by Waltz that deserves the most merit. A part as written, however promising on the white page, is like a master-less puppet. Though entertaining by itself, it takes talent, patience, and audacious manipulation by a professional to be brought to glorious, mobile, full-bodied life.
Timeless performances are often those that embrace the uncomfortable, the uneasy, the painfully humourous, the raw elements of human existence. Capturing even a sliver of that truth on celluloid happens too infrequently. When it does, it is nice to see it rewarded. This, readers, is why I will be keeping my fingers firmly crossed come Sunday. The Academy has a chance to get it beautifully, undeniably right. The occasional correct choice is, ultimately, what keeps us coming back for more.

"Beauty is whatever gives joy."-Edna St. Vincent Millay

2010-03-04T18:30:00.000-05:00

Bookish Acquisitions

2010-02-24T19:30:00.003-05:00

I have been quite the good, responsible girl lately: I have abstained--and that is surely the only word for it--from purchasing scads of books. I realize that, if I followed my natural bent, I would need a separate building--and a large one--to house my collection. Oh, and I would be parlously close to bankruptcy. As such, I try to tether the passion as best I can. Yet, sometimes a book-addict must let loose. These are some recent acquisitions.

Deciding the order in which to read a new crop of books is almost more fun than choosing which ones to buy. It is a delicate, delicious process of anticipation; often it is also one of elimination. It helps to know which one to save for last. In this case, Simon Callow's Orson Welles Volume 2 Hello Americans, is the clear winner: it will be the last unread, sitting alluringly on my night-stand, impatiently awaiting its turn. The others will be read in rotation, constantly giving way one right after the other, a few chapters at a time. Perhaps, after a certain exciting or thoughtful passage, one will surge past the rest in my affections. For now, as I am in the early, heart-thumping stages of discovering all three, that shall remain to be seen.

Top Left: Proust at the Majestic The Last Days of the Author Whose Book Changed Paris by Richard Davenport-Hines (BLOOMSBURY)-Proust remains the King of pliant, serpentine, evocative language.

Top Center: She & Him Volume One-Zooey Deschanel's quirky, folky voice and thoughtful, simple and literary lyrics are my ideal accompaniment to reading.

Top Right: The Mammoth Book of Private Lives Edited by John E. Lewis (CARROLL & GRAF)-I have an insatiable curiosity about the inner drives of creatives and intellectuals.

Front Middle: Orson Welles Volume 2 Hello Americans by Simon Callow (PENGUIN BOOKS)- Volume 1 was superb.

Front Bottom: The Queen Mother The Official Biography by William Shawcross (ALFRED A. KNOPF)-Although I was sent this by mistake, it has already proven itself a keeper.

I Have This Fancy-Writer Fantasy Knocking Around in My Head. In it, I am Dressed Something Like This.

2010-02-20T21:08:00.001-05:00

Fancy Writer Fantasy by amisslis featuring Miu Miu shoes

Words From the Mouths of Those With Wisdom

2010-02-20T20:15:00.002-05:00

"Beauty is whatever gives joy."-Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Be happy. It's one way of being wise."-Colette

"It is never safe to look into the future with eyes of fear."-Edward H. Harriman

"As you grow older, you'll find the only things you regret are the things you didn't do."-Zachary Scott

"Total absence of humor renders life impossible."-Colette

Waiting Music

2010-02-20T20:11:00.000-05:00

Coming Back (For Real).....

2010-02-20T20:02:00.004-05:00

I am quite ashamed of my long absence. Sigh. However, I have not been resting on my artistic, writerly laurels. I have simply had too, too many creative irons in the fire. Learning how to capture them, and manage them, has been something of a perilous, though exhilarating, process.
In the coming days, I will be easing back into the blogging routine. I promise to catch you up on what I have been doing lo, these last 5 months. I will also be introducing you to all of my newest artistic offspring.
Until then, I promise to post a few goodies!!

BE BACK SOON!!

2009-11-05T18:28:00.000-05:00

EMMY AWARDS-Liveblog-Hour 3

2009-09-20T21:58:00.003-04:00

10:03-Jimmy Fallon funny business.

10:04-I did not realize that there was an Original Lyrics category. Really? Really? Did they create this category just so that Flight of the Conchords could win something? Justin Timberlake is on 2 of the nominated skits but, alas, the Academy Awards telecast won.

10:08-Any time Ricky Gervais is on any program, ever, for any reason, is a very good thing. He is still funny as shit. 'The Daily Show'(which I love) won for something. Exactly what, I wasn't paying attention to. I was too busy listening to Ricky's funny spiel.

10:17-The final category is up: Drama.

10:21-As you have probably noticed, I am not blogging about any of the categories or winners that I do not care about. How is it, you ask, that I do not care about any of the Supporting Actor/Actress Nominees or their shows. Well, you see, I do not watch any of the shows that any of these performers are on. So, the results mean nothing to me. So sorry. The only other thing I can say is that, for some reason, the acceptance speech that the guy from 'Lost' made really annoyed me.

10:24-Proving what we have always known, Sarah MacLachlan is a sad sack. Yes, she is singing as they show the In Memoriam scroll. So many wonderfully talented people have passed in the past year. Henry Gibson, Karl Malden, Eartha Kitt, Dom DeLuise, Robert Prosky, Ron Silver, Natasha Richardson, David Carradine, Beatrice Arthur, Ricardo Montalban, Ed McMahon, Larry Gelbart, PAUL NEWMAN, Michael Jackson, Patrick Swayze, Don Hewitt, Farrah Fawcett, Walter Cronkite...to name just some of them.

10:34-David Boreanaz. Excuse me while I gape. Oh, yeah, guest actor/actress in a Drama. Ahem. Ellen Burstyn and Michael J. Fox. She always looks so regal in her drapey dresses.

10:40-Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama is kind of dominated by Oscar winning,movie star refugees. I mean, Glenn Close, Sally Field, Holly Hunter....proving that film and television really are not separate realms.

10:42-Insert overly earnest speech by Glenn Close. I really loathe acceptance speeches.

10:49-I am growing weary. They need to pick up the pace so that this baby ends on time.

10:53-Now we are getting somewhere. 2 to go. Bob Newhart is on. It is always a good sign when they bring out the big guns. He is presenting the Outstanding Comedy Series. 6 minutes and counting. Come on people. Funny joke about 'Weeds'. There are excellent nominees this year but, of course, '30 Rock' strikes again. I'm sorry but I just don't think that it is that funny. Funny, yes. THAT FUNNY, no. But that is just me.

11:01-FINAL AWARD-Outstanding Drama Series. The only nominated show that I watch is 'House' so this is a pretty unexciting category for me this year. 'Mad Men' has won for the 2nd year. Meh.

EMMY AWARDS-Liveblog-Hour 2

2009-09-20T21:00:00.002-04:00

9:07-Tracy Morgan presenting the Best Reality Competition award. 'The Amazing Race'. Has any reality show beaten 'The Amazing Race'? They seem to win every time. When an acceptance speech begins with "I don't know what to say anymore" you know you have won enough. Of course, quality reality programming is difficult to come by so, from that stand-point, it is well-deserved.

9:10-It did not take long to exhaust the Reality category. It is on to Movies and Mini-Series.

9:12-Aw, happily marrieds Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick are presenting Outstanding Supporting Actress in a MoM. And the Emmy goes to...Iranian actress Shohreh Aghdashloo for 'House of Saddam'. Other than everyone's favourite stand-by, black, blue is definitely the colour of the evening. She is wearing a beautiful classic Hollywood dress in gorgeous dark blue. She had a lovely moment when, upon taking the stage, she paused and gazed out at the audience. Genuine, unscripted moments are so rare on these shows.

9:15-Outstanding Supporting Actor in a MOM is Ken Howard for 'Grey Gardens'. Surprisingly, this was his first nomination.

9:23-Outstanding Lead Actor in a MOM goes to-Brendan Gleeson for 'Into the Storm'. He's basically an unheard of Irishman. Maybe this award will change that.

9:26-Oh, those Arquettes and their wacky fashion choices. Patricia has jumped on the whole poufy, one-shouldered dress trend. However, her pouf is just too damn large. The shiny, scaly black fabric is just unfortunate. It really does not matter what award you are handing out when you are dressed like that. This sucks for the recipient.

9:34-Outstanding Lead Actress in a MOM (presented by Alec Baldwin)-Jessica Lange for 'Grey Gardens'. I'm happy with this but I was really hoping that Drew would win for playing her daughter. She looks fantastic--she really brought the bombshell with her tonight. She is one of the few actresses rocking green--rather surprising as it is one of the hottest colours for autumn.

9:43-Outstanding Made for Television Movie-Co-presenter Anna Torv's dress is stunning--pinkish-red, sparkly, with short-sleeves and a classic plunging neck-line. It is entirely different than any other dress of the evening. 'Grey Gardens' won. This makes me immensely happy.

9:45-Outstanding Mini-Series-'Little Dorrit'. Anything adapted from Dickens is okay with me. My big question is, however, why have 2 presenters when only the female is allowed to speak? Kiefer Southerland co-presented the last 2 awards with Anna Torv and she got all of the juicy bits...basically everything. Is this akin to opening the door for a woman. It has always somewhat confused me in this context.

9:48-Up now: Variety.

9:50-The cast of the Big Bang Theory. Love them, love their show. Don't care about the category they are presenting...it simply is not worth the time it would take for me to type it out.

9:55-I have always adored the little skits the shows in question come up with for the variety show writing category. It is usually one of the funniest parts of the telecast. No exception this year. ('The Daily Show' won, by the way.)

EMMY AWARDS-Liveblog-Hour 1

2009-09-20T19:57:00.002-04:00

Neil Patrick Harris is a couple of weeks older than me so, yes, I grew up with everyone's favourite kid doctor, Doogie Howser. I did not have a crush on him because, when we were 16, he looked 12 (although so did I). However, he has grown up to be one of my favourite contemporary actors. I am looking forward to his hosting gig tonight. Do me proud, Doogie, do me proud.

8:02-White tuxedo jacket. Singing. Very cool old-school opener.

8:07-First Kanye West joke of the evening.

8:08-The show is being presented in 5 different genre segments. First up? Comedy.

8:11-11 minutes in and they are presenting an award. Whoo-hoo! Tina Fey and Jon Hamm. Tina is in black. Arg! Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series. Some unfunny business with Jon Hamm, nicknames, the nominees, and glasses. Whatever. Kristin Chenoweth for the defunct 'Pushing Daisies'wins. She is clad in a sparkly metallic mini-dress.She is perhaps the only actress on TV shorter than me. Yes, petite girls rule. Two seconds into her speech and she is a crying mess. Aww!

8:16-Cut to break. This is why these shows almost always run late.

8:23-30 Rock=Best Writing in a Comedy. Shocking, as they had nearly all of the nominations in the category.

8:26-Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series-Jon Cryer 'Two and a Half Men'. Someone not from 'Entourage' or '30 Rock' is fine by me.

8:28-Wow, a commercial!

8:34-Justin Timberlake presents the Outstanding Lead Actress in a Comedy Series. I am totally indifferent to the results of this one. Sorry, ladies, but this one is all the same to me. Toni Colette wins for 'The United States of Tara'. At least the voters went down a different path with this one. Kudos to that.

8:40-Recap of the previously awarded Guest actor/actress in a comedy (Justin Timberlake and Tina Fey).They are allowed to speak. What is the point of awarding it in the previous, un-televised ceremony if they give them air time on the main show, anyway?

8:42-Directing for a Comedy Series-Jeffrey Blitz for 'The Office'.

8:50-Rob Lowe presenting Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series. I am thrilled that Jim Parsons of Big Bang Theory is nominated. That is surely as far as he will get this year but I love that he made the list! Alec Baldwin wins. Again. Have I yet stated how sick I am of '3o Rock'? I haven't? I guess I will save that for the Outstanding Comedy Series part.

8:55-Time to genre-switch. The next theme is Reality.

8:57-Dance number courtesy of Maxsim and Karina of 'Dancing with the Stars'. Time to put the kettle on.

8:59-Outstanding Reality Host-Jeff Probst of 'Survivor'.

EMMY AWARDS-RED CARPET-LIVEBOG -Hour 2

2009-09-20T18:58:00.003-04:00

7:00-Amy Poehler. Black. Strapless. At least her gown has an interesting silver detail around the bust.

7:01-Kaley Cuoco. I finally got a better look at her red-gold metallic number. It is like liquid and is quite lovely and sexy without being over the top. Perhaps I am prejudice since I love her show. Nah, the dress really is all that.

7:03-Wow! Not black! Thank you Vanessa Williams in a turquoise, old-Hollywood number.

7:04-Dove grey is a very hard colour to pull off but Kate Walsh does it very well.

7:05-Sandra Oh's strapless, pale gold dress is perfect. I really love her crazy, fashionista footwear choice: red shoes. She is one of those women who take risks with their clothes. They don't always pay off, but they did tonight. Bravo!

7:09-Apparently, only white chicks dig vampires. Thanks for that clarification, Nene.

7:10-I want to get a closer look of nominee Rose Byrne's beige-y, lacey, princess number. I just think I might like it. Hopefully, she will oblige by winning so that I can get a better view.

7:14-The Lonely Island guys! I love them--especially Andy Samberg ( one of my not-so-secret crushes).

7:16-E! is scrolling all kinds of trivia and quotes at the bottom of the screen. Only upon reading the words "Blake Lively on the difficulties of being an actor" was I reminded that she does, indeed, act. I have a tendency to confuse her with reality "stars" such as Lauren Conrad or Heidi Montag. So sorry, Blake. Really.

7:19-Kudos to Kyra Sedgwick fo wearing pale pink (alhtough I personally do not like the colour).L'Wren Scott is not one of my favourite designers but Kyra looks lovely.

7:20-'American Idol' judge Kara DioGuardi is wearing a white, flowy, caftan-esque gown that bears closer inspection. They are not making much use of the Glamcam 360 on tv and, when they do, it is kind of odd.It reminds me of the 3D program that Angela on 'Bones' uses to recreate human remains into a life-sized image of the dead person.

7:26-I am entirely impervious to Sarah Silverman's appeal but her dress is not bad. Strapless, dark blue, slightly New Lookish. The worst thing I can say is that it is slightly ill-fitting in the bust.

7:28-Christina Applegate's midnight blue dress is ridiculously gorgeous. It drapes perfectly and has a lovely metallic detail at the waist. This dress can come live in my closet. Please.

7:38-Blake Lively. Low-cut red Versace, great back. Silly pony-tail.

7:39-I love the back of Leighton Meester's dress, even the largish knots at the shoulders. This is definitely a love it or hate it detail. It will be interesting to see how this goes over with all of the critics; either way, I am firmly on the side of it being fabulous. She is also wearing way too much make-up, even for television. Having said that, there is only one Leighton in my life, and that is The Chef. It was very weird to type the name Leighton followed by a last name other than his.

7:41-Hayden Panetierre. Red. Interesting one-shoulder cap-sleeve.

7:42-Julia Louis-Dreyfuss. Strapless teal dress and matching Jimmy Choo heels. She looks ten times better today at nearly 50 than she did when on 'Seinfeld'. Her favourite body part? Her "big nose". Least? Her pinkie toes.

7:48-Boy bands? bad. Justin Timberlake? Very, very good. His turns on SNL are always hilarious; his guest actor Emmy was well-deserved.

EMMY AWARDS RED CARPET-LIVEBLOG-Hour 1

2009-09-20T18:09:00.003-04:00

E!Entertainment's Red Carpet with Ryan Seacrest and Giuliana Rancic

6:00-6:02-I can really do without Ryan Seacrest's poetic Red Carpet foreplay. Get to the good stuff. Please.

6:02-20 Cameras! Glamcam 360! Autograph cam! Celebrity tweets!Okay, the Glamcam 360 has awesome potential. It allows you to see all aspects of an ensemble, which can be really useful to people like me.

6:03-Why, oh why, is Nene from RHOA attached to Jay Manuel's hip? Granted, she is probably the least annoying Real Housewife of anywhere, but still. First up? Kourtney "the pregnant one" Kardashian. In full-on pregnancy black.

6:06-Heidi Klum. Also pregnant. Also in black--skin-tight, beaded, strapless Marchesa (one of my favourite, exquisite over-priced labels). Her husband, Seal, had no idea who he was wearing. He just threw on a suit. The personal-space defying, handsy Ryan got to the bottom of it....Costume National.

6:20-I love Jason Segal, even though he is the king of the bromance (confession: I have seen 'Forgetting Sarah Marshall' at least 8 times).

6:22-I care not one whit for LL Cool J's NCIS spinoff but, 20 years after he captured my teenage heart, he remains man candy...even while wearing a goofy and entirely inappropriate hat with his otherwise classic tuxedo.

6:23-Seth MacFarlane. Man. Tux. Please move on to the women. This is the only reason that we watch the Red Carpet.

6:24-MacFarlane just dropped the F-bomb on live television. I take it all back.

6:25-Forget Megan Fox. Please. Olivia Wilde is the sexiest woman in Hollywood. They just glam-cammed her dress but I really want to see it up close.

6:26-I will never get acclimated to seeing Jamie Kennedy with Jennifer Love Hewitt. This is only slightly better than Mila Kunis with Macauley Culkin.

6:28-Allyson Hannigan. Vera Wang. Strapless. Black. Chopard jewels. I am seeing a theme and methinks I don't like it (although I like the tiered, sweepy effect of the skirt).

6:31-Can I please be Mariska Hargitay when I grow up? Pretty please.

6:32-Jenna Fischer. Beaded. Strapless. Black. Very much a skinny-girl version of Heidi Klum's Marchesa gown.

6:38-Jami-Lynn Siglar. I love the classic, clingy drapiness of her dress but I am not digging the beige-gold non-colour. Ryan is being creepy about her love life. This is never good, Ryan. No one is that interested.

6:41-Why, oh why, is there always someone trying to be nonchalant and ironic at every awards show? It never translates the way that they hope it will. Tonight, that idiot is Judah Friedlander of 30 Rock. Please leave the douchiness at home, along with the ball cap and sloppy outfit.

6: 46-Tracy Pollan. She is wearing a Carolina Herrera that critics will love or hate for its neon lime-green colour. I personally love the unusual, ballsy shade as well as the ruffly details around the bosom. Gorgeous!

6:50-A word to Jay Manuel about glass houses: with that appalling excuse for a tux you are sporting on the red carpet, I had better not see you snarking on badly-dressed Emmy Awards attendees tomorrow. His suit defies explanation. My advice to you is to Google it so that you can see it in all of its oddness.

My Imaginary Red Carpet Outfit

2009-09-20T14:33:00.001-04:00

Red Carpet by amisslis featuring Notte by Marchesa dresses

Crowded

2009-09-20T14:26:00.002-04:00

It will probably come as no great surprise that my newest 'zine is responsible for my shameful lack of posts. I am devoting most of my non-sleeping/working time to writing, compiling, and editing everything. I am thrilled to have wonderful contributors to the enterprise. Unfortunately, having wonderful contributors means more leg-work for me. Ah, well, it is a very small and easy price to pay for having a well-rounded publication. It is shaping up to be at least 100 pages. That's right: no kitchen-table affair, this. It involves major work and I love every second of the whole thing. I expect it to be out the first week of October. This means that the next two weeks will be full of hair-pulling, foot-stomping insanity as I race to the finish.
I will try to post as much as I can here, although it will be tough. As soon as the lovely, magical, amazing 'zine is out, the long-touted, much-deferred new look of 1000 Follies will debut. Honestly.
Until then, I hope that you enjoy whatever creative crumbs I manage to throw your way, starting with a Liveblog of the Emmy Awards Ceremony tonight.

I Cannot Resist a Literary-Minded Quiz

2009-09-20T14:17:00.004-04:00

Take the Quiz here!

A One Paragraph Tribute to Henry Gibson-1935-2009

2009-09-16T21:02:00.003-04:00

I love Henry Gibson. I have loved Henry Gibson since I first caught an episode of 'Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In' on Nick at Nite or TV Land back when I was a teenager. In the twenty years since, I have loved him in everything in which he ever appeared, from the classic flick 'Nashville' to television's 'Boston Legal'. I found him, perhaps inexplicably, utterly mesmerising as a performer: start to finish, if he was on camera, my eyes were on him. His was a quirky yet versatile talent, the kind that the entertainment industry no longer produces. He will be missed.

Goodbye, Henry!

2009-09-16T20:55:00.001-04:00

Grace Kelly

2009-09-14T19:02:00.001-04:00

14 September 2009-Reading List

2009-09-14T18:20:00.003-04:00

I just don't seem to have much time for reading these days. Creatively, it is a great thing because that means I have been writing up a storm. Recreationally speaking, I will not mince words: it sucks. It really does. Yet, I understand that it is part of the ebb and flow of the artistic process. This does not mean that I have stopped dreaming of books. Oh, no! In fact, it means that I think about them all of the time. Each new catalogue is greeted like a long lost friend. I have a growing mound of enticing catalogues, from Daedalus to Bas Bleu, almost always at hand. I'm going to share with you a few of the books that are currently intriguing me.

Fallen Angels by Harold Bloom, Mark Podwall, illus. (YALE)Written by the reigning Titan of literary criticism, it explores the concept of fallen angels in books, art, and modern society.
Affairs and Scandals in Ancient Egypt by Pascal Vernus (CORNELL)Bad behaviour among the ruling classes is definitely not a modern phenomenon. This book is proof that the elite have always engaged in tabloid-worthy shenanigans.
Ermengard of Narbonne and the World of the Troubadors by Frederic L. Cheyette (CORNELL) A life of the female ruler and troubadors' darling.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Restless Genius by Leo Damrosch (MARINER)I appear to be in a biographical mood but this definitely appears to be a tasty read, at least if you are into JJR.
Medieval Schools From Roaman Britain to Renaissance England by Nicholas Ormer (YALE) For the Anglophile-History geek residing in me...yes, these are two of my very favourite things.
Darwin: The Indelible Stamp The Evolution of an Idea James D. Watson, Ed. (RUNNING PRESS) A collection of the great man's still fascinating and relevant works.
Infinite Ascent A Short History of Mathematics by David Berlinski (WEIDENFELD & NICHOLSON) I am a lit-geek. Math has never particularly been my cup of tea. Yet, there is something indescribably alluring about this relatively short volume (a scant 197 pages). Is it high enough on my list to purchase? Probably not. I do see myself checking this out from the library, though.
Thoreau and the Art of Life Precepts and Principles Roderick MacIver, Ed. and Illus. (HERON DANCE) Thoreau was a strange man, an individualist of the variety that only 19th-Century America could produce. His words still care the weight and heave of truth.
Colette by Julie Kristeva. Jane Marie Todd, Trans. (COLUMBIA UNIV. PRESS) Colette remains one of the most engaging and maddening of all literary females. She was resolutely unconventional in most respects--which is quite appealing--and gratingly offensive to modern sensibilities in others. And, always, there is the singular writing.
Voices from the World of Jane Austen by Malcolm Day (DAVID & CHARLES) This volume looks into the lives of some of Austen's famous contemporaries, especially those with different experiences and world-views than that of England's most enduring and famous female author.
Consequences of Sin by Claire Langley-Hawthorne (VIKING) A period (Edwardian) murder mystery with an appealing-sounding heiress at its heart.
My Life in France by Julia Child & Alex Prud'homme (ANCHOR) I am already mildly sick of the 'Julie and Julia' craze. I admit that Julie Powell's writing and flat personality do very little for me. This posthumously published autobiography is more my style: part France, part food, part love-story.
Victorian and Edwardian Architecture by Derek Avery (CHAUCER PRESS)I have a slight obsession with decadent, lush coffee table books such as this.
Hemingway and Bailey's Bartending Guide to Great American Writers by Mark Bailey, Edward Hemingway, illus. (ALGONQUIN) One of my biggest passions is dead writers. I am also a trained bartender (oops, sorry, mixologist) so this book is quite the thing for me. And, yes, Edward is a real Hemingway (Papa's grandson).

'zining Madness

2009-09-09T18:55:00.002-04:00

The secret behind the lack of posts recently? I've been 'zining. I am in the closing stages of putting my newest 'zine together. Yes, this is where I bring out the cliched phrases such as "eyes on the prize" and "light at the end of the tunnel". The pace is picking up and I am becoming quite the excited little creator.
1000 Follies' makeover will be up this coming Monday. For real. I promise. As for the 'zine? It will be available in approximately 3 weeks. I will be dropping hints between now and then.
I will also post 2 or 3 regular pieces here, prior to the official Monday unveiling. Deep breath, people. The wait is almost over.

Cameron Mitchell-Hollywood Journeyman

2009-09-07T13:10:00.002-04:00

Cameron Mitchell (1918-1994) was a fine and enduring triple-medium actor. His stardom never rose to the upper echelons of the Hollywood firmament, thus denying him status as a true legend. His carelessness in accepting too many film role after the breakdown in the Studio System, most of them in mediocre disaster or action flicks, was a further deterrent. The Seventies alone saw him in such painful fare as 'The Swarm' (1978) and 'Flood!' (1976). Although his roles were limited, from middle-age on, to parts in quickly-forgotten films, his talent and charisma remained strong.

From the boards of Broadway, where he originated the part of 'Happy' in Arthur Miller's 'Death of a Salesman', to the siren's call of studio-era Hollywood, he re-emerged in the 1960's on the vastest medium of all, television, to become a bona-fide star on 'The High Chaparral'.

During his Hollywood heyday, he starred opposite such diverse talent as Marlon Brando and Doris Day, Marilyn Monroe and James Cagney. For some 5 decades he brought grit, sincerity, and well-modulated ability to a surprising array of roles. Armed with a particularly agreeable macho charm, he was a natural in Westerns and all manner of outdoorsy adventures. Never a one-note actor, he also shone in flimsy comedies (opposite that trio of gold-digging lovelies Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall, and Betty Grable in 'How to Marry a Millionaire'-1953) and musicals (starring in the classic 'Carousel' opposite Shirley Jones and Gordon MacRae-1956). He was even at home in costume dramas ('Desiree' with Brando and Jean Simmons-1954).

From 1967-1971 he starred with Leif Erickson on the immensely popular television series 'The High Chaparral'. A few years later he was back on TV as a castaway on the short-lived 'Swiss Family Robinson' with Martin Milner and future Oscar-winner Helen Hunt.

Like many character actors, he chiseled out a long career in a wide spectrum of films. In later years, production quality was often an issue, as was distribution. (Who today has heard of, much less seen, 'Slavers' or 'Rage to Kill'). He also managed dozens of guest appearances on TV. His talent and obvious dedication to his chosen craft remained strong as he worked, one way or another, until the end. In a sense, as a true journeyman, he went where the work took him.

September's Song

2009-09-01T20:06:00.000-04:00

September's Song by amisslis featuring Rick Owens

Progress Report

2009-09-01T19:48:00.002-04:00

I realize, my fine readers, that I have been doing more updating than writing recently. Shame on me! I have already pushed back unveiling the new blog once and, alas, I am about to do it a second time. It will now be up on Sunday as, on closer reflection, I realized that I really need to start it at the beginning of a week and not on the first of the month. Sit tight--I promise you it will be worth the wait!

Header

2009-08-30T21:00:00.002-04:00

Say hello to the new header. Yes, the changes have started! The new look will be up Tuesday evening. I am really excited to debut the improved 1000 Follies, which will be a lot more cohesive. Until then, take care!

NEW LOOK!! DAILY CONTENT!!MORE TO LOVE!!

2009-08-27T16:42:00.003-04:00

1000 Follies is about to become bigger, better, shinier and, well, a lot more reliable! In my non-Internet life, I am extremely organized. I love deciding where things belong, and putting them there. While I believe that people cannot be regimented, projects can...and this one is about to be, in a way that I think you will really dig.
1000 Follies will be divided into 7 weekly segments. In other words, each day of the week will have its own theme, which that day's posts will revolve around. The themes will not change from week to week. Additionally, there will be 6 or 7 smaller features which will appear daily. Got it? I know, I know....it is a lot to take in. You will just have to come back on Sunday, when the new look debuts. You will have to wait and see what the Sunday theme is. Until then, I will post a few odds and ends.

Finis

2009-08-21T20:06:00.001-04:00

Joe Strummer-Happy Birthday!

2009-08-21T20:02:00.001-04:00

Raise a Toast (to Absent Friends)

2009-08-21T18:17:00.003-04:00

"Raise a toast to St. Joe Strummer/I think he might've been our only decent teacher."-"Constructive Summer", The Hold Steady.

I am not writing a lengthy post tonight. I am not working on a story or a review. I am not going to go all literary on you; I'll save that for tomorrow. Business as usual can wait a day. No, tonight I am sitting in my living room, listening to The Clash and drinking a glass of Vodka. That sums up the course of my entire night.

Joe Strummer--one of music's great poets--was born on this date in 1952. He would have been 57. I have raised a toast. Now I am going to down my glass and listen to some more intelligent punk-rock philosophy. Salud!

Changes

2009-08-16T13:47:00.004-04:00

For anyone interested, I will be moving my (untitled) fiction serial over to 'A Small Press Life', as I believe it is a better fit there. I will be re-running it before adding the next installment.
I am also thrilled to announce that I have a second blogger writing for me on ASPL. His name is KM Scott. Please take a quick trip over there to check out his stuff and give him a warm welcome. He would really appreciate it.
If you have not been on the other site, I suggest that, in the words of The Chef, you "do it! Do it now!". If you are a writer or any type of creative, you will find something to love there. I promise.
Also, I will be announcing some fabulous new changes to 1000 Follies some time in the next few days. The changes will actually give you more to love, more often. Rest assured, nothing is going away!

Television Shows I (Still) Do Not Give a Fig About

2009-08-15T20:35:00.004-04:00

I am incredibly strong-willed. I know my own mind. Oh, and I really hate being told what to do, think, like, or watch. This means that I sometimes have a difficult relationship with the media. The Fall television season is nearly upon us; ads for shows new and returning are inundating TV screens across the country. No matter how hard they try-to brain-wash me into liking, or at least tolerating, their wares there are simply some shows that I just do not care about. Including the following:

Real Housewives of.....Anywhere
Gossip Girl/NYC Prep/90210
Lost
Desperate Housewives
Big Brother/The Bachelorette
Mad Men
Entourage
Grey's Anatomy
Dancing with the Stars
America's Next Top Model
Heroes

And some that I am actually looking forward to:

Top Gear
Bones
Lie to Me
House
Fringe
Big Bang Theory/How I Met Your Mother
Project Runway

"One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."-A.A. Milne (the father of Pooh Bear and Eeyore)

2009-08-15T19:09:00.001-04:00

Quite Possibly The Chef's Worst Nightmare

2009-08-15T19:04:00.002-04:00

Courtesy of pophangover.com.

Toddlers and Tiaras: or, My Weekly Rant

2009-08-08T15:20:00.004-04:00

Last night, I made the mistake of not turning the television channel fast enough after "What Not to Wear" ended. This resulted in the 6 most disturbing minutes of my life. Thanks, TLC, I owe you one. I knew, prior to 10 PM Friday night, that "Toddlers and Tiaras" existed. 'Jezebel' does a grand job of mocking and excoriating just about everyone involved with this show. Normally, I skim through the current post, laugh and move on to something of actual intellectual or artistic interest. First off, I must lay the brightest and leafiest of laurels around the neck of the 'Jezebel' writer who actually makes it through an entire episode. I wanted to stab hot needles into my eyes after 6 minutes. Quit pissing me off, pop culture world, and I can go back to writing about books and old movies. Deal?
This particular episode followed the contestants of the Universal Royalty pageant in Texas. Among the tots fighting it out for various crowns and titles? Fraternal twin girls and a 2-week-old boy. Yes, a two-week old destined, I am sure, to be an old pro by elementary school, just like his big brother. (That same big brother supplied the only moment of relief in the entire, condensed train-wreck when he stated that he is going to compete in pageants "until I am in my graveyard.")
There are only 3 reasons that parents enroll their (sometimes) absurdly young children in pageants. 1)For bragging rights 2)For money and 3)To live vicariously. Reason number three is, by the looks of the parents,the prevalent factor: this set of pageant moms is just about the ugliest group of women I have ever seen. If my DVR guide had not told me that this episode is from 2009, I would have thought that it was filmed back in 1987. In a town of particularly hideous inhabitants, where in-breeding was the norm.Harsh? Given that these women (and, occasionally, men) tart their largely unwilling children up to look like aging five-dollar whores and parade them around in show-girl costumes all for the thrill of victory, a chunk of change and a gaudy tiara and sash.....no, I think not.
In case anyone needs further proof that these women are in it for themselves,and care not one whit for the self-esteem of their kids, I present to you the following: the fraternal twins' mother. In spite of a lame attempt to come off as impartial, she favours the out-going, "pretty" twin who, she says, looks "just like me" (which, if this were true, would be most unfortunate). Now, neither girl is a raving beauty but, at 6 years old, this should not be the remotest consideration.Instead, the "plain" daughter (who is, if a judgment must be made, actually prettier) is withdrawn while her "pretty" sister is outgoing. The mother, naturally, sees no corollary between her treatment of them and their personalities. What it comes down to for her, and by extension all 5 of her girls (yes, they all compete), is that pretty-twin wins more titles than plain-twin. Pretty and outgoing=more trophies, more attention. Plain and shy=fewer trophies, less attention. Such a lovely lesson to teach your kids,especially impressionable girls.
There is so much pressure for females to be pretty, perfect, pleasant and outgoing. Once it starts, it follows us all of our lives; we buy into it more than men do. Why should we thrust kids into that process before they can even walk?
Now, I firmly believe that adults should pretty much be allowed to do whatever they want, however bizarre, silly or unfathomable it may be to others. The only caveat, of course, is that it does not harm anyone else. Pageants that, unintentionally or not, prematurely sexualize little ones are just not a good idea. If you are a parent into this kind of thing, you should really step back and honestly ask yourself why you make your kids sing for their supper and your love in such an appalling manner. The rest of us already know that it is not for them, but for you: perhaps you should find a way to pump up your self-esteem before, however inadvertently, destroying theirs. End of rant.

Austen Family Cooks: Snickerdoodles

2009-08-08T14:57:00.002-04:00

Okay, so recipes for Snickerdoodles are not that hard to come by. I really love eating these cookies, enjoy making them even more and, at the top of the list, thoroughly love converting people. Apparently, some of you are scared of them. I once had a fellow menswear specialist (this was in another life, seemingly) rave about those "short-bread-y cookies with the sugar and cinnamon on top" that I gave to everyone on the floor. He had no idea that what he was eating was a snickerdoodle. I seldom brag about such things but I happen to have extra-special Snickerdoodle baking ability; mine always taste better than anyone else's.
Snickerdoodles are perfect paired with a cuppa or, if you must, some coffee. Don't let the Cream of Tartar scare you--it is, of course, what gives these cookies their bite and lightness. If it wasn't for these cookies, COT would only be employed part-time to fluff up eggs. Have mercy and make some Snickerdoodles today!

SNICKERDOODLES

1/2 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup shortening
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 eggs
2 3/4 cups flour
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cinnamon

Thoroughly mix butter, shortening, sugar and eggs. Blend in flour, cream of tartar, baking soda and salt. Shape dough into balls. Roll balls into sugar/cinnamon mixture. Bake for 8-10 minutes @ 400 degrees. YUM!!

Obsessive Summer: My Current Addictions

2009-08-01T18:47:00.006-04:00

I have been quite the busy writer this Summer. I have a tub-full of ideas swimming around in my mind--many of which are actually reaching fruition. Lest you think that I am chained to my writing desk 20 1/2 hours a day, I thought that I would entertain you with a list of how I am spending my free-time this lovely season. While there are currently 9,000 or so things that I would love to try/do/enjoy, my leisure spells are a bit limited. The following is what I am digging the most right now....and some of them are quite stellar!

Amado Sur Wine-It is a heavenly Malbec blend. I am sorry Toasted Head Cabernet but you have been unceremoniously relegated to second place in my affections. Deal with it.
Daisy of Love (on VH1)-This one might require some explaining--a vast amount of explaining. It is a strange addiction.It was embarrassing at first to find oneself actually looking forward to this reality show. Daisy De La Hoya was a contestant on 'Rock of Love' last year (which I saw, perhaps, twice). She is not particularly pretty, has more fake than genuine body parts, and is not as stupid as you want her to be. Yes, she is genuinely endearing in a contrived, faux-celebrity way. If that is not reason enough to watch, it features Riki Rachtman (he of MTV's Headbangers Ball) as some sort of mentor/voice of reason and a slew of ridiculous potential 'love' matches. As with most VH1 reality programs, they were gifted with nicknames during the first episode. Although the season finale aired on the 26th, check out the repeats to become acquainted with such winners as Twelve Pack, Cable Guy, Dropout, Fox and, um, Six Gauge.
Colin Hay-This one is bound to redeem my taste. I still have not come down from the Colin Hay concert that I was taken to (as a surprise) for my birthday last month. Yes, that Colin Hay....he was the lead singer of 'Men at Work'. His career has really blossomed in the last 15 years or so, as he has embraced a more low-key troubadour style. He travels around doing acoustic shows that perfectly highlight his wonderful voice and exceptional song-writing skills. His tenth solo album drops on the 19th of this month. Buy it!
Pastry Crust-I don't think there is one among you not aware of my newly-discovered pie-making skills. I have also been on an empanada making spree, which I use a slightly different recipe for. I love making pastry because it is so physically hands-on and comes with almost instant results (and reward)--making it much different than writing.
Farm Town on FACEBOOK-Okay, so I am just about the least-country person imaginable. I am urban to the core. I have no desire to relocate to the sticks, milk cows and raise crops. Yet, none of those things stops this silly application from being absolutely addicting.
Tattoos-Specifically the tattoo that I will be getting some time soon (that is the plan, anyway). As soon as I decide where to have it done. Me being me, it is literary in nature--my preferred translation of a line of Pablo Neruda's poetry. Want to know what it is? Just ask!
The Golden Girls-This is nothing new but I have been enjoying the extended Monday and Saturday evening marathons on We. Enough said.
Social Networking-This is something of a necessary evil for anyone who does free-lance work. The need to market myself means that I must be super-organized so that I don't spread myself too thin. I just joined 'Thirty-Something Bloggers' a few days ago. It is not a particularly high-traffic network but, as such, it won't be too taxing on my time. It is passive self-pimping, really. Add in FACEBOOK and Plaxo and ETSY and I have a nicely growing little professional network.
Eva Cassidy-I am still loving her version of 'Fields of Gold'. It instantly puts me in a serene mood, much as 'Beautiful World' by Colin Hay does. I can easily listen to it 3 or 4 times in a row.
Chicken Lays an Egg-This one is Cincinnati-centric. In fact,it is about 2 blocks from my flat. It is a closet-sized vintage hodge-podge of a shop that is slightly out of place in my very industrial neighborhood. It opened last Autumn, and only does business on Saturdays. They have the most tempting window and sidewalk displays. Since it is so compact, you do not have to waste hours going through rack after rack of crap in an effort to find one or two gems.
Proust-I have always enjoyed flipping open any Proust book and reading random pages. Though apparently not for everyone, Proust created some of the most sublime sentences in any language. I truly believe this...and not just because I had the good taste to be born on the good man's birthday!
The 1920's-I have always been a history buff. When you mix that with my love of classic film, retro pop culture, feminism and fashion, the result is that, at heart, I am a neo-Flapper. I re-discovered the delightful Nancy Carroll a couple of months ago (entirely coincidentally, I am currently sporting a dead-on NC hairstyle), which helped me fall in amour with my favourite decade all over again.
Radiation Cinema-Science Fiction has never been my cup of tea. Yet, after working for a sci-fi based magazine (and living with a science fiction connoisseur for these last few years)I have found things to appreciate in the genre. I am, however, fond of the bizarre, the outsider, and 1950's films. Enter Mykal Banta's 'Radiation Cinema'. I am not going to spend paragraphs telling you about it(though I surely could). Just trust my recommendation. Aside from the snazzy concept, it is well-written, interesting and visually stunning.
Liebemarlene Vintage(EBAY)-This Georgia girl sources out and sells fabulous vintage clothing from the 'forties through the dawn of grunge. She carries an amazing assortment of dresses, all of which start out for the reasonable base bid of $14.99. Her auctions run from Thursday to Thursday. I currently have my eyes on a darling green day dress from the 'seventies. Wish me luck!
'Zining-I love the hands-on, tactile aspect of 'zining. I am in the race-to-the finish of compiling my next offering. I am doing updates on the process over on my other site, 'A Small Press Life'. Since this is a professional endeavour, it probably should not have a place on this list....but I am having such feverish fun that sometimes it feels like I am playing!
My Creative Philosophy-I am quite passionate about living a small press life. I am an indie artist all of the way-consciously, happily and without regret. I am overjoyed every day that I am allowed to wake up and do what I do, and thankful that there are people who think it is interesting, intriguing or beautiful. Thanks!

Too Tired to Write Tonight....So I Am Dreaming About Sparkly Things Instead

2009-07-31T20:49:00.001-04:00

Sparkly Things by amisslis featuring Rebecca Taylor dresses

Up in Arms: Another Inane Media Brouhaha

2009-07-30T19:21:00.006-04:00

It has been a few months since I have felt such a burning need to go on a media-sparked tirade. I am going to keep this one short and vitriolic, as I do not wish to add too much to the sheer volume of words already misspent on the subject. Some of you may guess where this is heading. That is correct. I am talking about the wholly manufactured uproar over a photograph--either real, photoshopped, or just a case of 'bad lighting'--of Madonna's creepy arms. Personally, I do not give a fig, a farthing, or a f*** what the culprit is. Is she too thin? Does she work out too much? Was the image unethically altered? Was she, from a lighting standpoint, simply at the wrong angle at the right time? Stop the madness, please.
If we are to believe the whore mongers of the Internet Media Brigade, this is an issue of great and desperate importance--worth any amount of brain cells, eye-sight, and time needed to wade through the complexities to find the truth. In the midst of this absurd scramble to get the scoop--which has nothing to do with honour, professional ethics, or even basic journalistic ability--the bigger picture has been obfuscated: the subject at hand is arms, people, arms. No, not that kind. How silly you must feel if your mind automatically turned to such a declasse subject as weaponry, nuclear or otherwise. Suck it, North Korea: next to the freaky appendages of a celebrity, your attempts to cow America have gone sadly unnoticed this week. Better luck next time.
If you have not given Madonna's physique any thought, beyond laughing hysterically as you passed up the dangled carrot of an AOL or Yahoo headline, then kudos to you--you have a mind that can think independently of TMZ. Let me be clear here: I am not solely an ice-princess intellectual-type. I find pop culture fascinating and addicting, but only up to the point where I can still use my own brain. A little bit of Perez or People goes a long way: I do not buy into this lab-produced fakery wholesale.
The other half of this madness is, of course, being told what it is we should find interesting, important or relevant by people who have built entire careers on the fact that they like to gossip. It has been suggested, with some frequency over the last few years, that we should answer these increasingly obvious and annoying media blitzes with indifference to the current subject (Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Speidi, the Gosselins and so on).It is a fine concept on paper but would only work if rational people ruled the world.
Madonna (and her arms-'o-horror)is just the fetish of the moment. The "story", though currently peppering the Internet like mines in a field, will soon be thrust aside to make way for the next fatuous, media-fueled obsession. Large gestures, unless done collectively by millions, are not likely to work. Doing your part on an intimate scale--simply refusing to click on the headlines or commenting on that sort of blog-article (even a negative comment is attention)--is probably the best that can be done, and is no small thing. Remember: By paying these hacks any heed, we allow mice to become Titans--it is no wonder they have come to rule over us all.

MISSING THE MAGIC....MOVIE MAGIC, THAT IS

2009-07-27T20:43:00.003-04:00

I have loved Classic Cinema since my long-ago pre-teen years. I fell hard for its panache, mystery, and glamour. I quickly transferred that instantaneously-ignited passion into something concrete: I trained for the stage and, for a bit, actually trod those New York City boards. Being a writer is a considerably better fit for my creativity, love of language, and control-freak tendencies. Eventually, I started writing about Golden Age film and its shining stars. Although it only fills up a small part of my resume, cinema is one of my favourite article/review subjects.

It occurred to me, out of nowhere this evening, that I have not, of late, dedicated much thought, blog, or column space to this great passion of mine. I have so many balls up in the air that I let this one fall without quite realizing it: and I MISS it! I have been so busy with all manner of things personal and professional that I have not even watched a single old movie for...well, I was going to type "weeks" but, to be honest, it could be months. See, I am not even sure how long it has been.

Now that I have pondered the subject for an hour or two, I am beginning to realize how much impact the flickers have on my day-to-day life. Their visual impact has run the deepest. I have: been inspired to try Flapper hairstyles and 'forties silhouettes; picked up a handful of interesting retro pastimes;learned to thoroughly enjoy listening to crooners;nicely rounded out my vocabulary to include something less than the Queen's English;decorated a room based on a film set; become quite the quirky hostess.
Writing on classic cinema is my small way of giving back to an art form that has enriched my life in countless ways. I think that I am going to make a date with TCM this weekend, just the two of us....and some old friends.
The point to all of this? I promise to be a good girl and post a movie-friendly post at least once a week!

Reading List: Fictional Dreaming

2009-07-27T18:56:00.002-04:00

I received an unusually compact little Daedalus Books catalogue in the post last week. Upon opening it, I was delighted to discover that it is a fiction-only edition. Like many creative writers, I cannot bring myself to read novels or short-stories when I am waist-deep in my own work. This poses no such problem when I am penning reviews or articles. As I am currently in the midst of two short-stories, I have imposed a fiction ban on my leisure reading. For the near-future, I will be indulging only in writing-craft books, biographies, and history.
This will not stop me from dreaming about some of the fabulous reads contained within that Daedalus Books catalogue.I am, at the moment, intrigued with the following.

54 by Wu Ming (HARCOURT)This novel contains an epic mish-mash of threads. It is set in, naturally, 1954 and features, among many other things, Cary Grant (yes, that Cary Grant). Consider me interested.
All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren (HARVEST) I own a copy of this classic novel by one of America's foremost 20th-century poets. I think that I am overdue for a re-read, if only to erase the awful let-down that was the 2006 version of this novel (stick with the original 1949 film, if you must).
An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England by Brock Clarke (ALGONQUIN) Fires and Emily Dickinson? Another strange amalgam of seemingly unrelated concepts that I cannot get out of my mind.
The Bad Girl by Mario Vargas Llosa (FABER & FABER)This is a recent novel by one of my favourite contemporary writers. It is about a man desperately in love with one woman-in-many incarnations, across many years and continents.
The Celestial Omnibus and Other Stories by E.M. Forster (SNOWBOOKS) I am not a fan of Forster's novels. They have never quite worked for me; I did not buy into the epic Merchant Ivory obsession. However, I am open-minded; there is little of value that I will not give a chance to, at least once. I have never read his short stories. This collection houses 6 of them. I am at least interested enough to check this out from the library.
The Conjurer: A Martha Beale Mystery by Cordelia Frances Biddle (ST. MARTIN'S) This is set in 1842, with a resourceful and brave heroine at the center of the action: perhaps not very true to the times, but enthralling anyway.
A Farewell to Arms and The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway (VINTAGE)While I can only take Hemingway's novels in small doses, I still find his compact, to-the-point writing immensely refreshing. 'Arms' reminds me of being 18, and getting caught up in the rather melodramatic love-story between the wounded soldier and resolute nurse. Brett Ashley of 'Sun' is, for me, a less tiring, though more artificial heroine. If you combine every female character in all of Hemingway's canon, you may just squeak by with one well-rounded woman.

A Home of Its Own

2009-07-19T17:36:00.002-04:00

Awhile back, I wrote a few articles under the title of "A Small Press Life." This brief series explained the passionate philosophy that is held just behind my creativity. Initially, I planned to make it an ongoing, occasional feature of 1000 Follies. That changed when, in May, I realized that the concept deserved its very own, dedicated space. A Small Press Life can be found at: onetrackmuse.blogspot.com. Click HERE to go directly THERE.
This newer site is one of the reasons that I have not been posting as frequently as you are accustomed to: I have been putting the new blog into place. Well, it is almost there now. It is close enough to what I have envisioned in my head to, at last, tell you about it. ASPL is writer-centric, so there will most likely not be something-for-everyone there.
It is, generally, about the writing life and, specifically, about my own philosophy and creative-path. It is definitely more tightly-focused than what you find here. It is, and will be, full of reviews, inspiration, concept-appropriate sites, products,and professional opportunities. I will profile like-minded writers from the past as well as my contemporaries. There is also a space that will detail my own adventures through the mine-field of the writing life.
Even if you are not a writer, please check it out and, if you can, spread the word to all of your writer friends (and I JUST KNOW that you have them). Thanks!!!!

A Golden Example

2009-07-19T12:11:00.004-04:00

Late last night, while watching television from bed, I realized that I can recognize episodes of "The Golden Girls" in a few seconds flat, without benefit of dialogue. This does not make me a specialized savant. It means, simply, that I have seen every episode of the 1980's classic too many times to count, or even estimate. I have been trying, half-heartedly, to write about this show for a few years. That's right, years. What I came up with never seemed quite right. I found no satisfaction in even the opening lines that I composed again and again. The timing was obviously not correct, was premature: the enjoyment and hope that the sitcom has given me over the years would not translate to the page. So, I did what writers do when a piece does not properly synchronize with our intentions. I set it aside, put it away, relegated it to the "maybe I will try again in a few months" corner of my brain.
I dusted the idea off a few months ago when, on my Mother's birthday, Bea Arthur died. I decided not to rush the process but, rather, let it ferment in my creative place; knowing that, this time, it would form itself into what it is meant to be, ripening when it is ready.
"The Golden Girls", which aired from 1985-1992, might seem, on the surface, a strange show to have such a strong cult following, especially among younger women. Yet obsessed we are. I was in Middle School when the show debuted. 24 years later, my mother is still younger than the characters and the actresses who played them. Indeed, my Grandmother was born after all but Rue McLanahan. So, why the fascination?
The generation that The Golden Girls represented was the first to stay young past the age of fifty. They did not have one leg in the grave just because their children were grown and their hair was grey. This is something that we are used to and comfortable with in the 21st-Century, but 25 years ago it was a revelation and wake up call to realize that sex appeal and physical desire do not have to wither. Today's magazines are full of young-looking-and-acting 60-year-olds. There are simply too many to name in this space: it is no longer singular.
"The Golden Girls", then, helped lead this particular revolution, which has been to every woman's advantage, even those of us who have since come of age. It is no secret that the 4 women of "Sex and the City", when put together, represent the varied and complex feminine nature. TGG thought of this angle 2 decades earlier: it is for this reason that the shows have often been compared, with either one or the other found wanting, depending on your viewpoint.
I am exactly who SATC caters to, exactly who they try so hard to draw in. Unfortunately, I see so little of myself in any of the characters that it ultimately fails. True, I am a writer. I love shoes, sex, and booze. Yet, the female bonding strikes me as cold, artificial, and not particularly funny. Not so with those wise-cracking ladies from Miami.
It took the girls a few episodes to find their niche. A cracking-wise gay pool-boy/housecleaner/cook wasn't necessary. Soon, he and the pool were gone, making it possible for the quartet of women to be more relatable, middle-class. They had issues galore, straight out of real-life: there was money trouble, job trouble, family trouble and, oh yes, mighty-mighty man trouble. During those famous late-night talks over cheesecake, they formed a bond tight as any flesh-and-blood family unit.
They put up with a lot but always pulled through, with their friendship and humour intact. Amorous relationships and sex remained highly important in their lives. They waded through much of the same romantic crap as younger women, yet they also had to put up with new sets of challenges. There is an odd comfort in knowing that screwed-up relationships with the opposite sex know no age boundary, that it is not just an affliction of the young. Age may bring wisdom but clear-paths of communication and enlightenment are not guaranteed. Even Sophia, the 80-plus widowed matriarch, was not above getting dolled up for a man; nor did her age offer shelter for a broken heart.
The 4 golden oldies are better, truer representations of the multi-faceted female psyche. Dorothy, Blanche, Rose and Sophia cover the bases of what it mean to be a woman.
Dorothy Petrillo Zbornak, played by Bea Arthur, is intelligent, logical, and strong. She is a smart woman who refuses to dumb herself down for a man, knowing that what she has to offer is plentiful and rich. Jokes about her inability, as a bookworm, to get a date for a Saturday night abound; however, she manages to attract her fair share of men. Indeed, she is the only one of the women (besides, briefly, Sophia) to remarry. She dealt with teen pregnancy (her own) and infidelity (her ex-husband's).
Blanche Devereaux, played by Rue McLanahan, is the voracious, not-so-superficial sex-Goddess. The southern belle spends most of her time wooing and winning men into her bed. She is the most obvious proof that sex-appeal can keep on ticking well past your forties; that a vibrant, fun life can be found at any age. While men are always at the forefront of her mind and actions, she ultimately puts friendship first. She is a widow who struggles to maintain the always- fragile relationships with her children and siblings. Her biggest struggle is that of self-image due, to aging and the lasting effects of a woman who always valued her looks above her not inconsiderable abilities.
Rose Nylund, played by Betty White, is the innocent, naive and good-hearted roommate. Known for extolling the virtues of her hometown life (the real St. Olaf, Minnesota)through painfully long-winded and fairy-tale-esque stories, Rose is always hopeful and considerate. This makes her the obvious butt of her friends' jokes. She enjoyed a long and ideal marriage with her late husband. She slowly learns to become a woman-of-the world, as she deals with dating and sex-outside-of-marriage for the first time. Rose suffered a health scare, when it was believed that she could be HIV-positive, and a goofy yet tumultuous relationship with long-time love Miles.
Sophia Petrillo, played by Estelle Getty, is Dorothy's Sicilian-immigrant mother. She is wily, cantankerous, blunt yet nurturing. She joins the household after leaving the nursing home that her daughter put her in after she suffered a stroke. She is the deepest source of wisdom and experience, often treating her roommates like naive children. Although in her eighties, she, too, enjoys a (more sporadic) dating and sex-life, even sharing a beau with Blanche at one point. She proves that the key to staying healthy and vital is curiosity and a strong-engagement with life.
TGG is an entertaining blend of the slapstick and the witty, the absurd and the topical. It covered all of the important issues of the day, without resorting to preachiness or sappiness. Tolerance and understanding exist at the very heart of the show's message. It is a wonderful, enduring example to all women that friendship is as important as family; that aging can be sexy and fun as well as graceful; and that, if you play it right, life can begin instead of end with menopause.
The Chef does not understand my obsession with these fictional women and their escapades. All that I can say in answer to his perplexity is that I see more of myself and my ways--my curiosity, adventurousness, intelligence, and love-of-life--in those 4 not-so-old ladies than I do in their cardboard-SATC counterparts who are suppose to be my avatars and role-models. Watching 60-somethings demand and take so much enjoyment from life, sans whining entitlement, is the best reminder that we get exactly one whirl-around on this planet: we had best do what we can with it.I think, occasionally, that they may have fuller lives than me, more impressive dance cards, a better-class of adventure. That is all I need to sit up and take action, to demand a little of that life-force for myself. Thanks, ladies, for being the best role-models a girl could have.

Things I Learned Over the Weekend....While I Wasn't Writing

2009-07-14T20:48:00.006-04:00

'Baby' sunscreen is just as effective as the regular kind.

My father makes his own Kimchee (and, no, we are not Korean).

That worrying is a useless diversion. It kills time, effort, and brain-cells. Usually, the things that we are worried about never reach fruition, or are vastly over-blown.

A chasm of 35 years can be crossed in 90 seconds.

The person who gave birth to me is still my best-friend.

It is never too late to have two parents.

Brothers, though they are born jack-asses, can be kind of cool.

I am still fascinated by bats.

Cincinnati is not entirely without its cultural benefits.

I am a really phenomenal daughter.

Going to the zoo is just as fun now as when I was a little girl. And I still have no interest in petting the goats, thank you.

Photos: Top:"Please,dahlings, no photographs!" Bottom: A stork.

Montreal-Wednesday, 20 September 2006

2009-07-13T18:32:00.003-04:00

I am finally getting back to my Untitled Fiction Serial. From this point, I will try to post 1-2 installments a week. In order to make it easier to recognize, it now has its own logo, designed by artist KM Scott. Look for the croissant! Part III follows below.

I probably shouldn't tell you that I am naked as I write this. If I limited that confession to just one line, they would likely edit it out. I will not give them the option: to take the earthiness out of this article would be to gut it clean.

A faint mist has followed me around Montreal for two days,enveloping the length and breadth of my body like a cold, dank cloak. Clothes, after being exposed to the unseasonable chill, to the semi-liquid air, feel like pin-pricks of ice against my skin, uncomfortably crystalline. The overcast afternoons possess an evening-quality, bringing a night-sense with them, hours before the sun sets. My wanderings have been weather-truncated, are temporarily limited to the near-environs of the hotel. In the few ripe hours of my days, I have become intimately acquainted with a lovely stationers, the gift shop of the Museum of Archaeology & History, and a thimble-sized tea-room. For 3 days, I have gamely resisted purchasing dainty sheets of paper and pinned butterflies, throwing all of my sensual indulgence into downing small, steaming cups of Lady Grey tea.

My rainy-day uniform, so pointedly girl-columnist chic, is relaxing fire-side, where I tossed it immediately after closing my door: mint-green tam, purple galoshes, khaki trench-coat. I wish that I could regale you with the romanticisms of a raging wood-fire and pungent smoke, the sharpened dagger-point of a No. 2 pencil and a lined moleskine, a chipped glass and a bottle of Scotch. Instead, I have been tapping away, dictating my thoughts straight into this electric beast, no booze, no paper, no bonhomie.

I am trying to live up to the dreamy, intellectual writer's notions that are always fermenting in the depths of my brain, somewhere between imagination and reality. I discovered, practically as soon as my feet hit the Canadian ground, that it is just as time-consuming here as it was at home. I get bored with the whole endeavour rather quickly. If I truly had the stuff to play a continual game of dress-up, I would be an actor, not a writer. I can dream bursting Technicolor dreams of being Edna St. Vincent Millay, but the living of it is proving tedious.

Yet it is because of Edna St. V of M that I am here, in this foreign-familiar place, attempting to be a writer of fascinating dimensions. She was sent to Paris in 1920 to write for an American publication, a girl-abroad for the very first time. Not even a girl, really, but a woman, fancy-free, digging her heels in, refusing to take-on grown-up responsibility. When you live that wildly, perhaps you do not need to be an adult. Whoever she was--however she was--she was asked to write mildly ridiculous things, to write below herself, to infuse the mundane with her particular genius-disease of vivid, intellectual snarkiness and beautiful syntax: whereas I am probably being asked to write above myself, to learn and sweat my way into some kind of superior capability that someone else believes I possess. Because I, too, live wildly, love words, and wish to sit at some foreign table-side listening to the crazy world flow by, I took this job.

I have, thus far, been forced to shun tables and sidewalks, parks and walkways, due to this damnable weather. I get dressed, circle between the neighborhood shops, and take too much tea. I take tea to go, drinking the hot liquid as I stalk the aisles of that Stationers, lightly thumbing striped paper, dotted paper, floral paper. I take tea in, sitting at a different beaten-up table every time. I doodle things in my notebooks, write stubs of sentences, phrases, descriptives: I find it hard to write in earnest with so many staring eyes, lest I come off as a poseur, someone with nothing better to do than sit idly in a tea-shop writing unimportant,hollow things. My professional attitude is not quite invincible; too many people sit in public writing in notebooks or tapping away on laptops.

Until the weather breaks, clears and rises again, I have many empty hours to fill, many hours to be spent indoors recovering from the mist, getting warm. I expected to be driven indoors for a great Montreal winter, in a few months' time when snow drifts pile up man-high. Instead, I have a blazing electric fire. It lacks ambiance but its heat is potent enough to hit the backs of my thighs, the small of my back, my buttocks, as I stand across the room at the full-length windows. They are street-level, flush with the passers-by,the kind that you can open wide and walk-through, into another world. I push the green velvet black-out curtains aside, winding the fabric across my breasts, my stomach, my hips.

In the gloaming, my eyes alight on the inky-wet pavement, glowing street-lights, and sea of slowly-moving people. When I am awake, this street is never empty, its sounds never dull to anything lower than a murmur or buzz. I am staring out at a moving swirl of people, naked behind the curtain. I wonder how many people see me, if they are focusing on anything but what is at their feet. I am bereft of clothes due to laziness, due to the same mid-evening inertia that has beset the tourists outside my windows. I let the curtain fall, and I realize something.

I turn towards the reading light, towards the radiant warmth of the fireplace that allowed me to remove the coat, hat, boots and, for a few moments, my sense of professional obligation. I cannot, of course, sight-see in inclement weather. I cannot become acquainted with the wider-wonders of Montreal. I cannot write ecstatic articles about places that I have not yet seen. I can ,however, let loose my empathy for the everyday; casting my net lightly across these quaint neighborhood streets, I have been able, for fleeting moments, to glimpse its beating heart.

"When I get a little money, I buy books. And if there is any left over, I buy food."-Desiderius Erasmus

2009-07-13T18:11:00.001-04:00

Oops! I Think I Forgot to Tell You.....

2009-07-09T18:26:00.002-04:00

....that I will be on holiday for a few days while my Dad visits from out-of-state. I will be posting again on Sunday. Take care and have a very lovely few days!

Ronald Colman Appreciation Society

2009-07-05T12:55:00.005-04:00

I will begin this post with a disclaimer. If you do not use Facebook, then you will not be able to fully appreciate what follows. While that saddens me--truly, I feel your pain--I will continue on with my intended subject matter with no compunction whatsoever.

No intelligent person would deny that Facebook is the rancid breeding ground to some acutely ridiculous user-generated 'groups'. Some are flat-out offensive. I believe that those should be treated as one would treat an objectionable television show: don't look at it. Go look at something else, leaving it available for those who enjoy it. There is, however, one group that I have, for some months now, been steadily falling in love with: the Ronald Colman Appreciation Society.

It is swell, it is swoon-worthy, it is visually stunning: it is every type of superlative wrapped into one potently suave package. Ronald Colman is in the top three of my (imaginary) HOLLYWOOD VOICES CANON (along with Fredric March and Claude Rains, but that is the subject for another piece). The RCAS is home to more than 600 Colman photographs, many of them quite rare. It is run by avid fans and collectors, so the passion and dedication comes from the right place. It is simply a venue that allows one to share thoughts, experiences, opinions and memorabilia with like-minded others. As such, it is a small but fantastic little niche of the Facebook community.

The RCAS has definitely reminded me why, when I was new to old movies, I found Colman so appealing as an actor. I initially discovered hims as the handsome half of the romantic on-screen Colman-Banky team. There was so much to discover from there, as his talent manifested itself in so many directions. I read James Hilton's "Lost Horizon" at around this time. I was soon thrilled to realize that Colman played Robert Conway in the classic 1937 film adaptation.I may be a movie fanatic, but I am definitely a read-first, watch-after type of girl. I prefer to paint my own pictures, using the author's words and my imagination. Once that has been set in place, it is only with great difficulty that a film or an actor can supersede my peculiar inner vision. The very idea of thinking of an actor while reading the book is anathema to me. Yet, Ronald Colman is one of the few actors that I associate with a novel. That novel is not "Lost Horizon".

By the time that I watched "A Tale of Two Cities" (1935), I had already read the Dickens book twice; my current tally stands at 4. Even though I followed my own protocol, Ronald Colman is indelibly fused with Sidney Carton. From the moment that I open the front cover, Colman is in my mind. He leaps into my psyche if I so much as think about the book. His portrayal seems more of an inhabitation than an impersonation: it is one of the most fully realized and deeply ingrained in all of cinema. This single achievement--hitched to those remarkable looks, that voice--is reason enough to have a Facebook page devoted to the man.

If you have access, I highly recommend that you stop by the Ronald Colman Appreciation Society and become a fan. You can connect and share with others or, if you are like me,you can simply flip through the magnificent gallery of photos.

Photo Courtesy of Ronald Colman Appreciation Society (Helen Lallo).

R.I.P. Mrs. Slocombe-Technicolor Hair Will Never Recover

2009-07-03T20:22:00.004-04:00

If I Were....a Flower-Child (circa 1967)

2009-07-03T18:22:00.002-04:00

I would:

Seriously cut back on showering and compensate by dousing myself with patchouli-scented unguents.
Shop at second-hand stores to find the wildest, mix-and-match old clothes imaginable. Prairie skirt and Edwardian blouse and man's striped vest? Groovy!
Let my actions follow my ethics and protest things that bother me.
Be a crunchy-granola vegetarian because, hey, there was no other kind then!
Spend way too much time listening to music at The Fillmore.
Live in a rambling old Victorian with a rotating crew of approximately 13 roommates, many of whom I do not know.
Wear flowers in my hair.
Have dirty, dirty feet, from never wearing shoes.
Sleep with the band (s).
Experiment. Ahem.
Grow my own food.
Paint daisies and peace signs on my face and body.
Join a commune.
Make things with my hands. Preferably tie-dyed things.
Tune in. Turn on. Drop out.

Hippie Hippie Shake-Style

2009-06-28T19:35:00.001-04:00

Hippie Hippie Shake by amisslis on Polyvore.com

Hippie Hippie Shake: Scott McKenzie

2009-06-27T15:28:00.001-04:00

Hippie Hippie Shake: Canned Heat

2009-06-27T15:25:00.000-04:00

Hippie Hippie Shake: Jefferson Airplane

2009-06-27T15:20:00.001-04:00

Hippie Hippie Shake

2009-06-26T19:12:00.002-04:00

My hippie pedigree is pretty solid. My mother never went to the extreme of running off to a commune. She was, as she will freely admit, a flower child of the "love" variety, if you know what I mean. Her environmental and political awakening came later, as her daughter was growing older. Yet, very few children can have been named after a chick with the nonconformist moniker of "Alley Cat."
I had a fairly free-and-easy boho dream of a childhood--the kind that, in nostalgic moments, I would love to craft for my own (quite imaginary) kidlets. A lot of things were more organic those days (without attempting to be so) and childhood was one of them. The cool, barefoot hippie-aesthetic that informed so many of my younger days is usually not readily apparent in my grown-girl attire.
How we opt to dress ourselves is a lot more complex than mere convenience and colour-preference would suggest. Factors that we are not even aware of on the surface play into the image that we present to the world. Fashion, history and sociology are three of my favourite things. These pastimes, coupled with a love of pretty or interesting pieces, means that I have a ridiculous amount of influences to draw from. The result is that the hippie aesthetic is usually lost in the mix. There are simply eras that hold stronger visual appeal to me: the 1920'S, 1940'S, a bit of the 1950'S, silver screen looks of the 1930'S, a smidgen of late-Victorian and Edwardian.
There is, however, a time in my life--and wardrobe--for everything. As the seasonal cycle spins into summer, I become antsy to let loose my inner folk-freak. This is a yearly occurrence: as soon as the weather turns warm, truly warm, I want to break out the flow-y paisley fabric and put a daisy or two in my hair. 9 months out of the calendar, I prefer to look like a classic pinup or a sexy flapper or a crazy combination of the two. I am definitely more Clara Bow than Janis Joplin. During normal times,I would never be pegged , by a stranger, for a tree-hugging patchouli-lover.
With the above-mentioned complexity perpetually in full-fruit, my hippie-punk ideals are seldom written across my physicality: but they are there just the same. They exist where they count, not in the ultimately superficial manifestations of clothing or shoe or hair choice. Yet, the sultry Ohio summer is all the excuse that I need to temporarily let my hair down,get my feet dirty, and deliberately mismatch my free-and-easy clothes. My looks are ever-evolving.By October, pencil skirts and stilettos will likely come calling, singing their sexy siren's song, as I move into the next stage of my endless fashion-game. Each season presents a different dynamic, and new chances to play dress-up. By this time next year, I will again be prepared to visually claim my hippie-inheritance.

"Develop your eccentricities while you are young. That way, when you get old, people won't think you're going gaga."-David Ogilvy

2009-06-23T18:23:00.001-04:00

AT SEA! AT SEA! (TEMPORARILY)

2009-06-22T20:07:00.003-04:00

Anticipation has been my dearest pastime since I was a child: Christmas Eve is my favourite day of the year for a reason. The wind-up before a pitch, the curtain rising before a show, the ball before it drops on New Year's Eve are often more enjoyable to me than the action itself. Everything in life is made up of a trio of stages: anticipation, action/occurrence, and remembrance. As fun and adventurous as the middle part can be, it stands on the precipice of disappointment. One stage is woven into the next in too infinite of a way for them to be untangled: it is impossible to savour one without partaking equally of the others. I guess that this is one of life's great levelers.
Perhaps this is nothing but a highly personal quirk that few others share, or maybe it is more widespread: of this I am uncertain. What I do know, strongly, is my own personal back-and-forth when it comes to special days. It is a concentrated bit of manic-depression that otherwise never visits me. The giddiness of anticipation turns to black despair once it is all over, and the confetti has been turned to dust.As long as there is something else in the queue, my recovery time is quick.
My mom visited over the weekend. It was not a long-planned event so my anticipation-time was limited, although highly concentrated. I always enjoy myself immensely when I am with my mom. What we do never matters; spending time with my life-long best friend is key. We always have such a great time that it is one of the exceptions to my anticipation-is-always-better rule. When it comes to mom-time, anticipation and enjoyment remain equal. What changes is how sad I become once we have parted.It is relatively brief--a day or two at best--but intense. This has been a life-long pattern for me, in regard to time spent with my family: get-togethers always lay me low after the fact.
I gave myself a pass yesterday. I slept, ate my home-made pie, wrote very little. It was responsible for my relative silence. I have finally expelled it from my system, as I usually do by this time. In accepting it for what it is--a manifestation of what is of greatest personal importance--it has ceased to fret me. I have come to terms with the roller-coaster ride of the above-mentioned trio. Although I always strive for a better balance, as long as I taste of life's enjoyment, it matters little what part of the beast it comes from.

Montreal-Monday, September 18, 2006

2009-06-22T19:08:00.008-04:00

I came to Montreal to write things for you. I am not yet precisely sure what manner of things: my plane only landed twelve hours ago. The contract that I have with this publication is not that specific, has not tied my hands to anything in particular. It simply states that I must turn in 3 columns a week, of approximately 750 words, for the space of 6 months. For this, I am to be paid with handsome accommodations, a per diem allowance, $300 dollars a week, and the satisfaction of seeing my name in print. All that you will get in return for the time invested in my words is the enjoyment of whatever emotions I am savvy enough to evoke in you.

I will begin this first installment by telling you exactly what I am doing this morning, and who I feel like. It is 8:15 and I am in bed for the second time. I have been sitting still and upright long enough that I feel the heat of the laptop on my stiff legs. There are pastry flakes on my fingers that I have not bothered to suck off, and a trail of grease on the keys that are typing these words. I have polished off 3 croissants in the narrow space of 45 minutes: fortunately there is no limit to how much you can eat at breakfast. It is the only meal served here, and they do it exceptionally well--well enough to merit a small mention in 'Food & Wine'. The proprietors are entirely too graceful to flaunt that fact. The framed article does not hang on a wall, nor is it pinned conspicuously on a bulletin board behind the check-in desk. I know this fact simply because I was bored enough to do a cursory amount of research before coming here. (The 'Here' in question, if you are interested, is mentioned at the bottom of the article.)
Until roughly 44 minutes ago, my distaste for croissants was equal to that of eating with complete strangers across a communal dining table at first dawn. One buttery bite gave lie to the complete idiocy of the first notion; five minutes of conversation with a family of tourists from Oregon made me realize that perhaps I am not the world's greatest people person. I hope that my anti-social confession does not predispose you to hate me, yet it may be useful to weed out those of you who are expecting a conventional travelogue: I am not that writer.
However you feel on the matter, you must kindly grant me the following concession, namely: that it is nearly impossible to enjoy the most singular culinary experience of your life when surrounded by people hell bent on nattering on and on and on about what is the best time to tour the cathedral. That first croissant was my own holy experience, writ small and powerful. It tasted of butter somehow different from regular butter, fresher: as if there was a churn in the kitchen, and a cow tied up out back. I did not smear it with preserves or wash it down with hurried gulps of hot tea, in a preliminary strike against its imagined objectionable taste.
I was forced to flee 5 bites later, with 2 more flaky, little delicacies in hand. That is how I ended up in this room, in this bed, staring at a stain on the coverlet, trying to harness my utter lack of adventure to the demands of this column. I have yet to experience Montreal beyond the confines of a taxi and 2 rooms of this hotel. I have been enchanted by a from-scratch breakfast (one of the partners rises daily before light breaks to bake)and annoyed by harmless and adequately nice travelers. I have stepped into the bathroom to wash stale and sticky make-up off of my tired skin; I have poked my head between the curtain panels to glimpse a barely-stirring street possessed of cobbled beauty. I do not even know what this column is to be called. You will doubtless read this before I do, as the paper will be delivered to me in real-time, from a country that is now next-door.
Coming to Montreal, which is as close as one can get to Europe without leaving North American soil, I was hoping to feel utterly different from how I felt at home, from who I was at home. It is too early to determine the accuracy or fallacy of this notion, but I will share the thought with you anyway. I have always been beset by fanciful ideas. This is, I suppose, why I became a writer. If I am to deal with honesty here, and I am unsure whether or not that is my intention, then I must admit that my entire adult life has been constructed on following one fancy after another. The fancy that brought me to Montreal?
Edna St. Vincent Millay. Perhaps I will tell you about that on Wednesday. Right now, it is time to close the laptop, kick the covers off, wash my hands and hit the street in search of something new.

Margaret Millet
Vieux-Montreal

IN THIS ARTICLE:

Auberge Les Passants du Sans Soucy
171 rue St-Paul ouest
514-842-2634
http://www.lesanssoucy.com/

Reading Wish List:Week of 22 June

2009-06-22T18:10:00.004-04:00

My reading fast ended on 31 March, for what little good that has done me. I have been so busy writing--articles,blogs,zines,serials and a novel--that reading has been demoted to the role of second-class citizen. Suddenly, something that has been deeply integral to my identity since, it seems, the moment of my advent, has dwindled to the occasional, nostalgic pastime of a too-busy woman. From a creative stand-point, this is ultimately a very good thing.

I am in an exceptionally ripe stage of creativity: a manic fire of artistry was lit some months ago, and continues to blaze unabated. To spend too much of my precious time reading would be to invite stasis to return. As a writer, I simply cannot take that chance. This means that I have been taking time to really savour everything that I read, instead of rushing through 5 books at once in order to make way for the next one in the queue.I have not been reading a dozen books a month, as is my custom. My input of others' words is currently about a third of that; the output of my own writing has been phenomenally increased.

This means, of course, that my reading wish-list is growing at a rate far too fast for me to catch at present. When the muse has mellowed a bit, I hope to sit down and kick back with some of the following volumes!

Dictionary of Modern English Usage by H.W. Fowler (WORDSWORTH) and Oxford American Writers' Thesaurus David Auburn, Michael Dirda, et al., eds. (OXFORD) The contents of these 2 tomes are self-explanatory, as is my obsession with words. I am a reference-book geek of the highest order. I could easily get lost in either of these volumes for hours.

Randall Jarrell on W.H. Auden by Randall Jarrell, Stephen Burt, ed. Adam Gopnik, foreword (COLUMBIA UNIV. PRESS) Wystan Hugh Auden has long been one of my favourite poets, although I have never been able to fully embrace his work. That is, I realize, a peculiar state of affairs, yet it is the truth. I remain magnetized, humbled, awed and occasionally annoyed with his poetry and his person.

ABUNDANCE: A Novel of Marie Antoinette by Sena Jeter Naslund (HARPER) Historical fiction can be compelling or appalling, depending on the ratio of accuracy to imagination: the author needs to be heedful of that important balance. Although I am not as enamored of French Court life as of its English counterpart, this appears to be a truly fascinating read. I am unsure whether it is entirely possible to humanize Marie Antoinette, but I am intrigued enough to find out.

A View from Vermont Everyday Life in America by Helen Husher (GLOBE PEQUOT)Vermont is one of my favourite states--I thoroughly enjoyed a stay there 5 years ago. It is very far removed from my own existence--perhaps that is part of my appeal. This book is made up of a series of essays. By its description, it almost seems to be a 21st-Century "Country of the Pointed Firs", with a Vermont setting.

Secret Agent AKA Danger Man: Sets 1-6 Starring Patrick McGoohan This is a DVD set of the 1960's television series. I am half in-love with the recently deceased, ridiculously suave Patrick McGoohan. This series preceded The Prisoner, a cult-classic that took me 6 months and multiple viewings to warm up to (I admit to still finding it, on occasion, insufferably silly).I can think of many things far worse than sitting through a marathon of Patrick McGoohan at the pinnacle of his appeal.

The Art of Conversation A Guided Tour of a Neglected Pleasure by Catherine Blythe (GOTHAM BOOKS)I became an actor so that I could pretend to be other people. I am a writer so that I can invent other people, and control situations to perfection. This means that conversation is not always my strong suit: I much prefer hiding behind a set of pre-determined words. I envy anyone with the skill, the means, and the magic to weave impromptu conversations.

The Human Story Our History, From the Stone Age to Today by James C. Davis (HARPERCOLLINS) What awesome ambition must be required to try to encompass the great sweep of the entire course of history in 466 pages. If nothing else, it must be a fascinating attempt.

The Victorian Celebration of Death by James Stevens Curl (SUTTON)19th-Century society had a much healthier grip on how to handle death and mourning. They did not hide it away like we do but accepted and celebrated it for what it is: one stage in the many that all humans must pass through.

Firewalk The Psychology of Physical Immunity by Jonathan Sternfield (BERKSHIRE HOUSE) Firewalking absolutely enthralls me. Though I would never jump from an airplane or bungee jump, I would leap at the opportunity to walk across hot coals!

To Go Signing Through the World The Childhood of Pablo Neruda by Deborah Kogan Ray (FSG) This is a kid's book. If I am ever pregnant, I will surely read the poems of Neruda to my child while he or she is still in the womb.This looks like a great way to directly introduce a child to the life of the man with the magical voice.

Mmmmm.....pie!!!!

2009-06-21T15:57:00.002-04:00

No, Really! I Baked 1 Pie! Then 2! And I have Witnesses!

2009-06-21T15:31:00.005-04:00

I topped my promise by making not one, but two , rhubarb pies. The first one came into being last night at around ten, the second was taken out of the oven 12 hours later. I must admit--and I hate to burst 'Radiation Cinema's' bubble--that until yesterday I had never made a pie before. Of any kind. Ever. Although I baked my first cake from scratch at nine,and have made many scrumptious from-scratch desserts since, it had never really occurred to me to bake a pie. Until 8 days ago, as I missed yet another family function. In my isolation, I started feeling sorry for myself. From there, it was an easy step or 2 to dreaming about all of the food that I could be missing. Rhubarb pie made that mental list; I even posted the recipe. It was not until the next day that I realized that , if I wanted it badly enough , I could make it myself.
Until that baking epiphany , pies were , to my mind , the sole territory of my Grandmother (with apologies to every one else in my family who make lovely pies in their own right). However, once the idea took root , the outcome was inevitable: I would bake a pie, crust and all. If I am going to do something, I am going to do it all of the way, and correctly.
I ended up baking 2 pies, as the recipe makes enough dough for a pie with a top crust. I also had more than enough rhubarb. I must say that the pies turned out better than I could have hoped for: they were pretty damn perfect (and I have witnesses to back that up, thank you nicely). Rhubarb was the perfect pie to start with: an easy filling and only 1 crust. Yet, I was amply concerned with screwing up that crust. I need not have worried:it turned out flaky and ideally baked. The photographs are of the first pie, my true baby. (By the second, I felt as if I really knew what I was doing but, as everyone would agree, nothing beats your first.)

Mommy Break

2009-06-18T22:04:00.004-04:00

No, not that kind! My lovely Mother is visiting this weekend. It has been a bit since we have seen each other so,for the next two days, I am going to be devoting most of my time to her. I promise to take photos if we do anything interesting. I know for a fact that I will be baking a pie tomorrow. I promised Mykal of 'Radiation Cinema' to post photos of it in all of its Rhubarb Glory, as he has been experiencing some withdrawal symptoms.
I will write and post Part II of my Untitled Fiction Story late Sunday, I promise. I hope to compose 2 installments a week in future, for the duration of 5 or 6 months. Next week, I will be back to my regular output (I have slacked a bit of late, I realize!)with articles on books, classic film and lots of other odd and refreshing goodness.

UNTITLED-PART I

2009-06-16T19:44:00.002-04:00

The following is the first installment of a fiction serial that I am writing:I have decided to share it with you good people.At this time it is called 'Untitled'. When I settle on the perfect name, you will be the first to know.I hope that you find it enjoyable.

FOREWORD

It is with honest pleasure that I introduce this collection of columns by Margaret Millet.I do so as her friend as well as her Publisher.I worked with Margaret for approximately eight months,during the period that she wrote for my newspaper,The Estimator.It was in that publication that all of the pieces in this compilation first appeared,from September 2006 until March 18,2007.I met Margaret about 3 weeks before sending her on her stint to Canada.She impressed me immediately,and with great clarity,as a woman and writer of depth,talent,intelligence and vision.I felt,at the time,that The Estimator had fallen too far away from my initial goals:it had become stale,boring and perilously close to extinction.In an effort to shake new life into its tired bones, I mass hired an interesting bunch of characters from all sorts of small publications.The indie artists,as they liked to call themselves,succeeded in infusing vigorous blood and energy into The Estimator. Margaret came to me from a tiny magazine that folded a few months later.That job did not pay her bills,something that bothered Margaret to practically no degree at all.She was a woman in love with words.She thought it privilege enough just to be allowed to set her thoughts to paper.Readership was not really something that she thought about. I changed that when I sent her to Montreal.Instantly,she had 300,000 people reading her columns:it rather quickly became their privilege.I can think of no one else that I would have even considered sending to another country,with no guidelines or subject matter. All that she had to do was write,and write well,to the tune of 3 columns a week. She managed this with beauty,expertise and an entirely unique voice.Margaret wrote incessantly while up North.I am not sure that she did anything else.I never got to know her in an intimate capacity although our relations were always warm,considerate and full of humour.It is my belief that she had given up on the notion of a one-on-one connection with others.She channeled that loss into her writing and,in so doing,intimately connected with her readers in a way that would probably not have been possible otherwise.Margaret Millet,by the way, was not her real name.She chose it for its alliterative quality.Even after I hired her,and gave her that wide readership on a plate,she declined to use her given name,which was perfectly lovely.It is not my place to divulge her true identity, so we will continue to call her Margaret Millet,a name that gave her real pleasure.I sincerely hope that you enjoy the works contained within these covers.I was proud to print them a few years ago,and I remain so.If anything,my enjoyment has increased over time.I hope that you take away something of the intelligence,artistry and whimsy with which Margaret endowed her writing and her person.

GIBSON OLIPHANT
NEW YORK CITY
May 19,2009

Stormy Weather

2009-06-16T18:15:00.001-04:00

Thunder Goddess by amisslis featuring Forever21

Storm in a Teacup

2009-06-14T15:49:00.004-04:00

A thunderstorm is my favourite natural phenomena. One is occurring as I type these words.Although only mild of fury,it has inspired me to corral my splintering,impressionistic thoughts into a crazy,shuddering little form of expression. Rain,especially when accompanied by thunder and lightning,causes one of two reactions in me:the instantaneous need to seek cozy sleep or the impetus to get up off of my ass and do something either creative or practical.When I wake to a grey,rain-chilled morning,all I can think about is slinking back under the covers,stretching my legs and falling back asleep;setting my internal clock seamlessly to the length of the storm.When the drops cease to fall,I am ready to begin my day.I wish that I lived such a relaxed existence that listening to my internal rhythms was a relevant way to pace things.Unfortunately,that is a luxury that too few can ever know beyond the space of a vacation.

Today's storm has made me active and pensive,an entirely unsurprising duality either for myself or Mother Nature.When the skies darkened a couple of hours ago,and I heard the first faint echoing of thunder in the distance,I became energized after a day spent lulling about with no deeper direction beyond that of passing time.Occasionally,when this storm-activated antsiness sets in,I want to clean things:scrubbing and scouring somehow seems like the proper companion to the water and noise and movement unfolding out-of-doors.Not today.A need to write came upon me,fiercely,as it does when there are things fighting to be released:I swiftly obeyed that call,although I had planned a rare day more or less without words.I had vowed to be disciplined,with my focus firmly pointed outwards:to light and fresh air,to a place where thoughts and creativity could not intrude.Yes, I had planned to attempt that rarest of pastimes but the rain--and the real culprit,thunder--worked against the integrity of my intentions.
So,here I sit,typing away at a subject neither planned nor well-thought out but aching to be released nonetheless.The storm set me to thinking,and brought out my current pensiveness.There is something about nature in turmoil (however slight and of the ordinary)that makes me feel more alive,more willing to take chances.It insists that I flow with the moment and not to a pre-determined schedule that was locked in place before present circumstances erupted.It is a testament to the flexibility of the human mind how a passing storm can cause one to reflect,albeit too quickly to grasp,on so many things.While there is no promise of cohesion to be found in such a state(or the writing born of it),to my eyes at least,everything else is held in the brevity and grandeur of a storm,and in this moment.

Austen Family Cooks:Rhubarb Pie

2009-06-14T15:16:00.002-04:00

I only write about food that I am currently craving.At this moment,I am dreaming about Rhubarb Pie.It is the perfect combination of bitingly tart and deliciously sweet.(The leaves of the rhubarb plant are,of course,toxic:only the celery-like stalks are edible.)When I was growing up,my Grandparents always had a rhubarb patch in their garden,making our various treats as fresh as possible.My ex-husband,being Italian,was entirely unaware that Rhubarb is usually used for desserts:he insisted that it could only be enjoyed raw.I have never come across anyone else--Italian or not--with that custom, nor will I ever try it his way:rhubarb is for dessert,period.We prepare rhubarb in many dishes but pie has always been my favourite.Enjoy!!!!

RHUBARB PIE

FILL AN UNBAKED PIE CRUST WITH 3 CUPS RHUBARB THAT HAS BEEN CUT INTO 1/2" PIECES.MIX TOGETHER 1 1/2 CUPS SUGAR,3 TABLESPOONS FLOUR AND 2 EGGS.POUR OVER RHUBARB.BAKE AT 350 DEGREES FOR 1 HOUR.

PIE CRUST

4 CUPS FLOUR (RESERVE 2/3 CUP)
1 1/2 TEASPOONS SALT
1 TEASPOON SUGAR
1 3/4 CUP CRISCO
1/2 CUP LUKEWARM WATER (TRUST MY GRANDMOTHER ON THIS,SHE KNOWS HER CRUST)

MAKE A PASTE WITH THE RESERVED FLOUR AND WATER.BLEND THE REMAINING FLOUR,SALT,SUGAR AND CRISCO.ADD THE PASTE AND MIX WELL (WITH HANDS).THIS DOUGH SEEMS SOFT AT FIRST BUT DO NOT ADD MORE FLOUR UNLESS YOU HAVE TROUBLE ROLLING THE DOUGH.

"As long as you're going to be thinking anyway,think big."-Donald Trump

2009-06-13T19:40:00.006-04:00

I never thought that I would agree with or post a Donald Trump quote,but here you go! I have been enjoying a few days off and will be back to my normal output on Tuesday! Have a lovely weekend!!

Happy Birthday,Maurice Sendak!!!!

2009-06-10T21:40:00.002-04:00

For all of my literary-minded mania, I do not often write about children's books.Kiddie lit was but a brief phase in my reading life.I more or less went from zero to eighty, contentedly reading dictionaries by the age of five. Yet I had my nursery-school favourites. Chief among them was the "Little Bear" series by Elsa Holmelund Minarik. Little Bear lived in a quiet,home-spun,cozy world where he was loved by his parents and friends of various species,got into and out of minor scrapes unscathed and was encouraged to use his imagination, complete with home-made props.
The best thing about the books were the illustrations by Maurice Sendak.He is recognized and revered for "Where the Wild Things Are",and rightly so,but he has a place in my childhood sense-memories for perfectly capturing the Bear clan.I still have my copy of the stories, which came to me second-hand.I believe that my mother was the original owner, as she is the appropriate age for a volume initially published in the late 1950's.Every time that I spy the dark-blue cover on my shelf, I smile.
A few years ago, I tried explaining to The Chef the nature of Little Bear's appeal.He had never heard of him. I pulled the book from the shelf and flipped it open, explaining to The Chef the gentle and moral whimsy of what it contained.(The words gentle and moral whimsy do not exactly describe my adult self but they are nice attributes to instill in children,at any rate.)It opened to the story of Little Bear pretending he was flying to the moon, complete with cardboard-box space-suit.If I was a slang slinger, I could only call the illustrations adorbs.I'm not, so I will state that they are sweet and endearing.The Chef was baffled,and I never did get my point across.
Little Bear and his low-key,uplifting adventures were special to me as a very young child.They have remained indelible across the space of 30 years because of Maurice Sendak.He endowed Little Bear with a personality and curiosity not entirely present in the writing.I have kept only a handful of books from my youngest years.This volume made the cut because it is one of the few children's books that I could ever imagine reading to my own offspring.

NANCY CARROLL

2009-06-09T22:37:00.003-04:00

Imaginative Thinking

2009-06-09T18:23:00.007-04:00

I am having something of a Nancy Carroll moment:a scandalously long moment, if you must know.There is no need to Google the conversion rate:it works out to approximately three weeks.I have been doing a little too much inward living lately,which makes me seem perhaps a bit backward:but we all go through phases,rotations.This pull between inner and outer,which to me is as ancient-seeming as the sun or the earth beneath our feet, is mine.It is to be shackled then set free, in an endless loop that has covered all of my days and will continue to do so until the frost sets in and hardens.It is for this reason that I am a writer,and am stage-trained:those two poles reflect the opposite aspects of my most primal nature,and both require the ability to sink into the depths of imagination.
There are those who will tell you that I think too much,dream too much,know too much:as if any of those ends,even after a thousand years of living,could ever be reached.Others consider the imagination to be the sole province of children and imbeciles, and thus far from a right pursuit for adults.They are obviously not artists.I am proud of the way I am. I have no qualms in tossing my imaginative life into the world for all to see:after all, to one extent or another, I do so with every piece that I write.Anyone even distantly familiar with my writing voice realizes that,while I dive to the depths, I am not a dry writer. I do not stack my words dispassionately one after the other,like erect soldiers arow,arow,arow.
My imaginative faculties are like rapids:formidable and ever-moving.While I love being a modern woman, I have always felt an exhilarating affinity with the 1920's.This love affair has easily been aided by books and movies, the 2 lovely-dirty culprits that can be blamed for my sense of connectedness with various historical eras (19th-century Russia, Elizabethan England,Ancient Britain,etc.).The greatest appeal of that decade is in what it meant to be a woman then,in the million little ways that the world opened up for us.There was a delicious clarity to that freedom that has since almost entirely vanished from society.
I am entirely besotted with Silent Cinema, and have been since I saw my first frame.As a history and culture buff, I take an almost Anthropological interest in the first 20 years of the American film industry ( I am not counting the earliest,disjointed years when the flickers were a nascent novelty,neither business nor art form).I think that it should be viewed from the combination of one part Margaret Mead, one part Anita Loos.
As a teenager, I checked out and devoured score upon score of early-20th Century related books,about: Hollywood and fashion and pop culture and art and literature and politics.They were biographies and autobiographies,criticisms and studies,fiction and non-fiction,scathing and naive.They were an apt schooling for one of my temperament and natural bent.
I first came upon the luscious fiery-locked Nancy Carroll in a nameless,forgotten book.I'm sure that the initial appeal was that we shared the same rare hair-colour.I enjoyed reading about her,and enjoyed her films even more.Yet others soon became my favourites. I moved on rather swiftly, as there was so much yet to uncover and explore.I have been reminded of her periodically through the years:each rediscovery has been refreshing,and brief.She was certainly a nonpareil.Her charismatic screen presence was extraordinary.She photographed remarkably well,even though her round face was initially deemed a hindrance to stardom.She was incandescent and peppy but without the hedonistic quality of Clara Bow or the sophisticated yet raw sexuality of Louise Brooks.She could act as well as sing.She received an Academy Award nomination and was stunningly popular for a time.As with so many others with stratospheric attractions,her fame has not lasted:it did not even last the length of her lifetime.I recently came upon a photo of her,somewhere in the vastness of the Internet.Hooked again,just like that.
She is an easy one to build daydreams and stories around.By that, I do not mean that I sit around concocting fictional escapades around Nancy Carroll--although that sounds kind of fun,doesn't it? ( I will own up to looking her way for some beauty tips.) Perhaps something in the vein of those writers who turn historical figures (Jane Austen, Good Queen Bess) into wacky and perceptive sleuths?It is the Nancy Carroll type that is so mesmerizing.Like any good flapper,she was complex,truly dimensional--and ridiculously stylish.The legendary life force of those 1920's women lends itself to fiction in spectacular fashion.They are also model muses for any modern woman looking to get the most from this life.It is largely due to the latter that I find them insanely relatable.Even the most mediocre Flapper has an immediacy of personality almost unheard of with women of even considerably newer vintage.
I have had a 1920's novel floating around in my head for these 3 years past.I woke from a dream,and the bones and flesh of it were before my eyes,palpable and flowing with blood.It is 2nd in the queue of my unborn works of long fiction,but its time of quickening is nearly upon me.Although many of her details need to be imagined,created,shaded,my heroine came to me as tangible as life.She is a Flapper,of course, and as such a woman for the ages.The spirit of women such as Nancy Carroll, as filtered through my imagination and preferences, is to be found in her.
As the race of my days has been temporarily slowed down to accommodate my inner dictation,as mysterious as it is necessary,I have returned again and again to subjects that make me happy,give me no pause,help my imagination soar.It is a process of regeneration and renewal.This time around, I have been lucky to have Nancy Carroll in the mix,to remind me of my own ineffable zest,and the thousand little links between imagination,inspiration and creativity.

EVA CASSIDY-FIELDS OF GOLD

2009-06-08T18:46:00.001-04:00

A Few Paragraphs on Eva Cassidy

2009-06-08T18:02:00.005-04:00

I'm a tree-hugger.I like granola. I think that Stonehenge is awe-inspiring.I will read any book about The Arthurian Legend.I believe that crystals can,indeed, have healing power.Yet,the sum total of all of those particulars does not equal a love of ethereal music.This is a pretty hard-and-fast rule for me.Chakras,yes.
Enya,no.
I also possess something of a misogynistic streak when it comes to singers.As a feminist,this is no easy thing for me to admit;however, we all have our peculiarities,our albatrosses to bear.This is one of mine.I am drawn to unique and often imperfect voices.Artistry,approach and an often inexplicable hold on my senses is what is required to win me over.This tends to happen within seconds,or not at all.Voices strike me to the gut,or they don't:there is no in-between.Most of the victors are males.Indeed,all of my favourite singers are men, with a few honourable mention slots going to women.There have been individual instances of me falling in love with a specific song sung by a woman, but that is where it rests.Every rule under the sun has an exception:Eva Cassidy is mine,and she breaks two rules.Her voice was heavenly,crystalline,and she covered airy,heart-rending songs.
Her version of "Fields of Gold" stops just shy of giving me chills.It is my personal favourite.I could easily listen to it ten times in a row, or fifty times in a day.It has a ridiculous hold on me,much more so than Sting's revered version.The lure for me is all in her voice,which mesmerizes but never cloys,as so many New-Age-y voices do.She was in a class by herself,and it is a class I was not even aware existed:until embarrassingly recently I had never heard of her.She has been dead nearly 13 years.
I am not upset that I missed being ahead of,or at least on top, of a trend, as I so often am.I am annoyed and grieved that I missed out on 15 or 20 years of that voice,that I was not aware of her at a time when I could anticipate her next great release.As it stands,and this is appropriate,her voice is a disembodied thing for me,a force of beauty and soul:it does not need concrete associations,and has none.She lived and died--oh very young,indeed--and there is nothing else that I wish to know,although I am normally insatiable for biographical detail.This is the lovely thing about music,and all art forms:it stands against time,and it always wins.

SOME OF MY FAVOURITE WILLIAM POWELL FILMS

2009-06-05T19:43:00.003-04:00

Romola (1925)
The Kennel Murder Case (1933)
Manhattan Melodrama (1934)
The Thin Man (1934)
After the Thin Man (1936)
Ex-Mrs. Bradford (1936)
The Great Ziegfeld (1936)
My Man Godfrey (1936)
Libeled Lady (1936)
Double Wedding (1937)
I Love You Again (1940)
Love Crazy (1941)
Life with Father (1947)
How to Marry a Millionaire (1953)
Mister Roberts (1955)

And a few honourable mentions:

The Canary Murder Case (1929)
One-Way Passage (1932)

FROM MY VAULT:WILLIAM POWELL-MORE THAN MYRNA'S OTHER HALF

2009-06-05T17:39:00.002-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I posted an old piece about Myrna Loy. The following article about William Powell originally appeared in the same publication.

Debonair.Urbane.Witty.Sophisticated.Irreverent.William Powell wore all of these superlatives like a very expensive,hand-stitched glove.In the era of the young and overpowering Clark Gable and Gary Cooper,Robert Taylor and Tyrone Power,the slightly bug-eyed,lanky Powell was already middle-aged.Distinguished in appearance,with a to-the-tuxedo-born aura,he found leading man success.His attitude,however,was more street savvy,fast-talker than drawing-room polite.He charmed,cajoled and double-talked his way through dozens of films in a career that lasted more than thirty years.His characters were always willing to be a little shady if it furthered their purpose;indeed,they seemed to revel in being sly and less-than-straightforward,their misdeeds often accompanied by a wink.

He was immortalized as Dashiell Hammett's hard-drinking,wise-cracking Nick Charles,a role that he played to acerbic,dissipated perfection in half-a-dozen films. In what is perhaps the most sublime pairing in cinema history,he flirted,argued,bantered and,occasionally,solved crime opposite the incomparable Myrna Loy.As fresh and sexy today as they were an unbelievable 7 decades ago,the proof of their physical chemistry and verbal syncopation is in the watching.

Nick Charles was not his first successful foray into detective-portrayal.He brought Philo Vance to life in four films from the late Twenties through the early Thirties.Lest we try to pigeon-hole him as a suave city-dweller,it pays to remember that he started his celluloid career as a silent film villain in,of all things,Westerns.Silent films enabled actors to readily and believably play characters of various nationalities without the need to master a foreign accent.In this vein,Powell portrayed both King Francis I and The Duke of Orleans.Although,as a former Broadway actor,he had a wider range than the ironic,tippling,slightly ruthless characters that he is most famous for might suggest.

Myrna aside, he starred with the likes of Jean Arthur,Lillian Gish,Louise Brooks and Marilyn Monroe. On the home front,he was married to one co-star and engaged to another.His second wife was the elegant,brash Carole Lombard. He was engaged to tragic sex-symbol Jean Harlow at the time of her death from uremia poisoning in 1937.He ultimately settled down into one of Tinseltown's rare long marriages,to starlet Diana Lewis,in a union that lasted from 1940-1984.He died in 1984,at 91.

He was nominated for the Best Actor Academy Award 3 times but never won.His career steamed through the 1940's with nearly as much momentum as in the 2 previous decades.Still occasionally starring with Loy,he also performed with such up-and-comers as Ann Blythe and Elizabeth Taylor.He received his final Oscar nomination for the 1947 classic "Life with Father" and finished his film career 8 years later as part of the all-star "Mister Roberts".

William Powell's portrayals remain one of the indelible factors of 1930's cinema.He never took himself too seriously on film and his characters,whatever their situation,always seemed to be having a good time....and a good laugh at life's expense.

ALL WOMEN SHOULD BE SO CONFIDENT

2009-06-03T20:58:00.004-04:00

"When I look at myself,I am so beautiful I scream with joy."-Maria Montez
"I see my path,but I don't know where it leads.Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it."-Rosalia de Castro
"I totally and completely admit,with no qualms at all,my egomania,my selfishness,coupled with a really magnificent voice."Leontyne Price
"So what?Forty is the new 30.It doesn't mean a damn thing."-Sheryl Crow
"My agent said,'You aren't good enough for movies.'I said,'You're fired.'"-Sally Field
"If you have to make mistakes,make them good and big;don't be middling if you can help it."-Hildegard Knef
And one honorary man quote:"I'm not in this world to live up to your expectations and you're not in this world to live up to mine."-Bruce Lee
And one more for good measure:"The question isn't who is going to let me;it's who is going to stop me."-Ayn Rand

Marilyn:The Lost 'LIFE' Photos

2009-06-02T18:45:00.002-04:00

It is astounding and delightful that some people at LIFE magazine recently unearthed never-before-published Marilyn Monroe photographs (in,of all places, a warehouse in New Jersey).They were taken by Ed Clark in August 1950,2 months after his subject's 24th birthday.The images were snapped at a Los Angeles park and show Marilyn minimally done-up, yet more polished than in the beach photos mentioned in my previous article.She is casually dressed--as she often was in the years before stardom-- surrounded by foliage,water,sunlight and shade.My favourite images are numbers 1 and 11. I do not agree with the captions' assessment that Marilyn was an innocent with no inkling of the fame she would soon command.This is,at best,disingenuous and,at worst, a slam to an ambitious woman who always went after what she wanted.To imply that it just kind of fell into her lap is tinged with some disrespect,however unconsciously meant.However,the photos are stunning.They add more texture to a woman already well-sated with complexity.

Click the word delightful to be transported to LIFE's gallery of lost MM photos.

a la Marilyn, Circa 1956

2009-06-02T18:20:00.002-04:00

a la Marilyn by amisslis featuring 1928 jewelry

It is June First--Welcome to My de rigueur Marilyn Post

2009-06-01T17:45:00.004-04:00

It can seem as if writing about Marilyn Monroe on 1 June is some kind of odd by-law of the classic film world.While I rarely do anything for the flimsy reason that is is expected of me--I am,frankly,wont to do the exact opposite in such situations--it is too difficult to pass up such an obvious excuse to muse on this most-famous of muses.I will not delve into the great and murky depths of criticism here (that is for another time, forum,state of mind).One of the truly appealing aspects of Marilyn--and she is one of the few stars to inspire first-name informality in fans and commentators alike--is the very personal nature of her attractions.To love Marilyn is to love her passionately,in an almost familial way.(To hate her or,worse yet, to be impervious to her charms, is to simply be baffled.)I will approach her in the words of this wee monograph not as a critic or a fanatic but as a regular woman touched,to a temperate degree,by her imperfect yet dazzling charisma.

As a young teen, I had a Marilyn poster on my wall:one of the stunning Milton Greene shots, all glamorous smoke and mirrors.At about the time I thumb-tacked that poster to my wall, I received my first Monroe calendar.The 12 images inside were something of a wake-up call to my nascent,un-trained senses:Marilyn was not always blonde,larger-than-life,unobtainable.All I had ever seen of her,to that point, was the Divine-MM-in-full-blown-Goddess mode, armored with platinum coif and lame and red-red lips.It had not occurred to me that there was so much more hidden behind that mask.

The photos that gripped me the most were those of the young Norma Jeane, taken when she was a few years older than I was then.The contrast to shellacked, movie-star Marilyn is,at first, a bit shocking but it is a shock that is easy to get over.The exuberance and hopefulness is sweet, especially given the pitted path she was about to set off on.A few years later, she was frolicking on a New York beach.Her kinky-curled brown hair had given way to long,straightened blonde tresses.Clad in a picture-perfect late '40's bathing suit,she was white-on-white for the first time.On the cusp of big things,she looked happy and determined,almost plucky.And still there was a hope so palpable that it jumped off the page.

From there it was on into her glory years:all curves and bedroom eyes for nearly a decade,with the notable exceptions of Milton Greene's subtler work and every photo ever snapped by the incomparable Sam Shaw.His lens caught her,often in private moments,during her New York period,when she was married to Arthur Miller.They capture a healthy,numinous,natural Marilyn.She is pensive,quiet,joyous,serious and,in that most elusive of moods for celebrities,relaxed.She trusted Shaw,who was a personal friend:his work has the feeling of private family snap-shots.Then,there was Marilyn at the end:riveting in her glorious,complex maturity.She was as lovely as ever but in new,richly textured ways,fully human at last.

Those images, taken by a variety of photographers over the entire span of her career,showed not just sides to Marilyn that I did not know existed :they held more incarnations than I thought it possible for any one woman to contain.The possibilities opened to me by mere publicity and glamour shots of a long-gone star were limitless,unfathomable, and lasting.

"What we see depends mainly on what we look for."-Sir John Lubbock

2009-05-30T16:32:00.001-04:00

If I Were....Living Any Life Other Than My Own (Circa....Whenever)

2009-05-29T19:02:00.002-04:00

I would:

Stop putting love,and its wanton promise,before my sense of self.
Eat more,and worry less about its effects on my figure.
Adhere to the lessons that I have already learned,ceasing the need to learn them all over again.
Travel more in fact and less in fancy.
Learn to be-friend women without worrying that they are catty wenches with nothing better to do than judge me.
Sleep less
Flirt more
Admit that I have made mistakes,and that those mistakes HAVE impacted my life,regardless of what the Self-Help gurus tell you. Then move on.
Instead of just admitting that Perfection is over-rated and toxic, actually believe it.
Learn to be an old-school hostess with new-school attitude (think Amy Sedaris).
Get the tattoo that I have been talking about getting for the last 9 years.
Quit worrying about what I cannot do and be thankful for the myriad things I can do.
Admit,LOUDLY,that I am actually quite happy with the quirky person that I am,faults and all,and any one who does not like me as I am can stick it,politely.
Quit making so many damn introspective lists and live life more.
Admit to being a bit egotistical about my otherness, and thankful for it all the same.
Own up to needing to be the center of attention.
Try harder to get my finances in order.
Not be ashamed or afraid of ambition and just go for the things that I really want, instead of taking such a meandering path.
Quit praying,as I do not believe in it,yet continue to do it out of habit.
Put my needs first.

Austen Family Cooks:Cucumbers in Creamy Sauce

2009-05-28T18:01:00.002-04:00

This is a great cooling recipe to enjoy on a hot afternoon. It is perfect for barbecues. It is a cinch to prepare. We have been making this in my family for decades:it has the seal of approval of many generations. Its appeal is slightly retro-chic, in the best 1940's family-picnic kind of way.So,throw on a shirt-dress,strap on those espadrilles, and tie on your apron.Enjoy!!

COMBINE:

1 CUCUMBER-SLICED
1 TABLESPOON DICED ONION
SALT AND PEPPER

MIX THE FOLLOWING AND POUR OVER CUCUMBER:

1/2 CUP MIRACLE WHIP SALAD DRESSING
3 TABLESPOONS SUGAR
3 TABLESPOONS VINEGAR
3 TABLESPOONS SOUR CREAM
DASH OF GARLIC POWDER

From My Vault:Myrna Loy-An Appreciation

2009-05-26T18:44:00.003-04:00

Old movies first set fire to my imagination when I was 11.It started with "The Moon is Blue"(1953),a romantic trifle starring William Holden and a neophyte Maggie McNamara that ventured to use the V-word (that is, virginity) during the Eisenhower years,hardly a daring exclamation to a 1980's pre-teen.Absurd as this may seem today,this innocuous film was enough to hook me to classic cinema for life.

It didn't take me long to realize that there was higher quality fare to be seen, and I was soon regularly watching old Hollywood classics.'80's television,with few exceptions,paled to a death pallor next to the richness and chic,drama and effervescence of studio-era output.

As a 16-year-old acting student,I breathlessly discovered old-school film stars from a new angle.From Spencer Tracy to Marilyn Monroe,Ronald Colman to Claudette Colbert,they were all beings who dominated the screen.Sometimes glamorous,sometimes tragic,always incandescent,they represented human variety in its stupefying spectrum.

At some point,and with great good fortune (there really is no other phrase for it),I saw a Myrna Loy film.I wish I could say,with assurance,which one it was.My memory leans towards "The Mask of Fu Manchu" (1932),or perhaps one of her earlier 'Oriental' baddie roles.Either way,it was hardly an encouraging introduction to an actress known for her sparkling wit and sophistication, yet it is fitting.In one of the strange twists that Hollywood is so known for Loy,a fresh-faced redhead from Montana,was often cast early in her career as a menacing Asian vamp. Indeed, "The Mask of Fu Manchu" came just 2 years before her star-making turn as Nora Charles in "The Thin Man" (1934).

Combining panache and elegance,she starred in comedies and melodramas,always an intelligent force to be reckoned with.Her star-power was never weakened by the dazzle of her co-stars.The wattage emanating from the likes of Tracy,Clark Gable and,most famously,William Powell only served to play up her command of the screen.Even the shimmering eyeful Jean Harlow,with whom Loy starred in 2 1936 releases ("Libeled Lady" and "Wife Versus Secretary"),did not detract from her vital presence.

At 18,with my acting ambitions still cheerily intact,I received a note from the 86-year-old Loy,by then much my favourite actress.She was gracious to this Ohio teenager with hazy though outlandish ambitions.Let me take a moment here to clarify that I am not,nor have ever been,in spite of my passion for film,star-struck.I am stubbornly hard to impress and wouldn't walk across the room to meet 99% of celebrities who ever drew breath.(Authors,dead ones,are my true weakness).Myrna Loy was the role-model exception.

In "The Best Years of Our Lives" (1946),playing a war-weary wife,she proved her mettle in a drama of depth and realism,endowing the character with poignant maturity.She never played a false-scene,in any genre,never betrayed the machinery at work behind her art.The lady could act.

I eventually gave up acting in favour of writing,for me a more comfortable and primal fit,but my Myrna Loy note,hanging on the wall to the left of my writing desk,remains a treasured possession.It serves as a reminder that,as Myrna Loy proved over the decades,cinema and real life can handle smart,sophisticated,complex and witty women.

PHOTOGRAPH:MYRNA LOY IN "SHADOW OF THE THIN MAN" (1941)

THINGS I WANT TO BE (NO FOOLING)

2009-05-24T20:03:00.002-04:00

Life is short and full of infinite possibility and wonder.It is never too late to become exactly what you want to be, or enhance who you already are.

Photographer (black and white)
Collage artist
Anthropologist
Window dresser
Short-film director
Boutique owner
Saloniere
Yoga instructor
Nutritionist
Bookstore/Tea-Shop Owner
More myself than ever I was (this is my life's worthiest goal)
Renn-Faire Wench
Performance artist
Someone who never stops adding to her list of life's possibilities
Small-Press publisher (on a letter-press, of course!!!!)

A Reading List a Mile Long:24 May Edition

2009-05-24T16:37:00.002-04:00

When The Chef got the mail this morning, he immediately took the "Daedelus Books Early Summer 2009" catalogue and tossed it into the trash.He is certainly no enabler, I will give him that.His thoughts on the subject run the course from "You already have more books than you need" to "You can't afford to buy books right now".He muttered the latter as he pitched the precious trove of literary possibilities.'Tis true,I must admit, but it falls far wide of my reasoning.I love to think about books almost as much as I enjoy reading them.My reading list is destined to grow ever longer--I will never be able to keep pace with my desires.But no matter--perusing a catalogue is something akin to flipping through 'Elle'.I will never own 90% of what catches my fancy but I am all the richer for knowing that they exist.And,unlike haute couture, I can borrow all of the books that I want.I am currently quite intrigued with the following.

1-JANE AUSTEN'S GUIDE TO GOOD MANNERS COMPLIMENTS,CHARADES AND HORRIBLE BLUNDERS BY JOSEPHINE ROSS HENRIETTA WEBB ILLUS. (BLOOMSBURY) Although I have no interest in the worshipful cult that has grown up around the witty lady from Bath,I am an unabashed fan of her life and works (that I am an Austen myself makes this somewhat inevitable).This book is an exception to my rule:it looks genuinely engaging.We could all do with a goodly dose of manners, especially as filtered through the Austen sensibility.
2-ALDOUS HUXLEY COMPLETE ESSAYS VOLUME V:1939-1956 and ALDOUS HUXLEY COMPLETE ESSAYS VOLUME VI:1956-1963 ROBERT S. BAKER AND JAMES SEXTON, EDS. (IVAN R. DEE) A compilation series of the non-fiction essays of the famously hard-to-fathom Englishman (at least for high-schoolers trying to work their way through 'A Brave New World').Huxley's contribution to 20th-century literature was immense.These books offer up a fraction of his varied out-put.
3-JOYCE BY IAN PINDAR (HAUS PUBLISHING)I love biographies of dead writers, as I have mentioned on more than one occasion.James Joyce was truly the most fascinating of individuals.Of equal fascination to me is how biographers approach the man and his work in so many odd,convoluted,dense and deep ways, which insures that Joyce as subject will always seem as fresh and new as his writing.
4-ANGUS MCBEAN:PORTRAITS ANGUS MCBEAN,PHOTOS. TERENCE PEPPER, ED. (MONACELLI)Angus McBean was one of the finest photographers of the 20th-Century.His images of British stars from the 1930's onward are amazing:I can only imagine how fabulous this coffee-table edition of his work must be.
5-SUN VALLEY:ARCHITECTURE AND INTERIORS ALAN EDISON AND JO RABJOHN TIM BROWN, PHOTOS. (GIBBS SMITH)Sun Valley is one of the places in America that I would most like to visit--probably because it is so different from my native neck-of-the-woods.Couple that with my well-known love of coffee table books, and it looks like a winner.
6-ALL IS CHANGE THE TWO-THOUSAND-YEAR JOURNEY OF BUDDHISM TO THE WEST BY LAWRENCE SUTIN (LITTLE,BROWN)Buddhism,while ultimately not for me as a life choice, is a subject that I delve into time and again.I like the approach that this book takes, elucidating the long-history of Buddhism's dance with the West.
7-TRUE VAMPIRES BY SONDRA LONDON (FERAL HOUSE) I,like many,find the literary vampire (and its historical origins) of keen interest.However,this book crosses the threshold into reality, by profiling people who truly believe that they are vampires.I am not sure if the result of reading about such people will be horror or pity.
8-WAVE-SWEPT SHORE THE RIGORS OF LIFE ON A ROCKY SHORE BY MIMI KOEHL,ANN WERTHEIM ROSENFELD,PHOTOS. (CALIFORNIA)This appears to be an analytical-visual take on the gritty nature of coastal life.Rugged shores are some of my favourite places to visit. I harbor a kind of artistic-literary fantasy of living on the wild shores of New England or Cape Breton.As that is unlikely, I will make do with the occasional vacation and this book!
9-FLAVORS OF GREECE BY ROSEMARY BARRON (INTERLINK)You can chalk this one up to a combination of hunger and the fact that I ate at a Greek diner with my boss a few days ago.Oh,and because I really do love Greek food.I still regret not ordering Baklava for dessert on Friday.
10-CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG BY IAN FLEMING (YEARLING) I loved this book as a child, and was in the habit of dreaming myself into the story.That it was written by the man who gave us Bond, James Bond really makes me giggle as an adult.It is one of the little gems that I would love to read aloud to my (hypothetical) future children. Sigh.

Plucking

2009-05-24T12:02:00.003-04:00

I own a pair of flapper pumps.Beige patent,buckled, with a kicky 20's heel.They are from the class of '09, not genuine at all:but they sublimely send me back to that dizzy,bedazzled time of bee-stung lips,be-curled hair,lariat necklaces and short,boyish silhouettes.They are for dancing-in 'til the sun rises. I should learn how to Charleston just for the extra thrill of giving them the authentic good-time they were made for.It would surely mean hell for my feet but the price is paltry that allows for such an instant,kinetic leap-back-in time.They are,you see, my Nancy Carroll shoes.I write those words as if that explains all,end of story,enough said:as if those words are an all-access pass into my imagination,with all corners and crannies of my psyche immediately illumined for your edification.

Stepping into my shoes,I become saucer-eyed,bow-mouthed, sassy.Was there ever a flapper with down-turned eyes, a generous-mouthed frown,surface sadness? I belong in a smoky nightclub,with nicotine puffs swirling heavily in the air. I have a holder:shiny and black, with inlaid mother-of-pearl. It sparkles in the darkness, a beacon, a tool in my kit of pertness and gaiety.There are dancing girls, on-stage and off, and I am among them. Where the performers leave off and the giddy patrons begin, is hard to tell.We are one laughing mass, of short skirts, rolled-up silk stockings and bobbed hair:brunettes,blondes, redheads.The men are in wilted evening wear,their perfect creases having worn off hours ago: it is 1 in the morning but feels like 4 in the afternoon. We are so young and un-tired that we could go on for hours,days,until next Tuesday,until the music stops.I am drinking an endless glass of Gin Rickeys and grabbing food off of passing trays.I lost the man I came with. I saw him dancing with a sweet-faced blonde hours ago.He is here somewhere, she is here somewhere,I am here, too, somewhere and everywhere.There is a woman wearing the same dress as I am.With so many people packed in this joint, it is really no wonder,and I don't care.It has been hours since I checked a mirror.I don't need to:everything has worn off in the heat of this place. We all feel so good that it cannot possibly matter.I'm flush with happiness and heat and dancing and drinking.We all are.I saw Rudy Vallee earlier, I really did. He wasn't performing,mind you:he was a customer, just like the rest of us,carrying a glass in his hand and laughing, watching the dancing girls, maybe watching me for a second,too.I really wish that I could slip out of my shoes.They are darling but my feet are killing me.Maybe they weren't meant for dancing,just for standing around and looking saucy and pretty in.Don't they know that we are too active for that?We don't sit at tables, not for long, not when there is so much else to do.Being still is for sleeping, not for living. Maybe I can take them off and put them in my pocket book.The girls dancing on the tables are barefoot.I'm becoming delirious with all of this activity. I need to have another drink but I'm bored with Gin Rickeys.I hear bottles of champagne popping.You would think that this is a celebration for the way that we are all acting. Maybe I will have a glass,anyway.Sometimes these parties seem like they are taken straight from the movies,with dancing and flirting and revelry,only in the movies they seem to always live like this.No one does anything real.I don't know how some of those girls pay their rent.They show them standing behind a counter for a few frames and, when they go home, it is always to someplace glorious.Then again, if I looked like Clara Bow I probably wouldn't have to worry about paying the piper, either.When this place shuts down, a bunch of us our going to stop by Flannagan's for breakfast.In a few hours, I will be eating scrambled eggs and toast,and my shoes will definitely be off then.I'll look a mess but it won't matter.I'll be tired,too,but I can sleep later. Tonight,after work, we're going to go see 'Honey' with Nancy Carroll--that is, Burt and me, if he doesn't leave me for that blonde.I love Nancy Carroll.Burt says that I look like her, only I can't sing.I wish I did but I think that he is just talking-sweet so that he can get places with me.I think I see Burt over there. I don't see the blonde with him. No, he's alone and he just winked at me. I think I had better go freshen up.

Any object or thought or word can take you anywhere that you want to go,if you are open enough to the experience.I spent an entire,and entirely delicious, lazy Saturday afternoon lost in reverie over a pair of shoes.I could call it wasted time,but it wasn't.I could call myself out on all of the productive things I could have been doing instead, but I won't.I accept that some days it is hard to remember what motivation is,let alone reach deep within and corral it into a meaningful purpose.Some days it vanishes from your vocabulary entirely, and you have to go look it up in a dictionary.When this mood enfolds me, I do not care that I am the sole mistress of my art, and without ferocious self-goading, ideas and words die unplucked.Art or no art, I could have done the dishes or swept the floor.Instead, I chose to indulge in an absurd and guilt-free flight of creativity, a minor symphony of the imagination.One of the major perks of being a writer,of any age, is that you must keep your day-dreaming and creative projection skills well-honed.So what if I created a madly-energetic,pulsing,and riotous Technicolor world from a pretty little pair of shoes?In letting go,however briefly,of my need to write--in allowing imagination to soar, an alternative creativity burst forth anyway.Giving yourself occasional freedom from outside demands,whatever the outcome, is beneficial.Heeding the call of a diverted mind is part of life's wayward journey: it is proof that living fully is about the inner as well as the outer aspect,and that joy and artistry is often to be found in accepting the moment,without demand.

Shaw,Artie Shaw....Woman Magnet

2009-05-23T19:14:00.001-04:00

Creat-Your-Own Weekend

2009-05-22T18:51:00.004-04:00

I have decided to take Thursday AND Friday off.I will,alas, be housebound the entire holiday weekend (except for romping with the dog in the park).While the rest of you are enjoying your picnics and festivities,I will doubtless go into writing-overload and produce all kinds of riotous bits and bobs.Have a lovely evening!

Cine-spiration:Kay Francis

2009-05-20T20:36:00.002-04:00

Kay Francis by amisslis featuring Anya Hindmarch bags

Kay Francis-Part I

2009-05-20T18:14:00.006-04:00

Kay Francis' charms are tantalizingly out-of-reach for me, and those of my ilk. She was everything that I am not, and therein resides the sweet mockery of her appeal.Perhaps it is a hiccup in my personal psychology, an erratic call-to-arms,but by my creativity and intellect I am drawn to two types of women-as-inspiration:those within my warm reach and those many-a-mile without it.

The dark,leggy, soignee Kay is firmly classified as the latter.(Since DNA decreed me,quite clearly, to be a saucy Nancy Carroll type, the only thing Ms. Francis and I share is an enchanting speech impediment.)She was as cool and smoky as dry ice, with witty and insouciant clothes-sense to burn.It is for her effortless, slightly off-kilter chic that she is remembered at all.She has been reclaimed, shiny and whole, as an edgy,elegant minx of the 'thirties.And, it is true:she wore clothes with a sleek nonchalance seldom approached even by the outre-stylish. Yet,as an actress, she is on the precipice of being entirely forgotten,a quietly echoing fate shared by hundreds of once-enchanted individuals.They all, to varying degrees, deserve at least a cursory reconsideration.Kay Francis is surely among those whose career and critical reputation is worthy of a full,firm rebirth, conceived from a just and judicious reappraisal.

Above even her striking looks, which only pellucid,living celluloid can do proper justice to, rests,immobile, her strongest contribution to film-culture:her womanliness.Kay Francis possessed not a trace of flirty girlishness,owned not a smidgen of nubile coquettishness,however wily.She was a full-on woman from her first film-frame to her last.She was no youthful matron ala Florence Vidor, but an engaging and sensual female with an over-flowing life-source.This quality allowed her to play the vamp, the wronged hoyden, and the misunderstood heroine with pure perfection.Kay Francis also lent grace and sophistication to her diva-in-the-drawing-room roles,which, though less demanding,required a certain level of lacquered precision,a quality that she had,personally, in excess.

Hollywood traditionally allows its actresses to be sexy,complicated,vital and grown for the span of a few years.That triumphant phase is hemmed in by two endless deserts, those of prolonged youth and premature crone-hood.Dishearteningly few women have been able to strike the mold to the ground,breaking it beyond repair.Tallulah Bankhead comes to my mind as a simmering example of commanding and sexual womanhood, but her film career was spotty,contentious and largely marginal.

Kay Francis was Paramount's maven of melodrama for nearly a decade,before her career was hobbled,though not ended, by inclusion on The Hollywood Reporter's underhanded "Box Office Poison" list, in 1938.A reputation for tetchiness and personal drama was certainly no help.Fate is not a mistress of respect;she cares not a whit for talent,or a fig for incandescence:most Hollywood careers are of relatively short duration.In a market constantly over-sated--even 70 years ago, when attention spans were arguably not as fickle as they have become--staying in the spotlight is nearly impossible.Therefore,it is what you do while it flickers across your face that counts.

Kay Francis left a unique impression on film, proving that women are indelibly beautiful and compelling when allowed full expression to be themselves,and to grow into maturation as ripening and rooted beings.

PHOTO:KAY FRANCIS IN 'THE FEMININE TOUCH' (1941)

Stay tuned:In Part II, I will discuss the films of Kay Francis.

"That so few now dare to be eccentric marks the chief danger of our time."-John Stuart Mill

2009-05-19T19:58:00.001-04:00