All The News That's Fit To Print

Still recovering from evil summer cold, but can't resist some of the recent news bits. Jack White has a divorce party -- I approve. Who says divorce can't be as celebrated as marriage? Anthony Weiner. Ummm, hope he has a hands free phone. Couldn't resist. But the man has suffered, let's face it. When Jane Lynch and Bill Maher read your tweets on air, it's pretty awful. All sex talk sounds horrid out of context. Mr. Weiner is no Henry Miller. But how he does go on like Henry! And I'm getting pretty sick of the whole rehab thing. You do something questionable and then straight to rehab! While the man may suffer a sex addiction (and I don't know if that's real or Memorex, as the old ads used to say), why rehab? Are there no therapists in all of Queens? One thing we do know -- there are places where a man can get his chest waxed.

And the Mavs -- well played! Clearly, Cleveland put a curse on King James who looked as one of my friends puts it, scared stupid the entire finals, particularly last night. I get pressure, but what happened to the warrior I once watched on the courts? A formidable opponent against my beloved Pistons, I wonder the question that scholars and philosophers have posed since the beginning of time -- What. The. Fuck? So that's all for today -- back tomorrow!

Summer Cold

I recently read that it takes ten thousand hours of practice to master anything. Of course, I start trying (operative word) to do the math in terms of writing. How many hours have I logged? No idea. I've spent a long time wanting to write, a long time studying writing, and a long time actually writing but am I in the proverbial ballpark? Not sure. At the magic mark, will I know or have I passed it like a city on a road trip without any notable signs, a place designed to take you somewhere else? Or as so many cards and pillow samplers suggest, is the journey the important thing? I have come to the conclusion that I have no fucking idea.

Also, I have a summer cold which adds to the surreal aspects of this exercise. Cold medicine makes everything trippy, not like anything really good, but trippy like you never quite know where you are. I suppose that's a lot like writing. You're always on the road, hoping to see something great. But what is it you're looking for? Evil clowns? Museums dedicated to things that you didn't know that happened in the first place? Whatever it is, the road will take you there. Stay alert. You never know when you'll hit the mark.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"You're going to kick me out of my own trauma?" Nurse Jackie

Cocktail Hour
Movie suggestion: Midnight in Paris

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday!

Happy Best Friends Day!

Never heard of this holiday until today, but happy best friend's day! I usually hate made up holidays, but I'm a big fan of friendship. I've heard a lot of things about friendship and the one that comes to mind is that friends are God's way of apologizing for your relatives. I happen to like my relatives so it doesn't apply directly, but my friends are wonderful in every way. They deserve awards for days. Friend duties -- helping you break up with men (special thanks to Angela on this one for a notable airport getaway car), listening to your boring stories (all of my friends and the readers of this blog fulfill this one), helping you move (this is where true friends come in), giving you presents you didn't even know you needed until that moment (Hello Kitty makeup!, Kentucky bourbon, vintage bar sets), and helping with funerals (only the hardcore friends need apply on this one). I'm not one who uses the expression BFF, but I have tons of BFFs who all make everything a little more wonderful. To all my near and dear, this one is for you! See you tomorrow . . .

Ten Items Only

A few nights ago, I slept in a room with two giant Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls made by a woman who had undergone a lobotomy in the 60s and now has dementia which takes the form of feeling as if Santa Claus is trying to force her to have his child, a strange variation on Rosemary's Baby. The dolls gave me the creeps before I knew their history, staring at my with their vacant eyes, a reminder of the inherent strangeness of childhood and oddly reminiscent of blow-up dolls. My hostess for the night is a deeply kind woman who spoke of the difficulties of being a stepmom and how she always felt she couldn't say anything in her situation for fear of making it worse. She smiled after this revelation and said, I call my girlfriend who always tells me to pump the love. She takes care of her mother despite the fact that her mother was unable to take care of her much of her young life in addition to her heroic efforts with her husband's ex and her great love for his children.

I got to thinking about her friend's advice, to pump the love. I'm great at this so long as I like the person. Where it gets tricky is the whole loving your enemy stuff. Enemy, such a formal and formidable word when in fact it's usually someone who hardly seems glamorous enough to be an enemy -- your beloved's ex who wears a thong leotard so revealing that you can tell if a bikini wax might be in order, the person who always gets into the magazine that you have been trying to break into for years, the person in line with twenty items when the sign clearly says Ten Items Only. I think of my friend who has been through so much and still pumps the love and packs snacks for me with a big smiley face that says Thanks for staying with me! In honor of her, I'm going to try to pump the love and failing that at least shut my mouth when I can't.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"It is, I believe, a new and significant invention of drama or the novel, a new way in which people can learn to look at life, by seeing the real life of others interpreted by the camera." Margaret Meade

Cocktail Hour
DVD suggestion: You Don't Know Jack

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday! Rest in peace, Jack Kevorkian, Michigan's own. And a note to everyone -- I have had very limited internet access and will return all emails as soon as I can.

Solar Eclipse Day

All Gave Some, Some Gave All

Happy Memorial Day! Check out the Wounded Warrior Project -- www.woundedwarrior.org
See you tomorrow!

Everything Must Go

It's no secret that I'm a Raymond Carver fan. I love his poetry and stories, particularly the line in "Jean's TV" where he "conducts the shabby business of his life" on her telephone. In "Everything Must Go" based on Carver's story, "Why Don't You Dance?", Will Ferrell morphs into the typical Carver character, Nick, a man on the brink of loss, despair, alcoholism, and endless pools of regret. Ferrell's performance is a formidable one of restraint. One can hardly believe this is the same man who starred in "Elf." We meet Nick as he's losing his job, relapsing into a life of booze, and returning to a house where his wife has thrown all his stuff on the lawn, changed the locks, and left a note which we see in part (ie, You make me sick.) He realizes his credit cards and bank account has been frozen and so he sits on his lawn and drinks beer after beer, looking at his stuff (Best touch for Carver fans -- Nick pulls out an old viewfinder which falls apart in his hands). Without giving away too much of the plot, Nick begins to have a yard sale, enlisting the help of a young African-American boy named Kenny whose mother is taking care of an elderly woman down the street while Kenny rides his bike around the neighborhood in endless circles. Across the street, a pregnant woman moves into the house sans her husband and also provides a sounding board for Nick as he navigates the shabby business of his life.

There's nothing like seeing all your stuff in front of your house to make it look worthless. Nick refuses to part with much of it for a while until he gets into the spirit of things and decides he doesn't need it. The movie's transformations are subtle, much like Carver himself, the kindnesses not maudlin. What happens to Nick finds voice through the objects of the physical world and the actions of others. When Kenny reads Nick's book about making things easy to buy, he labels all of Nick's belongings with price tags that have titles that could easily come out of a Carver story, my favorite being the lamp -- Light Up Your Life, Don't Sit Around In the Dark. By the end, Nick has crawled out into a light of sorts with painful revelations about his wife, his drinking, and his future. At one point he tells the neighbor she needs to put up curtains so she can't see her future. But ultimately he's forced to see his and it doesn't look so good or bad. As AA advises, he's taking it one day at a time, the business of his life becomes less shabby, and we realize that maybe everything isn't lost and even though he doesn't dance, he becomes more himself, the highest goal there is.

Party Shots

The Hangover

Since the rapture appears to be miscalculated, I have continued to write! And I still have no desire to see the Hangover II. I didn't much care for the first one, except for the great Mike Tyson scene, and will be passing on this one, particularly after reading reviews that make it sound like Same Shit, Different City. Don't get me wrong -- I have an epic tolerance for boredom. When shows jump the shark in the opinions of other people, I keep watching. If not for cancellation, I probably would have watched the original 90210 cast until the nursing home years. Steve, a thirty-five year old playing a high school kid, would be my favorite, trying to kick it with the youngsters during the mandatory happy hour with apple juice in the common room before bed checks. But I digress. The Hangover again? In Thailand? No thank you. I am glad that Zach G. seems to have found a niche role as the village idiot. Not against him getting paid. Or the wonderful Ed Helms who was a comic delight in Cedar Rapids. As for Bradley Cooper, well, he did date Renee Zellwegger. I'm sure he's on his own karma-balancing act even if his acting seems a little dull. To paraphrase, I know Ryan Gosling and you are no Ryan Gosling.

And in the roundabout way, this brings me to Arnold. Yes, that Arnold. Pumping Iron Arnold, the Terminator Arnold. He has now taken the baton from Bill Clinton, previous winner of the I'm Not All That Picky Award. I watched Arnold's squeeze do an impression of Marilyn Monroe's famous Happy Birthday performance. Oh my. What's to say? Again, I know Marilyn and you're no Marilyn. People say confidence is sexy. To which I reply, not always. But alas, Arnold is merely playing out his own version of our cultural hangover which demands powerful men get caught with outside children (to quote the great "Papa Was A Rollin' Stone"). To the people who ask What was Arnold thinking? He wasn't. Like our three hapless lads in Bangkok, he's woken up from a big party and has to piece it together. Don't worry, the press will help sort out the details. And like his famous character says, I'm sure he'll be back to pick up the pieces.

Cocktail Hour
Pictures from the Rapture party to come!

Benedictions and Maledictions
Many prayers for all storm-ravaged areas . . . .

Left Behind

The rapture has come and go -- still here! Thanks for all the well wishes on the project -- more soon . . .

The Rapture

Hey guys -- hope everyone is having a good week! I'm working on a big project, so I'll be back to posting soon. Happy Friday to all!

The Paris Of The Midwest

\Dear Paris of the Midwest,

We will miss you. Together we did some things we should all be very proud of. We employed more people of color than any show in the history of national network television. We had blacks and whites working shoulder to shoulder and it was frictionless. We froze our tokhes to the bone until ungodly hours of the morning — and lived to laugh about it. We created a drama most critics confirmed as one of the best of the season. We started our relationship skeptical of each other, settled our differences, then got on with the business at hand. We showed the world what the D really looked like. We taught each other. And most of all, we got some folks paid! Alas, our love affair was short-lived … I think it was because not enough found out how truly beautiful we were together. I think sometimes when you break the mold the mold breaks you. I think sometimes when you lose your incentives, you lose your incentive. The governor asked the wrong people if the tax break was good for Michigan. Those folks were already getting paid. I think if the governor had vision he would have seen the people of Michigan gaining not only financially, but emotionally, artistically, and creatively. He would have seen the opportunity to promote the state worldwide as well as the tarnished image of Detroit. The tangible as well as the intangible. I think when you fall in love there are no guarantees, and life isn’t fair. Thank you, Detroit, for giving me one of the best years of my life. I will always remember you fondly.

Yours truly,

James McDaniel

Inspired By A True Story

I admit it -- I'm watching bits and pieces of Oprah's farewell season. Do I have a heart of stone? No, I think not. If I see one more of those sad song commercials, though, I might stab myself. I hate endings. Of anything. Yes, I know Detroit 187 is cancelled. I'm miffed. Beyond miffed. Anyway, I digress. In her last weeks, Oprah brought out old James Frey again for the public treatment. I read his book and thought it was a bit of a yawn. I love books about addiction and yet. It didn't ring all that true even before the "public stoning" in the words of Mr. Frey. It felt labored. It didn't have the cringe-factor I love in memoirs. Frey contends that most memoirists stretch the truth. (Variation on old joke -- How do you know if a writer is lying? His/Her lips are moving.) So I get what he's saying, but I take him to task for another issue entirely -- A Million Little Pieces didn't have the essence of truth to me. My favorites in the addiction genre are Augusten Burrough's Dry and Caroline Knapp's Drinking: A Love Story. Both books have moments that get under my skin and well, make me want to have a drink. Both writers seem real in ways that I get. Are they lying? Who knows? Caroline Knapp died a few years ago and Augusten Burroughs, well, his life is so strange I'd find it hard to imagine he invented anything.

But I don't much care about whether the memoir genre is populated with truth-stretchers. It's hard to know what happened in anyone's life. I sympathize with James Frey given his predicament -- let's face it, how many of us could resist publication, the only price being saying our novel is a memoir? Our urge for "true" stories as an audience helps create these fake memoirs of which there are many current examples on the market. Cup of tea, anyone? I take pains to stick to the facts with nonfiction, but they're still my version of the facts, a narrative designed by me to put me in the best/worst light and that by the nature of any writing, will omit certain incidents. Because I can't remember. Or don't want to remember. Or can't include everything. Even so, readers always know the truth. It because of the cringe. Like art and pornography, we know it when we see it. Mr. Frey claims not to think much of the memoir genre -- that it's lesser art. I can't say that I agree except when someone is a big old liarpants. We all are, in one light, but just like the old detective show says, Just the facts. If we writers can stick to this policy given all the limitations of memory and narrative, it would be what Oprah herself would call a good thing.


Michelle's Spell of the Day
"You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right." Maya Angelou

Cocktail Hour
Reading suggestion: Only As Good As Your Word Susan Shapiro

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!

An Angel For Sunday

Happy Friday the 13th!

Camp Crystal Lake, ah, that famed vacation spot of my youth! I loved the Friday the 13th movies -- a poor man's Psycho. Jason Voorhees, the killer obsessed with Mommy and the young attractive youths that shunned him as a child. What could be a more potent revenge fantasy -- to come back as a monster to those who have done you harm? I know a lot of people who love Carrie for this reason as well. High school sucked? Burn the whole place down and kill everyone in your bloody gown. Avenging angels for the misfits (and yes, I definitely fit into this category) years before Glee, these figures speak to the dark parts of our psyche.

But I'm more like the grandmother in Truman Capote's heartbreaking story, "A Christmas Memory" who takes to her bed on Friday the 13th. I'm going to strap myself to the nearest couch and hope for the best. How are you guys spending the day?

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Pamela Voorhees: Did you know a young boy drowned here? He was my son. And today is his birthday." Friday the 13th

Cocktail Hour
DDV suggestion: The entire set of Big Love. It's very comforting in that, You think your life is complicated? kind of way.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Friday!

Yesterday's Pictures, Today's Reality

Just watched Becoming Chaz, a documentary by The World of Wonder company, the people who did one of my favorite documentaries of all time, The Eyes of Tammy Faye. What I love about the World of Wonder documentaries is the thoughtful approach to subjects many people don't understand and the beauty they find in those worlds. Chastity Bono, daughter of Sonny and Cher, has recently decided to have a sex-change operation and start living as a man. The first transgender surgery was performed on Christine Jorgensen in 1953 (she died in 1989 on my 18th birthday) and is still in a fairly primitive form that requires testosterone shots, breast removal, and for some, "bottom" surgery to construct or remove sexual organs with varying degrees of success. Despite this incredible level of difficulty on a practical level, the documentary really speaks to the difficulty of growing up in the spotlight, the child of famous parents. Equally difficult for Chaz is the fact that his mother is considered a progressive gay icon and yet cannot refer to his new incarnation with the correct pronoun. He takes a philosophical approach to this inability, reminding us that Cher is like any other mother in struggling with his decision.

Everything is always in flux, whether we know it or not. Change happens in a way that is both unseen and dramatic. We are never who we were yesterday; realizations about our bodies, our marriages, our children, our jobs are always permeable. Most of us don't struggle with gender identity in the way that Chaz does, but we are always something different as each year passes. It strikes me as fitting that one of Cher's most famous songs is "If I Could Turn Back Time." It's kind of an anthem for her life in which she has sought through many surgeries to stay the same woman we saw on her variety hour in the 70s. It makes a strange paradoxical sense that a woman who has turned to surgery to retain a former look has a hard time with a child who has undergone surgery and pain to gain an identity that has never been but feels intrinsic to his psyche. Chaz has become who he believes himself to be while Cher strives to remain who she was. Watching clips of Chastity as a little girl is an odd nostalgic experience. If Cher could turn back time, she surely would while Chaz who is presented in his full human glory, warts and all, walks into the uncertain future, a brave pioneer in the body of a chubby forty year old man. He expresses a certain sadness about not coming to this body sooner, but the journey for all to become who we truly are is a long one and it doesn't matter when we get there, just so long as we do.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"One man cannot hold another man down in the ditch without remaining down in the ditch with him." Booker T. Washington

Cocktail Hour -- any World of Wonder documentary!

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Wednesday!

Made In Detroit

Hey guys, here's some shots of my favorite city! Hope you're having a happy Monday!

Mother's Day

Coming to you after reading Post Secret which is one big bucket of Mother's Day angst. The holiday clearly brings up a lot of feelings, some good, some troubled. As a woman who doesn't have children and whose own mother has been dead for quite some time, this day used to be troublesome as well. But I don't feel that way anymore -- I use it to enjoy the life that my mother gave me which is an interesting one and to honor her by enjoying myself. I'm assuming that she didn't make all those sacrifices of time, money, and countless buckets of energy so I could mope. I miss her more each year and with each year, I get a deeper understanding of what she did for me. Was she perfect? Oh hells no, as the kiddies say. Was she kind of crazy wonderful? Most certainly. Did she buy me the horribly eighties prom dress of my choice? Yes. It looked awesome at the time. I can still wear it. To a party. A very eighties party. With some twist-a-beads.

As for the women out there who choose or can't have children, this one is for you as well. I understand the pressure to have a child. It's daunting the way society reveres motherhood, yet makes few accomodations to actually help women be good mothers. I'm amazed at the shitload of judgement that comes down on women when they do have children for not being perfect mothers or for choosing not to have children at all. And one day at an overpriced, overcrowded restaurant and a mimosa is not an accomadation. More maternity leave? Yes. Help with raising children? Might be nice. To the women who have the courage to have children, I salute you. Even being a halfway decent mother takes more work than anyone will ever know. And to those who don't, well, I like Bill Clinton, I feel your pain on this day, although the gym was not crowded this morning so I take my consolations where I can. And, of course, a happy Sunday to all!

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been

So I go to yoga on my birthday and I'm looking in the mirror and my legs look weird. I'm thinking, God, did everything just drop as soon as the date changed, like a wicked little spell? I'm wondering why the formerly kind mirror in the studio is doing this to me as I try to take deep breaths and do tree pose. I go home and realize that I have my yoga pants on backward which accounts for the strange diaper-like appearance and the illusion that my thighs had fallen down to my knees. It was such a great birthday moment, the kind where you realize nothing has changed and that I still can't really dress myself. Also, wearing clothes unintentionally backward is supposed to be good luck. Some consolation for looking like a rube, I suppose. I put my sweater on backward the day I went to my friend Hank's funeral (not a particularly lucky day if memory serves) and spent my entire flight weeping with the v-neck down my back, wondering why the material felt so weird. I chalked it up to being emotional, but alas, in the harsh airplane bathroom, reality came upon me as I noticed that the tag was sticking out under my chin.

Having survived another birthday, one that people refer to as a milestone one, I feel pretty good. Like Baby Grouchie, I've got a GPS which isn't always reliable, but usually gets me where I need to go. And so many wonderful birthday wishes! I remember being told that I was born on the day of the largest protest in the United States (against the war in Vietnam) and consider it fitting. Born into unrest, Generation X, and the era of the Tom Collins (a drink I haven't had since I was seven and snuck a sip at a party), I hope the second part is as fun, exciting, and hopeful as the first. I may not ever know where I'm going, but I know where I've been and as any good detective novel will tell you, that's a start.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"The past is not a package one can lay away." Emily Dickinson

Cocktail Hour
Drinking dvd suggestion: Jack Goes Boating

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Thursday!

Birthday Thoughts

Thirty things I've learned in forty years (my list without thinking about it too much)--

There is more than enough of everything to go around.

I want to like lettuce. I don't. But I still kind of like salad. This is a profound mystery.

Every artist postcard I have on my bulletin board has met a bad end -- suicide, murder, overdose. Except Raymond Carver who died of lung cancer which is probably not a much cheerier option. Still, they had some pretty great lives.

Time does not heal all wounds.

Wearing high heels is worth the pain.

Whether your life is one wacky adventure or an unending heartache is largely a matter of perspective.

I really like to write. When it's going well and the house is clean. Which is about ten percent of the time. Still, I'd be lost without it.

When you can be kind, you should. When you can be clever, make sure your audience enjoys it.

If you bring some levity to any situation, you will always be welcome. Also if you bring good champagne.

Black and gray are my favorite colors. If I created paint chips, I'd have colors like Detroit Gray and Little Black Dress.

Prepare for the best. What you invite, usually shows up. If the worst comes knocking, well, maybe it's the best. Who the hell knows?

You know who your friends are in a crisis.

Charles Schultz was a genius.

Don't have too many ideas about what you will or will not do. These are almost always challenged.

Don't worry about what other people think. You live with your choices.

Avoid the sun. Your skin will thank you.

Woody Allen's best advice -- whatever works. Caveat -- what works for Woody in the love department, well, it might not work for you. Annie Hall is the saddest movie on the planet.

Make yourself happy. Takes the burden off of those around you.

God loves everyone. This can be upsetting sometimes, particularly if you're in a Gore Vidalesque fit of jealousy. It's okay. Deep breath.

Pets make people happy. Not me, other people.

Don't watch Dexter without checking to make sure your doors are locked first. This is important.

Do not try to change other people. This strategy will work as well as the likelihood of me getting a tattoo.

Don't let your appendix burst. Seriously. This is a bad idea.

Baby Grouchie sleeps a lot. He feels he's earned it.

The phrase "Kung-fu treachery" applies in a lot more situations than you might think.

Time is not on anyone's side. Moisturizer, though, does help.

When in doubt, Johnny Cash makes everything better.

I will watch James Gandolfini in anything.

I have better friends than I could ever have hoped for.

Put your energy toward what you want, not what you don't want.

It's never too late to change whatever you want.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Thanks so much for all the birthday wishes! You guys are the best!

Why 1971 Was Awesome

Enjoy the fantastic Shaft, circa 1971. Some fun facts about my birth year --

1971 The Frozen Margarita was invented for a Dallas Restaurant.

1971 'Brown Sugar' by the Rolling Stones hits number 1 on the charts.

1971 The final episode of 'The Beverly Hillbillies' TV show is aired.

1971 French's Onion Bits were introduced.

1971 The first Hard Rock Cafe was opened in London.
1971 Greenpeace founded.

1971 The Quarter Pounder was introduced at McDonald's for 53 cents.

1971 The home food processor, Le Magi-Mix, was introduced in Paris by Pierre Verdon, also the inventor of the restaurant version, Robot-Coupe.

1971 The first Starbucks opened in Seattle.

1971 The coldest temperature ever recorded in the U.S. was recorded at Prospect Creek Camp on the Alaskan Pipeline in northern Alaska - minus 80 degrees F.

1971 Smoke-flavored SPAM was introduced.

1971 'One Bad Apple' by the Osmonds reached Number 1 on the charts.

1971 Neil Hogan of the musical group The Cranberries was born on Christmas day.

1971 'Want Ads' by Honey Cone hit #1 on the charts

1971 Sir John Boyd Orr died. A Scottish scientist and nutrition expert, he won the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to eliminate world hunger.

1971 Coca Cola introduces the plastic bottle.

1971 Disney World opened at Orlando, Florida.

1971 Governor Nelson Rockefeller of New York legalized the year round sale of oysters. Previously their sale had been illegal from May to August.

The Velvet Underground - Oh! Sweet Nuthin'

Hi everyone -- back in the saddle after some computer issues have been fixed! Okay, it's that time of year again for my readers to pick a birthday song for this year. Here's Jason's selection for last year which definitely kept me going all through 39 of which I have a whopping three days left. Hope you're having a wonderful weekend!

Favorite Things

Do you notice when people use the word pleasure, it's almost always accompanied by the word guilty? Well, on this peaceful Tuesday, I offer you a few of my guilty and not guilty at all pleasures, in no particular order. Feel free to add yours -- Stand-In Grouchie is the picture of the day -- Baby Grouchie is on a break, but he will be back!

Driving at night alone listening to jazz -- I don't know why, but jazz always sounds better at night in a car. Miles Davis, you are the ruler of this lonely place.

My stories (as the women used to say in my childhood) -- Showtime and HBO, I am so indebted to you.

Actually reading the articles in Playboy. Love the Playboy Advisor. It's my version of Dear Abby. In a very different universe, far far from the sun.

Chopping on ice. Although I have now learned this is a form of Pica and indicates an iron deficiency. I still like it. (Dentists, please skip this one.)

Champagne. Not very guilty at all about this one. To quote the great Bette Davis, sometimes there's nothing else that works in a woman's life but a glass of champagne.

Watching reality tv at the gym. Hey, I'm doing one virtous thing by working out, so it balances out, right? Umm, maybe.


Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." Plato

Cocktail Hour
Movie suggestion: Very much looking forward to the new Raymond Carver short story movie, Everything Must Go.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!

Happy Easter!

Beauty From Ashes

Being from Mineral Wells, I think about the fires burning over Possum Kingdom Lake and worry. I spent many a summer at PK, lying around on its shore, pretending I was at a spa and enjoying a mud bath treatment. I put myself in New York City where the mud would be pure and snakes wouldn't be hanging off the trees, but there I was, in Possum Kingdom, not so far from Hell's Gate, a couple of rock cliffs that come out of the water and served as the ultimate truth or dare for people tanked up enough to think it was a good idea to jump off them.

When people remember childhood, they often cast back to the simplicity of it, which does not mesh with my experience at all. Childhood means longing and loneliness and a certain kind of painful clarity that fades with age. But I also know what they mean -- I never thought about disasters except the ones I saw, never thought about the snakes even as I was surrounded by them. I wonder about the snakes and where they go when they are driven out by smoke or if smoke even bothers them. Like me, they enjoy the night when everything fades from view and the past seems to haunt the present, a specter that can never be banished, only viewed through a lens darkly.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"I'm out there doing the best that I can, My lip is cut and I'm still playing." Miles Davis

Cocktail Hour
Kudos to the latest episode of United States of Tara -- a truly haunting ending, beautifully done.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Thursday! And many happy birthday wishes to my dear friend Nick and also the great Iggy Pop!

The Birth Of The Cool

While writing this morning, I played Miles Davis' "Summertime" on Youtube. The next recommendation was the New Kids on the Block version of "Summertime" which gave me considerable pause and must have sent Miles spinning in his grave. I skipped the new kiddies and went to John Coltrane's "So What" which always makes me think of Joy Behar saying, "So what? Who cares?" and I realize that unlike the United Negro College Fund slogan about the mind being a terrible thing to waste, I realize my mind is just a terrible thing. Which makes me think of Dan Quayle's bungling of this line years ago. And so it goes.

Some things are unobtainable when you want them too fiercely -- being cool, being happy, finding someone to love. Some things don't work when the effort is seen -- a sacrifice ceases to be one when you are acting like it is a chore, writing that appears labored doesn't work (the irony being that only when you labor over writing intensely does it appear effortless, a gift handed down from an angel, the only secret being that you had to wrestle with that angel like Jacob did and the writing is the scar you receive for your battle). It's all so simple and yet so complicated. As Easter approaches, I think of this season of lent, of renewal and sacrifice and hope. The dark closes in and then there is light. Never one without the other. Such is the nature of joy. We must acknowledge the reality of the tomb before we can rise.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Everything in the universe is within you. Ask all from yourself." Rumi

Cocktail Hour
Movie suggestion: Win Win

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday! Welcome back Heff and a special hello to the lovely Lana! And no, the Louds do not have big butts. Only I do. Ha!

Book Review

Amazon.com: Customer Reviews: Storylandia Issue 3: The Wapshott Journal of Fiction

http://amzn.to/hBV7hL Much thanks to Charles Gramlich (a terrific writer) for posting this review on Amazon and Goodreads! And yes, Mark, you can quit keeping up with those darn Kardashians now that you know about the Louds. They created the genre in 1971 without a hair/make-up team and much cooler clothes. The British documentary is called 7 Up and it follows a group of school children and checks in on them during various points of their lives.

HBO Films: Cinema Verite Trailer (HBO)

I've always been fascinated by the story of the Louds, first seen on PBS under the name, An American Family. Imagine my joy -- my dear James Gandolfini is in this version of their story! Happy Saturday!

All In The Family

Happy Friday to all! And a special thanks to Dave and Shea for their incredibly thoughtful comments on yesterday's post. Shea pointed out perhaps the most controversial portion of my blog, not the writing (which can upset people from time to time), but the pictures. Thanks for the defense to your friend! I enjoy the pictures just from the standpoint of going different places and having fun with it. But I also know they provoke intense reactions and that's okay. And in all truth, I liked Demi Moore's Vanity Fair cover -- I do think pregnancy is very beautiful (it's having an actual baby after that's always given me pause) and I'm glad she made pregnancy a more culturally acceptable form of beauty. But for reasons I don't understand, I don't like when men are naked in that type of photograph as it seems to cross the line from art to something too private for me to see as a viewer. That said, I'm sure my pictures do the same thing to people from time to time.

And Dave, your comment blew me away! My favorite show as a child was All in the Family along with Sanford and Son and Maude, and I adored Archie and everyone else. I think we all have a little Archie in us, the part that is swept away by vast cultural change and left in a state of horror and befuddlement. It's the essential honesty of Archie that is appealing, I think. And the series dealt with all sorts of painful topics -- the episode where Edith is attacked and almost raped in her house still stays with me to this day as one of the all-time great explorations of the subject.

On another note, I'm ever so sad to see All My Children cancelled. I'm going to write a longer post on this turn of events, but for now, I will miss the denizens of Pine Valley, a show that has been on television literally my entire life.

This I Do For Me

Upon viewing the cover and a few pictures from OK Magazine of Mariah Carey and her husband Nick Cannon on my dear friend Trent's Pink Is The New Blog, I longed for the days when men stood outside delivery rooms, ruminating their fates as fathers and passing out cigars while the birth process took place. We've swung the other way as a culture -- Mariah is posed naked with her husband fondling her very pregnant body in a variety of positions. Nick appears also to be unclothed, bringing to mind John Lennon's disturbing album cover of Two Virgins, where he and Yoko are entwined in their full naked glory. Why, God, why? I get why Mariah did it -- I'm sure she got paid good money. But why do we want to see it? I blame Demi Moore for starting the trend on the cover of Vanity Fair so many years ago when she was married to Bruce Willis, not Ashton, when I only used a computer to type my name over and over in a trance-like fog (telling detail -- it was only my name. I never typed a boy's name with mine). Those days stay in my mind like a faded Polaroid, capturing an innocence to which I will not be returning.

I get it. Pregnancy is beautiful, natural. But I only expect to see these types of photos when I peruse through Our Bodies, Ourselves. I'm not particularly squeamish, but I still can't hop on the pregnant photo bandwagon. I have no problem with doing these pictures for your private collection. I've never been pregnant; I'm sure it's a wonderful feeling and you want to capture it. Like the old Clairol slogan, This I Do For Me. But the obsession with pregnant naked celebrities? I don't know. I don't want to know. I clicked the link, though -- it's my fault I saw these pictures. Like Oedipus, I couldn't look away. Next time I'm tempted, I'll go in the next room and hand out cigars.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with." Mark Twain

Cocktail Hour
Okay, my dears. I have hopped onto the Dexter bandwagon. If you think you aren't the type to like this show, you might be wrong. I always thought I would hate it, but turns out it's as addictive as crack cocaine. So far, I have three more episodes of Season Four. If John Lithgow isn't full out scary, nobody is.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Thursday!

Double Exposure

Hi everyone! Thanks for the thoughtful comments about my last post. I'm always fascinated about how much we choose to expose through our writing, the varying comfort or more accurately, discomfort levels, in which we work. I agree with Keith (JCO is pretty awesome) and with Jim about the absence of the Ontario Review, a terrific journal which is sorely missed. I also admire JCO's memoir for the level of truth-telling. A lot of it is unflattering (if my informal survey of friends who have read it are to be believed) which takes guts. I know that whatever I write, I face similar criticism, some warranted, some not. I once wrote on this very blog that I'm not terribly fond of animals which warranted the kind-hearted comment that I was a "narcissistic self-absorbed disgusting cypher." Don't hold back -- ha! But I'm okay with that. Everyone I know is an animal person with loads of pets, and they don't hold my half-hearted pats on their beloved companions' heads against me.

But the subject of the memoir that holds the most interest for me is responses to grief. I believe that most of giving things -- flowers, food, kind words, letters, and gifts is about the giver's need to give. I love giving people presents. It always makes me feel better even when what I part with is something I need or love (sometimes money, time, prized possesions). It's not that I gain any moral high from it or give to make people feel indebted. Quite the contrary -- it's just something I enjoy. No high ground here. But it takes a special talent to receive. I think a lot of people are afraid to give because it the potential responses make them uncomfortable -- that the gift won't meet certain standards, that it's inappropriate, that they'll be perceived as an ass-kisser. I used to worry about that sort of thing, but I don't anymore. I give when and what I can because it makes me happy. I don't care if people thank me, don't care if they need it, don't care if it's awkward. It's no surprise that one of my favorite Bible stories is the about the widow who put two mites in the collection box. It was all she had. It used to make me so very sad when I heard this story, almost to the point of tears. Her last two mites! What was she thinking? She might need those mites! But as I aged, I realized that the need to give was stronger than the need to hold onto her last few pennies in the world. She needed to show her love, to contribute to something she felt was greater than herself. And honesty is a form of giving. Ann Landers once wrote that the best-dressed lie was far worse than the bare truth.

Michelle's Spell of the Day "Why won't you let me talk about sexytime with Lenny?" "Because you call it sexytime." Nurse Jackie, last week's episode.

Cocktail Hour
I have heard a very ugly rumor that Detroit 187 is in danger of being cancelled! Say it ain't so . . . Please help petition to keep this fantastic show on the air.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Monday!

Sunday Miracle -- A fish shaped like the state of Michigan! Some people see the Virgin Mary, I see the Mitten . . . Make of this what you will! Recently, I read a memoir titled Widow by Joyce Carol Oates. Her long-time husband, Raymond Smith, died a few years ago. Being a writer and a quite prolific one (mind-boggingly so), she wrote about the experience. I'd read The Year Of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion which covers the same bitter terrain of losing someone who is, in essence, your entire life. The Oates book is quite different -- while Didion maintains a somewhat clinical yet deeply touching tone, Oates takes a different tack. She goes for the moment by moment hysteria of grief, of self-laceration, of sleepless nights, and social awkwardness. It doesn't have the artistry of Didion's book, but I'm not sure that was the point. She's also describing a very different type of marriage. While Didion and her husband shared everything -- work, troubles, and a child, Oates contends that she and her husband spent most of their time together in an effort not to mention their work or things they found unpleasant or troubling. I've never had a relationship like this, so it seemed to me quite exotic. I liked it for its honesty. But when I discussed various parts of it with people, I found the reactions quite interesting. To note, Oates complains bitterly of the flowers and gift baskets of food she receives in the wake of her grief. When I mentioned this to a friend, she said, Send the food to Haiti, bitch. She complains about people mentioning her husband, complains about them not mentioning him. She complains of the letters she receives and the hardship of having to be a "good widow" and answer all of them. Strange, but I don't think anyone expects to be answered by someone in deep grief. And nobody knows what to say when someone dies. You always tread the ground of saying to much or not enough. Even so, I understood her delicate nature. One gets the sense that her husband shielded her from many of the difficulties of social interaction. Even so, I have to commend Oates for her ability to put it all down, every unflattering emotion. The memoir demands honesty and the ability to disregard judgement, especially one's own. So I give you guys the question -- do you find this kind of soul-baring off-putting or refreshing?

Benedictions and Maledictions Happy Sunday!

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do



Church bells and sirens are my two favorite sounds which kind of sums up my entire life. One foot firmly planted in crisis and tragedy, one in the promise of Heaven. I think the bells were the real reason I converted to Catholicism, that sweet mystical sound that suggests a homecoming, a calling back. As a person who is deeply fragmented, I love the idea of peace, of being home. When I was young, I often wanted to be someone else, the girls that always seemed beautiful and content, the ones that didn't seem frazzled and unkempt, like me. I swore I would become that kind of person. I didn't. I went the other way. I became more like myself over the years. For a long time, I saw this as a tragedy.

But as the great Miles Davis says, it takes a long time to sound like yourself. I've found this to be true in my writing life and true in life itself. So many awful costumes to shed, so many goals that will never be obtained. But ultimately this is such a good thing, a miracle really. Everything that is not essential falls away. One spring I looked out the window and saw white flakes drifting out of the sky. I didn't know if it was snow or petals. It turned out to be both, one of those strange seasonal anomalies. I thought if only life could be like this and then realized it was, at least for that moment. I love the world, the sirens, the snow, the flowers, but ultimately like everyone else, I cannot stay.

Cocktail Hour
Working on some spring concoctions -- next up, a hibiscus jalapeno margarita. When I perfect this gem, I'm doing a video to show you guys how to do it.

व्हेन बाद थिंग्स हपपें तो गुड पोपले

When I was a wee tot, everyone was reading a book titled When Bad Things Happen To Good People. This, of course, is when they weren't reading The Road Less Traveled Or I'm Okay, You're Okay. I always wanted to retitle the last selection to I'm Shaky At Best, I Have No Idea About You. The books all address a similar issue -- turning lemons into lemonade, what to do when a shitstorm starts, and how bad times can actually be good. I agree. In theory. In reality, living through bad times is about as great as a colonscopy -- good to do (in theory), uncomfortable as hell while happening. I had a friend who described a root canal as uncomfortable but not painful, a distinction too fine for me to usually make. What do we do with our grief? How do we make sense out of misery? Like Neil Young, do we implore ourselves not to let us bring us down and find someone who is turning? Let's face it -- it sounds better when Neil sings it. It actually sounds much better when Annie Lennox sings it.

I think of everyone as having their hour of need which shakes things up, the status quo on which we rely. I've lived this in different incarnations many times. The whole Linus and his blue blanket thing. I like to think of transition as the time that the blanket is in the washer. It's a terrible feeling. You wake up one day and everything on which you counted is gone. You start over. You deal with it. You rely on coping mechanisms. You hope for the best. All the cliches apply. Time heals all wounds. (not really, if you're wondering) The cloud with its fucking silver lining. That turns out to not be silver and actually turns your skin green. But one thing applies -- we rely on our friends. We do our best, our personal best. We wait for the blanket to be clean again. It's not easy. The dryer takes forever. We wait. Bad things happen to good people. Worse, good things happen to bad people. But I'm okay and you will be too.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't help them, at least don't hurt them." Tenzin Gyatso, 14th Dalai Lama

Cocktail Hour
Charlie Sheen show in Detroit -- losing! Don't be hating on my city, Charlie. Jokes about the dwindling population not appreciated. Don't be a troll.

Benedictions and Maledictions Happy Monday!

Blog Anniversary

Hi readers! It was five years ago to this day that I started Michelle's Spells! What a fun, wild ride it's been! I have met a ton of great people, enjoyed writing for you, and love supporting the D। Much has happened over the last five years and you guys have been with me every step of the way, cheering me on when things got bad (ruptured appendix, for starters) and teaching me things about sensitivity, kindness, and giving me many happy moments throughout my days. I value and adore all of you and look forward to another five years of sharing my world and hearing about yours. Saturday I had a flat tire and two kind souls stopped and helped me get Snowflake going again without expecting anything in return for their time and efforts. Of course, Snowflake's spare tire was rusted inside the trunk and had to be hacked away with a very large ax. Of course, it wasn't easy. So little is! But I am blessed each day with such moments of kindness. If nothing else, take a little time today to enjoy yourself, help someone out, and laugh. The world can be a harsh place, but if we stick together and take care of each other, it's so much better. Much love to everyone and see you tomorrow!

The Pain Scale-- Nurse Jackie

Hey guys -- thanks so much for all your support on Dead Girl, Live Boy. I have the best and dearest friends in the blogosphere! Nurse Jackie returns tomorrow night. I've read a lot of reviews of the first two seasons and look forward to season three the way Jackie looks forward to an unsupervised medicine cabinet. Jackie is a heroine for our time -- troubled and duplicitous and yet loving and hopeful. A lot of reviewers have complained that nothing happens in Nurse Jackie, a criticism I find that totally misses the mark. In a show about addiction, the structure has to be circular. It's all about Jackie's deception and her treading water. Jackie appears nowhere near what AA refers to as a "bottom." She's functional in all her roles -- nurse, mother, friend, wife. How functional is often the question this series asks. We as the viewer know her life is unmanageable and yet she manages. It's not pretty on a moral scale -- like the pain scale in doctor's offices, we have degrees of fuckedupedness. Like the limbo, we ask ourselves how low can she go? With the new season, we'll see her twists and turns. Chekhov says we live two lives, one public, one private. Nurse Jackie takes this dictum and makes it flesh. Who is she? Perhaps she doesn't even know. In a pivotal scene last season, her lover/pharmacist Eddie says to her: "Anyone who knows you knows they don't know you." Alas, Eddie knows her in a post-modern way which is to say that he knows that the reality he's presented isn't all of the story. We watch and wait to see the degrees of exposure and loneliness that dog Jackie. The question isn't the how, but the why. The why keeps me watching. Stay tuned here for a review after the first episode.

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Sunday!

Shea's Review!

A very special thanks to Shea Goff for this wonderful review . . .

http://creekroyalty.blogspot.com/2011/03/book.html

Suddenly This Spring

Elizabeth Taylor as a young woman Photos
Rest in peace, beautiful Elizabeth! I know she's having a drink with the great Richard Burton in heaven right now. Favorite Liz movies -- Suddenly Last Summer, Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf . . . It's a sad day -- your beautiful spirit and gorgeous violet eyes will be missed!

Status Update

Just read an article about how nobody uses the telephone anymore. Not for talking anyway. I've not been using my phone for years so I'm glad culture has caught up with my renegade ways. I've always had a tortured relationship with all forms of communication and social media. Love/hate bordering on phobia. And yet, what is the alternative? I still have a rotary phone, but no connection. I keep it on top of a box full of pictures and reminders of the dead people in my life. The death box. Weird how that creeps people out. Nobody wants to carry it in a move. Seriously. I think of the rotary phone as a portal to the past, as if I were to pick it up, I could call all the people I remember, the phone numbers of the past. As if it were 1976 again, that Bicentennial year where I sat on the deck near the above ground pool and watched the adults drink Fuzzy Navels. Even to this day, the smell of Coppertone brings it back with such force I feel as if I were tan again, a frightful thought if there ever was one.

As for various social media outlets, I think I would like Facebook more if the status update question was "What's on your feeble mind, Duane?" like Jacy Farrow in The Last Picture Show. Because my mind is feeble, and it would be cool to be called Duane from time to time. It's one of those names like Doyle that you just don't hear that much anymore. I've known three Duanes and two Doyles in my not so short but quite happy life. Which is the best anyone can hope for -- a happy life, not too short and quite sweet.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
If you don't believe in ghosts, you've never been to a family reunion. ~Ashleigh Brilliant

Cocktail Hour
Novel suggestion: Famous After Death Benjamin Cheever

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!

For Indoor Use Only

Hi everyone -- been working on a big project this week (title above). It's a story I have tried to write for a long time, but I believe I have found the form for it so it's going a lot better. So for today's question -- how do you figure out how to tell your story? I think the material picks the form. You try it until it yields as it should. I generally get it right the first time, but not always. And the more I like the material, the harder the form is to find because of my expectations. Thoughts?

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Love is a better teacher than duty." Albert Einstein

Cocktail Hour
Movie suggestion: Cyrus

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Monday!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Talking points:

jokes about the Japanese disaster -- too soon. Gilbert Godfrey, I'm looking at you.

religious meaning in Japanese disaster -- seriously, again? Does anybody ever learn? Why, oh why, must every crackpot tell us that God is punishing/disapproving/angry at us when something bad happens? So so tedious. File under category of not helpful and totally mean-spirited. I'd rather hear Howard Stern babble about why he doesn't need a lot of sex now.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"May your pockets be heavy and your cares be light/ May good luck pursue you both day and night." Irish blessing

Cocktail Hour
Sunday night -- Detroit 187 season finale

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy St. Patrick's Day! And a special hello to my dear friend Lee who is back in the blog world -- check out his new post!

The Tao Of Kenny

I learned a lot of what I know about the world from Kenny Rogers. It's true; he was huge when I was a kid and it occurs to me that I can recite verbatim many of his nuggets of wisdom. Before his ill-considered plastic surgery (also see Burt Reynolds), he gave us the following:

From The Gambler: "You've got to know when to hold, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away and know when to run/ You never count your money, while you're sitting at the table/ there'll be time enough for counting when then dealings done." I took this lyric to heart and never counted out my change in public except at the Brazos Theater in Mineral Wells where I often paid in pennies (it was only a dollar for a movie, even still this did not make me popular with the people at the counter). I only played Go Fish in terms of card games, even so. Know when to fold them. Indeed Kenny.

From Lucille: "I've known some bad times, been through some sad times, but this time the hurtings for real." I didn't have four hungry children or a crop in the field, but man, I knew pain. I knew when the hurting was for real. Thank you Kenny!

However, my favorite Kenny song was "Ruby" about a paraplegic Vietnam vet who begged his wife Ruby not to "take her love to town." This painful narrative informed much of my young life. The husband who had come back from "a crazy Asian war" had to watch his love get ready to "take her love to town" from his wheelchair. I promised I'd never be a Ruby. Rubies were evil.

Why Kenny let surgeons take to his face, I'll never know. But the tao of Kenny still holds true. I'm going to go fold them for today, but back tomorrow.

Movie suggestion: Cedar Rapids

Benedictions and Maledictions
Hi everyone! Obviously, the weekend has been horrific for much of the world --- much prayer and love to Japan.

Eminem - Letter to Detroit (HD Video)

Selling Books

http://SellingBooks.com/

Hi readers! Tomorrow my interview will be up on Selling Books. Check it out and have a great weekend!

New Rules

Despite Dave's suggestion a few posts ago about me being an NPR girl, I assure you this is not the case. I fit the profile, and yet the actual station causes me to break out into hives. I fear sentences that began -- I heard on NPR that . . . Again, why? Best guess -- I don't like talk radio of any kind. I dread anything labelled "world" music. I have never shopped at Anthropologie . . .

Fair admission: I do yoga. I have tried meditation without much success. All that chanting aaah makes me visualize myself as a tire with the air going out of it. I don't think that's supposed to be the point. I have dined at a vegan restaurant. It wasn't bad! I felt my liver go into shock at the introduction of actual healthy food into my body. The only sadness was they didn't serve Dr. Pepper, only Agave limeade. Again, not bad, liver in shock. I'm glad to report that I didn't hear about the place on NPR. Not that there's anything wrong with that! If you need me, I'll be listening to Howlin' Wolf . . .

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story." Isak Dinesen

Cocktail Hour
Episode of Detroit 187 last night was awesome. Look for the Heidelberg Project (often featured here in photographs) next episode!

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Wednesday!

Thanks JR!

A very very special thanks to the brilliant Jim of JR's Thumbprint for his review of Dead Girl, Live Boy. Jim ia a great writer, and I'm honored to be featured on his blog!
http://jrthumbprints.blogspot.com/2011/03/dead-girl-live-boy.html

These Boots Are Made For Rainy Days

Check out the cool rain boots/cowboy boots -- it's like wearing a fish pond on your feet! Winning . . .

I've admit it -- I enjoy the winning Charlie Sheen. I never thought about his old show, never saw most of his movies, and considered him an eighties icon, a steady customer of Heidi Fleiss, in love with drugs and sex and really good sunglasses. Now he comes out swinging; other people are trolls, clowns, losers with ugly wives and ugly children. He claims to love money and power and hot girls. I guess what I find most refreshing is the level of honesty in the age of the self-effacing celebrity. What's causing it seems to be the brunt of a lot of speculation -- mania, tiger's blood, warlock ways? Who knows? I'm sure I speak for many when I say that I'm glad that he's off the carefully-trodden publicist-sanctioned rails. Because that's boring. Charlie may or may not be winning, but he's not boring. Although I am mad that ABC bumped Detroit 187 last week for a Charlie interview. Don't mess with my stories, Charlie! Otherwise, we're cool.

Everyone likes a train wreck which explains most of my life choices. As for old Charlie, I suppose suspending judgment has become a way of life for me. Judgment obscures curiosity; it puts you in the driver's seat. Which probably explains my aversion. I'm more of a passenger. In this world, it's easier to speculate than to observe. Decide the course and stick to it. But alas, doesn't all wisdom tell us the journey is the point? Once I saw some flowers sticking up through a drift of snow. Purple petals in twilight on a cracked sidewalk. I try not to forget such sights are everywhere for those who look.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Don't turn your head. Keep looking at the bandaged place. That is where the light enters you." Hafiz

Cocktail Hour
Memoir suggestion: A Box of Darkness Sally Ryder Brady

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!

Detroit Is Worse Than Hiroshima? Say It Ain't So!

Hello dear readers and happy Friday! Glenn Beck has recently said Detroit is worse than Hiroshima after the bomb dropped. Say it ain't so! It's my Emerald City, my Motor City, Oz. Fellow Detroiters, fight back! What say ye on this pronouncement?

Thirty Is The New Thirty

Open letter to a friend turning thirty today -- happy birthday, beautiful!

I hate when people say Forty is the new twenty or any variation thereof. I mean, isn't good enough just to be what you are? That said, the thirties are all kinds of awesome. I turned thirty in Cleveland at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. That set the tone for the next decade. Very rock and roll. Lots of rocks -- deaths, a lot, behavior, sometimes questionable, beverages of ill-repute, lots. And yet, I had a blast. The twenties with all their worry and exhausting posing were over. I didn't worry about what anyone thought, not the way I did at twenty-five, hoping to be special. Unlike Charlie Sheen, I wasn't tired of hiding the fact that I was special. I was tired of hiding the fact that I wasn't. I wasn't going to be an amazing wunderkind. I wasn't going to write the novel I wanted.

Guess what? That happened in my thirties, when I didn't mind sitting for a long time alone without distraction, something I could not do in my twenties. I didn't have amazing adventures in my twenties -- I was too worried that I wasn't where I was supposed to be (wherever the hell that was) and I was too worried about how I looked. I felt like a secret failure all the time. I couldn't live in the moment, couldn't relax. Nora Ephorn famously wrote that if she knew what she knew now, she would have spent her entire twenties in a bathing suit. I spent a lot of my twenties lifeguarding in an ugly red suit that said GUARD on it. And that's what I felt like. Guarded against everything. By my mid-twenties, I'd moved to Detroit. Not much occasion to wear a swimsuit. And all I can say is what a relief.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Knowledge and timber shouldn't be much used, till they are seasoned." Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr

Cocktail Hour
Movie suggestion: Another Year

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!