Summer Cold Again

A little winter for the month of June . . .

Forty Forty

When I was a child, I had a lazy eye. I did eye exercises that made me look possessed and some people speculated that I might be mentally challenged. My eye eventually righted itself, but my self-esteem wasn't as resilient. Like my brilliant friend Laura blogged about a few weeks ago, everyone has that horrible inner critic who tells you all the ways in which you look bad and are screwing up everything all the time. Where does this voice come from? And what can one do to silence this bitch? If only rolling around your eyes for a year would do it, we'd all be in luck.

I just read a memoir where a woman named her inner critic. I haven't done this but I'm aware that she's getting a lot smaller. My inner critic would add, Unlike your ass. Yep, she's there but now she doesn't have near as much power. I'm so glad. I saw a writer on a morning show the other day who said she got botox after seeing a picture of herself looking forty and not Salma Hayek forty, but forty forty. It made me sad. Her inner critic obviously expects her to look like Salma Hayek! She seemed like a nice articulate pretty woman who hated herself and didn't mind going on television to detail this hatred in detail. The host offered to give her a hug after the third insult directed toward her innocent body. And I thought my inner critic was mean. But she's getting more quiet with each passing year. Like they say in the movies, silence is golden.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"It's sad to grow old, but nice to ripen." Brigette Bardot

Cocktail Hour
The new season of Weeds starts next week!

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday!

The Longest Day Of The Year

In light of the start of summer, here's a list of my favorite summer activities --

Watching movies.

Sitting on my tail.

Thinking about winter.

Drinking blood orange martinis.

Sitting on my tail.

Listening to the Velvet Underground.

So dear readers, what are your favorite summer activities? See you tomorrow!

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day! Here's my wonderful dad, circa 1973.

Waiting For The Muse

I just read a blog post about how said writer hates to hear about the writing habits of writers. This doesn't bother me too much. I kind of liked hearing Larry McMurtry talk about writing for a couple of hours a day longhand with a Bic pen in a long ago class where he didn't answer any questions about his meanings, spirituality, or inspiration. He pretty much stuck to questions about the physical world which drove most of the students nutty. We were all pretty young and believed in the muse. Which is to say that we needed to get out a Bic pen because that bastard Muse was in hiding. And all the fancy equipment writers tend to believe will help them capture this mysterious being is usually distraction.

But here goes my own pet peeve list in relation to writing. Hearing people talk about why they can't write. Or what they would write if they had time to write if they didn't have so many other things to do. This is the worst, the assumption that people who write have more time than anyone else. Maybe yes, maybe no, but if you wait to have "time" to write, you will never write. How said person should just whip together a children's book/genre thriller/ romance novel/ self-help tome "for the money." As if these are somehow easier than other books to write and will pay off so they can do "real writing." Still, I love writers. Except when they are writing. And then they are grouchy. Or talking about writing. Usually when they are in their cups. But otherwise, we rule. I've got a Bic pen here somewhere . . .

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"There is more wisdom in the body than in your deepest philosophies." Friedrich Nietzsche

Cocktail Hour
Nurse Jackie has only one more episode -- waah!

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Tuesday!

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!