Movie: Half Nelson

Brilliance upon brilliance. What a fantastic movie.

I'm normally not the first one in line for films about beautiful white people who save the underprivileged with their witty idealism and anti-conformity-themed rubrics.

But I'll make an exception with this one.

Rumor has it, Ryan Gosling feels pigeon-holed. Ever since he defrosted our hearts with his epic performance in The Notebook, people refer to him as, The Notebook guy. (Sort of like Leo's Titanic guy problem) So if Ryan took this part in the movie Half Nelson because he was trying to diffuse the glow a bit... well, he sure did succeed.

Because this is my blog, I get to talk about my favorite scene in the movie without having to worry about giving anything away. Well, it doesn't give a darn thing away, actually. But it's a beautiful moment. Ryan (the actor) is getting out of his car in the morning, on his way into the school. The camera is held tight to his face. He is gathering everything he needs for the morning: briefcase, books, thermos, lunch. He's composing himself a bit in the mirror. He sings that Sesame Street song, "1-2-3-4-5...-6-7-8-9-10...-11-12". Remember that? Then he gets out of the car. There was just something about that whole scene that I really liked. It told so much with so little. I listened to the director's commentary after, and he talked about that scene. How he gave Ryan a note to count to ten to himself, to get himself really ready for the scene, and then Ryan decided to incorporate it into the scene itself. The director said it really gave him an idea as to what type of actor Ryan was, and how he worked. I don't know, I just liked it. It was simple, and complex.

Great, great movie.
See it.
Then watch the Oscars in two weeks, and see if Ryan gets one.

Museum: MOMA

Today I visited my famous friends. We're on a first name basis now, so it was great running into Pablo, Sal, Rene, and Henri.

I find it quite thrilling to see a work of art that you've studied and discussed for so many years, live and in the flesh. I think it's titillating to see the brush strokes, the pencil lines, and the canvas staples. I like getting up real close and finding the mistakes. I like knowing that it's all real.

I like to wonder whether we make too big a deal out of things, like art, and how it comes to be that a painting is worth more than a life. I like discovering how some paintings are enormously huge, and others are surprising small.

I like seeing that one painting, you know the one, the one you always think about, the one you always speak about. I like that moment when you see it, under the lights, and the frame around it isn't gold, but quite an understated brushed metal. I like how it just sits there, quietly, smug, discreet. And crowds gather round it, pointing, staring at it solemnly.

I like wondering how art really changes the world. Does it? Is it really that significant, or do we just like the drama?

I like wondering whether the world today is in a place where it can handle newness anymore. Are people still making such bold statements? Are people still breaking ground? Or is the ground so shattered that our ears are numb to the sounds of the drills and we are jaded by the fractured cement around us. If you make something new now, it falls through the cracks, silently. But still we stand, agape, at the blue paintings that changed the world 100 years ago.

I went to the MOMA by myself, because I wanted to see what it would be like to take all this in without having to hear what anyone else thought, without having to pace myself, without having to be judged for how quickly I walk through the halls. I have ADD in museums. I am judgemental. I don't like to give anyone credit that they don't deserve. I walk briskly through 3 halls in a half hour. And then I see one painting that takes my breath away in a flash, and I will stand in front of it for 20 minutes. That's the feeling of beauty. That's what it means to dive in. I save all my energy for those moments. It's all instinct. It's thrilling. I, know what I like.

I don't know if you understand what I'm talking about. But that's OK. Here are the two new friends I brought home with me today for my own home. And no, I didn't steal them off the walls.

Movie: Music & Lyrics

I was going to begin this post by saying, "I should really start seeing some good movies" because I expected to trash this film. Expected to, because, how could I not? It's got yes please I'll take extra butter on my popcorn written all over it.

But I loved it! And I loved it because I'm in one of those moods where cupids and construction paper hearts make you go, awwww. If you're not in one of those moods, I don't suggest you watch this.

I used to be obsessed with Drew Barrymore. I remember the poignant evening it began like it was yesterday. I was maybe 12 years old, and we were all at my grandparent's house for dinner. There was a little article in the Post about Drew, and how she was about to enter rehab for a drug problem. That little article was my first exposure to pop celebrity. It was the first time the gleam became tarnished, and I was in shock. Drew? Little Drew? Little dress-up E.T. Drew? A drug addict?

After realizing we were nearly the same age (and therefore, I was certain, would have been the best of friends), I read anything I could about her. Those were pre-google days, so I was forced to get anything I could from lifestyle sections of bad newspapers. I even read her "book" (yes, I put that in quotes). My dad swears her story is the reason I never became a drug addict. I have to agree. If not for Drew, I'd be writing this from the Betty Ford clinic.

But I digress. This is an adorable, harmless little film. So shut up with your judgment, and add it to your Queue.

Movie: Just Like Heaven

The theme of this blog is, "I have to tell you." Usually that means I'm going to write about something I support. Well, today I'm going to put the whites in the color pile and mix things up a bit. Here is something I am not supporting.

Just Like Heaven.
I am not supporting this movie. It was trite, contrived, and glossy. Of course, I knew that going in. But here's a little fact you may not know. Movie producers in Hollywood have meetings once a month where they discuss my lack of will power when it comes to big-budget blondes who learn a lesson about love in the end. And then they invest millions of dollars into witty previews that I get to download in high-bandwidth formats on apple.com and feel compelled to add to my Queue. So, I caved.

The movie was so bad that I'm going to go even further off topic. I like the word Queue, and the way it's become a casual new addition to our lexicon. Here's how it works: A friend mentions a movie they saw. I tell them I haven't seen it. They say flippantly, "Oh, add it to your Queue." And right away, with one word, I know that they are referring to Netflix, and their assumption that I have already taken the time to register with that company, provide my email address, mail address, and a user name of my choice. And with that, comes a Queue that I have the ability to add to, delete from, edit, rearrange and divide into sub-categories.

This is a phenomenal word, and if not just for the fact that it employs u-e-u-e in it's spelling, I think it deserves higher accolades. I think it's time to push the envelope with Queues. I want to take personal responsibilty for expanding it's girth in conversation usage. I want a Queue for things I need to buy at the hardware store, and for people I should have called back last week. I want a Queue for things in life that I need to be more well-versed in, so that I can participate in conversations that I can schedule to arrive in my life in 3-5 days, depending on the Christmas rush.

"Have you heard about Putin's criticism of U.S. Power?"

"No, I haven't."

"Oh, it's quite aggressive. You should add it to your Queue."

"Cool, I'll do that. I have Congress curbing lobbyists right now, but I'm usually too tired at night to get into it."

"Yeah, that one is a bit overdone. But the bloopers are hilarious."

Book: The Dive From Clausen's Pier

This was a really intense book. I think I liked it. I'm not sure. It took a while to get through, but I was thoroughly intrigued by the story line and wanted to know what would happen next.

The thing was, the main character was, hmm, not entirely likable. I guess that's why I'm not sure if I can rate this book as "good" or "bad". It was, uncomfortable. Her life, during this book, was complicated. The problems she faced were unimaginable, and I'm pretty certain you could not judge her actions unless you were in her situation. As unique as it was.

But the thing is, I'm not sure what she would have done different had this specific trauma (not giving it away) hadn't happen to her. And that's the thing. It didn't really happen to her. It happened to her boyfriend. And normally, when a book tells the story of an accident that turns someone into a paraplegic, the story follows that particular person. But in this case, it didn't. It followed the person on the peripheral. It followed the one that watched it happen.

It's an interesting scenario. Imagine a relationship that is going sour, that is maybe "not meant to be". Imagine you are coming to that realization, slowly, and you are watching things crumble through your fingers. But, it's hard to face. It's hard to acknowledge. So you take your time.

And then, something bad happens. Something really bad. Something that would serve as a benchmark for any relationship. You'd see things in terms of, before "it" happened, and after "it" happened. And everyone then looks to you, to see how you'll handle this bad thing that has happened. But the truth is, things were bad before it happened. Things were already dying. But now you have to step up to the plate. Now you have to be the support system, for someone whom you really have no business supporting anymore. Because before the trauma happened, you had already left. You just hadn't said so out loud yet.

I couldn't sleep last night so I stayed up till 3 am reading, finishing this book. And I'm not entirely sure how it ended. And however it ended, I'm certain I didn't see it coming. It left me slightly bewildered.

I think I understand now why Kilroy wouldn't reveal himself to Carrie. Through out the story, you feel her frustration. You see him as potential trouble. But then it started to dawn on me, he probably knew the whole time she would leave. He probably had a sense. He probably knew that it would happen any day, at any moment.

That's the thing about this book. You never really see anything from anyone else's perspective. It's entirely Carrie's. Which makes it feel a bit selfish at times. I understand it was about her struggle, the whole way through, but I just wish she had thought about how she was impacting other people a little bit more.

I guess if a book makes you think this much, it's a good thing.

Music: John Mayer - "Gravity"

I'm not a musician, but I imagine if I were, the feeling of being on stage each night would be similar to drawing the same image over and over, and over.

Visual artists don't really do that, draw the same thing repeatedly, unless maybe you're a cartoonist. Fans of a visual artist don't stand behind them at their canvas, and watch them create. You don't hear someone whispering, "Oh, I know that brush stroke! She's going to do Still Life with Urn!" An artist doesn't spend all night working on a canvas and then go to bed wondering what the next canvas will look like with the same exact image on it (unless maybe you're Andy Warhol, but even still, silk screening was a form of mass production, not re-creation).

Artists don't go on tour. But their art does, and it's always the same piece, traveling from one wall to another. But it's not repainted in each city it visits. It's just not the way of the art form. But I have experimented with that idea before. In college we had to pick an object, and draw it 100 times. Each time we drew it, we had to rediscover the object. We had to find it in a new light, and paint it with new momentum. I never got bored, never felt uninspired by the object, even though I stared at nothing else for a week.

Each time I drew it, it was different. I came to expect the unexpected. I would conjure up the feeling that this was the first time the image had ever appeared on a page, even though I already knew it's lines by heart.

I imagine, to some extent, to some minor extent, that's what it feels like for a musician every time they get up on stage and play the same song, for the 100th time. It's not about repetition, it's about discovering a new way to see the light. It's about vibration and pattern. I imagine.

John Mayer is touring the country now, and last night in Florida, he played "Gravity" for the 100th time. Here's how this version came out.

Press play. Provide your own goosebumps.

Music: Kill To Know

I just LOVE this song.

All I wanted to write about today was this ONE song, and how I think it's officially become my new favorite song. I'm going to make a promise to myself that I won't overplay it. I won't listen to it 100 times in a day, learn the bar chords... or, wait... Maybe I will learn the bar chords. I can do that now, you know.

This is just such a rocking song. And Amy Miles does it justice. The video is super cool, and features one of my favorite female funnies, Amy Poehler (see if you can catch her).

Damn, now I want to go roller skating.

Here's the video.



If you wind up liking her as much as I do, you can watch the video in higher quality here: watch

And then visit her website here: amymiles.net

Book: Behind Everyman

What a wonderful book!

This is one of those little gems that you'll come across by word-of-mouth only. If you saw it on the shelf in the bookstore, it's very likely you'd pass right by it. Someone needs to have a word with that publisher about the cover design they chose. Not. Cool.

The book has a distinct voice, layered characters, humor humor humor, and a really moving story all wrapped in one. I think the basic idea behind the author's inspiration was, why are so many relationship-type books out there just for women? Men have feelings, too, you know! (Well, maybe that's not exactly what his internal monologue sounded like). But he went ahead, followed his gut, and wrote the thinking-man's guide to love, life, and career.

What you'll discover right away as you open to chapter one, is that the book has a unique twist to it: It's written in the tone of a "How to..." manual, like some sort of fix-'er-upper-do-it-yourself'er. And yet at the same time, as you're learning "how to get your screenplay published", or how to "succeed in online dating," a beautiful story is unraveling before you between this hapless guy and this charming woman, and the whole thing just flows from there.

I read it over 2 days or so. For the final stretch I was sitting on this amazingly soft puffy couch facing a beautiful winter's day. I couldn't have been more "into this" at the time, and often found myself laughing at loud. Always a good sign.

I have to tell you, this book touches your heart, tears you up a bit, and makes you a look a little harder for snowflakes. (Inside joke. You'd get what I meant if you read the book.)

And it's got "make me into a movie" written all over it.

Travel: Kripalu

Top 10 reasons to love Kripalu:

1. The chocolate cookies they sell by the gift shop.

2. The gift shop.

3. Healing Arts.

4. The way it starts to feel when you fall asleep.

5. The meals. More specifically, the pasta primavera.

6. Making new friends in a share circle.

7. Dancekinetics.

8. The new couches on the first floor.

9. The fourth floor sun room.

10. Planning your next trip before your current one is even over. And watching other people do the same.

Music: Corrine Bailey Rae

The new beautiful sound on the block can be found in the debut album of Corinne Bailey Rae. The album successfully balances soulful melody with shoulder shaking groove. Who would think that the way to enrapture an audience at first sound is with the quietest song on the album as your opening track. But that's what she does with "Just Like A Star", and enrapture is just what happens.

I hadn't heard of her at all until he blogged about it. Then the next day she swept up all the Grammy nominations one could hope for without anyone knowing your name. I'll make a photo-op prediction here: She could pull a Norah Jones circa 2003 come this February.

I have to tell you, this is a delightful, emotional, uplifting collection of songs from the British Ms. Rae. It's easy to memorize the words to "Put Your Records On" (which you will want to do as soon as you hear it, so you too can sing, "Summer comes like cinnamon, so sweeeet..."). In the past few weeks, after any meaningful conversation I've had with someone, I press the PLAY button on my stereo, and miraculously her songs fill the space with the perfect soundtrack.

All smiles. I recommend this.

Product: iphone

Reasons why I don't want the new iphone:

1. The touch-button thing seems cool, but what if I throw it in my pocketbook, and my keys hit the screen, and in the middle of a staff meeting I hear the distant voice of my grandmother shouting, "Hello? Hello? Are you married yet?"

2. It's too big. Have you seen how big it is? If I wanted something that big in my back pocket I'd eat another donut.

3. I don't think phones should cost more than the plane ticket I could buy to visit the person I want to call.

4. I don't put all my keys on one key chain, because I figure if I loose my car keys, than I still have my home keys, which allows me to enter my house and grab my spare car keys. In that vain, I don't want to have my music, my photos, my phone numbers and all my email in one little box. I don't want to get locked out.

5. And lastly, because the first 10,000 people who buy an iphone are going to experience an influx of this: "Oh my god, is that the iphone? Can I try it?"

Book: Committed: Men Tell Stories of Love, Commitment, and Marriage

What a funny idea for a book. And what a great idea for a book cover. However...

Reading "Committed" takes a bit of a commitment in itself, because the stories don't always live up to the cute concept of the collection. But I was curious, so I kept reading, hoping for some revealing truths regarding the male psyche. Hmm, I don't know if I learned anything that I didn't already know. (Men like beauty, stunning beauty. Men like the chase. Men like chasing stunning beauty.)

OK, so maybe I'm oversimplifying things. There are some good writers in here. Some boring ones. Some clever ones. One famous one (David Sedaris). I'm sure everyone who was asked to submit was very happy to do so. I stretched it out and read it in about a week, but found myself skipping a few stories here and there.

I have to tell you, if you like short stories, around a common theme, and have once or twice in your life wondered about the analogy between "men" and "commitment", then perhaps, this one's for you.

Book: The Time Traveler's Wife

My sister is mad at me.

About a year ago she lent me a book called, The Time Traveler's Wife. She told me I would probably like it. It was the summer time and I had an hour or so to myself each day while my campers took their swimming lessons. I packed the book in my bag and found a spot in the bleachers overlooking the pool where my 8 year-olds were learning to kick and dive without holding their nose.

The book began slowly. I would have given up on it, but watching someone learn the crawl stroke is tedious enough. So from my perch, I kept at it. And finally, a few chapters in, I was hooked. I was more than hooked. I was cemented, hot-glued, welded, latched, and bonded to that book.

I have to tell you, this book is the new epic love story you've been looking for. Like true love, it's thick, complicated, and confusing. It fills your heart, and makes you believe in the ever after. I have only been writing in this blog about books I'm currently reading, but it's one year later and I still can't stop thinking about this book.

I'm usually a fast reader. If I'm into a book, I can finish it in a day or two. But this one I stretched out as long as I could. I sat on a blanket in the park. I curled up in a chair at Starbucks. I crawled under the covers. I would force myself to shut the pages at a climactic moment, just as a way to ensure I'd still be able to dive into the story tomorrow. It took me 3 months to finish this book. Because I made sure that it did.

So my sister is mad at me. Because she lent me this book a year ago, and I refuse to give it back. "Not yet," I tell her. "Just a little while longer." I like seeing it on my shelf, knowing it's still there.

Ever feel that way about a book before?

Book: The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green

Reading this book, or rather, the experience of finishing this book, has induced in me a quasi-manic quest to tell as many people as possible to read it as well. That's how good it was.

My one complaint, and I reserve the right to be judgemental about these sorts of things, is that the cover design is terrible. I have no idea what its relevance to the story is, and frankly, I think it will deter readers. It looks like a teen novel. The title sounds like a teen novel. But it's most certainly not teen material. At least, not the typical kind. Read it as an adult, and you'll experience the character development much differently than you would if you were 13. You won't identify with Jacob's angst in the now, but you'll remember how it was way back when.

I have to tell you, I loved this book. In a sentence, brief as it is, I loved it. I began it on a Tuesday (let's just say) and didn't stop reading until Wednesday night. I brought it to Starbucks. I brought it to work. I brought it to bed. I carried it around with me in my pocketbook and pulled it out during lunch and showed it to everyone as they ate their tunafish sandwiches. "You must read this book," I said. And when they looked at the cover with disdain, I said, "Trust me."

It's about a young boy, and he's Jewish, and he lives in New Jersey, and he has a learning disability, and he hates his father, and he can't stand Hebrew school, and he can't keep his brother by his side, and he's in love with his nanny, and he hates writing thank you cards. Those are just the facts. The real story is in between all of that; the way you root for him, worry for him, scream for him. A few times I had to put the book down because my tears kept me from reading any more.

And I'll throw in a side note here. It's written by Joshua Braff, who happens to be the brother of Zach Braff, who is the one who brought this book to my attention in the first place, on his blog. I mention that because maybe it will give you an idea of his sensibility and the compassionate way he tells the story. And in the same way you wondered after Garden State, you'll wonder again, who the heck raised these kids?

But like his brother's movies, it's not based on fact. It's not a true story. It's fiction. He's a writer. And it feels so real because, well, he's damn good at what he does.

Movie: The Holiday

The only reason we saw this movie was because I had already seen every good movie on the marquee. And we were bored. So we wound up here.

And when the film was over, I admit, I turned into one of those obnoxious theater goers who feels the need to shout out at the closing credits, "That was the worst film I have ever seen!" with nary a concern for the misty eyed throngs of 20-something well-dressed women around me. And in case they didn't hear me the first time, I shouted it again.

These are all the reasons this movie sucks:

1. That closing scene, with all the characters frolicking around the fireplace (yes, they really frolicked, and in designer clothes, no less)--was I supposed to feel happy for them? Weren't Jack Black and Cameron Diaz supposed to be on a plane the next day, leaving their new lovers behind? Would siblings Kate Winslet and Jude Law then sit around their gingerbread houses, depressed, sobbing into their hot chocolates that nobody loves them? Would those two adorable children of Jude's wind up in therapy because they were ever so perplexed as to why their daddy stopped bringing his lady friend home to lie in their tent?

2. Did these people pay over $1,000 a ticket every time they spur-of-the-moment decided to take off for each other's homelands?

3. Why was Winslet spending so much time with that old guy? Was I supposed to see that as a sign that she is very caring and giving and non-judgemental, and therefore, I would accept, without question, that she would fall for a fat man like Jack Black?

4. Why is Cameron Diaz perpetually 12?

5. Why did Winslet and Black agree to be 12?

6. Why was Black even in this film?

7. How did Diaz's character fit 10 winter coats in her 1 suitcase? And why did she pack a rhinestone belt?

8. Why didn't these two women speak on the phone before they exchanged houses? Why didn't they leave each other notes explaining the alarm system, or how to do the laundry, or where the car keys were?

9. Why is it, when a director wants to portray a beautiful, statuesque woman like Diaz as "real" and "flawed", he decides to make her trip a lot and then jump up and shout, "I'm OK!" ? That didn't actually happen in the film, but I kept waiting for it.

10. Why is it that we are living in the year 2006, yet whenever the Internet is portrayed on film, it looks like 1997's dream of what the Internet will look like in the future?

Music: My (third) First Guitar

Well, the first one was a ukulele. So I don't think that counts.

It had nylon strings, and a sturdy chocolate brown body. I'd sit on my bed, instrument in my lap, and sing about my day. "Oh, I got up in the morning... and I ate some cereal... and I played outside.... and then we had lunch... and I read a book... and then we ate dinner... and then I went to bed..." I was about five-years old when I wrote my first one-hit-wonder.

The next time it happened I was in college. The cute boys with their guitars roamed the campus, and I knew I wanted one of those. The boys, not the guitars. Then when I came to realize that the 6-string aphrodisiac was just a cover for a whole lot of not-worth-it, I decided I didn't need a boy to make some music with, I could do so myself. How excited was I when my friend presented me with a guitar she found at a yard sale, for only $10! Who cared if it was warped and out of tune--it had a hummingbird on it!

I took the guitar home during Christmas break and locked myself in my room and began the process of morphing into a rock star. But you see, it turns out, an out-of-tune guitar doesn't actually sound that good, even to someone as tone-deaf as me. And my friends couldn't tune it for me, because, as it turns out, a warped guitar can't exactly be tuned.

So, the pursuit was abandoned. Hummingbird and all.

Now it's nearly another ten years later. The dream has not deferred. There is still a rock star hidden in me, waiting to get out. Or if not a rock star, then at least a poetic long-haired coffee shop open mic type of girl.

Last Christmas I was given an American Express Check as a bonus. I've been carrying it around with me for a year, waiting until I found that extra something special to spend it out. Yes, one whole year.

On my way home from work everyday, I pass a guitar store. I stare into the windows as I drive by, dreaming about how nice it would be to try again, just one more time. Today I was having a particularly good day, and when I drove by the store, I thought, "That's it! I'm getting one!"

I turned the car around, drove back, and walked in. "What can you give me for $100?" I asked the guy. "I've never taken a lesson in my life."

He handed me a Fender Squire guitar. It wasn't blue. It didn't have a hummingbird painted on it. There was no glittery strap to drape around my shoulders. It was just... a guitar.

"That's the one," I said to the guy. He asked, "Don't you want to try it out first?" I had no idea how to "try out" a guitar, so I ran my fingers once over of the strings. "Sounds good!" I said. "I'll take it."

And then, to prove my commitment, I signed up for lessons. And this evening I had my first guitar lesson, with my brand new guitar. Actually, it was my first music lesson. Ever. I sat on a bench in the back room of the music store with my new teacher. And we started from the beginning. All the way from the beginning. I learned two new chords (now I have 5 in my repertoire) and an actual scale. I bought an electric "tuner" so I can keep the guitar in tune this time. And I got homework for next week. Which, I'm proud to say, I've already started.

As I lay in bed tonight, with my fingertips already burning, I'll remember my new mantra.
E-G-B-D-F: Every Guitarist Begins Doing Fine.

Show: Les Mis

A friend recently offered me a "free ticket" to see Les Mis with her on Broadway. I find it amusing, that of all the years I've spent in this city, I've never seen that performance. Isn't it supposed to be some sort of classic? Isn't it "the staple" of Broadway shows? As far as I'm concerned, Les Mis is a buttoned-down white shirt, a pair of black pumps with a 2 inch heel, white rice, and a Bud Light. It needs to be in your musical theater pantry.

So, you've got your classic songs, your will-they-or-won't-they love story, your political injustice mixed in with some jolly fat people who serve spirits to the locals and comic relief to the audience. It's sweet. It's what you'd expect.

But I have to tell you, don't you just hate it when you tell people about a show you've seen, or a book you've read, or a movie you sat through, and they looked at you with wide eyes and exclaim, "Wasn't that JUST the BEST??" And you feel taken aback, for a moment, because while you did appreciate the artistry, you weren't exactly quitting your day job to follow the national tour.

But hey. Broadway is Broadway. And it's quite nice to spend a Sunday afternoon in a balcony seat, surrounded by applause, in the glow of a spotlight.

Sure, why not, let's give 'em a round of applause.

Music: Madeleine Peyroux

One of the best things about seeing a great musician live, is simply hearing them. I think it's cool when a singer's "voice" is what makes them so distinct, as opposed to just their outrageous personality, or frantic music video. Sort of like Tom Waits, or the guy from Crash Test Dummies.

Also, like Madeleine Peyroux. She's got one of those "voices" that you can practically see, as you listen. It's unmistakable, and unforgettable. It's what makes her songs so croon-like, so Billie Holiday-like. (Billie Holiday must be the most missed musician in the world. Has there ever been a more aspired to, cautiously reserved accolade than, "She sounds just like Billie Holiday"?)

I got to see/hear her live at City Hall, along with my mom, who I turned into a fan, who in turn got us both tickets to a Fall concert. City Hall is a beautiful venue, and it was certainly an older crowd than I'm used to seeing at shows.

When Madeleine sang, her voice echoed through the domed hall, and I smiled as soon as I heard her first notes. It was her voice. It was there, in front of me. I could see it.

I have to tell you, you should listen to this song and enjoy.

Movie: Stranger Than Fiction

This was
one of the
best movies
I have seen
in a long time.

Sometimes the movies we love don't make sense. Sometimes the reason they affect us so much is because of who we are, and where we are at in our lives when we see them. It's not just about the movie being "a good movie". It's about how it touches you, and moves you, because of timing. I've had that happen to me a few times. It happened during American Beauty. It happened during Cast Away.

It happened during Stranger Than Fiction.

I have to tell you, I adored this film. I was swept away. I want everyone I know to tell everyone they know to go see it.

I think, especially, that the casting was superb. Certain people have said that they were surprised how "not funny" it was, since it was staring Will Ferrell. Huh? I laughed through the whole thing. But not in the way you laugh in a typical comedic film that practically spells out, "L-A-U-G-H N-O-W" across the bottom of the screen. It was funny in the way that life is funny sometimes. It just is.

And the precious part of the film is how the character keeps trying to figure out if his life (as it is playing out in the film) is a tragedy or comedy. He keeps score. That was so perfect, since as an audience member, we are so trained to see Will Ferrell as a comedic guy. But seeing him cry, heart-felt, sincerely, confuses you. Touches you. And you are left thinking, to yourself, "Is this a comedy, or a tragedy?" That's perfect casting. That's the point of the movie.

I loved it.

Movies: Animation Film Festival

I have a pet peeve.

When you're of the creative ilk, you often find yourself immersed in a variety of projects. It's like breathing, in a way; it must be done. You get visions, ideas, bursts of artistic energy that must be worked off in the same way as someone who escapes to the gym to run 5 miles on a treadmill.

When you're an artist, these things happen. And my pet peeve is when a person, who is not of artistic ilk, looks at something you have made and reacts by saying, "Boy, you sure do have a lot of time on your hands."

No, artists do not have a lot of time on their hands. They make time, to do things with their hands. They put down the magazine, they turn off the TV, they log out of IM, and they make something. Because, to them, "making something", is like breathing. It must be done.

Last night I saw an impressive collection of animation shorts at a mini film festival. The crowd was small (it should have been bigger), but the talent was high. In about an hour I saw a collection of 8, maybe 10, short animated films. After the lights came on, a few of the animators got up on stage to answer questions.

The films were beautifully inpiring, and made me want to go back to my own drawing board to finish some ideas I've been carrying around with me for a while. The artists admitted that these films took nearly a year to make, even though they were only, at most, 10 minutes long. Many even shorter.

There's an intimacy to the animated short; it's a quiet way of telling a story, a focus on imagery as opposed to flash. It's a genre that is so unique and impressive, and so utterly time-consuming to make. Each time I see a new one, I am conscious of it being uniquely distinct from anything else I've seen. You really see the handprint of an artist in an animation, because it places such an emphasis on personal style and personal perspective. It's nothing without those two elements. I love it.

The fun part of the evening was getting to see, in person, Odd Todd. I also got to watch this beautiful film and hear from the artist about the process it took to make it. And many more, including this one, which I highly recommend. It was beyond spectacular.

I have to tell you, I'm going back to the drawing board.

Fashion: Shopping Spree

Sometimes, it's a good idea to get it all done at once. Think of all the energy you've saved not having to grumble, "I have to tell you, I have nothing to wear."


Problem solved.

Well, for the next few months at least.

Art: MFA Show

Tonight I was at an art show for MFA students in the city. It was in a very vibrant, central location. A union of streets, if you will.

This is what I love about NYC: No matter what time it is, it's always go, go, go. The lights were blazing, there was a movie being filmed across the street (Sigourney Weaver was on her way, I was told), people were rushing past me (who's in a rush at 9 at night?). I'm a card-carrying member of the metropolis, but sometimes I like to get caught up in the shock-value of it all.

Anyway, the show. The show was full of young, next-best-thing artists. People who gave up paying careers, or never quite found the career worth getting paid for, for the opportunity to think, talk, and make their art, full-time. People who dream in tertiary colors, on purpose. People who wear fashion casually the way a suburban pre-teen might dress up for Halloween.

I considered calling it a scene, but that sounds so subjective. A scene is only a scene, when the scene is not your own. Otherwise, it's home.

I walked from studio to studio, blissfully happy to be in this atmosphere. Excited to see creationism as perceived by a man or woman who doesn't mind paying 20 grand a year for the opportunity.

Art is a funny thing. It's hysterical. It's mind-warping, and weird. I thought I understood art. I thought I got it. I thought at least that I was OK with the moments when I didn't get it. But tonight, I did not get it. I did not get a lot of the things hanging on the walls with push pins, or draped across the floor covered in plaster. I did not get the layer of colored cellophane, the hair glued onto rice paper, the dried plaster mold created by a hand that grabbed the plaster when it was wet.

I did not get Art, tonight, as I sipped my red wine from my plastic cup. But I have to tell you, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it's ambiguity, it's irrelevance, and it's nonsensical fist through the wall. And I enjoyed peering through the wall, into another plaster mold, filled with hair, surrounded by a yellow inner tube.

Show: "Vicious Circle" (Dane Cook)

Tonight my Sis graced me with one of the best birthday presents ever! Two tickets to see Dane Cook LIVE at Madison Square Garden!

The evening started off perfectly when we actually found a parking spot ONE block from MSG. What?? Yes, you heard me. Without barely a moment wasted, we turn onto 34th street, and see someone pulling out. In the middle of the infamous chaos that belongs to that area of the city, I paralleled parked my ride right into that spot. Taxis and pedestrians pushed their way around us, and Sis said, "Go for it. It's do or die."

Our seats were way... way... way up there. But because of the layout of the stadium, we concurred they actually felt like good seats. It's a huge, HUGE place, that for some reason has a level of intimacy to it. As the evening went on, it started feeling smaller.

But at first glance, I exclaimed, "HOW is he going to do this?" Can you imagine... standing in front of THAT many people, all eyes on you, for nearly 2 hours, telling story after story, hoping to get a laugh out of all of them? That is the talent of Dane Cook. He commands the stage, fills the space, and seems to be having more fun standing in front of us than we are in front of him. He held his microphone in the air and shouted, "I love my job!"

It was a fun show, a great experience. I have to tell you, I have a pretty cool sister for making this night happen for us.

Movie: Transamerica

Brilliant movie. I had such low expectations going into it. I don't why. Maybe I thought it was going to be another one of those long-winded movies that took itself too seriously.

This was not that. This was brilliant. This was about the power of transformation, on all levels, within all people. Felicity Huffman is going to be the new Meryl Streep if she continues taking roles like this. The only reason I can back up her decision to join the Desperate Housewives' cast is because it gives her more visibility, so people who normally would never see Transamerica might be more than curious to give it a shot.

This movie, wow, I have to tell you, is unforgettable. Even Dolly Parton adds her touch with an original song, and it's really fun, especially to hear her talk about it in the DVD extras.

In case you haven't picked up on it yet, I am highly recommending this.

Movie: The Last Kiss

It was a sunny day today, the first we've had in a while. Everyone was walking around the park and enjoying the sidewalk-sale shopping experience my town was hosting.

I pushed through the crowds and headed straight to the movie theater at the end of the block to see the first screening of Zach Braff's new movie: The Last Kiss. Apparently, I was the only soul willing to give up the sun. Ahh, what a girl will do for art.

I.LOVED.THIS.MOVIE.

I was sucked in immediately. I over-identified with each character in some way. Either I was looking at me, or someone I knew, or someone I was afraid of becoming, or someone I wanted to meet, or someone I was, or someone who someone I knew used to be.

With this movie, I didn't really care "what it was about." I didn't worry too much about how it would end, or what would happen next. There were too many subtleties, too many all-knowing looks the character shared with one another. Too many "in the moment" moments happening to the characters. This was not an "end result" type of movie, if you know what I mean. I felt utterly absorbed in their experience. A movie that allows you to do that, in my opinion, is what makes a movie GOOD.

The music was beautiful. I only wish it had carried itself through the story more. At times I felt it was a little too obvious a statement of, "Listen to this cool song" and stayed separate from the story line. For some reason, Garden State had the opposite affect. But regardless, I loved the songs. I already owned most of them anyway because of blog recommendations.

My god. I walked out of the theater with a dazed look on my face. I called up my friend, and said, "You need to go see this movie. HOLY S---."

I will see it again. This time in the experience of a packed theater.

I have to tell you, I loved it.
Loved it.

People: Garrison Keillor

I have to tell you...

A Plan to Save the Country
by Garrison Keillor

It's the best part of summer, the long, lovely passage into fall. A procession of lazy, golden days that my sandy-haired, gap-toothed little girl has been painting, small abstract masterpieces in tempera and crayon and glitter, reminiscent of Franz Kline or Willem de Kooning (his early glitter period). She put a sign out front, "Art for Sale," and charged 25 cents per painting. Cheap at the price.

A teacher gave her this freedom to sit un-self-consciously and put paint on paper. A gentle, 6-foot-8 guy named Matt who taught art at her preschool. Her swimming teachers gave her freedom from fear of water. So much that has made this summer a pleasure for her I trace to specific teachers, and so it's painful to hear about public education sinking all around us.

A high school math class of 42! Everybody knows you can't teach math to 42 kids at once. The classroom smells bad because the custodial staff has been cut back. The teacher must whip his pupils into shape to pass the federal No Child Left Untested program. This is insanity, the legacy of Republicans and their tax-cutting and their hostility to secular institutions.

Last spring, I taught a college writing course and had the privilege of hanging out with people in their early 20s, an inspirational experience in return for which I tried to harass them about spelling and grammar and structure. My interest in being 21 again is less than my interest in having a frontal lobotomy, but the wit and passion and good-heartedness of these kids, which they try to conceal under their exquisite cool, are the hope of this country. You have to advocate for young people, or else what are we here for?

I keep running into retirees in their mid-50s, free to collect seashells and write bad poetry and shoot video of the Grand Canyon, and goody for them, but they're not the future. My college kids are graduating with a 20-pound ball of debt chained to their ankles. That's not right, and you know it.

This country is squashing its young. We're sending them to die in a war we don't believe in anymore. We're cheating them so we can offer tax relief to the rich. And we're stealing from them so that old gaffers like me, who want to live forever, can go in for an MRI if we have a headache.

A society that pays for MRIs for headaches and can't pay teachers a decent wage has made a dreadful choice. But health care costs are ballooning, eating away at the economy. The boomers are getting to an age where their knees need replacing and their hearts need a quadruple bypass - which they feel entitled to - but our children aren't entitled to a damn thing.

Any goombah with a Ph.D. in education can strip away French and German, music and art, dumb down the social sciences, offer Britney Spears instead of Shakespeare, and there is nothing the kid can do except hang out in the library, which is being cut back too.

This week, we mark the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and the Current Occupant's line, "You're doing a heckuva job," which already is in common usage, a joke, a euphemism for utter ineptitude. It's sure to wind up in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, a summation of his occupancy.

Annual interest on the national debt now exceeds all government welfare programs combined. We'll be in Iraq for years to come. Hard choices need to be made, and given the situation we're in, I think we must bite the bullet and say no more health care for card-carrying Republicans. It just doesn't make sense to invest in longevity for people who don't believe in the future. Let them try faith-based medicine, let them pray for their arteries to be reamed and their hips to be restored, and leave science to the rest of us.

Cutting out health care to one-third of the population - the folks with Bush-Cheney bumper stickers, who still believe the man is doing a heckuva job - will save enough money to pay off the national debt, not a bad legacy for Republicans. As Scrooge said, let them die and reduce the surplus population. In return, we can offer them a reduction in the estate tax. All in favor, blow your nose.

-----------------------------------------

Published on Thursday, August 31, 2006
Copyright © 2006, The Baltimore Sun

People: Dane Cook

Dane Cook makes me laugh so hard that I fall out of my chair with tears in my eyes.

I discovered him accidentally, and got hooked immediately. I watched his HBO documentary-style TV show this summer. I've listened to mp3's from his two albums, and burned copies of them to CD for my friends. "I have to tell you," I told them, "This is the funniest comedian I have ever heard."

Last night I saw his new HBO special. An hour-and-a-half of all new material; a brilliant A-Z of love and life. It was a first for this style of comedy: The theater was "in the round" which required him to walk in a circle the whole time, addressing each side, running through the crowds, cameras chasing him at all angles.

It was an interesting concept. But the truth is, he doesn't need all the flash. He could stand in a garbage can with a hairbrush as his mircrophone, and a crowd of thousands would have to stop and listen.

Do what you got to do to get to hear him.

Book: Educating Esme

I came across this book while in the library, and I used my shiny new library card to "rent it" for a month.

It's by Esme Raji Codell, and it's a diary of a teacher's first year. If you haven't connected the dots yet, yes, it's autobiographical. Actually, considering the reputation of that genre lately (thanks, Frey), let's just assume it's autobiographical.

For the first half of the book I was a bit irritated. Mostly I was reading it to learn "how to write a first-person account of a daily activity", and secondly, because the subject matter appealed to me. But I was irritated because I couldn't imagine a first-year teacher behaving so flippant and patronizing to authority. How did she always have such a perfect, sarcastic retort to everything? And why did she want to? It's quite different from what you'd imagine a first-year-teacher memoir to be: First, she succeeds quite often. Second, she's not intimidated by anything. Or at least that's the tone she establishes right from the start.

But during the second half of the book, I started to really enjoy it. I accepted her dry wit as literary liberty, and felt inspired as she delved more into her newly realized philosophies of teaching. She began illustrating more meaningful interactions with her students, and wrote a bit more universally regarding the plight of the teacher.

However, at no time did I feel like she was a babe-in-the-woods in this new career. And it seems, through her telling, that the administration was frustrated by that as well.

So, I do think this was a good book. I am glad I read it. But I did have some reservations about the "literary personality" she built for herself. I would like to have seen her soften up a bit, sooner rather than later. But then again, maybe there are too many floundering first-year teachers writing memoirs. Maybe it's time we got a tougher one on the shelves. Enter Esme.

And finally, here is a quote from the book, which is actually something a more seasoned teacher said to her, not something she said herself. And, I have to tell you, it really moved me:

The difference between a beginning teacher and an experienced one is that the beginning teacher asks, "How am I doing?" and the experienced teacher asks, "How are the children doing?"

Restaurant: The Turkish Kitchen

I've never really written an official restaurant review before, and to be honest, I find them quite boring and more like adjective competitions. But I'll give it a go here, in my own style. If I were a restaurant review, what would I look like?

Last night we took my mom out for her birthday at a Turkish restaurant that she loves and frequents, and more importantly, had a coupon for. The walls there are all red, and the tables are always full. There is a perfectly-toned buzz of conversation floating above your head that makes you feel like you're at the best party in town.

We were our own little party. And voraciously hungry. We devoured our appetizers rather quickly. Zucchini patties, fried golden, and dipped in yogurt-cucumber sauce. Filo dough rolls, crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle. A fabulous lentil soup that was so very un-lentil like. We plunged our dinner rolls into the last droplets left behind. That's the sign of a good meal: When you find yourself searching for creative ways to savor what remains.

Our entrees arrived and the wine was poured for those of us declaring we were not going to be designated drivers that evening. One plate was a melting pot of yogurt sauce and beef chunks, which looked more like gnocchi in white sauce. And tasted a bit more like it. Like a ravioli, the waiter told us, which wasn't quite true. Bread had to be ordered to finish it off, because it felt like more of a soup, in an unsuccessful sort of way. But Mom declared that's the first dish that she hadn't given an A+ too there.

I had a plate full of filet mignon chunks, appropriately colored this time. They sat along-side little triangular baked potatoes and surrounded by rice. I have to tell you, it was delicious. Mom and Dad explored the vegetarian options, and got along with their dinners quite nicely too.

Dessert was presented to us on a circle of white plates and we chose what we wanted. We nibbled at our flan-like custard rolls and our almond pudding while sipping hot apple tea.

After the opening of birthday gifts, the evening ended as it usually does. Mom and Sis stretching their stomach and declaring, "I'm so full!" and Dad and I picking up the odds and ends remaining on the table, wondering what we could take home for later.

Life: Change

I have to tell you...

The other night I was in the supermarket, ShopRite or something like that. It was past midnight. Or no, maybe it was just after 11 pm, because Starbucks had just closed. The aisles were deserted, and the air conditioning was full blast. I picked out a few things for tomorrow's breakfast because I was resigned to eat at least one of my meals at home instead of out.

I took my collection to the cashier; a 40-something woman with reddish hair that looked more burnt than dyed. She seemed tired, but I was in the mood to talk.

I remarked on the renovations the store was undergoing. I over-enthusiastically declared that this was such significant change, that the look of the place would be completely altered. In my head I thought, why do I care about this? But my eyes beamed, and my smile was wide. "It's going to be like a whole new store!" I said.

She fell right into my exuberance.

"I know, they're changing everything. The other day I came in here after being gone for a week, and there were all new cashiers. I didn't know a single one of them," she told me earnestly, her lonely face posed in what I imagined was a reenactment of that moment.

I brought up the cliche topic of prices being too high over at Whole Foods, and said I was happy to come here now for the same healthy items at a better mark down.

She agreed. "I've been here 13 years," she told me. I tried to imagine her standing in that spot for 13 years, and wondered what the benefits had been.

She lowered her voice. "But I'm thinking of changing jobs. I'm thinking of moving to A&P."

I waited for the rimshot, but there was none. She sighed, and paused, my cat food poised midair above the brown paper bag she was filling. "I think it might be time for a change."

I realized in a breath what change meant. I cherished the moment, a woman with burnt red hair in a blue cashier's jacket, confiding in me before her manager, that it might be time to alter her path and fill grocery bags at the supermarket down the street.

"13 years is a long time," she said. Maybe she sat up nights worrying about this, smoking her last cigarette of the day as she looked out on her porch. What would this mean to her life? Could she do it?

"Do it," I said, beaming. She smiled back. "Make the change."

The cleaning men pushed large floor buffering machines behind us, and their grumble was relentless.

"Maybe," she said a bit wistfully. Then, "You have a good evening." And with a perfect cashier's smile, handed me my bags.