In Which I Bite Off More Than I Can Chew

There is a wonderful scene about half-way through the film "Victor/Victoria" where James Garner, who has fallen in love with Julie Andrews (though she may be a man) but not yet broken up with Lesley Ann Warren, is in bed with Miss Warren and is having trouble........ performing. Lesley Ann has a wonderful monologue wherein she tries to buck him up by telling him not to worry about it, ending with: "The more you think, the more you worry, worry, think... and before you know it, you are impudent!"

I'm feeling rather impudent impotent myself, these days.

I have lots of projects and irons in the fire and ideas and stuff, but whenever I sit down to try to write about them it comes out stilted and weird (if it comes out at all). The writing, it is eluding me. And I do so want to tell you all about what's currently driving me batshit crazy! (Aren't you glad?)

It may have been precipitous of me, but back in January I decided that the best way to unclog my inspiration highway was to say yes to things that felt scary. To jump off the cliff. In that vein, I am signed up for a March advocacy trip to Washington, DC with the PKD Foundation. I'm going to go speak to my representatives about PKD and the urgent need for increased research funding, which means I'm going to have to convincingly pass as a grown-up who knows what she's talking about. Also, it would be best if I don't break into a stammer and my palms don't sweat, and if I could manage to make my hair not to look like a dead wombat is sitting on my head, that would go in the plus column as well. No pressure.

(When I was a freshman in college one of the campus women's groups organized a similar trip to Harrisburg to lobby our state reps on freedom of choice. I took the bus ride, but when we actually got there, I chickened out and didn't visit a single representative. Karma's a beeyotch.)

Then, when salary cuts at work were imminent, I decided the best way to make up some of my lost wages would be to start a new business selling elegant French pastries at our local Co-Op, launching in early March.



This is the expression that can be found on my face, most days. I am having severe performance anxiety, fueled in part by my ridiculously high standards, in part by the fact that after all my expenses, I'm going to earn about $1.25 net per cake sold. But I'm going to try it -- the most I have to lose is my sanity, free time, manicure, and $200 spent on marketing and packaging materials. Right?

In other news, I start rehearsals next week for George Bernard Shaw's "Heartbreak House", performing March 6 & 7 at the Players Club of Swarthmore. It's been several years since I've directed and am hoping fervently that it's like riding a bike, but I have my doubts. On the plus side, I have a terrific cast. On the minus side, I just lost my stage manager. At least it will be over quickly.

For those keeping track, all of these terrifying events are occuring between now and the first week of March. Why do I do this to myself? A question for the ages.

Pray for me.

Non-Traditional Therapy

I don't think I mentioned that our magical TV suddenly lost its mojo a month or so back, and we no longer receive the signals of whatever On Demand programming our neighbors are currently tuned into. So we missed the season finale of Mad Men and had just enough of a taste of True Blood to get interested. Sigh. (Also, no more bad p0rn. Taking the bitter with the sweet.)

Which means that now our choices for TV watching are now pretty thin -- between Bravo, TBS, MSNBC, Universal HD and the traditional networks, one can barely scrape together a watchable few hours, and that's with Rachel Maddow in the plus column. Thank god Top Chef is back, because there are only so many Real Housewives of Atlanta reruns I can take in my tenuous condition.

Speaking of my tenuous condition, the Universal HD channel is proving to be surprisingly therapeutic. It seems to be Cheesy 1990s Psycho-Sexual B-Movie week, and it's amazing how relatively sane one feels compared with Linda Fiorentino's psychologist who moonlights as a prostitute, or Michael Douglas's cop who screws potential psychopathic killers.

All I need now is Glenn Close boiling bunnies and a FDA application for off-label use of Cheesy 1990s Psycho-Sexual B-Movies and I'll be set for life.

Things To Look Forward To

The new season starts tonight and is shot in NYC -- woot!



I've ordered a SAD therapy light and it arrives tomorrow -- not a moment too soon.



The next post from Aran at Cannelle et Vanille. She is amazing, and I'm so glad I found her blog. (Of course, after seeing her amazing pastries I feel completely inadequate, but it's almost worth it.)

My Mom Rocks, Part Deux

Y'all know my mom is a published poet, right? Last fall she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, which is a v. v. big deal in poetry circles. She didn't expect to win, but it is a true honor to be nominated.

You may remember that my mom's mom died last fall, after a very long, slow, and painful decline. She had been virtually living with my parents in the last few months, and in the wake of her passing, my mother wrote a long poem about the experience called "The Anatomy of Dying."

Guess who just got nominated for the Pushcart again, and guess for what poem?

My mom rocks, yo.

Reentry

It turns out that snarfing leftover pastries, playing 5-card draw with my 10-year-old, and watching endless reality TV on Bravo is not the best way to regenerate brain cells. Who knew? But I am pleased that Leanne took the big prize last night on Project Runway -- look how pretty:



It is fun to imagine being young and fresh enough to wear such pretty clothes. I am not feeling particularly young OR fresh these days -- exhaustion from the gear-up for last week's auction is finally hitting. On Friday night after all the hubbub, I found actual little fine wrinkles under my eyes that I double-dog-swear weren't there before. Bastards.

(And, for the record, flipping between Project Runway and the last presidential debate makes it much easier to not shout obsenities at the television set. "Health of the mother" in air quotes?! What frockin' planet is this guy from?)

I am, however, Taking Steps toward rejuvenation. This morning after Garrick's bus left I did my back stretches and floor core work, and then threw caution entirely to the wind and rode my bike to work. Tonight I may even get to sleep before midnight. Baby steps, people.

*****

So, the AUCTION! Went great. We had over 30 auction items ranging in value from $20 to $3,000, all donated, and ALL OF THEM SOLD (my #1 nightmare was that I'd have leftover stuff and have to come up with an ethical way of utilizing it). Between the $10 admission fee (which I'm going to rethink for future events -- I think it was off-putting for some folks), the raffle baskets, and the auction items, we raised $3,166, which is phenomenal -- I was hoping for $2,000. An additional $350 direct contribution got added on by one attendee (a PKD patient and transplant recipient herself) which brought our total event haul is $3,516 and total annual take to $9,654. My secret dream goal was $10,000, so I could not be more pleased. (Well, I could be a little more pleased. Like, $346 more pleased. But really, we're about $1,000 ahead of last year's results, so I will shut my pie-hole and be delighted, which I am.)

The food was really quite yummy, and we have had tons of leftovers.

L to R: pistachio petits-fours (red dish), crispy spiced crackers (in mug), lemon tartlets, raspberry vacherins, cheddar-pecan gougeres, butter cookies, s'mores squares.



I wish they looked slightly less like eyeballs, but they were delicious.



Pulled out my blowtorch for these babies.



I could eat gougeres all day and all night. GIMMEE.

*****

It must be said that if you are going to have a silent auction and generally be a control freak about it do all of the planning yourself, it is crucial to have lots of helping hands at the actual event. Specifically, you must have Teddie, Jimmy, Margaret, Jill, Cindy and Riley (bless them!) to do all of the paperwork and refreshments and ease-of-flow stuff and let you focus on running around like a lunatic inflating bids whereever possible chatting up the guests. Also plan to have Leigh visit from Arkansas so that she can be an invaluable help with everything from setting up to making sure you stay hydrated. Be sure your mother comes, because there is no way you're going to get the space cleaned up before midnight without her. It is also crucial that you have Michael there to pack and unpack cars, carry tables, manage the music system, make sure the kids don't pick their noses in public, bid on (and WIN!) the beach house get-away, and pour you a large chilled Drambuie when it's all over.

*****

I was so looking forward to an empty calendar between now and the holidays, but I've been foiled. Garrick came home from school last week with big plans for a yard sale, proceeds of which would benefit PKD. How could I possibly tell him no? So, this Saturday we're having a yard sale. (If you sweet local bloggy friends have stuff you're planning to bring to Goodwill, I'd be happy to take it off your hands and try to yard-sell it instead.) But that will be IT -- the final fundraising activity of 2008. Can I get an AMEN?!

Crossing Fingers and Toes

Today is a HUGE day for my dear friend Francine and the Dream Jam Band. They are performing live today on Sprout TV (The Sunnyside Up Show) and if they get good viewer response, this could become a regular gig. It's the brass ring, baby!

You can download a free song here, and if you have kids, check out the program. The band really is terrific.

Gearing Up

While down the shore last week, I happened across a recent rerun of "Law and Order" with Liza Minelli as the guest star. I don't know whether she ended up being the murderer, as I was too exhausted from dozing off in my beach chair all afternoon keeping close watch on the kids all day to stay up late. Which is another way of saying, holy hell, I'm getting old.

Anyway, I was struck by how good Liza looked. Either she's made a pact with the devil or she has a really good surgeon. For a sixty-two year old with a history of substance abuse issues, she is smokin' hot.

(Speaking of smokin' hot women in their 60s, have you heard the recent quotable from Helen Mirren about date rape? I think it's a horrible indictment that she felt -- feels -- that she couldn't report her date rapes, as it "just wasn't something one could do." Silence kills, man. /diversion)

I remember seeing Liza in "Cabaret" as a youngish teenager and not really understanding much of it -- the homosexual story line, the abortion story line -- but boy, did Liza knock my socks off when performing the title song. Remember it?




Chills down my spine, literally. I think it's a testament to Bob Fosse as a director that he elicited such a raw, powerful performance from this chick.

****

So why do I have "Cabaret" on the brain? Well, it just so happens that this Saturday evening is our PKD fundraising cabaret at the Swarthmore Players Club. Curtain is at 7pm, tickets are $15 each, and we have some very cool raffle baskets as well. We're about 80% reserved already, but if any of my pretty local friends are free, we'll be sure to save you a seat! It's going to be a very fun evening. Drop me an email or a comment if you want more info....

To date, we've raised about $2700 for the PKD Foundation. Woot! And I expect the cabaret to boost those numbers nicely (last year we brought in $2,200!). And have I mentioned that we have another cool event scheduled for October 10?....

(It's no wonder I can't find my brain these days. Ah well, I'll just have to make do without.)

More Things I Love About NYC

• The impressionist collection at the Met

• The Darger exhibit at the American Folk Art Museum

• Vosges chocolates on Madison near the Met

• Zabar's on 79th and Broadway

• The tomato festival currently underway at Cafe D'Alsace on 2nd and 89th

Advice

If you happen to have Sunday dinner at your in-laws', do not peruse your mother-in-law's recent book purchases.

If you throw caution to the wind and peruse, don't borrow "My Sister's Keeper" by Jodi Picoult.

If you do foolishly borrow it, don't start reading it right before bedtime.

And especially, don't start reading right before bedtime when you have to get up early to ride your bike to work because your car's in the shop.




You're welcome.

I Shall Wear the Bottoms of My Trousers Rolled

Michael and I went to a rock concert this weekend and I barely made it through the opening act. (Which, okay, was pretty abysmal -- electric violin and whistling into the mic and OMG could every song sound a bit more exactly like the last one he played?) But by the time the (kick-ass) headliners went on at 10pm, I was yawning and barely staying upright on my stool. (Which I'm apparently too old to sit on for 3+ hours, because my back was KILLING.)

My last rock concert was Peter Gabriel (at the Meadowlands!) on the "So" tour, so you can imagine.

What was your last rock concert?

System Overload

My brain's about to explode.

After weeks of dithering, last month Michael and I decided (finally) to commit to a repeat of last year's fundraising cabaret at our local theater. Woot! It's scheduled for September 6, and it's going to be a blast. Michael's got some terrific local performers lined up, and my dear friend Francine just happens to be scheduled at the World Cafe with her band that morning, so she's going perform for us as well. (Francine is one of my oldest friends. She sang at Michael's and my wedding, and it was the only time I cried during the whole [long] ceremony. She's wonderful and pretty and I'm so happy she's going to be with us on the 6th, I could bust.)

(P.S. -- If you have kids, or know kids, check out The Dream Band Jam! They are phenomenal, and have mastered the delicate balance of making awesome music for kids that doesn't make adults want to pour battery acid into their own ears. Truly, it's wonderful. Check 'em out.)

FURTHERMORE. At some point I also decided that, to replace last year's weekly cookie sale madness, this year we'd have a wine-and-dessert reception. I'd get the wine donated, and have a chance to exercise my baking jones by making the desserts. Then people started offering me stuff that would be appropriate for a silent auction (jewelery, babee!), and I said to myself, Self, the wine-and-dessert reception should be a silent auction as well. Brilliant!

And that way madness lies.

I am an inveterate list maker, but I can't get a handle on all the ideas floating around my brain. Theatre tickets! Restaurant gift certificates! Massages! Who do I know who knows someone at the new restaurant that's opening in Swarthmore? How much money do I have to spend at my local salon in order to comfortably ask for a freebie? Who can I ask to help with set up and tear down? What about some live music? My brain is bombarding me with ideas and I can't seem to grip any of them.

Last night's Big Idea was to make the silent auction a little sexier by inviting one of our local politicians. It will likely be held in mid-October, and our local congressman is facing a tough re-election. Plus, the more visibility I can leverage for funding for PKD at government levels, the better, right? Right?....

So, the current master to-do list reads something like this:

• secure donated items for raffle baskets for cabaret
• organize helpers, signage, and refreshments (purchased, thank gawd) for cabaret
• organize PR for cabaret
  
• secure donated items for silent auction
• organize helpers and signage for silent auction
• get wine donated for silent auction
• decide what to bake for silent auction
  
• bake my ass off for silent auction
• organize PR for silent auction
• hunt down Joe Sestak and make him come to silent auction (the $25 I donated to his last campaign should help a lot in this regard, don't you think?)
  

So, do any of you know anyone who knows someone in Sestak's office?..........

From the Mouths of Babes

Just now Michael and I were watching a snip of the movie "Hairspray" on TV when Garrick wandered in. He took one look at John Travolta up on the screen and said, "That looks like Ina Garten."

My boy scares me.

My Ten Favorite Things about New York City

10. My sister-in-law's loft on the upper East side
9. La Maison du Chocolat
8. Walking everywhere
7. Manhattan Theater Club
6. Seven floors of women's clothing at Macy's midtown
5. Bouchon Bakery
4. Losing 82 lbs of water weight*
3. Corner bodegas that are open all night
2. Chelsea Market

And my most favorite thing about New York City:

1. Going braless in a tank top with no shred of self-consciousness!


* This figure is an estimate

Garrick Learned a New Word Last Night

In an effort to curb the compulsive channel-surfing that I am wont to do, Michael and popped "Charlie Wilson's War" into the DVD player after the kids were tucked in last night.

(It is here worth mentioning that the kids almost never re-emerge from their rooms after tuck-in, so we were reasonable in our assumption that we were "safe.")

We were only about 15 minutes into the movie -- the middle of Philip Seymour Hoffman's argument with his boss -- when Garrick poked his head into our bedroom. The dialogue at the time was running thusly:

"Fuck you!"
"Fuck me? Whaddaya mean fuck me? Fuck YOU!"
"Who is this fucking guy? I don't even know what he's fucking doing here!"

and so forth.

It was beyond the laws of physics to grab the mute button in time.

Luckily, Garrick was so intent on asking me what happened to the bathroom nightlight (the bulb burnt out a few nights ago and I haven't replaced it yet) that I don't think he even noticed that strange word eminating from the Oscar-winning actor's mouth.

Asperger's has it's small compensations.

Television Intervention

We have a strange television situation in my house. I can't stand paying any superfluous money to our local monopoly cable provider (the name of which rhymes with..... um.... bombast), so we decided a couple of years ago to only pay for the most basic cable service (just to get a signal), and to subscribe to Netflix instead. We thereby both Stick it to the Man and also get to watch what we really want to watch, instead of hundreds of channels of drivel. Aren't we clever (and cheap frugal)?

(It's probably worthwhile to point out that I grew up with no television in the house AT ALL, and Michael grew up eating frozen dinners on trays in front of the TV most nights. And, of course, I am now the one who needs an hour or more of TV before bedtime in order to fall asleep, while Michael stoically struggles to read the latest Thomas Pynchon opus with reruns of "Scrubs" as background noise. Dudes, marriage is all about compromise.)

The It's-Not-TV-It's-Netflix thing worked pretty well, for a while. We watched "Sex and the City" and "24" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and "Six Feet Under" and "The Sopranos." After the kids went to bed, we watched an episode (or two) or a movie (or a portion thereof) and then hit the hay. It was very civilized, I got to bed sort-of mostly on time, and best of all, there were no commercials.

Then we got a new TV.

About 18 months ago, we succumbed to the high-definition flat-screen hype and got a relatively modest set for the master bedroom (the only room in the house with a TV). It's pretty and shiny and you can see the razor-sharp picture without squinting. I may have made out with it a little.

Then Michael got hold of the remote control and the owner's manual and he pushed a few buttons and ALL OF A SUDDEN, there were a gazillion times twenty channels showing up. And some of them were playing cool movies, like "Sense and Sensibility" and "King Kong"! We kept channel-surfing into movies-in-progress, surfing away, and then trying to come back and find said movies and not being able to. It was very very weird, and I suggested that we'd fallen into a "Twilight Zone" episode akin to the classic episode of "Friends" where the guys are suddenly getting free porn on their TV, and refuse to turn it off for fear of offending the TV Porn Gods and losing their free porn.

You know where this is going, right?

After making this comment, I went downstairs for a glass of water, came back up, and found our TV set to porn (bad porn) and Michael cackling gleefully. Thus convinced we had entered an alternate TV dimension, we kept channel surfing and trying (and failing) to get a handle on which channels were showing the good movies (and not the bad porn). Because

Fake Boobs: Iz not the sexay.

It wasn't until a few days later when we surfed into a showing of the awful Nicholas Cage movie "World Trade Center" that the light bulb clicked on. The movie skips around a bit and there are (mercifully) story lines without Nicholas Cage, and we entered at one of those points. When the story segued back to the Nicholas Cage story line, ALL OF A SUDDEN the movie began to fast forward. On our TV screen. Without any intervention from us.

Not only did we have serious TV gremlins, they had taste! I instantly forgave them for the bad porn -- gremlins who blip over Nicholas Cage are welcome in my TV set any old time.

It took only a few minutes for us to realize what was really happening (because we are smart like that): our fancy-pants new TV was picking up the signals from all of our neighbors' On Demand selections. Whatever they are watching, we can watch. From bad porn to Jane Austen to Nicholas Cage movies, man, it's all in there. You just have to be willing to channel surf and catch it in a timely manner. (And also try not to dwell too much on WHICH neighbors are watching WHAT, 'cause, Dudes. Really. Bad. Porn.)

As you might have guessed, this is a double-edged sword. Because the grass might always be greener on another channel, and someone down the street might be watching the episode of "The Tudors" that I missed, my channel surfing has gotten OUT OF HAND, as I'm sure Michael would agree. The Netflix account lies languishing and neglected, good only for episodes of "24" that Michael watches while riding the stationary bike. An intervention is clearly needed. "Top Chef" ends this week, and then I'm going to fall off the cliff For Realz.

With the exception of a few semi-decent movies on the Universal HD Channel (more about which tomorrow), my TV watching is clearly in need of an intervention. I end up staying up much too late, chasing that ever-elusive show or movie fragment that will provide sufficient distraction for my brain to turn itself off so I can go to sleep. For the love of all that's holy, make me some Netflix suggestions in the comments. One-hour episodics would be best. Big fat smoochy thanks in advance.

My Kind of Town, Chicago Is

Did we have a time! The kids were completely jazzed as we hunkered down in the airport for a quick dinner before our 8pm flight last Thursday.

Yes, they were just that excited. But because I'm losing what pass for my brain cells, I only had the camera with me half of the time. The other half of the time, the camera was locked in the rented apartment. (D'oh!) So I'm afraid you're going to just have to Make Do.

(A digression regarding the apartment. We stayed in a very interesting concrete building in the South Loop area called River City Lofts, and on the interwebz, it looked like a slam dunk. However! When we stumbled in at 11pm on Thursday night, the first thing I noticed was that the (humongous) lobby was scabrous and in need of paint and new flooring. The second thing I noticed was that the common area hallways had not been recarpeted since the Reagan era. The third thing I noticed was that our rental unit was severely underfurnished and under-refurbished. Cosmetic coats of paint had been [sloppily] applied in the living room and bedroom, but inexplicably, not in the bathroom, which was flaking and rusting and just gross. And the ventilation ducts were be-furred with an accumulation of dust and grime that was truly revolting.

The only furniture in the whole farking place consisted of two small, rickety stools at the kitchen bar, a black "leather" queen-sized Jennifer Convertibles sofa that was older than I am, a TV table mit TV, a queen-sized bed (no headboard, of course), one small, open two-shelf.... ummm..... unit? and ONE night stand (duh?). That's it. No dresser. No chairs (easy or otherwise). No coffee- or end-tables. And no area rugs to soften the unrelieved banality of a poorly-installed Pergo floor that was starting to peel up at the seams.)

But was I going to let a crummy apartment ruin our family vacation? No, siree! We did so much in four days that I can't fathom writing actual paragraphs. On with the bullet points.

DAY ONE (no camera)

• Millennium Park: We had a fine time bouncing around the Park and admiring this incredible sculpture.
  
• Sears Tower: Incredible view and fun exhibits of the history of Chicago.
• Pizzeria Due: Because the line at Pizzeria Uno was huge. Loved the texture of the deep-dish pizza crust for a novelty, but won't be giving up my Manhattan-style thin-crust any time soon.
• Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: Fun, but not as good as #1 or #3. Great action scenes; a little sloppy in the plot department. The kids loved it.

DAY TWO (camera, but no good pictures)

• The Science and Industry Museum: Despite the completely incomprehensible floor plan, we spent several incredible hours exploring a miniature circus, an interactive exhibit on the internet, a farming exhibit, and more. This is a not-to-miss if you're travelling to Chicago with kids.
  
• India House: Wonderful Indian food, and plenty of it. We could watch the kitchen from our table, and the kids were very impressed with the size of the shish-kebab skewers. (Aside -- for a cuisine that is so vegetarian-friendly, you'd think there would be more actual VEGETABLES in the food, wouldn't you? Bueller? I ate lots of rice and samosa dough.)
  
• Chicago Shakespeare Company: The boys' first Shakespeare! We saw a schizophrenic production of "Comedy of Errors" which included a misbegotten framing devise written with great self-consciousness for the production. But the scenes from Shakespeare (all 6 or 7 of them) were brilliant. Magnificent acting.
  

DAY THREE (with camera!)

• Chinatown: We walked about an hour from our apartment to the Phoenix restaurant for dum sim and chrysanthemum tea (name that Sondheim show). While waiting, we explored the plaza and found our Chinese zodiac animals.

After eating our weight in dumplings, we saw some Buddhist monks. That they were walking just behind a group of sailors (in whites) created a fun image, but I couldn't draw my camera quite fast enough. You'll have to take my word for it.

• The Navy Pier: Holy moly. The first thing you encounter -- before the entrance to the actual Pier -- is a fountain.

And it was windy, which blew the water from the top jets over onto passers-by in a most appealing way (if you're a boy between the ages of 10 and 12). And, oh look! There are water jets coming out of the floor at random intervals!



If you think that's not irresistible, you've never had a 10 or 12 year old boy in your care.



At some point, you just have to embrace the experience.



Michael and I spent about an hour blessedly resting our tootsies on a bench while the boys got soaked -- and I mean, soaked. Then, onto the Pier itself, with a speed boat ride, ride on the Ferris wheel, and ride on the swing-wave thingy. (I know it has a name, I just can't remember it). It was all fun, but boy, that Ferris wheel is HIGH.

• John Hancock Tower: A late dinner at the lounge atop the Tower. Fabulous view, but the menu has gone seriously downhill since my trip here last fall. The bar food was all pre-made Sysco crap (heat and serve) and the mojito didn't even give me a teeny buzz -- one well-made cocktail is enough to make me right tipsy. And when did it get to hard to order a vegetable that isn't breaded and deep fried?!

DAY FOUR (without camera, which was inexcusable)

• The Shedd Aquarium: Dolphins and otters and whales, oh my! I had woken up with another UTI (grrrrrrrr), so we took it slow but still managed to see everything. I think. There were baby Beluga whales that were criminally cute. I could have lived without the tarantulas.
  
• Evanston: Michael has a frat sister who lives in Evanston with her hubby and two delicious bookworm children, and they insisted on having us out for a home-cooked meal, which was really delightful of them. We had a lovely, restful evening chatting and drinking wine while Garrick and their 10-year-old tried to kill one another with plastic light sabers. And we ate a wonderful meal WITH VEGETABLES! Bless them.
  

All in all, it was a wonderful trip with maybe a little too much walking and too many late bedtimes (and too many UTIs and not enough vegetables or area rugs), but we somehow seemed to get muddle through anyway. The kids swung wildly between having the best time of their lives and being too overwhelmed and crabby to enjoy any of it. (Note to self -- NEVER let Garrick miss a feeding meal when on vacation!) But now that we're home, all would agree that we had a most fabulous trip and we can't wait to back and see everything that we missed.

The extra snuggle-time while waiting for buses and the like was just a bonus.

Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich!

I want to participate in Simply Nutmeg's Filch It Friday carnival, but I have an overwhelming urge to filch from myself. Is this legal? Or will it cause a time/space fissure resulting in something along the lines of the brilliant scene in "Being John Malkovich" where Malkovich forces John Cusak to let him through the portal to his own brain, and everyone in the restaurant around him is him, causing a melting down of consciousness and linear reality that only Charlie Kaufman could have pulled off?!



(Digression: during my soujourn in New York as a waiter actor, Malkovich was starring on Broadway with Joan Allen in Lanford Wilson's stunning play "Burn This". This was before either of them was much of a name in the biz, and you could still get half-price Broadway tickets without wincing. I must have seen that production 7 times, many viewings from the second or third row of the theatre. Malkovich was brilliant [and very sweaty]. Joan was gorgeously heartbreaking. The play still hits me like a body blow. End of digression.)

(Oops, spoke too soon. On the topic of Charlie Kaufman, have you seen "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"? You should. It makes me cry [in a good way].)

On to the self-filch (which isn't anywhere near as dirty as it sounds):

THE GOOD

We have finally managed to make arrangements for our long-awaited family trip to Paris! We're going in September, along with my parents, and my kid brother, who lives in Singapore, will meet us there with his girlfriend. It's going to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. I cannot wait.


THE BAD

It turns out that the annual PKD Foundation fundraising walk falls smack-dab in the middle of our Paris trip.


THE UGLY

Can I in good conscience solicit donations in support of an event that I won't be able to attend? I don't think I can top last year's fundraising results, but I want to at least try. Maybe we can do an adjunct walk around the Jardin des Plantes on the same day, recording it all for posterity and posting it to the blog afterward as proof? What do you all think?

*****

I'll be posting the winning not-quite-a-business-name later today -- someone's getting some cookies!

Celebrity Encounters, Part Two

Watching "Michael Clayton" the other night reminded me of my Sydney Pollack story, and since Michael's already heard it (a lot), it y'all's turn.

While I was living in NYC being a waitress actress, I booked a nice, 6-day gig as an extra in "Bright Lights, Big City". It was a club scene, and I had a red mini-skirt, a black mesh top, and spike heels, and apparently that's all you needed to book at $90 a day plus all the bagels you could eat from the craft services table. It was a pretty sweet deal at the time (ah, youth).

Day One of the shoot was a mob scene -- we were shooting at Tunnel Club and they had the place packed with sweaty extras. By Day Three the crowd had thinned out, as they were shooting in sequence, from peak clubbing hours into the very wee hours of the morning. On Day Four, they turned on the fog machines, to fill out the atmosphere around the few dozen of us extras still working (and by working, I of course mean acting like drunken club-goers).

Now, this was a troubled shoot. The director we were working for was eventually fired and the movie started over from scratch with a new director, so don't rent the movie and crawl through the club scenes looking for me -- I'm not there. There was tension on the set, though, and Michael J. Fox did lose his cool once that I witnessed, when a day-player who had a few lines with him missed her mark for the fourth time in a row (dumbass).

Sydney Pollack was producing the flick, and showed up on the set around Day Three, to babysit the director, I'm sure. He pretty much sat in his chair quietly and didn't interact with anyone, and after the initial flurry of recognition, we all ignored him.

So, Day Four. Fog machines. We had been working long days -- about 10 hours, mostly on our feet -- and I'd been out late drinking the night before with one of the PAs (oh hush). Midway through the day, the combination of fog + fatigue got to me, and I started getting a little woozly. Then suddenly I was very woozly. I managed to make my way to an exit and sat outside on the curb near the trailers, sucking what passed at the time for fresh air. One of the drivers saw me and must have ratted me out, because in a few moments a PA was by my side, making sure I wasn't about to screw up the film's insurance die. By this time I was fine, and he accompanied me back into the club.

Back inside, while passing from the shooting area back to the extras area, Sydney Pollack stopped me. He was full of concern and truly sweet, asking several times whether I was sure I was okay, and offering me his director's chair (!!) so I could sit down. Of course, I didn't take his chair -- Sydney Pollack! -- I wobbled back to the extras area and sat my tushy down on a hard metal folding chair, like the rest of them/us.

But I never forgot what a complete gentleman he was. While sitting watching his project circling the drain, he still took time out to check on a $90-a-day non-union extra. That's class.

Cultcha

Remember the Margaret Atwood book I bought while I was in Chicago but never got around to reading? (Sure you do.) Well, I brought it with me to Mexico and holy hell, that woman can write. Like most folks, I'd read "The Handmaid's Tale" years ago, and loved it, but never explored further. I think I was intimidated by her prolificness (which isn't a word but totally should be) -- 13 novels, 15 volumes of poetry, plus short fiction, radio scripts, children's books, etc., etc., and so forth! I mean, where do you start?

Start with "The Blind Assassin." Seriously. It's a masterpiece.

******

While aimlessly flipping channels the other night, I lucked onto the end of a Great Performances production of the recent revival of Sondheim's COMPANY. The show itself is not without difficulties, but the music is as vibrant and compelling as ever, and good lord, Raul Esparza as Bobby --! Words cannot do his performance justice. He is commanding, charismatic, and an incredible singer. It takes a lot to knock my cynical socks off, and boy, he did it and then some. Check your local listings and set your TIVO.

The Good German...

... is not a very good movie, actually. But George Clooney + black and white = RRRWARR.