Regionalisms

As with, well, everywhere, New York has it's own regionalisms in language. And it's not the stereotypes (which are painfully true) that you see on TV. It's small things that are so striking.

1) People here wait "on line," not "in line" as we do in the South.

2) Employees "call out sick" to work, not "call in sick".

Those are the ones that come immediately to mind. More to come...

What tha....

Okay. We ALL know I was no cheerleader of Memphis. But what tha...Memphis is 10th for BBQ and NYC is #1. The one negative thing any New Yorker you stop on the street will tell you about the City is that you CANNOT get BBQ in this town!!!

AND WHO GOES TO LITTLE ROCK FOR BARBECUE?!!


Memphis No. 10 on BBQ destinations list
Wednesday, June 27, 2007

CheapTickets.com has listed Memphis as the 10th best destination for
barbecue during the Fourth of July holiday.

The online travel agency commissioned its employees across the country to identify the best place to eat barbecue and enjoy Independence Day events.

New York City was listed as No. 1, followed by New Orleans, Washington, D.C., St. Louis, Dallas, Kansas City, Cincinnati, Charleston, S.C. and Little Rock, Ark.

The company suggests eating at the Pig-N-Whistle while in Memphis and lists the average daily rate for a three-star hotel in the city at $100.20.

News of the Weird for you Wednesday evening

Tiger is killed by exhibit mate at zoo
From Times Staff and Wire Reports
June 27, 2007

A tiger at the Charles Paddock Zoo was killed by his longtime exhibit mate, zoo officials said.

Hoshi, an Indochinese tiger who joined the zoo in fall 2000, was found dead in his den Sunday. Zoo Director Alan Baker said the tiger died from asphyxiation caused by exhibit mate Sala. Laboratory tests are incomplete.



Asphyxiation? Do tigers play sex games?

June Movie reviews, part the second

In today's Webisode you'll learn how totally creeped out "Notes on A Scandal" made me. First let me say, it is very hard to watch Judi Dench be bad; though, of course, she's very good at it.

Now, with that out of the way: my critique. The people in that movie were messed up, but in a very sad sort of way. I suppose it's a story about loneliness and the lengths we will go to to fill that void, to drive the loneliness away. These two women, played by Dench and Cate Blanchett, are extreme examples, but I think their pain is something we've all felt, which is what makes it so interesting to watch. But also, I think, is what makes it so creepy. The whole "there, by the grace of God, go I" feeling.

I also saw a version of "Psycho" that spliced the original and the remake together, switching back and forth between the characters to give each two different personalities through out the film. I read it as our "good" self and the self that we really are; the actual idea was to present the self we wanted others to see and the self that we actually are. The most interesting part was the shower scene where it first (if I remember correctly) switched back and forth and then, as she's dying, presents the two selfs next to each other. I can't remember if the overlap at the end. It seems like yes. But what really interested me in this was in the quick cuts to the shower head and the drain — the inanimate objects, there was ALSO two versions. As if, even inanimate objects have the self they present and the self they are. I was really intrigued by that idea, though I have no idea if that was on purpose or not. I forgot to ask. Anyway, I'm supposed to be getting a copy of this mashed up "Psycho," which I'll be happy to share. By the way, I never actually saw the remake. Probably should have done that first...

Can common sense be that hard to find?

Perhaps Cameron Diaz is a perfectly lovely woman, but she is clearly a complete idiot.


LIMA, Peru (AP) -Cameron Diaz apologized Sunday for carrying a bag with a political slogan that evoked painful memories in Peru.

The voice of Princess Fiona in the animated "Shrek" films visited the Incan city of Machu Picchu in Peru's Andes on Friday carrying an olive green bag emblazoned with a red star and the words "Serve the People" printed in Chinese, perhaps Chinese Communist leader Mao Zedong's most famous political slogan.

The bags are marketed as fashion accessories in some world capitals, but in Peru the slogan evokes memories of the Maoist Shining Path insurgency that fought the government in the 1980s and early 1990s in a bloody conflict that left nearly 70,000 people dead.

"I sincerely apologize to anyone I may have inadvertently offended. The bag was a purchase I made as a tourist in China and I did not realize the potentially hurtful nature of the slogan printed on it," Diaz said in a statement e-mailed to The Associated Press.

On Friday, one prominent Peruvian human rights activist said Diaz should have been a little more aware of local sensitivities when picking her accessories.

In Sunday's statement, the star of "There's Something About Mary" said the purpose of her visit was to participate in a television show that celebrates Peru's culture. The actress has been in Peru as part of "4 REAL," a Canadian TV production that focuses on young community leaders around the world.

"I'm sorry for any people's pain and suffering and it was certainly never my intention to reopen what I now know is a painful wound in this country's history," she said.

Diaz also spoke of Peruvians' beauty and warmth and said she wished "for their continued healing."

Searching for The Bloody Veil

I supposed I should blog here about my ongoing search for a film my mother was in.

Though I have always been "looking" for it, I think my search has been relatively passive. The last few weeks, however, I've moved into a much more aggressive search due primarily to the fact that about a year ago I told a friend about my mom's "secret" past and he's been on me ever since to track down this movie. Last week I told him what I think the name of the film is, "The Bloody Veil" and he was all like, "I LOVE that name. I'm going to steal it."

I reinterviewed my mom on this topic and she was less forthcoming before. I did find out they filmed it in Athens; in the area where the new airport is. I've also decided to focus my search on the years 1958-1962. She met my dad in 1963 and he knew nothing of this, so I think it must have been made before then and while she was living in Athens. The next time I talk to her I need to find out exactly when she lived in Athens. This could give me an even narrower window to search in — or a wider window, I suppose.

So I've started writing e-mails to Greek film studies professors. I'm also writing to some friends in Greece. This movie is supposed to play fairly regularly on television there, so maybe they'll be able to tell me more. Even a more complete plot line would be helpful. I'll keep you up-to-date and also any help/suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Creepy Neighbor Watch

So I'm at home. You know what that means. I'm being stalked by my downstairs neighbor. Apparently standing outside my bedroom smoking and blowing the smoke into my open window wasn't enough for him. So he came up and knocked on my door.

Earlier today I did some laundry. Not all of the laundry as I had hoped because I did not have enough cash and I didn't feel like a special trip to the bank. So I did two loads. Load 1: Denim. No problem. Load 2: T-shirts, shorts and undies. Problem. The dryer, while turning the clothes round and round, did not actual DRY the clothes. The second time through also did nothing. So I had to hang all my clothes, including said undies, up around the apartment to dry.

The neighbor knocks and says, "We just wanted to see if Roland could come out to play." In the meantime his dog has darted into my apartment and chased the cat under the futon. The dog is growling at the cat. The cat is hissing at the dog. I yell at the dog. Neighbor comes running in to get his dog. Etc. Etc.

I'm really getting tired of these personal intrusions. I'm sure when I go to get the dog or he brings the dog, he's going to ask me to watch a movie or have dinner with him. Today's response: "I really have to get my apartment cleaned. I'm leaving next weekend to on vacation with my boyfriend and I want it clean before I leave." Have to start working imaginary boyfriend into every conversation until real boyfriend materializes.

I thought I left this behind

I was just driving down the street to work yesterday, minding my own business, when I pulled up behind this at a red light:



I know you can't read all the bumper stickers, but you can all imagine what they say. You've seen them on the highways of Tennessee, the river roads of Louisiana, the Main streets of Mississippi.

[Sigh] Apparently the world is getting smaller and not necessarily in a good way.

June Movie reviews

It's been a slow movie month for me. I also haven't read any books...or studying Spanish, for that matter. What have I been doing with my time?

Anyway, this weekend I did watch The Third Man, a Carol Reed/Orson Welles film noir classic from 1949. It was a very good mystery film and made me wonder why we don't make movies like that any more. It seemed like it would have been a crowd pleaser but one that also makes you think. Now we get Mr. Brooks — a movie I have no desire to see. Kevin Costner, you are no Orson Wells or even Joseph Cotton. Anyway, if you're in the mood for a black and white pic, you should check The Third Man.

In the theaters: I went to see Oceans 13. It was entertaining...though not particularly thought provoking. However if you're checking out an Oceans movie for thought provocation, then there is no hope for you anyway and what are you doing reading this blog? You can't really be my friend. Anyway, Oceans 13. WAY better than 12 (granted, not hard to do). The plot makes sense. The inside jokes seem to be jokes the audience is a part of, as opposed to the self indulgence of 12. The actors are having a good time, you're having a good, the producers are having a good time. You don't even notice the movie is over two hours long. If your looking for a movie to take your mind off work or whatever, this is a good one for it.

Next up for review, according to my Netfix queue: Note On a Scandal. Cate Blanchett. Judy Dench. Bill Nighy. They could be reading the user manual for my DVD player and it would be good. But I'll try to keep an open mind.

Money v. Art: $$$ wins every time.

A Change at the Hotel Chelsea, Celebrated in Art and Legend

By LISA CHAMBERLAIN
The New York Times

For six decades the Bard family has managed the Hotel Chelsea, overseeing a bohemian enclave that has been a long-term home for writers, artists and musicians including Mark Twain, O. Henry, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Andy Warhol, and Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen.

The Bard era came to an end yesterday.

On Friday, the board that runs the hotel told Stanley Bard, 73, and David, his son, that they would be replaced on Monday with a new management team.

Yesterday, the Bards were busy filling boxes in the lobby with help from residents who expressed concern about what the management change portends for one of New York’s more quirky cultural institutions.

“Everything is pretty chaotic in the lobby,” said Ed Hamilton, a writer who has lived for 11 years in the hotel, on 23rd Street near Eighth Avenue, and helped create a blog about it called Living with Legends. “Everyone is really worried.”

The new management team is led by BD Hotels NY L.L.C., which owns and operates about 5,000 hotel rooms at several upscale hotels in the city, including the Chambers, Maritime and Bowery Hotels. BD Hotels is also developing a hotel in TriBeCa with the actor Robert De Niro.

The switch in management is the culmination of a power struggle related to Stanley Bard’s efforts to increase his control among the shareholders who own the hotel. After the resulting shakeup, David Bard remains on the board, but he is outvoted by the other two members. They voted to hire new managers, although the Bards will retain their ownership shares.

Stanley Bard said he would cooperate during the transition with the new management, but added that he and the board had differences of opinion about how to run the hotel. Under him, it became famous as a haven for artists and creative performers, and he was known to allow some residents to get behind in their rent.

“This took 50 years of nurturing and development,” Mr. Bard said. “Everyone respected it — the cultural community, the people living there. That’s hard to create.”

One of the board members, Marlene Krauss, said a new management team did not necessarily mean a radical overhaul of the hotel. “I’m very concerned about maintaining the hotel, its dignity and history,” she said. “There are infrastructure needs that have not been addressed. But we have no intention of throwing people out.”

She also said that she would like to find a way to keep the Bards involved with the hotel. “We understand they are an important part of the history and ambience of the hotel,” Ms. Krauss said.

Stanley Bard said he would continue to be associated publicly with the hotel, as an “ambassador.” In the early 1960s, Stanley Bard took over operation of the hotel from his father, David, who along with two partners bought the hotel in 1945.

About 60 percent of the hotel, which was built in 1884, is occupied by long-term residents, and the other rooms are available to short-term guests.

Ms. Krauss, the chief executive of KBL Healthcare Ventures, said a full evaluation of the hotel would be conducted before any changes were made. Two years ago the board told the Bards not to accept any new long-term tenants. “It’s been the plan of the board for a while to have more transient guests,” she said. “I think it’s been hard to maintain the hotel with as many long-term tenants as we have. We’ll look at things on a case-by-case basis.”

Current and former residents said the management change was an unwelcome end to an era.

“That’s a disaster,” said Jeanne-Claude, who along with her husband and artistic partner, Christo, are famous for their large-scale public art installations, including the Gates in Central Park in 2005. They lived at the Chelsea in the early 1960s, before they became successful. They often could not pay the rent and would borrow money from the front desk to eat, Jeanne-Claude said.

The Bards asked them to pay their bill whenever they could, and to leave a piece of art when they left. Their son, Cyril, used to share a baby sitter with Rebecca Miller, the child of the playwright Arthur Miller, who lived at the hotel off and on throughout her childhood.

Christo said of the new management: “They will try to refurbish it and stop being generous with the artists that need help.” Several residents shared the same concern.

“Stanley is a unique character in New York,” said Philip Taaffe, a painter who has lived in the hotel since 1991. “He’s devoted his life to this place, which has become part of the cultural heritage of New York City. It’s hard to survive in this town as a writer, artist, or actor. He’s helped many people over the years. What is going to happen to New York when that’s gone?”

Overheard in my Kitchens

Argh! The creepy downstairs neighbor is singing "Hotel California" — very badly! To the point that I had to leave my sandwich making and flee to the bedroom to write this. I think he's outside singing. Yikes! I'm trying to ignore him for fear he'll start serenading.

I want to put on the radio really loud, but then that will give him something to say to me the next time he lies in wait for me. "So, you didn't like my singing the other night..."

Overheard on the Internets

One of the links from my blog is Overheard in New York, which a friend turned me on to. Sometimes the things there are lame (and usually revolve around sex), but every once in while there are some funny, PG ones...like this one:

I Need to Go Bathe in Urine Now
Bus driver on intercom as it starts to rain: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey... C'mon, everybody!
Entire bus, singing: You'll never know, dear, how much I love you -- please don't take my sunshine away.
Chick: I think that was the least-New York moment of my entire life.

--M79 bus

Writing the novel: Part 4

In which we discover the author has already fallen off the wagon and not written anything in a while.

I think it's been about a week since I've written anything. Very bad start. This portion is one I had previously written and will also change with research...since I've also never been to Madrid.


Wichita Falls wound up being as much of a blur as everything else in his life had been since his draft notice had appeared. The wedding, where his sisters still unhappy about the marriage promised to check on his new bride. "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. Course we'll look in on her. We'd take her to church with us, if she'd come," his youngest sister said. "Just don't expect us to be doing each others hair or anything like that." The departure, where his dad drove him to the bus in awkward silence. Basic training, where he did well and got along fine with his fellow airmen-to-be. In Wichita Falls he excelled at the training, picking up the skills quickly. The work came naturally to him and he enjoyed it. No one in Wichita Falls treated him like a high school drop out. They treated him...they treated him like someone they could depend on — to show up on time; to do the job; to do the job right the first time; hell, to fetch the coffee if that's what needed to be done.

In the fall Bernie boarded a plane for Madrid, Spain. At 20, it would be his first trip out of the country — not all that unusual where he was from. He had been assigned to a unit based in Madrid, though he would only be there a few days before joining his detachment in Athens, Greece, the city they would work from.

Though he wasn't expecting it, the temperature in Madrid was exactly the same as the temperature in Wichita Falls. It hovered around 68 degrees in early October. From what he could glimpse of the city in the blur that was the time he was there, that was the only similarity between the two places.

Madrid felt alive in a way that Wichita Falls, Texas, and Collins, Mississippi, would never know if they continued to exist for 1,000 years. Millions of people will help do that. But even still there was something in the very air of the city that felt both intimate and inaccessible. It was perhaps the feeling that always comes when the crush of people trying to survive collides with the seat of power; when old men sit in cafes sipping drinks as young couples take their turn flirting late into the night; when throngs of theater-goers in The Gran Vía are brought, momentarily to a stop by the passing of the long-hooded Citroëns carrying General Franco's government officials into the night. In Collins, old men sat outside too, but mostly they did a lot of spitting and complaining; and there was never, ever the chance that the country's president might drive by in his armored limousine before passing on into the night.

Bernie saw very little of this, as the Air Force base was about 15 miles northeast of the city, and that is where he spent almost all of his four days in Madrid. But he caught a glimpse of it on his one foray into the city proper. More importantly he felt it in the air when it touched his skin. Bernie wasn't particularly poetic, but he could think of no other way to describe it.

History on the Mount

Montreal gets its name, I'm told, from the mountain that's on the island. (Oh. Montreal is an island, in case you didn't know.) It is called a mountain — thus the Mont part of Montreal. If you call it a hill — and you will want to — you will be verbally assaulted by the natives. On top of the hill is a giant neon cross. It has the ability to change colors, but doesn't because, Cheri tells me, the government is afraid people will start calling it the disco cross.















Yet another thing Southerners would love about the city, I think.

Gravy Fries, Quebecois style

In Montreal, from which I just returned, I ate a lot of food. This is my usual behavior on trips.

While there, however, I learned about a food called "poutine". Poutine is what we, in Louisiana (and apparently also Torontonians), call "gravy fries." It will surprise you to learn that the primary feature of both poutine and gravy fries, therefore, are gravy and fries. Both also feature a cheesy substance. But whereas in Louisiana we favor cheddar, in Montreal they favor fresh cheese curd.

I do not have a photo of any poutine for you because we ate it up too quickly. I do however have a picture of these:



They are called honey balls. They taste like beignets but with honey instead of powdered sugar. They also make it volcano style, which means they put a bunch of soft serve ice cream on top. I've decided to import them to Louisiana. I'm going to call them beignet balls and I'll serve them with powdered sugar or honey. I'll also serve them tsunami-style — with ice cream. I think they'll be a hit.

Writing the novel: Part 3

In this installment, we find out that I know nothing of what happens in Air Force basic training. So I've just sort of roughed this bit in and I'll do more research later to make it more accurate. Again, I'm just trying to get the first draft done, people! [Note the appearance of additional dialogue. Still not great stuff, but at least it's there.]



Beans had always been a staple in Bernie's diet. His momma would take the hog fat after pig slaughtering season and boil up the biggest batch of red beans the stove would allow. By the time the family got to the end of the pot, they never wanted to see another red bean again. But of course, a few weeks later, there would be more beans. Basic training wasn't much different. He marked the days in San Antonio by the beans they ate —red, white, black, refried, butter.

"Ronnie, I don't think I can eat any more beans," he said to his bunk mate sitting beside him with his own plate of beans.

"You won't have to. They don't serve beans in Wichita Falls."

The voice came from behind Bernie, so he had to turn around awkwardly in a tiny space. People were always materializing behind you in the Air Force. It was annoying.

"What's in Wichita Falls?" Bernie asked the runner who was standing there with an envelope with what Bernie assumed were, at long last, his orders.

"Apparently you will be soon. Your assignment." The airman held out the envelope to Bernie, who took it and pulled out the next four years of his life. "Congratulations. You tested high in engineering and electronics."

The airman started to walk away and then called back over his shoulder, "By the way, that means, no war zones for you. You'll be building radars and antennas in oil fields and deserts. You hit the jackpot."

Bernie looked at the papers transferring him to training for his new job.

"You got your papers last week, didn't you?" he asked Ronnie.

"Yup."

"What are you doing?"

"Living up to my dad's idea that I'm an idiot."

Bernie tilted his head to the side in an unspoken, "what?"

"Military Police," Ronnie answered before finishing his beans. "Guess I didn't test high in anything."

Military police is where they stuck everyone who couldn't do anything else — not just those who didn't test high in specialties like engineering or logistics, but those who weren't even competent enough to work in support; to fill roles like, "historian," "public affairs," or even the ubiquitous "manpower". Nobody wanted to be MP.

Love at first lay

I've never had lofty goals. And my new dream is no different. My new dream is to own this bed, known to me and my cops reporter as "The Space Ship Bed". (Actual name: The Transport.) It has a water mattress and sound and light system. Of course, it also costs $12,000.

The round bed comes full circle (L.A. Times)

Even dealing drugs, midgets are funny

So I totally stole this from Gawker, but it IS the best lede ever:

June 8, 2007 -- The short, troubled life of a drug-dealing Harlem midget came to a violent end yesterday when he was gunned down while guzzling beer and shooting dice outside a housing project. (New York Post)

My Space update

So today I got five request from total strangers who want to be my friend. Fourteen people have viewed my profile. (Last night it was at 5.)

Three people's profiles were erased by the end of the day. One girl is the lead singer of some band. And oddly the fourth person lives down the street from me — Anthony, a Latino male, 32, whose My Space page is all pictures of barely dressed, well endowed women.

[Sigh]

I've declined them all. So far it's not going well.

What's next for the briny deep?

On this, the most hallowed eve of the great O13 opening, I present to you some potential sequels* (mostly courtesy of my friend Linus):

1) $7.50 + $6.50 = 14. Ocean's 14: The Quest for Melinda's Money for Ocean's 12 & 13. [Explanation: This is funny only because Melinda once — and we were very drunk — famously told the director of Oceans 11-13 that she did not like Oceans 12 and could she have her $7.50 back. M does not have high hopes for 13, either.]

2) Four words: Oceans New York: The Series (which of course will follow Ocean's 15: Ocean Takes Manhattan).

3) Oceans 20: Ocean versus Predator

4) Oceans 101 Dalmatians

and of course:

5) Oceans 1-10, The Prequels.

*Not a comprehensive list or a low fat food. Please feel free to add your own sequel suggestions.

Take that Mr. Corporate Newspaper Man

Until recently I didn't even notice the "Next Blog" tab at the top of the page. Now that it has been pointed out to me, I like to hit occasional to see where I wind up. Most of the time it seems I wind up on a non-English language site. But tonight....ah, tonight...I found someone who shares my heart.

http://screwsubwalls.blogspot.com/

He/she hates those damn subscription requirements that newspapers have installed on their sites as much as me. Thank you faceless person. Thank you.

Baby Neighbor

I know I'm blogging a lot today...well this month in general...but I have lot going on and plus I'm stuck inside, hiding from the neighbor remember.

Anyway, I hear some new neighbor I'm familiar with outside my window with her daughter, who sounds about 3 or 4. The little girl is named Trinity.

Somebody liked "The Matrix" a little too much.

Writing the novel: Part 2

In which we discuss dialogue.

Specifically my lack thereof.

Is it possible that journalism has destroyed my ability to use dialogue? I think I have in my head the idea that quotes are used as gravy and don't quote what you can better paraphrase — which those of you who are journalists will recognize as fairly standard advice to each and every Journalism 101 student to every pass through a college gate. And so while I know dialogue should be used to build narrative tension and to create immediacy and intimacy, I can't make myself put dialogue onto the page. I keep thinking, "I can tell this story better than the characters."

This is a bad thought to have. So I have forced some dialogue into my story because I think in my head there should be some, but I feel wrong about putting it in as I'm writing. And as a result I feel it is awkward and someone will look at and go, "What tha...that doesn't belong there!" (Wait, isn't that an example of dialogue? What can't I get that into the story?!) So here I present to you the next installment of the untitled novel, complete with totally tacked on stilted dialogue.

I just keep telling myself to finish the first draft. You can go back and revise it when you're done. Then you can worry about the dialogue.

[ps- After Googling "dialogue" I learned that the more common North American spelling is dialog. I do that a lot. I think it's my English genes.]

_________________________

With the first order of business taken care of, Bernie drove to his girlfriend Eileen's house. She was an older woman with not the cleanest reputation in town. But then again, it was a small town and any hint of gossip was just gossip enough for those who kept up with those things. She was what was once referred to as a handsome woman. Not beautiful or fair or even pretty, but also not unattractive. Her face was lived in and she had the air and look of someone used to hard times, though she'd had a relatively uneventful life. Eileen did nothing to hide her fondness for liquor and smoke, which didn't help her reputation in a dry, evangelical Christian town like Collins. She was, at that moment, smoking a cigarette on the porch of small two-bedroom shotgun house. It was attached to its twin where her cousin and his wife lived with their two young children. The kids, who looked like little pillows with hats bundled up in their winter coats, were playing in the yard when Bernie arrived.

Eileen greeted him with a long kiss and when they parted Bernie took her hand and pulled her inside. They sat at the kitchen table and he told her about the draft and the Air Force and that he reported for basic training in February. She took it with a straight face, which was one of the things Bernie liked so much about her. She was not a hysterical woman. Then he asked her to marry him. She thought about it carefully, but only for a moment and then accepted.

That was how it was between them. They didn't expend a lot of words.

Their wedding would be a small, church affair with family and a few friends. Rushed, but then again they didn't have a lot to prepare for. This was never, even under the best circumstances, going to be an event to remember. Years later, no one in town would talk about the wedding except to comment on how unmemorable it was and to wonder, if they had been able to remember, if there had been any sign then of the trouble that was to come.

"Are you staying for dinner?" she asked, getting up and making her way to the sink where the red beans were soaking.

"Might as well." He stared off into space as Eileen drained the beans.

"The toilet's acting up again. Can you take a look at it? Since you're here."

He got up and went into the bathroom. He flushed the toilet a few times and it seemed fine. So he just sat down to be alone while the beans cooked.

For Your Consideration

A friend of mine recently gave me all the DVDs I could carry home. He was getting rid of some of his that he said he would never watch again. I scored some good stuff, I think. (He was appalled at my selection of "The Professional", though. He said, "I want you to know your supporting child pornography. He was totally exploiting that little girl. I want you to think about the fact that Luc Besson wanted to have sex with 14-year-old Natalie Portman when he made that. Plus nothing with Gary Oldman can be good." — Though he did concede my point that Jean Reno is incredible and you should watch everything he does, even if it's "One Man Steel Magnolias".)

Anyway, I realized after I got them home and was slotting them into my collection that about half were stamped with: "For Your Consideration". This is odd, I thought.

Then it dawned on me. He's a member of the Academy. These are Oscar screeners.

For a movie buff like me, that was a pretty cool revelation.

Trapped in my apartment

I was about to take Roland out for a walk (I worked the shift of a normal person today) and then I heard my creepy neighbor outside on his cell phone. Now I don't want to go out because he'll ask me to dinner. He won't take no for an answer (as I've said before) and so I'd rather just not face him. I'm like hiding on the floor under the window with the lights out typing this. I've got to pay someone to play my boyfriend. It'll be like the sequel to the "Wedding Date" — "Keeping the Neighbor at Bay".

Ugh. It's worse because he's out there chain smoking, like right by my window, which is open and so the smoke is coming in and I can't close it. Damn. This is a nightmare. Seriously. This really SHOULD be cause to break a lease.

Warning: Oceans 13 spoiler

From Jerry Weintraub, the film's producer:

"This movie is all about Darfur," he said. "It's all about these guys (in the cast) that have been in the Sudan. They want to bring a spotlight on it."

Who knew?

Writing the novel: Part 1

Writing this novel is very hard for me. Despite people saying I have a "unique voice" in my writing and being constantly reassured that I'm any good, I don't believe it. And it paralyzes my writing. It's why I sucked so bad at project writing and why I never tried long form fiction before. But I'm determined to finish this damn book (though I've only just started). I need to be pushed, though. So I'm asking all of you, dear friends, not to let me chicken out of this.

I'm posting what is currently the beginning of the story below. If you'd like to read more, periodically, let me know.

The story is a love story. Fiction based on the real story of how my parents met and fell in love. I thought this would be easy because they have a story tailor made for Hollywood. The problem is separating your characters from the real people...because I was not raised to imagine one's parents being affectionate and, you know, having sex. These are all important elements of a romance story.

The other challenge is I want to skip straight to the interesting part, but know I have to build the characters and the situation. Also, my journalism training makes me want to tell the entire story in 30 inches instead of 350 pages (arbitrary number — I need goals, remember).

Anyway, I'd appreciate a discussion on writing and all feedback is welcomed. Just don't tell me how much I suck because even if this is like Vogon poetry, I'd still like to finish it.
___________________


Bernie stood on Main Street, drawing the last iota of life out of the cigarette at his lip. In his left shirt pocket he had the piece of paper that had come that morning. It was a small, unassuming piece of paper asking him in unpretentious type to please report to the Army in thirty days. Bernie knew what the little piece of paper meant to say was, please report directly to Vietnam.

To call the Air Force recruiter's office in Collins, Mississippi, an office was to stretch the truth a little. What it really was, was a cubbyhole tucked away in a building with a hardware store and a hair salon that happened to have it's own door. Main Street Collins was actually called Main Street, and all the other formula institutions of the small town South were on display there. There was a soda fountain where Bernie used to take the nickel his father gave each of the kids on Fridays and buy a malted milkshake. There was a bank that Bernie had never set foot inside. And there was a grocery store that sold giant dill pickles, pickled pigs feet, pickled quail eggs and anything else you could conceivably pickle and stick in a giant jar on the counter near the register. Kids in the big city, in Jackson, might like candy from their grocery stores, but in Collins they were still crazy for pickles.

The office into which Bernie stepped was cramped, but orderly. He didn't really look around, though, because he didn't really care. There was no choice to be made here, and neat or messy, he was in if they'd let him.

The recruiter looked up from his desk and nodded. Bernie took this for a welcome and didn't bother with small talk. He took the paper from his pocket and presented it to the recruiter along with these words: "Look, I just got this draft notice. Can I still join the Air Force?"

The recruiter stood up, ignored the piece of paper and answered, "Yes sir, you can."

Bernie signed up on the spot.

Afterward, as he walked back to his car, Bernie didn't do a lot of soul searching. He wasn't one to reflect on his feelings and to be honest, at this moment, he didn't have any. As a poor, high school drop out from the country, he didn't have a lot of options open to him. He knew enlisting in the Air Force was his best chance. He wasn't stupid. He was actually quite smart. Good at math, strong grades when he was in school, good with his hands. He was satisfied with what he had done. He could still go to Vietnam, he knew that. But it was much less certain.

There were still some signs of Christmas lingering about Main Street. But the short-lived glow of the holiday had clearly warn off for most in town. Too many people were gone. Not all to Vietnam. One of Bernie's best friends, who had enlisted, was sent to Italy. But most were in Vietnam. Another friend, Tommy, who had also enlisted was there. He'd already been shot. Both boys, who were younger than Bernie, had enlisted out of small town boredom. They had all three dropped out of high school (Bernie years earlier than the other two) and were running around town, not doing much of anything at all. Bernie had decided, boredom was one thing. Dead was another. He chose boredom. But the other came gunning for him anyway.

It was a hell of a way to start a new year. 1962.

Neighbors do not = friends

I don't know why suddenly I have so much to say. I should get out more. Though, then there's always a chance of bumping into my neighbor. Yesterday he was behind our complex and started calling my name (the door to my balcony was open so the cat could lounge out there), so I went out and he threw a cookie at me. It was a huge cookie and it's icing was made to look like a baseball with the Mets symbol in the middle. He said something like, "Peace offering since your team is kicking my teams butt."

Then he asked me to go to dinner with him at a Thai restaurant that's on Main Street. He didn't really take no for an answer. He kept insisting, saying, "We should hang out. We're neighbors."

Clearly he did not look the definition of neighbor up in dictionary. Hint: It is NOT "add water, instant girlfriend" or even "best friends for life"

I wish I could move.

Summer rain, sweet olive and coffee

I'm a few days late reading this...and then posting it, but it's still pretty fresh.


Finding his way home: A city, a people and twisted love
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Chris Rose

I have been off work for a long time. For a month, I was out of town and blissfully unplugged from the New Orleans news cycle, and while I was gone, I had the same recurring notion, every day, over and over, unwavering and intractable.

It was this: I need to get out of New Orleans. I need to leave. For my health, my sanity, my family, my sobriety, my chakra, my feng shui and everything else, real and imagined, nostalgic and unpronounceable.

You don't need me to list the reasons. They're the same ones everyone has in a town where people steal from public schools, no one uses trash cans and federal flood protection is a Big Lie.

I had an appointment at my eye doctor shortly after I returned to New Orleans and while he was shining that little blue torch into my retinas he told me he lives in St. Charles Parish and his homeowners insurance before the Thing was $2,700 a year and now it's $9,000 and he said: "I swear it's like they want to make it impossible to live here, like they want us all to leave. It's like they want to clear all the people out of south Louisiana and minimize the risk."

In a less civil society, the masses would rise up and parade the scalawags from Allstate and their fellow profiteers through the town square in shackles and let their aggrieved victims -- er, clients -- have their way with them, but this is America, the wellspring of democracy and due process, so instead we gripe about it at work to no end and somebody somewhere sets up a committee to look into it and in five years they'll tell us mistakes were made.

But here's the thing: We're not leaving. Not my eye doctor. Not me. Not because of a corrupt insurance industry or incompetent federal engineers or murderous children. And if you read that sentence, it makes absolutely no sense to stay here, especially as experts forewarn of a particularly turbulent storm season in the offing.

But I had a conversation the other night with a woman who likened living in New Orleans to an abusive relationship where you bear the obvious scars of a love all wrong and everyone knows it but you.

You leave once and you leave again -- if not physically, then emotionally -- but for reasons not entirely clear to you (nor your friends, family or psychiatrist), you keep coming back even though your mental condition could best be described as marathon episodes of "Cops," "Cheaters" and "Punk'd" playing on an endless loop on the giant cognitive plasma screen
in your head.

And you tell them -- those who do not understand: You don't know her other side. You've never experienced her soft bedroom manner or seen her when she's not all wound up in a blue rage and throwing dishes around the trailer. She's so creative and empathetic; all artists are temperamental. She's so romantic. And she doesn't smell like anyone else.

New Orleans, she smells like summer rain, sweet olive and coffee.

For the past two weeks, I have been back here in town living the life. I went on two field trips with my kids, one to Café du Monde and one to Gelato, a new Italian deli and glacerie on Oak Street, and I was thinking: In most towns, they take the kids to museums on field trips. Here, they take them to eat.

The final day of classes began just like every other day at Lusher Elementary, my kids' school: The music teachers plugged in their guitar and violin and led the entire student body in a song at the morning assembly.

Every morning at my kids' school begins with a history lesson in rock 'n' roll. They make movies out of ideas like this.

And as often as not, the composition is drawn from the New Orleans musical pantheon -- Fats or the Nevilles or all that Iko Iko, Hey Pocky Way stuff -- and on the last day this year they sang "Don't You Just Know It" by Huey Piano Smith and all the kids went crazy on the chorus and its "ooba dooba dooba dooba" refrain and I realized that our kids speak a different musical
language than children in other places and we have cultural icons named after keyboards, obesity, amphibians and witch doctors.

I was in the Quarter last Tuesday night, trying to get to a movie at Canal Place, but it never happened. I was 40 minutes early, so I crawled around the neighborhood looking for a cup of coffee, and I came upon a guy who was singing while he cleaned the streets.

He works for the new garbage contractor downtown and his name is Melvin Holmes. "As in Sherlock?" I asked him and he responded: "Holmes -- just like Inspector Clouseau," and I don't think he was trying to be ironic, postmodern or even funny. He was just being so classically New Orleans, getting it all wrong in just the right way.

He was singing a Luther Vandross torch song, the kind that makes women love you for a lifetime. And he was nailing the song, just killing it, just calling out the doves and stars and blooming jasmine of the night.


And he was cleaning the street. Because that's his job. And as he did, a local talent agent drove by once, then twice, then made the block again and pulled over and gave Melvin Holmes his business card and told him to give him a call some time and he would make him a star.

Is the next American Idol sweeping cigarette butts and go-cups off our streets tonight? Stranger things have happened.

Holmes said to me: "People see me sweeping up trash in the street and they hear me sing and I know what they're thinking: Another man with talent who doesn't want to put it to use. But that's just what I'm doing. I'm putting it to use out here on the street. I just love to make people smile. The people holding hands, they walk by and then turn and look at me and they understand what it is I am saying."

What Mr. Holmes is saying, of course, springs from the vocabulary of music and of love. The language of the streets of New Orleans -- even if it is Luther Vandross and not Frogman Henry he's singing.

I was trying to get to Canal Place, but when I left Melvin Holmes to his singing and sweeping, I was caught by the sound of an acoustic guitar springing out of a fairly new supper and music club called 300 Decatur.

Inside, on a big and beautiful stage, a guy named Chip Wilson was picking at his guitar and this guy, he plays crazy good. He's got the look of the Woodstock Generation, long gray hair and a slight paunch of a life well-lived and his music matches the look; he introduced a song by Steve Winwood as his personal anthem during the year he was in exile from New Orleans, the song he held onto to keep him alive back in that winter of our discontent.

The song is called "Can't Find My Way Home" and it just kills me, reduces me to jelly even when you don't put it in the context of Katrina, but when you do I'm on the bus to Teardrop City.

Like I said, I never made it to the movie last Tuesday night. I spent the evening listening to Melvin Holmes and Chip Wilson, two undiscovered planets here in this remarkable musical constellation.

So I tried to get to the movie again Thursday night -- I really want to see this Julie Christie film -- but I got to walking around again before going to Canal Place and one thing led to another and pretty soon I was sitting in the back courtyard at Napoleon House, eating a muffeletta and Zapp's potato chips and listening to the laughter of all the strangers around me, and I sat there and wondered how it was I had come to the conclusion just a few weeks ago that I needed to leave New Orleans.

Something simple like a pile of heated Italian meats and cheeses and classical music playing in a tiled, ancient and decadent courtyard can reduce me to tears and that's something that a good barbecue in Memphis or peach cobbler in Atlanta will never do to me.

Never. Not unless I'm eating them there and wishing I were here, back in New Orleans, where I can't find my way anywhere but home.

But it's not for everyone, this living in New Orleans thing. Just this week, three more friends of mine are leaving town for greener pastures, brighter lights or whatever it is out there in the Great Elsewhere.

It's been another rash of goodbyes -- always goodbye, every day goodbye. I don't blame them and I wish them well and their reasons are all legit; they leave for jobs, safety, security and love, though I wonder what love is like in another place and it cannot be as good as it is here. Can it?

Hurricane season starts Friday and maybe you've heard: The experts tell us it's going to be a banner year, maybe like the time we ran through all the names in the alphabet and had to start naming storms after Greek letters, and if Allstate and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers aren't making it clear that they don't want us living here, maybe God will.

But here's the thing: We're not leaving. Not my eye doctor. Not Melvin Holmes (unless he goes Hollywood). Not me. And not so many others.

I was looking at all the other parents around me at that final morning assembly last week at Lusher and they're staying -- most of them, at least -- and investing their time, energy and children in a New Orleans public school, and if that isn't insanity, I don't know what is.

But we love our school -- it is a reason we still live here -- and it runs all the way through 12th grade now, so I'll be standing next to these people for a long, long time.

I look at them as my involuntary friends now, my brothers and sisters of circumstance, we Parents of the Children of the Storm. Whether we're fighting hurricanes, crime or head lice, we are soldiers in the same army now, bearing the physical and emotional scars of this abusive relationship with a lover named New Orleans.

But we remain true to her. It is in the words to every love song ever written. We have found our way home.

. . . . . . .

Columnist Chris Rose can be reached at chris.rose@timespicayune.com, or (504) 826-3309 or (504) 352-2535.

My Space

Apparently all the college friends I never talk to any more have MySpace pages.

I was trying to send them messages and failed miserable. So I started my own page to send them messages. Then I remembered that I'm single. So what the hell. I might as well as MySpace it, right?

Although my Memphis friends seem to favor Friendster. Should I start a Friendster account too? I should create some uber software that allows you to blend all your e-mail, blogs, and 'ster/'space pages into one super site, so it's much, much easier to keep track of. Then, also, I could retire at 31 because I'd be super rich.

Santorini anyone?

Wait. Should I be worried?

Former E! host Jules Asner sold her first novel to Harvey Weinstein.

Publishers Lunch calls Whacked "about a screenwriter in LA writing for a TV crime series whose increasingly obsessive and paranoid behavior in the wake of a boyfriend's betrayal leads her to cross the line between real life and the life and world of the characters she has created..."

Roland gets his day in the sun

Today was the big Animal Shelter Appreciation Day's "Beacon Barks!" parade and street fair. Roland and I were there with a co-worker and his dog, Kate. We had a great time peeing on all the trees (Roland), drinking coffee (me) and sniffing dog's butts (your guess).

As a result, Roland has hit the big time. He's been blogged about by someone other than me.

You know it's time for a new job when...

I just found out that on my income in New York state, I qualify for a Habitat for Humanity home. That's just depressing.

As is the fact that I need a second job to pay the bills. Half my salary goes to rent and I'm actually thinking about dropping my health insurance because the co-pays are so high. I found out recently that most of the people who aren't in upper management at my job DON'T have health insurance because they can't afford it. I work for the Wal-Mart of newspaper companies. Again. Just depressing.

To Melinda, With Love

Min, daaaaaaaaling!

Why do you keep denying my love for you? Do you not see how lonely I am without you? How I cannot hold down a relationship? How I can't even bother to bring my own date to a movie premier? Please, please, please...why won't you love me?




Yours forever (if you'd just have me),

George!