Lucie

Face It

Sometimes the best way to get over something is to get it over with.

yeah, I know. But I needed to see it written somewhere.

Last-Minute Spectacle

Last night I saw Elvis. Costello, that is. I was given last-minute free tickets to a taping of Spectacle, Elvis Costello’s musicians showcase/talk show for the Sundance Channel (which you know would never produce a typical “talk show”). I grabbed my Virgin Records friend and we hopped the 3 train up to the Apollo Theater to catch Elvis with special guests, Jakob Dylan (the Wallfowers; son of Bob), Jenny Lewis (Rilo Kiley) and She & Him (Zooey Deschanel and Matt Ward). For the Spectacle back up band, the most amazing father/daughter drummers: Pete and Tennessee Thomas.

From our front row seats, we caught close up views of some very awesome guitar playing. Each performer sang a song on which Elvis played guitar and then sat down for a chat with Costello, who not only asked insightful questions, but did all the research on each performer and their background on his own — no show researcher, quite impressive! What also struck me was how sensitive and eloquently Costello spoke of and asked about each artist’s style and relationship to music and shared some of his own stories. No matter how young or “green” the artist, Elvis treated each with equal respect and even told them how listening to their music inspired him. Always cool to see someone that truly loves what they do and even more, loves to share it with others.

By far the best part of the evening was having all of the guests on stage singing “(What’s so Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?” Best last-minute event I’ve attended in a long time!

And, on the way out, I got to rub the legendary Apollo tree stump, which all performers, from Ella Fitzgerald to today, rub for luck before they perform. I can always use the luck, especially for Karaoke sing-offs... I didn't just admit that, did I?

---

A Modest Proposal

history lesson:

this is a political cartoonand so is this
once upon a time ago these were also considered to be examples of a literary/visual device called Satire.

Redefining the “Power” Lunch

Today I had lunch at a New York institution. I had always envisioned my first lunch there would have something to do with mergers and media. Instead however, it was much more casual and by far a lot longer than the average “power lunch.” My lunch partners were an SVP of a PR agency and a two-time Tony award winning actress. We talked for two plus hours, covering everything from politics and religion to trips to Hawaii and home renovation in New Jersey. It was a lunch for the soul, where interesting ideas and opinions were shared. There was no agenda, no power plays and no egos. It was simply “Fun.”

This lunch presented itself at the perfect time. I was getting tired of the young New York small talk at cocktail/book parties, networking events, news of ridiculous book deals, and paper-pushing with clients. I felt like the city itself was turning on me with everything from the torrential downpours, humidity and subway hassles, to feeling like I was letting possibilities slip through my fingers. I was tempted to say “goodbye to all that,” but then days like this happen and New York opens her arms and gives you a gift. I never would have met either of my dining partners had it not been for the serendipity and six degrees of Manhattan. “Fun” was a word that has been farthest from my vocabulary recently, but which I’ll now always be able to resurrect the feeling of when I think about my “power” lunch.

So while the power-suited around us played their trump cards, surrendered fortunes and gained millions, we simply talked for the sake of conversation, to learn, to laugh, to nourish our bodies and souls, to remind us that true power lies within our ability to connect with others, and to help remind me of why I continue to love New York.

Sex & the City, What’s Your Point, Honey?

This past weekend we all witnessed a cultural phenomenon step beyond the confinement of a small screen to one decidedly larger. The women of Sex & the City are on display in theaters nation-wide. Even before all of us movie-going women have seen it, we’ve cast our ballot by standing on line to buy tickets, selling out screenings across the country. And, the movie itself does live up to all the hoopla and haute couture, provided you abide by the law (authored by writer/director) Michael Patrick King, that women can in fact, have it all — right down to the peacock blue Manolos.

Though the movie dream is all fun and fluff, we know the reality for women is very far from the high heels and high-priced labels. And while Carrie & Co. make a box office killing, find their men, and themselves, we all file out of movie theaters and watch a different kind of romantic wooing occur on TV, in print, and online; there’s another race going on, one where the end result isn’t about finding the right man or the perfect apartment, it’s about winning the affections of a country’s citizens and super delegates. In this race, only one woman is standing up, in her heels and power suits, commanding an audience, flashing a smile and making promises for a better nation. And, love her or hate her, she’s the closest we’ve come so far to having a Madam President. Though midnight is looming for Senator Clinton, she’s still doing her darndest to romance us and probably will until the credits roll.

But like Carrie Bradshaw would say, “I can’t help but wonder, where are all the [wo]men?”” Where are the ones who will come after Hillary Clinton? The women who will stand on platforms along side of their male counterparts, pledging their devotion to our country, pitching their agendas and keeping our hard-won female rights in tact (hello, Roe vs. Wade).

These questions devise the premise of another film, also screening now, called What’s Your Point, Honey? Directed by Amy Sewell (Mad, Hot Ballroom) and Susan Toffler, this documentary follows a group of ten young women, seven of which range in age from 18-21, and three ten-year-olds, as they look ahead to the future of women in power and politics. While Sex & the City features appearances from the likes of Candace Bergen and Andre Leon Talley, What’s Your Point, Honey, gives us cultural icons such as feminist leader and founder of Ms. Magazine, Gloria Steinem, who remarks, “it’s been my experience that girls ages eight to ten are as smart and wonderful and deep as they’re ever going to get and haven’t yet been messed up by the feminine role that’s going to take them till 40 or 50 years old to get out from under” (case in point, Sex & the City). And there’s Marie Wilson, founder of The White House Project, an organization whose aim it is to, “advance women’s leadership in all communities and sectors, up to the U.S. Presidency.”

The young women profiled won a contest sponsored by CosmoGirl! magazine, who partnered with “The White House Project,” a non-profit, to create Project 2024, which places seven girls in high-powered summer internships in various professions and industries (ironically one young woman worked in then-Attorney General Elliot Spitzer’s office). The hopeful outcome being that by the year 2024, one woman from each contest year will “grace the presidential debate podiums and town halls, providing choice, and getting beyond gender to agenda.” The CosmoGirl! interns span the country and beautifully represent the potential power and voice that come with the next generation of women in America. These girls may have the wit of Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte, but their passion for social change runs deeper than any romantic comedy can, with career dreams that range from public service to stronger marketing messaging for women.

Much like Sex & the City: The Movie, What’s Your Point, Honey? doesn’t claim to deliver a message, rather its mission is ask the age-old question, with a post-Hillary spin: “can women have it all … and be President too?”

The Post in Which I Omit a Name

So this morning I woke up at 7:30 to my incessantly buzzing blackberry, which informed me I had five missed calls and 6 emails in the past five minutes. It was a publishing friend asking me if I had seen the cover of the NYT Magazine yet and had I read the TEN PAGE story written by a former co-worker? Now I was interested and already intensely jealous. She’s only 25, how did she get on the COVER of the NYT Mag, let alone inside?! I dragged my laptop from my living room into my bed (not a very far journey) and clicked over to the story. The cover shot looks like an ad for a geek porn magazine. The inside story wasn’t any better: ten pages of what was essentially verbal diarrhea. A soap opera version of a 20-something blogger’s life — and not a well-written one at that. She did a lot of name-dropping of mutual acquaintances, shared her “feelings,” relationship details and other things that besides from being TMI, are definitely not Times-worthy items. In fact, this story and individual are sooo past their 15 minutes of fame, I am starting to wonder about the credibility of the Times. Is there really nothing newsworthy going on?

Sadly, I had just seen this girl at a party last weekend, where she clearly hadn’t grown up in the two years since we’d worked together. At the publishing house, she thought herself to be the “Queen Bee” of our office. When she walked down the hall, it was like high school. People, including our seasoned, intelligent managing editor, were intimidated by her and I never understood why. She wasn’t exceptionally deft at picking books or handling authors, she didn’t prove to have much of a talent for any form of writing besides blogs, and she sized you up in about five minutes, formed her opinion and seemingly there was nothing you could ever do to change it (though some people certainly did try). She thought she had a clear sense of who I was, but when we had to meet about an author just before she was leaving the company, she learned she had misjudged me. It was interesting to see the expression change on her face: from conceited, to slightly humble (?) and a bit rocked. I won’t go so far as to say she had a new-found respect for me, but there was a neutrality that existed in those last few days that left me feeling a little smug.

And, because I’ve grown up since I started writing this quirky post, it’s time I say good for her for getting published the New York Times Magazine. It’s just too bad it wasn’t for writing anything other than a very lengthy blog post.

P.S. It seems there are other bloggers who agree with me.

Baby Mama, Movie Theater Drama

After seeing the very funny movie, “Baby Mama,” last night, I was afraid I’d leave the theater pining for a kid of my own. Luckily, my seat mates quickly squashed that fear when, throughout the entire movie, I was told by them to hold their toy, their sippy cup and was asked “Hi?” as if it were a question that demanded a response. Yes, I had to sit next to three children, who seemed to be between the ages of three and five — the theater was packed. The movie was an hour and 40 minutes long. All three children had bladders that seemed to only hold ten minutes worth of liquids. Their attention spans were just as small. While watching Tina Fey try her hardest to create a human being of her very own, I was also treated to a car crash along the arm of my seat, courtesy of Jayden, the four-year-old sitting next to me. When his parents finally deemed him “unruly enough” to sit next to a stranger, they switched him out with his three-year-old sister, Destiny, who was quietly brushing her doll’s hair. I settled back into the movie, babies floated before the screen, there were laugh out loud montages of Amy Poehler having to swallow a giant pre-natal vitamin. After a little while, I realized I was being watched by Destiny. I tried to shake it off, but couldn’t. Finally, I turned and stared right back at her. “Isn’t my doll’s hair shiny,” she asked. (Might I remind you, we’re in a dark movie theater.) I made the HUGE mistake of answering her with, “yes, it is,” before turning away. This opened up the floodgates for conversation. “Want to see me dance?” Destiny asked me.

“No.”

“Well, I’m gonna go to dance up there and you’re gonna watch me.”

Next thing I know, Destiny has climbed over the seat and skipped in front of the theater and starts to dance to the music from the movie. I can’t believe it! I look over at her parents, hoping to make eye contact, but clearly, since they’re sitting next to each other and not their children, they can enjoy the movie and let everyone else act as their babysitter.

The song ends as the club scene in the movie fades into a more serious one with Kate (Tina Fey) and Rob (Greg Kinnear) discussing children. Kate kisses Rob. Destiny observes this from the front row where she found some poor sap guy and his girlfriend to hold her doll, while she watched the movie. “Ohhh,” squeals Destiny as she watches them kiss, “they’re gonna make a baby together!”

And as funny as “Baby Mama” is, as insistent as the critics are that somewhere in the movie lay political, social and economic struggles and feminist underpinnings (which there are), it clearly isn’t clever enough to be surprising, even for a three-year-old.

P.S. The word “Baby” might be in the title, but mamas & dads, should really leave their under-13 kiddies home when they go to see this movie. I admit it, the poster looks fun and kid-friendly with colorful building blocks, a Slurpee cup and two funny ladies, but “Baby Mama,” is PG-13, not PG-3.

Bright Lights, Small City

There are days when New York feels less like a city and more like a small town. Granted, anywhere you live in a neighborhoods, on a street and in a building, lends itself to that small-town quality, since most urbanites tend to stay in a ten block radius of their apartment. I tend to stay away from areas that are inhabited by people I don’t particularly like. For instance, I avoid going over to 19th and Broadway. If I have to hit up ABC Carpet or Fishs Eddy, I do it during a week-day, when I have less of a chance of running into the person I hate who lives on 18th and Broadway. Hopefully, she’s at her day job. I saw her once, while making the mistake of walking down Broadway to return home, but luckily, the “Walk” sign flashed and I crossed the street, managing to avoid her.

I also try to avoid the Columbus Circle Whole Foods, as I once ran into a guy I went on a date with, whose nickname was “Wolfman.” And though he was a decent-seeming guy, I spent a large part of the date trying to avoid staring at his excessive amount of arm hair, which made it look like his watch was drowning. Ironically, I saw him in the produce section, where we was checking out the fuzzy-skinned peaches. To add insult to injury, I wasn’t wearing any make-up. I still can’t decide what was worse, seeing a guy you never called back or seeing him on a Sunday afternoon makeup-less, a little hungover and sniffing the flat parsley (just to make sure it wasn’t in fact, cilantro). I had forgotten he lived in that neighborhood, so it remained on my “places to avoid” list for six months.

But it still throws me for a loop when I see people walking in my neighborhood who shouldn’t be there. Today, I was walking down Greenwich Street, headed to Tea & Sympathy to meet an old high school friend I hadn’t seen in nine years. A half-block away from my destination, I ran into my old screenwriting partner from college, who now lives in Los Angeles. I hadn’t seen her in five years. She just happened to be in town for a bridal shower this weekend. While waiting outside the restaurant, a woman walked by me pushing her baby stroller. It was my old college RA, who just moved from Portland, ME to the UWS and was bringing her new son, Owen, for a stroll downtown. Then, I had the requisite celebrity encounter when Kiefer Sutherland showed up for teatime and a fan asked if I wouldn’t mind taking a picture of him with Mr. Sutherland. Click.

After tea, I had to head over to Kate’s Paperie to replenish my stationery. I was too late, the store had just closed. Another woman joined in my dismay as she walked up to the door. When we turned to each other to remark on our “luck,” we realized simultaneously that we knew each other, having worked together five years ago, before she moved back to London. Turns she’s in town for a temporary job with the Tribeca Film Festival. After a brief catch up session, we parted ways.

Walking back home, I was now on the lookout for other people I knew, expecting them to appear around every corner. I sometimes mind the small town atmosphere that comes with living in New York, but at least today I was prepared, I was wearing make-up.

Tonight, Bitch IS the New Black

C U Next Tuesday, Jane

So everyone is talking about Jane Fonda’s slip up on the Today Show, but they’re all forgetting about the fine line between art and a foul mouth. Jane was frank, and called a monologue by its proper name. She wasn’t using the word in reference to another woman. NBC is freaking out, but what’s the big deal?

A similar thing happened at CBS, only it didn’t occur in front of millions of viewers. It happened over the phone, between two women: a boss and an employee. When said incident was reported by the employee, CBS HR didn’t blink an eye.

Which leaves me with these questions: What happened to feminism and camaraderie among women in the work place? It no longer exists — did it ever?

Before going freelance, every time I interviewed for a job I’d always get a sinking feeling when learning the boss would be a female. I hated that feeling and it led me to a theory: Perhaps women today are creating a glass ceiling for their fellow female competitors. A whole “me first,” cut-throat environment where women are stomping (or shall I say, strutting) right over each other in their sky-high stilettos. Maybe Mike Nichols & Kevin Wade weren’t that far off in Working Girl. Maybe we haven’t made it any farther than the teased hair and shoulder pads of the ’80s.

We women have to have clubs and organizations to find mentors, appreciation/respect, our own networking groups and a place to learn entrepreneurship. Men don’t need these clubs, all they need is a sport to use as their networking tool. A competitive drive comes naturally, but with that also comes respect and an organically-grown mentorship. I doubt you’d ever hear a man screaming to a male employee (or even a female employee for that matter) over the phone on a Labor Day weekend Sunday, after an 80-hour work week: “You cunt! You’d better fucking be in the office tomorrow even if you’re not being paid for it.”

And what did said employee say to the female boss after such a remark? “I quit.”

Men & Women, Talking

Women Are Never Front-Runners

By GLORIA STEINEM Op-Ed contributor
New York Times

THE woman in question became a lawyer after some years as a community organizer, married a corporate lawyer and is the mother of two little girls, ages 9 and 6. Herself the daughter of a white American mother and a black African father — in this race-conscious country, she is considered black — she served as a state legislator for eight years, and became an inspirational voice for national unity.

Be honest: Do you think this is the biography of someone who could be elected to the United States Senate? After less than one term there, do you believe she could be a viable candidate to head the most powerful nation on earth? If you answered no to either question, you’re not alone. Gender is probably the most restricting force in American life, whether the question is who must be in the kitchen or who could be in the White House. This country is way down the list of countries electing women and, according to one study, it polarizes gender roles more than the average democracy. That’s why the Iowa primary was following our historical pattern of making change. Black men were given the vote a half-century before women of any race were allowed to mark a ballot, and generally have ascended to positions of power, from the military to the boardroom, before any women (with the possible exception of obedient family members in the latter).

If the lawyer described above had been just as charismatic but named, say, Achola Obama instead of Barack Obama, her goose would have been cooked long ago. Indeed, neither she nor Hillary Clinton could have used Mr. Obama’s public style — or Bill Clinton’s either — without being considered too emotional by Washington pundits.

So why is the sex barrier not taken as seriously as the racial one? The reasons are as pervasive as the air we breathe: because sexism is still confused with nature as racism once was; because anything that affects males is seen as more serious than anything that affects “only” the female half of the human race; because children are still raised mostly by women (to put it mildly) so men especially tend to feel they are regressing to childhood when dealing with a powerful woman; because racism stereotyped black men as more “masculine” for so long that some white men find their presence to be masculinity-affirming (as long as there aren’t too many of them); and because there is still no “right” way to be a woman in public power without being considered a you-know-what.

I’m not advocating a competition for who has it toughest. The caste systems of sex and race are interdependent and can only be uprooted together. That’s why Senators Clinton and Obama have to be careful not to let a healthy debate turn into the kind of hostility that the news media love. Both will need a coalition of outsiders to win a general election. The abolition and suffrage movements progressed when united and were damaged by division; we should remember that.

I’m supporting Senator Clinton because like Senator Obama she has community organizing experience, but she also has more years in the Senate, an unprecedented eight years of on-the-job training in the White House, no masculinity to prove, the potential to tap a huge reservoir of this country’s talent by her example, and now even the courage to break the no-tears rule. I’m not opposing Mr. Obama; if he’s the nominee, I’ll volunteer. Indeed, if you look at votes during their two-year overlap in the Senate, they were the same more than 90 percent of the time. Besides, to clean up the mess left by President Bush, we may need two terms of President Clinton and two of President Obama. But what worries me is that he is seen as unifying by his race while she is seen as divisive by her sex.

What worries me is that she is accused of “playing the gender card” when citing the old boys’ club, while he is seen as unifying by citing civil rights confrontations.

What worries me is that male Iowa voters were seen as gender-free when supporting their own, while female voters were seen as biased if they did and disloyal if they didn’t. What worries me is that reporters ignore Mr. Obama’s dependence on the old — for instance, the frequent campaign comparisons to John F. Kennedy, though Senator Edward Kennedy is supporting Senator Clinton — while not challenging the slander that her progressive policies are part of the Washington status quo.

What worries me is that some women, perhaps especially younger ones, hope to deny or escape the sexual caste system; thus Iowa women over 50 and 60, who disproportionately supported Senator Clinton, proved once again that women are the one group that grows more radical with age.

This country can no longer afford to choose our leaders from a talent pool limited by sex, race, money, powerful fathers and paper degrees. It’s time to take equal pride in breaking all the barriers. We have to be able to say: “I’m supporting her because she’ll be a great president and because she’s a woman.”

Gloria Steinem is a co-founder of the Women’s Media Center.
Published: January 8, 2008

Attention Employee: Office Holiday Party

An email that went out to my business "associates."

In the spirit of the holidays and because everyone else we know has office/company christmas parties, I've decided to make my own. I know you guys, my fellow freelancers, actor's assistants, writers, "entrepreneurs" and unemployed friends, will appreciate this one.

Begin forwarded message:

Please join me at my office holiday party. Celebrating the season's festivities and a toast to the employee of the year, AVB. The party will take place starting on Monday, December 17th during office hours: 11 pm - 3 am extending through Christmas and into the New Year. During the party, I will be revealing my secret santa, a refreshment will be served and don't be surprised if karaoke makes its way into the festivities! Dress code is business casual (read: flannel pajamas and old camp tee shirts). Please be on your best behavior as a photographer (me with a camera) will be documenting the event and photos will be available for purchase. 

Please note that due to recent cutbacks and a flagging economy, the annual holiday bonus will not be given this year. Instead a "donation" has been made in AVB's name to the Human Fund, funding humans where they need it most.

Please RSVP to AVB in the HR department.

Happy Holidays!

AVB
President, Founder, sole proprietor, etc. etc.



Dictated, but not read.

A Well-Worn Shelf Life

My books tell the story of my life. Just by seeing the spines staring back at me from my bedroom bookshelf I can tell exactly how old I was when I read them. Years of reading have ruined my distance vision, so I can't make out the titles, but I can still see how well-thumbed, broken-spined and tattered the books are. From there, I can usually guess the author. For instance, the thick-spined pastel-colored paperbacks, so wrinkled as to be labeled fragile, are from ages 13-18 and are most likely the works of Edith Wharton, Henry James, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, the Brontes and Sharon Olds. This was an age where I was careless with my books. Pages are marked up with notes, doubled dog-eared and sentences underlined. As I grew older, first edition hardbacks prevailed, looking as if the spines have never been cracked. I try to keep my books clean and new looking, saving them for a generation of children I may/may not have.  Books rarely leave the safety zone of by bedroom. Magazines are for the subway and train. Newspapers are for waiting on a friend at the coffee shop. 

Today my thoughts on my pristine hardcovers and paperbacks changed. I'm in the middle of reading "A Three Dog Life" by Abigail Thomas. I seem to find this book following me everywhere -- and typically, near water. She's (yes, this book has a gender) made her way on the ledge of my bathroom sink, sitting precariously close to the bathtub, on my small antique writing desk where a few drops of water from my glass hit her cover. She ended up in my bag last night and then in my hands as I tried to read her and drink tea while walking home from the subway -- her edges now tea-stained. 

Abigail Thomas writes of living a life with three dogs after the man she loves is left brain damaged and with "a collapsible memory." The idea of leaving an imprint behind seeps into the pores of my copy. I like that the book is becoming a little tattered. In lieu of my beloved dog, I now think of my books as companions, constantly by my side, providing me comfort at night, inspire me when I need it and filled with love both inside and on their very surface.

Trust the Man with Opposite Side of the Street Parking

Talk to any New Yorker with a car (or motorized vehicle) about opposite side of the street parking, and you will get five million different strategies. From reading the paper to carrying a timer, eating breakfast, talking on your cell, or paying off the maintenance man to sit in your car, everyone has a story. I had never seen mine in practice until I watched the film, TRUST THE MAN. In the movie, Billy Crudup plays a car-owning New Yorker who treats OSSP like a competitive sport. He camps out in the car from early morning armed with a sandwich maker, a timer, his cell, and his computer (complete with stolen wireless connection), and he works (he's a freelance writer) from his car until parking goes into affect. This film is truly a New Yorker's view of life--I can only imagine the people in the flyover states trying to figure out why the hell cars keep getting towed if they're parked on the street (just try to decipher the hieroglyphics on those signs). But there were a few things that seemed incongruous: a literary agent's assistant making enough money to afford a large one bedroom apartment in the (near east) village, a cool wardrobe (all designer), and lunches/dinners at Fred's, Bar Pitti, Pastis, Da Silvano…yeah right, only in the movies.

I Heart NY

No matter where in the world you live, apartment hunting is a pain. It is only in a few select cities however, that your hard earned money (and that of your parents) becomes no object. Manhattan is a competitive city for rentals. The market is cutthroat, the paperwork a nightmare. When you find a neighborhood you love though, you remember why the city holds the magic it does. I've always felt that way about the West Village. From the time I was 13 through today I knew it was the place I'd felt most at home. Today, I watched my sister (and roommate) experience it for the first time. It was her "aha!" moment. The city revealed its best and greatest magic to her. From the beautiful brownstones, to the cobblestones, and the Vespas zipping down the street. It really is one of the few places in Manhattan proper where you get the sense of a small European-feeling community. Unfortunately everyone knows my secret, and is prepared to pay top dollar to experience it. Suddenly your top number gets pushed to the limit. You see places to rest your head, but not your soul. The village has its charm, but the apartments you can afford are far from charming. It's frustrating to witness such a centralized location of wealth, and see that you are just a spit in the ocean. "Humbling" does not even begin to describe it. Door-to-door we knocked, Super-to-Super we talked, freezing in 15-degree weather. Where do you draw the line on what you love and the price you are willing to pay for it? Our hearts our big, our wallets are small, but our minds are set. Wish us luck.

48 Hours of Calamity Physics

I spent the last 48 hours engrossed in SPECIAL TOPICS IN CALAMITY PHYSICS. I did have moments of "oh god, please let this end." But once I plowed through the first half of the middle (don't check my math on that), I was hooked. Marisha Pessl's research paper notations presented throughout are interesting and intellectual, without being pretentious. The characters from Gareth and Blue to the Bluebloods, each has their own specific persona. A little bit of Royal Tenenbaums mixed with a Philip Glass score. Once I hit the last page, I wanted to take the rest of the day to walk around the city mulling over what I read, then head home and read it again. The layers upon layers of story and nuance are fascinating, and a true work of art. Not to mention the real art in the form of "visual aids" drafted by Pessl.

I am depressed in knowing that I did not write a book like this first. But I am glad that someone did, because I needed a great work of fiction to discover and devour over this cold weekend.

Subway Stories

So now that I am back to the commuting lifestyle and roam beyond the confines of the UWS, I can tell you honestly that despite the fact the train is packed every morning and every evening, I do love it. I love watching the woman reading "Everything Is Illuminated," and laughing out loud. I love watching the man kiss his wife good bye when he gets off at his work stop and she continues on to hers. I love watching the young dancers from the ABT sweep gracefully into the car with their hair swept up in nice tight buns and wrapped with a hair net. I love that every one complains to no one in particular, but someone always pretends to be listening. We shuffle off of cars, through turn styles and (almost) patiently wait while the elderly person in front of us takes their time to walk up the stairs. Another world awaits us up from the underground. It always feels hopeful, full of anticipation or the promise of home. You exit, breathe the air and feel as if you are starting anew. And I will again, tomorrow morning.

Two Gourmets [briefly] Unite

In an ongoing theme for the month of December (and in a tribute to my favorite film) I present the latest from two of my favorite people to love/hate:

Maybe it's not always a Good Thing:
Martha Stewart ended her brief relationship with Sir Anthony Hopkins, because she couldn't separate him from his famous character Hannibal Lecter. Stewart, 65, appeared on shock jock Howard Stern's radio show last week and admitted she had second thoughts about romancing the Welsh-born star after watching The Silence Of The Lambs while they were dating. She said, "Oh, I loved him, but he was... scary. I was going to invite him up to Maine; I have this beautiful home in Maine... but then I reconsidered because I saw that movie again. Do you want someone eating your brain while you are sitting in your beautiful dining room in Maine?" Hopkins won an Academy Award for his portrayal of Dr, Lecter, but the accolades weren't enough to sway Stewart. She adds, "I would have probably had a very nice relationship with Anthony Hopkins, but I couldn't get past the Lecter thing."


Hmmm, I wonder if any of Martha's former "manfriends" ever say that about her.

From Cannibalism to Eating My Words

I always loved Janet Maslin as a film critic, and mourned her switch over to books, but have continued to enjoy the crackle of her writing. This review of Hannibal Rising is just another brilliant example. Though I have an extreme love of both the film and book versions of Silence of the Lambs and Manhunter, I was thoroughly disappointed by Harris' Hannibal--so much so, that I threw the book across the room when I finished it. I'm in a slightly different position this time having read an early draft of the Behind the Mask (aka Hannibal Rising) script before the novel. I do have to admit that it wasn't my favorite, and Harris has definitely turned Hannibal into a caricature, but the script with producer input is very different from the single-minded version of the author's novel. It will be interesting to see the final product on screen, though I may end up eating my own words...
Below find JM's review of Hannibal Rising.

From Soup to Guts, the Making of a Foodie
By JANET MASLIN
Published: December 8, 2006
This is what Thomas Harris’s readers would least like to hear from Mr. Harris’s flesh-eating celebrity, Dr. Hannibal Lecter: “I deeply regret any pain I may have caused for the victims and their families. For years I have helplessly battled the problem that caused me to misbehave. I intend to seek treatment for it immediately.”
Now for the second-least-welcome thoughts about Lecter. And these, unlike the above, actually were written by Mr. Harris. They come from “Hannibal Rising,” his final (please!) effort to cash in on a once-fine franchise that fell from grace. Plot points: Hannibal suffered a terrible trauma in childhood. Bad, bad men cooked and ate his baby sister. This gave him no choice but to become a cannibal himself. Monkey see, monkey do.
Does that motivation sound primitive? It shouldn’t. It is no more crude than the revenge plot that drives “Hannibal Rising” or the market forces that impelled Mr. Harris to cough up this hairball of a story. The book is the evil companion piece of a forthcoming film version of “Hannibal Rising,” for which Mr. Harris also wrote the screenplay, and is the supposed story of how the man became a monster.
“Here in the hot darkness of his mind, let us feel together for the latch,” Mr. Harris writes ludicrously. “By our efforts we may watch as the beast within turns from the teat and, working upwind, enters the world.”
Poetic pretensions notwithstanding, this particular beast is not slouching toward Bethlehem. Little Hannibal is headed from Lecter Castle in Lithuania (once home to Hannibal the Grim, a 14th- to 15th-century forebear) to Paris, by way of some grisly detours. “Hannibal Rising” begins as the Nazis invade Lithuania and drive the Lecters into hiding. Then it makes a meal of darling little Mischa Lecter, who cried out heart-rendingly for her brother (“Anniba!”), as her captors boiled a big pot of water.
On the theory that one such hellish vision is not enough, “Hannibal Rising” flashes back to it repeatedly. Supporting roles in Hannibal’s memory sequences are played by the corpses of his mother and beloved Jewish tutor. Suffice it to say that he is a scarred and lonely 13-year-old by the time he reaches France and encounters a vision of beauty: Lady Murasaki, the stately, exquisitely alluring Asian wife of Hannibal’s uncle.
Picture the magnificent Gong Li in this role — or just wait, because she’ll show up soon enough in the film version (due early next year). It will require all of her formidable acting skills to deliver dialogue like: “You are drawn toward the darkness, but you are also drawn to me.” Or this: “If you are scorched earth, I will be warm rain.” Hannibal himself, equally purple with Mr. Harris’s prose, prefers to speak in cricket imagery. For instance: “My heart hops at the sight of you, who taught my heart to sing.”
Despite lovely Lady Murasaki’s willingness to rain on him, Hannibal shows signs of teenage trouble. When a butcher makes crude remarks about Lady Murasaki’s anatomy, Hannibal savagely attacks him. “Flog no one else with meat,” a French police official warns him, but Hannibal will not heed that warning. While the book contains tranquil moments (“Hannibal sat on a stump in a small glade beside the river, plucking the lute and watching a spider spin”), Mr. Harris has not been summoned back from the Land of Writer’s Block to create lute-playing scenes.
A word about this elusive author: he has produced only five books since 1974, and his cult reputation as a superb thriller writer was once well deserved. After “Black Sunday” (about a blimp poised to attack a full stadium at the Super Bowl), he introduced Dr. Lecter and built two top-notch books around him: “Red Dragon” and “The Silence of the Lambs.”
Then something went terribly wrong. It took 11 years for Mr. Harris to add a new installment (“Hannibal” in 1999) that turned crisp, riveting precision into self-parody. The character lost all traces of his brilliance and ate the brains out of a living man’s sawed-open skull.
That was a hard act to follow, horror-wise. “Hannibal Rising” doesn’t come close. Its sadism is subdued (though still sickening), and its young Hannibal sounds nothing like the older one. The reader who begins with this new book will have no idea why any of the older ones are well regarded. Nor is there any notion of what makes Hannibal diabolically clever — beyond his rooting for Mephistopheles while watching “Faust” at the Paris Opera.
That glamorous setting is one of many, many theatrical cues and flourishes featured in the new book. Mr. Harris has specialized in highly visual imagery since his Super Bowl blimp days, but “Hannibal Rising” takes this tendency to crass extremes. Leaving no doubt that this book is part screenplay, Mr. Harris provides background music (part of Humperdinck’s opera “Hansel and Gretel” for the eating of Mischa), symbolism (the brutalization of beloved swans), horror-prone settings during Hannibal’s medical school years (“Night in the gross-anatomy laboratory”) and grandiose locations for big thoughts. Hannibal’s major epiphany conveniently comes while he is contemplating the votive candles at Notre Dame.
Although much of “Hannibal Rising” is earnestly cinematic (watch out for an underwater corpse “no longer bald, hirsute now with green hair algae and eelgrass that wave in the current like the locks of his youth”), this material also has its campy side. The cannibalism is ugly but silly, with Hannibal menacingly wielding mayonnaise during one sequence. The story’s main villain is so evil that he’s seen getting a pedicure from a woman with a black eye.
And when this villain turns desperate, so does Mr. Harris. “We are alike!” the character cries. “We are the New Men, Hannibal. You, me — the cream — we will always float to the top!” Pity the poor actor forced to say those lines. Then remember that cream can turn sour.