Sky

The first time I call you sweetheart, it is light, flirtatious.
A throwaway line.
You are silent.
You think it is me trying to finesse a man
into letting me have my way.
Or me trying to convince a man
not to feel taken in
for letting me have my way.
And you are right.
Of course I don’t tell you that, but you are right.
Partly.

(But I really do think you are sweet.)

You do not want to be called sweetheart.
Did you let someone have her way once too often?
Forgive me. I was just getting warmed up.

What exactly did you want me to say?
That your voice drips over me like melted chocolate?
That the sky is like when I ask you to marry me?

I would.
But I’d need to be very, very drunk.

“Melted chocolate?”
Oh, it shocked me, too.
Try on “sweetheart” while you’re at it.

Or “I’m such the fucking man!”
Compared to what you didn't say, it would be much closer to reality.
So I'm okay with that. For now.

What It's Like to Be Me, Vol. II: Sexy If and Only If Math Turns You On

My father’s birthday. We go to Atlantic City to play poker. I can’t play poker recreationally. I start counting cards, calculating probabilities, and wishing I could be one of those evil geniuses who beats casinos out of large sums of money. Also, I would rather spend discretionary funds on new shoes than on gambling. I have no problem spending $20 on a dessert plate.

Last winter. My brother decides he will no longer play Clue with me. He takes one of my used note sheets—a pattern of checks and x’s and question marks that makes no sense to anyone but me—and hangs it up in the kitchen as a reminder. Grocery list; important phone numbers; reasons why no one should play logic games with my sister. I don’t know why he would do that; I'm sure he won the most that night.

Thanksgiving dinner: My cousin is in the midst of an LSAT prep course. His girlfriend is a grad student in accounting.
Girlfriend: I should have taken a prep course for the GMAT.
Me: I love the GMAT!
Girlfriend: (laughs)
My brother: She’s not kidding.
Girlfriend: But I thought you were a writer.
Me: Did I mention I used to work in test prep?

A few summers ago. The Public Theater produces Shakespeare in the Park each year. Most of the free tickets are distributed at the Public and the Delacorte Theatre in Manhattan, but representatives are also sent to the outer boroughs on certain Saturdays. Usually, the line in Staten Island is negligible, but this time my friends and I arrive to find a crowd already gathered. We get in line anyway.

People behind us: I think they only have 100 tickets.
Me: Then we probably should just leave.
Them: Huh?
Me: Well, there are 140 people in front of us. Give or take.
Them: Did you count?
Me: No.
Them: Estimation?
Me: Eyeball.

When an employee distributes numbers, I am #141.

Me: Did I mention I used to count crowds every day?


1994, or thereabouts. It is my job to inventory everything in the movie theater. Every night. Five concession stands and a stockroom. In each stand, there are four sizes of soda cups, four sizes of popcorn cups, about 20 different types of candy, and a few random items. There are hundreds of each. Total number of entries on the spreadsheet: 180. Give or take. I complete it in 50 minutes. Give or take.

Lately, things are disappearing. Money? Cups? Candy? I know my counts are perfect; the problem is somewhere else. Someone on staff is way too comfortable. My boss thinks my “emotional state” due to my “asshole boyfriend” would compromise my math. Silly man. I may have been crying in the kitchen, but math is beautiful because it is not arbitrary like an insecure nineteen-year-old actor. I go home before 1am.

When I arrive the next morning, he has recounted everything. I am fuming.
Me: Fine, if you’d rather not sleep.
Him: Well, I had to find the mistakes.
Me: Where were they?
Him: (Silence.)
Me: Did you find the money? Did you find the mistakes?
Him: There was a nacho dish hidden in the kitchen.
Me: HUH?
Him: Someone hid a nacho dish.
Me: You didn’t find any mistakes, did you?
Him: (Silence.)
Me: So you’re buying me lunch all week, huh?

Justified gloating is sweet. Like all the ice cream sundaes he bought me.

I Don't Need No Diamond Rings

"Can't Buy Me Love" is my favorite Beatles song. I may go so far as to say that if only one Beatles song could be saved from musical oblivion, this would have to be it. I say "I may" because, as a recovering academic, I know too well the possible ramifications of making such an assertion without a detailed, subtly-argued, 40 page research essay to back me up. But in my heart there's no contest.

I could listen to this song indefinitely. As I write this, I am, in fact, doing just that. "Can't Buy Me Love." Repeat. "Can't Buy Me Love." Rinse and repeat. This particular recording (from the hits CD 1) is 2 minutes and 11 seconds long. That would be a few bars short of 27 and a half times per hour. (I'm only up to six or seven at this point.)

These are lyrics that could make a low maintenance girl like me fall in love with you. John and Paul, bless your working-class-boy hearts for writing this.

(Boys from Liverpool in bold italics.)

Can’t buy me love, love
Can’t buy me love
A practical idealist! God, I love those!

I’ll buy you a diamond ring my friend if it makes you feel alright
You'd do that for me, really? That's so sweet.
I’ll get you anything my friend if it makes you feel alright
You just want to make me feel alright? So freakin' sweet.
’cause I don’t care too much for money, money can’t buy me love
So then what you really care about is love? Idealism. Swoon.
But you know how NOT to go about trying to get it? Pragmatism. Swoon swoon.

I’ll give you all I got to give if you say you love me too
Does that mean you think all I want is the material stuff you can give me? Because that's not true at all. I appreciate the generous sentiment and all but..you just want me to love you back? Wow.
I may not have a lot to give but what I got I’ll give to you
Your generosity is breaking my heart. Could I kiss you right now? I mean, what about you? Obviously, I'd share with you.
I don’t care too much for money, money can’t buy me love
You are *killing me* with how adorable you are.

Can’t buy me love, everybody tells me so
You've actually bothered to talk about this with people? You've put thought and effort into this?
Can’t buy me love, no no no, no
And now you're writing me a song about it?

Say you don’t need no diamond rings and I’ll be satisfied
I don't.
Tell me that you want the kind of things that money just can’t buy
I do... I DO I DO I DO.
I don’t care too much for money, money can’t buy me love
I LOVE IT WHEN YOU SCREAM LIKE THAT.

And the guitar solo helps, too.

Can’t buy me love, everybody tells me so
And you listened! A man who listens!
Can’t buy me love, no no no, no
It's kinda sexy when you hold the "noooo" like that...

Say you don’t need no diamond rings and I’ll be satisfied
Just you would be fine, thanks.
Tell me that you want the kind of things that money just can’t buy
Preferably now.
I don’t care too much for money, money can’t buy me love
But a song like this can. And honey, not just love.

Can’t buy me love, love
So can we run away together now?
...buy me love...
Was that a "no" or an "ooooohhhh"?


In case you're wondering: Paul. Definitely Paul.

I previously posted that picture with an erroneous photo credit. It was actually Aunt Tina who snapped that shot of Paul on the TV in 1964, the year in which "Can't Buy Me Love" was released.

Fact that would go in my 40 page essay: On April 4, 1964, Beatles songs held the top 5 positions on the US chart, and "Can't Buy Me Love" was at #1.

I would feed you all candied sweet potatoes.

You know that classic Coca-cola commercial, "I'd like to buy the world a Coke?"

Yeah?

Well, not so much.

For you, sweet denizens of the blogosphere, only the best.

I am thankful for all my family and friends, in the physical plane and in cyberspace.

I thank you for reading and commenting and bringing a smile to my face every time I get a new email.

I would feed you all candied sweet potatoes.

Why You Can't Trust Movie Trailers

The Shining: A Romantic Comedy

Winter Hair

Welcome to winter.

No, I'm not fixing you with a death stare. This look says "Every year this cold weather poop takes me by surprise. Why the hell do I live at this latitude?"

Technically, it won't be winter until late December, but it sure feels like it now. So I went out and got "winter hair." Translated, this means "told my stylist to go dark because when I look in the mirror at the light hair, it gives me the false impression that I'm somewhere warm and sunny." The great thing about paying someone a lot of money to color your hair is that it comes with a complimentary blowout. Which is my real motivation for posting this--oh wait!--is the the glare of winter is upsetting you? I'll post a happy face.

Is that better?

As I was saying... My real motivation in posting these pictures--this straight, smooth, shiny hair thing is something of an anomaly. I never dry my hair straight. I'm not ethically opposed to straight hair or anything; I just never became handy with a blow dryer. Other things always seemed more important and less tedious.

It's not that I couldn't dry my hair properly if I tried. With the right product, tools and technique, and a heckuva lot more patience than I actually have, I could likely reproduce this look. I'm handy with my hands--I sketch, water paint, play the piano (though I am sorely out of practice), and type with my fingers on all the right keys. I know how to use power tools. I have built tables and theatrical set pieces and other random stuff. I also give a fabulous massage. But drying my hair? Eh.

I've always been a wash 'n' go kinda girl. There have been many phases of my life during which I lived out of a backpack. Packing a blowdryer was never on the priority list. I'm also not a big fan of waking up any earlier than necessary--and drying properly takes time. Time that I would rather spend sleeping. Or soaking in the bathtub. Or dreaming up my next excursion that requires nothing but a backpack.

In the end, winter hair is like winter itself: fascinating when it's novel; nice to photograph; quick to grow tiresome. In a few weeks, I'll be dying to highlight my hair honey blond and get on the next plane heading south.

My Muse Is a Son of a Bitch

My muse is a man. I appreciate those Neo-Classical visions of ethereal women with fabulous hair and gossamer robes, but they don’t speak to me. Not like he speaks to me.

He says anything he damn well pleases, but always pleasantly, always politely--unless of course he feels like channeling Batman on a given day, because then he speaks a bit more pointedly.

My muse, that son of a bitch, will not desert me. I have tried to get rid of him. Avoid him. Ignore him. I have tried to jot down the ramblings of other voices, hoping it would make him jealous. No luck.

Because nowhere in the “muse” job description does “jealousy” ever appear.

And worse, “modesty” is apparently on every line.

It must be pretty sweet, being a muse. Knowing you can make words dance.
Living as if it were simply part of the job.


That painting is: Jeune Homme Nu Assis (Young Nude Male) ~ 1855
By Jean-Hippolyte Flandrin

Essay Questions My English Teachers Never Asked

I'm slogging through a pile of papers that need to be graded before class tonight (and another pile before Friday morning) but believe me, I'd rather be reading your blogs. So I thought I would share:

Essay Questions My English Teachers Never Asked
(But I Really Wish They Had)

Consider your answers carefully. Use specific examples and evidence from the text. In your test booklet, clearly indicate which question you are answering. You need only answer one of the three, though additional effort may warrant extra credit. Good luck!

1. Compare and contrast the kissing styles of your best male friend and his childhood buddy. Include evidence from your research. Some questions to keep in mind as you formulate your answer: Do they keep their eyes open or closed? Are they restrained enough to make sure they don’t smash your nose? Do they pay proper attention to each of your lips? Do they slobber?
This fantasy question dates from my 12th grade English class. I never did get to perform that particular experiment. Males may, of course, alter the gender. Or not. Any of you may alter the word "kissing". Hell, compare and contrast whomever you want doing whatever you want. Just make it distracting. There are a lot of essays here, and I'd rather read yours. Give me a reason to procrastinate!

2. What form of bodily excrement/secretion do you find the most fascinating? Why? Be thoughtful in your response. Feel free to include anecdotes from your life that illustrate your answer.
Honestly, I find eye snot (goop? gunk?) enthralling.

3. Compare and contrast the personality profiles and actions of Batman and Hamlet. Indicate your sources, especially if your response hinges on a particular actor's interpretation of a character. If relevant, include in your discussion other superheroes or literary figures, Deconstructionist writings, or the lyrics of random 80's bands. If you prefer, you may use your reaction to this statement as your starting point: "Batman is what would happen to Hamlet if Hamlet didn't know who killed his father."
That's an actual quote from a play I wrote, which was in the New York International Fringe Festival in 2002. It got a pretty good review.

Traditional letter grades will not be assigned, so I urge you to be candid in your responses.

Wednesday Wist will return on its regularly scheduled day once I am caught up. I am also inordinately fascinated with what's on other people's iPods (yes, I'm sort of an "iPod elitist" but don't let my political incorrectness discourage you), so I urge you to give this a try... So how do you participate in Wednesday Wist? You take whatever music player you use, put it on shuffle, grab the first 5 songs and write what that song makes you remember. If it's a new song...and you can't relate it to a memory....do you like it? Leave a comment if you do it on your site and if you don't have a site, comment your wist here! Oh...and feel free to comment about my songs as well!!!

You

You think the world can’t possibly not love you. Most days.

And others, you feel tiny as a speck of sand. A nanobot. Why would anyone dream of you?

You take a shower, cover your face with your hands. Let the water pour over you. Think “this is my life, and my life is absurd.” Maybe you even say it aloud. There’s no one there to hear you anyway.

You think you have control. You always have control. You quote from Radiohead. “I want to have control.” If you’re singing that you want it, you don’t already have it.

You think you always say what you mean. So just this time, you won’t. Just this time, you can afford to be vague. It can’t possibly go wrong.

You are wrong.

You hardly ever say what you mean, when it matters. You know what you would like to hear, but you won’t say it yourself. You are a coward.

You think you are a realist. You think you’ve been brainwashed by optimists, and they’re the ones who call you coward—they of the storybook endings and “Say Anything” monologues. People aren’t really like that, you think. That doesn’t really happen.

Not unless you make it happen.

You.

You just don’t get it, do you?

Or, maybe this is all about me.

"The Persistence of Memory"

One of the Twin Towers still stands in a small desert. Or maybe it is a deserted dock. That's what it feels like, though I can't see the water. I am with two other people. I know them. We run by the tower, into a warehouse, to steal a piece of furniture. I take the drawers out so I can carry them away. An officer discovers us and orders us to leave. I put the drawers down. We run. We run by the tower again.

I am running in my sleep, kicking the blankets off, lifting one leg after the other in swift succession. Running dreams come often to me. I can't remember the other thieves.

An animal is chasing us, I think a lion cub. We are so close to the tower. I wonder if this one will fall too.

I wake up still thinking that one of the towers remains.

It is only a brief span, between when the first tower falls and the second. I wonder: what will New York do now that the Twin Towers are only one? Will it remain? Or will it be knocked down to make room for something new? It doesn't cross my mind that the other may fall as well.

Subliminal Messages

When we drive cross-country, we rent a convertible. If not a convertible, why bother?

And it has a tape deck, so that we can alternate connecting our mp3 players. (Those transmitter things are annoying in big cities, where all the frequencies are already being used.) Whoever isn’t driving gets to DJ.

I want to hear you sing to me.

I take along my laptop, to download all the pictures we take with the digital camera. Of places and people. Of each other. Of us.

We buy a cooler and snacks and jars of peanut butter and marshmallow fluff. Eventually, we get bored on the road and have a food fight.

There are parts of you I wouldn't mind seeing smeared with marshmallow fluff.

I buy colored pencils; tape and glue and scissors; and two small notebooks. One for me, one for you. The one for you is a gift. You can’t touch it until home.

Everywhere we go, I buy postcards. Every place we eat, I keep the receipt, or a matchbook, or a placemat. Every motel we stop in, I steal stationery and take tourist brochures. (And the pens as well.) When it is your turn to drive, I cut them all up and glue them every which way into both of our notebooks. But I still watch you drive.

I like to watch you when you're not looking. I've done it before.

In my notebook, I write everything I feel, everything I see, everything I think. We travel so long, I have to buy another. I take them home with me for future reference. One day, I make a play of it all. (But don’t worry; some secrets are ours alone.)

Your notebook is different. Not random thoughts and endless babbling, but a piece of art. The postcards and the pictures and the paraphernalia are personalized. On every page I write a thought—a thought I think about you. While you are driving. While you are sleeping. While you are showering. Some of them I tell you; some of them are a surprise. But either way, you have something to remember this by.

Something you can touch.

One day, we watch the sun set into the Pacific, and it is time to go home.

You won't forget.

What It's Like to Be Me

“What I love about you,” he tells me, “is that you don’t make mistakes. With numbers. Your taste in men—not so good—but your math is flawless.” I study him and try to see what other girls see. He is my friend. I spend most of our time together running interference for him. He would argue this, but he breaks hearts. His eyes are clear and green. He is beautiful. He would argue that as well. The girls are not heart-broken to be separated from his naturally shrewd business sense or his artist's eye. Probably no contention there.

We hug warmly, his arms wrapped around me, his body against mine. People see us and assume the most. None of it is true. In private, he musses my hair—what remains of it after ordering the stylist to chop it off in a fit of post-adolescent frustration over guys telling me “don’t cut your hair.” It is short, pixie-ish. “You don’t need long hair to be sexy,” he tells me. “Wear your glasses. I love hot smart girls with glasses.” My fingers trace the tribal band around his upper arm.

We have no shame about changing clothes in the same room. His boxers are low as he pulls up his pants; fluorescent light bounces off the sharp lines of his bare hips. Aesthetically fascinating—so different from what's under the waistband of my jeans. His angles bring to mind the geometry of the architectural studies he sketches for homework. I wonder if he would rather be penciling curves.


We dance in the lobby of the local diner, to disco songs we sing off key. “Older sisters,” he confirms. “Girls like to see your feminine side, as long as that’s not all they see.” He dances just close enough to make me wish he’d get closer. He knows too much for seventeen. So do I, but that’s because my dance partners are always older. High school boys are afraid to look you in the eyes when you’re dancing. Not him. His eyes are golden-brown, and they match his hair.

He shows up on my back porch and asks me to his senior prom. I say yes. He shows up on my back porch and says we ought to be just friends. I say “I guess.” “But,” he asks, “you’re still coming to the prom with me, right?” I go, because I have a fabulous sequined dress that I want to wear again, and because he can dance.


His lips taste faintly of coconut. It’s not chapstick or anything; it’s him. Always faintly of coconut--sweet but still masculine. I watch as they draw back into a smile and I know without looking up that he is glancing down. That’s what he does when he’s about to cast aside inhibition. He will kiss me again and his eyes will shift to the greener side of hazel, and I will know what he is thinking.


“When you look at me like that, I think of chocolate.”
“Well, we are in Starbucks,” he laughs. “I’ll get you a brownie.”


I know his eyes are cobalt, but I can’t see them. We are on the phone, debating competitiveness and office politics and drive. I ask him leading questions; he makes me define my terms. A screech cuts through the phone signal and for a few seconds, we are kids, giggling, bickering in the school yard. “Was that you?” “No. You?” “Well it wasn’t me.” Boyish. Charming. Then back to business. I ask him questions requiring statistics, and gauge his facility with numbers. I put words in his mouth. He cuts in. I talk over him. He says: “listen.” And I do. I stop mid-sentence. It is a small submission I do not begrudge. He doesn’t call himself a writer, yet he always uses his words precisely. And I want him to talk some more, because the sound of his voice makes me squirm.

He pauses, making sure my abrupt stop is not just instinct. He wants to know it is a conscious decision to yield. I wait--willingly, because he seems aware of the crucial but delicate balance. Without my willingness, his power has nowhere respectable to go. Acknowledge my authority and I will want yours. He modulates his drive as well as he does his voice, something feral only flickering occasionally—in the silences, between his careful phrases, when I catch him off-guard. Always tantalizingly close, but clearly well under his control. I hear assurance in his voice as he speaks of ambition, and imagine how lamplight looks playing across the skin of his bare hips.

No, It's Not Penis Envy

I am deeply fascinated with what it is like to be a man.

No, please. Put your Freud reader back on the shelf. I'm not talking penis envy. I'm serious here. I find the male presence fascinating. Utterly. Enthralling, even. This is a fascination born directly from my desire as a heterosexual female to get as intimate as I possibly can with the kind of man that I find intriguing--not merely, not even necessarily, sexually intimate.

I am a monogamous woman, and a loyal one at that. Though I have been accused of being a flirt since my latter years of high school (and readily plead guilty), none of my significant others have ever been cheated upon. I'm not marketing myself; I'm just trying to discover what makes men, men. Because it interests me. Because they are what is Other to me, what is alluring to me, what I will never be--nor what I want to be. I don't want to be a man; I want to know men.

I am not referring to "why don't men call?" or other such trite gender battlegrounds that people make gobs of money writing fuchsia-covered paperbacks about. I am talking about getting close to the male presence. What gives certain men the ability to draw attention without appearing to try to? Beyond assuming a certain level of hygiene and aesthetic unoffensiveness, physical mandates play a very small role here. Some men just seem to be so much themselves that they couldn't possibly be anything else--and they don't feel to need to prove it. It is confidence without cockiness; intellect with modesty. And it is incredibly appealing.

It makes me wonder how they see the world; how they see the room of people around them; how they see women. What do they see as inherently female--not in a sexist, stereotyping way, but in that way that makes them draw closer. What makes a woman alluring to them? What is female magnetism? So my fascination with the male presence is not only born of my identity as a woman, but also ties back into it.

I am not aiming to expand the divide between the sexes, nor am I trying to bridge it. I certainly don't want to perpetuate stereotypes. I think about what defines male sexuality for me because I wonder what defines female sexuality for them. It is insight that I desire for my life and for my writing. What do other women find magnetic in men? And what do men find alluring in women?

Wednesday Wist

This is a meme created by Amy that I found at the blog of Chief Slacker. The idea is this: you put your digital music player of choice onto random/shuffle and listen to the first five songs that come up. You write the memories that you associate with each song, or (if you've never heard the song before) your first impressions. Be wistful. I did a trial run-through last Friday and actually ended up with A Jimmy Buffett-Themed Circular Stream of Consciousness, but for this post I'm just going to follow the guidelines. So let's get down to business:

"Welcome back, your dreams were your ticket out..."
Uh...then they didn't get me very far, did they?

The Theme to Welcome Back, Kotter ("Welcome Back")
I have several CD's full of television theme songs. I remember watching this show in reruns as a kid and the credits were especially interesting because there were places I actually recognized. (The only other places that I'd seen on the big or small screen that I recognized from my neighborhood appeared in--you guessed it--Saturday Night Fever.) The high school you see in the opening credits is New Utrecht High School, which is the school I was zoned to attend if I didn't go to Catholic school. The show is about a remedial class and gets most of its humor from exploiting Brooklyn, Italian, and Jewish steretypes. Ironically, I am currently teaching a remedial English class, though at the city college, not high school.

************************************

"I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now..."
Major wist. Haven't we all thought that at one point or another?

"There are many things that I would like to say to you but I don't know how..."
Pretty much the story of my life. And I call myself a writer.

“Wonderwall” (Oasis)
This song reminds me of the mid-90s, when I was going to NYU, working at a movie theater, and spending most of my time hanging out with the people I worked with. It was an ever-shifting but always fascinating group of people with really eclectic musical tastes. We would go from listening to grungey stuff to bands like Oasis to hip hop (uh…the Wu-Tang Clan were frequent visitors to our theater) to going out after work and dancing to house/techno. Good times.

Method Man: “I want mad butter on that yo, maaaaaaaaad butter.”

************************************

"I never thought that she would say /Say good-bye / But she did
And now I / Wanna die / I wanna die..."
Someone, please. Make it stop. Wanna die. I wanna die.

“Why Judy Why” (Billy Joel)
This is one of the most wrist-slitting songs ever written. Every time it comes up, I skip it. The album Cold Spring Harbor is depressing as all hell. I'm sorry Billy Joel was in a difficult place when he wrote this, but I have to get this off my freakin’ iPod. There’s no rule in this meme stating that I have to listen to the whole song, is there? Because if I keep listening to this my ears might start bleeding.

By the way, I love Billy Joel.

************************************

"The only one who could ever reach me..."
"The only boy who could ever teach me..."
I hear ya, honey! Few and far between, they are. But damn exciting when you find one.

“Son of a Preacher Man” (Dusty Springfield)
Ok, now we're talking. Most people of Gen X and beyond only know this song because it was on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack; however, as a kid I spent a lot of time in the car with my parents, Baby Boomers who listened to CBS FM 101, which was the “oldies” station in NYC until very recently (when CBS fired their DJs, reformatted their station, and began referring it to Jack FM. Jack is acually pretty good if you ask me, but that's a topic for a different post.) So this is a song that I grew up with, due to its extensive airplay on 101. And I love it. Love it love it love it. So thanks to Mom and Dad for forcing me to listen to Dusty Springfield.

************************************

"If you wanna find all the cops are hanging out in the donut shop..."
This is a terrible stereotype! Or at least I think so until I'm walking home from the bus stop at 2am and find a cop convention at the new Dunkin' Donuts. And speaking of DD, they have declared war on Starbucks. They're multiplying like freakin'...Starbucks.

“Walk Like an Egyptian” (Bangles)
This reminds me of those days when I was actually wearing the uniform that I wore for Halloween this year. The days when you could still see videos on MTV. This is not my favorite Bangles song. The Bangles could have been a good girl band. Then those marketing geniuses turned Susanna Hoffs into a pin-up girl and took the attention away from the band as a whole. Now don't get me wrong--if I were a man, I’d’ve been all over Susanna Hoffs. Hell, I don’t like women, but I’d seriously consider making an exception for her. But not just for her looks. Besides looking good, she has a sexy voice, an amazing stage presence, and can move.

And in case you were wondering, my favorite Bangles songs are "In Your Room" and their cover of "Hazy Shade of Winter". (Sorry, fellow geeks, I loved that cover before my musical elitism evolved and allowed me to become pretentious enough to make lists of things like "songs you just shouldn't cover, ever".)

Thoughts I Had While Trying to Prioritize My Favorite Movies List for My Profile

1. Movies, like music, are often mentally categorized by the time in your life when you first saw them/became obsessed with them/finally gave in and bought a copy. This reminds me fondly of that scene in High Fidelity wherein you see him feverishly re-organizing his vinyl.

Oh, that was every scene. Right.

Yes, that guy reminds me a lot of me. Only, I don't have an extensive collection of records. Mp3s, yes. Those I can categorize in many ways simultaneously because of the miracle of the digital playlist. But I digress. Back to movies.

2. I really do prefer to laugh. You see, as I was making this list, I wanted to include the films that I appreciate--even love--for their darkness: Apocalypse Now, The Shining, Taxi Driver. You know. But realizing that my profile would only show 20 forced me to prioritize. Sure, I cheated a bit by listing the original Star Wars trilogy as one, as well as the Lord of the Rings trilogy and anything Monty Python. But those are special cases. As I began cutting and pasting and ordering, I realized that the ones I really had to have at the top of the list were films that made me happy. Not with their cinematography, or their dark message, or their intense acting. No, just films that overall caused me to be in a happy state.

The Princess Bride makes me happy. Wedding Crashers made me happy. (Well, up until the end of that long weekend. Then the film started to drag.)

3. And those happy films can be divided into three categories: the ones I watched and re-watched as a kid. The ones that defined the time I spent trying to figure out who the hell I was going to be. And everything else.

When I Was a Kid
I'm not sure exactly where the dividing line is, but I know that my childhood was somehow defined in relation to these movies (some of which actually didn't make the cut, but are still close to my heart): Goonies, Back to the Future, Grease, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, the original Star Wars trilogy. The Karate Kid, Weird Science, Jaws, Explorers... Saturday Night Fever. (Hey, I grew up in Brooklyn. And that's a damn good movie. "Hey, would ja just watch the hair!")

I'll grant you, people being eaten alive by a great white, or falling to their death from the Verrazzano Bridge aren't heartwarming sights, but the films overall make me feel warm and fuzzy--reminding me of the days when there were really only seven television stations to choose from. As do the classics that I learned to appreciate as they were played and replayed on tv--West Side Story and Breakfast at Tiffany's being two of my favorites.

Sometimes, if you're really lucky and I'm feeling particularly dramatic, you can catch me performing Maria's monologue. "How many bullets? How many bullets, Chino?" Oh, my family just looooooooves that.

The Who Am I? Years
Four of my "who am I?" years, the ones I spent in college, were also spent working at a movie theater, so for me movies are somehow doubly-definitive of that time, if that is semantically possible. From 1993-1997 I saw just about every film that came out in wide release. Really, I'm not exaggerating. There were times that I literally had seen every film out (in wide release.)

These were the movies that when I saw them, I was like "Did these people crawl inside my head or what?" Clerks and Reality Bites and Kids...

And even though by this time there were considerably more television stations to choose from, there was one cheesy sci-fi thriller that my friends and I would watch whenever it turned up on one of the lesser cable stations--Coma. Has anyone seen Coma? By God, it is addictive in its cheese factor.

Beyond
If I don't know where the dividing line is between my childhood and beyond, then I definitely can't pinpoint the border between those days and these days. But I do know that there have been a handful of filmmakers that always make me feel as if someone out there either "gets me" or "knows how to entertain me, thank God." Running through the list in my brain, I wish there were some women! I don't love every thing about every one of each of these guys' films, but in my new-found spirit of appreication and validation, I'm just going to put the list out there.

My thanks to: Cameron Crowe, P.T. Anderson, Guy Ritchie, Ben Stiller, Kevin Smith, the Coen Brothers.

Prime

I thought I could just write a post about how much I loved this movie; then I realized critics are tearing it to shreds. This has fueled my competitive streak. Now I feel as if I need to see it again and write an in-depth analysis and defense of it. Truly, I loved it. I'll get back to you on this. It's going to require more work than I had anticipated.

For Fans of Orchestrated Happenstance...

Here's a picture of a jack-o-lantern.





And here's a picture of a jill-o-lantern.
(Thanks to my brother.)












Oh yes...and here's a picture of Amanda, lounging on the "fainting sofa" because she "ate too much candy corn." On the left, that's Sarah, a genie. Not in a bottle.

Come back later so I can urge you to go see Prime, which might be my new favorite movie. Right now I'm off to teach the youth of America.