Dramatis Personæ

Hello. I'm Jillachetti. I'm in charge here. Miss Artistic Director...

...Jill Writes--she seems to think that she runs the place. But she's not doing too good of a job. She confuses people. She lets this one...

...the one that babbles--take over indiscriminately. That's right. I said "indiscriminately". What, you think just because I'm not old enough for pre-school, I don't know big words? A lot you know. I know enough to realize that someone needs to set things straight around here. And our "fearless leader", trying to juggle the play and the poetry and the expository stuff, she confuses people. She is vague. She is ambiguous. She writes random posts directed at God-knows-who--

I'm not God.

What?

I said, I'm not God.

Well of course you're not God. You're a chick from a Renoir.

Well, yes, I'm that. But I also know who JillWrites writes about. You said "God-knows-who", but I know who. And I'm not God.

Oh really, Miss Smarty-Impressionist-Pants!

Muse will do. You can drop the "Miss."

Uh, wait. I thought he...

...was our muse.

He is.

Not so easy to keep it straight, now, is it?

I didn't hear any one talking to you.

I was. You're me, kiddo. You were confusing yourself. Thus, you were talking to me.

Us.

Us.

So you're our muse?

I'm the head muse. I found him.

Why does he get the iPod avatar?

Because.

That is so not an answer.

Well it's a better answer than--

You're bickering with a fictional character.

What do you expect when she acts like you?

I expect you to remember which one of us is which.

You can't even keep it straight. I bet if Damon and I were both standing--

Someone call me? Hey man, what's up?

Wow.

Ambiguity. Ambiguity is up.

What do you have to complain about? You know exactly what's going on here.

Wow.

What?

And now you're male bonding with a fictional character.

Wow.

He's not fictional. He's me. Sorta.

I didn't think it was possible for you both to be in the same place, but... Wow.

This is not the time!

Are you kidding? This is the only time. This is the hottest thing I've ever seen.

I would have to agree.

Of course you agree. You're the one that gets us into these messes.

I would hardly call a well-developed appreciation of the male form and the male aura a mess.

What would you call it, then?

I think I'm too young for this.

Limitless inspiration.

You rang?

OH

MY

GOD.

I thought you'd see it my way.

Avatars courtesy of:
"Limitless Inspiration": Flandrin's Young Nude Male
"Muse": Detail from Renoir's Luncheon of the Boating Party
"Damon": Detail from Tillmans' portrait of Moby

I Heart Hamlet

Hamlet is hot.

Hamlet. Shakespearean dead guy. "To be or not to be..." Jumping in graves. Talking to skulls. Crazy dude. Often over-acted. Hot.

It's not any of the things I've just mentioned (taken out of context) that do it. Those are just the images most often brought to mind when one mentions Hamlet to someone who had to suffer through a less-than-inspiring English teacher. That's just the iconography we have been brainwashed as a society into associating with the sexiest man in world literature.

Jill: Hamlet--
Unfortunate victim of bad teaching: Ugh.
Jill: No, but listen. Shakespeare--
Unfortunate victim of bad teaching: Yuch.

Those images, taken out of context, cannot approach the depth, complexity, and sheer sex appeal that is the Danish prince. In my mind.

If the following paragraph makes no sense to you, don't be alarmed. It is merely an academic wise-ass deterrent. Feel free to read on, undeterred.
Yes, not only do I recognize that this is a characterization in my mind but I also have two years of intensive study in Structuralism and its critics that ensure that if you feel the compulsion to argue with my Reading of Hamlet on a level that privileges the Author rather than my experience of the Text as a Reader, I will be quoting Roland Barthes faster than you can complain about my lack of footnotes. The Author is Dead. Let's move on.

Resume here.
Sunday was Shakespeare's (assumed) birthday. (We have only a baptismal record for April 26, and since babies were traditionally christened three days later, it is assumed that Baby Will came into the world April 23, 1564.) I could think of no better way to celebrate (I would say "this joyous occasion", but he died on April 23 as well) than to explicate upon this two word thesis: "Hamlet. Hot."

As is the case regarding most details of Shakespeariana, there has been much debate about Hamlet's age and whether the textual evidence is consistent regarding the matter. Hamlet is usually accepted to be thirty--which is only a few years younger than Ralph Fiennes was when I spent the evening just about drooling over the mezzanine of the Belasco Theatre at his portrayal of His Royal Hotness. This makes Hamlet a man entering his prime. Purrrrr...

But let's put aside the physical for a moment. Let's also disregard the fact that he's a prince. I'm not a gold-digger. Can anyone you know beat this guy's wit? From the first words he utters, the darkly sarcastic "A little more than kin and less than kind" (1.2.65), on through the playful irreverence of his antic act...

Polonius: What do you read, my lord?
Hamlet: Words, words, words.
(2.2.191-2)

...to the naughty innuendoes he makes at Ophelia while awaiting the Players' performance, how can anyone compete with him on the basis of versatility of wordplay? And for those of you who are not entirely familiar with that specific exchange of dialogue, I present

Jill's Annotated Guide to Act 3, Scene 2, Lines 102-110

Hamlet: My lady, shall I lie in your lap? (May allude to innocent cuddling; may also be translated as "So, can we f*&k?")
Ophelia: No, my lord. (Obviously he has to have said it suggestively, or else she wouldn't say no.)
Hamlet: I mean with my head upon your lap? (Here he teases her by playing innocent. How naughty is that?)
Ophelia: Ay, my lord. (So she agrees.)
Hamlet: Do you think I meant country matters? ("You thought I meant something dirty, didn't you?" What a tease!)
Ophelia: I think nothing, my lord. (By the way, "nothing" or "0" was slang for vagina.)
Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between a maids' legs. ("Yep, that's a lovely thing to be between a girl's legs.")
Ophelia: What is, my lord? (Isn't she so decorous you could just scream?)
Hamlet: Nothing. (Essentially, "Pu$$y.")
Ophelia: You are merry, my lord. (Evidently, he conveyed the innuendo, because she basically says, "Wow, you're in a good mood tonight, huh?")

So: he is at his peak physically, and he has a prodigious wit, with a sex drive to match. And to pull off this interchange without getting slapped--how charming does this guy have to be? And not only with women--he has to have a certain disarming aura with men as well, or he wouldn't be able to so gracefully call Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's bluff when they try to pretend that they're not there to fish information out of him on behalf of Claudius (2.2). Not to mention that he would never have realized their intention in the first place if he didn't possess a finely-tuned ability to read people--a skill also illustrated when he realizes that he is being messed with when he is called to visit his mother's chambers (3.2.358-9).

Please tell me that you are beginning to swoon.

What about his intellect and psychological complexity? He's more intelligent than just about everyone else in the play, with only Horatio as his possible equal. He's obviously well-read in the classics, as demonstrated by his various allusions, and his easy references to Aeneas and Dido in discussion with the Players (2.2). He dryly suffers pompous fools such as Polonius and Osric, but not without getting in a few jabs at their expense.

He is living in a time and place experiencing a transition from a religious to a scientific worldview. Soooo he entertains thoughts of suicide for a moment or two--so what? He is struggling with a religious upbringing, but clearly leaning toward humanism--no doubt in large part to his university education and having lived in Wittenburg. (You know how wild and liberal those university towns are.) In fact, early on (1.2.174) he promises he'll teach Horatio to drink hard before he returns to school--all this, and the man can hold his liquor, too!

By the way, he can fence. Well.

Need more?

Not only can he recognize shrewd machinations, but he is able to put them into effect himself. (I can't help it--I like my men Machiavellian. And good at it.) The Mousetrap--"The play's the thing/Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king" (2.2.583-4)...? Sheer. Freakin'. Genius.

Suriviving the pirate attack? Resourceful.

Rewriting the letter to have Rosencrantz and Guildenstern killed instead of him? A tad cruel, possibly sociopathic--but definitive. You don't mess with my boy Hamlet.

Jumping in the grave to counter Laertes' drama, declaring "This is I, / Hamlet the Dane" (5.1.241-2)...? One word: badass.

When I go to literary Elysium, I am totally sleeping with Hamlet. Don't even think about trying to fight me for him.

And don't bother getting in line behind me, either.


Happy belated birthday, Billy. What are you now, 442? That's a lot of candles.

Callie has a meltdown.

As many of you are already aware, Callie and Damon have some communication problems. For an introduction to C & D, check out the links in the sidebar under "Someday on Stage". They're quite the pair. Oh, yes, and Jill has a habit of referring to her fictional characters as if they were real.

Jill

I miss my characters. And they are getting mad at me.

Other person

Okay, there's suspension of disbelief...and then there's borderline schizophrenia.

Strangely, Callie seems to have a bit of a personality split as well...

Callie

Do I ever seem like two different people to you?

Silence. Then laughter. Damon finds this endearing, and amusing, and probably unnecessary.

Callie

I'll take that as a yes. I'm sorry.

Damon

Why? It's just you, I guess.

Callie

But I don't want it to be "just me". Really, I want me to be... I don't know. A different me, a better me. A me that knows how to converse like a regular person. Like, I'm sorry for all the times I wanted to say something but I didn't. Or you wanted me to say something. But I didn't. Probably on purpose. Sometimes on purpose. Just, you know, because I didn't want to, you know, let you, you know... Ok, but not maliciously on purpose. Never maliciously.

And all those times when you were expecting me to say something? You know, because that was the normal way the conversation would have been going? And then I said something totally out of left field. Not even left field. Like, waaay over the Green Monster. Or, on the other side of Monument Park. Or, you know those buildings outside of Wrigley? Where the people hang out on the roofs? Over their heads. Yeah. That far out. I know I do this. Trust me. I know. You're not the first person I've done this too.

(To herself) Great, I'm sure that's exactly what he wants to hear.

(Back to Damon) Could we scratch that? You know, forget I said it. I'll try again. You... You make me want to be more me. More me than maybe I've ever been before. Or maybe not more me. Maybe, better me. Braver me. More better braver me. So it's not that I don't trust you--all the random answers, and the "way out in left field"--it's not that I don't trust you. It's that I do. You understand? From the first time I spoke to you. I had an impression of the you that I was expecting you to be and I turned out to be right, but even though I was expecting you to be that you, I wasn't expecting me to be right. You know? I know, right!

Like I said. It's not that I don't trust you. It's that it was so easy to trust you.

Will you say something?

Damon

Green Monster? Monument Park? Wrigley?

Callie

You don't watch much baseball, do you?

They meet.

This is a monologue I'm playing with for the play-in-progress. Damon is a DJ. (Which is why the photo of Moby's jeans was particularly suitable as his avatar in my brain.) Callie is a compulsive overthinker who can only find peace when running or dancing. (This character is not the least bit autobiographical. But before anyone asks--no, there is no DJ.) Callie speaks to the audience. Damon is onstage, but not interacting with her.

Callie

It's happened to all of you. I know it has. There you are, just minding your own business, doing whatever it is that you are doing, whatever it is that you do, you look up and... You don't expect it, you don't even necessarily want it, but there it is. Someone staring at you. Someone smiling at you. And you just can't help but stare back. It's like this person has some sort of hold over you. And no matter how hard you try, you can't turn away. Like in Star Wars, when the Millennium Falcon arrives in the Alderan system, only to find the planet obliterated, and Imperial fighter flying around what appears to be a small moon. Only it's NOT a small moon. It's the Death Star. But before Obi Wan realizes it, the ship is caught in a tractor beam and pulled inexorably toward--right, well, you get the picture. There's no escape.

* * * * * *

Let me take you back. I avoided him the first night, and then most of the next time I saw him--the next week. I always make it a point of making friends with the DJ. Sometimes they're interesting. Sometimes they're assholes. But this time, I killed my normal routine. I fully planned on continuing to avoid him. But he caught me by surprise.

I thought I could get by him. Sneak by under the radar. No. He was just standing there, his hands on the table, leaning forward, looking out over the crowd, thinking I don't know what. I was thinking "Damn, those are some well-defined arms. Wonder what those feel like." Seriously. Will you look at those forearms? But...uh...whatever he was thinking, it wasn't cocky. There was a big crowd, they were all into it, but he wasn't standing there thinking "This is all about me." He's not like that.

Anyway, I figured I could get by him quickly. I pried my eyes away from... those arms... and he was looking. Caught-cha lookin'! Well, I guess he caught me, too. But he was gracious about it, not like those losers who fix you with the death stare--they try to be all hard and manly. They never smile. Damon, he smiled. He was in. Exactly what I was avoiding.

I See Fictional Characters

You met Damon. Now meet Callie. She hasn't been hiding from me, so much as she's been hiding from him. Hang on a sec...

What? Yes, I know Damon is being a pee-pee head. That's what guys do. You'll deal.

I have no idea how I'm going to get these two to coexist peacefully on the same page.

Huh? No. I'm not going to tell her that. Tell her yourself.

But maybe that's a good thing--there doesn't really need to be peace until the end, anyway.

To be fair, Callie gets a playlist as well. You may notice Callie shares a few of Jill's favorite songs. But so does Damon. Music plays an integral part in the theme and plot of the play. These two may just learn to love each other as much as they each love music. A shared passion for The Ramones and Violent Femmes has to count for something, right? If I can get one of them to pick up the damn phone and dial. And the other to actually answer.

Just to be clear: as opposed to Callie, Damon does not share Jill's clothes.

The "Callie, Come Out and Play" Playlist
Josie and the Pussycats (Original cartoon theme song)
Rush (New York City Club Version) Big Audio Dynamite
Jellyhead Crush
Closer to Free Bodeans
Dancing with Myself Billy Idol
Mickey Toni Basil
I Love Rock and Roll Joan Jett
Hurts So Good John Cougar Mellancamp
Can't Buy Me Love The Beatles
No Matter What Badfinger
ABC Jackson 5
American Music Violent Femmes
I Believe in Miracles The Ramones
The Break Soul Asylum
Mystify INXS
When Doves Cry Prince
Everlong Foo Fighters
How Soon Is Now? Love Spit Love
Wonderwall Oasis

Literary Crushing, Not Necessarily Hetero

In the comments on my Good Ways to Ruin Your Life for the Sake of Inspiration post, Popeye shared his appreciation of the character of Atticus Finch. I began a reply, then realized it would take a bit more than just a comment paragraph to respond. On my homepage, I have a list of (male) fictional characters I have lusted after. (I'd provide the link, but my homepage is all in one Flash file, and therefore I cannot currently link separate pages. I'd love for you to read it, though. It's under "Lists".) But I don't have a list of female characters. So without further ado...

Jill's Possible Same Sex Literary Crushes

1. Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter series was the first one to come to mind. She's a geek; she mothers her friends, well; she always knows where to find the information to help save their asses, and has put her own on the line more than a few times; she charmed the heck out of Viktor Krum, world-famous Quidditch star. Sure, maybe early on, her hair needed a deep-conditioning treatment, but I think she's learned to take care of that. Especially now that she's clearly got her heart set on the oh-so-oblivious Ron. This choice might make me a pedophile...but just a fictional one, right? At least I didn't say Lolita.

2. Next, I thought of Arwyn of Lord of the Rings fame. Except I don't think I actually have a crush on her. It's more like I want her immortality, or her man. Or both. She's not really fiesty enough for me. I'd love to slay her and take her place. Which is something Eowyn could have done. Now, there's a crush-worthy Tolkien woman.

3. Tinkerbell. Forget. Wendy.

At this point, this list becomes a truly informative exercise. Because, if I am limiting myself to literature...well, there aren't a whole heckuvalotof female characters that entice me. Let's examine Shakespeare. Lady Macbeth is trying to act out her own ambitions through her husband, Ophelia can't cope, Gertrude is either an adultress or too easily manipulated, Miranda is sheltered, Juliet is naive, as is poor Desdemona, Cleopatra is...Cleopatra, Cordelia is somewhat likable, though her sisters clearly aren't, the girls in Midsummer's are too simple (it is a romantic comedy, after all), but...

4. Beatrice. What a wit! And fiesty indeed.

5. Katharina. The Shrew. Taming, my ass.

6. Elphaba. From Wicked. I don't care if she's green. No, I haven't seen the musical. I may be the only person in New York, or that has visited New York in the past year or two, that hasn't. I'll get around to it.

7. Catherine, of the Pulitzer Prize-winning David Auburn play, Proof. Young but complex. Plagued by people making false assumptions about her. Some of them false, anyway. Deadpan humor. And brilliant.

8. Sabine. From Nick Bantock's Griffin & Sabine series. Bantock is an artist, illustrator, writer and creator of pop-up books. This series tells the story through the correspondence of the title characters. Each page--their letters, postcards, and the like--is an artwork. And Sabine is the mysterious woman who initiates it all. If you're the type of person who wanders through bookstores looking for things to touch, and flip through, and lose yourself in, sit down with these. The text is limited enough to read over one cup of tea, but you really won't want to leave without the book(s).

Literary crushes, anyone?

I Put the "Pro" in "Procrastination": Meet My Dream Guy

If it were up to me, more intelligent, attractive, adventurous men would be found like this: shirtless, barefoot, in a perfectly worn pair of jeans, sprawled in (my) bed.

Back in November, I was walking through Barnes & Noble when this postcard jumped out at me. Back in November, I was actually getting productive work done on my new play. I bought the postcard, tucked it into my notebook, and have been carrying it around ever since.

I don't write physical descriptions into my character notes, because I don't want directors and actors to feel limited by them. I have written and will continue to write characters for specific actors that I know, but even when I know who will likely be playing a role, I still don't write the description in.

Because I carry my notebook everywhere, denim boy made it to Thanksgiving dinner. Lisa took one look at it and said "That's the guy from your play."

Come again?

"The guy from your play. The character. That's him, right? That's why you've got the picture in your notebook."

Psychic, much?

Yes. That's him. That's why I bought the postcard. Everyone, meet Damon. Or at least, his bottom half.

My characters routinely visit my dreams, in some form or another, and this photo jarred me into some hazy dream recollection. Oh yeah, and it turned me on. It captures the balance of virility and vulnerability that I imagine the character to possess. So yes, he's my "dream guy"; i.e., he'll haunt me at least until the play is done.

Except, recently, he's been curiously absent. (I think he's on strike because I've been paying too much attention to the blog.) So today, I did what any self-respecting music-obsessed procrastinator would do after being deserted by the person of their dreams. I made him a playlist. Damon, this one's for you.

(Yes, I just addressed a fictional character.)

(Yes, I just dedicated a CD to him.)

(Yes, he has very eclectic taste in music.)

(Feel free to direct your comments at Damon. Maybe that'll make him come out and play again.)

This is Your Life (featuring Tyler Durden) The Dust Brothers [from Fight Club]
Believe Franka Potente [from Run Lola Run]
Ripper Sole Stomp [from Tank Girl]
Call Me (E-Smoove's Beat Vocal Mix) Blondie
Sunglasses at Night Corey Hart
Mrs. Robinson The Lemonheads
The Boys of Summer The Ataris
Paint it Black Rolling Stones
Baba O'Riley The Who
I Will Follow U2
Pour Some Sugar on Me Def Leppard
Talk Dirty to Me Poison
Panama Van Halen
Dangerous Type Letters to Cleo
Hit Me With Your Best Shot Pat Benatar
99 Red Balloons Nena
Let's Go Crazy Prince
It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) R.E.M.
Blitzkrieg Bop The Ramones
Time Bomb Rancid
Add It Up Violent Femmes


By the way, the photo is actually a 1993 portrait of Moby by photographer Wolfgang Tillmans. I rather enjoy the whole photograph, but many of my girlfriends can't abide a man so...uh...scrawny. I hate to use that word, because I'm all for men with lean bodies. So I cropped the photo. I didn't want you to get as distracted as they were by the negative.

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!!!

She Told Me So (aka I Want Spike)

I write so much about Violet, you'd think we were married or something. Uhhhh...no. But I do keep a toothbrush in her bathroom.

For years now, I've been hearing about her obsession with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but I've never gotten around to watching more than one or two episodes. Sure, they're good, campy, kick-ass fun, but I never got addicted. I did develop something of a soft spot for Angel, because the show played before Charmed during the days a few winters ago when I was trying to catch up on every episode of Charmed I'd never seen. (That was all of them. I'm a bigger geek than you ever imagined, huh?) So I would tune in a few minutes early, and catch Angel kicking some ass and then being all sweet and/or brooding. All I knew about him was that he was Buffy's love, but what I saw was him falling for Cordelia. Kim didn't want me to think of Angel as in love with Cordelia, because, clearly, he was Buffy's man...uh...vampire.

Last night I was in a dark mood. Not depressed. Just dark. As in, not sunny. As in, "Hey, let's plumb the deep recesses of Jill's psyche! Let's wander aimlessly uptown and figure out how we can turn my twisted imagination into some very penetrating art!" We did so for a few miles, then took the subway the rest of the way. Finally, after listening to some drunk abuse every man on the A train, and watching a tiny dog chase a rat as big as its head, we arrived at her apartment. We poured some iced tea and she told me "Okay, be quiet." Very few people get away with telling me to be quiet. Then she introduced me to Spike.

Oh.

My.

God.

Yeah, ok, I'll be quiet for him.

Somehow, in my fumbling with my words on the long hike home, I was able to convey to Kim exactly where my head was at. Or she was able to surmise it psychically. In three short scenes, this character catapulted straight to the top of my "Fictional Characters I Have Lusted After" list. Seriously, in a brawl, he would kick Hamlet's ass, hands tied behind his back. I like that. I really like that.

Yeah, yeah, I get it, he's not real.

But damn, if someone didn't pry into my subconscious one night to create him, then I don't know where he came from.

She told me so. But why did she hold out on me for so damn long?

And who else is holding out on me? If there are more of him out there, I want to know about it. Any suggestions?

"Oh, Westley!":The Princess Bride and Comfort Food

Yesterday was a hot, sticky day. It's been like that all week. August in New York is one of those experiences that you erase out of your consciousness after every instance, and the next time it happens, you're blind-sided. I've been living on Gatorade, fruit, and random salty things all week. The air conditioning in my car gave up again. And yesterday, at rush hour, I had to drive through Manhattan, up to Kim's, for a quick run-through of the show in preparation for our final performance.

The West Side Highway was like a parking lot. It took me 47 minutes to drive...8 miles? I had forgotten to recharge my iPod, so I couldn't use the transmitter. But, because it was rush hour, all the radio stations were trying to be supportive. And because Bryan had taken the time to pre-set all the good rock stations on my radio the last time I'd been staring out at the Hudson wishing I could jump in, there was very little searching for me to do. For some reason, every rock station in NYC became obsessed with Joan Jett and Van Halen between 4:30 and 6pm yesterday. This, of course, was not a problem. In fact, it made me very, very happy, even though I was sitting in a pool of sweat and un-triumphantly watching the Carnival Triumph sail by. I opened all the windows, sang along, and tried not to bang my head against the steering wheel.

By the time I got to Kim's I was starving, but so was everyone else. For some reason, they allowed me to pick the take-out place that we would order dinner from. I think it had something to do with the passionate way I was reading menu selections aloud. With mashed potatoes...oh my God... Barbecue sauce was sounding so damn appealing, and I'd been fantasizing about those sweet potato fries since I'd first laid eyes on that menu two months ago. So yes, we went with the barbecue chicken sandwiches (all white meat, kaiser rolls, unbelievable sauteed onions) and those orange orgasms.

After we ordered, we sat around in the living room, staring at each other. There was just no way work was going to get done until we were fed. That was abundantly clear. So we did the only thing a bunch of reasonable people wanting to goof off could do--rifled through Kim's DVD collection. We decided on the cinematic equal to the comfort food we were eagerly awaiting--The Princess Bride.

Now, I love this movie. Everyone I know that has seen the movie, loves the movie. (Amazingly, Ingrid had never seen the movie. We all tried to not ruin it for her. We tried.) But you've got to admit, Buttercup is a priss. What Westley sees in her, I have no idea, especially when she's standing by letting him get his ass handed to him by a Rodent of Unusual Size. Jump in, birdbrain! Westley, don't you want a woman who's got your back? Come on! Incidentally, I am not the only woman to feel this way. The other three females who were there and had seen it said exactly the same thing. The lone male...well, Bryan is smart enough to keep quiet when he's outnumbered, even if he agrees.

When the food finally arrived, the fries were slightly soggy, and of course they weren't accompanied by the fancy-pants sweet chili sauce & crème fraiche that Eight Mile Creek does to perfection...but what they didn't offer in crispness, we all made up for with our voracious need for fat & carbs. And the perfectly sauteed onions earned the place brownie points in our takeout rolodex. Then we had frozen Snickers bars for dessert.

Joy, my friend and a super editor, just called. I've got to run out to meet her (so she can give me a guilt trip about how I called one of my essays "The Final Draft" even though I knew it was no where near finally done.) I told her what I was writing about, and by freaky coincidence, she also watched The Princess Bride last night. Really freaky coincidence. I didn't ask her how she felt about Buttercup and the Rodent. I'll just keep that up my sleeve until I need to change the subject from the revising guilt trip.

My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

The Island

I've just discovered another entry for my list of Fictional Characters I Have Lusted After.

Do not mistake this as a ringing endorsement for The Island as a piece of cinematic history. It's a hybrid sci-fi/action flick, and if you don't like to mix your sci-fi with your action or vice versa, you're very likely going to get a bit ticked off. If you're not a purist, though, you might just be entertained. Because just when the sci-fi looks as if it might get heavy, just at that place where it started becoming painful to sit through A.I., The Island shifts gears. And if you like your action heroes to be ruthless and don't mind their impossibly-good luck, then you'll have a damn good time. I did, even when I was not gawking at Ewan McGregor.

I won't spoil the big mystery of The Island, but I think it wouldn't be a spoiler if I conceded that, yes, in fact, the movie is what the trailer makes it out to be: a metaphor for treating humans with dignity. For not living lives of quiet desperation. Et cetera. I think everyone gets that off the trailer, right?

(Some trailers are just way too transparent. Let me take you back a few years. My friend Tim and I are watching the preview of The Sixth Sense.

Jill: So...um...the Bruce Willis character is...
Jill & Tim: Dead.
Jill: Right.
Tim: Yeah.
Jill: Ok, no need to see that one.
Tim: Pass the Milk Duds.)

Well then. Back to The Island. So if the film is a metaphor for not living lives of quiet desperation, the hero will of course be the utterly-charming-and-resourceful-non-conformist. I'm a sucker for this type. I know this. All the better when played by a cute scruffy guy with a great voice. Who isn't afraid to violently wield crowbars, wrenches, and futuristic motorized vehicles of all kinds.

I won't divulge any more except this, my favorite moment. The moment when McGregor's character, Lincoln, joins my list. He had never previously encountered any motorized vehicles. He's been asleep out by a deserted stretch of highway with Jordan, Scarlett Johansson's character. A motorcycle flies by. They both wake up. He runs out onto the road. "What was that?" Jordan asks. Lincoln gets this look of pure mischief on his face. "I don't know," he replies. "But I want one."

Yeah, me too. I want one. Can I get one of him?

Dead Like Hamlet

Yesterday I interviewed my theater buddy and fellow film-obessive, Elias, for a profile I'm writing about him. (He's an actor.) As this was supposed to be a professional conversation, we tried really hard to not get off on our two favorite tangents--sci-fi and baseball. Baseball was easy to avoid because we're both currently a bit bitter: him about the Expos' flight from Montreal (did I mention he's Canadian?); me about the general state of the Yankees. But sci-fi? Sci-fi must be relevant, especially if he acts in it and I'm going to write about him acting in it. Right?

I asked him about his guest appearance on Dead Like Me last season and the bickering began. If you've been reading my recent entries you will be acquainted with my anguish over the cancellation of DLM. Elias, like many of my friends, becomes concerned when I take fictional characters too seriously. He interruped me as I was voicing my disappointment about not getting to see Daisy and Mason finally do whatever, but this time, not with "uh...they're not real..." but with "uh...they're dead." So now I have to be the one to say it: they're fictional! Who cares if they're dead or undead or whatever! I wanted to see them get together. (I know, I know, if only to live vicariously through her.)

This conversation becomes all the more ironic if you know how Elias and I met. He was co-starring in Killing Jar Jar, a play that he actually co-wrote with Andrew Farrar and which was of special interest to Star Wars geeks like me and the people I went to see it with. I was casting my play Reference Material [3am Pie] for the NY Fringe and thought that Elias would fit a difficult-to-cast part. What was it, you ask? My re-imagination of Shakespeare's fictional (and dead!) character of Hamlet, who guided our pop-culture-obsessed protagonists through the pitfalls of procrastination. Elias spent the rest of the summer in rehearsal, playing a fictional dead guy that I imagined. You know, I think that the historical reality avenges the fact that Elias won yesterday's DLM debate.

The Death of Dead Like Me

Why did no one tell me Dead Like Me was cancelled? Oh, right, the execs at Showtime sort of swept it under the rug, didn’t they? They dropped it in December, but kept the show info on their website. They’re re-running the second season (of which the DVDs are being released in July) but fail to directly state on the site that no third season is coming. They assume we know. Now Mandy Patinkin is on CBS.

As most people who know me can readily attest, I often get very attached to fictional characters. I choose to view this as a good thing, as I am a writer, and writing involves a fair amount of commitment to “people” who don’t actually exist. I am attached to the reapers on Dead Like Me. They fight over breakfast foods. They’re witty, dry & sarcastic at all hours of the day and night. They know who they are and don’t apologize for it. I want to hang out with them, and not just because Callum Blue (Mason) is the most adorable thing to come across the Atlantic since Ewan McGregor. (Ryan Kwanten is also high on my adorable list, but as he is from Australia, he likely came across the Pacific.)

If I were instantly killed by a flaming toilet seat from outer space, I wouldn’t mind Rube as a boss & surrogate parent. And if I needed a roommate in that undead afterlife, I could probably live with Daisy’s self-absorption, because she has a hell of a lot of naughty stories to tell. And she’s not as shallow as first she seemed. Just ask Mason. He’s smitten by her—utterly, inexorably, adorably smitten. I was awaiting the third season specifically to witness how the writers would finally bring them to that inevitable moment.

Well, now that there won’t be a third season, I can write my own climax, guilt-free. I think we all know who’ll be there in place of Daisy.