Cheers To That

Too much has happened in these past ten years to viscerally encapsulate/articulate here, but my writing has grown from it, so I offer it as proof. SO much has happened. SO much yet to come. And for the first time in a long while, I feel-not think-that what is to come, is well worth the wait.



Just saw Avatar with the family, as we like to make it to at least one movie in theatres at Christmas time (Netflix in the off season). My disbelief was suspended to dizzying crescendos (the most it has in ages), and I enjoyed every moment of it. As with all mind-blowing triumphant adventures, it was meant to be had when I was meant to have it, and seeing this film dynamically coincided with my musings for the coming year. My very being hums with it's message, and I'm so thankful to receive it.



James Cameron deserves all accolades, awards and back alley BJ's he gets from this movie. Go see it immediately, and not because it's the hot button movie of the moment, or a technological groundbreaker (both are reason enough, mind you). It's an astonishing, moving, piece of art, one that toiled diligently, in true patient visionary style to be illustrated adequately. Such epic loyalty can be agonizing, harrowing and cost you many relationships and trifles of sanity. In the end, you have to execute to the best of your ability, damning any wreckage thereof. Inspired creation is always worth it, even when you don't see the direct effect.



I'm not one to make hollow resolutions. Not the "quit smoking" or "hit the gym more" kind of way. Those are awesome as a jumping off point to self improvement, but in light of the world (and my world) these days, those don't cut any kind of mustard. Last year, I resigned myself not be "afraid" anymore. That notion evolved to me communicating, thinking and living without fear of repercussion. It's working out better than any nicotine patch in existence, and it's health benefits are far superior to any treadmill.



This year I've landed on Belief. The true, abiding kind. To my loved ones, to commitments made in deed and spirit and in myself. No doubt or anguish over the immediate immediacy. Just joy in the journey, strength in what I do have in this moment. The plan I set in motion a long time ago, by just jumping in. To be happy, create, and love life enough to trust it.



As the Na'vi and their creator fought and believed in their path, so shall I. As cheesy/dramatic/any other pessimistic term as it sounds. And if you are one of those nay-sayers, may you embrace the silver lining. It is there, in abundance. Do yourself a favor and chuck the blinders.



2010 will rock the casbah, as we design it to. Let's stride on, brushing off all lingering momentary defeat as we go. Let us not be making resolutions, but ourselves be resolute.

Hollidaze Sauce

Halloween blew past, complete with a sassy, boozy turn as Miss Scarlett (I rocked a wrench), trick or treating with my favorite lil' bat and alot of much needed creative outlet costume making. I love the occasion for precisely those reasons. Creativity, alter-ego-for-a-night style drinking, and candy. Not necessarily in that order. Already stoked for next year. And thus it begins.



Then comes Thanksgiving, rapidly approaching with all the reverence of a rustic rest stop on the home stretch to Disneyland. I can't pinpoint exactly when that trend was accepted as the norm, but it's no fun. A good two weeks before Halloween even has a chance to be awesome, the Christmas decorations encroach on the kitch and candy corn. Let alone the pumpkin pie and pilgrim-y charm that's next on the calendar.



All that can ever do is fuel the feeling that life is a runaway train of seasonal chaos (which is more blatant each year of life), and we don't have time to enjoy ANY of it. We have to fight that.
I can't say enough praise for a ritual of binge eating and being thankful. Good stuff. I'm not one to obsess over the turkey or make chestnut stuffing, but growing up I always looked forward to donning fancy fall clothes, listening to/trying to muffle the sounds of the familial ruckus and eating half a dozen homemade ravioli, passing out in food coma bliss. Repeating as necessary. Why rush it?



Then there's the big Christmas shebang. I had a card with the 24 days of Christmas scattered across it, each with it's door to open as a countdown to the big day. I wanted to open them all in rapid succession and make with the gifts and cozy pajama-ed traditions every year. Now that I'm an adult and I have to do the actual planning, budgeting, baking, cooking and wrapping, it's almost like the Super Bowl, instead of a leisurely punch bowl. Full of strategic pressure, moments of epic experience, and a post game stupor. It's a magical time, it's a highly commercialized time. It's frenzied, it's peaceful. It's like all preceding holidays rolled into one capped with a jolly icon to march everyone into gift giving, sugar cookie making, and carol singing. Frazzling, frivolous, fun.



It's one of the few times a kid has a chance to put all their positive energy into one moment-the Christmas morning unveiling-and either it's a blissful cavalcade of presents and joy or a slightly disappointing mystery as to why Santa forsook you and got you anything other than what you specifically asked for. You were after all, extremely good this year. The aforementioned security and excitement of being with loved ones while eating honey glazed ham. Why rush that?



And finally New Years. This one signaling the next whirlwind to be ushered in, almost a mourning period for the year hauling by. Well, if it weren't for the hopeful gaze to what the new one will be. Finding/keeping/wishing for someone to kiss at midnight, making resolutions and reflecting, marking a notch on the growth chart of your life. Drinking and crying a little too much in any absence of anything thereof....this one rushes itself.

By the time the January bills come, you realize how quickly it jetted away. Another year in the can. Exercise, extra jobs to regulate holiday spending, spring cleaning to start formulating. Valentine's. Easter. Such a rocket ride.

Perhaps between the child's twinkly, crawling anticipation and the face paced flow of adult nostalgia, we can slow it down on the actual day with genuine miraculous spirit or revel in the importance of the whole process. That's what tradition and ritual are. I hope so, as I eagerly scramble to settle my own plans and begin the ballet of it all.

By this time next year I'll be satisfactorily slathered once again. I think I'll take my time.

The SMD: Parks Will Keep Us Together

Logan LOVES the park. Not a day goes by that she doesn't want to explore, mingle, and have fun in the out of doors. I enjoy it as well, I appreciate all things she's that enamoured of, and it was a staple in my own growth. It's insurance that she'll have less hyperactive energy at dreadtime and sleep through the night. In the ever present financial shackles, the park is free and an interesting cross hatch of humanity.



It is however, a double edged sword some days, like today. Some older slightly misguided youths decided to piss on some playground equipment, which is both vile and sad. I'm glad I got the info second hand, or it might have gotten a little violent. Then there were the couple boys who were doing their boy thing, flinging sand and insisting upon pretend plot line with no negotiation. You have to lead by example, so I handled it all calmly, even if I was shouting "LAY OFF AND GROW UP YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!" in my head. It's all part of sharing geography and experience with others, what are you going to do?



I'm one of those moms (out of necessity and an abiding zest for play) that's flopping around in the communal dirt, voyaging down the slide (at the risk of low hanging structure head injuries, that shit kills) and running over foothills to either win the "race" or chase the imaginary character du jour. Most other parental units I've observed have multiple kiddos so they keep themselves entertained/policed or they park itself is the other playmate for the fellow solo kids. There's nothing wrong with that, and I definitely have my odd days of slackdom on the fringe. To a kid however, realizing a mom is making a sand castle with rock trim and positioning zoo animal inhabitants means game on. My heart goes out to them for wanting to play with a grown-up interacting at their level, maybe they don't get that often.


Logan is able to share me, after MANY reassuring talks and pointed examples of how she's my numero uno...but when a group of kids starts encroaching on her turf, she gets a little extra bossy boots, a little more task managerial. I'm not sure if it's her version of solidarity-as I end up watching the interested parties by association-or if she's just asserting that I'm HER mom and therefor she has every right to give instruction as she deems necessary. Probably a bit o' both, and I don't entirely blame her. She could be knee-capping kids or shouting obscenities. Like mother like daughter, she probably is mentally.



It's all well and good, but in essence those happenings are working against the very reason we're there in the first place. Regardless, I'll always hang with random kids, why not? You never know what impact you have on a life, simply by listening to their theories about R2-D2 toys or acknowledging their creative panache with twigs. On the scale of public place responsibilities, that one isn't the worst. Plus, it's a little extra dose of appreciation for the family dynamic she and I share. It's easy to forget.



The Loganator (evil genius that she is) and I were swinging lately, one of the must-do's. We were spidering (they face you, on your lap and you both swing), so I watched her fluffy little face, the golden afternoon sunshine dazzling her sandy blond, glinting her bright blues. I was vaguely aware of the few other groups of people around us at that point (it's the ultimate maternal fishbowl at times), I was mostly just happy to be enjoying and remembering the awesome weightlessness of happy. Despite any fight over manners, row about half eaten lunches that get made into sculpture, or maddening monotony...to be in the delicate fall weather, watching Logan chant "HIGHER!" and giggle with mischievous glee was/is fun. Entirely worth it.



With any luck, our partnerships at the parks we encounter can battle the likelihood that she or any of our informal play-daters will be pissing on playground equipment in the future. Or be perminantly watching from the sidelines.

Domestic Dispute

I express my respect and admiration for Michael C. Hall on a regular basis, and also for the hit show Dexter he brings to dreary, intelligent and visceral life. On the same token, I still maintain dismay for the third season, and for the inevitable story arch of making him a loving father and husband...until I saw the season four premiere on Sunday, I wasn't entirely sure why. Jumping of sharks is bad for any show, let alone one I'm so moved by.

The ever inspiredJohn Lithgow as the Trinity Killer is a welcome addition to the cast (the grizzly doing away with he brings is an almost ironic juxtaposition to Dex's befuddlement), the dialogue is still fleshed out and funny. Aside from the sub-plot pairing Detective Batista and Lieutenant Laguerta romantically (not necessary and out of left field), the initial episode was closer to the heart and soul the first two seasons had. I was relieved and intrigued. But still....

Anyone who feels at odds with the world simply by the way they view of it, can relate to Dexter, even as he snuffs out human beings, manipulates and lies. But that's the beauty of the premise and the execution of the show. Seeing humanity where none should be, to further the most inhumane exploits. Obviously there's less and less daily ritual/personal identity with a family in tow, and that's probably the hardest part of the transition (on the show and in life), the compromise. It's a big one for a serial killer in particular. Their routines and structure keep them off death row and in their own private regime of unthinkable. It's a bit painful to watch the rogue jaguar of dark justice stumble and falter like an alley cat.

After musing a bit I realized the heart of my grievance: the lone-wolf vicariousness has been tampered with. A character's life I eagerly anticipate identifying with and observing, evolves into more familiar and familial waters, yet a fraction of me still wishes for his former days of solitary strength, as I do for myself, I 'spose. As he adjusts to the practice and daily pressure of the most common "American Dream", the essence and fortitude of his dark passenger is compromised. Too close to home, I guess. And considering the man in question, that can be a scary thing, ya dig?



I won't turn my back on his new path, nor will I belittle the writers prerogative to take him to vulnerable places. From the season teaser that followed episode one, it looks like a nail biter despite any softer side. High five on that.



The double life he leads can still thrive, after adjustment. Both are messy, high stress and lonely, any way you slice it. If anyone can do it Dexter can, and I'll lend my viewership in support.


Oh, and more Masuka, please.

Modern Bromance

I made a new friend recently. We met via the internet (shocking, I know), we got to know each other via plain old fashioned kindered spiritness and conversation, and we've made many plans to further our mutual appreciation. Drenched in a steady stream of friendship break-ups lately, I'm SO refreshed (or I guess dried off?) to have something that isn't clouded by the comfort of familiarity, isn't mangled in pre-tense or that "niceties" barrier we all are affixed to out of safety and time constraints. Comfortable, exciting connection to another human is a missing piece of the identity puzzle, and I feel very fortunate to have snapped it into it's long dormant place.



I watched Atonement this weekend (I know it's old news, but movies like that they happen when they are most useful), awed once again by the tender nuance of James McAvoy and a bit haunted by the loneliness a tragic love story ushers in. After I listened to my "Mopin' It" mix a few dozen more times and let the saddies out, I realized there's no need to feel that way. Having someone you are fond of to write letters to (or in my case text movie quotes to) when in doubt of the world or just in daily strife and struggle...that's what romance is, no matter who it's with. The feeling that the world isn't a heavy burden, but a boundless playground. The eager anticipation of seeing that person again. With any luck you won't suffer the fate of Robbie and Cecelia (torn apart by juvenile vindictiveness and war), but even if you do, at least you had moments of levity and love. Platonic or otherwise. We could all due with more, don't fight it with neurosis if it happens along.



I don't know what's in the cards for myself and the caped crusader of nerd-dom I happily consider my newest Bro Montana...but I'm super stoked to find out. I have a feeling this one will be McConaughey/Armstrong/Gyllenhaal good.

The SMD: Dreadtime

I can remember being really excited to hit the hay, as a kid. That love hasn’t left me as an adult (we are sleep deprived as a race), Logan on the other hand, hates it. HATE. Like, she will stay up until she collapses mid Spongebob belly laugh, hate. It’s her sassy little way of giving me the middle finger, and I hate how effective it is. When she has been denied something she feels she’s entitled to, seen a show that scared her (after insisting upon watching it) or the "not tired" skitzoids. To our credit, the meltdowns in public, breaking of important personal effects, and the Wolverine berserker freak outs are employed less and less. I let the cat out of the bedtime bag a while ago though, I showed how exasperating it really is to me that she won’ t just submit and let me have the few hours of no kid time I get. Time used to work, write, clean or just vegetate depending. It's mandatory and always one of the sure highlights of my day, in all honesty.

She’s four and we’ve gone rounds since she was first asked to go it alone. She’ll go for a week or two without a hitch, lulling me into a false sense of pride in her big-girl progression. Then she makes with the stubborn with glorious fury and we battle. Not in an I’m-trying-to-be-good-don’t-be-mad-please way. She full on saunters out with an impish gleam of delight in her eyes, or struts out with a hey-hows-it-going-what’s-the-good-word nonchalance that’s almost worse.

You’re not supposed to show anger (or bile filled rage) as it fuels the fire, so I effed it all up in the first place, I know. Can't blame her for that, but I refuse to excuse her completely. She's smarter and better than that. Since I realized how pivotal my reactions are, I’ve walked away from the scene of spoiled brat whinefest many a time uttering “Faussssting FFFSSSHHHineballer….assk-erfuuuudge ewwwwww!” I could be paraphrasing. She reduces me to a disgruntled network non-swearing employee and she could care less. I’ve created an asshole.

We’ve tried a good many angles on this drain of sanity and swear words, as any parent does. Recently though, she’s grounded the day following a relapse (in excess of three times out of bed, grounded means no computer, fun snacks or communal areas), gentle coaxing if she gets shaky and I see the impish glint before lights out. It works the best so far, yet in the first few seconds of a breakdown, I instantly want to throat chop her to save her from herself. Instead I non-swear more and try again.

The heartstrings get worked a lot at bedtime, but after she finally wises up and takes my advice…I walk by her room and see that curly little head on her pillow, such a peaceful lamb of adorable serenity…I take a mental picture so I can recall it tomorrow night when I need it most. Then I haul ass to the no-kid time, and I enjoy the shit out of it.

The SMD

Writing is my first love, but acting is my hot torrid mistress. If I'm Archie, writing is Betty and acting is Veronica, if you catch my breeze. I love them both dearly in different similar ways. I ventured out into the refreshing languid California sunshine to pursue what I love, what seems like ages and millenniums ago.

Then I met a charming man on a movie set (I was an illustrious extra for a year) and got a permanent souvenir of what love was to me at the time...I'm a single mama now, which is a far cry from any vision I had of my life. Like, Bangkok to Antarctica cry. But it's what I know to be better, in many ways. Let me count them.



The Single Mama Drama.



I don't offer this information freely. I don't post "proud parent" on Facebook or MySpace (to those that still use that 'dinosaur'), if there's a potential gentleman caller that I happen upon I don't mention it within initial conversation. I shy away from other mommies at the playground that sport the rock, I weened my kiddo on The Simpsons and Happy Meals. By all conventional standards, sounds whack, doesn't it?



There's a stigma and a cliche that goes along with "single mom" I have to fight against every day ('cause it's my nature to rebel against cloistered oppression), so to be out and proud has been uncomfortable, four years running. People dismiss/pity you almost instantly when you're lugging a little one and no ring yourself, so on rare occasion I'm alone in a social setting, I prefer to present myself as a person first, a mama second. It allows them to check themselves without me slapping a bitch (male or female) which is the usual gut reaction. I have plenty of other necessities to manage.



It's a little manipulative one could argue, but so is pretending to care about someones unique life circumstances just to liken them to the decay of western society internally. I can see it in their eyes, despite any progress we've had as a culture. It's still there, even if just a flicker. And a flicker is enough.



When that (imaginary sounding yet very real) person (I encounter all the time btw) realizes that you can be single, young, attractive, intelligent, have a sense of style and self and still be pursuing what you want out of life AND be a decent mom, it's like a light bulb of appreciation pops on. One that otherwise would be misused to cast an eerie glow of hurtful ignorance.



As an incognito member of the Mommy Club, I get to be a fly on the wall. The term single mom is often associated with such judgemental gems as: desperate for a man, down on her luck, liberal and indiscriminate libido, battered wife, or my personal loathsome fave, used goods.



The daily romance you have with your child/children, dispels those uninformed labels if you are brave enough to own it, I'm learning. Women feel like any/all of those things at one point or another. The fact that a kid is in the picture shouldn't be any ones business but your own, and those you choose to let into that world. It's sacred and it's a whole other person to consider. It's a thankless, dirty, lonely, heartwarming and heart wrenching job. It's a lifetime commitment.



Logan Scarlett, my daughter, is a dizzying blend of sugary, whip smart kewpie-doll and fearless, ferocious gladiator. In the same breath, she'll say, "I love you mama, you're berry beautiful" and as I bend down with tears in my eyes to hug her, "you're smelly, can you stand over there?". Her bright blue eyes pierce me and praise me.

She's not an Oscar, indie film cred, or a visual medium of self expression, but she's a truth serum and the biggest influence on both my Betty and Veronica I've ever had. A catalyst that keeps stirring my soul and challenging my comfort zone, inspiring growth and weeding out the negative. What a precious thing it is. Even if it makes me want to run screaming to Aruba on daily occasion. All is as it should to be, between a lioness and her cub. It's my job to make sure that's true everyday.



So for all those like me without a Dr. Spock to consult on being a modern single mama, and for the kiddos that all deserve the best mama they can get (a happy mama is a happy household, that ain't no joke), any comfort I can afford, I gladly do so. Symbiosis.


Unleash your own personal Riverdale of an outlet (whatever that may be) and hold your head high. Fight the good fight, and don't ever let the drama win.

Case By Case Cases

The well has been very dry, my friends. A couple months and a couple weeks dry. Any creative person can attest, sometimes you have to back off and live life. In blog terms locutionl has died and is now climbing back from time lapse purgatory...thank you to any who follow, and I hope the hiatus can be repaired.





I started to write on a couple things over the last month and a couple weeks...but alas, it was shit, and ultimately a mechanical response to the urgency a blog can incite, and that's bad. I don't ever want to go through the motions when it comes to writing, but I don't want to disappoint either. So here we are.





Part of the problem has been that I am not writing what I know completely...therefore I'm going to start a demi-blog (part journal part blog) to give a release to my real day job...more on that in the next entry.





The title of my comeback blog as it were, refers to my life in general. Well, the lack there of in generalities. There are so many loose ends right now...where's my next rent money coming from, where's the writing going, who's really in my corner, am a a gas bag or a valid voice of my generation? Is all the sacrifice effing worth it?


If I dare lumping all my experiences into a manageable stress wad of anecdote, there's generally (there's that word again) a consistent exception to the rule. "One day at a time" they say. Yeah, but what do you do for said 24 hours when there's nothing to do but wonder what your doing? "I get by with a little help from my friends" but if you have none in close proximity, how do they get you by and vice versa? "Believe and you shall receive" but when results are few and far between, how do you keep vigilant enough to change the tide?





I'm a positive person and I stand by all of those phrases I just listed...but not when it's in a blanket that covers all the telling details. "Case by case basis" is the new anecdote I adhere to the most. Especially in matters of the heart and all the crazy mess that comes along with it, you have to examine what it REALLY is and honestly try to fix it. Don't toss out a quick fix quote that really doesn't touch the real problem...use them if you've wrangled with the real issues and have no other avenue. They're most effective that way.





And when all else fails...Don't worry, be happy because, like attracts like. All's well that ends well.

Rom-ComDiculous

I've been on a chick flick binge lately, and with 70 percent of them, I'm sedately underwhelmed. I've thrown in oldies with newies (to me) and it's almost insulting how "number one movie in the country" romantic comedies present themselves these days. I watch to tread water when swimming for the medal wipes me out. It's comforting to have a happy ending that doesn't involve bumptious emotion or thought or technical assessment. Unfortunately, that's what I end up with. Musing, scrutinizing and emotions for other genres.



Men are obnoxious and clueless, and women are hyper-sensitive and clumsy, apparently. Like, ALL men and ALL women are that way, and they're not ashamed nor trying to bridge gaps to better the deals to be forged in the future. The leads in these movies are happy to be bumbling around re-heating old jokes to tepid and straining to have odd-defying chemistry with one another. Haven't we moved past that being an inside joke we chuckle at?



I can side step awkward dialogue or crappy plot if the couple at the core are plausible. I usually back up my opinion by citing examples, but I won't do that here (maybe the mush IS rubbing off). It's not really about trashing other people's work, I'm just blase about what's churned out. That's bad enough.



If I see one more pairing of a 25 year old ingenue and a 46 year old player that "inspires life changing revelation and growth" to the backdrop of played out Top 40 jams, I might spew into something bigger than a Dixie cup, Garth.



I'd love to see a gay couple that's strong and real and not dealing with "being gay" at the helm for a change. An interesting off beat single mom (that isn't beat down or quaintly out of touch) meet a guy that has issues with the whole kid thing but loves her enough to really try to learn. A married couple in their twilight years, rekindling their honeymoon days. No bullshittery or pandering cliches. REAL chemistry and emotional connection. Then again, that might go against the nature of these little binges...I'd respect myself more in the morning though.



In times of dark chocolate truffle souffle a little Moon Pie ain't a bad thing. Even if the taste in your mouth is less than romantic afterward.

The Seven Year Niche

I can remember a time in my life when I longed for what I now have. Living near the beach, doing what I love to do, feeling intrinsically myself. About seven years ago, I embarked upon a journey that I envisioned being a hell of a lot different. But here I am, right where I'm supposed to be.

As I sit sipping Bud Light, enjoying the few hours lull before the week day starts again, I happen upon The Devil Wears Prada on FX. I've seen it before and Emily Blunt was the best part. Don't get me started on Anne Hathaway. Anyway, the premise is what clicked in my brain. The message this time around being: no matter how many hoops one tells you to jump through, the hoops you set for yourself are the hardest, and so why jump for anyone else?

No matter how hard the days get pursuing my own ever evolving dream...feeling disconnected from friends and family scattered throughout the country, scraping by on whatever money there is at the moment, trying to pick my tear and snot stained face off the floor and keep pushing on...the day it all breaks into prosperous fruition is what I do it for. Well, that and seeing how it unfolds...I love a good drama, it's true.

I'm truly thankful for my life, and I'm proud of all the effed up crazy I deal with all the time. It could always be worse...I could be working a job that I hate, waking up to mediocrity and falling asleep to the same. I've said it many times before, I'll say it many times again, no doubt. It's taken me years to realize fully, but I'm so glad to be right here, in this moment. In California, writing what's in my heart, feeling like I'm part of the world. And an important part at that, because there's no other Lola like me out there.

If it takes another seven years for me to see the crescendo to all this, so be it. It's been said that in these dramatic times economically, mentally, emotionally....one has a great opportunity to carve out a niche. Boy am I glad I have a leg up on that shit. And cheers to those of you in the same boat or plotting a course to be in said boat...Let's carve this bad boy like a Thanksgiving Day bird.

Oh, and P.S...for all of you Daisy of Love-ers...my money is on Dave-er-12 Pack. My heart is with Flex though. That accent kills me and the guy liner is working for me. Rrrawr with a side of bawm chicka bawmbawm.

Imagineering and Filmisizing

The battle between books and books on film rages on. I don't know if others take the debate as much to heart as I do, but I do know that I've heard the phrase "The book was SO much better" a lot more than the inverse. Sensual experience versus a quiet personal retreat.
In the last couple years a few of my favorite books/stories have made their way to the visual mediums and my initial reactions are always less than excited, honestly.

I just started the book Bet Me by Jennifer Crusie for the fifth time. I don't jive with the cliches of girly lit usually (when you're a book club member 3 fold you get a few random choices) but this one has frank, funny, fleshed out characters you care about, characters that I've received comfort and laughter and tears through periodically for years.I'd be a little disheartened to see a film version in the works for that very reason. These people have been intimately emblazoned on my brain, and it's too tricky a challenge for human folks to embody that to the same degree. Vivid imagination doesn't want to be told what it "should" do when it already does.

I'm a long time fan of the Charlene Harris novels that are now the series True Blood on HBO. Even if the show is well made and the supporting cast is well worth the watch, the two leads are not (and that's kind of the whole crux of the story). The dirty southern atmosphere is well mimicked but not as lush and enchanting as the one in my mind. The forthcoming movie based on Patricia Cornwell's Kay Scarpetta character is cringe worthy, even with Angelina Jolie attached. And that's tough to say. Dr. Scarpetta is a unique bad ass/basket case hybrid and I know Angie can do it well, but my inner tuning rod is already set for another lady. One that exists for me exclusively. One that I (as juvenile as it sounds) look up to. Big pretend shoes to fill.


The beauty of a book is that your perspective changes as you grow, mature, age. Every re-read is a testament to your life experience, the story speaking to you accordingly. Film is not the the re-examination but rather the reminiscing of what, who and how life was when you saw it in an exquisite nostalgic way. But it's not a boundless entity like your mind...it has parameters and lighting and structures that are fathomable. Still beautiful heralded art. But static.

It's almost impossible to try and blend the two, no matter how close the race is. Fight Club, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, and Trainspotting are among my favorite movies, but I've yet to read the books behind them. As is the way of the world, all things happen for a reason-maybe those moving, entertaining films wouldn't have had such an impact if my mental multi-plex had gotten a hold first, and vice versa. Perhaps that's the key. Keep the two realms separate and you won't have to try and meld one into the other, get disappointed or confused when they won't. If a book has a lot of meaning for you, don't venture out of that for curiosity sake. Let those who want that version have it their way. Make like Burger King.

Internally or externally...a good story is a good story. In our infinite technological capabilities, one day we will be able to capture the thoughts and characters in our heads as we read and be able to trade/compare them with one another in a giant orgy of telepathic projecting,...now THAT would be the perfect marriage of page and screen. And well worth the price of admission.

Homo Erectus Defect Us

I love men a whole bunch. We femmes are from another planet than the males, but what we do together is beautiful and heartwrenching and confusing. We get caught up in the timeless trappings of the tail chasing man and the money/status hungry female all too often, and the simplistic awesomeness of sex gets lost a bit. I had NO idea how dillegently science has been working out the finer points of how deep rooted those male and female niches are, however.





Flipping through quite a few dull choices on t.v. recently, I settled on a show called "The Science of Sex Appeal" on TLC. I half expected it to be all clinical-y and something I could pseudo-watch while I conducted some internet research (hey, trolling D-Listed is research)...boy howdy, was I wrong. It's not front page shocking neccissarily, but it's f-f-fascinating. That's right, stutter worthy. I can't possibly do all the information justice, nor would I try...if you happen across it, watch it, that's all. Here are a few key points that hit me like a ton of enlightening bricks for various reasons:





Symmetry is what we are most allured by: Because it means strong genes, and that means healthy children. Women look at the face, then to the broadness of shoulders. Men look at the face and then the curvature of hips. Insert metaphors here.





Women have a "scent detector" for potential mates: When we ovulate, we are more attracted to the male musk, and any odor that comes from our own bloodline is like sewer water, because it means the young ones will be deficient in some way. Everyone has a unique and exclusive genetic scent that we can tell subconsciously if it will mean good or bad baby making. She's just not that into your genes.





Monogomy is mental-ish: Men and women have Oxytonin present when in committed relationships that may account for the long term, and a chemical called Vasopressin that was once related to organ function and water retention has been found present in similar ways. In essence you crave the other person, prolonged infatuation. No matter how cute they are in their pjs, that's the scientific culprit.





Women want competition for their eggs: And again, it's to make sure they have the top dog alpha male to mate with. A study was held to see which females put out the vibe most while out with the girls, and it was the taken ones. And the more flirting we do, the more testosterone men produce. Hello, bar fights.





Men literally can't think when vaginas are in the equation: A group of men were asked to rate average looking females when low levels of vaginal secretions were being filtered to them, with picky results and then asked to do the same with high levels, and they couldn't distinguish between yays and nays at all. (Women are picky and men are NOT for equally fundamental reasons)





It all started when we stood up: According to the evolutionary theories, as soon as the humans stood upright, and women had to carry their young in their arms and not on their backs...they needed someone to provide and protect. So therein the gender roles were born. And haven't died since.





With each layer of findings they showed, I was both liberated and felt an impending sense of doom all at once. IT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE. Opposites attracting (the more diverse the genes, the more impressive the kid), getting jilted for a seemingly lesser specimen (it's a chemical connection and nothing else perhaps), if you're spoken for, you're now hot property (competition for the bigger better deal on both ends) ...it's all primal and completely out of our control. So why torture ourselves?





I sat there thinking, what a double edged sword it is that no matter how many cross your path that are really good guys/girls and you "should" give them a chance, your biology won't let you go there. They just don't have "it". And the "it" isn't negotiable, as you were born with the selective matchmaker DNA that's the final say. The sword is wielded again with the thought that we really are cemented in the footsteps of our ancestors, despite centuries of painstaking leaps to leave them far behind and diferentiate. And that no matter how messed up your choice of partner seems to be, on some wavelength it's all systems go, and that's what keeps you in an otherwise toxic relationship. Holy Hannah Montana. We're just here to propogate the species. All the other shenanigans are irrelivent. Scientific proof.





Like I said before, it's not all that earth shattering, as we've known how us girls are into the paycheck and protection, and men are into another distinct p-word. To hear scientific proof to that effect is so boggling for me....countless drunken cry-fests stemming from "WHY GOD! WHY?!?" when it doesn't work out, endless dates that end in dissapointment, the "accidental" conception of a child. I feel comfortingly duped, almost. Like nature has been laughing at us in our dramatic little plight of inane, when all we're doing is ferreting out the best possible humans to carry the torch. Romance isn't neccissary.





At the end-spoiler alert-one of the doctors stated that people have voiced the same outrage to her that we're not the masters of our own relations and relationships and they wanted her thoughts...she said what we have right along with all the other mammals that pair bond or don't (or throw feces for that matter) is choice. We choose to be with who we want to, or not for whatever complex reason. I agree, even if I'm still a bit perplexed...all our fancy advances haven't been for naught, as they're what we do between mating, and they either complicate, fascilitate or distract from the sex area. If we DID follow nothing but instinct, I think the world would be alot more X rated and overpopulated, and the bonding between all other humans that aren't our alpha male/female...those wouldn't be there at all maybe. I have a few I'd like to keep around.





So after many gaskets in my head were blown and then fused back in stronger working order...turns out, we ARE evolved. Even if the resoning behind sexy times are the same as they ever were (but hey, keep primal where it belongs, I spose). I'm happy to split the difference. Romance, in every sense of the word isn't a futile or inane drama. It's what keeps us upright from the rest of the mammals.



I'm glad we stood up, even if it means we get knocked down to the ground by the very thing we stood up for, on occasion.

The Choose Your Own Adventure Fairy

There aren't many living, viable links between our past, present and future outside of ourselves and the loved ones we accumulate. Choices we make are of the few, however.


I fell ass over tits into the woulda-shoulda-couldas a couple weeks back, and I'm just now making my way back to sanity and/or serenity. Thinking along those lines equals time-wasting negativity, and a little bastard named regret. I'm not a fan. That term implies you had a road to pick and you botched it in some way. You can't really botch a road unless you paved it, if you catch my breeze. Regret implies that, in essence, you're doomed to carry around the burden of an enacted theory that didn't pan out ideally (usually in the far off lands of Hindsight and Retrospect), and it's kind of a cop-out. If one tends to stick by any decision and embrace the resulting person thereof...you get the picture.



Wouldn't it be rad though, if you had a wise, motherly pixie to show up and grant you a glimpse at the alternatives you declined, to re-affirm the road you did travel? She'd materialize (a Regina King/Glenda the Good Witch/Cindi Lauper in her heyday hybrid) and say, "Don't you worry, darlin'. Let's take a lighthearted look and see what else might have happened. Then it will be better, because you'll know and knowing is half the battle, right?" And you'd be all, "Thanks...you rock. LOAD off my mind! Can I have a cookie too?" There's no doubt she'd be packin' some fresh-from-the-oven Snickerdoodles. They're the most nostalgic cookie. it's true.






Life is a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book, I think. The main plot points that need to be will, but how you get there is up to you. There's no reason to cry over spilt milk, or how it was spilled. What the glass looked like. Soy, Chocolate or Banana. Doesn't matter. Even if it seems really important to figure it all out, you're better off just letting it go. Bottom line is try not to spill at all, folks. You're magic cookies won't taste as good without it.



Wait...what?

Wherever You Are...

Bea Arthur to me, was one of the funniest, talented, most intelligent broads to ever hit show biz. I'm slightly too young to have fully embraced all of her work as much as I did The Golden Girls (one of the best cast chemistries EVER), yet that classic alone is worth many tributes. Add her noteworthy stage career, Maude, and the Comedy Central Roast of Pamela Anderson (seriously, check that one out if you haven't) and it's hard to see her as anything other than icon. She was tall and husky and not the norm for her day or any. Gotta love that.



She was an important pioneer for television. I know I'm not the first to applaud the undertaking of abortion (and countless other issues) on her show Maude, but I say it again. It took guts to give voice to controversy like that, and she did it realistically and with her own brand of tough cookie heart. That 's one of the most affable things about her. The line between what seemed to be her own endearing sensibilities and that of her characters were always blurred to an expert degree. I dare you to watch an episode of the Double G and not feel as if you know her, and are better for it. It's a toughie. She's your elder aunt that don't take no shit from no one, and it's comforting to feel a part of it in that way. Whatever age I am re-visiting any of her work, that holds true.



I am truly chagrined that I wasn't around to partake of her performances on stage, but you could always see that influence regardless of medium. She made holding for laughs an art form, and I mean that as an actor and as a fan. I shudder to think what the current landscape of t.v. would resemble without Ms. Arthur's cocked eyebrow of slow burn incredulity...it would be a lot less witty and a lot more safe. I'm so thankful she was here, and shared with us all she did.


Someone close to Bea stated that she was one of the few performers on earth that didn't need dialogue or pratfalls to get roaring laughter. That sums it up pretty well, and makes her passing today so poignant for so many. Thanks for scoring one for the ballsy ladies, and for being so damned entertaining. Tell Ma hi for us.


Here's to one of the greats.

The Lost Art

Growing up and hearing the term "class" (as in "she's a classy lady" or "that showed real class") I figured it meant someone had money and prestigious breeding. As I got out into the big bad myself and gained some wisdom of my own, I came to consider it as most do, as something of high quality. Today, I realized it's most relevant and modern meaning. Class is being intelligent and respectful enough to fin in (without any ingratiating whatsoever) with any group or setting. And most folks I've come across just ain't got it.



Leadership is at an all time low. As generations have given away to each other, we made copies of copies (just like Fight Club) of our foundations and groundings. Maybe it's economic trends or just plain old hyper evolutionary jadedness...but we lost the importance of decency. SO much so, that people are afraid to step outside the parameters to help one another, and that's an awful feeling, and an even awfuller commentary on our times. It's a word.



Reflected everywhere from our love of drama (how could so many sub-par reality hate mongering shows be so addictive otherwise) to the apparent need to full-on rape and plunder to make a buck, I think a lack of empathy is a worse epidemic than Identity Theft. Times are tough but where does it end? Where in the EFFing H did it begin?? I enjoy a good non-swear.



Self-sacrifice isn't an arduous thing. Nor is respecting privacy, or respect in general. One of the worst side effects of all this joyless, blinded, schlepping through life, is that every scrap of self awareness that could be put towards helping the matter is instead used on finding something to distract and/or shove it out of mind. I'm guilty of it on occasion.

Countless "customer-service" calls (which btw have been relegated to a dismal monotone that has no desire to sound slightly enthused even, let alone help you with your grievance that has no pertinence to them anyway) are ended with me disgusted with the human race and anyone who represents it at any level. Via cell phone, i-phone, e-mail, BBM, fax, TTY, telegram....what have you. I almost loathe those very devices. I think they've created a digital and electronic wedge between us and our warmth. No one has to be accountable to a piece of machinery. Convenience has bred complacency. Is that it?



All I know for sure is that things ought to get better soon...otherwise all of us humans will start rioting in the streets of humanity, for lack of any other want or recourse. I'm hoping by then I won't get caught scoring microwaves and DVDs with the rest of the fray.

Why I Love My MOs

I was out at a very meat market-y bar this past weekend. The usual Tom Foolery ensued: I was close-talked into a window by a particularly aggressive Drunky McGee; I was awarded a shot for bitch slapping a willing participant TWICE (you can't beat that with a stick); I got chatted up and then back down; I got caught up in a little intra-friendship drama out of sheer alcohol confusion; and (my fave) got to hang out with like minded people I set out to at the start of the evening. It was fun, but on many levels I longed to be amidst my male on males, dancing it out with mutual abandon and musing on how radical Lady GaGa versus hot her back-up dancers are. That's why I love every gay man or any GBF I come across...masculine energy to be had without the hassle of a sneaky booty play later, and maximum support of any lengthy grooming or celebrity gossiping. It's tiring to constantly justify your entitlement to be a diva in your own right, however subtle. I may be a gay man in a woman's body....that would explain a lot.



It's more than that for me though. The majority of gay men are used to feeling at odds with parameters and religious ideals most of us are entrenched in growing up. Within their own family, from an early age. They know what it's like to have someone that means a lot to them look at who they are and what they do with (even now a days) vehement judgement and negativity and shame. Weather they're out or not they're aware of it. They usually tend to be easier on those who are different, as long as the odd ball in question is being real in whatever they do. And boy howdy, I'm a whack job by most conventional standards so it's a mitzvah. But gotta be me. They gotta be them. Fun isn't contingent on me possibly giving up the goods. The goods are just appreciated and/or groped thereof, no apprehension about what I'll do in response, or what the rules are. They know I know what it means and I'm ok with a stranger coping a feel in that light. Like a high five with genitals, kinda.


If I counted the times I've had a knock down drag out good time at a straight Bro bar/getting hit on and tallied the same of a gay bar/with gay men, it'd be close, but favor of the latter. Hanging in any counter culture feels more like cutting loose, by nature of the people involved. The thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning isn't so double edged or even observed at all. You can limbo under it. That leads to a more complete and total wild oat sewing.

Plus when I'm with them, they totally understand I'm representing/expressing myself for me, not for them, (but even so), they still give props. Straight guys tend to automatically assume you're seeking some financial or sexual validation from them if the sweater puppies are out to play. Sometimes that's the case with a lot of women but I RARELY play that card. I mostly like to play dress up and feel my age. Much like my tranny name sake in The Kinks' song, I just do my thing. If I want to hook up I will but I'll be in the drivers seat, much like a man. All my fellow 'Fag Hags' out there catch my breeze. Even if that label has contrary meanings to some, to me it says I'd rather be in the company of fun loving flamboyant men just like me. True that.


So next time I go out, I'm going to use my finely tuned homo spidey sense to find the fellas that only engage to talk shop, and not the other way around. Can't wait. :)