The Summer Reading Begins

Now is a very good time for some innocent escapism...it is hot and muggy outside, my children are pushing their boundaries again, and there is nothing on the boob tube. Let's jump in:

All the Available Light: a Marilyn Monroe Reader, edited by Yona Zeldis McDonough. This isn't another biography of Marilyn, rather a collection of essays from a varied group of authors who attempt to define the why of Norma Jean's enigma. Needless to say, I think Marilyn is an interesting choice of a national sex symbol in a country that flatly denies Sex a brain or heart and apparently I'm not the only one. I think I liked Gloria Steinem's The Woman Who Will Not Die the best of the clinical examinations; she was frank in her personal response to Monroe and bold in her judgement assessments. Sir Lawrence Olivier's The Prince and the Showgirl did quite well in explaining his (male) baffled response to her humanity in contrast to her iconography. The essays, like our collective conscience, range from lust to outrage, from dreams of rescue to shrugs of irreverence and brings us back where we began: looking at the American Mona Lisa and wondering why she smiles. Good for Marilyn.

A Cup of Tea, by Amy Ephron, is a frilly bit of old lace stained with blood. This little book, a study of class and passions, is set in WWI era New York. The story, staging, and characters comes across as old fashioned, but appropriately so, and modernity assumes the villains' robes. The main character, Rosemary, is a flip society girl whom on a whim rescues a homeless women from the street, a homeless woman who is beautiful and mysterious and independent-everything Rosemary is not. Of course her fiance falls for this woman and has a passionate affair with her, but marries Rosemary and leaves for the war anyway. What happens between this point in the novel and the conclusion is where Modern and Victorian standards clash, and the ending shouldn't be too hard to swallow for anyone familiar with melodrama. A Cup of Tea is a slight read, but the period details are well done and I liked it's skimming nature. Good for corseted flight.

Last, and the most enjoyed, is Nectar: A Novel of Temptation by Lily Prior. It is an extremely effusive, funny and lush tale about an albino woman and the irresistible smell she emanates. As it is set in Italy, there is much sex, food, weeping, singing, beauty, ugliness, praying and slapping of faces in operatic grandeur. Prior's characters are so ridiculous, and the scenes in which they are set are so ravishing that I was completely thrown off base with every chapter. True, it was a little exhausting, the line between satire and stereotype was crossed once or twice, and I did not love the characters at all, but it was a very amusing story. It was like drinking wine with diamonds in the glass in a field of honeysuckle while George Clooney sucks your toes. Good for being very naughty and very nice.

The Tide is High

Saturday, the 24th, was a day full of surprises.
In the morning, my mother and I hosted a garage sale in my front yard, something that I don't do. I'm not against garage sales, but I do feel as though I'm poking through a strangers' underwear drawer at their behest. My husband loves garages sales, and so does my mom so on that stormy and cool morning my cast off undies, so to speak, were on proud display in my front yard. Tulsans are quite vociferous in their appetite for these sales; I've never seen a town so in love with them. It's as though an ebb of used baby toys, paperbacks, lamps, prom dresses, marbles and other once loved items slides back and forth across the town, and the same objects are sold again and again. These sales also transports the buyer and the seller to the ancient marketplaces. There are no ticket prices. Each item is assessed on the spot according to the appearance of the potential buyer and the game begins. Thank god this is a novelty form of purchase; most people are better at it than me.

That afternoon, after we loaded what we didn't sell into the pickup and deposited it at Goodwill, my mom and I drew ourselves long across the couches and watched a tornado on TV. As the elder son was with his father, and the younger was taking his nap, we were free to watch whatever we pleased, and after surfing for a moment we came to a rest on CNN of all things. They were broadcasting live a tornado that was sweeping across Oklahoma less than one hundred miles away from me. I wasn't concerned that the storm was going to reach us. The storm was too black and swollen to cover the distance between us. What it did instead was put on quite a show for half an hour. Up and down went funnels of all shapes and sizes, touching down prairie mostly save one pig farm. There were no fatalities, human or hog.

In the evening my mother took the boys out for a night on the town, and my husband and I took our garage sale monies and did the same. Our diner was a dismal failure, a textbook case of bad management, Cisco goods, and bad seating. We were buoyed by the fact that, if our food arrived in time, we were going to see the new Indiana Jones movie and related our memories of the series over an empty table. In record speed we ate and drank and paid for all of it, had a quick smoke, and made it in time for the film. I don't think I'm spoiling anything for anyone by stating that the film is a disappointment from beginning to end. I am still reeling from the mediocrity of it. My question: if a bridge is supposed to carry you from one side to the other, and the other side looks, acts, and seems predestined to bore, why cross it at all?

At the end of the episode we were completely sober. Leaving the theater we went directly to our dive and commenced to rectify the problem. While doing so, a flock of girls flew in, one after another, in their 80's inspired mall finery. After much noise and booze out they flew again, and so did we. It was the end to a strangely electric day. Maybe it was atmospheric, or maybe it was the act of doing something completely out of character, but I feel as though I've taken a small step forward somehow. And that is exceptional.

The Gay Inside: A List

Gay folks are all over the place, and if truth be told I really like some of the stuff they like. For instance, the word tulle. Gorgeous, but definitely not straight. So here is another top ten list of mine, this time its the Top Ten Gay Stuff I Really Like (As A Straight Person).
10. An American in Paris. Pink/Plaid? Definitely Pink.My heart beats it's little wings with love every single time I hear Gershwin's score for the ballet. I swoon when I think of Jerry and Lisa at the fountain. I have to thank Mr. B.J. Wexler for showing this on the OETA Movie Club that one fate filled night I was allowed to stay up and it was the only thing on. On a scale of 1-10 of fabulousness this is a solid 8. Gush, gush, gush!
9. Tegan and Sara. Pink/Plaid? Plaid, bitches. These lovely ladies are quiet distinct: they're gifted,twins, and both lesbians. Holy Crow. The Con was one of the best albums last year. So good, in fact, when I was flipping through the channels and caught their interview on Logo, I had a pause. Calm down, I'm calling back to say I'm coming around. Encircle me.
8. Porn. Pink/Plaid? Pink by a wee margin. One could argue that pornography is for both sexes and for all sexualities, and to a degree you'd be right. But isn't a little gay to watch someone of your own sex engaged in the act of intercourse, regardless of which sort of body they happen to be with? A vicarious fuck places you in the body of not only the catcher but the pitcher as well. Moreover, even if a heterosexual man is reviewing a lesbian act, this is endorsing an act of homosexuality. Needless to say, gay porn is pretty gay too.
7. Michelangelo. Pink/Plaid? Pink. I'm an Art person. Maybe not a great one, but that's besides the point. Michelangelo paved the way for the modern artist to have a little personality, a little self respect. Oh, and he was a genius. A genius that might literally be in a class of his own, and the man was so gay he painted 20 "ignudi" on the Sistine Chapel. And they were beautiful.
6. Judy Chicago. Pink/Plaid? Plaid, but in a Nunnish sort of way. Judy Chicago is another artist but she's no Michelangelo;I don't think she's even gay. She is, however, a force of Feminist Nature to the point where she might make you gay. The Dinner Party was so brilliant, and so vaginal, that intellectually you could conceive of having pussy for dinner. Strange but true.
5. Magic. Pink/Plaid? Plaid. I'm not thinking of smoke and mirrors, tricks or illusions, I'm thinking of the real deal: the Old Ways. All of the ancient (pre-BCE 5000ish) religions were the same in the beginning, and they were based on women. Women were the pocessors of arcane knowledge and healers. Put a couple of them together and you've got yourself a sexy bunch of ladies who really know how to tap into the mother power.
4. Couture. Pink/Plaid. The most ravishing pink in the universe. Only gay men would be so unfamiliar/masochistic to a woman's body as to conjure up a painful, delicate, expensive gown for her to worship. After she is starved into her dress, she is coated with paint on her face, her hair is whipped into submission, and her feet are forced into shoes that were never meant to be worn; this grotesque transformation of a mere female into the embodiment of a goddess would be unthinkable without the effete.
3. Madonna. Pink/Plaid? The rare entry that could be said to be both; she is the pink plaid. Madonna is the bad girl I wish I could be, she's the diva gay men wish they could be. Here is a woman acting as she would, one who reportedly has a penis in her head, and she looks like a million bucks. Go Madonna.
2. Camp. Pink/Plaid. Both. This is not a sleepover, this is a party. A toast to Camp (cue the DJ). Here is to the 50's, 70's and the new millennium. To velvet and hairspray and hasty decisions made at midnight. Here is to blood and beauty, to equality and glamour. May you never leave Camp, and may Camp live forever.
1. Gay People. Pink/Plaid? Rainbows of both. Kisses to all my gay homies, thanks for all of this lovely stuff, and the things I couldn't come up with but they're out there. You make me feel mighty real!

Ciao Bella

I make the best spaghetti sauce you've ever eaten. No, really, I do. It's the kind of sauce that you will not be served in a fancy resturant, nor is it the sauce that comes in a can. It's the kind of sauce that you could, literally, eat everyday: noodles, toast, rice, by itself. It's that good. I cannot take all the credit for the sauce because my Mom made the prototype of it as I grew up. It took me many years to do so, and many, many times my Mother served me spaghetti. I, being me, critiqued it. In my college years I perfected it and now I give it to you. Enjoy.

1 lb. hamburger meat, cooked and drained
2. lg. cans diced tomatoes
1 sm. can tomato sauce
1 sm. onion, chopped
3-5 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 handful basil (dried)
1/4 handful oregano (dried)
1 cube beef bullion
2 bay leaves
Splash (good) olive oil
pepper to taste
splash of wine, if you like

Place all in large pot, bring to boil. Place lid on top, turn down to low, and remove yourself from the kitchen. Do not go back in there until you smell the sauce. Once you do so, remove lid and stir rigourously. Adjust seasoning; do you need more garlic? Another splash of wine? Pepper? Begin to prepare noodles at this point while allowing sauce to continue simmering. Once the noodles are done the sauce is done too. Enjoy with cheeses.

Some Dreams

I am not a person who believes in predestiny, per se. I think that there are patterns that one falls or sublimates themselves into. What am I driving at? My dreams. OK, now, if you are the sort that laughs off someones dreams then you may leave. If you are not, and you may perceive certain truths that come forward only in the unconscious, then you may stay. Two dreams I have had recently have perturbed me:
1. My Father selling our land. You see, it is our land. This land. I am driving up to my parents home (at this point strangers usually ask, "Are we lost?" we are so far inland). There is a clover intersection over the creek, and many cars make the turn into our property. Further down, past the Big Pond, there is a tree without leaves which supports large stones. Behind my childhood home lies large Vegas-quese skyscrapers I am so distraught I sit down in the driveway. My Father comes and picks me up, as though I were a child, and tells me everything is going to be OK; lets go in. Tilda Swanson wants to meet me inside one of the casinos.
2. I am visiting my cousin Adam. Adam is a gay man living in Dallas. He lives in an adorable, yet shabby rental apartment. He has two joints; one for me and one for him. I think it's a little excessive, but pretend to go with the flow. Another friend of Adam's shows up and they begin to do heroin. I refuse, and after some time we all go for a walk. Descending into a stadium's staircase, Adam and I catch sight of a blonde woman in a business suit ascending. He and I, both Democrats, recognize Hilary Clinton. I turn to look at her as she turns to look at me, and we smile at each other. Then she turns and walks alone to the top and out. Adam and I are OMG'ing.
What does it all mean? It's a full moon!

Lazy Bones Jones

I'm enjoying my break from work. I have lots and lots of free time now. What have I done with myself? Nothing. I've enjoyed this immensely. The views are impeccable. But as time wears on, I find that my surplus of extracurricular activity grows small and I need to get back to work. Dammit.

Art. Do you like art? To me, art is the definitive human expression. I know that this could be debated until doomsday, but in me you'll find a capable defender. So why am I lagging? Maybe because I won't have time like this until a year from now, or 20 years from now; it's hard to tell. I just want to eat Doritos, watch foreign movies, and drink those yummy lime flavored beers.
Strength. I need to be strong. Go back to art. Think...renaissance. Think....Cimabue. Think....Kagemusha!

Did Ozzy See This Coming?

Iron Man in a no holds barred Dick Flick. Lets get the particulars out of the way first: lots of explosions? Check. Lots of expensive cars/airplanes/motorcycles/implausible crime fighting suits? Check. Lots of time spent in the machine shop? Check. Caviler attitude outside/vulnerable and lonely inside? Check. Lots of girls/no women? Check. Hero wins at the end of the day? You bet!

Iron Man is actually Tony Stark, a genius weapons designer, billionaire, and apparent ladies man. He's a smart ass fast talking winner until his "fun-Vee" is struck by enemy fire in Afghanistan and he is taken prisoner by a generic Taliban sort of militants. Guess what? They want him to build a weapon for them, but Tony has a little change of heart in captivity thanks to his fellow captive, a generic Middle Eastern professor sort. Instead of building a bomb, he makes his Iron Man suit and he escapes. Once home again, Tony renounces the weapons trade and sets about perfecting his suit in order to really put the whoop ass on those bad guys. But wait, the real head of the evil sect is none other than his own comrade in business, Evil Dude (or Evil Duderino, if you're not into brevity). More betrayals, explosions, and of course Tony wins the war and the girl at the end. Fade to heavy metal song that might have the same title as the film.

I like Robert Downey, Jr. a lot and he does a great job in his role. He's believable, likable, and he can pull of the jack ass with a heart of gold like no one else. Jeff Bridges plays the bad guy well enough, but I (or he) might never get past Lebowski. Gweneth is the dead weight as the trusty assistant who harbours the not so secret crush on her employer. My question is, why didn't they get someone more likable? Didn't she win an Oscar at some point? Bad, bad acting.
All in all, I might watch this again on USA when it pops up there in 1-2 years. The cinematography was good, the edits well paced, the sound was not too over the top. It has Charlie Chaplin in fight mode! Retro glamour! Excellent Saturday afternoon fare.