This Afternoon In Drama

Reading Rainbow

So if you've been spending sleepless nights wishing for some new Seigel material to cuddle up to (your copy of Panda is now presumably so cuddled-out that it's not even paper anymore, just downy fluff) and the blog doesn't work because it's a total pain in the ass to get your computer monitor under covers, I have a verrrrrrry short piece in this new book, out January 16th.  It's the story of my sixth-grade boyfriend, Brian Millat, and our doomed, elementary school love.

Also, the end of my second term at Bennington approaches, and it's that time again to post my completed reading list and introduce my erudite "into it"/ "not into it"/ "sort of into it, sort of not" grading system.

OFFICIAL SECOND TERM READING LIST:

1. Autobiography of a Face- Lucy Grealy: Into it and totally shocked that the kids at her high school would be such incredible dicks to a girl with cancer.

2. Why Did I Ever- Mary Robison: Sort of into it, sort of not because while Robinson's a very witty writer and each section holds up entertainingly, a whole picture never exactly coheres.

3. Early Bird- Rodney Rothman: Sort of into it, sort of not because it's a good idea for a non-fiction book, but also does that thing I totally hate where old people are all cute and funny just because they're old, which I think is never, ever really the case.

4. The Woman Who Cut Off Her Leg at the Maidstone Club- Julia Slavin: Into it. Wayyyyyy into it. This is probably the most revelatory short story collection I read this term, and I really love the story about the woman who starts growing teeth all over her body.

5. Mr. Wilson’s Cabinet Of Wonder- Lawrence Weschler: Into it, and what's kind of sad, maybe, is that I found the book more fun than my actual visit to "The Museum Of Jurassic Technology" with Kate because I guess I'm just one of those squares who likes a little explanation with her obfuscation.

6. The Boys Of My Youth- Jo Ann Beard: Into it, especially because it contains my favorite story of the term, "The Fourth State Of Matter," which, as I just wrote to my teacher, Amy Hempel, I think is probably the best break-up story ever.

7. Sam The Cat- Matthew Klam: Into it, but not nearly as into it as I thought I was going to be because everyone's always all, "Sam the Cat is genius!" and while it is well done and often funny, I do think it's a little too in love with revamping masculinity for me to love it.

8. Children Playing Before A Statue of Hercules- Ed. by David Sedaris: Not that into it, surprisingly, and I thought I would be because I love Sedaris, and so I thought I'd love the stories that most influenced him.  But really, I found most of his choices sort of boring. The Jincy Willett story inside, however, is one of the best I've ever read.

9. Wearing Dad’s Head- Barry Yourgrau: Not that into it even though I like the idea of his work.  I just wish that Yourgrau would take his fantastical kernels, plant them, and grow a story with an emotional arc.

10. A Confederacy Of Dunces- John Kennedy Toole: Not that into it, which shocked me, because I assumed that this would be a book I'd be into because I'd always heard that it was "hilarious."  It isn't, really, unless maybe you have a friend just like Ignatius, and you're all tickled by the likeness.

11. Killing Yourself to Live- Chuck Klosterman: Way into it.  I am a gigantic Klosterman fan, and am a hundred percent in favor of his narcissism, which serves him well.

12. Dear Mr. Capote- Gordon Lish: Sort of into it, sort of not because it's impressively executed and a great portrait of a complicated murderer, but I had a hard time getting into the narrative because I was always so aware of the author working his hardest to write crazy.

13. Everybody Into The Pool- Beth Lisick: Way into it, especially the story about how Beth financed her abortion by working at this charity nun function.  This book makes me wish she was my friend..

14. The Ice At The Bottom Of The World- Mark Richard: Sort of into it, sort of not because it falls into that category of books that Ryan would really love, and out of principle I tend to recoil from that category of books.

15. Truth & Beauty- Ann Patchett: Into it, especially in combination with Autobiography of a Face (and I don't think it's a betrayal of Lucy at all).

16. Lunar Park- Bret Easton Ellis: Sort of into it, sort of wasn't for awhile because I really do like Easton Ellis's work a lot and I'm all about ghosts, too, but he has this bad habit of connecting narrative pieces that have already been connected, and I'd rather see him use the space for more bitchiness. It took me some time (after reading), but I ended up loving the book.

17. Carnivore Diet- Julia Slavin: Sort of into it, sort of not and really torn about this one because I love Slavin's voice, I'm just not sure I like how untethered this book gets.  Still, I am way more on the pro side.

18. Plasticville- David Trinidad: Sort of into it, sort of not, which is a pretty good review, considering that this is a book of poetry.  Like: the nostalgia and pop culture references.  Don't Like: the word games for the sake of playing word games.

19. Birds Of America- Lorrie Moore: Into it, even though I was sort of turned off by it in the beginning because Ryan said, "Read this, she's funny" and when I read it, I was like, "She's really not funny."  But she's a strong writer.

20. Willful Creatures- Aimee Bender: Way into it because it's like bedtime stories for grown-ups, except I can read it myself instead of having it read to me.

21. Letters To Wendy’s- Joe Wenderoth: Not into it.  Like Robinson's book, the pieces don't add up to a big enough thing, especially because these pieces are notes on Wendy's (the fast food restaurant) customer cards that sound like they've been written by all the kids I took "Cinematic Coding And Narrativity" with.

22. Honored Guest- Joy Williams: Not that into it, and why does it turn out that I dislike ninety percent of the books that really famous, good people on the back flap practically die over?

23. Diary- Chuck Palahniuk: Into it, and pleasantly surprised to find myself thinking that this is the best book I've read of Palahniuk's. He finally rises above the wanky nihilism that usually wrecks him.

24. Spook- Mary Roach: So ridiculously into it and seriously, I love Mary Roach and will read everything she ever puts out, even if that stuff stops being about death.

25. Mysterious Skin- Scott Heim: Sort of into it, sort of not because the subject of child molestation is handled interestingly, but the characters' first-person voices-- not so much.

26. Amnesia Moon- Jonathan Lethem: Sort of into it, sort of not (and discovering what a sort of into it, sort of not person I must be to have so many of these on the list).  It's kind of rickety at first, but then gets crazy later on and I can get behind the crazy half.

27. A House Waiting For Music- David Hernandez: Shockingly into it, and not just saying that because David gave this book to me right after he cooked me a burger and I have to say something nice.  Since he writes poems that are more like short-short stories than poems, I was less horrified than I predicted.

THE END.

Bird Droppings Suddenly Look Like Splashes Of Eggnog

I sympathize with men who believe they are really women inside and women who believe they are really men inside because this time of year I am a Jew who has a gentile inside.  Not only is she a gentile, but she's one of those wiry forty-something women with a blond bob, and she has an extensive collection of Christmas sweaters and sweatshirts that bear slogans like, "I've been good for goodness sake!" and "Snow Much Love!"  She pairs these sweaters and sweatshirts with red jeans that taper dangerously at the ankle, and when she sees dangly earrings made out of metallic wrapping bows at the Michael's checkout stand, she can't stop herself from buying three pair.

She likes the glitter-glue a lot.

In eighth grade, after being told that my parents wouldn't let me hang Christmas lights, like a sad little Jesus urchin I went and drew a string of lights across a gigantic piece of butcher paper, cut it out, and taped it to my closet. To compensate for the missing luster, I drew marks indicating emanating luminescence from each of the bulbs.  What, mom, dad?  Not cool with getting me a Christmas tree either?  They wouldn't even go for the infamous Hanukah bush.  So I drew myself a big pine, added some ornaments (there might have been a cross), and pretended that it had a powerfully sharp aroma until I could actually smell it.

In winter of '95 I found a "Best 25 Christmas Hits Of All Time" cassette in the three dollar bin at Best Buy.  By '97 I had destroyed that tape because I listened to it so many times.  My favorite line to sing as loud as I can in my car? "The littttttle lord Jesus lay down his sweet head."

This season I keep going into Rite-Aid for toothpaste or suede boot protector spray, but the garland aisle performs its hoodoo on me, and I find myself wandering over to finger every bead, every spike of tinsel.  I tell myself, "I could do something with these."  You think I do this with the dreidels?  The boxed latka mix?  I contemplate wrapping a particularly boisterous red garland through the front grate of my car.  I begin to believe that I need to get an SVU just so my grate can be big enough and high enough to accommodate this garland.

Last week, after finishing my holiday shopping, I instantly ran out to buy a gigantic Mylar paper wrapping kit that I'd had my eye on in Ralph's for weeks.  At the register, the checkout woman saw my kit and said, "Oh no.  You're one of those? It's not even Thanksgiving yet."  The blond, bobbed, WASP inside me, wearing a "Naughty Or Nice?" sweatshirt with one devil deer on it and one angel deer on it, nodded.  "I'm one of those," I said, feeling suddenly like I wanted to go to church and hear some really big bells.

And during this season, it's like nothing can get me down.  I literally go around humming, "It's the most wonderful time of the year," and my mom, usually a bigger dork than me, tells me, "You're acting like a huge dork."  Everything seems Christmasy to me, even the homeless man on La Cienega who I caught masturbating last week.  He had his hand inside of his very tight, white baseball pants, and as his fist pumped back and forth, I thought, "That looks like a tumbling snowball!"

Check it out, even Scooter's feeling festive!

I Want "The Comeback" To Come Back

This season's crop of new TV shows is decidedly underwhelming.  There are bright spots within shows-- in particular, I'm thinking of Jaime Pressley's suddenly revealed talent as a stupendously trashtastic comedienne on My Name is Earl-- but there's no fresh offering that's passionately captured the cathode rays of my heart.

This is why I'm especially pissed about the premature cancellation of HBO's The Comeback, the fake reality show starring Lisa Kudrow as Valerie, one of the most bravely (on the part of the creators) horrible TV characters of all time.  It wasn't that Valerie kicked golden retriever puppies or paid homeless men to pour soft drinks on themselves for $100--I'm talking about you, Stavros.  It was that she was so clueless about her unlikeability that she tried to compensate by compounding it with additional acts of unlikeability, making herself into the human equivalent of those baby stacking rings. The big green ring was her naked hunger for fame, the yellow her cluelessness about her faded star, the orange her gross willingness to shift her identity and desires according to other's perceptions, and the small red ring her lack of a personal north star, the absence of an unshakable belief that might lift her from the vagaries of human bondage.

I started off hating this show and know many people who still do.  The series revolves around an eminently hateable protagonist. But I stuck with The Comeback and soon realized that the grotesquery of Valerie's unbreakable nature was pure television genius, and not in the "boring/difficult/painful artifact= true art" way.  The show wasn't a challenge to force the audience to follow a woman whom they wouldn't want to spend ten minutes around in real life.  There are tons of people I wouldn't want to spend ten minutes around in real life, and I wouldn't necessarily want to watch shows about them either.  Well, maybe I would because TV has amazingly transformative properties, but Kudrow's interpretation of Valerie went way beyond the "lord, deliver me from her" factor.

Kudrow, who surely deserves an Emmy for the role, expertly portrayed the microscopic struggle under Valerie's skin.  Often filmed in close-up confessionals, she said one thing, usually in the vein of, "I'm so happy! Everything's great!" while her chin wobbled just a nanometer, her nostrils twitched just above the level of natural breath.  The veins in her neck always looked like they were going to burst under the strain of her fragile worldview.  Every episode brought that worldview to the brink of eruption, and the miracle was that instead of wishing that Valerie's head would pop off, I began to wish that the surrounding characters would just cave and grant her the iota of dignity she was clawing for.

Maybe the show worked something like Stockholm syndrome, where I started to root for Valerie only because she held me captive.  The inescapability of her flaws made the viewer complicit in them.  Maybe I started out watching hovering somewhere above the narrative, thinking the show a fictionalized car accident (but not as much of a phenomenally real car accident as Breaking Bonaduce), but then I became almost morally involved.  When on an airplane I look down at the minuscule cities below me and think, "This is the only time I can almost invest in an enveloping love for humankind." It takes that much distance for me to get my teeny tiny inner hippie on. But The Comeback had the same effect on me, except through opposite means.  By zeroing in on one insufferable actress, filling my screen up with her, I, for a half-hour, was a kinder, gentler Andrea, thinking that no matter how awful the woman, I wished for her the gift of inner peace.  Like the army I wanted to watch this character be all that she could be, even though I had a strong suspicion that if she finally unleashed her id, she'd just be a different kind of nightmarish actress-- J.Lo in fifteen years.

A few weeks back Kim took me to a party for "Angeleno" magazine, and I went because I heard that Wolfgang Puck was doing some free catering.  When I saw the dessert buffet had hundreds of cupcakes made out of his unbearably great chocolate souffle, I was clicking my heels in the air.  But then I spotted an actor from The Comeback, Robert Bagnell, across the room, and all business before pleasure, knew I had to step away from the cupcakes and address HBO's travesty against goodness.

Nerding out, I grabbed his arm and said, "Oh my god, I can't believe the show got canceled."

A spark of relief and gratitude swept his eyes as he understood he had a comrade.  "I know! It was so great!"

"It was," I nodded until my skull hurt. "It was so, so great."

We hung our heads for a second, paying silent respect, bullshit for a few minutes, and then I slunk back to the buffet to get another mini-cupcake.  Holding it between my thumb and forefinger, I remembered the culminating fiasco of the series, the episode in which Valerie, dressed as a cupcake herself, punched her drunk sitcom writer, causing him to vomit on her.  I was among cupcakes. I was among obnoxious actresses. I was among inebriated (hey, open bar) people who looked as though, if I punched them, they might vomit on me. But it takes vision to make the combination of those things into something useful, which is how I know that The Comeback was a show absolutely deserving of a second season.

This Little Piggy

For my birthday my mom got me a card with soft-focus pink flowers and glittery lilac swirls, a card disguising its bizarreness.  On the front it goes on a little about how quickly time has passed, I was just a baby a second ago, etc., etc. etc., but on the inside it boasts this stanza:

"The first day I held you
and counted your toes,
I felt prouder than ever before..."

Which is such a fucked up sentiment.  I looked up at my mom and said, "You shouldn't have cared about counting the toes."

"That's what you do with every baby!" she said.  "You want to make sure everything's okay."

"No!  The number of toes shouldn't matter!  You should be unconcerned about the toes because you are swelling with unconditional love for your perfect-anyway child," I argued.

"Well, of course I felt unconditional love for you."

"Then why so much pride at the counting of the toes?!?!  What if I had nine?  What if I had eleven?  Would there be less pride?"

"No!  You're being ridiculous!" my mom insisted.

"Then why is this card so concerned with the counting of the toes?!?!!?  Why is that issue the centerpiece of this card?"

Her birthday comes on the 29th of this month, and I wish Hallmark manufactured a card that says:

"After I learned what toes were,
and then after I learned how to count,
I sat on the floor and counted yours,
and when I saw there ten good ones,
I decided not to call Child Services."

I spent this morning listening to wedding cards at a bridal shower.  The room approximated nothing so much as a womb with its rounded walls and uterine paint.  The bride read the cards aloud-- yay on your new life together, years of joy, etc. etc. etc.-- but what struck me is how shower gifts never match the optimism of their intended sentiments. I believe it's a fact that most marriages fail because the small pressures of daily life finally bust through the romanticism of the larger portrait. So why is anyone giving the couple forks?  Salad tongs?  Salt and pepper shakers?

My mom says it's because the bride wants those things.  But I think that if you sit someone down in a bar (and they're not an AA 12-stepper), they're going to order a drink. So if you're walked through Bloomingdale's with a scanner and told, "Start picking things for people to buy you," you're going to start thinking you want four different kinds of butter knives. If someone gave me free run in a paperclip factory, I'm pretty sure that I would walk out with an assortment of different sizes, shapes, and materials, thinking that I would find use for them somewhere. For the price of those butter knives and salad tongs and gazillions and gazillions of forks, though, well-wishers could be giving the couple gifts that might really save their lives.

A whole slew of people could get together and give them one night at a hotel a month.  How about a trampoline for stress relief?  Or just lots and lots of cash to throw around in unwise, spontaneous places, instead of it having been invested in a top notch toaster? On the recent graduation episode of Laguna Beach, Kristin's dad gifted her a frying pan, and if I was her I would have whacked him (gently) upside the head with it.  There's no need to force each other into the trappings of "growing up," to booby trap our friends and loved ones in this inherited way.  (If we must be practical, then we should gift wrap slips of paper that bear warnings of the biggest fuck-ups we've ever made in our own relationships, so at least the gift is constructive.)  Graduations, weddings, all of these occasions that become more about marking the passage of time than the events themselves-- it should be the guests' responsibility to issue protection from the ordinariness always threatening to creep into our existences, not their pleasure in participating in the tradition of counting forks.

As for me, I got the bride a pair of closed four-inch heels, good for hiding the toes, making them impossible to count too.