Sunday Top Ten: Entries From a Smokin' Hot Pink Notebook

When I was a little girl in Dork Middle School, anybody who was anybody (which was almost everybody, 'cause there were only 16 girls in my graduating class) read Lurlene McDaniel novels ravenously -- stories which confirmed our suspicions that the world was a cruel, cruel place. Also, anybody who was anybody was allowed to go to the mall alone w/o parental supervision, except me, 'cause my mother was a fascist dictator who didn't want me to have fun or be happy. (JK Mom! Love you! Loved going to the mall with you too!) (Wouldn't it be fun if instead of Mother's Day being "Celebrate Mom" day, it was an April Fool's Day combo? The fam pools collective wisdom to play a big trick on Mom? Like in Home Alone, when Kevin sets booby traps for the thieves? Mom'll get up expecting breakfast in bed and then be like wtf are there micro-machines on the floor, um, hello blowtorch, KEVIN!") Anyhow. What was I talking? Oh yes. Literature.

Since leaving my Dork School peer group for greener pastures, I've not met another fan of McDaniel's cannon of Dying Children Lit -- until last weekend when I met my friend's sister who was also a big fan, which is AMAZING, and we bonded over it.

Also, I just started reading Rachel Shukert's Have You No Shame, in which the author's mother uncovers her daughter's collection of Holocaust Lit and replaces the books with Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley High, delaring that: "I'd rather have you shallow and sexually precocious than morbidly psychotic."

So I started thinking about all the morbidly psychotic books I read as a kid. I wasn't allowed to read Christopher Pike or R.L Stine like everyone else (see: mother's general desire for me to be ostracized from peers), but I feel like the shit I was allowed to read was probs way worse for my little baby mind than those authors' straightforward & blatant horror/violence.

Which brings us to an actual Sunday Top Ten. For the first time since um ... oh, I don't know.

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SUNDAY TOP TEN: SEEMINGLY INNOCUOUS YOUNG ADULT BOOKS THAT PLEASED MY TWISTED LITTLE SOUL, AND WHY
or "Things that affected me more than going to the mall w/o a parent would've."

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10. Cynthia Voigt's "Tillerman" Series: Homecoming, Dicey's Song, et al., also The Boxcar Children
Amped up my desire to be an orphan forced to live by my wits,
as well as my certainty that I'd be better off alone like the pop song "Better Off Alone,"
therefore increasing my implicitly unfair & ungrateful resentment towards my family for feeding, clothing and loving me,
inspiring me to write my own bad novels about runaways.

In Homecoming, 13-year old Dicey Tillerman and her three younger siblings experience the literal opposite of my life situation -- they're actually abandoned at the shopping mall by their mother, who subsequently lands herself in a psychiatric hospital. Meanwhile, I was being followed around the mall by my psychiatric mother (ten steps behind, providing both protection and distance), therefore preventing me from Having Adventures like Hunger, Misery, Orphanhood, Eccentric Aunts on Dilapidated Farms and Evil Catholics. Reading the plot summary of Homecoming, I realize it's possible I stole it for my epic novel Fly by Night, in which young pyromaniac Erin leaves her abusive home w/precocious brother Tommie, eventually meeting a guy named "Fly," who looks a lot like Jordan Catalano. 'Cause Erin can't stop burning things down & 'cause their number-one income source is carrying groceries to cars (in real life, I suspect this is not the growth sector Voigt's novels implied), they're forced into homelessness and then communal living with Fly and his super-fly buddies. There's a happy ending, I won't spoil it!

Also, how dykey does Dicey look on that book cover? Yow.

As I mentioned in the "Family Film Edition" of "What I Learned from the Teevee," I was a big fan of Orphan Lit and wanted to live in a Boxcar, eat hobo stew and scavenge for loaves of bread, etc. Unfortunately, I was never orphaned, though I enjoyed building forts and pretending to run away from home. Honestly, my coping mechanisms haven't really changed much since then.

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9. The Face on the Milk Carton, by Caroline B. Cooney

Among other imaginary acts of heroism, I often hoped to find a classmate or friend on a milk carton and save the day, like in America's Most Wanted which I wasn't allowed to watch. Once a lax babysitter let us watch the show (she was fired, clearly) -- this guy killed his wife and hid her in an egg incubator behind his trailer, I still have nightmares about it. Also I believe this book fueled my fear of being kidnapped, and a ridiculous obsession with cults. Later, this became a TV movie staring the foxy Kellie Martin.

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8. The Clockwork Orange, by Anthony Burgess

I know what you're thinking -- "The Clockwork Orange" is not a young adult novel. This is true. Howevs, my father felt I was very mature, and 'cause he wanted me to become a great filmmaker like Stanley Kubrick, he made me read this book (we had a serious book-before-the-movie policy) when I was 13. Though most grown-up lit was off limits (e.g., Stephen King, other crap), I was permitted both this and Lolita. This is the essence of hippie intellectual spirit. I was like "Dad, what's 'the ol' in-out-in-out'"? Which was a very special moment for everyone and eliminated any perceived need for a "birds and the bees" convo.

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7. Face at the Edge of the World, by Eve Bunting
Romanticisation of Suicide, Additional Reasons to Fuck it All

I'm not sure if this is the right book, 'cause I probs read more than my fair share of suicide-related narratives. But I think this is the one where the protagonist spends the whole book trying to figure out why his successful and talented BFF suddenly offed himself, eventually (SPOILER ALERT!) determining that perhaps he simply wanted to "quit while he was ahead." So basically all bets are off, re: offing oneself, not good news for me as I believe I was diagnosed with clinical chronic depression at the age of 5. Logistically, it would've been impossible to do myself in since I was so well supervised, especially at the mall.

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6. Eating Disorder Lit, including:
Second Star to the Right, Stick Figure, and Little Girls in Pretty Boxes

As I've noted previously, I was the scrawniest little kid you ever did see. Howevs: my Mom was a nutritionist who helped people diet, I wanted desperately to gain weight, I was a first worldian adolescent in the 80's/90's surrounded by body image obsessed girls. Therefore, I was totally fascinated by everyone else's fascination with thigh girth. As a chronically pre-pubescent teen, I looked to literature to psych me into understanding wtf the deal was ... later, I employed this background when counseling the reedonkulous number of severely anorexic and/or bulimic friends I acquired over the years. I think it's 'cause subconsciously, ED'ed peeps are drawn to me, thinking "what is her secret of svelte-hood?" and then eventually they learn that I hate myself too, it's just more annoying coming from me, 'cause I'm not actually fat, just completely insane, and have read too many books about eating disorders (late-adds include Appetites, The Body Project and Wasted) and also; the media, etc. Calvin Klien fashion magazines hoo-ha. Kazaam.

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Teacher: How would you describe Anne Frank?
Angela [distracted]: Lucky.
Teacher: "Anne Frank perished in a concentration camp. Anne Frank is a tragic figure. How could Anne Frank be lucky?"
[Jordan Catalano walks in, late]
Angela: "I don't know... Because she was trapped in an attic for three years with this guy she really liked?"
(My So-Called Life)

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5. Judy Blume Novels

As I've mentioned 500 times, I'm essentially a human sponge, willing to take orders and absorb desire from whomever's speaking the loudest. Through Judy Blume, I verified that I was, indeed, justified to angst over my bust which wasn't increasing though I thought it must, it must, and that the best way to bond with other girls was via boy-related discussions. I've since learned otherwise, but I still love Judy. The girls in Blume novels are relentlessly catty and tell me srsly if you can't imagine this on the back of a porn DVD: "Rachel is Stephanie's best friend. Since second grade they've shared secrets, good and bad. So when Alison moves into the neighborhood, Stephanie hopes all three of them can be best friends since Stephanie really likes Alison. But it looks as if it's going to be a case of two's company and three's a crowd." Anyone? "In bed"? I know I was reading Lolita at 12, but c'mon now ...

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4. The Quiet Room, by Lori Schiller and Amanda Bennet

I'm 99.9% sure schizophrenia is one disorder I defo don't have, but I seriously used to hear voices sometimes as a kid (probs it was G-d, before She lost faith in me altogether), and reading this book really freaked me out -- clearly I had enough neurosis w/o worrying that one day the voices would stop arguing with each other about my self-worth and instead command me to kill someone. Luckily they went away ... now the only voice I hear is Tegan in my iPod. Who's going on MONDAY!?! TO TEGAN & SARA?!!!

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3. Entries From a Hot Pink Notebook, by Todd D. Brown
Felt I related to the protagonist's psyche deeply,
began early fascination with gay male culture,
subsequently realizing literally as I write this that perhaps I identified with the narrator's feelings of alienation and outsiderdom for other reasons,
e.g., personal gayness.

So, it featured my fave plot device, the gay reveal and subsequent gay crush gay reveal (y'know, the "OMG, my BFF I'm in love with is kissing ME BACK!" thing) and it's actually a really good book, though I realize the title suggests otherwise. Sometimes it hurts: the titles given to brill books. It's much easier to recommend a book called "The Sound and the Fury" than "Entries from a Hot Pink Notebook." I read this approximately around the same time I was writing in my own diary: "my greatest fear is that I'll turn out to be a lesbian. Yuck." Also, gay men were sorta "in" in the mid-nineties amongst liberals -- Rickie Vasquez, etc.

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2. Lurlene McDaniel books

According to Lurlene McDaniel's website, "everyone loves a good cry," which's why McD's written 40+ books about "kids who face life-threatening illnesses, who sometimes do not survive." Sample titles include: She Died Too Young, Sixteen and Dying, Please Don't Let Him Die, The Girl Death Left Behind, Letting Go Of Lisa, When Happily Ever After Ends, Goodbye Doesn't Mean Forever, etc. The best was when two kids with different illnesses fell in love (e.g., cystic fibrosis + leukemia = true love) or when everyone would get into a car accident right before they were supposed to go to college on scholarship (w/bright futures, obvs) except for one girl who'd be left behind to angst. In a rare appearance by an African-American character, McD brought us Baby Alicia is Dying, in which a teenage girl grows attached to the HIV-positive black baby abandoned by her crack is whack mother, probs in Planet Harlem.

Basically, Lurlene McDaniel peddles the most demented books of all time, and I somehow ate them up. We all did. I imitated them, too, with similar plots in novels I wrote (for fun?). I guess we all felt strange and sad all the time for no reason, our little Dork School, filled with kids who suspected that, given the chance, public school would eat us alive and stuff us into lockers, and also: that perhaps we weren't fooling anyone (least of all ourselves) by avoiding the resolute knowledge that our problems weren't really problems, actually. We read the newspaper. We had politically aware parents. We didn't know jackshit, hadn't lived through anything worth crying over. Faces on Spilled Milk Cartons.

I coped w/my sense of alienation as a kid by reading, constantly, both intelligent books not mentioned here and the lame stuff I'm talking about here ... or by trying to be like everyone else as best I could though I felt hopelessly different. I'd been sad all the time for no reason as long as I can remember ... while driving w/my Mom from one place I was running from to another place, I mentioned wanting to get back to some childhood place where I'd been happy and she said I'd actually never been. "Intense," was her word. I guess I knew that already, I just wanted her to disagree, or blow it off. 'Cause I mean, seriously. I don't mention Elizabeth Wurtzel all the time for no reason, I'm legitimately afraid of her & her entitled torture, her ... whining.

I had an association and fascination with terrible & morbid circumstances and latched onto the littlest things to excuse my moodiness -- these books tapped into the part of me that wanted a reason for it. I wanted to be told, again and again, that tragedy waited around the corner. I'm certain there must've been wood nearby worth knocking on, if I'd known enough to do so. Clearly; I knew nothing.

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"I know sad stories aren't for every reader, but it's the kind of story that most of my readers like from me. When I write "happy" books, many readers complain. So I focus on what I do best---stories that might bring a tear, but that focus on real life (where happily ever after rarely occurs). And while the books may not have "happy" endings, I try to give readers a satisfying ending---life is full of trouble and matters out of our control. How we deal with troubles determines our own character."
(Words of Wisdom from Lurlene McDaniel, clearly a Sick Puppy)

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1. Sweet Valley High

I actually was prohibited from reading these books an account of their apparent vapidity, etc., But I finally sneaked one home, probs using crafty techniques learned from another YA novel. Just my luck: I got the book where Elizabeth gets kidnapped. Not good. This verified, to me, that my Mom was Right about these books being Bad; which's why Mothers have special powers that cannot be questioned. Like how the first time I drank alcohol, I threw up all night, which's exactly what she'd told me would happen. Actually, that still happens. Yet I continue drinking. Hm.

Howevs, I'd like to once again point out that nothing scary ever happened to me at the mall, except for this:

On that note of "things I did 'cause everyone else was doing it," if anyone's got a bridge in Brooklyn they'd like to sell me ...

Commenter Awards: I Listen In, Yes I'm Guilty of This, You Should Know This

Tonight, Haviland and I will be filming our fourth VLOG, in which we'll be tap-dancing to the sound of iced tea being stirred and doing magic tricks -- I mean -- ILLUSIONS -- with live felines representing the full scale of Mac Operating Systems, e.g., Leopards and Tigers. Haviland will be making out with that girl from Heroes, which I've never seen. Also, there'll be flying lesbians, slam poetry, an affirmative action debate between Shane and Jordan Catalano, and a performance of the entire score of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which luckily, I've been in. And also. Also. Also : eons ago, my Dad and brother took me golfing and, in order to ensure that all parties were exactly as miserable as I was, I performed the entire score of Joseph by myself, skipping lyrics I forgot, as we progressed from hole to hole. I was prepubescent and my voice was slightly better than it is now, which means it wouldn't necessarily kill you to hear it, but it might ruin your day, or your 18 holes.

Why this announcement? Because, unlike the first 4-5 lines of that paragraph, I was totes serious about the "comment of the week" thing I mentioned. But actually, it's "comment of the last two weeks." The auto-winner will receive ... um. Hm. Nothing? A link? Sometimes teevee people mail me things that I'm supposed to promote or talk about [read: tear to pieces and hate all over], and then I forget about it, I just like getting packages. I've got the first season of Dexter, the first season of Lesbian Sex and Sexuality, or um ... an autographed headshot of Haviland? A signed copy of Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments, which I've got a really terrible terrible story in? But I bet the rest of the stories are really good, it's just mine, that's really bad. But um, I don't really need to give a prize actually. I dunno, what do you guys think? There's still a date with Lozo to give away. Eh, who needs a prize, the game is the fun part.

Also we need a judge, because I don't like judging things. Anyone wanna judge? The only requirement is that you be free around 9 P.M. Eastern Standard Time tonight -- 10.29.07 -- to provide your judgment. You can be anonymous if you want, and you can't make yourself the winner, unless you really deserve it. Email or comment, whatevs. If not, I've got some people I can cajole into doing it, so the show will go on.

Anyhow, we will read the top two winners out loud for your pleasure on tonight's vlog. Maybe we'll read all of them, who knows. If you'd like to nominate someone, please do so in the comments below. I don't really feel like going through them all right now, because I'm busy obvs, but just so you know, these are the posts with eligible comments: Why Don't We Get Hot and VLOG?, Great Mysteries of Life Ctd. , Whoever Creates a New Word For VLOG ..., Top 10 Harder Things, Top 8 Easier Things, and Sunday Top 10: I Just Wanna Be Bad.

Also. Also. Also. By "Best" I probs mean "most soundbyte-worthy." I dunno what I mean, actually, it doesn't matter, everything is meaningless.

I haven't gone through the comments at all, but I have cut and paste some into this little stickie on my desktop over the last two weeks [therefore; being excluded from this list is totes meaningless and reflective of nothing, nominate away] ... but some that are already in the running, fo-sho:

stef, re: Great Mysteries of Life #2

"i thought of an unanswerable question today: who the fuck are all the cab drivers talking to on their cell phones all day? each other? is it like the party line of cab drivers? is it like the telephone hour on bye bye birdie? like HIII ACHMED! HIII MOHAMMAD! WHAT'S THE STORY, MORNING GLORY? WHAT'S THE TALE, NIGHTENGALE? DID YOU HEAR ABOUT HUGO AND KIM!??!?! srsly now."

re: Harder Things

"things that are easier than most people think they'd be: me after a couple of drinks. OHHH."

"a;ex vega," re: Whoever Creates a New Word For Vlog

"Dear riese and haviland,

i watched your va-log (kinda sounds short for "vaagina monologues" eh?) for a seocnde time. this time i was a little durnk,
i ejoyed it even more tahn the fist time. aaand i thought you'd appreciat e that in some wierd wa.y
am i correct? yes?

sincerely forever,
anonymous"

Lozo, re: "I Just Want to Be Bad"

"Just like every other comment thread here, it breaks down into a discussion about sodomy. It's why I come back."

MeL, re: "I Just Want to Be Bad"

"Also? I enjoy the penis quite thoroughly, but I would still lick your face if I happened to be next to you on the subway. (If I happened to be in New York.) I bet you taste like tapioca pudding."

Moonkiller, re: "Harder Things"

"I hate it when people mess you around when your trying to get coffee. It's like I just want my coffee please and thank you, make Rhian wait and Rhian'll make you bleed. It doesn't help that they're all like Russian and don't understand what your saying they're all 'Do want any space in your coffee?' and then obvs I'm like 'Noooo' and they come back with 'So, space yes?'

A'ight. Get on it.

People Made of Paper: What I Learned From The TV #2

i. Auto-Straddle South of Nowhere Recaps:
Why have 10,000 things to do when you can have 10,001 things to do? Beginning August 10th, I'll be recapping The N's South of Nowhere with Carlytron on Auto-Straddle. ["Chase," your attendance is expected. All other NYC-area quasi-lesbian-television-watchers, your attendance is appreciated.] Go to Auto-Straddle for more info on this project, which ideally will take 85% less time than The L Word recaps, otherwise I'll be spending massive amounts of time indoors during my favorite season, autumn, which is significantly more depressing than being trapped by "Papi's Rules of Poker" while winter and its associated discontents rage outside my dark, dark window. Cause I can't be like "Well, who wants to be out there in the blizzard anyhow?" I'll just be like "Lets go play in the leaves and pick pumpkins! I mean, make screencaps!"

ia. Unrelated.
I miss Michigan in the fall. There were always nice leaves and apples, pumpkins, etc. Also, back then, I looked forward to my birthday as each passing year brought me one step closer to additional life privileges. Now I'm like: "Ew. Gross." Or, rather, "What if, for my 25th birthday, I went to Nation and kissed 25 girls ?!" [Haviland's idea, obvs. Holla!] I was clearly really excited about being allowed to rent cars. Also, sidenote: I've matured so much since then. For example, the idea of kissing 26 girls on my 26th birthday is totally unappealing. And, because Nation is Nation, it'd be the same girls, probs. I just want to put this out there: I would like to go to Chuckie Cheese's this year and kiss 25 Skee-Balls. Okay. Feel free to coordinate a planning committee to deliver on this deliverable ASAP [It is a constant struggle to not constantly bust out in HR-speak right now, as I've been doing a lot of HR copywriting over the past week. And should be doing more. Right now.]

ii. The Reading at the KGB Bar.
So, Tuesday night, I did this reading for this book I'm in called "The Bigger, The Better, The Tighter the Sweater: 21 Funny Women on Beauty, Body Image, and Other Hazards of Being Female." I sat in the back with Cameron and Krista & Pete, and couldn't see anyone, which's funny, because it's an anthology about beauty and body image and I was really honestly curious to match physical selves to writings-about-physical-selves but could not, for the life of me, see through the masses to the readers at the podium.

Howevs, the essays were even funnier out loud, even if coming from ghost voices, and afterwards, a lot of people said nice things to me, and I signed some books [SURREAL!], and verified my social-interaction disability by being like "I thought you were gonna read!" to the editor of the anthology, who actually DID read, and I remember LOLing, but I didn't know it was her, because I couldn't see. I honestly was paying attention, laughing out loud, enjoying all the works. Also I honestly loved her essay in the book, which I actually read. [seriously.]

iii. Another Reading.
If you missed it, here's a surprising chance to redeem yourself: I'm going to be reading something [seriously, I have no idea what and probably won't until approx. an hour beforehand, drunk, and late] at the Young Artists' Lounge at 365 Days/365 Plays, which I was invited to do by the lovely Jaime/Surplus. Once, there was this GLBT blogger gathering Curly McDimple put together, and when Curly asked if I knew any other queer bloggers to invite, I suggested Jaime even though she's not a lesbian. That was one of the highlights of my career/bad habit in bloggetry.

iv. Chronologically, we are now returning to Tuesday night, the night of The Reading at the KGB Bar.
Afterwards: Carlytron missed the next train to Jersey, Borders was closed, and thus, we settled to do a few laps around the squares loosely defined as Manhattan's Inferno (Penn Station and it's environs). It was, actually, a perfectly temperate night, though the streets were cluttered with kids heading back to various pockets of Jersey to upload their new city-outing SUMMER BREAK '07 photos to facebook ...

Carly: "I love television, and I'm not ashamed to admit it."
Me [genuine]: "I admire that."

And then I thought about writing this segment, and how it is, indeed, frowned/scowled upon to say: "I learned stuff from the TV!" because on so many levels, especially for children, it's a damaging, world-destroying medium. But it's not, often, the shows themselves that are inherently damaging as it is the way in which they're presented and scheduled and often surrounded by/infused with advertising, bizarre promos, randomly inserted news clips, etc. [I've already talked about this like, 100 times, don't worry, I'm stopping. No rants against the miserable state of the universe today. Happiness! Light!]

I thought, maybe I should do "What I Learned From Books," just to be sure I'm still smart. Then I was like, oh, BFD, um, I learned EVERYTHING from books. That's like writing "What Nutrients I've Consumed From Food!" Then I felt better about myself because I put everything into perspective. But also: I realized I am not smart.

Like this is where I learned things:

50%=Actual Life
35%=Books
10%=Internet
5%=Everything Else

v. What I Learned From the TV, Part Two

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The Real World:

On The Real World I learned that pretty girls get their hearts broken, too. I was plagued with fairly severe Insecurity as a pre-teen, and remained convinced well into my teens that all circumstances surrounding my "love life" (my term, then), popularity, ability to make friends and overall success in Middle School were directly correlated to my [real or imagined] decline in physical attractiveness. Somehow, seeing the pretty girls on that show get rejected or be subject to adversity, I was like, Oh, pretty girls have bad things happen, too. Pretty girls are not happy, either.

It was validation, in a way, our first example of how "real" people "lived" in a visual sense. We've always been able to read about the lives of others, but those are controlled narratives--controlled, generally, by the writer themselves. [Like this! Holla!] But this show was different ... it was all the worst bits of us clashed against other bad bits of other sorta-good people and then sliced together like intersecting razorblades, an ingenious social experiment. I mean, seriously, you pick seven strangers to live in a house together: the naive Midwesterner, the tattooed rebel, the Angry Black Man, the moody spoiled musician, the beautiful ambitionless blondes ... this was before the Internet, even, before it was easy enough for a gay man in Idaho to discover there were other gay men in the world just by turning on his PC.

It was before ignorance became criminal rather than circumstantial.

Now we're over it; practiced, complacent, numb. But once upon a time, it felt like people were getting real: like a sophisticated voyeurism, one which transcended the narrative determined by the specified scope of a documentary film or TV program, because it had no purpose besides the immediate validity of everyday life. Now it's The Real World: Gammorha. It's like they just pick people who're likely to get drunk and make out in a hot tub. Is that actually interesting? I can't sit through it. The people get less and less interesting, more clear-skinned, hornier, drunker, less "real." [If they are real, that sucks, I quit.]

Of course, I woulda loved to see what it's like to have a conversation with a stranger surrounding by television cameras and a boom -- I think it's the people around them who actually prevented "reality." The person being followed by the camera, unable to acknowledge it's existence, incorporates it into reality eventually. But to those who are not around it and suddenly become so, their actions are, if anything, the opposite of real.

Also that parody they did of it on Dave Chapelle was like, one of the top 10 comedy sketches ever.

Also, I loved Jacinda. She was like fluffy candy packed together in the shape of a pretty girl in a shimmery scarf. I also loved Dan in Miami and Norm from New York. Elka was beautiful and I cried my eyes out when she went to visit her mother's grave. When Tami got an abortion in LA, I was like, note to self: do not get preggers.

We got addicted to London and wanted to be on it, wanted to live in London with an edgy boyfriend like Neil. Wanted to be Jacinda, god, wanted to be Jacinda, wanted to sleep with Jacinda, wake up with Jacinda and her cute accent. Would've given anything. I thought about London all the time, when I wasn't thinking about New York, or what'd it be like to die. I liked that it was rainy all the time, even. I plotted my escape constantly.

Boston was my favorite season. I think Genesis was the first femme lesbian I ever knew of, really. Remember how that guy's girlfriend's name was TIMBER? I'm gonna name my first daughter TIMBER and then have another kid and name it PAUL BUNYAN.

Tangent:

Reality TV was like what we had before the Internet to see what it was like to be someone else when not reading a script, and a way to see it immediately, beamed into your space, in a way books can't be because you have to go out of your space to retrieve it, and then select it. The TV comes to you when you want it, and I feel often that's more of an effect on it's appeal than anything about visuals. Because clearly people can and do read, we read voraciously online. We read online because we're used to television: to getting the exact content we want without getting off our lazy butts. Actually my butt is not lazy, so really I'm talking about most people, not special people like me.

My So-Called Life:

They did the literary name drop all the time; Shakespeare's Sonnet CXIII was the most memorable. This's the first time Jordan Catalano ever participates in class, because he totes knows why Shakespeare's mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun. Actually, Brian knows ["She's not just a fantasy. She's got flaws. She's real."] but Jordan takes a break from his illiteracy when the teacher inquires: "So, Shakespeare's not in love with her?" Jordan's like: "Yeah. He is." There's some grammatical subject-agreement issues with Jordan's response, regardless of meaning, but still, it's like, really romantic, like when someone looks into your eyes and sees straight into your soul. I re-created this scene in every screenplay/teleplay I wrote as an adolescent, using other works of literature in class discussion to bash my audience over the head with my point and sound smart, like I read books.

Here's an example from my screenplay, "High on Life," a thinly veiled dramatization of the actual relationship between a boy I had a crush on and a girl I had a crush on. He was "troubled": did drugs, skipped class, etc. His girlfriend didn't know how to help him. Life is rough for upper middle class white kids in cushy liberal Midwestern college towns, you know?

EXCERPT FROM 'HIGH ON LIFE,' MOST EXCELLENT SCREENPLAY AND BY THAT I MEAN MOST TERRIBLE, COPYRIGHT REE-REE 1996

MRS. MEIR: How do you think Ismene feels? Heather?

HEATHER: I don't know. Scared?

MRS. MIER: Sort of ... Anna?

ANNA: She kind of feels like, helpless. She knows what's gonna happen to Antigone--but it's like, she can't do anything, or talk to anyone about it, 'cause no one can find out about it.

Even Kyle is quiet now. Everyone is listening. Her friends understand what she's really talking about.

ANNA: Because if someone found out, she knows that'd be like a death sentence for her sister, and she loves her sister a lot and doesn't want her to get into trouble. But her sister is just being so--stupid! She doesn't understand the consequences--well, she knows them, she just doesn't think they like, apply to her. She thinks that it'll be okay, that it's worth it. And Ismene just has to stand by ... and watch her sister go down.

MRS. MEIR: Excellent Anna, excellent.

There is silence in the classroom.

Deep, huh?

My So-Called Life also used Our Town beautifully; it still makes me cry sort of. And it was when my BFF and I were on the outs, and we'd been in Our Town together, I was the stage manager and she was Mrs. Soames.

Queer as Folk:

I used to wish I was a gay man. I don't know why, really. I think I just liked their style. I'd get jealous if I watched movies or TV shows about gay guys because it'd just make me wish I was one, and I couldn't be, which's totes annoying.

I know I'd find Brian Kinney less hot if he was straight, I'd find that dance scene ending Season One less romantic, less Top-Ten-Best-Scenes-Ever-Worthy. In fact, I'd probs find him chauvinistic and unkind, but it's so much different without the inherent power dynamics of heterosexual relationships, the centuries of unkindness between the sexes that erupt under the lights of a relationship, no matter how brief. [Disclaimer: I don't think I'm right or anyone else should think this. It's just how I feel about it. Today.]

Queer sex is hot. Maybe it's 'cause we're bombarded with so much explicit heterosexual imagery that I've become numb and bored of it, maybe it's that I've just come to find the process of creating sexual energy without the inherent biological puzzle-pieces offered by man/woman much more compelling, but given the choice, I'd hands down totes prefer to watch a man-on-man sex scene than a woman-on-man sex scene. It's transgression; it's deviation, it's Tina's special secret club and it's back rooms and it's largely unexploited at this point, if you don't seek it out.

Or, even if you do: it's paltry, it's insufficient, it's the tip of ten thousand superior icebergs.

Or else it's just hot, that's all. It's still fun and fresh, which's rare on teevee now.

When I watched QAF I didn't want to date Brian Kinney. I wanted to be a boy and date Brian Kinney. I was about to write: "He'd probably break my heart," but no one ever thinks that'll be them, that guy with the broken heart, right? You're going to change Brian Kinney. You'll be the one to break Jordan Catalano or Shane or Brian Kinney right open; and you can't do that simply by getting them literally naked, because we all know they'll do that for anyone. Maybe that willingness for physical revelation is what makes the illusive, walled-off interior so much more appealing. It's our least logical, most destructive selves that convinces us to pine for hearts like Brian Kinney's: hearts fit for deviant art.

But maybe that should be enough? Just the company, sans expectation.

*
"We are gasping, quiet, in the dark, and then the wash of violet and night tornadoes through my legs and up behind my eyes, plumbs and spirals my spine, and I know if I can keep feeling like this I'll be okay, if I can feel like this I'm not dead, I won't die. Life is sad. Here is someone."
(Lorrie Moore, Anagrams)
*
life is sad. here is someone.
*

But no one ever really changes, not for long, right? You can't change people. But people change me all the time. I think that's because I don't know who I am, or, maybe, because I don't like who I am a lot of the time -- otherwise I'd be more firm, probs, about keeping myself intact. Consequently, I tend to think I can change people, too. Don't we all want to get better? As people? I mean, isn't that the point?

Isn't that why we tell these stories? Because we like character development? We want to see people develop? Evolve? We are static, physically, glued to couches to watch stories which're all, really, transformation stories, and then we're hopeful that one day we, too, will break into blossom, will resolve the disaparity between our faltering egos and our wild, ambitious capes, flapping aimlessly behind us while we fly blindly, straining away? I still believe that--dumbly or because I have to in order to go on--that we can and will change, that we want to get along, that we're not stubborn, judgmental, stagnant, that we want to make each other happy. That we've not become too self-centered as a human species to ever truly create relationships of all kinds with other humans, to be selfless, to believe in the radical idea that someone else might have a better idea, that judgment is tricky business because everything's relative ...

I didn't learn that on teevee. I just made it up.

*

... Once upon a time there lived a girl. She slept in a lovely little cottage made of gingerbread and candy. She was always asleep. One morning she woke up and the candy had mold on it. Her father blew her a kiss and the house fell down. She realized she was lost. She found herself walking down a crowded street, but the people were made of paper, like paper dolls. She blew everyone a kiss goodbye and watched as they blew away ...

Sunday Top Ten: We've Got Trees We've Yet To Live In

My favorite part of doing things is the part before you start doing the thing, where you can just think about how great the thing'll be. This takes many forms: a manic anti-inertia writing-spree with my little notebook on the subway, light bulbs turning on and then exploding in my head like stubborn shooting stars, or sitting with stacks of books or magazines at Barnes & Noble, pouring over a promising title like The Well-Fed Writer or a magazine I want to write for, convinced I've unlocked The Secret: then I'll get home and sit down at my MacBook and um ... check my email. Then I'm like, "Hm, maybe I should have dinner ..."

Last week: THREE projects which could've remained strictly in conceptual stages made advancements. It helps that they involved other people, because I bet there's a mathematical formula about that. Like if you combine two people generally with big dreams and little time/follow-through, it equals one very motivated human. You've gotta convince your Other that you're reliable, in order to look like a worthy partner/employee/manager/whatever. And it's just someone else to keep you on task, edit your "Yee-haws!," etc.

Also, we've got this post-cruise energy thing. Every text Haviland's sent me this week has included at least sixteen exclamation points and/or one motivational statement and/or a word in all caps, like "AMAZ" or "HOT"! (!!!!!)

Life feels strange, almost like school, where we'd get assignments, and then we'd have to do them. Especially group projects. JK, I always did those myself. I didn't trust those randoms with my multi-media projects. Plus, all the popular girls'd wanna work with me because I made such hot videos and got good grades for everyone, which worked out well for me, 'cause then I could be around them.

Today I will look at some of the things I lost along the way: those uncompleted projects. There're so many of these, really, that my mind almost exploded just thinking about it. I'll probably revisit this topic at a later date, because I'm sure it's really super-compelling: I mean, if it's not fun enough to read me ramble about things I HAVE done, just imagine how interesting it is to read me talk about all the things I HAVEN'T! (Not at all). All the things I wanted to go to school for (media studies, web design, Reiki)! All the bizarre things I attempted to organize as a child (charities, eco -action groups, street fair, magazine, 'zine, film festival, radio show, theatrical productions, etc.)! All the career paths/temporary jobs I suddenly lost interest in/abandoned (camp counselor, model, waitress, Jell-O shot girl, grant writer)! Oh, the Places You Will Never Ever Go!

SUNDAY TOP TEN: SOME THINGS I LOST ALONG THE WAY, OR, CONCEPTS ABANDONED PRIOR TO EXECUTION
(limited to recent history, lest this list spiral out of control, like life itself is wont to do)

10. "I'm Gonna be A Book Packager/Ghostwriter Thing!" : The Gossip Girl Phase

I pick up voice fast, almost too fast. I start reading someone I admire and I start writing like them, it's like taking a shot of Raymond Carver instead of vodka, then right after reading I've got this buzz. I can get drunk off a writer, a good one, if I've got a lot of long train rides. I'll start thinking like them, a little, their voice invades my brainspace and refuses to leave 'til the book ends. Maggie Estep shoots me up with poetic perverted instinct, her and Mary Gaitskill both ignore dirt by speaking explicitly no matter what the vocabulary, by being hard and gross but sort of honest about the deepest most deviant but really earnestly beautiful pit of us. Lorrie Moore sucks me inside of me, sarcastically but plainly and naked too, builds stronger and funnier walls around my self-preservation and/or vulnerability. She makes me desperately unique, alone, unable to communicate with men at all whatsoever, filled with private thoughts and bitingly witty/astute judgments. Marya Hornbacher made me stop eating, John Marsden lifted me out of high school and into another universe where I floated through hallways and meditated apocalypse or something to get me out of my own life, anything, Pam Houston makes me miss wide open spaces, mountains and men with skills, Tama Janowitz glazes my eyes over with sharp stupidity, she makes me tilt my head and say strange things to make normal plain people uncomfortable, wear costumes as assault ... the dozens of lesbian essay collections I've digested this past year rewrite my history in my head, they transform my memories into memories of always wanting women, which is true, too.

So I had this idea, upon reading a New York Magazine/[redacted] article about Gossip Girl, that I would become a ghostwriter for Gossip Girl. Like many YA series once they get big, the author just writes outlines, and then book packagers write the content itself. All I had to do was get the voice into my head and then write a sample chapter and send it off, I read all about it, and I was pretty certain that book packaging was my real destiny, due to my talent w/picking up voices. Then Don [owns my agency] told me it was a really bad deal because you only get like $4,000 a book, and the authors at our agency who did book packaging deals weren't always pleased with it [they've done a lot of TV tie-in books, like Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, etc.] I was like, Dude, I will totally take that!" I see now what he meant, about ratio of time/money/recognition. But seriously, $4,000 is a lot of money! How long could it possibly take? Also! It could be fun.


So I read like, seven Gossip Girl books. My mind was all like "Welcome to New York City's Upper East Side, where my friends and I all live in huge, fabulous apartments and go to exclusive single-sex private schools. We aren't always the nicest people in the world, but we make up for it in looks and taste."

Then I sort of told myself I needed to wait for the next one to come out to really get moving on it. That was August of 2005.

Number 9 Interlude:

I la-la-la-love the planing stage. Like reading Get a Freelance Life or studying for the SATs to become a Kaplan Tutor. In preparation for a never-executed lit-mag blitzrkrieg, I created a ridic database of literary journals listed by prestige, payment, submission periods, and formats accepted, and supported the lit-journal industry by buying like, hundreds of them.

8. The Next Play

My senior year of high school, Krista directed "Familyland," a one-act I'd written. That was the best night of my life: incredible cast, a roomful of people laughing at my jokes ... I was all gung-ho about playwriting . Unfortunately, theatrical genius hasn't really struck since then. In '04, Krista started badgering me to come up with something new; she was starting a new job where she'd be in a position to get my work produced, if it was worthy. So, fast-forward to the night before Krista leaves for the summer of '05 [my play-completion deadline]: I had nothin'. So, as she packed and Pete made jokes, I wrote a 96-page play in about ten hours.

Two weeks later, when Krista and I were traveling cross-country together (long story), sitting in Denver in the Amtrak station, having completed every question on Trivia Machine and needing new entertainment: Krista pulled it out, and set it on her lap, and began:"'Well ... I really loved the character descriptions! I was so hopeful for the rest of the play!" That's totes not a good sign at all. These are those character descriptions:

CRYSTAL JONES, 18: Looks as though her clothes no longer fit properly. Awkward, plays with her chin-length blonde hair a lot. Blue eyeshadow. Medium height, mostly plain looking with a hint of cherub beauty. Wants to be a stage makeup artist.

DR. JEB JONES, 48: Gynecologist, specializing in giving birth and fertility treatments. Pro-Life. Tall, white beard, Donald Sutherland-type. Polite but angry. Liable to burst. Stoic exterior, creepy interior.

BARBARA JONES, 40: Stunned into persistent silence. Painfully nice. Enjoys crafts, always makes too much for dinner. Hopelessly codependent.

MIKE JONES, 17: Shoulder-length hair. Self-conscious. A bit tall for his age. Plays a lot of pool in the basement, drinks a lot of flavored cola. Wants some ass.

RICKY, 17: Crystal’s best friend. Gay. Thin, good-looking, puts a lot of gel in his hair. Hasn’t yet figured out how to make it through. Wants to be a model.

DEVON, 19: Swedish exchange student. Kind, the airs of someone who is well-traveled and well-read but never makes a point of it. Non-judgmental. Wears glasses.

It was all downhill from there. We discussed revisions. Which I never did. Because I am retarded.

7. On the subject of theater ... My So-Called Life, The Play

I was pretty convinced that this was the most brilliant idea I'd ever had. So I wrote 46 pages of "My So-Called Grown Up Life" in the car as we drove to Vermont for New Years Eve and was like: "Haviland Stillwell: this is the best play ever written." It was the cast all grown up. Brill.

Then we all read through it and everyone who knew the show thought it was really fun and funny, but Hav was like Riese, really? Because of like, copyright, and plays don't make money, I shouldn't put all my energy into something so futile, and this and that. I was like, silly, that sounds like the perfect project for me then! JK, I was like. Oh.

Here are those character descriptions:

ANGELA CHASE, 27 – Author of the New York Times bestselling book "Getting Out Alive: How To Save Our Adolescent Girls," psychologist and public speaker. Despite this, she still tugs at her sleeves and often avoids networking parties. Has resolved to practice what she preaches for the past two New Years. Married to Brian.

BRIAN KRAKOW, 27 – Began as a development intern at WebDoctor.com after his third year at Brown and now serves as Chief Design Director. Most of his friends are still in coffee shops, plotting The Revolution. Secretly wishes Angela was more of the barefoot-and-pregnant type.

RAYANNE RAYMOND, 28 – Completely out of control, possibly on a downward spiral. Recently divorced, recently disheveled, often drunk/drugged but surprisingly functional nonetheless. If she knew what a Peter Pan complex was, she might know that she was developing one.

JORDAN CATALANO, 29 – Blue-eyed and beautiful, still makes 15-year-old girls melt when he mops the floors of their private college prep high school. Veteran of "Operation Enduring Freedom," honorably discharged after two months of service when he lost two fingers in his left hand.

Then, we decided to dress up in the O'Donnell children's snowsuits, pull out their props, and take photographs of ourselves. So that was that project.

Number 6 Interlude

Most've my memories of great ambitious projects which I eventually abandoned are from the Spanish Harlem apartment. I had a lot of misdirected ambition then. I didn't even start this blog 'til I moved to Williamsburg (which continued when I moved to West Harlem, obvs). While living in Spanish Harlem, Matty [my friend I met at a CAKE party who lived across the street] decided we were going to:
1. Start a business collecting cans in a truck that doubled as a can-deposit-center. Use this money to "teach kids to build birdhouses."
2. Buy old buildings [with non-existent start up] and fix them.
3. Start selling pot brownies from his kitchen.

I honestly fully embraced, researched and considered all of those options. There are diagrams.

This was our temporary can collection vehicle. Here, he's putting the doors and roof back on, since it was night and we were done stopping every ten seconds to leap out and get cans he's spotted.


What lesson did I learn from that? Kiddos, don't do drugs. If you do, someone might try to talk you into selling pot brownies from their kitchen and driving out to the beach stopping every five seconds to pick up cans.

5. Gimme an M! Gimme an F! Gimme an AAAA!!

On my last day of class at the University of Michigan, I remember telling everyone: "This's my last day of class, ever." And everyone was like, well, what if you go to graduate school? And I somehow just knew I wouldn't. I don't know why. Maybe it's 'cause I'd spent all my money already on going to school, and didn't think I could handle the stress of finances and school at the same time,which'd mean I'd need a career first, which'd mean I'd probably lose interest 'cause I'd be so ridiculously successful already. (HA!!!!)

But my writing teacher'd told me: "Don't pay for an M.F.A. program. They should give you a full scholarship." I sent out for pamphlets. I was thinking of myself in Iowa City, looking serious but wearing a hoodie. I was imagining living in a sort of faux -bohemian apartment studio with some sort of dark hot androgynous girl in a white v-neck t-shirt who was a Fantastic Creator of Art of Some Format and had all kinds of secret skills. It'd be Iowa City, but it'd be cozy and perfect and I'd become a Great Writer who maybe lost a little voice but gained an ability to choose words properly when I'd re-find it, back in a more hard-core city, a few years later. But then what if the other kids were really annoying or something? It's like, a twelve person workshop.

Anyhow: I've got lists. Rankings. Books. Pamphlets. Really obviously I just like reading material about things I COULD do with my life, rather than the actual act of doing these things.

Number 4 Interlude: Website

Areas of my website I keep thinking I'm going to update any minute now: The L Word Season Four Quotes, add some fiction to the "Fiction" area of the website (All I've done so far is change it from saying: "This page, like life itself, is a work in progress" to "Though this entire site is 'in progress,' this page is especially so"), creating an overall design that doesn't make me want to pull my hair out every time I see it (w/o using HTML editor or a web designer), add recent stuff/links, add new movie quotes, add book quotes because the book quote page was so aesthetically irritating to me that I had to take it down, create a "cast of characters" page for my blog, update my links, write that Season Four Auto-Straddle Round-Up I said I was going to write, and wow. So many things. I could go on, but this I think is mostly for my own reference.

Number 3 Interlude: Sign Up Now!

I wish the Internet had existed back when my insomnia was really bad, like in the 90s. Then, instead of watching Undressed marathons on Volume Level "4" [a.k.a.: requiring closed captioning, but preventing my Mother from getting pissed at me], I coulda spent all night joining various web-communities, beginning my profile/database/creative content/great moneymaking idea, and then never signing on again. I've got half-assed membership all over the goddamn Internet. The best are the ones that make you register every single book you've read in your life, which I love doing, 'cause I get to think about all my books, but it takes forever and you keep thinking of more. It's like that scene in The Phantom Tollbooth where they want the kids to fill a lake with an eyedropper. I've also started and never regularly updated profiles at a million photo-sharing sites and various writerly places.

Sites I've joined, half-assedly, and set up a profile/presence/registration of some sort, never to truly follow up again: flickr, library thing, all consuming, onemodelplace, goodreads, care.com, technorati, youtube, del.icio.us, etsy, shutterfly, cafe-press, and so on. And so on. Could go on forever. Won't.

2. Novel Ideas

I've started about 10,000 novels I never finished. I even have a folder called "Big Ideas," which is code for "Things You'll Probs Not Finish." A doc labeled "Great American Novel" (HA!) (81 pages). "Memoir" (written in 2001, 219 pages). The best was the YA novel, "For a Girl" (118 pages). I was totally into the YA Novel when I decided to write "my book." You know, that book I keep talking about? The one I'm allegedly writing? Right! That [the moment I gave up YA novel to pursue My Book] was an embarrassingly long time ago. Like, wow. Hang on BRB I'm going to go clamp a mousetrap on my ear and stick my finger in the toaster.

1. The Cruise Video

I stopped myself this time. I was like "Are you really seriously Riese going to spend hours and hours editing a video of you, Heather and Haviland talking to yourselves? Could anyone possibly find this entertaining?" Then I thought to myself: "Obvs/No way." So it's totally uncompleted, unimpressive, and I'll never make it snazzy. But that's okay, I'm learning all about time management.

Some notes about this video:
1. I copied some clips really quickly from Haviland's camera yesterday. She wasn't at home or anything, but I have keys, because we're weirdos. Anyhow I had to jet back uptown, so it's pretty random what I uploaded, and I couldn't go back and get different clips when I was doing the editing, per ush, so this's just what it is.
2. Because Carly and I are obsessed with the confidentiality of our concept, I've only included three super-brief snippets from the reading, so as to not really give anything away or really show anything besides that we did it. The people with music stands in front of a red wall: that's the reading.
3. That muppet is me.
4. Heather and I are, sometimes, intoxicated. We're really good at keeping our cool though, obvs. She's the one talking when I'm on their balcony.
5. UPDATE: I just watched it and decided it's totes entertaining. Seriously!

RFamily Cruise 2007

Add to My Profile | More Videos


Okay also: I'm doing this reading on Tuesday [see sidebar] at the KGB Bar. 7pm. Be there.

Also my roommate Ryan is gonna be on Guiding Light on Tuesday! He's a waiter, and he's never even waited tables in real life, that's how awesome he is at acting! He's in a few episodes, so this's only the beginning of the glory.

Sunday Top 10: Dreams You Want To Hear About

These stories are annoying and boring:
1. The re-telling of one's dream (unless you play a pivitol role in said dream)
2. "I was so drunk last night, I played ___ games of beer pong with ________ who totally lost and ended up throwing up in the ________ and then ____ started hitting on this girl but she turned him away for ________ and then we had ____ shots of ____"
3. Cameron's ammendment to the "nothing is more boring than listening to someone describe their dream if you aren't in it" rule was "stories about one's acid trip are more boring." Agreed.

But, because of:
1. The Oscars (The only movies I saw this year were "Little Miss Sunshine," "The Break-Up," "Short Bus," "The Devil Wears Prada," "Borat," "Dreamgirls" and--NOT MY IDEA--"The DaVinci Code"), which involves "dreams" in the following contexts:
i. The movie "Dreamgirls" about a band called "The Dreams"
ii. Dreams, as in "Hopes and Dreams" and "I've dreamed of this day all my life," as well as Ellen's opening bit about dreams.
2. Haviland Stillwell, as Fantine in "Les Miserables" on Saturday Night at the Broadhurst Theatre on Broadway, who sang "I Dreamed a Dream," which was lovely. In addition to being a stunning performer (yes, I got a little teary, per usual when someone I love does something spectacular, which is um, often Haviland these days) Haviland's dresser performed some notable feats with her rack, via corset.

I present....

SUNDAY TOP TEN: 10 DREAMS YOU DO WANT TO HEAR ABOUT

10. the movie "what dreams may come": so pretty. just turn off the sound?
This movie was so beautiful! It was also, I think, so so bad. Cuba Gooding Jr., who we all loved at the time because of his triumph in "Jerry Maguire," was totally mis-cast as like, an angel (or God? i don't remember) in this sentimental Thomas Kinkaid-esque visual romp through all things sentimental and glowy and orange-ish. And Robin Williams, who is a genius usually, was sort of like, bounding around in golden meadows and spouting off zingers like "A whole human life is just a heartbeat here in heaven." Obviously I cried during this movie, which I viewed at the Traverse City mall, because it was about finding dead people in the afterlife, which is clearly a sensitive topic for me and a frequent topic of my actual dreams. But also I really don't understand why it's such a frequent topic of movies. Do people want to be depressed? I guess people say the same thing to me about listening to so much Jeff Buckley. But anyhow wow! It still sure was pretty. Even if it was sometimes pretty in a Thomas Kinkaid way. I want these people to paint a mural in my room that feels like all our film-style imaginations could ever expect from fantasy-heaven.


9. dream whip zine
Because I've been aspiring to hipster-dom since I was old enough to read "Sassy" and wear unflattering clothing trends, my BFF and I made a zine (called "Lunette") in high school, which enabled us to write about ourselves for public consumption AND receive other zines for free. The best zine I ever read was "dream whip." I assumed that it was gone, like other casualties of the mid-nineties--my braces/rubberbands, "My So-Called Life," chain wallets, the expansive zine scene itself (yes, I know that zines are indeed alive and well, but the internet has cut into it somewhat)-- But dream whip, I have learned by a quick internet search, soldiers on. In fact, it is written by a filmmaker named Bill Brown, and you can buy his back issues through microcosm publishing. I still have my original copy. Here's some selections:

8. "Sleep to Dream" by Fiona Apple
"You say love is a hell you cannot bear, and I say gimme mine back and then go there for all I care." I mean, seriously. Fiona Apple, continue to writhe and hurt and sing forever, I will always, always love you, no matter what they say. Your mind and your body cannot be stifled by your deviant ways. You got your own hell to raise.

7. "I Have a Dream" by Martin Luther King, Jr.
That was a good one, huh, that speech? About people being judged by their insides and not their outsides? Like the Dove "love your body" ads but more ambitious and with less pictures? Yeah, that was a good one. I liked Martin Luther King day. We got to hold hands with other people and sing optimistic songs. We don't do that enough, really. Yay MLK!

6. Champagne Dreams
I keep hearing that term in my head as I think about this Sunday Top Ten. For some reason I thought it was a Death Cab or Belle and Sebastian song. Then, just now, I heard it in my head, remembered what it's from, and felt like a douchebag. Remember when 'Lives of the Rich and Famous' was special? Like, before all those VH1 shows with lots of graphics and facial pore experts talking about how much Paris Hilton spends on underwear? I actually never saw it to be honest with you. But people were doing Robin Leach imitations like he was Borat or something. When was that show even on? Who was on it? Is it on DVD? Can I take this chance to say I think it was awesome that Britney shaved her head, it was so like "fuck you, you people that want me to be this sexy teen schoolgirl bubblegum bullshit!" I mean, I know she's troubled, and needs help, etc etc, but seriously can you blame her? jesus.


5. My So-Called Life, Episode 19: "In Dreams Begin Responsibilities"
This is the episode where Angela gets the note from Jordan Catalano that breaks her heart right open, but in a good way. Except that Brian Krakow wrote it and she doesn't know who to pick---the nice boy who has a way with words, or Jordan Catalano? I would have to say Jordan Catalano. This is the last episode of "My So-Called Life" ever. I think I have the whole thing memorized from start to finish. "Dear Angela, I know in the past I've caused you pain and I'm sorry. And I'll always be sorry 'till the day I die. And I hate this pen I'm holding because I should be holding you. I hate this paper under my hand because it isn't you. I even hate this letter because it's not the whole truth. Because the whole truth is so much more than a letter can even say. If you want to hate me, go ahead. If you want to burn this letter, do it. You could burn the whole world down; you could tell me to go to hell. I'd go, if you wanted me to. And I'd send you a letter from there. Sincerely, Jordan Catalano." One time someone wrote me a letter like that. I melted. I forgave.

4. Midsummer Night's Dream
I went through piles of old stuff at home over winter break (I still call it that, even though school's ancient history now, it still feels the same as it always did, you know?) and found this photo from "A Midsummer Night's Dream," which we did 50s style in the theater guild at Pioneer in like, 1845 or whenever that was. Centuries ago. Long ago in the then far before now. The then before me. This photo is important, and here's why:
1. It marks the very first time I wore a girl-costume in a play. Girls are often cast as boys in youth/teenaged theatrical productions, because there are never enough talented boys to fill all the boy roles. Since my body was much like a 13-year-old boy's until approx. my 16th year on earth, I was a shoo-in for boy-parts. I was "Robin," one of the mechanicals, or whatever, which is a boy, but I asked if I could wear a dress and be a girl and they were like "ok!" Actually, if I could hem that to mid-thigh, I'd totally still wear it. Like, right now.
2. This is the last photo my Dad ever took of me.




3. Dreamweaver (Wayne and Garth style)
This is how you can see if it's true love. When your special someone comes walking towards you, hair a-blowin' in the wind, if you hear "Dreamweaver" in your head, that means that you really love them, and want to shwing and then shoop. And then, if you are one of the 99% of the people in this world that found "Austin Powers" even slightly amusing (I am in the 1%), you can "shag." Basically, any time a hot woman comes on TV now, we're all hearing "Dreamweaver" in our heads if they play it or not.



2. Dream Dates in Junior High Notes
My 12-year-old BF and I would write each other really romantic notes about our deep secret desires. We expressed these through "dream dates," or stories we would make up about what we'd like to do together, which usually ended in a very satisfying smooch on the lips, or even a "french." They took place often at ski resorts by fires (including one improbable placement of a romantic fire on a snowy mountain), at school dances, or on schoolbusses. I think this was good practice for erotica writing later.

1. Haviland Stillwell singing "I Dreamed a Dream" in Les Miserables
I'm a little fidgety, especially during 3-hour tones on the French Revolution (right? I don't know, really), and so I did a lot of: dancing, stretching, sitting, doodling, annoying the people in front of us, but mostly I was in a state of complete ecstasy because I was wearing the most comfortable dress in the world, that I borrowed from Haviland ("borrowed"=took from her closet when I stopped at her apartment after work to change my clothes and look at myself, even though she wasn't home to grant me permission). This delight was only compounded by Haviland's performance, which I paid attention to. I got goosebumps, tears in my eyes, and all other possible physical reactions to see my best friend up there on a Broadway stage being a rock-star. When she was like "Tell Cosette I love her and I'll see her when I wake!" I was all like: "oh, sad!" Then I got up (literally, I was on the ground) when she returned from the dead to sing and be pretty in her nightgown. Before Hav was cast in this bohemoth, my knowledge of "Les Mis" was limited to the 10,000 renditions of "On my Own" I heard during 7th grade talent shows.

If you know what's good for you, there is still time: tomorrow at the Wednesday afternoon performance, Hav will be Fantine. GO!

Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams or Whatever!

Sunday Top Ten: How You Got Here

My Mom met one of her first serious girlfriends on the internet. This was prime fodder for mocking from insolent children, but it didn't help that she recruited me to photograph her and her friends all grinning and holding a huge poster reading "welcome to Michigan [redacted]!". Obvs they were mailing it to her. This is really funny because now she has dial-up and uses AOL as her internet browser (which is so 1992) and I (as discussed in "the circle of craigslist" among other posts) owe so many things to the seemingly incidental choices I and my pals have made when entering search terms or browsing on myspace or blog-surfing or whatever. I owe my life to this webbernet I once scorned.

Which is one of many reasons why I (and most bloggers, I assume) are totally fascinated by the search terms that bring people right here, to my triad of self-love: "This Girl Called Automatic Win," "Automatic Straddle" and "Marie Lyn Bernard Dot Com." Whenever other bloggers post about theirs, I am like, half-asleep before I even get to 'what is the meaning of the word douchebag," but I think that people w/o site-meters and people who want happiness or joy in their life (I don't, so that's why I can sleep through yours) will really find this information to be quite a treat.

I've sorted through the masses of searches for Kim Stolz, the wheelers from Return to Oz, Katie Morgan, Jordan Catalano and Haviland Stillwell and, of course, me, to find the best and the brightest for today's:

SUNDAY TOP 10: REASONS YOU MIGHT BE HERE WITH ME, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW (VIA "INTERNET SEARCH") AND MY BEST ATTEMPTS TO MEET YOUR NEEDS!


10. 12th street duane reade intern
Does Duane Reade really have interns? If intern=glorified unpaid slave forced to do unpleasant shit-work like waiting in line at the post office and sending faxes, then what exactly do the interns do at Duane Reade that is more shitty than what the Duane Reade non-interns do? Dig through the boxes of clearance merchandise to extract all the broken glitter eyeshadow squeeze tubes that leaked all over the Coty Musk? What part of employee-ship do they not yet qualify for? They haven't yet mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing or not speaking English or staring wistfully into space, and by "space" I mean the ATM by the door, which isn't holding any of their money in it because they are only an intern?

9. "what is NSA Hookup?", "internet dating lingo nsa," "meaning nsa hookup"
This is way more common search term than you might imagine. Who are these people, and why me? Why here? I don't know but if I had to guess I would say: Because of Brian Kinney.
The Answer You Seek: As Liz Phair once sang: 'Fuck and Run, Fuck and Run.' That's right. If that girl you took out last week is responding to your telegrams and love letters with "I said it was NSA!" then dude, you gotta stop. No Strings Attached. Strings=babies, phone calls, dates, dinner, respect, mutual enjoyment, female orgasms, the hiv, the clap, anything red and itchy, emails, texts, IMs, mix tapes, flowers, diamonds, dreams for sale and fairy-tales.
(Side note: on craigslist, if a truly smokin' hot girl is offering an NSA hookup, there may be secret strings that involve cocaine or money or a girl who is actually not smokin' hot. Or you might just be the luckiest guy on the lower east side)

8. Tasti-D-Lite; the calories, etc.
The Answer You Seek: What really matters is who you are on the inside. Tasti-D-Lite probably has a lot more calories in it than they say it does (14-19 calories an ounce, FYI, and all the good flavors are closer to that higher number, aka all the variations on "Peanut Butter"). It's about how it makes you feel. As a person, and as an American. Also, Sherlock, you can check out www.tastidlite.com. I know! Crazy, you'd never guess. And about the caloric content of your tablespoon of sprinkles: Really, Papi? As India Arie once sang: "I know our creator didn't make no mistakes on me, my feet, my thighs, my lips, my eyes, I'm lovin what I see." HOLLA!

7. "Blogs On Girls Feelings Towards Dick Size"
First of all: if there is a blog devoted only to that topic (like, genuinely, I'm sure there are many fake porn sites in this genre), someone please tell me all about it, that sounds absolutely incredible. OK.
The Answer You Seek: Here's the deal, I think: it really depends on the girl. Some girls are tighter and can't handle Dirk Diggler, and some girls can't stand the ego that usually accompanies a big one. Most girls don't care. That being said, of girls that do care: more girls like big dicks than small ones. If you have a small one, my advice is to become really good at oral sex, and make it into a joke, like a guy I once dated who'd be like "c'mon, it's three inches of heaven, baby," which was funny. Another interested reader wanted to know if Tom Selleck has an 8 or a 9 inch dick. I would say: 8.

6. Other sexy things:
6a: "gay guys on a boat rubbing lotion on their butts": the photo on the left is from 'Atlantis Cruises,' where you can find as many buttered butts as your heart desires.
6b: "daughters used panties": look in the laundry hamper. also: ew.
6c: "hot women with duct tape over their mouths": look in your basement. also, really? just be like "hey, woman, shut the fuck up." theres no need to whip out the duct tape. it would be good if you wanted to give her a stache wax though.
6d: "pictures of beautiful indian ladies of age more than 45 years": awww....in my fantasy world where everyone is kind and loving and does only good things to each other, this man was trying to find a nice framer of his wife.
6e: "overweight strip-o-gram": i only wish i knew what this had to do with me.
6f: "random trashy sluts": you have come to the right place. welcome.
6g: "girls kissing girls": see "6f"
6h: "anything for a hit of crack cocaine she orgasm fuck": I would recommend an NSA hookup. Ask for photos, and the more haggard and tore-up your partner looks, the better the chances are of crack cocaine. Also, how did that lead you here? I am troubled, somewhat, by this.


5. Fashion Advice:

Q: "Where can I find sweatpants like Ciara's in "Promise" in Michigan?"
A: TJ Maxx.

Q: "Can men 40 and over wear carpenter jeans?"
A: No, unless they are a carpenter.

Q: "how to shave and get soft satiny smooth legs"
A: Men's Nivea shave gel for sensitive skin with Nivea aftershave for sensitive skin. It's for men, but we are living in a new world of gender flexibility and expanded freedom for women, or something. Which is probably why you are so concerned about the satin-level of your legs. For your independence.

Q: "dating advice or what to wear on a first date my dress or jeans to top restaurant"

A: What do you mean "top restaurant"? Are you eating at Top of the Rocks in the Rockefeller Center? I would say that you should wear black pants, boots, and something low-cut. Actually I would recommend selecting a costume, for example: "deep sea diver" or "tops: the supermarket"

Q: "how much do delias models weigh?"
A: less than you. But really, they seem a little shorter than runway models, and younger, so I would guess that they are about 5'8 and probably weigh about 115. That being said, I have no clue why Delias shirts come so wide and short. It's deceptive, like how they plump up the meat for Big Mac commercials.

Q: "why girls like hard tail pants."
A: I have been wearing the same two pairs of hard tail pants since the summer of 2003, and I have worn these pants--at times--almost every single goddamn day, I would estimate all-in-all my hard tail pants have been worn at least 700 times, and they don't have any holes in them. Unlike the yoga pants I bought at Express, American Apparel, Mandees and Modell's Sporting Goods. Oh also because we are sheep.

Q: "febreeze for hair"
A: Natalie, look! Someone else had the same brilliant idea that you did and that I quoted you on last year!

4. Health Advice:
Q: "What happens physically during a mental breakdown"
A: Um, this:

exhibit a: recognition/resignation exhibit b: exaggerated glee

Q: "help jesus i'm losing my hair"
A: Man, Jesus don't give a shit about your hair.

Q: "doctors appointments pregnancy why"
A: Have you ever tried to help someone give birth to a baby without a doctor? Have you ever stuck your arm, elbow-deep, into the vaginal canal of a pregnant woman and extracted the bloody crying fetus from her uterus? Then have you reached for a pair of gardening shears and then snapped that cord, trying not to get blood in your eyes? Probably not, because there are doctors that do that.
Did that gross you out? I'm really taking this blog to another level, and that level is "gross."
But seriously dude if this is like "Woman, why you makin' me go to the doctor to see if you're pregnant? I'll tell you right now woman you are getting FAT and I mean that with an "F" not a "PH"!

3. Relationship Advice
Q: "girlfriend needs to be called all the time"
A: Are you sure that's the problem? I mean, most girls I know don't need to be called 'all the time,' they just need to be called 'when you said you would.' If she really wants you to call her "all the time," then she's a fucktard. Break up.

Q: "how to win married lover"
A: I'd like to refer you to the classic film "When Harry Met Sally":
Marie: The point is, he just spent $120 on a new nightgown for his wife. I don't think he's ever gonna leave her.
Sally Albright: No one thinks he's ever gonna leave her.
Marie: You're right, you're right, I know you're right.

Q: "why duane don't like to do laundry"
A: Because if he doesn't do it, I bet you will. Which is easier for him. He should try to get an internship at Duane Reade, I bet he'd be a shoo-in because his name is Duane and he is already lazy.

2. "mean bitchy quotes," "lesbian bisexual women girl trend 2007," "straight tomboys," "college ennui," "duane reade ghetto," "top ten reasons to break up on valentines day,"
Sometimes I feel like there really is a God--like some sort of "master plan," you know, fate, cosmos, etc.--when someone searches for things like those things and ends up somewhere like here.

1. All Things L Word
I realize this may not be of particular interest to many Automatic Win readers, so you'll be able to read this section in it's entirety on Automatic Straddle, if you so desire. But who doesn't like lesbian sex? Oh wait....they don't have sex on the L Word. I mean, they do, but even when they do, there is often gigantic art installations made of metal and plastic chairs blocking our eyes from their tits. So, if you are looking for recaps or screencaps, want to know where to get Shane's underwear, who plays Lindsay the vet, or know if KC and Elka are girlfriends...follow my link....[Number One, The L Word]