Details

Herewith shots that show details of my trip to France. At the market in Sarlat, locals bargain over truffles, wine, walnut oil, and local fruits and veggies.
A gargoyle at the Palace of the Popes in Avignon appears very friendly.
Proof I was there - me at Les Eyzies, a town in the Dordogne region that sported a fantastic Museum of Prehistory.
A little boy sports armor in the medieval town of Carcassonne.
Back in Sarlat, candles glow before a figure of Mary.

Pogue Mahone

Which in Gaelic means, "kiss my ass."

I saw the Pogues at the Wiltern last Friday, and their rowdy Irish/punk music kicked butt.

Sure, lead singer Shane McGowan slurred most of his brilliant lyrics. During intrumental bits he wandered around the stage, struggling to walk in time with the music, haphazardly pointing his fingers at the ground, almost in rhythm.

But he remembered nearly all the lyrics! And every other member of the band played with a professional intensity and verve that had the whole crowd bopping. Some of them moshed in the pit down below me (I was up in the loge seats - far above the plunging animals, thank you!), and wrapped their beefy arms around each other to sway in long lines during the slower songs.

The Pogues are a band who can get you bouncing to their pounding beat without using an electric guitar, who can make your heart beat faster with a mandolin and an accordian. Lead singer/songwriter Shane McGowan is a notorious drunk (to quote one of his own songs "the miserablest son of bitches bastard's whore") but he can reference everyone from Coleridge to Donleavy to Bredan Behan with a romantic Irish fluency not found anywhere else. His songs talk about hell, ghosts, prostitution, drugs, death, horse racing, dog racing, and every form of alcohol known to man. (There were five green bottles/ Sitting on the floor./ I wish to Christ/ I wish to Christ/ That I had fifty more.") But he can also be intensely romantic, even sweet, conjuring beautiful images of misty mornings or the sound of the haunting corncrake's cry. Hell and heaven intermingle everywhere. A sweet, quiet lullaby with will whisper, "May the ghosts that howl/ 'Round the house at night/ Never keep you from your sleep./ May they all sleep tight/Down in hell tonight/ Or wherever they may be."

In the song "Turkish Song of the Damned," on their masterpiece album "If I Should Fall From Grace with God," Shane sings "I come old friend from hell tonight/Across the rotting sea./Neither the nails of the cross/nor the blood of Christ/can bring you hope this eve." Not only is the "rotting sea" a direct quote from Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," but Shane throws his own crazy ideas about god and hell and Jesus into the mix. He's a Catholic, if not a good one. But then -- he's Irish.

In the far more romantic song "Fairy Tale of New York," Shane and Jem Finer write these classic and typical opening lines: "It was Christmas Eve, babe/ In the drunk tank/ An old man said to me/ Won't see another one..." This lovely song is a duet, and the woman responds at one point: "You scumbag, you maggot/ You cheap lousy faggot/ Happy Christmas your ass/ I pray God it's our last." The song then swoops into a lyrical chorus and finishes with her saying: "You took my dreams from me/When I first found you." He replies: "I kept them with me, babe./ I put them with my own./ Can't make it all alone/ I've built my dreams around you." It's an amazing Poguian mix of anger, alcohol, romance, and poetry.

We all expect the toothless Shane to expire from drink at any moment. But he's lasted this long. Maybe I'll get another chance to see them in a rabble rousing concert one day.

France Photos

Just got back from France, and am worn out with a bit of a head cold. But here are a few of my photos. First up, the Roman aqueduct near Avignon called the Pont du Gard.
And here's a bird's eye view of Provence, taken from the ruined Chateau at Les Baux.
This is the Dordogne river, the central/south/western portion of France. Land of castles, foie gras, walnuts, and strawberries.

Here you can see Wendy and Jennifer, my intrepid travling companions, looking down on the valley from Les Baux.

More later. Off to rest my weary head...

Off to the South of France

I've been too busy at work and at play to post much lately. And next week I'm going to France, so you won't be hearing much after this for a couple of week.

I know. Lucky me.

These pics will give you an idea of what I'm in for. With friends Wendy and Jennifer, I'm winging my way into Bordeaux, then it's off to the Dordogne area -- where castles lurk atop every hill and caves hold paintings made before the dawn of history.

I'll inflict my own photos on you when I get back.

After three nights near Sarlat in the Dordogne area (spent eating and drinking lots of great wine, I hope) we drive down to Provence and stay in Arles to see Roman ruins, more hilltop towns, and to pop a cork on some Chateauneuf de Pape.

After I get back, self-imposed writing deadlines loom, and this blog will again take a backseat. But at the very least I'll impose a few photos and impressions of the places I'm going, just in case you're ever of a mind to go there yourself.

A bientot...

Do Women Have An Expiration Date?

Horrors! A 29-year-old virgin!

That's right, chick magazine Jane has a new feature where you can help find the poor old virgin a nice man she can pop her cherry with. Check out the virgin's blog at

http://www.janemag.com/memos/blogs/sarah

Gag.

Sarah looks normal, but guess what? She isn't! She's a virgin! There's that horrible, shocking word again. What's wrong with this girl? There must be something. After all, we all had sex when we were fifteen in the back seat of our horny older boyfriend's car right? It was horrible, but we "got it out of the way" and "became a woman." That's what normal girls do. Heaven forbid we wait until we actually feel comfortable with ourselves and with the man we're with. Lord knows that if we wait until our twenties, thirties, or forties -- or forever! -- to have all-important intercourse, we must be fat, ugly, or seriously twisted inside.

Quoth the editor on the Jane website:

When Sarah first e-mailed me, I thought she'd be the type of girl whose voice is so hesitant, you have to read her lips to figure out what she's saying. What I didn't expect was a tall blond with a nice rack who performs stand-up comedy at open-mic nights.

You mean good looking girls with great senses of humor can be virgins? Virgins speak in normal tones, have boobs, and tell jokes in front of hostile crowds? What a revelation!

Remember when virginity was valued? Far be it from me to wax nostalgic for the "good old days," but at least back then, women weren't seen as warped for NOT having sex.

Now we have to hurry up and get women laid before they turn 30. And we can profit from it by featuring their freakishness in a magazine that's supposed to be advocating for women.

Hate to break it to you Jane -- women run the gamut from experienced to virginal at all sorts of ages, with no connection to their level of attractiveness, intelligence, or sense of humor. Some women wait for love, or for maturity, or for the just the right penis to give it up. More power to them.

Imagination = Power

Am toying with a book idea with a theme of "Imagination = Power." If only that were true in the real world. Herewith, a few quotes to keep inspiring me on that theme...

"Imagination is more important than knowledge." – Albert Einstein

"Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality." - Jules de Gaultier

"Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere."- Carl Sagan

Where the Turf Meets the Surf

Welcome to Del Mar Race Track! This little slice of heavens sits not far from the ocean in San Diego County and was founded by Bing Crosby and others back in the thirties. No dirty racetrack full of desperate weirdos this! Mom and I went with our close family friends, Joe and Sharon, this Labor Day weekend, and the place was packed with young families, teens, babies, and grandparents.

These photos were taken with my phone, so please forgive the lousy quality. But I couldn't resist sharing one of my fave spots in Southern California. Above you can see the paddock area, where the jockeys receive last minute encouragement and instructions from the trainer and owners before mounting their charges to head out a brief, fast, dangerous, exciting contest. The grey you see here is one of the many fillies competing in this race, which was for mares and fillies only.



The first race that day took place on turf, the inner ring of grass inside the dirt track. Here you can see the horses approaching the starting gate. Del Mar has an Austrailian announcer, and every time he says in that sexy nasal tone: "The horses have reached the starting gate," I whisper a damned fine Aussie imitation like some sort of readheaded mynah bird.



Here are the horses as they passed us the first time. They'll go around the track once and hit the finish line just past this point.

Mom won the exacta on this first race with a horse named Sip One for Mom and another horse whose name escapes me, whom we shall call Winner. An exacta is a type of bet where you pick the hoses that will come in both first and second. Mom "boxed" this exacta, which means she bet it both ways - Sip One for Mom first, Winner second, and Winner first, Sip One for Mom second. Sip One for Mom was a bit of a longshot, but Mom just had to pick it in memory of her mother, my grandma, who passed away a few months ago, and who would've loved to bet on the horses -- and who didn't mind a little drink every now and then either.

Mom won about $83 on that exacta, which was the biggest single win for out little group that day. I lost every single time. All part of a vast losing streak I've been on for months in every sort of gambling endeavor I try. Poker at with the girls at work, smiling at cute guys, trying to get writing project off the ground, you name it. Zero. I'm overdue for a win here, Universe. Just a friendly reminder.

But it was great to see Mom win. And even in the humidity caused by nearby Hurricane John, Del Mar is beautiful. We Berry folks have a family tradition at this track - my Uncle Bruce was the attorney for the track for many years. I have fond memories of hanging with my cousins, wandering the grandstand, eating cotton candy, and having my Dad place bets for me. Now that Uncle Bruce is gone, the track is a wonderful reminder of him. I'll tell you a secret - his ashes were scattered on the far turn.

What to Watch This Fall

In this week's installment of Notes from the Wasteland on Monsters & Critics, I advise you on what to bother watching and what to avoid as the new fall season of TV begins.

Click here.

This column only covers the network shows, so I want to put in a special shout out to HBO's fourth season of The Wire, which may be the best show ever put on television, and which premieres September 10. The first three seasons (available on DVD - rent, buy, or steal them!) are some of the most absorbing, intelligent, funny, violent, real storytelling you will ever see. This is art, on par with the best literature and film, written and produced by a reporter for the Baltimore Sun and a former infantryman/cop/teacher (Dave Simon and Ed Burns) who know the world they're depicting intimately.

It's fun too. Don't get put off when I compare it to Shakespeare or Citizen Kane, thinking somehow that it's good for you but hard to swallow. Pop the first two episodes in of Season One, and you won't be able to stop. And don't be fooled into thinking this is just a cop show -- this show is about life in these United States, from the most intimate moments between human beings to the failings of our society. I get the chills just thinking about how good this show is. You. Must. Watch. It.

Taller = Smarter

Today's self-serving post features a Reuters article that indicates...

Taller people are smarter: study

NEW YORK (Reuters) - While researchers have long shown that tall people earn more than their shorter counterparts, it's not only social discrimination that accounts for this inequality -- tall people are just smarter than their height-challenged peers, a new study finds.

As a six foot tall woman who has endured much derision, romantic heartbreak, and far too many "weather up there" jokes due to my height, I can't help being tickled, if skeptical.

In a bar once, a man looked up at me, and said, "You're an Amazon. I could climb all over you."

What to say but, "No, you couldn't."

Overall I see height as a blessing, in spite of my fear of high heel shoes, low hanging branches, getting into a Miata, airplane seats, and twin beds in cheap hotels.

Read the whole delightful article at: http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060825/ts_nm/economy_height_dc

Your Inner Jackson Pollock

Think you got what it takes to be the next Jackson Pollock? Take a look at his masterpiece, Number 1, and then go to:

www.jacksonpollack.org

Whoosh your cursor over the blank screen and see splotches and lines of color appear. Click the mouse to randomly change colors as often as you like. Press ESC to see the credits.

Sadly, after a few attempts of my own, I have come to the conclusion that he was a genius, and that NOT just anyone can do this stuff. Maybe you'll do better!

Create and Motivate

Create your own motivational poster! (That's my first attempt above.)

Click here: http://flagrantdisregard.com/flickr/motivator.php

Here's another one. What a hoot!

About the Author

So I'm writing a book proposal. It's tough. I can't talk about the subject matter of the book, alas, but figuring out how to best write a proposal for a non-fiction book is just as much of an adventure as writing the book itself.

Okay, maybe it's less work than writing the entire book, but that's kind of the point. You describe the contents of the book, then why it simply must be published, then you show it to an agent who hopefully says, "Wow! I must represent you and sell this to a major publisher for lots of money." The publisher is also thrilled with it, and they give you money to finish the book for them. So the proposal is a sales tool, an extended pitch. I just finished a rough draft of the About the Authors section. Whew! Yes, there will be two authors -- I have a co-writer, who shall remain nameless for now. After I get the whole proposal together (including two sample chapters) I'll hand it over to him and let him tinker with it before we start submitting it to agents. It isn't easy to write laudatory malarkey about yourself, but it's all about selling in a book proposal, so I had to retire my native modesty for a little while and talk about all the wonderful things I bring to the plate.

And the subject? It's a corker. It's rip-snorting entertainment, with a touch of inspiration. Once the book is published (see? I'm just positive that it will be) I might post the proposal itself so that folks can see how it works.

Next up? The all important About the Book section. Oy. Wish me luck!

Agent Insight

Get inside a literary agent's head with this blog:

http://raleva31.livejournal.com/

The agent reps authors who do fantasy novels, but even if you write other sorts of books, this blog will give you an idea of what NOT to do. Funniest pieces involve her ripping apart various queries and manuscripts sent to her by clueless, hopeful writers.

Writing is hard. Not everyone can do it. Even those of us who can (cough cough) have a tough time doing it right. Tidbits like these are most helpful.

Cliche Central. Hey! Is that a cliche?

People are lazy. People talk, drive, write, and live without thinking.

Wake up! Pay attention to your life. Pay attention to what you say, write, and do. It affects others. And it affects you -- it makes you who you are.

As a writer, I'm always keeping my eyes peeled (that's one of my favorite idioms - "keeping your eyes peeled" -- it's just so gross and evocative) for cliches in writing. Cliches crop up constantly due to laziness. Came across a couple of interesting sites that list and debate what phrases and words have had just a tad too much use:

http://www.newswriting.com/groaners.htm

http://tommangan.net/banned/

Reminds me of a bumper sticker my Dad saw once. It said: "Eschew Obfuscation."

Emmy Predictions

In my latest delightful column I fearlessly predict who will win an Emmy, then shamelessly offer my opinion on who actually should win.

Click here.

'Cause it's just such an important topic.

Also, Monsters & Critics now has forums, where you can post your thoughts on movies, TV, news, reviews, columns, etc. The site has over 1 million unique viewers every month and over 150,000 a day!

The Rat's Head

I arrived at my backdoor last night to find this resting on my doormat.

Yes, it's a rat's head.

Sorry. I know it's gross. You can imagine how I felt upon finding it resting in front my back door. I picked up the doormat and shook it. The rat's head flashed its bloody neck stump as it rolled onto the pavement of my porch. I haven't had the stomach to get a broom and sweep it into the vegetation nearby.













Here is the elusive Miss Kitty, aka Killer. She's the feral mother of my cat Lucy, and I feed her evening and mornng on my back porch. I have no proof, but I believe the rat's head is a gift from her. Several years ago, before Miss Kitty was born, I fed her mother, Zoe, on a regular basis. I never managed to get Zoe spayed; she was too wild to tame, and I had yet to rent a cat trap. One day she brought her nearly weaned kittens, one of whom was Miss Kitty, to me, presenting them as if to say - now what? I responded by putting out more food. The kittens ate hungrily as their mother watched.

After work the following day, I came home to find the head of a snake on my doormat. It was a good two inches long, still silvery and scaly.

So you see, this gory gift giving runs in the family. My Lucy comes from a line of fearsome female hunters. Rodents, birds, and their ilk should be grateful that I keep her safely indoors. If this keeps up, who knows what sort of head will show up on my doormat next? Coyotes beware.

Hit and Run

I was rear-ended on my way to work this past Wednesday. I had stopped at a huge intersection so as not to block traffic, and this young woman in a black American coupe smashed into me going about 25 miles per hour.

(No, this is not a photo of any of the cars involved in this accident, but it is a close approximation of how I feel after this whole brouhaha.)

What the hell was she thinking? It's a busy city street, morning rush hour, signs indicating construction up ahead -- PAY ATTENTION, WOMAN!

But it gets worse. As I sat there dazed after the impact, she got out of her car and walked up to my window. She was in her mid-twenties, brown hair, white, maybe 5' 6" (make a note of that in case you ever see her...) and said "Are you okay? Why don't you pull over there (here she motioned to a side street, away from all the heavy traffic we were now blocking) and I'll meet you." "Okay," I said, trying to focus. When the light turned green, I made my way to the side street...only to see her take off in her smashed coupe in a completely different direction.

I saw red. "You BITCH!" I screamed, pulling a U-Turn at top speed and racing after her. Only to be blocked by a truck in the small turning lane. I tried to squeeze by, determined to get her license plate -- and scraped the fender of the truck. Damn! But I did get the first three letters of her plate: 4TL. So if you see that woman in her smashed up car, get the rest of the plate for me, will ya?

I was a surprised at my own fury. I hadn't cared about the consequences; I just wanted revenge. I'm not an angry person, but this and other recent experiences have taught me a bit about myself. It takes a lot for me to feel put upon. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt, perhaps too much. But once I realize that you have fucked me over, that's it. I get mad. Ram my car, then you run? I will hunt you down until a truck interferes. I will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law.

I gave the driver of the truck my insurance info and called the cops. One showed up not too much later, after I'd had a good cry and a very nice tow truck man checked in on me. So now my car's in the shop for the next month or so, insurance should cover the rental and most of the repairs, and I'm booking a luxurious massage for myself to take care of the whiplash. Everyone the whole rest of the day was very nice to me, and I felt a lot of gratitude toward my seatbelt, grateful to just be alive. After all, it's just a car. It's just money. I'm alive and can move all my parts with only a bit of pain. And that'll improve.

I love living in LA, but if this had happened in a smaller town, the cops would've shown more interest in tracking this idiot down and arresting her. The LAPD cop I spoke to was courteous but doubtful she'd be caught. Seems to me there can't be many black American-make coupes with a license plate that begins 4TL. Surely half an hour spent in a database search could turn up a few likely suspects. But my guess is that there are too many more serious crimes to spend their manpower on. I'd be happy to ID her in a line-up, but I don't think I'll get the chance.

Sof anyone ever hits you - don't pull over and let them be free of traffic until you get their information, or at least a license plate number. And wear your seatbelt!

Un-American

I've had two otherwise reasonable people argue with me recently, saying that English should be the official language of the USA, and that everyone who lives here "should" learn English. Apparently, not learning English is "un-American," and we "waste" tax dollars on teachers who teach in other languages (I've yet to find proof of this).

What I find un-American is this attempt to undermine the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. The First Amendment guarantees freedom of speech. The most basic part of speech, before you even get to the words, is which language you are using. So not only does our Consitution guarantee you the right to say obnoxious or offensive things, it allows you to say them in any language you choose. AND - the government cannot dictate which language you say things in, just as it can't dictate what words you say. So this attempt to dictate which language people speak to each other is little more than thought control, which is expressly forbidden in the Constitution. These folks who think they are being so very "American" in their assertion are in fact attempting to undermine the founding document of our government. They themselves are thus un-American.

As for tax dollars, I'd like to know how my friends would pay to make sure everyone in this country spoke English. Are they willing to drag folks to classes against their will? How would these classes be paid for? What standard should we hold people too when we test them? Should those born in this country be assumed to speak English and thus not be tested? (I've encountered many who think they are fluent in English because they were born here and yet don't know good grammar from a hole in the wall -- should these people be taught too at taxpayer expense?) If someone takes these classes and these tests and fails, what punishment should be meted out? How do we pay for the bureaucracy necessary for all this?

Apparently English just somehow, magically, is the language of this country. When I asked where that was written down, either in the Constitution or in some other legal document, I got a blank stare and and the assertion that it just is true. I was told that in France, people must learn French, and it's the same in other countries. Even if that is true, which I doubt, why should America become more like France? Should we violate our own Consitution to become more like a country where you are guilty until proven innocent? The freedoms guaranteed to Americans are what make this country great, and they are what draw immigrants here, including every single one of our ancestors, barring those of Native American descent.

I think mostly people just don't want to be inconvenienced. I have a Russian landlady who struggles with English, and I've had my frustrating moments trying to communicate with her. But guess what? The Constitution doesn't protect you from frustration. It doesn't protect you from being offended. In fact, it very specifically allows people to be offensive and frustrating. That's freedom, people. It's messy. It means we all don't think the same, look the same, talk the same, and act the same.

Welcome to the messy, polyglot economic powerhouse that is America. Welcome to every shade of skin from whitest white to darkest black. Welcome to every language, every creed, every orientation. The US Consitution is a document outlining a country based on the principle of freedom. This is what it looks like. This is what it sounds like.

Adorable Children

I know I'm biased in thinking that my friends have particularly well behaved and adorable children. But really - they just are! Herewith, proof, at least of their physical cuteness. I visited my friend Ruth this weekend, and took these photos. First, there's Emma, now five.


















And here's Dash, all of two. He has a fondness for machinery already. At this point he can't operate a car or a saw, so he has fun with simpler tools, like this juicer, or the mop and bucket. He needs to come over to my place and make me some fresh squeezed orange juice before tending to my hardwood floors.

As you can see, Dash is a redhead, so I sometimes feel like he might be mistaken for mine when I'm pushing him on the swing at the park while Ruth is off playing hide and seek with Emma. But both kids really do look like their lovely Mom.

For more proof that my friends have adorable children, scroll down to see Hunter and Logan playing with sparklers. Although my obvious talent for photography might have something to do with it too... cough cough.

Sparklers

Remember when sparklers were the coolest thing, and you couldn't wait to write your name with them on the Fourth of July? I got a chance to recall that kind of excitement at a friends' BBQ on the 4th.

Maritza lit up the sticks for the kids, who reacted warily at first to the jumpy fire at the other end.

But pretty soon they were jumping around, throwing down poppers, swinging those sparklers like swords.

You gotta love Burbank, that bastion of suburban life. You can't buy sparklers there -- Maritza had to go all the way to Asuza to find some. But they had a fiery display spurted out from the Starlight Bowl that led to a traffic jam of SUVs in the Burbank foothills.

We adults, full of barbecued meat, veggies, and Death by Chocolate, lounged nearby and awaited the fireworks, which burst nearly overhead thanks to Pam and Scott's excellent location. We concluded, that amortized over 30 years of July 4ths, the view of the fireworks had to add at least a quarter of a million to the value of their home.

Young Hunter's commentary during the display was even more entertaining than the fireworks themselves. During one burst he said, "It's a puppy!"