Saturday, April 28, 2007

Why I love David

Sure, I have a wholelottalurv for Kurt. I can say "And so it goes" in Japanese, thanks to him and a college pal.

But my heart is missing David Halberstam. Intelligent, witty, insightful author of SPORTS books. He was a journalist in the best sense--interested in EVERYTHING and he could make you read ANYTHING. But I will miss reading the book he was working on about the 1958 game between the NY Giants and the Baltimore Colts...

What a loss to the writing community.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

I am so proud

My brother, Matt, the 39 year old Army recruit, was interviewed by FoxNews today. Go here and see why we're all proud of him. He's the best:

Type Coming of Age in the search box and choose Video, not story

Sunday, April 8, 2007

Glass Hearts in Glass Houses

In her trademark ethereal prose, Alice Hoffman presents the story of a family who are slaves to love and don't know how to escape the bonds. In her latest magic-tinged novel, Skylight Confessions, methodical John falls inexplicably in love with dreamy Arlyn. The two are such polar opposites that they emotionally struggle against each other more than they come together. Their son, Sam, is scarred by the deasth of his mother and bewildered by her torrid affair with a local window washer that produces his adored younger sister, Blanca. Sam fights a losing battle with his father, his stepmkother and drugs due to grief over his mother's death, while Blanca spends her childhood playing peacemaker. Only their nanny, Meredith, can soothe Sam's tumultuous spirit and comfort Blanca. All are haunted by the ghost of Arlyn who manifests herself in mourning doves, unexpected showers of ashes and broken dishes. This family of emotional misfits must look to Sam's son, Will, to patch up the crevices of their souls.

While I'm a diehard fan of Hoffman's writing style, I felt this story was rushed and unfinished. Story threads were left dangling and theree was no character or story development involving the grandson, Will. Blanca is also left with parts of her life unresolved. Readers may feel unsated by the novel's finale.

Y-Front Photo Shoot

So. Now you know what happens on a film set. Here's what happens at an underwear photo shoot.

The room is toasty warm. All the radiators are on full blast and there are girls and women walking around in the designer undies and t-shirts. We're in the bedroom trying on the designs and waiting while the designer makes her descisions about who is wearing what. We're in the kitchen munching on the fruit and veggies the designer so graciously provided. We're on the screened porch, flashing passersby and having a smoke. We're in the front room, bopping along with Robert Moore on the radio. No one is bitching about hating their boobs, or being fat, or needing a nose job. With this crowd, we're all trying to come up with dirty jokes about the emblems on our "couture cooch covers."

The photographer is the only guy in the room. He can't stop grinning at all of us and telling us we look great. But he means it. He's not being patronizing. The first shot he wants is a group shot.

All the girls line up in a row before the windows. Chins up, boobs out, "don't look at the camera!" (we will hear that phrase a hundred times today). I am standing in between Venus and Sheila and Venus wraps an arm around me. Sheila wears one of her patented looks and reaches around to pinch my ass. I pinch her back and then everyone is laughing and playing grab ass and the camera clix away.

Then we yell "designer shot" and Twitt gets in the middle. We all look adoringly at her until she claps her hands and says, "Okay people, back to work!" By work, Twitt means, sit on the floor and wait until you are called to pose in your skivs in an artful manner inspired by your colored t-shirt, underwear design and whatever wacky prop we can find. Twitt opens a couple bottles of wine and Nutty, Venus and I imbibe, Sheila breaks out her unfiltered apple juice and we all take swigs of that with the wine. Not bad.

While the photographer is shooting, we're all yelling out suggestions (some are taken seriously, some ignored); stretching; passing the wine and cookies; admiring each other's undie designs and making plans for that evening--Roller Derby, Brick, or Owen/Cox Dance Group? We debate the merits of girls beating up girls, guys shredding guitars, and ultrahipjazzballet. No one talks about being too fat to be a model or how self conscious they feel in their knickers. Instead, we bitch about our tennies and how worn out everyone's Chucks are.

Finally, we are a headline kickline below the belt:

Saturday, April 7, 2007

What they DON'T teach you in underwear model school


Deets on the shoot later. Off to dinner, roller derby, dance performance, The Brick.

Friday, April 6, 2007

Marky Mark and Me

Now I am an underwear model. I think I am doing this backwards. Aren't emerging showbiz types supposed to pose in campy adds in scanty lingerie and THEN do nude scenes in movies?!?! Apparently I am not following the prescribed HWood formula for success....

Twittering Machine needs "real" women to model the very kewl underwear she has designed. I will blog about that tomorrow evening after the photo shoot. All the rock wives are getting together to help her promote her "wears". Then we are going to the Plaza and do our "Little Dutch Girl" impersonations for the hoi polloi. Heh.

I will post pics if they give them to us. You won't able to see our faces, but I will be the one in orange.