Category Archives: writing

movies, travel, writing

A Little Frivolity

Leave a comment

What with all the growing up around these parts lately, my brain feels pretty fried. The growing up is not over, either — or rather the acting grown up, on the assumption that, like faith, if you act as though you have maturity, maturity will be given ye. We are looking at real estate. Yeah, that’s right, REAL estate, and it is called that for a reason. (Um, because it is real? I’m only guessing.)

There’s a great, affordable condo in a house in Sunset Park with its own garden and so many bathrooms every one of you could come over and use one at the same time. It’s close to the park (that view!), close to the subway (the R train counts as subway, right?), pretty, and well-kept.

There’s another great place on the fringe of Ditmas Park that’s even cheaper because it’s on the wrong side of the tracks. How much do the tracks matter? That has yet to be determined. The apartment itself is really lovely, recently renovated by its artist owners, and it just feels great — lots of good juju there. Prospect Park isn’t far away, and neither is Courtelyou with all those white-people amenities like coffeehouses and bagel shops, brunch places and farmer’s markets, that Sunset Park lacks.

For more money, there are smaller-but-nice places with gardens in Park Slope I’m checking out this week. There’s even one place close to where are now in our price range. What has made it affordable when all other local apartments are hundreds of thousands dollars more? I can’t wait to find out!

All this has made me equal parts excited and exhausted, and I can’t wait to say “Fuck this shit, I’m going to Montana,” just like the New York Times advised all of you to do this past weekend. Come stay with us! We’re renting part of a house while we’re in East Glacier and you can totally sleep on the couch.

Til then, I’m distracting myself with frivolous thoughts. Like, Mila Kunis or Natalie Portman?

Battle of the Tiny Jewesses

Mila Kunis, right, by a long shot? Natalie strikes me as being forced and stiff on camera. Though apparently millions find her sexy, I found her attempt to portray a stripper in Closer pretty horrifying. Whereas Mila radiates warmth and intelligence, as the reviews of Friends with Benefits attest.

What about Mila Kunis or Emma Stone? That’s really hard. I think I’d go with Emma Stone, who is also a charming presence on screen and is apparently livening up Crazy, Sexy, Love in theaters everywhere; it’s pretty early in both women’s careers to say definitively, though. Emma Stone or Amy Adams is also  hard (battle of the comedic redheads). I’d probably have to go with Amy because she’s been around being consistently good for a longer time. Thanks to her, I even enjoyed Enchanted. But the fact that it’s even kind of close already speaks really highly of Ms. Stone.

Clearly, when I go to the writer’s retreat later this fall at VCCA, this is what I should write about. This is my very first writer’s retreat, by the way! The idea of getting to spend two weeks in the idyllic-looking town of Amherst, Virginia — a name that strikes me as a being something of a contradiction in terms, like jumbo shrimp, but never mind — working on a manuscript in the company of other keyboardists is so blissful that I want to go RIGHT NOW.

I will contain myself. Glaciers first. No, house-hunting first, then glaciers, then keyboardist camp. But it is so nice to have things to look forward to.

movies, writing

Why O Why Don’t I Love “Paris”?

2 Comments

My take on the new Woody Allen movie Midnight in Paris is up on The Film Experience:

“I understand the impulse to make ourselves hoarse praising the man. After all, we’re talking about Woody Allen, auteur extraordinaire, Oscar-winner, redefiner of comedy, granddaddy to a thousand less-talented copy-cat narcissists. He’s so prolific he probably doesn’t even remember making one of my favorites of his films, the wistful and imaginative Purple Rose of Cairo. (Such small, delightful movies are often called “gems,” which confuses me as gems come in all sizes; in fact, a woman I know recently received one that may weigh more than she does. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Friends, a mediocrity is a mediocrity, whether it comes from Shakespeare or Dan Brown. Why do we insist on grading Woody Allen on a curve?”

Read more here.

anxiety, writing

Can I See Some ID, Please?

Leave a comment

I’ve been trying to create mini business cards for myself courtesy of Moo. (Hat tips to Shulie & Bryan for the inspiration.) The trouble is, the text on the cards, underneath my name, says “Writer.” That is the whole point of creating these cards, so that I have something to distribute to people who, after some prolonged conversational interaction, ask what I do.

“Why, here you go!” I’ll be able to say, passing them a card with all relevant information neatly packaged in one place.

“How professional you are!” they’ll exclaim. “How organized! How seriously you take your what-could-be frivolous artistic pursuits!” They will squint down for a moment, then look back up at me and ask, “So you’re a writer?”

This is where it all falls apart. Despite the fact that I have been putting word after word after word since I could hold a pen with my stubby, childish hand, that writing is the only dream I have ever had and the only identity I have ever pursued, I have a hard time saying aloud, “Yes! I am a writer!” It feels boastful and naive.

Unless you are Margaret Atwood or something, anyway.

And yet, people go around saying it all the time. Friends, relatives, strangers commonly tell me they’re writers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My brother, a lawyer, who joined the ranks of us word monkeys about, oh, five minutes ago, turned to me recently and sighed, “Do you think we’ll ever make it as writers?”

I glowered at him and replied, “Let’s get this straight. I’m Charlie Kaufman and you’re Donald.”

“Harsh,” he said after a moment. “But fair.”

Really just harsh. But it’s hard when other people traipse in and out of my playhouse uninvited, especially since I haven’t yet figured out how to monetize my playhouse or even to claim it as mine, despite how jealously I guard the entrance. And why do I bother? It’s not my playhouse at all, and that’s a good thing. Life is better with company: people to commiserate with, to talk to, to read with. There should be MORE writers, especially smart funny ones like my brother.

How do you know how much confidence is too little and how much is Just Right? Some people seem to have too much; but what if the amount they have is the amount a person needs to have to succeed?

Eventually I sorted through the jumble and I did it. I wrote “writer” under my name on the business cards and I pressed “Submit.” Even now the order is winging its way through cyberspace and in a couple of weeks, my self-confidence — or hubris, or whatever — will be immortalized in 100 little business cards I can give away, networking-style. Hopefully with a straight face.