Synchronicity To The Rescue!

As I was walking to a class tonight, I wasn't in the best mood ever. Some kind soul had sent me a photo of my ex at a gala, with his date: so I was walking by the Reservoir, praying to Whomever to keep me connected to the Good, to genuinely wish them both love and happiness.-I'm not saying it worked every time, but it worked enough. So much that I asked for a sign, of any kind, that things happen -if not for a reason--then not completely randomly. Actually, I asked for a chance to be of use somehow.

On Park and 82nd St, I heard and imperious-if slightly cracked- voice say: "Young Woman! You! The Pretty One! Come here and help me across the street!"

I turned around, and there was a tiny, elderly woman, about the size and build of a capuchin monkey. She had a sort of modified shopping cart that she was using as a walker, and was very well dressed. But she was having trouble seeing over the top of her improvised walker, let alone WALKING. So I said "Of course, madam", took her arm--"not THAT way!" she growled; obviously this was a well rehearsed drill for her---and led her across the street. She issued instructions and commands the entire time. She was a little like Captain Blight in a robin's egg blue twin set. (Cashmere.)

She had stepped a little too far into traffic for my comfort, so I stopped, in order to holde her back a bit, as Buicks (ARE there still Buicks?) went whizzing past our noses, too close for comfort. She yanked at my arm.
"Young woman", she said, "I may be old, but I am not, as many young people think, a complete idiot. I would NOT walk into traffic. Not being gaga."
"Of course," I said. "It was a reflective instinctual thing."
She smiled, as though she was pleased with her ability to choose escorts. "Good vocabulary", she said, and smiled at me, just a tiny bit. Then she went back to issuing orders.
Feeling more sympathy for Fletcher Christian than I ever had previously, I tried to divert her with questions. Also, I was interested. She was a salty, upper class pirate, and I liked her.
"I have parents who are older, and they're still smarter than I am, so it's not likely that I'd assume you're bats. Or dopey. Is this slang dated?"I grinned at her.
She smiled contentedly, after making sure my arm was properly adjusted and secure for her clinging comfort. "I was the head nurse at (Rutgers?) Hospital. I was there when they did the first kidney transplant. Now THAT was a thing." She stopped and closed her eyes to remember, I pulled her out of the way of a speeding noncognizant limo. She didn't notice. She was thinking of the splendor of that moment.
"Were you a nephrology nurse? Did you know my uncle, Dr. Bricker? The famous nephrologist?"
She opened her eyes fast-and wide, as she realized we were in traffic--and skedaddled a bit as she asked,"Dr. NEAL Bricker? HE's your UNCLE?"
I smiled with pleasure. "Yup. And he's your age, and he and his amazing wife are TWICE as smart as I am, so no more prejudices about young 'uns, please."
We chatted some more. She had gone back to school and become a psychologist; written a book about breast cancer -"I wanted to call it "Renaissance", but the goddamn publisher said [here she adopted a mocking tone in sing song} "No one will KNOW what that MEANS, Yvonne!" She snorted in indignation, something I have not seen in person very often. "So they called it "You've Got A Friend." Another snort.
"You will pardon me saying so on such short acquaintance, " I said, "but that title somehow doesn't seem very...YOU."
She turned her pretty blue eyes towards me sideways, as if acknowledging reluctantly that I might be capable of cogent reasoning."No. It isn't."
We kept walking.
She said, "Okay, here's the UPS Store. We're going in here for a minute. You're coming with."
At this point, having smelled a whiff of distillery and juniper on her breath, I wasn't going to leave her by herself. I resigned myself to being late for class. "Okay," I sighed.
The men in the UPS store were more than kind to her- they were downright saintly gentleman.
While she was watching them Xerox stuff for her, she took to reminiscing. "My husband was a trombone player and a violinist, you know."
I said, startled, "Simultaneously?"
She looked at me sideways again for a moment, and then allowed herself to laugh.
:No, one at a time..." she said.
"Pity. He could been in vaudeville." I was funnin' her.
"Actually, he played for the house band at The Chase (?) Hotel, Played with Nat King Cole...Sophie Tucker..."
"NAT KING COLE?? He's my RINGTONE!" I cried, pulling out my phone and making it ring. Instantly it played King singing "Stardust."
"Sophie Tucker...now THERE was an unexpected broad." she said. "But you won't know who she is.
"Smile when you challenge me o showbiz trivia, Yvonne," said I. I then quoted some of Sophie' act to her.
She hooted with delight. "Yes! That's her! But you know, the damnedest thing..."
"What?" I asked, because she was drifting a bit.
She snapped to. "The damnedest thing is that, if you talked to her offstage, she had a very polished Back Bay accent. [She did a credible imitation of a lock-jawed Eastern pedigree girl.]
To me, Sophie was known for her thick New Yawk accent and vulgarity (funny vulgarity)--to hear that she was a tea drinking grande dame was causing me some trouble.  So I said, "I'm going to sit down next to you, and process the cognitive dissonance. Oh...may I see your ring?"

She was wearing a Claddagh ring. I have one-it was the last ring my ex gave me--and I have been looking for it for days. It is two small hands holding one heart, and means "I will be faithful to you always, my one true love."

"I have a ring just like that" I said, turning her hand to examine the ring.
"Oh? You know what it means, then?" she asked. She was looking at me with sudden kindness in her face.
"Yes. Yes I do. It's a lovely sentiment."
I stood up. "Oh they're done. Shall we?"
Another series of complicated maneuvers got Yvonne, her rolling cart, me and and umbrella  decanted onto the street intact. "I'm going to get a cab," she said.
"I'll help," i said. Another 20 minutes of maneuvering later, I put her into a taxi, gently. She said "Thank you , dear. You are kind. Remind me to tell you my favorite Neal story sometime." She started to close the door.
Then she opened it a bit and said "Hey! Young lady!"
I turned back for a moment. "Yes, Yvonne?"
She eyed me sharply. "What happened to your ring?"
I stood in a puddle, and thought about a photo I'd seen that day, that had changed my life a little.
"Well, young lady?"
I held up my two hands, ringless and manicured. "It's gone," I said. "It's gone." I smiled. "And I think I've just stopped looking for it. There are other rings. But yours is lovely. Goodnight."
She pulled the door to, and the cab sped away. She was going to the fire dept to complain about something, and had brought a "photo of my Daddy in his fireman's uniform in St Louis." she had confided. "That'll make em sit up and take notice. No one listens when you're old, young lady. So I bring props."

I walked a few blocks, already late to class, and already not caring. I ahd read in the Times this morning about 100 year olds and what had helped them stay alive, with joie de vivre, so long.
One woman said "Just put it behind you. Th past is the past. There's always better stuff in front of you. Never look back. Just don't." The other centenarians agreed. "Don't look back. Have fun. Don't dwell on the bad stuff. Look ahead."

I smiled, thinking about the article, and the cranky and vivacious lifeforce I had just bottled into a cab. Who showed me her ring, my same ring, and knew my uncle, who lives 3000 miles away, by first name. Who demanded my help and received it: exactly what I am trying to learn how to do in my own life, in so many ways.
Who might or might not have been "my sign", but who made me happy, as helping someone always does. As self forgetting in a good way, does. As I went off towards Sutton Place to my class, I thought "just keep looking forward...something better's coming", and thoght about the way the centanarians had repeated that, and thought about how it is what I'm going to be doing, from this step and that step on. Depite F. Scott Fitzegerald's seductively nihilistic sentnce" "And so we beat on, boats against the current, drawn back ceaselessly into the past,,"...I resolved, with each step, not to be swayed by his lyrical, liquid romntics, And to be a better boat. And go forward.

I walked on through the darkening air. And I sang "Stardust"- not softly, not loudly, but just loud enough for my own soul to hear it. Just that loud. "Sometimes I wonder, why I spend the lonely night/dreaming of a song/a melody/haunts my reverie/and I am once again with you..."
And I thought, "let's save the sadness for the singing and the songs, yes? Put drama on the stage where it belongs." Something in me lifted and flew free. I walked, and sang, and said "goodnight" to the sleepy windows I was passing, and felt my heart, at last, settle cozily back into the nest it had fled from, in June.

Goodnight, city. Goodnight, Yvonne. And Yvonne?
Thank you.

love peri

There Is No Title For This That Google Will Recognize, So Screw It: Random Things

Random notes from a random notemaker: or,

Brides, Princes, Laundry Rooms and Dead Union Organizers DO have a Common Denominator. So there.   (read on....)

1) Read today that Martha Custis "invented" the wedding veil. Martha Washington's granddaughter, she made herself a veil of white lace, after her fiance remarked that her face looked especially lovely when she peered through the lace curtain. What he was actually saying was "You look much better when your face is mostly hidden, but you're from an extremely rich family, so what the hell. " I wonder if he spent the rest of their married life positioning her behind drapes, potted plants, shower curtains, whatever.
It's a good thing he didn't say she looked good by lamplight. Women everywhere would be walking down the aisle with lampshades on their heads.  

2) The Italian Prince called this evening, inviting me for two weeks in South America. "Or maybe Barbados.", he said. His English is not good. Nor is his grasp of vacation geography. He calls like clockwork every few months, and every few months i turn him down, but damn if that boy don't keep calling. Bless his princely little heart. He wasn't born a Prince, but was made a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire for his Services to Italy: he invented a process to make olives GROW in pretty colors and thus made more money than God. Apparently the world was waiting breathlessly for a pink olive. Who knew. -I've used every excuse in the book to wriggle out of these kind offers, such as: "I can't, I'm seeing somebody," [no, I'm not];"I can't, I'm going to, um, Wauhegan"[pretty much a "no" there, too..where IS Wauhegan?]," and , "I can't, I'm awaiting canonization,"-but to no avail. --Yes, yes, i COULD just hang up, but really--is YOUR life exciting enough that you can do without a call from a prince begging to take you to exotic destinations? And neither is mine.

3) While in the laundry room of the apartment building I live in this evening, and while folding what seemed like more laundry than ANYONE could POSSIBLY have EVER, I sighed out loud, without meaning too.
The nice, elderly yet sprightly, man folding across from me, looked up inquisitively.
"You okay?" he asked, in a kindly fashion.
"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that I just remembered, my servants are imaginary. Damn it."
He smiled. "My daughter just moved to China, for her work, and she has servants. She still can't get used to it."
I grinned back. "You know, I was in a place with servants last year for a week, and I was AMAZED how easily a girl who grew up singing folk songs about unions, could get used to it. I still occasionally forget, and snap my fingers to have someone bring me a margarita by the pool."
He looked puzzled. "There's no pool on this building."
I sighed again. "I know. Or servants. Or margaritas."
He pointed out that there might well be margaritas I was unaware of on the premises, and I realized that he'd been kidding about the pool. Then, after frowning thoughtfully for a moment, he said, "Union songs?"
I had to think back a few sentences, and then realized: "Oh. Yes. Union songs. Folk songs from the 30s and 40s about the need for unions, and the meanness of thug union busters. I was sort of a pinkdiaper baby." [Note to young 'uns: a reddiaper baby is one who was brought up in the 30's by liberal NYC Jews, who leaned to the socialist side; a pink diaper baby is a descendant of same, either literal descendant or spiritual.]


He stopped folding, put his laundry down carefully, stood up straight, and drew a deep breath.
"I dreamt I saw....Joe Hill last night...." he warbled, in a pretty sturdy baritone.
"-Alive as you and me!" I chimed in delightedly.
We sang the next part in unison: "Said I, "but Joe, you're ten years dead!" we caterwauled. In a nonetheless pleasing manner.
And I went high for the harmony:
"I never died, said he....I never died, said HEEEEEeee!"

We did the entire song.

I was about to ask him if he knew "Long Black Veil", but the laundry room was closing.

In the elevator, we talked our shared love of traditional folk music: not modern folk, which can be great and has some of the best songwriters alive committing it (Michael Peter Smith, David Massingill, Erik Frandsen) but the stuff that was written by plaintive and anonymous folk in the last five hundred years. And brought to the US in boats and planes, and then: transformed by the loved ones waiting on the new but homesick shores, into  songs that were the same- only different.

Then he got out, bowed deeply and dropped his laundry basket. I giggled and waved as the doors closed.

And that, ladies and jellybeans? Is why I live in this town.

love
peri

How are YOU?

xxx
p

Went to the Metropolitan Opera the other night to see "Boris Godunov". I love the accoutrements of opera: getting to dress to the glittering nines, getting to be with a handsome man in black tie, getting charged 32 dollars for a glass of Veuve Clicqout (Nope, didn't buy one; nor was the bartender amused when I asked him, since he didn't take credit cards, is I could trade colorful shells and beads, or perhaps liovestock, instead. He might have just have been bitter because he didn't have change for a sheep.) It's just opera itself I'm not sure about. Which is an irremediable failure on my part, but it's probably like sea urchin sushi or Justin Bieber: you either totally love it or you, well, don't.

I have written about opera before; I think it can be good for a critic to know absolutely nothing in the slightest, about the art form she's talking about. -Not good for the readers, maybe, but really- who asked them? Sheesh.

This production of "Godunov" was impressive but a little on the "hey, let's just do weird things and hope the audience thinks it's arty!" side. The sets were very, very minimal: apparently, someone walked into an empty warehouse one day and said, "Hey this reminds of me the scheming and power struglles in 18th century Russia!"- and the costumes were beautiful but a mite distracting. Partially because it appeared that the costume designer's approach was to close his eyes, open a book about "Costume Through The Ages", and simply copy whatever his eye first fell on. So there were ladies in 16th century ruffs; 19th centurey Empire costumes; and 20th century Gaultier suits; while the men cavorted in the priesthood robes of an oder that didn't exist at that time, as well as 19th century peasant, 21st century Generic Madman, and, with Boris G himself, a sort of Marilyn Manson-meets-Nine-Inch-Nails post Goth thing: he also had waistlength Cher Hair.  I kept thinking: "you're Tsar, dude: you can't afford a haircut? Even washing it would be a nice gesture."

You'll be surprised to learn that it didn't end happily. However, if I remember my history right, which is a pretty big "if, the REAL "False Dimitri" (he pretended to be the rightful Tsar, don't even ask, really) didn't stride out onto the stage proclaiming that justice peace and really good borscht-the kind you make from scratch--would now be readily available to all you smelly poor people. Nope. What ACTUALLY happened was that the peasants got fed up with him--turned out the borscht was storebought--and shot him out of a cannon, over the Russian border into Poland, a technique one almost never finds recommeneded in books called things like "How To Live A Long And Healthy Life". In fact, the number three rule, after "Stop smoking" and "don't date actors", is "Try not to get shot out of a cannon into Poland."  And I don"t. or do, or have, or haven't. Or something. Damn this grammar thing.- Anyway, good night.

Giving It Up

I've always held the theory that people either "expand" or "contact" as they get older.

Not literally--well, okay, sometimes literally--but I've noticed, especially after 30, that a person's reaction
to, say, a difficult life situation, comes down to the most basic of two choices: we either move towards the situation or away from it. "Moving towards" involves stuff that doesn't feel good at the moment: feeling the pain, figuring out what one's lessons are, facing whatever truth needs to be faced. It's the path of growth, and, like most things that are good for us, is not that much fun. But like exercise, and broccoli, and writing thank you notes...it makes us feel better later. MUCH better.

 "Moving away" from the situation IS fun...well, it feels like fun at the time. In NYC, one can keep incredibly busy, which not only is distracting, but makes one feel important. "I'm really busy, therefore I MUST be doing something important", could be alternately the motto for either NY/LAers.,or a hamster in his wheel. I speak from experience: I have spent a lot of time as a rather glamourous hamster.

When you move away from a difficult situation--when you drink a lot, or lie to avoid "hurt feelings", or get lost in the arms of yet another Troo Luv, or do anything that distracts you while at the same time  feels really good--a necessary part of you is at risk of genuinely dying. I'm not saying "never have a glass of wine after a hard day at the office". I am saying that what I've learned recently is: sometimes, you need to be quiet, do nothing, and listen.

It's HARD TO DO.    -DAMN!

I've always been a "runner towards": I can't help it, it's part of my nature. I learned this in a very concrete way when, 15 years ago, a grownup was beating a child on the street, and I ran towards the situation, not away. I got my hand broken with a tire iron for my foolhardiness, but the adult got sent to jail, so that worked out as a reasonable trade. But there are nights when I can't find much good about myself--I'm not 22 anymore, or I'm not successful enough, or my nose is not currently fashionable--when just knowing I ran towards and not away, makes me think, "well at least there's that. " -More permanently, I learned that I can do that. I can face difficult truths. -Eventually. But there's always another growth step, isn't there? The next trick is to feel the bad stuff and face the hard stuff: without wallowing in 'em. As a songwriter, I can rationalize "wallowing" big time--this isn't selfpity, it's research for a song, dammit! I NEED to hang on to these emotions! They might be worth something someday!-Sheesh.

I ran into someone the other day who'd been a close friend, a long time ago. He had contracted. He didn't want to know anything knew: he had his ideas and beliefs, thank you. He had the same opinions as he had a decade before, but now they'd solidified into unshakeable dogma. When I first knew him, he was enthusiastic, curious,, and made lots of mistakes-but some of them turned out pretty well. Now he made no mistakes...well, not in his eyes, anyway. Other people made a LOT of them, according to him. His life philosophy had become "I don't want to hear it."

I've been like that. I recently had to grovel to a friend because I'd been so uncompassionate and so judgmental when she went through a breakup a few months ago. I was so busy feeling superior, that I couldn't and wouldn't feel her pain. I mean, she deserved it for making such stupid choices, right? -Well, ladies and jellybeans, the old adage is true: Karma IS a bitch. I had to get broken open, recently,to let the light shine back in. I had to look at some choices I'd made. Oooops. Not so hot.

It's been hard. It was the hardest time I've ever been through. There was a time when I was young enough to think I had the luxury, of having time to run away from the situation. I drank enough, "fell in love" enough, and ran around enough to distract myself from whatever the Universe was holding up in front of my face and saying"LOOK AT THIS", about.- But I don't have that time anymore. Never did, truth be told. Now the stakes are higher, and the world says "grow, or else." So I had to expand, to let in light, to look at what hadn't worked; I had to, essentially, choose what I wanted to be when I grew up.  And this time? No backsies, as we said in childhood.

So this time? I cried. And learned when to stop crying. I had some wine. And then didn't for a while. I looked at where i'd been lazy, or selfish, or had ignored my own inner counsel; I looked at how I'd lied, or been thoughtless, or ...or...or.... But I also learned that self-flagellation is no substitute for actual CHANGE; part of grieving was learning when to stop. I started to look at  the insanely painful situation with what my wise sister would call "radical acceptance" and my mom would call "emotional economy": I accepted it.
This thing happened. It can't unhappen. I wish it hadn't happened. But now i will accept it completely and move on.

The folks I know who choose growth--in ANY form--are the friends i've watched grow into wiser, finer, stronger folks. The friends I had who chose "running away"...well, I don't know what happened to them.
Every day I force myself to choose growth of SOME kind--reading, or thinking, or reaching out with hardlearned compassion--and every day it's a chore. But I look in the mirror lately and I see--well, okay, I see someone who could use a little Botox in places, but I also see a woman who has worked really hard to earn my trust and respect. I don't know if I would have met her ever, if the Terrible Thing hadn't happened.

But it did.

And weirdly?

I'm grateful.

love
peri

A completely silly lyric, because just watched "Pirates of the Caribbean"

The Chick Pirate Song        peri lyons 2010

in the morn I’m away

to far jamaica bay

Lad, I"m afraid I used you for my pleasure;

I’m a pirate lass

Drinks my fill and breaks the glass!

And you are just a coin in all my treasure...

The wind is in the sails--

The porpoises and whales

Will serenade us in our time together;

Bid home and heart adieu

For who will ransom you?

Yes you are now my captive lad forever

And if you do ignore me

or (much more likely) bore me...

Then I'll maroon you on a lonely cay;

Provision you-- then kiss you

And darling, I may miss you...

But by that time I'll be so far away....

Cuz Im a pirate lass

Drinks my fill and breaks the glass

And you are just a coin in all my treasure

But darling don't be blue

I used you, it is true...

But surely you would not deny the pleasure!

In the morn I’m away

to far jamaica bay

Lad, Im afraid I used you for my pleasure;

I’m a pirate lass

Drinks my fill and breaks the glass!

And you are just a coin in all my treasure...

But surely, you would ne'er deny the pleasure

peri 2010

 a little old fashioned but what the hell.

Anymore: song lyric (peri's)

Well, this about sums it up. Switched up the genders: actually, it should be a male/female duet when sung.=PL xx

Anymore

              

It's not something that is easily explained;

I don't even know what for.

We can argue who is crazy, who is sane:

I just don't want to anymore.

You want to reason with me: call me and complain

List all the good times from before...

I am sorry to be causing you this pain

I just don't want to anymore.

(bridge)

Look: Love is strange, and everybody knows that fact-

There's a helpful song for every heart that's broken;

Things rearrange: when love is leaving -and you've caught it in the act-

Then you forget every wise word ever spoken

Yes, I'm a heartless boy who's turned his back on love.

Yes, I agree now ,like before.

You throw your gauntlet down as I adjust my glove;

Demand just who and why and what I'm thinking of;

You ask me if I even know the cost of love...

Well, I don't want to anymore.

I just don't want to, anymore.

c 2010 peri lyons/valley cottage music ascap

A Rather Silly Lyric In Honor of The US Open and My Recent Breakup

U.S. Open Your Heart, My Dear        c 2010 Peri Lyons, who wrote it and all


Though tennis I know nothing of,
They all know nothing equals love;
And all the sports fans know the call:
Love equals nothing much at all.

The poets tell us there's no cost:
It's better to have loved and lost-
But let me tell you something, hon-
It's BETTER to have loved and WON.

Sportsfans and poets all agree
That love's a bloody mystery:
If love's a game, as seems to be:
The heart's a lousy referee.

So though I loved and lost, it's true,
And played no games at all with you:
I've cut out sobbing into gin-
Cuz next time? I will play to win.

xx pl c 2010

************************************************

One of the most annoying things about the career I seem to have fallen into by accident, is that I occasionally have to actually TAKE the damn advice I give to others, in such a blithe and breezy manner.. Like the annoyingly new-age question, "If you knew this awful situation was happening in order to teach you a very specific lesson very fast, what do you think that lesson is?" I love asking that, in a slightly pompous way. But now that it's happened to me? Jesus, I HATE answering it.
Because, let's face it, what is the fun of going through a very hard time, if you can't feel immensely, gloriously sorry for yourself, and therefore indulge in- and rationalize!- incredibly self-indulgent behaviour?
Of COURSE you're temporarily allowed to watch 5 hours of "The Tudors" until the sun comes up! (I would also do the whole "consuming a pint of Haagen Dazs" thing as well, but sadly, don't like sweets. Or lately, food.) Of COURSE you can stay up all night listening to sappy music and sobbing! -Of course, unless you can figure ut a way to get PAID for these activities, pretty soon you have to snap out of it and go be a Regular Person Without Misery Privileges again, which kind of sucks. I got a lot of free cab rides when I was being Attractively Wistful And Slightly Teary. But now I'm kinda over it, so I have to pay AND tip. Am considering hiding raw onion in hankie to bring back those pity-inducing-and-really-rather-profitable tears.

I do miss living with my guy: we really had a blast together, and I kind of perfected the half badass/half geisha thing, AND I re-learned how to cook. But it turns out I'm much shallower than I thought: six weeks and booom: all better. It"s hard to realize that while,yes, one can be deeply and poetically miserable as befits a tortured poet with a profound soul, one can ALSO be pretty much completely cheered up by finding a pair of Yves Saint Laurent shoes on eBay for 5 bucks. Damn it.

Well, am off to read 19th century Romantic poets and weep for the beautiful poignancy of it all.-Oh, hell, who are we kidding: I'm off to bid on that really cool pair of vintage Air Jordans. I'm pretty sure that Shelley and Keats kept their references to athletic footwear to a minimum. But you never know.

Those guys were deep.

love
per

"The Oriental Trading Wedding Catalog" Will Lie To You And Make You Sad.

 I recently discovered that, when one gets engaged,one mysteriously starts receiving bushels of wedding-related catalogs. They're really kind of amazing, in their fervent belief that NO object is too trivial to be turned into a fetishistic wedding decoration/ornament/rather doubtful gift. I spent the hours in which I should have been cleaning, today, mesmerized like a cobra by a mongoose,  by the wares featured in the mysterious and possibly-not-really-Asian, bridal  catalog, "Oriental Trading Wedding!Everything from "Will You" to "I do"!""  - Yikes. No, really. Yikes.

 Apparently, there is an insatiable demand for items such as: custom flip flops for one's wedding guests, something I thought was pretty amazingly tacky,until I learned that Ivanka Trump had those at her recent wedding to Jared Kushner. (Wait...which is the Trump daughter? Ivanka? What's the mom's name? Why do I care? Did Heidi and Spencer really break up? Is Heidi now going to pursue a career as an inflatable pool toy? But we digress. -And how.) But I still think flip flops are tacky.

There are also slightly distressing items. Somehow, the photo of wooden chairs set up outside with customized paper fans on them, is not reassuring. 

Why not  go all out, and have huge monogrammed blocks of ice for the VIP guests to sit on?Or  why not skip the fans altogether and have the damn thing INside? I hate outdoor weddings. My stiletto  heels always sink into the grass/sand/Jello/best man, and I wobble in an unflattering manner.  Not good. Also, there are always gnats in the crab dip. Between wobbling, spitting out gnat-filled crab bits unobtrusively into the shrubbery, and wrasslin' the mother in law for a seat on the monogrammed ice block, it all goes to hell in a handbasket quickly. -A tasteful, monogrammed, white satin handbasket. See catalog. Page 5.

We will quickly pass over the "Personalized Wedding Knife", on page 9. It doesn't bear thinking about. Although it will come in handy at about three AM when the bride accuses her new hubby of staring at the bridesmaids' cleavage, and he responds that she shouldn't have dressed her closest female friends like "Little Bo Peep Becomes A Prostitute: The Movie", and pretty soon the Personalized Wedding Knife's TRUE purpose becomes all  too apparent.

Some of these catalog items have the reek of desperation about them, an air of "methinks the couple doth protest too much."  One catalog is very big on having you, the Gentle Reader, engrave the phrase "Bruce and Carleen: Two Hearts, One Love." on everything-  Well yes. Two hearts, one love: One would hope so: these people are getting married, after all. "Two Hearts, One Mutually Unspoken But Relieved Agreement To Settle" is accurate but depressing, and "Three Hearts,One Love" while amusing, would be complicated. And probably French. And  finally, "Two Hearts, Four Kidneys, One Appendix, and Two Silicone Implants: One Love", while interesting and informative, would be prohibitively costly to engrave.  And who, exactly,are Bruce and Carleen? Unless you are a 1950's country singer and/or own a small hair salon in Atkins, Georgia, you should not be spelling your name with two successive "ee"s. 

-Bruce, you're fine. And probably gay.

Oooh, look, we're at the "Excessive Crosses" section already! Reaffirm your faith AND make your Jewish guests uncomfortable! Talk about win-win! -And here! Page 18! There are WASPy butter mints tastefully wrapped in Episcopal Cross wrappers, which say to me: 1) The food at this wedding is NOT going to be tasty,  but WILL have all the crusts cut off; and 2) After this evening? This couple will never have sex again.

(I grew up Episcopal. I'm allowed to say this. Besides, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that the WASPier the wedding, the crappier the food.) 

I could go on and on. The "Save the Date" wedding magnet, which OSTENSIBLY shows a cartoon couple "taking the plunge" in snorkels   (?), but ACTUALLY looks like they are hanging themselves simultaneously. (Image to come...it's awesome.)  There are other "Save The Date" magnets, that seem to read "Eric and David Are Getting Married!", which I LOVED, but which seemed unexpectedly enlightened in this particular context...sadly, it was "Erin", not Eric. Sigh.-I also read one as "Dawn and Marie:Gettin Hitched!" but it turned out to be "Dawn and Marc", much to my disappointment.

On page 23, there is a white, wedding themed birdcage, to symbolize your coming entrapment, despair, and your ultimate fate of, metaphorically, winding up ,feet in the air, on a seed strewn page of last week's newspaper. Fun! -The "cartoon bride and groom" themed toilet paper, page 29, makes the "Personalized Knife" seem both optimistic AND tasteful.  The "Round Silver Cardboard Dinner Plates" (page 32) look -by accident or design- EXACTLY like the tinware found in prison mess halls; page 46 features, grimly, THREE MORE personalized Wedding Knives; and this Trilogy Of Resignation And Doom is rounded off, on page 72, with the suggestion that you gift your bridesmaids with--wait for it--engraved flasks. Because they will crave the sweet embrace of that one special man on this romantic day: yes,  we mean Johnny Walker Black. 

{An upbeat note here: the Jordan Almonds in your wedding colors are cool. I love Jordan Almonds. You can never go wrong with Jordan Almonds. And the personalized candy corn is cool too, although it might confuse your guests into thinking it's actually Halloween, and your "bride and groom" outfits are costumes. But only if you've already given them their flasks.}

To sum up: In the words of one satisfied  customer, under "Advice From The Bride", are these golden gems of helpful wisdom:

1) Put a SPECIAL centerpiece on the table of the bride and groom! [Um, yes. DUH. The "Dixie Cup with a daisy in it",while sweet, won't really do it.]

2) Have plenty of champagne and wine glasses on hand for the adult guests! {Because everyone lying under the wine box spigot and gulping, just TAKES too damn long.}

3) Polyester flowers make EVERYTHING more elegant!  [Well, no. No,they don't. Truly not. Please,God.No.}

and, this final, enigmatic gem:

4) When it comes to your Wedding Day, skimping on the special details shouldn't be optional.   {Well, of course not! Or, of course! Or...wait, what does this MEAN?" Not not skimping on the details should not be not optional?" Or, "Skimp away?" What???]

So pull up a block of monogrammed ice, sharpen your Wedding Knife, and call yourself Bruce And Carleen. Remind guests that you are getting married because you are in LOVE, with two hearts and one love and a vestigial appendix, and not because you're almost thirty and let's face it,  the dating pool is dwindling. Put on your flip flops, fill up your flask and relax! , secure in the knowledge that: The divorce rate is 53 %, your BRIDESmaids, at the end of the day, will -unlike YOU- still be single; and really: Jordan Almonds are SO TASTY!! Especially in Your Colors.

And polyester flowers go with everything.

************

Peri Lyons c 6/1/2010 all rights reserved

How to Tell The A List from The A Train.

"You NEVER say "private jet"!" My friend C. rolled her huge green eyes.

I was being a smartass, almost never a very good plan.

"Never? Even if someone asks what P-R-I-V-A-T-E J-E-T spells?" I asked. Sometimes I like to wind her up by being a Stroppy Cow. -But not very often.

She blew out Gauloise smoke impatiently. I remembered,privately,that she was born in the Chinese Year of Dragon,so smoke from her nostrils was both Chinesely appropriate AND a warning sign. I also decided not to mention to her, that I'd thought this.

"No! You say, at most, something about "landing at Teterboro." Or...let me see...I heard someone do this AMAZING thing,where she complained that her ride home from France was SO turbulent that next time she was flying commercial." She swiveled her chair back to the computer to catch up on emails. Problem solved.

I LOVE this stuff. I love mastery in ANY subject,and my friend has mastery in a few: but one of the things she's kind of genius at is How To Act And Talk Like An A-Lister, or as my russian pal Anya always put it, a "TopTop". -(When asked about this coinage, Anya blthely explained that when she first came here from Moscow,she'd heard people say "He's a top,top [designer, curator, fill in blank here]" and thought that was the actual word for those people.)

My friend C is not very patient, does not suffer those she deems fools gladly-or at all--but DAMN, that girl knows her stuff. So I listen. And learn. The thing is? It works.

I am not a natural A Lister. I am a talker; also? A blurter. And  I can't lie now that I've figured out I truly suck at it (my "tells include: breaking out in hives, blushing vermilion, and having my voice go up so many octaves I sound like a BeeGee); and my idea of a social grace is that: I didn't hit you. I dream of being the woman about whom people whisper, "She's fluent in French,Mandarin,Portugues and Swahili,", but the fact is, when I do speak French in France, French people laugh and laugh. And then answer me in English. (They do this rather kindly. I think, for them, it was like watching a duck try and explain particle physics:not very good, but I did get points for "effort".) In Cannes last week I'm pretty sure I told a nice woman,in French, that she was a species of eggplant. I meant it as a compliment,is the awful thing.

Some other non-A-list qualities have included talking too much; name dropping (out of exuberance and disbelief, but, hey,it's still pretty lame); the ability to trip over dust motes as I'm trying to glide elegantly across a room and instead wind up doing do a faceplant in the hummus dip; and an insane insistence on doing my makeup in the cab without a mirror,guaranteeing I arrive looking like a five year  old girl who REALLY wants to be Diana Vreeland.

Backstory/Digression:
Two years ago, I saw the handsomest and most amazing man (ever) (truly!) (hot, brilliant, funny, honest, loyal, kind, faithful, utterly trustworthy and a beautiful, noble soul)- across a crowded room, and fell ass-over-teakettle in love with him. Because miracles actually DO occur, he reciprocated the feeling. and we wound up talking till 2, and then calling each other and talking on the phone till dawn. And now, God willin' and the creek don't rise, we're engaged.  There's "lucky" and there's : "luckier than any woman has ever been", also known as: "being engaged to John Buffalo Mailer". Honestly, it's like winning the spiritual lottery ...only much, MUCH better. -Anyway:
Because my fella's mom is a charismatic Southern born beauty, and his genius Dad had friends from every walk of life (boxing promoters, A list movie stars, former Army buddies), my guy is that rarest of creatures, a natural gentleman. He is the same guy all the time, whether at a glittery Peggy Siegal hoedown or in our kitchen, having beer with our neighbors and helping me fry chicken. So he's taught me a lot of social graces (don't spit on the floor, don't ask "what do YOU do" but instead "how do you spend your time?", don't hit no one almost ever) , but his politeness is not just politesse: he genuinely likes people and is really interested in them. Which,as it turns out, seems to be the Big Secret. Because, after I informed the nice lady in France that she was a garden vegetable, I ALSO asked if she had photos of her kids, and I really meant it because I really like people's photos of their families. So she warmed up, and we wound up having a really nice time, and she forgave me for suggesting she should probably be breaded and covered with marinara sauce and cheese, and it all wound up great.

I love my friend C--the one from the opening paragraph--and, awestruck, admire her social acumen, all of which I've listened to and all of which has worked. And, although her manner of teaching is a little more abrupt than my fiance's, it actually springs from the same sweet wellspring: empathy, love and interest. Because manners, au fond (that's French! And I'm an eggplant!) --are about the OTHER PERSON. Not making them feel small cuz you're bragging without meaning to; not making them feel like you're faking your smile; but stepping back and respectfully listening. Because everybody has a story that can stop your heart. You just have to give them a little time, and if you can, a little bubble of safety to shine in. If you can reflect back to them even a little of the beauty they're sharing with you, it's pretty much the definition of a win-win situation.
I like those. "win-win" GOOD.

My friend, despite her occasional abruptness, taught me a HUGE amount about civility. She also lent/gave (that's "lending" without asking for it back ever) a Gucci dress for me to wear in Cannes, and a Prada bag because "look, it's time you had a big girl purse." She thought about my wellbeing and acted on it,without making me feel "less than": instead, I felt seen and protected.

And darlings?

THAT'S A-list.

love
Miss Peri Lyons

Next installment: Cannes, or, I WOULD have "social proof", except the waiter stole my camera.

How To Kill Your Friends

If you truly love your friends, gather them together, ask them to get their affairs in order, and make them the fried chicken I made last night, which, after being soaked in buttermilk for 24 hours, was then fried in a mixture of lard, butter, and bacon. Listen to them moan in appreciation of how delicious it is, and then watch as, one by one, their cholestrol goes through the roof, their arteries clang shut and they topple backwards out of their chairs. Then pile them in a corner and finish their desserts for them. They won't need dessert where they are now.

As the banks topple and the economy goes into a nosedive, it's good to start entertaining at home. It's also good to start economizing in other ways. You can make a lovely evening dress out of Bounty and duct tape, and a pair of spraypainted shoeboxes make lovely dress shoes, sure to be a conversation starter in any situation.There are also simple ways t make extra money in any situation. When dining in a fine restaurant, bring a large waterbug with you, and at an opportune moment, slip it into the foie gras. You will certainly enoy a free meal. Be sure and take the cutlery with you when you go: restaurants love the free advertising that comes when you use their monogrammed silver to entertain your own guests. Also, I find, when hobnobbing with rich people, a good thing to do is to ask them how much money they have, and then ask for some. They love that. You can also keep up appearances in many small, easy ways: a chandelier perks up any small cardboard dwelling, and when cooking for guests, there are many delicious casseroles that can be whipped up in a minute using Little Friskies canned food as a delicious and economical base. A quaint 18th century French custom saves on water: rather than washing, use copious amounts of perfume, and if someone complains, you can denounce them as decadent aristocrats and have them beheaded. Economizing! It's easy and fun!

I hope you enjoy these helpful hints, because I could use new friends, now that the last ones I had are now piled like cordwood in a corner of my cozy one-bedroom apartment. 

Chicken, anyone?

Love,

Peri, who might need to adjust her meds.

A Reprise In Honor of Valentine's Day

The Lilies Of The Field Are Trying To Tell You Something

http://tinyurl.com/ycfw5gr
Got sent some anonymous flowers recently.-Well, the flowers weren't anonymous (they were roses, their actual names a mystery to me, although the one on the left did look like a bit like a Charlie)but the sender was. It was nice, in a slightly creepy way. So, because of this:
I have been researching the Victorian Language of Flowers. A Victorian suitor would send his beloved flowers, each of which had a very specific meaning, in order to communicate what his true feelings were.-Perhaps a wee bit passive-aggressive, but I'd rather get a bouquet of hollyhocks than an email ANY day, thank you.
So here's a selection of the Language of Flowers circa 1885, and afterwards, my own 2009 version.

Language Of The Flowers, 1885 version

1) Camellia: I live in gratitude of your perfected loveliness

2) Chrysanthemum: I admire your cheerfulness through adversity

3) Damask Rose: I worship your brilliant complexion

4) Fuschia: The ambition of my love thus plagues myself [Note:- What??]

5) Peach/or Peach Blossom: Your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled.

6) White Rosebud: You are too young to understand love [Note:I get that one a LOT.]

(Here is the website to learn more: http://www.victorianbazaar.com/meanings.html)

And...Here is The Language of the Flowers, 2010 Version:

1) Dandelions: You're okay, considering. I guess.

2) Poppies: I love you, but not more than I love prescription medications.

3) Carnations:My God, you're beautiful. My God, I'm cheap.

4) Rare Orchids: Aren't these exquisite? I'm sleeping with your sister.

5) Daffodils: Your optimism is touching. If delusional.

6)Asters: These are asters. -No, that's it, that's the message. Sorry.

7) Peach colored sunset roses: Your skin is like a flower petal at sunrise, and I think i might be gay.

8) Red roses: I think you're swell, I think you're aces, and I think it's 1947.

To sum up? Flowers are a beautiful means of communication, but I wouldn't try to leave a note for your cleaning woman with them. "Lobelias, canterbury bells and ferns...that means VERY CLEARLY to empty the dishwasher, Magda!! For pete's sake!"

love,Peri

The True,Real,No-Kidding This Time Meaning of Love

Note: The National Enquirer recently printed an incredibly true story, giving the details of a lawsuit filed by a disbruntled magician,against the Rev. Jim Bakker. The magician had implored his young wife and assistant, "Bambi", to attend marriage counseling with the (sort of)Reverend Jim Bakker was incensed because Mr. Bakker assigned the case to his pastor, "Bob", a former soap star who DID help the couple achieve closure. -Unfortunately, Bob did that by running off with  Bambi. -But, according to a source "close to the people involved" [would you actually ADMIT it if you knew ANY of these people?],what galled the magician/plaintiff MOST, was that Bob and Bambi had taken with them-
(without permission) 
his "specially trained Kangaroo".
The magician's heartfelt cri de couer, awoke the Muse in my soul. [She naps a lot, my Muse.]
Herewith, a Pome:


kangaroo doggerel: a plea




How could you do

This to me, who

Has loved you so long!

Oh the disaster!

You ran off with our pastor

And that’s not all too!

When you ran, 
you took my heart

My money; most expensive art;

But

What

turned my heart deep blue

Was that you took-

You awful crook-
You took

My Specially Trained

Kangaroo.

I see you now, you three (-or two-

Just two without the kangaroo)

(Or three ,if you include him too);

(Or four:my poor heart makes one more);

All of us-I mean all of you-

Are riding into a sunset, ooh.

Just you and him

And me and you

And a wellworn

 didgereedoo

And of course

That’s not a horse

It’s way too cool

it’s our specially trained but

-who knew? so cruel!-

     Kangaroo

Now I am not a bitter man

But dear it does seem cruel

After all that I looked past

To  do this last thing too

[spoken:]

I forgave you

When you strayed with my best friend

My catchers’ mitt

A vat of organic peanut butter

Some Filipino acrobats

And a cockatoo-

Hey,

I thought it was just an amour fou!

But now I know better

Since I got your letter:

With a picture of You

And him,
that swine with whom you flew,

And worst of all

What hurts of all

It’s true

In the middle of the two

of you

is him!

Is Jim:

My Extremely

Specially Trained

And Ungrateful

HardHearted

Kangaroo!




By Peri Lyons, The Poet Who Understands. -Sort of. 2011

Sherlock Holmes, Red Wine,and Heidi Montag's Breasts

Started the day--and by "started" I mean "not started at all"--by waking up and immediately praying for a swift,painless death. -Oddly, I don't do that most mornings.
Why?
Well. Had a singing gig last night, doing songs such as my own "Mrs. DeSade Explains" (written from the point of view of the wife of the Marquis); "Mr. Harris", Aimee Mann's beautiful ode to unconventional love; "Last Day Of Pompeii", an upbeat swing tune by the great Michael Peter Smith, in which several about-to-be-covered-in-lava Pompeiians reflect cheerfully on what they might have done differently in life; and my own "Touch", about why women (well, okay, me) tend to like the Unavailable Bad Boys,rather the Devoted Ones Who Are Good To Us. (-Luckily, my own fella combines both archetypes, so I don't have to choose, but it hath not always been so.)
And red wine was consumed.And I forgot to eat.And I woke up to find that some prankster had inserted red hot curried marbles where my eyeballs used to be,and also my hair hurt.
However, had to be at the Algonquin Hotel at 9:45 AM to go to a Sherlockian fest with a writer pal. Which would have been fine,and generally WAS fine, except that,in my hurry to get out the door, I threw on a dress that was actually more like, say, a shirt. And put on the shoes that were immediately visible, which had four inch heels. And showed up at a dignified, canonical gathering looking like The Blonde Who Lost Her Pants.- The six foot three blonde who lost her pants. That's a lot of pants to lose.
My writer friend,the lovely,talented and newly-engaged-to-Amanda-Palmer Neil Gaiman (Miss Palmer is also lovely and talented) winced slightly when he saw me, but was otherwise the soul of tact,and almost never said "My that's a short-to-nonexistent skirt you're almost wearing,Miss Lyons."
He introduced me to some lovely people. One very nice gentleman was the former head of The Royal Academy Of Art. -I applied for that job, but I think they were put off when I mentioned "Dogs Playing Poker" as my favorite Old Master painting. I also met a very very nice Norwegian gentleman,and I have to say this: Norwegians always wind up talking about being Norwegian. No one knows why.Science is baffled.
I knew Neil when he was just a simple New York Times multiple bestselling author, but now he has achieved the kind of megastardom that makes other multiple NY Times bestselling authors look like pikers,slackers and unproductive wastrels. He's won every award I can think of, including "Tupperware Distributor Of The Month", but I think that last one was an accident. Anyway, he's one of the world's kindest humans, and a lovely human,and it's just lagniappe that, he's kind of a walking Golden Ticket: when one hangs out with him, random people walk up and offer you nice things,like membership to cool Sherlockian societies,and Maseratis,and stuff. It's a wee bit taking-abacking,in a nice way.And one has to be very nice to the people he's chatting to, becaause the person you're introduced to as,say, "my friend Bob", later turns out to be the,say, King of Sweden,so maybe asking him to get you a cup of coffee wasn't the best idea. -I'm just sayin', Anyway, I spent my last 20 bucks on "The Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical References", because the nice elderly gent who wrote it was sitting by himself at a table,where his books were selling like whatever is the exact opposite of hotcakes. He inscribed it to me with much enthusiasm and many letters after his name, and I felt quite nice about it.
Mr. Gaiman and I then wobbled over to a coffee shop (wait-he walked.I wobbled) and I stared bemusedly at eggs. It was quite nice. Except for the part where my brain kept turning on and off and little flashing bits kept falling out of it. -But he was quite nice about that,and tried to be less of a genius for a bit until I could pretend to be sentient.-It didn't work--he was still a genius and I still wasn't sentient--but I appreciated the effort.

As he strolled off to a photo shoot with the glamourous Miss Palmer, I relaized that I was getting a migraine and went home to put a cat on my head and lie down. First I had to walk,in my large blonde pants-free way,through Times Square. I don't recommend this. As my pal Jim said,"Hey,ten years ago you could have made good money."-I am going to assume that he MEANT that,ten years ago, Times Square was seedier, NOT that ten years ago I was considerably more salable.-But whatever.

After resting until midnight, I got up and read the People magazine John had very sweetly brought as my Saturday guilty pleasure,and saw that Hedi Montag was on the cover,crowing about her ten plastic surgery procedures in one action packed day. She does look very pretty now, in an inhuman,plastic Nordic alien way,and has quite a career ahead of her as a very high priced callgirl. I liked how honest she was about it, in a body-dysmorphic-disfunction,narcisisstic,addictive way...if someone says that having breasts so large that she can't stand upright unassisted,is going to make her feel more "feminine", well, bully for her. She could also go for the multiple breasted, "Romulus and Remus's mother" look: that's feminine. -However, as every celebity has had huge amounts of plastic surgery and DOESN'T talk about it--Angelina, dear,I am talking to YOU--I think being honest about the expense,suffering and souldestroying vanity, is kind of admirable. Although I don't think she actually mentioned the "soul-destroying vanity at the expense of one's inner integrity" part. I might have just made that up.
But really-Nicole Ritchie's jowls disappear from one day to the next, Madonna has what look to be small steel girders implanted in her cheeks, Angelina Jolie's nose gets smaller every week,and  Nicole Kidman has not moved a facial muscle since the 90's--and everyone lets them get away with it? Please. Sure,Miss Montag is going to be facing some obstacles in her future--she can no longer stand near a radiator or she'll melt, for one thing--but she seems fine with trading future grotesquerie for present money. I might too, if anyone offered. -Actually, that's not true--Ford Models asked me to have my nose done whn I was  16, and I flatly refused. And me a Jewish Doctor's Daughter! Imagine. I've got a ski jump nose,and thought "Sure it looks funny NOW,, but if there is ever a demand for female Bob Hope impersonators,I've got to be ready!!"-No. Actually, I thought I looked fine. And I wasn't very good at modeling. I would walk off runways (no depth perception); break out in huge hives before a go-see; and try to talk to the other models about the James Joyce book I was reading. That was not a huge success.

Well, thanks for hanging out. You should probably go to bed now: it's almost 3 AM. Get some sleep. If getting to sleep is a problem for you, I have a copy of "A Sherlock Holmes Illustrated Cyclopedia of Nautical Referenes" that works better than Seconal.
love
Peri

Jacob Marley And Me

Christmas is an odd day...it always feels like an anticlimax by about 5 pm, no matter what you're doing after. It IS a perfect day for watching movies on TV, though. So I watched "Christmas Carol" and "Marley and Me". (-By "Christmas Carol", I mean the PROPER one, the Alastair Sims version. The Jim Carrey version is unthinkable-about. ) I'm going to skip "Christmas Carol" in this entry  (except to observe that you could also call it "Jacob Marley And Me"), and talk a bit about the Dog Movie.

"Marley and Me" was a HUGE hit this year. It stars the perkily inhuman Jennifer Aniston, and the tiny and dreadfully lost-seeming Owen Wilson, whom I like and feel sorry for simultaneously.  Aniston makes a living out of doing chilly, businesslike impersonations of Wacky Free Spirits. In this film, she's doing an impression of a Perfect Wife 'N' Mom which is pretty good, as long as one knows lot of Wife 'N' Moms who only have very photogenic emotions. I keep expecting her face and body to entirely crack open one day, and a metallic cyborg to step out and announce that the world is now Theirs, and They Will Be Enslaving Humans to Do Their Bidding, but They are Still Keeping Bryan Lourds As Their Agent.Just In Case.-But I digress.
I missed the first part of the film. Apparently, from the flashbacks--and this is the kind of movie that has a movie's worth of flashbacks--the golden Aniston and the butterscotch Wilson got a suitably Aryan-colored puppy some years ago. {I was a bit surprised they didn't get a darker puppy, as well, to work as staff.]
He chewed a lot of stuff, and then they had children. Wilson works for a newspaper, although it's hard to see where either of them find time to do anything, because their matching perfect highlights must require CONSTANT touching up. -So: He is the kind of writer who gets fired for Pursuing His Vision No Matter What. -My feeling about that is, unless when you look in the mirror Edgar Allen Poe is staring back at you, getting fired from a newspaper for Pursuing Your Vision doesn't mean you're a genius. It actually sort of says to Me The Viewer that you might be kind of a selfrighteous pain in the ass. -By the time I tuned in, they were moving to a place in Pennsylvania that is actually, objectively, sort of a  mansion, but a mansion just eccentric and attainable enough to lure the hapless viewer into thinking she might actually own something like it some day.-Poor,deluded hapless viewer. -On a columnist's salary?
Maybe Aniston's character has a trust fund? -But I digress.
The dog gets older, and then one day it dies. That 's the plot.-No, really. That's the plot.

Now, I am no stranger to the "God Spelled Backwards Is Dog" school of  animal writing. As a kid, I LOVED Albert Payson Terhune books ("Lad:A Dog") , and Farley Mowat (who could also be Marley Fowat, now that I come to think of it...)...and Cleveland Amory's "I Am a Closeted Upper-Class Gay Man in Boston Who Writes A LOT-A LOT-- About His Cat" books, and loved them all. Because they were heartfelt. Albert Payson Terhune may have hated everyone in the world EXCEPT his dogs, to judge from his constant, randomly inserted, semi-Brechtian diatribes against "day trippers", "speed demons", and "indecently clad young people" (he wrote around 1912) , but man, he LOVED those dogs. Farley Mowat never met an animal he DIDN'T like enough to write about, and Cleve's books about his cats are very moving. The point here being:
They meant it.
"Marley And Me" is so patently phoned in, so "yeah, let;s give the rubes a dog movie, throw in some snow,we'll get the Christmas crowd" that it makes me mad. This is a movie in which everyone concerned seems beyond caring. Case in point: In one scene, Owen Wilson is outside in the snow with his three kids, giving them detailed instructions on how to make the BEST snow angels. Jennifer Aniston comes to the door and announces that her stand in has made lunch, everybody come in!-and the three kids get up from making labor-intensive snow angels, and run in...without ONE actually turning around to see what his/her angel actually looked like. This, to me, says that the director was having it off in his trailer with an ambitious extra and let a PA direct the scene.
I'm cool with the scenes of the dog miraculously always knowing when the kids schoolbus arrives,in order to meet it: anyone who's ever owned a cat can tell you, if you normally give your cat dinner at 5 pm, and one day you're a little forgetful, at 5:01 SHARP you will have a helpful reminder in the form of ten claws in your calfmuscle. So, yes. Animals and time? No problem. And I'm cool -sort of--with the wife calling the columnist at work that the dog isn't feeling good, and he rushes home, although I'm going to say he's got a rather more tolerant boss than one would expect in a newsroom.
But the Dog Death Scene was just...too much.
Owen Wilson takes Marley to the vet and they have to put him down. -Marley,that is, although Owen is so mopey in this movie that I bet it was touch and go for a minute there. ("Which one, Doc?" "The Blonde One.""O..kay..."  Ooops!)
What ensues is a death scene worthy of Lucia de Lammarmoor. I mean, this thing goes on for 7 minutes. -Now, I would like to say that I love animals. A LOT. When my cat Eddie Sebastian Private Eye died last year, I was really inconsolable...he'd been my friend, my amusement, and my enigma for 22 years. So, please,understand, this is not an anti-dog rant, or unsympathetic to ANYONE who's had to have this painful and sad experience.--HOWEVER. It's a dog, not the Hindenburg Dirigible Disaster. Some perspective here, please,people. But, um...no. Sooping camera work, close up of dog, close up of Owen Wilson,closeup of Owen Wilson AND dog, closeup of vet who finally Understands That This Is No Ordinary Dog, ethereal music, you name it. I mean, Abraham Lincoln died quietly in a boardinghouse room...I think we can let a dog go with rather less Drama than that.
Finally, the weirdest goddamn scene ever, where Owen digs a huge hole and puts the dog in there and his children are traumatized...I mean, his children are asked to recite poems and put drawings in the grave. (If they were Neanderthals, it would be flowers. I just like that, is all.) One child declines to read his poem for Marley, simply choosing to say, gnomically yet insufferably, "He knows."
-Well, no. He doesn't. He's a dog. A dead one. They can't read minds. So, no, he doesn't actually know.
But two points for getting out of writing a poem, creatively,kid.-Also, if Owen is so adept at digging backyard boneyards, does that mean he has PLANS for Jennifer Aniston's character? Is he going to be out there two weeks later, shoveling like mad while muttering "Highlights...perky...highlights...perky...MUST STOP...perky...Brad..."


I'm sorry I seem like such a grump about this. I love dogs, I love movies, I love kids, I have even, in the distant past, kinda sorta loved Owen Wilson. But I must raise my muzzle and howl against the corporate cynicism, the disingenuous dog appreciation, the condescension and carelessness that is "Marley And Me."

Aside from that, Christmas was awesome. I took Courtney Love to Norman Mailer's house for Christmas. But that, as they say, is another story.

Moose Mania!! Or, Better Living Through Huge Ungainly Animals With Coatracks on Their Heads.

Note: Is it just me, or is there something sort of Christmassy about mooses?

Moose MANIA!

Here is the website that will solve all of your problems. 
-All of your problems that are moose-related, that is. And I believe that, until we find the courage to look inside ourselves with forthright honesty, we can't know how many moose related issues we really have.

http://www.moosefarm.newmail.ru/

If you go to the site and click on "English translations", you will find a plethora of humorous and/or alarming quotes. It reads like they took the original Russian text to a bargain basement version of "Google Translate": something offline, in St. Petersburg, where people in a dark basement crouch over their typewriters, translating madly. And I do mean "madly". "Vlad's 24 Hour Translation, Transcription and Pierogies". It's filled with smoke, the the sound of keys tap-tap-tapping, and a distinct smell of cabbage soup. 

Here are some quotes from this site:

On "Adopting Your Very Own Moose":

"The more contacts between people and [moose] calves, the more communicable and companionable will moose grow up."

(Note: This is important. You don't want a sullen and uncommunicative moose around the house. Trust me on this.)

Under "Moose In History":

"Swedish army had moose troops, but only until real battles. Moose turned out to be wiser then their knights, they left battlefield to hide in the nearest forest if danger occured."

Well, finally! At last, the shocking truth about Swedish Moose Cowardice can be revealed!

And this:

" Most moose spend their daytime in the forest, and their encounter with a tourist group is a happy chance." 

It doesn't say who would be "happy" about an accidental moose encounter in a brooding Russian forest: the tourists? The mooses? The onlookers, watching in happy schaedenfraude, from the bushes?

The next quote just sounds like a mother talking about her teenaged kids.

My opinion is: it is necessary to release  young animals in mid-summer. I believe they will return to eat oatmeal or to hide from gnats in a dark shed. Radio tags will help to control their movements.

-Or maybe that's more about my childhood than you need to know.

The thing about anyone being wildly- even irrationally- excited about ANYthing, is that it's catching. Five minutes on this site had me seriously thinking about how a baby moose (mooseling? mooselet?) would get on with my cat, Princess Love Supreme Superstar: a baby moose weighs about 85 pounds, while Princess clocks in at a ladylike,if hefty, 13 pounds.
The answer is, of course, my little Bed-Stuy Princess would totally kick her some baby-moose ass. Sad but true.

Still, I long to ride mooseback (as the site suggests) -perhaps through Prospect Park-....to use moose milk (as the site suggests) to miraculously restore my "flagging and weakly constitution" (how did they know?).. and, most of all, I wish for a weeklong stay in the site's vaunted. Moose Sanitarium! This is a real place, according to the site. I think they mean "saniTORium", which is a place you go to have your physical health restored, as opposed to a "saniTARium", which is a place where one puts either crazy people, or freeloading Japanese artists.

Perhaps they actually MEAN "Moose Sanitarium". Maybe this is where mooses go who think they are Napoleon, or Jesus Christ, or,a bit pathetically, gazelles. The mental picture of a moose dressed up as Napoleon, is kind of appealing, in a "Bullwinkle the Moose" cartoon sort of way.(And, with it's implied low throaty purr, and almost complete lack of possessive articles, the entire site sounds like it was dictated by "Bullwinkle"'s glamourous Russian Spy, Natasha.It says that fifty people can stay at one time, in the sanitorium, although it's quiet about how many moose are involved. The people have their health restored. By moose.

Worryingly, there are no specifics about how, exactly, this occurs.

So join me! We will canter merrily through Cantral Park on our noble moose steeds. We will all be dressed as Napoleon- you, me and the mooses. We will laugh merrily, to know that our flagging, weakly constitutions are being restored, that sullen teenaged mooses will be waiting for us in dark, gnat free barns,with oatmeal: and that possibly, just possibly, we will have chance encounters with tourists!! 

A happy day indeed.

Or, just another day in New York City.