Blood Mother

"Secrets"

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 05:52:00 +0000

Demons and Fairy Lore

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 23:56:00 +0000

The deciduous trees in my neighborhood flare weakly with autumn color this time of year, but give up the ghost of their comely birthright and drop like the dead almost overnight. That other hint of fall, a breeze with a clean, brisk scent is overwhelmed by its studly cousins, the demon-ridden Santa Ana's. They burn and churn through our canyons, trample our dreams, and herald our version of winter in the Southland. Instead of rain, we get ash fall. My nose tickles, and a sulphuric odor permeates the city, or am I just getting ready for Halloween?

Demons and fairies are often malcontented spirits and are at the heart of much storytelling throughout history. Sultry temptresses and mischievous sprites make cameos not only in mythology, but also in Milton and Shakespeare. Demons and fairies and other supernatural entities are the essence of human storytelling. It's a way to transmit values. Ralph Waldo Emerson said that "Demonology is the shadow of Theology . . . "

Much of the information posted here is taken from The Field Guide to Demons, Fairies, and Fallen Subversive Sprits by Carol Mack.

Changelings:

Changelings are a type of fairy who steals human babies. They are also the “thing” left behind to fool the human parents. If your baby breaks stuff, or has teeth or speaks while still an infant, chances are you have a changeling.

One woman suspected she had a changeling. She was advised to boil eggshells, discarding the eggs. The Changeling, a newborn, asked, “What are you brewing?” This terrified the mother, of course, but she replied, “I’m brewing eggshells.” The Changeling was quite agitated, and exclaimed, “Oh! In the fifteen hundred years that I have been alive, I have never seen anyone brew eggshells.” (From Carol Mack, A Field Guide to Demons, p 204-05).

The changeling knew it had blown his cover and disappeared, leaving behind the human infant in its place.

In Scotland, mothers were advised to feed their infants whiskey mixed with earth, apply hen excrement or salt or both, or stick pins and scissors or knives around the crib.

Shaitan:

Shaitan (also Satan) is a kind of djinni created by the fire of Allah. Their modus is to lead humans into sin by temptation. They also have a muse aspect, and can inspire artists and poets. I want that job! They create illusions, enthralling visions of pleasure.

They also eat dirt and excrement. Never mind on the job.

Y'all probably know the story of the genii that was released from his bottle by a hapless fisherman, and given one wish before the genii/Shaitan killed him. Solomon whose will he had refused as he had refused the will of heaven had shut up the Shaitan in the bottle. At first he thought he'd grant three wishes, but after stewing all these hundreds of years he changed his mind.

The fisherman praised him and flattered him, and was unbelieving that such a grand figure could have fit in the teeny vessel. Thus challenged and disarmed, the shaitan dissolved into smoke and reentered the vessel whereupon the fisherman clamped it tightly shut and cast it back into the sea.

Kitsune:

Kitsune are fox demons known to do terrible mischief, to possess humans, and to take their shapes. It shape-shifts by a stroke of its fire-shooting tail.

One man of fifty came upon some attractive women in a restaurant and joined them for a drink. He spent the night with one. He wasted away and died thirty days later. The Kitsune is an STD you don't want.

Shadow:

According to Carl Jung the Shadow is a person's inner demon. It includes all that we hide.

Many people control the shadow with sheer will, but it will spring forth in projections and dreams. Archetypal images of the shadow are vampires, devils, and hybrid beasts.

Disarm the shadow by listening for it. ". . . when the Shadow is recognized and respected as a natural part of each psyche and no longer repressed" spiritual growth can begin (Jung).

Like all demons, the Shadow is always changing its guise, so recognizing it is a lifelong process.

Phooka (Púca, Pooka):

If a human is enticed onto a phooka's back it has been known to give them a wild ride. But unlike a kelpie, which will take its rider and dive into the nearest river or lake to drown and devour him, the phooka will do the unfortunate rider no real harm. The Púca has the power of human speech, and has been known to give advice and lead people away from danger. Though the phooka enjoys confusing and often terrifying humans, it is considered to be benevolent.

From Fantasy Creatures

I first learned about Pooka’s from the movie “Harvey.” Who says you can’t learn anything from T.V.

Kevin Roderick of L.A. Observed covers the West Hollywood Book Fair

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 21:08:00 +0000

Kevin Roderick at LA Observed covers the WEst Hollywood Book FAir, and the Latinos in Lotusland panel. Brief clip of me (right after Vincent Bugliosi signing "The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder.":

Flashback to the Start of a Vacuous Future: Vicki Cristina Barcelona.

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 21:45:00 +0000

Saw "Vicki Cristina Barcelona" last week. It was exactly what I expected, no more no less. What did I expect? Lot's of talking (Woody Allen wrote and directed); good camera work, tight shots of beautiful young people; plenty of exits for Scarlett Johansson (Allen likes Johansson's ass, and so do I. We can’t be alone in this.)

The movie is a character study of moneyed, educated, not so tortured, artistic wannabe people, making choices during one period of their lives. Many people will hate this movie for that reason alone. There’s also an effete narrator throughout pivotal parts of the story, most notably at the beginning and the end.

As the movie closes and Vicki and Cristina leave Barcelona, he sums up their choices, heralding their not-so-rosy future. The movie works as a flashback for me. It’s also a statement on where the director/writer is in his life, and where he has been. Who is better able to describe a certain class of women in their 40’s, 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, and examine the choices they made in their 20’s and write a story about it, much less get Scarlett Johansson to play one of the leads? Not every story has to have miserable, struggling people with a huge point to make about LIFE.

Javier Bardem, with very much the same equanimity as he displayed playing the serial killer in "No Country for Old Men,"(but with a better haircut) plays a sexy artist with Whoa! Money. Be still my heart. But although he seems to be the focal point (read: phallus) around which Vicki and Cristina spin (along with Penelope Cruz, the only semi-tortured soul in the movie, who unfortunately comes off as a hot-blooded stereotype who takes herself too seriously; maybe all stereotypes do that), the central characters in this movie are the ones in the title: Vicki, Cristina and Barcelona.

Like the 1994 movie “Barcelona” and 2001’s “Gaudi Afternoon,” the title of Allen’s movie reserves the best for last. It was a return to my dream city for me. I went to Spain with a girlfriend in 2004. My Barcelona was filled with art, but no phalluses, I mean artists. We spent a lot of time trying not to eat dried tuna tapas. The city did seem devoid of serious thought. In Madrid and Seville and Granada there were banners hung from apartment balconies saying, No a la Guerra (no on the war; Iraq). In Barcelona, there’s probably an ordinance preventing such a display. Or maybe people are too busy having a good time.

Sex and the City in my City: The Girlfriend Movie

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 05:40:00 +0000

Mega-crowds of women in L.A., dressed outlandishly in 4-inch stilettos and toting designer bags, in which they've smuggled pre-mixed Cosmos, are standing in line to see Sex and the City, The Movie.

The film is over two hours long and unlike the television series is a melodrama, rather than a comedy. The writing isn't great and it takes forever to get to the climax. The Manhattan fashion world - where freakily skinny females are idolized, as are their ugly handbags - doesn't translate to the big screen as successfully as in, say, The Devil Wears Prada.

But that isn't the point for the women planning to see the movie together. At its heart, it's about girlfriends - their bond, their history together, their view of romance and LOVE. The love is not just for each other, but for Manhattan, which is the studly paramour of all these women.

The narrator of the television series, Carrie Bradshaw, says this: "There are those (relationships) that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."

For many of us, the love given and received with girlfriends is what sustains us through marriage, divorce, teenagers and aging parents.

The Sex and the City phenom is also about Dreams and Youth, and the demarcation into Power and Middle-Youth, a generous description on my part because these babes - Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda - have aged, but not without a fight.

Saw it first with a movie savvy girlfriend. Afterward we sipped Cosmopolitans, and shredded the movie. Waiters stopped by to chat and gave us the inside story on the hordes of women streaming through both before and after the movie, every one in search of the retro, now archetypal, Sex and the City cosmo fix.

Liked the movie more the second time for the unadulterated girlfriend experience. Got to sit in between my two friends, a cool position to experience these girls, both those on screen and the ones next to me. We had cocktails before and closed down a bar after, and we laughed hard and long together. These women know me and still manage to love me.

A good night at the movies.

What Family Shall Endure: Black Snake Moan

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 03:56:00 +0000

Mom is dead.
Her rule has ended.
Her domain passed into new hands.
What family shall endure?

Had the book launch for Latinos in Lotusland: An Anthology of Contemporary Southern California Literature last night. It went well; will post pictures later. For now, an interlude:

Watched Black Snake Moan [HD DVD]on t.v. last night. It was so worth it. #1 I like Samuel L. Jackson in just about everything I've seen him in. If I don't like the movie, his performance is worth watching. This is an S.L.J. who is old, somewhat bitter; somewhat religious (his childhood friend is a minister). S.L.J. has a few gold teeth, and a wife who dumps him for his younger brother.

#2 Christina Ricci plays a nymphomaniac. There should be a special Oscar for nymphos and Ricci should win every year. She does this thing when sexual pangs hit her that goes beyond method acting. Are you listening, you-know-who? Plus, I like the music. S.L.J. performs and his story is hard. There's dirty, sweaty dancing; Ricci shows her lovely breasts often, and rightly so; and, did I mention the chain wrapped around Ricci's shredded trailer-park non-apparel?

Justin Timberlake is credible as a nervous wreck--- a decent guy convulsed with panic attacks --- who studdily manages to keep Ricci in tow, as long as he's there.

Out of their turmoil, a new family emerges.

Memories of Mom, or Why I Enjoy the Macabre

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 11 May 2008 20:52:00 +0000

Mom left Dad, again, and we were driving from East Texas to New Mexico. There was a horrible accident on the flatlands, and Mom pulled over to do the looky-lou thing. I might have been six.

Cars were turned over, and on one the windshield had a head-sized hole in it. There was hair and blood around the jagged edges. People were talking about searching for an infant that had been thrown from the car that rolled. They were searching a field.

There were bodies strewn around and covered with blankets. Under one, a woman's manicured left hand protruded. Mom stared for a long time at the hand, so I did, too. The hand didn't look particularly dead. Their were dimples at the knuckles, and the skin around her wedding rings was puffy, like she'd been retaining water.

We stared a bit longer. Then, in a tone like she wished Dad were present so he'd see what she saw, Mom said, "Those are exactly the style of ring I've been telling your dad I want."

A Brief Update on My Life

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 03 May 2008 19:08:00 +0000

I'm off to give a break to my bro who has been caring for our elderly mother. She seems to be giving up, doesn't want to do much to help herself. It'd be just like her to die in my care. And right before Mother's Day.

On the upside, I have a story in the Latinos in Lotusland anthology, which Dan Olivas edited, and we're doing readings starting later this month.

I've lost ten pounds, and my arms and legs are quite shapely. Stomach is flat, but (the writer's lament) my ass is unwavering in dimension. Have not worked on my second novel much. But have started to feel at loose ends, which is a sign I need to get back to writing. Going public with it here.

At Long Last, Latinos in Lotusland Arrives

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 15:37:00 +0000

Just received my hardcover and paperback copies of this book. Isn't it beautiful? I am so pleased to be a part of this group of illustrious authors, including Reyna Grande, John Rechy, Luis Rodriguez and Helena Maria Viramontes, and so many others.

From Bilingual Press: Spanning 60 years of writing, Latinos in Lotusland portrays vivid accounts of complex and entertaining characters that bring to life the diverse and soulful communities that comprise Southern California, from East L.A. to Malibu, from Hollywood to the San Fernando Valley, from Venice Beach to El Sereno.

Our editor was the eminent Daniel A. Olivas, an award-winning author of four books. He says, "I grew frustrated with the constant barrage of imagery that portrayed Southern Californians as chronically superficial and greedy . . . I wanted fiction readers to encounter the incredible diversity that is the heart of Los Angeles and surrounding communities."

My story is called "Lana Turner Slept Here," and concerns a motorcycle cop and the very pregnant woman he pulls over in Malibu.

Go to LA Observed
for more on this book:

Requiem for Shirley Mae

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 03:03:00 +0000

My stepmother was the second most influential woman in my life.

It’s been eight years since she died, alone, still holding onto the myth of love, honor, and success she’d created around my father.

That doesn’t mean Shirley Mae was a “good” person. Nurturing, no. Generous, no. Friendly, no. Shirley Mae didn't like children, but since she was my father's third wife the odds were against her: he already had four. I was the lone girl in the bunch.

She was the only model of a woman working in the business world that I had as a child. My father respected her for her smarts; they were in business together.

If she’d given me love, would I have returned it? Yes . . . but with a bite. Shirley Mae bit first, her psychodynamics more important than mine. She did it in the coldest way possible for an impressionable twelve-year-old: she ignored me completely. Visiting for a few weeks during the summer were one thing, but when I decided to take up my dad’s offer to come and live with him, the lid blew off their stalemate.

At the dinner table, from which my father was increasingly absent, Shirley Mae and I sat across from each other, and never uttered a word. I could stare directly at her and never fear being rude. I existed at the gnat level for her, annoying but for the most part invisible.

My stepmother was high-strung, with facial ticks that caused her to grimace, and unblinking, cold green eyes. She occasionally required electric shock therapy. But I only found out about the latter when I’d grown up and started a family of my own. That was after a thirteen-year stint of no communication with my father. It had once been easy to cast her as evil stepmother, and my dad as unthinking but lovable dupe. But the truth was that he used us all, told us he loved us, but rarely demonstrated it. He cheated on everyone.

That is when I learned the power of the “love” word. It took Shirley Mae years longer to shake his hold on her. She was mad with love for him, and she had to go a bit madder to stay with him to the absolute, unrecognizable end.

While going through a box of her memorabilia recently, it became clear to me that her particular obsession was with death and numbers.

In the box was a 3x3 date book where she had written people's birthdays in her tiny, precise writing. The date book is from 1976, obviously saved and recycled for Shirley's not so happy Hallmark memories since her notations have little to do with that year.

She noted the day of people's deaths, people I’d never met, as well as the days my father fell, the injuries he incurred and the damage he did to the furniture, "Bill falls against T.V., breaks short ribs, knocks over cart." Throughout 1991 -1995 there were a series of these tumbles. He drank. He had strokes.

The births, deaths, accidents, and miscellany she recorded included the year of the event. Clearly, the date --- the numbers --- were important to Shirley.

She liked writing in pencil on the back of cash register receipts, the old kind that came on rolls for printing calculators. The calculations were intriguing, redolent of numbered accounts, but she'd scissor them into 2x4 slips for incessant list making, rendering it impossible to deduce what the heck she was adding and subtracting.

Family rumor had it that my father had married her for her money. I think it was for her talent with math, her organizational skills, and her ladylike whiteability. My mom had none of that; she and by extension my brother and I were not even included in my paternal grandfather’s obituary and list of grandchildren. But I can’t place the blame for that on Shirley’s doorstep; that was the work of another woman, and a story for another day --- my paternal grandmother.

Here are Shirley Mae and my father during their courting days.

During a particularly bad month of Dad being in-and-out of the emergency room, Shirley felt compelled to write down all the births and deaths of his side of the family, which she paper clipped to the page: computing longevity, I guess.

In her book of days, she included the births of puppy litters, the deaths of dogs, and notably April 11, "Coco bites my arm." Coco was my dad's Chihuahua. Unconnected, in a different month and year, a visiting nurse accidentally backed over Coco. Notation: Coco 26 bills $1732.53 plus.

Shirley lasted three years after my dad died. Her little clippings and notes turned religious, and she started calculating the longevity of her side of the family.

I finally made the list on the plus side (not dead yet), and she began to include the days of the week everyone had been born.

She said I was born on a Sunday. My own mother didn't even know that.

From Shirley's Book of Days:

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for its living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
Is fair and wise and good and gay.

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

Shirley Mae and Dad right before the end:

A picture to be shared with family, which I never received.

The Mothers of Invention

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 03:27:00 +0000

Notes from the second annual convention reported by Gaia

The hundred hellos and hugs, kisses smacking at empty air next to powdered cheeks, sneezes and giggles, shuffling and exultant whispering filled the convention center with a muffled din, like children playing in a discarded refrigerator. The sound tapered off when the Mistress of Ceremonies approached the podium.

“Our earth is changing and we must change with it. We are The Mothers of Invention!” She paused to allow the surge of feverish applause to wash over her.

“In the civilized world the birth rate is dropping even as the children we produce are increasingly affected by various disorders. How many mothers here today have children with Attention Deficit Disorder? Let's see a show of hands. How many with children who have uncontrollable facial and body tics? Autism? Anorexia? Bulimia? Obesity?”

Wave after wave of female hands rose to the air. Some mothers waved both hands. The M.C. paused, and her eyes swept the audience before she continued, “Children who spend hours in front of the computer? Hours in front of the television?”

Her questioning was relentless, edged with maternal vengeance. “Who relish violence and never ride their bikes? Who resist peer pressure by killing their classmates?”

The mothers remembered and were quickly at their limit. They nodded their heads, gritted their teeth and clamped their rectums tightly shut in angry agreement.

Satisfied with the tumult, the speaker looked to her right. “It is my great honor to present today a mother who has fought against impossible odds and triumphed.

"As you know, her son, Dr. V. Newt Matra, perfected laboratory-grown skin for burn victims. Through foresight, careful manipulation of her child's emotions, artful management of his destructive impulses and little property damage or loss of life, she has raised a child who is giving something back to the world.

"I present to you, the Mothers of Invention Award for Outstanding Mother of the Year, Kali Matra.”

A petite matron in a crisp linen suit rose to accept her award. She hugged the M.C., who whispered encouragement in her ear. Ms. Matra dabbed her eyes and turned to face the women from the podium. As always, the honoree began at the beginning. The women expected this. The following is her story, in her words:

“I’ve cheated on my husband. Yes, and lied to the authorities. I’ve risked all our lives.
Yes, yes, it’s true. But if I hadn’t, my son would be dead. And you might be, too. His invention has saved countless lives. My son, Newt. Yes, he has. But first he had burning to do.

“I conceived him on an ordinary Saturday morning. The mail arrived at the usual time. ‘National Geographic!’ I yelled up to my husband. When we married, Ken and I each had a collection of the magazine stretching back to our childhoods. There was something magical about the photographs, and it was easy to get lost in both the micro and the macro of those other worlds.

“I spread the enclosed map of the earth's rainforests, a composite of the earth taken by satellite from the cool stillness of space, on the dining room table. The earth was ablaze, and I began to sweat at the sight of it. No longer a hopeful watery blue and green ball, it held streaks of blazing orange with swirls of smoke sending off warning signals to any interested parties.

“My husband approached me from behind. He brushed his palms across my breasts, barely touching. My nipples reached out for his fingertips, ready. ‘Hmmm, Kali, what's gotten you so hot and sweaty?’

“ ‘The destruction of the rainforests and the widening hole in our atmosphere,’ I said.

“I found it difficult to breath, but spread my legs anyway. With palms flat on the table and my knees slightly bent, I continued to catch glimpses through half-closed eyes of the arc of fire encircling our world. I could smell the musky sizzle of primeval forests and feel the hot breath of destruction on my skin. The flame, the burning torch between my legs, burning hole in the ozone, burning, burning.

“ ‘Burn, baby, burn,’ my husband said.

“My heartburn began shortly thereafter. And not long after that the doctor confirmed my pregnancy. I was huge with my son and he wouldn't be still, always pressing, always hungry. But when I fed him, it was never enough, never the right food. So he'd punish me by setting fires in my gut. He'd make the heat rise up my esophagus, searing delicate tissue. I never farted in my last trimester, only belched the fiery rebellion of my precious pyromaniac. I complained to my husband of my physical discomfort.

“ ‘Native-American women have babies by themselves in the woods,’ he said.

“Newt was born and wore sunglasses as he lay on a tanning bed at the hospital. His first word was ‘hot.’ I learned to hide the matches. We bricked in the fireplace. He ignited dry tinder by aiming the sun's rays through the thick bottom of a highball glass, and small fires appeared around the backyard.

“To teach him the effects of fiery destruction, we followed fire trucks all over the city. On the scene, Newt's eyes glowed satanically like a bad Polaroid. The local firemen laughed when I asked them to teach my 3-year-old fire safety. I had no other choice but to seduce the fire captain. Newt's backyard fires were soon halted by strategically dug trenches and artful backfires.

“ ‘A well-planned burn can lead to new growth,’ the captain promised.

“The neighbors complained of the smoke. We moved. Newt joined the boy scouts. A raging forest fire appeared near his troop's campsite.

“ ‘Send him to military school,’ my husband said.

“One day at the library, Newt saw a horribly scarred man. I told him the story of the boy whose father set him afire while he slept. The child lived encased in skin that would not grow with him.

“ ‘His father did it,’ Newt repeated, over and over to himself.

“Later that day, I smelled burning fur and heard high-pitched squeaks. He was experimenting with his hamster.

“ ‘Commit him,’ my husband said.

“We visited a local burn unit. I slept with the head resident. Soon our basement was outfitted with a full-scale lab and mini burn unit. Experiments continued on rodents and advanced to cats and dogs.

“ ‘Fetal cells are engines of life. They inspire,’ Newt said. ‘A well-planned burn can lead to new growth.’

“ ‘I'd like a chaste daughter who would adore me,’ my husband said.

“I watched a documentary on glacial melt. The hole in the ozone liquefied the polar caps. Huge chunks of ancient ice sloughed off the maternal core. My husband stroked my frigid thighs. The resulting oceanic slush raised goose bumps on my flesh. Meltdown.

“My daughter was born too soon and at home. Her fingers and lips turned cold and blue. Huge head with watery defrosting matter inside. What could I do? There was still magic in her brainless embryonic cells. I let my son have her.

“I let Newt have his father, too. My husband and I had tried hot, we had tried cold
— there was no in-between, you see? Asleep when the fire was set, his pain was brief — we rescued him quickly.

“ ‘My son. Burning . . . son,’ my husband said. Newt held his father's hand in the recovery room.

“His daughter's cellular glue and his son's burning love saved him. It brought us together as a family.”

The screen behind Ms. Matra lit up with a larger-than-life family portrait of Newt embracing both his parents, who stand on either side of him. His father smiles at the camera, but Newt and his mother are smiling at each other. Kali swept her hand toward the screen, her voice resolute:

“This, too, can be yours. Take account of your child’s inclinations. Don’t turn away from the bad, turn the bad your way. Do whatever it takes: lie, steal, or cheat for your child. Your children. They are our future, and we can do it. We are their mothers. We are the Mothers of Invention!”

The audience stood as one, their hope for their children renewed. They surrounded Kali, the victorious mother. Each woman clapped louder than the next, doting on the impossible, planning to divert the inevitable with her mothering energy.

Appeared in “Hell Hath No Fury,” 2004

Not Your Erotic Not Your Exotic: Suheir Hammad

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 23:14:00 +0000

I like this:

Vegas, babee

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 04:58:00 +0000

The Scream, L ucky Cheng's

I'm in a danger zone.

I've always enjoyed breaking rules, not so much testing the boundaries. There is a difference which we can discuss if you like.

I'm susceptible to my own fantasies, ridiculouly unafraid of bad judgement, see little value in postponing gratification but do it regularly.

I'm fed up with my own maturity.

So I decided to go to Las Vegas.

Me. Lucky Cheng's.

My brother and his partner flew in from New Mexico, and I drove up from Los Angeles to see Bette Midler at Caesar's. This blog is not about her. There are time jumps in this narrative, kind of like my best night in Vegas. There is also ChiChi.

Before the lights of the city came the drive.

Some of the weather on the road to Vegas: light spatters in L.A. Dense fog on the I-15. Love entering those patches, especially when there is no highway line as touchstone. Heavy winds battered the car and turned into a thick sandstorm, followed by heavy rains which washed us clean. A rainbow arced from snow capped mountains to dry plain, and I slowed under it, hoping for a tingle. Volcanic memories poked up through ashy sand, dappled through clouds by the sun.

Just me and my vehicle and music and weather. Getting out of L.A. No one to please but myself.

Ever been the third wheel with a couple who is bickering?

This was my first go. Didn't notice the tension between them for a long time because I was . . . well, let’s just say I was high on life and enjoying some quality me-with-me time. When I did notice, they were each walking off in opposite directions --- the high drama huff.

I was alone, trapped in Caesar's Palace which seemed to cover half of Vegas. Couldn't find my way out. Did some booze-ridden shopping. Got a taxi to go downtown, and then changed my mind, and met another friend who was gambling at Wynn's.

We had a late night snack at a Japanese restaurant, Okada. I invented a new drink here --- Jasmine Gin, which prepared me for our next adventure at Lucky Cheng's, where I was outrageous, but the place called for it.

ChiChi

Politerotica Interruptus

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 02:46:00 +0000

Ever since I was, say twelve, I've had erotic dreams culminating in orgasm. This morning I awakened dreaming that I was kissing a man in bed at my girlfriend's house at the beach. We were naked.

I have no idea who he was, except somehow he's connected with VampireRave. The kisses were great, good lip pressure, right amount of tongue, tasty. There's a knock at the door. It's my girlfriend demanding that we allow a child to pass through the bedroom in order to get to the bathroom. He has to get ready for school. Her house is not set up like this, but dreams have their own moving scenery. The man and I tuck the covers around us and the kid comes in.

He's not even her real son. He's a mixed race kid with Jughead ears who looks like a miniature version of Barack Obama!

I look at my girlfriend with my What the Hell??!! expression. She’s glaring at me and without her lips even moving, I know she's really pissed because she's doing all the work with the kid while I'm making out in bed with a strangely silent good-kisser of a man.

I want to kiss him some more. I look at my girlfriend and she's smiling big-toothed and apple-cheeked and is herself but also Hillary Clinton.

I look back at the naked guy in my bed. He asks for a beer. It's all over.

Please feel free to criticize, sympathize or tell one of your own erotic dreams.

Cartoon by Walt Handelsman

Villainy in There Will Be Blood and No Country For Old Men

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 23:54:00 +0000

How do you prefer your cinematic evil?

Heroes and villains have long trod an ethical and moral gray area in movies, and much theorizing has occurred regarding this as a reflection of society. With There Will Be Blood, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson and starring Daniel Day-Lewis, and No Country for Old Men, directed by the Coen brothers and starring Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, and Josh Brolin, we are presented with yet a new view of the villain.

The two films present violent character studies which resonate in contemporary American society. The similarities between these two films go beyond the violence and the ego-driven protagonists. The differences, as well, are more than the sum of their parts. In Blood we have three players: Daniel Plainview (domineeringly played by Day-Lewis), his adversary, Old Time Religion in the person of Preacher Eli Sunday (Paul Dano), and Oil (played by itself, but interchangeable with ferocious ambition, wealth-seeking, and blood).

The three players in No Country are more clearly defined: Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) is not your run-of-the-mill psychopath. He moves calmly through the movie in pursuit of a satchel full of drug money, but his entrenchment in his victims' lives is too personal for a business-as-usual hired killer. His tracking is almost feral, as if he can smell Moss.

Inside Moss’s mobile home Chigurh has arrived too late. He looks around him, removes a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, sits on the couch and drinks it, while observing his reflection in the silent television, as if sensing how Moss lives will tell him what his quarry is likely to do next. The violence he dispenses is uncompromising, but tempered by chance (a coin toss), and seems bound by rules that only he knows.

The novel upon which the movie is based explored the themes of predestination, free will and chance, and these questions are embodied in the person of Sheriff Bell (Jones), who is near retirement and voices the astonishment of someone who has lived long enough and dealt with enough evil to recognize how it has changed over time.

Between these two axes is Llewelyn Moss (Brolin), the unlikely hero, neither completely good nor bad, who stumbles upon the satchel of money. He knows it’s from a drug deal gone wrong, he knows bad guys will come after it, and he decides to pit his will and wits against theirs. He’s a poor man, but one who loves his wife, and he has a sense of humor. We like him. We’d like him to win, but there are no champions in this movie. The Bad guy gets away, the hero dies, and the nominal good guy retires, still trying to comprehend the evil he knows is out there, but with which he has decided not to contend. The movie depicts the generational gap in our society, and the way in which evil is expressed by each group.

We are not expected to like these characters or what they do with their lives. Yet, in the beginning of Blood we do like Daniel Plainview, even though the emotional rationale for his relentless ambition is absent. The almost wordless beginning of the movie is testimony not to an inarticulate man, but to one not given to self-examination. The future oil tycoon is a hard man working with other hard men who are not afraid to gamble their youth and strength muscling wealth out of the earth.

A workplace tragedy occurs, and without fanfare, Plainview feeds a bottle to the infant orphaned as a result. We love the guy, but expect him to turn the babe over to someone else. This does not happen. On a train, the child locks eyes with Plainview and reaches a dimpled hand up to the stubbled chin of his savior. Plainview smiles whimsically. Only later – after gushing oil and gushing blood – do we wonder whether Plainview’s little smile was at the child’s gesture or his own decision to keep the boy and use him as a shill. He names him H.W. and calls him his partner. Is this generosity and love, or is Plainview the ultimate American pragmatist?

Ambition looks in the mirror, and ruthlessness is reflected, although whether that is viewed as contemptible depends a great deal on the beholder. Since Plainview has no interior monologue, he is pitted against Preacher Eli Sunday. Eli is gifted with the beatific and placid face of a saint, but we don’t know if he’s good religion or bad religion. He asks for money for his Church. Not only does Plainview telegraph his smirking disgust with Sunday’s religious histrionics, we witness his rage when he gives the youth a solid and public ass-kicking, pulling his hair and making him eat mud. It’s not just religion that Plainview despises; it’s anyone seeking power over him. Autonomy and self-direction are very American values.

This is Plainview’s first loss of self-control. But like Llewelyn Moss, Anton Chigurh, and even Sheriff Bell, he is a victim of his predatory obsessions. Unlike them, it is questionable whether he knows right from wrong. In that view, even Anton Chigurh has a moral advantage, asking a prospective victim the most probing question in both the cinematic and real world: “If the rule you followed brought you to this, of what use was the rule?"

The value-bereft thought revealed in this question magnifies the villainy, especially in a society beset with scattershot homicide.

This article appeared in shortened form on BlogCritics

Flash Fiction: Punk Rebels of Rome

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 01:23:00 +0000

I didn’t mean to do it.

It was an accident, to be sure. A mishap. Just one of those things. Father left instructions with his miserable toady, that decrepit dwarf, Suetonius, who spies on me constantly, that I was not to leave the villa except to take exercise on the grounds surrounding it.

“Grounded you are, and grounded you shall be, until the right path is followed to wisdom and peace,” Suet said, dripping with sarcasm and drooling out of the left corner of his crooked mouth. He handed me a parchment left by my father.

It contained Father’s usual rebukes: study history, take wine in moderation, bathe more often, stay away from the ruffians in the merchant area, befriend the hoity-toity son of this or that noble family, make a sacrifice to the Gods. Do this, don’t do that. Vile, contemptible, controlling bastard.

“You’re ruining my life,” I said, not too loud, but tightening my lips around each word. I tried to rip the parchment, but the fibers were too thick. I crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room, crossed my arms and turned my back on it. I could hear the velvety snap of it slowly resuming its former shape. Without thinking, I grabbed it and ran from the villa, never stopping until I’d reached The Grotto, the place where the poets and musicians of a new age gathered to talk. The talk, as usual, was of the old ways of our fathers.

We burned the parchment as a sacrifice to the new Gods. We added oil to the fire and danced around it. We drank wine and added whatever fuel we could find until all that was left were our togas.

“I gladly give the cloth on my back. Let this be our sacrifice to the toga god!” I dropped it on the fire, and others followed suit shouting, “Toga, toga!”

The fire grew and the flames licked the wooden buildings around us. I ran back to the villa as fast as I could, but Suet saw me.

“Fleet-footed streaker,” he called after me, “whose whiskered cock tells no lies.” I looked down to see the hairs there singed and gone completely from some areas.

The city burned, but our villa was saved. Father shook his head. I cowered in my room, my life over. My fate rested in the dwarf’s stumpy hands. Hands that insisted on applying oil to my secret burns, my secret parts.

“Grow strong, my little Apollo. Grow hard, my little Pyro. Spill your secret into me,” he said, his crooked jaw unhinging like a snake about to feed.

Humidifying Experience of the Day

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 16:41:00 +0000

I keep running into a famous writer whose writing I admire. Hers was a first novel that turned into a bestseller that was made into a movie with good acting, writing and direction — every writer’s dream. I have the worst memory for names, so forget me remembering the names of stars, celebrities, music or performers. I even confuse my kid’s names. But I always remember her.

She was at the bookstore for my very first reading, a short story in Best Lesbian Love Stories. (If you google "queer writers" it’ll come up; my children are especially proud of this). She wasn't there to hear me, but she stuck around, listened, and came up to say hi.

I’ve run into her at a few other events, and then last year she was at a group reading I did. Bought the anthology and had me sign it. I’m always thrilled to see her — makes me feel legit. Anyway, at this last reading she comes up and has me sign the book, introduces me to her fifteen-year-old who wants to be a writer, and we chat.

Famous-writer-making-my-day is wearing what looks like a maternity top (she’s a tiny woman), and her stomach is filling it, all pointy and hard. Asking her when she’s due is on the tip of my tongue, but I wisely hold back, because what if she’s not pregnant?

Six months pass. She does a workshop for an organization for which we both do volunteer work. It’s a big deal. There are photographers and other members of the media. She looks great, thin, but with a loose pudginess around her middle like she’s given birth.

After her presentation, and when the crowds have thinned, but the photographer is still taking pictures of her with various people in two’s and sometimes three’s, famous writer and I talk. We laugh. People laugh with us. I ask her if she had a boy or girl. Get a blank stare.

At this point I could have back-stroked out of it, but instead I remind her that she came to my last reading and that she was pregnant. She covers her soft belly protectively with clasped hands and tells me that she hasn’t been pregnant for sixteen years. My mouth is open, but nothing is coming out. The flash goes off and the moment is digital.

Food for Thought

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 21:39:00 +0000

Parties and celebrations abound this time of the year. I'm in the midst of planning the menu for a Winter Solstice Party and received the following in an email. It's a quick and fascinating gastronomic tour of how the worldwide family sets its table and what the relative cost is to do it.

Some stereotypes prevail --- a lot of bread in Italy and beer in Germany, but look at the processed foods in westernized countries. Also take a good look at the family size and the availability & cost of what is eaten in one week. Lastly, enjoy the smiling faces.

Poland: The Sobczynscy family of Konstancin-Jeziorna. Food expenditure for one week: 582.48 Zlotys or $151.27

United States: The Revis family of North Carolina. Food expenditure for one week $341.98

Mexico: The Casales family of Cuernavaca. Food expenditure for one week: 1,862.78 Mexican Pesos or $189.09

Italy: The Manzo family of Sicily. Food expenditure for one week: 214.36 Euros or $260.11(think this might be higher with the current exchange rate).

Germany: The Melander family of Bargteheide. Food expenditure for one week: 375.39 Euros or $500.07 (oops, not too smiley. Guess they were caught on a bad shopping day).

Egypt: The Ahmed family of Cairo. Food expenditure for one week: 387.85 Egyptian Pounds or $68.53

Ecuador: The Ayme family of Tingo. Food expenditure for one week: $31.55

Chad: The Aboubakar family of Breidjing Camp. Food expenditure for one week: 685 CFA Francs or $1.23

Bhutan: The Namgay family of Shingkhey Village. Food expenditure for one week: 224.93 ngultrum or $5.03

This is the time of year to count your blessings!

Information and pictures courtesy of:
Yvonne Savio
Common Ground Garden Program Manager
University of California Cooperative Extension, Los Angeles County
PO Box 22255
4800 E. Cesar E. Chavez Avenue
Los Angeles CA 90022

Website: http://celosangeles.ucdavis.edu/Common_Ground_Garden_Program/

2007 Lifetime Achievement Award, Los Angeles Community Garden Council
2007 Certificate of Commendation, Los Angeles Unified School District
2006 Certificate of Appreciation, City of Los Angeles
2004 "Feeding the Hungry" Garden Crusader Award, Gardener's Supply Company

Since 1978, the Common Ground Garden program has helped Los Angeles County residents to garden, grow their own food, and healthfully prepare it. Our targeted audience and priority are to serve limited-resource residents and those traditionally underrepresented. By training community volunteers, we empower neighborhoods to create their own solutions. Our Master Gardener volunteers work primarily with community gardens, school gardens, seniors, and homeless and battered women's shelters.

In 2007, 179 Master Gardeners volunteered 8,037 hours serving 64,262 low-income gardeners in Los Angeles County at 31 community gardens, 48 school gardens, 13 shelter gardens, 2 senior gardens, and 14 fairs and farmers markets.

My Bloody Little Secret

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 23:49:00 +0000

Yes, the banner above says vampires, and I have given my blog the name Blood Mother, but I haven’t written about them here.

My blog is white bread. Well, more like sarcastic whole wheat with extra fiber. So, where are the vampires? Be patient, dear blog reader. Be like Dracula coming back night after night to taste the virginal Mina.

Like most vampire fans, my affection for them began with old Dracula films starring Bela Lugosi. When a child, I slept with a rosary under my pillow and a hand clapped over the side of my neck. I read the Bram Stoker novel upon which the film is based, and vampiric poetry by Poe and Byron. While my high school peers were smoking reefer and making out behind the gym, I cut school and haunted musty bookshops where I found collections of vampire literature which included works by Fanu, de Maupassant and Neruda. Read those, then made out behind the gym. Naturally, I thought about vampires while my boyfriend gave me a hickey.

In college, I was introduced to Nosferatu, a much scarier and less classy vampire than Dracula, but other than debating the relative merits of Christopher Lee over Lugosi (the latter unfairly suffered in gray tones while Lee swam in a technicolor tsunami of blood), my interest waned. Out in the working world, a close friend gave me a first edition of Anne Rice’s Interview With the Vampire. It had been out for several years and I’d completely missed it. Not so the other two books in her vampire trilogy. I haven’t read all her vampire books, but I did go to the Second Annual Anne Rice Vampire Lestat ball in New Orleans. As far as I know, Lestat wasn’t there.

I moved onto post-modern vampire fiction, too numerous to mention here, but I never thought I’d actually hang out with a few. Vampires, that is.

My bloody little secret, you see, is

Vampire Rave

a site dedicated to "the ultimate vampire resource and directory." There is a great deal of information on VampireRave, but not all of it has to do with vampires. There are also Wiccans, Shamans , Lycans , people with broken hearts, teenagers , AARP members, and some who say they must have blud (thunder roll).

People sign on from all over the world. At its core VR is a social networking site, or as they prefer to describe it, "industrial networking." When you join, you’re instantly part of a community, and you are given the ability to express yourself and your views in ways the PTA would not countenance. It’s an opportunity to be creative, which is encouraged and commented upon. Other members rate your profile, and some of them are very hard to please. There’s a messaging system, a journaling area, and you befriend people much like on MySpace. The similarities end there. You can "bite" other members, and "stalk" them, a fundamental in-your-face connection that MySpace is sadly lacking.

People hook up over a mutual interest. For some, it’s metaphysical, for others it’s fear, pure and simple. I like people who can spell, and who say real things. Well, as real as you can get on a vampire site. In the Forum, I’ve posted the following topics: Vampires and Evil; Soul; and the ever popular, Bloodsucking, a primer. There’s something for everyone in the Forum — Vamps as Pets, The Seven Circles of Hell, The Pharoah’s Curse.

Members are ranked from Whelp at the lowest level, to Sire. I am currently an Unclean Spirit, a status for which I have long held deep yearnings. You level up based on scoring others’ profiles, reading and rating articles, and giving your opinion via the rate to the vampire database, which includes advertising for a multitude of goods and services. Becoming a Sire is cool because you get to start your own coven. There are many covens to choose from, or you can do what I did which is turn down a coven offer in order to experience induction.

As the Prince says — oh, yes, there is a Prince, the founder of VR — induction is the essence of the vampire experience. I’m all about the gist, the nub, the bloody marrow, if you will, and eagerly looked forward to induction. Appropriately, I was inducted into the rapscallion BlackKnights. According to Wikipedia, a black knight is a soldier or knight who is not bound to a specific liege. We are outlaws.

The painting above is Le Vampire by Burne-Jones

Witches, Goblins, Ghouls, Ann Coulter

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 20:03:00 +0000

Witches and goblins
Ghosts and ghouls
They scare us and dare us
And revile them, we do.

Death and shadows
Blood and guts
Nothing is more frightening
or creepifying
than when a little Ann Coulter
Comes into view.

Weekend Lover

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 07:02:00 +0000

"Staying for Breakfast?"

This collage is from Aberrant art by Barry Kite. He "re-positions" historical art and contemporary media imagery. This particular one speaks to me on many different levels.

Wrote the following based on a prompt from 3-Word Wednesday:

The telephone rang twice before the machine answered. Lydia paused, fingers over keypad to hear who was calling before answering. “Garry?”

“Hello. How are you?”

“I’m sooo happy to hear from you,” Lydia said, meaning every word of it. Garry had been her weekend lover through three years of college twenty years ago. “I left a message on your voice mail about a month ago.”

“Oh, really.” He was flattered by her exuberance. Lydia had dropped all pretense when she turned forty. She never toned down enthusiasm. People either basked in it, or thought she was faking. “My home or cell?”

“You told me to call your cell,” she said. He was married to his fifth wife. During the weekend years he’d been divorced from his first wife and single. For a time, Lydia had thought she might become Mrs. Garry number two.

“Damn, I’ve been having trouble with my cell. Why did you call?”

“Check up on you, of course.” They laughed. Garry was fourteen years her senior. When he hadn’t returned her call, she’d worried that he might be dead, but she didn't say that. “Probably something to do with politics,” she said instead. Garry and Lydia had always found it easy to talk with each other. Their weekends had been filled with lively political debates which added an unexpected sensuality to their lovemaking.

Their conversation now flowed from the presidential candidates to the war in Iraq to the environment to family, mainly the children. They took care to avoid discussing their spouses. Garry’s wife was notoriously jealous, and Lydia’s workaholic husband didn’t seem to care.

Garry launched into a description of his latest entrepreneurial venture, something high tech. He was very creative, and extremely wealthy. While he spoke, Lydia imagined his head, now partially covered with silken white hair, bobbing up-and-down between her legs.

“So I just need to raise another million,” Garry said, snapping Lydia out of her reverie.

“Well, at least you have some,” she said, meaning hair on his head, not money.

“Yes,” he said, “but not enough.”

“But you’re sooo amazing with what you do have,” Lydia said, sounding like a love-struck nineteen-year-old. Across the miles and years, they laughed again.

Spooky Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 05:05:00 +0000

Witches' Moon Over Santa Fe

Author Photo

Another Wednesday, and another prompt from 3-Word Wednesday. This week the words are"field, hide, second." Visit them for other takes on those words.

Field of Dreams

I pass through the field in the dark, the crunch of shattered glass beneath my feet the only sound. The edge of the moon peeks out from behind a shelf of blood-tinged cloud and I have no choice but to run, to hide in the shadows. A second passes, maybe two, and the moon sheds its gauzy veil, its light reflecting off the broken glass in a thousand jagged gleams. There is no escape for me tonight.

October brings out the dark side, so now for something personal:

This is my sister. She recently forged our elderly mother’s name and stole thousands of dollars from her.

My mom worked six nights a week for years to support me, my brother and my sister. In her fifties, she took the GRE and got a job with the state. She was only able to save this money by living like a pauper. Once she retired, Mom insisted on subsisting on her social security checks, and banking the small pension she’d earned from the state.

It’s amazing how much interest can accumulate if you save every nickle and never spend a dime. She said the money was for her old age, so she wouldn’t be a burden to her children. Mom was sure she’d get cancer. She did. On her tonsils. Had chemo and radiation (The Tattoo Lady, Mother and Me), and beat it, although she still smokes.

Mom rescued my sister countless times from abusive relationships (White Lies), bought her cars, paid for repairs, saved the cars from repossession, paid down payments on homes, rent, and the list goes on. Every single one of my sister’s husbands and boyfriends were welcomed into Mom’s house where they mostly laid around. In order to discourage them from staying too long, Mom engaged in a peculiar form of domestic warfare where she put the lowest wattage light bulbs in their room and hid the toilet paper.

We — the sibs and Mom — laughed in those days at our mother’s eccentricities. We thought my sister would change, that things would get better. Why not? She’s smart and articulate, just has bad taste in men, and an addiction. To substance, yes, but more to a losing way of life. She's dedicated herself to bad decisions.

Mom’s heart is broken. She tried so hard to fix my sister, even lying to protect her when it put me in jeopardy. Mi familia. I got out, that’s my salvation, but my escape is only one of distance. I used to feel sorry for my sister, but this latest cut to our mother goes deep, beyond the blood, all the way to the bone.

"She’s bad, bad, bad," Mom says, all the orneriness gone out of her voice, making her sound feeble and old.

I think I might lose her any day, any hour, any minute, and it makes me so angry that my sister did this now.

All photos by author.

What’s Wrong With Being Girly?

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 21:08:00 +0000

New Line Pictures and Wendy Finerman Productions are co-producing Jill Smolinski’s

The Next Thing on My List. The announcement was made by Gregg Goldstein in The Hollywood Reporter yesterday, and also by Jessica Barnes in Cinematical.

In Smolinski’s story, her heroine’s life changes forever when she decides to complete a list started by a new acquaintance who dies next to her in a car crash. The list includes simple acts like going braless all the way to the hard stuff like pitching a new idea at work and on to the monumental — changing someone’s life. It’s written in a straight-forward, witty style with a momentum that carries it swiftly forward.

Barnes says ". . . List will be joining a growing slate of so called 'girly' films that New Line is scheduling for the coming year." She also refers to films for those of the "female persuasion."

In my opinion, there’s enough buddy love in the film industry for every man, woman, child and dog in the country. Dubbed bromance, the category includes films such as 300 and Superbad (both of which my son strongly urged me to see; think he went with a buddy), and practically every film Owen Wilson has been in (even when he has a girlfriend, his buddy is usually just as important).

Girly stuff is not frivolous, it’s fun. We can be serious and deep, but we also like to be silly. I’ve tried to get my significant other to be more girly when we watch television together. I can leave it off. He can't. I don't even want to go into the dynamics of remote-control-dominion.

I'm way past the stage where the shallower aspects of girliness consume me. It's just a part of the package. Girly has morphed into woman into the outer reaches of crone. So call me girly, click your tongue and yell out chica. Yeah, baby, that's me.

Back to watching TV with my man. I throw out one-liners which he ignores. My gf’s would never do that. They’d laugh, rebut, rejoinder or all of the foregoing. It’s always fun.

"Pretend we’re really close girlfriends who like to laugh and chat when we’re together," I suggest in my endless-yet-futile effort to make television watching more interesting.

His response: "Are we bisexual girlfriends?"

So, that girly gambit didn’t work the way I’d hoped. He needs to read Jill’s book. See the movie when it’s released. It’ll be a date movie, for sure, and we all know what that means.

Headlines, Anthropologists, and The Kite Runner film

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 05 Oct 2007 21:51:00 +0000

The New York Times kindly sends me their online edition daily. Usually the subject line reads something like: Today's Headlines: Graft in U.S. Army Contracts Spread From Kuwait Base (Sept. 24, 2007), or Today’s Headlines: Ethanol’s Boom Stalling as Glut Depresses Prices (Sept. 30).

But today the teaser was the following: Today’s Headlines: null

This one word summary begs the question of whether the Null is a meaningless "holding" word until the editor for the online edition receives the real headline, or if it is, in fact, an editorial on the contents. The word is not even capitalized.

Perhaps the editor is depressed over the debate on whether or not it’s okay to torture terrorism suspects, or the use of social scientists (dubbed mercenary anthropologists by opponents of their employment alongside the military) in counter insurgency campaigns, or that Senator Craig is still in office.

Take heart, dear New York Times online edition person for at least there is a debate, and anthropologists (whose parents worried they’d never find a job) are gainfully employed. My feeling is we should have sent them in before the military. The CIA should hire a few.

As for Craig, well, the entertainment value of his predicament is over (although Republicans are probably lining up for the next embarrassing homosexual peccadillo). Why he’s in the news instead of, say, the controversy over the depiction of a brutal rape in the movie version of the celebrated 2003 novel The Kite Runnerby Khaled Hosseini (my review), is surprising because it highlights once again how radically different western culture is from all those areas of the world where we’re fighting wars.

BBC news reported yesterday that Paramount Vantage, the studio responsible for bringing the book to the screen, is arranging for three Afghani families to go and live abroad, because of threats to their safety. They are also delaying the film's release. At the heart of the controversy is not only that it is a rape, but the rape of a boy by a bully, of an ethnic Hazara by a ruling Pashtun.

The fear is that ethnic rivalries (something Americans repeatedly fail to understand) will be ignited. "In Afghanistan, rape is not acceptable at all. This is against Afghan dignity. This is against Afghan culture," the boy's father, Ahmad Jaan Mahmidzada, told The Associated Press.

It’s possible that the people of Afghanistan think the film misrepresents them because like Iran, there are no homosexuals in Afghanistan. I bet an anthropologist would know the answer on both counts.

West Hollywood Book Fair

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 20:09:00 +0000

Went to the West Hollywood Book Fair on Sunday to hear the young writers of WriteGirl read their work. WriteGirl is a mentoring organization bringing together writers and at-risk high school girls through writing. It’s an all-female enterprise, guys.

Their work is published annually in an anthology. This year’s award-winning publication is Untangled. In addition to the stories and poetry, the book includes writing prompts and exercises which teachers and writing groups have found helpful. Keren Taylor, the founder of WriteGirl, asked me to read from the book, which I wasn’t expecting. This was good since I didn’t have time to get nervous.

The girls meet with their mentors on a weekly basis outside of school, and participate in a monthly workshop emphasizing journalism, song writing, flash fiction, novels, short stories, creative nonfiction, or poetry. At some point, I’m sure we’ll offer a workshop on blogging, which brings me to my next topic.

Caught the tail-end of Dan Olivas’s panel To Blog or Not to Blog. Amongst the blog-fulfilled were panelists Adrienne Crew , Margo Candela , Kevin Roderick and Mark Sarvas , who blog on a variety of topics including the literary scene, blogging, and L.A. Regarding the question, To B or not to B, their blogs are still active, so I think it’s safe to say their advice was to Do it, baby! Take a look at their work to see what has worked for them.

In particular, click on over to La Bloga, a cooperative of six bloggers (and the occasional guest). You'll see Dan Olivas's name in the masthead, and at the Elegant Variation, he's the guest blogger interviewing Lisa See, author of Peony in Love (Random House), Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.