Opening of a new short story

The opening of Daybed...a story in-progress.

This is what they never had before. In all the possessive, unspoken worship, the panicked sex that caused sparks—literally caused sparks—to flicker between their bodies, the love that was so burly neither could even admit it. But they’re old now. Well, older. And yet this feels like their salad days. A salad day. Anyway, this time together, this unexpected intimacy bought in a few hours of downtime on her book tour, away from husband and three children, will probably never happen again. At least neither can think of a way that it will and when this comes to pass, each will be petulant, broken, without appetite for days, quick to blame the other. And yet, it happening again (and again and again) will fill their imaginations to capacity.

They started 13 years ago, in 1995, and ended about a year later. He’s 33 now—and looks it—except on the sun-pocked parts of his neck and throat, where he looks much older. Ali’s a few years younger, though not as many as it used to seem. When they’d met everyone called him Ollie, but “Ollie and Ali” was too cutesy to stomach, and she’d insisted on calling him by his initials, O.D.—a not very funny joke—or O for short. But now, all grown up, he goes by Oliver.

Back then he never had a place of his own, but now they’re in his tidy apartment in Bakersfield, her hometown, an easy stop on her book tour because she draws a crowd and can stay with her parents. Oliver did not come to her reading but she came to him afterwards, and now his right hand—the one that he’d laid on her once and only once in fury—holds her calf. Holds her calf. Towards the bottom, under her loose black pants, between his thumb and middle finger, stroking the silken sandpaper of her leg. They’re jammed up against each other, sitting side by side on his daybed—the only real place to sit in the room—and he realizes that her neck is crooked against the brick wall.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” he says, and means it, and moves so she can adjust, recline with a pillow, allow him to lay his head in her lap. She traces circles

into the cropped part of his still-black hair, near the nape, the juggle of their breath and a flicker

of candlelight the only movement in the little room.

“Tell me about your day,” he says, and she does. And then he tells her about his.

And that’s all that happens. All they never had before.

...

Jewish Grandchildren for Obama

In case I haven't managed to bombard you with the news yet, my pet grassroots project--Jewish Grandchildren for Obama--is up and running. Believe me, that site and blog get a lot more love than this one does.

Check out the site, or join our Facebook group today. Mission statement is below.

And if you're not registered to vote (please tell me you're registered...) click here.

Jewish Grandchildren for Obama’s mission statement: Many older Jewish voters who have a history of voting for Democrats might not vote for Barack Obama because of the Israel issue, smear campaigns and persistent false rumors. We believe the best people to educate these voters about Obama are their own children and grandchildren. We aim to help secure their votes for Obama in November through intergenerational discourse.

Why liberals are more miserable

From the May 23, 2008 edition of The Week magazine...

"Conservatives are generally happier than liberals because of their greater ability to rationalize political and social inequalities, a new study concludes. In an earlier survey by the Pew Research Center, 47 percent of conservative Republicans described themselves as "very happy," compared with 28 percent of liberal Democrats. Researchers at New York University, attempting to explain the disparity, developed a survey to measure subjects' ability to justify or explain away inequality. Subjects were asked, for instance, if they agreed with such statements as, "It's not really that big a problem if some people have more of a chance in life than others." Conservatives were far more likely to agree with such statements, and also to hold the view that the U.S. is a meritocracy that rewards hard work. "Our research suggests that inequality takes a greater psychological toll on liberals than on conservatives," researcher Jaime Napier tells LiveScience.com, "apparently because liberals lack ideological rationalizations that would help them frame inequality in a positive, or at least neutral, light."

Barack Obama just became my candidate--and he should be yours, too.

Now that Democrats are moving ahead into the general election, we all have the opportunity to make a real difference.

Most of you know that I was a Hillary Clinton supporter. Not because I don’t like Barack Obama, but because I had more confidence in Clinton. But there is absolutely no time in this race to feel sad, angry, or even disappointed. Obama might not have been your candidate, but he is now, and he’s an excellent (and historic) candidate to lead our party and eventually the country.

I'm supporting Barack Obama, and I hope you'll take a minute to learn more about Obama and his movement for change:

http://www.barackobama.com or http://my.barackobama.com

Together, we can face the challenges of the future with a new kind of politics and a new kind of leadership.

DO NOT ASSUME IT’S GOING TO BE A LANDSLIDE IN NOVEMBER. Even if you’ve been a supporter of Obama throughout the campaign, have you been an active supporter? Can you do more? Can you be a part of a November victory?

Make a donation (do it today, right now…I just did), attend an event, canvas your neighborhood, phone bank from home, help to organize your community for Obama.

Learn more now:

http://www.barackobama.com

I'm standing up for the politics of hope. I hope you will not only stand for it, but stand for it actively, with strength of spirit and a loud, proud voice.

Ah, James McAvoy. Why do I love lanky Scots so???

Why, oh why?

Why does my Web site look fine in Explorer and completely f'd up in Mozilla? I've tried to fix the glitch within FrontPage (yes, I know, I'm not exactly mind-blowingly tech savvy--get over it), but on certain pages all the formatting is screwed up. A big prize to the first person who helps me solve this puzzle. In the meantime, avoid viewing my site through Mozilla, superior though it may be. Sorry.

Grad school apps are done, hooray!

So perhaps, dear readers, you can look forward to something more substantive coming up. After I catch up on the bills.

And does anyone out there have James Franco's e-mail? Seriously. I want to swap novels with him for peer review. I've been told they're of the same(ish) ilk.

-J

The day

I was going to title this post "I'm having a nice day," but I detest the word nice, and my brain is too mushy (sudafed, lack of sleep, antihistamines, the good stuff) to go searching for words.

I caught up with an old not-quite-a-friend who hencefoth shall be one. Too bad it had to be right at the end of my Arizona trip. Good thing I come here so many times a year (when will I get to take a real goddamned vacation?).

Off to a high school reunion tonight. That should make for some good blogging fodder. Also, stay tuned for my rant against the children's classic "The Rainbow Fish."

-J

In a Saguaro forest

So I'm in AZ and not with the best internet connection in the world (but hey, my grandparents have internet, which is something in and of itself).

Had to post quickly, though. I finished Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy and I'm reeling. I might start it up again as soon as I get the first two books back (they're out on loan).

On top of everything it was an ode not just to hormones but to love. It was a beautiful, haunting love story. It makes me ache just to think of it. (Cliche but true.)

Oh, Will!

-J

According to "Poets & Writers" magazine I'm a fiction writer. That makes it official, right?

Check out Amy Klein's article in this month's edition of "Poets & Writers". She interviewed me about searching for L.A.-based literary agents (the kind I like!), and I made the final cut.

http://www.pw.org/mag/contents.htm

I should carry around the article and show it to all those other stay-at-home moms who look at me like I'm from Mars when I say I'm a writer. "Oh?" they say. "So you do it in your free time, I guess."

Nope. That's just what I do, period.

Happy almost-vacation to everyone! We're hitting that place in Anaheim tomorrow night. Wait. My kid can't read this. I can actually say it. We're going to Disneyland, baby. It will be my four-year-old's 45th visit (note: numbers are approximate).

And my MFA apps are almost done. Huzzah.

-J

Home

Home

The moon was chiseled milk

last night

Swinging in fuzz

smiling at

the low-flying stars

over Century Boulevard

Terminal One

Where I used to kiss you goodbye,

cry

Now the marine layer

cloaks the road

Fog rises up, thick

Slick lights

Ghost town of nine million

Happy moon,

fire waiting at home,

cradles herself

warm

over our town

Where babies

and bears

and Pesach

will come

We’ll cradle them

like the moon, warm

in flannel and bath

Freesia and folds

High over the ocean

With a view of the moving stars

Lights twinkling beyond the fog

I'm in the underworld in "The Amber Spyglass"

So everyone will understand why I'm not writing more today. And if you don't understand, the paperback trilogy costs about $21--get thou to a local, independent bookseller.

Dan Fogelberg dead at 56

I saw Dan in concert in Tucson in 1996 or 97, and had already long been a fan.

I know he found great happiness with his wife, and it's always sad when someone dies this young. I love so many of his songs...Anyway I Love You, Seeing You Again, Leader of the Band, Longer, Make Love Stay. I can still remember my high school creative writing teacher singing "And I'm in Colorado, when I'm not in some hotel" and thinking he was so cool. I'm sure a lot of people will be replaying Missing You. But for my money, Run for the Roses is the best of the best. Why does a little song about the Derby make me cry every time?

-J

Run for the Roses
Born in the valley
And raised in the trees
Of Western Kentucky
On wobbly knees
With mama beside you
To help you along
You'll soon be a growing up strong.

All the long, lazy mornings
In pastures of green
The sun on your withers
The wind in your mane
Could never prepare you
For what lies ahead
The run for the roses so red --

And it's run for the roses
As fast as you can
Your fate is delivered
Your moment's at hand
It's the chance of a lifetime
In a lifetime of chance
And it's high time you joined
In the dance
It's high time you joined
In the dance --

From sire to sire
It's born in the blood
The fire of a mare
And the strength of a stud
It's breeding and it's training
And it's something unknown
That drives you and carries
You home.

And it's run for the roses
As fast as you can
Your fate is delivered
Your moment's at hand
It's the chance of a lifetime
In a lifetime of chance
And it's high time you joined
In the dance
It's high time you joined
In the dance --

Mad props for Madmen

The praise keeps rolling in for the best show on television (Ever? Since Six Feet Under? Hard to say...). I guess the below piece from the L.A. Times was owed, after they misspelled Jon Hamm's name in their Golden Globes nom article. Go, Jon, go. And is it just me, or does his secretary look just like the girl who played Donna in La Bamba?

-J


"Mad Men" (AMC). A vision of 1960 as much based on the movies as the reality of the time, ripe with the dreadful thrill of a world on the verge of redefinition. Beautifully designed, with an abundance of fine performances, out of which I am arbitrarily moved to mention Robert Morse as the corporate eminence and Christina Hendricks as a smart woman stuck in an old mode.

I'm back.

I know, I know. That Farmer's Market thing didn't work out--thanks for all the e-mails reminding me I'd neither posted menus nor followed up with the idea. Apologies. My condo flooded with sewage. Redundant post? No. It happened again, mere days after the $30,000 worth of repair work from the first flood was completed. The children moved back onto mattresses on our floor, and all was chaos once more.

We finally recovered (again), though I'm mighty tired of touch-up painting.

Also, my first (and most important) grad school application went in the mail today. Hooray! So I'll have more time on my hands. Time I should spend writing loftier pieces than posts on my sparse blog, but at least blogging is a better way to piss away time than taking more movie quizzes on Facebook (though I challenge you to beat my Princess Bride score).

I don't have much for you today, but I'll include a little poem.

-J

The Story Changes

"These rocks are passionate," she

said

Cry lives into red rocks

turned

red clay

by relentless

rain

Cry lives

into the rocks she said were

passionate

And what a choice

was that

But smile and nod

seemed to fit the façade

like bridle

to purebred cream colored

quarter horse

Purebred

Bred in the land of blonde hair

blue eyes

and coffee table talk

Bred into the

lives

of the men

on the brink

(or some who didn't even try)

Always to be cried

back into the rocks

for the thoughts she couldn't

say

And the weak nights spent

hand to thigh

and hand to eye

missing the safety

and the warmth

Which

in the end

almost froze her

Farmer's Market Haul: A new Wednesday feature

A new feature: on Wednesdays I will post my haul from the Farmer's Market. I'll also post my weekly garden harvest, though we're between seasons rights now so there won't be much at present. If all goes well, I'll then post the week of family menus I create based on what I bought. At the end of the week, I'll post favorite recipes, thumbs-ups and downs on meals and any other notes (such as: "didn't have time--ordered 'za"). This could be a fun interactive feature, so definitely stay tuned.

We're trying to live life more "in season" as part of greening our home, lessening our footprint and improving our health. Any tips will be taken gladly.

Here's what we took home yesterday: (*=organic)
-2 Asian pears (crunchy and delicious)*
-1 bag carrots*
-2 bunches broccoli
-1 ruby red grapefruit
-3 limes
-4 sweet onions
-4 Fuji apples*
-Snap peas*
-Acorn squash*
-Butternut squash*
-Flavor Grenade and Flavor King plums*
-French Breakfast radishes*
-Pineapple, Celebrity and unidentified cherry-sized heirloom tomatoes*
-Red grapes*
-4 ears white corn*
-Fingerling potatoes*
-1 zucchini*
-4 Persian cucumbers*

Profile on Sir Ian McKellen in this week's New Yorker (in your mailboxes today)

Just a quick note to make sure no one misses the profile of Ian McKellen in this week's New Yorker (the one with the Katrina cover). Stellar. If only I could fly to London to see Lear on a whim...

Ah, well. I'll continue daydreaming about our return to Ashland next summer.

Hip Hollywood Barack Obama event THIS SATURDAY!

An update from my good friend Bim, who is working tirelessly on the Obama campaign...

Below is his e-mail regarding a hip event happening this Saturday, August 25 from 4 - 7 p.m. at Falcon in Hollywood (7213 Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood, California 90046). There is a $25 per person donation requested, and reservations are a must. Please note that Senator Obama will not be at the event (nor will I--but I'll be at the next-best-thing to a Democratic fundraiser...a Bar Mitzvah!), but plenty of hip, young Hollywood types will be and you can count on at least a handful of celebs. Please RSVP right away.

"I heard somewhere that this event is not to be missed...

All coyness aside, you, my friends, are invited to support our efforts in producing this event by not only coming, but, more importantly, sending this on to not ten, but at least twenty people, and following up with them. It's going to be a fun party - definitely worth $25 - even if it wasn't a donation to Obama's campaign, which it is.

I appreciate the support, Barack appreciates it, and our country will really appreciate it when he's elected president. Basically, you'll be a hero.

Bim"

New excerpt from The Nineties! Zac Efron's Oscar-winning role...get it here, folks.

***ALERT***DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE (A) MY UNDERAGED COUSINS OR (B) MY PARENTS***IT MIGHT BE EASIER TO SWALLOW ONCE IT'S IN HARDBACK AND I SIGN A COPY FOR YOU***DON'T LAUGH***YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

Well, here it is: a new/old excerpt. Some of my loyal readers (and yes, they do exist even though they steadfastly refuse to post comments on my blog and instead send me direct e-mails because they're not really "bloggy people") have read part of this before on the blog. But never before have I posted something so, um, graphic (or, as the agents like to say, "edgy"). But here are two unabridged chapters. Feedback welcome, as always.

Why am I posting from The Nineties again? Easy. This is a little gift for all those people who wrote nasty things to me about Zac Efron. And below, as mentioned in a previous post, you'll find the part he was meant to play, the part that will win him his Oscar--Chris Graeme. Back to Zac: if you don't believe he can act, at least you can admit, after watching High School Musical and Hairspray, that (a) the guy's got range, and (b) he can take direction. Even master-of-the-universe John Waters has predicted (though who knows what the location of his tongue relative to his cheek was when making this predication) that Zac would go on to do a couple more big musicals, then play a drug addict and win an Oscar.

I have his drug addict! I have his drug addict! You'll meet Chris in the first chapter below ("Brett"), then lose him for a while. Stick with it for a payoff toward the end the second chapter I posted ("Alessandro"). For those who wonder, Chris is a central character in the rest of the book, important both to Ruthie's downfall (such as there is a downfall) and her self-discovery (though it's not as touchy-feely as all that). That is to say, things get worse. Plenty of opportunity for Zac to stretch his chops.

Why am I so bent out of shape about young Mr. Efron? Maybe it's because he's the first actor in a long time that I just adore onscreen without secretly wanting to, um, you know (hello Russell...Viggo...Johnny...Christian...Adam...others). C'mon, folks--he's only 19. Does that mean I'm all grown up? I hope not.

Anyway, here you go. Call me, Zac. I'll sell it you and you can pull a Vinny Chase. It can be your Medellin...

(Sorry for the difficult formatting. I work and work on it and it's still hard to read on the blog. Then I work some more, then I remember the three thousand better ways I could be using my time and just hit "post".)

THIS EXCERPT WAS EDITED AND IMPROVED. I TOOK IT DOWN AND REPOSTED IT AT THE TOP OF THE BLOG. APOLOGIES FOR ANY CONFUSION.

Zac Efron I want to win you an Oscar

Well, I suppose you'd really be winning the Oscar for yourself.

But you are Chris Graeme from my book "The Nineties." With the small exception that the eyes will have to change from green to blue, you are absolutely perfect.

I never would have known this before Hairspray. It's a favorite falling-asleep-fantasy for me to cast my movies (much more feasible than my other favorite, where I'm a Broadway star...or, heck, even a chorus line girl in a travelling production of Sunset Boulevard in Nebraska). Kal Penn, step on down, you're Mr. Ed--that's Edvin Kareena, and I'm serious, clear your schedule. Steve Burns, you're up, too. The part's a crusty drug dealer, but I think I would cry if something I wrote was put onto film and you weren't in it.

But most of all, ZAC EFRON, playing twenty-year-old Chris, the antagonistic love interest/extra baggage of Ruthie Tash.

Heretofore you were only the hair-in-the-face kid in a wifebeater smiling down from every place the Disney Channel marketing department attacked with one-sheets, posters and tzotchkes. But now I've seen Hairspray and I know you're the next...the next...the next who?

Help me out,someone. Surely he's not the next Kevin Bacon, relegated to millions of arguably insignificant Kevin Bacon roles? But he's not going to get stuck playing a surfer or crooner forever, is he? He'll be a brilliant Ren McCormack but won't be typecast forever, right? He'll take a dark role someday, yes? The High School Musical franchise will eventually die and he can repose in the pile of money it made him and move onto more, erm, cinematic projects?

If you don't believe that he's a mammoth talent, you haven't seen Hairspray. If you don't believe that he's Chris from "The Nineties," stay tuned. Later this week I'll post a lengthy Chris excerpt and you can weigh in. If you don't care, go reload your IPod and get off my blog.

Now if only my condo was repaired, my kids weren't fevered and croupy and I had my bedroom or writing nook back in order. Then I could resume shopping around "The Nineties" so the film rights could be optioned off and Zac would have a date with destiny--or at least the Academy voters.

Paul Elia (The Drummer)

PAUL ELIA
(THE DRUMMER)

Just good old fashioned
fun
like in the old days
when kids danced in the streets
bopping to the live musak
of course
and the teenage rebels
Him
with cigarettes in pocket
and oooh
a comb


And who grew up
into Paul anyway?
Suited corner-boy at the dance?
Now whose beats
through the body
--cold wind under dresses
hot breath on ears--
Throb beneath a suit and tie
and crease in the pants
which hides the real mystery
and rhythm

Girls Always Fall for the Asshole

A room that holds unexpected intrigue
--like climbing a flight of stairs in January,
the air from me cleaved,
ribs sink in my chest
with just a profile--
(Sharp nose, elegant neck
soft cheeks, glasses)

I once read of it in my dog-eared sixth grade
treasure book;

He is
mean
unattainable
cordial

But needy enough to glance my way,
reserve his laughter

He would not, like other boys,
follow me to the kitchen should I need a slice of lemon
(oh how I wish he would)

but did offer an arm
down the hill
--and though twenty times up and down it
this the first my breath pleasantly lost--
And at the bottom touched my face
gently
purposefully
unobtrusively

and declared me
an exaggeration
After which,
all I could do,
was say goodnight

And pray for dreams of him

Non sequitur of the day

"Donny was a good bowler, and a good man. He was one of us. He was a man who loved the outdoors. And bowling. And as a surfer, he explored the beaches of Southern California from La Jolla to Leo Carillo and up to Pismo. He died, as so many young men of his generation, before his time. In your wisdom, Lord, you took him. As you took so many bright flowering young men at Ke Song, at Lon Doc, and Hill 64. These young men gave their lives, as did Donny. Donny who loved bowling."

Raw sewage and missing drywall

Last Wednesday the money pit once again (less than two years since last episode) flooded with raw sewage from the upstairs condos. That's right, shit coming out of our toilet, sink and bathtub. Good news: it was the guest bathroom, hardly ever gets used. Bad news: flowed right under the doors to the kids' room and hallway, ruining everything in its path. Poor Noam: he tried to comfort me while I sat sobbing on the floor, seeing the next few months of my life play out in my mind's eye. Poor Lila: shes made a run for me and slipped in the muck, leading to a teary bath (on both our parts).

Twenty or so hotels were sold out on such short notice, which was I guess good news for us since we ended up at the Intercontinental Century City, where my son was sorry to leave the pool and room service behind when our home was deemed safe for habitation. Still no doors or walls, though.

Donations of single-malt Scotch, big ol' California wines , Cheetos and gift certs for Taco Bell Nachos Bell Grande (no meat, extra sour cream) may be sent to me at my home address.

In the meantime, the only thing to cheer me up was last night's screening of Hairspray (though those bitches at ArcLight switched us from the Dome to a black box after tix for the Dome were purchased...), which, disagree though you might, rocked the original film out the box. Who knew Zac Efron would be so HOT when he brushed that hair out of his eyes? How old is that kid? Too young for me? Why does he do that stupid thing with his hair? Don't even get me started on Christopher Walken--outstanding, as usual. And you'll get used to John Travolta and his pronunciation of "ironing." No Divine, but...

Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" -- anyone out there want to shed some light for me?

I finally finished reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road yesterday. It was a page turner for me, but I was unable to read it before bed and still sleep, and my daytime leisure hours are limited by two smallish people. I liked it, didn't love it. But I'm probably equally haunted by it as the folks who love it. My mother's read it twice, which is astounding. She's brave.

A few questions (uh-oh, treading on Book Club turf here)--anyone out there to shed some light?

1 - The last passage (I mean the very last paragraph, about the fish): I'm looking for other interpretations. Am I the only one who thinks it might have been a reference to actual fish regenerating in the coastal streams? If it's strictly metaphorical, what did you take from it? I've read it over and over again, and still find it to be the most challenging segment of the book.

2 - Religious allusions: other than Ely and the obvious and general child-as-messiah theme, can anyone point me to other specific references I might have missed?

3 - Anti-abortion message: can anyone confirm or disprove that the infant on the spit was motivated by McCarthy's anti-abortion/anti-stem-cell-research leanings?

4 - Anybody else care to weigh in on what the man's profession could have been pre-disaster? I have my own thoughts...

What else? Any English lit majors out there who've written extensive papers on themes in this book and wish to send them to me? I'm not looking for Oprah topics, here...

Thanks.

More new books: Lisa See's "Peony in Love" and a debut from Katherine Taylor

Lisa See's new book Peony in Love finally hit shelves yesterday. On Friday I'm going to hear her read at a lunch in Malibu, and I'll pick up my copy then. The general consensus seems to be that if you liked Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, you'll love Peony In Love. Go buy it! Buy it this week! There's no better way to spend disposable income than on books. Name a way. I defy you.

Two weeks ago I went to a reading of a new novelist named Katherine Taylor. She's a member of WriteGirl (an amazing mentoring organization that pairs professional female writers with inner-city girls) and I'm a once-and-future WriteGirl (taking a baby-rearing hiatus), so I wanted to check it out. I haven't read the book yet--which is set at an east-coast boarding school, in central California and in New York, among other places--but Ms. Taylor read the title chapter, Rules for Saying Goodbye, at BookSoup and all were entertained. Check it out!

Stuff of the Gods -- Pyramid Apricot Weizen and Native Foods

So what have I been gorging myself on as I avoid researching my new novel and deal with the toddler-who-won't-nap? Beer and chicken fingers.

Well, wait...

Pyramid Apricot Weizen can hardly be considered "beer" in that Coors and Pabst are also beer. This stuff is ambrosia. I mean, I can really put them away (bonus: relaxation at the end of a long day with kids), and even pick it over wine when pairing with food. Yummy.

What I like it best with is Native Foods' Save-the-Chicken wings. So, while technically not chicken (Native Foods is a vegan joint), kind of bar food, right? I defy anyone to serve these to an unknowing crowd and have someone guess it's not real chicken (and with three locations to serve you, why wouldn't you try it?). Don't forget to order an extra side of their amazing vegan ranch dressing, and check out their awesome kids' meals. Why, oh why can't Native Foods be kosher? Is anyone over there listening to me? You're already vegan, how hard can it be to get kosher certification? You would be catering all the tony Beverlywood and Westwood Jewish birthday parties, plus I could bring your food into my house. Please, please, please, please, please?!?

Tommy Thompson alienates a bunch of people who weren't going to vote for him, anyway.

GOP hopeful Tommy Thompson said this week in front of an audience of Jews:

"I'm in the private sector and for the first time in my life I'm earning money. You know, that's sort of part of the Jewish tradition, and I do not find anything wrong with that."

Wrong with that? What could possibly be wrong with that? I know in my house we don't consider it a week unless we've made challah, observed Havdallah, donned tefillin and raked in barrels-full of cold, hard cash (my husband would like to add that for him it's not a week unless he's thanked god seven times over for not making him a woman--oh boy, the Orthos are gonna be after me again).

"Who, day and night, must scramble for a living, feed a wife and children, say his daily prayers?And who has the right, as master of the house, to join the private sector now?

Who must know the way to make a proper home, a quiet home, a kosher home? Who must raise the family and run the home, so Papa's free to earn all the dough?

At three, I started Hebrew school. At ten, I learned a trade. I hear they've picked a bride for me. I hope she has stock options.

And who does Mama teach to mend and tend and fix? Preparing me to marry the richest man I can pick?

TRADITION!"

Jews and money go together like...like...like...well, ask any self-hating Jew to fill in a punchline here.

Thompson apologized, to which I say oh, puh-leeze. What say you?

A couple new books of note

Ayn Carillo-Gailey's new book, Pornology: A Good Girl's Guide to Porn, is now available. I met Ayn when DD Lila and I strolled into her rocking little person extravaganza Cool Baby on Pico. Pornology is her first book, and I went to a reading--sans kidlets--last Wednesday at BookSoup. Ayn immersed herself in porn for months while working on the book and the book is full of surprises, humor and actual honest-to-goodness insights that oughta interest men (read: porn consumers) and women (often virulently anti-porn). She even visited a brothel.



Tomorrow night I'm going to a reading of Jeff Hobbs' debut novel The Tourists. This one apparently has Mr. Easton-Ellis himself throwing his weight behind it, so I look forward to reading it. The real reason I'm going to the reading, of course, is to try to get some free advice out of Mr. Hobbs, who, like me, is a young L.A. transplant and married. Plenty in common, right? He'll definitely want to settle in and give my manuscript a read.

Anyone who's read either book should post in and let me know what you think of 'em.

-J

Pesach is almost over!!!

I go weeks without a pizza all the time, so why does it seem so horrible on Pesach??? I'm sick of eating CRAP. Check in with me after my chametz-fest tomorrow night and I'll be in a better mood (I hope).

I've been in Arizona for over a week, and on a slow connection so not blogging much.

Happy spring to all...

Steve Lopez is my hero

I can only hope that you, the reader, missed the original signage for the upcoming Lionsgate film Captivity before it was all taken down. It was (and this is speaking as a person who worked on the remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre--let me be upfront about that right now) beyond taste or reason. I needn't describe it here, but please do check out L.A. Times columnist extraordinaire Steve Lopez's column. Lopez--who all Angelenos should admire for revolutionizing the way we think about our homeless problem and traffic issues--once again hit it out of the park with his analysis of the issue. And he takes the lying, conniving producers to task for shirking responsibility. Now I'm going to take them to task for choosing the lowest of low roads to obtain free press. I can only hope that in this case the "no press is bad press" adage falls short. And I hope that the MPAA--to which the film was not submitted before the ads went out--does not rate the film as the producer's hope it will.

People who wanted to complain about the signs had to work hard to do so: they were without names or further information, and you'll find the film's web site to be similarly flummoxing. Feel free to drop distributor Lionsgate a line to let them know you won't be seeing Happily N'ever After, Daddy's Little Girls, Pride, Condemned, Away From Her, Delta Farce, Bug, Hostel Part II, Bratz, Good Luck Chuck, Rogue or Trade in a theatre near you.

Below I'm posting the note I sent to Lopez in response and appreciation of his column.

Let me know what YOU think of all this, especially if you saw the signs before they came down.

-Jessica

***
Dear Mr. Lopez:

I have often wanted to drop you a line to express appreciation for what you write. When enjoying your columns I frequently feel you’re reading my mind and channeling my opinions (and those of many other Angelenos, no doubt) as you tackle issues vital to Los Angeles. Never did I feel this more than while reading your column on the Captivity billboards.

Those ads sickened me and, I’m slightly embarrassed to say, even kept me up at night with their graphic imagery. I’m only glad my children are 3 years and 18 months and unable to read the signs. Even a three year old, though, was able to discern that it was “scary”. A friend who's a violent rape survivor and suffers from post traumatic stress had the wind taken out of her just upon glimpsing them.

Disgusted with such films though I am, I do not begrudge producers the right to make them or distributors the right to market them. (In fact, while at a production company, I ended up doing legal and production work on the remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.) But ads for such movies often disappoint me, and the signs for Captivity were absolutely outrageous.

Good for you for publishing your column and for taking the producers and distributor to task for denying culpability. They were selling a big pack of lies in their response to your questions.

It’s difficult to obtain any information about the film, since the signs and web site don’t list names or even logos. (Convenient for dodging complaints.) What I’m most interested to know is if the film is or will be rated by the MPAA. If so, and they didn’t submit the advertisements to the MPAA, the MPAA ought to take them to task for flouting the rules. If not, at least lack of rating ought to keep the box office low.

Thanks again for being one of the most clear-thinking and effectual citizens of our city.

Best regards,

-Jessica Emerson-Fleming

I started the new book! I started the new book!

Well, everyone knows that I put The Nineties aside for a while and started the process of querying agents. This is not to say The Nineties is never to be touched again. Oh, no. I'm one of those people who thinks what she's written is never done: it may be said that I enjoy editing even more than writing. It's just that after seven complete drafts I think it's ready for an agent's eyes. The manuscript would benefit greatly from even a cursory edit (or at least editing suggestions) by an agent, but it's polished enough to submit. My biggest problem is that my biggest problem is the first 50 pages of the manuscript: exactly what agents will be looking at. It's not that those pages are bad or poorly written, it's just that they're largely expository and don't well-reflect the tone of the rest of the book (drug deals, orgies, sex-for-drugs, sexual assault, addition). So why didn't I change it? I didn't want to. It's a character-driven book, and we have to see the "before" to understand the "after". Why didn't I play with the chronology more? What, you mean gimmicks? Me? Never! Heh-heh. So stayed tuned on the response and whether I have to change the first 50.

But enough about that. This post is supposed to be about the new book. I actually sat down and started writing it, and it's going well. This one is about a man who has gastric-bypass surgery, and is set half in the Pico-Robertson area of Los Angeles (write what you know!) and half on a ranch in rural Sasabe, Arizona. To refresh my sense of Sasabe, I'll be horseying around down there in April or May, so that'll be fun. You want a taste of it (literally, kind of)? Here's the first graph (at least as of now--it's quite likely to change down the line), from the first chapter, titled "Shabbat":

"The blond jot of bread dappled the guests and the already briny food with motes of salt as it sailed twelve seats down the table to the dead opposite of the Rabbi’s place at the head. Reb heeled the floor to lean back and caught it one-handed—he was hardy, athletic, even—and, eating it in one eggy bite, became the first able to break the chaste silence."

That's all for now...

Before and after pics of the garden

Well, the heavy lifting is done. Check out what our plot at Ocean View Farms looked like when we received it (top right). Actually, that was after I weeded it. Not much to write home about. Underneath you'll see what it looks like at this moment--pre-planting. Not bad for someone who hasn't gardened since she was five years old, right? Uri built the beds two weeks ago, then my friend Christine and I spent most of Saturday hauling wheelbarrows-full of manure and compost down to the plot, and mulching with wood chips and bark. Now even if nothing ever grows, I'll be secure in the knowledge that I could handle the architecture of a garden (at least a very small garden). Big props to Christine for spending a large chunk of her L.A. vacation covered in fresh manure.

My whole wheat bread rocks the world...

...the only problem is, it's not really my whole wheat bread. It's King Arthur Flour's. Meaning, it's their recipe, it's their flour. It's just my breadmaker and oven. I'm not usually one to throw myself behind specific products, but I love King Arthur flours. If you don't believe there's a difference, try it once and drop me a line. It's remarkable. And it's pretty much widely available, at least in California. I can find their white and wheat flours at Ralph's and Whole Foods. I use the recipe on the back of the Whole Wheat Flour bag (it's true whole wheat flour, by the way), to make 100% whole wheat bread. The only substitution I make is vanilla soy milk for nonfat dried milk--that way my pipsqueak can eat it. I do the dough in the bread machine but rise and bake it in a glass loaf pan. It's great to have hot bread for supper one night, plus it makes me breakfast all week long (sliced thin and topped with a little plain yogurt and honey--umm).

If anyone is ever looking for a gift to get me (yea!), I would love the King Arthur whole grain baking book.

Over and out.

-Jessica

A sunny little poem

MENINGITIS

Indigo spiders, silent
invisible 'til break of day
Later tube-fed and
sore
Marking even spaces
on his arm
My friend lay--
black mines for eyes
and fistless--
Three blocks from the
Leister where I burned myself
And dying

Lying
like sand
crumbling into a starched cotton sea
And me
across it, eating
or sleeping; without the
corners, crisp
or confinement
of brain-melting beds
rolling heads
And foreign nurses who smell
of mint

Waking with a jolt in the night
suddenly I can't breathe

Apartment composting

I need advice. Anybody have thoughts about which counter-top composter to buy? If there's a large composter that will fit on my condo's smallish balcony? Tips, tricks, ideas, stink-factor? Thanks!

Sweating with the mammoth insect from outer space

Okay. We just got back from our first real morning spent at the garden. It was short (had to get back to the babysitter), but involved heavy labor nevertheless. We took some before pics, which I'll post soon. Basically, we have a 23-1/2 by 9 foot plot of dirt that wasn't tended well of late. At one end there is a large Bird of Paradise plant and some sage, which we're leaving. At the other are some beautiful Narcissus flowers, also staying. We pulled everything else, including a few stray asparagus, a pepper plant, some unidentifiable (to us) dead bushes, a few underdeveloped turnips and many weeds. There's a small patch of strawberries that we acquired by chance, which are growing beautifully but will have to be moved after we build the beds.

This, of course, had required a trip to the hardware store (long live Anawalt) earlier this morning. It was comical, my husband and the lumber guy trying to interpret my measurement notes on what I thought was an excellent blueprint of the garden. Also, they (happily) only charged us $2 total to cut the wood, instead of the usual dollar-a-cut. But I digress (I guess that means I'm officially a blogger).

We're building five raised beds, which just means nailing together some planks and plonking them down. But it's harder than it seems. The good news is this gardening experiment was partially for me to learn how to DO things, and on that count, so far so good. We got two built today (and by "we" I mean Uri). When all five are built and laid down, each needs to be re-weeded, and a layer of manure followed by compost (both available in abundance at the garden) is dumped on top. Then we have to mulch the paths between the beds to make it harder for weeds to grow. When all that's done it should at least look organized. Then we'll put in the plants.

We have 72 cells of seedlings growing in tiny greenhouses on our counter, which makes our house smell like a mix between Aisle 42 at Home Depot and a rainforest (at least what I suppose a rainforest might smell like). Here's the official list: cucumbers, red tomatoes, yellow pear tomatoes, zucchini, broccoli, Romaine, butter and green leaf lettuces, two types of spinach (grow what you eat!), strawberries, carrots, French breakfast radishes, green beans, chives, chamomile, lavender and spearmint. Later we'll be planting two types of pumpkins, butternut squash and watermelon. Yum.

Which brings me to the mammoth insect from outer space. I've met him twice now, and I don't know what he is. Originally I suspected a type of cricket I've never before seen. It does remind me of some crickets in children's book illustrations. It has huge, round, sad eyes and long antennae. It's about two inches long and brown. Now I'm thinking it might be a stage (larvae?) of giant grasshopper, because giant grasshoppers inhabit my Bird of Paradise plant and that's where I see mammoth insect from outer space. In any event, I hope he stays in my garden. He's lovely and I'm thinking perhaps my patron saint of gardening (I know, I know, there's an actual patron saint of gardening, but I don't believe in saints, so what's the difference if mine is a cricket?). He's the most thoughtful-looking bug you could imagine.

Oh yeah, and we met Frank, el Presidente of Ocean View Farms, who is super-nice and exceedingly helpful.

Now, THAT was a blog post. Overlong, boring, and with details you didn't need to know and probably didn't care about. But when I have a bumper crop I'll quiz you on it before I give you a basket of my organic zucchini. And if you know how many calories per hour active gardening burns, drop me a line. I need every point I can get!

In London

I've just paid a remarkable amount of money for an updo, but holy cow is it an updo. We spent the morning at Harrod's, mostly buying gifts for the children and eating cheese. (The children, by the way, are in Los Angeles.) Still a bit jet lagged, but getting ready for the party of our decade at the Spencer House (yes, the Spencer) tonight. Brilliant, as they say.

-J

Response from Rabbi Benjamin Blech

Apparently Rabbi Blech heard about my issue with his essay and found my blog. He posted in the comments section, but let me reprint his response here. His comments (reprinted as he typed them) are followed by my response, which I sent to him in an e-mail. I'm really interested in other thoughts on this little debate. Please post comments, and I'll repost those that I think contribute meaningfully. (For clarification purposes, I've been told Rabbi Blech is not a Chabad rabbi.)

-Jessica
***

Here's my response to your blog - and my request thaqt you calm down and take everything so pertsonally. You'll live longer - and be a better Jew (as well as develop a sense of humor):I've just had an opportunity to read the blog by Jessica who seems tobe incested at my "attack on her as a Jew".What an utterly remarkable misreading of my article on the rules ofmeat easting in Judaism! I truly hope no other vegetarians consider mythoughts an attack on their chosen life-style. Indeed I respect andlove every Jew, including those who would never indulge in a steak -but I would hope they would return the same respect to me withoutcalling me the names PETA freely chooses to brand non-vegetarians,including murderer.The sentences that seemed to set Jessica off were these: "Manyvegetarians believe that it is a sin to take an animal's life in orderto lengthen our own. All of G-d's creatures, they contend, have thesame right to live out their years. A noble thought, ethicallymotivated, and yet-supremely un-Jewish!" Look at the words carefullyplease: The thought is un-Jewish - and that's why meat-eaters, ofBiblical sacrifices or contemporary catered Simchahs, are not to becondemned. "Vegetarians believe it is a sin..." - but it's not, and,to turn the tables round, I'm offended when you consider me a sinneras I sit at my Shabbat table with the foods that the Talmud teachesclearly add to my joy.As a point of fact, the article agreed more than it disagreed with thefundamental premise of vegetarians: In order to be allowed to takelife for our consumption we've got to desrve it ethically, morally andvia Torah commitment.I sincerely hope all those looking for argument reflect more carefullyon what the article actually said and don't read personal attacks intoessays where none are found - in order to personally attack thewriter.Wioth AHAVAT YISROEL to all, Sincerely, Rabbi Benjamin Blech

***
Rabbi Blech:

Thanks for posting to my blog.

I published your comment, and when I have time this week I’ll paste it into a new post so it’s more readily accessible for people to read.

I appreciated your comments, as well as the feedback I received from AskMoses.

My comments were not a personal attack on you, but a response to what you wrote, which, no doubt, you stand by.

I maintain my position that the essay had a negative tone towards vegetarianism. (If no one ever took anything personally, what would ever change, really?) I do like to think I have a sense of humor, and I realize that the article was a bit tongue-in-cheek. It is not only my experience, but the experience of several vegetarian acquaintances, that in observant circles vegetarians are often met with jokes and fun-poking. Which everyone should be able to take. But, as with most things, there’s some truth behind each joke, and I’ve yet to find a good argument against being a Jewish vegetarian. As it goes in the world, people in a minority group are subject to some ridicule, but, depending on the circumstance, it always becomes unfunny at some point.

You wrote an article that, no matter that it was good-natured, made an argument in favor of eating meat (I understand, given certain stipulations according to the Talmud and Torah...) within the context of being a Jew. I don’t see how I’m wrong about that. My comments were merely a response, and my initial response was that I don’t choose to read more such articles.

Also, one of the points of my response is that not all vegetarians share a fundamental premise (as you wrote, and reiterated in your comments on my blog). My personal choice has nothing to do with ethics, and everything to do with health. So in that respect your essay didn’t comport with me.

I certainly didn’t intend to align myself with PETA-types who don’t share my reasons or thinking on vegetarianism. I didn’t call you names and I would never call a meat-eater a murderer. Nor do I begrudge anyone the right to eat whatever he pleases at any meal. Nothing I wrote on the subject stated or implied that I have a problem with what you eat.

Finally, I wasn’t looking for an argument. Your essay offended me, and it’s well within my rights to say so. I’m glad you responded, as public discourse is the means by which people gain greater understanding of each other.

Thanks again for your comments.

Be well,

-Jessica Emerson-Fleming

Well-received response from AskMoses

I so appreciate the response I received (quite promptly, might I add...) from AskMoses. See it below. Although my beef (heh heh) with the initial article remains, I do believe it represents the author, and not AskMoses.

Check it out.

***
Your email address has been removed from our list. Indeed, it is true that meat is not healthy. Maimonides (who was himself a famous doctor) writes that red meat should NEVER be eaten (in his laws of dietary health). The article doesn't touch upon this issue as you correctly pointed out. I apologize for any inconvenience and will try to be more careful in the future in the choice of featured essays - to look for one's that are only positive. I hope you will have a more positive experience with Chabad in the future.
Thank you for your help in improving our service,
Rabbi Zalman Abraham

Late breaking: Chabadniks say vegetarianism is "unjewish"

Ooooh. I'm really fuming. There are countless ways and reasons to debunk the e-mail I just received from AskMoses.com, a FAQ and 24/6 Jewish support site run by Chabad. I've been on their e-mail list for a while, and usually find the articles they send insightful at best and inapplicable at worst.

But today they sent an article that claims vegetarianism is "supremely unjewish." So cancel your Pesach plans, I guess, because it seems we're not proper Jews. Wouldn't want to eat at our place...

It's not easy to get my goat. At least not enough to make me go public. Especially regarding vegetarianism, where my overall approach is live at let live (or live and let slaughter, heh heh). My husband is, of course, a meat eater, and it doesn't bother me one bit.

But this really got me. In addition to being offensive, it's ridiculous. First you'll see the article, then my response to AskMoses. Really, I could have written an essay on every which way the article went wrong. But I wouldn't want to bore you.

I welcome your response and insight, though, and so, I'm sure, does AskMoses, which can be reached at answerline@askmoses.com

Happy birthday to me. It won't be a real festival, of course, since I won't be enjoying a charred bit of dead animal.

***
Carbs by Professor Benjamin Blech

Millions of Americans are embracing the dietary laws.

Okay, maybe not the same dietary laws found in the Bible, but the eating habits of the whole country have changed almost overnight. Forget Pepsi, we’re the No-Carb Generation. Stick to the meat part of meat-and-potatoes, and you’re golden. Have steak every day, even for breakfast if you’re so inclined, and America’s most popular diet promises you’ll live close to the proverbial 120. Dr. Atkins spread the gospel: Thou shalt not eat carbs.

Beef prices have skyrocketed, so that non-Jewish consumers are starting to pay the kind of money for meat that used to distinguish kosher food. This is the Wimpy Age—Popeye’s friend Wimpy, that is—the meat-crazed mooch who famously offered to “pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.”

Vegetarians, obviously, aren’t very happy with this trend. (A clever ad for one prominent chain of steakhouses used to boast, “Horrifying Vegetarians Since 19__.”) Many vegetarians believe that it is a sin to take an animal’s life in order to lengthen our own. All of G-d’s creatures, they contend, have the same right to live out their years. A noble thought, ethically motivated, and yet—supremely un-Jewish!

Jews do eat meat. In fact, the Talmud teaches, that’s what transforms an ordinary meal into a Sabbath or holiday feast. Simchah , true joy, can be attained only with bassar v’yayin , meat and wine. Animals, says the Midrash, were created before Adam so that they would be available for his table, just as a king prepares food in advance for his most favored guest.

But before you tear into that rib-eye, there’s something else you should know. Judaism agrees with the meat of the vegetarian argument: Life, whether human or animal, shouldn’t be taken lightly; we don’t have the right to kill other life forms simply because we have the power to do so.

Perhaps the most profound dietary law is one that’s relatively unknown. In fact, if it were put into practice it’s quite conceivable that a lot of us would no longer know the delight of devouring a steak or polishing off a couple of burgers. You see, Judaism doesn’t really give us carte blanche to kill animals for food. It allows us to eat meat only on one condition: that the animal whose life is taken serves to feed someone whose life has more meaning than simple bestial existence.
“Am ha’aretz assur le’echol bassar .” A boor, whose life is devoid of Torah, is forbidden to eat meat! That’s the Talmud’s conclusion based on a simple equation: For any life ended to support another, there must be a qualitative difference between the life that is taken and the life that will be sustained. Animals live, as Sigmund Freud put it, to get and to beget. They eat and they procreate. They simply exist. Human beings are meant to strive for more. Our years are supposed to be imbued with a spiritual quest for holiness. Life is not merely getting and begetting, but being and becoming. Created in the image of G-d, we have an obligation to imitate our Divine Maker. It is only our efforts in pursuit of this goal that permit us to turn animal flesh into the food that fuels us.

This adds a whole new dimension to the Atkins Diet. Piling on meat may keep you thin—but it might be a sin. It all depends on whether you deserve the meat.

So here’s the new diet plan that gives equal weight (no pun intended) to both your body’s need to be slim and your soul’s longing for spiritual fulfillment: Live your life with the constant awareness that you are meant to be much more than an animal, and in that way you’ll earn the right to enjoy as many prime cuts of meat as your heart desires.

Republished with permission from www.chabadstanford.org .
***

Dear Ask Moses:

I have enjoyed your e-mails for some time now. But I must ask that you remove me from your mailing list immediately.

The below article by Benjamin Blech, sent to me today via Ask Moses, is the first and only negative experience I’ve had with Chabad in an otherwise happy 12 year relationship.

To be told that vegetarianism is supremely “unjewish” and that I am not attaining true joy or properly partaking of Sabbath and festival meals is offensive, and, in my experience, specious.

Although I applaud the ethical argument against eating animals, I have no problem with people who eat meat. I choose not to eat meat for health reasons—something not mentioned in the article—and my lifetime of research has taught me that vegetarians who practice a well-balanced diet enjoy a much healthier overall outlook than meat eaters, particularly heavy meat-eaters. I’d be surprised to hear from a doctor who disagrees. Surely Chabadniks are modern enough to be interested not only in the spiritual health of Jews, but in the physical health, as well. In fact, “traditional” Jewish diets are often lambasted by medical personnel as too high in meat, saturated and trans fats, as any Jew who enjoys such a diet and was recently diagnosed with heart disease will tell you. To me it borders on criminal to give people an excuse to over-indulge in a known health culprit (let’s not kid ourselves: in biblical and Talmudic times meat was harder to come by and consumed in far less quantities). Not only that, but the article’s implication that eating meat will make you slim would certainly not be true for those who enjoy a “traditional” Jewish diet, including weekly Challah and other rich dishes.

For your article not to imply, but to state outright, that I am a lesser Jew for making a choice to be vegetarian does not only not comport with teachings I’ve learned through Torah study and from Rabbis, it makes me feel ill. I try to be a good Jew, I carry Torah in my heart and I observe more and more mitzvot as I continue to learn. I am raising devoted Jewish children who are also vegetarians, but apparently to you they are “unjewish.”

I expect you’ll remove me from this and all Ask Moses lists. Frankly, this e-mail makes me question all of my ties with Chabad, and I shall have to tread carefully from here on out.

Be well,

-Jessica Emerson-Fleming

Internet is down

It doesn't seem possible in this day and age (and with the price we pay for our cable internet), but my internet is down and THEY CAN'T FIX IT. At least not without a visit from a technician, and there's a ONE-WEEK wait for that. Even I--the demure, who has never sent a plate of food back in my life--was livid on the phone. It did no good (probably it did harm). So here I am, crouched down by a window in my dining room, filching from the only unsecured wireless network in the neighborhood, which comes and goes as it pleases. So there won't be any interesting updates this weekend, but look for new stuff next week. Shabbat shalom to the MOTs.

-J

Tuppence

Could there be anything sweeter than Julie Andrews singing "Feed the Birds" over a montage of St. Paul's Cathedral? What a song. Even though it's meant to soothe the children, to put pictures in their heads of adventure to come, isn't it just the most melancholy tune?

We took the kidlets to the El Capitan tonight for the Sing-Along showing of Mary Poppins. It was Noam's second theatre movie (which, poor thing, made it Lila's second, too--the pipsqueaks always get dragged along to things at inappropriate ages), and it went well. It's a long movie, so we didn't last until "Let's Go Fly A Kite." We were dragged out when it got a wee scary in the bank scene. But, still, it was glorious. The kids were enchanted, and, after all these years, we still were, too.

Then we went next door to the Disney soda counter and had a real Schwab's-style dinner followed by not-so-junior Junior sundaes (I resisted the triple-scoop peppermint sundae with marshmallow creme--how, I'll never know). And for all the smiles and hugs, I had to wonder how this will be remembered by the wee ones. I can remember back before I was two, but I suspect that's slightly unique.

Here's a little something I wrote about those memories--those times when I had images but no words (yes, me, without words).

Have a great week.

-J

A place I can't remember
There's a wind blowing
through the thin white curtains,
no-paned window,
in a place I can't quite remember
Lady-bugs crawling up and down
my arms, tickly
Sailboats on the beach
my stuffed Koala bear
Salty men drinking in a trailer

Our house
near the beach
Our things
in furniture that wasn't
Brownies and lemonade and fireworks
and a realy-truly splintered boardwalk, cool on my feet,
where I bought
a butterfly necklace
Too scared to ride the waterslide
too dangerous to go out after high tide--

San Diego, Lake Tahoe, Rocky Pointe, the Atlantic
I know because you told me so

It's too hard. I cannot.

New excerpt. Last one for a while, so enjoy.

Here's a little excerpt from the end of the Alessandro chapter, which, if you're a loyal reader, you're already familiar with. It's the first introduction to Chris (on my blog--he enters the story much earlier with a bit of a bang). I cut off the scene at the end. What's that? You wanted me to post the sex scene that follows (don't get too excited, it's brief--they all are)? Wait 'til it's in hardback. I sign and dog-ear a copy just for you.

-Jessica

Three days later Chris and I finished the coke I got at Aless’ and he got more.

“I didn’t know you were that into it,” I said.

We were sitting in his room, he on his desk chair and I on the floor, leaning back against his twin bed. He was meticulous, and everything in his room was in its place, always in its exact place. The framed Led Zeppelin poster was realigned each morning to ensure it was hung straight. The bed was always made with his clean, blue comforter pulled taut, and the controllers for his Nintendo were wrapped and stored neatly. The bongs were lined up in a row on the desk, biggest to smallest. His other paraphernalia was stored tight in a box right beside.

“I’m not, really. Kills the appetite, which makes it hard to do quality control in the kitchen.”

“So how come I had to get coke from my friend when you know a dealer anyway?”

“She’s a pot man, baby. But I’m a good customer so she can fill special requests. And it’s worth it, because I’m going to show you something amazing.”

He took a lightbulb out of one of the lamps in his grandpa’s old study and brought it into the bedroom with a spoon and a hammer from the kitchen. Holding the bulb in a towel, he tapped the metal screw with a hammer until it broke, leaving a smooth glass edge on the bulb. He used the towel to wipe the film off the inside of the bulb and handed it to me.

“Careful. The edge is sharp.”

Then he poured a small pile of coke into the spoon and added several drops of water from the cup beside his bed. He held the end of the spoon in his right hand and used his left to light a Zippo. He was a southpaw, like me.

He waved the flame back and forth under the spoon until the drugs began to melt like sugar and the water boiled. When all was liquid he swirled the spoon then let it dry. A few minutes later he tipped the ivory rock into the lightbulb. It made a quiet plinking sound. A marble dropping into an empty vase.

“What is it? Like, crack?” I said.

“I’ll smoke it first. You watch.”

He lit the Zippo again and held it a couple inches under the bulb.

“You’re wasting good coke,” I said.

When the rock started to smoke he put a straw into the bulb, held it just above the rock and inhaled the vapors deeply. A pit of dread welled up in my stomach. If I couldn’t smoke it Chris would know I was a phony.

“Here,” Chris said. His smile was broad. “I’ll hold it while you inhale.”

I took the straw and lowered it towards the bulb. My hands shook.

“Babe, you have to put the straw in all the way.”

When it started to smoke Chris said “now” and I drew the deepest breath I could muster, inviting the cloudy trail into my lungs. It didn’t burn like the cigarette. More like my insides were taking a Jacuzzi.

The effect was immediate. I smiled as my head took on the now-familiar balloon quality, but a pleasant new lightness of being was fast spreading from my gut to my extremities. The lightbulb still swirled with cumulus billows.

Have you ever been so glad? Glad, glad, glad. Alarmingly glad. Glad that Chris took you in, father like, and showed you how to do these adult things. Glad that Greta turned out to be a nice person. And about the baby, about the magnificent miracle of life about to explode in your own little house. That your parents love each other when so many married people do not. That your brothers love you. About your new school. About Mr. Ed. So glad about brilliant Mr. Ed with his spiky hair and perfect ears. Back around to Chris. Glad you love him. Yes, you really do love him.

“Like candy, huh?” he said.

And it was. The smoke was sweet, like a malt beverage, and went down easily as spun sugar.

“Ambrosia,” I said. “Can I take another hit?”

“Not for a while, babe. This is potent stuff. Just enjoy.”

So we fucked. Then we took a glorious walk along the creek in the scrubby foothills of lower Sabino, stopping to collect broken slabs of mica and bits of Hohokam soapstone and to watch a woodpecker widen her nest inside of a saguaro’s plump belly. The world was alive with color.

You’ve been too busy to even notice the changing seasons. How could you not notice? How could you miss the splendor of the desert in fall? You haven’t been alive until now. This is where it’s at. This is living.

People from the east coast are fond of saying the seasons don’t change out west. They have to hold tight to this line because without the falling leaves what have they got? Long, cold winters. Snow and rats. Ticks and mosquitoes. Hot, humid summers and too few leaky air-conditioning units. Outdated plumbing.

They come to Arizona or California and see our year-round sunshine, our mild winters—so mild that I thought spring started in January until, on a family trip to New York, we got caught in a Valentine’s Day blizzard—and are consumed with the rage of having been tricked. The allure of a brownstone, a stray deer in a Jersey yard and even the postcard countryside of New England are unoriginal compared to the great western expanses and divine climate of the frontier.
Perhaps the easterners, those in-your-face easterners, could not appreciate the subtlety of seasons. The slight cherry-pink that tinges the Arizona air in early October. The two-degree temperature change that barely registers. The faint taste on the wind, bracing in the morning but spicy by suppertime. The smell of wood burning, maybe next door or maybe across town. The incessant sky, so blue blue that it hurts the eyes, ripe with the lithium left over from the previous evening’s sunset. Perhaps the easterners could not see and feel those things without the flamboyant autumn leaves pointing them out like so much neon.

But all of it is apparent to you.

The coldblooded lizards spent longer hours doing push-ups in the sun. The marching ants were no longer a threat now that picnic season was over, and we stopped to watch them carry bits of creosote cotton up their hill. The fresh air filled our burning lungs and sent oxygen pouring into our affected brains, intensifying and concentrating our bliss like the jigger of Jack in a boilermaker.

“God, you’re perfect,” Chris said, and grabbed me around the waist. I hiked a knee up over his hip and he attacked my neck. “I want you all the time.”

We tried to get inside each other vertical against a Palo Verde and then flat on top of the dirt and the snake pits, but the geometry wasn’t right.

Escalation in Iraq

Today I forwarded my husband an e-mail from MoveOn.org, urging us to attend a rally tonight to voice opposition to the President's proposed troop surge in Iraq. My note to him said something like: "I'm not sure I feel strongly enough to attend. The escalation seems wrong, but then something keeps nagging at me that maybe we just need to go in there and do it right this time."

Obviously he's been thinking about it, too, because he jetted off the following to me:

"I've been going back and forth, and I don't think it's possible to do it right. It's too late and I don't think we have any friends there anymore (we're supposed to support the government that bungled the execution so badly). I think the Shiites want to kill all the Sunnis, and the Sunnis will fight back, and unless we're willing to fight them all and run the place, there's nothing for us to do. It's going to be bad, and many many more Iraqis will die, and in some respect it's our fault since we removed the repressive, murdering regime that kept these people from killing each other (which is a strange thing to be blamed for). Maybe if we'd done it right, we could have prevented the killing, but I don't think that's a certainty.

It's a done deal over there, we should accept reality and adjust accordingly, to mitigate the damage (keep forces near by to attack any real threats, give asylum to all the Iraqis who helped us and now will be killed, protect the Kurds and leave). Carol here [at work] has a son who just got sent back to Iraq...I just don't think his life is worth taking one more shot at this fiasco."

I'm still on the fence, though. His argument is well-reasoned and in line with my core belief about this war (I opposed it long before it started), but there is something to be said for cleaning up a mess you made. I just don't know if it's possible.

Feel free to weigh in, and check out www.moveon.org if you're interested in attending an anti-escalation rally or showing your disapproval of the President's plan in another way.

Dissent on word of the year...

My extremely funny friend, Bim, weighed in on the "Word of the Year" post in comments. In case you missed his comment, here it is:

"I must respectfully disagree, because I think they chose quite incorrectly, actually. The problem is, if you're going to choose one word in a year, why not have it refer to something that is already previously undefined by a preexisting word? 'Plutoed' is just a shorter word for 'torpedoed' and slightly longer than 'vetoed', which all mean roughly the same thing, but sound similar. How many words do we need for rejection of ideas? By picking this word, they have done absolutely nothing for the english language. I just thought of this in a few minutes, and presumably they have tons of english scholars thinking about this kind of thing. It looks like they overlooked a very simple detail that should have 'plutoed' their bright idea."

In other news, I was recently informed that my family will soon be receiving a plot at the Oceanview Farms community co-op garden in Santa Monica. This means I will have to recover from my fear of bugs and dirt in short order (part of the reason I signed up in the first place), and also learn to garden. Any advice would be appreciated (also, free books, seeds, equipment--send them my way!). I have gorgeous images of my children, shaded by blossoming stalks of summer corn, playing happily in the soil next to the ripening raspberry bush while a favonian breeze trills through my bronze windchime. I'm trying not to imagine spider bites, Marigold stink and them choking on bits of leftover piping they pull up from the earth. Or all the driving to-and-from Santa Monica and the private jets blazing in and out of the nearby airport.

Please, if you have any gardening tips (specifically for vegetables), let me know. Also, apartment composting tips are welcome. I'm not yet sure if I'm going to attempt it, but it's under consideration. We're planning to grow tomatoes, onions, Persian cucumbers, carrots, artichokes, spinach, chives, broccoli, pumpkins, radishes, peas, beans, strawberries and possibly corn and raspberries.

Yummy.

Word of the Year

Here's a little something from today's Writer's Digest newsletter...

"The American Dialect Society, a 117-year-old organization of linguists, grammarians, historians and independent scholars, selected “plutoed”—to demote or devalue someone or something—as its 2006 Word of the Year. The term, which started when the General Assembly of the International Astronomical Union took away Pluto’s designation as a planet, beat out several challengers including “climate canary” (“an organism or species whose poor health or declining numbers hint at a larger environmental catastrophe on the horizon), murse (man's purse), flog (a fake blog that promotes products) and macaca (an American citizen treated as an alien)."

I think they chose right, though macaca had to be close second (Senator Allen strikes again!). By the way, what you are reading right now is not a flog, because (a) I'm a real person, and, (b) I don't have a product to promote...yet.

What word do you think they should have picked? Other entries?