The North End

A grand exit

in spectacular form.

Her most egregious flaws

so crassly on display

in the decadent lobby

of the Ritz hotel.

At the airport,

sick with shame.

Regret burns her cheeks

and stings her eyes,

but there are some things

that cannot be taken back.

Perhaps though, a fitting end

to such a passionate affair.

Burning out

so spectacularly

in the decadent lobby

of the Ritz hotel.

Dallas Buyers Club - The Verdict

My regular readers reader knows I am in the Writer's Guild. One of  the only perks is getting screeners and screening invitations during awards season. (Screeners are DVDs that have the "For your consideration only" message appear on the bottom of the screen every 20 minutes)

Now that we've established that.. I just watched Dallas Buyers Club. It stars Matthew McConaughey, Jared Leto and Jennifer Garner. It was good. I didn't think it was great, but it was quite good. The acting, however....wow. We'll get to that in a minute. But first a little background.

If you're not familiar, Dallas Buyers Club is based on real events. A hard-living guy in Texas (imagine that!) named Ron Woodroof finds out he has HIV, and is given 30 days to live. He looks for treatment, but being this is 1985, there are no options. They're just starting clinical trials with a drug called AZT that appears to be more deadly than the disease itself. Woodroof makes it his mission to stay alive, and through extensive research he travels the world and finds a regimen of shit that's not approved by the FDA. Other HIV and AIDS patients come to him for help, and he goes into business with the help of his doctor and a fellow patient named Rayon, smuggling these illegal medications into the country. The business is eventually called the Dallas Buyers Club; to get around the DEA and FDA, patients buy a "membership", and with the membership they get the drugs. So technically, Woodroof isn't selling illegal drugs. Anyway, this movie chronicles his story. Pretty compelling.


Now, back to the acting. I know you're looking forward to me eviscerating Matthew McConaughey...but, well... it feels so strange to say this, and it may or may not make me throw up in my mouth a little, but McConaughey is fucking amazing. Uh.Maze.Ing. Who knew the man who cannot keep his shirt on actually has some acting chops?? The cynic in me wonders if it's just because he looks the part. He lost 30 pounds for this role. I didn't know what the film was about, and when I first saw him on-screen I thought, "Wow, he looks like he has HIV". He is so painfully skinny, and has that sickly look about him that we've come to associate with HIV/AIDS patients. So McConaughey looks the role. But the film critic in me understands this is only a small piece of the puzzle, and adds to the authenticity of his performance. And it truly is a performance.

McConaughey manages to bring the character to life. You believe him. He's an asshole, a good ol' boy homophobe. And you really don't like the fucker at first. Even when he becomes ostracized by his good ol' boy homophobe friends. You don't care about Woodroof. Which is what makes McConaughey's performance so miraculous; eventually you do care about him. I never ended up liking the guy, yet somehow I became invested in the character's life. I wanted this fucker to survive. McConaughey was able to coax some empathy out of the role, without ever losing the asshole attitude. He remained true to the character, never patronized the audience to force some kind of emotional attachment. It came naturally, through the character's development. I actually forgot I was watching Matthew McConaughey play Ron Woodroof. I was watching Ron Woodroof. That, my friends, is rare. Even in the best films, with the best actors, it's not often that you completely lose the recognition that you are watching [insert your favorite actress or actor] as whatever role. For example, in this film, it was Jennifer Garner playing a doctor. I believed she was a doctor, but I also never lost the recognition that it was Garner. The only other time I can recall complete immersion was when I saw Man on the Moon, with Jim Carrey. I completely forgot it was Jim Carrey; I was watching Andy Kaufman.

On to the freak show we've come to know and love that is Jared Leto. Again... Uh.Fucking.Mazing. It took me a while to realize it even was Leto. Another completely authentic performance. Leto also lost a significant amount of weight for the role, which again I believe supplemented the performance, rather than create the illusion of good acting. His character is a transvestite drug addict AIDS patient named Rayon; and you fucking believe it. You like Rayon right away. Leto successfully cultivates that kind of outgoing personality that we often associate with drag queens. She is both beautiful and tragic. Unlike Ron, she is a compassionate person, and their business partnership -- which evolves into an odd friendship, perhaps the kind you would see between siblings who never got along -- is an unusual one. And yet, you believe in the relationship. The bond they form is entirely realistic, despite their differences, Ron's emotional detachment and selfishness, and his continued homophobia. Leto is also able to convey Rayon's sassy attitude and deep emotional agony at the same time. Both layers exist at once and are visible at all times, like wave upon wave, and it is fantastic. 

The movie was good. When I started writing this, I wasn't sure that I'd want to pay $15 to see it in a theater, I thought maybe a matinee.... but as I've been writing, I have to admit maybe I would. The acting truly is worth the price of admission. Those 2 carry this film, and they are remarkable. I never thought I'd hear 'McConaughey' and 'Oscar' in the same sentence, (unless it was something like 'McConaughey is cast as Oscar the Grouch in Sesame Street Unleashed'), but I have to say his performance truly is Oscar-worthy, and it would be a great injustice if he did not at least get a nomination.

Now stop acting and shit and take your shirt off!

Passionate about Pigeonholes

Got all philosophical and shit with a good friend the other night about whether we -- people in general -- are really supposed to be happy. He, and another male friend, are unhappy in their marriages. I mean, they still love their wives, but sometimes love isn't enough. (Ask any guy/chick who's been friend-zoned) It's not necessarily that they're bored, either. My friend just wants more. I know the feeling, because I want it, too. So we got talkin, are we asking too much? Maybe true happiness is impossible. Maybe wanting everything in a relationship is unreasonable.

I have to admit, there was a time I thought that was true. Maybe some people just weren't meant to be happy. Maybe we were meant to wander, making others happy, but never really feeling it ourselves. Or maybe we truly are unreasonable, and stand in the way of our own happiness with our obstinance. I mean, I am a stubborn bitch.

Sometimes I get a little frustrated because I haven't found that everything feeling, and I think I'm just a miserable creature incapable of happiness. But then I find others who feel the same way, and I don't think that's really the case. Right? I mean if there are more, I can't be a freak of natur....well, I can be, but let's not open that can of worms, we'll be here for the rest of my life, which actually may not be too long, because one of you will likely reach through the internet and strangle me before I got too far, and see it's already happening, I've started to ramble on about nothiOK I'm done.

I think we're conditioned to settle. Again, "we" like people in general. We are conditioned early on to accept that life isn't fair. To paraphrase a great philosopher of our time, we can't always get what we want, but if we try we can get what we need. That is the problem, right there. What we need. How the fuck do you know what you need? You know when you need food, because that's a physical need. But when it comes to mental and emotional shit, you don't know. If you did, you wouldn't really have mental and emotional needs, now would you?

We're conditioned to settle for what we think we need, because it's unreasonable to get everything you want. It's impossible....

Well, that's true to some extent. Maybe you can't get all the physical, material things you want. But why not emotional and psychological needs? They constantly change and evolve. They are shaped in some ways by the world -- and people -- around us. So it stands to reason we should be able to find someone who can grow and evolve along the same plane, right? Someone who can inspire and teach and guide, and who will be inspired and teachd-ed and guided by you in return.

My mom has an awesome story about settling, and I think it illustrates my philosophical breakthrough perfectly. Ready? Cliff Notes version: Guy's looking for an antique rolltop desk.
He knows exactly what he wants. Oak, medium finish, claw feet, and pigeonholes. Oh for Christ's sake, you can't look it up yourself? They're little cubby holes where you can put papers and useless decorative paperweights. They're called pigeonholes because they look kinda like the nesting boxes for pigeons. See? Your laziness has already made this story longer than it needs to be. Moving on.

So bro searches high and low for this damn desk. He finds tons of beautiful desks, but not what he wants. Then, one glorious, miraculous day he finds it. The oak, claw feet...oh wait, shit. No pigeonholes. Well, he thinks, it's close to what I want. And I've looked for so long, I may never find exactly what I'm looking for, so I better get this one. Wedding bells! But after the honeymoon, when they get home, every time he looks at that beautiful desk, he doesn't see the smooth finish on the oak, or the gracefully curbed legs and claw feet. All he sees is -- you guessed it -- no pigeonholes.

I think that's what's going on with my two friends. We settle for what we think we need, because the idea that what we want exists is too good to be true. We've been taught to stop complaining and be happy with what we've got. But again...that shit don't fly for intangible needs like love and companionship.

Me and my friend both want passion. I mentioned this to unhappy man #2 and he was a little condescending about it. "You want passion all the time, huh?" Well yeah, fuckface, I do. You just don't understand passion. When you see an elderly couple, 75 years old, married 40 or 50 years, and they're holding hands? That's passion. Passion is just loving and believing in something or someone with all of your being. It doesn't always have to be set-the-world-on-fire, although that's super rad and I love when that happens. It's sitting on the couch watching TV in silence, and she reaches for your hand, or he plays with your hair, or you just smile at each other and share that wonderful kind of knowing everything. When your heart has that strange, indescribable fullness, that's passion. You fight with passion, you fuck with passion, you sit silently with passion.

And I refuse to believe wanting that is unreasonable. Wanting that fiery crazy stuff all the time may be unreasonable, yes. But I think that's only a tiny slice of what passion truly is. It's truly believing in something other than yourself. It's seeing the magic and beauty in something that others may not, and being determined to use every fiber of your being, everything you've got, to make it shine. And it's the contentment that comes from knowing that you've got something great. You feel that about things all the time, don't you? My mom is passionate about riding her Harley. I'm passionate about writing; I've felt all of the things I've described here even as I wrote this. That's probably why it's so real to you right now. Authenticity, my friend, is the hallmark of something something something I don't know.

So maybe it takes a long time to find that same kind of passion shared with another person. And that sucks so hard. I hate it. But if we choose to stop looking, we'll definitely never find it, right?

But I'm never getting married again, just in case

Promise Me

It started early this year. The sky isn't the proper shade of blue; it's too deep, too alive. The clouds are too full. Only July and yet, I feel it. The anxious fear, smoky whispers curling around my thoughts. I imagine my fear is the same color as those wispy September clouds.

It's her fault. It's because I see her every day, rising above, a constant reminder of the horror. But I forgive her, because she also brings a promise for the future.

In the morning she reflects the sun. Sometimes a warm and brilliant gold, sometimes a sharp, blinding silver that seems to harden the Hudson River into steel at her feet. She commands attention, and you can't help but answer that silent demand.

She stands right at the gates of Hell, a sentinel to watch over the lost. If you ever saw that smoldering pile, if your senses were ever assaulted by that indescribable stench of burning death, you would know why I call that place Hell. I remember walking the streets a few weeks after the worst day, dust and broken glass at my feet. Papers lifted and twisted by the wind that whips through urban canyons. Lighted candles and a chain link fence that was the most gruesome sight of all, because it was where hope went to die. Photos, letters, "missing" posters scribbled by a child's hand, but you knew. You just knew. Daddy wasn't coming home. The feeling of helplessness was unbearable. It only added to my shame.

I cannot fully explain the magnitude of my terror that day. I remember it as if it were yesterday, vivid and painfully sharp. I remember the way the air felt that morning; how crisp it was, the kind of subtle chill that marks the start of a late summer day. I remember the color of the sky, the whispy clouds, the smell of the dew, and the way the early morning sun felt like grains of sand in my tired eyes. And I remember nearly losing myself in a fear unlike any I have never known.

I had felt terror before; as a child I was in a terrible car crash that nearly killed my younger sister. Crunching, breaking, shattering glass, and both my baby sisters screaming. So I knew what panic was. And yet it paled in comparison to this. This was raw and visceral. Perhaps because now I was an adult. At 9, there was nothing I could have done. And that was understandable and acceptable to me, because I had had such a limited experience of the world. But at 23, I was grown. I was not helpless. And yet there I was, once again a terrified child trapped in the passenger seat, doomed to watch as the ground came rushing up and my life changed forever.

But when the death I watched in New York suddenly exploded at my feet in Washington, something changed. Looking back, it seems strange that I would feel such fear watching those horrors unfold 300 miles away, and yet when death was just minutes from home, calm resolve took over. 

My mother begged me to leave, come home. And I, this woman who just moments before had been completely blinded by fear, explained quite calmly to my mother that the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was a viable target, (where that brilliant bit of common sense came from I have no idea), and leaving was not an option. I had a job to do.


I went back to work, having just left an hour before. What else could I have done? The day still seemed so normal, a day like any other, and yet just miles away one of the most secure buildings in the world was burning. I immersed myself for hours in the ordered chaos to which I had grown accustomed. Until midday, when it became clear there was nothing anyone could do. Sleep came slowly, almost painfully, for weeks. Months. Some nights it still does.

It's hard to explain what I lost that day. It wasn't a loved one, it wasn't innocence. But something inside me died. Or perhaps it was awakened; a darkness, cold and empty, the kind that consumes and devours. It returns every year around this time, clawing at my insides, burning behind my eyes, icy dread pooling in my veins. Helpless, useless, hopeless. 


The flashbacks are my own private slice of hell. They come along with the icy void. It's almost as if the images and emotions of that entire day are condensed into a single second. It washes over me, through me, and I am lost. The sobs come quickly, stealing my breath. I instinctively bury my face in my hands, rocking, perhaps in some futile attempt to comfort myself. It's as if I stop existing for a moment, swallowed alive by that newborn emptiness. How can I explain this trauma? It's not a physical wound, or even a coherent thought. It is intangible, unseen, a shadow that disappears when you turn your head. But it is very real.

As is my shame. Perhaps that is what awakened in me. The realization that even as adults, we are little more than children. It is still possible to be helpless and useless. And there is a time you must stand idly by and do nothing while everything you know crumbles to dust at your feet. I know that I have no right to feel this way, and yet every year I indulge in the torment. My shame is endless.

But I have hope now, that perhaps I may finally find a reprieve. Maybe this silent sentinel can do for me what I have been unable to do for myself for more than a decade, and calm the madness that steals my late summer thoughts. I have hope that one day I will be able to look at her without tears in my eyes and a tightness in my throat. For while she is a reminder of my shame and horror, she is also a promise for the future.

When aliens attack don't say I didn't warn you

So my kid is obsessed with this dumbass series of apps called "Talking Friends". Lemme tell you something. These things are not your friends. There are several characters, animals mostly, with Santa as the one exception.  Yes, Santa. Somehow the developers managed to sully not only kittens and puppies, but that paragon of childhood innocence, the fat man in a red suit. And Santa Claus. 

I will say this, you can punch the characters in the face, which is about the only redeeming quality I've found. The killer is the mimicry. You say something, and they repeat it back in a horrible high-pitched voice that was originally used as a Klingon torture device. It provides hours of agonizing torment fun, for the 5-year-old set, but not so much on the adults who treasure their hearing and sanity. Sanity is one thing; my sense of hearing? Forget it.

Apparently the free version of the apps has pop-up youtube videos of the various characters singing karaoke, of which I was unaware until I heard "We are neva, eva, eva getting back togetha" coming from the back seat, where I thought my beautiful 5-year-old had been sitting, not some Kidz Bop-loving pop princess body snatcher.

The next few minutes were a blur, but the snippets I did catch made my blood run cold. I threw up in my mouth a little bit at "Katy Perry"and "Taylor Swift", although the "Who Let the Dogs Out" reference was this.close to being funny. But the last of my sanity broke when the words "Gangnam Style" came out of her mouth. Immediately I blurted "Oh my God", and not in an 'oh what a horrible surprise' way, but a walking-in-on-your-parents kind of way. Incredibly I somehow did not blurt something more colorful, as is my style. Proof positive I lost my mind.

Her father informs me she sings that shit with her friends at school. What kind of parents are these people, to let their kindergartners listen to the worst music ever in the history of ever, ever? I have forever lost my faith in humanity, and await the day alien overlords chain us to tree roots and force us all to mine for floride, which is apparently what this particular alien race needs to survive (who knew?). And mark my words, punishment for insubordination will include a pair of headphones and "Gangnam Style" on loop. And then you all owe me 20 bucks.