And he was snappish.  Curt.  I’ll need more attention if we’re going to proceed. 

For the rest of you, cocktails in the garden at 5:00.  Don’t be late.  And “The Spruce Goose” was made mostly from Birch.

Tony Scott, NYTimes movie critic, writes a smart thing about showing kids good films.  Yes, Virginia, there’s a world beyond goofy green ogres!  Kids are smart and sweet and deserve to be engaged.  I detest much of the trash that’s peddled to them, with their insufferable soundtracks and bad double entendres for parents. 

There are brilliant exceptions, of course — The Incredibles, Finding Nemo, Ratatoullie come to mind.

My 6 and 8-year olds are big Hitchcock fans and also love foreign flicks: Cinema Paradiso, The Bicycle Thief, Breathless. The Triplets of Belleville is a beautiful film we’re all fans of, as is Napoleon Dynamite. 

Anyway.  Save the children!  From evangelical vegetables and chipmunks!

Hmm.  Not really.  It’s actually quite sunny.  Tony is coming with bookshelves and Scruffy’s a fuzzy ball on the chair.  Plus there’s vanilla bean yogurt that’s only expired by three days.  The future looks bright.

C. is here and so we’ll be scribbling our masterpiece.  The sort of thing, when done, that will change your life and also your postman’s.  Everyone around you, in fact, will change and you’ll move to Borneo.  All of that and more.  Before this, however, S. has me writing up web copy, which is tedius and exceedingly dull, and C.’s sent me off to get coffee.  Latte, regular milk, sweet and low. 

And the cat ran away with the spoon.

More to come. 

Today’s favorite spam comes from Lisa McMullen who invites me to “Reach out and bone someone.”  Thank you, Lisa, I’ll take that into consideration. 

 

I’m down to boring political rants and talking to A.  Writing press releases during the day doesn’t help.  If you’re clever and send me money I’ll let you blog. 

Apply here.

Oh, P.S. – A.?  Chiquita’s been scratching the new couch.  It’s already fuzzy.  (One point for Scruffy.  Yes!)

So the Democratic Primaries are really bugging me, I’ve aleady said that.  Should Hillary lose, I don’t want to think or say, “it’s because she’s a woman” because it’s possible I’m a sore loser.  It’s not possible, actually, it’s true.  When we play rummy for the dishes and A. wins I stomp off cursing, wishing I’d just done the stupid dishes right off rather than endure the losing part.  (For the record, A. is not the world’s most pleasant person to lose to.  Does anyone recall the rummy tournaments of August ’07 … H., Tony, anyone?)

The problem is I do feel this way, I think she’s getting screwed because she’s a woman.  Remember when I linked to this?  I found it disturbing.  I also find it, well, “comforting” isn’t the right word … it’s no comfort, but two of the men whose opinions I respect most in this big crazy world (A. and M.) think misogyny may be so deep-rooted in our culture we barely recognize it. 

On that note, read this smackdown of The Atlantic.  I’m not anti-Atlantic, I subscribe … and sometimes read.  This girl, however, is right on.  I know every piece she’s linking to.  It’s ridiculous some of the drivel they allow in their pages and also absurd that Caitlin Flanagan has a writing job anywhere at all. 

The Atlantic is a misogynist.  Here’s The Old Hag summing them up:

“Let’s see: we’re desperate to get married.  No: we’re married and we’re frigid.  No!  Fuck.  We’re giving you too many fucking blowjobs.  Sheet. We are dumb.  We think a lot about boys. We should hurry the fuck up and have those babies!  You know what?  We still don’t want to fuck you.  Except for how we’re having a terribly hard time getting you to marry us.  We’re having such a hard time we pay a lot of fucking money to find you on dating sites.  You know what?  We still don’t want to fuck you.  Cuz we’re fat.  We bleed.  We are very concerned about raising your children correctly.  We abuse our nannies.  Because we work, our children get abused.  We should fucking stay home.  You are happy when we stay home.  Our children are not abused.  Except we don’t fucking know what we’re doing when we’re raising your children.  Or how to talk to the maid.  Oh.  And Hillary Rodham Clinton is a …”

[Read the entire post here.  Thanks, "The Old Hag"]

 me + A. =   

You do the laundry, all the time,
and fold it, too.  I love you.

You roll out garbage unless you forget,
you never fret.  I love you.

You get tattoos even if they will bug me,
and then you hug me.  I love you.

You dispose of horrible stuff.
(I saw the forks – eww, yuk.)  I love you.

You watch shows I like,
and ride your bike.  I love you.

You wake up all night from the dog.
Sometimes you jog.  I love you.

You burst into push-ups out of the blue.
You stick with me like glue.

I love you. 

Camille Paglia is a loony goon.  Don’t read her columns, but read the letters regarding her columns (Salon) which state the case for her loony gooniness with passion and fury.  (If there’s time and you want to kill it.) 

Honestly, this ridiculous Obama charade.  I sympathize dearly, now, with my father.  He – a lifelong, true-blue (red) Reagan Republican – is annoyed with his choice of McCain.  I will be annoyed if my choice is Obama.  He’s not the guy.  He’s the Homecoming King.  We may well be stuck, though, which makes a shoddy election for some of us.  Others can swell his arenas.  Well, George Bush had swells, too. 

I may choose to not *gasp* vote.  Or out of spite vote against the party!  I feel bullied. 

Grumpy in Oregon.

It’s raining, it’s pouring, Proust is in bed snoring …  

I though this letter, from Marcel to his friend George de Lauris, was appropriate for today’s dismal drear.  (From: “Today in Letters“)  Proust, as you know, was famous for his writing, as well as never getting out of bed. 

My dear Georges,

When I spoke the other day of Moses on the threshold of the Promised Land and yet unable to enter it, I didn’t know how apt it was.  Twice I have been to Paris and the state of my asthma has suddenly worsened as a result of the difference in altitude (or at least so I suppose, but I know absolutely nothing about it) making it impossible to climb even two steps in spite of all the caffeine in the world.  This impotence of my friendship is a terrible thing for me, a mixture of grief and humiliation.  I think of my poor mama saying to me at Evian:  “I’m going back to Paris because I’m helpless and can no longer be of any use to you when you are ill.”  I cannot repay the tender care you gave me; I always have to receive from you and never give back.  And my friendship is perhaps more unhappy as a consequence of this than of the deprival of seeing you, though this deprivation is all the more cruel just now when, after the shudder of horror and danger, I would so much relish the delight of having you safe and sound.  Yes, sound, for your face, your look, your cheerfulness are not those of a sick man.  And even more than on your face, I could read your health on your father’s face in the hall at the rue Washington.  If I had some really terrifying attacks on my three returns from Paris, and enormous joy on my first visit (when I saw you), on the other two, when I couldn’t have reached the upper floors and remained conscious, I enjoyed some minor pleasures with a girl who is new and dear to me, and a few young friends who are also new …

At the moment, I’m unable to leave my bed, but I hope to come and see you soon … [full letter, here.]