There was a lot of talk last month about a potential "October Surprise." It never came. So here we are in November and...SURPRISE! It turns out that when you've got a deadline looming on the calendar, eventually you have to sit down and actually WRITE. THE. BOOK. (Or in my case, revise it.)

So it turns out November is crazytime.

I'm not the only one who poked my head up from politics only to remember that I have an actual job I'm supposed to be doing (and was supposed to be doing all last month and the month before, when I was, instead, reading political blogs).  Justine Larbalestier is in the bunker.  Maureen Johnson is drowning in a  sea of useless post-it notes.

And I'm staring past my computer screen at my unbuilt IKEA bookshelves, wondering when I'm ever going to unpack. You know things are bad when unpacking sounds like the more fun option.

I know. I know. It's time to work.

No more internet surfing, no more political obsessing, no more cookies -- well, a few more cookies. And then work.

In the meantime, can we discuss how much I want to marry Rahm Emanuel, just for the privilege of attending the Emanuel brothers' family dinners?

...to the land of the living, that is.  First there was the post-deadline brain implosion, then, immediately after, there was the visit to the dentist that left me all swelled-up and whiny and slurping vanilla shakes like there was no tomorrow, and then there was the general-to-be-expected (even if I never expect it) lethargy that follows from staying on your couch for 72 hours watching Party of Five reruns on Hulu.

(And by the way, Scott Wolf and Matthew Fox? Bizarrely just as hot as they were in the 90s, no more, no less.  Maybe because they both seem to have drunk some kind of miracle anti-aging juice. I was a definite Bailey girl when this show was first on, at least in the early seasons, but Charlie has grown on me.  Maybe it's the Lost aura effect.  Dear readers, if you've never seen this show, you should go watch the first season, because it was incredible. Less angsty and gritty than My So-Called Life, far less soapy and trashy than Gossip Girl or 90210 -- all shows I love, mind you -- it was what Dawson's and Felicity wanted to be, but couldn't quite manage.  Just trust me. And then, if you like it, you should rent the 1st and 2nd seasons of Everwood, because they're in the same vein.  Plus Scott Wolf's dimples make an appearance!)

But now I'm done with the season, just as I'm done with my manuscript, and as my mouth has returned to almost normal thus allowing me to venture into the outside world. Both literally and electronically.  So here I am.

First things first: Don't forget, today is the last day to enter the SKINNED contest! Just send me a headline from the year 2060, and you could win a free iPod shuffle, a free iPod skin, or a gift certficate to Amazon or B&N. Details here. (Remember, it's a random drawing, so even if you're afraid you can't come up with a good headline, you should just send in the best you've got!)

What else? I was thinking yesterday about how I've expended all this energy and ink discussing my many crushes, but never shed spotlight on any of my girl crushes, ie the ladies that I wish I could grow up to be someday. Number one: Candice Bergen.



Now, Candice Bergen is currently on the show Boston Legal, which I watch (and I realize I'm the only one left in the country to do so) laregly because a) I'm in love with James Spader, b) David Kelly created one of my all time favorite shows and every now and then a little of that show's goodness leaks into this one, and c) Candice Bergen is awesome.

That said, in my mind, Candice Bergen -- and this is the reason I will love her forever -- will always be Murphy Brown.

I've been missing Murphy Brown lately, as I can only imagine what she'd make of the current political climate.  For those of you who never watched this show or (sight) weren't born yet when it aired, Murphy Brown was a sitcom in the early 90s about a loudmouthed, opinionated, stubborn, sarcastic, angry, (recovering) alcoholic, totally unlikeable yet totally charming anchor on a 60 minutes style new show.  Murphy Brown couldn't tolerate hypocriscy, incompetence, or stupidity -- and most of all, she couldn't tolerate liars.  This show was about a bunch of hapless journalists trying to put on a weekly newcast, it was about 90s politics (and in a way, in its jokes and references, was as period-specific as the Wonder Years or Will and Grace), it was about a woman navigating the shoals of working life (and later, working motherhood), it was about a woman who didn't care what anyone thought of her, but most of all, I would argue, it was about the search for, and insistence upon, authenticity and truth. In personal life, in professional life, in political life. It was about saying whatever you think and standing up for what you believe in, whatever the consequences. And sometimes the consequence was actually a reward -- shout your unpleasant truths loudly enough, and you get to be Murphy Brown.

It was also pretty damn funny. Plus it had an excellent soundtrack -- and every once in a while, Candice Bergen got to sing along:

First of all, a big thanks to all the commenters over at westerblog who treated me like one of their own. If any of you guys have come to visit me here, welcome! Know that I'm still crying into my Cheerios that I don't get to hang out with you this week.

But now I'm back, with the story of my weekend and the explanation for why my hand shall remain unwashed. (Okay, metaphorically unwashed. I live in New York, and there's only so much filth a girl can take.)

Our story actually starts about twenty years ago, on the day my best friend and I went to go see The Princess Bride, never expecting it to be The Greatest Movie Ever Made.  We then spent the next week acting out these classic scenes on the playground (we were very good at the mock swordfights -- lots of cardboard tubes got broken over our heads):


I used to tell people I could quote almost every line from this movie, but maybe that's not such a feat, since 90% of them were "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die."

And was it not awesome each and every single time? (Sidenote here, if you haven't actually seen this movie -- and seriously? inconceivable! -- your time would be better spent watching it, immediately and repeatedly, rather than reading the rest of this post.)

So imagine my surprise and delight a few years later when Inigo Montoya himself showed up on the season's hot new hospital drama. (No, not the one you're thinking of.)  Which may explain why everyone else spent 1994 watching George Clooney prance around the ER, while my thursday nights were devoted to Chicago Hope.

(Okay, obviously youtube has failed me on this front, so I'm forced to resort to showing him in this scene from "Sunday in the Park With George," which is almost equally worship-worthy. Extra points if you can spot Jim from Murphy Brown and Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation in the background.)



I became just a little bit obsessed.

(I even started referring to him as Mandy Patinkin, rather than Inigo Montoya, and for someone as Princess Bride-crazed as I was, that was saying a lot.)

Which is all to help explain that while there are many famous people I would love to meet (Joss Whedon, Neil Patrick Harris, Anthony Rapp, John Irving, Stephen King), I'm not sure there are any others for whom I've nurtured an irrational, embarrassing, occasionally secret and always ridiculous adoration.  I was never that kid with a poster of Kirk Cameron in her locker (he looked a little like a monkey), and much as I loved Tom Cruise in Top Gun and Michael J Fox in Back to the Future (have I proven my child of the 80s cred yet, or do I need to drop some more names? I could just say "rubick's cube" and "hands across america" over and over again. I'm still waiting for that call from VH1. I DO love the 80s -- why won't they let me say it on TV?), I never really got that into any of them.

Don't ask me why Inigo Montoya, of all of them, managed to stick.  Suffice it to say that I've been waiting for my chance to see this guy face to face for more than half my life.

And this weekend? Mission accomplished.

Front row seats to the Tempest, starring Mandy Patinkin as Prospero.  Which would have been good enough -- and then, like a special gift to me (since I can't imagine the rest of the audience, made up mostly of middle aged ladies, particularly cared or noticed), in the final scenes, he donned a sword that looked remarkably like Inigo's special six fingered sword. Mandy Patinkin/Inigo Montoya live! In person! With a sword!

When the show ended, I debated being a mature adult, leaving the theater, going straight to the subway, politely discussing his interpretation of prospero with my fellow theater-goers.  Instead, I decided to channel the hysterical 17 year old I have within and lurk outside the stage door, potential embarrassment be damned.

And when he came out and I actually got to talk to him -- well, after chasing him down the street for a bit like we were starring in an extremely dinky and slow-motion version of that Beatles chase in A Hard Day's Night -- I only squeaked and trembled for a few seconds before choking out, all in one breath, a barely coherent "HiyoudidanamazingjobandI'manembarrassinglybigfanandit'ssuchanhonortomeetyou." And shaking his hand.

So here I am. Still a little giddy.  Moral of the story? I don't know. Maybe: Sometimes it's worth embarrassing yourself. (Given that I do so all the time, accidentally, it's nice to do it on purpose every once in a while.)

Anyone else want to share their bizarre secret celebrity crushes? I can't be the only one.

So what happens when the man I hold responsible for the death of (or at least grievous injury to) American comedy*




makes a movie starring the actor I love so much I've often said I would watch him reading a phone book or staring at a blank wall for six hours straight in some kind of German expressionist meditation on the meaninglessness of life?




Oh, who am I kidding, like I can choose just one example of his awesomeness:

                  

Seriously though, do I go see Tropic Thunder? Am I crazy to think it might actually be good?

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*The Ben Stiller Theory of Comedy Apocalypse has various components, including:

1. the You Coulda Been a Contender corollary
Ben Stiller's not just any obnoxious, annoying, slapsticky, pandering-to-the-lowest-common-denominator boil on the face of American comedy -- he's an obnoxious, annoying, slapsticky, pandering-to-the-lowest-common-denominator boil who had the talent and track record to become something truly great. (cf The Ben Stiller Show, and maybe Flirting With Disaster.) Instead, he became...




2. the Domino Theory of Suck
Exhibit A: Owen Wilson.

Step one, contact with the dreaded Stiller distracts him from greatness (pre-Stiller: Bottle Rocket; post-Stiller: Starsky & Hutch, Shanghai Nights, You, Me & Dupree). 

Step two, the Stiller model (stupidity = easy payday) draws Owen away from long-time writing partner Wes Anderson (collaborations include Rushmore and the Royal Tennenbaums). Anderson's forced to go it alone (The Life Aquatic with Steve Zisou).

A chain reaction of suck. I rest my case.

...how embarrassed do you think I should be about my love for Mandy Patinkin?

In my defense, I would argue there was a time when we all loved him:

            


Then came Chicago Hope.  Now, some of you -- the ones that didn't boycott it altogether because it was on CBS and going head to head with ER -- might suggest that this show was over-written, over-acted, and (thanks to a pre-Ally McBeal David E. Kelly) over-quirkified.



Yeah, you're wrong.

As for the rest of his storied career, we've got (among other highlights):

The Good....                                       The Bad....          
                    

and The Ugly


I love it all. (Even the Ugly, Mandy. I swear. I'm no fair-weather fan. Though, seriously? Please shave.)

Which is why I'm doing my official dance of joy over the tickets I just purchased to see MP in The Tempest next month.

And not just any tickets, front row seats.

That's close enough to see the spit and sweat flying. (I suspect there will be plenty of both.)

Mandy's playing lunatic control freak Prospero, which means the scenery-chewing should be magnificent. 

You shall be getting my full report.

Whether you want it or not.



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Don't forget to enter the contest to win your signed copy of SKINNED! (A book you will not be embarrassed to love, I promise.)

At least it is if you've ever tried to create anything and been foiled by self-doubt, writer's block, underminers, paying the rent, sheer laziness, or the need to watch a General Hospital marathon just to dull the what-the-hell-do-I-write-next pain.

And now, courtesy of someone who I'm beginning to suspect may be the source of all things fabulous* (but who I will not name here because my current self-doubt goes by the name of "repeating private conversations on the internet or anywhere else without permission, even when they're innocuous, is a quick way to get yourself a nice fat black eye or at least a one-way ticket to social siberia"), I present to you the GREATEST SONG OF ALL TIME:


This show, [Title of Show], is on Broadway now and I plan to go see it ASAP. See you there?

While we're on the subject of musical theater (and really, when are we not), I feel it's necessary to once again raise the issue of my love for Neil Patrick Harris. Because, while I promise this blog is not turning into a 24/7 NPH love-athon (tempting as that may be), this picture requires comment:



And the comment is: NPH, I love you.

Also, I want that troll doll.

Have you guys done your duty and watched the shoe fairy video yet?

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*I don't think Fabulous Anonymous Lady actually reads this blog, but if she does, she should feel free to claim her latest fabulous find for herself. Because it is a good one.

Anyone else watch the Tony Awards last night? Judging from the ratings, there must be at least 11 or 12 of you out there...

I'll spare you the recap, except to say that it was marginally more entertaining than usual (aside from the sad but not unexpected fact that no one I was rooting for actually took home an award).  But here are the points I would be raising with friends around the watercooler today, if I had either a watercooler or any friends who'd deign to watch the show. Since I have neither, you're the lucky repository of my post-game analysis:

-Mandy Patinkin. More to the point, Mandy Patinkin's beard. Now, I've loved Mandy for a long time.  I've bought the albums, I've defended the crazy, I've even, on occasion, forced myself to watch Criminal Minds (don't judge me). But I cannot, will not, love or defend this:     

            
Why, Mandy? Why? Are you angling to get cast as Tevye in some traveling road show of Fiddler on the Roof? There must be a better way.

-In the Heights. I haven't seen this show. Clearly that's a huge mistake that must be remedied, stat. The amazing performance would have won me over immediately, if Lin-Manuel Miranda's awesome rapped acceptance speech hadn't already done the job. (The speech is worth watching, seriously.  Fast-forward to about 1 min 48.)


-Rent. Sigh. As I've mentioned before, Rent was the soundtrack of my youth (or at least my college years). So I was really looking forward to last night's original cast reunion tribute performance...and perhaps it was inevitable that I'd be disappointed.  But I couldn't have anticipated the specific nature of the disappointment. Yes, it was mildly depressing to see how much the cast had aged (all except for Taye Diggs and Idina Menzel, who are apparently the Mr. and Mrs. Dorian Gray of the Broadway stage). The brevity and general half-assedness of the so-called tribute was also disappointing, as was Jesse Martin's unexplained absence. But the true knife to my heart was the production number itself, as performed by the current cast.           

I don't know if it was the camera angles, the abridged song, the actors' weird vamping and spastic dancing, the very ill-advised decision to place the current cast side by side with the original one, which made me feel like I was watching  a Judy Garland drag queen impersonator while the real Judy Garland waited in the wings, or if I'm just swayed by my deep and abiding love for Anthony Rapp...but whatever it was, it was bad.  A faded, dispiriting imitation of what the show used to be, that makes me almost glad that it's closing in the  fall. This morning I thought I might have been imagining things, so I checked out a video of the original Tony performance from 12 years ago. See for yourself: then vs now. (Disclaimer: If you're not a fan, you probably shouldn't even bother watching, b/c you'll just think I'm insane.)


-Daniel Evans. (Or, Rent, point #2.) As far as I'm concerned, the best thing about the Rent performance was Sunday in the Park With George star Daniel Evans sitting in the audience with a goofily joyous grin on his face, singing along to "Seasons of Love" like he was at home in the shower rather than on national television.  I fell for Daniel Evans last month after reading this profile (how could you not love a West End star who pursues a PhD in philosophy in his spare time?) -- then saw him perform last week, which just sealed the deal.  But after last night, he has my heart forever.


-Sexism: I realized something as they were presenting the last few (and thus, by awards show convention, most important) awards.  The leading actor award is given out before the leading actress award. It made me think: Is this the only major awards show where they hand them out in that order?  Am I imagining things, or is it always actress before actor on the Emmy's and the Oscars?  Wouldn't it make sense to switch it up every year? Isn't keeping the order frozen in place a tacit acknowledgment that the male award is more important than the female one? (Just as the Tony ordering seems like a tacit acknowledgment that on stage, it's traditionally been the diva who made Broadway history?)

Bet you wish I had a watercooler.

I've been going to a bunch of fiction and poetry readings in Paris. Most of them are authors that I already know and like, but today I went to a random reading of a French poet (and his British translator) I'd never heard of.  Partly because I was bored and partly because I was hoping for a sighting of French literary crush #2. Which is how I discovered secret French literary crush #1:

Claude Vigée:



He read a number of poems about the recent loss of his wife. They'd been married for sixty years, and I don't know that I've ever heard such frank, raw, searing, beautiful language about love and death and absence. I'm not a big fan of either poetry or hearing people read aloud, but this was riveting.  It's always impossible for me to reconcile words on a page with the person who came up with them--even when that person is sitting three feet away from me. I just kept staring at him, thinking, How did you do that?

(And, of course, How can I do that?)

A lucky thing it was so enjoyable, because secret French literary crush #2 was nowhere in sight:

Francis Geffard:



The thing about readings in Paris, or at least the few that I've been to, is that the editor sits right alongside the author. So instead of watching the author awkwardly flounder about trying to fill up their time, you get to watch an equal parts erudite and entertaining conversation between the author and editor, full of insights about the book and the author that the author wouldn't necessarily have come up with on his or her own. (Can you tell that I wish readings in the US were structured this way?) At least, that's what happens when Francis Geffard -- who, as I understand it, is a total rock star editor with an amazing list of English language authors -- is in the house. 

So, in case you're keeping score, that's:  wit, impeccable taste, debonair charm, and a tres adorable French accent.  I rest my case.

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Totally unrelated: Seinfeld aficionados  among you will likely appreciate the fact that I saw two French hand models at work today, shooting an ad for cigarettes. I know America's Next Top Model is trying to brainwash us all into believing that modeling is hard work, but I was paying pretty close attention -- hand modeling doesn't seem to qualify.

*Or, if you prefer an English-language subject: Whither Whit Stillman?

Now, this post isn't strictly about something I've done in Paris, so much as it's about something I'd like to do in Paris, specifically, tracking down Whit Stillman, elusive director of Metropolitan, Barcelona, The Last Days of Disco . . . and then nothing else, ever again.

Just to be clear, I love Whit Stillman. Even though -- or likely because -- his movies are almost like filmed plays, in which nothing ever happens in them but the same characters having the same clever conversations over and over again, albeit in an infinity of ways. I've seen these movies so many times that the characters seem like friends of mine (which might also be because many of the characters actually do resemble friends of mine, and Whit Stillman often seems to have been eavesdropping on the conversations we had all those late nights in college when we were so proud of our newfound cleverness).

You would expect Stillman to follow a career path similar to that of someone like Noah Baumbach (although maybe I only think that because Baumbach's Kicking and Screaming is a pale, if endearing, imitation of a Whit Stillman movie). But instead, he's done nothing in nearly a decade. A little internet sleuthing has revealed to me that he's living in Paris. For all I know, we're neighbors. 

Unfortunately, I don't know what he looks like, which may get in the way of me tracking him down.  In my head -- and I'm rather partial to this delusion -- he looks like Chris Eigeman, who plays Stillman's alter-ego in all his movies and with whom, incidentally, I am also in love:



In a weird coincidence, Chris Eigeman has vanished (aside from the occasional cameo and a weird stint on Gilmore Girls that only I enjoyed) just as inexplicably as Whit Stillman. As if Eigeman were the Clark Kent to Stillman's Superman. Perhaps the world just isn't  ready for their brand of genius.

But Whit, if you're listening, I am.  Seriously. Call me.