3:10 to Yuma

Wow. It's dark and violent and complex and a bit depressing. Do yourself a favor and see it. And then do yourself an even bigger favor and read Smonk by Tom Franklin (the paperback is due in November).

Unfortunate author name of the week

Hey, kids! Let's put on a show!

Last night I saw Rufus Wainwright at the Hollywood Bowl; he re-created the performance Judy Garland gave there in 1962, just as he channeled her for his show at Carnegie Hall last year. Sean and Curtis bought me tickets for my birthday back in April, and although Curtis was out of town and couldn't attend last evening's show, I enjoyed the company of Sean, Norman, and my mother-in-law Heidi.

We all met up at the Red Line station in Universal City and took the train one stop to Hollywood and Highland, where we ate dinner at Johnny Rocket's before hoofing it up the hill to the Bowl. For those of you who have never walked that route, let me say that it's a deceptively strenuous hike: it's maybe half a mile up a gentle slope that grows punishing very gradually, so that by the time you hit the Bowl entrance you're winded. As we slogged up the suddenly steep rise to the bag inspection area, Norman huffed, "You should have brought your pedometer." I grunted something in agreement, and he said, "I mean your defribrillator."

While we were trudging up the hill, I heard a woman remark to her companion, "It's like we're marching in a gay pride parade." Sean noted that women were in short supply in the audience, a fact Norman echoed later on when he commented on the fast-moving but extremely long line for the men's room, while the women's room appeared all but deserted. I figured Rufus' own fan base plus the Judy Garland angle were the major factors in determining the audience makeup. Sean and I ended up sitting behind an affectionate male couple who kind of bothered me. As a rule, I don't have any problem with public displays of affection, gay or straight. But these guys looked disconcertingly like each other, with the same shaved heads, stocky build, and multiple piercings; it was like seeing identical twins make out with one another.

We had really good seats about halfway up the Bowl, far closer to the stage than I had ever been before. (When I buy tickets for the Hollywood Bowl, I usually go for the ultra-cheap wooden benches up in nosebleed territory.) I brought my own pillow to sit on, and Sean had brought two pairs of binoculars, so we were in good shape for the evening.

Rufus put on quite a show. Let me be upfront and say that yes, he's a terrific singer. But the fact that he is extremely easy on the eyes doesn't hurt, either. (That reminds me: A number of years ago, when his career was just taking off, I looked up Rufus online to find out something about him. He didn't have his own website then, but I found a number of fansites that all seemed to be run by 14-year-old girls and all seemed to be along the lines of, "Look! I found this great picture of Rufus in The Advocate! Isn't he dreamy? I love him!" To which I could only sigh, "Oh, honey. Did you read the accompanying article? Do you get it?") I really liked scruffy Rufus from his Poses period, but he looked quite dapper all cleaned-up for last night's performance; when he came out for his encore dressed like Judy in a tiny little jacket, stockings and high heels, I was astonished by what nice legs he has.

I'm a big fan of popular standards and old showtunes, so I recognized most of the set list. The ones that really got to me were "Do It Again" (which I've only heard as a bouncy, silly come-on song, but which Rufus slowed down to a heartbreaking lament), "Puttin' on the Ritz," and "Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart." He ended up breathless by the end of several songs and his voice was ragged by evening's end; maybe it was a sign of his not being properly prepared for the performance, but I think it was more an indication of how much effort Judy Garland threw into putting on a show.

A few weeks ago, when his new album came out, I read an interview with Rufus in the L.A. Times in which he seemed pretty cocky -- not arrogant and not unpleasant, just very sure of himself and his talent. His banter last night was light and funny and self-deprecating, not at all like the cocksure young guy in the article. He invited his mother, the wonderful Kate McGarrigle, onstage to play piano on a couple of numbers, and their back-and-forth was delicious, with him as the flamboyant showman and her as the slightly world-weary, not-quite straight man; they should consider doing a nightclub act together. Rufus' sister Martha also came out and sang bang-up versions of "Stormy Weather" and "Someone to Watch Over Me." Lorna Luft joined him for a couple of numbers, too, which I'm sure drove the Judy Garland fans into a rabid frenzy, but... whatever. Her hot pink gown was pretty.

Something's fishy

I am sitting in the breakroom, my back to the room, eating peanut M&M's and enjoying Steve Almond's new collection of essays. (The one on Vonnegut is really well-written, but the ones on Almond's pubescent sexual misadventures are funnier.) Jan and Cristyn, two of my co-workers, enter the room. As usual, they are talking loudly.

J: Whew, what is that? Is someone eating fish?
C: It sure smells like fish in here!
J: Fish soup? Fish stew? Fish 'n' chips?
C: I dunno! (She leaves the room)

Jan walks around the room, her nose twitching, continuing to comment on the fishy smell. I wish she would shut up. Finally, I give up and confess.

Me: I had tuna casserole for lunch.
J: Oho, it was you!
Me: Yeah, I just said so.

I go over to the sink and start washing my dishes. Cristyn comes back in the room and starts fussing with her lunch, which she is about to shove in the microwave.

C: So what is that fishy smell? It sure stinks in here!
Me (very quietly): I had tuna casserole for lunch.
C (shouting): Hey, Jan! It was her! (Points at me) She ate tuna!
Me (very quietly): Yes, she already knows.

I quickly finish washing my dishes and leave. For some reason, I feel humiliated.

Charming Billy

Yesterday Bill Clinton did a signing at my place of employment. Our bookstore was his only public signing on the West Coast to promote his new book, Giving, and as you can imagine, things got pretty hairy. Lots of people hate Bill Clinton, but 'way more folks love him. We capped the number of vouchers we sold (1 voucher = 1 book per person) at 1000, and although we'd given customers 2 weeks to purchase vouchers, as well as describing in mind-numbing detail how the whole voucher thing worked on every bit of promotion we did, you wouldn't believe the number of people who showed up yesterday who got all incensed that they couldn't just waltz in and shake the former president's hand. One old guy, who could have used a bath and a shave, snarled at me, "That's not right. I'm a senior citizen on a fixed income, and you should let me get a look at him. What you're doing [not letting him get in the signing line when he didn't even attempt to buy a book] is just not right." How sweet it felt to tell him, "The Secret Service isn't going to let you anywhere near him."

Actually, I didn't think I was going to get anywhere near him myself. When Jimmy Carter did a signing last year, I had to get clearance from the Secret Service so I could work near him (i.e., open customers' books and then pass them to someone who passed them to someone else who then passed them to Mr. Carter to be signed). For this event, I was scheduled to work the line outside, so no one bothered to get clearance for me. I'm not Clinton's biggest fan, but I think he's all right and it would be nice at least to get a glimpse.

I spent much of the morning walking up and down the line handing out and collecting "Giving cards." These were 5x8-inch cards on which people were requested to describe their own experiences giving or receiving charity, donating time to an effort, like that; the Clinton Foundation wants to collect lots of real-life stories of generosity to post on their website. Every person who had bought one of our signing vouchers had been handed one of these cards at the time of purchase. Still, when I held one up, asking if folks if they'd already filled them out and would like me to collect them or if they'd like one to fill out now, people looked at me as if I were speaking gibberish. No, that's not right. They looked at me as if I were a Jehovah's Witness at their front door. I wasn't selling anything and I kept stressing that the cards were optional, I was simply letting people know about them. No big deal for them to say "No thanks" or "Sorry" to me, right? That's what I would've done. Instead, about 75% of the people who listened to my spiel either turned away while I was talking, so I ended up yakking to the wind, or simply stared at me when I finished my non-sales sales pitch. One guy even said, "Move on," when I concluded. When people are jerks in such a trivial situation, it's hard to believe they'll rise to the occasion when the stakes are higher.

So anyway. I finished that delightful task and then spent a couple of hours running around, doing whatever needed to be done. I had been given a walkie talkie to communicate with my fellow employees working the line but it didn't work, so I spent long periods of time simply trying to find one of my bosses to see what I could do next. By noon my feet were killing me.

About ten minutes to two, I was filling in for someone who had to rush off to do something. I had the glorious job of telling people, "Don't go there! Go over there -- yeah, waaaaay over there." Just then, the motorcade drove up and Mr. Clinton alighted from an SUV. A big chunk of the line could see him get out of the car and a huge roar went up. He waved to the crowd. Then he turned around to head into the building, and as he did so, he looked my way. I, of course was staring at him, so he smiled at me. Normally I'm a fairly reserved person, but I gave him a big wave, kind of leaping into the air, and yelled, "Hi!" He waved back and called, "Hello!" Then he went inside.

I stayed where I was for a while. Soon I was joined by a couple of guys from the shipping and receiving department who had been kicked out of their work areas by the Secret Service. I had had no trouble handling the occasional person who wanted to get by me and down the stairs to the store's back entrance, but now I had these two guys "helping" me. Don't get me wrong: I like both of them. But there's a reason they work in the back room and not on the sales floor with customers, as Danny tends to bark and Jerry to growl. Without meaning to, they sound like they're angry. I kept stepping in to finesse what they were telling customers and it got real old real fast. Fortunately, Erin, who's head of receiving and a super-smooth talker, showed up and I hightailed it to the relative glamour of the press check-in area.

Mr. Clinton proved to be an exceptionally fast signer, in part, I'm sure, because he's left-handed: an aide would place a book under his left hand, and he'd autograph it while shaking hands with and saying a few words to each customer. Anyway, he got through the line of 1000 people in less than two hours. My boss started sending employees through the line to get some extra copies signed. I got to go through, and I complimented Mr. Clinton on his pretty peach-colored tie when I got to the signing table. I mentioned his neckware to a co-worker when I went back outside, and on her trip to meet him she said, "Word on the street has it you're wearing a great tie today."

After he had wrapped up, Mr. Clinton posed for a photo with some of the staff, and I got to shake his hand again. He then went downstairs and shopped for about half an hour, leaving with two big bags of books. I'm dying to know what he bought!

*Sigh* No crazies, no guns brandished, no demonstrators (aside from some Barack Obama supporters who chanted and waved banners around outside the store, and were completely ignored by all the Hillary fans in line). The only bodily danger I faced was sore feet and an aching lower back after ten hours straight on my feet. (Oh, and a sunburned shoulder I didn't notice until this morning. Ouch!) At the end of the day I called Norman and asked him to pick me up for dinner and a well deserved pina colada.

Rock star!

Today I had an encounter with greatness: I met one of my very favorite bloggers, Feral Mom, for brunch.


She and Mr. Feral and their Feral children recently moved to L.A. from the midwest. Gone Feral is one of the first blogs I started reading regularly a couple of years ago, and I was thrilled when she suggested a meet-up -- thrilled and a little scared, because Feral Mom is, as everyone well knows, feral.


Maybe she was on her best behavior. Maybe she sensed that I'm just the sort of wuss who has a "Be nice or leave. Thank you" air freshener dangling from my rearview mirror. Maybe she just wanted to throw me off the scent. At any rate, Feral Mom seemed hardly feral at all. In fact, her post yesterday made me feel comfortable showing up in my Gap striped boy's t-shirt and Black Spot sneakers ("little boy chic," as Norman puts it). Naturally, she showed up in a cute blouse, looking very femme. She demonstrated excellent culinary taste by ordering a bleu cheese burger (and unlike fussy me, she didn't need the tomatoes left off or extra bleu cheese on the side or a side order substitution). She is smart and funny and made me feel at ease.


Or mostly at ease. At one point in our conversation, I noticed my hands were shaking and I had to set my water glass down. I told her I was nervous, and Feral Mom laughed kindly; she must be used to having this effect on her fans. I gave her a little pillow I'd made for her, embroidered with her excellent donut haiku. She revealed that Mr. Feral is a bit of a rock star in his own area of expertise, and she shared a few secrets about her experiences at BlogHer (hint: those ladies can drink). She told me she'd picked up a copy of Jane-Emily based on my recommendation, and I immediately started to second-guess myself. Why didn't I reread that before I told people to rush out and buy it? I asked myself, before remembering that nearly all of the books I read and loved at age twelve have held up nicely and Jane-Emily should be no different. The Feral offspring sound like wonderful kids and also appear to have their wildness under control, as they have been accepted for matriculation in a reputable educational institute. And despite Smokey's many rude comments about her, Feral Mom seems to miss her kitty quite a bit and will be happy when they're reunited.


When I dropped Feral Mom off after our brunch, I discovered that she lives right across the street from an In-n-Out Burger and that she had only very recently had her very first In-n-Out Burger. On top of all her other qualities, this woman has the most amazing self-control I've ever encountered!


Readers, I am in awe. L.A. has a new star, and her name is Feral.

I swear....

I'm not a huge Scott ("Dilbert") Adams fan, but today I came across an amusing recent column of his in which he invited readers to share some of their more inventive cuss words or phrases. I myself am not a creative cusser, sticking mainly to your more familiar 4-letter words, so I got a kick out of phrases like "Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em right in the ear," "Hotter'n dammit," "Sarcastibitch!" and "Mammy-jammer." I appreciated the person who wrote, "When things get chaotic, I refer to them as either a 'Bavarian Clusterfuck' or a 'Mongolian Clusterfuck.' I do not know what the difference is between the two, it's instinctive." One reader even boiled his preferred type of swearing down into a simple formula: "[Flavor word (optional, and variable)][deity] in a [vehicle]!" I love the idea of exclaiming, "Sweet Buddha in a biplane!" I'll probably just never do it. The moment for such an outburst can't be predicted, and I'm less likely to have that phrase within easy reach than a simple, unadorned, "Dammit!"

A few years ago I got into the practice of "shuck swearing," that is, trying to come up with innocuous sound-alikes for your typical swears. I took to saying "Criminently!" and "Drat!" It didn't stick, though; there's something unsatisfying about exclaiming something rude and having people look at you with confusion rather than shock or disdain. I have retained the use of "Holy crap," however. "Holy crap!" feels way funnier than "Holy shit!"

As James Lipton likes to ask his guests on Inside the Actors Studio: What is your favorite curse word?

Different strokes

At lunchtime, Jen was playing Indie 103 in the office. Jonesy's Jukebox provides a pretty decent selection of music; if it weren't for all the annoying discount insurance and legal aid commercials, it would be a most pleasant diversion. Towards the end of his show, Jonesy (Steve Jones, formerly of the Sex Pistols) decided to have a little "name the artist" contest. Jen is totally hip to anything that's current, but she was stumped when the music started. I'm terrible at identifying singers but I got this one right away: it was Peter, Paul and Mary singing "Leavin' on a Jet Plane." I have a PP&M 2-volume live CD that was probably recorded back in the late 1960s that I just love, and although the recording Jonesy played sounded a bit different than the live recording I own, I had no trouble identifying the trio's distinctive voices.

A few years ago, someone at Simon & Schuster sent me not one but two books by pop culture essayist Chuck Klosterman. Both were not merely autographed but were actually signed to me, as if Chuck were a pal of mine and truly hoped I would enjoy his writing. I knew I would never be a fan of Chuck Klosterman's when I read this damning passage on page 15 of Killing Yourself to Live: "I have 2,233 CDs. Approximately 30 percent of these were given to me for free by record labels; that number represents less than 1 percent of how many promotional discs I've actually received. Another 30 percent of those 2,233 have been played less than five times, including one (The Best of Peter, Paul and Mary) I've never even listened to once -- it's still wrapped in cellophane..."

But he does own (and presumably listen to) KISS's entire oeuvre, as well as all of Britney Spears's catalog. If he'll listen to that garbage, I don't see why he can't crack open the PP&M, smoke a little weed, and get mellow.

Fixed

Sean replaced the broken window in our kitchen this afternoon. I helped by holding the glazing points (or, as my sister Mary said when she was about 6 years old, "Watching is helping").

Book of the week: The first sign that summer won't last forever

The world record pumpkin weighed in at 1,502 pounds; I think the largest pumpkin I ever grew weighed 6 pounds. Here is a photo of the world's largest pumpkin pie (2,020 pounds):

Mmmmm, I could eat me a slice of that right about now.

Brain fever

I can't stand this heat. It has been over 100 degrees every day for most of the past week. I could bear this still, sticky, unrelenting air a little better if our poor old central air conditioner hadn't picked this week to go belly up. Now the house heats rapidly during the day, rising to the upper 90s by late afternoon; at night it doesn't really cool off.

Last night I couldn't take it anymore. It was still over 90 degrees in the house at 8 p.m. and I just had to get some more windows open, even if the air outside wasn't much cooler. Sean and I dug around in the garage and found a few screens that had been missing from the windows we wanted to open. (Why they were in the garage at all is a mystery to me -- I think we must have taken them down when we repainted the house a couple of years ago and not replaced the ones on the windows we don't usually open.) I managed to screen and then open two additional windows in the kitchen. When I tried to open a third, one located next to the computer, it wouldn't budge. I strained and strained, but it wasn't going anywhere; because of the computer desk under the window, I couldn't get right under the window and give it a proper shove.

A reasonable person would have said, "Aw, screw it," and walked away. But I was taken over by some kind of heat-induced rage and I decided I wasn't going to let some flimsy contraption of wood and glass best me. I balled up my right hand into a fist to use as a mallet and gave the window frame a good whack.

Yeah, you guessed it. I managed to punch a gaping hole in the window. Glass flew out and tinkled on the windowsill and into the planting bed below. I yelled "Shit!" so loudly that not only did Curtis come running from the den to see what was wrong, but the neighbors' grandkids in the pool next door momentarily stopped their screaming and splashing. The side of my hand was covered with about a dozen small cuts, some of which were bleeding freely; one of them looks like it might even leave a little scar. I had to use tweezers and a sterilized sewing needle to dig a minute chunk of glass out of my pinkie.

This awful heat is supposed to break by Wednesday. My own feverish brain seems to have snapped back into normal range when the glass broke. I retreated to the den and spent the rest of the evening watching Flip This House in a sweaty stupor. It's a bad idea to leave a broken window unattended to, but I may postpone repairing it until the mercury dips back into the 90s.