weekly endorsements

184478_10151176312890418_50492778_n

I suggest!

This interview with writer Jennifer Egan. The Days of Yore website in general. Interviews with artists about all the days before they got their successes. Egan’s interview is funny and honest and I love reading about how people come to writing.

Nick Nastyy (aka my little cousin, although he’s not that little anymore, he’s 18, oh my goodness, where does the time go, I remember when he was a newborn, shit, I’m old) has released his third album. He’s amazing and I’m so proud and my favorite song on the album is “If the World Ended.” You can listen and download the album here.

The Hot Club of San Francisco Pandora station. It’s West Coast gypsy jazz, I think influenced by Django Reinhardt. Listening to it makes me feel like I’m living in Woody Allen’s “Sweet and Lowdown.” It’s the kind of music that makes life feel like bounce and sunshine. You’ll walk around on the balls of your feet all day after listening to it, I promise.

Hilton Als is a writer and theater critic for the New Yorker. He’s also one of my absolute favorite writers. Check out his Contributors page on the New Yorker website– funny stuff, smart stuff, observant stuff. Can’t recommend it enough.

Memories of Murdera Korean murder mystery/horror/comedy directed by Joon-ho Bong. I love all of his movies, and I believe The Host got him international recognition. And I think The Host is really wonderful, but there’s something about Memories of Murder ( a pair of rural cops trying to find a serial killer) that is disquieting and really funny and creepy and unresolved and I love it.

Advertisements

fantasy movie soundtrack

Foolish Heart, Steve Perry
Biggest Part of
Me, Ambrosia
How Long, Ace
Strange Magic, ELO
Strawberry Letter 23, Brothers Johnson
If You Could Read My Mind, Gordon Lightfoot
Wishing on a Star, Rose Royce
Do It Again, Steely Dan
Sailing, Christopher Cross
Lotta Love, Nicolette Larson
I Just Got To Be Free, Minnie Ripperton
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, The Band
Dancing in the Moonlight, King Harvest
The Darktown Strutter’s Ball, Alberta Hunter

I see New England, summer, late 1970’s. I see bicycles and wraparound porches with swings on white houses at the end of a street. I see the families that only come up for the summer, martinis, crossword puzzles, wood-paneled station wagons with cloth seats. I see bare feet and men in short shorts and ice cream and cousins visiting from out of town and embarrassing photos. I see dogs without collars. I see halter tops that tie above the belly button and beach umbrellas and a job at the restaurant on the pier, the restaurant that always smells like fried clams, even in winter, I see moms with too much time on their hands. I see girls with ideas, girls with agendas, girls lying in the sun eating fruit. I see fireworks. I see a family fight through a picture living room window. I see a motel room off Route 22, I see a gray morning. I see pastels, ginghams, ribbons. I see hair pulling, teeth gnashing, learning to smoke, learning to drive, kissing, I see sitting on the hoods of cars. I see one sibling teaching another how to dance, packages in the mail, I see being excited to get back home.

he’s just not that into you

l_1001508_dc6efc83[1]

I’m always of two minds when it comes to writing about things I don’t like. One the one hand I feel it can be useful to discuss why some things–both winners and turkeys– do or don’t appeal to you. On the other hand, I know how hard it is to create anything (hello four scripts that I’ve started and abandoned), so I hate the idea of spewing all over someone’s creative endeavor. But I just rewatched He’s Just Not That Into You (I know, I know), and it made me kind of angsty and itchy and irritable all over again. So I went back to something I had written on it years ago and I’m reposting here.

Disclaimers first! I love romantic comedies. I don’t think we women are fools for looking forward to the next Kate Hudson romp. I’m not allergic to stories about wealthy-looking people with nice teeth searching for love in a semi-fetching way that involves a luxury apartment, drinks after work, and a third act misunderstanding that threatens the stability of the entire relationship until our protagonist realizes his or her foibles, the hijinks subdue, love can roam free, happiness for everyone (I don’t care what anyone says– Just Go For It with Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston was funny, they had chemistry, and it gave me hope for the longevity of the genre). But movies like He’s Just Not That Into You help me understand why some people say women are stupid. Continue reading