wednesday, the twenty-first of february, two thousand one

Not writing: A real entry, because I am still suffering writer's block. Instead you get something I worked on a while ago and just remembered due to a conversation I had with Dora, who inspired it with a similar entry of her own.

Reading: The Pleasing Hour by Lily King. Updated the book journal again to reflect the $1700 I spent at Barnes & Noble last night due to an afternoon of delicious book discussion with Jessica, one of my readers who doesn't journal but I've decided she should.

Listening: Eliza Carthy's Angels & Cigarettes.

Receiving: A beautiful postcard from Athena for no other reason than to thank me for the Oscar pool. Athena is a lovely, lovely person, and I must meet her soon. The postcard will be the fourth thing to decorate my office.

Also, trouser socks. I mean, I got trouser socks in the mail. My mother picked up the best trouser socks in the world for me from a DKNY outlet in Hilton Head. And sent them in a padded envelope, which I found rather amusing.

It was an interesting mail day.

Watching: Buffy, although I did not like all the Scoobies being mean to Spike. It made me very upset indeed. Bad Scoobies.

Also watching: 60 Minutes II, for a nice little story about, I don't know, how tobacco companies are bad or something. But also for a nice little story about Bono.

Link of the Next Five Weeks:

The Oscar Pool

A is for Addie, who ain't a boy. It is not for Amarillis, who is a devil child. But it is for the Aristocats, and AMC, the best cable channel ever.

B is for the Bob-Whites of the Glen, which I spent many a summer wishing I could join, and its oldest member, Brian Belden, on whom I have a crush to this day. It is also for Beatrice and Benedick. And Bob Ross, because there are no mistakes, only happy accidents.

C is for Charlotte and her terrific, radiant, humble, some-pig Web. Fine swine, wish he was mine. Also Cobweb, my first role on a public stage, all five words of her. And Cary Grant and his Philadelphian alter ego, C.K. Dexter Haven.

D is for D'Arcy. And D'Artagnan. And all those other D'A-something heroes of fiction who like to swim in their shirts. And Lt. J.G. Daniel Kaffee. And Special Agent Dale Cooper. And Dorothy, who taught me a most important lesson.

E is for Entertainment Weekly, perhaps the greatest of my magazine addictions. I get itchy if I miss one. It's also for Ellenor Frutt, who just plain kicks ass. And Encyclopedia Brown, the boy detective.

F is for Farmer Ted. The Facts of Life, because you take the good, you take the bad. Also Felicia the Great. And Footloose, which I saw 13 times in the theater, lying to my parents weekend after weekend, telling them I was seeing all kinds of other movies, just to watch Ren McCormack smoke, drink, and dance in that warehouse over and over again.

G is for Gary Sinise, because I love Lt. Dan's magic legs. And Griffin, who travelled many a world in search of Sabine. And Gonzo (the Muppet, not the doctor).

H is for the Hollywood sign. And, of course, Hermione and her best friend. And Professor Harold Hill, Gary Conservatory, Gold Medal Class of Ought-Five. And Lady Helen Clyde, for blowing up the microwave on the same night Thomas Lynley decided he wanted to marry her.

I is for Ilsa, who made the most difficult decision in movie history. (And the wrong one, IMHO. Loyalty, schmoyalty.)

J is for James Lipton, who I want to have over for dinner, because he grew on me, the obsequious little bastard. And also Jack Foley. And Johnny Castle, okay? Wanna make something of it?

K is for Kevin Spacey, and my two degrees of separation, because only the toes knows. And Kevin Bacon (see F above).

L is for Luc Tessier, even though no one else liked that movie. ("Oui, Baaaaaab.") Lucy, for cheating on a vegetable. And Lady, for shamelessly eating spaghetti with the Tramp.

M is for Moonlighting, the show that provided my first celebrity crush in the form of Bruce Willis and that smirk. It is also for Marmee, and Meg and her dear Mr. Brooke. The thing with the glove just slays me, every time. And Mitford, where some days I most desperately want to live. And Mrs. Badcrumble... she's just my clarinet teacher.

N is for Neil Diamond, and wanting to be forever in blue jeans on Saturday mornings running errands with my father. Also for Nick Carraway, who narrated the only book I had to read in high school that I absolutely fell in love with. And, of course, Narnia.

O is for Olivia Newton-John, because she made me want to grow up to be a singer and an actress and get a perm and an off-the-shoulder leather outfit. It is also for Otto, whom I would never ever dream of calling stupid. It's Oliver Platt. And Oscar, but of course.

P is for Party of Five, the show I started watching because my father saw it first and told me he thought I'd like it, and the show I stopped watching because after Julia got pregnant, Bailey got drunk, Charlie got cancer, and Claudia got boobs, I got bored. Also for the Prock, for not being such a bad guy after all.

Q is for the Quimby family, who kept me company for years. Jeezus, Beezus.

R is for Roman Strauss, and his wife, Margaret, who were indeed two halves of the same person. It is for Rainer Maria Rilke, who proved that even I could love poetry, just when I was worried that I had no soul. Also Remy McSwain, even though it took me a shamefully long time to figure out what exactly Anne wanted him to stop doing.

S is for Sally, the one who met Harry. And Sukie, my favorite witch of Eastwick and my cat's namesake. And Sting, my one and only, forever and ever, because no one will ever be able to prove that he did not help me pass the bar exam.

T is for Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movies, for which I am the biggest sucker on the planet, even that volcano one. And Tigger, too, 'cause he's made out of springs.

U is for U2, even though I was a little late to the party, and disloyal as far as Pop was concerned. Achtung, baby.

V is for the Vicomte de Valmont. Vivian, because there will never be anything wrong with wanting the fairy tale. And Vanity Fair, the jet set People.

W is for Wakko, who knows all the state capitals. And Walter from Sleepless in Seattle, who will marry me as soon as he gets over Annie. (I'm very patient.) And hey, what's that on your head? A wig? Wig, wig, wig, wig...

X is for the X-Files, of course, and nothing else.

Y is for Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. 'Cause there is. It's also for you, and you and you and especially you, for the difference you have made in my life.

Z is for Danny Zuko, because that's his name, so don't wear it out. (And yes, he breaks with tradition by being categorized under his last name because there isn't any other Z thing out there for me. Back off, or I'll get the Pink Ladies after you.)

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