Pinky's Paperhaus

Goodbye, Glenn Ford

Glenn Ford died yesterday at his home in Beverly Hills; the actor was 90.

He turned 90 on May 1, the day the American Cinematheque held a star-studded birthday celebration, tribute and screening of Gilda in his honor -- I went and wrote this. Although Glenn had initially planned to attend, he sent a video greeting instead. He rested on a couch and looked awfully frail.

One of the beautiful things about old movies is they're so gorgeous and, if cared for, will last forever. So Glenn Ford lives: you can watch Superman to see him at 60-something, The Courtship of Eddie's Father to see him at 40-something, or The Blackboard Jungle to see him at 30-something.

In The Big Heat he's a good guy, in Gilda he's a kinda bad guy. Ford was too good an actor to become an icon; he didn't develop a persona, didn't stick to one kind of character or even one kind of movie. He did westerns and comedies and army movies and (my favorite) noirs. I'm going to my first noir class today; I hope we take a break from theory to appreciate the genius of his self-loathing Johnny Farrell in Gilda.

Pittsburgh bloggers

I went to my first Pittsburgh blogfest -- the yinzers'* 7th -- and found that some Pittsburgh bloggers

love pittsburgh 

make brilliant mistakes

teach writing and knit

write, muse, and paint every day

are bitches (on the inside)

and are charged with wrangling Harlan Ellison at Worldcon.

* "yinz" is the purse-mouthed, Pittsburgh version of you-uns, which is basically you-all, aka y'all. Really, around here folks say yinz.

Wed: death, destruction and Shatner

Naguid Mahfouz has died; the Nobel prizewinning author was 94.

Around the time I moved to town, Pittsburgh mayor Bob O'Connor went to the hospital with a sore throat -- and was diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer. Each phase of his therapy has been documented in detail by local media (he will go home during chemo, wait, he won't); today the hospital announced it will no longer issue updates on his condition. Last we heard, the 61-year old mayor had an infection, seizures, and his condition had been downgraded to "serious."

It's been one year since Katrina; Maud Newton remembers the Mississippi coast and provides some class links.

OK, enough of that, time for some pop culture tawdriness. The best way to watch the William Shatner roast is in the clips on YouTube. (Nimoy is good, Takei works without notes, and Shatner himself does just fine. The comedians spend a little too much time ribbing each other, but are addictive nonethess).

Harlan fesses up feeling up

Harlan Ellison admits to grabbing breast, calls unsanctioned breastgrabbing "unconscionable," forgets to include an apology.

Aw, man.

He does say he's waiting for a call back from grabee Connie Willis, whose take on the proceedings I'm dying to hear. What's with the silence? Someone must have mentioned Harlangate to her by now.

But even though he's a turd, I still like his writing, and would still happily listen to him speak. I just would stay out of arm's reach.

75 books, the post-fender bender edition

Whew, I'm fine; I hope to discover that my classmates are, too. But I'm not quite ready to schlep the car to the garage and find out for sure what the damage is -- hence, this 75 books update.

Flashback to #25 & #26, fall LBC nominees that have now been announced.

#25 Sideshow by Sidney Thompson. A fine collection of short stories about southerners.

#26 Manbug by George R. Ilsley. An entomologist, who doesn't see the world as most people do, has his first love affair.

and then leaping to the proper place in my reading sequence, it's final LBC nominee. I'll have more to say about the LBC nominees in October when our discussion ensues.

#30 Firmin: Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife by Sam Savage. The life and times of a highly literate rat.

#31 Last Mountain Dancer: Hard-Earned Lessons in Love, Loss, and Honky-Tonk Outlaw Life by Chuck Kinder. This memoir and return home to West Virginia is sly and funny and charming. Kinder says he wants it to be a "big jukebox of a book," which it is, more than 70  vignettes that cycle from personal history to West Virginia history (think Matewan) to supernatural mothmen and back again. Kinder heads the writing program here at Pitt and I can't help but let him speak for himself:

It is, I told my old momma and did a stiff shot of Dickel straight, a do-not-go-gently, grumpy, grouchy, corny coming-of-age story, on one level anyway. It is also a forlorn, tear-jerky, but essentially true and finally foot-stomping country-song-of-myself.

#32 The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. I was in a miserable mood and decided to wallow in despair and read this. Problem is she's such a great writer that reading her, as always, was a pleasure, despite all the death and grief. My black mood didn't lift.

#33 The Open Curtain by Brian Evenson. Now I know that to shake up a dark mood, I should read some high-quality horror. This disturbing and sleek book focuses on a teenage Mormon who's grip on reality may or may not be loosening. Amazing writing. And it shook me right the hell out of my funk.

#34 Shadow Theatre by Fiona Cheong. An eliptical tale set in Singapore, told by a handful of women, involving tragedy, the supernatural and a visceral sense of place.

OK, I've put off the car thing for too long. Must get it to the repair shop so they can deal and I can get to class.

The first day

When I went to the first class of my MFA degree I was surprised to find that the professor spent a lot of time focusing on Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk who established the Order of the Interbeing. This is not a joke, not a funny. It is simply poignant Interbeing.

(people who've met me and plied me with liquor have heard my "poignant" harangue)

So you might say I was a bit taken aback. My writing workshop is a buddhist haven. We have three -- or is it four? -- meditation periods per workshop. We will meditate a lot. We will meditate to a bell.

Taken aback, I was, as I said. Rattled. Had drinks with students after. Some left early, others needed rides. So I offered. Driving home, we were talking about a whole lot of nothing, really, because this buddhist thing might work out. As skeptical as I sound, I withhold judgement; I think inside the jargon is quite a lot of truth. And then, apparently, I said,

"Oh my god..."

And then the minivan smashed into us as we were sitting there at the red light.

The two passengers, they said they were OK. The bumper is in shreds, the left taillight dead dead dead, and quite honestly my neck is a bit stiff. I have numbers in my pocket and will deal with things tomorrow.

For tonight, just picture it, me running to the back of his car in the storm to see his license plate, vaguely wondering what he's doing with those two lanky little daughters out at 11:30pm, rain splat splat on the black asphalt and the tremor of regret shimmering all around.

There is, sure, more to the story. Will students be mallebeable and meditate? Will the driver of the smashmobile pay up? Will I be able to sit up tomorrow without terrible pain -- and will my passengers?

Tune in tomorrrow(ish), my friends.

Listening pleasure

The Agony Column has Harlan Ellison's WorldCon lecture (MP3) which starts with "the angrier I get the more demented I get," and quickly moves to "If by the end of my talk I have not insulted your physical infirmity, your sexual choice, your color, your race, your religion, your ethnicity, please, raise your hand, I will try to get to you." While Ed finds this desperate, I think he's got a lot more energy and hutzpah -- and, sure, obnoxiousness -- than most writers, and easily buckets more than most 72-year-old writers. Which makes for a fun listen. And perhaps it's safest to keep him on the other side of your computer screen...

Two more podcasts from Bat Segundo: Jeff VanderMeer and Robert Birnbaum. Wait! I'm still catching up with JSF!

And a debut litblog podcast from Collected Miscellany - a conversation with Brock Clark.

Monday: party school, weenie-tinis, awards, talk and Pluto

Today is my first day of school. Of course I am nervous and excited. What should I wear? What should I bring to class? Well, this bit from Galleycat reinforces one of my creeping suspicions: people believe that MFA women and party girls are two entirely different creatures. But... but... Maybe I should bring a bottle of champagne to tonight's writing workshop.

Or maybe this: with homemade weeniecello (hot-dog-infused vodka), you can make a mean Weenie-Tini (via MeFi).

In less loopy news, Tod Goldberg is up for the Southern California Booksellers Award for fiction, in fine company (Aimee Bender, Susan Straight, Carolyn See, Jennifer Kaufman & Karen Mack).

The Happy Booker hosts an interview by The May Queen editor Nicki Richeseon with Lily Burana, the author of Try -- she calls it an alt.western rodeo novel.

Nostalgic for the days when Pluto was a planet? This bumper sticker is for you.

Don't dis the Zep

Pittsburgh Pirates fans, who've been hanging in through a pretty dismal season, got treated to post-game fireworks shows this week. And there was a live band! Problem is the band, Me First & The Gimme Gimmes, is a collection of punk rockers who play cover songs (blues, country, even classic rock). The satiric crew includes punk rock legend Fat Mike (lead singer of NOFX and proprietor of Fat Wreck Chords) and lead singer Spike Slawson, who grew up in Pittsburgh. They began their set playing songs the baseball team liked, including "Stairway to Heaven."

"There's a fine line between irreverence and lampooning," said Mr. Slawson, "and [the Gimmes] kind of ride that line. It's not supposed to be a homage -- that's not what we do. 'Stairway to Heaven' is, like sacred, though, and everyone started booing. I felt it in the pit of my stomach. That's the most people that ever booed me in my life."

Although the band was booked to play 3 nights under the fireworks, they won't be back. I love their response to the debacle. Spike Slawson tells the Pittsbugh Post-Gazette: "We're a punk band. Getting booed by a sports crowd makes us viable."

Once classes start this will stop

I'd like to think that it's bone structure and dewey skin, but what I seem to share most with these celebrities is bangs (or as Daniel Day Lewis would prefer, "fringe.") Via Cecil and Alan, who uploaded Hellraiser's face instead of his own.