Not Guilty?

Michael Jackson is not guilty. Is that right? Well, me thinks he may not be guilty of child molestation, but he's certainly guilty of being one stupid idiot. I think this may be the first of several trials against him for child molestation, because he doesn't have the mental capacity to understand how self-destructive his behavior is. There will inevitably be more kids coming forth and accusing him -- whether for gain or not. And I have a inkling that Michael's likes all this attention, favorable or not so favorable. After all, he's the one who coined the phrase: "Wacko Jacko."

(Sorry, MJ for the dearth of posts, but I lost motivation. But I will try to blog more. Thanks for staying the "blog.")

Don't You Just Hate When...

...talented people ruin their chances? Well, Tana completely and efficiently ruined any chance she had a becoming The Apprentice. It was like she'd become a whole different person -- Satan, if you will.

Worst Apprentice so far. And I have a feeling subsequent shows will be just as terrible. Time for me to kick this reality habit.

A Woman Apprentice!

Hey, I hated to see Craig go, but I was willing to overlook his great workmanship (that Office Depot box rocked!), attitude, and drive, for the possibility of having Tana become The Apprentice.

I LOVE Tana, she reminds me of my business savvy aunt -- always smiling and friendly, but will slaughter you in the most nicest, humane, subtle way. The boardroom with Alex was pure brilliance.

Go, TANA!

Leaving the World Behind

So I needed a break. Haven't you ever just wanted to just go away for a while? Nigel and I took some time off and went to visit his sister and her husband in Vancouver. Boy, did we need that.

So now I'm home; and I'm catching up on the blogworld I left behind as a result. I find that Alisa has a new lover and has filed for divorce from her husband! That Johanna has a cool new addition to her blog called "The Friday Ten." And my MJ is dipping into Spanish.

I hope to blog more often now that I feel 100% better about life. Note: I got through my tough period by playing games, having lots of wild sex, and partying with friends, and not with any pills. Take that, anti-depressants!

Just When...

...I needed a moment (DAYS!) to recover and accept Terri's fate and the death of Johnnie Cochran, the Vicar of Christ dies. Regardless of of one's religion, the death of the Pope is terrible, heart-wrenching news -- because it takes true altruism to dedicate your life to religion to the extent a pontiff has to, and one has to just respect that.

So, rest in peace, Terri and the Pope.

I need more time to recover. Depression looms.

Forget about O.J

...for a second. Johnnie Cochran was one hell of a lawyer. And may his sweet soul rest in peace.

"Dying Beautifully...with a Moist Mouth"

The title of this entry is paraphrased of course; however, this is the gist of what Michael Schiavo's attorney, George Felos, had to say about Terri's condition.

You know, whether one is against the tube being re-inserted or not, one has to understand that death by starvation and dehydration is one of the cruelest things in this world. And I don't believe for one second that Terri is not feeling anything. She is.

These so called experts rant and rave about how only her brain stem is functioning, and that her cortex is liquified...blah, blah, blah. Terri Schiavo is a human-being, and she deserves to die humanely. And in this case, that means by natural means.

Ack. Earth and its denizens. (Sigh.)

Lock Your Doors!

Humanity is going fucking bonkers!, psycho, and completely NUTS

And to think, in the near future I want to start a family. But I'm beginning to feel that bringing a child into this world would be cruel and selfish. All I want to do is "run for the hills; [because] the planet is eating itself ALIVE!"

Good T.V. Week

So, I was one of the 25 million people that watched Their Eyes Were Watching God, which endeared me to Miss Berry. It was two and a half hours of brilliance.

Then Monday, it was Fat Actress with Kirstie Alley (whom I still thinks looks fabulous), and found Kirstie to be hilarious, but the storyline a little...trite.

More later....

Pure Cruelty

The Terri Schiavo case tears at my heart. Everytime I see on the news that her husband wants to remove her feeding tube, it takes me an hour to recover from the anger and disgust at the probability that he's going to succeed in committing this cruelty.

I guess the part that really irks me is that the feeding tube has to be removed in order for her to die -- which is just cruel. That means she has to starve and dehydrate to death, which could take weeks. How could someone want to subject a loved one to that? The last time the feeding tube was removed, it was removed for six days! For six days she starved. My god.

Now the family has been granted three weeks to prove Terri is improving or the feeding tube will be removed again. It's almost enough to make me give up on humanity.

Bad Movie Year -- for Me, at Least

I love a good movie just as much as I love a good book. After all, aren't movies just visual books, in a sense? But while I can forgive a bad book (okay, maybe forgive isn't the word. Absolve?), a bad movie I cannot. I have less empathy for a piece of junk movie, that passes through many eyes and still comes out a waste of my money and the studio that gave it a go.

Movies like Cellular. First, I'm not a big Kim Basinger fan as it is, but I liked her in L.A. Confidential, so I try to think of that performance when I'm in a video store and faced with a Kim Basinger movie that looks interesting. As usual, I'm disappointed. In 8 mile, her "white trash" accent sounded like something from "Hee Haw." And in Cellular, oh, is she terrible. The whole movie is terrible. Nigel and I had ordered Indian food and popped the DVD in. When we order out, we like to watch movies and eat. But, ten minutes in, and I was ready to chuck my chicken biryani all over my sofa..

Finally after an hour of clunky editing, syrupy acting on Kim's part, and disorganization, Nigel's big, blue eyes pleaded with me to end his misery. "Let's just finish it," I said. But I think what hurt us the most; actually tore at our souls -- is that William H. Macy, one of our favorite actors, signed on to do this crap. I repeat, WILLIAM H. MACY! Boy, did that hurt.

Anyway, last year and most of this year so far has been pretty bad in the movie area. There was the confounding and pointless rehasing of the Manchurian Candidate, the incredibly delusive Troy, which only served in making me realize how sexy Eric Bana is. Oh, and let me not forget the lukewarm DeLovely.

However, not all was lost: I did enjoy the brief but superb Lackawanna Blues, which made me add S. Epatha Merkerson to my favorite actress list. And I did catch House of Sand and Fog for the first time, and truly loved it. Have yet to read the book, though. And sometimes in the very near future, I'm going to watch Ray.

A Legend in the Making

Every once in a while, I discover an artist who is simply brilliant when it comes to creativity and originality and just plain greatness. My latest discovery has been blaring in my car, my house and headphones for the last week. His name is John Legend, and his song "Ordinary People" is a breath of much needed fresh air.

I think I like the song so much because of the simplicity of it (it's like him and a piano, with an orchestra at the end), of how raw the music and his voice sounds -- like he's sitting in my living room playing a tune that he's been working on is how the song comes across. There are hints of "Suddenly" by Lionel Richie and "Yesterday" by John Lennon in the song. Love it.

ABSOLUTELY LOVE IT!

Super Bowl Hell

At eleven-o-clock this morning fifteen men filed into my house bearing bags of chips, soda; cases of beer, and two large tubs of some greasy poultry. "What's all that, Brent?" I asked. Brent, Nigel's best bud, smiles and says "Brunch, milady."

"Well, what's for dinner?"I asked.

"PIZZA," said Nigel.

I fled the temporarily-regressed cavemen and snatched Nigel's laptop, hooked it into the phone jack and came online to get my blog fix. And spout about this damn Super Bowl hell we women who know nothing about football live in.

And I don't particularly care to be educated about it either. Ugh.

Anyway, the highlight of my week (and it has something to do with the SB) is when Nigel actually wanted to calculate which was closer to Chicago -- Philadelphia or...well, New England. "Philly's a Mid-Atlantic city," I said. "New England's all those little cornerstones on the eastern part of the map. I think Philly's closer."

"Damn. And I love Donovan McNabb!"

Yeah, it's that bad. My weekend has been nothing but football talk, greasy poultry, and being referred to in old, spiffy English. And the beasts are now seeing who can toss corn nuts the highest and "taking in" a bit of Arena football before the Grand Game begins.

The madness (and slow-assed dial-up). I'm going to call Mama Hausen and see if Daddy Hausen and friends have taken over her house. I fear she'll say, "He's bought two tubs of greasy pork for the game." Coz, my daddy loves the ribs.

Men.

Blog on Hold

This post comes courtesy of Nigel's work laptop, because my computer has fizzled out. So, in lieu of this terrible news, the Bel Esprit blog has to go on hold for about a week or two, when my new system arrives.

Check back soon.

In the meantime, check out My girls MJ's blog or if you're searching for invaluable information and inspiration on writing, then my girl Karin Gillespie is for you. Perhaps you're looking for posts with a more...subversive tone to them (dare I say...sassy), then my sweetheart Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez's blog is the place to be.

And don't forget to get your fix of Dooce.

See you in a while,
Amy

Profiting Off the Dead: Amber Frey Sucks!

I'm sure the sales from Witness will go towards funding Amber's next incarnation/makeover for the media. It'll be chunky champagne highlights this time around. While Lacy and Connor decompose further, Amber Frey will be producing her crocodile tears on a show like 60 Minutes, while making sure not to smudge her expensice mascara, bought by the profits from the death of two innocent human beings.

Ugh.

Reality Television: Crack in a Box?

With so many forms of addiction in the world, I had to choose reality television as my addiciton. I know, it's trashy, gratuitous, and a surely passing fad; but I love it so.

There's my current fave: Strange Love starring Brigitte Nielsen and Flavor Flav. And the title of the show couldn't have explained this show any more accurately.

Then there's the ever-loving Big Brother, where I wait with bated breath for the new season. Each season gets more cut-throat and evil.

I can go on and on about reality television, but I won't. However, there is something very addictive about strategically placed cameras around a group of washed-up celebrities, inebriated college students, sluts, and fat people. It's so deliciously mind-warping.

Dooced: A Fired, Recovering Mormon's Blog

I found a link to Heather B. Armstrong's blog on Karin Gillespie's site, and I have been having an absolute ball reading her Dooced archives. Her blog is hilarious, sad, and poignant all at the same time.

Check it out.

Happy New Year!

First, a moment of silence for the victims of the terrible Tsunami, who didn't make it with us into the new year and for all the other souls that have gone on. My heart goes out to them all. (Moment of silence commencing now for ten seconds before reading on. Please close your eyes for a ten second moment of silence.)

New Years was fun. I partied, drank and was quite merry -- to the point, I found myself channeling Beyoncé while dancing to "Lose My Breath." Let's just say I had the wild blonde hair thing going for me. I also found that I channeled Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas, Chaka Khan, and a poorly coordinated Ciara. And I was extremely happy to sing along to Usher's "Yeah."

Then we all (my family, Nigel, and friends) decided to turn to ABC's local news program for the countdown. Sadly, we missed the ball drop and Regis an hour earlier -- too busy dancing. Back to the ABC thing. Anyway, their clock said 11:59, with thirty-seconds to go, but at twenty-nine seconds, the crowd at Navy Pier were on their own clock, and began counting down ten seconds early. Well, Channel Seven made sure we knew that they had the correct time. And there's like twenty-three more seconds to go, when their clock jumps to the ten-second countdown. I guess their clock wasn't so accurate after all.

There we were: champagne flutes in hand, noise makers, and those shimmery long flutes that makes that horrible wailing sound poised and ready to go, and we're not even sure if we're in 2005 or still in 2004. But when "Let's Get It Started" pumped on, we put it behind us, and brought in the New Year with lots of noise and champagne.

I, blessed.

New Year Hopes for the Blogworld

Here are three hopes I have for the blogworld:

ONE: For more authors who blog to be sassier, and try a little harder to present topics that appeal both to writers and readers.

TWO: For Karin Gillespie's books to soar to the top of the best-seller lists. Because Karin works hard to keep her blog topical, and takes the time to encourage writers and readers by providing links and insight to the joys and frustration of being a new author. Go, Karin.

THREE: For myself to start blogging more often and more generally.

Those are my hopes for the blogworld in the new year. Now the hopes for my personal life...well, that's another entry.

Should I Be Flattered...or Not?

Yesterday, I checked my email and there was an email from a "representative" of Xilbris; this person had read my Becoming Shadows blog, and "found [my] writing to have tremendous potential and impact."

Unh. Hunh.

Well, Xilbris is a vanity press. Yes, a "publisher" that I pay instead of the other way around (and the more respectable way.)

The email was a shock, because my Bel Esprit blog is not "out there" yet, and probably has only one consistent reader (thanks, MJ), and my Becoming Shadows blog has been abandoned to continue my work under less scrutiny. So, how this "representative" found my blog is most likely from the NaNoBlogMo blog, where every NaNo participant who shared the URL to their blog probably received the same email and found that their writing, too, has "tremendous potential and impact."

I was discussing with my brother about how being a self-published author is way less respectable than a musician who decides to hawk copies of a labored CD from the trunk of his or her car. Hey, Ani DiFranco, Jay-Z and countless other musicians have done it, and it's considered a terrific grassroots effort to stardom. But...in publishing, ha! Self-publishing is a LAST RESORT. Either the author's book is not marketable or before its time or just plain leaky.

I know there are authors who have self-published successfully. And if their work is up to par, then most of these authors are scooped up by a "real" publisher. Making self-publishing sound even more small-time and desperate.

My motto: If I can't land a publisher the traditional way, and get paid for my work, then I just wont be published. Plain as that. So, no thank you, Xilbris.

Okay, that's all. I'm off to listen to Fantasia Barinno's "Summertime" for the tenth time this morning, and work on Chapter Nine of Becoming Shadows.