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.

Happy Holidays!

I'd like to wish everyone a happy and safe holiday season and New Year. Please, don't drink and drive, drink and fight or drink and become a raging lunatic, taking up three lanes of traffic because the police has pulled you over and found you ass-naked in -50 below zero weather, doing bunny hops. And Nigel is yelling at me because I keep shouting out the window "Arrest him or let the show go on."
Oh yeah, don't drink too much at the holiday party either, and shout out the window at the police and an inebriated idiot.

Oh, memories of 2003's New Year's eve.

More on the Apprentice Fiasco

Okay, so Nigel starts reminding me that The Apprentice will be re-airing on CNBC, and that I should take a look at it "without biased eyes." Nigel wanted me to sit down and watch the show again and to "pay particular attention to how Kelly handles crisis compared to Jen."

Fine. So I did.

And after watching the show again, I'm even more pissed off. Yes, the boardroom was hellish, but even more perturbing is the guy from X-box who went psycho on Jen because the power blew. Now, granted, I know the company was "spending a lot of money on this," and it was Jen's duty to make sure every aspect of the event was in order -- including engineering. BUT...I just know if Jen had been a man, that guy would have been more understanding that SHIT HAPPENS, and everything can't just fall together. He probably would have joked around, told Kelly: "Hey, do your best, but we need to get this power going." Instead of being very nasty to Jen by saying: "I don't want your people coming to me asking me anything. Fix the problem now."

And what did Nigel say after I made this very same point to him? "I think the guy would have been even nastier to Kelly, because he wouldn't have to be as gentle to man."

Argh! I give up.

So for the sake of both our sanity, we've decided to just drop it, and focus our collective energy into hoping Maurice from The Biggest Loser wins. Hey, that will be two for three: Eva from America's Next Top Model and Maurice. I got my fingers crossed.

Harvard and Princeton Degrees vs the YWM Degree

Last night, a couple friends, Mama Hausen, and Nigel and I all got together to watch The Apprentice finale. It was a night of debating, wine, and one friend accusing me of being a "liberal, feminist nazi!" Nevertheless, the night was fun, but the outcome of the show weighed on my mind all night and now this morning. Why on earth didn't Jennifer M. win, I keep thinking, she's well educated, has almost the same experience as Kelly, she's tough....

Actually, I came to my answer last night: Trump is sexist. The world is sexist. Jennifer Massey didn't win because she is a woman. Face it. Last night's show should have been called The Kelly Perdue 3-Hour Finale, because for three hours all we heard was unremitting praise for Kelly, interspersed with a speckle of brave souls who spoke up for Jennifer's abilities.

It was disgusting, and I let everyone in my house know that I thought it was sickening what was going on. But no one agreed with me, not even my mother.

Mama Hausen: "Amy, Kelly was more organized, and he's business savvy."

Nigel: "You're looking at with biased eyes. You've been calling Trump sexist through-out the whole show."

Friend 1 (male): "If you think Jen M. deserved to win, then you're out of it."

This went on all night.

You know what bothered me the most? The live boardroom meeting. Jennifer went into why she was well qualified to the job. She recited her lovely education, that she'd went into a very competitive legal market in San Francisco.... And Trump acted inpressed, even chiding Kelly for not having "better" credentials. So Trump asks Kelly why should he pick him over Jen. And the look on Kelly's face said: "Because I am Young, White, and Male." As if that would have been enough. I guess it was.

The YWM degree has way more precedence over an Ivy League education attained by any woman or minority. The YWM degree cannot be...well, trumped.

What the Hell are We So Depressed About?

A friend of mine has been given a prescription for Wellbutrin XL, an anti-depressant. And she's been fretting for days about whether to have the prescription filled: "Amy, I didn't think I needed medication," she said during lunch.

"Then don't have it filled." I replied.

"Yeah, but Dr. ______ thinks it will help take the edge off the day."

Yuck. It's that type of mentality that has half of the country medicated. Everyone's trying to take the "edge" off the day. What exactly is the edge of the day, anyway? Is it having to rise in the morning and go pay some bills? Or maybe it's having to look after your children. Is it facing humanity that's so arduous, with all its idiosyncrasies and expectations? I just don't think there is a definitive explanation why so many people are being told they're depressed and that said depression needs medication. Even children as young as ten are being prescribed anti-depressants.

And what the hell are we so depressed about anyway? Is it because we can't live up to other's expectations of us? If we can't keep our weight under 110 pounds or our skin one fine line freer, our children in tip-top academic and filial duty Shangri-la or keep our marriages in the honeymoon stage, then, by GOD, someone medicate us!.

What do we think our grandparents did before anti-depressants? Just fucking killed themselves? No, they got through it. Naturally.

The path of medicating anything that gets in the way of us being a super-human is getting out of hand. Children are on Ritalin and anti-depressants, adults now have AADD and "debilitating" depression, and, guess what, there's a magic pill that will stop the pain of being human and make us all feel better.

And in the midst of it all: humanness. No amount of medicine can change that. Women still bleed every twenty-eight days, we still have to defecate, eat to survive; we still have to be human. So what the hell is all this medicine doing for us? Let me guess: taking the edge off the day, right?

Citizen Girl Wears Prada from the Devil

I just finished Citizen Girl and I hated it. Absolutely hated it. While reading through it, I felt like I was in the same Devil Wears Prada nightmare I'm still recovering from. Yuck.

The girls (McLaughlin and Kraus) must have had dinner with Lauren Weisberger and said: "Hey, you sold in the hundred thousands, we sold in that range, too -- wanna be our silent partner?"

What as disappointment. It feels like the crap Devil... all over again. For shame!