I have a  new obsession. It's this great little blog by two girls who embrace their love of the romance novel. They write really intelligent, spot on reviews and I've yet to pick up a book that they gave a grade of "B" or higher and not been impressed.

On the flipside, when they dis a book that's also usually completely spot on and the two books (so far) that I've read because they said they sucked are so horrible that it borders on the laughable.

Case in point, Maverick by Lora Leigh. Sarah got maybe fifty pages into it and quite because it was so bad. I didn't believe ANY book could be that bad, so I bought it. And I just finished it. And I gotta tell ya--she was right. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know there are a LOT of horrible romance novels, but I've never read a published work (with the notable exception of anything written by Stephanie Meyers) that read like bad fanfiction.

Until I read Maverick by Lora Leigh. Lora Leigh is apparently a very prolific writer who's been published numerous times before this. Also, apparently her books are like crack to some people. And yet certain passages of this book were so horrendously, awesomely shit-tastic that I had to put the book down and laugh in stunned disbelief (and actual mirth at the unintentional humor) before I could pick it back up again.

Now, a wise man on the interwebs once said that a book shouldn't be judged by how "good" it is, but by how it makes you feel. So in all fairness it couldn't have been that bad because I did keep reading it and it did make my stomach do the jumpsies in a few places, but make no mistake--it was poorly written, it used every bad romance cliche out there, and quite a few stereotypes to boot. 

So rather than write a regular review, I'm writing a helpful Top Ten for anyone interested in writing a decent piece of romantic fiction so hopefully they can learn from Miss Leigh's mistakes and this tripe will never be recreated in fiction again.

( Scarlett the Harlot's Top Ten List of Crap to Stay Away From )</div>

On Sunday, May 31 2009 Dr. George Tiller was shot dead at his church--just as the service began.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dr. Tiller (Pro-lifers called him Tiller the Killer) he was one of only three late term abortion providers in the country. He'd been a target of right-wing groups for years because he insisted on providing care for women who needed it. His clinic was bombed, he himself was shot in both arms once before, and his family received numerous death threats. That's not counting, of course, the "petty" clinic vandalizations and protests he and his employees had to put up with on a daily basis.

This is major news. Check out what the NY Times has to say here, and various blog posts here, here, and here.

To be quite honest I don't know enough about the situation to accurately write about it here, and I don't think I could write eloquently on it anyway as I'm still too flabbergasted.

So instead I'll use this space to write about my own personal views on abortion and the pro-life crowd in general.

( Read if you dare. )</div>

Dear Brett,

Surprised to hear from me again? Don't be. 

I hold you personally responsible for this:

</div>
Thanks, ass.

Love,

Scarlett

I think by now we're all aware of my fascination with the Bucket List(s), well the ladies over at Feministe one upped me and came up with a Fuck-It List. That is, things that you feel positively no need to do before you die.

I feel this is, in a word, brilliant.

( So see the glittering brilliance of my ass jumping on the bandwagon )
That's all I got so far. I'm sure there will be more.

Dear Bret,

I remember you! You're the guy from Poison with the pretty-pretty hair who looked like that hot guy from Skid Row's poutier, slightly-less-attractive cousin!



How you doin', man? 



Oh.

But hey, I love how you're still rockin' the bandana. Although, to be honest, it looks like you're using it more to hide your hair extensions than to tame the wild locks of old. But don't worry. That pouty guy from Skid Row's face got all puffy, so you're even. So to speak.

Now I'll bet you're wondering why I'm writing this letter. I mean, we're not really pen-pals and to be Frank, you're not really my favorite. I was always more of a Mötley Crüe girl. Of course, even then, I'd've traded both of you in for Guns 'n Roses pre-Insane-Axl so there you go. No, sadly this isn't a gushy fan letter. I figure you get enough of those.

This, good sir, is an intervention. You have fucked with the image of the majesty that is (or can be) metal and you must be stopped. I tried to say something when Ozzie did it, but frankly I'm afraid of Sharon.

Have you no self respect? Have you completely lost what sense (and talent) God gave you? Have you really sunk so low that you have to rely on reality tv ratings? Come on man. You were/are the front man of one of the biggest hair-metal bands in music history. You were that pretty man-boy from Poison, for Christ's sake!

Now look at you.

You're stuck with a confessional camera, fish-lips, and a tattoo of the VH1 logo on your balls.

I didn't say anything during Rock of Love Pt. 1. I bit my tongue during Season 2 because it made for a good trainwreck and you chose that cool chick with the hot pink bangs (that was Season 2, right?) so I figured you had at least one brain cell left. 

I rolled my eyes when you called for your insulin. I grunted when you called it "dia-beeee-dus", I mean, come on, what are you--Wilfred fucking Brimley? I threw things at the tv when you let Lacey talk and I let it go when you let the girls gyrate all over you, cause come on. You're a lead singer. Duh, you like the groupies.

But enough. Enough. Enough. 

Last night I watched the season premiere of Rock of Love Bus. On the time when it actually premiered.

I'll grant you, I only did it because I left the remote in the kitchen when I went to get my cold pop-tarts and I was on the couch and I was too lazy to get up and manually change the channel. Besides, I figured it was good for an hour-and-a-half of trainwreck televison.

But that, sir, was beyond trainwreck. That was some airplane-in-a-wheat-field shit right there.



Why, Bret? Why do you have to do this to yourself?

You're a smart guy. You're even talented. You know how to write songs and you've got a record deal, and you're an actual, honest-to-God touring musician. You don't need this shit, man. I'll argue you're even better than this shit, though don't expect me to do it with a straight face.

I mean, okay, I get it. Arguably this is every male fantasy come to life--twenty women falling all over themselves in a closed space to be with you. But you're Bret Michaels man. You don't need reality television to make that happen. Have your Big Butler guy put an add on craigslist--you'll get the same kind of response.

I just don't get it. An infant would get the premise of the show (the Bachelor meets Whiskey A-Go-Go), I'll give you that. But you've been doing this show for two seasons already. If you haven't found your "Rock of Love" yet, you're not going to unless you change your criteria. As of right this second, it appears that either you or the producers choose the twenty trashiest women they can get their hands on (or twelve trashy women and eight okay ones) and put them all in the same room. These women run the gamot of jobs, some are nurses, some personal shoppers, some strippers, some porn stars, some Penthouse Pets, some run escort services, they have to be smart to run businesses after all.

But did you have to make them so... shiny? These girls are cinched, plucked, waxed, pulled, tucked, pierced (not that there's anything wrong with that), extensioned, bleached, inflated and sucked within an inch of their lives. A few actually look like men.

And good lord, the boobs! I have not seen boobs that big outside of a Bush Whitehouse in my life.

You know Bret, it really makes me wonder if your quest is taking you to find a girlfriend or a Cheif Groupie. I mean, if the premise of the show is to be believed, you really are looking for your one and only. If this is the case, then awesome. If the opposite is true and you've just reduced yourself to whorring out to reality television, well then...

If you're interested (and i don't think you are) Ariel Levy wrote an amazing book titled Female Chauvenist Pigs: Women and the Rise of the Raunch Culture. Normally, I wouldn't bring it up. But as I was watching the season premiere last night, I found myself quoting whole passages like a tween-fangirl at a Cullen siting. Basically, the book posits that our culture encourages women to objectify themselves by constantly bombarding them with a Girls Gone Wild-style media frenzy.

Not until last night, when I saw the reaction shots of the other contestants because one of your "potential girlfriends" gave a test tube body shot by way of her vajooter did I really understand exactly what Ariel Levy was talking about.

I don't care if you've never seen anything like that in 22 years of touring. You encourage it by the very nature of your show.

You sir, are a part of the problem.

Which brings us to the crux of the problem. The mystic of rock 'n roll is in the stories. Stories of drunken debauchery and weird-sex-things pepper rock and really it's part of what makes it so cool. The occassional youtube video (or, in the case of the Go-Go's) sex tape, just adds to the mystery. But, by making it a reality show, you're killing it. No more can we romanticize and imagine. No, see, now all we have to do is tune in once a week and we get to see some collogen-injected Barbie doll suck vodka straight out of another collogen-injected Barbie doll's navel, and there's you with a camera to the Glory Hole.

I guess what I'm trying to say, Brett is the thing that makes Rock Stars sexy is the mystery. That heir of Too-Cool-For-You that permeats everything from the Aqua Net to the leather pants. And the best ones, the ones that don't just proclaim to be just about the music but the ones that actually are about the music, are above all this shit.

You've lowered your standards and we can smell it. Reality TV Star is who you are now, and you've got to remember what happens to Reality TV Stars. We're not smirking together at a shared joke anymore, Brett. Now the joke is you.

Stop while you still can,
Scarlett

I like to think you guys look forward to my open letters. Generally I think I'm pretty good at writing the scathing venom.

However, this does not merit an open letter. This merits an open post-it.


To Whom It May concern,

You're not funny.

Love,

Scarlett

PS: Blondes aren't the only ones who can't type and utilize lol-speak.

PPS: No, I'm not actually blonde nor am I upset that I've been "left out". 

Ass.

My problem with LJ Spotlight is I end up seeing all these awesome communities that I have to take part in. Right now it's the 101 things in 1001 days community. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not going to join it. But I do think this is an interesting concept that I must take part in. I've been mentally making a list since yesterday and one of the things I'm noticing is that a lot of my things mirror my Things to do Before I Die list. Coincidence? I think not.

( Beware your ambition )
That's all I got so far. Suggestions are welcome!

I have an obsession with authors that are willing to write about things that make "normal, regular people" squirm. Same with movies and television. There's something about a work of fiction or art or music that makes you stop and think. Or stop and question. A while back I had my aura read and the lady that did the reading told me that my purpose in life was to "ask the hard questions" and "make other people think". Which is all well and good, but it also means that I've a serious penchant for finding the dark side of humanity.

That's not to say I want to live in the seedy underbelly, but I'm certainly going to point it out when I see it.

Enter Towelhead by Alicia Erian.



( The Babysitter's Club it ain't )

When I was in middle school I was obsessed with the original Law & Order. Then Benjamin Bratt left the show and I was stuck with reruns. Until Law & Order: SVU. I loved this show from the pilot episode. But even in high school I considered myself a feminist and I've always felt this is one of my unfeminist guilty pleasures. Generally, I preface saying "I love this show" with "I know I shouldn't, but..." when I talk about it to people. There's the obvious reason, that is, there's so many variations of the L&O brand that it's sortof a joke now. The more subtle reason is this: does a show who's entire premise is reliving and recounting rapes--even if it's to prosecute said rapes--really empower women? 


Recently I read an interesting post on the Community Board of one of my favorite websites, feministing.com. The poster's thought was basically that we need more shows like this because the rapists are always prosecuted, the detectives stop at nothing to bring them to justice, and it educates the public by making sure people know that rape is real and it happens all the time. These are some really valid points and it got me thinking. But one of the comments in particular made a point to say that if real life detectives did half the things the detectives on the show do, rather than sending perpetratators to jail, there would actually be a huge mistrail rate because of the civil liberties they trample.

Which begs the question: is this show a feminist show? 

My gut says no. The most recent episode, titled Smut, was about a serial rapist that drugged his victims so they wouldn't remember the rapes. He taped them. His defense was "porn made me do it." The episode touched on the idea of whether or not porn going mainstream was a good thing because it allows people to fantasize or if it encouraged men to further view women as sex objects. Topics like this are regularly bandied about in the precinct, there are enough characters that you can usually cover most of the arguments and still make it sound believable and not like a PSA. The female cop (Olivia Bensen) completely disdains porn and considers it wholly degrading to women, her partner essentially agrees (Elliot Stabler--ragehead, Catholic father of something like fifty kids, and sexy beast), another detective (played by Ice-T which is just all kinds of ironic) says porn's okay and he enjoys it. Oh, and he calls Olivia a prude for thinking the way she does--incidentally this is the first and only time I've wanted to smack Ice-T's character Finn, he's usually a pragmatic voice of reason.

The regular characters, that is the cops, FBI psychiatrist, and prosecuting attorneys, have had enough time to grow as characters and to grow into their characters. The show's been on for long enough that you know pretty quick who feels what. And even though the show has been on for forever, it's still coming up with new material. This is based in large part because like the other L&O brands, SVU "rips its stories from the headlines", so it's not uncommon to watch the show and see something that you were just reading in the gossip columns. Like the episode where a toy mogul had a serious Peter Pan complex (right down to exotic animals in his house and a life size pirate ship) and was accused of molesting young children--he was aquited because one of his accusers was lying. Sound familiar?

The show is gripping, addictive as hell. And on the one hand, it is pretty cool that the rapists/murderers/child-molesters pretty much always go to jail or get murdered horribly or commit suicide .You see them brought to some kind of justice. But isn't the constant exposure to rape a problem? Doesn't it desensitize those of us who watch the show regularly? 

It's not like they show the rapes because they don't. It's network television and they'd never get away with it. But they will show the events leading up to it and the initial attack. The will show the end result. They'll show the victim reliving the attack. Doesn't this sexualize victims? 

Make no mistake, I don't want to see someone getting raped. The thought literally turns my stomach and there are certain scenes in certain movies (I'm looking at that God-awful Anne Hathaway flick Havoc here) that I've never actually watched because I literally can't handle it.

But by not showing the awful act, and only showing a pretty woman (or man) completely losing her shit in an interrogation room, doesn't that sexualize the victim? 

Also, the detectives actually do consistently cross lines. There have been storylines in which they've gone after the victims, forcing them to confront their attackers, Stabler himself forced his daughter into a mental institution because she refused to persue treatment for bi-polar disorder. As a feminist, actually as a person with a conscience, both of these things are unacceptable to me. But when they're done in the context of this show, I'm willing to overlook and accept it. Because after all, it's just a television show. And it's good drama.

But is that a good excuse? 

Is there any excuse for some of the things on the show? 

Is there any excuse for any show using rape or child molestation as a tool to further the plot? 

On the one hand, I'm a writer myself and I don't believe that censorship is condusive to the creative process, likewise, I think that by not showing it at all is to somehow deny it's existence and it is important to give these kinds of crimes a name. I truly believe that cultures that allow violence against women and children are cultures that have serious problems.

And it's a slippery slope. Once you say that television can't show this, suddenly they can't show that, and it's all downhill until the only thing left on the air is the Wiggles and then that gets banned because it's weird for grown men to sing and dance for teh entertainment of toddlers.

There isn't an easy answer for this argument. On the one hand, L&O:SVU is entertianment and there's a reason the disclaimer at the beginning says 'viewer descretion advised', but on the other, it consistently shows tough content. Unfortunately, showing that tough content may very well do more good than harm. It encourages discussion and it's a weekly format in which people consistently hear people encouraging rape victims to come forward and see those victims finding justice. That's a pretty strong positive reenforcement, no matter what the show's character's methods. Because again, it is fiction.

I guess in the end, it's like a lot of things and it's up to each viewer to draw their own conclusions. I myself now have misgivings about the show. But it's still a show that I enjoy and will continue to watch.

Maybe that's more a reflection of me than of the show.

Wow.



RIP, Bettie Page.

In memory of Bettie Page, a few quick things I thought were really cool about her. At the time of this picture, and her Playboy spread, she was roughly 35 and it was her first time being pictured in a magazine like that. Incidentally, that would never happen now. And, in her later life she became a born-again Christian and never again allowed herself to be photographed.

So yes, RIP Bettie. You'll be remembered.

Dear Right-Wing Nut-jobs,

Hi. How are you. Did you miss me? It's me, Scarlett. Or Ava. Or Stephanie. Depends on who you ask. I like to keep you guys on your toes, you know. I know now is probably not the best time to be writing this letter, what with your epic fail on the presidential race, your crumbling system of economics, and the loss of your patron saint of bullshit, but this really can't wait.

Fuck your "War on the War on Christmas". No, seriously. Fuck it.

There is no "war on Christmas", there never was. There is a "controversy" sure, but there usually always is when you people won't listen to reason.

Lookit, I get that you're upset that most major retailers have started saying "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas" and I get that you're pissed because people are forcing Borders to have a Hanukkah corner. Fine. It sucks. But you know what? There actually are other holidays in the month of December. Likewise, 90% of what you associate with Christmas is actually taken from other decidedly pagan rituals. Christmas tree? Pagan. Yule log? Weird, European, and not at all an American tradition, but also, decidedly pagan. Pretty Christmas wreaths? Yeah. Go tell a neo-Druid you came up with it and see what they say. Misteltoe? You can thank the pagans for the free grope session, kids.

Now, I know this is a hard pill to swallow and I'll bet you're wondering why I'm pissing all over your holiday. I"m not trying to. I'm just irritated. Check it, Christiany has a LONG history of taking what it needs from other places. I know, this is not your fault. Blame the Jesuits. But I can't help but feel you've got a lot of pent up rage and aggression and you're really aiming your bile at the wrong people.

Example: Tom Piatek asserts that the main people behind the "assault on Christmas" actually "prefer Hanukkah." Also, that Hanukkah is a fake holiday, like Kwanzaa.

Well, that's pretty blatant who you're blaming that one on, huh Tommy? Well, correction my friend, Hanukkah is a real holiday and it's been around longer than your holiday. And no, it's not the Jewish Christmas. We aren't all copycats.

Likewise, Kwanzaa is a real holiday. And it deserves just as much respect as yours. Maybe you're just a little bit upset that these two holidays occur over a span of time and you just get the one day? Do I sense some sour grapes?

But let's just get one thing straight: Christians in this country are not being oppressed. They're not being hoodwinked or hijinxed into changing their beleifs, nor are their civil liberties being trampled on just because the neighborhood doesn't want to see a giant plastic light-up baby Jesus in your front yard.

You want to know what religious oppression is? Girls getting kicked out of school because they're wearing their hajibs. Getting told you're hiding your horns well. Being asked if you really do drink baby blood. People getting shot at or strung up because they insist on following their religious rituals. People being woken in the middle of the night to a flaming cross on their front lawn because they choose to honor their Sabbath differently than you do. Being spit on because of your nose. Being spit on because of what you call your God. Being forced to renounce your beliefs so you can maybe speak to a lawyer.

That's religious oppression and frankly the Christians in this country aren't anywhere near that. As a matter of fact, they're not even in the same world as that. But let me tell you something, that world exists right alongside this one. As a matter of fact, if you look closer, that world's not very far away at all. But you're so busy blanketing yourself in the idea of Religious Freedom that you can't see the fact that the only religion you'll allow yourself to protect is your own.

I'm sure your getting sick of getting called hypocritical. So I won't go there.

I'm just going to close with this--X-mas is not a potshot at Christianity. It's an abbreviation of your own fucking holiday deriving from the Greek letter "chi", or "X" that starts of the greek for "Christ". So GET OVER IT.

Yours,

Scarlett

PS: Santa is not Satan. Rudolf is not the anti-Christ, and Bing Crosby really was a child-beater. Deal.

When I was seven-years-old  I watched the movie Anastasia starring Ingrid Bergman and Yul Brynner on TCM for the first time. I discovered three things, one, my absolute adoration for Yul Brynner, two, a love of old movies that will probably never go away, and three, a fascination with Russia that defies reason.

Ever since then I've pretty much devoured anything that has anything to do with that country, no matter how badly written or unthoughtout (here I'm looking at T.A.T.U. such a bad band). As a matter of fact, when I was in college I took every history class on Russia that I could, to the point where my minor's concentration became Soviet Russia, and I spent waaaay more time than I should have in the company of one of the coolest college professors I've ever had the pleasure to study under. He was barely taller than I was, had a mustache that caught everything, spent most of his time telling us stories that began with "The cossacks did this...", and taught me how to drink vodka.

The best compliment I've ever gotten was when he told me I had the soul of a cossack.

But I digress. There's something about Russian fiction where, no matter how happy the story is, it's still vaguely depressing. My college professor would tell you that this is because it is Russian fiction. If you do not understand, then you are not Russian. See? Told ya he was cool. He was like a Soviet Yoda.

One of the more interesting periods in Russian history is the period directly after the fall of the Tsar, but before Stalin's takeover. So, you know, Lenin's Russia. I think one of the reasons why it was so interesting, and a reason that doesn't get much press, is because so many people left during this time.

( And you'd be surprised where they ended up.  )

Full Disclosure: I have avoided this book like the plague since high school. When I was in high school my mother started on a serious "Jesus Fiction" bent and started all sorts of Christian fiction. Not really Hallmark Channel fiction, but, like, biblical retelling sorts of fiction. True story, she actually purchased and read in a weekend The Book of God. Quite possibly the most tedious fiction story of ALL TIME. (It's basically a fictionalized account of the Bible--at least the guy leaves out Chronicles)

Anyway, it's not particularly surprising that I shied away from these kinds of books because frankly, the whole Christian genre leaves a lot to be desired when compared with popular culture. That is, it tries to compete horribly, but frankly that's just it--it competes horribly. The writers and singers and actors and what have you tend to be a pale shadow full of "hail mary" and Jesus speak.

That said, I love a good retelling. Wicked is one of my favorite books ever.

And, when I began my conversion process I actually picked up another book (non-fiction) written by the writer of The Red Tent, that is, Anita Diamant. So imagine my surprise when I read the back flap and saw that The Red Tent was one of her books.



So it was, with some trepidation that I purchased The Red Tent. After years of scoffing from my literary high horse about it.

( Imagine my surprise when it was actually good. )

Remember a while back (roughly a month ago) when I queried whether or not a writer could write a character having an affair with a Nazi and make both the character and the Nazi actual people? Well, I think I might have found out.



( But don't go thinking it's a happy story )

Dear Gloom Cookies of America:

Congratulations, today is most definitely your day! After years of searching, of moaning, of complaining that no one really understands the darkness and pain in your soul, finally, finally all of your black lace tinted dreams come true. Today, today, Twilight is wide released in theatres.

I'm so excited for each and every one of your bloody hearts! I mean, who would have thought that your secret yearnings and fantasies would ever be understood by another? But wait, there was Stephanie Meyer, a thirty-five-year-old married, Mormon mother of three who understood your pain and struggle. Yes, she had the same dream. And she was haunted by this dream, young ones. She knew she had to set it to paper because it was a beautiful dream full of darkness and light and lions and lambs and the power of good over evil. Also, there was glitter in her dream, but it was the glitter of skin so it wasn't stupid glitter or anything, it was sexy glitter.

Stephanie Meyer worked hard to translate her dream to a language mere mortals could understand. She somehow managed to bottle all your most secret fantasies and use this ephemeral liquid as ink and that ink managed to grace the pages of not one, not two, not three, but four books! Stephanie Meyer knew she could not rest until her story was told. And now, in the same year that you've seen her vision to it's startling conclusion, you're going to actually see her vision on the big screen! You must be so excited. I know I'm excited for you because there's never very much excitement in the life of a goth kid. So lick it up, babies, lick it up.

I remember back when I was your age (roughly between the ages of eleven and eighteen, some of you are much older but I won't tell! It was a lot harder to dress the part, let me tell you. There wasn't a Hot Topic in every mall just dripping with merchandise. I know, right? And the Hot Topics we had access to weren't all ironical and full to the gills of Invader ZIM and Nightmare Before Christmas and Ruby Gloom and Lenore and what not. I mean, sure, we had access to those things but we had to go to this place called a comic shop.

Also, it was a lot harder to be a goth. You had to feel it. You had to smoke. You had to be willing to risk derision from the entire student body. You had to perfect the ironic stare. You had to be willing to not wash your hair for weeks, or make an entire outfit completely out of ripped up tee shirts, or special order your vampire fangs. You couldn't just, you know, go to the mall.

You had to know how to sew and you had to know your way around a package of RIT dye, let me tell you.

Actually know, let me tell you. Do you have any idea how many of my dresses and frilly girly christmas presents from grandma I had to put through the washer with dye? Huh?

Our parents were not accepting of our "life style choice". Fuck that. They called us freaks to our faces and begged us to put on the Laura Ashley and turn off the Misfits. We peirced ourselves. With safety pins that we put over a BIC lighter first. If we got tattoos it was because had fake ids. Not fake tattoos.

But don't think this is the bitter rambling of a used-to-be-fad-girl to a bunch of consumer monkeys. Oh no. I freely admit I'm jealous. You guys have it so much easier! You don't have to actually read Billy Shakespeare anymore. You can just go to Barnes and Noble and pick up the "Quote a Day: Bard Calendar" instead. And forget reading Marlowe or the Marquis de Sade! You don't have to! You can just rent Quills.

No, I would kill to be one of you. It's so much easier to simply buy what people tell me instead of thinking for myself. I mean, it was so hard to find music I wanted to listen to that really seemed to drip the right amount of blackness and death back then. But now you've got nu metal and Ozzie's touring again, so there you go! I mean, you can buy you're own pre-ripped fishnet clothes! Do you know how hard it was painstakingly ripping ours so it looked artful? Now you don't even have to do that!

AND you don't even have to think about what kind of goth you are! You can just buy the tee shirt that says it! Or not, you can just pick up a little black crying My Little Pony tee shirt with words like "I has a sad" printed underneath it in glitter!

And you don't have to worry about the fake ids because Hot Topic sells faux peircings now too!

God, I'm so jealous.

Anyway, this is just a little note to remind you kids to be careful tonight on your special premiere night. It's like a Merry ChrisKwanUkkah for you, isn't it? Well, enjoy Twilight and I'm glad someone truly understands you. Now go have a party in a graveyard and don't forget your steaming cups of chai tea or whatever it is you kids are drinking now. Enjoy your Evenescence and I know I don't have to worry about telling you not to drink or smoke--you're so socially aware I know you won't.

Lots of love,
Scarlett

 

I really don't know what's up with me lately. Suddenly I'm all about the chick lit. Go figure. Here's the deal. I picked up The Kommandant's Girl literally a year ago on a whim because I liked the title, I was in my Sophie's Choice phase, and it was on the Buy 1 Get 1 table at Borders. Incidentally, lupanotte  when the hell is Borders going to go back to that? This whole Buy 1 Get 1 Half Off bullshit is weak.

Anyway. This book sat on my shelf for a year. Staring at me. Every time I went to the book shelf to pick something it was all "pick me, pick me!" And I was all "NO! I will not read a book that's so obviously drivel." But, I couldn't bring myself to take it to the used book store because I figured eventually there would come a time when I would want something light.

Enter two weeks ago. Every now and then I really do want to read a book that doesn't take that much thought. And I love books set in the time period between 1935 and 1955 because it's just such a great era. So



Normally this is the part where I summarize a book, but I'm just going to let you know what Publisher's Weekly had to say:

Starred Review. With luminous simplicity, Jenoff's breathtaking debut chronicles the life of a young Jewish bride during the Nazi occupation of Kraków, Poland, in WWII. Emma Bau, a shy librarian, escapes the city's Jewish ghetto with the aid of the underground resistance movement that Jacob, her activist husband, has already joined. Emma assumes a new gentile identity as Anna Lipowski and goes to live with Jacob's elderly aunt, a wealthy Catholic widow who has also taken in Lukasz Izakowicz, the only surviving child of a famous rabbi and his murdered wife. As Anna, Emma catches the eye of Kommandant Georg Richwalder, second in charge of the General Government, at a dinner party. The handsome Nazi is so impressed by her German language skills (and her beauty) that he asks her to become his personal assistant. Emma accepts, hoping to secure valuable information for the resistance, but the chemistry between them presents challenges that test her loyalties to Jacob and her heart. This is historical romance at its finest. (Oct.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

( Now here's what I have to say: )I'm suddenly in the mood for Schindler's List.

So goes the most famous blue eyes in movie history. Paul Newman was truly the last of a dying breed. And in the next few days, I'm sure people much more eloquent than I will tell you why he was important and how he will be missed. And he will be missed. He was an actually good man who believed in helping others and having a good time. Stories like, for his anniversary with Joanne Woodward (to whom he got married and stayed married, and was open about how after fifty years he was actually still in love with his wife) he got her in their car, and they drove all day on roads they'd never been on. Or, deprecating stories, like how Stanislovsky told him it was a shame he wasn't ugly like Marlon Brando, because then he'd be a truly good actor, because, Paul Newman knew he was gorgeous, so he skated by on his looks instead of giving the incredible performances he was capable of.

That is not to say he was a bad actor. He was an awesome actor. I cut my teeth on movies like Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and A New Kind of Love and to this day I cannot watch Cool Hand Luke without being brought to tears in places. There was a strange poignancy to Paul Newman for me. This was a man's man.  He was a man in the truest sense of the word, and he was a man who saw things. He didn't just skate by on his fame, he was outspoken on his political views, and he was a giver. Paul Newman was the kind of man who's respect I would have dearly loved to have. He was the kind of man that I regret I'll never be able to call a friend. In truth, he was the kind of man that I regret I couldn't have known before he was married. That isn't to say he wasn't without vises. He was a chain smoker who made no apologies about it. Ultimately, Cancer was what brought him down. He drove too fast and he probably drank too much. But he encapsulates an era and an ideal that just isn't around anymore, sadly. What was left, he took with him.

He will be missed.

I'll refer you to a quote from Cool Hand Luke that I've always felt epitomized Paul Newman, at least for me. This, to give context to those of you who haven't seen the movie, was said by one of hte other prisoners about Paul Newman's character Luke: He was smiling... That's right. You know, that, that Luke smile of his. He had it on his face right to the very end. Hell, if they didn't know it 'fore, they could tell right then that they weren't a-gonna beat him. That old Luke smile. Oh, Luke. He was some boy. Cool Hand Luke. Hell, he's a natural-born world-shaker.

And if that isn't Paul Newman, I don't know what is.

Dear Brooke--

I would like to start this letter off by expressing the thought that's been running through millions of people the world over since you first opened your Leno-like-maw oh so many seasons ago on Hogan Knows Best's inaugural run: You are not cute. You are not a vixen. You are not clever. You are why the terrorists hate America.

Not just that, but your family is a blight on Miami and VH1's Celebreality in general. You are the very real equivalent of driving bamboo shoots under someone's fingernails and then forcing that person to drag their own fingernails down a blackboard. Yes Brooke, you're that bad.

I know this sounds angry, and I admit it is, it may even sound a little bit bitchy, but frankly Brooke--I'm sick of your shit. I kept my mouth shut when you started your "recording career." I bit my tongue when your father made you check in every fifteen minutes on date with a guy he picked out (I mean hey, at least daddy's paying attention, right cupcake?), I refrained from kicking a puppy when you set the woman's movement back fifty years ("You know what? I am actually not that much into voting. I think it's kinda crazy that a woman is running, because I think that women deal with a lot of emotions and menopause and PMS and stuff. Like, I'm so moody all the time, I know I couldn't be able to run a country, 'cause I'd be crying one day and yelling at people the next day, ya know?"), but I've had enough. And I mean ENOUGH of your shit.

The fact that you are still receiving attention never ceases to amaze me, Brooke. Especially since your grasp of the English language is minimal at best. I mean really, you need two editors for your myspace blog, darling. And that's just to make it quasi-coherent. You cannot form a sentence without using the word "like" extra-grammatically at LEAST five times, and I realize that this is not just a problem with you, but a problem with the fame-whore generation in general. You cannot, will not, won't, make a statement without a limp-wristed, shoulders-slumped pout, and you have the unmitigated gall to think this makes you cute and/or sexy.

You want to know who was sexy? Mae West.

You want to know who was cute? Debbie Gibson.

You want to know what they both have in common? They're both better than you.

But this isn't the reason why I'm writing to you today, Brooke. No, better writers than I have already skewered you for the above reasons. No honey, today I'm writing to you because you insist on beatifying your brother. I just want to point something out to you, Brooke: Nick Hogan is a shmuck. He's a shmuck who got drunk and drove his car on more than one occasion. On the final occasion he  wrapped said car around a tree and put one of his best friends into a coma. This isn't fabrication, this is public record.

Now, your family would have us believe that not only is there some massive conspiracy by "the haters", but that a) the boy in question was not a friend of Nick's, but a total mooch who was actually kindof an asshole, b) it was somehow the passenger's fault that Nick wrapped his car around a tree, and c) he's better off in the coma with half his head missing. You yourself have written countless blog tirades on this subject, your people have vilified the poor kid's character in open court and in front of his grieving parents. Then you have the audacity to wonder why Nick gets sent to jail.

Now that Nick is in jail, you still can't stop talking about what a sweetheart your brother is, how he's misunderstood, and how you just know that mean old judge was too hard on him. It really stinks when people are forced to take responsibility for their actions, doesn't it?

Which brings me to Exhibit A:



And Exhibit B:



Seriously, Brooke? Seriously?

I understand what you're trying to do here, I do. But it's still neither cute, or sexy. Mainly, it's just stupid. Aside from the fact that your fictional mugshots seem to be written in lol cat speech and employ random capitalization (something I don't think the Department of Corrections is quite ready for) I don't think your many fans are going to understand exactly the point of these little snapshots.

Who "beat you" up, honey? Why are you so pouty about it? Was it a "sexy" beat down? Did it happen while you were drunk? Are you going to rip these pictures from your myspace as soon as you realize that the world is laughing at you, only to realize that mainstream media outlets (in this case AOL) has picked up the pictures, and this is an embarrassment you cannot hope to over come? Probably not on that last one, if only because it seems your modus operandi is to post something then take it down once the bloggers are talking about it. The stupidity and insensitivity behind these photos boggles the mind and if I really think about it, my head might "esplode", to use the vernacular, so I won't.

However, in an effort to help you, I'm going to do something that I doubt many people have done for you before. I'm going to take you seriously, Brooke Hogan.

Yes, I know, you're probably shocked. I can't tell if you're shocked that people haven't been taking you seriously, or that I am, but I digress. I'm going to take you at your word. You want to be in prison with Nick. Understandable that you miss your brother, and even more understandable that that pesky "but you're a girl and he's a guy" question hasn't been broached because you're a woman in the way that Orlando Bloom is a man, you know, not really. So I understand that logically, were you sent to prison you'd end up in the same cell as Nick.

So Brooke, I have a step-by-step, easy to follow instruction sheet for you:

1.  Get roaring drunk with your bff-who-looks-like-you-and-is-your-same-age-but-still-inexplicably-dating/fucking-your-dad. This will not be hard, I'm sure you've done it before.

2.  Get in your over-priced car.

3.  Start driving.

4.  Wrap said car around a tree, or a bush, or a restaurant. Making sure that you've already passed out and the passenger side receives most of the damage.

5.  Pretend to be contrite while your bff is in surgery.

6. Seem surprised when she's missing half of her head.

7.  Lie in court. Also, pout and flirt. Judges like that.

If this doesn't work and you just get probation, no sweat, sweetness. Your mom's got a boyfriend who's also a friend of yours. Just read these directions through again, and repeat.

Lots of love and kisses,

Scarlett

PS: Yes, I am a hater. Congratulations, you caught me. You caught "the hater."

Here's the thing: I hate buying hardback books. 

No really, I hate it alot. I have this thing where I'd rather be six months to a year behind everybody else in reading the next Harry Potter than to actually purchase a hardback book. I just don't see the point when they average like thirty bucks a pop. It just doesn't make sense to me. 

The acception to this rule is when I really, really, really want to read a book becuase someone's made it out to be really fecking awesome. 

Or when I have a nifty coupon. 

In the case of Tom Rob Smith's debut novel, Child 44, I had both. Pajiba gave it an excellent review, and I had both a 25% coupon AND a $5/off coupon from Borders (if you're not a Borders Rewards member, you're nuts). 



So I figured a glowing review was worth shelling out roughly $15 for a book that I would normally never read under any circumstances. It's a Myster/Suspense/Thriller, and frankly, I don't usually get into those kinds of books. But hey, with the double coupon it worked out to be what I would normally spend on a book, so what'cha going to do. 

The book takes place in Russia, smack in the middle of communism in the '50's, Stalin dies about a third of the way through the book, if that gives you any sense of time period. Historically speaking, he got most of his facts straight, which is something I'm always on the lookout for, and according to his picture on the dust jacket, he's not that bad looking. So awesome all around.