Brenda and the F Word

After listening to my daughter’s rave review of Full Moon, I’ve had to rethink the Twilight phenom. I mean, what is it exactly that excites these millions of tweenies, teenagers, and even cougars so much, they’re willing to WAIT in line for 60 minutes for a sexless, bloodless sequel? What is it that impassions them so much, they’re divided into Camp Cullen (the sparkly skinned, pale-faced vegan vamp) and Camp Jacob (the pumped up, Native American werewolf)? Could it be precisely because pleasure itself is postponed? And I am not talking about abstinence here. (the Mormon author’s message) I’m talking about the fact they are experiencing, albeit vicariously, the ecstasy of anticipation, of expectation. Both of which have become almost obsolete in this age of Attention Deficit Syndrome. This is a movie about foreplay, in the biggest sense of the word. The exquisitely tortuous joy that has nothing to do with instant gratification and everything to do with the longing and the wait that precedes it.

p.s.
The only other experience for these kids that seems to involve this same exquisitely tortuous anticipation and that demands this kind of patience, is the wait for those acceptance/rejection letters from colleges. Speaking of which… Mine got hers. And she’s in. But in the hours before she returned home to open it, I was pulling my hair out. I tried steaming it open over a pot of boiling water. I weighed it. I held it to the light. I even slid a knife along the inside of the envelope flap. Nothing. So I,too, had to wait. But oh my! What pleasure when the word was out and the envelope, finally, ripped open.

Life happens when you’re not looking.

Oh man! There he is, Edward Cullen, skin sparkling in the sunlight. I settle into my seat. I sigh. The only human over 20, nibbling on popcorn, grinning. I see him walk, no, float, across the parking lot in a sexy, slo mo. He smiles. He kisses her. Then fuck! Twenty minutes later, he ups and disappears. I look around. The guy is gone. He’s dumped her. Bella “Perpetual Virgin” Swan. So I sit there for two solid hours, watching the movie go the dogs (I mean, literally) while some bare-chested, pumped-up Native American werewolf woos her. Big teeth (or big veneers) and all. Where are you Ed? I’m waiting, waiting. Enough warring against the libidinal blood-sucking impulse. Just come back. Don’t get me wrong. I got nothin’ against werewolves or Native Americans. But there ain’t no way they’re as cute as sparkly skinned, pale-faced, vegan vampires. What a sorry second sequel. A definite no go.

Funny post coming up later….

Yes, I saw him hanging out in a glass at a local bistro last night. Guess he’s between episodes, waiting to shoot more  Bored To Death.  Unfortunately, we didn’t get a chance to chat. The ice was in the way.  So I just banged on the glass and gave him a thumbs-up. We love you Ted. Come back soon.

Otherwise, comments dilemma appears to be resolved. Feel free to test…In the meantime, am out there flogging The Craigslist Murders. In fact, succeeded in storming my way into the office of the Barnes&Noble inventory buyer yesterday. Sweaty palms, shaky knees, talking faster than a speeding bullet. And I do believe they might stock it in-store. Heading down now to Leonard Lopate’s studio in the hopes of passing it into the hands of the producer. Watch for headlines in the Post tomorrow when I’m arrested for disturbing the peace. (Last time, I made an “appearance” on Lopate, I described it as “the interview from hell given by God!”) But never mind.  You do what you gotta do. If anyone out there has read it and likes it, please, please think about posting a review on Amazon. In fact, post a review even if you haven’t read it. JK, guys. JK.  Bye for now.

Aside from the scary comment from Remonster in Mosul re deleting his comments (Which, by the way, has been happily resolved), the extraordinary Blue Girl has just told me that she has had similar problems throughout the past week. Maybe it’s Charlotte, my murderous “heroine” getting back at me. In any case, please know that I have not DELETED anyone’s comments. I seem to be having problems getting them. FUCK! Who you gonna call? The cyberghostbusters?

Nineteen year-old Levi Johnston, the ex wannabee (or not) son-in-law of America’s ex wannabe V.P. (I refuse to mention her name) recently stripped off his skivvies for Playgirl. Whether he has also bared his soul remains to be seen. But yesterday I heard from a source, an eyewitness who there was at the scene when the far from dirty deed was done. Here in his own words:
“Found myself at the LJ shoot last week. LJ showed up (dressed) in a black Yukon with his management–the Jones brothers who seemed to have his best interests at heart. On the elevator on the way up to the studio, Tank (yes, Tank) talked up a soft-spoken girl who insisted that she had to get out on her floor and start her workday. LJ wanted to know why he couldn’t just leave the girl alone. Because I want to have a fluffer on the set, Tank retorted.
Upstairs, we all crowded in the make-up area. Turned out there was a problem with LJ’s hair. LJ and Tank didn’t like the way it stood up or lay down or something and the hair guy prudently backed up into a corner. Tank plowed his thick fingers through LJ’s locks. Finally, the Northwoods look was achieved and LJ started to disrobe.
He wouldn’t take his shirt off for the camera until he pumped up. Tank’s brother took a towel in both hands and LJ pulled it to his chest in a series of quick reps.
Don’t make me sit on the floor, he said to the photog. I don’t want to look fat.
You’re not fat! one of the assistants said, breathlessly.
LJ allowed himself to be dressed with a hockey stick. Period. The strobe fired. LJ put on a 1,000 yard stare and I looked at my producer.
Shoot every inch of him, she said. Every time he moves a muscle, shoot.
I admired the way he had his name–JOHNSTON–tattooed on his forearm–like a logo.
He seemed like a totally nice, nineteen year old guy/kid.

Back when the original British TV series, The Prisoner, hit the air, the idea of a man known only by a number was the stuff of sci-fi nightmares. Below is a partial list of the activities in my daily life that demand “personal” ID numbers in order to function and/or access.

Bike lock
ATM card
Amazon
Orbitz
Continental Airlines
Air France
Laptop
Gmail
AOL
Website
Paypal
Chase
Amex
Mastercharge
Garage door
Social Security
Expedia
Blog
Health Insurance

FUCK! Please feel free to add to the list…

Most Helpful Customer Reviews
From Amazon

5.0 out of 5 stars A flaming arrow into the dark heart of Manhattan’s filthy rich, November 15, 2009
By L. Jacobs (New York, NY) - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)
The Craigslist Murders: A Novel is a flaming arrow into the dark heart of Manhattan’s filthy rich, and also a sharp portrait of our culture’s psychological health. Cullerton knows this milieu and her portrait is all in the details a la the New Journalism that stormed the Sixties. Perhaps it’s no mistake that Cullerton’s heroine, or rather anti-heroine, is named Charlotte Wolfe. This Charlotte — as opposed to Tom Wolfe’s recent, ridiculously dated I Am Charlotte Simmons — is a true embodiment of her time, contemporary compulsions at war with distant ideals. And while she’s murderously troubled, she’s also amazingly sympathetic. This is not easy to do. The book flies cinematically, riffs ferociously, and then floats in moments of poetic contemplation and longing. Swift, sensational, The Craigslist Murders reads scathingly and emotionally true. A tour de force!
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Tempted? Click The Craigslist Murders

Cute, right? These were the words painted on the decorative white water rescue buoy that was stripped off Madoff’s Montauk fishing boat. The estimate listed in the catalogue for the the US Marshall Service: National Forfeited Jewelry Auction on Saturday at the Sheraton was $140.00-$160.00. It went for $7500.00. Bernie must have thought it was pretty funny, that little play on words. Which is why what I really wished might happen as I sat there in the ballroom watching the last of his worldly (and not so worldly) possessions disappear into the hands of the curious, the bargain hunting, and the celebrity-obsessed was this: I wished that Bernie himself had shuffled onstage in his manacles and new prison duds and been forced to sit there as every little reminder of his freedom fell under the gavel.
“You tell me, boys. Where we gonna go? Do I hear $500, $600.? I see a $1,000.” shouted the Texan auctioneer as his male helpers walked up and down the aisles hootin’ and hollerin’ like bronco riders at a rodeo. “Don’t be shy, folks. Show us who you are!” Far from the faux Oxbridge accents at Christies and Sotheby’s, the speedy patter also seemed like something straight from a cattle or tobacco auction. And so it went…

Three freshly laundered, Ralph Lauren white crew neck shirts with “Bull” emblazoned on the chest ($1300.), twelve pairs of ‘gents’ (some fucking gent!) cuff links, the stationary and pile of Post-Its, the 4 black plastic pens made in Taiwan w/logo ($2500.00)….And the watches. What the fuck is it with rich men and their watches? There must have been at least 35 Breitling, Hublot Classic, and Piagets. I wonder if Bernie would have squirmed in his seat when a photo of lot #237, his Rolex “monoblanco” chronograph “Prisoner” watch, popped up on the screen to the sound of muted laughter? (It went for $65,000.) Or how bout the tacky lithographs of seascapes and the duck decoys? (Estimate: $60-80. Sold for $3,250.00)

Then when we reached the lady’s items, the purses and alligator belts, the wallets (one of which still had seven Ella Fitzgerald stamps neatly folded inside it), I wished that Ruth had made a surprise appearance. Ruth who seems to have headed into heavy hiding with her paltry 2 million after news of Bernie’s cocaine, North Pole, days at the office, not to mention the mistress and hookers. They could have sat up there, squirming together, in one final excruciating moment as their life passed before their eyes in the form of everything from dog bowls and dishes, to picnic glasses, china plates, and furs.Oh my! The furs.

“All that money and no taste,” whispered an elderly black woman behind me. She was dressed in her Sunday, church-going best. The Palestinian Israeli next to me chuckled. “What I like about being here,” he said. “is it proves you can’t take it with you.” He’d come in from Brooklyn to bid on Bernie’s Hofstra college ring. On my way out, I eavesdropped on a banker in the lobby. He was being interviewed for Channel 1. Dressed in an impeccable blue pin-striped suit (Brioni,” he said) and shooting his snow-white cuffs with tiny gold studs, he preened in front of the cameras. “I”m here to watch history being made,” he said. “Financial history. Madoff will end up has infamous as Hitler.” I wanted to ask him how much he was taking home for this year’s Christmas bonus.