PRINCE POPPYCOCK

The graphics are a significant upgrade from the Prince of Persia that was on the Apple computer, but they are not amazing. Players will experience the game on a two dimensional environment (ala Castlevania). You will encounter a myriad of trapped doors, hazardous spikes, and deadly blades. Jumping from platform to platform makes up a great deal of the gameplay (too much for my taste)

IT'S ALIVE!

Murder in Vein, the first book in my new Fang-In-Cheek mystery series, is now LIVE on Amazon and BN.com – nearly 4 weeks early! This means it should reach brick and mortar stores in the next few weeks.

Hard Cover Edition Update - Murder In Vein is also coming out in a limited hard cover edition! A first for me and for Midnight Ink! For those of you who would like the hard cover edition, it will be out sometime in September and will cost about $24.95. There will only be 500 printed, and for starters it will only be available through mystery book stores and some other independent book stores, so you may have to order it to make sure you get your copy. Because of the limited amount of copies, we cannot guarantee that hard cover copies will be available at all of my signings.

Signed Copies - If you would like a signed copy of the hard cover edition of Murder In Vein, you might try The Mystery Book Store in Los Angeles. Since they will be hosting the launch of Murder In Vein on September 18th at 5:00 p.m., I am sure they would be happy to take orders for signed copies of the hard cover edition, or signed copies of the trade paper edition.

WOW! What a ride!
For those of you who don’t know the story behind this book, just a short year ago Murder in Vein was just an idea in the back of my brain. Something I hadn’t even discussed with my agent yet. And now look … it’s a book! My initial contracts are for 3 books in this darkly funny mystery series. I am currently half way through book 2 in the series.

A big shout out to my agent, Whitney Lee, who recognized the potential of my different spin on the vampire genre, to Terri Bischoff, who was determined to obtain this series for Midnight Ink, and to Midnight Ink/Llewellyn Worldwide for fast-tracking production.

Shortly after the ink was dry on the contracts, Terri called me and asked if I could deliver the manuscript in two months, instead of the nine months stated in the contract. I nearly had a heart attack. After all, I have a day job! She outlined Llewellyn’s reasons for the change and let me digest it for about 30 seconds. It made sense from a marketing and sales standpoint, but could I do it? Not one to back down from a challenge, I took a deep breath and said YES. In the words of the elegant Tim Gunn, I would just have to “make it work.” And I did, working like a mad woman every minute I wasn’t at my office, giving up holidays, parties and relaxation to get Murder In Vein on the page.

And now it’s an undead book!

Little Girl - WOW!

As you all know, I love TV. But of all the shows I watch, my guilty pleasure is America’s Got Talent. Really. I watch it. Every sappy, scary, embarrassing moment.

I wallow in joy watching people following their dream, whatever it may be, just as I follow mine of being a novelist. I don’t watch American Idol at all. I prefer America’s Got Talent. Yes, it’s cheesier and more bizarre in its range of contestants, but it also has more variety in acts and ages. It’s not just about young people trying to be the next big singing sensation. It’s personifies what I believe and preach: That dreams can be pursued at any age and from any circumstance.

Last night was You Tube night. All twelve acts came from video entries on You Tube rather than through the normal audition process. Four of them will move on to the finals with the other traditionally chosen finalists. For these four acts, it’s like finding the Golden Ticket in a Wonka Bar. Of the twelve acts, one stood out – way out – for me: Jackie Evancho.

WOW! WOW! WOW!

Jackie Evancho is a ten-year-old opera singer. Yes – 10! And she sounds like a thirty-year-old seasoned Met performer. She has to be heard to be believed. At the end of her performance I was a teary mess. She’s THAT good.

Every season I am blown away by several acts and cheer them on, hoping they make it to the end. I loved all of the finalist last season, but my favorites, Barbara Padilla and Lawrence Beeman, didn’t bring home the prize. Some of my favs for this year are Prince Poppycock, Arc Attack, Murray, and Haspop. There are some great pop signers in the finalist line up, too.

But after last night, I’m Jackie Evancho all the way to the end.

Jackie Evancho isn't a star in the making - she's already a star.

Ya Little Maggot!

What do you see when you look at this picture?


When I look at that picture, this is what I see.



I do not see the blossoming young woman, I see my little girl. And I guess that's why I tend to overreact at times...like last night. Scene Girl's “boyfriend” (the boy makes me gag, just so ya know) was over and the two of them were sitting on the front steps talking...or so I thought. I'm no dummy, so I made sure Video Boy was keeping a keen eye on his big sister. Well, a few minutes later Video boy runs inside giving me the “Oh! Oh! Oh!” dance, with his sister hot on his tail, tears running down her cheeks. At this point I'm freaking out. The “boyfriend” is gone. Video Boy has no idea what happened.

Finally, Scene Girl emerges from her room, still crying and holding her neck. She throws herself into my arms, babbling about how “she thought he was just going to kiss her. And she didn't know what he was doing. Blah. Blah. Blah.” She then proceeds to move her hand away from her neck to reveal a giant hickey.

I always saw myself as a cool mom. A happening mom. An understanding mom. Nope. Last night, I was MY mom. I flipped out all kinds of ways. I yelled. I screamed. I cried. I totally overreacted. I saw myself at her age. I Remembered every stupid mistake I had ever made with a boy. I remembered the pressure that comes from liking a boy so much that your body aches. And I remembered being on the threshold...no longer a little girl, and not yet a woman. It's difficult It can be heartbreaking when you want a boy to like you so much. I've lost my religion many a time over some dumb ass boy.

I never wanted her to make my mistakes. And I handled it wrong.

What happened to the endless talks about sex and self-respect? Did it all fall on deaf ears? Had she not witnessed one of her best friends be labeled because of her behavior? Did she forget about her 14-year-old friend and her new bouncing baby boy? Frustrated does not begin to describe how I felt.

I took her cell phone. I sent her to room for the night. No music. No TV. I wanted her to be alone with her thoughts. To realize what that kind of behavior can lead to. A few hours later she came out of her room and climbed up into my lap and asked me if I thought what had happened made her a slut and my heart crumbled into a million little pieces. So young and so confused. I wouldn't trade places with her for nothing in the world. I know all I can do is reassure her that my love for her is unconditional. And be here to support her and help her to understand what her mind and body is going through.

But, man, this entire thing would be so much easier if she looked like a Troll doll:)

Come On Down

Next weekend I will be speaking at the Julian Library. This is a very exciting and important event for me. You see, Ghost à la Mode, the first Ghost of Granny Apples mystery, takes place in Julian. In fact, Granny herself hails from the small historical town in the mountains north of San Diego.

If you live in Southern California, Julian is a fun place for a relaxing weekend or even a day trip. So why not come on down Saturday, August 21, and visit me at the Julian Library. I'll be on deck at 1:00 pm. And you'll be able to visit all of the sites mentioned in Ghost à la Mode. I might even be talked into giving an impromptu walking tour. Just let me slip on my comfy shoes.

What's more, this will be the very first public outing of MURDER IN VEIN, my new vampire mystery. The library and I have been assured by my publisher that copies of the book will be available for next Saturday's event (sorry - trade paper edition only, hard cover edition isn't out yet).

Ghosts AND vampires - How fun is that gonna be!

For more photos of Julian, check out my Julian photo album on my Facebook page.


Step Into an Enchanted World


When the presents are all opened and the leftovers packed away, one special memory this Christmas will be the joy of having seen the film of the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. (Fans of the old Houston Christmas Pageant, there is a Christmas balm in Narnia.)

It was spectacular! Rather than analyze it from some theological, philosophical, cinematic or other serious, thoughtful perspective, I write as one swept up in the magic. What a great movie. I haven't liked a movie more in years . . . on second thought, ever, including the also spectacular Lord of the Rings trilogy. (Tolkien was instumental in the conversion and writings of the once-atheist Lewis. Click here and here.)

I sat between my seven-year-old daughter (who finished the 4th-grade book just before we left) and my four-year-old son. Sure, that affected my take on it. But given the books were expressly written for children, their influence is welcome. And they both liked the movie, without being scared by the creatures, although some were nearly as scary as a few in the LOR trilogy (which the kids won't be seeing any time soon--our bed only sleeps two). We watched the BBC version in October. I found it something 'less' than spectacular.

On a more serious note, like the book, the movie does for a modern audience or fantasy reader what the Old Testament--the Old Covenant, the law, the sacrificial system--did for the Hebrew people, and likewise, for all sons of Adam. That is, the movie builds a mental framework upon which to hang the gospel story. It isn't so much that the movie shares the gospel--it does not. But it invites you into a world where the gospel story makes sense. This is a critical task, by the way, though not one you will often hear preachers discuss. Actors and writers understand it, as do literature professors, like Clive Staples. People can't accept the gospel when they are still asking questions like one I read in a British paper's review of the movie "Why did he die for me? I never asked anyone to die for me?" But that is exactly the point of Lewis's story. Lewis isn't talking about you and Jesus. I know it looks that way, like he's preaching or something. But Lewis is spinning a yarn about a bunch of kids in England. Remember? There is no Aslan, no Narnia. It's just a story. But the story has tremendous power if you'll let it get into you.

This is, of course, the power of stories. They get into you. They reroute your mind, like wagon wheels in the prairie--every story creates paths, ruts. This one makes a path that can completely change the course of your life--if you follow it.

If you're a humanist, athiest, whatever, never really understood about the gospel story--check out the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. Sure, the book is better because it takes a bit more time to address the crucial issues of the 'deeper magic' that control the actions of Aslan and the Witch. But the movie succeeds in all the ways a movie can. (By the way, see Christianity Today for a set of articles on the movie. Roger Ebert speaks very highly of the film, contrasting the film positively in relation to both the LOR and Harry Potter. Some will find Movieguide a good source for an unusally "left-brain," strictly moral review of all films--but they loved it.)

I'd also like to address concerns once raised by the most popular man not presently owning internet real estate, SPLOOSH: a year ago the savvy actor cried me a river about Disney's obtaining the rights to Narnia. He said they'd destroy all that makes Narnia special. And his comments were not unwarranted, given their commercialization and superficial treatment of other works. And as I understand it, the man naming himself for the sound of--what is it, death on the Marathon game?--was not alone in his concerns. I think (remind me, someone?) there were many people complaining and begging Disney to get it right this time. What effect protestors may have had is unknown; more important may be the huge amount of money Gibson's PASSION movie made. Money talks and Disney has managed not to waste theirs on Narnia--they'll make a mint this Christmas. And many will be brought closer to the kingsom as a result. In Narnia parlance, Aslan is on the move. (Oh, the power and awe in that phrase. What a great show!) I should further note that it is Walden Pictures, arguably a more family-friendly studio, that has the final say on the details--not Disney.

(By the way, Lewis was against a movie of his books--but that was fifty years ago. Special effects have progressed a bit.)

Finally, one of Lewis's biggest fans is an English professor at Houston Baptist University. I sat in on a class, but had graduated just before the arrival of Dr. Louis Markos. He's a wonderful teacher and has written what ought to become a big seller in the next few months, a readable, but intellectual treatment of the life and work of Jack Lewis. Friday's Houston Chronicle cited Dr. Markos in an interesting article, including his analysis of the symbolic nature of each of the Pevensie children.

Oh--and here's one SPOILER: the oompa loompa dies. :-)

That Rhymes and that Stands for Pool

"Mr. Wales, it seems we must take back that job offer we extended last week."
"Why?"
"We've had a policy change since that time." The lady digs through a stack of papers, looking for something.
"A policy change?"
"Yes. It's your criminal record, Mr. Wales."
"What criminal record?"
"It seems you have had a speeding ticket."

And with that, the Katy ISD is now closed to me. What job was I denied? School bus driver? Handicapped bus driver? Riding mower operator? No. I wanted to work as a substitute teacher.
I am a civil defense attorney and have had time on my hands lately due to tort reform. And with two children in the Katy ISD, I thought I might educate myself about the district from the inside.

And it's not as if I were unprepared for the classroom. Before law school I spent an entire year substitute teaching in a Houston-area school district. Then I became a full-time teacher and taught 12th-grade English for seven years in another local district. In addition to Who's Who books for college and graduate students, my name is listed in Who's Who Among Teachers for three different years. I know something about education. I've published works in various scholarly journals, and know something about research and writing. Further, I have coached various UIL activities and worked extensively with youth and parents in several churches. I have always had a good rapport with teenagers and thought it might be fun to get back into the classroom for a while. I would enjoy making teachers' absences something more than a total loss. And, though it may seem otherwise, students appreciate a good substitute. But, darn that life of crime.

Of course, there is only one ticket on my record, after driving over 40,000 miles this year. Nor is a speeding ticket proof of guilt; it's merely an allegation. I'll soon take defensive driving and even the allegation will disappear. But it makes no difference to Katy ISD.

What if I had applied to teach in a full-time capacity? The policy applies to teaching applicants as well. But why? Is the district tired of being inundated by qualified job applicants? Do they just hope to shrink the pool? Or do they actually consider a minor traffic violation proof of some sort of moral insufficiency? I have seen a student body buzz with discussion of two teachers living together. And then there was the newly-divorced teacher who seduced the spouse of another teacher, and the administrator who left his wife for the volleyball coach. Were any of these faculty members even questioned? No, but then--such things, regardless of their potential impact on students, are legal. I broke the law--or rather, it is alleged that I broke it.

But in my defense, I'm a Sunday school teacher and a deacon. I've been with the same lovely lady for 20 years. I am a certified teacher, a licensed attorney, a parent and Katy tax payer (see my bill for $1,500 this month!). I have never been arrested or charged with anything worse than speeding, not even as a minor. In fact, I am such a "straight arrow" all my friends make fun of me. But to the bureaucratic eyes of Katy I.S.D. (insiders had told me it was going downhill fast) I am already guilty. If the district had complained about a DWI--now that, I could understand. But I don't even drink. Yet, I am not qualified to work in the district because of a speeding ticket.

And people wonder why Johnny Can't Read.

Please post any comments here.

American Idol Wins Gold During Sweeps Month

American Idol beat coverage of the Olympics almost two-to-one? How can that be?

American Idol is better television, that's how. I have friends who look down their noses at the show--friends who can't sing, of course, and have never auditioned for anything. But what they seem to be mocking is the show's tame, family-friendly nature. Of course, that a show lacks a shooting, a surgery, or an autopsy does not necessarily make it bad. In fact, American Idol is the absolute, bona fide king of television, a collossus no other show can touch. And though I've watched them all, Idol is the only reality television that I like (or consider anywhere near reality). Here's why:

1. The people are real and the focus of the show is the contestants (as opposed to coverage of the Olympics which has become a showcase for broadcasters and political speeches not unlike an awards show--however, with regard to this first point, the Olympics is a probably a close second.)
2. The show is about singing--and at some point during the show everyone who watches will hear at least one or two songs that they like. (And they'll be well done, now that the auditions are over.)
3. The audition shows are great because everyone loves to hear someone else sing flat--I mean, it makes you realize that you can at least tell when they're flat, right? And apparently they can't? Somehow, that just feels good to people. (Although it's painful at times.)
4. Everyone loves to hear someone sing well, too. Especially the people who have worked hard and who keep on working hard.
4. People love to try to predict the judges' comments.
5. Not everyone has skiied, or "curled," but we've all tried to sing. You can relate.
6. We know what we like in a singer, and what we don't--people who may know very little about music still know what they like. Similarly, we are no longer a nation of readers. We're watchers of tv, and increasingly, obsessive listeners. Music fills way too much of our time and attention--but we have developed a ravenous taste for it.
7. The show always has two or three surprises: people who have a sound that actually is unique (it is such a cliche). Idol has had many, but a few have been cut so early, I can't remember them. The best examples may be Fantasia Barrino, Clay Aiken (not just another Barry Manilow--the guy has pipes!--though no one has heard them since the season ended; all his recordings are dull compared to what he is capable of), and at least two unique voices this year that I am excited about, one an energetic rocker, the other Alabama's answer to the marriage of Joe Cocker and Ray Charles.
Given the quality and variety of singers this season, I would not expect the Idol to topple any time soon.

Thoughts on Fatherhood.

Dennis waxed poetic, so I thought I would indulge. These are my thoughts on someone who for me will always be larger than life.

Few of my friends' dads were both as feared and loved as ours--kind of like a drill sergeant. (They called him "Clint," after the Dirty Harry movies--and not just for the once - obvious physical resemblance.) None of the kids in the neighborhood liked to annoy him, but sometimes they would risk it to get his positive feedback.

I think they knew he took a genuine interest in them. He was no Mister Rogers, of course, not someone kids would flock to. He was just there, working in the yard or making something, or whatever, but available and always ready with encyclopedic knowledge on every subject any kid could come up with:

"What was it like when you were gassed in the Army and your mask didn't work?"
"Aw, it was somethin,' I tell you what . . . [eleven minutes later] now, the Germans first used chlorine gas during World War I, but you could smell it. But mustard gas is odorless...."

"What was it like jumping out of airplanes in the Army?"
"Aw, it was somethin'. . . [nine minutes later] now you see, the Bernouli Effect is what happens when air is forced around a curved object. And the wing of a plane is flat on the bottom but its curved on the top. Look at this radio-controlled model I just made out of balsa wood. See that curve? Now when the air is forced around that curve, it speeds up on the top side of the wing--but the air on the bottom doesn't speed up--and the difference creates lift... Now your balsa is one of your lightest woods..."

"What was it like riding a bull?"
"Aw, it was somethin' else, I tell you what . . . . [thirteen minutes later] now, Braimers' were never much for beef. But they've been bred to other breeds to help them resist disease. The Santa Gertrudis, for example, is three-eighths Braimer' and five-eighths shorthorn. And the Brangus is three-fourths Braimer' and one-fourth Angus. Then there's the Charbray, which is three-eighths Braimer' and five-eighths Charolais, if I remember correctly...."

But he saved the best lessons for his own children . . .

"Well, sound travels at a rate of 1100 feet per second. And there are 5,286 feet in a mile. Now light travels amazingly faster--do you remember the speed of light?"
"Ummm....one buhzillion miles an hour?"
Then he slaps his forehead and grimaces, nodding side to side slightly. "Well, now there's no such thing as 'buhzillion.' Light travels at a rate of a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second--or 700 million miles an hour. Now, that's fast, huh?"
"Maybe. But Han Solo has warp speed. That's way faster."
"Hun Who?"

"Now, I don't know a thing about music, junior. But middle C is the name musicians give to a sound with a wave amplitude that measures 256 Hertz. And the frequency doubles with each octave. So the next C up is 512 Hertz, and the one below middle C is half the frequency of middle C, or 128 Hertz. Now, if you could draw the wave pattern of the different Cs at the different frequencies or Hertz, the distance, you see, between the sign and the cosign would always operate on a ratio of 2:1, with the number of Hertz at the peak of the wave being...."
"Daddy, my rubber ducky makes waves when I throw him in the water. Watch."

"Come here, son. Stand right here. Listen to this song on the reel-to-reel."
"Okay."
"There. You hear that? That's the magic of stereophonic sound. The analog tape is magnetized in such a way that the signals for some instruments go to the left speaker, and some go to the right. The tape is polarized, see. Acoustics is just so interesting. Isn't it incredible?"
"Yes. Now can I go ride my bigwheel?"

"Well, now you've got to understand the difference between volts and watts. One measures current, the other is a unit of work. And it takes 1,000 watts to make a kilowatt. And a kilowatt hour, then, you see.... Now, when the power leaves the generating plant, they raise the voltage up thousands of times so that it can travel more efficiently. But then it has to be reduced at the transformer before it comes into the house. Can you imagine what would happen if your house ran on 50,000 volts?"
"Ummm. It would be like an atom bomb and blow up the whole state of Texas, maybe?"
"Well, no. It wouldn't be like an atom bomb. Now, son, stop pedaling the tricycle for a second. Listen. An atom bomb is not electrical. I mean, it works off an electrical switch, of course. But the bomb itself is based on nuclear fission. Think of it this way: you remember last week, we were talking about the nucleus of an atom, right? Remember, how there are electrons and protons and they float around the center? And some are positively charged, and some are negatively charged? Like the parts of the mobile above your crib?"
"Yeah, all the moving parts of the mobile, Daddy. I remember. I like my mobile."
"Right. Well, an atom bomb is like that."
"Daddy, if my crib blows up like an atom bomb, can I sleep with you and Mama?"

All kidding aside, never was a father's brain more tightly packed with sophisticated information about the way the world works--and never was a father any better at sharing it with his kids. I always liked his approach: share a little more than they are ready to absorb, and on a level a little higher than they are ready to hear. I'm sure I missed plenty, but I appreciated the fact that I was expected to understand, and spoken to as though I were just another grown-up.

On this subject, I think I learned more from him than I did in any school on the subjects of physics, history, politics, capitalism, education, media literacy (a term he'd never use!) and life in general. More importantly, the teaching of our parents prepared us to interpret the divergent worldviews we would encounter in college. Judging by the struggles of almost all of my peers at HBU--when faced with so-called 'higher criticism' of the Biblical text, for example, I think it was the confident and intelligent, thoughtful faith of my parents that made the difference.

But more important than all of that is the way he has lived his life. His integrity is unimpeachable. I don't think anything ever mattered more in our home than honesty. Complete honesty. And I recommend the same--it has an impact on so many other areas. (Teenagers, for example, will rebel. But teens who perceive their parents as dishonest or hypocrites will rebel in spades. No age group is more sensitive to a snowjob, and none more likely to sniff it out.)

But my parents are honest. And when hard (really hard) questions were raised in later years, whether they concerned society, or our local church, or whatever, it was my knowledge of my parents' integrity that kept me going, not their answers. Nineteen-year-old know-it-alls can dismiss pat answers. But when you have examined your parents and are certain of their complete trustworthiness--I'm talking about absolute, total honesty, not just the "mostly honest" of the guy down the street--then nothing they say can be dismissed as a 'pat' answer. If I brought them a question, I knew the answer was the truth, just as if Jesus had walked in and posed the question Himself. I honestly do not know another man about whom I can say that.

Finally, I admire my Dad for a number of reasons: He never cared about material things. He keeps the financial house in order. He's patient. He never oversleeps. Both he and my mom are never, ever late for anything. He has literally never spoken a cuss word in my hearing (nor I in his!). He reads the paper cover-to-cover every day, and reads the Bible through every year (and did both before retiring). He never stops reading books. He always had time for us. He could fix anything and make anything (including a working flint-lock rifle, a set of flint-lock pistols--or whatever they're called--and a huge Bowie knife. Boys love that stuff). He is shrewd but never cynical. He believes in swift justice and hanging murderers and pedofiles. But he knows God can change lives. He does his own taxes. He never drinks and never missed it. He remembers his whole life--and can repeat it in a thousand great stories, each of them seasoned with bits of historical and scientific trivia.

And he never backed down from a fight.

Following the oft-repeated 'Clint' reference, I spent years scanning movies for something more apt. My friend Scott compared him to Gary Cooper's iconoclastic character in The Fountainhead film. (Scott also said that given Daddy's Louisiana accent, listening to him talk was like listening to a very intellectual Foghorn Leghorn.)

Then when I saw Mel Gibson's The Patriot, I thought there is a movie that captures my dad. Here was an articulate, thoughtful man, willing to disagree with the leaders of the community. He loves his family and wants to protect them. But when the English capture his eldest son and take him away to be hanged, Dad grabs three rifles and sets up an ambush. He rescues his son by singledhandedly killing a dozen or more soldiers, in the end reduced to hacking at them with a tomahawk, finally so overcome with passion he just keeps hacking on the last one until his son stops him. When Dad looks up, he is covered in blood.

As he would say, "it's a safe bet" my dad's never gone that far. But there were threats leveled against me as a kid. Most were empty, perhaps. But when they weren't I can't tell you how great it felt to know I had a dad that would take on all comers. In this world of emasculated, passive men, where feminism and liberalism have left most too conflicted to be gentlemen and too selfish to defend their family against anything but physical harm, it is great to know those who coudn't care less about "that silly feminist hogwash."

He was absolutely undaunted for example, by the man who told me and Dennis (ages 6 and 4) that he was going to break both our legs. This man chose me for his pet scapegoat. If money was missing from a piggy bank, then that 8-year-old delinquent must have snuck in during the night and stolen it. (Yes, he literally accused me.) If something was broken, it must have been little Steven the devil-child. This grown man considered it his duty to constantly remind the second-grader next door that he would be spending his whole life behind bars and would never be president or an astronaut or a lawyer or doctor or anything else. Then there was the time he literally picked me up by the hair so he could look me in the eyes and tell me not to throw grass clippings. When it was appropriate, Daddy and the man "had words." I did my best to watch from the bushes. (I'd give anything for a tape of those conversations.) When a confrontation could be avoided, my parents taught me how to handle criticism. They taught me not to internalize it. They taught me that sometimes, it really was not my fault. They kept reminding me, convincing me that I was a good kid. As John Eldredge would say, they taught me that I "had what it takes." I would not trade those lessons for a nicer neighbor, not on your life.

And for a kid and his parents to do battle together against a common enemy, whether it's a neighbor, or math, or an illness or a learning disability, or whatever--what better way could there be to forge a powerful bond as allies, not adversaries? I suspect one of the reasons I so easily internalized so many of my parents' beliefs and values is that these struggles left me absolutely convinced we really were on the same team. Oh, I rebelled--in a thousand overt ways. But there were several lines I would not cross, lines many parents can only dream of. I also worked through my 'rebellious phase' much earlier than most. By high school graduation, I had decided my parents were wiser and better allies than most of my peers. And I think a part of it may have been the way they fought for me and alongside me during so many difficult childhood battles. It's easy to leave long division to the teacher, for example, and tell yourself they'll catch on soon enough, what difference does it make. But it does make a difference.

Still, as a child the constant criticism was hard sometimes, not because it had any basis in reality, but because I seemed to be in trouble all the time. At school, teachers complained about all sorts of things. The principal and I knew each other far too well. She wanted me on Ritalin. I ended up on a special diet. And I meant well, but seemed to always be doing the wrong things. There would be moments of brilliance--one great school project a year, maybe--then months of failures. But what stands out when I look back are not the struggles but the rescues. I will never forget the way I was defended.

My parents expected a lot from us. But sometimes when I explained what happened, Daddy would look at me--and he knew I would not lie to him--and I would see a twinkle in his eye. I never knew what that was. Did he understand? Had he been there, too? Could it be that deep down, even though what I did was bad, he understood why a boy would want to do it? Without ever really telling me, I always knew he understood. Even when he took the belt off. Somehow, I knew that he knew what it was like. (And I believed him when he said, "this is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.")

But when I was falsely accused, and falsely punished or unfairly treated in some significant way, it may have hurt. But for most of those occasions all I really remember is being defended. All I remember is my hero. And in a case like that, the pain is worth it because without it, you would have never seen the passion of your defender.

"The Glory of Sons is their fathers." Proverbs 17:6.
--Boy, am I blessed.

Happy 71st! You deserve it.

Im Going To Disney World


And you thought they only had kiddie rides at Disney World! Looks like they might have something mama could ride, too!
Sheeving!

Stop! Filming Me!

Back by popular demand, the trio of Bill Fitzhugh, Laura Levine and I will be reprising our dog and pony show: Stop! You’re Killing Me! An evening with L.A.’s funniest mystery authors.

The three of us have appeared on panels at several libraries now and we're going to keep doing it until we get it right. That's all there is to it

But this time it's not a dress rehearsal. This time it's going to be filmed for public access TV, channel 22.

So put on your best I wanna be on TV smile and come on down!

Thursday, August 13, 2009
7:00 p.m.

Wiseburn Library
5335 W. 135th St.
Hawthorne, CA 90250-4948

Tough Love


I'm dishing out TOUGH LOVE for new and aspiring writers over at Inkspot today. Drop on by!

Home Sweet Home


No matter where I travel to, it's always good to return home. Arrived back late last night and spent almost two hours digging through piled up e-mails and assuring the cats I was home to stay... at least for a month. This was the first trip I've taken in years where I didn't check my e-mail once! It was quite liberating. The AlphaSmart performed like a champ and I got lots of writing done. Will report more on my journey south tomorrow.

Meanwhile, back at the law firm ... it's cloudy and chilly here in LA with a smattering of rain, but we were rewarded with not one but two rainbows this afternoon. The photo above was taken with my cell phone from my very own office windows.

Imitation of a Takedown


When it comes to Internet squabbles, the Siren has been on the wagon for a while, give or take an occasional flare-up.

And then she comes across something like this, where the inimitable Jeffrey Wells does a "respectful takedown" of Douglas Sirk using, of all things, the director's masterpiece, Imitation of Life.

Now the proper thing to do is make like Clark Gable: "I apologize again for my shortcomings," and for being a "film dweeb" who appreciates Douglas Sirk.

Then again, screw propriety, when someone is waving a bloody-fire-engine-red cape like this in my face.


Sirk is generally regarded as a pantheon-level guy because the film dweebs have been telling us for years that the dreadfully banal soap-opera acting, grandiose emotionalism and conservative suburban milieus in his films are all of an operatic pitch-perfect piece and are meant as ironic social criticism. (Or something like that.)...


Now why, I wonder, have people been doing that? Just to irritate Wells? Come on Glenn, fess up. You too, Filmbrain.

Wells illustrates his post with a scene from Imitation of Life. Trouble is, the scene is enthralling, and it isn't even a high point of the movie. It's a relatively simple sequence wherein ultra-blonde Susie (Sandra Dee) finds out that mixed-race Sarah Jane (Susan Kohner) is seeing a white boy in the town. Wells says this is bad acting. The Siren raises the point, once again, that there are different styles of acting that are appropriate to different movies. Sirk films work with artificiality; they show how people play roles. Kohner is just beginning to grasp the power of her beauty. Watch her take off her shirtwaist almost like the stripper she will later become, turning to give Dee a good look and sashaying over to the bed as if to say, "I'm better-looking than you, white girl, and I always have been." See the flick of hatred, rising up and quickly suppressed, as Sarah Jane looks at her privileged friend. And look at Susie's clueless reaction to Sarah Jane's secret, the hasty way she tries to cover up her gaffe about the "colored boy," the platitudes she mouths while knowing on some level that Sarah Jane has a point. There's nothing wrong with the acting; it isn't naturalistic, and nor should it be. It's perfectly in keeping with the style and themes of the movie.

And the visuals--how in the name of Lana Turner's hair dye can anyone who loves movies not love the visuals? The angle through the railings as Dee knocks on Kohner's door. The shot through the window of Kohner hiding from her mother. Kohner taking off her dress. The impeccable framing. The way the conversation is blocked, the camera moving at just the right moments and the two girls positioned in just the right way to convey their relationship.

Mr. Wells flatters himself when he styles this as a takedown. Rather, it is the lament of a schoolboy--a dweeb, if you will--forced to watch icky girl stuff instead of the manly men doing manly things in manly ways who form the proper study of all serious critics. Sirk's subject matter, it seems, is a large part of the rap against him:


Sirk was mostly dismissed by critics of the '50s and early '60s for making films that were no more and no less than what they seemed to be -- i.e., emotionally dreary, visually lush melodramas about repressed women suffering greatly through crises of the heart as they struggled to maintain tidy, ultra-proper appearances.


Four assumptions lurk here. One, that contemporary critics are a good yardstick by which to measure a film's worth. Because if you want to know how time is gonna judge a director, the first place to look is Bosley Crowther. Second, that the sufferings of tidy, proper women are somehow a lousy subject for a filmmaker. Surely this argument was put out of its misery by Virginia Woolf all the way back in 1929. Three, that "visually lush" is a negligible quality. The Siren has nothing to say to that; it's on the level of the Emperor complaining to Mozart about "too many notes." Four, that there is nothing below the visually lush surface of a Sirk film. That is the shakiest assertion by far.

You see, when we film snobs have the secret clubhouse meetings wherein we plot ways to force people to watch movies about boring girls and their poky old mothers, we come armed with the words of Douglas Sirk, who gave some long interviews late in life after he went blind, a fate he bore patiently. And in those interviews he shows, repeatedly, that he knew precisely what he was doing:


The stories that I got were, without exception, very trite, without any element of life to them. But still the content of the trite novel could be vivified--you could wake it up--you could put something into it.


It isn't particularly difficult to grasp what is going on in a Sirk movie. Just because there is depth to the movie doesn't mean you need the secret decoder ring they hand out in film studies to find it. In fact, the Siren could introduce Mr. Wells to a whole flock of people who get teary over this movie; it still plays to the emotions, if you watch it with an open mind. Imitation of Life is a shattering statement on American attitudes about race, about working women and their relationships with their children, about how children and mothers are often fated to bring one another agony. It's all right there on screen. You just have to get past the fact that the movie is done in a style that has disappeared--much to our loss, I'd say.

As the Siren has always said, the only rule at her own place is "No dissing Citizen Kane." Some of her commenters dislike Sirk. And (here the Siren adopts her Stuart Smalley voice) that's okay. But please, Mr. Wells, don't try to make your case by pretending a filmmaker was all surface, when even a cursory glance at the films and the words of the filmmaker shows otherwise. Most of all, please don't insult those of us who do like him.

And now I really need that ice pack.


The Siren has just one link today, to a piece by Kim Morgan about her stint at the Arthur Lyons Film Noir Festival. This year Kim presented, among other things, He Ran All the Way, the final film of the great John Garfield, and spoke with Garfield's fabulous daughter Julie. The Siren shares Kim's evangelical fervor on the subject of Garfield's greatness, and since Kim admits to repeating herself on the topic, the Siren will too: Garfield is the actor who truly divides it all into Before and After.

And the Siren echos Kim's question: Where's HIS damn box set?

In small tribute, a brief, piercing passage from Hildegard Knef, the actress who spent some of Garfield's last hours on earth with him.


Garfield's deep-set eyes over the flame of a match.

'How long are you staying?' (he asks).

'I'm flying to Germany in the morning.'

'I'd like to go along! I don't have a passport.'

'To Germany?'

'You still got a lot of Nazis? I'm a Jew.'

'Don't know, they're quiet for the moment.'

'Ours are deafening. It evens things out.'


The Siren has long had a mutual admiration society going with Dennis Cozzalio of the most excellent Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule, despite such obstacles as living on opposite coasts and the Siren's lack of affinity for, well, you know. But even though we reside in a Web world when it's easy to ignite a blog war over, say, whether a movie about a weedy-looking twentysomething vanquishing exes is too hip for the room, or whether a movie about dreams should include nekkid people, Dennis and I find our differences amusing and stimulating and always have. We're also very similar in ways that count.

Some time ago he came up with the idea of talking to one another via Skype about movies and blogging and (reckless soul) he volunteered to transcribe it. Part I of our epic yakfest is up at his blog, covering, as his title promises, origins, childhood visions, writing philosophy and the Beetlejuice of film bloggers. Part II is due later this week.


As she's mentioned approximately 1,348 times in various social media, the Siren is off to Paris today for a visit with the in-laws. The Siren hates air travel--how heretical of her--but comforts herself with the notion that she could have in-laws in, say, Phenix City, Ala., a town where her father used to try cases and come back muttering that the movie flattered the place. (The Siren hastens to add for any readers in Phenix City that this was 25 years ago and Daddy may have missed the renaissance.)

The Siren always tries to do some shopping in Paris, however small, so here is a small anecdote regarding the perils of that pastime, from Billy Wilder in Hollywood by Maurice Zolotow.

Much of Love in the Afternoon was filmed on location in Paris. While Billy was over there, Audrey [Wilder] suddenly got the most irresistible craving for...a bidet! She had to have a bidet. She could not live without her very own bidet in the master bedroom. She cabled Billy to purchase a bidet and ship it to their Westwood apartment. Unable to locate a French plumbing supply firm which exported bidets, Wilder replied: IMPOSSIBLE TO OBTAIN BIDET STOP SUGGEST YOU DO HANDSTANDS IN SHOWER.


Over at Awards Daily, there is a poll about the Most Influential Film Critics. What struck the Siren about this poll is that there are only about a half-dozen, give or take, critics on the list whose good opinion is enough to get her watching. She won't tell you who they are, with two exceptions. Obviously the Siren's TCM tovarich Lou Lumenick carries much weight with her.

And then there is Glenn Kenny, the only critic named for an individual blog. The Siren suggests you go over and take the poll for the sake of voting for Glenn. The honor of the blogosphere compels you.

The poll, of course, is looking at which critics carry weight with the largest number of people (and in Oscar balloting, which to the Siren is like Kremlinology, only less transparent). But applying it to your own reading is an interesting exercise, and it made the Siren realize most of the critics left off the poll who wield substantial influence over her are either Web-based or have a large Web presence. Her own list would include (but is by no means limited to) Kim Morgan, Dennis Cozzalio, David Cairns, Dan Callahan, Peter Nelhaus, Tony Dayoub, Vadim Rizov, Dan Sallitt, Keith Uhlich, Jim Emerson, David Ehrenstein, Flickhead, Tom Shone and Girish Shambu. There are also wider-ranging bloggers whose film forays the Siren loves, such as James Wolcott (yes, I know he's primarily Vanity Fair, but he's a primo blogger so we like to claim him), Lance Mannion and Sheila O'Malley. And there's a few who've gone silent of late, but still make the Siren snap to attention when they do say something, like Filmbrain and Michael Phillips. These critics often share the Siren's tastes, but a lot of them also tend to like all sorts of things the Siren most definitely does not. They're all a pleasure to read, though, and often that's all it takes. Don't you think?

By that standard, the Siren could also name a lot of her commenters for that poll.

The Siren must now return to staring at her suitcases and waiting for them to speak up and tell her what she forgot. Before she leaves, one more critic who belonged on that poll had anyone consulted the Siren: Stephen Whitty. Please check out Stephen's marvelous exchange with Joan Lowell Smith, who once shared Hollywood digs with goddess-in-the-making Kim Novak.

That's all from Brooklyn for now. The Siren will be posting from Paris at her usual erratic rate. See you soon.

In Memoriam: Patricia Neal, 1926-2010




Just yesterday, before either one of us had heard of 84-year-old Patricia Neal's death in Martha's Vineyard, the Siren was having an email exchange with a friend about Breakfast at Tiffany's, and the new book about it by Sam Wasson. And the Siren mentioned that one of her several problems with the film is the treatment of Neal's character, a rich woman paying George Peppard's every bill while he works, theoretically, on a novel. She's given a nickname that shows what she means to him--an apartment number, 2E--and we're meant to see Neal as an obstacle to his destiny as an artist, not as someone trying to make things easier for a lover and getting barely concealed contempt in return. She leaves him money, the harpy! How's he supposed to write if she's doing things like that?

But, as always with Neal, there are more things in that face and that voice than the lines or blocking are meant to suggest--a pained vulnerability, the idea that she feels Peppard's shameless use of her as a wound she covers with brittle chatter and a sophisticated attitude.

In her films, as well as in her life, Patricia Neal always seemed to be giving more than she got.

In Bright Leaf, the 1950 Michael Curtiz epic about tobacco farming, Neal is the one character simmering with emotion, attracted to Gary Cooper but determined to destroy him. The scene where she turns on Cooper is the most dramatic in the movie, their sexual chemistry roiling even as she confesses how much she has hated him. When he rides out alone in the end, it seems wholly fitting, not just because he couldn't keep faith with truehearted Lauren Bacall, but also because he wasn't man enough to do anything with the passion that had been flying off Neal the entire time. He didn't deserve either one of them.

She made one earlier film with Cooper, The Fountainhead. The Siren feels obligated to mention that one, but much as she loves Neal, in truth the Siren cannot bear that movie, King Vidor or no King Vidor. Ayn Rand's fans sometimes complain the film strays too far from her novel; the Siren thinks it's a visual match for Rand's writing style, and that is no compliment. Even so, the Siren still sees Neal's warmth and intelligence glimmering behind her risible lines and motivations.

During the filming of The Fountainhead, and continuing through and after Bright Leaf, Neal had an affair with Cooper that brought her agony, as Cooper's Catholic wife refused a divorce. Cooper was Catholic too, but not so much so that he didn't urge Neal to have an abortion when she became pregnant, a decision Neal grieved over for the rest of her life. Her later marriage to Roald Dahl was marked by a horrifying taxi accident involving her four-month-old son. Theo survived, but Neal's seven-year-old daughter Olivia later died of complications from measles. In 1965, as she was in the early stages of shooting John Ford's Seven Women (a part that might have been perfect for her), she suffered a catastrophic series of strokes while she was pregnant with daughter Lucy. The effects on her speech, her body and her memory were devastating, but Dahl, with savage dedication, nursed her back to life and to acting.

Less than twenty years later, they divorced when Neal discovered Dahl's longstanding affair with her best friend. Betrayal haunted Patricia Neal off-screen as much as it did on.

Her misfortunes, her philanthropy and her courage became perhaps even more famous than her work, and tinge the perception of something like The Subject Was Roses, her first major role after the strokes and a beautiful performance. But simple nobility is almost never enough on screen. Neal always showed you the struggle, how damn hard everything was--but in a way that told you pity would be an insult to such a woman. It's evident even in an earlier role, such as her magnificent work in A Face in the Crowd, where you feel her revenge on Lonesome Rhodes as a blow for every woman who ever wasted time, intelligence and love on a worthless egomaniac.

She was one of those actresses whose beauty became softer and more inviting, not less, with age. In Hud, her housekeeper character Alma fends off Paul Newman's advances with the torment of loving him emphasizing every line on her face, and yet it only adds to her magnetism. Later parts became more like Alma, such as warm, gentle Olivia Walton in The Homecoming.

Always there was that voice, its timbre joining the Tennessee accent to create a sound you anticipate the way you might yearn for a close-up of another actor. The Siren has spent this morning collecting the adjectives. Corncrake, said David Shipman (a bird, evidently--the Siren had to look that one up). Molasses, says the Times. Throaty, husky, sandpaper. And the Siren can hear all that even just reading a printed interview with Neal, like the one where she explained the fears of a young contract player at the old Warner Brothers: "Bette Davis was queen of the studio, and you couldn't just go up to her and ask her to solve your problems.

"They were real stars in those days, babe."

(Postscript: You will most definitely want to read Sheila O'Malley's tribute.)

Fantabulous Book Giveaway!

The awesomely talented Amanda Hocking is having a fantastic giveaway on her blog. Rush over to win her complete My Blood Approves series!

Affairs of Cellini (1934)


Historical movies fall into one of three categories. Some strive for meticulous accuracy, some leaven accuracy with a few liberties. Then there are those that frankly don't give a damn beyond costumes and sets--and so it was with Affairs of Cellini, the 1934 Gregory La Cava film. This odd comedic swashbuckler sits right near the start of the director's great run of films up to 1941's Unfinished Business. Despite the 16th-century trappings it does fit with the later films, if you figure that instead of monkey imitations, you're getting little bursts of swordplay. It's based on a play by Edwin Justus Mayer, "The Firebrand," about which the Siren knows nothing. Presumably it drew from the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, which the Siren read in abridged form years ago. And the movie is somewhat less weird than the book, which as the Siren recalls had Cellini swearing he saw halos and had clairvoyant visions and conjured up a bunch of devils in the Colosseum in order to get back a mistress who had gone home to mother.

The movie was still pretty weird, though. Supporting player Fay Wray recalled years later, "It had a certain amount of charm, even though it was a little wacky." The Siren couldn't have said it better herself. The rather murky plot doesn't reward much summary, involving as it does Cellini's need to maim and murder various Florentines whom he finds annoying, the Duke de Medici's need to punish Cellini for doing so, and everybody's need to find someone wholly inappropriate to sleep with.



So what was so wacky? Well, the supporting players obliterate the lead, for one thing. Fredric March was a longtime scene-stealer himself, but he doesn't seem comfortable with this character. Instead he glowers from underneath masses of dark curls and moves like he's trying to convince himself the doublet is an English-drape suit. Which is a shame, because March's legs looked great in tights, something that can be said of very few actors. Maybe (here the Siren indulges in idle speculation) maybe March, one of Hollywood's staunchest liberals, had a bit of trouble finding a way into playing an artist, even a great artist, who wrote with perfect sang-froid about beating the hell out of his mistresses and was also a viperous court intriguer, (possible) political assassin and plain old murderer. But the problem is less with March, a fine actor, and more that the script marginalizes its own title character. Cellini's art is confined to one scene in his workshop where he's making his assistant do all the labor. He's reacting to the plots of others as much as he's doing his own scheming, and Cellini's lines aren't as funny, either. And that's also a shame, because March could time a joke to the millisecond, as he showed in Design for Living and Nothing Sacred.

One of the few lines March really gets to tear off is "For your own sake, don't be any dumber than is absolutely necessary"--spoken to Fay Wray, who's playing Angela, an artist's model of wondrous stupidity. Wray, to whom the Siren had never given much thought one way or another, is unexpectedly funny in this simple part. She doesn't have snappy lines; instead she gets laughs just by sticking to the unflappable demeanor of a person who seldom gets upset about anything because she never understands what the hell is going on. Angela sucks the crumbs off a finger or picks at her sleeve, stares off into the middle distance, finally tunes into the conversation, listens patiently and then, having visibly decided that the man isn't saying one thing worth hearing, goes back to whatever constitutes her inner life. The longer Angela stuck around, the more the Siren enjoyed her, and she was often more interesting than Cellini.

The movie's primary flaw, though, was the Duke de Medici. Frank Morgan's Best Actor nomination for Affairs is often cited as a reason why the Academy needed a supporting category, proving that this unavailable-on-home-anything movie hasn't been seen much. Morgan's got almost as much screen time as March, and his performance dominates the movie. Which is not a good thing, or at least the Siren didn't think so. Understand, the Siren finds the actor delightful in many things, including The Shop Around the Corner (easily his best work), Bombshell and The Wizard of Oz. But if you saw Oz (and hasn't everyone?) you will immediately recognize Morgan as de Medici. It's the same performance. The stammering, the stop-and-start motion, the furtive looks, even the humbug. There are some places where the tricks are still funny, particularly in his dinner scene with Angela. The Duke tries to slide one raddled hand up Angela's arm and Wray looks at him like he's picking his teeth with his fork: "What are you doing that for?" Great line delivery by Wray. Angela really does want to know why his hand is on her arm. She really is that stupid. Responds Morgan, as baffled as his seduction target: "Doesn't that make you, ah, burn and tingle?" And then, later, from Morgan: "Would you like some more peacock tongue?" (Technically this was post-Code. Not sure how that line made it in there.) "Yes, milord." Responds Morgan, like a lecherous Santa Claus: "Don't call me milord. I'd prefer that you call me Bumpy."

Mostly, however, Morgan is just tiresome, fluttering everywhere and being such a ninny that you never have a moment's suspense thinking he's any threat to anyone. Louis Calhern (miles from The Asphalt Jungle, but you'd know that nose anywhere) has some Rathbone-esque bite as the Duke's cousin, Ottaviano, but he isn't around enough to build up a sense of menace.




Thank god for Constance Bennett. The other characters may be dumber than one of Cellini's plates, but Constance is smart enough for the entire movie. The usual routine for swashbucklers, even semi-sorta-swashbucklers like this one, is a fiery heroine with a nice line in flashing eyes and snappy comebacks, who spends the first part of the movie telling the hero he's a common pirate, thief, musketeer, ruffian, whatever. Here, however, we have coolly adulterous Miss Bennett as the Duchess de Medici, more Snow Queen than spitfire. As usual, Constance is the most wised-up person in the picture, going after Cellini and manipulating everyone in sight. Also as usual, Constance was the Siren's favorite, giving just the right cynical touch to the picture's best lines: "The tragedy of all great ladies is to discover that the men with the most exaggerated reputations make the poorest lovers. That is the reason we probably marry half-wits." Bennett always seemed ineffably early 1930s, no matter what decade the movie was filmed or set in, and here her silky walk and line deliveries would fit nicely in a later La Cava picture. She's delightful, sweeping into the apartment that the Duke has set up for his adulterous tryst with Angela, pretending to think it's all for her and maliciously complimenting him on every detail.

Constance, along with March's tights, also provides the dose of sex the movie needs. Watch her sink onto a couch as the slinky dress fabric outlines her legs all the way to her ass. The movie looks good, if not great, with sumptuous sets and a few fight scenes that show La Cava's ability to film chaos and make it coherent. Overall, however, if the Siren watched it again, it would be for Constance, sashaying off at the end, ready to keep out-conniving one of the Renaissance's greatest heels.

Mr. Uncertain

Prince Poppycock on America's Got Talent