“Got Green Onions hangin’ all over the studio, precious, they gonna keep the vampires away, y’understand? And this one, baby, is for Only You . . . “

Day 2 on the CDs. And we hit something I’ll never let go of—I even kept my vinyl copies (two!). My favorite movie: American Graffiti (not the best movie ever made, just my favorite). I have it on VHS and DVD, still waiting for the letterbox version (which it cries for). I’ve seen this movie on the big screen more than 25 times. And the soundtrack is unbelievable—a two-CD set of some of the best late 1950s-early 1960s music ever. I can go for months without hearing it but when I catch the first whiff of spring it’s the music I reach for. From beginning to end, it’s magic. And “I Only Have Eyes for You” by the Flamingos is just about perfection. I hope reading this blog entry makes people dig through their own music and pull it out. Paradise Road, baby . . .

Metaphor.

I’m not even Julie Powell. Tried to make the husband a little French food last night and picked up a skillet handle that had just been in a 400-degree oven. I’m now typing with only seven fingers. (The other three are still attached, just not in the mood to work.)

I did love Julie and Julia, though. Violet and I went the first week it came out. She was in the “less Julie, more Julia” camp at the end. I just enjoyed the entire experience. For me, though, what’s not to like? Cooking. Writing. Mid-life. French food. Marriage. Infertility (okay, not a joyful subject but a relatable one). Publishers. Husbands in government. More French food. I enjoyed it from beginning to end. I’d even go see it again. And now I want to read Julia Child’s autobiography even though I never warmed to her on TV—the publishers should thank Meryl Streep for doing such a wonderful job.

I went to see the movie last evening with a group of friends. Despite many urgings from people who know my 85 Pounds o’ Love (aka the Wild Man), I have resisted reading the book. I wanted to believe that Marley was worse than my dear puppy, and I knew the ending would break my heart. My sister warned me to take tissues to the movie, but I didn’t.

So let me first say, it’s a wonderful movie. I think there are too many adult themes for the kiddies, but maybe they just don’t understand those parts . . . I did spend some of my time noticing when they used a different dog (longer muzzle here, darker ears there), but overall I loved the story, the actors (Owen Wilson was a great surprise), the film. (John Grogan had to think about having a column???? I was ready to smack him upside the head.) And I needed those tissues in the end, but Mary the Photographer had brought plenty with her.

And no, no matter what anyone might try to tell me, the Wild Man is no Marley. He has never eaten a couch or an answering machine. Part of a tuna can, yes, and of course there’s the razor blade incident, but overall he has not been very destructive. But he doesn’t heel at all, and he is a very enthusiastic greeter of people and dogs (not just poodles), which is probably why people recommend the book to me.

So what’s the “bad side”? People now think all retrievers are this way. A grocery store clerk one aisle away from me was badmouthing the breed all over the place this afternoon. She really had no clue. And, BTW, this is a pet peeve of mine (get it? pet peeve): people don’t know the difference between yellow labs (Marley) and Golden retrievers (Wild Man). Yes, they are both retrievers. But yellow labs are short hair and Goldens are long hair. Some people will tell you one type is smarter than the other, but that’s not true.

I guess the plus side would be if people think all retrievers are this way, they won’t go on a buying craze at the breeders. Retrievers of any hair length are lovable, goofy, devoted, strong-willed eating machines. I’m on my third one and I can’t imagine considering another breed.

The down (not bad, just down) side of the movie was seeing the funeral for Marley, which brought back to me a sunny November day when we had to let Foggy go and a rainy day in April when Askim was taken too soon. I see the white muzzle on my eight-year-old Wild Man and I pray his day doesn’t come for a long time . . .

I’ve mentioned Shane Nelson’s radio show more than once in this blog. Listening to him this morning I was thinking, where else could you find a week-long tribute to Johnny Tillotson (twin spins every hour!)? This morning I heard Keith Carradine’s “I’m Easy” (I may be the only one to still own his first album in vinyl; I recently bought the CD of his two albums and I play it a lot), followed by Small Faces’ “Itchycoo Park.” Last week Shane was playing country crossover hits.

I’m very much looking forward to his Christmas shows. Last year they played past years’ shows for an entire day (yes, when I first heard “Santa and the Satellite” and “Percy the Puny Poinsettia”). As I’ve said, stuff you’ve never heard . . .

End of the New York Times article about his passing . . .

“We are such spendthrifts with our lives,” Mr. Newman once told a reporter. “The trick of living is to slip on and off the planet with the least fuss you can muster. I’m not running for sainthood. I just happen to think that in life we need to be a little like the farmer, who puts back into the soil what he takes out.”

Coming down off my week-long Andy Hardy festival high (thank you, TCM!). Today the new version of The Women gets released. I’ll be seeing it as soon as my friend Violet and I can sync up our schedules. Someone else, I’m sure, is working on this right now, so let me just say it first: Republicans want Sarah Palin to be Mary Haines. Democrats see her more as Crystal Allen.

This last part I doubt anyone will say, but lately I’ve been thinking of her more as Katie Holmes. The descriptions of Governor Palin being prepped (no, I won’t say drilled) by the McCain people reminds me of the stories of Katie being constantly accompanied (even into the restroom) by Scientologists working on her indoctrination. McCain’s people, though, found out last night they need to do more work (unless they really like the idea of war with Russia). She’s not stupid, but she can only learn so much in a week.

Still puzzling this over in my head. Reading a lot of news articles and blog entries. Trying to figure out where I stand.

A lot of people are saying that to bring up Sarah Palin’s family (and her parenting style) is sexist, that we wouldn’t ask these questions of a man.  And yet some assume that women vote for the Woman just because they are women, too. We are expected to identify with her (whomever she is) as though we don’t have brains, only reproductive organs.

That, of course, is horrifically sexist—that we don’t think at all and just vote gender? But I do look differently at female candidates. I’m searching for ways to identify with them, to connect, to compare. They don’t have to be my girlfriend, but I still want to have someone I could have an intelligent conversation with. I don’t do this with male candidates—they just have to look hot (hahahahaha).

Seriously, in order for me to identify with her (the Candidate), I have to put myself in her shoes and ask what I would do. I did that with Hillary and I mentally booted his butt out of the house years ago—a serial philanderer does not deserve the best of both worlds. In the end I don’t think he respects her. When the Edwards fiasco/tabloid-dream happened, I tried to put myself in Elizabeth’s shoes. The illness and small children made it harder for me. But it’s my understanding she booted him out herself.  Definitely deserved.

And now we have Sarah Palin. Not Kay Bailey Hutchinson, not Christine Todd Whitman, not Olympia Snow—i.e., Republican women with a boatload of experience. Palin’s got youth and energy and ambition. And a family in crisis. I don’t get it. Maybe they think they can pay her less for her lack of experience? Or that her problems at home will keep her so distracted she won’t interfere in what they want to do? Or maybe that they found someone to do their Ann Coulter-ing (her speeches already sound like something out of Mean Girls). It’s been acknowledged that McCain likes attractive women—did he expect her to be arm-candy? And how does he feel now that she’s being treated as the  Candidate? If it doesn’t rankle yet, it’s got to soon . . . but it’s already too late.

My friend Violet and I have seen two major chick flicks this summer—Sex and the City and Mamma Mia! I know I’m late writing on the former, but I’m glad I waited because I have things to say that pertain to both.

I expected to like neither movie. I wrote about why I thought they shouldn’t do a Sex movie when I first heard it was in production. And a movie based on a stage show of ABBA songs? They only haven’t made it to my “worst songs of the 1970s” section just because others take priority. (For the record, I knew no ABBA fans in the 1970s, not even closeted ones.)

So Sex and the City the movie did nothing socially relevant, timely, whatever. Everyone dealt with relationship issues, nothing from the outside world. Pure escapism—almost. It was a given that Carrie would marry Big. I expected that Samantha would have left Smith (for her to stick with one man for five years? please!), but that wasn’t the case. I was shocked that Charlotte’s little girl was so much more accessory than daughter (I guess that’s all part of the fantasy). But then, when Miranda and Steve split, no one says, “How will this affect Brady?” either.

(Aside: why did they squeal every single blessed time they got together, no matter how brief it had been? Or did it just seem that way?)

Back to the plot: for me, two scenes made the whole movie. The first was when Carrie goes out to Brooklyn to spend New Year’s Eve with Miranda. That’s what girlfriends do. (I only hope that my girlfriends think I’m someone who would do that for them.) A large part of the TV show’s appeal was the girlfriend-relationships and it carried through to the movie.

The second scene is far more dramatic. When Big stands Carrie up at the altar, she finds him on the street and whacks the hell out of him with her bridal bouquet while crying and yelling, “How could you?” She didn’t mean just that day, she meant every single disappointment he’d ever given her, and he’d given her plenty. She should have done that a long time ago. (Elizabeth Edwards, if you don’t have your bridal bouquet handy, I’ll loan ya mine. It’s pretty dried out now and probably has a few sharp points . . . I think it’ll do the job.)

I came out of the movie remembering my girlfriends through the years and wanting to call them all. That’s not a bad thing to take away from it.

Now, a few months later, Violet and I again went to the movies, this time to see Mamma Mia! I thought, “what the heck?” It’s been a Broadway play I didn’t see, so I don’t have that point of reference. I avoid reading reviews when I’m going to write one of my own, so I didn’t know what the critics thought. I went in with my mind as open as I could make it.

And by the end I was singing along with the audience. The choreography felt clumsy, we all laughed at the occasional Greek chorus (works better on stage), and the lyrics did not always fit the plot line, sometimes to the point of absurdity. But the songs existed before the story, so it was understandable. I’d even forgotten a few of them, but the movie brought them back really quickly.

I think what really made the movie succeed was that Meryl Streep looked like she was having the time of her life, even when she was rolling around on the goat-house roof. Julie Walters and Christine Baranski gave the girlfriend-connection the required credibility, far more than any of the relationships with any of the men.

I’ve seen Muriel’s Wedding, which I believe was the first movie advertised as using ABBA songs, but it’s much darker. Mamma Mia! does with ABBA songs what should be done with ABBA songs. I’ve now read a great review (“great” in that I agree with a lot of it) in the New York Times. Hangover, yes (how many times since then have I heard “Can you hear the drums, Fernando?” in my head), but one to laugh over.

Next month a remake of the original chick flick, The Women (also one of my favorite movies of all times), comes out. I saw a trailer that shows they’ve updated it, but I’ll make my own judgment on how well . . .

I can’t remember the last time I saw a trailer and wanted to see the movie. But the glimpses I caught of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day were enough to convince me to see this one. It looked funny, fast-paced, and fun. My friend Violet was free yesterday so we went.

The theater was full of women . . . a few husbands, boyfriends, but mostly women. No surprise. The (pleasant) surprise was that it was full—something I don’t see much anymore. Makes me think for a second that maybe there is hope for the movie industry after all.

The movie did not disappoint me. Frances McDormand (yes, I’ll admit, a main reason I decided to go) was just so good. Her ability to convey subtleties (and Miss Pettigrew definitely required subtleties!) is unmatched. My husband often complains about one-note actors—how some people play the same person no matter the role. But McDormand is not one of them; there was no hint of the cop from Fargo in Miss Pettigrew. This woman needed sympathy without pity and she has it right from beginning to end.

Amy Adams was delightfully believable—airy without seeming stupid. Lee Pace (who looked familiar but I had to look him up to be reminded of Pushing Daisies) smoulders in a way that makes me say keep him on the big screen, please! Ciaran Hinds, as Joe, was a new face to me, but another one who understands subtleties.

But the one I couldn’t stop watching on screen was Shirley Henderson. No clue who she was (I don’t remember that much about Trainspotting) but as Edythe Dubarry she is magnetic; she attracts the viewer’s eye in every scene she’s in. I won’t forget her again.

The story was written by Winifred Watson in 1938 and republished in 2000. Satiny fluff, yes (oh the clothes! I was waiting for “zips up the back and no bones”), yet realistic, set in prewar London with air-raid drills and bomber planes overhead.

In a quiet way the impending war drives the plot and helps people make certain decisions. Inside the club people are dancing and drinking and laughing. Sitting in the alley with Joe, Miss Pettigrew says, “They don’t remember the last one, do they?” He replies, “No, they don’t.” Those words sent a chill through me, especially in light of President Bush’s comments to a soldier in Afghanistan this week that he envied him on the front lines and that it must be “romantic.”

I liked this one so much I’m going to read the book. For now, I’ll say it’s a wonderful film with some very memorable performances. Don’t avoid it, men—it’s perfect for a matinee or a date!