The Link-tastic Ascension of Neil Patrick Harris

This morning at the gym a commercial for one of the Harold and Kumar movies strobed the screen.  And although Matt and I have had both "White Castle" movies on our Netflix queue for a while, we've never actually managed to watch one.

Despite our deep and abiding love of Neil Patrick Harris.

Now, this is not a new love, but it's not one that either of us had nursed for years, since those long ago days of Doogie Houser.  No, we fell for Neil in the past two years, in appreciation for the delicious, "wait for it... awesomeness" of his comically brazen Barney on How I Met Your Mother on tv.  

That show, while not as utterly madcap brilliant as It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, relishes its intelligence, rewards the viewer for paying attention, and showcases, again and again, each cast member's talents and quirks.  Alyson Hannigan's "Lily" is a close second to Harris' Barney, but --let's be honest-- he really steals the show.

Just watch the episode recapping his lost virginity, his fear of being slapped, or this season's ending close-up on his face.  It will tell you everything you need to know.

Oh--I'm reading The Groom to Have Been, by Saher Alam.  Just since I normally mention books.

PS: Links are fun!

Good Things

Project Runway is back on TV,
My new website is live,
Alyson wants The Tree Museum,
(an agent might be interested, too).
We leave for Provincetown in two days...(sigh)
and
Matt bought me a new Maggie O'Farrell novel last night.

Sometimes, buried deep inside the madness resides a ridiculous passel of joy.

A Blessing and a Rant

I've been under the weather this week, and Matt's being very sweet. This morning, he gave me a hug while saying, "You really do have a lot of congestion." Oddly enough, it melted my heart.
I've also been working every day while feeling poorly, so my patience with perceived incompetence is wearing thin. Hence, today's blog about Cosi. How is it possible that wherever you are, whatever store you select, whenever during the day you arrive, and whomever serves you, the service is uniformly, insultingly, offensively bad??
I'm no snob--I recognize and appreciate a chef's heartfelt creations right alongside the mastery of Five Guys burgers from a grill--but the lack of awareness, urgency, or common sense exhibited by Cosi staff amazes me again and again. It even underscores my love of their certifiably AMAZING bread.
I just don't get it, so I'm going to send them a note this morning.
You should too.

Relativity

I'm a little bit sad, today. Yesterday, when I bought myself the post-birthday world by lionel shriver at d.c.'s beloved, iconic, and a little bit pompous Kramerbooks (which is, gratifyingly, open at 8a.m. before the office opens its doors), I noticed that the paperback version of Maggie O'Farrell's Esme Lennox was not on the shelves. In fact, I'd gone in to Kramerbooks that morning looking for other novels by O'Farrell, and found none.
The Borders downtown coughed up a similar lack of her work.
Then, last night at the Borders in Clarendon, I noticed piles of the hardback Esme on the discount display, priced at $3.95. It just doesn't seem fair.
Now, post-birthday, on the other hand, spilling forth in copious piles from the front table at Kramerbooks and Borders, is certainly a worthy novel. Deeply, almost viciously observant, the novel is an encyclopedic journey through one woman's mind preceding and --primarily-- following a decision with repercussions beyond any she imagines, or plans. So it's worthy of its audience, for sure.
But shouldn't Maggie O'Farrell have a place at the superstar's table? And for that matter, why did my sweet little first novel wither so quickly on the vine?

The Post-Birthday Book

Last night Matt gave me (a) a new iPod, (b) Mary Oliver's new poetry collection Red Bird, and (c) a 'coupon' for a book of my choice.
Surfing her words, I cried twice at Oliver's God-exposing poetry. I dreamt stories overnight; there is this crashing swell of creativity swirling around me. It's heady, but (awake at 5:30 a.m., typing madly about adulterers in Britain and a terrified boy in an invented world) also suggestive of an undertow.
And this morning I chose the post-birthday world by Lionel Shriver. Kismet. Like Matt, it was meant to be.

Joy

I almost can't describe the degree to which I love The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox. I love books regularly -- in just the last three weeks I've devoured Finn and The Secret River and The Monsters of Templeton. I've loved moments in each of them. Characters. Narrative verve. But I haven't wholly and utterly fallen for a novel the way I have for Esme in a long time. Here's what I wrote on goodreads.com.

6/20/08 I've only dipped my toe into the still, warm waters of this novel, but I'm thrilled. By the simple, realistic, yet stunning concept, and by the incredibly fine-tuned prose. You can see everything.6/23/08Now I'm hurting because I've passed the halfway mark and cannot stand the thought of finishing. I've actually found myself slowing down, not reading another section, pulling away, so as not to miss a thing, or let it move to fast. I'm absolutely in love.6/24/08And the twist I can't bear, wasn't expecting, and somehow knew must happen has arrived. I jaw literally dropped agape. I could not love this novel more. And the fact that I have only 35 pages left makes me want to cry.

What Would Jane Austen Do?

My boyfriend Matt good-naturedly "refused" to see THE JANE AUSTEN BOOK CLUB. There's a part of me that can't blame him (and I absolutely, 100%, on-the-record let him off the hook); I really kind of wanted to slip into it--as I imagine myself doing with chamomile tea--on my own. In actuality, I watched it with my signature 32oz. half-Diet, half-Coke.

I'm sorry I did. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVED this movie--it's smart, gentle, funny, big-hearted (a false adjective I normally loathe), and very, one must hope, true to life. And there's art in it too. As the film progresses, each of Austen's novels offers some very specific instruction for each character. It's a typically gorgeous cast, and there's one awkwardly joyous note at the end, but the performances are strikingly honest and true. One of the plot-lines follows Emily Blunt as a quietly drowning French teacher who has lost touch with not only her husband, but herself. There's a moment toward the end of her story that will bring any woman (or gay, or straight man, I suppose) who's still discovering her partner isn't the man she imagined him to be, to tears.

That's the moment I wished Matt were there. I needed to hold his hand.

There are some less-successful moments as well. There's a young lesbian who seems designed to typify excess and impulsiveness, but her storyline reads the most predictable, and boring, of all. It's as if someone cried "Get youth into the book!" and the author, or screenwriter, gave in. The actress who plays Alegra is pretty at least.

But not as pretty as Hugh Dancy. Man. I can see why Claire Danes dumped Billy Crudup for that. Yum. Maybe Matt should have been there after all.