Author: Monda

Ghost Writing a President . . . or, Pay No Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain

No Telling

You know, I was going to give this political business a much needed rest. After suffering from Post Traumatic Political Convention Disorder (P.T.P.C.D) for a couple of weeks, I thought it healthier to move on to other things – my life for instance, paying my $350 electric bill, selling things on Ebay for extra gas money, teaching students who may very well be the last generation who can afford to go to college – that kind of thing.

But the ugly just keeps getting uglier and I guess there’s to be no relief until the last ballot is counted or stolen.

As if the stock market crisis and Sarah crossing her legs at the knee in front of world leaders weren’t enough, Today’s Salon.com article just put me over the edge. Ghost writing letters to the editor? Color me crazy, but I thought we needed to collectively and individually be real role models to our young people. If you also look HERE, you’ll find the written directives, examples, and talking points for writing your own fictional, heart-wrenching letter to the editor. All you have to do is insert the name of some supporter or other. Are supporters too illiterate to writer their own letters? Looks like the McCain folks think so. Don’t worry, the McCain campaign will take care of the rest. Can you write another one?

I don’t want to hear one more word from that bunch about “values” or “straight talk.” Not. One. More. Word.

The Museum of Happiness

No Telling

Jesse Lee Kercheval may very well be my new favorite author. My friend Steph slid this copy of The Museum of Happiness across the table to me a couple of months ago. Like me, she finds too many killer books to read them all in a timely fashion. I love it when the book I put off reading ends up becoming The One.

If you’re a reader like me, story is crucial – but it’s never enough. There must be a poet somewhere inside every great novelist or I don’t stick. That’s Kercheval. The Museum of Happiness is like Henry James meets John Irving and shakes hands with Gabriel Garcia Marquez who’s reading Suite Francaise. This is the book you want to read in one sitting, but don’t because you have to save another chapter for tomorrow.

I’m not giving you a synopsis because I’ll give away something vitally important for sure. That, and it’s late. Just flash on this: a genetic predisposition to webbed fingers and telepathy, carnies, a dead groom, gypsy-child pickpockets, rooms full of hand-made lace, the stock market crash, a cross-dresser in Full Habit…this is eccentricity at its finest, gorgeously written, addictive.

Get up right now and go find a copy of this book. I’d loan you this one, but Steph hasn’t read it yet and, well, it’s hers. I’m giving this one a Full Five Stars. Miraculous, considering how literarily jaded I’ve become.

Note on the Fridge to Governor Palin

No Telling

You certainly gave a rousing speech last night. At least I think you did. There was an awful lot of cheering and such, but I’ll admit I was distracted by the camera flashing back and forth from you to your lovely family down in the good seats. As a mother and a grandmother and a voter and a woman, there are a couple of things that concerned me, Sarah.

1. What in the world were you thinking bringing your four month-old child to a loud and late political convention?

2. How is it possible that angelic child slept through the entirely of it? I know babies, Sarah, and most of them aren’t as dandy as yours was when being handed off, person to person, past bedtime and in a room full of screaming people. You must have prayed really, really hard for that kind of peace in the valley. It’s a maternal miracle.

3. Your Iraq-bound son is so handsome and you must be terribly proud of him. He seemed a little surprised by the September 11 date of deployment, though. Bless his heart. I’m sure you two talked about it afterward.
4. Watching your daughter and her beau hold hands was sweet. That poor boy looked like he’d been hit by a truck, and she…well, she just makes my heart hurt. I noticed that while everyone passed the sleeping angel down the row, the infant never quite made it into their arms. Oh, Sarah. I know that was a decision made by some Very Important Strategist, but it was a little unnatural. You’ll have to agree the young couple (when is the wedding, by the way?) do need the practice.

5. Your husband is a cutie. Watch out for those Washington gals, though. Some of them don’t look like Janet Reno.

And my final question/observation…

6. While I understand it’s not terribly Vice Presidential to be holding babies all the time (who is that Very Important Strategist, anyway?) I’m a little befuddled by a woman who’s never seen holding her own newborn. Ever.

Oh, Sarah. Don’t parade your family around if you don’t want us watching. I realize I’m looking at you through bifocals instead of my old pair of Gloria Steinem aviators now, but that’s what happened to a lot of old feminists – they became mothers and grandmothers and realigned a few things. Go on out there and run a country if you must, and more power to you for the effort and all that, just be sure to vacuum up all that cracked glass ceiling before you let the baby crawl on the floor.

Scandinavian Squall

No Telling

Gustav means “staff of the Goths.” It’s a little Swedish, a little German, and the name taken by six kings. Very powerful. Everyone gets it this time, I think. As I obsessively watch the Weather Channel and CNN, the empty streets are a good sign. While nothing involving more than two people can ever be perfect, the New Orleans evacuation plan appears to have systematically done what it was supposed to – evacuate. The news is scattered with stories of folks who’ve decided to hang on, ride the thing out, but the pre-Katrina bravado seems to be missing. Many of those choosing to stay are doing so because they feel there is no other choice.

It must be an eerie moment looking out across a silenced French Quarter as the wind begins whistling down the alleys. And the waiting for what happens after. There’s that.

Tomorrow I’ll go find a sandbag or four and try to shore up a low back patio. Gustav’s gift to Arkansas will be a long arm of torrential rain – we’ll see if it’s a hug or a slap across the face tomorrow.

In the meantime, Africa is throwing off storms like warm-up pitches into the Atlantic. I hope Hanna and Ike swing wide and to the right, because folks on the coast have probably lost their sense of humor.

Tomorrow I’ll sandbag and watch the news and the Perfect Grandson will draw a winner for the Ultimate Shelf-Cleaning Book Giveaway. Tonight I’m busy throwing a little Good Juju abracadabra down to Nawlins, even though I throw like a girl. Let’s hope Gustav does, too.

Note on the Fridge to Senator McCain

No Telling

areyoukiddingme

In deference to your age, Senator, and with the highest regard for your military service, I’ll keep this clean and brief.

All women are not alike, and they aren’t interchangeable. I’ll admit that when we were little girls, some of us popped off Barbie’s head and swapped it around with Skipper’s body. Maybe even Midge’s, you know, just for fun. But we knew it wasn’t real. Barbie was always Barbie and Midge, well, she had freckles.

Please understand if we’re completely, utterly, hopelessly insulted.

Warm regards,

Every Woman Who’s Ever Drawn Breath
Since Seneca Falls

Hitchcock and the Stylish Monster

Fresh Ribbon

Marnie is one of my favorite Hitchcock movies, and that Tippi Hendren is one creepy gal. The thing is, I visited Little Flower Petals earlier and saw her new Olympia that looks exactly like this one, then scooted over to Strikethru’s place where – binding machines aside – she threw out a little search for typewriters in the movies.
I realize this particular machine isn’t the star of the picture. Marnie stars a young and delicious Sean Connery, for God’s sake. The office scenes are full of those Hollywood-glam Olympias, though. Tippi even had stunning psychotic episodes behind a few of them.
I love it when a memory comes together, especially when it involves Big Honkin’ Typewriters and Sean Connery.

I Need a Black Arm Band

Fresh Ribbon

I’m heartsick. This gorgeous cursive Royal belongs to someone else and I just watched her go. Damn Ebay, and damn my earlier resolve not to buy another typewriter until September.
Why do the best typewriters show up when I’m trying to be good? It would be easy to wish terrible things on the person who bought it, but instead I’m going to sling out what little gypsy abracadabra I have left and hope the new owner finds it too feminine, clunky, unrepairable. I’m scattering a Boredom Curse out, like birdshot.
I’m wafting them with Oh-Dear-I-Guess-I-Should-Just-Resell-This-On-Ebay-After-September-1st vibes.
My vibes used to be unparalleled, but I’m a little rusty now. Wish me luck.
Good Lord.

Tree Karma

Fresh Ribbon

tree

Don’t worry, the typewriters are all in a safe part of the house. I can’t decide exactly why the tree is getting even with me. Was it for all my youthful/poetic ridiculousness back in the day when I zoomed past it in the VW? Maybe the indignity of a subdivided pasture? The reams of paper I’ve trashed that were once relatives?

The tree could be trying to do me a favor. Maybe it’s just waiting to take out my ’02 Avalon and I’m just not parking it strategically.

Makes no difference. If the wind kicks up I’ll never hear it fall over those damned monastic-droning windchimes anyway.

(This typecast brought to you by Mamie, my elegant Smith Corona Silent.)