So, This Blog.

What is Wandering Pie?
(note: it's not just a food truck in Nashville.)

I started this blog almost ten years ago when I had something to say about the movies and didn't have anywhere to put it. Since then, I've built an official website, a store, and quite the online empire... but this space has been the place where I can share non-specific thoughts that take more than two sentences of stuff to say.

I don't know who reads it. (Oh! Yes I do: My dad does; he's a subscriber. So's my husband.) (Hi Dad! Hi Dave!)

But I'm notoriously bad at sending stuff out to be properly published, so although blogging scratches half an itch about having a thought "out there" where people can read it, the other half itch so often remains unscratched.

I've gotten better at getting the full feel-good experience of writing, in which it feels good both to write and be read, both with my books and my whatnots. Which...to my relief and delight, people seem to like! My friends send me emails and tell me! And the first time a stranger wrote me it was aMAZING—though I can still count those comments on two hands, and I still itch for more actual reviews. But who reads a blog? And I've got so many. I do promote some of my more topical blogs like The Zorgos Reader. One time I wrote a post about attention on Life in the Fast Brain that was shared/recommended like, 1000 times! Woot!

But with Wandering Pie, I can't really expect a loyal readership, since I blog so very, very occasionally. The counter says it's had two million hits, but the lack of comments tells me they are probably from spiders, and those machines that quote part of a paragraph to make it sound like there is an interesting thought in the "content" of their site that secretly wants to steal your good life.

Anywho, enough about me. I know this guy who blogs regularly, daily in fact, with no need for recognition or payment, but just to journal, to ponder and think things through, and to entertain! There's always an interesting insight on some current event, or his own life (in which I am proud to say I am featured often). He has a readership of about nine, and he's happy with that. Just before mother's day, half of us took him to dinner to celebrate his tenth year of pushing into our lives and telling us his thoughts, ranging from boring (when they are about his sports team for the tenth time that month) to fascinating (when they are about us).

But I am bursting with excitement. The author of Entropical Paradise, who is indeed the aforementioned husband of mine, was identified by researchers as being what they call a megablogger. He too, has written for nine years... but he, unlike me, writes consistently. Which, to me, queen of every-which-way, is incredible.

Here's what else is incredible. He is a person who loves loves loves movies, and has always secretly (and not so secretly) wanted to work in the biz, either as a critic looking in, or better yet, a creator writing movies. (There are several in a drawer, fyi...) And now something astonishing has happened. He is featured in a movie that is about people like him! Just by doing what he does—head down, noticing the little things, nose, effectively, to the grindstone—he's been "discovered."

You'd think I'd be jealous, since I am constantly promoting myself and feel I have to work my butt off for every $5 book sale, beg my friends for every review and comment, and spend more time marketing myself/building my platform more than actually writing (though it's never quite enough). But I'm not jealous. Dave works hard, and has always been clear that he writes for the joy of it. I am thrilled he gets to share that joy with more friends now.

Read about Friends You Haven't Met Yet. When you meet Dave, you'll love and admire and marvel at him. I sure do.

May Cobbler Be With You

In which I launch the blook!

And I reminisce on the Zumbathon...

And a movie starring TINA FEYwants to use Renaissance Woman as set decoration!  

click to read more...

Barefoot Avengers (a.k.a. "The Perilous Pumps of Pepper Potts)

I was a little grumpy getting dressed to go see The Avengers today. Inspired by the viral pics of Avenger eyes that populated Pinterest this week, I wanted to dress up a bit to see the movie my family's been waiting for since the tag on the first Ironman movie in 2007. But I don't have a Marvel favorite like the boys do. Donald wore his cool Tony Stark shirt with the glow-in-the-dark Arc Reactor and Dave, of course, Spiderman.

"Black Widow?" Dave suggested.

"Boring," I said, wondering if I could fashion sort of a Thor-ette fur cape; I always had a thing for Valkyries. "I wear black three times a week." With a sigh, I pulled out my red leather boots and Wonder Woman t-shirt, even though she's so DC.

I love Ironman. I want to be Tony Stark just as much as my son does... the cars, the gadgets, the architecture, the careless brilliance, the charm, and of course: the fun fun flying! But I confess I spent much of the first movie worrying about the perilous pumps of Pepper Potts. I could really relate to Stark's uber-competent administrative assistant, without whom he's nothing; I've been there many-a-time. But those fuck-me pumps really put her in grave danger. There she was in the third act, racing through the Arc Reactor lab, thinking on her feet, so physically and emotionally vulnerable on those spindly legs, running from danger. And then it blows up, and action moves back to Tony in his super-suit fighting with Obadaiah Stain in his super-duper suit, and all I can think about is: did Pepper's heels get caught in those metal grates? I am so relieved to see her again, when she appears to put band-aids on Tony's face.

I really loved when Natalia "Natasha" Alianovna Romanova, a.k.a. the Black Widow, showed up in the second movie. For one thing, she and Pepper never really competed, which is what Hollywood tends to make pretty and competent women do whenever they're in a room together, as if there is only room for One Per Movie or Man. (In real life, smart/gorgeous/amazing women adore and inspire and bond with each other.) The movie passed the Bechtel Test in the first scene Natsasha shows up, when Pepper is interviewing her about her mad skills with professional respect. And when she fought... she fought in flats! I know there's some sort of weird respect for superheroines who fight in high heels... but anyone who's ever broken a board (or a face) knows that your power comes from your balance, and the soles of the feet are as important as an open, sensing palm.

So when I saw Pepper in the opening scene of The Avengers, I nearly made a fool of myself by standing up and applauding when I saw her walking around the penthouse lab in cutoffs and...yes, bare feet! I don't know if there was any sort of "pregnant and..." implication here, but to me, a girl who spent shoeless summers running around fields and gravel creek beds and jumping on horses...this was a symbol of feminine power realized.

That is the ONLY spoiler you'll get in this review, and you'll be glad to be surprised by the rest. I came out of the movie not caring what I wore; the writing was so satisfying and layered I won't need to see another movie for a week. Or two. But I still wonder how to beg my Marvel-ous movie contemporaries (I was born in the same year as Joss Whedon so, it's almost like I know him) to introduce a new strong female character to the Avengers. Someone with total earth powers and the ability to heal and nurture life. Someone with a good costume.

A Perfectly Revolting Book Trailer!

Mad about the Hatter

(caution: contains spoilers)

Love Tim Burton. Love Johnny Depp. Love Helena Bonham Carter and Anne Hathaway. LOVE Disney!

But as it turns out, I love Lewis Carroll even more.

I couldn’t have been more excited to see Burton’s interpretation of Alice in Wonderland. I couldn’t wait to see what sense he would make of the caucus race, the caterpillar, the enigmatic oysters, the meandering logic of Alice’s dream.

But it was no dream he re-created. It was an adventure! It was a re-invention of this favorite tale through his own ego. Imaginitve, yes. Insulting to any English student who studied Jabberwocky or, god forbid, loved the book enough to read the annotated version. Burton admits to reading the book—once, as a child—and not liking it. All of his influences came from pop culture interpretations. (And he must have read the screenplay for 2009’s clever sci-fi tv miniseries, ALICE.)

There are a few repeated lines that work as story themes. One of them is, “Why, my father always said he could imagine six impossible things before breakfast.” (Originally from the stupid White Queen’s mouth in Looking Glass.) Here are six impossible things about his version of the movie
1) Alice did not shun the Bandersnatch. (She tamed it.)
2) The Mad Hatter wasn’t mad, just weird… and political.
3) It is a hero movie with a magic sword and a dragon; not a trial, not a chess game. It is a movie about finding the power to kill when one doesn’t want to. (Huh?)
4) Why no caucus race, kings, or Mock Turtle? Why no sneezing, running to stay in one place, drowning in tears?
5) Why no Bill the Lizard? Why no Lobster Quadrille?
6) And the unforgivable sin: They all called the Jabberwock a Jabberwocky.

Another one of the oft-repeated sentences is, “How is a raven like a writing desk?” The question is not posed as poetic madness, but as a taunt: “are you clever enough to guess?” A yellow-eyed Johnny Depp asks this question over and over, pretending not to know the raven, duh, in this metaphor, is powerful, soaring filmmaker Tim Burton, Poe-loving master of underworlds. The writing desk represents earthbound and ancient Lewis Carroll. Poor crazy pedophiliac mathematician Dodgson. He can’t touch the power of a successful Hollywood career, in which you can do whatever the hell you want. The raven is the writing desk’s manxome foe.

But in spite of the madness (as in, anger) raging in my head as I watched, my eyes were enchanted. In Burton’s fully-realized version, I found much to love:

1) The air-swimming, smoke-like Cheshire Cat, a fully-developed character who turns the tide.
2) Alice’s growing and shrinking dress – a character in itself.
3) Depp’s theatrical delivery of “Jabberwocky” in the golden light of a wet forest to a tiny Alice on his brim.
4) A framing story that brings us a grown-up Alice who has been to Wonderland before.
5) The third repeated sentiment: “You’re bonkers. Gone around the bend. You’re utterly mad…. But all the best people are.”
6) Futterwhacking.

Screenwriter Linda Woolverton admitted, “It will infuriate the purists, but this was never meant to be a remake. This is Alice as a young woman.” Yes, Linda, it infuriated me. BUT you created a marvelous re-invention, and there’s nothing wrong with that, especially where this beloved story is concerned. I blame the Disney exec who okayed, or insisted on, selling it as a remake. He or she should be stuffed into a treacle well.

The Hatter and other characters call the place “Underland,” not Wonderland, which makes perfect sense since it lies, somehow, under this world, accessible by falling a long, long way. Had Disney released the movie as Tim Burton’s Alice in Underland, all departures from the source would be forgiven, even by purists; all creative licenses celebrated. Under a different name I would consider this would be Burton’s best, not his worst. Audiences would have felt the love, not the disdain.

And I would be mad for it, not mad about it.

Dr. Horrible now on DVD!

"With my freeze ray I will
find the time to find the words to
Tell you how
How you make
Make me feel
What’s the phrase?
Like a fool
Kinda sick
Special needs
Anyways
With my freeze ray I will stop the pain
It’s not a death ray or an ice beam
That’s all Johnny Snow"

Highly recommended.

"A Return to Glamour"

I was as amused as Jon Stewart at this year's Oscar theme: "A Return to Glamour."

"What a relief," he said. "After last year's theme of 'sweatpants and jeans' it will be a real treat."

And of course, everyone looked properly gorgeous and well-groomed. If there was a hair out of place, it was put there deliberately by a high-paid stylist who was aware all the other stylists were doing it in the same way. Every gown was tasteful, every tux was pressed.

Yawn. Same old glamour.

I did appreciate Charlize Theron's attempt to recapture an "old Hollywood" style with her beehive hairdo and oversized shoulder-bow, but it came off as more of a costume than an homage. But no risks were taken (probably because people are still making fun of Bjork and Cher) and there was little fun to be found. Necklines plunged, but nowhere near as far as J.Lo's did a few years back. Naomi Watts wore a torn-up confection suitable for a gal who's been in the fist of an ape, but even that seemed a little last-year. Or maybe next year? But not this year -- this year was mostly about taffeta. Here we are, it's ot-six, and we're halfway through the decade, when the themes of fashion settle. So what's the 00's style? Maybe it's so settled now I don't even notice it.

There was something new: some big-skirted dresses (Sandra Bullock and Amy Adams) had pockets. Who wouldn't want pockets in an evening gown? And there was something missing, too: the rocks. What was that all about? If we're returning to glamour, doesn't that mean a carat or two--or ten? Harry Winston hates a natural beauty.

But look at me complaining. I had a marvelous time, sitting on my couch in my sweatpants (so last year!) eating buttered popcorn -- and the gold-dusted chocolate Oscar from last year's basket, courtesy of my friend Abby Letteri and her Oscar™-winning husband Joe Letteri™, animator of Andy Serkis™, who got the props he deserved but no statues. I sat there appreciating all those beautiful people who worked so hard to get where they are, and then worked so hard to look as good as they did last night. Pedicures, peels, polishes, (I got tired just thinking of it). All just to entertain little old me.

God bless the Oscars. God bless America. And God bless Hollywood for gay cowboys, happy pimps, and making glamour seem normal.

Super-Orphans

In retelling the story of "Batman Begins" to my son (couldn't let him SEE it fer gawdsake!), he stopped me at the part where young Bruce's parents get killed. "If I were him, I woulda..." and described a valiant fight and triumphant defeat of Joe Chill. "Nope," I stopped him, "In every Batman story this happens to him. The pearls go flying. It wouldn't be Batman otherwise."

Then I realized all your main superheroes are orphans. Clark's parents rocketed him off Krypton before the planet blew up. Poor Peter Parker had to suffer yet another level of torture when his Uncle Ben got kilt. Just like fairy-tale princesses, which are heroes as well; they all have fathers but no mothers. What's that all about? And what does it mean for those of us who are lucky enough to have parents around?

Think of what Bruce's life would have been like if he'd -"wham!"- defeated Joe Chill and saved his parents. He would have had to live up to that bit of heroism his whole life, never developing the chops to go out and actually do anything further with his life, drinking himself to an early playboy grave. Peter Parker would never have been freaked out enough to go nuts on his first bad guy if ONLY Uncle Ben got it and his parents put up a reward. Clark Kent would have simply lived a life of quiet desperation as a mild-mannered Kryptonic reporter. It's like what researchers say about genetic diseases: you don't automatically get them, but have the potential to get them if they're triggered by enough stress. And it's pretty stressful being on your own so early in life. The superhero with the split-personality is the mythic version of all those poor split non-super souls wandering about missing their parents, wishing they could have saved them.

Then again there are all of us split non-super souls wandering about between our parents. Another way to look at the orphan thing is to imagine the potential energy that is set free when your parents are no longer hanging around telling you what you should do with your life. Those of us lucky enough to know our parents into adulthood get to spend so much energy struggling against or processing the parts of ourselves that remind us of them. Or if you prefer to see that glass as half full, you could say that those of us lucky enough to know our parents into adulthood are busy being connected with the family we want to live up to, follow in the footsteps of, and whose values we want to press into the next generation.

It's kind of sad. Superman, Batman, and Spiderman will probably never have kids; they'll either stay stuck fighting bad guys forever, or flare out at the end of their stories someday (wouldn't put it past Stan Lee to take Spidey with him when he goes) with a bright light. At least we know princesses will grow up after the story ends, and their fathers will dandle another generation of princesses (and imagine their dead wives are smiling on them) on their happily-ever-after old knees. And then there's Mr. and Mrs. Incredible to wonder about....