Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters

This past week the literary world lost someone great.  I wasn't going to write about it-- mainly because the entire literary and teenage world undoubtedly jumped on that boat and sailed the moment this great man's pulse stopped.  This, of course, probably makes me as much of a "phoney" as the rest-- and yet, I'm not so sure.

I am, of course, talking about JD Salinger.  Now, he has been a big part of my life.  He still is.  And it's not because of Holden Caulfield.  Not that I don't respect the Catcher and all-- but Holden was never the one who held my interest.  I understood Holden.  His angst, his bewilderment, his cynicism and his love.  However, it was (and will always be) the Glass Family that changed my world.

For all my readings of Franny & Zooey, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters & Seymour an Introduction, and Nine Stories-- this, I can tell you-- I have never been more understood.  To be sure, I was (in my mind) for so many years a "Franny"-- someone capable of being a wonderful actress, dating someone who has no real understanding of me and my secret passions and beliefs, and then falling (daintily and with mud on my shoes) into an existential crisis.  I, too, often felt the pull between wanting everything and being a pilgrim.  I always felt I was a Franny who desperately wanted to be a Zooey.  To be as spiritually connected as well as intellectually brilliant, confident, and cocky. 

But, the truth of all of it is-- is that I am a Buddy.  I am a watcher.  I have a Seymour who's beautiful and lost that I watch out for.  I watch out for my strong Zooey, who is beautiful, clever, and appears to need no one.  I watch out for my Franny who lights up every stage and whose talent no one denies.  And I am a kindred spirit to my Mrs. Glass who knows everything about all her children, and deals with anything that comes her way.  Not that any one of those people mentioned need me.  But, every one needs something to care for.

Although tempted, I won't go on and on with quotes-- and truly, I could for days. 

I would tell you every bit that warms my existence.  The descriptions.  The clutter of the Glass apartment.  But I won't.  Because it's special to each individual.  I'm no phoney.  I know that.  Everyone will take a piece of Mr. Salinger with them.  And really, as long as it means something to each person, that's all one could ever ask for.

It may be presumptuous of me to liken myself to Mr. Salinger's Glass Family.  But, I take them to heart. 

I read in one of Mr. Salinger's obituaries that he was often found at weekly $12 church dinners.  And I love that.  Empty churches are my sanctuary.  Mr. Salinger's sanctuary is a church's kitchen.  I love that.

And in this world with so many different opinions of God and lack of God-- I must say, I like Mr. Salinger's view of God the best. 

And it's his books at night-- mixed with history books, and my books that span every sort of belief-- that keep me warm at night. 

Dear Mr. Salinger, you will be missed.

-Danny




"Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next."

Seymour--An Introduction
J.D. Salinger 

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

There's nothing like a holiday season to make you think of all that you should be doing or should have accomplished by the end of this year. Christmas movies and the smell of freshly baked gingerbread are supposed to make you feel all warm and cozy inside with a hint of hopeful cheeriness.

Yeah, well, I have a feeling that ends when you're about 11 years old. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying the smell of gingerbread doesn't bring to mind warmth and sweetness-- it does-- it just also brings the vision of dimpled thighs slapping together. Yes, my dimpled thighs. And holiday movies are always wonderful, but unfortunately after an hour and forty-five minutes you have to go back to real life, which means it's probably cold where you are, if you've got kids one of them probably has the sniffles, you're worried about the end of the year bills, and the "where should I be on New Years Eve?" factor always comes in if you're constantly dreaming of making it bigger and better each year.

It's a stressful time of year.

And worst of all, all I want to do is comment.

Yep, I'm a mad commenter. That's all I've been thinking about the past month. As I write my screenplay and edit, my psyche has been dreaming of a world-- maybe ancient Rome?--where there would be paid commentors. Yes, just like court jesters, but with a higher salary and better accomodations. As a professional commentator I would follow people around and comment on the daily events, and I would undoubtedly be witty and at times profound. And always humorous, because life needs a little humor. However, neither one of my siblings would ever be allowed to visit me on the job because they both stand by the fact that I'm not funny.

And when they do that, I commentate. And I find this witty and funny. And they usually just exit the room.

Anyway.

At some point I hope to get my head out of the clouds and either permanently on paper (i.e. columnist) or better yet as a famous movie star extraordinaire who no one really knows. The plan is to be rather like Johnny Depp. Be silently beautiful and fabulous with a penchant for drinking red wine and smoking cigarillos while sporting a few well-placed but meaningful tatoos which my evening gowns would coyly hint at when I'm walking down the red carpet.

Oh yes, I have plans. But, sometimes I just get distracted.

Or, I'm always distracted. Hmm...

All I know is that while I was supposed to be writing and was instead listening to Dane Cook's comedy of awesomeness this morning, he mentioned that all men dream of being part of a super cool heist ala "Ocean's 11". And I dream of that too. Except I never actually am part of the heist. I'm just the female version of Brad Pitt to some gorgeous and thoughtful George Clooney. I am extremely well-dressed but look as if I rolled out of bed looking that stunning. I think of grand schemes and I have a group of rough and lovely people who are like my family, but not. That is what I was dreaming of this morning when I was refining my resume and sending out little tid bits to casting directors. OOOh, I would love to be part of Ocean's 11. Yes, yes I would.

Oh, and I also dream of world peace...

Anyway.

We were talking about the holidays. And the fact that I just can't stop commentating. I think I have proved my point by now. On the commentating bit, I mean.

But yes, the holidays. I've been reading and listening to every bit of New Years tidbits that every magazine and self-help guru has to offer this season. The advice ranges from making New Years resolutions to starting a new diet to just taking baby steps to a better you.

All of this is good.

Last year I made the resolution to "be happy" and by March I thought: "What the f*@& does that mean?" Yep. I began commentating on myself, which gets awkward when I'm in a supermarket aisle having a good ole argument with myself--especially when all the other super market shoppers just saw me dancing with my cart down aisle 2 (I love dancing in supermarkets, because they undoubtedly are playing some sort of 80s excellence. I also enjoy serenading myself or a can of green beans, like that one time when Albertson's was playing Air Supply's "I'm All out of Love" and every friggin' person from aisle 1 to 10 was mouthing the words soulfully to themselves-- that's awesome too.) Anyway, seeing me happy dance in aisle 2 and then seeing me verbally kick myself in the aisle by the string cheese only leaves people assuming that I am bipolar. When I am really just a fabulously out of work commentator. Crap.

This holiday season I wish many things for my readers (who I hope are still out there, still checking on this bit of blogosphere). But, mainly I do wish one thing and that is to be happy. Yes, I realize I just went on about how I didn't know what that meant. It's because I really don't know what it means.

For some it may just mean getting those monthly expenses down so that it doesn't haunt every step or sip of coffee you take. For others it may be achieving some sort of career status, a slight improvement that says you're worth something, and that you are capable of doing something right. And for some it just might be that you need to be content with yourself.

And for all of us, I think the main struggle is truly knowing what we want in life.

It's easy to get confused with that last one. Often what we want in life is imposed upon us by so many outside factors. What we want to be, where we want to live, what we want to do with our free time, and how we can be the best we can be. I have a feeling that if we just figure out exactly what we want-- it doesn't matter when we really get it. It's that clarity of mind, that inner purpose-- that true dream that helps us get out of bed in the morning and it fills us with a sense of adventure.

I recently got some good advice that was simple and to the point: 1) Decide what your goal is. 2) Write out the steps to get there. 3) Get started.

It's very simple. And no one needs to follow those steps more than myself. I just lamented for the first half of this blog that it isn't possible for me to be a court commentator slash super cool legal heist participant, plus be a movie star and maybe also a princess all at once.

But more than anything, I want that clear path. I'd like it wrapped up under the tree in sparkly silver paper with a big white bow. And I'd also like a puppy for Christmas. I would name her "Lady" and we would be bestest friends. But, that's present number two.  (And yes, I know your purpose in life doesn't come wrapped up with a bow--that was me being funny, okay?)

When you figure out exactly what you want--that's yours to keep. If you get it, hold on tight to it. It's like what Curly says in City Slickers-- the secret to life is one thing. You have to figure out what that one thing is.  And you can't figure it out for anyone else-- you can only figure it out for yourself.  That's your gift.

Besides, you need to focus on getting the people in your house interesting Christmas gifts.

I'm going to get my little brother something fun like a t-shirt signed by Metallica.

I'm going to get my sister a Snuggie. Because she pissed me off this week.



Happy, Happy Holidays.



Hug your family-- be thankful for them. Drink Eggnog-- it's yummy. And figure out what you want.  What your one thing is.  It might be sitting right in front of you.

And how great would that be?


"New year, same goal."  -Joe King





For more blogs go to:  dvb-freeparking.blogspot.com/

LOVE LETTER

It's hard to say when you re-fall in love.  No, that's not true.  I think you do know when it happens.  I don't think you feel it creeping up on you, but I think you do know when it happens.

Now, HOW it happens?

Different story.

Can't be planned.  Can't be recreated.  Can't be decided on.

It's something between you and the fates and traffic.  It's a whole omelet of things, really.  And it's when you're going about your life, packing bags and trying to get a cup of coffee, and saying goodbye to a pet and stubbing your toe.

This I know.  I can't tell you what it is.  I know that we fight.  I know that I cry about it a lot.  That we argue over where our lives are going.  Whether it's love or just a fling or a tortuous love affair or just a date for an afternoon.  We argue, this I know.  And I have threatened to leave.  Stomped my feet, yelled profanity, and also whispered sweet nothings...

But, yesterday.  No, that's a lie.  Last night-- I fell back in love with Los Angeles.

Between the sun and the smog, the bohemian and chic, the fake and the faker, the palm trees and the orange groves that turned to Disneyland, the shiny cars and faded flip flops, the dreams and the non-reality--

I realized I was home.  Sometimes it takes you six years to realize it's love.

And as Harris K. Telemacher says:

There's someone out there for everyone-- even if you need a pickaxe, a compass, and night goggles to find them.  And romance does exist deep in the heart of LA.

I don't know about you, readers, but over the past few years I have become something terrible: a complainer.  I look back and I'm just not sure how it happened.  It happened gradually, that much I know.  Just a constant whine seemed to come from my lips-- or worse, a slight hint of anger.  And even my humor began to have a slight serrated edge to it-- instead of a quick tongued wit, I had a dagger of opinion.

Now, as terrible as that all is-- at least I noticed it.  And that is a huge thing, that I know.  So many people change gradually and they themselves do not recognize it-- I, dear readers, recognized it.  And my subconscious was trying to turn back the clocks and find out just where it all turned just a little grumpy.  Where it all turned a little sleepy.  And dopey.  Yep, I (somehow) had become all of the seven dwarfs all on my own.  Hell, with my pale skin and dark hair I was even Snow White.  Yep, that girl who would take an apple from a really creepy looking stranger.  Yep.  I had lost my way, if only a little.

Of all the things I've gotten wrong in the past few years, there were a couple of things I got right.  One of which was finding the beautiful condo I live in-- I'm lucky to even have it--it's beautiful, and in a neighborhood that could not suit me anymore if it tried.  And the second was my choice of furry companion.  When I moved into my new abode a few years ago, I went to the local pound to find a furry friend.  And there, I came across the most beautiful, elegant grey and white tabby whose big green eyes and demeanor simply said "Yes, I am a lady."  And she was perfect for me.  She was still wearing a bell collar that had been given to her by her previous owners (who had dropped her off in the shelter's 'overnight' box).  The vet deemed her to be about a year old.  I named her Emma and took her home with me.

She was everything that I could possibly ask for.  Affectionate.  Elegant.  She never climbed onto things or walked on my counters.  She would sit majestically on my couch when people were over for dinner.  She enjoyed a good conversation.  She liked to be adored, but never pleaded for attention.  When someone less than favorable walked over the threshold, she simply turned her back and made it known that she did not approve.  She was not only my best friend, she was my baby.  We were a pair.  And when I was sick, I always woke up to her cuddled on my pillow above my head, protecting me.  Watching over me.

In the mornings, she ran alongside me to make coffee and eat breakfast.  She sat at my dining room table with me while I wrote blogs and countless emails.

This year she turned four, which in the cat sphere of things is still a baby.  I had come from a household where animals lived incredibly long.  Where cats passed 18, where St. Bernards passed 15.  My dear Emma and I, surely, had years ahead of us.

The past few years have been emotionally stressful for me--if only hidden behind closed doors.  And the one who was there for me, with me, was Emma.  She was one of those cats that clearly was a person that had been turned into a cat by some local sorcerer.  She was beyond cat.  She was human.  She was my friend.

As you know, dear readers, up until a few days ago I had been in Europe for two weeks.  Lovely London museums, Peter Pan, yadda yadda yadda.  I made phone calls inquiring about my cat, texted frequently to ensure she was fine, and  the response was always the same: she's a little sad, but she just misses you.  I hated to leave her, but I knew I'd be back soon.

And when I got back four days ago, I noticed that my beautiful Emma was lethargic.  Not playful.  Sure, she was mad at me, but surely she'd get over it in a day or so.  Emma was forgiving and she loved me.  And the next day she wouldn't eat.  And as I laid myself down on the floor next to her, hearing a faint and tired purr-- I knew something was wrong.

The vet took my baby from me.  Said she needed an IV and needed blood tests.  And I didn't get to say an official goodbye because I thought to myself: she's only four.  She's fine.  She just missed me.

And the next morning, I lost her.  She died at the vet's.  Without me getting to say goodbye.  And I had missed the last two weeks with her.

The vet was kind enough to pull me (sobbing) aside and told me that she had a virus much like Leukemia, she would have had it her whole life and I wouldn't have known it--and that he knew she had just waited for me to get home before passing away.

So, today marks my Emma being gone for two days.  And I am sitting here writing alone.  And I have decided to not take anything for granted anymore.  It may seem silly, this love for a cat-- but she was my family.  And my house seems empty and my writing seems heavy and my coffee just doesn't taste the same.

And I miss her more than I can possibly express.

I've heard many people in the past few years mention how people are getting pets and not having children.  That there are now pet spas and pet hotels-- and surely that's so silly and people just want to waste their money.  And maybe I would have slightly nodded a half-assed agreement to that sort of talk a few years ago.  Not that Emma ever made it to a day spa, because I could not afford such things.  I don't think it's people wasting their money.  Maybe it's extravagant, sure.  But, I think it's finding a companion and really loving it and taking care of it.  Some of us don't have families where we are living.  And our pets are our family.  To each his own.  Love the one you're with.  All of that--take into account, because it's true.

I have not read this best seller, but I have seen the film and I really enjoyed it.  There was obviously a reason that it maintained its place as a national bestseller for so long.  That book is called MARLEY & ME by the journalist John Grogan.  It's an entertaining and heartfelt recollection of his family's life with their dog Marley.  I think I'm going to put down "Dracula" for the time being.  And I'm going to pick up "Marley & Me."  I'm going to read it because I've heard from numerous sources that it's wonderful.  I'm also going to read it, because this week I'm giving thanks to the universe for giving me Emma for the past three years.

Yes.  The past few years have been tough.  But that's nothing.  I had Emma, which made every day end well.  And I'm grateful for the time I got.  And for everyone who loves their pets out there (and I know there's a lot of you, I saw you at the vet's this weekend)-- give them an extra snuggle and a kiss and maybe an extra treat.  And don't be grumpy.  They love you.

"No animal should ever jump up on the dining-room furniture unless absolutely certain that he can hold his own in the conversation."  -Fran Leibowitz

In my next life I think I want to be French.  Well, maybe not really French.  Let me rephrase that: in my next life I would like to be born with a French essence.  Yes, yes, that's what I mean...


The past week I seem to have been bombarded by all things French.  French books (My Life in France by Julia Child; A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke; an accidental run in with a French Vogue), French films (A Good Year, Chocolat, French Kiss), and I now have (or maybe have always had) the idea that I would be much more fabulous if my personality lent itself to the subtle, red-lipsticked ideal of a French woman.  

Now, quite often I like to think that I have some of those suave tendencies.  A slight sophistication, a classic style, and maybe a hint of that je ne sais quoi-- HOWEVER, those thoughts and dreams have just gone KAPUT since after handing the friendly termite exterminator (who showed up at my house this morning at 8 a.m.) a handful of Cadbury chocolates, I proclaimed:  IT MAKES A DAY SO MUCH BETTER WHEN YOU HAVE SOME CHOCOLATE IN YOUR POCKET!!! 

Now.  What followed was:
a)  That awkward moment where you think to yourself:  Did I just rhyme???  
b)  Then comes the more awkward moment:  Does he think I meant to rhyme???
c)  Then you realize:  I am so not French.  Juliette Binoche would not have said that.  And she even starred in CHOCOLAT.  Damn it....

Believe it or not, every once in a while I am cool.  I call it when I am my "James Bond self"... i.e.  cool.  But, then before I know it, just when I'm about to say something terribly simple, classy, and to the point like: Shaken, not stirred.  I say something like: It makes a day so much better when you have some chocolate in your pocket.  Yep.  Just when I'm starting to feel the ooh la la of French charm, I end up with the oh no no no...  But, I'm working on it.  Chocolates in my pockets and all.

I doubt the French even eat Cadbury chocolate.  I'm sure they whip up a fantastic creme brulee or something.  Or maybe they just have a baguette and a cigarette.  Either way, I don't see the French walking around with chocolates in their pockets.  They probably don't even have pockets.


Anyway.


I hope you had a chance to read PETER PAN-- and if (for some crazy reason) you missed it this time 'round, please read it in the future.  It's just lovely.  (And if you didn't get around to PETER PAN, hopefully you had a chance to at least check out the fabulous FUG GIRLS.)



I have also officially finished Mrs. Child's MY LIFE IN FRANCE.  It was interesting.  I love Julia and I love, love, love her personality and gumption (and how I do love to use the word gumption)-- but I found her book a little slow.  However, if you're all about the cooking and loving of France, this is a decent read.  I probably will not read it again--but the film made me giddy and just oh so happy-- so, this time 'round I am going to go with Meryl Streep's version.  And I'm okay with that.

As for my next reading adventure, I'm probably going to go with another classic and that is DRACULA by Bram Stoker.  This is for two reasons.  First, because it is OH SO close to Halloween.  And Halloween happens to be my favorite holiday.  Absolute favorite.  No contenders.  Besides Christmas, that is.


Now, I don't like scary scary Halloween-- I like a slightly vampiric Disney like version.  This means I dress up, eat candy, drink, carve pumpkins, go outside to smell the essence of fall in the air, and watch HOCUS POCUS because it is awesome.  And, since I love vampires (this would be reason number 2) as much as pirates (who doesn't love pirates--especially when they are portrayed by Johnny Depp), I'm going to go ahead and read DRACULA.  For those of you who went ahead and added the STANZA application on your iPhone (again, it's free) you can read DRACULA very easily.  I've read the first few chapters and it's a lot more entertaining than I had expected.  So, for those of you who have the time, read it.  Although (for some reason), I have a discouraging feeling that many people will skip this...  Anyway, that's what I'm going to read until I pick up something new from the bestseller list.  

On the subject of vampires, below are some other books that are said to be worth the read:


1)  INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE by Anne Rice
2)  TWILIGHT by Stephenie Meyer
3)  THE HISTORIAN by Elizabeth Kostova
4)  THE VAMPIRE LESTAT by Anne Rice
5)  LIVING DEAD IN DALLAS by Charlaine Harris (Now TRUE BLOOD on HBO)



And that's all I'm going to list.  Because if I list anymore, I'm going to sound creepy and I'm not creepy.  But, it is the right month for vampire novels, so if DRACULA doesn't suit your fancy, you can always try one of the above.  You could also always watch episodes of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER because, really, that's just good fun.  I'll leave it up to you.  Halloween is a very personal thing.

And, quickly, before I go-- (where am I going to?)-- Halloween reminded me of a series that I'd also like to give a shout out to.  The only bad Halloween I've ever had consisted of me being stuck indoors with a less than remarkable roommate.  How I wished I was somewhere that had trick-or-treaters and costumes and caramel apples!  But, alas, sometimes (hopefully only once) you find yourself stuck indoors with an unworthy companion.  The only good thing about the evening was ABC aired the Halloween episode of PUSHING DAISIES.  AND I LOVE PUSHING DAISIES.  Unfortunately, due to the Writer's Strike (which was totally called for by the way, if you are a writer, I was on your side), the show had a fairly lackluster 2nd season and got canceled.  

HOWEVER, the first season of PUSHING DAISIES should not be missed.  You can purchase the first season for around twenty bucks and it's so worth it.  It's filled with cleverness, colors, Kristin Chenoweth, and a man who owns a pie shop who's loved the same girl since he was 8 years old.  It's beautiful-- rather like hour long episodes of a happy Tim Burton-esque magical world.  And it's fun.  And the kids will love it too.  Just so great.  BUY IT.

And I must say that the "Pie Maker" and his sweet pie shop makes me think:  You know what?  I don't need your creme brulee.  Or your baguette and cigarette, for that matter.  Because I've got gumption (such a good word) and a little bit of style and I may even rhyme every once in a while... 


And that is just fine.

Maybe I'll be French for Halloween. 



"I had come to the conclusion that I must really be French, only no one had ever informed me of this fact."  -Julia Child "My Life in France"

Before I launch into my adventures at the British Museum this morning, I want to give a shout out to two of my favorite girls who I have never met, but would love to meet and become best friends with (they are now on the same list as Dawn French and Jennifer Garner who I know would be awesome to hang out with)--those two girls are known as THE FUG GIRLS.  I hate to give a shout out to another blog, but I must, I must, I must!!!

I will tell you now that this is a blog for women.  Who love fashion.  Or just really enjoyable commentary.  The blog is called GO FUG YOURSELF.  One of my best gal pals in the world told me about it a few months back and I've been absolutely addicted.  In fact, when I am having a bad day, when I feel grumpy, when for some reason the only friend in the world I have is a tub of ice cream-- I go to gofugyourself.com and everything is better.  And yes, I read it on good days too.  :)

The Fug Girls are Jessica and Heather and they (obviously) live inside my head.  They write like I think, and they are oh so enjoyable.  Read it, Ladies.  It's too good to miss.  It's my version of VOGUE-- and it's way better in my opinion.  Because these girls aren't harsh, just charming-- and they love Cate Blanchett and so do I.  Check it out.  I love them, love them, love them-- and I'm giving them a shout out in hopes that they want an intern that is obviously destined to be their newest of gal pals. (a.k.a. moi) 

As I was saying...

Today I made my way to the British Museum all on my lonesome.  I took the tube, and read my copy of Julia Child's "MY LIFE IN FRANCE" on the way.  I enjoyed Julia's tidbits of post-war France and all that it's markets had to offer.  However, as lovely as the book is-- I'm not going to lie-- I am not enthralled.  I thoroughly enjoy it, but I can easily wait a few days before picking it up again. 

So, I'm enjoying it.  Will I take it to bed with me?  Probably not.

(This comment is referring to the fact that the first night in London, I had taken a rather old copy of "JANE EYRE" off my grandmother's bookshelf.  I was so tired that I simply held it in my hand in bed.  Then my mother came in my room to tell me good night, woke me up and asked me if I intended on reading the book or was I just sleeping with it.)  So although Julia's book is not a sleepmate, it is lovely and good for sunny afternoons...

Once I reached the British Museum, I spent a few hours roaming.  I had been there a few years back, but it's always good to get a second glance.  I roamed through the halls of Egyptian artifacts and Roman statuary and that was all good and fine.  Relics from the times of the Crusades are ALWAYS fascinating in my Templar fascinated mind.  BUT, what I enjoyed most (and who could be surprised?) was the large library.  A large, two story hall filled with books and all the lovely artifacts that English gentlemen had brought home from the grand tour.  (As I was roaming the library I imagined how their conversations went... perhaps something like "Hello, darling!  I have just returned from Greece and I have brought you a beautiful piece of the Parthenon!"  or, my personal, favorite "Yes, yes, I decided to visit Egypt and I have brought home my very own mummy!  No, no, not that sort of mummy...mother is still alive and kicking...No!  Dare I say it?  A real dead Egyptian!"  And yes, that's how it all went in my head.) 

In all seriousness, it was beyond fascinating.  All I could think of were ways to make enough money to build myself a library of the same caliber.  Apparently, I would have to be royalty, but really, Prince William is still a bachelor, so anything is possible...

After a good hour in the library, I decided to check out the bookshop.  And you will never believe it, dear readers.  I was ready to leave when out of the corner of my eye there I saw a pocket sized version of "PETER PAN" wrapped in a green cover with Captain Hook on it.  How could I resist?  A copy of "PETER PAN" and a glorious library ten feet away?  In London???  Be still my little book reading heart.  Of course, I bought it.

As I made my way slowly back to the library, I was reminded of the last time I had a for real, tangible copy of "PETER PAN"-- it came as a volume of a large children's book series that my parents had given me as a child.  I distinctly remember that it was a forest green color with Peter etched onto the cover.  The series was always on the second story of my father's library in the lefthand corner--where all the children's books were.  HOWEVER, back home I have a lovely, yet overzealously tidy uncle who took the liberty of disposing of the series a couple years ago.  I believe he sold them at a garage sale.  Sadly, I was not home to defend the books and I only got to complain to him over the phone-- he cooly noted that I had grown up and besides, hadn't I already read them? 

This brought me into the same scale of frenzy as the last time we'd had such an argument.  I got home from college one day to find that a lot of my books were in boxes in the garage-- presumably destined for the same fate as my children's books-- and I went (there's really no better way to put it) BONKERS.  My uncle noted that I had already read all of them and that he couldn't imagine reading a book more than once-- OH ME OH MY.  I lost it. If my memory serves me right, I turned bright red with anger and I believe a few expletives were used...

Eventually, I calmed down and tended to the task at hand: I petted my poor books, brought them back inside, gave them a scoop of ice cream and sent them off to bed.  Oh, and I may or may not have called my wonderful uncle a cave man. 

But, we got over it. 

He no longer touches my books and he respectfully thinks I'm insane.  And that's just the way it's supposed to be.  :)

So, when my feet finally made it back to the library, I sat on a wooden bench in the middle of my own heaven.  I took off the cover of "PETER PAN" (I usually don't like to keep covers on hard back books), and there underneath the green cover with Captain Hook was a burgundy book with gold lettering that simply and beautifully read: "J.M. BARRIE "PETER PAN".  My dear lord.  Peter Pan, the library in the British Museum, and it's red with gold letters????  Jiminy Cricket, it doesn't get any better.

After an hour of reading, I made my way back to the subway station.  I feel that the sighting of "Peter Pan" was good luck on many levels-- first, because it's lovely to read such a lovley book in such a lovely setting.  Second, because my subconscious was trying to lure me back to Selfridges where I had seen a pair of divine blue suede pumps that brought to mind Carrie Bradshaw's shoe adoring comment: HELLO LOVER... But, the sun was setting and it was time to go, and really who needs blue suede pumps when you're holding a red book with gold letters?

Tomorrow, I make my way back home and away from London and Peter Pan.  But, truly readers, as I reread "PETER PAN" I wanted to run to a computer and tell you all to please not miss this book-- READ IT. 

Next time round, I'll give you something different.  But this week is your week to visit Neverland.  And no excuses about being a grown up-- I simply won't hear of it.

Read "PETER PAN".  Write a letter to someone.  Check out the Fug Girls.  And be merry.

All my love and a bottle of red wine,

Danielle


"There's something you should know about me... I'm very, very choosey... I'm also very, very suspiscious, very, very irrational and I have a very, very short temper.  I'm also extremely jealous and slow to forgive.  Just so you know." 

-Marion Cotillard to Russell Crowe in "A GOOD YEAR"-- the film I happened to be watching while writing this blog...

Dear Readers,

Tonight (and until Tuesday), I am far, far away from most of you.  Tonight, I sat in a pub in a small town outside of London.  And as I was enjoying my drink, I noticed that the fellow sitting across from me reminded me of someone... 

Who was it?  That slight twinkle in his eye?  That young smirk at the tip of his lips?

And then it came to me.  He would be a perfect grown up Tootles.  Or a Smee. 

And then I realized (with great shock and a little bit of horror) that I had forgotten to list one of the most wonderful books ever written.  The book that I am, in fact, going to make the first book on my "Free Parking Book Club" list. 

That book, dear readers, is J.M. Barrie's "PETER PAN."

Ever since I was a child, this story has been a part of me.  I guess you could say-- it's been my shadow.

When I was young, I felt to be the most capable-- I was the oldest of three, and I knew that my parents depended on me to set an example of sorts.  I could tell stories.  I didn't need to be a child.  We even had a sweet Nana dog of our own-- a St. Bernard named Sabrina whose big brown eyes told us when we were good, when we were bad, and when we needed to go to bed.  And, much like Wendy, I spent many nights looking out my window...

But, when I actually grew up-- actually left childhood behind-- I heard Peter's tapping at my window... I hit 22 and suddenly wished I hadn't grown up.  For really, it wasn't all it had promised to be.  Where were the mermaids?  Captain Hook?  And a fairy of my very own?  WHERE WAS THE ADVENTURE?

Even if you missed Mr. Barrie's story as a child-- even if you somehow missed Mr. Disney's lovely portrayal (although it is an incredibly simplified version)-- you can still experience "Peter Pan." 

The truth is this.  No matter the wrinkles, the hardships, or the adventures you've had-- you never, truly, have to grow up.

And as I sat across from my own version of "Smee" at the pub tonight, Mr. Smee told me how I resembled one of the loves of his life: another "Danielle" who he had left his antique book shop to so many years ago...  My Smee was 80, and as he spoke I saw a young man in his place...

And then, Peter Pan began to touch my heart once again...

Everyone knows the basics of the story-- Peter, the boy who will never grow up, Wendy, the Lost Boys, and of course-- Captain Hook.

But there are so many beautiful nuances in the book that should not be missed! 

The kiss that is hidden in Mrs. Darling's smile. 

The fact that when Peter Pan is flying to Neverland he forgets who you are.

You don't want to miss it.  And there's no excuse for you to.  I know that many of you don't have time to go out and purchase a new book.  There are careers, children, and lives to deal with-- but now, if you don't have the time to get to the bookstore, there is (dare I say it?) the iPhone. 

I feel absolutely despicable mentioning it.  Almost as grimey as I felt when I purchased a copy of Julia Child's memoir "MY LIFE IN FRANCE" at the airport a week ago.  I needed to purchase a book, and it was one of the ones I had promised to read-- HOWEVER, it was one of those books that had the film version splattered all over the front of it.  So, instead of getting Julia Child's enchanting postcard of her and her husband looking amorously at one another-- there, on the cover, was a picture of Meryl Streep walking through a market in France.  I said a little prayer to Julia:  "Mrs. Child, I am so sorry.  I wanted to read your book and I'm sorry that it's covered with Meryl Streep...  I should have gotten to Barnes & Noble to buy a real copy, but I am lazy, lazy, lazy!!!"

Now, I love Meryl Streep.  Who doesn't?  I have no doubt that it wasn't Meryl Streep at all who had this done...  So, the point is that I felt absolutely disgusting purchasing Julia Child's memoir with Meryl Streep on the front of it.  But, I needed the book, and that was that.  So, to somehow make it even-stevens I pulled out three or four pages from it and used the pages for a letter to a friend.  I figured if the book somehow sacrificed itself for the writing of a letter, then we would be on an even keel.  And so we were.

ANYWAY.

J.M. Barrie's book must not be missed.  And I do believe that to truly enjoy a book you must hold it in your hands.  But I know that times are changing.  And I would rather keep all readers and not discriminate.  So, for you readers out there who have iphones, there is an application called STANZA.  (Believe it or not, some kind waiter once notified me of its existence.)  On it, you can read (for free) any classic you like.  And on it, you can read "PETER PAN."  Thus, when you are stuck somewhere-- at the office, at lunch, at home in the rain, or on a bad date-- you may pull out "PETER PAN" (or "The Picture of Dorian Gray" or "Dracula" for that matter) and read a quick chapter so that you feel alive again.  And believe me, dear readers, nothing makes you feel more alive than "PETER PAN."

There is something that touches your heart strings.  Your soul.  You childhood.  Your children's childhood.  And you will believe.

I dare to bet you.  I bet you there is no one out there who will not enjoy this book. 

As for Ms. Child's memoir-- so far it has been a delight.  It's all about food and France and a woman who is 6'2" and fabulous.  And I'm constantly craving pastries because of it...

Tonight I sleep in London.  And how I wish that Peter Pan would come knocking at my window and take me to a place where I will never grow up-- but, it is raining here and I wouldn't want Peter to get wet or for tiny Tinkerbell to get drenched-- so I will only dream of it.

I know you are all thinking of it.  Get yourself a copy.  Buy it, read it, and remember it.


For reading it will be a great adventure.




"She asked where he lived.



'Second to the right,' said Peter, 'and then straight on till morning.'


'What a funny address!'


Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a funny address.


'No, it isn't,' he said.


'I mean,' Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess, 'is that what they put on the letters?'


He wished she had not mentioned letters.


'Don't get any letters,' he said contemptuously.

'But your mother gets letters?'


'Don't have a mother,' he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had not the slightest desire to have one. He thought them very over-rated persons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a tragedy."

J.M. Barrie "PETER PAN and Wendy"