It's Thanksgiving: Bring on the Corn Pudding

Photo by Patrick Hajzler

Southern cooking is full of puddings. Bread Pudding. Rice pudding. Sweet potato pudding. Corn pudding. Put a "pudding" on there and it's all good.  The only time I remember having this yummy side dish is at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The rest of the time we either ate frozen corn niblets or freshly picked Silver Queen corn from my great-uncle's kitchen garden. (The joke was that you didn't pick the corn until the water in the pot was boiling.)
I pretty much never met a corn dish I didn't love and I still have a fondness for corn somthered in melted cheddar cheese with red pepper flakes, a staple of my college diet.
If you'd like to add a little pizazz to your vegetable sides this holiday, why not try corn in its most quintessential southern form?

CORN PUDDING

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

2 cups cooked corn kernels

3 Tbsp. melted butter

1/2 cup flour

4 tsp. granulated sugar

4 eggs

4 cups non-fat milk

1/4 tsp. nutmeg

1/2 tsp. ground black pepper

dash salt

Prep a baking dish with non-stick spray.

Combine flour, salt, seasonings and sugar.

Add corn and melted gutter.

Add the eggs to the milk and stir.

Add the egg/milk mixture to the dry mixture and pour into the baking pan.

Bake for 40 minutes or until pudding is firm.

It's Thanksgiving--let the celebration of carbs begin

Photo by Vangelis Thomaidin

At the Mullins-Tomlinson household Thanksgiving was all about the sides. Sure, the moistness of the turkey was important and the crispness of the stuffing (there was always two kinds--oyster stuffing because my father loved it and cornbread stuffing made with actual cornbread and none of this Mrs. Cubbinson's mix nonsense) but really, it was all about the starches and the side dishes.
Unlike 99 percent of southern households, we did not have green bean casserole at the holiday. My mother made green beans with bacon and dried red pepper the way God intended us to eat green beans. (I actually prefer crisp steamed green beans these days but when I'm at HomeTown Buffet, I almost always get some of their Southern-style string beans because they do them right.)
One of the dishes that was always on our Thanksgiving table was grated sweet potato pudding. (One of my aunts always brought the candied  yams with the orange juice and the crushed cornflakes and the marshmallows but she always took home most of the dish. The sweet potato pudding dish, though, would be scraped clean.)
Here's the recipe:

GRATED SWEET POTATO PUDDING

4 raw sweet potatoes, peeled and grated (do not use yams)

1 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup brown sugar (you can use molasses)

1/2 cup melted butter

2 eggs

1/4 cup milk

1/4 cup orange juice

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. ginger

1/4 tsp. nutmeg

1 Tbsp. dried orange peel (or rind of a fresh orange)

dash salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Beat eggs.

Combine all ingredients.

Pour into a baking dish prepped with non-stick spray.

Bake until firm (about 50 minutes).

Enjoy.

Gratuitous Cat Cuteness

Because it's Sunday and I'm working and easily distracted by Orange Cat who is guarding the manuscript I'm reading. And besides, isn't the Internet all about cat pictures?

Holiday Themed Grammar Silliness

Savage Chickens by Dug Savage

Coming Soon--the Kattomic Energy 2012 Gift Guide

Photo by Klaus Post

Yes, there will be suggestions for all the foodies, Francophiles, feminists, and fiction lovers on your list. (And many of the gifts will cross categories. Who wouldn't welcome a fridge poetry magnet set with French words? Or an Eiffel Tower cookie cutter? Or a subscription to Bitch magazine?) Sure you can always give an Amazon gift card (always the right size, always the right color) but isn't it fun to pick out the perfect gift yourself? And I promise, no gag gifts or totally useless items. (I once received an over=sized, silver-plated paper clip as a Christmas gift from a client. It cost $75--yes, I looked--I was horrified.)

Most Specific Cookie Cutter Design Ever!

I have a lot of cookie cutters. My collection goes way beyond angels and deer for Christmas. (I have cookie cutters in the shape of two kinds of sharks and a whole Jurassic Park of dinosaurs.) But I do not have THIS cookie cutter, which depicts the skyline of Omaha, Nebraska.
It's made of copper and costs $14.95.  And I just have to wonder--was this a custom order that just got added to the mix or is there a rage for cookie cityscapes I don't know about?  You can buy it here on a site called Kitchen Collectibles.  (Which is located in Omaha, so that would explain the cookie cutter.)

Kitchen Mixtape--You can never have too many food blogs

I spend way (WAY) too much time reading about food. Yes, I am familiar with the term "food porn," and this time of year, I cannot resist carrying home the fat issues of Food and Wine and Martha Stewart's Living and every holiday-themed issue of what I always think of as "my mother's magazines." (Family Circle, Woman's Day, Woman's World.) It's not that I think I'm going to find a new way to make cranberry sauce, but I enjoy reading how other people put together the traditional feasts.
I particularly like food blogs that have a theme, so when I ran across Kitchen Mixtape, I was intrigued. On the site, chefs talk about music and there are "record" reviews as well as restaurant reviews. The design is clean and a little "industrial." If you like food and you like music, check it out.

John McCain is an old fart

I've been head down in deadlines this week so I'm just now catching up on some of the news. And am just now processing the idea of Senator John McCain saying that he didn't think Susan Rice, our ambassador to the UN was "very bright."  It's way too easy to go, "John, really? Compared to who?" but honest to God, has he even seen her Wikipedia entry? This woman has been over-achieving since she was a kid and she's only 48 now, which in terms of a political career is just getting started. What on earth could have persuaded the man who picked Sarah Palin as his running mate to gratuitously slam a woman so accomplished? Is it sexism, racism, or just plain cluelessness?

Hurricane Sandy victims still need your help.

I saw this badge on a site called That Skinny Chick Can Bake, where the afore-mentioned Skinny Chick is rallying support for victims of Hurricane Sandy. They still need help. Here's where you can go to find out what you can do.  Skinny Chick didn't want a link-back but I hope she doesn't mind a shout-out.

Friday Food Rant and a Recipe

I'm currently acting as a consultant on a cookbook for diabetics. The research has been fun and in going through my own files of recipes, I've been reminded of old favorites I haven't made in awhile. (Keema!  I love keema!) But what it's also brought home to me is just how many recipes still use highly processed ingredients. (Let's not even talk about my mother's cook books from the 60s, which were full of recipes that required "Accent" and were either filled with mayonnaise, which I despise, or bacon, which I adore but don't eat.)
Seriously, who eats "whipped topping" when they can have luscious real whipped cream? And yet, every other pie recipe I've run across requires a tub of Cool Whip.
And speaking of whipped cream--here's a recipe my mother called "Corsetiere's Despair." It could not be simpler or more decadent.

Mickey Tomlinson's Corsetiere's Despair

1 pound red and white striped peppermint candy (My mother used Brach's starlight mints)

1 quart unsweetened whipped cream 

1/2 tsp. salt

3 drops red food coloring

Pulverize the candy in a blender or food processor, leaving about half the pieces coarsely chopped and reducing the rest to powder.

Fold the powdered candy, the salt and about half the coarser pieces into the whipped cream.

Place the mixture in a serving bowl.

Drop the food coloring on top of the mixture and using a knife, slash through the whipped cream to create swirls of red.

Sprinkle the rest of the coarser pieces of peppermint over the mixture.

Cover and freeze until firm. 

My mother served this with dark chocolate wafers.

Sample the National Book Award Winners and Nominees

The votes are in and the 2012 National Book Award winners have been announced.
Louise Erdrich has won for her novel The Round House; Katherine Boo has won for her book about the "undercity" of Mumbai. Poet David Ferry won for his collection, Bewilderment; and William Alexander won the Young People's Literature award for Goblin Secrets, published under the late, great Margaret K. McElderry's imprint.
You can read all the details here, where you'll also find links to everyone's work.

Is it too late to get a fake ID?

As I was reading a college comedy this a.m. that featured hijinks involving a fake ID, I had a pang of regret. I never had a fake ID. Never really needed one. I never developed a taste for beer (although Dos Equis' Buena Nocha seasonal brew is pretty damn tasty and unfortunately no longer imported to the US) and if I had a taste for the favorite cocktail of Duke undergrads (Southern Comfort and 7-Up) the ingredients were readily available in the dorm pantry. Even with a fake ID I'm not sure I could have carried "over 21" off. (The last time I was carded, I was out with my brother having Mexican food. I was 33.  It was a bright moment and now a faded memory.) I wish I'd gotten a fake ID now. It feels like a rite of passage I missed out on.  If I'd known I would end up writing dark fiction for fun and  profit, I would definitely have bought one.
Which reminds me.
My mother was one of the most strait-laced people I've ever known. She could be a little school-marmy about it, but she was raised to be a proper Southern woman and despite some strenuous efforts at achieving escape velocity from the remnants of her upbringing, she remained ladylike to her dying day. (She would have been horrified when I chased an orderly out of her room the night before she died, telling him if he came back I would kill him.  Seriously, it was two in the morning and he was there to take her vital signs, even though she was already in a coma and would die two hours later. I am not a polite Southern lady despite my mother's best efforts.)
But the point is... my mother probably never did a dishonest thing in her life, much less a criminal thing.
The last year I lived at home, my sister was in college and my brother was in his last year of law school. Our mother's best friend had been diagnosed with a really nasty, fast-moving kind of cancer. She was on heavy-duty pain meds and they weren't helping the nausea from the chemo.  My mother came up with the idea of buying marijuana and sending it to her but wondered aloud at the dinner table where she might find such a product. Without hesitation we all spoke up with suggestions about where marijuana could be bought and then stopped as she gave us the evil eye.
"So I've heard," I added, which was true. I've never smoked pot in my life.
"Mailing marijuana is a felony," my brother added, which I thought was a nice bit of deflection.
My sister got up to get more iced tea.
In the end, she didn't buy the weed.
And in the end--and this is true--her friend went into remission and was ultimately declared cancer free after joining a church run by a charismatic young preacher.
My mother died two years later of lung cancer; her friend is still alive.
Life is funny and unpredictable.
Next time I'll get the fake ID.

Nightfalls anthology

The Nightfalls anthology is in its final editing cycle and it's a terrific group of stories. The anthology will be priced at $3.99 (a bargain for 29 stories), with all proceeds going to Para Los Ninos, an organization that helps at-risk kids and their parents succeed in education and in life.
The cover design is by Joy Sillesen of Indie Author Services, who donated her work to the project, She will also be designing both the ebook and the print version.  The stories range from speculative fiction to horror to humor with side trips to science fiction and noir-flavored lit fic.

Everybody I asked to participate in this anthology said yes, and then they gave me wonderful stories (and one poem). It's been a pleasure to work with everyone and I hope to do it again soon. More details to come, but just to whet your appetite--here's the TOC:

Acapulcolypse

            Thomas Pluck

Some Say the World Will End in Fire

            Sidney Anne Harrison

Forward is Where the Croissantwich Is

            Chris Rhatigan

Somebody Brave

            Kat Laurange

Our Lady

            Dale Phillips

Greene Day

            Nigel Bird

Isabel

            Megan McCord

The Memory Keeper

            Sandra Seamans

Bon Appétit

            Barb Goffman

Déjà vu

            Christopher Grant

It's Not the End of the World

            Matthew C. Funk

A Sound as of Trumpets

            Berkeley Hunt

Supper Time

            Col Bury

Blackened

            Dellani Oakes

The End of Everything

            AJ Hayes

Last Shift

            Steven Luna

Into the Night

            Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw

Blackout

            Richard Godwin

Amidst Encircling Gloom

            Scott J Laurange

Devotee

            G. Wells Taylor

Princess Soda and the Bubblegum Knight

            R. C. Barnes

The Last Wave

            Kaye George

The Dogs on Main Street Howl

            Allen Leverone

Call the Folks

             Alex Keir

The Knitted Gaol Born Sow Monkey

            Peter Mark May 

Crossfade

            Christian Dabnor

The Tasting

            Jesse James Freeman

The Annas

            Patricia Abbott

Night Train to Mundo Fine

            Jimmy Callaway

Children's Book Relief

If you're like me, you have a whole bookcase full of books you've read and will probably never read again.  Maybe you cull them every once in awhile, sending them to live at your local library, or donating them to your nearest thrift store, or just leaving them on buses and on benches like a friend of mine does. Maybe all you really need is a good reason for cleaning off those shelves.
Now you have one.
Urban Librarians Unite is hosting a fund drive to benefit children affected by Hurricane Sandy. They're looking for donations of used and new children's books and new activity books and coloring books (with crayons) for children.

Europe's Top Cop is ... a woman!

Mirielle Balestrazzi

It's been a good week for women here in the U.S. and now comes the news that Interpol has elected its first female president, Mirielle Balestrazzi. According to news reports, she's been a police commissioner in France since 1975 (when she would have been 31) and she's been the particular bane of organized crime in Bordeaux and Corsica.
I love that the number of "first" females is rapidly dwindling and believe that soon the whole notion of some jobs being beyond the reach of women will seem as quaint and old fashioned as sarsaparilla.

What's the story here?

Photo by Patrizio Martorana

Our brains are wired to make sense of the events we observe. When it cannot put together the puzzle pieces from our observations, our brains will simply fill in the blanks. That's the point behind those tests of how well we can read sentences that are missing vowels or have such a hard time spotting extra letters. Based on previous experience, our brain sees what it wants to see.
I think another way we're all wired is that we all share a need to turn our experiences into a narrative. If you've ever heard the phrase, "It is what it is" and disagreed, I think you're tapping into this impulse, or this imperative, or whatever it is that provides the perspective and the point of view to turn situations into story.
"Bad life, good anecdote," Carrie Fisher used to say, and I embraced that phrase as my mantra.
But it's not just writers who do this.
When I worked for Los Angeles Magazine, I car-pooled with two women who could not have been more different from each other and from me. One was an elegant ex-model whose husband was a handsome, successful executive. The other was a careworn mom whose life had been full of sorrows--an ex-husband who supported the family (or not) as a gambler, a first-born child who died from a reaction to the polio vaccine.
We were locked together in a small space for at least 90 minutes a day and sometimes longer and as women do when they're together, we talked.
Often the talk was trivial--about work, about movies, about people we knew. Sometimes the conversation was heavier, about an abortion one had had, about seemingly insurmountable in-law problems that were wreaking havoc in a marriage, about hopes and dreams and aspirations.
And one day we saw the piles of rubber bands at an intersection.
M saw them first and remarked upon them and J and I looked and thought, Huh. That's odd.
And that would probably have been it except that not long after, we saw another pile of the rubber bands--the skinny little ones--at another intersection.
Before long, we were seeing the piles of rubber bands all over the place, as if droppings from some big rubber dog that would pass by unnoticed, leaving its scat behind.
It almost drove us crazy trying to figure out the significance of those piles of little rubber bands.
and then one morning we came in to work very early, for reasons that escape me, and the mystery of the rubber bands was solved when we saw a paperboy on a corner putting them around his newspapers before loading up his bike.
The best advice my father ever gave me was, "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story."
We were disappointed when we found out what was really going on.
Because we wanted there to be a "story" there.

Recipe for a fall afternoon--Pizza

Photo by Szazlajos

It is actually cool here in the Southland, which is kind of a relief. I like summer as much as the next person but when it gets to be the middle of November, I'm ready to put away my shorts.

Since it's cool, it's time for pizza and I am not talking about ordering up from Shakey's. I'm talking about making it yourself. It takes a little longer but trust me on this--it's worth it. When I make this for parties people follow me into the kitchen to get fresh pieces before they exit. 

Once you eat this pizza, you will never, ever be able to go back to store-bought pizza, which is why I post the recipe every year.  I got the recipe from my mother, who got it from her friend Eleanor Trigg (along with an odd lemon/currant dessert recipe that I don't remember her ever making and which has sat unloved in the back of my recipe notebook since I inherited it in 1986).

Eleanor Trigg’s Pizza as interpreted by Mickey Tomlinson as handed down to me…

2 pkgs of bulk pork sausage  (I use Jimmy Dean’s hot.  You can also use turkey sausage)

1 yellow onion, diced

½ cup (or more) dried Parmesan cheese (in the green canister, not fresh)

Garlic powder to taste (you won't need as much if you use "hot" sausage

Italian seasoning to taste

2 large cans tomato paste

Lick of olive oil

Story for a Wednesday: The Temperature at which Love Freezes

Here in Los Angeles we're experiencing our sixth month of summer, but I remember winter... Here's a new story for a chilly day. Because somewhere it's chilly.

The Temperature at Which Love Freezes

By Katherine Tomlinson

Credit: Websurfer6

The front door shut with a soft but emphatic click as Jonathan slipped out of the house. Even though he knew Kaye wouldn’t have heard it—she slept like a hibernating bear—he still found himself looking over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t wakened, that she wasn’t following him with her furious eyes.

But Kaye had merely grunted and turned over, burrowing deeper into the 600-thread count sheets and goose-down comforter.

There was only one person who would send Jonathan a text in the middle of the night; only one person whose text he’d read in the middle of the night.

Jonathan had grabbed the phone, fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table and read the message without turning on the light.

Come outside. I have a surprise for you. <3 span="span">

She’d attached his favorite picture of her, the one he’d taken after surprising her in the shower.

With barely a glance at his sleeping wife, Jonathan had slid out from beneath the covers, squeezed his bare feet into the fleece-lined slippers Kaye had ordered online without checking his size, and padded silently across the carpeted floor. 

He’d tied his plaid bath robe tightly before venturing out into the cold, well aware that all he had on underneath the flannel was a pair of thin cotton boxer shorts.

Outside, Jonathan breathed deeply. Purged of the vague day-time petroleum scent that always lingered in the wake of rush-hour commuters using his street as a short-cut to the freeway, the night smelled like pine needles

It's Here!

It's been a long strange trip to this Election Day.
It's all over but the voting.
I think we all deserve a breather. 
I found this joke on Man Walks Into a Joke, which bills itself as the "ultimate joke collection."

A man goes up to a politician at a party and says, "I’ve heard a lot about you.'' The politician replies, "But you can’t prove any of it."

Where do you get your ideas? The Noir Version

I am often asked, "Where do you get your ideas?" In some cases, that's code for, "Why don't you ever write "nice" stories?" (Those people should know by now that I don't do "nice" and they should  be glad. Writing dark fiction allows me to channel all the anger I feel toward stupid and cruel people and prevents me from being arrested for homicide, justifiable as it may be.) But I digress.
Like everyone else, I get the usual spam--for Canadian pharmacies, for penis extensions, for questionable legal transactions in Nigeria. These email missives go straight into my junk folder and are deleted en masse every morning.
But today I got an email that tickled that little spot on the back of my neck that tingles when the universe hands me an idea that might be a story if it percolates long enough.
It was from Marriedbutlonely.
Eeeeuuuuw.
The ads are aimed at guys, and promise that the women on offer are all "neglected housewives" looking for nothing more than a little fun.
Seriously, what could possibly go wrong?
There's a story here.
It's an old story for sure, but now with a technological twist.

Election Day Fiction: Participatory Democracy

The new issue of ThugLit is out and I'm delighted to say my short story "Participatory Democracy" is one of the stories therein. The issue is ONLY 99 cents, so fire up your reading device or kindle app and go get it. Special thanks to editor Todd Robinson for his excellent suggestions for making the story better.

Our fellow citizens need us... and the Red Cross is there

I grew up in hurricane country. When I was a kid, Hurricane Camille roared through Richmond. The James River rose out of its banks. The Army (from nearby Ft. Lee) flew in water but we got ours from a spring in a park that was walking distance. Snakes slithered up from the river. Our cat, Purry Mason, picked up a poisonous snake and dropped it in our kitchen. It was, "they" said, a "hundred year storm."  Three years later, Hurricane Agnes did even more damage. (At the time, it was the costliest hurricane in history.)
My brother joined a volunteer crew sandbagging downtown buildings against the hurricane-driven flood surge. The water peaked many feet above where they thought it would.
I have friends who were living in New Orleans when Katrina hit. They were lucky--the roof blew off a storage facility they used and they came back to mold in their house but both of them survived without losing a day of work--one is a web designer, the other teaches for Tulane's online classes.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime storm.
And now we have Hurricane Sandy. Someone on Facebook posted a comment that the storm should hve been called something dark and dire because "Sandy" sounds so chipper and cheerleader-y.
I like the way New York Governor Andrew Cuomo is looking at the disaster--tabling the divisive discussion of what is causing these super weather events and getting down to brass tacks--what can we do to protect and prevent such future disasters.
But in the meantime, it's a mess.
And we all need to pitch in and help.
Donating to the Red Cross makes it easy.  Here's where to go. Donate money. Donate blood. Every little bit helps.

It's been said before, many times, many ways...

Don't just stand there...vote!

New Fiction for November--Automaton

Credit: Oliver Brandt

My story "Automaton" is in the new issue (issue #3) of Inner Sins. I'm very pleased with how the story turned out and would like to give a shout-out to editors J. Scott Kunkle and Michael Martin for going the extra mile to help me shape the story and then accepting it.  Thanks guys.
You can read "Automaton" here.http://www.innersins.com/

Friday Film Recommendation

I read film scripts for a living and there aren't many that capture my imagination. Two movies I recommended my clients buy are coming out tomorrow. You should go see them.
When I read The Bay, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. It's a terrific found footage film about an ecological disaster.  Barry Levinson is the director. Michael Wallach wrote it. The distributor is positioning it as a horror movie, but I'd call it more of a disaster movie. If the movie is half as good as the script, it'll be worth your entertainment dollar.
From the trailer, it looks like the marketing campaign is really pushing a sort of Paranormal Activity vibe and that's not the way it was originally written. But I'll be in line.
I also read and loved A Late Quartet, which is a very different film and Oscar-bait for sure. It stars Catherine Keener, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Christopher Walken and Wallace Shawn.  It's so uncommercial it's not even funny but a movie filled with great performances. It's a story about the coming of age and tensions among friends and all in all, it's a movie for grownups. Check it out.

Halloween Fiction--Mutton Dressed as Lamb

A short little Halloween story:

MUTTON DRESSED AS LAMB

By Katherine Tomlinson

Vannetti sighed when Bruce knocked on the door of his study. He could tell from the sheepish look on Bruce's face that the reason for his unannounced visit was not anything good.

It was Bruce's first Halloween after his second birth and Vannetti had hoped he was out on the town, making the most of his new status and moving about freely, his pale skin and red-rimmed eyes dismissed as just another costume by the human revelers.

"Yes Bruce?" he asked, irritated by his passive body-language he displayed, more appropriate to prey than to his position as an alpha predator.

"Um," Bruce said, which annoyed Vannetti even more. He hated indecision of any sort and verbal hesitancy drove him mad. He'd been born into an aristocratic Venetian family that had valued intellectual rigor. He'd been thoroughly trained in the art of conversation by his father's courtesans and his mother's priests. Of all the changes that had occurred in the long years since he'd been born into the blood, Vannetti mourned the decline of meaningful discourse the most.

"I have a problem," Bruce said and Vannetti sighed again, which is actually not that easy for someone who doesn't need to breathe but a useful trick he'd found to communicate his emotions noverbally.

"I need to show you," Bruce said as he retreated from the doorway in the direction of the Grand Hall.

Vannetti wanted nothing more than to return to the book he was reading, but he knew Bruce would give him no peace until he attended to whatever drama had been created.

There was a masked woman standing in the Grand Hall.

Her figure was sublime, enhanced by a tight, long-sleeved gown of peacock silk that was wrapped around her like a present.

Eye of the beholder

Water Lilies by Monet

I don't much like hospitals. My father was a chronic invalid whose health problems required frequent hospitilization and my sister continued that tradition. I would be really happy if I never had to go into a hospital again. But  what with one thing and another, hospitals happen.  I spent eight hours at the Jules Stein Eye Clinic in LA yesterday, watching over a friend who needed eye surgery and then needed significant aftercare for pain management and blood oxygen levels.  Around one I wandered out of the recovery room looking for someplace to grab a bite.  I noticed the corridors were lined with cheery posters, including a version of Monet's "Water lilies" I'd never seen before. I stepped closer to the "poster" and discovered ... it was an original painting.  I went back and looked at the other "posters" I'd bypassed.  A Picasso. Another Monet. A Raoul Dufy.  There was a Van Gogh.  A treasure of art just hanging on the walls in an otherwise featureless corridor in a maze of featureless corridors. 
Wow.

My vote is my own....

There are a lot of benefits to working as a freelancer. You can wear bike shorts or jammie pants all day. You never have to deal with office politics unless it's negotiating with your cat over who gets to sit in the big comfy desk chair. You don't have to listen to anyone else's choice of a radio station. You can sneak out to a movie whenever you want because as long as you get your work done it doesn't matter when you do the work.
I love being a freelancer.
And now it turns out there's another great benefit of being a freelancer. No one thinks they have the right to tell me how to vote.  (Half my clients are in Europe or Australia, and they especially couldn't care less how I vote, although they do have opinions about who should be the next President.) 
I cannot imagine getting an email like this one Mike White sent out to his employees at Rite-Hite suggesting they consider the "personal consequences" of voting for Barack Obama.
People who work for Rite-Hite can't just thumb their nose at their boss.  And of course, they can vote their consciences, because how would White know how they voted? But the kind of not-so-subtle intimidation this email carried is outrageous.
I am grateful that my livelihood does not depend on my political convictions or on how I vote.
This election cycle has brought out some of the most extreme rhetoric and outrageous behavior I can remember.  And it's not just the ridiculous and demeaning remarks about rape and abortion. It's the demands for birth certificates and tax returns and passport applications.
The most important election of my lifetime will be over in less than two weeks.
I've already voted.
And nobody told me what choices to make.
The choice was clear.

Running the numbers--Equal pay for equal work

One of the candidates for President does not believe that  it's a problem that women don't make as much as men in the workplace.
A lot of people believe that the same candidate's wife, who chose to be a stay-at-home mom, said this about equal pay for women:  "Why should women be paid equal to men? Men have been in the working world a lot longer and deserve to be paid at a higher rate."  It's a great little soundbite, the perfect kind of quote to generate outrage but Ann Romney never said it.  For info on who created and propagated the bogus quote, check out this post on About.com's Urban Legend's channel.
So maybe people should quit damning Mrs. Romney for things she didn't say.
Her husband, though, has said a lot of things on the subject and he just will not be pinned down by pesky reporters who keep asking him for his opinion on equal pay for women.
What is known is that he opposed the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act.
(Who is Lilly Ledbetter you might ask.   She's a woman who sued her employer, Goodyear, claiming she'd been paid significantly less than her male counterparts. 
Here's a thought to take with you into the polling booth--Women college graduates make, on average, $8000 less a year than their male peers.  Don't take my word for it, check out this article.

Halloween Movie Marathon: Tales from the Darkside

I never saw the television series Tales from the Darkside, but I really liked this anthology film. Like Stephen King's Cat's Eye or the Twilight Zone Movie, it was a collection of three tales, bookended by a riff on Hansel and Gretl with Deborah Harry of Blondie fame playing the witch figure.
The three segments were "Lot 249," based on a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story and starring Steve Buscemi, Julianne Moore, and Christian Slater; "Lover's Vow" starring James Remar and Rae Dawn Chong; and "Cat From Hell," based on a Stephen King story, starring the supremely creepy William Hickey (remember him from Prizzi's Honor?) and David (Buster Poindexter) Johansen.
Oddly, I have almost no memory of the "Cat From Hell" segment, which was adapted by George Romero from King's short story. Romero and director John Harrison are long-time friends and colleagues--you can see Harrison play Pellinore in Romero's entertaining Knightriders. If you're an Ed Harris fan, you should really check the movie out. It's about a troupe of Ren Faire biker/jousters. Stephen King makes a cameo appearance as an obnoxious audience member (and if memory serves, his wife Tabitha King is also in there.) Harrison and Romero also collaborated on Diary of the Dead.
"Lot 249" was a very creepy mummy story.  Buscemi had mostly been doing television series work up to them (he'd be in Miller's Crossing a couple of years later). Slater had just had a Lindsay Lohan-style problem with his car and some alcohol but didn't let it affect his work.
"Lover's Vow" was possibly the strongest of the stories and had some really good special effects for a horror movie made for a price. The chemistry between Remar (of Dexter) and Chong was hot.
This is a movie where you can dip in and out of the stories as the night goes on. Pair it with something like the Romero/King collaboration Creepshow.

Halloween Movie Marathon: Pet Sematary

I have read nearly all of Stephen King's books, some of them twice, and Pet Sematary scared me the most because the wish fulfillment at work is so incredibly basic. Who wouldn't want a beloved pet to return, or a beloved relative?
I liked this movie although I never saw either the sequel or the remake. The tagline from the movie, "Sometimes dead is better" is kind of my policy on remakes--sometimes you just need to let a movie die. Seriously. Now that we have Blu-Ray and VOD and streaming and netflix and hulu and whatever, you really don't need to remake a movie for a new audience because each generation of audience can see the original for themselves.
But I digress.
I liked the casting in this movie. Dale Midkiff was fine as the father who can't resist the oportunity to bring his son back. This movie is King's version of The Monkey's Paw and audiences were screaming "Don't do it" when I first saw it.
Denise Crosby's role as his wife was probably the best role she ever had on the big screen.
The person I really liked, though, was Fred Gwynne, who played the neighbor who holds the secret of the Pet Sematary.  Three years later he played the long-suffering judge on My Cousin Vinny and he was a hoot. Here he is utterly convincing as a man who talks about having a heart like stony ground, but who can't help but interfere when he sees his neighbor suffering.
Stephen King has a cameo in the film as a minister, and he's better than M. Night Shyamalan in his cameos, but not by much. He's about on a par with Peter Benchley, who made a brief appearance in Jaws.
The movie was directed by Mary Lambert, who also directed the sequel. Lambert's film career never really got any traction, although she has directed a number of genre films (and has one in production) and a lot of music videos for Sting and Lionel Ritchie and similar superstar talents.
There are some genuine frights in this movie, and the idea itself is just damn creepy. The book is even creepier, so you might want to read it first just to get the full effect.

It's not that hard to get it right!

Sigh. The four most lucrative times of the year for me are the annual film festivals--Cannes, Toronto, Berlin, and the American Film Market, which is due to open in little over a week. I read between 30 and 100 movie scripts in the weeks running up to the markets, and sometimes I have to subcontract the work in order to get it all done.
I've gotten used to certain errors I see over and over and over again in scripts ("Vile" of cocaine"; "His breaks failed"), but I'm starting to get a little nuts about the mistakes my subcontractors routinely make.
The most common error is mistaking ITS and IT'S.  Seriously.  It is not that hard to keep them straight. Ditto for WHOSE and WHO'S. My contractors are smart people, good writers, educated. But somewhere along the way, they just missed a couple of things.
My best friend mocks me when I go off on this stuff and calls me a "word snoot."
And it's not like I don't have weaknesses.  I can't spell graffiti to save my life. I always want to put in one F and two Ts.  I'm not really clear on THAT and WHICH.
But I know IT'S and ITS.
I actually blame Spellcheck. Have you ever noticed that Spellcheck will challenge your every use of ITS and IT'S? If you're not rock solid on the rule, it would be VERY easy to get it wrong. 
I try to remember that as I go through the work I get back.
I fear I am becoming the grammar equivalent of the cranky old person who tells kids to get off his lawn.

Herstory: Mary Seacole

I'd never heard of Mary Seacole, a Jamaican-born nurse, until I was given a script to read about her. She was the first nurse on the battlefield in the Crimean War--first, even though we've all been taught about Florence Nightingale, who came later. (And in fact, Nightingale said ugly things about Seacole, accusing her of running a brothel and getting soldiers drunk.  Sisterhood isn't always powerful.) She's got an amazing story. Read more about her on Wikipedia.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Seacole

Feminist (Non) Fiction Friday--the News Edition

Pauline Frederick c. 1955

When I was growing up, writing for school newspapers and thinking about going for a journalism degree, the three most visible women journalists were Barbara Walters, Pauline Frederick and Helen Thomas. (On the print side there was also Gloria Emerson and Frances FitzGerald, who both wrote fantastic books about the Viet Nam War.)
Later, there was Diane Sawyer, former beauty queen and Republican political strategist  (she helped write Nixon's memoirs), and Jessica Savitch, the weekend anchor at NBC who died tragically in 1983. I never watched the Today Show, so never had an opinion about Katie Couric one way or another. I never watched a single broadcast of her prime time news show. I just never really put her in the same category as other women journalists. But they came later.
The three women who shaped me were Barbar and Pauline and Helen.
I cannot tell you how completely betrayed I felt when beteran White House reporter Helen Thomas suddenly revealed herself to be an anti-Semite. I took it personally.
I remember Pauline Frederick as a UN reporter. I thought that sounded very glamorous. I could see myself doing that--using my French and maybe other languages I'd pick up on the side as I covered stories in far-off places.  The story is that when Pauline was first starting out, few men would agree to be interviewed by a woman so she approached their wives first.  She was the first female reporter to broadcast from China and she had an early interest in "electronic communication." She died more than two decades ago at the age of 82, but she would have felt right at home in the world of Twitter and FB and YouTube.
And then there's Barbara Walters. Every female journalist working today owes a big thank you to Barbara. She's always been an easy target for jokes about her questions ("If you were a tree what would you be?") but I've done my share of celebrity interviews and you know...sometimes questions like that are the only way to break through the wall and get something like a real answer,
Barbara. She worked her way up to that slot on Today and she paid her dues in a time when NO ONE would take a woman reporting hard news seriously.
Seriously.
That idea seems so quaint now.
Connie Chung was another journalist who was very visible in the late 20th century but she's kind of disappeared now. That's a shame.  Andrea Mitchell, another veteran reorter, is very visible right now, appearing at the RNC and DNC conventions, doing interviews from the floor while being virtually engulfed in balloons. She is a breast cancer survivor (this is Breast Cancer Awareness month) and a tough cookie who is in her mid-60s and shows no signs of slowing down.
When CNN came along it was thrilling because there was Bobbie Batista anchoring the news and just being awesome by her very presence. And then there was Christiane Amanpour, who was tough and beautiful and whip smart and reporting from war-torn countries. (I still had fantasies of being a war reporter myself.)