It was around 11pm last night and Matt and I snuggled in to watch Frank.  I had just turned off my ringer when my phone lit up; I didn't see it, but Matt said, "Looks like someone's calling you."  I really hate talking on the phone and was about to dump the call when I noticed it was my BFF Patty (the writer) who lives in L.A.  Patty never calls (we both hate talking on the phone), so I figured I'd better answer it because something's gotta be pretty damn important for her to call me at 11pm on a Saturday night.

"Hello?"  (I could hear she was someplace crowded.)

"Jill-Maaaaan! Guess what? I'm at Beatlefest right now!" (Patty is a HUGE Beatles fan.)

"No way! Is it amazing?"

"Yeah! But dude... someone wants to talk to you on the phone. Hang on."

"Wait! What? What's happening? Who?"

[*shuffle shuffle shuffle*]

"Hello, is this Jill?"

"Yes! Who do I have the pleasure to be speaking to?"

"This is Mark Rivera! Patty told me that you were sad that you couldn't be out here at Beatlefest, so I told her that we should give you a call!"

"HOMINA HOMINA HOMINA. Oh my god, this is crazy! Thank you!!"

"Calm down, calm down. It's just me!  Now Jill: Why aren't you here?"

"I live on the east coast!"

"Yeah? Well so do I!"

"Yeah, but you're playing in Ringo's band. I've got studio time."

"Where are you based out of?"

"I live in Delaware; just 25 minutes south of Philly."

"You said you're in the studio?"

"Yeah, we were there earlier today. We're working on our second full-length album."

"Cool, cool."

"Hey Mark, I've got to say, I've been a fan for as long as I can remember."

"Aw thanks, really."

"Yeah, but I need you to know, that I naturally love your work with Billy Joel, but I also picked up your solo album and I really love it. It's great to hear you out in front, man."

"Really? You picked up my solo album?"

"Of course! It's really great!"

"Thanks Jill, I really appreciate it."

"Well, I really appreciate you."

"Thanks! OK, I'm gonna give you back to Patty now. Have fun!"

"You too! Thanks so much, Mark-- you really just made my day, week, month, year!"

"Hahahaha, no problem at all. Take care. Peace and gratitude."

"Right back at you, sir. Thanks again."

It went by so fast, and I felt like a goober. Part of me felt like, This is just a guy, and he's a musician and so am I.  I can talk to him. We have things in common. I'm not implying I'm remotely in the same ballpark as him, but we speak a similar language, and that's cool.  And part of me was like, OH MY GOD BILLY JOEL'S AND RINGO STARR'S SAX AND PERCUSSION PLAYER! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!  

I tried really hard to straddle the line between being composed and professional and "this is no big deal, we're just people" and giving him the fangirl-squee "I'm gonna make this girl's day" freakout that I imagine he was hoping for, and also being understandable considering he was on a crowded expo floor. I think I did OK. 

Patty called me back a few minutes later and said that she ran out to her car and gave Mark a copy of (our album) 39 Summers. She only had the disc (not the CD case or the insert), but she said he was really flattered and promised to listen to it. 

She went back to Beatlefest today, and she texted me to say that she brought the jewel case / CD insert with her to BeatleFest today hoping to bump into Mark again so she could give it to him.  They saw each other, and as soon as he saw her he said, "Where's Jill?"  So she said, "She's still out east, but here's the jewel case that goes with the CD."  He still had the CD in his murse so he put them together. I doubt he'll listen to it, but ya never know. 

It's just so silly. 

I can't tell if he's the kind of guy who gets stalked a lot, or if he's the kind of guy who wishes he got stalked, y'know? 

I'm just kicking myself for not asking him questions, like, what kind of mouthpiece does he use, how the hell does he get his altissimo sound so perfect every single time, etc etc etc. But at the same time, it was a 3 second jokey phone call; it's not like I was gonna interview the guy FFS. 

I'm gonna be in NYC on Friday to see Matt's play and I'll likely have a few hours to kill while he's doing director and playwrighty things... so I hit Mark up via Twitter and asked him to coffee. It may come as a total shock to you that he hasn't replied. 

Anyway. 

It is exciting / interesting to see that I've come a long way from my 1985 total and complete meltdown when I talked to Billy Joel on the phone and all I did was cry my face off, and the Z-100 Morning Zoo made fun of me mercilessly. (Billy was sweet, though.)  I can think of no greater humiliating moment in my life. My brother taped the conversation and would torment me with it over the years, which in retrospect is hilarious, but at the time I was horrified as any good 9th grader would be. :)  This is what brothers are for. 

Allrighty, that's my exciting story for the weekend! Time for bed. I have to get my body clock back on schedule... I'm traveling / teaching for the next 3-4 weeks waking up bright and early, and it's gonna be a big ol' adjustment. It'll feel good though, too.  Looking forward to the home stretch of the year.

(x-posted to xtingu.livejournal.com)

Matt Casarino lays down the law on film, music and general cultural awesome.

Shelle Klein Houser has been calling attention to worthy newcomers in her posts. My, aren't I meta.

Lindsay Harris observes the odd moments of life with good humor.

Jill "xtingu" Knapp shares the ongoing saga of Hot Breakfast, the band that proved it only takes two to rock.

And L. M. Lopez asks the eternal question we all struggle with daily: are our neighbors getting jiggy right now? And do we really want to know?

Also killin' it: every single person who is posting about their life or whatever the hell they want to post about. With or without seriousness or premeditation or humor or pictures or video or verbs. I am glad you are here and I am glad you are sharing with your friends and, when you feel like it, with the rest of us.

Just a few disorganized thoughts on the movie Frank, which is often wonderful and often stupefyingly frustrating:

• Michael Fassbender is a brilliant actor. What he does with body language is fascinating; he never reaches or pushes too far. 
• There's a fine line between being surprised by a movie and feeling jerked around by arbitrary plot and tone shifts.
• A movie/play is at its most maddening not when it's bad, but when you can feel the writer & director on the verge of brilliance, but they won't let themselves sustain it because they don't trust in what they've created. 
• I'm not sure how 80 - 110 minutes became a length standard for American films. I'm all for trimming the fat, but the last two new movies I've watched - Frank and the Grand Budapest Hotel - might have benefited from at another half hour, as long as it was used wisely.
• Still, both movies also introduced unnecessary plot threads. Grand Budapest features stunningly glorious visuals and revels in very precise human behavior and language, but the tall tale keeps getting sidetracked by its own whimsy as it unfolds. (No matter - it's still fantastic.) Frank, on the other hand, doesn't have enough faith in the titular character, the music he creates, and the way he affects those around him, and sends us on a Part Two that feels like a different, dumbed-down movie - one that ignores some of the more interesting questions asked in Part One. Worse, a good portion of the latter half hinged on the wildly inconsistent behavior and motivations of the "audience character," John, who makes some remarkably stupid choices. The more we consider what he's been through, the less sense his behavior makes. 
• I love Maggie Gyllenhaal. She is a fearless actress who looks like a real person. Her character in Frank is far from "likable," but Gyllenhaal gives her dimensions and steers clear of cliche and stereotype. We get her. It's an excellent performance.
• There are a couple characters in Frank who are absolute ciphers. I'm blaming you, screenwriters. I realize you wanna focus on the lead singer with the giant fake head, but you gotta give the rhythm section something.
• The first fifteen minutes are beautifully executed. They're funny, mysterious, and entertaining. 
• At times, Frank does a great job of exploring and questioning the link between mental illness and creativity. But it's deflating when some of the mental illness becomes the kind of movie mental illness that only flares up to create conflict or propel the plot in a different direction (consider Frank's "likable" song). The actors sell it best they can, though.
• Despite my issues with the John character, I really like how he thinks he changes and grows during the course of the movie, when he's actually regressing a bit. That's something you don't see much. 
• It's good to have themes in movies. But it's less good to allow a character, late in the film, to explain one of the themes to you. In case you missed it.
• It's perilous to portray the results of creativity in a movie. Consider, for example, how bland and tuneless poor Mr. Holland's opus turned out to be. But the music in Frank is breathtaking. It's alive. There are a thousand ways the music we hear could have gone wrong, but it's kind of exhilirating how well the songwriters and musicians walked that tightrope. The word "amazing" is way overused, but some of this music amazed me.
• Despite my frustrations with the movie, I recommend Frank (which I have been dying to see for weeks now), especially to those with a fascination for offbeat music. It'll stay with you, and it's often entertaining and smart, even when it isn't. 

• Finally: Jill and I were very happy to see certain musicians thanked in the credits. 

If you've seen Frank and wanna talk about it, make with the comments. Jill and I would love to hear your thoughts. It's that kind of movie. 

Ridiculously excited because my husband and I will embark shortly on our first date night since ...

wait for it ...

wait for it ...

January, when we splurged on a good meal and saw A Bronx Tale. 

Tonight it's Rodizio's Brazilian Steak House for dinner to indulge our inner carnavores and then Young Frahnkenshtein at the Civic Little Theater in Allentown. 

Time to beautify!

Reading: The Winter King by Bernard Cornwell.  Arthur just came over the hill!  

Wearing: Pyjamas - today is my work from home day.

Planning: To attend the wedding of Baron Von Heller  and the soon-to-be-Baroness Jen.  To attend the wedding reception of the Coldirons who snuck off and got married a couple of months ago.  Also tonight is TACO NIGHT!

Introducing: Leah Lopez, who is a good friend of mine even though we have not yet met in person*.  We were in a writers' circle on Diaryland, then on LJ.  She is an English Professor, a writer (she just had a poem published in Asimov's!), a Mom who homeschools, a knitter, a period piece/fantasy/sci fi geek and she writes great posts, so please go give her some love and make her want to stay here on OPW.

* I met Rabbit  via LJ (or was it Diaryland?), so sometimes people you meet online can end up as your closest real-life friends.

If you love Christmas pop music as much as I do, you know that 90% of it is dreadful. (You also probably apologize to your significant other a lot.) For every "Fairytale of New York," "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)," and "Merry Christmas from the Family," there are dozens of cynical little crapcicles that reek of contractual obligations ("Step Into Christmas"), wretchedly puerile "jokey" songs ("Grandma Got Run Over etc."), 
overproduced/uninspired versions of public domain carols (pretty much every R&B or country version of "Silent Night"), and well-meaning originals that land on the wrong side of the hypnotic/annoying line ("Wonderful Christmastime"). 

But still - that remaining 10% does wonders for filling one with a warm, nostalgic glow when it's time to see if that heavy jacket still fits. (It does - you look great.) And here's a wonderful collection of 80 Christmas pop songs from the 40s - early 60s that's currently on sale at Amazon for six bucks. Make with the clicks:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00GYV17AQ/ref=dm_ws_ec_mdl_dp_B00GYV17AQ

You've got some genuine classics here, like Bing Crosby's "White Christmas," Mel Torme's "The Christmas Song," and Brenda Lee's adorable "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. You've got some gorgeous crooning from the likes of The Platters, Billie Holiday, and Nat King Cole. You've even got some genuinely fun novelty tunes, like Chuck Berry's "Run Rudolph Run," Dean Martin's "Baby It's Cold Outside" (no, it's not a date-rape song, it's just smarmy), and Eartha Kitt's delightfully purring "Santa Baby" (Julie Newmar was supposed to be sexier than her? Balderdash). 

                                                          (Exhibit A.)

You won't love 'em all, of course, but I'm the last person to judge you for enjoying a song I don't care for. (Unless it's "Mele Kalikimaka." Fuck that song.) You may not dig the big-band style that dominates the collection, or you might balk at the notion of Perry Como showing up on your iPhone. But c'mon - 80 songs for six bucks. You could delete over half of 'em and still walk away feeling like Larry the Liquidator. But before you delete...pause. Let the songs breathe a bit. Sure, some of this music is treacly and filled with cheese, but there's something so pure about holiday music from the 40s and 50s. Even the toss-offs (Sinatra sounds like his mind is on his next martini) have a certain cliched soul feel just right on a chilly night. These are original recordings, and their lo-fi sound is part of their charm. Even those of us with playlists filled of Naked City, Bad Brains and Angelspit can appreciate some good old-fashioned corn when fall really starts to kick in and you realize a hot chocolate would really hit the spot right about now.

So there you go - a little Holiday Music Tip from your Uncle Matthew. Do with it what you will. If you ask me nicely, I might even tell you what my all-time favorite Christmas pop/rock/jazz recordings are. If you ask even more nicely, I might even stop.

A good friend of mine, who happens to be the Director of Digital Content at PMA , spoke to my Intro to Professional Writing students tonight. I learned much more about her actual job - since our time together (we're also neighbors whose boys play together often) usually revolves around recipes, creating silly memes, a glass of chardoney, book chatter, the latest New Yorker or other "literary" magazine... I'm feeling a bit like a mental midget right now and as I'm delving deeper into the world of digital content, realizing how little I really know (although I can fake it really well) and how much I need to learn. And I'm in awe of her skills and ability to move fluidly among the communication worlds.

Apropos of learning, E. mentioned a local chapter of women who are teaching other women to code. Can't remember the name at the moment, but they meet at Wegmans, and they partner experienced with newbie programmers, and although my plate - nay, my tupperware - runneth over with hustling to freelance, repping for Young Living Oils, Celedon Road and Visalus, playing with a 4 year old son, doing the wifey thang with my hubby, I think I need to check out this coding group.

I've dipped a toe into the coding waters of website html. I can bold and highlight and italicize with the best. But this new world beckons. I have to remind myself not to dismiss my potential ability because I'm mathematically challenged. I see patterns - many patterns - everywhere, and isn't coding nothing more than a collection of patterns you manipulate?

Heck, by producing my son, born 01-01-10, a miraculous example of binary basic, am I not qualified to take my place among the other coders out there? I think I'm going in.

{Takes deep breath. Leaps.}

Beware the autumn people. For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September & November touches October & then instead of December & Christ's birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again & old October & so on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. For these beings fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond.

Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? the grave. Does blood stir in their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss betweeen the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gust they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, & surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles - breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them.

-Bradbury

OK, here's a youtube-y link of my goofy kids earlier this evening. Hoping they work harder on math, because I don't think this is gonna do it for them.

I spent my evening teaching One Post Wonder to just Do The Right Thing when you paste a giphy link, or a youtube link, or a link to more or less anything that's meant to be embedded on the interwebs.

But now I'm going to shut off my computer. Because in our house, that's what happens at 9pm these days.

It's an adjustment!