.lulu tripp: pimping her friends since the early aughts.

My friend, Sapna is working on a series of comedic webisodes about the path to becoming a comedian. This is the first and second. Take a look and support a very funny Chicago performer!

The Worst Self-Published Book Cover EVER

Perhaps it's not THE worst, but it's pretty terrible. It's supposed to be a YA coming-of-age and coming out story. Two girls meet at summer camp and yadda, yadda, yadda. You know how it goes. But the cover...oh, wow. Let it just speak for itself...

 (from: http://www.goodreads.com/book/photo/12742878-summer-secret---cherri-red-book-1)

Basically, it looks like they become porn stars at summer camp. The book got so-so reviews on Goodreads, but I can't stop looking at it and laughing.

Let Me Be Your Star, or Where Have All The Gay Boys Gone?

This last week went by entirely too fast and I can't say I managed to get much accomplished. My lag in productivity can be attributed to the flu or cold or whatever bug that decided to waltz in and prop its dirty feet up in my lungs and sinuses, refusing to leave until I'd spent the better part of the week immobilized with it. Well, not entirely, of course. I went to work, resisting the urge to call in sick, and to my cat-sitting gig. Once, I even braved the piles of slush to trek to the grocery store - and regretted it later when I came sloshing in with soaked shoes and soggy socks, shivering to my core. BUT! The rest of the time I was hanging out with blankets to my chin and a cat, a computer and a mug of warm tea all vying for a spot on my immovable lap. And what was I doing? Reading about gay vampires for one of my book clubs? Sometimes, yes. Studying for the GRE? A little, yes. Getting addicted to a show that revolves around flashy musical numbers and jealousy-infused drama? Oh, yes...hell yes.

Julia and Tom (Debra Messing & Christian Borle)

While recovering, I watched the entire first season of Smash and by golly, I loved it! I think my favorite characters aren't even the actresses, but the creative team. There's the snarky British "playa" played by Jack Davenport, who I always loved on Coupling. He's kind of a jerk who is hard to hate. Then there is Debra Messing playing Julia, another glorious friend-of-the-gays character who can be likened to her role as the neurotic Grace on Will & Grace except more emotional. And there's her partner-in-crime-and-musicals, Tom, who I love, love, love! He's funny, flamboyant, perceptive enough to catch on when Julia is considering cheating on her husband, insightful enough to offer advice that doesn't sound too preachy and commitment-phobic enough to find something wrong with every guy he dates, which means there are endless opportunities for new and interesting romantic entanglements for his character - most recently, a macho dancer obsessed with sports. Their relationship had to end, though, because dancer boy ran off to tour with The Book of Mormon. Did I mention, they name-drop musicals and composers on this show? It's a gay man's dream and everyone knows about my inner gay man. To top the team off, there is the show's producer, Eileen, played by Angelica Huston, who plays her divalicious character so perfectly that it's like she was born to play bitchy divorcees and throw drinks in men's faces! Which she does, like, three times in one episode.

Angelica Huston & Jack Davenport as Eileen and Derek

It's campy, yes, and by no means brilliant, but it's fun and unique, with original songs and my inner gay man is occasionally also an inner chorus girl. Therefore, I am thoroughly enchanted and as often happens when I read or watch anything about the theatre, I wish I could be a part of it. Just something behind-the-scenes would be lovely. I feel sometimes like I missed the bus for getting involved in that stuff, but I just want to hang out backstage and watch people slathering on pancake make-up and saying catty things to each other. My fantasy life is so exciting and more importantly, it's populated by very glamorous, effeminate men sniping at each other and wagging their fingers, saying things like, "Oh NO you didn't!"  I think this may be the most appealing part of theatre - my idea of theatre and the theatrical. Or, more to the point, my idea that, were I involved in theatre, my life would be flooded with friends like Tom, the flamboyant gay Oscar to Julia's Hammerstein. Dear Tom, will you be my Hammerstein, instead?

I seriously need more gay men in my life. Until that happens, however, I am loving this show and I'm pretty excited to be caught up now that it's in its second season.

As for my cold, it's not as bad anymore. I don't have the chills and my throat & lungs don't hurt, but this cough is about to drive me batshit.

Signing off.
-L*

Effing Perfect

 Well hello there. It's been a long strange trip, but I am back in the saddle and probably ready to leap out of it again at a moment's notice. But no matter. It's 2013, boys and girls and all the rest. I've been absent from blogger-land far too long and I'm not even going to try to catch ya'll up. Let's just say 2012 was an interesting year of out-of-character behavior and out-of-the-ordinary happenings, but also extraordinary new connections and a whole lotta new hope for what's next in my life. For one, I graduated (YAY!)...finally. Yup, one more useless certificate under my belt. Ya'll want fries with that? Heh, just kidding. Yay for liberal arts education, for real. I was lucky, after all. I got to move to an incredible (if incredibly COLD, brrrr) city and have worked under several writers I admire. Though longer than the norm, my college experience was very...varied. And now I am looking toward grad school, an eventual career in libraries, a completed final draft of my novel and...who knows? Despite the present circumstances in my life (as I summed it up to a friend recently, “I'm doing good despite a sore throat, a failed romance and empty pockets”), I'm looking forward to a brighter tomorrow, as they say. Whoever “they” may be. 2012 left me with more and deeper friendships than I thought I would ever have and 2013 is looking up more and more.

 And now I am sitting in my room, nursing the aforementioned sore throat with ginger green tea and listening to Binki Shapiro & Adam Green in the background as I write this. Thinking about music and the final edit of my novel brings me around again to rethinking the title. When I wrote the first version, back in 1996 – when it had too, too many characters, a dozen subplots and a completely different main plot and was very obviously written by an amateur – I gave it the title Ordinary World based on the Duran Duran song of the same name. It was the '90s after all, the song had been fairly popular and it was a favorite of mine. The words rang true to the plot and though that plot has significantly changed, it still does: “What is happening to me?/Crazy, some would say/Where is my friend when I need you most?” It's very, very Emma Parker. But the times, they are a'changin' and I think not so many teenagers today would be familiar with that song. They'd be more likely to know Duran Duran's '80s hits instead – her name was Rio and she dances in the sand. Or maybe Girls On Film. 

So for a few years now, I've been contemplating a new title. The one I've liked best is one that a former girlfriend actually came up with, during a time when I was hyper-focused on the novel in order to avoid various problems I won't get into. The title she came up with was F***ing Perfect or, as an alternate spelling, Effing Perfect after the song of the same title by pop star, Pink. I kind of love it – the song and the title. The video is rather poignant, too:

 

But I've also heard the criticism that I should drop the whole idea of using songs as titles. Except...I suck at titles. And plenty of other writers have used song titles as novel titles. Case in point:

She's Come Undone and I Know This Much Is True by Wally Lamb
High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
 Across The Universe by Beth Revis
How To Save A Life by Sara Zarr
Imperial Bedrooms by Bret Easton Ellis
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
Girlfriend In A Coma by Douglas Coupland
 In Between Days by Andrew Porter
 You Must Remember This by Joyce Carol Oates
 Tomorrow Wendy by Shelley Stoehr
Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hill
Sympathy For The Devil by Jerrilyn Farmer
 Go Tell It On The Mountain by James Baldwin

 I'm fairly certain that the list could go on. I hope that at least puts to rest the idea that naming a book after a popular song is a bad idea. So I'll continue, and perhaps, when it comes down to it, the title of my novel will be out of my hands anyway. But for now, I'm thinking that Effing Perfect fits...if only I can decide on how to spell it.

In other news, it's cold, I'm on the verge of a busy week and therefore, I'm signing off with no empty promises to write again soon. I'll be back...eventually.

Carry on, world.

.there is freedom within, there is freedom without.

Every year, in March, I touch upon my mother's death in a blog entry or refer back to my longest and most detailed post to date on the subject. But when August rolls around, I shut down. Clam up. I go completely blank. Because, when it's August and the eighth of the month is near, when my father and the anniversary of his death comes up, I find there are not enough words. Or the right ones get lost somewhere between my brain and my tongue – or, as the case may be, my fingers. Perhaps it's harder because I watched my dad fade away in the hospital – an experience that, for a long time after, left me with nightmares and flashbacks accompanied by shortness of breath and sobbing jags. But then again, I saw my mom deteriorate for years before her heart attack at 54, compliments of her extremely poor health, I'm sure. So I am not sure that explanation makes complete sense.

More likely, it's not a simple, black and white reason. In part, though, I think that I am so short on words when it comes to my father because I have a hard time sharing myself – and who I am is so deeply connected to who my daddy was. “Gentle and true, as most will admit, with a fearless side that refuses to quit,” says the plaque I have hung in my bedroom since childhood – a plaque that was supposed to describe my dad's and my shared zodiac sign, Taurus. The bull, for the uninitiated. Mama would've said, “Bull-headed!” I don't exactly put much stock in astrology, but that damn plaque always seemed true. My father and I could both exhibit immense compassion and empathy – but were also quick to anger and likely to see red and charge.

Back when I could first read the rhyming words on the faux-wood wall art, I interpreted “fearless” as that state just before your insides burst into flames, metaphorically speaking, and we seethe, prone to destroying everything in our path. Like a tornado, in my own wake I'd leave broken glass (a window, a snow globe), a mottled birthday cake (my baby brother's) and dented walls, before the clouds rolled away and I was left with despairing sheepishness and guilty regret. I never knew what to do with the rage running through my veins in those moments, when I'd swallowed too much to hold more.

And in my father's wake, he left...me. And my mom, my sister, my brother – as we were, whatever that may be.

I know now what that “fearless side” is not. It is not actual fearlessness. It's anxiety that we couldn't – or can't – always control well. It's a desire not to seem too vulnerable: be independent, push fear and need out of your way, because if you need someone, they can hurt you. If you give your heart, it can be stomped on. That's what I feel at times. I think it's what my dad felt, too.

I'd like to be able to talk about what loss has taught me. I'd like to lend you some platitudes that seem destined for Hallmark in their simple insight, without my trademark traces of cynicism and sarcasm. But you, dear reader, know that I can't do that. I'd really would like to, but if I am honest, I don't know that it has taught me much. At least, not things that I put into practice on a regular basis. I know what I should do. I should be living in the moment as much as possible. I should be clinging to the time I have with dear loved ones. I should be expressing my innermost feelings whenever the chance arises. And I should make the chance arise often. But do I do it? It doesn't feel like I do.

But one thing I do know is that, every year, when these anniversaries come around, I am often drowning in unshared emotions. I have made a life of unresolved conflicted, paved a path of closure-less closed doors. And I want to shout and cry. I want to sit in solace with my pain and remember.

Remember the way my father's voice sounded when he sang hymns - “Sweet By & By” and “The Old Rugged Cross.” Remember how his rough, callused hands felt when he'd place them on my forehead to check for fever when I was a small child. I want to smell the earthy scent of him when he'd been in the garden or mowing the grass, or the oily, engine smell of him when he'd come in from a long day of working in the garage. I even want to call upon the image of his red-faced, brow-furrowed anger...or recall the sad way he greeted me when I visited him in the hospital that final month.

So I guess all that loss has taught me is what to remember and what to hold onto from all the suffering that life heaps onto our plates. But at least that's something.

just like every night has its dawn...

“Did she just quote Poison?” you're probably asking yourself. Let me assure you, you're not seeing things. I really, truly did. It's terrible, I know, but I kind of like this line when it comes to my life right now.

Wait a minute. I am not ready to go into detail and don't know if I'd do so here (plus, The Growling Rabbit's speakers are now playing Michael Jackson's “Black or White,” which sort of killed my bare-my-soul mood, anyway), but I have felt, off and on, like I am peeking from behind a cloud or out from some shadows. I'm gaining some clarity just spending time with myself and it's making the air around me feel lighter, smell sweeter; the grass is greener, the light through the trees is whiter. Some things have been actually good. I've been down to the beach and felt the sand between my toes. I've sat at a cafe window and watched the day turn to dusk, the light becoming blue, and I've written my thoughts down until my hand has cramped and the pages were sopping-wet with tears, ink smudged. I've inspired, enlightened and been kind to people; I've also infuriated, embarrassed and hurt people. I've broken my own heart again and again because it was the right thing to do. I've lost sleep, baked cookies and casseroles into the night, drank alone, smoked more cigarettes than I have in years. I've admired what seemed to be happy couples - on the train, on the street, among my friends. I've watched a couple of strangers, boy and girl, sharing a soda pop with the girl standing on her tippy-toes to sip from the several-inches-taller boy's straw. Two men on the train lean on each other; two women look at each other with adoration. My civilly-united friends share, after 9 years, a dynamic that's hard not to envy, finishing each other's sentences and making light-hearted fun of each other. My still-newly-in-love friends, after a year, have something still fresh enough to make me nostalgic. They all make me believe that love and happiness exist, at least for a part of the population, and that makes me ecstatic.

In the time between posts, life's thrown me curve balls that I am still trying to catch. Or dodge. I've made a point of calling, texting and emailing people back – and other times, have completely forgotten to (often regretfully, but sometimes, not-so-much). I've become accustomed to my new neighborhood, strolled through our Sunday farmer's market, had organic eggs and organic milk, made a coffee shop a second home; I've watched the sun set, reconnected with old friends, made some new friends and made mistakes. So, so many mistakes.

But...

I graduated with a Bachelors degree (and I received my diploma in the mail this week to prove it!). I re-joined a writing group. I'm enjoying my favorite trashy TV shows and watching more movies again (I even have a new celebrity crush!). I'm leisurely looking into grad programs (some in other parts of the country, as I have been wondering more and more if I need a change of surroundings) and, even more leisurely, trying to study for the GRE. I'm back in therapy and on meds; I'm going out. I'm interacting, discovering new interests, uncovering new obsessions (the good kind). I'm far from perfect. I don't always have the energy to work on me or my life; I can be stubborn, bitter, pouty, sad and hopeless-teetering-on-pessimistic. I'm happy to clarify and bring to light my flaws, but hell hath no fury like Louise if someone else calls attention to them. I have come to the realization that most, if not all, of my friendships – though with terrific, smart, fun and compassionate people – are superficial. If a crisis arose, I am not sure who I would call on without extreme embarrassment or awkwardness (not very long ago, this wasn't so entirely the case; that's another side effect of recent poor choices that I will have to live with). I have been pretty unknowable and I am unsure of how to correct something so long in the making. I don't believe that people really change much as years pass; I think that we just learn to live with who we are. I'm learning. This is me, hoping that I am at least getting some of this right.

Next Up: more Dori Stories from the vault; perhaps more flash fiction...

Bridegroom

It would be truly lovely if you'd pitch in whatever you can to help make this Kickstarter project a reality. I don't know this man personally, but his story is all too common and tragic.