My perfect blonde hair was shellacked with enough Aquanet to destroy what was left of the ozone layer. I looked like a cracked-out-midget-drag queen. She’d parade me around in trailer trash baby beauty pageants like a sideshow freak.

When we lived in a beautiful home in Brentwood, I found out that I was adopted. What a relief! I was ecstatic that my rage-aholic, movie star mom wasn’t my birth mother. We weren’t a family – we were a publicity stunt. Mommie Dearest used to storm into my room, in the dead of night, screaming like a banshee. Her face was smothered in a thick mask of cold cream. With her shoulder pads and giant red lips, she was a tranny Kabuki shrew-witch.

“No wire hangers in the closets!” she’d bellow. Then she’d rip my beautiful dresses out of the closet and beat me. I thought she was rehearsing to be in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, but she wasn’t, because it was the 1940s and that play wasn’t written until 1962. Mommie Dearest was always getting her thong in a knot. But I knew I’d get my revenge someday and when I grew-up, I wrote a tell-all book and Faye Dunaway played her in the movie. Take that, Mildred Pierce.

When Hitler invaded Poland the Gestapo rounded us up and shoved us in a train bound for Auschwitz. I was so scared, but at least I was with my brother and my mother (who looked like a young Meryl Streep).  My first train trip turned out to be my last. I still can’t believe that my own mother handed me over to the Nazis — instead of my brother. By the way – did you hear about the Polish hedge fund manager who faked his own birth? Anyway, I will never, ever, EVER forgive my mother for making that choice. She was always indecisive. You could put a gun to her head and she still couldn’t make a decision. Father would say, “Sophie, what’ll it be? Spaetzel or sauerkraut?” and she’d say, “Spaetzel… No, sauerkraut! No, spaetzel! Never mind, I’ll just have egg salad on a Kaiser roll.” By the end of the war Mother was crazier than two boxes of birds – even though she still looked like Meryl Streep.

By the time I was a teenager, she was certifiable. She was getting her Jesus Freak on – 24/7. She thought I was The Evil Spawn of Satan because I had awesome telekinetic powers. It was cool, except the kids at my high school treated me like I had herpes. Even John Travolta was a douche. And Steven Spielberg’s and Brian DePalma’s future ex-wives were total C. U. Next Tuesdays. Mama was always locking me in my prayer closet – like that’s normal. All Moms lock their daughters in a prayer closet, right? Actually, it was the only time I got a little peace and quiet. My life sucked. When I got my period for the first time in the shower in the girls’ locker room (can you say: O, MY FREAKIN’ GOD!!!) I thought: WTF??? Was I a hemophiliac or something? I thought maybe it was some kind of stigmata for praying to the Holy Virgin Mother to become an orphan. OMG. It was like having a brain hemorrhage out of my vagina. And at the prom, when they dumped pig’s blood on me? – I totally snapped. I’ll never forget what I wrote in my Gratitude Journal that night — nothing.

When we lived in Mexico, we spoke Spanish with subtitles and Mama said, “Tita, the only reason you were born was so you could take care of me for the rest of my life. Now go make like water for chocolate.” I still have no idea what that means. I was not allowed to have a boyfriend, or get married while she was alive. I had to do all the cooking plus breastfeed my sisters’ baby. That’s not even biologically possible. I was on this Earth to be everybody’s bitch. My food was magic, but so what?  I had to wait forever for my mother to die and to finally lose my virginity. I would have preferred to spend my life in the bedroom, not in the kitchen. By the time I got married, my husband was so old, he had a heart attack and died on our wedding night.

I will never forgive her for ruining my Sweet 16. She was drunk, as usual, and danced bare-assed in front of my friends. I’m not kidding! She was giving the boys and girls lap dances. She is a full-blown Narcissist and attention whore and though sometimes I sort of love her, I really hate her. No wonder I do drugs and have my own parking space at rehab.

So, in case you have a Mom who was hung-over the day they handed-out the angel wings –  don’t feel bad. Maybe your mom was never on time to pick you up. Maybe she flirted with your boyfriends. Maybe she called you and your sister “The Slut Sisters of Beverly Hills.” There will always be worse Moms than your mom. There are worse things than your mom telling you that, “You have lousy taste in men.”  Or, “Do something about your hair.” Or, “don’t walk like a duck.” Or, “that top makes you look pregnant.” And you tell her, “Mom, I am pregnant and my due date’s next Wednesday.”

Look at the bright side. You could have a Mom who handed you over to the Nazis, or locked you in a prayer closet, or told the authorities that you were stolen by wild dingoes. And who wants a Mom like that? Daughters don’t torture their moms – because that’s a mother’s job. Sons murder their moms – because it’s man’s work.  It’s time to celebrate the woman who gave you life and made you the woman you are today. And remember – someday,  you’ll be able to write a book about your mom and there’s nothing she can do about it – except give all her jewelry, including your grandma’s diamond bracelet, to the maid.

My real name is Elizabeth, so it was easy for her to slide into “Little Bitch” — it’s  like an abusive dipthong. When she was feeling playful, she called me “Lousybeth,” which did wonders for my self-esteem when I was six.

I don’t mind being called “Bitch.” Bitch has muscle. If you are very still and place your ear close to “Bitch,” you’ll hear “Warrior Queen.”  99% of the time, when someone calls you a bitch, they don’t know you. That’s why you hear it in places like traffic. It’s a release, emitted by bad drivers who are texting while they’re running a red light and cutting you off.

According to the DSM- IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) “Bitch” is considered a psychiatric disorder. Okay, fine. They don’t use the word “Bitch.”  They’re the American Psychiatric Association, after all. They use high-brow-schnitzy-shrink terms like: Grandiose, Histrionic, Narcissistic Disorder, Intermittent Explosive Disorder, and Impulse Control Disorder.  Translation: Bitch. The greatest thing about being called a “Bitch” is that the Bitch who calls you a “Bitch” really is a bitch.

I’ll answer to almost anything but PUHLEEZE, I beg of you!!!  — Don’t call me “Dear.” The only thing worse than “Dear” is “My Dear.” “My Dear” is like Lee Press-on Nails scraping along the 405 at 110 MPH.

Blame Margaret Mitchell. When Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, “Frankly, My Dear, I don’t give a damn,”  he was lying. Of course Rhett gave a damn. But like everyone who calls anyone “My Dear,” Rhett was angry. “My Dear” – was code for: “Damn you, Scarlett O’Hara — you gorgeous, headstrong bitch: I can’t control you!”

Bile, hate and vitriol oozes out of “My Dear.” “My Dear” is condescending. It’s passive-aggressive. Nobody is smiling when they say, “My Dear.” When they call you, their “Dear,” they’re annoyed.  “My Dear” is hostile. There is nothing dear about “Dear” and “My” is stifling and possessive with a noxious whiff of faux-superiority.

Charles Dickens knew the power of “My Dear.” In OLIVER TWIST, Fagin calls his band of protégée pickpockets “My Dears.” In PRIDE & PREJUDICE, Lady Catherine de Bourg looks down her nose at Elizabeth Bennett and calls her “My Dear.” Beware of the phony bitches and controlling bastards who call you “My Dear.”

In classic sitcoms, husbands and wives called one other “Dear” — Lucy & Ricky, Fred & Ethel, Ozzie & Harriet, Ward & June, Lovey & Thurston Howell III, Archie & Edith Bunker. There was something sweet about a husband who wore a suit and tie at the breakfast table and called his wife, “Dear.” It sounds stuffy, now, in an Eisenhower-Cold War way. In the 80s and 90s when Peg & Al Bundy and Roseanne & Dan Conner called one another “Dear” it was laced with rat poison.

“Hon” is awful. “Hon” is trailer parks and Wal-Mart. “Hon” is what the waitress at DuPars calls you when she asks you if you want more pie.

“Darling” is pure fabulous — very Auntie Mame, Holly Golightly and Zsa Zsa Gabor. “Darling” is gay. “Darling” is darling.

My favorite term of endearment is “Cookie.”  Cookie is funny. It has a “K” in it. It’s poodle skirts, saddle shoes and malt shops. “Cookie” is the best friend. “Cookie” is a good girl – sweet, bright, and a little crunchy. My Uncle Buddy calls me “Cookie.”

I started working in television in the 1980s. Practical women weren’t dying to write half-hour specs. “Female Comedy Writer” was an oxymoron. For the first 11 years of my career I was the only girl writer. My bosses were funny and called me “Cookie.” “Cookie” is loving and protective. “Cookie” is Old School –Morrie Ryskind and Ben Hecht.  If Rhett Butler had said, “Frankly, Cookie, I don’t give a damn,” it could have been a whole different story.

We, the people, love to clap. It’s the first thing we teach a baby.  “Clap!  Clap! Clap!” Clappy baby equals happy baby.  Clapping is a universal language.  All you need is a couple of hands.  And who doesn’t love hands?  Hands are special. In the animal kingdom we are distinguished by our awesome opposable thumbs.  Other than seals and primates, only humans clap.

Hands are big business.  We put gloves on them. We wash them and rub them with lotion. We wave them and raise them when we know the answer.  We give them in marriage and place the right one on a bible and swear to tell the truth.  Without a right hand, everyone could be a liar —  if they wanted to. What would Italians and Jews do if they had no hands?  Be Norwegian.

There are 27 bones in the hand.  Hands are fragile like a Faberge egg.  So why don’t we take better care of them?  Why do we abuse them by furiously bashing them together?  They are one of our most useful body parts.

Besides mouths, hands are the only anatomical structure that can hold things.  There are a million ways to use hands.  Hands can be held.  They can hold all the cards and a paintbrush, a bowling ball, a golf club, a bow and arrow, and a gun.  And what about God?  He’s got the whole world in His hands. Hands can play the piano, the guitar and the theremin.

Hands can dunk basketballs, hail cabs, mold clay and pray.  Sign language would be tricky without hands and so would the hula, charades and shadow puppets.  Bob Fosse wouldn’t be as famous without his signature jazz hands.  And what about Senor Wences — he was a hand.  Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theater would be half as popular if it had only footprints.

Hands are hard to draw.  You can spot the really good artists because they’re the ones that can draw hands. Why is Michaelangelo famous? – Hands.  He could draw, paint and sculpt them. Hands are a hand model’s fortune.  Pickpockets would be out-of-luck without them.  If we didn’t have hands, how could we give someone a hand-out, or a helping hand, or a hand job?  Face it: we couldn’t.

Without hands we’d be freaks.  Our fingers would grow out of our wrists and we’d all look like Thalidomide babies – and we’d have night terrors and wake up screaming at 3 a.m.  Groping, grabbing and boxing wouldn’t exist if we didn’t have hands.  There would be no second or third base.  Dating wouldn’t be the same.  You’d have to go from making-out directly to fornicating, without fondling.  If we didn’t have hands, sex and baseball would make no sense at all, and “hands-free” would.

When we want to show the world that we like something, we clap.  When we want someone to know how much we love the way they sing a song, act a role, throw a ball, run a race, or run the country — we clap.  We smack our hands together, violently – in a repetitive, manic, masochistic frenzy.

Clapping is contagious. Rarely is it a solitary event. It’s impossible to clap with one hand, unless you’re referring to my last boyfriend.  Being with him was like playing ping pong, alone. Or riding a bicycle built for two, alone.  Or going to couples counseling, alone. It was like singing a duet with myself.

The point is, it’s anatomically impossible to clap with one hand.  Most of us would never treat another person the way we treat our two hands clapping.  We’d be arrested if we smacked somebody the way we slap our hands.

If the violence with which we spank our handflesh isn’t bizarre, enough, we exhibit more aberrant behavior when we stand up while applauding.  The Standing Ovation is the ultimate expression of adoration.  Sometimes the “Standing O” is accompanied by the Tourettesian verbal outburst: “Woo! Woo!” followed by the 2-fingered mouth whistle.

The full-blown human calliope consists of: clapping, standing, yelling and whistling. When in clusters, clans or communities, we applaud what we love.  Maybe it’s how we feel part of the show or the way in which we share the victory.  Or maybe we clap to signal which side we’re on. It’s a secret code to identify our enemies — they’re the ones who aren’t clapping.

We clap because we are grateful that one of our kind is brave enough to do the work, score the point, ski the slope, make the art, win the medal, be the President, the boyfriend, the American Idol.  And when we clap, dying fairies live.

Maybe that’s why we expose our precious hands to the risk of swelling, sprain and fracture. It’s in our DNA – this compulsion to smack our human flippers together, over and over, again and again and again. The percussion of applause brings us together and reminds us that we’re not alone.  Go on — give yourselves a hand. I’m on your side.

FLASHBACK: Mid-20^th Century Los Angeles. Supermarkets were like movie theaters; they had marquees. This was Hollywood and they treated groceries like movie stars. They advertised daily specials – like Bananas, 40 cents a bunch. Watermelons, 11 cents a pound, Lucky Strikes: $3.99 a carton (Lucky Strikes were cigarettes).

Growing-up in L.A., the only Christian slogan I ever saw was JESUS SAVES — and I wondered — what did Jesus save?  The price of things was calculated in cents and there was actually a symbol for “cents” – it was a lower case “c” with a forward slash through it. Nobody born after 1965 would know this. It’s like Aramaic.

L.A. signage was low-tech, campy urban blight. Golden arches,  a giant doughnut, Bob’s Big Boy and a big hotdog decorated the cityscape. Driving around Los Angeles was like a bad acid trip. For more than a decade a billboard hovered above the Sunset Strip. It was a publicity stunt called “Angelyne,” Patron Saint of Whores.

FLASH FORWARD: The early 1990s.  Church attendance was down, ennui was up, and pro-active ministers worried about their shrinking congregations. They prayed and prayed. What could they do to get keesters in the pews? What would HE do?

And as they prayed, it came to pass that one day, amid the din of condo conversions, strip mall construction, declining education, and the rising cost of living in L.A., the clergy heard The Word and the Word was, “advertising.” And so it was written in big block letters, for all the world to see…

WHEN SATAN REMINDS YOU OF YOUR PAST –

REMIND HIM OF HIS FUTURE

All over town, cheesy marquees were being bolted beneath crosses, facing on-coming traffic. Suddenly houses of worship looked like art house movie theatres. It was the birth of the Christian aphorism. Church blurbage was clever and catchy.  It was like your conscience was cutting you off in rush our traffic.

WHEN IT COMES TO GIVING SOME PEOPLE STOP AT NOTHING

HE FORGIVES AND HE NEVER FORGETS

WAGES OF SIN USUALLY GO UNREPORTED

I started leaving the house in the middle of the night, just to drive – just to find one. I’d be jonesin’ for a platitude. I’d venture into unfamiliar neighborhoods searching for a blurb. They were signs from God. I was beginning to see that God loved me, good deeds – and He was partial to puns. Like:

FREE FAITH LIFTS

THE LORD’S WORK = A BIG PRAYDAY

OUR CHURCH IS PRAYER CONDITIONED

PEOPLE WHO GOSSIP END UP IN THEIR OWN MOUTH TRAPS

Then one day, I read the aphorism that changed my life. It stated what I had always believed, but as a lay person, didn’t feel qualified to proclaim…

THE TONGUE IS IN A WET PLACE – IT SLIPS EASILY

I nearly rear-ended a school bus filled with special needs 4th graders . I pulled-over and scribbled it on my thigh – with lipstick. Then I got a tattoo. Since that day, I keep Post-It notes and a Sharpie on the passenger seat.  I prayed that someday, I’d be half as clever as the guy who wrote:

A BIBLE THAT’S FALLING APART IS OWNED BY SOMEONE WHO ISN’T

A sound byte of Faith: fantastic. A dose of Morality: Magic. Distilling dogma to a pun…. priceless.

A GOOD CHRISTIAN DOES IT BY THE BOOK

WHEN YOU KNEEL BEFORE GOD, YOU STAND UP TO ANYONE

SPIRITUALLY HUNGRY? TRY OUR FOOD

WHEN PEOPLE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN PROFITS EVERYONE PROFITS

Snappy Christian copy isn’t high-brow. It’s simple and succinct; a tasty morsel of old time religion. Whether you’re an atheist, a Buddhist or a Jehovah’s Witness, nobody can argue with great syntax, solid values and common sense.

JOY THRIVES IN THE SOIL OF PRAISE

TODAY’S POOR CHOICES ARE THE DOWN PAYMENT ONTOMORROW’S PROBLEMS

HE TOLERATES YOU, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE FOR HIM?

GOD’S STILL IN THE RESCUE BUSINESS

For my platitudes to pop, they’ve got to be quick, clever and true. They need to succeed in three ways . First, you’ve got to see it.  Second, you have to speed-read it (at 40 MPH). Finally, you need to remember it, so you can jot it down at the next red light.

WHEN YOU FLEE TEMPTATION –DON’T LEAVE A FORWARDING ADDRESS

LIFE IS LIKE TENNIS – YOU CAN’T WIN WITHOUT SERVING

CONFESSION IS GOD’S DETERGENT

Church copy is like an espresso shot of faux scripture. It gives you a faith buzz.  So what if I’m Jewish? This isn’t about religion, it’s about my Church Blurb Collection which has swelled to an awesome 108. I don’t need a shelf. I don’t have to dust it.  And I know, someday, I’ll be selling it on QVC.

PRAYER IS THE 1-800 NUMBER FOR HEAVEN

JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON

GOD OWNS THE TEAM, JESUS IS OUR COACH, SHOW UP FOR PRACTICE

A MOTHER IS GOD’S SMILE IN DISGUISE

SINS REMIND US NOT TO DO THAT AGAIN

Wouldn’t you rather read this –

PEOPLE CANNOT CHANGE TRUTH BUT TRUTH CAN CHANGE PEOPLE

– while you’re zooming down Wilshire Blvd., than be assaulted by the psychotic billboard for ORPHAN? — Me, too.

KNOW JESUS, KNOW PEACE; NO JESUS, NO PEACE : IT’S YOUR CHOICE

TO ERR IS HUMAN, TO FORGIVE IS DEVINE…OOPS: “DIVINE”

A BAD DAY LASTS ONLY 24 HOURS, A BAD DEED CAN LAST FOR ETERNITY

and finally….

THERE IS NO “I” IN “FLOCK”

O My God. The only thing sweeter than the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, Christmas, Heaven, eternal salvation and a ham sandwich – is great blurb.

People who don’t say “anyways” (because it is not a word).

Garlic.

People who have finally accepted the fact that they are deaf, and have gotten a hearing aid.

72% Cacao Chocolate.

Drivers who know what to do at a 4-way stop sign (let the car on your right, or the person who got there before you, go first).

Stephen Colbert.

Those little tomatoes that look like Christmas lights.

People who don’t use the word “basically.”

Spanx.

District 9.

Roberta Smith MD, Jeffrey C. Wang MD, & Ram Parvataneni MD.

People who don’t talk on their cellphones while they’re walking a dog, pushing a baby in a stroller, doing their shopping or driving.

NETFLIX.

Larry David.

Binder clips, GLADWARE & Ziplock bags.

The Beach.

James Taylor.

People who don’t use Facebook as their personal website.

Ambien.

Craig Ferguson.

My children.

Alice Munro.

Yoga.

People who don’t text in public.

People who don’t litter.

William Shakespeare.

THE ONION.

Linda Ronstadt.

Ginger.

Jeff Bridges.

Theater.

People who return phone calls.

Paul Rudnick.

Vicodin.

The Obamas.

Air conditioning.

Paris.

ACT ONE by Moss Hart.

People who don’t write screenplays at STARBUCKS.

My friends.

Online SCRABBLE.

People who listen.

My bed.

PIXAR.

People who tell the truth.

Oliver Sacks.

(Most of) my relatives.

Spain.

Chris Rock.

TRADER JOE’S.

Tom Hanks.

Space.

People who don’t drive SUV crime scene-rape-van-delivery trucks like: Navigators, Escalades, Expeditions.

People who don’t whine.

People who work for The Gas Company.

Ice.

GOOGLE.

The firemen at the station on the corner.

Pink lemonade.

Caller I.D.

Alec Baldwin.

THE MARY TYLER MOORE SHOW.

Youtube.

My laptop.

My blog.

Coffee.

Kindness.

Comedy.

Karma.

And…. I’m thankful that 2009 is almost over.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Then they’ll say, “Lisa, I’ve got a job. My kids are still in school. I’ve got a husband, a million friends, and elderly parents who depend on me. I do Pilates and go on trips. And on Tuesdays, I serve soup to the homeless. I don’t have time to sit around and think about things the way you do. You’re on Disability. You’re not married. You don’t have a boyfriend. Your kids are grown. And your 88-year-old mother has full-time help. So don’t get sarcastic and up in my face because you’ve got all the time in the world to figure-out the Meaning of Life, because I don’t.”

It’s true. Having nothing to do allows me time to ponder. Maybe they’re right? Maybe I could come up with something better than a witty, smart-aleck answer the next time someone asks me: “What’s the Meaning of Life?” And wasn’t it Thomas Hobbes who said, “Leisure is the Mother of Philosophy?”

I was riding my RASCAL to the 7-11. It was a beautiful L.A. day. The sky was the color of mango and I was choking because the air was filthy from all the forest fires. There was a dead squirrel in the street. It must have been run over by like a thousand cars. In fact, maybe it wasn’t a squirrel, because it was squished beyond recognition.

A lot of grey squirrels live and die on my street. Grey squirrels have a life span of six years, but according to the website about squirrels that I just read, city squirrels rarely live longer than a year – because they get hit by cars.

I’ve been in six car accidents, that squirrel was in one. He should have been in a Volvo. As I waited on the corner for the light to turn green I thought… Hmmmm…. That roadkill has inspired me to think about the “Meaning of Life.”  What a fascinating cathexis. One minute you’re on your RASCAL going to 7-11 for a Slurpee, the next minute you see a dead squirrel, and a minute later, you’re ruminating about the Meaning of Life.

As I entered the 7-11 the second thing that caught my eye, after the display of spicy pork rinds was the new issue of IN TOUCH magazine. Jon Gosselin was on the cover with the caption “He Had An Affair With His Nanny.”

BAM! It was like that time at Costco when a can of baked beans hit me in the head.When people ask “What is the Meaning of Life?” — they don’t want to know. What they’re really asking is, “What is the Meaning of my Life?” People have trouble being specific. For example, instead of saying “Every cell in my body hurts,” you need to say, “I can’t feel my legs.” We get all Woody Allen and existential and whiny, when we need to be specific.

The Meaning of Life is this: some lives mean more than others. Some people change the world and other people, like Jon Gosselin, are like styrofoam packing peanuts in the big cardboard box of life.

One, sometimes two, occasionally three people per century make a difference. There has been only one Michelangelo, one Shakespeare, one Einstein, one Cary Grant and four BEATLES.

Since the Dawn of Man, hundreds of millions of people have populated the earth, and 99.9999% of us live and die without fanfare or an Emmy. While I waited for Rashid, the guy in the turban, to help me at the Slurpee machine, the nagging pressure to do something important with my life evaporated.

Maybe, while we’re taking up space on the planet, it’s more important to be kind and to clean up your mess when you’re done, than look for meaning in your life. It’s like when my ex-boyfriend told me I gave his life purpose, then we broke-up and POOF! – his life had zero meaning. It’s exactly like that.

Instead of wanting to know the Meaning of Life, think about the definition of life. Life is the opposite of Dead. Life is being UNdead. Imagine you’re a city squirrel — one minute you’re scampering around the neighborhood, then before you’re a year old, they’re performing DNA testing on your remains to confirm that you were a squirrel.

A few people do important things in Life —  like create the sitcom TAXI, or invent a new cookie, or do stem cell research. But most of us are just trying to get through the day without finding a boot on our back wheel. Maybe someday, through genetic engineering, we’ll be able to eradicate all the Lindsay Lohans, Ann Coulters and Courtney Loves. But since homo sapiens showed-up, as wickedly as we have treated one another, a surprisingly few number of people have been as god-awful as Ivan the Terrible or Bernie Madoff, or my ex-boyfriend’s mother.

Life is like a 7-11, there are choices in every aisle. You could buy a quart of milk, or a Mountain Dew; a banana, or a hot dog; a VANITY FAIR or a LOTTO ticket. Or you could be the fat guy who was ahead of me in line who was getting spicy pork rinds, a hot dog, two Red Bulls and some Marlboro Lights.

I sat outside the 7-11, sucking my  Slurpee through a straw as thick as a garden hose and wondered…why is it called “7-11?” And those people — the ones who’re always asking me about The Meaning of Life? — They’re right. I’ve got way too much free time.

The eponymous “Bastards” are miscreants, damned by their military misdeeds, but you root for them — almost from the start, until the final bloody, violent, beautifully choreographed, exquisitely shot sequence.

Sorry. Did you think I was referring to INGLORIOUS BASTERDS? – Quentin Tarantino’s masturbatory crazy-quilt of disjointed scenes and cartoon characters? The movie with two male leads, Brad Pitt and Christoph Waltz, and one (or two) female lead(s), Melanie Laurent (and Diane Kruger)? The Miramax picture that has grossed over $140 million, world-wide, as of today?

No, no, no, no, NO! I’m talking about the original INGLORIOUS BASTARDS directed by Enzo G. Castellari in 1978, starring Bo Svenson and Fred Williamson. In how many interviews have you heard Quentin Tarantino mention “Enzo Castellari?” — Me either.

Q.T.’s recycled chapters structure (not again!) fails for all the reasons Enzo Castellari’s story succeeds. Tarantino’s Basterds is a collage of vignettes lacking an emotional through-line.

Sure, Castellari sprinkles his show with a little Parmigiano-Reggiano – but so what? He’s an Italian director who made a movie about Americans and Nazis and the story takes place in France.

Tarantino has ripped-out the heart of Castellari’s film and misspelled the titled – because – apparently, he thinks he can. His spoiled, know-it-all movie nerd hubris kills this picture faster than a 30 cm Nebelwerfer.

Unlike Tarantino (who never explains the meaning of the title), Castellari reveals it in a scene toward the end of the second act when a Nazi officer refers to the boys as “bastards.” As in: “all Americans are bastards because they are mongrels.” Then he adds: “and all your women are whores.” And then the Bastards kill him.

In the ’78 version the condemned men are strangers in an truck; military prisoners in chains facing court martial. They feel nothing for the war or even for themselves. The only thing they have in common is their hate for the military. They suffer brutality and humiliation at the hands of MPs.

When the transport is hit by a German air attack, the men try to dodge the Nazi gunfire, only to be shot by the M.P.s. The five prisoners who escape are on the run. There’s freedom in Switzerland – if they can make it to the border, alive – which most of them don’t. Along the way, they become the INGLORIOUS BASTARDS.

Unlike Tarantino’s picture, that doesn’t know what genre box to check, Castellari’s misfits are developed characters with pre-war lives, real names and real flaws. They talk like dudes – quick, vulgar snd funny.

Tarantino’s comic book soliloquy-ism style, once fresh and new in PULP FICTION and starting to show its age in the KILL BILL double-feature, is now arch and predictable. The actors are divided into two groups: those who talk (and talk and talk) and those who react (and act, and act.) These guys would be more comfortable in an indie chick-flick than a blockbuster action pic. Only “Shoshonna,” the Jewess movie theater owner, gets to be a brooding, taciturn anti-heroine.

As Italian author-genius Umberto Eco points out: “a real hero becomes a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everyone else.” Castellari’s BASTARDS are selfish and charming. They don’t refuse the suicide mission because they know they are already dead. Castellari’s message is: sometimes men must fight in wars that don’t matter — to them.

I knew we were in for a rip from the start with the opening tune, “The Green Leaves of Summer.” I know this song because it was nominated for a Best Original Song Oscar, for THE ALAMO (1960), starring and directed by John Wayne. When I was ten years old I learned to play it on the paino (I still have the sheet music)! Tarantino likes to tickle himself with his mental clutter of movie trivia – whether it’s organic to the story — or not.

Another example is his non sequitur line of dialogue: “…Paris when it sizzles…” which is the title of the 1964 William Holden/Audrey Hepburn movie about a writer who’s up against a deadline, solicits ideas from his secretary in order to complete his novel.  Quentin, you cheeky enfant terrible – you’re not the only film nerd in this town with a subscription to Netflix.

Brad Pitt gets to be four characters: Lee Marvin (THE DIRTY DOZEN), John Wayne (THE GREEN BERETS), Humphrey Bogart (CASABLANCA) and Daniel Day Lewis (THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS). (There’s also a trace of Lil Abner.) But as cute as he is, Brad Pitt is no John Wayne – or Bo Svenson or Fred Williamson. And there’s a long stretch when he’s off-camera and out of the picture for almost thirty minutes.

There is no logical reason for the 2009 BASTERDS to be Jewish. It adds nothing to the story and it’s never paid-off. It’s just another random, Tarantino-istic, ego-driven conceit.

THE DIRTY DOZEN, Robert Aldrich’s iconic 1967 WWII picture, starring Lee Marvin, tells the same story as INGLORIOUS BASTARDS/BASTERDS. The performances are a master class in ensemble film acting. John Cassavetes was nominated for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar. He is mesmerizing.

On the INGLORIOUS BASTARDS DVD (2007), there is a conversation between Tarantino and Enzo Castellari. At the time they shot the interview, Tarantino hadn’t finished the first draft of his screenplay and still “didn’t know where it was going.”  Apparently, he was channeling William Holden in PARIS WHEN IT SIZZLES – without  Audrey Hepburn.

At the conclusion of the interview, Tarantino looks the elegant Italian director in the eye and says, referring to INGLORIOUS BASTARDS, “…if anyone knows this movie it’s because I told them about it. Only I know about this movie which is why I feel the title belongs to me.”  What an insufferable basterd.

The End

I remember when going to a bookstore was like going to the library, only the books and the people smelled better. Oliver Sacks said that independent bookstores reflect the culture of a city.  If that’s true BLADE RUNNER isn’t science fiction, it’s a documentary about Los Angeles in 2009.

I’ve been growing-up on the Westside of L.A. since the 1950s.  Back in the day, there were great bookstores – HUNTER’S and MARTINDALES in Beverly Hills; DUTTONS in Brentwood and THE BOOK NOOK at The Countrymart on 26^th Street. CROWN BOOKS had a couple of locations: Canon Drive in Beverly Hills and Wilshire in Santa Monica. WILSHIRE BOOKS was my favorite used bookstore on the Westside. They’re all gone now.

According to yelp.com, there are currently 525 hair salons in Beverly Hills, and one bookstore –TASCHEN, the ultra-gorgeous, German based, Philippe Starck-designed art book store. They published the most expensive book of the 20^th century: SUMO: 400 images by Helmut Newton: $15,000 for the book & the custom bookstand. Only 10,000 copies in the whole world; signed and numbered by Helmut Newton, I assume, before he died. So worth it.

BOOK SOUP is still on Sunset Blvd. – for now. (Owner, Glenn Goldman died in January.) There’s VILLAGE BOOKS in the Palisades (a schlep, unless I’m going to my doctor on Monument). And Vroman’s in Pasadena (if you live in Pasadena).

I miss a lot of things about the olden days in L.A., besides my youth, less traffic and fewer annoying people. Going to BORDERS made me nostalgic for the bookstore culture.  Bookstores were where you could enjoy your privacy in public. Where you could stroll, cogitate and browse. The salespeople were bookpeople – thoughtful and smart, like the underground society of readers in FARENHEIT 451. They were scholarly and literate people; English Lit. majors who could instantly synopsize an obscure novel for minimum wage and an employee discount.

For a writer, the neighborhood bookstore was the perfect place, outside of your bathrobe, to procrastinate. A couple of hours could ignite curiosity, humility and insecurity – which are a writer’s basic tools. Wasting time in a bookstore wasn’t like shopping at BLOOMINGDALES or going to a movie in the middle of the day – it was like meditating in a book shrine. Like when nuns visit Lourdes and think – “Okay. I get it. Now I remember why I joined the convent and married Jesus.”

BORDERS used to be a bookstore. Now it’s an indoor garage sale in a building as big as a football field. It’s a two-story hodgepodge of a lot of stuff – and a coffee bar. There are way too many shelves of Bargain Books – being all sad, tattered and grim and sloppily shoved-in, too tight. Their original prices have been slashed to a panicky, rock-bottom recession sliver. And at the cash register, you have to show them your BORDERS membership card like you’re at COSTCO.

I feel sort of responsible.  Maybe the “going under” vibe at BORDERS is my fault. I haven’t bought books there for years. I shop online from amazon. The amazon site is like ordering take-out and you can do in your pjs at 2 a.m. They’ve got great deals and super-saver shipping. I’ve got a Wish List. They make recommendations. And there is no gridlock outside my front door.

There’s still BARNES & NOBLE – at The Grove, The Westside Pavilion and Third Street Promenade. But those are shopping malls. And there’s something weird about a bookstore in a mall between a “Corn Dogs On a Stick” and a Victoria’s Secret.” If I have to be a hermit, the 21^st century is my century. I was genetically engineered to enjoy the ease and comfort of online shopping.

alibris, daedalus and Powell books are also good online bookstores. What they lack in bookshelves and salespeople, they make up for in inventory and good deals. And the book jackets aren’t shopworn, with the patina of a staph infection.

When BORDERS e-mailed me their latest “25% Off Entire Purchase” coupon I thought, hmmmm? Should I?  I weighed the pros and cons. Pro: 25% off entire purchase. Con: I’ll have to park in an underground garage. Pro: I’ll have it, today. Con: I’ll have to go into the store.

I bought a few birthday cards, a tote bag and a bag of coffee beans. BORDERS needs an emergency re-branding makeover a.s.a.p., otherwise they’re going to need to lose the “BOOKS” in their title.

Given the million dollar send-off we staged for him a month ago, Michael Jackson may be the most famous person, in his own lifetime, in the History of Man. I’m sure when they were alive, Michelangelo, Shakespeare and Mozart weren’t exactly household names in… say…Tibet.

Michael Jackson was an extraordinary star. He was more than a bunch of hydrogen and helium – although excess helium might explain why he sang like a girl.  He thought he was Peter Pan and he was — a Sergeant Pepper-Kabuki Peter Pan.

The ancient Greeks built temples to their gods, staged lavish festivals, then wrote scathing myths about the gods’ foibles and immorality. In almost 3,000 years, nothing has changed. Michael Jackson built Neverland Ranch, staged extravagant concerts and myths have been written about his foibles and immorality.

When the Greeks put their gods out to pasture, they whisked them away to the skies where they became constellations. We idolize, satirize and cannibalize our heroes, treat them like gods, then sell their image on an oven mitt.

In 1995, the movie, FARINELLI, won the Golden Globe for Best Foreign Language Film. “Farinelli” was the stage name of 18^th century castrato superstar, Carlo Broschi. In his day, Carlo Broschi was bigger than Elvis, the Beatles and Michael Jackson put together. Farinelli looked and dressed like Elvis — in drag — and sounded exactly like…. Michael Jackson. While you watch the movie, you have to remind yourself that it’s Dresden in the 1700s, not Vegas in the 80s.

Michael Jackson had a lot in common with Prince – “Purple Rain” and “When Doves Cry” Prince. They were both born in 1958 in the Midwest: Gary, Indiana and Minneapolis.  They were known as The King of Pop and The High Priest of Pop.

Michael Jackson won awards, the adoration of his fans and the respect of his colleagues. Prince has won awards, the adoration of his fans and the respect of his colleagues. But only Michael Jackson named both of his sons “Prince.”

We haven’t inducted a supernova since Princess Diana died – and that was way back in the last century. Let’s bury the man, so he can shine on, brightly — and get out of the Valley.

]]> http://lisamedway.wordpress.com/2009/07/26/a-supernova-is-born/feed/ 2 lisamedway http://lisamedway.wordpress.com/2009/04/29/swine-flu-panic-du-jour/ http://lisamedway.wordpress.com/2009/04/29/swine-flu-panic-du-jour/#comments Wed, 29 Apr 2009 05:30:55 +0000 lisamedway http://lisamedway.wordpress.com/?p=46 ]]>

Okay, so now it’s the swine flu. How are we going to fit that on the list of “More Things to Worry About?” When it comes to Weltschmerz, we are bursting at the seams. Mercy! Uncle! We give! As my grandmother and Rosanne Rosannadanna used to say, “it’s always something.”

Now we’ve got to worry about swine flu? Chickens, pigs and people have become a deadly 3-way? Why does everything have to happen to US?

I need to confess my own, personal shame and guilt. Last week I cooked for my children. I fed them chicken wings and baby back ribs. I didn’t know dinner could kill my family. But it’s been almost a week and nobody’s dead. Yet. 

And now, it’s swine flu. We’ve forgotten all about The Peanut Butter Salmonella Scourge of ’09 and it was only a few weeks ago. And who remembers the Bird Flu scare of ’07. OMG! That was anti-climactic. According to all the avian flu predictions, we shouldn’t be alive to contract the swine flu. And what about SARS? And the Y-2K End of Days apocalypse? Psyche! Not! A hoax?

There was a swine flu epidemic in 1976. Then President Ford ordered a vaccine to inoculate the nation. The pandemic alert was a false alarm and only one guy died.

We have become a culture of panic. The world is a cluster (insert slang for intercourse, here) fuelled by a media glut that no amount of Tamiflu can cure. We are being infected with thought germs.

Why does practically every major news story, except the ones about Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson, fan the panic and feed our fears? Fear of failure; fear of losing our job, our home, our 401K, our car, our gym membership, our status, self-worth, and SELF? Simple: because all fear, boiled-down to its demi glace, is Fear of Death. And in today’s news, the topic is Fear of Death by Swine Flu.

There is pandemonium when the word “pandemic” is uttered. We are spoiled. Spoiled and delusional. We assume we’re not going to die of….something. We expect science to keep us alive, forever and medicine is letting us down if we are not cured. But here’s the deal: There is no cure, only postponement. That’s why we need to calm down.

There have been bona fide pandemics before. They were called “plagues” which I think is a much more emotionally-charged word. A plague is how the human race performs a high colonic on itself every century. It’s the thinning of the herd. Here are just a few Plague Highlights through the centuries that will help put today’s swine flu outbreak in perspective.

The Black Plague in the 14th century. Like SARS, spaghetti and  syphilis, it originated in China. The Black   Plague (AKA Bubonic Plague) wiped out 25-50% of the population of Britain and Europe.

15th century – Speaking of syphilis, Chinese traders brought it to Japan  and they had an epidemic.

The 16th century Smallpox Epidemic in Peru killed the Inca ruler, Huayn  Capac, and 200,000 Incans. It’s responsible for destroying the Incan  Empire.

In the 19th century, there were no fewer than FIVE cholera pandemics between 1817-1896.

Hundreds of thousands died of scarlet fever in 19th century England and Wales. Scarlet fever killed off dozens of   characters in Victorian novels by the Bronte sisters, George Eliot, Charles Dickens and Louisa May Alcott.

A Yellow Fever epidemic in 19th century Spain killed 300,000. Today, 200,000 unvaccinated victims die each year.

The most devastating influenza pandemic in history began in 1917 and lasted until 1919. Called the Spanish flu, it wiped-out 50-100 million people, world-wide, in six months

Today, influenza/pneumonia is the 7th leading cause of death in the U.S. 13,000 influenza and influenza-adjacent deaths have occurred in the U.S. since January. 250,000-500,000 die of the flu per year, world-wide.

Stop worrying. Don’t panic. Wash your hands and relax. Maybe steer clear of ribs and chicken til this thing blows over. Because you know it will. And if it isn’t a hurricane, or an earthquake or a tornado, or a flood, or Mexican drug lords, or pirates off the coast of Somalia – it might be the swine flu. Life has a 100% mortality rate. It’s always something.