GilmoreGossipCircle

By all appearances, this should be a classic episode:

Friday Night’s Alright for Fighting. While Luke deals with the reality of having April in his life, Lorelai tries to pretend she doesn’t mind the repercussions the new situation is having on their engagement. Rory’s concern over Paris’ lack of management skills at the Yale Daily News finally reaches a crisis point when most of the staff quits in protest. With Logan’s help, Rory makes a valiant attempt to get the paper out on time. Meanwhile, Lorelai breaks the news to Richard and Emily that their money will no longer be needed for Rory’s education, and the resentment starts to build. The subsequent Friday night dinner erupts into an emotional confrontation where all four Gilmores finally get their issues out on the table. Written by Amy Sherman-Palladino and directed by Kenny Ortega.

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Tuesday Hangovers

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Mysterious and Ooky

QueenA couple of weeks ago Melissa S, she of the impeccable taste (especially in regard to TV — so impeccable, she won’t watch half the crap that I do), recommended a show called Most Haunted. I immediately searched and set a timer to DVR four episodes, because it sounded truly fabulous. Well, friends, Romans, it is.

Apparently this show has been on for a million seasons in England. I have absolutely no idea how long the Travel Channel has been running it, but I’m hoping long enough for there to be lots of reruns.

Basically, a kooky crew of ghost-hunters visits the grounds of England’s reputed "Most Haunted" sites for 24 hours of video-recorded hijinks. But that doesn’t really sum up the charm. To do that, we have to talk about the cast.

The star isn’t the windowshade-eyed "Guide"/Host Yvette Fielding, who always seems to be hearing something and has mastered the eyebrow raise, head cock that signals such. It’s not "Historian" Richard Felix, though he’s actually one of my favorites because he’s always terrified and way more credulous than he thinks he is. Or "Paranormal Investigator" Phil Whyman, who has really crunchy hair and scribbles constantly on a notepad when not waving his PKE meter about. (Crunchy hair is big on this show.) The production crew is also forced to participate and generally breaks down along the lines of two extremely skittish guys, the producer and the camera guy, and two very screamy girls, the make-up artist and another producer(?). They usually get the worst assignments of the evening, whatever that happens to be. But they’re not the stars either.

Nope, the real star is Derek Acorah, "Spiritualist Medium." Whenever Derek has to ask "Sam" for something and they flash the words "Sam is Derek’s link to the spirit world" or some such across the bottom of the screen, I am to delight. Also, in a fantasy television cross-over with Project Runway, I can imagine Michael Kors squinting at Derek and saying, "He just looks like a sad, old queen. He’s just saaaaad." He has a little diamond stud twinkle, twinkle little ghosting in his earlobe. Michael Caine would play him in the movie, but an oily Michael Caine.

The best thing is when he gets angry at an eeeeevil spirit or, as he likes to call them, "You filth!" Last night I watched an episode set in the Clerkenwell House of Detention. Usually, Derek is only the focus of about the first ten or fifteen minutes of the episode — the format runs along the lines of, tilty-eyes and paranormal boy chitter chatter about the place while stalking through it, carefully setting up the things that Derek will "read" from the environment when he enters it, completely free of any knowledge about its history. Then Derek enters and spins his magic. In this particular installment, the entire episode is spent with Derek going batshit Cruise-esque crazy insane. There was a ton of "You filth!"ing going on. You see, Derek had never encountered this particular kind of situation, one superevil spirt with two minor evil spirits, all of them threatening the women on the show with terrible things and screwing up his connection to Sam.

Sadly, we don’t get to know the really terrible things because they were "too graphic to air." Perhaps most hilariously, the show also bleeped the last name of the superevil guy because he still has eight living relatives. One thing was sure: Someone forgot to deliver Derek’s pre-show coke that night. 

I love this show, not least because I half-believe that some of the cast believe it.* A skeptical "paranormal investigator" gets to weigh in on the tape of the visit at the end; he usually chalks up anything overly strange to insect activity.  He comes across as afterthought silly, which is no doubt the intention.

Anyway.

My new secret dream is to have my own version of this show, on which I’d be the "Guide."  I want a flighty make-up artist who screams a lot. I want my own sad, old queen to spout drama as we walk through abandoned houses and graveyards and stuff. (Christopher can be notepad scribbly boy.) It just seems like such a fun job. A girl has to have her bullshit-filled dreams. Right?

See also:

The Wikipedia entry documenting one of Most Haunted’s own parapsychologist’s attacks on Derek’s truthiness;
James Randi on Derek and the kerfluffle

*Sam, clearly, is gaming the whole thing

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Monday Hangovers

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The Stuff of Happiness

Snitched from Meghan. Stuff I like, because sometimes it’s good to stop and think about good stuff.

1. Wallaby brand Australian-style yogurt. Seriously, the most delicious yogurt in the world. You must try. You will be happy. Orange Passion Fruit flavor. Any flavor. Yum.

2. Magic. Not the kind with the K. The kind with magicians and tricks and fascinating histories, etc. 

3. Freaks. Obviously. But for lots of reasons, including an innate pull toward outsiders of any kind. (Also, related to the link: anything that Rosamond Purcell does.)

4. Television. Unapologetically, I love it. (Only good television, obvs., or at least so bad it’s entertaining.) After a long day, after a short day. I try not to watch it in huge lumps of time, but I don’t feel guilty when I do. And what would you do when you were sick if TV didn’t exist?

5. The VA parking garage. We just got a permit for the VA parking garage, which is across the street from our gym. Previously, going to the gym involved vulture-circling for a spot and paying way too much into a meter. Now it just involves a half-a-block walk. It’s the little things.

6. Hawaii. I very much want to go back. It’s a magic place (again, not with the K, but this time not with the tricks either). All this Jack London and Mark Twain talk of late is making me long.

7. These shoes. (With kudos to the Style Queen.) Now if only I could find/afford a pair.

8. Being in motion. Even if it’s in my chair, typing away.

9. A really great conversation. Especially with someone I just met.

10. Mr. T. Because he defies logic.

11. Music with some space. I like music that has a landscape in it that you can freefall through.

12. Songs you can’t help singing along to. "Jessica," "Who’s Got the Crack?" (or anything by The Moldy Peaches, really), "Moonshiner," "Heliopolis by Night," etc.

13. The South. Which shall not rise again.

14. Teenagers. They rock, they’re infuriating, they’re like matches waiting to throw sparks. It’s why I write about and for them.

15. A new Karen Joy Fowler novel. This is an official request of the universe and Karen. (Actually, KJF in general would be perfectly at home on this list too.)

16. Giving someone a present. Is there anything better? (Obligatory Xmas pressies not included.)

17. You. Assuming you’re not creepy.

(p.s. Gmail has been down (for me, anyway) all day, but seems to be back up. So if I owe you a reply from the last couple days, expect it later tonight.)

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Saturday Hangovers

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Vicariously

So despite the fact my fingers were crossed the entire time, Maureen McHugh didn’t win The Story Prize:

The Hill Road by Patrick O’Keeffe, published by Viking, was named the winner of The Story Prize at the New School’s Tishman Auditorium in New York City on the evening of Jan. 25, 2006. O’Keeffe accepted the first prize of $20,000 and an engraved silver bowl. The other two finalists for The Story Prize were Jim Harrison for The Summer He Didn’t Die (Atlantic Monthly Press) and Maureen F. McHugh for Mothers & Other Monsters (Small Beer Press).

However, it sounds like the whole experience was a blast anyway (I wonder if any of the other finalists went out with ARGers?). And it is still unbelievably awesome that Mothers was a finalist. (I know nothing about the O’Keeffe; anyone read it?)

It looks as if the entire event is up online, which would include readings by all three authors.

For a Web cast of The Story Prize award night go to www.online.newschool.edu and click on ‘Special Events.’

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Friday Hangovers

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Light Phenomena

Ander Monson is holding court about Other Electricities in most delightful fashion:

I can, however, speak to my intentions, and I see the voice as being either the mother (who is herself a mystery–probably dead, though possibly gone to Canada, and her postcards on the website serve, I hope, to complicate this–and maybe that’s a metaphor regardless, Canadian as dead (at least to these characters–I should say I have nothing against Canada, since where I’m from we’re practically Canadian, we get their TV, their sports, much of their culture, but the space North of the border is this big Other up there–white space, the unknown, my own personal Congo/Heart of Darkness or whatever). The voice of the mother (though again it’s possibly some even weirder thing speaking, a sort of greek chorus in the book, or the place, or the town, or the Paulding Light, which is real, by the way (you can see a bizarro low-budget film in the style of the Blair Witch Project at:  Paulding Light.com)) (and sorry for my nested parentheses, which might be a bit ridiculous, but I like them) is one of the few times in the book where there’s real solace offered to Yr Protagonist, or to the other characters.

Canadian(s), can you dispute this? And the Paulding Light is real. Who knew? Please consider this a plea for all writers to incorporate real mysterious lights into their books.

I will even forgive the fact that Ander Monson (b. 1975) makes me (b. 1976) feel like a 1991er.

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