Note to self:

Should you ever decide to put together a production of Jane Austen’s novel Sense and Sensibility, please remember a few things.  First, it’s probably a good idea to hire actors who pretend to be the characters in the novel, not the actors who played the characters in the novel in another (better) adaptation.  Hugh Grant plays Hugh Grant better than anyone else could.  And, no matter how good the Elinor actress might be, she will still sound an awful lot like Emma Thompson.  Kate Winslet is hard to beat, unless it’s in The Titanic in which case someone should beat her, James Cameron, and Leo with a rubber hose just to save me from having to do it.  Search high and low for a Mrs. Dashwood who doesn’t look too much like Helen Mirren in some light and Jessica Lange in others, and whose voice doesn’t sound like a man on quaaludes.  This shouldn’t be too much of a problem, although…what do I know?  It could be quite a challenge (APPARENTLY).

Most importantly, try not to allow the actors/director to make the entire production as forced and melodramatic as an 8th grade production of Our Town.  Your viewers will want to kill themselves within about 14 seconds.  It’s painful to watch that kind of over-acted, saccharine crap.  Be authentic or go home.

Emphasizing the Naturalism element of the story is an excellent plan.  Windy beaches, nature reflecting emotions, drama and trauma.  Mother Nature is a bitch when she wants to be, but you’ll never misunderstand her meaning. 

Remember, too, that if you choose to do this in two parts, your more loyal viewers will still tune in to Part Deux, hoping for redemption.  Try to deliver.

love,
self

The final BBC/PBS Masterpiece Theater Jane Austen production airs tonight:  Sense and Sensibility.  It’s a good one.  Mama like.  I’m a little apprehensive, I will admit, about getting hot and bothered in anticipation, though, because I can’t imagine how it’s going to top Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman…to whom we should all have itty bitty shrines in our coat closets, because he’s so gooooood.

Still, it’s better than this:




Which is what I have to read for a class I’m taking.  I wish I could say that I flat out hate it, because I’d really like to because I’m, you know, a giant snob.  But I can’t.  Tuesdays With Morrie has become a big fat cliché.  In truth, it’s worth a read.  Fortunately, it will take you about thirty-eight seconds to process the entire book.  I read half of it this afternoon at the car wash.  And not while I was waiting to go in the car wash, I mean while I was sitting in the car fishing survivor Skittles out of the bottom of my purse and listening to those big rubbery brushes whoosh and thump the bejeezus out of my car. 

Once you’re finished reading it, of course, and you’ve pondered your own mortality, relationships, mental health, and feelings about the fact that you are squandering your life reading this not-a-blog, you can entertain yourself by re-writing the sub title.  “An old man, a young man, and life’s greatest lesson.”  “An aging detective, a sexy nun, and the night the lights went out in Georgia.”  “An incompetent city planner, a cheesesteak with, and a public display of affection that changed a nation.” 

But I could be convinced to change my mind.  Have you been to I Can Haz Cheeseburger? I don’t get it.  But I love it. 

I don’t dislike cats, and I’m working on being cat tolerant because my best fake friend Cindy Guidry has a cat and chastised me for my criticism of her f-ing weird as hell long-term relationship with said cat.

FYI – my imaginary relationship with my BFF Cindy has been elevated to a higher plane.  Now she frequently sits on the (closed, duh) toilet in a sisterly way and we talk while I shower in the morning.  Mostly she helps me figure out what I’m supposed to be doing that day because my long term memory is …who am I?

P.S.  Cindy:  You write that you are “failing as a blogger.”  You only have one problem here: you insist on thinking in terms of “blog.”  Urgh.  No wonder.  Hideous word.  Banish it.  Shun it.  Better yet, invent a new word for it that I can plagiarize.  And why aren’t you coming to Philadelphia to read?  And why have I not yet received a call that you need me to help you shop for shoes and fetch your coffee (yeah, I have no dignity left.  Haven’t we covered that yet?  So I’m 40 and am willing to fetch coffee…don’t judge.  Haters.) while you become more famous than Candace Bushnell for YOUR HBO Show.   You totally deserve it.  She’s weird.  And you’re a better writer.  And I could use a lobotomy break from my routine.