Ellery Goes Dark đ 2
Plus, a veritable cornucopia of Mary Tyler Moore fall marvels! đđđ
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Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?
Welcome to all the newcomers (so many of you) and happy first day of actual Autumn! Are you completely ready for wet leaves on the sidewalk and forever sweaters? I am! We are celebrating here as my dad pulled a Queenâs scheme this week and snuck out to go driving on his own without telling a soul. It was magnificent to see him take back some of his spunky independence! Seeing as this place sits on the edge of an 8,000-acre forest, there is not much for him to run into (other than a bear) and he felt confident about his driving skillsâalorsâso far, so good!
In the meantime, letâs get back to Ellery Goes Dark. If you missed the opening, it can be found here.
âMs. Allbright. Did. You. Take. Anything?!â
Oh, well, hello there, smoldering antihero. I blink twice for ânoâ and now it is everything to get the soft, croaky words outâŚ
âI-âhnnn ha-uhh-see-jueâ
âA what?â He cocks his head like a Labrador. (A very romantic Labrador.)
Man, this hurts. âUh see...jur." A moment passes and I watch his eyes light up as he comprehends.
âYouâve had a seizure?â He says. And I blink YES now as loudly as I can. There we go. Yes, my dude, you got me! And I think how Iâm going to explain this as a one-off, isolated incident to the network and to Dymphna, my boss, who just happens to be more revered and feared than Anna Wintour, except in the world of daytime talk.
Before you say âWhat the hell kind of name is Dymphna?â Dymphna is the patron saint of mad and mentally ill women everywhere and Ned and I can only surmise that her mother was a bizarrely ardent Catholic who didnât like her baby daughter very much, or there was some mishap with the anesthesia and somehow cooler heads did not prevail in the naming department. Fast forward to today and say hello to D. OâDean, Executive Producer of the Thatâs Ellery show, the arbiter of all things New York culture, taste, and talk, and the driving force behind keeping Thatâs Ellery on the air. Still, I can already hear the angry huff in her voice, interrogating Ned from behind the cameras.
âWhatâs going on? Has she had a stroke? This canât happenânot after the Art IS anal debacle. I need you to fix this Neddy, now!â And I want to tell her, I am fixing it, but Swarthy is talking to me again.
âYouâve had a grand mal... a tonic-clonic seizure?â I blink âyesâ again. He studies me.
âHappen a lot?â I blink once again because I canât explain to him that yes, my brain occasionally likes to burst into particles of radiant light and itâs so on-brand for me to do it on live television with the whole world watching. I do everything else on cameraâfrom colonoscopies to mammograms. Why not this? Still, I canât believe itâs happened at this point in my lifeâright when everythingâs been going so well. OofâŚ
âDo you know who the president is?â Swarthy quizzes me.Â
I groan audibly, thinking of that reprehensible, boiled-hot-dog-skin of a Commander-in-Chief. Swarthy smirks. For chrissake, for once, couldnât this part be different? Itâs always the same questionsâDo you know your name? Do you know what day it is? Can you tell me who the President is? And then, the very way they say your name: âEllery? Ellery?â Itâs always in that bossy, infantilizing tone, like youâre five and theyâve just caught you stealing. Never mind that youâre a fully grown-ass woman in a Phillip Lim frock, and Louboutinâs, supporting an entire household and raising two children, or that you put yourself through college on your own when your useless hippie parents couldnât be bothered to help, so you had to be the responsible one.Â
Now, the world shakes in a clumsy jostling motion. Iâm being hoisted onto a gurney and the latches snap into place. Overhead, the crumpled faces of Ned, Dymphna, and the crew flicker past. In the wings, I'm being wheeled out, past a bank of monitors all looping on replay. Do they show a woman thrashing about in the throes of a violent fit before a horrified audience? Do I dare even ask to see it when all is said and done? Has it already been leaked to the press? Surely production will give it to legal. I can hear Janice Plunck from the networkâs inhuman resources department now, âSheâs a liability, that oneânot allowed in the studio anymore. We canât insure her!â But how to live? Either way, it will get reported to all the various authorities and then itâs back to no driving and all kinds of rules for me. We push through the open doors. A shadow casts over the street as I clunk upwards into the ambulance double parked along Broadway, lights flashing, a siren periodically bleating out calamity.Â
Swarthy Milo climbs aboard and leans in close now, his face a few forbidden inches from mine. He studies me with a strange, unwavering intimacy. Fuck, fuck, fuck, is he going to kiss me? Because I could probably use a mint.
Then, a darkness plays over his face. And itâs as if thereâs this reverse gravity weighing down on him, a pressure over his shoulders, pushing his entire being toward me as if he could somehow see me just moments before all of this, as a normal 40-year-old woman, telling funny stories to a group of random strangers. And I recognize now that itâs sorrow. A dense, leaden sadness. And I wish I could tell him, âHey, chin up, mister. It canât possibly be all that bad,â but he shakes his head and sighs, âThere are things they can do⌠prosthetics, implants.â
Wait, what? Hold up there, now. Prosthetics? Prosthetic what? Are we talking about a prosthetic nose? Like Cyrano? Because I already really like mine. Man, I wish someone would hand me a mirror so I can see what the hell heâs talking about. I canât feel anything. Last time I checked thereâs no such thing as a prosthetic yap? Just as I go to reach my IV tangled hand up toward my face to feel what has happened, he grabs itâ
âNo! You donât want to do that⌠Trust me.âÂ
Oh, dear. Swarthy. What are you trying to tell me? I feel my eyes ask him. He fumbles the moment.
âJust⌠you donât want to introduce infection.â
Right. Just then, the upper left corner of the ambulance trembles into a bright shimmer. I hear Swarthyâs voice cut through the veil of sparks and indigo, âStatus epilepticus with multiple cranial injuries, dislocated, shattered jaw, both sides, facial fracturesâŚâ
And thereâs music again. This time, itâs the haunting, smoke-stained voice of Iggy Popâs The Passenger.Â
I am a passenger
And I ride, and I ride
I ride through the city's backsides
I see the stars come out of the skyâŚÂ  Â
I want to ask Swarthy if he too is full of music and stars. But itâs too late. For now, I have gone dark.
PART ONE: Diagnosis
Chapter One - Ellery - New York - 2012
âWe finally got her.â I whisper to Claire.
We are standing in front of Barbara Krugerâs iconic 1981 montage piece You Are Not Yourself, which illustrates these concepts as only Krugerâs fierce red, black, and white feminist collage style can. In it, a woman peers into a broken mirror, holding one of the fragments between her fingers, and is shown with the bold superimposed cut-out words âYou Are not Yourselfâ on top. The shattered mirror distorts the womanâs image, thereby rendering the splintered version of her face, her âselfâ as a female that life and society have so irrevocably altered; she is no longer herself as society can define her.
âNo! I thought you said, it was impossible!â Claire has been my friend since our kids started kindergarten. A bawdy art history professor, the fellow class mom, and I are in deep goss at an uber-private showing at the Kasabian Gallery on Soho. Claire is my subversive mom-friend who is always trying to get me to sneak into places and situations with her that will surely get us arrested. And who I repeatedly tell, âNo, you go have a good time sneaking backstage to party with Snoop Dog, the network has made it very clear that they will not bail me out for those kinds of antics. They will, in fact, cancel me.âÂ
âBarbara Kruger, feminist art icon did indeed say yes!â I grin nodding, pleased as punch with myself. âSheâs coming on the show next Thursday.â Kruger doesnât do daytime talk. Sheâs far too above it all for the great unwashedâbut sheâs coming to talk to me. It is, as they say in the biz, a âgood get!â
âAre you nervous?â says Claire, as a passing cater waiter tops off her champagne.
âNo, why should I be? Iâve done a million of these. I mean, sheâs not Michelle Obama, but I will so take her! And I can âfeministâ with the best of them. The trick is to make her funny and relatable enough for Ashley-the-mom-in-from-Minnesota-with-her-girlfriends. Turn her âmeâ into the âWEâ, and away we go!â
âIs she-we even here?â Claire scans the crowd.
âYes, her opening remarks were all about her next exhibit, The divine feminine fascist. Oh, and she has the best hair ever. Itâs like sheâs had her finger in an electrical socket her entire lifeâso think hair and ideas? Ned is chatting her up somewhere in the back with Aubrey, who delivered three fucking babies today and looks totally unscathed. Iâd be a thirty-car pile-up.â
âSuch is the power of cocaine and medicinal junk food.â
âWell, I could use some.â I massage my temple where it feels as though a very thin wire is tightening around the circumference of my head.
âYou, ok?â
âYes, Iâm sure itâs just perimenopausal hormonal craziness. And Iâm probably dehydrated. I have a total drinking problemâthat way.â
Claire groans. âI sweat at least a gallon a night. Itâs the worst. Iâm going to have to dispose of my bed as biowaste from all the toxic mold resulting from my night sweats.â
âI told my doctor when the time comes, just write me a script for a super yacht full of K-Y, some Boniva, and a membership to Eileen Fisher.â
âI donât think they have those.â
âWell, they shouldâitâs a prime marketing opportunity. Do they have any idea how old and fat we are about to get?â
âDonât say that! I refuse!â
âI donât think we have a choice. Speaking of which, are you coming to yoga tomorrow?â
âCanât... PTAâgrim meeting about anti-self-harm initiatives.â
âGod, Iâd sooner slit my wrists.â
âOK, you are a terrible person, but oh man, it sucks ass...â She laughs maniacally now. âI just want one day off. And sex, I would like to be so fucked. At this point, I should have my virginity reinstated, complete with a certificate... single motherhood has so totally killed my game.â
I put my hand on hers. âAt least we have tonight. Come on, letâs go fangirl Babs Kruger before she gives us the slip and sneaks out the back.â And I drag Claire by the arm off in search of Ned and Aubrey⌠More next week.
Doofus of the Week: Journalist, Olivia Nuzzi
I mean, why??? Youâre only 31! Why blow up your life, career, and relationship for this doofus?
Now, This Week in⌠Thatâs Marvelous!
I canât help myself⌠itâs been fourteen years now, and this latest project by Bong Joon-Ho Mickey 17 reminds me so much of what itâs like to live with seizures:
That said, outside of Death on Repeat, the ecstatic musical quality of what they feel like while out is more akin to thisâŚ
A Melange of Marvelous
I donât know about you, but Autumn always puts me in a Mary Tyler Moore mood. (Btw, if anyone wants to commission me to write Maryâs biopic, Iâve studied her for 30 years and Anne Hathaway would be amazing to play her. Not only does she possess Maryâs capacity for joy, but she also possesses physical comedy skills. Mary loved to dance and she could also bring the humble goofball. But who would you cast?
CREATION LAKE:Â From Rachel Kushner, a Booker Prize finalist, two-time National Book Award finalist, and âone of the most gifted authors of her generationâ (The New York Times Book Review), comes a new novel about a seductive and cunning American woman who infiltrates an anarchist collective in Franceâa propulsive thriller of glittering insights and dark humor.
This look of draping your scarf over your tote will not only cure you of your try-hard GenX tendencies, it will make you feel superior and effortlessly chic.
Franco Sartoâs Tinsley Mary Jane Flatâthe ultimate comfy date-night shoe.
This fall flower power dress is so foxy! Courtesy of
Get it here!This oh-so-MTM Warwick blazer also doubles as a darling MTM-style dress!
Is that a brushed cashmere forever sweater I see? Get it here!
And lastly, hereâs Boden, again ringing in the fall with total green-gold MTM elegance AND pockets! Huzzah!!!
And we all know the marvelous film and TV icon above!
Quote of the week: Too funnyâŚ
Camilla George
Saxophonist Camilla George came up through the amazing organization Tomorrowâs Warriors and her music has a 1970s-SF-Dirty Hairy vibe to it that I just adore.
A Candy Bar for Your Brain!
This BBC radio program Book at Bedtime sourced by the perennially delightful
of (you should definitely subscribe!) is perfect brain candy to cozy up with on a rainy afternoon or before sacking out. Performed much in the way a parent might read to you, the stories are unexpected and always something you will have missed in lifeâlike FM Mayorâs 1924 novel The Rectorâs Daughter.So, thatâs what Iâve got this week. Thinking of you all â xoxo, gotham girl
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A brilliant, funny post and who knew that 'Dymphna is the patron saint of mad and mentally ill women everywhere'?? Thanks for the lovely shoutout for my newsletter & for BBC classic serials. I would listen to Juliet Stevenson reading just about anything... the main reason why I've listened to the audiobook of Middlemarch, twice.
Thanks for the earworm!
Who can turn the world on with her smile?
Who can take a nothing day and certainly make it all feel worthwhile?