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Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you? Weren’t the Emmys fun?
Not only were Eugene and Dan Levy a delight over recent hosts, but they kicked off the show with the popular generation-spanning trio of Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Selena Gomez who all seemed genuinely glad to be there. They brought in beloved icons like Billy Crystal and Candice Bergen to reflect on their careers—with perfect zingers baked into the script. They even had a small cabal of SNL veterans playfully roast Lorne Michaels and recreated the sets from ER, SNL, and Happy Days, with appearances by Henry Winkler and Ron Howard. Perhaps what I loved most was that they used classic TV theme songs for the intros and outros—with Newhart cued for the final credits. All of this, along with the inclusion of first-time winners like Liza Colon-Zayas, Richard Gadd, and Lamorne Morris, as well as the team from Shogun, made the event feel EXACTLY like the nostalgic celebration of the medium it should be, while still countering the perception that the TV Academy only rewards the old guard. A nice change.
Still, I won’t lie… this past week has been frustrating. Last night, while contemplating the absurdities of love, I all but melted an All-Clad D3® Tri-Ply Stainless-Steel Sauté Pan. The lid is now permanently warped from midlife lady ruminations. My dad about had kittens. It’s his All-Clad. He’s fussy that way. He gawped at me, a stunned and enameled light in his eyes, trying to comprehend the metaphysical preposterousness of the idea that thoughts of love could bend metal. But there it is. You can adore a person and it can still be a complete disaster. You can tell a man he doesn’t love you and that it’s OK, and he will still be furious with you because he didn’t get to say it first. Sigh.
Meanwhile, six months ago I posted the opening of my next book, Ellery Goes Dark, on The Secret Society of Sh*tty First Drafts. A number of you gave great notes. So, let’s take it again from the top…
Ellery Goes Dark
PROLOGUE:
New York City | April 11, 2017
At first, all I can hear is George. That 1990s crushed velvet voice of his—
I won’t let you down.
I will not give you up.
Gotta have some faith in my sound.
It’s the one good thing that I’ve got!
And all I can think, as he croons in the darkness is, now there’s a guy who wasn’t afraid of a v-neck sweater.
“Shhhh... Don’t speak,” a voice whispers.
Out of the blackness, a man’s face swims into focus, his head is haloed in the hot glow of the TV studio spotlights. Behind him, the large, orange, and red marquee glares down, “That’s Ellery!”
Holy fuck… Gaaaaaaaghgh!! Who’s this guy? And why are his words so… swarthy? He has total romance novel hair—completely lustrous and thick. I mean… Do you ever just look at somebody and think to yourself I know that man’s going to buy me a horse?
That’s this guy. He reminds me of that actor, Milo Venti-mi-ma-something, from that big network show I never watch because everyone is always crying, or dying, or giving birth, and then crying some more. You know the one I’m talking about.
“Shhhh... Hold still, the wound’s super close to your jugular,” whispers Swarthy Milo.
Jugular? Fuck, did I just cosplay Marie Antoinette in front of a live audience of ten million people? Wait, where’s everybody going? Now, I catch snippets of alarmed whispers.
“Is she... dead?” A tearful woman asks.
“So much blood!” Laments another, clearly shaken.
“Fuckin’ sucks to be her…” Observes still one more.
Over the PA system, I hear Ned struggling to remain calm, “Ladies and Gentlemen, if you could please carefully make your way toward the rear exits of the studio, you will be met by staff for further instructions. Ms. Allbright has clearly suffered an… err… health issue and is receiving prompt medical attention. We—we thank you for your understanding.”
Oh, I’ve done it again!
“Ms. Allbright, I want you to blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’. Can you do that?”
I blink once because I will do anything Swarthy tells me because of that hair. So lustrous and thick… God, it’s like an ultra-shag carpet, you just want to sit on it in a nightie and play Monopoly for hours.
“Ms. Allbright, did you take anything?” He says.
Oh, mister, I want to tell him, I take everything. You see I have this thing with my… and that’s when I see it.
All down the front of his shirt, he is soaked in crimson. Whoa, that is a lot of blood. That’s pretty much a Walking Dead amount of blood.
And just under his collar, I can see a splotch of gelatinous pinkish-gray matter. Holy fuck, is that my brain? I try to reach up toward it, but my arm is a leaden weight. OK, whoa, I’m... I’m going to need that back.
God, why couldn’t my ovaries just have shot what’s left of my eggs at him? You can pretty much hear every woman in the studio right now going ‘pew, pew, pew’ at the guy... But oof, isn’t this just THE FOUNDATIONAL ANALOGY OF LIFE?
The MOMENT you think you’re the person you’ve always wanted to be... A mother who can get her stubborn children to bathe every night—granted, my threats that they would both turn into wildebeests if they got too dirty was a genius master stroke of creative parenting—OK, some would say gaslighting, but it worked. A badass, who’s totally CRUSHING it at work, like when we hosted the Pope and the Stones in one week—yes, OK, there was also that gargantuan screwup with our sofa sponsor billboard in Times Square that was supposed to read “Artisanal Wonder” but instead ended up saying, “Art is Anal Wonder,” in gigantic thirty-foot letters, and oh, yes… a person who’s finally in a solid relationship again—albeit one with mollusk lessons you never bargained for... when suddenly, out of nowhere, the Universe and George Michael rush in to compel you to be something more, something different, something else… Gaaaaaagh!
“Ms. Allbright. Did. You. Take. Anything?!”
Oh, well, hello there, smoldering antihero. I blink twice for ‘no’ and now it is everything to get the soft, croaky words out…
More next week.
Doofus of the Week: Google
Google’s AI Will Help Decide Whether Unemployed Workers Get Benefits. What could possibly go wrong? Certainly nothing!
Doofus of the Week: Frank Luntz
And following up on our Thursday thread…
Per
, who nailed it on so many levels…“Ladiez! Frank Luntz, who is *checks notes* a former pollster for that party that famously loves women — Republicans — wants to give you a few tips. Settle in.
Your faces must be frozen in time. They must not respond to age, the wind, the screams of children, nor the provocations of a bloviating unemployed fascist. You must be pleasing, but not so much as to make it appear that you are trying. No, no, see now you have resting bitch face. Smile more. But not too much more. You can’t be happy. But you cannot also reveal in any way that the man you are listening to has said the most god-awful lie imaginable. You’ll make all the other men who believe those same things feel bad. And you don’t want to make the men feel bad, do you? No, because that will make them not want to vote for you. So you must be pleasing at all times in these increasingly contradictory ways that I, a man, have prescribed for you.”
Now, This Week in… That’s Marvelous!
I can’t help myself… this looks like a rollicking ride.
A Melange of Marvelous
HOW TO BE EATEN by Maria Adelmann: falls squarely into a genre I love: the dark, edgy fable. This novel takes eight everyday fairytale heroines we're familiar with and has them grapple with their narratives in a modern-day PTSD support group that meets weekly in a New York City basement. An NPR best book of the year, this darkly comedic exploration of feminism is the perfect wolf/book for cozying up to this fall.
Another set of Effortless Trousers to cure you of your try-hard GenX tendencies!
Sexy Slings by Larroude that are absurdly walkable and not that spendy.
A fall blue I’ve been seeing everywhere. This scarf is beyond Grace Kelly.
The houndstooth leisure suit that somehow still means serious business?
In that parallel universe where you bought Amazon at $7 a share, the only holiday skirt you will ever need. Dress it down with a cardie or up with a bustier!
This fab barn coat is giving next-level rustic vibes—transitions from country to city for those days when Zoom will not suffice and you have to ‘IRL’ the meeting.
And who is the marvelous mystery woman above—soon to be going on tour?
Quote of the week:
Police minister Diana Johnson had her purse stolen while giving a speech to senior officers about the dangers of theft. The apt acquisition took place at the annual Police Superintendents’ Association conference in a Warwickshire hotel, says The Sun. “Oh for plod’s sake.”
Margaret Glaspy
Margaret Glaspy reminds me of… if Margot Tennenbaum ever really let her hair down and started a band—especially when she was wearing a Brooklyn sweatshirt.
I also quite like her latest tracks I Need Help and The Sun Doesn’t Think. Her voice is this gorgeous torn velvety harp-hammer that guts you in an almost funny-sad way.
A Candy Bar for Your Brain!
The James Beard Award-winning chef Melissa M. Martin is inextricably connected to the inimitable foodways of the state of Louisiana. A native of Chauvin, she’s the chef behind New Orleans’s beloved Mosquito Supper Club and the author of an acclaimed cookbook of the same name. Bayou, Martin’s second cookbook, reads like a scrapbook of sorts, cataloging her culinary journey from childhood to chef. Another solid holiday prez for the foodies in your life.
Before it’s all lost to us, I love seeing it saved and savored.
So, that’s what I’ve got this week. Yours in crabby shells – xoxo, gotham girl
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There are so many incredible lines in this. “Art Is Anal Wonder” is obviously brilliant, but I’m still laughing at “God, it’s like an ultra-shag carpet, you just want to sit on it in a nightie and play Monopoly for hours.”
SO MUCH awesome in this post!