The Lark—Premieres This Saturday

Details and Directions

ONE MORE DAY! All of you who are traveling in from out-of-town, safe travels. Can't wait to see your mugs.



The Lark (trailer)

War-Oh-Man

Last week I made the dire mistake of casually stating a preference for Jimmy Stewart, in lieu of Cary Grant. Lemme tell ya, there was a bit of a fuss. Let's just say the beating my email inbox took and the comments on the post weighed in heavily for Senor Grant. And so the debate is on.

One reader, dear friend and fellow blogger went so far as to post in favor of her argument with three admittedly very healthy pieces of evidence in favor of Grant as Heartbreaker Numero Uno. And can I say, Exhibit B was my fave. The man can seriously pull off feathers.

However (Miss Ive clears throat), said friend, authress of Bird in the Hand, has admittedly not yet seen The Philidelphia Story. And that's all I'm-a-sayin'. Okay, I'll say one more thing. Ms. Kelly, you yourself posted that the line that made you laugh the most, "C.K. Dexter Haven, you have unexpected depth!," was SPOKEN by one Mr. Stewart.

And Kell, can I just say, Stewart plays a quiet, thoughtful, brooding, sarcastic, PUBLISHED WRITER in this flick. Yeah. He does.

So brace yourself, baby.

Ms. Kelly has challenged me to a live debate. An evening of champagne, The Philidelphia Story, and fellow girlfriends of the hightest cerebral capacity (I'm talkin' 'bout you, Booth—and Moser, don't think you're gonna get out of this—or you, Mutschler) to drink said bubbly and serve as impartial judges.

And reading that took all the steam out of my argument. Wanna know why? Cuz an evening like that sounds better than an evening WITH Stewart or Grant. Or even Stewart AND Grant. Honestly. You're on, girlfriends. What do they say about men and fish and bicycles and all that? Wink, wink.

And though the steam is out of my sails for the moment, please feel free to weigh in. You can view all evidence in favor of both gentlemen in the above links. Men, don't be shy. We know you love them, too.

C.K. Dexter Haven

My favorite scene from one of my favorite movies of all time.

"Oh C.K. Dexter Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaven."

"Champagne is a great levelerrrr. Levlerrrr."



Brilliant, and sweet and terribly romantic, considering it's two men, talking about one woman.

Philadelphia Story. Go watch it. Fantastic.

Oh, and raise your hand if you think this chick should have run off with Stewart rather than Grant.



Miss Ive: Hand raised. He's more "yare," if you ask me. Also, if history books are correct, less likely to snort lines of coke. Just sayin'.

To Chop, Or Not To Chop

Tell. This is me with short hair. And I really liked it.



But then I saw this girl. Trixie. The one on the right.



And I HAD to have Trixie hair. So I grew it for a long, long time. Pretty much since the first episode aired. I actually wanted Trixie's uncanny use of foul language, too. But I can't seem to pull it off.

You can see me with long hair to the right in the profile pic. Or, if you want to see it really well groomed, here:



But keep in mind, when it's long, it's almost ALWAYS like this:



And so last night I watched this:



And now I want my short hair back. But without the special hair gel.



BE HONEST. Don't just say 'cut' cuz it's fun to see others chop their hair. And not to nudge, but I DO have a Locks of Love envelope all filled out and ready to ship the ponytail off for a good cause. I'm sorry. I know it's a good cause and all, but it's just gross to think about a ponytail in the mail. Yuck.

Here Is Where We Meet

This the title of a John Berger novel. I love it, and recently picked it up to read again. I know I'm rarely serious on here. What's my ratio of cynicism to sincerity? Anyone counting? In real life I'd say it's roughly 5:1. On here, probably 25:1. I like it here best. See, that was sincere. Damn.

At any rate, here are two of my (sincerely) favorite passages. I dare you not to cry. I dare you.

"Lisboetas often talk of a feeling, a mood, which they call saudade, usually translated as nostalgia, which is incorrect. Nostalgia implies a comfort, even an indolence such as Lisboa has never enjoyed. Vienna is the capital of nostalgia. This city is still, and has always been, buffeted by too many winds to be nostalgic. Saudade, I decided as I drank a second coffee and watched a drunk's hands carefully arrangeing the accurate story he was telling as if it were a pile of envelopes, saudade was a the feeling of fury at having to hear the words too late pronounced too calmly." pg 13

See? You're crying aren't you? I told you.

"And I wondered how many times in my life I had taken part in the ritual of men showing to women the special little risks they run while working. (When the risks are large they don't show them.) They want to impress, they want to be admired. It's a pretext for holding the women to show them where to step or how to bend. There's another pleasure too. The ritual exaggerates the difference between women and men and in that expanded difference there is a fluttering of hopes. For an hour or two afterwards the routine feels lighter." pg 66

Date to Bloody Well Save

Our short film premieres (drum roll). . .

Saturday, December 6
from 7 to 9, and on into the night. . .

At (more drum roll—actually, just keep the drum roll going—all day). .

COMMUNE, the Uber-Chic, newly-renovated club (formerly known as Cinq), downstairs from Bastone



Just find your way to 419 S. Main St in Royal Oak, MI, park it, and find your way downstairs to Commune. And to moi! I highly recommend heading east about four blocks when you see this joint and parking it in the bungalow hood. Very safe. Nice walk. And no chance in hell you're finding a spot on a Saturday night. None. Plus, no meters in the hood. (There's a map under the address, ya'll). Oh, there is valet. But most of my friends don't actually know how that works.

And see how pretty Commune is?



And cozy?



And see how they have places for people who 'sort of want to hide?'



And rooms with curtains for people who 'really want to hide?'



And why would anyone want to hide? Well, possibly, if say, somebody had acted like a drunken fool for an entire weekend in Chicago whilst a camera was fixed on her every move. And say if that footage was going to be plastered (much like the Chicago version of Miss Ive) all over the numerous versions of this. . .



One might hide. This one. But you all can roam. With free conscience. And take full advantage of all of these. . .



And if they run out over there (because Miss Ive has beaten you all to it), no worries. They have plenty of these just lying around. Actually, the very reason Miss Ive chose this particular venue. And for the place to hide, of course.



And most obviously, for this. . .



For when the cards really hit the deck. And considering the director will also be at said premiere, with said camera, in the midst of said surplus barrels of Belgian brews and bewitching green liquors, Miss Ive may have to hide again when that footage rolls, as well. Or she could just BEHAVE herself. For once.

What to wear? Why something like this, of course.



But leave the horse at home. Royal Oak Police will thank you. Although, come to think of it, your odds of finding parking would increase greatly. Six in one. . .

Please Do Come. Puh-lease.

Funny Man with a Camera

Seriously, doesn't this guy have a Seth Rogen thing going on? Well, he's our director. He really is. Honestly.



Why do I emphasize this? Because you would not believe how many dirty looks he got from elderly women of 'stature' who doubted that he was 'with us.'

They pulled his ear, stomped on his feet, swatted him with their crocodile purses, and all asked the same question:

"Young man," (said with lips pursed, in a low hiss) "do those young ladies KNOW that you are filming them?!"

And no matter what he said, and no matter how much WE assured them, they gave him 'THE LOOK.'

Luckily, true to any director worth his salt, he just didn't give a crap.

Good times.

Missing Pieces

Many mysteries loom over the Chicago trip. Some things are known.

One, we were in fact in Chicago. Two, we were there so I could see this painting, have an awakening, and finish writing my epic, never-ending novel, that is currently going nowhere, like this sentence, apparently.


Three, J. Peterman read about my caper and SENT DRESSES TO ALL GIRLS GOOD ENOUGH TO ACCOMPANY ME (READ: RISK THEIR LIVES) in pursuit of the Lark. Yes, he did. And you should have seen the girls faces when we checked into the room. You shoulda. Ribbons, box tops and tissue paper everywhere. Fantastic.



But, there are still a few things unknown to yours truly. And here's one of them. Look closely at the above picture. Behind the boxes, you will see a long, rose-colored, cylindrical pillow. See it?



Okay, now look closely at the public displays of affection I appear to be bestowing upon it in the lobby of the hotel, where things of such a 'nature' are not encouraged. Can anyone explain this? I'm serious.

I have two theories. One, I was already in bed at the hour this photo was taken, like a very good girl, and these other hooligans pulled me from said bed, pillow still in tow.

The second theory is more colorful, and I hesitate to implicate myself needlessly with slanderous details. But still, I'm curious. If anyone was in the greater Chicago area on Saturday night and knows anything about the case of the Public Pillow, please write.

Another, even bigger mystery: Who in the hell is this 'gentleman,' and why was he following us around with a camera all weekend?



I know there were a few elderly ladies who put him to a similar line of questioning. Will look into this one further tomorrow. For now, back to the pillow.

Another Apology

This one is short and sweet, and certainly the one that makes me look ten shades of awful.

To the police officer (dressed in plain clothes, mind you) standing in front of our hotel,

I apologize for mistaking you for the doorman, tossing you my wrap, and commandeering your iPhone to place a call.

My sister and the director of our film, who saw the whole thing, took me to task, if it makes you feel any better.

Director: Where were you raised that you think any man standing in front of a building is a doorman?

Sister: Especially a man packing a nine millimeter?

Me: I did NOT.

Them: YOU DID.

Me: What did he do?

Them: Just grinned at you.

Me: Oh. Good.

Very sorry. Very, very sorry. Very rude girl. And thank you for the minutes. And the sense of humor.

A Requisite Litany of Apologies

Well all, we're back. The larks have landed. Though I had intended to close the site today for cleaning (read: a full-day bath for Miss Ive), I have decided that it may be the best thing to get a jump start on apologies, considering that the extensive list of offenses committed this weekend in Chicago is so long, this theme could dominate the site until the New Year. Easily.

Though I have recently sought the advice of legal counsel and learned that an apology is in fact an admission of guilt, have decided to take a chance.

Today, I would like to apologize to the city worker from whom I wrangled a (still running) rototiller, under the guise of being "a country girl who grew up pushing one through fields." That was, perhaps, a mild exaggeration.

Though, in my defense, the bit about the "county girl" was true. Which means that one would assume that the city worker would have the edge in the "street smarts" department. Right?



Not so in this instance. Let's call this installment an 'apology' with a gratuitous 'public service announcement.'

To all Chicago workers (or rototilling operators the wide-world over), if a girl with a wine-stained grin asks politely if she may try her hand at said apparatus, in a very tiny and difficult to navigate city flower bed, no matter how sweet or scantily dressed she may be, do not agree. Under any circumstances. Especially if you value your feet.

And that's all I'm saying at this time. Per the above referenced legal counsel.

The Larks: 4

And there's not much to say about this one. Number 4 is a sub. We got her from an ad I posted last minute at the local theater house. Have been assured that she's not psycho, by her agent.

However, have since found this rogue picture floating around the internet with number 4's name. Am a bit nervous about what is actually under that helmet. And, I believe, justifiably so. Check the hair.



Only kidding. She's my sis. And, for the record, she has very nice hair.



But, also for the record, her agent lies. A lot.


Remember this?

Should be a fantastic trip. Have decided there are only two things you need to know about Lark #4. She's a hellofa navigator and she randomly steals drinks from strangers' hands when I ask her to. So, yeah, we'll have a blast.

What more could one possibly ask for?

Chicago, brace yourself.

The Larks: 3

And on to Lark #3. Let's call her Kathy. Though I also went to high school with this Lark, we did not have our very first, heart-to-heart (read: I blabbed and she graciously listened) until she signed up to join me on this escapade.

However, we first reunited after exchanging letters over the summer, when she read about my hair-brained stunts to save the zoo. Remember?



Yeah. I know. And she STILL wants to go. Very brave girl. Apparently the zoo is a near and dear place to her heart. And apparently she was able to see that Miss Ive's heart WAS in the right place, even if her actions were what some may call (read: legally on record as) "groping."

Her knowledge of my previous antics (read: considered 'illegal contact' in 48 of the United States) puts me at ease. I have no doubt that she knows what she is in for. However, her lovely child seems to already be preparing for the inevitable barrage of press that tends to follow me on these sorts of shenanigan. Smart girl.



And just look at the mug on her dog. Think SHE trusts me?

The Larks: 2

This is Lark #2. Her identity must remain even more secret. Why? Well, sadly, we share a love for one great man. But we play fair. We write to him daily and sometimes compete over who we believe his favorite to be.


She is feisty and articulate, though, so I cannot dislike her. Actually, truth be told, I genuinely respect her. Sometimes I read her letters, and have to admit, she is a worthy rival.

She joins us in Chicago after a solo road trip, for our whirlwind adventure. A true adventurer herself.

Any more hints? I'll let her leave them if she so chooses, in the comments below.

Oh, and I hope she doesn't mind, but I've taken the liberty to post one of her letters to our mutual friend, of which he was particularly fond. It describes one of her adventures, not taken with the girls, but all by herself. A truly grand way to have an adventure.

"One of my Greatest Fears was eating alone, in a restaurant, a hostess seats you to a table, waitstaff tells you the specials type of a restaurant. Don't really know why cuz I do the Movie or shopping thing alone all the time...


Anyway in Labor Day I decided to face this fear of mine, (I know its not like a fear of sharks but hey I live in the midwest the closest thing I have to sharks are Lampries & I already caught one those) so I got all dresse dup I'm talking dressy top & skirt, heels, make up, & clutch purse and drove around town until I found a a place that I felt like eating at. Walked up to the two 16yr olds at the hostess stand & said table for 1 please. (WITHOUT FAINTING, it was Shocking I tell you) It was not that busy but I was left waiting for 10 minutes.... Then the table they led me to was never even close to have been occupied at all that evening... I think the hostess thought maybe someone would show up & I wouldn't be alone. I ordered a drink (it ws AWFUL, never will order another mojito there EVER) ordered off the menu, people watched, had dessert (Creme Brule was not that good either) paid the bill & walked out. The funny thing was that I had the feeling that the staff was trying to rush me out. That having someone eat alone was a bad for their image or something.


Nonetheless to my GREATEST SURPRISE I ENJOYED it & can't wait to do it again. Of course this time it will be at a different restaurant."

Find more of our mutual letters of admiration at Peterman's Eye.

Very gushy stuff. I warn. There is just something about this particular gentleman. It's like sitting in your hair stylist's chair. You tell WAY MORE than you ever intended. Go ahead. Try it.

The Larks: 1

This marks the beginning of my profile posts. Profiles are extremely difficult to do when you have promised all girls involved you wouldn't give away personal information.

I can say this much. These girls are coming with me on my Chicago adventure. And that, in and of itself, says a lot. They VOLUNTEERED. They are coming along to see me break down in front of a painting. Do I really have to say anything else about how awesome they are?

Well I will. And I've decided to do it in reverse alphabetical order. Only I can't tell you their names, so you'll just have to trust that I know my alphabet.

This is Becca. That's what I'll call her. We went to junior high and high school together. Both of our maiden names are so similar, that our lockers were right next to one another. And we used to talk between classes about life. And hair brushes. And boys. And football games. And silly things. See how silly? I love silly.



And then we planned our ten-year reunion together. And we both said, "Why didn't we talk MORE between lockers?" And isn't that always a bitch? What you missed out on in high school? At least we both have that in common.

And, thank God, there's always the future. She's awesome. She's funny. And satirical. And self deprecating. And sarcastic. Did I say satirical? And she LOVES GIMLETS!!!! And, hold applause please, she does one hellofan Elaine dance. And that says it all.

She also has a beautiful family. A husband and son who are generous enough to let me have her for this adventure. And I thank them. I will take care of her. Promise.



And, super bonus, it looks like this family venue is also a pub. Which means Becca and I have even more in common than I had imagined. Meaning pub=family venue. Fo sho.

And my very favorite pic. THE one that says that Becca loves a good adventure, and is nurturing that in her wee one.



Fantastic, right?

Undecided

I never talk about politics on this blog. It's not because I do not care about them. It's not because I'm apathetic. It's the opposite, really. It's because I'm overwhelmed, generally, by the subject.

It's also because I have been cursed with a horrible case of empathy. I can almost always see the 'other side' of every argument. It's crippling. It's easy for me not to judge. But it can be difficult to make a decision.

I'll be honest. I've voted for the same party in every election since I turned 18. I genuinely felt strongly that I always would. I had completely internalized one party's ideology. Don't we all do that these days? WE ARE OUR PARTY. We don't vote for a candidate anymore. We vote for a life philosophy.

And then I had a random telephone call Friday, around noon, with a good friend who has always voted for the 'other party.' And we are good friends because we never judge each other.

But he said something that made me rethink how I vote. And it shocked me. So much that I barely said two words throughout the course of the phone call and for the rest of that day. He wasn't trying to persuade me. He was just expressing a deep sadness over the state of the election and casually stated something I've heard the 'other side' say millions of times. But he said if differently. And I had what some (Oprah) may call an 'Ah Hah' moment.

I'm impressed with myself for being capable of changing my mind. It makes me feel malleable and green. It makes me feel like I haven't packed it up and called it quits, intellectually.

And it makes me think I'll now get even less sleep tonight than I had planned.

Sincerely,

Miss Undecided