Sack 'em all -- bring in Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton

Tough couple of days for Ann Curry.

Your job's up for grabs, the webernets are all atwitter over the (yet unconfirmed) idea that you've been FIRED, there's rampant speculation about who ought to replace you (Savannah Guthrie? Natalie Morales? Another generically earnest brunette lookalike?) and, in Murphy's Law-esque twist, you give this uncomfortably ill-timed interview to Ladies Home Journal in which you admit to all sorts of insecurities and to taking the entire Morning Show Ratings War game very personally. Next thing you know, every morning show-watching schmuck in the comments of every gossip website is coming down on one side or the other of the "DOWN WITH HER!" debate.

I feel for the sycophant.

I don't watch morning television, I can count on one hand the number of times I've even watched Matt Lauer on screen, I wouldn't know if I was watching The Today Show, or Good Morning, America, or whatever else is broadcast during those coffee and yoga hours. BUT. But -- this seems to have captured the imagination of America, certainly, and I suspect it has something to do with a national love of schadenfreude. All of a sudden, we're not the only ones out of work, we're not the only ones watching out job go to cheaper, younger talent, or watching the choice projects go to the newer, fancier chumps. All of a sudden, it's happening to That Lady With The Over-plucked Brows Who Asks Bland, Leading Interview Questions.

So, I did some googling. I dug up some Today Show Interviews. I started understanding what people meant when they complained about her coddling and pandering to the celebrities. I understood what they meant when they complained that she did all of the speaking and left too little air space for the interviewees. I understood why they called her out for asking stupid questions to which there was no, nice, soundbite answer, just an uncomfortable opportunity to parrot whatever she said back at her.

That's when it dawned on me:

The problem with The Today Show, frankly, is that there is altogether too little Rachel McAdams, Diane Keaton, and Harrison Ford. Hire plucky Rachel to produce that action, drag in Diane and Harrison to bicker and grumble their way through OctoMom interviews (for instance), and watch ratings shoot through the roof.

"Morning Glory," anyone?

Lordy, I love that movie. Have watched it probably.....twenty times? It's my "I'm cooking dinner, let's put a movie on," movie. It's my "I'm not quite tired, let's watch a movie to bring on the sleepy," movie. It's my "I'm moving out of my beloved apartment and have to pack up everything I own in three days, so will be up all night, I need company," movie. It's a delightfully saccharine schmaltz-fest with a delightfully happy ending and a delightfully perky soundtrack.

(Also: sidenote! This was written by a woman, about a woman, really, so there's none of that "This Means War-" style of insult to female intelligence. The primary goal of the Rachel McAdams character is professional success, not "finding the man of her dreams," making this, actually, a really girl-power-worthy movie in the most..."cutesy" sense of the already-cutesy girl-power phrase.)

Get that? It's D-E-L-I-G-H-T-F-U-L. Goofy, dweeby, determined girl wins in the end. Disgrunted, grumpy old guy comes around and warms up to dweeby girl, they forge touching, father-daughter-like companionship.

I mean, Matt Lauer's fine and everything, but, much like Ryan Seacrest, he just seems to ENJOY it all too much. The beauty of a little "Mike Pomeroy"-style Harrison Ford in the host's chair is that he's utterly nonplussed with the entire experience. Which makes things like Royal Weddings and Celebrity Divorces and Juice Cleanse Crazes and Weight Watchers Endorsements all that much more watchable, because you get the proper dose of "this is asinine" perspective thrown in.

There's my official recommendation. To suck the show out of the rating dregs: fire 'em all. Fine, leave Al Roker or whomever is still floundering around from the Olde Days, but -- fertheloveofpoptarts -- ditch those predictably cheery hosts and bring in the fine folks of Daybreak.

Also -- go watch "Morning Glory."

It'll make ya smile: promise.

Why this stupid comment didn't offend me:

Guess what: Adam Carolla pissed off lady-folks by calling us unfunny. Several times in a row.

Here are the New York Post quotes:

Interview guy (Larry Getlen) says: 

The lesson you learned from a sexual harassment seminar was “Don’t hire chicks.” Do you hate working with women? 

Carolla says: 

No. But they make you hire a certain number of chicks, and they’re always the least funny on the writing staff. The reason why you know more funny dudes than funny chicks is that dudes are funnier than chicks. If my daughter has a mediocre sense of humor, I’m just gonna tell her, “Be a staff writer for a sitcom. Because they’ll have to hire you, they can’t really fire you, and you don’t have to produce that much. It’ll be awesome.” 

Interview guy: 

The “are women funny” debate has grown very contentious. You’re not worried about reactions to this? 

Carolla says:  

I don’t care. When you’re picking a basketball team, you’ll take the brother over the guy with the yarmulke. Why? Because you’re playing the odds. When it comes to comedy, of course there’s Sarah Silverman, Tina Fey, Kathy Griffin — super-funny chicks. But if you’re playing the odds? No. 

If Joy Behar or Sherri Shepherd was a dude, they’d be off TV. They’re not funny enough for dudes. What if Roseanne Barr was a dude? Think we’d know who she was? Honestly.

There ya have it. 

So, I'm a girl. 

Actually, apparently, I do have a little, anemic bit of "funny" in me. Every spring I teach some seminars at a national conference, and, because it's (exceptionally, incredibly, unbearably) fairly dry material, I like to jazz things up with as much "witty" banter as I can manage. Just off-the-cuff, whatever-comes-to-mind sort of self-deprecating stuff that's usually reasonably sarcastic, and -- if the giggles in the audience are any indication -- funny. Funny enough that the conference people (accountant types) have themselves a drink or four on the company and get up the nerve to tell me that I should be in stand-up, that I've missed my calling, that I crack 'em up. 

Is this clearly the uncomfortable-chair-fueled delusion of someone high on diet coke and lukewarm buffet food? Absolutely. Does it mean that I'm qualified to evaluate his comments from the funny girl platform, just the same? 

Ehhhhhh.

Let's pretend. 

Right -- so, I'm a girl. 

And this inflammatory, aging, rich, white guy tells me that I'm (statistically) not funny. And that he'd only hire me because he has to, and that I'll probably underwhelm the rest of the Man-Writers. And if his daughter had a lame sense of humor like mine, he'd affirmative action the ever livin daylights out of her unfunny self, no looking back, and that if I were as obnoxious as Joy Behar AND had a set of balls, that I'd be super-unemployed. 

What would I say to that?

Well, first of all, I'd say, "dude -- there's nothing funny about Joy Behar, men and women alike know this -- so, lame example."

And then I'd say, "As long as we're dividing ourselves down gender lines, let's WAIT a second, because you have another BOOK coming out, right? And you need to pimp that book as hard as you can, right? And so you're going to say inflammatory stuff and sound like a bigot, because it will get people TALKING about you, and then, somehow, that will translate into either 'I hate that guy so I better one-click that straight to my Kindle,' or it will translate into 'Women are so unfunny, I'm totally gonna find his book on iTunes......' right?"

And after THAT, I'd say, "and I've read the first two chapters of your Not Taco Bell Material book, and I KNOW that you had a weird relationship with your weird mother and that relationship can't help but color how you feel about women in general, because -- face it, jackass -- you're mostly human."

And he'd say, "you're not making a very good case for your 'I'm funny' bit, sweetheart." 

And I'd say, "Totally -- but you're still the one who published that you grew up in a joyless, dead-eyed household with a mother who's message was:

'Good luck enjoying your childhood while other people starve, the planet goes to shit, and we nuke each other. Oh, and it's all our fault because we're evil greedy white people.'"

And he'd say, "Lady, if you're protesting my generally misogynistic view of humor, why did you just link back to my book on Amazon -- that's like, a sales pitch, and you're totally backing me up on the 'shock em til they buy it' campaign. WTF?"

And I'd sort of blink, and probably crack my knuckles, and maybe, like, flip my hair or something, and say, "yeah, but I get it. You're pulling a Howard Stern or a Rush Limbaugh and trying to whip people into a 'women are TOTALLY funny' frenzy that's completely UN-funny, figuring all publicity is good publicity."

And he'd say, "Thanks for doing the work for me."

Anyway -- that's all. If he had a hilarious mom, he'd be more open to the idea of funny chicks. 

Also, also: uh, there are still PLENTY of gender role stereotypes in the media that have prohibited women from being the same sort of "raunchy-funny" in public that's made stars of out of plenty of dudes, because it's still not terribly acceptable for ladies to be crass (if that's even funny, in the first place), and we're only just NOW coming anywhere near a place where women can appear on camera, or in writing, or on stage in a less-than-ladylike way, using the same sorts of language that men have been using for decades, so, give us a break -- we're not only expected to be funny, we're expected to still seem pretty, and dainty, and feminine, and not not scare men away from wanting to take us home to mom -- SO -- there's an entire Double Standard Stream up which we're swimming, fighting the notion that we have to be vulgar to be funny, but not too vulgar, because that wouldn't be sexy, and we're definitely still supposed to be sexy....so.....

Heh. That's quite a sentence. 

Anyway -- you get it: we're gettin there, but, from where I stand, we're coming from a generation with a gross-out handicap (Jackass, anyone?) -- a handicap that presupposes Gross = funny. 

Because any girl could stand in front of a blue screen and (poorly) recite the crap that Daniel Tosh recites, and it wouldn't be any more or less funny: just equally teleprompted. 

So there. THAT is why I'm not particularly offended by one rich white guy behaving like a product of his upbringing (in a self-promoting bid to sell books). 

It's just up to us ladies to prove him wrong. 

Still here.

Funny thing, how many times I've abandoned this project ("The Blog") for long periods of time because I convince myself I don't have anything to contribute to The Webernets that isn't done better, elsewhere.

I usually end up deciding that since I'm not making huge attempts at being traditionally "funny" and since I try to avoid any words that might make either of my grandmothers too terribly uncomfortable, AND since I don't post lots of pictures of myself in pretty clothes....I may as well retire the effort.

I've convinced myself of this something like seven times over the eight years that I've been blogging.

I prefer to write book reviews. Film reviews. Yeah, makeup reviews. I occasionally make fun of some celebrities, I occasionally write letters to myself.....there's not a nice, cohesive THEME to The Blog -- it's enough to feel like a lost cause, a wasted effort, like a project that some publishing house, someday, might deride as "not doing enough to build a fan base or to advance readership," for instance -- I don't get invited to guest post on Esquire's website, you can't find me on Slate or Salon, I don't bother with cute MS Paint drawings, I don't have a fancy camera and a buddy following me around snapping pictures of my cute Zara dress, or my pretty Miu Miu heels (not that I own them....), and I don't make a point to use the word Penis as many times as possible in a wryly ironic, Super Funny way of demonstrating how comfortable I am with Things Biological and Traditionally Embarrassing.

I Am Not That Blogger.

Yeah, after eight years, you'd think someone would have "discovered" me by now. They discovered Diablo Cody, back in the day, the way they discovered Tucker Max and Emily Schumann and a host of other bloggers-turned-minor-celebrities who were "at it" a hell of a lot fewer years than I've been "at it."

It boils down to Envy, I guess. Yes, with a capital "E." It's one of my "things." Capitalization.

So, Envy.

I'll even admit that I even envied my sister when she decided to fire up a Tumblr account and write things about her life that, I decided, made her seem infinitely more exciting, and interesting, and relevant, and likable than my little project managed to accomplish for me. And look at that -- when she linked back to herself on Facebook, people "Liked" it immediately, people lauded her witticism, her chutzpah, her honesty*. I looked back at my site and found it....considerably less lauded.

It should be an Olympic sport, the herculean task of comparing yourself to everyone else and finding yourself sorely lacking in every case. My self-loathing muscles get an astonishingly thorough daily workout. My self-loathing muscles could teach my abs and thighs a thing or two.

I wish they would.

Uh, what's the point of admitting that?

I suppose because it forces me to admit WHY I do this, even to a readership of 8 (counting both grandmothers and two aunts and my momma).

I don't blog because I hope to get a book deal. I don't decide to write a review of a poorly written book because I care if anyone really reads it. I don't bother posting written assessments of every piece of makeup I purchased this year because I have pipe dreams of creating a hot spot for cosmetic lovers to coalesce and share horror stories about the staying power of one eyeshadow brand over another.

I blog because I love to write.

I write because it reconnects me with the six year-old girl who listened to her mother read her The Chronicles of Narnia every afternoon and looked forward to being able to write her own "chapter books" some day. I write because it reminds me of those imaginary chapters of Ramona Quimby books I would craft in my imagination while falling asleep at nap time.

I write because a finely-executed sentence still gives me the same chills today that it gave me back in high school when I knew I'd nailed some sort of expository essay about Dante's Inferno, with the added glee that only I knew this essay was written *sarcastically* to please the teacher, half as a challenge -- to dare them to call me out on how perfectly I nailed that first paragraph, to dare them to pass a copy of that essay around to the class as an example of accomplished writing. They always did. If there's one thing I could do back in school, it was ace the "thesis sentence." No sports, no boyfriends, no fancy choir solos, no expensive jeans, no driver's license, just one hell of a command of the five paragraph essay.

I write because -- at the end of the day -- it's one thing that brings me more joy, and more peace, and more calm, and more satisfaction than anything else I know how to do. It's one thing I can point to and say, "Heather is good at that."

And so I do it ("The Blog") MY WAY, because I know all too well how easy it is to fall prey to prevailing media images about what girls are supposed to write about. We're supposed to post pretty pictures of ourselves in fancy little outfits with flawless skin and "beachy waves" and creative manicures and perfectly groomed eyebrows.

Or we're supposed to make funny jokes about boobs.

Or we're supposed to come up with fancy recipes with zero calories and manage to cook AND photograph the cooking at the same time.

Or we're supposed to have lots of babies and entertain other ladies who have lots of babies by talking about OUR baby-having experiences in new, funny ways (especially if it involves self-deprecating stories about vaginas -- the webernets love self-deprecating vagina stories).

Or we're supposed to be obsessed with weddings and parties and videos about creative engagement announcements.

Or we're supposed to be angry. Angry at men who have wronged us, angry at bosses who've underestimated us, angry at The Kardashians for misrepresenting us (and making lots more money than us!).

Well I am none of those things.

I'm Heather.

I like champagne enough to name my website after it.

I like makeup, but don't care to post fancy pictures of myself wearing it.

I have a "real job," but it isn't interesting enough to mine for anecdotes or dramatic enough to write even three sentences about. It's software support: it's not a place for Personality.

I watch a lot of movies, I read a lot of books, I buy a lot of beauty products and -- can we believe it...?? -- I end up writing about a lot of movies and books and makeup.

I'm a writer.

And I'll keep writing, even if no one reads this, because, at the end of the day, God gave me the itch.

I hope it never goes away.


*Hey guhl -- by the way, you deserve every one of those compliments, you're a natural, with lots of interesting things to say and, obviously, everyone loves reading what you write - !

Hey -- go read this book. Then, when the movie comes out, we can make fun of Blake Lively together.

These days, I'd probably site four different writers who've most influenced my own fiction writing, some subtly, some more directly. In most cases, it's more of a fantasy standard toward which I aspire rather than a skill I come anywhere near mastering -- BUT, either way, I'd be less inspired, less driven to write, less comfortable trying new techniques and less imaginative were it not for the talented Jeffrey Lent, George Pelecanos, James Ellroy, and (recently) Don Winslow. I'd give Jodi Picoult an honorable mention, not so much for her prowess with the pen, but for her beach-read appeal and massively successful formula that makes every one of her novels equally palatable. Which translates into dollars. Which I admire.

Anyway -- I read Don Winslow's latest, "Savages" on a flight last week, and after finishing it, I notice that there's a quote from Ellroy on the cover wondering why Winslow isn't a household name yet.

I thought the same thing.

I also thought, "this guy definitely grew up reading James Ellroy -- they do the short, snappy prose and visually-important dialogue better than anyone."

In a nutshell, this is the sort of "quick-and-dirty" story of a couple of southern California marijuana growers who produce a product SO GOOD the Mexican cartels decide they want a piece of the action (and then basically pull bad "Mexican Drug Cartel"-type stunts in a violent effort to force the So-Cal dudes to wholesale their product to the drug lords south of the border). Kidnapping, extortion, blackmail (and beheadings!) follow.

It's a sort of "The Hills" meets "Traffic" take on the Baja drug trade, written in a style more akin to literary Tweets than serious fiction -- lots of unexpected paragraph breaks that visually separate one thought from the next -- words and phrases repeated several times over the way we might bat them around in our own head while we're trying to solve a problem. Just enough southern California drug lingo to make me feel old and outta-the-loop, but not so obscure I couldn't figure out what things meant in context. Speaking of context, Winslow does a great job of tossing in some conversational Spanish in a way that non-Spanish-speaking readers are able to infer what's being said. Which takes some skill, actually.

I would gripe about the ubiquitous "female character as little more than sex vehicle," dilemma, since the "O"phelia brat is precisely that -- a girl who's stoned out of her mind so chronically that she's just a warm body down for threesomes with her 2 "best friends," (the weed-growing-gentlemen), BUT, Winslow manages to toss in a reasonably tough, street-smart, surprisingly feminine Cartel queen who outsmarts her hangers-on and actually puts up a great fight in the end. So, we'll call the book Net Zero in the female department. Pass-around Girl gets canceled out by Badass Den Mother.

It's a quick read -- I finished it in about 6 hours of flight -- and I'd be lying if I said the ending was....satisfying, BUT -- the writing is exceptionally crafted, the action well-paced, and the characters flawed enough to be compellingly sympathetic. Yes, it's violent. Yes, it fairly glamorizes the drug trade (particularly with the addition of the Humanitarian Grower who forsakes his million-dollar pad in favor of a third world Habitat for Humanity habit in an obvious bid by Winslow to cast the American kingpins as The Good Guys), BUT, it's such a fun, quick trip through the sordid that I'll call it a "Pharmaceutical Escapism" brand of niche fiction that puts Bret Easton Ellis to shame (I'm admittedly Anti-Ellis, so there's my disclaimer).

I'm curious to see how they tackle the movie -- I suspect it will be a great screenplay, because the book itself reads more like a script.