A great article on Robert Osborne in yesterday's New York Times is linked below. He is such a charming man and so interconnected with Turner Classic Movies it's impossible to think of one without the other:

 

http://mobile.nytimes.com/2014/11/23/movies/robert-osborne-is-the-face-of-tcm.html?referrer=&_r=0

And, from a new book on music called The Art of Noise: Conversations with Great Songwriters by Daniel Rachel, here's a little background from the late Robin Gibb on the story behind The Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin":

 

This also caught my eye today. It's a fascinating look at pulp fiction. I can't wait to have a chance to read it more; it's loaded with so much information! :

 

Five stars are not enough; they just aren't.

I read No Way To Live, almost feverishly, desperate to finish, yet wanting to take it slow because the writing and the plot make for such a compelling read.

Where has this author been hiding and will she please write more? This is such an atmospheric, unnerving, even sweet read...not quite like, but still reminiscent of, Sarah Waters, Minette Walters and Ruth Rendell all rolled into one.

There is a slight, underlying kind of sinister feel to the tale. I always begin to feel a bit uneasy when I realize I'm relating a bit too much with the villain of a story...or, rather, the supposed villain of a story, as other people seem to think our main character Rose is.

Her life is more one of torment and bullying, both formerly by her classmates years ago and presently by her ailing, abusive mother, for whom she cares for day after day. The house they live in is rented out to a group of quirky, often troublesome, lodgers who also add to Rose's daily stress.

Rose's only escape is a hidden attic she has made into a studio where she both paints and dresses up in wigs and different outfits so that she can be someone else, if only for a few minutes at a time. This need and ability to transform herself into a fantasy character gives her a flash of courage to attend a small class reunion she has inexplicably been invited to, seemingly from out of nowhere.

At the event, wearing a brunette wig and gold dress way too fancy for the occasion, Rose overhears some of her classmates talking about her...using their old nickname for her..."Scissors Sharpe." One of the women expresses remorse over how they used to tease her so, but another member of the group says Rose "brought it on herself" by dressing oddly and being a quiet eavesdropper.

This is where my sympathy kicks in hard. Through brief flashbacks, both Rose's and others, we discover Rose's only real crime was not knowing how to fit in with her classmates...hardly an action worthy of the bullying she experienced in school.

I had to take a few minutes to breathe at this point and then return. Things truly begin to take off once one of the former bullies begins a friendship with Rose and, as an experienced professional in the field of nursing home care, tries to ease some of Rose's hardships with her mother.

There is a hint that Rose may be involved with some of the deaths sprinkled throughout Chrissie McDill's alarmingly addictive read. Neither romance nor mystery, it's more psychological suspense dabbling in heartache and sometimes even hope.

I spent the whole day cozied up with tea and finished not too long ago. No Way To Live is everything you could want and more. The twists and turns and emotional depth it takes on wrecked havoc with my heart and nerves...just a superb and beautiful read that has left me kind of speechless.

I don't know why, but today I got to thinking of someone I used to know. We'll call her Jane, though that's not really her name.

I met through her a personals ad years ago, back when I was more willing to try dating and was going through one of my brief periods where my need to find love outweighed my need to please my parents.

Blind dates freak me out as they do other people as well. When I look back now, though, I recall this one more fondly than any other I ever had.

Before we met in person, Jane and I talked for hours almost every night for almost a month. Friendly and inquisitive, a huge reader and sports fanatic, she made our phone conversations very interesting and had a great sense of humor. She also had a very engaging voice and was great at filling in the gaps when I became too shy.

We finally decided to meet. On the day we picked, I walked into the restaurant a nervous wreck. In the lobby we recognized each other from raised eyebrows and shared telephone descriptions and I relaxed. A cross between Susan Sullivan and the mother from "That 70s Show," she had the hearty self-deprecation of a stand-up comedian. It looked like things were going to go smashingly.

Then, about halfway through the meal, she said with lots of gusto: "I could never talk like this with you if I found you attractive."

If anyone else had said that, I would have probably cried inside or been taken aback. But her charming honesty and carefree tone suggested she didn't mean it be cruel. Part of me, in fact, knew exactly what she meant. I have often completely shut down around people I find appealing. Sometimes, I'm lucky if I even remember my name around them.

The difference between her acknowledging she didn't find me attractive and the other times where that had come up in a date was in her approach. She didn't frown as she as soon saw me or jump up suddenly, declaring she'd forgotten to feed her cats before leaving home. She wasn't trying to be mean or hint she wanted the date to be over. We ended up talking for another hour and she promised to call.

I didn't think she would. She was certainly sincere, but had no clear interest in me. After a few days passed and she didn't, I figured she had just been polite. I was a bit disappointed, but not brokenhearted about it.

Then, one night, about a week later, I came home from work to find a message on my answering machine from her asking if I wanted to go on a skiing day trip. I was so flabbergasted and nervous (and also unbelieving it wasn't a joke) that I didn't know what to do...I still didn't know what to until almost a week later. And by the time I worked up the nerve to return the call, it was too late.

Thinking of that this evening, pretty content alone but still wanting to make new friends, I hope I would never be that cowardly again. I need more pluck in life and more social skills, I always have, but this time I really do want to try more.

A kind-of-related website:

http://www.nerdfitness.com/blog/2013/05/13/the-4-step-plan-to-not-suck-at-talking-to-people/

Saturday odds and ends...

I love Poets & Writers magazine. It not only has great sources for writers, some of those very sites are super for readers as well.

 

There are also some very helpful links referenced(book review outlets) and neat little sidebars with columns like "Page One," which features opening sentences to recent works of poetry and prose. There are lovely openings like this one:

 

When you are alone and too tired even to turn on any of your devices, you let yourself linger in a past stacked among pillows. Usually you are nestled under blankets and the house is empty. Sometimes the moon is missing and beyond the window the low, gray ceiling seems approachable.

 --Citizen: An American Lyric, Claudia Rankine

 

 

Their ads can also catch your eye. :)

 

And this month's section on independent publishers is loaded with lots of info. Two Dollar Radio is just one of the presses you can find:

 

http://www.twodollarradio.com/Books

 

 

Speaking of monsters, this anthology (recently reviewed in Locus) is quite good:

 

 

When I was 11 or so I saw The White Hotel in a grocery store check-out line, in a small rack of books next to People magazine. It was the early 80s and even though I'd already snuck in reading Judy Blume's Forever and a few Stephen Kings, I'd never been bold enough to try for something like what I thought the book above represented.

 

In my mind's eye it would have the things you'd find if you merged Jackie Collins (whom I'd only ever heard about in hushed whispers) and Stephen King together. Scared, but very curious, I reached out and pulled the book out of the rack. If you opened it to the inset, you would see this:

 

 

 

I remember this picture so vividly and how much it terrified me, so much I immediately returned the paperback to where it belonged. I think my dad said something along the lines of, "You shouldn't look at that."

 

For years that book remained completely different in my head than it actually is. I thought of it as some kind of horrific, sexed-up version of the tv show "Hotel." It's only now that I've decided to read it, finding the current edition (much more understated), that I'm giving it a go:

 

 





It is no less terrifying than my younger self thought...but for completely different reasons. I have been sucked in since the first page...


The reason the book jumped back into my brain is because of this title, which has given me a long list of books to be read: