Book Review

Before Brangelina, there was Liz-and-Dick, the notoriously controversial celebrity couple defined by big jewels, juicy scandals, extravagant vacations, drunken exploits, hospital visits, and a gypsy caravan of children that the world loved to hate.

Kashner and Schoenberger’s 512-page novel, superbly entitled Furious Love, chronicles the over-the-top, passionate affair and two-time marriage of Hollywood’s Ultimate It-Couple of the 60s and 70s. Included in the work are intimate snippets from Burton’s private archives, impassioned letters written to Elizabeth until his death, and personal photos of the two through the years of their affair, marriages, and friendship. The preface to the work quotes Liz Smith, renowned American gossip columnist, who stated Taylor and Burton as being “the most vivid example of a public love affair that I can think of...Whenever somebody says, ‘So and so is a big star,’ I say, ‘Have they been condemned by the Vatican?’” Liz-and-Dick, the celebrity conglomerate of epic proportions, earned international fame for their passionate—and rather unconventional—antics both on-screen and off.

To the most avid Taylor-Burton enthusiast, the novel may appear no different than no other biography of the couple: documenting the public persona of the duo almost verbatim from “insider” tabloids and celebrity newspaper headlines, all chomping at the bit to divulge any scrap of information that would arouse public condemnation of the King and Queen of film. And yet it is incredibly apparent that the authors pass no judgement on their subjects; instead, the reader is prompted to witness the entire history of the individual before and during celebrity.

What sets their novel apart is its intimate look into not only the public lives of the couple, but their private lives as well. The frenzied persona of Liz-and-Dick, the overly publicized, highly controversial, and internationally condemned love affair of the two actors is presented as entirely its own entity; thus suggesting that it was behind closed doors that the couple became merely Elizabeth and Richard, two struggling human beings in a battle to beat the odds and make their love work. Kashner and Schoeberger are quick to distinguish between the public and private sphere, allotting a distinct personality to the two realms. On the one hand, their readers tour the world of Liz-and-Dick through the eyes of their critics, fans, and professional entourage, and are given heartfelt images of the actors in their most important roles: husband and wife, and father and mother.

The biography begins with a rather bipolar portrait of the duo’s professional and intimate relationships, hinting at the emotional highs and lows of their immortal fame and the gravity and consequences of their decisions. Kashner and Schoenberger travel through their respective childhoods, their first film, their publicized love affair, their brawling marriage, their sumptuously rich lifestyle, and their persistent struggle with drug and alcohol dependency and Elizabeth’s deteriorating health.

Kashner and Schoenberger delve into their private vacations to villas in Mexico, Burton’s home in Wales, their stints on the Kelisma, and other luxurious hideaways in an attempt to expose the human side of the seemingly superhuman pair. The authors paint Taylor and Burton so that they seem entirely real, an attribute that doesn’t come to mind when thinking of the lavish thirteen-year romp in the spotlight; and yet the couple seem relatable, understandable, and authentic throughout the work, victims of the public life they lead. The novel is worthwhile, if not for its comprehensive expose of Liz-and-Dick, for its ability to provide the private lives of Taylor and Burton as the “other side of the story”.

The most poignant part of the work stems from Richard’s private archives: diary entries or letters written to his wife, all spectacularly written with the prose for which he was known. He states, “I love [Elizabeth] ghastily and horribly and terribly”, and “I love that woman so much sometimes that I cannot believe my luck”. The Taylor-Burton romance may have been unconventional, but what it lacked in convention it made up for in passion. Both Elizabeth and Richard are depicted as greedily possessive of each others’ affection, a demon that stoked the embers of passion with unqualified ferocity but also presented itself as an addictive, unscrupulous entity that lead to the downfall of their marriage.

Furious Love, with its trove of insight into the lives of the most divisive love affair of the century, is the perfect testament to the memory of both Richard Burton and the recently deceased Elizabeth Taylor, the last of Hollywood royalty and the trailblazers of modern celebrity. Kashner and Schoenberger, in one all-encompassing work, prove that theirs was truly an indulgent, ravishing, furious love worth remembering.

Short Shorts

Well, I skipped right through December without leaving any trace on my blog.

However, new years mean new opportunities, so I'm taking this one to revisit my writing and update you all with a little piece of myself :)

I've done a lot of academic writing this past semester so I haven't had the chance to satiate my creative side, which--in my opinion--has been screaming for some much-needed attention.

I took a few English and Education classes (yes, ladies and gents, I am now officially in the "home stretch" of my major/minor) and was able to do a little bit of creative writing so here they are: some short shorts for you to sample made for you by yours truly.

Tick, tock. He was perched on the edge of the couch like glasses on a nose, expectant. His gaze flung from her to the face of his platinum Rolex. Tick, tock. She arranged his uniform in the suitcase, folding it at the creases with care. His black Oxford drilled rapid drum taps into the hardwood. Tick, tock. “I have to be in Atlanta in three hours,” he muttered gruffly. “The plane leaves in forty-five minutes.” He’d ascribed a time table to their marriage: when he left for work, when he went to bed, how long he slept, how much longer he could take it, how much longer it would last. “You can’t do it by yourself dear,” she mused. With each swift, calculated move of her body, time swam by them—closer to expiration. There was a clock ticking all the time on a table by the door.

The skies were pastel blue and they matched his eyes. He was flaky, I could tell. That's what my Mom told me to watch out for--flaky people just like him. If I didn't care what anyone thought I think I might scream at the sight of this born-and-bred American before me. I'd come to Mexico to escape America; I was sick of the freedoms I was promised but never had. I was sick of the jeans and the tee shirts and the blocks of identical houses all in a row with a Chevy sleeping safe and sound in the garage. I was bored. I was looking for something exotic and thrilling, and here was this American ruining my paradise by playing football in the sand.

Stitch-by-stitch her thick, wrinkled fingers moved over the fabric. It was methodic, absent-minded work that she did every Sunday afternoon by the bay window in the front of the house. She liked to sit there with the sun on her face, exposing every crease and crinkle in her forehead. She could hear the children playing outside, the "toot toot" of an invisible train engine or the raucous of cowboys fighting indians on the manicured lawn. She didn't know who these children belonged to, but she secretly liked to think they were hers--ah, there were Charles and Patrick playing cars on the cement, with Abigail plucking dandelions from the grass with her pink ribbons all askew in her braids. Yes, they were hers, the ones who said "I love you" and couldn't sleep unless she sang them their favorite lullaby. Before they grew up and moved away, with children of their own to say "I love you" and "sing me a lullaby".

Take one pill every five hours to alleviate joint pain, minor aches, and fever.

This drug may cause nausea, cramping, projectile vomiting, headache, hallucinations, abnormal swelling of the tongue, enlarging of the belly button, temporary amnesia, loss of sense of taste, loss of extraneous limbs, hair loss, loss of teeth, loss of the use of your nasal passages, loss of bowel control, hearing loss, loss of breath, loss of the ability to use your thumbs, or loss of sanity. If you feel faint, that’s normal. Just lie down. Also, I would advise that you use this time wisely: i.e. re-write your last will and testament. Just a suggestion. You may also begin to hear a strong, screeching noise from your abdomen. Do not be alarmed. Merely drink a gallon of water and consult a nearby musician. If you hit a high C, however, see a doctor and/or prepare for takeoff. Avoid breadstuffs, caffeine, alcohol, seafood, and lettuce. Avoid the insatiable craving for Fried Dill Pickles, Mayonnaise, and Beets. That combination is simply gross. Really, your diet should consist only of Sheppard’s pie and yak meat. In case of an emergency, you may be able to drink Tang. Though proceed with great caution, as no scientist has ever been able to determine what exactly is in that stuff. Also, do not operate any moving vehicle—yes, that includes tractors, golf carts, and airplanes—unless you are among the 4 percent of users who experience “extreme kinesthetic aptitude”. In this case, you’re good to go. Some users may experience a deep sense of melancholy, accompanied with fits of life-questioning and sorrow. If so, we suggest you stay away from any Coldplay or James Taylor music. Otherwise, have at it. User may begin to stretch and shrink in odd places. It is advisable that you keep all young children away from you at least an hour after consuming the recommended dosage. Your features may become more grotesque than before, and unruly facial hair may begin to sprout in areas other than the face. That being said, it may be a good idea to have a bottle of Nair handy and ready to go. Unless of course, it’s Halloween. Remove all sharp utensils and weapons from your household prior to taking this pill. You will be held accountable for your actions in court in the event that you harm either yourself or others. Users have been known to wield any weapons in their sight in a savage-like manner after consuming the first dose. This includes pens, nail scissors, and belts. WARNING: Your colon may explode—so much so, in fact, that it may cause physical harm to innocent bystanders. Therefore, we strongly recommend that you lock yourself in a secluded area until the pill has worn off. Preferably to a large and heavy kitchen appliance. Many of you—a good 98 percent—may feel an overwhelming sense of impending doom approximately an hour after ingesting this drug. This is explainable; it is because you are about to die. If you begin to see a blinding, white light or any Biblical character, do not go towards them. Instead, call a religious official. Do not raise your arms above your head for longer than 4 minutes. We are unsure what will happen, but it probably isn’t good. 15 percent of users may find that you become completely immune to the force of gravity. In such a case, we advise that you wear the 50-lb. weight boots we included in the prescription kit. If you are among the 85 percent who do not experience anti-gravity, you may find that you begin to adopt feline-like characteristics. However, any sensations of growing a “tail” or a “coat of fur” are completely illusionary and should be disregarded. But we recommend staying away from mirrors just in case.

Do not take this product if you are pregnant, hoping to get pregnant, afraid of chickens, have had or have never had the chicken pox, or are uneasy with the Bubonic Plague. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, RUN. This drug will not prevent your untimely death in any way, shape, or form. This product may contain less than one percent of crack cocaine, gasoline, sheep wool, Worcestershire sauce, Elmer’s glue, lead paint, human hair, pork rinds, whale intestines, green eggs and ham, and octopus.

A Modern Fairytale

Once upon a time

In a land not too far away

There lives a little girl

Fabled in books and dossiers.

She has her head in the clouds

And her heart on her sleeve

But she always wears a smile

Because she aims to please.

This particular girl

Isn’t just like the others

She has long curly hair and

Fair skin like her mother’s:

She is always rather cheerful

And so easy to spot

Yet she’s often strangely quiet

And doesn’t say an awful lot.

You may pass her on the street

And she may offer you a smile

And if you want to know her,

It may take her quite awhile.

She isn’t a princess

But she could still pretend

That in her magic mirror

Her fairytale would never end;

She’d never let it go

She’d make it through the years

And with that certain spark of hope

Her smile would never turn to tears.

She lives, breaths, talks in melody

Dressed in her imaginary gown

Because who needs a suit of armor

When you can wear a crown?

Everyday she’s dreaming

Though it’s nonsense to the rest,

Because she doesn’t suit the role

Of the damsel in distress.

They put her on a pedestal

With the goddesses of lore

Though she’d give everything she had

To have never been adored.

They never ask her for her autograph

Or take pictures for the news

They keep safely at a distance

Till she’s shunned like a recluse.

Yet her smile will never falter

So she’s always picaresque

Does the China doll have feelings?

Or is her porcelain somewhat cracked?

We may never know, my friend,

If and how we have transgressed,

So we continue on until we’ve

Become almost obsessed.

We think that we may own her

And pin her down upon the wall

Ornament her with our labels

As “the fairest of them all”.

And so, with that in mind,

Here’s the moral to our story

If you see this girl, please treat her

As though she's real, alive, and worthy.

Bam. Last Post for October.

Look me in the eye and tell me life is just a figment of reality

Everything you say is so profound and yet I hear it as profanity

Logic doesn’t justify the methods I have used to prove your sanity

Minutes pass and still I’m doubled over in the sickness of your vanity

I’m the pawn in this little game, aren’t I?

Tell the truth for once and let the words roll off your tongue and tell me how it tastes

When the words you say are always just a little plot in the awful games you play

I could understand if you meant it when you smiled at me the other day

But I’ve come to know that something is awry when you look at me in just that way

So I won’t try to pretend we didn’t say goodbye.

Hey, Mister Tambourine Man, Play a Song for Me

Thick black notes juxtaposed on a blanket of white, littering the page with dots and straight lines, dropped almost haphazardly to create something magnificent. My recurring dream that life is a musical and I’ll wake up singing a song that everyone knows the words to and suddenly it’s not just me, it’s hundreds of people all singing and dancing along to the beat. A performance of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in C Minor, Op. 67 circa 1808 in the infamous Theater an der Wien in Vienna, Austria. Hearing my favorite song on the radio when I’ve had a rough day and I can belt out every note and every lyric and suddenly it’s just me, John, Paul, George, and Ringo thinking about Yesterday. Songs that portray the heartache of slaves in the 20^th century, proclaim peace in times of war, and capture the despair of the Great Depression, that coerce you, envelop you until you’re there, experiencing what those generations had felt years ago. Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith’s 1925 classic recording of St. Louis Blues. The familiar rush of electric energy that surges through my body the moment before the curtain opens on me to sing the first note. The warmth of the spotlight, the silence of the audience, the reverberations of the sound as it waves through the space, bouncing off people and chairs and windows and doors and coming back to me as if by gravity. The ability of a song to say just what I was thinking, but in words I never could have imagined. Mourning, melancholy notes giving way to upbeat staccato, pulsating in my ear, moving through my veins, drumming into my heart, consuming me, painting me a picture so spectacular and vivid that it’s so very real that you feel it in every fiber of your being. The distinctive voice of Ol’ Blue Eyes Sinatra that defined an era and brought hope to a nation in the time of war. And who could describe a White Christmas better than Bing Crosby? That sweet, echoing resonance that ricochets through a cathedral or a concert hall and replays in my head for hours on end—the sound of the voice, of singing. Singing serves as an escape, a way to communicate your feelings through poetic lyrics and intricate melodies. For me, singing is a not only a form of expression, but a way of life. Whether it be making up harmony with my friends, humming the tune of a song from Les Mis or Bye Bye Birdie through the halls, or belting out jazz or hip hop or country in the car, music is constantly on my mind. Music transports you to places you’ve never dreamed of—a delightful concoction of reality and fantasy that gives you hope. When my life is miserable, music is my outlet, my escape, medicine for the soul. I’m not me anymore; I’m with curly-haired Annie, “just thinkin’ about Tomorrow”, singing my troubles away. Or perhaps its midnight in Paris, after all the shops have closed and I see “La Vie En Rose” through the darkness, humming along to Edith Pilaf on a nearby radio as the lightning bugs get lost in the stars. Next I’m flying high above the clouds over it all on a magic carpet ride, “over, sideways, and under” till I’ve forgotten just how difficult life is—lost in the moment, lost in the fairytale. Then I’m in the heart of New Orleans listening to the cry of trumpets as they sweat in the sun, watching jazz and culture unfold before my eyes in the thick July air of Southern Louisiana. No matter where life takes me—no matter where I end up—I’ve been everywhere. I know that no matter what the future holds for me, I will always march to my own beat; head up, eyes forward, facing the music as I always have, soothing the soul as the ever-present melody crescendos on and on.

Halloweeeeeeen

HALLOWEEN IS ALMOST HEREEEEE :) Not only do we get to dress up like our favorite celebrities (you will all have no problem figuring out who I'm going to be), but we get free candy from people we don't even know. It's like winning a prize for doing nothing but cutting holes in a bed sheet and knocking on doors.
Since I've already devoted tons of blog space to the Christmas season, I thought it nay fair to devote this post to our most favorite holiday...in October.
Halloween is simply marvelous. When else will you see Batman, Spiderman, Captain America, and Wonderwoman all at the same party?
Or how about giant skeletons and spiderwebs littering your neighborhood?
And when else will you encounter tiny dogs dressed in tutus, bumble bee outfits, and multi-colored wigs? Or girls in too-tight leather and fishnet tights? Oh wait...

Anyway, Halloween is the time of year when normally scary or creepy people can come mingle with the rest of society and fit in. According to The Hunchback of Notre Dame, they will not only fit in, but they'll actually win prizes for their freakishness. Halloween, ultimately, is a time of acceptance for all and a night in which you can publicly embrace your strangeness.

So let it all hang out, people. Happy Halloween :)

A Few Things I Feel Strongly About

Phrases such as “the bomb dot com” and “failcake” should never, under ANY circumstances, ever be integrated into regular conversation…unless you were raised by wolves, and then you may be forgiven for your obvious lack of social etiquette. Also, any word or phrase ending in “izzle” should be seriously reconsidered.

Drunk persons who have lost the concept of “personal space” should not be able to use the “I was drunk” excuse. I don’t want your breath all up in my face, nor do I appreciate your inability to hold a coherent conversation. If you cannot prop yourself up and you need to lean on me on public transit or any other form of transportation, you lose all privilege to use the “I was drunk” excuse as your Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card for any idiotic thing you say or do for the remainder of the night.

If you call a phone number and the person on the other end doesn’t sound even remotely close to the person you were trying to contact, odds are you dialed the wrong number. In other words, it would be wise to hang up. If you continue to insist that you have dialed the correct number and yet the person on the receiving end denies that he or she is indeed Jose, Mary, Billy, or Tina, I would still recommend hanging up. Either Jose, Mary, Billy, or Tina does not want to talk to you, or you have mistakenly dialed another number. Just admit defeat and move on.

Vampires have gotten completely out of control. All of the Twilight books/movies/posters/fashion/gothness is entirely horrendous and frankly has overstayed its welcome. There are vampire TV shows, books, movies, various paraphernalia, appearance in Snoop Dog’s music videos, and its own MLIA site: My Life Is Twilight. Things, my friends, have gone too far. Twilight is a travesty to the traditional tales of vampire lore; if it is ever your misfortune to run into an avid Edward Cullen or whatever that other kid’s name is, I sincerely apologize. In my opinion, vampires need to go back to Transylvania where they originated, as the only benefit the Twilight craze has given to humanity is the sudden increase in the sales of Coppertone sunblock, so tweens can get that Edward “sparkle” (which, by the way, is false…everyone knows vampires burn in the sun).

It is entirely uncalled for to be rude to telemarketers. True, they tend to interrupt your dinner and magically seem to call at the most inopportune times (i.e. during a big business meeting, at 3:00 in the morning, in the middle of your wedding), but these people are just doing their job. If you were a telemarketer getting paid minimum wage to have people pull pranks on you, scream at you, or just hang up on you day-in and day-out, would you be able to muster up the enthusiasm to greet House #5785943 on your list for the day?

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eyes with pops of color, vibrant and vivid and radiant

colors, sliding, mixing, a kaleidoscope of hues that dance in the moonlight

POP! POP! POP!

crackling in the heat, in the wind, in the air, in the street

POP! POP! POP!

spinning off into the sky, bursting with beams of colors

red, green, yellow, blue

POP! FIZZ! POP!

You see them, don’t you?

POP! POP! POP!

twirling about, cascading down, filling up the universe and enveloping you in light

POP! POP! POP! POP!

faster now, shooting from every direction, up, up,

coiling like a snake above the trees,

interweaving shapes and sounds,

POP! FIZZ! POP!

erupting, exploding, BOOM! BOOM! POP!

I'm __________, the ____________.

I don't really know how I feel about this whole Real World thing.

For example:

Now that I'm in an education class, I've realized that my decision to become a teacher isn't really that far off. It's getting more and more concrete as each day comes and goes, and I'm frankly a little nervous. I'm making lesson plans, unit plans, mapping out my future classroom...to be completely honest with you, I'm getting a little apprehensive about being thrust into the capital-R, capital-W Real World.

I guess this is what it would feel like to be a baby bird thrown from the nest before you learn how to fly. I just don't know if I can handle it.

It also doesn't help that whenever I'm confronted with the "What's your major? What are your life goals? What do you want to do for the rest of your life? How are you going to change the world?" dialogue, I feel like I'm reading through a script. It's like an out-of-body experience: Erin, English Major. Erin, High School English Teacher. My name as the title and my future projected afterwards.

As if I can even begin to explain my future. Life just doesn't work like that.

And yet we are expected to plan our lives, schedule ourselves into existence, chronicling our every move until we've molded our Future.

This is the scariest thing I've ever done.

!!! NEWEST OBSESSION !!!

I've probably already bored you all to tears with the extent of my obsessions: Disney, books, movies, et cetera, et cetera...all of which I'm quite positive I've mentioned too many times throughout the course of this experiment I seem to be engaged in BUT...

...please forgive me for mentioning my insane appreciation for a good novel just one more time :)

I'm currently reading Furious Love, a biographical novel (it's huge) on the scandalous love affair of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It easily trumps any chick flick ever made; the descriptive language of the author grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go until you're drowning in the grandiosity of a love that was so entirely over-the-top, so marvelously decadent in its nature--jewels of enormous size, yachts, gowns, minks, wealth, true Hollywood royalty at its finest--that it's almost unbelievable just how much you, as the reader, envy their passionate emotion.

The way it's described...there's nothing like it.

The greatest aspect of it all...or perhaps the worst...is that it's true.

Anyway, I recomment it.

And to that faceless face,

The one I wouldn't possibly try to describe,

I have something I'd like to say to send your way:

Well hello there mon ami...

I hope you leak a little smile the next time you think of me :)

Word Up Wednesday

It's Wednesday, and I haven't posted anything to my blog in approximately 43808520 years soooooo....I've decided to designate today as Official Word Up Wednesday and share some of my absolute favorite words with you all :)

insouciance: carelessness, indifference; blithe nonchalance

peripatetic: traveling from place to place; constant traveling

serendipity: knack for making desirable discoveries on accident; luck

auric: derived or made of gold

ebullience: bubbling enthusiasm

scintilla: a spark

logolepsy: an obsession with words

pulchritudinous: pretty

vade mecum: a favorite book carried everywhere

schizothemia: digression by a long reminiscence

Thanks for letting me exercise my English major on you today...

oh hey, fall

Yes, my caramel-skin-colored (and I won't even judge you if it's from a bottle) friends, fall is upon us.

Your worst nightmare is my dream-come-true, and I'm completely ecstatic that in just a couple of weeks, your skin will return to it's natural shade and we can all be one big, pasty family once again :)

Just kidding.

But as the temperature drops and the trees begin to chameleon, I get more and more excited that fall is here!!!!!!! The JMU campus is lit with red, orange, yellow, and green--a kaleidoscope of color scattered before me as I walk to class listening to N*SYNC blaring at an ear-splitting volume on my iPod. Every leaf that falls in front of me makes me feel like I'm stumbling on happiness personified. I feel like no one appreciates just how spectacular the transition of the seasons can be because they are too busy whining that they can't properly tan in 50 degree weather.

But because most of you may be mourning the loss of beach weekends, outdoor barbeques, and coping with the irrepressible urge to drench your hair in lemon juice, I have a few glass-half-full philosophies that may just change your tune.

Fall means new scenery, breezy afternoons, sweaters, football, and my favorite bright-red sweatshirt, which in turn leads to hot chocolate, snow, peppermint-flavored everything, boots, scarves, mittens, and...that's right...CHRISTMASTIME.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm filled with Christmas cheer.

It could be a little early for a few of you, but I thought I'd spread a little Christmas joy in October this year, so here you go:

It's never too early for the Season of Giving ;)

good music, good people, GOOD DAY

There are some days that are just so blatantly awesome that you know you'll remember them forever.

You know what I mean.

That one time you won the second grade spelling bee or went on your first date or found your favorite long-lost sweater.

Days that will go down in infamy....obviously.

The best part about this particular genre of days is recognizing its blatant awesomeness before the day actually ends, so you can take full advantage of the time you have left in the 24 hours to put your best efforts towards making it infamously incredible.

Today is one of those days.

Not for anything in particular...just because I physically cannot stop smiling (which, to those of you who haven't yet picked up on my off-handed description, suggests the rather delirious state of happiness in which I existed today).

So much so, in fact, that a random passerby stopped me to inquire just what I was smiling about.

:)

To everyone out there, I hope your day was as wonderful as mine...even if you did nothing at all noteworthy :) Goodnight :)

If you want to get a glimpse into my mood today, here's a little something that might help you out: click here.

"These are a few of my favorite things..."

Instead of writing an intensely long blog post this week, I've decided to take the easy way out and just show you all the creative portion to my UPB application. Enjoy :)