I had enough battery power left for one shot

...at the park. This is it.  

Two degrees of separation from salvation

I'm one of those people who used to get ridiculously moved by those late night Foster Brooks or Sally Struthers commercials, thinking I could make the difference in the life of a child I'll never meet -- and for less than the cost of a cup of coffee a day. Yet the organizational wall that stood between me and the children seemed too big, too suspect. So I selfishly continued to buy the cup of coffee a day instead. I like to know that I'm making a difference to people -- but not to the people who run these organizations.

Now I'm only two degrees separated from feeling like I have the potential to make a real impact on the lives on some children in need. Life is funny. I met my friend Stephannie when she was the secretary for the Knight-Wallace Foundation here in Ann Arbor last year. On the side, she was also a classically trained opera singer and a Tibetan priestess (or some such thing...clearly, I'm not down with how this all works). You know, the usual stuff.

Earlier this year, Stephannie got the opportunity to move to Tibet to work on translating some ancient texts and to work with the community there, perhaps teaching. There are many people in need in Tibet, but often programs focus on serving the needs of boys and men. Enter a young man named Dockpo Tra. Concerned about the welfare of young girls, he has personally rescued 30 Tibetan girls, ages 5-13, from difficult and dangerous living situations and brought them to live in his home.

Tra's goal is to build a school to provide these girls with both a safe home where their basic needs are met and an education. (At present, girls in Tibet make up about 25% or less of the school population.) You can read much more about the details of this amazing project, with which Stephannie is now affiliated, by visiting Dockpo's organization, The Alliance for the Empowerment of Tibetan Women. (You can find out more about Stephannie and her work in Tibet by visiting her blog .)

You can read all the details there and you'll discover they've got big dreams for helping these girls. They need money, of course, but the good news is that money goes a long way in Tibet. The amazing thing to me, at least, is that I feel as though I know these girls. I see photos of them with Steph and they seem so much more real to me than random kids in commercials. I'll know first-hand if and how my efforts affect them. That's pretty amazing. As I said, US money goes a long way in Tibet. I asked Stephannie (below, with the girls) and she said about $50 US will buy one girl two full sets of winter clothing and two pairs of winter boots. (The winters are long and severe in Tibet.) That's a pretty tangible difference, don't you think? I can do that. Chris and I can make sure a couple of girls have what they need for the winter.

And because I'm feeling so Sally Struthers, here's my quest -- to find enough people that all 30 girls are outfitted for the winter. That means $1,500, bit by bit. I won't beg. I know everyone has their pet causes and that this may not move you. But I can let you know, I can keep you posted on these girls and how your donation makes a difference. Or I don't even need to do it at all. I can't stress enough that even $5 or $10 will be really helpful. Just make your checks out to Stephannie Piro and send them to:

Michael Meihn c/o The Dam Tsig Foundation PO Box 8392  Ann Arbor MI 48107

In addition, I decided to try to rally a last-minute knitter's effort to make hats, scarves, mittens, etc. for these girls and send them over. Stephannie says it's hard to find really warm winter gear for them there. Winter's already setting in and it takes a while for things to reach them there, so I'm thinking I'd like to send what I can within a few weeks. If you're a knitter and you think you might be able to whip things up -- remember, the girls are between the ages of 5 and 13 -- that'd be fantastic. As I said, I'm just mulling this over and if you have any thoughts or ideas or think you might want to pledge a hat or two, email me at julia@readjulia.com. Thanks!

This concludes our public service announcement.

Missing the point

It's no wonder I can't make it to things I say I'm going to attend. My brain is a sieve. The whole point of that last entry was supposed to be about how I really, really was going to attend the event on my calendar on Thursday night. But I didn't quite get there. I mean, I didn't quite get there in the blog entry. I did get there in a person. As part of my screenwriting class, we got to attend a fascinating lecture and Q&A with Josh Olson, the dude who wrote A History of Violence. (He received nominations from the Academy Awards, the Writer's Guild of America and others for his work.) My problem going into it all was the fact that I didn't actually enjoy the movie very much. However, when I ran into our teacher Jim Burnstein and John Olson on the way to the lecture, I shook his paw and the following words came out of my mouth: "I loved your film."

I'm that much of a celebrity whore.

Actually, I think that with this second-semester experience, I just have an overwhelming sense of admiration for anyone who does this crazy form of writing for a living. And also, I'm a celebrity whore. Josh Olson is a giant guy, by the way, big and ambling and friendly and it's not hard to believe that he's a fan of comic books and fantasy. He was dressed appropriately for the closed event, which was attended by maybe fifty or sixty students within the Screen Arts & Culture department, in what I think of as the Hollywood screenwriter's uniform -- black t-shirt, black jacket and jeans.

He was very generous with us as he shared his journey to screenwriting fame, crediting a lot of waiting and diligence and a lot of hard work. It wasn't a short or easy road that led him to writing A History of Violence, which was based on a comic novel. (That might help explain why I didn't enjoy it that much -- I'm not much of a fan of the comic novel and once I knew the film's origins, I realized it really somehow retains that "feel." Also, I watched it on a plane to Amsterdam during some turbulence and that doesn't help anything...)

But the coolest thing was that, despite our obviously different interests, I could really relate to him as a writer. I was thrilled to discover that we both have the same approach to writer's block. "Write badly," Olson urged us, and that's exactly what I do when I can't get an article finished. I write the most pedantic, awful version of it, just to get the words on the page, some sense of structure and then I go back and I rewrite it, pretending I'm editing the work of some addled sixth-grader.

I've had some difficulty reading screenplays -- they're just not easy on the eyes, sometimes tough to follow and get into. Olson noted, quite wisely, that it's because screenplays are what he called an "interim form" of writing. They're not meant to be read. A ha! It's not just me.

And he urged us to do something really important, something that I think applies to anyone who writes, whether you're a journalist or a novelist or an essayist or a screenwriter. He said that, in the midst of all the craziness, you have to "hold onto the thing that makes you want to write."

To be honest, I've never quite figured out what that thing is for me. Maybe it's to be heard or to be taken seriously. I'm not sure. But whatever it is, I get that I need to hold onto it, because I've lost sight of it in the past and I've let myself move far away from writing and I've never found happiness doing anything else.

The best laid plans

It is truly stunning the extent to which I will go sometimes to avoid writing. As of 11 this morning, all of my socks were paired, my winter tights brought out and inspected for holes and my t-shirts folded well enough to be a Gap display. Those of you who know me, know this type of organizing only occurs when I'm trying desperately to avoid something, and I am. I'm trying to avoid fixing all the holes in my screenplay. So far, so good. I'm on a roll, actually, when it comes to not following plans. Last week I was excited to see Sandra Cisneros when the combination of a nasty cold and a hot pot of soup convinced me to stay home rather than going to see one of my favorite authors speak. Yesterday, I headed to Borders at 11:45 or so for a 12:30 in-store performance and signing by Barenaked Ladies.

The crowds I had expected to see outside Borders were non-existent and once inside, I discovered why. All the smart people seemed to know that you had to show up way sooner and get yourself a special wristband to be admitted to the upstairs area, where the event was taking place. By the time I got there, of course, they weren't giving out anymore wristbands and a group of really sulky fans were lining up by the stairs anyway, pouting.

An employee assured me I'd still be able to hear the event from downstairs, and I hung around a few minutes, listening to the floorboards above us creak with a zillion fans poised to have Way More Fun than me. I decided sticking around and hoping the music flooded downwards was a bit like living next door to people having a party and pretending that you were invited. I left to drown my sorrows in a non-fat decaf latte (how's that for livin') at Espresso Royale.

Glad I did, too, because I ran into two of this year's Fellows - Challen Stephens and Baris Kuruku - and promptly horned my way in on their coffee date. Challen's an education reporter from the Huntsville Times and is here studying Images of the South while Baris is here from CNN Turk, where he's a sports editor and anchor. Had a really great time chatting with both of them and especially listening to Baris tell us, in perfect English, how bad his English is. This year's got some good Fellows, I tell you. It's no class of '06, but what is?

A chilly fall day

Seems like overnight it became time to take all the tank tops from the closet and pull out stacks of sweaters I'd forgotten all about. And, curse it all, what I thought were allergies yesterday have blown into a full-on cold today, complete with stuffy head and aches. Still, there's a unique and specific pleasure to bundling up, pulling a blanket over you and watching movies on the laptop. Chris is off sleuthing on the west coast, so I'm not receiving the adequate amount of pity minor colds require. But at least the cats seem relatively attentive. Last night, I made a big pot of soup with leeks and carrots I got at the Farmer's Market and I've already run all my errands for the day, so there's nowhere I need to be.

There are worse ways to spend a day.

The author on Mango street

I think it was my senior year in college, when I was trying hard to be a Fiction Writer and was desperate for women who were writing the way the voices in my head sounded, that I first stumbled upon Sandra Cisneros' The House on Mango Street. I was smitten. Spare, simple language, the rythmn of the life of the title street reflected in the rythmn of the words. She became and remained one of a group of women who changed the way I wrote and the way I thought about writing, along with Lorrie Moore, Amy Hempel, Jane Ann Phillips and Mona Simpson. I'm thrilled to note she's on the UM campus this week. Tomorrow night, she gives the Hispanic Heritage Keynote Speech (entitled "Why I'm not Hispanic") at the Rackham auditorium at 7:30 pm. She's also featured in a mid-day talk on Friday, in her PJs no less. Unfortunately, I've another commitment so I can't catch the Friday one, which takes place from 11 - 1 in Angell Hall. The intriguing description is below:

Dressed in their pajamas, author, Sandra Cisneros and U-M Professor of Anthropology and Women's Studies, Ruth Behar will have a public conversation. They will discuss a range of topics, including writing, books, and being Latinas, topics which they have been talking about for over a decade. A continental breakfast will be served.

St. Louis again

I can't stay away. I'm back in St. Louis for the weekend, this time for a performance of St. Louis' top-rated non-broadcast live talk show, Free Candy. Somehow we've once again used our wiles to wrangle up an impressive and fun guest line up. Amanda made some sort of deal with the devil to get us a few minutes with the much-ballyhooed and world-reknown conductor David Robertson who recently signed on to be the musical director of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra until 2010. Very fancy! He must have us confused with, like, Letterman or something. It happens all the time. Just don't tell him, okay? We're also going to have Charles Henderson on from the St. Louis Scottish Games . If you're not from around here, you may not know what a big ol' deal this event is each year. But people will be coming from all over to toss cabers and do the highland fling next weekend, mark my words. And I'm excited to hear singer-songwriter Jesse Irwin. Amanda's been talking up his combo of clever lyrics and folky music, especially on his song "Ladeusiers." It'll mean nothing to those outside the St. Louis area, but those familiar with the hoity-toity nabe of Ladue will appreciate such poignant turns of phrase as:

You're rich and you're bright and you're pasty and white You've got what it takes to suceed You like cheeses and wine, and you're real good at buyin' Lots of shit that you don't really need And you live in a house for a family of ten But you've got a family of two You're a Laduesier, Laduesier - a hoosier that lives in Ladue

Actually, I'm excited about all aspects of this show. I was here a couple of months ago for a show, in the midst of all our moving madness, and didn't really feel like I brought it. (Brung it?) Now, life's a little less crazy and I'm able to focus a little on it and hopefully not force Amanda to carry the whole show while I gaze out at the audience comatose. Not that she doesn't do it beautifully, because she does.

So if you're in St. Louis, come by Hartford Coffee Company at Hartford & Roger in the Tower Grove South neighborhood. Tomorrow night, 7 pm start -- which means get there by 6:15 or so to grab a seat. Free candy, free entertainment. Excellent.

Enough plugging of all that. It's been another fast weekend here, running around trying to see as many beloved friends as possible in too short a timeframe. Then it's back to Ann Arbor Monday morning. And at some point in there I've got some serious homework to do for my screenwriting class.

I'm actually suffering from a bit of a crisis of confidence in that arena. I met with my study group last week and am now afraid that perhaps people in their early 20s with no life experience don't "get" my writing. Well, it's either that or my work sucks as badly as they said it does and it seems far, far easier to blame them.... Oh, the life of a college student is so, so hard!

Fall has arrived

I don't know if it's here to stay, but the fact that today's high isn't supposed to exceed 60 degrees certainly suggests that we're actually going to have an autumn this year. True, I've been looking forward to this, my favorite season, when we get to bundle up in sweaters and layers and take long walks shuffling our feet through piles of fallen leaves. But I'm not sure I'm quite emotionally prepared for the actual End of Summer as it will mean some really serious focus on my writing goals, especially my MFA application. It's been yet another whirlwind week in the life of crazy-travelin' Jules. Last week's big excitement was starting the advanced screenwriting class I'm taking. It's going to be a lot of work and a lot of homework but I think it's going to be a terrific education in rewriting and give me a greater insight into this strange and difficult craft. I'm learning a lot, even if I feel like I'm practically ancient in a sea full of lethargic 20-year-olds.

Chris and I zipped off last Thursday to Louisville for my brother Jonathan's wedding. Chris stayed through the rehearsal dinner Friday night but had to jet off pre-ceremony on Saturday morning to return to Ann Arbor, where he was scheduled to speak on a panel about post-fellowship careers. It was one of many events during the Knight-Wallace Fellowship reunion weekend, most of which I missed.

I got up at an ungodly hour on Sunday to make it back to Ann Arbor in time for the KWF BBQ and then to host a small gathering of the class of 2006 on our deck afterwards. Lovely time catching up with fellows from in town and out, including Fara Warner (with new beau Paul in tow), John Bacon (with the lovely Whitney), the entire Butters clan, Lisa & Chuck in from NYC, Rainey & Graham in from Boston and Thomas Kamilindi. Good times!

Now I'm scrambling to update this blog, get some homework reading done and head off to Pioneer High School this afternoon to help local scribe Deb Merion with her college essay writing workshop (an 826 Michigan gig). Then it's back home for a jump start on the week's homework since I'll be out of town next weekend again for a rockin' Free Candy. Very much looking forward to it, although I'll take a weekend at home after that, if you don't mind.

Not dead. Or trapped under something heavy.

Just busy...and woefully inattentive to my blog. Which probably disappoints all three of my readers. Sigh. It's been a whirlwind week of going hither and yon, it seems and that'll probably continue for the rest of the month. I jetted off to St. Louis this weekend for a 48-hour shot-in-the-arm of the people I love and an unsuccessful attempt to get a renter for our house there. I really had an outstanding time, being made a fuss over by wonderful folk and catching up with friends. I love Ann Arbor, but you St. Louis people are my backbone.

I traveled back to Ann Arbor yesterday, which just happened to be September 11. That meant I was standing in the "B" boarding group line at the Southwest terminal in St. Louis when we were bid, by a pre-recorded message from the department of Homeland Security, to observe a moment of silence at 9:46 (8:46 St. Louis time) - the moment the first plane hit the World Trade Center. It was a strange thing indeed to hear a terminal fall silent or, actually, almost silent as some people don't seem to be able to stop talking for an entire minute for any reason. But did it feel meaningful or important? Hard to say. I certainly didn't feel any spirit of camaraderie with my fellow boarding passengers.

What did strike me, however, was how I felt boarding the plane yesterday morning - normal and insignificant. And I think about how those people simply had no idea, how normal their lives must have been, the places their minds were wandering before everything changed in a matter of minutes.

Unlike those people, I got off the plane when it landed in Detroit and just went on with my life. You know, otherwise the terrorists win. Speaking of which, I can't express how annoyed I am at this whole ridiculous level of extra "security" created by insisting we all pack our toothpaste and lip gloss.

I'm stunned at the level to which this government is willing to stoop to manufacture fear, completely ignoring the fact that this last round of "liquid bombers" had nothing more than an idea in place when found. They had no solid method, no materials. Does the TSA think that while these guys couldn't work out how to disguise shampoo as an explosive *I* have? I appreciate the credit but a quick chat with my high school Chemistry teacher would clear that up right away.

Regardless, I made it home safe and sound, just in time to spend the rest of the day obsession over my screenplay before starting Advanced Screenwriting last night. It's essentially a rewrite class, where we'll be taking the feature-length script we wrote previously and, in all likelihood, tearing it apart and reconstructing it. I had to swallow hard at the amount of work and reading it's going to entail, especially while I'm planning to teach two workshops this fall at 826 Michigan and get my application together for the MFA program.

Still, the odd thing is that, upon revisiting it after a summer away from it, it turns out I actually like my screenplay. And I don't often feel truly confident about much of the writing I produce. But considering this was the most challenging, most different type of writing I'd ever done, I like the idea of pushing myself further, just to see what I can deliver. Unlike most of my young (so young!) and eager classmates, I don't harbor fantasies of jetting off to LA and seeing my name on the big screen. I'm just curious about what I'm capable of in this vein.

Anyway, speaking of homework, I'm off to pick up the text books and scripts that are required reading for the course and get as much reading done before we leave town again on Thursday for my brother's wedding in Louisville. And, yes, I'll check my shampoo then, too. Just to keep America safe.

Happy Labor-Free Day

I'm typing this from our deck, where I've been sitting in my bright orange adirondack chair, sipping coffee and knitting. It's a gorgeous Monday, which feels like Sunday, as these holidays often do. In the shade it's just cool enough to warrant a light sweatshirt. This feels like heaven. It has been, in fact, a fabulous weekend all around. Although we had a little difficulty readjusting to reality after returning from the rainforest early last week, it seems we brought home with us a lesson or two about really unplugging.

On Saturday, I turned ten. That is, I celebrated ten years of sobriety. In a row! And my husband, to mark the occasion, spent the day spoiling me to death, starting with breakfast in bed. He delivered to me a tray with a warm come-undone bun from Zingerman's, a ridiculous concoction of a sourdough boule studded throughout with big chunks of dark chocolate and a piping hot latte. Plus, one perfect sunflower and one perfect stargazer lily laid on the tray to perfect effect. (The remainder of each bunch was in the kitchen and would later appear in the living room arranged in vases.) In the afternoon, we had lunch at Zingerman's (seriously, they're not sponsoring this entry!) and it was a perfect day for people watching. It wasn't overcrowded, thank goodness, since it was the Wolverines' first game but still reflective of the swollen population now that school's back in session.

We capped that off with a brief meander through the Saturday farmer's market, still packed at 1 in the afternoon and strolling in and out of the Kerrytown shops. Then I was dropped off at the Relax Station for a 75-minute massage. Too decadent! (Best of all, the therapist was really good at myofascial release which, as you may know, is not entirely pleasant but very helpful to those of us in pain.)

That evening, Chris had made reservations at Eve in Kerrytown. I have to say it was sublime. Everything about the place and was perfect, from the cozy atmosphere to the service to the food itself. Really a lovely treat and well worth splurging on if you're in town.

As if that wasn't enough -- as if any of that wasn't enough -- when we got home, Chris showered me with gifts. How many women can claim a husband who buys them great shoes? All you have to do is witness my green suede Merrell moccasins and you know I'm one of them. My packages also included a gorgeous Motawi tile. I've been aching for one for ages and now have kick-started my collection.

I didn't need all the fuss and adulation. The milestone is, after all, its own reward. But, damn if I didn't enjoy every minute of it. And, yes, I do know how lucky I am.

We've since spent the rest of the weekend hanging out, doing the errands that people do. Yesterday, we hit Target and we decided to tackle our joined problem with wrinkedyness by investing in one of those clothes steamers. I cannot express how much fun I had yesterday afternoon, steaming the hell out of everything within reach, like an unfilmed infomercial. Few things bring me so much pleasure as a great gadget. What a sucker I am!

Today, Chris is off running more errands of his own. And I am, as I said, sitting quietly on our deck, trying to pretend the noise of the traffic on West Huron is the rush of wind through the leaves of palm trees in the rainforest. (It's not working very well.) But that's okay. We have a nice yellow house, a pine tree in our front yard a zillion miles tall and squirrels getting a little too saucy in the trees. That seems every bit as good.

Hasta luego, pio-pios!

I awoke this morning to the sound of heavy rain and lingered in bed much later than I'd care to admit. And now it's pouring again. A fitting prelude to our upcoming long weekend at an inn nestled right at the edge of El Yunque, the tropical rainforest and national park in Western Puerto Rico. It is, as you may know, probably my favorite place on earth. It's the only place the husband truly unplugs from all his internet 'n gadgetry. There are no phones, no TVs. We take a stack of books with us, knowing that the humidity will curl their pages by the time we've worked our way through them.

We sleep late and deeply, waking up from time to time as a rain cloud bursts open drenching the palm nut trees just outside our balcony. We keep the sliding glass doors open at night so that the rushing of the waterfall below and the song of the tiny coqui frogs helps hypnotize us into sleep and so the wind that rushes through the forest at night can skip across the room and reach us. We'll walk a half-mile or so down a switch-back trail -- passing wild-growing bananas, pineapple, oranges and avocado -- to swim in the little pool the rocks in the waterfall have created. During the day, our clothes will start to take on the moisture around us and nothing will feel completely dry for days.

I love it there.

----

Also leaving town tomorrow is our Charlie Clover. He heads for a stop in Miami before going back to be A Very Important Editor (not his official title) at the Financial Times.

He stopped by today to bless us with a few items left behind by Miss Vanessa Bauza. She told Charles she thought the antique school desk she bought in Chelsea would look good in our mud room and she was, of course, right. We've also inherited a large metal and wood star and a beautiful framed "vintage" travel poster of Cuba. There's a beautiful woman in it, smiling, full of life, not unlike the poster's previous owner. It's going above my desk.

Now that Charles is leaving, I'm starting to get truly suspicious that our fellowship year might actually be ending. I know, I know. I've said this before, but I'm picking up subtle hints here and there. For example, where is everyone?

In addition, when I saw Birgit earlier this week, she mentioned something about "the new fellows" hitting town soon. I'm not sure if this is some crazy code phrase or just the delusional babbling of a chronically overworked woman. But something's up. Something. I can feel it in my bones.

Where Would Jesus Shop?

This week, I've been milling over the question of whether or not shopping at the local Farmer's Market makes me a better person. Not better than you, of course -- because, dear reader, that could hardly be possible. But does it improve me somehow, enrich my soul, pave the way to a better seat in heaven? It occurred to me as I walked home from the market Wednesday morning, laden with blueberries, zucchini, raspberries and the season's first tiny blackberries. There was a swagger in my step, a bubbling pride, a distinct level of self-canonization taking place. Look at me, I seemed to be saying, I shopped at the Farmer's Market. I heart my local community. I heart produce. I am, therefore, divine.

Why do I never get this same puffed-up sensation when I buy a head of lettuce at Kroger? Is this a false sense of self-congratulation? Is it some sort of organic high? Whatever it may be, when combined with the righteousness I feel walking to and from the market (Earth! I love you enough not to drive!) it threatens to get out of proportion. It also makes me a person who sometimes pays more for her berries (not a euphemism) than she would at the grocery store. However, it means that -- unless the people in the Amish headgear are running a major scam -- I'm more comfortable with where my money's going. Instead of paying for the processing, packaging, marketing and positioning of said berries, I'm paying for the fruit and for the work that went into them. And if I want to get all John Mellencamp about it, I'm also supporting farming as a way of life in a time when working the land is anything but lucrative and easily sustainable.

I read recently, too, that fresh produce uses about 10 times less environment-hatin' energy to produce than processed foods, including frozen versions of fruits and veggies. That goes for grocery-store fresh produce too, so I can shop for the waxy, uniform-sized perfection of the grocery store produce too and still heart the environemnt.

Then there's the taste. I don't know if it's because some of the produce is homegrown, organic and, frankly, downright ugly. But the flavors in the tomatoes and berries I lug home from the market are downright sublime, completely incomparable to anything I buy at the store.

Shopping at the market also gives me an awareness of seasonal eating. There was lettuce this week, for example. The cherries have disappeared, the peaches are abundant, raspberries are especially sweet and the blackberries are tiny and bit overeager. It makes me think about when produce is meant to be eaten, when it presents itself, which is something we don't have to think about often in our year-round grocery stores which offer up hard strawberries even in the middle of winter.

Thus, I've come to a conclusion. I have decided that the answer to my initial query is unequivocably yes. Yes, shopping at the local Farmer's Market does indeed make me a better person. In fact, it probably makes me a better person than you. There. I've said it. I'm sorry. But that's just how it is.

Milking it for all it's worth

It seems almost unfair, the way I'm still workin' the Fellowship for benefits long after Chris' tenure officially ended. I recently accepted an offer to be the editor of that must-read rag known as the KWF newsletter. I...have...so...much...power! On top of all that, the mere fact that I am married to last year's fellow has gained me entree into Jim Burnstein's advanced screenwriting class at the University of Michigan this Fall. Okay, maybe the fact that my teacher from last Spring, Terry Lawson, gave me a very generous recommendation played a part too. But, basically, Jim's accepting my presence (which he doesn't get paid for) in a class that's pretty competitive to get into.

I'm excited and nervous and thrilled to get to play student again and work a bit more on the full-length screenplay I wrote last sememster. Sweet! Maybe if I don't get into the MFA program, I'll just move to Hollywood and hit the big time. I can't imagine there are many other people trying to sell scripts out there.

(Oh, by the way, at the risk of inviting another onslaught of spam, I re-enabled the comments feature below a week or so ago. So far, so good. But if the mood strikes you, comment away!)

A somewhat perfect weekend

It's Sunday evening and I'm sitting on the front porch of Zingerman's Next Door, tapping away at my laptop and sippin' on a Dirty Sheed. (I know I keep mentioning these iced-double-macchiato-with-shot-of-Mexican-vanilla cups of heaven, but I'm lately of the opinion that there's nothing better on earth.) Actually, it's my second Dirty Sheed. I managed to knock over the first and watch it spread like a puddle of lost glory across my table and onto the worn wooden floorboards of the porch. Is there a sadder sight? So I wipe up as much as I can with a handful of napkins and head back inside, rather sheepishly, to report my spill and order another Dirty Sheed. And the boys behind the counter, being good Zingerman's boys, are delightful about the whole thing, assuring me my idiocy is no problem and promptly sending out a smiling employee to mop away my mistakes. Then, to top it all off, they wave away my attempt to pay for the new Sheed.

If you're listening, Owners of Zingerman's, it's precisely this sort of thing that will bring me running back to your place. Yes, I was going to come back anyway, but this incident is why. Well, that and your commitment to top-notch products and serving your community.

I've spent most of today nestled at home, nursing an annoying cold and watching about six episodes of "Medium" on my laptop. Where do colds like this come from? I don't even know anyone who's sick. I don't even know anyone.

Okay, so that's a slight exaggeration, but it is a little how I've been feeling lately. I'm willing to chalk up the funk I've been in the last week at least in part to impending illness and hormonal imbalance. But it's also a bit of the reality of our move hitting me, almost exactly a month after we arrived back here.

There has been so much change and it's precisely the kind of time I would like to call up my girls and arrange for a salad at Michael's and a night of laughter and distraction. But my girls are in St. Louis and I'm indulging in a little bit of self-pity. Plus a lot of sneezing. The two may not be related. To make matters worse, Chris left town this morning for a three-day sleuthing trip and I'm left to sniffle on my own. There's nothing more pathetic than a sick person with no one to whine to.

That said, however, we had an absolutely lovely weekend. Friday night we strolled into town to catch Little Miss Sunshine at the Michigan Theater. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a movie so much. Really a lovely piece of writing and acting. Plus, it was shown in the main theater, which is a grand experience in itself, all gold-painted decor, heavy maroon velvet curtains and organ player entertaining the troops 'til the lights go down.

It was cool enough when we emerged from the theater to warrant the light sweater I'd lugged along in case the theater was cold. We stopped off at Seva on the way home for a light bite to eat and continued our saunter back to the house. All in all, a very civilized affair -- a fine film and dinner without once having to get in the car. I still can't get over that.

Yesterday, the monotony of Saturday chores and errands was broken when Fara stopped by to grace us with her presence and some cherry batter donuts from the Farmer's Market. (I'm proud to note that I enjoyed the former and avoided the latter.) We sat out on the back deck for a while and covered everything from girl talk to business talk. It's nice to have a friend here.

Last night we stayed at home and watched Michael Winterbottom's 24 Hour Party People, a largely amusing piece about Tony Wilson and the emergence of the Manchester sound in England from about 1976 on.

Which brings us back to today. Which I've already told you about. Which means I'm out of things to say. Which may seem abrupt, but that's how it goes.

Welcome to the sleazy underbelly of the stock world

Yesterday morning, I received a rather strange email. It was from a man I didn't know who wanted to know if I was the one who did the fact-checking on Chris' first Sharesleuth.com article. I told him I'm not. Her name is Julie Armstrong. Mine, as you know, is not. At first I kind of laughed at the notion that Chris would ever let me fact-check a story of his, given my near-retardation level of business news comprehension. But the email inquiry drew my attention to a Yahoo! message board where people were discussing the stock for Xethanol, the company Chris wrote about. Now, the whole idea of stocks always seemed a tad strange to me. Buying these elusive "shares" and trading on hopes and possibilities just doesn't seem that far removed from gambling to me. And I'm the girl who went to Vegas once and wanted a refund on the nickel slots because it seemed "unfair" that I didn't win.

Thus, it is fair to say I was a tad naive about the sort of things passionate supporters of the Xethanol stock (which dropped 14% the day after his report) would post in response to Chris' story. I expected them not to like it, natrally. I expected them to float false theories about Mark Cuban's involvement and to try to discredit Chris, which is a little like trying to discredit the Pope. (Believe me, people, I've tried. With Chris, not the Pope. As you know, if there's one thing that drives me batty about my husband it's his unwavering integrity. Well, that and his obsession with stock fraud and, as he puts it, corporate "chicanery.")

I suppose I wasn't even surprised by the desperate, blatantly false and wildly imaginative claims they were making. For example, one genuis posted that Chris' fact-checker was his wife, thus blowing his credibility out of the water! (And explaining the email I got.) This sort of crack investigating was based on, as far as I can tell, the indisputable fact that the fact-checker's first name and my first name both begin with J-u-l-i. How could we not be the same person? What are the odds, after all, of Chris knowing a Julia and a Julie? One poster even linked to my site as "proof," although it seemed to me that the whole different first name/different last name thing might undermine their argument. But these people are not to be discouraged. What I did not expect to find, however, were posts on the stock message board insulting my appearance based, I suppose, on the photo on my site. One called me "fugly," a real "bow wow" and wondered why they hadn't been able to short me rather than the stock. (Side note, Chris does not and will not be trading on the content of his stories. Mark Cuban does, but I'm not actually his to short. At least I don't think so. Perhaps I should re-check the contract.) Another poster claimed that he had, shall we say, had sexual relations with me in St. Louis five years ago. I think I'd remember that. (Now, had he said it was eleven years ago, he'd have a good chance of being right. But I digress...)

Another clever poster opined that I look like a troll, which was fitting because, apparently, Chris does too. I'd refute that claim but, honestly, I'm not entirely sure what a troll looks like and I suspect these people have spent far more time under bridges than I have. I must, therefore, defer to their experience.

Had I been in a better mood when I read all this yesterday, more well-rested or, say, a tad less premenstrual, perhaps I would have been smart enough not to let it get to me. Or, at least, not to keep reading. But I think we know I wasn't.

Therefore, I found out that not only did these people (some of whom, alarmingly enough are stock brokers by trade) completely misunderstand the concept of insider trading and subsequently hope my husband's career ends in a jail sentence -- but one lovely poster also wished cancer upon my children. (Technical point: we don't actually have any children, so I'm not really worried about it.)

And it wasn't just me they had it in for. There was a tremendous amount of speculation about a certain "D'Na Hankins" who Chris listed as contributing to the story. Someone did a web search and found an article from the University of St. Louis - Missouri student newspaper quoting D'Na and listing her as a junior in college. Off to the races went the desperate crowd! The next rumor being floated was that Sharesleuth.com has college juniors doing its research. (Which, frankly, these people would probably benefit from doing. It certainly couldn't produce worse or less complete information.)

Here's the scoop, people, although this doesn't make for nearly as interesting mud-slinging. Chris needed copies of some government files for his article. For some reason, the files he needed are stored in a government records center just outside Kansas City. In a limestone cave, no less. Seriously. So he needed someone he knew and trusted who was available to drive over there, put in a request for the documents he specified and ask a government worker to make copies. He asked our good friend D'Na Hankins in St. Louis.

It's true she's a college junior. She's back in college working towards a business degree after receiving her Associate's Degree years ago and subsequently spending umpteen years in the professional world. She's a 36-year-old student with nearly two decades worth of professional experience, including handling human resources, accounting and payroll services for an Inc. 500 company.

It seemed to Chris that she was pretty qualified for driving over to Kansas City (too far for us, obviously) and asking a government worker to make copies for her of the documents Chris specified. In the interest of full disclosure, she did also put said copies in a Fed Ex box and overnight the package to Chris. I know. Pretty risky stuff.

Now, if these message board detractors feel that D'Na is unqualified to complete that task and that doing so somehow compromises the quality of Chris research -- well, then, I'd hate to be the guy who staples paper together at their offices. You must need a Masters degree for that.

I do understand that the people posting on these boards are, to put it mildly, in the minority. And they're people who have professional or personal interests in denying the information Chris has uncovered. They want or need to believe that he has any sort of financial interest in undermining Xethanol, which he doesn't. He doesn't trade on the information, as he's said, and we gain absolutely nothing financially for his exposure of their "chicanery."

But this level of vitriole is all a bit new to me, a tad unexpected. In all fairness, I've done more than my share of denying stuff over the years. I understand that it's much easier to threaten Chris with revenge than to consider that their company has betrayed its investors. The facts speak for themselves, which Chris has said from the start. He's invited detractors to email him personally to refute any specific facts and not a single one has done so.

If Chris can sit so calmly at his desk and not let these people ruffle his feathers, why does this stuff get to me? I suppose because he expected to be the target of these people, who he refers to as "the usual suspects." I suppose because he's used to the way they operate, the things they say, the depths they'll plunge to. I suppose because he's received literally hundreds of emails thanking him for the story, supporting his efforts. I suppose because, as we all know, he's often more of a grown-up than I am.

I just didn't expect it. Why poor li'l ol' me? After all, what do I have to do with Sharesleuth.com other than being the resident Movable Type pseudo-expert? Not a whit. But this is how this rolls and, probably, will continue to roll. Before all's said and done, Chris' sleuthing is going to piss off a lot more people many of whom, I suspect, may not find me attractive.

So I watch Chris let it roll off his back and hunker down with equal conviction on the next big story and I'm learning. I'm learning to let go. I'm learning to consider the source. I'm learning to stay away from those message boards. (Most of the time, anyway.) I'm learning exactly how it feels to be Britney Spears, hounded by the cruel and unfair paparazzi, having lies spun into magazine covers. It ain't easy.

So tomorrow, I'm going to find me a baby, preferably a cancer-free one. And I'm going to put that baby on my lap and I'm gonna drive around town, chomping on a brick of gum, breasts pouring out of my shirt, blissfully unconcerned with what the rest of the world has to say.

Ann Arbor on foot

You miss a lot driving around. To be fair, I miss a lot while wandering around on foot too, as prone as I am to distraction. But today I remembered one of those things as I passed under the railroad tracks near the YMCA on West Washington, on my way to a meeting in town. Among the shrubbery growing gangly and wild in the ditch at the side of the tracks I spotted the unmistakable spike of a corn stalk. Upon closer inspection, I spied a couple of genuine cobs, nestled still inside their husks, silky threads sprouting out.

Corn! By the side of the road!

Chris tells me that this isn't some strange fluke of nature or part of a very small-scale community garden project. Apparently, this happens all the time in ditches by railroads. (Evidently he spent a good deal of his childhood in such ditches.)

Apparently when trains rattle through piled high with feed corn, a little spills here and there, carried by motion and the wind to the crevices on either side of the tracks. There, it plants itself in the landscape and, doing the only thing it knows how, grows up into a nice tall stalk in an unusual place.

And to think, all this time, I just never knew.

A day at the beach, Michigan-style

My house is full of nieces! My sister arrived late Saturday night with her children, Jennifer (18), Rebecca (7) and Olivia (4. We've been busy ever since tooling around Ann Arbor, practicing our fashion runway walks, figuring out how to tie a bandana on the end of a stick in case any of us ever opts for the hobo life. The younger ones are water babies and so yesterday, we headed out to Kensington Metro Park on the advice of one Fara Warner. It's a fantastic state park and I don't know why we didn't discover this sooner, like, say, last year. It's located in Milford, about a 25-minute drive from here and, among its many offerings are two small sand beaches with lifeguard-attended swimming areas in Kent Lake. (Next to one beach is a pair of intertwined water slides that were, regrettably, still under construction.)

The 4,000+ acre park seems to have it all -- trails for running, hiking, biking and cross-country skiing; a huge disc-golf course; boat rentals; a nature center; picnic areas. For an entrance fee of $4 per car, it's by far the best family value for gettin' cool I can find around here.

We had a swell time, sitting on the sandy beach (not your fancy white sand, mind you, but good enough) and wading into the lake. The "swimming" areas cordoned off don't get very deep, which is perfect for little kids. And little kids aplenty there were. Including, of course, mannerless little heathens who thought it fun to pluck stones from the lake bed and hurl them at innocent bystanders until the lackadaisical teen lifeguards reprimanded them half-heartedly through muddy megaphones.

My personal favorite was a gorgeous little girl, maybe 4 or 5 years old, grabbing her sister while yelling, "You want a piece of me?"

Ah, kids. But the ones we brung with us had a good time and we all had a little sun on us by the time we headed back to the van. Then, we fulfilled a goal from the girls' "must-do" Ann Arbor list and stopped by Stucchi's on South University so they could slurp up some lemon sorbet.

Today, we head to Ikea in Canton to stock Jenn up on some stuff for her dorm room before she heads off for IU in a few short weeks. What a fine, fine way to spend the day, eh?