Slinkster Ink
A blog dedicated to sharing the most slinkster-cool, glittery, delicious books, movies, music and any other art that spins a web of light below you to catch you as you jump
The adventure is over. Everything gets over, and nothing is ever enough. Except the part that you carry with you.
Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, from The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, reminding me that I should always read my favorite children’s books when I am older, because I will find beautiful truths like these that my child self did not fully realize
“You need a compass to find your way in the woods. Out of the woods, too. Everyone uses a compass for that.”
“What woods?” Claudia asked.
“The woods we’ll be hiding out in,” Jamie answered.
“Hiding out in? What kind of language is that?”
“English language. That’s what kind.”
“Who ever told you that we were going to hide out in the woods?” Claudia demanded.
“There! You said it! You said it!” Jamie shrieked.
“Said what? I never said we’re going to hide out in the woods.” Now Claudia was yelling, too.
“No! You said hide out in.”
“I did not!”
Jamie exploded. “You did, too. You said, ‘Who ever told you that we’re going to hide out in the woods?’ You said that.”
“O.K. O.K.” Claudia replied. She was trying hard to remain calm, for she knew that a group leader must never lose control of herself, even if the group she leads consists of only herself and one brother brat. “O.K.,” she repeated. “I may have said hide out in, but I didn’t say the woods.”
“Yes sir. You said, “Who ever told you that…”
Claudia didn’t give him a chance to finish. “I know. I know. Now, let’s begin by my saying that we are going to hide out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.”
Jamie said, “See! See! You said it again.”
“I did not! I said, ‘The Metropolitan Museum of Art.’”
“You said hide out in again.”
“All right. Let’s forget the English language lessons. We are going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan.”
For the first time, the meaning instead of the grammar of what Claudia had said penetrated.
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art! Boloney!” he exclaimed. “What kind of crazy idea is that?”
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Playing Dress Up
There is a lesson learned in childhood that so many adults seem to forget. If you find an old set of sheets, your grandmother’s high heels, a big pair of sunglasses, and the floofiest, most ridiculous hat you’ve ever seen, you do not take them to your local clothing drive or have a tag sale. You put them on. Every last bit.
To say I liked to play dress-up when I was younger would be an understatement. I had closets of outcast clothing at two grandparents’ houses, ranging from throwaway curtains to hideous gold vests to slips that went far past my feet. It was like a box with the promise of different worlds every time I pulled the lever to open the attic door. I was a princess, I was a bride, I was a pirate, a gypsy, a very very confused old lady who had not a clue how to dress herself. Curtain rings? More like clip on earrings. Yards of curtain? More like yards of my wedding dress, because I’m marrying this bunny, and I can prove it because there are pictures of me giving it the matrimonial kiss, and then subsequent pictures of me pretending to cry because that is what brides do on their wedding day, right? My feet are supposed to BOTH be used to walk? I think they aren’t, because this green thing I’ve got wrapped around the whole bottom half of me right down to my ankles is a pretty good indication that I am a mermaid.
I guess I should really have dropped the word “younger” from that earlier sentence, however, because I never really stopped dressing up. I would spend my Christmas money on outlandish thrift store dresses, fairy wings, and at this very moment I have somewhere around 50 pairs of tights. I don’t think I will ever not dress up. I don’t mean I’m always going to walk around in sparkly wings and prom dresses (I save those for midnight convenience store runs). But I’m always going to put myself into what I wear (aside from the whole…putting myself…in my clothes…). I’ll always have at least something that kind of screams “NICOLE DRESSED ME THIS MORNING!” It makes me excited, it makes me feel unique, it makes me feel ridiculous in the best way. My motto for getting dressed is, “How wild can I get with my wardrobe without actually looking crazy?” I don’t always manage to do the second part. But as somebody with a dozen pairs of wings and a unicorn purse, it’s kind of hard to look sane all the time.
1She wears a Val Surf T-shirt and boys’ boxer shorts and she has a boy’s phone number scrawled on her hand. Part of her wants to spit on it and rub it off, and part of her wishes it was written in huge numbers across her belly, his name in gang letters, like a tattoo. The citrus fruits bouncing off the sidewalk remind her of boys; the burning oil and chlorine, the gold light smoldering on the windy leaves. Boys are shooting baskets and she thinks she can smell them in the air. And in her pocket, whispering secrets about them, is a Mab.
Excerpt from I Was A Teenage Fairy, by Francesca Lia Block
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Elvis & Anabelle
This was one of those movies that I watched without many expectations, not knowing whether it was going to be good at all (it is a Lifetime movie). I was very, very happily surprised.
Movies and TV shows about mortuaries/funeral homes/embalming have always fascinated me, for a reason I can’t quite explain. Also fascinating to me are beauty pageants gone wrong, and any kind of story that takes place in the South. Lucky for me, this movie has all three.
The story is set in Texas. Max Minghella plays Elvis, the son of a senile embalmer, played by Joe Mantegna. His father appears to have gone a bit odd after his wife’s and Elvis’ mother’s death, and Elvis is secretly taking care of all the work even though he has yet to obtain his embalming license. Blake Lively plays a somewhat reluctant beauty queen who dies suddenly onstage, just as she wins the crown for Miss Texas Rose.
What? She dies? But…her and Elvis are supposed to get it on or something, right?
I’m not going to give too much else away because I went into it knowing hardly anything (which is really the way it should always be), but the rest of the film plays out wonderfully. It stays as far away from being cheesy as it possibly can (which is a pretty remarkable achievement for a Lifetime movie), although it does have its moments.
Blake Lively, Max Minghella and Joe Mantegna give magnificent performances, carrying the movie effortlessly and incredibly. Blake has an amazing ability to light up the screen simply by walking into the frame (also, she’s hot as hell). Max plays Elvis with subtlety, yet his every word is weighed down with emotion (also, he’s hot as hell). Joe is heartbreaking and just slightly amusing as Elvis’ father (also…well…I’m not going to go there).
The score is delicate and moving, the environment rich and dark and magical, and the dialogue funny and poignant. By the end you want to go to Texas and live in a funeral home, which isn’t something you can say about most films.
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I Was A Teenage Fairy
Francesca Lia Block is probably my favorite author ever to grace me with her stories. She spins words into sparkling candy floss that go straight to your heart and make it beat in time with every turn of the page. It is as if the words simply fell out of her mouth and onto the paper and somehow became the most beautiful prose possible.
I Was A Teenage Fairy is a book I’ve read so many times I’ve lost count. The story takes place in L.A., as do all of Block’s novels, but they always show it for what it really is: beautiful, poisonous, dangerous. In Teenage Fairy, Barbie, our protagonist, is a young girl pushed into the modeling business by her past-her-prime former pageant-winning mother. Barbie would rather be lying on the grass in the moonlight, or climbing trees and finding secrets in places nobody else looks, than posing for the sterile, unfeeling cameras she is subjected to. She wishes she had a friend like the girls in the old picture, with the fairies set all around them. Sometimes…wishes come true…although not usually the way you expect them. She finds a friend in tiny Mab, a biting, sarcastic little thing who would probably stick you with her sharp wit and incisors if you thought to call her such a name as “pixie”. Barbie is a hapless, gangly human, and Mab is short-tempered and impatient with Barbie’s unbecoming clumsiness. The two still manage to become almost inseparable friends, and Mab is there for Barbie through everything, as she grows up throughout the book. She is Barbie’s guide, her heart, her conscience, her best friend.
The dynamic between Barbie and Mab is comical, filled with smart retorts (mostly from Mab), and incredibly loving, all at once. The writing is fantastic, the story just as, and the impact this book has made on many people’s hearts is one that will last, maybe forever.
I am brought to tears every time I read this. Block is very skilled at making you feel as if you are in a whole different world when you are immersed in her books. This book has also gotten me through tough times, whether I was reading it by a sliver of moonlight or imagining my own Mab, flying alongside me, encouraging me, softly needling me, telling me it is all going to be okay, and above all, loving me.
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