Short Bits

We moved a lot when I was a kid. Starting new schools so often, I learned how to function in a highly ambiguous setting, where all is unknown; it's a valuable skill, although generally not one learned at such a young age. It's been invaluable to me now, though, on the many occasions when I'm confronted by aspects of Mr. Fresh Hell's culture that in the beginning appear so foreign and incomprehensible, occasions when I automatically feel the tension of those long ago school days.

Among other things, as the new kid I learned how fun it can be to re-invent oneself. None of the other kids had known me from the sandbox - I could be or do or say practically anything without fear of contradiction. It wasn't necessarily lying, but more along the lines of presenting myself in the best possible light. And of course, in the beginning the grass on the other side of the fence was awfully new, and awfully green.

My glory in this self rejuvenation was probably not very healthy for an already bookish dreamy child prone to imaginative flights of fancy.

From a self-improvement standpoint, the constant moves ostensibly gave me a chance to turn over a new leaf quite often. But did I? Not really.

Here's the secret I found: more often than not, the grass is often disappointingly just grass, no greener or better than anywhere else, and while I could physically move from place to place I always carried the baggage of my self.

File Under: Historical Fiction, Lessons Learned From

When I was 10 or 11 and discovered historical fiction of the "bodice ripping" variety, I naively accepted the very common story arc of a heroine who was profoundly liberated and over educated for her time.

I encountered this heroine in countless novels - she was a character written as someone to whom I could easily relate. It seemed that all that would be necessary to turn her into a modern woman would be to replace the bodice with a miniskirt and voila – there she is, Keira Knightley in Pirates of The Caribbean! As if clothing rather than fundamental ideas and worldview was all that separated she and I. It was assumed that the exceptional heroine in the story, living two or three hundred years before me, nevertheless thought as I did then as a late 20th century young woman.

It’s seemed that all the authors had the same list, engraved in stone, of things that must be included:

1. Mother died in childbirth or from other genteel upper class illness? Check.
2. No gaggle of grandmothers, aunts or female cousins handy on whom to foist the motherless daughter? Check.
3. Over-identification with father, thereby learning masculine ideas? Check.
4. Expresses self in a fiery or tempestuous manner? Check.
5. Seeks out atypical adventures for her age and time? Check.
6. Course of true love is rocky, involving stormy arguments and steamy misunderstandings, heaving bosoms and throbbing members? Check.

I was always interested in history, so I give these books a bit of a pass - at least the settings and political events encouraged me when young to delve into actual history.

Yet in actual history stories of average womens' lives were shunted by the wayside, viewed as deeply uninteresting - after all, women didn't lead armies. (Except Joan of Arc - but what was she truly after? Martyrdom? Power? She did have the light-years before her time sartorial androgynity, what with the armor-wearing sword-wielding gig, and had for the time a very feminine mystical sense. What she mostly had, whether you believe in her visions or not, was some serious balls. Any woman who convinced French royalty that she could lead an army against the English had balls.)

Women didn't hold political office or practice law, discover planets, circulation of the blood, or found L'Escoffier.

Yet along the way there have been exceptional women, and average ones - the huge amount of knowledge and information our female ancestors had about living lives on the blunt edge of survival has much to teach us. They made their own soap, beer, lighting, food, cooking implements, medicines, clothing - things that 21st century Western women rarely do. They were generalists rather than specialists.

Women were as a rule uneducated - but then, non-aristocratic men were barely educated. Maybe women couldn't read or write but they could trap and skin rabbits, cook a nutritious stew from the meat, tan the hide and sew the result into a child's hood.

I freely confess I can't do that. I have a grasp of computer technology, operate microwave ovens, DVD players, am a whiz at geography, and can speak, read and write my native language and French. Hmm. Although I'm very crafty, resourceful, and a quick study, if I were parachuted into the past I'd last a good week or so before giving up. I just don't have their mad skills, and in the 21st century Western world I don't need them.

It's not enough to push buttons or master a keyboard or program the garage door opener. It's not enough to be grateful that Western women live when not only modern conveniences save our time and are under our control but a time when we can lead armies, hold political office, practice law, discover new planets - and even found another L'Escoffier.

I think every woman should have at least one honest earthbound skill in her repertoire, and it needn't be traditionally female but it should be useful - knowing how to shear sheep, tan leather, or put up drywall. The mastery of needlework, gardening, or growing medicinal herbs. The skill in making beer, candles, or distilling perfume - something that is hard to do, that requires patience and trial and error, something that requires one to ignore the easy way and accept the long and protracted way.

It's a way of paying homage to women of the past, in a way I think they would find quite apt.

Fresh Hell Bizarre Family Story - The Farm Years

“I shall purchase a small, completely rundown farm in the middle of nowhere Utah and move there with my four teenagers. Although they’ll be completely isolated from the larger world during a crucial period in their social development, they will be content in their isolation, learning useful skills and gaining depth and character from living off the land. Splendid!”

That was my mother’s mission statement, which she indeed fulfilled, as we lived on a farm for two years. I believe this exodus was a logical culmination of my mother's deep nostalgia for a simpler life in a simpler time, one which could not have been a remnant of her own memories, as I suspect the simple time she envisioned occurred decades before she was born.

Overwhelmed by the ways in which society was changing, and likely deeply unsure of her ability to keep up, I think she was always searching for a place of greater safety for herself and believed that removing her family from the inevitable dangers of society would, in the end, save us all.

Her utopian ideal was perhaps motivating in the abstract, as in her mission statement, but the practicalities were vague.

The farm was not a picture of rural bliss. The house was small and sturdy but the rest of the place was a wreck - fields overgrown with dense prickly brush, and weeds. The ramshackle sheds were piled with random farm debris accumulated over decades. It was a Green Acres nightmare come true.

We cleaned up as well as we could, pathetically armed only with suburban lawn tools. To complete the kitschy faux farmkid look we were issued sterotypical farm clothing for our cleanup - crisp new overalls and jaunty desert boots whose newness cruelly pinched our ankles. The look was completely dweeby, circa 1975, and clothing which no true rural teen would ever wear. I regret to say there is photographic evidence, which after 30 years still makes me cringe.

The farm had indeed once been a working sheep farm, but the years had taken their toll on the buildings and overgrown fields and even after clearing it was obvious there was very little to salvage. The shed in the best condition became the hen house, and our farm livestock increased to the tune of 7 whole chickens.

It was my brother's job to feed the chickens twice a day their mixture of grain mash and hot water, adding vegetable peelings and kitchen scraps to the evening mess.

It was a dirty job, and while he obediently wore his desert boots out to the chicken house he defiantly never put them on properly but jammed his feet part way down, so the heel of the boot was permanently crumpled. We used to laugh watching him careening through the yard at night like a drunk lurching home from a binge, stepping carefully in the ruined boots (he often wore them on the wrong feet, which didn't help but also didn't hurt), the feed pail swaying with every step. I sometimes helped him with this job, and can attest that the loathsome reality of feathered dimwits with the sense of marshmallows, who were raised for eggs they never laid, trumped the imagined romance of Foghorn Leghorn every time.

My mother had the 1/2 acre empty field in back of the house professionally tilled to become our garden. The space was ridiculously huge - we planted endless rows of corn. There were other vegetables also, but I seem only to remember a horizon consisting of nothing but corn. This could also be a result of being rousted out of bed at 6:00 am on a summer morning to weed the garden.

Adolescence is synonymous for sullen grudging compliance, and we were typical teenagers unwilling or unable to understand and appreciate the connections between hours of garden work and delight in the resulting harvest.

To round out the Green Acres metaphor, my role model was Eva Gabor. I longed for a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue, silk lingerie and maribou-trimmed mules, and would have traded my overalls for diamond hoop earrings in a hearbeat. I was immediately bored and thoroughly disenchanted with rural living. My emotional metronome was tuned entirely to daydreams about owning wardrobes I saw in Vogue magazine and living an exciting New York City life, details of which I saw in movies or read about in books. (It's a testament to enduring dreams, then, that I've lived in New York for 20 years.)

I fervently longed to be a famous author living a glamorous life anywhere, just so long as it was light years away from the farm.

So I set up a study in my closet.

My mother renovated the house's attic into a dormitory room for us girls - it was a beautifully done space, although my favorite part was my very own closet. It was big enough to stack my teeny shoe wardrobe neatly in one corner and leave enough room for me, a pillow to lean against, and my typewriter propped in front of me on a sofa cushion. There was light and most importantly there was privacy, perfect for an Undiscovered Young Author, dabbling in science fiction and romances, writing egregiously bad poetry. My sisters still laugh when they remember coming up the stairs to a completely dark bedroom , a sliver of light coming from underneath my closet door, the lonesome clack of my typewriter the only sound piercing the silence.

My siblings and I often joke about our ability to block painful memories - our family motto is "Just Because You Don't Remember It Doesn't Mean It Didn't Happen." Difficult to render into Latin and position around a coat of arms, I suppose, but a motto that goes far to explain how two years of farm living can be distilled into these few poignant memories of Fresh Hell.

New York City Haiku -It's Not The Heat, It's The Humidity

European tourists,
In bad shoes and dorky hats.
Get offa my streets!

Why thigh-high black leather boots?
Occupational hazard?
It's ninety degrees out!

Cafe with outdoor seating,
Get close to find the tables
Two feet from pile of garbage.

Hippie couple holding hands,
Taking a stroll up Broadway,
His and hers dreadlocks swing.

Subway platform in the heat,
Can't wait to get to office-
AC and iced coffee.

Shootout at the Miss Clairol Corral

Talk about Fresh Hell - there was a infotainment blurb on the Today Show Friday morning about gray being the new black - the loud ping registered on the Fresh Hell ick-o-meter was that youthful looking gray haired men are now considered charming, approachable, and sexy.

Not a single word about gray haired women.

The story did its usual fawning on graying yet youthful male celebrities, notably the latest American Idol Taylor Hicks, George Clooney, Cooper Anderson, Jon Stewart, Mark Harmon, Richard Gere, etc.

Yet not a single graying yet youthful female celebrity was profiled. Do you know why? Becuse they don't exist. Every single female celebrity who has turned gray at a young age or turns gray naturally as she ages colors her hair to hide it. And no one thinks this is stupid or odd or wrong or even newsworthy.

Yet when male celebrities choose to either stop coloring their hair (if they turned gray at a young age) or to never color at all it's treated like a maverick stance - as daring as a Shootout at the Miss Clairol Corral or something.

A quick Google search unearths a few recent articles on the "gray hair is sexy meme" that discuss promiment women who have gone completely gray; they mention Susan Sontag (who died in December 2004), and 59 year old Emmylou Harris (who does look nearly otherworldly beautiful). Not mentioned is the undeniably sexy and gracious Anne Bancroft (who died in June 2005). Mentioned in the abstract is the character Meryl Streep plays in the new movie "The Devil Wears Prada" - although I don't think that counts - it's only a movie role. Meryl doesn't have stark white hair in real life.

But where are the youthful female role models gunning for their maverick stance? Curiously absent.

Let's see - Taylor Hicks is 29; Cooper Anderson is 39, Jon Stewart is 43, George Clooney just turned 45, Mark Harmon is 54, and Richard Gere is 57.

As someone who is justifiably sensitive to soceity's double standard on this issue, as I write here and here I say:

I've just decided - gray is the new black, and it's just as cool for women. Frolic away in this pasture and discuss amongst yourselves.

I'm delighted to announce a new feature here at Fresh Hell HQ - Reader Mail!

Our first letter is from an anonymous reader** (well I know who it is, but play along with me kids). After a little judicious nip and tuck (edited for content and clarity, and to protect identities of all), I present:

Dear Mr. Fresh Hell:

Tired of the swelling tide of clutter in the guest room? Well, you can do nothing about it. You can, however, have some wicked fun.

I offer this suggestion for a bit of snark, which will slowly germinate, ripen and then blossom forth to enrage your domestic engineer.

During my recent visit to my son, I provided a lot of help in his move to a new place: putting up shelves, unpacking boxes, etc.. While surveying the epicenter of this storm of stuff, my son’s office, I had an epiphany.

I moved a stack of boxes of books, account statements & office supplies to the center of that room. One can’t go to the desk, the couch or the door without stepping over this heap! I placed a post-it note on the carpet, reading “When you find this, call me. Love, Dad. 2PM May 19th.”, and then set the heap back atop it.

This being an item of great potential embarrassment, I showed my booby-trap to my wife and his who both agreed (in so many words), that I was a genius.

And now I wait. Three weeks, and counting. Snark, like revenge, is a dish best served cold.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen in Search of Domestic Cleanliness

I don't wish to embarrass our Concerned Citizen (yet Citizen of all people must know that true Fresh Hell consists of the writer finding a way to regurgitate every word ever written to her) so in the interest of fairness I reproduce here, after similar pruning of relevant identifying information, my reply:

Dear Concerned Citizen:

Oy. Your dastardly plan to save your son from his own stuff is genius, I must say. But you seem to have gotten things a little skewered in the Fresh Hell household – if there is a person who needs to have a note affixed to the bottom of a pile, it is the Mr. rather than the Mrs.!

Mr. FH is the one holding onto a box full of empty envelopes (I shit you not) amongst other assorted nonsense relevant to and/or dating back to 1994. He likes to cling to useless items on the off chance it might somehow become useful – it’s almost a Depression era mentality, although in his case more like Third World thriftiness.

Do let me know when the kid finally calls!

Cordially,

The Mistress, Fresh Hell HQ

**Please note that I have not asked Anonymous Reader whether or not this letter could be published (published?) in such a well known and hugely read blog (the whole world is watching, or are they?). I've just gone and done it. If Anonymous Reader is supremely pissed off, I'm positive I'll find out and this nifty little feature debuting so chirpily will go by the wayside. But if Anonymous Reader grudgingly agrees that the gist of this charming letter has been faithfully re-created without pertinent identifying details that would either cause embarrassment, stalkers, or visits by Homeland Security, then I look forward to sacks of Reader Mail, which can be directed to the following email address: fresh-hell@hotmail.com

Each letter will be properly edited and a reply posted.

New York Subways - The Good, The Okay, and the Pervy

Subway stories – all New Yorkers have them. They range from borderline scary to amusing or bleak. Many of these tales have the “you hadda be there” quality to them, but there are some that manage to transcend the now. A few of mine are downright silly in retrospect – for example, when I first came to New York in 1984 I actually smoked a cigarette at high noon standing on the platform of the A train. (Believe me when I say that is a stupid thing to do).

Generally the most famous of subway stories and the thrust of this post (no pun intended) have to do with perverts and the pervy things they like to do in an enclosed train carriage. The first time I was on the subway and groped I was so shocked I didn’t know what else to do other than freeze, try desperately to move out of the way (which didn’t work), and sweat bullets for 20 seconds until we reached my stop. But I was young then, and not only more timid in the city but less aware of my environment and deeply unaware that I had to define my personal space.

Tangent: When riding public transportation in an urban environment (and this holds for the Paris Metro and Chicago El) one must define one’s personal boundary, stick to it, and refuse to allow a stranger's body or belongings to intrude. It’s like constructing a plastic bubble around one’s self that, once donned, is very hard to breach.

Well, the next time an inquiring hand made contact, I adopted the very effective technique of “outing the perv”. I visibly jumped away from the man, looked at him straight in the eye, and very loudly said, “Stop it!”. (I may have also added a snarling expletive or two - I don't remember.) This is a good technique as the curious and/or disapproving glances of fellow passengers and their attention to what is going on stops a perv pretty quickly. One can also use this technique to stop the gray-haired man in the business suit and gold cufflinks who thinks it’s amusing to whisper obscenities to the young woman standing next to him reading her book and minding her business. No visible movement is required; merely a steely-eyed glare and a loud “shut the fuck up!” suffices for the white collar perpetrator.

Another good technique in my repetoire is the application of a pointed implement, such as the tip of a full-size umbrella, to the top of the offender’s foot. Simply look down, locate the offending shoe and apply direct pressure to the pointed implement in the form of one’s entire body weight for maximum effect. Bask silently (narrowing of eyes a la Diana Riggs optional) in the gasp of pain that ensues.

Beyond the pervs and indeed beyond the scope of this post, but something I must share, is the appearance on the subway of a genuine potential homocidial maniac. True story: I lived in Brooklyn years ago, and after a pleasant evening out with friends was riding home on the dreary F train. I was rather tipsy, but had my book in front of me and was faking reading so I wouldn't become drowsy. While the car wasn't crowded, every seat was full. As I'm tootling along in my own drunken world, I hear the man next to me sing under his breath, tunelessly and with no apparent emotion, over and over again, "I'm gonna get you, I'm gonna get you, I'm gonna kill you dead." Of course I didn't dare actually look at him, and I didn't think it would have been wise in my condition to attempt to bolt to the other end of the car. I just sat there, reading the same page, until he got off the train about 15 minutes later, much to my obvious relief. When he got off the train, a man across the car from me chuckled a little and said to me, "You really believed him, didn't you." I was only able to offer a strained laugh in return, but at least the knowledge that someone else knew what this guy was saying was its own relief.

I haven’t had to deploy the perv busting techniques in a number of years – I don’t believe it’s because the subways have suddenly become populated with the crème de la crème of accomplished society, but rather that I have perfected my privacy bubble. I never get into crowded trains where I'm more likely to come into uncomfortably close contact(another train will come along shortly), I always remain alert and aware to some degree, but I prefer to sink my attention into my book than make eye contact with anyone on the train.

Yet pervy is as pervy does and with the handy twin inventions of camera phones and the internet Crusaders Against The Inappropriate and Practically Criminal can do more about it than before. There's an entire website where women can post camera phone pics of men foistering inappropriate and unwelcome advances on them and highlight the male offenses:

Holla Back NYC

And if a particularly dense man thinks that he'll snag welcome female attention by having his photo posted on that website, well, score one for social Darwinism.

File Under: Another Moroccan Story

I didn't go with Mr. Fresh Hell on my second trip to Morocco - for some reason that now escapes me he couldn't get away during the summer. So I went by myself, and spent two weeks with Mr. Fresh Hell's family and mostly his brother-in-law whom, because he is a teacher, I shall call The Professor.

That trip was simply unforgettable - I saw so much of the country and traveled far beyond tourist haunts. I went to local restaurants, traveled as the natives do, and spent very little time in hotels, staying mostly with family friends who showered me with their gracious and abundant North African hospitality.

That year saw my first trip to Taroudaant and included a more thorough stay in Marrakesh than I'd previously had. I learned quite a bit of Arabic that summer (much of which I've likely forgotten), but I learned some useful vocabulary and a little bit of writing. Because The Professor is a teacher, he punctuated our travels with lessons disguised as wordplay; pop quizzes administered during a sunset walk on the Corniche, language drills based on everyday items seen on the beach, in a restaurant, or in the countryside.

In Taroudaant we scoured the town's souk not for bargains in jewelry or leather, although I did buy some extraordinary things, but to find the stall with the best bread to accompany our noontime mint tea. Once found, our order was for the most perfect round, opened and spread thickly with fresh natural butter and cheese, both of which had the palest cream-colored hue. The resulting sandwich was by turns both light and dense, melting in one's mouth and satisfyingly chewy all at once.

I'll never forget our taxi ride from Taroudaant to Agadir. It's a one hour trip, and the grand taxis (those that are licensed to travel from city to city) are available for hire in Taroudaant in a parking lot a short distance outside the city walls. The taxis are all Mercedes Benz sedan models made in the '70's, and a canny driver will maximize his profits by not setting forth without a full complement of passengers, generally five (two sitting in front with him and three in the back).

Ground transportation in Morocco is dirt cheap - we could have hired the entire car for the one hour trip for $10-$12. Even though I had more than enough money to hire the car privately, The Professor was too thrifty to agree to this extravagance; instead, we paid for two places in a taxi to Agadir. The Professor made sure that I was seated next to the door, with him on the other side for protection.

I figured out afterwards (even though the Arabic words weren't familiar the tone of voice raised no doubt) that a few of our fellow passengers were pretty miffed that they would be sharing the taxi with not only a female but an infidel with uncovered hair. The Professor was at least twenty to twenty five years older than the other men sharing the taxi, so I suspect that they felt duty-bound to make their irritation known with harsh words but backed down out of respect to their elder. Although I noticed to my dismay that the car's speedometer was broken, it seemed we made the trip in record time - driving 120 miles an hour seemed to go a good way in placating a few uncomfortable passengers.

Back in Casablanca, The Professor and I went shopping at the outdoor markets - the fresh produce, meat and flower souks that are frequented by everyone. (We would also go to Marjane, a modern large supermarket chain, but mostly for staples and paper goods).

After visiting several vegetable stands, we found ourselves in front of the live chicken seller. The merchant had his wares displayed behind him in three tiers of small cages, each holding a live chicken. On the smooth wooden front counter was a ancient balance and scale. I watched idly as The Professor and Chicken Man exchanged what I can only presume were typical buyer/seller pleasantries while Chicken Man took a live chicken out of its cage; holding it firmly, he settled it in the scale and plopped an iron balance weight on the other side of the scale to record its weight.

After the weight had been determined and The Professor signified his assent to the purchase, in one quick movement Chicken Man lifted the chicken up by its legs; with its head dangling upside down he wielded a wickedly long and sharp knife and expertly slit its throat, right in front of us. Setting down the knife, with a free hand he then opened a cabinet behind him situated under the cages of his wares, thrust the chicken inside and closed the cabinet door.

While the chicken squawked and frantically beat its wings during its death throes inside the cabinet, the remainder of the chickens, scenting the bloody demise of their own kind, set to furiously beating their wings against the bars of the cages. adding their fierce discordant cries to the first.

While I turned faintly green.

The entire death of the chicken was accomplished professionally and neatly in less than a minute. Chicken Man smiled broadly, but The Professor noticed my ashen face and quickly escorted me to a vegetable stand as a distraction. About ten minutes later, laden with tomatoes and lettuce and having gained my composure, we returned to Chicken Man for our now quite dead and gone chicken, discreetly wrapped in butcher paper and placed in a plastic bag. I smiled weakly and waved goodbye, accompanied by Chicken man's grin.

I was duly shocked and surprised - before this I was very typically American in my habit of not getting closer to my meat than inspecting a shrink-wrapped styrofoam tray in the supermarket. Did I think that chicken and beef plopped joyfully onto styrofoam of their own will?

I'm an unrepentant carnivore - having lived on a farm when I was young I admit that from the chicken's viewpoint, Chicken Man's method seemed like a pretty clean demise. And it was likely the best chicken I ever ate - the resulting dish rivaled a five star restaurant in its freshness and tenderness.

During that trip cultural differences and pecularities were revealed to me - most significantly I gained a front row seat into the division in North Africa between public and private life, and also learned how much those particular contrasts and divisions suit my personality.

And were I to visit Chicken Man again, I won't flinch quite so much when he wields his knife, as I know the result of his actions isn't gratuituously unkind, but will ultimately become a flavorful family dinner.

This Week in Its Briefs - Lacy Bits

1. Technology, people - I pray we always use our powers to make white magic and may The Force never die. As an example - I'm not only playing favorite songs on the computer from my teensy little ITunes library while writing this post, but I'm simultaneously conducting an MSN messenger chat in a combination of French and English (including the ubiquitous web cam) with Mr. Fresh Hell's nephew in Algiers.

Coming from a childhood where the benchmark of sophistication was a knowledge of the inherent wonderfulness of Tang, I sincerely doubt that I could have envisioned this as something I would ever do years later in a tragically cluttered guest room of a Queens apartment. True, my favorite future offered flying cars, but thank God I've not been holding my breath.

2. What is it with me and shopping? How can I enter a store with a concrete purchase in mind, like finding a simple black slingback pump with a 2 1/2 inch heel, and find every other shoe under the sun but this one? The correlary of this particular conundrum is that if I happen to wander into the deluxe and mighty shoe store (DSW, I'm looking at you baby) at random, with no particular item in mind, I will find at least three different shoes that I love. This is my version of the imp of perversity (and why I shop online a lot).

3. Cupcake news: The Emeritus Cupcake has been spending less time in the office, as his slide into retirement is predictably unfolding. More of my work is with Chairman Cupcake The Second, and the very recently inherited Marketing Cupcake III - I'm actually doing more interesting and challenging work now as opposed to tedious personal assistant duties which, while they often border on ludicrous, have generally been good for a laugh on the cocktail circuit. Cupcake Emeritus continues to find ways to try my patience to its utmost breaking point but so far, I've not yet poisoned him. Check in next time, though - things change!

4. Rain, rain, rain - we've been innundated with early summer thunderstorms. I do love them, though - the unbridled power, the force - it's wonderfully cathartic, especially when I am at home to monitor the open windows. They have been wild, chaotic, and cleansing.

But I feel a longing for the true New York city summer to begin - the one where the weather is just too hot, humid & sticky to bear, when tempers flare and the sidewalk cafes are packed; when it seems like the entire world is spending the night out on the street because the oppressive heat of the accummulated concrete squeezes the breath right out of your lungs - that's the true city summer, not this candyass constant rain and gray sky.

During Which Our Heroine Fails to Note The Obvious

When I was younger I thought I was a fair judge of popular culture - the things that I thought were fairly cool also popped up on others' radar.

But there are three distinct times in my past where I have proven myself to be the most Rock Stupid Prognosticator on the planet. None of this has been made up and I hope I haven't even spared myself any skewering.

Picture It: University of Utah, August 1980

Scenario: Through family connections I was working as an intern/gofer/driver for a week at the Womens' Games, a good-sized tournament on the womens' tennis circuit, being held at the University of Utah. I had a great time driving players around, picking up tennis rackets at the airport, acting like a very important production assistant and snarfing up leftover appetizers in assorted hospitality suites. While there was short and grudging coverage by the sports desks of the major networks (scoff - womens' sports? - remember, this was '80), a brash new upstart, someone no one had even heard of, was there operating out of a RV transformed into a mini-studio, broadcasting all the games. Yes, that was ESPN, brand spanking new with barely a dime to rub together. During the course of the week, I got to know the ESPN guys well - to the point where their producer offered me a job as an assistant producer. I turned them down.

My Internal Dialogue: Nah, this will never fly. Who's going to want to watch a network that broadcasts nothing but sports? These guys will go broke in a year.

Picture It: Salt Lake City, some time in 1991.

Scenario: While a college student, I had met guy in his late 20's whom I was rather casually and sporadically dating. At the time he was working with Robert Redford at Sundance (then a small ski resort nestled in a sleepy Utah canyon), putting together the Sundance Film Institute - if I recall correctly, they were discussing the possibility of introducing a yearly film festival. The guy was sort of dull and more than a little "meh" so I dropped him after three months.

My Internal Dialogue: Maybe I should stay friends with this nice but not-for-me- guy, as he does know famous people, which might come in handy. But do that on the off-chance that anybody will ever go to Sundance (in Utah - blech!) to see films? As if that will ever happen!! No way! Good luck with that project, Guy!

Picture It: Early 1977

Scenario: I was at the movies with my siblings preparing to view some unforgettable, likely unwatchable and badly acted tripe. Up on the big screen scrolled a flashy trailer for a movie that would be opening in the summer. That movie was Star Wars. I turned to my sister and said "It looks dumb - I don't think I'll see that. I'll bet no one does."

My Internal Dialogue: Seriously - who's going to line up to see this? It's a Western in space. It will close in a week. Fruity.

So I'm conclusively a pretty poor judge at predicting what the general public will find shiny and irresistible.

But I can leave you with some tremendous advice - if I think something is stupid, it will likely make millions.