Not Sam Shepard at the Door

"I looked at the dog. Even at eight weeks, he was handsome. He had the blue eyes of a seducer. Half Samoyed, half Australian shepherd. Suddenly his name was clear to me.
"Sam Shepard," I said.
...And that was how I came to live out my original fantasy. That's how I came to live on a farm with Sam Shepard."

--Meghan Daum, The Quality of Life Report

from Sam Taylor-Wood: Crying Men 

It would not be an exaggeration to say that my new blackberry torch almost melted yesterday from the incoming calls, texts, and direct messages informing me that Sam Shepard was in town.  He's here often enough that I actually have to go out of my way NOT to run into him. Everyone was nice and respectful to send me the messages rather than posting them, but I did find it funny that his privacy for the evening depended on my discretion --- but, if I'd wanted to stalk him, there have been plenty opportunities over the years.

Actually, I was otherwise occupied. Too busy for Sam, really. My cousin was over here installing the new door shades from IKEA.

IKEA, for their part, had neglected to provide screws. There are apparently more than five things I don't know about IKEA, and one of them must be the fact that they all live in a world where everyone's presumed to have their own toolbox, because there is always something left out of their assembly packages. In addition to socialized medicine and a civilized view toward the non-married, apparently they must subsidize every house with a cordless drill and a few basic tools -- a sort of Swedish-chicken-in-every-pot.

So we really didn't get that far into the process, but my cousin is always happy to spend a little R and R in my man-cave (which is really just a TV room). It's the one room in my house where everything is designed for comfort, from the Big Ass Chair ("I feel like angels are lifting me!" he says every time he sits in it) to the deep soft rug ("it's like I'm walking on sheep!") to the wide screen HDtv ("it's like I was blind, but now I see!") while he sipped a cold frosty Voss directly from its chilly Norwegian bottle, determined to cement a Scandinavian afternoon.

He's always volunteering to housesit, proclaiming, "I could be in a relationship just based on this room," and asking why I don't whip out blackberry pictures of it in bars, "take a look at this, fella," to lure innocent boys home to my lair.

It actually isn't the man-cave at all though. It's my domain. Boys are banished to the upstairs or the outdoors. The cave is my turf and they're only allowed in for community-movie-watching.  Sometimes I'll find one curled up in the sun on the widow's walk upstairs with one of my house slippers inexplicably tucked nearby for company. Or as my cousin puts it. "Lady smell nice. Where Lady go?"

He comes up with great scenarios for the den.... "Imagine a fire in the fireplace...it's 20 degrees outside...you've got a bottomless cup of hot chocolate on a Saturday morning and there's a Closer marathon on." (That Brenda! She's feisty!!)

After we'd run through a prospective housesitting schedule for him and the missus that would ensure them ample use of the clawfoot tub, he headed back to work.

Shortly after that, I heard a knock at the door. Followed by a few persistent rings of the doorbell. Thinking he had probably left a tool behind, I ducked out of the cave and into the parlor, where I almost opened the door on reflex. Until I saw a perfect stranger standing on the other side of it.

But my hand was already on the knob, while I paused to think: Well, THIS is awkward. I hate making snap stereotypical judgments as much as the next person, but I'm sorry, he was clearly an Unsavory Fellow. Still. It did seem rude not to open the door. Then my common sense kicked in, and I realized it would be stupid to open the door to a prospective serial killer, just because I didn't want to seem ungracious, or politically incorrect.

So I left the deadbolt where it was and asked politely, "May I help you?" (I'm not an ANIMAL for God's sake. I'm not a goddam fishwife.)

"Uh, yeah...I need a plastic bag...you got any plastic bags?" I assured him I did not...while thinking to myself, "why, so you can use it to dispose of my decomposing corpse after you kill me?"

After that, we were at a bit of an impasse, and I had no finesse for ending this kind of conversation. I mean, I couldn't just say "shooo! shooo!" which is what my grandmother frequently did when uninvited hobos appeared at her door. And I didn't feel like I could pull off, "Go on now. Go on. Git." which is what the men in my family would say, if similarly greeted. Instead, I think I mumbled something like, "Bye now!" and just ducked back into the cave and closed the door behind me.

He rang the bell a few more times while I promptly posted his description on Twitter and Facebook: "5'5. Bad teeth. Broken/chipped in the front . Ballcap. Striped t-shirt. Dirty. Dark complexion. Wiry build." (My cousin speculated later his teeth were like that from gnawing the bones of his prior victims, and I don't doubt it one bit.) I vacillated between envisioning the prospective headlines "Murder solved via social media!" and picturing scenes straight out of The Strangers, where the only reason he would provide for torturing me would be "because you were home."

To make myself feel better, I turned on all the security lights and fished a ten-year-old bottle of Mace out of my tool box. I'd heard that they expire, so I thought I should test it first. I took it out to the backyard in a particularly spider-prone area; released the safety; and spritzed it a few times --- all over my pink pajamas. By the time I had stripped them off and thrown them in the washer, I was aware of an increasingly urgent stinging starting at my feet, and crawling up my calves. The pain reminded me of the time I was cutting hot peppers in the sink and turned on the disposal, mace-misting everything in sight.

Hopping into the shower only made it worse, but when I got out, I slathered myself in such a slippery head-to-toe concoction of aloe vera, solarcaine, and Noxzema, that I think if the Hobo had turned back up, I would've at least slid right through his fingers like a prized, greased pig. 

By the time I'd gotten all cleaned up and slightly cooled down, a new array of comments had arrived on the phone, forcing me to go back and post, "NO. That was NOT Sam Shepard at the door. He is NOT 5'5. Stop SAYING that."

Related Links

The Right Stuff.

You ASKED.

Surveying the Wreckage. 

In the Pank.

Sam Shepard on the TV.

Related Books:


 

You Asked.

While I don't always expect unequivocal enthusiasm, I am unaccustomed to the restrained choice of adjectives that are the preference of my designated straight.

It really doesn't matter if it's an outfit, or a meal, or moments involving a more...personal investment in outcomes -- about the best you're ever going to get outta him is "nice." He has a perfectly developed vocabulary, he's just more reserved than I am. Me, I just like more (and more specific) feedback, so I give him an endless hard time about it.

He says he intends it more like the Michelin stars. "Nice" certainly means "great job." "Real nice" would be more synonymous with "extraordinary," and I don't exactly know what "right nice" means, because I've never gotten one. (Not even after the Potatoes Anna.)

So today when I wondered out loud what it would take to hear this high level of praise, I asked (rhetorically), "it doesn't involve inviting another girl over does it?"

And his answer, without pausing for one second was, "depends on who it is."

I'm sorry.  

What?

Not a moment of hesitation.

That was, of course, the wrong answer.

And he should've known that because his response (as always) was clearly outlined for him in the format of the question itself-- "it doesn't involve another girl, does it?" -- Suggested Answer: "It certainly does NOT. I can barely handle YOU."

(For example, if we're out to dinner, I'll "ask" him "You don't mind if we make it an early night, do you?" Which he always understands is his cue for "Let's go home!" So don't bother feeling sorry for him, because he is familiar with the verbal process.)

Then he dug a deeper hole. "Not anybody we know." (1. Yeah. Reassuring, and 2. Thank God I don't have a sister.)  He elaborated, "Like a celebrity."

I said, "oh, so like Alec Baldwin?" -- who I think only got sexy once his waistline expanded and he got a sense of humor about his looks. He said Alec Baldwin wouldn't even fit in the bed.

But of course I already knew his selection (long before he mentioned her by name) would be Amanda Peet, or the younger model of Amanda Peet, Lake Bell. I could not be less his type. He just loves those amazonian horsey girls. Yeah. Good luck with that. Hope it works out.

Because even in Fantasy Land? Nope. Veto.

I countered with Reese Witherspoon. (Who everybody knows is my straight-girl-crush.) Take her or leave her. It's Reese or Nobody.

He didn't need to be told my choice was Sam Shepard. (Though I certainly reminded him.) Which is admittedly a slightly different and less-fair proposition than Amanda Peet or Lake Bell since Sam Shepard is in town all the time and you have to go outta your way not to run into him.

Many more exchanges like this one, and his job will be to run down and get me Sam Shepard for Valentine's Day.

TooMuchSexy SamShepard will be on The TV!

Variety reported last week that TooMuchSexy Sam Shepard is coming to The Television!

http://www.variety.com/article/VR1118011663.html?categoryid=14&cs=1&ref=bd_tv

"Playwright-thesp Sam Shepard has been tapped to star in "Tough Trade," the first original drama pilot set for the fledgling Epix feevee channel. Production on the pilot is set to begin in Nashville on Dec. 3. Show revolves around a sprawling family in the country music biz. Shepard will play the patriarch of the Tucker clan. Pilot was penned for Lionsgate TV by Chris Offutt..."

I got the news from Chris Offutt on Facebook. I watched a whole season of True Blood just because he was working on it (I want no part of the vampire trend). I was thrilled when he moved to Weeds this past season. But this is the BEST NEWS YET.

I don't know what a "feevee" is, and I'm pretty sure I don't even get "Epix" (unless it's part of that ESPN package that I signed up for only because they're bundled with all the FineLiving channels, which I only got to be able to see Dwell Magazine on tv). If it requires a port to be installed in my forehead for viewing, fine by me.

If Epix is going to make shows with Sam Shepard and Chris Offutt, I'll spearhead a campaign that'll have "SaveChuck" blushing with schoolgirl envy. (I've never even seen "Chuck," but I pitched in to help save it, so I figure those folks owe me.)

Behind on NaBlows

I have been pretty religious about the Daily Posting per NaBlows rules, but the Pank's wi-fi access went out yesterday -- when we got it back (thru some seriously hi-tech machinations by JDC), it now just won't load some sites, like blogger -- it times out.

I am crudely fashioning today's post outta some twigs and a margarita-soaked BlackBerry.

It is too bad, because I have some TooMuchSexy SamShepard news to report -- but it'll have to wait til I can post with real links, pics, etc.

I think I am observing the Letter of the NaBlows Law as long as I get a post up.

Sam Shepard is TooMuchSexy

People are always sending me photos of Sam Shepard -- partly because they know my ongoing fascination -- partly in an attempt to replace the newspaper clipping I had on my bulletin board for years (and lost somewhere in an office move). It was him and Jessica Lange at Derby. It was an unusually good four-color closeup from the Sunday Herald Leader. They both look impossibly elegant (anyone who's been to Derby understands the meaning of "impossibly" there), gazing out at the track. She's laughing and he's leaning in and saying something to her as he gestures toward something out of the frame -- baring his wrist a little as he reaches; leaving his watch exposed very slightly, and yet, somehow, so explicitly that it's almost, but not quite, vulgar.

So every time someone sends me a picture of him, I hope it'll be that one, and it never is.

But I like this picture too -- though it took me a while to track down the source. It's from a coffee-table book by photographer Sam Taylor-Wood called Men Crying.

Personally, I don't cry...and I don't generally care for people who do...especially men. Sorry if that's sexist. I get that from my Uncles, who tolerate very little behavior they consider stereotypically feminine and who insist to this day "inability to change a tire = homosexuality." But I do like this photo, and a few of the others. (I would never have given it a second glance at the bookstore, cause the cover just looks like some chick crying.)

It took me a while to track down the book because the photo initially just seemed to originate with some blog called "Too Much Sexy," which now appears to be defunct. Now it's going to be the title I use for My List. Sometimes I also call this List The Right Stuff.

It will also be ok by me if Bluebelle wants to use it to refer to Alan Rickman. Or if Jupiter would like to use it to describe Matt Damon.

The Right Stuff

I ran across this link on pal Kimmy's facebook page today and it cracked me up. I'm sure the link won't post right, but you can get the gist from the headline alone:




What The Daily Mail article suggests is that there's something in the Pill that has made women turn from manly men to girlie men.

Taking the pill for past 40 years 'has put women off masculine men'By David Derbyshire

It ushered in the 1960s sexual revolution and gave women control over their own fertility.

But the Pill may also have changed women's taste in men, according to a study.

Scientists say the hormones in the oral contraceptive suppress a woman's interest in masculine men and make boyish men more attractive. Although the change occurs for just a few days each month, it may have been highly influential since use of the Pill began more than 40 years ago.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-1218808/Contraceptive-pill-women-attracted-masculine-men--interested-boyish-looks.html#ixzz0TZ2rKfHe

All I can say is, my obsession with Sam Shepard is as stalwart as it ever was, and there's no one more manly, and less pretty than him. (I coulda posted his mugshot to really reinforce that fact, but I don't like it when that's done to me, so I typically don't do it to anyone else.)

Admittedly, it's probably the whole sordid Sam Shepard package that does it for me -- writer, drummer, almost irresponsibly tall (does he have a drinking problem toooo? Bring it.) -- but I can't think of a single pretty boy I consider remotely attractive.

(Brad Pitt only makes it worse when he tries to talk about architecture. He seems to make it thinks him deep, or smart. Please. I'll stick with Dwell Magazine thanks.)

The alarming thing was, when I looked for an image of my particular brand choice (which doesn't seem to have the girlie-man effect, and that's all I was going to say), I kept finding pictures of BABIES. Which definitely doesn't suggest a vote of confidence in the product.

(I finally just snapped an image of the lovely gift-pak the stooopid P.A. gave me on Thursday. I'm not going to be using it as a Clutch or anything.)