Photo Courtesy © RTV Pictures

Road To Victory

Written and directed by: Mike Reilly

Starring: Mike Reilly, Julia Anderson, Poppi Reine, Peter Abrams, Winston Brown, Clay St. Thomas

I love independent cinema. However, I am aware that more and more often, what we refer to as “Indie film” is actually becoming mainstream. Which is a good thing, I think. Road to Victory is truly an independent film, one that hasn’t been distributed by any of the big studios’ indie boutiques, but rather made by a group of young filmmakers, starring no one that you’ve likely heard of before. In a way it reminded me of seeing Clerks or Kids for the first time, and it’s refreshing to approach a film without any expectations whatsoever.

Written and directed by Mike Reilly, the film is about the troubled relationship between a recently injured college quarterback named Elliot (played by Reilly), and his girlfriend, a college student by day, stripper by night, named Anna (Julia Anderson). The two meet-cute in a class, begin dating but run into a wall when Anna realizes that Elliot is impotent. A good part of the film focuses on the couple’s difficulty dealing with and accepting Elliot’s problem and the resulting strain on their relationship. Part of what made the story compelling was that I couldn’t remember ever watching a film that dealt with sexual dysfunction in a serious way. But think about the fact that you see commercials for people suffering from sexual dysfunction all the time. How many films have you seen that deal with it? Honestly, all I could think of were Jack Nicholson Viagra jokes in Something’s Gotta Give and Bill Paxton needing Viagra to keep up with the three Mrs. Henricksons on “Big Love.” And that only vaguely touched upon the topic. Reilly treats the matter with seriousness and respect, creating a character the audience really finds themselves rooting for. I’d be very interested in seeing his short film Artistic Anxiety, which is apparently about a couple of sisters dealing with social anxieties.

For a first feature, Road to Victory makes a good impression. Yes, there are moments when the editing is maybe off by a beat, or a shot that seems poorly staged, but overall, the film is well put together. As with such independent projects as Clerks or Kids, the acting isn’t always as solid as it could be—some performances work more than others—and there were certainly some wooden moments peppered about. What it comes down to in the end, though, is that Road to Victory tells a story that no one else is telling and does it with genuine heart. And isn’t that why we love independent cinema to begin with?

Rick@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Photo Courtesy © Columbia Pictures

21

Cast: Jim Sturgess, Kevin Spacey, Kate Bosworth, Laurence Fishburne

Director: Robert Luketic

Writers: Peter Steinfeld & Allan Loeb, based on the book “Bringing Down The House” by Ben Mezrich

21 starts off stylishly cool, grabbing you within the first moments then switching direction of the narrative to “show us how he got here.” It’s an interesting storytelling technique that is effective when used properly, and fortunately here it is used properly. 21 tells the true story of the MIT Blackjack Team, a group of brilliant math students who were formed by a professor to take weekend trips to Las Vegas and count cards to win hundreds of thousands of dollars.

As a dramatic narrative, the film works well enough. There’s a lot about it that is more or less expected from this kind of movie. The ups and downs come where you expect them to, there’s the inevitable “My life changed suddenly and I turned my back on my true friends” moment and there is the romance-that-seems-to-happen-for-no-reason-other-than-to-include-a-romance-in-the-movie. But the acting is wonderful, the writing is sharp and the story interests you.

When I say the acting is wonderful, I mean the best of it is wonderful, namely Jim Sturgess, Kevin Spacey and Laurence Fishburne. Sturgess is, no doubt, a terrific young talent. He gives a great performance as the key member of the Blackjack team, which offers plenty of chances to breeze through or overly sentimentalize the performance. But Sturgess doesn’t do that; he gives the character a real persona and familiarity many can identify with.

Kevin Spacey, who I tend to like a lot anyway, gives another good performance here. But the brilliant Laurence Fishburne stands out as a man more suited for Vegas’ rough and tumble past, hired by casinos to weed out the cheaters, and soon to be replaced by complex digital software. Fishburne brings thoughtfulness to a character that, traditionally, would be a simple, hard-nosed thug.

Another area where 21 scores big is how the “scam” at the blackjack tables is explained. You need neither an extensive knowledge of gambling nor a mathematically gifted mind to grasp the concepts within the film. Not unlike one of my personal favorites, the 1998 film Rounders, 21 uses some nomenclature that non-card players may not understand but it’s okay, you don’t really need to, as the story is told so well, pictorially.

When it comes down to it, 21 is not a film to watch if you’re looking for highly intellectual drama or artistic sophistication. But if you want to see a fascinating story revealed in an entertaining way, 21 is clever enough to set itself above mindless Hollywood fluff.

David@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Photo Courtesy © Focus Features

Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day

Directed by: Bharat Nalluri

Written by: David Magee and Simon Beaufoy 

Starring: Amy Adams, Frances McDormand, Shirley Henderson, Ciarán Hinds, and Lee Pace.

I love screwball comedies. I have a giant place in my heart for those zany comedies of the 30s and 40s where madness ensues all because a girl wants a boy, or vice versa. I’ll drop everything to watch Katharine Hepburn in the ultimate screwball films, Bringing Up Baby and The Philadelphia Story; Barbara Stanwyck in The Lady Eve and of course the Queen of Screwball: Carole Lombard. Her work in movies like My Man Godfrey and Nothing Sacred epitomizes the genre. The last great screwball comedy I can think of was Peter Bogdanovich’s nod to Bringing Up Baby, 1972’s Barbra Streisand/Ryan O’Neal (and introducing the magnificent Madeline Kahn) comedy What’s Up Doc. (Not so great? Madonna’s attempt at Bringing Up Baby, 1987’s Who’s That Girl.)

So you can imagine my excitement when I found out about Miss Pettigrew Lives For a Day, in which a young starlet (played by Amy Adams) hires an out-of-work nanny (Frances McDormand) to be her social secretary—a job that includes juggling three very different suitors. Set in England in 1940, the film’s main character, Miss Pettigrew, is down on her luck until she hooks up with Adams’ Delysia Lafosse. One day together changes them both, of course. But what fun is to be had!

It’s no surprise that McDormand is sublime, or that Adams wraps you around her little finger as the wide-eyed Delysia (although between Junebug, Enchanted and this, it will be refreshing to see her in what one expects to be a more sober role in the upcoming adaptation of Doubt, for fear of Adams becoming a bit of a one-note player.) If you’ve read last month’s spotlight on Lee Pace, you can imagine that it came as no surprise that he won me over completely as the romantic pianist in love with Delysia. (I’m sure that off-screen, Pace must smoke or eat babies, because he is way too perfect onscreen.) And yet, it was a surprise that the charming lingerie designer played by the normally imposing Ciarán Hinds moved me so much. Having seen Shirley Henderson in bit part after bit part in everything from Bridget Jones to Harry Potter, I’m afraid I had written her off as a fun character actress. However, there is a scene between Henderson and McDormand mid-way through this film that is so delicately beautiful it took my breath away, mostly because of Henderson’s quiet, shattering performance as Edythe.

In short, I loved this movie. It transported me back to some of my favorite films from one of my favorite eras of filmmaking. It’s touching and entertaining and wildly romantic. And in movies today, that’s a tough combination to find, especially when it’s as well done as Miss Pettigrew.

Rick@picturesandframesmagazine.com

DVD'S:

Photo Courtesy © Miramax Films

No Country For Old Men

New to DVD in March was the Academy Award winner for Best Picture No Country For Old Men, the Coen Brothers’ gripping, dark tale about the futility of trying to stop the evil that exists in the world. Without question, one of their finest films, No Country For Old Men puts a strangely poetic twist on the small-town-crime story. I think the film is most notable for its intriguing characters and sharp dialogue, yet many of the best moments are when nothing is said at all and the picture is painted beautifully through the collaboration between directors and actors. I responded to this film so strongly when first viewing it in the theater that the DVD could have been completely devoid of special features and I would have immediately added it to my home video collection.

Historically I have been disappointed with the features on the Coens’ DVDs. They rarely do commentary, in fact, hardly ever, and often the supplemental material is limited to a ten-minute “Behind the scenes” featurette. However, No Country For Old Men has three featurette documentaries that total an approximate hour of viewing. More importantly, it is a good hour.

One feature, “Working With The Coens,” provides interesting insight into the process of making a movie with the critically acclaimed duo. Particularly wonderful are the comments by the film’s Best Supporting Actor winner (at almost every awards ceremony known to man this year) Javier Bardem, and the enchanting Kelly Macdonald.

Also available on the disc are “The Making of No Country For Old Men,” as well as “Diary of a Country Sheriff,” the latter focusing on the character Tommy Lee Jones plays in the film. Between the three documentaries, all aspects of the film’s journey to the cinema screen are covered. But if you’re anything like me, you found yourself mesmerized by this picture regardless, making it an absolute must have. So go out to the store or place it in your Internet shopping cart and be mesmerized by it all over again, friendo.

David@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Photo Courtesy © HBO

Deadwood (R.I.P. 2004 – 2006)

“Deadwood, a hell of a place to make your fortune.”

As the credits in the last episode start to roll, a sense of loss mixed with anger grabs a hold of me. I begin to wonder what I could have done to save this show and what I should do now. Unfortunately, the only thing I can do now is wonder why this incredible show shared the same fate as most of my favorite shows on television. Why HBO decided to cancel Deadwood will always remain a mystery since the show was critically acclaimed and managed to maintain high ratings on a weekly basis. Not to mention the fact that it won eight Emmy Awards, and one Golden Globe.

Production was stopped at the end of the third season and the two movies that were supposed to be in the works to finalize the series remain on hold. So should I write to HBO and demand an explanation as to why they decided not to continue the show? Can I convince them that 3 seasons is not enough time to tell “Deadwood’s” story? Of course, my words are not going to do any good at this point. So I must deal with the fact that all is not right with the world and that networks will continue to cancel great shows for unknown reasons. With that out of the way, it’s time to tell you, dear reader, why this show is so good.

For starters “Deadwood” is not your ordinary cowboy’s and Indians, western frontier storyline. Don’t expect beautiful shot out sequences set to a wonderful Morricone score. “Deadwood” is much more than that: A collection of complex stories brought to life by the most unexpected characters. The beginnings of a new town that gives insight into the spirit that gave birth to the other half of this country. As we all know, it’s not goodwill and charity that creates cities, towns and countries. There has to be an economic element in order to justify the sacrifice and risk of inhabiting a new land. In the case of Deadwood, South Dakota, gold is the driving force, and yellow fever is the cause for both life and death.

“Deadwood” is not for the faint of heart—full of brutal realism, sex, obscene language and killing—lots and lots of killing. But underneath its tough exterior lies a sincere, passionate, smart, exciting, suspenseful and well-written masterpiece that will forever change the way you look at the Old West. The manner in which the show is presented is very reminiscent of a Shakespeare play, especially with Ian McShane's character Al Swearenger, the most complex individual in Deadwood. His role as one of the founding fathers of the town can best be described as the puppet master. He is the one that pulls the strings, offering the inhabitants of Deadwood good, evil, death, prosperity, deception, knowledge and survival.

Ian McShane's performance is exhilarating to watch. Even in his silence you sense that everything is in motion because he wants it to be. Timothy Olyphant plays an unforgettable Seth Bullot, a flawed individual with a passion for the law. He is the element of surprise and justice that keeps the town from turning on itself. The other key figure in the show is George Hearst played by ex “Simon & Simon” star Gerald McRaney. He is a rich and powerful man willing to do whatever is necessary to advance his interests and increase his fortune. The tension created by these individuals throughout the various seasons sets the tone for the show and its dramatic conclusion. Without a doubt the characters of this show are truly the biggest reward for me. Watching historical figures such as Seth Bullock, Al Swearengen, Wild Bill Hickok, Sol Star, Calamity Jane, Wyatt Earp, E. B. Farnum, Charlie Utter, and George Hearst brought to life by an incredible cast is priceless. So feel free to give the show a chance and I guarantee that you won’t be disappointed, unless, of course, you’re a Cocksucker.

I’ve decided to end this review just like HBO chose to end the show—suddenly and with no explanation.

Juanmarcos@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Photo Courtesy © Sony Pictures

Itinerant Saturday Night Brooklyn Gang

June 2006-March 22, 2008

On the evening of March 22, 2008, The Saturday Night Brooklyn Gang sat down to review Southland Tales, the new film by Donnie Darko’s visionary writer/director, Richard Kelly. Jeanne and Rick were wary about the film from the start, having seen the trailer several times and seen warning signs such as: The Rock, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Cheri Oteri and Jon Lovitz. Chris, as is befitting a pack leader, went in bravely, with an open mind.

Jeanne Lopez succumbed during the first half of the film. She fell into a sleep so deep that it has yet to be broken. She was the lucky one.

An hour and forty-five minutes into Southland Tales, Rick noted that, according to the time listed on the film’s Netflix envelope, the movie should have been over five minutes earlier. His symptoms, which began with long sighs and troubled breathing, became more serious, including low-pitch whines and wailing. Once Justin Timberlake’s horribly scarred ex-soldier began to lip sync to The Killers, Rick fell off the couch, onto to the ground, taking with him an already broken chair. When the final line of narration, “He was a pimp and pimps never commit suicide,” was heard and the screen finally turned to black, Chris began to laugh. It wasn’t the sort of laugh caused by amusement or merriment, but one that speaks of madness.

Yes, dear readers, something inside of these men was broken forever that night. It was something that can never be mended.

Chris Wilson was strapped into a straitjacket and taken to a facility somewhere in upstate New York. The medical team there tells us that he laughed so long, so hard that he lost all ability to speak. They have equipped him with his own chalkboard, but he uses it only to write the same thing again and again: “Nobody rocks the cock like Krysta Now.”

Rick Sayre was last seen shuffling off into the cold Brooklyn night. Sometimes people say that they still see him whispering to himself, “Donnie Darko was so fucking good… This was worse than Crash…” while scratching on subway walls until his fingers bleed: “This is the way the world ends.”

The Saturday Night Itinerant Brooklyn Gang is:

Jeanne Lopez, Cookie Monster

Rick Sayre, Pop-Culture Critic

Christopher Wilson, Vampire Hunter

BrooklynGang@picturesandframesmagazine.com

MUSIC:

With so many music releases anticipated this year, changes or updates are to be expected. And speaking of updates, fans can expect a holiday release date for the long-awaited Whitney Houston album. (The title of the new Houston record is still to-be-determined.) And for all of you Coldplay fans, the confirmed title of their new album is Viva la Vida. Coldplay, Brian Eno, and Markus Dravs produced the new album. Viva la Vida will be released June 17^th.

Moby – Last Night

2008 will see the release of Moby’s ninth album entitled Last Night. His latest is a mix of dance and electronic music that finds him collaborating with several guest vocalists. Moby, who’s spent a great deal of time DJing between releases, says Last Night is a “love letter to dance music in New York City.” Fans should expect another eclectic release from one of dance music’s most popular artists. The first and second singles are “Alice” and “Disco Lies,” respectively. “Disco Lies” was featured in the recent film Cloverfield.

Kylie Minogue – X

After battling with breast cancer, Kylie Minogue returns with X, her tenth album and first release in four years. Though released internationally in November 2007, X will be released in the U.S. on April 1^st. X features the production and songwriting talents of Bloodshy & Avant, Calvin Harris, Freemasons, Cathy Dennis, and Guy Chambers to name a few. “All I See” is the Mims-assisted first single. X aims to continue capitalizing off of Minogue’s electro-dance-pop appeal. Judging from the international response, it’s destined to be another success in Minogue’s luminous 20-year career.

R.E.M. – Accelerate

Hoping to redeem themselves after 2004’s disappointing Around the Sun, R.E.M. is set to release their new album Accelerate on April 1^st. On Accelerate, R.E.M.’s fourteenth album, they collaborate with producer Jacknife Lee. According to critics, Accelerate is a return to form for the group with many hailing it to be one of their best and most consistent albums. Accelerate finds the band returning to their signature sound, with frontman Michael Stipe’s notably reinvigorated vocals and lyrics. Stipe says the current state of affairs inspired the writing of the new songs. Looks as if R.E.M. fans can expect a set of well-crafted, socially conscious songs on Accelerate.

Carly Simon – This Kind of Love

After releasing two back-to-back albums of covers, 2005’s Moonlight Serenade and 2007’s Into White, Carly Simon will release a collection of original music entitled This Kind of Love. Simon’s last album of originals was 2000’s The Bedroom Tapes. Simon’s new album will be released by Starbucks’ Hear Music label. The Hear Music label is also home to other legendary artists such as Sir Paul McCartney, Joni Mitchell, and James Taylor. This Kind of Love will have a Brazilian flair and is sure to please long-time fans as well as attract new ones. This Kind of Love will be released April 29^th.

Chanté Moore – Love The Woman

R&B/Soul chanteuse Chanté Moore makes her long awaited solo return this year with Love The Woman. This will be her first solo release in eight years. Love The Woman will feature the jazzy-soul music that fans love most from the singer-songwriter with the sweet, sensual, angelic multi-octave voice. Some of the producers on Love The Woman include George Duke, Raphael Saddiq, and Warren Campbell. For those who need a memory jog, some of Moore’s hits include: “Love’s Taken Over”, “It’s Alright”, “Old School Lovin’”, “This Time”, “Chanté’s Got A Man”, “Straight Up” and “Bitter”. To anyone completely unfamiliar, Moore’s music is well-worth checking out. Her solo albums: Precious (1992), A Love Supreme (1994), This Moment Is Mine (1999), and Exposed (2000). Duet albums with her singer-songwriter husband Kenny Lattimore: Thing That Lovers Do (2003) and Uncovered/Covered (2006).

Lil Wayne – Tha Carter III

One of this year’s most-anticipated hip-hop releases has to be Lil Wayne’s The Carter III. After several release date changes, Tha Carter III will be released on May 13^th. Say what you will about Wayne, but he’s undeniably one of the hottest and most popular rappers in the game. Aside from several mixtapes, he’s been a featured artist on 17 songs (and counting) over the past two years. The Carter III finds Wayne collaborating with Kanye West, Swizz Beatz, The Alchemist, Cool & Dre, Jim Johnson, and Deezle to name a few. The first single “Lollipop” is steadily moving up the charts.

(There may be another installment of the “2008 New Music Preview” next month so stay tuned.)

Markell@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Mary J. Blige – Growing Pains

Mary J. Blige Triumphs with Growing Pains

Mary J. Blige, like Janet Jackson, Whitney Houston, and Mariah Carey, is one of the most influential artists of the last two decades. Her unique sound, style, and passionate voice immediately set her apart from her peers. Her classic albums What’s the 411?, My Life, and Mary, can easily take their place as essential parts of the soundtrack to contemporary R&B/Soul music. Like those who came before her, she set the tone. The “Queen of Hip-Hop Soul” earned her title and is showing no signs of relinquishing her crown. She’s got plenty to say and (evidently) more growing to do.

Growing Pains is the follow-up to 2005’s critically acclaimed, multiple award wining, The Breakthrough. Growing Pains is a 16-track set (19-track set on iTunes) which features the production and songwriting talents of Sean Garrett, Tricky Stewart, Jazzy Pha, The Dream, Brian-Michael Cox, Andre Harris & Vidal Davis, The Neptunes, Stargate, and NeYo to name a few. Blige’s latest album is a continuation in the journey that began with her freeing herself from the things that held her down. She reclaimed her life, found real love, and happiness. But she acknowledges that she still has moments where she gets down (as heard on “Work In Progress”). She still struggles (“Roses”). But the difference now is that she doesn’t stay down. She acknowledges her feelings. Learns from the trials and mistakes. She gets up and continues moving forward.

Musically, Growing Pains is a more versatile collection than The Breakthrough. She has dance tracks (“Just Fine” and “Till The Morning”), club tracks (“Grown Woman” Feat. Ludacris), hip-hop soul (“Work That” and “Shakedown” Feat. Usher), contemporary soul (“If You Love Me”), old school (“Talk To Me” and “Hurt Again”), and pop/alternative (“Come To Me”, “Fade Away”, and “What Love Is”). Lyrically, Blige is as honest and open as ever. There’s the empowering “Work That,” the joyous, inspirational “Just Fine,” the self-assured, confident “Grown Woman,” and the introspective “Work In Progress.” Like many of Blige’s releases, she devotes several songs to matters of the heart. On “Stay Down” she sings about staying together and working through the difficult times in relationships. She sings about her troubles with moving on after a breakup on “Smoke.” On “Talk To Me” she sings to her man about the importance of communication, being open and honest about each other’s feelings. And “Roses” showcases her strengths, weaknesses, fiery attitude, and vulnerability while dealing with the ups and downs of life and relationships.

Growing Pains (like The Breakthrough) proves that Blige gets better and better vocally with each release. Her voice can comfortably display the gamut of emotions. Blige’s voice has a sweet, tender tone on joyful songs and ballads, brassy, bombastic riffs and runs on inspirational anthems, and heart-wrenching cries and wails on emotionally charged songs about love, life, and relationships. Granted, Mary J. Blige may not be able to sing five octaves or have the best voice, but what makes her a great singer is her ability to make you feel what she’s singing. And that’s something that many of today’s most popular artists fail to do.

Growing Pains is a superb set of songs featuring solid production, lyrics, and top-notch vocals. It’s another release that should capitalize off of her long overdue mainstream acceptance (and success). Something else that sets Blige apart is that she achieved mainstream success on her own terms. She did it her way. She didn’t compromise or sell out to the highest bidder to be a crossover success. She stayed true to herself and her music, which makes her success (and story) that much sweeter.

In my eyes (as well as many others), Mary J. Blige has always been universal. She’s universal because she makes music that you can feel. She sings about experiences that millions have been able to relate to. And she’s real. There’s nothing phony or contrived with Mary J. Blige. She goes through the same ups and downs that we do. She sings about it candidly. And that’s why so many people love her. That’s why I’m in love with this “Grown Woman,” and always will be!

Markell@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Janet Jackson - Discipline

Janet’s Futuristic Discipline is a Refreshing Return

On “Feedback”, Janet says: “I got a body like a CL5, make a – wanna test drive/But I’m so on fire, flyer than a pelican, find another chick better than/I don’t see her cause my swag is serious, something heavy like a first day period so….” She’s the sexy, sassy, confident Janet Jackson that fans have grown to love, admire, and respect. Though a song about sexual tension, Janet lets everyone know that she hasn’t lost her mojo. In fact, it’s better than ever. “Feedback” of course, is the first single from Janet’s most recent album Discipline. It’s an album that represents her commitment to quality, hard work, artistry, and her determination to succeed. It’s also (as can be heard on the title track) a play on intimacy, sexual pleasure, and chastisement.

Discipline finds Janet collaborating with Jermaine Dupri, NeYo, Stargate, Rodney Jerkins, The Dream, Tricky Stewart, Shea Taylor, and D. DoRohn Gough for a well crafted set of eclectic dance tracks, ballads, and slow jams. Though long-time collaborators Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis are absent, the producers do a remarkable job of adding freshness without destroying the classic Janet sound.

Discipline is really a classic Janet album in the sense that it’s thematic and showcases her musical flexibility. There’s no question that the up-tempo and midtempo tracks are the highlights here, many of which are obvious contenders for singles and massive airplay on the radio and in the clubs. Discipline features techno (“The 1” feat. Missy), house (“Rock With U”), dance/electro-pop (“Feedback”, “So Much Betta,” and “Rollercoaster”), and hip-hop soul (“Luv”). “What’s UR Name” and the Michael Jackson-esque “Can’t B Good” have quiet storm/urban adult contemporary appeal. “Greatest X” and “Never Letchu Go” are the lone ballads while the title track and “Curtains” serve as sensual, slow jams. Aside from slick production, solid lyrics and versatility, Janet’s voice is as sexy, smooth, soulful, and assured as ever.

If there’s anything that brings the album down it’s the interludes. 9 out of the album’s 22 tracks are interludes. They tend to detract instead of uplift the album. Listening to them only makes you yearn for more music and less talk. But that aside, Discipline is a step in the right direction for Janet.

At this stage of Janet’s career, she has nothing to prove. She’s sustained a level of success, exposure and appeal that many artists rarely, if ever, achieve. On top of that, Janet’s been a major influence on many of the current generation’s brightest stars. Britney, Christina, Mya, Beyonce, Ciara, and Rihanna (to name a few) have all taken a few pages out of Janet’s book. It’s evident in their style, image progression, stage presence, and choreography. It’s also clear with Discipline’s No. 1 debut that Janet is still relevant and there’s a solid base of people who enjoy her music.

Great music aside, promotion and airplay will ensure that Janet’s Discipline receives the exposure it rightly deserves. Discipline shows that even after 35 years in the entertainment industry, Janet still loves what she does. She continues to shine and shows no signs of ending her reign anytime soon.

Markell@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Sara Bareilles - Little Voice

"Love Song" may just be your spring anthem ("Babe, I'll walk the seven seas when I believe that/There's a reason to/Write you a love song today") and inspirational blossom of a ditty. While it's all over the airwaves and tracked for post-strike series returns, it's only the beginning for rising star Sara Bareilles. A lot like a sunnier and funkier Fiona Apple, Little Voice will impress you with a smorgasbord of love-inspired lyrics, pop positivism, sultry and dynamic vocals and rat-a-tat fun, soul steppin' grooves: all-around fresh fabulousness from this focused twenty-something songbird.

I picked up Little Voice for $4 during my first NYC Strand adventure last summer. Stacking my book finds on a shelf of classics to give my arms some rest, I kneeled and sorted through boxes of used CDs. Sara Bareilles was aiming a recorder right in my face. Her fashion style was unique and the album's song titles looked diverse and promising enough to merit discovery and forego Starbucks joe for Dunkin on the way home. Off we went and as her sound began to grow in my sky, bookstores across the country began hosting her first major label album.

Born and raised in Eureka, California (so far north, it's pretty much Oregon), Sara Bareilles grew up in simple means and that solid foundation is clear in her music. (Head on shoulders, girl can sing and rock the piano like a redwood.) The romantic, circulating, leafy green joy of expansive moments is present, as is her gift of pure, honest, and imaginative expression as a singer/songwriter. A major in communications at UCLA opened her up to the world at-large, open mics, some craziness surely, and heartbreak. And there was no turning back.

"I've been writing songs for as long as I can remember. Some of them make me happy and some of them are shit, but all of them come because I can't imagine what else to do with my head and the things that are in it besides write songs. Songs, and some pretty bad poetry. But mostly just songs...Songwriting is the most sacred thing in my life. It's how I process my world. For now, it's usually me and my piano (that I rent cause I don't have one), my lousy grammar, and some emotion that makes me feel like I'm bursting at the seams. And it's the best feeling in the world," Bareilles writes in her official bio.

Drawing influences and inspiration from Elton John to Bob Marley and Ben Folds to Bjork, Bareilles shares her hopes, dreams and realizations in straight-from-the-heart confessions. She wins every time and there's a space in each song on Little Voice for you to meet her, smile, and feel good about your connection. Her upright voice helps make the day come alive, bounce and swim freestyle.

"It's a collection of songs that pretty much mean the world to me,” explains Bareilles talking about Little Voice on her Website. “They chronicle my life, my relationships, my basket-case-ness, and my utter devotion to trying to write honest stuff down and share it. That's where the title comes from. This record was really about me learning to trust my own instincts, and more importantly, recognize how desperately I needed to learn to listen to myself, however inexperienced and naïve I may be. It sounds cliché, but that little voice is sometimes the only voice that's speaking the truth. I think that's pretty fucking cool.”

"Vegas" is slinky to the tender, sweet wish of "One Sweet Love" (The time that I've taken/I pray is not wasted/Have I already tasted my piece of one sweet love?), and the spiked breakfast blend of "Morningside" is balanced by the gorgeousness longing of "Gravity" (Set me free, leave me be. I don't want to fall another moment in your gravity...). There is ying, there is yang, and beautiful, thoughtful, fresh, happening harmonies between the reflections of life's mucky and glorious and deliciously gray. Grow your moxie and heart through Sara's eclectic approach.

"Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom/Man made up a story said that I should believe him/Go and tell your white knight that he's handsome in hindsight/But I don't want the next best thing/So I sing and hold my head down and I break these walls round me/Can't take no more of your fairytale love..." ("Fairytale")

Jehan@picturesandframesmagazine.com

Counting Crows – Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings

Man, it must be nice to be a Counting Crow right now. After more than five years since their last studio album Hard Candy, the Counting Crows are back and they are sure making it look easy. With a sound that takes me back to the time of 1996’s Recovering the Satellites, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings shines with all of the melodic poetry and lyrical genius of Adam Duritz and the Crows. It’s clear that there are few front men that can do what Duritz does.

Known for his energetic live performances, Adam Duritz contributes both creatively and emotionally on the stage and in the studio. When asked about the meaning behind the title of the new album Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings, the Counting Crows front man explained that, "Saturday night is when you sin and Sunday is when you regret. Sinning is often done very loudly, angrily, bitterly, violently."

Listening to the album I can sense that the time off from the studio has reenergized the band, not to say that these guys haven’t been working hard. Between albums they released a Greatest Hits, a live album and performed plenty of sold out shows around the world. With over 20 million albums sold worldwide, eight Top 5 singles, and 5 studio albums, there is no doubt regarding the impact the Counting Crows have had on me and the world. Counting Crows’ music is full of heart, soul, great songwriting and rocking melodies, a combination that is hard to find in music today. I raise my glass to a job well done guys, and I can’t wait to see you this year on tour.

Juanmarcos@picturesandframesmagazine.com

BOOKS:

Blindness by José Saramago and Engleby by Sebastian Faulks

Every so often I find myself reading a book that is so compelling, so awesome (in the true sense of the word), that it takes me a while to recover. It’s almost like I know that nothing else I pick up will match the excitement or power of that book, so why bother? It’s times like this when I’ll go back to reading non-fiction. Or devouring more Scott Pilgrim! Such was the case after reading José Saramago’s audacious novel, Blindness.

In a nameless city of a nameless country, a man suddenly and inexplicably loses his vision to a milky white blindness. One by one his fellow citizens begin to suffer the same fate. The government sequesters them in a disused hospital, under military supervision. Until, of course, the soldiers also begin to go blind. One woman retains her sight, and she is the most fascinating of the handful of characters Saramago follows throughout the novel. Through her eyes, we witness the chaos and tragedy that ensues. Clearly, Blindness isn’t light reading. It’s dark—possibly the darkest thing I’ve ever read—devastating and disturbing. Heavy as it is, Blindness is also amazing and truly haunting. It’s not the sort of book one finishes and soon forgets. These characters, this world, will not let you go easily.

As I said, it’s also a tough act to follow. In the past I’ve hit this block after reading Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Audrey Niffeneger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife, and Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind. After consuming all of Ian McEwan’s oeuvre last year, I was ruined for fiction for months. (Which turned out to be a great time for me to discover Mary Roach’s books Stiff and Spook—about cadavers and the afterlife, respectively.) I can now add Blindness to the list of books that are so good that they ruin everything else for you. Even attempts to re-read favorite books like Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere and Natsuo Kirino’s Out couldn’t get me out of this funk.

I ended up randomly picking up a copy of Sebastian Faulks’ Engleby. The novel is sort of a British version of American Psycho. Only, unlike the Ellis novel, I didn’t want to stop reading/bash my head in 10 pages into this book. Mike Engleby is an unreliable narrator, but he tells us of his life as a poor child in Reading, his horrifying school days (during which he was bullied and known only as “Toilet” Engleby), and focuses mostly on his time at University, where he meets and becomes enamored by a lovely girl called Jennifer. She soon disappears and Engleby becomes the prime suspect. Mike is never really a sympathetic character, but the mystery of who he really is will keep you reading. Until you’ve reached the end of that mystery. The very end of the book drags on for about 50 more pages after I had sort of stopped caring. Or was it just that it was too soon to try reading another novel? Thank goodness there’s a new Mary Roach book (Bonk: Roach takes on sex!) to read… that is, until Michael Chabon’s book of essays, Maps & Legends is out on April 11^th.

Rick@picturesandframesmagazine.com

FICTION:

Photo Courtesy © Jeanne Lopez

I started writing "birdwatching" ten years ago. Set in Atlanta, circa 1999, it is a blatantly romantic fairy tale. I drew inspiration from Armistead Maupin's great series, TALES OF THE CITY, screwball comedies of the 30s & 40s and tons of music. Over the years there are certain songs that I've taped, burnt on cds and made into playlists that have become a sort of "birdwatching soundtrack." I've added many of these songs into an iMix available through iTunes. I hope you'll listen to it and enjoy!

 

“Birdwatching”

By Rick Sayre

Prelude: James

As I sat on a hard pew in the back of the church, by myself and in tears, I saw how he touched her face. I recognized the way his hand cradled her chin, how he traced her bottom lip with his thumb. I knew that she was looking into his eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes that I had lost myself in thousands of times. His eyebrows were raised, his forehead creased. I had tucked myself in at night thinking about how it must be to feel his warm, sweet breath. How it must be to feel his chest rising and falling. His other arm was around her waist, holding her in his embrace. I dreamt of that too. It was all that kept me going, the faith I had that somehow, one day, James would understand how I feel.

          Then he met her. His face was radiant as he told me, "This is the girl I'm going to marry, Ben."

          All throughout the ceremony I kept returning my gaze to a second-story window, where in some other reality I was pounding the glass and shouting his name, like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. But not this reality. In this reality I find myself alone in the hotel room. My tears were dry then, or maybe my tear ducts had dried out, but my heart felt as if I was falling from a plane without a parachute. I laid down in the bed in a fetal position, dreaming once again. Somehow finding faith in “someday.”

          I really fell apart when I was on the plane, flying home. I was reading a book trying desperately to forget the fact that I was in an airplane. I just started thinking about that movie I'd caught a glimpse of the prior week, before changing the channel as quick as I could. It was one of those disaster films, you know the one's you usually see right before you actually have to get on a plane and fly somewhere? I remembered this movie and began to obsess about what would happen if the plane I was on went down. It's a horrible thing to do, but something I have done since high school. Back then my life seemed like an ongoing series of torments involving jocks on a power trip around the school fag. I'd lie in my bed at night and think about all the ways I had to kill myself. None of which I'd ever possibly do because they all seemed too painful or uncomfortable. I'd lie there and imagine the faces of people I knew when they found out what I had done. I mean, I would seriously go one by one, imagining that I was a school counselor telling them the news. "Ben Ferris slit his wrists last night." Joe Brogan, Wayne Rogers, all those guys. I tried to see what they'd feel like when they realized what they'd made me do. It was morbid, I know. The result of high school angst bullshit mixed with an unfortunate overdose of Depeche Mode.

          Anyway, I regressed back to this, trying to imagine what people would do when they were told that my flight went down this morning. It took me 30 seconds. I imagined my mom and Casey and Wes and the people I worked with. I thought about Matthew, shrugging me off like I was an anonymous face on the news. I thought about James being comforted by his loving wife. I wondered how my eulogy would read. That's when I lost it. I locked myself in one of the compact rest rooms on the plane and cried for about ten minutes, until I had to return to my seat for landing.

 Once we landed and de-boarded I stood waiting for Casey to find me in the crowd. I watched people leave the plane one by one, looking in wonder at the ones who were greeted by the open arms of their significant others. Envying the look that they had in their eyes that I thought must've been malfunctioning in mine. Then this guy got out. He was looking edgy, nervous. I started to get scared. ‘This is a terrorist,’ I told myself. ‘He's got a bomb. He has a fucking bomb and it's about to go off.’ Then his face was overcome with a huge smile, turning an otherwise ordinary face into something quite breathtaking. His eyes got the look. He held in his hand several red roses, which he extended to a plain looking young woman who was obviously waiting for him. He suddenly dropped to one knee and pulled out a jewelry box, as onlookers crowded around. I moved in a little closer as well, noticing Casey watching from the other side. He spoke so quickly with a tremble in his voice and I couldn't really hear exactly what he was saying, but I didn't need to. We all knew what was going on. He proposed. She jumped into his arms and they stood together in a long embrace as the crowd cheered them on. Tears of happiness made her mascara stream down her face, but she didn't look bad. She didn't even look so plain anymore. Her eyes had the look, too. It was like something was behind them. Lightning. Meanwhile, mine had become flooded pools and I realized that my breath was haggard. I was sobbing quietly. It was like this sudden understanding: "This will never happen to me." Casey came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. I turned around and tried to say hello, but my eyes kept darting back to the newly engaged couple. Casey held me in a tight embrace as I continued to sob under my breath.

          After we got my luggage, I found the disgusting airport bathroom and cried in a graffiti-marked stall. Later on, back at the apartment I cried some more while sitting fully clothed on the toilet with the bath water running. What is it with us criers and bathrooms?

1. Matthew

As a birdwatcher, I had something called a “Life List”: A list of all the birds I would give anything to see. I had only crossed off a couple so far, but it was early, right? In a funny way it reminded me that when I was a teenager I had something similar—a real “Life List;” a “Grand Plan.” Things were so concrete. I'd attend school for four years and graduate along side my first real boyfriend. He'd be a medical student or a firefighter. We'd take an apartment in a nice college town somewhere, preferably with a park, a good record store and a theater nearby.

          None of that happened of course. I became completely lost somewhere on the way and left school with no idea what I wanted to do in life. My first love got married; my one so-called “boyfriend” was only mine if he wasn't otherwise involved with a woman that particular week. His name was Matthew.

                   "Ben, I don't think we should see each other anymore."

          He caught me off guard. I was sitting on the side of my bed, playing my guitar. He had just gotten out of the shower and was standing in my bedroom among our discarded clothes, my towel around his waist.

"What?"

          I really thought that I had misunderstood. I thought things were fine. In retrospect I can see everything that was screwed up and how much I’d convinced myself otherwise. The fact that he was unwilling to introduce me to his family or any of his friends, or take me anywhere that was not overflowing with gay people, people he didn't know. I see now how obvious it was that I was just a dirty little secret as far as he was concerned. Of course that's not what he told me.

"I guess I just feel like this is fun for now, but—you're looking for something else. I don't want a relationship right now, Ben. I'm not ready. But I know that you've got all these ideas. All these plans and things. I just don't think that I'm ready for all that. I can't possibly live up to all your expectations."

"Uh-huh. And this revelation came to you in the shower? It couldn't have come out last night on the way home? Before we had sex a couple more times? Sort of a bon voyage party, was it?"

                   "Ben-"

                   "Matthew, if you're leaving, just go."

I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to deal with it. I'd rather watch him walk out the door. I didn't want him to see that he'd just ripped out my heart, stomped on it and tossed it in the gutter.

"Ben, I'm sorry. Maybe we can- I don't know."
 "Still be friends?" I asked, incredulously. "You should go, Matthew. Now."

 He pulled on his jeans, grabbed his underwear and shirt and left the house. I heard a quiet click when he closed the front door. This had been all wrong, I thought. It should've been louder. I was angry and hurt and he just slipped away. I grabbed the nearest breakable object, a vase that my aunt had made for me. I just let it go on the bed, spilling water and flowers all over my sheets.

          A few weeks later, I had a chance to really express that anger. I saw him as soon as Casey and I walked into the theatre. He was standing there with some woman I didn't know. The music hadn't started yet; no one had taken the stage. I walked over to him and said hi. He glanced furtively behind him, to the girl he was with. Casey was grabbing my sleeve, as if she actually thought I'd hit him or something. His friend was involved in a conversation with another “Friends”-clone. He looked at me and said nothing. He looked at the stage, looked at the girl, looked at the exit and then glanced briefly my way again.

                   "Can't I say hi? Matthew, don't do this."

 "What?" he asked. Quietly, so that his friend or whatever she was wouldn't hear.

"Don't treat me like I'm something that happened to you, that you're trying to forget."

 One look in his darting eyes and the silence that followed said that's exactly what I was.

                   "Matthew. You can't even say hello to me? Ask me how I'm doing?"

 I thought he might say something then, but he just shrugged and turned around.

"Or you could completely ignore me, I guess. That's an option. I can't believe this," I said, getting louder. "You used to have your dick in me and now you can't even make small talk at a Dar Williams concert?"

Casey grabbed my arm, trying to lead me away. His companion turned around with an icy glare, staring me down and then looking at Matthew to see his reaction. He had his jaw locked down, like he was chewing his tongue instead of having to actually deal with me.

                   "Seriously, what the hell are you doing?"

 That was when he realized that he had to save face.

"Look, I'm through with you, okay? I mean, I'm flattered that you've got this little crush on me-"

"Matthew-" I actually felt tremors rumbling through my body, vocalized by the shake in my voice.

                   "But you have to get it through that head of yours-"

                   "What?" I asked, in disbelief.

 "You don't mean a thing to me. I don't even wanna know you." Then the clincher: "Fag."

                   "Bastard."

It was so soft, such a whisper, my reaction to this. I felt like shrinking down to the size of an ant. Just the fact that whatever we had, whatever I thought was felt, at that moment could be so completely inconsequential to him.

It killed me.

2. Ben & Casey

"You're not psychotic and dysfunctional!" Casey said the next day, when I was composed enough to speak again. "You're just—a late bloomer. So maybe James and Matthew were just like, your learning mistakes. The trick is to learn from them, you know? You can figure out the whys and wherefores and know what to look for and what to avoid next time. Because I know that there will be a next time, Ben.

"I'm sorry it hurt you running into Matthew last night, but he doesn't deserve you. Look at how he treats people with so little regard for their feelings and their pride. You deserve so much more than he could ever give you and that's his problem, not yours." She stopped for a minute and took a breath. "Bright side. The positive karma for this alone should be worth millions..."

So I decided not to do this anymore. Not to fall—in love. I hesitate to call it that now. I mean, maybe it was love but a different degree of love. This story isn't about Matthew though. It's not about James either. It might be about Elliot. Maybe it's just mine alone. I don't really know.

Like I said, my sole source of magic, in the absence of romance, was birdwatching. You think it's lame. I know. Casey can't believe that I consider a day at the park with a pair of binoculars and a thermos of lemonade fun. Wait, I guess I should tell you about Casey. She's my best friend and roommate. We met while working at a bank together during my short stint in college. She was the teller next to me for almost five years. Casey was the one person at the bank who actually got me, you know what I mean? All the smart-ass jokes and the bizarre Banana Splits references. We hit it off immediately and when I decided it was finally time to leave my mom's house, she mentioned that she needed a roommate. Casey had just dumped suitor number three—an anal retentive veterinarian who moved in and suddenly mistook her for his mother. So I moved into the house and we soon adopted a dog, which she immediately named Art Garfunkel. We left the bank when she decided to start her own business, a record store that I help manage. Casey's got a good head on her shoulders, as my mom would say. Things you should know about Casey: She's an unbelievable flirt. She could live on macaroni and cheese, a delicacy I could forever do without. She believes in fairies and wishes and probably E.T., too. Men fall hard for her beauty, her intelligence, her sense of humor and her incredible kindness. I know that's what drew me to her. She's gone through more shit than anyone else I know, but somehow still manages to have a love for life, a belief in the goodness of people that I find refreshing. God knows I wish I still had that.

I, on the other hand, am constantly left with my head spinning about my fellow man. Sometimes I feel like I've been through enough to know the score. Then there are times when I feel like I've been walking through the world with my eyes closed and my ears shut. I guess you can't ever be prepared for what cards are going to be dealt. I didn't that's for sure. After Matthew's painful exit, I decided to give up on finding a "Mr. Right,” who was, I decided, definitely not out there. Besides, who could possibly fall for a guy who looks like Shaggy, whose biggest thrill in life was watching birds?

Clichés are always true: Life is full of surprises. I'm going to try to tell this story well. I mean, I'm not one for flowery metaphors or similes or page after page of Anne Rice-like descriptions. I've tried writing like that, but I can't. Not well at least. And let's face it; sometimes you're just not in the mood for all that stuff. I mean, this is my story after all, so I'm going to just tell it to you straightforward, the way it is.

I had given up on the prospect of finding anyone. I mean, I had Casey to come home to and I had my birds to watch and the most eclectic collection of CDs to listen to, with which to enhance whatever mood I was in at any given time. What more could one want? I had my old standbys—Louis Armstrong, Indigo Girls and Concrete Blonde. I had Etta James, who knows all about my broken heart. I had Rage Against the Machine to play at full volume when I was pissed off and needed to get it all off my chest. Talking Heads or The Pixies for Saturday afternoons cleaning the house. Joni Mitchell to listen to when I was alone and wanted a good cry and had gotten tired of listening to Tapestry. I had Miles and Ella Fitzgerald, the voice of God. And I had Charles Mingus, whose music sounded the way I felt inside my head. I had music to share my feelings with and that was fine by me.

Casey and I had developed a close friendship over the years that was pretty much a marriage. No matter what was going on, we had fun. Whether it was movie night or a day trip up to Athens just to eat "Burritos as Big as Your Head!" Casey and I always had each other. Like I said, who could want anything more? I was happy. Only, every once in a while I'd meet someone. He'd be nice, definitely funny. He'd have beautiful eyes. I'd meet him and start imagining what we'd be like together. Thinking that maybe this was someone I'd have a chance with. As soon as it began, I'd get in too deep. I'd be like a teenager in high school or something, trying to figure out how I might get his attention. It was then that I'd realize just how much I really did want to fall in love. Preferably with someone who'd love me back, but that never happened. My crushes usually ended quietly with the sad realization that I wouldn't get what I wanted. Then I'd just have to avoid the guy for as long as I possibly could.

Casey had this theory that she shared with me and I found it to be dead on. See, growing up gay (In the 80s. In the South!) had sort of screwed me out of a lot of the opportunities that my straight counterparts had. I mean, straight kids start to have big stupid crushes and wear their hearts on their sleeves in junior high. Then high school comes around and they've all split up into pairs. When I was younger, gay kids didn’t have that luxury. We grew up scared of being different, yet knowing that we weren’t like the other ninety percent of the population. I would rather have walked on broken glass than admitted to having had a crush on another boy when I was in junior high. It wasn't until my senior year that I started to even notice other guys and think of them in semi-romantic terms. I didn't have one real date until college, for God's sake. Now, while people I went to school with are getting married and having kids, I'm just getting the hang of dating. Well, it's a theory anyway. I could just be psychotic and dysfunctional.

Casey saw all this, but still played along with me that I had given up on the whole game. Meanwhile, she'd attempt to force me out where I might meet new people. "Not necessarily guys," she'd say, "Just maybe some new friends." We'd go places where people our age flocked to hang out—bookstores, coffee shops; she even forced me into a club once. When I finally accepted that I truly did still want to meet someone, I protested.

"The guy I want to meet isn't dancing at some club where every man has a frighteningly chiseled body. Casey, the guy I want is doing what I wish I was doing right now, sitting at home with a book, listening to John Coltrane."

"Well then maybe we should join Greenpeace and start canvassing door to door."

That summer, Casey met a guy named Roy, who she said was the best thing to ever happen to her. He was a musician who played bass at a local nightclub. They were constantly together, so that they became one of those couples other people refer to as CaseyandRoy or RoyandCasey, depending on whose friend was talking. Most of her other friends hadn't seen Casey without him accompanying her for months. He was the perfect sensitive straight guy. Playful and flirty, he'd greet me with a kiss and give me a goodbye hug every time we met. Casey had finally met someone I not only approved of, but also truly liked. The best thing was that he was a quick learner. He told me he had the perfect guy for me, something I always find laughable. I told him that I'd given up men for Lent. He never tried fixing me up again and didn't resent the fact that I refused to meet his friend.

Another person who'd quickly learned this lesson was Wes, who had attempted in the craftiest of ways to fix me up with guys. Wes was a friend I'd made in the most unusual of situations. Matthew and I had crashed his party. Wes was a theater actor, who'd established a name for himself throughout Georgia. The party was held to celebrate his birthday. The 45th or 50th or anything in between, no one knew for sure. He hadn't thrown it; someone else had planned the entire thing in his honor. Wes—hating social gatherings almost as much as I did. Anyway, Matthew had told me about this party and I agreed to go in lieu of spending one more night watching him play video games. We showed up and as usual, within twenty minutes I was standing against the wall, feeling precisely the way I did when I was at the high school dance, bobbing my head in rhythm with Tiffany's "I Think We're Alone Now.” Only this time it was a song I didn't recognize by another one-named singer who wasn't as good as anything I listened to anyway. I yawned and Wes approached me with a sly grin, whispering like a co-conspirator, "You bored too?"

"Oh, no," I bashfully replied. "Just a little tired. And this alcohol doesn't help, but..."

I left the sentence hanging in mid-air, even though in my head it was complete. This alcohol doesn't help, but my so-called boyfriend is standing right across the room from me with some girl's tongue in his ear. Therefore, the drink seems like an acceptable accessory for my trip down the spiral.

"I hate these things. I don't recognize you though. New in town?"

Certain that I was being fed a line, I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

"No, actually. It's just that I don't know anyone here. I don't even know whose party this is."

"Well, it's mine of course. I'm Wes Robertson," he chuckled, shaking my hand. "Who are you here with?"

"Oh, I'm here with Matthew." I replied to his quizzical look by repeating "Matthew Harvey? He's the guy over in that corner. With the girl."

My eyes stay focused on Matthew, now full on making out with the girl. Obviously my look betrays my feelings because Wes places his hand on my shoulder.

"Never seen him. Are you two dating?"
 "Apparently that depends on which one of us you ask."

"Yikes. You win the 'having the worst time at this party' award tonight. Want another drink?"

"No. You know, I think I'd better go. I'm really sorry for crashing your party like this..."

"No, I'd actually like you to stay. Come on, we can sit out on the porch and talk. This music sucks, doesn't it?"

"You really don't have to do that."

"Oh, please! It's my pleasure. Besides, I'm sick to death of every other person I know and—well, and I'm nosy. So. How long have you been... together?"

We sit down on the steps in front of his house. He asked the question gently, like a cop asking a kid "Did someone touch you in your 'bathing suit area'?"

                   "A little more than a year. Off-" My voice breaks. "Off and on."

I feel the need to elaborate, as Wes is looking at me with a kinder expression than Matthew has ever used. "Basically whenever he's not dating anyone else."

"Now that sounds familiar. I think I dated Matthew before you did."

I laugh at this, my first real laugh of the evening.

"Yeah, he seems to get around."

"Word of advice. If he ever says 'I love you, but I love you like a brother'? Dump. His. Ass."

The next afternoon, though, when Matthew called me up, apologizing for the ass he'd been and using his charms... Well, I'm sure you know what happened then. You've probably dated Matthew too.

          One day I was hanging out at the store, flipping through the S bin. Casey asked if I was doing some Mood Therapy Shopping.

"Come on, Benjamin. You always do this. You get depressed about something and find yourself buying a buncha CDs that you'll listen to once and then forget."

"Casey, you know that having material things cheers me up. Now look, I'm in this whole... Hair Band Rock That I Listened To In Junior High mood. So I'm trying to decide between Slaughter and Skid Row, because unlike what you've assumed I'm just in the mood for some cheesy eighties rock today. So. Okay, Mark Slaughter: way cuter than Sebastian Bach. But, Sebastian always wore those sexy snakeskin pants. Plus: the Skid Row album is way better than Slaughter's."

"Yeah, but didn't Sebastian Bach wear that shirt that said 'AIDS Kills Fags Dead'?"
I sigh and say, "Okay let's try Bon Jovi. I'm thinking Slippery When Wet..."

"Dammit, Ben! How many times can one man read Bridget Jones's Diary? Even for a gay man, you're way past your limit."

          Casey had just come in from shopping, bags of food covering the table. How could she understand the appeal of this book? Rather than try to explain myself yet again, I grab some groceries and start putting them away.

"Roy's coming over for dinner tonight. I'm psyched, 'cause I bought him this great shirt at the thrift shop. It's one of those shirts from the eighties... cut off at the midriff."

"Something like Kevin Bacon would wear in 'Footloose'?"

"Precisely. I can't wait to see him in it. He has a yummy tummy."

"Mmm-hmm." Must not drool over best friend's boyfriend. Make note.

"Anyway, do you think I should try the lasagna again?"

                   "Casey, last time was just a fluke. I'm sure of it."

"Oh, shit! Last time... I threw away the pan."
 "What? Why?"
 "I totally couldn't get the bottom layer unstuck. So I just chucked it instead. But I got the stuff to make lasagna. What else can you make with-"

The phone rang. Before she'd even been on the line for a minute, I was at her side and she was shaking. She hung up and quickly went to her room, where she began packing a bag.
"Adam was in an accident."

Adam is Casey's brother, a couple of years younger than she is. He lived a couple of hours away from Atlanta in a