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Never mind the fact that the temps were hovering in the mid-90s here in Atlanta recently–the ladies of the Lazy Daisy book club in Alpharetta were celebrating a BLUE CHRISTMAS last week. And a good time was had by all. I met Kimberly and her cutest-ever-mom Karen on Daufuskie Island in July. They asked me to attend the fifth anniversary celebration of their book club–where they were reading BLUE CHRISTMAS, so how could I refuse?
Let me tell you, these ladies had their par-tay groove goin’ on! I knew we were in for a great evening as I approached Kimberly’s front door–which was swathed in blue tulle and twinkling white lights, which matched the row of snowy white Christmas trees leading up to the door. Did I mention that the all-blue tunes mentioned in BLUE CHRISTMAS were warbling from hidden speakers? I heard Bobby Vinton’s “Blue Velvet” as I walked up. At the front door Kimberly had set up a vignette right out of Weezie’s prize-winning shop window in the book–complete with an iron bed covered with a chenille spread, stuffed poodle, and vintage high school letter sweater. Beside the bed stood a table holding a silver-framed photo of Elvis, and a bottle of Coke with a straw.
The theme continued inside the house, with more aluminum trees than you could shake a candy cane at, blue fur stockings, and the dining table adorned with another aluminum tree trimmed with blue-iced Christmas cookies. Yum! Of course, Kimberly served Red Roosters from the recipe in the book, along with the corned beef dip also from the book, and that was just the starters. We also had fa-la-la flank steak, spinach salad with blueberries and blue cheese, and lots of other goodies. Oh–and don’t forget that sparkling punch fountain–which changed colors as it spewed a peach champagne punch she dubbed “hunch punch.” Our Kimberly loves to play games, so the ladies competed in a ’50s trivia challenge as well as a BLUE CHRISMAS trivia game. Later, while we sipped our adult beverages, I answered questions and visited with the Daisies. Of course, everybody got a door prize–a Lazy Daisy Blue Christmas t-shirt created specially by Kimberly.
I’m throwing it down to all you book club hostesses out there–top that! Or at least share the kinds of fun events your club has come up with. If you send me photos, I’ll try and post ’em. In fact, I’ll post pix of the daisies as soon as I get ’em.
I was watching the TODAY show last week, while trudging along on my treadmill, and I saw a segment of “helpful tips” designed to assist parents in “transitioning” their nestlings into real live college kids. Most of the tips were just common sense: have the big good-bye before arriving on campus, discuss the big three: sex, alcohol, drugs. Let the kids know your expectations about grades and attendance. But I about spewed my Dasani when it came to the last–and it was stressed–very IMPORTANT–tip. Do not, the expert warned, touch your child’s bedroom.
Children need to be reassured that their home will not change, even as they grow and explore new horizons in the exciting world of college studies. Transition gently, the expert warned.
Hahahahahaha. This is another reason why you should never trust television experts. Back in the day, when I was a newspaper reporter, I called up all kinds of “experts” and asked them all kinds of questions as resarch for the helpful tip story du jour. Believe me, most reporters will accept whoever answers the phone as an expert. Probably two thirds of the people who pass themselves off as “experts” are, in reality, posers, frauds or wannabes.
But I digress. Was it only two years ago that we took our own son off to college? I remember it well. We loaded up Andy’s clothes and mini-fridge and new computer, and installed him in his dorm room, and then, tearfully, drove back home. How empty the house seemed. Ten minutes after we got back to the house, I unleashed the full fury of a mom on a mission in Andy’s room.
For years I’d been trying to get the boy to give up his old mattress. To tell you how old that mattress was, I have to admit that we bought an antique bed at a store that was going out of business, and they threw in the display mattress that probably came with the mattress when the bed was manufactured. I’m talking older than dirt, people. But Andy didn’t want me mucking about in his room. Frankly, after taking a quick look at his room on any given day of the child’s life, I didn’t want me mucking around in there either. Those crack dens you see on COPS were cleaner than my son’s room. We are talking level four biohazard.
But I was bereft that day two years ago, and it seemed like a project would be a good idea. Job One was that mattress. It had to go. I stripped the linens off the bed and was confronted with a very unpleasant fact. My child had been sleeping on a mattress with giant holes in it. Poking out of those holes were giant springs. He’d been stuffing bath towels and socks and all kinds of stuff into those holes to keep the springs at bay. Shocking!
And yet–those holes were the least of the shocking finds lurking in the boy’s room. Mr. Mary Kay reluctantly agreed to assist in my detoxification of Andy’s room. He hauled the mattress and box spring off the bed, and I made shocking discovery number two. There, stashed between mattress and box springs was the devil’s handiwork. Porn! In my own home.
I got the barbecue tongs and picked up the shocking material to get a closer look. It was a DVD.
Something about cheerleaders in chains, I believe. Mr. Mary Kay sniggered disapprovingly while I took said DVD and melted it with a lighter, then whacked it with a hammer, and then finally, took it out to the growing trashpile on our curb, hoping desperately that the garbagemen wouldn’t let it get out that the guy at 2113 liked cheerleader smut.
We tied the offending mattress to the top of my spousal unit’s SUV, and sped off to the dump, where we deposited said mattress–still warm from our son’s body–in the landfill. Even the guard at the dump looked disgusted when he saw the state of that mattress. Then it was off to the mattress store for new bedding, and the paint store for new paint.
Back in the crack den, er, bedroom, I began clearing the room to paint. The antique oak dresser he’d been using for years basically fell to pieces when we went to move it. Determined to give the room a clean sweep, I attacked the closet. Bad move. Hidden at the back of the closet I found several empty bottles of beer, as well as, even more mystifying–several unopened cans of beer. After promises of parental immunity, Andy later admitted that he and his friends found his dad’s taste in beer severely lacking. He and his buddies much preferred beer pilfered from some other dad. He’d been saving the bad stuff for a beer emergency that apparently never manifested itself.
The next discovery found me weeping quietly on the floor of the closet. Not porn, not even beer made me cry. No. It was the stacks of old baseball jerseys that got me totally unglued. Andy started playing baseball as a five year old. For more than a dozen years, he played baseball. And not just in summer. Travel ball, all-stars, junior high, high school, American Legion, if somebody had a diamond and a bucket of balls and a bag of bats, we were there. Like his dad, Andy was a catcher. All those years, we were a baseball family. His dad helped out with the coaching, I made sure he had a clean jock and a cooler full of Gatorade. As a baseball mom, my favorite sign of spring was not the blooming of daffodils, or the budding out of the dogwoods. No. I lived for that first day in the bleachers. Feeling the sun on my shoulders, splinters in my butt, inhaling the intoxicating scent of fresh-mown grass. Was there ever a purer sound than the crack of a bat? Could there be a better kind of joy than jumping up, screaming at the top of your lungs–“That’s my boy!” as the ball went sailing over the outfield fence?
That day in August two years ago, I tenderly packed away the jerseys from the Red Wings–his travel team, the Golden Lions, his Atlanta high school team, and the Crusaders–his Raleigh team. I put them in a plastic bin, set his catcher’s mitt and chest protector on top, and sat down and cried like a baby. Not for Andy. He was excited about going off to college, and swore he didn’t mind the fact that his baseball career was probably over. Nope. I was crying for me. No more bleaching those hideous polyester baseball pants. No more fishing stinky sliding shorts and socks out of a filthy bat bag. No more road trips with the other baseball moms. No more opening day.
Eventually, I pulled myself together and got back on task. I washed down the walls and floors with Pine-Sol. Bagged up mountains of worn-out or outgrown shoes and clothes. It was when I was moving a pair of old work boots that I found another distasteful discovery. As I picked up a boot, an empty tin went rolling onto the floor. Snuff! My golden child had picked himself up a big league nasty habit. The boot was filled with empty snuff tins. As was its mate. My tears dried up in a hurry. A long distance phone call was made. Death threats were issued. Silence on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” came back the small voice of the former little leaguer. “I won’t do it any more.”
Transition my ass.
Postscript. It is now two years later. We sold the house at 2113 and moved back to Atlanta, where, hopefully, the stigma of cheerleader porn will not follow. Andy finished his freshman year of college and decided to take what his parents like to call a “sabbatical” from school. He’s working as a surveyor. And yes–boomerang boy is back, living at home. You couldn’t get me to go into that room of his with a court order.
Here is the gist of the telephone conversations I have with certain members of my family.
He: Hey. What’s goin on?
He: What are you up to?
Me: Writing fiction. (This is mostly a lie. He knows it and I know it. And I know he knows I know it. Usually I’m doing something vital, such as reading the newspaper, checking out Craigslist for upcoming estate sales, or taking a nap.)
Me: What are you doing?
He: I have a VERY IMPORTANT meeting. And then a VERY IMPORTANT CONFERENCE CALL about matters CRITICAL TO THE VERY SURVIVAL OF LIFE AS WE KNOW IT. In fact, I might have to hang up at any moment due to PRESSING BUSINESS DEMANDS.
Me: Oh. Okay.
He: What’s for dinner?
Me: It’s 10 a.m. I just finished my Special K with red berries. I have no friggin’ idea what we’re having for dinner.
He: Just as long as it’s not chicken. I’m tired of chicken.
Me: Right. No chicken. Got it.
Okay? Here’s the thing. I am sick of thinking about WHAT’S FOR DINNER? I have been wandering aimlessly around the aisles of various supermarkets thinking about what’s for dinner my entire adult life. Why can’t somebody else think about what’s for dinner? I don’t mind cooking. In fact, I love cooking. But it’s August, I’m hot, and I’m out of ideas.
Whew. Glad I got that off my chest. I went over to the Southern Living website and clicked around and found this recipe for cherry glazed pan-seared lamb chops. Then I went to the farmer’s market and wandered purposefully around. I bought the lamb chops, and when the butcher handed me the package, I looked at the price and nearly passed out. $28 for lamb chops. If my mother were alive she’d say her first car didn’t cost $28. She’d say I must be out of my mind to pay so much for six measly little lamb chops. Oh, she’d have a lot to say about $28 lamb chops. And as for the cherry-glazed pan-seared part, she’d die laughing at the very notion. But she’d eat ’em, all right.
And here’s part 2 of my Random Monday Musings. Reader Mail.
I get quite a lot of nice mail from readers. Usually they want to tell me they read my book and liked it, or ask me a question about an important detail I left out of the crab cake recipe in SAVANNAH BREEZE. But last week I got a positively irate email from a woman we’ll call Irate Irene. Irene was upset by my use of the word YANKEE in SAVANNAH BLUES. She was particularly incensed because a character (i.e. a fictional made-up figment of my imagination)
referred to another character (also a fictional made-up figment of my imagination) a “pushy yankee.” And later…”Yankee scum.” Since Irene is from a part of the United States sometimes referred to as “up nawth,” she took this remark very personally. In fact, Irene let me know that she is tired of me and other southerners who are “ill-mannered, ignorant and mean-spirited.”
Sadly, Irene is no longer reading my book that she was formerly reading. She has informed me that she will no longer be reading any Mary Kay Andrews books in the future, and will, in fact, spread the word to her friends “up north”–her phrase, not mine–about my use of the vernacular “regarding Americans who happen to live in the northern part of the United States of America.”
I crafted a very polite response to Irene. I told her that I hoped she wouldn’t judge me personally by what a fictional character says in a novel. I told her my own parents were from Ohio and Chicago, that I happen to love Yankees, and more importantly, since it is all about the $ with me–that I try never to offend any segment of society since I need all the readers I can get. I sent it off, and I sincerely hope Irene will get over hating me and all the other hick, redneck ignorant Southerners who obviously hate her.
But here’s the thing. It’s a NOVEL, people! I make this stuff up! Every word of it! None of the characters in my FICTION are real. In real life I don’t break into empty plantation homes, (SAVANNAH BLUES), bitch-slap the maid of honor at my wedding, (HISSY FIT) fake the death of my cheating husband in a boating accident in Mexico, (LITTLE BITTY LIES) or steal a multi-million dollar yacht belonging to a rock star. (SAVANNAH BREEZE).
I might want to do some of these things. I might take some vicarious joy in figuring out how my FICTIONAL characters do these things. However, in real life, I am just not that smart, pissed off, brave or insane. In real life, I mostly read the newspaper, take naps and try to figure out what the hell I’m going to fix for supper tonight. I’ll let you know how the lamb chops go over.
Emboldened by the confession of book website guru Carol Fitzgerald–she who runs ReadersGroupGuides.com and BookReporterCom, not to mention I don’t know how many other book related websites, I have a confession to make.
Here it is. I never read Jane Austen. YES! You heard right. Hiss, boo, throw shoes, denounce me as the poser I am. But somehow I have reached mature adulthood without ever embracing Janeism. I want to, I really want to read Jane. But I haven’t yet.
I sat all the way through a screening this morning of THE JANE AUSTEN BOOK CLUB with my movie critic friend Eleanor, hoping not to be found out. The movie, by the way, is utterly charming and lovely. And Hugh Dancy, the actor who plays Grigg, the sole male member of the book club, is a stone HOTTIE. I think I can say with some authority that if Grigg ever wanted to come to my book club, we would all be all over that like stink on a dog. Wooh! I am getting positively warm thinking about that. Oh, wait. Maybe it’s a hot flash. Or the fact that it’s ninety-leven degrees in my corner of Atlanta.
And at lunch afterwards, I managed to chat casually about the movie without giving away my hideous secret. Then, I go home and open my email, and what do I find–the Bookreporter email with Carol’s own public confession. I find it positively liberating to own up now.
That night, in a near frenzy of movie-watching, my friend Anne and I went to see BEING JANE AUSTEN. Another wonderful movie–made even more lovely by the fact that through the magic of cinema we were transported to cool, rainy 19th century England instead of sweaty, sweltering modern-day Atlanta. At dinner afterwards, I admitted my heresy to Anne.
How did it come to pass that I could reach mature adulthoo9d without reading Jane? In high school, I took all kinds of advanced, honors English classes, with titles like Analytical Writing, and British Poetry and Drama, and American Prose. I read most of the required stuff, including almost the entire D.H. Lawrence oeuvre, yes, including LADY CHATTERLY’S LOVER–which my friend Fletcher kindly swiped from his mom’s slip drawer for me. I swear, I don’t think Jane was on the syllabus. Of course, I did go to high school back in the dark days of polyester bell-bottoms love beads and mood rings, but I honestly don’t remember being asked to read many authors of the female persuasion. We read JANE EYRE, of course, but most of the other stuff we read, it seems to me, was the work of DEAD WHITE GUYS.
So. I’m putting it out here. If I’m going to read Jane, and I swear, I am, where should I start? Your suggestions are humbly solicited.
Don’t know what the weather is like where you are, but here in Atlanta, it is hotter than the hinges of hell. Perfect reading weather, to my way of thinking. So here’s what I’ve been digging into, and digging.
1. SUMMER AT TIFFANY by Marjorie Hart. 51k The Booklist review says it all: “Although the country is still at war, Manhattan during the summer of 1945 is an intoxicating place, especially for two fresh-faced young coeds who step off a train from Iowa armed with little more than their youthful exuberance and the name of a very influential contact. The combination is enough to land Marjorie and her best friend, Marty, jobs as pages at the prestigious Tiffany & Co., making them the first female employees ever to work the sales floor. From this groundbreaking vantage point, the girls see and do it all, from assisting notorious gangsters and international playboys at the jewelry counters, to rubbing elbows with celebrities at the city’s legendary nightclubs, to glimpsing General Eisenhower during his triumphant victory parade, to kissing soldiers in Times Square on V-J Day. Remarkably, this winsome memoir was written 60 years after that giddy summer spent pinching pennies and dreaming of diamonds, yet Hart’s infectious vivacity resonates with a madcap immediacy, delectably capturing the city’s heady vibrancy and a young girl’s guileless enchantment.” Carol HaggasCopyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved/
Such a charming book! I read this on vacation in Mexico, loaned it to the other posse members who also loved it, and even bought a copy to send to my Aunt Alice. Would love to see a movie adaptation.
2.SERVICE INCLUDED: Four Star Secrets of An Eavesdropping Waiter, by Phoebe Damrosch. In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that this book was edited by my own editor at HarperCollins, the fabulous Carolyn Marino. At the risk of being accused of nepotism, let me just say that SERVICE INCLUDED is a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at the workings of Per Se, the Manhattan restaurant owned by celebrichef Thomas Keller. Damrosch became the first female captain at Per Se, and decided to write about it while in grad school. The book pubs in October, so make sure you order it.
3.THE OVERLOOK by Michael Connelly. Anything Connelly writes is amazing. This is the book form of a serialized story that first ran last year in the New York Times Sunday magazine. It’s twisty, dark, and another satisfying outing for Connelly’s detective, Harry Bosch. This is one of the few mystery series I always read–in addition to Margaret Maron’s Deborah Knott series and Lisa Scottoline’s legal thrillers, and Jan Burke’s Irene series.
4. A HOUSE IN THE SOUTH: Old-Fashioned Graciousness for New-Fashioned Times by Frances Schultz and Paula S. Wallace.
I’m a sucker for interior design/shelter books, and this is a lovely one with gorgeous color photos of grand and simple homes around the South. I picked up my copy at E. Shaver Fine Books, one of my all-time favorite indy bookstores in Savannah. The girls at Shaver’s never steer me wrong.
Other things I’m digging: iced tea. I’m moderately famous for my iced tea–I always use Luzianne’s family-size teabags, three to a pot of boiling water to make a big pitcher of tea. ‘Mater sammiches. Home-grown tomatoes out of my neighbor’s garden, Pepperidge Farm hearty white bread, Duke’s Mayo, lots of salt. Here’s a great iced tea cocktail I pulled off the Luzianne website:
Bourbon Street Iced Tea
Preparation Time: Quick
2 cups boiling water 1 Cup orange juice concentrate 1.5 cups lemonade concentrate 2 quart size or 8 cup size Luzianne Tea Bags 1 Cup bourbon, (optional) 3 cups cold water.
Movie update: The old mister and I went to see THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM Friday. The perfect escape vehicle for a steamy summer night. Matt Damon’s Jason Bourne is the poster-boy for Post-Modern heroes: brooding, but not in a snivelling way, sensitive–he doesn’t even try to jump Julia Stiles, and buff–but not in a Matthew McConaughey look-at-my-abs-look-at-my-ass kinda way.
Okay, I know everybody says this–but really, I am not a FAN of reality television. Well, with the exception of watching DANCING WITH THE STARS, but really, that hardly counts. So Mr. Mary Kay was out of town Tuesday night, and I’d been seeing these previews, so I finally found the BRAVO channel on my television, and I had to suffer through the Kathy Griffin’s B-List, or whatever it is, but then……Yes…..Wait on it.
Flipping Out. http://tinyurl.com/2gqdhs. What is not to love about an obsessive-compulsive gay man flipping houses in LA? And this OCD guy, whose name is Jeff Lewis, is just so bizarro, I couldn’t stop watching. He has an executive assistant who is also a white rap artist, who looks like a Julia Louis-Dreyfus wannabe. He has a Hispanic housekeeper who reminds me of Rosario, the housekeeper on Will&Grace, several other houseboy type guys, multiple pets and multiple psychics. And he flips houses. And since I’m starting a book about a woman who flips an old house–this counts as research. What could be better? Anyway, the properties Jeff flips are much more upmarket and glam than those nasty teardowns you see people flipping on HGTV. So now my life will be worth living until the fall, when Gray’s Anatomy comes on again.
The junk posse was all atwitter this week about a big estate sale that started Friday. The dealer having the sale sent out an advance e-mail that had us salivating. Historic Buckhead mansion! Nine-acre estate! Like that. Jinxie and I got ourselves over there before the 9 am start time, climbed the looong driveway up to the manse, which was a breathtakingly beautiful 1920s Tudor Revival. About 30 people were already lined up to get inside. We were positively tingly with anticipation. And then…..bupkus. Some decorator had perpetrated a massive fraud upon these home-owners, selling them boatloads of hideously expensive brand-new crapola. We’re talking purple leather sofas, “art” that looked like it had been picked up on clearance at Michael’s, and the gaudiest damned be-fringed, swagged, tasselled window treatments ever. Jinxie’s friend Nancy, who has exquisite taste–(we are considering allowing her to join the posse on a permanent basis)–summed it up. “Looks like a Haverty’s show house,” she sniffed. Of course we were dying to know the story behind the estate sale. One of the helpers confided that the owners were in the process of a divorce, and that the wife had left the premises. Apparently she took whatever good stuff there was, because the only signs of female habitation I saw were the stacks of Manolo and Jimmy Choo shoe bags she left behind. So we trudged back down the driveway and went on our way–antique-less. Just goes to show you can’t judge a sale by the address. We had better luck on Saturday, where we went to a sale at a much smaller, but ten times more charming stone cottage. I got a small mahogany table to put between the beds in my guest bedroom, and some Waterford-looking cut-glass old-fashion tumblers for Mr. Mary Kay, who likes to sip his bourbon from a heavy glass. I’ve got my eye on an Empire dresser, so I may go back tomorrow to see if the prices have been reduced. It is totally against my constitution to pay full price at an estate sale. I shall keep you all posted.
I’m in a bit of a summer movie blitz here. Okay, actually, I’ve seen a total of 3 new movies this summer, but that’s a lot for me. The blitz started in June, when my chick posse saddled up for a night at the drive-in. We’re lucky in Atlanta that we still have a cool drive-in, The Starlight Six, http://starlightdrivein.com/ on Moreland Avenue.
We’re also lucky that Jinxie, a charter posse member, happens to own a very cool candy apple red ’71 Chevelle Malibu convertible, which we call Big Red. Jinxie’s husband, Michael J. Shyster, attorney at law, took the convertible in lieu of legal fees some years ago, and now Big Red is the star of many local parades–and was also my daughter Katie’s getaway car after her wedding two years ago. So, the posse loaded up Big Red with some dinner and a cooler of adult beverages, and off we went to the Starlight, to see what was billed as a summer chick flick, KNOCKED UP. You apparently don’t see a carload of menopausal white women riding around in a vintage red convertible on Moreland Avenue these days, because we created a bit of a stir, with much horn-honking and throwing down of gang signs–at least, we think they were gang signs. At the Starlight’s ticket stand, the kid who took our money stared longingly at Big Red and said, “Man, this ride is cleaaaaannnnn,” to which Jinx, our resident Junior League reject responded by chirping, “Thanks! My husband just washed it.” KNOCKED UP proved to be a bit, um, crude for us. Especially since we’d wanted to see the movie based on the fact that we are all big Grey’s Anatomy fans, and the star of the movie, Katherine Heigl, plays Izzy on Grey’s. The posse members are not prudes–after all, each of us is raising teenaged boys–but really–we were not prepared to see Izzy engaged in–how shall I put it? Doing it doggy-style? Mercy!
Last night, we went back to the Starlight to see another summer blockbuster, I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU CHUCK AND LARRY. Really, we wanted to see NO RESERVATIONS, but it apparently hadn’t opened yet. The premise of this little gem is two New York City firefighers pretending to be gay and entering into a domestic partnership arrangement, in order to secure city pension benefits for Chuck–or was it Larry’s? poor motherless children. Adam Sandler is the star, and since he co-wrote and produced the movie–he got to be the hyper-hetero chick magnet, and Kevin James got to be the brunt of all the lame-o fat boy jokes. I didn’t outright loathe Chuck and Larry, but I am puzzled about how this boy’s locker room flick managed to earn $34 million its opening weekend. Or maybe I’m not really puzzled. Chuck and Larry is raking in bajillions because it is a BOY movie. Boy movies are high concept, lowbrow vehicles for stars like Adam Sandler and Will Farrell and that ilk. Despite the fact that it didn’t have a big name boy star, KNOCKED UP, which has already earned $143 million this summer, is, in my opinion, in reality a boy movie too, because boys went to the movie in droves–hoping to see Katherine Heigl’s tatas, and women like the chick posse went because we were hoping for a true chick flick, which it wasn’t. Women’s movies–like, say, SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE, or THE QUEEN, when they are made, which isn’t very often, are critically praised, but you’re not gonna be watching them at the Starlight anytime soon. All of this concerns me, as a writer of women’s fiction, because, let’s face it, the audience for a Diane Keaton movie is the same audience I’m looking for with my books. And more is always better. Which brings me to the third movie I watched this summer.
It’s not officially out until August, but a movie publicist in Atlanta sent me the DVD, to ask if I would give it a blurb. This is what I guess you call a “small indy” movie, but I loved it. RANDY AND THE MOB is about a small-town Southern guy, Randy, who is a loser, but doesn’t know it. Randy is a wannabe big wheel, who gets himself into financial hot water and turns to a loan shark–who turns out to be–you guessed it–a member of the mob. RANDY AND THE MOB is funny in a subversive, charming way. It reminded me a little of a contemporary O BROTHER WHERE ART THOU? I watched it in my living room, with my 20-year-old son Andy. At first, Andy totally didn’t get Randy. After all, there were no car chases, no exposed nipples, no fart jokes, and at no time did Bruce Willis dangle from the wing of an exploding airliner. Still, once he settled in, Andy laughed and giggled right along with me. We even managed to have an interesting conversation about the movie afterwards. I have high hopes for Randy and the Mob. It would be nice to see it unexpectedly take off. It would be even nicer if the people who make movies would make more of them for viewers like me–and the chick posse. And viewers like you, too.