The Publishing Contrarian

My plan for New Year’s Eve was NOT to go to Times Square, thank you. I’ve been there. Believe me, once is enough. If you’ve ever been, you know you dare not lose your footing lest you get trampled to death. Not to mention that when your companion grabs you at midnight for a kiss, you can only pray that no one lurking beside you is making a grab for your wallet. For a decade, I’d danced until midnight at New Year’s Eve parties held at the Diplomats’ Dining Room at the United Nations. I’d wandered the 4 AM streets of the city on New Year’s morning trying to find a vomit-free cab. This year, however, I found I preferred a quiet champagne fizzle and the sleep of the networked-out innocent to the tabletop dancing girl of yesteryear.

Indeed, Terrible Teddy, aka TT (the 22 lb Maine Coon Cat I picked up about three weeks ago from ARF, The Animal Rescue Fund), and I cozied up together in front of a fire in East Hampton. We’d agreed to stay up until 11:59 PM, sipping warm milk (him) and other beverages (me) and then call it a year. Frankly, I think both of us were happy to watch my 2006 calendar go up in flames. Gargantuan TT had spent six months up island squished in a cage designed for your average-sized Tom cat. He was headed for the gallows when ARF rescued him (cherry picked him, they said) and—dare I say this—foisted this big, bad-ass cat off on me. (Hey, Sara Davidson, you think that I didn’t hear the front door slammed shut and bolted at ARF as a crated TT and I headed for my Jeep?) By New Year’s Eve, with the help of a full belly feeding and full body brushing, TT’s demeanor had turned from paw-swiping raptor to sandpaper-tongue kisser, and he had tentatively plunked his lard-ass self down on my lap, making sounds reminiscent of  a purr while I read The Memory of Running by Ron McLarty.

Here’s to 2006. [Unprintable.] Here’s to 2007! “Bottoms Up!”

Yes, I think the ringing out of 2006 signifies the end of a hard year for TT, too. He was in cat jail and I was spending the holiday season in civil court in Morristown, NJ, waiting for a verdict from a jury of my peers. I believe I was in bed in the fetal position with the covers pulled over my head on New Year’s Eve last year, unable to eat, eyes ringed with fatigue, hair falling out in clumps onto the pillowcase, 40–count ‘em–pounds skinnier than I already was. You know what I’m talking about: that Bela Szigethy v. Lynne Scanlon multi-year, multi-motion, trial-by-jury horror wrought by multizillionaire Bela Szigethy on me. (One of my New Year’s resolutions will be to only mention the lawsuit half as much as I have. I promise. Wait, stop trying to uncross my fingers!) I’ll be mopping up my own blood for years.

Let’s Party! Get Down!

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Should load quickly, unless their server is swamped, but worth the wait!

http://www.elfyourself.com/?userid=16279111fbd6a8c4ea4a061G06122104

I note that every once in a while an ad is sneaked in from Office Max, the creators of this link, but just click on the link again, and the greeting should pop up! And no, I don’t think you have to upgrade FLASH. I think that is an ad, too.

I hadn’t even intended to go to any of the movies being shown at the 14^th Hamptons International Film Festival. Like a lot of the people who own homes out here, when the Friday night cars stream into town and the Jitney and Luxury Liner buses disgorge the weekenders from the city, we head for deep water. (Oh, wait, I forgot, I had just gotten out here myself on Thursday from the city. That’s right, I was disgorged too, just a bit earlier than the others!) Eleven thousand additional people were expected in East Hampton for the festival! Dive, Dive!

My neighbor, Katy, had miraculously cadged two free tickets to the film 1:1 from a friend who had been doing volunteer work at the festival. Katy invited me, and after last week’s posting with its subsequent vitriolic, finger pointing, name calling (You’re a racist! No, you’re a racist!), email slug-fest around the blogosphere, I needed to sit in a dark theater and regain my sanity. So Katy and I fought for a parking space in town, and joined cinephiles who had trekked in from all over the United States and maybe even the world. The very honest Katy bought a gigantic, butter-soaked bag of popcorn while the opportunistic Wicked Witch dropped down on all fours and sneaked past the overpriced concession with her large diet-coke and stash of oatmeal cookies purchased down the street.   
 
1:1 started and within minutes I had caught the film festival bug—and caught it bad. I knew I would try to snag a press pass in the morning. And, yes, I hoped that some of these films originated as literary fiction or nonfiction books or memoirs so that I could tie the movies I saw to my publishing blog and keep one step ahead of the “tend to your knitting” crowd. (You know who you are!)
 
How to Grift a Press Pass to an international  film festival: Up at dawn I knew the challenge would be to convince someone (it would turn out to be the very handsome D’Arcy Drollinger from Springer Associates in New York City) that I was, indeed, worthy of a press pass. How was I going to pull this off, simple blogger that I am?  Here’s how I did it:   (more…)

What a great idea to have Novel Night at the library in East Hampton, New York. An estimated 250 author groupies showed up at the cocktail party held on a lush grassy patch of lawn behind the library and approximately 375 deeper-pocketed benefactors/patrons/sponsors headed over to “one of 22 lovely East Hampton private homes” for dinner later that night where authors would hold court.

Of course, it is very busy in The Hamptons this time of year and I was torn about which of five big events to attend. Former President Bill Clinton and Junior Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton were in town for two very pricey fundraisers. I thought about going, but I just couldn’t see how I could force down $1000 worth of scrambled eggs at breakfast and knock back $2000 worth of margaritas at the cocktail hour, and still be able make it to my event of choice, Novel Night, at 6:30 pm—where all those local authors were corralled and captive under the big tent.

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