orgasmic sweet tea will help you #digdeeper

A snippet/teaser from the makers of DIG. It has nuns in it. These nuns aren't scary at all!
(Ha, no. I'm just messing with you. These nuns will haunt your dreams--the first time I saw this snippet I was incredibly nervous. These nuns seem worse than 
The Omen and The Exorcist combined. Whoever decided to put these nuns into the show DIG has a healthy sense for the sinister macabre.)

So, my DIG (on USA!) free PR work continues. But first, true confession: I can be a bit hot headed. To begin, I'd like to apologize to Jason Isaacs for being so hot headed the other night (I don't know if he noticed or not). But I would also like to state that Jason Isaacs is LUCKY there is massive evidence he's a nice man. He's my favorite again, but I'm still not ready to speak to him just yet. It's a long and geeky explanation--it involves a snow(less) day off of school I had, the DIG world premiere in New York City, and Jason's inability to stick to his own stated program: he asked for hard hitting questions they could ask the cast at the DIG world premiere. He specifically asked for this. On his Twitter page. He did not tweet: Hi everyone, tweet me all your easy questions I've been asked in other interviews. He tweeted: Hi everyone, hit us with your hard questions about DIG. Hard questions, not the easy already asked questions. Hard.

Honestly, I really couldn't think of any hard hitting questions when his tweet hit my Twitter feed; my brain is in massive burn out most days of the week. But the next day, I got an unexpected day off which meant some more sleep. Whilst cleaning my kitchen that morning, I thought of a brilliant--a stunning and brilliant--hard hitting question for Jason or any of his cast mates to answer. Seriously, I'm in the wrong job--I should be working for E! News or somebody. So I posted it. I followed the hash tag directions and posted it to him. Then, my smart brain thought of, like, 3 more. And one was a thoughtful yet super fun one that any other normal human being would have read and gone: ta da! Awesome, Amy, thanks for doing all the interviewers' work for them! 

But no. No, Jason Isaacs did not do that. He picked a question I'd already seen/heard him answer in about 5 other interviews and he went with that one. The repercussions for him, from my house in Atlanta, GA were absolutely stupefying. OMG. I was SO mad at him! So mad.

I wasn't mad because I expected any of my questions to be chosen; it was that he'd asked for hard-hitting. If you ask me for hard-hitting, then by god, I will give you what you want and I will serve it to you in stilettos with a Scarlett O'Hara accent on a china plate; a Southern special with a side of barbecue sauce that'll make you drool 'til next week, and a sweet tea that tastes like orgasms you can only dream of. But furthermore and also: I followed that hash tag question thingy all day; I saw some other amazingly astute questions people clearly poured their hearts and soul into as well. I'd see a new one post and go: Oh, high five, DIG on USA fans! You people are smarties! Then the questions started at the world premiere, which we were all invited to watch online as they happened. And what did Jason do? Instead of drinking orgasmic sweet tea, he went out for McDonald's instead.

Jason! Isaacs! So. MAD. at you. I think I even said some British swears in your direction, so you'd really understand me.

At any rate, my hot headed self got her panties in a wad, went back and deleted all her questions. Basically what I'm saying is: I'm sorry, I over-reacted, please don't feel bad, Jason--I've done the SAME thing to family members on Facebook...ask them about it; they'll tell you the stories with a lot of drippingly sarcastic, hard eye rolling. (If Jason and I actually knew each other for real in real life, I would have deleted the Facebook posts, then refused to answer his phone calls or return his emails and texts, for at least 3 days. Later, after I was taking his calls/emails again and we'd made up, if ever the incident came up, I'd become incredibly smart-alecky with him. Two years after the fact, even.)

I don't know if you can tell or not: histrionic drama queen is a genetic marker in my family. Mother's side. (Father's side has combative arguers with addictive personality issues.) I don't have proof, but I may have Sicilian in my genetic pool somewhere. Or Israeli--I have a friend who says Israelis are very hot headed, too. And my last name indicates I may have Biblical connections so...

He's forgiven. I like him too much. He's one of my storyteller heroes, and it's hard for me to stay mad at a talented, nice guy storyteller hero beyond 48 hours. (However, if he really wants to make it up to me, he can get me into Sundance 2016.)

Okay.  Onto DIG (on USA!).

You guys! Oh my GOD! You guys! Do you understand that it's less than a week away? I'm not even kidding! Five! Five days away! Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and then Thursday night is THE night! 10 PM (EST) on USA Network!

In the meantime, do you even know what cool, awesome things you can do while you wait? You could download the DIG decoder app--when you point it at posters and pictures you see around town, you might have a cool hologram of Jason Isaacs pop up at you, just like Princess Leia in Star Wars except he's a dude. And you can win cool prizes on the app, I've read, but I don't know what the cool prizes are.(I confess: I can't get the app to work properly on my phone. I bet this is because I have an Android and not an iPhone.) (But guess what, iPhone freaks, guess what? I'm ALSO not always having to run out every 6 months to stand in over-crowded Apple stores every time Apple tells me I need to drop $900 on their newest gadget.)

What I've become slightly addicted to (having an addictive personality, this would happen, naturally) is the Dig Decoded game. (digdecoded.com). If you like solving puzzles, this is for you. If you like linguistics, solving codes, and ancient archeological historical facts, then seriously, go do this game. It will be your JAM. The best part? Big, exotic prizes, like a trip to somewhere amazing and ancient. Y'all! This is like Candy Crush Saga, but with actual, tangible prizes! Unlock each level and get closer to an actual PRIZE. All you get with Candy Crush Saga is a lot of swearing, staying up late, and everyone who loves you plotting to get you on A&E's show Intervention. (I don't play Candy Crush Saga, but I know people who do...I know someone who plays TWO Candy Crush Sagas--one on her phone, one on her husband's. AT THE SAME TIME. That's a cry for help, in a Tetris matrix hell.)

Anyway, I started the game sort of very casually, and 60 minutes later was all: Damn you, USA Network! I don't have time or room for another addiction! I've got things to DO.

(sigh.) This is just diabolical. This is going to be just like SERIAL, I can just feel it. Somebody else is going to be on a plane to Israel or Croatia at the end, and I'm going to be consoled with a t-shirt or something. But it's fine. It's FINE! Jason Isaacs is going to get me into Sundance 2016.

So, let's see...did I cover everything I wanted to? (I have a list with me--mad at Jason Isaacs, now I like him again because it's too hard not to like him plus he can't help it since he's a man and they do a lot of stupid things (I'm sorry, boys, but you do--it's the Y chromosome, which I suspect is a defective X chromosome), Dig app, and the Dig Decoded game which I'm already addicted to and I can tell it's going to be a problem.

But MOST important, on Thursday? You are going to be SO sad on Friday if you don't watch DIG (on USA!) at 10/9 Central. Because you will  miss espionage, intrigue, history, blood, red cows, crazy religious fanatics (my personal favorites), and naked people having sex (which is, in my opinion, the preferred way to do it). Apparently, this show has EVERYthing. And it was filmed on location in Jerusalem, Croatia, and New Mexico. The only thing they messed up on was not finding a way to fit Atlanta into the story line. But the important thing is you will miss out if you don't watch. I bet there's going to be code words throughout each episode, and if you don't watch, everyone's going to be speaking code around you and you won't know! You won't even know.

Here. Go watch this--it's the official music video trailer for the show. It features the song I'D LIKE TO CHANGE THE WORLD by British band Ten Years After. Except a talented lady named Jetta is doing the updated version of this. Still, how did the DIG creators know?! How did they KNOW I dig 60's/70's music AND British rock bands?! Whoever's scoring this show might be my soul mate. (No, seriously. I'm actually being serious: do you want to meet for drinks?) 

DIG (on USA)Go watch this--if you remain uninterested, there's clearly something very wrong with you and I'm sorry, we can't be friends:

Holy cow (literally)! Isn't that a great song? And it fits so well with everything I've heard about the premise of the show. Now. If they stick a couple of Barry Manilow songs into an episode or two, I'll KNOW whoever's scoring this show is my soul mate and we should run away to Fiji together and swim naked in the Pacific and eat crab legs on the beach. (But only after DIG's last episode, okay? Someone told me the final show will blow your mind.)


perils of memoir.

Before I begin, may I do a quick, do-gooder, feel-good plug? My friend Angie is desperately trying to raise money to send a sweet, handsome, good mannered young man to a private school. He's being bullied at his current school, and he has a life story that'll break your heart if you knew all the details. You may not have the money to donate, but if you could, that would be fantabulous. If you can't, would you consider sharing this link with people you know, or people you know who might be able to donate? You'll earn 10,000 good Karma points, I promise.

Okay, now on to my thoughts about perils of memoir:

Sooo...you know how, a few days ago, I wrote a piece here about my experience of going to Presbyterian Sunday school? And you know how, a few days ago, in the piece I wrote about Presbyterian Sunday school, I sort of threw my own mother under the bus for making me go to Presbyterian Sunday school? Yes. Well, here is why we don't write about our parents until AFTER they are dead:

Obviously, my memory is faulty. In my mother's defense, I DO remember her teaching a Sunday school class at this church. And I remember it because she taught her students either about Passover or Moses taking his people out Egypt or something, and I remember that because my mother (the original hands-on teacher) baked unleavened bread at home so the children could taste the same kind of food God's People wandering the desert might have eaten. And I remember the unleavened bread because it. was. gross. (and possibly gluten-free; god bless you gluten-free people, I really don't know how you do it).

In MY defense, I would like to say: I do remember my mom being at home at least once or twice and my dad dropping my brother and me off, curbside, and then peeling away into a Sunday sunrise for 45 minutes to an hour. It's times like these I wish my dad were here still, so we could take this matter to family court. Because I do remember this happening. But okay okay, mom, I do admit: I probably used a bit of too much artistic license when I made grossly overstated claims that it happened every single Sunday. I mean, obviously, my mom was dropping us off and peeling off into her Sunday school classroom.

My teacher DID have dark, bouffant hair, and the room was dark wood-paneled. And the teacher was the opposite of happy with me when she uncovered my Sunday school truancy. And the whole bathroom bit with the old lady was an actual, true thing that really, really happened. (Freakin' old ladies in bathrooms, honestly.)

I also feel like I need to say, in my mom's defense and because I know she's probably worried about it, I do not shirk organized religion today because of Presbyterian Sunday school or anything my mom did. I shirk organized religion today simply because it doesn't work for me, who I am right now or where I'm at. If I can find an organized religion that teaches love, goodwill to all humanity, and doesn't think it has aaaaallll the answers and is the foremost final and only correct version of the Divine Infinity; if I can find an organized religion that doesn't have sects of followers that are nuttier than a jar of peanut butter; and if I can find an organized religion that doesn't try to guilt trip its followers into constantly giving them a huge chunk of whatever little money they earn at whatever jobs they do, then I will concede. I will join the this organized religion, and I will be happy and shut up about it.

THAT'S why I don't do organized religion--I have a healthy sense of Something Bigger than me out there (which I call God for convenience's sake...Mom! Success!), but I think the peaceful religions are still pretty judge-y and the not-so peaceful ones, well. I mean helloooo: ISIS. That's what happens when you don't have all your shit together and under control, Organized Religion.

But getting back to my original point: herein lies the peril of memoir. Memories are faulty, and sometimes the actual event may need a little storytelling magic to make it more fun for a reader. But then feelings can get hurt, and I think I hurt my mom's, and I didn't intend for that to happen. I'm sorry, and I love you, Mom.

Wait--can I tell everyone how fabulous my mom is? Let me tell you a story about how deep my mother's love runs:

So I had this dog growing up. Her name was Sassy. Sassy was my childhood companion, my doggy best friend, and I grieve her passing to this day. I was also wholly responsible for her existence on the planet, because we owned her mother, a temperamental Lhasa Apso named Muffin who peed on EVERYthing. Muffin went into heat (I guess because, maybe, back in the 70's spaying or neutering your animals wasn't a thing? My parents made sure her daughter, Sassy, who we kept, got spayed and spayed GOOD) and a stray French poodle we called Pierre knocked her up. I was told NOT to let Muffin out of the house when Pierre was sniffing around, but it was not explained why to me. Thus, being a curious 8 year old, I did it anyway...this is how I continue to get into all of my scrapes and misfortunes at 43, by the way: explain it to me, or I'm doing it anyway.

At any rate, X weeks later, voila! Puppies. Sassy was the runt of the litter and the feistiest, so we gave Muffin away to some gay hairdressers (who left her alone and she promptly peed all over their designer couch) and kept Sassy.

One day, years and years later, Sassy got old. Her eyes had cataracts. She was tired all the time. Her memory was shot--she'd go outside, forget to pee/poop, and come inside and do it. She was a mess, and felt icky, and it was clearly time for someone to make a hard decision. (Years later, I'd have my own animal, a cat named Tasha, who would be in the same predicament, and I would be unable to make this hard decision...and so God would make it for me, and when God makes decisions like this for you, let me just say: God can be a bit of dick about it. And that's only because I was such a dick not to make the hard decision and do the right thing for Tasha...sort of the Universe's hands-on teaching method: "Don't do this again, okay? This hurts. She's hurting, and so now you are, too." That kind of thing.)

I couldn't bear to let Sassy go, I didn't want to say good-bye. Good-byes are very very hard for me; they always have been, they always will be.

We were traveling to see family that Christmas so my mom told me we were putting Sassy in a boarding kennel as always and to come say good-bye to her. I'd never been asked to say good-bye any of the other times we'd put her in a kennel while we went on vacation, so I was suspicious. I said good-bye and that was that.

Here's where my mother's sacrifice and love comes out: coming home, my mom knew what would happen. The Truth would be revealed. However, while at our relatives' house, she got sick with the flu. I mean SICK. Vomiting, diarrhea, temperature...all of it. My mom, who has an incredibly low pain threshold, came home anyway, even though she was begged to stay and fly back when she felt better. It was bad weather, and our flight got delayed by hours. My mom laid in an airport, sick beyond belief, and then flew home in misery because she didn't want me to find out about what had actually happened to my beloved friend, my childhood companion, without her being able to comfort me and explain it.

So that's my mom. Sunday school sleeper inner (in my head), unleavened breads/hands-on teacher, secret keeper (not really--she's as bad at that as I am), self-sacrificer. Who thinks I should go to church on Sundays. And will write guilt-trip inducing corrections on your birthday card if you cross her. But I also got my incredibly ironic and macabre sense of humor from her, and so thanks mom!

Be careful when penning memoir, Internet. There are WAY too many fact checkers out there. And they will put it on a home-made Hallmark card, they will put it right there, don't you make them!


birthday intentions.

So I saw this yesterday, from Rob Brezny, who basically should be running the Universe. Even if you're not a big fan of or believer in astrology, I think it's pretty easy to see he's just astute about how Spirit works. (This was his Spirit observation for Pisces. If you aren't Pisces and want to know how to run your week, go HERE.)

"It isn't normal to know what we want," said
pioneering psychologist Abraham Maslow. "It is a rare and difficult
psychological achievement." That's the bad news, Pisces. The good news
is that you may be on the verge of rendering that theory irrelevant. In the
coming weeks, you will be better primed to discover what you really want
than you have been in a long time. I suggest you do a ritual in which you
vow to unmask this treasured secret. Write a formal statement in which
you declare your intention to achieve full understanding of the reasons
you are alive on this planet."

So here's the thing about that--today is my birthday (it's okay if you didn't send a present; I'm having Hibachi for dinner tonight, and so I'll try to forgive you). 

And of course, I have some thoughts about becoming 43:

A) In my head, I'm only 15. Some days maybe a faux-worldly 23. But I know I don't feel 40+3 years in age. In my head.

B) In my body, I also don't feel 43. ...Until I try to do a cartwheel. Or go backwards into a semi-handstand, which I was (once upon a time in a galaxy far far away) able to do. I did a cartwheel in my front yard this past spring at the urging of Miss M, and I really thought I was going to break an arm. (Yoga. What I'm saying is: I need to start taking yoga more serious.) On the plus side, I was blessed with good skin and I work with young children (who will completely exhaust the crap out of you in ways you don't even know about unless you work with them day to day...and yet their brains and worldview are so fresh and young, yours will be that way, too), so I usually shock people when I tell them my actual age. And that's nice, because I like shocking people. A lot.

C) I am 43 today, and the only stamp I have in my passport is to the Bahamas (the Bahamas don't count). Why is this still so? I should have 20 stamps to the UK, 10 stamps to Italy, and a smattering of stamps to somewhere ancient. This simply can't continue.

D) I'm going to spend the next 12 months getting my shit in place. Because I will confide to you (don't tell anyone else this, please) that my shit, at 43, is all over the place. It is seeping out from under the toilet, it's been flung onto walls, flakes of it are sticking to the backs of my legs and I've been walking around like that for months and nobody's even said a thing to me about it. So now at 43, I'm feeling a really intense need to give my bathroom a really good, deep cleaning. That's my focus for the next 12 months: cleaning shit--out of my toilet, off the walls, from cracks in the corners. What a messy, gross, nauseous job this is going to be, but when it's done I know I'll feel better. Everyone around me will, too.

E) Here's a photo montage of what my life looked like 40 or so years ago:

It's not very noticeable here, but basically I spent the first 3 months of my life
looking like a Native American papoose.

This is from when smoking carcinogens around young children was okay.
Didn't sit in a car seat, either.
I love this picture, a lot, so I'm sharing it with you.

And this picture, too.

Right after this was snapped, I bet I did something to make him cry. 
Don't feel bad for my little brother! When we got older, he made me

Qunitessential 1970s, right down the Olan Mills stamp.

And here's a photo montage of what is the most important part of my world today:

This is classic Miss M: confused, and ANGRY.

Dorothy and her little Toto...

And just Dorothy (fake Toto's in the basket).
...Miss M and I may have sort of a thing about the Wizard of Oz.
...and I may have brainwashed her early on, on purpose.

Sweet Miss M, my confused, angry, kind-hearted, hilarious, smart, busy little dramatic princess.

F) Mostly what I'll be concentrating on for the next 12 months is a lot of what Rumi had to say about a lot of everything, because Rumi was pretty on it. And particularly THIS, this quote:

I'm going to clean up my shitty bathroom, focus on my sweet little dramatic princess, figure out how to get more stamps in my passport, work on my flexibility so I can do a handstand without killing my 43 year old body...You know, just basically doing what Rob Brezny told me to do: writing formal statements in which I declare my intention to achieve full understanding of the reasons I am alive on this planet. 

(It may not be your birthday, you may be older or younger than 43, and you may not be a Pisces, but you, too, are welcome to write some formal statements about your intentions to understand your reasons for being here, too.) (Oh, hey--and if you do that? Would you also consider coming over to help me clean my shitty bathroom? Just the toilet. It's the worst part, and I think I'm going to need all the help I can get.)



I'm sorry, everybody. I got nothing for you this weekend. No deep insights, no major announcements, no minor announcements. No irreverent observations about the state of the human condition (though I did re-watch the movie CONTACT today and was struck by two things: Matthew McConaughey was heartbreakingly young in 1997...and subtle contact with aliens, while difficult to prove, keeps Life interesting.)  I got fresh color and highlights at the hair salon today, and a really magnificent scalp massage. Then I took myself out to lunch for tortilla soup, and listened to three little girls who sounded and looked like Jim Henson's Muppets argue for 10 minutes about a boy and his name. It was The. Best. Thing. Of my whole day.

Other than that, I'm empty. Tapped out. Drained. Mentally done. Psychically exhausted. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Negative infinity. But I know some of you come here every weekend looking for...well, I'm not sure what, but I've gained a reader in Osaka, Japan, and I don't want to let him or her down. And the number of hits from Germany my blogspot statcounter is giving me! Mein Gott, Deutschland...I'm flattered, really. Please come back in droves again next week, when hopefully I have more in my brain to share.

So here, let me do this. Can I share one of my most favorite songs with you? This is a Life Theme Song for me (my other Life Theme Songs being I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor and True Colors by Cyndi Lauper, depending on my mood, the season, and what time of day it is).

But THIS song. This song is how I try to approach 9 out of 10 of all my relationships, and I think if everyone did this, particularly love relationships, we could totally get Donald Trump off TV for once and for all (wouldn't that be a blessing?).

Hey, and you know what else?

You are so enough it's freaking unbelievable. Go forth this week, and be completely, utterly, totally ENOUGH.


presbyterian sunday school.

This is it: the Presbyterian church I successfully avoided
for weeks in my pre-teens.
I have one story for you tonight, and the only reason I'm telling it is because it popped into my head last night because I'd written the last couple of times about not being told about special Hebrew names or the red heifer that signals the start of Armageddon. They did not teach us about either of those interesting facts in Presbyterian Sunday school.

So I thought of a story about Presbyterian Sunday school to give you one layer of why I'm just a cultural Christian, a Christian by birth only (big fan of Jesus, leary of 90% of his followers):

So I hated getting up on Sunday for Sunday school. This is when I'm entering my teen years--no longer a girl, not quite a woman. It simply didn't make sense to me that, the ONE day there is hard evidence the Lord God wants everybody to rest, people have to get up early and go somewhere. That's not cool. If God says rest, then you should be, you know...SLEEPING IN.

My mom and dad disagreed with God. Particularly my mom, because I feel like my dad probably didn't really care either way. He only went to church on Christmas Eve or when my mom guilt tripped him into it. So listen to this fresh piece of hypocritical Christianity bullshit:

Every Sunday, my dad would make my little brother and me get up early so we could go to Presbyterian Sunday school (side note: I don't know if I'm supposed to capitalize "school" or not...I probably should, but I started out lowercasing it, so I'm staying with that). Early every Sunday morning, we'd be unceremoniously yanked out of our beds by my father's loud and demanding voice to get a move on it. We'd have to dress, put on our Sunday best, and then sulk in the back of his car as he drove us to the church.

Meanwhile, guess where my mom was? My mom, the one who demanded this torture occur each Sunday? Oh, you don't know her but I bet you already know the answer: in bed. Fast asleep. Obeying God.

So my dad would dump us, unceremoniously, on the curb on the side of the church. Then he'd peel off into the sunrise. I don't know where he went, what he did. If we'd lived somewhere with bars, he'd have found a place to commune with The Holy Spirit (and buy it beers). We did not have bars, so I bet he found a nice quiet coffee shop somewhere and read the newspaper for 45 minutes to an hour.

I did not enjoy Sunday school. I had a nervous, insecure teacher with bouffant, dark hair and the room was dark wood-paneled and stuffy in the spring/summer, cold in the winter/fall. I remember loving to hear Jesus' stories--what a consummate, innate storyteller, that guy. Other than that, I remember spending a lot of time doing worksheets. Key word in that compound word being WORK. WORKsheets. WORK. Again: the opposite of one of the most important Ten Commandments, second only to not coveting someone's ass (Kim Kardashian's excluded).

I don't know why or how this occurred to me, but one day after my dad had dropped us off and peeled off down the road, I looked across the street and realized: that's a gas station over there. Gas stations sell candy. And soda. And comic books (I always needed good reading material, and I'd read anything when I was a 7th grader...I remember I spent a lot of time at the school library checking out all of the biographies, then moved on to all of the plays, then moved on to the dictionaries. Literally, I ALWAYS had a book in my hands).

See the side of the church? That's where my pain began.
Every Sunday morning.
So the next Sunday, I brought my allowance with me, and my allowance was just enough money to buy 1 soda, 1 candy bar, and 1 comic book (I liked Archie comics the best). When my dad's car was well out of eyesight, I sneaked across the street and bought my paraphernalia. Then, I sneaked back into the church and found the safest spot I could think of: the women's restroom. In a stall. Locked. Sitting on the commode.

For the next 45 minutes, in this locked stall of the ladies' bathroom, sitting on a toilet fully dressed, I would eat my candy, drink my soda, and blissfully and happily read my comic book. I was RESTING, y'all. Obeying God's word. That's all that was. And it worked beautifully, for many many weeks.

Until it all began to unravel.

The foil to my Beautifully Working Plan started the one Sunday I was blissfully chewing and reading away, and an old lady came into the bathroom. She used the facilities, washed her hands, and then...didn't leave. I froze. I stopped chewing, I quietly closed my comic book on my lap and waited. The old lady stood and stood and stood by the sink for the longest time. (What is she DOING?? I thought. Old ladies are soooo weird, I thought.) Finally, after what felt like millennium, she knocked softly on my stall door and said, "Honey? Y'all all right in there?" Oh God. Oh Jesus.

"Um, yes," I answered weakly.

"You just havin' some trouble, sweet pea?" she asked. I said I was and I'd be okay, I just needed to be alone. Then, bless it, she left.

The nail in my coffin came the following Sunday. Unbeknownst to me, my mom suddenly decided she felt like going to a church service. Now I see that Old Bathroom Lady probably said something to Big Hair Bouffant Sunday School Teacher Lady, who maybe said something to my mom. I HAD to go to Sunday school that Sunday. NO secret gas station visit, NO candy, NO soda, NO comic book. Sunday school. During which Bouffant Hair Sunday school teacher was strangely cool towards me.

After the church service, my mom had a conversation with nervous, insecure, clearly seething Bouffant Hair Sunday School Lady. In front of me, the Sunday school teacher praised my tremendous and obvious love for Jesus' storytelling abilities, then inquired about my health. Was I okay? Today, this Sunday, was the first time she'd seen me in weeks. My mother glanced over at me with disappointed disdain and let me know: we'd need to talk.

Jesus Christ. I mean, seriously. WHAT is an almost-teenage girl supposed to do when confronted with such obvious hypocrisy to the word of God? I think I handled the whole situation with aplomb, and quite maturely for my age.

At any rate, my toilet/candy/soda/comic book days concluded and I was recaptured, an inmate in the prison of dark wood-paneling and WORKsheets again. Bouffant hair. We tried to amuse ourselves; the boys would pass gas just to offend the teacher. The girls would sit sulking and make bitchy faces at her. We were such assholes.

If I ever start a religion, all the pre-teenagers and teenagers will get to sleep in late on the Sabbath. When they do go to church, there will be tubs of soda, candy, and comic books. The way to win people to your deity is through their hearts, NOT worksheets and dark wood paneled rooms. Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Ghandi, and Mother Teresa all agree with me; I'm sure I could go to Google and find tons of evidence.

The End.


pick good names.

I am having a Snow Day (actually, it's an Ice Day) (actually actually, it's a Winter Day but there was some ice up in the northern tiers of where I work, so they had to cancel the whole thing--it's hard to stop the Titanic once it's in motion).

So I thought I'd do some writing. Here. In front of you, Internet.

Here's what I've done today:

1. I made pancakes.
2. I hung out on social media.
3. I took a shower and got dressed.
4. I watched a movie.
5. I did some teacher work.
6. Now I'm here.

Let's talk about the most exciting part of my day--the movie I watched. Because I think you need to see it.

It's called BELLE. It was airing on HBO this afternoon, so I watched it (because it's a period piece, and I am all about period pieces). It's based on the true story of Dido Elizabeth Belle (played by Gugu Mbatha-Raw). Dido was the illegitimate, mixed race daughter of a West Indies slave and Capt. John Lindsay, a Royal Navy officer. When Dido's mother died, Capt. Lindsay took Dido back to England. She was raised by her great-uncle Earl William Murray and his wife Elizabeth. William Murray was also England's Chief Lord Justice to the Supreme Court--he made the rules and was super powerful. Dido grew up with William and Elizabeth's niece, Lady Elizabeth Murray, who was pretty much unacknowledged and unaccepted by her own father because he'd remarried. William and Elizabeth treated both Lady Elizabeth and Dido as if they were their own daughters.

....except when it came time to eat. Because Dido pretty much had to eat by herself. She was too high brow to eat with the servants, but too low brow (skin color) to eat with them. And this was basically Dido's entire life: she never fit in anywhere, really. Too much of a gentlewoman to be a servant, too much like a servant to be a true gentlewoman. Ditto when it came to marriage. No self-respecting English gentleman wanted a mixed race illegitimate wife. Back in 1700s England.

When Capt. Lindsay died, he left Belle a very comfortable inheritance. And that's where things got dicey. Because her cousin, Lady Elizabeth, HAD to find a man. Elizabeth's father never acknowledged her, so she pretty much was to receive nothing when her uncle William Murray died and her dick of dad got it all. Aren't you thankful for Women's Lib, ladies? Frickin' men.

At any rate, Oliver Ashford (Tom Felton) comes in at one point, doing a fairly evil turn as a potential Lady Elizabeth suitor, and Belle has to make a choice between marrying Ashford's brother (who is nicer than Oliver but still only marrying her because she's like an interesting trinket to him...oh, and she's got money and his family is pretty poor) (the British class system was BRUTAL)...or marrying a much nicer, cuter, and more passionate John Davinier (yummy Australian Sam Reid) (that was very female chauvinist of me to add that word "yummy" to Sam's name and I'm only slightly sorry about it).

This soundsJUST like a Jane Austen novel, doesn't it? But it's a true story! Because Davinier was an abolitionist and with the help of Belle, he successfully convinced Belle's great-uncle to make a ruling that set the forces in motion for England to outlaw slavery. Way in advance of the United States. NO CIVIL WAR NECESSARY. (America, listen up! Next time? Just watch how England does it.) (That's a fine irony.)

I cried and was thoroughly touched in several spots by this film. I'd say the overarching theme to it, it's primary message, was Love. Courage and Love. It was heartbreaking to see how very little power women truly had over their lives, and if you were a brown-skinned woman? Lands help you. The world really didn't work in your favor. As the mother of a 21st century mixed race child, I can see first hand how this still happens, quite a bit. Obviously, people have advanced a lot socially and have developed good social filters...but the subtle signs are still around, that this "you kinda don't really belong anywhere, do you?" message continues to be sent.

But I thought it also said a lot about sacrifice, how willing human beings can be to sacrifice themselves for love. And it was a commentary on how far we've come as a planet, and perhaps how much farther we have to go (because, I assure you, there are still Oliver Ashfords out there in the world). 5 stars and two thumbs up from this not-a-real-film-critic chick.

So please see it if you have a chance. (If you have HBO, you should have a lot of chances right now.)

Now. Let's talk about one more thing before I go: names.

What's in a name? Letters. Hopefully at least one or two vowels. True story: I got a student once with NO vowels in her name. Seriously. And her mother's name was even worse--I'm surprised it wasn't just a symbol. She tried to tell me what her name was but I couldn't even...my brain almost exploded. I just nodded at her and thought: M'am, your name is ridiculous. Try again.

But also, power. Names have letters (hopefully lots of vowels) and POWER. They can bestow their owners with a certain kind of bent toward a certain kind of personality, good health, creativity, sense of self. I have a friend who just informed me the other day that Jewish people all have a special Hebrew name. What?! They didn't teach us about THIS in Presbyterian Sunday school either! (Possibly because it was Presbyterian Sunday school.) So Jewish people give their children a special Hebrew name that's meant to empower them, or honor family, or both. And then there's also something you can do called Gematria, which has something to do with using numbers to the letters in the name, that will also further empower the name bearer.  In addition to this, whenever they want to, Jewish people can add names to their names. Like, if you're having a bad financial year? Go find a Hebrew name that will help fix that and add it to your existing one.

This is magical, and y'all should know by now: I like magical.

So, given my current Life flux and imbalance situation, I asked: Hey, uh...could I have a Jewish/Hebrew name? Even though I was raised by descendants of the Calvinists. And she said: Yeah, why not? So she gave me some Internet research homework to do (yay! my favorite thing!).  She told me to look up the story of Haddassah, aka Queen Esther, which means Compassion. That was a good start. But she said to also look at Shifrah and Puah, midwives who defied Pharaoh's orders to kill all newborn Jewish boys. (What IS it with the world and killing Jews? Huh? Seriously, Humanity. STOP it. You look insane.) Instead of just refusing to do it, which would obviously get them killed by Pharaoh, they were very crafty and pretended they wanted to obey orders but couldn't; Jewish women were too hardy and kept giving birth and hiding the babies before they could get there.

In the end, I was most drawn to the story of Puah, aka Miriam, which translates to Splendid. Miriam is known for her power to speak and pacify the cries of children; she's a baby whisperer. When Pharaoh does send guards finally to capture Puah and Shifrah, God turns them into beams that uphold a house. The symbology being these are two incredibly strong women who are fortresses. Rabbi Jonathan Sachs has said they were the first recorded examples of civil disobedience, abolitionists and proponents of social justice of their own time.

 Here's a poem that spoke to my soul (source: Shifrah and Puah, agitators for inner freedom):


Like freedom fighters

who pray with their feet
I protest for inner-peace

though paraplegic in comparison
to prodigious heels 
of powerful men

my prayerful wheels

spin tales of inner-freedom
and entone hymns of mindful treatment 
of children and kin

I commit to calm the din of crying infants 

with the easy clicking of my teeth
I speak for those who do not yet know how to speak

My freedom fighting is not political

that task is for a hardier class 
of jewish girl

for me - the Egyptian fiend 

is personal 

for the Pharoahs I dethrone 

rule the halls of each of our homes

in the inner-alcoves of a private despair

that petrifies the children 
and paralizes the parents
that inprisons our finest hours 
of family commitment and contentment

I prefer to peddle wares 

of wars-well-avoided
where everyone wins
through carefully worded 
apologies and the timely 
airing of grievances 
between friends

for cowering beneath the pyramids 

of needs – my fiends 
are the menacing insecurities of adolescents
and the lethal bickerings of parents
- the noisome whines of needy toddlers
and the all-too-common-household-hollers 
that oppress our most precious commodities
of family

my enemies crouch quietly beneath

the crumbs on the living room carpet
a beast between the sheets 
of a cold-shouldered bedroom
where partners sleep
and deeply out of tune
with the exquisite call 
of their common dreams

I come to loosen the shackled lips

of fathers and mothers
that they may better utter
their astounded praise
at the miracle of a house full 
of filthy shoes, spilled soup
and their children''s most innocent mistakes

My task is to counter the 

armor-clad offensive
against love and friendship 
- to incite a protest against 
the enslavement of a trillion 
inner prophets of tranquility
whose gentle-tongued souls 
are daily buried beneath 
straw burdens of poor communication
and tossed out with the trashed 
afternoons of a mother''s 
epic impatience 

I come to play the Moses of relational redemption

in the face of a sink-full of grimy resentments

And so I call forth all fellow 

freedom fighters for inner-transformation 
midwives with wise hands
toting Torahs, toting infants, toting pens
all prayer-footed-protesters
come & herald in 
emotional freedom from the pharonic foe
and let us birth our children 
into peaceable homes

for when our houses enshrine tranquility

then outer-world will follow inner-lead

and rock-hard hearts 

will soften grips
and all that's enslaved 
will lithely slip
into the soft of freedom found
and take your shoes off
to walk around
for our houses are the 
hallowed ground
from which God speaks

So call me Puah, 

who quiets the cries
of children, slaves 
and the Pharoahs 

Isn't that breathtaking? "So call me Puah, who quiets the cries of children, slaves and the Pharaohs inside." I so deeply love that. Don't we all have a little bit of Pharaoh inside of each of us, and don't we all need to find someone, some way, to quiet it. Contain it and be bigger. So...Puah it is. Except I prefer the more English-y version. Puah makes me think "Winnie the Pooh," who was very cute and cuddly and very silly and wise, but I'm going for a bit more than that.

.......okay, fine. No I'm not. I would love to be known as cute and cuddly and silly yet wise. You can call me Pooh if you'd like. It'll be our secret handshake.

She also sent me to listen to (I forget why now, but it doesn't really matter) to "Tikvah," the Israeli national anthem. Tikvah translates to "Hope." And so I went to YouTube and found Israel's national anthem, and fell in love with it. It's a song that's mournful and full of hope, all at once. Kind of like this gal, me.

Miriam Tikvah. Splendid Hope. Based on a woman who defied the authorities and did what was right, not what was expected. Kind of like Dido, back in 1700s England. And look at what can be wrought when we stand up for ourselves, for what is right not just what is. 

For the record, I've always been sort of sad my parents didn't name me Delilah, because wouldn't that have been perfect? Delilah Samson. (I once asked my dad: "Dad, why didn't you guys name me Delilah? It seems like a missed opportunity." And he said, "Because your mother and I weren't cruel people." Hah, that dad! Always thinking ahead.)

My name means Beloved. My middle name is Lynne, which means "waterfall." Beloved Waterfall. I like that, too. I didn't know until just now what "Lynne" translated to--I was truly worried it was going to be something odd like Wood or Grass or, worse, Cranky. (I can be that, quite a lot actually.)

Seriously, I think the Native Americans did it best: just name your kids the qualities you want them to possess, be it from Nature or in Personality. Splendid Hope, Beloved Waterfall, Dances With Wolves, Busy Little Bee (that would be my Miss M), Walks on the Wild Side, whatever. Just make sure they have vowels in their names. And STOP putting punctuation in people's names, it's weird. Don't name them stuff like Q'rDshVZ-Mklv. I'm not kidding. There's somebody walking around out there, right now, with a name just like that and they're never ever going to get a job. They'll be lucky if they get a high school diploma. Stop it, human beings. Pick good names.

Baruch H'ashem (that's all the conversational Hebrew I know).


The Promise (watch DIG! On USA!)

Many months ago, I made a promise to Jason Isaacs on his Instagram account that I would do a lot of free PR work (I have no idea how to do PR work) to promote his new, upcoming show DIG to all my friends, readers, followers, etc and so forth on my many and varied social media accounts (I only have 4 but Pinterest doesn't count since it's just the place I put all the health nut recipes I'll never actually make...okay, fine, 5 if you count LinkedIn but I never go there, unless it's to see who's looked at my LinkedIn page because I keep hoping someone famous will look at my LinkedIn page). 

Before I start doing free PR work for DIG's producers and Jason's employers, I feel like I need to explain why I'm doing it in the first place. Can I tell you the reason I made this promise?

First let me say: I don't want to get political, but to explain The Promise, I have to for a bit because it was sort of born out of politics (isn't everything nowadays?). ***

Second let me disclose upfront: I'm Team Israel. I don't agree with everything the Israeli government does, but I absolutely think Israel has a right to exist. You know what else I think? I think it's nice Israel is in the world, because they've been through enough, and downtrodden on throughout the ages, and so they deserve to be here, they've earned it. And screw you and your anti-semite ways if you think they should disappear (okay, that was extremely political) (but seriously: screw you).

Having said all that, I'll admit that I only partially understand the situation the people in Israel are dealing with. From what I can gather, everyone who's normal is really just trying to live their lives as best they can and would like to do it calmly. Then the political groups get involved and, lands y'all. To me it really looks like such a complicated mess. And in spite of reading as much as I can, I still think I'm only scratching the surface of understanding--this appears to be a multi-layered issue, with a lot of historical pain on both sides, and some very deep grudges. This will take a lot of very smart people being willing to do a lot of very smart listening and compromising to heal it. Personally, I think one way to bring about healing and understanding is via Story. 

So DIG got to shoot the first episode to its story in Old Jerusalem, in parts of the city even people who've lived there their whole lives have never gotten to see. This became a hostile situation, because a vocal anti-Israel group demanded the show not film there, but then the show filmed there. (This is an area that's a matter of contention; it's in the part of Israel they're calling Palestine, but Israel says that belongs to them and Palestine says no it belongs to them...and this is where the pain and the grudges all come vomiting up and people start yelling and someone throws something and then things snowball [sandstorm?] from there.)

One day, back in June, the protest group decided to launch an attack of hate-words against the series, and they chose to focus on one of the stars of the series, Jason Isaacs, as a (dare I say) Machiavellian means to get him to...actually, I'm not sure what they wanted. For him to quit the show? Start painting protest signs with them? Launch some rockets? Write firmly worded letters to the editor? I don't know. What I do know is I watched many of them try to bully him on his Twitter account, and try to bully him on his Instagram account. I watched him try to dialogue with them, but they weren't very interested in doing that, just making accusations and being rude, and so he gave up and just started blocking them. Which he had a right to do, because that is NOT how you are supposed to be using Twitter, people. Look it up--it says so all over their Terms of Service. 

Internet, if there is one thing I simply cannot and will not tolerate,it's bullies. Yes, I know--bullies bully because they were bullied. And yes, I know--Jason Isaacs is a big grown up boy who's worked for a long time in a cutthroat creative industry so his skin should be about 10 feet thick now. But when I see mean people in action, I'm sorry I don't care. Bullies who are derogatory and threatening are the pus in the pimple on the blighted, wrinkled ass of Humanity. Seriously, I don't even know what to do with you--the ice caps are melting, honey bees are mysteriously disappearing, 3 year olds are being sold into sex slavery in Thailand...and this is what you're choosing to do with your free time. You can't find something better to do than hang out being mean to strangers on the 'net? 

So after I read yet another personal attack against this very nice human who seems to simply be trying to eek out a peaceful existence by telling stories, I decided I would (from my little, quiet corner of the WWW) do whatever I could to make sure his show DIG was a huge, ginormous success. At least amongst the people I personally know and whoever reads this blog (hi, Mom!).

And THAT'S why I promised Jason Isaacs I'd promote his tv show to all my people. Bullies made me do it. And also: Jason Isaacs has kind eyes. And he talks storytelling in ways that make him the bees knees (or, as they'd say in his land: the dog's bollocks). More than all that, he says things like "blimey" and "ace" and "bloody." And he spells swanky. 

Okay, that's that, and let us move on, never speaking of these disgruntled, mean people and their angry, propaganda-based agendas again. Because you guys! Honestly, if you don't watch DIG (on USA!) starting March 5 at 10 PM Eastern Standard Time, you are going to be SO sad! I mean it--you are totally going to miss out. I really feel that this will turn out to be a compelling, breath-taking story that people will spend a lot of time trying to figure out and if you don't watch it, you aren't going to be invited into a bunch of really interesting, thoughtful conversations at work. I also sense it will have people freaking their freak about the darkness that exists in some people's souls, and wouldn't that be sad for you, if you couldn't freak your freak with everybody else. You'd just be sitting in your cubicle doing your work, or knitting some boring scarf, while everybody else will be figuring out how to save the planet from religious crazies. And they won't care, because it's your own fault--should've DVR'd DIG last week.

The story centers around an FBI agent named Peter Connelly who's come to Israel to investigate a murder. A terrible tragedy has happened to Peter--his daughter has died, and he's on the run, emotionally, from his demons. (Lord knows, I know lots about being on the lam from one's emotional demons. Peter Connelly and I could sit in dark bars and hide from our demons together over many drinks, I just feel it.)

At any rate, now he's in Israel trying to solve a murder. He does things like run around and get sweaty on top of ancient buildings, and when he's not doing that, he's sleeping with his boss (who he used to be the boss of, who is played by talented, lovely Anne Heche) because THAT doesn't make boardroom meetings awkward at all

It appears he gets into work tussles and power-ego plays with his Israeli detective counterpart, Detective Golen (played by Ori Pfeffer, an Israeli actor who I don't know a lot about, but I YouTube'd him and from clips from movies on there, he looks amazingly talented). Musician/actress Alison Sudol (who's simply lovely--I cannot say enough nice things about this sweet human being. I'm a humongous fan of her beautiful songs, thanks to this show...see? Story = connections) plays the young, murdered archeologist, who reminds Peter of his daughter. 

So as the story of DIG goes along, it looks like Peter will uncover a lot of strange, heebie jeebie, shit-in-a-Middle-Eastern-sandstorm kind of stuff. There will be confusion and espionage; just when you think you know someone, you'll find out: no you didn't, you didn't know them. 

From the prequel, I think there will be something in the storyline about bank fraud that will make your head spin (or, for people like me, unless they dumb this down, this part will make my eyes glaze over, since that's what happens to me whenever people start talking money math and accounting). Mostly, it looks like there will be groups of religious people trying to bring about the destruction of Earth so their religion's mythologies can come true (this I'm excited about, because it will make my head spin, and that's because I'm all about studying and picking apart religious crazies. They. Are. Frightening. And yet I can't stop staring at them).

Jason (who plays troubled Peter Connelly) has said after he read the script, he got on the Internet and started researching the stuff that was in it. And dagnabit if it wasn't truly true! I don't know exactly what all Jason researched, but when the red heifer symbol came about in some of the previews, I got on the Internet too and googled "red heifer" and had my mind blown away. Y'all! We never, ever discussed this in Presbyterian Sunday school! I remember talking about doves and lambs and sheep and a donkey, but NO RED HEIFERS. I'm kind of annoyed at my Sunday school teachers now. This seems like dire, important information they needed to tell us. Seriously, Google it, you'll see what I mean. 

I already like a lot of things about this show, and I haven't even seen it. I like that they filmed in Jerusalem and I'm sad they didn't get to do the whole thing there; I like that when they were there they got to go into some really historical locations because Israel is at the top of my bucket travel list: I would like to stand on ancient stones under the same sun and moon King Solomon made all his very judicious judge-y decisions under; I want to stand in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and ponder the last moments of a peaceful Jewish man from Nazareth, I want to visit Temple Mount and beg the Universe to save us from ourselves. I want to walk the Plain of Sharon and be a lily among thorns, a darling among maidens, even though I'm not anything close to a maiden now. 

I also like that, when they couldn't film all of it in Jerusalem because of war, they went and filmed in Croatia and Albuquerque, New Mexico, because that's what is so very magic about TV/Film storytelling: you just fake it til you make it. I haven't been to Croatia, but I have been to Albuquerque, and I did time in nearby Arizona, and let me tell you: weird ju-ju stuff goes on out in the Sonoran Desert. I am certain it's a ley line area. So I don't know about Croatia, but the American desert just makes so much sense for a story of this nature.

I really like that they've brought in a lot of diverse and feminine energy--they've used female directors and writers. Hollywood still hasn't completely seemed to receive the message that people with vaginas and/or brown skin can do a lot of cool story stuff, too. It's nice to see the makers of this show don't seem to suffer from that.

And most especially I like that it will be told in a perfect story arc. You know how you'll start watching a television series, and at the end of the season they'll leave you hanging so you'll come back next year? With this show you'll have a Beginning, a Middle, and a satisfying End. A The End--you will not have to wait until next season to find out what happens next, though like a good book you may end up really forlorn and lost for awhile that it's reached the end. 

I like that it will have an exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, denouement. Good stories have lots of rising action steps that rise and fall and rise and fall, aka cliff hangers within a story. Which I'm betting will be the endings of episodes 1-9, so you'll come back the next week (in novel format, this would be called: need to go to bed, but can't stop turning pages). Then I bet that Episode #10 will be The Answers/Denouement episode. That's nice, isn't it? Like a very long movie. A visual novel.

I like that NBC (which owns USA Network) seems to be one network that's attempting to keep up with the changing times of television viewing, and they are going all out to make DIG a success (I'm saying this as an outside observer--this is just what I've noticed, that if you're a TV network and you don't recognize that there are exactly 459874210965439360984 other options and ways for your viewers to get their TV stories, then you need to catch up): they had a prequel written on Wattpad.com. They're opening up some type of DIG Mystery Room/Escape Room thing you can do in select cities for this show (I actually did one of these yesterday with Miss M and her cousins...not the DIG one, just a Sherlock Holmes-themed room. Thank god for my gifted niece's brain--the adults just sat on the floor at one point and went, "We don't know?" while she figured out like 3 of the hardest clues. And then, after 45 minutes, we didn't know...and the Mystery Room shop guy had to tell us the solve and then we were all: OMG, we are soooo dumb! Honestly, how did we even dress ourselves? It was one of the simplest yet funnest things I've ever done...I want to go back and do it again, but this time with adults who've been drinking.)

Where was I? Right--DIG, sorry. So yes. Wattpad.com prequel, DIG your way out some Mystery/Escape rooms. Also there's a DIG decoder app--you download it and you can point at various things you see to help unlock mysteries. I think you may even luck out once in awhile and get a 3-D Jason Isaacs popping out at you, like Princess Leia in STAR WARS.I'll be participating because there's a possible trip to Israel (or Croatia) in it for me. I think there's one to Norway, too, but Norway seems very very cold right now. 

Also this is all over social media, and I think this whole thing has forced poor Mr. Isaacs, who seems to have never really been a big fan of having public conversations in front of strangers he doesn't know, to get on Twitter and Instagram and have public conversations in front of strangers he doesn't know. 

(Silver lining: it worked, Jason Isaacs! Because LOOK at you! You have like 30,000 Twitter devotees now, and about 28,000 of them frequently tweet sexual propositions to you. I only have about 380 Twitter devotees and 300 just proposition me to buy their newest products. Nobody has indicated they'd like to sleep with me at all, and frankly I'm all kinds of disappointed about this. What good is Twitter if no one's flirting with you? I mean, really.) 

Also, all y'all need to know that poor Jason has been suffering for Story, for Art, and for you to watch this show. I will just come right out and say that, if you watch for nothing else, then please watch it to help him heal, because it sounds like he may have some lasting concussions and nasty bruises from filming this. 

He claims he was hit in the face by a female coworker, and recently had to film in a haunted courtyard and, afterwards, then had to sit naked on the floor of a 65 million year old cave, risking hypothermia and stuff. Obviously, he's dedicated to his craft. Totally admirable. Getting smacked in the face for a story is hard work. I see now why there has to be so much swag at Sundance.

.....I'm sure Anne Heche and Alison Sudol also suffered flesh wounds and contusions and ripped ligaments while filming DIG, but they are women, and so they didn't whine about it. (I kid! I kid Jason Isaacs! Who has a marvelous sense of humor.) (But seriously--women don't complain about physical pain, just the emotional kind.)

So this is Part 1 of my blog promotion of the show, which I shall tweet and the retweet as the air date nears. There's a 30 minute preview you can watch by clicking HERE.

You can also go to YouTube and type in "Jason Isaacs DIG" or "Anne Heche DIG" or "DIG on USA" and you'll get all kinds of fabulous, exciting stuff to watch. And then the real deal starts on March 5, 2015 at 10 PM (East Coast) or 9 PM (Central). If you're in Europe or elsewhere in the world, I bet all this is probably giving you the sads because you guys have to wait to see it. But don't give up! I think they'll air it soon in your land, or at least put it on DVD or something so you can have it shipped to you. Which'll be nice because you won't have to sit through advertisements AND you'll get some extra features to enjoy. In the meantime, let's start a massive letter writing campaign to end this stupid embargo on television shows; if a show airs in one country, it ought to air in EVERY country, no wait period. Let's bring the planet together via boob tube. Want to? I think it could bring about world peace. (Have you SEEN Japanese game shows??)

If it goes well, and if everybody (except for some party poopers we are NOT going to talk about again) likes it, the story creators have hinted they can and will write some more edge-of-your-seat, perfect story arc thrillers set in other locations. Wouldn't that be nice? (I hope one is Atlanta, Georgia and that they will come find me and hire me to help write one whole episode. I will make sure Jason Isaacs gets smacked upside the head a few times in it; he appears to enjoy doing work that involves this.)

***This post was updated/edited on 2.18.15. Just the political part. Because I was given some historical information that opened my eyes to just HOW political the whole situation is in this area of the world. Mostly I learned some new things about the history of the area called Palestine, and......let me just say I slightly had to adjust what I wrote. Quite frankly, I'd really like to just delete ALL of that political stuff at the beginning, but I wrote it, it's out there now, and we're just going to move on. 

....though I'd also like to say: damn it, Human Beings! Can you just let a TV show be a TV show?! For god's sake, some days it's just embarrassing to be a person.