Okay, for all I know, maybe you are; what I know for a fact is that I’m not.

I’m trying to figure out why. Well, to be honest, I know why. I’m not disciplined, ambitious, or well-educated enough — and I’m not being all girlishly modest here, either. God knows, I’m remarkably disciplined, fiercely ambitious, and have degrees up the wazoo, but that isn’t enough: There was never a chance for me to be the SOMG. Part of me believes you have to be born to it, with three wise men and an ass nearby.

I was born to be comic relief.

What I also know for a fact is that I’m in the middle of writing a longish piece on this topic (tentatively, if not sensitively, titled “Why I’m Not the Scholar of My Generation and Why You Aren’t Either”) for The Common Review.

So, seriously, ARE you the SOYG? How come? Did you ever want to be? Do you know anyone who is — or who believes he or she is? C’mon...

I’m sorry to barge in this way, banging the door against the wall and not paying attention to anything except the fact that I cannot, CANNOT, believe this is happening. I’m talking about the John Edwards adultery story and his confession (to be broadcast tonight, I heard, on ABC) that he was having an affair with a 44-year-old he met in a bar in NYC while running for the Democratic nomination.

Not that I’m bitter. But this is a blog, right, so it’s supposed to be a “web log” (see my very first post concerning the word) and therefore a sort of free-form forum, yes?

Here goes.

I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS. But I can. And yet it floors me, absolutely shocks me, because it is the same loop-tape playing again. I mean, I can’t even really say anything new about the Edwards business because I wrote a lead op-ed for Philly on Spitzer and already used all my good lines for that scandal.

Look, ...

A few readers have asked where they could find the article I make reference to in the previous Heathcliff/Heath Ledger post, and while I thought I’d included it — well, it disappeared into — dare I say — the dark of night.

For those who want to see the original op-ed in last Sunday’s Philadelphia Inquirer, it’s here.

You’ll notice, as I only just did, that you’re also given a chance to vote for the male character you’d most like to date. (Contrary to my assumptions, Batman is winning. I think teenage boys are rigging the results.)

It occurs to me as I write this tiny note that I should have included an entire section on Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine; they were, after all, accomplished, complex, charming, and comfortable without masks. I should have defined and discussed a “Mature Gentlemen” category. Maybe I...

I know from bad boys.

I grew up on Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn. My cousins were the beautiful ones with black hair and eyes like sharks: so dark so you couldn’t tell the pupils from the iris. I never dated an Italian although my tastes in guys were otherwise what you might call eclectic.

Trust me, they’ve been called worse.

I liked the tougher boys because they offered drama. As a kid, one of my favorite songs was “Johnny, Get Angry” (I just looked it up on a Web site called “lyrics playground” and discovered not only the lyrics but also my new motto: “instrumental interlude featuring a kazoo.”

So much for the childhood of a feminist critic, right?

Anyway, in “Johnny Get Angry” the singer begs her boyfriend to get mad, to give her “biggest lecture” she’s ever had. She tells him that she wants a “brave man” and a “cave man,” and that by being angry will prove that he “cares,...

I know from bad boys. I grew up on Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn. My cousins were the beautiful ones with black hair and eyes like sharks: so dark so you couldn’t tell the pupils from the iris.

I never dated an Italian although my tastes in guys were otherwise what you might call eclectic.

Trust me, they’ve been called worse.

I liked the tougher boys because they offered drama. As a kid, one of my favorite songs was Connie Francis’s “Johnny, Get Angry.” Connie begs her boyfriend to get angry and get mad, to give her the “biggest lecture” she’s ever had. She tells him that she wants a “brave man” and a “cave man,” and that by being angry will prove that he “cares, really cares” for her.” His anger and her fear of him are seen as “proof” of their love. Conjuring up images of cave men, dragging women around by the hair, the 1950’s song is representative of a school of romance that...

So my friend is publishing her first book and I’m trying to offer her practical advice, right?

So this is what I tell her: I tell her that while it’s tempting to call the editor “just to check in,” the impulse usually translates most directly into the following (if thinly disguised) screed: “What are you doing, anyway? How long can it take to FINISH PRINTING the damn thing? Why is it taking longer to publish it than it took me to write it? Why aren’t you showing me examples of the possible covers, why aren’t you asking me to write up a decent press release, why aren’t you returning my calls, answering my e-mails?” What every author wants to know is, “WHY AREN’T YOU TAKING CARE OF ME?”

The short answer is: If your book is slated for publication, your best line of attack is to keep writing OTHER THINGS and stop calling the editor.

Look — here’s the hard part — it isn’t the publisher’...

A good friend (not the one pursued by demons — I gotta lotta friends) is awaiting the fall publication of her first book. She’s remarkably intelligent, and unnervingly insightful, as well as hysterically funny, so I can’t imagine that the novel will be anything but fabulous.

Her anticipation doubles as the weeks close in on the pub date. She dreams, literally and figuratively, of seeing her work between hard covers, the whole thing bound for posterity.

Sounds good? She’s all sunny, cheery, light-hearted, worry-free?

HA!

She has no cuticles left. She’s chewing the edges of her pillowcase at night the same way she did when we were roommates and her boyfriend didn’t call. She swore up and down that if the book got accepted, she’d let it “go” at that and not torture herself anymore. She’d get on with her life, the rest of her work, and settle back down into what passes for...

What wakes you up in the middle of the night, not in fear, but in the threshing buzz of low-grade panic?

Dread of being alone?undefinedOf getting older?undefinedOf illness? Of death?undefinedOf being unable to help alleviate the sadness of those close to you?

What’s your demon?

I have a friend, a woman I consider one of the blessings in my life, who is facing a whole bunch of those nightmares right now. Her nightmares are sitting there at the kitchen table with her. Maybe you know her; maybe you ARE her. Many of us have been where she is, in the dark night of the soul, at some point — but when you are inside the tumble and hiss of the bad time, it is almost impossible to imagine rescue or survival.

But we, more or less, survive.undefinedEither the worst happens or it doesn’t. We brush up against the savage edge of loss and cut ourselves, counting ourselves lucky to have be...

UMMM…I MEAN, “FAST” …

* * * Gina Barreca, after just ONE WEEK of taking SlimProf!

* * *

“I sincerely apologize if you are receiving this e-mail in error,” said one of the many messages I opened this morning. I usually delete the generic-emails, the ones that are not actually addressed to me, first thing — even before I have a cup of coffee. This is because I do not want or need to be conscious to deal with them. Heavy-lidded and yawning, I push the “trash” button automatically while the fog in my brain begins to clear.

For some reason (too little sleep? Distracted by the cats who have decided to attack each other suddenly?), I make a horrible error and OPEN one of these missives. Confronting my practically somnolent self, is the following message: “I have saved my family and my life. Because of this I have made a commitment to get the word out on this life-changing...

Fortune cookies are one of the great gifts in life.

Unfortunately, many fortune cookies are now of the bland “Life is kind if you are kind” variety which, although well-meaning, have as little clout as saying “eeny-meeny-miny-moe” when you’re trying to make life-altering decisions.

And yes, since you ask, I DO base life-altering decisions on what I read in my fortune cookies. I still have the curled slip of pink paper I found in a cookie in 1987 saying “Trust Him but Keep Your Eyes Open.”

We need more of these.

In keeping with this spirit, I’d like to suggest the following good fortunes for ALL of us, and I would love to know what wishes you’d add:

You will always find a parking space

There will always be a replacement bulb (of the correct wattage) when you need one

No telephone solicitor will ever call your house at dinner

The person on whom you have a secret crush...