I am one of those who would have been shouting in an undignified manner at the TV tonight if Kathryn Bigelow and The Hurt Locker had not won.

For the record, I can’t tell you how bored I am with the complaints that the film doesn’t get all its details right. Art is not always about accuracy (for that we turn to documentary and nonfiction), but it is always about truth.

The Hurt Locker is only nominally about the U.S. Army EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) units—although it uses that material as a vehicle. It is about the ambiguity of war. And in depicting that moral and emotional ambiguity, it succeeds with great and lasting resonance.

Like all good art it allows the beholder to project on it what he and she will. For the antiwar liberal it is an antiwar movie. For the conservatives it is a jagged love letter to the bravery of our troops.

It is also none of the above and all of the above. For me the film successfully brought to life the words of Tim O’Brien, from his exquisite “The Things They Carried,”

True war stories do not generalize. They do not indulge in abstraction or analysis…..War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.

The truths are contradictory. It can be argued, for instance, that war is grotesque. But in truth war is also beauty. For all its horror, you can’t help but gape at the awful majesty of combat. You stare out at tracer rounds unwinding through the dark like brilliant red ribbons. You crouch in ambush as a cool, impassive moon rises over the nighttime paddies. You admire the fluid symmetries of troops on the move, the great sheets of metal-fire streaming down from a gunship, the illumination rounds, the white phosphorus, the purply orange glow of napalm, the rocket’s red glare. It’s not pretty, exactly. It’s astonishing. It fills the eye. It commands you. You hate it, yes, but your eyes do not. Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference – a powerful, implacable beauty – and a true war story will tell the truth about this, though the truth is ugly.

To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true.

The beautiful and important The Hurt Locker lays out an array of these contradictory truths within the convention of a compelling and deeply human narrative —and thus it escaped the confines of its story to burrow permanently inside many of us who see it.

That is why, for me, this year—despite the joys and revelations of other work like Precious and A Single Man, Kathryn Bigelow’s relatively small film is The One.

I’m just glad the Academy agreed so I was not reduced to lecturing the television.

And I’m really, really glad Jeff Bridges won too. And The Cove. And Mo’Nique. And Christoph Waltz, while we’re at it. And I thought Sandra Bullock was fabulously classy, even though I always want Merl Streep to win. If she’s not in a movie that year, I don’t care. I just think she should win anyway. (In truth, what an array of terrific women up for best actress this year!) And anytime T-Bone Burnett can win something, it is a good night.

The work of J.D. Salinger has mattered enormously to a large number of people. (If you are one of those people, I’d love to know how and why he has mattered to you.)

Last fall, when The Catcher in the Rye came up in the course of a discussion in my UC Irvine workshop, I was able to observe that newer generations were also not at all immune to Salinger’s magic.

Speaking personally, there aren’t a whole lot of books that have changed my life. Maybe one has to be at a certain, young-ish age for that alchemy to take place, I don’t know.

I am a maniacal reader of many kinds of texts and the list of books I love is long. However, the list of books that permanently shifted me on my emotional/spiritual/intellectual axis is very short, which is likely as it should be. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey is one of the volumes on my very short list.

The cumulative effect of the book is what made the difference, but there is one passage that particularly did the trick:

“I remember about the fifth time I ever went on ‘Wise Child.’ I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast–remember when he was in that cast? Anyway, I started bitching one night before the broadcast. Seymour’d told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn’t going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn’t see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again–all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don’t think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and–I don’t know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense”

Franny was standing. She had taken her hand away from her face to hold the phone with two hands. “He told me, too,” she said into the phone. “He told me to be funny for the Fat Lady, once.” She released one hand from the phone and placed it, very briefly, on the crown of her head, then went back to holding the phone with both hands. “I didn’t ever picture her on a porch, but with very–you know–very thick legs, very veiny. I had her in an awful wicker chair. She had cancer, too, though, and she had the radio going full-blast all day! Mine did, too!”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. All right. Let me tell you something now, buddy. . . . Are you listening?”

Franny, looking extremely tense, nodded.

“I don’t care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I’ll tell you a terrible secret–Are you listening to me? There isn’t anyone out there who isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn’t anyone anywhere that isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know that goddam secret yet? And don’t you know–listen to me, now–don’t you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.”

For joy, apparently, it was all Franny could do to hold the phone, even with both hands.

Apart from Franny & Zooey, there are many passages from Salinger’s work that, for one reason or another, are engraved permanently on my soul and psyche. Among them are the following:

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….it is sacred music by any sensible measure. Enjoy.

And, then, of course…this indelible, impossibly beautiful, utterly heartbreaking version.

The Best of the Decade lists are everywhere.

Newsweek has some interesting ones like 10 History Altering Decisions. and 10 Most Overblown Fears.

Paste Magazine has a pleasing list of the 50 best albums.

And at the flimsier end of the spectrum, Vogue magazine was suddenly overtaken by a giddy moment of populism and decided to let you and me choose the ten best dressed women of the decade.

However, for my money, when it comes to lists pertaining anything of an artistic nature—best books, best films, best music, best television dramas, et al—from a social justice perspective, one work stands out among all the others, and that is the five seasons of David Simon’s The Wire.

Yes the Sopranos was brilliant, Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 is a literary game changer, and Fernando Meirelles’ City of God was astonishing in its portrayal of Rio’s desperate favelas.

Yet, I can think of no other recent work of art—any kind of art— that so successfully gets to the multi-layered complexity of modern urban life and the interwoven nature of its strata. The Wire stands alone.

The truth is, I don’t think lawmakers should be allowed to vote on a single bill relating to issues of criminal justice without watching all five seasons. And, obviously, before they’re let near an education bill, Season 4, is an absolute requirement.

I could rattle on, but instead I recommend that you watch Bill Moyers’ interview with David Simon, recorded last April (Part 1 and Part 2). It’s clip filled and both men get right to the heart of the matter.

Enjoy.

“You come at the king, you best not miss.”

For the next few days I’m in the last stages of reading students’ final projects (which are inspiringly good, by the way) and giving final grades, which means I’ve not been doing much in the way of original reporting.

But, never fear, I have a couple of good stories lined up for next week before we plunge into the holidays.

On Sunday, December 20, a very interesting benefit performance is taking place at the Roxy Theater.

It starts at 8 p.m. and is titled BABIES BEHIND BARS-–because the $15 a person proceeds will benefit a group of organizations that work to keep kids out of the juvenile justice system: A Place Called Home, Tia Chucha’s Centro Cultural, Youth Justice Coalition, and Youth Mentoring Connection.

The show is part of a series of educational events scheduled this weekend that aim to “bring awareness of the impact of the juvenile justice system on children and families across the country. ”

In addition to its charitable and activist ambitions, the concert features an intriguing line up of artists. There is Grammy nominated writer, musician and producer, John Forte, whose story I’ll get back to in a minute.

The night will also included musical performances by such groups and artists as Freddie Gibbs (who was the subject of LA Weekly’s cover story two weeks ago), Terra Incognita, the Bricks, and Broken Ornaments—which was co-created by Mike de la Rocha, musician, poet, activist—and the main legislative deputy when it comes to gangs and juvenile justice for City Councilman Tony Cardenas. (Who knew de la Rocha was also a rocker?)

Oh, yes, and about John Forte.

Forte knows a little something about being behind bars. He started life as a bright, musical kid who won a full scholarship to Phillips Exeter Academy, and graduated in 1993. Two years later, he co-wrote and produced two songs on the Fugee’s multi-platinum and Grammy-winning 1996 album. Three years after that, he found himself in a financial jam and made a colossally stupid decision that landed him a conviction for drug possession and a fourteen-year prison sentence. (It was his first offense, but there was quite a bit of cocaine involved.)

Seven years into his prison time, John Forte became one of the 14 people pardoned by President George W. Bush at the end of Bush’s last term.

Now Forte is back to music (obviously), and spends much of his time helping kids with programs like such as this one, and with the concert on Sunday.

Bottom line, if you’re looking for a way to celebrate the holidays with good music—for a good cause—try The Roxy on Sunday Night.

My friend Tod Goldberg is a very funny man who has popularized the term….well, you can find it on his blog. (Hint: It has two syllables, begins with F and ends something that rhymes with petard.)

Tod also is also the director of the UC Riverside MFA program in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts, located out in Palm Desert (which means he’s a serious academic who lives in a resort so can tan while grading papers).

And Tod is a very gifted writer.

Sunday night he was at Borders Books in Westwood reading from his new book of short stories called Other Resort Cities.

Other Resort Cities is filled with stories that are intelligent and deep and funny and strange and familiar and gut tearing.

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” wrote Joan Didion at the beginning of her iconic collection of So Cal essays, The White Album.

True. But it helps a lot if the stories and the story tellers are really, really good.

Tod is a really, really good storyteller.

Here, for instance, are the openings from two of my favorites of the book’s tales.

This is from Mitzvah:

That Rabbi David Cohen wasn’t Jewish had ceased, over time, to be a problem.

(The hit man part of the Rabbi’s background turns up a little later in the story.)

Or there is this from Walls:

We were not consulted. It was the 1970s. And then it was the early 1980s. What would happen was that men would come to the door, smelling of Brut, or smelling of cigarettes and the fine leather interior or their Gran Torinos or TR7s, and they would say, “I’m here to pick up Sally. This the right house?”

We’d say, “Yeah, come on in. She’s getting dressed.” Or we’d say, “Do you mean Mommy?” or, and this was rare, but it happened because we were young and angry and when your parents have divorced and all you have to show for it is a mother who has suddenly decided that she’d like to fuck as many men as possible, and a father who it turns out was gay but you wouldn’t know that until long after he was dead and you found the photos and the letters, but who, at the time, was dating a woman named Miss Lisa who hosted Romper Room on Channel 2, we’d say, “Are you our new daddy?” It was cruel, but we were smart and we were sad and we had agendas….

Here’s the thing: Good books make life better and Other Resort Cities is a very good book.

Writer Mark Haskell Smith interviewed Tod after the reading. A slew of other writers were there. Tod’s wife, writer Wendy Duran. actor/writer, Rider Strong, memoirist, Dinah Lenney, Lee Goldberg (writer/producer/brother-of-Tod), Loraine Despres, and writer/producer Carleton Eastlake, Andrea Leeb and Ryan Mecklenburg and more .

Yes, theirs was the safer version of Blowing in the Wind.

But the melodic harmonies that Mary Travers sang with Paul Stookey and Peter Yarrow, in the group Peter, Paul and Mary, were, for many newly-minted music lovers of the era, the gateway drug that led inexorably and happily to a deeper and edgier world beyond them.

Peter, Paul and Mary were also were the real deal. They didn’t just sing protest songs from a protected distance, they showed up. The passion that bled through Mary Traver’s voice was authentic.

“We’ve learned that it will take more than one generation to bring about change,” Mary once said. “The fight for civil rights has developed into a broader concern for human rights, and that encompasses a great many people and countries. Those of us who live in a democracy have a responsibility to be the voice for those whose voices are stilled.”

RIP, lovely Mary Travers.

He was wonderfully, deliciously funny, prodigiously gifted and had a heart the size of Wyoming.

I only knew Larry Gelbert a tiny bit. He hosted several events for PEN USA when I was on the board and helped us out at other times whenever we asked and he was able.

I’m glad I got to know him at all.

When certain people die it feels as if that they take with them some crucial bit of light from the world. Larry Gelbart is one of those people. But in his case, through his work and his personal relationships, he left behind him so very much more light than his death could ever take away.

The above is a lovely interview—informative and chatty— that also features clips from some of his creations: M.A.S.H, Tootsie, Oh, God! and Blame it On Rio.

(NOTE: The clips are at the very beginning, so if you want to see them without listening to the rest of the interview, you can do so easily. Yet for lovers of writing and lovers of movies, give it a listen when you have a minute. Just go about your business and let the conversation drift over you. You’ll find it’s more than worth your time. I promise.)

Here’s a short but good tribute to Gelbart by Bob Simon on NPR.

Permit me to brag obnoxiously for a moment. (Is this pure nepotism? You betcha! But well-deserved nepotism, I promise.)

Friday night was opening night for POST GRAD, the first movie to reach release that was written by my brilliant and beautiful screenwriter niece, Kelly Fremon. (She has other movies in the pipeline, but this is the first out of the gate.) (Yep. That’s my niece posing above—at the urging of her camera-brandishing-aunt.)

Post Grad is a funny and sweet-spirited romantic comedy (and serendipitously timely) about NOT finding a job after college. I loved the film. (Of course.) But so did last night’s jammed Santa Monica audience at the 3rd Street Promenade, which laughed and whooped throughout the movie and spilled out of the theater looking happy and exhilarated.

(NOTE: I read Kelly’s original script which—-when it was first sent out to deliriously enthusiastic coverage around town—won her the designation of one of the 10 screen writers to watch by Variety. However, in the version that made it to screen, I saw that many of the smartest and most original parts of Kelly’s script got filed off, thereby somewhat changing its nature, which is a pity.)

YET, THE FILM WORKS amazingly well anyway—as evidenced by early audience reaction. (Yes, I have been scanning various web-forums and the like. She’s my niece. It’s my job.)

So go see it. Immediately. It’s a perfect summer night antidote to…well…nearly everything. Drag everyone you know (or have ever met casually….or possibly once passed on the street).

And tell ‘em the proud and doting auntie sent you.

Wednesday’s Fresh Air, featured a poet named Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno who has recently released her first collection of poetry called Slamming Open the Door that is getting a great deal of well- deserved attention.

In 2003, the lives of Kathleen Bonanno and her husband plunged into a life-shattering tragedy that was very similar to the one that has overtaken Greg Burk and Deborah Drooz, the parents of Lily Burk.

2003 was when Kathleen’s daughter Leidy Bonanno was found dead in her apartment, strangled with a telephone cord by an ex-boyfriend. The poems in Slamming Open the Door chronicle Leidy’s murder and each step of the aftermath.

The work is almost unbearable to read—or to hear read, as Bonanno does on the show—but it also shimmers with jagged-edged beauty, courage and power. The poems are rageful. Drenched in the deepest kind of grief. Totally cleansing.

It was actually WLA commenter Woody who brought the show and Bonanno’s poetry to my attention. And, in the last comment thread, he has written more eloquently about the broadcast than I have.

I was hesitant to post about this book—for obvious reasons. Yet the fearful symmetry was difficult to ignore. And I judged the poems might, for some, offer an unlikely form of comfort.

I leave you to listen and make up your own mind.

Here is the link.

And here are five of the poems. Be sure to read the last one.

Death Barged In

In his Russian greatcoat,
slamming open the door
with an unpardonable bang,
and he has been here ever since.

He changes everything,
rearranges the furniture,
his hand hovers
by the phone;
he will answer now, he says;
he will be the answer.

Tonight he sits down to dinner
at the head of the table
as we eat, mute;
later, he climbs into bed
between us.

Even as I sit here,
he stands behind me
clamping two
colossal hands on my shoulders
and bends down
and whispers to my neck:
From now on,
you write about me.

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