Swami-ed But Still Standing

Back from Mexico. Where to start? The plan was to exercise 6-8 hours a day and stick to no more than 1200 calories per day. And you know what? I totally did it. By day 2 I was already having wild hallucinations about chocolate-dipped churros, but I did it.

Typical day: morning walk, aerobics with crunch session, facial & reflexology, 2 sessions of water aerobics, pilates, salsa aerobics, a swami or non-swami yoga session, and a full body massage. For 7 days.

A few of the highlights:

Kundalini yoga. The Mexican Swami comes out, white robes, orange-yellow turban. He sits atop a riser with the participants on mats below. In the course of the class, we are instructed to constrict our anuses (anusii?), meditate on the tips of our noses, and perform an interpretive dance.

Perhaps you think I mock. Not so. There was a point during which I was flapping my arms and doing ‘fire breath’ when he said, "You must bring your body, mind, and soul together as one. You cannot go around with your body over here and your mind over there and your soul over there."

He has a point, no? And THEN he said, "It is like a bullet. A tiny thing, energy concentrated, can go through a wall. Impact. When your body, mind, and soul are one, you have impact."

Putting aside the slightly incongruous use of a bullet/yoga analogy, it seemed like a pretty insightful statement to me. I mean, these things are so simple and complex all at the same time. Hmm...I’m totally going all California on you, aren’t I? Too bad you didn’t see me in...

Meditation. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s difficult to find inner peace unless it’s completely dark and I’m completely alone. It’s just extremely unlikely that I’m ‘going to another place’ with someone coughing up phlegm right next to me all in my personal space. But there I was, knee to knee with a bunch of other sweaty yogis in this meditation circle, attempting to stare at a candle flame without blinking in order to form tears and have some kind of out of body experience.

Okay...staring at the candle. I’m staring at the candle...

I stare for a second...blink...(dammit!)...
...stare...blink...(dammit!)...
...stare...blink...(dammit!)...
...stare...stare...there it is! There it is! I’m not blinking! Ooooh, but then things take a turn for the worse; my eyes are open so wide I start having bad Clockwork Orange flashbacks even as I sense the person next to me slipping farther into some sort of bliss...

And then my contact lens pops out.

Blink.

*Sigh* Moving right along to...

Salsa aerobics. Shame on me for silently complaining about leg lifts while Antonio, the gay salsa dancer slash aerobics instructor screams, "Vamos, vamos!" at the frail 80-year-old next to me.

Starter exercises over, the music goes up a couple decibels and I am swept into the thick of it. Try to imagine something like a Mexican line dance set to salsa music and old American dance remixes: "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! Oy, Chihuahua! Arriba, Arriba! (whistle blows) "

We do a little salsa, throw in some cha-cha, compound it with hip gyrations, take it up a notch with the always popular grinding with hands in the air like we just don't care, and top it off with my personal favorite...the Mix-Master. The one where your ass circles in one direction while, with one fist on top of the other, you move your arms in the other direction like a Mexican butter-churner.

I managed to avoid looking in the mirror until a weak moment during a ‘hands in the air’ portion (we were pretending first to lasso something, then doing the slow rock-ballad wave, etc), and to my horror, I find that I´m doing...jazz hands.

Jazz hands, people. SO time to go home.

The number of ducks TOTALLY matters.

I had NO IDEA what cold was before I landed in NY the other day. Yes, yes, I spent two seasons in Antarctica, but they give you all the ECW (Extreme Cold Weather) gear you could possibly need. I mean, I’ve spent the night in an ice cave eating chocolate bars at 1am to stay warm, and I’ve checked the oil on a piece of heavy machinery while standing in an Antarctic blizzard. I thought I knew cold. Apparently, my memory has slipped some. I arrived in NY with one long jacket that had some down from maybe half a duck, and some fabulous wooly fingerless gloves that I got in Paris that I spent the entire trip wishing I had the fingers for.

NY was, of course, the same as it always is. A giant, fabulous, energy suck of a place. I did a bunch of business meetings then proceeded to hit the town with my pals Joanna Novins and Alisa Kwitney (Go read their books. They rock!) Much merriment was made. Most revolving around food and drink, of course.

But the fun didn’t stop there. I got searched at the airport coming back from NY. I didn't know what it was that was happening until it was happening. Nobody said, "We need to search your bag." Or, "You'll have to step over there and submit to security." There was some cryptic pointing and shrugging and some eyebrow arching and then suddenly some 'airport security' guy was elbow-deep in maxi pads and comic books looking for WWIII in my suitcase.
Having recovered from that, I got on the plane and slid into my seat in the emergency exit row which I’d requested because I’d just read another article on DEEP VEIN THROMBOSIS.

I know that I’ve used DEEP VEIN THROMBOSIS in one of my books. I *think* it was Adventures of an Ice Princess, maybe when they are on the plane on the way to McMurdo Station. I wouldn’t say that I’m obsessed with the concept, or anything. It just...tickles me.
'Why, hello...yes, it's been ages. Absolute *ages* since we last spoke. Terribly sorry. I went a round with deep vein thrombosis, you see. Put me completely out of commission. Lopped 'em both off right at the knee. A nuisance, really.'

But I digress. So I'm in my seat. In the emergency exit row. Still bundled. And the flight attendant approaches to give her "In the event of an emergency" speech in which she explains how we take the red thingy and move it over thusly and down and then something about how the person closest to the door mans the door and the person in the middle stands there looking authoritative and the person on the aisle goes to the back to assist...to assist...someone else doing something else (on this particular flight there seemed to be more emergency instructions than usual)...and then she pauses dramatically and looks at me. And then she says...

“You have to be 15 to sit in the emergency exit row. How old are you?”

Granted I was wearing blue fingernail polish and gold Converse sneakers and cargo pants (a typical look of mine that doesn’t seem to cause mass confusion on a normal basis) and the lighting in the plane wasn't worth crap, but could she possibly be serious? Don't flight attendants need to take eye vision tests, or is that just the pilots? (I later made the mistake of asking my boyfriend if I could possibly pass for 15 and he looked at me like I was insane. So I don’t know what all happened on that plane, but whatever.)

I spent the next five or so hours crammed in a middle seat in the emergency exit row contemplating the meaning of life and if age really *is* just a number which might have been a really meditative, spiritual sort of thinking experience were it not for the man on my left watching The Ballad of Ricky Bobby: Talladega Nights on his DVD gizmo loud enough for ground control to hear.

I’m happy to say that I made it back to L.A., fully defrosted. And the next morning as I headed out to grab my usual Venti-Nonfat-XtraHot-Cappuccino I passed some chick walking her dog. She was wearing huge shearling boots and an enormous down jacket (at least three ducks). And I thought to myself, “You have NO idea what cold is.”

This is as close to an inspirational post as you're going to get, people.

Every now and then, other blogs ask me to come on over and write a guest blog. I wrote such a piece for http://www.magicalmusings.com/ (go say hi) a couple of weeks ago, and it made people laugh so I figured I'd post it here. It was written in the spirit of the new year, in a January frame of mind. As opposed to a February frame of mind which involves sitting around thinking, "Can't wait for next year. That's when I'm *really* going to get my shit together." (I updated the song on my myspace profile page to match. Press play. You know you want to...)
_______________________________________________________
As it happens to be the 6th of January, I still have time to blab about the new year and what it all means. What does it all mean? I have no freaking idea. I do, however, have thoughts I would like to share with you and have attempted to provide some words of inspiration. The sort of words that will make you forget what happened last year and focus on the possibilities and opportunities that will materialize this year. The sort of words that will make you want to stand up and say, "Hell, yeah!"

But first, let's discuss my singing voice.

I happen to have a really hideous singing voice. I don't reveal this to you as a sort of self-deprecating call for reassurance or compliments. I reveal this to you so you will understand why I have not—and never will—stand up and perform Karaoke in front of…well, anyone. There was a time in my youth when my aunt convinced me to sing along to I'm Called Little Buttercup from HMS Pinafore whilst she played piano accompaniment. I think the shock of that performance, the tortuous keening of my unsteady warble still reverberates through the souls of those who were present on that fateful day. Apparently, I have the sort of voice that could shift the Earth's tilt or at least make presidents spontaneously vomit on foreign dignitaries.

That being said, one must be prepared in case circumstances do not provide an out.Therefore, I have memorized one song—and only one song—to be used in a Karaoke Emergency (Notice the capitals. The situation would have to be that extreme). Obviously, it had to be a very special song. A song so uplifting, so motivational that the talent (or lack thereof) in question would become irrelevant and perhaps even wholly unnoticeable. It had be a song that could actually get the masses up out of their seats, saying, "Now listen here, people. We're not going to let this planet get hit by an asteroid and no way are we going to stand by and let the President puke on the Japanese prime minister!" And at the end of the song, everyone would raise their fists to the sky and belt out, "Hell, yeah!"

I'm sure you all know where I'm going with this. I'm sure you've already identified the song. That song is, of course, Ice, Ice Baby as performed by the great American philosopher, Vanilla Ice. A sample below as plucked from the Internet, and then we analyze.

All right, stop collaborate and listen
Ice is back with my brand new invention
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop yo I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll glow
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle
Dance go rush to the speaker that booms
I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly when I play a dope melody
Anything less than the best is a felony
Love it or leave it you better gain weight
You better hit bull's eye the kid don't play
If there was a problem yo I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it.

We're talking about commitment to excellence, people. I believe Mr. Ice was speaking metaphorically about striving for excellence, struggling with the creative muse, and overcoming the obstacles in his way.

As fellow creative artists (with better haircuts) we can examine these lyrics in light of our own work. I think of this poem as reflecting a writer who stands up one day (alcohol may or may not be involved) and says, "Hey, you out there! Check this out! I'm going dig into my guts and find the stuff that will make these pages stand up and say Hallelujah. I don't know if the muse wants to cooperate, but that doesn't matter because I'm above the muse-crutch thing. I'm going to make it happen. I'm going to rock these pages; I'm going to freaking light it up. I don't care what anybody thinks, because I'm going to see it out the way I want to see it out, and when I get to the end, it's going be the best possible work I've got in me because I won't settle for less. So, step aside naysayers. If you're not willing to go for the bull's eye, don't tryout for my team."

(My interpretation is, of course, my own. I certainly respect your right to differ in opinion. Especially since I'm not really sure about the harpoon bit. A call to Mr. Ice's publicist has gone unanswered, so we may never really know what exactly he had in mind.)

Now where does this leave us? I believe Mr. Ice was giving us a sort of call to action. A call to action that we, finding ourselves at the beginning of a new year, can treat something like a resolution. A resolution that doesn't involve weighing oneself or promising to call one's mother more often (though I highly recommend the latter).

So what you do is close the door to your office or if you don't have an office, just go into the bathroom. Put your fists in the air because you know victory is yours this year, and shout out a "Hell, yeah!"

Then go back to your project, whatever you're working on. Put your fingers on the keys and say, "Excuse me, Muse, I hope you're on my side today, but if you're feeling a little fickle…Honey, you're just going to have to step aside."

Happy New Year, everyone…now go kick some ass.

The Cause of the Chirp and Whee.

The Cause of the Chirp and Whee.

[Note: I updated my profile page at http://www.myspace.com/lizmaverick. New video. New song. New cover. New. Very New. ]

Let us begin.

I've been MIA because of my latest book. I was writing, you see, like a writer should. I LITERALLY (Oy.) promised my editor I would not partake in any Peripheral Non-Book Activity until the book was done. I suspect he simply meant that I should try not to think about marketing until after the thing being marketed was marketable.

I think I took this promise too far. In fact, I became obsessed. For the past several months I've been living in the physiological section of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Meaning, I've been breathing and eating and that's about it. Okay, well, it also includes sleep, sex, excretion, homeostasis and…and…and now I'm starting to scare you so we'll just move on.

Point being, I barely left the house. And I don't mean that in the flippant, "Oh, I barely left the house. *giggle*" sense. I mean that I BARELY LEFT THE HOUSE.
Anyhow, I finally finished the book and went outside and noticed it was a lot sunnier out there and fixed all the things that needed fixing, and damn if I don't feel a little chirpy about it all.

Chirp.

So, you may ask, what do you have to show for your time as a shut-in?

Actually, a whole helluva lot. Check out the book cover (profile page) for the manuscript I was working on. Sweeet. The manuscript is WIRED, and it's the launch book for my publisher's new line, SHOMI. And the art for all of this stuff pretty much made the work worthwhile. The logo for the new SHOMI line alone is drop-dead fantastic. I'll see that chirpy and raise it a giddy.

Whee.

Anyhow, in honor of finishing WIRED, I have replaced my beloved California Love video with one that I feel more aptly expresses all this chirpy/giddy I have (albeit temporarily) inside me. Aside from the goofy (but excellent) "Go Sweden!" bit, we've got the conductor dressed as Napolean, some blue satin bloomers and even better, two sets of metallic lame (that's la-may. Not lame.) high boots, one set with wedges. Chirp and whee, indeed. Go check it out on the front page.

Over and out.

Liz

I rock + apparently I don't + okay, maybe I do + no, no I guess not...

So Crimson Rogue won this thing called the Golden Leaf contest which is cool because it's judged by readers and booksellers. And we all know that readers and booksellers who love your books are the most delightful people in the world. So, yay. I have a nice little trophy to put...somewhere.

In other news, I'm in the bowels of hell.

That's right. Deadline looming. I can't rise at noon, wander into the kitchen and make some coffee, surf the Web for 6 hours, write a sentence on my manuscript, wander into the kitchen, take a nap, watch some television, and wander into the kitchen again. No, my friends, all I can do is work. Work and dream of my next trip to somewhere other than my dining room table (AKA my work desk) with the same light blue tablecloth that's been on said dining room table/work desk for approximately two years without being washed. This only just occurred to me now. And now that I reveal this to world, all I can say is...

Gross.

But nobody said writers were given to rational behaviors.

So, what else. I won an award...I need to wash my tablecloth...yadda, yadda...oh, yes!

So, Crimson City went to audio book. I discovered this when a fan was kind enough to email me and tell me that putting Crimson on audio was brilliant and when would the others in the series go to audio along with it?

Big surprise to me. All excited-like, I go to Amazon and do a double-take. That can't be it. That's got to be a bootleg. Something she picked up while shopping in Bangkok for things so embarrassing you wouldn't even buy them online.

Alas. It's true. Apparently, the powers that be chose the art out of a file called That Slutty Girl at School Circa 1987. The best cover I ever had and... Sigh. I'm sure what's inside, however, is fine. Lovely. I'm sure the reader, one Rebecca Rogers, does a fabulous job.

In fact, I Googled her, just to see what the mysterious voiceover specialist who was charged with bringing my darling Crimson City to life was all about. There was nothing to be found about Rebecca Rogers. Unless you count the fact that she also voiced the audio version of Regaining Bladder Control. Not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with that. Really. I'm fine with it. Why wouldn't I be?

Thank god I just won an award.

Go Fish

So, I'm in New York/New Jersey this week doing writerly things. Of the many things I did in New York that I probably should not have done, there was only one instance in which I thought I actually might die. (And it has nothing to do with the fact that I was staying in Hell's Kitchen which they've decided to start calling "Clinton," as if by changing the name it will somehow change anything else about the area.) Anyway, one out of...several is not a bad percentage when it comes to near-death experiences. In my personal opinion.

Of course, I feel it's my duty to describe to you this startling experience:

Roll tape.

Attempted to walk with luggage *toward* Penn Station on 34th during morning rush hour. I was the salmon. Incoming was a giant wave of commuters. Commuters who clearly believed that entering Manhattan was somehow more righteous than exiting Manhattan. There is only one acceptable direction in a situation such as this one. The direction in which the wave wants to go. Swim upstream in NY at your own peril, ladies and gentleman, because I barely made it to New Jersey alive.

Back to work...

Blather Post

My latest WIP has no title. This has never happened to me before. If I don't come up with something kick-ass, my publisher will probably come up with something...extremely not kick-ass.

Right now, it's called The Untitled Wonder. And the project is soooooo top secret (oy!), I can't even tell anyone about it to get ideas. Hellfire and damnation.

It has to be action-y, romance-y, clever-ish, and slightly offbeat-like.

Ummmmm, yeah.

Still thinking...

The Fabulous Clackety-Clack

I decided the other day that since the special fountain pens (Varsity Pilot, disposable, in turquoise)...

...the premium Clairefontaine notebooks (writing longhand seemed so romantic but I got a thumb cramp after, like, ten minutes)...


...and the expensive paperclips (perhaps if it had a tiny enamel acorn charm hanging off it, it would hold the paper together with more joie de vivre! Sadly, no.)...


...were unable to stop me from procrastinating, I would have to take drastic measures.

Which somehow manifested in the payment of a ridiculous sum of money for a restored IBM Selectric III electric typewriter (circa 1980s). See, we had one when I was in high school. It was a nondescript beige color. But it made the most fabulous clackety-clack sound and, after all, it did have that really cool backspace erase feature.


Well, it was cool at the time.

Anyway, it disappeared one day in a cloud of intrigue. It was only a matter of time, what with all the insults being flung at it. (Obsolete! Grotesque in appearance! I mean, how would you like it if someone called you that?)

I never forgot it. Which is how the whole thing came about. My theory was that the fabulous clackety-clack sound would be just the thing for "morning pages."

Yeah. Well. Actually, I don't do morning pages. But I thought maybe if I had the Selectric, I would! Perhaps the very noise itself would elicit a kind of Pavlovian response and the logical progression of events would lead to such inspiration (!), such motivation (!), that I would continue writing my non-morning pages (like, say, my next book, due shortly) in the afternoon.

So I called up this old guy who restores Selectrics, and we settled on a model. But then I asked if he would pimp it for me, and he threatened to call the police. But after I cleared things up, he agreed to paint it in appropriate Liz Maverick colors, and about three weeks ago I took delivery of a custom red IBM Selectric III with shiny black detailing.

I'm very certain that it is going to change my life. It's exactly what I need. Inspiration, motivation, more joie de vivre...they are just around the corner. This is it! This is the one that will make a difference!


But I guess I'd better plug it in first.


:) Liz

www.lizmaverick.com

Go Fish

So, I'm in New York/New Jersey this week doing writerly things. Of the many things I did in New York that I probably should not have done, there was only one instance in which I thought I actually might die. (And it has nothing to do with the fact that I was staying in Hell's Kitchen which they've decided to start calling "Clinton," as if by changing the name it will somehow change anything else about the area.) Anyway, one out of...several is not a bad percentage when it comes to near-death experiences. In my personal opinion.

Of course, I feel it's my duty to describe to you this startling experience:

Roll tape.

Attempted to walk with luggage *toward* Penn Station on 34th during morning rush hour. I was the salmon. Incoming was a giant wave of commuters. Commuters who clearly believed that entering Manhattan was somehow more righteous than exiting Manhattan. There is only one acceptable direction in a situation such as this one. The direction in which the wave wants to go. Swim upstream in NY at your own peril, ladies and gentleman, because I barely made it to New Jersey alive.

Back to work...

Liz Maverick's 'Hood' Report plus (Fairly Pathetic) Celebrity Hair Secrets Revealed!

Liz Maverick's 'Hood' Report plus (Fairly Pathetic) Celebrity Hair Secrets Revealed!


So, the hood. I'm sorry to report that my day in the hood was essentially a non-event. Team #1 showed Team #2 how to put blonde highlights into light brown and red hair. Team #2 showed Team #1 how to sew hair extensions into existing hair. There were donuts. There was coffee. We bonded. And then we went home.

And here I made it sound like all hell was going to break loose as hair enthusiasts from all over Los Angeles bleached, highlighted, and foiled side by side in the name of world peace.

But that's okay, because...

At least I got the aforementioned dish since I did get to drive with one of the hair stylists for the Ellen Degeneres TV show!!!!!!!!

Yeah. Okay, well, work with me here. I'm going to do my best to make it worth your while. Here goes:

I can honestly say that I am scooping all national and local entertainment magazines when I reveal...

*drumroll, please*

...that Ellen's hair is fine, has a little curl to it, and is of medium density.

(Yeah, I know. Stop the presses. Hey, I said STOP them. Thank you.)

If that weren't enough to impress you, there's even more.

I also found out that not only does Ellen have to like her hair, but now Portia also has to like Ellen's hair. And what's more...Portia's hair is over-processed.

I know! I'm as shocked as you are!

BUT WAIT. BELIEVE IT OR NOT, THERE'S MORE!
Lest you think that Beyonce was born that way, I'm here to tell you that she has relatively short hair with extensions that start pretty high up...and she wears three...count them, THREE falls.

*GASP*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, I tried.

Okay, in other thrilling Hollywood news, a treatment for a TV movie I wrote has been "kicked upstairs." Which means I have now entered the stage that goes just before a) "We love it! We want it!" or b) "When we remember where we put it, we'll be sure to get back to you. (Never.)"

Plus, I saw Allison Janney at Starbucks. She was wearing gold shoes. They were cool.

Whatever. Sigh.

This edition of grotesque name-dropping has thankfully come to an end. Unless I see Seth Green at Tower Records again. In which case I'll be sure to let you know.

Over and out in L.A.

File this one under Only In L.A.

So my hairstylist says to me, "Liz, I was wondering about something."

And I say, "Sure, Marty, what's up?"

And she goes, "I was wondering if you would be my hair model for a demonstration I'm giving with another stylist."

And I go, "Gee. That's not something I've done before. Why not?"

And she says, "There's just one thing."

And I say, "What might that be?"

And she goes, "It's in Compton."

And I say, "Compton?"

And she says, "Yeah, Compton."

"Compton?"

"Yeah, Compton."

"As in...the hood?"

"That's right."

"Well...why the hell not?"

So on Sunday I'm going off to the hood to particpate in what I can only describe as a kind of Follicular United Nations, a multicultural bonding, if you will, through the common denominator of...hair. Only in L.A.

In honor of said event, I have posted the video for "California Love," on my profile page. It is my favorite song of all the songs in the world that reference the city of Compton. Even better, the video is a take off on Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. And the best part of all is toward the end when Tupac is doing his ass slapping thing. Enjoy.

[Set watch for phone call from Mom. 3...2...1... "Compton?"]