Speaking French with Elizabeth

An Interview by Ivy Dillinger
Director of Publicity, BDFC



"I appear to be pretty normal, but my blog knows different..."

So says Elizabeth, a Bay area consulting professional with a serious gift for the written word. I stumbled upon her blog, Pushing In The Pin, while perusing some Californians, and was immediately captivated. She's edgy and funny and refreshingly honest, and she's graciously agreed to be the first subject of Speaking French. (Speaking French will be our ongoing interview series with super-cool people.)

IVY
Liz, you have a wonderfully natural writing style. I know you like Anne Rice and Stephen King, but are there other writers you feel have influenced the way you communicate?

LIZ
I do not feel that I am influenced by any writing style. What I write is about what is going on in my life, or has happened in my life, and I just write it the same way I would tell it verbally to my friends. Usually, with too much detail!

IVY
Have you always been so honest and open about your life and thoughts?

LIZ
I am a very shy and reserved person, until I feel comfortable enough with someone to open up. Then I will say anything, tell any of my stories (no matter how inappropriate or gross it may be) to my friends. My blog started as a way of venting about a guy that I liked, but then grew into more of a daily dairy. I would see no purpose in not being open and honest in it, as it is as much for myself as for anyone interested enough to read it.

IVY
Despite all of your (hilarious) "evil spawn" references, do you ever envision yourself having children?

LIZ
I really do not know. The whole pregnancy thing creeps me out, as well as having that responsibility and not being able to be selfish anymore. Your life is no longer your own, really. I guess it would come down to whether or not my (assumed to be) husband really wanted kids or not. And if I felt that he would be a good dad and involved with the parenting responsibilities.

IVY
Are you watching the Republican National Convention? Any thoughts?

LIZ
I have not watched any of it. At all.



IVY
You know that game they play on The Howard Stern Show? "F, Marry, Kill?" I have a political version for you. Bill Clinton, John Edwards, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Who do you F? Who do you marry? Who do you kill?

LIZ
Hmm...this is interesting. I'd have to go with Arnold for the F, but the younger "Conan" Arnold. John for the marriage, but only because I would have to take Bill for the kill because I'm sure he would have cheated on me!



IVY
You’ve recently gone to see Aimee Mann and The Cure in concert. Who are your favorite singers? Who are your favorite bands?

LIZ
I am a big fan of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, Aimee Mann, Courtney Love, Liz Phair and Alanis Morissette. I tend to like female vocalists best, probably because I can relate to the lyrics on most of the songs.

IVY
Seen any good movies lately?

LIZ
The last movie a saw in the theater was The Bourne Supremacy...it was good. I also saw the The Butterfly Effect on PPV a couple of weekends ago - and that was better than I expected it to be. I tend to mostly like psychological movies that have interesting twists.



IVY
What famous woman would you love to look like?

LIZ
How long can I make the list? Reese Witherspoon for her natural beauty, Angelina Jolie for her sexy attitude, Jennifer Lopez for her bronze skin and perfect symmetry to her face.

IVY
If you don’t mind, please wrap up this interview with a juicy tidbit you haven’t mentioned on your blog…

LIZ
In late April of 2003 I was diagnosed as "boderline insulin resistant," which freaked me out and I immediately went on a low carb diet. I have lost over 100 pounds since then, and my sugar levels are back to normal.



IVY
Thanks so much, Liz! You rock!

Strictly for the Rhyme

A Poem by Maven Quibble



A day in the life of a kid named Doug
As he plays with his toys in his room on the rug
He pushes his trucks
And pushes his luck
When he crys to his mom 'bout the big scary bug

His mom doesn't like when he can't act the man
So what if he's three? He can do it, he can!
She looks past his bawls
As the bug crawls and crawls
And poor Doug grows and grows and turns into Lou Rawls

Pitt's Del Toro, and Vice Versa

by Victor Lembrey
Entertainment Reporter, BDFC



Stunning celebrity news from Hollywood! It was revealed today that actors Brad Pitt and Benicio Del Toro are actually the same person.

Pitt, who began wearing a dark wig in the spring of 1988 strictly to amuse friends, later decided to give his wiggy persona a name (first "Johnny Cool," later "Benny Del Tippy"), and even later an actual career. His alter ego won an Oscar for 2000's Traffic.



When informed of the news, Del Toro responded, "I'm not Brad Pitt. That's stupid." Talk about a great actor!

Killer Chinese

Fiction in Four Parts by Robert McEvily

1



It looked like a Volkswagen Beetle had crashed through the back wall of the gallery. The damage was convincing. Perfect amounts of crushed brick and plaster. It looked like a dog had driven the car, obviously lost control, and been ejected through the windshield. The dog was bloodied, flattened; speared from head to tail with shards of glass. The artist responsible was a restaurant owner named Mark Wang. His work was called White Dogs + White Russians = A Big Red Mess. It was the most controversial piece in the exhibit.

"Wow," said a nanny, ignoring a whining brat in a stroller.

"It’s repulsive," said a man.

"What’s it mean?" asked a woman.

"I guess it’s some kind of anti-drunk driving thing," said a kid with a goatee.

"Or a joke," said Uma Thurman.

"Hey, you’re Uma Thurman," said the kid.

He stared; she walked away.

2



Meanwhile, uptown, private detective John Riordan was breaking into Wang’s apartment. Wang wasn’t there. The apartment was filled with Wang’s paintings, new and old. Wang’s lover, a stockbroker named Randall Monk, arrived a minute later. Monk wanted to know what the hell was going on.

"I’ll ask the questions," said Riordan.

"Is Mark gone?"

"Where would he be if he was?"

Monk scratched the corner of his mouth. He told the detective he hadn’t the slightest idea. "Although I remember seeing his passport at his office," he said. "And there’s this." He gestured to a phone number on a stained napkin.

"His restaurant," said Riordan, "what’s it called?"

"Killer Chinese," said Monk. "God, are you that out of it?"

The detective left.

3



Killer Chinese was formerly called "Wang’s Noodles." The place was renamed and officially fixed on the Map of Hip when Jimmy Fallon remarked to Julie Chen that "the joint" had some "killer Chinese." Overnight, literally, Wang, whose ambitions were artistic rather than culinary, was sitting on a gold mine, and hobnobbing with celebrity regulars like Fallon, Uma Thurman, Dave Chappelle, Britney Spears, and Mayor Bloomberg. A bevy of artists and wealthy entrepreneurs immediately befriended Wang and bankrolled his every whim. The Wall Street Journal called Killer Chinese "a safer and more profitable investment than Harbor Mid Cap Growth Funds." The Zagat Survey mentioned it’s "impossible to get a seat" but "always worth the wait." It continued, "The liver dumplings are incredible." It wondered about Wang’s "secret ingredient."

4



Wang was paying for his dry cleaning when Riordan crept up from behind.

"You forgot your cane, dogkiller."

Wang froze, then turned.

"What’d you call me?"

"Got your prints from your apartment elevator," said Riordan. "They match the prints on the cane. The cane you brain your dogs with."

A pause.

"Is that so?"

"That’s so, yes."

Another pause.

"What do you want? Money?"

"A confession."

Wang laughed – a short, derisive bark. "I think not," he said. He reached inside his double-breasted suit and removed a .22 caliber pistol. He shot Riordan in the forehead.

"Jesus Christ!" said the dry cleaner.

Wang handed the dry cleaner four hundred dollars.

"Dog-eat-dog world," he said.

He winked and left.

The Other Way Around

A Poem by Oliver Cassidy



This weird bald guy
Walks into a building in front of me
But first he stops and looks at me
And gives me a look like
What are you looking at?
And I'm thinking
You're looking at me!
Not the other way around

Plant Yourself in Portland!

by Victor Lembrey
West Coast Assignment Reporter, BDFC



This morning, as part of the Farwest Show Seminars at the Oregon Convention Center in Portland, internationally-known plantsman (and owner of Shadow Nursery in Winchester, Tennessee) Don Shadow, during a presentation entitled "The Wonderful World of Woody Plants," will profile the magnificent range of flowering trees and shrubs that provide interest throughout the year. Which are garden-worthy? Which have commercial uses? You'll find out if you're there.



Unfortunately, you'll also find out the kind of people who are lured to an event featuring an "internationally-known plantsman."

The Getaway

An Opinion by Maven Quibble



Here's the layout of the third floor mens room: on the right, two enclosed toilets for privacy, on the left, two urinals, and on the back wall, two sinks. So I walk in, notice a pair of feet in one of the enclosures, and take my place in front of the left urinal, ready to go. I really had to go. And as I start, I fart. Loudly. Involuntarily. So here's what I'm thinking: I'm thinking, he heard me. I don't know who he is, maybe he's important, maybe not, but he heard me. And when he comes out, he's gonna see me, and forever associate me with farting. And I'm a professional. And I can't afford that sort of association. So what do I do? I stop whizzing. I force myself to stop whizzing. I zip up and split. No hand washing, no time. I just split.

Reputation is everything.

Knockers To Sign "Star"

by Victor Lembrey
Assignment Reporter, BDFC



Noonish today at the Barnes & Noble in Manhattan’s Rockefeller Center, Pamela Anderson’s boobs will be signing copies of their debut novel, Star. The book clocks in at a respectable 304 pages, 302 of which involve lesbians, orgies, and hepatitis C.



To date, Star is the first novel exclusively authored by boobs. “My right boob types faster than my left,” Anderson claims, “so expect a lot of j’s, m’s, and semicolons.”



A spokesperson for Harold Bloom confirmed that the Ivy League genius hanged himself while using the novel’s jacket to whack it.

The Pride of Iceland

Flash Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



It was sometime during July, a month before the race, when men from Los Angeles came to meet with Klemens Gunnarsson, the great distance runner from Reykjavik. The men arrived at Gunnarsson’s home directly from the airport. They wore slick gray suits that shone in the bright daylight. The larger man, Saperstein, offered his hand to Gunnarsson and introduced his smaller counterpart. "This is Reynolds," said Saperstein. "The idea man I told you about."

"Yes," said Gunnarsson. He shook Saperstein’s hand.

Reynolds gestured to the landscape. "Striking," he said. "A magical land for a magical athlete."

"Magical," said Gunnarsson. He did not shake Reynolds’s hand. He turned and led the men into his home. Saperstein’s attention was drawn to a framed photograph on the hallway wall showing a hooded figure holding a pulpy red clump.

"You?" Saperstein pointed.

Gunnarsson nodded.

"What’s that you’re holding?"

"A whale’s heart."

"You… killed the whale?"

"You’re here for business," said Gunnarsson. "So let’s do business."

The men took seats in Gunnarsson’s sparse living room. Reynolds reiterated the agreement. Gunnarsson would throw the Reykjavik Marathon. In the final mile, he agreed to stay stride for stride with Dirk Moon, a young action star who, with the help of bribed race officials, would enter the course at mile 21. Moon would literally come from nowhere and win by a single stride. A dramatic victory over a proven champion. Invaluable publicity. For this, Gunnarsson would be paid $300,000.00.

After the rehearsal schedule was set, after the men had coffee, after Gunnarsson received a third of the money in cash, the rest of which he’d get upon completion of the task, Reynolds and Saperstein left. Gunnarsson sat alone for a long while. He finally stood, unzipped his fly, urinated into his coffee mug, then fired the mug at the hallway
photo. A direct hit. He screamed until he lost his voice.

Child Thinks Hamm is Mickey

by Victor Lembrey
Assignment Reporter, BDFC



Olympic gymnast Paul Hamm was mistaken for Mickey Mouse after saying hello to a child. The boy, Davis Peabody of Wilmington, Delaware, insisted Hamm was Mickey and held his breath until Hamm admitted the truth. "You're Mickey!" said Peabody. "No I'm not," said Hamm. And on and on.

Good Point, Vol. 1

A Poem by Oliver Cassidy



Everything I have
Everything I had
Everything I need
Everything I share
Everything I hoard
Everything I worry about
Gets packed in boxes
Or forgotten
So I remember to lighten up

"Thieves Jargon" Accepts "Wexler"

by Ivy Dillinger
Director of Publicity
Beaver Dam French Club



"Thieves Jargon," an online zine publishing stories "about drifters and hustlers and dreamers finding beauty in things they never thought they would," will feature Victor Lembrey's "Hope in the Form of Wexler" in September. Since "Wexler" is a farce about the Empire State Building coming to life and rolling over New York like an urban Godzilla, it's not clear how or why the story passed muster. "The building poops," said Lembrey. "Ain't nobody gonna pass on a story like that."

Wanna-Be Fireman Turns 47

by Victor Lembrey
Reporter at Large



Denis Leary, chain-smoking loudmouth douchebag, is now 47. “Never thought I’d last this long,” said Leary, whose newish television show, Rescue Me, is about pretend firemen with pretend problems. “Look, I like to look cool, but I’m no dope. No way in hell I’m puttin’ my ass in no real fire.” When reached for comment, New York City Fire Commissioner Nicholas Scoppetta said, “Leary? Whatever."

The Stare

Flash Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



I told her I admired her look. I told her I was an investment banker, a lie, just to impress her. I told her I could take her places, show her things. I offered to buy her lunch.

She just kept staring.

When I realized she was plastic, naturally I was embarrassed. But it proved a point. It's delicious to be ignored.

Caught Off Guard

by Ivy Dillinger
Director of Publicity
Beaver Dam French Club



Writer Extraordinaire Victor Lembrey was caught off guard yesterday by the paparazzi, yet skillfully managed to take a decent picture. Is there anything the man can't do?

The Notebook

Film Review by Robert McEvily



Love’s not easy to get right. Old school love, the truest of the true. Never mind the complexities in conveying its depth and subtleties, forget the inadequacy of mere language in nailing its passion – it’s an emotion practically sneered at by contemporary audiences. Countless films, game to take it on, eventually miss the mark and veer toward the forgettable – neatly wrapped packages with nothing inside. Some, looking to appease the hip and the jaded, duck what’s considered embarrassing, dated, and uncool about love. Not "The Notebook." Directed by Nick Cassavetes and based on the best selling novel by Nicholas Sparks, "The Notebook" is another story. It gets love right.



Much of the credit goes to Ryan Gosling, a master of nuance who was extremely effective as a cocky, seductive high school student in 2002’s "Murder By Numbers." Gosling uses his charms here in a gentle manner, sure of what he wants, certain of whom he loves. In the hands of a lesser actor, Noah Calhoun may have come off as a fixated stalker. Gosling brims with lighthearted mischief and affection – his Noah is a man to trust, a man whose love begs to be returned.



Rachel McAdams, fresh from a shallow run in "Mean Girls," reverses field and brings depth to Allie Hamilton, the love of Noah’s life. McAdams also gives a terrific performance, spontaneous and fresh, and finds recognizable truths in moments large and small. The film is driven by her plausible chemistry with Gosling, and she shoulders its trickiest responsibilities – reacting to its plot turns – with grace and verve. Where Noah is clear of purpose and supported by a loving father, Allie is humored and eventually thwarted by her stuffy yet well-meaning parents.

The story’s predictable trappings – poor boy, rich girl, disapproving parents, separation, reunion – are less noticeable thanks to Jan Sardi, who adapted the novel, and screenwriter Jeremy Leven. The predictable elements play second fiddle to the richness and development of the characters. You’d think once Allie meets Lon, a dashing suitor from a wealthy Southern family, he’d surely be revealed as a materialistic lout, but as played by the well-cast James Marsden, Lon turns out to be a nice guy. Complications ensue. To its credit, "The Notebook" doesn’t look for easy answers.

Cassavetes smoothly intertwines dual narratives. Set in the 1940s, the Allie-Noah romance is told in flashback by an old man named Duke, who reads the story to a nursing home patient suffering from Alzheimer's. As Duke, James Garner is reliably touching. Gena Rowlands – a stirring actress – seems slightly miscast, perhaps reaping the perk of being the director’s real-life mom. Perfectly cast though are Joan Allen and Sam Shepard, as Allie’s mom and Noah’s dad. Allen’s tightly restrained contempt for her daughter’s relationship is suitably countered by Shepard’s affability. Both get to play to their strengths.



"The Notebook" – a literal cinematic page-turner – is love the way it ought to be: romantic and messy and heartbreaking and passionate and unapologetic. So leave your hip, jaded friends at home. And don’t forget the tissues.

The Cute Noise Survival Kit

by Victor Lembrey
Survival Specialist



1 bullhorn
1 rainbow wig
1 adult diaper
1 dozen eggs (white or brown, your choice)
1 wiffle ball bat
12 orange wiffle balls

"Cute Noise" is defined as "any variety of unnecessary and overly-theatrical sounds - spoken or otherwise - that occur at inappropriate times, and give the sounds' creators feelings of devil-may-care coolness while slowly driving those within their audible radius completely loco in the coco." ("Coco" is defined as your brain.)

Let's face it, "pent up" is an awful description - one you should avoid at all costs. It's never a good thing to keep negative emotions in check. So when early morning rabble-rousers - those odious, misguided attention-mongers - tweak the flow of your nocturnal emissions and push your buttons, don't fight it. Just go with it. Realize you're not gonna get any sleep. Embrace it. And most importantly, turn it around.

First, put on your rainbow wig and adult diaper. Then grab your bullhorn, eggs, bat and balls and run out onto the street. At a safe distance from the nincompoops, announce something ridiculous through the bullhorn. "Now see here! Y'all boogie-woogie bitches best be rememberin' my birthday!" Something like that.



Immediately start hitting the orange wiffle balls at them. You have my word: swatting the balls will feel incredibly cathartic. As the confusion escalates, grab the bullhorn again. "I know all your mammas! And I'm telling!" Trust me, nothing strikes fear into our collective psyche faster than "I'm telling your mamma." We're hardwired from childhood to cringe at its snitch-like sound, to feel a knowing sense of guilt and impending doom.

Now that your "cute noise" culprits are on the ropes, it's time to deliver the knockout punch: pelt their rope-a-doped asses with eggs! Seriously, if you've never hurled an egg across a considerable distance and watched the ocher explosion as it collides with your intended's noggin, you're not living life to the fullest.

The items in my Cute Noise Survival Kit are sold separately. Savvy shoppers can get them all for less that $20.00! So what are you waiting for? Get yours today!

Raiders Make McEvily Happy

by Victor Lembrey
Reporter at Large



The Oakland Raiders kicked off their 2004 pre-season by toasting the 49ers on a last-second field goal. Robert McEvily, a fan of the team and a former mathematical wunderkind, was psyched. "Once I saw 33-30, and I saw 'Raiders' next to '33,' I knew they won," said McEvily. "I'm a former mathematical wunderkind." In a related story, backup quarterback Marques Tuiasosopo still refuses to change his name to something less annoying.

The Receptionist

Flash Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



The receptionist was hired without a reference. She made a nice appearance. She called herself Courtney; we later found out her real name was Bernadette. She was always on time, always polite and well-informed. What little makeup she wore was always perfectly applied. No one pegged her for suicide. Life went on without her.

Women Love My Reports!

by Kid Nougat
International Snacking Authority
WASAW (Writers & Artists Snacking at Work)



It's true! Women love my Snack Reports! Recent reseach shows that chicks really truly dig my Snack Reports. The woman above just read my Yodels report - look how psyched she is! MORE proof that the Kid plays well with the ladies. (Like you needed more proof.)

Meg's Legs

A Poem by Maven Quibble



There’s a space from where I sit
That angles down a little bit
So I can see with blocked protection this and that,
Random things come into view
Clips and papers, nothing new
Nothing new that is until Miss Meghan’s hat.



There it sat in all its glory
Thus began this little story
First the hat, then soon followed by her shoes,
All along the steady things
Were her different purple rings
And the cuts and shades of all her denim blues.



Never once did I say "hi"
Much too scary, much too shy
Never once did I make contact face to face,
Just her legs would meet my eyes
Just her shins, just her thighs
Just until she quit to work some other place.

What's With Franz Hellens?

by Kid Nougat
Snacking Aficionado and Pseudo Art Critic



So I'm looking at this Franz Hellens guy, painted by Amedeo Modigliani sometime in 1919 or whatever, and I'm gettin' major attitude! Just look at this guy! What's his problem? He looks like he's bored with me or he disapproves of me or something. And what did I ever do to him? He thinks he's all big with his sweater and tie and whatnot. Screw him! (Or maybe he was just having a bad day, in which case I apologize.)

Beaver Dam French Club

An Explanation by Ivy Dillinger



"It was a new birth. I was renewing myself."
-Romain Gary
The Life and Death of Emile Ajar

"Like the experience of first authorship, writing under a pseudonym gives one the sense of discovering oneself by way of redefining oneself, even if it is only for the space of a single book. There is the possibility, however quixotic, of making a fresh start — in Romain Gary's words, "renewing" oneself — and not being held to severe account for it."
-Joyce Carol Oates
Pseudonymous Selves



Hi. I'm Ivy Dillinger.

If you're like me, you're a "mood" writer. Sometimes you feel like writing something serious. Something passionate. Something researched, well thought out. Other times you want to goof off. Experiment. Or write a poem, or something crude on a bathroom wall.

This is my space. For all that and more.

Who are the models in the park? They're me. They're both me. Am I Ivy? Am I Robert? Am I Oliver or Victor or Maven or the Kid? Am I someone else entirely?

Is it important?

I love romance and beautiful people doing beautiful things. I love danger and horrible people doing horrible things. I want to kick you in the face and then nurse you back to health. I love myself and I hate myself.

Sometimes I look like this...



Other times like this...



And sometimes, actually, most times, I'm a face in the crowd...



As for the name "Beaver Dam French Club," it surfaced from a game. "Beyond Balderdash," to be precise.



During the "what do these letters stand for" portion of the game (played with a group of close friends in Hoboken, New Jersey), the initials "BDFC" came up, and basically, I blanked. Totally blanked. Couldn't think of anything. Everyone else got their answers in pretty quickly, which added pressure. So just to keep things moving, I settled for "Beaver Dam French Club." It was the only thing that came to mind. Kinda dumb, but... it's got something. The rest is now history in the making!

"Beaver Dam French Club" - a perfect title for something ridiculous, a safe place for dangerous figments of imagination. A place for every mood, every thought. A place for fact and fiction.



Okay, enough of this long-winded, boring explanation! Start browsing and enjoy the Club!