998 Slices
Medium 9781552452677

Frankie+Hilary+Romeo+Abigail+Helen: An Intermission

Spencer Gordon Coach House Books ePub

FRANKIE+HILARY+ROMEO+ABIGAIL+HELEN:
AN INTERMISSION

 

 

 

By Frankie, I mean, of course, Francisco James Muñiz IV (1985– ), son of Francisco ‘Frank-a-hey-ho’ Benjamin Eugene-Wallace Tyler Muñiz III (a Cuban-born restaurant owner of Puerto Rican descent), and Denise (ex-nurse of mixed Irish and Italian heritage), now divorced. The particular Frankie who, after watching his older sister Christina’s sterling performance in her Knightdale, North Carolina, high school musical, decided to pursue a career in acting, and who first got his chops as Tiny Tim in a local theatre production of A Christmas Carol. The home-schooled Frankie who slogged through several no-budget productions (The Sound of Music, The Wizard of Oz, etc.) and commercials and made-for-TV movies (e.g., To Dance with Olivia, 1997, starring Louis [or Lou] Gossett, Jr.) until his role in the David Spade/Sophie Marceau romantic comedy Lost & Found (1999), which, though roundly panned by critics, raised him in the eyes of Hollywood casting agents and facilitated his first big splash at the awkward age of fourteen in the Fox sitcom Malcolm in the Middle, a mid-season replacement in which Frankie played the eponymous leading character with such aplomb and earnestness that he was nominated for Golden Globe Awards in 2000 and 2001, an Emmy Award in 2001, and was awarded the Hollywood Reporter YoungStar Award for his overall performance in the series. Malcolm in the Middle being the long-running comedy series detailing the antics of a middle-class family modelled after a sort of ‘dysfunctional American post-nuclear’ (perhaps best epitomized by The Simpsons), lauded and known to push specific target-audience envelope thresholds and known as the vehicle that enabled Frankie to star in several feature-film productions through the early to mid-2000s, such as My Dog Skip (2000), Dr. Dolittle 2 (2001), Big Fat Liar (2002, matched with actress Amanda Bynes), Agent Cody Banks (2003, alongside actress, singer and activist Hilary Duff), Agent Cody Banks 2: Destination London (2004) and Racing Stripes (2005, voice only), as well as to make numerous cameo appearances, such as in the films Stuck on You (2003), Stay Alive (2006) and Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story (2007). The Frankie who, over the last few years, has been transitioning out of traditional Hollywood acting roles, experimenting with various producing gigs (for example, producing in 2006 the film Choose Your Own Adventure: The Abominable Snowman, an interactive animated feature based on the popular ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ novels, for which he also provided voice-acting alongside actors William H. Macy and Lacey Chabert) and expressing a desire in print and online media to do some ‘growing up’ outside the limelight. The Frankie who has decided of late to pursue an exciting and rewarding career as a professional race-car driver (ever since gaining his driver’s licence in 2001, Frankie has been consumed with a powerful love of driving and of cars [no doubt influenced by his father, Frank-a-hey-ho, who similarly indulges in car adoration but has publicly expressed fears regarding Frankie’s safety behind the wheel] – a love which has led to the purchase of several exorbitantly expensive automobiles [a total of nine in Frankie’s first year of licenced driving], such as the white 1995 Volkswagen Jetta from the film The Fast and the Furious [2001], a 2002 Cadillac Escalade previously owned by Penny Hardaway of the New York Knicks and a 1950s Porsche Speedster). The Frankie who, after more or less committing himself to the sport, took first prize in the 2005 Pro/Celebrity Race at the Long Beach Grand Prix and promptly signed a two-year contract with Jensen Motorsport, allowing him to race between the years 2006 and 2008 in the Formula BMW U.S.A. Championship, the Champ Car Atlantic Series (including the Las Vegas Grand Prix), the Sebring Winter National SCCA race, and drive for the PCM/USR team, finishing in the top ten in three races and completing the 2008 season in eleventh place (also bringing home the 2008 Jovy Marcelo Sportsmanship Award for his gracious and honourable conduct during the year’s competitions). The particular Frankie who, in 2005, was briefly engaged to hairdresser Jamie Gandy (a woman who bears a passing resemblance to Frankie’s ex-co-star Hilary Duff and whom he met on the set of the film Stay Alive) – an engagement that was swiftly called off due (in part) to Frankie’s hectic racing and travelling schedule, which left him a grand total of only forty days at home in 2007. The Frankie who is also currently engaged to Hollywood unknown Elycia Turnbow, aka Elycia Marie (a five-foot-four vintage clothing store-owner [standing one inch shorter than Frankie] tagged by many bloggers as ‘super hot’) who, in early 2011, reputedly assaulted Frankie and damaged numerous expensive artworks and pieces of furniture around his mansion in Phoenix, according to a 911 dispatch call made by Frankie himself, who was reputedly embroiled in such relationship stress and drama that he was pushed to hold a pistol to his head and threaten to commit suicide. The resilient Frankie who is currently mending his relationship with Turnbow/Marie and denying any ongoing suicidal urges, and who, among other appearances and racing projects, is currently playing drums for the rather middle-of-the-road, radio-friendly rock band You Hang Up.

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Medium 9780253016881

Constance H. Wootin

Edited by Michael Martone and Bryan Furu Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

Constance H. Wootin

Most people think that the old murals they see in old post offices were painted by out-of-work artists, hired by the WPA (if they can even recall that alphabet agency), during the Great Depression. Mere make-work for hard times, they think. That’s not quite correct.

The Winesburg post office was a standard design for 1934, a scaled-down Greek temple on the outside with fluted columns and smooth limestone walls quarried in Bedford, Indiana, where you can see the quarrying of the blocks of Bedford limestone for the Winesburg PO depicted on the mural in the Bedford PO.

All those murals are in all those lobbies. Terrazzo floors. Walnut trim. The three walls not the wall with the front doors have the windows where the clerks work and the rest is bricked with the tarnished PO box doors. Each door is studded with combination locks, knobs that spin a pointer from letter to letter inscribed above the little glass window with the golden decaled number.

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Medium 9781574412789

Chapter Twelve

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

Spring 1945

Chapter Twelve

• 1

O

n a cold March day, but bright with sunshine, Grace Gillian, hurrying down to get the mail, is there before Mr. Bartlett can drop it into the mailbox. Mr. Bartlett thinks Mrs. Gillian is getting to be downright pretty, you might even say beautiful. When

Mr. Bartlett first saw her hair, cut short and curly, well, by gosh, he barely recognized her. But now he likes it. Makes her look like a kid. And with those round, gray eyes! Mrs. Bartlett’s cat is exactly the color of Mrs. Gillian’s eyes.

“Morning, Mrs. Gillian,” he says. “Got two letters here. Notice one’s from Captain Appleby. This other’s from overseas, too.

Reckon it could be a local boy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bartlett,” she says. Tearing one open, she plops down on her front porch steps to read it.

Noticing which letter she opens first, he ventures a comment:

“Hope Captain Appleby will be coming home soon.”

“What? Oh, he will be. It can’t be long now,” she says, waving the letter through the air, waving the postman away.

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Medium 9780253019813

That Which Has No Fixed Order

Zachary Tyler Vickers Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

only me and Momma’s boyfriend Peat on the Peckinpaugh stage now, holding, holding, holding, that motherfucker him like a pecked scarecrow, me like a parade balloon leaking helium, cheeks puffed, soaked with sweat, all the disqualified contestants sitting with heads in their laps, except the guy who just dropped on his blue face, and now the medics are fanning him and sticking sniffing salts up his nostrils until he sits up blinking and gasping, a feeling very familiar to me as I reswallow the air in my squeezed lungs, my chest burning as the seconds collect on the judge’s pocket watch engraved To my Dandelion, his white beard and bone frame like the dead weed, and as soon as Peat quits and exhales huge the judge will burst apart and carry across the stage smeared with berries from the pie eaters, soggy kernels in the plank gaps from the cob eaters, the CanalFest crowd cheering, chewing corn dogs and fried pickles, wearing foam mustaches of blond beer as they walk around watching Betsy Ross stitch her flag, the blacksmith pound shoes for the barge mules, the Drums Along the Mohawk parade, the eighteen-sixties church, the canal lock’s north gate hydraulics booth, the Antique Barge Pavilion where the judge announces me and Peat have been holding for six hundred seconds, over halfway to the world record of one thousand one hundred and sixty-one seconds held by a free diver with lungs like Egyptian tombs, and me with the chronic apnea secret weapon, my lungs used to the lacking, me six when Momma couldn’t wake me for fifteen minutes, sitting on a large toy pile, crying to God not to take me also, rubbing my head and stomach like she did to Pop when he got skinny, stocking up on blankets, telling me she still had a hard time telling me, I was her fragile button, her bruised fruit, she opened herself to make me, a pain I can’t know and only imagine like the kidney stones years back, like someone reached up into me and struck the lighter’s flint, a feverish ache and puke until I passed them and collapsed in the bathtub weeping, but this is not pushing something out to be proud of, all I can do is hold it in, hold it up to Pop’s expectation, You’re going to be man of the house soon, coughing, the smell of iodine clinging to him like sulfur in the well water, so I’m trying to win the Iron Lung trophy and add it to the lot beside Momma’s golf clubs, buckets and vases and plastic food containers filled with tees and Titleists, trash bags of knickers and khakis in the sizes Pop wore as he thinned, wicker baskets, the cigar boxes or stacks of empty cigar boxes or cigar boxes full of matchbooks, mounds of miscellaneous along the hallway, dozens of blankets and pillows in two tight plots where me and Momma sleep, a photo of Pop tucked under one of hers, telling me Hold on to everything, Bernie when I come home from clerking at the KwikStop or drive her to Doctor Morgan or to the Social Security office to pick up a disability check, parking in the driveway, the garage gill-packed with plastic bottles, sewing machines and dress forms, fabric samples, carpet samples, shoe boxes of playing cards, the one rocking horse and so much else that blurs into one accumulation I call her “museum” because she likes to move through the narrow paths and tell me where and when she got stuff, a television wedged in each room playing home movies from the VHS bins of our family and families purchased at thrift stores and yard sales, extra VCRs stored in the broken fridge behind a tower of folding chairs that Peat claims is dangerous, that twiggy motherfucker got her laughing, his hand already on her hip when I returned from parking the car, next in the disability check line, leaning on her cane more in his direction than to the right like normal, and now Peat is purpling but still holding, a former navy diver, but who does he think he is? what does he think he’s going to replace? I see some white flashes as the judge announces eight hundred seconds of holding, and I’m going to show Peat that holding is something we Gadwaws take for serious, we just don’t get rid of things, and I know he’s got it in his head he wants me gone with the rest of her museum, my record collection, the baseball gloves me and Pop wrapped in rubber bands, the hundred golf and hunting mugs filled with poker chips left at the foot of the propane grill on the porch, candles melted down to nubs, wax dripping through the cooking grate, all of it Peat wants to hire a truck and just dump, Momma already having slowed her curating since he came around, but no holy way in hell I’m forfeiting, and maybe the white spots are the crowd taking pictures as we approach the nine hundred second mark, a tight heat in my chest rising up my throat, pulling the strings behind my eyes, Peat on his knees and knuckles, the crowd roaring in and out, and I see Momma among them, sitting in her chair because she can’t stand for as long as I can hold, and she’s crying, spit strings in her open mouth, not liking this, me bringing it all back, but it was Momma who said after we buried Pop that no matter what we needed to hold our heads up high, so I am, numb on the same side my mouth droops toward until I’m tipping down down down in that direction, white spots fireworking, Momma younger and prettier before I got fat and Pop got sick, because I see kitchen countertops and the microwave and magnets on the fridge door holding a report card, she’s wearing her wedding ring on the hand holding a lobster over a steaming pot, its eyes twisting, claws shackled, and I tell her Don’t, but she says lobsters can’t feel hot water like we can, Look, she says and rubs its head and stomach and the lobster calms, It’s hypnosis, she tells me, Fear alters the flavor of the meat, and I remember this being when things started to change, Pop’s first wheezes and shunts and yellowing, my metabolism slowing, and Momma held on, but the longer you hold the lobster the longer it’s afraid, and if rubbing calms it then the lobster must feel you, Momma, so how can it not feel the water? but I didn’t have the lungs for such a thing then, just a boy who’d come in from a catch with his out-of-breath Pop, learning the slider and curve and change-up, and what I did was turn from the sizzle as she dropped it in and covered the pot with a lid

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Medium 9781574411850

let's do

Rebecca Meacham University of North Texas Press PDF

64

let’s do

had hung low with angry black clouds and they were lost and exhausted, and when they saw the neon-lit “vacancy” sign, they both sighed. They had been young and in-love enough to laugh at the cobwebs, the fusty pictures of flowers outlined in yarn. They had slept under a quilt sewn from old dresses, curling into each other like puppies, or socks.

She had all but forgotten about that trip. A little sound escaped her throat.

“Good?” breathed the interviewer. His tongue probed her ear.

“So good,” Estelle said, raking her nails up his back. She glanced at her watch, though there was no reason to, nowhere that she had to be. By now, her husband was probably home from work, packing boxes, waiting for her to return so he could claim this lamp, that chair. Or he might be unpacking at his new apartment, the first floor of a Queen Anne in the crumbling heart of the city. She hadn’t seen it but he had described it in detail, the paint peeling like eggshells, the shutters askew. A fixer-upper, the kind of place she’d embraced when they first started out. Back then, Estelle had been the kind of girl who looked forward to things. There had been a voice in her head, the voice of countless

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