Lily Burana: Strip City : A Stripper's Farewell Journey Across America
A woman does well to keep a bit of mystery about her.
Peel back that lofty veiled conceit and you'll find that what I'm trying to say is that I'm too busy writing to write. Too bogged to blog.
Selling a book is really awesome. Less awesome is the task of writing it.
If you wanna keep up to date on the slow trickle of my life, you can track me down and friend me on MySpace, where I'll blog a little, not a twitter, maybe just a twit now and then.
NEW YORK, NY—Weinstein Books has acquired a new book by acclaimed journalist and author Lily Burana. To be published in spring 2009, I LOVE A MAN IN UNIFORM is a memoir of an unlikely Army wife with a punk-rock past and her extraordinary personal transformation from bohemian East Villager to resident of the ultimate conformist community of Army culture—West Point.
Weinstein Books President and CEO Rob Weisbach won North American, audio, and first serial rights from Tina Bennett at Janklow & Nesbit Associates. Says Weisbach, "Lily's bare-knuckled candor, fearless wit, and hard-won insight will resonate not only with the vast community of military spouses in the United States and outsiders curious about the domestic side of military life, but also with anyone who has experienced an unexpected ideological shift as a result of a personal relationship."
I LOVE A MAN IN UNIFORM is Burana's raw, honest, and compelling story of an authority-averse woman who falls in love with a military officer and becomes a modern military spouse. The book will provide a firsthand account of living within the confines of regimented life on an army post where she endures almost-unbearable loneliness and uncertainty following her husband's deployment and reconciles her own uneasiness towards the war with her husband's professional obligations. Burana's husband, an Army Lieutenant Colonel, is currently on staff at the United States Military Academy at West Point. He is a veteran of both the Gulf War and Operation Iraqi Freedom.
**********
Listen, it's hard out here for a memoir-pimp, what with all these fakey-fake hucksters stinkin' up the track. So before I launch into the writing of Book Three, let me establish my bona fides up front, with some key visual veracity.
You were an East Village punker girl? ORLY????
TRUE DAT. 611 E. 11th St., to be specific.
SRSLY? Like, a real punk laydee, for more than, like, a weekend?
TRUE. DAT. Punkin' it up for Big Ben here.
Was your geek *ss really in PLAYBOY? 
Believe, grasshopper! Yes, I was, back in that Age of Innocence known as The 90s. I'm just in front of the plaque on 5th Avenue here. The Bunny's got some pretty stringent copyright restrictions regarding image use, and I'm not willing to get my geek *ss sued just so you'll believe me. (Also? Nude photos of yourself on your author blog? Um, ew.)
R U rilly an Army wife now? For realz?
Yep. But this guy in the photo is not my husband. He is GEN Peter Schoomaker, former Chief of Staff of the Army. We sat near each other at Army/Navy, and since he's a rodeo fan, I gave him a copy of my estrogen-rich rodeo novel, TRY. He even sent a thank-you jotting! Officer and gentleman! Noted!
Within Army culture, it's considered wildly uncool for soldiers to be self-promoting or attention-seeking (writers know no such stigma, thank gawdz), so hubs is camera shy. But since the book is called I LOVE A MAN IN UNIFORM, herewith is the a photo of the Uniformed Man in question. It's the back of his head, with the West Point corps of cadets in the background. BTW, he's not picking at a big ball of earwax, he's adjusting the ear piece on his phone. Honest!!!
OH SHORE. ADMIT IT, you're not only not a writer, you're not a human. This photo proves that you're really a space mermaid who spends her days eating underwater Saltines and occasionally coming ashore with your pink-haired cohort.
This is most assuredly NOT true, and I am still terribly, terribly bitter about it. I could make a sweet life breathing through gills. And I'd save a TON on shoes 'cuz I gots no feets.
I hate that there's so much b.s. in memoir-ville that we have to read through a scrim of doubt, but I'm doing what I can to hatch some trust. Now that I've posted some ancient pics in hopes of establishing a soupcon of cred, I gotta stop eating crackers and start writing. Thanks, Weinstein Books, Thanks, U.S. Army, Thanks, Jesus, and Thank YOU, Leopard Print Mafia. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo
...if they're a little gold man, that is.
Not surprised. Just delighted.
Geekazoids, FTW.
Before I identify as a woman, a writer, a military wife, a feminist, or Jesus-lovin' humanist, I identify as a devoted fan of the power ballad. If you must prioritize your altars of worship, let me put the stereo speakers at the tippy-top of my list.
Today, a dismal dark in the Hudson Valley, I'm doing my routine obsessive listening to The Carpenter's "Goodbye to Love," which is the ultimate power ballad heart attack ambush. Oh, you think a buncha hardasses like Metallica getting all plinky-planky acoustic lovey-dovey with "Nothing Else Matters" is pulse-stopping contrast?
Nein, kinder.
The real "holy sh*t, where did THAT come from?" killer is Karen "Sweetness and Light" Carpenter singing not about how birds suddenly appear...just because...you are near, but rather, how she is saying goodbye to love, that one ever cared if she should live or die. Haha, sucker--you thought that sweet little oboe in the song intro was a lead-in to chirpy chirpy Love Town? No. There are no tomorrows for this heart of hers. Susie Sunshine has left the building, and she's taking your bottle of Darvocet and a bottle of (fat-free!) Patron with her.
But wait! That's not all!
It's the sonic bomb that Richard Carpenter had guitarist Tony Peluso detonate in the middle of the song. Seriously? I would gladly trade off existing in corporeal form if I could BE this guitar solo. Fuzzy, dirty, plangent and perfect, it is one of the first truly shredding guitar solos on any power ballad, anywhere. Joe Perry tore a page from the "Goodbye to Love" book when he mapped out the crying slice of guitar heaven that he put into "Dream On" (also one of the great power ballads...but you knew that or we wouldn't be friends).
What makes it great is that Richard doesn't hesitate to keep the corny, ethereal breathy "Ahhhh-ahhhh" easy listening/dentist's waiting room backup vocal toward the end. Oh, it's so key the way the guitar just comes right in over that!! It's like Slash showed up during your routine teeth cleaning! The doctor will see you now...his name is ::::ROCK::::
I thought I was alone in my "Goodbye to Love" love, but I see it even has its own Wikipedia entry. Rocker, school thyself:
"Goodbye to Love".
Much like Wayne from "Wayne's World," I humbly state: I'm Not Worthy.
I know I have a loyal, cunning, charming, supermodel dog. I do. And I'm grateful. But I can't help thinking about Chuck. Every day: Chuck.When Chuck doesn't show up, I'm distraught.
I have to set this right, get my loyalties straight. Here's Mister Fabulous Himself, grinning in the snow. See? Supermodel. Did I tell you? He slipped the back fence latch yesterday, wandered into the street, and almost got hit by a car. When he was hauled inside and ratted out by his Other Owner, I crumpled into a ball on the kitchen floor and cried for half an hour. I know it was his doing, but I felt like the Worst. Dog. Mom. Ever. I'm gluing that fence shut, and if he wants out, he's going to have to grow opposable thumbs, work the garage lock, open up a stepladder, and go up and over the fence that way. Escape artists have their rakish appeal, but they always break your heart, or at least do a darn good job trying. 
For all the carping that those who choose not to have children are "selfish," we are consistently reminded of parents who take selfishness to new heights. How much lower can you go than this? This just scorches to the root of my Army Wife soul.
by Anne Lu - Celebrity News Service News Writer
Garland, TX (CNS) - Hannah Montana proves every kid (and parent) would do everything to get tickets to her concert. An essay that won a 6-year-old girl four tickets to the Hannah Montana concert was fake, her mom confesses.
The essay entitled "My daddy died this year in Iraq" has been proven to be none other than a product of the mom's imagination. The sponsor of the contest was Club Libby Lu, a Chicago-based store that sells young girls' clothes and accessories. The company officials surprised the girl Friday at a Club Libby Lu at a mall in Garland. The girl won a makeover that included a blonde wig similar to Hannah Montana, airfare for four to Albany, N.Y., and four tickets to the January 9 Hannah Montana concert.
Company spokeswoman Robyn Caulfied says the mom had told the company the girl's dad died April 17 in a roadside bombing in Iraq. She identified the father as Sgt. Jonathon Menjivar, but the Department of Defense has no record of anyone by that name. The mother has admitted to the fraud.
"We regret that the original intent of the contest, which was to make a little girl's holiday extra special, has not been realized in the way we anticipated," Club Libby Lu CEO Mary Drolet says.
Drolet says the company is considering taking away the girl's ticket. They are currently reviewing the matter.
I sincerely doubt a 6 year-old girl came up with this feint herself, and I hope this mother and anyone else involved has their head bowed in shame, and that they fully intend to publicly apologize and forfeit their winnings. Maybe I'm just sensitive because Death #3900 was a 27 year-old USMA grad, or maybe any sane human--with dogs in the fight or not--would be sickened by this scam. I hate to see disappointed kids, but this would be a fine "teaching moment" about the consequences of deceit: "Here's what happens when Mommy lies, punkin..." All the Libby Lu sparkle dust won't make the rotten egg stench of this go away. Color me disgusted.
You can tell even the script writers on this bit are O to the L to the D, because there's a Grranimals reference!
You know how you can check your Web site stats for referring sites, links, searches, etc? I've gotten some doozies over the years, but I have to say, the one that just came in is my fave:
horny sexual mythical creature
Say it with me now:
horny sexual mythical creature
horny. sexual. mythical. creature.
horny sexual mythical creature
Yeah.
In case you've been stranded in a grass shack in Vanu Atu or eschewing Internet access as your toil over your Unibomber-esque crackpot missive from a huddled perch in the back seat of an old Chevy Vega, I need to tell you there's a new she-riff in Tinseltown, and her name is Diablo Cody.
Diablo is her (cheerfully fake) name and Hollyweird is her game. Seriously, the press is going bat-fucking-shit over her, this rompy, slangy Midwestern dairymaid turned stripper turned blogger turned auteur turned screenwriter and industry Wit Girl. (I done stoled that from the fawning Washington Post profile that ran today.)
When you see her crazy-good teeth a-beamin' in a grin and piercing Vivien Leigh-by-way-of-Shannen Dougherty baby blues, you're looking at the face of hope, the member of the Leopard Print Mafia made good. I can't tell you how excited I am by this girly-q being shot out of the fame cannon and into the dazzling sky.
But I can tell you, kidlets, that truly, I knew her when. No, I'm not some early adopter (adapter? adopter? I do not know which. I am not so much with the Gladwell-isms) who found her blog before everyone else. She found me. Long ago, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, Gawker was just a glimmer in some mean person's eye, and I had this moldering book out called Strip City, I got a tentative-sounding email from some guy. So tentative, I swear, if email could stutter, this one would have. D-d-d-dear Li-li-lily...anyhow, turns out it's this guy whose ladyfriend is a fan of my uptight little book and she's also a dancer and a blogger and, perhaps if I'm not too busy to be inconvenienced, would I maybe look at her blog sometime, this crazy joint called Pussy Ranch? I am pretty much like a polar bear jabbing through five feet of ice to scoop up and gulp a fat baby seal when it comes to stripper blogs, so HECK YEAH, I emailed back, I'll look at her blog. What can I say? It was love at first geekism. I thought, who IS this brainiac exhibitionist dorkazoid with the longity-long giraffe legs and the crazy-ass Minneapolis shopping mall hair extensions? She is wielding the words like a light saber, and I want her to swing that shizzle all over me! Fork me, yoda, this kid's a frigging genius.
Yeah, it's all cool and kwazy to have a blog, and get a book deal off of it--all the kids were doing it back then, not just Diablo C. But her book turned out to be the laugh-out-loud freakshow field report, Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper. I have to say I gave it the most hearty endorsement I could, short of admitting she kinda whipped me in the stripper memoir game. See, I'm an exhibitionist of sorts, but I only want you to view me from my preferred angles. She, on the other hand, drives it to the net by being like, Apatow-ish in her basic grasp of life's comic humiliations--of which there are many in the sex industry. God, so many. She strapped on her stripper heels and promptly stepped ankle-deep in dog crap and told us all about it. Days after I read the book, I'd find myself remembering a line from it, and find myself laughing out loud like an over-processed hyena.
So flash forward to the red-hot now, and Diablo Cody is pretty much being carried through the town square on a palanquin, thanks to the orange TicTac poppin' genius of "JUNO," which she wrote. In two months. (no pressure, the rest of you screen scribes! none at all!). You know the story: SmartySlacks Juno McGuff finds herself up the pole, decides to have the baby, and sets out to find the perfect adoptive parents for her sprog. Story set-up and...GO! It's off to the races. I donned one of my many leopard-trimmed coats in solidarity and went to NYC to see it, with a friend similarly be-coated in leopard, and we enjoyed the living hell out of ourselves. The supporting cast was so good, I kept clutching my chest in pride and joy, like a Jewish grandmamele. Jennifer Garner made me weep openly. As far as movies go, I am hard-pressed to think of a movie more perfectly packaged/produced/costumed/written/acted. It's right up there with "American Splendor," which I revere as a gold standard in indie beguilement.
Everyone's chanting OSCAR! OSCAR! OSCAR! at Diablo, the little subculture spelunker that could, and by God, I hope she makes it. Not just for the Overnight Success edification, but for the Triumph of the Geeks promise of it all.
So here's to you, my Cody girl, my Deebler Coconut, my blurb-swapping chum and go-go pole alum. Dear galumphing Cyber-Cinderella, the kohl-rimmed eyes of the whoremeat cognoscenti are upon you. We cradle you in our nerdy, intimacy-averse embrace and toast your success with a million dimestore lipstick kisses.
