Monday, June 30, 2008
This was that "I can't believe they showed it in Hamilton County movie" with all the real sex acts. They aimed for a notoriety and lived up to the reputation. Every sort of polymorphous perversity, god love it, is thrown up there on the screen. They get enough out and up on the screen in the beginning to give you a good shock so you can then settle into it.
Anyhow, the first time I watched "Shortbus" I wound up touched by it -and no, I don't mean in a fondle-y way. There are parts that are glaringly, self-consciously... amateur. The characters are people with some fairly self-absorbed problems, and then you get to see fluids.
But, in the end, the story is about connection to others. For all the awkward parts, there are others that make you catch your breath.
I was going to snark and be all "They're trying to talk about isolation through explicit contact and it's all well-intentioned art" but in the rewatching something hit me.
It starts with the "oh look, nudity and penetration, isn't that smart?" It moves to "oh lord, could they be more actor-y and contrived?" There's also a big scoop of "Gee, I wanna go to that party."
But, by the end, you're rather engaged. You wind up happy one character learns to let love in, both literally and metaphorically, and you're rooting for another to find her damn orgasm already. That said, what I realized is that the more you relate to it, the more you see parts of yourself in it. You have to say you can find it difficult to connect with others, or let them in - metaphorically or otherwise.
You can see that it's a piece that uses the explicitness of the physical connections as the bait-and-switch to get you thinking about the emotional ones. They show you the orgy to say you can be alone, unconnected (unknown), and lost in a city of millions all packed in together like sardines. It's universal, and a "False Epiphany," but you can get suckered in and say "hey, that's me."
That's a hard thing to fess up to. It surprised me to let that one sink in for a little bit. I'm choosing to think that if you click with "Shortbus," maybe it means that, sure, you're a little lonely; and you still have hope.
I think it's message is just really about how hard it is to connect with other people and that's why I so enjoy this final song in the film. It struck me as one of the best uses I have ever seen of a movie using a song to really sum up what the "feeling" of it is -- and "Shortbus" is a film with brilliant music choices. It's one of the few where the moment I saw it I filed away in my mental to-do list "Get Soundtrack. ASAP"
The moment is quiet- everyone is in one way or another spent - and the city finally has the blackout that threatens to break on occasion throughout the whole film. So it's dark, there's no distractions of civilization, and the song so calm it's practically be a funeral dirge... and then they turn it into a Souza march and a happy ending... literally and metaphorically.
If you've never seen the movie, watch it. You may be offended, but you probably won't be sorry... if you relate to it.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
I just put up my pictures from the 2007 Northside 4th of July parade over at The Jayboy Mansion. As I just captioned 252 pictures with cute titles, the least you can do is go look at it!
My July 3rd Northside party in Hoffner Park photos are up at The Jayboy Mansion. My digital camera made it possible to get some really amazing photos of blurs and sworls of fire. Check 'em out.
Check out this feisty interview (he's really rude to the reporter, frankly) where he mocks reviewers of his novels ("That's because they don't know how to read"), John McCain ("Who started this rumor that he was a war hero?"), and William F. Buckley ("I thought hell is bound to be a livelier place."). Okay, the novel observations I'll give them. I've only read 4 or 5 of them, including the under-appreciated "Myron," with the wonderful (albeit childish) conceit of replacing all the swear words with the names of Supreme Court justices to protest a ruling on obscenity that had come down around the time he was writing it. I'm not sure he's ever turned out a classic novel besides "Myra Breckenridge," but I plan to read more of them before I come to a decision. The essays, however, are classics. Pick up the new collection or go ahead and dive into the giant "United States" collection (which collected about 1/3rd of all essays he'd published between '42 to '92 in about 1300 pages). I've read probably 6 or 7 collections of his essays and still slowly chip my way through "United States." Always entertaining and informative. He's worth a read.
-The skywalks are coming down. They were a neat way to get around a few areas of downtown, although I always got a bit disoriented by them. They were handy getting from the Convention Center to the hotel to Tower Place during the Transformers convention this spring, though. Skywalks, I hardly knew ye.
-I know it's probably a cheap shot to even point it out, due to the gruesomeness of the story, but surely when kids are getting decapitated and losing their feet it's time to start questioning the safety of theme park rides in general. Admittedly, yes, he was where he wasn't supposed to be, and scaled security fences to get there, but the Superman ride snapped cables with enough (super?) force to slice through a human limb (one travelling at probably 60 mph, but still) and this Batman ride has killed people standing near it twice now. Six Flags and superhero rides are a dangerous combo. I saw "The Mangler," dude, it's time to put that machine down.
-"8 members of the baseball team?" 3 different molesty-teacher-chick accusation stories broke. The talking heads in the clip cover most of my hotpoints, so let's start with saying if it's true. Having said that, the 23 year old woman should have known better, much less the 60 year old.(What, did she see "A Night in Heaven" one time to many?) They should because they're adults. 15 year olds may talk tough and act like they own the world and know it all, but you know what? They kindas don't. They're kids. You're adults. Did you somehow forget yourselves and think you were peers or something? Not cool. The accused are however, female, so the whole double standard "Boys will be boys" thing may come into play. At least as a knee-jerk response. These teachers can at least relax in the knowledge that both presidential candidates and the Supreme Court won't put them to death.
There were rumors about 2 teachers at my high school. One was a teacher who was said to have made plays for at least 2 different girls, one who was pregnant. He was fired, so this one was validated. The other was rumors of a teacher who'd gotten it on with a student. She was female. Kids talked about it with a touch of awe and respect. It never came to anything.
To pose a question Carrie Bradshaw-style: "Are public school teachers the new Catholic priest?"
-I saw this ad on Perezhilton.com earlier this week and then the next day on both CNN.com and Salon.com in different stories about how it was yanked. I thought it was funny and the message very clear. The Heinz will make your sandwich taste like it came from a deli. They playfully present this in a manner that evidently a good chunk of the populace decided to ignore and instead focus on the act that is the "button" on the joke. Brit Dad (which pretty much translates as "stuffy") sharing a good ol' marital "See you tonight, dear" smooch with the big gruff NY Deli guy who's a stand in for Mum. It's cute. Also, according to the link in the Salon story, another even that proves that Bill O'Reilly really is dumb as a box of hair and quite the bully about it to boot. "It was obviously a gay thing." Really, Bill? How FUCKING STUPID are you. I mean, that's a cheap joke, and you're really just very, very thick. Moron. (Although, Bill does seem so tense that we should probably give him a referral to a masseur or something. I'm sure Ted Haggard knows one who'd be just perfect for him!)
Such a shame this charming commercial got pulled.
-There was always a really neat thrill to going and catching some band you've never heard of from halfway across the county pop up at a bar. You'd never hear them again unless you went up to talk to them and buy their tape, but maybe, just maybe they'd make it big one day. Now they can't afford to go on tour. They can play around home, but not travel to those far off college towns to commune with the kids who can make them. They can't make it to a big city to get seen by a rep who'll sign 'em and make them. I just hope they keep playing until this all maybe blows over. They can always distribute their work over the Internet, but that is in no way the same thing. I think the last regional (as opposed to local) band I saw was when Dave came up years ago and we saw Forget Cassettes in Newport one night and up in Dayton the next. They were awesome, too.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Today's positive energy should help you view your life from a new perspective. When you look back over the past months, you see that you have come far and
have accomplished significant amounts. You might come up with some plans today
for new goals that reflect the positive changes in your life. It could be as
simple as deciding to learn to play the piano, or as complex as choosing to
change careers. Any choice you make is likely to advance you in the right
'bout flippin' time there, bub.
Is it a violation of the spirit of full disclosure about the house if I fail to mention that my neighbors include a couple of White Trasholes who have screaming fights at 1AM peppered with my street's favorite law-breaker, KeptBoy,* shouting "Motherfucker" and "I'm done with you" and BabyMama* sobbing "Don't you touch me again," which means you have to get up and call the cops because a crying woman is implying she's been manhandled in some way. There was also some very dramatic "Leap out of the truck while he's backing out of their flippin' driveway at what sure sounds like 60 mph" action.
Of course, I called the cops. I'm not going out there. Too many other anecdotes ago I decided this would not be a good idea. I think it was the first drunken fistfight KeptBoy had with his friends... no, it wasn't the fistfight it was the recent gunfire that my neighbor Troy swears he heard on one of the last big "Fight Nights," so unless you're armed you wouldn't have gone out either. I don't have to be proud of not physically intervening, but I didn't.
After re-reading all that, I know what you're thinking... "Why would he possibly want to sell his house on this bucolic-sounding street? Why, it's a little wedge out of a tasty Apple Pie of pure Americana!"
Yet I do. I do.
*the names "KeptBoy" and "BabyMama" can be explained another time.
Friday, June 27, 2008
I was thinking about this tonight while I stayed in to do exciting Friday night activities like vacuum, mop, and mow. Just generally getting the house ready for it's showing tomorrow. Not only did I stay in, but I also had to pass on an invite from Trevor to jaunt up to Cowtown for Comfest after my dental appointment today.
I am so goin' out soon for honest to goodness disco... or whatever the kids are calling it these days.
Admittedly, I never got this dolled up:
(Like how I just slip a good 'n' filthy message in there with my nightlife observation. Yeah, I'm good like that.)
I did squeeze in time to have a lovely celly-chat with Brad - the second one this week, we're turning into two gabby hens. I'm totally going to head out to Phoenix for Labor Day weekend if I can get the flights booked. (I realize it'll be incredibly hot, but what the hey, maybe I'll melt a few pounds off?)
Still to do this weekend: posts to catch up on, diet to commit to, and -HORROR OF HORRORS- clothes shopping. Trying to squeeze myself into a new pair of pants the same size as the ones I've stretched the waists out on should make for a fun post or two.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
(Notes on scary aging: While you probably think "didn't that guy die a while back," Shannon Hoon died in 1995. Yes. Those of us still here who remember that are getting old. He was one of those "oh... really?" people. When they die, you say that and move on because after all the drug stories it was kind of expected. Kristen Pfaff of "Hole" and Layne Stayley from "Alice in Chains" got the same reaction*. So will Amy Winehouse if she doesn't put the breaks on. This is the girl who's publicist denied she had early signs of emphysema without denying the crack smoking and cigarettes that were said to lead to it.)
(* did you know Layne Stayley only weighed 86 pounds when he died? That's scary thin.)
Let's hope that A) Drunken Asshole doesn't decide to swing by on Saturday and B) the kept boy next door stays off his drum kit.
(I wonder if this showing has anything to do with my posting the house on Zillow this morning with the realtor's contact information? Hmmm...)
-Also, 50 posts. 20 days of this. I'm evidently enjoying myself.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
-needs to have a "come to Jesus" with his realtor about just what I'm expecting for this percentage he'll get should the house ever sell. Per Brad's suggestion I'm going to create my own Zillow and Craigslist ads for the house. I'm not quite ready to take up Seth's suggestion to "can his ass," but that's mostly as I haven't yet dug up the contract to see what the penalties might be.
-needs more time in the day as his blog and Facebook and poor, neglected Flickr page- and, mostly, getting back in touch with his friends- is giving him more pleasure than work is.
-needs either discipline or a housekeeper. Keeping this joint "show-ready" is exhausting.
-could use "fixing up" as he's completely "cocking it up" on a regular basis and wouldn't mind a dinner date...
-needs to go out shopping for clothes this weekend.
-is going to get off of here and go watch "The Office" Season 3, Disc 1 - which he got out of the library today - and looks forward to finding out what the rest of America learned about Jim and Pam two years ago...
(I don't want to feel like I'm not showing a personal side here on a heavy-linkies day)
I love how all the people complaining about the legalization of same-sex marriage in California hasn't bothered to read anything about it. A big part of what the decision turns on read to me as equal validation of a family relationship.
"Whether or not the name 'marriage,' in the abstract, is considered a core
element of the state constitutional right to marry, one of the core elements of
this fundamental right is the right of same-sex couples to have their official
family relationship accorded the same dignity, respect, and stature as that
accorded to all other officially recognized family relationships. The current
statutes -- by drawing a distinction between the name assigned to the family
relationship available to opposite-sex couples and the name assigned to the
family relationship available to same-sex couples, and by reserving the historic
and highly respected designation of marriage exclusively to opposite-sex couples
while offering same-sex couples only the new and unfamiliar designation of
domestic partnership -- pose a serious risk of denying the official family
relationship of same-sex couples the equal dignity and respect that is a core
element of the constitutional right to marry."
I don't read anything in that particular paragraph about turning our churches or schools into Hedonistic Indoctrination Camps. I'm more and more convinced that all these complainers are really afraid of is the temptation they feel.
... and California has NOT "slid off of its foundations into moral anarchy.” It slid off it's foundations from the earthquakes. Duh.
(At worst, it'll get lucky and slide off the mattress...)
(the above quote from the REPUBLICAN-APPOINTED judge's decision from Salon.com, and available here.)
I think this is a dumb-ass question. I'm not a parent - and I'm the first to admit that - but I have amazing respect for anyone who is. It's a tough job regardless of whether your child's a boy or a girl. Boys can have shitty self-esteem just like girls can, and girls can be a handful to discipline. Perhaps the members of the target audience should get together and commiserate on how hard it is, then congratulate themselves on the successes and joys they have with their children.
This goes against everything I represent in life. I do try and do the "smile at the world" suggestion, as it tends to short-circuit my urge to call other drivers in traffic or slow people in lines ahead of me words that could get me thrown off a ship filled with Merchant Marines. That said, even when the glass is half-full, it's usually with a brand I don't like the taste of, anyhow.
(of course that attitude means I'm not being an optimist.)
I'm taking notes... I'm pretty good with these except for number 3. I always blank in an interview if I'm asked if I have any questions for them. Usually I go into this uncharacteristic "happy puppy" mode where I'm so glad I've been asked to be there and get to show off answering their questions that everything I had planned out asking totally goes away. Tabula Rasa.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
OurManInChicago and EJShea.com are off to the Liz Phair 15th anniversary of "Exile in Guyville" concert in Chicago evidently.
I am jealous. I remember hearing this CD... very end of high school. It was dark, and the sound had a lot of... space in it. This was really private, "attic" music. I know I've listened to it 1,000 times. I almost always listen to it straight through, from the bad Memorex tape copy I made in 1993 (I probably played "Flower" a lot) to the CD I bought to replace it in college.
I got her later albums. While "Whitechocolatespaceegg" is my runner up for second favorite, Liz Phair gets a lot of guff for "Selling Out." This older music is just as clean and hooky as the later stuff, it's just that the newer stuff is... shinier, brighter. You age 15 years, you have a kid, marry and divorce - you change. Lay off Liz. Different albums, different phases.
I just hope they get me a concert T-shirt.
...and that is with the 10 cent customer loyalty card discount from Krogers... I was grinding my teeth taking this picture so I didn't start shouting "fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou" to the pump, the poor sap in the booth, and passing motorists.
Something has to give. This is not sustainable. I say that even AS that jerk in your office who goes "You know they've been paying twice this in Europe for years!"
(This is also possibly a sign to move to a city with excellent public transportation.)
Along with the full time job that we all know I need to replace with a better paying one, I'm going to be needing to add a part time jobby-job to boot. After all, I need to put enough money aside to buy a bicycle, scooter, and bus pass.
Monday, June 23, 2008
In a series of short films, she plays a series of insects to -and I'm only guessing here- help teach people how the animal kingdom reproduces in some scary ways. It's more Nickelodeon than Wild Kingdom, filled with bright colors and playful imagery... it almost feels like a cute, educational bit from "Sesame Street" except for the subject matter and the truly odd narration Ms. Rossellini provides. Her unique accent and willingness to dress up as a snail and talk about her anus being on top of her head (and poo on her face then mutter "unfortunately")... her breathy comparison of snail sex to sadomasochism... truly disturbs me. Truly.
I don't know which line is better:
"If I were a firefly, I would light up my ass at night"
"She will twist her body to get to my genital pouch but first I will clean her vagina so she will only have my babies"
You MUST check this out.
or, at least check out the trailer:
Evidently Anna Nicole Smith's supposedly incredibly gay baby daddy went out and spent over $3000 at a celebrity auction to score some lingerie she wore for a Playboy shoot.
This however is a) the kicker, and b) why no one really needs to even elaborate on this:
"Birkhead said he is trying to make sure his 1-year-old daughter, Dannielynn, has
something to remember her mother by."
The mind boggles. The soul weeps.
(and the also rans: fart, turd, and twat)
Now that that's out of the way, I was thrown and surprisingly upset to hear of the death of George Carlin. Everyone likes a good swearing. Everyone likes observational humor. Everyone likes "angry" humor.
I liked his love of language. I have always admired his comedy and devoured his books. I have a couple CDs of his performances and have both rented and sought out the many, many specials he did on HBO. His willingness to parse language and get to what we mean and how it hides inside what we say was bold and daring. He was willing to call it like he saw it, and point out the bullshit. Even when it's the question of how one boards a plane (you get IN the plane, not ON the plane), he always cleared it up.
He was one of those few people who could swear and be angry and make it feel almost cuddly. He felt like a friend on a good rant.
I like George Carlin. I admired George Carlin. Like many, many people cluttering up the internet pipeline today, I don't have anything original to say about the man... to which I'm sure he'd say "If you don't have anything to say, shut up until you do."
I'm gonna miss George Carlin.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Jay will be suspending operations for the duration of Sunday afternoon. All higher functions will be defaulted to Sunday evening as Jay had a little too much to drink after only eating a burrito and some garlic stuffed Olives at Vanessa's LOVELY party.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
I was sitting at the computer and minding my own business around 1:30 or so
when there's a VERY loud, rapid pounding on my front door, immediately
followed by someone just LAYING into the doorbell.
I am completely irritated by this and, charged up, decided to get up and see what all the fuss was about.
On my porch was a drunk, unshaven, mostly toothless lout named Bill. He was drinking a Budweiser and carrying a Sav-A-Lot sack that looked to have at least 5 still-full beer cans in it.
"Can I help you?" I asked, and got "Come out and talk to me."
I repeated my questions and was told "I wanna buy the house, come out and talk to me."
Now, I was pretty sure there was no house buying to be had with this turkey. I was eventually surprised to discover he had a home - or at least claimed to. But,you don't want to be too rude, or rather, I'm trying really hard not to be a complete jerk who does things like call other drivers in traffic names that'd make a Merchant Marine blush... so I stepped out onto the porch.
I really tried to present the "look, I'm busy and really don't have time to talk" argument. Evidently I didn't sell it well enough. In return I got "What, you're too good to talk? If you wanna sell the house you'll come sit down and talk to me." I stood my ground as he rambled on about knowing Geneva, the woman who built the place.
According to Bill at one point he tried to fix her up with a friend of his, but she thought she was "too good fer 'im."
Gee, color me shocked to hear that...
He asked me what I wanted "fer the joint," and I told him the list price.
"Yew gotta be muthafuckin' kiddin' me! Yer fulla shit yew wan that!"
Okay, sport. I said "You know, so far you've pounded my door, interrupted my day, and insulted me. This is over and you need to leave." Pretty firm of me. I started to retreat inside.
"Oh really, you think this is over?" he barks as he (thankfully) started to shuffle away "Well I hope you're ready fer the tax man!"
"oh, nuthin... I work fer the city." (well, my oh my, what a trump card!)
"Well my taxes are fine, now excuse me" I said and started to shut the door. Now I was worried. Not that I believed he could bring the power of the city down on me, but rather that I have now pissed off the neighborhood drunken asshole and my phone's clear the other side of the house should I want to call District 5.
He said "I jus wanned to talk about Geenie, tha's all, don' letcher dog out..."
This, god help me, stopped me as I was shutting the door. "I don't have a dog."
"Well whutever that is..." he said, gesturing at my cat.
I then said "Listen, I apologize for being rude, but really, I have things to get to..." and he responded with:
"No yer right, I curse like a fuckin' mutherfucker' but I jus new Geenie sooo
well and loved this house and my stepdaughter has a cat juslike
that, is name is Patches, yers looks jus like 'er cat yew ever see that cat
onna backa the Metro, looks just like yer cat but has a mustache, is a boy
cat, a boy Patches."
Sadly, Bill also got offended last night by a guy named "Brent" who mistook him for a beggar (all together now, "Really?"). "Yew ever see a piranha?" Good ol' Bill has a neighbor who drives sports cars. This neighbor has a sign that reads "If you are what you eat, then I'm a Porsche."
(I couldn't quite bring myself to buy that one... go figure )
Piranha are also evidently "Nature's garbage disposal."
Anyhow, he was all twitchy and pacy, but at least he was off the porch for this rant. I was just happy I'd soothed the drunken jackass enough that I hopefully wouldn't have to worry about him coming back and throwing a rock through a window or anything. He finally took off and I was able to shut the door. A few minutes later I stepped back out on the porch, phone in hand to try and at least share the "oh my gawd you wouldn't BELIEVE what happened to me" anecdote with someone...
My pictures from the 2008 Pride Parade are up at The Jayboy Mansion. Drew and I decided to go have brunch that morning, so we only caught the second half of the parade. No marching bands... only one little go-go boy... so sad. It brings a tear to the eye, I know.
Anyhow, what I did catch is up!
An odd film about a group of electrocution survivors turning to shocks to get continued thrills, I found it pretty well-done, especially considering it was one of those small budget, shot-on-video jobby jobs. It also has excellent editing.
I think my favorite bit remains when Patsy's sister comes to visit and, in utter exhaustion, says "Pats... I'm 72" which send Patsy off into a panic wondering just how old she is.
I'm half surprised it never became a full-fledged movie. If the BBC could send "Are You Being Served?" into the middle of a war in Costa Plonka (seriously, saw it once... wasn't dazzled but still a fan), they could have done Eddie and Pats go to the moon or something...
Friday, June 20, 2008
You could become fascinated by someone new. Perhaps you are developing an
infatuation for a new friend. Or maybe you are interested in a neighbor who has
moved into your area. You might wonder about this person. They could have a
certain glamour or mystique about them. You could fall into romantic reverie,
imagining what it would be like to spend time with them. Just don't do anything
So, let me get this right... So I'm either going to get all Play Misty for Me on a pal or become the local peeper... then I'll get kinda moony, then obsessive, then... impulsive?
What does it say that I'm not into anyone right now? Besides that it means I'm evidently mentally healthy? Why can the horoscope never just give me good Lotto numbers?
Slightly on topic addenda:
The recent near-misses roommate tells me tonight that near-miss was pissed at being a near miss and therefore stopped keeping in touch. Near miss was a near miss because of said roommate. Sigh.
Pure heaven is finding out that Netflix is shipping you "Airport 1975" just in time for the weekend...
Now THIS is a trash classic. First off, it's the first sequel to the Arthur Heller inspired potboiler "Airport" and is easily one of the greatest of the 70s Disaster Movies - "Towering Inferno" and "Poisedon Adventure" are probably the other two.
"1975" however has what I feel is the best cast of all these films - yes, better than even Shelley Winters in "Poisedon." and it's mostly due to "Plucky Stewardess" KAREN BLACK, doing her damnedest through crossed eyes to overact and FLY THAT PLANE!
The brief run down is that Dana Andrews (character names don't matter in these flicks, the actors do) crashes his little plane into the cockpit of a 747 --- and, instead of bringing it down just leaves a big honkin' hole in the plane... and conveniently kills the crew. This requires our "plucky stewardess" to fly the plane the best she can while emoting through her crossed eyes. She gets help, though, from Charlton Heston! His "Alan Murdock" (a camp name if there ever was one) is an overly butch pilot who is also also, of course, Karen's Stewardess Plucker.
Anyhow, at one point he's being lowered into a hole in a flying airplane - thanks to George Kennedy (the only person to appear in all 4 "Airport" movies)- to save passengers like Linda Blair, Larry Storch, Sid Ceasar, Gloria Swanson, Norman Fell, Erik Estrada, Jerry Stiller, Helen Reddy, Myrna Loy, Efram Zimbalist Jr, and (the woman who ALWAYS seemed to be the killer whenever she appeared on "Murder, She Wrote") Susan Clark.
I guess the corallary on TV would've been "The Love Boat" beaching up on "Fantasy Island."
You can't make this shit up. Well, someone did. I think they were on some shit when they did. From what I understand it started out as a TV Movie script that caught a lucky break and got inflated up to "Airport" status. Both Joan Crawford and Greta Garbo passed on it. Well, Garbo supposedly passed. I kinda doubt she really considered it. Helen Reddy is a fucking SINGING NUN.
It's also frequently included on any list of "The Worst Films of All Time."
So come over and enjoy, there will be beer for this screening.
I was hoping to find a nice clip on YouTube of Karen Black and her wild eyes, but wound up encountering something even better. A montage of the film set to the Maxwell cover of Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work." Surprisingly, it works, too.
When Maxwell's at his most falsetto, Karen's shaking pilots and screwing up her Plucky courage to FLY THAT PLANE!
I mean, seriously, come over. There'll be beer.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Doesn't a margarita sound mighty good about now?
(Aside, I've gone and named the folder that anything "Grown-Up" on my computer goes into "The Taco Tiki Hut.")
I was using my trimmer last night - some sort of grooming mania that's an offshoot of my new found fat obsession, I suppose - and the plastic cutter-guard thing popped off and flew into the toilet, so I decided to just use it without the guard and go down to stubble. This morning, I was putting the trimmer into the medicine cabinet, fumbled it, and it flew into the toilet, too. I have never knocked anything into the toilet in all my 33 years and here's 2 things in a span of 12 hours... odd.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
God, weren't we sassy?
I added the college friend pix I had up on Facebook over onto The Jayboy Mansion. These'll get tagged and more are going to get scanned in this weekend...
Speaking of that little hint of "unfulfilled" above, is the downside. The downside of getting re-laced into the world and my social network is that I go to cookouts where I am photographed - and then that photograph is shown to me - and I realize that I have a giant potato noggin'. There is some relief in realizing your hair ISN'T receeding... your face is just swelling. Seems I have on the whole swollen out of all proportion (and not in the good ways). I mean, seriously, I have the pictures lately I can tack on the fridge and say:
(Cyd Charisse is in the part that starts at 2:55)
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I have always had some affection for this song. I first heard it in that Rose McGowan movie, Jawbreaker. Imperial Teen is the band started by Roddy Bottom (helluva name, that - kinda "porn-meets-wrestling") post-Faith No More, and as far as I know they're still in business.
They had a great contribution to the "Wig in a Box" Hedwig cover album, which was a fundraiser for the Harvey Milk School, meaning you have to buy it, not burn it kids!
First time I heard it I thought the kid was singing "I eat poop," though.
Also, Jawbreaker would TOTALLY be a much better name for a porno... probably is...
...and he's mostly right. I'm simply mad about Bea Arthur. What Midgets are to Chelsea Handler, I think Bea could be to me. She was Dorothy. She was Maude. How can you not be obsessed?
I think a lot of my love is because a) if I ever did drag she'd pretty much be it, b) I'm completely convinced that when she dies they'll reveal she pulled a Billy Tipton*, and c) because God'll get you for this, Walter.
However, if it was really MY wet dream, Valerie Harper would be in here instead of Sally Struthers. The only thing I love more than Dorothy is Rhoda...
*I know she's not really a man. However, she's still more of a man than you'll ever be.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Check it out!
*you thought I was going to say it made me feel good, didn't you?
They were two of the first names I came across when I first started reading about gay history in the 20th century. They founded the "Daughters of Billitis," who, along with the Mattachine Society, are a big part of why you can have a pride parade today.
If it mentions the 50s and 60s, and it mentions lesbians, Del and Phyllis were there... and they're still side by side. (What do you get the women who have everything?)
This makes me smile. Congratulations.
(a tip 'o the nib to QueerCincinnati for posting that the hitchin' finally happened!)
What, can't you tell? *
Seriously though, this weekend I went up to Cowtown for a bit of a reunion with some dear old friends from College. In my head I still call us the "Grungebabies" as that's what Mickey Hart referred to me, Dan, Daneille, and Elizabeth as when we all first descended on OD all at the same time. We went through a lot in the course of three years at school. Those were especially formative years for me, and I think for each of them as well. We all learned a lot, got our hearts broke a few times, and learned how to drink like fish.
Thankfully we all made it out the other side okay (although the looks of me in some of the other pictures has me beating a hasty path to my treadmill). But time passes and people move and stuff happens and it's only recently that we all got back in touch - thanks to Facebook- and reached a consensus to get together and break some bread.
I joined Nikki, Elizabeth; her friend David; Dan and his boyfriend Justin; Daneille, her husband Frank, their children Hana, Abrehem, and Danika the firefly hunter; Jake (my old roommate who I much missed) and the late-arriving Spenser for a day of tears and recriminations... no, kidding, a day of laughter and reminiscence and easy, comfortable, interaction as old times were remembered and new shared.
(Wow, that was schmaltzy). Anyhow, the pictures are available here!
*This photo cracks me up as we were all having a great time, their faces just happened to look "fallen" when I clicked the picture. As we were a bunch known for being just a tad morose, it fits.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Nothing puts a bigger smile on my face than my niece, Evie. I've set up my "Evie land" and a file of house pictures (featuring the Fridge O' Doom) over at The Jayboy Mansion and am going to hopefully be putting up pictures of Erik's race, the "Grungebabies" cookout, and the Pride parade soon. (I got the "Grungebabies" up on Facebook and am now wondering if there's a way to link that to Flickr as well... hmmm...)
But the thought of the day is "Mmm, Pierogies!"
Saturday, June 14, 2008
There's not much up yet except for a few pictures of the Fridge of Doom and the start of what will probably become my fan-site to my niece, Evie. Coming in the next few days, I hope to get up some photos from this weekend's upcoming cookout and Pride parade, Erik's bike race, a grab-bag of my pals, last years Pride and Northside 4th of July parades, and maybe even the trip to NY that Drew-o-Rama and I took last June.
(A tip 'o' the nib to Becky "Psycho" Britton for the title with the absolute most-est!)
Friday, June 13, 2008
Playing The B-52s REALLY FUCKING LOUDLY can turn around a bad-sad mood better'n pills.
Seriously, do it. Play them LOUD. It makes you happy.
(Also, I want to see the painting in Keith Strickland's attic. The man looks younger now than he did on their first album cover.)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Well, he finished first and in half the laps, so in my mind, he won! Congratulations Erik!!
More pictures are a-coming, soon as I can get them loaded and posted. (I'm only one man!)
Here's E. looking away -- to hide the panting while he cooled down. I'm so disappointed he didn't yak from over-exertion. He practically promised he would!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Why does everyone call the Veep ticket idea "Obama-Clinton" when discussing them when it's so much more fun to call it "Barack-illy"?
*(Hey, I never said my thoughts were deep)
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
has a lot to say and never feels like he's saying it... so, he's going to
try to for a change. He's not sure what he'll talk about, but he's in his
he's single, he's over-educated and under-stimulated, so he figures
something to talk about from time to time."...because it's all
meat..."Blog by my former roommate, longest friend in Cincinnati,
all-round wonderful guy (ask me once how I stole his boyfriend...
What? You mean the one I read about on his blog and said "Hey I know who that is he's saying keeps sitting on his lap?" I had totally forgotten about that. How memorable could a guy be if I forgot?
He wasn't my boyfriend, he was more my "don't distract him because I really don't warm up until the 2nd or 3rd date" guy... unless we're talking about someone else...? (I either start out revved up from the get go or I warm up slightly slower than a glacier melts.) If it is someone else, you just called me an "all-around wonderful guy," so most will probably be forgiven.
After that, we went to a movie and a meal, but never did hang out again. Being that we went to go see "Cabin Fever" and ate at Champs... may explain a lot, actually. Not that there was any promise he would've, but the poor bastard never did learn "The Power of the Magic Hands" -- a tale for another time, kiddies...
(I chose to blame his parents separation as opposed to the fact that I'm just not that interesting out of the sack... )
Suddenly I want to be walking down the street and reviewing the tables of vagabond vendors with their suspicious copies of "Hitch" and bars of "Black Soap." I'd like to go looking for my favorite comic book panels to comment on. My love of classic ad imagery is percolating, sparked by pictures of "Barilla" over at Design Cincinnati. A rhapsody to the fifteen minute lunchroom nap is being composed... a rhapsody of discord since mine was interrupted by a co-worker heating up a tray of Dinty Moore that smelled just like a fresh diaper, weirdly plastic. Yeah, seriously, never eating Dinty Moore, ever. Ever. EVER.
Or maybe I just wanna look for job listings... then nudie pics when those start to scare me with their scarsity and limitations...
So much to do. So much to think about. But miles to type before then...
Monday, June 9, 2008
A highlight followed by a full day of people demanding things that you just can't do for them within the 30 second window they'd really really like it in...a day where I actually made a half-assed attempt at meditation and being all "mindful" during lunch (mostly in an effort to get my blood pressure down). When I got home I decided to pop in a DVD and watch a couple episodes of "The Office."
I've only season the first US season, and none of the BBC version (Blasphemer, I know) but I will say that I think it's perfectly fine that people find it to be a very universal experience. My office is JUST as painfully awkward as Dunder-Mifflin... I'd like to think I'm a Jim and not a Dwight... but it sure feels real. Much like the staff at Dunder, I think I'd kill for some cubicle walls just to have a break from the bull-pen.
Truth is, it's so spot on (and I've heard this is even more the case in the Beeb version) that I'm not sure it's funny sometimes. I mean, it's funny but it's also so spot on that you're a little shamed to have to admit you get the joke. We certainly have events of having to sit in painful silence while someone in authority says something that... well, they might think it's funny. We've totally had events like the "Dundie" awards and seminars just as painful as the one they have on "Sexual Harassment."
Is this a good thing? If we all have this incredibly awkward office experience I'd start to wonder what the point of it is. The only one I can come up with is the fact that the Mortgage comes due every 30 days, so something had better be coming in.
Worse off, I think my office has a good smattering of the extra-morbid weirdness of Lars Von Trier's "The Kingdom" (yes, watch me drop the show-off knowledge).
If you haven't seen The Kingdom, check it out. It's pretty marvelous and truly creepy, but if you don't want to listen to Danish and read subtitles, at least get the Stephen King version, "Kingdom Hospital." (Wonderful in it's own way, but a different creature). From the painful tortures of the blow-hard doctor (really, that's probably who I am) to the weirdly knowledgeable employees with Downs Syndrome (they're the heart of the house), I think that oddly doomed vibe applies to my workplace, too. Our daily parking absurdities at work certainly straddles both shows.
Maybe I'll just put up a cat poster and pickled fetus in a jar and have it both ways at work.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Back on Tuesday we had major storms and rain (I even got to go home early due to a power outage). Wednesday we had even nastier storms and rain. That morning I stood at the kitchen window, thought "man, it's really blowing out there" and watched one of my trees lose a six foot long limb that twirled like a baton halfway across the backyard. During that storm, one of my trees also cracked and fell, most landing against the crook of another, the top breaking off to land somewhere else. This tree caught all my attention, so I didn't think to really look for water in the basement. I gave it the cursory eyeball, but it looked dry.
It got in though. I know this because today I went into the back half of the basement during the weekly cleaning circuit and discovered soaked, ruined carpeting, boxes turned half to pulp, and floors drying on their own. This was all in the very back corner, around the wall and behind the kitchenette, so you have to really shlep over and look.
Sigh. I spent the last 3 hours cleaning and hauling, drying and repacking... ugh. Thankfully most of those boxes on the ground had textiles in them, so I've got some nasty blankets and sweaters in the washer now. Small favors, I suppose. If anyone wants a really cute "deco" inspired runner from Meijers, it's a little worse for wear but you're more than welcome to it. As an added bonus, it can evidently support life, so really, I guess I got a bargain on it.
All this was after I spent the noon hour sweating into my air conditioning unit as I tried to fish in plastic cable ties to strap the power cabling back to the top grille, out of the way of the fans. Shutting the power down, taking the grille off, doing the fix, and then putting the grille back on would have taken longer. Instead I put my education to use, flashing back on an old segment of Sesame Street where some kids lose a... jack(?) down a grate, so they use string and bubble gum to fish it out. I used the buckle of one zip-tie to fish out the end of another. (They say TV is bad for children... but I'm also fully equipped to deal with finding green monsters in my trash cans.)
Still, it's a wonder I didn't electrocute myself.
Worst part, I still have to finish the weekly cleaning circuit, too.
I would like to think the life lesson would be "Never buy a house. Go Condo" but I also went ahead and cleaned up the yard waste the neighbor's gardner left on my driveway. There are still neighbors...
What's the compromise? Trailer home in the woods? Space station? Hiring staff to take care of such petty problems? (Yeah, we'll go with that one)
Saturday, June 7, 2008
I'm standing at Krogers in the check out line after braving the slow, unmotivated Saturday shopper crowds and idly watching my items get rung up. Not a huge trip, just a few odds and ends that caught my fancy for the next few days. The four puny, little carrots I picked up (.78 of a pound) rang up at 5.05 lbs... I watched this number slide by and it slowly dawns on my absent minded ass that that seems really heavy for 4 scrawny little sticks. Uncharacteristicly, I decide to actually speak up and ask to have that checked and re-rung.
Don't do this at Krogers if you can avoid it. The people behind you look at you with murder in their eyes. Anyhow, after the carrots get rung up two more times and different weights I realize what the problem is. Every time the short, plump cashier would lean over to ring in a produce code her enormous, somewhat pendulous breasts would land on the scale. So it was 3/4 a lb of carrot, 4 1/4 lbs of tit.
I tried to keep from laughing while the manager was eventually dragged over to check it out and correct the bill, and - as a gentleman - was really glad I didn't have to whip out the old Rocky Horror shout-back "Get your tits off my tank" in explaination...
(Truth be told, I kinda wish I had. So I did. Here. There I just sulked about the price of toilet paper... which, oh my god, is now the heavy-handed metaphor of "flushing money down the drain" gone wild. )
Everyone who knows me knows I love a good "bad" movie, and if there's a few bucket-fulls of blood, guts, and maybe a lung or two on screen, then all the better.
They also know I like 'em as whack-a-doo as they can be.
Why would I want to watch something shiny and happy when there's dark and crazy to be had? I look at it as, would you rather watch Kate Hudson or Edwige Fenech?
Kate will screw up her mug in the most adorable manner (the hot chick as cute little puppy) and learn important life lessons while sparkling. Edwige will take her top off and run from bad guys. (Boys, trust me, you'd rather watch Edwige- in some movies it's like she's built out of...hmm, va-va-voom-flavored scoops of ice cream?)
Anyhow, I'll probably talk frequently about the movies I watch here. Probably, it'll be more impressions than full-on reviews... we'll see what happens.
So last night, happy hour was cancelled (I go to one or two a year just to "keep a toe in" with the co-workers) so I had a freebie night to fill with hard-core vegetating. I finally dug into "Happy Birthday To Me." It finally came in from Netflix this week after a couple months of "Very Long Wait" status.*
You'd know this one even if you haven't seen it. It's the one you saw in the video store with the picture of the guy skewered in the mouth with a skish-ka-bab on the cover. Such a shame that they changed the marketing image to some generic anemic carrying a cake with a big carving knife in it. To go from such a so-sick-it's-kinda-funny image to something that looks like a still from "Supernatural" is just so ... blah.
I had never seen this one all the way through, and hadn't seen any bit of it in well over a decade. I'm happy to say I wasn't disappointed. For what I require out of a movie, this is one damn fine flick. Gloriously whack-a-doo, it brought the lungs by the bucketful -- even if they're mostly edited out (the 80s slasher flicks were made for gore hounds but distributed trimmed down for mass consumption).
The "Top Ten" (at being incredibly unlikable) rich kids at a private high school** are disappearing, much to the vague-seeming consternation of the community, school authorities and one another. We-the-audience know that they're actually getting creatively picked off by someone in black gloves that they're shown to know and trust. One gets throat-slashed, one gets his face run into a spinning motorcycle wheel like it was the meat slicer at the deli counter, one's stabbed through the mouth with an overly-complicated midnight snack, one's crushed by barbell --(I have no sympathy for him after he's shown to be (a) lifting without a spotter and (b) a douchebag), and one's fleetingly shown as being disemboweled by what look to be kitchen shears. My scissors can barely work chicken-gristle so these must've come from William-Sonoma or something...
Everything seems to circle around Ginny - blank-faced, spooky-eyed, flat-voiced Melissa Sue Anderson - an amnesiac after brain-surgery who may or may not be the killer... (who actually was really good in this and the High School witch movie "Midnight Offerings" -a MUST SEE if you can find it - she really should have made more of this type of picture, and still could today, you could empathize with her while finding her credible as a possible sociopath)
Anyhow, the kids get picked off and the killer invests what must be massive amounts of time into moving bodies and cleaning up after himself. Ginny recovers her memories thanks to the creepy-casual bedside manner of Glenn Ford. He's one of those doctors who lets hot-girl-patients one-third his age call him by his first name as he hangs out in their house rockin' the open necked shirts -he really shoulda had a gold medallion in his chest hair -- while these vulnerable-cum-nubile girls nap. But, being trustworthy, stalwart Glenn Ford, it's all cool and above-board (he was Pa Kent, fer chrissake, we could catch him wrist-deep in her and we'd be okay with it). It all builds to an ending that's overcomplicated and makes absolutely no sense. Even with hiring a (New York collapsible) construction crane, you can't suspend your disbelief high enough to believe the Scooby-Doo shenanigans at the end.
I've been reading up on the movie this morning and it gets all the more fascinating, too.
Evidently, they made up the ending while they were making the movie.
Now, this makes me love it all the more. It makes me retroactively forgive the plot holes. It also marks the point where I'll spoil any plot points-Ne'-holes I haven't already revealed.
As the story goes along, it's a slasher gloved killer style picture... then there's the mystery of "what happened to that poor girl that she can't remember"... to the poor girl had sci-fi experiments performed on her so she's crazy (eww, pulsing brain?)... so she's the target... there was a tragic accident... oh wait, she's the killer?... is she a psycho?... she doesn't remember!...so she's the innocent by-standing victim of her mother's slutty, social climbing ways being punished by karma... it's kind of a tragic accident really... she's the killer... she's taken the time to dig up a coffin (which would be really time consuming and would totally make a mess and wreck your lower back, yet it's never shown that way in the movies)... oh, she's a crazy bitch... oh, it's an oedipal thing... wait, she's not the killer... eww, where the hell did that come along?
So bland little loony Ginny, who's pretty much implied to be the killer thanks to her black-out brain damage is actually the bastard sister of her best friend, who decided to get back on this ignorant victim that no one knew was really her sister by dressing up as Ginny -an amazing waste of time unless you're hoping that either your victims survive or there's witnesses-- and killing most of their mutual friends, dragging them back to a cabin... next to a Cemetery... that may or may not be in Ginny's back yard... and staging them to resemble a party she never could have seen since she was never there, then killing Ginny's dad, and digging up Ginny's mom.
Then, when Ginny wakes to see herself and all her murdered friends at the table, the killer pulls of the incredibly convincing until removed latex mask, explicates the plot in her best James Bond villain manner then lets her last victim get the upper hand and kill her...
You hope it's because she's masterfully planned the ending of Ginny getting caught literally red-handed with all the bodies and blamed for everything although in reality it's pretty stupid to cap it with suicide-by-victim not to mention the waste of a lot of energy put into the plan to wind up not being able to gloat over it.
Why not just not become "friends" in the first place and get the friends to shun her too or knock off this chick you're annoyed with at one of many multiple opportunities, or... oh wait, then we wouldn't have had a movie and gotten to see crazy-stupid sci-fi science involving brain regeneration through the application of a giant wired metal donut to cause the human body to develop Salamander-like properties... or cool, rich kids hang out with a creepy introvert that plays with mice and makes convincing severed heads in his spare time (Because that's a hobby to have in High School that'll get your dork ass laid) or, ah... the rhapsody of seeing a uvula-spearing shish-ka-bab...
When you read that they changed the ending to add a twist, the fact that the twist isn't hinted at at all makes more sense. Part of said twist is implied in the final flashback, but it still doesn't make jack-shit sense.
It's fun, it's crazy, it makes no sense, I can't recommend it highly enough.
* I hate "Very Long Wait" status. I had Jess Franco's "Faceless" in my number one slot for a year (and yes, it WAS worth the wait). Someone, I'm thinking my Bizarro or Anti-Universe Doppelganger looks at the movies most appetizing to me and gets Netflix to buy only one copy of them. (I'm not a complete heathen, my current number one "Very Long Wait" slot is the Claude Chabrol "Madame Bovary," with Isabelle Huppert, so I'm classy... oh, wait, number two is "The Virgin of Nuremberg" with Christopher Lee, but we won't talk about that right now...)
** High School? College? It's another case of "Movie Adolescents" All the actors are in their 20s and the characters mostly hang out in a bar together (an Irish-style pub called "The Silent Woman" who's logo is a headless St. Pauli Girl... yeah, that's in no way misogynistic) and drink beer... which an 18 year old could do back in the good ol' days...