Archive for June, 2006

The most-blogged-about subject of last week speaks out

You can’t pick who chooses you. It’s like, I’m sure every kid in Africa and Asia wants Angelina to take them home and be-do-rag them and get carried in a sling, but there are only a chosen few. So imagine what it’s like when you are a product in Rite-Aid, just sitting on the Wet ‘N’ Wild “Eyes On The Town” shelf. You can’t pick who buys you. So when she picked me up, I figured, what the hell? Better that I get worn by Britney than some nobody, right? Ha. “Worn”.

I knew things were going awry when Sean Preston tried to eat me. I was just sitting there on the counter of the “Hers” side of Brit-Brit’s bathroom (because she thinks when you have two sinks it’s classy and also warrants a gender divide) when I felt the slobber of someone who is growing up without valuable role models. Look, even my label says keep out of reach of children! I am a synthetic fiber, for the love of God! I am not your fancy-pants Chanel lashes made from the tail hairs of fetal mini-seeing-eye-horses. I am PVC. Sorry! Sorry for being an untouchable in the falsies caste system. Sheesh. At least SP didn’t get his hands on the glue. It’s toxic, just like her song says. Too bad Britney didn’t get her hands on it either. Me without glue is like the shoobop sha wadda wadda without the yippity boom de boom. So Brit finally grabbed me out of SP’s fat hand and I was pretty mangled. But, apparently, wearable.


Side note: while we’re on the topic of mangled, there’s this urban lash legend that went around for a while and I want to confirm that yes, it happened and the reason I know is because it happened to my aunt. It gets kind of gruesome though, so if you’re squeamish, avert the eyes to which you are attached. So the thing is, I have a LOT of family who have been in the employ of one Ms. “Liza with a Z” Minnelli. And before you can say “Hey, but you’re just PVC” and remind me of the place from whence I came, let me just say that back in the 70s we were all PVC, honey. And Liza has been faithful to us for years. So one night at Studio 54, Liza had a case of the giggles because, as the story goes, Mischa Baryshnikov had a thing for licking toes under the table and was Liza ever the ticklish one. So her laughter turned into tears and the tears loosened the glue and my aunt flies off of Liza’s eye and right into the mouth of an also-laughing Bianca Jagger. Bianca inhales my aunt, requires the Heimlich given by none other than Andy Warhol and she flies out right on to Malcolm McDowell’s eye, thus inspiring his costume choice for A Clockwork Orange. Swear to God.

So. Right off the bat, I knew I was going to garner some attention. The girl clearly didn’t know how to affix me properly, but you know, sometimes you can get away with it and look sorta natural. But I was slipping from the get-go…and the questions hadn’t even started! I was bracing myself for when the toughies got dished. The phrase “Matt Lauer Interview” obviously doesn’t have the famous ring to it that “Barbara Walters Interview” does but if there’s one thing I know about fragile Southern women, it’s that they love their daddies and crying to a daddy-like figure is second nature. So…you don’t need to toss me a crystal ball for me to tell you the future didn’t look good.

It was kind of smooth sailing for a while, we got through clips of Brit back when she had a killer bod, Brit when she kissed Madonna, Brit writhing around with all her makeup perfectly in place. But then, out popped the questions about K-Fed and the paparazzi. Damn you Lauer! I was like a gymnast who mistook Crisco for chalk, I was sweating, holding on for dear life, knowing that I was going to be single-handedly responsible for any notoriety that was to come from this. I couldn’t hold on. Unable to keep it together, I dangled like a modifier from her eye. For the REST. OF. THE. DAY. Girlfren exhibits some giant pee-pee holding skills for a pregnant lady, I mean, she didn’t once use the lav to even sneak a peak in the mirror and believe me, I was doing my best to tap-tap-tap her in the eyelid to make her aware of me. To no avail.

I am sorry it happened this way. Really, a smidge more glue and this situation would be a non-situation. We would just be talking about her inappropriate Forever 21 outfit. Instead, I am a reluctant star who just wants to get back to my own day-to-day. And, as she said when you were too busy laughing, Brit does too. But instead, because of me, we are still giving this girl not one but forty lashes.

Veni, Vitti, Vice-y

I’m not good with vices. Not that I’m prudishly anti-vice, but I have a low physical tolerance for just about everything except candy and now that I am an adult (in the most minor sense of the word – if stages of life were employees at a corporation I would be a junior associate adult or perhaps an intern working for adult credits), I am what is known affectionately on college campuses as a two-beer queer, someone who gets the stumbly-mumblies after a Solo cup or two of beer that doesn’t even have color to it. But, probably to my parent’s relief (and their surprise, I imagine) I am neither bad, nor am I even drawn that way. I feel guilty when I stay up late, as if the success gods are frowning on me and taking away any health, wealth or wisdom I might have gained from an extra 2 hours of sleep. And in typical “fear of God and death” fashion, I assume that I would be that girl, the one who decided to take a drug and then die the first time she tries it. Unfortunately it is my physical and mental inability to enjoy the seedy side of life that makes it hard for me to understand most classic Italian films of the 1960’s.

To me, La Dolce Vita was beautiful but it reminded me of one of those uncomfortable nights you spend with an acquaintance you don’t know that well but with whom you decide to leave the Halloween party, go to their dorm, drink boxed Southern Comfort-based shots, wonder why you are there and then find out later that their roomate went to the hospital to get his stomach pumped and you go with him to pick the roomate up even though you don’t know him and are dressed like one of Charlie’s Angels. Basically, it leaves you with a hangover and memories of things you aren’t sure really happened. (But again, in the new running theme of this blog, I apologize for having ruined this landmark film with my unnecessary comparisons to the American college experience.) But that is my Dolce Vita…there are no prostitutes, famous actresses or dead friends but there’s totally no safe ride to the Medical Center either.

Last weekend, dear Cinema Companion wanted to go to BAM to see L’Avventura because he has much less of a problem with the vices presented in Italian film than I do. And I obviously acknowledge that he is not the weird one in this situation, it is I, the girl that gets a knot in her stomach when fictional characters cheat on each other, who has the hang-up. I did enjoy L’Avventura despite all the debauching and such, and Monica Vitti is my new fashion icon.

Despite the film breaking my number one rule (don’t date your friend’s fiance less than a week after said friend goes missing on a remote Italian island), Vitti puts me at ease.
The Hair!


The Clothes!


The Nose!

I wish I had that nose. Its the kind of nose I thought only Gisele Bundchen was capable of having, the broad nose that looks tan and glowing even in non-tan-and-glowing situations.

(Unfortunately, that horse is gonna need a-washin’!)

Apparently I do not have a problem with such frivolity as wearing designer Italian fashions and having perma-sex-hair. But those aren’t vices so much as personal up-keep that just costs a lot to maintain and is well worth it. Ahhh DOI.

I can see why Monica was Antonioni’s muse, and they don’t make ’em like her anymore. I mean, despite the Gisele-nose similarity, I can’t really picture her on top of that horse, you know? And I’m sure the whole audience at BAM would shudder if they even knew I was making comparisons between the two women. They would brutalize me with their “Develop Don’t Destroy Brooklyn” signs and beat me senseless with their Food Co-op membership cards. But that’s because the woman is all class and style. Somehow she could pull off a life of leisure and sin and excitement and make it look glamourous. I guess my problem lies in the fact that when I was in living my version of leisure and sin and excitement, it included Dave Matthews CDs and a 1970’s detective costume that included a potato gun.

And since no mention a film is complete without a haiku review…

Where did Anna go?
Whatever. Let’s not look for
her and say we did.

Forlorn For Lorne

I was in the eighth grade when I decided my goal in life would be to get on SNL. The Anal Retentive Chef and Massive Headwound Harry became sort of touchstones for me, really. Something to aspire to. There is no other show that promotes as much arguing and debate as SNL. How it is not “as good” as it was at a certain time, or how “the original cast was the best” or how “David Spade should be eaten by feral cats” (actually, doesn’t everyone agree on that one now? Hollywood Minute? Cute. Showbiz Show? 29 minutes longer than cute.)

So, over the course of junior high and high school I would curse myself for being born at the wrong time and then wonder why I couldn’t just submit a sketch packet at the age of 13 and be the most hilarious and relevant comic mind who ever measured the force of a sinker on a Newton scale. (.25N.)

But alas, I had other preoccupations like trying to impress guys who wore flannel Skidz to school and despite their pant-choices were still too cool to acknowledge me. So, sadly, I never got around to writing such brilliant sketches as The Ebonics Wheel of Fortune and The Bob Dylan and Rosie Perez Talk Show and Malcolm XYY (thanks, biology lesson in genetic abnormality! Plymouth Rock landed on US! And WE have Klinefelters Syndrome!) .

I can safely say that if I had been a 13-year-old writer for SNL the show would not be a topic of debate so much as it would have gone immediately down the shitter. So it’s probably for the best that those sketches never got written, although it did give me the idea that I should write a kitschy, irrelevant sketch show called “We Used To Be Topical” and use them there. But then what would I call my show about ointments who passed their expiration date? OH! Do you want to see my boarding pass? ‘Cause yeah, I went there.

And this, friends, (take notes!) is how to ruin everything.

An athletic supporter gets a taste of the Cup

Day 9 of World Cup Widow-hood and I’m feeling ok. I don’t miss my companion as much as I thought I would, but that’s probably because he’s sitting next to me, though all his attention is turned to the U.S/Italy game and nary a keystroke on my computer can be heard by him, such is his soccer tunnel vision at the moment. But how can you not be riveted when there are yellow and red cards being spewed by the refs every 10 seconds for gross moves like this?

(After elbow to face contact was made there was bloodshed. Gross but exciting!)

Thus far my favorite elements of the World Cup are the trivial facts the announcers divulge anytime anything happens…”Germany’s first goal against Costa Rica, scored in the 6th minute of play, was the second-earliest scored goal in any World Cup opening game”…”This is the first time Ghana has beaten a European team in the Cup since 1964″…”German player Miroslav Klose is the only player in World Cup history to score twice in the opening game of the cup while also celebrating his birthday”….”Czech goalie Petr Cech is the only player to have four of the five letters of his nationality in his last name”….

Ok, they didn’t say the last one, but it’s probably accurate unless Ted Amerian plays for the U.S. I mean, the thing is that that stuff is not weird. What’s weird is the Thomas Jefferson and John Adams both died on July 4, 1826, the 50th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. THAT is the weird trivia trump card, I think. Not that this post is an all-American vendetta against soccer announcers but if you’re gonna spew facts, go with the good stuff, I say.

And now for some more good stuff…

Ghana shocks the world by beating Czech’s today, 2-0. In-a-Ghana Defeata

Portugal advances to the next round after a win vs. Iran. Ohhhh, They’re Halfway There, Ohhh, Lisbon on a Prayer (Incidentally, the reporters want you to know this is the first time they have advanced since 1966).

Argentina 6, Serbia & Montenegro, 0 Argentina Whips S & M

Germany,1 – Poland, 0 Germany Smokes Poles

Spain 4, Ukraine 0 The Reign of Spain Falls Mainly on Ukraine

Fever For the Flavor of the FIFA

World Cup Fever is everywhere and the only proper antidote is beer and group chanting. Even in the tiny hamlet of Brooklyn, or should I say, especially in the tiny hamlet of Brooklyn, since every bar in the Heights and the Gardens has chalkboard signs proclaiming that they are showing the games and oddly enough, a lot of people are in there. I thought Americans were supposed to hate soccer! We are brought up playing it on teams like (true story) The Goalbusters and The Magicians and even in high school and college, it’s still the sport that rules. Especially if you went to college at a small New England liberal arts school, you could major in dating soccer players with a minor in hooking up with the lacrosse team. But then, the only person who ever did anything with that degree was Posh Spice Victoria Beckham, and she was just an exchange student.


When university education comes to a close though,things change. Like a capella music, soccer is hardly the draw it once was. In the post-college world, people will laugh at you if you say you want to go see the Metrostars play, like, “Really? Why?” So I’m surprised that this many Americans are this excited. But then, I notice these things more this time around because I am now a casualty of the World Cup. I am a World Cup widow.

My companion (when I don’t say what kind of companion he is, it makes him sound like my dog or gay lover, doesn’t it?) is a soccer fanatic. Not quite a hooligan but fanatical enough to have it rub off on me to the point where I actually have a favorite Premier League manager (Jose Mourinho, but only because he’s a sharp dresser) and have been drunk by 12pm on game days. Of course I’m a fanatic about certain things myself, so when the mid-afternoon-drunkies happen, I too become violently emphatic, but only about going to bed by 9pm. As a result of all this, every day until July 9 I have been warned that, while it’s nothing personal, he has a new companion. A lover who, for ninety minutes a pop with occasional stoppage time, will be 100% vice, providing him with everything I can’t. This lover will not tell him to stop eating mac and cheese for every meal. This lover will not ask him to cut down on smoking. This lover will make ice cream sundaes with crack on top him if he wanted it and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t resent my companion at all, I don’t like being in the minority and if I resented him, roughly 4.5 billion people would wonder what my problem is. Even a war criminal would think I was a jackass. But since he is too busy watching, he won’t mind if I keep myself busy with some headlines (which Stan deserves some credit for as well).

U.S. loses 3-1 against the Czech Republic today. Czech-mate

African team loses 2-0 in Italian upset…Ghana Witha the Winda

Australia beats Japan 3-1 today but there are still plenty of Group F games left so Don’t Get Japanties in a Bunch

Mexico leaves Iran in the dust after winning 3-1. Mexico’s Close But Iran, Iran So Far Away

Portugal defeats a sluggish Angola 1-0 Obtuse Angola

Argentina defeats Ivory Coast 2-1 in Group C first round. These Ivories Are Untickled

Swedes and Trinidad and Tobagans Get into Art School Because They Draw.


My friend Maria over at VonTrapped has a new post up today. It’s a very important review of “An Inconvenient Truth”, do (re) me a favor and check it out.


A Blogger Hardly

My cinema companion and I were discussing Richard Linklater the other day. While I haven’t seen Slacker, we both agreed the man hasn’t made many (or any) bad films…Dazed and Confused is entertaining on many many levels, Ben Affleck’s hair being the first level and it only gets better from there, and Before Sunrise and Before Sunset are maybe the most charming movies ever made. Waking Life was boring in parts but amazing in others. Bro has directorial range! So while I am not a sci-fi person and know nothing about Philip K. Dick (uh-oh! Did I just alienate my entire nerd readership? Sorry, nerds. I am nerdy in my own ways but not in the Douglas Adams/ Philip K. Dick/Isaac Asimov way), his new movie, A Scanner Darkly, looks pretty awesome. Visually anyway.


I love when faces look like topographical maps! Is that Winona or a map showing the elevation of Los Angeles?


But of course the best part of the movie (for me) is the title. There is so much I want to do with that title that my head is going to futuristically combust in an alternate dimension while I’m driving a floating car that turns into a suitcase! It just makes me think of all the things in my office that can be modified with adverbs, but not in a way that makes sense. More like, in a way that sounds like a direct translation of Spanish to English without rearranging the nouns being modified. From A Scanner Darkly to:
My Stapler Stolenly.
The Printer Jammedly.
A Phone List Outdatedly.
A Modem Blinkily.
A Fax Screechily.
A You Tube Video Quietly.
An Automatic Toilet Flush Untimely.
My Lunch Hour Solitarily.
A Mousepad Comfortably.
The Receptionist Sadly.
My Monitor Freezingly.
Vacation Approval Begrudgingly.
My Dignity Disappearingly.

I’m sorry I ruin everything, good readers. It’s my curse.