Mistress Squidia, Media Whore

Bad, Bad X-Files, Or, I Want To Believe I Didn't Actually Pay Good Money For This

2008-08-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

Girl Kid is at work and Boy Kid is off playing nerdy games with friends, and you know how it goes, I was in the mood for a movie—nothing too elevating or which might make me think too hard, and yet also something that the spawn would not grumble at me for seeing without them. I was on the prowl for Big Stupid Fun, and what was available at the right time you say? The X-Files, I Want To Believe.

I admit it, I was never an X-Files groupie, and I barely remember the premise of the original television show. I knows there was a story line involving a Smoking Man and a couple of FBI agents with the hots for each other and some aliens and stuff. I remember that the girl agent Scully, like a good little enabling female, was always gamely trying to keep the seriously gullible boy agent Mulder from going off the deep end, but then he always turned out to be right—goopy space critters with x-ray vision were always trying to abduct bohunks off Texas highways, presumably to complete their "Universe's Most Idiotic Life Forms" collection. I know the show was on the air for approximately 108 years, and I would hope that fat residual checks and DVD sales have ensured that the principle actors never have to work again. After seeing this movie, I really wish they had stayed at home and pounded back some more mojitos or whatever, you know?

So, based on my slim understanding of what this movie might be about, and all on my lonesome and looking for fun, I motored off in my completely uncool Kia Spectra in reasonable expectation of cinematic thrills, dark hallways, spooky bad guys and rip snorting sexual tension, middle-aged style. (I mean, David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson are getting on in years, you know? Let's see...Wiki Wiki...yeah, Old David is turing 48 on Thursday and Gillian is.....damn, she turns 38 on Saturday. Crap, she must have been like 12 when the X-Files television show began. Sheesh. Well, both of them still look pretty good. Whatever.)

I'm not even going to attempt to tell you what this movie is about, because I'm fairly sure the film makers themselves couldn't explain to to you with the aid of a translator, an Albanian donkey and a Powerpoint presentation. I can tell you that this clunker is a very, very boring movie, and the "I Want to Believe" in the title doesn't mean aliens, it means religion. Seriously, I've been pestered by Jehovah's Witnesses who talked about God less. Also, and if you were a fan of the show you probably already know this so I won't be messing anything up by revealing it here, apparently Mulder and Scully had a kid at one point. They aren't married, and they don't live together in the remote farmland newspaper-clipping-filled cabin on the outskirts of Burnaby B.C., (Mulder seems have turned into one of those sad old men who collects newspapers), but there must have been some breeding action going on in the back story and the kid got mislaid or died or was added to Blogthorth The Invincible's collection or something, thereby allowing our leads to blather on some more on the nature of the almighty and their relationship with each other. Ugh.

Scottish comedian and Rod Stewart Wannabe Billy Connolly (have you seen that guy's hair?) plays a pedophile psychic who may or may not be a bad guy or perhaps is a messenger from God, the script is never really very clear on this point. Pert and usually watchable FBI newbie Amanda Peet brings in Mulder as a consultant to suss out if Billy is really having visions or is just a crank, and the obvious conclusion that he might know where the bodies are hiding is because he killed them himself only passingly occurs to the FBI, as played by Pimp My Ride's Xzibit. I mean, I know the FBI has gotten a bad rap of late, but suspecting the guy who first leads you to the corpse is just common sense, bleeding eyes or not. There's also a b-story involving a dying kid, and apparently in the imaginary country this movie takes place in, stem cell therapy is available to the general public, because I'm pretty sure it is not allowed yet here in the Good, Ole Puritanical US of A. Also, isn't West Virginia, the supposed location, a southern state? Do they really get six feet of snow there? I know the movie was really filmed in and around Vancouver, because 1), I grew up there, and 2), even though the license plates are sort of spray painted over, in at least one shot you can clearly see "British Columbia" embossed into the metal. Actually, even Vancouver doesn't get that much snow, so they must have had some shipped in for visual effect. There's also some stuff about organ stealing bad guys, and the plot is such a snooze-fest that the villans are Russian. Come on Chris Carter, Russian bad guys were old news even back when Die Hard was made, couldn't you think of something more original?

In conclusion, The X-Files, I Want To Believe manages to be stupid, gross, boring, tedious, proselytizing, confusing and dumb all at the same time, which is grounds for a refund, if you ask me. (Yes, I know "stupid" and "dumb" are the same thing, but I'm telling you, it really warrants mentioning twice.) In the making of this movie, did not one grip, extra, script supervisor or second unit director say, "Hey, um, guys? This movie sucks rancid camel balls, you know? Maybe it needs a re-write." I'm really, really surprised David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson agreed to even enunciate some of the more ridiculous lines, although I'm pretty sure I caught Ms. Gillian rolling her eyes just a tiny bit after one particularly awful pronouncement. Dear Zeus, what a bad flick. I'll happily sit through a lot of crap as long at there are at least some funny bits, some man candy or at least big explodies periodically, (just for you dead reader, just for you), but this one really made me mad. What a waste of human life, and by that I mean my own. Go see a Miley Cyrus movie or something instead, it would seem like high art by comparison. I'm sure Miley, who seems to be taking over the world one lunchbox at a time, is available at some entertainment venue near you right now. Speaking of which, Billy Ray Cyrus must have given the Devil a beejer or seven, if you know what I mean. Seriously, the dude got away with that mullet and a had a hit song in the 90's and now the billion dollar Hannah Montana franchise is his daughter? The man must have a pillow permanently adhered to his knees is all I'm sayin'.

I reiterate in all sincerity and in regard for your mental health, save yourselves the time, money and brain cells citizens, and avoid The X-Files, I Want to Believe like the plague that it is.

Love, Your Mistress

The Dreaded Bus, and Some Movie Reviews

2008-08-01T20:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, I've been out of touch a good long while. The reason why needs only a small sad recap:

Our cat Toaster suddenly developed symptoms of diabetes (read, peeing everywhere), which first manifested on my birthday no less. Earlier, less invasive, symptoms had been ignored by us because we thought the cat was just bummed out by our recent move to much smaller digs. The month of April was a long dark tunnel of pee, trips to the cat doctor, new apartment carpet ruination, rapid decline of much-loved pet, and massive expenses followed by the forced medical removal of cat from life by a kindly vet while Girl Kid and I bawled our eyes out. This was followed by more egregious expenses when we had the cat cremated at Girl Kid's insistence and then had the carpet extensively cleaned by qualified professionals (also known as "Julio"). Toaster (named by a 4-year old Girl Kid in honor of the movie The Brave Little Toaster, recommended) now resides in a tasteful and tiny jar on the bookshelf. In the course of the same month, Girl Kid was jestfully tackled by a co-worker and received such a deep contusion on her shin that we had to have her leg x-rayed and now she has no feeling in a 4-inch square region of her lower leg. And then a few weeks later she sliced open the other leg with a box cutter trying to cut open a door in the new cat box. Did I mention we have no health insurance? Let me tell you, because this country sucks enormous donkey balls, it is to my shame that we had to spend the first post-injury 45 minutes calling everywhere to find a cheap clinic that could do stitches while Girl Kid held a, soon to be blood soaked, cloth to her knee before we could drive off erratically to the nearest place we could afford—which turned out to be practically in Canada. So, all in all, a very expensive and sad spring for your Mistress and her spawn. And oh yeah, because of a book deadline I spent 37 out of 41 days during May and early June at work. And then I was horribly sick for three weeks. Joy.

And Now for Something Completely Different,
AKA "It's a Gas, Gas, Gas!

Guess what America! With a two-term kid of the oil baron Bush family in the White House, the price of oil has never been higher! What are the odds, right? Gas costs something like $4.25 per gallon even at the cheapest place in Seattle, which luckily happens to be fairly close to our house, so bully for us. Two years ago when I started working again (after going back to school) and my 28-mile round-trip commute cost me upwards of $110 per month, the $72 monthly bus pass didn't seem like such a good deal in exchange for having to get up 45 minutes earlier. As we all know, Mistress Squidia needs her sleep. Plus, my old bus routes from our last house were not that great, as the trip required a transfer and a one block hike up or down a very steep hill in "Wino Slash Smack Town USA" (also known as the area around 3rd and Yesler in Downtown Seattle). But, at our new advertised-as-swanky but actually kind of crappy and surprisingly expensive apartment, the express bus to the downtown bus tunnel has a stop right out in front, and a few weeks ago I was finally driven (forgive me) by high gas prices to consider the bus again. And it turns out it's not half bad, if you follow some careful rules of etiquette and self preservation.

Things I Have Learned On The Bus:

Bring a Book.
Yes, the bus may be jam-packed with the low-rent public, many of whom are a bit "whiffy," or with do-good yuppies who recently have discovered a deep abiding urge to save the earth (gas prices), but when you open your trusty tome and begin to read, you enter a bubble of reality unique to yourself that effectively removes you from your present circumstances and also states, "Leave me alone, I'm busy...I don't want to hear about your dog's digestive peculiarities, your crappy job (I have one too), or your theories about how the government is controlling your thoughts through OnStar." But what about car sickness brought on by reading on a fast-moving (and jiggling) vehicle you say? Trust me, after the second week you'll hardly notice it, and the benefits of at least mental seclusion from your fellow commuters vastly out-weigh a little personal discomfort. Mr. Book is your friend, don't leave home without him.

Don't Make Eye Contact
Unless you want to make questionable "friends" and real enemies quickly, this is pretty much good advice in most public places, but on the bus it's vital. See my first point about old ladies with pets, grand children and/or interesting diseases, let alone the creepy guy who keeps looking at you and then at his crotch and smiling...and then back at you and winking, over and over.

Don't Look Around At All
With the exception of a quick glance to see if your stop is coming up, avoid looking around as much as possible, for fear of seeing something that may scar you for life. While most of the bus-going public is generally presentable, you might also encounter a specimen like the old bat I sat behind yesterday who had scotch tape liberally applied to both sides of her face. I think this may have been an attempt at low-cost plastic surgery, but who the hell knows? Maybe it was there to thwart the cheek demons.

Choose Your Seat Carefully, but Quickly
I've discovered that upon entering the bus the human mind is capable of a plethora of fast, almost instantaneous, mathematical and socioeconomic calculations. First and foremost is the snap decision of who to sit next to. Your choices include the twitching guy in the ripped, sleeveless gym shirt and copious armpit hair, the elderly woman drooling on her polyester day-glo blouse with the puppy dog decals, the hip-hop "gangsta" spread out over 2.5 seats (including the one in front of him), the disaffected youth with the iPod ear buds stuck firmly in place who will hate you and plot your death the entire ride, and the nylon-legged office twinkie who is complaining loudly on her cell phone about her boyfriend who said something to that slut at the bar last night who was so totally rude you would not believe it, you know? Other seating considerations include: how soon is your stop vs. how crowded is the bus and therefore how close to the front should you sit? If you sit closer to the back of the bus, will you be able to wedge your way to the front in time to get off where you wanted, or will you end up in Tacoma? It's important to make the right decisions here people! Also, at least in the summer, always, always sit with the sun on the opposite side of the bus, or you will cook like a crab. And last but not least, if you are forced to stand, try very hard to get the first spot by the back doors, as the back-of-the-bus entry/egress alcove offers plenty of places to hang on where you won't accidentally touch someone's hair or fall in their lap, and you might also catch some breezes coming from the gap between the doors.

Rosa Parks is Rolling...
In my few weeks of enjoying the wonder that is public transit, I've noticed that all the hip brown people tend to sit at the back of the bus. I find this very odd, but maybe that's just me. I blame our crappy and still often racist public education system, but it's only been 53 years since Rosa made her brave stand (or in her case, sit), and already you are at the back of the bus again? And by choice? Weird.

Don't Trust the Web Site
Believe me, figuring out how to correctly enter the bus stop address to satisfy the extremely persnickety King County Metro "Trip Planner" web site is hard enough, (no you gullible fool, just entering the street address is not good enough, you have to guess at what the Metro Bus web algorithm calls that stop), but wait, there's more! The buses listed as being right for your destination may not be your only options! It took me a few days to realize that not only can I get on the 101 to connect to the 301, but also the 106, 150, 174 and 194, which is good to know, because sometimes the scheduled bus you are waiting for never shows up, and sometimes it is full up and blows right past you while you jump up and down screaming at the rapidly disappearing rear advertising banner. All I'm saying is that my first week I almost missed the last connecting 301 to my neighborhood and came very close to spending the night living off bugs and pity in the Northgate Mall Park n' Ride.

The Bus Driver Hates You
Potential bus commuters, get a bus pass, because shoving archaic paper money and coins through the little slot just holds up the line. I myself am still guilty of this crime because Girl Kid keeps telling me she can get a cheap pass through her work, but so far, no pass and no love from Mr. Bus Driver. Plus I can tell they get sick of all the stupid questions—I mean how many times in a row can you reply, "Yes, this bus goes downtown" before you develop a nervous tick? Based on this morning, I'd say about seventeen.

All in all, and despite the questionable humanity to be found thereon, taking the bus is actually okay. It's turns out to be faster for me than driving, and I can read Mr. Book whilst in transit, so in many ways it definitely beats grinding my way up I-5 developing my loathing for my fellow man based solely on their driving habits.

[As a side note, the idiots that designed the three freeway lanes that converge into one just before you merge with the main line below the Washington State Convention Center need to be found, killed, dug up and killed again. And the people who weave in and out of those two "merge left" and "merge right" lanes on the outsides of the one through lane to supposedly get there faster need to be dragged out of their cars, covered in honey and duct taped over an ant hill naked a dawn. Seriously, if you all just stayed in the through lane, we'd get past that four block area in three minutes tops, instead of the 25 minutes it can take on a bad day.]

Yup, as long as you have an easy connection, the bus is better, gross guy picking his scabs and all. Just don't forget your book.

• • •

And Some Movie Reviews In A Minute or Less
And yes, I know you have already seen most of these, but in case not:

Ironman: It's out on DVD or still on screen at The Crest in Seattle (say "Hi" to Girl Kid, who her coworkers call "Tree"), and there's nothing wrong at all with Robert Downey Jr. having mega fun. Just because of him, and Ben Stiller notwithstanding, I'm looking forward to Tropic Thunder. Robert Downey rules.

Indiana Jones And The Crystal Snooze: Oddly boring, and totally preposterous. Hey, um, Mr. Spielberg and Mr. Lucas, I know they made refrigerators pretty beefy in the 1950's, but there is no one, no matter how studly, who could hide in one and still survive being blown out of a house by a nuclear bomb. Even if they were not immediately vaporized, they'd be turned into Spam by the two mile joyride through the air. And then when Indy gets out and looks at the blast and doesn't immediately die of radiation sickness? Please, what a crock. Plus, Harrison Ford really does look like my dad now, and that was a bit distracting. Oh yeah, "spoiler alert!" Guess what? I'm not even sorry I ruined it for you. You are better off doing something more uplifting and useful with your evening, such as drawing elves on your toes with a Sharpie.

The Dark Knight: Holy Crap Batman! This movie is completely awesome and the "magic trick" with the pencil will blow your mind. Poor overdosing Heath Ledger will surely suck all of the awards out from under every living actor next year, and you know what? He deserves it. What a performance. It's not often you can overshadow the dreamy yet mysterious Christian Bale AND the yummy yet-also-can-act Aaron Eckhardt, but poor dead Heath blows them away. Sad, poignant, wonderful, go see it. Oh wait, you already did, twice.

Encounters At The End of The World: Okay, here's one you haven't seen I'll betcha, but you should. It's the latest from my secret passion, German nihilist documentarian Werner Herzog, over whom I have been totally bonkers since I first saw Aguirre, Wrath of God. Plus, it's about Antarctica, and I'm am nothing if not obsessive about all things remote and icy. I think I've mentioned that I lived in the Yukon for four years a long time ago. Beautiful underwater scenes, assorted science-y misfits in love with their jobs, a woman who can stuff herself into carry-on luggage, people stumbling around with buckets on their heads in a simulated whiteout exercise, and suicidal penguins. You've got to see it.

Mamma Mia: Okay, I admit it, and I'm not proud—I had fun. In my defense, there is never anything wrong with Merle Streep having a good time, and boy does she enjoy herself here. I didn't love it, but I did like it, plus I cried at one point, proving beyond all doubt that I am in fact a girl. What a sap. Also, there is nothing wrong with Stellan Skarsgard's naked butt, is all I'm saying. I may be middle aged, but he's kinda yummy. Oh yeah, and Pierce Brosnan cannot sing his was out of a paper bag, which for some odd reason cheers me right up. There are of course lots of ABBA songs, which which are in fact infectious in an "ohmygod my brain is melting" sort of way, as I'm sure you know unless you have been living on Pluto since the 1960's. Take your mom.

Well, that's it for now. Stay yummy my reader, stay yummy for me. And Mr. Herzog, if you happen to read this some day, please know that I'd happily do your dishes until the end of time, (which after 17 years as a single mom shows the depths of my devotion). Call me.

Origins of Outdated Phrases, Things that Annoy Me Today Part Two (The Re-Annoying), and Probably, Some Movies

2008-02-20T14:41:00.000-08:00

Opening Blather
It may take me weeks, months or a coon's age, whatever that is, to recover from our egregious move and all the frantic and yet also tedious work I have to do. We'll see. It makes your mistress a cranky girl, and large nightly doses of our sweet Lady Brandy doesn't seem to be helping as much as you'd think. Plus, I can't afford it. Still, the thought of eating right, getting more exercise and generally being a puritan fundamentalist goody two shoes makes me totally nauseous. It would be against my religion, if I had one.

Where did this expression "goody two shoes" come up anyway? Is it some snide social commentary on posh people who can afford both shoes? What kind of sad sap with only one shoe came up with that? Can you buy just one shoe? I don't think so.

And to find out the answer to this pressing question, it leads to another—what did we ever do before Google? Oh yeah, we called the Library Answer Line. Way to go Google, you put an entire industry out of work. That must have been a pretty sweet job too, sitting around all day in a darkened cubicle looking up the answers to silly and arcane questions while collecting those delicious full benefits government workers get. Nice.

So, for the further education of my one reader over the age of 40 who's actually heard the expression "goody two shoes", here's the origin, compliments of WorldWideWords.org:

---
[A] It comes from the title of a rather twee and moralistic nursery tale called The History of Goody Two-Shoes, which is thought to have been written by Oliver Goldsmith, and which was published in 1765 by John Newbery, one of the earliest London publishers of children’s stories. Goody owned only one shoe. When she was given a pair of them, she was so pleased that she showed them to everybody, saying “Two shoes”. The phrase now refers to a self-righteous, smugly virtuous person.
---

So there you go. Edu-macational, right? Maybe not. The chick sounds like a total drip anyway. And, according to Wikipedia, a "coon's age" refers to how long people in the 1800's thought raccoons lived, or roughly 4-5 years. Wow.

I had a raccoon knock on my back window once. When I whisked back the curtain to see who was knocking it was a big surprise for both of us, I can tell you. The raccoon was probably never the same again. There's probably an whole raccoon mythology built up around this story now, "Don't go knocking on strange windows, there might be an ogre in there. Seriously dude, it's not worth it."

And, because of the above reference material, we now have to look up the origin of the word "twee" too, don't we? Um, Websters says it means excessively dainty. I'm not going to tell you what the Urban Dictionary says it means, 'cause damn, that's a bit nasty.

Annoying Things Part Deux, AKA Curmudgeon Ranting A-Go-Go

Have you noticed how the increasing opportunities for anonymity in our lives has led to the total downfall of modern civilization? When the general populace has the reasonable expectation of not having their names attached to their behavior, they are totally rude and sometimes even fatally self centered. The majority of drivers would rather cut off their own leg and eat it raw before letting you merge into traffic in front of them, leading to congestion and accidents. The average internet user has no problem calling other people "gay", "fag", "whore" or whatever, all while butchering the english language with emoticons and l33t (ask your children). In general, it seems as if people just don't give a shit about anyone and everyone except themselves anymore—I won't even get started on what people get up to on public transportation. Seriously folks, trim your smelly naked toenails in the privacy of your own home, not on the #73 bus to the U District.

Even More Ranting, Bathroom Edition
I'm old enough to remember those halcyon days when the women's bathroom was actually reasonably clean. In these most modern times there are a class of dames who are so fastidious about the cleanliness of their own rump roasts that they use those ridiculous paper barriers provided in public bathrooms, but care so little about everyone else's sensibilities that when they are done with their business, they just walk away, leaving a pot full of whatever and a big shred of paper hanging off the side of the toilet that is slowly absorbing the pee and turning yellow. Totally, totally gross. And much, much worse are those women who feel the need to hover over the toilet, thereby not touching the seat with their precious ass-ettes, but also getting pee and crap all over the seat, floor and sometimes even walls of the stall. Dear God, what kind of mouth breathing pond scum does that? Numerous studies have shown that your average public toilet seat is actually much cleaner that a lot of things with which you come into regular contact, such as your computer keyboard or kitchen dish towel. Porcelain is not a congenial environment for bacteria. Think about that, "ladies."

And yet these assorted types of wastes of skin are the very people who will greet you Monday morning at the water cooler with "Hello, how was your weekend?" Face to face, we still pretend to be civil human beings, but tucked away into the relative safety of our cars, computers or bathroom stalls, we revert to savage selfish beasts, or based on my own estimation, at least 80% of us do. Personally, I try in my daily life to be considerate and let other drivers merge, wipe down the handle of the paper towel dispenser, clean up after the coffee maker when it leaks and generally try to leave things at least a bit better than when I found them, but sometimes I feel as if I'm, you know, peeing in the wind. (At least that's more sanitary than the second floor toilet at the Meridian 16 Cinema. Yeech.) Every time I begin to have smidgen of hope for humanity, I drive on the freeway or visit the Ladies Peehaus at the local multiplex and realize the error in my thinking. It's sad.

I blame Rupert Murdoch and the MTV. Or P. Diddy, because he's got "pee" right there in his "name."

• • •

Five Movies

Speaking of water coolers, rumor is that Jumper sucks massive donkey balls, so I will avoid that one, and according to my twinkie coworker, so should you. Even her frat boy boyfriend and his budz hated it. Plus, there is just no excuse for Hayden Christenson. Man, that guy could not act his way out of a paper bag at a scissors convention. I've heard that a certain class of teenage girl used to find him to be "so hot," but they have Shia Labeouf now, so Ole Hayden can just bugger off. Even Ashton Kutcher is a better actor, and...oh my god, my fingers can't believe what they just typed.

27 Dresses
Okay, seriously now, who is going to believe that classically massive hottie Katherine Heigl would not be able to snag a husband and therefore be condemned to being "ever the bridesmaid, never the bride?" Not me, that's for sure. This is a movie about shopping for and trying on clothes, which I'm told is fun to do, but is not actually that enjoyable to watch, trust me. Also, after the oh so much more fun Knocked Up, apparently Ms. Heigl now has to have, by contract, a drunken hookup scene in every movie she does. Go Netflix Knocked Up instead—I kind of have a thing for Seth Rogan because he's squishably adorable—but don't watch Knocked Up with your 13-years-old-or-younger daughter, unless you want to teach her all about what men are really like when they are on their own.

There Will Be Blood
Daniel Day Lewis is a great actor, blah blah, and he'll win all the awards, just like he does every time he slithers out from whatever rock he's been hiding under for the last few years, thereby cheating George Clooney out of his deserved Oscar for his much more subtle performance in Michael Clayton. TWBB is a certainly a good movie featuring interesting dialog, beautiful cinematography, championship acting by supporting players, but face it, it's ultimately also super depressing (not that there's anything wrong with that). I'm going to just come out and say it, I didn't like it. That might make me a Philistine in some eyes, but I'm not afraid to admit that I started to fall asleep, and in the last 45 minutes or so, I actively wanted to punch Daniel Day Lewis right in the face. Mr. Daniel can writhe around demonstrating his sledge hammer method-acting skills every five years all he wants, I'm over him.

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Um, it has Johnny Depp in it, 'nuff said. In this movie Our Johnny sports impressive eyebrows, a shock of white hair, a permanently fixed evil glare, won't stop singing, and it's still worth seeing. Even that tone deaf husband stealing over-acting Helena Bonham Carter can't ruin the show. If you were a fan of the Broadway musical version, then you'll probably love the movie. If you aren't already steeped in the music and generally don't like musicals, you'll probably hate it. Girls, take your mother, and leave your frat boy boyfriend at home with a beer and some porn. He'll thank you later.

And finally, Girl Kid reports that Strange Wilderness is the worst movie ever made, so listen and learn. I loves me some Steve Zahn, but I gather even he can't save this lead balloon in a swimming pool full of crap. Go rent Out of Sight featuring a star-making performance by Mr. Zahn (and George Clooney) instead, now that's a good movie, and possibly the only good thing Jennifer Lopez has ever done, up to and including dumping Ben Affleck.

Hoo boy, we see a lot of movies don't we? We watch crap, so you don't have to—because sometimes, just sometimes, there's pearls buried in amongst the crap, sometimes diamonds, and sometimes the most transcendent experience ever. That's why I love the movies.

Also, I know I've had a bad history of only posting every two to eleven months, but since I'm playing massive on-the-job hooky this week, there's one from just yesterday right below this one, so read it too! Go ahead, make me happy.

Gone Postal, Plus Munchalicious Man Meat

2008-02-19T16:51:00.000-08:00

I've just finished a GRUELING work project that almost killed me or at very least almost made me kill someone else. Several someone's in fact. Seriously, all my future rent problems could have been solved with just one small killing spree. Plus, I was sick for the THIRD TIME in less than a month, and could not stop coughing all through it. But, the project went off to the printer, proofs have been approved, and this one's presumably been spanked twice and put to bed. And now I'm only a month behind on all the other stuff that was put off during the run up to the twelve straight days getting this Cheap, Fast and Out of Control project off to press. Ugh.

Things That Annoy Me Today

1) Bosses who sweep in at 5:30pm on the day before a project is due and move everything around while yelling "change this, change that" and then swoop out again, all the while complaining about how over-worked they are. I have news for you Ms. Armani Exchange On Crack, waving your arms around and telling other people to change everything that was already decided on and approved BY YOU is not "working."

2) Co-workers who have given up. I mean, YOU had a weekend, I did NOT, so what gives you the god damned right to tell me "Hey, who cares if it's right or not?" I care, not because I want to please the idiot bosses, but because it's my work on the line here, and I'd rather not be wasting my OWN time, if you know what I mean. If you'd cared just a tad more and put in just a wee bit more effort before you gave me the files, we BOTH could have been home swilling beer into our bellybuttons on Sunday afternoon, instead of just you. Sheesh.

3) Printer's sales rep's. Seriously I do NOT want you to come by to tell me about all your latest "equipment" and I really, really do not want you to try to take me out to lunch. There's no printer in the local area who can beat the prices of those discount print shops in California anyway, so leave me alone. If I need you, I'll email you, in the meantime, fuck off.

4) Bank of America. You know what you did.

5) People who take smoke breaks and then come stand by my desk reeking of death. Get back to work you toxic slackers.

6) Ditto, and even more so, perfume. You know, just a slight misting will do you. You want to convey just a hint of musk, not the entire moose—I don't need to smell you from three blocks away. If your perfume has so much body it can carry it's own luggage, you just may have put on too much.

7) Other people, just generally (except for you dear reader, because I love you, but you knew that anyway).

And Some Movie Reviews

George Romero's Diary of the Dead
Also known as, Unknown Actors Are Having the Best Year Ever! Basically, ole Georgie Boy has jumped the shark on the whole "Blair Witch Slash Cloverfield" thing and made a shaky-cam movie about a bunch of students who, while making a mummy film in The Scary Dark Woods at Night, accidentally make a zombie documentary instead. There's a hella lot of gore, a few funny moments, a poke or two at the (much better) movies that owe everything to Romero, such as Dawn of the Dead and 28 Days Later, some neck munching, some eyes popping out, and one or two interesting twists on the whole "shoot 'em in the head" zombie killing requirement that George Romero originally made famous. There's a truly great scene in Diary involving a barn and The World's Mostest Hardcore Amish Guy, but the rest is a bit "eeh." Boy Kid thought it was okay, even though he doesn't really like zombie movies, and Girl Kid hated it, even though she does. So, that probably tells you everything you really need to know. Of course, Romero's entire catalog and that of all his imitators can't hold a candle to the incomparably hilarious Shaun of the Dead, featuring Britain's most unlikely (and yet totally) edible sex god, Simon Pegg. Now THAT's a zombie movie! Go rent that instead.

Definitely, Maybe
Total Chick Flick Rom-Com, but, oh god, dare I say it, kind of good. The always boyishly adorable Ryan Reynolds deserves a lot of the credit, and even though the predictably bubbly but only adequately talented Amy Adams is busy trying to highjack her career, Isla Fisher proves beyond a doubt that she's cuter, a better actress and has nicer hair. Because of the enormous success of Enchanted, and because Hollywood can sustain the careers of innumerable blonds at the same time, but only one redhead, Ms. Amy will win the Careercapades, but Isla deserves it a whole lot more. Maybe this movie will make Hollywood notice her again. The totally beautiful Rachel Weiz and her Astounding Grecian Eyebrows are slumming hard here, but she's always good so her presence in this movie is a bonus. And, Kevin Klein made me spew Diet Coke out my nose. In his few scenes Mr. Klein easily cake walks all over Ryan Reynolds, but he's also barely in the movie, which was kind of too bad. Mr. Kevin sometimes annoys me, but he's super good in this one, or maybe I just love grizzly drunken literary giants on the decline, which Our Kevin plays with relish, mustard AND a side of slaw. He chews scenery without stopping to spit out the pips is all I'm saying. I, of course, was the only person to laugh at this one thing Kevin does, and do you know how disconcerting it is to laugh very loudly into a completely silent theater? Oh well, I don't care. I have a very sophisticated sense of humor, and all you popcorn munching bovines out there in the dark can bite my doughy but frighteningly large ass. All in all, this movie, and even Little Miss Sunshine Abigail Breslin, manage to just butt-kiss the edges of cloyingly sweet, but without giving us diabetes. Recommended for girls-only night.

And speaking of Saccharin...

P.S. I Love You
I won't lie to you, Girl Kid and I sometimes have no standards at all. Okay, here we go. Gerard Butler proves yet again that he's Total Man Candy. Scores of women already want to chew through his 501's, so I'd only get in the way, but Mr. Butler is pretty much always The Hotness in anything he does. Playing Backup Irish Hottie, Jeffery Dean Morgan (better known as Poor Dead Denny on Grey's Anatomy), deserves a few hordes of screaming pants-munchers himself. The now and forever luminous Lisa Kudrow gives a completely to the point and incredibly intense speech on the joys of male objectification, and someone gave Gina Gershon a job, yeah! Now she can pay her rent. The weakest link is the star herself, Hillary Swank, in fact this whole movie proves once again that it's usually the amusing sidekicks, gay best friends, and the "making the most of my moment" below the line actors who are actually worth the price of admission. Hillary should be sent back to acting school and have have her two Oscar's surgically removed, is all I'm saying. In this flick she's annoying, "pert" and does a death-by-sugar cutesy karaoke, which is all grounds for immediate and violent expulsion from the planet, if you ask me. She does have one bitchin' bod though, but then again, you hardly get to see it naked in this movie, so what's the point? Oh yeah, and Gerard Butler can sing, who knew? Well, maybe everyone who saw Phantom of the Opera, like Girl Kid's boyfriend's mom who watched Phantom on DVD upwards of 300 times (we all wish I was kidding). Given half a chance, Mrs. Miller would chew through Gerard's pants, swallow the zipper and not stop until she saw daylight, if you know what I mean. Her husband must be so proud.

And Even More Man Candy

In Bruges
Colin Farrell, what can I say? He finally stopped trying to be Sonny Crockett or Alexander The Great and went back to doing what he does best—supporting roles in fun independent movies where he gets to keep his naturally sex-on-toast Irish accent. He's very funny in this movie too—waggling those impressively enormous eyebrows of his, pouting, hunching, whining, guzzling beer, crying and generally being the worst hit man on holiday ever. Brendan Gleeson brings the appropriate gravitas to his role as the older and more experienced contract killer, and crime boss Ralph Fiennes chomps his own scenery like he hasn't had a salad in a decade. Guns, girls, sightseeing and a sarcastic midget—could it get any better? I think not. Fun on a bun, even with the abruptly violent ending. (Okay, "little person". But "midget" is funnier, I'm sorry, but it's true. Okay, you can hit me now, just aim below the kneecaps.)

Gosh, now I'm all hot and bothered. Pretty, delicious Celtic boys, yummy yummy. Shoot, I must STILL be heterosexual, it's so unfair.

Bad Mistress

2008-02-07T14:49:00.000-08:00

This is just a very quick note to my reader to say, I'm sorry I haven't been posting. I want to, really. I'm just very, very oh so very behind at work right now, and working long days, all of which leaves me limp and useless at home. Plus I've been sick twice now. I told my body that I couldn't be sick during the move, and now it's exacting it's revenge on me. I swear, that thing wants my death--it trundles around under my massive boobs where I can't see what it's up to, plotting against me. The feet may be involved.

So, at some point soon, I will post again. Just not today, or maybe tomorrow. Because of the badness and behindness of certain others, I'll be forced to work all this weekend while they crank beers down their throats while lying on the couch in nothing more than sagging tighty whities and using their bellies as a staging platform for the transfer of Cheetos directly from bag to gullet. This coworker knows who he is, and this weekend I'll be buidling a voodoo doll out of Post-It's in his likeness, and sticking it with paperclips. Pity me. And him.

So, hopefully I'll have something funny to say, or at least a movie review or two for you at some point in the area of "later". In the meantime dear reader, I love you the best.

Your Mistress

On How I'd Rather Be On Fire Than Move House

2008-01-08T14:44:00.000-08:00

Today won't be a long post, as I am about two weeks behind at work, and a total vegetable at home. A hooch huffing vegetable. Or something in the drunken squash family, definitely. Picture a pumpkin holding a large glass of brandy and crying just a little bit. Here's why I'm an inebriated tuberous vegetable:

We have finally finished moving house. I may tell you more later, but suffice it to say that I am a broken woman, who having approached, entered and finally passed into the ether of the outer reaches of insanity, can finally and absolutely say that joining a Monastary sounds like a good life plan—more fun than Disneyland, more fun than jungle monkey sex with George Clooney and Ewan McGregor both at the same time, more fun than a poke in the eye with a Qualude on a stick bejeweled with diamonds and pearls. If I never have to move another box or sort through assorted detritus of 30 years of life's garbage again it will be too soon. But, of course, in what is now less than nine months, we'll have to move again. I should probably start packing now.

Have I mentioned how not-fun it was to spend upwards of $200 cash money schelpping loads of our crap (thanks to Betty the Beast, aka Girl Kid's ancient van) to the Auschwitz-Birkenau of Garbage, more commonly known as Snohomish Solid Waste Transfer Station? No? Well, it's actually a fairly nice structure cunningly decorated on the outside with old hubcaps, aluminum cans and driftwood. But once you get inside the place exactly reproduces what I imagine the interior a Nazi gas chamber must have looked like, only with a giant wall of garbage being the only defense between your tender trembling body and several giant dump trucks rushing at you with their huge scoopers out, rumbling and snorting in an ominous manner. Or maybe that was me.

Seriously, I've never been to a dump where you just throw your crap on the ground, which is actually more of a bog of composed of a thin layer of brown dump water filled with tiny shards of pointy things, but since the Shoreline transfer station is "closed for remodelling" (in a place where people go to throw things away, how unnecessary is that?), we had to drag ourselves up the horrid Aurora corridor to Snohomish instead.

And then, of course, there were also the literally dozens of trips to Desert Industries to rid ourselves of mountains of Girl Kid's clothes from various ages and fashion eras, random kitchen debris, toys, books, white elephant gifts...the list goes on. I would have preferred not to give our stuff to a rampantly christian organization like Deseret Industries, but one, they were close to the house, and two, those people will take anything, accept as it turns out, an unopened gallon barrel of olive oil. (Don't ask, 'cause I'm not telling what that was supposed to be for. Okay, I was going to make soap. Get your mind out of the gutter. Or don't, because I like that.)

I'm not sure what the christians will make of our various and sundry discarded gargoyles, black mesh goth garb, purses shaped like coffins, reproduction Midaeval daggers, and binders of Magic cards (no rares, so stop screaming). Maybe they will burn them in a special mass and bury the ashes while dancing around naked under a DayGlo statue of Jesus while praying for our salvation or our swift deliverance to hell. I really don't care, it's all gone and out of our lives forever, as long as we stay out of the thrift store. The christians can give our discards to poor starving children in third world countries, who I'm sure will be overwhelmed with joy to receive the hottest fashions from Hot Topic, circa 2002. Those sub-African bush children will be the envy of the entire continent, I'm completely sure.

And A Movie...You Didn't Think I'd Forget That, Did You?

I'll post more later, because like I said, I'm very behind at work. Plus I don't want to get caught. In the meantime, go see The Savages, with Philip Seymour Hoffman, (who must be my new boyfriend by now, because I can't stop talking about him). This movie is not what you could call fun. It's not exactly depressing, but it is a bit too realistic, if you know what I mean. Who wants to pay to see real life? But, my boyfriend is transcendently spectacular in this film. It's his best acting to date, and that's saying something. This movie is bound to get ignored The Oscars, and it's a shame. There's a scene where, after hurting his back he tries to talk and eat an open face tuna melt sandwich while suspended by a sort of jock strap and wire hanger contraption hanging from a door, which is the reason movies were invented I'm sure. Pure genius—I laughed so hard I almost spewed my Diet Coke over the balcony and onto the unsuspecting heads below, which I think we can agree would Not Have Been A Good Thing. I want to have Mr. Philip's baby, I swear. On the other hand, the usually super Laura Linney gives a performance that is just a tad annoying. Of course, her character is supposed to be that way, so I can't really fault her acting.

And, I just heard that my annual High Holy Holiday that begins with the Golden Globes is going to be completely ruined because of the writer's strike. No, awkward, teary or drunkely rambling acceptance speeches choked out by people who made provocative (Hillary Swank's blue backless dress, god, even I wanted to snog her), hilarious or just plain disastrous fashion choices, instead we'll be treated to a boring press conference to announce the winners. Damn, damn, double damn on Spam. My first free weekend in I can't remember how long is ruined. Thanks Hollywood writers! Still, I support you. You should be getting Internet residuals, and, frankly, so should I. Seriously, I can't afford our new rent. Maybe the BAFTA's will have Stephen Fry as host again. God, please god, let my Big Gay Lover Mr. Fry host the BAFTA's this year, I beg you. You owe me.

Bye for now my dear Reader, and remember that your Mistress loves you.

Thanksgiving Carcass In The Mist

2007-11-26T17:56:00.000-08:00

I am the only child of an only child, and during my childhood, both of my mother figures (bio- and step-) tended to go insane during scheduled "happy" times such as the holiday season. My friends all had siblings and Norman Rockwell-type families and so were all booked up over Thanksgiving and Christmas, and so I spent a lot of time upstairs in my room listening to one or both of my parents loudly barfing up their migraine medication and moaning. On Christmas day, after the obligatory chunks blowing session and Martha Stewart-level full-dress breakfast and while opening gifts, my step-mom would force my dad and me to make blow-by-blow "thank you" tape recordings for the grandparents, which despite how bad that might sound, was actually much worse. Also, it was during a Christmas trip when I was eight that my parents decided it was an excellent time to pull the car over to let me know that our recently divorced family friend was now my mother, and that my "real" mom was going to bugger off up a nearby trailhead to go camping by herself and that I wouldn't be seeing her again any time soon. Really. So, the holidays have never really been my favorite time of year.

Something had to be done.

• • •

Some years after I left my deadbeat (and abusive) husband to join the ranks of single parent-dom, and when Boy/Girl Kid were a little older, we developed a Thanksgiving tradition that I happen to love--we cash out our change bowl and go to a movie (or two) and then eat Asian food. See, lots of Asian-y type restaurants are open over the holidays, for reasons religious or otherwise. Since we are neither Christians or patriotic, this is a great way to celebrate a day off work. This year we netted $47 from Mr. Change Bowl, and Girl Kid had to work (ah, the sad trials of the movie theater employee), so Boy Kid and I did the selfish thing by going to a horror movie and getting Indian food. Here's how it went down:

The Mist, Or "Hey, That's Some Heavy Fog Doncha Know"

We'd already seen the hotly anticipated Beowulf (300 but with only one Spartan, review to come later) and No Country for Old Men (ditto), so there was really only one option, and that was an adaptation of Stephen King's The Mist starring the grossly under-appreciated Mr. The Punisher, Thomas Jane. Now, I'm on record as preferring thin armed, sallow chested Steve Buscemi types over the burly men, but I may have to make an exception for Mr. Jane, who has a seriously nice butt which we get to see from several angles (not naked though). That man can wear the heck out of a pair of jeans is what I'm saying. Patricia Arquette is one lucky woman. I'm also not usually a huge fan of the horror genre, but I have to say, this movie was fun--with just enough camp to keep things lively and enough great acting to make you believe. I did shriek just a little bit at one point, and I'm a fairly jaded movie goer. To please your average Saw XIV demographic, the movie wastes no time getting to the juicy bits--establishing scenes of cute family to save, get the main players into a convenient and cheap-to-film location (in this case, a grocery store), cue fog, enter tentacles, slam, bam, eat you mam (or dude). The tentacles were very Ed Wood, which was part of the fun. The tenacles were big rubbery, slimy things with fangs and little munching mouths, all of which was both effective and probably super cheap on the ol' F/X budget. Later we are presented with 1) Giant Flying Bugs, 2) Death by Giant Spiders' Tiny Babies, and 3) Something Large, Snarly and Stomp-y Out There In The Dark. It was kind of hard to see this last thing, what with all the fog and such--again, cheap on the budget. Also, apparently bags of dog food are really good for blocking big glass store front windows, especially if you leave the doorway completely uncovered. I wouldn't have thought that this technique would have a fart's chance at a farting convention of making an effective barrier against giant monsters, but then I am probably a moron. Also, the townspeople of this tiny and conveniently remote locale sure must have a lot of dogs.

The main point of the movie is that thanks to the evil machinations of our "I'm a War President" government and of religious extremists, the now sufficiently malleable public will rapidly retreat to a primal state if given half a chance and a few shovels (pretty neat they were trapped in a grocery store, huh? "Writing!"). Marsha Gay Hayden plays the religious zealot with delusions of godhood who stirs the paranoia stew with gleeful abandon. When she gets her final and definite comeuppance, the audience actually cheered. There's also an annoying child who won't stop crying, but he's integral to the "shocker" ending, so I guess he was necessary. I actually saw the ending coming, and I was really happy that the director Mr. Shawshank Redemption Frank Darabont (slumming hard), actually went for it. No happy endings here (except for Mr. Jane's butt), and it works. I had fun. Recommended, but only for people who like either like gore or camp or both.

• • •

And then we went to eat:

The Curried Carcass of Doom

After the movie, we tried out a restaurant for which I'd recently created an ad, Bengal Tiger in Seattle's Roosevelt neighborhood. The ad copy stated that the place has a "totally remodeled dining room", but seeing it I had to wonder, remodeled from what? A hole in the ground? A bomb shelter? The place has your standard high school cafeteria ambiance, but with gold cloth on the tables and big acrylic paintings of tigers on the walls. Nevertheless, the staff was very friendly and open, and the food smelled good. For Thanksgiving they were doing a Prix Fix buffet featuring okra in some sort of yummy sauce, butter chicken, things with lentils, something with balls of something in coconut milk, perfectly perky samosas, the obligatory naan bread, and....a huge whole curried turkey on a platter. The turkey gave me complete pause--the word "carcass" should not drift up into your brainpan when presented with a fine dining option. Maybe it was a carry over from the movie, but "very scary, dead, orange and slightly oozing thing on a plate" is not what I wanted to eat, so I steered clear of that "Thanksgiving" tradition in favor of the okra and other "lower carb" options, and while it was all pretty good, I think I'll have to try this place again for my usual benchmark dish saag paneer before I render my final judgment. Boy Kid sure loved his samosas though.

• • •

Oh God, Why Do We Have So Much Crap?

The moving process is not going well. I have fantasies of putting a notice up on Craig's List: "Just come and take it all away", but I suppose that's a bad idea. So much crap to shift, so little time. My quest to go monastic and get rid of everything is not working out so well. Boy Kid, for one, is having a very hard time letting go of his collections of role playing detritus, magazines, puzzles, clumps of magnets, and other odds and bobs. He has already packed something like four big boxes of Magic card collections. Oh well.

And on that note, it's time to face up to my responsibilities and go face the packing. Oh god, I need a drink. Until next time, think of me fondly, send me your kind thoughts, and if you live in Seattle, let me know if you want a recumbent exercise bike, a huge box of stuffed animals, a crappy purple dresser, or an enormous drawing of a dragon in a slightly-too-small IKEA frame. Everything must go.

Love,
Your Mistress

Why I Am a Bad Girl And Some Quick Movie Reviews

2007-11-14T14:09:00.000-08:00

As you can see, I've been not posting again, but this sad state of affairs (to two people) will be rectified, I promise. Today's post is only to let you know, that like Arnold, "I'll be back." This weekend I post, I swear on a dead squirrel. Or something.

Here's what's been going on:
1) We're moving on December 8th, into a two bedroom apartment. Your mistress will be sleeping on the living room floor for a year until the kiddies are off on their own, and then I'll be moving again. Pity me. So, we're trying to go buddhist and purge all our belongings, with, to-date, limited success. Instead, our house looks like a thrift store blew up in it, which is pretty much the case.

2) I've been HELLA busy at work. I'm finishing the production on a guide book right now, and before and after that there is much pressing on me to get done. This is both the joy and burden of being the sole graphic designer for a medium-sized company. But, I still have a job, so that's one thing.

And, 3) items one and two have left me feeling less than humorous. Murderous, maybe. Not funny. But, I need humor back in my life soon, or something bad is going to happen. I'm not promising anything, but whatever I do will make the news, and we don't want that, now do we?

And until I can take more time to post something lucid and hopefully amusing, here's some movie recommendations in one minute or less:

Until The Devil Knows You're Dead
Avoid at all costs. I know, I know, Philip Seymour Hoffman is usually worth it, and while he's good here, the movie is so painful that for once I have to say, save your money. The only thing that is any fun at all in this dreadful pain in the ass of a movie is that Marisa Tomei spends at least a third of the movie almost completely naked, and damn, for a 43-year old dame, she's one hot chick. And you get Philip completely naked at the movie's open, and while I love him, his flabby flopping butt cheeks are not exactly ready for prime time just now. Sorry. Even though we didn't have to pay for this movie, it was still a waste of time. Don't bother, unless you like to poke your eyes out with sticks on purpose (as there is no accounting for some people's tastes).

Michael Clayton
Go see it. Really. Right now. It's good.

Gone Baby Gone
Also highly recommended. Ben Affleck may not be the greatest actor in the wide world, but he's proven here that he can direct like crazy. And his brother Casey Affleck (the star of this movie), can act, and like how. Plus, I think Casey's a lot cuter as well.

Thirty Days of Night
Um, I lived in the Yukon for four years, and I'm telling you, the sun goes away for a lot longer than thirty days dudes. I know this was based on a comic book, but come on, do your research. Vampires would indeed love it up there during the winter, especially because people are so liquored up over the winter months that they'd probably taste like those little holiday booze-filled chocolates you see in Mr. Liquor Store starting around this time of year. Also, people up north don't all freak out and run for the southern states the minute the sun slips behind the ridge for the last time until spring--they do that when the sun finally appears again in March. Everyone's all, "Hey! The Sun! I forgot about sun! Let's go to Hawaii!" I''m serious--they all drink through the winter (over-proof hot rum toddies anyone?), and am-scray for hotter climates in the spring.

This is a stupid movie, and the vampires are not even that much fun. Don't waste your previous cash dollars on this one.

Dan in Real Life
Most people will like this movie, but I found it a bit too emotionally manipulative. But, it is a documentary about the family of my friend Becka, so there's that. I've stood in that kitchen, but it's not in Rhode Island, it's up a mountain by Fall City.

You can take your mother to this film, she'll probably like it.

Into the Wild
This is a movie about what happens when young men have too much testosterone in their systems. (Spoiler alert--they die.) The only surprising thing is that this kid didn't kill himself earlier. It's also a movie about me at 18 years old, if I'd been a dude and therefore not had any sense at all. My trek to the Yukon had much a similar story, but at least I found a place to live with some other people around who could help me not starve to death or eat poisonous plants. What a 'tard that guy was. Still, it's not a bad movie, and the scenery is very nice. So, you can go to this one. I'll let you. Well, there is that one scene where Emile Hirsch whips his hair around under the shower, water droplets going everywhere while Emile's pecs ripple which made me spew Coke out my nose laughing, but I can let this pass. Still, all the Emile porn made me think that Sean Penn might be gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's possible Robin Wright Penn is a guy.

Now, back to work. Aargh.

Cake for Cats, Bosses Are Evil, and Across the Universe Makes Me Happy

2007-09-26T17:35:00.000-07:00

Some things make the day go by just a bit better. The Big Gay Interior Designer who rents the area down the hall from my “office” (read, big long room with other people in it) got himself a finicky Abyssinian cat. It’s a ginger short hair with unnaturally large ears, it looks and acts like the devil, and at least twice a day it escapes from the shop and zooms down the hall into our space and we all run around like jackasses shutting doors and dashing about in a futile attempt to catch the cat and return it to its flustered owner, who is by now having a Big Gay Freak Out. It breaks up the day. Also, the cat has a brand-new cunning green and tan combat vest outfit. I kid you not. We all had to admire it, and it is very fetching, I’ll grant you that.

[And now a note from our sponsor: Mistress Squidia is very gay friendly. The above comments are not to denegrate the Big Gay Interior Designer in any way, but to honor him. He goes out of his way to let us all know he's gay, so we're not squeamish about spreading the news. He's gay. Get over it. Plus he gives us bread sometimes, so we love him.]

Today Big Gay Interior Designer threw the cat a birthday party. We got champagne and carrot cake. I’m not sure what the cat got, but I’m pretty sure carrot cake was not what the cat was secretly hoping for. Liver cake, probably. Mouse cake, maybe. Vengeance over all mankind, almost certainly. Not carrot cake. He did seem to like the champagne though, and so did I. Being mildly tipsy at work is really the only way to go, if you ask me.

. . . .

Why are Employers Always Idiots? …and a Movie
The owner of my company has spent the last year opening new offices, starting new businesses, and generally trying to act like Mr. Big Shot Importer Guy. It kept things lively until the inevitable happened and we all had to take pay cuts to keep the company afloat. Now I have to look for a new job, which I hate more than almost anything else in life. That and moving house, which I also have to do some time in the next year. Pity me.

Last evening, after a workday both long, boring and filled with frustration, Girl Kid announced that we needed to go to a movie to prevent her from going postal on humanity. So, after the usual painful commute home, we all bundled off to the slightly less massive of the two multiplex-a-sauruses at the Alderwood Mall and saw Across the Universe in an almost completely empty theater, and it cheered me right up. One, seeing a movie on a huge screen in almost total privacy makes me feel like P. Diddy, only with better taste in…well, everything, and; two, the movie is fun on a big magic bun. Let me say right here, this movie is not for everyone, which may have contributed to the almost complete lack of an audience last night, but if you like The Beatles, and/or if you like dewy dreamy boys with Liverpool accents (god I’m old), then this might be just the ticket for you. If you hated Moulin Rouge, well, then we can’t be friends, and you should avoid ATU like the plague. It’s a very weird movie. You know…trippy in a big ol’ hippy musical kind of way. Like Hair, but for twenty-year old art school students. There’s a whole lotta singing, but it’s good signing, with cameos from Bono, Joe Cocker (yup, still old) and…wait for it…Salma Hayek and more. I’m not kidding about Salma Hayek. Bono proves he’s turning into Robin Williams (and not a good way, but then Robin himself now seems like a suicidal caricature of the old Mr. Williams), and Miss Salma proves yet again that she’s a succulent piece of boobalicious cheesecake with cream on top. Her performance is girl pudding in stereo, literally. And oh yeah, Evan Rachel Wood continues her freakishly ethereal domination of the world.

After all these years I’ve become fairly bored with Beatles music (I know where I was when John Lennon died, and Jim Henson too, for that matter), but this movie made me a fan again. It’s just too bad Michael Jackson had to get paid for the rights to the music for this movie. (God, remaining Beatles, what were you thinking when you let that happen?) Hearing other people singing those songs, and singing them really, really well, was a treat. And the director, Julie Taymor, uses the music and all sorts of references to the Beatles and random pop culture in a weird and wonderful way that can’t be missed. Highpoints: a beautifully choreographed football game, a David Lynchian Army Induction Center scene, and one hell of an artistic acid trip (kind of accurately depicted in some ways, if memory serves) featuring my Long Lost Husband, Eddie Izzard. Trust me, you really don’t want to see this movie stoned, because it’s stoned enough already. Breakout performances are to be had from two people I’ve never heard of before: Joe Anderson, who really must star in the definitive Kurt Cobain movie if it ever gets made (are you listening, Courtney Love?), and the luminous Dana Fuchs--she’s not quite Janis Joplin, but she could play her in the movie. What a voice. Why Don’t We Do It In The Road has never sounded quite so dirty. Plus, I want her hair.

Verdict
So, go see it, and take your best girl/boy/whatever, because in the end, like Hair, this movie makes you want to break into song, dance around a little bit, move to a commune, and snog someone on paisley sheets. Kind of nice, really.

Bye for now. Time to face the vast, painful and lonely ten-miles-per-hour commute up Aurora with all the other office drones. Maybe The Beatles will be on KZOK. Odds are good.

"I'll be Baaack"

2007-01-17T14:27:00.000-08:00

I'm a toad, and don't deserve my reader. As you have noticed (Terry), I haven't been writing lately. I blame work, weather, and holiday milase. But, I promise to begin again soon, this week even. I swear. In the meantime, please visit my new favorite blogger, 'cause he's cute and fun to read. 123Iloveyou. Enjoy.

Love, your Mistress, who is being spanked right now for her disloyal behavior.

P.S. Terry in Waseca is a god. I'm just saying. He knows who he is.

Squidia

Random Ravings Run Rampant

2006-11-02T19:11:00.000-08:00

Sorry, my dear reader (all one of you), it’s been increasingly hard to get the time to write lately. I can’t really do it at work, because there are spies everywhere. Since Boy and Girl Kid are now both in college, my home life is full of chores, cat poop, helping people with their homework, and expiring on the couch. I’m boring, I know. We barely have time for movies, how much does that suck?

So, in no order, my random thoughts for you today are…

Marie Antoinette
The Good—the movie was filmed in the actual Versailles, which is something you don’t get every day, so you should automatically go see it right this minute. And the clothing and hair is very elaborate and nice, so there is that. Plus Jason Shwartzman (really a Coppola), is just too sweet for words. I love him…but maybe not so much in this. The Bad: I love director Sofia Coppola, so shut up. Still, she went out of her way to show how bored these royal teenagers really were, and instead she sort of bores the audience. Plus, I happen to know that the real French court of the time was hella more debauched, filthy and randy than they showed in the movie, and frankly it could have used all of the above. The real 18th Century French aristocracy showed up at balls topless, fornicated in the bushes, pooped in the hallways, and poisoned each other right and left; whereas, this movie depicts it all as remarkably sexless and bloodless, which was not a good choice. Coppola also randomly added 1980’s pop music to the score, and I really wish she’d committed to it—the mostly classical soundtrack with the occasional pop song thrown in just didn’t work.

The Presige
Here’s a movie about duplicity, duplication, double-entendres, lives of passion and obsession, and of just how far someone will go to keep their secrets. The Good—Good director Christoper Nolan, good actors, fine sets, Christian Bale and David Bowie (Bowie!); and, it’s better than The Illusionist. The Bad: the storyline is complicated, and you really have to pay attention to figure out what’s going on. But, that’s not really a “bad” thing, right? You should be paying attention. And it has bland “It Guy” Hugh Jackman, for whom I can’t work up the energy to hate, but who is a bore. He’s just handsome enough, just tall enough, just enough of a good actor…blah blah blah. Boring. Scarlett Johansson plays yet another cupcake, and I’m actually ready to see her do something a bit more challenging now. Still, it’s a good movie. Not all of you will like it though.

Politics
Why aren’t people more worked up about health care in this country? Most of us are uninsured, or under-insured. Why are we being so bland about it? Get out there and make a fuss. Sigh. I have no hope about the outcome of the upcoming election. I think it will be just sound and fury, signifying nothing, and afterwards Bush and The Boys will be more smug than ever. I expect that, over the weekend, Cheney and Rove will be unpacking Osama Bin Laden out of the mothballs they’ve been storing him in, just to ensure the House and Senate don’t go Democrat on Tuesday.

John Kerry—well, we always knew he had no sense of humor. The man can’t tell a joke without causing an international incident. Still, I’d rather he was President right now, because if he was, we wouldn’t be in Iraq, and those 2,500 or so Americans (and countless Iraq’s, Canadians, French, Polish, etc., etc.) would still be alive.

Tom Cruise teams with MGM to revive the dead studio United Artists. Shit, that guy still has clout, even after the couch, the creepiness, and everything. I won’t be going to his movies though. I’m done with him. Suck on that Cruise—you are over. Mistress Squidia is done with you, and so you are done for. It’s a given. I have that much power.

Madonna to Adopt Again
Jeez, I guess Brangelina is a contagious disease. Well, rich people should adopt poor people. It’s time they started using their money for something good. I wish some rich person would adopt me.

Red Wine Makes You Live Longer
But you get to stay fat. Hey, now I know why I’m so fat and happy. Well, not this week. I’m trying to diet again, and that means no booze. So I’m unhappy, and now apparently I won’t live as long either. God, it’s enough to make you want to drink…red wine.

Well, I had better get going. This weekend, go see Borat. I’m sure this movie will kill my brain, but then again, Sacha Baron Cohen is the new Andy Kauffman.

Toodles.

Bucket of Porn

2006-10-26T19:11:00.000-07:00

Shortbus is porn, let’s just get that out of the way first. Well, it’s porn if you think people really and actually having sex on film is porn, or a man ejaculating on himself is porn. Shortbus also might be art; I’m not really sure.

The concept of uber-cutie Hedwig and the Angry Inch director and full time demented pixie John Cameron Mitchell newest “release” is this—put out the word, receive hundreds of amateur sex tapes, watch them all, choose actors, find groovy warehouse space and apartments, and then let everybody go at it like rabbits at an End of the World party. The storyline is basically one of trying to find human connection in the Big Disaffected City, and it really could only have been made in New York City. People in other places don’t usually fret quite so much or so vocally about how jadedly and intellectually disconnected they are. I think being artsy and disaffected is a sort of hobby for New Yorkers.

The main players consist of Unhappy Gay Boy, Generic Too Chipper Boyfriend, Non-Orgasmic New Age Therapist, and The Dominatrix Who Really Doesn’t Like People. (Unlike this latter character, I think most Doms are probably lovely people who don’t actually relish being mean all the time.)

There is a tremendous amount of full frontal, bakkal, side-al and upside down-al nudity in this movie, all of if presented by “real” people, most of them who are cute and fit, with just a smattering few who are not, to show that the film maker is not biased or anything. We see a heap of cock, but maybe because John Cameron is a gay man, there is not a lot of female genitalia to be found. We see women masturbating, but through their clothes, and really, who does that? Do we get to see a lot of guy parts? Yes we do—tons, in all sizes, all shapes, and all levels of tumescence. Early on, we get the “treat” of seeing a dude attempting to fellate himself; later he ejaculates on himself, and we get a close-up and drawn out view. This scene may have been dead sexy to a gay man, but it was a tad, dare I say it, anti-climactic to me. Unlike stories in Hustler (which I admit I haven’t read in thirty years), male “stuff” in action is less like a fire hose or a waterfall of burning love, and more like someone accidentally dropped the mayonnaise. Not really very inspiring, or sexy. But then again, I’m not a gay man, so I may not be qualified to judge.

All of this grinding, sweating, masturbation and aforementioned money shots are oddly neither shocking, nor titillating. I found myself thinking “Eh, seen it, done that.” What the viewer is left with is the acting and what passes for the storyline, and both are actually fairly enjoyable. Mr. Mitchell has stated in the press that he hopes Shortbus (which is the inexplicable name of the sex club all the characters continually visit) will lead to similarly minded sex clubs springing up around the country. “It’s not about sex, it’s about love and sensuality” or words to that effect. I suspect that either clubs like this already exist in your community, or that they never will. I’m pretty sure that there is a real Shortbus, and that it really is run by drag queen extraordinaire Justin Bond. Based on the movie version, if you head to Brooklyn and turn left just past the bridge, it will be on the top floor of a building in the first block or so. Check it out, and if you find it, report back to me.

Verdict? Shortbus is actually a fairly worthy movie with kind of compelling characters and a sort of interesting storyline. Oh yeah, and whoever did the most excellent 3D model of NYC deserves some sort of award.

If you are willing (or eager) to see a bunch of reasonably attractive real people getting it on alone, by twos, or in groups or hordes, then by all means, check it out. I’m sure John Cameron Mitchell would appreciate the ticket sales.

---

Well, I did mean to review Marie Antoinette for you, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. Sleep tight my babies, and try not to dream of sperm—or as Jerry would say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

A Penny for Your...Lawn, Or, The Decline and Fall of the Holy US Empire

2006-10-25T13:33:00.000-07:00

Here’s my solution for the immigration problem—let’s figure out a way to shore up the Mexican economy to the point where poor Mexicans no longer need to risk death and imprisonment just to raise our children, pick our fruit and mow our lawns. Wouldn’t helping Mexico fix their economy be cheaper than building some stupid and useless wall, deporting janitors and paying even more border guards to drive around in the Texas heat smoking Camels and scratching their balls?

Here’s a thought—let’s dig a trench along the US/Mexican border and fill it full of all our pennies. That would work. A moat of pennies would fix a lot of things, for one thing, it would give us something to do with our pesky surplus of the heinous coins, so notoriously odious for their wallet and pants pocket clogging propensities. A penny means so little to us Americans that we keep trying to have them removed as legal tender. Some of us have closets full of the things (being poor myself, I just have a bowl). Many people are so reluctant carry pennies around that they leave them behind when shopping…they abandon money! Few of us will bother stoop to pick them up off the street—the effort expended is not deemed worth the value gained. If we build a moat of pennies, never ever again would bank tellers have to deal with little paper rolls of the dreaded things, which always come in at 49 cents or 51 cents, and therefore must be counted and rolled again. Or whatever they do back there behind the Plexiglas. Maybe they eat them.

If every American donated just one dollar a day of their pants pocket pennies to the Moat Project, poorer Mexicans would have no reason to come here in the first place. It’s not as if they have a burning desire to leave their families for months or years to come up here and install our roofing. A dollar a day is, what, one third of a single tall latte? But to a poor Mexican, a US dollar is about three hours wages, which would probably be enough extra cash per day to keep them in their own country. It’s not as if they are coming here for their health. With the Moat Project, all they'd need to do is travel to the border, load their own pockets, and go home. Problem solved.

Of course, I jest. We actually need illegal immigrants—our own economy depends on their labor. The restaurant industry alone would screech to a halt without all those hardworking Ecuadorians and Salvadorians to mis our en place. If you don’t think so, just ask Anthony Bourdain. Think eating out is expensive now? Just imagine how much an the average dinner date would cost if restaurant owners had to pay fancy US culinary school graduates to support their swollen egos to the extent they think they deserve? (I’m talking to you, Steven from Top Chef, Season One.) The pastry business would disappear overnight (because apparently culinary school grads think that pastry is for losers). No donuts, no danishes, no midnight runs to IHOP. I think we can all agree that this would be a bad thing.

Honestly, I’m kind of not joking about supporting our neighbors. Wouldn’t it be so much cheaper in the long run to help Mexico build up their economy and drive out corruption? Having more affluent neighbors who aren’t crack addicts raises your own property values, right? I also think it would be a whole lot less expensive to find ways to get the whole Islamic community to like us again. Since 2001, we’ve spent almost a half a trillion dollars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Rub your eyes and read that again. A half a trillion…and counting. Do you know what we could buy with a half a trillion dollars? For one thing, free health insurance and education all the way through graduate school for everyone. Think how much that would change things. In fifty years, instead of jobs as human furniture for the Chinese aristocracy, we could still be ruling the world and making it do our bidding. I think we spend less than a billion dollars per year on education right now, which is less than we spend in a week in Iraq. Kind of makes you think, right? Kinds of makes you want to riot, right? Right? It's not as if that half a tril has bought us anything either; we are vastly less safe as a country than we were on September 11th, 2001.

We might as well admit it, we can’t win over there. Even if we understood the issues over there, (which we don't), it's too late. We botched it from the get go. We botched it back in the day by supporting Israel with no questions asked; we botched it by first supporting Saddam Hussein in the 1980’s (yes, boys and girls, we gave him the whatever WMDs he may have had) and then removing that support in the wrong way; we botched it by not developing some sort of working (and influential) relations with all those crazy ayatollahs when they took Iran away from our state-sponsored party boy and former Shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. Hell, we botched it in Chili, Venezuela, and El Salvador. Botching it seems to be our biggest export. And now that we are in the “Information Age”, we are botching it by ignoring education, killing our citizens through lack of social services, and trying to privatize the Internet. Basically, we suck, and are doomed to fail, just like the Roman Empire, only faster. If we want to reverse this sad trend, we need to bring everyone back, and to start spending our money on us, not them. Seriously. Go vote. Or riot. Or both.

Tomorrow (yes, it will be tomorrow), I’ll have reviews of both Shortbus (porn!) and Marie Antoinette (boring!) for you. Till then, start counting your pennies.

"Oh Crap!" and The Departed

2006-10-10T14:37:00.000-07:00

King Jong Il has a nuke, awesome. Sigh. But, on the bright side, he’s managed to make Bush shut up about Iran for five seconds, so there is that. Actually, I kind of understand why we can’t just barge in there like we usually tend do and occupy North Korea. After all, as much as China doesn’t like North Korea having the bomb, they really wouldn’t like the US squatting on their western border like a belligerent toad, taunting them with our blue jeans and soft toilet paper. And we can’t go against China; they may still be a second-world country as far as their economy and technology goes, but they are catching up fast and there are so very, very many of them. They may be small people, but they are abundant. Plus, anyone who can eat horse intestines by choice and still live can totally kick our butts, is all I’m saying. So, as much as we don’t like it, we really can’t afford to have China mad at us. Actually, the Koreas just hang off the edge of China like a deflated willie (just like Florida does for us), so why hasn’t China just taken over the Koreas already? It seems as if they could do it, and really, who’s going to stop them? Russia? Us? Russia would be on their side, and we couldn’t go up against both of them without using nukes ourselves, and that’s just too horrible to contemplate. I’ll bet the cockroaches would be happy though, what with no people and suddenly they are all six feet tall and glowing green and whatnot.

And a Movie
Girl Kid had to work all weekend, and so was royally pissed at me for going to see The Departed by myself on Sunday. What? She didn’t want to see that one anyway. She was just annoyed that I got to go to a movie on my own whilst she labored away serving popcorn to people with so much hubris that they demand in-seat concessions service for a movie they paid $3 to see…and then throw the half-empty popcorn bucket on the floor when they leave. Jerks. I can see her point, but my attitude was, “Hey, I already worked a full week, I should be allowed some fun.” I’m insensitive, apparently.

From the opening seconds of The Departed, you know you are in the hands of a master. Martin Scorsese still has the stuff; and even if it is the exact same stuff he’s been handing us for all these years, he still does it so very well. The physical sensation of “ahh, it’s going to be okay” was very relaxing. Now, I know, every other reviewer out there is a Mr. Snooty Pants about how this movie is not as great as Goodfellas, and perhaps they are right. But, then again, if the timing was reversed and The Departed had come out in 1990, then those same reviewers might be whining about how Goodfellas was derivative, you never know. And it really doesn’t matter; it’s still a good movie.

I read one review that suggested that Leonardo DiCaprio was not up to the acting standards of his cast mates, such as Matt Damon, Jack Nicholson, and Mark Wahlberg. Now, Nicholson I’ll give you, because who can top that guy? He’s in a class of his own. But, Mark Wahlberg? Com’on! Granted, Mr. Wahlberg gives the performance of his career here, but that says more about Mr. Scorsese’s skill with actors than it does about Marky Mark’s acting chops. Our Boy Leonardo is Scorsese’s go-to guy of late, and he’s always been good. He’s matured into a subtle acting style, and he knows that sometimes less is more. You don’t need histrionics to make good acting; in fact, the opposite is usually the case. I like Leo, and those other reviewers can bite me. Matt Damon is pretty amazing too, and Jack Nicholson probably eats babies for breakfast. Or dates them. He brought 22 year old model Paz de la Huerta to the premier…it boggles the mind really. When she was born, he was 47 years old and had just finished filming Terms of Endearment and was still dating Angelica Huston. I think Angelica has the upper hand on that one. Even in her fifties, she remains one of the most beautiful women around, and he’s dating 22-year-olds. Of course, I am a chick. Dudes probably feel differently, as there is no accounting for some people’s tastes.

The Departed has a plot that includes lots of world-class male smack talk, good guys and bad guys pretending to be on the opposite side of the fence, plenty of gratuitous violence, and Jack Nicholson’s perma-smirk. And it’s all pretty good.

Verdict? Unless you prefer to see animated blue porcupines dancing and singing with humorous results, then by all means, go see The Departed. If you happen to miss it, it will hold up well on the small screen too. If you are looking for a date movie, this will work—it’s got really fun trash talk and explody guns for the boys, and pretty and hunky boy-beef for the girls. Good fun for everyone. You could do worse—a derivative Scorsese movie is still better than pretty much everything else out there right now. So go already, what are you waiting for? A blue porcupine? If so, nothing can help you, but I love you anyway.

"I called it!" And, Fucktards A-Go-Go (Or Just Go)

2006-10-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

Anna Nicole Smith named her new baby girl "Dannie Lynn Hope". I told you she'd name the kid after her dead son! I totally called it.

And now Ms. Smith has two guys vying to be named the daddy, and she's marrying Contestant #2, her super creepy lawyer "Howard Stern" (of all things). Oh boy, if she didn't exist, we'd have to invent her, she's just so awesomely entertaining. If you wrote this stuff, no one would buy it; but Ms. Smith is living it. She’s a one woman soap opera, and I can’t wait until she gets amnesia and falls off Angel Falls while secretly having an affair with her brain surgeon twin brother who might be gay.

It’s too bad about Danny Smith v1.0 though. Hey kids, don't mix methadone and Zoloft (among other things), 'cause it might totally kill you, umkay? Jeez, that's just a sad and stupid way to go.

In Other News
“Condie” Rice goes to Iran to try to stop the proliferation of nuclear weapons? Hey bitch, you are on the wrong side of the world, North Korea is not in the Middle East. As if we needed any further proof that the Bush administration’s real agenda is oil, not terrorism or world peace. If I hear any more from Team Bush about WMDs or how we can’t allow Iran to develop nukes while Kim Jong Il dances around waving his actual nuclear bomb in our faces, I’m going to go bonkers and hurt someone.

And in the on-going saga of what’s wrong with men?, Charles Carl Roberts IV goes and kills a bunch of Amish girls because he sexually abused some relatives when he was 12 and wanted to do it again. Way to go fucktard. Let’s resurrect Mr. Roberts the IV and shoot him in the head again. What a total jerk. And now the Amish really won’t want anything to do with us, so say goodbye to all those colorful quilts. What I find even more retarded is that the guy delivered milk and walked his kids to school before taking hostages and killing five children (and counting). I think if I was planning a homicidal spree, I would skip work that day, you know?

In Yet More Other News
Have you ever noticed how it’s always the Republicans who are involved in sex scandals? I mean, Clinton’s little “thing” was just a perk of being the most powerful dude in the world, and at least Monica Lewinsky was an adult who actively wanted and pursued his groove thing. Mike Foley, thank you so much; because of you, maybe, just maybe, the Democrats have a chance in November. “Family values”, indeed. I find it crazy how the Republicans are going out of their way to pronounce that Mr. Foley “never engaged in sexual conduct with a minor and is not a pedophile”. Um, yes he is. Just because he couldn’t get any of his victims to cooperate doesn’t mean he is not a creepy and criminal perv. Sending explicit emails and asking for photos is enough. Do you hear me Bill O’Reilly?

Go vote in November. Let’s get these creepy old perverts out of office. More later.

Bad Guardian

2006-10-03T13:53:00.000-07:00

Now, I know what you are thinking, “Oh Mistress Squidia, is there no bottom to the hole that is your taste in movies?” and the answer clearly is, “No, there is not.” In my defense, I did live in the Yukon Territories for four years, I do have some experience with survival techniques, and I do love all things “Northern”. Plus, I’m a fan of Dangerous Catch (for all the same reasons already stated). So, last Friday, despite my deep and abiding loathing of Abercrombie & Fitch Butt Boy Ashton Kutcher, as well as my mild nausea induced by Kevin Costner, especially when he’s in “I’m such a stud-hombre hero type person that you must bow down and give me snoogies right this minute” mode, and despite my own best judgment…oh god, I can hardly stand to admit it…I went to see The Gaurdian. Pity me.

There’s really not much to say about this movie, because even if you would rather gargle hamsters than see The Guardian, you’ve seen it all before anyway. It’s that predictable. All the usual suspects are on on deck: Dark And Disturbed Hero Man; Younger, Keener, And Even More Disturbed Hunk O’ Beefcake; and their counterparts-slash-disposable-female characters, Wise Old Woman Barkeep; and, Succulent Yet Feisty Tomato. Actually, Bonnie Bramlett (yes, part of 60’s folk group Bonnie & Delaney and slumming hard here) plays the Crusty Yet Loveable And, Like, Full of The Wisdom barkeep at Ye Olde Local Drinkin’ And Carousin’ Establishment. As such, she provides the movie’s only authentic moments, and gives a completely awesome speech on the joys of aging, “I look at my wrinkles and scars and think, ‘Those just mean I drank a lot, smoked a lot, and fucked a lot’”. Bitchin’, and words to live by too.

What happens in The Guardian you ask? Well, there is a fairly dramatic icy Alaskan ocean rescue-gone-wrong in the opening scenes, which explain why Our Mr. Costner is just so messed up in the head that he would have to take (shudder) a teaching job while he recovers from the psychic trauma. Ashton’s character has a deep dark secret of his own which leads his character to fits of ego, brooding, and eyebrow manipulations comic enough to keep you moderately entertained. Plus, he takes off his shirt a few times, and I gather that some people out there would find this attractive. Personally, and in spite of his obvious interest in older women, Ashton Kutcher make me barf.

Anyway, blah di blah blah; conflicts are resolved, people are rescued, some sex is had (which is really the only reason the Tomato got the job), Old passes the torch to Young (but without losing face), and a Great Big Sacrifice is made for the greater good of all. All of this plods on with unerring devotion to your standard Hollywood plotline, so much so that I had to wonder if the whole thing was scribed by Final Draft without human interaction of any kind. It all ends badly however, with an ending so cheesy it rivals that of Van Helsing, which was so cheesy that the state of Wisconsin went into catastrophic economic recession for the better part of a year after it's theatrical release. I think the ending of The Guardian might just be worse; it was so bad I almost threw up a little bit in the remains of my soda.

Still, I saw The Guardian by myself, and there is nothing wrong with two hours of alone time in the dark, if you ask me. Single moms everywhere will agree—a horrible movie with no one pestering you is automatically a masterpiece.

Verdict? Avoid at all costs, unless you are, 1) running way from a contract killer and have to duck in somewhere that no sane person would go; 2) a gay man with the hots for Ashton Kutcher’s rippling abs; 3) Demi Moore; 4) homeless and just want to get warm for a bit; or 5) a single mom in desperate need of some alone time and everything else is showing at the wrong time to suit your child care arrangements. For everyone else, rent Deadliest Catch instead. Those guys are the real chronic.

Haiku Monday...and Limericks

2006-10-02T12:24:00.000-07:00
The Science of Sleep
Arty, sad, beautiful boy
I recommend it

13 Tzameti
Moody, strange masterpiece
It’s from France, Bitches

Here I am at work,
The weekend was way too short
The week will drag, boo

Big piles of laundry
Are strewn across my bedroom
I need cleaning gnomes

Copious cat barf
Dishes fall from the cupboard
Bad start to my day

They sleep on my book
And leave poop and hair on rugs
Cute, purring Evil

Our government sucks
George Bush is the anti-Christ
Chavez speaks his mind

And Now In Limerick Form

There once was a laddie named Bush
Who’s daddy never swatted his tush
He kisses up to Carl Rove
And breaks laws by the trove
In 2008 we’ll give him the push

I need to be making more money
Paying my bills is not funny
If I pull them all out
And spread them about
I can make my bank account puny

If only I could win the Lotto
I would build a beautiful grotto
Full of nubile young lads
All scantily clad
And me three sheets to the wind and/or blotto

If you need a real mistress to satisfy you needs
For spanking, humiliation or other such deeds
Visit the link on the right
Mistress Matisse doesn’t bite
And on her fine toes you may feed

Jackass Number Two, Or, Boys Will Be Boys

2006-09-23T14:11:00.000-07:00
Girl Kid announced a month ago that we'd be seeing Jackass Number Two on opening day, no exceptions. We had seen the original Jackass movie, and although I almost barfed at that movie's "pee snow cone" scene, I was surprised at how entertained I was. The opening "guys in giant shopping cart hurtling down a hill to strains of Carmina Burana" scene is one of the most sublime moments in the history of film. I also kind of have a crush on Johnny Knoxville in a weird "he's so grotty he's kind of attractive" way, and, he's an interesting person, or at least he was on The Henry Rollins Show. The point is that, even though I had no choice in the matter, I didn't really object to seeing a second Jackass movie, and so yesterday Girl Kid and B-Friend and I all piled into the automobile and trundled off to Mr. Multiplex to witness the downfall of civilization.

"The Best Movie Ever Made"
That's what Girl Kid announced as we were leaving the theater. (I think there is maybe something wrong with her that will require professional help.)

I'm not sure I'd actually call JNT a movie at all. I don't know what it was. It works as a full-frontal assault on the senses, if it works at all. Plus, I've now officially seen enough ass to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. There is a LOT of nudity, (or mostly nude-ity). I now know exactly what Johnny and The Boys look like naked; for instance, Johnny Knoxville is very skinny but has a surprisingly round white butt. He also has a bruise on his inner thigh that is as big as Britney Spears. I know that Chris Pontius has a pretty decent sized weiner. In any other movie I'd be suspicious that the sock covered member being chewed on by the snake was a prosthetic, but because it's these guys, I suspect the mangled member was the real deal. The snake didn't look too happy either. In fact, snakes are a recurring theme throughout. Did you know that Bam Margera is really afraid of snakes? Now you do. (Of course, anyone would freak out after being locked in a cage with a king cobra. That's just common sense.) Johnny Knoxville didn't seem too phased by the enormous anaconda in the kiddie ball pool, even when it bit him several times, making ol' Johnny very leaky. In fact; he bled enough to make him forget all about the second anaconda, until it rose up and grabbed the other guy by the leg and sucked him down into the sea of little plastic balls while everyone laughed and laughed.

Spoiler Alert
And speaking of balls....no, no I can't go on. Hang on a minute. Okay: "Old Man Balls", "Pubic Hair As Beard", "Ass Chugging", "Naked Old Lady Breasts" (as played by Spike Jonze, director of Being John Malkovich and Adaptation in sagging fake boobs? Seriously?), "Poop Lands on Dollhouse Toilet" and the scene where the dude drank the horse ejaculate. I really, really did not need to see any of this. It's just natural not to want to have a close-up view of a large, soft poop coming out of a dude's behind. I also think that someone who will drink horse "stuff" for only two hundred dollars would probably drink it for free.

Still, Bam has a really nice set of tattoos, very artistic. Too bad he's not taking care of them. And now he also has six penises branded on his butt. For life. Because he jumped when the brand first hit skin, and they had to keep branding him over and over to get the entire cock-and-balls image on there. Apparently getting branded hurts, who knew? When Bam's mom yells at Ryan Dunn, "Why would you burn him in the first place?", he looks at her like she's retarded and states, "Because it's funny". I'm sure Bam's ass brand will be the talk of the nursing home in about fifty years, if he lives that long.

There are a few funny moments in Jackass Number Two, most of which involve trying to drown Wee Man, or smother him with people so fat it's a wonder they can walk, but nothing is funny enough to make the retinal and psychic damage worth your time and money. Nevertheless, to my shame, I did laugh when Steve-O puked inside his astronaut helmut. (There is huge amount of vomit in this movie, and not all of it is coming from the audience. Circle puke, anyone? No?)

The B-Friend thought the movie was so focused on bodily fluids and functions because Johnny and The Boys are running out of ideas. I think he may be right. Plus, at thirty-five years old, Mr. Knoxville might just be getting a trifle old to be jumping over parking meters. He missed by the way, hence the bruise.

Verdict? If you are twelve, and a boy, (or a disturbed teenage girl), or are really into "water sports", then by all means go. For everyone else, avoid Jackass Number Two at all costs.

They really are not kidding about the number two.

News Bites. No Seriously, It Bites.

2006-09-21T15:04:00.000-07:00

I’m having trouble getting to writing this week, and possibly for future weeks, due to circumstances beyond my control. So, quick and dirty today, and then I’ll have to leave my two readers in the lurch until the weekends, sigh.

And Don’t Let the Door Hit You On the Way Out
Thailand’s Prime Minister learned a hard lesson this week—never leave home. Seriously, how hilarious was that? Fly off to NYC to be a big international player at the UN, only to have your military sneak in and lock the door behind you. “Ha ha, sucks 2 B U”, (or the Thai equivalent). What I would have been to be a fly on the desk when the first phone call came in from back home…funny stuff, I’m sure.

Proving All The Stereotypes Are Correct
Three grandparents are shot at a Little League game over a custody dispute in East Tennessee—wow. There are no words. Well, I guess I won’t be vacationing there this week. The natives are crazy. And armed.

And also in this category:
The Pope repeats some crazy smack from the 14th Century, and the Muslim world Goes Wild. Hey stupid people—the Pope’s point was that Islam might promote violence. Way to prove him right, fucktards! I think the word “irony” doesn’t translate. And the Pope is an idiot too.

3.5 Million Year Old Dead Baby Joke
Actually, this is hella exciting. I wish I was an anthropologist right now.

The girl, who is thought to have been aged about three when she died, possibly in a flood, was a member of an early human species called Australopithecus afarensis.—News.scotsman.com

Go Scotsman! Seriously though, I think the day we decided to come out of the trees was a HUGE mistake. The chimpanzees and gorillas have it right. Who’s happier right this minute? A monkey lying on a branch scratching his belly, or you, “getting right on it Sir” for your boss? I rest my case. Our poor little dead girl just proves my point.

Rich People Just May Save the World
Jeez, I may have to rethink my negative opinion of the rich. Just when I thought that evil corporations were ruining the planet, dudes like Bill Gates (who is responsible for Windows OS and is therefore still evil), Warren Buffett and now Richard Branson commit billions to saving the earth and the people in it who need the most help. Even Arnold Schwarzenegger is bucking his party and making anti-pollution deals between California and England. Our government is trying to kill us, and most of us are too busy descending into poverty to do anything about it, so rich people are spontaneously picking up the slack. I’m stunned.

Bag of Spinach is Smoking Gun
I couldn’t write anything as funny as this headline from CNN.com. Mutant Renegade Spinach jokes are running rampant in my brain. Must. Not. Snort. Drink. Out. Nose. At. Work. Spinach Gone Bad, can you think of anything more funny? I think not.

And now I must go, sorry. I’d rather be with you.

Movies, and Gay Marriage

2006-09-19T14:22:00.000-07:00

Two With Aaron Eckhart
Aaron Eckhart is a pretty good actor. He’s also a: good looking dude, of the chiseled-chin variety. Until yesterday, I’d never seen anything starring Old Aaron that I didn’t like. For example…

Conversations With Other Women
Girl Kid and I saw this last Thursday, but it’s been out a while, in fact you will probably be able to get it on DVD very soon. This film is not for children, not because of sex scenes per se (although there is one that is more realistic than most), but because this movie is for adults, about adults. Helena Bonham Carter, usually so annoying, definitively proves why her directors keep falling in love with her. (In case you didn’t know, Ms. B. C. broke up Emma Thompson’s marriage to Kenneth Branagh, who’s career never recovered; she also busted up Tim Burton and Lisa Marie, the skank). I can find no biography for Conversation director Hans Canosa, but from the movie, you can tell right away he’s been married and divorced at least once. Unless Mr. Canosa is a total troll, Tim Burton should watch out. Conversations two stars are never named, they are just “Man” and “Woman”. The director did the entire movie in split-screen, which as first was beyond annoying, and then which grew on me. The technique creates the mood of two people talking, but still totally inside their own heads. Plus, if was fun to watch a background actor walk from one screen into the other, or a hand reach out from one into the other. And Helena and Aaron were a joy to watch—these two good (and good looking) actors who obviously like each other and at the top of their game. I want Ms. Bonham Carter’s shoulder definition. She’s hot. The movie does get a bit too “theatery” at points, but don’t let that deter you, this movie shows adult relations in a way I can’t remember from any other movie. Recommended for grown-ups.

But Then…
On Sunday, Girl and Boy Kid were otherwise engaged playing D ‘n D, so I went on my lonesome (yeah, alone time) to see The Black Dahlia, also starring Aaron Eckhart. This movie badly wants to be a film noire thriller, but it is not, it’s just bad. The best thing I can say is that the hairstyles were all very nice, and that Scarlett Johannson wears red lipstick well. This was Scarlett’s “red” year—that busty red dress at the Golden Globes (as gleefully felt up by Isaac Mizrahi), that red bathing suit in Scoop, and now those red, red lips in The Black Dahlia. Other than lips and hair, this movie is a snore, which Josh Hartnett’s perma-squint and full-backal nekkid cannot fix. Brian de Palma proves that sometimes getting old is a bad thing. I think he peaked with Scarface, and that was 23 years ago. Everything since has pretty much been crap. Well, Wise Guys is my father’s favorite movie, so there is that. Still, plenty of older directors put out amazing movies in their advanced years (I love you Werner Herzog), but Mr. de Palma is clearly out of ideas. His last movie was 2002’s Femme Fatale, so I rest my case. I see Brian de Palma has two new movies coming out in the next couple of years. I won’t hold my breath. Verdict? Don’t waste your money, and more importantly, don’t waste your time. This one was no fun at all. Oh yeah, and Hilary Swank needs to never play period again. She proved she can’t pull off anything earlier than 1960 with 2001’s The Affair of the Necklace, and she fares no better here. Stick to playing modern women Ms. Hilary, or even better, stick to playing modern men, or we’ll have to come to remove your Academy Awards by force.

And Another!
Last night, Girl Kid was bored out of her skull, and so we went to see Quinceañera, which is a lovely little flick about love, acceptance, Hummer Limos, and what this crazy concept of “family” really means. And it’s gay friendly to boot. Verdict? You’ll like it, especially if you are not a dude, or at least not a straight dude.

Brangelina for President
And speaking of Gay Marriage—how rockin’ was Brad Pitt for stating in Esquire that he and “Angie” wouldn’t get married until all people who want to marry can legally do so? Yeah, this comment spawned a million jokes about dogs getting hitched, but we all know what he meant. Brad and Angelina officially win over that Vince guy and Soccer Mom Look-Alike Jennifer Aniston. Rock on. Marriage for everyone (of legal age and like, human, duh), or for no one at all, is all I’m saying. With Freedom and Justice for All. It’s the American way.

And now lunch break is over. Toodles my babies.

I Need a Nickname, and The Great Chicken Revolt

2006-09-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

I changed my template, thereby confusing my handful of readers even more, ta da! But, I think it's easier to read now. There were complaints. Okay, it was Girl Kid doing the complaining, but still. I listen to my readers, even if they live in my house. Sometimes I even do what they want. That's just how great and magnanimous I am.

I need a cool nickname. Well, Mistress Squidia is a pretty cool name, but it's not as cool as "Ze" or "Lo-Rez" or "Ga-Dget". Okay, I made that last one up. It would have to be short and techno and shiny and express the stupendousness of the fabulousness that is me. Help me out in my quest for a new nickname by emailing me: mistresssquidia@yahoo.com.

On Survivor last night, the whole Race Wars did get a bit interesting. The brown people's team lost, and sent Big Blowhard And Deluded Self Appointed Leader Who's Name I Won't Remember So Why Try home, much to his aggrievement. He and his other male team mate treated the women like they were there to cook, clean and follow orders, and then acted really surprised when the three chicks ganged up on them. He keep saying how sorry they would be when they couldn't make fire without him. Funny thing—he never managed to make a fire in the first place. And then as soon as Blowhard was given the boot, Jeff gave the remaining members flint, and you should have seen the smirks on the women's faces. Brutal. More importantly the chickens escaped. I'm sure animal rights groups are sending hotly worded missives to CBS as we speak. It was an all-round bad day for the cute little chickens: dragged around by their feet upside down, almost drowned several times, being trapped in a box...and then, saved at last by the clueless Roller Girl(who is butt-lucky that her team won immunity) when she turned over the box to see what was inside. I expect the chickens are still having the time of their lives out there on Cook Island, just very possibly starting their own roller derby themed religion. Go Fighting Chickens. Speaking of which, what's for lunch?

No longer post today, because I am tired, hungry, and otherwise engaged. Sorry. Later today we will go to see Crank again, because Girl Kid's b-friend has not seen it. According to the box office returns, neither have you. If you have delicate sensibilities, that might be for the best. But, if you are not a big wussy, or if you are a male type person, you should get off your ass and go see Crank right away, because this movie obviously won't last long at the ol' monsterplex, and it really deserves to be seen on a big screen. Unless you have a 90" plasma screen TV at home (in which case, invite me over), you should not wait for the DVD. It's fun on a bun. A big bloody bun on crack. Rise up from your desk job right this minute and go forth and see Crank now. Your co-workers will never miss you, (nor you them). Is there no greater pleasure than munching popcorn and gazing happily up at Big Stupid Movie all on on a sunny Fall Friday afternoon when you are supposed to be at work? I think not.

Seriously. Go. Now.

Until we meet again, my sweeties, be happy, be bitchy, be inappropriate, be full of beans, be sitting in a darkened theater, and be thinking up cool nicknames for me. Ta.

Mucus Wins RockDorks: SuperTroopers

2006-09-14T14:54:00.000-07:00

Well, well, I never would have seen that coming. The now infamous Muskrat And Paraplegic Midget Lukas (AKA “Mucus”) took the big “prize” of becoming the new front man for “supergroup” Supernova last night. This proves, once and for all, that clothes do make the man. I think Jason, Gilby and Tommy Pee [no, not a typo] picked Mucus because he looks like he wandered into the wardrobe department and decided, just for yucks, to try on absolutely everything. It’s like Hot Topic exploded on him. “Big white belt, long black coat….ta da…the boy’s a dime bong!” Hee hee.

On the show, Mucus sported a weird raccoon faux-mo on top, which was also dyed black and white, and loaded up on so much big spiky jewelry and cunning gloves with rivets that it’s a wonder he could walk without tipping over. Wait a minute, maybe that explains his performances, which were mostly comprised of one part high decibel emo mumblings and three parts cerebral palsy satire. Lather, rinse, repeat. Our boys in the “band” kept saying that Mucus’ performances were “getting better and better dude”, but I couldn’t see it. His routine never varied from: grab mic, knock knees together, fling back left arm, squint, and then emit sounds better suited to a badger in heat. I guess he’s got, you know, emotions and stuff. However much I didn’t like him, I liked Supernova even less. Did you hear how crappy their “song” was? Um, “be yourself”? (You can see from the excessive use of quote marks how miffed I am.) Still, metal-detector wet dream and rock and roll pixie Dilana made it to second place, and no one, especially her, really expected that. Rockstar: Whatever is a pretty sexist show. Did you see how the producers were stacking the front of the stage with hot chicks? Jerks.

And finally, at least until next summer when Rockstar returns, and I, in spite of my better judgment, watch it again—Tommy Lee must put on a shirt. I know Mr. Lee has so many tattoos that he already looks like he is wearing a shirt, but damn, man, we don’t want so see your naked, diseased and self-abused flesh anymore. And “Tommy Hawk” (I just barfed) if you do take off your shirt, please, for the love of god, put on some high waisted pants. I really don’t need to see your pubes. Now I have to go scrub out my eyes. And barf some more. At least I don’t have to look at Dave Navarro anymore. Dork.

And in Other TV News
On Project Runway, Vincent and Angela were brought back from the dead to compete again, only to prove once more why they were kicked off in the first place by creating cocktail dresses so hideous that the judges had to wear special eyewear to view them without injury. Oh yeah, and Pregnant Dominatrix Ice Maiden Laura cried, threw a minor hissy fit, and trash talked Angela right to her face. Wicked. Laura did win the runway show though, with a dress that, had it been a tad longer, would not have looked out of place on Phillis Diller. Cheerful ex-fat boy and Drag Queen Wannabe Kayne was given the boot, boo. Now I’m sad. Philistines.

However I can cheer myself up with the thought that the Evil Granddaddy of All Reality Shows (USA division), Survivor makes a triumphant return tonight with Season 13: Race Wars, the most Controversial Show Ever Made, We Swear! Not really. Now, if they had someone from Lebanon and someone from Israel on there, then we might have something to talk about. We know that the Survivor producers will dick us along for one or two shows before merging back to the traditional two teams, like they always do. If they made the big prize five million dollars, then you’d really see some bloodshed. One million dollars is not really enough incentive these days, but “EVS”. I’m still watching Survivor, so what does that say about me? It says that I am Mistress Squidia, Media Whore, taking one for the team (that means you, dearheart). Read about my viewing habits and tremble, puny humans. Excelsior!

If I Was King

2006-09-13T12:30:00.000-07:00

But before we get going on that, in celebra-ta news (the only news that doesn’t make us cry):

Britney Spears Drops It Like It’s Hot
Oh god, there is another Kevin Federline devil spawn in the world. I swear, in 50 years, that man’s DNA is going to be present in one-third of the population, leading to America being eventually renamed to MickeyD-Land, as “fast food flunky” will be the highest position for which any of our citizens will be qualified; that, or backup dancer. Speaking of which, if K-Fed used to be a backup dancer, how come he was so bad at it when he hosted the Kids’ Choice Awards?

Now, I know Ms. Britney was all jealous of Justin Timberlake’s inexplicable ability to get over her after she dumped him, and so maybe we can forgive her decent into White Trash Purgatory and Video Diary Hell; but damn girl, stop giving it up to Our Boy Fed. He’s nasty, and he’s not discerning, so what does that say about you? You’re a mom now, you need to grow up and put away childish things, starting with Mr. Federline. And use a car seat already.

Anna Nicole Smith, Saddest Girl Ever
Yipes! You couldn’t make this stuff up. What could be more tragic than Anna Nicole becoming a mom again at the age of 84? Having her 20-year old son Daniel die in a chair next to her in the hospital in the Bahamas three days after she gave birth to his sister, that’s what. I have no words; it’s just bad and sad. Predictions? Anna Nicole is over, she can’t go on acting like a Glad Mad Party Ho anymore without it looking really inappropriate. She will also develop a humungous drug habit (again), gain 100 pounds, (or lose 30 more), lose custody of her daughter, whom she will have named Danielle. Later she will claim to be psychic, and start a multi-million dollar chain of séance emporiums. Sigh. By the way, how do you die in a chair in the hospital at 9:30 in the morning? Was no one checking in on Ms. Skank and her baby? I know when I had my kids, the hospital staff would not leave me alone. I was like catnip to them.

And Now, If I Was King
Here’s how to fix the world—make me king. Here is my platform:

Foreign Policy
First, we need to stop supporting Israel financially. Now, I know it was important to help them out with their new country initially, but dude, it’s been more than 50 years now. It’s time for Junior to get out there on his own and pay his bills himself, and to stop using our money to bomb Lebanese civilians and bulldoze Palestinian homes. Yes, yes, those guys have also done bad things, but sometimes you just have to let siblings work it out for themselves. A thousand Lebanese civilians died in the recent Worst Summer Holiday Ever events, and we here in the US basically paid for the bombs that killed them. Most importantly, if we stop supporting Israel it will take away one of the supposedly biggest reasons that Crazy Arab People Who Want To Kill Us hate us so much.

Second, get out of Iraq, and leave Iran alone. We need to get out of the Middle East entirely, and bring our soldiers home. “But wait” you say, “won’t that leave a bigger mess than was there before we invaded?” No, it won’t. Give Iraq lots of money, (because we kind of owe them after taking down their government [however despotic] and destroying their economy), and give them experts. Send lots of free consultants to help them learn how to govern and police their own country; but, don’t send any more military personnel or weapons. This is important. The longer we stay in Iraq as a military presence, the better Al Qaeda is at recruiting new members, which means the US is now less safe than it was before we invaded Iraq. Provide the Iraqis with cops, lawyers (and hey, that means fewer lawyers for us…bonus!), doctors, politicians and oil field workers. And don’t even get me started on Iran. So, how do we keep evil crazies from developing nukes and plotting world domination? Use money and diplomacy—the carrot, not the stick. It will be massively cheaper for us, make us look like the good guys for once, and the combination of cash, aide and talking will actually work; whereas continued military actions over there never will.

Third, don’t rule out targeted assassination as a foreign policy option. What’s less morally indefensible, killing one bad man, or being (at least partially to mostly) responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians, not to mention the deaths of thousands of our own soldiers? I think assassination is a much more moral option than war, especially in the case of an un-winnable war.

Fourth, bring everyone home, everywhere (except for diplomats). We here in the US need to start focusing on ourselves here. It’s time to be selfish. We are spread too thin around the world; it’s costing us too much; and, as we are now the most hated people on the earth, what we are doing now is clearly not in our national best interest. As with Iraq, give money and non-military support where we owe it, and get the fuck out. What will we do with all the money we save? That leads us to….

Domestic Policy
We here in the United States love to crow about how we are “the best country in the world”, but best at what? We are not best at keeping our children alive, that’s for sure. In a recent report by Save the Children, the US came in thirty-second out of thirty-three in the industrialized word in infant mortality. We were second-to-last, sandwiched between Slovenia (who beat us), and Latvia. Slovenia did better, damn, that’s harsh. This statistic is so embarrassing that I’m blushing beet red just thinking about it. Just a few years ago, we were nineteenth in the world for infant mortality, so we’ve gotten a lot worse in recent years. We are also not number one in literacy, life expectancy, or per-capita income. Where are we really number one? We’re number one at eating and polluting. Way to go. We’re fat and we spew out garbage. What an image to present to the world. “Yeah, Number One!” indeed. As King, what would I do about this sad state of affairs? I’d spend all that money we now waste overseas getting everyone to hate us so much.

First, every kid in gets a free education and a free computer. Japan is beating us at the Shiny Cool Gadgets game; India is doing all our tech support and software programming; and, China will soon own all of us as domestic pets. We desperately need to fix this problem, or by 2050, we’ll be so far behind the rest of the world in education that we’ll all be wearing paper hats and asking if the rest of the world would like fries with that. As King, I’d provide every American with the constitutional right to a free education, all the way though to the graduate school level; and give all students all the computers, books, and science equipment they need to really become number one. “PhD’s for everyone!” As part of my education package, I would also tie teacher salaries to congressional salaries. If Congress wants a raise, every teacher across the land gets a raise too. And since this would all be paid for with income taxes already being collected, that would mean no more school levees or property tax hits, which would provide Americans with even more delicious spending cash, which would boost the economy.

Second, every person has access to free healthcare. In fact, I’d do away with the private insurance industry altogether, and provide free Home, Health and Auto insurance to everyone, (with low deductibles for home and auto coverage only). Healthcare would always be free to everyone, rich or poor. Because of the free education, our doctors would be the best, and as King, I’d make sure doctors and nurses were paid very well, to attract the best to those jobs. Oh yeah, and I’d strengthen Social Security, and raise the amounts of money provided on retirement at age 60 (not 65 or 70). Once I’m King, there will be no more old ladies eating cat food.

Third, I’d invest in non-petroleum energy sources. In fact, I’d completely end our dependence on foreign oil by 2020. If every public building, parking lot and other suitable space in the hot-and-sunny states were required to have solar panels on them, and every windy-or-watery-or-soybean-growing state was invested in other sustainable energy systems, we’d not only be able to provide free electricity and bio-diesel fuel to every American, but we’d be able to sell our excess to other countries. Oh yeah, all cars and home heating would have to be electric or bio, no exceptions. As King, I’d pay all the companies and households to help them make the switch. As a bonus, we’d be polluting a whole lot less. As part of this program, I’d also invest heavily in environmental programs of all kinds. No more drilling in ANWAR equals cariboo are happy.

Fourth, I’d provide free, good, licensed childcare to all families. In-house daycare would be required of all companies with fifty or more employees. To help families even more, I’d require companies to offer all employees flex-time; six weeks of paid vacation per year, and one year of family leave at three-quarter pay to both parents. Companies would receive federal assistance to offset the costs of these programs.

Fifth, I’d fully support the continuation of a free and unregulated Internet, and of a free press. The free and unfettered exchange of ideas (and porn) is good for the advancement of scientific research and public education in general; and as such, is too valuable a commodity to restrict or regulate. As part of this policy, I’d provide free WiFi to all communities. No one should have to pay for access to the Internet, cable, electricity, fuel or healthcare. We should be spending American tax money on making American lives better, not Iraqi lives worse.

Sixth, I’d abolish the Electoral College. Well, if I was King, maybe this would be a moot point; but damn, that thing has to go. One person, one vote, that’s how it should work. I’d also abolish campaign contributions and political fundraising. Instead, I’d set up a system where everyone who wanted to run for any level of government was given a set amount of federal money to spend on his or her campaign. No other money could be used to get someone elected, which would level the political playing field. I’d also eliminate political action committees (PACs) and lobbyists. This would mean that we’d finally have a system where any American could actually grow up to be president, and where no politician was beholden to corporations. Government really would be of the people, for the people.

And finally, seventh, I’d raise the minimum wage to $12 per hour across the country. As part of this program, I’d mandate that CEO salaries must never be more than ten times the salary of the lowest-paid employee. If you want a big raise, everyone in the company will have to get one too. After some extremely loud whining, I’m sure industry would find a way to still make everyone heaps of money.

I’m sure all of you out there are now shouting, “But King Squidia, if your programs are implemented, income taxes will be sky-high!” No, I think you are wrong. I think that once we get our military back in-country, and vastly reduce our military spending (we have nukes, y’all, we don’t need a millions of military personnel and programs), we’ll be rolling in cash. And once we truly are, Number One, our economy will be strong, and we will be living in the best country in the world. “Yeah, Number One!” I wish.

To elect me King, send your votes to: mistresssquidia@yahoo.com. There may eventually be a T-shirt.

George Bush Doesn’t Care About People

2006-09-12T10:40:00.000-07:00

"The safety of America depends on the outcome of the battle in the streets of Baghdad," Bush said.

Um, yeah…it does now you ginormous fucktard! It didn’t in March of 2003, but now it does. Al Qaeda had almost no people in Iraq in 2001, now they practically run the place. We are the best recruitment tool for terrorist organizations around the world ever! It’s sickening. Do you, dear reader, honestly think we are safer today than we were in 2000? No, we are not. More people hate us than ever, and a lot of them are armed to the teeth. Some of them are Danish, so you know it’s gotten bad.

Last night I listened to part of Dubya’s 9/11 anniversary speech whilst driving home, and I was struck by several things; firstly, how well written it was. Kudos to Mr. Speech Writer, whoever you may be. My, my, so sincerely did Mr. Bush convey his condolences to the 9/11 victim’s families. Why, he must have spent upwards of twenty seconds expressing his regret and sympathy, before launching into the smoothest justification slash excuses-and-latest-hot-button-talking-points-about-why-we-will-be-at-war-forever diatribe yet given by his administration. I was, like, super impressed with how well this speech folded the concerns of the anti-war public (now, finally, most of us) into his verbiage. (Think you are against my policies dumbasses? Well, here, in your own language, is why you are not.)

“I am often asked why we are in Iraq when Saddam Hussein was not responsible for the 9/11 attacks…"

Oh my god, he actually admits it! Way to preempt the Democratic rebuttal! Fucktard.

Bush is a Big Old Faker and Liar
And then something stuck me—there was something weird about Old Georgie’s delivery—it was coherent, with no “Bushisms”, no mispronunciations, and almost no hint of that “good old boy” Crawford, Texas accent. I mean, I knew that Dubya’s “Just a Chump from Texas” accent was a bit of the old dog-and-pony show, but to hear my suspicions proved so dramatically was a bit unnerving. I’ll bet he even dropped the Alfred E. Newman facial expressions for this one. He gave a perfect performance of what he is: a rich, Harvard-educated Connecticut aristocrat. In the last six years, and until last night, we have never heard the real George W. Bush speak. It was spooky.

Where We Get No Respect At All
And what does this stellar performance by a consummate speech-giver mean? It means that all of that down-homey chat, mispronunciations of “nuclear”, and botched homilies, (“Fool me once…heh heh…”) are a calculating and morally corrupt construct designed to fool middle Americans into thinking Mr. Bush is not just another rich white northerner who thinks he knows what’s best for them; but, is one of them instead. A guy you could have a beer with, a good guy, a doofus just like them. I know we all make jokes about how much of an idiot Bush is, but he is not one. We suspected he might not be as stupid as he looks, but we were afraid of what this might mean about how our leaders feel about us—that we are retarded sheep, to be led around by the nose and blinded by bright shiny things and misdirection. And they are right, just barely enough of us have been fooled to get him and his into office, twice.

It is beyond insulting to think that George W. Bush and his pals have sat around writing “yokel” scripts and practicing. “No, George, dumber! Slow it down, mess it up! Act the dope, they’ll eat it up.” And we do. It’s perfect. Real dumbasses love Georgie for being just like them, and those of us who fancy ourselves to be more aware are distracted by all his stupid misspoken antics. Meanwhile, cold, calculating and morally bankrupt people with no scruples lead us into global war for the sole purpose of lining their pockets and bringing on Armageddon. By the way, that’s one story I do believe about our comic-friendly President—George W. Bush believes in The Rapture, and he thinks he’s first on the bus.

Why the switch? Because, for the first time, Old Georgie was speaking to the left, not to “his base”. George was stumping for the November elections, and instead of pandering to Middle America Red State People like we are all used to him doing, he was attempting to bedazzle the people from the Blue States instead. This is how rattled he and his people are right now—instead of ignoring us like usual, he was ready to adapt his act to try to fool the us Blues into buying his agenda. Let's not, umkay?

What Do We Do?
Hear me now people—wake up! Go vote in November (and two years from now), and get these people out office. These people steal elections and are not afraid to act illegally; how do we stop them? Democrats, do something! The Democratic National Committee seems to be on drugs, so we need to figure out a way to shake them up. You—dear reader, stop being a deer in the headlights. The people who are currently running this country want you to die so they can mine your carcass for body oil. They don’t think of you as even the same species; they think of you as a resource of money, and of dead bodies in the Middle East. They want your services, but not your opinion. They don’t care about you. Make them care, and make them stop. Go register, go vote, and make something happen. Do it! Run for office if you have to. Your Mistress commands you.

And now I have to go for a quiet cry.

Haiku Monday

2006-09-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

Head filled with empty
I can’t think of what to blog
Sad day, 9/11

Dark theater, soft seat
Soda puddles trap my shoes
Cell phone light annoys

Work deadens the soul
Electric bill must be paid
I miss the Dark Ages

My Death List of Ire
I should update to include
Cheerful co-workers

Why can’t I grow up?
I might be leaving it late
Not “Mom!” but Crone soon

I broke my diet
For my birthday—bacon, booze
That was back in March

When I grow up I…
Don’t know what I want to be
Someone else perhaps

VI or EMACS?
Chmod g+rw your_base
You might be a nerd

Mistress Squidia
She loves all of her readers
But she loves you best

Two More to Avoid, and Why Are Chicks Are So Messed Up in the Head

2006-09-09T19:09:00.000-07:00

Yup, Girl Kid and I took in two more movies so you don't have to (free movies for us, thank god).

First up—Hollywoodland. Here's a movie which seems to have all the right credentials, that just adds up to...nothing much. This movie wants to be LA Confidential, but it falls short. I blame the director, who's done a lot of TV, (Sopranos, Sex and the City), but who's never done a movie before, and the writer, who worked on 21 Jump Street and so is clearly out of his element with the film noire genre. These guys are no Curtis Hansen or Coen Brothers, and that's too bad. Diane Lane squeezes out a partially unflattering portrayal of Toni Mannix, sometime Ziegfeld girl, mistress and wife of Hollywood studio executive Eddie Mannix, and long-time sugar mama of George Reeves, TV's favorite Dork In Tights and Suicide Boy. Adrian Brody proves once again that yes, he can act. But it all adds up to less than something. In fact the only person who will benefit much from Hollywoodland is Ben Affleck, who these days actually HAS to prove that he's worth his SAG card. He does a reasonably decent job, in fact it's the best he's been in years, and even if I didn't like this movie, I hope Ol' Ben keeps trying to make better choices. I like his supposedly less handsome brother Casey much better though, which is another example of how "Hollywood Good Looks" can sometimes ruin a person. "Ugly" people get to have personalities. Verdict? This movie wants to win all sorts of Oscars, but it will only get ones for costuming and maybe cinematography. I was just bored, but Girl Kid hated this movie so much she spent the rest of the night in her room, seething. Save your money, or go rent 200 Cigarettes and see Casey Affleck as a cute punk boy, and Courtney Love bang someone in a bathroom stall. Good times, and Elvis Costello worship too.

Did I ever tell you that Girl Kid and I ran into Elvis Costello at Whole Foods once? We saw Dave Matthews there once too, but I don't like him. Seeing Elvis made me all happy.

Dude...
Today Girl Kid and I went to see The Puffy Chair, which was made by two brothers with a cam-coder and no money, and which made me think that maybe I wasn't watching enough of The Real World. The movie is about a road trip to pick up a Barcalounger bought on eBay....snore. At first I thought maybe I am just getting too old to be interested in the trials and relations of 20-somethings, but Girl Kid thought they were a bunch of whiners too. Also, and hear me on this—couples who engage in baby talk should be shot on sight. The Puffy Chair contains a lot of baby talk, which leas me to....

God, What Is Wrong With Women?
The girl in The Puffy Chair is 26, and just like Maggie Gyllenhaal in Trust the Man, and 90% of the women on iVillage, she just wants her man to commit, to get married, and to start shooting out babies already. She's not really sure why, and even though he constantly calls her "dude", she really, really wants her boyfriend to pop that question already. She's the source of all the baby talk, and her guy goes along with it, but he'd clearly like a break. By the end of the movie, so do we. She throws fits, she wants him to tell her what he loves about her at 12:20 am, she freaks out when her man questions his brother's motives when he marries a woman he just met four hours ago. I think she called him "relationship retarded". Um, someone's retarded alright, but it may not be her boyfriend. I would have been infuriated that the moviemakers were objectifying and stereotyping women in this way, if not for the fact so many women DO act like this. At least there was no evidence of teddie bears. Woman who collect toy bears should also be in the line of fire, if you know what I'm saying. Grown women should not be acting like babies, and neither should they feel as if their sole purpose in life is to get married. God, did the Women's Movement never happen? Maybe I dreamt it. Verdict? As much as I'd like to recommend such true indie fare, I just can't. Try a straight-back chair instead, and shoot baby-talkers for sport.

Now Boy Kid and I are going to watch Rockdorks: Super Trooper webisodes, yeah! Oops, I guess it's Battlestar Galactica webisodes. That's fine too.

More later my snoogum woogum pooty wootie cuties...BANG!

I’m feeling CRANK-y and Why Bald Is Beautiful

2006-09-07T15:20:00.000-07:00

Hoo-boy. Yesterday was Boy Kid’s birthday, and so I sped home, changed clothes, and then we all piled in Mrs. Automobile again (because something called a “Kia Spectra” just has to be female) to speed back down the other way to gobble up a nice Indian dinner at the Bombay Grill (which took approximately forever to come, but which was de-lic-ious when it finally arrived). After that, we went to see Crank, starring the extremely hunky and oh-so balding Jason Statham. He’s British, he’s covered in muscles, he looks like he eats gravel for breakfast, and I cannot think of a single other actor who could have pulled off this role. It was made for him, and I doubt there is any way Mr. Jason can top this performance. His career is officially over; it’s all down hill from here. God he is dreamy, and I don’t usually like muscles.

No Spoilers Here, Or Not Much
Um…I shouldn't tell you a thing about this movie, but I will anyway; because there is no other movie out there like it, it is more cheerfully violent than anything I’ve seen, it’s about bad, evil and/or stupid people frenetically doing horrible things, and it is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. That being said, this movie is not for you. Don’t go. You will regret it. I warned you. The fact that I enjoyed Crank so much only reflects badly on me; and I’m sure you are a lovely person who would be scarred for life. I am not a nice person and I should never have laughed so hard at the guy crashing his Vista Cruiser on the mall escalator, standing on a moving motorcycle while wearing a hospital gown and with eyes shut doing 50 on the boulevard, fist-fighting a dude while attaining terminal velocity, or shooting someone with their own gun which is still attached to their own bloody hand. I am a bad, bad person. Well, maybe not bad enough to snort cocaine off a dirty men's room floor, but bad enough to hork chocolate out of my nose laughing when Mr. Jason does it.

Crank is just like it sounds—on speed. It utilizes spit-screen, text–on-screen (watch for the elevator scene) pulsing walls, Photoshop filters, inverted colors, and a large quantity of stunt persons mangled and abused in ways never before imagined. It is gloriously unapologetic for being completely reprehensible. Bad guys do bad things. More drugs are consumed than is technically possible. Boys shoot people, girls hang around in big plastic bubbles with no clothes on; and Dwight Yokum is beyond hilarious as the main character’s doctor. Google Earth rules all. Yowza. It’s beyond description. The ending of the movie is more inventive and sublime than any I can think of right now.

Seriously though, don’t go. If you do go, don’t think badly of me. And eat dinner beforehand.

News Nibbles

2006-09-06T10:22:00.000-07:00

Or, What's in the News Today, Munchkins?

Princess Kiko Whomps Princess Masako In Most Sexist Womb Division

"Upon hearing the good news, I felt myself purified and invigorated as if I were looking at a crystal-clear autumn sky.” —Fujio Mitarai, president of Canon, Inc.

Um, sure…. I guess with the birth of little royal baby boy (to be named later), Japan has successfully avoided that whole Women’s Lib thing for another generation. And wow, can you imagine the CEO of say, Boeing, talking this way? Way poetic dude! Congrats on your culture staying behind the times socially, while at the same time beating our asses in the technological realm. We love your delicious and adorable cameras; please bring on the housecleaning robots already! Actually, I think Asia’s biggest export is style. Harajuku kids are da bomb cousin, and I don’t care how last year it is to say so.

Imponderables
Natascha Kampusch, the young Austrian woman who escaped her captor after 8-1/2 years in a tiny cell in the home of Wolfgang Priklopil, supreme fucktard and suicide boy, says she’s sorry he’s dead because maybe he could of answered some questions if he hadn’t off’d himself. Yeah, he probably could have cleared up one or two things, but he probably wouldn’t have answered the question we all really have, which is…“What the fuck?” Good luck to Ms. Kampusch, who now faces a life that includes strained sexual relations with any man she hooks up with, dark confinement fantasies, and some seriously messed up ideas about parenting. But, at least the fucktard didn’t kill her, so there is that.

Most Ironic Death, Non-Grizzly Bear Division
Steve Irwin, Animal Planet’s Croc Hunter: death by stingray. No one saw that one coming. Well, I’m sad about it. Because of ol’ Steve, I routinely use the phrase “Crickey!”, and now it’s going to seem sort of in bad taste when I say it. I’ll bet the crocodiles are pissed too.

Bin Laden Still Missing
Um, yeah. Maybe we should put him on a milk carton or something. My god, what are we paying the NSA, the CIA, and all those other agencies ending with “A” if not to find the bad guys? My tax dollars feel abused. Actually, I suspect that Bin Laden is under lock in key in the MGM Grand Casino in Las Vegas—with hot and cold running vestal virgins at his beck and call—just so we can drag him out of retirement in time to get Dubya (or one of his cronies) elected again. Boy Kid swears Dubya will get a third term, and he may be right. Marshall Law anyone? Terrorists are just great, because they help governments keep their own citizens in check. Who is the real threat our government is so afraid of? It’s us, not “them”.

Mexican Stand-off
Mexico finally has a new president, Felipe Calderon, in what was a very close race that had to be delayed, recounted, and finally decided on by courts of law. Hmm, why does that sound familiar? Actually, the loser, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, refuses to recognize Mr. Calderon, and vows to set up his own counter-government. That should be fun to watch. Gosh, if we really want to fix that pesky immigration issue, maybe we should focus on problems closer to home, like helping Mexico develop an economy that doesn’t require it’s citizens to risk heat stroke, deportation and death just to come here to cook our food, pick our fruit, trim our hedges and raise our children for less than minimum wage.

Guilty Thoughts
Tropical storm Florence is gaining strength in the Atlantic. I know it’s horrible to say this, but I kind of want another ginormous hurricane to wipe out Florida or somewhere, thus proving once and for all just how Suck Ass our homeland security systems really are. Maybe then people will wake up and demand a better government, or even just an ounce of accountability. Is that too much to ask for? I think not.

Katie Couric is a Hit, But Pudgier Than We Thought
Jesus Christ, who cares? Sure, it’s great we finally have a female news anchor in this, the United States of the American Taliban, but how excited can I be when CBS decided they had to maker her look slimmer in publicity photos? Can anyone imagine this happening to a male anchor? And now all we’ll have to look forward to are comments about her hair and what’s she’s wearing today. My god people, what is wrong with all of us? A woman should be judged by the content of her character, not the contents of her bra.

Well, there is more, but that’s it for now. Go forth with love and good thoughts my babies, or at least with evil guilty ones. Onward.

Three Movies that Sucked This Weekend

2006-09-05T12:10:00.000-07:00

Movies and More Movies
Eegh. Let’s all just admit it—there is something seriously wrong with director Neil LaBute.

On Friday night, all of us piled into the car and tootled over to the local multiplex to view The Wicker Man, which is the latest offering from Spokane’s wunderkind, Neil LaBute. I’d seen the 1973 original of course, and I’d been a sort of fan of Mr. LaBute’s prior work, so I had expectations that this remake at least wouldn’t suck. I was wrong. Neil LaBute has made a big deal in the press about how he insisted that there be no advance screenings of this movie not because it was bad (the usual reason for no press previews), but because he wanted to save the “twists” from getting out before the official opening. Mr. LaBute is a big, fat liar. This movie is at its best, laughable, and at its worst, silly, stupid and unnecessary. It is bad. It is really bad. The only thing I can say about it is that at least it employed a lot of female actors…but this is faint praise, because all of the women are portrayed as, at best, highly suspicious, and at worst, the incarnation of evil.

And this is the problem—the movie is just another entry into the Stuff Is Evil category of film making. You know the kind: Children are Evil (Children of the Corn, The Omen, etc.), Technology is Evil (Pulse, The Ring), Adults are Evil (The Faculty), and in this sub-genre, Women are Evil. Actually, woman being evil is kind of the theme of every Neil LaBute movie. I know, I know, his first feature, In the Company of Men was supposedly about how men are bastards, but that movie was infused with the sense that the men were just retaliating for wrongs inflicted on them by women in the first place. I don’t know what caused Mr. LaBute to hate us chicks so much…maybe his mommy used to butt out her cigarettes on him, or maybe he was rejected one too many times by the high school slut; but damn, that man does not like or trust women. I’d hate to be his wife. (Apparently, he and his wife recently split up. I’m not at all surprised.) Verdict? This movie sucks Monkey Ass, and is no fun at all. Don’t go. However, Boy Kid and I did laugh a few times at the more ridiculous bits, and now he can’t stop repeating, “Ow! My legs! Who broke my legs?” Yeesh.

On Saturday, Girl Kid and I went to see Factotum, starring Matt Dillon and Lili Taylor. “Eeh.” Yeah, yeah, Matt Dillon will probably finally get an Oscar for this portrayal of Charles Bukowski alter ego Henry Chinaski, but frankly, this movie is no Drugstore Cowboy. Lili Taylor provides a beautiful performance as his sometime girlfriend, and she has a scene where she is cooking dinner in her underwear that is somehow more brutally intimate than if she’d been nude. But, this one is not very much fun, and is not really the masterwork it’s being hailed as either. It’s grimy, it’s gritty, it’s badly lit and everyone acts as if they are on Qualudes. We get it—being a drunken asshole is a drag. Verdict? Probably not worth your time, but Mr. Matt will finally receive the accolades that he should have gotten for last year’s Crash. (It’s a good thing for Matt that Philip Seymour Hoffman doesn’t have anything major out this year.)

On Sunday we saw no movies. Shocking, right?

Yesterday, Girl Kid and I went to see Trust the Man. Again, “eh” pretty much sums it up. The movie is a somewhat enjoyable look at the relationships of two New York City couples; and as such, it works reasonably well for the first 80% of the movie, before veering off into a slapstick ending that made no sense at all. Still, a movie that stars Maggie Gyllenhaal is usually a Good Thing (not including World Trade Center). Julianne Moore is always interesting to watch, and David Duchovny is usually adequate to the job of middle-aged hunk o’ man flesh. Let’s see—the main message that Ms. Moore’s director and husband Bart Freundlich wants to get across is that marriage and children are good, and fooling around, watching porn, and being single are bad, so come on all you men, just grow up and settle down already. Um, no. I also have to wonder what naughtiness Mr. Freundlich got up to to necessitate this filmic apology to Ms. Moore. Bad boy.

There are some simple moments involving the kids that ring true, and the actors are all certainly committed. The movie does work as a love story for the city of New York; still, I really can’t recommend this movie either. (By the way, Hetero America, a guy wanting sex a few times a week does not make him a sex addict, and neither does expecting the occasional blowjob from his wife.) All through the movie I kept thinking, “This family’s problems could be resolved if she’d just blow him in the morning; like ‘duh!’” Maggie’s character just hopes boyfriend Billy Crudup will wise up and want marriage and kids, but he’s an insensitive jerk at heart, so why would she bother with him in the first place? And why would she later choose to stick it out with Stupid Effete Generic European Dude just because he says he wants children? If he’s so boring, why consider staying with him? Really, these are our choices? Maybe Maggie shouldn’t have been so quick to blow off Ellen Barkin’s lesbian advances.

By the end the whole thing spirals out of control into slapstick during the movie’s final “opening night of her play” sequence and the boys finally become men and accept what’s really important in life, AKA, a marriage between one man and one woman with the express purpose of producing children. Could Trust the Man have been financed by conservative whack-job operation Focus on the Family? I have to wonder. And of course, the movie is yet another in the “Everyone is so bloody rich and talented” genre. Apparently the only way to live in New York is to be filthy rich. Well, duh, but…not everyone is that well off and has an impossibly clean three bedroom apartment with it’s own elevator and polished hardwood floors. What about their stories? Apparently poor people are not worthy of romantic comedies. And how many more perfect dinner parties with fabulous and successful friends can I view without blowing chunks or commiting suicide? According to the movies, everyone in New York City works in advertising, at an art gallery, or is a writer or publisher. Oh yeah, and their kids go to cutesy private schools where the all the other parents are hot divorcees. Um, sure, that sounds realistic. No, it doesn’t.

And there’s another thing I hate—I don’t go to a movie to see a play. There are so many movies that use a school play or whatever as a third act. Hey, Hollywood, if I wanted to see a play, I’d go see one. This lame artifice smacks of weak script writing, if you ask me.

Verdict? I hate Billy Crudup, and this movie is a cop-out. The scene where Julianne is attempting to narrate a porn flick while hubby David Duchovny masturbates under the covers is kind of funny though.

“Beer Beer Beer Beer…Beer!”

2006-08-30T10:26:00.000-07:00

Well, what can I say about the movie Beerfest? I can say that I’m inexpressibly happy I didn’t have to pay to see it. Actually, working a long day and driving home only to turn around and drive half the distance back to a Landmark theater so we could see it for free was a bit painful; but, I’m still really happy I didn’t pay. Umm, what else can I say? Well, I think the guys who made Beerfest are geniuses, which I’ll explain later.

Beerfest is directed, co-written, and stars Jay Chandrasekhar, also known as “Broken Lizard”, who you may have seen in Arrested Development and Andy Richter Controls the Universe (I knew I’d seen him somewhere…I miss you AD), and of course, in 2001’s Super Troopers, which I haven’t seen but which Girl Kid and her B-Friend report is hi-larious. I saw the trailer for Super Troopers back in the day, and I figured I’d already seen all the funny bits, “We can’t pull over any further man, we’re as far over as we can go!” It’s one of those movies that stoned frat kids love, and I don’t have any pot, so there. No point in seeing it really. Beerfest is the, (dare I say it), sequel for grown-up’s. ‘Cause, you know, grown-ups drink beer.

Beerfest does for conspicuous over-consumption of America’s Favorite Beverage that ST did for Mary Jane—allow the filmmakers to imbibe to a prodigious degree and call it a career. This is where the genius part comes in—how many people can manipulate a film studio into financing a movie, use their mom’s house in New Mexico as a set, convince a bunch of breast-enhanced starlets to take off their shirts, and also employ all their friends to drink a lot of beer and call it “acting”? Not too many. Genius.

Let’s see, what else? For no apparent reason, this movie included cameos by some fairly recognizable stars. For instance, what the hell was Donald Sutherland doing in this thing? Granted, he’s only on-screen for three minutes, and is lying down the entire time (while drinking three giant mugs of beer which I suspect may have been filled with the real thing), but still, dude, what were you thinking? Cloris Leechman is more understandable, as that woman will do anything for money. She plays, not surprisingly, an ex-whore in this one; in fact she plays almost the same character she did in Young Frankenstein, dirndl and pigtails included.

Respected German actor Jürgen Prochnow also appears as the leader of the evil German beer championship team, and there is a running gag about “Das Boot”, which is an enormous glass boot of beer that must be drunk without spilling to win the competition. Because Jürgen Prochnow was the movie Das Boot, get it? Hilarious, right? Or, maybe not. There is a trick to performing the supposedly impossible task of chugging Das Boot that anyone who’s taken fifth grade science will immediately figure out, so this plot point is sort of wasted. (I said “wasted”, ha ha.) And one character dies in a giant vat of beer, but is immediately replaced by his identical but somehow better twin. I really thought that guy would be able to drink his way out of the vat. Kind of disappointing, actually. And there are a lot of hot girls, who as we all know, really love fat drunken losers. And Mon’ique is in the movie. Actually, in some ways she was the hottest chick of all. She does get the longer of the two sex scenes, and I did believe it when she said she was going to break that guy in half.

There are a few funny moments, such as the sublime scene where a comparison is made between how a very drunk Jay Chandrasekhar sees himself and how others see him…so, so funny. The Trojan Beer was funny, as was the Olympic-atheletes-entering-the-stadium re-creation. In fact, the movie does sort of grow on you. It’s amusing to witness such an unabashedly enthusiastic celebration of all things “beer”. Quality filmmaking this is not, but if you are in the right frame of mind, and are of a certain age, (even if only mentally), and if you love beer, and boobies, and bad acting and drinking games…and more beer, then this movie might just be for you. If you’ve ever played “coins”, worn a beer box on your head, or laid under a ladder while someone pours beer into your mouth, you may find yourself chuckling now and then. If you do go, try to be as drunk as possible; I think it might help. Personally, I could have lived without the frog masturbation.

Oh yeah, and this is the really important bit—don’t pay.

Things That Suck Monkey Mold Today

2006-08-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

I don’t have time for a lengthy post today. If you want one of those, read my archives.

Today, in case you have just emerged from under your rock to read this, is the one-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. In fact, if you live in New Orleans, you probably are living under a rock. Why, after one year in the Greatest Country In The World would you be doing this? Because, unless they are super rich, George Bush doesn’t care about Americans. If you are an African American, well, he really, really doesn’t care about you. If you are poor, he probably couldn’t see you if you poked him with a stick. “What’s poking me? What’s going on? What’s my name? Where am I? Help, a pretzel is looking at me! Laura, read me a story.” Poor people, you are less than nothing to George W. Bush; which is why, one year later in the richest country in the world, you are still living in a FEMA trailer next to a concrete pad that used to be your house. That’s if you are lucky enough to have scored a trailer; otherwise, it’s the rock for you.

Who does The Dubya care about besides his daddy, Karl Rove, rich people, and the nice invisible voice who lives in his ear and tells him what to say in press conferences? He cares about Iraqis. And Iranians. He must, because he keeps giving them all our money, or is planning to give them all our money. (But he doesn’t care about North Koreans, no matter how many missile tests they conduct—because Koreans don’t have any oil; they only have cabbages. George W. Bush doesn’t care about cabbages.) Hezbollah is already rebuilding southern Lebanon, so why is New Orleans still a mess? It’s really shocking that a tiny band of Middle Eastern terrorists could provide better reconstruction services to the locals than our own government can provide to us. The education budget in the USA is being slashed, social programs are being cut, one in six Americans has no health insurance at all, and over half have less insurance than they need. During the recent fracas in Lebanon, even with all the war apparatus and equipment we have practically next door in Iraq, we were the last country to make arrangements to get our people out of there. And the list goes on. It’s a damn, dirty shame, and I’m embarrassed to be an American right now.

Well, that’s it for now. I’m all bummed out. I’ll try to be more cheerful and witty for you tomorrow. In fact, I’ll have a review of Beerfest for you, god help me. Girl Kid’s b-friend really wants to see this one-star flick from the dudes who brought us Super Troopers, so you know it will be pretty bad. There is just no explaining the mind of a teenage boy—I suspect lizards live in there. Well, in just a couple of months, I won’t be invited along anymore, because they’ll be able to drive off laughing to see R-rated movies all on their own…and I will be sad because my babies are all grown up. What are a few more heinous movies under the belt compared to that?

Ted Nugent is Bonkers, and Other Tales of Oregon Gone Wild

2006-08-28T16:07:00.000-07:00

Things I Learned On My Vacation, Such As, Google Maps Cannot Be Trusted
Girl Kid printed out the instructions on how to get to our campground near Salem this last week, and I should have looked at it before we hit Portland. What can I say? Oregon doesn’t like to put street signs going both ways, so I frequently didn’t know what road we were on, just the ones that we were driving past at high speeds. Also—Google had us going on one tiny road to the next even smaller road until we were finally bombing up a dirt track that looked like it was going to end up in a cow pasture. I began to hear banjos. Remember all those movies where the carload of stupid teenagers is eaten or dismembered by backwoods bachelor nutcases? All I’m saying is that I kept thinking how good I’d taste roasted. Finally, we turned out onto a paved road; and when we arrived at the campground and described our travel method to the dude in the office, he laughed and laughed….

Camp Dakota Has Everything
If you have a burning need to drive off and go camping, but somehow forgot to bring any stuff, fear not! The good folks at Camp Dakota have literally everything you need stocked in their eeny-weeny office slash store, up to and including tents, tarps, coolers, clothing, books, beer, tongs for smores; and for no obvious reason, scary little dolls with eyes that follow you. Maybe you put these around your camp to scare away the chipmunks. Oh yeah, and they will deliver espresso to your campsite in the morning. Odd, but fun. And, Scotts Mills, which is the closest little town, is hella cute. I could live there. Maybe some cannibalistic bachelor whack job will ask me to marry him and help him with his Christmas tree farm. They grow a lot of Christmas trees around there.

Everyone in Oregon is Fat
Whenever I hear in the media how fat Americans are, I look around and think, “Eh…maybe.” In Seattle, I’m frequently the only Big Girl in the room. In Seattle, there are just not that many truly fat people, so naturally I thought the Liberal Press was making it up and that fat people didn’t really exist. I was wrong. When we got to the Oregon State Fair on Friday, we spent a few hours before The Nuge show looking around. We saw cows. We saw a hundred varieties of chickens, including some huge fuckers with very feathery legs that made them look like they were wearing Hammer Pants. I kid you not. And we saw a whole lot of fat people. I was suddenly not alone; I was among My People, (if my people included rabidly conservative Christians). Just about every one of the thousands of people we saw that day had at least a fairly significant hunk of junk in their trunk, and I’d say at least 40%, (and maybe more), were double the size they should be, or even triple or quadruple. Yipes. And not a single one of them keeled over with a heart attack, even after downing deep-fried Oreos and Twinkies, so there. By the way, Girl Kid thought she wanted to try a fried Oreo, and then she got closer to where they were making them, and changed her mind. Gross.

The Oregon State Fair Hires The Unemployable
America, if you can’t hold down a job, if you don’t have the mental skills to give simple directions, or if you are unclear on what the meaning of “up” is, the Oregon State Fair has a job for you. What will your job requirements be? Well, apparently, wandering around in a green shirt and hat and being no help to anyone at all. When we got to the fair, we immediately asked where Ted Nugent would be playing. Nobody really knew, but each official-looking person we asked pointed vaguely into the distance (in different directions each time), and pronounced it to be “over there somewhere”. After three hours of wandering around, eating bad Mexican food, and hiding out in the Oregon Conservation Exhibit (which was the only quiet and shady spot), we decided we were ready to go get in line for the show. By the time we figured out where it was, there was a line a mile long (I am again, not kidding). We spent at least a half an hour walking up an down this line, which was spiraling in and around the Fun House area in big loops, trying to find the end. Because of the whole looping thing, people were jumping the line and milling around, and no one seemed to know where we were going. For all we knew, we could have been in line to be turned into deep-fried Oreos. There was a chatty guy in line next to us, who was moaning and complaining to everyone around him. At one point I said to him, “Well, who knew Old Ted could still bring out such a large crowd?” Everyone in earshot stopped talking, spun around on their heels, and glared at me. It was a sign of things to come.

When we finally did make it into the pavilion, The Nuge had been on stage for more than half an hour. On the plus side, that meant less Nugent for me, and that turned out to be a good thing, because….

Ted Nugent is Insane
I knew The Nuge was a survivalist crackpot hunter type, but I didn’t know just how bad he really was. Now, I’ve been to a lot of concerts in my life, but this was the first time the headliner brought an arsenal to the show. He had several rifles, a compound bow, and a 50-caliber machine gun on stage, all of which he kept waving around and aiming at the audience. For one blinding second I thought, “Oh god, someone’s going to get killed!” He also kept going on and on about how he loves his “blood brothers” in the armed services, and sang a love song to George W. Bush. I wish I were kidding. Ted also thinks that what he and his band plays is “soul” music, which was an opinion he announced at least 37 times in an hour and a half. The people waving Confederate flags around in front of him didn’t seem to find this at all ironic. Ted also sported an animal tail pinned to his butt, and I have a bad feeling it was not a fake fur costume prop. Nevertheless, if you are in to that sort of thing, the old dude can really squeeze it out. My eardrums are still ringing.

Nugent Fans Are “Special”
Oh. My. God. Now, the Oregon State Fair boasted at least a bit of diversity, mostly Hispanic, but there were no brown people in sight inside the Nuge concert. All white, mostly aging, and all definitely drunk, or rapidly on the way to being drunk. Plastic cup after plastic cup passed by me, over me, and on me during this thing. Hey people, when pumping your fist in the air and yelling “Fuck Yeah!”, try to remember which fist has the beer in it, umkay? At one point Ted announced that he hates “drunk drivers and dudes who take methamphetamines”, and all the drunks yelled “Fuck Yeah!” again. Slosh, slosh, spill, spill, drive home and beat the wife later. Ironic, right?

White People Can’t Dance, But They Can Stampede
Does anyone remember Elaine’s “dance” on Seinfeld? Well, a woman in front of me did an amazing rendition of that dance, all while sitting down. White people really are retarded in the rhythm department. Also, boys and girls, matching Hawaiian shirts are for losers. Oddly, despite the fact that the place was packed, I sat in a widening circle of empty seats, my hostility draining off of me in cresting waves. I promise I said and did nothing to annoy anyone (because I was afraid they would hurt me), other than to sit there with a look of incredulity on my face. I could have gone outside…but it was like watching a train wreck. I had to see what bonkers thing The Nuge would do next. Awful. And when the crowd went wild and started jumping up and down and hooting to get the band to some back and do an encore…well, you remember how I mentioned how fat everyone is down there, right? The sound of millions of pounds of American Beef pounding up and down on what was now looking like not-so-stable stadium seating was awe inspiring indeed. But, we lived, and Girl Kid got a T-Shirt. Dude.

Oregon is Bigger than it Looks
The next day we decided to drive over to the coast to come home…and it turned in to a twelve hour tour of Beautiful Scenery, High Winds, Bad Food, and…Barfing. Girl Kid got food poisoning at the Imperial Schooner in Ilwaco, Washington. You’d think in a town that was all about fishing boats and fish processing plants that you would be able to get fresh seafood. You would be wrong.

And, a Movie
Yesterday, home at last and ready to regroup and relax, Girl Kid and I went to see The Illusionist. This movie has some very subtle acting, and is worth the price of admission for that alone. As always, Paul Giamotti is A God. I even liked the perfectly cast Edward Norton, who often annoys me. While she was definitley the weakest link, Jessica Biel wasn’t too bad as well; although she keeps her clothes on for most of the film, so that may put off her main fan base. There was one badly filmed and totally unnecessary sex scene that took me right out of the movie. Bad director, no cookie. It was a reasonably good flick though, even if you can figure out the twist ending in the first thirty minutes. That doesn’t matter, it’s all about Paul, and his deliciously understated performance and voice-over work. Give that man an Oscar already. Well, he won’t get one for this, but he should. Don’t pay more than matinee prices for this one though.

And now I need to get back to work. I need chocolate. Damn.

Some People Like…To Put Their Television Down…We Are Just Good Friends….

2006-08-23T15:43:00.000-07:00

Girl Kid, her B-Friend, and your intrepid correspondent (that’s me) are going to Oregon tomorrow to see Ted Nugent at the Oregon State Fair. Pity me. Not only do I hate “The Nuge”, and most of what he stands for (Republicans, killing animals for sport, raising your kids to be serial killers, and hair flipping), but Girl Kid will be driving most of the way, so I will not be having a fun time at all. I may not be able to get my fingernails out of the armrest by the end of this trip. God help us, and if you see a giant white van bombing down I-5 with Betty The Beast stenciled on the hood, please be kind. And I’ll let you know how “The Nuge”, the fair and camping in the woods with two teenagers went on Sunday or Monday.

I Love TV
I do more than spend my time in a lot of darkened movie theaters; I also watch a tremendous amount of TV. I am a Ginormous Fatassicuss Couch Potatocuss, genus: Americanus. So sue me. So, what’s on the ol’ TiVo this week? Let’s see, shall we?

Monday
While Hell’s Kitchen II is done and gone, with the squishy-faced bawl-fest that is Heather surviving the bombastic attacks of Britain’s latest Asshole Export, Gordon Ramsey to win the big “prize” of her own restaurant in Las Vegas, (a dubious reward, if you ask me), it’s still possible to occasionally see the much better show Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares on BBC America. Yes, Mr. Gordon does swear a lot, and he does yell, but he won’t devour your soul like he does on HK. By that we know that American television producers are the Devil’s Own Spawn, who goaded The Gordon into even more histrionics than is his usual fare, and that’s not really necessary. He’s already pretty much over the top and down the other side, we don’t really need to see his head explode and rotate around 360 degrees. Or maybe we do. At least on Hell’s Kitchen, Mr. Ramsey does not continually remove his shirt, which he does do on RKN. I also don’t believe that guy is 38; because he has a bad case of Old Man Chest…I can accept 48, but not 38. I think Our Mister Gordon is a liar, as well as a giant screaming ass (who can also cook). However, I do obsessively watch both of these shows when they are on, like the guilty little slut I am.

The Closer
If you are not watching The Closer on the TNT network (Channel 54 in my neighborhood), then you are missing out. Keira Sedgewick is delicious fun as a thick-accented “gosh darn it” Southern girl heading up the Priority Murder unit of the LAPD. It’s in it’s second or third season now, and is America’s best answer to all those amazing British crime shows which are so much better than most of what we here in the ol’ “US of A” have to offer. While this show is no Prime Suspect (and what could be?), it is really, really fun. Watch it. All those CSI shows have gotten hella stupid anyway. This is much better.

Tuesday
On Tuesday, we have been watching…god, I’m embarrassed to admit this…Rockstar: Supernova, or as I like to call it, Rockdolts: Super Troopers. We started watching this idiot reality show last summer for the sole reason that my friend Frey made it into the last fifty finalists for Season One. He might have even gotten further, but his ex-girlfriend didn’t pass on the message that the producers had called until three weeks after the fact; which is justifiable grounds for homicide, if you ask me. Anyway, it’s pretty impressive how well the show’s contestants can sing, but if I have to endure much more of Dave Navarro’s creepy Dirty Old Man routine, or the word “Awesome!” much more, I may just run amok. Plus, this year’s edition includes Tommy Lee and his “I’m just a cute little boy with excessive tattoos” sideways hat. Tommy and his hat bring up chunks in my craw every week. If you made the words “Dude!”, “Awesome!”, “Rockers” and “V CAST phone” into a drinking game, you’d be dead by 11 pm is all I’m saying. Really, does no one speak English anymore? And ever since sexy minx and spandex Ziggy Stardust imitator Zyra got given the boot, I’m not really all that interested anymore. Who will win the (again, very questionable) prize of fronting Tommy Lee and a bunch of other losers? Will it be the Midget Raccoon, David Blaine, The Guy Who Can’t Keep His Shirt On, or Portland’s answer to Celine Dion, Storm Large? (And that’s actually her name.)

Also on Tuesday is the very excellent ex-Showtime offering Dead Like Me, being re-run now on the SciFi channel. This show is a bit beyond description, but it involves the daily lives of grim reapers. They have day jobs and everything. Watch it. And that brings us to….

Wednesday
Um, Rockdorks: Super Troopers, The Elimination Show. Find out who sucked large the night before, and who has a vast network of MySpace friends all willing to phone or text in to vote for them. “Awesome!”

Also on Mr. TiVo: Mythbusters. What crazy explodies will separated-at-birth-and-by-time-and-temperment twins Adam and Jamie get up to this week? Ice bullets, frozen chicken cannons or do-it-yourself quicksand? Good times, and educational too.

Project Runway: what can I say, despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m a girl. Or a gay man; the jury may still be out on that call. This is the best reality show on television, and the contestants have actual skills. Want to see someone make a functional gown out of cornhusks all while trash-talking the other contestants and bursting into tears? Well, now you can. This show is why television is the greatest invention since Louis the XIV toddled out of Versailles in his four-inch platform heels. If you haven’t seen it yet, I’ll bet you can rent seasons one and two on DVD. Fun stuff.

Thursday
The Office, my home-boi and God’s answer to the mustache Jason Lee in My Name Is Earl, and for right now, Who Wants to be a Superhero?. I think Major Victory totally deserves to win…what a crazy, mixed-up man in skin-tight red pajamas he is. I love him. (I’m kind of rushing here because I need to get back to work.)

Friday
Or SciFriday. The end of the week is all about Stargate SG1 and it’s poor cousin Stargate Atlantis. Who ever thought that a barely-seen James Spader vehicle would turn into ten years of intergalactic weirdness and running around shooting things in the woods right outside Vancouver, B.C.? Not James Spader, that’s for sure. I’ll bet he’s worn his teeth to nubs fretting over lost residuals “That Are Rightfully Mine” by now. And I’m not sure I can survive until Battlestar Galactica comes back on the airwaves. Is it just me, or is Starbug the bitchin’-est female character ever created? I want to be her. But Doctor Balthazar and his fuck-tastic ways give me the creeps. That guy is “all man”, and not in a good way. Yeesh.

Also on Fridays, when and if Survivorman ever comes back (new shows I mean) on the Science Channel, I’ll be there with crampons on. This is the best "how not to die" show ever, because you can actually learn how to survive in The Nature, in case you somehow accidentally end up in it some day. (I lived in the Yukon for four years when I was younger, so I may be biased towards this show. I love it enough to have watched each episode of Season One at least four times.)

The Weekend
Nothing is on TV on the weekends, other than The Soup, which catches me up on shows I’d rather not really see, like The Flavor of Love….yeeegh. Flava Flav is god-awful, who on earth could bring themselves to plant lips on that man, let alone fight for the right to do so? Not me, but I may not be the right demographic. No, for me the weekends are reserved for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report, both of which I cannot live without. I get all my news from these shows, because CNN et al make me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon (Anderson Cooper, I’m not looking at you with gouged-out eyes, you sanctimonious crud you). And don’t get me started on local news. How those people all don’t just commit suicide on the spot right now is beyond me. So, Jon and Stephen, take all the vacation days you want, just never go off the air.

Oh yeah, and we love Good Eats on the Food Network. In fact, Boy Kid is teaching himself to cook based on that show alone, (because god knows I almost never do it). Alton Brown is the Muskrat of Love.

And yeah, I also read books. But enough about that, because pretty soon someone is going to catch me doing this, and then I’ll be whining about not having a job again, and nobody wants that. Ta ta.

Why I Am A Zombie, and 5 Movie Reviews

2006-08-22T14:52:00.000-07:00

What have I been doing with my spare time lately? Watching more and more movies of course, followed by large doses of Mr. TV. My excuse for this egregious display of laziness? I’ve returned to the world of the working, AKA, The Land of The Damned. I actually kind of enjoy the job; but after my nine-plus hour shift and 1.5 hour commute (round trip, don’t freak), trip to the grocery store, whatever chores may wait me…. What I’m saying is, that by the time I get home and can sit down, I’m a card-carrying zombie. I’m sure people in Tacoma and Everett can hear my butt hitting the couch each night like a rolling thunder, followed by a groan that could fill the Carlsbad Caverns. Dogs bark, birds take to the air squawking, and babies drop their pacifiers and look to the sky and cry. Once down, I need mindless entertainment, and lots of it. On the weekends, I need at least one movie. Fortunately, since Girl Kid started working at the Crest, we can go to any Landmark theater for free, which is a Good Thing.

What Have We Seen? The Kiss and Tell Version, Movie Edition, and In No Particular Order
Lady in the Water
I love’s me some Paul Giamatti, but damn, this movie makes no sense at all. In fact, it’s stupid as hell. I know it’s too late, but if you can, avoid this stinker. M. Night Shayamalan-a-ding-dong proved he is out of ideas with The Village, and this one is not even as good as that. The earth includes magical moon creatures that arrive via your pool but leave via special Eagle Transport and who have a Very Special Message for us? Are you kidding me? And when the killer dog made of grass that can lie very flat and look like the lawn (also not kidding) keeps hanging around and eating people…why did no one think to mow the lawn, or use weed spray or something? I wish I were making this shit up. M. Night gave himself a major part in the movie, and while the boy can act and is pretty cute, he shouldn’t have given himself the role of “Very Important Writer Who Will Save the World”. I mean, dude. That’s taking hubris to new levels, even for you. Prediction? M. Night probably can squeeze funding for at least two more movies out of Hollywood, and then he’s outta here.

Scoop
Everyone’s been moaning about how this one was not as good as last year’s Matchpoint; and while that is arguably true, it was fun anyway. I’m not even upset that Woody Allen put himself in the movie. He was right for the role. And, I have to say, Scarlett Johansson is pretty much the biggest cupcake in the known world. Her poolside red bathing suit scene almost gave me a boner, and I don’t have the equipment. (Plus that would be really weird, because I’m probably old enough to be her grandmother…if her mother and I were both total sluts with no birth control.) I’m very happy that Ms. Scarlett has so far successfully resisted the urge to starve herself to death, Hollywood-style. Verdict? Fun enough for Saturday afternoon.

Army of Shadows
Jean-Pierre Melville’s restored 1969 masterpiece about the French Resistance takes place from 1942-43. The movie is slow to develop and includes loads of long pauses and moments where not much is happening. But, don’t let that put you off, this all adds to the dread of the film. The director was in the French Resistance, and the film is “semi-autobiographical”, so you feel like you are really there. The aging (she was 47 when the movie was filmed) Simone Signoret proves almost without effort why she was the sex-bomb of her generation. Those eyes…damn. Verdict? It’s not playing everywhere, so catch it if you can, but leave the children at home. (Boy Kid, now almost 22, loved the movie; Girl Kid, now almost 17, hated it.)

A Scanner Darkly
Another cool Photoshop animation from Richard Linklater and based on Philip K. Dick’s 1977 novel of the same name, but this one creeped me out, not because of the movie itself, but because Robert Downey Jr. ’s performance reminded me too much of my ex-husband…who also had a big jones for PKD. When we walked out, all of us said almost in unison, “That was cool, but Robert Downey Jr. reminded me too much of….” Yick. Verdict? Not for everyone, but a really good movie anyway, my stupid ex not withstanding. And if you go, you’ll see what I was married to, sort of. Add in some hitting, spitting, swearing, belittling and pouring water on you at 3am and you’re there.

Accepted
On the face of it, this one is your standard Stupid High School And/Or College Flick, a al…hmm, well, there are lots of them that ought to come to mind, but don’t right now. Old School maybe. Everyone and their duck is complaining about how stupid and what a waste of time, money and resources Accepted is. Well, in some ways, the nay-sayers are right. It does star Justin Long, who is nerdy and adorable (you know him as The Mac in those Apple Computer ads you’ve been seeing all over), and a bunch of other people who may well be acting for the first time. The plot is basically, a popular smart-ass with a lucrative bathroom fake ID business pranks his way through high school only to discover that’s he’s forgotten to develop the grades and extra curriculars that will get him into the college of his choice…or any college for that matter. Naturally his parents will be destroyed; so what does our hero do? Invents a pretend college and sends himself an acceptance letter, while his more talented BFF whips up a plausible web site to fool Dad. Then of course the parents want to visit said college and other things spiral out of control, and before you know it our rapidly expanding band of intrepid losers have a fully-functional college with courses like “Taking a Walk and Thinking About Stuff 101” and about a million dollars in tuition money provided by parents so freaked out by their useless spawn that they shell out $10,000 checks before dropping off junior and driving off at high speeds. You know, real parents. A really stupid movie, right?

Actually, I thought the whole thing was a fairly enjoyable look at our whole “American Dream” concept of what education is supposed to provide, and what kind of life you want for yourself and for your kids. My own ideas of child rearing have tended towards the “I just want them to be happy” and “child led, un-schooling” methods of the more out-there home schooling movement. Boy Kid was home schooled his entire career, and it worked out for him. Girl Kid announced she wanted to go to “real” school around the third grade, and so she went to a crazy moon school where they sang songs around a candle in the mornings. She started real “real” school in seventh grade when she entered the public school system. All I’m saying is, Accepted addresses some of the issues I’ve spent the last twenty years thinking about and living—how do you raise kids who can still think for themselves, who arrive at adulthood with their creativity and spontaneity intact, and who will not just live their lives as unthinking cogs. Verdict? You may think this movie is a big waste of time and money, but it was okay in my book. Nobody gave props to Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure either, which was a movie that could have saved the world, had anyone paid attention. So there.

Well, I really ought to get back to work. I’m playing hooky, which is the only way I’ll be able to stay in regular touch with you, my dearest readers. I love you all. All twelve of you.

Motherfucking Movie on My Motherfucking Mind

2006-08-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

Snakes on a Plane, what can I say? I can say that the only way to see this movie is for free at 12:30am on a Friday with 100+ rabid, and hyperactive Landmark Theater employees tanked up on beer and donuts. Can’t see the movie that way? Sucks to be you. And it sucks to be the party of young men who, as guests of an employee, abused the the honor by hooting, climbing on the seats, and flinging food, only to go from the happiest boys on earth to the saddest when they were unceremoniously kicked out. As the manager said during this operation, "It's okay to come to this thing drunk, just don't act drunk." Wise words indeed.

What else can I say? Either this movie is the greatest and subtlest piece of ironic moviemaking in the history of cinema, or it really is a horribly bad C-grade horror slash comedy extravaganza that escaped from 1974.

Eeegh, this movie has it all—big ginormous snakes of all types and colors biting people everywhere and doing every gross thing anyone has ever imagined in a quiet moment of terror whilst peeing into an outhouse hole on a dark night in the woods…only on a plane. Did I mention that some of the larger snakes growl? Now, I did not know that snakes had the vocal cords to growl, but apparently I am a dumbass; because as we all know, movies tell nothing but the truth and the whole truth, so help me Bob.

Still, Samuel L. Jackson is a God among men--a walking, talking, swearing epitome of what is means to be a masculine hombre stud beef. What a guy. That man is so cool you could hold a warm beer against any part of him and come away with a nice cold frosty one for your efforts. Dude, he’s the motherfucking most on motherfucking toast.

During the movie, I did in fact close my eyes a few times; so, among other things, I missed the bit where the anaconda squeezed the asshole British guy to death. Still, my brain could easily fill in the details just from the “aaahh….eeeeww, eecck, ha ha ha” sounds the other audience members were making. Yeesh. I also can’t understand why a woman sucking venom from a toddler’s swollen, puss-y and red arm would be a turn on, but based on the reaction of Kenan Thompson’s character, it totally is. That was maybe the grossest part of the movie for me—first aide on a child doesn’t seem like a sexual moment to me; but then again, I’m not a guy. (And thank Bob for that.) Still, snaps to the producers for giving ol’ Kenan a job so he can take a breather from washing windows and begging for change on Wilshire Avenue; because that Nickelodeon money must have run out long ago. I also don’t think that [spoiler alert] a wind strong enough to suck a giant python out a window would not also make short work of teeny, tiny Julianna Margulies as well. Yeah, I know, she had a belt strap wrapped around her wrist, but it was not even tied off or anything; after the “event”, she just whips it off and walks away smiling and with her hair still beautifully coifed. I think she’d have been sucked out the window too, or at least had her hair messed up a bit. Oh yeah, and inflatable lifeboats make great snake blockers; ‘cause, you know, a giant snake that can bite through your neck could never get through one of those. Never leave home without one.

There’s a backstory that explains why there are snakes on a plane, and why those snakes are so very very angry, but it doesn’t really matter. In fact, at the end of the movie the producers and writers have wisely forgotten all about the killer generic Asian guy and his evil minions. They just don’t matter anymore.

The Lessons Learned?
What profound life lessons can we take away from Snakes on a Plane? Snakes can growl, Samuel L. Jackson is the man; this flick will never be your in-flight movie; the Mile High Club is going to have a lot fewer members; the poor shlubs who’s job it is to force those floral leis on people in Hawaiian airports are going to have a much tougher time of it now (what with all the screaming, sucker punches and running away, etc.); while there is really no way to make a sequel to SoaP, there will be one anyway (Moose on a Train…anyone?); the porn version will be called Snakes in my Pants, and the 1970’s are cooler than ever. Mother fucking yippee kai “Aaay!” motherfucker.

Miami Vice...."Eeh"

2006-07-30T19:28:00.000-07:00

I've been out of touch recently, because I've been working. Sad, but true. More on that later.

In the Meantime, Let's Talk Miami Vice! Oh Boy!
Yesterday, Girl Kid and I went to see Miami Vice. I know, I know. I am a total slut with no standards at all. In my defense, the local rag gave this movie three stars, and said, "It's a smart, serious, adult crime thriller...", and it was directly by Michael Mann, who is guilty of many crimes, but who did bring us the sublime Heat, which was full of gunfire but was in fact, cool and edgy and great, and also Manhunter, which scared me more than any movie ever. As for Miami Vice? Um...no. it is not cool, edgy or scary, but it does have a lot of people getting perforated with great, big holes. I think that shooting someone in the chest with a rocket-to-air launcher is, dare I say it, "overkill"; but using this argument clincher as a recurring feature throughout the movie is redundant and silly. Miami Vice pretty much is the poster child for Big and Stupid, leaving out, for the most part, the all important third attribute, Fun. We all know I'm a sucker for Big Stupid Fun, but leaving out the fun is a crime.

Wherein I Snort Up A Lung
Actually, I'm lying, Miami Vice was hilarious. The dialog was perhaps the most cheesy I've ever experienced in all my years of movie going, so you know that when I say the writing was bad, it was truly horrific. I mean, really, "go-fast boat" instead of "speedboat"? How is it possible to make dialog actually WORSE and MORE CHEESY than it was on original TV show? Don Johnson should give Michael Mann money for actually making him look like the "smart" one.

And that was the problem. Every other word in the first hour was chortle-inducing in the extreme, but no one but me was laughing. Seriously multiplex dwellers, what gives? Someone says "go-fast boat" while flipping their hair and looking all pouty and you don't find this spew-inducingly funny? I actually got into a sort of laughing jag, where I was afraid I would spiral into that place where you can't stop laughing and you think you might die from lack of air. As fun as this sounds, being the only person laughing out of possibly 500 deadly serious people sitting in the dark is a bit unnerving. I was afraid the people behind me would stab me with their cell phones antennas, and so I sat there, trying not to laugh out loud too much, holding my stomach and suppressing snorts until I thought my head would implode. Girl Kid had to poke me in the ribs, which frankly didn't help at all.

Watching our muscle boys Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx scowl and squidge their way through every scene was an experiment in the surreal. I swear, Mr. Foxx must have had to have that squint surgically removed after the film wrapped, it was so ever-present. Maybe he had an eyebrow masseuse on 24 hour call. Ol' Colin at least got to vary his expression from squinty to smoldery from time to time, because he is given the job of being all Mr. Seductive with China's greatest national export, Gong Li. Really. Gong Li. I mean, come on! What is the star of Farewell My Concubine and Memoirs of a Geisha doing in this thing? I mean, GONG FREAKING LI! Jeezus. Seeing poor Ms. Li sucking face continually with Ireland's fifth most famous export (after Irish Spring soap, whisky, Liam Neeson and the IRA) made me very very sorry, and also a bit worried for our country, because now China really will want to squish us. And you know they can, because all they have to do is walk across the Bering Sea, down through Canada (where they will be welcomed as heros and showered with Eau de Moose [don't ask] and beer in thanks), and sit on us until we die. There's like what, four of them for every one of us? We'd be road kill, so we really shouldn't deliberately piss them off by making Gong Li kiss everyone in the movie. Okay, she only makes out with three guys (Colin, the Columbian drug lord, and the drug lord's evil minion, but that last one is only implied), but really. She's not a hooker, she's just played one in the movies. Hollywood, play nice, and maybe China will let us live.

The Shower Scene(s)
In Miami Vice, we are treated to not one, but two shower scenes, one for each star. Early on in the movie, Jamie Foxx gets all nekkid (full backal, and dude, that guy is has such a muscular butt, he looks a tad deformed) to have his obligatory slippery when wet scene. His love interest slash "dame in jeopardy plot point" is up-and-coming British It Girl Naomie Harris, (who also plays the charcoal chomping voodoo queen with the hots for Johnny Depp [well, duh] in Pirates of the Caribbean II). I can now report that Naomie also, has a well muscled set of maximuses in the be-hind area. Later, Colin and Gong Li also have a sudden need to get clean, which leads me to...

The Sex Scenes
Near the beginning of the movie, Jamie and Naomie go straight from Shower to Sex, and so we are treated to more of Mr. Foxx's backal attributes. But this is where things get weird--after lying directly on her like the top slice of bread on a bacon and tomato sandwich, he grinds around for a few seconds, and then pretends to "finish", and then jokes "Just kidding baby", wherein she tells him to "Go ahead honey, just fall asleep right here", and he does. During all of this, all we see of Naomie is part of her little impish face squished up against Jamie's big, oiled and beefy shoulder. She definitely doesn't look happy, and at no time does she fake her own little "moment", so we know she's not having any fun at all. How many woman have used that technique just to get a guy to finish and get off her? Lots. What are we supposed to take away from this? Tubbs is bad in bed? Did they think this would make Crockett's later love scenes more steamy? If so, why don't we get to see Colin Farrell's naked butt quite as much? I'm guessing it's because his backside is not as screen-worthy. Or is spotty. Or something. Still, I have to think there was some racism happening throughout. Crockett is definitely the main character of what is supposed to be a two-star vehicle, and whenever we see them both looking squintily off into the distance (which is a LOT), Tubbs is always in the background. Actually, I think the camera crew got the bulk of the crotch time with our stars, because our boys are shot from below quite a bit. (Hubba hubba cameraman Bubba.)

Jong Li plays the evil drug lord's...well, I guess business partner. She prances around in skin-tight suits, which immediately made me think of Romey and Michelle's High School Reunion, "We're like, business women, do you have some sort of business women's lunch?" (Now, there's a great movie!) Still no sooner does Ms. Li get Crockett to all to herself, they whisk away to Cuba in a go-fast boat for mojitos (no, I'm not kidding) which leads to THEIR shower scene, which includes what was to be the main theme of their love making, mainly grabbing the other person's head and batting it around, like bears. This did not look fun or sexy at all, but Gong and Colin managed to stretch their acting skills as far as looking into each others eyes with something resembling a modicum of passion. Lather, rinse, repeat, bat, bat, grab hair, yank head around, kiss awkwardly, gaze lovingly. Later Gong finds out he's a cop, but he saves her anyway even though she's at least partially responsible for the afore-mentioned giant perforations in the bodies of certain characters at the opening of the film. She pretty amazing looking though, so it's clearly alright. But of course, they don't get to be together in the end, because that would be wrong. She's a criminal, and so that would make it definitely another kind of movie. And he's a wild card who can't be tied down. Or something.

Jamie and Colin certainly have something going on however, and I think their shower/sex scenes would have been a hell of a lot more convincing. But again, that would have been another sort of movie entirely. (Maybe even a good one.) In the meantime, guns roar, speedboats (ha!) do their thing, Colin Farrell almost sports a mullet, and hair spray rules all. And lots of people end up with holes in them, but they don't count, because, well, they have holes in them. Oh yeah, and the dude who played the bad guy in Charlie's Angels II and Rachel Griffith's sexy next door neighbor in Six Feet Under, Season Five, has so few lines as a member of Miami Dade's finest that I doubt he even needed to warm up his SAG card, which it too bad really, because that guy is too good to waste in dreck like this.

What else? Colin Farrell swaggers around with this off-kilter gait, as if there's something so big in his pants that it's throwing him off balance every time he takes a step. Actually, I've seen him walk this way in real life, so there may be something to that. And Jamie Foxx sports a cunning, pointy beard that would have made Rasputin proud, and made me want to get out my scissors.

The Verdict
Girls are expendable, (but sexy), because it's really your best buddy who matters the most, even if you would never sleep with him...really...I swear we're not gay...I mean, man, he's got such steely eyes...those pecs...those delts...that deformed behind..."oops, how'd that happen?" I wish.

In the meantime my babies, I will report more soon, but it may be only on the weekends, because I'm a bit crunched at the moment. I promise. And now to go fire off a hotly worded email to that idiot movie reviewer at the Seattle Times...I swear, I think he didn't really see the movie. Or maybe he was tanked on mojitos.

Jobs, Movies and Bring on the Menopause Already

2006-05-10T19:56:00.000-07:00

I've been absent again, which is not good. Sorry. But, I did install a tracker dealio on this site, and it turns out I do have readers, so that inspires me. I have been going out on interviews and such, and that has taken a lot out of me. THREE hours of "So, if you found a co-worker who appeared to be stealing, what would you do?" is pretty draining...and all for a $15 per hour production job that would kill the soul. Ugh. Things I have learned to-date?

I've forgotten more than you ever knew about QuarkXpress
Really. I used the stupid thing for every work day for five years, and three years of InDesign later, I can't remember a squat about Quark. I tanked that test, so that was three hours of inane questions wasted. I have been utterly assimilated by InDesign; thank you Adobe. No really, thank you. I like you better anyway.

What is it with guys of a certain age?
At the TWO hour interview the very next day (after the three hours of textbook H/R questions), I aced the Photoshop test (I think), and completely hosed the talking portion. The guy who interviewed me was exactly like my old boss, and also like a certain professor at Shoreline Community College in the VCT program...all who have been through that program and who read this will immediately know who I mean. These guys are all in their early sixties, they all have natty little beards, they all fancy themselves to be fun-loving hippie dudes, they all chase after young skirt and feel completely justified in bedding same (if they can) even if those women are underlings; and, they are all unmitigated bastards who will try to trip you up in conversation, who will go out of their way to humiliate you if they get the chance, and who are totally in love with the sound of their own voices. They get this "look" when you are talking, and you just know they are waiting for you to shut up so that they can start talking again. If you are currently on their twinkie list (which means that you are young, female, and "hot"; or are young, male, and protege material), you can fuck up to the nth degree on the job without harm; but be wary, your twinkie status will evaporate when the next new meat comes along...and there is always new meat. Being no longer young, susceptible or "hot" myself, I kind of hate these guys. So, I'm not that sorry that I won't be getting this job, because I really don't want to work for my old boss again. One abusive ex-husband and one abusive ex-boss is enough. I hope.

I feel like a dork in my interview clothes
When I get into my nice duds and good shoes, my body swells up to double its size and I grow antlers. People who know me will be surprised that I have shoes other than flip-flops, so getting up in business drag is a pretty big deal for me. But, I won't do pantyhose, because those things are a symbol of female oppression, if you ask me. I will wear pantyhose over your dead body, and not before. So there, Mr. Employer; you get bare legs or no legs, it's your choice.

Anyway, that's enough about that. I really don't want to be working anyway. I'd rather be reviewing movies for you for pay. Why can't that happen? I mean, really. It's what I'm good at.

Movies That Suck This Week
An American Haunting
Deary me, this is another example of how our society is bat-shit terrified by teen-girl sexuality. This movie stars Sissy Spacek (who once bought multi-colored mittens from a friend of mine in Vancouver) and Donald Sutherland, both fine actors, and who were the reason Girl Kid and I were seeing the flick in the first place. (I also have cramps today, so that's another excuse.) Plus, I had a free ticket, which as a good thing, because this movie stunk. I thought 82 minutes was pretty short for a movie; in fact, normally I boycott films this short. But, AAH seemed hooouuurs long. Weeks even. How many times can you see the scary invisible "entity" slowly pull the blankets off the chick, and flapping the windows while twirling her around whispering spooky stuff I can't really hear in her ear? I think that thing must have really liked her quilt. As with last year'sThe Exorcism of Emily Rose, the film is supposed to be based on a documented case of demon possession, but instead of being about ghosts or demons, it's really about how fucked up Christians are, and how religious belief can really screw over a kid who is being sexually abused by her father. I mean really, how can anyone of conscious even be a Christian these days? Hear me Hollywood, there are no such things as poltergeists. I mean, I wish teenage girls really did have this kind of power, because then there would be less rape and incest in this world, but they don't. What kind of magic power would be just for teenage girls anyway? Don't teenage boys need help occasionally? Poltergeists are wishful thinking, just like vampires. Verdict? Christians are fucked in the head, but Donald Sutherland is one foxy old dude. Hubba hubba.

Akeelah and the Bee
Ugh, what crap. Or maybe not crap per se, but it did seem like the script was automatically generated by one of those "write your own screenplay" applications. This is the kind of movie that isn't content to convey the message through dialogue and scene crafting, instead they show you, then tell you in voice-over, and then tell you again in case you somehow missed it. We get it already. Redemption happens, and it's not nice to be mean to your kids, duh. Verdict? A fifty pound hammer made of ham would have more subtlety. But at least it didn't star Dakota Fanning, so that is something.

And One Movie That Kind of Didn't Suck
Oooh, I'm embarrassed to admit this out loud, but I actually caved in like the wet bag media whore that I am and saw Mission UnSquishable III. I know, I know, in a previous post I said I would rather be on fire than see this movie. But then...well, I blame Philip Seymour Hoffman. He's just too good. I love him. Actually, J. J. Abrams, (Lost creator), who directs and wrote the script, did a pretty good job. It's better than the prior Brian De Palma and John Woo episodes of Mission Impossible, and that's some good company to beat. Anyway, Tom Cruise was very slightly more human than usual, and it was fun to see Cruise and Ving Rhames bicker away throughout the movie about how guys in their positions can't maintain relationships. Keri Russell, of all people, did a nice job of kicking butt, taking names, and then dying dramatically. Bland Katie Holmes stunt double Michelle Monaghan had less to do as the stupid love interest. She gets captured, just like a girl. Blah, blah. But, Philip Seymour was so perfect as the bored and disaffected bad guy; and unexpected joy of joys, Simon Peg (Shaun of the Dead) was the prerequisite whacky computer nerd, so I enjoyed that. Verdict?Explosions galore, nifty gadgets which, if the government actually had, Osama Bin Laden would have been captured already, and Tom Cruise munching on that poor girl's face. Tom? How about dating a bit closer to your age group? You are starting to exhibit Woody Allen disease, and you are just not good enough to survive being a creepy old pervert like Woody. Still, the movie is a couple of hours of decent fun in the olde multiplex. Go figure.

Well, my stomach is trying to digest itself, so I'm off to make dinner, and pour myself a nice hefty drink to dull the pains coming from my guts. Menopause? I'm ready to talk again. Call me.

Celebrities Who Must Die

2006-04-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

I am a slut for celebrity news, and yet at the same time, I’m mostly bored by what I read/see/hear out there. I think it’s because the same ten celebrities get reported on all the time. I really don’t give a rat’s bee-hind about Jessica Simpson. I think she’s a boring, stupid slut with an only mediocre talent; plus, the girl has horrible fashion sense. I mean seriously, who wears this stuff? She doesn’t know what tuna is, she can’t do laundry, and she hasn’t got a single interesting thing to say. Maybe all the hair dye and lack of food has leeched her mind of all content. The only remotely interesting thing about Ms. Simpson is her Svengali-meets-Lolita relationship with her father, which makes prior Steven/Liv Taylor or The Donald/Ivanka Trump creepiness look tame. She’s icky, stupid and Christian. Ugh, what a combination. Ginormous breasts can only compensate for so much.

I also have exactly less than zero interest in Jessica’s ex, Mr. Nick Lachey, who not only acts stupid, but looks as dumb as a doorknob as well. [My apologies to doorknobs everywhere; I know we haven’t always been the best of friends, in that you frequently refuse to open for me. Don’t take it personally.] Maybe it’s because Mr. Lachey’s eyes are kind of close together, but, dude—you look bemused, confused and kind of used in your photo shoots, and that’s not good. In a sea of boy-band wannabes and self-conscious, bleached “studs” raised on Nickelodeon, Nick Lachey is not special, but he is “special”. I’m sick of him and his rippling abs, and yet everywhere I go, there Nick and Jessica are, staring at me and smiling with their enormous teeth from every newsstand tabloid cover. I’m starting to think that they can see me and they are hungry. I’m frightened.

I have never been a fan of Tom Cruise. I mean, Risky Business was okay, but that was ages ago, and Tom was still a zygote in tightie-whities. Maybe it’s Scientology’s fault, but Tom is boring to the core. I’m not interested in his looks, and unless he’s playing the bad guy, he’s not all that great an actor…hmm, if Tom is only good at playing assholes, maybe that’s because he is one? I’m just saying. Ole Tom is a bit more interesting now that he’s gone bat-shit insane and is jumping on couches, freaking out at reporters and inciting suicide by telling people to get off their anti-depressants. I’m sorry Tom, watching you is making me want to start taking medication, not quit it. I used to think Katie Holmes had some hopes of developing some talent, but I guess that’s over now that she has become the alien overlord hive womb instead.

I think Jennifer Aniston must have more going on upstairs than we see in her movies, because she has managed to woo and land a couple of interesting men, but where is that in her performances? Yes, I was a rabid fan of Friends for the first few years until they all became caricatures of themselves, but I always liked Chandler the best, so there. Rachel was boring. No wonder Brad left her—Jen has all the blandness of a soccer mom, but wouldn’t put out in the baby department. Go figure.

I really, really, really don’t care what Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards are up to now, so please Us Magazine, stop reporting on them. Unless Charlie wants to share his deepest sexual depravities with me, I’m not interested, and maybe even not then. I mean, “eww”. He’s gross. Denise was fun in the great and under-appreciated Undercover Brother, but nothing else she’s done as wowed me. Of course, I’m not a teenage boy with Wild Things on continuous re-wind. [What ever happened to NeveCampbell anyway? I hope she can still pay her rent. Or maybe she’s out on the highway picking up truckers in exchange for Slim Jims. Whatever.]

And, oh heavenly gods, please spare me from anything more about Starr Jones. Yipes, could she be more vapid and self-involved? I do not, let me be clear on this, watch The View, but I do watch The Soup, and so I am exposed to Starr more than I want to be, which is never. You know, there are some people who just look better fat, and she is one of them. What a huge disappointment it must be to have gone through what I know is the unbelievable agony and insanity that it takes to lose weight, only to end up looking like a deceased squirrel that didn’t make it over I-5 on the first go. I mean, seriously, she looks like a diseased turtle. Yuck.

Lindsay Lohan? Pass. I liked her in the beginning, but then she turned vapid and underfed and boring. She is a stupid girl. Paris Hilton? Not “hot”. Nicole Richie is only interesting as the poster child for anorexia. How low can she go? Pretty low, it’s sad really. How many girls have tried to emulate her to the death? She must be stopped.

Who am I interested in? Well, oddly enough, Angelina Jolie. The girl can’t act, and I think her lips look like dead slugs, but she is out there being weird and trying to make the world a better place. Angie doesn’t just provide her ample lip service either—she’s out there hugging orphans and bringing food and medicine to earthquake and famine survivors on a weekly basis. I may be the one person who supports Brad Pitt in his career move from Brad ‘n’ Jen to Brangelina—playing Daddy Daycare whilst being dragged around the world by Super Mom makes him more interesting to me. Go Brad.

There are a lot of other interesting “celebrities” out there who manage have the best of both worlds—they get to play for a living, but for the mostpart, they can also go outside without being chased and hounded by the yellow press. I envy them: Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Don Cheadle, William H. Macy and his lovely and talented partner Felicity Huffman (who needs to gain a few as well), Casey Affleck (the one who can act), the fun an irrepressible Jack Black (who has stayed true to his indie friends)…oh, there’s loads of others. Interesting people who manage to get by in Hollywood without being eaten up by the machine. Still, I’m guilty of buying People and Entertainment Weekly or, God forbid, even Life & Style every now and then. My brain likes candy, and after all, I am Mistress Squidia, Media Whore. I consume crap, so you don’t have to. Enjoy.

Those Adorable Men

2006-04-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

I seem to be a breeder, in that, despite all evidence against it and my horrible history, I am into men. This is a problem I can’t seem to get over. Men are a mysterious species whose motivations I may not understand, even after years of study. I spent a loooong time with one particular man, of whom I can easily say that I knew all his stories inside and out, I could finish almost any sentence coming out of his yaw, and I could tell when he was lying, bored, randy, angry and probably could guess with 98% accuracy what he was about to do and say next. And yet, I have to admit that he was a total, complete and utter stranger to me. While I had ideas about what made him the way he was, I really didn’t know him, and in the end, I didn’t care to.

But still, there are still men out there who can inspire my total love and devotion. I know that if I met these guys in person and got to know them, they might turn out to be unredeemable jerks. In fact, if I fall for a guy in the flesh, he probably is a jerk, because I have a talent for seeking out assholes. Now that I am a mature woman with plenty of water under her bridge, (and a troll or two), if I find myself attracted to someone I’ve actually met, I immediately doubt their quality based just on my own reaction. If I like them, there must be something wrong with them. Nevertheless, for the following men, I would make an exception. I’m sure none of them would ever make me sad. They certainly all make me very happy now.

Dave Gorman
This adorable British dude has built his entire notoriety and career out of a drunken prank, and you have to love him just for that. One evening after many tequila’s, his flat mate dared him to find out how many other Dave Gorman’s lived in the UK and the next thing they were on a train to Scotland…well, the rest is history. When the kids and I first saw Are You Dave Gorman? on PBS, we almost had to buy a new couch, if you know what I mean. This guy is also responsible for The Great Google Whack, which I haven’t seen yet, but want to badly. Anyway, Dave Gorman is lovable, cute, and hilarious and has a British accent, which due to my obsession with Celtic men of all types, gets big bonus points with me.

Eddie Izzard
I’ve posted about Eddie before, so there’s no need to say much more other than that Mr. Izzard is the hottest thing in fish tights and platform heels, and is so funny that I would bear his children if I could. [While I love my two kids to little bits, I’m not really looking to have more at this point, so you can see how this would be a big deal on my part.] Everything about Eddie is wrong—his chin is too big, he has rubbery lips, his hair is all wonky, he is a bit chunky and short…and it all adds up to sex on toast. In the film Circus, there’s a scene where Eddie and the also shagadelic Scottish hunk John Hannah are butt naked on a stony beach in Brighton, and oh my, it gave me the vapors. Eddie Izzard is god, and John Hannah is no slouch either.

Ze Frank
If you don’t know about Ze Frank yet, well, go to my link to him on the right, and prepare to spend the rest of your day laughing. If you value your job, don’t initially check out his site from work, because you won’t get anything done for the rest of the day. Start with his original “How to Dance Properly” video, and go from there. I love his New Year’s resolutions. There’s also a bit where he describes how he invented this code for business correspondence where all the punctuation means swear words, so that he can both sound professional but curse out his graphic design clients without them knowing. So funny. Lately he has started a daily video thing where he reports the news. I know this doesn’t sound all that great, but that’s because you don’t know Ze Frank yet. He is relentlessly happy and inventive, and not in that cloying cutesy “chipper” way that usually make me want to rip out the person’s throat with my teeth. I now have all my news needs firmly met between The Daily Show, The Colbert Report and Ze Frank. He is hilarious, trust me on this. Ze also looks like the mutant love child of Mark Hamill, Ewan McGregor and a goldfish. He’s so cute I could spread him on a crumpet and gobble him up; he is so creamy I’d have no need for extra butter. Check out Ze with my linkie over there -->. His web site states, “Many have come, but I like you the best”. I like him right back. In fact, I love him. Love, love, love the Ze.

Anthony Bourdain
Boy Kid and I have recently discovered Anthony Bourdain, No Reservations on the Travel Channel. I’d seen a prior show of his, and not thought much of him. What can you say about a NYC chef who smokes and makes disparaging comments about the cuisine of other countries? I wasn’t impressed, and so I didn’t give it enough of a chance. But, after the cancellation of the incredibly funny show Kitchen Confidential, which was based on Mr. Tony’s life and book, I had to check out this new show. [Curse you Fox TV network executives, may you rot in festering pools of fish guts while monkeys eat your children!] It turns out I was wrong, Anthony Bourdain is not just an ass, but instead is an ass I love with burning passion. How can you not adore a guy who unapologetically drinks, smokes, chats up his druggie days, is passionate about pork and who will eat or drink anything that is offered to him, no matter how disgusting? On the Quebec episode we watched him eat a seal’s eyeball with a bloody seal carcass right in front of him. He ate it raw. That same episode another chef in Montréal tried to kill him by feeding him everything on the foie gras menu. I mean, everything. He ate it all and lived, but he did look a bit green and greasy by the end. I got all dreamy watching Mr. Bourdain chow down on massive plates of poutine, which is basically French fries, gravy and cheese curds, with other ill-advised things like canned peas or barbeque sauce being added as requested. Apparently this is the official dish of Quebec. God, the stomach churns, and I grew up in Canada. Anthony is also hugely into Iggy Pop and The Stooges, which automatically means he’s my friend. It burns my weenies that he’s also a stick. How can anyone be so well-fed and yet so thin? Even though he smokes, and therefore probably smells like walking death, I want him to marry me. Of course, this would mean I’d have to divorce Eddie Izzard first, and that could be a problem. Hmm. Anyway, check out No Reservations at 10 p.m. on Mondays on the Travel Channel. I’ll be there, with bells and bib, firmly on. Yummy.

Also Rans
You can see from the above list that I love men who are funny, not just cute. I will probably think you are “the hotness” if you have a sense of humor and a movable face, because both of these mean adorable to me. In addition to the above fine hunks of man-muffin-hood, there are other guys who make me happy as well: Ewan McGregor, Jamie Oliver of Naked Chef fame, James Nesbitt (Murphy’s Law), Clive Owen…hmm, these are all Brits. You see a pattern here.

To Recap
If you can feed me well, and especially if you can make me laugh, I’m yours. A Brit, Scottish and/or Irish accent will put me over the top.

Thank God for men, you crazy, whacky weirdos.

Wherein I Blow An Interview, Plus Two Movie Reviews

2006-04-24T12:55:00.000-07:00

Today I had my first “real” job interview in a while, in that I went out for a job for MSN at Microsoft. My recruiter didn’t really prep me well enough, and I went in a bit blind without knowing what the job was really about. And I blew it. Sadly, I didn’t even manage to entertain myself or you by blowing the interview in spectacular style; instead I was just adequately inadequate. How pathetic is that? I sucked even at being sucky. I mean, God damn! By the time I got home, I already had the “no” email back from the recruiter. Oh well, it’s a beautiful day to have spent two-plus hours in stop-and-go traffic and ten dollars in gas money to get all the way out to downtown Redmond and back. Sheesh. But, seriously, someone needs to hire me soon. All offers considered. I’m very talented, I swear.

Two Movies
Yesterday was sunny and fair, and all the healthy, trendy and beautiful people in Seattle were out walking around in short pants, being “seen” at outdoor coffee houses, sailing, walking dogs on the beach, and generally behaving like Personals ads stereotypes and being poster people for all you teaming masses in hot, sweaty, un-scenic and/or tornado-prone places all over the country who might want to move here. [By the way, don’t—our traffic is horrendous. It’s like downtown Calcutta at rush hour only with SUVs instead of yaks. Really.]

So, on this fine day, what did me and mine choose to do? Spend it in the dark hiding from our responsibilities and all forms of exercise by having Two Movie Day of course. We’re such nerds. Plus, I’ve heard the sun can kill you.

Movie #1: Sex is Good
First, Girl Kid and I went to see The Notorious Bettie Paige at the lovely, dark and comfy Harvard Exit. We even found parking right in front of the theater, which is both rare and wonderful to find on Capital Hill, so already it was a good day.

Girl Kid, like many young and hip counter-cultural women out there right now, kinda has a thing for Bettie Paige. She’s always had dominatrix tendencies, so I suppose it makes some kind of sense. Plus, that jet-black hair, those hot red lips, those thigh-high lace-up boots! How can you not love it? Bettie Paige was pretty frickin’ awesome. I’m actually glad that the whole pin-up girl thing is coming back into vogue again, because maybe now the standard of beauty will move back to a woman with some meat on her bones, and all the little chickas out there can stop starving themselves quite as much. I’m looking at you, Lindsay Lohan, girl, you need to eat something, you look better fat. You need to get your bumps back, your career will thank you.

Gretchen Mol plays the “notorious” Paige. Yes, Gretchen Mol, who in the past has been both blond, and not exactly endowed in the Department of Curves. I think the girl did gain ten or so pounds for the role, and she is 1) unrecognizable, 2) looks amazingly fucktastic, and 3) is the spitting image of the original deal. The movie itself has flaws, but it is a nice tribute to a true icon. The film makers used a combination of black and white and color, and artfully blended real archival footage from the forties and fifties into the story. The film also shows how, (then as now), the more puritanical forces in our society tried to suppress sexuality and dictate what people find acceptable about women and their bodies. The reproductions (or possibly original) men’s magazines shown in the movie were almost sweet in their grainy newsprint pictures of women coyly peeking over their shoulders in their underwear, booty out. Today we’d find that kind of photograph in your standard department store catalogue, but back then, “ooh”, so dirty. We’ve come a long way since the fifties, but I have to wonder if we are not sliding back to those more repressive days now. I find it funny that the very people who try to limit and dictate sex in this country the most stridently are the same ones consuming the most pornography. Why can’t we all just, well, wank along? A little foot fetish is pretty tame and harmless in the grand scheme of things. A bit of bondage, some same-sex snogging, or a light spanking on the ole tush (done right) never hurt anyone, so why get so bent out of shape about it? Stop short of really hurting someone or involving kids or animals, and you will be okay, really. If God didn’t want us having sex, s/he’d have made us reproduce asexually, like oysters. [Oysters go through both a female and a male stage, and fertilize themselves. Now that’s kinky!]

Sadly, there is no actual footage of the real Ms. Paige, which I think would have helped. Still, Gretchen gets full frontal nekked several times during the movie, and her body is so fantastic it took my breath away. The first time she strips down to nothing but heels I actually gasped a bit. I can’t image what it must be like to be that beautiful. Oddly enough, the day before, Girl Kid and I had been at a garage sale where there was a small free-standing cutout of Bettie Paige in tassels, tights and a whip. Ms. Paige did have a bit of a belly by today’s standards, and I really hope that look comes back, because it’s healthier, more attainable, and damn it, looks better. I should have bought that thing, shoot. Verdict? This film is a labor of love, and an independent movie by a female writer/director (Mary Harron), so I recommend you support all that by seeing this one in the theater. But, I expect the DVD might include even more Bettie Paige information and maybe some real footage or stills of said notorious hot mama, so you maybe you will want to wait for that.

Movie #2: Laughing is Good
Next, we went back home and picked up Boy Kid, and it was off to see American Dreamz at the local megaplex. I should say, I’m not even remotely a fan of American Idol, but I thought this movie was fun on a bun. Hugh Grant was perfect for the role of Simon Cowell—his natural smarmy charm and smooth cattiness delivered the goods much better than the real Mr. Cowell does. Actually, Simon should thank Mr. Grant for making him look so good. Hot damn with a can of Spam, is it just me or does Hugh Grant look better than ever? There’s a scene where Mr. Cowell, I mean Grant, leans against a picture of himself and moans “Please God, no more, not another season, please make me stop”, and I laughed my ass off. I think Mr. Grant was imagining his own career. But he does do that thing he does so very, very well. Mandy Moore spoofs her own image again (as she did so well in last year’s indie anti-Christian production Saved), and I can’t believe I’m actually saying this out loud, but the girl can act. Sam Golzari was unbelievably cute and sweet as terrorist-in-training Omar who just wants to sing show tunes alone in his tent, but accidentally gets recruited to blow up the President of the United States on the show. Oh yeah, Dennis Quaid almost makes our real president look like a person, and that takes some acting chops. All the other supporting actors were great and clearly having heaps of fun, but I won’t bore you further by listing them. You can look it up.

Boy Kid and I laughed and laughed all through this movie, but I had to notice that we were the only ones doing so. I mean, what gives? Ice Age 2 you’ll laugh at but not this? I’m used to being the only person to be giggling like a fool at some jokes, for instance, in Star Wars, Episode I, when Darth Maul whips off his hood to reveal all those cute little horns, I laughed loudly into a packed, but completely silent theater. Please, American Dreamz was a funny movie! Everyone else in the theater sat there like stones while Boy Kid and I heaved and hawed like lunatics. Or maybe we were laughing so loudly it drowned out the humor noises of others. It’s possible. As we all know; if you talk during a move, you must be killed, but laughing at a good script is just being polite, if you ask me. Verdict? Not high art, but a fun day out.

And then we had Mexican food, so it was a good day, even if I did have a carbohydrate headache afterwards.

Now, here is your homework—someone find me a job, preferably in graphic design, (or movie reviewing) or at least close to my house (Shoreline, Washington). Mama needs to eat and pay her rent, and she promises not to disappoint.

The Hills Have Thighs—Silent Hill

2006-04-21T13:48:00.000-07:00

Thanks to our winning of tickets from the fine folks at Dream Strands Comics & Such, who are the very finest purveyors of all things comic book, collectable figurine, and gnerd-friendly card games, we went to a preview screening of Silent Hill last night. Despite the poor delivery on previous promise of movies based on video games, Boy and Girl Kid had both been waiting with bated breath for this one, and I have to say…it sort of delivered? Hmm.

Let’s just start off by saying that Silent Hill the movie at least hits some of the atmospheric quality and plot points of SH the game. The plot is meaningless, but basically follows the structure of: family has creepy adopted kid with sleep walking problems that lead her to night-time wanderings to foggy cliff tops, and mom is determined to find out the cause of her daughter’s problems by seeking the help of a qualified specialist and…ha ha! That’s just my little joke on you. Of course mom does not take her kid to a doctor. Mom does what any sensible parent would do; she kidnaps the kid and heads for the abandoned titular ghost town in the dead of night at high speeds, ditching the cops and concerned townsfolk in the process before crashing her car on the outskirts of town. I mean come on! That’s just common sense, right?

No, it is not. Any “plot” developments in Silent Hill depend, as per horror flick usual, on the complete and utter stupidity of its main characters, and boy howdy, are the people in this story butt stupid. Because it’s based on a game, once Mom hits town to try to find her now missing kid, her path follows the basic structure of the game—monsters appear, cue fog, cue abandoned school, hotel, and hospital scenes. Someone in the art department really went heavy on the crinkle paint effects, and it was all very artfully distressed. Mom is chased into town by a female motorcycle cop, who sports full on Village People helmet, visor, super-stretchy cop shirt barely covering her Wonder Bra, and skin-tight leather pants. In fact, I spent at least half the movie expecting the mom and the cop to suddenly drop to the dirt and start making out. I think the actress playing the cop accidentally wandered in from the porn shoot next door. But she wasn’t the only one; this movie also features the always sex-o-riffic Deborah Kara Unger as “original-and-now-crazy mom” in full Kabuki makeup and dreadlocks. There’s also a scene where ghostly women in sexy Halloween “nurse” costumes do an undulating dance which features short skirts, shapely thighs, and full cleavage that would make Pamela Anderson proud. In fact, this whole movie was sprinkled with what seemed to be escaped members of Cirque de Soleil writhing around in Spandex body suits and moaning, which was pretty cool. I mean, it’s nice to see backup dancers and ex-porn stars getting some work in “legitimate” film.

Anyway, there’s more blather about the members of an extreme Christian cult which is headed up by, naturally, the Borg Queen herself, Alice Krige, and there’s some back story about how her crazy cult ways are what caused the town to be taken over by a demonic female burn victim and her minions in the first place. The movie is chock-full of unintentional humor, and Boy Kid and I were not the only ones laughing our asses off at the stupid mom, the horrible acting of Creepy Kid, and the fine styling of the backup dancers in their monsters suits. Instead of making out with Stupid Mom, Porn Cop gets turned into a Krispy Kritter, which is too bad if you ask me, because this dreadful thing could have done with some girl-on-girl action, which would have made as much sense as anything else. Just why again is there a guy with a giant metal cheese hat and who has an unnaturally large fish knife running around pulling people’s guts out of them? Anyway, the movie ends ambiguously, leaving room for a sequel firmly in place.

Going to Silent Hill for free was key to my enjoyment, so if you can manage to get someone else to pay, and you are in the mood to laugh your rump roast off while also being mildly creeped out, then by all means, go. I have to say, seeing the movie with a full herd of gaming nerds (gnerds) was fun on a bun. I do so love to walk amongst my people every now and then.

Verdict? Too much religion is bad for you, America is afraid of pre-pubescent girls, a return to coal as an energy source is not a good idea, and Deborah Kara Unger needs to fire her agent. Damn, now I have the urge to see some Village People porn. Until then, “Bow chicka-bow-bow!”

Oh Canada!

2006-04-19T12:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve been up in Canada for the last few days, and I must say, it’s like a different country up there or something.

THINGS I LEARNED ABOUT OUR NEIGHBORS TO THE NORTH

1) People are more relaxed and they look better than we do. I think this has something to do with having more money. Now hear me out—yes, they pay over $4.00 per gallon for gas, and their dollar is (very slightly) still worth less than ours, and their groceries are freakishly expensive; but, they pay, like, nothing for all their insurance needs. In comparison, I have a friend here in Seattle who just injured himself and we had a conversation about whether or not he could afford to go to the hospital for x-rays. I mean, really. In Canada no one gives the slightest thought to whether or not they will receive health care. Of course they will, damn it! Imagine the peace of mind that comes with knowing that you can go to the doctor, and then imagine all that extra cash in your pocket. Which leads me to….

2) How can they afford to drink? Our first night there, I went into a liquor store to get a bottle of wine. In British Columbia at least, wine and beer is not available in grocery stores, you have to haul your sorry ass into the liquor store to get your drunk on. After looking at the prices, I had to think twice; I just couldn’t feature paying eleven dollars for crap wine that costs $4.99 at Fred Meyer here in Seattle. Hard liquor was out of the stratosphere expensive. But here’s something I’ve never seen before—a cute girl in a tropically-themed tank top was giving out free samples of rum! Free samples! To people who were obviously going to get into their cars and drive home! I could not get over this. Free samples in the liquor store, now I’ve seen everything.

3) Even the bums are well dressed. Outside the grocery store there was a pack of homeless people, who obviously could afford the expensive hooch, because they were all clearly three sheets to the wind. So why did they all look like Euro-trash models in the latest American Apparel catalogue? I know this was Victoria and not Vancouver, but damn, the homeless are hot up there.

4) American television is made by puritans. On day two, we saw this amazing Canadian television show called Sons of Butcher. Oh. My. God. It’s basically about three brothers who are bums or at least unemployed. Three real actors are filmed, and then their faces are posterized with Photoshop, a-la the technique used in Waking Life, and then that is attached to some of the worst animation ever for the rest of their bodies, etc. Let me just say that this show was rude, crude, profane, and filled with the lowest form of potty and booby humor imaginable. Girl Kid loved it. There is no way on earth this show would be allowed on American television, it would never get on the air, no way, now how. But get this, Sons of Butcher is on the air compliments of a grant from the Canadian government! The Canadian government is paying for a show that includes a joke where a guy wraps his head in toilet paper to wipe the ass of an enormous circus freak just so she’ll show him her boobies. I have no words. Canada rules.

5) Canadians drive hamsters. The Smart Car is very popular up there. You will soon see this car in the upcoming movie version of The Da Vinci Code, and of course, here in the supposedly environmentally conscious Seattle, everyone will want one. After The Italian Job remake, suddenly one in five cars on the road was a Mini Cooper, so you just know that the Smart Car will go over like a house on fire down here. How could you not want a car that looks like cuddly amusement park ride and has “smart” written on its backside? And it comes in crazy neon colors and apparently gets 200 miles to the gallon, or something like that. I want one now, but they are not available here yet. Guess why.

6) No one cares about the cops. People drive around like maniacs, nuff said. Even with all the warnings about cameras and automatic ticketing, not a single car on the road was going anywhere near the speed limit. I did though. I was sure my Washington plates would get me hauled to the curb faster than shit if I broke the speed limit. So, if 100 kilometers equals 60 miles then 40Kph is…what?

7) They speak French up there. All the signs and packaging come in French and English. I don’t have anything funny to say about this, other than it is hella cute.

8) Cigarettes can kill you. I don’t smoke, but I got a gander at a pack of cigs up there, and hot damn in hell, the cigarette packaging in Canada is covered in pictures of diseased lungs. I mean, every surface is dedicated to these warnings, to the point where there's almost no room for the brand logo. And there are scary words in large type about how smoking will totally make you die. This is so cool it almost makes me want to start smoking. Our little Surgeon General’s warning is for wimps. In Canada, smoking is for stupendous bad-asses.

9) Canadians have droopy drawers. Instead of one and two dollar bills, Canadians have these big heavy coins with pictures of loons and bears on them. Damn, even their money is hard-core! Literally. They must use extra-tough elastic in their pants, because just a bit of change in your pocket is enough to make you walk in circles, if you know what I mean.

10) Curling is not a joke. I still remember fondly when Girl Kid came running in last year and asked me, “Mom, is curling for real?”. She thought it was a joke someone had made up about how whacky Canadians are. If you don’t know what curling is, well, it basically involves sliding a big stone across a sheet of advertisement-strewn ice, with two dorks with brooms madly sweeping the ice in front to keep the chunks away. I cannot adequately express how funny this looks. Curling is taken very seriously in Canada, and apparently it will be at the 2010 Olympics. We watched a bout called “Ferby vs. Morris”, and based on the comments of the breathless trio of announcers Ferby and Morris are the direct descendants of the gods. They looked like regular beer drinking yahoos to me, but apparently they represent the Great Blue Hope for Canada. And a $50,000 purse is apparently a lot of money in Canadian sports. Ah, they are so cute!

So, that’s about it. We got back across the border with little stress, other than the hour it took to inch our way up to the little customs hut. After all the hoopla about increased border security I was fully expecting to be strip searched, but we didn’t even get asked if we had any fruit or weapons. Or weaponized fruit. Go figure.

Tomorrow I’ll have some movie reviews for you, but right now Boy Kid is drooling for the computer, so I guess I’ll let him have it. In the meantime, I love you best, don’t tell the others.

Sex is Killing Me

2006-04-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

Girl Kid and her b-friend have been going out for six months. Even though he’s tall, dark and handsome and he ought to be beating them off with a stick, she’s his first girlfriend. Girl Kid experimented a couple of years ago with the “pretty boy” that everyone thought was “so gangsta”, but decided that 1) he was a tuber, and 2) she wasn’t interested in dating someone she had nothing in common with and who is a mental doorknob, even if he is “hot”, which I thought was a pretty good lesson to learn. Girl Kid doesn’t like clingy boys, and she doesn’t like being dragged around by the shoulder in public like a side of beef. This is pretty much as it was back in my day, “Look at me, I’ve snagged someone! See, I am worthy of love! You can tell because, he/she’s attached to me like a remora!” Not that most high school kids even know what a remora is. I’m just saying.

Girl Kid had decided that she wasn’t going to date someone who went to her same high school, because she didn’t want to be burdened with a guy hanging around all the time. And then she met this particular boy, and made an exception. She even asked him out for their first date, which is something she thought she’d be too embarrassed to do. The two of them have been best friends ever since, logging literally hundreds of hours in person and on the phone. Even I like him—he’s smart, cute, polite, funny, has long blue hair, and he’s a RPG gamer, so it’s all good. It was adorable how initially shy he was about revealing his geek side—Girl Kid had to reassure him over and over that being into Warhammer was a good thing in her eyes, and that he really couldn’t be too nerdy for her. Girl Kid may look like a high school goddess, but she’s a geek at heart. Even Boy Kid likes the b-friend, and that speaks volumes to this boy’s general quality, because Boy Kid has standards for human behavior and suffers no fools.

So, I knew eventually that the issue would come up. You know what I mean, sooner or later they’d get around to “it”. Over the years, I’ve been very upfront with my kids about sex and protection and birth control and how they should come to me when they need information or a drive to Planned Parenthood or whatever. Boy Kid is such a shy boy that he hasn’t crossed this bridge yet. Girl Kid swore she wasn’t ready and that she’d tell me when she was. And I trusted her. I also know that things can happen, and I figured that if something “unplanned” happened, we’d deal with it.

B-friend’s parents are the “you must wait until you are married” types; but this seems ill-advised to me. You wouldn’t buy a pair of pants without trying them on, right? So why would you marry someone without doing the same? Besides, what if you didn’t even know how to put pants on? How awkward would that be? All I’m saying is: try before you buy, and learn to put on pants really well. You’ll be a happier person for it.

B-friend was over last weekend, and as per usual, they spent all their time in Girl Kid’s room, and the rest of us in the house were out and around doing other things. I should probably mention that both Girl Kid and b-friend are 16 and a half…old enough, probably. Later in the day, I was in the bathroom, and saw something floating the potty. It was red. It was synthetic. It has a reservoir in the tip. Several things went through my mind in rapid succession. “Oh god, here we go.” “At least they used a condom.” “Why didn’t she tell me so we could get her on the pill?” “I hope that doesn’t plug the plumbing.” And,“Oh shit oh shit oh shit!”

Later I asked Girl Kid, “Okay, we’ll go to Planned Parenthood tomorrow then, okay?” She tried to act clueless. I told her about my discovery. Apparently nothing did “happen”, because trying to get a condom on for the first time caused irreversible deflation, and from what I gather, emotional pain and suffering for both parties. I tried to let her know that this was expected the first time, and that there was nothing wrong with either of them. There’s a reason people make condom jokes. Girl Kid emphatically did not want to talk about it, then or ever. (But, she does have an appointment today.)

All of this caused several violently conflicting states within me. One, I was crushed that she didn’t want to talk to me. I was hurt that they must have planned ahead for this, but Girl Kid didn’t do what she’d promised a hundred times, which was to get birth control arranged before hand (it turns out the “it” part wasn’t pre-planned after all, and that they’d used a condom that her friend had given her as a joke). Two, I was saddened that her first “real” sexual experience was a bad one. I know, I know, almost everyone has a bad first time, (or at least the girl does). My first time was beyond horrible, and it destroyed the relationship. I wanted something better for my daughter. How weird is that? I probably should want her to wait until she’s eighty to be having sex, instead I find myself hoping that she’ll have a fabulous sex life full of joy and happiness. Fortunately, she and the b-friend seem to be recovering from their trauma without losing their friendship.

I don’t want Girl Kid to be like I was, thinking there was something wrong with me because I wasn’t having orgasms from the standard “stick it in and poke around” procedure that works so well for men. I want her to be much better informed than I was. Now, I have all this information I could give her that might shave years of sorrow, shyness and bad sex off for her. Even simple things like, “You can help him put that thing on, and that will work wonders for him. Or, “Don’t let oral sex be one sided, make sure you get yours.” Or, “85% of women can’t have fun from missionary alone, try different things and tell him what works.” Stuff the men in her life may not know unless she teaches them. But I can’t tell her any of this, because she won’t have it. If I try to bring up even the most discreetly worded subject that is even remotely in this area, she goes all hypersonic on me, “La la la go away I’m not listening to you!”

So, Girl Kid will be left to make her own mistakes in life, and all I can do is wish her the best. For once, I can’t help her. She’s on her own, because apparently I’m just not the right person for this, and the people who will help her are pretty much as clueless and uninformed as she is. Soon she’ll be moving away and leading a life of tragedy and joy that I will know nothing about, and it’s gutting me. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Gitmo Makes Me Mad, Al Qaeda, and Three Movie Reviews

2006-04-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

I had a great birthday day. I took Girl Kid out of school, and we all went off for a Two Movie Day. I love seeing more than one movie in a day, especially if they are good ones. It's a little vacation in my brain. We went to V for Vendetta again, and it was even better the second time around. Towards the end, I started thinking about the whole Guantanamo Bay thing, in fact I was sent into a murderous rage right there in my seat. Why are we detaining people without representation, and for indefinite periods of time? Sure, we were attacked, but it’s not as if terrorism was a new thing on 9/11. It’s not even as if it was the first time, or the worst time, that we here in the US were attacked (if you include Pearl Harbor). But “Oh no!”, because of 9/11 we are ready to give up what made America so supposedly great in the first place—our civil rights.

I cannot express how sad it makes me to hear the stupid evil morons in the Bush administration try to explain away their illegal actions by stating that it’s okay to wiretap Americans because they might be talking on the phone to someone somewhere else who might once have met a guy who met a guy who was once in the same room as the woman who does Osama Bin Laden’s laundry. If you use this argument, then you’d have to wiretap everyone, because we can have no idea what crimes the person on the other end of the line might have gotten up to. Of course, that is exactly what the Bush administration wants—to be top dog in a police state where everyone is a suspect and everyone is afraid and compliant.

What the hell are we going to do about this situation? It’s one thing to feel rage, but what am I going to do about it? Sadly, the answer is that, other than voting, I will probably do nothing. I have chores, and movies to see, and books to read…and the excuses pile up and up. All of us have lives, and so we sit in our beakers like laboratory frogs while the water heats up until we boil to death. We won’t get our rights back either, because all that power will be too tempting for the government to give up. But, I know I won’t do anything effective to stop it. I suck.

Are Bush and Friends Funding Al Qaeda?
As I was pondering illegal wiretapping and Gitmo, an evil thought popped up that I couldn’t shake. We all know that the Reagan administration trained Osama Bin Laden and his buddies during the Soviet/Afghanistan thing in the early 1980’s. This is back when Bush Senior was Vice President; and prior to that he was head of the CIA. This is a man who had an animal taken off the endangered species list just so he and two of his buddies could hunt it in Kenya; which makes me think that there really is no depth to which he and his friends and family might be capable of sinking. So the question remains, what if we never stopped funding Bin Laden? What if Al Qaeda is a covert American operation?

It’s occurred to me before that 9/11 played right into the Bush administration’s hands. If 9/11 was a homicide, the first thing the police would do is to figure out who would benefit the most from the death and make that person their prime suspect. In the case of 9/11, it’s hard to avoid the thought that the tragedy helped the Bush administration’s global agenda. We know that prior to 9/11 they were trying to figure out a way to gain control of Afghanistan, because Halliburton was developing plans to build an oil pipeline through the country. We know they wanted to control both the Middle East and its oil by gaining control of Iraq and then spreading out from there. Richard Clarke and others have publicly stated that plans to invade Iraq were already being worked up before 9/11. And now we are rattling sabers at Iran and Syria. Normally “we the people” wouldn’t have supported this kind of warmongering and hubris from our government, but because of 9/11, we handed them a blank check. I’ve had the evil thought before that maybe Bush and Buddies were somehow involved in 9/11, but now I can’t shake the horrible idea that maybe they’ve been funding Al Qaeda all along. Think about it: the case could be made that every Al Qaeda attack around the world over the years has benefited Team Bush in some way. Yeah, it’s an insane and treasonous idea, but still….

Movie Reviews
We also saw Inside Man on my birthday, and man oh man, was it fun. Spike Lee redeemed his last few mistakes with this one. I’ll even forgive Mr. Lee for covering up Clive Owen’s face for half the movie. The story is about a bunch of robbers who pull off the perfect bank heist, and oh boy, do they pull it off with style. I’d worry that the film will give real bank robbers ideas, but you couldn’t really pull this one off. For one thing, where would you find a Nazi collaborator bank owner? The script is really tight, and they thought of everything, right down to a twist late in the movie that fixes the cop’s relationship with his marriage-minded girlfriend. See, the bank robbers have hearts of gold, and everything works out for everyone. No one gets hurt, except financially, and even then, they deserved it. It’s the perfect crime. Jody Foster plays a hard-ass “fixer” with killer pumps and no morals, and you could cut cheese on her cheek bones. Because he’s usually so far up his own ass, I’m not normally a fan of Denzel Washington, but he’s good here, mostly because his character is not trying to be the hero. And Clive Owen, as always, is hella fine, plus the boy can act. I loved it. Verdict? Fun on a Bun. If you have the time for a two movie day, Inside Man would make a great double bill with Sixteen Blocks (but make sure you see SB first).

Thank You for Smoking
The kids and I had been panting like lab rats testing the new Virginia Slims to see this one, and it was worth the wait. Aaron Eckhart plays a lobbyist for Big Tobacco, and ooh ooh ooh, does Mr. Eckhart deliver a great and smarmy performance. I normally don’t go for hunky “good looking” guys, but I’ll make an exception for Aaron, because he has such a moveable face and you know how much your Mistress loves a man with facial range. I won’t bore you with annoying details; the title is basically all you need to know. Go see it. Verdict? Thank you indeed.

Basic Instinct 2
Yeah, I when ahead saw this stinker early in the day when Girl Kid was in school. This is a fun movie, but not for the right reasons. I was in the theater with about twelve older guys, all spaced out evenly so as not to come into eye contact with each other, which was a bit creepy. I’m sure none of the old perverts who came to see Sharon Stone display her ass-ets appreciated me laughing out loud all through the movie. And boy, is this one a hoot fest. I won’t bore you with the plot, but I have to wonder why any of the fine British actors in this thing bothered to show up. The psychiatrist in the story is supposed to be unable to resist his possibly murderous client’s cunning wit and beauty, but a real shrink has to deal with transference issues all the time and so would be plenty immune to Ms. Sharon’s throaty, yet laughable, attempts at seduction. I had to wonder how many lozenges Ms. Stone went through during this production, because she has only one delivery throughout—husky and deranged. As for the “bits” everyone is wondering about: no, you don’t see Sharon’s crotch this time around. Or rather you do during a full-frontal hot tub scene, but it’s from a distance, and artfully placed shadows conceal anything more risqué than the now-mandatory boob shot. Moments later, the viewer is treated to a closer look at said boobs as they bob in the hot tub water. This scene definitively answers the question you didn’t actually ask: yes, those things are fake. Sure, Sharon still looks pretty good for her age, but what’s up with that mullet? Yuck. Verdict? You’ve got to be kidding. If you must see Sharon’s ass, the original Basic Instinct had a lot more sex and nudity. Save this one for home viewing, in fact, have some friends over and make a drinking game out of it, because righteously hammered is the only way to see this awful flick; and as an added benefit, of course the DVD will include more of the “sexy” bits excluded in the theatrical release. Just try not to invite a bunch of aging pervs.

Well, I should do something productive today, like try to find a job. Sigh. Soon we will be homeless and living in Girl Kid’s van. Fortunately, it is roomy.

Aging and Women and Why Men Are To Blame and Why Sharon Stone Is Bonkers

2006-03-28T13:24:00.000-08:00

Okay, how many of us are planning to see Basic Instinct 2? I thought at first that there was no way in Satan’s Red Hell that I would go to BI2, and the recent release of the trailer has done nothing to convince me otherwise. But with the hew and cry over Ms. Stone’s expected full frontal, as well as the beginning of her Whack-Job 2006 publicity tour, I am now thinking I just might go, and here’s why:

The World Sucks Monkey Butt
Sharon Stone is a beautiful woman who is now “of a certain age”. Now, I’m all for 40-plus women being portrayed in the media as tomatoes who deserve and demand hot monkey sex as much as tangerine-colored brainless twenty year-olds do, why not? Sex, like most of the rest of life, is wasted on the young anyway. Supporting 40-plus tamales is the only reason I watch Desperate Housewives. God bless Hollywood and the viewing public for allowing the broads on Housewives to strut their sexy stuff. Go sexy broads, rah rah. Felicity Huffman, you can suck my toes any time.

So just why does Sharon Stone doing her patented smoldering thing seem so completely creepy? As a woman of “a certain age” myself, I want to support her right to flash her nethers on the big screen. I just know her performance in Basic Instince 2 is going to be shredded in the press and that it will be the end of her career—and maybe that will be justified, because ol’ Sharon is not exactly what you’d call the most accomplished thespian, and she’s also been acting full-on bat shit insane in public in recent years. But Sharon won’t be ripped to tiny pieces just for being bonkers; instead, people will be groaning in the theater and making “grandma beaver” jokes because of her age.

Madonna, who made the world a better place by making it okay for women’s bra straps to show, is currently suffering the same treatment for her latest Disco incarnation—no matter how perfectly cut Madonna’s butt is, apparently no one wants to see her in a glitter leotard shaking her ass checks. We loved her for all of her other fashion disasters, so why not this one? Kevin Pereira of Attack of the Show recently said of Madonna’s Disco tour, “Eew, it’s like watching your mom Jazzercize!” Well, what exactly is wrong with that? I personally think Madonna is beginning to look like beef jerky, but that’s because she needs to gain some weight.

Forty-seven year-old men are still considered “hot”, why not women? People get the heaves over how sexy George Clooney is, and he has grey hair and jowls! Grey haired, jowly middle aged women don’t receive “Sexiest Woman Alive” awards; they get the part of the incontinent grandma in the “vacation gone wrong” comedy. It’s so unfair.

Act Your Age. Or Not.
I personally think a lot of women don’t come into their full beauty until they are over forty-five or so. Think of Susan Sarandon in Alfie or Anjelica Huston in Life Aquatic: both of these women are at their peak of beauty right now. Perhaps it’s the experience in the eyes that does it. When Susan or Anjelica turn to their on-screen lover and fix him with that “look”, damn, it’s smoking hot, and they are both pushing sixty.

Maybe the reason why Sharon Stone getting her groove on seems wrong is because she’s still trying to be the same “pretty” girl she was when she was twenty. Like a lot of women who have made their way in the world simply by being attractive, she doesn’t seem to be okay with getting older. Like Susan and Anjelica, Sharon’s beauty should be evolving into full flower; but instead, she’s trying to pretend nothing has changed and that she’s still young and hip and so she’s coming off as old and crazy. Madonna is doing the same thing. To Mrs. Ritchie: it’s one thing to affect the fashions of the 1946 when you are in your thirties, but affecting the fashions of 1976 in your forties just reminds us all that you are old enough to have shaken your booty in those clothes when they were “in” the first time around. Go back to being Japanese.

Men Rule the World
Of course, the sad fact is that older women are not considered sexy is because older men rule the world, and older men don’t like experienced women who can call them on their bullshit. You older men love young women not just for their supple flesh, but because they will still gaze adoringly up at you and pronounce you “so cool”. When you come home wearing leather pants and driving a your new cherry red Camaro, the older woman in you life will put her hands on her hips and laugh at you. Men are afraid of older women, and I think that is why our male-centric culture tries to downgrade women when they get past forty. But men, you are the ones who made us this way. It’s your own fault. Suck it up.

It’s My Birthday and I’ll Boogie Oogie Oogie If I Want To
Maybe I’m waxing all introspective because it’s my birthday tomorrow. In the next decade or so I’ll be passing out of Mother, and into firmly into Crone. While I’m all in favor of not acting your age, I’d rather do it as a sexy Susan Sarandon, rather than as a bonkers Sharon Stone. Still, my heart goes out to Sharon, and I wish I could change the world so that we can celebrate old women as smoldering tomatoes too. Because of that, I’ll probably be suffering through Basic Instinct 2, just to boost the box office a one ticket's worth more so that maybe Hollywood will retire "Incontinent Grandma" and replace her with "Tomato of a Certain Age" more often.

Tomorrow, however, is reserved for Clive Owen and Inside Man…yummy, yummy Clive, will you be my present? I also plan to misbehave, dance a chicken dance in my underpants, and eat Indian food. Fear me.

For my birthday, you can send your best wishes and offers of toe worship to mistresssquidia@yahoo.com. I promise not to bite. Much.

Eddie Izzard Is God…and My Secret Husband

2006-03-26T12:33:00.000-08:00

Last week BBC America ran a couple of Eddie Izzard comedy shows, Dressed To Kill and Circle. Now, I’ve seen Dressed To Kill at least three times now, but that didn’t stop me from watching it again, and Circle was new to me, and more recent as well. Damn, I love Eddie Izzard. He is the funniest thing on two legs (and platform heels); and, I’ve discovered, the sexiest thing too. It turns out I have sort of a thing for transvestites. Did I mention that Eddie is a transvestite? No? Well, he is. He’s not what you might call the most handsome man—if you are into Brad Pitt, well, you might not find Eddie all that attractive. But “pretty” doesn’t do it for me, I need a man with a moveable face, and Mr. Izzard is the king of facial expression; plus, he looks pretty awesome in Tammy Faye Bakker makeup and a glitter suit. The opening credits from Circle show him donning thigh-high lace-top black panty hose, and um, um baby, it gave me the vapors. Does that make me weird? No, it does not. (And I just lost my one reader in the Midwest. Oops.)

Speaking of Brad, has anyone complimented Angelina Jolie on her little Pitt yet? You know, ‘cause she’s a bit of a peach, and she has a little Pitt in there? No? Come on people! “Hello, we’re the Pitts.” “Hey, I’ve never seen a tomato with a Pitt before!” The jokes just tell themselves. Please, oh please Brad and Angie, if it’s a girl, please, please name her Peach, I beg you. Or Mango.

Anyway, back to Izzard. Two years ago, Girl Kid and I went down to ye olde Grand Illusion theater to see a showing of Alex Cox’s Revengers Tragedy, starring my main man. I got Mr. Cox’s autograph and everything. We knew the show would sell out fast, so we got there early and waited in line for two hours in advance, fortunately it was summer and we could sit on the Grand Illusion patio drinking coffee while we waited. Despite our efforts, the theater is teensy tiny (with a tin ceiling, which is the best ceiling known to interior design, if you ask me), and they sold the last ticket to the guy directly in front of us. Horrors! But the kindly theater dude took pity on me and allowed that maybe we could wait around for another hour or so for the sold out 11 p.m. show, because Mr. Izzard had twelve seats reserved and perhaps his full “entourage” wouldn’t show up. Which we did, and they did not, and so this is how Girl Kid and I saw Revengers Tragedy sitting directly in front of Eddie Izzard and why I am now his wife, even if he doesn’t know it yet. (And that cute twenty-something goth chick he was with can suck on it. He’s mine, bitch.) Eddie was wearing his Sexy tour outfit of six inch platforms, a plaid mini and a belly shirt with “Sexy” written on it in glitter. Shivers. He kicked Girl Kid’s seat with his big shoe several times, and that made her year and is her best celebrity encounter ever, or at least until she becomes Ruler of the Universe, which is inevitable, because it’s only a matter of time until the rest of you submit.

So, to recap: Brad and Angelina are the Pitts; Eddie Izzard is my secret husband; you all must run out and rent all of his shows that you can (Scarecrow Video has them); and, I cannot wait until the PlayStation 3 comes out, because it will play DVDs in PAL format and then I can see the rest of the his comedy shows that haven’t been released in the US yet. And to Mr. Izzard: you are late for dinner, but I forgive you. Call me.

On How I Was Assimilated…By the Beastie Boys

2006-03-24T12:10:00.000-08:00

I’m a pretty relaxed person in my musical tastes—I can appreciate most anything, with a few exceptions which include most Grand Ole Opry-style country music, rap, and the type of metal music that is comprised entirely from random screaming. Even within these genres, there are exceptions I like: OutKast, Missy Elliott, Jerry Jeff Walker, Dolly Parton, and I even found myself the other day, to my horror, liking an AC/DC song. In my experience, girls who like AC/DC are all hard drinking skank-ho’s who, at the slightest hint of AC/DC, jump up onto the nearest table to strip down and shake their bums around with wild abandon, (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I was surprised to discover that, with no drunken after-trade show party morons around to influence my tastes, I liked this song. I am a whore! Who knew?

All I’m saying is that while I love punk rock, but there is no excuse for Oasis or Stone Temple Pilots; but, with these few exceptions, it would be hard to find a type of music I couldn’t at least appreciate a teensy bit.

In fine teenage tradition, Girl Kid finds ways to be in love with music I cannot stand. For instance, she has a deep abiding passion for the Beastie Boys, who I have always thought of as Alvin and the Chipmunks with extra helium and a dash of crack cocaine. I can only hope she stays away from jazz. So, when I saw the trailer for the Big Screen Concerts showing of the Beastie Boys, Awesome! I knew we’d going, and so we did. I guess I can be happy that $13.50 a ticket is a lot less expensive than what it would cost to actually go to a BB concert, and less hard on the ears as well.

What can I say? David Cross, masquerading as Leprechaun/German/Swiss chocolate-obsessed maniac Nathaniel Hörnblowér apparently “directed” the concert film, if you can call giving camcorders to fifty people and telling them to “rock out” directing. Let’s just say that I was nauseous and ready to blow chunks within five minutes. Out of focus, dark, camera pointing at the floor, the date/time stamp still blinking on, and all cut to together with the usual concert film frenetic suicidal-hamster-on-speed style. I was clutching my stomach in record time; and the pack of skinhead bone crushers to our left shouting, “Yeah! Rock on!” and pumping their fists every few seconds didn’t help either. I was in hell. David Cross, you are a freak—a freaky, freaky freak; but no matter how hard you try, you are not Andy Kaufman. Sorry dude.

Still, in the second hour, something happened to me. I learned to unfocus my eyes, and that helped with the stomach pains, and I began to, (dear god, I can’t believe I’m saying this) appreciate the Beastie Boys. For one thing, damn, what a great way these “boys” have found to avoid working for a living. No instruments necessary—just get a DJ to scratch someone else’s record up, and then create a cascade of noise that includes either your name, and/or the names of NYC neighborhoods. Genius. It probably takes a lot of rehearsal to get it right. The Beastie Boys almost cross the line into Saturday Night Live sketch: they’ve got the coordinated track suits, cute nicknames, sideways hats, and they do all the “rap” moves as well. It almost crosses the line into parody, but somehow they pull it off, including a bit in the middle where some of them dress up in tuxedos and mimic a cheap Bar Mitzvah band for fifteen minutes. Anyway, after all these years, I finally found something not chunk-inducing about the Beastie Boys, and so all must be right with the world. Girl Kid announced on the way home that she hopes, “To see the Beastie Boys in concert before I die…or they do.” I mean, man, those guys are my age. Dude, pretty fricken awesome. Word to myself.

Absence, Religion and Scientology, Movies That Suck, and One That Doesn’t

2006-03-23T15:39:00.000-08:00

Yup, I’ve been gone a while, and thereby losing the paltry few readers I did have. Yeah me! Well, maybe I can get them back. Probably not. My excuses? My mom was here for two weeks, we still don’t have internet access on my Powerbook, and I’m lazy. I’m only writing right now because I just had a blow-out with my kids and I’m hiding. And for the record, I am not going senile. Much.

Religion
I’ve been watching with glee the whole South Park, Isaac Hayes and Scientology broohaha. What a tard; of course, I blame Tom Cruise. Is it just me, or is ol’ Tom looking more and more like Michael Jackson lately? Every day, he’s gone further into Mr. Crazy Go Nuts, if you ask me. The latest ridiculous flap from Kamp Krazy got me thinking—you know the sign of a truly mature religion is when it can handle jokes at its own expense. I have issues with most forms of organized religion, but take Catholicism for one—at least the Pope doesn’t get all bent out of shape over all those Pope On A Rope jokes. Jews join in on the fun too, for instance, who tells a better Jewy McJewerson joke than Jon Stewart? No one. So Mr. Cruise and Mr. Hayes, get a clue—yes, you are bringing more attention to Scientology with your stupid boycotts, but you sure aren’t attracting new recruits to your supposed religion, instead, we are all laughing at you, and laughing hard. If you really want people to respect Scientology, maybe it’s time you grew a sense of humor, umkay?

Movies That Suck
Ultra Violet
Milla Jojovich’s bitchin’ abs not withstanding, this is one horrible movie. I know it was in the comic book, or I assume it was, but why are they vampires? This plot point appears midway though the movie, and is never really addressed. And why, oh why, is the feisty rebel captain in this type of flick always dressed in a nubbly rustic sweater? Everyone else in the movie dresses in groovy spandex Future Suits, so why does he dress like a hippy from 1971? Verdict? Jeez, save your money already. Go rent Resident Evil 2 if you need some Milla action, that at least is a (marginally) better movie than this stinker.

Date Movie
Oh god, there are no words to describe how awful this movie is. I think the movie makers should be dragged out of their holes and killed with sticks. If you are going to save yourself the effort of writing your own script by plundering those of others a-la the Scary Movie franchise, at least have the decency to throw in a funny line here or there. This movie was way beyond horrible, in fact, I think its only claim to originality was the depths of horrible it managed to attain—to boldly go to levels of banality that no movie has gone to before. The blame for me seeing this retched piece of dreck can be laid firmly at the feet of Girl Kid’s boyfriend, and he has a lot to answer for. On the other hand, in less than a year, the two of them will be driving off in fast cars to see this sort of R-rated film on their own and I will be a basket case, so I guess I shouldn’t be complaining. Verdict? Choose life.

The Hills Have Eyes
Um, this got a good review in the local rag, and I suppose that if you are into slasher/gore movies, than maybe you will like it, but I was bored. Yes, bored. I normally don’t go for gore movies, so why was I there? Because Girl Kid’s friend wanted a girl’s day out, and this was her choice (so, take that, Hollywood idiots who think they know what teenage girls want). My biggest complaint was that THHE shows too much of the mutant monster dudes. Directors—sometimes less is more, trust me on this. One of the monster people was also a recognizable character actor, and every time he appeared on screen it took me right out of the storyline while I contemplated just how bad his Visa bill had to be before he took on this role. Also, if these monster guys are so uncaring of everything living including themselves, wouldn’t they have eaten each other up a long time ago? I think they would have. And, now that we are firmly in the 21st century, can we please retire the old cliché of the teenage girl who just screams and freaks out the entire movie? Hell, I wanted to kill her by the end. Verdict? The Hills Are Boring.

Failure To Launch
Nuff said, really. Oh well—um, Sarah Jessica Parker is some sort of professional who gets older “kids” to move out of their parent’s homes. Really? This is a career? Can I have it? I wouldn’t date them though; I’d just march up and say, “Hey loser, get the fuck out.” Maybe if the mom in the story stopped making all his meals and doing his laundry, Matthew Mcconaughey would have moved out back in his twenties. I mean, really, how weird is it that she’s still washing his underwear…and folding them? And, Oh Dear God, Kathy Bates, what where you thinking? Surely your Visa bill is paid off? Why did you do this movie? By the way, I hate Matthew Mcconaughey, man how I hate him. Big, big hate. What a smug goat-snogging bastard that guy is. Have you ever heard him talk in real life? Ugh, he’s a creep. As usual, the only thing worth watching in this flick is the utterly shaggable Zooey Deschanel as the depressed goth roommate to SJP, who has a homicidal thing in for the bird in the bushes outside her window. In fact, as is often the case, the zany sidekick friends on both sides of the main characters were vastly more interesting than the main characters themselves. Verdict? This movie will make triple what Serenity did at the box office, and that’s just too depressing for words. Also, Terry Bradshaw gets full-backal naked at the end of the movie. Is that really something you want to see? If you do go to this movie, consider that your punishment. I did.

Mission Impossible III
Yeah, I know this movie isn’t out yet, but I’m reviewing it now anyway. Hear me, this movie will suck large ones. There will be explosions and car chases and Tom Cruise will put his slimy lips on some hapless actress half his age. Please, oh please, movie going public, stay away from MM3. For me? Tom Cruise must be stopped. He and Matthew Mcconaughey (and Piper Perabo, don’t get me started on her), should be put into a sack and shot into outer space. Now, I love Philip Seymour Hoffman, and curse Cruise for trying to make himself look better by giving Mr. Hoffman the Bad Guy role. I’d much rather see PSH as the stud muffin, and Tom Cruise as the bad guy. Cruise has proved he can do a pretty decent bad guy in Magnolia and Collateral, and I might be able to squeeze out a teensy weensy modicum of respect for him if he played Bad more often. Maybe. I really, really want to see Philip Seymour Hoffman get the girl (and Paul Giamatti), not some Big Stupid Movie Star. It’s also funny that Mr. Cruise’s love interest in MM3 does in fact look young enough to be his daughter…hmm, why does that sound familiar? Yuck. Verdict? Tom Cruise is a ginormous perv, and I will love you more if you avoid this movie like the plague it will be.

And One That Doesn’t
V for Vendetta is a really great movie. I haven’t read the graphic novel that the movie is based on, but I could tell immediately that fans of the novel wouldn’t be disappointed by the movie. Like last year’s Sin City, this movie has that graphic novel veritas—it just looks right. I’ve been a fan of Hugo Weaving since Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and even though you don’t ever see his face in V, he’s still awesome—that voice, that body language—yummy. Mr. Hugo is The Greatness. I’ve never really connected with Natalie Portman before, but she also is great here: Ms. Natalie is just the right mix of porcelain beauty and regal nerve to carry her role as an initially reluctant revolutionary. I loved her in this, and I can’t imagine another actress in the role. Plus, if they ever do a Sinead O’Connor biopic, Natalie looks amazing bald. Despite the British setting and Guy Fawkes storyline, the movie itself is a not-so-thinly veiled indictment of the Bush administration, and the timing is right. I didn’t care if the message in V is an unsubtle one—it’s time to get your revolution on, baby. Verdict? Go see it today.

And that’s it for now. I promise to be more fruitful and timely in future, but I understand that the proof is in the pudding; I hope some of you will re-tune to find out. In the meantime, I must go make amends to Boy Kid. I love you my babies, sleep well, and dream of me as I will dream of you.

Computer Woes

2006-02-20T18:54:00.000-08:00

Boy Kid has successfully built a new computer, and got the internet working on it, but in the process made it so the Powerbook doesn't access the 'net. This time, a call to Linksys tech support (in New Delhi), didn't fix the problem. Since Boy Kid has been deprived of World of Warcraft for over a month during the computer parts aquiring and building phase, he's been monopolizing the PC most of the time, so I haven't had a chance to post. Hopefully both problems will be fixed soon. Sorry!

In the meantime, go rent some movies:

Good For The Soul Category
Trust
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Motorcycle Diaries
Hotel Rwanda

Big Stupid Fun Category:
Pirates of the Caribean
Flight of the Pheonix

(These last three are pretty violent):
The Transporter
The Transporter 2
Sin City

Love, Your Mistress

Computers, Valentine's Day And Three Short Movie Reviews Plus One Long One

2006-02-15T14:01:00.000-08:00

Why Does Bill Gates Exist?
Do to a power outage that made its way past the surge protector, Boy Kid is building a new computer from scratch. This is pretty much a new experience for him, but he thinks he can do it. The jury is still out on that. Why is everything in the World of Windows OS so retarded and complicated? Windows machines suck enormous flaming glowing radioactive balls of putrid donkey dung, is all I'm saying.

Valentine's Day is for Greedy Bitches
Joy to the world, here it is, only six weeks after the Holiday Season of Enforced Consumption, and already again people are expected to fork over large sums of money to pay for diamonds, chocolates, flowers, expensive underpants, and dinners for their special snoogums. The sad fact of Valentine's Day is that the people who are paying the most for this event tend to be men, and the money grubbing hose-beasts who demand that they do so tend to be women. (Yes, we're talking in generalizations here...but just look around to see my point.) Despite the societal attitude that women are "romantic" and men are "pragmatic", I think the complete opposite is true—look at all the expensive stuff we women have conned men into thinking of as expressions of love—roses, diamonds and La Perla lingerie. How often have I heard women crowing that they will only date men who, "Have a nice car, dress well, and of course, have a job." Why does any of that really matter? How many nice guys with shabby clothes and no car are women stepping over on their quest for that "big catch"? My point is that, generally speaking, men are the ones idealizing the opposite sex, flying to the moon, and metaphorically sailing over the horizon in pursuit of the unknown, whereas women are the ones fretting about the size of their thighs while lobbying for symbolic declarations of financial stability. Sure, it's all down to biology, I get that, but still—we're not cave people anymore, can't we step out of our lizard brains for just a minute here? Or maybe I'm just bitter because no deluded chump is buying me diamonds and underpants today. (Not that I'm a diamonds sort of girl. Or underpants.)

More...
I've been watching #1 Single, with Lisa Loeb. The entire show is about Ms. Lisa's attempts to find, date and land a marriageable man. Lisa is often accompanied around town by a greek chorus composed of her sister and a forty-something friend of hers. All three of them dress and act like little girls, even though they are all pushing the shady side of thirty-five. Note to women everywhere: you are not children, and this in not the 1950's. Now, I'm all for not acting your age; but, please, please spare us—if you are over the age of 30, being "into" Hello Kitty and wearing pigtails and poodle skirts is not cute, it's beyond pathetic. Grow up. Lisa's sister is adamant in her belief that, "the man always pays." Lisa attempts to follow this rule on a second date. She and the guy are shopping for stuff for her spanking new NYC apartment. At the cash register the total for Ms. Thing's purchases comes to almost $300, and Lisa looks coyly up at the poor guy, and, after an awkward pause, he volunteers to pay! For her stuff! And she lets him! I was so embarrassed for my gender I had to pause for a moment to freak out (yeah TiVo). Lisa at least has the grace to feel bad about making him pay...and to give him his money back later when she dumps him on a third date for being "too young". Despite all this, I'm totally addicted to #1 Single. I'm such a slut.

God, I just heard that someone was offering a heart-shaped potato on eBay...and that the bids topped out at over a thousand dollars! Damn, I need to pay a lot more attention to my vegetables.

Anyway, to make a long rant short—I wish you all love, lace and chocolates, and I hope you all get laid. (And I wish I'd managed to get this post up yesterday when I started it.)

• • •

Three Short Movie Reviews, and One Long One

Mrs. Henderson Presents
Is it now automatic that if Judi Dench acts during the current year, she'll be nominated for an Oscar? Yeah, she's a great actress and all, and is well deserving of that "Dame" in front of her name, but...I don't think she deserved it for this. It's a fine movie, but a bit boring. Okay, it's got some nice naked boobies, and the always goblin-like Bob Hoskins, but still.... Verdict: Take your grandmother maybe.

The White Countess
Actually, this may be out on DVD already. We saw it at the local three dollar discount house, so it's likely that it is. This movie sneaks up on you, by the end of the two and a half hours of run-time, I was enchanted. Visually, it's very rich, and the acting is good. If you ever wanted to get a feel for the fall of Shanghai in the 1930's, this will do it. Plus, how often do you get to see three members of the Redgrave clan acting together (Vanessa, Lynn, and Natasha Richardson)? Verdict: Tragic and lovely in an old-world velvet, jazz and cigars sort of way.

The Matador
This flick maybe has one too many gratuitous (and totally unnecessary) fucking scenes, but was fun anyway. Gritty, over-lit fun. Pierce Brosnan blows up his Bond persona in fine style, while Greg Kinnear mugs along gamely as a clueless businessman who meets hit-man Brosnan in a bar in Mexico City, with quirky results. Hope Davis is more animated than usual as Kinnear's wife. Verdict? Worth a look, or wait for the DVD.

Firewall
Here's another movie I normally wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot pole, but yet again, I was acting as chauffeur while Girl Kid and her friends were out on a group date. My choices were either this, or Final Destination 3. Now, while watching teenagers get horribly killed in inventive ways does sound like a great way to spend Valentine's, due to traffic and such, I ended up at Firewall. Let's just get one thing out of the way first: Harrison Ford is too old to be acting in action movies anymore. Sorry, Harrison. Watching him squint and shuffle around like the geezer he is right before he kicks the butts of dudes half his age was more than the willing suspension of my disbelief could allow. Also, Mr. Ford is starting to look more and more like my dad, so at one point it was like watching my own father scream "You'll get your money when I get my family!" while creaming a guy with a blender. And my dad is a pacifist. In the movie's favour, Firewall does have Paul Bettany as the bad guy, and I do loves me some Bettany. He's dreamy. The movie is a standard thriller complete with the too-perfect house and the too-perfect wife (Virginia Madsen squandering her success from Sideways) and the two perfect kids in peril. In other words, the usual fare, but mostly due to the smarmy charms of Mr. Bettany, thrilling enough for mid-week. I wasn't expecting much, and the movie just barely outstripped my expectations. The usual movie-going mob will probably find Firewall to be a satisfying night out that won't tax their brains to the slightest degree.

And while we're pointing out flaws, I've worked with and known geeky UNIX-compliling nerd types of all ages, and not one of them wore a suit to work. Even in the ϋber-corporate world, no self-respecting geek would wear a business suit to work—it would be tantamount to admitting he didn't know his Linux from his lunch meat. UNIX geeks don't have to toe the corporate dress code, because the corporation can't run without them and they know it. So, right there, Harrison's character lost credibility as a guy who has the techie chops to be the designer of the digital security system for a major bank.

Of course, in the tradition of fine Hollywood movies everywhere, Harrison and family live in an Architectural Digest waterfront mansion that would cost at least five million dollars plus in the real world (and probably did). Sure, Mr. Ford is supposed to be the Veep of Security and his wife is an architect, but give me a break. Working stiffs don't live like this. This leads me to the really funny part of the movie—the setting is supposed to be Seattle, (and to the film maker's credit, the film was peppered with references to real Seattle streets and landmarks), but I live in Seattle, and I grew up in Vancouver BC, and I can tell you without any hesitation that Harrison's office window looks out over downtown Vancouver, even if they did Photoshop the Space Needle into the background. In fact, taking note of the locations is one of the pleasures to be had from this flick. I chortled along happily whilst ol' Harrison leaves his house on Orcas Island and drives across the Burrard Street Bridge (going west no less) to get to his office in downtown Vancouver. Later in the movie (spoiler alert), when the bad guys are driving into the countryside with the kidnapped family, and our intrepid Mr. Ford is following them via the plot devise of a new GPS tracker on the dog's collar, we are shown a map that depicts the evil-doers leaving Duvall, Washington, going east. We cut away to the the evil-doers, and I immediately recognized the dry scrub hills of the Canadian Okanagan passing by the car windows. Please, ten miles due east of Duvall is still on the west side of the Cascades, and therefore the landscape consists of green forest, not dry hills. And what kind of bad guy kills two of his own men but takes along the dog when driving the family out into the boonies to kill them? And why even bother taking this step when you can just kill them in the comfort of their own home? I think the screenwriter just couldn't let go of the GPS idea. Really, it wasn't that clever. I'm also getting truly sick of cell phones, and also of abandoned warehouses or (as here) abandoned old cabins, being used as plot devices in today's movies. Still...the dog was adorable. Verdict: God, surely you have something better to do?

Coming Soon
Girl Kid's List of People She Wants Shot to the Moon or Otherwise Spanked. Check it out...probably tomorrow.

Things That Piss Me Off Today: The Shrub, Exxon Mobil, Alito Ass-Hito, Oprah Winfrey

2006-02-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

In recent years, I have become more and more news-phobic and escapist. Unless I happen to hear it on NPR whilst driving around, or it's delivered to me by Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert (or even David Spade), I don't know about it. Ever since the "events of the year 2000" (yeah, I mean 2000), I have been increasingly imitating an ostrich—I bury my head in the sand in case I hear something that might make me go crazy go nuts. Pick your subject: how the idiot prince Bush and his family's cronies are turing our government into a personal home shopping network for oil and corruption, the total lack of affordable healthcare in this "first world" country, the puss festering maggots that are the whole insurance industry in general, our general lips-on-butt status with Saudi Arabia ("come on baby, you can hold my hand...") while Osama runs free, the BushRovian's deception campaigns of "look, over there!" while they run roughshod over ANWR, etc., and...brain heating up...Squidia angry...Squidia smash. You get the idea. You can see why I might need to avoid the news, for my mental health and for your health in general. Still, a few bits do get through, and so I have always have some things that are getting under my skin. Here's todays list:

The Shrub
State of the "Union" my ginormous ass. I didn't watch it, because...well...I just can't. Seeing Bush's squishy monkey face bunch up as he attempts to listen to the little voice in his ear and follow the teleprompter makes my brain inflate and steam to come out of my ears. Just like in Psychonauts..."[It] is so tacky, so hideous...I can't...look..directly...at...it. But, I know he blathered on last night about "freedom" and "staying the course" and all the usual scripted drivel of the last few years. Please, spare me! When we are spying on our own citizens without warrants, and when Attorney General Alberto Gonzales refers to American citizens as "enemies" (as he did on NPR recently), we are no longer free! Freedom has left the building and is skipping down the street laughing like a maniac. God, 9/11 must have been a wet dream for Karl Rove and his minions: they wanted to spy on us and control us and Osama and friends made it so easy! Now we bend right over and say, "Please Sir, take away our constitutionally protected rights. Thank you Sir, now can you take away some more?" Face it people—Brave New World is here. We are living in a police state right now. Move over Malaysia or the Sudan, Big Daddy is coming. You know what else cracks me up? When The Shrub talks to the pre-screened audiences, "Oh President Bush, I was so honored to be able to vote for you, how does it feel to be our greatest president?" Remember that old Saturday Night Live episode with the asian chick going "Oh, Meester Presideent!". I'm telling you, we're taking it up the butt with no end in sight. The question is, what are we going to do about it?

Exxon Mobil
Hmm, gas and heating oil costs somewhere between $2.25 and $3.00 a gallon and Exxon Corporation has announced that it posted 10.7 billion dollars in profits for the last quarter of 2005 alone? That is 116 million dollars per day! For all of 2005, Exxon Mobil took in profits of 36.1 billion. 36.1. Billion. Dollars. The mind boggles. I think something is seriously wrong here. I'm just saying. I know, I know, Canada and Europe, quit your whining, I know we still pay less for gas and oil than you do; but, we pay tons more than you do for house, health and car insurance (that does basically nothing for us). So there. Think of all the dying old ladies who can't afford to heat their houses. Exxon Mobil, how can you sleep at night? For shame, for shame.

Samuel Alito Can Bite Me, (And Probably Will)
Well, I knew it had to happen, but I had deluded hopes that this ultra-conservative would not make the Supreme Court. Sandra Day O' Connor, why couldn't you just hold on for another couple of years? (And what does she know that we don't?) For the office pool—how long before abortion is illegal again? I've got 27 months, three days. Girl Kid thinks birth control will become illegal too, but I can't see that happening, I mean, my god! So, it will be back to the days of wire hangers and dead women in bathtubs. I can hear Europe laughing at us again. Rich women will just go to Canada to get abortions and birth control. Canada will soon become our official drive-thru doctor anyway, not just our pharmacist. They should consider offering low-cost Canadian health insurance for Americans, there's loads of us who need it. And don't give me a song and dance about the quality of Canadian health care either, 'cause I grew up there and I know the score. (I'll have to do post someday on how and why I'm not in Canada right now.)

Oprah Winfrey is a Dick
Oh puh-lease! So some dude got a little creative with his memoirs. I pretty sure EVERYBODY does that. Yeah, maybe Mr. Frey embellished a bit more than is typical, but if you can't jazz up your own life for the public, who can you jazz it up for? If every life is an act of self-creation, then your memoirs are the perfect place for a bit of razzle-dazzle. Come on! Damnation and hellfire to Oprah for withdrawing her support of the book and being such a jerk to Mr. Frey when he had the guts to come back on her show. What, the book's inspirational message somehow goes away just because it's only partially based in fact? That doesn't seem to bother anyone when it comes to the Bible, which is a whole hell of a lot less factual than A Million Little Pieces. Grow a spine Oprah! Of course, the press all leaped on this like hungry angry jackals. What, the Alito confirmation or today's death toll in Iraq is not sexy enough for you anymore? Dear God. So, James Frey, you have my vote. Write whatever you want, you magnificent bastard.

Kudos to Google
And now for something positive—snaps to Google for refusing to release our search data to the government (and "boo" to MSN and Yahoo! for caving like wet paper), we salute you! What is the Bush administration thinking? They can't process all the intelligence they get now! Bushels and tons and heaps more data will not make that backlog any smaller. In fact, I think that if our intelligence agencies are being distracted by the porn downloading habits of middle Americans, it will probably be all that much easier for Al Qaeda to attack us again. (Great, now I have a file with the NSA.)

Well, I'm off to watch a Lost rerun. Apparently there is a clue with Hurley (I love Hurley!) that we'll need for the next new episode, so we're watching it again. Toodles, my darlings. Until next time.

Quickie DVD Reviews

2006-01-31T19:57:00.000-08:00

For those of you who do not choose to brave the teaming, smelly, rude, snotty, coughing, encumbered-with-small-screaming-children, or otherwise hideously objectionable public to go see movies in the theater, following are one minute reviews of current DVDs available at your local multi-national conglomerate 'o entertainment. Now, some critics out there will review DVDs based on all the extras, etc., but I'm going to have to stick to movies that I have actually seen, or for which I know what extras are available. So, some of these are just mini-movie reviews, and some include information on the "extras". Don't hate me for not having a press pass, I don't get invited to the junkets, or at least not yet. Enjoy.

Corpse Bride
As much as I love Tim Burton and Johnny Depp, and as much as The Nightmare Before Christmas was truly great...I can't recommend this one. It is beautifully done, but it was somehow...not fun. Besides, the "groom" is a an indecisive man whore—now he loves Live Chick, now he loves Dead Chick, now Dead Chick is sacrificing her happiness so that Live Chick and Man Whore can be in love and get married. Snore. And I've heard there are no DVD extras worth mentioning, which is a crime. Verdict? Pass.

In Her Shoes
Curtis Hanson, who directed L.A. Confidential and Wonder Boys, which are both really wonderful films (rent them), and 8 Mile, which is kinda pretty great if you are into that sort of thing, (Eminem and an anorexic Brittany Murphy not withstanding), laid a lemon this time around. Maybe he doesn't do well with stories about women. This is certainly a chick-flick, which I'm not necessarily against, and it does have the goddess Toni Collette as it's star, but it manages to be kind of dull. I know all the critics were giving it 3 or 4 stars, but not me. Or Girl Kid, she hated it. Verdict? "Enh."

The Aristocrats
I rented this last night. I'd tried to see it in the theater, but I'm glad I wasn't able to find some "without teenage child" time to see it then, because the extensive DVD extras make this one worth a look. This is a movie about an old vaudeville joke that comedians reserve for each other...generally speaking, it has become far too filthy for public performance. Be warned: DO NOT watch this with your children, even if they are adults, you'll feel bad and wrong if you try. The idea of the joke is that there is a simple set up, and the punch line is "the Aristocrats!". The middle of the joke is entirely up to the sensibility of the teller. Over time, comedians have developed a tradition of one-upmanship, with each person trying to tell the grossest, filthiest, vilest, most pornographic story imaginable. In that regard, Bob Saget wins (yes, Bob Saget), but George Carlin manages a close second in the opening few minutes of the movie. Gross, gross, gross. I didn't really think any of it was all that funny, but it was interesting, (boys of a certain mind-set will probably find it hi-larious). My favorite bit was when Cartman tells the joke to the rest of the South Park boys at the bus stop. And the mime was pretty...um...funny? Verdict? Rent it, but don't say I didn't warn you—view this one on an empty stomach at your peril. And if you happen to run across Bob Saget, cross the street. That guy is one sick fuck.

Lord of War
Director Andrew Niccol really did his research for this movie. He interviewed several actual arms dealers over a couple of years, and Nicolas Cage's character Yuri is a composite of several real people. This is a work of fiction, but the stories told all happened...to someone. There's a scene with a long line of Russian tanks extending into the distance that is not computer generated, the tanks were real ones on loan from a real arms dealer, who Niccols has said told him, "Just have them back by December, I have to deliver them then." I wonder who got them? The AK-47s in one warehouse scene are real too, Niccol found it was cheaper to buy the guns from a dealer than to create fake ones. (He sold them to the government after filming.) More: the opening long shot of the movie depicts a bullet's life from sheet metal to it's final ending in a child's skull, and is just gutting, and totally worth the price of admission right there. Verdict? Rent it. We saw it twice in the theater.

Flightplan
Jodi Foster is usually great, and I love Peter Sarsgaard, but this one is a pass. Boring and predictable. Verdict? Save your money.

Fog
Girl Kid saw this with her friends, and she thought it was...wait for it...boring and predictable. Pirate Ghost Zombies, with a romantic ending. This sounds fun to me, but Girl Kid swears it's not worth the effort. There, now you don't have to see it. Verdict? Are you kidding me right now?

MirrorMask
A collaboration of Neil Gaiman and David McKean, and made for only four million dollars, this is a flat-out a work of art. I can't even begin to describe it, other than to say it's a mixture of live-action and animation. It's not available until February 14th, but go ahead and pre-order it now. A must have, it's beautiful, it's amazing...and I don't even know what the extras will be like. Verdict? Do you have to ask? BUY!

Serenity
I've talked about the cancelled Firefly series before, and this is the movie that takes off where the series left off. Rent the Firefly series first (you'll be glad you did), and then rent this. No exceptions, I'm ordering you to do it. Verdict? Please, just to make me happy....

Incident At Loch Ness
This one has been out for a while, but I'll include it here—director Werner Herzog is my personal god, I love him so much. This movie is...well, I won't ruin it by telling you anything the title doesn't already reveal. The thing I will tell you is: DO watch the commentary with Zach Penn and Werner Herzog, it's more funny than the movie itself. Verdict? Rent it, bitch!

Well, that's it for now. I'm going to go eat dinner, 'cause I'm hungry!
Love, Your Mistress

Being Bad, The Car, and People Who Make Me Happy

2006-01-28T15:05:00.000-08:00

Yes, after all I said two weeks ago, I experienced another batch of paralysis and haven't posted in two whole weeks. I am a bad bad Mistress. In my defense, of which I should of course have none, until yesterday I hadn't gotten more than seven hours of sleep in a night since January 2nd, and usually it was more like four or five hours. I'm not sure why this has been happening, but it's probably a combination of stress, being ill, quitting vices such as coffee, sugar and booze, or all of the above. Yes, your Mistress has temporarily quit such pleasures for the betterment of her body. Of course, vices of the mind are more my food and drink anyway, so now there's room in my belly for more. (And no, I didn't quit stuff as a New Year's resolution, 'cause that's for weenies. It's a coincidence. I swear.) I was also feeling again like no one was reading, so why bother? But, a friend or two mentioned liking a post or two, and then I got this:

I wan't to be your bitch by E-mail I'll do anything you ask

The important thing about this post is...I'm pretty sure it's from someone I don't personally know! Dear readers, (and my bitch, you know who you are), you have no idea how much this cheered me up. (I'm so needy.) So, I'll be a good girl now, I promise. Or you can spank me a little bit.

The Car
Last week, I caved in and let my daughter buy a car. It's a very cheap car...actually, it's a mini-van. For some weird reason of her own reason Girl Kid wanted a van very badly, and she found this one on her own through the magic of the Web. For reasons beyond my understanding, mini-vans are practically free at the used car lot, and this was one they had to buy as part of a lot and that they were willing to unload at cost. It actually has more features than my car, including the ever-wanted (by me) variable intermittent windshield wipers, which is a item so needed in Seattle it's on par with double-thick woolly socks and over-proof rum in the Yukon. (Yes, that important.) The bad thing is that now I have a kid who will soon be operating a major piece of machinery out there in the cold and the dark all by her very lonesome...and I will be a quivering mass of nerves, hiding behind the couch and gibbering. I tend to be a way more nervous parent than normal when it comes to my child operating a car, but when I was 19 I was a passenger in a car accident where the driver died, so I have my reasons.

● ● ●

People Who Make Me Happy
In counterpoint to my Death List of Ire, I thought it might be good to include some things that I like. I'm not all about the Negativity, after all...just mostly.

Men, Actor Catagory
In a brief list of people who are proof of the existence of God, and in no particular order (other than the first one):

Ewan MacGregor, Donald Sutherland, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Paul Giamatti, Colin Mochrie, Steven Fry, Dylan Moran, Martin Donovan, Jon Stewart, Jason Lee and John Waters.

There are more, but I just can't think of who just at the moment. All of the above boys will put my butt in a theater seat on opening weekend, no questions asked. Sure, a couple of them are gay, so what? They are alternatively dreamy or witty or a combination of the two, which I like. I'm also kind of a sucker for a guy with a really expressive face. Someone whose every thought is visible on their face or in their eyes puts me over the moon. And that is partly why, as you can see, I do not go in for the usual dreary heartthrob types like (dear god, don't make me gag) Brad Pitt. I do like George Clooney, but not is that "special way". He's an interesting actor, and is turning out to be a great director, but he's too pretty to be on my God list.

Also Rans: Jack Black, John Cusack, Don Cheadle and Seve Buscemi. Hmm. I like Billy Bob Thornton as an actor, but he's too messed up and pervy (and not in a good way) to be attractive.

Female-Type Persons, Actor Catagory
Anjelica Huston (who is the most beautiful woman), Susan Sarandon, Cate Blanchett, Carol Kane, Kate Winslet. I can't think of any more right now. Damn, I must be straight. Shoot.

Also Rans: Anybody British, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Joan Cusack.

Director Catagory
You = director = me / butt in theater: Werner Herzog (my personal god), Baz Lurhmann, John Sayles, Sophia Coppola, Hal Hartley, David Lynch, Tim Burton, Peter Jackson, Terry Gilliam, Michel Gondry, Peter Weir, Peter Greenaway...there are more, but this is enough for now.

Author Category
● Terry Pratchett, scribe of the Discworld series. I live on the Discworld in my head as much as humanly possible, and I'm happy that Mr. Pratchett is so prolific, because I really, really need more of these books. Twenty-two plus is still not enough.

● Neal Stephensen, who is probably most famous for the absolutely great Cryptomomicon, but his Baroque Cycle series is just way and above the best three books ever written. This guy just knows how to write in a way that makes me both jealous and weak in the knees.

Theater Ushers
Yeah, one more time: what a cruddy job this must be. I'd have to rip out the throat of humanity after one week of cleaning up other people's crap that they just threw on the floor instead of making what must be the monumental effort to...carry...empty popcorn box and soda...ten feet...to nearest receptacle. And all for minimum wage. Still, it probably beats waitressing.

Stephen Colbert
The Colbert Report is bunches of funny. I also admire him for doing voice-overs for weird stuff like Harvey Birdman, Attorney At Law. "I'll make you Fun Sized!". Yep, that about sums it up. I love you, my man.

Ze Frank
I still haven't figured out how to do links in stupid Blogger that actually work, so please excuse the need to cut and paste: http://www.zefrank.com/. I challenge you to watch any of his little video clips and not fall totally, completely in love. His New Year's Resolutions are hilarious, and he is just basically insanely talented, happy, and cuter than a button. A cute, cute button. He gives me "the feelings".

Male Friends Who Talk About Masturbation
Well, maybe "happy" is not what this makes me, but "curious" and "interested". Thank you to my recent male friend who opened my eyes to male insecurity (and this is a guy who ought to feel like a Master of the Universe, who knew men could be as crazy as women are about their bodies? Please: put away your ruler). Thank you also to all my other male friends over the last couple of years who have alternatively described themselves as "masters", "kings", "champions", "olympic contenders" and suchlike of the act of self lovin'. I especially appreciated the cartoon. Since all of you are married, I'm glad to hear you can be so open about this...and that your wives are all down with it, so to speak. Of course, maybe if we women were "down" more often, this would not be such a hot topic. Girls, I've always found a man to be more compliant after a quick little morning jobbie. Just a thought. For some reason, men seem to need this stuff to stay sane.

People I Can Make Laugh
There is almost nothing I love better than making someone laugh. It's best when I can catch them off guard and make them spew something out their nose. Sometimes I can keep the jokes rolling and get them laughing without stopping until they are red and heaving and unable to breathe. This is the best, and it makes me more happy than words can express. Sometimes I blow it and go too far, but if I can time it right, I can make them pee a little bit. I love this more than chocolate.

My Readers
To anyone who reads my blog: I love you. There, I said it. You are the chicken wings beneath my sauce. Or something. Thank you.

And Finally, Bears
Because they sometimes eat people. Nuff said.

Well, my dearies, I have other obligations today that are whining and wheedling to be a addressed. And poking me. So, off I go, more tomorrow.

Wherein I Try to Write a Romance Novel-ette

2006-01-13T14:21:00.000-08:00

It's actually harder than you'd think to write regularly, especially if you are trying to be funny. I suppose this statement is denied by all those cat-loving housewives who post on a daily basis, but I was hoping to make my own posts more than "today we had meat loaf, and this time I used pimentos...." (Not that I can remember the last time I ate meat loaf of course, or pimentos.) But, since I haven't posted since Tuesday (my Death List of Ire, which even if I say so myself, is a masterpiece of dry wit), it's more than time to...say something...anything...damn, why won't my brain work!

The mind is as empty as a shot glass at closing time...okay, how about....

A Romance Novel, the Cliff's Notes Version
Nineteen year old English maiden Esmeralda is a headstrong beauty, all flashing eyes and will. Her long, flowing, jet-black hair falls in lazy curls down her firm but shapely back. After the Great Fire of London, (1666, for any unschooled readers out there, of which I have none of course!), her family has fallen on hard times, and so despite the pleading of her old mother, she has hired out to a rich family in Boston as a governess.

Scene: A Dark and Swollen Sea Off the West Coast of Ireland
Young Esme is now on her ocean voyage to the new world, but her ship is tossed on wind-swept seas and sinks! She manages to swim to a piece of flotsam; saved for now, she drifts in and out of consciousness, with the screams of her shipmates echoing distantly in her ears and then fading away as she floats further out to sea. But wait! Hours later, as all hope is almost lost, on the horizon, a dark and dismal castle can be just seen past sharp rocky cliffs! As Esme again collapses into sleep, she bleats, "Oh, to be teased with such a sight as I die, I die!" (Too many exclamation points?)

Thirty-five year old Desmond is a son of sons, an Irish prince of a family long lost to ruin and disgrace. He's had a checkered past—he's loved and lost and killed a man with his bare hands over a woman's good name. He's bad news baby, (or so his family and civilized society supposes). An outcast and on the run from the law, he's hiding out in the ruins of a forgotten family holding on a distant western island—Castle Donal 'o Donal—stoically surviving on fish, a dwindling cache of gold doubloons won off a wandering pirate during a particularly heated poker game, and whatever washes up from from the bounty of Mother Sea.

One wet morning, on the grim dawn of an awful storm, Desmond is searching the beach below the cliffs for whatever might have been driven to shore by the hell-sent winds. He spies something dashed upon the kelp-strewn rocks! Warily he approaches...it's a girl, on her back, her arm flung back prettily, her bodice torn open to reveal a perfect breast, pink nipple stiff in the breeze. A knot wells up in his throat, such perfect beauty, affronted by cruel nature and circumstance! (A knot wells up somewhere somewhat lower as well; it's been some time, if you know what I mean.) He stumbles to the mermaid girl, is she breathing? Oh sweet gods, yes! Desmond attempts to restore this most unexpected treasure's modesty with his rough cloak, but she wakes and screams, what hideous countenance is this? She faints dead away, too exhausted, too drained, to face such trials. Desmond gasps back tears—the years of isolation have turned him into a hideous beast too foul for fair contemplation! Damn her, for ruining his isolation! Damn himself and his cruel nature, too horrid for polite company! And yet! Could such beauty exist in the world? (Yeah, too many exclamation points, I know). He lifts up her limp body, and with a heavy heart, carries her up to his dank castle.

Scene: A Dank Castle
Esmeralda wakes in a huge wooden four-poster bed, her gown is gone, a white singlet with lace cuffs replaces it. Dear god, what has happened! She looks around wildly; she's in a stone room, a fire burns upon the hearth. And then she remembers the storm, the sinking of her ship, and the cries of her fellow passengers as they succumb to the deeps. She's been saved, but how, and by whom?

Desmond enters with a tray. A steaming tankard smells heavenly, and Esme's stomach clenches—how long was she in the water? She grabs the vessel, and drinks deeply—it is beer heated with spices, has anything ever tasted so good? As her head falls back onto voluminous pillows, a thought drifts by just before oblivion, "He's not so bad after all, he's handsome even...if only I had some scissors to tame that mane, I could make something of him...."

Scene: A Babbling Brook
Time hurries on, and with each passing day, Esmeralda finds herself sneaking glances at this brooding Irish chieftain. His blue eyes pierce her to the soul, his strict eyebrows and loose black locks give her a funny feeling in places no nice girl would contemplate. He makes her swoon...oh cruel fate, to lay waste to her modesty with these tempestuous blushes! Her breasts swell in an embarrasing fashion in his presence.

One day, as spring approaches, she leaves the castle to hunt for herbs and mushrooms. Not finding much, she returns early, only to find Desmond bathing in the cold water of the castle spring; his lean form is turned slightly away from her, and water glistens off his muscular flanks and taut but round buttocks. Esme feels it happening again, the blush is starting up from her toes this time, but it soon becomes a wildfire that sweeps up her body—thighs, stomach, breasts, face! A sudden wild tingling suffuses that special place between her legs, she's never felt anything like it! Esme groans out loud and doubles over in agony. But no! He's heard her! She runs for the castle as if the hounds of hell are at her heels.

Desmond spins around, his modesty no where to be seen. He spies Esmeralda fleeing up the castle steps, damn, he's affronted her purity again! What was the fool girl doing outside anyway? He spies her basket, mushrooms and a few flowers of the field scattered in disarray.

Scene: Star-Crossed Lovers
Well, we know what happens next—tortured glances become more meaningful, both our subjects cannot sleep. Another chance encounter of the un-robed variety, this time young Esme is getting a late-night snack, still wearing his somewhat threadbare singlet, and what with the moon, and the candlelight, Desmond is treated to Esme's full form—slender, but full, with long, well-shaped thighs that meet at a tender "v" that leaves him breathless; her pert breasts push out the singlet in two perfect cones tipped with berries. His voice catches in his throat, he gargles out a greeting, and she startles, "Oh, it's you, I didn't see you there!" Desmond offers to walk her back to her room, at the door, she stumbles against him, and then they are in each other's arms.

The Good Bit
His mouth ravages hers, but she is more than match for him. She answers each searching, raging kiss with one as wild. His hands frame her face, and then slide inexorably down...down...her breasts rise up to meet them. He circles each nipple with a single finger, and then with his lips; she pulls the singlet down to offer him better access. With a cry, they fall upon her bed, and he enters her kingdom of heaven with a cry. Soon both their voices are raised up on high, a new day has dawned, and what pleasures it brings!

And more of the same, they get married the old fashioned way, "I marry you, I marry you, I marry you", Baby One is followed by Baby Two, they find a hidden stash of gold in the basement, and all is well. The End.

How's that my pretties? I've only read four romance novels in my time. I want to write them someday so I don't have to work, and I was doing research (I swear). The above is about how they all seem to go: Head-strong but Supple Woman-Type Person (not too old) falls for Dark and Brooding Man-Type Person (at least 15 years older than her) against her will. Things happen, but with more and more stolen glances and self-recrimination ("I want to! I can't! He's just too awful! He's so dreamy!"), and then at the very end, some naughty bits followed immediately by marriage and babies. All, in all, very very generic vanilla stuff, with barely a hint of anything more than missionary, with any indiscretion followed quickly by a return to propriety in the form of marriage and a happy ending (no, not that kind, you gutter-minded perv). My romance novel will have more naughty bits than most, and hopefully a better story as well. I'll keep you...posted. (Get it? Posted? Ha Ha. Sorry.)

Mistress Squidia's Death List of Ire

2006-01-10T13:00:00.000-08:00

I see in my post on how Other People Drive Me Mad, that I mentioned that I have a Death List of Ire. Maybe I'd better make one, eh? Here we go, possibly in no particular order:

1. Movie Division
a) I known I've written about this before; but, People Who Talk and/or Cause a Ruckus During Movies make me crazy. Please people, you are not in your living room. There are some cultural issues here—people from the South seem more likely to shout back at the screen than we supposedly reticent Seattlietes do, but then the very old are often guilty of this heinous crime as well. Stop it now, because I'll get you with my rusty spoon. You're not using your spleen, right?

b) Also mentioned before—people who leave snow drifts of garbage for the ushers. Were you raised by wolves? Apparently so. (Apologies to wolves everywhere.)

c) People who constantly check their cell phones. Guess what? The cool full-color extra-large screen on your rampantly over-priced new cell phone you got for Christmas can be seen by everyone in the theater, including the people in the front rows and shuttle astronauts. DO NOT "multi-task" by sending text messages 12 to 17 times during the movie. Does it make you feel good to know that someone a few rows behind you is plotting your immediate and gruesome death?

d) People who kick. This is so common it hardly merits a mention. Do you want to keep the use of your legs? I thought so.

e) People who bring their very small children to violent R-rated movies. What, do you think they won't remember later? Years ago, Total Recall was ruined for me by the 2-year old who kept asking (plaintively), "Mommy, what's happening to that man's head?". More recently, I was shocked and appalled at the number of parents who DELIBERATELY took their kids of all ages to see The Passion of the Christ, which is basically a two hour snuff film. On the down side, as a direct result of this movie we probably will have a generation of sociopaths to look forward to; on the plus side, this movie will (hopefully) cause an entire generation to question the "values" of the Christian church.

As a side note, I have to laugh: the same theater which gave no hassle at all to parents taking very small children to The Passion, gave a lot of hassle to parents with older teenagers who were going to see The Girl Next Door. Let's see, the message this sends is, "Extreme violence and torture = 'good'; teenage sex = 'bad'". The Puritans would be so proud. Maybe I'm crazy, but I'd rather my 16 year-old was having sex than beating the flesh off someone for 11 minutes straight with a steel-tipped whip. (And no, I don't think The Passion teaches people about how much Christ suffered for our sins. I think it teaches us that Mel Gibson is a full-on psycho whack-job pervert.)

2. Highway Division
a) People who shift lanes without signaling. Well, I'm happy you think I'm psychic, but perhaps some warning would keep me from having to release my harpoon?

b) All those yahoos who drive up real close behind me and honk, and then speed around me only to cut back into my lane six feet in front of me just because I happen to be going the speed limit. I don't mind you speeding, 'cause the cops will get you eventually, (therefore giving you something to rail and rant about at in the bar), but leave me alone to avoid tickets in my own way, umkay? Oh yeah, and your dick is fun sized.

c) People who drive angry in general. My ex-husband and most cab drivers I have known exist in this category. Please—we who are your passengers and fellow drivers don't need the profound experience of you speeding up to 50 miles-per-hour when you see a small opening, and then slamming on the breaks when the gap dries up (lather, rinse, repeat). Shaken Baby Syndrome can happen to anyone. I'd shoot you with my harpoon, but at these g-forces, aiming is difficult.

3. Co-Worker Division
a) Office Suck Ups. I once worked with a woman who's gross incompetence lost my (small and barely profitable) company over a quarter million dollars in sales on just one project. But, because she flattered the boss and took him out to lunch all the time, she wasn't fired. Over the years, every time she screwed up, the boss "promoted" her laterally, but in such a small company potential lateral moves eventually ran out. In the end she was running the division for which she'd originally lost so much money, and then the company went out of business. Being the office twinkie may get you a long way with the philandering boss, but if you must be a slut, please try to back it up with at least a modicum of competency. Do you know how many lethal weapons can be constructed out of average office supplies?

b) Time Wasting Morons. I worked with a guy who told me on the first day I met him that he hated meetings, "I hate it when people waste time talking and talking." I couldn't agree with him more...until our first meeting together. This guy spent each and every meeting blabbing away about stuff that had almost no relevance to anything—each meeting was at least 45 minutes to an hour longer because he loved to flap his gums. On the other side of the spectrum, when my evil ex worked at Microsoft and I went to visit him, I noticed that people there spent at least two hours a day yacking in the halls (admittedly, this was a while ago, but I doubt much has changed since). Office pranks were common, with loads of time expended on planning and execution of said pranks. In fact at the time, how funny you were was an integral part of your success at Microsoft. Now, I'm all for having fun at work, but not if it means I have to spend 12 hours on-site to get six hours of actual work done. I also have to wonder if this is part of why Microsoft Windows sucks so hard—a little more time testing things before launch maybe would be good?

c) People who pretend they are sooo over-worked. In any office, there are the 80% of people who basically do busy work and hide in their cubes stealing office supplies but who at least get some work done, the 10% of people who actually do most of the productive work of the company, and the 10% of people who complain constantly about being overwhelmed by their workload and yet who never actually seem to produce anything. For some reason, these people are often managers, but I've been a manager, so I'm on to you—if you are so over-worked, show me the results. Something. Anything. A toaster even. Next time you can do that last minute budget proposal yourself.

d) The 40-hour work week that is really 60+ hours long. Again, Europe is laughing at us. While we toil away on "Amazon Time" (as in amazon.com for any of you non-Seattleites) to pay for homes and children we never get to see in daylight, those willy Euros are working 35 hour (maxium) weeks and lazing on beaches in Thailand with their socialized medicine on their six-week-long vacations and sending their kids to university for free while snorting legal marijuana off their licensed sex-worker's taut and naked stomach. Meanwhile, we have to mull over whether or not we can afford the deductible for that broken little toe or small heart attack we suffered during the mandatory "team building" soccer game we were forced to play in during "lunch".

e) And finally, because they are such a common type of co-worker that they must be lumped in together: people who don't give a shit about anyone anywhere. These are the ones who don't make make more coffee when the pot is empty (or who spill coffee grounds everywhere and don't clean it up), who pee on the co-ed bathroom floor, who break equipment and don't tell anyone, or who, in extreme cases, leave their shift without telling anyone that something life-threatening is happening. This actually happened to me once—the engineers later told us that if we'd taken 15 minutes longer to fix the problem, there would have been a crater the size of two city blocks left where the building had been—and the day shift knew about the problem when they left. (Of course, that's back in the day when I briefly worked for bona fide Nazis. My shift supervisor had been in Hitler Youth. But, that's another post.)

4. Also-Rans
People who don't call back when they say they will; parents who make six times what I do but send their kids out to events with us with no cash on them (and who expect us to do all the driving); George Bush and all his cronies who think they can use whole countries to re-shape the globe for their own personal profit, (is Halliburton the real shadow government?); MTV and Hollywood for making women even more insane about their bodies; Christians, who think their their religion is so great even though it has been directly responsible for so much sickness, misery and death over the centuries; department store greeters; and finally, people who pinch the cheeks of small relatives. Even after all these years, I'm still sore.

Unlike Stephen Colbert, I have nothing against grizzly bears, even though they sometimes eat people. Or maybe especially because they sometimes eat people.

And there you have it, as of this date, Mistress Squidia's Death List of Ire. In the immortal words of Eugene Levy in Splash, "I'm a lovely person. If I had any friends you could ask them."

Sick, Travels to Foreign Lands, Meats of Evil, TV Worth Watching

2006-01-09T19:02:00.000-08:00

Today I am sick beyond description. Starting January 1, I've been having trouble sleeping, and have had two nights now with no sleep at all until 6am. I'm averaging five hours a night total. Last night I spent 13.5 hours in bed, but only slept 4.35 hours. The rest of my time was spent coughing and trying to get comfortable. You know how when your sinuses get clogged and you change your head position and then a sinus begins to make a sort of squeal noise? All night, and most of today, it's been "wheennni, wheenniiii, wheeeennnniiii...." Girl kid thought that there was something wrong with the cat. In other words, I'm ready to shoot myself in the head and looking for distractions as if life depended on it.

So, in hopes that a trip outside would help, Girl Kid and I went to the U District to acquire some florescent green earrings to go with her Gay and Lesbian Tolerance presentation for school tomorrow. (Don't ask.) Getting down there was a bit dreamlike—we were talking about stuff, and the suddenly I noticed that we were driving down the Ave and I couldn't fully remember how we got there. Is that wrong? At least I didn't run over any hobos. I think.

Anyway, afterwards Girl Kid had a jones for mini-burgers from Denny's, so after the radioactive green earrings were successfully captured, we drove back up to the den of geriatrics near our house. In the due course of events, mini-burgers arrived and we compared what came to the table with the picture in the menu. One had glowing buns of perfection, perfectly puffed, with a shiny gloss on top and cute little beef patties peeking coyly out from under their cheddar topping. Plump french fries waved in a friendly fashion. In other words—the incarnation on earth of God's Own Lunch, If He Wanted Mini-Burgers That Day. The other was flattened and wrinkly shards of beige-ish substance containing evil looking cubes of carbon and a yellowish smear of what I can only hope was cheese. Fries lurked threateningly on the edge of the platter, ready to pounce. Guess which of these was the actual meal? Meats of evil indeed.

• • •

TV to Love (and sucks to be you if you don't have cable for no.'s 1 and 2)
1) Project Runway (Bravo). Yes, this is the dreaded reality TV, but this one is really great. Wannabe fashion designers compete for a spread in Elle Magazine and a runway show during NYC Fashion Week. The thing we love about this show is that these contestants actually have some skills and talent. Plus, based on Season One and what we've seen so far of Season Two, the producers make sure that there will be at least a couple of contestants who are unglued to a spectacular degree. Verdict? Fun on a Bun.

2) Daisy Does America (Also on Bravo). This British chick comes to America and visits every state and tries her hand at something uniquely "us". So far she's won a beauty pageant in Texas, and a dog show (I forget where, and she has to score a second dog to win), and plans a couple's wedding in Tennessee. Apparently, people from Tennessee are insane, surprise, surprise. She manages to make total fun of the people she interviews and yet win us over with her barking mad charms. I hear this is getting lousy ratings, so check it out before it's cancelled. Verdict? The British are adorable.

3) My Name Is Earl (NBC). I have had a major crush on Jason Lee since Chasing Amy, and he finally is getting his shot at the big time in this inexpressibly sweet and hilarious story about a guy who tries to right all of his (considerable) wrongs against friends, family, former girlfriends and random neighbors, one by one. The whole cast and the writing is perfection, but seeing Jason sporting his truck stop hair and handlebar mustache gets me all warm and fuzzy, if you know what I mean. Verdict? Handlebar mustaches are coming back; can the mullet be far behind? (Please God, no, not the mullet!)

That's it for now. If you wish, please vote for me for the 2005 Bloggies: http://2006.bloggies.com.

In the meantime..."wheennni, wheenniiii, wheeeennnniiii!"

Sex and Two Movies

2006-01-08T14:56:00.000-08:00

First, the sex:
A friend of mine and I started talking about sex and self esteem and all that jazz recently, and it got me thinking about how messed up our puritanical society has made us all. We think of ourselves as so modern and worldly, but those Calvinist pilgrims—who tainted Plymouth Rock with their pinched up little brains 400 years ago—live on in us still. Janet Jackson exposes a (large) pasty over a nipple for two seconds on national TV? Shocking! And then all the networks go into The Heaves over potentially salacious content for the next two years (and counting). Oh dear God, please, all of us—grow up already!

Men still think that “size matters” and that the whole universe revolves around their Special Little Friend, and sure, I guess I can sympathize with this attitude; but, as a woman, I’d really, really hate to have to deal with a weird little alien thing with a mind of its own stuck onto the front of me on a daily basis. The whole “pants leg and zipper” thing seems like a problem right there. (Why don’t men wear skirts again?) Anyway, I’m glad I don’t have one. Still, apparently the things are, for the most part, (or so I’m told), totally reliable as Mr. Happy Fun Easy Access Any Time. I suppose that would make up for a lot. Maybe. But, to all men everywhere: women don’t really care about size that much (and stop right there, I don’t need your e-mails to the contrary). If we really want a Big One we’ll go and buy it, (batteries not included). Sorry, guys, but this is just how it is. Men: it’s what you do with your equipment (and by this I mean not just Mr. Happy, but especially your brain, hands, etc.), that really matters in the sack. Knowing where “front and center” really are on your woman doesn’t hurt either, if you catch my drift. (If you need to know more on this subject, check out Episode 6, Season Four of the awesomely great BBC America show Coupling.)

Now, women are not by any means exempt, we worry way too much about boob size and just how big our butts are. How messed up is that? “One part of me is too small, but just a foot and a half further south all the rest of me is too big! Oh no!” I mean come on…why not just be happy with all of it, big or small? Women in Hollywood are currently starving themselves to death so that they can get that oh-so-trendy “cadaver” look—personally, if I was a man, I would not want my lover to clank when we were getting it on. Of course, the media is to blame for women’s poor body image, but so are men. How many times have I heard a dude say, “I’ll tap anything, anywhere, anytime, just as long as she’s got a pulse. No fatties.”? Really guys, what are women supposed to take from that kind of statement?

Anyway: boys, “It’s not the meat, it’s the motion”, (thank you Maria Muldaur), and girls: you are fine, go ahead and eat something. If Keira Knightly can be happy with her completely flat chest, then you are Pam Anderson, (but more life-like). Be happy.

• • •

Movie 1: Grandma’s Boy
My daughter is now of driving age. She’s taken Driver’s Ed. She keeps asking me, “Won’t it be better for you when I have my own car and I can drive myself places?” No, it will not. When she is out driving around on her own, I will be a mass of stress beyond all scope. You’ll know it when you see it—I’ll be the one in the corner shivering, drooling and praying to God (who I’ll now be on speaking terms with). This is why I still end up doing things I would not, in any sane world, do on my own, such as see Grandma’s Boy. But, on Friday, this is just what we did (it was her boyfriend’s fault).

Grandma’s Boy is basically about a thirty-something game tester (but please, I think that guy is at least in his forties), who through conspicuous use of the devil weed loses his housing and is forced to move in with his grandmother and her two old lady roommates. I was embarrassed to find that this movie was very R rated, which I love on my own, but not when my daughter and her friend are somewhere in the room with me. Anyhoo, long story short, there were plenty of funny bits, but not really enough for anyone over the age of 25 to make this one worth the price of admission. Or even rental. If you are frat boy, you’ll probably love it: it’s got weed and boobs and even a Kung Fu monkey. I was more concerned about how the gamer community would be presented, and on that regard, it wasn’t too bad. The movie got some things spot on: kudos for the conspicuous use of T-shirts from Jinx (http://www.jinx.com), the gamer’s apparel of choice. I also think that the genius game programmer dude who thinks he’s a robot was modeled in part on the brilliant-but-über-freaky Steve Mann (http://wearcam.org), who’s life work is to turn himself into a cyborg. Really. I’ve talked to this guy in person, and I can attest that he is both a freak and really, really smart. The guy in the movie even looks like a younger version of Mr. Mann, so maybe the character of JP was modeled on him. The game tester workspace looked exactly like the cubicle farm at the G4 Network, so that was about right too. All in all, unlike a lot of frat-boy flicks, the movie treats everyone with at least some respect, and it has a very sweet undertone that I really liked. Plus, Shirley Jones put the mojo back in movies with a vengeance—move over, Angelina Jolie. Damn, that is one hot 72 year old broad, and she plays it to the hilt. To the total credit of the film makers, they did not really treat hot grandma sex as something to be laughed at, and I loved that. Things I didn’t love? Why is Grandmas Getting Baked supposed to be so funny? Sure, but, please, it’s been done to death already. My recommendation? Um, if you liked Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, you’ll probably like Grandma’s Boy. I liked HAKGTWC more, but the 16 year old boy with us liked this one better. Go figure. This one had more breasts. Booth babe breasts.

Movie 2: Munich
I had some time on my own yesterday (sweet, sweet, precious alone time!), and I chose to spend it, like I almost always do, at a movie. My choice was Munich. I won’t go into an exhaustive review (well, we’ll see in a few minutes). This is s Spielberg film, and that usually means Big Slick Production Values with a High Concept Message. This movie was apparently filmed very quickly last summer, and it shows, but in a good way. This movie is not quite like anything else Mr. Spielberg has done. The high concept message is there, but the production values were refreshingly rough and ready. Yes, it’s about Jews in Danger, but it doesn’t have that patented Spielberg look-and-feel, and I for one appreciated the change. Eric Bana was great—he has just the right blend of pathos and hot, studly muscles—he looked good but can also act. The movie is about what Golda Meir and the Israeli government do after the 1972 Palestinian assassination of eleven Olympic team members in Munich. Two things did strike me as wrong: why would the Israeli’s form an assassination team out of people with no skills or at least very limited background in this area? There is a throw-away line that explains this away as, “If we have no skills, the other side won’t suspect us”. I’m not convinced, but I guess this is what actually happened? Also, why do film makers always show moral decline with makeup? I’m sorry—you can be morally compromised without dark bags under your eyes and white pancake foundation. Bana is supposed to look haggard by the end of the movie, but Mr. Spielberg, please, let the acting do the work. Near the end of the movie there is also a sex scene that was cheesy in the extreme and which took me right out of the action. The movie is supposed to be all about what Home and Family really mean, and what people will do to protect them, but Woman’s Body as Homeland Substitute was too much for me. My recommendation? Yes, go ahead and see Munich, but leave the kids at home. This is a movie for grownups, and indeed, the theater I was in had a median age of about 50. There is nothing in Munich for frat-boys.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2006-01-06T13:42:00.000-08:00

As none of you have noticed, I’ve taken about a week and a half off from posting. Here’s why: back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, everyone and their pre-op uncle kept a journal, meaning they sat around in coffee bars with hand-crafted eco-friendly oat paper notebooks looking meaningfully into the distance and then scratching out a few lines while sipping expensive coffee. Starbucks owes big cash money to these people. I think the idiots thought journaling and looking all intellectual would get them laid. Arty girls would write horrible poetry that they then would put to acoustic guitar…thank you Fiona Apple, Lisa Lobe and the ilk, we don’t care. Thirty-something goatee’d wannabe hipster dudes would be smugly scribbling their screenplays and hanging out by the muffins looking for those arty girls to “hug”. Because of this, I always thought journaling was stupid: why write down my thoughts that I already know and that no one else will read? So that I can read it years later when I have The Senility to remind myself of my angst-filled genius? Stupid.

Well, there isn’t much difference between the old journal thing and the Blog phenomenon, (other than a lack of muffins). I still find it weird to write for myself and not for an audience; I guess that’s part of what makes me a whore. That being said…I guess I’ll keep this up for now. Maybe someone somewhere someday will find me funny enough to keep reading. And when you do: I love you.

• • •

Okay, now for the last week or so:
Because it is my vice, and because Girl Kid was on winter break from school, we saw too many movies. One was sublime, three were horrid dreck. First the dreck:

Rumor Has It
Alternative Title: Craptastic. Oh god, how many ways are there to say how awful this was? I know, I know, “Why did you go in the first place?” you ask. Have I mentioned I’m a slut for movies? And the premise was pretty great: chick finds out her family was the model for The Graduate. Potential comedy gold, right? Awesomely bad, more like it. I’m now officially rooting for Team Jolie—no wonder Brad left Jen for the obviously more interesting and complicated Angelina, Jen just has nothing going on upstairs. Jennifer Aniston does her patented “Rachel” impression; supposedly comedic stuff happens (sleeping with a guy you think might be your dad? Yuck!), the story ends happily, groan. The only thing that made this clunker even remotely worth watching was the always amazing Shirely Maclaine, who chewed up the scenery with that ballsy old broad thing she does so well. Here she’s obviously enjoying herself (she was probably drunk the entire shoot). But, what in the hell is wrong with Mark Ruffalo? He’s great actor, hella good looking (did you see that peek o’ pecker he flashes in In The Cut? Damn! Or course you didn’t, no one saw that one but me). He’s funny…why, oh why, Mr. Ruffalo, are you trying to be the romantic lead in all these recent chick flick throw-away flicks? Is it really for the money? You are better than that, man!

The Family Stone
Alternative Title: I Wish I Was Stoned. You know those movies that look hilarious in the trailer, and then when you get there it’s all weepy, sad and depressing? That’s The Family Stone in a nutshell—avoid this movie at all costs, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Meredith is just so unpleasant you can’t fathom at all why Luke Wilson falls for her on sight. There’s yet another cutesy family in yet another two million dollar country house that real people doing those jobs couldn’t really afford. The mom is dying. Big deal. Horrid, horrid, horrid. Luke Wilson is the only one who seems to be having any fun, and I’m sure at least he was stoned; at least I hope he was. Dermot Mulroney turns up as yet another jilted fiancé, and please, even he looked bored with his performance. Awful.

Fun with Dick and Jane
Alternative Title: Not So Fun. Now, I didn’t plan to actually see this movie. I thought I wanted to, but then it got bad reviews, and then I thought I wouldn’t. But, the kid was at a concert at the Redmond Firehouse with her b-friend, and I was the designated driver, and I needed somewhere to go for a few hours. So: the movie was not quite as bad as I suspected, there are a few moments of humor to be had, but all in all—not worth the price of admission. Jim Carrey has done some amazing work recently: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, these are both really great films in which the sometimes utterly annoying Mr. Carrey totally redeems himself. So, why the move back to stupid slapstick like this? I think he must have a ginormous drug habit to support.

• • •

And now, the reason I still go to the movies:

The Producers
Oh. My. God. Words cannot express how much fun this movie was. I’ve now read two reviews that said, “Sure, The Producers was good, but not as good as Chicago”. Either all of these reviewers didn’t really see this movie, or they are smoking some lab grade crack. Chicago was okay, or even good, but The Producers will make you laugh and scream and pee your pants. I’m not alone in this: the entire theater of people we saw this with were dying in the aisles, they were laughing so hard. Trust me, if you do not have a good time at this movie you are officially diseased.

Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane had of course plenty of practice on their performances during the extended Broadway run of the stage musical version, and it shows, in a good way. Both men are completely perfect: Broderick has been criticized for his “over the top” depiction of Leo Bloom, but he’s supposed to be over the top! When his eyes bug out with barely contained insanity…well, it’s pure joy. And Nathan Lane is a national treasure—if you ask me, that man should be dipped in fragrant oils and massaged with foie gras by studly pool boys on a daily basis, just to say “thank you” for all his good works. And Uma Thurman is big, leggy, busty fun. There’s a scene where she “tidies up” the office that is hilarious. I won’t spoil it for you with any hints.

Warning: DO NOT LEAVE THE THEATER before the credits have fully run and the screen is blank! Only four of us left in the theater were witness to the film’s funniest moments, which came just as the final credits were rolling (listen carefully right at the end of the credits), and in a hilarious snippet at the very end. I love it when the film makers give us a little treat at the end, and this is one of the best. The chick in the next row actually screamed out loud when the last little surprise appeared.

• • •

And Finally: Other People Drive Me Mad
At Rumor Has It, I was almost driven over the edge into a bloodthirsty, veins-in-my-teeth murderous rage. Seriously—I was ready to do jail time. The movie was at 4:30, and yes, there were so many previews and junk that the movie didn’t actually begin until after 5pm, but as of 5:10 there were still people streaming in, standing around in front of the screen, going back and forth for yet more snacks, and trying to find seats! People—if a movie is posted as starting at 4:30, and I’m not in my seat by at least 4:40, I wait for a later performance. If you are paying all that cash to come to the theater, why don’t you care that you see the entire movie? An old turtle couple came in and sat beside me ten minutes into the movie, and then began talking loudly at the screen, “Why is she doing that? What’s happening? Oh, she’s gonna get it now!” I wanted to KILL that crusty old jerk with a rusty spoon and barbeque his liver. I wanted to take his popcorn tub, shove it onto his head, and squeeze until he stopped breathing. When I (tartly) asked him not to talk during the movie, he got all pissy with me. The jerk. And afterwards, I was embarrassed to be an American by all the garbage left everywhere for the ushers to deal with. What is wrong with you people? If you can lug your Giant Tub Of Popcorn Plus Jumbo “Value” Soda And Jujubees Combo Package from all the way from the concession stand to your seat, (and then go back for seconds during the movie [kill, kill, kill]), you can take the leftovers to the trash can. God, I hate humanity.

That being said, at The Producers, a woman who was sitting on the other side of Boy Kid laughed so hard that I thought at first that she would have to join my Death List of Ire, but after a while, she totally grew on me. Now, no one can deny that I am easily amused, I can find humor in the most unlikely places, but this woman took it to Olympic levels—I have never witnessed so much joy in one human being. She literally laughed at every single word; I’m sure her seat needed a hose-down after the show. It was a privilege to be near her; and so, humanity was saved for another day. (Fear my tentacles!)

So, there you have it: I’ll be back to blog on a regular basis, the next jerk who pisses me off in the theater may get The Popcorn Tub Procedure and I’ll be blogging from jail, people who are easily amused may just save the world; and, it’s still worth going to the movies. Mostly. Yeah.

2005-12-25T21:59:00.000-08:00

King Kong: Big Giant Apes Do It Better (Peter Jackson, Director)
Oh man, King Kong is so great!

Firstly, Industrial Light and Magic can just hang up their laptops and go home—the CGI effects in Kong are the best I've ever seen by a factor of at least ten. Don't get me wrong, you can tell it's computer graphics, but it's just so well done that it doesn't matter. Kong himself is completely believable, as are all the various snarly dinosaurs, creepy insects, giant bats and all the rest of it. Too, too fantastic.

King Kong is also a very artistic film. You can tell that every frame has been thought out, and some are masterpieces of composition—yellow and red planes dive against a blue sky; a map floats towards you in the extreme foreground as a lighted ship disappears over the horizon and into the mists—it's all very arty and beautiful, which appealed immensely to my inner graphic designer.

The casting is perfect: Jack Black's jittery intensity is perfectly controlled as a compulsively self-absorbed 1930's film director on a desperate mission to save his failing career. Adrian Brody, (who seems like an odd choice for a leading man, but somehow always makes me believe), really works for the time period. And Naomi Watts...damn, what can I say? She blows Faye Wray and Jessica Lange completely out of the water. I know that this is sacrilege to say, but Naomi beats Faye, her performance will now and forevermore be The One. And of course, as with his Gollum in The Return of the King series, the amazing Andy Circus did the body movement work for Kong's CGI effects; he also has a smaller role as the ship's cook, and turns out an effecting performance in one of the film's most freaky moments as well.

It's been said many times about the original: King Kong is really a movie about man's place in nature. Jackson's film gives loving tribute to ideas about the sorrow and damage inherent in manifest destiny. But, it's also a film about sex and what it means to be a man. Little blondie can't help falling for the big ape: he's just risked life and limb to save her from big scary dinosaurs, and he appreciates sunsets as well. Hell, I'm in love with him! Blondie represents the impossible male ideal of female perfection: all porcelain fragility, she understands him without words; she's someone to fight for and to protect. Kong and Brody represent different aspects of the masculine ideal—one is a rough brute with a deep soul, the other is exactly the same but with a veneer of Victorian era chivalry. Oddly, Brody comes off as the lesser man, Kong is The Dude.

One thing: King Kong is hella scary, do not take small children to see this movie. The feral islanders were more frightening than any orc, and some of the dinosaur scenes are way too terrifying for little kids, (but, also pretty funny too, there's a scene with people, ape and tyrannosaurs hanging in vines that was beyond hilarious.) There's a bit with giant insect worms that made the scary monsters from the Alien movies look tame. I'm a pretty mature filmgoer, it takes a lot to phase me, but I actually shrieked once or twice during this film. The three-plus hours just flew by.

My Recommendation?: Go see Kong pronto, you'll still respect yourself in the morning. It may just be the perfect movie, and a true representation of just what the first film makers had in mind when they first put light to celluloid—it's got everything: love, strife, high seas, dangerous natives, giant insects, dinosaurs with huge teeth, dreamy girls and manly men...and one giant ape with a heart of gold.

Snack Foods? Here's a popcorn movie if there every was one, but go easy on the soda pop for the first hour or so, you don't want to miss a thing.

2005-12-25T13:59:00.000-08:00

Breakfast on Pluto: Even More Big Gay Fun (Neil Jordan, Director)
This was one enjoyable movie, and also works as a kind of anti-Brokeback Moutain. You know how on Mythbusters, Adam Savage says, "I reject your reality, and substitute my own"? Well, this movie illustrates that idea more than anything I've seen.

Cillian Murphy plays "Kitten", an Irish boy, abandoned by his glamor-puss mother on the church door steps, and then raised in indifferent squalor by a "hairy ass" foster mother and her sour daughter. Turns out Irish Boy is kind of a fairy: he dresses up in his sister's dresses and puts on makeup while watching old Mitzi Gaynor movies on the tellie. When threatened with public exposure and humiliation he purrs, "Promise?"

Irish Boy learns to sew and grows up in trannie glory, surrounded by friends who love him (and each other) without judgement. He leaves home in search of his phantom mother, and has various adventures (including a hilarious bit in a children's amusement park featuring Brendan Gleeson in a rodent suit), depending on the kindness of strangers who are won over by his fey charms. Bad things do happen, but Kitten soars above them, weaving his own fantasy version of events where nothing "serious" ever happens. The movie is even filmed as a series of chapters, each one cheerily titled so as to reassure the viewer that nothing too horrible will happen.

In fact, horrible things do happen, but Kitten refuses to acknowledge them. Mistaken for an IRA terrorist and beaten for days, Kitten eventually charms his captors, and in a very funny chase scene, refuses to leave prison, only wanting to return to his "cheery little cell". Everyone he meets eventually falls in love with him, and we the viewers do too.

Cillian Murphy is a consistently interesting actor, and he seems to be avoiding the typecasting pit that has plagued fellow Irish actor Colin Farrell. Colin may be a scruffy bad boy favorite of american party girls everywhere, but give me Cillian any day, he's just more interesting to watch; and unlike Colin, he seems to have a bit of a filter on his acting choices. Plus he makes a damn pretty girl.

My Recommendation? It's the feel-good movie of the year! Unless you are homophobic, this movie will give you the happy feet in the end, and, especially at this time of year, there's nothing wrong with that.

Snack Foods? Pancakes, in fact, potato pancakes, 'cause it's an Irish movie. Pancakes and whiskey, yeah, that's the ticket.

2005-12-22T18:09:00.000-08:00

Memoirs of a Geisha: Snore (Rob Marshall, Director)
What can I say? Unlike what Hollywood pundits think the public wants, I personally love long movies. I don't want to go to the expense and hassle of driving to a movie, possibly paying for parking, and then have the whole thing over in 86 minutes. I've said "No" to movies on principle, just because the running time was too short. That being said, MofaG is at least a half hour too long. A young girl is sold into slavery at a geisha house, makes friends and enemies, meets her mentor/future love (yuck!) when he buys her a snow cone on a bridge...becomes geisha..there's a war...but...too late, I'm asleep. For a story about such an interesting subject, not much goes on in this film. The scenery is beautiful, the Japanese architecture is amazing, kimonos are elaborate, geishas are beautiful...but...snore. For such a long movie, not much seems to be communicated.

Part of the problem is the film's star, Ziyi Zhang, who's demure screen presence has worked so well in other films such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and last year's amazing Hero (yes, the one with Jet Li; it's still beautiful beyond belief). Here she needs more expression: we never really know what the character is feeling. Michelle Yoeh does a better job as her geisha mentor, and Gong Li eats up the scenery with gusto as the star geisha who feels her beauty and influence fading. The movie does a reasonable job of suggesting the endless struggle for dominance in this secret world of women, but I wanted to leave the theater with more of an understanding of geisha culture than I got. Apparently geishas are not supposed to love or feel joy or have lives of their own, but somehow this is still better than being a farm girl or wife. Or something. They don't have sex either, unless they are bad girls. They exist as "moving works of art", serving client men for the good of their geisha mothers and to pay off their purchase price. Really, that's it?

World War II comes off as an afterthought, more of an inconvenience in this geisha's path to fulfillment with her man. And, I guess it was in the book, but how is falling for a 10 year old girl and then sponsoring her geisha training and debut not kind of totally creepy?

It's already been mentioned that Japan is unhappy that all three female stars of the movie are Chinese. Director Rob Marshall has said that he needed "name stars" to carry the movie—way to go Rob! That's really adding insult to injury! The movie is also in english, and listening to Ziyi, Michelle and Gong Li struggle with the language is distracting. I would have much preferred subtitles...but then, do these actresses even speak Japanese?

The whole set was built on a Hollywood sound stage, but looks nicely authentic. The costumes, makeup and sets really are beautiful, and worth part of the price of admission on their own. But, at the end of the two and a half hours, my butt was cement and I was cranky and unsatisfied. Bad geisha.

Also: going downtown in the week before Christmas is a bad idea. Humanity sucks. Ho ho, sock in the jaw, if you ask me.

My recommendation? Wait for the director's cut on DVD. Maybe a new edit or additional material will leave a better impression. Plus, you can pause and go pee or whatever, and avoid Mister Lead Butt and The Bladder of Doom. Or better yet, go rent Hero, which is an even more beautiful film that won't bore you.

Snack foods? Sushi, 'natch.

2005-12-18T18:27:00.000-08:00

Brokeback Mountain: Big Gay Fun (Ang Lee, Director)
Mama's all crampy today, and so she's not feeling at all good—more like death warmed over, as a someone in my family used to say, so that's why I've been a bit mute the last couple of days.

The kid and I went to see Brokeback Mountain on Friday. The theater was packed, and the 7pm show was already sold out at 4pm. Of course, here in Seattle, they are only showing it at two theaters, (both of which are in Capital Hill, our version of the Big Gay Neighborhood, which is kind of stupid, if you ask me). We ended up in the balcony, and because of bad acoustics at The Egyptian coupled with Heath Ledger's close-to-the-chest performance, I could only hear about 60% of the dialog. Still....

What can I say? Two smoking guys getting it on in woods? Hey, If I was Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal, I'd be all touchy-grabby too. Damn, hot boys getting down and dirty, could it get any better? Gay boys and straight girls agree, "No, it could not."

Actually, Brokeback Mountain is pretty much your standard bodice ripper romance, but with dudes and nice scenery. It many ways, it reminded me of last year's Cold Mountain: pretty people pine and yearn in pretty places. One big difference was that Brokeback Mountain has more snogging, and there's nothing wrong with that my friends. Actually, even if the stars had been a hetero couple, the on-screen sex was fairly explicit; not over the top, but not phoning it in with discreet cuts to the moonlight, either. Like Cold Mountain, this is a good movie, nicely shot, with attractive, appealing star-crossed lovers overcoming (or not) obstacles to their love. That fact that the stars are both men doesn't change a thing. A lot has been said of how "brave" Heath and Jake are, but I think, phooey to that, it's about time. I give credit to both boys for their natural performances—many actors would be all precious about their love scenes, "Ooh, look at me being all actor-y as I kiss this man!", but Heath and Jake made it completely believable.

Heath's Ennis is the quintessential American Man—rough and masculine, the strong, silent type. Jake Gyllenhaal's Jack is more of a puppy, rough housing and always ready to see the bright side. The film seems to be suggesting that Jack is not being realistic; at one point Ennis says, "If this thing takes us at the wrong time or place, we're dead", and he therefore keeps their encounters to one or two "fishing trips" a year.

And here is the problem I have with this movie: we follow our heroes over twenty years from 1963 to 1983, through squalid marriage, working for daddy, kids, divorce, and playing it "straight". Now, I know that Wyoming and Texas are definitely not gay-friendly, even today. Matthew Shepard's beating death in Montana shows that the fears of the characters of the film have validity, then and now. But, the movie takes place in a bubble; it's as if the rest of the country didn't exist. The Civil Rights movement, The Chicago Seven, the Women's Movement, Disco, Punk, Gay Pride parades...none of these things exist in this movie. There's no mention of a world not populated by American Gothic cowboys and rodeo princesses. Jack tells Ennis, "If we get our own ranch we can be happy like this always". Now, I can't believe that two men that loved each other this passionately couldn't wake up one day and say, "Hey, let's move to Northern California and open a western-themed antiques store." Even in Montana, people would have heard about developments in the blue states. So, that bit bothered me all through the movie. Why didn't one of them say, "Hey, what say we get out of this dumbfuck state?"

My Recommendation? See this movie right away. It's a good movie, and if enough people see it, maybe more Hollywood actors will come out of the closet, so to speak. I'm sure this movie won't play too well in Montana or Texas, but hey, there's other places. Come on over.

Snack Foods? Foot long hot dogs of course! Sorry, hee hee.

2005-12-15T13:58:00.000-08:00

Kong Can Wait
As much as I'm dying to see King Kong, we are going to wait until December 25th to see it. Our family tradition is to see a movie every Christmas day, and then go eat Chinese food. King Kong will be nice and long and full of crashes and explosions and people running around getting eaten, so it will be perfect for Christmas. So, just in case anyone is waiting with bated breath for my review, breath in. (This is a moot point, because no one is reading this blog anyway. I'm so lonely.)

In the meantime, start prepping those eggrolls. I'll have some other movie review for you tomorrow. I personally am all a-flutter for gay cowboys, oh man! Two hot dudes getting in on in the bushes, I am so there. More later.

2005-12-15T13:54:00.000-08:00

South Africa is Laughing at Us
So, South Africa has recognized same-sex marriage as constitutionally legal? They are now officially more progressive than we are! God, what next? When our “family values” begin to sound just like those of the Taliban, we are in trouble, don’t you think? We are bringing the Iraqi’s the same values they already had at the point of a gun! I have to lie down now.

2005-12-15T13:43:00.000-08:00

White Elephant Strikes Again, Now With More Tusk!
Well, I did it: I mailed a box containing, 1) A Hideous Vest, covered in gold and silver beading; 2) Sweater Vest Thing, basically a cube of heavy gray cable knit; 3) Assortment of Pot Holders of Doom, which are three rounds of thin fabric with festive plastic hoops attached, I assume they are for tiny people who like having burned hands; and, 4) A glittery Christmas card stating “Seasons Greetings” in a holiday-friendly loopy typeface. I boxed is all up nicely, and took it the post office, where they gave me quite a bit of trouble about not including a return address. Apparently it will be illegal to send mail without a return address starting January 1st. Okay. Well, from now on I’ll just use the address of my old job for this purpose. The bitches deserve it. Anyway, doing this made me happy all day (I'm easily amused), and was totally woth the $4.01 it cost me to mail the thing.

So, Robert E. Lord of Shoreline, I hope you like your presents. Everyone else, there’s still time! Send someone at random your most hideous household trinket, object d'art or monstrous assault on fashion, then sit back and bask in a cleaner household for the greater good. Of course, if you are a good person, you will donate to Toys for Tots or your local food bank. If you are good. Otherwise, do this.

2005-12-13T17:25:00.000-08:00

Syriana: Most Disturbing, 2005 (Stephen Gaghan, Writer and Director)
Syriana is the best example of a recent trend: fact presented as fiction. As Richard Clarke said recently on The Daily Show about his book The Scorpion's Gate, "People find the truth easier to digest when it is presented as fiction [or words to that effect]". Syriana is fiction, but it feels like the real deal...and left me feeling disturbed and distressed.

Syriana opens with a silent blue-washed scene of men waiting for a work bus in a dust storm. When the bus arrives, there isn't enough room for everyone, and the men begin to push, their raised voices carried away by the wind. A single hammer held stiffly by the side of a leg suggests the possibility of sudden violence. This is the middle east.

Despite what you might think from the presence of George Clooney and Matt Damon in the trailer, this is a movie without stars—we follow the story of several characters, but there is no one main player. Each character has their moment, but which of these are connected? At first, it's difficult to tell, and you have to pay attention to follow what's going on. Supporting actors, (including the film's only two female characters of any consequence), make the most of their moments with pitch-perfect performances. Take note—pee before you go see this one, and don't go out for more popcorn, like the idiots next to us who kept slogging back and forth all through the movie to acquire more and more food, and who then left a tidal wave of garbage for the ushers to clean up. Assholes.

Syriana is a assembled from a series of seemingly unrelated moments strung together in a way that feels disconnected and random. An idealistic lawyer loses his religion; a corporate golden boy spits vitriol as he uses the accidental death of his son to close a deal with an oil-rich prince. A young Pakistani, stuck in a nameless gulf coast country with no job and no prospects is entranced by a charismatic mullah with stories of glory in heaven and protection for family here on earth. In a painful scene, we see his video will outlining what he wants done with his body; his final act a blaze of light which leaves no doubt there won't be a body to bury. This is a world of men, where both the powerful and the weak are helpless—their prospects are equally uncertain and liable to change without warning.

I don't know how much of Syriana is true, but I suspect all of it is. We know that the Bush administration currently has teams looking for ways to go to war with Syrian and Iran. We know that the big meta-national companies really are running things, and that governments are being used to further corporate expansion and to pad the bank accounts of a handful of powerful families, both here and in the middle east. God, I feel ill.

My recommendation? See this movie, but don't expect the standard plot with a "problem, resolution, happy ending" format. This movie will not spoon feed you. And on that note:

Snack foods: None. This type of movie you want to discuss with your friends afterwards over some sort of great ethnic food, save your money for that. And please, if you must have popcorn, don't be jerks and leave garbage for the theater staff, 'cause that's just rude, and you don't want to get on my bad side. I will hunt you down.

2005-12-10T15:12:00.000-08:00

Gay Marriage
I really don’t get the whole same-sex marriage debate. Surely it’s a no-brainer? If rights are offered to American citizens, per our constitution, they have to be offered to all citizens, right? Otherwise that whole “freedom for all” thing in the Pledge of Allegiance just makes us look like hypocrites. It seems legally and morally obvious to me that rights should be extended to all Americans, equally. If you really want to keep same-sex couples from getting married, you’d have to ban marriage for everyone, and that would put a crimp in a host of marriage-related industries, be bad for business and make your mother cry.

Personally, I’m not a fan of marriage—at least half the time, it leads to divorce. You couldn’t sell a car that crashes half the time, right? Here, buy this toaster oven; it will only burn down your house 50% of the time! Sheesh.

As for all the “abomination unto God” arguments, please, spare me. I don’t keep up with organized religion or anything, but I’m pretty sure Jesus had things to say about tolerance and loving your fellow man ‘n stuff. What happened to that, bible thumpers?

Some conservative types have tried to spread the falsehood that gay parents mess up and abuse their kids…hmm. Seems to me that all the kid drowners, beaters and starvers I’ve heard about in the news lately have been breeders, every single one. As for the much-ballyhooed “sanctity of marriage”, talk to me when dreck such as The Bachelor, Paradise Island and America’s Littlest Groom are no longer on the air. When marriage is a regular game show prize, I’d say the sanctity has pretty much left the building.

Besides, isn’t marriage supposed to be socially stabilizing? When people get married, buy homes and have kids, they create better neighborhoods and local economies, right? That’s why we give tax breaks to married couples. And, all those extra marriages would be awesome for the wedding planner, travel and real estate industries.

So come on everybody! Get on the gay marriage bandwagon. It’s good for gays, it’s good for straights. It’s good for America, god damn it.

2005-12-10T14:33:00.000-08:00

Nation-Wide White Elephant Holiday
My mom likes to send me things she gets at thrift stores and church rummage sales. She tries to honor what I hope she thinks of as my quirky and creative spirit. Or she hates me. From the type of thing she sends, I’m not 100% sure which it is. I’ve been the recipient of a giant orange sweatshirt covered in some sort of metallic gold goo. I’ve gotten a blouse so horrible only a blind albino rhinoceros would consider wearing it. Once I got some sort of moo-moo thing that appeared to be made out of crochet doilies. This season, I got a vest only suitable for the craps dealer at the Liberace Memorial Flame and Casino in Las Vegas (a place which ought to exist, if you ask me). On the other hand, my mom has never sent me a sweater with a fuzzy Christmas tree, or a reindeer hoodie with real bells attached. She has standards, after all. (God, I hope she never reads this.)

I was joking around about how we ought to have a white elephant party so that we could unload some of these items, and then Stephen Colbert and his team of writers at The Colbert Report had the brilliant idea of doing a national white elephant: open the phone book, pick someone at random, and send them a present. I wish I could say I'd thought of this idea, but in any case, I say let’s do it. What a great way to get rid of that horrible stuff that’s clogging up your closets, and also bring abject random fear and confusion to your fellow human beings? Let’s make it a new national tradition, sort of like spring cleaning, Extreme Holiday Edition. I don’t have to remind you not to put a return address on the package, right? You are all smart people.

Our First Victim
Okay, getting phone book…close eyes…open book…point…okay. Robert E. Lord of Shoreline, Washington, you are in for one confusing gift. Won’t that be fun? Think of all the enjoyment you’ll derive from grilling your relatives to find out who sent you a gender- and taste-confused sweater and three sets of frilly dish towels with the Velcro straps? What a great way to while away those painful family dinners, possibly leading to cathartic fist fights and the beginnings of feuds that could last for years to come, ultimately saving you from having to attend all those unnecessary family reunions and weddings. You’re welcome.

2005-12-07T20:47:00.000-08:00

Bee Season: Adults Are Fucked Up

Last night, me and the kid, again desperately in need of distraction and that whole "gettin' outta da house" thing, and since we'd seen almost everything already (not Chicken Little, that's just not gonna happen), and that, despite the fact that her mum could have almost been like a totally famous ballet choregrapher once, the kid flat out refuses to see Ballet Russes, so...Bee Season was it.

Now, don't get me wrong, Bee Season looked okay. But, I have this long-standing hatred for Richard Gere. That guy has always given me the creeps, even in Pretty Woman, (which he was totally phoning in, not that I blame him there). I know he's all buddhist and shit, which I totally support, but he's always seemed to have his head so far up his own ass that his eyes are brown. Well, they are. [Why is this post becoming so potty? Oh well.] The point is, I hate Richard Gere. He ruined Chicago, or at least the parts he was in. He's so stuck up and sanctimonious. And probably because of that, he's pretty much perfect for Bee Season.

Spoiler alert: I'm about to tell you what happens. Skip to the end if you care.

The synopsis is: cute, intellectual, quasi-euro professionals Saul (Gere) and Miriam (the always incomparable Juliette Binoche) have a couple of kids, careers at Berkeley (he apparently teaches Kabbalah Studies and she peers through microscopes), and one of those perfectly art-directed wood paneling and Shaker furniture homes that Hollywood pretends people like this could afford. They've got a couple of talented kids, the younger of whom seems to be developing an affinity for spelling. And that's good, because mom is emotionally distant, and dad only notices the kids when they do something exceptional. Both kids are impossibly fragile, perfect and broodingly dreaming looking.

And while I'm on the subject, the son is played by Max Minghella, son of Cold Mountain director Anthony Minghella. According to IMDb, Max is 20 years old, which is good, because, he's totally do-able. You know that dewey, creamy, dreamy quality some boys get right before they learn to grow beards and become men? Damn. I knew a boy like that once when I was 22, and well...it was great, even if I was technically breaking the law. Sweet.

Anyhow, compliments of some nifty CGI, the daughter starts to spell really, really well, dad takes an interest and decides she's some sort of Hebrew saint. Son gets involved with a cuddly Hari Krishna hippie girl (played perfectly by Kate Bosworth in a bit part), and, because of childhood trauma, mom begins to go quietly but spectacularly nuts. See, mom likes to drive around until she finds a house she likes, break in, and then steal something inconsequential that the homeowner is not likely to miss. It turns out later that she's building a massive chandelier sort of deal inside a storage unit. Why is it that in Hollywood movies, the insane are always so darned artistic?

Well, as the kid moves up the rankings of the spelling bee kingdom from local to national, all the other players progress in their own, quiet desperation. Dad is obsessed with the daughter's spelling skills, and begins to train her in secret Kabbalah mysticism, even though he keeps saying it's dangerous to do so. Mom gets caught and goes to the funny farm. Son pouts. The daughter has visions and convulsions. Is she a mystic, or just an epileptic? It's not clear. In the end she throws the nationals in the 11th hour, dad cries tears of bitter shame, but mom smiles in the nut house, magically connecting with her daughter through the television screen. Is she somehow cured? It doesn't matter.

Now, I have to say, this was a good movie: beautifully acted, nicely filmed, cool effects, do-able boy, Juliette Binoche, what have you. But, ultimately this is a movie about how parents fuck up their kids. Saul didn't care about his daughter, just about what her skills meant about him. Miriam tries to be a loving mom, but tender moments at bedtime are not enough. I've personally seen parents ruthlessly push their kids to succeed at all costs before, not so much for the kid's sake, but for the parent's own bragging rights. Somehow spawning a talented kid makes the parent more valid. God, those are really selfish reasons to mess with your kid. I hate it.

As we left the theater and my evening progressed, I couldn't get past the bad feelings this movie left. I think the film makers were trying to say something positive about love, family and redemption, but all I was left with was sadness. Parents are assholes.

My recommendation? See it anyway. But love your kids for who they are and not what they can do for your ego.

Bee Season snack food? Hmm...at first I thought oatmeal: bland and nutritious, but a bit icky. Or corn nuts. But now I'm thinking challah bread. "I ain't no challah back girl...", hardy har har. (Okay, apparently nobody but me thinks this is funny, damn.)

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Later last night I watched the Victoria Secret Christmas Fashion Show, which was supposedly Tyra Bank's swan song as a runway model. I'll believe that when I see it. Tyra looked really pissed off during the whole thing, maybe because her thighs were flapping to the wind machine during her runway walks. One girl got her shoe stuck in a crack. No bras fell off or anything. The whole thing was oddly boring, even with alien girls traipsing around in snazzy underpants. Oh well.

Happy vegging boy's n' girls. Speaking of Tyra, I'm off to watch America's Next Top Model and Lost, yippee. And the new season of Project Runway. I'm such a slut.