The year in review: a troubled travel log

I've done a fair amount of traveling in the last 6 months. Somehow, it seems I'm managed to acquire some really rotten airport karma. Here's a run-down of all my recent air-related fun and games:

Last April:
Went to Phoenix for my cousin Steve's wedding. No big deal. Very smooth trip, all things considered. A good time was had by all.

Last May:
Went to Baltimore for work for two weeks. Flying out was no problem. Returning to Nashville, I had about a 4 hour delay. At the time, I thought that was horrible. Little did I know what was in store for me... I think this was a Southwest flight.

End of June:
Flew to Reagan National for a job interview. Flying out was no problem. Returning to Nashville, I got to the airport really early because AIR booked my flight for, like, 7:30 at night and my interview was over at 2 pm. By the time 7:30 rolls around, my flight is already delayed until 10:15. When the plane finally arrives at the gate, I'd been in the airport for about 6 hours already... and then they cheerfully announce that they're canceling the flight due to "crew exhaustion." They put me up in a Hilton in Crystal City (a very lovely establishment, really) though they refuse to give me my suitcase. At the time, I couldn't imagine anything worse than this. But luckily, the hotel was across the street from a CVS where I could buy contact solution and deodorant. Yay!. Of course, in my short walk to the drugstore, no less that two low-slung vehicles sidled up next to me and propositioned me (I was not aware that my appearance was so whore-like). Generally, Crystal City isn't such a bad neighborhood in Arlington... but at 1 in the morning, well... I don't recommend walking to CVS in holey jeans and sassy high-healed sandals. The next morning, I went back to Reagan and my flight was delayed another 2 hours but I eventually made it home. I'd found some mascara and a lipgloss (this was pre-lipgloss-confiscation-era) and looked only slightly fuzzy about the head when I got there! I think this was a Continental flight.

Mid August:
I'd found out I'd gotten the job in DC and my mom and I decided to fly back out there so I could spend a couple of days hunting for an apartment. Again, flying out was no problem. We were scheduled to leave the DC area and return to Nashville, but the day before our departure, we got a call from my brother in Tucson that my sister-in-law had gone into labor. Mom and I dropped everything and changed the tickets so we could go to Tucson. We get into the air, leaving from the BWI airport, and we could feel the plane slowing down. That's certainly a strange sensation! The pilot then announced that there was a mysterious light on. So, he diverted us to Dulles. We stayed on the ground for another 2 1/2 hours. We missed our connector in Dallas. This time, the airline puts us up in the worst rathole I could ever have imagined. May I suggest to you, my reader(s?), that you avoid all Homestead Suites at all costs. This hotel was way out in a desolate hotel park quasi-near the DFW airport. There were no drugstores nearby this time. Not even a gas station. And, as the regularly scheduled feminine event befell me about 5 days early that month, I was, let's say, under-prepared. I found myself pleading with a cranky desk attendant for a tampon, saying something along the lines of, "Well, they're YOUR sheets, buddy!" When Mom and I made it up to the room (on a supposedly non-smoking floor) we were less than impressed. It reeked of cigarettes... and yep, I'm miserably allergic (and occasionally enjoy making my smoker friends feel guilty about it). The pillows felt something like day-old polenta. And this flophouse provided one sad little bar of soap... no toothbrush, no shampoo... no tampons, certainly. And obviously, no contact solution or deodorant. And, as they'd recently instituted the fear-o-liquids rule at the airport, I didn't even have a lipgloss-- and no, they didn't give us our suitcases this time either. And it was August. And we'd been trundling about DC looking for a place for me to live all day prior to this misbegotten flight. When we awoke the following morning, I was completely congested due to the smoke and my eyes were swollen shut (from sleeping in contacts, compounding the smoke allergy issue), we both stank like some sad little refugees, I had a pretty good frizz-halo going on, and I was haphazardly shedding my uterine lining. We left the shithole as early as possible and went to the airport where my mom was able to find a delightful Dale Evans t-shirt (we were in Texas afterall) and I finally found a tampon and our re-scheduled flight to Tucson left on time and we finally got to meet my new little nephew (please visit old posts if you need photographic evidence of his enduring cuteness). I know this flight was via American Fucking Airlines. Our return flight was relatively smooth.

Thanksgiving:
Back and forth to Nashville. Everything came and went as planned, thank old Jimmy in heaven. It even worked out that my fabulous friend Bob could pick me up at the airport and hang out at my place for a night... as a little detour on his way back to Nashville from Pennsylvania. Saved me cab fare, even! What a champ, that Bob!

Early-mid December:
Flew to Honolulu for work. The trip out was really long but un-eventful for the most part. The first leg landed me at O'Hare... and,on that flight, I sat next to a curious fellow who kept hinting that he and I should get together and "go clubbing" whenever he visits DC. I found his persistent interest in me a little baffling as I'm pretty sure he was gay. Every time I picked up my book, he'd interrupt to chat. Every time I tried to dose off, he's poke me for some more great chatting. Fortunately, I managed to avoid giving him my email at the end of the flight. On the 9-hour flight from O'Hare to Honolulu, I sat next to a 10-year-old girl from someplace near Toronto. She asked me a lot a questions about American geography as she didn't understand that we had to fly over a whole lotta land between Chicago and the California coast. Then, she and I played cards for a while--Crazy 8s, then War. Then, she made me take all the quizzes in her "Tiger Beat." As it turns out, I should not date my best guy friend, my BFF Style is "supportive" and the right guy for me is the "sweet, sensitive" sort (as opposed to a "Sporty" or an "Artsy"... teen magazines are clearly very nuanced). Obviously, I learned much in my 9 hours trapped with a preteen. The return flight was a red-eye-- what a joy! I left Honolulu last Sunday around 1:30 pm. I got to LAX around 9:30 pm. I left LAX around 11:30 and arrived at O'Hare at 5am--*yawn*. Generally, I prefer sitting on the aisle so I can get off the plane quicker but I highly recommend window seats if you've gotta fly overnight. At some point in the middle of that night, I began thinking that I'd be so much more comfortable if I could just take my very heavy head off and rest it in my lap. My neck had become a real, um, pain in the neck. Quite literally. When I arrived in Chicago, I discovered (oh, tell me that you haven't seen this one coming) my last leg--from O'Hare back to Reagan-- had been canceled. Fortunately, the holiday season had not yet begun in earnest and I was able to get on another flight that left 4 hours later. I finally made it home by about 1 pm on Monday. I took the day off and slept and did laundry to prepare for my Christmas venture, which was scheduled to begin three days later. That was a relatively smooth United flight.

Christmas (the most ill-fated of them all):
On Thursday afternoon, I left work early and went to Reagan airport, with high hopes of reaching Tucson by late that night. When I got there, I learned that my flight to O'Hare was delayed 4 hours (no big deal at this point) due to weather in Chicago. I was thinking, "Hey! At least it's not Denver!" My connector to Tucson was also delayed, so I still had hope that I wouldn't miss it. Roughly 3 hours after the flight had been originally scheduled to leave, the poor bedraggled woman behind the counter announced that all planes heading west of the Mississippi from O'Hare were canceled. I got on my cellphone with an American Airlines dude and he tells me that, if I get on the Chicago flight, I'll be stuck in Chicago for 2 days as there's not another empty seat anywhere until late on Saturday. He says that I can go home and he'd reschedule me to leave from Dulles, go to DFW, then on to Tucson on Friday night... and I agree to this with some misgivings about getting stuck in Dallas again. So, I go home, somewhat furious, have a beer and fire off one nasty-ass blue streak of an email to the American Airlines customer service center. Friday morning, I sleep late (because I'd already told my supervisor at work that I was going to be out of town), did a long yoga practice so as to engender calmness and mindfulness in my upcoming evening of travels, re-packed, took a long cab ride out to Dulles and arrived at the airport good and early for my 7:25 flight. But oh, yes, I soon learned that it, too, was delayed and the dude at the ticket counter assured me that I would miss my connector. By this point, I was really fighting tears and called me mom to ask whether or not I should give up and just skip Christmas this year. She verbally slapped me around and convinced me to forge ahead. When I got to the gate, I spent a long while, first swearing, then crying, then flirting with the gate counter guy while he looked around for another connector to Tucson for me. He kept telling me that I could get to Dallas but that the next available flight wasn't until Christmas Eve afternoon. Ridiculous! According to some news reports I've been listening to lately, the airlines all had this brilliant idea to retire some perfectly functional airplanes, thus thinning out some travel routes, in order to reduce empty seats and increase their earnings. Now, that's great for stock-holders, especially as they've been able to jack up ticket prices by 30+% this holiday season, but what ends up happening is that, if there's any weather issues or other sorts of delays, there's no way to re-book people on other flights. There's just no room for error. And this gate counter guy was telling me that American in particular retired a bunch of brand new TWA planes because the only people who could fly them were former TWA pilots... and so, I've been led to believe that stupid industry politics are responsible for my getting stranded in Dallas for the second time in 4 months. I did, in fact, make it to Dallas last night--- around 1 am--but my ticket got upgraded to first class. And shortly before I boarded, Lawrence, the gate counter dude, came and whispered in my ear that he found an empty seat on a 1:45 pm flight from Dallas to Tucson-- also first class! And this time, when I got to Dallas, however, they put me up in a Westin, bless their little airline hearts! And, because I'd done this a few times, I managed to talk Lawrence into having my suitcase tagged so I could get it off the carousel in Dallas. Oh, how my fellow stranded travelers envied me! So, I got about 5 hours of sleep --with my contacts out-- and was even able to wash my hair with my own shampoo this morning. And I had clean clothes to put on! Imagine! And so, I finally made it to Tucson on Saturday afternoon, as opposed to Thursday night--- I've wasted the lion's share of 3 days in airports, instead of hanging out with my family. But I'm here. And it's Christmas. And I've got loads of wrapping to do before I rest. And loads of wrapping before I rest...

The moral of this story is: Boycott American Airlines. They blow goats. I have photographic proof.

why I'm not posting

Welcome to the North Shore of O'ahu. There were, indeed, surfers, but my camera phone is not so great when it comes to details in the distance. They were remarkable to watch, though.



I hate that this shot is so blurry but it was taken leaning out of the window of our rental Ford Focus. These ripply mountains along the northern side of the island are just incredible. I can't imagine living up there and seeing that every day.


Here's me, looking dorky, but proving that I was here!


Outside my hotel, the city of Honolulu crawls up the mountainsides with its talons. Really, it looks more like a city in Southeast Asia than someplace in my own country.



This was the view off my lanai in my hotel room yesterday afternoon after work. I know it's hard to see but that little streak was a really beautiful rainbow. All the locals told me it's very de rigeur to see them daily. Regardless, I was impressed. By the way, that lumpy business in the background is Diamond Head.

On my Christmas wish list is a real camera. Sorry the pictures suck so badly but they're the best I can do, given all I had was my l'il pink cellphone.

Aloha!

look at that!

My Blogger profile now correctly states that I am 30. So long, decade of financial struggle. So long, post adolescent wasteland.

Now what?

Shades of Frida

When I was home for Thanksgiving, I managed to squeeze in one movie in an actual theatre with Jon. We went to go see Fur, this thing about Diane Arbus, starring Nicole Kidman. It's directed by Steven Shainberg, who also did the adaptation of Mary Gaitskill's short story Secretary. And Secretary is a movie that I really love. It's one of the warmest, yet least sentimental love stories I can remember seeing on film. And it's quirky and tortured and deadpan in a way that makes me happy. Fur, however, takes on the very curious subject matter of ye olde circus freak photographer, Diane Arbus-- and should have been another good, solidly weird movie, especially because it makes a big show of how it's not just another biopic, how it's an imaginary portrait of Arbus' inner life. But I'm convinced that some of the spirit of films like this leaks out when the lead role is filled by someone who is just too damn famous--and famous for being gorgeous. I have nothing against Nicole Kidman... over the years, I have enjoyed several of her movies. However, I remember reading somewhere (the New Yorker, maybe?) when Closer came out that Natalie Portman presented a unique challenge to any director as she was really just growing into her beauty and her womanhood at that moment of the article. The challenge is that, when you're that beautiful, it's hard to keep the movie-- and every shot, every camera angle therein-- from being only about how beautiful the star is. It's like physical attractiveness is so distracting that it's hard for a director, camera and/or audience to focus on anything else. And perhaps the problem is that Kidman never lost her statuesque, willowy Kidman-ness in this part... she's just Nicole in '50s circle skirts and ballet flats. She's just not weird enough to be Arbus! And Shainberg didn't find the same kind of weirdness in her that he did in Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary, either, and so, the whole movie suffers.

I think I noted a similar problem in Frida, the Julie Taymor venture with Salma Hayek about Frida Kahlo. I REALLY wanted to like this movie. I think Taymor is a friggin' genius-- her painterly landscape alone in Titus was enough to win me over. I mean, this woman is a professional puppeteer who's got a real oddball sensibility. And, likewise, Frida herself was not exactly mundane or average in any way. And yet, because Hayek was the driving (financial) force behind getting the movie made int he first place, she was cast in the part... and her acting was simply not adequate to pull off anything but a spry, sexy cheerleader version of the limping, unibrowed artist! And so, that movie, too, was a big bore.

All this said, I really do want to see a pretty woman play a good weirdo. I think Cameron Diaz did a bang-up job in Being John Malkovich but, that character hardly had a historical source. And they really had to ugly her up to do it. So, readers, I offer a challenge: Can anyone help me think of a really hot woman playing a convincing freak? A movie in which the camera's problematically male gaze doesn't linger on the candlelit glow of the pretty girl's face for just a little too long? A movie in which the actress can be both pretty and a misfit at the same time... but have the movie not be about the prettiness? I'm sure it exists... but somehow I'm only thinking of more and more examples like Fur and Frida. I feel like I'm running a risk here of sounding like I begrudge these women their beauty.. but that's not really what I'm after. In fact, I think the notion of a drop dead gorgeous, completely loony, idiosyncratic character would be the sort of thing I'd stay up all night thinking about. The idea of a character having a very normal (even an exceptionally appealing) outward persona that is in drastic contrast with said character's inner life... well, I gotta see that movie! And I'm not talking about the beautiful, mysterious, tortured woman. I mean, where's a beautiful freak--perhaps one who enjoys her freakishness, even? Surely... surely it exists.

I wonder if Parker Posey counts?

The next Natalie Portman

So, it's not that I haven't been watching movies... it's just that my downtime after the movies has been a little more rare. Regardless...

Can I just say? I think Evan Rachel Wood is simply gleaming with nubile promise. She's got this incredible fragile fury that I'm pretty sure is gonna take her places... and fast! Really, she reminds me of a pre-Closer Natalie Portman. She's not yet quite as sexy as the Natalie Portman in that SNL rap video thing (that video has an effect on my I can't fully explain... but... Damn! It! That little pixie haircut and all that f-word-ing. Is it hot in here?) but the potential is there. And this brings me to my viewing of Pretty Persuasion.

I think this movie probably overshot a little in its ambition. It's an entertaining story about a very very bad little private school girl... behold the stock porno character! And Wood certainly is something to behold. But, tacked onto the end, we find something of a poorly integrated stick-on moral. Or maybe it's not so much a moral as it is an attempt at locating a social conscience in what is basically a simultaneously fluffy and dark sex farce. In the last five minutes, it suddenly becomes an indictment upon the culture of American High Schools in which we have teachers constantly fucking students and students constantly bringing semi-automatics into the cafeterias... *Yawn*. I could've done without the moralizing and been happy with the little bit of devious, slightly deviant candy that this movie was at the onset. Well, maybe not happy... certainly not enraptured... but more certainly more entertained than I would have been if I had spent an evening watching She's All That.

damn Blogger...

The grand logic of Blogger sometimes eludes me. I started a post last week and just now had time to finish it-- unfortunately, Blogger posted it in chronological order according to when I started it, instead of when I finished it... so now, it's down there lost in the mire of last week's posts. Surely, there's a way to keep that from happening? Cutting and pasting into a new post? Annoying!

my itinerary

Hi, folks! I know my posts have become sporadic over the past couple of weeks but they're about to get moreso. Here's the deal--I'll be in:

Nashville: November 21st-27th (Jon, 'Rents, Cotillionistas-- that means you guys are up first on my social calendar.)
DC: November 28th-December 8th (There may or may not be a martini hour in the works to mark the beginning of my 3rd decade on Dec. 2nd, for anyone local, who's interested.)
Honolulu: December 9th-17th (For anyone who's jealous, trust me, this is gonna be a work trip. Yes, I bought a new bikini because I'm optimistic, but if it doesn't make it out of my suitcase, I won't be surprised.)
LA: The night of the 17th (Brian, you damn well better be up for a midnight beverage. It's been at least 13 years since I've been in LA and at least 7 since I've seen you!)
DC: December 18th-20th (I should be totally incommunicado for most of Monday as I'll have just taken the red-eye in from LA.)
Tucson: December 21st-27th (Anyone in the area who is up for a round of yuletide cheer, well, you should shoot me an email!)

So, long story short, I'll be paying a rather exorbitant sum for "rent" when my apartment is really just a quasi-posh storage unit for all my crap for the next 5 weeks.

I hope everyone has a lovely holiday season--and one that is far less exhausting than mine is likely to be!

I'm pretty sure this is the cutest nephew anyone ever had.

Just look at all that fabulous, cross-eyed baby goodness!

A Melange o' Foreign Cinema

Upon walking into some class or other when I was in grad school, I remember hearing a classmate complaining that his roommate was under the mistaken notion that, if the film was foreign, it had to be good. And so, said classmate apparently spent a fair ammount of time avoiding his own living room after his roommate's hit-or-miss visits to Casa Video. And it's true-- while bad foreign films do not always play by the same rules as bad domestic films, they can be oh-so-bad, just the same. And then, there are always the little gems that keep drawing me back into that lonely aisle...

Really, I don't have much to say about any of these that I've been watching lately so, in lieu of directional thumbs, I'm offering brief "yeas" and "nays" on my recent viewings.

First something French: Novo: Nay
OK, so, this wasn't exactly my cup of Cafe Au Lait. The basic storyline goes something like this: random beautiful women take advantage of a handsome guy who's lost his memory by having lots of sex with him. And he sorta, maybe, falls in love with one of them. But he can't really remember. I don't know-- the whole thing just didn't make much sense to me. The guy was kinda cute and all... by why are all these women aflutter, exactly? And what was the deal with his wife? I don't know. I'll entertain the possibility that I just wasn't paying enough attention... but I'll also entertain an alternative possibility that the storytelling was just plain old sub-par.

And now, two Italian pieces:
First, Don't Tell: Yea, with reservations due to lack of ingenuity in terms of approach:
This movie was up for the foreign language Academy Award a couple of years ago, I guess. And it's a well-shot little movie about a father sexually abusing his kids. Perhaps I've been watching too much of this sort of thing, but it all felt like so much re-tread, only in Italian this time around. It's a nice little film but doesn't have the impact of something like Mysterious Skin and it certainly isn't the sucker-punch of Hard Candy.

And then, Don't Move: Yea, for the most part
Actually, by the time this movie wound it's way around itself, it won me over. They sure managed to ugly up poor Penelope Cruz-- but it's worth it: she is a ravaged woman. But the most interesting thing to note is that Cruz's character gets raped early on in the movie. And then she procedes to fall in love with her rapist. And he with her. This is a concept that gives me the willies all over the place. And it's the primary reason why I ended up giving this movie a "yea".

And from South Africa, Tsotsi, of course: a quiet Yea
This is a very simple story and it's well-shot and well-told. "Tsotsi" means "thug" in Afrikaans and noting the American cultural infiltration in even this most distant of locales is unavoidable. This thing won the Best Foreign Film statuette last year-- the same year that the Turkish Head-on (Gagen Die Wand) came out. As Head-on wasn't even nominated, I don't suppose Tsotsi was such a bad choice. But it's safe and rather unadventurous in both its plot and treatment. Seriously, though, if you can get your hands on Head-on, rent it. It's one of the best, most complex, sexy, engaging, gravitationally tumbling movies I've seen in ages.

What remains

I feel I can safely say that the image of contemporary California held in the public consciousness has little to do with old Hollywood westerns. I mean, with the shopping malls, and Clueless, and the beach-dwellers of The O.C.... well, they're just not all that Clint Eastwood-y anymore, you know? But the romance with the Manifest Destiny, the old West-- and its denizen, the bow-legged cowboy, is still alive, isn't it? Or at least I would be led to believe so by the likes of Deadwood (which I gather is an original and smart take on the topic, though I haven't seen it and can't really comment upon it even remotely-- damn, HBO is pricy in these parts!). But then along comes a movie like Down in the Valley-- which is a sharp, eagle-eyed look at the stinking corpse of this very romance.

In the accompanying materials on the DVD, there was a rather elucidating Q&A session with Ed Norton, the star/producer and David Jacobson, the director, in which Norton recounts a conversation he had with Jacobson early on in production in which Jacobson said something along the lines of, "I'm not interested in the sociological, I'm interested in the psychological." Norton, himself, is clearly more interested in the sociological implications of this movie--as am I, of course-- but it's interesting that the director denies that they were even a consideration for him. Because, if it's nothing else, this is a movie about community and context. And those who intrude thereupon.

Basically, it's a movie about a teenage girl so wrapped up in her sultry San Fernando Valley ennui that she sets out to entangle herself with a self-deluded cowboy in the guise of the ever-adorable Ed Norton. OK, so this is an actor who is never good-looking that we could consider him a sex symbol and yet he has so much on-screen charm, intelligence, affability, and, well, muscly arms that his appeal is undeniable. And Evan Rachel Wood--well, I have yet to see this girl in something wherein she hasn't been shockingly good. I mean, her features are delicate and childish and yet she's got this complicated vulnerability/ferocity that makes me really glad that a pretty blonde teenager can still get taken seriously in Hollywood. And though both of their characters have loose-cannon tendencies, she is really the one calling the shots in this story-- and she's also the one who evolves the most.

And I suppose (because I'm me and I always talk about this stuff) I'll address the issue of a teenage girl/grown man sex: Yes, it happens. Yes, it's appropriate to the story. It's only interesting in this case because it's yet another example of the so-called impressionable young girl employing her own sexual agency-- she chooses this man and makes him fall in love with her, makes him desire her. There is no way in hell someone could interpret this situation as one in which he takes advantage of her. If anything, it's the other way around. But, for once, in this case, their intimate interactions aren't so interesting to me when there is iconic Americana at stake.

I, unlike the director, am much more interested in what's happening in this little San Fernando Valley than I am in what's happening inside the heads of these folks. Given, their despair, their malaise... it's palpable. But what happens when that old image of the lone wolf cowboy find himself caught up in this family on the verge of splitting at its seams? And if this cowboy seems to maintain that particular and peculiar variety of innocence that is destructive in its very ignorance, well, he is somehow simultaneously both very American and very out of touch with American people. And what is there to do with a vision of America that we can neither live up to nor live down? Well, if this movie is any sort of example, we treat it as an aberration and then we destroy it.

And, I know, it's hard to talk about cowboys these days without bringing up our shit-kickin' president-- or at least, it's hard for me to think about the word "cowboy" without also calling up his very visage. But this movie isn't about the war, or global vigilantism. It quieter and smaller and about a girl who loves a man who is at odds with his community-- because (spoiler alert)we learn he not so much the outsider that he purports to be. He is both huckster and victim-- and what makes this movie so great is that he exists so fully in that paradox.

This movie is in love with its smoggy, dusky landscape... and its blanched California faces. And, truly, it's a rank, sunbleached, old cadavre of a western-- but an engaging, thoughtful, wrenching chapter in that story that's as old as American pioneerism.

Of all the red letters today...

By the time anyone reads this, it's going to be very old news that Rumsfeld is stepping down (at last, at very long last), but I thought the occasion should be marked. These must be the groanings of this very heavy ship, eh?

For the record

Over two weeks ago, I faxed a request for an absentee ballot to the office of the voting commissioner in the state of Tennessee. As I haven't had time since moving here to register in Virginia, and I was still registered in Tennessee, my intention was to cast my liberal vote for Harold Ford (the homophobe Democrat from my home state), as opposed to casting it for Jim Webb (the sexist "former" Republican from my new state of residence). Anyway, the deadline for ballot requests was October 31st. I was well in advance of this deadline. I even called in and received confirmation that my faxed request had indeed been recieved. Did I ever actually receive my absentee ballot? Oh, c'mon, folks. You saw this coming.

Nope. My mailbox has seen hide nor hair if the elusive absentee ballot.

And so, for reasons I'm trying not to assume are conspiratorial, it appears my voice (and my button-pushing finger) will not be heard ringing endorsements for either of the dubiously liberal candidates in any polling location. But if anyone out there reading is a registered voter, please! Don't forget how today works. It's just the best chance we've got to begin the slow mechanism that'll turn the mighty ship. And turn it must.

I know it when I see it

Jon and I also went to see Shortbus last weekend. We found a fabulous independent movie theatre in downtown DC-- all by our non-native selves, thank you very much. I was struck, however, by the distinctive crowd that this particular film elicited on its opening weekend, though it was, of course, Sunday night. It was showing in a rather small theatre that seated maybe 65 or so-- and besides Jon and I, there was, I think, only one other male/female pair. Everyone else was part of a duo or trio of gay men. This is not so odd, I don't suppose-- the director, John Cameron Mitchell, also directed Hedwig and the Angry Inch-- a "delightful romp" about a tranny who had her sex change botched (hence, the, um, remaining inch was... angry). Now, I really and truly loved Hedwig when I saw it a couple of years ago. It's a heartfelt send-up of drag culture and also a raw and rebellious tearing-apart thereof. Mitchell himself stars as Hedwig and, legend has it, when this story was just a little crazy off-Broadway play, it sent shockwaves through the Village when Mitchell tore off his girly get-up and sweated and sobbed off his make-up-- thus breaking the illusion of the female-- with a spitting sort of rage. And this is a moment rather like the magician telling the secrets of his tricks-- it Just Isn't Done. But frankly, I think it's a genius movie-- it sparkles itself bare! But, anyway, Mitchell's known for gay-themed filmmaking... hence the audience. But entering that theatre was a moment in which I was self-consciously, outwardly heterosexual. Is it strange that I felt left out of a club of which I'm technically a member? Oh, well...I could really spend all day writing a post in which I break down the weirdness and political ramifications of my own sexual identity--in which I unpack my frustrations about how I can't even think about my own amorphous orientation without conceptualizing it in a socio-political context.... But I'd never get around to talking about Shortbus ...and I've already bored myself with the notion of launching into such a diatribe... so, instead, let's talk about something else:

OK, so I have to acknowledge that this movie has real sex in it. Lots of it. In every position you can think of. With every sort of grouping of humans you can think of. Nary a scene goes by without a tit or a dick. But it's not porn. Mitchell's published enough excuses in various venues that I'll leave it to you to google all about it. I'll just say that I buy his argument- I don't think this movie is pornographic at all-- but not really for the same reasons as our director. What I mean is this movie is just so goofy and celebratory in its kinkiness that it just winds up presenting varied and multitudinous sex as so much wholesome fun. And really... well... three cheers for John Cameron Mitchell!

But there are a couple of things I want to note in particular: There's a scene in the beginning where our protagonist, a hetero female sex therapist who is "pre-orgasmic", has a discussion with a big queen named Justin about all the young crazies in New York. She asks why so many are moving there when it's so notoriously expensive to live in The City. And he says "It's 9/11. It's the only real thing that's ever happened to them." Gut-punch, right? And another reference to the same thing: there is much panning over an animated landscape of New York in this movie. At one point, the camera pans over a mess of purply brown paint... it's amorphous and you don't recognize the animated representation until the paint turns into the real thing... the pale concrete hole. Ground Zero. And then the camera moves on and we're in the apartment of some young brat who's making inappropriate small talk with his dominatrix and then allowing his cum to land smack dab in the middle of Jackson Pollock (sigh). It's like everyone's running around having "post"-AIDS era giddy sex... but the anxiety is still there. It's just focused in a different direction. This thing? This atrocity... folks, our generation is never gonna be able to mention New York City without its specter, are we? And Mitchell's suggestion for coping appears to be "Let's all fuck like crazy in what was once the shadow of towers." And that's great and all... but isn't there something else? Something more to be done?

And then there's the matter of the sex therapist who can't get off. Ha ha. Old joke. But even if it weren't, I think I'd still feel a little funny about why a gay man would choose to place this primarily female problem front and center in his story. Let's face it... ruling out extreme old age and all of the diseases listed in the Levitra ads, it's not that hard to give a guy an orgasm. And women are notoriously trickier. And this concept of the female orgasm (wow, I'm really writing a post of female orgasms???) is a thing that alternately grants women undue power or puts them at a distinct disadvantage. Whether a woman's lack of ability to come renders the man inadequate or the woman (oh, how I hate the term) frigid, it's CENTRAL to the heterosexual power dynamic. And in the hands of Mitchell, Sophia's dilemma is Romanticized in this way that, from where I sit, displays little understanding of the anxiety that would inevitably accompany the problem at hand. He never really delves deep enough to enlighten the audience as to the actual source-- whether it be physiological or psychological-- of a situation that is doubtlessly abstract and distant from Mitchell's own frame of reference-- and his lack of heterosexual experience shows here. And this isn't to say that Sophia's anxiety isn't a palpable presence in the movie-- it's just that she spends a lot of time spinning her wheels (or, maybe, more accurately, poking her wheels with a vibrator) and then she sorta happens to eventually blunder into an orgasm. And this, like everything else, has a context that's bigger than Sophia, bigger than her relationship with her husband (poor sap) and Mitchell displays little awareness that female orgasm is a kinda (oh, forgive me) hot-button issue for those who think along feminist lines. Basically, I didn't buy the discussion as an authentic one. He doesn't GET Sophia... and so, neither do I.

All of this is not to say, though, that I didn't enjoy the experience of this movie. It's really very funny (Justin, the queen, sings a ridiculous song entitled "We All Get it in the End" (Ha! Puns galore!) and as Jim Ridley puts it, "when a man can still sing the national anthem into another man's asshole, the terrorists haven't won") and it does a little of that subversive cuteness thing I've talked about before. But the best thing about this movie is that not a single character, not even Sophia, whose sexuality is clearly in crisis, expresses the slightest under-the-hat, up-the-sleeve prudishness. The movie really believes that good clean, multifarious, exploratory, wild, passionate, gentle, inclusive, orgiastic sex is the answer to all the ills of the world. It's a lovely thought, really. Who's with me? Who's up for trying?

Even Sophia can't save the vapid.

Huh... look at that... I haven't posted in some time! No excuses. Sometimes, that's just how it is.

So, anyway, Jon was in town last weekend! Yay! That was fun... We had a delightful, yet crude, hit-or-miss driving tour of important DC buildings (and the Ikea store)and he put up with me exploring the dark and mysterious Georgetown Mall... and we got to see some movies in an actual theatre!

And I'd been really excited about seeing Marie Antoinette... every other Sophia Coppola effort I've seen has been understated and sardonic without, necessarily, undercutting its own Romanticism. I've found this an appealing mix. And really, I feel like poor Sophia did all she could with this movie. She plugs stridently though, applying a lithely ironic hand, now and again, to a story that is about as rapturous as the Paris Hilton: E! True Hollywood Story. Truly, it's a gorgeously shot, very well-propped little piece of French pastry... but how interesting can two hours of eating eclairs, trying on pink shoes and wondering when the Dauphin (a chubby and un-sexy Jason Schwartzman (Louis XVI was Jewish?)) is gonna finally get down to business with a (not particularly virginal) Kirsten Dunst really get? I wanted to really love this movie-- I wanted to find in it some discussion of the culture that could create a person who was on the tip of every French tongue, and yet, knew so little about the very realm she ruled. But it wasn't there.

If I'm going to give this movie the benefit of the doubt, I'll have to consider that it might be a veiled indictment of this headcold of celebrity adulation that seems to be going around these days... but, really, that doesn't help the fact that our dear departed, beheaded queen of France led a deeply, deeply boring life-- up until the last 3 minutes of this movie, anyway. And a boring life doesn't necessarily lead to a boring movie-- but, alas, this one sure did. I'll equate it with, perhaps, Ellie Parker on my bore-ificense scale. Sorry, Ms. Coppola... try applying your zesty New Wave soundtrack to your more intriguing lower-budget fair, why dontcha?

How far we've come, Princess Buttercup

So who among us, upon the release of The Princess Bride, could ever imagine the type of actress Robin Wright (Penn) would become? She was beautiful and tan and not particularly notable for being anything other than beautiful and tan. And now? All hooked up with Sean Penn, El Senor Hollywood Political Rabblerouser? And she's no longer so beautiful-- attractive in a brittle, fury-filled sort of way, sure, but certainly no longer the translucent and glittery princess.

And now, she makes movies like Sorry Haters. I saw a couple of previews for this movie on some other DVDs I'd rented recently but otherwise, I'd never heard of it. And why it hasn't gotten more attention is beyond me. Truly, this is what movie-making should aspire to. It's provocative and tough and mysterious... and it's Robin Wright Penn all the way down to her grown-out roots!

I can't even begin to offer a plot summary here as this is a movie that can only reveal itself as it's being told. But I can say that it touches on some momentous cultural hotpoints-- and is therefore, a delicious compliment to Paradise Now, which I also watched this past weekend. At its heart, Sorry Haters is a movie about the psychological repercussions of two women who were once friends but can no longer be so once they find themselves in different socio-economic strata. But that's not what makes this movie provocative and tough and mysterious. This movie is also about nostalgia for 9/11.

The idea that there are those among us who pine for the camaraderie, the victimhood, the nationalistic fervor that followed the terrorist attacks of that day is an idea so fucked up that it pushes me to the verge of vomiting, I swear. Regardless, this is a sentiment that I know exists. We liberals find it hard to believe but in the weeks following 9/11, President Bush had an approval rating of over 90%. That means that a ginormous portion of left-leaning Americans thought Bush's "We're gonna smoke 'im out" mentality was on the right track. I remember sitting on the floor in front of my TV, in a little shithole apartment in Tucson where the ghetto-birds (surveillance helicopters, for those not familiar with Tucson law enforcement) scanned my backyard nightly, sobbing and asking my then-girlfriend why no one was stopping to ask why these folks, half a world away, were so fucking pissed at us Americans, with our SUVs and our functional plumbing and our cheap $1.50/gal gas and our "democracy is right" moral superiority. I am NOT nostalgic. I am disgusted and ashamed that nary a single fucking American politician paused; took a moment to empathize with these angry men; thought, for even a split-second, whether their anger was justified--even a little. And so, this character that Robin Wright Penn plays? Man, do I hate her. I hate her for her extreme self-involvement. I hate her for her myopia. I hate her because she is every bit the self-satisfied, smug American that I am. I hate that she hates herself for all the wrong reasons. And most especially, I hate her because the evil which she perpetrates over the course of the story could so easily be discounted as psychosis-- as everyday, pedestrian insanity.

I maintain that there is something wrong with us--wrong with this country--if we've managed to cast ourselves in the role of "victim" here without ever being held truly accountable for all the evil we perpetrate out there-- out there around this globe-- because I know that someone out there will relate to this woman and cheer her on. And that someone won't be the *only* someone.

And so, quite simply, I cannot offer any sort of rational analysis of this movie. I can only imagine that Robin Wright Penn chose this role because she knew this movie would inspire impassioned responses-- from WHOEVER sees it-- fashioned from an incredibly broad spectrum of opinions. And therefore, this role might be the biggest risk she's taken to date-- and that's only in part because the movie doesn't even begin to take sides. In fact, it doesn't even offer clear-cut "sides!" What I mean is, if you sat 15 people in front of a screen and played this movie, they'd have 15 different arguments that they could make and support based on the content here alone.

And so, dear readers, I implore you: rent Sorry Haters. This story is an important square in the patchwork of the post-9/11 American thought process. It's meaningful in this way few pieces of American cinema can live up to. And no one's ever heard of this movie-- when it should be on the tip of EVERYONE'S tongue. In the end, it's the sort of film that gives me hope that artistic endeavor DOES still have SOME FUCKING RELEVANCE! C'mon, guys-- my paltry few-- don't let me down... see this thing!

And now for a cigarette

Occasionaly, even I need a break from kinky movies about sexual politics.

I wasn't sure I wanted to see Paradise Now when I first began seeing trailers in the theatres last spring. This sort of movie, in which Middle Eastern Muslims are protagonists, generally get me as stirred up as left-leaning documentaries. And now that I've seen it, I feel that this movie should be required viewing for all Americans-- just like I said about Who Killed the Electric Car?.

This is a movie about two guys who are Palenstinian would-be suicide bombers. If a movie like this can engender even the slightest sense of empathy in an American audience, we might be able to turn this country in another direction... a direction that points away from this retarded succubus of a war that we've got on our hands right now.

If you think all the suicide bombers must be lunatics, must be irrational religious zealots, must not give two shits for their families or those of whom they take down with them, must not have brains in their heads...well, then this movie will provide the perspective adjustment that you need. They are not going out with bombs strapped to their bellies in a vaccuum...or for no reason... or just to be mean. There is a cultural contexts that creates these guys.

But that said, there's not much analysis I can offer of a movie like this because, frankly, I'm too invested. Rent it. Seriously. Like I said, it should be required.

more complicated than butterscotch, spicier than cinnamon discs

And then there's Hard Candy. I watched this movie on Friday night and have spent all weekend trying to wrap my head around how I feel about it. Part of my reluctance to have an opinion comes out of the feeling that I got from this movie that the filmmakers were very invested in having the audience take sides. To explain that, I have to offer a little summary: basically, this man and a 14-year-old girl are chatting on the internet and decide to meet up for coffee... they wind up at his place and just when he thinks he's gonna get her drunk and fuck her, or take pictures of her, or whatever...she drugs him and unleashes several hours of vigilante-style torture on his ass. Now, I spent a long post rambling on about how I'm filled with dismay at the fear-mongering regarding internet predators that's been going on within the cultural discourse (in particular, as it pertains to Dateline). And, of course, before I go too deep, I feel the need to disavow any notion that I might be condoning molestation of children-- but dammit, 14-year-olds have more agency than 8-year-olds. 14-year-olds are mid- or post-pubescent people with sexual identities that younger kids lack. And yeah, 14-year-olds generally lack judgement and experience, but this insistence that they're still completely child-like is preposterous. This is part of why the whole Mark Foley business just pisses me off. I mean, here's a grand opportunity to begin a discussion about what's amiss in a culture which posits heavily sexualized teenagers in every media venue imaginable and then relishes in smearing a guy who, after a lifetime of being exposed to this sort of pervasive message, thinks, well, yeah, 16-year-old guys ARE sexy. But no, it's easier--and more politically advantageous for Democrats, since Foley happens to be Republican, to reduce to his actions as symptomatic of a Republican-centric "culture of corruption" instead of a nation-wide one. Or maybe we're not all corrupted, but we are certainly conflicted about teenage sexuality. I mean,does it exist? (um, yeah, of course it does) Why, then, are we creeped out by the idea of a 30 year-old-guy and a 16-year-old girl having sex? (I don't rightly know...) Is it wrong to promote that teenage sexuality in a capitalist, consumerist forum (hmmm.. maybe... would take more intelectual discourse than is acceptable in a political arena to find an answer, probably) Is it the fault of the media that adults are sexually attracted to people who are arbitrarily deemed "minors?" ( hmmm...maybe... this might venture dangerously close to the discussion about whether or not the media is as fault for perpetuating eating disorders and negative body images, so it's best if we leave that alone too.)But this is a huge digression. I really do want to talk about some other issues in this movie.

I could also launch into a train of thought that begins with Little Red Ridinghood, wanders through Lolita, makes a detour into Freeway, and then winds up somewhere in this movie but instead, I think I'll go somewhere else.

So, back on track: Ellen Page, the actress playing "Hayley," our antihero, certainly has an on-screen sexual presence. This is undeniable. She has a near-perfectly symmetrical little elfin face with a swollen mouth and enormous liquidy eyes. Her body is lithe and muscular, and even though she's tiny, she's anything but delicate. Her hair is cropped very short-- but I can't imagine that longer hair would do anything to disguise the fact that she has a noteable "butch-ness" about her. And Patrick Wilson, the guy playing the anti-villain, is an awfully cute guy as well. And so, there is a very complicated sexual chemistry between these two. On one hand she's playing coquettish gender-bender... she compliments his body, she flirts, she is consummately provocative... and yet, I can't help but think she's exactly the sort of girl I've always been attracted to... the ones that made guys uncomfortable because they don't even attempt to put on the Feminity Show. And then, the matter of his also being so good-looking also messes with the collective head of the audience, in that, he's so much the type that fills your average teenage girl's head when she's practicing kissing her pillow (do I mean "kissing her pillow" to be code for "masturbating?" Probably.) So, basically, here we have two folks matched up in an adversarial context, who get through life propelled by the sexuality they each wear on their respective sleeves. In the "special features," there was some discussion about the casting of Ellen Page in this role. Apparently, she won the part because she reads as both intelligent and vulnerable on screen-- and she does. But it's like all these men-- the director, the producer, the writer-- didn't want to talk about the fact that they cast her because she's 14-- and she LOOKS 14-- and she's also sexy as hell. They did talk about how they wanted Patrick Wilson to be sympathetic, not a monster (a la Humbert Humbert?)... but they failed to mention that they'd cast an actress who was anything but innocent. And so, these two vibrate off of each other in this completely unnerving way.

Now, as I mentioned before, I think this movie would be easier to watch if you were more willing to take sides. If, perhaps, you think men lusting after teenage girls is tantamount to rape, perhaps you'd let Hayley's anger fuel your own. If, perhaps, you think having a little brat castrate a man and drive him to suicide (oops, spoiler)is spot too extreme, you'll land on the side of Jeff. But I don't want to take sides. I don't think I can figure out a psychologically plausible explanation for Hayley's actions in any real-world scenario. Maybe that's because those actions were written by a man-- I find it to be a real stretch to imagine this girl as anything other than an incarnation of a twisted psycho-sexual revenge fantasy, a limited figment of a male imagination. And Jeff is really just another Humbert Humbert who is sympathetic only because he's so crippled by his own desires that he can't admit to himself that he's a predator. And who doesn't love a sexy self-deluded sad sack, really? Just for the sake of argument, I'd really love to see this sort of subject matter in the hands of women writers and directors. I'd hate to see Hayley and Jeff fall into a more predictable victim/violator relationship but I can't take sides between two characters who never really develop themselves beyond two flipsides of male fantasies. Hayley is the worst fear and the biggest S&M-driven wet dream of plenty of guys. Jeff is the predator rendered human by someone who is reticent to indict all men with the fell swoop of one such character. They, in the end, are just so many more chess pieces in the sexual politics game. And ones that fall short of realism, I think.

It's either this or shopping

I've never been one to make friends all that quickly. Despite a fairly contrived bravado, I'm both very shy and a devoted loner. The close friends that I do have are basically people who have not been put off by the fact that, once I've targeted them as having friendship potential, I want to know all their most intimate details... and likewise, dump all of mine upon them--in rapid succession. And then I incorporate, like so much flour into the batter, that little handful of people into my life-long menagerie. If one happens to get away for some reason or other, I mourn them terribly. From what I understand, the enneagram essays on the internet all tell me this is pretty much textbook behavior for 5s with a sexual variant. That said, it means that developing a circle in a new city is slow-going. And, really, I can't say I terribly mind having some time every weekend to not having other people's voices barging into my head space.

But all of that is just to say that, I've been trying very hard to head off the enormous temptation to drive into Georgetown and wear myself out shopping up and down M Street. The shoes...the clothes...the cosmetics...the spas...the houseware stores... I'm not really all that discriminating, am I? And so, I've rented more movies than I can really properly process.

First up is Between Your Legs (Entre Las Piernas), starring the very handsome Javier Bardem and Victoria Abril (the same chick who was in Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, the movie with which I attempted to torture the most freakish of all my college roommates (alas, she did not leave)). This is basically a stylish little thriller and some of the characters are incidentally sex addicts. The back cover threatened far more sex than was actually in this movie-- and I think whoever wrote it for American release got a little confused because it attributes some actions to one guy... when, in actuality, a completely incidental character in the movie acted out those moments. An easy mistake perhaps, as there are several men in this movie who all have the most typically Spanish--handsome--faces. In other words, everyone looks so much alike, it's easy to mix people up. All in all, the compulsive behavior of the characters-- which is a rich mine to plumb, generally-- is kinda neglected as subject matter from the halfway point on. And up until that halfway point, I wasn't aware that there was a murder mystery patiently awaiting to be addressed! All in all, the look was interesting. The actors were sexy in their European imperfections. Bardem's shirts were beautifully colored, beautifully tailored and beautifully worn. And stylistically, the director (Manuel Gomex Pereira) gave it the college try, but the script was so Swiss-cheesy that it didn't really stand a chance.

'Tis going to be a very long post if I talk about all the movies I've been watching lately so I'm going to split it up a little. Perhaps shorter posts won't overwhelm the readers that exist in my little blogofantasy.

Justice for our "Rabbi Punkmann"

On this, the morning after the Project Runway finale, I'm pleased to note that justice has been served. For all of us who were once Michael fans, do we not all feel a little let down with this collection that walked right out of the Bebe store window? And Laura-- as I see her (and posted on Damon's blog--but I think I'm so clever that I'll repeat it here), she's just Ann-Taylor-Goes-to-Vegas-but-Keeps-Her-Knickers-On. She had a couple cute pieces, but overall? *yawn* And! A redhead should know to never dress a redhead model in head-to-toe camel. That little turtleneck dress wasn't awful but it sure looked like it was on that pale, knobby-kneed little girl! Uli's venturing away from the loud chiffon halter dress were actually pretty successful. Her foray into sportswear was pretty great... except I wasn't crazy about the silver/gold conservative color palate there. Still, shapes and structure were an improvement.

Oh, but Jeffrey! Obviously, he's the best craftsman in the bunch-- despite the very contrived editing of the second-to-last show which had Laura questioning it. And hooray for a designer who sees clothes, not as functional garments but as a venue for his artistic expression. His line was beautifully made and ingenious... but loony and silly and cute and twisted and sexy and complicated. True, I wouldn't wear much of it-- but I sure like to watch other people do so! I maintain that Jeffrey, Michael and Alison were the best designers of the bunch. I think Jeffrey's line was just in another echelon from Michael's. And it's really just a shame that the producers decided to keep Vincent around past the expiration date on his Paxil simply so he could kavetch and get artistic erections for another couple of episodes. I would really have liked to have seen just what Alison could do. Perhaps she could have given Jeffrey the run for his money that the other three in the top 4 failed to do. Because, in the end, there was no contest.

Love Song for Noah

Noah was my first Valentine from Michelle. We'd just moved in together and I was missing my parents' Springer Boudreaux somethin' feirce. We saw the ad in the paper. We said decided we shouldn't get a puppy. We decided we should visit the Springer breeder "just to look." We decided we wanted a liver-and-white female. I picked up the prettiest pup in the box (a black-and-white male) and it was a done deal. He was all fat and bloated b/c the breeder was feeding him crappy Wal-Mart food and he farted the whole way home. We thought he had a wad of food glued into the fur on the top of his head, but upon his innaugural bath, we discovered that, no, the hair just grew in the wrong direction-- he had a dorsal fin. We registered his name with the AKC as "Noah's Little Orca."

Since then, that dog and I have been obsessed with each other night and day. He is my lap blanket who smells like corn chips, the best damn dog I could ever have asked for, my love and my constant.

When Michelle and I split up, we had an agreement that anything that was a gift belonged the reciever, not the giver. But Noah wasn't really part of that deal-- he was always my dog, no matter what.

However.

I now have a job that requires me to be away from home an average of 11 hours a day.

However.

Noah has never been completely alone-- there was always another dog or Michelle or me or one of my retired parents around to keep him company. As a result, as I discovered when my dad drove him here to DC last weekend, he emits a non-stop stream of high-pitched, panicked barking when left alone for longer than 15 minutes. I learned this second-hand from my neighbors (who were, understandably, on the verge of creating a lynchmob or calling the cops on his neurotic ass) on the one night Fred and I went out to dinner.

However.

My new schmancy job requires me to go to Hawaii for a week (a week that, coincidentally coinicides (ha! redundant!) with my 30th birthday) in December, and, upon study of the going rates for dog boarding around here, I discovered that I would fork over nearly twice my (already quite pricey) rent in order to keep him someplace safe in my absense.

And so.

I've sent my drooly-mouthed, sheddin' bastard, floppy, spazzy, mush-face of a schmog back home to stay with my parents-- who dote on him with ridiculous frequency, who have a dog of there own who lives to wrassle-- so that he can be safe and happy.

I can't help but feel I'm letting him down. I can't help but feel terribly lonely here in this city of strangers. I can't help but feel guilty no matter what choice I'd made.

This is the crappiest week I've had since I moved here. So far.

(Oh, I miss you so, my Peanutio P.!)

What's intended to be quick thoughts (we'll see how it pans out)

Barack Obama for President:

Over the past week, I've been hearing his name more and more (finally someone other than the junior senator from New York who may as well get a target tattooed on her forehead)and, really, what's holding this guy back? His reputation is spotless. From all accounts, he--so far-- purports to be an ACTUAL liberal. He's a dynamic speaker. He's handsome. He's genuine. He's got a charming folksy background story. Someone, please, find a fault! Or no, wait, don't. Let him stay perfect. If he and Jon Stewart were to have a baby, I think I'd marry it (given that it had Jon Stewart's hair-- the African American hair genes would not mix well with my Crazy Jew Hair genes, I'm very sorry to say).

Except that I'd hate to see him become a target like Hillary. And I'd hate to see him compromise his "liberal-ness" towards that pansy-ass notion of "The Moderate." I don't want a moderate in office, dammit! I want an actual goddamn liberal who will refuse to alienate his core constituency by cow-towing to the retarded--uh, religious--right!

Ford/Corker

Hey, what do you know? The Tennessee senate race is getting plenty o' press here in DC! Now, as anyone reading Jon's blog knows, I ain't no huge Ford fan... But man-o-man, if they can stir up enough publicity, he's sure a better bet than Bob "I'm More Republican-y Than You" Corker! However, Green Party, you are a tempting mistress indeed.

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip

Is this show too good to be true? I mean, here's a show, on a major network station, that is consistently-- and accurately--critical of its very own network? It's smart, sexy, literate, and full of heart--not to mention, pointedly self-reflective. I mean, I don't get HBO. If I wanna get hooked on Deadwood, I'd have to fork over another $30 towards my already exorbitant cable bill... or rent it at Blockbuster. I'm not eager to do either, really. So, this is just to say, thank you, Aaron Sorkin, thank you NBC honchos-- for appreciating that not every member of your audience wants to watch "molesters" be badgered by a dickhead "news reporter" (see post re: Dateline: To Catch a Predator).

I hate women?

A couple of years ago, I flinched all through Lars Von Trier's Dogville, the opening item in his would-be trilogy which also includes the more recent Manderlay. Last I read, there were no plans to make the third movie. I'm not sure if it even got written. But anyway, I had really no inclination to put myself through a viewing of Manderlay because Dogville was so uncomfortable. In theory, these movies are interesting, with their minimalist style-- the set it basically a black stage with taped-off lines that delineate various buildings and structures. But Von Trier has this thing about putting a woman, the best intentioned, most innocent, good-hearted sort of woman, in a situation in which she is bludgeoned psychologically and physically, in which she is raped, beaten, abused, demoralized-- until the very end, that is, when she is given an opportunity to exact her revenge. And she takes it. With a great show of pyrotechnics and gleeful cruelty. And so, I rented Dancer in the Dark hoping it wouldn't be so much of the same scenario, hoping to avoid when I knew awaited me in Manderlay. Now, I know this movie is old news, in many ways-- but,I mean, it's a musical with a hanging in it? A musical starring Bjork? But, true enough, it's been out already for 6 years already.

But, really, I think it's just like Dogville without the revenge sequence at the end. I mean, Bjork plays this woman who is just about the sweetest, most cherubic, most sympathetic woman ever written-- she's an immigrant factory worker who is going blind and trying to save money for her son to have an operation that will prevent him from going blind too. And she occupies Bjork's little body, in all her subversively cute glory. And she sings and dances to the rhythm of the factory machines... but then Von Trier decides he needs to destroy her so he has her landlord steal all her savings, accuse her of stealing from him, and then frame her for his own suicide. She is sentenced to death, but is still singing away when the floor drops out from under her.

Now, I know part of what Von Trier is getting at in this movie as well as Dogville and Manderlay is that he's issuing forth an indictment on American greed and the way America treats innocents and "the good." In Dogville, a woman who desires to flagellate herself for leading a sexually,um, shall we say, exploratory life gets her wish-- and then some. I gather from reviews that Manderlay regards a white woman who is trying to break down the only remaining American town in which blacks are still enslaved-- but winds up being enslaved herself-- and here's Dancer in the Dark in which an immigrant woman gets beaten down, and her image of -- what?-- the American Dream? gets shot down and trampled upon in a distinctly unpleasant manner. So, I get that part-- all the American idealism gets corrupted by puritanicalism, by greed and revenge, by simple hubris... and everyone loves a scapegoat. I got it. All very interesting swampy stuff in which I could muck around for some time.

However, I think there's something else that bothers me about the stories Von Trier insists on telling-- or, rather, the aspects of the story on which he insists upon dwelling. The larger portion of Dogville is spent explicating and relishing a very long, drawn-out drawing-and-quartering and ritualistic raping of Nicole Kidman (who Jen tells me she saw in Wild Oats buying sushi yesterday afternoon, by the way). And, yeah, I sat through the whole thing-- though barely-- with a deepening furrow in my brow. I couldn't help but feel like Von Trier was exacting a queer sadistic joy from watching-- and, in fact, being the one calling the shots-- while this beautiful woman was, at long length, sent to her ruin. And...I couldn't help but feel that me, the viewer, was meant to partake in this kinky voyeuristic joy. In reality, I got bored first and then, as it dragged on and out, I got depressed. And yet I kept watching? I mean, I suppose sticking it out 'til the end has its payoff in that I was glad when Kidman's character obliterated the entire population of the town of Dogville-- or at least I was in theory. Were it less stylized and allegorical, I'm pretty sure I would have been horrified at such an ending. But does the fact that I didn't turn this DVD off make me feel complicit in Von Trier's obsessions and games? You bet! And I don't much care for that feeling, in this context.

And, I think Dancer in the Dark pulls a lot of the same tricks. I mean, how deep are the depths to which we'll follow this complete victim of a woman until we lose sympathy for her? Is that, perhaps, what Von Trier is attempting to test? And why can't I get it out of my head that, in this instance too, he's getting some off-kilter thrill out of setting up situations in which he gets to torture some chick? And then that he brushes off the fact that that's what he's doing by positing his audience's sympathies WITH her-- by making her so infallibly angelic?

What's most interesting to me the implications of the gut reactions I'm having with regard to his treatment of these girls is that his choices really undermine all that more obvious symbology that I talked about in the paragraph before the last one. I mean, if he's going to offer a critique of American culture in which he portrays all the wrongs perpetrated unto victims, why take such glee in showing us those very anti-Geneva-Convention maneuverings?

Oh, delicious, delicious, messes of the subconscious, perhaps? Something more calculated? I just don't know.

workplace ethics... already?

I took a big corporate job with a non-profit research organization. I did this, after taking 3 years to complete an MFA in creative writing, instead of pursuing my writing, teaching, publishing as is the frequent (though, certainly not required) trajectory of your average MFA grad. I did this because, by the end of my three years torturing myself for 3-10 hours a day in front of my laptop screen, trying to conjure or wrench free or elucidate or surgically remove poetic things from my little brain, because I had no intention of really trying to write seriously for publication again. "Writer's Block" is a pretty amorphous and dubious affliction. I never wanted to claim it as my own-- but, it's the most convenient term for the rampant demoralization, the miserable boredom-at-myself, the complete crippling of my artistic confidence that I felt while trying to compose what turned out to be a puny 25-page little manuscript.

Now, I don't think my manuscript totally sucks. There are moments when I approached my aspirations-- and there are moments that I think failed to get so close-- but, all in all, it's not the worst piece of junk out there... But the extreme discomfort I felt during my writing process-- the paralyzing fear of failing, of stepping into some political blindspot or other, of not being able to live up to various previous teachers' praises-- well, you might have gathered by this point in this post that writing had stopped being any fun for me at all. And so, I took this job, assuming that no one would ever ask me to write anything that wasn't informative or essayistic (I mean, I can write a mean research memo... and blogging doesn't count as I just plain don't edit this stuff) again.

But here I am, a month in, and my boss tells me that the state for which I'm working right now (which I won't mention b/c I don't know how deep our confidentiality goes around here yet) wants to commission "us" to write a 3rd-grade-reading-level piece of fiction for their assessment. First off, I've never been able to write fiction. I read a ton of fiction and I love it but constructing a character? A linear plot? I'm pretty sure my brain doesn't operate in that fashion. Even if my blockage weren't part of the picture, I just don't think in those terms. I can't get past the tearing apart of meaning, the breakdown of basic sentence structure, the minutia of poetry-writing. A bigger context? Even on a 3rd grade level, well, I just plain don't know how to do that. But my boss says, "Hey, you've got a writing degree... surely you can come up with something!"

And then she adds that, to fulfill the state's requests for diversity, that it should be about an African American child from the state in question. Now, this is where my real ethical quandary begins. Now, a good chunk of my manuscript is about coming to terms with being a white girl from the American South. I've thought long and hard about what that means and have found absolutely no alternative to owning that that's part of my identity. Acknowledging and attempting to understand my racial and socio-economic privalege has been an important part of my learning-to-be-grown-up process, and my writing process, too-- and NOT appropriating the story or diction or perspective of another race is pretty fundamental to my being able to sleep at night.

Now, in recent posts, I've talked about how interesting I find debates about authorial authenticity. I'm beyond reluctant to condemn or even question, really, anyone who attempts to step out of the bounds of his or her own narrow indentity and frame of reference in his or her writing--but I am loathe to do so myself. Partly, this is because I lack the chops. But, I feel this way, also in part, because I'm just not comfortable skirting this particular moral boundary. I've talked a lot about my fascination with transgressors of all stripes in this blog-- and I see writers like J.T. LeRoy-- or Laura Albert, his likely alterego-- as just so many more envelope-pushers. And, oh, I suppose they make me prickle to a degree-- but I also applaud their ability to break the rules and get famous for it. But I am not so audacious. Far from it.

So when put in a position in my workplace in which I'm asked to transgress my own ethical delineations, well, what the fuck am I supposed to do? Likely, I'm going to attempt to sidestep this issue as politely as possible. I'm not aiming to ruffle feathers just yet as I'm still very new around here. But I selling my soul just ain't where it's at, either. Ugh. This is what they get for hiring the artistic sort, right? So then, am I saying my conviction here is more important than my paycheck? Oh, god, how scared am I?

30

As of yesterday, I have two months left of my 20s.

30. I will be 30. 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30.

I lack the tools to comprehend this in full.

30.

jesus christ.

A weekend of sexual transgressions (something new and different)

Sadly, despite my doubtlessly compelling title for this post, I've been up to no such things. Would that I weren't so single, so new in town... So, yeah, pretty much, I spent all weekend watching movies with titles that the big lesbian check-out girl at the video store didn't want to read aloud.

First up, I Am A Sex Addict. I didn't know anything about this movie when I picked it up but I'm hopelessly in love with it. It's autobiographical-- and about the director/star's life story. He's this scrawny, rodent-y looking little guy-- totally unassuming and soft-spoken-- who composed this piece, ostensibly part of step 12, about his fetish for getting blowjobs from prostitutes. I found this movie funny and touching and wrenching and relatable in ways I don't want to talk about too much on a blog (dammit, we all have vices that border on addiction, right? Right?)... So, um, I'm just gonna say that it's well worth the rental and move on.

I also rented Lonesome Jim, Steve Buscemi's directorial debut. I'd wanted to see this one for a while, mostly because Steve Buscemi is a weird little bug-eyed Hollywood anomaly, now, isn't he? But, then, well, I had a week of new job ennui/typical insomnia, and I fell asleep about 20 minutes from the end. Yeah, I was bored through most of what I saw. Garden State did it better. The Moonlight Mile did it better--I definitely think Ellen Pompeo is sexier than Liv Tyler. And a million other comedies about loser guys who return home to have nervous breakdowns have done just as well if not better. I say that, mind you, without having gone to the trouble of rewinding to see what I missed at the end-- but like I said, I was bored. Why re-bore myself? Oh, and, it's one more movie in which I question the taste of a female character. Casey Affleck is a dork and a loser and is totally boring when he isn't being spiteful. Liv Tyler's character is at least cute and sweet-- and she keeps insisting that she thinks he's "great??!!!" What's wrong with her? Oh, yeah, that's right! She was written by some guy who is not likely to see such fantasies come to life unless he writes them and hires an Elf Queen to act it out. It's old, old, old. And tired! Don't make me bring up all the reasons I hated Sideways...

Then, The Libertine. What's to say? This movie got bad reviews. It's not THAT bad. But it's not particularly memorable, either. The woman who plays Johnny Depp's wife is great. Oh, and this: I've arrived, because of this movie, at the conclusion that both Freddie Kruger and Anya (in demon guise) from the Buffy TV show, had syphilis. I have deduced this because whoever did Johnny's make-up during the nose-rotting-away scenes must've modeled the look on those two. Who knew? Hmmm... I've never sat thru one of those Freddie Kruger movies, but I imagine it might cast a new light on his character if we suddenly all understood that he's nothing but a misunderstood STD carrier.

And now I come to Mysterious Skin, in which Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who I've praised (though not enough) in my post about Brick back in August, takes his blouse off a lot (as my friend Jason put it). I would like to throw this one up on a wall in comparison to The Heart is deceitful Above all Things. Here's movie in which a couple of kids are raped and fondled when they're eight years old and the course of their entire lives are determined by those events. One becomes completely asexual and is, like, scared to death of his own dick. The other, the blouseless JG-L, becomes a gay prostitute. JG-L is magnetic and lusty. One character (the bloomingly beautiful Michelle Trachtenburg (two Buffy references in one post?)) says something to the effect that "where most people have a heart Neil (JG-L) has a big black hole that will suck you in." I would argue that this isn't entirely accurate, as he proves himself to be remarkably sensitive-- and the only person with even the slightest power to heal the other boy. But he is a person with a gravitational pull all his own. He is called a "planet" at another point. How interesting that a character should be so frequently described in the vocabulary of the celestial sphere that even I should fall into such diction!

But, as I was going to say, I think this story shows a logical progression of events and consequences that makes sense to me in the way that the endless stream of equally-weighted atrocities that befall the kid in The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things begins to ring false. I mean, it makes sense to me that a kid who is sexually transgressed against-- by a man on whom he has a crush, by the way-- by a man who makes him feel singled out and elevated-- would go on to lead a life in which he seeks out replications of such feelings again and again. But a story in which a kid is simply an object upon whom tragedy is exacted with great frequency by an assortment of delinquent adults? Well, at what point does he begin to grow up and acquire some agency-- some ability to continue or resist the pattern? I mean, I wouldn't care which way he went-- whether he attempted to transcend or sought out further destructive behaviors, as does the character in Mysterious Skin, but to posit a child as nothing but a punching bag, varying only the angle to the punch? What's compelling about that?

And also, I don't want to feel uptight about stuff like this but some part of the filming of a movie like The Heart is Deceitful is real and that means that a real little kid actor had to watch all the stuff going on around him. I mean, I've seen some movies in which the treatment of the kid actors is a little troubling lately-- I mean, in a movie like Lovely and Amazing, the other characters talk about how the child is ugly and whatnot. And Little Miss Sunshine did some of the same things. But when an adult actress berates and insults a little kid on screen, well, doesn't he actually have to be hearing it in real life? Not to mention his watching her shoot up and have sex with an assortment of unpleasant fellows... And, I suppose, this is something else that Mysterious Skin does right. In all of the scenes wherein sexual acts are transpiring between kids and grown-ups, it's all done w/ tight shots on the characters' faces-- in other words, you know that no kids were present when the molesting baseball coach was the making faces that would accompany his ostensibly being fisted by two eight-year-olds. What I'm saying is that it's just as easy to effectively convey the information necessary w/o having to subject kids to subject matter that they lack the tools to process fully... hence the message of the movie, anyway, right?



I think I've been having so much fun not having to consult with anyone else at the video store that I haven't been reading anything--unless you count things that do not exceed a 6th grade reading level-- and I miss books. Perhaps that's how I'll spend next weekend? I do not anticipate any more rapturous sorts of company... *sigh*.

rounding some more

Fair warning: This post may be a smidge delirious and rife w/ strange diction as I've been sorting through KidLit all day and, dammit, I didn't read stuff for 5th graders when I was in 5th grade so why would I find it interesting now? Regardless...

I went on an extensive hunt to various and sundry video stores around Alexandria looking for a copy of The Heart is Decietful Above All Things. This is a movie that was sold out in Nashville when it made the Film Festival rounds about a year and a half ago. What piqued my interest this time around was that I found that my new favorite perfumier YOSH developed a fragrance with the same name in tribute to the author of the novel, ostensibly named J.T. LeRoy. Now, apparently, there's some hubbub-- a real literary intrigue-- going on regarding the actual authorship of the books credited to LeRoy. I won't bore you with the details but rather direct you to the Wikipedia entry from which I learned everything I know anyway. Anyway, the perfume is $125 for a teeny bottle and is really pretty fabulous-- as are all of YOSH's scents. But, I got all excited about this controversy surrounding the writer. I mean, any opportunity to have a discussion about authorship and authenticity is very exciting to me-- and this case has apparently been caught up in some of the tailwind stirred up by James Frey.

But anyway, the movie... it's one of those stories wherein, about 1/3 of the way through it, you wonder, can this many awful things possibly happen to one human child? The basic story is about a little kid who has a rough-and-tumble junkie whore for a mother and a Christian cultist for a grandfather-- and he experiments with cross-dressing and is raped a couple of times and has some curious fantasies involving red birds and lumps of coal. Even if I didn't know there was some debate about how authentic this supposedly autobiographical tale is, I think I would still question it in the way that I question the realistic-ness of a movie like (Oxygen channel regular)Where the Heart Is. I mean, some portion of everyone's life is boring, right? It's just not possible that every moment be so damn chock full of drama and destructiveness. But even anyway, Asia Argento, the director and woman who plays the main character's mother, is vaguely interesting in her dirtiness. I find the character stupid and self-involved past the point of being tragic... and I suppose it's at least quasi-ballsy to cast oneself as such a repugnant soul.

More than anything, though, I'm just really intrigued the idea of a writer-filmmaker-perfumier three-way. It's an interesting circle of inspiration... the perfume is sexy, kinda earthy-- a lot of vanilla-- but has enough restraint to not be too sweet. It has an essence in it called Massoia bark which is known to be a skin irritant and cause rashes, though--I think that's a pretty fascinating aspect of it... I mean, a sweet, seductive with a real physical consequence. But really, I think it's a little more sophisticated than this movie. Alas...

And then there's The Aristocrats. I had a really hard time talking anyone into seeing this movie-- a documentary about a dirty joke-- when it was in the theatres. And, really, it's a pretty good rental as there's nothing fantastically visual that would be big-screen enhanced. But I just loved it and thought it well worth my $4.49. There are umpteen reviews available on line so I'm not going to explain what how this basically stupid and crass joke functions but here are some of the highlights: The kids from South Park tell it-- it seems very de rigeur in this particular incarnation. Mario Cantone tells it in the guise of Liza Minelli-- and I about fell over. Carrie Fisher tells it as though it's about her famous mom and dad-- nobody ever gives her enough credit for being funny... you wear a gold bikini once and nobody can think of anything else, apparently. Andy Richter tells this totally obscene thing to his infant child. Oh, yes, it was amazing. I squirmed. Bob Sagat's (yes, of Full House fame) version is much lauded in other reviews from being the dirtiest... but I wasn't so scandalized. Gilbert Godfrey's Friar's Club rendition was immediately post-9/11 and therefore had some resonance but none of them-- I mean no other comic in the whole movie-- including the hysterical mime version-- measured up to Sarah Silverman's delivery. I mean, the joke she told was so internalized, so twisted, so filled with this brilliant tragi-comic angst... I'm just not sure how someone could tap into something like that with so little guile. The girl proved herself the real master of this joke... in my opinion anyway. But anyway, posting about documentaries is tricky. Non-fiction has a way, regardless of agenda, of telling its own story in a more straightforward manner than a fiction does. Therefore why would anyone need the lens of my humble analysis to gain entry? So... enough!

Movie Round-up, part 1

I haven't posted about movies in a while because most of what I've been watching lately hasn't been all that noteworthy-- or at least, nothing's captured my attention, particularly. So, I'm gonna write a few little notes about what I have been seeing instead of a more in-depth post about each:

Starting with the worst of the worst, don't rent Ellie Parker. This is a vapid, self-involved little piece starring Naomi Watts-- whose charms are usually plenty to carry a film. It's about a struggling actress, driving through Los Angeles from audition to audition, puking blue icecream, fucking gay guys, busting her boyfriend having sex with some random chick, and generally behaving with a great deal of hysteria. Frankly, it's just boring. Honestly? I don't necessarily want to condemn a film about "the artist's struggle" offhand, but, really, what kind of commentary on Americana can a movie about the insular L.A. acting scene really offer? I don't care. I just don't. And the really unpleasant puking scene(s)... well, they really tested the limits of my already extreme vomit phobia.

Another boring piece is Duane Hopwood. I was attracted to this movie in the video store because it had Janeane Garofalo in it, and I guess I kinda have a crush on her. I just love her. But, it was really another movie about a hang-dog divorcee, here, in the form of a typically blank-eyed David Schwimmer. So, maybe this movie would have some resonance if that whole divorce-with-kids-and-crappy-job-and-an-alcohol-problem was part of my existence but as it is, it just felt like so much re-tread. And my lovely Janeane was unpleasingly platinum blonde and pretty haggard looking. This could work for her, were she given a proper venue for her usual barbs, but here, she was just aging backdrop. What a shame that she so rarely offers up her full potential.

I also watched an interesting triptych sort of movie called Eros. It's basically three little shorts directed, respectively, by Wong Kar Wai, Steven Soderbergh and Michaelangelo Antonioni. More or less, it's an excercise in the "male gaze." It's men watching women that they want to fuck but don't really know all that well. The Wong Kar Wai peice is about a tailor who falls in love w/ his client who happens to be a beautiful prostitute. She gives him an occasional handjob but she dies, alas, before he really has an opportunity to "possess" her. Soderbergh's piece is described as "droll" on the cover-- and it is. It's about a guy who is telling his shrink about the dreams he keeps having about watching a woman take a bath. He can't remember who the woman is when he wakes up but we learn at the end that she's actually his beautiful wife. And the Antonioni thing starts with a woman arguing with her boyfriend while topless and ends with a curious nude ballet duet number with this girl and another--mightily buxom--woman. So, I guess I was engaged and thought that the shorts were, really prettily shot and stuff. But there's only so much that I can enter into pieces in which the camera forms a barrier through which I can see these women, and admire their form, but can't move any closer to them. A pretty, though ultimately, unsatisfying experience.

I also caught a showing of P.S. on cable. I'd seen this movie before and really liked it, though I wished it had gone deeper. It's Laura Linney-- who I love because she's undeniably sexy and is never any less than a full-grown woman-- and Topher Grace-- who I love because he has the ease and humor of perpetual youth. Actually, I think Topher Grace is a smidge underrated, due to his sit-com resume. I think the kid's got a real future, once people begin to appreciate his unique on-screen sexual persona. But I digress. I like the particular diction of this script a lot. There's minimal need here to offer expository, even though it's very dialogue heavy. Most of the characters have a lifetime of history with each other and so, they speak as though they already know the story that the audience doesn't. It's nice to not be forcefed backstory, I think. But really, I like this movie, which has the potential to enter into corniness and sentimentality-- the basic, somewhat mystical, story is about a kid who enters this woman's life and winds up looking like, painting like and having the same name as her boyfriend who died when she was in high school-- because, in the end, it's rather no-frills. There's this great, very urgent sex scene--so urgent, in fact, that she doesn't remove anything but her underwear-- in which Linney actually, visibly comes. It's a great thing when women are alotted their fair share of such moments-- I see enough of women who just lie there, women who are more invested in getting men off than they are in reaping such benefits for themselves. It's tiresome. I get so SICK of movies in which women are presented as vehicles for male viewing pleasure, male tactile pleasure, male fantasies in general...agency! Agency, I demand it! Ugh, I'm digressing again. Another thing I find appealing about this movie is that this woman falls in love w/ a guy who's 20 years younger than she is-- and he falls in love w/ her too-- and it works out! Nothing tragic happens. No one freaks out about it-- they both seem to get what they need and the power dynamic isn't weirdly skewed. It's just nice. I mean, how many Madame Bavary-esque stories do we really need in which women must suffer and/or die for engaging in atypical, extramarital sexual relationships? And one more thing I like about it: Marcia Gay Harden. Enough said. However, the movie is short. When it was over, I just wanted more. I wanted to know more about what these two characters were destined to learn about each other. I can't imagine this would make a very interesting movie, but, you know, I'd really just like to watch these two characters hang out together-- you know, going to the movie rental store, going to Pier 1, folding towels, complimenting each others' new haircuts...these two just have such great chemistry together. Maybe I just want to be friends with them-- the characters, not the actors, I think. What a weird thing to say. OK, OK, so maybe this movie wormed its way past my usual lack of reverence for love stories... fine, fine, whatever...

I'm going to have to write about the rest in a future post. Too scattershot tonite.

Throw moderation to the wind!

I've noticed an interesting difference between campaign ads in Nashville and campaign ads here in the DC area. Democrats here actually own up to things like their support for stem-cell research and raising the minimum wage. Imagine! They even have the audacity to make such claims on television! None of that Harold Ford I-think-marriage-is-between-a-man-and-a-woman-b/c-I-can't-get-a-vote-otherwise crap from timid red-state liberals. I laugh at myself that I'm so taken aback by these brazen urban politicians. Ah, the east coast....

A dark purplish blue

Last night, I found my closest Hollywood Video. Alas, Tucson folks, Casa Video is a one-of. Not all of us could be so blessed with such an establishment. But anyway, I managed to find a bunch of stuff that no one else was gonna rent. Until I find a local companion who is the odd-ball movie enthusiast that I am and that Jon is, these will have to suffice for blog fodder.

So my first selection last night was this movie called Indigo. I'd been wanting to see this thing for a while-- my mom and I had been talking about this concept of "Indigo children" and who we knew who might fit the bill. Indigo children are basically kids that seem to be a little above and beyond. Sometimes they might seem a little psychic, sometimes they exhibit some healing capabilities... just spooky stuff that tend to unnerve grownups. The theory is that, as they are part of a phenomenon that began about 15-20 years ago, they are part of the next step of human evolution. Like, for example, if the average human uses between 7 and 10 % of his or her brain, these kids might have access to a percentage closer to 15-20%-- hence telekinetic powers and whatnot. Do these kids really exist? I have no idea. But the movie obviously has an agenda-- that being promoting and informing the general public-- and asserting wholeheartedly that Indigo-ness is real.

First of all, it's a weird little fictional tale about a little Indigo girl and her grandfather. The acting is, um, yeah, pretty bad. It's community theatre, at best. The writing? Not much better. Frankly, the guy that wrote it (also, the guy who plays the grandfather) should have made a documentary. Everything would have been a lot easier to buy if there had been interviews with real kids and their parents. But instead, we get a fictionalized account of a series of events that appear to have occurred for the sole purpose of showcasing little Gracie's uncanny abilities.

But I'm glad the thing exists just because it opens up a discussion regarding human psychic capacity. I mean, I am probably more inclined to buy into the concept than most of my skeptic friends (you all know who you are)--but then, I seem to know a number of people who are actually capable of some weird stuff. And my mom and I talked some about whether or not I showed some Indigo tendencies as a kid-- nothing that out-of-the-ordinary, really, but, like, speaking fluently by the time I was about a year old when most kids still have a pretty limited vocabulary when turn two. Because I had an early command of language, my theory is that I was able to encode events better than a lot of kids-- and thus, can remember stuff from when I was about 6 months old on up. And that I seem to have access to what I can't think of any other name for than "past life memories." And as I've mentioned in a previous blog, I know when my dead grandmother is around-- and few other select dead folks (Hey, Carl. What's shakin'?). But none of this stuff is particularly effable. It's wishy-washy and entirely possible that I've made it up to entertain myself-- and, ugh, convince myself I'm special. How pedestrian of me, after all, right? Yuck!

And I was nothing at all like the kids in this movie-- they apparently talk to each other via some telekinetic web that encircles the planet. If it is real, it's amazing. Honestly, I've heard a number of critics talking about the Indigo concept as though its nothing but parents looking to see their own kids as superior, gifted, advanced. And maybe that IS what's going on. But what if it's not? If these kids are the next evolutionary step... and they have "powers" ... and are inclined to use them to positive ends (i.e., part of the theory is that, because the kids have a higher vantage point on the goings-on of humans, they are more apt to forgive day-to-day foibles in other people-- thus, they seem more "loving" than your average so-and-so)... and they're already able to communicate all around the world with each other... well, then, shouldn't they at least be able to contribute to the greater good? Shouldn't they be a primary force in determining what the greater good actually is? And if they grow up, maintain their abilities and gain adult authority? Well, it's a rosy picture, ain't it?

As they say, the force is strong with them. Let's all raise a glass to their very existence.