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.

words eaten

So, OK, I've been badmouthing Laura from Project Runway all over other people's blogs-- and my own. All, I have to say is that last nite's dress, with the ostrich feathers and the fun lace and it being so short and so something Laura herself wouldn't look so good in-- well, I LOVED that dress! and it was a well-deserved win, despite her hormonal histrionics. Michael's showing was, as always, superb. Vincent's was, as always, atrocious and I'm glad his original bootage stuck. I was disappointed in Jeffrey-- that thing wasn't so much didn't look so much like a stylish cocktail dress-- but rather something out of the new 80s retro-section of the Victoria's Secret clothing catalog. He could have done so much better! I'm still saying Michael and Jeffrey are the top two-- and 3rd place is now an official toss-up between the two Miss Predictabilities.

Here we are

I don't suppose I even thought about this 5 years ago. It never once occurred to me that I'd ever live in the DC area. Yet, here I am, driving right by the Pentagon every morning on my way to work. This morning, traffic was awful. Flashing blue lights were everywhere and I saw 10 or 15 news vans parked in the parking lot with their satellite doo-flobs up. On the day of the actual event, I had just moved to Tucson and it was the 2nd week of classes at UofA. When they cancelled class, I remember thinking they were crazy-- after all, we were so far away from all the action. I mean, I had friends all over the island of Manhattan that morning-- and one was apparently in NJ with a perfect view of the whole mess from atop the horse she was riding-- and one who fortunately had a Sprint cellphone-- the only tower that wasn't knocked down-- and so I could hear her sobbing as she watched smoke blotting it all out. And yet here I am now, so very close. In one of the cities that actually is a target. And really? It only took me an extra 10 minutes to get to work today.

Circa 5 days old

More Wee Will:


Check out those squinty Wilson eyes. Does anyone else in my family think he looks a little like Granddaddy here? And Kate looks so pretty!

A little party

Because it seems I'm one of the few people left not blogging about Project Runway, I figure it's my turn. Really all I have to say is that it's time to celebrate-- Vincent got the auf! He shoulda been the first one off, given that ridiculous lampshade he forced his model to wear. And he definitely shoulda been the one kicked out instead of my beloved blonde Alison. But finally, he made something everyone agreed was ugly enough to merit a heartfelt double cheek kiss from Heidi. Now, let's get rid of Laura. I know everyone loves her but..... zzzzzzz. So long, Cruella.

the two Lolitas

Short-ish post tonite. LOOOONG day of paperwork and policy. Starting new jobs gives me a headache.

As a test for my new schmancy On Demand cable thing, I decided to watch the old Stanley Kubrick version of Lolita. Just to be up front about it, I must confess, I far far prefer the newer version with Jeremy Irons and Dominique Swain. First of all, despite what the credits say, I can't believe the Nabokov himself wrote the screenplay for the older version-- the new one is so much more subtle, so much more faithful to the novel! The old version is sanitized, even. I mean, the novel doesn't shy away from revelling and rolling in its famous dirtiness, its illicit obsessions, and yet Humbert and Lolita never so much as kiss in the Kubrick movie. OK, so the newer version borders on soft porn now and again (oh, that amazing scene on the rocking chair? The one in which Lolita gropes for loose change, naked, on the bed? Is it warm in here?) but it commits to its story in a way that gives me the willies in all the right ways. And by that, I mean the great thing about the novel is that Nabokov forces his reader to sympathize with Humbert, who is clearly a monster-- which is compelling beyond belief-- and outside of my comfort zone in the same vein of all those incest movies I talked about several posts ago

And the Lolita in the old version? She's, well, cute and stuff. But Dominique Swain's Lolita? She's not nearly so poised and grown-up-- she's actually still a child. She's dirty,messy, covered with food and she smacks her gum and she wears stupid little-girl outfits and she is completely childish while still being complicatedly and overtly sexual. You can practically smell her little-girl sweaty smell. It's a rough, raw, nuanced performance that blows the haughty little blonde princess in the other version out of the water. And, also, with Jeremy Irons, you can understand why he's appealing to both Mother and Daughter Haze-- he's struggling so hard to contain all his lustful-and lusti-ness and yet he smolders.

Perhaps my preference for all things new and shiny over things weathered and grainy is coloring my opinions here but I gotta say-- the real heart of the story surrounds the dymanic between Humbert and Lolita-- the way they own each other and manipulate each other and eat each other up and run each other into the ground. And Kubrick, for some reason, decided to spend notably little time on this relationship in favor of dwelling in loooong scenes between Humbert and Charlotte and Humbert and Quilty and Humbert and everyone else. Who cares? Nabokov knew where the energy behind the novel was-- how could it have become so dilluted in his own screen adaptation?

Leaving Nash Vegas

As it's been several days since my last post, I think I've been having blog DTs. Is this what happens when writers who have discipline enough to write every day go on vacation? I wouldn't really know what that's like.

Among things of note seen on the drive from Nashville to Alexandria:
1) A flagpole stuck up in the middle of some woods. No houses around, no lightposts, nothing. Yup, rebel flag.
2) A giant billboard of Jesus, waist up, advertising the Miracle Theatre. Shortly thereafter came a billboard for a Coach outlet. See? Miracles can happen!
3) A sign for a Corn Maze. As opposed to a Maize Labyrinth.
4) Roads called things like "Dismal Hollow" and "Gallows." Bright shiny place, this Virginia.
5) Some fog on the mountains as thick as bechamel sauce.
6) Plenty of Hurricane Ernesto, thank you very much. Witness my, um, buffeted hair. Shockingly gorgeous, no doubt!


Among serendipitious occurences all along this trip (and don't tell me synchronicity is bullshit!):
1) A few minutes before I got into the car, I smelled my grandmother's perfume-- at least 3 good breaths worth. My grandmother died when I was 12. This tends to happen when she thinks I'm headed in the right direction. Thanks, Grammy-- always nice to know you're around.
2) Every time we get into the car, my mother says a prayer to St. Michael, patron saint of travellers. Within a couple hours of setting out, we saw a big yellow semi-truck cab with one of those pictures of St. Michael like you see on cancles in Catholic churches--St. Michael's Motor Transport, or something. And then, several hours later, deep into the Virginia woods, we saw St. Michael on the back of yet another truck-- and this was as we were weathering the worst part of the storm. Between my grandmother and a real live angel, we must've been very safe, indeed.
3) Because my mother and I are just a couple of old witches, we figured we'd better cleanse my new apartment. This process involves burning some sage and letting it smoke all over the place. Upon a coughing completion of our ceremony, someone from the office knocked on my door to ask if we smelled anything (as smoke billowed from our hair and gossamer indigo robes). It seems I have my fair share of protectors here. Needless to say, Mom and I denied all. Smoke? what smoke? Amidst fits of giggles.
4) Last week, prior to our Goonies viewing, I told Jennifer that I felt a note of concern regarding my moving into the DC area as it was so close to Annapolis, Land of Josh Falk, the boy who,um, let's say, left a little cavity in my psyche when I was in college. Let's also say I may have mythologized him a smidge in the intervening 7 years. Well, lo and behold, I live here NOT EVEN 3 days, go to Ikea and hear my name. Josh friggin' Falk. He still looks...like... him. Not any particular surprise, I don't suppose. Thank god I'm not fat. Oh, thank god his wedding is imminent. I should really should never use my powers to foretell the future. It unnerves me.


And now, for a few heartfelt blogohugs and good-byes. This is perhaps not the most intimate of fora--please forgive my unbridled tackiness:

Mom & Fred-- You guys think you're about done raising me yet? Here's to hoping I don't boomarang again-- ever! Thanks for the roof and dinner, now and again. And the money. And the patience. And the kitchen paraphernalia. And and and and and and and and. And everything else kids never get around to thanking their parents for.

Devon from DK-- Knowing you'll probably never find me here, I still feel an impetus to say "Ciao." What's up with you? It sucks I lost your email, etc. Wedding? DK gossip? If you do find my page-o-rabbits, please, please drop a line.

Jack-- Don't worry, you're more than just another weird MI letch to me. You're really no letch at all. I'm breathlessly awaiting your gallery of Montana photos-- and hopefully, one of these days, a trip back to Nashville will coincide with the MI on-season. You keep saying you think you've seen the last of me, but I think not. And I should tell you, I see hummingbirds everywhere. I have no doubt you are sending them to me. More protectors, perhaps?

Any other MI folks who are reading and I don't know it-- I hope, for all of your sakes, that mine isn't the last liferaft off the Island of Misfit Toys. And thanks for all the secret-admirer notes. And the mortifying front-of-the-room tributes to my tits and ass. And all the charming comments from the Smokers' Ghetto that got back around to my ears. Honestly, thanks, I think.

All Hail, Cotillionistas!

Damon & Jason-- So, I gather the Grand Goodlettesville Ball, i.e., the Cotillion sans Marjorie was a raging success. How such a thing is possible, I'm not sure. Don't you miss me at all? If you can talk Bob & Jen into trucking out to the netherregions of suburban Nashville, maybe I can talk you into heading east? We have G&Ts and cayenne maple syrup lemonade here, too, ya know. And even a few homos, believe it or not (word has it, they like the Blue parts).

Jennifer-- So, go ahead. Pick up and move out here and find an MFA program already. The world needs your book and the Kate Spade store across the street from my office needs your business. C'mon already! I'll start scoping for hot neighbor boys --in their 20s-- for you in advance.

And Bob-- my little Kittenpants. I'm a far cry from an optimistic sports agent--or any other Cameron-Crowe-conceived character, for that matter-- but... You.... Bewilder.... Me. During one poetry reading or another, the poet (man, I've got it narrowed down to three. Peter Sacks? Li-Young Lee? Dean Young? Um, differing aesthetics, anyone?) said something about how bewilderment is the optimum poetically generative state of being. I'm going to pretend like I'm enjoying my befuddlement now. In all seriousness, thanks, honey-- you stirred something up that was nothing but settled muck at the bottom. Oh, and don't forget to read Coming Through Slaughter (you too, Jen). And you're not allowed to lose touch-- my nephew is your namesake, after all!

Holly-- Remember the long-ago threat I made? You know. The one regarding the GIANT pink bow, made specifically to contour the shape of your ass? The one about my hazy nuptual future? I'm in hopes that some unsuspecting sap or other enters the fray here in DC, making my impending union, and your pink ass-bow something of a reality. Tremors, my dear? Giddy quakes of anticipation on your part, I'm sure! Oh, come see me, dammit!

Michelle-- Love of my life thus far. Don't worry. Your mark on me goes deeper than the one you left on my spine. You and me is all wrapped up, lifelong. Now, you ain't to forget it, ya here? And besides that, I've got your box of rocks! And your meat dehydrator... and your stuffed wombats... oh, wait, those are mine. I love you, baby. I wish for you the life I never coulda given you.

Jon--You've been a better friend to me in the last two years than I even knew I needed. I couldn't have done this if I hadn't done ALL that. You driven me to movies and you've driven me to Normal and you've driven me crazy but I wouldn't have survived without you to bounce off of now and again. And think of what's coming next for you... Oh, to be the next woman in your life... how lucky! I love you, I miss you, I've already found a million things here that I want to show you. Wait 'til you see. And happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy birthday. Only a year left in your 20s.... (oh, crap, I only have 3 months left in mine.).

Oh, and my Noah, my Peanutio P.!-- Oh, my love, how I pine for you! It's so quiet here. No one barks when people knock at my door. No one tumbles, breakneck, down the stairs or subsequently slams into walls. No one drapes his floppy jowls over my forehead to wake me up in the morning. No one watches me pee. It's only three weeks, baby, and Fred will drive you out. And don't let him forget the case of wine Mom meant to send with me!

Oh, enough caterwauling, enough sappy sniveling! Knock it off already... I'll be back for some holiday or another!

So long, folks. VIVA NASH VEGAS!!!! EAT MORE RHINESTONES!!!