...and speaking of prescience...

I was rather idly wondering just the other day if this product existed, as I am nearly, but not quite, as red-headed as I purport to be. And hey! It does!

Thank you, Jen.

How come the rest of America isn't as smart as...Reagan?

Yesterday, my psychic, who is known for her prescient sensitivities, emailed me a li'l snippet from the diaries of Ronald Reagan, who is maybe not so known for HIS prescient sensitivities. And yet, he certainly seemed to be onto something...



From The Reagan Diaries, edited by Doug Brinkley, forthcoming from Harper Collins (including photo):



"A moment I've been dreading. George brought his n'er-do-well son around this morning and asked me to find the kid a job. Not the political one who lives in Florida; the one who hangs around here all the time looking shiftless. This so-called kid is already almost 40 and has never had a real job. Maybe I'll call Kinsley over at The New Republic and see if they'll hire him as a contributing editor or something. That looks like easy work."

From The Reagan Diaries------entry dated May 17, 1986.


Seriously, folks-- how did the American masses miss what Reagan knew in frickin' '86? Oof. I continue in my bafflement.

Damn the Man! Rave on! Rave on! Save the Empire!

A couple of nights ago, I got stood up. Hard to believe, I know, given my undeniable nerd-tastic allure. I'll allow he had a reasonable reason, but that doesn't mean I'm above milking it a little. Really, I mention it now only because I'm sort of hoping this modestly public (and very gentle) guilt trip will win me a (not so gentle) spankin' at some point in the future. Well, a girl can dream, right? And drop hints?

In any case, faced with a lonely Thursday evening, I had a choice. I figured I could either do some internet shopping for vibrators so as to assuage my pining... or I could watch a movie about suicide. Yep, I chose the latter. And a couple of other movies, too. I haven't done a film round-up in a while anyway, so maybe it's time for some reviews-in-short. Yeah?

First up is the aforementioned suicide film. Wristcutters: A Love Story is probably one of the best comedies I've seen since Being John Malkovich. Admittedly, the ending is a little on the treacly sentimental side, but given my spring-is-coming serotonin level uptake lately, my mood's been so good that even I can stomach a little of that mushy kissy-face love crap. Moreover though, it's like a Matthea Harvey poem come to life (Pity the Bathroom Sink Its Receptivity of Human Blood?). It both despairs and smirks with regard to the human condition. It posits a world in which people who commit suicide all wind up in a parallel universe that's pretty much like a bleached-out, Southern Cali wasteland... but just a little bit worse than the one in our world. Everyone's clothes fit a little funny. Everything's a little rusty. There's an actual black hole beneath the passenger-side front seat of the car, as opposed to a metaphorical one. No one can smile. And you can bet you'll wake up with sand in your asscrack every morning. Patrick Fugit, who was saucer-eyed sweet in Almost Famous, seems to have acquired a patina of young-adult disenfranchisement that's really awfully soulful. And the music... well, between Tom Waits and Gogol Bordello (yep, same funky-ass-fantastic Russian band who had all that weirdness on the Everything Is Illuminated soundtrack), the whole movie crankily chortles at itself in pitch-perfect ennui. Also, Tom Waits has an actorly presence in this film alongside his musical one. His character might have something in common with The Chink from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues... maybe: a poker-faced sage with a missing dog and absence of dogma. With all it's idiosyncracies and malaise, there's not much about this film that doesn't appeal to my sense of what human-ness is: sweet and sad, a little put out, awash in resignation... or so it thinks, as it just can't help itself-- it seems even suicide can't squelch our ultimate instinct towards optimism. In other words, life sucks... but at least it's funny.

Next up is Dancing at the Blue Iguana. This one's been out for quite a while, but I don't think I'd really heard of it until recently. Judging from its cover, you'd think it'd be the sort of movie I'd really like: it's about strippers! Given my fixation with the profession of peeling, it's kind of too bad that I found this sad-sack movie so lackluster. It capitalizes on every stereotype of pitiful stripperhood I've ever heard. It's got the ditzy love-starved Angel, who is simply CONVINCED one of the patrons is gonna wisk her away into a life of luxury. There's the rubber-clad dominatrix who overflows her corsetry in such a way as to bely her pregnancy. There's the golden and resplendent porn star, narcotized into an automaton. There's teenage beauty, simultaneously innocent and damaged, lost to her own erotic thrall. There's the poet, the smart one, knowing she's "better than this," but unable to walk off the stage. And there's Stormy: enigmatic and angry-- a veteran. The thing that differentiates this sort of stripper story from that of Diablo Cody's Candy Girl is its utter absence of joy (even if it's snarky joy) with regard to that which is sexual. All these women feel trapped by their vocations. Cody's narrator persona recognizes the pitfalls of the stripper life, but that recognition doesn't ruin sex for her. It doesn't even ruin stripping for her! It seems to me that there's a subtle judgmentalism underpinning the story of all these women-- as in, the only way a girl would choose this line of work for herself is if she had no alternatives. Or as if the only people pathetic enough to take off their clothes for money simply MUST be victim-y in the worst senses. And that arch, removed rendering of these women undermines my sympathy for them-- who can feel anything for a cardboard cut-out of a fallen woman? Now, this isn't to say that there's no fun to be had in the watching of this film. It's pretty much an endless parade of perfect tits-- of all sizes and remarkable symmetries. Jennifer Tilly, Kristen Bauer, Charlotte Ayanna, Daryl Hannah and Sandra Oh are ALL fairly flawlessly endowed. And here, too, the soundtrack is impressive. It's mostly slow, languid strip-grooves, with nary a pump-n-grind in the midst. Can you imagine stripping to "Lips Like Sugar?" Or something Leonard Cohen? I wonder, perhaps if there had been a pump-n-grind, though, it might have resurrected this film from its abyss of joylessness. Ah, well.

And this brings me to a little nugget of nostalgic guilty pleasure. They've been running Empire Records on cable lately. I've caught bits and pieces of it here and there-- and, I must admit, I've stopped to watch it every time. This thing was released the year I graduated high school. At the time, I pretty much thought it was the best crappy teen movie ever made. Come to think of it, I still kinda think that. I know, I know... a snob like me isn't supposed to like schlock like this. But, oh, how I do. Most of the characters in it are the sorts of people I wished I could be when I was that age-- ironically cool, slightly silly, sexy without being too pretty, pierced, foul-mouthed, irreverent, beautifully self-involved as only teenagers can be -- and fuck-ups, every one of them. I was merely nerdy and sullen (hey, at least I gave up the sullen part, eh?). I won't say that it's a good movie because, ultimately, it's nearly as formulaic as anything else in its genre. But I still heart it. And though I've sat through this movie at least 13 times in the 13 years since I first saw it, I still laugh at Brendan Sexton's voice-cracky, Staten-Island-y yawp, "My name's not fucking WAR-ren!!" And, really, what film isn't complete without a guest appearance from Gwar?

And now, you'll allow me to return to my regularly scheduled internet shopping, yes?