I'm Making a List

Funniest Internet Videos-

Mr. Coo Coo

I saw Mr. Kaufman's film yesterday, Synecdoche, New York, and while he is not a filmmaker-he is a writer with a good eye-Charlie gives a body something to chew on.
The main character, one Caden Cotard, is played very, very well by Phillip Seymour Hoffman. This character is ill, he is well, he struggles, and of course is confounded with everything that goes his way. Sounds dull, doesn't it? Charlie Kaufman is one of the very few Americans working in the Reality milieu; it is sloppy, occasionally unhappy work. However, for those of us who can relate, these sorts of films are little dreams. It's nice to see that someone other than yourself can be very strange.

I Hate November

I hate November. Everything seems so off to me, and that's just not right. I cannot read an entire book, I refuse to feed or clean my house and family, I am not amused with red leaves. Late fall in Oklahoma is also dry, windy, and surprisingly bleak. I'm just going to have to be silly for a little bit, if only to alleviate my fucking ennui.
1. Laughing Babies. Give me the baby!
Baby coveting aside, this little dude is totally going to grow to be the guy at the party who laughs at all of your jokes. I love that guy.
2. Mozart's Concerto #22. The happiest song I've ever heard.
3. Summer Nights. What did you do this summer, Sandy? Shoo Ba Ba Bop!
4. The Dali Lama. This speech is called the Nobel Lecture.

The realisation that we are all basically the same human beings, who seek happiness and try to avoid suffering, is very helpful in developing a sense of brotherhood and sisterhood; a warm feeling of love and compassion for others. This, in turn, is essential if we are to survive in this ever shrinking world we live in. For if we each selfishly pursue only what we believe to be in our own interest, without caring about the needs of others, we not only may end up harming others but also ourselves. This fact has become very clear during the course of this century. We know that to wage a nuclear war today, for example, would be a form of suicide; or that by polluting the air or the oceans, in order to achieve some short-term benefit, we are destroying the very basis for our survival. As interdependents, therefore, we have no other choice than to develop what I call a sense of universal responsibility.

Today, we are truly a global family.

5 The I Has Series. This picture tickles my funny bone. Don't judge!

Real Being the Operative Word

I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but I love the South. They put butter into all of their foods. My accent(s) doesn't annoy people and they use "y'all" as much as I do and you can say "hey" instead of "hi". Some pretty good literature came from those parts too. I can say in all honesty that Atlanta is one mega city I can comfortably live in (see above). So when the good people at Bravo decided to take their Real Housewives series down to the ATL I was very pleased. Here is a clip of the emerging reality star Nene drunkenly humiliating a friend set to song in what seems to be a stretched Hummer:

One word: magic. These Peachtree bitches truly reflect the lifestyle of the Southern Queen in a way I never could but secretly aspire to. The equation is so simple: lots of make up, wigs, and sugar daddies. An IQ hovering around 80 is preferable, but the discerning gentlemen would consider upwards to 85. Sadly, I am mismatch for this criteria but wait! There is a thriving Hippie community in Atlanta, the upwardly-mobile Yuppies, the music/film/theater hipsters, the aging old school rednecks, the Chablis-n-Commute businessmen, and the all pervasive, all encompassing African American culture. Also, a really shitty but really large airport. Oh, Atlanta. I hear you callin.

Brave New World

Last night America voted in her first African-American president. As I watched the booing and hissing crowd at McCains resignation speech, and then the ecstatic and weeping melee at Grant Park, I tried to feel something more than patience and relief. It seemed as though everyone else's emotions were riding very high; espousing alternatively doom or glory, defeat or victory one's tongue was either Blue or Red, Right or Wrong. I said nothing. I don't care that he is black. I don't care that he doesn't have any military service. I don't care that he is young. What I care about is myself, my family, and my environment and in those regards, Obama has won a very difficult position for the next four years. If history repeats itself Obama will be successful. He seems to be a positive and motivating agent of change. If he can bridge the gulf between parties or race or age he is a miracle man. But easy does it, America. The last streamer has fallen and the signs are coming down and now it's time to enact that word change. Slowly.
I am fortunate, however, to live through such events. It is good to see people glad to call themselves American again and good to once again be welcomed by the rest of the world.

Oh God No

They are making a sequel to Boondock Saints. Boondock Saints, or BS, is a terrible movie. It's pure shit. Somehow people have fallen in love with it, and for the life of me I can't tell why. OK, William Defoe is really funny, but he wasn't supposed to be. The Saints themselves are not marching in, they're stupid and violent. But for God's sake do not get into a conversation with anyone at anytime about this film because they will take you down. They will riddle you with quotes and poses as though it's source is the BIBLE. And now there is a new one. Below, my favorite scene from BS, a scene in which I almost choked on my Dr. Pepper out of pure astonishment. Fire fight! Fire fight! Fire fight!


Around 1:15 William, after conducting his imaginary bullet-ridden maelstorm, randomly shoots his own gun in the air. This is a great idea. I'm pretending to conduct unicorns and rainbows in concerto with Hello Kitty; where's my 9mm?

On a completely different note-do not wear media outlet garments in public. This attracts the crazies in a startling way. Of course, it is hard to deny the power of their yarn beanies and complete lack of sense. Mike, you are too nice. I loved the "type of sand" line.

I like it a LOT!

Check out what I learned today...

Jen

Jen is the cardinal virtue of Confucianism. The term is perhaps best translated as "human-heartedness." As Huston Smith explains:

"Jen involves simultaneously a feeling of humanity toward others and respect for oneself, an indivisible sense of the dignity of human life wherever it appears. Subsidiary attitudes follow automatically: magnanimity, good faith, and charity. In the direction of jen lies the perfection of everything that would make one supremely human. In public life it prompts untiring diligence. In private life it is expressed in courtesy, unselfishness, and empathy, the capacity to 'measure the feelings of others by one's own.' . . .'The person of jen, desiring self-affirmation, seeks to affirm as well.' Such largeness of heart knows no national boundaries for those who are jen-endowed know that 'within the four seas all men are brothers and sisters.'"

This is awesome.

Cops & Queers Make Good Looking...whathaveyou

Well, well, well. Who cannot stand the test of time, might you ask? Marylin Manson. Oh, go ahead and say, "Whatever. I am a.) too young or b.) don't care or c.) care but evolved or even d.) too old for this goth one trick pony". Right you are A, B, C and even you, D. Marylin Mason is a jerk. Exhibit A:
Spooky! I remember thinking to myself "Here is a ligitamate degenerate!" and I was right. Half of the social ills that transpired between the release of this video and the release of Paris Hilton's video was blamed on one man. Paul. Not the rest of the band, mind you. Just Paul. Nowadays's this poor man's catharsis from blighted miscreant to International Savage to i don't...what are you talking about? has been played across the burlesque, sequins and age. Marilyn Manson is a Dillitante. Observe exhibit B:
Chilling.
Incidentally, if you are curious, there are people who were instrumental in creating the Marilyn Manson motif who were not posers. Here is one such lady.

Gloriousness!

There are two unrealized dreams of mine that I have laid to rest because, I now know, I don't stand a chance at either of them. C'est la vie. One of them was to become a rock and roll star. I wanted to wear wet leather on a stage of fire a la Lita Ford. I cannot sing. The second was to become a dancer, and I cannot dance either. Solid Gold is off the air anyways.

Ca Va

I have been studying the french language for a total of eight weeks now; I think I've got the hang of it. Here goes-
Bonjour! Je suis une americienne dynamique. Je suis troh gross et belle. Ou est ma vie? Je habite a Tulsa avec ma famille. Mon activites de tous les jours c'est formidable. Il y a fais le lit, et fais la vaisselle, et fais les devoirs bien sur. Je suis tres heuruese. Je ne parti pas du tout. Aussi, je dine parfois le chien. A bientot!

This might possibly make up for the Scooby-Doo masturbation scene

Dare I hope? It's been some long and hard years since a little bell heralded the presence of Mr. Kevin Smith (1994, Clerks-fun movie). I won't even watch half of the shit-and I do mean poop, merde, caca, fecal matter, excrement, etc.-that he has made since. But there is a porno comedy film coming your way, and it looks mildly less retarded than, say, everything but Clerks. Here's the special R rated trailer:

Seth Rogan is the anti-sex symbol yet there is something about him. What? Why? I don't know who Blondie is, but look! The Traci Lords! There is the cute boy Drew Barrymore used to date-also the Mac Man-and Darrel from the Office. And Jay without Silent Bob. Remarkable. Of course, it is only a trailer, and a sweet Motown song is involved. My opinions after viewing may vary. But Kevin, I shall see your incidental sex romp film. You have my 8.50.

Apple fisted...again

Where is my music? Why did all of my music on my Ipod disappear this morning? I am not freaking out. I am not freaking out. It's somewhere on my computer, yeah? I am not cool with this. I am breathing and resisting my natural impulse to call up the Apple Corporation and get a stooge to help me find my music and also pick a fight with him. I'm gonna need two Wellies today and a lot of chocolate.

Like I Love You

It's gotta be a tough gig to be an actor...no, seriously it must. First they've gotta play pretend all the time and they've always gotta get it right, but they don't always have (nor should they) the say in who they get to play with. Whenever chemistry is there on screen it's like peeking into a window an actually seeing some people do some stuff. Like, Real People Really Doing Things Together. They can be performing mundane or trivial pursuits; they can be sad or scary or naughty or completely inspiring and an adoring audience (moi) will love them forever. Not so much if they can't muster up even the tiniest spark. Nothing...and you're professionals? The following is a list of couples who just can't seem to get it up.

1. Pam and Jim, The Office. If you didn't know, these two are supposed to be you and me if we worked at The Office. We're goofy, and honest, and forthright and so in....not love. Pam and Jim have more report with the camera than they do together. They look like a couple of High School theater kids who totally do not hang out together after school. A let down because office romances are hot.
2. Jack and Wendy Torrance, The Shining. I suppose that one would have to have a little distance from their spouse, maybe even a total disregard for that person's well being if one were going to willingly sign up for a tour of duty in the scariest haunted hotel in the world. That would make sense. Because these two, when they are together, can't even convincingly feign interest. It's like watching one of those Animal Planet shows where they try to the the boy panda to bang the girl panda. They're not feeling it, I can tell. Give me the bat!
3. McCain and Palin or hell, Obama and Biden for that matter. Maybe they are not actors, but that doesn't excuse them from trying. Ain't none of these a Clinton and Gore.

Fall in New England

As the summer comes to an end and the clouds roll in and the leaves fall down, it's time once again to bid adieu to warmth and light and bug spray and bonjour to the cold and dark and woolen. Let's look at some film's from the beautiful country of Northeast America in preparation of the long winter ahead. Maybe have some brownies, too. Why not?

10. Groundhog Day.
Bill Murray is the funniest, most redemptive jerk on the planet. A personal favorite.
9. Baby Boom
Watch the scene where she tells James Spader that this is her office and then answers the phone for him. It is the bravest "It's for you!" ever.
8. Misery
This the crock pot of urban myth. Slow and soupy and horrifying.
7. The Legend of Sleepy Hallow
Johnny Depp as the skirmish dweeb detetive in colonial upstate New York. Oh, and a headless horseman. Vive le Burton!
6. The Iron Giant
Goddamn sad kids movie.
5. Good Will Hunting
Cute! Informative!
4. Halloween
Spoooooooooooookieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
3. The Scarlet Letter
Turgid. Sentamental. Gary Oldman Flava Saver a la 1666.
2. Dumb and Dumber
"Just when I thought you couldn't get any dumber, you go and do something like this... and totally redeem yourself!"
1. The Witches of Eastwick
The unholy trificta of late 80's glamour with Jack Nickolson and black magic. Pure New England smaltz.

What Happens to a Dream Deferred?

It is easy to have your head turned by such a powerful suitor as American Presidential Race. Look at them on the TV, as this is the closest most of us will ever come to our officials. On TV they are attractive, confident and well spoken. They photograph beautifully in front of their loving audiences. And they want you. It is natural, then, in that moment to forget that there is more involved than yourself. Maybe your mind is too full of red, white and blue to remember that the results of your vote involves not only you and those you love, but also people you will never know, maybe never understand and people whom you despise. Around 305 million people in all, give or take a few. It's quite a player who can pull that off. But it doesn't stop there! After all, it's always been America today, the World tomorrow.

Are these people on the TV really who they say they are and will they really do what they say they will do? Is our elective process so straightforward and above suspicion? In a word, no. This process is a sham; it is a bloated, arrogant, spoiled child beating a dog in between kisses. I am tired of being seduced and then slapped. We are a polarized, broke country at war and with few friends. We cannot bully or charm our way out of this one. Petty comments, shrouded intentions, and grandiose egos are the name of the game, but games invariably stop. These candidates need to stop making eyes at me and tell me exactly what they intend to do and how they will make it happen if elected.

9/11

A moment to remember this day-

La Vie en Disco

Maybe I am starting to crack....no, I lie. I feel better and in part I must thank DISCO (although, to be honest, my list could only be considered "disco" as a synonym for "dance" as house, electronica, funk are represented, as well as straight up disco). I have always loved disco. It is the synthesized, glittering, polyester, hustling, superficial, honky Paradise that I believe I will ascend to if I am really, really good. Some favorites, old and new-

10. Rapture, Blondie.

9. Deeper and Deeper, Madonna.

8. Mighty Real, Sylvester.

7. Sophisticated Side Ponytail, Natalie Portman's Shaved Head.

8. Ride a White Horse, Goldfrapp.

7. Staying Alive, the Bee Gees.

6. Alright, Jamiroquai.

5. Atomic Dog, George Clinton.

4. Schism, Tool.

3. Ladies Night, Kool and the Gang.

2. D.A.N.C.E., Justice.

1. Don't Leave Me This Way, Thelma Houston.

It's Complicated

Finally the curse has been lifted and I have read some books that have nothing to do with work. Yea!
Life With My Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone with Wendy Leigh.
Oh, to be Madonna's pet brother. Seems like a shitty job, but class, who wants a shitty job? Shitty people do! Give them a life they were never intended to lead, a pen, some paper, and a ghostwriter (is that you Madonna?), and you have a hilarious, sad, gossipy, petulant, occassionaly enlightened rag of a book. Like this one, for instance.

Life With My Sister Madonna is not a terribly difficult book to read; I read it in under 24 hours. The author does, however, provide some insight into a strange filial relationship based on the common responses most people have toward their siblings: love, hate, jealousy, pride, spite, indifference. But this man happens to be the brother of Madonna and she apparently drives him mad-and doesn't care! He is humiliated to be in her shadow yet he craves her presence. He is innocent where she is damned. She leeches his creativity and then abandons him. Madonna is a tyrant? Get out!

I would be more inclined to empathize with Christopher Ciccone if he didn't whine quite so often, or demand so much from his sister. He loves her lifestyle-houses, parties, celebrities-but he wants her to pay his way. He is jealous of her lovers, husbands, and friends yet his own possessiveness of her is perfectly legitimate. Madonna, for her part, doesn't really treat him as an equal or as family or as a friend-she's controlling, manipulative and nasty to him. At the same time, there is something endearing about it all; they are family after all. However strange and creepy his affection for her manifests itself, or however much she is blinded by her ego, Christopher is protective and kind and human towards her. Good for a snapshot of a unique American family.

The Children of Men by P.D. James. This book was published in 1992 and was recently made into a movie starring Clive Owen and Julianne Moore. I remember the trailer and thinking, "Blah. Another futuristic/Euro/crime/action film. Never seen that before." The book features all of these labels but it is soooo much better (and radically different) than that trailer appeared to be.

The story begins with Omega, the end of times. There has been a mass infertility epidemic in men across the globe, the last generation to be born are now in their twenties, and Humanity is dying a slow and certain death. Our narrator and unlikely hero is an Oxford professor of History and our setting is England 2021. Through his quiet acquiescence, his calm reasoning and stoic pity we are guided through the pathetic and meaningless last days of our species but there is a catch. He is also the cousin of the "Warden of England" who as the most powerful man in England is the keeper of peace, security, and is the embodiment of rational government. The Warden also keeps a tight reign on the number of the elderly, criminals, and potentially fertile citizens. See if you can guess where this is going. You might be right, but then you might be surprised how this story unfolds. Trust me, it's never boring and the ending is killer. Good for civil conspiracy fun.

Back to School

Today is the first day of the Fall semester and my stomach is killing me. I always get nervous before a new class begins; there have been nightmares-I dream about arriving late to my own class. I wonder about what the new crop of students will be like and imagine dead eyed Zombies sitting beside the note taking Fact Gestapo and there I am down in front acting like Baptiste Debureau in drag. Where are my Chatty Cathys? My Brooders and my Scholars? Romeo and Juliette? I think about who will love me and who will hate me, who will learn from me and what I will learn from the class?
Concentrate! My material is good. My lectures are good. I am capable. Om mani padme hum.

Holy Phelps!

Quick question: Do you think that Michael Phelps, the greatest Michael Phelps of all Michael Phelps, will Michael Phelps OR will he Michael Phelps? Because, personally, I think Michael Phelps will totally Michael Phelps. Why should we Michael Phelps any of the other 450 Michael Phelps when Michael Fucking Phelps is there? Michael Phelps can do no Michael Phelps. This Michael Phelps is so Michael Phelps that only Michael Phelps, if Michael Phelps succeeds, Michael Phelps could literally Michael Phelps. So what if Michael Phelps looks like a Michael Phelps and acts like a Michael Phelps and, probably, Michael Phelps to Michael Phelps. MICHAEL PHELPS YOU.
Go Michael Phelps!!!!

Beauty and the Beast

I have had, as of late, a difficult time finding a book to read. I have tried everything but nothing suits me. I can only place the fault on the last book I read.
I chose Pigtopia by Kitty Fitzgerald by pure circumstance; I liked the cover illustration. I read this short work of fiction because I had to (stuck on the airplane/at the airport). Pigtopia is the story a deformed man and teenage girl, their unlikely friendship, their even more unlikely crime, and of his death. Jack Plum, the freak, bears a likeness and connection to swine which causes him to pig-speak and pig-think the world. Holly, the girl, is prudish, selfish, experimental and vain. They meet because of his love and her curiosity but this isn't a love story. There is a terrible Mother, an absent Mother, and very bad friends for this pair to contend with, along, of course, with pigs.

Caught as I was, I had to finish the story and now it's been over 30 days without another book of any satisfaction. Jack and Holly commit one of the most shocking acts I've read in a long time, and I am too sensitive to ugliness for my own good. Good for judging books by their covers.

Who are you, again?

I love to scour the celebrity blogs online. It's a genetic thing. But lately there seems to be a plethora of new actors, hangers-on, wannabe's, socialites and even films and musical acts all of whom I have never heard of. This is an unnatural thing. Who the hell are these people? My investigation:
Ryan Adams: A musician? He has a beef with Courtney Love.
Girls Aloud: A British girl group.
The Watchmen: ? Glow In the Dark Eyes a good guy/anti-hero?
Lauren Conrad: Actress. Is she also "Lo", or is that another girl?
Demi Loveto/Selena Gomez: Jr. Disney girls. Beef with Sr. Disney Girl.
Kristen Bell: No idea.
Jonas Brothers: Boy Band of brothers.
Pete Doherty/Amy Winehouse: Junkies.
Twilight: A vampire book series.
Emmy Rossum: Edwardian-looking singer.
Spiedy: Vacuous duo extraordinaire.
Ryan Gosling: Actor. Nerd.
Gossip Girl: Teenage\witless Sex and the City.
My investigation remains open because now I have to pull back from tabloid fodder and go back to work. Too many bigger fish to fry like insurance, mortgage, education, vaccinations, television, gas prices, peeling paint, grey hairs, groceries, plumbers, kids, spouse, parents, dog, retirement, day care, library books, and melanoma. Tomorrow is another day Khloe Kardashian.

Yea! Opera!!

Oh, boy. This looks good.


It's the all singing, trashy lingerie wearing Crow. It's either gonna be absolutely great or absolute shit. Yea!

Dues ex Machina

I have a terrible confession to make: I love infomercials. Take the most useless product, film a thirty minute piece of propaganda about that product, fill those thirty minutes with third rate actors, bad lighting, and relentless BUY BUY BUY speech which for the most part completely disregards honesty and reliability and there you are. Me on the lazyboy avidly watching. Improve my golf swing? Prepare cake and fish cakes in the same cooker at the same time? Eradicate dust mites? But wait, there's more? Holy shit, I love watching this stuff.
But you know what kind of commercials I hate? Commercials that say, "Hey, I'm not a commercial. I am YOU. Only more clever, sexy, and fun. Give me your money and we'll make a deal." Infomercials do not pretend to be me. They just want to be my friend. Fair enough. But certain companies with too much money and not enough time (look into 30 minutes!) try to squeeze in all of their pushy, desperate, annoying bits in 60 seconds and I'm not having it. I want you to sell your shit, ad people, not play with it.

WTF was that? Thanks for ruining that song Candy Posers.

I....you know, actually, they're gonna have to sweeten the deal with not just one, not just two, but four gangbangs for $19.95. Because that's what these ho's are worth.

That's the last time, Bender. Thats the last time you ever make me look bad in front of those kids, you hear me? I make $31,000 a year and I have a home and I'm not about to throw it all away on some punk like you. Wait a second, are those from Penny's?

Nobody would like you if you didn't have your damn low, low rollback prices, Wal-Mart. Keep your dirty hands off Carol of the Bells.

Ugh. Too much. Too much lying. Too many falsehoods and outrageous claims written by corporate goons with too little time. I am a simple person. All I need are paid performers with no experience talking about something they've never heard of before in a studio setting and also Cher is there as well. Or that Dyson guy.

Word Up

In spite of this silly, confusing world we've surrounded ourselves with I endeavor to find something that remains pure and undiminished. Life is too short to sweat the big stuff so I'm gonna begin a series of topic that I believe to be good, decent, and everlasting. Let's go ahead and shoot my foot off with #1: PBS.
Ok, say what you like. You don't tune in everytime there is a new American Experience. You think that fundraising twice a year and noncommercialism is the long way up a short hill. You never learned to read. I feel your pain...no, I lie.
PBS is the last bastion of new communication-the free stuff. You don't need a subscription. You don't need a uniform. But you will need an intelligence quotient and that least capitalized American virtue-an open mind. In TV world PBS is the gentle professor, it is the uncharted heart, and it can go on forever. I defy you to say that you can't love this:

They are some good singers! So classical and yet so fresh. Give some of your extra money to these people.

Beautiful. Unethical. Yawn.

In an alternate universe Bruce Wayne might have had a chance for a normal, happy life. His childhood is gilded by his parents adoration and bottomless pockets. As a man, Bruce wakes up, he eats his truffle omelet in the limo on the way to open a couple of non-profits, he makes love to Giselle Buchon, and goes to sleep. Rinse and repeat for 80 years, and then he's off to the big penthouse in the sky. Unfortunately, in this world, little Brucy is a billionare manic despressive unhinged by his parents murder. Pair that with a inclination for vigilantism and you've got a moody, self-absorbed, dime-store philosopher with a penchant for rubbery roundhouse kicks: Batman. What exactly am I to love about this superhero again? What exactly separates him from criminals? Oh, yeah. His Christ complex. His money.

This movie is so long, so conceited, so violent, and ultimately really boring. Apparently Batman has issues with Batman, Gotham is sinking into corruption, and a psycho clown with dry mouth is making a strong case for the Chaos Theory. A smart-alec slouchy twit called Rachel Dawes has captured Batman and Harvey Dent into one of the least believable love triangles: no chemistry whatsoever. Rachel? Button up your shirt, dear. You are not Vicky Vale.

More people blown to bits, or bashed, or thrown through glass, or shot than I can count. A gun is held to a kid's head by a man with half of his head burned off. I am supposed to be comfortable with the film's zero moral responsibility, zero ethical responsibility regarding human life but why? If you believe the filmmakers, The Dark Knight is about the randomness of violence and the courage of a man to stand up to evil and fight for all of us. Call me crazy, but I think you can point out all of the flaws of humanity without perpetuating them yourself. How about not even writing or filming this sort of degrading, sleazy nonsense at all?

Conversely, I did like the aesthetics of it all. Very Dakar Noir meets Bauhaus. Good lighting, nice sounds. And I liked Alfred. Such a wise and giving servant. I wish I had one.

I hereby go on record and state that I do not like the new Batman movies. I believe that they are superficial, dull, and engage the viewer in base and primitive stories. They take themselves far too seriously. For my Batman dollar, I'd rather watch this any day.

Personality #48: Hater

Like most households, we have a routine in the morning that centers around the act of waking. For our part, my husband and I drink coffee and watch 15 or so minutes of the Today show in the bedroom. I suppose that ostensibly we're also watching Channel 2 for local weather and news, because in "my neck of the woods" Julie Chin in a little burst of sunshine and Erin Kristie's hair and makeup fascinate me. But what I really, really like to do is to lie in wait for Anne Curry.
The boobs on the Today show are bland as pudding; I'm talking to you Lauer. Their topics (Should You Save Money for Retirement?) push the borders of inane/offensive/boring and the "hard" news is terrifyingly soft. What gives me that extra something over my Folgers is a force of bad journalism, a horse of many colors, a fashionista of the damned-Anne Curry. So many questions explode in my brain when she is on screen. Where does she come from? Is her closet arranged in alpha order? Is she even literate? As a way of explaining La Curry, I think of her as a sufferer of Multiple Personality Syndrome and try to identify which personality she is at any given moment. Like the lady herself, it's amusing as it is pathetic.

Personality #17. Team Member. As a professional, Anne will go to any lengths to prove her importance within the NBC family. Even when her family chronically sends her far, far away and then laughs at her. She makes a good show of bucking it up, but you know she knows what they are thinking.
"I'm still heeeeeeerrrrrrre!" In Antarctica.

Personality #54. Serious Journalist. Oh her grave tone of voice. Her furled brow. The grand judgement statements letting us know she cares. If only she could get by with posing alone this woman could save the world.
Way to go, Anne. Way to go.

Personality #378. Human Being. In a bold move Anne has decided to display not only her sense of humor (!), her uncanny ability to read words while looking at a camera, but she also gives snaps to the fashion forward nerd in all of us. This, finally, is the Curry!


Outside of being black and male, Hardaway's mug is exactly like mine when watching Anne.

We Only Know Them When They Are Gone

I enjoy looking for symbolism in my everyday, mundane life. It is a fun game to play. Some of my favorites: watching two people bicker under a stop sign, swearing off booze then receiving wine glasses as a gift, a white butterfly when I'm in a pickle....stuff like that tickles me. One of my very favorite symbols is that of the angel. I am not a religious person, so I'm not describing a heavenly being. If you disregard the religious aspect of the angel you have a random human embodying a good and kind virtue, an act that illuminates your soul if only for a moment. These are the strangers that enter your life to help you and then disappear; they are the ones that pick up your papers when your hands are full, they give you their place in line when your baby is screaming, they provide jumper cables when your car is dead. You thank them and then they are gone and it strikes you that their assistance and warmth was no mere coincidence. That person was an angel.

I only bring this topic up because the other day I experienced the most serendipitous angelic incidence ever. I was having a bad day; I was Fat and Ugly. I'm not really fat or ugly, I'm an average person, but what can I say? It was one of those days. I decided to go for a walk and get some fresh air. Barely into my first block, I pass two women on the sidewalk. They are of the Venus of Wilendorf ilk and were chattering together as I smiled and sidestepped. One of the women, the bleach blond in the white tank top said, "See? This is why we walk. To be skinny like you." I am so taken aback I responded with "Oh. Gosh!". They continue on and I no longer feel fat. Instead, I am invigorated and take a long, indulgent walk but again creeps up this terrible suspicion that I am ugly-more than ugly. As I walk and beat my self esteem into a pulp, I notice a shabby white Volvo driving around and around our neighborhood. Tulsa's labyrinthine streets often confuse drivers so I wasn't particularly interested but then the car slows and the driver, a young (and cute!) man still in his mall-clothes phase, motions for me to take my earbuds out. I do so. I thought he needed directions. He says to me, "I just wanted to tell you, I think you are really pretty." Happiness! I have the wherewithal to thank him, and then, "Are you lost?" "No," he says. I am not a flirt so our conversation did not last very long, but my heart was racing. Yea! All of the dark and stupid thoughts are gone. I am skinny and really pretty. And the only logical explanation of these circumstances are angels. Who else could administer a more perfect (and well timed) remedy? Angels are such a lovely symbol, and one worth paying attention to.

The Diet of Choice

It is time again to diet. Normally I am not much of a dieter but as of late I have a: stopped smoking, b: experienced a metabolism change and c: been pigging out on junk food. So, with little thought and no consultation I have engaged in the Lean Cuisine Diet wherein I will only eat microwave dinners (featuring 6 grams of fat or less) until I am again comfortable with my weight. I have no idea if this diet will actually work, but then again all I have to do is actually eat these meals, every meal, every day, until I lose weight. The problem is that while the dinners are fast and handy, they often taste really strange and salty. Here is a list I'm compiling along with a rating of Lean Cuisine (LC), Weight Watchers Smart Ones (SO), and Healthy Choice (HC) entrees; the scale is from one to ten with one equating horse flesh and ten equating strawberry pie.
1. LC's Four Cheese Cannelloni-1. This sad little dish has the unique distinction of being both bitter and bland. It purports to be a traditional Italian dish; what I ate was something more akin to medicinal lotion in a tire slathered with grossly expired ketchup.
2. HC's Classic Grilled Chicken BBQ-7. Healthy Choice chicken dishes are pretty good, and the BBQ sauce is pleasantly spicy/sweet. I was less impressed with the potatoes (shriveled) and the broccoli florets (pitifully small/ disintegrates on contact), but the peaches were a yummy and warm complement to the BBQ.
3. LC's Deluxe Cheddar Potato-11. I cannot describe how much I love these potatoes. There is fake cheese galore and salt, salt, and more salt. The potatoes and broccoli are mere springboards from which the cheese salt soars into the heavens. Hold the phone: apparently there are turkey bacon bits in it too! Pure magic.
4. SO's Spaghetti with Meat Sauce-5. After eating this, I actually felt full. Maybe the diet is working already? The sauce does a decent impression of heartiness, but the meat could have been minced anything. The spaghetti noodles were ok, but agian, walking away with that "not hungry" feeling is priceless.
5. LC's Gourmet Mushroom Pizza-1. Did you ever wonder what a trashcan full of gangrenous corpses and feces tasted like? It probably tastes better than this pizza.
6. HC's Minestrone Soup-7. Although in no way was my appetite saited by the serving portion, I actually liked the taste and textures of this Minestrone. The base was a little too sweet for me, and the peas were squishy, but all in all a tiny tasty soup.
7. HC's Slow Roasted Turkey Breast and Mashed Potatoes-8. The turkey is a bit dry. That's it. That is my only critique. The sauce? Good! The mashed potatoes? Good! The mixed vegetables? They are mixed vegetables! The secret with this one is to mix everything together.
8. LC's Steak, Cheddar and Mushroom Panini-7. I suspect LC's success is dependent on their delightful cheddar, because like #3 this one is good. These panini's, which apparently means sloppy sandwich in Italian, are for the most part very tasty-just stay away from the edges if you have any sort of dental issues. Concrete would be easier to bite into.
9. HC's Lemon Pepper Fish-3. Yeah, I tried the fish. This tasted like something I ate in the cafeteria in my husband's grandmother's retirement home. It was the fish or chicken a la king and I do not do chicken a la king.
10. SM's Broccoli and Cheddar Roasted Potatoes-10. The serving size is smaller than LC's version of this dish, but I love it just as much. Well, almost. Where are the turkey bacon bits?

So that is my diet so far. I have not lost any weight-yet-but then again I stopped ballooning. I do miss the good times, however, like eating real food. Damn metabolism!

Let's Explode, Ya'll

My brain, at this moment, is a labyrinth of information. What do you need to know? Is is pertinent, or useful, or exciting? I'm afraid that I can't help you with that, but if you are interested in something, say, centuries old, with a certain musty/elitist/je ce c est quoi about it than I'm your girl. Ok, I'm just going to get this off of my shoulders.
1. Art is not math. I can, and will, have a different opinion about what makes a masterpiece and what makes something that will really please Grandma. I will be as correct as you will be, albeit less refined. I am young!
2. Art is hard. Have you tried to stand up in front of people for many, many hours while they are looking at you with that strange student expression that lies between ignorance and knowledge and try, for the life of you-try to make them understand why they should know the differences between Late Baroque and the Rococo? Because you know it, and you care, you stand there like a cartoon espousing Germain Boffrand's contribution to the world and they don't care.
3. Art is going to make me fat. How long have I sat here, working on this class? I am, for the first time in my life, engaging in emotional eating. My ass shall soon engulf this little office. I miss my family. I miss going on walks. I miss T.V.
Maybe I am not cut out for this line of work after all. But what else can I do? I am a rare bird.
Perhaps I will take some comfort in Rembrandt: Practise what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know.

The Summer Reading Begins

Now is a very good time for some innocent escapism...it is hot and muggy outside, my children are pushing their boundaries again, and there is nothing on the boob tube. Let's jump in:

All the Available Light: a Marilyn Monroe Reader, edited by Yona Zeldis McDonough. This isn't another biography of Marilyn, rather a collection of essays from a varied group of authors who attempt to define the why of Norma Jean's enigma. Needless to say, I think Marilyn is an interesting choice of a national sex symbol in a country that flatly denies Sex a brain or heart and apparently I'm not the only one. I think I liked Gloria Steinem's The Woman Who Will Not Die the best of the clinical examinations; she was frank in her personal response to Monroe and bold in her judgement assessments. Sir Lawrence Olivier's The Prince and the Showgirl did quite well in explaining his (male) baffled response to her humanity in contrast to her iconography. The essays, like our collective conscience, range from lust to outrage, from dreams of rescue to shrugs of irreverence and brings us back where we began: looking at the American Mona Lisa and wondering why she smiles. Good for Marilyn.

A Cup of Tea, by Amy Ephron, is a frilly bit of old lace stained with blood. This little book, a study of class and passions, is set in WWI era New York. The story, staging, and characters comes across as old fashioned, but appropriately so, and modernity assumes the villains' robes. The main character, Rosemary, is a flip society girl whom on a whim rescues a homeless women from the street, a homeless woman who is beautiful and mysterious and independent-everything Rosemary is not. Of course her fiance falls for this woman and has a passionate affair with her, but marries Rosemary and leaves for the war anyway. What happens between this point in the novel and the conclusion is where Modern and Victorian standards clash, and the ending shouldn't be too hard to swallow for anyone familiar with melodrama. A Cup of Tea is a slight read, but the period details are well done and I liked it's skimming nature. Good for corseted flight.

Last, and the most enjoyed, is Nectar: A Novel of Temptation by Lily Prior. It is an extremely effusive, funny and lush tale about an albino woman and the irresistible smell she emanates. As it is set in Italy, there is much sex, food, weeping, singing, beauty, ugliness, praying and slapping of faces in operatic grandeur. Prior's characters are so ridiculous, and the scenes in which they are set are so ravishing that I was completely thrown off base with every chapter. True, it was a little exhausting, the line between satire and stereotype was crossed once or twice, and I did not love the characters at all, but it was a very amusing story. It was like drinking wine with diamonds in the glass in a field of honeysuckle while George Clooney sucks your toes. Good for being very naughty and very nice.

The Tide is High

Saturday, the 24th, was a day full of surprises.
In the morning, my mother and I hosted a garage sale in my front yard, something that I don't do. I'm not against garage sales, but I do feel as though I'm poking through a strangers' underwear drawer at their behest. My husband loves garages sales, and so does my mom so on that stormy and cool morning my cast off undies, so to speak, were on proud display in my front yard. Tulsans are quite vociferous in their appetite for these sales; I've never seen a town so in love with them. It's as though an ebb of used baby toys, paperbacks, lamps, prom dresses, marbles and other once loved items slides back and forth across the town, and the same objects are sold again and again. These sales also transports the buyer and the seller to the ancient marketplaces. There are no ticket prices. Each item is assessed on the spot according to the appearance of the potential buyer and the game begins. Thank god this is a novelty form of purchase; most people are better at it than me.

That afternoon, after we loaded what we didn't sell into the pickup and deposited it at Goodwill, my mom and I drew ourselves long across the couches and watched a tornado on TV. As the elder son was with his father, and the younger was taking his nap, we were free to watch whatever we pleased, and after surfing for a moment we came to a rest on CNN of all things. They were broadcasting live a tornado that was sweeping across Oklahoma less than one hundred miles away from me. I wasn't concerned that the storm was going to reach us. The storm was too black and swollen to cover the distance between us. What it did instead was put on quite a show for half an hour. Up and down went funnels of all shapes and sizes, touching down prairie mostly save one pig farm. There were no fatalities, human or hog.

In the evening my mother took the boys out for a night on the town, and my husband and I took our garage sale monies and did the same. Our diner was a dismal failure, a textbook case of bad management, Cisco goods, and bad seating. We were buoyed by the fact that, if our food arrived in time, we were going to see the new Indiana Jones movie and related our memories of the series over an empty table. In record speed we ate and drank and paid for all of it, had a quick smoke, and made it in time for the film. I don't think I'm spoiling anything for anyone by stating that the film is a disappointment from beginning to end. I am still reeling from the mediocrity of it. My question: if a bridge is supposed to carry you from one side to the other, and the other side looks, acts, and seems predestined to bore, why cross it at all?

At the end of the episode we were completely sober. Leaving the theater we went directly to our dive and commenced to rectify the problem. While doing so, a flock of girls flew in, one after another, in their 80's inspired mall finery. After much noise and booze out they flew again, and so did we. It was the end to a strangely electric day. Maybe it was atmospheric, or maybe it was the act of doing something completely out of character, but I feel as though I've taken a small step forward somehow. And that is exceptional.

The Gay Inside: A List

Gay folks are all over the place, and if truth be told I really like some of the stuff they like. For instance, the word tulle. Gorgeous, but definitely not straight. So here is another top ten list of mine, this time its the Top Ten Gay Stuff I Really Like (As A Straight Person).
10. An American in Paris. Pink/Plaid? Definitely Pink.My heart beats it's little wings with love every single time I hear Gershwin's score for the ballet. I swoon when I think of Jerry and Lisa at the fountain. I have to thank Mr. B.J. Wexler for showing this on the OETA Movie Club that one fate filled night I was allowed to stay up and it was the only thing on. On a scale of 1-10 of fabulousness this is a solid 8. Gush, gush, gush!
9. Tegan and Sara. Pink/Plaid? Plaid, bitches. These lovely ladies are quiet distinct: they're gifted,twins, and both lesbians. Holy Crow. The Con was one of the best albums last year. So good, in fact, when I was flipping through the channels and caught their interview on Logo, I had a pause. Calm down, I'm calling back to say I'm coming around. Encircle me.
8. Porn. Pink/Plaid? Pink by a wee margin. One could argue that pornography is for both sexes and for all sexualities, and to a degree you'd be right. But isn't a little gay to watch someone of your own sex engaged in the act of intercourse, regardless of which sort of body they happen to be with? A vicarious fuck places you in the body of not only the catcher but the pitcher as well. Moreover, even if a heterosexual man is reviewing a lesbian act, this is endorsing an act of homosexuality. Needless to say, gay porn is pretty gay too.
7. Michelangelo. Pink/Plaid? Pink. I'm an Art person. Maybe not a great one, but that's besides the point. Michelangelo paved the way for the modern artist to have a little personality, a little self respect. Oh, and he was a genius. A genius that might literally be in a class of his own, and the man was so gay he painted 20 "ignudi" on the Sistine Chapel. And they were beautiful.
6. Judy Chicago. Pink/Plaid? Plaid, but in a Nunnish sort of way. Judy Chicago is another artist but she's no Michelangelo;I don't think she's even gay. She is, however, a force of Feminist Nature to the point where she might make you gay. The Dinner Party was so brilliant, and so vaginal, that intellectually you could conceive of having pussy for dinner. Strange but true.
5. Magic. Pink/Plaid? Plaid. I'm not thinking of smoke and mirrors, tricks or illusions, I'm thinking of the real deal: the Old Ways. All of the ancient (pre-BCE 5000ish) religions were the same in the beginning, and they were based on women. Women were the pocessors of arcane knowledge and healers. Put a couple of them together and you've got yourself a sexy bunch of ladies who really know how to tap into the mother power.
4. Couture. Pink/Plaid. The most ravishing pink in the universe. Only gay men would be so unfamiliar/masochistic to a woman's body as to conjure up a painful, delicate, expensive gown for her to worship. After she is starved into her dress, she is coated with paint on her face, her hair is whipped into submission, and her feet are forced into shoes that were never meant to be worn; this grotesque transformation of a mere female into the embodiment of a goddess would be unthinkable without the effete.
3. Madonna. Pink/Plaid? The rare entry that could be said to be both; she is the pink plaid. Madonna is the bad girl I wish I could be, she's the diva gay men wish they could be. Here is a woman acting as she would, one who reportedly has a penis in her head, and she looks like a million bucks. Go Madonna.
2. Camp. Pink/Plaid. Both. This is not a sleepover, this is a party. A toast to Camp (cue the DJ). Here is to the 50's, 70's and the new millennium. To velvet and hairspray and hasty decisions made at midnight. Here is to blood and beauty, to equality and glamour. May you never leave Camp, and may Camp live forever.
1. Gay People. Pink/Plaid? Rainbows of both. Kisses to all my gay homies, thanks for all of this lovely stuff, and the things I couldn't come up with but they're out there. You make me feel mighty real!

Ciao Bella

I make the best spaghetti sauce you've ever eaten. No, really, I do. It's the kind of sauce that you will not be served in a fancy resturant, nor is it the sauce that comes in a can. It's the kind of sauce that you could, literally, eat everyday: noodles, toast, rice, by itself. It's that good. I cannot take all the credit for the sauce because my Mom made the prototype of it as I grew up. It took me many years to do so, and many, many times my Mother served me spaghetti. I, being me, critiqued it. In my college years I perfected it and now I give it to you. Enjoy.

1 lb. hamburger meat, cooked and drained
2. lg. cans diced tomatoes
1 sm. can tomato sauce
1 sm. onion, chopped
3-5 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 handful basil (dried)
1/4 handful oregano (dried)
1 cube beef bullion
2 bay leaves
Splash (good) olive oil
pepper to taste
splash of wine, if you like

Place all in large pot, bring to boil. Place lid on top, turn down to low, and remove yourself from the kitchen. Do not go back in there until you smell the sauce. Once you do so, remove lid and stir rigourously. Adjust seasoning; do you need more garlic? Another splash of wine? Pepper? Begin to prepare noodles at this point while allowing sauce to continue simmering. Once the noodles are done the sauce is done too. Enjoy with cheeses.

Some Dreams

I am not a person who believes in predestiny, per se. I think that there are patterns that one falls or sublimates themselves into. What am I driving at? My dreams. OK, now, if you are the sort that laughs off someones dreams then you may leave. If you are not, and you may perceive certain truths that come forward only in the unconscious, then you may stay. Two dreams I have had recently have perturbed me:
1. My Father selling our land. You see, it is our land. This land. I am driving up to my parents home (at this point strangers usually ask, "Are we lost?" we are so far inland). There is a clover intersection over the creek, and many cars make the turn into our property. Further down, past the Big Pond, there is a tree without leaves which supports large stones. Behind my childhood home lies large Vegas-quese skyscrapers I am so distraught I sit down in the driveway. My Father comes and picks me up, as though I were a child, and tells me everything is going to be OK; lets go in. Tilda Swanson wants to meet me inside one of the casinos.
2. I am visiting my cousin Adam. Adam is a gay man living in Dallas. He lives in an adorable, yet shabby rental apartment. He has two joints; one for me and one for him. I think it's a little excessive, but pretend to go with the flow. Another friend of Adam's shows up and they begin to do heroin. I refuse, and after some time we all go for a walk. Descending into a stadium's staircase, Adam and I catch sight of a blonde woman in a business suit ascending. He and I, both Democrats, recognize Hilary Clinton. I turn to look at her as she turns to look at me, and we smile at each other. Then she turns and walks alone to the top and out. Adam and I are OMG'ing.
What does it all mean? It's a full moon!

Lazy Bones Jones

I'm enjoying my break from work. I have lots and lots of free time now. What have I done with myself? Nothing. I've enjoyed this immensely. The views are impeccable. But as time wears on, I find that my surplus of extracurricular activity grows small and I need to get back to work. Dammit.

Art. Do you like art? To me, art is the definitive human expression. I know that this could be debated until doomsday, but in me you'll find a capable defender. So why am I lagging? Maybe because I won't have time like this until a year from now, or 20 years from now; it's hard to tell. I just want to eat Doritos, watch foreign movies, and drink those yummy lime flavored beers.
Strength. I need to be strong. Go back to art. Think...renaissance. Think....Cimabue. Think....Kagemusha!

Did Ozzy See This Coming?

Iron Man in a no holds barred Dick Flick. Lets get the particulars out of the way first: lots of explosions? Check. Lots of expensive cars/airplanes/motorcycles/implausible crime fighting suits? Check. Lots of time spent in the machine shop? Check. Caviler attitude outside/vulnerable and lonely inside? Check. Lots of girls/no women? Check. Hero wins at the end of the day? You bet!

Iron Man is actually Tony Stark, a genius weapons designer, billionaire, and apparent ladies man. He's a smart ass fast talking winner until his "fun-Vee" is struck by enemy fire in Afghanistan and he is taken prisoner by a generic Taliban sort of militants. Guess what? They want him to build a weapon for them, but Tony has a little change of heart in captivity thanks to his fellow captive, a generic Middle Eastern professor sort. Instead of building a bomb, he makes his Iron Man suit and he escapes. Once home again, Tony renounces the weapons trade and sets about perfecting his suit in order to really put the whoop ass on those bad guys. But wait, the real head of the evil sect is none other than his own comrade in business, Evil Dude (or Evil Duderino, if you're not into brevity). More betrayals, explosions, and of course Tony wins the war and the girl at the end. Fade to heavy metal song that might have the same title as the film.

I like Robert Downey, Jr. a lot and he does a great job in his role. He's believable, likable, and he can pull of the jack ass with a heart of gold like no one else. Jeff Bridges plays the bad guy well enough, but I (or he) might never get past Lebowski. Gweneth is the dead weight as the trusty assistant who harbours the not so secret crush on her employer. My question is, why didn't they get someone more likable? Didn't she win an Oscar at some point? Bad, bad acting.
All in all, I might watch this again on USA when it pops up there in 1-2 years. The cinematography was good, the edits well paced, the sound was not too over the top. It has Charlie Chaplin in fight mode! Retro glamour! Excellent Saturday afternoon fare.

10 Movies That Made Me Cry, But Shouldn't Have

I'm an easy crier. Sometimes it's good to cry (like funerals, or diamond commercials) and other times it's just stupid. Here is a list of the top ten movies that made me cry, and I'm really, really embarrassed by it.
1. Love, Actually. Point of tears: the entire last fifteen minutes of the film.
I loved Four Weddings and a Funeral. I had a little Hugh Grant crush at the time. I looked up Georges Sand in my Encyclopedia Britannica after Impromptu just to see if those crazy kids made it (they didn't). Love, Actually doesn't have enough Hugh in it. What it does have is Liam Nielson reenacting the Titanic "Jack! I'm Flying!" scene with his son. I wept loudly from sheer frustration, choking on the words "I don't like this movie!!!". I might have thrown up a little too. A cry of hysteria.
2. Coyote Ugly. Point of tears: When the girls dance on the bar for the first time.
I was 26 when I caught this on cable. I thought to myself, "God, I am glad that's not me. Look at those shallow, deluded girls. Caught up in the misogyny machine and they're too stupid to know it...although it does look fun. I could do that....but I can't dance. Also, I'm too old. I'm OLD!!!!! TOO OLD FOR BAR DANCING IF I COULD DANCE!!!!" I then had a good, long cry as Tyra Banks danced to Pour Some Sugar on Me.
3. The Last Temptation of Christ. Point of tears: when Jesus and the Apostles enter Jerusalem. As an ex-Christian, I am familiar with the story of Jesus, beginning to end. As an ex-Baptist, I was to find salvation in the Blood of the Lamb. Needless to say, that arrangement didn't really pan out for me, but I hold a great deal of respect for Jesus's work. Anyway, watching this joyous entrance to the city where he meets his fate, with a soundtrack provided by Peter Gabriel, creates in me that rarefied happy/sad cry.
4. The New World. Point of tears: the opening sequence. I love, love, love Terrence Malick. He is my favorite Texan. His movies aren't for everyone, though. He can say too little, his edits are not quickly made, his characters are not extraordinary. But his imagery is poetic, and this film, his rendition of the Captain Smith/Pocahontas love affair, encompasses so much more than just two lovebirds. A beautiful film, and a wonder-filled cry.
5. Far and Away. Point of tears: Tom Cruise's death. Now, I'm not one for achey-breaky hearts. I'd rather roll my eyes and blow smoke into their corny faces. But this one came around at the right time and had all of the right elements: Opie directed it, Oklahoma is the prize, and OMG it's true love. She brings him back to life! What can I say? Everyone has a favorite flavor of candy. A cry of relief.
6. Superman Returns. Point of tears: the opening sequence. What is it with me and titles? A cry of welcome.
7. Star Wars: Episode III-Revenge of the Sith. Point of tears: Anakin/ Obi-Wan's battle.
I've seen every Star Wars film in the theaters save the first. My point? I have a vested relationship with this franchise, and dammit I was glad to see the end. A cry of exhaustion.
8.Every Single Disney Movie Ever Made. Point of tears: any/all transitions. When Aerial looked up at her father as she turned into a human at the end of a Little Mermaid? When Abu was knocked unconscious when he and Aladdin were banished into the snow? When Jessie the Yodeling Cowgirl remembers the good times with her owner, set to a song sung by Sarah McLachlan? Yes. All yes. Cries of yesterdays, and tomorrow.
9. Brokeback Mountain. Point of tears: Ennis clutches Jacks old shirt. This movie got tied up into so many different knots. It's a monolith now. But when I saw it, before it became a standard, it was sort of a simple film. The last ten minutes are hard on a body. A cry of sorrow.
10. Apollo 13. Point of tears: when they blasted off. I have no idea why I began to cry when these astronauts were rocketed into space. Maybe it was because they all wanted so badly, and it's nice to see someones dreams come true. Of course, we know they're in for a bad ride, so maybe the gladness is tempered with foreboding? A cry of forbearance.

So that is that. There will be more inconsequential tears over silly moments, no doubt. But even I can't tell where or when at this point. Try not to point and laugh.

Rattle It

This weekend the boys and I made the pilgrimage to Magum, Oklahoma to participate in the bizarre glory of the annual Rattlesnake Derby. It's grown a bit since I was a kid; there are more vendors of inflatable plastic children's characters, more funnel cake and corn dog eateries, and accordingly more fat lower middle class people than you could shake a stick (or a snake) at. My boys wanted one of everything. Rattlesnake head suspended in formaldehyde in a Mason Jar ($8 ea.)? A ride on the (dilapidated) kiddie roller coaster ($2 ea.)? A bite of deep fried snake with a sip of Coke ($4 ea.)? Check, check, check.
The first stop was the Snake Pit. After traversing the ambulatory of flea market goods, we dived right into the Pit, a large makeshift tent. Inside two cowboys equipped with microphones walked around an enclosed oval filled with roughly 1000 snakes (it's hard to estimate snakes-they are fond of the dog pile). As they walked they would pull random snakes up with their "snake sticks" to explain how one may determine the animal's age, sex, etc. Rattlers struck their leather boots indeterminately as they lectured. The boys, quickly bored, were ready for the midway.
Emerging again into the sunshine, we made our way to the Snake boxes. Like the Pit these boxes contained an ungodly amount of venomous reptiles. These pressed board boxes were free and open to the public however, and one was separated from the snakes by two layers of chicken wire spaced two inches apart. Still this was tiresome. We needed oily food, big and sugary quaffs of soda, and rides on spinning strawberries.
After the midway funds were depleted and substances were consumed, we made our last stop into the Butchers' Shop ($1 for adults- kid's free). This has been, and remains, my personal favorite. It is a small space; 1/2 of it is bare concrete covered by elderly bleachers. The other half, separated from bleachers by a press board divider, is where bad rattlers go to meet their maker. The butcher, a middle aged man who told the audience he'd kept company with the Captain all day, was assisted by a high school aged boy with yet another snake stick. A snake was extracted from the pit by the boy with the stick, the body was laid across a tree stump and with some fanfare it's head was removed with an ax. The butcher then took the body and strung it by a wire over plastic shower, skinned and disemboweled it as it still writhed. As he did so, this man cut out the still beating heart and ate it. Amazing!
The day was over after that. We retired to the ranch for some four wheeler fun and spaghetti. My boys were delighted, dirty, and full of strange food. What a story for their classmates tomorrow.