Two Movie Reviews and a "Suck It"

Many years ago I met my friend Brynn. Though we’d been going to school for 3 years together, we met in France, the month before I graduated from college. Well, it was actually THE month I graduated, but whatever. We’ve been friends ever since, even though I left New Orleans and she stayed. We share the same taste in things. Always a good basis for a friendship. Anyway, I think we were talking Shakespeare one day and how Hamlet’s always been my favorite. She insisted that I needed to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. And it's so great, blah, blah blah.

It took me until last night to fulfill that request. That’s 5 years. The tragedy of it all is, if she’d just added “it has Gary Oldman and Tim Roth at their hottest”, I would’ve seen it much sooner. Alas. Alack.

It’s very obviously a stage play turned film. Normally I hate that, but these two make it work. There’s a lot of surprisingly funny physical comedy, but the writing…oh the writing. I’m putting some quotations below because I love them so. And paraphrasing is a sin. So, maybe I’m 17 years late, and everyone’s already seen it…but you all can suck it. Read them. Unless you haven’t seen it. You must, you must.

I knew it was going to be gold with this little convo (which I managed to steal off of imdb.com):
Rosencrantz (Oldman): Another curious scientific phenomenon is the fact that the fingernails grow after death, as does the beard.
Guildenstern (Roth): What?
Rosencrantz: Beard.
Guildenstern: But you're not dead.
Rosencrantz: I didn't say they only started to grow after death. The fingernails also grow before birth - though not the beard.
Guildenstern: What?
Rosencrantz: BEARD! What's the matter with you?
[pause]
Rosencrantz: The toenails, on the other hand, never grow at all.
Guildenstern: The toenails on the other FOOT never grow at all.
Rosencrantz: ...no.

However…this bit was the prize. This scene slayed me. And I'll be damned if it doesn't slay all of you:
Rosencrantz (Oldman): Did you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it?
Guildenstern (Roth): No.
Rosencrantz: Nor do I, really. It's silly to be depressed by it. I mean, one thinks of it like being alive in a box. One keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead, which should make all the difference, shouldn't it? I mean, you'd never *know* you were in a box, would you? It would be just like you were asleep in a box. Not that I'd like to sleep in a box, mind you. Not without any air. You'd wake up dead for a start, and then where would you be? In a box. That's the bit I don't like, frankly. That's why I don't think of it. Because you'd be helpless, wouldn't you? Stuffed in a box like that. I mean, you'd be in there forever, even taking into account the fact that you're dead. It isn't a pleasant thought. Especially if you're dead, really. Ask yourself, if I asked you straight off, "I'm going to stuff you in this box. Now, would you rather be alive or dead?" naturally, you'd prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect. You'd have a chance, at least. You could lie there thinking, "Well, at least I'm not dead. In a minute somebody is going to bang on the lid, and tell me to come out."
[bangs on lid]
Rosencrantz: "Hey you! What's your name? Come out of there!"
Guildenstern: [long pause] I think I'm going to kill you.

The third one that I was going to post just happened to be posted on YouTube in the form of a clip. Best comeback ever. Here you can plainly see the hotness. And the timing. And the hotness. I said that already, didn't I. Oh the joy!

***********************************************

And now…onto the much belated praising of The Darjeeling Limited. I saw it opening weekend, but have been too lazy to tell you up until now. What I’ve been telling people is that it met my expectations, though it did not exceed them. Now, I must add that my expectations are generally set on high when it comes to Wes Anderson films. So all in all…I'm comfortable with using the word "greatness". The dialog was magnificent. The acting superb. As with all of his films, he does a fantastical job of interlacing humor through a plot outlining human tragedy. Angelica Huston was creepy-looking. And Bill Murray…well, you’ll just have to see him for yourself. And I didn’t even hate Adrien Brody as I am prone to. My friends all think he’s hot. I’m convinced that he snores. You wouldn’t think that those are related…but you’d be wrong.

The details were beautiful, down to the luggage. As I understand it, there was very little in the way of make-up and wardrobe on the set…and yet the characters were as stylized as they have been in all of his past films. It’s a style I long to replicate but never seem to be able to. You can never tell exactly what era it’s supposed to be and I love that. I’m a huge fan of vaguery. Yes, it’s a word. It’s my word.

And as is his way, Kinks songs flit in and out of scenes like magical sleet. In case you’re wondering, I’m a huge Kinks fan. Have been forevs. Well, early Kinks. The stuff they tried to do in the 80s was shit. The songs help with the vaguery of the era. See how well that word works? Yes, you can use it too.

I could go on and start really sounding pompous and nitpicky, but I won’t. I’ll just put a picture here designed to inspire. Go see it. Tell me what you think. It’s not for everyone. Just for the people I like. No pressure.

Friday Night Tomfoolery

Life lessons learned in a corn maze.
(Please note that all pics were taken in total darkness. Hence the dazed looks)

1. After dark, the corn maze is no longer a "family environment". If you don't want your children to hear the word "fuck"...then you need to keep banker's hours.


2. Flasks have more than one use. But one is all you'll ever need.


3. Tearing baby corn off the stalk and throwing it at people cannot be considered as "liberating it".


4. Trying to get out of a corn maze is the surest way to end up deeper inside it.


5. Teenagers do not deem it necessary to designate sacred areas for relieving themselves or making out. Avoid those locations at all costs.


6. Corn duels never end happily.


7. Giving up is the only way to find out that what you're looking for is sitting at the exit.

I think all of these translate into every day life. Go forth with the knowledge I have given you and conquer the world. Or at least attempt to live peaceably amongst the riffraff.

Advice and Shenanigans

I had my prom at a place called Shenanigans. It was laaaaaaaaame...and almost 10 years ago. Holy shite.

So, today's question comes to us from Goranas. Goranas (also known as Gorilla Bananas, but I hate bananas so I never call him that), supposedly lives in the Congo, but based on his quaint spellings of things...I'm going to venture a guess that his actual location is somewhere in Great Britain. Why he feels the need to lie to us all, I don't know. Maybe he's a secret agent. Maybe he's just shy. Either way...his blog est tres amusant, though there always seems to be an overabundance of breasts upon it. Yes, men, there CAN be an overabundance of breasts in one locale. It IS possible.

So Goranas asked me the following:

Dear Kara,
Would you rather sit on an ostrich egg or Patrick Stewart's bald head? Please give your reasons.
Love
G. Bananas

First off, Goranas, though I heart you as well...we need to get a little something straight. This is an advice column. Through it, I'm supposed to advise you about shit...not answer questions about my personal preferences. See...you're trying to make it all about me; when I'M trying to make it about you. But this is you not letting me. It's a vicious circle. Can two people make a circle? Maybe it's more like a game of cricket. Stupidest game ever.

Anyway...to answer your question...the only one left in my inbox to answer (mutha effin' hint hint)...is that depends. My reasons for this answer are as follows.

1. If it's cold outside, Paddy's head might keep me warmer than an ostrich's egg. And would definitely provide better conversation.
2. But if I'm feeling anti-social...the egg would allow me to sulk in silence. Unless it hatched and I had to figure out how to feed it.
3. Once the ostrich hatched...I could have it for a pet. Patrick Stewart would be far too much upkeep as a pet. And I'd prolly have to keep him inside, which would become a space issue. Kansas needs the second bedroom to house all his LPs.
4. Really, I prefer to sit on the floor. My legs are short and everything else forces me to feel my height. But the floor doesn't. On the floor, we are all equals.
5. I don't have time for this. I'm going to go play in a corn maze.

So that's it, friends. That is the last question in my inbox to answer. Unless anyone has anything they need advice on, Condi will whither and shrivel up next week. More so than usual. Jivecooky at yahoo dot com. Do it.

Sometimes...I Rant Incoherently. Shut Up.

There was a time, up to this moment, really…when I felt like if there was ONE more WWII movie made, or ONE more documentary about the Holocaust on PBS, or hear ONE more person talk about The Diary of Anne Frank being their favorite book, I was going to scream. And this disturbed me. It wasn’t that I felt like this part of history wasn’t worth knowing about or learning from…it was more like these accounts were presented for mass consumption ad nauseum, to a point where I stopped being moved by it. For example, the span of time between Shindler’s List and The Pianist was the difference between my blubbering saddened incoherence continuing 15 minutes after the film had ended and an almost apathetic loathing for a character who, compared to some of the other survivor stories I’d heard, was too lucky to warrant his own biographic film.

This alarmed me. I consider myself a sensitive person (under the appropriate circumstances) but I was going out of my way to avoid having to hear any more about this point in history just so I wouldn’t have to feign interest. Though I think the words “compassion fatigue” are a bit strong for this, it’s what comes to mind. “Desensitized” is definitely on the mark.

There are a lot of factors that I blame for this state of mind. Movies like Pearl Harbor (god, it is SO FUCKING BAD) are a good example. But bottom line, I had made a conscious decision that I had learned enough. I was done. I didn’t want to hear any more about WWII, The Holocaust, Pearl Harbor, Hiroshima, etc. Too much of anything is just, well, too much. That was until recently.

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I listened to a report concerning the extreme right movement in Germany. This is a group of people who feel as though Hitler had the right idea and that they need to continue down the path that he blazed 60 years ago. Here in America, they’d be called neo-Nazis, skinheads or members of the KKK; groups of asshats that I felt were fairly easily dismissed as mentally stunted morons who were not cuddled by their mothers as infants. Easy not to take seriously. However, it’s when I hear that this fucked up point of view is farther reaching than I imagined (i.e. the Holocaust denier hootenanny in Iran earlier this year), and it makes my skin crawl. I think about the danger that lies in apathy. And I’m ashamed.

Coincidentally, my mum loaned me a memoir of a Jewish German woman who was a teenager in occupied Poland during the war. I can hardly put it down. It’s a humbling account, and I’m only 1/3 of the way through it. Though this woman is still alive, so many of that generation are gone or (on their way out, the ol’ spitfires). These first hand accounts are becoming few and far between. They’re special. And they need attention. I think that’s been the problem all along. Shit like Pearl Harbor (ugh, it is just SO AWFUL…Ben Affleck’s hair was HUGE) gets mixed in with the beautiful, true, heart-breaking stories and fucks with the pH balance.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I’m going to make it my life’s mission to keep Michael Bay from making movies. I’ll put together an army if I have to.

Thank you all. You may go on about your business.

Squeeze...Squeeeeeeze

I have so many things to tell you. About Interpol and Marines and saltwater taffy that tastes like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Even the bread. But most important is this...

I've just purchased a Thigh Master.

I've been wanting one since approximately 1989. And now I have one. I'm officially on my way to looking just like Suzanne Somers. Well, hopefully not like modern Suzanne Somers.

'But Kara,' you say...'We all thought you'd decided that you were going to join the gym.'

Well. I was going to. But I got dental insurance instead.

This was a hard decision for me. I mean...it's not like anyone really sees my teeth as often as they have to see my big fat ass; but I have all manner of inflatable "core" balls and stretchy "resistance" ropes and mini stair steppers at home. What do I need a gym for? My daily dose of communal showering? I could just invite a hobo in. There. Problem solved.

Anyway, I know you're all jealous. You all want a Thigh Master of your own. Well, I'll tell you what. You can't. There's only a special few of us who get to master their thighs with the Master. And we are special because we know how to find the reclusive little minx of a Master within the jungle of the internets. But even locating this precious item is possible with training, patience and persistence. Even fewer have the gumption and sparkly credit card power to order it. I have all those things. Therefore, I have a Thigh Master. Or I will in 5 - 10 business days.

I told Marie of my prize and she was encouraging:

[15:18] kara: yes. and i'm going to look just like suzanne somers
[15:35] Marie: so your teeth and thighs will be strong
[15:35] Marie: that's all a man ever asks for
[15:35] Marie: teeth and thighs
[15:35] Marie: "gimma a woman with good teeth and thighs"
[15:38] Marie: back in victorian days, people evaluated women and horses in the same way
[15:39] kara: you're a regular wikipedia

And she is.

Not Necessarily A Bad Thing

Scene: Kitchen...15 minutes ago.

Me(washing a paring knife): Sometimes I feel bipolar where you're concerned.
Kansas: What do you mean?
Me: Well...sometimes you drive me so crazy I can hardly stand it, and ten minutes later I never want you to leave my sight.
Kansas: Well, that's because you're a girl, and girls are fucking crazy.
...
Me: You better be careful, I'm holding a knife.
Kansas: Case in point.

Sometimes...I'm afraid I wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it hit me in the face with an oven mit.

Getting To Know All About You.

This has been a hectic week. Though that is an understatement, I will not elaborate…because I don’t really even have time to be posting this. However, I hate that the last thing on here is that rant against the coworking gremlin from hell. Besides, there’s something I need to address.

Although I can thank my father for opening my eyes to a world of culty and controversial film at a (too) young age…it was my mother who started the real film obsession. I’m fairly certain I’ve written this before, but when most children wanted to watch cartoons and the like; I was obsessed with old movies. It started with musicals and then moved into comedy, then drama and finally…film noir. But…like I said…it started with musicals. And one of the BEST was The King and I. The dresses…the songs…the KING (I was so in love with Yul Brenner). This week the world lost one of the only golden age stars left kicking…Deborah Kerr. I am heartbroken.

Most people remember her from The King and I and An Affair to Remember, although this picture from From Here to Eternity is one of the most famous (and let’s admit it…HOT) love scenes of all time. She was elegant. She was beautiful. She could rock red hair. The woman was amazing…and it sucks that she’s dead. With her goes the end of an era that I have always wanted to be a part of, and due to a lack of technical skills regarding time machines...never will be. Fucking science. It’s holding me back!

This Day Has Reduced Me To Listening To Coldplay

Have you ever been SO angry at someone that you cry? I was just that angry. Problem with it was, I was at work…so I had to complain about my allergies and hightail it to the ladies’. Little pig-fucker doesn’t deserve my tears. He’s a little, little man who is jealous and bitter and has no chin and he resents me (since I guess I’m more of a man) and will take any opportunity to try to bring me down a notch. In case you’re wondering, this is a coworker. We don’t work closely anymore, thank Yahweh…but he still manages to weasel his way into my day and just ruin it on occasion. I’m not going to go into what happened…mainly because I used poor judgment in who I said what to. I gave him the ammunition. And now he’s using it. So I will just do what I always do to deal with him…rise above it with the knowledge that I am cool…and he is not. World of Warcraft lovin’ little gremlin.

Well, I guess I’ve just reinforced the fact that venting with written words is my preferred method of therapy, since I feel much better now. This has been a frustrating day and it’s only 1:30. I’ve had to get rid of yet another doctor. This one took some tests that showed I needed to be taking some medicine…and then didn’t tell me. After two weeks of not hearing back, I called THEM to see what was up and they were all “Oh yeah, you have that…we’ll get back to you tomorrow on what we’ll do about it”. Fuckers. If they’d told me this two weeks ago when they should have, it wouldn’t even be an issue anymore. I hate them and their stupid selves.

Oh my…did I say all that? Maybe I should get some air.

Ok, Ok! I'm Finally Posting It...Back OFF!

"Soon" has arrived dear readers, on the tale end of 12 hours of sleep. I don't know what's wrong with me, or my body, to make it think that this was an acceptable way to spend a Saturday night, but it was following a Friday that shall never be spoken of again, so perhaps my body needed it or some junk. Anyway, it's the crack of dawn on Sunday morning and I can't find my guidebooks to trip plan, so here I am, starting the day with tea and Billie Holiday. Oh God. Have I become boring? You have to tell me, if I do. YOU HAVE TO TELL ME!

Anyway - mama, i mean, Kara, I mean Condi's back and she's here to answer a question submitted by AxAtlas, the newest in a long line of pioneers who have settled in this city thinking they will be anything but disappointed. HA! Jokes on YOU previous inhabitant of St. Louis, Missouri. I'm telling you, 9 out of 10 people I meet here are not from Oregon. What is going ON? Where are all the Oregonians going and why didn't they take me with them? Assholes.

Anyway.

Dear Kara (Condi),
Two weeks ago, on a Friday night in the freakin' Pearl, I met a really awesome totally groovy woman…um, who was with her mother (I seriously thought they were sisters). The two were out for a quick drink before dinner. I guess I delayed their dinner by an hour. Oh welp, basically the groovy woman and I hit it off (I felt that her mom was sorta selling me her daughter too). I told the two that I would be moving up there in 3 weeks. Because her mother was there, I felt it awkward to ask for her digits. I think the groovy woman sensed this and told me to visit her restaurant where she works (she works nights). Now since I'm moving up there in a few days, when should I visit her? I don't wanna get there a day or 2 or 3 after I arrive and appear desperate or a stalker.

Please help me before I get all jive!
Yer pal,
ax

Hmmm...well, let's see here. It was two weeks ago that you met her, and it took me a week to respond to this...so that would be three weeks all together since you've seen her (see those math skills???) so I'd say that at this point, she thinks you're an asshole for not showing up again. So show up now or forget it.

Here's my question for you, though, Ax...what the hell kind of woman goes out hitting on the menfolk with her mother? And what kind of mother tries to "sell" her daughter? Were you at a marriage market in The Ural Mountains? I'm not sure about this chick. And I'm certainly not sure about her mother. Here's my advice. Go rent The Graduate and watch it. Then decide if you want to go to her restaurant or not. Unless she works someplace shitty like Chili's. Then forget it all together.

You're welcome.

I forgot to mention the best part about last week. Waif, her hubby Ty, me, Kansas and Amy g. went to go see Michael Ian Black and Michael Shoalwalter...formerly of The State, a kick ass sketch comedy show from mid 90s MTV. That show used to reduce Amy g. and I to giggling puddles of jelly. Their stand-up didn't disappoint, but I'll tell you, we're all feeling our age here. Their bits were filled with life with kids...or late 30s singleness...it was definitely like 'woah'. At one point, Shoalwalter was asked to do "Doug", his famous bit from the show...a high school kid who was always getting picked on. He let us know that every time he did Doug, a little piece of his soul slipped through is body and out his ass (or something like that). It broke my heart. But then he did it and I cracked up.

I'm going to include the skit below that had Amy g. and I quoting it for years. YEARS. And then a little something with Shoalwalter below it. And don't forget to keep those emails rolling in! Condi can advise you on anything...unless it's political, that seems to be the one area where she lacks expertise. Poor thing. Anyway, the email address is jivecooky at yahoo dot com. Do it!

$240 Worth 'a Puddin'


Don Law (crappy quality)

This Gave Me A Chortle

Monday

In reference to the plans we had the following day of visiting our friend (Sarah) who has just given birth to a lovely little girl...

Amy: Ok, I'll pick you up from the MAX (train) stop.
Me: Cool. I have to stop and get her flowers.
Amy: Don't get flowers.
Me: I have to! You have a baby, you get flowers!
Amy: But flowers are such a waste of money!
Me: Yeah, well...so are babies.
Amy: ... true.

We should never be parents.

Fairies Need To Earn A Living Too

This was the menu for The Florida Room (Sat night's bar of choice). Amy g. got the fairy...strike that...she got fairieS. Though it produces a flush whilst ordering, it does indeed taste like it was made by magical fairy hands. HANDS, people.

This weekend was filled with family and TV. In the meantime, I have no idea what is happening in the world. I get like this from time to time. Very anti-news and current events. Then I go slightly mad from my ignorance and I begin to binge on information. You'll know when that happens, because it will be reflected in my posts. Less personal shenanigans and more haughty global opinion pieces. Look forward to it.

I can't believe it's October 8th. Do you know what that means? It means I'm really close to turning 28. Well, I still have til February of next year, but that's practically tomorrow. Blurgh.

There's a dude in my office who is so incredibly gay. He's the reason for stereotypes down to the way he stands. It's so obvious that it makes some of the more..."traditional" men in the office a little uncomfortable. Idiots. Anyway, last week said coworker, we'll call him Gaylord, come up to me and wants to ask my opinion on something. I say ok. He then launches into a story of getting totally into some girl he met in a bar and thought they had a really great time, but in the week following hasn't answered his phone call or a text message and what do I think that means. Here's why Gaylord bugs me.

1. People in the office are always asking me for dating advice. Seriously, like my dating history isn't a candidate for a bad reality show? I mean, most of them were around when I went on train wreck date after train wreck date. What is wrong with you people? Talk to someone who's been married 20 years or something!

2. Dude, I know you're gay. YOU know you're gay. Everyone knows you're gay. You're not fooling anyone by publicly announcing that you hit on women. Look at me. Do I look like the type to judge you based on your sexual preferences? Footwear, yes. Lifestyle, no. Well, maybe just a little, but usually I err on the side of judging conservatives. What can I say, nobody's perfect. Except me. 20 lbs lighter. And 4 inches taller. With thicker hair.

3. Your hair is AWFUL. You want to ask my advice, ask me what to do about your comb over. THAT I can help with. It probably is a direct link to your unreturned call and text too, if you catch my drift.

See why I need to do an advice column? People need me.

Speaking of which, don't forget to send your personal problems to jivecooky at yahoo dot com. I'll be answering one tomorrow. Or soon. Whichever comes first.

Pics I've Been Meaning to Post

My lovely new shoes that the waif got me in It'ly. I wish it would stop raining so I could wear them. Or maybe I should just move to It'ly. Yeah, that's a better idea.

My bad ass bike. It's tiny. Like...for a tiny person. And the front wheel is smaller than the back, so people tell me it's funny-looking. Then I run over them.

My dinosaur eyeball bell. When I ring this bad boy...bitches better move.

The cut I got on Friday morning when I tried to shave my legs. This is what I get for trying to be a decent woman. I mean, most women allow themselves to turn into Sasquatch once Fall hits. I've vowed to not be one of those women, and look what I get for my trouble. It effing hurt, too. I think I severed an artery or something.

That's all I have for the moment. I mean, I'm sure I have things to say about stuff and I know I've been meaning to post the pictures from Drink for the Cure II...but I don't feel that I have the energy to do it today. Today I only have the energy to post these...go work out...bathe (again)...change...and meet the Crew for some hipster watching and libations. I love me some Saturday night.

Advice As Only Condi Can Give It

And how is that, you ask? Well that's easy! With as little pertinent information as she can! Yay!

Ok, so this week's (only) question was submitted by Orhan Kahn. Orhan, who I will most likely forget to link here, lives in my sidebar to your left. And also Australia. Where everything is backwards and upside down. Like in horror movies.

So here's Orhan's question:
Why am I so much more awesomer than you?

Ten words or less. Actually, make that a hundred words or less.

Ahhh, kids. Aren't they cute? Now let me advise you on a few things here, little Orhan. After all...this is an advice column of sorts, is it not? First - you should never use Times New Roman for an email. It's unprofessional and has about it an essence of spam. Second - there is a saying that goes 'there are no stupid questions'. The unfortunate thing about such sayings is that they're untrue. There are stupid questions, and the one above...well, you get the idea.

Let me elaborate on why it falls into that category. First - there's no way to answer this honestly without severely wounding your preciously constructed ego. I'll have to bandy about words like 'delusions' and 'of grandeur' and it just makes everything go all awkward. I know you don't want that. Second - you try to limit my response to a number of words. This request...if I'm not mistaken...is not in the form of a question and must therefore be ignored. Rules are rules, my friend.

So...in summary...you want to know why you are so much awsomer than me. The answer, my dear young man, is that you're not. But I heart your little soul tres beacoup. And I thank you for playing. Hopefully I've helped you on your path to greater knowledge. Well, I know I have. That's why I have an advice column.


Well, friends. That's it for this week's smattering of extraordinarily useful advice. Don't forget to keep those questions rolling in. The address is "jivecooky at yahoo.com". Until next time...I'm going to go shop for shoes online.

Word.