Q: What do you get when you cross 1/3 of Monty Python with a middle aged Peter Sellers and add a dab of the least talented Beatle? A: You get The Magic Christian! You get hijinks at Sotheby's. You get Yul Brenner in drag hitting on Roman Polanski! You get police officers eating parking tickets! You get Mr. Universe tangos! You get fully clothed white people wading through a vat of blood, urine, and cow manure for one pound notes! You get HILARITY!
It must be 15 years since my dad sat me down to watch this horrendously perplexing and inappropriate film as a 12 year old. I was chitterchattering with someone about it the other day and realized I could only remember the very last scene. Soooo, I rented it. Fantastic...I'm telling you. The auction scene put me in giggle fits. GIGGLE FITS. I don't giggle. And I rarely have fits.
So what is this film about, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Peter Sellers is a middle aged millionaire named Grand with no heir to leave his fortune to. While on a walk through the park one day, he spies a scraggly-looking youth...none other than Ringo Starr (I KNOW) and promptly adopts him. He is dubbed Youngman (Yung-min) Grand, and off the pair of them go, prancing about the country fucking with people. That's essentially it. They fuck with people by seeing what they'll do for money. That's the plot.
But who is the magic christian, you ask? What does the title mean? Well, I'm not about to RUIN it for you, am I? What kind of movie reviewer do you take me for??
My dad is responsible for getting me into culty films like this one. He's always been a huge fan of anything that's out of print. If it's impossible to find...then he's outraged that he can't find it because whatever it was was the greatest example of whatever cinematic example he was trying to give me. He's always appreciated, with great enthusiasm, the opposite of whatever is mainstream and I think that's wonderful.
Well, didn't always think it was wonderful. Sometimes I think he got tired of waiting around for me to grow old enough to share his enthusiam for the "cult classic". As a result, I saw movies like Easy Rider when I was 10. Monty Python's Life of Brian came even younger. A Clockwork Orange came around 11 or 12. And one fateful Sunday afternoon when I was about 12 or 13, to illustrate two disparate views of the Vietnam War...was the double feature of Apocalypse Now and Full Metal Jacket. I don't think I said much the next day.
But Peter Sellers has always been his favorite. Being There is one of the most quoted films in the household. Well...it's up there with The Pink Panther and Dr. Strangelove, anyway.
Anywho, what was my point? Oh yes...I don't have one.
Hello! And welcome to my monthly panic attack! It's a wonderful place to be. I've come here every month since I got off the pill. Which is about 2 years now. Today's panic color level is orange! That's right...it's quite a bit higher than the usual monthly panic attack color level (yellow)...but much easier to match my shoes to! Hurray!
Was that too much information? Shoot. Sorry.
Part II of Jane Eyre was last night. I had some girls over and we stuffed our faces with ice cream in between squeals of...well...whatever it is we're trying to emote with a squeal. I know I've said it before...but I'm saying it again...that Toby Stephens man is HOT. I can't even seem to come up with a better adjective. It's the only one that is working its way through the fingers, so it will have to do.
Here's my one big fat complaint: I will ruin it for those who have not seen it...but if you haven't at least read the book, you're not worth protecting anyway. Rochester loses his sight in the fire that kills his nutsy wife. When Jane returns to him, she treats him almost like a helpless child...and he in turn, acts like one. This is BAD for his HOTNESS FACTOR.
Let's review...manly man with gruff exterior but a sexy light in his eyes...HOT. Weakened blind shell of his former self who whines about being abandoned and blah blah blah with the quivering lip...NOT EVEN LUKEWARM. He loses his sight and suddenly he can no longer sneer? Preposterous! It's an outrage! I want my public television $35 pledge donation back! You can KEEP your pansy canvas shopping bag!
And the "sex" scene! Ha! He never even took his shirt off! Damn you, BBC. Damn you and your tastefulness!
Whatevs. Despite these setbacks, the shit was still hot. And I taped it (no, I don't have TiVo...I know, I'm the last one on earth)...so when I'm back to hating all the real men in my life (give me about a week), I can pop in the tape and get sucked into the much more emotionally stable world of imaginary men. Before they turn blind and go all sissy, of course.
See that sneer? That's a manly sneer. That's a sneer that says, "I'm hot, and manly. Bitches" Yes. I speak Sneer.
[16:10] k: remember that one time when we were all working here and we were happy? [16:10] Jen: yeah, that was nice [16:11] Jen: but somebody always has to go and upset the apple cart [16:11] k: seriously. what the fuck? why can't everyone be happy with mediocrite. how the fuck do you spell mediocrite? [16:13] Jen: I have no clue. It sounds like a lame philosopher. "Mediocrite... you are soooo luke warm." [16:13] k: AND he probably spent inappropriate moments with male students [16:13] Jen: and they weren't even exciting [16:14] k: have you EVER known an exciting philosopher? [16:14] k: I mean, there's a reason they don't get invited to parties [16:16] k: philosophical pedaphelia [16:16] k: existential pedaphelia [16:16] k: i mean...did it REALLY happen? [16:16] Jen: transcendental pedaphelia [16:16] k: is it happening here? or in another dimension? [16:17] Jen: twilight zone pedophelia [16:17] k: is it peda? or pedo? I mean...don't we run the risk of making people thing we're talking about feet? [16:17] k: that would be "pede" right? [16:18] Jen: I believe pedo. I have no idea. I've lost the will to live [16:18] Jen: and use Merriam Websters [16:24] k: Well, i have ceased to care. I want a taco. [16:24] Jen: that sounds good. I wish I had a Sandra D taco. Simple simple simple, but good [16:24] k: does there exist the complex taco? [16:25] Jen: I think if you have several midgets and 2 monks build it, then yes [16:25] k: this is excellent news [16:27] Jen: have I told you that my elbow hurts? [16:27] k: no. why? [16:27] Jen: I swiped a new chair [16:27] Jen: because the old one was hurting my ass [16:27] Jen: now this one is good for my ass [16:27] Jen: but not my elbow [16:27] k: just one? [16:28] Jen: is there not a chair out there that can do my whole body good? [16:28] Jen: yes, my right. [16:29] k: can you sew it some sort of cushion? [16:30] Jen: I was thinking about buying one elbow pad. Do you suppose they sell them in singles? [16:30] Jen: Like cheese? [16:30] k: i don't see why not [16:31] Jen: Sewing one is a good idea [16:31] Jen: an then make the arm of the chair wear the elbow pad [16:31] k: but how will you ever find the TIME [16:31] Jen: I really have no idea [16:32] Jen: Barron Von Schumaker is taking me to Venice later this week [16:32] Jen: and then I have to bedazzle all of my lingerie [16:33] Jen: and have all drugs and crime stamped out by 6 o'clock tonight [16:33] k: that could make for some sore wrists [16:33] Jen: I am a busy person
The other night whilst out with some of my people, the topic of my resolutions came up. Specifically, resolution number 1...which was Stop Buying Shoes.
There is a pool that has begun with months in which they believe I will fail. 2 people say February, 1 gives me til March, 1 til May, and 2 think it will be June. They think the sandals will get me. I scoffed at all of them. "I'm an oak!" I yelled. I had to yell. The bar was loud. And Long Island Ice Teas were a $5 special. I KNOW!
This is the thing. January is coming to a close and I've had no desire to buy single pair of shoes. Clothes have been a mite harder, but still...nothing. But in the office today, as I was yanking up my favorite pair of cheap ass black knee high boots...I noticed something was wrong. The right one is getting a hole in it. In a place that no cobbler can mend, however talented he may be (even you, Daniel Day-Lewis).
These boots are cheapity cheap cheap. I got them years ago and I wear them probably 3 times a week (sometimes more, and it makes the other shoes jealous). They're so comfortable and they go with just about everything. They've been with me through thick and thin. On concrete and dirt. In the city and, well...city park. I love these cheap ass boots.So here's my dilemma. I will wear them til they literally fall off my leg. But since that may be sooner, rather than later...once they go...would replacing them count as...well...buying shoes?
Now...it's a well known fact that I enjoy mocking the nerdy types. Like all true bullies...it's mainly to make up for my littleness. Sometimes high heels aren't the only thing that makes a girl feel taller. However, unlike most bullies, I acknowledge my own geekish tendancies...especially where certain novels are concerned. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking Lord of the Rings or something nerdtacular like that. To which I reply, "bleh". No, my weakness/obsession surrounds the three well-known novels Pride and Prejudice, Dr. Zhivago (my favorite) and Jane Eyre. Glorious, glorious stories.
So I'm a romantic. Shut up. In my defense, though, I only really appreciate the semi-tragic to fully-tragic ones. The fully-tragic being the best...which is why Dr. Zhivago is my favorite.
There have been several cinematic interpretations of all three novels...Dr. Zhivago being (in my opinion) the most successful. You really can't fuck that story up. It could be an animated version with stick figures speaking Spanish and it would still be an amazing fucking story. A fucking amazing story. Yes, that sounds better. Less X-Rated. Pride and Prejudice...well...all I really have to say about that is "Colin Firth". You know what I'm talking about, ladies.
So last night was Masterpiece Theater night (which I also love...shut up) and they played Part 1 of a new adaptation of Jane Eyre. I've seen just about every adaptation (except for the one with Orson Welles on account 'a I can't find it) and have come to the conclusion that each and every one of them blew. I mean...William Hurt?!?! C'mon! You may as well pin fairy wings on his back to make him seem manlier, so non-manly is he. But last night...last night I saw a Mr. Rochester fitting of his title. And I've put his picture upon this blog so that I might drool a little, every time I have to glance at the top of this page. You may drool as well. I will allow it. I thought about trying to affix my face onto "Jane's"...but I have no idea how to do that. That's what imaginations are for, anyway.
Now, don't get me wrong. I know the story...I know that Mr. Rochester is supposed to be much older and ragged looking. But fuck that. This new Rochester is hot. And if I wanted to watch a story about two ugly people who fall in love...I'd read the book. I think you'd all agree with me that watching ugly people in love stories goes against the very nature of the cinematic romance. I mean, who really wants to watch William Hurt play one of the most romantic men of all time? No one, that's who. Just stop a moment and look at this guy! Have you EVER seen such a misuse of the mutton chop in your LIFE? I think not. Shame on you, Mr. Hurt. Shame on you and all you stand for.
Then there's this guy. We're not even going into this travesty. Wrong wrong wrong!
Ahh, there we are. The world is right once more.
Now, I get a lot of flack from my friends, Amy S. in particular, for my total and complete derision of all films that fit into the Romantic Comedy genre. They drive me CRAZY. If I have to watch Meg Ryan bat her botoxedeyes at Tom Hanks ONE MORE TIME...well, let's just say someone will be hurt.
But these stories are different. The heroines are strong, or plain, or intelligent in a time when intelligence was the least valued female asset. They have demons, have been abused and are trapped in a life they're unsatisfied with...and they all persevere. They're fantastic women.
As for the men...well...they're just hot. Fiery. Passionate. And they love these women for all the reasons that others consider them unworthy of the love. With the exception of William Hurt. The pansy.
Now...Part 2 is this Sunday. Anyone who calls me during the hours of 9PM-11PM Pacific Standard Time...will be dead to me.
I'm not a "morning person". This morning I had to get up at 5:45. There are supposedly people who do this all the time...even when they don't have to. Those people are fucktards. I have no time for those people. The bus was packed...I had to stand really close to a cute guy...but that didn't make me feel any better about being up before dawn. Oh no.
Standing on the #4...I started thinking about "morning people" and "night people" and which side I identified with while tucked there behind an elderly woman with the smell of death about her. And I decided this...neither. I am neither a "morning person", nor a "night owl". I dislike being up before 9AM, but unless there's some sort of wild activity taking place...I will most likely fall fast asleep no later than 1AM. So I'm guessing that makes me a "midday person". I'm going to stop putting things in quotes, because frankly...I'm annoying myself. Anyway, a profound sense of calm has come over me since I've solved this philosophical debacle. I have no more questions about the universe. Nope. Everything has been solved. AND I'm eating orange flavored cranberries. Did you even know such a thing existed? I bet you didn't. Blew your mind just now, didn't I.
Oh, and I was on the news last night, I think. Walking down the sidewalk (looking down so as prevent falling upon my ass whilst tromping through snow) (is 'tromping' a word? it's funny looking) (of course it is, for the love of jebus...enough) and I hear this woman speaking very loudly. Since there's no one else around, I assumed she was speaking to me...though it was strange because she wasn't facing me...in fact, she was walking very systematically away from me. So I just looked at her with a what-the-fuck-is-your-malfunction look. That's when I saw the bright light she was walking towards. Heaven's lights? No. Those are just a myth anyway. It was a news camera. And I was looking at it like it just shot me. In other words...like an ass. So, I have that going for me.
And just so you all know, falafels are nasty. They look like deep fried testicles. And they're like eating a potted plant. You can NOT convince me otherwise. You can try, but you will fail, and I will mock you. And I know some of you will try. You know who you are.
That's really all I have to say at the moment. I'm actually extraordinarily busy here at work...but...you know...I hate my job.
I bet you wish you lived in this cool ass house. But you can't because I live there.This was taken as I was leavingfor work...then I got to ride the bus for 1/3 of a mile before we got stuck behind a bus that was actually stuck so I had to walk the other 2 miles. Alas. Oregonians are idiots in snow. We're like dogs. We sniff and try to bite it, then freak out and run back and forth until we get tired. See...all we know is rain. Or, at this time of year, it's more like snain. But you get the idea. That's the view from my front door. I opened it and was like "woah...guess I need to change out of these three inch heels". I didn't say any of that out loud, though. Just to myself. And then I went and put on boots. The end. The view from my office window. My practically empty office. Only the bad asses made it in. We're forming a bad ass brigade. There will be a secret handshake. (Oh, and earlier we saw a naked guy in one of those hotel windows across the street...it was not what one would call 'pretty'. I mean, for god's sake, man, it's snowing outside, put on some pants!) Ok, enough about the snow. Last Saturday Amy G. and I went out dancing. I haven't done this in ages and it was TIME. The Holocene (local venue) was hosting an "International Night" with an Indian and a Brazilian DJ. So we get there and the place was packed with...get this...a trillion urban hipsters all dressed in black and white hipster regalia. INCLUDING myself. What can I say, my Soul Rebel t-shirt needed a night out.
The first DJ (Indian) was showing Bollywood movie clips to go with her set. I felt like I'd wandered onto the set for Bend it Like Beckham. The thing of it is...skinny urban hipster types do NOT know how to dance to this type of music. There was a lot of head bobbing...some flailing...and some hopping from foot to foot. I was DYING. We couldn't help but openly laugh at people. Amy G. and I are club elitists, though...like clockwork upon entering any club she likes to announce "We're the hottest things in here". Regardless of whether or not it's true...it makes us laugh.
Anyway, on to the explanation of the title. At one point, several drinks in, Amy G. is trying to get me to climb up onto this stage type thing to show the room what's what. I looked at the rickety thing and the other winners who were already rocking it and told her, "That thing is NOT up to code" (as in 'I will not risk my life on a wobbly piece of plywood just to show this room what's what'). For some reason, this was hilarious to her. We began to apply it to everything. It spread like wildfire. Any skeezy guy that rolled up on us was automatically informed that they were "not up to code". The insanely long line at the bar..."not up to code". The empty self-serve water jug... "not up to code". The cheesy fries we ate at 3 in the morning..."not up to code" (they lacked chili). Everything. EVERYTHING.! And you know what? In the cold light of day, it's still the best new randomly applicable saying EVER! That is, til we get tired of it and come up with a new one.
Enough of this. I want to go stare out the window.
The idea was presented to me that perhaps my written words aren't enough for you gluttonous folk...that a podcast might be an entertaining idea as well. Well, I've slapped together a test for you all (by saying 'I', I mean me, Laura, and mostly Ty) and you might very well agree that the experience is akin to watching paint dry. I tried to watch paint dry once...I had to do a second coat...long story...anyway, here it is in all it's virginal glory:
Oh...and here's my future husband...I know...I'm a lucky girl. And so is he. Lucky, I mean, not a girl. But he doesn't know it yet. That he's lucky, I mean...I'm pretty sure he knows he's not a girl. Let's hope he does anyway.
Internet Explorer is stupid. View it on Firefox. And if you have yet to download Firefox, then hike up your acid washed jeans…pull the shrinky dinks out of the oven…turn off the Flock Of Seagulls…and drag your ass into the present.
Oh, and I’ve officially decided that I do not like swiss cheese. I have come to the conclusion that of all the cheeses, swiss cheese tastes the most like cardboard. Feel free to argue in favor…but you will not change my mind. A person needs to be firm in their beliefs.
So here’s why I’m sad. I was examining my student loan debt yesterday. I know, who does shit like that? But I was and I discovered that one of the loans I pay a hundred bucks a month on only went down by $400 in principal last year…the rest to interest. I hate you, interest. So here’s what. It’s time for a sugar daddy. I know that most women want a sugar daddy for the jewels, free cocktails and a gussied up wardrobe…but I think my needs are much more important.
Once I place my want ad, I’ll wait for the Daddy Warbucks’ of the world to come a’runnin’. And they will run. Hopefully toward me, not away. I mean, what’s sexier than buying a girl an education in exchange for the fulfillment of companionship and the occasional sexual favor? Any of you say ‘buying her breast implants’ and I’ll kick you in the shin. Seriously. I’m violent. A fact that I will not be including in the ad.
I’ve been so self absorbed lately (as well as violently ill…pity, pity, pity) that I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in the world. I hear we’re attacking Somalia. This seems useful. Well done on us. (please note sarcasm). American casualties in Iraq have now surpassed the deaths that occurred during the attack on 9/11…and Saddam has been hanged (but not before uttering “down with Persians” or something bizarre like that. what a tool). This also seems useful. Well done on us. (see above). Oh, and Tigger punched a teenager at Disneyland or World. Well done on Tigger.
I was gonna piss and moan about how sick I was, but I've decided to postpone that pity party for one and put up pictures from New Years instead. Hold on to your socks!
Let me just start out with a little story. Not really a story, more of an FYI. I take the world's shittiest pictures. I am, in no way, photogenic. I'm not calling myself ugly, or anything like that, but if I can look like I'm being goosed somewhere off camera, well, I usually do. Anyway. I make a face. It's a "I hate my smile so I'll cover it up with this craaaazy face!" face. I don't know when I started doing it, but friends and family have been complaining about it for years. I get a lot of,"ok, I'm going to take a picture...don't do The Face!". Thing is, I don't even know I'm doing the face. I'll see if I can find an example...Ah yes, the Seattle Party...Yeah, who wants to go home with that face at the end of the night? The answer is, nobody. So at New Year's Eve dinner, when my picture was about to be taken, I swore to myself that I would not make The Face. And this is what we ended up with... That's right, no one fucks with me OR my decanter of water. If they do...why, I'll just look that them intensely. Yes, that'll learn 'em.Here's my second attempt at NOT making The Face. First, note how normal and pleasant looking Jen is with her slight I'm-gonna-suck-on-some-Ranch-and-don't-you-wish-you-could-too hint of a smile. Whereas it's perfectly obvious that over on the right side of the table, I'm being surprised by something I'm hearing in Jen's hair.
What the hell? Why can't I just smile like a normal person? Or at least somehow make the faces I DO make come out somewhat endearing. Phooey. Phooey to all of it.
This one is just funny. Fun-ny. You can't try and analyze comic genius. You just can't. Now we'll get to the action. We were at my G.parent's cabin up in Long Beach, WA. Holy FUCK was it cold. And were we dressed appropriately? Nope.Ex Sys Admin wants a hug. And I'm all, "eh". But he IS wearing the fugly scarf I knitted for him last year, so I suppose that deserves one. It is a SERIOUSLY fugly scarf. This was after many drinks, and we still played for another two turns or so. Jenga's kind of an anti-climactic game. Especially when the rule sheet is missing. Does Jenga have rules? Anyway, it's my artsty photo.
And here are two small videos that say all that needs to be said...you know, after I said all that other stuff above.
PS: Those people are clamming. Bunch of scavengers.
This is gonna be short because I can feel the sweats coming back again. I'm on day three of a ridiculous fever that has had me feeling like I'm losing my mind. I keep having dreams about getting eaten by whales. Whales. I'll respond to comments and post something new when I can finally peel myself off of the nice cool tiles of my parent's bathroom floor.
Well, didn't always think it was wonderful. Sometimes I think he got tired of waiting around for me to grow old enough to share his enthusiam for the "cult classic". As a result, I saw movies like Easy Rider when I was 10. Monty Python's Life of Brian came even younger. A Clockwork Orange came around 11 or 12. And one fateful Sunday afternoon when I was about 12 or 13, to illustrate two disparate views of the Vietnam War...was the double feature of Apocalypse Now and Full Metal Jacket. I don't think I said much the next day.
