Wonders Never Cease

What’s this?! Two posts so close together!? What can I say…I’m feeling…inspired.

So, without further ado...

Reasons Why Viggo Mortensen is Hot:

1. He never seems to age past a rakish 43ish
2. He can rock long hair and not look...you know
3. His name is 'Viggo'...which is Danish for 'hot'. Not really, but it should be
4. He can rock a slicked back pompadour and not look...you know
5. He seems like he might be tall
6. I can watch him put a cigarette out on his tongue and think "yummy"
7. Cary Grant chin…few can pull it off…so many try
8. He’s a poet and a painter and I still like him (turn offs. What.)
9. I never see him in gossip rags or on dlisted
and…oh YES…
10. The sauna scene in Eastern Promises
11. He's hot because there's ten whole reasons why he's hot

I hope you all enjoy the fact that I review movies way the fuck after everyone else has already seen them. I know I do.

Eastern Promises…no wait…let me back up. I am not the world’s biggest David Cronenberg fan. This is mainly because I’m too weak-stomached to handle middle school health films let alone the bloodbaths that this guy directs. I’m concerned about the man. Someone needs to make sure puppies aren’t being tortured in his basement for inspiration. Anyway, I am one of four people of my aquaintence that didn’t pee themselves over History of Violence. This was…as many movies are to me…almost a good movie. It had all this promise in the beginning…and then it fucking TANKED. I’d like to blame Maria Bello…but I can’t. It's not her fault this time.

So, when the preview for Eastern Promises came on…I was intrigued, but not enough to go see it. I figured it would be a disappointing squibfest and it would tarnish the hotness of Viggo. Besides…Naomi Watts only has one facial expression. Dumbfounded. But, you know…then Netflix happened and *poof* it arrived on my doorstep. Or mailbox. Or mailbox a cote d’my doorstep. And I watched it. And now tattoos for everyone!

Seriously though…the plot interested me, the violence, though squibtastically gushy, was “tasteful” given the subject matter…and, um…the sauna scene was nice. I walked away from it with an interest in learning a bit more about the Russian Mafia and mild disappointment that Vincent Cassel didn’t do any of that kick ass capoeira shit over laser beams like in Oceans 12. Though to link it in plot-wise, but that's what screenwriters are for. What I’m saying here is that I didn’t hate it. And I was ready to. And then there was the sauna scene. Did I mention that already? Hmmm.

If that doesn’t get you to rent it…then fuck you, I give up.

Too Soon.

Over the weekend at a work-related team building exercise (thank you, coworker A) I had fun. Maybe that’s because we were exercising our team building skills at the Portland Beer and Wine Festival and the only thing it had to do with work is that I met some coworkers there. Actually…we started there. Around 2:00pm. And ended at a seedy Karaoke bar The Galaxy (I KNOW!) around 11:30pm. That’s 9 and ½ hours of beer/wine tasting…outright drinking…and wailing House of the Rising sun to a roomful of sketchy characters (who were surprisingly supportive of my “skills” as a chanteuse).

Oh how I laughed. And laughed. And then laughed a little more. On Monday evening, Marie and I attempted to recall what was so funny. We tried to remember conversations, jokes told…etc. Of course alcohol always helps make that jump from giggle to guffaw…but even without it, my friends and I laugh a lot. So much so, that when I’m introduced to new groups of people, I often feel the lack of gaiety instantly. You know, some people just aren’t laughers. Or they are, but they’re just not funny. Or they’re neither, in which case…boooo.

Anyway. I had completely forgotten about an instance at a large round table where our group (trying to fight off drunkenness by stuffing down some festival fare) insulted a member of The Greatest Generation beerfest volunteer brigade so badly that he left the table without finishing his pizza. It went down something like this (as far as we can remember):

A, T, MM, B & Marie all sit at a large round table. There are three seats left. A dude of about 70 sits down with two pieces of pizza (I think) in one of the empty seats. I roll up with my quesadilla and sit next to him. Eat, eat, chatter, chatter:

Me to MM: Have some of my quesadilla. It’s fucking huge.
(hands plate to MM)
MM: I’ll have a little (or something like that)
Me: It’s good. It has sour cream on it. Sour cream makes everything ok.
MM: Sour cream does make everything ok.
Me: Yes. That’s what they told the Jews as they got on the trains.
(T then snapped a pic of me pointing a plastic fork emphatically at the air and the old man looking at me like I’m the devil)
Me: Too soon?

And that’s not even when he left! He stuck it out until Christians vs. Mormons were brought up and then he politely said “Excuse me” and took his still mostly full plate away.

Poor man. It’s a good thing he didn’t hear the “Jesus is bacon” convo later in the evening.

My point is…I didn’t even remember the particulars of this little interchange until Marie reminded me on Monday. We’re always overly amused by our own banter and always vow to write shit down…blah blah blah. Actually…one of our favorite phrases is “that’s going on a t-shirt”. Which is how my poor friend Kellie ended up with one that identifies her as a“Willowy Whore” and ty gets to walk around with ‘I am diseased” on his chest. This is as close as we ever get to writing this shit down.

What’s amazing about the timeliness of not-new realization is that I got a Dictaphone for my birthday. It’s snazzy and I haven’t yet figured out how to use it…which is why I haven’t. But Saturday is National Turn Your Lights Off Day or some hippie shit like that, so Jen (who would recycle clam shells if she could only find a facility to take them) is having a get together. Who knows what shenanigans we’ll get up to in the candlelight…but I’m bringing the Dictaphone. We’ll see what comes of it. It’ll be gold, whatever it is. Even if only to us.

But you unlucky bitches will have to suffer through it thanks to a little something I like to call “reciprocal linking”.

Rock.

Bureaucracy Is Lame

I lost my driver’s license last weekend. Because that’s the kind of weekend last weekend was. A million Friday and Saturday nights of shoving the ID into the back pocket to avoid taking a purse…a million of them all amassed into one long history of never losing my license…and then one Saturday of shopping and *poof* - gone. Stupid.

Yesterday I had a fat-faced picture taken for my new one. It’s paper. Not the picture, the license. My license is a piece of paper. This is only temporary until my new one arrives in the mail. This is the new state law to help prevent the creation of false driver's licenses. Brilliant. Change the process from creating and handing nice, stiff, solid feeling licenses to the people who have already proven who they are to handing over a paper printout that says “temporary” and sending little more than a laminated piece of cardboard through the always reliable United States postal service. The same postal service that just recently lost a package of mine containing two bike tires. BIKE TIRES. They’re not even small!

The night I discovered I lost it, we had to do what my friend called a “Scooby Doo” so that I could drink with her at a gloriously kitsch karaoke joint. Since then, I’ve been using my Passport to get into pub cinemas and bars. It’s worked fairly well…but the item does not fit easily into my wallet, so the dreaded chore of visiting the DMV had to happen. And it did. Yesterday. Tonight…I will hand my piece of Xeroxed paper to the local barkeep and he will have to accept it. They shouldn’t even be asking for it, given my advanced age…but to many I suppose rules are rules. Laws are laws. Government issued paper identification is government issued paper identification.

I’ve been sleeping a lot. I think that’s something sad people do.

Barack Obama is in town today. He’s staying at The Benson Hotel which is directly across from my office. All the politicians stay there. They must have an elaborate continental breakfast or a “rent one room…secret service stays free!” deal. Anyway, I don’t work on that side of the building anymore so there’s no glancing out the window and seeing a dude with an earpiece pointing a rifle at my window. I don’t miss it. A bunch of people from the office went over and shook his hand and came back up to the 9 th floor with stars in their eyes…where productivity used to live. Although he is the candidate I currently support…until his nomination is secured, I’m not going to open myself up to the Kerry pain again. I can’t take the disappointment. Not at this juncture.

And then there were 4.

Kansas and I have broken up.

Jahooni, your cookies couldn't have come at a better time. Thank you.

It's Not Like The Movies.

There's something so fulfilling about Thighmastering away at 10:00 at night with a mimosa in one hand (the champagne's was gonna go flat) and a remote control in the other (exercise is only acceptable whilst being entertained). It's then you know your life has reached its pinnacle. It has one, you know. A pinnacle.

Tonight I am thoughtful. Thinking thoughts. I'm full of them. Just tonight, though. Don't expect thoughtfulness all the time. Because that's impossible. After all, there are other things to think about besides thoughts. Shoes for one. Cat homicide for another. She's driving me to it. I swear I have the stupidest cat in all the animal kingdom.

Tonight I'm being asked to think about a love story. And so I am. Love is a concept to me that is almost as difficult to believe in as God. I say this with no pleasure. There is nothing glib about the statement. I find it rather sad, actually...this lack of faith...it haunts me at times. I have been in love (as much as I understand the feeling) 4 times. Considering my current state of cohabitation, this means I have fallen out of love 3 times. 3 people that were my entire life one minute and just weren't in the next. How scary is that? All of them represented something desirable to me at whatever point in my aged life I knew them at...but after a while...they just didn't anymore. They were no longer right. Sometimes it was me, sometimes it was them...but 3 times love didn't last. And in between all 4...names I can't even remember. More names than I'd like to admit.

I am positively bipolar where love is concerned. On Tuesday I want nothing more than to live and be by myself...sitting in the dark as I am now with a drink, a laptop, Radiohead and a candle to keep the light from feeling too electric. I want no one, nothing but my own company. I want my own thoughts. I want my own fantasies. I want to be alone. Then on Wednesday all I want is to be held and whispered to. I have a weakness for sweet nothings. And I don't care about all the conditions that come with them. Then on Thursday the conditions are insupportable. Until Friday...when I have conditions of my own...and I'm with someone who's willing to meet them.

I've heard that vomitous phrase, that 'love is like a roller coaster' and I know it seems like that fits with the paragraph above...but it doesn't. It's not like a roller coaster for a lot of happy people in this world. In continuing with cheesy analogies, for a lot of people love seems more like a carousel...going mildly up and down around and around for a minute and a half. Not necessarily boring (I ride a carousel everytime I happen upon one)...but less volatile. Perhaps less passionate, but that volatile passion is short-lived anyway, as it eventually breaks one or both.

As usual, I feel as though I'm having trouble illustrating where I'm going with this. What the fuck do I know about writing a love story? I'm afraid all I will be committing to paper (or hard drive) is a transcript of the debate that rages continuously in my head (often at very inappropriate times) about what love even is...and how hollow it sounds when I try to use the word.

And this, my friends, is the definition of a commitment phobe. I fear it can't be cured. I don't know how to be content. But I know how to pretend for literary purposes.

Which is good news for me since ty and the Waif are holding my newly shipped shoes hostage unless I write them a love story.

Bastards.

They're really cute shoes, too.

I Don't Have Time For This

I should be cleaning. Apparently, I'm having people over. And then it's 80's Video Dance Attack at Lola's Room. That's right. Break out the leg warmers, it's time to shake your ass to I Think I'm Turning Japanese. Did you know that song came out the year I was born. I know...when I think about that, I have to rock back on my heels and whisper an astounded "son of a bitch". Really, it's what I have to do.

Since my bike has in the "shop", I've been bussing it to work. Though I read it every day, and have since it first appeared on the buses a couple years ago...today is the first day I've ever sat back and realized how odd it is that we have placards of poems on the inside of our buses. Truly...how fucking pretentious is that? They call it Poetry in Motion. I call it lame. All the poems are written by published poets who have obviously sunk low enough to okay such a degradation in order to eat. I get that. It's the last step before selling the body for sex.

Am I being harsh? I just resent it is all. I don't want to read poetry on my way to work. It's always this thoughtful junk about leaves turning in autumn or dreams. I'm already having trouble waking up...this doesn't help. Hey Trimet, you wanna do the bus riders a favor, post some Electric Six lyrics. Maybe some Leonard Cohen. Tenacious D. That shit's poetry.

Now someone's gonna tell me to bring something else to read on the bus. Well I've anticipated you, FOOL! By the time my stop rolls around, there's standing room only. So suck it.

It's not that I have anything against poetry. It's just that I don't like it. Like any worthy narrow minded individual, I don't like what I don't understand. Yes, it's the appropriate emotional response. I feel the same way about modern art. I will stare and stare and stare at it and it never has an effect on me. Not positive, not negative...nothing. Ooooh, I'm feeling the need to make a Neverending Story reference here, but I'll refrain. Because I'm a giver.

Sorry Sarah, this one's not so kid friendly. But that's what you get for not having the White Album memorized. Shame on you.

Shit...I have an hour. AN HOUR!

Oh Hello.

I have good news. And I have bad news.

Good news:
Jen is BACK! I despaired of her ever blogging again and had taken her link OFF my sidebar. And then, like, a week later she blogged. Saucy little minx. So check her out because she tickles me like no other (metaphorically speaking of course...perverts).

Bad news:
Devon and Kendra AND d have out and out stopped blogging. I am saddened by this, but I know they're busy with their band (Devon) and their dog training business (Kendra) and I hope someday that they'll come back to me. I don't know what happened to d, but I think he might have been abducted by wild Canadian farm animals bent on revenge. Macoosh, Slag and Kav seem to have stopped as well, but I'm still going to leave an optimistic candle lit for them in the form of not taking their links off my sidebar...and maybe a Christmas miracle will occur. Here's hoping.

Not even remotely news:
Happiness is a Warm Gun is, and has always been, my favorite Beatles song. Every one has one, you know.

You know.

See, This Is The Thing

The problem with my cooking is that it's horrible. I blame jazz. Jazz inspires invention...which often leads to disaster. Which often ends up in the garbage. I believe this is the reason I spend so many nights in a restaurant. Having recently returned from a place where there are limited types of food, I realize now that I am very lucky to have such cuisine choices available to me as Ethiopian food, Thai food, Chinese, Cantonese, Vietnamese, Tibetan food, Mexican both authentic and not, Italian food, Italian-inspired food, German, French, Creole, Cajun, Peruvian, Southern, Northern, Mid-western a la Hometown Buffet. And this is just scratching the surface. Sometimes figuring out what kind of food and where to eat it is the hardest decision I make all week. Disgusting, isn't it.

Where am I going with all of this? I haven't the foggiest. I just thought you should know that I'm a patriot. Not because I believe this land to be all that much more filled with promise than any other. Not because I believe in our political system or our culture. Certainly not because I am a product of its educational system. I adore this country because I can have Pho one night and go out for BBQ ribs the next. Maybe some Cuban food for lunch.

Of course that doesn't stop me from ingesting cereal and turkey sandwiches on a regular basis. Tomato soup and grilled cheese. Spaghettios. Yes. I love them. And that's ok. Because this is America. We may judge you based on your clothing, musical taste, political leanings, sexual orientation, choice of accessories, movie rentals, charities affiliated with, coffee additions, home decor and sport teams supported...but not what you eat. It's just not done.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'm home. And I'm hungry.