This fruit is liable to snap.
Saturday, January 31, 2004
Chipping away at my mind.
The best chips in the world are JP's. I don't think I've seen them sold anywhere else but in Boston, though. One of many reasons why I miss that town. (Go Pats!!!)
Help me be less stiff.
I want someone to sleep with me. Oh, not because I need a lil' sumthin' sumthin', although that would be nice. (Of course, I would probably improve my chances if I stop using expressions like "a lil' sumthin' sumthin'.") No, I would quite like a sleeping partner so that he can tell me what the hell I do during those 5-8 hours every night.
Those are the great lost hours of my life, and I feel as if I would understand myself much better -- who I am, what color my parachute is, and who moved my cheese -- if I could somehow observe myself in action, or in inaction, when I'm asleep. The best thing might be for my sleeping partner to videotape me sleeping, and then I could watch it all on playback, but that plan is simultaneously too Andy Warholianly-boring, and also just this side of creepy. I would be content with a wide-eyed report in the morning from someone who has spent the whole night just gazing upon my fair, snorting form.
This morning, for example, I woke up with a huge-ass crick in my neck. It's annoying in and of itself, but I also feel aggrieved because I've had a rough week and last night was supposed to be a restful, sleep-to-end-all-sleep kind of time. I've been getting these cricks quite frequently, so I have to wonder what kinds of weird Cirque du Soleil positions I get myself into during the night. I also used to suffer from sleep apnea -- when you stop breathing for a while, before drawing in a breath so sharp and big that you wake the decomposed -- and I really would like a status report, stat, on that condition. And of course, there is also the eternal and I believe universal mystery of why some days I wake with beautiful hair, while other mornings see me looking as if I have a duck-billed platypus on my head.
You see how someone who would take on the job of watching me sleep wouldn't also be the one to give me a lil' sumthin' sumthin'.
In other news, I'm also mystified by why one of my houseplants is attracting an army of ants. They frolic in the soil, and then putz around the base of the pot, going, "Woo-hoo!! Sweeeet party!" Is my plant diabetic?
Thursday, January 29, 2004
I, I who have nothing.
Apart from being really busy with work recently, I've also been in a "I have nothing to X" mood, where X includes but is not limited to several things. X="listen to," even though there are maybe 1500 CDs in my apartment. X="wear," even though my closet is actually overflowing. X="eat in the house," even though...well, that one is true.
The first proposition is true too, if we modify it to "I have nothing new to listen to." The beginning of the year is always a slow time for music releases, so the past month has seen me buying and playing lots of compilations of old funk, pop, and soul records.
I did get the new Air album, Talkie Walkie, this week. It's nice that they've ditched the misguided prog-rock stylings of 10,000 Hz Legend, and most critics are hailing it as a return to the sound of Moon Safari. My early impression is that while this is generically true, the new album also has many moments of acoustic guitars over the synths, which is a pleasing development: on the single "Cherry Blossom Girl," for example. But, actually, I like the song first and foremost because of the way the vocalist sings the title line: "schelly blossom girl." It is, how you say, so French. (The Frenchest French since Dominique Durand of Ivy went: "I guess I'm jest a leetle, too sensitive.") Of course, the name of the vocalist for Air is Jessica Banks, so she's probably really from Ohio. But it's how you sound that matters.
Back with more energy to blog this weekend, hopefully.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Government of the people, by the…oh, fuck that shit.
Ever since the prime minister gave an infamous interview to Time magazine in which he acknowledged the existence of gay people -- if only because we're, yay, economically useful -- there have been hopes that homosexuality will at last be decriminalized here. The country's gay activist group, People Like Us, has sprang back to life, and its latest action has been to send an open letter to Parliament, asking its members to, heaven forbid, exercise their imagination and empathy to see what it might be like if they knew someone gay.
Yeah, that really worked. My favorite part of the article is the end, when they quote a certain elected official as saying this: "MPs are quite use [sic] to receiving such emotionally charged letters, it is part of democracy. As a policymaker, it is beneficial to listen to all views. It is our aim to cultivate an open political culture. But we cannot rule by consensus." Of course not. Democracy is simply the act of receiving letters; that's why post offices all over the world are always held up as bastions of freedom and democratic governance.
Monday, January 26, 2004
You're the top.
I don't know how I initially missed the news, but Ann Miller died a few days ago. I love Ann, although by "love" I mostly mean "was endlessly amused by her to the point of mocking her, just a little bit." I know it's bad form to make fun of someone who just died, but I'm not laughing with her, I'm laughing at her.
Not being alive in the 40s and 50s, I was bewitched by Ann belatedly, when I saw her in one of those That's Entertainment! specials. I was watching it with Leafhead, who very accurately pointed out that Ann was not so much tap-dancing as she was just...spinning. And it's true: in all her routines, Ann kind of clomps around a little, shows some jazz hands, twirls a top hat, but that's all prelude for her ultimate signature move, which is basically to just spin. Around and around. And then around. It's sort of dancing as vinyl-record impression.
For eons after, Leafhead and I used to shout "Ann Miller!", and just start randomly spinning. When a few years ago I saw Ann in Mulholland Drive, playing a wacked-out, overly mascaraed woman named Coco, I could hardly watch the movie without trembling in anticipation that she would bust a spinning move. (Really, that would have made as much sense in Lynch's movie as anything else.) I'll miss you, Ann! Keep on spinning in your new world!
Friday, January 23, 2004
Don't mind doing it for the kids.
Yesterday I gave my ten-year old niece money, and she gave me the following Chinese New Year wishes: "I hope that this year you'll get a wife." Pause. "Or a dog."
It is an annoyance of the Chinese New Year -- and any family-style holiday, really -- that it brings bizarre relatives out of the woodwork, who emerge solely to torture me with rhyming couplet questions like "what are you doing with your life?" (less frequent, now that I've created a convincing illusion of having a productive job), and "when are you getting a wife?" Thankfully, my parents are about as anti-social as I am, so I'm usually spared such irritating relatives and their third degrees.
My niece, an excellent person all around, doesn't fall into that category: not only is she non-pesky, and someone I see and want to see often, but her question was also entirely selfish. Bless her little heart. She's an only child, so I think she's just longing for more distractions, animal, mineral or vegetable. So what she really wants is for me to get married, reproduce, and create another cousin for her to play with. I don't think she's quite ready for the idea that those three things could, so to speak, conceivably be decoupled.
If a heterosexually procreated legitimate baby isn't on the horizon, therefore, a dog would do just as well. My niece has a few hamsters, although, as I previously reported, one made a successful break for it, and, to update the situation, another recently bit the big one while the third cannot bite at all because he has just lost all its teeth. So we don't think he's long for this world either, and hamsters won't fill the void for my niece much longer. I know how that is, though I fervently hope that drinking will always fill my void.
I have bought myself some time, though -- not that I actively participated in the process, mind you -- because my niece's other uncle (or, as I call him, the less favored one) recently had a second child. So my niece now has two cousins -- one male, one female -- to enjoy. That family was over at my parents' yesterday to visit, and I got to meet the newborn baby girl. Oddly, her mom had shaved off all her hair and her eyebrows -- apparently this, plus another Nair job at the four-month mark, will ensure that when her hair is finally allowed to grow in, it will be luscious and shiny. We all had to admit that this seems to have worked on the older kid. Maybe when he is older he will get beat up on the playground for having such preternaturally glossy hair, but for now he seems happy and the envy of, well, me, with my brittle split ends.
Hairlessness aside, the newborn baby girl was really quite adorable. She seemed inordinately fascinated with my visage, but I do seem to have a face that hypnotizes babies. Call it a gift. My niece was very good with the baby, and quite obviously loves her already. She also was quick to dispense babying tips. When I vaguely waved my finger in front of the newborn's nose, my niece gave an exasperated sigh, and proclaimed, with wisdom beyond her years: "She's not a hamster, you know." Ooh, burned by a ten-year old.
In related news, my cold, cold heart is also warmed by the vision of the Peanuts gang performing "Hey Ya!" The part where Snoppy goes "Oww!" especially kills me (link via Popjustice).
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Hi, I'm Baby. I carried a watermelon.
We're on the verge of a nuclear war, so we need to gather our supplies and hunker down for a long winter. Judging from the conversations that Sprockets and I have been having about the next few days, it would seem as if that's what's happening. Really, it's just that the Chinese New Year is upon us. Since the first two days, which are always holidays, fall this year on Thursday and Friday, we have a long weekend ahead of us. We're not complaining, except this means that almost all the shops will be closed and we have to think about stocking up.
There's more at stake for Sprockets because she wants to have people over on Saturday. We're reasonably sure that the stores will reopen by then, but it never hurts to fret. Over the phone she announced her intention to get a watermelon. "Why a watermelon?" I asked, a little dubiously. Despite its redness, it's not really a traditional Chinese New Year snack. "I always think it's a festive thing to have," she said, "and there'll be lots for everyone." So we're planning to sit around with an ice cream scooper and ball watermelon on Saturday. I think it's a good plan.
My mother, however, seems to think that I'm always in a state of emergency. Each time I'm over at my parents for dinner, I somehow have to leave with a year's supply of rations. Mom will often fill a Tupperware container with leftovers, which I don't mind as much (though I pretend to) -- dignity is fine, but I'm not going to turn down a nice home-cooked meal.
But she also pushes on me actual groceries. Maybe you could do with a bunch of bananas? A ten-ton bag of rice, perhaps? I've tried repeatedly to point out that, my occasional appearance notwithstanding, I dwell amidst civilization; my neighborhood does have grocery stores and markets. Mom waves off such perfectly relevant facts; she's convinced that I don't have time to shop, or somehow will never remember to purchase the things I really need. Like, you know, a huge bottle of ketchup, or an industrial-sized packet of fish fingers.
After a while, it's just easier to take whatever she shoves at me. I was over for dinner tonight, and among the things I had to leave with was a pomelo. If you've never encountered that fruit, here is a picture of one, albeit already eaten and transformed into charming headgear. The kitty is not included:
And that's a small pomelo. The one I had to carry home tonight, via a 45-minute bus journey, is about the size of a dainty watermelon. I was just about as pleased as the cat. I like pomelos, but this better be the best one ever, is all I can say.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
That would be up the butt, Bob.
We're in the middle of a SARS emergency exercise here at work. I enjoy all aspects of this operation, of course -- the paranoia, the military rhetoric, the heightened surveillance, the melodrama -- but am especially partial to one of the posters promoting it. This has a picture of a metal food tray, which holds a bowl of chicken noodle soup, an apple, a wedge of cheese, bread, and then, on the right, the fetishized object of worship: a thermometer.
The text says:
SARS Readiness!
24 hours x 365 days alert
Make the thermometer part of your daily life
Remember where you keep it
Conduct regular tests to check its condition
Ensure batteries are working
Lifestyle note: Take your temperature twice a day
I don't even take that much care of my vibrator, and that's a real lifestyle. But I do have the perfect place to keep my thermometer where I won't forget it.
Hmm: It occurs to me that I should do a week's worth of posts with titles alluding to old game shows. I'm already two for five, after all.
Monday, January 19, 2004
What's my line?
There must be a billion jobs in this world. While it's therefore likely that I've never heard of most of them, explaining what you do in a strange way won't help matters.
I had gotten arm-twisted into going to this thing for alumni of the program I work in. It was really what I wanted to be doing on Friday night, but I'm nothing if not dutiful. The best-laid plan: get there right on time, make my appearance, eat the free meal, attempt the getaway. So tumbleweeds were rolling by when I got there, but I spotted Czarina and we made beelines for each other. This turned out to be the one thing that assured me later that we didn't hallucinate the whole episode.
Toting a young woman, my boss appeared, with what I now in retrospect understand was a bit of a wild-eyed look. The bastard conveniently deposited said woman, and made his excuses. We were left with someone working the whole China Doll look: in a little cheongsam top and seeming as if Louise Brooks's bad hair day vomited on her head. In response to Czarina's small-talk query, Dollface said, stridently: "I work with leaks." Then, immediately: "L-E-A-K-S," which was good, because I seriously was about to ask her about legumes.
What? Leaks? Oh, you know how oftentimes one apartment has something that leaks into another apartment? Like, a leak? Sure. Well, she worked with that. Erm, the clarification and spelling were all very nice, but neither Czarina nor I were any closer to understanding what Dollbaby actually did. Did she graduate with an architecture degree? Was she perhaps an engineer, testing buildings for structural problems? Did she attend to the legal side of the problem, adjudicating in disputes and ruling with the wisdom of Solomon? No, no, no: she was an economics major, and now she traced the source of leaks, and fixed them. So, yeah, I still don't know. Isn't that what a plumber does?
Meanwhile, even as Dollhouse O'Horror acted as if she was irked to be asked about leaks, she also showed no sign of wanting to talk about anything else. So of course, after offering a preface about how "oh, you must get people at parties offering their leak stories all the time!" I start babbling about that time when my apartment, it leaked! Dollywooden, limbs all a-pointing, then started sternly admonishing us about good neighbors and the prevention of leaks. Czarina made the mistake of saying something about "long baths," and off we went on another lecture about how tubs were the inventions of Satan. Did you know? They might leak!
In a blind panic by now, I helped by rushing in with an incoherent story about the place of bathtubs in my childhood, when they appeared to me the height of luxury, because this is such a land-scarce country that few apartments have them. So when my family went on vacations, I would want to just stay in the hotel room and take a nice, long bath. I rambled on and on about this, and about how ironic it is that now that I do have a tub in my apartment, I hardly ever use it. Gripping!
It was all kinds of surreal -- there we all were, somehow unable to stop talking about leaks even as we all were thinking, oh my god, stop talking about leaks already. It was heinous. We were finally rescued by the announcement that the buffet was ready. Czarina and I made our escape; after exchanging "what the hell was that?" looks, we sadly surveyed the drinks selection and simultaneously knew we were going to need something stronger.
Oh, also at the event was MissPunctuation!, who, upon seeing me, held her belly and exclaimed: "Look how fat I'm getting!" I had to break it to her that she wasn't fat, just pregnant.
Friday, January 16, 2004
I still haven't found what I'm looking for.
I hope you take a moment to be thrilled for me. After a two-day obsession with Dysphagia Cups, I see that my hard work (i.e., mentioning them) has paid off: someone clicked through these pages from a google search on the term.
I'm hardly the only person fascinated by referral logs, although I'm not really a huge stat whore. Not having many stats will do that to you. Velcrometer, for example, has been documenting his funniest search phrases for a while ("inflatable ass c**t football stretch" is pretty hard to beat, in a manner of speaking), while poor Eurotrash currently finds her journal the repository for all things handjob-related. (I would never suggest, of course, that she secretly likes it.)
Some of the hits on Brittle Lemon are obvious: several people have already scanned my pages for Mark Ruffalo's penis, as if I myself haven't already looked. (I like how one person configured the search more specifically but uselessly: "In the cut Mark Ruffalo penis picture." Can I introduce you to the "images" tab on google? You're welcome.) And after that last Kelis entry, with its litany of saucy body parts, I think I'm set for the natural life of this blog. You would almost think I was baiting 'em.
But my favorite referral search phrase thus far has been "my Adam's apple." Not Adam's apples in general, mind you, but mine. It's rather poignant. I see a man sitting at his computer, idly wandering if the lump in his throat is leading a fabulous secret life of celebrity, of which he was not aware, but one that's hopefully documented online. Or maybe someone woke up one day and thought it was finally time to see about that operation.
In other news that I now realize is weirdly related, if only by bodily location, I started using a new shaving cream. (Just so there're no misunderstandings or bad mental images, I'll add: on my face.) It has a very strong, though not unpleasant after-smell; I've been walking around feeling as if I have a glomp of shaving cream somewhere that I somehow neglected to rinse off. Is this what a phantom limb feels like? So I spend all day caressing my face in what must look like an orgy of self-love, and it's all very incriminating.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Hold the cherries. Please.
I'm all about the sexual innuendo, but is it too much to ask that double entendres be specific, coherent, and consistent? An edited email exchange:
Me: So what's the verdict on what a milkshake actually is? Pardon the French, but which body part are we talking about? Breasts, ass, pussy, or an especially talented mouth? It's a good thing we're not overanalyzing this.
Esque: When overanalyzing, cut and paste lyric:
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, "it's better than yours." Damn right, it's better than yours. I can teach you, but I have to charge.
I know you want it, the thing that makes me, what the guys go crazy for. They lose their minds, the way I wind, I think it's time.
La la-la la la, warm it up. La la-la la la, the boys are waiting.
I can see you're on it, you want me to teach the techniques that freaks these boys. It can't be bought, just know thieves get caught, watch if you're smart.
Once you get involved, everyone will look this way. So you must maintain your charm, same time maintain your halo, just get the perfect blend. Plus what you have within, then next his eyes are squint, then he's picked up your scent.
Me: My first reaction is: man, "Milkshake" has verses?
But with her remarks -- "Milkshake is just that thing that makes a woman stand out from everyone else. It's a thing that makes you sensual and warm and maternal. It could be about breasts but I don't have huge tits so you gotta work with what you got" -- Kelis herself seems to suggest that it's a song about shaking your boobies. And, um, milk comes from breasts, if I remember right. When it's not coming from cows, that is, but we're not talking about shaking cows. Cause that would be weird.
Esque: "It" in the first verse seems to be, ahem, oral talents. What else could "the way I wind" refer to? But what the "it" is to be warmed up -- I'm not so sure.
Me: Yeah, I had initially thought that a milkshake is a blowjob, which does, well, entail milking boys dry. And "warm" does often refer to a certain bodily fluid, as in Alison Moyet's infamously scandalous plea for a "warm injection". But that's just where my mind always goes first.
But it could still be breast- or ass-shaking. "Wind[ing]" could then refer to a gyrating movement of the hips, much like the swirly way soft ice cream comes out of a Diary Queen dispenser. I smell a tie-in. Can breasts be warmed up? Are we talking about open flames? But then wouldn't warm nipples no longer be hard? The mystery deepens.
And what about the confusing pronouns? Why would the boys be like, "it's better than yours"?
Esque: I think that the "yours" that the boys in the yard say refers to the "other woman" to whom Kelis is singing. The bridge at the end seems to translate as "it's good for you to have these sexual talents, but boys will reduce you to a whore, so you gotta keep it real, girlfriend."
There we go: we just don't know.
But The Village People's "Milkshake" definitely refers to an actual milky, frosty cooling beverage. The fact that they sing the song in a fantastic movie that features them dancing through a sauna as men wrapped only in towels whap each other on the ass emphatically does not affect its meaning.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
And no body is complete without a fringe.
I was, um, mortified to read, over my morning juice, a news article in the local paper about the funeral of Anita Mui, the Cantopop singer who sadly died of cervical cancer almost two weeks ago. The service was held in Hong Kong yesterday, and attended by over 600 people. The Hong Kong/Chinese entertainment press is notorious for their invasions of privacy, but even that knowledge didn't quite prepare me for this snippet at the end of the report:
"Anita Mui left looking the way she wanted -- elegant and beautiful, and with a smile on her lips.
She looked like a sleeping princess as she lay in her coffin on Sunday, said reports in the Chinese press which were based on accounts by friends who were allowed into the funeral home.
Her complexion still looked soft, as if her body had lost little moisture after her death.
She lay on a carpet of white flowers in the mahogany-coloured coffin, with white orchids scattered on either side of her head. Her face was partially covered by a huge white flower placed over one ear.
She had light gold eyeshadow on her eyelids, pink rouge on her cheeks and her lips were painted a champagne colour.
Her hair was styled straight but short. Kelly Chen's hairstylist, called Nicholas, had created a golden-brown wig of real hair for her, complete with a fringe.
Mui's designer friend Eddie Lau designed her funeral outfit, an ivory-coloured, cheongsam-like gown made of French silk."
You know, on the one hand I'm all for attempts to demystify death, which I think will indeed help many cultures to deal with grief and bereavement much better. But really, is there any need to describe Anita -- which, yeah, I've just repeated -- as if she was simply dressed up for the latest film premiere? Do you think Nicholas and Eddie will be getting some extra work, based on the good word of mouth?
Monday, January 12, 2004
Damned by virtue.
In one of those alumni publications that I continue to receive -- clearly, they will follow me through address changes, death and pestilence -- I read about a new interdisciplinary field called "happiness studies." It's an "academic, not practical" pursuit, says Sissela Bok, a philosopher and ethicist who's supposedly a major figure in the field. "She seeks," the reporter notes, "not happiness itself, rather an understanding of its nature, its role in our lives, and its place as intellectual fodder throughout the ages."
"'Most people do not see themselves as leading quiet lives of desperation,' Bok said. Instead, regardless of income level or education, a majority of people regard their lives as moderately or very happy." Huh.
But the attempt to send me reeling isn't quite done. "Historically, both health and virtue have been held up as the philosophical antecedents to happiness, but Bok notes that examples exist to contradict these ideas. 'We know quite a few people who may be extraordinarily virtuous but are not particularly happy,' she said, 'and we know a certain number of people who are quite the opposite of virtuous but who do seem to be rather happy.'" ("Well, as long as you know some people." -- Ed.) Oh good: now I can keep drinking and give up on that whole sexual abstinence lark.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Can I deck a witness?
I usually enjoy riding the bus more than I do the subway. I may have to reconsider, however, after I found out that Jesus seems to have the same preference.
I had gotten on the upper deck of the bus that gets me from work to downtown. I've seen quite a number of Jehovah's Witnesses on that bus, and always assumed that this is because there are a good number of churches along that stretch of road, and that the Witnesses are riding the bus just because they had places to go, deities to see. Usually moving in pairs, they are neatly and identically dressed (short-sleeved shirts with ties), though each does wear a nametag -- so that they themselves don't get too confused, presumably. One time, I was tremendously entertained when I saw that one man's nametag said "Elder Butt." Elder. Butt. Heh heh heh. Sure, maybe I'm just so twelve that I'm eleven, but you have to admit that makes seeing evangelical zombies on public transportation totally worth it.
On a ride a few days ago, however, I had settled into my seat on the bus when I noticed a Jehovah's Witness who was seemingly by himself. He wasn't sitting alone, though, but beside some passenger. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, and quickly realized that he was proselytizing. That he was taking advantage of people who had no easy or graceful way to get away was infuriating enough. But it got worse, because after the first passenger gave him the brush-off, I saw him move to another seat and go through the same routine, and then again with another passenger. All the men he picked were Malay, and presumably Muslim. Cause they're infidels, you see. Jesus! Is nothing sacred?
Thursday, January 08, 2004
I'm an idiot, but apparently very persuasive.
I was talking to a colleague and asking after his wife, who I've even met a few times. I can never get her name right: it's not personal, but rather some sort of genetic deficiency I have that prevents me from telling the difference between "Carolyn" and "Caroline" (though I guess the problem is quite common). I don't think I ever knew which she is; I guess it would help if I ever saw it written down, but it's not always easy to turn these workplace conversations into a game of Pictionary. And so, when I need to name her, I usually pick one wildly, and sometimes even switch between the two in the course of one conversation. It's like I think he's a bigamist or something.
By that measure, I do okay during this conversation, because, while I called his wife the wrong thing -- "Caroline," I believe, but who knows? -- several times, at least I was consistent. The funny thing, though -- and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing hysterically -- is that, when my colleague picked up his side of the conversation, he calls her "Caroline" before catching and correcting himself. For a split second, we hovered on the brink of acknowledging my persistent inability to address her (or anyone with either of those names) correctly, but it passed. I just hope that I haven't permanently damaged his ability to remember his own wife's name.
By the way, for those readers who actually know who the hell I'm talking about, one more word: preggers.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Let's go to the tape.
I normally enjoy watching people become embittered before my very eyes, but late last night I saw someone's hopes and dreams get, not so much crushed, but electrocuted and poked in the ass with a red hot cattle prod, and the ravaged corpse of those dreams dragged through a street paved with salted broken glass. It was a total snuff film, and highly disturbing. Hilarious, but disturbing.
I was having trouble sleeping, so flipped absent-mindedly through channels till I came across some Chinese entertainment program. A rerun, I think -- I vaguely recall seeing snippets of the show sometime ago, in a more primetime slot. Basically a Taiwanese version of Pop/American Idol, the program, cheerfully called Super Idol, took ten nubile young wannabe singers, and made them perform before a panel of judges eliminated one or two of them each week.
In the episode I saw last night, we were down to three contestants: the designated pretty boy who can most accurately be described as sounding like an asthmatic lisper; the bland woman who would be lucky to be described as sounding like anything at all; and Jenny, who, while no great shakes, was passably ok. So of course the four judges -- who, making Simon Cowell sound like a complete pussy, were cutting and erudite, so no one was ever quite sure if they had just been insulted -- booted Jenny.
Then the fun began. Poor Jenny started weeping, and she was not alone. We cut back and forth. Jenny wept. Her mother in the audience wept. A random audience member wept. More weeping. Some more, again. Weep weep weep. Before we got to this tearfest, they showed a segment of the three finalists working hard in the studios to record two songs each; now, the master tapes were on stage. The two who made it to the finals were going to have their tapes made into EPs (and in the shops "the very next day," supposedly), and whoever sold more copies would be the ultimate winner. Because poor Jenny got so close and yet so far, they were going to destroy her master tape. No, better yet -- they were going to have Jenny destroy it herself.
Well, poor girl was just bereft, and can you blame her? The two hosts, named Gay Gayerson and Also Quitegay, alternated between patting Jenny on the shoulders and giving her tissues, and insisting that she herself had to yank the tape out of the spool. "It's the rules of the game," they trilled. Then, pricelessly: "You'll be a stronger person for it, Jenny. After this, your new life can begin" (that would presumably be the new life marked "obscurity and loserdom").
Jenny was having a breakdown by this point, but finally, feebly manages to pull a few feet of the tape out of its spool. "Come on, Jenny, more," the hosts implored. "There are two tracks on the tapes, so we have to be sure both are unusable." When that was done, they handed Jenny a pair of shiny silver-plated scissors -- sure, death and destruction and all that, but there's no reason why it can't be delivered prettily -- which she had to use to actually snip the tape.
Surprisingly, instead of stabbing either herself or the hosts with the Scissors of Broken Dreams, Jenny finally gets up enough strength to make the cruel cut. For a moment, she stands there, pathetically clutching a handful of shredded tape, a little unsure of what to do with it, before -- and this is, I swear, captured in a slow motion shot as if Jenny is the little girl in the red coat in fuckin' Schindler's List -- letting it fall to the ground as she walks off stage.
Make some popcorn and tune in next week, when they wrap the master tape around the runner-up's neck and hang the sucker from the rafters.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Plus, now his heart says "wo."
I don't know what the problem is. He could always do a little more erasing, and remove the "n." I'm sure, given the choice between homosexuality and narcissism, this guy would choose the latter. It would go well with his shorts too.
Other possibilities: "I love menses." "I love menopausal women." "I love menorahs." "I love mentos. They're freshmakers." "I love men, but not that way."
Saturday, January 03, 2004
No sense of cock.
I should explain how I found myself in a porn theater last night, but first, some appropriate music: bamp chicka bow-wow, awwww yeah.
Of course, by "porn theater," I just mean "theater." This lovely land has no such things as porn cinemas, porn, or, for that matter, sex. We do, however, have Art, and so some years ago the c*nsorshit bo*rd relaxed its sphincter enough to allow some films to be shown mostly uncut under a "R(A)" -- for "Restricted (Artistic)" -- rating. In case you're confused, this means that the film is artistic, but viewership is restricted to people over 21, and not that the films are limited in their artistic execution. Having said that, the stuff that distributors have brought in under this label tends to be "artistic" in the same way that Sharon Tate's Jennifer in Valley of the Dolls made French films that were "artistic"; but sometimes, we get films aren't actually softcore Euro sleaze. (No offense to softcore Euro sleaze -- some of my best friends are.) The top-grossing R(A) movie of all time here is Amelie, for example, followed by City of God, and I believe neither film starred Jennifer's well-exercised boobs.
R(A) films can only be shown downtown, but not in the "heartland," more suburban areas. We have to think about the children, after all. Downtown, most of the time the naughty flicks coexist side-by-side with the non-deviant movies, but there are two cinemas -- colloquially called "dirty old man cinemas" -- that only screen R(A) flicks. That's niche marketing for you.
Anyway, last night I got off (bamp chicka bow-wow) work and spontaneously decided that I would go see In The Cut, that Jane Campion movie. It's been playing for a few weeks, so now can only be seen at a DOM cinema (whose other offerings included Negligee, Improper Conduct, and Son de Mar). Well, that's ok -- I ain't afraid of no stinkin' urban grime, there was nothing on TV, and I had a few hours to go before it was socially acceptable to be drinking. Packing my rubber gloves, I trekked downtown.
The entrance to the cinema was kind of hard to find, and the elevator smelled pretty bad, but I guess filth needs to be literal. Stepping into the lobby of the cinema made me realize that I had definitely been there before -- I can't remember when or what for, but I'm sure it was when the theater was still a respectable one before the advent of restricted artistry. Honest. Probably in the 80s, then, although the lobby looked exactly the same. Now that's pornographic.
While I would love to report that the floors were sticky, each chair came equipped with a tissue box holder, unseemly moans emitted from strange corners of the cinema, and that I got herpes from my seat, it wasn't all that bad. The annoyances were actually much more run-of-the-mill: for some reason the sound was turned way down, they made no attempt to let the credits run (I so wanted to know who played "3rd man in crowd"), and some asshole let his phone ring its jauntily stupid ringtone many, many times. Of course, maybe the cinema management was convinced no one was there to listen to or watch the film, and perhaps Phone Guy's hands were too busy to answer his cell, so perhaps the annoyances were porn-theater-specific after all.
As for the movie itself...I don't know. It seemed to comprise a series of mediocre puns about giving head/losing your head, all to show that women have some sort of castration anxiety too. Why would you want to lay claim to that, Jane? I did like the Hamlet joke, and the film did cough up a phrase that I will no doubt be using for some time to come -- beginning with this entry's title -- but that's about it. You would think that any film -- yeah, spoilers coming up, because I know you read this site for the movie scoopage -- that features Jennifer Jason Leigh's head in a plastic bag, Mark Ruffalo's enormous penis, and Meg Ryan looking like Carrie at the conclusion of her prom couldn't be bad, but you live, you learn.
Thursday, January 01, 2004
Ball-dropping observations.
The city that got the most coverage was of course New York. I like watching these scenes of mayhem, mostly because I am all-tingle with anticipation to see if any drunks either wander obliviously into the shot, or try on purpose to sneak in behind the reporter and do something embarrassing. Regardless of intent, drunks are entertaining, yay! (Well, on TV anyway). I was almost rewarded -- some baseball-cap wearing guy popped up behind the CNN journo, but disappeared almost immediately. It was like live-action whack-a-mole, and I wondered if he was unceremoniously yanked because of the "increased security."
Speaking of premature yanking, can I also say, there was quite a bit of open-mouth kissing? Some of it looked seriously bad: drooling, wet, and intoxicatedly misaimed. A second entertaining game, therefore, was to decide, from the comfort of my couch, which couples needed to break up because, really? You don't need to go through life being subjected to such bad kissing techniques. In front of the whole world, natch.
If a break-up seems too severe, at least get your partner some help. "In mid kiss, gently open your mouth and softly nudge the other person's mouth open using your tongue" is good advice for the kisser who persists in using a crowbar, and "Again, not too aggressively, move your tongue inside the other persons [sic] mouth and playfully touch their [sic] tounge [sic]," smartly emphasizes how much method acting the tongue needs to do. But the paramount tip is the one beautifully written in a run-on style meant, no doubt, to mimic sexual excitement. No doubt. "As the kissing gets going saliva build up can be a problem, don't forget to swallow"; if you find that your partner cannot swallow, swiftly get him a Crate and Barrel comma unsplicer and a Dysphagia Cup.
NB: In case this post made me sound like a sad lonely old man who sits in front of the idiot box watching others exchange spit as a new year dawned, I should clarify that I got to do so because the newscast was live, midnight EST, by which time I was quite a few hours removed from the start of my new year. See, I worry what you think of me.
