"The Bishop's Wife" (1947), starring Cary Grant, Loretta Young, and David Niven

I just watched this ostensibly charming little Christmas movie in which Cary Grant plays an angel who counsels an uptight bishop on how to be a better husband and religious leader. The bishop, played by David Niven with a face stuck on worried, is so preoccupied with raising funds to build a giant new cathedral that he can't see how love-starved his hot wife has become. She's ripe for the picking, if you know what I mean.

The angel Dudley is supposedly so suave that he instantly charms everyone he meets, mostly by knowing their first names without being told and by being exceptionally tan in the middle of winter. The ostensibly charming little Dudley uses his magic angel powers to delay the bishop while he blatantly hits on the bishop's wife. This struck me as less "suave" and more "stalker/future rapist". I kept thinking he'd turn out to be a demon instead, but that would've taken away from the stupefyingly creepy dullness of this ostensibly charming little Christmas movie.

At least there are some patented magical moments to brighten up this OCLCM, right? Suave stalker Dudley's magical heaven-sent angel powers consist of: opening locked doors, refilling Sherry glasses, filing, not answering direct questions, knowing trivia about ancient coins, ice skating, bewitching cab drivers into giving him free rides, decorating Christmas trees, and taking gaudy hats from chubby ladies to give them to skinny Loretta.

He also induces choir boys to sing. Aren't choir boys supposed to sing? Yes, but most of these boys were late for their recital, you see, so Dudley summoned the Almighty's powers in order to wave the boys slowly into the room WHILE SINGING, such that their chirpy little voices gradually blended together into a heavenly choir. I suppose this was supposed to be a silvery moment of convergence, but Dudley was really just hurrying up some tardy little eunuchs while staring at them with inappropriate intensity. Christmas magic!

The one bright spot is mischievous cherub Elsa Lanchester as the bishop's maid. I wish the whole movie had been about her; alas, she was reduced to twittering about and staring hungrily at dumb old pathologically lustful Dudley.

Dudley doesn't ravish the bishop's pillow-lipped wife, but he essentially admits that he wants to. If only he had! At least then the bishop may have been forced to change his expression.

I give it one chestnut roasting over an open fire FROM HELL.

Salton Sea Birders

Did you go to the Salton Sea last weekend to look for the Ross's Gull? No? Why not? Do you have any idea how otherworldly the Salton Sea looks? That's what I kept thinking -- it looks unworldly, or otherworldly, misty and mysterious. Keep looking long enough and you're bound to see hobbits bobbing along in wine barrels.

Of course it's completely of this world, it is, in fact, what this world is. It's our landscaped lawns and oversized dinosaur sculptures on mini golf courses that are truly otherworldly.

Don't tell anyone that I stared at duck decoys for half an hour, wondering why all the ducks were sleeping at the same time.

"Secrets & Lies" (1996), dir by Mike Leigh

English movie stars are the least attractive movie stars in the world – you think I'm going to mention the teeth, but I'm not; I don't care about the teeth, I'm tired of perfect, blindingly-white, slightly too big veneers winking out at me from every mouth on TV. I like messed up teeth just fine.

(Notice that Cary Grant moved to America before becoming a movie star. He was too good-looking to be an English movie star.)

English movie stars are unattractive because they allow themselves to be and represent and inhabit real people. The best of them don't play characters; they play people. People aren't pretty. Brenda Blethyn plays a whiny, annoying woman with a high-pitched whine of a voice who drinks too much and allows her grown daughter to treat her like shit while she collapses in tears on the bed. She wears ugly stretched flower pants over her lumpy bottom, topped with hideous crotched tops. These are real clothes that a woman like this would really wear; these are not clothes that a costume designer or stylists picked out, stealth chic like most American movies, where the clothing is an extension of the expertise and sophistication of the wardrobe department and an acknowledgement that we audience members want to see beautiful people being beautiful and pretend we can be like them no matter where we work or how much money we have. We may be a waitress in a diner, but we're really Michelle Pfeiffer. We may be a smart but trashy secretary, but we're really Julia Roberts. Maybe it has to do with the American bootstrap mentality, and our insistence that class is an illusion and wealth is a lottery ticket away. I don't think English people think that way; in fact, they “take the piss out” of those who do. It doesn't make them or us better, but it sure does make for a different kind of actor.

Director Mike Leigh won't work from a script; he truly collaborates with his actors to create the characters and map out the scenes, and the narrative cohesion and depth of his approach is stunning, partly in its contrast to the surface that most movies present to us, the indication of feeling rather than the reality of it. In this movie, Leigh collaborated with astonishing actors who had the guts to be ugly, both in looks and in feeling. The characters are unlikable, pathetic, even hateable in how awful they are to one another or how weak they seem to be, and how stubbornly stuck they are in their unhappy lives and destructive patterns. They can't communicate. They'd be better off without each other.

Wrong. This movie is an emotionally mature work with great compassion for its characters. It proves that confronting your problems, exposing your secrets and lies, can release you in ways you never thought possible. It also shows how incredibly difficult it is to do that.

Structurally, the movie sneaks up on you, slowly, imperceptibly (“organically”) revealing bits of the characters' lives and pasts and how they are intermingled and who relied on whom at what point and who sacrificed when and how the power and inner strength shifted over time. It lets you put the pieces together as the movie progresses, making you an actor in the storytelling. You become complicit, responsible somehow, in the long line of decisions that led to this day and this breaking point. You want desperately for them to work it out and be happy, because you know that they deserve it at long last. Maybe everybody does (not Hitler), maybe we just need to know more to feel more, maybe not, I don't know. Aren't some people just shits who need to go far away? No?

The people who made this movie love people; they are humanists in the strongest, bravest sense. They believe in human beings and in the power of kindness and love. They helped me get a little closer to believing in them, too.

And of course, these actors (Timothy Spall, Phyllis Logan, Blethyn, Claire Rushbrook, Marianne Jean-Baptiste) are beautiful. I just needed to look at them.

Second Life, same as the first

I heard a thing on NPR recently about a web world called Second Life, and there are linden dollars that you can exchange for US dollars, and Suzanne Vega did a concert in this virtual world, somehow, and a reporter has an avatar in this world where he is also a reporter, but whereas in real life he is Adam Whatever, in Second Life he is Adam Reuters, and the whole fucking thing was surreal to listen to because they were talking about it like it was a normal thing when in fact it was insane.

Perhaps the world has advanced and I have not? I only have the first life so far myself.

Greatest Story Description EVER

There was a movie on cable yesterday called "Mother Knows Best" (1997), starring Joanna Kerns, Christine Elise, Grant Show, and Jessica Walter.

First of all, that's a great TV movie cast, because it's made up entirely of TV people we all know and probably like. Even if the movie sounds unappealing, you may say "But I'd like to see Joanna Kerns again, so I'll tune in." TV actors get to be our TV friends, and there is real pleasure in catching up with them again, even in a goofy TV movie.

Secondly, this is what the movie is about, according to the TIVO description:
A woman finds a husband for her daughter, then decides he's not good enough and must be killed.

I'm not being snide when I say that that makes me want to see the movie. The wonderful thing about this description is that you could give it to five different writers and get five wildly different movies, any of which could be good: Thriller, Black Comedy (starring Bette Midler, in 1988), Murder Mystery, Psychological Drama, Horror (if the husband lived on as a zombie, preferably played by present day Patrick Swayze).

I couldn't watch the actual movie, unfortunately, so I can't tell you whether it's good or not.

Gauguin Woman At the Comfort Inn

I don't know if it really is a Comfort Inn. I think that's where she'd stay, though, if she was visiting St. Louis or something.

But did you notice that her room also has the famous convex mirror from Jan Van Eyck's Arnolfini Portrait? That's pretty neat. I'm going to have to ask for one of those at my next hotel stay.

Maybe she has a business meeting coming up at Half-Nude Industries.

O. Henry had an f'ed up life

Did you know that O. Henry, "father of the twist ending", had a seriously f'ed up life? His stories are rather optimistic and fun, completely in contrast to his reality from what I can tell.

He made up a cute, memborable pen name because he didn't want his work associated with his real name, which was in turn associated with his conviction and imprisonment for embezzling money from a bank. (Which is a bit of a shame, really, since his real name was William Sydney Porter, which is a hell of a classy writer's name and fits his writing very well.)

It's be nice if the ending of his own story was "after his release from prison in 1901, he lived a fabulously successful life as a hot-aire balloonist" or "he returned to Honduras and was appointed Dictator for Life, whereafter he invented ping pong." But, alas, the twist ending for Henry's life is depressingly commonplace: he became an alcoholic, his second wife left him, and he died in 1910 of cirrhosis of the liver. Not so much a twist as a plain downer.

It's one thing to embezzle money -- I mean, who hasn't? -- but to skip town and run off to Honduras? That takes some imagination, and a willingness to live within your own life story as a story. He returned to the U.S. and to certain arrest after learning that his wife was dying of tuberculosis, and he was convicted after she died. He wrote his famous stories while in jail in order to provide for their young daughter.

Throw a murder, an icy blonde, and an isolated creep or two into O. Henry's life story, and you've got yourself a Hitchcock movie.

Every student short film in America has O. Henry to thank for its big stunning twist ending. And for that, sir, we shake our fists at you! You are to blame for the racist blind man who turns out to be black! And the quarter that completes an ironic journey from rich person to homeless to car accident of rich person that collides with the homeless person! And the person fantasizing about the rest of his life which he will never lead because he is in fact DEAD! And the irritating waiting room that turns out to be HELL!

But you can't trust my word on it...because I'm actually YOU IN AN ALTERNATE LIFE!!

Sally Mann, photographer

I recently saw a show of verite photographers (my term; I can't even remember what the museum called them, or how they justified grouping them together. Basically, the photographers all take photos of their friends and family, but not like you and I do; they keep the ugly shots). It included Nan Goldin and Philip-Lorca Dicorcia. Also Tina Barney and Larry Sultan.

All had some interesting and arresting shots, but most of them became overwhelming in abundance, and they have an underlying bleakness with which I am all too familiar. I wasn't in the mood, I guess.

Then there's Sally. Sally's photos of her three kids and her rural Virginia surroundings have one thing the other photos don't: hope for the future. There's a tremendous determination in Mann's photos, an insistence on looking at the world around you, not as you want it to be, but as it is, and in admitting that it won't last. I get the feeling from her photos that life is brutal and gorgeous and worth fighting for, and that you'd better be ready to scrap. There's an unflinching tenderness in these photos that I've only seen so powerfully presented in Steinbeck novels, maybe, or in Emmylou Harris's voice.

It's like they're saying, "Keep trying. It's worth it."

Maurice Denis, "Easter Mystery", 1891

I don't know my Bible very well, it seems, since I leapt from Easter to Easter egg hunt, as if that's really what Easter is: an excuse to hide eggs from children.

So of course Maurice Denis painted a disembodied hand taunting white-robed egg seekers with the missing egg. Of course he did.

Except that apparently that's the hand of God, and he's presenting the Eucharist, and I don't think we're supposed to think he's taunting anyone with it.

This is what happens when dopey unbelievers interpret religious art. The mystery and wonder of the Resurrection morphs into a bitter suburban American nightmare of fed-up soccer parents dressing their children in robes, hiding in trees, and wagging eggs in the air. April is the cruelest month in middle class mainstream America, after all.

Of course, my picture cuts off the tomb and the women on their knees at its door; hey, I thought they were searching the grass for their eggs.

But the Easter/egg connection is quite old, it seems, old enough that Mary Magdalene is said to have presented the Emperor of Rome with a red egg to inform him of the Resurrection and the bloodshed of Christ, etc. So for real, Denis might've painted an egg here, and I might be more informed than I thought.

I quite love Denis and his gently gothic-mystery forest scenes, with their robed women fleeing or striding or moseying around. He is Emily Bronte crossed with M. Night Shyamalan.

But this truly is the Worst. Hand of God. Ever. Michaelangelo, he ain't.

Sunday Afternoon on the Island of...holy crap, that's a lot of dots

I was in Chicago this past weekend, so I got took a good long gander at Georges Seurat's masterpiece. There sure are a lot of dots on that thing. It's so carefully built -- imagine if we really were characters in this painting, and we had to stand at right angles at all times. Unless we were a dog or a monkey.

I don't know about you, but I too like to take my monkey out for walks in the park, especially when I'm wearing my enormous bustle.

You never really know a painting until you see it in person (well, that's not true. For some, like Lichtensteins, I don't think it matters that much. But let's pretend this is true), and this one has a fabulous surprise in its painted purply border. The museum placard says Seurat added the border to help the eye make the transition to his custom-designed white frame, which they've replicated. (They being the Art Institute of Chicago.)

You almost never see that border in reproductions of the painting, which seems like a refutation of Seurat's intentions. I would imagine he'd like it there to lead the eye out to the white of the page of an art book, as well.

And so our eyes go unled, dazzled by orderly dots and skittering out to a chaotic 360 degree world.

I took a painting class once where we were forced to complete a pointillist painting, and boy did everyone hate doing it. It is profoundly unsatisfying. It feels like an obsessive compulsive exercise designed to force you to exert control over your own animal impulses and desires.

No wonder Seurat dropped dead at 31; he must've been exhausted.

"Hiny Hiders"

I swear that I'm not obsessed with public restrooms. I never intended to post even one toilet-related entry, let alone two.

But while I was charmed and delighted by Rest Assured, I just can't get behind (ha!) this one. This is a shot from the bathrooms at O'Hare airport of the latch on the stall, which reads "Hiny Hiders", by a Scanton, PA company called Santana Products. As a native Pennsylvanian, I say No. (Imagine that said in a Philadelphia accent. How about, "No, and get me a glass of wudder.")

No to this name. The product -- toilet partitions for public restrooms, is fine; nay, necessary and desireable. But Hiny Hiders is not cute or appropriate; it's just gross. It's trying too hard to be adorable, and I don't want my scatalogically-associated partitions to be adorable. Rest Assured is a practical name that happens to be funny. Hiny Hiders is a joke that falls flat.

And it's spelled wrong. We each have a hiney, not a hiny.

Are cutsie-poo (ha!) names a weird byproduct (ha!) of the professional toiletries business? If so, that's crap. (HA HA!)

I don't even want to know what the cleaning lady thought as she heard me taking a picture from inside my stall.

Also, O'Hare toilet seats are covered with an automated plastic wrap that changes itself between uses. It's like the toilet makes you wear a diaper. It is unaccountably disgusting.

Also, I've noticed that the new restrooms on the beach at Playa Del Rey have NO STALL DOORS. NOT A SINGLE COMPLETE HINY HIDER. What the hell is a no-door multi-stall bathroom about? Who are the sick voyeurs who designed that mess?

"Punch-Drunk Love", written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson (2002)

You can't look at a 2x3 inch photo of a Mark Rothko painting and understand what it's all about; you have to stand right up next to it so that its color blocks surround you and seep into you. You can't analyze it, you can only feel it. You have to let it trigger your emotions. In a quiet gallery with no one else around, caught it the right mood, it can be overwhelming and even frightening.

That's what this movie is like. It sounds irritatingly quirky down on paper -- a guy with an anger management/punching problem runs a business from a warehouse, buys a harmonium, obsessively saves pudding UPC codes in a scheme to win a vacation, and falls in love with a mysterious woman. And he has seven nasty sisters. And he's Adam Sandler. I hate it already.

But wait -- the woman is played by the luminous Emily Watson, a uniquely powerful actress who looks like she could eat you whole, delicately pick you bones, and smile about it afterwards. Adam Sandler's channels his blatent discomfort in his own skin into this repressed and unhappy character so perfectly that his propensity for infantilizing his other characters suddenly makes sense. He'd be too vulnerable and heartbreaking otherwise. And there's a phone sex call that goes horribly wrong, thank God, because we know or at least suspect that the world is full of lonely people and/or people who are out to get you.

I was bawling by the end of this film. Life is very, very difficult and those who rise to the challenge of living it embody a courage so banal as to be invisible most of the time. This movie reminds us of that and of the balm of kindness and love that redeems even the most fucked up of us.

I don't think this movie did very well at the box office -- I'm sure PTA fans were thinking, Where are the boobies? Where are the frog storms? Where's Tom Cruise acting crazy before we even knew he was crazy? But Anderson did something remarkable with this movie -- he put naked emotion on screen, and at the same time, he acknowledged how ridiculous it is, and how we are victims of our own tragic humanness.

I can't wait to see what he does next.

Rest Assured Toilet Seat Covers

I noticed something wonderful today.

I didn't have my camera with me, but -- oh, joy! -- I found plenty of images on the internet. Say hello to Rest Assured Toilet Seat Covers. I was in a bathroom today with a patented RA dispenser on the wall right in front of my nose. Since it was on the wall facing the toilet instead of above the toilet, I got a good gander at these handy little gems for the first time in my life and finally noticed the eerily perfect brand name.

Whoever named the produce "Rest Assured" must sleep soundly at night, secure in the knowledge that they had that one stroke of genius most of us spend a lifetime searching for.

Well played, Rochester Midland.

(The only alternative I could even think of was Butt Gown.)

Santa Monica Public Library (main branch)

The new main branch of the Santa Monica Public Library is both beautiful and functional, perfectly tuned to the needs of its patrons.

The two-story building feels more like an academic library than your standard LA County public library, many of which are mere waystations for rotating material, with open waiting areas for loitering newspaper readers and sleepers. This building has not only large tables in open areas, but smaller carrels (though without dividers) tucked away along the windows upstairs. All tables feature plugs conveniently located just underneath the top edge; no more crawling under the table and hunting for hidden electrical outlets in the carpet in order to plug in your laptop. Plus, free wi-fi and private, glass-enclosed Study Rooms that can be reserved in two hour intervals for you or your group of collaborators. They intended this library to be a place of work, and it shows.

The lovely enclosed courtyard on the first floor shields you from the mean streets of Santa Monica while letting you stuff you face at the excellent little Bookmark Cafe. The courtyard has an oasis theme, with a border of desert plants and a clever and calming moat crossed by a striated bridge (just don't step in it. The water, with its glittering grey sand base, can look solid in the right light, and I did see a kid stumble into it once). Cute round patio tables with comfortable chairs and lovely sand-colored umbrellas invite people to pull up a chair, sit with their kids or friends, and chat away.

There's also a nice, surprisingly bright and large underground parking lot, 50 cents an hour and no meter hassles.

This library is a triumph, designed with the community firmly in mind, welcoming and serious.

And I've only encountered one mumbling freak so far! A guy sat at a table at me, plugged in his laptop, put on his headphones, and started head-bopping away. Which is okay, I can deal with that. But when he started singing along, I was out of there. One freak in three months is a good ratio for Santa Monica.

Mark McKinney, actor & Kid in the Hall

(R.I.P. Glenn Ford; you already know how much I love him from an earlier entry about "Gilda".)

Why single out Mark McKinney when you are an enthusiastic fan of all the work of the Kids in the Hall? Maybe because of guilt -- when their show was originally running on TV, I loved the show but overlooked McKinney. Kevin McDonald once did a monologue sketch about being "the Kid in the Hall you don't like", but for me, Mark was that Kid. I kind of loved Da-RREL, especially when he painted tumors into his mountain scene painting, but I hated the Chicken Lady, was indifferent to the Cops, and couldn't pinpoint what else he did. Oh, and he crushed heads. Everyone else had a distinct personality and voice, and Mark was just...everyone.

Exactly. It took all these years, and many reruns and concert movie viewings for me to realize that he is a fantastic actor. He blends into his characters so perfectly and fits into a scene so seamlessly that I never gave him enough credit for what he was doing. On watching the shows now, I am amazed by his deft characterizations and perfect timing. He must be a dream of a scene partner, and he's the kind of sketch performer I strive to be.

He also brings that Ugly Comedy asthetic that I appreciate so much, those characters (like the Chicken Lady and the Headcrusher) that make you cringe with pity and disgust. It's a kind of intellectual comedy that acknowledges that life isn't pretty but it sure is funny, and that is the comedy I've grown to love.

Plus, he does commentary on the DVD of "Same Guys, Different Dresses" (I think it's that one) with Scott Thompson, and they are absolutely hilarious together. Mark's muttered disgust with how fat he'd gotten, coupled with his sarcastic contempt for Scott's (self-admitted) vanity and self-absorbtion, is gut-bustingly funny. Again, not pretty sometimes, but very, very funny. He won me over forever when there was a backstage shot of him running in his dress and huge blonde wig, and he self-deprecatingly said on the commentary track, "Look, there goes the Russian skating judge!"

Mark McKinney, the Stealth KITH.

Forest Fire from the 405

I don't know what all that smoke is on the road up ahead, though. Maybe one of the many Smog Check dodgers in the city?

Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

When I was seven, eight, and nine we lived in a neighborhood in Philly where my sister and I were friends with Iranian immigrants who had one daughter her age and one daughter my age. I have a pretty poor memory and can't recall a great deal about these years, but I clearly remember the anger the Iranian family felt about the Islamic Revolution and about being forced to leave their country. Add to that the 444-day Iran hostage crisis and the distrust and fear I know they faced from some of their new neighbors, and you can imagine what a great time they were having in their new home.

Persepolis is the memoir of a girl my age whose family stayed in Iran during this time. She's the other side of the coin of the girl I knew, and the truth is that they weren't very different. Satrapi's story makes it explicitly clear that a change in regime does not signal a sudden change in the opinions and desires of all of the people; it only appears this way when the new regime practices brutal repression of free speech and political dissent. She shows how complicated life under such a regime is, and how strong ties to your own country remain, no matter how much you come to disagree with its rulers and suffer under their control.

I read this book about a year ago and still think of it often due to its illustrations of the daily truth beneath the news stories that make it to CNN or the New York Times. It's an important reminder in this age of extreme political doubletalk, which is much more sophisticated than the Evil Empire dichotomy of the Reagan Years, but still crude enough to insist that citizens are being bombed and maimed for their own good. That, in fact, they rather asked for it.

Satrapi's tales of family members taken away, tortured killed for their dissent shows that our Western insistence on standing up to the "bad guys" isn't as simple as we make it. She shows how she personally subverted the repressive laws against women (e.g. wearing the veil), but how small and deadening and useless such actions can be. Ultimately, she decided to leave her family behind and move to France rather than live in an Islamic fundamentalist Iran.

Here's what Satrapi said on her publisher's website:

If people are given the chance to experience life in more than one country, they will hate a little less. It's not a miracle potion, but little by little you can solve problems in the basement of a country, not on the surface. That is why I wanted people in other countries to read Persepolis, to see that I grew up just like other children.

We haven't been paying any heed to "the basement of a country", not here in our own country (witness New Orleans), nor in Iraq, Lebanon, or Afganistan. Until we do that, we're just hyping hate and expecting brute force to solve problems.

So I say buy this book, read it, then hit President Bush over the head with it. Repeatedly. It's okay; only Tony Blair would feel the pain.

R.I.P. KZLA

I can't tell you how disconcerting it is to flip on the radio hoping to hear Big & Rich and hearing Beyonce instead. (They now must do a song together, just to make music fans go mad.)

L.A.'s esteemed country music station KZLA is no more as of last week; it was unceremoniously replaced with an urban dance music station. (I know you think urban = black, but it also means Gwen Stefani and JLo, so maybe I really mean hip hop-esque? Rap-friendly?) The afternoon DJ showed up for work and was told partway into his shift that he was going to be out of a job as of the end of it. What kind of nasty bullshit is that? Why does corporate radio suck so hard?

This means no more Peter Tilden, one of my favorite morning radio guys. He has a good sense of humor, an unmistakable Philadelphia accent, and the ability to be nice without being a sycophant. You might know him from his scenes (especially his hilarious deleted ones) in "The Aristocrats", where he's sitting outside a cafe with Jason Alexander.

L.A. is a huge country market, and now it has no country station. A city that ignores country music is a city dangerously out of touch with mainstream America. Yes, the country scene can be frighteningly small-minded and Jesus-centric, but it is also the voice of many of your countrymen. I liked to listen to KZLA to keep up with my fellow Americans, to feed my love-hate relationship with Toby Keith, to hear those amazing, big female voices, and to puzzle over the inexplicably catchy bizarre minor key harmonizing of marketing geniuses Big & Rich.

Without KZLA, how are we going to recognize the people and songs in car commercials? HOW?!

Somebody bring country back to L.A. terrestrial radio, quick!

"Assisted Living" (2003), written and directed by Elliot Greenebaum

A low-budget movie filmed in a nursing home using the actual residents as extras and co-stars, about a women with Alzheimer's and the pothead nursing assistant she befriends. Wow, sounds like a fun night at the movies, huh? Mortality on parade! You're dying as we speak! Being old sucks, sons living in Australia and refusing to take your calls suck more!

This movie should've been bad, and after reading about it in some indie film magazines when it was screened here in L.A., I was convinced it would be. Too precious, trying to hard to be relevant, so damn Indie Indie Indie it makes your teeth hurt. Not entertaining, and so cheap it probably looks like a junior high video project. I rented it just to see how bad it was.

Boy, was I wrong. This is a helluva movie, unique and funny and touching without being sentimental. It's a ballsy piece of filmmaking because it focuses on the ugly in life -- not the pretty/ugly, like glamorized gorgeous limp heroine addict teenagers, and not cool/ugly, like underworld mobster killers, and not ugly/beautiful, like Shrek and Steve Buscemi. Plain Ugly, like life smells sometimes, it's tedious and weird and other people are difficult and argumentative and your reward is that you get to die, possibly alone and forgotten.

This movie got to me in the following ways:

1. Unique storytelling -- the video interviews with the nursing home staff at the beginning blur the line between fact and fiction, actors and people who are just like the people they are portraying in the sense that aging and aging parents affect everyone sooner or later.

The fact that Greenebaum filmed in actual nursing homes not only makes for a great (gimmicky) production note story; in this case, it also adds a shocking level of reality to the fictional story, reminding you that you can't get comfortable in the narrative world. You are forced to consider the real world at every turn, and that makes this movie awesome.

2. Beautiful cinematography -- some dude named Marcel Cabrera shot this with a great eye for color and light. The lame thing to do would've been to shoot it flat and sad, but he didn't. He and Greenebaum showed the stunningly dream-like aspect of life that smacks you in the face every once in a while, like in the beautiful golden and creamy white tones of the nursing home hallways and the emerald green of its grounds. When they focus on the hands of the elderly residents, they force you to see these bits as part of a continuum. Accept the hands as you'd accept the trees outside. Don't be afraid to stare, because it's just the way it is here on earth. Damn, this is sounding too much like that plastic bag reverie shit from "American Beauty", but ugh, that is what I mean after all.

3. The leads. Movies are about faces, right, I mean Norma Desmond told us so. Maggie Riley and Michael Bonsignore have wonderful faces, calmly expressive and thoughtful. Their acting is absolutely natural and of the moment. Great acting isn't about showing off; it's about inhabiting the character, and that's what they did.

4. The phone calls.

5. The dog.

6. The plot. The movie wouldn't work without a driving plot. Mrs Pearlman wants what she wants and goes after it right to the end. Todd keeps trying to avoid responsibility, and has to actively work to do so. Stunned numbness is a popular movie characterization these days (hello, “Garden State”), but this movie shows how it should be done. It isn't about staring just off camera and blinking slowly and wearing funny clothing; it's about how that state of mind manifests itself in the character's relationships with other people. Moment-to-moment, what choices do they make to avoid connecting with other people? Todd makes a lot of choices with a lot of consequences. Small, tiny, tiny consequences in the scheme of an infinitely large world, but all the more important and resonate for being so. Because we're all just ants on the anthill.

7. The phone calls. Seriously.

Whatever, just watch it. It's hard to talk about this movie without sounding pretentious or like I'm pitying old people or something gank like that. It moved me, that's all, it woke me up in a way. Watch it.

Unicorns and Prostitute Games

Sounds like the dreams of a dirty little girl, doesn't it?

Oops, I'm watching one of those Comedy Central Roasts on TV, and it gets in your brain and makes you see everything as a dirty joke. TV is bad!...which is so very, very good.

Look, I recently finished a book about the Medicis and Renaissance Florence, and it casually mentioned that one of them (oh, come on -- you try keeping the Cosimos and Francesco's straight after a while) acquired treasures from somewhere or other, and among the medallions and statues was a unicorn horn. And the book just went on without comment.

Why would a non-fiction -- which supposedly = FACT -- book mention a unicorn horn without explaining what the fuck that's supposed to mean? Do you think Christopher Hibbert (author of the book in question) thinks there really were unicorns back then, so he didn't bat an eye at that? Maybe next he'll write a book about Queen Victoria that blandly mentions the fairies in her garden.

I looked it up -- "unicorn horns" were indeed a prized artifact among the rich and stupid in the 1500s and 1600s. Apparently they were actually made of ivory, and they were actually from narwahls, a marine BEAST that is not a beautiful phallic horse. Or they were...something else. The internet didn't tell me much more than Hibbert did.

Hey, John Stossel -- get a load of this junk science! I can't wait until he does his 20/20 Renaissance Special: "Lorenzo the Magnificent? He seems barely fabulous to me. Give me a break!"

And there was another book I read last year that claimed that citywide fairs in Florence of the time featured "prostitute games". Again, with no explanation of what that's supposed to mean, because why write a book that clears anything up? If you have to ask, you shouldn't be reading a book about it.

Maybe the prostitutes jousted on minotaurs.

Moral: do not read books. Watch filthy roasts instead. Cock!

Hairdo -- for those days when you just want bangs

So I put my hair in a ponytail on the top of my head, then pulled down the ends to make bangs, then took a picture. I think it looks HOT! Blonde ANDROGYNY, which goes great with my GIANT HANDS!

Look, it's August and it's slow and this is how I stay mentally sharp.

B&B Photos: History comes alive!

Walter and I put ourselves in the pictures hanging on the walls of our B&B in Woods Hole (Cape Cod, MA). Don't you feel transported back in time?

Walter insists the child in the dress photo is a boy, but I'm not so sure. Whatever, Walter -- you just wanted to wear my skirt, to "accurately represent the print".

"She Blinded Me With Science", by Thomas Dolby

Thomas Dolby sounds like a fake name, like if you were getting into movies and called yourself Frank Kino or you were taking up painting and were suddenly Cal Utrecht.

Oh...according to Wikipedia, it is a fake name. Ha! That makes me like this song even more.

I hate the '80s and generally think little to nothing good came out of it. Awful music, bad books, suspect mores, terrible fashion, Iran-contra, Robert Downey Jr AND Bret Easton Ellis. It was a celebration of assholishness that seemed to endlessly ask the question, "What can I get away with?" and answer it with, "Everything."

This song ought to fit right in with the synth pop that continues to haunt my nightmares -- I mean, holy Mary, even the great Steve Miller somehow morphed his white boy blues into the mushy meaninglessness of "Abracadabra" (pure genius to rhyme it with "grab ya", though, no? No.). The '80s were cruel.

But I can listen to this song endlessly because it's full of little treats and unexpected turns: little pops and funky jumps down the scale stairs and Dolby's vocal barks and playful, actorly line readings, and the undeniably authentic yearning of his growling lament "she's poetry in motion". The lyrics tell the story with perfect economy and charm. It's synth-funk; or hiptronic?

Plus I like that Dolby is a dedicated electro-geek and is still at it, performing behind banks of keyboards. He made this song out of love, and it shows.

The Sunday movie trilogy: Blondie & Martin & Lewis & Andy Hardy & Francis & Abbott & Costello

When I was a young lass, we lived in an apartment in Roxborough, Philadelphia, where I shared a room with my sister. We were permitted to have a TV in the room, THANK GOD, because otherwise, how would I have curled up on my bed on Sunday mornings and soaked in the Sunday movie trilogy of:

1. A Blondie movie, the series (about 10,000 sequels long, I think?) starring the perfectly cast Penny Singleton and Arthur Lake.
OR
An Andy Hardy movie, starring Mickey Rooney.

2. A Martin & Lewis movie (my all-time favorite is "Artists & Models")

3. An Abbott & Costello movie
OR
A Francis the Talking Mule movie, starring, uh, Francis (though I hear they dubbed his voice) and Donald O'Connor.

Perfect Sundays, all. I have a ridiculous affection for the actors in these movies, and a love for Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin that even Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin can't ruin. Donald O'Connor may be famous for "Singing in the Rain", but to me he was the better steadfast friend to a mule. (Francis was wise, though, and brave. He went to war, for god's sake.)

This is art, yes, but it's art that aims low and hits the mark. It's an uncomplicated, unquestioning kind of art that asserts a profound pull on a child: this is what adults are like, and they are just like you. They make mistakes. They are silly. They are confused about what to do, and they need each other's help. They are fun and they are funny. If idiots like this can figure out life, you can, too.

Maybe some or all of these actors (and writers and directors) were disappointed that their career highlights came in popular B-movies beloved of eight year olds. I hope not. We can feast on profundity and tragedy, but this kind of comedy is sustenance.

"Six Pack" (1982)

You heard me: SIX PACK. Starring Kenny Rogers.

This movie is a cable favorite, so other people must enjoy its charms as much as I do. Who can resist a movie starring old country beardo himself as a race car driver who gets mixed up with a passel of orphans who just want to stay together out of foster care and get themselves a home. Oh, and who steal auto parts to fund their child outlaw lives; how fortunate that they run into Kenny, who needs an expert crew to help him jump start (get it?) his racing career! Maybe Kenny is finally ready to settle down, perhaps with former girlfriend Erin Grey? Can you guess how it ends? (hint: in a bloodbath!)

My young self was irrestibly drawn to this movie for the following reasons:

1. Erin Grey, of TV's "Silver Spoons", a big favorite of mine at the time, and the reason I still love Jason Bateman. A very safely pretty person who looks nothing like a honky tonk waitress, but whatever.

2. Kenny. Perfect father/Santa figure. Love his voice. Good actor, too. Also contributed a great pop country lite theme song.*

2. Anthony Michael Hall. He plays the mechanical genuis among the kids, one year before appearing in NATIONAL LAMPOON'S VACATION, which was followed by SIXTEEN CANDLES and THE BREAKFAST CLUB. To my mind the greatest teenage actor of all time, equally effortlessly adept at drama and comedy and at playing the straight man or the goofy lead. I adored him when I was growing up.

3. Diane Lane as the oldest sibling forced to take on the role of parent even as she was struggling to grow up herself. Sob! Perfect casting, perfect acting.

4. Those Other Kids. They were all well-cast and appealing without demanding that you find them cute and charming. They just were who they were.

5. Terry Kiser as the evil race car driving antagonist. Come on -- it's Bernie from WEEKEND AT BERNIE'S! Give me a break; that's a treat right there.

6. It deals with real emotional issues in an honest manner. It's sweet without being saccharine. It's about a big family of kids, which fascinates me since I'm from a small family. It's got a bearded partiarch character who chooses the kids, very compelling to the child of a single mom.

I've probably seen this movie ten times, and I'm happy to report that I saw it on cable recently and loved it all over again. It makes me feel good about life, and I'd be mighty pleased if someone said that about something I was a part of.

*Though I can't image what would qualify as pop country heavy. Ummm.. that Chris Issac song with the black-and-white video and the models? I don't know.

Portraits of the Reverand Ebenezer Devotion and his wife Martha, Boston Museum of Fine Arts

"Ebenezer Devotion" is one of the finest and most quintessentially early-American names I've ever heard.

This folk art portrait perfectly captures what I think Americans think of themselves at their best. This is the upstanding yet staid, cartoonish yet dignified, goofy yet approachable American male with the outstanding name.

Martha's pretty cool, too, but she would've benefited from a Puritan supername like "Hebzibah".

Greg Lemond, cyclist

Oh, Floyd. It's probably safe to say that the Tour de France has really only had two American winners, or at least only two who will remain on the books.

And Lance. Lance seems bent on world domination centered entirely around Lance and what Lance wants. I'm not a member of the Church of Armstrong and don't wear the cult bracelet -- I KNOW it's for cancer, but funny how it's also for Lance, for how he's convinced people to brand themselves for him, and you Live Strong because it's Armstrong, and it's on your Arm, and you now belong to Mister L. Look, good that it's raising money, good that it keeps cancer an active on-going cause and concern, good. But I can't help it; the guy creeps me out, and I wouldn't be surprised to see an Armstrong Celebrity Center going up on Los Feliz Blvd some day.

And that brings us back to Lemond, Le-Mond-Ond. Greg, Lemond, the bi-cyc-list, he's a drop of golden sun. I followed both the Tour de France and the Ironman Triathalon every year when I was growing up because I couldn't believe the feats these people accomplished. It looked so HOT. And WET, and MOUNTAINY, and TWISTY and HOT, again, and just so very very TIRING. Can't we go to a cafe or a luau and forget all this? But they wouldn't, because they're crazy and dedicated and that's worth watching on tv, for some reason.

And because they look happy -- I don't know if it's the kind of happiness that comes from losing your mind, like the euphoria people on hunger strikes experience, but it's certifiable happiness nonetheless. Even the miserable ones, the racers skidding out on top of other races on tight roundabout turns, the wretched sprinters enduring the chug up a mountain stage, or the time trialists getting split reports and knowing, not only in their gut but in their earpiece, that they're falling farther behind with each stroke -- even they look happy. As a kid stationed at the tv every summer, I loved them all.

And then came the miracle of Lemond's 1989 win, the joy of it (not for poor, dashing, blonde ponytailed Laurent Fignon), still one of the most thrilling sporting events I've ever witnessed. ABC used to do such great Tour coverage back then, following the stages closely, but also skillfully setting the stage by profiling the racers and their teams, and how the racers joined the teams, and giving us a sense of the history and rivalries that informed the current race choices. Content with context. [Today's coverage is unspeakably bad, choppy and uninformed, pointless after the Armstrong era, maybe because they don't care about George Hincapie or any of the rest since they lost their star, amybe because all the good character get banned for doping sooner or later any way.]

Lemond rode with a great cast of characters who helped shape his story: the legendary Bernard Hinault, who couldn’t resist using the young upstart to sneak another win in 1985, then couldn’t resist challenging Lemond the next year when he was supposed to be repaying the favor and protecting and assisting Lemond to the yellow jersey. Lemond fought back and the torch was passed whether or not Hinault was willing to admit it was time. It was RED RIVER on the Pyrenees!

Then Lemond’s brother-in-law shot him full of shotgun pellets in a 1987 hunting accident, and Lemond barely survived the wounds. After two years of recovery, he signed on for the 1989 Tour de France hoping just to make a respectable showing.

So we knew all this dramatic backstory as the race progessed. And there was Lauren Fignon, the arrogant (who isn’t in this sport), striking blonde scowling through the race with gritted teeth, clearly pouring his entire heart into it. And there was Greg Lemond, surpassing even his own expectations, appearing buoyed up as each day passed and he felt stronger than the one before. Until the final time trial on the Champs Elysee, the first time they’d ended a Tour this way, forcing a rider in this jostling, team-based, yet solitary sport to face only his own abilities at the end of the race. Nothing to think about but how good you can be or how badly you can fail.

As overall leader at the end of the previous stage. Lemond was privileged to ride last. Long an innovator in the sport, his time trail bike featured a new, more aerodynamic handlebar and disk sheet. He had come from the future to win the race! Fignon left every bit of himself on the road and finished with a seemingly insurmountable time. It was a dramatic ending to a thrilling race, bound to end in failure for Lemond, but what an entirely noble failure.

Yet he won, by an unbelievably slim eight second margin. At home, I jumped and cheered and ran around the house, so full of adrenalin I needed to run laps. A beaming, incredulous Lemond hugged his wife and small child on the street. Fignon sat with his wonderful sweaty blonde mane slumped over the handlebars, but my god what a race he made it.

I am indebted to Lemond for showing me the possibilities of being truly dedicated to your profession, always seeking the cutting edge technically and in your training, having the nerve to challenge decades of French tradition and cycling egos and hierarchies and thrive within them, and for loving him sport so much that he has the balls to repeatedly speak out about the swift and appalling degradation it has suffered from widespread doping, and to keep urging the guilty parties to confess and clean up. No one else in this sport will tell the truth right now, but I get the sense that Lemond is such a dedicated cycling geek that he feels personally betrayed by what has become of his sport.

For being a true gentleman champion, for not giving up, for speaking up when he doesn't have to bring anyone's wrath onto him at this point, for standing up to both bullies and shotgun pellets, for so beautifully and gracefully riding that incredible last stage in 1989, Greg Lemond is one of my very very few sports heroes left.

"Funny Ha-Ha": Addendum

This movie has a plot. In noting how well it captures feelings, I forget to mention that it is also a well-told story wherein the characters make decisions and act on them, and that those decisions have clear consequences that drive the story forward.

Since the success of the Musing Trifecta (I just made that up) of films including PULP FICTION, SWINGERS, and DINER, some filmmakers got the terribly wrong impression that it's sufficient to make a movie consisting entirely of clever characters standing around (or driving around) musing about random topics. Even Andre, in his cinematic dinner with Wallace Shawn, didn't muse; he questioned, he investigated, and he illustrated. His story had shape and weight. Similarly, the talk in the Trifecta films added to the plot, it didn't substitute for it.

The plot of FUNNY HA-HA is about a love triangle, and the movie contains a perfect scene: the principal characters affecting one side of the triangle meet unexpectedly in a supermarket, and their grocery talk ripples with the undercurrents of the mess of relationships and loyalties and missed opportunities between them. There's a great subtlety to the actors' behavior; it isn't a scene of open confrontation and melodrama, as it would've been as told by a less confident filmmaker. Instead, it's a scene of inflection and tone and of essentially nice people in an awkward situation, trying not to hurt others or show their own hurt.

It takes guts to write and direct a scene like that, and it takes real skill to draw such unaffected vulnerability out of unprofessional actors. So again: well played, Bujalski!

"Funny Ha-Ha", written/directed by Andrew Bujalski (2002)

So there's this guy Bujalski. He's this young guy who decides to make a movie about his life -- post college, temp jobs, that horrible yet exciting "cusp of the rest of your life" time, searching for "the one" or, realistically, any one. And he gets a camera and a bunch of his friends from school and makes the goddamned movie.

FUNNY HA-HA is a perfect example of personal, from-the-gut filmmaking. It was made on the cheap with non-actors, including Bujalski himself as Mitchell, the moonyeyed nerd who earns your love with his earnestness and honesy and vulnerability in the face of a beautiful woman. Kate Dollenmayer as Marnie is beautiful, not in an overprocessed movie starlet way, but in a "damn, the more I see of her, the more I love her" way. She impresses you because she isn't trying to impress you at all, and too few actresses are allowed to do that in movies and television because they are supposed to represent something more intense or flavorful than the rest of us, instead of representing plain old us.

The movie starts out slow and still and kind of precious and you get the terrible sinking feeling of Indie Movie, Pretentious Shit, Your Thoughts Aren't As Interesting or Unique as You Think They Are (IMPSYTAAIUYTTA). But hold your indie horses (they dye their manes the color of quirkiness!). Let Marnie's seemingly uneventful life wander ahead of you, and follow it like a kid sister. You'll find moments of honesty and embarrassment and courage in this movie that are so true you want to sqry (squirm and cry), but also call your best friend and reminisce about when you were stupid together.

Especially if you vividly remember the confusing and awkward years of your early twenties and are thrilled that this movie so accurately recorded the feeling.

Sorry, Douglas Coupland, this movie Generation X'd you ten years later. It's less, oh, Canadian. I kid because I love.

One more note: this film is very similar in tone and feel to AMERICAN JOB and other Chris Smith films. Modest filmmakers making sneakily powerful movies about regular people that nobody else cares about.

You are the shit, Bujalski!

NPR's "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me"

What a bunch of commies, huh? Is it National Public Radio or Nothing Pro-Republican? HUH?!

Thanks to this weekly news quiz comedy show, I have a release for my weekly accumulation of impotent rage over the never-ending travesties masterminded by the political leaders of my country and, oh heck, let's say the entire world, as well.

I admire host Peter Segal's light touch and deft moderating. I love the good-humored special guests. And I get a little thrill from the reveal of each week's line-up of panelists. Will my absolute favorite, comedian Paula Poundstone, bring her commonsensical, rapid-fire wit to this week's show? And will Roy Blount Jr. be there to lay down some folksy wisdom and cheap poop jokes? What about "television personality" Mo Rocca; will he be there with his competitive fire (he's always the one who really wants to win) and his eruditely lisped bon mots? And every once in a while I get a real treat: understudy panelist Amy Dickinson of "Ask Amy", smart and funny and energetically intellectually curious, just like this show.

Praise be to KCRW for making the show available as a free podcast so I never have to miss a show again!

"Tupelo Honey", by Van Morrison

I think what makes this song so perfectly sweet and dreamily, drowsily edible is that it is just this side of irritatingly coy. It grabs the feeling of idealizing your loved one until you almost hate him a little for drawing you so close, then it squeezes that feeling out in a burst of lyrical lullaby rock.

Perrault's Fairy Tales, with illustrations by Gustave Dore

I have this weird, fascinating-yet-off-putting book of fairy tales originally published in French in 1697. The translated version is have was published in 1969, so I have had it my entire life (and then some). I remember reading it as a kid and thinking "that's weird; and these drawings are creepy" and putting it aside for 30+ years.

So good for me for hanging on to creepy the book and lugging it across the country and finally getting back to it, because these are well and simply told classic tales with, as the back of the book accurately states, "extraordinary full-page engravings by Gustave Dore that show clearly why this artist became the foremost illustrator of his time." The engravings are like Durer crossed with Pieter Bruegel the Elder crossed with, I don't know, Watteau? What with the pantaloons? Those crossings maybe make no sense, but I'm talking about the clean spidery lines and the depth of activity in the picture frame and the animals in the setting and, of course, the pantaloons.

The book contains the following stories: "The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood", "Little Red Riding Hood", "Blue Beard", "The Master Cat, or Puss in Boots", "The Fairies", "Cinderells, or The Little Glass Slipper", "Ricky of the Tuft", and "Little Tom Thumb". Most of the stories have the same moral (helpfully spelled out for you in verse at the end of the story; sometimes it's even restated in a second moral, in case the first doesn't quite work for you), and this is it: pretty girls nab rich husbands. The End.

I think that's why I hated it as a kid -- the highest aspiration in life of men was to be rich and get the pretty girl; of women, to be pretty and get the rich guy. How dull. This made me not very excited to be racing toward adulthood.

But now I understand the stories and their morals as actually being cynical and funny. He points out again and again that the mere appearance of wealth and success and the genetic luck of beauty bring a person all of the admiration and respect of their fellow citizens, regardless of character or accomplishments. He also points out that society will reward you for your wealth and beauty no matter how you come by it (birth, fairies, cats dressed like the fourth Musketeer; what have you). That these stories have endured for hundreds of years not as cautionary tales but as beacons of hope for the ugly, unloved, ignored and poor (i.e. everyone) says more than we wanted to know about human nature.

As for the Dover edition book I have, the engraving of the inexplicable Puss in Boots (tell me again why he's so intent on fixing up his master with the rich chick? Is it just because, as a cat wearing boots and a large hat with a feather in it, he loves to lie and scheme? Like, of course any cat flaunting that sartorial splendor would be a hard-working toady) is priceless. That pussy cat WORKS those thigh high boots, let me tell you.

The other greatest thing about this book is the language in Cinderella. Here are the choice quotes:

When she had finished her work she used to sit amongst the cinders in the corner of the chimney, and it was from this habit that she came to be commonly known as Cinder-slut.

After her meanest step-sister asks if Cinderella would like to go to the ball, and she says she knows it would be no place for her, the sister says:

"That is very true, people would laugh to see a cinder-slut in the ballroom."

Ha ha! Ok, so the Middle English meaning of "slut" in the 1400s was "slovenly woman" or "kitchen maid or drudge", but it was being used as a derogatory term with a sexual connotation by the 1700s. So what did the Frenchman Perrault mean in 1697? Given the tenor of the stories, I imagine he pretended to the first meaning and hoped to slyly get away with the second. Which makes me love his stories all the more.

Hemlines

"Mr. Brightside", The Killers

Jealousy-fueled insomnia set to an irresistible beat, complete with paranoic nightmare scenarios of the lost love with her new boytoy, capped off with disbelief that all this pain could've started with a simple kiss.

If you've never felt this perfectly awful, then you've probably never been in love; if you have, you know that in some sick way the pain of it is as beautiful as this song.

"Touching the Void", book by Joe Simpson, movie dir by Kevin Macdonald

You can't make a movie out of this story, it's a ridiculous idea; watching one guy struggle to drag a broken leg down a Peruvian mountain? THAT'S entertainment. Why not have him give soliloquies along the way? Be sure to fill it with plenty of death-themed musical numbers, like maybe just cut in that last stairway dance number from "Sid and Nancy". (I still hear Chloe Webb shouting "SID!" in my nightmares, by the way.)

Joe Simpson's telling of the Rope Cut Heard 'Round the World is enough to make you vomit with fear and wonder and your own goddamned cowardice. It's like reading about infinite space and your complete insignificance in the massive void, and yet being reminded that your only acceptable response to this circumstances is to not die for as long as you can manage. Your reward at the end of all that struggle? Death.

Simpson quite rudely turned down the chance to die dozens of times during the course of his appallingly lonely journey down a mountain, through a crevasse, up and over the worst scree possible for a man in his condition (hungry, thirsty, wracked with pain, one-legged). His traveling companions should have left their base camp by the time he got there, they should've been unable to hear his cries for help, and yet. And still his journey wasn't over -- returning from the dead is a disturbing thing to do, after all, a bit of an imposition on even your closest friends. He still had to be bounced back to civilization on the back of a mule, ignored in a Peruvian hospital, and assured by his home doctors that he'd never again walk correctly. Somehow, he survived, did not go crazy, and did walk and climb again.

So he got to tell his own story, again, in the movie. Macdonald solved the dilemma of how to film this movie by hiring actors to recreate the action and having Simpson and Simon Yates narrate their story in intercut interviews. The result is spellbinding and sad and awful and even funny in the "cosmic joke" sense. It reminded me of "King Lear"; the gods "kill us for their sport".

I was astonished by this movie. I read the book afterwards and was shaken up by Simpson's story in ways I still haven't resolved.

And then there's this: watch the making of feature on the DVD. I think artists, especially movie directors, have to have a streak of terrible cruelty in them in order to do great work. Watch as Macdonald drags Simpson and Yates back to the scene of this awful tragedy, which became not a tragedy, sort of, but somehow an even worse one because of the painfully unresolved feelings of guilt and betrayal and blame and fear and, over it all, loneliness of a type we mostly can't admit to ourselves. Watch as he takes Simpson to the places of his worst nightmares, dresses him in facsimilies of his own former climbing clothes, and makes him reenact dragging himself down the mountain to use in long shots in the movie. And then comes the best part -- he makes him do it AGAIN. And AGAIN, despite the fact that Simpson's face registers pure horror. Whatever it takes to make the movie, right, Macdonald? Right. Watch Simpson and Yates' faces as they see this place again and try to talk casually about it. Watch as they confront boogeymen they'd buried under the bed long ago. Do you feel dirty yet?

Watch as Lear cradles the body of Cordelia.

Piero della Francesca's Hercules (ca. 1470)

This painting holds infinite appeal for me. Sometimes you come across a work that changes your worldview and makes you reconsider something you thought you knew. This painting is like the Madeline L'Engle book A Wrinkle In Time in that regard for me. You thought you knew what time was and what space was, but she made you think again. The work expands your concept of the possible.

Piero's Hercules is not the Hercules I thought I knew. He's less physically imposing and more vulnerable than I had ever imagines, and it makes me identify with the man in ways I never could before. He's less professional wrestler and more Olympic athlete. He's doing his best, but sometimes his best is exactly the wrong thing. Thus the insecure knock-knees, and the plaintive gaze. This Hercules makes sense to me; I can see the man in this painting beating his wife and children to death and coming out of his god-induced insanity with the determination to serve an impossible penance that turns his accursed physical prowes to his advantage. This Hercules is doomed to be more beast than man.

And I like how the lion's paws both modestly cover and immodestly imitate Hercules's genitals.

See the painting yourself high on the wall on the second floor of the excellent Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston (the same room features a great Fra Angelico somewhat hidden on the far side of the fireplace, so look lively, folks).

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)

This novel is a miracle of storytelling, dream-like in its ability to mire us in Humbert's fevered brain, and nightmarish in its power to make us give up and say, "Just DO IT already! Get it over with!"

Nabokov doesn't let us sit back and feel superior to Humbert; instead, he has Humbert seduce us in that way that a gross relative at a family reunion can pull you aside and drunkenly divulge all the things you never wanted to know about his drug-filled adventures in the '70s out in Pensacola or canning in Fairbanks or working the shoelace fries w/ vinegar stand at Virginia Beach. You don't want to know, but you have to know, partly because you know the story is about you and the terrible surprises hiding in your DNA.

Lolita inspires us to pity and awe and disgust and that undeniable knob of admiration that comes from watching someone pursue a goal with unshakeable intensity. It's Greek tragedy on such a sad, small scale that it makes you look at your own life and wonder what the hell's wrong with you; something must be, you're human, after all.

And just when you think you've set your mind on Humbert and convinced yourself that maybe young Lolita was so jaded and tough that she'd grow up and out of the skin that he touched, that she'd thrive anyway and you wouldn't have to worry about her after all, you'd be absolved of your voyeur's guilt, just when you're getting comfortable, along comes Clare Quilty. Suddenly you want to protect your pervert from this worse, more dashing, more destructive and attractive and soulless pervert. Suddenly you're on Humbert's side and resenting Lolly's fickleness. And that's life, because you aren't going to figure it out, but you are going to have to face it.

The 1962 Kubrick film is the same but different. It's got the same brain but different limbs. The cast is outstanding, especially Shelley Winters as Lolita's mom, and Peter Sellers as Clare Quilty, the role he was born to play. Sellers wanted to be Chauncy Gardner, but he was Clare Quilty.

Lolita is a work of genius and a great read.

"Roseanne" (1988-1997)

Television executives seem to think women only want to see the airbrushed version of themselves, the petite, pretty, inoffensive, wry-but-sweet ladies with "the Rachel" or "the That Girl" do being the only thing that sets them apart. Even Mary Tyler Moore starved herself to be our ideal girl-woman.

"Roseanne" blew that theory out of the water, thank goodness, and proved that men, too, will watch a sitcom that is more funny than pretty. No matter how many behind-the-scenes hurricanes Rosanne blew into existence, she had the sense to get an extremely strong cast of actors around her from the very beginning, and she allowed the show to be an ensemble instead of showing a world that resolved only around her. Everyone Loved Roseanne, but they had lives of their own, too.

The star and guiding force also had the balls to hire interesting, unconventional kid actors. They didn't play precocious or cutesy or perfect or Duff; they played young people struggling to grow up. They made mistakes, and parental talks at the twenty-second minute didn't fix those mistakes, but did let the kids know they were loved. Just like real life.

This show was gutsy and realistic and had a long memory for the lives and loves and grudges of its characters. It also brought Shelley Winters back into the limelight in all her not-giving-a-damn glory, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Of course, Miss Roseanne herself underwent your typical Hollywood/New Money metamorphosis, but the essential Roseanne remained. Despite her plastic surgery, she still looks like a human being and not like a grotesque doll factory experiment. And despite her many tabloid-worthy adventures in marriage and therapy, she's still smart and funny and cool, just like when she started.

She's also an artist; a difficult one, to be sure, but a vital one. In the last couple of years of her show, she accepted the fact that she could no longer pretend to be the Domestic Goddess of the beginning. She'd become an obscenely wealthy celebrity as well known for her tragedies as for her comedy, and she insisted that the show deal, however obliquely, with that new Roseanne. Her formerly brilliant sitcom became unwatchable, of course, but I admire her for knowing that she could no longer pretend to be a blue-collar working stiff and trying to apply her reality to her show. Artists need to fail to succeed again.

Here's hoping Roseanne someday finds the right venue for who she is now. She's bold and challenging and unapologetic, and we need women like that to be heard in these cloyingly girlish times.

Fear us!

Fear us with our kicking and leaping from the bowels of hell-hot Arizona! We will slip-and-fall and arm-pump our way into your cranium and out of your skull!! We will shoe-horn your eyeballs to INFINITY!

T.G.I. Fridays Ushers in the End of Days

Thanks, Great Indigestion Fridays!
That Glorious Intestinal-Disease Fridays!
This Gross Institutional-Food Fridays!

If you haven't seen the commercials touting the new appetizers at T.G.I. Fridays, please watch them right now. If you don't, you'll think I'm parodying their wacky fun time flair food when, in fact, they themselves are parodying it.

When I saw the commercial featuring, I kid you not, Fried Mac & Cheese (balls of deep fried mac and cheese), Crispy Green Bean Fries (sticks of deep fried green beans), and Sizzling Triple Meat Fundido (it's fun, indeed-o), I honestly thought it was a joke sketch show commercial. I will always remember the day I saw fried mac and cheese advertised on television as an acceptable foodstuff.

It's over. This country is dead. We are frying our green beans. We have made macaroni and cheese into finger food. We have no hope.

Make peace with your Maker, people. Once Fridays introduces Crunchy Batter-Fried PB&J Squares, the End will be nigh.

Luke & Laura

I remember the media frenzy over these two "General Hospital" characters, these two crazy kids in love, and their oh-so-romantic wedding in 1981. The image of their wedding photo is one of those vague childhood memory pictures that floats around the koi pond of my mind, along with the hourglass at the beginning of "Days of Our Lives", every episode of "The Monkees", and a giant painting of colored circles (balloons?) that hung over our sofa.

Imagine my surprise when I recently read that Luke and Laura first consummated their relationship when Luke raped her on the floor of a disco.

That's so romantic! Ladies, don't you hate when you fall in love with your rapist? Pick out china patterns or press charges: who can decide? Why not do both!

I hear that that attractive violent sexual offender/emotionally disturbed victim duo is currently on the outs -- I hope they get back together! If a girl and her rapist can't make it work, who can?

The Phillie Phanatic

He's got a friendly face and a big bouncy belly, just like a lot of tailgating, beer-swilling fans. He's a good dancer. He's tall like Big Bird, green like Oscar the Grouch, curious like Grover, and sweet like Maria. He’s funny and mischievous. He's a dedicated fan. He’s a hard worker. He's impressive and appealing, unpretentious and awkward, just like the city he represents. He's the best in the business. He’s one-of-a-kind.

He's beautiful.

Shot in the Heart by Mikal Gilmore

What kind of sicko do I have to be that I've read this book three times? I found it so sad and devastating the first time that I had to run back and repeat the experience, thereby gifting myself with a little thrill of pity and pathos. It must be the German in me.

I've read and reread Fatal Vision and Blind Faith in the same lustful fashion, but at least in those cases the story is coming from Joe McGinniss, and I can hide behind his well-documented fascination and over-identification with the suburban killers and feel like I'm sitting at enough of a distance from the whole thing to not be implicated in the unethical seduction.

I can't hide from the Gilmores, though. Mikal, the baby of the family, tells us the whole horrible story himself, and takes us through his own long, painful process of uncovering the layer after layer of deceit and abuse and waste and tragedy that his family was built on. He was born much later than his brothers and benefited from “second family” syndrome (my made-up term), wherein a horrible parent gets to mess up one family, walk away from it, leave it in disarray, then straighten up and fly right with the second family and get credit for being a swell guy. Except that Gilmore's father stayed with the first family and just worked that aging bad-dad magic on his youngest son.

But the worst of it is that Mikal didn't get that second-family-kid glow about him, that subconscious specialness that comes from being the object of someone's redemption. Instead he got Norman Mailer's intrusion and his brother's insistence on dying and his mother's intractable suffering and the slow dissolution and decay of his entire family. Lucky kid!

Lucky for me, though, sicko that I am, that he became a writer and eventually had the guts to put the whole mess on paper. This isn't one of those memoirs that's really a ploy to get a book contract; it isn't one of those that's really about the writer trying to prove how cool he or she is simply by having gone through something shitty; and it isn't one of those that tries to convince you that the writer's pedestrian life and thoughts are somehow extraordinarily quirky or grievous. It's the real deal: a person struggling with questions of human nature and the wheel of fortune and the sorry truth that some lives have no happy ending, or middle, or start. For this reason, this book has the power of Greek myth to me. Sorry, Marsyas, you seem like a nice guy and all, but we'll be starting the flaying now.

Gilmore approaches the story as a journalist: he researches his family members and their pasts and their religious beliefs in order to present a fuller picture of them and try to understand how they became the people they became and why they treated themselves and others the way they did. That's the value of this book, and what raises it to the level of art. Gilmore writes out of anguish, and his heartbreak is palpable throughout the book, but he has the guts and the grace to search for perspective on his family members and give them to us from their place in the world and not just from their place in his heart.

Read it if you're a sick fuck like me who likes to be reminded that there are no easy answers in life and that your sorry ass better get to dealing with it.

"Under Pressure", Queen w/ David Bowie

I don't even know what this song is about. Stress? Is it about stress? Soaring awesomeness, that's my guess, a.k.a exuberance. It's a song as exuberant as "Mmmm-Bop" (which is about...recycling? My friend Killian claims it is), but with balls. Exuberant balls!

Listening to Freddie Mercury's voice is like diving into a cold pool on a hot day: bracing and thrilling and a little bit overwhelming but a lot just what you needed at that moment. Pairing that force of nature with the other most defiantly and coolly theatrical voice in rock and roll was a stroke of genius, like mixing a summery cocktail of sweet and tart in ice, ice, baby.

I've never met a single person who didn't like this song. People on the street, dee dee dede, all of them, they love it. And well they should, because it's the sound of Bob Beamon soaring through Mexico City, or Michael Johnson rounding the curve, gold heels flashing. It's muscular and theme-park-ride exciting and it reminds us all to relax and recycle.

"Midnight Cowboy" (1969)

For many years I confused this movie with "Midnight Express", and I just didn't want to watch a movie about prison and drugs. I couldn't figure out why Jon Voight was dressed like a cowboy on the poster, like no wonder he got caught in Turkey and thrown in jail! He made such an Ugly American spectacle of himself!

But Jon Voight just wanted to be your big-hatted gigolo. "Midnight Cowboy" is funny and sad and oddly sweet and it did something wonderful for me: it made me root for a guy to fulfill his dream of becoming a male prostitute. In that sense, it made my world bigger, didn't it, because it made me sympathize with someone I would normally be quick to judge.

It seemed like a reasonable dream, really. Worse men than him (Federline) have succeeded in this profession, I'm sure (the second-oldest profession? Third?). He was tall, good-looking, kind of doltish and sweet. What's the problem? I think those stuck-up New York ladies were the problem. Just pay the guy to have sex with you for god's sake! Cut his a break?

Maybe it was his being blonde -- it's unusual enough to be a blonde man that I think people subconsciously hold it against them. Brad Pitt is merely the exception that proves the rule.

The actors are pitch perfect, of course, and it turns out to be a story about true love. I believe too many people are terribly lonely at heart, secretly terrified of dying unloved, and this crazy fable illustrates that it needn't be that way.

This movie features one those perfect movie moments I love so much: Joe and Ratso are on the outs. Ratso's in a diner, hunched miserably over a cup of coffee. Lonely Joe wanders by the window and catches sight of Ratso. They both light up with delight and start to wave at each other before they suddenly realize they aren't talking. They freeze, look away, and Joe walks on. I'm embarrassed to say how many times I've been caught in that conundrum of love and hate.

"My Favorite Brunette" (1947)

This is one of my favorite movies; it never fails to make me laugh, and it perfectly parodies hardboiled detective stories like "The Maltese Falcon" or "The Big Sleep". Bob Hope plays an uncool baby photographer who gets mistaken for his neighbor, a very cool detective, and gets drawn into a case of murder! Dorothy Lamour plays the beautiful straight man pretty much perfectly.

Hope's...no. Bob's? That doesn't seem right. Mr. Hope's? Let's say Bob Hope's...genius is on full display here: his perfect timing, his big-framed gracefulness, his funhouse good looks that make him appealing but approachable. I think this is one of the best, most graceful comedic performances in movie history (and that's a short list, because it's the hardest thing to pull off. Chaplin, Cary Grant, the Marx Brothers, and...you're done). It's just funny, yo.

Peter Lorre portrays the Peter Lorre character with excellent comedic chops, and Lon Chaney Jr does the same with the Lon Chaney Jr role. They are a delight to watch.

This movie also features one of those precise movie moments that captures my fancy all out of proportion to its importance. I then try to explain these exquisite moments to other people and just come off sounding like an idiot desperate to join in the fun, like the person who gets all wound up to tell you this awesome joke and then the joke bombs.

But here it is: Bob Hope is running from the bad guys, and he runs up to an apartment building and rings all of the bells on the security intercom thingie in order to be let in. As he hits each button, he says, "Hi, honey, I'm home", for every button, ring it and, "Hi, honey, I'm home". And it totally works! These delighted female voices come out of the intercom murmuring things like, "Bill! I knew you'd come!", "Is that you, Dan?" But the bad guys are coming too quickly, so Bob Hope has to run off around the side of the building while the women keep cooing into the intercom and hitting their door-opening buttons.

That, to me, is hilarious.

Fuck! Told you these stories never work out! See the movie anyway; it's a gem.

"Spellbound" (2002), dir by Jeff Blitz

Who wants to watch a movie about a spelling bee? I do.

I got to go to a super-secret-special screening of this for a reason I can't even remember now. Ok, the screening wasn't secret. And it couldn't have been that special if I was there. And there were only about ten or twelve other people in the little screening room on some movie lot that, again, I can't even remember the name of. Did I dream this whole thing?

I went because it was free and I like documentaries. I picked up a promo packet and learned to my delight that it was directed by a fellow graduate of the Johns Hopkins University. I know Jeff Blitz zero percent, but I was so surprised to come across a Hopkins grad that I was instantly rooting for the movie.

Sure, it's about the National Spelling Bee and the crazy amount of studying these kids do to get to the finals, and about the slightly kooky personalities of the kids themselves (because you have to be kooky to be a schoolkid and be drawn to something difficult and nerve-wracking that does not involve varsity letters or performances of "The Music Man"). And yes the kids are endearing and compelling and all that, as is anyone who is passionately engaged in a quest.

But it turns out that this movie is really about families, especially the families that make up our mongrel nation of immigrants, and about the types of people who strive for greatness even if they don't know why they're doing it, and most of all about the heart-breaking amount of hope and love parents put into their kids, and the utter obliviousness of the kids to the depth of that hope. I've never seen a movie that illustrated the parental bond so clearly and sensitively without being cloying or sentimental or fake. The subjects of this film didn't know to create themselves or represent themselves for the cameras because they thought they were just talking about words.

One of the spellers comes from a small Pennsylvania town much like the ones I grew up around, and her parents are the kind of Pennsylvanians I know so well: modest and self-deprecating to the point of expressing disappointment in who they are and what they’ve made of their lives. They know how special their daughter is, but they don’t know how special they are for the simple fact of loving her and being kind and for caring about what’s going on in her life. Their story says everything that Tuesdays with Morrie tried to say about the meaning of life.

By the climax of the movie, my heart was pounding and I was literally perched forward on the edge of my seat. And all they were doing was spelling!

"The Station Agent", written and directed by Thomas McCarthy

This is a movie about the following people in a little town: a little person who just wants to be alone; a guy who is very gregarious and mans a roach coach; and an accident-prone woman with marriage problems. Also, a librarian. And a bar. And trains. Oh, and a girl who really wants the little person train aficionado to give a speech to her classmates about trains. And that's it.

Like, what the fuck? That's your story? Are you kidding me with this, McCarthy?

Yet I got so hopelessly wrapped up in these people and their lives that I had to turn the frigging movie off at one point and walk away from it for a few hours because I was too stressed out to keep watching. I convinced myself that this was going to be one of those indie downers that thinks it's being profound by being depressing, and I couldn't bear to watch it happen to these nice people.

And what was I so worked up about? What were the earth-shattering stakes in the lives of these characters that caused me such anxiety? What terrifying outcome was I desperate to avoid?

I was afraid that they wouldn't stay friends.

THAT'S IT. I mean, that's all. There is nothing bigger or more movie-rrific. No one climbs to the top of the Empire State Building to either swat at planes or meet Tom Hanks. No one throws the Emperor into a pit. No one has, in fact, been dead all along. The stakes are: will they hang out together on a porch sometime in the future drinking lemonade and shooting the breeze, or won't they. Jesus, God, let them decide to do it!!

GodDAMN, McCarthy! That's great moviemaking.

There are many perfectly nuanced and insightful moments in this frigging fragging movie, but one of my favorites -- SPOILER AHEAD! -- is when the train guy does finally give the speech to the girl's class. Aw, I can't bear to ruin it for you, but let's just say that it shows those phony "stand on your desk and salute your teacher" movies for what they really are. Not every moment in life becomes a stand up and cheer Moment, and thank god, because that'd be more exhausting than church.

"Tom Goes to the Mayor"

Ok, haters, hate all you want, but you're missing out on the best show on television.

Ever since "The Simpsons" proved that you can put anything on TV and avoid the FCC and the morality police as long as the show is animated (prudes and censors are confused by repeating backgrounds, I guess), we've known to look to Adult Swim for the most interesting social commentary on television. (Come to think of it, Anderson Cooper should be animated -- that's how good he is.)

TGTTM is not only freaky-looking, with the stop-motion green screen photo-animation thingy that I don't even have words to describe, it's also subversive + ridiculous which = brilliant. It's great satire -- mall-culture America, get-rich-quick bad business schemes, a bored City Council, a self-absorbed yet super-friendly Mayor who loves every bad idea, then distances himself from it as soon as it tanks, and the worst wife the world has ever seen. Once you watch this show, you see bits of it everywhere in and around your life, which is both horrifying and hilarious. This is what America feels like sometimes.

And it's exec produced by Bob Odenkirk! If you can't trust Odenkirk to point you in the direction of the smartest, most daring comedy out there, who can you trust? Larry King?...you can't beat Norm Crosby for a night full of chuckles...And skirt steak! I love it. No!

Nothing dooms a show faster than the words "it's satire", so let me mitigate the damage by pointing out that Dustin Diamond (aka "Screech") was highlighted in a very strange and funny way on the recent season three opener. And Sir Mix-A-Lot sang a song about big cups. Come ON, people!

I'm so glad this show is back.

That's yummy

I just realized that I hate the word "yummy". I also hate the word "tummy", but not as much.

I also hate when people use "drug" as the past tense of "drag". Whatever happened to "dragged"? Yeah, I'm talking to you, Carrie Underwood! Don't forget to remember that dragged is the past tense of drag!

Hate hate hate! It's a day of hate.

I AM...Star of India!

Another San Diego shot, wherein Courtney Lamb IS...the Star of India. I'm fighting crime here, or I'm just about to fight crime, or at the very least, I'm thinking about fighting crime. At any rate, crime will be fought.

Eli Roth, director of "Cabin Fever" (2002)

I used to take a class near a movie poster store that uses elaborate window displays for upcoming movies to lure you into their store. When "Cabin Fever" came out, the window was full of tree bark and limbs and lots and lots of blood. This is not normally the sort of thing that makes me say, "Yes. I must see that movie."

But four years later I hear Eli Roth on the Treatment, and he is so erudite and interesting and good-natured, and so obviously passionate and serious about his movies, that I immediately put "Cabin Fever" in my queue. Roth articulated all these feminist impulses behind the story of "Hostel", and I was like, right on, brother!

"Cabin Fever" is excellent -- it's extremely funny, it's an example of great movie storytelling with plenty of truly unexpected twists, and its structure is perfect. Film schools should make their students watch this one and break down it's beats -- yes, we get it, "Tootsie" and "Kramer vs Kramer" are great movies, but can we study something from this millennium, please? Something that might be in the same universe as our first films? Oh, no, you want me to watch "Big" instead? FINE.

Roth is also great with his actors -- there isn't a false move in the bunch, and he had the good sense to cast Rider Strong in the "Cabin Fever" lead (could Rider -- I call him Rider -- be this generation's Glenn Ford? Same strong jaw, same general store handsomeness? Let's hope!). "Boy Meets World" was a good show and that's all there is to it.

Every moment counts in a Roth movie, every character has a life of his or her own and a stake of his or her own (sometimes literally).

And Roth is a feminist, or a post-feminist, or whatever we're calling it these days so that it doesn't make us uncomfortable. There's a great fingering scene in "Cabin Fever", and lord knows most filmmakers never consider that side of things.

"Hostel" is well-told and really well-acted as well, with a story that unfolds beautifully, but it was all about the boys, and that just isn't as interesting to me. And I got the sense that someone got to him and made him have a more conventional action hero and "happy" ending. The movie was more gory but just wasn't as ballsy as "Cabin Fever" (though much much more boobsie).

At any rate, Roth is the man, he's got a strong viewpoint, and I can't wait to see some of the forty films he has upcoming according to IMDB.

Stephen King's It

Wait, you're only supposed to do the name above the title for tv movies, right, not books? But King's books ARE tv movies, so whatever.

Major, extremely gross SPOILER ahead. If you haven't read this book yet and haven't seen the tv movie and want to remain in suspense, do not read ahead in which I talk about the end of the story. In which the children of the town besieged by the evil spider defeat the Arachnid of Evil by gangbanging the girl in the group.

And here I was foolish enough to think that King had a girl as one of the gang (pun!) because he knew it was more interesting than a group of all-boys, but really he only had her in there because he didn't have the balls to depict boy child circle sodomy and pass that off as some bullshit about love conquering spiders and clowns.

I read this book as a teenager and loved it right up to the child gangbang. You lost me forever with that one, King. So that's really all a girl is good for in a group of friends, huh? Defeating the forces of evil with her VAGINA. I never knew those things were so powerful. And keep in mind it was her PRE-PUBESCENT VAGINA. Yum.

I loved all those actors in the movie, too, especially my beloved Dennis Christopher. Funny how they glossed over the child sex.

I might've just made up the term "circle sodomy"; it's got a real ring to it. Pun!

The Original Hybrid Car

Part car, part truck, ALL MUSCLE.

This is a very photogenic car. Although it has big muscles, I hope it doesn't also get a big head.

"Sexual Healing" by Marvin Gaye

I've never met anyone who didn't like this song. There's something magic about this one that it manages to be totally groovy without being skeevy. You can hear it in a doctor's office or a hardware store (where I heard it today) without feeling weird, unlike with other sexually frank songs that you can't hear without feeling like you can't look at the people around you without them thinking you're coming on to them. Like, say, Warrent's "Cherry Pie". I don't want to hear freakin' "Cherry Pie" when I am anywhere around other people. (I'm kind of horrified that that was my counter-example song, but it's the first one that came to mind.) Or, okay, "I Touch Myself". Did people stop writing songs like that?

I was a prudish child, but even I loved this song as soon as it first came on the radio.

Maybe it's a shame that Mr. Gaye's most accessible song is his least challenging, or maybe it's a complement to his ability to expertly convey a feeling everyone has sooner or later.

I still can't go over the fact that his own father shot him to death.

Niagara Falls

Niagara Falls acquired a reputation for being rather corny and rather dull, most interesting as the setting for one of the best scenes in the original Superman movie. Too many weddings turned it into a punchline, and it somehow became lost in the list of American splendors, obscured by the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone and the Alaskan National Wildlife Refuge. If only some rich Republicans with their hands in the oil industry wanted to drill by Rainbow Bridge, maybe we'd bring some tragic glamour back to the Falls.

But Niagara Falls is special. It's awesome in the true sense of the word without being overwhelming, unlike the Grand Canyon. It's accessible without being commercialized. You can visit it without being crammed into endless tourist lines. You can walk around. Take a load off. Go over the bridge and visit Canada. Think about what this country and this world have to offer, the wonders that we take for granted. The opportunities for stupidity that we never, as a species, seem able to pass up. Wouldn't it be weird to go over that giant waterfall in a barrel? Yeah, it would. I'll bet it would hurt. Let's try it. Okay.

I drove from Boston to Niagara Falls on my 25th birthday, just to check it out. I never expected to fall in love with it. The town of Niagara Falls, NY is surprisingly grubby, but hold on, there are wonders up the road. Drive into the Park, park your car, then wander around. Niagara is for wandering, and for listening. The sound of the Falls reminds you that this world is bigger than you are, and probably more interesting. And probably less anxious, in the long run.

Buy a ticket and take a ride on the Maid of the Mist. Wear your complementary cheap blue slicker as you ride under the waterfall. Buy another ticket for the Cave of the Winds and wear yellow this time as you walk down into the water, or just lean over the railing and watch the yellow figures stumble their way through the spray. These mild "rides" bring you closer to nature, like a water safari, and force you to feel small.

I visited Cooperstown on my way back from that 25th birthday trip, but found it sleepy and pointless after the excitement of the rushing water. I'll bet no one ever locked herself in a barrel and went rolling through Cooperstown.

Tip in The Marvelous Land of Oz, by L Frank Baum

Spoiler Alert!

And it's a doozy. Imagine that you're a young kid, just trying to find your footing in life. Your world is still black and white, right and wrong, and that's how your young mind learns to categorize things and distinguish one thing from another. Like, say, boys from girls.

And then you enter Oz and follow the adventures of Tip, a boy escaping from the witch who has enslaved him since he was a baby. Tip and Jack Pumpkinhead and the Saw-Horse go off on adventures and la la and so forth, and Baum gets to engage in some high-larious sexist comedy about lady soldiers, and it's an Oz-ing good time.

Then you get to the end and find out that Tip is, in fact, Ozma, the lost princess of Oz, magicked into boyness to hide her from some nefarious something or other, I can't remember.

I can't remember because I was shaken to the core by this boy I've known for however many pages suddenly being a girl I've never met before. I'M a girl. I'm not suddenly going to be told I have to be a boy, am I? And everyone won't act like that's the most normal bit of "hey, we forgot to tell you..." they'd ever heard, will they? They won't just sit down to their palace feast while I sit there with my sudden new reproductive organs rustling around under there, will they?

No one seemed to mind that Tip had to be Ozma all of a sudden, but I sure as hell did. Baum, what the hell's the matter with you? At least let him/her be a bit conflicted or go on Maury or something to complain about how I Was a Witch's Transgendered Slave.

But Tip wasn't transgendered. He never thought he was a girl and never wanted to be one. He just had to be.

Maybe I just didn't like being the thought of girlhood being the consolation prize that Duty To Your Country stuck you with.

Jumping San Diego

Look how happy I was to be there this Memorial Day weekend!

San Diego Loves Myspace

Or not.

Normally I wouldn't endorse naughty words in public places where the children -- The Children! -- may be corrupted by them, but come on. This is awesome.

Peet's Coffee

What a loser! Writing about how much you love a particular brand of coffee is like writing about your favorite color or telling a story about a dream you had. What a waste of the internets.

But, screw it, Peet's Coffee ruined coffee for me. Everything else tastes like swill (with a few exceptions -- thank you, whatever they serve at the Novel Cafe in Santa Monica and King's Road in LA and Cubby's Cafe here in Culver City). I now get my bag of Italian Roast or Dickinson's Blend or whatever they call it from the supermarket and make my own and the three Starbucks within walking distance of my house can go screw themselves.

I'm so jittery about this topic, I just used "screw" twice in one post! What the hell! Thank god for the antioxidants, because they make up for the agitation!

Peet's Coffee emporiums, however, aren't decorative or cozy or conducive to much pondering, which is probably good, because I don't need to be sitting on my ass in some goddamned coffee shop all day, trying to look both intelligent and important. I have my cell phone out in case my AGENT calls, okay? It's not like I'm UNEMPLOYED.

PHP/MySQL and CSS

I was a backend database programmer for too long -- Oracle PL/SQL to SQL Server t-sql to a little Sybase to reporting with Crystal Reports to using ASP .net. I worked for companies, crafting queries and functions and oh my god, I just bored myself. I liked it because it's like doing logic puzzles all day long.

But when I finally taught myself some front-end languages and, as of last year, got into PHP and MySQL programming, holy cow! What fun. Clean, sensible, always improving, with huge amounts of solid online resources, glossaries and code libraries to help you figure out how to make your site do whatever you want.

I don't know what makes some brains wired to enjoy the thrill of conditional statements and relational databases and functions and so forth, but it sure makes for a fun day of working on a site.

And CSS is the greatest -- it helps makes design clean and easy to do. (Well, "easy"). It makes sites make sense -- what a country, Yakov!