Closer

I can't decide how I feel about this movie. On the one hand, it was boring; on the other hand, it wasn't uninteresting. That is, it was kind of riveting, but ultimately a who-gives-a-crap experience. I guess what I'm saying is that I liked the smut.

How is it that I was ever an English major, when I have such a base level of literary appreciation?

Conversely, we can ask, why do works with any pretention toward "high" art feel compelled to be so smutty? It stopped being cutting-edge since at least the seventies.

I'm starting to formulate a list of movie maxims, and so far it consists of, "Nicole Kidman makes stinky movies." Number 2 might well be "Natalie Portman makes pretentious movies and plays annoying characters," though I'll withhold conclusions until I gather more evidence. I will say this much for Portman: her closing scene in "Closer" was dynamite.

Jude Law's character got on my last nerves. He did it to himself.

California Is Like a Beautiful Rainbow of Diversity!

It's weird, though, how diversity always looks a lot like homogeneity. I had forgotten how it is, being away from LA for so long. Now it's coming back to me. My racially cliquey high school. Last night's club where everyone dressed like they were Interpol. Tonight's dive bar where everyone thought they were Bettie Page. Beautiful things, all (or some) of them, and so eccentric and interesting - but really, I've had it up to my eyeballs with "scenes." Gawd!

But would I trade in all this pseudo-homogeneity?...for what, real homogeneity? Hardly. And it's a good thing I won't have to. It was touch and go there for a while, but I think I made the right choice. The only beast I'll have to tackle next year is the one I've just described...in exacerbated form, of course, as everything is in LA. Everyone wants to be somebody in a city that showy.

But anyways, back to tonight. My distaste for the rockabilly scene was so great that it almost killed my fledgling love for the music. I left even before the band I came to see went on, because I couldn't take it anymore. I did, however, buy a cd. I was relieved to find that after all that HELL - tired as a motherfucker at the end of a long day, sitting in a dive bar chair so rancid I'm half-sure it gave me gonorrhea, all while drowning in an avalanche of poseurs - I was relieved to find that I still loved the band as much as I did before. Indeed, I was not crazy for seeing something special about it.

When attacked by a mountain lion

hit back. He'll never see it coming.

When attacked by a black bear, play dead.

When attacked by a grizzly bear, mace it.

I feel that if we apply the mountain lion logic universally, we should, technically, hit the bear back as well. It's not like the bears will expect it and the mountain lion won't, right? Let me know if you ever test out my theory.

Whelming

So apparently you can be all three: overwhelmed, underwhelmed, and whelmed.

I'm still not sure what underwhelmed looks like. I have it on pretty good authority that they all exist, but I'll have to check for myself.

The Best Part of Wednesdays

is Oscar H's radio show, 7-10pm. All-time favorite music program.

Crummy Day

I'm writing my Greek composition homework and wishing I were dead...

I think I'm dangerously close to falling into depression. God damn. I hate this! I don't know what to do. For a while my fun-hunting has been an effective diversion, but I think the reality is setting in that I'm just not excited by what I'm doing and I'm afraid of the future.

I had coffee with my thesis advisor, which was oddly uncomfortable - for the first time EVER, since I finished my thesis. It's really alarming. I had looked forward to seeing him. Things aren't going well today.

What Do Pretty Girls Make?

I'm browsing some person's iTunes collection here in this cafe. He/she has a good-sized selection of Pretty Girls songs, which made me think of the time I went with Jake R to see them in the city.

We were standing in line, and the guy behind us was observing that Pretty Girls Make Good Graves was playing tonight. He asked some other dude next to him if he was a fan of Pretty Girls Make Good Graves, if Pretty Girls Make Good Graves was any good, and wasn't Pretty Girls Make Good Graves named after a Morrissey song?

I saw something snap in Jake's head, like visibly. "It's Pretty Girls Make GRAVES!" he whirled around and sputtered. "What? Pretty Girls Make Good -" "No! No 'good'! Just graves. Pretty Girls Make GRAVES."

It was pretty funny.

The Wendy's Finger

was a fraud! The woman who was trying to sue Wendy's had put the finger in the chili herself.

Walter Sobchak: You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me. There are ways, Dude. You don't wanna know about it, believe me.
The Dude: Yeah, but Walter...
Walter Sobchak: Hell, I can get you a toe by 3 o'clock this afternoon... with nail polish.
* * *
Walter Sobchak: Fucking dipshit with a nine toed woman.

There's Been Demand

It came to my attention that my Onion post about CSI was construed as "gross." Like a fine wine, I think it's something that gets better with time. For example, the first time I heard the following joke, I didn't think it was funny at all:

Q: What do you get when you impale a dead baby?
A: An erection.

Okay, so that still isn't funny, because it doesn't make sense to those of us who aren't sickos. But it puts other funnier jokes, like the CSI one, into a certain perspective. That I can appreciate.

Jarntorget

"Iron Square."

There's this place in Sweden that's kind of like a hybrid between London's Speaker's Corner and internet chatrooms. The basic idea is that it's a forum where any old schmuck can air his grievances and say whatever is one his mind. This used to be a forum for communists - hence the iron.

The way it works is that you write what you want to say on a piece of paper and tack it onto a board. If someone reads what you've written and wants to respond, she can write back, tack it up, and thereby start a thread. In essence, it's hand-written internet, without hyperlinks. Just like the internet, wouldn't you know what's one of the first and most prevalent uses for this extraordinary forum with all kinds of postivie potential? That's right, mating and dating! I'm told that that's what it's come to: "Hey, I like what you wrote. Let's meet..." yada yada yada.

Somehow, humanity always has a way of showing off its finest.

New Hobby

Stalking my stalkers. You've all been warned: I activated a hit counter for this page.

What fun!

The Onion Highlights This Week

The News in Photos: A Pope Remembered
"Vatican Recinds 'Blessed' Status of World's Meek: 'Screw the Meek,' Says Pope"

Infograph: TV Shows on DVD
People are increasingly buying television series on DVD instead of watching them on broadcast TV. Why?
* With DVD pause feature, easier to masturbate to autopsies on CSI.

Ethical Dilemma

I went surfing today with Will H, who actually turned out to be a great surfing buddy: better than me, but not totally pro. We had a discussion about this ethical issue when he remarked that I had my own wetsuit, though I didn't have my own board. I answered that I had my wetsuit since about the second time I went surfing, because it was such an intimate thing. For me personally, I said, I'd be more likely to urinate in a rented wetsuit than in my own. I would assume that urination simply came with the territory of rentals - therefore neither feeling bad about doing it myself or getting pissed (figuratively) at others for doing it. (The bigger concern would be the fact that that pee is then stuck to ME...)

Will said that he'd feel worse about soiling a rental than his own.

The topic came up again later when I was at the surf shop, and the clerk-dude again remarked that I had a suit with no board. So I decided to sound him out on this issue. He agreed more with Will than with me, though he took the most liberal position of saying that he'll go whenever he has to. He then added that he might give it a second thought for a rental. He left me with this one caveat: when you pee in a brand-new wetsuit, the smell tends to get soaked right it. Season it out a little before you go there.

Before anyone casts aspersions, let me add that it's true: it would make no sense at all to paddle all the back to the beach to use a bathroom, and then paddle all the way out again. Me, I've never gone out for more than two hours at a time, but among the more hardcore, five hours is standard. Nature kicks in by then.

Party Like It's 2001

Tonight there was a party in an SF club that turned out to be a flashback from freshman year: about 95% of the guests were recent alums from my school...and just like those freshman year parties, the boys had ZERO game. Oh well. The mean was pretty unattractive anyways.

I did, however, get a foot massage from someone who kinda-sorta had game, and who was above the mean, lookswise. The foot massage was AWESOME. (Didn't tickle or nothing.)

JULES
...Foot massages don't mean shit.

VINCENT
Have you ever given a foot massage?

JULES
Don't be tellin' me about foot massages -- I'm the fuckin' foot master.

VINCENT
Given a lot of 'em?

JULES
Shit yeah. I got my technique down man, I don't tickle or nothin'.

VINCENT
Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?

[Jules looks at him a long moment.]

JULES
Fuck you.

[He starts walking down the hall. Vincent, smiling, walks a little bit behind.]

VINCENT
How many?

JULES
Fuck you.

VINCENT
Would you give me a foot massage -- I'm kinda tired.

JULES
Man, you best back off, I'm gittin' pissed -- this is the door.

I'm So Irked

My class today voted on whether we should move our Friday 10am meeting time, for a three-hour seminar, to Thursday 5:30 pm. To me, this is a no-brainer; my Thursday night partying is pretty much mandatory this quarter. I went out last night, had oodles of fun, and dragged my carcass out of bed this morning with the utmost willpower to finish my assignment, and went to class. Still, I would not think of not-partying on Thursday, as hard as it makes Friday; that's just a non-negotiable this quarter.

It would have been perfect if we could get our seminar out of the way Thursday, and I could go out, as free as a bird, later that night. I wouldn't even mind missing the OC if that's what it came to. Unfortunately for me, only one other guy in the class agreed with me. All the other dorks wanted a Friday 10am. Bill William and I were pissed.

The WC in Amelie

I know I've made this observation before in conversation, but I thought I'd bring it up again since I happened to have a bit of a deja vu just now, when I was in different bathroom with a certain hand-towel system...

My image of Paris encountered a bit of a paradox during Amelie. On the one hand, the movie makes the setting look so quaint and safe, and above all, SANITIZED. For example, you'd feel perfectly at home sitting in the photo booth, and you wouldn't be worrying about what vagrant urinated there before you came.

This image was then jarred when one of the Two Windmills patrons went to the bathroom; washed his hands; dried them on NON-DISPOSABLE CLOTH TOWELS hanging on the towel rack (!!); and then DRIED HIS FACE ON SAID NON-DISPOSABLE CLOTH TOWELS and left them there for the next patron.

I thought, either the French are the cleanest people in the world (ie, so clean that the drying of faces on a common towel will not transport diseases), or they are the dirtiest. Not that I'm judging or anything.

My Poor Doggie

has an ear infection. It cost $165 to get it fixed. We suspect we're getting ripped. What need does a dog have for four different antibiotics? When I had a LUNG infection (note: vs. ear), I needed one medication, and that cost about $20.

Two more ear infections like this and it'll be more economical just to get a new dog. Ha, just kidding! I would never do that to my favorite little guy.

Memory Lane

I was doing a lot of strolling here yesterday, for some reason. Old journal entries, old emails, old text messages. As expected, a lot of them left me shot with regrets and near-palpable pain. But more surprisingly, I've found that for the most part I've had a really fun and fulfilling life so far. It's strange to realize this, because when I'm in the moment, I tend to think of myself as a malcontent. I write so much because I feel I have a lot of tragedy to report, and suffering is the essence of good literature. But as anxious and dissatisfied and preoccupied I might be about stuff, the fact is that exciting moments have been nothing less than overwhelming and glorious.

I was reading in my journal yesterday and entry about a particular hug I got once that was perfect - the timing; the sympathy that came with it; the utter sense of comfort. Reliving it again was exquisite. I'm sure I can think of other good hugs in my life, but that one happened to have been captured right at the moment when the impression was still vivid. It's amazing how memory dims, and changes, our experiences. If only we can remember just how happy we've ever felt, instead of cleaving to the little circumstanstial irritants.

Addendum

A friend pointed out that my previous discussion of Benedict XVI is a little unfair, since we don't really know what he's capable of. His job for the last 20 odd years was concerned exclusively with doctrine, so it would be hasty to cite his past record as an indication that he won't address larger world problems in the future. My recantation.

Habemus Papam

I suppose I should make an obligatory pope remark, since it's not everyday you see a new pope. Under normal circumstances - or rather, if circumstances like John Paul II's were more the norm - this might have been the only election I would see in my lifetime. As it is, it looks like there will be a new pope, successor to Benedict XVI, within say 10 years.

Cardinal Rock Singer. According to the news, nothing like the pun on his name, though they like repeatedly to praise his love for classical music. They always say that kind of thing as if we'd care. Benedict likes Beethoven, John Paul likes skiing; the last guy named Benedict was a lame duck, as if that means anything. The impression that the media keeps sending out (and of course, the media is my only source on this - because like I'm really going to read any of Benedict's theological treatises on my own, ha!) is that with this election, the Catholic church seems determined to keep its head buried in the sand. I'm not necessarily talking about doctrinal changes to it's position on women, etc.; the Church is an autonomous institution, and whatever it chooses to believe is its prerogative. The clearest analysis of the problem that I've heard today was from a commentator who pointed out that, rather than addressing issues like world hunger, the AIDS epidemic, and the crisis of the priesthood, Benedict only emphasized how deplorable it is to live in a world of moral relativism, and that the Church must take a stand. To me, this is very telling of an ostrich. Choosing what you believe is one thing. But action is another, and if one of your beliefs is that it is your duty to administer the innocent and make the world a better palce, you should act on it - ie, the victims of sexual abuse represent something wrong with the world, and there's nothing relative about that.

Santa Cruz

I love that town so much. Surfing there this weekend - floating on my board while I gazed at the bright skyline and the blooming cliffs - I almost dissolved into tears, it was so beautiful. I was so absorbed in thinking how much I'd miss it, and storing up its image in my heart, that I actually missed a pretty good set of waves (thereby marring one of my last surfing experiences for the next few years, dammit).

I want to live in Santa Cruz one day. I want to work toward making that happen.

I'm still deliciously ocean-sore, and it's difficult to walk.

What a Day!

Yesterday, I went surfing, read two and a half articles for class, saw Agent Orange, and partied with the Bang - all in one day! When I started my day, I had no idea I was in for such a long adventure. My original plan was to go surfing and go home. And then I happened to find out about Agent Orange the old-fashioned way (flyer on the beach), and that was the beginning of the end.

I discovered a band I really dig: the Chop Tops, one of the opening bands. Rockabilly punk, pompadours, and one hot hot hot stand-up bassist.

Trey

Trey is the new bad boy on the OC, and Ryan's brother. He just got sprung from prison in Chino (ie bona fide bad boy) and starting fresh, and Ryan very much wants him to go straight (ie vs crooked). One night, the night before Trey's birthday, Ryan thinks he's caught Trey doing a drug deal. He confronts him about it in the morning - they fight - and it turns out that Trey was completely innocent.

"And you know what I thought when I saw you at my door?" says Trey with an injured sniffle. "I thought, here's my little brother coming to take me out for breakfast on my birthday."

"Awww, Trey!" my friend and I crooned. "We'll take you out for breakfast!"

Bad boy with a sensitive side.

Post-Punk

I'm listening to Public Image Ltd. right now, and I've come to the following conclusion:

Post-punk music has nothing whatsoever to do with punk music, except that all the people who used to play punk decided one day to start sucking, at the same time altogether.

Yeah, you heard right.

I saw the most beautiful boy

a minute ago, such as I thought I'd never find on this campus. I was waiting in line at Kinko's when he walked past me, then passed me again; and then he was gone.

What's Worse than a Passive-Aggressive Roommate?

An aggressive-aggressive roommate.

Like one who would interrupt your shower and make you get out while you're still soapy, only to tell you that she needs to use the shower after you.

My Advisor Is a Hoot

I had coffee today with Marsh M, to say goodbye after a very meaningful, and sometimes disappointing (on his end), five years. We were discussing whether we should sit indoors for coffee, or outdoors. Marsh said that he hadn't expected it to be so cold, and in fact left his house today without a jacket. I concurred, and replied - pointing to my jacket - that I almost went jacketless today, too.

"Given my advanced age, perhaps some hearty young person would lend me her jacket if it gets too cold."

I never see it coming, but he always cracks me up!

Life Lesson

I should not attempt to cut my own hair. Except for comic effect.

Coppola, Scorsese

At the request of my new fourth reader, I'm expanding my previous post on New York Stories. Coppola was one of the three directors who contributed a short film, a piece entitled Life without Zoe. It is quite possibly the worst film I've ever seen, especially considering how short it is. If there were ever a movie that could fit so much badness into such small-sized pith, Zoe would be the one.

Magnolia was also god-awful, but that was partly because it just would NOT end. So it had a lower ratio of badness per unit time.

Anyways, the conclusion after watching Coppola's segment was that it takes a giant to make a big splash. It really is very mind-blowing that ANYONE, let alone a legendary film genius, would think something like Zoe would be worth the oxygen it takes for one person to sit through and watch it. Truly, Coppola must be a genius, because he has no fucking clue what a normal person would think. Either that, or Sophia was mostly responsible for this disaster.

Having said all this, I highly recommend that everyone go out and see this movie.

Scorsese again. Little known fact about him: his career began when a student piece of his was discovered by producer Roger Corman, famed of Hollywood B sexploitation films. I guess there's a certain B valence to mob movies...nevertheless, the aetiology is a delicious one. Like a lovely orchid blooming out of the mire.

6 Nights, 250ish New People

You'd think I would have learned something interesting from all these conversations I've had for the past jillion hours, with such a variety (supposedly) of women. How sad it is that I haven't. Either I'm the most interesting thing in the sorority system, or (more likely) I couldn't keep my mouth shut the whole time and let them get a word in edgewise. Oops. My bad. Steve Buschemi's character in Fargo.

I did manage to carry on a few conversations about biological research in the coral reefs, real estate investment opportunities, and bulimia, all of which are not in the Complete Snore catagory. However, I feel like I drew most of my material from NPR, personal experience, and NY Times, respectively.

Speaking of Steve Buschemi, there's a great bit of irony in a short film by Scorsese, anthologized in New York Stories. This film is about an aging painter (Nick Nolte) waxing jealous/desirous over his young protegee/mistress (one of the Arquettes), who is in love with a young performance artist (Buschemi). Seeing a poster of Buschemi enshrined on Arquette's wall, Nolte observes - with jealous wrath - "He's a good-looking kid."

It's supposed to be a scene eloquent of a man's impotent lust...but my friend and I were howling with laughter when Nolte said, with a perfectly straight face, that line about Buschemi and good looks - Steve Buschemi, whom we concluded was possibly the ugliest man in the world, without having any obvious setback like deformity or fatness. We suspect Scorsese threw that in there on purpose, for comic irony.

My Ring

I finally lost my really cool ring, the one that was shaped like a coiled dragon, and that was always too big for my finger. I knew I'd lose it someday. It's like a metaphor for my grip on reality.

I feel like my world is closing in on me, smaller and smaller, until all I can see is the minutiae. I'm studying the wood grain. I need to go out and expand and see the big picture again.

It occurred to me a while ago that each time I've ever fallen in love, the feeling of love was always ALWAYS conflated with the notion of a bigger and more beautiful world opening up to me - in essence, the hope that there was something phenomenal out there I didn't know about yet, but could gradually make a part of my life. And I, I would fall in love with the messenger.

The dragon is a symbol for life.

My Filthy Roommate

has a half-full (or half-empty) gallon of bad milk, so old that it's become a dull-gray solid. This container she perched on the very top of our RECYCLING.

Last I checked, solid milk is not recyclable! It would have pissed me off anyways if she had put in in the regular trash, because we (and by we I mean I) don't take it out every day, but it would have been better than putting it in the recycling, where it could stay for days, or weeks! I ignored the solid milk for a few days, just to see if she would take it out. She didn't, the filthy bitch. I finally had to do it myself, lest the animal that grows out of it eat me while I'm sleeping.

Prostitution

A friend of mine likes to read personals, for shits and giggles. Some of the more interesting ones offer to "adopt" a student from my school or give them free housing in return for companionship. This potentially above-board offer is then qualified by things like, "You: female, friendly, cute; Me: male, wealthy," and extraneous things like, "Can't invest in a romantic relationship," thereby obliterating any hope of legitamacy.

My friend and I got curious about these postings, mostly because they were full of such bullshit phrases like "mutually beneficial arrangement" and "intimate friendship." We set up a phony email account and asked two posters just what they meant by these phrases, and what specifically would be the responsibilities and benefits. According to our description, we were currently a college junior (nubile, smart); back in high school, junior prom princess (cute) and the senior class' "Most Likely to Succeed" (smart, personable); aficionada of yoga and pilates (not fat), cooking (obviously), and knitting scarves for the homeless (nice); a non-smoker and non-druggie who still liked to party (healthy, fun); and finally, working an unpaid internship over the summer (has reason to lead a life of sin).

I forgot to mention that one of the johns likes to get really detailed about this non-relationship; his personal ad was a veritable essay. His response to our email was likewise detailed: he wanted his "arrangement associate" (no joke! this is how he actually referred to us - as opposed to the more natural-sounding "hooker," I suppose) to meet up with him in a private, intimate setting a few times a week. And here's the kicker: he actually threw out a number, in the form of $1200 a month.

My friends and I sat around dinner tonight doing the math. We figured he was thinking something like three times a week, each date lasting for say five hours. That comes out to...drum roll...$20 an hour!

Honestly, the nerve! A girl with no education can make that much babysitting! We were rolling on the floor laughing.

Shits and giggles aside, though, I find all this terribly scary and depressing. A part of me wants to close the door on this world of sin and squalor I've peeped into. But then another part of me is fascinated by just how much room this patsy is giving us to fuck around with his head. My first suggestion was to tell him that we recently got fat, just to see his reaction. But our discussion at dinner yielded a much more promising prank: "Please see what's out there and come back with a reasonable offer."

I hope this patsy-john doesn't read my blog. That would ruin everything.

Pettiness

I had a great conversation with Vince T earlier today. I mentioned to him that I met a guy from his alma mater who got admitted to Michigan and Berkeley, a guy incidentally with zero personality and a total misanthrop to boot. Vince gave a "sarcasm" grunt when I mentioned the programs, and said, "That fucking pisses me off."

I like it when people can be expressive of their discontent - and more importantly, be honest about it with themselves - rather than pretending or feeling obligated to be happy for the good fortunes of a misanthrop with zero personality. A lot of us, I suspect, are too chickenshit about making ourselves look inadequate or insecure when we express jealously. Perhaps that's the underlying psychological explanation...but really, sometimes it just isn't fair.

Shaun of the Dead

A little scarier than I thought. Funny too, but in a British way.

My Work Is Done

Yesterday, my department invited Emma D to deliver a paper on Romulus' asylum, the rape of the Sabines, and how both of these relate to Roman multiculturalism; and how all of these topic are relevant in light of modern-day American multiculturalism. Emma was not confident about her Greek, howevermuch she was a Latin expert, because she used translations for the passages she cited from Greek authors.

One of these passages was Strabo. This translation said something like, Romulus welcomed all the flotsam and jetsom and offered them citizenship. Maud G read this as a negative attitude toward the pedigree of Roman citizens.

At this point I proudly raised my hand and pointed out that flotsam and jetsom is a Walt Whitman phrase. And that Whitman was the American cheerleader par excellence, and therefore this particular translation of Strabo, while rendering what may be negative attitude, was promoting a more positive interpretation of multiculturalism that may or may not have been conveyed in the Greek.

Having said that, I brushed off my hands, got up, and walked away. (Just kidding! I didn't really. But I was glowing with self-satisfaction nevertheless.)

It's one of those days

when I feel very much alone and put together all wrong, and all I want is to go away and start over again. This tends to happen when I OD on people's company, like today. It'll be nice to move, in spite of everything.

The Walker

I'm looking outside my window at a dude who looks like he could be Cal Watkins, with whom I went out for beer once. But who doesn't look like that at that age, right? Time, the great equalizer, makes us all vaguely resemble each other, so that we at least look like the one giant brotherhood we should be, as humanity, even if we failed to learn those life lessons that would make us feel like one in fact. Aside: I read somewhere an observation that women become more like men (mustachioed, etc.) and men become more like women (high-pitched voice, etc.) as they get older. This man is not Cal because, as I see now, he is using a walker. His patient grandson walks beside him.

It makes me think of a conversation I had once with Marcus F, my long-time mentor and the kindest man in the world, though he'd be mortified to hear me say it (it's a virility thing; needless to say, I take every opportunity I get to tell him how nice he is). We were talking about the suicide frequency at Cornell, and Marcus said, "I'd rather be toothless and homeless, infested with fleas, and lying in the gutter, than dead." I think I feel the same way. Watching the old man on his walker take 10 minutes to walk about 20 feet, I started asking myself whether I'd rather be old and decrepit, or die while I'm still young and pretty...

Old and decrepit, of course! It's a privilege to get that far.

Class of 2008

Rush is here. How horrified was I to find that the whole population that fits in the two circles of the Ven diagram "frosh" and "thinks she might like a sorority" has this one defining characteristic? And that is, they are all overwhelmingly neocon!!! Oh. My. God. How random is that? Not a population of bitches, not a population of hos; those I might be ready to handle. But no! Neocons.

Let me take a minute here to review Condi Rice's anachronistic Cold War politics; and Victor Hansen's book entitled, "Mexifornia"; and let me practice saying "weapons of mass destruction" and "freedom-loving patriots." Then maybe at the end of that conversation with some yappy little neocon bitch I might be ready to endorse gun ownership just because I'll understand why someone would want to put herself out of misery.

My friend Sarah L-R suggested that we don't let any of them in, and die with honor rather than compromise our identity. In my heart I agree.

To my fellow bloggers

You know who you are. Update, ho bags!

Law and Order, SVU

I don't have anything new of interest to report - pity my distraction! - so I'll relate last Thursday's rerun of Law and Order, SVU, which sounded absolutely ridiculous when I started describing it to a friend, and I realized then that it was actually pretty funny.

(Aside - After missing three weeks of the OC, I got all pumped up last week to laugh again over the antics of Julie Cooper, who I hear was in a homemade porno. Bitches at FOX cancelled it and premiered Tru Calling instead, bitches.)

1. The crew discovers video of a 12-year-old boy being raped.
2. The rapist turns out to be the boy's hot principle, who has a squeaky clean record, like Peace Corp and stuff.
3. During the "bad cop" interrogation, the hot principle busts a move on the cop. He pushes her and she falls into a seizure.
4. The doctors find a tumor in her brain and remove it.
5. The surgeon suggests that the tumor might have clouded her judgment to make her a pedophile. The cop says, "But she knew that what she was doing was wrong." "That wouldn't necessarily matter. You see, the morality part of the brain is over here. The impulse-control part is here, where we found the tumor."
6. Is this a freak occurrence? Far from it. One of the cops says, "Hey I remember a case last year where a child molester, a straight-edge family man, had a similar tumor. He was cured after the tumor was removed, so they let him go." "The criminal element was gone?" "No. A year later, he was back on the streets molesting children." "So it wasn't the tumor, after all?" "No. The tumor had grown back."
7. At this point, the psychologist, the token Asian guy, says some obvious things like, "The experience was more traumatic for the victim than he realizes. It will take a long time before he gets over it."
8. The victim, it turns out, has fallen in love with his rapist. The psychologist says that this is prime fodder for him to grow up to become a pedophile himself. "How do we stop it, doctor?" "There's only one way: get our scientists to isolate that part of the brain that makes child-molesters."
9. Fin.

Controversy Around Schiavo

I was surprised when I realized that I come down on the side of the religious right in those debates about Terri Schiavo's right to live. A yellow dog liberal, I almost always agree with the party line. However, I was even more surprised to find that our judicial system - so fascist in every other regard - did not agree with me on this one question. The point of difference seems to be that I don't view this as a matter of family rights vs. goverment interference. No matter what the next of kin says, you simply cannot kill a person. Terri Schiavo was not so far gone as to be considered a human vegetable, I think, since she could breathe on her own and wasn't on quote-unquote life support. Essentially, she had to be starved to death. There are plenty of people in this world who can't feed themselves - like, say, BABIES - and it wouldn't be so far from murder if we let them die in the same way.

On the other hand, we let lots of people around the world die every day because of starvation. So who's to say what is hypocrisy?

Allen's 90s

I was reading over my "Melinda and Melinda" post and saw the need for an addendum.

Celebrity was also pretty bad, except for the absurdity of the Branagh performance. So, the beginning of the end proper. Manhattan Murder Mystery was mediocre. Everyone Says I Love You, inane overall, but with some saving moments: namely, the whole saga of Joe wooing Von, especially with the Tintoretto name-dropping - comedy gold! definitely makes it all worth it - and the general idea of the musical is entertaining as well.

Some unexpected gems: Sweet and Lowdown, Bullets Over Broadway. These start off slow, but if you stick it through, you'll find absolute dynamite.

Big Mistake

Never overestimate you own mental fortitude. A few days ago I was as happy as a clam. Now I'm distracted, and panic-stricken to see months of therapy, spiritual counselling, dreamboat relationship, hell-cursed relationship, pneumonia, general suffering followed by affirmation, and all the wonderful and healing times I had with old friends and new friends dwindle away in my clutching hands! It's a terrible thing to see again that there was, indeed, a reason why an asshole won your heart, once upon a time. What a great thought experiment it is, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Are we so damned to keep making the same mistake over and over again? And is this poor tragedy actually the greatest romance possible for the human insect, as the movie would imply?

Melinda and Melinda

The new Woody Allen. A mixed bag, but overall very satisfactory. The premise is how one story can be interpreted in different ways so that one version is a comedy, and the other a tragedy. At the end of Woody's career, he seems to be going back to his roots, writing some really memorable comedy lines that would almost come off as elementary if they weren't so damn funny. In his middle period, the drama instinct really took over, and I think most serious film viewers would consider these his best accomplishment; but I think this latest piece shows that Woody can no longer write tragedy for shit. Hence the mixed bag. Half the movie was wonderful, and just popping! and the other half was a snore.

The most unexpected thing: Will Ferrell does a very convincing Woody Allen, and in good taste. Absolutely delightful! Not quite as eerie as the Kenneth Branagh, but more natural, and I think better. Definitely better than Jason Biggs or John Cusack, with whom you couldn't even figure out why they were cast instead of Woody, except that he was getting too old to play romance.

I'm actually a big fan of Allen's 90s-era movies, and I'd might say that most of my favorites probably come from this period. The beginning of the end (for me) was Small Time Crooks, and after that Jade Scorpion was good, but even I would have to admit that Hollywood Ending and Anything Else were either poor (Anything Else) or downright tragic (Hollywood Ending). Melinda and Melinda was almost as good as Jade Scorpion.