It's Fun to Stay at the YMCA!

...if for no other reason than that I can stick it to those asshole-meatheads at 24-hour Fitness.

My arms started noodling after a mere two laps. I swam ten laps total, and I'm sore even before I've gone to bed. I hope this workout, and many more like it, will snap me out of this rut.

Nothing New

I was thinking to myself, how am I going to make it through this whole unemployed year? This feeling of hopelessness and purposelessness is unbearable! Then I remembered that I've been here before, and often: it's just another one of my normal depressive episodes, and once the dark mood passes over, I'll be able to look toward my challenges with greater optimism. In the past, I was able to feel depressed without projecting that state into my permanent future, because I had a routine and deadlines and so on. If anything, I felt irritated that I couldn't just cast off those obligations and do nothing, as my inclinations directed.

Now that dream has come true: I can let loose in my depression and not have to worry about screwing up my whole life in the aftermath of the episode. But the unexpected consequence of lacking that structure is that it's harder to identify the depression cycle as such; in other words, am I doomed to feel worthless forever, or at least as long as I continue to exercise no worth? Such thoughts would get me into a new low, because I would envision this long vista of years in which I do nothing and waste my youth and never realize my potential and die in a gutter.

It must have been over my afternoon cup of coffee or something when I suddenly had the bright thought that this feeling of despair is utterly familiar. Only the circumstances are different. And I know me, and I know that the feeling will pass in a few days, and I'll be ready to take action again. I just have to sit this out like I did in all the other episodes.

On a related note, I should probably look into treating this already. But I've always had some resistance to imagining myself as a pill-popper.

Current Audio

Vitalic
The Past
Trahison

Motorcycle Diaries

Little known fact about Che Guevara: apparently he was stunningly handsome underneath all that hair.

No but seriously, that was a bit of a casting error. As much as I enjoyed watching Gael Garcia Bernal play the lead, I had a hard time believing that that package could be such an egoless humanitarian. I was really sympathetic to his self-discoveries and everything, right up until the point when he reveals that he had spent a mere three weeks at the leper colony. And is on his way home the next day. That information throws the whole story into doubt. Even then, however, I might have been willing to go along with his character, but then Ernesto has that grand moment of jumping into the Amazon so that he could spend his birthday with the lepers whom he loves.

Yeah, okay. If he loves them so much, you'd think he'd want to get to know them for longer than three weeks.

That kind of love is convincing only when you're, uh, unfortunate in the face. As I watched Ernesto embracing all his leper friends after his triumphant swim, I couldn't help thinking, "This looks like the kind of guy who will jack off at night thinking of this very moment." I mean, what else would he get out of it? It's not like he has a genuine bond with these people. It's not like he's appreciating the rare value of a human touch, the way an ugly person or a pariah would. He just gets off on the adoration.

So much for my cynicism. One thing I kind of liked, when I wasn't wearing my "smartass" hat, is of course the idealism. It's refreshing to see, even though it reminds me that keeping such innocence will take you straight down the path of becoming a crazy-eyed revolutionary; case in point. Politics suck, but there are some moments when you have to try to stop being a rock star. I mean, I would love to travel to the Amazon too and cure diseases, but (1) I can't do that because I wasn't born into the lap of luxury and connections, and (2) if I should find myself so lucky one day as to have that opportunity, I sure as hell wouldn't insult everyone there on the first day by preaching to them about how the way they do business makes them rotten people (haha, pun!).

But then, I guess that's why I'm not a crazy-eyed revolutionary. Instead of begging these bourgeoisie for a menial job, I should be stirring up the proletariat and creating a new world order where I can be meaningfully employed. Viva la revolucion!

Am I going to make it?

Ashes in my mouth. I was emailing a job placement agency when my mom called me to help clean the house or something, and in my haste I thought the email was ready and sent it off...containing a major faux pas. When your chances are slim to none there's no room to slip up like that. I'm losing my nerve. I don't think I have what it takes to do anything anymore.

Rut

There's something wrong with me. I was reading for fun, but I had to stop because I lost interest midway through. I'm utterly bored with television. I can't bring myself to watch my current Netflix, Motorcycle Diaries, because I can just FEEL it'll be total snoozers. I have no inclination to respond to any of my potentially subletters, and make back some of that massive cash hemorrage that is my lease. That reminds me, I have to pay my rent. Most alarmingly of all, I just passed through the whole Memorial Day sale period with all the online clothiers without buying a stitch of new clothes. Where did all my interests go? What did I do with the vim of life? I mean seriously: I just sat there this whole evening because I couldn't think of a single thing that would feel worthwhile.

Conan the Barbarian

It isn't THAT much better than Destroyer. Sure, SOME of the movie was everything I could have hoped for and more, but other parts are too slow-moving to make a real humdinger. Like there are stretches of just riding horses through the terrain. On the plus side, there's quite a bit of some gratuitous nudity - including the most obscenely ridiculous sex scene with the witch - camel-punching, axe- and sledgehammer-fighting, Troma-like blood squirts, implied cannibalism, a giant snake being hacked to a pulp, and of course, silly dialogue ("Why are you crying?" "He is Conan the Cimmerian. He does not cry. So I cry for him"). Also, the beheading of Thulsa Doom (what a name!) was excellent enough to bring a tear to your eye.

Finally, the lamentation-of-women line is not to be missed. At any cost. But you all knew that already.

Miss USA Ate It!

Oh my, it was wonderful! I had just tuned in during a Seinfeld rerun commercial break, and Miss USA was the mere third person I saw before there was something to write about. How delightful! It roped in my contributions to the ratings.

Miss Tanzania has a bald head. I hope she wins.

Current Audio

Vera Lynn
We'll Meet Again

Dead End

I was researching markets for the magainze freelance writer, and I think I have to conclude that it isn't for me. That really bites. I simply don't have anything to say to the 50+ crowd, which constitutes most of the magazine reading base. I have no field of expertise (like, say, investing advice). All I have to offer is my witty commentary and hip perspective, but the only presses that would run those kind of stories are broke-ass and competitive, because they have no stable readership. Boo. I guess the sensible thing to do now would be to admit the conclusion of that chapter and look for more promising avenues for my writing. I know that if it's meant to be, I will get some kind sign that I have the tiniest reason to hope for success.

Shame on Netflix

Today I had the wonderful good fortune of catching Conan the Barbarian on TV, combined with the extraordinary bad fortune of catching only half an hour of it. This is the first time I encountered the movie at a point that seemed interesting. Conan the Destroyer, I've seen numerous times, especially everything after the mirror scene; because how could you flip past the mirror scene and NOT stay for the rest of the movie?! Destroyer is in fact almost TOO good, because whenever I saw parts of Barbarian, they inevitably couldn't measure up, so that I would believe it wouldn't be worth my time to stay for the whole thing.

That was before I caught the great bits that I caught today. I managed to flip through during some kind of a storm scene, where Conan seems to die, but then he wakes and the girl says that she could claw back from the pits of hell to fight by his side. Then there was the awesome banquet scene with orgy, chaos, fire, a king morphing into a snake, and Conan defeating sledgehammered meatheads with the deftness of his sword.

Ah.

Totally thirsting for more, I was crushed to find out that Netflix does not yet carry this title.

Graphic novels and "sword and sorcery" movies? Is my transformation into a nerd complete? It's like I postumously became a classicist!

My First Graphic Novel

Surprise! V for Vendetta. Loved the movie, couldn't get enough. Contrary to popular wisdom, I'd say the movie was pretty faithful to the book. And forgive me for saying but...I liked the movie better. **Struck by lightning** A lot of the minor changes that would have offended the purists, I think, were either necessary for cutting down the cheese/cliche factor, or they just streamlined the narrative, which otherwise might have drowned out the themes.

Biggest differences are Evey Hammond, the Leader, and Creedy. I'm most undecided about Evey. In the graphic novel she goes from being frightened ingenue and damsel-in-distress to educated apprentice. In the movie, her only crime in the beginning is complacency and conventionality - and because of this she resists V, in a way that MIGHT make me prefer the naive Evey of the book - and in the end she becomes an anarchist, but kind of because she has no choice. Jury's still out. One the one hand I don't care for damsels in the distress, but on the other hand that Evey has more agency in her transformation.

LOVED what the movie changed about the Leader and Creedy. I guess this is where people saw the parallel with the Bush regime: the single-minded ideologue leader who is really just a puppet for his sociopathically efficient second-in-command. Even so, I think the movie translated the important part of their relationship well, namely that the second is willing to do all the necessary dirty work, and the leader is stable only insofar as his second is willing not to upstage him.

And finally I come to V himself. I recall reading that Alan Moore rejected the movie because he thought it lost the theme of anarchy, the real ambiguity in V's character when we're deciding whether he is a hero or a maniac. I would again disagree. It's true that the movie's V is more idealistic and less philosophical, but the graphic novel's V also has a lot of compassion and love, so I don't think it's misleading to portray V as a kind of romantic. In any case, the main point, as I understand it, is to explore the meanings of government and the social contract, which the movie does well. It also faithfully translates the theme of ideas, symbols, and art as the sustenance of the human spirit, the only things that really matter and that allow ordinary humans to achieve superhuman deeds.

(Whew. This is turning into a treatise.)

Obviously my newest experience with the graphic novel (besides the cheese, that is, hehe) is the visual stimulus. I gotta say, I'm very impressed with it. It really expands the possibilities of the story, sets the mood so pithily, and conveys a lot of intangibles. This particular graphic novel is quite cinematic, with extensive use of voice-over that permits a somewhat violent juxtaposition of scenes, which is jarring at the same time that makes perfect, symmetrical sense. The quotations (esp Shakespeare) are employed to similar effect. One particularly memorable one is when V goes to kill the bishop; he arrives when the bishop is indulging in temptation and sin, and says, "Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste." It works on the levels of V being an unexpected visitor, and of course, the devil.

Types

If you ask me any day of the week what type of male I think I like, I'm likely to say "sensitive, deep, intelligent, quiet" etc. And yet, I'll be the first of to admit, that description hardly fits any of the people I've dated in practice, even briefly or slightly (which, unfortunately, is all I have to go on). So the logical conclusion is that I'm a hypocrite, that I SAY I like sensitive men, but in fact I won't give them the time of day.

Here's an alternate theory I just thought of: sensitive men don't give the time of day TO ME. So by default, I'm left with the impression that I prefer - that I CHOOSE - assholes: dumb, immature, without conscience, the "bad boy" type if you will, until even I'm convinced of it. Admittedly I do prefer the simple hoodlum to the self-aggrandizing blow-hard prick; but these two personalities are of comparable depth, in my opinion, and the reality is that they're all I ever have to choose from. Naturally I'll err on the side of the one who isn't pretentious in addition to dumb.

Today I was browsing facebook (I've had to do that more these days, after thesuperficial got lazy and dlisted got casually racist about Asians), and I ran across a friend of a friend who was friends with a Dreamy Guy from one of my classes, whom I never got to know. If I'm as cute and as irresistible as I think I might be, why wasn't I able to get him to notice me? I think there were a lot of shadowy figures like that in my life: Sensitive Men I admired from a distance and with a little timidness, toward which I'd direct all my best efforts of smart and original conversation, only to be met with a blase...invisibleness. So I would give up at an early stage, and individually each of these Sensitive Men are pretty forgettable, but collectivey they do seem to suggest an unmistakable failure.

So I return to the earlier question: why? Why didn't Dreamy Guy (and others) notice me? Why do assholes notice me? Then I look at myself and deduce that there isn't much - I mean at the core of my being - to hold a Sensitive Man's attention. I'm flamboyant. I laugh at dumb puns and offensive jokes. I hate geeks and tools. I adore feminism. Not that I'm trying to turn this into one of my usual "smart women are never appreciated" tirades. I'm just trying to sketch out soberly the fact that there's something legitimately unattractive about haters, judgers, and dividers - and equally, I don't think I'll be giving those up anytime soon. A Sensitive Man, I imagine, will be drawn to something quite different. I'm not sure yet what that would be, but I'm starting to form the foggiest idea, ie "not-me."

Well, as beautiful Montgomery Clift says in From Here to Eternity, "A man loves a thing. That don't mean it's gotta love him back."

All About Eve

I didn't know it, but I had imported the whole arc of this story into my vocabulary years ago, by condensing it into a derivative that I actually don't know firsthand: "single white female." I'm not even sure where I first picked up the phrase; it might have been Buffy ("Maybe I'm overreacting...but I'm the one getting single white femaled here!"), though I have a sense it was earlier. It's such an important idea, that of the pod-person taking over your identity. Important enough that I felt licensed to use the expression without having watched the movie. Well, now that I've watched Eve, perhaps I'll rotate it into my vocabulary.

Odd movie. Most of it was very epic and dramatic (I'm sure the monologue by Bette Davis on womanhood is one for the textbooks), but then at the end it puttered off into the kind of absurd and improbable world you would find in a musical comedy. I would even call it self-parody, except that I think it was meant to be taken dead seriously. Marilyn Monroe has a little cameo in this movie, much less over-the-top than her later persona, and so sort of cute and realistic in a way you wouldn't expect.

Best quote ever:
Lloyd Richards: I shall never understand the weird process by which a body with a voice suddenly fancies itself as a mind. Just when exactly does an actress decide they're HER words she's speaking and HER thoughts she's expressing?
Margo Channing: Usually at the point where she has to rewrite and rethink them, to keep the audience from leaving the theatre!
Lloyd Richards: It's about time that the piano realizes that it has not written the concerto!

Took the words straight out of my mouth.

Nightmare

I just had the most disturbing and ill-omened set of dreams. First I witnessed someone performing some kind of a disembowling surgical procedure on himself (local anesthesia). As I was watching him cut open his torso and pull out his intestines, I felt my mouth fill with vomit...but then the dream did that switcheroo thing, and suddenly I had the sense that the junk in my mouth was not vomit at all, but a bite I had taken out of the intestines lying in front of me. I had enough sense not to ingest it, luckily, but the whole set-up was close enough to an eating dream to cause some concern.

Then I had the public nudity dream, but this one was unusual because my nudity was noticed by others, and I wasn't taking a crap. What had happened was that someone stole my clothes while I was in the shower. As I ran after the thief naked, hiding behind doors and nooks where I could, I had to stop...because I started giving birth!

This is the worst episode of all! It was like a 20-pound baby followed by a placenta that was the size and weight of a bowling ball. In the rules of the dream, the baby's survival depended on a timely removal from the placenta, and because I had no midwife and didn't know how to cut umbilical cord, the baby ended up dying within minutes.

Anyways, I write about this here because the dream was bad enough to convince me not to leave my house today, so I imagine I won't have anything else to write about.

New Joke

from Three's Company. It sounds like something I might have mentioned before, but I don't remember how that joke went.

"You're the one who lives with the two girls. It must be so nice to have a man around to do the cooking."
"Well, I'm also there for protection."
"Oh. What are you scared of?"

Wasted Time with IFC

Confirmed yet again that there's a reason why indie movies stay indie (IFC = Independent Film Channel) - or in this case, why indie is often just a code word for "forgettable." I watched the last part of the Ninth Gate, which was all right, and the Final Cut, which stunk so bad I have to go bathe in tomato juice now. The Ninth Gate stars Johnny Depp, features a nerd convention of bibliophiles and Satan worshippers, and has a twist at the end that's so obvious you figure out an hour before they actually tell you. But you know, it was quirky and didn't try to be more than it was. I liked the critiques cited in wikipedia:

'[Ebert] also claimed on the show Roger Ebert & the Movies that the film was "full of unanswered questions and unquestioned answers" to which Joyce Kulhawik (that week's guest critic) responded: "This is such as silly movie! It's hard to believe that Roman Polanski, who gave us Rosemary's Baby, a horrifying movie...gave us this! I was reminded of Scooby-Doo when Dean Corso put on that cloak to disguise himself."'

Then there's the Final Cut, a truly awful heap of trash. Robin Williams plays a guy who edits the memory chips in dead people's heads and assembles movies out of them to be shared with loved ones at memorial services. Yeah, I know. Mira Sorvino (Mighty Aphrodite!) plays his completely irrelevant love interest. Now, if they had just left it at that it might not have been so bad, but then they had to "deepen" it with the most puerile, heavy-hande moralizing - only to twist it at the end with an even more puerile moral ambiguity that doesn't really logically follow. Let's see, it would be like asking us to feel strongly, for two hours, that chocolate ice cream is more morally righteous than vanilla ice cream, only to spring it on us at the end that no wait, vanilla is actually better. There's also a murder scene at the end that's so out there, it would be funny if it weren't so dumb.

Assholes Killed My Dreams

I can't sleep tonight because I'm overwhelmed by this feeling that I've lost my way. I'm so unhappy. I was cruising this past month on uncertainty and regret, and above all, a flattered ego - I thought I missed grad school because I thought I might be making a mistake. But with time, inevitably, the effects of flattery start wearing off, and you start seeing things the way they are. The other day, I suddenly forgot the kind words of parting encouragement, and remembered all the persecution and unfairness that I suffered, and instead of feeling uncertain I felt very, very angry (again), because I could have gotten along fine if the assholes hadn't killed my dreams. Sure, maybe in the long run I might have come to the same conclusion, because I do think there would have been some horrible difficulties after graduation; but I wouldn't have lost the nerve to go on so soon if there had been some common decency.

You know, like: instead of admitting that I was one of the few people who deserved an A in a particular class (I ended up with a B+; but even that didn't bother me at the time), how about Janko just give me that damn A. Instead of telling me all year that I was on the brink of passing my Latin exam, how about passing me already. How about taking me out of the clutches of that asshole Arthur, especially after that arrangement has been acknowledged as a "conflict of interest." How about stop trying to change me (ie append a penis), and give me all those handouts and coddling that all the cute boys in my department have been getting. And most of all, how about giving me a compromise when I'm begging for even the smallest concession, instead of shutting me out cold with the understanding that I should give up all hope, or any answers at all.

But no. Because of all the two-faced haters I had to cut myself loose and now I don't know who I am anymore! Now I have to take LSAT classes with insufferable geeks. I'm on perpetual thin ice with the 'rents, and virtual self-imposed house arrest, because I have no income and no occupation and have transformed effectively into a drone. A year without a social life: if I don't get a job soon I will become a mole-person. And forget about meeting Mr. Right and getting married, because I couldn't catch a man even when I was cheery and fun, so fat chance I'll achieve it when I'm a mole-person. And finally, there's the LSAT: my whole future balancing on that one stupid exam, assclowns who can't even tell the difference between "who" and "whom" get to decide which school I get into!

OMG! I'm so unhappy! I had so much more clarity back when I was in that pit of vipers. Frying pan? Fire? God, who knows. I guess that's life, only I seem to be eating it a lot worse than other people who don't have self-destructive drug dependencies. Why do I have to be unemployed? Why do I have to turn into a mole-person? Shouldn't that kind of sadness be reserved for people like alcoholics?

The Devil Wears Prada

Not much to say about this movie except that I rather liked it. They should have cast someone besides Anne Hathaway, though. Ugly duckling turns fashion maven, learns important lesson about selling out - I've already seen her do that movie (twice) before, in the Princess Diaries.

God, I Hate Geeks!

There's a girl in my class who starts answering your questions before the teacher can give you his explanation. This was the very girl who had the nerve to say to me, "I'm sorry, but I find your gum distracting."

I know not everyone likes the gum, but you know what? It's none of their fucking business! Geeks bother me too, but you don't see me going around asking them to take the stick out of their ass. I was on the brink of saying, "Hey, you know what I find distracting is when students answer my questions instead of the teacher," but I didn't because there was a dead silence in the class and I didn't want to make a scene. That's the thing about geeks: they have no class and they don't appreciate that other people's class is the only thing standing between them and an hourly ass-kicking, or constant public humiliation.

Current Audio

The Dirtbombs
I'm Through with White Girls

Just my luck, I find a Detroit band I like as soon as I'm out of Detroit. Ha.

Dinner at Eight

Wow! What a terrific movie! I believe "tour de force" is the technical term, in the language of cowardice. I never would have thought that an ensemble piece could be so intense. I remember I first saw this movie a few months ago and caught only the Jean Harlow and John Barrymore segments, but because I hadn't seen it from the beginning, it seemed to me that the momentum faded after that. Nothing could be farther from the truth (though I must concede that the John Barrymore part is unparalleled, climactic). The whole thing is perfect, uncomfortable pathos from beginning to end. The only part that stumps me is how this could be a COMEDY. I suppose people find it funny just because it is so unrelentingly uncomfortable, but it's also existential enough to cross into tragedy territory.

This was also my first Harlow picture, the one that won me over. If you look at her stills, sometimes you can't tell if she has the face of a man (say, lumberjack or Kirsten Dunst) or a doll. So how did she become the sex symbol par excellence, with that chin? I used to wonder. Then I saw her in action, with her sass and her back-talking foul mouth, and I understood. That's what makes her such an icon for me: here's a woman who didn't just land on a golden egg and get born with the best-looking face in the world, but she used the force of her personality to redefine her freaky features into "freaky-beautiful."

This movie also shows that you can't really say boo about her acting. All the performances, in fact, hit it out of the park. I especialy liked the Harlow and Lionel Barrymore, and it goes without saying that John Barrymore is simply untouchable. His was the most gut-wrenching picutre of disillusionment and pride I've seen in a long time.

Broke-Ass Gamblin' Woman Blues

Gambling ain't fun when your ass is broke. A lesson to be learned from this weekend, and also the theme for the blues song I will never pen. All the mathematical games were too high stakes for me, and the slots eat your money up so fast, about a dollar a minute if you're slow. According to my parents, they also don't yield winnings like they used to. I found that my best way for making that dollar last was the video poker. Nevertheless, I think that $47 would have been better spent on shoes.

I also watched my first "gay circus" that's become the Vegas signature. This one was called Le Reve. I had to tip my hat to that upper body strength. If I had that power, there's nothing I couldn't do. I'd also look like a total dude.

Alternate Career #4: Fashion Designer

(In case you missed it, the others are: 1. writer, 2. classicist, 3. lawyer.)

I'm often complimented for my distinctive style in sartorial presentation, by friends and strangers alike. Such a shame, I would think each time, that I can't turn those compliments into something that'll pay the bills. Which is not to say that I regret the compliments themselves. I just mean that Axl Rose must have felt something like this back when he was an urchin in the backwoods of Lafayette, IN, and far from the lucrative artery of the world's potentially limitless market economy.

In truth, I'm not original in my stylistic choices. I've always had these vague images of aspiration in my head when I'm shopping, which guide me to things that are right for ME. I think I may have crystallized these images into faces.

When I get dressed in the morning, I think of:
1. DAVID JOHANSEN (which you all knew already)
2. Joey Ramone
3. beaches - mostly California, but sometimes Hawaii

When I get dressed for the evenings, I think of:
1. JEAN HARLOW
2. Prince
3. Tina Turner

Other factors:
1. laziness
2. is it slimming/flattering?
3. TV's Buffy the Vampire Slayer - for (feminine) accessories
4. Gwen Stefani - inevitably more than purposefully

Isn't it interesting? Of my 6 primary icons, 3 are men, and 1 is an inanimate being. If I were a fashion designer, I think this would be the secret to my edge - as long as I'm designing for David Johansen, I couldn't possibly be a consummate slave to fads.

Lizard Forensics

There's a flattened lizard on my driveway, situated just under the driver's side door. When I looked back at my car after I got out, it made me yelp; the blood trajectory was still fresh, as telling as a CSI episode, and it wasn't long before I put two and two together to figure out that I had just run over the poor animal about 10 seconds ago. I thought lizards were supposed to be more nimble than that. I see my dog running after them all the time, but I have never seen him catch one. Now I know that it's not because the lizard is too slick, but because my dog is too not-slick. Eegh. I'll have to get my dad to scrape it off when he gets home

Russ Meyer and the Killers

I was just watching the video for "All the Things That I've Done" on VH1, and I only now realized that it's based on Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! I was finally able to catch the allusion this time because I've done my research on Russ Meyer. There was a night a few months ago (back when I still had cable) when I saw that Faster Pussycat was going to play on TCM at 1:30am, and what with the violence and boobs, I was determined to stay up and see it. But it was a rare night when I was actually exhausted, and I fell asleep long before midnight.

Since then, I haven't been able to catch a showing. I know that TCM still airs it now and then, but I always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It's my only shot, too, because Netflix doesn't carry it. (It also doesn't carry Attack of the 50ft. Woman, another title on my list. Or the Outlaw. Or Serial Mom.) Naturally I tried, but it turns out that Faster Pussycat is out of print or something, so the copy on Amazon is like $150. What a shame! I thought those days of special collections were long past us, with everything becoming digital and all. There once was a time when I had to hunt down a rare video store in Hollywood to pirate copies of bad movies, but that was in the last century. There's only so much effort you want to pour into enjoying trash.

The Wild One

Man, kids were weird in the 50s. It's a good thing most of the classics are about adults, because otherwise Old Hollywood would be as incomprehensibe as Mars. Apparently the way to hang with the cool kids is to act like a total doofus. And to look like you're 40. It would even make sense if everyone in the gang acted and looked like that, but the leader, Marlon Brando, still seems "cool" enough in our sense of the word, so you're wondering why he would choose to hang out with clowns - instead of, say, other people who have some cool.

Watching one particular scene of motorcycle gange buffoonery confirmed what would have been my academic paper on the ambiguity between frightening and funny, and how this would answer Bakhtin's theory about the Carnival.

Speaking of which, it just occurred to me that had this movie not been a Brando piece, I bet it would have gone down in the annals as B-list teen-sploitation.

Marlon Brando is ridiculously good-looking, the original James Dean. So it pains me to say that he never had a great butt. I always maintained that the butt is the index of the male physique overall, and young Brando's was like a preview to the infamous shape of Dr. Moreau.

Illiteracy

I know I shouldn't get into a comfort zone because they're probably not the prime demographic I want to compete against, but my sensibilities were shocked today during my first LSAT class. I feel like most of them couldn't be students from the Claremont Colleges, because I hadn't seen this level of, well, whatever, since the summer I took Latin at UCI with a hodgepodge or people. Let me tell you, one girl couldn't say "irradiate" to save her life, since she kept seeing "irridate" instead. More shockingly, about 5 different people tried - and 5 of them failed - to pronounce "Kurosawa," while one of these people also couldn't say "Fellini."

But the real pisser of all this is that they still managed to do better with the logic games than me, ha!

Cannibal! The Musical

I noticed I forgot to post my impressions of this movie on Friday. It was very good! Tame for the Troma ouvre, except for the opening scene - which was better for me anyways because then I didn't have to close my eyes for much of the movie. Funny and musical, like you'd expect. A happy ending like you wouldn't expect. A great "fudgepacker" joke thrown in.

Out Here Having Fun in the Warm California Sun!

I'm embracing my new California existence. On Saturday I partied for Cinco de Mayo in Santa Barbara. On Sunday I went to an art fair, put my feet in the ocean, and then drove home along the most stunning coastline, on a blue and sunny and flawless day. On Monday I took a yoga class.

Is it just me or is yoga disappointing as a workout? I guess there were some pretty cool strength building stuff (isometric exercises?), but a lot of the "holistic" crap seemed silly. I remember the instructor said something like,

"Take a deep breath, down to your belly. Now move that air up, without exhaling, into your lungs. Now move it up again even further to your upper lungs, right under the collarbone..."

...and I was thinking, this is just bullshit! I'm more used to the ballet method; I just don't feel like I'm getting a workout unless there's a cruel governess standing over me rapping a cane and calling me a worm because I can't make my knee touch my back, or something.

Anyways, it was a fun weekend with the womenfolk. My friends gave me a lot of crap because they said they liked my mullet and I didn't believe them. They thought I was fishing for compliments.

Quote of the Day

"What on earth is Biffy doing getting engaged to Honoria Glossop?"
"I could not say, sir."
"I mean, there probably are fellows in this world who get engaged to this Glossop menace and like it - tough hardy chaps with strong chins and glittering eyes - but Biffy is not one of them!"

"Surely Mr. Biffin has only himself to blame if he has entered upon matrimonial obligations which do not please him, sir."
"Oh, you're talking absolute rot, Jeeves. You know as well as I do that Honoria Glossop is an act of God. You may as well blame a fellow for getting run over by a truck."

- Jeeves and Wooster, Pearls Mean Tears