I am screaming and punching myself

ARCHIVE: Hard to watch, harder to forget: Mysterious Skin

[Originally posted July 5, 2006 at MySpace]

After reading the recommendation from Rich, the man who has given the world the gift of the fabulous fourfour blog, I watched Mysterious Skin on Monday night. I had never seen any of director Greg Araki's other films; reviews of them had indicated a pattern of ultra-violent, self-indulgent nihilism, and I can get that at home watching the cats.

But Mysterious Skin was an adaptation of a novel, so Araki could only go so far off the rails, and the framework provided by the book allows him to fill the film with arresting images. The plot is a simple, rough story of two boys who grew up in the same town, had unsettling childhood experiences, and chose very different paths as a result. Neil, seduced and molested by a coach, grows up to be a hustler, while Bryan tries to chase down the truth about whether or not he was abducted by aliens.

Rich's review of the film captures so much of how and why it still haunts me. (Like Rich, I urge you to rent and watch the movie before reading the full review.) But I'd like to spotlight the movie's central performance, that of Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Neil. That name might be familiar to you if you were a fan of NBC's Monday night comedy lineup in the mid-90s. He was Tommy, the senior alien who got stuck being the pre-teen family member on "Third Rock from the Sun."

  This guy.

As Neil, he occupies an entirely different universe, one where sex, defiance and self-destruction are bound together and seduction begins with a sneer. Before long, he's the most jaded 19-year-old imaginable, so much so that I thought his customers surely couldn't convince themselves that Neil was as young as his actual years.

 

But near the film's end, a horrific event shatters even Neil's armor, and you see him looking far, far younger, not too different than he did the summer his world changed. I've color-corrected the crap out of this shot, but I hope it conveys some of what his face showed in the entire sequence.

 

It was one of the most amazing performances I've seen in any 2005 movie, and I wish more people had seen it. Oddly, at various points, Gordon-Levitt's face reminded me of Heath Ledger's. I can only hope that some casting director somewhere sees the same resemblance and casts those two actors as brothers. I would stand in line in the rain to see them onscreen together. They wouldn't even have to make out.

ARCHIVE: Overheard in the ladies room (first in a potentially endless series)

[Originally posted July 5, 2006 at MySpace]

It's a simple, wonderful fact: Make semi-regular visits to the ladies' room in any Southeastern Virginia bar, and sooner or later you'll hear some great stuff.

This inaugural installment is from a conversation overheard Saturday night between two fortysomething women in a Virginia Beach bar (they were about the median age of the clientele). I was mirror-peeking at a woman in a pink sequined top and jeans (yup: mid-forties and pink sequins, y'all), trying to figure out if her hair was a wig, 'cause her boobs were definitely not original equipment.

Pink Sequins was talking about her boyfriend to a buddy of hers in a leopard-print slip dress. Pink Sequins didn't enjoy going out with said boyfriend because he would expect her to stay close to him and not socialize with too many other people. She found this smothering and a little insulting. Leopard Print pointed out, "Well, honey, you committed [to him] too soon."

Pink Sequins countered, "But he was in bad shape and needed a place to stay when I met him. He was going through a divorce and ---" Now, I didn't really catch what she said after that, because every other woman in that ladies' room, myself included, all looked in the mirror and shook our heads in total agreement that the worst possible time in a guy's life to begin a relationship with him is during a divorce.

That moment of unanimity reminded me of the old "30 Helens Agree" skits from The Kids in the Hall. I could just see it: "6 women in the ladies' room agree: [as a chorus] Don't date him until long after the divorce is final." One of us would say, "Let him heal on his own, honey." Another would chime in, "Just because he's been kicked out of his old place doesn't mean he's ready to live with you." Then the narrator would conclude, "Yes, 6 women in the ladies' room agree: Don't date him until long after the divorce is final."

ARCHIVE: Land of the free, home of the ANNOYING

[Originally posted July 4, 2006 at MySpace]

Dammit, y'all, it's a HOLIDAY. I respect that you have household projects you want to work on, but you can use the table saw inside, you know. You don't have to let that mother rip outside starting at 8 a.m. You really don't. Not to get all Walter Sobczyk on you, but the Founding Fathers did not die face-down in the muck so you could wake the whole damn neighborhood at 8 o'clock in the fucking morning!!!

Shomer Shabbas!

 

ARCHIVE: Living dead dude

[Originally posted July 3, 2006 at MySpace]

It's not every day you see a blow job on HBO. In fact, you're not allowed to see them on HBO at all, ever, so Jason and I were quite startled to see one last night when we caught a snippet of one of those "Real Sex" shows. Our mutual "huh?" was settled when we realized that only one of the partners in the activity was alive. Then we shared a mutual "ick" with a side of "huh?" as it dawned on us that they've made a male Real Doll. (Link not completely safe for work.)

What's a Real Doll, you ask? It's a human-shaped, 125-pound silicone sex toy, basically. You can order a doll with a variety of customized parts (don't think about it too much) to create your dream partner without having to actually deal with another human being. Yay?

The dolls were originally designed to be sex partners for people with severe physical disabilities (spinal injuries, that kind of thing) but before long, their main market became dudes with severe psychosocial disabilities. (Like this guy -- remember him, my beloved Austin peeps?)

Now there's a male version of the doll, so everyone can enjoy a little light necrophilia. What's odd is that the "Real Sex" segment stated that the male Real Doll was designed for women. Jason and I were surprised to hear that and kept muttering to each other, "I really don't think they understand their market." We eventually postulated that you could put a vibrating tongue attachment in the dude's open mouth -- but that very mouth indicated a male consumer for the doll.

This being "Real Sex," a truly strange scene followed the "news" portion of the segment. Three indistinguishable porn actresses had a group... "romp" is the only word that comes to mind, with the doll. It was sort of like a female circle jerk focused on a male effigy, with some unnerving undertones. The way the women kept insisting that this slab of plastic was the ultimate guy disturbed the hell out of me, and the inclusion of an ejaculation function was just flat-out mystifying. Maybe it's a fetish or something; I don't know.

But the creepiest part, by far, was watching the women join forces at the end to move the Real Doll onto a bed (125 pounds, yo) and pose him. It was like watching a trio of tidy, yet tacky, serial killers at work. And I'm pretty sure it was no weirder than watching a guy with a female Real Doll would have been. So, um, hooray for equality.

Coda: The title for this entry was inspired by the Rob Zombie song "Living Dead Girl." What does it sound like, you ask? Like every other Rob Zombie song.

ARCHIVE: "And we got Bobby Brown naked and humping the speaker by 'Popcorn Love'!"

[Originally posted July 3, 2006 at MySpace]

Oh, dear. Oh dear, dear, dear. Bobby -- and I say this as a fan of your music, your genius reality show and just plain good manners -- there comes a time in a man's life when he has to give up the "bad boy" routine. That time is usually around age 25. Seriously, dude, keep your shirt on and save the horrifying tidbits about your sex life with Whitney for TV, where they belong.

The title of this entry comes from the New Edition episode of Behind the Music where either Biv or Devoe was lamenting Bobby's onstage behavior even as a young man. The dismay in his voice as he said, "And we got Bobby Brown naked and humping the speakers by 'Popcorn Love'!" cracked me right up. For the next couple of weeks, whenever I'd see Felicia in my caller ID, I'd answer with that very exclamation.

In other Brown-related news: this morning, I let Emily lick the milk out of my cereal bowl, as is our habit. After she was done, I gave Mojo a chopped-up blueberry, 'cause my weird little boy cat loves him some fruit. But instead of putting it on the kitchen floor, I put it in the bowl Emily had licked. Mojo seemed reluctant to eat from what he likely thought of as Emily's bowl, and when she walked over to see what he was sniffing at, he flinched far away from her. It was a very Whitney-and-Bobby moment.

ARCHIVE: Don't hate him because he's beautiful

[Originally posted July 3, 2006 at MySpace]

Even though he most definitely is.

I've been interested to see people's reactions to the new Superman*. The thing that dumbfounds me the most, particularly given the plot of the film, is the "he's gay!" meme. A good 60% of Superman Returns concerns the ramifications of our hero's heterosexuality, so it can't be anything from the text of the film itself. It could be from association with Smallville -- which I've never seen an episode of, but it's apparently chock full of homoerotic goodness.

But I think the source of the "gay!" label is something much simpler, and much weirder: Brandon Routh's physical beauty and the reaction it stirs in some folks. Now bear in mind that this is all just my own personal theory, but it rings pretty true to me.

We all know at least one That Guy: the dude who insists that every man who's more attractive than himself must be gay (and that often includes a huge swath of the population). Why does That Guy insist that pretty=gay? I figure there are two reasons: so he can tell himself that the pretty guy won't be any competition when it comes to courting female attention, and because to That Guy, being gay is a demotion and pretty dudes need to be knocked down a peg or two. That Guy really should get some kind of therapy, or at least some social consciousness.

So if That Guy's jus' jellus, why does That Girl also insist that pretty=gay? Actually, the reasons are kinda similar. A depressingly large percentage of the population still sees homosexuality as a mark that someone can be dismissed, particularly if that someone is a man. So if That Girl writes off a beautiful man as gay, she simply doesn't have to think of him anymore. He's not worth her time, since he must clearly prefer the company of other men. Also, that way, she doesn't have to think of him as out of her league; she won't try for his attention, so she can't get rejected.

What's interesting about That Girl is that she'll often say things like, "Well, even if he wasn't gay, I still wouldn't want to date a guy prettier than me." Which just strikes me as odd. Assuming that he's a good person, an interesting, fun, kind, at-least-halfway-intelligent dude, why disqualify a guy for being pretty? Is it because That Girl believes that a pretty guy will probably cheat on her, as if male fidelity were based not on love or devotion but on lack of opportunity? Or is it because That Girl believes that a woman's looks are her main asset, the most important thing she brings to a relationship, and if she's bested in that category, what on earth would she have to offer?

Either way, how fucking depressing. What an awful way to look at relationships, as if your dude won't cheat on you only because he figures you're the most attractive woman he can land on a consistent basis and he doesn't want to jeopardize that. (And yeah, I realize that there are relationships like this and there are guys like that, but let me say categorically that such situations and people are just soulless bags of suck.)

And what an awful way for That Girl to view herself (and by extension, all women, which means me too -- knock that shit off, That Girl!). If a woman believes that the main thing she has to offer is her looks, she's setting herself up for increasing desperation and despondency -- and often bad plastic surgery -- as the years take their inevitable toll. It's such a self-limiting, self-defeating attitude, and it truly bums me out to hear women express such a viewpoint.

Beauty does tend to be fleeting, y'all. A good bone structure will last your whole life, but the skin that hangs on it will eventually become slack and lined. A beautiful pair of eyes may always retain their twinkle, but at some point, that view will probably be blocked by bifocals -- or cataracts. Sooner or later, we're all left with our personality and our character, and those qualities can either enhance or detract from our physical beauty even in the prime of our youth. So it's bizarre to rule out a guy just because he has a face that can stop traffic -- unless that's all he has going for him.

Of course, *I'd* rule out Brandon Routh himself because I'm already living with Superman. Jason's beauty isn't just skin deep (although he's lovely); it's on every level of his being. His superhero costume would have a giant heart as its emblem.

* My review of the film for HoleCity.

ARCHIVE: There is no end to the awesomeness of Morgan Freeman

[Originally posted June 30, 2006 at MySpace]

Seriously. I love that man. I think of him as My African-American Dad*, not only because his voice sounds a lot like my dear departed father's voice, full of rich Southern baritone, but because he just seems like he'd be a great father figure. (Of course he could be, y'know, acting, but even if that were the case and he wouldn't make a good surrogate dad for me, what a great actor!)

Last night, I watched a rather puffy documentary on HBO about what makes a film a box office success or not (let me save you an hour and a half: nobody knows for sure and it's always a gamble). Freeman was going over the unlikely hits he'd been involved with and delivered this flawless line: "Penguins? Penguins? Penguins?" The rising incredulity with which he delivered each "penguins" made me laugh out loud.

Later in the doc, he was interviewed about Bonfire of the Vanities, one of those films that seemed like it would be a surefire hit but wasn't. Bless his heart, the man looked like he was going through root canal as he tried to be diplomatic about what was obviously a profoundly jacked-up set. His face, voice and bearing telegraphed "please don't make me talk about this" as he said as little as possible about making the film.

(Memo to self: find The Devil's Candy at the library or for sale; it details the filming of Bonfire. If Morgan Freeman can't find one good thing to say about making a film, that had to be horrible -- and hence, good reading.)

* Sir Ian McKellen is My Gay Dad. Again, the voice, plus the great dad-like qualities he portrayed when Gandalf interacted with the Hobbits. (Quiet, you.) Of course, other performances of McKellen's indicate that he'd let you know in no uncertain terms if you ever disappointed him, so I'd have to be on my toes more than if Freeman adopted me. And yes, I realize that both of these scenarios make me sound mentally ill.

ARCHIVE: What's wrong with this picture? Everything: Britney does Demi

[Originally posted June 29, 2006 at MySpace]

First of all, let me acknowledge that this nightmarish shot of Britney is from Perez Hilton's site, and that it is accompanied by other, equally mortifying, pics from the photo shoot. The "I'm classy!" was added by Perez.

Second, let me apologize once again to my dear friend Brad for sending this as an embedded picture rather than an attachment yesterday. I sometimes forget about the cubicle factor, and I'm truly sorry for any embarrassment or traumatized co-workers the pic caused.

Now then, let's break this down. Because the picture assaults the senses and sensibilities so comprehensively, it must be approached systematically, from the top down. Otherwise you'd go into skeeve overload.

For some reason, I'm actually disturbed by the degree to which her eyebrows and hair color don't match. It just makes her hair look like a bad wig (which I don't think it is; paparazzi shots were taken of her out and about, sporting that same shade). And the hair color is a horrible choice for her coloring; Britney has a warm undertone to her skin and the cool blue-black provides a jarring contrast. Between this and the lemon platinum extensions she sported for that magnificent Dateline interview, it's quite obvious that Britney's inability to grasp subtlety extends to her hair color as well. Warm caramel? Honey blonde? What are those? It's all or nothin'!

Once you travel south of the eyebrows, you hit the eyes and the facial expression, and that is where the hell truly begins. 'Cause seriously, what is going on there? What is that face saying to us? "I'm holdin' my boobs, y'all! Ga-hilk!" That's the only thought I can postulate that might match up with that utterly vacuous face. And here's something to think on: what did her face look like in the frames they rejected? This was the winning shot, folks; what did the also-rans look like?

The pregnant nude body I don't really have a problem with, except that it's been done, and done much better, and done 15 freaking years ago. I am, however, quite amused to see the text "Best New Ideas" played large on the page when there is nothing remotely new about this idea, and besides, Britney has never had a good idea, new or otherwise, in her life.

And let's look at the pose. What is its purpose, its message, its meaning? When Demi Moore did the Vanity Fair cover, she was standing and wrapping her hands around her breasts and belly, literally embracing her pregnant body. She was looking up and to the left of the camera, not deliberately acknowledging its presence but focusing on something unseen. Moore's a crap actress, but girlfriend can pose. Britney's pose is just pedestrian: I'm sitting here, being photographed, hands on my boobs. Ga-hilk!

As distasteful as the Britney photo is, I'm almost as bothered by the font on "487" as I am by the picture. What is that 7 doing? It looks like it's about to tip over because it's not properly supported. Maybe it's a visual metaphor. Maybe I'm just being nit-picky. It could happen.

ARCHIVE: Actual quotes from Pandora

[Originally posted June 29, 2006 at MySpace]

I swear that I am not paid or otherwise compensated in any way by Pandora. I'm just captivated by it, is all. There's an option you can click in its song interface to ask why they chose a particular song. The following are the rationales for choices in my Danceteria channel.

"My Time (Extended Club Mix)" by Mike Rizzo: "Based on what you've told us so far, we're playing this track because it features disco influence, a tight kick sound, synth tweaking, trippy soundscapes and prevalent use of groove." And you know what? I love all that stuff.

"Profile" by Githead: "Based on what you've told us so far, we're playing this track because it features electric rock instrumentation, electronica influences, repetitive melodic phrasing, extensive vamping and mixed acoustic and electric instrumentation." Okay, they're confusing me a bit with the "electric rock instrumentation" and the "mixed acoustic and electric instrumentation," but they totally won me over with "extensive vamping." 'Cause yeah, that's totally a weakness of mine.

Let's look at Rougher Stuff:

"Uptown Again" by the Afghan Whigs: "Based on what you've told us so far, we're playing this track because it features basic rock song structures, heavy use of vocal harmonies, extensive vamping (I see they know Greg Dulli), mixed acoustic and electric instrumentation and paired vocal harmony."

Clever Pop:

"Come on Home" by Franz Ferdinand: "Based on what you've told us so far, we're playing this track because it features hard rock roots, a subtle use of vocal harmony, minor key tonality, electric guitar riffs and many other similarities identified in the music genome project."

What's fascinating to me is not only the specific qualities that the site assigns to songs, but its understanding that people tend to form the strongest bonds to songs not because of their content (note that none of the descriptions above have anything to do with lyrics) but because of the deeper, lizard-brain connection we find within the sounds made by the music.

ARCHIVE: Brisket 1, Jason & me 0

[Originally posted June 28, 2006 at MySpace]

Jason and I have a composite IQ of around 300. We're resourceful, creative people with a variety of talents and skills and a broad knowledge base. We are two badass motherfuckers.

And we were bested by a cut of meat this weekend.

What is it with brisket, anyway? Why is it so tricky, so capricious, so demanding? We picked our brisket carefully; Jason followed the rub recipe exactly; he tended the brisket over the grill as if it was his firstborn, and even made a smoker for the wood chips out of foil. And it still came out all fatty and so salty I swear we bloated like a damn pair of Ball Park Franks after one bite.

I understand that brisket is supposed to have a layer of fat all around it and a fair amount of fat all marbled through it*, but there's still supposed to be a majority of actual edible meat on there, right? I've had brisket at the County Line in Austin, and it seemed pretty damn lean and not too salty. Maybe we picked the wrong cut of meat or something; maybe we should've just done a flank steak.

* You remember those WB cartoons, where sometimes Tweety would look like a little Cornish game hen to Sylvester? It occurs to me that if a hungry cannibal were to look at me, I'd look like a mammoth brisket.**

** The phrase "mammoth brisket" calls to mind an image of an irritated caveman grumbling, "Og smoke brisket for three weeks but it still come out fatty. Not even good for sammich."