Yesterday, I paid good money to receive something called a "rock 'n roll" haircut. I had no idea what that involved, so when the Greaser with the pompadour holding the scissors told me what he was about to do to me, I was all "whatevs". This is what happens when I get the (rare) opportunity to read trashy magazines. I stop paying attention. Plus, they ply you with free liquor...judgment impaired on all sides!
So basically...with no rhyme or reason...he just started chopping chunks off. Some of it is really short and some was left long and now I look like Joan Jett, only slightly less mullety. And blond. And I'm about 10 lbs heavier. Maybe 15. Shut up.I can't tell you how rock 'n roll I feel now, with my new look. Immediately after paying I had the urge to get a tattoo and trash a hotel room. But I couldn't and therefore, didn't. So I settled for riding home in the rain WITHOUT a helmet. So badass. Go ahead and be jealous that you aren't me.
So what's everyone doing for New Years? The world's most anti-climactic holiday where we all count down to midnight and then go, 'ok, now what?'. Well, maybe that's just here. In other countries there are fireworks and brouhahas. Here we all just get smashed playing boardgames or at bars and then fight over taxis to get home. No fireworks. No brouhahas. No presents. No turkey with stuffing. No heart shaped boxes of chocolate. No baskets of brightly colored eggs. Booo.
When we were kids, the waif and I would battle to stay up long enough to bang on pots and pans outside at the stroke of 12...but that lost its oomph after a while. We were never really loud enough to piss off any neighbors, so what was the point, you know?
I think I'm whiny because 2008 brings around my 10 year high school reunion. And that really kinda chaps my cookies, because I had planned to send a video greeting from whatever location I was directing/producing/writing my latest film. So, I'm running out of time to become a director/producer/writer with a film to make at an exotic location. I have til, like, May I think. Shit. I have things to do.
So, I stole this idea from Rachel, who I believe, stole this idea from her sister, who may or may not be an idea thief herself...I'm not willing to do that much research. Below are the first sentences from the first posts of each month of this past year; you know...the one that's about to end.
Here we go!
January: This is gonna be short because I can feel the sweats coming back again. February: I took the first of my three self defense classes last night. March: You've all missed me, haven't you. April: So I have nothing to write about.
May: I'm sick. June: I know. July: Saw Sicko this weekend. August: Have I used this title before? September: Sunday afternoon I was walking Quimby. October: And how is that, you ask?
November: Some psycho wench against the war in Iraq tried to go at Condi with blood (paint) on her hands at a House of Rep. foreign relations committee hearing. December: This title is misleading.
Well, mine didn't turn out as interesting as hers did. Oh well. What is kind of cool is how it reads like a conversation. If you lump them all together, they're kind of like dialogue.
Based on these sentences I have...had the flu, learned how to fight off baddies, grown a swollen head, lost my inspiration, gotten sick again, gone to see a movie about sickness, repeated myself, walked a dog, answered my own questions, verbally defended Condi's coif and mislead my readers. I'd like to call that a full year, but I don't know if I can. Obviously I need to make some changes in my life to add a little excitement. Or maybe I should just make it up for the benefit of my posts. Nah...that's too much work.
Speaking of work, I have no reason to be here today. It's the definition of dead in this office...minus the smell. But because of the wonderful world of databases...not only will I sit here twiddling my thumbs all day...but I'll have to work tonight. Friday night. When I should be kickin' it with a tasty groove (TM - Tenacious D). Blast databases and all their uselessness. If they had children, I would curse them with webbed feet. Would database babies have feet? These are the things I plan to investigate in 2008. It should make for some interesting posts.
Or I'll just keep writing about the levels of hotness and shoes. What I do best.
It snowed today. On Christmas. For, like...hours. Well..., maybe two. But still, I can't tell you the last time it snowed on Christmas here. I could probably google it, but I don't have that kind of energy. I'm in a consumption coma.
I hope everyone had a delightful Christmas. I enjoyed mine, even if the snow did melt by 3:00 PM.
As is our tradition, amy g. and I went to a movie this evening. We find it to be a good way to wind down from all the family of the several days prior. Usually we hit the pub theater for a glass of wine and a slice of pie, but this year we had company. Kansas, the waif and her man-half til death tears them asunder, ty, amy g. and I all went to see Sweeney Todd...because I had been hyperventilating with anticipation ever since I saw the trailer on somethingorother months ago. I'm a huge Tim Burton fan. And an even huger Johnny Depp fan. And an even HUGER Burton/Depp hybrid fan (with the exception of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...what the fuck was that?)
Even better, I'd already gone to Rotten Tomatoes to see that finally Burton has graced us with a winner in review-land. It's been a while.So we went. Immediately I had to pee. Why does that always happen? But I held it. When watching a stage-to-screen musical such as this, it is imperative that one pays extra close attention to the songs, since they are the primary mover of the storyline in a way that dialogue...well...just isn't. So I stayed in my seat trying not to think about how many glasses of horrible white zinfandel I'd downed before setting myself down for a two hour stint. Because you can't miss a second of a musical and still know what's going on.
So this is what I thought:
Sacha Baron Cohen is a gem. His part was fabulous. He was the much needed comic relief when Helena Bonham Carter just couldn't be. And based on the tightness of his trousers, I would say his wife is a very lucky woman.
Carter should get an Oscar. That woman needs recognition for being CONSISTENTLY wonderful, whether it be Shakespeare or Chuck Palaniuk she's reciting. And I truly feel that if it hadn't been for her character, the complete lack of heart in the film would've left me feeling empty as well as ooged out.
Depp is hot. That is both obvious and an understatement, but when you take into account the double digits of roles where his character has OBVIOUSLY questionable personal hygiene and he still is the hottest thing in the room...that says something. I was surprised at how pleasant his singing voice was but mourned the complete lack of emotional depth of his Sweeney. I realize that's the character...it was what he was supposed to be, but he does "emotional" so beautifully...I felt ever so slightly robbed.
Broadway plays have never been known for their tight storylines...but this translated pretty well onto the film. There are the usual plot holes that we feel more distinctly on screen than if one were sitting in an audience waiting for intermission to grab a cocktail so the set can change. But I think trying to hold something like this to the same storyline standard as, say, Syriana is unfair. Still...it'd be nice if Burton could've tightened it up a little.
Dr. Zaius watched over the proceedings from his place at the top of the Tannenbaum:
Laurie and Kansas with their serious attire and their serious faces:
Kara's late night balancing act: I can only imagine what they're discussing. Only imagine: This is from the "steal Kara's baby picture and hold it high so she can't reach it" game. Not one of my all time favorites: They steal my baby picture...I steal their baby:
I don't trust that face for a second:
It's about 3:00 AM here. Kellie probably isn't listening to what I'm saying as much as just laughing at general drunkeness:
Needs no caption...but I guess it got one anyway:
Feet:
Mandy is winking. Yes, we care that much:
So much booze...so many child proof caps:
Standing room only in the kitchen:
Sitting room only in the living room. The waif breaks rules:
I...don't know.
It was...fun. The next day, it was like a bomb had fallen. A sticky bomb. You know the kind.
There are a million more pictures but I don't know who wants their faces on the internet and who doesn't, so this is all you get.
Sarah - I have, like, NO picture of you. Several of your baby, but not you. What's your deal, lady?
I have to go. I have to go back to Powell's...AGAIN. And you know how I get when I have to go there. Angry is how I get. This'll make TWO visits during the Christmas season. Oh the tortures I suffer to be a giver.
So this is a little shout out to me pappy, Zenboomer (aka. apterix55). He's begun a blog expose on his adventures in Second Life. Ahhhh retirement. When complete, it'll be a 12 part mini-series. It's fascinating, and I hope he continues for more than twelve entries.
I, for one, have never been on Second Life, nor will I ever go, I think. There's too much going on in this world to start bothering with a second one. Shit...I can't even find the time to clean my apartment...what do you think my virtual apartment would look like? Exactly. So this is a good way to get answers to all those pesky questions without having to do any research whatsoever. I heart those who do the heavy lifting for me.
Anyway, if one is curious, one may check it out here. The entries are numbered in the sidebar if one is so inclined to read things in order.
After this ad ran on youtube, Mr. Nobody-Mike Huckabee skyrocketed up in the polls...particularly in Iowa...where the definitive candidate will be decided upon early next year.
Shit like this is how we end up with Conan the Barbarian as the governor of California. We are OBSESSED with celebrity. This includes myself, as I will kill a good hour or two on dlisted.comevery week. And you know I occasionally post a little something on the likes of Paris or Britney. But I'll tell you this right now, I haven't got a clue as to which candidate they are endorsing (if they're even aware that next year is an election year), but even if I DID, it would in no way sway my own decision! Come ON people! Think for yourself! We don't needKanye West telling us that George Bush hates black people! We already KNOW that! We don't need Bon Jovi singing a totally unrelated "Living on a Prayer" to us at a John Kerry rally. Shit, we're AT the rally...wouldn't that make us supporters? Celebrity endorsements are idiotic! And people who are swayed by them should be prevented from reproducing! No kids for you...here, have a ferret instead! And don't even GET me started on Fred Thompson!
My, that was a bit of a rant, wasn't it. My paragraphs aren't normally that long...it's pretty obvious that feel strongly about this exceedingly important - life or death - end of the world issue. I mean, they can tell us what jeans to buy...what facial cream to apply and what hair dye to use to keep away the gray...but they need to back the fuck off from politics.
You know, I think it's a shame the term "going to pot" isn't used that much anymore. I'm not exactly sure what actually going to pot would in entail, somethinging soil, I imagine...but it's so catchy and light hearted...one just has to throw it into general conversation at times, n'est pas?
Alright...I'm taking my bruised ass to bed. I know it's early but I was up really fucking late last night. Doing Karoke. At a bar called The Old Barn. No, I don't want to talk about it.
I walked in...hands full...shoes wet from the rain and near the bottom, my lower back landed on the edge of a single stair. I believe after that some swearing ensued.
Good news is, I've only "deeply bruised" my tailbone as opposed to breaking my back, so that's positive. Bad news is, I sit in an office all day...so that's going to suck for the next few weeks.
The worst news is...I feel like a FOOL!
Anyway, I had to go to the Urgent Care clinic to make sure there was no crackage and I worked from home today in the classic Cleopatra-style...on my side...with slave boys hand feeding me grapes.
What's amazing about women (like me, oh how I enjoy generalizing) is their ability to still have messed up perspective on things even when they're in immense amounts of pain. I couldn't stand, I couldn't sit...I couldn't lay comfortably, and yet, here's what went down with Marie on IM today:
kara: phooey. i got weighed at the dr.s last night and almost cried. some more. kara: seriously Marie: i think when you bruise, you weigh more. that's my medical opinion Marie: if you think about it, stair climbing helps you lose weight. so the opposite would be true that if you go down the stairs, you gain weight kara: wow. how would you like to be my personal physician? Marie: so if you fell down the stairs, you gain weight super fast kara: NICE. yes, that has to be it. there's no other reason for it.
This title is misleading. I mean it that way on purpose. I think it's because I'm listening to Iggy Pop. Or maybe because I'm not wearing pants...I don't know...the influences all blend together.
Wait. I forgot that Brits read this blog on occasion.
I'm not wearing trousers. I AM wearing pants. Well, actually, they're rather like skivvy shorts. If such a thing exists. Well, it has to because I'm wearing it.
Anyway, my chores are way easier to do when I don't have a tight waistband all up in my business. And music always makes chores easier. And Kansas has these giant head crushing earphones (he's playing Halo3, the slug) so I'm rocking out with giant head crushing earrphones in a sweatshirt (ipod in el pocketo) ...skivvies...and canvas tennies (the floor is cold and I can't be bothered to find my slippers). I've told you all of this because I'm a movie junkie and setting is important. But in this case, it isn't...so ignore it.
Ready for my rant? Here it goes: I'm an opinionated person. I know this about myself...and I make it fairly obvious to the everyone I encounter. Sometimes it's helped me, but more often than that...it's kicked me in the ass. And that's ok, you know, everyone has their thing.
Now, I love having this blog. It's my nest. I can say, do, be what I want here...which is a snarky, sarcastic little bitch...with a sense of style (ok, maybe not). I've also said before that not everyone has to agree with the things I say and do. I have an outrageous number of opinions, it stands to reason that other people do too.
As much as I love having my blog, I love having readers...and even MORE than that...I love having commenters. Now, in the few years since I've had this blog, not everyone has bowed down to the alter of condi's hair. Whatever...they'll all die young of the clap. I'm ok with people practicing dissent. Lord knows there's not enough of it going on in this country. But what I DON'T think is cool is hiding behind the term "anonymous" so that they can get their two cents in but can't be traced...because heaven forbid they be CHALLENGED on their assertions and dragged into an actual dialogue. Why, then they might have to defend their point of view. Wouldn't that just be the worst? Well, remaining anonymous implies that they cannot.
Unlike some of my fellow bloggers, I allow anonymous comments to be posted on this blog. I have several reasons for this. 1. Not all of my people are motivated enough to create an account (kansas/amy g.). 2. Unless you are grossly insulting or obscene in your remarks and/or are a spammer, you deserve to be published. Who am I to decide what should or should not be said in this vast open space that is the internet?
However, you have to understand, all you anonymous people out there, that when you are so very moved by someone's post as to respond in a negative way...you really need to grow a pair and attach an identity to it. Maybe then whatever you say can begin to carry some weight.
I'm going to go watch that show that Sue was going on about. Yes, I'm turning on the Sci-Fi Channel. Who wants to fight?
Did you know that existed? Neither did I. Kansas just sent the pic to me. I told him to buy me a six pack immediately.
Has anyone been to Goodwill lately? Those assholes want $1.00 for each ornament they sell. Ornaments so old and fugly, you couldn't give them away...they want $1.00 for them. And what's worse, they want WAY more for their tacky hand-me-down Christmas decor junkage. Keep in mind...all this shit is donated. They get it for free. If you stumbled upon some of this stuff at a garage sale, you'd maybe pay a nickel for it. Maybe a dime, but it has to really be special.
Anyway, my point is, Goodwill has become a rip off. I don't give a shit about their overhead costs...they make a crapload of money on shit they don't pay for. I bought a pair of pants not too long ago...spent $10 on them...only to get them home and discover they had a huge patch sewn onto the left ass cheek. And you can't return them! Bastards! Do gooding bastards!
I want to know where Mr. Goodwill is and what kind of rock 'n roll lifestyle he's livin' off the proceeds of me buying a pair of dress pants with a big ol' patch on the ass for $10. I bet he's rich and owns more than one car. How can he sleep at night? The evil in this world is too much to bear.
Oh Christmas. How will I inexpensively decorate my home in celebration of you? How can I deck my halls when so many forces in the world are fighting against it? We have an almost naked fake tree (yes, fake. bleh)...and there will be parties and entertaining and it simply will not do. As Kansas' brother stated (when looking at Kansas' fake tree in Christmases past), 'you could throw a bowling ball through those branches.' Blurgh.
On the upside...I'm thinking about trying to make a cocktail dress entirely out of garlands.
So, I'm back, but there's too much to tell, so it's going in list form with very little detail. And pictures:
This is where I was. Sadly, the water in Clearwater doesn't taste good. I have a feeling it goes from this orb on high straight to the faucets with maybe a stopover in an aquatic center.
After spending our first night in our separate rooms (well, Kansas in the living room...sucker), we got to drive two hours across a great deal of nothing to a place just outside of Sedan...where we had Thanksgiving lunch with Kansas' extended crazy country family...some of whom were missing teeth...and wearing full hunting camo.
I ate wild turkey. Couldn't taste a difference.
Friday, we went out with his friends and their family. Thankfully...they drink. A lot. They made me go to sushi despite my protests about eating raw fish in a landlocked state. Good news...I didn't die.
Then we went go-karting at this place below...that has designated smoking hours...and is called The Back Alley. I kid you not.
Then onto a redneck karaoke bar where I tried to ingratiate myself with the locals by singing What Condition My Condition Was In very poorly. Apparently I'm no Kenny Rogers. We closed the bar and wandered out into the hallway. A redneck fight broke out over how someone looked at someone else. There was shirt untucking and fist clenching...but it all came to naught. The hot-headed drunkards got behind their SUV steering wheels and sped away. People seem to have no ethical dilemmas concerning drunk driving in Kansas. Just an FYI.
Below is the empty lot by Kansas' mother's. It had snowed several inches whilst we were in the bar and at the request of his drunken friend...Kansas (who was driving non-inebriated) did a little off-roading. You know, a typical Friday night.
Saturday we went to see the sights. There are about 2,000 people in Clearwater. There are two restaurants (Pizza Hut and a burger joint), one small grocery store, a hardware store, a bar and two car washes. Yep. Oh, and a museum...because why not.
I'm thinking of getting the angry chief tattooed on my left kidney. Well, the skin above it anyway. I'm fierce...and so is he. Then a nighttime tour of Wichita. Below is "the keeper of the plains". He's a little ominous. Like...what if that axe falls while you're below it? His arms are going to get tired at some point. Imminent danger. That statue is flipping huge, by the way. And we went to gawk at it...in 20 degree weather. Morons. But here we're trying to appear unmiserable.
That picture is going on the Christmas card, by the way...despite my lack of make-up and Kansas' lack of expression. Lemme know if you want one sent to you.
Heh heh.
So all in all...don't go there. Ever. Not even to see the twine.
I love my boyfriend...so I'm going back.
But next time...I'm packing. (you know what I mean)
I haven't been posting because I've been working. Nights too. Poor me. I'm so busy and integral to the future of email marketing.
I want you to take a look up at that picture above. That's the rest of my week, people. I'm fuckin' goin' to Kansas with Kansas. I'm telling you, I haven't met "the parents" of a boyfriend since the early college years. And this must be serious, because these next four days will be DRY. That's right...Kansas' people aren't drinkers. Nor do they take the Lord's name in vain. You guessed it...I'm fucked. Oh well, it must be love.
I'm trying to get rid of all the open containers of things in my fridge so they don't go bad while I'm gone. That means the spendy ($7.50...I KNOW) bottle of white wine that's still 2/3 of the way full has to GO. It doesn't help that I've already gone out with the peeps for a "oh god, you're going to meet the parents and you won't be allowed to drink or swear" round of drinks. I'll be packing practically blind. Or at least with a severe case of the hiccups. The things I do for this world...I expect the canonization proceedings to begin at any moment. Or do you have to be Catholic for such things to apply? Phooey. I say phooey!
December happens next week. What the eff? How did I get here? What in my life altered so much that I think it's normal for Kansas to be making me Rice a Roni at 10:40 on a Tuesday night for dinner? That's a rhetorical question, though I welcome all hypotheses. What is a blog for but to entertain your readers' ridiculous ideas. That was also rhetorical.
So I have opinions on things, but they're going to have to wait til I'm back from the land of the world's biggest ball of twine...which I will be taken to see if someone knows what's good for him. So until then...have a happy holiday filled with turkey and tryptophan and little maids all in a row.
My upstairs neighbors have the loudest sex in the whole world. I'm convinced of it. I'm also convinced that she's faking it. More on that later.
Like clockwork, they go at it at 10:00 PM, every (almost) night. First we hear the bed bouncing and then the moans start and then...anywhere between 10:20 and 10:45 there's the ol' engine whistle. You know what I'm talking about. It oogs me out. I try not to go into the room til after the witching hour, but damnit...sometimes I'm really tired and just want to go to sleep...sometimes we're trying to watch a movie...I mean...it's our BEDROOM, for chrissakes! They shouldn't get to have two!
So how do I know she's faking it? Well, I don't know if any of you out there have ever had sex...but let me just say, it's rarely the EXACT same experience every time. I mean, I understand that they have a system all worked out...timing...length...locale, etc...but her noises. Frequency, volume...all of it; she sounds like a howling coyote every single time. It's just unrealistic.Anyway. It's 10:50, so I think it's probably safe...and I'm toast. If they aren't done yet, I'll at least be able to tell how much longer it's going to take by counting the nanoseconds in between her yelps.
What makes a person walk into the kitchen to make tea and instead, walk to the fridge and pull out a beer? The two are opposites. One should not be inspired or, indeed, replaced by the other. If anything...the first should over shadow the need for the latter if its intent was to soothe or calm...which is, I believe, tea's main function. It sure as hell doesn't quench thirst. But then, neither does a beer really. Especially not a dark one. Oregon has a crapload of beer...just leaping and frolicking about all over the place. You can't throw a stick without hitting a microbrewery in this town. So, it's kind of a shame that I drink Pabst. Or worse...Rolling Rock. It's almost as bad as refusing to shop at Powell's.
But Kansas likes the local brew, which is how I came to be sitting at the kitchen table, listening to Nighthawks at the Diner and drinking a Snow Cap seasonal ale. I just thought you'd all like an establishing shot.
Speaking of banal film terminology...I had a movie date with my mum today. We went to see Michael Clayton. It was fantastic. It was also EIGHT FUCKING DOLLARS for a MATINEE showing. As I was sitting there, waiting for the movie to start and hoping I wouldn't have to pee five minutes into the first act, it occurred to me. My children will never set foot in a movie theater.
By the time they're old enough to go see whatever computer animated vermin with a penchant for flower arranging Disney's decided to make their latest protagonist, a daytime movie will cost $15 and I'll have become my grandmother who refuses to pay more than a dollar for anything. No more getting dropped off at the theater at noon and picked up at 5. No more shelling out for whatever chuckles the current Saturday Night Live actor's latest skit-inspired flick might bring to the drudgery of a pre-drinking age weekend night. Those days are gone. My kids are going to know the word "netflix" before the word "mommy". And that's the way it'll just have to be.
Sucks.
Hope there'll at least be flying cars or something cool by that time to make it all worthwhile. Otherwise I might just end it now. Or after I finish this beer.
Dear Condi: I am at my wits end! A situation of catastrophic proportions has arisen between two of my dearest family members, and all attempts on my part to make amends between them has failed. I fear I need the assistance that only you, the U.S. Secretary of State, Chief of the World Police, and Architect of Truce between Israel and Palestine, can give me!How can I make my two darling fuzzy kitties get along? Persi, the queen female will randomly whack Cosmo, the male, soundly on the head for deigning to cross her path on the way to the litter box. In retaliation, Cosmo will casually piss on her favorite napping spot (which thankfully, is the bathtub.) Persi retaliates by shoving him away from his food plate at dinner time, and Cosmo refuses to eat from her plate. As a consequence, Persi is getting fat, and Cosmo is strung out. Last weekend, he spent an hour leaping, running, and pouncing all over the furniture, presumably chasing minature Persi-figments from his imagination. SHE, elderly lump that she is, slept through it all.So, dearest Condi, what should I do? How can I get these two adorable, darling, lovable animals to cuddle and lick each other's heads? Sincerely, Clinging to sanity (Rachel)
First of all, CTS...or "Rachel", as I like to call you...I need to know exactly how one ('one' being either cat or human) casually pisses. And furthermore...what is the difference between a casual piss and a formal piss?
But seriously, girl...here's what needs to happen: You need to send Cosmo to rehab to thwart the strung-outness...preferably the one that Lohan went to...or maybe the one that worked so well for Pete Doherty?
Persi needs to go on Celebrity Fit Club. Nevermind the fact that she is A. Not a celebrity and B. A cat. The other cast members are so high on endorphins that they won't even notice. Besides...maybe through her you'll get to meet stars like that dude who played Screech on Saved By The Bell. One can dream.
While both of them are out of the house...take a vacation. Preferably somewhere like Kansas where I hear they have the world's biggest ball of twine. You'll all be fresh and ready to give cohabitation another go within a month or so. If this doesn't work...send one cat to Palestine and one cat to Israel and let them duke it out the old fashioned way. With muskets at dawn.
Your welcome.
*********
Now, I know this is in no way related...and it's totally and completely old news, but the enormity of it just hit me today. Mariska Hargitay...an actress on one of the 8 million Law and Order shows is the daughter of Jayne Mansfield, famous pin-up of the 1940s. Yes, we all knew that. Ok. But looking at her (here she is), it's impossible to tell. She doesn't even look that much like her father...who I had to google to see what he looked like. And that's when I found this:
If there ever existed a THE MOST embarrassing picture of one's parents...this would be it. Between his pose (not to mention his package) and her tan line...well, let's just say that I'm at a loss for words. It's fantastic. And so is the fact that I used the word "enormity" up there.
Is that too long of a title? Well it's TRUE. And truth is what we're all about here at Condi's Hair.
Posting is becoming a hassle. I've got all my best ideas during the work day (what can I say, I'm inspired by monotony) and lately there's too much work to do, so i can't write. Then you all have to settle for two paragraphs of word blarf written on my lunch hour ("hour"...funny) that isn't even funny. or whatever I happen to churn out at night in between trying to bake a casserole and watching the latest episode of Tell Me You Love Me (HBO, bitches). It's not quality work and I'm sick of it.
Wait. When did it become all about you? Since when do I have to please YOU? Ungrateful! I work so hard!
Anyway...I was away from my computer ALL weekend. Yes! I went to the beach. I saw sky. And food. And I went on a 4 mile moderate/difficult (labeled) hike. And I didn't even DIE of exposure. I know.
I also took pictures of a lighthouse. No, I don't know why. It just felt like the right thing to do at the time.
Normally by now Oregon is in full "sucketh" mode. Towards the end of September, the rain begins and then doesn't end until July of the following year. Yes, things are green. It's not worth it.
This year, it's been eerily beautiful. Every day has been near 60 (fahrenheit)...the sun has been shining. It didn't rain on Halloween. I don't know if it's global warming or some kind of gypsy hoodoo...but it gives me the creeps. In a good way.
Look at that. I've just reduced this blog to chitchat about the weather. Oh well...no refunds!
Tomorrow I'll do another advice column. I like doing them. They make me feel useful...like bathroom cleaner. The kind that clears the scum from your shower tiles.
Some psycho wench against the war in Iraq tried to go at Condi with blood (paint) on her hands at a House of Rep. foreign relations committee hearing. What was she thinking? Bitch could've fucked up Condi's hair! Notice I said "could've". Condi was all, "Oh no you didn't".
The only thing missing from this moment is...well...excitement. I'll admit it, I'm a little disappointed. No claws, no backhanding, no clever rhyming chants...just a dull drone of "war criminal" on repeat. If you're going to bother with special effects and a costume to protest...at least add a little pizazz to your message. Honestly, I'm disappointed.
This is why I'm a registered Independent. We know we're too lazy to physically protest what we don't agree with.
Many years ago I met my friend Brynn. Though we’d been going to school for 3 years together, we met inFrance, the month before I graduated from college. Well, it was actually THE month I graduated, but whatever. We’ve been friends ever since, even though I left New Orleans and she stayed. We share the same taste in things. Always a good basis for a friendship. Anyway, I think we were talking Shakespeare one day and how Hamlet’s always been my favorite. She insisted that I needed to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. And it's so great, blah, blah blah.
It took me until last night to fulfill that request. That’s 5 years. The tragedy of it all is, if she’d just added “it has Gary Oldman and Tim Roth at their hottest”, I would’ve seen it much sooner. Alas. Alack.
It’s very obviously a stage play turned film. Normally I hate that, but these two make it work. There’s a lot of surprisingly funny physical comedy, but the writing…oh the writing. I’m putting some quotations below because I love them so. And paraphrasing is a sin. So, maybe I’m 17 years late, and everyone’s already seen it…but you all can suck it. Read them. Unless you haven’t seen it. You must, you must.
I knew it was going to be gold with this little convo (which I managed to steal off of imdb.com): Rosencrantz (Oldman): Another curious scientific phenomenon is the fact that the fingernails grow after death, as does the beard. Guildenstern (Roth): What? Rosencrantz: Beard. Guildenstern: But you're not dead. Rosencrantz: I didn't say they only started to grow after death. The fingernails also grow before birth - though not the beard. Guildenstern: What? Rosencrantz: BEARD! What's the matter with you? [pause] Rosencrantz: The toenails, on the other hand, never grow at all. Guildenstern: The toenails on the other FOOT never grow at all. Rosencrantz: ...no.
However…this bit was the prize. This scene slayed me. And I'll be damned if it doesn't slay all of you: Rosencrantz (Oldman): Did you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it? Guildenstern (Roth): No. Rosencrantz: Nor do I, really. It's silly to be depressed by it. I mean, one thinks of it like being alive in a box. One keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead, which should make all the difference, shouldn't it? I mean, you'd never *know* you were in a box, would you? It would be just like you were asleep in a box. Not that I'd like to sleep in a box, mind you. Not without any air. You'd wake up dead for a start, and then where would you be? In a box. That's the bit I don't like, frankly. That's why I don't think of it. Because you'd be helpless, wouldn't you? Stuffed in a box like that. I mean, you'd be in there forever, even taking into account the fact that you're dead. It isn't a pleasant thought. Especially if you're dead, really. Ask yourself, if I asked you straight off, "I'm going to stuff you in this box. Now, would you rather be alive or dead?" naturally, you'd prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect. You'd have a chance, at least. You could lie there thinking, "Well, at least I'm not dead. In a minute somebody is going to bang on the lid, and tell me to come out." [bangs on lid] Rosencrantz: "Hey you! What's your name? Come out of there!" Guildenstern: [long pause] I think I'm going to kill you.
The third one that I was going to post just happened to be posted on YouTube in the form of a clip. Best comeback ever. Here you can plainly see the hotness. And the timing. And the hotness. I said that already, didn't I. Oh the joy!
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And now…onto the much belated praising of The Darjeeling Limited. I saw it opening weekend, but have been too lazy to tell you up until now. What I’ve been telling people is that it met my expectations, though it did not exceed them. Now, I must add that my expectations are generally set on high when it comes to Wes Anderson films. So all in all…I'm comfortable with using the word "greatness". The dialog was magnificent. The acting superb. As with all of his films, he does a fantastical job of interlacing humor through a plot outlining human tragedy. Angelica Huston was creepy-looking. And Bill Murray…well, you’ll just have to see him for yourself. And I didn’t even hate Adrien Brody as I am prone to. My friends all think he’s hot. I’m convinced that he snores. You wouldn’t think that those are related…but you’d be wrong.
The details were beautiful, down to the luggage. As I understand it, there was very little in the way of make-up and wardrobe on the set…and yet the characters were as stylized as they have been in all of his past films. It’s a style I long to replicate but never seem to be able to. You can never tell exactly what era it’s supposed to be and I love that. I’m a huge fan of vaguery. Yes, it’s a word. It’s my word.
And as is his way, Kinks songs flit in and out of scenes like magical sleet. In case you’re wondering, I’m a huge Kinks fan. Have been forevs. Well, early Kinks. The stuff they tried to do in the 80s was shit. The songs help with the vaguery of the era. See how well that word works? Yes, you can use it too.
I could go on and start really sounding pompous and nitpicky, but I won’t. I’ll just put a picture here designed to inspire. Go see it. Tell me what you think. It’s not for everyone. Just for the people I like. No pressure.
Life lessons learned in a corn maze. (Please note that all pics were taken in total darkness. Hence the dazed looks)
1. After dark, the corn maze is no longer a "family environment". If you don't want your children to hear the word "fuck"...then you need to keep banker's hours.
2. Flasks have more than one use. But one is all you'll ever need.
3. Tearing baby corn off the stalk and throwing it at people cannot be considered as "liberating it".
4. Trying to get out of a corn maze is the surest way to end up deeper inside it.
5. Teenagers do not deem it necessary to designate sacred areas for relieving themselves or making out. Avoid those locations at all costs.
6. Corn duels never end happily.
7. Giving up is the only way to find out that what you're looking for is sitting at the exit.
I think all of these translate into every day life. Go forth with the knowledge I have given you and conquer the world. Or at least attempt to live peaceably amongst the riffraff.
Yesterday, I paid good money to receive something called a "rock 'n roll" haircut. I had no idea what that involved, so when the Greaser with the pompadour holding the scissors told me what he was about to do to me, I was all "whatevs". This is what happens when I get the (rare) opportunity to read trashy magazines. I stop paying attention. Plus, they ply you with free liquor...judgment impaired on all sides!
I can't tell you how rock 'n roll I feel now, with my new look. Immediately after paying I had the urge to get a tattoo and trash a hotel room. But I couldn't and therefore, didn't. So I settled for riding home in the rain WITHOUT a helmet. So badass. Go ahead and be jealous that you aren't me.
