So this girl walks into a theater...

One weekend. Two documentaries.

The first was on DVD. A so-so execution relating the reclusive life and incredibly sad times of artist/novelist Henry Darger--a brilliant janitor who closed out the world that closed out him first (to the extent of an extended detention in an "asylum for feeble-minded children" during his semi-orphaned youth). Still, he managed to create 15,000 homemade pages of an eccentric children's book that told the adventures of the Vivian Sisters and their war-against-child-slavery travails. If you've ever caught a glimpse of Darger's work, you'll recognize the slightly uneasy, yet fascinated feeling you experience while gazing upon his pre-pubescent, water-colored warrior girls. While Jessica Yu deserves credit for dedicating five years of her life to bringing his story to the big-screen via In the Realms of the Unreal, a few missteps like odd narration choices keep this from being an end-all retelling of his life. Intriguing and heart-wrenching, all the same.

The second was on the big screen, although its photography didn't really warrant a stadium-seating, adjustable arm-rest $10 viewing. The film: The Aristocrats. The subject matter: a vaudevillian joke that's been handed down through the comedic ages like a mother's revered fried chicken recipe. It's a nasty piece of work with a throwaway punchline, but I found it very entertaining watching famous comedians like Paul Reiser and George Carlin breaking the nastiness down in scholarly terms. As the joke is quilted together in julienned editing cuts, an interesting experiment in comedy analysis is born. I wouldn't recommend it to those with lily white ears, but for those who are fascinated by what makes funny it's a winner. My favorite retelling of the obscenity was by my comedy heroine Sarah Silverman who showed off the finely honed acting/timing/delivery chops she so seldom flexes in her feature film appearances. A shout-out to Gilbert Gottfried and Taylor Negron, too, for their comedic relief 9/11 takes on the material, and kudos to Penn Jillette and Paul Provenza who saw the genius in the enterprise in the first place. A movie audience bursting into applause after a mime's interpretation of the filth can't be a bad sign.

Namaste, vinters

C: Hey doll! Thanks for the yoga information. 

L: You're welcome, man.

C: Unfortunately, I have to work this weekend!  Bah humbug!

L: That sucks, big time.

C: Perhaps a big glass of wine will have to do in place of yoga for now.

L: Sounds like a good replacement to me. I think they call that pose the "downward gulp."

Neverland, table for four

While I haven't seen Johnny Depp's latest candy man effort, I did enjoy watching Finding Neverland recently on DVD. It's a sweet, simple film. Very predictable, but charming nonetheless. One of those stories that encourages maintaining one's childlike wonder throughout life. No quibbles here with that school of thought. Johnny Depp was nicely subdued as Peter Pan's creator, J.M. Barrie. I've always thought him to be a handsome lad (Johnny, that is. Not P.P. or J.M.), but he is ridiculously photogenic in this movie. There is one shot of him by a doorway where his cheekbones are simply transplendent.

A lovely idea for a fantasy celebrity dinner party guest list just occured to me: Johnny Depp and Beck. Hmmm. Sasha Baron Cohen makes three fascinating men for me. Booyakasha to the nth degree.

Cinematic fallacy

While Wong Kar-Wai's 2046 holds the title of "Nictate's Most Anticipated Film of the Summer," the Thai love story Tropical Malady was right up there. Highly ranked on my favorite movie reviewer's site, I knew it had to be worth seeing. Um, not so much.

It's been said a million times before that movie preferences are hella subjective, which is utterly true. But sometimes you see a film that's getting rave reviews and just have to say "Wha-?!" and "What am I missing?" and "What did I miss on TV by watching this crapola?" (Just kidding about that last one. I never think that.)

The one good thing I can say about the film is that it showed me a slice of Thai life I hadn't seen before, but the slice was too thin to make the whole film tasty. The pacing was snail-slow in a bad way (not in the effective way What Time Is It There? used stillness), the story frustrating, the cinematography drab, the "mystical" second-half painfully dragged out. I was bored to the point of nodding off. I was on the edge of my seat late in the film, but only because I needed to empty my bladder during the third act. (While that bit of information may seem in bad taste, it is the set up for a joke to follow.)

Rather than write a detailed diatribe about what I didn't like about the film, I've decided to write counterpoints to press pull quotes listed in the movie's print advertising.

Press quote: "...the best film of the year!"

Counterpoint: "...not even close to the best film of the year--what are you kidding me?"

Press quote: "...seductively hypnotic!"

Counterpoint: "...virtually narcoleptic!"

Press quote: "...poetic!"

Counterpoint: "...diuretic!"

Que donde, Guero

I got to see Beck perform last night. He put on an entertaining show as always. Love the Beckster. "Guero" is an impressive album, too. It's the perfect soundtrack for a smog-smothering summer in L.A.

The last time I saw him play was a couple of years back when he was supporting his album "Sea Change" with the The Flaming Lips as his band. I have to say I liked that show waaaaay better, and not just because "Sea Change" is my favorite Beck production.

This year's band featured some smug 20-something punk-asses that looked as if they'd been ordered as an assortment pack off of www.slackeryouthtoday.com. While their playing seemed fine, it felt like a calculated decision to reach a younger demographic or some shit. In my opinion, they didn't deserve to share a stage with the Rev. Hansen--although they seemed to amuse him with their youthful zest.

During Beck's slow songs, where he strummed his guitar and got to show off his remarkable voice, the band sat at a dinner table onstage pretending to eat a meal--yawning intermittently and talking on their cell phones. Soooo edgy and irreverent, no? I guess that was supposed to be funny, but it was just distracting. When the band began to jam with Beck by using their silverware and plates as percussion, I had to roll my eyes. Then I had to close my eyes in order to focus on the music and not get annoyed with the choreographed unpredictableness.

My favorite part of his last show was hearing him play "Nobody's Fault" on a harmonium while kneeling in a solo spotlight. It was a goose bumps moment. This year, he played the same song on the same instrument, but ironic band guys, looking bored in a semi-circle near him, started leading a clap that the audience slowly picked up. Argh.

I wonder: does Beck or his record company think that people's attention spans have gotten so abbreviated that we need something shiny to look at during a slow song? More likely, all that heart-on-his-sleeve "Sea Change" emoting wore him out and now he just plays those songs to appease a few softies in the audience. "See guys, I'm so over it. I can't believe you fell for that cry-baby ish. Now look at this skinny I.T.-looking dude carrying out a series of bigger and bigger boomboxes and prepare to laugh your keysters off. I know what the kids like."

As I was shuffling with the exiting crowd at the end of the show, I heard one girl say that Beck's so shy onstage, he needs a lot of stuff going on around him. I disagree completely. He could play a stadium with just a harmonica and a mic and be brilliant. The most common criticism of his music I've heard is that he often hides behind randomized lyrics and mix master manuevers, keeping an emotional distance. I felt like that was happening onstage last night, too.


Beck, baby, just be yourself. It's the loser in you that we dig.

A Stern talking to

I think the highlight of my day was putting words in Howard Stern's mouth.

I've been a big fan of his ever since seeing Private Parts, so it was an extra-special experience to be sitting in my car at a traffic light listening to him read a script for a "live read" commercial that I wrote. Pretty heady stuff, I tell you.

The last time a famous figure read something I wrote for national broadcast, it was in the Rose Garden at the White House. President William Jefferson Clinton recited some ad copy I'd written as an illustration of how the entertainment industry was warping American youth.

Now I've got to go for number three. Who shall be my next mouthpiece? Perhaps Oprah will do the hat trick.

Freaky Filmday

I saw two mainstream movies this week and both surprised me—one in a good way, one in a bad way.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith

It would be hard to out-hype the hype that this movie got. Not over its quality or content, of course, but over the real-life shenanigans of its two main stars. Something tells me you've heard. During the peak of the rumor mill, I was amazed at how often the love triangle came up in everyday conversation. People who had never breached the topic of celebrity gossip with me were enthralled. They'd ask in hushed tones, "Do you think they slept together before he left Jennifer?"

On-screen chemistry aside, which was there in great handfuls, this film was just a darn good time at the movies. Sure, it felt like it had three endings and went too long. Sure, some of the scenes were eye-rollingly over-the-top. Sure, it's not going to get any Oscar nods. But the premise is intriguing, the performances solid, the action packed, the actors nice to look at and the dialogue quite clever at times. It seems pretty obvious that Brad and Angelina had a damn good time making this movie, which adds to the fun for the audience.

Wedding Crashers

My second walk-out of 2005. I made my exit right before the boy-gets-girl-until-she-finds-out-he's-a-lying-sack-o-crap-then-he-somehow-earns-her-love-again ending. I was just tired of seeing bare asses.

The writing in the opening scenes is rapid-fire funny and I had great hopes that that would be maintained throughout, but somewhere around the naked-women-flopping-back-on-bedspreads montage, I started getting annoyed. By the time Vince Vaughn's main love (or rather booty) interest was straddling him and slapping duct tape on his mouth, I'd had enough.

It's funny, because I'm not a prude about that stuff. I realized afterwards that "Sex and the City" had just as much nudity and raunchy talk. So what's the difference? At least in SATC, the girls (well, except for Samantha) were looking for love via the bedroom—not just getting laid for getting laid's sake. And not lying outright to orchestrate one-night stands over and over and over again. (Well, OK. There was that one time Miranda pretended to be an airline attendant.) These guys were predators in good haircuts and even though Owen Wilson falls for a sunny bridesmaid who tames his wild-oat-sowing ways, there's really nothing to like about these guys.

Worst of all, the film really did a number on women—let's see, there was the series of no-name ditzy sluts, the alcoholic Mrs. Robinson-type played by Jane Seymour (Please. I would have thought her Dr. Quinn dollars would have saved her from this kind of embarassment.), the foul-mouthed grandma, the nutty nympho sister and the shallow, materialistic sister. That leaves Owen's romantic partner, Rachel McAdams. While her character does seem to have a glimmer of intelligence and some sort of sense of humor, she relies on dimpled, chin-tucked grins to express herself most of the time. Quite tiresome, I must say.

Now that I've had my chance to vent, do I acknowledge that the crowd-pleasing rowdiness, good-natured punchlines, plentiful T&A and likeable lead actors will ensure this becomes a record-breaking hit that gives men a reason to love date movies again?

I do.

S'more proof of a higher being

Sometimes the answers of the universe can be contained on a dessert menu.

Lemmme 'splain.

This weekend, my friend P-girl and I decided to take it up a notch by passing by the beach boardwalk's over-the-counter, soft-serve ice cream cone for the beachfront's chic hotel cafe's dessert cart. We're talking $8 S'mores, my friend. And worth every penny. For eight bucks, you don't get no grocery store-quality, factory-puffed, is-that-shit-synthetic marshmallows. You get a little slice of semi-melted heaven on a bamboo skewer. Graham crackers never had it so good. On the side, a ramekin of melted gourmet chocolate. M'kay? All of it presented on a perfectly folded white linen napkin resting sweetly on a pristine white plate.

That was just my order. P-girl got some warm chocolate bread pudding a la mode with a city grid of caramel drizzles across the plate's negative space, so that we could sample both delicasies.

As the seahorse-print-tie-wearing waiter set these works of edible art before us, P-girl turned to me and murmured, "Shall we say grace?"

Normally we never would bow our heads in prayer before knoshing, but the proof-of-deity desserts before us deserved nothing less.

I dare any atheist to eat an $8 S'more and still argue the absence of God. That may sound blasphemous to some, but there's no way that plate of palate-shuddering goodness was a result of natural selection.

Soulmate or placeholder date

A married couple I know wants to fix me up with one of their friends. Evidently he's very intense, but very polite, too. Wha-? I always wonder what logic amateur Cupids use when mix and matching their single friends. So often it's just the fact that both people are around the same age and not seeing anyone else. None of that "You have so much in common! You're like freakish twins!" or "Oh my god, he totally plays the flugelhorn, too!"

I've never been into fix-ups since dating is enough pressure with just the expectations of the two people involved involved, if you know what I'm saying.

During dinner with the matchmaking marrieds, we shared some past dating "horror" stories. The husband half told about his most clueless date ever. Across the table during their first dinner out, she gazed at him thoughtfully and said, "I just wonder if this is the face I'll be looking into for the rest of my life." Let's just say the answer to that question was "no."

Single serving

Sometimes I think it would be so nice to be part of a couple right now. Then I walk by the pudding display.

Saturday afternoon in a supermarket. A 30-something pair, she petite in cotton jersey, he arm-slinged from an injury, stand face to face in the supermarket dairy aisle. In her upraised hand, she proffers a six-pack of Jello brand pudding. Her eyebrows furrow like praying hands as she pleads, "C'mon, you don't have to eat it."

He shakes his head "no." She cajoles. He stands firm. She sets down the package and picks it up again. He remains unmoved. For five minutes they are frozen in the refrigerated section.

I observe all this while trying to locate my preferred yogurt across the aisle. Part of me wants to turn to them and shout, "Let her buy the friggin' pudding, for Pete's sake! It's a $3.39 investment and it's obvious that her weight is not a concern. Do this for the one you love. The one who is probably babying you over your broken arm. The one who folds your boxers. The one who ignores your toothpaste smudges in the sink. In the name of all that is good and generous, LET HER GET HER GOD-DAMNED BILL COSBY CHILLED DESSERT ON!"

Instead, I just kept staring at the six-feet-wide selection of yogurt thanking my lucky stars I could buy as much swirled, vanilla, chocolate, butterscotch, friggin' ass pudding as my single self wanted.

Two men and a baby

This afternoon, driving around L.A., I got in a really foul mood. Driving in L.A. can do that to you. Unexplained gridlock. Selfish cutter-offers. Straight out crappy drivers. Luckily, my attitude got a facelift when I encountered a flirtatious Goodwill donation center attendant about 15 years my junior.

"Wow! I'm intrigued by the collection of stuff you brought in," he grinned, as he sorted through my donation bags. "What's your name? Oh. You look Nictate-ish. So anyway, if you want someone to go shopping with to refill your house now that this stuff is gone, let me know! I'm here almost every day, it seems."

Between him and the dude who helped me avoid knocking down a seven foot tall stack of paper towels in the grocery store an hour later, my beotch factor was dialed down to reasonable range. I guess Los Angelenos aren't that bad once you get them out of their cars.

***

"I like rice. Rice is great when you're hungry and you want 2,000 of something."

"Last week I helped my friend stay put. It's a lot easier than helping someone move. I just went over to his house and made sure he did not start loading shit into a truck."

- Late comedian Mitch Hedberg
(quoted in the latest Entertainment Weekly)

Mind the gap between sanity and reality

It's sickening what happened in London today. Of course, it's just as sickening that cilivian-targeted bombings are happening in Iraq on a regular basis, but at least the people there are constantly braced for it. And people elsewhere in the world are braced to hear it. (It feels like every international news report begins with: "________ were killed in Iraq today.") I'm grateful that my London correspondents were both lazy arses this morning and luckily missed a dangerous commute.

The governor of New York declared in a reaction speech that the war on terrorism is not over, but it is one that will be won. First of all, terrorism is a method. How can you win a war over a method? Secondly, terrorists have metastasized throughout the world. They are nimble, not a nation that stays put on a map. They have different motivations, even though A.Q. gets the most press. How will we ever be able to declare victory on a legion of loosely networked jihadists who only need a wired backpack to make a horrible impact?

If only a fraction of the billions being spent to fight in Iraq had been funneled to fund undercover operations, the U.S. could be working on dismantling these factions from the inside out and saved so many lives on the battlefield. Instead it has set off more hostilities worldwide and given extremists recruiting fuel for years. Not to mention failing to shore up national security on U.S. soil. I hope this ends the naive argument that the battle in Iraq ("taking the battle to them"--oops! wrong country) is distracting potential terrorists from other targets in the world.

Amazingly, Pablo is still able to wrestle a laugh from this mad, mad world.

Freedom of the press isn't free

I really admire N.Y. Times journalist Judith Miller for going to jail to protect the privacy of her source. That is beyond brave.

It's a very convoluted case, but it seems to me that the reporter who outed Plame should take the blame. It is one thing to reveal important whistleblower information, but quite another to serve up secrets that put the safety of undercover operatives at risk in the name of (alleged) administration revenge on a husband who disagreed with Dubya's policy on Iraq.

It's alarming what's going on in Washington back rooms. Sure, there have always been dirty dealings and malevolent manipulations in every administration, but this one seems so transparently shameless about it. Ever proud, ever resolute, never apologetic.

I hope Miller will not have to serve the full four-month sentence and that she does not suffer too much for her altruism. We'd better not get reports that her jailers have resorted to sticking the Chicago Manual of Style in a toilet to make her talk.

Poo to Potter's pandering

I came across an online promotional blurb the other day that read:

"The Harry Potter series made J.K. Rowling a multi-millionaire. Now it's your turn!"

Why in heaven's name would I want to heap more riches upon Ms. Rowling's already overflowing treasure chest of lustrous lucre? Not a tempting offer in the least. Poo, I say, to that cock-eyed come on. Poo, indeed.

Superheroine in da house

You know you've had a good day when a four-year-old invites you to join his superhero squad, blows a wish for you on a dandelion and smothers you with cheek kisses.

While my friend L-girl and I were walking through the park, her son called out from the safety of his stroller, "You're nothing but a stinky pickle!"

"What did you say?" his mom asked, bracing to give a scolding. Then he reached his arm out from under the stroller canopy, without bothering to show his face, to implicate me.

"She said it," he fibbed, withdrawing his accusing pointer finger.

"Wouldn't that be funny if I did say random stuff like that?" I mused. "Hey, that could be my superpower!"

My friend elaborated by saying I'd arrive on a crime scene and stun the bad guys with my irrevelant inferences. All hail Non Sequitur Girl!

Bale-ing on Batman

This 4th of July weekend I declared my independence from my movie theater seat and performed what I believe was my first mid-movie walk-out of 2005. The film that earned this distinction? Batman Begins. A few friends had liked it and I figured I was due for a summer blockbuster. Unfortunately, the popcorn was the only thing I enjoyed about this popcorn movie.

I was bored from the beginning, a condition which was exacerbated by the fact that the editing seemed determined to alter any kind of narrative thread or dramatic momentum. I'm opened to fractured timelines anytime, but the julienned flashbacks were not working for me. OK, he's a kid. No, that was just a dream. He's an adult in prison. Oops! Now he's a kid again. Dangit. How did he get to ninja training camp so fast? Kid again. Andddd, we're back from college contemplating homicide. Cue ninjas!


I kept thinking, "I'll give it ten more minutes." Then Katie Holmes would deliver a little chipmunk grin and lay some really leaden pipe with trite, third-grade reading comprehension lines about good people and bad people. Then I thought, "I should at least stay until he's in the bat suit," but an hour into the film he was just barely strapping on the perfectly fitting prototype, so I bailed without even knowing if the 10,000 bat hats ever arrived from China.

As I moseyed back to the parking structure, I asked myself, "Am I just not appreciative of super hero movies or action films anymore?" But no, that's not the case. I really enjoyed Spider-Man 2 and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (which came to mind during some of the frozen ninja scenes in Batman Begins).When a story is strong, I can appreciate a roller-coaster action ride, simple dialogue and gratuitous violence as well as any fan boy. Ah, well. I only lost an hour and $10.75. I shouldn't bitch too much.

***

The following conversation was recently overheard at a tiny, indie record store.

Employee stocking display to employee behind counter: What is this display about?

EBC: Oh, that's the "bands that were on the Garden State soundtrack" section.

ESD: (laughs) Oh, yeah?

EBC: Yeah, it just kind of happened by accident. We put The Shins there and Iron and Wine and Postal Service together and it just seems to work.

ESD: No, yeah, that's a really good idea, actually.

EBC: Yeah, it kills every weekend.

Vibe of way

Last night TV Zero and I enjoyed a rousing show by the delightfully harmonious pop maetros Fountains of Wayne. While their witty ditty from a few years back "Red Dragon Tattoo" is my personal Top One hit right now, all their songs are wall-to-wall with good vibrations and nostaglic pop bliss. Plus, they're all so darn cute in their been-around-the-block, but-know-how-to-rock way. Thanks again to TV Z for introducing me to them in the first place with their hookfectious single "Radiation Vibe."

***

On the way to work this morning, I was trying to make a left-hand turn across four lanes of traffic when this SUV going soooo slooooowly started to make a turn into my outlet street. I knew I had to wait for her to finish her move before I could make mine, so I'm sitting there, sitting there, sitting there, as she took her sweet time and while I'm watching cars further down the road threatening my speedy escape.

In my impatience, I eyeballed her doing her molasses move--sweeping in a wide arch in front of me and to my left.

"Four years later, lady," I muttered as she swung by. "Thanks to you I've earned my Bachelors degree in waiting."