Hold your howls, all movie nerds who enter here. I'm calling it right here, right now: The Constant Gardener is going to win Best Picture in the next Academy Awards ceremony. (Not that movie nerds really care who gets handed the statuette in that mass market measurement of success.) Now, I'm not saying it's a perfect film. Not even close. But it is a remarkable film with a lot of the earmarks of Best Pictures past. Why, one in particular comes to mind that also features Ralph Fiennes and stunning aerial shots of Africa. He was English. And a patient. You get it.
While my NYC homie gave TCG a thumbs up (and the John Le Carre novel that it's based on even higher marks), I had no idea what I was in for. I absolutely loved it. For starters, the acting was top shelf. Fiennes was very affecting as a sympathetic soul bent by grimacing primness. Rachel Weisz was, to borrow the well-worn description, a revelation (I feel so badly for thinking she was just another pretty face all these years). It was also great to see Danny Huston (one of the few bright spots in Birth) give a very nicely shaded performance.
The writing was also solid, except for one achingly awful line that could have been plucked from a Lifetime movie: "Tessa was my home." Oh, good gaaawwwd.)
Adding to the pleasure and power was Fernando Meirelle's passionate direction--visually vivid and full of thoughtfully framed yet frantic fury. There were shots that actually made me draw a sharp breath. It's obvious that his previous film, the amazing City of God, was no fluke. As he did in CoG, Meirelle's dug into the culture of the impoverished and panned out heartwrenching gold. In this film, he didn't/couldn't dig as deep, but the snapshots he included feel sharp and sure.
Sure, sure, sure. The Constant Gardener is a "message" movie. There are the "slick thriller" fingerprints of major studio's influence upon it. The plot chugs and surges. But there were brilliant moments that blew away pretty much every other film I've seen this year (in a movie-making way, not a storytelling way, mind you). That, along with the movie's box office success, make me confident that the headlines one fine spring morning will read: GARDENER SWEEPS IT. Or maybe a "rake" reference. You get it.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Goodbye, Mr. Pissed
Ever notice that really funny people are often really angry people, too? I figured that out after dating one of them. Then I noticed the characteristic in some professional comedians. One of the worst nights of my life was watching "second rate" comics in the back room at a famous comedy club. These were some bitter people. Since the crowd was tiny, they ended up doing inside jokes to each other and demanding sit-coms from any audience members who might be network execs. Miserable.
I bring this up because I think an improv teach of mine has been sucking the bitter teat, as well. It took me a couple of classes to notice that his smiley warmth was undercut with a pissed-off vibe. Quite disconcerting when you are trusting this person with judging your comic talent, critiquing your stage style and handing out your grade.
It was all just an undercurrent my intuition was picking up on until the day when I stayed after class to ask him a question. His body language was stiff, his face straight as he spoke to me and asked if he was right in suspecting I wasn't a professional actress. I copped to the fact that I was just a civilian who loved me some mental play. (I'm thinking my Marcel Marceau mugging tipped him off.)
As he punched the air conditioner button off, he let me know that the class I was in was really structured for the working actor. The school had intro classes for the rest of us who just got our jollies doing scenes to make strangers laugh. As we talked and walked out of the classroom, he went back and forth between saying it shouldn't be a problem to wishing the person at the registration desk had been more clear. Finally, he said he was willing to work with me and that I should let him know if he was pushing me too hard. Very polite and all. But my intuition is now setting off little alarms that this is a grudge he will not really be able to dismiss when it comes time to pass or fail me. For instance, he once made a comment in class that outsiders didn't understand "the struggle" that actors went through.
Well, hell, I do understand. After sitting through one recent casting call where I was on the comfy couch with the creative team, not under the hot spotlight, I realized what a miserable life it can be. The auditions with the dismissive director saying vague stuff like "Play it warmer," the constant rejection, the non-speaking parts to pay your dues, the waiting tables, the disapproving parents. I get the struggle. So why can't I come play in his world, even though I'll never play Hamlet or Hamlet's mom? C'mon. Neither Phil Hartman or Will Farrell, who both got their starts at this same school, did the acting thing until they were in their 30s and look at their trajectories. Or maybe that's part of the problem?
So now I'm dreading the first day back in class with him. Part of me wants to prove him wrong and use his attitude as an impetus to improve. But I really don't want to feel like I'm in a White Shadow episode every week when he gives me a criticism that leaves me wanting to ask, "It's because I'm black, isn't it?" On the other hand, I could stick around, impress him with my non-chops chutzpah and walk outta there at the end of the semester with him bellowing after me in a thick Scottish brogue, "Who's the man now, dawg?!" Will I be the girl in the PG movie who everyone is rooting for? Or will I ignore the advice of every hip-hop celebrity and not stay in school? It's all comes down to who prevails between the punch line and the punching bag.
I bring this up because I think an improv teach of mine has been sucking the bitter teat, as well. It took me a couple of classes to notice that his smiley warmth was undercut with a pissed-off vibe. Quite disconcerting when you are trusting this person with judging your comic talent, critiquing your stage style and handing out your grade.
It was all just an undercurrent my intuition was picking up on until the day when I stayed after class to ask him a question. His body language was stiff, his face straight as he spoke to me and asked if he was right in suspecting I wasn't a professional actress. I copped to the fact that I was just a civilian who loved me some mental play. (I'm thinking my Marcel Marceau mugging tipped him off.)
As he punched the air conditioner button off, he let me know that the class I was in was really structured for the working actor. The school had intro classes for the rest of us who just got our jollies doing scenes to make strangers laugh. As we talked and walked out of the classroom, he went back and forth between saying it shouldn't be a problem to wishing the person at the registration desk had been more clear. Finally, he said he was willing to work with me and that I should let him know if he was pushing me too hard. Very polite and all. But my intuition is now setting off little alarms that this is a grudge he will not really be able to dismiss when it comes time to pass or fail me. For instance, he once made a comment in class that outsiders didn't understand "the struggle" that actors went through.
Well, hell, I do understand. After sitting through one recent casting call where I was on the comfy couch with the creative team, not under the hot spotlight, I realized what a miserable life it can be. The auditions with the dismissive director saying vague stuff like "Play it warmer," the constant rejection, the non-speaking parts to pay your dues, the waiting tables, the disapproving parents. I get the struggle. So why can't I come play in his world, even though I'll never play Hamlet or Hamlet's mom? C'mon. Neither Phil Hartman or Will Farrell, who both got their starts at this same school, did the acting thing until they were in their 30s and look at their trajectories. Or maybe that's part of the problem?
So now I'm dreading the first day back in class with him. Part of me wants to prove him wrong and use his attitude as an impetus to improve. But I really don't want to feel like I'm in a White Shadow episode every week when he gives me a criticism that leaves me wanting to ask, "It's because I'm black, isn't it?" On the other hand, I could stick around, impress him with my non-chops chutzpah and walk outta there at the end of the semester with him bellowing after me in a thick Scottish brogue, "Who's the man now, dawg?!" Will I be the girl in the PG movie who everyone is rooting for? Or will I ignore the advice of every hip-hop celebrity and not stay in school? It's all comes down to who prevails between the punch line and the punching bag.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Kamikaze Girls rule!
My homie recently floated the theory that I am an Asianophile. I never would have guessed it, but maybe she's onto something. I mean, I am completely addicted to boba tea drinks. And most of my wardrobe consists of t-shirts with cute little Japanese pop art characters silk-screened upon the front. And now exhibit C for the prosecution: I totally dug the funky Japanese farce Kamikaze Girls, written and directed by Tetsuya Nakashima, that C-girl took me to see this week.
Based on the best-selling novel by cult writer Novala Takemoto entitled Shimotsuma Story, Kamikaze Girls tells the tale of a pretty young country girl obsessed with the big city/little girl fashion phenomenon called the Lolita look who crosses paths with a tough-talking biker (OK, scooter) chick. The two become, yes, unlikely compadres. The leading actresses, Kyoko Fukada and Anna Tsuchiya (evidently pop and J-rock stars in Japan respectively), are hilarious, gorgeous and clearly enjoying the calvacade of silliness around them. It's worth the price of admission alone just to hear Tsuchiya's grunt her lines like a gruff, middle-aged Japanese man.
It's sweet, fluffy and light. Kinda like condensed-milk drizzled shaved ice with little red beans of comedy scattered throughout. A total girl power punch of fun and lollipop-colored eye candy with enough feminine pulchritude and pop culture winks to send thousands of comic book boys into fainting spells.
In summary: totally, totally kawaii, yo.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Prick up your ears
I've become quite an addict of National Public Radio and this past weekend was a vivid reminder of why it's become so important to me and why it is such a vital part of free speech and free press in the United States. While I'm worried that right-wing wankers in Washington may fulfill their plans to pull even more funding for public radio based on accusations that federal money should not sponsor an allegedly left-leaning NPR agenda (Hello! One of their most prominent and enjoyable programs is entitled "Left, Right and Center" for a reason!), I'm grateful to know the satellite radio option is there, just in case.
What causes me to wax so enthusiastic over NPR at this given moment were the two amazing programs I heard on Sunday a.m. The first was the invaluably eviscerating and invariably hilarious political commentary of Harry Shearer's "Le Show." The second was "This American Life"--a weekly show in three acts that features uniquely personal glimpses into everyday American's lives.
Mr. Wu was right, the Katrina stories featured on "This American Life" are devastating. One woman's story had me bawling in my parked Civic.
She survived the storm itself within the shuddering, saturated walls of her home, then dragged herself and her family to a hospital not knowing the floodwaters would soon rise to smother the hospital's generators. As the water began to flood the first floor of the building, she watched helplessly as dehydrated, desperate families were turned away at the door--only gun shot and snake bite victims were allowed to enter the packed-beyond-capacity building. She and her family were later dumped at the convention center, where she tip-toed through the human waste that coated the floor to find a semi-private corner to relieve herself in a cup. She and others were tortuously lined up over and over in the relentless heat for buses that wouldn't come. She watched as people trying to leave the center by bridge were turned back by the business end of National Guard rifles. She observed in awe as once-reviled neighborhood thugs used their ganster gats to control the crowds while scavenging a nearby drug store's supplies to feed and soothe the masses. She witnessed elderly people stranded in wheelchairs and saw a young mother and baby die within feet of her. Horror upon horror. She told the host of the program, Ira Glass, that now that the trauma was behind her she is afraid to cry about it. She is afraid that once she lets the tears begin falling, she will sob and sob and never stop sobbing again.
In Harry Shearer's program this week, he mentioned that Dubya's fourth trip to the hurricane devastated area had its own special power play. To give W's big speech a hopeful backdrop, special generators were rolled in to light the cathedral that stood behind Dubya's podium. When the lights went on in the building, a cheer went up among locals who thought the power was coming back on. Once the photo/sound bite op was done, the generators were unplugged and darkness returned to the fractured neighborhood. Call it faith-based electricity.
And did you hear the one about certain corporations that had already been hired by the feds to rebuild Iraq have now been awarded new government deals to revive New Orleans? What a freaky coincidence, you know? Gee, you think they'd have their hands full with that Middle East quagmire and that the rebuilding funds could be more effectively disbursed among alternate firms with less tapped resources. Oh, tangled web weavers of Washington, may karma pull the generator plug on you in the next election. If not, it may be O, Canada for me.
What causes me to wax so enthusiastic over NPR at this given moment were the two amazing programs I heard on Sunday a.m. The first was the invaluably eviscerating and invariably hilarious political commentary of Harry Shearer's "Le Show." The second was "This American Life"--a weekly show in three acts that features uniquely personal glimpses into everyday American's lives.
Mr. Wu was right, the Katrina stories featured on "This American Life" are devastating. One woman's story had me bawling in my parked Civic.
She survived the storm itself within the shuddering, saturated walls of her home, then dragged herself and her family to a hospital not knowing the floodwaters would soon rise to smother the hospital's generators. As the water began to flood the first floor of the building, she watched helplessly as dehydrated, desperate families were turned away at the door--only gun shot and snake bite victims were allowed to enter the packed-beyond-capacity building. She and her family were later dumped at the convention center, where she tip-toed through the human waste that coated the floor to find a semi-private corner to relieve herself in a cup. She and others were tortuously lined up over and over in the relentless heat for buses that wouldn't come. She watched as people trying to leave the center by bridge were turned back by the business end of National Guard rifles. She observed in awe as once-reviled neighborhood thugs used their ganster gats to control the crowds while scavenging a nearby drug store's supplies to feed and soothe the masses. She witnessed elderly people stranded in wheelchairs and saw a young mother and baby die within feet of her. Horror upon horror. She told the host of the program, Ira Glass, that now that the trauma was behind her she is afraid to cry about it. She is afraid that once she lets the tears begin falling, she will sob and sob and never stop sobbing again.
In Harry Shearer's program this week, he mentioned that Dubya's fourth trip to the hurricane devastated area had its own special power play. To give W's big speech a hopeful backdrop, special generators were rolled in to light the cathedral that stood behind Dubya's podium. When the lights went on in the building, a cheer went up among locals who thought the power was coming back on. Once the photo/sound bite op was done, the generators were unplugged and darkness returned to the fractured neighborhood. Call it faith-based electricity.
And did you hear the one about certain corporations that had already been hired by the feds to rebuild Iraq have now been awarded new government deals to revive New Orleans? What a freaky coincidence, you know? Gee, you think they'd have their hands full with that Middle East quagmire and that the rebuilding funds could be more effectively disbursed among alternate firms with less tapped resources. Oh, tangled web weavers of Washington, may karma pull the generator plug on you in the next election. If not, it may be O, Canada for me.
Friday, September 16, 2005
You can call me all stressed-out
You know how sometimes a song lyric will just jump out at you and wrap its little hands around your throat or reach up and slap you silly on the cheek with its relevance to and resonation with your exact situation or state of mind, thus making you feel a sense of unity with not just the artists who wrote and performed the lyric, but with the world, and perhaps universe, at large?
This week that kind of lyrical moment hit me while I listened to Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al." The lightning strike line went a little something like this:
"Why am I so soft in the middle when the rest of my life is so hard?"
Now, I am a little ashamed to feign that I suffer when I look at the news and see New Orleans and Iraq on the screen. These things make a piddley little joke of my trials and tribulations. But it's like that Seinfeld line that Ms. Bennett once said when people poo-pooed her problems in light of troubles in Eastern Europe.
Elaine: "Can't Bosnia and my situation both suck?!"
Yes, Elaine. They can.
I have felt like I've lived through a Hurricane Nictate this summer with work and activity overload. The eye of the storm hit a couple of weeks ago when local housing authorities decided to prevent my landlord from earning the word "slum" in place of "land" in his title by repairing leaky rooves, moldy spots and rust run amok. That meant that all of my belongings had to be pushed into a pile and covered with plastic while my shower became floorless and could provide no bathing privileges for a week and a half. Adding to the fuss and muss was the everchanging story of the handyman about when it would be done and their ever-growing, careless track of dust and dirt through my place. Then there were the lung-squeezing paint fumes that sent me fleeing to a hotel room one dark night. I'm trying to paint a picture here. Am I using enough black tempura? Add to that hullabaloo twice-a-week improv classes and some (yes, ok, I admit I enjoyed myself at moments) fun social events and you have a wild-eyed, stress-ridden, grinning, but shell-shocked femme on your hands.
BUT. But. My shower door arrives tomorrow. Tomorrow evening, I shall bathe without reproach until the hot water whimpers into a lukewarm drip. I will dust off off the grime and grit and put all my stuff back where it belongs. Where I want it. I will no longer have strange men playing bad music at speaker-wobbling volume while my apartment door gapes open all day long. I will sit on my couch and read. I may even watch a DVD. Quietly. Sweetly. Softly. And I will realize that while I'm still soft in the middle (until I can get out of work at a decent time and get to the gym, for Pete's sake), the rest of my life is not so hard and I shall be content and grateful and sanguine.
***
Long time, no read, but Andrew is funny. And his finger smell is too.
This week that kind of lyrical moment hit me while I listened to Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al." The lightning strike line went a little something like this:
"Why am I so soft in the middle when the rest of my life is so hard?"
Now, I am a little ashamed to feign that I suffer when I look at the news and see New Orleans and Iraq on the screen. These things make a piddley little joke of my trials and tribulations. But it's like that Seinfeld line that Ms. Bennett once said when people poo-pooed her problems in light of troubles in Eastern Europe.
Elaine: "Can't Bosnia and my situation both suck?!"
Yes, Elaine. They can.
I have felt like I've lived through a Hurricane Nictate this summer with work and activity overload. The eye of the storm hit a couple of weeks ago when local housing authorities decided to prevent my landlord from earning the word "slum" in place of "land" in his title by repairing leaky rooves, moldy spots and rust run amok. That meant that all of my belongings had to be pushed into a pile and covered with plastic while my shower became floorless and could provide no bathing privileges for a week and a half. Adding to the fuss and muss was the everchanging story of the handyman about when it would be done and their ever-growing, careless track of dust and dirt through my place. Then there were the lung-squeezing paint fumes that sent me fleeing to a hotel room one dark night. I'm trying to paint a picture here. Am I using enough black tempura? Add to that hullabaloo twice-a-week improv classes and some (yes, ok, I admit I enjoyed myself at moments) fun social events and you have a wild-eyed, stress-ridden, grinning, but shell-shocked femme on your hands.
BUT. But. My shower door arrives tomorrow. Tomorrow evening, I shall bathe without reproach until the hot water whimpers into a lukewarm drip. I will dust off off the grime and grit and put all my stuff back where it belongs. Where I want it. I will no longer have strange men playing bad music at speaker-wobbling volume while my apartment door gapes open all day long. I will sit on my couch and read. I may even watch a DVD. Quietly. Sweetly. Softly. And I will realize that while I'm still soft in the middle (until I can get out of work at a decent time and get to the gym, for Pete's sake), the rest of my life is not so hard and I shall be content and grateful and sanguine.
***
Long time, no read, but Andrew is funny. And his finger smell is too.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
"Like ink and honey passed through silver moonlight"
One of the most moving and thoughtful things I've heard since the Hurricane Katrina disaster in Louisiana is a piece written and read by New Orleans resident, poet and professor Andrei Codrescu. It ran on "All Things Considered" on NPR this week. He is brave enough to claim guilt over his city's destruction while he reminisces about its former dream state.
Here is a link to the audio clip. It's well worth a listen.
Here is a link to the audio clip. It's well worth a listen.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
The captain has turned off the "no sucking" sign
I recently saw the preview trailer for Jodie Foster's new claustrophobic-kidnapping-in-a-would-you-look-at-those-sleek-amenities-superjumbo-airbus-thriller-at-35,000-feet called Flight Plan (a.k.a. Panic Plane), I can only think of one person who's going to want to see this winged turd: Mark David Chapman.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
If condition persists, consult a doctor
There's nothing like a little hot water on your neck to make you feel human again.
My apartment is in sorta-shambles thanks to remodeling work the county housing authority is forcing my landlord to do. Plus side: I won't have water dripping on my head through the ceiling leak this winter. Minus side: I won't have water dripping on my head in the shower for several days while they rip out walls and retile.
Having all my possessions either shoved up against a wall or covered with a dustcloth and thin layer of white grit is having an unnerving effect on me. Of course, the ante is raised by not being able to bathe. Today I showered at work. There's just something so wrong about being naked in an office, but it was hot running water behind a door that locked. Good enough for me.
I'm not sure if my general apartment instability-related irritability had anything to do with my confrontation with some chatty audience members sitting behind my friends and I at an outdoor concert on Saturday night, but I'm guessing "yes."
These rude talkers were prolific in their uninterrupted conversation maintenance abilities. I figured it would end after they'd settled into their seats, but no. I figured it would end when the band they had come to see came on, but no. I did the pointed look over my shoulder in their direction a few times, but they were magically insulated from my disapproving gaze. I finally reached back to touch the knee of the female in their group nearest me and asked, "Could you guys not talk so much? It's distracting."
She smiled at me and whirled around to tell her companions something involving the word "distracting." Then they got back to their conversation already in progress. For the rest of the concert, I weighed the pros and cons of repeating my request, getting security or just sitting there and taking it. I also had some fun imagining turning around to stare at them with a big cheese-eating grin on my face for an indefinite period of time. I decided against all of these approaches since I didn't want to escalate the issue or disturb others around me.
The show ended and only then did their conversation do the same. As the houselights came on and people shuffled out of their rows, I looked back at the main chatters and tapped the male half of the pair on the arm. He looked down at me, grinning but blank-eyed in his expensively nonchalant track jacket and newsboy hat.
"I've never seen a concert with a DVD commentary before," I sarcastically dripped. "It was interesting." Cue aforementioned cheese-eating grin.
The couple stopped walking and just looked at me, smiling, blank-eyed, vaguely confused.
"You just kept..." I continued, then made the international hand gesture for talking (also works for imitation of a duck's bill).
"Oh," the girl half replied, still cheek-to-cheek with smiling teeth, "we were excited." She delivered the news with a little bounce in her knees, as if I should pin a carnation on the prom queen. As they turned to walk away, she threw a "sorry" over her shoulder half-heartedly, without bothering to look. I threw back a half-hearted "thank you," without bothering to flip any birds.
I can only find comfort in the thought that they were blitzed out of their minds on some hot new designer drug that causes hemorraghing of the oral cavity and a warm glow of disconnection from reality and how one's behaviors affects others in a public setting.
If such a drug exists, its use seems to be skyrocketing in the L.A. area.
My apartment is in sorta-shambles thanks to remodeling work the county housing authority is forcing my landlord to do. Plus side: I won't have water dripping on my head through the ceiling leak this winter. Minus side: I won't have water dripping on my head in the shower for several days while they rip out walls and retile.
Having all my possessions either shoved up against a wall or covered with a dustcloth and thin layer of white grit is having an unnerving effect on me. Of course, the ante is raised by not being able to bathe. Today I showered at work. There's just something so wrong about being naked in an office, but it was hot running water behind a door that locked. Good enough for me.
I'm not sure if my general apartment instability-related irritability had anything to do with my confrontation with some chatty audience members sitting behind my friends and I at an outdoor concert on Saturday night, but I'm guessing "yes."
These rude talkers were prolific in their uninterrupted conversation maintenance abilities. I figured it would end after they'd settled into their seats, but no. I figured it would end when the band they had come to see came on, but no. I did the pointed look over my shoulder in their direction a few times, but they were magically insulated from my disapproving gaze. I finally reached back to touch the knee of the female in their group nearest me and asked, "Could you guys not talk so much? It's distracting."
She smiled at me and whirled around to tell her companions something involving the word "distracting." Then they got back to their conversation already in progress. For the rest of the concert, I weighed the pros and cons of repeating my request, getting security or just sitting there and taking it. I also had some fun imagining turning around to stare at them with a big cheese-eating grin on my face for an indefinite period of time. I decided against all of these approaches since I didn't want to escalate the issue or disturb others around me.
The show ended and only then did their conversation do the same. As the houselights came on and people shuffled out of their rows, I looked back at the main chatters and tapped the male half of the pair on the arm. He looked down at me, grinning but blank-eyed in his expensively nonchalant track jacket and newsboy hat.
"I've never seen a concert with a DVD commentary before," I sarcastically dripped. "It was interesting." Cue aforementioned cheese-eating grin.
The couple stopped walking and just looked at me, smiling, blank-eyed, vaguely confused.
"You just kept..." I continued, then made the international hand gesture for talking (also works for imitation of a duck's bill).
"Oh," the girl half replied, still cheek-to-cheek with smiling teeth, "we were excited." She delivered the news with a little bounce in her knees, as if I should pin a carnation on the prom queen. As they turned to walk away, she threw a "sorry" over her shoulder half-heartedly, without bothering to look. I threw back a half-hearted "thank you," without bothering to flip any birds.
I can only find comfort in the thought that they were blitzed out of their minds on some hot new designer drug that causes hemorraghing of the oral cavity and a warm glow of disconnection from reality and how one's behaviors affects others in a public setting.
If such a drug exists, its use seems to be skyrocketing in the L.A. area.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Let them sleep on cots
Evidently in honor of Bob "Gilligan" Denver's passing, First Mama Barbara Bush decided to do her best Lovey Howell impression while talking about the displaced New Orleans residents who ended up at the Astrodome in Texas:
"What I’m hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality."
"And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this (soft chuckle) is working very well for them."
Yes, Lovey. Isn't it grand to live among corpses and feces for days without water or food while your home (even if it might have been a rental) soaks in a toxic jumbalaya, ruining all your possessions (even if it only was a no-name VCR and some cheap Olan Mills family portraits in brass-plated picture frames) and forcing you out of the storied city you knew as home into the arid homeland of oil-slurping cowboys whose own favorite son's administration is partially responsible for the budget cuts that crippled your city's infrastructure maintenance program pre-hurricane (contributing to the levee leaks)?
Why, lordy me. I had it all wrong. Hell, it's a regular hoedown of happiness!
Now get back up in that ivory tower of yours and polish some pearls, Babs Antoinette. You've done quite enough for the huddled masses for one day.
And please, on your way out, don't mention that you've never really understood "the Blues."
"What I’m hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality."
"And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this (soft chuckle) is working very well for them."
Yes, Lovey. Isn't it grand to live among corpses and feces for days without water or food while your home (even if it might have been a rental) soaks in a toxic jumbalaya, ruining all your possessions (even if it only was a no-name VCR and some cheap Olan Mills family portraits in brass-plated picture frames) and forcing you out of the storied city you knew as home into the arid homeland of oil-slurping cowboys whose own favorite son's administration is partially responsible for the budget cuts that crippled your city's infrastructure maintenance program pre-hurricane (contributing to the levee leaks)?
Why, lordy me. I had it all wrong. Hell, it's a regular hoedown of happiness!
Now get back up in that ivory tower of yours and polish some pearls, Babs Antoinette. You've done quite enough for the huddled masses for one day.
And please, on your way out, don't mention that you've never really understood "the Blues."
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Golden arches
"You have no idea what you're doing to your feet with those flip-flop sandals and Converse," she clucked in her soft Swedish accent, looking through the tops of her glasses, elbows resting on her knees as she sat in one of her showroom chairs. The "she" in question? The Clog Master of L.A. Heck, the Clog Master of these United States.
"What you are doing to your arches is terrible. Terrible. Wait until you are my age. Then you will feel it. In your hips, in your back. Then you will be sorry," she shook her head as she tsk-tsked us--me and my NYC homie. We had hunted down her shoebox of a custom-made clog store tucked in a nondescript corner of La Cienaga Blvd. on a quest. My homegirl had come in search of the famed across the nation custom-made clogs that issued forth from these humble doors. Custom-made clogs that changed your posture, your body's balance, hey, who am I kidding, your life.
"Try some on. See what you think," she muttered smugly, setting down a pair of plain black clogs for each of us to try on. "Walk around. Then try these."
The "these" in question were the next size slimmer. Once I tried on the narrower versioner, I longed for the first--a loose-fitting pair that made me straighten my back like a Christmas nutcracker as soon as I slipped them on.
"You think you want the first size. You think," she said shaking her blonde-streaked-with-grey hair. "In a month, you come back complaining. They all do. You'll see that tight is the way to go." I sensed she knew of what she spoke, seeing how she's been fitting clogs for high-maintenance City of Angels types for almost 30 years.
As my homie and I fell rapt under the Clog Master's seen-it-all siren song, we flipped through a book of custom clogs in every cut and color imaginable. What was right for us? A dark-soled clog in disco metallic pink? Clog sandals in gold? Slip-ons in haz-mat orange? Basic brown with a braid? Heart-shaped or tear-drop cut-outs?
A guy and girl walked in while we perused the book and the Clog Master began to beguile their unsuspecting ears with her gentle, but grim sale pitch.
"You, with bad ankles, in those shower sandals," she clucked at the male member of the duo. "You know what I tell women in those skimpy shoes? Wearing those lets your feet flop around like crazy. It's like like doing aerobics without a bra. The women hear this and clutch their chests and gasp, 'Is that what it's like?!' Hmpf. I haven't figured out how to compare it for men yet." The Clog Master shrugs. Hey, she's only human--contrary to all other indicators.
"An actor you would recognize, tall, with bad knees came in here," she told her fascinated audience of four. "He bought one pair from me. The doctors had no answers for his knee pain. Two months later, he comes back in here. He leans over the counter and says to me, 'I hate you. I need to order two more pairs. My knees are better.'"
She skimmed her eyes across each of our faces. It was clear we were defenseless under her piercing gaze and jaded podiatric know-how. An hour and half later, my homie and I walked out of the Clog Master's lair--$100 lighter each with a Swedish footwear song in our hearts. In two weeks, our custom-fitted clogs would arrive and be ready to be broken in one hour a day for a week. Our feet awaited bliss. Our arches would be golden. The Clog Master had risen victorious--like a Viking of lost soles, once more.
"What you are doing to your arches is terrible. Terrible. Wait until you are my age. Then you will feel it. In your hips, in your back. Then you will be sorry," she shook her head as she tsk-tsked us--me and my NYC homie. We had hunted down her shoebox of a custom-made clog store tucked in a nondescript corner of La Cienaga Blvd. on a quest. My homegirl had come in search of the famed across the nation custom-made clogs that issued forth from these humble doors. Custom-made clogs that changed your posture, your body's balance, hey, who am I kidding, your life.
"Try some on. See what you think," she muttered smugly, setting down a pair of plain black clogs for each of us to try on. "Walk around. Then try these."
The "these" in question were the next size slimmer. Once I tried on the narrower versioner, I longed for the first--a loose-fitting pair that made me straighten my back like a Christmas nutcracker as soon as I slipped them on.
"You think you want the first size. You think," she said shaking her blonde-streaked-with-grey hair. "In a month, you come back complaining. They all do. You'll see that tight is the way to go." I sensed she knew of what she spoke, seeing how she's been fitting clogs for high-maintenance City of Angels types for almost 30 years.
As my homie and I fell rapt under the Clog Master's seen-it-all siren song, we flipped through a book of custom clogs in every cut and color imaginable. What was right for us? A dark-soled clog in disco metallic pink? Clog sandals in gold? Slip-ons in haz-mat orange? Basic brown with a braid? Heart-shaped or tear-drop cut-outs?
A guy and girl walked in while we perused the book and the Clog Master began to beguile their unsuspecting ears with her gentle, but grim sale pitch.
"You, with bad ankles, in those shower sandals," she clucked at the male member of the duo. "You know what I tell women in those skimpy shoes? Wearing those lets your feet flop around like crazy. It's like like doing aerobics without a bra. The women hear this and clutch their chests and gasp, 'Is that what it's like?!' Hmpf. I haven't figured out how to compare it for men yet." The Clog Master shrugs. Hey, she's only human--contrary to all other indicators.
"An actor you would recognize, tall, with bad knees came in here," she told her fascinated audience of four. "He bought one pair from me. The doctors had no answers for his knee pain. Two months later, he comes back in here. He leans over the counter and says to me, 'I hate you. I need to order two more pairs. My knees are better.'"
She skimmed her eyes across each of our faces. It was clear we were defenseless under her piercing gaze and jaded podiatric know-how. An hour and half later, my homie and I walked out of the Clog Master's lair--$100 lighter each with a Swedish footwear song in our hearts. In two weeks, our custom-fitted clogs would arrive and be ready to be broken in one hour a day for a week. Our feet awaited bliss. Our arches would be golden. The Clog Master had risen victorious--like a Viking of lost soles, once more.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Joint dragon tattoo
I would have to say this has been a good week for me:
1. I got called "sexy mama" by an out-of-state 32-year-old.
2. A work friend told me I was special to him (not in a hitting-on way, just a sweet guy way) and told me I "ka-rushed" a project he'd ask me to help on (not in a you-ruined-it way, just a you-done-good way).
3. Thanks to the eclectic and hilarious Mister Pants, I got some laughs in my first improv class in over a year. As rusty as I was, there's nothing like a little positive audience response to WD40 the old comedy chops. (I wish you could've heard his Tijuana tattoo story. It killed.)
1. I got called "sexy mama" by an out-of-state 32-year-old.
2. A work friend told me I was special to him (not in a hitting-on way, just a sweet guy way) and told me I "ka-rushed" a project he'd ask me to help on (not in a you-ruined-it way, just a you-done-good way).
3. Thanks to the eclectic and hilarious Mister Pants, I got some laughs in my first improv class in over a year. As rusty as I was, there's nothing like a little positive audience response to WD40 the old comedy chops. (I wish you could've heard his Tijuana tattoo story. It killed.)
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