Sorting through the files

From the "things you don't want to hear the person behind you on an airplane say to their companion" file:

"I started to feel queasy, so I got air-sickness bags for both of us."

From the "quid pro quo" file:

Evidently the gym is out of fresh towels unless the desk attendant notices you are carrying a months-old Newsweek magazine with a cover story on crystal meth, which would be the perfect research tool for his best friend's term paper on the drug. Then the bleached terry is a'flowin'.

From the "lard ass" file:

Irish researchers recently determined that medicine delivered via arse cheeks is not reaching patients' bloodstreams as efficiently as it should due to the fact that hypodermic needles are not long enough to pierce the ever-more-padded backsides of said patients. I'd like to suggest a slogan for any forthcoming public service announcements on the phenomenon:
"If your diet goes to hell, your butt can't make you well."

From the "funny to read" file:

Pablo wittily recaps the delights of Barcelona.

Wandering views

When I stepped outside to catch the airport shuttle back to my car, the icy wind made me wonder if I had gotten off my plane in the wrong city. It seemed that the unseasonably warm weather I'd left behind in L.A. when I went to visit my family for Thanksgiving had been ushered out of town like a trollop wearing an unseemly amount of rouge. Mother Nature seemed ready to celebrate the winter holidays, even in the allegedly seasonless city of L.A.

I woke up the next morning to a driveway full of sun-browned fronds that the palm trees had doffed during the blustery night. I worried my coastlike hike would be a dust bowl of churning grit, but the winds were tame and the gloom of onshore flow had been sent scuttling to reveal a turquoise-to-dark-blue-to-silver-streaked sea that could make the Mediterranean green with envy. The city was scrubbed clean, too. Like an aging diva after a chemical peel, it looked years younger. Fall leaves of scarlet and bronze (yes, foliage changes color on cue on the left coast, too) trembled in the breeze and the people I passed on the trail were preternaturally chipper and light in their hiking boots. It was as if they'd never seen a strip mall in their lives.

I promise you a turkey in every pot and a diamond on every middle finger.

As my Happy Thanksgiving present to you, I present a diamond. A diamond of a slightly rude, partly crude and decidedly not for prudes essay by the hilarious Ms. Jill Soloway. It's a piece she wrote about why she hates diamonds and it's rated M for mordantly funny and mildly blue. Not to brag, but I got to see her read it live. Pissed has never looked so pretty. Proceed with caution, both here and at the holiday buffet.

The 11 O'Clock Nictate News

In movie news:
I have to say Yours, Mine and Ours really took me by surprise. The refreshingly unpredictable physical comedy, the constant upping-the-ante of the cute kid factor and the sparks-generating chemistry between middle-agers Russo and Quaid sucked me in. It's this year's Cheaper by the Dozen.

Psyche! First off, Cheaper by the Dozen 2 is this year's Cheaper by the Dozen. More importantly, there's no way I would sit through either of those shrill cinematic horrors constructed in the name of family fun. C'mon, admit it. I got ya wondering.

I didn't make it to the theater this weekend, but managed to see the quietly great Argentinian film The Holy Girl on DVD. Writer/director Lucrezia Martel is a maestro of minimalism, using her characters' stillness to say much more than a reem of dialogue could. Shot after I shot, I was blown away by her artfully unexpected framing and composition. Just gorgeous. The strange musical instrument called a theremin makes a few appearances in the film and it illustrates Martel's storytelling style quite aptly--plucking away at the invisible to produce a fascinating creation.

The actors were terrific, too. Especially Maria Alche, with an incredibly expressive face of beaten beauty, as the Catholic teen with a self-appointed mission to serve the wishes of a stoic visiting doctor, the strangely handsome Carlos Belloso. Mercedes Moras plays the girl's mother, who also wouldn't mind serving the doc. While the abrupt ending threw me off at first, afterwards I appreciated the fact that the director left the audience in charge of how the story would end, handily avoiding movie-of-the-week predictability. I look forward to Martel's next film. Her choices in The Holy Girl show amazing promise.

In political news:
Nice to see even hawks can have hearts when reminded of the human fallout of war. Kudos for taking a stand for sanity Jerry McGuire-style, Mr. Murtha.

In personal news:
That improv teacher who bummed me out early in the semester by telling me he didn't think I had the chops for comedy without any acting training under my belt ended the semester by telling me I'd become the best in the class. Well, hello there. Yes, indeed. I busted my butt to prove him wrong and he was gentleman enough to pat me on the back for it. He stopped short of exclaiming, "Who's the man now, dawg?" But I know he was thinking it. I just know it.

In national news:
New Orleans seems to be left high and dry. Suicide rates are up. State and federal budget arguments are postponing the DNA identification of lost loved ones. I wish I knew what to do besides sending money to charities.

A senior editor for NPR's Weekend Edition show, Gwendolyn Thompkins, did a terrific story on post-Katrina New Orleans set against U.S. Army manual survival pointers (e.g., "If you are in a friendly area, one of the best ways to gain rapport with the natives is to show interest in their tools and their ways of procuring water and food. By studying the people, you will learn to respect them. You can often make valuable friends and most important, you can learn to adapt to their environment and increase your chances of survival."). There is an portion of her piece here, but click the "listen" button on that page to get the full version in her voice. It's one of the best New Orleans pieces I've heard.

Pocketful of sunshine

Today was a good day. In addition to not having to use my AK, I got to: 1) Hold a tow-headed toddler in my lap; 2) Relax in the amazingly warm sunshine while sipping tea; 3) Do something nice for a couple of strangers; 4) Watch part of This is Spinal Tap for a work-related project; 5) Enjoy a huge compliment from a classmate.

I can't really top that full house of a weekday hand, methinks, so I won't even bother trying. I'll just be grateful and smile.

If you would like to smile, or perhaps even chuckle or chortle, please visit the new travel journal of a witty writer (a.k.a Pablo) who I had the pleasure of squiring around L.A. many moons ago during his never-ending world tour. He goes by the nickname of Shandy Pockets and knows how to pack a sentence as neatly as he packs his bags.

I love Lucy, I love Sarah

I was head over heels happy to find out about Dana Goodyear's delightfully well-written New Yorker magazine article about my favorite stand-up comedian, Sarah Silverman. Props to Dana for really capturing Sarah and her cut-throat comedic charm perfectly. If you don't know Sarah and are curious, that article is a great introduction.

Early on in the piece, Dana quotes some thoughts on female comics idiotically spoken by Jerry Lewis and Penn Jillette. Even though "Hey, Lady" Lewis tried to back-pedal out of his ignorant jab, he comes off looking like an ass. So does Jillette, who has the poquito cajones to slam Lucille Ball as having never been funny. Now, I know not everyone enjoys her humor, but it's impossible to deny her impact on the entertainment industry and her remarkable comic chops. She was one of my most cherished TV icons when I was growing up on daily reruns of I Love Lucy and I know I'm not alone. (Case in point: this touching piece written by the hilarious comic Taylor Negron—a man, thank you very much.)

Anyhow, I just want to shine a light on the stupidity still seeping through the cracks of our "advanced" society (as Sarah does so well), by sharing this quote:

"Comedy is probably the last remaining branch of the arts whose suitability for women is still openly discussed. Several years ago, Jerry Lewis, then in his early seventies, reportedly told an audience at the Aspen Comedy Festival that he didn’t much care for female comedians and couldn’t think of one who was any good. Lewis’s views were criticized in public but upheld by some, in modified form, in private. 'When you went home alone and did the math, he was just kind of right,' Penn Jillette, the magician-comedian, says. 'I mean, what passes for funny in women is, like, Lucille Ball, who was never funny.' Lewis apologized in a press release—he praised Phyllis Diller and Carol Burnett—and later clarified his position on 'Larry King Live': 'I said, ‘Some women comedians make me uncomfortable,’ because a man comedian can do anything he wants and I’m not offended by it. But we’re talking about a God-given miracle, who produces a child. I have a difficult time seeing her do this onstage.'"

Way to pigeon-hole us by our uterus-bearing role, Jerry, baby. Then can women be funny post-menopause?

I've heard the stories about how tough it's always been for female cast members on Saturday Night Live when they come into the boys' club writing room and try to get their sketches on-screen. I can understand why funny men would be threatened by funny women, but by denying that a woman has comedic ability, a man shows himself to be insecure about his own talent. A truly funny MAN would be able to let his sisters of ha-ha do their thing without being threatened. Hell, he might even encourage them. And he might even laugh. If the terrorists are called cowards for bombing, male comedians should be called cowards for saying women comics are only capable of bombing. I think I've made my point. Now, don't forget to tip your waitresses. (And remember to read about Sarah at that link above. I think you'll love her, too.)

Silverman, Woodward and Bernstein, LLC

Thanks to Jonny M, I got to see Sarah Silverman's new comedy concert film Jesus is Magic during the recent AFI Film Festival in L.A. Sarah even made a brief personal appearance before the film rolled, looking particularly lovely in cleavage-y black dress. And my "older man crush" Garry Shandling was there to show his support. Awww, Gare.

I love me some Sarah, so I loved the movie by default. My only complaint was over the hit and miss (mostly miss) extra sketch-y stuff they inserted throughout her stand-up routine material.

It makes me so happy to see all the press she's getting. Rolling Stone even called her the funniest woman in America. Hear, hear! She has crafted a sardonically hilarious act over the many years of paying her dues on the comedy circuit. It's fascinating to observe her perfect phrasing, timing, expressions. The girl is a wickedly wise comedy maestro, shining a light on the skeletons in society's closet in a way that makes you laugh and cringe at the same time.

In other movie news, I'm trying to catch up on 1970s cinematic classics via Netflix queueing. So far, I've logged Easy Rider, The Conversation and All the President's Men--each excellent for its own reasons. The American movies of that time period have a very distinct feeling to them, something I'm sure a film major could much more eloquently describe or define. I can only say they're dated in a cool way. More authentically American somehow. More honest, simple, spare, smart.

One line from All the President's Men made me laugh, because it seemed so timely. Actually, a lot of the movie seemed timely with White House cover-ups, leaks and dirty dealings. The line that ellicted a chuckle was this one, spoken by "Deep Throat":

"Forget the myths the media's created about the White House. The truth is, these are not very bright guys and things got out of hand."

Prejudiced with pride

One of the best things I heard all week was this NPR report (you can listen to it at the link) about how the Jane Austen Society reacted to the new feature film version of Pride and Prejudice when it was screened at a recent gathering of theirs.

While not a rabid, learned Austen devotee, I am proudly and plainly a Jane fan and count Pride and Prejudice among my top five favorite books ever. That said, in my estimation, her incredibly witty love story is sacred ground that should not be carelessly trodden upon by any filmmaker. So when I first rested my eyes upon the new film's trailer as it uncoiled onto the silver screen, I recoiled with as much disgust as Elizabeth did when hearing Mr. Elden's awkward proposal.

First of all, casting the pouty Keira Knightley as Miss Bennett? Hell, no! And if you're going to pick her due to her obvious good looks, could you please not dye her hair a mousy brown, set the blow dryer to "frazzle" and leave her cheeks unpinched of all color? While I didn't catch the lead actor's name, as Mr. Darcy he looked all wrong himself. Not at all exquisitely dashing. And what's up with the drab color palette? I realize the English countryside can have its grey days, but don't suck all the life out of it visually. It all just felt so wrong. As the trailer ended, I knew immediately I would not be setting down my $10.50 to see it. I'd rather suffer through two hours of Domino with KK sticking out her lip and pistol as a bounty hunter than witness her bounding and gagging Austen's nimble masterpiece.

During the NPR report, which awoke me in the a.m. as it played on my clock radio, I was much comforted to hear that many members of the Jane Austen Society reacted as negatively as I did to the film. One member complained that much of the dialogue had been rewritten, and not with period accuracy. Egad! Thank god I was lying down when I heard that! Another said Keira's bent posture and gaped-mouth pout were not that of a Regency lady and that the Bennett girls' hair looked a wreck whether they had just awoken or just turned a charming step at the ball. Another called out that the pigs were penned too close to the house! OK, I can live with some animal husbandry inaccuracies, but tampering with Jane's delightful dialogue?! Tantamount to literary treason! Speaking of pigs being too close for comfort. Pearls before swine! Pearls before swine.

When director Joe Wright was interviewed about the Jane fans' negative feedback during the NPR segment, he said he didn't care. He had made the film for himself and that the Jane Austen Society members who didn't like the movie could go "jump in a lake." Jump in a lake, mind you! How indelicate. Shocking really. Hmpf! I must say, I loathe his prideful, dismissive attitude with such a passion, he might just represent the last-to-be-suspected man of my dreams.

Dunce and Dunst

In political news:

I voted on Tuesday and it felt mighty good. Partly because I wanted to give a little f.u. to our dumb governator Ah-nold for holding an expensive special election to push his agenda items instead of working it out with the "girly-men" legislators as it is his job to do. Partly because it felt great to see democracy in action.

My usual polling place is a bix box of a building, but this time I voted in a neighbor's garage. Something about seeing strangers congregating in a random person's driveway to do their civic duty was really heart-warming. I watched the senior citizens who were running the show as they took signatures and folded ballots. I imagined them taking coffee breaks in the adjoining home where someone had probably laid out a plate of tea cookies next to a pitcher of homemade lemonade to keep them going through the day and night. It felt good to press little ink dots in the "no" column and know that in some small way, Ah-nold would hear my "no." With just a little circle of smudge, I can tell the Terminator to get back to work. And that's a beautiful thing.

In celebrity news:

I read an interview with Kirsten Dunst in a recent issue of In Style magazine and have to say I was impressed. I've been trying to wean myself off of the celebrity interviews, because so often I'm annoyed or disappointed with what the real person behind the famous one has to say for themselves. But Kirsten seems smart, sweet, funny and pretty level-headed despite having grown up on movie sets and only being 23 years old in stocking feet.

I got the first clue there might be something behind the pretty face when I read her comments on her iTunes celebrity playlist. Unlike Jennifer Garner whose every song caption seemed to involve the tune's ability to pump up her workout ("This one is great for cardio!"; "This one gets me through those last 100 sit-ups!"), Kirsten's commentary (and song picks) showed some flair. I'm thinking I need to add Ms. Dunst to my "if you could have dinner with any five celebrities, who would you pick" guest list. And here I thought she was the lucky one. It's looking like Jake is.

Coffee talk

Quote of the day

In a recent episode of King of the Hill, a two-faced "do-gooder" sips a cup of joe and says:

"This is free trade coffee. Mmm. You can almost taste a Guatemalan family being uplifted."

Don't panic. Get pissed instead.

More movie news:

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Better to read the book. The magic of Douglas Adams is in prose, not plot. And his wry sense of humor is obviously tough to convey on-screen. At least I found it to be a cringe-worthy experience watching the attempt.

Jarhead
My experience watching this film was marred by a hard-of-hearing, loud-of-speaking grandpa and his grim-faced 20-something grandson who found it necessary to converse several times during the film. Occasionally it was time for gramps to recall his military service (in a scene where the Marines were elbow-crawling under barbed wire in the mud, the elderly one announced: "I did that!" Good to know, grampy-poo. Now put a grenade in your pie hole and let me focus on the film.) At others, it was time for sonny boy to announce the Notre Dame score that he was reading off his glowing PDA screen. When the credits started rolling, grandpa announced sternly, "Well, I didn't much care for it." The grandson nodded in agreement and grunted, "Not enough killing." What a darling duo! I wanted to make a snide remark scolding them about their rudeness, but realized that they would be assholes here, now and forever and no smart-ass comment from me would de-sphincterize them.

While watching Jarhead, I also figured out what I want for Christmas: a giant poster of Jake Gyllenhaal wearing those two (one strategically positioned) Santa hats. Hubba to the hubba, the boy was cut for this film.

OK. Now to get serious. There were great moments in Jarhead, but it's not a great movie. Certain scenes were amazingly gripping, both visually and emotionally. One charged moment shows a theater full of aggro Marines humming the "Ride of the Valkyries" song as they watched an attack scene from Apocalypse Now play across the screen. At first I was appalled at the bloodlust the soldiers' fist-pumping enthusiasm revealed, but then realized that that's how warriors have to think to make it through the day.

While there was a lot of fat on the bone as far as the storytelling goes and character development was lazy, I think the artistic weaknesses of this film are forgivable considering the purpose it will serve in reminding numb crowds of movie-goers that there is another war going on right now and it is hell.

After I saw Jarhead, I read an an L.A. Weekly article about an L.A. man who lost his Marine son in Iraq when the soldier stepped on an undetonated bomblet (probably dropped by U.S. forces at the start of the war). The father was told several conflicting stories by the military about what had taken his son's life, but he finally learned the truth and has become an adamant anti-war activist.

Back in 2002, the son had face a traumatizing experience during training near Kuwait. Two Kuwati men attacked some Marines, resulting in firefight in an apartment building. This led to women and children being killed in the crossfire. When the son found the bodies of the innocent victims, he felt as if he was a criminal. After the incident, he sought counseling. Unfortunately, a military doctor brushed him off, saying, "Marines kill. Marines don't cry."

I read one reviewer's comment that this film felt irrevelant in light of current events. That pisses me off. There is nothing irrevelant about being reminded of the day to day ugliness of war, whether the engagement lasted four days or four years. So I can forgive Jarhead for its imperfections, because it opens up a welcome can of worms. (See? I can still pun it up, even when pissed.)

The good, the bad, the moderately attractive

Movie update:

Good Night, and Good Luck
Good story, good acting, good camera work, good message. Gorgeous black and white film. I don't know why, but I was mesmerized by Robert Downey, Jr.'s face whenever he was on-screen. The boy was born too late. He shoulda been a contemporary of Bogart with the way his face looks in shades of silver grey.

Comedian
Boooooooring. And I'm a big Seinfeld fan. I recently saw his act live and laughed for 45 minutes straight. So how could such a funny man make such an uninteresting subject? Perhaps the filmmakers discovered that off-stage Jerry is just too mild-mannered to make riveting viewing. That can be the only explanation for letting an incredibly obnoxious up-and-comer comedian by the name of Orny hijack the film. Not only was I not rooting for the underdog, I was desperately wishing for him to be put to sleep. In addition, Comedian contained quite possibly the worst editing I've ever seen in a documentary. The only redeeming value of watching this film, personally speaking, was discovering Susannah McCorkle's delightfully bubbly cover of an Antonio Carlos Jobim Brazilian jazz jewel entitled "The Waters of March" as it played over the closing credits. That song gave me a second reason to be happy the movie was over.

Man on Fire
An overblown, painfully predictable, but snappily color-saturated thriller about an occasionally alcoholic bodyguard, played by Denzel Washington, and his precocious ward, played by Dakota Fanning. As Dakota's character reaches out to her grumpy guard shortly after their introduction, I cleverly saw through the fuming friction and anticipated that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

"I wonder when they'll have the scene featuring their first shared smile?" I thought to myself. About 15 minutes later, I was obliged in spades.

"You smiled!" cries Dakota to Denzie. Holy heck. No she didn't. I will give this movie credit for being the first in my memory to totally suck the tension out of a story dependent on tension by "unexpectedly" "killing" a character at the midpoint, leaving the "shocking relevation" at the end of the film no choice but to waddle in like a lame duck. Boo. Hiss.

Comparing notes

It's funny how a shared affection for something seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things can warm the cockles of your heart towards another in an unexpected way.

A couple of months back a coworker who I didn't know well randomly launched into dialogue from a favorite movie of mine: "I'm not asking that of you. I'm not asking that of you."

As the cubicle dwellers around us watched in confusion, we gushed about our favorite Joe vs. the Volcano moments. We recalled Meg Ryan's excellence, the brain cloud, the islanders devoted to orange soda. We were exclusively in the know, we were cracking each other up and we were forever bonded in an intangible way that no mere mortal could tear asunder.

Today at work another coworker and I discovered out mutual fondness for the Krazee Eyez Killa (sp?) episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, certainly the best in the series by a landslide. We recalled with great amusement Larry advising the rapper in question about his overuse of a certain unsavory term in his lyrics and the name of the rapper's maid: Delicious. The moment was delicious as only a shared reverie regarding a well-loved pop culture moment can be.

Speaking of which, I've decided that any future paramour of mine must avoid the use of more traditional pet names such as "honey" or "sweetheart" and address me exclusively as "Delicious."

***

From Tina Fey's news report on a recent SNL show:

"SpongeBob SquarePants will begin airing in China in December, so millions of factory workers can finally know what the hell they're making."

The gypsy that I was

The last several Halloweens I've pulled out all the stops to put together unique, detailed costumes. It has become a point of pride. A personal quest. A fun way to spend October afternoons in the pursuit of the finishing piece that will take my get-up from effective to exquisite. This year's crowning jewel was a 1970's multi-colored leather patchwork hat. You may wonder how a fashion misstep like that could be a coup, unless you already knew I was planning to dress up as Stevie Nicks.

It began with a jacket found on a secondhand store rack. A blue suede jacket with combed sherpa collar and cuffs. "I could be a rocker chick!" I thought to myself as I admired the flamboyance of the fluff, relieved to have finally found costume inspiration. Somehow that generic rocker chick morphed into Stevie and my Halloween costume hall of fame welcomed a wild-hearted gypsy to the mix. I finished off the outfit with a black tank top silkscreened with tiger eyes and single red rose, a long, tiered skirt constructed of the finest mauve velveteen and high-heel red boots with rows of silver buckles from here 'til Tuesday.

The reaction to the costume was overwhelmingly positive with about a 70% success rate in people identifying my interpretation of the Stevester, though some didn't recognize me as me since my short red hair had been replaced by kinky blondeness. (Hallelujah for Halloween, the one time of year I can have long hair.) Those who recognized me and my assumed identity greeted me with raspy serenades of "Just like a white-winged dove..." and with inquiries such as, "Hey Nictate, did you know it only thunders when it rains?"

I "was" the tamborine-toting nymph at a party on Saturday night and at work on Monday, the official holiday. Being one of only four that bothered to bust out a costume out of 100 employees, at times during the day I felt foolish. Especially when my fake towhead tresses started to itch like a mother. But I saw the day through, not wigging out until I was safely in the confines of my car on the way home.

All in all, I knew I had done good that day. In fact, one rocker dude at the office came up to me in the copy room and said, "I wish you would dress like that every day. It makes me smile."

Mission accomplished.