When I was younger, vampires ruled my anxiety dreams. Every loved one had become a pale and despised creature of the night, and I'd have to stake them through the heart--always a bloody mess--or become one.
Now I just dream that all my teeth fall out. This is either progress, or another sign of the long road into humdrum adulthood and all of its mundane paranoias.
The toothless dreams are almost worth having, though, for the moment when you half wake up and run your tongue over your teeth and find not even one that wiggles.
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THAT's ENTERTAINMENT: Ebert on the Brown Bunny.
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Today's a bit of a crazy day, and unfortunately I left at home the blog post I wrote this weekend, reviews of some film shorts by students from my alma mater, UT-Austin. The screening at the DG on Thurs made me proud. Also saw a great band Sunday, my friend Paul's The Boxing Lesson. One to watch.
I'm so lucky to know so many talented people. Keeps me from staring at the wall too long.
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I don't have time to comment on this interview right now, so for the moment I'll just put it out there:
"There will never be absolute integrity in the [film] business. But never before has there been such a rash of shit films, and a void of meaningful American work, that has seen the theatre screen, as there has been over the last ten years. At least when your kid is sent to school and fed McDonald's or whatever sugar water and fried lard they serve him at lunch, you know the government has issued limits on the amount of feces that is allowable in his food. Using that as a parallel, there are no equivalent limits for the cultural shit we are being poisoned with these days. Considering how many brilliant and talented people there are in this country, it's a scandal.”
—Filmmaker Tim McCann ("Revolution #9," "Nowhere Man") in Film Threat.
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Oh crap, I can't help myself. Now I have to post the whole song. Lyrics from this site. By the way, if I were a DJ for a Top 40 station, before I had to kill myself in despair, I'd play this song back to back with AL's Sk8rBoi (or however the hell you spell it). Avril and 50 Cent, they're like this, I swear. Just hook Avril up with a Benz. And 50 Cent with some blonde extensions.
UPDATE: Ok, I tired of seeing this, so I'm cutting it down to its bare essentials.
If I fell off tomorrow would you still love me?
If I didn't smell so good would you still hug me?
If I got locked up and sentenced to a quarter century,
Could I count on you to be there to support me mentally?
If I went back to a hoopty from a Benz,
would you poof and disappear like some of my friends?
I'm staring at ya' trying to figure how you got in them jeans
I love you like a fat kid love cake
You know my style I say anything to make you smile
Could you love me in a Bentley?
Could you love me on a bus?
I'll ask 21 questions, and they all about us
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THE WORLD ACCORDING TO 50 CENT: In case you're wondering what the top finding of a Google search for "I love you like a fat kid love cake" is, meet Louisiana Smith. This signifies some deep universal meaning, I know it.
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Here's Emmanuelle's take on God's Barbie. Her sudden vision last night enabled the below post. I am so glad to know I am part of a hallowed community of frightened Jan-watchers.
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ANTHROPOLOGY: Sometimes, on the RARE, ever so rare, Saturday mornings when I'm nursing a deathly hangover, I like to watch Trinity Broadcasting Network (when I haven't timed my pain correctly to watch Relic Hunter).
It's all about Jan Crouch. I am perpetually amazed that this woman exists. Right now, she's somewhere out there in the world. In Newport Beach, California, in fact. Where else?
What's she doing, at this exact moment? Taping down her wig? Eating marmalade and toast (meaning we'd have something in common)? Tearfully taping a segment, so moved by a letter from a God fearing 8-year-old that she doesn't notice when her 20-inch mound of hair slips, the tippy top leaning toward hell? Watching Jane Fonda videos? Who knows. Every possible imagined scenario fills me with frightened awe.
When I was 12, my parents accidentally sent me to a Born-again Christian summer camp. My brother, who was 8, was saved and accepted Jesus into his heart about 3 times during those weeks. Rebirth held sweet rewards. Tootsie roll pops, for example.
For me, it was a period of incredulous observation. One I'm so glad to have had. I did enjoy reading Revelations in the dark under the covers in the middle of the night with my bunkmate (a girl who warned me that if I didn't go to sleep with a bra on every night once I "developed," my boobs would sag to my knees by age 18. For my first two years of wearing one, my bra and gullible me were rarely separated).
I liked imaging the jeweled gates of heaven, the rapture, judgment day, which is all right there in great detail in Revelations. Unfortunately, that summer in camp pretty much pushed me off the path of righteousness.
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Ah, procrastination of my work moves from staring out my window and at the fishtank to blogging.
Friday night I was filled with civic pride and booze after a pub crawl along Pico Boulevard here in my own neighborhood. We headed West, pioneer style, but for the high quotient of heels and slingbacks among the womenfolk. The leader of our wagon train was a slave driver, prodding us out of one watering hole after another with finesse and, when called for, dexterity.
We started at a warmly lit Mexican restaurant full of highly spirited patrons (god bless Tequila), moved to a pitch dark hipster haven martini bar where I drank something pink and strong called The Diva, then to a place called the Arsenal, where chic globe lamps and lots of lush red play against type. Next was Flints, where a giant crystal chandelier hangs over a formal dining room with a high ceiling and regal cranberry-ivory striped wallpaper. It was, according to legend, once a private supper club. Now its just a place to get a drink (or dinner) and pretend you’re about 80 years old and still like to foxtrot. Fading glory epitomized.
Onward we traveled, ho, to the Joker, a dank hole-in-the-wall that’s one of the last bastions of working class Santa Monica. Finally, we ended at The Daily Pint, which feels working class but is generally full of fresh faced young urban professionals, well heeled but resolutely non-hoity toity, in good SM fashion. We were just in time for last call. After a few swigs of Boddington, I took to the street, where I had a conversation about magical L.A. with one of my new drunk buddies.
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My friend tells me today that she once had a boyfriend whose kisses always tasted a little like fried okra.
Yes, that's right, fried okra. And she loved it! She loves fried okra.
And so I'm reminded that it really takes all kinds.
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MORE MUSICAL SHENANIGANS: Paramount plans to deliver Grease III, still set in the '70s. For Olivia Newton John fans (all six of you), check out Toomorrow while you're waiting, in which aliens kidnap her band, whose groovy vibrations can save their dying civilization. Must be seen to be believed.
The same goes for the Takashi Miike flick I watched last night, yet another musical. The Happiness of the Katakuris (2001) is bizarre, Dadaistic fun about a family who runs a quite unlucky guesthouse. I loved the first hour--until the very moment I fell asleep. (It was late and I had gotten up at 5 a.m.)
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