One-Word Movie Reviews

Pressed for time? Check out these reviews of films I've seen over the past year or so. The good, the bad, and the stinky.

Into Temptation: Heartbreaking

Adam: Sweet



The Room: Transformative

Paranormal Activity: FUUUUCK!

Get Him to the Greek: Fun

Pirate Radio: Disappointing



Avatar: Blue

500 Days of Summer: True



Transformers 2: Retch

Twilight: What?

Twilight: New Moon: Seriously?

Pimpin' my new piece for Praxis! Preview below, then follow the link to your heart's content.

8 Rules For Romantic Comedies
by Andie Ryan

Character Names

It is important that the two leads have charming, bite-sized first names. Acceptable names for male protagonists are Jack, Sam, and Max. These names work regardless of the character's age, personality, or profession. The rules for naming female characters are a bit more complicated. Is she quirky? Go with something cute like Lucy or Annie. Is she edgy? Go with a unisex moniker like Alex or Jesse. Is she hilariously old-fashioned? Go with a traditional name like Sarah or Kate.
Read the rest here.

Shit That I Didn't Get -- Part II

When I was about seven years old, there was a public service announcement on TV about the dangers of high blood pressure. It was a pretty dramatic ad; a shot of man’s naked torso with a ticking bomb device strapped to it. Then a solemn voiceover is heard, warning viewers that ignoring high blood pressure is akin to—-well-—ignoring a ticking time bomb strapped to your torso, which seems like a difficult thing to overlook. As the announcer goes on, the camera slowly moves in for a close-up on the time bomb. Then the voiceover finishes with a dramatic flourish (something along the lines of “Don’t let it happen to you”), the clock on the bomb stops ticking and the screen goes dark, implying that the bomb went off and the poor guy was blown to smithereens.

Needless to say, this ad scared the shit out of me. It also taught me that high blood pressure can make you explode into a thousand tiny pieces and die a gruesome death.

I started asking my mom a lot of questions about high blood pressure. When I asked what caused it, she replied with something like, “Oh, I think people who eat a lot of salty foods get that.” I then became the only seven-year-old on my block to express concern over my daily salt intake, shunning the savory snacks I loved like French fries and potato chips. This phase was short-lived, as I pretty much forgot about the horrors of high blood pressure and spontaneous human combustion when the ad stopped airing. I don’t remember it being on TV for longer than a few months or so: perhaps the Ad Council started getting complaints from parents of other impressionable young children who were freaking out over the possibility of getting blown up if they ate the wrong thing.

I tried like hell to find this ad on YouTube, but no dice. If anyone out there manages to get hold of it, be sure send me a link. Perhaps seeing the ad again will have a similar effect on me, now that I’m at an age where I actually should be watching my salt intake. However, I did come across a PSA that aired on TV around the same time. It is a lot more family friendly—no one blows up and dies in this one—but watch for the creepy clown who makes an appearance at 00:07 and again at 00:38, respectively.



Seriously, what is the deal with that clown? And what is he doing riding with the kids on that Tilt-a-Whirl thingie? I find that pretty disturbing, and I don’t share my generation’s near-pathological fear of clowns. I find clowns to be mildly unsettling—-that scene in Poltergeist where the clown doll attacks the big-toothed kid and drags him under the bed caused me a few sleepless nights when I was a wee one—-but overall that fear hasn’t really carried over to adulthood. I’m not as frightened by something as overtly creepy as a clown. A vacant-eyed oil executive in a $3,000 suit? Now that’s fucking scary.

Aside from the weirdness with the clown, I found this ad to be pretty damn heartwarming. I mean, look how happy that family is. And it doesn’t come across as a fake-y TV commercial sort of happy; they all seem genuinely happy to be together. This is the kind of family that every kid secretly wishes for, the kind of happy family that simply doesn’t exist in real life. It didn’t then, and it doesn’t now. But it is a nice thing to see, isn’t it?

Shit I Didn’t Get (1980’s kid edition)

The video for Foreigner’s “I Want To Know What Love Is”.

It was 1985, and radio-friendly rockers Foreigner were starting to wear out their welcome. It was an era dominated by comparatively edgier artists like Madonna, Billy Idol, and Prince, so Foreigner was getting in touch with their softer side, probably to attract more female fans (for a similar example, see REO Speedwagon and “Can’t Fight This Feeling”). Foreigner pulled out all the stops with this power ballad, complete with lots of keyboards, croon-y vocals, and super sensitive lyrics: “Now this mountain I must climb/Feels like the world upon my shoulders/Through the clouds I see love shine/It keeps me warm as life grows colder”. The capper was the gospel choir they trotted out to belt the chorus mid-way through the song, as Lou Gramm lets loose with “I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me…” (um—no thanks, dude).

I was 11 years old when this song and video were in heavy rotation. While 11-year-olds in post-Britney 2010 are considerably more advanced than we were back then, I was pretty naïve, even for the time. Although I was officially a pre-teen—-the annoying term “tween” hadn’t yet been coined—-I was a very young pre-teen. Most of the other girls in my fifth grade class had discovered eye shadow, curling irons, and boys, but I was still a horse-crazy tomboy, climbing trees, running around barefoot outside, and obsessing over reruns of “The Adventures of Black Beauty” on Nickelodeon. In other words, I had quite a ways to go before I caught up with my peers. My emotional immaturity probably had a lot to do with my complete misinterpretation of this video’s storyline, making all the nuances about singer Lou Gramm’s romantic woes (as you’ll see) fly right over my head.



The video starts off with a very constipated-looking Lou Gramm in a recording studio, laying down some vocals. We also get shots of Mick Jones, the band’s guitarist, rubbing his face a lot and appearing vaguely concerned. Then comes footage of some city folk going about their day, including a black construction worker who lifts a beam onto his shoulder in slow motion. Then, in a dark room somewhere, a girl wakes up, gets out of bed, and takes a shower. Cut to a black woman working in a restaurant or a dry cleaners (can’t tell which, but it’s a very steamy room). Lou Gramm sits at a desk and talks on the phone with the aforementioned girl, who is now all blow-dried and dressed and silhouetted in a dimly-lit room. They appear to be having an argument. Then Lou Gramm rides in a car and stares gloomily out the window. An apathetic looking Mick Jones is sitting next to him, staring out the window on his side. A lot of black people—-including the construction worker from before and the woman from the steamy room-—board some bus and greet one another warmly. (Note: the black working-class people in this video are a lot livelier and seem way happier than the rich white rock stars. I think that’s intentional.) The glum white musicians and the cheery urban people from the bus converge at another recording studio somewhere. There are hugs and handshakes all around, and the white musicians’ moods all seem to lighten as they get down to the business of recording the chorus of their sensitive hit single. Cut to the girl from before, who is dressed like Mary Tyler Moore for some reason. She walks—-then runs—-down a city sidewalk. At the studio, the white rockers seem much happier now as they play their instruments and Lou Gramm sings along with the assembled choir. Everybody's feeling it. The girl appears at the top of the stairway and gazes down at the recording session. She spots Lou Gramm, who also notices her. The song continues and the girl runs down the stairs towards Lou, who’s suddenly so into the song that he doesn’t see her coming. She runs over and throws her arms around Lou, literally shoving him away from the microphone. He seems surprised but not irritated that his girlfriend has interrupted this important recording session. He hugs her tightly, and then…freeze frame.

My interpretation of the video now—-one that I think is pretty much in line with the director’s vision—-is that Lou Gramm and the guys are getting bogged down with all the stress that comes along with being rich white musicians. Lou Gramm seems to be experiencing some additional emotional turmoil, what with arguing over the phone with his lady, who probably doesn’t understand the pressures of being in a famous rock band. The band’s troubles are forgotten when they start jamming with the upbeat working-class gospel choir, proving that music—-as Madonna would later sing—-makes the people come together. Then Lou’s girlfriend comes to her senses and forgives him for whatever they were arguing about earlier. The End.

My interpretation as an 11 year old: Lou Gramm’s girlfriend is prejudiced against black people. (I thought “prejudiced,” by the way, because the term “racist” wasn’t thrown about as freely as it is now and I don’t think I'd even heard that word at the time.) Prejudiced people are icky, which is why Lou Gramm looks so upset about spending time with black people while the mean woman he loves hangs around the house being mad at him for it. The band goes to the studio to record with the black people, who turn out to be really nice. The girlfriend walks the streets and thinks about things for a while, then she comes to the studio and sees how cool the black choir is. She runs down the stairs and hugs Lou Gramm, because she isn’t prejudiced anymore. The End.

Fun Fact: Foreigner guitarist Mick Jones is the stepfather of Samantha Ronson, the popular club DJ best known as Lindsay Lohan’s lesbian squeeze.

Next time: More shit from my childhood that I didn’t get. Check back soon, my memory is long and I’m feeling inspired.

This is an early birthday shout-out to my writer's group friend Becca: a classic video featuring her (ex-?) boyfriend William Shatner.



Funny, funny shit. I would have loved to be in the audience during his performance. Preferably stoned out of my mind (in keeping with the spirit of 1978, natch).

Because I adore this guy, I'm posting this. The Foo Fighters was one of the few bands from the nineties that I could get into, and Joshua does an amazing rendition of their song, "Everlong."

Dan Kennedy's book, Loser Goes First: My Thirty-something Years of Dumb Luck and Minor Humiliation is tied with Paul Feig's Superstud as the funniest book I've ever read. I first came across a copy of Loser Goes First in 2005, read it three times in a row, and recommended it to everyone who didn't run away screaming. Kennedy's second book, Rock On: An Office Power Ballad is a hilarious account of his brief stint as the Director of Creative Development for Atlantic Records; a scathing report from the trenches of the dying record industry. Now he writes for GQ and McSweeney's and is a regular performer at Stories at the Moth.

Another awesome thing about Dan Kennedy? He let me interview him for Praxis.

AR: Can you give us little background on Stories at the Moth, and how you came to be involved with the project?

DK: George Dawes Green started The Moth in 1997, in his living room here in New York , and it grew from there to what it is today. I got involved with them in 2000. I called the office, I think I was just that sort of simple or naïve – I had heard about it and just thought: “Hmm…I guess…I'll just dial them up and tell them I want to try it?” Basically, I was just some guy who was unemployed, I had stopped partying, I was trying to figure out what the hell I could do with my time, I needed to make new friends, I was just…probably a little mental. So like some giant child I just called them up and left a message with someone: “Hi, yeah, um, I'd like to do the story thing, please?”And then weeks went by and it became painfully apparent that this is not the way to go about it. But then, still weeks and weeks later, oddly enough, I got a call back from Joey Xanders. She was the Creative Director back then. Anyway, I had this story about my days spent learning by trial and error on the 90's music scene that I'm really not good at trying to be a musician. They put me on the bill for this mainstage show and I told that story. The Moth didn't feel like a scene to me. It was just this overwhelming feeling of finding a place where you finally felt like you fit in; like you could actually kind of do the thing that everyone there was doing – it might have been the first time in my life to have felt like that. Joey told me much later on that the reason she had returned my call back then was completely random; she had been talking to her therapist about how guilty she felt for not having the time to return all of the calls from the phone messages that were piling up -- and her therapist told her to just take baby steps and return one phone call; just close your eyes, pick one message off the stack, dial the number. So my phone rang in this little tiny apartment I was living in without any furniture, I picked it up, and ten years raced by.

AR: In your memoir you talk about being a kid and getting a journal for Christmas (instead of the coveted black Gibson Les Paul guitar). What was the first thing you remember writing?

DK: The first thing I ever remember writing was when I was twelve. It was a punishment for talking in class or something and I…it's a long story, but basically I wasn't talking in class, I made a look, just to myself, at something the teacher said. But everyone started laughing, and this teacher, Mr. Kisner, totally had it in for me, and so he punished me for something I didn't do – and he said I had to write a one thousand word essay about why I shouldn't talk in class. So I wrote this satire of him and his broad, simple rules, handed it in to him the next day. He read the first few sentences and threw his stapler across the room at the wall and it opened and all the staples went flying everywhere. I just kind of thought: Jesus, writing is pretty powerful -- he read, like, three sentences, turned bright red, and starting throwing shit. I didn't write anything humorous again until I was twenty-six...To read the rest of the interview, go here.

And because I got nuthin' today, I thought I'd share some more delightful spam. This determined little bugger actually landed in my inbox. It's apparently from Elsie Craft--which doesn't sound like a fake spam name at all, no way.

Subject: The theatrical movie business was on the rise for its third weekend in a row, thanks largely to Alice and audiences'
Monday, March 29, 2010 5:38 PM
From: "Elsie Craft"

Operations Centre. Emergency response teams were in place.
Half a million homes remained without power across the Northeast and mid-Atlantic region on Sunday, as rain continued to pound states from West Virginia to Connecticut for a second day.
officials to their counterparts in Pakistan.
"fantastic pressure" since losing about half of its top 20 people in the past year.

Seems to be a brief stream-of-consciousness writing exercise that starts with a report on "the theatrical movie business" and Alice In Wonderland and then, it just, sort of...goes off the rails a bit.

Overall it was an admirable effort, Elsie. And you tricked me into opening your weird gonzo spam, which--cheers, I guess.

SPAM-A-LOT
If you've ever wondered what sort of emails Villarreal Creekmur composes in the dead of night, wonder no more. He (she?) was up at 3:45 crafting this eloquent spam email, just for me. It makes no fucking sense whatsoever, which (after being bombarded with thousands of ads for Viagra/Cialis/Dick N-larger pills) makes it the best kind of spam to get, if you're going to get spam.

Check out Villarreal. (S)he's got a lot to say:

Ed out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank; That's
followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall Of camps where
men got gold in chunks and he got none at all; That's prospected a bit
of ground and sold it for a song To see it yield a fortune to some fool
that came along;

That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight, Yet sees them take a
million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man
to booze? But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof--he knew the way to lose.
'Twas in the fall of nineteen four--leap-year
I've heard them say-- When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a
hillside lay.
And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past, Late in the year
he struck it rich,
the real pay-streak at last. The riffles of his sluicing-box

were choked with speckled earth, And night and day he worked that lay
for all that he was worth. And when in chill December's gloom his lucky
lease expired, He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.
One day while meditating on the waywardness

of fate, He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate;
A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life, A woman with
soft, soothing ways,
a confidant, a wife. And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon
stove, He wished that he had staked a claim in Love's rich
treasure-trove; When suddenly he paused and held
aloft a Yukon egg, For
there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg. You know these
Yukon eggs of ours--some pink, some green, some blue--
A dollar per,

assorted tints, assorted

flavors too.

I suspect that this may be some kind of plaigarized song or poem but--deep down--I sincerely hope it's an original work. I would hate to think of Villareal Creekmur as dishonest.

Yet another YouTube clip fest today, but this one actually has a purpose. I had the pleasure of interviewing Juliette Danielle of The Room for Praxis, and she is more awesome than I could have imagined. If you haven't seen the cult phenomenon that is The Room, here is a quick primer. Then watch the following clips, cause they're hilarious. Then get thee to a midnight showing (see The Room's official website for a screening schedule). If it's not playing at a theater near you, the DVD is available on Amazon, and it comes with a Q&A with writer/director/producer/star Tommy Wiseau (giving one of his infamous WTF? interviews).

Here are some of my favorite scenes from "the Citizen Kane of bad movies."


"You think about everything!"


"Well maybe you should have a girl, Mark."


"A man like that! With a gun! My God!"


I love this scene because it makes no sense whatsoever. I'm not talking about the football thing, what puzzles me is Mark's "Underwear? What's that?" Huh?


Pizza and scotchka! "Don't worry about it. It's good for you."


And if you're still not convinced, here is an audience reaction montage. But don't take their word for it...experience The Room for yourself.

Time for some shameless self-promotion!

With the help of some writer friends, Ian Shane and I have launched an online literary magazine! It's called Praxis (the name comes from a Greek word meaning "to learn by doing"). Our first issue is now up and running. Below is an excerpt from my short story, Right Here, Right Now. It's fiction...except for the parts that aren't. (The Jim incident really did happen. Ew, I know--right?)

In the summer of 1991, I was seventeen years old and proudly unemployed. When my junior year of high school ended in May, I informed my mother that instead of getting a part-time job, I'd be taking the summer off to relax. My reasoning was that I needed a chance to get my head together before my senior year, a year that Sister Jane Ann had warned “would be no picnic.”

“Are you planning on doing some extra studying?” my mother asked. Her question caught me off guard.

“Yeah,” I'd answered, with as much conviction as I could muster. “I'll be studying. Out by the pool.”

I had yet to realize that my mother wasn't quite the idiot I'd taken her for. Like most teenagers, I'd decided my parents were completely brain-dead around the time I hit puberty.

Looking back, I now know that my mother was just highly adept at picking her battles. Unlike my friends' parents, she didn't get uptight about small things like black polish on my toenails, or my penchant for rolling the waists of my school uniform skirts so that the hem hovered well above the knee. She saved her freak-outs for special occasions, like the time she caught me smoking in my bedroom, or when she discovered that the boy I'd dated the previous summer was a 21-year-old college student....Read the rest of the story here.

Sneaking in just under the wire (while it's still January).

My "End of Decade" list.
2000 - 2009

Remember when you were a kid, and "the year 2000" sounded really awesome and mysterious and futuristic and cool? Well, it wasn't, and neither was the decade that followed it.

The '00 Decade: Shit That I Didn't Get

In no particular order....

"Dick in a Box"
This stupid Saturday Night Live bit with Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg was one of the unfunniest videos I've ever been forced to watch.

Will Ferrell

Will Ferrell's popularity makes me feel even more out of step with mainstream America than usual. And I'm sick of the go-to stock character that he's been milking for years, the tantrum-throwing, petulant manchild, as portrayed in Anchorman, Dodgeball, Step Brothers, Kicking and Screaming*, Blades of Glory, etc. I mean, doesn't Adam Sandler have the patent on that character?
*(Side note: I watched the first half-hour of Kicking and Screaming on an airplane. It was so awful that I switched it off and stared at the back of the seat in front of me for the rest of the four-hour flight. Yes, that movie was so abominable that I stared at a seat cushion rather than finish watching it.)

Reality Television
Survivor, The Biggest Loser, Project Runway, Big Brother, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, American Idol, The Hills, Who Wants To Marry A 35-Year-Old Failed Actor? The Amazing Race, Flava Of Love, The Real Botoxed Housewives of (Insert City/County), Clean My Disgusting House, Watch These Skanks Fight Over Bret Michaels, Drunk 20-Year-Old Pricks (The Real World), Drunk 20-Year-Old Pricks In New Jersey, Paris Hilton Is Dumb, Donald Trump Fires People, Date This Asian Midget...ad nauseum.

But The Surreal Life? That was cool.

CSI and every one of its bastard step-children.

The Lord of the Rings films.
All forty-seven hours of them.

Britney Fucking Spears
Jesus H. Christ, when will she go away????

The Kardashians. All of them.

Who knew that the (now dead) lawyer who defended O.J. Simpson would turn out to be the least odious of that bunch?

Christian Bale and the Batman re-boots
I miss Michael Keaton.

He was sexy. Shut up.

The Presidency of Dubya

And everyone who voted for him again in '04!

Asscrack Jeans (complete with butt-cleavage and visible thong)
I don't care if you're a 95-pound Victoria's Secret model; buttcrack is never sexy, kids.




Crocs
I have just one question...

Why?

Just when you thought it was safe...

Okay, this is too hilarious/wrong/bizarre/sad/awesome not to post:

A man in the U.K. is wanted by authorities for repeated counts of aggravated butt-sniffing. The “butt bandit” (that’s my new name for him) stalks his victims in grocery store aisles and while they are comparing labels, he silently brings nose to ass for a sniff. Noooo! Watch him in action as he is caught committing multiple acts of butt-sniffery on this supermarket surveillance tape. The “butt bandit” is considered armed (with a nose) and dangerous to all unsuspecting butts no matter size, shape, gender, or smelliness.

News items like this make me feel better about myself. No matter how shitty things get, I can always look at people like this and think, "Yeah, my life might be sucky, but at least I'm not that guy." Imagine having an uncontrollable urge to (repeatedly) sniff the ass of a random stranger in public. And then getting caught on video. And then having that video end up on the internet, so that every asshole (heh) with a computer can watch endless clips of you nose-deep in some grocery store clerk's butt.

Now, don't you feel better?

Novelty, Schmovelty

I have been OD'ing on seventies schmalz lately thanks to John, who has loaded up a bunch of old Top of the Pops episodes on my hard drive. Top of the Pops was the UK equivalent of American Bandstand, with the top acts of each week lip syncing their songs for a rhythmically-challenged audience of teenagers. The interesting thing about these TOTP eps is the high number of bizarre novelty songs frequently appearing on the British charts. Below are clips of some of the weirdest.

Joy Sarney
Naughty Naughty Naughty

Joy Sarney appeared on Top of the Pops in 1977 singing this song, which was (shockingly) her only hit. It's a love song about Punch from the Punch and Judy puppet show. At one point you can plainly see the puppeteer's arm poking out through the cheap set. This song made it to #26 on the UK chart. I have to ask, was everyone high in the seventies?



Fox
S-S-S-Single Bed

This is s-s-s-serious crap. Watch this one at your own risk; the sheer ugliness of the singer's outfit (hot pants, tank top, white cape) made my eyes burn and her migraine-inducing voice sounds like Britney Spears on helium. And the guy in the Kansas City jersey? Is so high it's not even funny.



Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers
Egyptian Reggae

Jonathan Richman is a respected musician and (supposedly) a trail-blazer in the seventies punk movement. He is probably now best known for his role as the guitar-strumming Greek chorus in There's Something About Mary. It's a bit hard to swallow his alleged punk status--especially considering this song--an instrumental number that sounds neither Egyptian nor vaguely reggae-ish (and certainly not punk). That said, I do have a peculiar fondness for this video. I can watch it over and over and never get sick of it. I think it's the dancing camel. I am obsessed with the dancing camel.



Streetband
Toast

Take a close look at the bloke on the mike, if you can make out his features behind all the groovy seventies hair. Look familiar? That's Paul Young, of Everytime You Go Away, Oh Girl, Come Back and Stay, Do They Know It's Christmas, and a bunch of other shite that only I remember because back in the day I owned No Parlez, The Secret of Association, and his Greatest Hits. Recorded with his first group, Streetband, Toast is a far cry from all the earnest blue-eyed soul stuff Young would become famous for in the later years. Looking at this video--I have to ask yet again--was everyone high in the seventies?



The Wombles

The Wombles was a kids' show in the UK, and (if their Wikipedia page is to be believed), the most successful band of 1974, with albums in the UK charts for more weeks than any other act. The freaky thing about this, uh, "band," is that they weren't one hit wonders, like most novelty acts. They appeared on Top of the Pops numerous times, continued to sell records throughout the seventies, and even had a hit as late as 1998 with the dance mix Remember You're A Womble, which peaked at #13 on the UK charts.

I'll leave you with that little bizarre bit of trivia, and the Wombles themselves with their hit Wombling Merry Christmas.



Happy Holidays!

A review of stuff I hate vs. stuff I love...

The Suck It List

Stella’s Fish Café
I can’t get past the name. I don’t know who Stella is, but I know that the words “Fish” and “Café” don’t belong together. It brings to mind fish-flavored coffee, which, ew. Plus, it’s not even a café, just another restaurant/bar, like a pretentious Old Chicago. With fish.

Chino Latino
I refuse to be swayed by the cheeky billboard ads and the glittery sign. Too loud, too yuppified, and the food is crap.

Paisano’s Pizzaria (St. Paul)
This place is utter crap. Mediocre food, messy dining room, excruciatingly horrible service. You’re better off staying home, heating up a frozen grocery store pizza and eating in front of the teevee.

Sawatdee
Two words: food poisoning. Five more: dine at your own risk.

The Salon For You
I used to live above this place when I lived in St. Paul. I decided to check it out, and left with a fabulous haircut that I was extremely happy with, along with some funky reddish/pink highlights. Two months later I went back looking for the same stylist. She no longer worked there, they told me, but the owner of the salon was available to do my hair. I felt like I was in good hands—after all, if she’s the owner, she has to know what she’s doing, right? Wrong. She refused to do highlights because some weeks before I had experimented with a temporary color rinse and she said she wouldn’t color over that “as a matter of principle.” (?) Then, she proceeded to give me the worst haircut I’ve ever had in my life, and that’s saying something (I came up in the eighties, remember?) She just took the scissors, gave me a blunt cut straight across the ends, and she was done. It looked so horrible that I had to scrape together some more money and go find somewhere to get it fixed. Happily, I ended up with Mackenzie at Hair Police (see below). Her take on my botched ‘do? “Holy crap, this looks like it was done by someone who’s never cut hair before!” Thank God for Hair Police.

American Apparel
I understand that they’re famous for making their clothes in the USA by non-sweatshop labor, so good for them. But do their all-American, non-sweatshop workers have to make such fugly clothing? I mean, I don’t want my clothes made in Laos by a barefoot 9-year-old, but I do want clothes that are attractive and wearable. (Seriously, who buys this crap?)

Skintight shiny spandex? Really?

Ragstock
There was a time when nearly every scrap of my wardrobe came from Ragstock. Their clothing and accessories were quirky, functional, and reasonably-priced. Unfortunately, they have since gone straight down the crapper. I think they changed clothing suppliers or something, because they’re stuff has taken a sharp nosedive quality-wise; cheap-looking clothes that are more expensive than the lines they used to carry. And most of the clothing doesn’t even come in larger sizes—if you’re above a size 8, you’re shit out of luck. Also? Rude, unhelpful staff. (Oh Ragstock, why hast thou forsaken me?)

Luvs It

Dulano’s
Live bluegrass every Saturday night, plus damn good pizza. You can’t go wrong. Bring a date here and they’ll think you’re offbeat and original for discovering it. You’re welcome.

Nina’s Coffee Café (St. Paul)
My original St. Paul hangout, located directly across the street from my first Twin Cities apartment. Great coffee, great atmosphere, and a fabulous place to hunker down and get some writing done. I’ve seen Garrison Keillor there twice! (He owns the bookstore down below Nina’s—Common Good Books.)

Buffalo Exchange
Since Ragstock has fallen out of favor, Buffalo Exchange has picked up the slack. I love this store. Fantastic clothes, shoes, and accessories, all reasonably priced. It’s all thrift/resale, but the staff are fairly picky about what they buy and they always have a good selection of clothes that tend towards the “gently-used” rather than simply “used.”

Eye of Horus
Yeah, I’m a bit of a hippie—you got a problem with that? Didn’t think so. Even for a non-hippie, this is a cool store. It has a wide selection of candles, essential oils, and incense—stuff anyone could use, right?—along with tarot cards, crystals, runes, and mojo bags, for those of us with more esoteric needs. All this, plus a friendly and knowledgeable staff.

Nicollett Village Video
Who needs a Netflix subscription? I’d rather support independently-owned video stores like this one. Village Video has nearly every movie category imaginable, including a wide range of foreign and cult films you can’t find anywhere else. They also have a huge “Brit Vid” section, featuring shows like Spaced, The Tomorrow People (remember that one, fellow Gen-Xers?) and Not the Nine-o’Clock News. It rocks. Hard.

Hair Police
As long as I live in the Twin Cities, I will never go anywhere else to have my hair done.

I'm a bit pressed for time (and internet access) tonight, so I can't do the proper post I was planning on. Instead, here are some of my favorite clips from some of my favorite obscure Brit-coms; sort of a "Greatest Hits" list.

The first batch is from the show Pulling. It's a brilliant show that--as much as I love it--hits a bit too close to home for me sometimes.

Donna (the main character) tries to impress an old school friend with her fabulous new digs and her sophisticated flatmates...


Karen (the slutty one--and my favorite) gets confused...


Karen is also a nursery school teacher....


From Big Train, a fantastically bizarre BBC comedy from the late nineties that featured a young Simon Pegg....


And more...

By the way, remember when Prince changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol? Damn, the nineties were weird.

This rocks so hard....


And last but not least, the amazing Steve Coogan in "Alan Partridge and the sex people" (great band name, by the way):


Stay tuned, will do a proper post soon.

Happy Day 'o the Dead!

I would have posted yesterday on Halloween, but I was too busy getting drunk and trying to keep my Magenta wig on straight, an effort that required every brain cell I have left.

Today I thought I'd post a little something for the kids, because I believe the children are our future and we don't want them having all the fun that we had; the little bastards are spoiled enough already. Here is an anti-LSD vid from the sixties. It seems the makers of this short really know their subject matter, as whomever produced this video seriously had to be tripping their balls off. Not only does it function as (sort of) an anti-drug PSA, it also has a strong pro-vegetarian message--definitely a cause I can get behind.

Next time you are about to stuff a hot dog in your face, you're going to think of this video. And scary, hairy, screaming trolls.

Another Joshua Path plug:

This is the video he recently posted for his cover of "Don't Fear the Reaper." It's a brilliant version, spookier than the original. If you are squeamish, heed the warning at the beginning...there will be blood!

The Other Side of Summer (Songs), Part II

Because winter sucks.

2001

Dave Matthews Band "I Did It"

Say what you want about DMB; this song fucking rules. It's apparently about wizzing your tits off on 'shrooms. The video is certainly fitting, if that's true. Summer 2001, I remember driving along 96th, smoking a P-funk light, buzzing on Xannies, Merlot, and Nyquil. I had hit a rough patch and was depressed/ambivalent about my job, my boyfriend, and pretty much my life in general. I cranked this song and thought--screw it! The whole world can kiss my ass! This happens to be an awesome "FUCK YOU, LIFE!" song. We've all been there.

2002

No Doubt "Hella Good"

I remember this being a very fucking hot summer in Indiana. I was working two part time jobs, renting a tiny room from a friend of mine and basically living the starving artist's dream. The rest of this CD sucks ass, but this song is cool.

2003

Fleetwood Mac "Say You Will"

Very sentimental about this one. I spent the summer packing up and saying goodbye to my life and my family and friends in Indianapolis. I was leaving behind someone I loved (dead-end relationship) to be with someone else I loved in St. Paul. That relationship bit the dust about four months after I moved to the Twin Cities (thank GOD!). But, still, here I am...

2004

The Killers "Hot Fuss" (whole album)

I was spending my first summer on my own in an unfamiliar city, but it was also very exciting. I felt like I could pretty much be whoever I wanted, since no one knew me. I was temping at a sales office that summer. One of the younger sales reps burned this CD for me, and I've loved the Killers ever since.



Finn Brothers "Everyone Is Here" (whole album)

I saw them at the Guthrie that July, and met Neil Finn after the show.


2005

Gwen Stefani "Hollaback Girl"

One of the best summers in recent memory! I had just quit my (much hated) job of 10 months at Mt. Zion in St. Paul, and was living off money my dad had set aside for me. The money was supposed to be for my wedding, but since I hadn't been in any danger of getting hitched, he said I could have it whenever I wanted. I took him up on it that June and spent the entire summer writing my book, biking St. Paul, and stumbling from happy hour to happy hour with my friend Shane. It was like being a teenager again. This non-sensical Gwen Stefani song epitomizes a great chapter in my weird little life.

2006

Fergie "London Bridge"

This was another good time. I started working as a massage therapist that August, and it was the best career move I ever made. I went from temping and being flat broke to actually having money and being able to keep myself in cool clothes, new shoes and real food--plus I met some great friends. Shane and I (we were flat-mates at the time) could finally afford to move from our depressing neighborhood in Little Canada to bright, shiny new digs in Uptown. Life was good.

2007

Of Montreal (Basically their entire discography)

My ex Matthew (who dumped me in May of that year) introduced me to Of Montreal, and I quickly became obsessed with them. In fact, I spent pretty much this entire summer listening to Of Montreal and licking my wounds.

Lily Allen "Smile"

I also spent a lot of time listening to this song while trying to get over Matthew. Although I didn't do all the evil things Lily does in the video, I was hoping that one day I could relate to what she was singing about. And whaddya know? Once I stopped caring, I did.

2008

R.E.M. "Man-Sized Wreath"

The summer started out promising. Marcus came up to visit and we saw R.E.M. at the Xcel Center in early June (it was the day after Obama had announced his candidacy at that same venue). This turned out to be one of the best live shows I'd ever seen. Michael Stipe did this song justice. (The accompanying video pales in comparison--you really had to be there).



Black Kids "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You"

This is one of those bands that gives me hope for modern music. I absolutely fell in love with this song the first time I heard it on the Current, and I went out and bought the CD the same day. (I didn't download it...guess I'm old-school). The album was the backdrop to what was (at the end) a shitty summer, with the whole Simon Reid debacle and everything. On a lighter note, I saw the Black Kids at 7th Street Entry with DeAnna later that year (October, I think) and they rocked the house. That lead singer is a bit of all right.

2009

Franz Ferdinand: "Tonight" (whole album)

Has there ever been a more badass song? I think not.



This album ruled my summer. 'Nuff said.

And-archy in the UK

I just returned from a magical 3-week holiday in England. Words cannot express how much I love that country; I must have some kind of mystical past-life connection to it (...and I'm Irish! My ancestors would consider me a vile traitor!) I hung out with Ian, went punting on the Cam river, nearly killed myself bouldering on the Dorset coast, explored great Cornish towns like Tintagel, Land's End and Polperro (pictured), ate lunch at the hotel that inspired Fawlty Towers in Torquay, fell in love with the town of Clovelly and all its cats, went book shopping in Hay-on-Wye (Wales), and generally had an amazing time.

I will get around to posting the second half of my summer song list--now that it's nearly winter--but first (for Ian), here is one of my favorite Morph shorts.

Cheerio!

The (Other) Songs of Summer, Part II coming soon.

I want to take advantage of increased site traffic to plug the subject of my next interview. Joshua Path is an L.A.-based singer/songwriter whose song "Spider of Love" is currently being featured in the Season 6 trailer for the TV show House.

Path is a brilliant songwriter and musician, and I've become a big fan. His latest CD Headlight in the Sun is available on iTunes, or you can order it on his website. My favorite songs are "Angels Don't Come Around Here No More," "Spider of Love," and the title track "Headlight" in particular really gets me.

Check him out. You'll be glad you did.

I like Rob Sheffield. I loved his memoir Love Is a Mix Tape, and he's usually good for a laugh when he appears as a commentator on those VH-1 pop culture shows. However, I take issue with his music reviews in Rolling Stone. (I also take issue with music critics in general, because I've always questioned their validity; music critics seem to me like they're just writing to impress other music critics. Also, I am certainly not going to buy the new CD from a boring jam band just because some drooling geek in Spin gives it five stars. Similarly, if someone is into Rihanna, they're going to buy her crap CD no matter what Tweedle McFartpants in Rolling Stone says about it. But that's a whole other post...)

Sheffield reviewed the latest Daughtry release in a recent issue of Rolling Stone. I don't know much about Daughtry, other than it's fronted by some bald dorkus whose last name is Daughtry. Oh, and I think he was on American Idol too. That's about it. But check out what Sheffield has to say about him and his band in his review, titled "Daughtry's Lady-Killing Cheese Rock":

Ladies love Daughtry, and and it's never been simple for the men in their lives to figure out why...(H)e has no interest in playing cool; all he cares about is ovary-melting power ballads. Hell, he even calls his band by his last name, a corny trop that rock stars haven't dared since the days of Winger and Montrose....He brings in chick-rock titans like Richard Marx and Nickleback's Chad Kroeger, and teams up with Vince Gill for an ace country heart-tugger...Daughtry is cocky enough to know the ladies love him even more when he makes their boyfriends suffer.

Okay, Rob? First of all, never ever use the term "ovary-melting power ballad" again. Because, ew. And second, why are Richard Marx and Chad Kroeger (who?) considered chick rock? I've always thought of chick rock in terms of bands like the Go-Go's, the Donnas, Elastica, and the Runaways. In other words, chicks that rock, and not candy-ass has-beens like Richard Marx, who is not a chick (despite his hair), or the other lite-rock denizen he cited, Vince Gill. (I still have no idea who Chad Kroeger is, and can't be bothered to google him). I also resent Sheffield's insinuation that most anyone with XX chromosomes gets off on this sort of watered-down dreck. I mean, does he only hang out with menopausal 50-something grandmothers? Is his view of women so narrow that he believes every single damned one of us listens to Michael Bolton while watching Lifetime TV and daydreaming about meeting Celine Dion? Because if so, he's better off writing for Reader's Digest.

Just to clear up any confusion, here's a video of some REAL chick rock.

And speaking of the other kind of "birther," here is my friend Tim's rant on Angelina Jolie. He sent this in an email to me, and it's too good not to share. I'm posting it here (with his blessing, of course).

...For me, the making out episode with her brother(?) was the tipping point, which she followed up by having limousine sex with Billy Bob on the way to some Hollywood function. After that, she could do nothing right in my eyes. The episode where she accused the U.S. of holding up progress in Darfur comes to mind. Never mind that China, with it's oil concessions in Sudan, has been the principal impediment there. But, she's a fast learner, and soon with her own personal foreign policy advisor (yes, really) she was offered membership in the Council on Foreign Relations (unbelievable!). God, how I long for simpler times when the entertainment elite had the good graces to separate their altruism from their incessant celebrity narcissism. The post-celluloid career humanitarianism of Audrey Hepburn comes to mind.

In the end, we can only hope the public appetite for all Brangelina all the time dissipates. The actor Michael Douglas said it best a few years back, "I don't know about Brad Pitt leaving that beautiful woman (Jennifer Aniston) to go hold orphans for Angelina Jolie. I mean, how long is that going to last?" Unfortunately, it's already lasted far too long.

Bill Maher's birther rant:



Word to the third. Well-timed and well said, Billy boy.

Here is another article I wrote, published this month in The Edge magazine (online edition). They asked for stories about special bonds we share with our animals. I wrote about Shelby, my little princess.

No time for much today, so I'm just going to shamelessly promote myself...

Check out my interview with author Clane Hayward here.

Cheerio!

Time for another rant!


Jon Voight in drag. Oops, I mean, "THE HOTTEST CHICK IN THE WORLD!"

Today I will pick apart Angelina Jolie, because a.) I can't stand her, and b.) I can't fucking escape her. Every damn time I go to the supermarket her big forehead is staring at me from the latest cover of Us. Every time I log on to the internet I am bombarded with ridiculous "OMG! Brangelina!" headlines. She sticks a malnourished leg out her front door and we get ten straight days of coverage on how fabulous she allegedly looks. She is photographed eating a Saltine and it's "OMG, is Angelina pregnant again?" And I realize that some of my wrath may be misdirected: after all, it's at least 50% the fault of the media for following her around and filling those asinine, tree-destroying rags with photos of her and Brad and their eighteen preciously-named babies. But I wouldn't mind (or even notice) if she didn't annoy me like she does. And, without further ado, here are the main reason she bugs.

Let's start at the (sort of) top....

"Acting" ability: It would appear that not only is Jolie a graduate of the Nicolas Cage School of Ham-fisted Overacting (witness her scenery-chewing in crap like Gia, Alexander, and Girl, Interrupted), but she also studied with Hayden Christiansen at the Academy of the Petrified Forest (witness her painfully wooden acting in...well, everything else). Does this make her "versatile"? Perhaps. I think it just means she sucks. And what's with some of the roles she's taken on? No offense to Mariane Pearl--who suffered enough way before Jolie portrayed her in A Mighty Heart--but come on. Angelina Jolie can't even play a skinny white woman, a role she should have nailed by now. A pair of brown contacts and a frizzy wig and suddenly she's multi-racial? Seriously? I mean, a good Caucasian actress--Cate Blanchett for instance--wouldn't be able to pull that off. And I don't care if Angelina's father is (reportedly) an asshat; Jon Voight can act circles around his daughter (raw sewage like Anaconda and Tomb Raider notwithstanding). Too bad she didn't inherit any of his talent.

Lifestyle, quirks: Remember when she first became famous, and she was all raven-haired and goth-y, and in interviews she always talked about her knife collection and how she cut herself and she craved the taste of blood and would do everything short of open a vein right in front of reporters so she could prove just how fucking edgy she was? I do, and it was the first thing about her that set off my bullshit detector. I read that and thought, what the fuck? Is she fourteen years old? Because that's the only age that that kind of lame acting-out (and subsequent bragging) would be considered cool, and even then only by easily-impressed suburban teens who wear black lipstick and shop at Hot Topic. And still, the media ate that shit up with a spoon. "Wow! She's dark!" (YAWN!) And then she further compounded the stupidity by marrying Billy Bob Thornton (despite claiming to be a quasi-lesbian. Again, YAWN!) and she wore a vial of his blood around her neck and they would suck face and paw at one another at awards shows (and wherever else cameras were present). And when the rest of the world--thankfully--responded with a resounding YAWN, she ditched Billy Bob and adopted her first kid, a photogenic Vietnamese toddler she named (ugh) Maddox, and PRESTO! suddenly she was a saint. She eighty-sixed the black clothing and bloody vials, swathed herself in flowing gauzy dresses, and essentially declared to the world (via patronizing interviews and her serene, barf-enducing demeanor) "Look how enlightened and evolved I now am! I adopted this adorable ethnic orphan for the good of all humanity and what have you done for the world lately?" Which, okay, she's an insufferable egotist, but she gave a needy kid a home, so good for her, I guess. But still? She was full of shit. And a half-dozen adopted and biological babies later? She's still full of shit, and an even bigger egomaniac, collecting orphans like Precious Moments figurines and popping out three babies in two years (which, seriously? Is pretty gross.) And--if I may go back to her public transformation from Psycho Goth Chick to Lady Madonna--she reportedly cut all ties with her father after he told an interviewer that he worried his knife-collecting daughter was emotionally unstable. Keep in mind that this was shortly after her big switch-over and Crazy Angelina had become soooo 5 minutes ago, but I guess Jon Voight didn't get the memo that it was taboo to bring up his daughter's past weirdness now that she was Mother Angelina. Her solution to his evil parental concern? Screw you, dad! (To paraphrase my grandmother: you made your bed of crazy, bitch, now lie in it!)

Purported beauty: Let's get this straight. I'm not "jus jellus" of Ms. Jolie's alleged gorgeousness. I'm not jealous, because I don't find her attractive. Her increasingly gaunt appearance, her fivehead, her spongy lips? Sorry, not my thing. And that's fine, whatever. What I resent is the insistence of EVERYONE--men, women, websites, magazines (both tabloid and "respected" ones)--that she is abso-fucking-lutely the most stunning creature ever to walk upright and that us mortal women are supposed to just PASS OUT at the sight of her earth-shattering beauty. Bleh. And, also? Nope. Another thing that bugs is that Jolie fits squarely into that warped equation of "95 lb. frame + boy hips + B cups = OMG so voluptuous and HOTT!" Only in modern-day Hollywood could anorexics with fake tits be considered curvy. And by the way, I happen to be a fan of actresses such as Drew Barrymore, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Scarlett Johansen, Reese Witherspoon, and other starlets who bear the Hollywood-endorsed "hot" stamp of approval, lest you think I'm just some troll who hates the so-called pretty people. And speaking of pretty....

Her man: She can have him. Brad Pitt hasn't done anything for me since Thelma and Louise, and that was nearly 20 years ago. I've moved on. Nothing against the Bradster; he actually seems like an affable, fairly down-to-earth guy. He's also reportedly a huge pothead, so he'd probably be fun to toke up with (but not as much fun as Matthew McConaghey. Dude puts the "HIGH" in "hi-larious!). But, like the single friend who's cool until he/she couples with an annoying partner and slowly becomes just as repellent as they are, the Angelina curse seems to have hit Brad. He joins her in that creepy W photo spread where they portray 60's-era parents with six kids. (Dammit, don't encourage them! Also, why does Angelina appear to be wearing a swim diaper in one of the pics? Is Brad into water sports? Scratch that--I don't want to know). He goes on Oprah and TMI's all over the place about his kids' puke and other bodily fluids. (If I were still enamoured with Brad Pitt, that would have cured my crush right there). And through it all, the couple insists that they want to be left alone by media vultures and paparazzi. "Go away! We want to be regular people and raise our kids privately! Oh, hey! People magazine--you want to buy photos of our newborn? Here ya go! And W magazine, you want these photos of Angelina breastfeeding? There's one where you can almost kind of see her nipple a little bit! Sexy, huh? That would look great on your cover! Wait--hold on a minute--leave us alone! We're intensely private people!" Yeah, see my point? It's rather tiresome. In short: Brad, get a clue.

So, what's next for the biggest pair of lips in show business? You know what I hope? I hope Angelina and Brad renounce the public life, become missionaries, and abscond to a village in some remote country where not even the most daring paparazzo would follow. I mean, think of all the orphans Angelina would have access to, right on the doorstep of her mud hut! Even better? No more crappy Angelina Jolie movies!

Plus, I'd never have to think about her ever again. That'd be a good thing.

I'm a hothead. Literally.

Dammit, I can never be normal. It's not my fault. I don't know who or what is the cause of this, but I know the blame for my various abnormalities does not rest soley on my shoulders. It can't; there are too many other factors (parents, family, environment, disorders, medication, etc.) working together to make up my general weirdness. But I'm just here to complain, not to point fingers.

Now that summer is in full bloom in Minnesota (i.e. the temp has finally climbed above 75 degrees), I am reminded for the umpteenth time how much I hate to sweat. Don't get me wrong, I love summer. I just hate what it does to me. I sweat a lot, and not in the usual, predictable areas where humans are supposed to sweat. I sweat profusely from my scalp, which sucks ASS, especially for someone who spends as much money on her hair as I do. It's not an issue when I'm in my car, where I always have the A/C cranked to full capacity, or in a chilled restaurant or coffee shop. But when I'm out and about and exposing myself to the heat of the sun and the Midwestern humidity (biking, walking to the store, or just doing typical summertime stuff) my hair tends to look like I've just finished swimming the English Channel.

Sweat on other areas of the body is fairly manageable: there is deodorant for the pits, cotton underwear to cool the ass and various naughty bits, and powder and smear-proof makeup for the face. But if, like me, you are afflicted with Sweaty Head Syndrome (SHS), there is not a whole hell of a lot you can do. Compounding the problem is my hair, which is thick and heavy to begin with, so my head probably sweats twice as much as other people living with SHS. I mean, what do I do? Pull a Britney Spears and shave my melon? Not bloody likely. I look bad enough with short hair--I shudder to think what my giant white head would look like naked.

I did google searches on both "excessive scalp sweat" and "sweaty head" and turned up some information, but nothing very useful. I learned that SHS is clinically known as "cranio-facial hyperhydrosis." I also came across a website that promised "Four Tips To Stop Your Head From Sweating," which was bogus, because three of the remedies that it recommended (scalp deodorant--seriously!, anticholinergic drugs, and risky surgery that involves cutting the nerves) are pretty much out for me. The fourth "tip" was a link to a website hawking a book entitled (hilariously) Stop Sweating and Start Living. At this point, however, I'm about ready to order it. And by the way, why hasn't anyone invented some sort of medical head vaccuum that sucks the sweat glands dry? Because that actually sounds appealing, and fairly feasible. Better than (ew!) scalp deodorant, anyway, which I don't even want to know about.

It's good to know that I'm not alone, as I found a funny blog post from a fellow SHS sufferer.

Too good to be true?

Sorry to keep beating this dead horse (like the media keeps doing), but it seems Palin just announced she is resigning from office. Does this mean she will quietly fade into the ether and take her fucked-up bass-ackwards family with her?

Oh please please please please please!

And they say all the good ones are taken...

I can't stop giggling about this.

It was posted on gawker.com two days ago, just hours before the news of Michael Jackson's death broke. Gawker routinely posts oddball findings from the internet. I don't know who has the time or inclination to dig these people up, but I gotta hand it to them--this one's a doozy. Single ladies, take note! Mark is a high school physics teacher looking for love. Are you the Goddess he seeks?

Here are some of the attributes his Goddess is required to possess (see my comments in italics):

3.2. Body:
She is extremely attractive. She's HOT. She turns heads wherever she goes.
She is sexy. VERY sexy.
She is beautifully dressed and beautifully groomed.
"Beautifully groomed" makes me think of one of those long-haired purse dogs all done up in pink ribbons and bows.
She has a trim waistline. Alternatively, if her waistline is ALMOST (but not quite) trim, she is willing to trim it down for me and keep it trim for me. No exceptions
So basically what he is saying is, "No Fat Chicks."
She has excellent posture.
Is he going to test her by making her balance a book on her head? My mom used to do that to me. (My posture still sucks).
Her hair is her own and at least TO HER SHOULDERS.
Notice how he is adamant that her hair be "her own." Beyonce is going to be crushed.
Alternatively, she is willing to grow her hair long for me and keep it long for me. No exceptions.
I love how the two things he is absolutely unwilling to bend on are her waistline and the length of her hair. Deep.
Her voice is not low or raspy. (Alto is fine; baritone is not.)
This is the biggest WTF? right here. Baritone? Is it even possible for a woman to have a baritone voice (without some serious hormonal injections)?
She is in excellent health, although she may have some minor health issues she is working on.
Which minor health issues are acceptable? Piles? Flatulence? HPV?
She is tobacco free and drug free. She is either alcohol free or nearly so.
Well, that leaves me out.

In addition to being a high school physics teacher, Mark is an entreprenuer. He has a Global Vision (always capitalized) that involves some sort of software that promises to revolutionize the computer industry, bringing LIGHT (LIGHT is always in ALL CAPS) to the world. His description of the whole thing is pretty damn vague; a combination of corporate managerial doublespeak and New Age dreck that made my head hurt. He is very clear, however, that he stands to become a billionaire:

....marriage includes financial and legal dimensions, and the complexities of my Global Vision will necessitate a pre-nuptial agreement. I will be generous, giving the Goddess I seek 100% legal control over an appropriate portion of the anticipated wealth.

Yes, she may be a Goddess, but she still gots to sign a prenup! But she will have control of an "appropriate portion" of his money. (What is an "appropriate portion", anyhoo?)

Here are Mark's thoughts on chivalry:

I am intensely chivalrous, and, if you date me, you are required to respond to my chivalry as a LADY. You are the GIRL. Chivalry is about you allowing me to HONOR the girl in you. This means you let ME walk on the street side of the sidewalk, and you let ME open all doors for you (including when you are exiting from my car). It means you let ME decide where I would like to take you (e.g. what restaurant, what concert, what hotel, etc.), and when I tell you where I would like to take you, you tell me your FEELINGS with the understanding that if I sense that you are uncomfortable or disappointed with my offer, then I will change it because my goal is to make you HAPPY. It means that when I offer you flowers and gifts, you accept them graciously.... you should have empty vases in your home. It means that you let ME pay for everything on our dates, even if you have a lot more money than I do. It means if we are at a restaurant and I am hungry and you are busy talking, that when our food finally arrives you realize that YOU must take the first bite, and by ignoring your food as you keep yacking away you are making me starve!

Can he be any more of a control freak? Also, "yacking away as you are making me starve"? Nice.

And--you know it!--he has an extensive list of qualifications for his Goddess's sexuality.

3.6. Sexuality:
She believes in the light-filled MAGIC of sacred sex. She wants to utilize this magic to manifest our Global Vision. She realizes that her sacred sexual union with me is crucial for manifesting the Global Vision.
She is free from all physical and emotional impediments to the complete expression of her sexuality.

And are you ready for this? Cause it's hilarious:

If she has been a prostitute, that is GOOD!! We can discuss it at length. I have written a book (not yet published) entitled, Resurrecting the Innocence in Prostitutes. Fascinating topic! And it's an important part of my Global Vision.

His vague Global Vision includes resurrecting the innocence of prostitutes? How exactly does he do this? (Actually, I don't think I want to know...)

And more about sexuality, because he goes on and on and on about it:

She intensely longs to be worshipped as a Goddess by the right man... a man who knows EXACTLY what he is doing. He teases her hard and relentlessly, which makes her laugh uncontrollably. (He already makes me laugh uncontrollably, so that's believable). The sound of his voice, his words, his appearance, the way he looks at her, his powerful mind, his radiant heart, his intense sexuality, his confidence, his poise, and his very presence.... weaken her knees, fill her stomach with butterflies, send shivers up her spine, make her heart pound, overwhelm her with desire, and make her VERY wet. She cannot help but surrender herself to him, melting naked into his arms, whereupon he worships her as a Goddess.... he is the priest, she is his altar. She becomes the Goddess he is worshipping... she is elevated into extreme Goddess-ecstasy.... exploding and screaming!.... so many times you lose count.
The lady I seek somehow KNOWS deep down inside that if she surrenders herself to the right man and is worshipped by him as a Goddess in just the right way, she can move mountains.... she can move the whole world! She WANTS to make this sexual magic happen and to bless the world with the resulting miracles.

He also claims to be a tantra master (see below). For the record, I had a brief involvement some time ago with a guy who also claimed to be tantric (sadly, it wasn't Sting). The guy was seriously one of the worst lays ever. Ladies, take heed if a guy tells you he is into tantra. It is a complete and utter bullshit line frequently used by middle-aged white guys who are fundamentally insecure about their sexual prowess. But I'm not bitter.

Some of his sexual claims:

Extremely passionate tantra master who does not ejaculate (except on rare occasions). Stays fully hard through multiple male orgasms without ejaculating.
Yeah, one word: VIAGARA
Can and will genuinely DELIVER (orgasms) so many times you lose count.
Vasectomy (but I can have it reversed).
100% straight (i.e. heterosexual).

Not to be nit-picky, but I didn't think it was possible for anyone to be "100% straight," according to Dr. Kinsey's scale, anyway. But I'm just an unenlightened mere mortal. What do I know?

I am looking for a balanced woman who has the courage to unite with an extremely strong man and dance this exquisite Love Dance with him. I am looking for a woman who will LET her man LIFT her into extreme ecstasy.... FOR LIFE.

If you are looking to do a little Love Dancing with a controlling, narcissistic hippie, (or if you're just in the mood for a good laugh), Mark's website is here.

Namaste!

Dave Caves

As you may have heard, David Letterman and Sarah Palin have been feuding because of a joke Dave made on his show last week.

The break down is this: Palin was in New York with her family and attended a Yankees game with one of her daughters. On his June 8 show, Dave made a joke about Palin's daughter getting "knocked up" by Yankees' player Alex Rodriguez (Madonna's gross ex-mantoy). Palin then got her Victoria's Secret High-leg Briefs all in a wad, crowing that Dave's joke was "perverted" because the daughter she had attended the Yankees game with was her 14-year-old daughter, Willow, not Cutty Sark or whatever the hell she named that older one who did get knocked up by her cute (but dumb as hell) hick boyfriend Levi. There then followed an assinine "But it was the older slutty daughter I was talking about, not the one that's still jailbait," half-assed apology from Dave. That wasn't good enough for Palin, so here's what Dave said last night:



Even though I wish he hadn't have caved, (if only because I love Letterman and hate Palin and her ilk with a passion), I feel his second apology last night was sincere, articulate, and heartfelt. The same cannot (ever) be said of Palin. Here was her response:

"(I accept) on behalf of all young women, like my daughters, who hope men who `joke' about public displays of sexual exploitation of girls will soon evolve."

Right. I loooooove how she suddenly becomes a feminist when it's convenient for her, like when she criticized the media for being "sexist" back when she was campaigning with McCain. Meanwhile, back in her home state she makes women pay for their hospital rape kits and would have them carry their rapist's spawn to term, since abortion is murder (it's fine to kill moose and gun down wolves from choppers, though).

By the way, why does anyone still care about this woman? Obama dispatched her and Old Man Potter months ago. Go away, Susie Moosekiller. You were good for a laugh, but you're just old news now. Fuck off back to Alaska, and try to keep your underage daughters from following their older sister's stellar example.

Dog lovers, I'm looking at you.

America loves them some dogs. Dogs, dogs, dogs...everywhere. Even people who aren't into the big lovable messy slobbery drooly kind are into dogs now: witness the booming trend of neat little purse dogs. (Which begs the question--what does Paris Hilton, et al do with all the doggie doo that must accumulate in their designer handbags? They must go through purses like Kleenex).

I'm a cat person myself--if I tried to stuff one of my cats in my purse I'd need plastic surgery afterwards--and that's part of the reason I prefer them to dogs. I like that cats think for themselves and they're smart enough to say "HELL NO!" to some of the things that dogs willingly go along with. But, that's why most people like dogs. And I can respect that. Dogs are pretty cool.

So it's time for y'all to put your money where your mouth is, and contribute to the International Fund for Animal Welfare's campaign to stop the dog massacre in China. I donated, and you should too. Read on...

A massive cull in the Chinese city of Hanzhong has claimed the lives of more than 30,000 dogs - and now we need your help to make sure that it never happens again.

The local government ordered the mass slaughter of all dogs as the result of a few cases of rabies deaths. Dog killing squads are stalking the streets, mercilessly beating dogs to death with sticks and rocks.

Friendly dogs - even healthy family pets - are being slaughtered right in front of their owners. Can you even begin to imagine how you'd feel if that happened to your dog?

Click here to donate to IFAW's campaign to stop the slaughter.

This is just my own .02, but what the hell is up with China? What unbelievable ASSHOLES.