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and how long would it take
after 10 hours were thinking about food
and how long would it take
and I remember the hunger from the last time,
this could go one of two ways
so I'm am full
-Sheila Nicholls, "Elevator"
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Let's see your spritz do that. Sunday, January 26, 2003 03:08 p.m. I use an arsenal of products to create curls out of this frizz that constitutes hair, one of which is mousse. My favorite thing about mousse is that as it dries, it snaps and pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies near my ear. Magic, crackling hair products. Neat. Sunday, January 26, 2003 01:58 p.m. I once ran over my sister with a car. Yes, I did. Given, it wasn't a large or particularly heavy car, but a big ole real car was driven atop her. By me. On accident. Naturally. I had been given a tan, not faceless biege, but Tan Mercury Lynx, which, if you'll throw back a good decade is a notch down from a Ford Escort. Same car maker, even shittier economy car. And that shit was old,too. Had over one hundred thousand miles on it when I got it, I think, and one had to master a laborious and intricate series of foot movements in order to get the damn thing in gear. I can now drive anything, my father rationalized, and he's right, I guess, if anything is junker, hatchback compact cars. Junker, hatchback cars are my bitches, 'tis true.
This incident was pre-that, when she was still thrilled not to have to ride the cheese wagon to classes. It was winter and the windows were icy and the girl volunteered to scrape the ice from the windsheild, all excited about it and shit. So she was out there getting her scrape on and I'm blaring Little Earthquakes at top fucking volume because "so you can make me cum, that doesn't make you Jesus," and all the sudden bitch is rapping on the windsheild with the scraper and I think she might even crack it, so I scream back assorted profanities, but the windsheild is still icy so I can't see that she is in intense pain. Apparently, the Lynx slipped into neutral and parked on Amy's foot. I cringe, still, when I think of how much that must have hurt. Once I turned the CD off to ask her "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" I realize what I've done. Paniced, I put the car in reverse and back up, at which time the tires roll forward off Amy's now purpleing foot and back over it. She hops, I believe, inside the house where she whines and cries and acts like I fucking ran over her with a car or something. Amy got balloons from me, a pair of crutches, a shitload of sympathy from my mother, a day off school and maybe even a few covered chores. I got a lifetime of, "That's nothing, Brittney ran over me once with her piece of shit car." my own meta post
me: they look pretty great [Here there is lots and lots more talk of blogging, mention of how good this new find is, an exchange about the inevitablility of comments for his site, so just get them already, and more blog talk. I believe there was even blogger name-dropping, but I can't commit to that.]
me: oh my god cool enough [Inspired by goneill.] Oooh, snap! Here, better yet, I wrote a proper review:
It could be said that the topic and depiction of menstruation in major modern cinema is sadly nearly non-existent. It could too be said that the mere mention of a woman’s cycle in conversation had by gender-mixed company is, perhaps, unadvisable. Most people are acutely aware menstruation occurs, and take little issue with it as such. But mention “bloody tampon” to your buddies over a beer and watch them freak right on out.
Menstruation carries with it a stigma, which results from ignorance, which results in fear. Which is why the horror genre has the most movies with menstrual cycles as a primary element, films like Neil Jordan’s “A Company of Wolves” or De Palma’s classic “Carrie.” And no horror film in history has explored or exploited that fear as much as the terrific, pitch-black “Ginger Snaps.” Unfortunately, the film’s release date in 2001 coincided with the tragic Columbine school shootings—that, and marred marketing—has kept this whip-smart, highly humorous horror picture preposterously under seen. Director John Fawcett, this his first feature, and his wife Karen Walton crafted a wry and cerebral script, stuffed it full of camp and complex characters, managing a fantastically clever retelling of the oft-covered lore of the werewolf.
Morose, teenaged sisters Brigitte and Ginger are bored of their miserable suburban lives, combating the mundane by staging and photographing their extravagant suicides. Impalement on a white picket fence (imagery also found in Sophia Coppala’s dark comedy of the same vein, “The Virgin Suicides”), death by lawnmower, cheeks stuffed with pills, slit throats. The girls have been doing this for years, since their pact at 8 years old: Out by sixteen or dead in this scene. (“It’ll be the shit, B. Trust me.”) The sisters are one year apart in age, Ginger being the eldest, and more physically developed of the pair. Adeptly performed by Katherine Isabelle, Ginger is the dominant and beautiful sister, and the first to get “the curse.” In fact, she achieves menarche for the first time near the woods at night, and it is the fresh, new blood (shown on screen, too—a brave move) that attracts a dog-mauling monster that has been terrorizing the community to attack her. The adrenal assailment results not in the death of a tattered Ginger, but in her transformation. Hair begins sprouting in suspicious spots, she acquires a little extra on her behind (namely, a tail), and her canine teeth grow long and sharp.
Younger, sulking sister Brigitte (a fine, muted performance by stage actress Emily Perkins), and Sam (Kris Lemche), the drug-slinging chemist kid who killed the viscous animal with his van after it mangled Ginger, search for a cure for what ails the morphing Ginger, who has taken to roughing up some of the neighborhood dogs with her new claws. The werewolf infection (it can be passed along sexually or by blood) has turned Ginger, who days before swam beneath layers of baggy clothing, into a seductive predator with a pronounced penchant for meat. Just after puking blood in the toilet, Ginger explains, “I get this ache and I thought it was for sex, but it’s to tear everything to fucking pieces,” then farcically hiccups to punctuate.
It’s that knowing, tongue-in-cheek dialogue--found outright in the movie’s title (Ginger snaps, you see. Her last name is Fitzpatrick.)--that keeps the flick flowing at a brisk, timely pace. The writers nailed the vernacular of misanthropic adolescents, reminiscent of the similarly droll “Heathers” or a decidedly darker “Say Anything,” which is a difficult feat yet excellent on execution. Wiry, gray hairs pierce Gingers smooth, rounded shoulder and her response to it is hilariously matter-of-fact, “I can’t have a hairy chest, B. That’s fucked up!”
The feminist implications of Ginger Snaps are plenty. Ginger’s transformation from girl to beast is an obvious metaphor for puberty, but beyond that the film explores femininity as directly attributing to violence and destruction. Fear of womanhood--fear of the power that existing within the female form entails--are what the Fitzpatrick sisters have been delaying for a long time. And why shouldn’t they? Their mother Pamela, expertly played by a sexless and sterile Mimi Rogers, is overprotective, yet oblivious to the metamorphosis occurring within her home. The girls’ notion of female adulthood is ignoring a subservient husband and creating a façade of a life well lived from bargains buys from the craft store.
“Ginger Snaps” suffers in its final 20 minutes by resorting to cliché and formula. But far worse could be said of a straight-to-video high school horror picture. In fact, the final scene of the film is so intelligent and open-ended that the quick-cutting climax is, by then, virtually overlooked. This delightfully twisted and unconventional, widely undiscovered gem takes a bloody bite out of convention, forcing its viewers to recognize the harshest evil of this wicked world: growing up girl.
specifically for those without Create your own and post the URL below (send the saved version to yourself to acquire URL). big time, babies more I know I am a little late, but... To the guy who was looking for "reasons to be against cannibas [sic]", There are none. Even those new anti-drug commercials fully illustrate this. You know the one where the guy gives his girl friend marijuana, and she gets all blazed and then they fuck? See? Pot gets you laid. To the dude looking for a "Drunk Jennifer Love Hewitt naked", Give it time. End of the year, tops. Then try your search again. I forsee success on the second attempt. To whomever came in search of information regarding "coffee masking the smell of cocaine", Cocaine smells? No, see, what you smell is the disintegration of your teeth to dust as you grind them franticly and the stench of burned cash and nose hairs. Incense works best to mask these odors. Something in vanilla. quitter high-tech rednecks You can make schedule requests via the site, which I would link to here if I didn't think I'd have an unplanned two-week vacation coming up thanks to my readers. (And I trust that you all won't call any of these numbers or send in prank requests for people, because if you did that I would have to kick myself for not listening to my first instinct and not blogging this, but how neat! You can even see some Christmas party pictures taken by Todd and his phatty digital camera.) Being able to see when I work without calling and disrupting the Administrative Assistant who says she doesn't mind in a tone that emphasizes just how very much she minds is super duper. You know I dig this the most. of all dreaming drunk I just rolled out of bed, on a Sunday, and now I've got a hankering for some very, very dry vodka. I'd put my morning coffee in a martini glass if I had one. new for old The new additions and reasons why they are there: exploding dog [reasons: 1, 2, 3, 4] defective yeti [reasons: 1, 2, 3] sarah hepola [reasons: 1, 2, 3] april winchell [reason: "But now I hear that David Spade is romantically linked to Daryl Hannah. And that's just too much. Even for me. And I'm on pain killers...But this woman had sex with John Kennedy, Jr., for God's sake. Do you see what I'm getting at here? She was with him, and this is the follow-up. How does that happen? It's like having filet mignon for dinner and a fruit roll up for dessert."] various sentences and truisms I buy a particular brand of body wash because it smells like I remember baby aspirin tasted as a kid. Going back and reading archived writing of mine on the internet from way on back in the day on a Saturday night makes me embarrassed and depressed. There is a blue convertible that holds a man and his daughter and the hush secret of what he's done and will do. Drew can be mean, but is more often funny. There they were. More than a dozen Winged Monkeys sitting on chairs with their arms folded and legs crossed, arguing with Fleming over money. Bitten nails are unattractive and more noticeable than I think. I'd hide in the bathroom for you any ol' time. I haven't the faintest concept of what it is to grieve. Exciting prospect in the works. Viva la Revolution! Dedicated to the revolution of youth culture personified in Avril Lavigne. [I *heart* the interweb.] white stuff Yay!!
Reasons I might not like you: Ladies and gentleman... Dong_resin blogs. (Update: Dong's new, Philip Glass-esque weblog has since inspired this. Ryan did it.) infection well, fuck me Just under two hours later, Hammer and Friends are back. [Also, as much as I love me some boys, I'll never, never figure them out. Never ever.] do yourself this little favor You must do it. up and out Expect sundry photos upon my return. And while I'm gone, let's look alive people. I want you to each leave the most bizarre, arbitrary, purposeless comment you can come up with on the fly. I wish to be thoroughly puzzled when I get back.
Oh, and keep an eye on Rita for me while I'm away. See to it she doesn't get lonely.
Byee! why i like guy friends ~boys reminisce~ Mark: I miss the ching, ching against my thigh. Theron: Man, that is kind of perverse. Mark: It was like wearing spurs. Aaron: But when you went through airport security and you had to put that huge motherfucker up there in the tiny plastic holder--it was embarrassing. Mark: No way, man.
face forward I looked for a long, long time and was able to warp forward thirty-five years and saw, with clarity, what I'll look like graying and sixty. I tell ya, I can wait. here it is, your moment of zen need a ride? Well, only if I never had to hear those first two freakin' singles on the radio, that is. Which I won't come March 1. Because that is when my fucking kickass mom (Mom wouldn't mind at all that description, I don't think. And on a completely unrelated note, I find it highly humorous that when I ask my mother whether or not she reads this weblog, she says, with a poker-straight face, "Sometimes.") is giving me the super cute, oddly green-colored Nissan 200SX she's been driving. It once belonged to my sister (Amy, I know, I suck.) and it has a CD player! And powersteering! And for fuck's sake a moon roof! I've got a roof for the moon!! So totally not worthy. And I'm never, ever gonna have to settle on Puddle of Mud as the best of the various ClearChannel musical offerings ever again. what isn't So I'm working six days a week to save for my eventual move, and on my days off I drive by the Ruby Tuesday's and consider it, cause really, wine is like a good, hot bath. But what if, I think, I have two 2-for-1 wines and get all loosey-goosey and talk to some random guy holding a lite beer. Not that I would even truly be into that sort of thing, chatting up some bar patron, but four wines is greater than a bottle and well, do I really need to elaborate? Then, alternately, I can almost taste the merlot on my tongue. And so what? He could be cool. He could have gotten a gift certificate for Christmas to this awful fern bar and he was starving and what the hell? 2-for-1 lite beers. But what are the chances really? That there would be an actual cool guy at a Ruby Tuesday's on a Wednesday at 7:30 p.m. I consider the buy one get one free wine again though, and laugh for considering boys when there is wine to be drunk. But girls by themselves at a bar with 2-for-1 happy hours don't get left alone. They get drunk and silly and do shit they shouldn't and then they end up saying to their girlfriends, head lowered, "We met at a Ruby Tuesdays. 2-for-1 happy hour, you know?" And so I never go in. original recipe (And though you'd be dead and not caring, jon, given his penchant for notoriously heinous culinary combinations, would probably find you crispy and good with catsup.) [Hey, I've extended the contest for two more weeks. Doesn't end til February 2. You may now return to "Joe Millionaire."] non-sequitur me, grubbing on lemon chicken: Do not present your ass to me while I am eating. travis, looking toward the window: I'm gonna get some ghetto-fabulous curtains. (pause) Something with pleats. damn fine
Today I had lunch by myself at the Red Rose, the coffee shop I mentioned that is now open all the time. I brought my camera along and got over the fear of looking pretentious and just went ahead and looked pretentious and took some photos.
The organic Brazilian frech press coffee was sublime, the chicken salad salad was loaded with veggies, grapes and walnuts, and the scary guy who usually bothers me to death wasn't there, so things were aces. I was able to get some actual people in my photos--those I don't know--which is rare for me since I get all shy about it. Then my buddy Shane, a born entrepreneur, came in and kept me company. Overall, better than a peanut butter sandwich at home in front of the computer. And that is saying something. greenish Water into wine? Okay. But what about this sage? window shopping _____________________________________________________________ All you have to do to win is write me a letter convincing me that you should. The best letter writer will recieve a goodie box and handmade card compiled by yours truly. I love doing that sort of shit, and am quite good at it, so the prize is totally worth your time. There are no requirements of any kind, except that you mail your letter to miscetccontest@hotmail.com. And remember, I'm doing this because I am bored, so entertaining trumps pleading. Good luck, participants. The contest ends February 2nd. |
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davidlynch.com
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My 15-year-old sister who later became far too cool (what with her sneaking out to smoke cigarettes all the time with a confused homosexual and an adult woman with two kids and a house full of truly repugnant-smelling pets) to ride up in the Lynx of Love. Yet her ass didn't want to be seen near a school bus, so she begged rides from me. I think maybe there was a clause wherein I was forced to drive my sister home. Regardless, we both hated every minute, she hiding in the backseat, embarrassed and ashamed of the Little Tan Van.
