Take me down to your dance floor

Went out dancing after work last night, this time visiting Perversion at the Ruby. Another Hollywood club, this place also does not have a sign, but it has a large smoking patio that was full of goths so it was very easy to spot.

The Ruby is quite large, with three impressively separate areas where three different DJs were playing. In the main room was your large, traditional dance floor with platforms, strobe lights and many people wearing white shirts and grinding. The music there was mostly industrial. Off to one side, by the smoking patio, is a very nice little bar area where a DJ was playing what the club calls "indie, electro and dark 80s." In short, The Cure. The back room was closed for a private party but opened sometime after midnight; it seems to be the room of making out and dancing to Cocteau Twins using your best we're-in-the-forest moves.

I tried out the first two rooms and found them agreeable. My favorite was the Cure room; the music was my preferred variety for dancing, and the floor was marvelously slippery so I could practice my turns. Despite the people in white shirts, the main room was good too. Everyone on the floors of both rooms was very courteous and made room for people moving in and out. Neither dance space was ideal; one had strobe lights and the other was full of constant traffic to and from the smoking patio. But it was nice to be able to switch music styles at one's own whim rather than the DJ's. As a lady dancing alone, I also felt much less conspicuous in such a large venue. The bartender was agreeable as well, and although a gin and tonic was $7, he added enough gin that it did not seem too criminal.

The best thing about going out though is just watching the people. They are adorable. Last night there was a tall willowy woman in black trousers who looked exactly like a female Joey Ramone; a woman in pirate blouse and corset close-dancing with a gentleman in a top hat; and a girl in a vintage dress with pillbox hat that miraculously stayed in place all night. I love watching these people skulk around being all badass, then see their friends and start yelling "Squeeee!" and embracing. And then I went home and got in the tub, which was pretty nice too.

Because the South hasn't suffered enough

The Groovy Age of Horror reports with just alarm that Quentin Tarantino has gotten the idea of setting a movie in the South. Its author quotes Britain's Daily Telegraph:

Having already paid homage to martial arts, revenge, slasher, Japanese and road-rage movies, Tarantino is also planning a new genre, a form of spaghetti western set in America's Deep South which he calls "a southern".

"I want to explore something that really hasn't been done," he says. "I want to do movies that deal with America's horrible past with slavery and stuff but do them like spaghetti westerns, not like big issue movies. I want to do them like they're genre films, but they deal with everything that America has never dealt with because it's ashamed of it, and other countries don't really deal with because they don't feel they have the right to.

"But I can deal with it all right, and I'm the guy to do it. So maybe that's the next mountain waiting for me."

(Full Telegraph interview here. Can I just say I love that headline? I would get in piles of trouble if I tried to write a headline like that! British papers are so ballsy sometimes, I swear, it makes me dizzy.)

Anyway, I agree with GAoH that this is a rotten idea. Tarantino may have been born in Tennessee, but he cannot actually believe America, and the South in particular, haven't explored their "horrible past with slavery and stuff." I'm imagining a horrible fusion of "Borat" and the "Kill Bill" movies - which were fine, but were exactly like being buttonholed at a party by a guy who's got good anecdotes but never stops to ask for your opinion. The South has to deal with outsiders' stupid preconceptions all the time. Tarantino is the last thing it needs.

The lamentable spectacle of late-night cable

Art Boy is at Coachella, which means I get to hog the remote and watch unimproving movies all weekend. Unfortunately, a spring cold has rendered me unable to enjoy this privilege until tonight, and tonight all I can do is complain. My preference is the movie channels, and I am unsatisfied with the movies being shown. What is this "Elizabethtown"? The plot appears to turn on the notion that traveling from Louisville to E-town (as the locals call it) is a difficult thing. It is not. It is a straight shot down I-65 and only an idiot could get lost. Next channel. I wanted to see "Constantine" in theaters and am gratified that it is now airing on television, but there is a great deal of mumbling. The demons are not particularly scary. Keanu Reeves does not resemble John Constantine and I am weary of Rachel Weisz. Next channel. Why is it that "The Remains of the Day," which I love, is always on but it is always the scene where he is busy with the big dinner party and his father is dying? Perhaps this scene is the entire movie. I haven't actually watched this all the way through since second grade. Oh, fuck this. I'm getting in the tub with a book.

Back

I'm back! Florida was lovely. Did I miss anything here?

Gotta go

Off to Miami for the world's largest gathering of copy editors! Dear God. //REALLY WORLD'S LARGEST? NEED CHECK// Fortunately, we are a heavily drinking lot. And unlike my last excursion, to Santa Fe, I am unlikely to be made utterly foolish by the altitude. I shall instead be made foolish at the hotel bar. But not too foolish, as many bosses will be there.

Right. Gotta go cover the carnivorous plants with a tarp (the hose-wielding gardeners come today) and mail Mom's birthday card and catch a bus. See y'all next week.

Miscellany

It's Friday night. I'm having a big ol Manhattan and a wonderfully smooth, appallingly large cigar labeled "Diego de Ocampo" that was a gift from a friend. Art Boy is down in Redondo Beach, which is of course the name of a Patti Smith song. I need to find an independent music store and get a copy of "Twelve," if only to hear her version of "Gimme Shelter." Anyway, I hope you all had a lovely Friday the 13th.

The main thing I wanted to say here is that this Defamer headline reminded me of why I lurrrrve them. Every single goddamn Vonnegut appreciation on the wires had that headline; we used it too. (I have no authority in the book section. I hope that will change someday, although by the time it does there will probably no longer be a book section. A diminished version of the existing tabloid launches today.) He probably wouldn't have minded. The only KV book I've ever read was "Cat's Cradle," while traveling through the West with Betsy. It was fine; I remember liking the apocalypse a lot. I just always had the feeling that KV was happy over at his table and I was happy at mine, and there was no sense in shaking up such a nice peaceful arrangement.

Am rereading "We Have Always Lived in the Castle," as do every spring. As always, highly recommend to all.

Carry on, then.

Good thoughts

Frank (above) -- who could probably be described as a family friend? extended-family member? he's Stella's brother and belongs to a good friend of ours -- is extremely unwell. His people are having to make the worst decision this week. Please send them all your good thoughts. Frank's Catster page is here. The Quakers like to say "hold [ailing person's name] in the light," and I think a cat would rather like being held in the light. (I in fact have a very needy kitty on my lap trying to get the maximum amount from a sunbeam.) I am remembering what we went through with Stella in September (why can I not link to a single post? Stupid Blogger) and feeling very sad for them.

Also, am adding Tim to the blogroll because it's just about damn time. If Art Boy freaks out I will take it down and edit this post accordingly...

Elvis chimes in

Happy Easter, Elvis!

Accomplices

One funny thing about moving is that you've reviewed all your belongings, but can't always remember what you decided to throw away. I've already found one coat that I could have sworn I had given to Goodwill. Yesterday I opened the closet to look for some shoes to wear dancing, since I knew my favorite pair had been thrown away.. I remembered taking a memorial picture of them last year. But there they were in back of the closet. Guess taking the picture made me think twice. I was ecstatic to see them and strap them back onto my feet ... it has been many, many months.

After work I went to Disko Nekro, squired by a very sporting Art Boy. The club is home to other goth nights on other nights of the week as well, and I wanted to see if it would feel safe for a solo outing. I think it would be OK: it's on a big street, and the entrance is surrounded by people milling around outside, like the Warehouse's used to be. The bartenders/bouncers seemed friendly without being creepy, and the dance floor was small but very respectful. I enjoyed it a lot. The club itself is apparently called Nicotine (DN is just the name of the night), but as it is in Hollywood, there is no sign. I drove around the block three times scrutinizing the door and wondering if it looked like there might be a club inside, rechecking the address I had written down, then finally just parked and walked in.

It's a tiny space: a narrow bar with red side walls, decorated with just a single giant mirror in an ornate frame and small hanging lights. Near the door is a cut-out space lined with black and white wallpaper and containing a single table, so the scenesters can sit there and judge you as you're walking in. I think every club needs just one table for this purpose. The dance floor is about the size of our dining room and completely black - no strobes or mirrors - which I really enjoyed. There's a ledge so you can put your drink down and guard it. The crowd was thin (everyone was at a concert, Wake the Dead, one bartender explained) and the music better for skulking than exuberant dancing: Touch, Worlock, Lullaby. (You know you have found a skulking rather than an exuberant club when Touch is the preferred "Spectators" track over Once in a Lifetime.) Still, everyone on the floor was just super about sharing the limited space, and nobody was skeevy. Everyone was very much dancing as if they were lost in the forest, so I joined in and had a ball in my own tiny forest. It felt great to wake up with sore feet this morning. The music may have been getting livelier as the hour grew later, but we were tired and bailed shortly after 1.

I will go back, possibly on a weekday; I can see that place getting impossibly crowded on a Saturday. I will also stock up on cash for future visits: There's no cover, but a gin & tonic, unsurprisingly, costs more than three times what it does at The Dock. But one of the bartenders gave us shots, which was very nice of him and which certainly never happened at The Dock, to me anyway.

Resurrecting my love of going dancing feels very appropriate for today. Happy Easter!

Exit, pursued by a bunny

We celebrated Easter Week by watching "Night of the Lepus" recently. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Just a few reasons:

1. The cast. DeForest Kelley in a dashing mustache, Janet Leigh in what appears to be a fright wig, and Rory Calhoun - Mr. Burns' favorite actor. ("Look at him standing on his hind legs, like Rory Calhoun!")

2. The bunnies. They are utterly adorable. What happens in this movie is that Janet Leigh and her husband do some experiments on bunnies to try and interrupt their breeding cycle, as they are taking over Rory Calhoun's ranch and getting on his nerves. Unfortunately, the experiments go awry and result in what are intended to be giant, carnivorous rabbits. It is hard to tell how giant they are because the monsters are just regular bunnies filmed in close-up without any context. Finally, a character describes them as "the size of wolves." Whatever their size, they're awfully cute with their twinkling noses! Especially the darling black-and-white ones!

3. The horror effects. The carnivorous bunnies attack anything that moves, including an unlucky cabbage-truck driver (this is referenced in "Curse of the Were-Rabbit," we're pretty sure), a family having a picnic, and a herd of horses. Yes, horses. It's just like "The Ring"! We see the horses freaking out and running, being pursued by close-ups of bunnies running in slow motion. Finally, a man in a bunny suit jumps on one. Close-up of bloody rabbit teeth! It is awesome. The bunnies also terrorize communities by running in slow motion through specially built dioramas. Picturing the scene on set just makes you want to die of the cuteness. The whole movie is much like the scene with Kim Jong-Il's panthers in "Team America: World Police."

4. The storyline. I liked that this movie skips the "horrifying realization" scene - my God, these attacks can only have been a giant rabbit! - and goes straight on to have the characters calmly discuss what to do about their new giant-rabbit problem. Apparently they just figure it out offscreen. I also really liked that the climax allows a drive-in movie audience to "participate" in the action and help defeat the killer rabbits. This movie is warm and fuzzy on so many levels.

Final Girl has a spiffy review here.

Next: Watership Down!

Missing

No, I don't miss Opening Day at all, but there are quite a few things about Ohio that I do miss. There are days I would pay a thousand dollars for a Girth Burger - we have found nothing like Zip's out here. Sure, there are good burgers, but no super-cheap ones within walking distance that have great beer on tap, an AE-friendly ambiance and an Art Boy-friendly TV showing sports. And no place with a grilled split mettwurst on top of a hamburger. Oh God, I miss those damn things. I bought a Zip's shirt before leaving, but I don't ever wear it, because it makes us both sad.

I also miss my garden. It's sunny and gorgeous here, and my Jaune Flamme tomato plant is already putting out tiny green maters, but I just wonder what is coming up in my old yard. Probably some volunteer borage in the front, and probably some sage since I can't possibly have dug it all up, and almost certainly some black plum tomato plants in the side yard where the squirrels always dropped a few seeds while making off with my fruit (little bastards). And I can't have gotten all the bulbs dug up.

Not to mention Southgate House, and Sushi Ray, and the Mercantile Library (which I can't bring myself to take off the links list), and the purple bridge, and The Dock on Thursdays, and restaurants where you can actually park without a valet or a meter, and the noble Plum Street Cafe. And of course, there are the people, way too many to list. I've really got to visit. I miss you guys.

Anniversary

Around about now is the anniversary of my first trip to this city (both the greater L.A. area and my current home of Santa Monica, by coincidence). I remember arriving on April 2 because it's Gran's birthday. I wished so much I could have talked to her about moving out here; she would have had some interesting and probably very no-nonsense advice. Anyway, I look back very happily on that week and its series of marvelous revelations: this city is beautiful; there are plants everywhere; the people here are friendly and kind; this job is both manageable and desirable; there are people here I already really, really like. Amazingly, all still holds true a year later. Although I'm having trouble finding a damn basil plant.

Art Boy and I worked out that Cincinnati's Opening Day was while I was gone last year. The year before that I walked around outside the ballpark taking pictures while the game was going on. It's well established that I loathe sports, crowds and fun, so I was much happier on the outside. I'm afraid I'm much happier outside of Cincinnati as well, although I certainly wish it all the best. So merry Opening Day, y'all. I know Art Boy misses you.

They have liveoaks here

Another point for Southern California. And to think, I used to actively not ever want to live in this state. It just sounded too big and trendy and irritating. I have found it amazingly accessible. This photo was taken on a ramble at Eaton Canyon, just outside Pasadena.

Today's book: "The Mystery of Edwin Drood." I picked this up without remembering it's Dickens' unfinished novel. This library copy has been "finished" by someone else. The first three chapters are marvelously moody and strange - the book begins in an opium den - but it's very frustrating to start and know that nobody has any idea how Dickens meant it to turn out. The mystery, apparently, is quite obvious, so the theory goes that he was planning something really complicated. But it is not known what. I emailed my sister to tell her I was having regrets about getting involved in this, and she crisply replied that she always has regrets about getting involved in any Dickens novel.

Art Boy and I are still trying to get over the "Battlestar Galactica" finale. When he wakes up I'm going to propose we rinse our brains out with bleach. The big revelations were fine, it was just the song, the song... dear God. Oh well. I heard the series finale of "Rome" was worse. Maybe the lack of an ending isn't so bad.

This is a delightful woodland romp, with many of the best scenes featuring a roly-poly toad

Art Boy and I are sorry to learn that Ricky Gervais' "Extras" is over after two seasons. It's quite worth Netflixing season 1. Although, like his "The Office," many scenes are impossible to watch without your hands over your eyes. I can't decide if this agonizing style of comedy should be called "embarrassment horror" or "embarrassment porn." Anyway, we love Ricky almost as much as we love the CNN "Story Highlights" boxes. And we love this Sir Ian McKellen scene, although I am not going to do one of those YouTube links with the little screen on my blog because I don't feel like it.

Today's beer: Black Toad dark ale, featuring a handsome Bufo exsul on the label.

Plants, food, books, sun = happy

Finally the sun is out. It fought through the clouds while I was at the farmers market getting lettuce and avocadoes, as well as allowing myself to be seduced by a black krim tomato plant as well as another black variety, this one from Japan. On the way home I stopped at the library and got "The Mystery of Edwin Drood" and "Savage Beauty," that Edna St. Vincent Millay biography. Last night I started Arturo Perez-Riverte's "The Club Dumas" and almost immediately lost patience with it, so am happy to have something else. TCD may not end up being bad, but it gave me "Shadow of the Wind" flashbacks, and nobody wants those. Well, actually, a lot of people probably do but not me.

Going outside with leftover pizza and a beer to get some work done.

Is there a word for ...

... when you're walking home from the grocery store and suddenly know with a dismal certainty that you have piled everything in your shopping bag - which includes laundry detergent, frozen-food items and a bottle of sweet vermouth - on top of your eggs? Because there should be. Miraculously, not a one was broken.

Today it was foggy and cloudy and it rained. It's been like this all week! I cannot stand this weather. Art Boy has been going around piously saying things like "You need the bad to have the good" and "You need the yin for the yang." I have been kicking him in the crotch. A pox on cloudy weather.

To the lists at right I am adding:
- the fair Bury my lovely, who writes as well as she sings, which is to say very very beautifully;
- the lovely Final Girl, who liked "The Descent" and "High Tension" as much as I did and whose "Dog Soldiers" review title I stole without meaning to;
- and the erudite You Don't Say, where the grammar is always impeccable.

I am also restoring Tavern Wench, which I took down after moving away from Cincinnati, because I keep checking it anyway. If only she would update more often... but the posts she has are worth the wait.

Last bachelorette night

I am enjoying my last night as a temporary bachelorette (how was the St. Patrick's Day dance, Art Boy?) with a nice cigar and a viewing of the last half-hour of "Revenge of the Sith." I really feel Lucas covered a multitude of ills with this. The last shot alone, of the sunset on Tattooine, is so very beautiful. It doesn't matter that Obi-Wan just rode in on a CGI creature that doesn't look like part of the "A New Hope" world. And it is nice to hear the pretty pretty Luke and Leia musical themes. Not good, exactly, but marginally less evil... sort of like voting Democrat in 2008 is going to be.

Sebastian is the only cat in this house oblivious to cigar smoke. Isis and Anastasia are off hiding, convinced as usual that the house is on fire. If the house ever does catch on fire, catching one of our good cats is going to be a real hassle.

Plunge and scrub

Happy St. Patrick's Day, my little Shannons and Josephs! I caught myself reciting "Far and Away" dialogue while washing my stockings this morning. Unfortunately for Art Boy, I have not done very much household-type scrubbing while he's been away. The floor sorely needs vacuuming. But updating my blog before work is more important. Sorry, Art Boy! The world needs this post!

I am just in from a chilly walk around Santa Monica's Main Street. The coast is all socked with fog, and I imagine about two miles inland it is sunny and gorgeous. Everyone on the beach was under towels or had their arms pulled into their T-shirts. On my way down there I made eye contact with a Paul Bettany lookalike (mrrow! Sorry, Art Boy) who grinned at my green "Save Ginny!" T-shirt and said "Gotcher shirt on? All ready to go?" I realized what he meant when I got to Main Street. It's like Mount Lookout Square on steroids. Everyone is wearing green T-shirts and those big Dr. Seuss hats and shamrock antenna headbands. There are lines around the block to get into bars already. I am so happy not to be living next door to Millions and MLT this year, people, I could just scream. I walked around watching everyone stand in line, and then came home to my nice peaceful house for a nice bottle of Mackeson.

Be safe on the roads today. And if you find yourself all crowded up into the front window of a bar, for God's sake don't lean against the window....

Beware the... ah, forget it

Happy Ides of March, little caesar salads! I am back from a short trip to Nashville. It was really, really lovely to be at home, sleep in my own bed, tromp through the woods with my mom, and eat homecooked food. A couple of good friends came out to the house, as did my brother's wonderful family, so I did not even need to leave the old homestead. The nephew is into Star Wars now, which is an infinite relief after his years of NASCAR obsession.

Now there's some plant work to do - an orchid is inexplicably dying, and the carnivores need water - and a tax appointment to make. I apparently owe the government money this year... yuck. And, of course, there are the cats, one of whom was just bathing himself on the table until he lost his balance and fell off. Never a dull moment.

Here is the niece, practicing her "I'll never be hungry again" pose:

Awoo! Werewolves of Scotland

Art Boy and I dispatched some rare steaks yesterday and settled down with "Dog Soldiers," the previous film by "Descent" director Neil Marshall. Having cherished "The Descent," I was willing to set aside my aversion to movies about soldiers, particularly since this group of soldiers comes under attack by werewolves in the Scottish wilderness. Outstanding! For the first hour, this movie is just about perfect. There's a good opening scare followed by a quick but chilling scene introducing two of the main characters. By the time it's over, Marshall has efficiently established his hero, his villain, his monster, his setting and his mood. He is so good.

The excellence continues as our soldiers tramp through the woods, gradually coming to realize that they're up against something bad. As in "The Descent," Marshall does a nice job setting up a group of individual characters, who bicker and tease each other, and who respond to the increasing stress in their own idiosyncratic ways. And as in "The Descent," there are witty film references. The soldiers, along with a fetching zoologist, take refuge in a farmhouse that they board up and defend "Night of the Living Dead"-style. "Short, controlled bursts," their commander advises, echoing an order from "Aliens." And one of the guys is even named Bruce Campbell - a reference that feels especially fitting as notes of high camp start to intrude.

Really, once the soldiers are inside the house, it all goes downhill. This is a real shame - I love horror movies set in houses. But here, none of the defenses are logical (sometimes the windows are boarded, sometimes they aren't), and keeping track of the soldiers' positions becomes impossible. They make an NOTLD-inspired run to an outbuilding to retrieve a car, then once it's back at the house, they sit around and listen to the zoologist play "Clair de Lune." What? It's like Marshall decided to have it go several directions, shot several different second halves, and then spliced them all together. At one point I turned to ask Art Boy what was going on, and he had fallen asleep. Let's not even get into the werewolves themselves, who are admirably not CGI creations but who unfortunately resemble interpretive dancers wearing silly masks.

Still, since the first hour was so good, and considering it was direct-to-video, I recommend "Dog Soldiers." You might try drinking a lot during the first half so you don't notice the second half as much.

"Come on, let's go" visit a famous grave!

Some of my readers are now sighing and rolling their eyes in what I can only hope is loving exasperation. Yes, today I headed into the San Fernando Valley to visit the grave of deceased teenage rock star Ritchie Valens, subject of the film "La Bamba," which wrought havoc with my 11-year-old hormones. The cemetery, San Fernando Mission, is very easy to find and its employees are happy to help visitors find the headstone for Mr. Valens and his mother, who died in 1987 (the year the movie came out!). The employee that I asked said "Ohhh, Ritchie Valens!" in delighted tones and gave me very good directions. It was a ways off, and when I got closer I asked a second employee for help. "Ohh, Ritchie Valens!" he said delightedly and led me to the stone you see above. I studied it a bit self-consciously, and he used his shovel to trim a bit of grass from the edge, before realizing this was perhaps not conducive to a solemn graveside experience and walking away.

It is impressive to contemplate that this boy was only famous for eight months before he died. They are extremely proud of him in his nearby hometown of Pacoima; at least one public building is named for him, and the city went bonkers when he got inducted into the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame in 2001. Do you remember the opening scene in "La Bamba" where the planes crash into each other and destroy the school? That really happened at Ritchie's Pacoima school, and he was really not in class that day because he was attending his grandfather's funeral. The Times had an article about it a few months ago.

I strolled around the cemetery a bit more, and the first employee drove by and saw me, apparently wandering hopelessly lost many yards from where I was supposed to be. "Over there!" he called, vigorously pointing to the grave. I smiled and waved, which he took as a sign of imbecility and pointed with even greater vigor. I finally had to bawl "Yes, I found it, thank you!" across the placid cemetery lawn.

Bob Hope is buried there too, but I don't care about him.

spring at the edge of the desert

A thousand apologies for the recent lack of updates. I have not been up to a whole lot. Last week I got sick. This week I had to attend a meeting about the Internet in which such concepts as blogs were explained to us. Tonight I shall have to cope with the Libby verdict (which is a genuine surprise, although I suppose it shouldn't be, since Rove has to be protected at all costs. It's a recurring nightmare of mine to be charged with perjury based on memory lapses, though. I would be doomed. Poor Scooter).

This week has felt oddly springlike. It's hot and dry all of a sudden, and there's no smell of mud or new growth or any of the other things I associate with spring. A certain giddiness has just entered the air. The other day I put a chocolate egg in my pocket and forgot about it until hours later when it had melted all over my pants; I hadn't done that since about age six. Anastasia, normally a calm cat, upended a flower pot yesterday afternoon. Something is brewing.

Photos TK of my lovely new carnivores, who all seem to be adapting to life on the patio. One of the sundews is unfurling in four directions like an adorable little octopus. Meanwhile, every fan of "Jane Eyre" should be reading "Villette." This book is incredible.

Oscars

Well, the Oscars were actually faintly interesting this year. Go them! I spent my evening working in between two TVs that were playing the telecast on a slight delay; an award would be announced on one, then two seconds later on the other one. By the end of the night my head hurt, but at least that dreadful "Little Miss Sunshine" movie didn't win. I'm fine with Martin Scorsese. I think mobsters are dull but it sounded like a better-qualified film than most of the other nominees, if my beloved "Children of Men" couldn't make the cut.

I felt bad for the gang on the red carpet as it was pretty cold and gray here. Art Boy went to a NASCAR race, at which he thoughtfully secured a trinket for my cute nephew, and complained that he was absolutely freezing. Perhaps the folks back home would like to tell Art Boy what he can do with his freezing-cold 50-degree weather? Head on over to his blog.

Sound and vision

Hmm. Well, finally watched "The Prestige." I dunno, kittens. Maybe it's just sort of the inherent goofiness of seeing the action onscreen, as opposed to imagining it in a book; maybe it's being asked to accept Hugh Jackman as a more personable stage presence than Christian Bale (what is with his accent? Every time he opened his mouth I wanted to toss a tomato. Why is he American while Christian's character is some sort of Cockney?); maybe it was the loss of the multigenerational flashback element of the book that I enjoyed so well. (Southern girls love a good multigenerational epic. We'll settle for a framing device.) Maybe it was just having "Batman Begins" flashbacks. It was fine. It could have been much worse. It could also have been much better.

I very much like the mood of this film. The sense of dread builds very nicely: dead birds lead to a dead, well, bird (we are in England), and the rival magicians' one-upmanship gets gradually nastier and nastier. I love when one of them finally meets Tesla, and gets to stand around in a series of impressive set pieces, realizing he's dealing with something authentic, not just for show, and very potentially unpleasant. David Bowie is awfully cute; his accent is great; but somehow Andy Serkis gets to have all the most fun with the Tesla scenes. How did that happen? Who let Andy in here thinking he wouldn't run off with a scene?

The final twist ends up, to my mind, making a great deal less sense than it does in the novel. A bizarre turn has been added that makes it much more unpleasant on a great many levels. The marvelous goth creepshow sequence that crowned the novel has been turned into a sort of shocker final shot. Also, Michael Caine is all well and good, but I'm not sure why he has to narrate events. Obviously the two magicians are unreliable, but introducing a third character only complicates events. Does his character have a big secret too? No, I suppose not: here are the end credits. And poor Scarlett Johanssen. I love her, but anyone would've done in this role.

Still, it gets three stars out of five from me: one for the marvelous, Edward Gorey-ish image of a pile of black top hats in a snowy forest; one for Christian Bale; and one for Mr. Bowie, who, it goes without saying, may carry me off if he ever wishes to visit L.A.

Salon has a nice review here. I'm sorry if you have to watch an ad.

The grocery store is unfair

I put off going to the regular grocery store for weeks, making do with the house-brand goods at Farmer Ted's for as long as possible, but tonight I had to get dish soap and butter and facial scrub and a rotisserie chicken, and there's only one place within walking distance that has all those things. It took about the length of one song for me to pick everything up and get checked out, and that one song was Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control." Why? Why? I could have dealt with, say, "Hungry Eyes." A Go-Go's song started up as I was leaving. Goddamn grocery store.

This is not an intended slur on Eric Carmen's singing skills, but if I were to use the word "batrachian*," would anyone here know what I meant? I had to look it up recently and am trying to figure out if that was just me or not.

*I apologize for the earlier misspelling. It is my weekend and I have been kicking up my heels by misspelling terms for amphibians. Don't say copy editors don't know how to have fun!

You choo-choo-choose me?

Our Valentine's Day was nearly wrecked by a last-minute discovery that Art Boy and I do not, between us, own Season Four of "The Simpsons" and therefore do not own the "Monster Mash" Valentine's Day episode (such ugly realizations are among the many hazards of moving in together). But we managed to muddle through. I rather thought last night's "Lost" was one of the most lavishly romantic episodes to date; I just love Des and Penny, particularly since Penny looks exactly like Catherine Deneuve. Today I have been waltzing around humming tunes from "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg" and ordering forked-leaf giant sundews for the back patio. Also slept through my yoga class and had cookies for breakfast. Life is nice. Art Boy is pretty nice too.

Finding stuff

While hunting up information about "The Passenger" (after hearing Siouxsie's version on WOXY vintage), I came across this little essay over at Swoon. I don't know that it's necessarily a bad thing that finding stuff has gotten so much easier with the Internet. I do worry about the divide it creates socially: not every kid is going to have access to a computer growing up. And about how much easier it could get to sell kids things. Anyway, either way, "The Passenger" rocks.

Today's list:
Repot Nepenthes
Take nice brisk walk
Finish chapter of Spanish book
Attend flamenco class

Monday update

Just back from a semisuccessful trip to the hardware store... bought some sticky carpet-runner stuff to cover the areas of the floor where Sebastian likes to make messes, and some lovely cheap red pots. "Are these for Valentine's Day?" asked my eyelinered sales clerk, who looked about 15.
"Ah, no. They're just for me," I said. "What are you doing for Valentine's Day?" she asked doggedly. I explained that my Art Boy wasn't much of a fan. "That's terrible!" she said. "I just found out my boyfriend was cheating on me for seven months. But how can your boyfriend not like Valentine's Day?" So take that, Art Boy!

Meanwhile, Nashville's mayor has made me proud, and the Anna Nicole paternity case is starting to sound like Richard III to me. I hope not a one of these conniving "fathers" gets a cent of the Marshall estate.

Wrung out

I am still what the good Spanish call agotada after last night's shift. Does anyone want to know anything about Anna Nicole Smith? I know more than I ever wanted to. There is no good way to scour this information out of one's brain.

More housekeeping

Adding Big Country to the links list. It took me 16 years (Jesus Christ) to get around to following his recommendation to see "Becket," but he was absolutely correct. The Times' film critic accurately described the two leads as "incandescent." It's a marvelous film.

I don't know that I'll be rushing out to rent "New Jack City," nonetheless...

Home alone

Art Boy is in what he likes to call Sub Diego on a fun-sounding business trip. I am here by myself. Come and get me, ruffians! Tonight I plan to take myself to see the restored limited-run showing of "Becket" at the Nuart, and then come home and make a big pile of vegetables with chicken and peanut sauce. Mmm... broccoli.

Otherwise all is well here. My minibog is recovering nicely from last week's rain, and the lemon tree is sprouting new growth all over the place. The Nepenthes are suffering from low humidity, but they're surviving and the sooty mold they brought from Ohio (sorry, California agriculture!) seems to be dissipating. I think they will be showy and gorgeous again in a couple months.

Today's book: "The October Country" by Ray Bradbury. I have been a bit disappointed with Ray in recent years, having found "From the Dust Returned" a bit unfocused (despite its stupefyingly gorgeous cover); and finally having read "Something Wicked This Way Comes" only to be reminded that I am not intrigued by carnivals. But this short-story collection jumped off the shelf at Dutton's into my arms the other week and I have been enjoying it immensely. Ray is a pumpkin pie, and he lives in L.A. I do not know that he would be able to carry me off, as he is an aged gentleman, but if I ever meet him I will snuggle him.

Housekeeping

After having lurked around their blogs for some time (how sinister!), I am adding Eileen and Carrie to the blogroll. They are awesome blogs and it's an honor to link to them.

I have also alphabetized the people I know to move up Art Boy. Not that he links to me from his blog or anything. Last night we had one of our Mac/PC fights so I really am not going to get into this right now.

Iron Man vs. Daredevil: Who will prevail?

Bill: Tell me...why the hell does Iron Man get a live action and an animated movie? He couldn't carry Daredevil's jock...I'm just saying.

Me: Iron Man gets to have a cartoon and a live-action movie because he is IRON MAN! He is the biggest and strongest! He is wealthy and desired by many women! Daredevil is a weirdo who sleeps in a special pressurized chamber like Michael Jackson. He desires women who desire their fathers. Iron Man is clearly the winner. I'm sorry to tell you this, but you did ask.

Bill: The following I write with all due respect. Iron Man is a drunk, womanizing, cheap Howard Hughes knockoff with the most flaming mustache I've ever seen. Without his armor he wouldn't be a match for the crack-addict bag-lady on the corner. Daredevil, on the other hand, faces down hordes of gunmen with nothing but his stick and giant set of balls (I'll give you his issues with woman though). It's also not nice to call the handicapped weirdoes. I thought you were more evolved than that. His sensory deprivation chamber rocks. His senses are sexy. DD's a martial arts-boxing-acrobatic rock star. He protects those who can't protect themselves while others (like Iron Butt) only look after their wallet. Clearly DD is the winner in all ways of substance.

Me: What was I thinking?

Laaaaaaaaaa!

A young Nepenthes pitcher sings lustily at San Diego's Balboa Park. You didn't know tropical pitcher plants knew how to sing? You should get out more.

TV

I feel that I watch a lot of TV. Here is what Art Boy and I are watching right now:

- "Arrested Development" reruns (in no particular order). We're both pretty besotted with this. My favorite thing ever is Tobias as Mrs. Featherbottom. Remembering Jason Bateman from the teen years it is just really amazing to watch him walking around being such a damn cutie. It should give hope to awkward teens everywhere, or at least those appearing in unfortunate films. I think he now looks like Steve Martin. (Steve Martin, by the way, may carry me off if he comes to the door and asks nicely. This offer now applies to Mr. Bateman as well.)

- "The Office." Everyone in the universe apparently watches this. We do too. Team Karen.

- "30 Rock." We both have a simmering passion for Tina Fey. My feeling about this show at first was that, while Tina is a genius writer who may have anything of mine she likes including Art Boy, she is just not an actress. I have changed my mind; her interplay with Alec Baldwin every week is consistently genius. And the show is gradually turning into the ensemble thing it seems intended to be. We like it. But her cleavage vexes me; I find it a distraction from her sexy glasses.

- "Battlestar Galactica." Our favorite show! It's back tomorrow. So much has been written about why this show is brilliant; I'm not sure I can add to it. (Salon has a nice essay here.) Art Boy has some kind of weird deep-seated loathing for Edward James Olmos, so his affection for this show is a great testament to its quality. I can still tear up thinking about the pilot. The writing is brilliant and the space fights are awesome and the characters are all the kinds of people you want to both befriend and strangle. Oh God, I can't wait for tomorrow.

- "Lost." I no longer count myself a fan of this show but will probably grumblingly watch the rest of season 3 with Art Boy when it starts back up. "Battlestar Galactica" really killed this show for me. It has all the show's best elements: an isolated group of flawed people, sometimes fighting and sometimes trying to compromise, not really knowing what they're up against; some sci-fi, some spirituality; some searing ethical dilemmas. And it does them much better. I don't give a shit anymore about Sawyer and Kate with her little hot handcuffs and flowered dress. Whatever.

- "Blind Justice." He's a cop! Who's blind! Some baddies beat him up and steal his guide dog! It's Blind Justice! Art Boy won't let me watch this.

Is that a lot of TV? Yes, that is a lot. Sorry, good colleagues, I will not be watching "Project Runway" and talking about it with you. There's just no room.

Girls' day in

I am enjoying a pleasant midday in, working on a personal project and enjoying some new music from LaLa. Today's CDs: Dolly Parton's "Halos & Horns," the final installment in her bluegrass trilogy; and a marvelous Madonna "Like a Prayer" EP, with two seven-minute mixes of the title song. I had the latter on a record as a preteen and remember being enormously thrilled with it. Hearing a familiar song mixed a different way gave me such a frisson - it was like all the furniture in my mind had gotten broken up and rearranged. Listening to them now, there's not a whole lot to them, but I do still love this song. Dolly is nice too.

Last night I listed for an alarmed Art Boy the half-dozen people who may have anything of mine they like if they come to the door and demand it: Dolly, Nanci Griffith, Kate Bush, Patti Smith, Tina Fey and Tony Jaa. (Madonna doesn't make this list; she may not arouse my protective instincts in the same way.) I explained to Art Boy that Tina Fey is the only one who is also allowed to carry him off if she asks. At his request, I am also making this option available to Tony Jaa.

Anyway, back to work.

I do not hate everything

We saw a couple of good movies over my weekend. The first was "The Descent," which Art Boy rather surprised me by Netflicking. It concerns a bunch of women cavers getting chased by monsters, and sounded profoundly goofy to me, but he noted it was showing up on several critics year-end "best" lists. So into our movie-playing-device it went, and gosh, it was good. The cavers female-bond in a way that's realistic and cute, but never exploitative. I don't know that a movie about monsters pursuing ladies in tank tops can ever be quite feminist, but it is at least intelligent. As the cavers' adventure develops, they make a series of extremely reasonable decisions (except for one of them, who's confronted about it); their fate feels all the more horrifying for being so inevitable. And, these being women, there are complicated relationship issues going on. I highly recommend this movie to anyone who doesn't suffer claustrophobia...

We also went out to a proper theater to see "Children of Men," which my employer hailed as the new "Blade Runner." Not far off the mark. Clive Owen is impressively Harrison Fordesque with his brooding eyes, subtle pout and dystopian stubble. But unlike Deckard, whose inhumanity and self-loathing grow throughout "BR," Owen's character Theo is allowed to find redemption and hope. The movie is bleak but remarkably beautiful and upbeat. It's also full of animals - who seem to get special attention in a gray futuristic world without children - but none of the animals is ever hurt, which I appreciated. Alfonso Cuarón is a darling little lambkin.

What else do I like? Sally Timms, pink gin, my Nepenthes, Charles Dickens' "The Haunted House," reruns of "Arrested Development," the view out my computer-desk window (a square of perfect blue sky stacked on a square of pale yellow stucco: the house next door), Art Boy, my friends, having a heater. I hate pretty much everything else. Cheers!

Ay, España*

Art Boy and I went to see Pan's Labyrinth a few nights ago. I thought I would love it and I hated it. Isn't it awful when that happens? All the critics blathering on about "oh, it's a fairy tale for grownups" should have tipped me off. Things that strike other people as magical tend to get on my nerves.

But with Pan's L., it's not so much that it's irritating as that it just is not a fantasy movie. Sure, it has Otherworldly Scenes with Fanciful Monsters. Those take up approximately 15 minutes of total screen time. The entire rest of the movie is about a little girl being slowly tortured to death in fascist Spain. If the movie had been summarized thusly, I might have been less disappointed, but every critic is going on and on about the cool monsters... they are nice, but instead of getting to watch a movie about them, we have to watch the antics of a tedious fascist captain who, in case you missed it, is The Real Monster. There is no payoff; there is really no story to speak of.

Art Boy and I had an interesting discussion afterward about fantasy. I feel very strongly that any fantasy story has to hold to its own set of rules, and part of the problem with Pan's L., I thought at first, is that the rules are unclear. Art Boy made the valid point that the rules deliberately change as her situation changes. I've since changed my mind about this. The Otherworldly Scenes with Fanciful Monsters are so short and vague as simply to qualify as set pieces between the adult drama that makes up the rest of the movie. Which is, of course, all about Franco. Guillermo, my darling, please stop enabling Spain.

*correct accent mark added to pacify an increasingly demanding readership

Speaking of supervillains ...

...(which I maintain is one word) good ole Wil Wheaton is also thinking about supervillains. I am not surprised by my results on this quiz. (Art Boy's supervillain is that terrible Pittsburgh coach with the chin and mustache who looks like a puppet.)


You are Poison Ivy

You would go to almost any length for the protection of the environment including manipulation and elimination.



Click here to take the Super Villain Personality Test

Happy New Year, gangstas

Your scribe has returned from Tennessee without incident ... it was a lovely visit home. My niece and nephew are exceedingly cute, particularly the niece, who apparently developed a passion for bats after my last visit. I told her parents I would get her some black eyeliner and teach her the ways of the goths. (Oh, we adults are awful. Why can't we leave kids alone?) Anyway, I received some nice gifts, particularly from Art Boy, who gave me the sublime "Absolute Sandman Vol. 1," a compendium of supervillains (very comprehensive! I'm learning all about Solomon Grundy), a collection of Ricky Gervais podcasts and a much-needed bottle of Hendricks. Go Christmas!

Now it is time for New Year's ... I am not aware of any plans that we have, and I cannot ask Art Boy about it because he savagely beats me when I interrupt Bengals games. My plan is to get home from work sometime before midnight and count down to 2007 in quiet, adult fashion. Be safe, gentle readers!

Merry Christmas, gangstas

I'm off to Tennessee. Everyone be safe and well, please.

If anyone has time, you can enjoy my favorite Salon holiday article on the virtues of Pottersville. Art Boy is always completely appalled by this idea.

Do they still make wooden Christmas trees?

When I brought this home, I was very grateful to Art Boy for not yelling "You were supposed to get a good tree! Can't you even tell a good tree from a poor tree?" We'll repot it outdoors into a bigger pot (Art Boy, reading at work: "We?") after the new year and hopefully it will bear lemons for us. In the meantime, the leaves have a pleasing lemon scent, and it's holding my collection of 5 nice ornaments and Mardi Gras beads very nicely.

Better than a yule log

Ahhh. The furnace repairpersons have just left after installing our brand-new wall unit. At last we have heat in the house ... something we never thought we'd need when we arrived in L.A. during a heat wave this summer. But it has been down in the 40s at night, and with the photoperiod at its shortest (happy winter solstice, by the way!), we have been a wee bit chilly. Now, though, the wall furnace is happily chugging away, and there's a vent right next to the house PC so your scribe can be comfortable while she blogs. Hooray!

While they were working, I did my annual round of shortbread, which I will just take to the office. No trays were dropped upside-down on the floor this year. I have also wrapped Art Boy's presents and put them under the tree ... suppose should finish assembling Mom's Christmas gift to us (furniture) so can photograph the whole shebang. The five-CD changer has Charlie Brown up now ... I think Art Boy ran off with my Solstice CD this morning.

Ah, speaking of this morning: The cat was startled by something and ran across my face, digging in with her back claw in her alarm. Two of her toenails caught on the edge of my mouth and dragged down slightly. My first words to Art Boy today were "Am I bleeding?" I did not bleed, but I have two lovely small scratches that resemble whiskers. And this is one of our good cats.

Anyway, furniture. Be back.

The Sounds of Christmas

As vaguely promised, here is a list of my favorite holiday CDs. Keep in mind that I generally loathe holiday music. Shopping this time of year is just agony... yesterday H&M (where I had to buy clothes for my sister) was pounding out the "Winter Wonderland" at top volume and oh oh oh, my ears. (Presumably it usually plays Madonna at that volume.) So this is really a select group. I've been playing them the last couple weeks and Art Boy has been amazingly tolerant.

"A Charlie Brown Christmas" soundtrack
Well, duh. You can perform the Charlie Brown dances in your living room, quote favorite lines to your tolerant art boy ("Don't you know a sarcasm when you hear it?"), and reminisce about making your friends watch the special in college. This music was also used to excellent effect in the Arrested Development episode "Good Grief."

"John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together"
Most of this album consists of weenie songs performed by John Denver. And then there's "Alfie the Christmas Tree," a bizarre narrative about a tree struggling with its feelings about being cut down and displayed in a living room, then suddenly concerned about nonChristians around the world (a thought which causes the tree to "pause"). Denver reads the whole thing in a voice cracking with emotion. But there are some great Muppet moments as well:

Gonzo: Now bring us a figgy pudding...
Miss Piggy: Piggy pudding?!
Gonzo: No, figgy pudding. It's made with figs.
MP: Oh. Sorry.
Gonzo: And bacon.
MP: What?

So you can either skip the weenie songs to the Muppet songs, or enjoy it all as one kitschy whole, which I have taken to doing in latter years. There are two CD versions floating around out there, one of them without "Little Saint Nick," which you need because of Animal doing the "Run run reindeer!" chorus.

"Christmas Caravan," The Squirrel Nut Zippers
Every Christmas my family listens to this and my mom wonders whatever has become of the Squirrel Nut Zippers. It was nice of them to produce this before going into hiding. My favorite tracks are "Carolina Christmas" (for the line "We're chillin in our underwear") and their loopy, infectious instrumental version of "Sleigh Ride."

"Christmas Is..." Johnny Mathis
I guess I shouldn't make fun of the late Mr. Denver for having been a weenie before endorsing music by Johnny Mathis. But dammit, Johnny is just so happy! You can't resist him! You can just hear the sleigh bells in his voice! I would love to see him perform. I bet he bobs up and down merrily. On this CD, just when you're starting to think he's a little too happy, he settles down with "Ave Maria," and it's pretty enough to melt even the toughest cynic. (And dear readers, that would be me.) Johnny also has a nice peppy version of "Sleigh Ride" but it is not on this collection... maybe for next year.

"An Even Scarier Solstice" The H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society
This CD really makes shopping easier, particularly because they've tackled many of the most annoying holiday songs and made them much more palatable. I was in J.Crew a few weeks ago and they were actually playing "All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth." Now, really, who wants to hear that? Everyone in the store looked annoyed. But I thought of "All I Want for Solstice is my Sanity," and was able to continue shopping with a serene smile on my face. I'm not just endorsing this album because one of the Arkham Carolers is me. You can't particularly hear me, thank heavens.

"Christmas with Johnny Cash"
I am still on the fence about this collection. I can't really stand listening to it all the way through, but if you're going to put a bunch of CDs in the changer and set it to "shuffle" (if any of you iPod people still do that), this is a fine one to include. It startles you in a nice way to hear "Jingle Bells" and realize it's Johnny Cash singing. Taken as a whole, though, his merriment is just a little forced. If anyone wasn't lighthearted, it was Johnny.

This had better not be about your cat, Ralph

I made up the bed this morning, but Sebastian unmade it and got completely wound up in the bedsheet. We normally don't like him to do this because then he does awful things necessitating immediate laundry, but right now he's just sleeping.



Anastasia and Art Boy share an affection for plastic storage bins.

Torrente, el brazo *tonto* de la ley

Oh dear. I am up early, huddled under a blanket with my coffee in the sharp morning chill of Santa Monica (we tried to get our heat turned on yesterday, and learned we must wait a few more days), waiting for e-mail confirmation that Art Boy successfully dropped off our rocket cat at the vet. What an action-packed sentence! Anyway, while I am waiting, I have been browsing Defamer and idly opened a link to a Variety story about why Spaniards dislike Ali G. At first I scrolled past it, then I thought, "well, actually, Ali G/Borat seems very much like the Spaniards' cup of tea." Going out and humiliating the man on the street, while wearing a funny suit, is right up their alley; and SBC is good about asking questions that confirm Europeans' ideas of how dumb Americans are. So what's the problem? Why, it's that Spaniards already have "Torrente," the hilarious cop created by Santiago Segura who points up the Spaniards' own prejudices. (I like on the IMDb page how the full title translates to both "The dumb arm of the law" and "The stupid arm of the law." Imagine having to sit around and figure out which might be marginally funnier to English-speaking audiences.) I have never actually seen "Torrente" but certainly his concept doesn't translate to me, so it's fair enough, I suppose, for the "Ali G" concept to not translate to Spain. In fact, it's rather endearing. Oh, little Spaniards, you and your Torrente and your "Shadow of the Wind." I will visit you and eat your food and make fun of your American movie posters, but even after living amongst you I will never understand you.

(Yes, this is a wordy post. Must type to keep warm.)

Aiee! Santiago Segura was in "Hellboy."

'Jericho' update

A paraphrased conversation from last night (although this is still not a TV blog):

Art Boy: I've given up watching "Jericho."
Me: What? Why?
AB: It finally dawned on me that it sucks.
Me: Well, it took you long enough.
AB: What did it was they finally found a generator... and they used it to plug in Christmas lights.

Art Boy will be surprised to learn that, according to The Los Angeles Times, "Jericho" is actually a hit!

Hell hath no fury like Jeane Kirkpatrick scorned

Well, Bill the Cat's ex-girlfriend has died. It was a stormy relationship, despite her sending him a box of chocolates shaped like Nicaragua with the note "For my Bill - Let's devour it together." He took advantage of her to sell secrets to the Soviets, ended up in the electric chair ("That do it?" "He's still going 'Thpthpth'") but survived, and also dumped her for Cornelia Guest, shooting up the neighborhood after she sent him dead flowers in retaliation. "Dear Bill: These roses were red, but now they're dead. I heard you're dating Cornelia - I wish you rocks in your head. Sincerely, Jeane."

She was trouble, Bill. T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

Speaking of HPL ...

A friend of mine sent me to this fabulous Random HPL Story Generator. Create your own, and annoy Weird Tales by submitting it to them!

Today's pile o' books and music

Finished "Cloud Atlas" a few days ago. It ended up with more of an overt social message than I had expected; I thought it would be all metaphysical and science fiction, but it closes with an urgent call for people to just generally behave better. I can see why my pastor sister-in-law liked it. And the futuristic image at the center of the book is very chilling: a hologram figure projected from an ancient device delivers a vital message that nobody understands. Very highly recommended. If you're one of those people who likes "Lost," you might like this. (I was one of those people until this season. Blech! But this is not a TV blog.)

Finishing up my lovely new edition of "At the Mountains of Madness," which I bought in a Joseph-Beth spree before leaving Cincinnati. It's a lovely edition with a surprisingly lucid introduction by China Mieville (I really hated his "Perdido Street Station"). He makes the interesting point that the shoggoth is Lovecraft's ultimate monster because it represents the seething mass of degenerate humanity that he saw on the streets & subway platforms of New York, and that he instinctively recoiled from. Mieville addresses Lovecraft's racism pretty intelligently, too. (The shoggoth is certainly not lily-white!) Anyway, the book itself is nice to reread; Lovecraft outlines his Elder Things mythos very clearly. I had agreed with biographer & ubernerd S.T. Joshi that what Lovecraft was creating was an anti-mythos, but after rereading this I'm not so sure. I can't say it's a favorite of mine, partly because reading it makes me cold (it's like watching "Dr. Zhivago") and partly because the Arctic explorer heroes are just SO scholarly. I can't deal with them tramping through this ancient city, in constant peril of their lives, discussing how the quality of the carvings here seems to be more decadent than the ones over here, and furthermore these seem to date from the Pleistocene, and blah blah. Certainly it is a Tale of Cosmic Horror rather than an action story, but you just want to yell at them to quit measuring the arches and RUN!

A better action story, also involving cosmic monsters, is Robert A. Heinlein's young-adult book "Have Space Suit, Will Travel." I picked this up at the library this week mostly because it was paperback and I had a long walk ahead. The Santa Monica Public Library is just stunningly gorgeous. Its front entrance hall is full of glass and is partly open to the element on nice days (which this was). I thought it would be a good book to read over lunch and it was. He's so sexist, and Lovecraft is so racist, but what are you going to do.

LaLa sent me a couple of CDs this week: the Broadway soundtrack of "Chess" and R.E.M.'s "Out of Time." I will defend "Out of Time" against that other album with the Andy Kaufman song to the death. The second side beginning with "Belong" is some of their best work. And the album overall has some great Mike Mills vocals, which is good for Mike fans like me. Sure, the first half is blah, but nothing on it is as offensive as "Sweetness Follows." (And it has "Losing My Religion," which was good until we all got so we never, ever need to hear it again.) I had a tape of it for a long time and am very happy to have "Half a World Away" and "Me in Honey" back in my life. LaLa is great for these kinds of CDs that you kind of want but don't want to buy at full price (or on iTunes or whatever the hell the kids do).

As far as "Chess" goes, well, it's nice to have "Someone Else's Story." And it's interesting to listen to the Broadway adaptation. It's the version we saw in Cincinnati - it's the only version you can see in the United States, for byzantine legal reasons. Tim Rice was very unhappy with the changes that were made and it sounds like he just refused to cooperate in places. "One Night in Bangkok," for example, has a couple lines that needed to be changed to fit the new plot, but instead of new lines there's just a pause in the song. It's nowhere near as good as the original cast recording, but I really do like Judy Kuhn. She's no Elaine Paige, of course, but her version of "Heaven Help My Heart" is much sweeter and more intimate. And "How Many Women?" is an interesting little number. The main reason I got this was for "Someone Else's Story," though. It's my favorite song to sing in the shower, although once I came out and Art Boy was looking miserable. "Are you going to leave me?" he asked.

Phew! That feels good.

When I grow up, I'm going to Bovine University!

Back home in Tennessee, my super-cute niece and nephew dream of the day they'll "graduate" and get to leave the pasture.

Survival, barely

A very sporting Art Boy and I survived my parents' visit, although I have been stricken with the hideous plague of nose & throat death. ("Sinus infection" sounds so boring.) There has been a very dry and cool wind the past few days, and a lot of people are suffering - last night at the office was a chorus of sneezes and coughs. After knocking myself out with Actifed the Wonder Drug last night, am much better today. And I think Mom and Dad suffered no ill effects. They enjoyed Santa Monica, did not seem too alarmed by all the homeless on the Promenade, and seemed interested in seeing my office.

Have not got much else to get excited about this month, save Christmas. Probably just as well.

My parents are coming

This time tomorrow I will be retrieving them at LAX! We should have a nice time. I suspect we'll mostly bum around Santa Monica, with perhaps a short trip into downtown for viewing of my office. So why am I so nervous? There's something about the parents' visit... the world inside your 30-year-old head collides with the world you grew up in, and there can be discrepancies, such as that you are living in sin with an Art Boy. I was going to spend today cleaning but I think I'm going to throw that over in favor of some yoga. And making dinner reservations. As long as dinner is planned for, everything else will fall into place, I'm thinking.

Outcome

With the addition of green bean casserole and pumpkin cheesecake from Sub Diego, Thanksgiving was completed satisfactorily. Everyone ate and got full and we just had a right nice time. I talked to Mom last night and she said everyone at the ancestral "Blackwood" manse was talking about my attempt to make rolls. She also said there were 43 people (it's a small manse) and zillions of toddlers running around, so it was a little chaotic. I rather enjoyed having a small adult gathering for a change.

And now it is time for Christmas music! At some point I will do a post running down my holiday favorites, but not today, as have not had enough coffee yet.

Today's book: "Cloud Atlas," by David Mitchell. This novel is outstanding, but I'm only halfway through it, and it's about to turn around and blow my mind I think. It's a series of seemingly unrelated story fragments that build on each other - the previous story is referenced somewhere in each new one, so it's like (as the critics on the back say) a puzzle box or Russian nesting dolls. I've reached the center "doll" now and it's about to all start coming together. It's like being at the top of the roller coaster just before the plunge.

Merry merry (scary)

The situation, updated:

Dressing: Done! I used rosemary instead of celery; this made it perhaps a bit dryer than otherwise.

Potato-apple gratin: Done! I hate baked apples so there's more potato than apple in it. Still, there it is. The key element is the gratin.

Rolls: Making an experimental second batch, just because I have time. We'll see which batch is better. I have always held that there's no such thing as too many rolls. One Thanksgiving at my aunt's I ate 13.

Art Boy: Home from work for a 4-day weekend, bearing a celebratory bottle of wine and seeming quite perky. We are kicking off the season of festiveness and lights and whatnot with some nice loud music. I do love this time of year, and it's even better not being freezing cold. *pauses to contemplate previous apartment, where the cold came through the edges around every window pane.* The best thing about it, though, is my Johnny Mathis "Christmas Is... " CD. Art Boy does not know about this yet, but oh dear readers, he will.

The situation

The situation is, his guns are bigger than mine and he has more of them.

.......Sorry. The situation in Emma's kitchen is as follows:

Turkey: In oven. Sorry, Big Country, I decided not to brine and smoke it. For one thing, the turkey I ended up buying is a bit ... large and will not fit in any of my containers for brining. (I considered using a plastic bucket, but Art Boy said he would take a picture of it and show everyone after they had finished eating.) So I gave it a salt-pepper-garlic-salt rub and then a nice butter rub before stuffing it full of whatever I had lying around (carrots, apples, potatoes) and throwing it in the oven. It's hanging out there now.

Gravy: Stock is in process on stovetop. Am planning to defy Mom's advice and not mince giblets to add to it.

Rolls: Rising. I had to really pry the recipe out of Mom, who like many of her generation is in love with prepackaged bread products. If the alternatives were bread from scratch or no bread at all, I would certainly understand. (Sort of like my friend's mom saying "I don't know why you girls today are all buying garter belts. We were so happy when pantyhose were invented.") Anyway, Mom apologized tonight for being so nonforthcoming, and explained that she's never had much luck with my aunt (her sister-in-law)'s recipe. After Granny "Blackwood" died, my aunt practiced making these rolls over and over and over and over until she got it right. God alone knows how my first batch will turn out, but the last thing I need is to piss off my other deceased grandmother.

Mashed sweet potatoes: Finished.

Emma: Drinking bourbon and secretly quite pleased to be in Southern California rather than East Tennessee.

RIP

Oh, alas. I am very sad about the death of Robert Altman. While I haven't seen the vast majority of his movies, I have returned to "M*A*S*H" many times in these five years. ("My God! They've shot him!" "Hot Lips, you incredible nincompoop, it's the end of the quarter.") It has proved a great comfort as we have nationally made asses of ourselves in Iraq. And "Prairie Home Companion," was, well, pretty good; fittingly, its subject is death. Anyway, RIP, sir. I hope to be half as crotchety and brilliant at 81, although I probably won't do quite so many drugs.

T minus six days

It has occurred to me that I should start thinking about Thanksgiving, particularly as dinner will be here. (If you're in the area, feel free to drop by around noon.) This morning I emailed Mom asking for some recipes, and she came through in spades as always. I will be making scalloped potatoes, cranberry relish, vegetarian dressing, turkey and gravy. My favorite line, from the gravy recipe:


Strain the solids out and chop whatever looks appealing to you of the giblets to add to the gravy.

It is always so hard choosing which giblets are the most appealing, but these sacrifices are what the holidays are all about. Meanwhile, I'm going to have to discreetly call my aunt and ask for her roll recipe. This is hard as have never phoned this particular aunt, discreetly or otherwise, but these are really really good rolls.

Anyone know of good elements to apply to turkey besides celery and onions? I hate celery and Art Boy hates onions. On the other hand, we're both really excited about the turkey.

Lalalalala

OK, I have to join Art Boy and many others in praising Lala.com. I wanted to support them because they revived WOXY, which is of course the future of rock 'n' roll, but it is just a lot of fun to browse their CDs. My want list includes some semi-obscure ones (first album by Mouth Music, anyone?) and four of them (including Mouth Music) are already on the way. This is particularly fun because Art Boy, whose tastes are genuinely obscure, is having trouble finding any takers for his unwanted CDs. All of my CDs are wanted by someone (except for the "Sunset Boulevard" soundtrack and a Ben Folds Five CD I took from my sister & should probably not be giving away anyhow). Nyah nyah, Art Boy!

Monday update

Absolutely no news from our household today. This is an update for the sake of an update. Art Boy and I saw a play on Friday and watched "Battlestar Galactica." Then I worked a couple of late shifts while AB partied in Hollywood. (Actually, I think he and some other guys just hung out watching "The Phantom Menace" and making fun of it.) Am spending my weekend tomorrow/Wednesday with friends in San Diego, which is expected to be buckets of fun. I just bought some cat food. That's all. Carry on.

Oh democracy II

Well, that was rather exciting. My favorite election-night activity was refreshing a page with the Virginia returns every 2 minutes. It's Allen! Now it's Webb! Now it's Allen again! A colleague and I kept calculating the difference and yelling it back & forth. It was more fun than 2004 because there was just so much less hope Tuesday. And it's nice that the Democrats have Swept Back Into Power, but Art Boy and I are pessimistic. We agreed last night that Bush can now blame the Democrats for everything that happens in Iraq; he will have no problem claiming serenely that Iraq was going great until now. In a year or so, he'll be able to spin Rumsfeld's departure to look like it was forced upon him by the Democrats.

Art Boy has been predicting Vice President Rice for the past couple of years. Now Buck has joined the chorus. I've always argued this point with AB but I have to say it's looking like Bush's only hope of a legacy.

There have been remarks about Tennessee in light of Ford's loss in the Senate race. I refer the people who make these remarks to an excellent Nashville Scene article: "All politics is local. Whereas across the country, this midterm election was a referendum on the president and the Iraq war, the Tennessee election was a referendum on Ford Jr., his corrupt family and Memphis politics in general. That story, of course, was the one Tennessee voters knew but that national media ignored."

Meanwhile, my employer is in turmoil and may be purchased by a cadre of billionaires. And one of our cats has really bad breath. I need a drink.

Oh democracy

I get to go and vote against Arnold Schwarzenegger today - yet another one of those things I never imagined I'd be doing. (Another was sitting on the beach listening to my mom recount the plot of "Thong Girl 3" over the phone.) And then I get to go to work and stay late while we see what havoc the electronic voting machines wreak. At least there will be pizza! Democracy = pizza!

Art Boy has some great snapshots from our Halloween-location road trip. Evidently the one of me in front of the Myers House, holding my sunglasses like a butcher knife, was not good enough for him. Hmph.

We saw "Borat" the other night. I love Borat dearly. I have been comforted this election season by thinking of the episode where he goes door-to-door with a candidate saying "If you do not vote for my friend, he will take power!" And the movie was funny, but he really goes out of his way to make people miserably uncomfortable, and it sat poorly with me afterward. Yes, great comedy provokes, and Richard Pryor, and blah blah; I've read several essays on this subject. But it's just mean to smash up a guy's antique store because he has some Confederate-flag items, and to humiliate a dining society because they live on Secession Drive. I don't find it very cricket for an Englishman to come over and act like Confederate flags are all crazy. I know they all wrote papers in school on the civil-rights movement and think American Southerners are just savage, but perhaps they should deal with their own problems. Anyway, it wasn't all bad. We did love the frat boys on the bus. (Even though they were Southern, and he got some racist comments out of them; that was their own fault.)

Today's book: "Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife" by Mary Roach. I'm disappointed in this one. It's got some great trivia but her writing style is way too snarky; it reads like some editor called her up and told her she needed to sound more like Sarah Vowell. Every other sentence is a completely irrelevant aside. It doesn't deserve its beautiful cover (which is prettier than the one Powells is selling).

EWW

I was just doing yoga here in the dining room and discovered a clump of apparently-human hair painted into the baseboard. It's all covered with white paint. You can hardly see it unless, say, you're standing with your head near your ankle. Eww eww eww eww eww!! I love it.

It's not October without these

I am just hopelessly in love with my own severed-finger cookies. It's Martha Stewart's recipe, but I modify it with greenish food coloring and almond slices instead of whole almonds for the fingernails. The slices tend to break irregularly and look really disgusting. This year I made a batch to take to work. Art Boy is always completely and utterly horrified by the fingers, but this year his horror gave way to fascination and he picked up a camera:



Granted, it's not October at all anymore. I woke up this morning after a night of Michael Myers nightmares and thought, "Halloween is over." My first sensation was relief. Onward to turkey and whatnot.

But the House of Restless Spirits that we visited last night was fabulous. Excellent sound effects and a quietly creepy aesthetic. You walk around the outside of the rooms and peek in at holograms, moving portraits and a doll that suddenly turns its head. Eek! I highly recommend it, if you're ever in Santa Monica on Halloween.

In the spirit(s)

Happy Halloween, ducklings! We have been getting in the spirit with some lively movies, including an old favorite of mine, "Pieces." "Pieces" is set in a college town where somehow the body parts of attractive coeds keep disappearing. The dean doesn't want a lot of fuss, so he gets a local policewoman to go undercover as a tennis instructor. Meanwhile, the killer continues his rampage, at one point boarding an elevator with a prospective victim while concealing a chainsaw behind his back in one hand. The kung fu professor is a red herring! The killer is a bastard! The final scene is a shocker! Art Boy seemed to like it.

Last night we watched "Lake Placid," which was definitely scripted by a TV genius, but was still pretty good. I would be interested in watching some more horror tonight but I fear Art Boy's patience is running thin with these. Instead of handing out candy this evening, we're going to head over to a nearby haunted house and see how professional the special-effects are.

Art Boy and I carved a jack-o'-lantern (note tricky punctuation):

I don't know why anyone would lie to children

We had an excellent time at the Lemony Snicket reading the other night, as did hundreds of children. I was amazed how many actual kids were there, as opposed to slouching young adults such as ourselves. Mr. Snicket, unfortunately, did not show up in person, much to the bafflement of his Gothic Archies bandmates Stephin Merritt and Daniel Handler. They looked for him backstage and Mr. Handler placed an emergency phone call on a toy phone. Hanging up, he glowered at the audience and said, "I will spare you the ridiculous story I have just been told on this very convincing phone. I don't know why anyone would lie to children." Nonetheless the show went on, including the deft snatching of several books out of children's hands ("You see, it's easy to steal from children," Handler explained in his deadpan monotone), many warnings against Count Olaf and the books in general, and performances of "Shipwrecked," "Scream and Run Away," and "Smile! No One Cares How You Feel." Handler's dramatic reading from "The End" was accompanied by percussion from two audience volunteers, both girls around 8 years old. The auditorium was near a racetrack, and Handler stopped the girls before bringing them up onstage. "Do you know what normally happens in this room?" he asked them. "Horses are auctioned off. Creatures are led down this very aisle and sold from the stage." He paused thoughtfully, then added, "I wonder if that will happen tonight?" They loved it.

I bought a Gothic Archies CD, the liner notes of which Stephin Merritt was good enough to sign for me. The sweet-faced bookstore employees staffing the event didn't seem to know what to make of him. One gentleman with a megaphone was bouncing around the table telling everyone that Stephin was very grumpy - he seemed desperate to get a laugh or any kind of reaction, but Stephin just looked at him. Here is my awesome autograph:


We did not get a signature from Mr. Handler because our number was way too high - we stood a good chance of waiting until midnight and then being kicked out without a signature, particularly since we were not adorable moppets. But Art Boy took his picture with his cellphone. It's not very good, but here it is.


We were able to watch as he interacted with readers big and small. With the smaller ones, he would sign their book and then beg them not to take it back, offering a Post-it note instead. "This one is green," he implored a little girl. "Green like a leprechaun, in the grass, being eaten by a snake!" She took her book instead, and he screamed "WRONG CHOICE! I have FAILED AGAIN!" Another child's parents were forcing him to submit to too many photos. They took his picture as he approached the table and while he was having his book signed, then as he tried to leave they shoved him back in place for one last photo with Handler. Handler smiled sympathetically at him. "Are they always like this? Make your bed! Get me another bourbon! What a life, huh?"

Florence King once wrote, "Children are admirably gimlet-eyed before adults put them through the American make-over program," and the evening made me think she was right.

In "The End"

This started out as a reply to Kelly's last comment two posts down, and then I realized it was too long, so now it is a post!

I was just discussing "The End" with Art Boy over breakfast and trying to explain my frustration with the series. Much as I love it, it often feels as though Mr. Snicket is writing a long joke more than writing a story, and long jokes can wear thin. Sometimes it's not quite cartoony enough. My favorite installment is still "The Wide Window," which I think just strikes the perfect balance between the dreary (cold cucumber soup) and the ridiculous (Captain Sham).

Anyway, "The End" is similar in tone to the last few books. It introduces a bunch of new complications that Mr. Snicket obviously finds funny, but that don't answer the questions you've had. There are a couple of answers and some surprising revelations, and a satisfactory moving-forward of things at the end (I thought), but on the whole it was bittersweet. So many series subplots are just allowed to drop. It's probably best to warn you that the entire book takes place on an island. I kept waiting for them to leave and go back to some of the other places in the books, but they don't. It's certainly worth reading, though, if you've come this far.

The series never really recaptured my heart after "The Austere Academy." "The Slippery Slope" came close, partly because of the development of Sunny. I think Mr. Wufflekins is right about her: she could ditch the others and be fine on her own.

Dr. West, meet my Italian confidential secretary

We watched "Bride of Re-Animator" the other night, which we had been warned by a knowledgeable party not to do, but I thought it wasn't that bad. The highlight though was the very first scene, when the fetching female lead comes running into the tent. I whapped Art Boy ("ow!" he said) and yelled "It's Alotta Fagina!" So that was a thrill. (It looks like she's kept respectably busy ever since this movie. You go, Fabiana Udenio!) Once more, I could have done without the animals being horribly killed, but a talking severed head with bat wings covers a multitude of sins.

Meanwhile, here's a "Jericho" update from Art Boy:
Kansas has reverse 911 system! One woman can't wait for a latte! The internet was built by the military...it was meant to survive a nuclear war! (hmm. i doubt that)

Scream and run away

Today turned out to be my only day off this week; I am going to have some overtime money to spend on fripperies. My job is not particularly taxing but it's still uniquely exhausting to finish a seven-day stretch. Tonight Art Boy and I went to the beach to watch the sunset while eating excellent Belgian fries with garlic mayonnaise. It had been a couple weeks since we've been able to do that (and we'd never tried it with fries!), so it felt marvelous.

Earlier I drove to the rather fetching little community of San Dimas to visit Mrs. Nelson's Toy and Book Shop. The worthy Mrs. Nelson is sponsoring an appearance by Lemony Snicket next week and only gives away tickets with book purchases. So I picked up my copy of "The End," as well as really altogether too many other children's books considering I don't have children, and secured tickets for myself and a very sporting Art Boy. "The evening might run kind of late," warned the kindly cashier. "How old are your children?"

"Erm, they're for me and my partner," I said. "Am I allowed to go?"

"Why, of course you are!" she said. So that was a relief. Am very excited about the show, as we are also Stephin Merritt fans! I also scored a good-looking book for the niece and a Spanish-language edition of one of the nephew's favorite books, "David Gets In Trouble." He will be learning Spanish in kindergarten next year, the lucky little cabron.

Now Art Boy is watching the Mets/Cardinals game (it amazes me that I know who is playing and why it is significant; yes, grasshoppers, love really changes one) and I have been asked to choose a carryout service for dinner. I may instead have another Manhattan and get even sillier.