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.