Movie Watching

This weekend I caught up on lots of random movie watching.

Cocktail
This was on Movie and a Makeover, yet they did not do a makeover. Perhaps they did one and decided not to air it because it came out crappy. By now there has got to be a storage room somewhere (perhaps in Queens) filled with rolls and rolls of bloopers of various ill-fated makeovers, I’m sure Bob Saget is hording them all just waiting to make his comeback. Anyway…Cocktail. The first half of this film consists entirely of an ‘80s Tom Cruise throwing bottles in the air and catching them while dancing around and singing along to popular oldies. He uses his usual boisterous acting techniques: punching the air, clapping, and shouting, “alright!”, but somehow these things failed to endear me as they once so effectively did. They instead seemed really forced. It occurred to me that I’d much rather be watching a Michael J Fox film. Things really fell apart when Tom starts reciting bad poetry and the drama kicks in with Elizabeth Shue revealing she’s knocked up.

Blood Feast 2
This was of course not as charming as Blood Feast 1, mostly because it was made about forty years later, it did, however, continue with the same wonderfully absurd plot involving a catered party devolving into cannibalistic worship of an ancient Pagan goddess. There are lots of naked girls with names like Candy Graham and some charmingly low budget special effects.

The Graduate
This movie has given me something to look forward to. It’s extraordinary how sexy a pushy older lady can be. I can’t wait till I’m forty-something so I can talk in a low throaty voice and make demands on insecure younger men. “Ben, unzip my dress. Now!” I love any movie about depressed wealthy people with impetuous behavior.

I didn’t only watch movies mind you, I also found time to make my first springtime visit to the beer garden and had a long after midnight walk through Astoria. The highlight was discovering the brand new open all night Euro Mart. It’s an enormous supermarket filled with every random European treat you can think of, except for Yorkie Bars (the candy bar for men). I didn’t make any purchases, but I plan to make another 2am trip there very soon.

Stanger on a Train

Check out what Beth found in the Missed Connections section of Craig's List:

Girl With Glasses Who Rides The N from Ditmars To The 1 to Houston

I've been seeing you every morning for the past 8 months. You have black collar-legnth hair, a cute nose and wear squarish black rimmed specs. Sometimes you carry a bag with a picture of a robot on it. Although, you're cute in the extreme, I have a girlfreind and I'm not looking for romance. You just seem like someone it'd be interesting to know. I'm usually in jeans, a t-shirt and an open plaid flannel.

I have always dreamed of finding myself in the missed connections listings! I know exactly who the creepy man is that wrote this and yes, I'm slightly disturbed by the stalkerly quality of the posting, but also flattered.

Once again it brings me back to the topic of plastic surgery. I have long believed that a person's features are a portion of what defines them and to mess with them is just straight up wrong. To now know that a stranger has been admiring my "cute nose" every day on the subway confirms this belief 100%. What if I had gotten the bump on my nose shaved down in ninth grade? I would look like everyother nose-jobbed twit on television and I never would have found myself on the Missed Connections board.

It was so obvious that the only thing those Swan contestants needed was a little eye make-up and some self confindence. Maybe if someone got them robot bags they would realize that being attractive has nothing to do with looking like Amanda Byram.

The thing that makes me a thousand times sadder than The Swan is the current state of Meg Ryan's mouth. Her smile was the greatest. Her smile had me convinced that she was the happiest most genuine celebrity alive. Now she looks like The Joker. Meg why, oh why did you do it? We would have accepted you with mouth wrikles, I swear!

Lucky Ducky

A few weeks ago on Survivor they convinced the contestants that a luxurious trip to a spa means getting Oil of Olay rubbed on your back and all the Revlon make-up and Crest toothpaste you want. I laughed hard at that one! Those Survivor chumps had been fooled so bad, overflowing with gratitude and delight for average drugstore products. Thinking about it now I realize that the awful truth is I can relate. Nothing soothes me like a stroll through Eckard’s bountiful aisles and at the end of a rough week a brand new tube of Revlon lipstick truly does feel like salvation. Luckily I left dreams of nose-job behind in ninth grade, because this is nothing compared what’s happening in the rest of reality tv-land.

We all know that reality television isn’t about real life on television. Reality television is the overgrown version of our laziest super market fantasies. Dreams of a Magazine rack complexion and immaculate toilet bowl have multiplied like gremlins and now they are invading real life. People are indulging their urges to revert to child-hood and are letting the fantasy world take over. Now forty year-olds think the key to happiness is looking like Christina Agulera.

Yes, tonight I witnessed the monstrosity that is The Swan

In my wildest dreams never would I have suspected that television could reach a point so unethical, distasteful, disgusting, surreal, and utterly fascinating as this. I think a cult of television producer misogynists must be behind this one, it seems to surpass the usual corporate evil. It’s a highly powerful underground cult that worships at a Barbie doll encrusted altar (Scientologists perhaps?). They know how to get you too, the kicker for me was that the host was Amanda Byram of Paradise Hotel, how could I resist?

This secret cult's version of human sacrifice requires a complex ritual where a woman is chosen to be cast in the mold of The Doll. She appears before a group of wise ones, so called “experts and surgeons” to be judged. She assured multiple times that her witch nose will be fixed. She is then put under the knife. After the surgery she is not allowed to see a mirror while her swelled up, bandaged clown face recovers. During this time a “therapist” and a “coach” commence with the brainwashing. This portion of the ritual is shielded from the audience, so we can only imagine what the brainwashing might consist of. During this time the subject is deprived of food and occupied with endless physical activity. When the “healing” period is up she is put before the original panel of wise men and must face The Mirror. If she passes the tests she is entered into The Pageant where her new face under-go another bout of judging. When it’s all over the whole fleet of housewives with frozen smiles and surprised eyes will be sent back to Peoria and Omaha so that L.A. can infiltrate and destroy the rest of the country.

X-tra Protected Super Dri

I'm amazed by the relief that immediately washed over me upon returning to work. This morning I popped out of bed ready to go. It was supposed to be a nothing week, because my boss is OTB (that's Out of Town on Business, not Off Track Betting) instead it turned out to be a day of deodorant commercial caliber craziness.

I recieved a few irate calls from an big shot asshole agent, made rush photo searches for last minute books, found phone numbers to Italian hotels at 4:55pm so I could wake my boss from her slumber, all while doing my best to ignore the obnoxious raving of a semi-histerical managing editor. I must say I came through with flying colors, I was that confident and carefree extra-strength deodorant lady.

The zaniness was relief from a strange weekend. As soon as I arrived home on friday night I felt myself melt into incapacitating exhaustion and lethargy. Nothing could rouse me from it: not the long walks, not the coffee (ok, the three plates of dessert followed by 90 proof liquor were a mistake) the whole weekend I felt like my head was stuck underwater. I think I caught it from my brother, who will be in a half-dazed drugged up state for six months total. Anti-psychotics, what a bitch.

I'm just glad to be back in the city where I can distract myself by walking fast.

The Passion--for a chocolate bunny

I'm back home for Easter. I just remembered that I was here the first time I wrote on my blog, that means my blog is six months old, it also means that I haven't been home for half a year. I went to Stop & Shop tonight and felt really disoriented because the aisles were so wide and the shelves so tall, it looked like an Amazon grocery store compared to my little Queens Key Foods.
My old cat is eighteen, her fur is looking all faded and mangy, her mama lived to be 22 though, so I'm not worried. Whenever I'm far away and I think of home I get this idealisic vision of my mom reading Vogue and drinking tea in our sunny little kitchen. She changed her subscription to Elle, but the kitchen is even sunnier than I remembered and the tea supply is vast.

As I was planning this trip home I had visions of the bountiful Easter basket that would await me, but today it occured to me that perhaps my mom might have forgotten that I'm even if I'm technically a grown-up I still need an easter basket. Lea called her for me, pretending we weren't together and casually asked about the basket situation. I was able to breath a sigh of relief because my mom confirmed that I am indeed getting one.

Recently I recalled the long past easter tradition of bonnets. Every year we'd go to Bradlees and I'd get a new straw bonnet for the holiday. I loved it because as a kid I had a fondness for anything that seemed to be of the olden days. I always wanted a pair of those Mary Poppins/Can-Can dancer boots that are black on the foot part and white on top with buttons going up the side, someone ought to bring those back, they'd sell big. Petti coats were also high on my list, but I now realize that, unless made of a moderate amount of very stiff tule, petti coats are straight up frumpy.

Brothers

My Uncle from Louisiana is visiting. He’s so polite with his soft southern lilt that I can’t hold a thing against him, even voting Republican in a swing state. He’s got this way of being humbly stubborn--it’s apparent that there’s no point in arguing, although my dad spent the day trying anyhow.

He’s the youngest of 8 and my dad’s the oldest. Fifteen years apart, but they look strikingly similar, particularly because they share mannerisms. With so many brothers and such an age difference they hardly know each other, but they are perfectly in sync. Never before have I realized that blood is so binding. It makes me wonder about my long lost half brother. I’d always been nervous about the very notion of him, for some reason just assuming that he’s probably a psychopath or an asshole. Maybe he isn’t, maybe he has got a whole brood of kids who walk and talk and think just like me. It might be worth knowing about. Then again he could be a psychopath or an asshole.

Big Cheese

Everyone’s all in a fuss that today was the ten year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. It’s embarrassing to admit, but at one point that would have meant something to me. I was obsessed. There’s nothing like a cute suicide to stir a teenage girl’s heart. Now all I can think of are the mall kids in Nirvana t-shirts. Even at the time I knew it was a cheesy suburbanite obsession, but there was nothing else to dwell on and everyone has got to idolize a rockstar at least once in their youth. It was hardcore idolization. I was in love.

Now I know better and I’m wondering why Spin Magazine hasn’t moved on. In the nineties we thought everything sucked and were hoping desperately that someone would come up with something better, it seems they haven’t. I'm afraid the movers and shakers have gotten lazy and keep choosing re-runs. I’m ready for something new. Teen angst is so tiresome.

“Temper your affect.”

It's awful somtimes how clumsy I am about boys, but most of the time I figure I'm the only one who realizes. This weekend I found out that I’m not fooling anyone.

I was hanging by the bar talking to Nicole. Nicole—with her shock of blond hair and tan, chiseled bicep. All eyes in the room were on her, but it was a gang of fat, rowdy, 30 year-old thugs from Queens who offered us drinks. They were crude mother fuckers and insisted that she flex her muscle in exchange for the beverages.
“You want a drink?” She asked me. I shrugged, “ok” and modestly she complied. Telling them, "you know this doesn't mean we're going home with you or anything like that, right?" So straight forward and yet, flirtatious enough to get what she wants. I don't think I could ever be so cooly charming.

I had what I considered to be polite conversation with the portly, somewhat pathetic gentleman who bought my drink. I didn’t intend to talk for long, but I couldn’t figure out how to end it. His friend came up after a few minutes and half shouted, “get her number now, ’cause I wanna leave.” This was probably the most awkward moment of my life, but there was no way in hell that I was surrendering my phone number so I shook both their hands and said “nice meeting you, thanks for the drink” before slipping back to where Nicole had already joined the others.

After a few more minutes past a large pock-marked man in a leather jacket came up to me, I recognized him from their group. He said in stern careful words, "you need to temper your affect on men. You don't know what you're doing, and my friend, he's totally lost it. Learn how to temper your affect." I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead I nodded. I was annoyed, but more-so I was embarrassed and a little guilty feeling.

“Temper your affect.”

I didn’t want to talk to his friend even for a minute, but it seemed to mean so much to him and maybe because I was drunk I was emitting all kinds of false warmth, saying shit like, “you live in Queens and went to BU? Wow, what do you know! What a coincidence!” As if I thought we might be soul mates and that perhaps he should propose on the spot so we could have a big June wedding and then settle down in Whitestone where I’d pump out five kids and nag him every weekend to finish the deck.

I’m always too nice to people I don’t give a shit about and too afraid to talk to the ones I’m interested in. Next time I’m going to say “thanks for the drink,” and wander off to rub up against to someone sexy. That’ll teach him to buy drinks for strange girls with flimsy arms.