People are fucking weird.
I was at work today - working at yoga, checking people in and pretending I am SUPER excited to get them water and towels and the occasional rental mat. I had just checked in a class, and while instruction is going on I usually have the place to myself. Get some work done, answer some emails, realize I've been staring at Facebook for far too long and all that great stuff.
What I am saying is it is nice to have the place to myself to get back to square one.
So I'm there, enjoying my solitude, and two randoms walk in.
Now, I am used to random walk ins, but they are usually coming in to ask about the yoga. I give my two cents about how awesome the yoga is, the intro special price and that if you need anything I will be MORE than happy to rent you a towel or a mat and sell you water - coconut or regular.
However, these were not my usual clientele. The first guy through the door had on an odd pair of khaki pants, a poorly chosen plaid/checkered shirt with a HORRIBLE bow tie and this weird, overly product-ed, limp, curly hair. And he was a white guy.
Second guy was an Indian (from India) fellow, dressed in a gray (or grey, if you're in Britain) v-neck sweater and, again, khakis. He was a little more put together than gentleman #1.
The next thing I notice about this pair is gentleman #1 seems to have a little trouble walking. Now, I don't exactly mean that he was drunk, but he could have been. But he also could have had a disability.
Gentleman #2 was walking behind him, in an almost body guard-esque capacity.
Gentleman #1 to me, "Hi, how are you today?"
Please note it was in a cheesy, sleazy, car salesman voice.
Me, "I'm well, how are you?"
Him, "I'm blessed, I'm blessed. Look what I've got here."
He holds out a package with one of those weird looking bubble guns in it.
He held it out with the intention of me taking it. And I know why that fucker did it that way. If I had taken that package, he would have had an excuse to stay longer.
I'm from New York, motherfucker. People try to hand me shit all the time, and I am the master of the pivot, avoid, continue with my day move.
So he holds it out and I ignore whats in his hand until he is forced to place it on the counter in front of me.
In his other hand, he has another one of these devices, just out of the package. He proceeds to demonstrate this toy in MY PLACE OF WORK by shooting the bubbles all over.
He tells me he just got these toys from the store for $10 each, but he'll sell them to me for $7 each.
I'm working in a fucking yoga studio.
What the hell do I need elaborate bubble toys for?
Is this a preschool?
Another toy store?
A play ground?
A kinky sex shop?
It is NONE of these things.
I give him my biggest, warmest, fuck you smile and tell him he needs to leave.
He says ok, and heads out.
Gentleman #2 never says a word, and quickly scurries out after Gent #1.
I still cannot figure out what G#2 was doing with the quirky hipster sleaze ball, or G#1.
Not to mention that this strange duo must have been walking from store to store trying to move these toys.
All I know is when they left, I had no idea what had just happened.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Sunday, April 7, 2013
My Cats Are Jerks Too
I'd like to talk about dogs for a moment.
No, not ugly females you sexist pig. But I'll probably end up talking about that at some point, just hang on.
Canines. Man's best friend. Purse rats.
So often you hear people talk about their dogs - My dog is so great, he loves everyone, she saved my son from drowning, my cancer would never have been detected if not for my dog. Everyone's got that perfect dog.
Not me.
My dog's name is Murphy, but he has other names. His Orc name is Pig Snort after the nasty growling/snorting noise he makes when he plays and his Scottish name is Grumbles MacAngryFur, after his angry bark and the way his hackles look when his hair stands on end.
He hates strangers. When we have people come visit the house, we always have to tell them to just ignore him until he calms down, don't look him directly in the eyes at first cause he'll take it as a challenge to his alpha-ness and that he is a nibbler, but don't freak out, its just the way he communicates.
You canNOT wake him up. I mean, seriously, if you walk into the bedroom and he's sleeping on the bed and he looks at you out of the corner of his eye DO. NOT. TOUCH. HIM. He will fuck your shit UP. I don't know if it's because he's scared or just a huge grump, but he will make sure you know how unhappy he is about being touched. For example, he is sleeping behind me on my chair right now and I know that if I pet him or move too much, he will let me know that I am irritating him and must quickly stop.
None of the "experts" advice works on him. My James play wrestles with him and we read in numerous places that his play biting could be caused by this. So, for a day in a half we played with him very politely. Lots of, Go get this! Bring it back! Good boy! Sit! Good boy! Give me that toy! Good boy! Repeat. After a day in a half I have never seen a dog more miserable and nasty. Finally I told James to just go ahead and fight with him again. He was the sweetest, nicest boy after that.
He chases the cats (on occasion), steals food (with sometimes epic, Mission Impossible-like style), howls at sirens in the middle of the night out of a dead sleep, he scratches at the drywall and pilfers shoes.
But he has the most distinct personality of any dog I have ever met. He is loyal and protective (sometimes overly so, but whatever) and has an adorable fear of heights. When we come home we lay on the floor and he celebrates us returning by rubbing his whole body over our faces and heads while wagging his whole body. Instead of lifting his leg to pee, he squats like a girl and because he has a penis he has a tendency to pee on his front feet. When he gets to run at the dog park, he runs flat out as fast as he can and you can see the pure joy and insanity in his adorable muppet face. He has a massive under bite and does a perfect upward and downward dog when he stretches when he wakes up. He sits like an old man and has the best dog smile.
So, yeah, he may not be the most ideal dog for the average American family with 2.5 kids, the minivan and the crippling regrets - but I knew from the minute I saw him that he was the perfect dog for my strange family.
Now excuse me, I need to go eat dinner and guard it with my life.
No, not ugly females you sexist pig. But I'll probably end up talking about that at some point, just hang on.
Canines. Man's best friend. Purse rats.
So often you hear people talk about their dogs - My dog is so great, he loves everyone, she saved my son from drowning, my cancer would never have been detected if not for my dog. Everyone's got that perfect dog.
Not me.
My dog's name is Murphy, but he has other names. His Orc name is Pig Snort after the nasty growling/snorting noise he makes when he plays and his Scottish name is Grumbles MacAngryFur, after his angry bark and the way his hackles look when his hair stands on end.
He hates strangers. When we have people come visit the house, we always have to tell them to just ignore him until he calms down, don't look him directly in the eyes at first cause he'll take it as a challenge to his alpha-ness and that he is a nibbler, but don't freak out, its just the way he communicates.
You canNOT wake him up. I mean, seriously, if you walk into the bedroom and he's sleeping on the bed and he looks at you out of the corner of his eye DO. NOT. TOUCH. HIM. He will fuck your shit UP. I don't know if it's because he's scared or just a huge grump, but he will make sure you know how unhappy he is about being touched. For example, he is sleeping behind me on my chair right now and I know that if I pet him or move too much, he will let me know that I am irritating him and must quickly stop.
None of the "experts" advice works on him. My James play wrestles with him and we read in numerous places that his play biting could be caused by this. So, for a day in a half we played with him very politely. Lots of, Go get this! Bring it back! Good boy! Sit! Good boy! Give me that toy! Good boy! Repeat. After a day in a half I have never seen a dog more miserable and nasty. Finally I told James to just go ahead and fight with him again. He was the sweetest, nicest boy after that.
He chases the cats (on occasion), steals food (with sometimes epic, Mission Impossible-like style), howls at sirens in the middle of the night out of a dead sleep, he scratches at the drywall and pilfers shoes.
But he has the most distinct personality of any dog I have ever met. He is loyal and protective (sometimes overly so, but whatever) and has an adorable fear of heights. When we come home we lay on the floor and he celebrates us returning by rubbing his whole body over our faces and heads while wagging his whole body. Instead of lifting his leg to pee, he squats like a girl and because he has a penis he has a tendency to pee on his front feet. When he gets to run at the dog park, he runs flat out as fast as he can and you can see the pure joy and insanity in his adorable muppet face. He has a massive under bite and does a perfect upward and downward dog when he stretches when he wakes up. He sits like an old man and has the best dog smile.
So, yeah, he may not be the most ideal dog for the average American family with 2.5 kids, the minivan and the crippling regrets - but I knew from the minute I saw him that he was the perfect dog for my strange family.
Now excuse me, I need to go eat dinner and guard it with my life.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
One Tough Old Bird
Just watched The King's Speech again.
One of my all time favorite movies. I cannot say enough about the story and the script and the acting and the direction. Its magnificent.
I'm not here to pontificate on the grandness of the film.
As some of you know, my grandmother - my father's mother - was born and raised in Liverpool, England. She was born Florence Hilda Dingwall in the early 1921 as one of the youngest of 9 children. Her father's name was Jack and he was a merchant seaman. He loved his children, but she was his particular favorite. He often told his family that women were the best thing the God ever did.
Nanny (as we call her) hates her given name 'Florence'. She never wanted to be known as 'Flossy' or 'Flo', so she goes by Hilda. She hated being a girl, she wanted to be a boy and go to school.
She talks a lot.
When she was very little, she was playing with a friend from down the street - a young Greek boy who lived in their neighborhood. I have misplaced his name. They were jumping off a small step in her mother's kitchen. At one point, Nanny fell and her friend fell on top of her and she bit clear through her tongue. She was rushed to hospital and it was sown back together and all was well. In later years with the amount of talking she did and has done since then, her father often remarked they could have just left that piece off.
Like everyone of age in Britain at the time of World War II, she was drafted.
A placement test assigned her to the Royal Corps of Signals. Churchill's special pet project that was one of the first employments of what would become radar. There were bunkers sixty feet underground. A huge map of Europe took up the middle of the room, while a line of women on radios encircled it, speaking to friendly pilots who would report the positions of the enemies planes, and the women would relay that information to their COs and other counterparts who would place it all out on the map.
Nanny was one of the women speaking with the pilots.
She always said Americans were the worst. Because of her initials - F.D. - her call sign was Fox Dog. After identifying herself as Fox Dog, the Americans would inevitably reply, "Oh, I bet you are." She always wanted to say something back, but with her CO right behind her she never could.
To this day, because of those bunkers, Nanny is a bit claustrophobic.
There are many stories she tells about the war. When I was growing up, it was a very present part of history. I exist because she met an American soldier who convinced her to marry him.
Before my Granddad died, I remember one Thanksgiving when I was chatting with Nanny about Liverpool. She was telling me again about all the things to do and to see and all that. At one point, Granddad came up behind her, kissed her on the cheek and said, "And they have such pretty girls there!"
It was the only time I ever saw my Nanny speechless.
She didn't want to marry him at first - she had a boyfriend (Fred) who was in the European theater at the time she met Hugh Currie at a dance. From the first time he saw her, he turned to his friend and said, "You stay away from that one, she's mine." He asked her again and again to marry him. He even asked her mother to convince her to marry him, to which her mother very firmly replied, "My children make up their own minds."
Granddad was a plane radio operator, and when Europe was invaded he had to go over with the rest. It was then that Nanny realized how much she missed him.
The first thing she did was write to her boyfriend, Fred, and tell him that she had fallen in love with someone else.
Then she wrote Hugh and said, "If you still want to marry me, ok."
When the war ended they were married. She borrowed a friend's wedding dress that was too big for her. Granddad wore his uniform.
She came over on what she describes as "a big ship full of wives." Granddad met her in New York City, took her out to dinner.
Britain had been rationing food for years.
She ordered the roast beef.
The waiter brought her a huge plate of meat. She was confused. She called the waiter over and asked him if he was going to cut her portion off of the piece that was brought to her, or if she did that. The waiter said, "No, that is all for you."
She promptly burst into tears.
It would have fed her family for a month.
She has never become a US citizen, always saying everything is better in England.
She has always been the matriarch around which my family has gathered. I grew up with the Second World War as a very present piece of history in our household. Growing up I always knew about the mistakes that Neville Chamberlain made, and how wonderful Churchill was. I knew about Nanny's homesickness when she was called up, and how fleeting life could be when the friend who walked her home one evening was blown up in his home that night. About the children who lost their parents - who were so young they often didn't even know what their last name was. About how Nanny was so little that they didn't have a uniform big enough for her, so when she walked up her family's garden path looking quite comical wearing a skirt that just about hit the ground and a jacket with sleeves too big, her father quipped, "Why does England tremble?"
She will be turning 91 in April.
She still lives by herself, and whenever I have an hour to spare (you need at least that much) I call her, and we talk about everything.
I am so lucky to be like her.
One of my all time favorite movies. I cannot say enough about the story and the script and the acting and the direction. Its magnificent.
I'm not here to pontificate on the grandness of the film.
As some of you know, my grandmother - my father's mother - was born and raised in Liverpool, England. She was born Florence Hilda Dingwall in the early 1921 as one of the youngest of 9 children. Her father's name was Jack and he was a merchant seaman. He loved his children, but she was his particular favorite. He often told his family that women were the best thing the God ever did.
Nanny (as we call her) hates her given name 'Florence'. She never wanted to be known as 'Flossy' or 'Flo', so she goes by Hilda. She hated being a girl, she wanted to be a boy and go to school.
She talks a lot.
When she was very little, she was playing with a friend from down the street - a young Greek boy who lived in their neighborhood. I have misplaced his name. They were jumping off a small step in her mother's kitchen. At one point, Nanny fell and her friend fell on top of her and she bit clear through her tongue. She was rushed to hospital and it was sown back together and all was well. In later years with the amount of talking she did and has done since then, her father often remarked they could have just left that piece off.
Like everyone of age in Britain at the time of World War II, she was drafted.
A placement test assigned her to the Royal Corps of Signals. Churchill's special pet project that was one of the first employments of what would become radar. There were bunkers sixty feet underground. A huge map of Europe took up the middle of the room, while a line of women on radios encircled it, speaking to friendly pilots who would report the positions of the enemies planes, and the women would relay that information to their COs and other counterparts who would place it all out on the map.
Nanny was one of the women speaking with the pilots.
She always said Americans were the worst. Because of her initials - F.D. - her call sign was Fox Dog. After identifying herself as Fox Dog, the Americans would inevitably reply, "Oh, I bet you are." She always wanted to say something back, but with her CO right behind her she never could.
To this day, because of those bunkers, Nanny is a bit claustrophobic.
There are many stories she tells about the war. When I was growing up, it was a very present part of history. I exist because she met an American soldier who convinced her to marry him.
Before my Granddad died, I remember one Thanksgiving when I was chatting with Nanny about Liverpool. She was telling me again about all the things to do and to see and all that. At one point, Granddad came up behind her, kissed her on the cheek and said, "And they have such pretty girls there!"
It was the only time I ever saw my Nanny speechless.
She didn't want to marry him at first - she had a boyfriend (Fred) who was in the European theater at the time she met Hugh Currie at a dance. From the first time he saw her, he turned to his friend and said, "You stay away from that one, she's mine." He asked her again and again to marry him. He even asked her mother to convince her to marry him, to which her mother very firmly replied, "My children make up their own minds."
Granddad was a plane radio operator, and when Europe was invaded he had to go over with the rest. It was then that Nanny realized how much she missed him.
The first thing she did was write to her boyfriend, Fred, and tell him that she had fallen in love with someone else.
Then she wrote Hugh and said, "If you still want to marry me, ok."
When the war ended they were married. She borrowed a friend's wedding dress that was too big for her. Granddad wore his uniform.
She came over on what she describes as "a big ship full of wives." Granddad met her in New York City, took her out to dinner.
Britain had been rationing food for years.
She ordered the roast beef.
The waiter brought her a huge plate of meat. She was confused. She called the waiter over and asked him if he was going to cut her portion off of the piece that was brought to her, or if she did that. The waiter said, "No, that is all for you."
She promptly burst into tears.
It would have fed her family for a month.
She has never become a US citizen, always saying everything is better in England.
She has always been the matriarch around which my family has gathered. I grew up with the Second World War as a very present piece of history in our household. Growing up I always knew about the mistakes that Neville Chamberlain made, and how wonderful Churchill was. I knew about Nanny's homesickness when she was called up, and how fleeting life could be when the friend who walked her home one evening was blown up in his home that night. About the children who lost their parents - who were so young they often didn't even know what their last name was. About how Nanny was so little that they didn't have a uniform big enough for her, so when she walked up her family's garden path looking quite comical wearing a skirt that just about hit the ground and a jacket with sleeves too big, her father quipped, "Why does England tremble?"
She will be turning 91 in April.
She still lives by herself, and whenever I have an hour to spare (you need at least that much) I call her, and we talk about everything.
I am so lucky to be like her.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Random Subway Thoughts #1
When I'm riding the subway and I see someone with an odd hat, I always assume that its religious in nature. I'm not a completely ignorant person, I am aware of the religious dress for Hasidic Jews and even the occasional Mennonites that come to sing to us heathens. However, once in a while I will see a hat that throws me for a loop.
The other day I saw a man wearing a conical fur hat. It was like a smaller version of a dunce cap, made of a really dark, glossy fur. It was one of the most curious, silly looking things I've ever seen. It didn't even cover the guy's ears! Why wear a hat in the winter if it doesn't cover your ears?
To keep myself from being sent to Hell or some other less than desirable place after I die, I immediately think that it has to be a religious something-or-other. That way I can't think that it was just a ridiculous looking head-wear. Cause it wasn't someone making a terrible decision in hats, it's a person who is so devoted to their chosen religion that despite the ornamentation being silly, they are still completely into their God of choice.
That's something to be admired, not scoffed at!
But then again, it could just be someone with a very silly hat.
The other day I saw a man wearing a conical fur hat. It was like a smaller version of a dunce cap, made of a really dark, glossy fur. It was one of the most curious, silly looking things I've ever seen. It didn't even cover the guy's ears! Why wear a hat in the winter if it doesn't cover your ears?
To keep myself from being sent to Hell or some other less than desirable place after I die, I immediately think that it has to be a religious something-or-other. That way I can't think that it was just a ridiculous looking head-wear. Cause it wasn't someone making a terrible decision in hats, it's a person who is so devoted to their chosen religion that despite the ornamentation being silly, they are still completely into their God of choice.
That's something to be admired, not scoffed at!
But then again, it could just be someone with a very silly hat.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
So This Is Marriage
To make up for my lack of posts, I give you an example of what my James and I do when we are bored.
Friday, January 13, 2012
My First Attempt At One Space After A Period. How'd I Do?
An infinite amount of puking kept me from posting this week, and I was just going to say fuck it for today and go have a cup of tea, maybe take a nice bath and read Dune (how many nerds out there just got a boner?) - but then I saw some things on this glorious internet of ours, and I couldn't do anything except comment and write a ridiculous run on sentence.
Keep up, everyone.
I have a system when I get on a computer where I can just fuck around. After checking my email and Facebook, I head to my other websites to read other stupid shit that's been going on. I try to balance it out with a few news websites as well, just so I feel like I'm not a completely ignorant asshole. One of the news sites I peruse is BBC.com, just to get a different slant on stories. One story today was completely bananas.
It was a story about this medical team in Mexico getting a heart transplant to its recipient. It was all being done perfectly - it had two doctors accompanying it for its entire journey, it had to be flown on a private jet, then airlifted by helicopter to the hospital where the 20 year old girl was waiting for be given a new lease on life. As they were speed walking from the helicopter to the hospital, one of the guys tipped the cooler over and dumped the fucking heart out onto the pavement.
What the fuck, man?!?!
Ok, the heart was all wrapped in all kinds of crazy protection, it wasn't just laying on the street in the hot sun like a fucking dead fish. Everything was ok and they scooped up the organ, which was undamaged, and stuck it in the girl and it was all good. But how fucking pissed would you be? God knows how long this kid had been waiting to get a new heart. She had probably been put under way before the heart even landed so she would be ready for surgery as soon as the thing got there. They had probably already started the surgery! You can't just wait for the heart to get there before you start hacking someone open, that chest has got to be open and ready for precious cargo!
So you wake up, and you're all cut up and stitched and stapled and everything hurts and maybe for a second you're all, "My ordeal is over. I can start to live a normal life!" Then you go, "Wait, what the what? This is still the old heart!" (I am assuming you can kinda tell when you have a brand new heart in, it seems like something that would register.) Then the doctor comes over to your bed and goes, "Sooo....Yeah. We were gonna give you a new heart, but we had a little too much to drink last night and we might have been a little stoned and we wanted to see who could throw the heart the farthest. Turns out, it was Juan. His heart-throwing arm is the BEST."
Honestly, for me, I would have preferred that to, "We were idiots and knocked the cooler over, and now you are back to the bottom of the list." You couldn't even beat the shit outta them, cause you'd be all weak from having a fucked up heart!
If you are interested in seeing the video, its here.
I tell ya, made my heart skip a beat.
....
I admit, not my best.
The next website I stumbled upon made me really excited. The page title is "10 Kids About To Be Devoured By Zoo Animals [VIDEOS]". That's like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one!
Just to be clear, none of the videos showed any child being eaten. I don't want to have your hopes dashed like mine were. I saw the words "kids", "devoured" and "zoo animals" and I was so excited that no other words mattered. Apparently, when I get excited to see a child die a gruesome death in the jaws of something big and hairy, my reading comprehension goes down the shitter.
But it is a page of ten videos of kids, probably years 7 and younger, who are ambling around the glass enclosures of huge predators, and said predators being absolutely clear what they would do to these delicious morsels.
One things I don't understand is that in most of the videos the parents are laughing behind the camera as the lions paw and snap at the glass and are saying things like, "Oh, Abby, he wants to eat you!" in that fucking awful, parent-talking-to-child voice. That's a great idea, parents. Make it a cute situation. Yeah, its FUN when an animal that could easily bite your fucking head clean off is clearly threatening your safety. And don't bother getting in between your baby and the animal. Teach your child that if put in serious danger, you're gonna stand off to the side with your fucking smart phone, giggling and recording the whole thing, so maybe you can have a viral video on YouTube. You're gonna say, "Oh, Ashley, but there's glass between the kid and the ravenous monster." When a kid is 5 and below, that's not something that is easily understood. Kids brains take a while to develop into something that can process complex thought.
And I need to know where these zoos are, cause no zoo I have ever been to has a pane of glass between me and a fucking lion, tiger, gorilla or polar bear. Every zoo I've visited has a wrought-iron fence, followed by a moat that's, like, 90 feet deep with spikes at the bottom and sniper towers all over the place, just in case something awful happens.
Let's add to the fact that these poor animals are fucking crazy. They've all lost their minds. They are in an enclosure that is a SHITTY interpretation of the wild places they acutally come from, just so assholes like you and your kids can come and gawk at them. The first video of the page is a huge gorilla going after a kid, and after he realizes that he can't get to him, the animal sits down and you see him process the fact that he just lost his shit. He is humiliated. And he has no where to hide to deal with the shame of going crazy in public, he has to sit in his PEN and deal with it in front of over-evolved chimps.
See, we shouldn't keep animals in zoos. We don't need to anymore. Now that we have cameras, we should let all the animals go. There used to be pride in having gone to a far off land and having seen an exotic animal in its natural habitat. Now we drag our idiot kids to the saddest place on earth to watch beautiful animals slowly go mad, while our offspring are more excited about an over-priced gift shop then the fact that they just experience a magical creature. Not that long ago, most of the world had no idea animals like this existed! You think in the 1800s an Native American had any idea what a fucking kangaroo was?
If we want to see these animals, we should have to make the trek, to go the Africa, India and everywhere else. We should have to sleep in a shitty tent and get a nasty local bacteria from drinking bad water and only just catch a glimpse of a majestic creature vanishing into the wilds. Then you could come home and say, "I think I saw something incredible."
If you want to see those videos, its here.
I may have gotten a little carried away.
Keep up, everyone.
I have a system when I get on a computer where I can just fuck around. After checking my email and Facebook, I head to my other websites to read other stupid shit that's been going on. I try to balance it out with a few news websites as well, just so I feel like I'm not a completely ignorant asshole. One of the news sites I peruse is BBC.com, just to get a different slant on stories. One story today was completely bananas.
It was a story about this medical team in Mexico getting a heart transplant to its recipient. It was all being done perfectly - it had two doctors accompanying it for its entire journey, it had to be flown on a private jet, then airlifted by helicopter to the hospital where the 20 year old girl was waiting for be given a new lease on life. As they were speed walking from the helicopter to the hospital, one of the guys tipped the cooler over and dumped the fucking heart out onto the pavement.
What the fuck, man?!?!
Ok, the heart was all wrapped in all kinds of crazy protection, it wasn't just laying on the street in the hot sun like a fucking dead fish. Everything was ok and they scooped up the organ, which was undamaged, and stuck it in the girl and it was all good. But how fucking pissed would you be? God knows how long this kid had been waiting to get a new heart. She had probably been put under way before the heart even landed so she would be ready for surgery as soon as the thing got there. They had probably already started the surgery! You can't just wait for the heart to get there before you start hacking someone open, that chest has got to be open and ready for precious cargo!
So you wake up, and you're all cut up and stitched and stapled and everything hurts and maybe for a second you're all, "My ordeal is over. I can start to live a normal life!" Then you go, "Wait, what the what? This is still the old heart!" (I am assuming you can kinda tell when you have a brand new heart in, it seems like something that would register.) Then the doctor comes over to your bed and goes, "Sooo....Yeah. We were gonna give you a new heart, but we had a little too much to drink last night and we might have been a little stoned and we wanted to see who could throw the heart the farthest. Turns out, it was Juan. His heart-throwing arm is the BEST."
Honestly, for me, I would have preferred that to, "We were idiots and knocked the cooler over, and now you are back to the bottom of the list." You couldn't even beat the shit outta them, cause you'd be all weak from having a fucked up heart!
If you are interested in seeing the video, its here.
I tell ya, made my heart skip a beat.
....
I admit, not my best.
The next website I stumbled upon made me really excited. The page title is "10 Kids About To Be Devoured By Zoo Animals [VIDEOS]". That's like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one!
Just to be clear, none of the videos showed any child being eaten. I don't want to have your hopes dashed like mine were. I saw the words "kids", "devoured" and "zoo animals" and I was so excited that no other words mattered. Apparently, when I get excited to see a child die a gruesome death in the jaws of something big and hairy, my reading comprehension goes down the shitter.
But it is a page of ten videos of kids, probably years 7 and younger, who are ambling around the glass enclosures of huge predators, and said predators being absolutely clear what they would do to these delicious morsels.
One things I don't understand is that in most of the videos the parents are laughing behind the camera as the lions paw and snap at the glass and are saying things like, "Oh, Abby, he wants to eat you!" in that fucking awful, parent-talking-to-child voice. That's a great idea, parents. Make it a cute situation. Yeah, its FUN when an animal that could easily bite your fucking head clean off is clearly threatening your safety. And don't bother getting in between your baby and the animal. Teach your child that if put in serious danger, you're gonna stand off to the side with your fucking smart phone, giggling and recording the whole thing, so maybe you can have a viral video on YouTube. You're gonna say, "Oh, Ashley, but there's glass between the kid and the ravenous monster." When a kid is 5 and below, that's not something that is easily understood. Kids brains take a while to develop into something that can process complex thought.
And I need to know where these zoos are, cause no zoo I have ever been to has a pane of glass between me and a fucking lion, tiger, gorilla or polar bear. Every zoo I've visited has a wrought-iron fence, followed by a moat that's, like, 90 feet deep with spikes at the bottom and sniper towers all over the place, just in case something awful happens.
Let's add to the fact that these poor animals are fucking crazy. They've all lost their minds. They are in an enclosure that is a SHITTY interpretation of the wild places they acutally come from, just so assholes like you and your kids can come and gawk at them. The first video of the page is a huge gorilla going after a kid, and after he realizes that he can't get to him, the animal sits down and you see him process the fact that he just lost his shit. He is humiliated. And he has no where to hide to deal with the shame of going crazy in public, he has to sit in his PEN and deal with it in front of over-evolved chimps.
See, we shouldn't keep animals in zoos. We don't need to anymore. Now that we have cameras, we should let all the animals go. There used to be pride in having gone to a far off land and having seen an exotic animal in its natural habitat. Now we drag our idiot kids to the saddest place on earth to watch beautiful animals slowly go mad, while our offspring are more excited about an over-priced gift shop then the fact that they just experience a magical creature. Not that long ago, most of the world had no idea animals like this existed! You think in the 1800s an Native American had any idea what a fucking kangaroo was?
If we want to see these animals, we should have to make the trek, to go the Africa, India and everywhere else. We should have to sleep in a shitty tent and get a nasty local bacteria from drinking bad water and only just catch a glimpse of a majestic creature vanishing into the wilds. Then you could come home and say, "I think I saw something incredible."
If you want to see those videos, its here.
I may have gotten a little carried away.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Let Me Know When You Figure Out My Rating System
A couple quick reviews for ya . . .
In the last two-ish weeks, I've been lucky enough to get to the movies a couple times, and I thought I'd share my experience to help you make an informed decision on what to see at the theater.
Or whatever.
For my bachelorette party (Ashley style), my dear friend and maid of honor took me to acupuncture, Thai food and to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. I had been itching to see this movie ever since I heard it was being made. I grew up with British television and movies, and I have to admit, they contain a subtly that very few American movies and performances obtain. I won't lie to you and tell you every second is riveting. It is slow in places. But, interestingly enough, I would imagine the things that go on in this movie - the research, the espionage and whatnot - are actually more true to what real life spy work is, rather than the Mission Impossibles and James Bonds. One of the great triumphs of this movie is that the director never sat you down and had someone explain what was happening. There was no prolonged exposition or pontification on exactly what was going on. Thomas Alfredson (the director) trusted his audience enough to know he didn't need someone to come out now and then and make sure everyone was still on board. He trusted that his story and his actors were compelling enough to keep you hooked on the tiny hints each character was giving, to see if YOU could figure it out before Gary Oldman. I cannot stress enough how beautiful the performances were. Mark Strong and Colin Firth in particular had some truly beautiful moments. And I was so pleased to see Benedict Cumberbatch in a different kind of role for him. If you are scratching your head as to who this gentleman is, you should first be ashamed and then be directed to the first season of the BBC show Sherlock. He plays a modern Sherlock Holmes, and he does it brilliantly. In that show, he is hugely intelligent, on top of his game and without a doubt a force to be reckoned with. The character he plays in this film is smaller, more subtle and not very sure of himself. It was really intriguing to see him in situations where he had none of his trademark confidence.
If nothing else, every actor should see this movie to see how to tell an audience something without saying a word. I highly appreciate that in films, and I give Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy a resounding Awesome Sauce.
This past Wednesday my James and I went to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Have to say, I was disappointed. And mostly I was let down by the lack of motivation. No one really knew why they were doing anything, but they just kept doing stuff. It was never even completely clear why Moriarty was doing the things he was doing, he just did them. At one point he alluded to money being the driving force behind his evilness, and I have to call bullshit on that one. After chatting with my resident Sir Arthur Conan Doyle expert, I have confirmed that Moriarty is the perfect foil to Sherlock. Very often we are reminded that Sherlock is behind in the rent, needs money, etc. He doesn't do what he does for the money, he does it for the thrill of the chase, in order to be the one who discovers the truth behind the lie that initially stumps him. Moriarty is evil, because he is evil. Money is nice, and he would get money as a result of being evil, but it would never be his sole aim. Think of The Joker as a proper British man. And a little quieter. He just likes to make things terrible, you know? He would never kill, maim or destroy just for a paycheck. He is more sinister, more conniving. And in the end, that is a much more terrifying villain than someone who just wants to add to his bank account. If he just wanted that, why didn't he just rob a bank? He could probably very easily have it done, and get away with it. There was one interesting moment in the film, when Sherlock and Moriarty were about to fight, and Sherlock goes through the fight ahead of time in slo-mo. Moriarty then does it back to him, to show him that he can play that game just as well as our dashing hero. It was intriguing and exciting to see Sherlock stumped.
So, this movie gets a Could Have Been Worse, Could Have Been Better label. Definitely needed a better villain.
Now, last night I went to see The Artist. I have to say, this movie was wonderful. In case you haven't heard of it, its a silent movie, in that old style of silent movies. No dialogue at all. This movie relies solely on the expressiveness of the performers and a few sparsely placed frames of dialogue (like in the old fashion silent movies) to get the story across to the audience. Jean Dejardin and Bérénice Bejo accomplish this perfectly. They are beautifully watchable, and talk about a movie that doesn't over-explain! By giving himself the challenge of not using dialogue, the director, Michel Hazanavicius, ensures that there cannot be any moment that is burdened with heavy handed exposition. I found myself more willing to interact with this movie, too. By interact, I don't mean that I was speaking to the figures on the screen. I mean that by knowing I wasn't going to miss any dialogue, I felt more freedom to laugh, to sigh, to have a moment. I left the theater feeling really good. My best good lady friend (who was with me) and I wanted to dance down the street afterward. It was a glorious return to Old Hollywood, and I loved every second. Those of you who have seen Singing in the Rain will see similarities - a silent movie actor dealing with the rise of the talkies - but it was just different enough to keep me thoroughly engaged and excited for the characters.
I have to award this movie not only with Awesome Sauce, but also with Deliciously Charming.
Fun fact, my maid of honor, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle expert and best good lady friend are all the same person.
Hows that for a fucking twist, M. Night?
In the last two-ish weeks, I've been lucky enough to get to the movies a couple times, and I thought I'd share my experience to help you make an informed decision on what to see at the theater.
Or whatever.
For my bachelorette party (Ashley style), my dear friend and maid of honor took me to acupuncture, Thai food and to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. I had been itching to see this movie ever since I heard it was being made. I grew up with British television and movies, and I have to admit, they contain a subtly that very few American movies and performances obtain. I won't lie to you and tell you every second is riveting. It is slow in places. But, interestingly enough, I would imagine the things that go on in this movie - the research, the espionage and whatnot - are actually more true to what real life spy work is, rather than the Mission Impossibles and James Bonds. One of the great triumphs of this movie is that the director never sat you down and had someone explain what was happening. There was no prolonged exposition or pontification on exactly what was going on. Thomas Alfredson (the director) trusted his audience enough to know he didn't need someone to come out now and then and make sure everyone was still on board. He trusted that his story and his actors were compelling enough to keep you hooked on the tiny hints each character was giving, to see if YOU could figure it out before Gary Oldman. I cannot stress enough how beautiful the performances were. Mark Strong and Colin Firth in particular had some truly beautiful moments. And I was so pleased to see Benedict Cumberbatch in a different kind of role for him. If you are scratching your head as to who this gentleman is, you should first be ashamed and then be directed to the first season of the BBC show Sherlock. He plays a modern Sherlock Holmes, and he does it brilliantly. In that show, he is hugely intelligent, on top of his game and without a doubt a force to be reckoned with. The character he plays in this film is smaller, more subtle and not very sure of himself. It was really intriguing to see him in situations where he had none of his trademark confidence.
If nothing else, every actor should see this movie to see how to tell an audience something without saying a word. I highly appreciate that in films, and I give Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy a resounding Awesome Sauce.
This past Wednesday my James and I went to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Have to say, I was disappointed. And mostly I was let down by the lack of motivation. No one really knew why they were doing anything, but they just kept doing stuff. It was never even completely clear why Moriarty was doing the things he was doing, he just did them. At one point he alluded to money being the driving force behind his evilness, and I have to call bullshit on that one. After chatting with my resident Sir Arthur Conan Doyle expert, I have confirmed that Moriarty is the perfect foil to Sherlock. Very often we are reminded that Sherlock is behind in the rent, needs money, etc. He doesn't do what he does for the money, he does it for the thrill of the chase, in order to be the one who discovers the truth behind the lie that initially stumps him. Moriarty is evil, because he is evil. Money is nice, and he would get money as a result of being evil, but it would never be his sole aim. Think of The Joker as a proper British man. And a little quieter. He just likes to make things terrible, you know? He would never kill, maim or destroy just for a paycheck. He is more sinister, more conniving. And in the end, that is a much more terrifying villain than someone who just wants to add to his bank account. If he just wanted that, why didn't he just rob a bank? He could probably very easily have it done, and get away with it. There was one interesting moment in the film, when Sherlock and Moriarty were about to fight, and Sherlock goes through the fight ahead of time in slo-mo. Moriarty then does it back to him, to show him that he can play that game just as well as our dashing hero. It was intriguing and exciting to see Sherlock stumped.
So, this movie gets a Could Have Been Worse, Could Have Been Better label. Definitely needed a better villain.
Now, last night I went to see The Artist. I have to say, this movie was wonderful. In case you haven't heard of it, its a silent movie, in that old style of silent movies. No dialogue at all. This movie relies solely on the expressiveness of the performers and a few sparsely placed frames of dialogue (like in the old fashion silent movies) to get the story across to the audience. Jean Dejardin and Bérénice Bejo accomplish this perfectly. They are beautifully watchable, and talk about a movie that doesn't over-explain! By giving himself the challenge of not using dialogue, the director, Michel Hazanavicius, ensures that there cannot be any moment that is burdened with heavy handed exposition. I found myself more willing to interact with this movie, too. By interact, I don't mean that I was speaking to the figures on the screen. I mean that by knowing I wasn't going to miss any dialogue, I felt more freedom to laugh, to sigh, to have a moment. I left the theater feeling really good. My best good lady friend (who was with me) and I wanted to dance down the street afterward. It was a glorious return to Old Hollywood, and I loved every second. Those of you who have seen Singing in the Rain will see similarities - a silent movie actor dealing with the rise of the talkies - but it was just different enough to keep me thoroughly engaged and excited for the characters.
I have to award this movie not only with Awesome Sauce, but also with Deliciously Charming.
Fun fact, my maid of honor, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle expert and best good lady friend are all the same person.
Hows that for a fucking twist, M. Night?
Saturday, January 7, 2012
I Guess I'm No Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed
Raise your hand if you love serial killers!
Let me re-phrase.
I am completely fascinated by the serial killer. Even before Dexter I would look up old cases like Gacy, Bundy, Kemper and, of course, the Zodiac, just to see how these frightening true stories turned out. Call it a morbid curiosity, but I can't help but find something compelling about these (predominantly) white, late 20s, early 30s men who feel the compulsion to end another's life. Often not for any personal hurt or financial gain, but for . . . what? Often they can't or won't even say why they do the things they do.
So, I thought I would sit down, light some incense, make a nice cup of tea and think about killing. Specifically, what kind of serial killer would I be.
Let's see ...
First off, classifications.
The Medical Killer - This one (according to the Crime Museum's website) is relatively rare. Most people drawn to the medical field want to help people, or just get rich. But some join the ranks of the medical elite in order to play out their sick fantasies on the ill and dying. Often people attracted to medicine have a semi-God complex anyway, a great interest in the power of life and death. Some take this to the extreme. I read a story about Dr Harold Shipmen, supposedly the greatest serial killer the world has ever known. He killed 459 people with morphine overdoses, and was only caught when he forged the will of one of his victims that would have left all her estate to him. Even the notorious H. H. Holmes enrolled in medical school to have access to cadavers, to practice playing out his madness.
I probably wouldn't be that one. I mean, you have to go to med school, and that is so expensive now. And all the studying! Fuck that, I quit.
The Disorganized Killer - Now, these guys would be the ones other serial killers look down on. Right away, even if they weren't brutally murdering their fellow homo sapiens, they wouldn't be people you'd want to hang out with. In most cases they have a below average IQ. Severe social ineptness, living alone and not dating. Highly unstable family, often an absent or abusive father. Hygiene is normally in the range of nasty, sweaty, and smelling of urine, living space is usually also messy. These are the people that need to return to the scene of the crime to relive the act. They are often very - to put it technically - fucked up in the head, hearing voices, seeing visions, etc. Richard Chase was one of these gentlemen, who killed 6 people in a month, and with the majority of the remains engaged in necrophilia, cannibalism and . . . "bathing-in/drinking-blood"-ism. Very poorly organized overall.
I think we can all agree that I am not anything like this breed of killer, as I am attractive, shower often, am incredibly pleasant to talk to and generally keep a tidy home.
Not to mention my slight OCD would never allow for the mess killings like this would engender. THAT would drive me crazy!
Mission-Oriented Killer - I feel like we hear about these guys all the time. These are the ones who go after prostitutes, gay men, blonde young ladies and the like. For what reason? They feel they are vindicated in what they are doing, as they are "justly" removing a certain group of undesirables. Think Hitler without the government behind him.
I don't hate any one group of people enough to kill them. Not a whole group, anyway. I don't have any problems with prostitutes. In the olden days, my profession wasn't defined much differently than theirs, so in some ways we are soldiers in arms together, just (for me) no coke or cock. If I had a problem with homosexuals, I would need to find a new profession. You can't go into any casting without tripping over a whole bunch of fabulous gentlemen and ladies! As for blondes, meh.
You can't be a serial killer if your attitude is "meh" toward the people you're killing. Why waste the effort if that's the case?
The Thrill Oriented Killer - The act of killing gives these people an intense thrill. They find it exciting, I have even read that rather than the sight, its the smell of blood they find exciting.
I have studied too much story structure to do something this intense that didn't have a theme or deeper meaning. And again, it would just be messy. I would end up more irritated than when I started, and the whole point behind this is release!
Lust Killer - ...I think this is self explanatory.
Um, gross. I don't want to do that.
The Organized Killer - These are the big granddaddies of the serial killer world. These are your highly intelligent, meticulous monsters. The crime is very carefully planned out, the victims sometimes watched for days before they are approached at all. They leave little to no evidence, and oftentimes the impetus for killing is the thrill of stumping the investigators. This would be akin to Hannibal Lecter and even the Zodiac Killer.
Honestly, in the end, I don't think serial killing is for me. I like to think that I would be The Organized Killer, eluding police for years, all the while leaving bodies and taunts in my disastrous wake. However, if I am going to be completely truthful, I think I would be more like the Laurel and Hardy of serial killers. Nothing would go as planned. I would end up killing the wrong person, I would leave ONE finger print somewhere stupid. Actually, no, I would probably leave a bill with my address and phone number on it by accident. No other evidence, just my fucking license.
It just so hard to commit a decent murder these days.
And in reality, I just don't have time for another hobby.
Let me re-phrase.
I am completely fascinated by the serial killer. Even before Dexter I would look up old cases like Gacy, Bundy, Kemper and, of course, the Zodiac, just to see how these frightening true stories turned out. Call it a morbid curiosity, but I can't help but find something compelling about these (predominantly) white, late 20s, early 30s men who feel the compulsion to end another's life. Often not for any personal hurt or financial gain, but for . . . what? Often they can't or won't even say why they do the things they do.
So, I thought I would sit down, light some incense, make a nice cup of tea and think about killing. Specifically, what kind of serial killer would I be.
Let's see ...
First off, classifications.
The Medical Killer - This one (according to the Crime Museum's website) is relatively rare. Most people drawn to the medical field want to help people, or just get rich. But some join the ranks of the medical elite in order to play out their sick fantasies on the ill and dying. Often people attracted to medicine have a semi-God complex anyway, a great interest in the power of life and death. Some take this to the extreme. I read a story about Dr Harold Shipmen, supposedly the greatest serial killer the world has ever known. He killed 459 people with morphine overdoses, and was only caught when he forged the will of one of his victims that would have left all her estate to him. Even the notorious H. H. Holmes enrolled in medical school to have access to cadavers, to practice playing out his madness.
I probably wouldn't be that one. I mean, you have to go to med school, and that is so expensive now. And all the studying! Fuck that, I quit.
The Disorganized Killer - Now, these guys would be the ones other serial killers look down on. Right away, even if they weren't brutally murdering their fellow homo sapiens, they wouldn't be people you'd want to hang out with. In most cases they have a below average IQ. Severe social ineptness, living alone and not dating. Highly unstable family, often an absent or abusive father. Hygiene is normally in the range of nasty, sweaty, and smelling of urine, living space is usually also messy. These are the people that need to return to the scene of the crime to relive the act. They are often very - to put it technically - fucked up in the head, hearing voices, seeing visions, etc. Richard Chase was one of these gentlemen, who killed 6 people in a month, and with the majority of the remains engaged in necrophilia, cannibalism and . . . "bathing-in/drinking-blood"-ism. Very poorly organized overall.
I think we can all agree that I am not anything like this breed of killer, as I am attractive, shower often, am incredibly pleasant to talk to and generally keep a tidy home.
Not to mention my slight OCD would never allow for the mess killings like this would engender. THAT would drive me crazy!
Mission-Oriented Killer - I feel like we hear about these guys all the time. These are the ones who go after prostitutes, gay men, blonde young ladies and the like. For what reason? They feel they are vindicated in what they are doing, as they are "justly" removing a certain group of undesirables. Think Hitler without the government behind him.
I don't hate any one group of people enough to kill them. Not a whole group, anyway. I don't have any problems with prostitutes. In the olden days, my profession wasn't defined much differently than theirs, so in some ways we are soldiers in arms together, just (for me) no coke or cock. If I had a problem with homosexuals, I would need to find a new profession. You can't go into any casting without tripping over a whole bunch of fabulous gentlemen and ladies! As for blondes, meh.
You can't be a serial killer if your attitude is "meh" toward the people you're killing. Why waste the effort if that's the case?
The Thrill Oriented Killer - The act of killing gives these people an intense thrill. They find it exciting, I have even read that rather than the sight, its the smell of blood they find exciting.
I have studied too much story structure to do something this intense that didn't have a theme or deeper meaning. And again, it would just be messy. I would end up more irritated than when I started, and the whole point behind this is release!
Lust Killer - ...I think this is self explanatory.
Um, gross. I don't want to do that.
The Organized Killer - These are the big granddaddies of the serial killer world. These are your highly intelligent, meticulous monsters. The crime is very carefully planned out, the victims sometimes watched for days before they are approached at all. They leave little to no evidence, and oftentimes the impetus for killing is the thrill of stumping the investigators. This would be akin to Hannibal Lecter and even the Zodiac Killer.
Honestly, in the end, I don't think serial killing is for me. I like to think that I would be The Organized Killer, eluding police for years, all the while leaving bodies and taunts in my disastrous wake. However, if I am going to be completely truthful, I think I would be more like the Laurel and Hardy of serial killers. Nothing would go as planned. I would end up killing the wrong person, I would leave ONE finger print somewhere stupid. Actually, no, I would probably leave a bill with my address and phone number on it by accident. No other evidence, just my fucking license.
It just so hard to commit a decent murder these days.
And in reality, I just don't have time for another hobby.
Friday, January 6, 2012
I'm Not Changing My Last Name, Though.
I have to get a little profound here for a second.
This past Monday marked the three year anniversary of the day I met my James. I had been called into audition for a play, and the man reading opposite me was to play my husband in the performance.
Although I had no idea at the time, he would fulfill that role in my actual life as well.
This past Monday my James and I stood up in front of 15 of some of our dearest friends and family in our apartment in Astoria and vowed to love, honor and protect each other for our whole lives.
Yeah, we got married.
This was not a last minute or brash decision. We've been engaged for two years and we always knew we wanted to have a small wedding. James had proposed on a New Year and we figured it would be best to keep our anniversaries all bundled up in one place.
We were also a little sick of people asking when we were going to do it.
I didn't know if I would actually feel different when I said my vows and got that all important kiss. We'd been living together for over two years, we've talked about the possibility of having children, we've worked on our credit together, we're in the midst of raising two trouble making cats - what could a ceremony do that would change anything?
Ceremony. I don't think we understand the significance of that word anymore. The notion of a ceremony, a ritual. You understand why we do these things? Why the Catholic church uses incense, Muslims face the sun to pray and Jews wear a yarmulke. It has everything to do with us, as humans, honoring something too big for us to understand. While we have our religious differences all over the world, honoring the unknown in any small way is a huge deal.
The idea of two people joining to live a life together is an aspect of religion that goes back many thousands of years. Before Jesus walked on water (or just told his Disciples to tell people he did after he fell in cause he was all embarrassed), standing up in front of witnesses and your chosen deity and promising to live a life working together has been a basic tenant for time out of mind.
When I was standing in our living room with our friends around us, listening to our magnificent minister read our ceremony, I got a sense of that. I was joining in a tradition that has been and is being practiced all over the world. We didn't bring the Almighty into our situation as I have enough imaginary friends to begin with, but I couldn't help but feel a very powerful intention being created by my James and me. This was different than lying in bed holding each other, extolling our love and promises for the future. By standing in front of people and promising to be faithful and loving, I was suddenly not only responsible to James, but to everyone I loved who was watching us.
It was an odd, empowering feeling.
I can say without hesitation that I am very happily married. That I cannot imagine hitching my life to anyone else's, but that wonderful man who had tears in his eyes as he clasped my hand and promised to worship me with his heart and soul, who laughed through his tears when I said my vows and who is just as beloved to me now as the cold February night I fought with him on that subway platform when I yelled at him that I was falling in love with him.
I wish everyone the opportunity to love someone to the extent that I do. It's messy and complicated and uncomplicated and pure and deep and powerful and it hurts and it soothes and its comforting and confusing and funny and serious and everything and nothing and it always changes. And just as soon as you've found a definition, just as soon as you've found a way to grasp it, you realize that, no, that's not quite it.
Marriage is an practice that needs to be protected and honored, and that has nothing to do with the genders of the people participating. It has everything to do with making a promise. A vow. That's an important word. Vow. That is something you cannot break. That is giving a piece of your soul away with no thought for it back.
I mean, if you have a spouse who is beating you nightly or is driving you to debt with a nasty coke habit, yeah, there are extenuating circumstances that allow for ending a marriage.
But if you've known each other for a week and a half, maybe give it a little more time before you decide to have and to hold. Remember, anyone can have a wedding. A marriage is different.
I'm no marriage expert, it hasn't even been a week since my wedding day. But I know my James, and I know how to love him. James knows me, and he knows how to make me laugh and how to make me feel precious and loved. That is no small service for one person to give another.
Ok, back to your regularly scheduled program.
This past Monday marked the three year anniversary of the day I met my James. I had been called into audition for a play, and the man reading opposite me was to play my husband in the performance.
Although I had no idea at the time, he would fulfill that role in my actual life as well.
This past Monday my James and I stood up in front of 15 of some of our dearest friends and family in our apartment in Astoria and vowed to love, honor and protect each other for our whole lives.
Yeah, we got married.
This was not a last minute or brash decision. We've been engaged for two years and we always knew we wanted to have a small wedding. James had proposed on a New Year and we figured it would be best to keep our anniversaries all bundled up in one place.
We were also a little sick of people asking when we were going to do it.
I didn't know if I would actually feel different when I said my vows and got that all important kiss. We'd been living together for over two years, we've talked about the possibility of having children, we've worked on our credit together, we're in the midst of raising two trouble making cats - what could a ceremony do that would change anything?
Ceremony. I don't think we understand the significance of that word anymore. The notion of a ceremony, a ritual. You understand why we do these things? Why the Catholic church uses incense, Muslims face the sun to pray and Jews wear a yarmulke. It has everything to do with us, as humans, honoring something too big for us to understand. While we have our religious differences all over the world, honoring the unknown in any small way is a huge deal.
The idea of two people joining to live a life together is an aspect of religion that goes back many thousands of years. Before Jesus walked on water (or just told his Disciples to tell people he did after he fell in cause he was all embarrassed), standing up in front of witnesses and your chosen deity and promising to live a life working together has been a basic tenant for time out of mind.
When I was standing in our living room with our friends around us, listening to our magnificent minister read our ceremony, I got a sense of that. I was joining in a tradition that has been and is being practiced all over the world. We didn't bring the Almighty into our situation as I have enough imaginary friends to begin with, but I couldn't help but feel a very powerful intention being created by my James and me. This was different than lying in bed holding each other, extolling our love and promises for the future. By standing in front of people and promising to be faithful and loving, I was suddenly not only responsible to James, but to everyone I loved who was watching us.
It was an odd, empowering feeling.
I can say without hesitation that I am very happily married. That I cannot imagine hitching my life to anyone else's, but that wonderful man who had tears in his eyes as he clasped my hand and promised to worship me with his heart and soul, who laughed through his tears when I said my vows and who is just as beloved to me now as the cold February night I fought with him on that subway platform when I yelled at him that I was falling in love with him.
I wish everyone the opportunity to love someone to the extent that I do. It's messy and complicated and uncomplicated and pure and deep and powerful and it hurts and it soothes and its comforting and confusing and funny and serious and everything and nothing and it always changes. And just as soon as you've found a definition, just as soon as you've found a way to grasp it, you realize that, no, that's not quite it.
Marriage is an practice that needs to be protected and honored, and that has nothing to do with the genders of the people participating. It has everything to do with making a promise. A vow. That's an important word. Vow. That is something you cannot break. That is giving a piece of your soul away with no thought for it back.
I mean, if you have a spouse who is beating you nightly or is driving you to debt with a nasty coke habit, yeah, there are extenuating circumstances that allow for ending a marriage.
But if you've known each other for a week and a half, maybe give it a little more time before you decide to have and to hold. Remember, anyone can have a wedding. A marriage is different.
I'm no marriage expert, it hasn't even been a week since my wedding day. But I know my James, and I know how to love him. James knows me, and he knows how to make me laugh and how to make me feel precious and loved. That is no small service for one person to give another.
Ok, back to your regularly scheduled program.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
NYC Subway Etiquette - Keep Yourself Alive
As the holiday season in New York City ends, you can feel the residents of this great city begin a careful, controlled sign of relief. The winter holidays are a difficult time for us New Yorkers. Its cold, yet we're expected to be festive. Homeless people badger you a little more because its the "season of giving". Everything your friends and family want can only be found at that one specific specialty shop and costs a fortune.
And more importantly, its tourist season.
Those of you who live in sunny, beach-y destinations will understand what I am talking about. I'm sure traffic gets all gnarl-y with the influx of people and ignorance abounds. For example, many tourists who come to New York feel it is completely acceptable to stop in the middle of the sidewalk, four people across, look up and gawk at a building.
Let me be the first to tell you, this is not cool. Yes, you may be on vacation, but some of the thousands of people on that very same sidewalk which you are blocking are trying to get to work, to class, to an audition. Such idiotic behavior could cost someone a flippin' job.
My biggest issue, however, occurs when tourists attempt to ride the subway.
Oh, I get it. You want the whole experience. You want to see how the locals live, so you get on one of the most heavily trafficked public transit systems in the world.
Just for you adventurous morons, I have put together some unspoken rules about the subway.
And away we go . . .
We will begin very simply. Let's just enter the subway.
1. Not everyone in your 24 person family needs a subway card.
How often are you actually going to use the subway? Maybe twice, before you go back to taking cabs? Putting $5 on every individual card is unnecessary. When you are dealing with cash cards and not unlimiteds, you can use a single card more than once. Just put $25 on a single card and stop piling up in front of the card machines so those of us with perishable groceries can get a card and get home.
2. Move aside, people!
In America, we drive on the right. Those of you from other countries should learn this, and those of you actually from the states need to stop being idiots. It goes to follow, that when using stairs or escalators that you need to move to the right. Eight of you lined up across a stairway will only earn you the everlasting hate of New Yorkers who just missed that train that would have gotten them to the office on time.
3. Subways are not elevators.
When those doors are closing, they are closing. Sticking one hand in between the doors is only going to hurt, slow the train and piss off the people in that car. Putting a bag, shoe or family member in the way of the doors will probably mean you will lose that item. Slowing the trains also fucks things up for THOUSANDS of people. Believe it or not, the trains are actually on a schedule. Making a train stop and wait until you figure out if you need to go uptown or downtown is not a way to win friends.
4. Move to the center of the car.
We know you're scared and this experience is wholly new and different. The subway car will not eat you, and very few New Yorkers bite when unprovoked. By huddling around the doors you are getting in the way. You are not made of air, and the rushing inhabitants of the Big Apple cannot pass through you like a ghost. We are not below shoving and pushing, however. And use the poles. Each time the train starts one of you falls over, often on a poor woman who is exhausted and just wants to get home. You have not improved her day.
5. Don't go to 11.
The cars are not huge. Yes, they can be a little noisy, but that does not constitute the attempt to be the loudest person on that train. You can slightly raise your voice and speak to your neighbor. No need to scream across the car, disturbing (in some cases) the only peace a person has had all day. Turn the volume down. This is helpful to you as well. Speaking loudly and with a dramatic Southern accents makes you a target for pickpockets and muggers. Low profile, guys.
6. Exiting.
Follow rule #2 when leaving the station, only now we are going to add a little choreography. Once you have reached the top of the stairs/escalators/whatever, quickly step out of the way. Congregating in the threshold of the station means that anyone in front of you trying to get in and behind you trying to leave, can't. Hop, skip and a jump and you are out of the way.
Huh, just noticed that most of these rules can be summed up with "Get Out Of The Way."
I guess I could have just said that.
And more importantly, its tourist season.
Those of you who live in sunny, beach-y destinations will understand what I am talking about. I'm sure traffic gets all gnarl-y with the influx of people and ignorance abounds. For example, many tourists who come to New York feel it is completely acceptable to stop in the middle of the sidewalk, four people across, look up and gawk at a building.
Let me be the first to tell you, this is not cool. Yes, you may be on vacation, but some of the thousands of people on that very same sidewalk which you are blocking are trying to get to work, to class, to an audition. Such idiotic behavior could cost someone a flippin' job.
My biggest issue, however, occurs when tourists attempt to ride the subway.
Oh, I get it. You want the whole experience. You want to see how the locals live, so you get on one of the most heavily trafficked public transit systems in the world.
Just for you adventurous morons, I have put together some unspoken rules about the subway.
And away we go . . .
We will begin very simply. Let's just enter the subway.
1. Not everyone in your 24 person family needs a subway card.
How often are you actually going to use the subway? Maybe twice, before you go back to taking cabs? Putting $5 on every individual card is unnecessary. When you are dealing with cash cards and not unlimiteds, you can use a single card more than once. Just put $25 on a single card and stop piling up in front of the card machines so those of us with perishable groceries can get a card and get home.
2. Move aside, people!
In America, we drive on the right. Those of you from other countries should learn this, and those of you actually from the states need to stop being idiots. It goes to follow, that when using stairs or escalators that you need to move to the right. Eight of you lined up across a stairway will only earn you the everlasting hate of New Yorkers who just missed that train that would have gotten them to the office on time.
3. Subways are not elevators.
When those doors are closing, they are closing. Sticking one hand in between the doors is only going to hurt, slow the train and piss off the people in that car. Putting a bag, shoe or family member in the way of the doors will probably mean you will lose that item. Slowing the trains also fucks things up for THOUSANDS of people. Believe it or not, the trains are actually on a schedule. Making a train stop and wait until you figure out if you need to go uptown or downtown is not a way to win friends.
4. Move to the center of the car.
We know you're scared and this experience is wholly new and different. The subway car will not eat you, and very few New Yorkers bite when unprovoked. By huddling around the doors you are getting in the way. You are not made of air, and the rushing inhabitants of the Big Apple cannot pass through you like a ghost. We are not below shoving and pushing, however. And use the poles. Each time the train starts one of you falls over, often on a poor woman who is exhausted and just wants to get home. You have not improved her day.
5. Don't go to 11.
The cars are not huge. Yes, they can be a little noisy, but that does not constitute the attempt to be the loudest person on that train. You can slightly raise your voice and speak to your neighbor. No need to scream across the car, disturbing (in some cases) the only peace a person has had all day. Turn the volume down. This is helpful to you as well. Speaking loudly and with a dramatic Southern accents makes you a target for pickpockets and muggers. Low profile, guys.
6. Exiting.
Follow rule #2 when leaving the station, only now we are going to add a little choreography. Once you have reached the top of the stairs/escalators/whatever, quickly step out of the way. Congregating in the threshold of the station means that anyone in front of you trying to get in and behind you trying to leave, can't. Hop, skip and a jump and you are out of the way.
Huh, just noticed that most of these rules can be summed up with "Get Out Of The Way."
I guess I could have just said that.
Friday, November 18, 2011
I Would Have Learned More In School If They'd Kept All The Nasty Details
I love history.
One of the greatest gifts I ever received was when my James got instant Netflix on our TV, because now I can watch all the documentaries I want. And I watch a lot of documentaries about a lot of different things.
Last night I was watching a rather cheesy documentary on Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii. For those of you who don't know, Mount Vesuvius is an active volcano in Italy. It is very famous, because in AD 79 the volcano erupted and covered the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum in volcanic ash, completely preserving the towns and the people in the exact positions they were in when they died. It is one of the best examples of Roman life from that time period, or any time period.
For god's sake, there is a little corner store that was unearthed with small change still on the counter, waiting for its owner to pick it up.
One of the most amazing finds in this site is a cellar where a number of individuals sought shelter. The ash and lava encased the town and the cellar, entombing them where they lay. The bodies that were out in the open were not as well preserved as the people in the cellar. This is particularly notable, because most Romans at this time cremated their dead, and thus we have very few humans remains from this time period.
Ok, hang on, I am slowly getting to the point.
This documentary I was watching described the people in the cellar. They appear to have separated themselves into two groups - the wealthy and the poor, possibly even slaves. The skeleton of a man lies between the two groups. A large bag of gold was found by his remains, and this documentary surmised that the cellar belonged to this man, and that he had brought the gold with him when he retreated into the cellar with the other people.
This is where I take issue.
This man didn't just bring a bag of gold into the cellar with him and usher passing wealthy citizens into his cellar out of the goodness of his heart. Think about this. He was charging people for the use of his shelter. Charging. That's why the cellar wasn't overflowing with bodies. If he was just kindly inviting everyone in there would be bones stacked upon bones. He wasn't. He was making a profit off of a tragedy.
Question. What is more interesting? A man who opens the door to his home to everyone, or one who charges whatever a person has on them for their lives?
I want to know more about the greedy man. Because I could totally buy that a man like that existed. I have met that man before. If there is one mistake people make in teaching history it is the notion that the people that came before us were all the different from us now. Human beings are emotional, greedy, despicable, incredible creatures. They were just as bad and just as good as we are now. So many times we are misled into thinking that the people who had a hand in making the world what it is today were somehow better, more noble than people are today. Yes, there were very noble, honorable people who shaped the world, but many of the movers and shakers were just as nasty, petty and driven by greed and sex as anyone is today.
How much more interesting is history to learn if historical figures were actually people? John Adams was a jerk! Abe Lincoln was reluctant! Edward Hyde (New York, New Jersey governor in the 1700s) was a cross dresser! Alexander the Great was gay!
Real life is better than history any day.
One of the greatest gifts I ever received was when my James got instant Netflix on our TV, because now I can watch all the documentaries I want. And I watch a lot of documentaries about a lot of different things.
Last night I was watching a rather cheesy documentary on Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii. For those of you who don't know, Mount Vesuvius is an active volcano in Italy. It is very famous, because in AD 79 the volcano erupted and covered the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum in volcanic ash, completely preserving the towns and the people in the exact positions they were in when they died. It is one of the best examples of Roman life from that time period, or any time period.
For god's sake, there is a little corner store that was unearthed with small change still on the counter, waiting for its owner to pick it up.
One of the most amazing finds in this site is a cellar where a number of individuals sought shelter. The ash and lava encased the town and the cellar, entombing them where they lay. The bodies that were out in the open were not as well preserved as the people in the cellar. This is particularly notable, because most Romans at this time cremated their dead, and thus we have very few humans remains from this time period.
Ok, hang on, I am slowly getting to the point.
This documentary I was watching described the people in the cellar. They appear to have separated themselves into two groups - the wealthy and the poor, possibly even slaves. The skeleton of a man lies between the two groups. A large bag of gold was found by his remains, and this documentary surmised that the cellar belonged to this man, and that he had brought the gold with him when he retreated into the cellar with the other people.
This is where I take issue.
This man didn't just bring a bag of gold into the cellar with him and usher passing wealthy citizens into his cellar out of the goodness of his heart. Think about this. He was charging people for the use of his shelter. Charging. That's why the cellar wasn't overflowing with bodies. If he was just kindly inviting everyone in there would be bones stacked upon bones. He wasn't. He was making a profit off of a tragedy.
Question. What is more interesting? A man who opens the door to his home to everyone, or one who charges whatever a person has on them for their lives?
I want to know more about the greedy man. Because I could totally buy that a man like that existed. I have met that man before. If there is one mistake people make in teaching history it is the notion that the people that came before us were all the different from us now. Human beings are emotional, greedy, despicable, incredible creatures. They were just as bad and just as good as we are now. So many times we are misled into thinking that the people who had a hand in making the world what it is today were somehow better, more noble than people are today. Yes, there were very noble, honorable people who shaped the world, but many of the movers and shakers were just as nasty, petty and driven by greed and sex as anyone is today.
How much more interesting is history to learn if historical figures were actually people? John Adams was a jerk! Abe Lincoln was reluctant! Edward Hyde (New York, New Jersey governor in the 1700s) was a cross dresser! Alexander the Great was gay!
Real life is better than history any day.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Homemade Cat Food. Seriously.
I've promised it for a while, and finally, here it is.
My recipe for homemade cat food.
My cousin, Jane, is a veterinary surgeon. She's super awesome when it comes to natural solutions to animal problems, and even performs acupuncture on animals. I knew that when I got my cats, I would be talking to her when it came to their food.
Honestly, I wasn't surprised when she told me that most store bought cat food is pure crap. Its just a lot of crude protein and carbs and it makes cat poop and pee really stinky. It can also be responsible for the mythical "smelly cat" syndrome.
So, with help from Jane and the amazing people at Whiskers Holistic Pet Products, I have devised this recipe.
Let's begin. This recipe will make enough food for three cats for about 2 weeks.
Ingredients:
3.5 lbs. of ground turkey
6 eggs
Two medium sized sweet potatoes
1 bunch of parsley
Let's begin with the smaller bits and pieces.
The eggs and sweet potatoes need to be boiled. To save space on the stove, I boil them both together in the same pot.
I put the eggs in water first:
Then peel and chop the sweet potatoes:
Then put them all together in boiling water:
I find the time of cooking the sweet potatoes to get them soft is a good measure of time for cooking the eggs.
While that is going on, cook the meat.
Once everything is cooked, its time to combine. Basically you just use a food processor and make everything into a slurry, but I'll show you how I do everything.
I like to combine the eggs, parsley and sweet potatoes first.
As for the parsley, you want to use a lot of it. More than you think. I'm posting a picture below of my hand with the parsley to give it some scale, but its a whole bunch from the grocery store.
You just cut the stems off:
And plop that in the processor:
Its easier to chop all this up before you put anything else in there, and you add some good-for-the-feline stuff.
Now, for the meat.
The big black guy is our boy Wee Thomas, the little beige beauty is our lady Jezebel. The pretty little tabby in the middle, is a new addition to our house, Lola. Our new roommate, Sam, brought Lola with her, and wanted to try out our food with her. Amazing things have happened. In just a couple weeks she has lost weight, she's much more active than she ever was and, according to Sam, she's lost her stink.
Apparently, she used to be a MAJOR stinky cat, with major stinky bowel movements. Now, she doesn't have either one of those problems.
For the vitamins and oil used, if you are in NYC, Whiskers the is best place to go. If you head toward to back right of the store there is a huge selection of vitamins and whatnot, and the guys who work there are incredibly knowledgeable. They have two locations, one in Queens and one on East 9th street. Check out their website.
Warning, they have a ton of awesome stuff - you are going to want to buy a lot of things there.
So, there you have it. Let me know how your kitties enjoy!
My recipe for homemade cat food.
My cousin, Jane, is a veterinary surgeon. She's super awesome when it comes to natural solutions to animal problems, and even performs acupuncture on animals. I knew that when I got my cats, I would be talking to her when it came to their food.
Honestly, I wasn't surprised when she told me that most store bought cat food is pure crap. Its just a lot of crude protein and carbs and it makes cat poop and pee really stinky. It can also be responsible for the mythical "smelly cat" syndrome.
So, with help from Jane and the amazing people at Whiskers Holistic Pet Products, I have devised this recipe.
Let's begin. This recipe will make enough food for three cats for about 2 weeks.
Ingredients:
3.5 lbs. of ground turkey
6 eggs
Two medium sized sweet potatoes
1 bunch of parsley
Let's begin with the smaller bits and pieces.
The eggs and sweet potatoes need to be boiled. To save space on the stove, I boil them both together in the same pot.
I put the eggs in water first:
Then peel and chop the sweet potatoes:
Then put them all together in boiling water:
I find the time of cooking the sweet potatoes to get them soft is a good measure of time for cooking the eggs.
While that is going on, cook the meat.
Once everything is cooked, its time to combine. Basically you just use a food processor and make everything into a slurry, but I'll show you how I do everything.
I like to combine the eggs, parsley and sweet potatoes first.
As for the parsley, you want to use a lot of it. More than you think. I'm posting a picture below of my hand with the parsley to give it some scale, but its a whole bunch from the grocery store.
You just cut the stems off:
And plop that in the processor:
You want to use 1/2 a cup of the cat oil supplement. It has all kinds of fish oils and vitamins and stuff. If you have cats that like to chew plastic bags, its because they aren't getting enough of this stuff.
You can also use olive oil if you want, but its not as good as this stuff.
I use just enough of this to make a parsley/cat oil pesto-esque mixture.
Then, add the cooked sweet potatoes.
Then, the eggs. Now, you only need to use the egg yolks, the yellow part of the egg.
Now, combine it all, and you should get a mixture that looks like this:
When cooking this, do everything you can to preserve all the turkey juices. You can use all of the juices to help reconstitute it all and grind it up better. If you need to add some water to make it more juice-y, go for it.
Then, you mix it all up together. It'll look something like this:
Now, on to actually serving the stuff. You don't need much. Our cats get fed twice a day. For breakfast, they get one tablespoon each, and two tablespoons for dinner. I'll show you how we serve the single tablespoon serving.
They get extra vitamins with their food. I use this:
Specially suggested by the fine folks at Whiskers Holistic Pet Products, this stuff has everything you need for healthy and happy cats. They get one teaspoon per meal.
Reconstitute the cat food with a little water and mix it till it looks like this:
Then put it on the floor, till it looks like this:
The big black guy is our boy Wee Thomas, the little beige beauty is our lady Jezebel. The pretty little tabby in the middle, is a new addition to our house, Lola. Our new roommate, Sam, brought Lola with her, and wanted to try out our food with her. Amazing things have happened. In just a couple weeks she has lost weight, she's much more active than she ever was and, according to Sam, she's lost her stink.
Apparently, she used to be a MAJOR stinky cat, with major stinky bowel movements. Now, she doesn't have either one of those problems.
For the vitamins and oil used, if you are in NYC, Whiskers the is best place to go. If you head toward to back right of the store there is a huge selection of vitamins and whatnot, and the guys who work there are incredibly knowledgeable. They have two locations, one in Queens and one on East 9th street. Check out their website.
Warning, they have a ton of awesome stuff - you are going to want to buy a lot of things there.
So, there you have it. Let me know how your kitties enjoy!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
I Can't Think Of A Snappy Title, So This One's About Horror Movies.
Last night I was home alone with my sewing and what did I decide to do on a dark evening all by myself with the cats rummaging around in the background?
Of course I decided to watch a couple of scary movies.
Very specific things scare me. As I have established in earlier posts, I am not a fan of alien abduction movies because when they are done properly, when the protagonist is sufficiently trapped, devoid of hope and forced into a shadowy version of their former selves, they really get under my skin.
Demon/demon possession movies also scare me.
I am a big fan of horror films that rely on the imagination of the viewer to bring the evil into focus. Your CGI ghost/alien/monster and your special effects blood/gore will never match an imagination running rampant of what something could be.
I think the best example of this in recent years have been the Paranormal Activity movies. Not only do the filmmakers trust the audience's imagination to fill in the gaps, they are masters at building tension, layering anxiety and the all important scare tactic, timing.
There is one excellent moment in Paranormal Activity 2 (SPOILER) when the mother (played by Sprague Grayden) is sitting alone in the kitchen. She is the only one home, and very much alone even though its the middle of the day. She feels more than hears a presence behind her, and she turns, looking for what has triggered that instinctual feeling we all have when someone or something is standing close to you. Seeing nothing, she relaxes slightly, and turns back. Just at the moment, all the cupboards burst open explosively and scare the poop out of Grayden and anyone watching.
This was an expertly executed moment. First off, she's home alone. The audience knows SOMETHING has to happen, so our eyes are already darting here and there on the screen to see what's going to move, where a shadow might appear, etc. Already, the tension is building. We feel that presence along with Grayden, and when she turns, our hackles are up right along with her's, we are so ready for something to happen and so ready to be scared. But nothing happens. As she relaxes slightly, so do we. Just as we are all feeling slightly relieved that nothing happened, hell breaks loose.
The timing on the actual scare is just perfect. Not to mention Grayden's reaction - I often wonder, watching that scene if the directors even told her what was going to happen. It seems plausible that they could have said to her, "Ok, go sit in the kitchen - something's going to happen, but don't worry, just act naturally." Which is mean, but makes for a great reaction from both her and the audience who needs to put on new underwear.
More traditional, religious possession movies are pretty terrifying as well. What I find scary about this situation doesn't have as much to do with the demon - although that does give me the jibblies. What is more frightening about that is if you are possessed by a demon, you have to rely upon the faith of another person to save you. The person performing an exorcism must have such strong, intense faith that the demon inside of you cannot stand to be in that person's presence. That is not an easy thing to find, even among priests and reverend's. An exorcist must also be very smart, very clever because he/she must force and trick the demon into revealing his true name in order to gain power over him.
There was a movie made a couple years ago called 'The Last Exorcism'. It begins in a relatively predictable way, centered on a preacher in the south who has been an exorcist for years and is convinced that demon possession lies in the mind of the victim and by preforming exorcisms he is providing a service. If you think you've been exorcised, then you have been. He takes a documentary film crew with him on his "last exorcism" to prove to them and the world the fraudulent nature of this work.
Of course, things are not always what they seem.
The moments where the girl in this movie (Ashley Bell) is possessed are actually very harrowing, and very uncomfortable to watch. Bell is quite adept at being supremely creepy.
Unfortunately, the film makers ruin the movie.
At the end, (SPOILER) the have the documentary crew and reverend come upon a ritual out in the woods, where the girl is on an alter surrounded by Satan worshipers with a great blazing fire behind her. She's being held down and it looks like an invisible force is raping her. Then, a large creepy looking lady pulls something out of her, and when the evil priest-y guy holds it up and you can see that its a demon-baby.
Completely ruins the movie. I was all on board until they pulled the demon baby out of her. I was all into this sweet girl being possessed by the devil himself, and then it turned out to just be some other random raping/abortion demon and a cult thing thrown in for good measure? When will people learn to leave well enough alone?
If this had been a story about a man finding his true faith through unimaginable evil, I would have been totally on board. The girl could have even died in it. That would have worked. Nevertheless, by trying to pull the ol' switcheroo on us and putting a twist in the end, it completely cheapened the story.
So for all you filmmakers out there - trust your audience. We aren't all idiots. And making a story simple doesn't make it bad. Even in 'The Sixth Sense' the twist at the end wasn't complicated. It aided and added to the story, it didn't detract from it.
So . . . yeah. Scare me properly, people.
Of course I decided to watch a couple of scary movies.
Very specific things scare me. As I have established in earlier posts, I am not a fan of alien abduction movies because when they are done properly, when the protagonist is sufficiently trapped, devoid of hope and forced into a shadowy version of their former selves, they really get under my skin.
Demon/demon possession movies also scare me.
I am a big fan of horror films that rely on the imagination of the viewer to bring the evil into focus. Your CGI ghost/alien/monster and your special effects blood/gore will never match an imagination running rampant of what something could be.
I think the best example of this in recent years have been the Paranormal Activity movies. Not only do the filmmakers trust the audience's imagination to fill in the gaps, they are masters at building tension, layering anxiety and the all important scare tactic, timing.
There is one excellent moment in Paranormal Activity 2 (SPOILER) when the mother (played by Sprague Grayden) is sitting alone in the kitchen. She is the only one home, and very much alone even though its the middle of the day. She feels more than hears a presence behind her, and she turns, looking for what has triggered that instinctual feeling we all have when someone or something is standing close to you. Seeing nothing, she relaxes slightly, and turns back. Just at the moment, all the cupboards burst open explosively and scare the poop out of Grayden and anyone watching.
This was an expertly executed moment. First off, she's home alone. The audience knows SOMETHING has to happen, so our eyes are already darting here and there on the screen to see what's going to move, where a shadow might appear, etc. Already, the tension is building. We feel that presence along with Grayden, and when she turns, our hackles are up right along with her's, we are so ready for something to happen and so ready to be scared. But nothing happens. As she relaxes slightly, so do we. Just as we are all feeling slightly relieved that nothing happened, hell breaks loose.
The timing on the actual scare is just perfect. Not to mention Grayden's reaction - I often wonder, watching that scene if the directors even told her what was going to happen. It seems plausible that they could have said to her, "Ok, go sit in the kitchen - something's going to happen, but don't worry, just act naturally." Which is mean, but makes for a great reaction from both her and the audience who needs to put on new underwear.
More traditional, religious possession movies are pretty terrifying as well. What I find scary about this situation doesn't have as much to do with the demon - although that does give me the jibblies. What is more frightening about that is if you are possessed by a demon, you have to rely upon the faith of another person to save you. The person performing an exorcism must have such strong, intense faith that the demon inside of you cannot stand to be in that person's presence. That is not an easy thing to find, even among priests and reverend's. An exorcist must also be very smart, very clever because he/she must force and trick the demon into revealing his true name in order to gain power over him.
There was a movie made a couple years ago called 'The Last Exorcism'. It begins in a relatively predictable way, centered on a preacher in the south who has been an exorcist for years and is convinced that demon possession lies in the mind of the victim and by preforming exorcisms he is providing a service. If you think you've been exorcised, then you have been. He takes a documentary film crew with him on his "last exorcism" to prove to them and the world the fraudulent nature of this work.
Of course, things are not always what they seem.
The moments where the girl in this movie (Ashley Bell) is possessed are actually very harrowing, and very uncomfortable to watch. Bell is quite adept at being supremely creepy.
Unfortunately, the film makers ruin the movie.
At the end, (SPOILER) the have the documentary crew and reverend come upon a ritual out in the woods, where the girl is on an alter surrounded by Satan worshipers with a great blazing fire behind her. She's being held down and it looks like an invisible force is raping her. Then, a large creepy looking lady pulls something out of her, and when the evil priest-y guy holds it up and you can see that its a demon-baby.
Completely ruins the movie. I was all on board until they pulled the demon baby out of her. I was all into this sweet girl being possessed by the devil himself, and then it turned out to just be some other random raping/abortion demon and a cult thing thrown in for good measure? When will people learn to leave well enough alone?
If this had been a story about a man finding his true faith through unimaginable evil, I would have been totally on board. The girl could have even died in it. That would have worked. Nevertheless, by trying to pull the ol' switcheroo on us and putting a twist in the end, it completely cheapened the story.
So for all you filmmakers out there - trust your audience. We aren't all idiots. And making a story simple doesn't make it bad. Even in 'The Sixth Sense' the twist at the end wasn't complicated. It aided and added to the story, it didn't detract from it.
So . . . yeah. Scare me properly, people.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
People Bring Me Closer To Disappearing Into The Bush of Australia
The more and more I see, the more and more I despair for the future of this planet.
"Oh, Ashley, why do you say that?" You may query. "Are you speaking of the state of the American government as it currently stands? Do you refer to the economic crisis that worsens by the day, or our enemies that grow by the hour? Are you planning on joining the protesters on Wall Street?"
My friends, the answer to these questions is an honest, emphatic and resounding NO.
...
I don't have to look the far away from my own experience to know that we're all fucked.
The future of this country, and the world as we know it lies in, as it may imply, the future. And the custodianship of the future belongs to the young, the kids who are in school now, who are developing their own dreams.
The little fuckers who write insulting things on the internet.
Ok, I admit, I have a difficult time dealing with little shits who write nasty comments on videos or posts. They do it because it's a safe environment, because they don't have to actually speak to someone, they get to be anonymous and they aren't in danger of being punched in the face.
As a performer, I have one or two things on YouTube. And I know that I get way too emotionally involved in people being assholes, so I have the comments set up so if you want to comment, it must first be approved by yours truly.
One of my videos recently got a comment. I am always interested in constructive criticism. I really do welcome it. Do you have something to tell me that will help me improve my craft and become better at what I do? You took time out of your day to aid in my crusade to be part of the top tier of performers? That is incredibly selfless. I could cry. Honestly, I have tears in my eyes as I type this. How on this plain or any plain of existence can I possible thank you for that?
Or are you just being a little shit.
I am addressing this to youtube user manaranam.
This person (gender unknown) watched a snippet of a live edit of myself and another very fine actor performing Danny and the Deep Blue Sea. This play is full of very complicated themes, dramatic and funny. It is as visceral as it gets, dealing with two people far down the road to despair who find each other, and through their own tragedies, save each other.
To which manaranam commented - "this is stooped"
I didn't clean that up at all.
Lower case lettering.
No punctuation.
And really, not making any sense at all.
I am assuming that what manaranam meant to say was - "This is stupid." I don't see how he could have actually meant "stooped". The dictionary defines the word "stooped" as "to bend the head and shoulders, or the body generally, forward and downward from an erect position; to carry the head and shoulders habitually bowed forward."
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe manaranam is concerned about us. Maybe he/she saw something in the film that made them think that we need to see a doctor, maybe somethings' wrong with our back, maybe this was his/her way to reaching out to us to let us know we need to get something checked out.
Hey, perhaps that's the reason there was no punctuation! User manaranam was in such a rush to get us this information, they couldn't even bother with proper grammar! They were all, "Fuck it, these people need to know about the stooping!"
Unfortunately, I have a strong feeling this is not the case.
Come back when you learn how to spell the word "stupid", dipshit.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Don't Dedicate Your Life To Something Stupid
So, we were talking about aliens once.
Now, I am not ashamed to say that when it comes to aliens, they freak me the fuck out. I have a hard time believing that adorable, life-loving, humor-inducing aliens a la "E.T." and "Close Encounters" will get to us before the terrifying, unintelligible, human-hating/consuming aliens of, well, "Alien", "Signs" or "Little Shop of Horrors".
Don't feed the plants!
I do think there must be something out there in the vast expanse of the galaxy. Honestly, I would feel really bad if it was just us. Come on, out of infinite possibilities in the infinite infinity of space, it's just us?
Seems wasteful.
Anyway, so I think there must be other civilizations out there somewhere, and I can even consider the claims that these otherworldly beings have already visited our lonely blue planet.
But I gotta tell ya, the people who are often pro-UFO are making that really really difficult for me.
For example, remember the post about Ancient Aliens? Don't answer that, of course you do, you read everything I write and every day you don't see a new post is a day without sunshine.
Well, on this program not only do they make the most outrageous claims, but they have the most outrageous people making them.
One of the primary contributors to this show is Giorgio Tsoukalos.
He looks like this.
Honest. That's a better picture.
This guys comes up with some of the dumbest theories of all time. I honestly don't understand how he can't hear himself talk and not say, "Man, I am completely full of shit."
For example, "Mary (of Bible fame) was visited by an alien, which she mistook for an angel, impregnated her and Jesus was actually half alien."
Even my cats roll their eyes when they hear this shit.
See, that's something else these guys need to work on. When regular, every day, respected scientist talk about science-y stuff, its basically boring. Even stuff they are wildly passionate about comes out like a bad math teacher trying to teach you fractions.
When they get all tense and excited about the whole alien thing, they just sound super crazy. Honestly, its hard to say things like, "King Tut was probably an alien hybrid," without sounding like you forgot to take your meds, but if you say it seriously and calmly and not jumping up and down and explaining it like you were talking to a five year old, you might get a little further.
Not much, but a little.
Oh, and then they say things like, "Everybody wants to meet an alien."
Not true, "scientist"!
I don't. Not until they've been thoroughly vetted and investigated to make sure they aren't gonna suck my lung out through my nostrils. More to the point, I don't know what I would say to an alien. I'd probably say something really inappropriate, like, "So, why are all you guys so slime-y?", "What's the deal with anal probing?", "Did you really have crazy alien sex with ancient Greek maidens and tell them you were Zeus?" - that's another claim by these "scientists".
They just said the words "death ray" in a serious context. YOU CAN'T CALL IT A DEATH RAY.
I can't deal with this shit.
Now, I am not ashamed to say that when it comes to aliens, they freak me the fuck out. I have a hard time believing that adorable, life-loving, humor-inducing aliens a la "E.T." and "Close Encounters" will get to us before the terrifying, unintelligible, human-hating/consuming aliens of, well, "Alien", "Signs" or "Little Shop of Horrors".
Don't feed the plants!
I do think there must be something out there in the vast expanse of the galaxy. Honestly, I would feel really bad if it was just us. Come on, out of infinite possibilities in the infinite infinity of space, it's just us?
Seems wasteful.
Anyway, so I think there must be other civilizations out there somewhere, and I can even consider the claims that these otherworldly beings have already visited our lonely blue planet.
But I gotta tell ya, the people who are often pro-UFO are making that really really difficult for me.
For example, remember the post about Ancient Aliens? Don't answer that, of course you do, you read everything I write and every day you don't see a new post is a day without sunshine.
Well, on this program not only do they make the most outrageous claims, but they have the most outrageous people making them.
One of the primary contributors to this show is Giorgio Tsoukalos.
He looks like this.
Ok, that's not a fair picture. Here's a better one.
This guys comes up with some of the dumbest theories of all time. I honestly don't understand how he can't hear himself talk and not say, "Man, I am completely full of shit."
For example, "Mary (of Bible fame) was visited by an alien, which she mistook for an angel, impregnated her and Jesus was actually half alien."
Even my cats roll their eyes when they hear this shit.
See, that's something else these guys need to work on. When regular, every day, respected scientist talk about science-y stuff, its basically boring. Even stuff they are wildly passionate about comes out like a bad math teacher trying to teach you fractions.
When they get all tense and excited about the whole alien thing, they just sound super crazy. Honestly, its hard to say things like, "King Tut was probably an alien hybrid," without sounding like you forgot to take your meds, but if you say it seriously and calmly and not jumping up and down and explaining it like you were talking to a five year old, you might get a little further.
Not much, but a little.
Oh, and then they say things like, "Everybody wants to meet an alien."
Not true, "scientist"!
I don't. Not until they've been thoroughly vetted and investigated to make sure they aren't gonna suck my lung out through my nostrils. More to the point, I don't know what I would say to an alien. I'd probably say something really inappropriate, like, "So, why are all you guys so slime-y?", "What's the deal with anal probing?", "Did you really have crazy alien sex with ancient Greek maidens and tell them you were Zeus?" - that's another claim by these "scientists".
They just said the words "death ray" in a serious context. YOU CAN'T CALL IT A DEATH RAY.
I can't deal with this shit.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
I Have No Problem With People Named Billy Joe Or Tater Tots
So, I recently cut off about thirteen inches of my hair.
But I am not here to talk about that - about what incredibly bravery it took to take that step, about the mental anguish I went through afterwards, about the resources needed to completely revamp my acting life - no, I am not going to talk about any of that.
What I would like to discuss is something much more insidious than any ghost story. More unnerving than both of Bush's presidencies. More troubling than Ethan Hawke's acting career.
I am speaking, of course, of Locks of Love.
Ok, maybe its not that bad.
Locks of Love is a really lovely organization that collects hair of a certain length from people willing to donate in order to make wigs for kids under 21 who have lost their hair due to medical problems or medications.
Seems kind enough, right?
Well, I was all set to become one of these righteous, selfless people who donates their hair to those in need. I get my hair cut by the wonderful Stephen Keough - do yourself a favor and get your hair cut by him if you live in the New York City area - and I came home with my bag full of hair, all ready to look up where I could take it and drop it off.
You can imagine my surprise when I got to the website.
All hair donations must be mailed to Locks of Love at:
234 Southern Blvd.
West Palm Beach, FL 33405-2701
I was completely floored.
For some reason, this completely weird-ed me out. I have to send my hair through the mail? Does that seem discomforting to anyone else?
My hair was apart of me, it was a big part of what defined me since I was 12 years old. And you just want me to throw that in an envelope and send it to Florida?
The more and more I think about this, the more and more I feel really uncomfortable.
You mean I don't get to see who actually receives my hair? What if some weirdo just set up this website and has this hair sent to his house. Just some creepy guy with piles of hair everywhere.
What if the person who opens the package doesn't do so with enough reverence? There should be candles lit (kept far enough away from the hair of course), other-worldly music must be playing, it should be laid on a pillow on a silver platter and gently carried to where it will be most daintily constructed into the most beautiful wig for the next spiritual leader of the new millennium.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, I know I'm not asking for much and these requests aren't out of line at all.
Its good to know you're on my side.
But instead it might be some guy named Billy Joe who just went to the bathroom (and didn't wash his hands, by the way), and is eating tater tots with the one hand, while he rips the packaging open and just tosses my beautiful golden-brown hair into a trash bag of other hair waiting to be carted off.
Of course I am going to send my hair in. Locks of Love is a wonderful organization that helps really deserving kids out there, and I am really honored that I get to be apart of helping someone feel better.
But still, kinda ranks up there with, like, sending a tooth through the mail.
Gross.
But I am not here to talk about that - about what incredibly bravery it took to take that step, about the mental anguish I went through afterwards, about the resources needed to completely revamp my acting life - no, I am not going to talk about any of that.
What I would like to discuss is something much more insidious than any ghost story. More unnerving than both of Bush's presidencies. More troubling than Ethan Hawke's acting career.
I am speaking, of course, of Locks of Love.
Ok, maybe its not that bad.
Locks of Love is a really lovely organization that collects hair of a certain length from people willing to donate in order to make wigs for kids under 21 who have lost their hair due to medical problems or medications.
Seems kind enough, right?
Well, I was all set to become one of these righteous, selfless people who donates their hair to those in need. I get my hair cut by the wonderful Stephen Keough - do yourself a favor and get your hair cut by him if you live in the New York City area - and I came home with my bag full of hair, all ready to look up where I could take it and drop it off.
You can imagine my surprise when I got to the website.
All hair donations must be mailed to Locks of Love at:
234 Southern Blvd.
West Palm Beach, FL 33405-2701
I was completely floored.
For some reason, this completely weird-ed me out. I have to send my hair through the mail? Does that seem discomforting to anyone else?
My hair was apart of me, it was a big part of what defined me since I was 12 years old. And you just want me to throw that in an envelope and send it to Florida?
The more and more I think about this, the more and more I feel really uncomfortable.
You mean I don't get to see who actually receives my hair? What if some weirdo just set up this website and has this hair sent to his house. Just some creepy guy with piles of hair everywhere.
What if the person who opens the package doesn't do so with enough reverence? There should be candles lit (kept far enough away from the hair of course), other-worldly music must be playing, it should be laid on a pillow on a silver platter and gently carried to where it will be most daintily constructed into the most beautiful wig for the next spiritual leader of the new millennium.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, I know I'm not asking for much and these requests aren't out of line at all.
Its good to know you're on my side.
But instead it might be some guy named Billy Joe who just went to the bathroom (and didn't wash his hands, by the way), and is eating tater tots with the one hand, while he rips the packaging open and just tosses my beautiful golden-brown hair into a trash bag of other hair waiting to be carted off.
Of course I am going to send my hair in. Locks of Love is a wonderful organization that helps really deserving kids out there, and I am really honored that I get to be apart of helping someone feel better.
But still, kinda ranks up there with, like, sending a tooth through the mail.
Gross.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Emoting Ahead. Be Warned.
Ok, Internet, its time to get personal.
This coming Monday, October 3, the life of a man very close to me will change forever. My roommate, best friend and adopted brother, Bryan Fenkart will begin the first step of a journey that will out him even further on his path. This isn't a figurative journey, but an actual one.
For the past two years, Bryan has been understudying the lead role of Huey in the Broadway production of Memphis. He was the first choice of everyone and anyone who matters to star in Memphis' touring company. This Monday he will get on a plane, and head off into the wild, blue yonder.
I met Bryan about eight years ago. It was my very first year in New York, and I got cast in a Nosedive production called Mayonnaise Sandwiches. It was a tiny, no-money production in a the basement "theater" of an old church. As my first show in NYC, I loved every second of it. It honestly changed my life forever, mostly because of the lanky young actor who was playing opposite me.
He was a man of extreme talent and potential. He played guitar and piano, he was smart, funny and handsome, he was confident and definitely the most interesting person I had ever met.
Obviously, the first thing I did was fall head over heels in love with him. I was a starry-eyed young Virginian transplant to New York City and was in no means immune to his charms.
I thank my lucky stars that there was never any relationship between us.
Instead, over the next years a very strong, steady, rewarding friendship grew between us. We became roommates almost 4 years ago, and since then he has been a constant source of encouragement and solace in my life. He was with me when my grandfather died and my first serious, grow-up boyfriend left me. He was with me when I got cast in Law and Order and when I met the man I'm going to marry. Bryan has been with me at my very best and my very worst.
Throughout the years, I have watched Bryan's career. He has gone from teeny-tiny productions to Broadway, from playing Jersey coffee houses to playing with Richie Cannata to sold out houses. Through the years he has proved again and again his talent is immense and fair reaching.
Throughout his ride with Memphis thus far, I have really seen him step up his game. He has worked harder and more than ever. I have never been as proud of him as I am now. I am so lucky to count him as part of my family. He is a continual source of inspiration.
I'm not completely sure why I am writing this. I know when he leaves both James and I are going to miss him terribly. Life will definitely be a little more subdued. I know I'll be sad once in a while, but I am so excited for all he's got ahead of him. I guess I'm saying that I hope everyone has a friend like I have. He's held me when I've cried and bolstered my courage when it's waned. He's laughed with me in the most ridiculous situations and trusted me with his own hurts. I really couldn't have been luckier when it comes to my New York family.
The tour dates are as follows:
October 14 at the Orpheum Theatre in Memphis, where it will play through October 23.
Other venues include Houston, TX (October 25-30)
Tulsa, OK (November 1-6)
Oklahoma City, OK (November 8-13)
Nashville, TN (November 15-20)
Chicago, IL (November 22 - December 4)
Toronto, ON (December 6-25)
Pittsburgh, PA (December 27-January 1, 2012)
Charlotte, NC (January 3-8)
Hartford, CT (January 10-15)
Philadelphia, PA (January 17-22)
Durham, NC (January 24-29)
Atlanta, GA (January 31-February 5)
Clearwater, FL (February 7-12)
Naples, FL (February 14-19)
Greenville, SC (February 21-26)
Cleveland, OH (February 28-March 11)
St. Paul, MN (March 13-25)
East Lansing, MI (March 27-April 1)
Baltimore, MD (April 3-8)
Hershey, PA (April 10-15)
Schenectady, NY (April 17-22)
Des Moines, IA (April 24-29)
St. Louis, MO (May 1-13)
Dallas, TX (May 15-27)
Columbus, OH (May 29-June 3)
Buffalo, NY (June 5-10)
Washington, DC (June 12-July 1)
Kansas City, MO (July 10-15)
Las Vegas, NV (July 17-22)
San Diego, CA (July 24-29)
Los Angeles, CA (July 31-August 12)
If he is coming to a city near you, do yourself a favor and see the show. He's gonna be a huge star one day, and you'll want to say "you saw him when".
I love you very much, Bryan. Go be awesome, you son of a bitch.
This coming Monday, October 3, the life of a man very close to me will change forever. My roommate, best friend and adopted brother, Bryan Fenkart will begin the first step of a journey that will out him even further on his path. This isn't a figurative journey, but an actual one.
For the past two years, Bryan has been understudying the lead role of Huey in the Broadway production of Memphis. He was the first choice of everyone and anyone who matters to star in Memphis' touring company. This Monday he will get on a plane, and head off into the wild, blue yonder.
I met Bryan about eight years ago. It was my very first year in New York, and I got cast in a Nosedive production called Mayonnaise Sandwiches. It was a tiny, no-money production in a the basement "theater" of an old church. As my first show in NYC, I loved every second of it. It honestly changed my life forever, mostly because of the lanky young actor who was playing opposite me.
He was a man of extreme talent and potential. He played guitar and piano, he was smart, funny and handsome, he was confident and definitely the most interesting person I had ever met.
Obviously, the first thing I did was fall head over heels in love with him. I was a starry-eyed young Virginian transplant to New York City and was in no means immune to his charms.
I thank my lucky stars that there was never any relationship between us.
Instead, over the next years a very strong, steady, rewarding friendship grew between us. We became roommates almost 4 years ago, and since then he has been a constant source of encouragement and solace in my life. He was with me when my grandfather died and my first serious, grow-up boyfriend left me. He was with me when I got cast in Law and Order and when I met the man I'm going to marry. Bryan has been with me at my very best and my very worst.
Throughout the years, I have watched Bryan's career. He has gone from teeny-tiny productions to Broadway, from playing Jersey coffee houses to playing with Richie Cannata to sold out houses. Through the years he has proved again and again his talent is immense and fair reaching.
Throughout his ride with Memphis thus far, I have really seen him step up his game. He has worked harder and more than ever. I have never been as proud of him as I am now. I am so lucky to count him as part of my family. He is a continual source of inspiration.
I'm not completely sure why I am writing this. I know when he leaves both James and I are going to miss him terribly. Life will definitely be a little more subdued. I know I'll be sad once in a while, but I am so excited for all he's got ahead of him. I guess I'm saying that I hope everyone has a friend like I have. He's held me when I've cried and bolstered my courage when it's waned. He's laughed with me in the most ridiculous situations and trusted me with his own hurts. I really couldn't have been luckier when it comes to my New York family.
The tour dates are as follows:
October 14 at the Orpheum Theatre in Memphis, where it will play through October 23.
Other venues include Houston, TX (October 25-30)
Tulsa, OK (November 1-6)
Oklahoma City, OK (November 8-13)
Nashville, TN (November 15-20)
Chicago, IL (November 22 - December 4)
Toronto, ON (December 6-25)
Pittsburgh, PA (December 27-January 1, 2012)
Charlotte, NC (January 3-8)
Hartford, CT (January 10-15)
Philadelphia, PA (January 17-22)
Durham, NC (January 24-29)
Atlanta, GA (January 31-February 5)
Clearwater, FL (February 7-12)
Naples, FL (February 14-19)
Greenville, SC (February 21-26)
Cleveland, OH (February 28-March 11)
St. Paul, MN (March 13-25)
East Lansing, MI (March 27-April 1)
Baltimore, MD (April 3-8)
Hershey, PA (April 10-15)
Schenectady, NY (April 17-22)
Des Moines, IA (April 24-29)
St. Louis, MO (May 1-13)
Dallas, TX (May 15-27)
Columbus, OH (May 29-June 3)
Buffalo, NY (June 5-10)
Washington, DC (June 12-July 1)
Kansas City, MO (July 10-15)
Las Vegas, NV (July 17-22)
San Diego, CA (July 24-29)
Los Angeles, CA (July 31-August 12)
If he is coming to a city near you, do yourself a favor and see the show. He's gonna be a huge star one day, and you'll want to say "you saw him when".
I love you very much, Bryan. Go be awesome, you son of a bitch.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
I Don't Know If You've Ever Been On A Galloping Horse, But You Don't Notice Much
I grew up in Virginia. Not deep south Virginia, Northern Virginia. Also known by those who know as NoVa. Its like Southern Lite. Not everyone had a Confederate flag on their front lawn, but you also weren't surprised to see one when it was there. My sixth grade teacher played Gone With The Wind for us to show us what "the Northern aggressors did to us" but didn't deny that we weren't exactly correct about that whole slavery thing.
There is something about southern women - and I mean real southern women - that cannot be duplicated. And you can't become a real southern woman unless you have been born in the south, raised in the south and gotten old in the south. When you are over 50, you could qualify to be a real southern woman.
There is a talent that all fine southern woman have. It takes a while to perfect this talent, and only ladies from south of the Mason Dixon line (look it up) are born with an innate sense of this skill.
I am, of course, speaking of the Backhanded Southern Compliment.
You may have come in contact with this before. If it was done properly, you would have thought that someone just said something really lovely to you, but for some reason, you feel terrible and you don't know quite why.
We'll start slow.
You're wearing a new shirt. It's a bit different from what you usually wear, and it took some confidence and self-esteem building to work up the courage to wear it out of the house, but you have and at the moment you are feeling pretty good about it. You come into work, and your chipper and sweet co-worker looks you up and down, smiles engagingly and says:
"Oh, darling, I never would have thought that color would have worked on you!"
You immediately smile back, and thank her, but as you sit down you realize that you have resolved to never wear that shirt again.
Now why is that?
You've been struck by the Backhanded Southern Compliment (BSC).
See, there are a couple of things that happened back there. First off, the disarming smile, and the perky, happy way the sentence was said. That was all to throw you off of what was actually being said. Second, the sentence itself. The BSC relies on the fact that most people don't really listen to an entire sentence. The end of the sentence is where all the important stuff is, right? So what you filter the sentence in you mind to be "That color works on you!" All the while, the part of the sentence that you didn't pay any mind too has ninja'd it's way into your mind and is applying nasty pressure points to your subconscious.
I remember quite vividly my first encounter with the BSC. I was in high school and had been nominated for an acting award and I was going to be honored at the Kennedy Center in DC and everything. I never really did much with my hair or makeup or anything, but for this I had gotten all dolled up, I was wearing this lovely dress, had heels on and was feeling pretty great about how I looked. I walked down the stairs into the living room where my parents were waiting.
My mother took one look at me, threw her hands up in the air and exclaimed, "Oh, Ashley! You'd be so pretty if you were just a little bit taller."
Any self-esteem that my fragile, high school self had built up to that point was shattered to the ground.
I consoled myself for years that was she actually meant to say was that I looked pretty wearing heels. Yeah, that makes sense. I never really wore them, so seeing me in them was nice and I looked pretty.
I recently spoke to my mom about it and she informed me that she probably meant exactly what she said.
"Oh, you girls today are so modern! I NEVER would have considered calling a man first. Cause you know, that's what (lowers voice) girls from the other side of the tracks did."
"Your bravery astounds me. That haircut takes guts."
"Those earrings are lovely dear. They make your hair look more done."
"You don't want to move to New York sweetie. Everything north of the Mason Dixon Line is terrible for jobs. I know plenty of girls your age who moved to Atlanta and found great jobs where they met their husbands!"
Another phrase to watch out for comes at the end of the BSC in the form of "...bless his/her heart." It means that whatever you said in the beginning of the sentence was not mean, no matter what it sounds like.
"She's been known to have one too many drinks, bless her heart."
"We never thought he'd amount to much, bless his heart."
I made an amazing discovery recently into just how similar Southerners and the Brits can be. My grandmother is from Liverpool, England. She fought the Jerries in World War II, just recently celebrated her 90th birthday, lives on her own and is in all ways the most amazing lady on the planet.
I was asking her recently how I looked. She looked me up and down, straightened all of her 5 foot frame, stared me straight in the eye and said:
"Oh, darling, a man on a galloping horse wouldn't notice!"
Love you, Nanny.
There is something about southern women - and I mean real southern women - that cannot be duplicated. And you can't become a real southern woman unless you have been born in the south, raised in the south and gotten old in the south. When you are over 50, you could qualify to be a real southern woman.
There is a talent that all fine southern woman have. It takes a while to perfect this talent, and only ladies from south of the Mason Dixon line (look it up) are born with an innate sense of this skill.
I am, of course, speaking of the Backhanded Southern Compliment.
You may have come in contact with this before. If it was done properly, you would have thought that someone just said something really lovely to you, but for some reason, you feel terrible and you don't know quite why.
We'll start slow.
You're wearing a new shirt. It's a bit different from what you usually wear, and it took some confidence and self-esteem building to work up the courage to wear it out of the house, but you have and at the moment you are feeling pretty good about it. You come into work, and your chipper and sweet co-worker looks you up and down, smiles engagingly and says:
"Oh, darling, I never would have thought that color would have worked on you!"
You immediately smile back, and thank her, but as you sit down you realize that you have resolved to never wear that shirt again.
Now why is that?
You've been struck by the Backhanded Southern Compliment (BSC).
See, there are a couple of things that happened back there. First off, the disarming smile, and the perky, happy way the sentence was said. That was all to throw you off of what was actually being said. Second, the sentence itself. The BSC relies on the fact that most people don't really listen to an entire sentence. The end of the sentence is where all the important stuff is, right? So what you filter the sentence in you mind to be "That color works on you!" All the while, the part of the sentence that you didn't pay any mind too has ninja'd it's way into your mind and is applying nasty pressure points to your subconscious.
I remember quite vividly my first encounter with the BSC. I was in high school and had been nominated for an acting award and I was going to be honored at the Kennedy Center in DC and everything. I never really did much with my hair or makeup or anything, but for this I had gotten all dolled up, I was wearing this lovely dress, had heels on and was feeling pretty great about how I looked. I walked down the stairs into the living room where my parents were waiting.
My mother took one look at me, threw her hands up in the air and exclaimed, "Oh, Ashley! You'd be so pretty if you were just a little bit taller."
Any self-esteem that my fragile, high school self had built up to that point was shattered to the ground.
I consoled myself for years that was she actually meant to say was that I looked pretty wearing heels. Yeah, that makes sense. I never really wore them, so seeing me in them was nice and I looked pretty.
I recently spoke to my mom about it and she informed me that she probably meant exactly what she said.
Other BSCs can be similar to these:
"Your bravery astounds me. That haircut takes guts."
"Those earrings are lovely dear. They make your hair look more done."
"You don't want to move to New York sweetie. Everything north of the Mason Dixon Line is terrible for jobs. I know plenty of girls your age who moved to Atlanta and found great jobs where they met their husbands!"
Another phrase to watch out for comes at the end of the BSC in the form of "...bless his/her heart." It means that whatever you said in the beginning of the sentence was not mean, no matter what it sounds like.
"She's been known to have one too many drinks, bless her heart."
"We never thought he'd amount to much, bless his heart."
I made an amazing discovery recently into just how similar Southerners and the Brits can be. My grandmother is from Liverpool, England. She fought the Jerries in World War II, just recently celebrated her 90th birthday, lives on her own and is in all ways the most amazing lady on the planet.
I was asking her recently how I looked. She looked me up and down, straightened all of her 5 foot frame, stared me straight in the eye and said:
"Oh, darling, a man on a galloping horse wouldn't notice!"
Love you, Nanny.
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