Shopping For Sensible Flats

Belated birthday greetings are the best since they can extend your birthday festivities exponentially. In this department, I can rely on my mother's sister to supply every year. My birthday was on the 3rd and I, just yesterday, received a card from her. Awesome.

I'm not being facetious about this either. Okay, maybe the first year it happened it kind of bothered me, but now I've grown to love this quirk, much as I've grown to love my aunt's myriad quirks. Whatsmore, the card this year was so totally awesome that I just had to share. It... ahem... reads in part, we are so happy that you are where you want to be and are loving the life you have... etshitera, etshitera...

Although my aunt's barely veiled reference to homosexuality is pretty cringe-worthy, it's also definitively in-line with her reaction to the gays in general. When I officially came out to her this past Christmas (in the women's department of a DSW shoe warehouse, while shopping for sensible flats with my grandmother), my aunt was happy that I'd finally told her, but she also topped our little confection of a moment by saying, quote, Just remember John, I may not condone, but I will never condemn. Ummm, thanks... I guess.

I could feign anger and say that I am completely appalled by my aunt's reaction to my "disclosure", but I'd be lying. While I'm not over the moon that she isn't more accepting of the gays, I do still love her bunches and want to stay in her good graces since she's like a second mother to me.

And let's not even get started on how every single GD year she invites a friend to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner who is obviously a gigantic lesbian. I mean, this chica straight up collects Highlander swords and limited edition manacles from the Bradford Exchange.

No one ever says anything about this friend being a dyke (except Bonnie and I when we're cackling in the corner), but if I know one thing, it's a gay twinkle in the eye when I see one over a tureen full of cranberry sauce.

They Call It Juxtaposition

Ooof. This one hurts me almost as much as it does Alison Goldfrapp, but Crystal Castles is so inching up the charts to compete in the deathmatch that will be best album of 2008. I say this today since it's the official release of CC's album even though its been available on the internet for, like, ever.

Air War is, without a doubt my favorite track on this album. Or maybe Courtship Dating... ooh, or maybe Vanished!

Fuck it, I love them all cause it's a disc chock-full of standouts. Whereas Goldfrapp went full-throttle melo on Seventh Tree, CC varies the pleasantly melodic, but haunting electronic tracks with some gut-busting, balls-to-the-wall clubbanging. While the latter are fun (in moderation) I'm thankful that there are really only two of them here. The majority of tracks fall somewhere in-between AND actually have a verse, chorus, and bridge - my how you've grown electronica.

And in case you didn't know, Crystal Castles is Canadian, so yeah, our friends to the north are finally doing their part (LYLAS Lindsay).

Oh, and here's a promo video for the new album featuring the song Magic Spells. It's a little disturbing (at least I thought it was disturbing so be forewarned), but the song's really beautiful. Apparently they call that juxtaposition:

Today's Word Is: Peccadilloes

I have no desire to turn this into a political blog - And how. Could. I? - but I do think it's worth noting Kate Zernicke's article in the New York Times yesterday. Basically it asks the question, is postfeminism a reality and if so, how is it possible to maintain this sort of identity in a political climate where women continually get trampled by the media/public opinion/whathaveyou.

This struck me as particularly poignant since it's a topic I used to go over repeatedly in a course (Feminism and Social Change) I took with the exceedingly brilliant Elena Gutiérrez. Elena is one of the single most influential professors I've ever had the privilege of knowing (and drinking at Crew with). The great thing about her is that for all her experience - in life and in academia - she's still not sure if the third wave's come or not.

I tend to be of the opinion that it hasn't since, like this NY Times article explains, we still have a media that is profoundly blind to gender bias; many women, when asked why they're not voting for Hillary cite as their primary reason that they're not obligated to vote for a woman; and media outlets across the globe are still trying to vilify prostitutes while simultaneously claiming how soliciting is a victimless crime. Puh-leeze.

But maybe Noreen Malone puts it best:

"Like lots of other twentysomething women, I've been an unswerving Obama girl from the get-go," wrote Noreen Malone on The XX Factor, the Slate magazine blog written by women. "Oddly enough it's taken Spitzergate — not Hillary's tears, not her scolding — to make me less dismissive of the feminist 'obligation' to vote for a woman."

It reminded her of a depressing bit of wisdom passed on by a friend's father: "The most powerful people in the world are old white men and pretty young women."

"During my supposedly post-feminist lifetime, the women who've created the biggest stir are the young women who've ruined the careers of powerful old men," she wrote. "I'm not saying I'm for Hillary now, and I'm not saying that Hillary's history with sexual peccadilloes is uncomplicated, but it certainly makes me appreciate the fact that she's learned other ways of manipulating power."

It's always kind of amazed me how quick people are to ignore their own repression, and BTDubs, I'm no innocent on this matter either. I could be a lot more impassioned and outspoken about my convictions, but I'd like to think that I'm at least cognizant of the ways in which the man is bringin' us down. Acting like gender/sexual/racial/economic bias is not an issue anymore is beyond foolhardy, 'cause - newsflash! - we're not post anything in this country... except maybe Post cereals.

Of which Raisin Bran is the shit.

Tickity-Tack-Tragic

Friday night Leah and I went to dinner at Cesar's where the food was, as usual, unremarkable, but the margaritas upheld their title as nectar of the f-ing gods. I sort of wanted to make this weekend an anti St. Pat's/Latin rebellion fiesta since St. Patrick's Day is such a joke what with the Irish being completely assimilated in this country as of about six decades ago. However, I just made due with Friday's Latino fun since not incurring the wrath of every drunken frat guy on Saturday was, how do you say, high on my list of priorities.

Whatever that I'm biased towards Cinco de Mayo. At least Mexicans have a recognizable cultural identity and don't walk around with buttons that say "Kiss Me; I'm Mexican!" Although, there are those pesky "Hecho en Mexico" shirts... tickity-tack-tragic.

Afterwards, we met up with my new neighbors to play a few rousing rounds of some truth-or-dare style game where you shove your finger in this device with four other players and whoever gets shocked has to answer. I don't know what it's called, but Tewtally Fun should be its name. Little known fact: I LOVE truth or dare games, but I never do dares since I'm more about exposing secrets and lies amongst my friends. I Never is also ludicrously fun.

As an aside, Spring is nigh Leah... time to throw another BBQ/orgy of truth-telling.

At any rate, I imbibed way too much on Friday which left me feeling not quite up to drinking all day at the party Katie and I were supposed to go to on Saturday. I asked Katie if I could show up around sevenish to which she replied, srsly? I threatened her with bodily harm if she didn't pick up her phone when I called and like a tried and true roomie, Katie kept her word, but also informed me that I probably wouldn't want to come since everyone was blitzed beyond all reckoning, the person I wanted to see at said party had not shown up, and basically it had turned into a lesbian bacchanal somewhere around five. But doesn't everything?

I could regale you with details of the rest of the weekend, but stories about doing errands on a Sunday are so amazing that I might explode your computer. In that case I'll just leave you with this ditty:

Sweeney Todd The Way It Should Be

I had an excellent trip home last December. It was the first time I was there for over a week and didn't want to murder everyone by the time I left. If there was a low point to the trip however, it was probably when I went to see Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd at the Cinerama Dome. The dome, as usual, was great; the film, was wretched.

I cannot remember the last time I fell asleep during a movie - not even Old School and a bag full of Wild Turkey nips could do me in - but Sweeney made me all sleepers. Somehow I imagine that wouldn't be the case with John Doyle's production of Todd at the Ahmanson.

From Laist:

Written by Stephen Sondheim, the original "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" is a classic. The most recent Tim Burton screen adaptation of Edward Scissorhands the musical was "meh." And last night's Los Angeles premiere under John Doyle's direction was, simply put, purely amazing.
It begins as the lights go down in the house and up on stage. It's an uncomfortable raw silence that the audience succumbs to. There's no sound, no music, just the actors, looking out into nothingness from a set that was minimalist and visually orgasmic for the macabre-inclined. The performance begins, every actor with their instrument in hand, they speak, they sing and they accompany themselves, as the orchestra pit is empty -- it's up to the ten characters to survive the next two-hours on their own.

Laist also has three links to audio podcasts with the actors who play Joanna, The Beadle, and Musical Director Andy Einhorn. If you're in Los Angeles any time between now and April 3rd, this is pretty much a must do.

Here I come...

Okay, so this song is a little old (end of '07), but I thought about it today since it was so GD beautiful out. I know writing about the weather is pointless, but for those of you not in Chicago, we've had a giant shitstorm of snow the last few months, and this song makes me happy to be alive:

Dragonette - I Get Around (Midnight Juggernaughts Remix)*

I first heard this song when I listening to the Kitsuné Maison podcast a couple months back. Whoever was hosting was a complete douche, but he said how this is the perfect good weather car driving song - top down, wind in your face. I couldn't agree more. Plus it makes me all dance-y like.

Now, if only I had a car... I guess the CTA's tin cans will have to suffice.


*This one gets a special shout out for Leah.

Sunny, Bright, and Full of Jicama

Queen Elizabeth had issues with dating too, so she used big maps instead of the internet.

I am on a catering ROLL at work this week. My boss wanted pastries delivered for the staff meeting yesterday, and since there are approximately 35 Au Bon Pains within quarter mile of my building, I had them deliver various artery-clogging delectables so that we might eat them while watching Powerpoint presentations. I'm always slightly paranoid when ordering food for a lot of people since I never know if I'll order too much or not enough, and even though it's not on my tab, I hate to think that I'm over-paying for what is essentially flour, sugar and yeast that's been heated up.

Well, no worries, since the food went over like gang-busters! BOO to Corner Bakery I say... Au Bon Pain is the way to go, even if thier bagels leave something to be desired and you could probably wash your dishes with them.

Today I ordered California Pizza Kitchen for a committee meeting and that was a pure stroke of genius (even if this one wasn't entirely my idea). I haven't had CPK since I actually lived in California and even though California cuisine has become somewhat of a joke, you have to admit that the barbecue chicken salad at CPK is essentially culinary crack. It was the perfect meal for this, the first day in god knows how long that it's broken fifty in Chicago - sunny, bright, and full of jicama.

What with the weather changing and Spring in the air, my whole out look is taking a much needed turn for the better. Though, there are downsides to Spring which were firmly planted in my head by a friend of mine some 12 or 13 years ago. Back then I was hanging out with people WAY too old for me (Me: Junior High, Them: College) and one of my female friends at the time complained to me that she really loved Springtime, but she also hated it because she went a little boy-crazy. I understood what she was saying in an abstract way, and by abstract I mean not at all, but now I really get it. Maybe it's something about the potential for seeing more exposed flesh, or who knows what, but Spring has got me needing to get some serious action. Perhaps this is why I've just recently ventured into the world of online dating... and I use the term dating VERY loosely.

Don't fret, family, if you read this... I'm not about to become a giant internet whore. I plan on using the same strict standards in selecting online mates that I've always used with every Tom, Dick, and Harry at bars from here to Nashville (don't say it, Todd).

The most respectable of the sites I've ventured onto, however, has been more than a little bit of a letdown. Salon Personals sounded like a great idea; By virtue of being associated with the endlessly caustic and urbane Salon.com, you'd expect that their personals division would uphold the same standards of wit. Well, not so much.

I originally came to learn about Salon Personals back in 2004 when my friend Erin met her then girlfriend through the site. I loved her girlfriend and was totally crushed to find out that they broke up after a year or so of being together. I get that things happen for a reason and I'm not berating anyone for failed romances, but it was sad for me, you know?

So I thought, much like the Bridget Fonda/Nicholas Cage rom-com, John, it could happen to you. When I moved to Chicago in mid-2005 and didn't know anyone, I fired up my requisite stalker account and started scanning profiles. There were some attractive ones on there, and some people who had obviously put some effort into writing a coherent personal dating manifesto, but mostly I was dissappointed by the dearth of menz. I mean, I guess there were relatively a lot of people on there, but the majority of them hadn't been active in months.

I then forgot about Salon personals, and chalked my seeming unluckiness up to not being a lesbian.

Flash forward two and a half years later, and much is not changed over at Salon. It is still an arid wasteland of gay men who, by virtue of the fact that they regularly read Salon, are too shy or introverted or picky or whatever to effectively hook-up with anyone else on the site. The sheer amount of promising, but woefully abandoned profiles is distressing. The ones that I was attracted to back in 2005 are still the ones that look appealing in 2008, except that these dudes haven't been on in like over a year.

So in honor of 2008 being the year of get it together, I'm following suit of just about every person I know in taking fate into my own hands (loins?) by going online in search of love or something vaguely resembling that. My multi-website assualt will rival any record release you've ever seen, or as Cate Blanchett said: I, too, can command the wind, sir! I have a hurricane in me that will strip Spain bare when you dare to try me! Maybe that's a little intense, but you get the idea.

If it doesn't work out, I'll know the real reason: Lesbians are like leprechauns in that both are lucky and find pots of gold at the end of rainbows. Incidentally, I am neither a lesbian nor a leprechaun.

Everyone is someone in LA...

I was on the phone with my sister last night, who was catching me up on her latest boy drama - I literally hear ya sister - and we also shared some vile comments about this douche bag she once dated who is apparently on the verge of going down in flames courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department. I never liked the guy anyway so you'd think I'd take more joy in his tail-spinning out of control, but really, it just left me feeling slightly queasy. It never ceases to amaze me how insanely idiotic some people can be.

On a happier note, Bonnie said that she'd attended a party last Thursday thrown by Nintendo in honor of one of our oldest friends, Lindsay. Howza-whoza, you say? Uh, yeah, I had the same reaction. Apparently, Nintendo is courting the 25 to 34 lady set and their latest scheme is to seek out influential bloggers/trendsetters who they then throw parties for in swanky studios on La Brea, complete with hors d'oeuvres, booze, and a FREE NINTENDO DS FOR EVERYONE. I'm not even a fan of the DS, but start giving away free shit in excess of 100 bucks and I'm there. Although Bonnie told me that one of the other attendees said that she'd be selling that shit on ebay the minute she got home and I tewtally concur.

Lindsay's been writing her blog for the last five years (which just celebrated it's anniversary) and she was recently made co-editor of Laist. I've always known she was something of a trend-setter ever since she turned me on to Liz Phair almost a decade ago, but I'm glad people with money are finally taking notice so now everyone can benfit from her cultural antennae. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about working hard to make it in this world, but believe you me, I will ride my friends' coattails and starfuck all the way to the top if I have to.

In related news, Todd informed me that our mutual friend who moved to New York is one infinitesimally small degree away from Bill Hader, my latest SNL crush. Jesus christ, now this means I have to push up my move-to-New-York time frame by about three and a half years. I told Katie that I was moving there by the time I turned thirty, which originally gave her plenty of time to either decide on either coming with me or running away with Catherine Zeta-Jones. She's told me she has a bit of a problem with the trash situation in NY, so she may be packing up the U-Haul and heading over to Catherine Z's place if I really do speed things up.

Oh well, good luck to them if they do shack up... you knew that Michael Douglas marriage was a sham anyway.

You Rock My Life!

This is why I love Los Angeles:


From: Laist

This mural just went up on La Brea between Pico and Olympic. This spot is just down the the street from where we used to go to church when I was a kid (when we actually went), and where I had a bishop rub oil on my head and tell me I was now responsible for all my sins.

Back when I used to make film deliveries in this area, there were tons of awesome murals like this, but never one that made me so happy.

Whatever with all your crazy 9-11 consipiracy theories Marion; You rock my life!

Small Victories, Small Victories...

I thought it was all over when Jillian was the first to go on tonight's Project Runway. In all honesty, I was sure that if Jillian didn't win, it was gonna be Rami who'd be taking home that bullshit car they give the winner. This isn't because Rami deserved said distinction or anything, but because Rami and Jillian were, by FAR, the two most commercial designers of the three.

So Jillian's out and the winner is obvs... Christian?



I KNOW - *shock* *amazement* - right? As I told Leah, Christian is by no means commercial, but if Bravo wanted to finally decide to become relevant and anoint someone who will actually do something significant with themselves and *gasp* - become a major designer, then they will pick Christian.

Well, apparently Bravo and/or Elle and/or Nina Garcia and/or Michael Kors decided to finally give the prize to someone who deserves it wholeheartedly. I won't even get into how I began to tear up when it looked like Christian might lose it all (he wanted it that bad and Rami blew that much). Suffice it to say, I'm happy, even though I'm out five bucks. But if that five dollars somehow helped Christian attain glory, then I'm glad I took part.


P.S.
Special props to Jillian for her belted dress that could have swept the whole show. Sure it was probably designed by Ralph Lauren, but too cute for words is all I gots to say.



The End.

Hillz Is My Homegirl

I think it's semi-hilarious that I have Barack Obama to thank for providing me with one of my primary sources of hits for this site. More specifically, I guess I should be thanking Shepard Fairey, since he's the one who created the Obey Obama posters. I don't even know if that's what they're actually called, but since Barack Attack has become something of a messianic figure, I think it's fitting that I call him out on his supernatural power to control the internets.


Suffer the little children to come unto me...

I was watching the Texas and Ohio primary returns last night and thinking thank god Hillary won, but I don't really know what I was so worried about. Katie told me that as long as she wears her Hillary is my homegirl t-shirt, Hillz can't lose. Katie's been wearing it more or less everyday for the last three months - even incorporating it into work wear, which I think is a pretty astounding feat - and since Hillary won last night, I now believe in Katie's actualization prophecy.

What with all this mysticism, I was also kind of wondering if Barack was going to be stricken with the stigmata while he was on stage in San Antonio last night. Or maybe Michelle. Or possibly one of their daughters... yeah, it would be a lot more effective if one of those kids showed up in Ms. Barack Attack's arms with some serious wounds on her hands and feet. I wonder if Michelle would blame America for that or just God?


Michelle Obama: Hates America; Ostensibly Loves Family

In any event, it's really disgusting how the New York Times is carrying an article today that basically thanks Bill Clinton's deft political verbosity for saving Hillary's ass. I think it's obvious that her turnout had more to do with SNL's resounding endorsement for Hills than anything else. As we all know, Tina Fey is a bellwether for all that is good and righteous in this world, Ellen Paige is big ol' lezzie, and Andy Samberg makes a better Diablo Cody than Di-no-no herself.

The Evolution of the Blythe

Tricky
From: Copro Nason

WAAANNNT.

Happy Birfday To Moi

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my partying with Jessica Biel. Whatever that it's my birthday, no, the highlight of the last five years of my life was without a doubt the night that I rode a bull with La Biel. Anyone who knows me personally has already heard this story ad nauseum, so you guys can just stop reading right now. For the rest of you, enjoy:



Like many a deranged Angeleno, I was under the impression that spending my twenty-first birthday at the giant clusterfuck that is the Saddleranch Chop House was a good idea. It was all pretty dismal considering that it was a Sunday and NO ONE was out. I mean, there's always someone out on the Sunset Strip, but comparatively speaking, it was a ghost town. No worries though, because I had a great group of friends with me who could and still do turn any bar they enter into a baccanale. Oh, and I should mention that I was not yet out, as in I was heavily closeted, as in two of my best friends were gay, as in I was that really open minded straight guy who had hour-long convos with his buddies.

I know... and yes, please, spare me.

Well, the evening was fun and involved my friends having me pose for pictures with sorority girls who were got all kissey face with me for the cameras, which I'm sure everyone thought was tewtally hilarious (I won't be posting those by the way). But the real festivities started when an already ineabriated Jessica Biel showed up posse in tow. I should mention that Jess and I not only share the same birthday but also the same birth-year. I like to think of us as kindred spirits of a sort and our meeting at Saddleranch was only further evidence of this fact.

Jessica & co. wasted no time in making complete and total asses of themselves. Wilmer Valderama was there and he's just sort of an ass in and of himself, but my favorite moment of the night (even better than Biel repeatedly falling off an already slowed down mechanical bull) was when Beverly Mitchell of Seventh Heaven fame came barreling out of the ladies room and hit my former roommate Corinne with her purse. Corinne's reaction, That BITCH Beverly Mitchell just hit me with her Gucci bag, became an instant classic and to this day remains one of my favorites.

I could explain how drunk La Biel was and how hammered I ended up getting off of Long Islands, but I think I'll just let the pictures speak for me:







I don't know what could possibly top that birthday, but there was the year (my 23rd?) I celebrated by drunkenly fawning over PJ Harvey at the Cat and Fiddle. She was very polite and obviously wasn't too offended by my gin breath since she let me talk to her for a good two minutes or so. Lesson learned? If you're drinking with a celebrity, make sure you're the more sober of the two; it makes for better stories and doesn't forever get you banned from PJ Harvey's clique.

Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda...

Were they still together today (which is impossible for a multitude of reasons), yesterday would've marked my parent's 32nd wedding anniversary. I thought about this today because it's leap day and my mother used to tell me a story about how my dad wanted to get married on leap day in 1976 because he thought it would be, a. funny, and b. he'd only have to buy my mother an anniversary present every four years. In this sense (and in most others) I share my mother's sensibility in thinking that his joke is infinitely lame.

So now February's over and I'm more than ready for March to begin mostly because this month marked my first official month at the new job, February is colder than all get out, and March is always a fun month full of birthday and St. Patrick's Day goodness. This year watches me inch ever closer to the dreaded 27, when I can no longer call myself a mid-twenty-er, and when I'll officially have to succumb to the knowledge that I am, indeed, in my late twenties.

This is all sort of stupefying for me considering that I am now doing things that are proto-typical of a late-twenty-er: I regularly (and gladly) contribute to a 401k, I show up to work everyday (for the most part, gladly), and I socialize with co-workers. Okay, so the last one, I've always done, but I mention it because tonight was the first night I've socialized with people at my current job. Back in my Gap days, partying with co-workers was always a little bit seedier, but tonight's festivities had, I don't know... an air of respectability about them. My boss even bought me a drink for christ's sake. If that's not classy, I don't know what is.

After Monday I'll be 26 and I'm sure it's all downhill from here. Were one of my favorite magazines from my teens, Swing, still around, I just know I'd be identifying with it less and less. Bonnie was in her twenties when she subscribed to it and I got the dregs which I ate UP at the time. Swing presented a vision of twenty-dom glam that was so downright enviable, I thought I might shit myself. Little did I know the truth behind all those lies Swing so cleverly packaged.

Well... now I know that truth behind all those lies, and I also know why Swing folded. Sigh.

Beast Cancer Is A Doozy

Katie came home yesterday to inform me that her co-worker fucked up an ad that's been running in the Tribune for the last month. The ad was a quarter page dealie that ran once a week. The copy was supposed to address breast cancer, but thanks to her co-worker's inattention to detail, ended up addressing the scourage that is beast cancer.

It's a touchy topic, no doubt, and one that is severely under-funded. Let this post be a sound alarm to all those readers out there who don't think the beast that haunts your dreams won't one day be afflicted with this dubious, dubious disease.

Word to the wise, protect your near and dear by doing a beast exam stat.

The Internet Will Destroy Us All

Sometimes you discover something on the internet that makes you rethink the greatness of all this inter-connectivity. It's happened to me before when I've been written about by a friend or an ex and sure, I could link to those instances right here and now, but that would further whatever agenda the person writing had, so I won't, because I'd like to preserve at least a modicum of dignity while I still can - *cue laughter.

I'm thinking about personal space on the internet for two reasons: Yesterday my roommate had something posted about her that wasn't too earth-shatteringly awful, but it was something that she, nonetheless, didn't want spread allover your T1 line. Ultimately, the person who put the offending material up had the good sense to take it down, but not until after a day full of Katie wracking her brain over who'd seen said offending material and how she was going to do damage control.

And then there was this weekend when I discovered an online memorial to my mother. Mom died back in 2000 but it's taken me this long to find an eerie little slice of world wide web dedicated to the woman who bore me. God only knows when this baby was put up, but I do know that my father's sister created the "online grave site"... no joke about the name, BTDubs.

I suppose I'm not really offended that this thing exists - it's the thought that counts and at least people care enough to think about her - but I do have a problem with the fact that this thing is so fundamentally tacky. Tell me, can an online memorial ever be tasteful? I tend to think not. I don't know what it is, but it seems that when it comes to the dead, people's lose all control and their emotions get funnelled into the most god-awful displays of excess known to man. Pair that with a shoe-string budget on the internet, and you've got a deadly* combination.

Case in point: I've more than once had to reign in family members who wanted to deck out my mom's real-life grave site with all sorts of hot mess. Garland for Christmas, shamrocks for St. Pat's, plastic hearts for Valentine's... what have you. Not to mention it's like the most precarious of situations to be in because you don't want to upset your loved ones who are already having a tough time of it with the whole dead thing, but you also don't want your mother's grave looking like something that came out of the Lillian Vernon catalog.

I realize that I'm complicit in all this since I write about people I know here, but I can at least be proud of the fact that I've yet to post a single online memorial to anyone.

Wait... does writing about Heath Ledger count? Okay, so I say no because I'm not submitting that post to an electronic graveyard. Ooof. And sucks for families of celebrities like Heath Ledger. If I have one word of advice to Michelle Williams or her daughter, it's that you shouldn't go trolling the internet for traces of deceased family members because you'll more than likely not like what you find. Unless of course your sensibility is of the Harriet Carter variety, and then in that case, go forth brave soldiers into that dark, dark night.


*No pun intended, I promise.

My Potluck's Guest List Was Especially Prestigious This Year

DINNER PARTY!

Since the Oscars have been such a boon to this site's traffic, I'll continue to write about them. Forever. Or not, since I'm already pretty much over talking about last night's festivities after spending 5+ hours shifting between tearing down/lauding Hollywood's best and brightest with a roomful of the bitchiest people I know some dear and close friends.

And I am fully aware that this post is coming a little bit late considering the torrent of Oscar-talk that's been going on all day across the internets, but I've been at work all day, and while I'm there I have to actually, ahem, work.



We all dropped a collective load when Marion Cotillard won and after a quick room vote, it was clear that gays and straights alike wanted to make sweet passionate love to our little sparrow.



I'm pretty sure that everyone recognized how unfathomably awesome it was that Tilda Swinton won especially since she didn't really give a flying fuck. I, however, was the only one physically jumping out of my seat when they called her name. Face it, Tilda should've won for Orlando years ago.



Di-no-no Cody was everything I expected her to be (this includes her flashing her pikachu to all of America during her walk off stage) and while I thought I was holding back my vitriol vis-à-vis Cody during last night's ceremony, Leah most definitely did not agree.

Whatever. One too many There Will Be Bloody Marys will do that to a person. I still love you though, Leah, and your No Country Casserole was truly a show-stopper!



In related news, and in a weird twist of Kevin Bacon, I've discovered a conflict of interest in my one man campaign against El Diablo. It's recently been brought to my attention that a close friend of mine is quite fond of "Brook" and once upon a time had something of a bloggerific acquaintance with Di-no-no thanks to their mutual penchants for writing about their sex lives online. This sucks simply if for no other reason than I find it infinitely easier to hate people when I have absolutely no knowledge of them as real, and they only inhabit the friendly confines of my television set.

While Lindsay went on to be published in a collection of sex bloggers, Brook went on to win, well, an Oscar. Lindsay, incidentally, will soon be celebrating her blog's fifth anniversary which, combined with my impending birfday, makes me feel old. For real though, I wouldn't put it past Lindsay to achieve the same success as Di-no-no one day, but I'm fully confident she'd wear something far less cooch-revealing.

Victory, Thy Name Is Oscar.

I'm pretty happy with my Oscar predictions this year which averaged somewhere around 65% correct. This, might I add, is fantastic considering my track record from years previous. I just wish I'd put more money on it this year cuz I'm pretty sure I kicked Todd's ass royally.

And even if I didn't pick her as a "will win", Marion Cotillard's win/speech made everything worth it. Mmm... triumph.

I Knew He Was A Rocker From His Tight Jeans And Retarded Name

The Chicago Reader alerted me to what has to be the most unfortunate name in all of rock:



Aren't rockers supposed to have some creative license with names? And please let this not be the name Jay-Jay chose for himself.

Anyway, I'd advise him to change his last name (real or imagined) post haste. And - ahem - while he's at it, he may want to do something about his "look", since this photo from Spin isn't convincing me that Jay isn't actually mentally disabled:

I kept going to Brooklyn and buying musk oils...

This clip of Amy Sedaris on Letterman last night is so low rent as to be AMAZING. She's her usual hysterical self, talking about (amongst other things) her love of musk oils, the imaginary pet monkey whose teeth she pulled out, calling Ellen Degeneres a man, and recounting her obsession with There Will Be Blood. It's also worth noting that Amy recently did a video with Dolly Parton which Dave shows at the tail end of this segment. For me, it's almost too much to bear seeing Dolly as a carnival barker and Amy as the resident gypsy. Hmm... heaven.

Besitos!

This is what I look like at work

Okay guys, so I'm about to do something that is next to unheard of in my book. In many circles it's considered taboo and I think you can actually be banished from some Western European countries for saying this, but I have to cuz, I'm pretty sure it's true: I like my job.

I never thought I'd see the day that phrase came spilling forth from my lips, at least not this soon in my life, but it's kind of happened. This isn't to say that I don't have greater aspirations, but right about now I feel like I've landed in just the right spot. Now I know certain people are reading this and are cursing me up and down for even daring to write such things - besitos, Leah! - and I'd certainly do the same if I was on the other side of the fence but I'm a little flabbergasted as to how this phenomenon occurred. I mean, I'm not even on meds right now and it's still all good, which is like, supernatural.

I told Katie the other day that I'm waiting to find someone to hate at work cuz that's just... inevitable, but today marked my third week and I've yet to curse the ground anyone walks on or mentally will someone down an elevator shaft. Maybe I've grown up (goodbye early to mid twenties) or perhaps my glee at having found gainful employment during a time of economic upheaval has superceded my need to bitch. Either way, I'm thankful. If that's annoying, sorry, but the internets is chock full of places where you can read about people who do nothing but complain.

On the other hand, the superstitious prick in me hopes that I haven't just totally jinxed my happiness. If I write a post tomorrow about how I had the "worst day ever", please, somebody, delete my account.

Reading Takes Forever

I've been on something of a reading jag lately which I'm sure I have my newfound singleness to thank, but I also have to the acknowledge the role the new year's played in all my bookishness. There is, simply, so much good shit out right now! I'm not sure when the book industry's Super Tuesday normally is, but there just seems to be a glut of exciting books on the horizon.

I'm currently reading Charles Bock's Beautiful Children which has been getting some great buzz so far, and I just finished José Saramago's Blindness (an oldie but goodie). Saramago's a Nobel Laureate with a severe case of the magical realisms, which I've never been a huge fan of, but Blindness is refreshing if for no other reason than the shear amount of shit and defecation that makes a special guest appearance throughout the novel. Conversely, this is also the reason I'm sort of sad to see this picture of Julianne Moore and Mark Ruffalo in the film adaptation:


Moore and Ruffalo: Spic and Span

In the novel, Moore's character is the only person alive who retains her eyesight while the rest of humanity is struck by "white blindness", including her opthamologist husband played by Ruffalo. Everyone goes around shitting any which where and not wiping themselves and sleeping in shitty bedclothes and having sex with shit-covered partners and basically being pretty shitty to each other both literally and figuratively. At any rate, Moore and Ruffalo are way too clean in the above picture and even if this scene takes place at the film's outset, I'm pretty sure a major Hollywood production isn't gonna be willing to take it there quite like it should.

The only complaint I find myself making about reading these days is that it takes forever. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that's part of the appeal, but I have such a backlog of insanely awesome books waiting that I can't help but want to pound through them faster. I'm actually shocked that I get as much reading done as I do, but I suppose this is part of the appeal of public transportation and recumbent bicycles at gyms.

That's not to say that I'm not still appropriately depleting brain cells by watching television. These days, pretty much the only shows I watch on a regular basis involve celebrities in faux rehab, or poorly-dressed women in serious need of some sartorial rehab. I did, however, rewatch Annie Hall for the first time since high school last night and might I just say, MY GOD, how that movie takes on a new meaning once you've been through a handful of relationships in the interim.


Who plays doubles tennis anyway?

In high school, I loved Annie Hall. It was witty, it was about New York, it had undertones of LA-hatred, and most importantly, it had Diane Keaton in menswear. Essentially, it was pretty flawless. Yet, I watch it now and it's lost much of it's luster. I suppose I don't think it's any less of a movie, but my perspective has fundamentally changed. I was once able to interpret Allen's character's egocentric musings as lovable but now they come across as blatantly destructive. Pardon the cliché, but if I had a dime for every time a significant other of mine turned one of my problems into something about himself, well, I'd (to continue this post's defecatory nature) be shitting bricks of gold.

It's also worth noting that 2008 John views Diane Keaton's character as vaguely cloying (what movie of hers isn't these days?), and all the couples activities as hopelessly unrealistic (who plays doubles tennis or goes to museums together anyway?).

So, for now, I'm sticking to books. I'm sure all of this will be over as soon as the new season of Dexter premieres, but since the writer's strike slowed things down on that front, I've got a little bit more time to eat up some good lit.

I DRINK YOUR OSCAR!!!

It's that time of year again, when we forget about all that truly matters in the world and spend three plus hours on a Sunday night watching the giant stroke-fest that is the Academy Awards. It's also a fantastic excuse to throw a potluck. Since every party must have a theme, well, Oscar potlucks naturally have to have themed food.

Two years ago was our first experiment with this format, which I think came out smashingly. I was the proud bearer of Ca-potato Casserole and Munich Madness German Chocolate Brownies, but Dojo really stole the show with his March of the Penguins-themed hors d'oeuvres.


March of the Black Olive Penguins

While the combination of black olives, cream cheese, mozzerella, and carrots left my stomach churning, his presentation was flawless, and that counts for a hell of a lot. I also recall that Leah made a pie that refused to solidify, so I guess it was more of a milkshake, but whatevs, it was delicious.

And speaking of milkshakes it looks like the unifying element of this year's awards is going to be milk; Cases in point:



There Will Be Blood's runaway hit of a catchphrase is "I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE!" It's more than a little annoying that this line uttered by Daniel Day Lewis has already been profiled by Defamer and Best Week Ever, but the movie's pretty snazzy so whatever gets it attention, right?



I can remember at least two distinct instances in No Country For Old Men in which characters drink milk out of an old-fashioned glass jar. The first involves a cop, and the second involves a serial killer, but I digress.



Juno is about a pregnant teen whose breasts are slowly filling up with milk, end of story.



Atonement takes place in England where people drink lots of tea. As we all know, what makes the British special is that they put milk in their tea, and that's it.



The one conspicuous exception to this rule is Michael Clayton which, as far as I know, is lacking any images of, or references to milk or milk by-products. If you can prove me wrong, please do since I have no desire to see this film and I probably never will.

Let's hope we can continue this trend next year when Gus Van Sant's biopic Milk is up for noms.

Be Mine, Valentine

I'm so glad I found this before Valentine's Day is officially over. This is, in a word, perfect. It's also the only V-Day card I want to receive. Ever.