Saturday, June 28, 2008

Boys Keep Swinging

I know that posts comprised entirely of video clips are infinitely lame, but since I'll have so little time this weekend to write anything coherent, - what with my busy schedule of drinking in public and avoiding romantic ruination - this post will have to be just that: a sampling of clips that make me proud I have a gay sensibility. Not that you actually have to sleep with your own gender to have one of those, but it certainly helps.

David Bowie - "Boys Keep Swinging"

This is my unofficial theme for the weekend. Hopefully I can keep this going well into next week.

The Andrea True Connection - "More, More, More"

One of the first disco songs I ever remember hearing as a kid and still one of my favorites. I'm just waiting until someone finally decides to make a shot for shot remake of this video. Incidentally... Andrea True's a former porn star. No wonder it's so good.

Les Yeux Sans Visage in 4 Minutes set to Portishead

Plastic surgery + the macabre + psychic family drama = everything I ever wanted in a movie.

Dolly Parton - "Baby I'm Burnin'"

I considered making this the theme song to my Pride, but then I thought, "I really don't want to feel any burning sensations this particular weekend."

Who's That Girl? Opening Credits

Really... why the fuck not? Madonna should be so animated all the time.

Linda Ronstadt - "It's So Easy"

Jeez, you're tellin' me sister. And despite this song being hijacked by Brokeback Mountain, it always reminds me of my mother (she was a big Ronstadt fan). Right about this time, Ronstadt's voice was pretty much perfection.
And just for good measure...

Madonna - "Deeper and Deeper"

I've always liked this song, but this video feels especially poignant ever since I actually met Udo Kier in much a similar setting. I'm pretty sure he tried to hypnotize me as well.

Monday, June 16, 2008

What's Happening!!


Trees are made of... evil?

I was on the phone with my sister yesterday and it seems that we both spent our respective Father's Day weekends celebrating in the best way we know how: by going to see summer blockbusters of questionable merit. While I went to see Iron Man and was pleasantly surprised, Bonnie took in The Happening and was left feeling more than a little ambivalent about it. This is pretty on par with the reaction I've been hearing to this movie - even though Manohla Dargis seems to disagree - but apparently it could've been different... or maybe not according to the Vulture blog:

In Shyamalan's original vision, the plants kill mean old religious fanatics, but they spare Marky Mark because he and his unfaithful wife [] still have a marriage worth saving. It's a twist on the classic: "If you love something, go outside with it into a field of toxic plants. If you survive, then your marriage is sound. If you're driven to abruptly strangle yourself with the garden hose, it never was." —Linda Holmes

Simply put, this is brilliant advice and the way I intend to test out all my romantic entanglements from here on out. Also, Leah, we still on for Tony Stark/Pepper Potts for Halloween? Good. I thought so. And I'll even let you do my makes-up.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Antoinette Perry's Party

I just finished watching the Tonys and it got me thinking about how stupid it is that major awards shows happen on Sunday nights. Sometime in the late nineties the Oscars moved from Monday to Sunday leading just about everyone else to follow suit which is LAME!

Sundays are for dreading the week ahead and trying to rehydrate in time to look halfway presentable for work on Monday. Award Shows only promote the copious consumption of alcohol at parties where people yell at the television, and though we didn't have a Tonys party this year, maybe one's in order next year since Katie and my last few potluck Oscar Parties have been off the hook! I'm dying just imagining all the possibilities for Xanadu-inspired casseroles.

Kerry Butler is really jazzed about her invite to my Tony party.

Anyway, without a doubt the highlight of the evening was Lily Tomlin making fun of Marisa Tomei for being self-righteous and/or on downers. OH, and Liza Minelli being batshit crazy as usual. Seeing her oddly voluminous torso hobble out on those spindly little gams was, in a word, resplendent.

Oh, Liza. You never fail to bring the crazy. God bless you!

Thursday, June 12, 2008

We Are A Part Of An Alien Nation

This is really sad news. After virtually an entire day of being away from the internet, I come back to discover that the Alamo Drafthouse Rolling Roadshow screening of Dawn of the Dead at the Monroeville Mall in Pittsburgh - where the original film was shot some thirty years ago - WAS CANCELLED. I wasn't even attending this thing and I'm bummed out. We all know that it would've been packed to the gills with creepy fanboys, especially since it was set to coincide with HorrorHound Weekend in Pittsburgh, but still, you've gotta feel for these guys.

Though, it's hard to say whether the novelty of seeing this thing where is was shot would wear off pretty quickly, especially since I have a sneaking suspicion that the mall looks nothing like it did back in the day. When I was a kid malls were much homier places that felt not unlike your grandmother's living room. Even my beloved Glendale Galleria was fully carpeted and had a stained glass ceiling in the food court up until somewhere around '92.

My only point of reference for a screening with this level of fandom is when my dad took my sister and I to an Alien Nation convention when I was nine years old. Circa 1990, I was obsessed with Alien Nation - the television show, not the movie - although I don't really know why since you were more likely to find me watching Just Say Julie rather than a noir-ish show about an inter-planetary diaspora. Maybe it was because watching this show really was a communal event in my household - our very own Waltons if you will.

At the convention, I got my first celebrity autograph from Eric Pierpoint, or as anyone who watched Alien Nation might know him, alien Detective George Francisco. I had this picture hanging up in my room for years, but somewhere around the time my REM Monster poster came down and my Alanis Morrisette poster went up, I also lost track of this photo. It's possibly the kitschiest thing I've ever owned and I miss it immensely.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Misty Gin-Soaked Memories

(Via LOV-E)

Yesterday a lovely reader left a comment on here while inebriated which is something I can only encourage. When your blog is titled Baptized In Gin it's fitting that you'd attract people who have a healthy love affair with all things boozy. Hell, even if you have an unhealthy relationship with the bottle, I openly welcome you. Plus, my writing is probably funnier and more entertaining when you're three sheets to the wind. As a great comedienne once said, "I would actually prefer you [get crunked]. It's more freeing for me, and I can be funnier." Okay, so she may have actually been talking about saying horribly nasty things behind people's backs, but I think the same principle applies here.

Having said that, I'm glad someone finds my writing funny, since I haven't felt especially humorous as of late. I mean, I always try and laugh through the tears, but therapists like to call this dissociation, or avoidance, or something equally scary-sounding. My emotions have run the gamut in the past two weeks from morose to elated, but I think I'm going to settle on something resembling vexation right about now. That's not necessarily bad though, since being dissatisfied is one of the great catalysts for change, right? God I hope so.

And speaking of change, in the matter of a few short weeks Leah will no longer be employed by the Gap (trumpets sound)! This is really great, you know, since she was the last of the Mohicans and I can now officially stop giving a shit about the store we all used to work at. Not that I did really give a shit about that store after I left - or when I worked there for that matter - but we all get a little nostalgic every now and then. Like I'll never forget that time I got trashed on my lunch break with my manager, or the time when my other manager did that really inappropriate / possibly illegal thing at that bar when were all wasted... ah, memories.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Is that you on the bus? Is that you on the train?

(Via angstidentprone)

Remind me to never again read a David Sedaris book on the bus.

I picked up the new short story collection When You Are Engulfed In Flames on my lunch break yesterday, and eager to break that baby in, I cracked it open while I was on the 156. I don't even take the 156 home normally, but for some unknown reason I thought, what the hell?

Big mistake.

I actually got a seat towards the back and was minding my own business until somewhere around Dickens, the woman I was sitting next to had to get up. I moved to the empty bench next to me, at which point I guess I flashed a little too much cover and a lecherous man wearing a bad polo pounced. He's the kind of guy who was probably once upon a time really attractive, and not that he's hideous now, but his aww-shucks demeanor combined with this faux-ignorance thing he had going on was really grating on my nerves. Oh, that and, if I'm reading a book on the CTA, then there's a reason I'm reading a book on the CTA!:

Lech: "Oh, is that book any good? I have a friend who recommended that author to me."
- No you don't, buddy. You're trying to make a missed connection happen with the help of David Sedaris.

Me: "Um, yeah, I guess. I'm really not that far into it."
- Yes, what little I've read of it IS good, but saying so would imply that I want to continue a conversation with you.

Lech: "Well, have you read anything else by him?"
- I realize you're trying to see if I'm a full-blown 'mo by asking this question. I'm not buyin' it!

Me: "Yes, I've read all his books."
- Okay, I bought it.

Lech: "Oh yeah? What does he normally write about?" (Licks lips)
- OH, GIVE IT UP ALREADY! You know what he writes about. You have a curio cabinet at home displaying each of his signed first editions!

Me: "He writes about all kinds of things. Sort of slice-of-life. They're all short stories though."
- Where is my stop?

Lech: "Well that's good! Short stories I can handle."
- You are stupid.

There were a few more uncomfortable exchanges before I got off. He tried to ask me about why I liked Sedaris so much, and I told him about how I had seen him live, and how his stories are best heard orally, but luckily I didn't use the word orally or else I may have been molested right then and there.

The only other time I've been hit-on while reading is when I was in the middle of The Stranger which I didn't understand either because doesn't the fact that you're reading that book instantly telegraph that you're anti-social? You'd think. So, this morning I took the jacket off of my book while I was riding the brown line, but the only thing potentially worse than reading David Sedaris on the train is trying to hide the fact that you're reading David Sedaris on the train. sigh. Junot Diaz never gave me this much grief.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Hillz, You're Still My Homegirl

(Via NY Times)

Boo Hiss to the democratic machine! I mean, had Barack-Attack been campaigning in any other year, he totally would've been my homeboy, and even though I will be voting for him come election day, there's still a bad taste left in my mouth.

Things we know: Hillary is a far better communicator than Barack who, in the span of an average stump speech, manages to fill inter-galactic voids with his starts, stops, and stammers; Hillary is far more experienced in withstanding the slings and arrows of a cruel and vicious Washington; Barack's going to screw us over on the whole healthcare issue.

There's a great article by Meghan O'Rourke over at Slate right now about the fundamental problem Hillary faced in this election: America. Hates. Women:

Of course, there's some logic behind Clinton's calculation that running on gender was too politically risky. Race—however profound an issue it is in America—doesn't get in the way of the paradigm that treats ambition and leadership as masculine qualities. Gender does. Obama can still draw on the classic paradigm of leadership; Clinton would have had to create something new. To judge by all kinds of studies of women in private-sector leadership positions, this would have been a fraught battle, strewn with double standards. It's only fair to point out that many of Hillary's attributes—toughness, control, emotional distance—are qualities that are sometimes admired in men but almost never in women. We'll never know whether the traits Clinton displayed in this campaign would have drawn less animus from voters had she actually been a man.

So I'm sorry, Hillary, that some dorky whippersnapper from downstate had to come shit on your dreams. May you one day run again, but next time, with a better font, since that is apparently all anyone cares about anymore.

Monday, June 2, 2008

And superheroes come to feast...

Via NY Mag

Leah and I went to see the biblical epic called Sex and the City yesterday and I could give a longish review, but considering the level of vitriol aimed at this movie over the past week, just suffice it to say that I liked it. My one problem with this movie is that there's a barely audible racism that suffuses nearly every moment of film (see: Charlotte won't drink the "dirty" water in Mexico, Carrie hires a black women to teach her how to get her shit together, Miranda goes running through Chinatown in search of a "white guy with a baby!"). But such is the world of rich white women in NYC, right? er... right.

And while calling Sarah Jessica Parker a horseface and an skeletal transvestite is occasionally funny, it's also downright mean and demeaning to women in toto. Annaliese Griffn over at NY Mag's Vulture blog pretty succinctly sums up my feelings on this issue and why so many critics/commentators/cultural hangers-on are woman-hating jag-offs:

Pointing out that Carrie could never afford her apartment, let alone her wardrobe, is about as useful as questioning Robert Downey Jr.'s ability to create cold fusion in a cave in Afghanistan — it misses the point of the movie entirely. Why is it okay for Iron Man to collect expensive cars but materialistic for Carrie to collect shoes? Surely her carbon footprint is the smaller of the two. Politely, we don't ask what the Hulk says about American men and their relationship to rage, so why should we tolerate attacks on Samantha's legendary libido? Sam Jones is no more a real cougar than Dr. Jones is a real archaeologist, but they're both good summer fun. So wise up, Hollywood, and start giving us some more female superheroes. And please, take a hint from Sex and the City, and dress them in Vivienne Westwood, not vinyl. —Annaliese Griffin

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Tears of Fashion

While the world tries to determine whether or not the Sex and the City movie actually killed Yves Saint Laurent, I'd like to tip my hat in my own small way to a man who was, how do you say, a genius.

“I have known fear and the terrors of solitude. I have known those fair-weather friends we call tranquilizers and drugs. I have known the prison of depression and the confinement of hospital. But one day, I was able to come through all of that, dazzled yet sober.” - Yves Saint Laurent