30 November 2007

15 november: a revue

in no particular order & uttered by various (pervy) citizens of the Oline in the City world


"i only want children for halloween purposes."

"i'm thinking out loud so retarded is bound to happen."

"i'm just, like, angry at penises right now."

"for a girl, you sure have balls."

"why are you still here at five?"
"i don't know. why are the republicans still in power?"

"well, i'm happy for you but i'll try not to run around and smile at everything."

"what can i say? i really like naked people."

"we need more lube."

"she wants to be posh, but really they're just chubby greeks."

"wow. this really took a downward turn toward emoland."

"can i ask you a personal question? when you go golfing, do you bring your own balls? because we don't normally include balls."

"you know, when i reflect on it, you had me whipped. it's just that your leash was so long i never knew."

"i shouldn't eat burritos on a work night."

"when it comes down to it, being an asshole is fun only when you have no deep feelings for a person."

"yes. i have no balls."

"i can't work now. i'm in my love bubble."

"that is an ingenious idea. croftie is quite a catch. does she come in gay?"

"i never thought i would have to explain email sex to you. somehow i just wasn't ever envisioning that."

"hippies like muslin, right?"

29 November 2007

7 went with the wind


at thanksgiving, my adolescent cousin, berto, was stretched out languorously on the couch pontificating on bad movies. an inconvenient truth was terrible, because my god who can stand an hour and a half of al gore.

the only film he thought worse?

gone with the wind.

it was all i could do not to leap up and begin railing on about the glories of william cameron menzie’s production, set design, and cutting-edge special effects; the unwavering vision of david o. selznick despite an embarrassing reliance upon his father-in-law for funding; the extraordinary drama of max steiner’s ground-breaking score; the sheer wonder that gone with the wind was ever filmed— much less filmed and post-produced in the nine months that it was— given that there were three directors, two nervous breakdowns, and no real script.

gone with the wind is the greatest movie ever made in the history of any and all film-making in the whole wide world and any solar systems, known or unknown, beyond.

there is none better. don’t anyone argue with me on this.

gwtw is the first movie i remember seeing. it was playing on tv one night as my parents and grandparents hung out in the living room of our house in balmoral. it was at least twelve hours long then and of those twelve hours, the only part that i vividly recall is the scene between scarlett and gerald after the death of ellen o’hara. i thought ellen had been poisoned by gerald’s moonshine and that, in the aftermath of her death, he developed a morbid interest in women’s jewelry. as it turns out, i got every single possible detail of that scene wrong, but it stuck with me.

because i was an only child and an embarrassingly cool kid— probably a wee bit more embarrassing than cool— at 8, i was obsessed with the making of a legend: gone with the wind, a life-changing documentary an hour shy of being as long as gone with the wind itself. i immediately memorized passages and staged bedroom metadramas—playing vivien leigh playing scarlett o’hara in a period costume fashioned from my mum’s burgundy silk nightgown, a mound of safety pins and a hula-hoop. definitely more embarrassing than cool.

i was a naïve kid and there was no titanic yet, so gwtw struck me as the most romantic story ever and i thought scarlett o’hara was the ballsiest woman in the world. she appeared at a dance as a widow, she loved another woman’s husband, and she wore feathers and sequins at the other woman’s home after being caught publicly embracing the other woman’s husband in a lumber mill. this seemed the absolute apotheosis of grown-up living. i thought scarlett was what women were supposed to be.

but as an adult, gwtw is an entirely different experience. now i realize that this is not the most romantic story ever told. it is, in fact, a tale peopled by the most complicated communicators in recorded human history. it’s grey gardens plus corsets and minus the cat piss. a vicious spectacle of miscommunication, missed signals, and regrets. throughout the film, every single character is trapped in what might have been and what could maybe still come to be. had any one person ever said what they were actually feeling at any single point, they could’ve all lived long, happy lives in a considerably shorter film. but no.

scarlett married a series of men she didn’t love to get back at ashley wilkes, who didn’t love her and couldn’t have cared less if she married men she didn’t love and whom, it turns out, she probably never really loved anyway though she always thought she did.

rhett butler married scarlett, whom he knew pretty much didn’t love him, because he loved her though he thought she loved ashley wilkes because she thought she did too.

melanie wilkes— being the most insipid character ever to grace american literature— never noticed that scarlett was madly in love with her husband and, therefore, never confronted scarlett for being a bitch, but instead harbored an inexplicable borderline lesbian affection for her.

ashley wilkes—the only character whose insipidity could effectively challenge melanie’s— never confessed to scarlett that he truly loved melanie (though heaven only knows why).

and scarlett never told rhett that she had come to really loved him because she was too flakey to realize this until the last three minutes of the final reel, at which point, as we all know, he frankly didn’t give a damn.

thus, in a 258-minute film, none of the characters ever says any of the things they should.

and this is why gone with the wind is great. precisely because it is a horrifying mess. a 4.3 hour public service spot on the vital importance of proper communication served up as an epic, sprawling, southern hell in fancy dress. they just don’t make them like that anymore.

gone with the wind is the greatest movie ever made in the history of any and all film-making in the whole wide world and any solar systems, known or unknown, beyond.

there is none better. don’t anyone argue with me on this.

and i'd like eight years of al gore, if you please.

27 November 2007

4 cutness

for literally 20 years, "red hill mining town" has been the u2 holy grail. the video they made and never released. until now. and i have only one thing to say about this:

birds ruin everything.

20 November 2007

19 i do not want this.

i have this little thing for alexandre dumas. little isn't quite the right word. huge-ass literary crush is probably more appropriate.

but i do not want this.

i'm supposed to be having a torrid, raging love affair with mr. foote. we're fighting the wawah. have been since april 2006. having learned nothing from the johnny rebs, i said i'd be through in a couple weeks. and the years have dragged on and on and on and we aren't even to damn perryville yet. mcclellan's still sitting on his ass and hundreds more bazillions of men have to die before shelby and i are rid of each other. and that's only volume 1.

this seemed kind of awesome in the beginning. what with the "rebellion" and the "rebels" and the "war of aggression," it was all very star wars and there were all these people with fancy names toting sabers, taking hills and commanding cannon-bearing boats. kind of hot. but now, not so much. war's fine and all, but, really, it lacks glamour. glamour and velvet. and a girl really needs glamour and velvet from time to time.

you know who has glamour and velvet ALL THE TIME? yep. that good old boy dumas. but i can't be having huge-ass literary crushes nor dalliances with dumas. shelby foote holds my keeping for volumes 1-3.

but still...

shelby's dead so he's not producing much these days, which is only to be expected. most authors cease writing after they die. most authors are mortal. but then most authors are not dumas.

as if it weren't enough, as if it weren't plenty that i have this huge-ass literary crush, dumas couldn't be content with that. no, he had to go and write another book. from the grave. never mind the fact that he's been dead for centuries, he had to go and have a long-lost manuscript (because, i ask you, oh my God, what on earth is more sexy than a long-lost manuscript?!) suddenly unearth itself as if by magic. obviously, specifically to torture me.

as was to be expected, it was a huge-ass manuscript that was subsequently published in a huge-ass hardback book. and that's kind of a dealbreaker.

i do not want this.

there are so many reasons why this is not feasible, why this absolutely will not work. why we are doomed- dumas and i and his big-ass book. chief among them the many reading-related injuries i would sustain attempting to balance a 750-page hardback while standing amidst a crowded, careening train.

i do not want this.

but that hasn't stopped me from visiting it (and we shall have to call it "it" for now because the name is so enrapturing i swoon at the bare mention) in various bookstores across our fine town, just to caress its spine and flutter its pages, teasingly savoring the aura of the anticipated awesomeness therein (because it's dumas- it will be awesome). it didn't prevent me from dragging S over to genuflect before the dumas section when he was visiting.

nor did it keep me from reading the black tulip and the three musketeers as a distraction, which, in turn, intensified my lust and sent me scouring reviews so that i stumbled across this sentence: "it's full of melodrama and coincidence, shamelessly studded with every possible romantic cliché and period flourish." because melodrama and coincidence are one thing, but oh to be studded with romantic cliché. throw in some glamour and velvet and be still my heart.

but i do not want this.

i can live, i must live without meeting the last cavalier: being the adventures of count sainte-hermine in the age of napoleon, though the title make me weak in the knees. i can content myself with shelby. i can wait it out. the interminable 12-17 months before the count sainte-hermine deigns to make his appearance in paperback. that's plenty of time in which to fight a wawah. i can do this. i will do this.

i do not want this book.

but, by God, isn't it the sexiest thing you've ever seen?

15 November 2007

2 this is what it sounds like when deaf people have deep talks

s: i don't know that i'm ever going to be greatly happy...

o: everyone gets to be greatly happy. you just have to not worry about it and hold tight and go through lots of shit until you get there.

s: you get to have LOTS OF SEX until you get there??!

o: no. no. GO THROUGH LOTS OF SHIT.

10 November 2007




my dear norman mailer,

you've died.

and i don't quite know what to make of this other than the fact that it makes me kind of sad.

yes, you held some beliefs that were total bunk. you exploited marilyn as a biographical sex-toy. you crusaded against the women's liberation movement. you participated in a literary smackdown with gore vidal. you had nine chidren and six wives, the second of which you stabbed.

as if this weren't enough of a biographical legacy, in your neediness and contrivance towards the hemmingway masculine ideal, you cultivated a belligerent literary machismo that was debilitatively seared across everything you ever wrote.

despite the feigned nonchalance, you so obviously wanted to be remembered. you so obviously needed to be a big deal. the footfall of your every stomping sentence gave you up.

you never seemed quite real. you always were a bastard.

but i'm a girl who likes bad boys and if they have a way with the pen, that's better and better.

60 years ago, you emerged as the enfant terrible of the american literary scene and set out to write The Great American Novel. perusing your obituaries this morning, it seems to be the general consensus that you never did. but does that really matter?

in grad school, my biography class covered the lost art of obituaries. the first line is crucial. you can fumble your way on the rest, blithely romping through schooling and careers and wives and honorary doctorates, but you can't fake that first line. that first line is a bitch.

it's a bitch i think you, norman mailer, would've enjoyed slapping around. and i think even you- the combative tease, the unremitting bombast, the cocksure grump with dialectic derring-do- would be satisfied with the title history has bestowed upon you.

the macho prince of american letters.

well played, norman mailer, you bastard you.

09 November 2007

4 guess who's coming to dinner

in the oline world, it's been long established that upon matrimony men assume the nicknames of their wives. i think this is because my friendships with the wives typically predate the men. or maybe it's just because the women wind up with the better, more multipurposely fabulous names (lindears, kiddears, dogdears? hello awesome.)

today, during a very silly lunch, a drugged up miss croftie and i finally at long last settled upon the name that she and the dread pirate dOOOglas ferdinand cOsbO-crOft will assume: pew-flowers.

it sounds rather plain and simple there but just consider the possibilities.

why, croft pew-flowers was saying that just the other day...

there we were, pirate pew-flowers and i, just hanging out with gogol...

daaaaaaaaaaahling, you'll never guess who's coming to dinner... croft and pirate pew-flowers!

02 November 2007

23 doomsday!

pronunciation: \'dümz-,dā\
function: noun
usage: often attributive
date: before 12th century
1 : a day of final judgment
2 : a time of catastrophic destruction and death
3 : the apocryphal chicago public transit armageddon