Current Obsession: Ciaran Hinds

I have seen a lot of Ciaran Hinds lately, and that is not a bad thing.  I was vaguely aware of him before, because I can not pronounce his name which sits with stature and grace on the page.  He was in Steven Spielberg's Munich, but I don't remember him.  Then again, I don't remember Daniel Craig from that film either.  I didn't really like that movie.  Although, anything that puts Eric Bana on the screen is a worthy use of celluloid.

Tangents...sorry.  Anyway, now Hinds has exploded.  He is everywhere, and goddamn in he talented.  He can play cold and vicious with ease.  Warm and lovable effortlessly.  Dull and stupid with enough conviction that you think, for a moment, he may actually be.

He was in Margot at the Wedding, playing Nicole Kidman's greasy lover, and that was one of the best films of last year.  He was in Paul Thomas Andersen's There Will Be Blood, also released last year-- a film which defies all qualifiers.  He was Ryan Phillipe's father in Kimberly Peirce's Stop Loss, which is so far the best film of this year.  Albeit, that isn't high praise, and while the film had flaws it also had an undeniable dramatic scope and power.  And, of course, he was perhaps most visible in Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day as Frances McDormand's crush.  He kept that movie grounded when all it really wanted to do was veer of course in bizarre and unexpected ways.  Those are four extraordinary film choices, Ciaran.

Do you know who this person is?  Probably not.  He does what a good character actor does-- blends seamlessly into the structure of a film adding support without overshadowing.  But, his time has come.  Pettigrew, if nothing else, showed that he can be a viable romantic lead, even if his appearance will limit that.  He looks like a healthier, cleaner version of Pete Postlethwaite.  That's perhaps more of a compliment than it sounds.

Cheers to Ciaran Hinds.  Keep up the good work.

Eye Candy: James Franco

It's all right, James.  No one blames you for the fiasco that was Spiderman 3.  There are too many other places to lay blame.  But what's this I see on IMDB?  Your next project is a stoner comedy with David Gordon Green and Judd Apatow?  Goodness, that sounds delightful, Franco.  If everything turns out roses, you may even be forgiven for Annapolis.

Sexy Detox Weekend

(Note:  As you may know, but you probably don't, the following article originally appeared as four separate posts littered throughout the day on Saturday.  I decided that was not an aesthetically pleasing way to present the information, and combined the four posts into one.  It's my blog, bitches.  I can do that.)

Part One

Hey, Josh!  What are you doing this weekend?

Well, let me tell you!  Adrian and I spent so much money last weekend and did so many things that were, to say the least, uncouth, that we both felt like shit all week.  So, this weekend we're not going to do anything.  We're going to camp out in my hotel room and have 'Sexy Detox Weekend '08'.

 What is Sexy Detox Weekend, you ask?  SDW consists of staying in a confined space for an entire weekend, eating only fruits and raw vegetables and drinking water.  Watching television, listening to music, and turning the heat up and screwing around to sweat all the nasty toxins out of your system.  We think it will be a grand old time.  

 Of course, the nature of SDW means there can be no drugs nor alcohol ingested over the weekend, as well as no grotesqueries such as soda or candy or 'fried food'.  It shall doubtlessly be trying.  It shall doubtlessly be hard.  But really, no harder or more trying than customizing cars or learning new hotel programs after being up for 48 hours tweaked and rolling, and we aced those tests on Monday.  And Tuesday.  And a little bit on Wednesday.  Goddamn, it was a hard week.  Updates to follow.

Part Two

 Sexy Detox Weekend is hard.  We are hungry and a little irritated by this room.  We're out of potato chips and ice cream.  It was a bad idea to have them here anyway, but-- fuck it, I love butter pecan ice cream.  And Adrian like Lays.  Ha!  No pun intended.  But, anyway, we got the Baked Lays.  And they really, really taste like hell.  So we had to get dip for them.  And for the broccoli.  We're breaking the rules of our own game, but it's not a fast, for God's sake.  It's a no pointless spending on drugs and alcohol weekend.

 We started out watching Friends on DVD.  Oh, Friends!  How nonthreatening you are.  I can not pay attention to you for an extended period of time, then return, and know precisely what I missed.  I love you, Friends.

 Later, Adrian wants to watch The Lord of the Rings.  All of them. In order.  Nonstop.  Perhaps, if we do this, I'll never have to do it again.  I certainly admire LOTR more from a distance than when I'm actively watching it.  I've recently come to the conclusion that Peter Jackson can't hold a shot to save his life.  That trilogy is edited like a music video.

 

 There's cough syrup in the bathroom.  But that goes against the spirit of SDW.  Stupid Sexy Detox Weekend.  So, i'll just eat another tangerine... Ugh.

Part Three

 Sexy Detox Weekend has failed.  We've breached the hull.  After checking online banking to discover that, what's this!?!, we both received our direct deposit on the same day, we could not resist the lure of real food.

 So we ordered Chinese.  Gross, soggy sweet and sour chicken.  Thick, disgusting egg rolls.  Greasy fried rice.  After a half dozen tangerines and Roman apples, it all tasted like heaven.  It was all fried and awful and wonderful.  Fruit is good.  Chinese is better.

 What's more, we had to leave the room to procure said Chinese delivery.  Tromping down stairs to the ATM to get cash to pay little Asian man is not supposed to be a part of Sexy Detox Weekend.  But the weather was wonderful.  It must be said that returning to that dark room after feeling the cool night breeze was a trying thing.  SDW may be dead, but it's principles live on.

 Anyway, now the refrigerator is filled with Chinese leftovers.  We've eaten all the fortune cookies.  I think we're going to watch Chicago tonight, and tomorrow go to the laundromat.  And to see Stop-Loss.  Sexy Detox Weekend will go down as an admirable failure.  That cantaloupe we were going to have for lunch tomorrow is mocking us.  Shut up, cantaloupe.

Part Four

 Sexy Detox Weekend has morphed suddenly from failure to fiasco.  May I, dear readers, offer some sage words of advice?

 Never, ever have sex while chewing gum.  Because, if you do, the gum will likely fall from your mouth at an inopportune moment and get stuck in your partner's hair.  And then, the sex will be over, because you'll have to cut a big swath of hair out of your partner's head to remove the gum.  And he'll look stupid.  And he'll be irritable.  And the rest of the evening will be spent trying to trim his hair so that it looks normal and presentable until he can get it fixed professionally.

 However, in hindsight, if you're talented and lucky and after a shower and lots of reassurance, you may come to the conclusion that the two of you have done a good enough job on the clipping that a visit to a professional isn't even necessary.  Thank you, Adrian.  You saved me thirty bucks.  And no, you do not have to get dressed and leave.  But if this happens again, I will kill you.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It

Ode to joy, today we changed PM systems in the office.  Goodbye Profit Manager.  Hello WebRezPro.  I do not feel fine.

I miss you so very, very much Profit Manager.  I know, I know... there were times when I told you to fuck off, when you just wouldn't operate the way I wanted, when one of the silly little quirks you have would get on my last nerve, but you know what, Profit Manager?  I really loved you.  I knew you like the back of my hand.  You were functional.  I could do anything with you that I needed.  You were a little piece of reliability in an unreliable world.

But oh, WebRezPro!  You are a hot mess.  You are a piece of work, that's what you are!  Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror lately?  What in God's name makes you think you should dress up and go out on the town disguised as a PM system?  You really shouldn't.  You're like a hot transexual-- you have a few good qualities, but no one wants to take you home.

Did you know, WRP, that it takes me twice, sometimes three times as long to do things with you than with Profit Manager?  Did you know, that being a web-bases program, when our internet shods out, we can't do a goddamn thing but sit around the office and eat candy?  Did you know that your group programming is like a gift from Satan, sent to drive us out of our minds?  There is already so much pressure in our office, WRP!  We are like a boiler overflowing with nerves and angst.  We do not need you bringing anymore nonsense into our professional lives.

What's that you say?  Oh, I see.  You're a remarkably cheap PM system.  You cost half as much as Profit Manager?  Well, fuck.  I guess you get what you pay for.  It's clear the reason you are so cheap, WebRezPro, is because you are shit.  You are a big, steaming pile of horse manure.  You are a tire with no tread.  You are a whore with syphilis.  You are an old sock lying on the side of the highway.

Do you know what I'm doing right now, WRP?  I'm praising karma that I have less than a month left to spend with you, before I leave that office and the grip of terror you have over it.  You may rule them, WRP, but you shan't rule me.

And here's to you, Profit Manager.  You won't be forgotten.

Eye Candy: Channing Tatum

The apocalypse strikes tomorrow.  Eye candy, baby, before the fall...

Garfield Minus Garfield

Why is it, dear readers, that the comic strip 'Garfield' elicits such passionate homage in some of its readers?  Those horrific stuffed cats that hung in car windows, suspended by suction cups?  And who could possibly forget this?  I certainly can't.  It still haunts me.  What other daily comic has demanded such bizarre tribute?

 Now, we have been gifted what is almost a companion piece to the series above.  Something altogether different, and yet unquestionably the same.  Something dark and sad, and uncomfortably hilarious.  From the website: 

Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, the result is an even better comic about schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life? Friends, meet Jon Arbuckle. Let’s laugh and learn with him on a journey deep into the tortured mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness in a quiet American suburb.

Behold!

Do you want more, you sick, sad freak?  Do you want to wallow in more misery and mental incapacitation?  Well, you can here!

Happy Birthday, Richie

Thirsty...Tuesday?  Mandatory bar time to celebrate the boss-man's birthday.  Dino's, bitches!  What do you know about that?

 

Boue, Abigail and Ricardo 

Rae Lynn Melancholy, Conchetta, and David

Essence of Autin

We're all very busy...

Eye Candy: Jonathan Rhys Meyers

Why?  To set a precedent in retaliation against shitty Mondays...

Snow in Chicago

I boarded a plane in New Orleans, and the thermometer was holding steady at 80 degrees. I rode the plane through sunny skies and landed in Chicago, where it was holding steady at 30 with more than six inches of snow on everything. It was, by far, the most snow I've ever seen.

Behold! The Snow Queen.

Before long, the novelty of all this nonsense wore away. Snow is cold, and unpleasant, and it wets your feet more or less constantly. I do not like snow.

Go Away, Salma Hayek.

Why is it that every time I have tried to go somewhere in the last few days, Salma Hayek has been there to get in my way?  I think that, at best, you are a mediocre actress, Ms. Hayek.  I must insist that you stop inconveniencing me.

All I want to do is walk from point A to point B with a minimum of hassle.  But no!  I have to walk all the way around through points C, D, E, and F because streets are blocked because "Oh my God!  Salma Hayek is shooting a movie!"  

Well,  thank you for aiding the flailing New Orleans economy, but goddamn!  Enough is enough.  You cannot have all the streets of the city for your film.  You cannot!  It is illogical.  This is not a film set, it is a business center.  We have business to attend to!

And, Ms. Hayek-- what movie are you shooting?  Oh, you're filming on 'Cirque du Freak', an epic  fantasy trilogy from director Chris Weitz.  That sounds promising.

Is this the same Chris Weitz who so poorly mangled 'The Golden Compass' that the combined might of Nicole Kidman and Sam Elliot could not save it?  I still sit in awe at New Line's decision to allow him to make a project that cost so very much and was so very important to the studio's future.  The man made his mark by directing 'American Pie' and 'About a Boy'... what in those films made you think he could handle an epic fantasy trilogy?  

Well, he failed.  'The Golden Compass' was awful, it tanked at the box office, and New Line Cinema went bankrupt. And now, some other studio has handed him another fantasy trilogy.  That's like letting Hitler babysit Jewish youths in 1954.

Anyway, my days are inconvenienced by all this nonsense, and I grow weary of this conflict.  Take your wires and your cranes and your cameras and go somewhere else.  Give me back Natchez Street immediately.  I demand it.

Death of a Dream

It was like making the long trek to Mecca only to find yourself at Sea World.  It was like taking the stairs to the top of the Empire State Building and looking out over Fort Worth.  It was awful-- an explosion of despair and pain.  The end of an era.  The death of a dream.

I walked again tonight, as I often do, to the most beautiful house in New Orleans.  I shall not go again.  It has been tainted.  Ruined.  Those people who live there, those awful, awful souls have turned their beautiful, majestic delight into a canvas of blasphemy and blackness.  I hate them deeply and with yearning.

Shall I begin by saying that they do not own a cat?  The way the curtains were pushed back ever so slightly so suggested that a feline presence slid in between the fabric and the glass and stared unimpressed upon the world while he licked his paws clean.  This is not the case.  They do own a pet, but it is not a cat.  It is a big, grotesque English Bulldog, fat and stupid.  The size of a pot-bellied pig it lumbers about, all brown and white and ridiculous.  It is so fat it doesn't walk, it waddles.  It is a disgusting beast.  That is lives in such a beautiful house makes me yearn to pull out my BB gun and fire a pellet into it's immensity.  It's so hideous my heart breaks because of it's existence.

But, oh, worse horrors did I find upon my final journey to the once-magical place.  Do you remember, from examining the photos of the house, the flag-holder that hung empty on the front of the house?  It is empty no longer.  The house's lovely visage has been tainted by an American flag.  And, no, not a tasteful, subtle decently-sized American flag-- a huge, tacky unbearable flag just whipping in the breeze.  The kind of flag that murdered John Lennon.  The kind of flag that rapes children and steps on the heads of kittens.  It made me want to vomit.

So stricken with sadness I wandered away with a heavy heart and sobbed into the dark, melancholy New Orleans night.  The world shan't ever be the same.  A little piece of my heart has been rent forth and scattered across the ground like the ashes from an alter to God.  There is no more magic in the world.  It had been replaced with poison and bile.

Don't believe anything--There's bias in everything--Language is our most powerful weapon

Alright.  First, watch this video.

Now, if you've finished choking on the irony of seeing Bill O'Reilly refer to anything as 'offensive', read these paragraphs from an article by Steve Holland for Reuters:

...John McCain said on Friday he fears that al Qaeda or another extremist group might attempt spectacular attacks in Iraq to try to tilt the U.S. election against him.

McCain, at a town hall meeting...was asked if he had concerns that anti-American militants in Iraq might ratchet up their activities in Iraq to try to increase casualties in September or October and tip the November election against him.

"Yes, I worry about it," McCain said. "And I know they pay attention because of the intercepts we have of their communications ... The hardest thing in warfare is to counter someone or a group of individuals who are willing to take their own lives in order to take others."

While this is not a post about content, but instead about presentation, I would like to offer a few thoughts before getting to my point:

A.) I can't believe the sad blind trust it must take to discount the majority of the things Rev. Wright said...

B.) If I could find a pastor like that, I would be in church every Sunday.

C.) I change my mind.  I wouldn't want to have a beer with John McCain after all.  He would be an insufferable drunk.

Anyway, not content but presentation.

The pastor story was broken by Fox News, the most unabashedly right-wing media outlet popular in America today.  They ran the story almost nonstop for two days, almost always with a big picture of Obama's head plastered in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, along with captions like 'Obama's Campaign Over?'.  For two days that ran.  Meanwhile, other news outlets reported the story and let it go.  Fox drug out analysts to discuss the video, all the while having the video that so offended their "America! Fuck Yeah!" sensibilities in a nonstop loop.

Bias in video construction is easily spotted.

But look at the John McCain article, pulled directly from the liberal, brainwashing media.  "...might attempt spectacular attacks."  First off, there is no reason a professional news article need include a four-syllable adjective that is not part of a direct quote, and most-certainly not one as over-wrought and dramatic as 'spectacular'.

And notice how the first two paragraphs end with the election both tilted and tipped "against him."  Not "towards the Democrats."  In fact, the Democrats aren't even mentioned.  This is an entire article built to poke fun at John McCain's extraordinary ego (he is, after all, the most egotistical major politician since, well, G.W. Bush), and we're clued in by the flowery, unnecessary language in the first sentence.  

Now whether al Qaeda wants John McCain to lose the election or the American media want Barack Obama to win is neither here nor there.  

I imagine as liberal Americans, the media would prefer Obama, but things aren't going to get easier for al Qaeda in either scenario.  Palestine is not going to get the disputed lands it claims it deserves regardless of which political party takes office, and that's what all this nonsense is about anyway.  And al Qaeda knows that.  But CNN apparently doesn't

In conclusion: 

 John McCain makes Paris Hilton look humble, al Qaeda is smarter than the American media, and Barack Obama's pastor believes in karma.

or

War is peace--Freedom is Slavery--Ignorance is Strength

You decide.

Trapped in a Porcelain Prison

There are no words to describe the horrific fascination this story holds for me...

This is the trailer where the events occurred

Excerpts from the Associated Press 

With added emphasis on phrases that interest me.

Please consider them carefully.

Authorities are considering charges in the bizarre case of a woman who sat on her boyfriend's toilet for two years -- so long that her body was stuck to the seat by the time the man finally called police.

It appeared the 35-year-old Ness City woman's skin had grown around the seat, said Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple. The woman initially refused emergency medical services but was finally convinced by responders and her boyfriend that she needed to be checked out at a hospital.  "We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," Whipple said. "The hospital removed it."

"She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body," Whipple said. "It is hard to imagine. ... I still have a hard time imagining it myself."

Police declined to release the couple's names, but the boyfriend, Kory McFarren, agreed to be interviewed Wednesday by The Associated Press. He identified his girlfriend as Pam Babcock.

McFarren, 36, told investigators he took Babcock food and water and asked her every day to come out of the bathroom.

"And her reply would be, 'Maybe tomorrow,"' Whipple said. "According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom."

McFarren told the AP that he wasn't to blame, and that it was solely Babcock's choice to remain in the bathroom.

"She is an adult; she made her own decision. It was my fault I should have gotten help for her sooner; I admit that. But after a while, you kind of get used to it," McFarren said.

Although authorities said they think Babcock was in the bathroom for two years, McFarren said he wasn't certain how long she stayed there. He said she had a phobia about leaving the room because of childhood beatings.

"It just kind of happened one day. She went in and had been in there a little while, the next time it was a little longer. Then she got it in her head she was going to stay -- like it was a safe place for her," McFarren said.

But McFarren said Babcock moved around in the bathroom during that time, bathed and changed into the clothes he brought her. He said they conversed and had an otherwise normal relationship -- except that it all happened in the bathroom.

McFarren called police on Feb. 27 to report that "there was something wrong with his girlfriend," Whipple said.

Police found Babcock clothed and sitting on the toilet, her sweat pants down to her mid-thigh. She was "somewhat disoriented," and her legs looked as if they had atrophied, Whipple said.

"She said that she didn't need any help, that she was OK and did not want to leave," he said.

Authorities said they did not know whether she was mentally or physically disabled.

The case has been the buzz of Ness City, said James Ellis, a neighbor.  "I don't think anybody can make any sense out of it," he said.  Ellis said he had known the woman since she was a child but that he had not seen her for at least six years.

I think the author of this article deserves a Pulitzer for his astounding use of subtlety and restraint.

Current Obsession: The Most Beautiful House in New Orleans

There it is... the most beautiful house in all of New Orleans.  It lies delightful on the corner of  Barracks and Chartres, lush and in ruins.  Like something from a dream, it rises triumphantly from the barren, well-kept surroundings of the French Quarter.  It is a fantasy.  Perfection.

It cannot be approached from the Canal Street side.  From that direction, the wonder is lost.  You must circle around and approach it from the Esplanade side.  That is the way to truly experience the house.  On overcast days and sunny afternoons, late nights and early mornings I can often be found sitting on a post across the street, staring into it's unending glory, memorizing every break and flaw, each molding and subtle shade.  I long to see the lucky beast who owns such an enviable piece of property.  I speculate they have a cat.

There was a time when I thought the house was simply myth.  I stumbled blindly onto it one day and fell to my knees, struck by sublimity.  I noted to myself the corner it was located on so I could visit it again.  But later, when I returned, it wasn't there.  I searched and searched for the house, yet couldn't find it anywhere.  Is it magic?  Does the house only appear to those who need it?  Does it travel about, move, lurk throughout the neighborhood?  No, I was simply lost.  But the house is magic nonetheless.

Thin Lines

Content Warning:  The following post has explicit sexual overtones and hard drug use.  Read only after consulting and adjusting your own moral compass to decide if this is really the post for you.  

God, I wanted him.  A little piece of perfection at the end of the bar.  Handsome.  Rugged.  Straight.  Drunk.  He had left and come back, shot down by the girl he had spent so much time and money on; now moaning pathetically about the sorry state of his life. He hadn't had sex since July 4th-- that seemed appropriate.  He was in the military, back from Iraq and shortly headed to Darfur.  

But there's a thin, thin line between making an advance and taking an advantage. 

I was behind the bar, working at the Ohm Lounge-- not so much to make money but to occupy myself while I did mounds and mounds of blow.  Two hours earlier I was the king of the world, the paragon of self-confidence.

But there's a thin, thin line between invincibility and instability.

And I had done it.  I was past casual party and into an indulgent binge.  Shaky, stuttery, uncomfortable-- I needed to go for a long run alone.  Alone being the key word: people are strange but I was stranger, woefully out of whack.  Still, there was a knee jerk reaction in my loins when he asked the bartender if she knew any gay guys.  He was desperate, he said.  He went to a gay bar once in San Diego and felt "respected."  He wanted to feel that way again.

But there's a thin, thin line between bad karma and genuine misdeeds. 

Scenario A has us leaving the bar, walking the two blocks to my hotel and indulging in coke-fueled pornographic fantasy, the kind you see in Treasure Island videos.

But there's a thin, thin line between performance and pathetic.

And I had done it.  Scenario B has us leaving the bar, walking the two blocks to my hotel and suffering through about 30 minutes of awkward, useless fondling before he came and went, after which I jerked off, irritable and limp to a Treasure Island video. 

I walked the two blocks to my hotel alone, did more coke, and took a long shower.

"You gotta go after the things you want while you're still in your prime..."

But desire has taken on new dimensions, with consequences cocaine can cause seem irrelevant.  Two hours earlier I wouldn't have gone home alone.

There's a thin, thin line between feeling okay and falling apart.

There's a thin, thin line between good ideas and bad.

There's a thin, thin line between desire and death.

I haven't done it yet.

No plagiarism here!  Post contains an excerpt from a song from 'Avenue Q'.