FalseRumorsDotCom

Texts From My Sister: We Take Shit Seriously

Mon, 15 Oct 2012 19:54:49 -0400

Sister: I think I need a divorce. Mike just asked me what kind of animal Woodstock from Peanuts is supposed to be.

Sister: He obviously did not have a proper upbringing.

Me: What...what does he think it is?

Sister: I am not sure. I immediately let him know that Woodstock is clearly a bird. He is now acting like he knew that the whole time.

Sister: I have a lawyer on my speed dial just in case.

Sister: He just said he looks like a mouse. I don't know what happened in their house as children, but I think it was very sad.

When It Rains It Fucking Pours

Mon, 08 Oct 2012 17:33:24 -0400

I went to a party on Saturday and found two potential suitors. Let me tell you about our contestants.

BACHELOR NUMBER ONE
- We’d met once before.
- In an exotic twist for Yours Truly, he’s OLDER than me by SEVEN WHOLE YEARS.
- Tattoos!
- He hated the ending of LOST.
- We used our disagreement about the ending of LOST as a flirtation device. At one poinnt, a large portion of the party stared at us because I screamed “I CAN’T TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE!” and ran away from him.
- I must look very desirable in a baseball hat. During a conversation with some third party that I can’t remember, B#1 put his hat on my head, and while I was in the middle of a sentence, he grabbed me by the purse strap, pulled me into a back room and kissed me. This earned him MAJOR POINTS.
- The room we were making out in was full of empty boxes (the Host had just moved in) and we’d shut the door. The Host, evidently not wanting that door shut, opened the door but didn’t bother looking in. We stumbled out and I said “Hey! We were making out in there!” Best Exie was also standing right there and I’m sure he thought “Man, I can’t believe I broke up with this classy lady.”
- He thinks no television show will ever be as great as The Wire.
Karaoke songs of choice: Fuck Her Gently by Tenacious D; some song by The Postal Service.
- After the makeouts (which were pret-tay, pret-tay good), he held my hand and was generally affectionate with me throughout the night. He even kissed me goodbye.
- One of those kisses left me with a bruised lip.
- When the last of us finally left the party, somewhere around 6 a.m., he texted me shortly after to tell me I was cute and he hoped I got home okay.
- He works on films and stuff.
- He is mostly unemployed.

BACHELOR NUMBER TWO
- I’ve been acquainted with him for two years. When we first met, he asked me out but I was still getting over Best Exie and shot him down. He’s since been in two long-ish relationships.
- Shortly after I arrived I found out he was on the market again and decided to ask him out because I’ve always kind of regretted turning him down the first time.
- He accepted, and tried to make a plan with me right then and there but party and drunk and so many people.
- He is literally one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.
In fact, when I mentioned to my Bestie that I’d made out with someone she said “OMG was it B#2 because he is the funniest person I’ve ever met.”
- He reminds me a freakish amount of one of my Internet Friends but I don’t want that to be weird or anything. ::blinks::
- He can cook like a motherfucker.
- Karaoke song of choice: Ignition (The Remix) by R. Kelly.
- At some point well after my makeout with B#1, which very few people were aware of, and deep into B#2’s so-drunk-I’m-blacked-out portion of the night, B#2 and I had this exchange:

Him: Wanna make out?
Me: Now? Him: Yup. Me: Real talk someone already made out with me. I can’t go make out with you now. I’m only so trashy.
Him the rest of the night: You’re pretty.

- He plays professional poker.
- He is mostly unemployed.

Really? I found TWO unemployed guys? If you look at the crew of hooligans I’ve dated, it’s pretty apparent that money doesn’t matter to me, but, like, I don’t want to continue to be the Island of Directionless Slackers. On the plus side, since they’re BOTH directionless slackers, they have an equal playing field. If one was a directionless slacker and the other was a doctor, it just wouldn’t be fair.

No but seriously. A poker player and a film crew member.

At this point, B#2 has been in touch plenty but I haven’t heard a peep from B#1. Didn’t people used to casually date more than one person at a time until shit got serious? Is this possible? Can’t we all be (technically) adults about this?

Sidenote: What is with Barbie’s potential mates in that photo up there. Is that first one…a wigger? Wait, can I say that word?

Exeunt, Pursued By Regrets

Wed, 12 Sep 2012 21:49:51 -0400

So there are three things I don’t blog about at length: my mom in a nursing home, my fun auto-immune diseases (NON-CONTAGIOUS FOR THOSE JOINING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PROGRAM), and my time as an actor. But you have to pretend I just said “actor” with the vowels really drawn out while also doing jazz hands.

So about that acting thing.

I spent about 8-9 years of my life on the stage, from the time I was 13 (ish) to the ripe age of 22 when I officially announced my retirement. I know lots of teens dabbled in theater, whether it be for school or in the community, I don’t wish to come off as somehow special, but at the same time…I was fucking special. I couldn’t sing or dance (still can’t), so my passion was for straight theater, particularly for one Mr. William Shakespeare. Here we go.

Like most of the important decisions I’ve made in my life, it started with a movie. I was 13 when Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet hit the screen and it’s one piece of pop culture that I can say, without question, changed my life. Baz’s films, and this one in particular, get a lot of shit but Christ this film opened up a whole world for me. Even as a (mostly) fully formed adult with (slightly) more discerning tastes, I can watch R+J for everything he intended it to be and feel satisfied. People complained that the actors didn’t seem to know what they were saying; I’ll counter with the fact that at 13 I’d barely heard a lick of Shakespeare and understood everything perfectly. Uncannily, almost. I’d never quite seen anything like Baz’s style, and at that point I’d already seen Pulp Fiction and Trainspotting, so I kept going back. At least 5 times, but possibly 6. Let me put it this way: I was a total goth girl in 8th grade. Black lipstick, ripped striped tights, LOTS of Marilyn Manson tee shirts, the whole nine. R+J got me dressing softer, in white flowing clothes, and wearing glittery nail polish. GLITTERY NAIL POLISH. In retrospect, I have to give 13 year old me some credit; I became obsessed with this movie but instead of thinking “I need a tragic romance” or “I need to kill myself” in order to achieve the heightened emotions I experienced watching R+J, I very logically thought “I need to become an actress”.

At this time, I had an acquaintance who was Assistant Directing a community production (for teens) of The Pushcart War. One of her actresses had a commitment problem for ONE night of the run, so after expressing interest she let me in. I know I was only on for one night, and I know I had to learn a ton of lines and play multiple characters (the only one I remember for certain was Harry the Hot Dog), but other than that it’s a total blur. But it gave me the itch.

Then I started high school. I’m not sure I believe in fate, but what happened in my freshman year is the closest I’ve come to proving its existence. My high school’s drama director at that point was a crusty, surly old man who did lame, crowd-pleasing plays that he either wrote himself or mined from his own generation of whodunnit’s. At the beginning of my freshman year, he stirred the pot and got himself fired for attempting to do a high school production of Sweet Charity. In case you don’t know, there’s a prostitute involved. ANYWAYS. His replacement was a real actor with Great Lakes Theater Festival, a somewhat younger dude who knew how to talk to kids. But most importantly, he taught us how to act. He didn’t give a shit about sets or costumes. I think he would have sent us up there in our street clothes as long as we could say the words William Shakespeare wrote with any meaning. At the age of 14 I landed the role of a lifetime as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

How did I land this amazing role? By using, as my monologue, the lyrics to Ani DiFranco’s “Dilate”. I wore a pristine white, lacy, ruffled slip and dark red lipstick, and when Ani says, “When I need to wipe my face, I use the back of my hand” you can bet your ass I used the back of my hand and smeared that lipstick across my flawless teenage face, completing my recitation looking like a purposeful disaster.

After Puck came Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing followed by my personal favorite, Elizabeth Proctor in The Crucible. I was the director’s muse, he was John Hughes to my Molly Ringwald, and for three years I felt like these parts were chosen for me, handed to me on a platter. And again, he taught me how to act. This wasn’t about delighting our parents or the community; this was about teaching teenagers how to interpret difficult text and take chances with experimentation. We bared our souls within the walls of our shitty high school auditorium during practices. We laughed and cried and fell into each others arms from high ladders (literally).

And this was my calling. From an introverted, anxious girl to a loud, fast talking near-adult in front of hundreds of people and not afraid, not even once. I could turn it on and off. I could be backstage dicking around with my friends and out on stage emoting at the drop of a hat; it was that easy.

But I lived in reality. I knew acting in college wouldn’t be the same. I chose to major in theater and my family was supportive. My dad wished I’d choose a double major, but never really tried to talk me out of acting. Acting on stage was the closest I’d come for him to being a star athlete and I could see him revel in it. And wouldn’t you know, even at the college level, at a VERY good school for theater, I was cast immediately and consistently. My first role, cast a week or so into my freshman year of college (shortly after 9/11, the ACTUAL 9/11), was Eunice Hubble in A Streetcar Named Desire. I got to be the person that responded to Stanley Kowalski’s famous “STELLLAAA!!!!!!!!”. What more could you even ask for?

But something was different. The atmosphere was different. The focus was different. I was suddenly surrounded by kids who kept diaries as their characters and did all sorts of weird warm-ups and directors who were all business and no substance and…I didn’t understand it. I was suddenly forced to learn all sorts of acting theories by people like Meisner and Uta Hagen and OF COURSE the Stanislavski Method (who developed The Method that you hear about when you read about people like James Dean and Daniel Day-Lewis). I couldn’t comprehend why people spent so much time on this, why they couldn’t just waltz out on stage like I did and get shit done, and done well. But instead of making me feel superior and like A Natural (which I now know I am), it made me feel inferior and like I wasn’t doing enough and like I must be doing something wrong.

Combine that with the fact that I fell in love with a horribly damaged boy and we did drugs together all the time and you have one neurotic, damaged actress on your hands.

By my senior year I knew I was done. Meaning, I knew I wasn’t going to move to New York or L.A. and try and live the life. It wasn’t me. I never questioned my talent, but I questioned my ability to do the starving artist bit and work a bunch of jobs while going to cattle calls and be judged based on my headshot. I had passion and talent pouring out my bones, but I had no interest in playing the game. However, in my last semester of my senior year I got a lead. And not just any lead, a lead in a FOUR PERSON MAINSTAGE PLAY. I remember the audition, and feeling like I nailed it. I remember the day the cast list was being posted and walking from my philosophy class across campus to look at it. And I remember knowing I got it, knowing it in my bones, in my gut, but at that point I wasn’t excited, I was terrified. Because I was already past the point of caring.

And I got it. And I puked.

I was cast as Catherine in Proof. If you don’t know it, look it up, and not the shitty film version that was made. Catherine is on every page of the script. She carries the play around her neck like an albatross. She isthe damn play. It was the greatest, most fulfilling, most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. It was like losing your virginity, except multiple nights in a row and in public. It was like standing naked on a street corner in Manhattan in rush hour. It was the most raw, vulnerable part I’ve ever played, thing I’ve ever done.

But I did it.

I almost had a panic attack before every performance and this cute, long-haired stage hand, Adam, would give me a back rub before every performance. Literally, I’d be sitting on the back steps of my “house” before the house lights went dark and Adam would rub my back and I’d be near tears and hyperventilation and he’d then push me up the stairs for my first entrance and I’d think I CAN’T DO THIS and then the theater would go dark and I’d walk out and I’d just do it. Like breathing. It was second nature.

And then I quit. Proof closed and I’ve never walked out on a stage again. I’ve performed once, in a staged reading for a friend who wrote a play, since Proof closed in March of 2005.

And I don’t know. I have regrets but also solace. I miss my time on the stage but also dread the thought of it. I prickle with jealousy when I read about the amazing things my classmates have done, and they’ve done A LOT. And I work my day job and my night job and tend to my cats and get drunk and go to rock shows and write blogs while they continue to do the things I once did.

And some days I’m really happy about this. And some days I’m not.

"All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know..."

Mon, 03 Sep 2012 16:22:49 -0400

“All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know you’re a depressed maniac on the first date, don’t just be yourself, don’t show your feelings. And the truth is, this is probably good advice, men probably don’t like overbearing, hotheaded women who give blow jobs on the first date. In all likelihood the only man who will ever like me just as I am will probably need to believe I’m somebody else at first. I probably do need to learn to behave. But I don’t like it.”

- Elizabeth Wurtzel, Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women

Do You Like Me? Circle One

Mon, 02 Jul 2012 18:07:06 -0400

I can be pretty bold when it comes to dating. I hate playing games and I’m way more likely to straight up ask a guy if he likes me (y/n) than sit around in confusion and anxiety. This comes from many years of sitting around in confusion and anxiety. And some of you may recall the incident where I called my oil change place to give one of the mechanics my phone number. Taking those types of chances aren’t my general rule, but they happen. Particularly if I’ve been drinking.

After a Friday night spent moping about how a boy from the internet was rude to me, I went out Saturday night guns blazing and feeling like I needed a W in my corner. A conquest! Any sort of conquest! Someone validate me somehow! I long to have someone bat their eyes at me or send me a PBR from across the bar! Unfortunately, my townie bar was mostly dead and filled with…uh…townies.

BUT THEN! Right near closing time (please sync up your Semisonic CD singles), I look up and see a Very Attractive Man. Besties #1 and #2, both in stable, serious relationships, of course encourage their drunk single friend to please go talk to the hot guy. After a bit of bumbling and stressing, and then thinking that maybe I was gawking at my Hot Married Neighbor before realizing, no, HMN doesn’t have that hairdo, I sack up and saunter over. Here is a rough reconstruction of the parts of our conversation I remember, not necessarily in the correct order and definitely including some gaps.

Me: Hey. Hi. I’m Amanda. I think you’re really cute so I decided to come talk to you. I’m not usually this creepy. (Note: I’m often this creepy.)

Him: Well, I’m one of ten kids. (Note: I have no idea how we got on this subject.)

Him: I just moved up here, staying with my brother for the summer, but I go to Kent. (Note: This is where I wondered how old he is but never asked.)

Me: That guy is your brother?? You look like the opposite of each other. (Note: His brother is a giant with a beard that matches his size).

As if on cue, Large Bearded Brother walks up and immediately says “Hey! I know you! You live on my floor!” Now that he mentions it, I guess I have seen Large Bearded Brother around from time to time. LBB then goes on to say “Yeah, our other brother lives directly across the hall from you and I squatted there for awhile before an apartment opened up.” The apartment directly across from me is occupied by none other than HOT MARRIED NEIGHBOR. No wonder I almost mistook the hot guy for him.

Of course, now it dawns on me that I’ve drunkenly hit on a fellow that I can’t escape from, should things turn sour/embarrassing/ugly. But regardless, the brothers seemed jolly enough and I kept attempting to make conversation with the hot one.

Me: So what are you studying at Kent?

Him: Art. (Note: Of course.)

Me: Well what do you want to do?

Him: Paint. Well, teach eventually. But mostly I just want to paint. (Note: Please don’t be 19 and in here with a fake ID.)

After another round of shots, the brothers leave while we linger for a little bit longer. The besties are gushing, but I’m not convinced this guy had any interest in me whatsoever. First of all, I’m drunk. Not, like, super drunk, but drunk enough to perhaps come off as abrasive. Second, no one that attractive is single. It’s just not possible. I would have hoped that by opening with “I think you’re really cute” made my intentions clear and given him ample room to say “Thanks, but I’m involved”, but some dudes are just dumb and/or shady I guess.

After wandering home and drinking another beer, I felt bold. I certainly wasn’t about to knock on their door, but I also didn’t like the idea of just waiting around to see if I run into him again at some point, seeing as I’d never seen him around the building before. I compromised with myself by writing a note and taping it to their door. I managed to refrain from writing my first thought (“You’re a total babe. Call me”) but also wasted a really amazing opportunity to actually leave a note for someone that said “I just met you, this sounds crazy. But here’s my number. Call me maybe”. Hindsight is 20/20. I settled with a happy medium of just leaving my digits and a P.S. that let him know there would be zero awkwardness around the halls if he chose not to use them.

Even though I know I did a badass, bold thing, went for what I wanted and all that jazz, I woke up in the morning feeling mortified. It wasn’t the thought of him not being interested that bothered me, it was the thought that a chunk of his family are ALL my neighbors and maybe they’d laugh at me and mock me behind my back and call me “The Sad Drunk Girl In #408”. Yes, I realize we’re all adults but we all know adults can (and often do) still act like teens (myself included). I half expected to find my door egged, or perhaps “LOSER” written on it in lipstick.

The note is long gone from their door (assuming I got the right one!) but I haven’t heard a peep from the hot guy. Which is okay and, let’s face it, probably for the best. However, Hot Married Neighbor screamed “HEY NEIGHBOR!!” at me bright and early this morning while walking to my car for work.

He knows. They all know.

Reclaiming The Number

Fri, 22 Jun 2012 16:47:18 -0400

You know how sometimes after a breakup, sometimes LONG after a breakup, you feel like you’re in limbo until you or the other person actually starts dating someone else? It wasn’t until I found out that Best Exie was dating someone that we were able to begin our epic friendship, and while that moment had some sadness and regret to it, it also brought closure to the weird void.

That’s how I feel about your win yesterday, #23. It brought tears to my eyes, and I couldn’t be sure what I was even crying for, but once they dried I felt nothing but relief and even a faint glimmer of happiness for you.

I have a few beliefs about you, in that way that we all have certain feelings about famous people and the choices they make. We like to think that we kind of know our idols in the public eye because their lives are out there in the open, asking to be read and interpreted. I believe that you’re one of the greatest basketball players of all time and I believe you deserve that ring and any others you’re sure to collect in your career. I also believe you care about where you came from and legitimately wanted to win a championship not just for yourself, but for the City of Cleveland as well. Maybe I’m wrong, but lastly, I choose to believe I’m right.

I spent a lot of time being angry at you and expended a lot of energy rooting against you, but those days are over. If you hadn’t won this year, or next year, or the year after, you and I would be stuck in a cycle of hatred and bitterness. I’d continually become a fan of teams I otherwise wouldn’t pay attention to and live in a state of anxiety about when the other shoe would drop. I’d constantly wonder if I helped curse you, or if maybe you cursed me. And I’d carry the burden of all that negativity out of loyalty to a city you dragged into a circus of your own making. But that’s not the case.

Today is different. Today I congratulate you. And today I apologize to you, #23, for not being able to help you reach your goal. I’m sorry we couldn’t be the team you needed us to be, for I wanted nothing in the world more than that. The truth is, we let each other down, both before and after your departure.

So what happens now? You continue doing what you do best. As for me, I’ll never actively root for you, because it’s not in my nature to root for a team like yours. Our city bred this in me, and I’ll always support the little guy. But I’m done fighting against you, too. I think a part of me can start smiling at the knowledge that one of our own, who was so close to us for so long, is a champion. And maybe I’ll think twice every time I put on my Buckeye Brewing Company shirt:

You and I are cool, #23. Let’s move on, shall we?

I have a better blog post idea but I’m on my fourth beer and don’t have the energy to...

Sun, 27 May 2012 23:18:36 -0400

I have a better blog post idea but I’m on my fourth beer and don’t have the energy to write that one.

I think about changing my online dating profile to say “No fatties, no Bible thumpers, no questionable facial hair”, even though I know that I have so many flaws I shouldn’t be one to judge.

I’m wearing a tee shirt with a picture of a skeleton of conjoined twins on it that I mangled with scissors and ripped black boy shorts (not purposely ripped) and I actually feel sexy.

Sometimes I fear that I’ve let my teenage niece down by not being to her what her mother was to me.

I’ve never seen Evil Dead 2 or Army of Darkness.

When I pick my nose in front of the computer I momentarily panic because I forget I’m not on camera.

I have multiple sclerosis and I’ve had no idea how to tell all of you for fear you’d think of me differently.

I once carried on a two week relationship with a guy I met on chatroulette who ended up sending me hate texts and calling me a whore when he thought I was pulling away and cutting off contact. (I was.)

I’m the one who stole Steven S.’s dinosaur erasers in second grade.

There’s a really good chance I’ve talked about you behind your back.

I’ve barely spoken to my grandparents since Christmas when their dog died in the elevator/leash incident because I can’t stop thinking about it and I fear that we’ll have to talk about it and I don’t want to talk about it.

I have a lot of things to say about pop culture but I don’t think people take me seriously because I tend toward the “pop”.

I miss acting.

I once used cramps as an excuse to leave in the middle of 2001: A Space Odyssey because I couldn’t stand it.

We Are The Champions Of Casual Alcoholism

Sun, 06 May 2012 22:55:35 -0400

SUNDAY

10:37 a.m. - I woke up startled. My first thought was “Where am I what happened was I just dreaming about eating chicken wings?” Andre Agassi (cat, not person) was asleep on the back of my legs and Pete Sampras (cat, not person) was curled up next to me. We were practically spooning. I jostled the cats and threw the covers off, just then realizing I was fully clothed from the night before. It wasn’t until I sat up that I discovered the picture that hangs over the bed was in the bed next to me, the nails hanging out of the wall angled down. Clearly the work of a disgruntled Andre Agassi. The scary realization: I drunk slept through a large picture falling very near (possibly on?) my head. My first stop was the bathroom. The metal toilet paper roll hanger was hanging off the wall, one of the arms bent in at a weird angle. While this looks like more Andre business, I don’t think a cat has the body mass to bend metal inward like that. Did I fall into it? Unsure. When I go to splash my face with water, I noticed a very large blood blister on the ring finger of my right hand below the nail. The cause of this is still a complete mystery, but is, as far as I can tell, the only wound incurred. The living room: pint glass on the floor, water everywhere. The cats have no food or water in their bowls. I find my phone and see a text from a Boy that says “Jolly. Ha.” but I evidently deleted all previous texts so I have no idea what I said to him to garner that response. This also means I have no idea if I texted anyone else. The kitchen: dirty dish in the sink and hot sauce on the toaster oven tray. I opened the fridge to confirm that, yes, at some point I used the toaster oven to heat up leftover chicken wings. I’m lucky I didn’t burn myself, or the apartment building, down. I should also note that I feel worse than I’ve ever felt in my life.

3:00 a.m.-ish - Eat chicken wings (????), puke. Not necessarily in that order.

2:24 a.m. - L and her New Boyfriend walk me home. I tell him he’s cute for the 1,000 time during the night. Maybe we all hugged?

2:10 a.m. - Somehow remember to pay my tab.

1:56 a.m. - Sing “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” with L. I’m Meatloaf, as usual. I know the song like the back of my hand yet the first few lines come out as “I remmear er thing hpn onydyapcoueday”.

1:47 a.m. - Shot #4: Pineapple Upside Down Cake. I tell everyone how some dude spilled beer all over me. Best Exie then spits beer on me. (This is hearsay.)

1:25 a.m. - Tell L’s New Boyfriend how I tried to have sex with his ex-roomate once but was turned down. Ask multiple times how anyone can turn this down. Then share how another mutual friend gave me a really good orgasm.

1:05 a.m. - Best Exie and Girlfriend arrive. She’s wearing a giant sombrero.

12:45 a.m. - E and I play a game called “Quick Poke”.

12:30 a.m. - I suggest to L that her and New Boyfriend and I have a threesome.

12:15 a.m - L and her New Boyfriend show up. I meet him for the first time and immediately tell him how cute he is 42 times, then explain that I’m one of L’s Top Three Besties.

SATURDAY

11:37 p.m. - Shot #3: Pineapple Upside Down Cake, with E and ???? A fourth shot was bought for someone else but I spilled it.

11:31 p.m. - Sing “25 or 6 to 4”, E dances.

11:20 p.m. - E shows up, is even drunker and louder than I am.

??? p.m. - I see M get in her car and creepy ghetto white dude talking to her through her window. Am too drunk to tell her she’s probably too drunk to drive. (She made it home safely, guys.)

11:10 p.m. - Creepy ghetto white dudes talk to us. One reads my tattoos, another stumbles and spills his entire beer on me.

10:45 p.m. - Sing “Cherry Bomb”.

10:10 p.m. - Arrive at karaoke bar.

9:15 p.m. - M comes to meet me at the bar.

8:36 p.m. - Shot #2: Dirty Girlscout.

8:25 p.m. - Shot #1: Pickleback, bought for me and Best Exie by the Nice Couple.

8:10 p.m. - Best Exie starts talking to the Nice Couple sitting next to me. They’re the only other two people at the bar besides the group of dudes playing pinball.

8:06 p.m. - Attempt to chat up the dudes playing pinball, find out none of them are from Cleveland, move on with my life.

7:10 p.m. - Arrive at the bar where Best Exie works. He buys me my first beer of the night.

6:45 p.m. - Decide to put on clothes and go keep Best Exie company.

5:30 p.m. - Start receiving texts from Best Exie about the Kentucky Derby and how the bar is dead and the derby coverage is making him want to die.

4:30 p.m. - Arrive home after a very long and frustrating day at work, immediately put on pajamas. Actual thought I had: Bah, I think if L and B hit me up for karaoke later, I’ll have to pass. I just wanna couch and blog and watch movies tonight.

(Time frames are not accurate)

The Birth Of A Fetish

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 22:48:16 -0400

I’m sorry I’m two years behind on some TV shows, but earlier this week I watched an episode of Supernatural called “After School Special” and saw this:

Then just last night I was watching Community and saw THIS:

This day must be timestamped for posterity, for this is the day of my gym-short sexual awakening. I wonder how many guys I can get to wear the Joel McHale outfit in bed. I considered asking for picture submissions from ya’ll but decided against it. I suppose if you’re feeling really, really daring you can shoot one my way, but I guarantee you it’ll end up on the blog. Upload at your own risk.

OH GOD what if Ryan Gosling wore gym shorts?

I gotta go.

The FalseRumorsDotCom Guide To Flirting

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 21:00:23 -0400

I’m not super great at flirting. I’m not very girly, I don’t have long hair to flip and play with, and my laugh is more a guffaw than a giggle. I’ve been thinking about my unsuccessful methods of luring men into this trap of ~~sex and chaos~~ snacks and neuroses and decided to share them with you in case you were looking for some bad advice today.

1. THE OVERLY-STRAIGHTFORWARD APPROACH
Let’s say I start chatting with a guy in a bar. Let’s say we’re having a pretty good conversation, during which my pelvic area is becoming more and more drawn to him and I’m trying my best to tone down my guffaw to a delicate honking purr. Let’s say that then I start noticing that he’s assessing my short hair, Shawn White skate shoes and horror movie tee shirt. This is the moment that I feel the need to assure him that he’s not, in fact, dealing with a teenage boy but an actual woman with boobs and sex thoughts. My usual tactic is straight up saying “I am flirting with you.” Pro: This usually weeds out the pussies from the Real Men. I don’t like playing games or being left confused, so blatantly stating my intentions forces them to shit or get off the pot. Con: Either 99.9% of men are pussies, or 99.9% of men really, really aren’t in to me. Is saying that your flirting the same as actually flirting? Tune in some other time when I figure out the answer.

2. THE ONLINE FLIRTATION
Let’s be honest, this is my primary method of flirting these days. On the one hand, it’s super easy! So many guys out there with similar tastes who you can talk to in a quasi-anonymous fashion. It’s easy to be bold and say things you perhaps wouldn’t normally say, to a whole variety of people. The internet is like a sieve: you can dump any old thing you want into it and then focus on what’s left after you shake it up a bit. The downside is that once you flirt with everyone, your flirtation loses currency, and maybe, just maybe you earnestly want to flirt with your sieve-drippings. This is when I revert back to Method #1 and inform them that yes, I am indeed actually flirting with you, specifically. After that, it’s a bunch of “likes” and “faves” that I can only hope they read with a wink and take from there.

3. WHOOPS I THOUGHT WE WERE FLIRTING BUT TURNS OUT YOU’RE MARRIED
This is almost entirely internal and perhaps specific to me. Not that other women don’t accidentally flirt with married guys, I’m sure that happens all the time. But let’s go back to the scenario in Method #1 in which I start chatting with a guy at a bar and let’s say we start talking about movies, because what else is there even to talk about? And LET’S JUST SAY he has great taste and knows as much as I do if not more. This is basically foreplay for me. If we’ve been drinking and quoting and riffing about film, my brain and body will pretty much already be prepared to have sex with you until you casually drop in the fact that you saw such-and-such a film with your girlfriend/wife and my proverbial hard-on will immediately deflate. Most people can probably talk about movies without it turning into a Letter to Penthouse, but I’ll assume I’ve met my match when he’s just as turned on as I am by such a conversation.

So far I have a 0% success rate. Do not attempt at home.

SexRumorsDotEdu: Starting The Conversation

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 23:31:07 -0400

“In private, we tell ourselves and our women friends — and the men friends we trust with this information — these tales. Yet these narratives are rarely spoken outside that private space or after adolescence, because they include elements of sex and greed, danger and narcissism, insecurity and bad behavior.”
- Naomi Wolf, Promiscuities

I no longer wish to keep these stories private. I’ve been slightly awkward about sex, or the idea of sex, since I began putting the pieces together as a child. I found the entire thing embarrassing. On my tenth birthday, my mom gave me a “Where Do Babies Come From”-type book, and I cried, not because of the facts within the book, I knew most of them already, but because I couldn’t bear admitting to my mother that I already understood some of the basic mechanics and why did we have to talk about this anyways. I remained skeptical of and nervous around boys until I was 17, when I fell hard, got kissed, got touched, and then had my heart broken. But that initial touching was enough: within the next year and a half, I would kiss ALL the boys, give my first blow j. (in a car, how cliche) and lose my virginity (a tale for another time).

After that there was much typical fumbling and bumbling through, getting my bearings, figuring it out. Then, at 19, I entered what would become a four-year relationship, which had its pros and cons. Pro: it was really the first good sex I had up to that point. Monogamy is sometimes bewildering, but there’s a lot to be said for having a long-term partner to work with. Con: my partner had a really bizarre attitude toward sex, which was one item on the laundry list of why our relationship was more bad than good, and his attitude ruined sex for me for awhile: unless he was directly involved in it, he was horrified by sex. He was resentful of sex, of the way it was portrayed on television and in movies, of the people who had sex, of the people who talked about sex. As I slowly realized this about him, I had to edit what we watched: When Harry Met Sally sent him into a rage, and if you can’t watch that, then what’s even left? Yet within our own bedroom he was kinky and dirty and weird, and my brain couldn’t resolve these two opposing attitudes. How could I be comfortable living out this guy’s fantasies when we just had a two hour argument about the two brief, non-explicit sex scenes in True Romance? This resulted in an ugly cycle in which I became more and more uncomfortable having sex with him, and thus he became more and more resentful of sex.

But for every step back, there are two steps forward, and I found a partner that would help to define what sex is for me now as well as opening the door for all the things it could be in the future, which has been helpful in the Land of Singledom. So here we are. The present.

Why am I telling you all these things?

I’m not looking to write steamy Penthouse letters here, or fill you in on every detail of the sexual encounters I have. I’m not trying to titillate (hate that word). I just want to talk about it because for as much as we TALK about it, it’s all jokes and gossip, with no real substance. Here’s what I mean: in previous entries I’ve mentioned that I’ve kissed some dudes that have girlfriends. Yet I’ve never really talked about that in depth. Now isn’t the time, but what am I afraid of? I also can’t count the number of times, when having private conversations with my girlfriends, or even my sister, one of us has balked when discussing sex, apologized in advance for TMI, or talked in some sort of code because one girl can’t actually say the words “titty fuck” to another when exchanging stories.

Hell, I had a guy over a few weeks ago who actually apologized to me every time he smacked my ass while we were making out. I don’t know which option is more offensive: that he couldn’t believe I would actually be in to that, or that he was that uncomfortable with his own sexual proclivities. Personally, I’m sick of being uncomfortable with my own desires. And that’s why I’m here, saying these things I don’t normally say, talking about things I don’t normally talk about. Maybe I’ll figure out why my taste in men has changed from super sensitive waifish pretty boys to jocks who look and act like they could break me in half. And maybe I’ll be able to reconcile my love of submission in the bedroom with my dominant social personality. Or maybe I’ll set the Twitterverse on fire and be branded a tramp. These are the choices women make. I’ve made my bed, now I’ll lie in it, preferably with a guy who brought his own condoms.

I'm Not Good at Algebra or Dating

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 19:52:27 -0500

Last night I got a text from a friend that said “OMG [REDACTED] totally wants to hook up with you! You should go for it!” Before you ask, yes, single gals in their late 20’s live in a perpetual state of adolescence. We may have decent jobs, pay our bills and do our own laundry, but we’re always seventeen on the inside, so don’t let anyone tell you different. Anyways, I asked for the deets (again, yes I used the word “deets”) and found out that he very clearly stated to my friend that he wanted to get with this. ::blankly gestures to boobs, vag::

This is a guy I’ve hit on twice. The first time was in a regular sort of way: asking for his number, exchanging a few texts, and then nothing. The second time involved me saying “I’M HITTING ON YOU” and getting an unreadable response. It’s nice to know he’s interested enough to bring it up to Our Mutual Friend, but during the course of my conversation with her she said, “He says he’s not looking for a relationship though.” ::blinks::

I’m not blinking because I’m looking for a relationship; I’m blinking because in the two years I’ve been single, every male I’ve encountered has said this exact thing. Sometimes it’s while we’re exchanging numbers in a bar, sometimes it’s in the first message on OK Cupid, sometimes it’s after I’ve gotten emotionally in deep with someone, but the circumstances are irrelevant. At the risk of sounding like Carrie Bradshaw, why do men feel the need to volunteer this information? I get that in their minds, they’re being up front so no wires can be crossed and no accusations of “YOU LEAD ME ON!” can be thrown in their direction. It’s protective mode, a defense mechanism, and I can relate. But do men realize that I can relate to that? Or do they buy in to every female stereotype imaginable and think that the minute I get a number I’ll be picking out china patterns and doodling their name on my notebook. Truth: Sometimes I can’t even remember their names. Double truth: I usually doodle my own name, or this weird little mouse thing I made up.

The point is that I’m not walking around announcing “Hey, I’m looking for a serious relationship!” because I don’t know if I am or not. My attitude is, I don’t know what I want, but I’ll know it when I see it, and everything else in between is a fun adventure. So I don’t get why men put up this unsolicited barrier before anything even happens. Frankly, I’d also be turned off if a guy straight up said he was looking for something serious, because why say anything at all. If someone has made a move, and the other party has accepted that move, why can’t we just take that for what it is and see what happens. Clearly there’s some element of attraction or else we wouldn’t be exchanging numbers/messages/fluids, and why isn’t that enough for the time being.

It’s always an unattractive trait when someone primarily talks in the negative: I DON’T like cheese, I HATE Coldplay, I CAN’T STAND when people block me in at the gas station. Yes, fine sure, but what DO you want? What DO you like? I’ve recently learned that I’m much more responsive to a guy saying “I’m just looking for casual sex” rather than “I’m not looking for a relationship”. The former allows you to choose A or B, yes or no. The latter eliminates one variable, but still leaves you solving for x without a calculator. Dating shouldn’t be the god damned SATs.

Oscar Ballot, 2012

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 17:18:13 -0500

Here is the Oscar ballot I’m taking into the party tonight. On the line: Bragging rights and some sort of prize my cousin will hand out. On some of these I went with my gut, others involved some research and trusting the opinions of others. I don’t feel super confident about anything this year, but here goes nothing.

Best Picture: The Artist
Leading Actor: Jean Dujardin
Supporting Actor: Christopher Plummer
Leading Actress: Viola Davis
Supporting Actress: Octavia Spencer
Animated Feature: Rango
Art Direction: Hugo
Cinematography: Tree of Life
Costume Design: Hugo
Directing: Michael Hazanavicius
Documentary Feature: Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory
Documentary Short: Saving Face
Film Editing: The Artist
Foreign Language Film: A Separation
Makeup: The Iron Lady
Original Score: The Artist
Original Song: “Man or Muppet”
Animated Short Film: The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore
Live Action Short Film: Raju
Sound Editing: War Horse
Sound Mixing: War Horse
Visual Effects: Rise of the Planet of the Apes
Adapted Screenplay: The Descendants
Original Screenplay: Midnight in Paris

Down the Rabbit Hole

Wed, 22 Feb 2012 20:38:15 -0500

I saw more than one person today complimenting last night’s episode of Parenthood for the beautiful use of Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism”. I have no attachments to Death Cab, they were never my bag, but I can’t deny how thematically perfect the musical build up was, and how it fleshed out the emotional swell of the episode. And while I was fully invested in what was happening to the Bravermans in those last few minutes, crying right along with them and everything, part of my brain went somewhere else.

I’m an emotional and sentimental gal, as you may know. These emotions and sentiments stretch into the realm of popular culture, sometimes even more than they do into my own real life. I like a lot of things in pop culture, I even love a lot of things, but there’s always a handful of tv shows, movies, books, and albums that manage to work their way deeper and almost become a part of you. They become more than just a thing you recommend to people or defend on an internet comment board; they hold a piece of you with them as you carry a piece of it with you and you feel protective of it as if it were your own creation. Like The Hold Steady says: Certain songs, they get so scratched into our souls.

Hearing “Transatlantacism” on Parenthood immediately took me back to watching Six Feet Under, during Claire’s ridiculous drug-induced orgy with her art school friends. Was it the best use of that song? Surely not. I don’t care for that plot point, or much of Claire’s arc that season. Being a theater kid, maybe I could relate too much to the crowd she was hanging with, or maybe, being a part of that crowd, found her and her friends to be cliched renderings of a life I knew better. But I suppose that fact speaks volumes on its own about the place Six Feet Under holds in my heart: fondly recalling a moment I don’t even care for, with a song I barely ever noticed and is not even THE song Six Feet Under should be remembered for. (That would be Sia’s “Breathe Me”).

These recollections got me thinking it was maybe time for another rewatch of 6FU, but the thought immediately filled me with dread. It’s a similar feeling when I think about rewatching LOST, which I have not done since it went off the air. This has nothing to do with apprehension about the shows not holding up for me. It has more to do with fearing the emotional rollercoaster that is the pop culture Rabbit Hole. There are some pieces of art that I am so deeply invested in that, always, the initial thought of going back to that place is exhausting. It’s the equivalent of entering into a relationship that may be fun for awhile, but that you know will ultimately rip your heart out of your chest while it’s still beating. It’s setting yourself up for failure. Because not only do you know HOW it ends, you know the fact of its ending, and yet you still give your life over to it anyway for a short while, ignoring new films you could be watching, getting behind on your current television programming.

Six Feet Under and LOST are not my only Achilles Heels. The list also includes Friday Night Lights, The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, Stephen King’s IT, Harry Potter, and Los Campesinos! These are the Rabbit Holes I no longer fall into lightly because I know I’ll become a zombie for them, while it’s happening, and I know they’re always going to break my heart.

My Triumphant Return To Blogging, With An Entry on Channing Tatum

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 17:35:10 -0500

I’ll go on record as saying I don’t hate Channing Tatum. I don’t love him or anything, but I certainly don’t participate in the backlash I see around the webz. As a notorious celeb-swooner, I know what you’re thinking, but this honestly has nothing to do with the way he looks. Sure, he’s Objectively Attractive, but certainly not in the same way that It-Dude Michael Fassbender is; Tatum is more in the style of Football-Player-I-Had-A-Crush-On-In-High-School.

But really, why do We, as a People, hate this guy?

Okay, his filmography isn’t great. However, the first place I saw him was A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints which wasn’t as strong a film as it could have been, but offered some decent performances, the best of which was from Tatum, in my humble amateur opinion. After that, it’s a mixed bag but for every Step Up, Dear John and G.I. Joe there’s a Stop-Loss, Public Enemies and Haywire. And can we really give the guy too much shit for doing that Nicholas Sparks movie? We like Amanda Seyfried okay, and she was in it too. Plus, the world knows what a Sparks film did for The Goz (although no film based on a Nicholas Sparks book has ever been, nor will ever be, as good as The Notebook).

An actor like Channing Tatum is only really as good as his choices, and he’s made some really bad ones, but I’m not willing to write him off entirely yet. I learned my lesson from years of baseless hatred for Colin Farrel who finally started making some interesting choices for himself and winning my favor. I tend to liken the backlash against Tatum to that of Renee Zellweger. I don’t know anyone who actively likes her, but when she’s cast appropriately she really knows how to work it. See: Bridget Jones, Chicago, Down with Love, Jerry Maguire. Maybe I’m too forgiving, but when an actor I generally dislike turns out a good performance I always give credit where credit’s due.

I may not have proven You wrong yet, but You haven’t proven Yourself right yet, either. Maybe it does all come back to the way he looks: I don’t like him because I think he’s a dreamboat, but I get the feeling other people don’t like him because he looks like, well, a bro. I understand this to a certain extent: those of us huddled by our computers talking about film on comment boards don’t care for or relate to this type of person. But Hollywood needs all types, and as I sit here, I can’t think of too many people that fit the same demographic as Channing Tatum. Look at our current teen heartthrobs! Robert Pattinson: wiry Brit. Justin Bieber: waifish girly-man. Ryan Gosling: attractive to both sexes and all around classy dude. Where are the muscle-y ass-kicking Americans? Taylor Lautner comes to mind, and this may be an unpopular opinion, but I think Tatum could probably act circles around him. Mark Wahlberg is getting up there in years, and we’ll soon need a replacement to fill that giant mookish hole in our hearts. Don’t be surprised if it’s Tatum-sized.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any particularly strong opinion on the man. He certainly doesn’t get my butt in a theater seat the way Gosling and DiCaprio do. The worst case scenario for Channing Tatum is that he continues doing exactly as he’s doing, makes many more reasonably forgettable films, wins himself a shelf full of MTV Movie Awards, and shrinks from the public consciousness within the next five to ten years. But I wouldn’t count out the best case scenario, in which he continues doing as he’s doing, makes more reasonably forgettable films, but manages to slip in a few more Interesting Choices, and maybe turns out one unforgettable performance.

I’m not betting against him.

My Year In Lists: Film Shall Be The Death Of Me

Sat, 31 Dec 2011 00:06:00 -0500

You may have noticed by now that I don’t really write “Best Of” lists. I write about favorites. My criteria is esoteric and personal in determining these things: How strongly did I “feel” during the film? How much did I gush about it to others? How long did I think about it when it was over? How much do I want to watch it again? This isn’t hardcore journalism here, folks. This is just a girl who watches, and loves, a lot of films.

2011 had some noticeable trends. Many of the best films, including at least one I have yet to see, harkened back to other eras. Hugo and The Artist celebrated silent film-making. War Horse emulated the rich landscapes and scenery of a John Ford film. My Week With Marilyn looked as if it was filmed in Technicolor. Super 8 was a Spielberg film circa 1982. On Twitter, I dubbed 2011 as “The Year We Hated The Present”.

Two other things I noticed: I’ve never been so captivated by silence (by that I mean lack of dialogue) as I was this year, and I don’t think I’ve used the word “beautiful” so often after seeing a variety of films (I mean visually, not topically).

As a final disclaimer to my amateur list, I must note that many major films haven’t been released here yet. In early 2012, I’ll be able to see The Artist, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and Shame. Okay. Here we go.

15. WEEKEND/LIKE CRAZY
I feel like a cheat lumping these two together, but it makes sense in a way. Both fall into the same realm as Before Sunrise and Blue Valentine regarding the quiet, realistic portrayal of a struggling/fateful relationship. While Like Crazy’s protagonists veered into “frustrating” by the end, there was still something honest in the portrayal, especially for anyone who has ever had a relationship that they just HAD TO MAKE WORK for reasons that become unclear over time. Weekend perfectly captured the glorious, terrifying feeling of getting to know someone new, and it was a breath of fresh air to see a film about a gay relationship without the main conflict being “GAY!”.

14. 50/50
I am a young person with an incurable disease. Granted, mine isn’t cancer, nor is it potentially fatal, but it can make my personal life complicated and the diagnosis period of my life was filled with a lot of overcompensating affections, pandering, sympathetic looks, and general misunderstandings. Adam’s journey is realistic and sentimental in all the right ways. Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s star has been rising for a few years now, but his performance here allowed me to glimpse the entirety of his potential. Subtle and nuanced, he hit the right notes. Also, does he remind anyone else more and more of Heath Ledger? As he gets older, I feel like he’s channeling Heath, and I’m okay with that.

13. MONEYBALL
I’m a sucker for a few things. Sports movies, baseball in particular, is one of them. Maybe I like the thrill of living vicariously, since athletics aren’t exactly my strong suit. Or maybe I just love a good underdog story, which most sports-oriented films inevitably are. In the grand tradition of The Bad News Bears and Major League, Moneyball is another story about a ragtag baseball team except this time IT REALLY HAPPENED! Because of MATH! I wasn’t following baseball during my college years, which is when this film takes place, so I had no idea that the A’s won that record-breaking game. I can tell you that scene is the most tense, on-the-edge-of-my-seat I’ve ever been during a sports flick, and I watch a lot of them. Everyone says Ryan Gosling owned 2011, and I certainly would agree, but Brad Pitt makes a very solid First Runner-Up. His turn in this and in Tree of Life are the sort of performances careers are made on, and he proved he’s still got it.

12. TAKE SHELTER
This may sound stupid, but one of the things I liked best about this movie was that it didn’t fall into any of the tropes I suspected of it as I watched. Not one of my “Oh, I see where this is going“‘s panned out, and I always appreciate that. Is there going to be a huge, embarrassing situation that pits him against the town? Kind of, but not really. Is he going to lose his family because of this? Nope. OHMYGOD IS HE GOING TO MURDER HIS FAMILY DOWN IN THAT SHELTER OR NOT LET THEM OUT OHMYGOD. Not at all. The dream sequences were the scariest things I saw on film all year, and yet, while being utterly disturbing, the film managed to make a quiet parallel between his situation and mental illness. That he was so self-aware of his situation at any given time was unexpected. And I like the unexpected.

11. INTO THE ABYSS
I’ve been pretty vocal on my feelings about the death penalty. Werner Herzog’s doc was a must-see for me, and I wasn’t disappointed. While, in one sentence near the beginning, Herzog makes his feelings about the capital system known, the film doesn’t seem to take one side or the other. It presents facts. It presents both victims and perpetrators. It shows you the entire crime, including brutal crime scene footage. It let’s you draw your own conclusions. I can only imagine that being interviewed by Werner Herzog would be a total trip, yet it is continually astounding what he is able to bring out in people. At one point, Herzog interviews the father of one of the perpetrators, who is also doing time for an unrelated charge. This is where the film gelled for me, and where it hit its deepest emotional core.

10. WARRIOR
In my opinion, Warrior was possibly the most underrated film of the year. It’s almost impossible to ignore comparisons with The Fighter, and while it was one of my favorites last year, Warrior tackles similar subject matter much more deftly. This film never holds your hand, and I like a film, a mainstream film at that, that trusts the audience to put things together on its own. We never know exactly why this family is at odds, but the script and acting cues offer enough context clues that we don’t feel cheated. Tom Hardy’s Tommy is a man of few words, but, as with many films in 2011, silence is golden. If you haven’t seen Warrior yet, I suggest you make it a priority in 2012. I don’t buy movies very often anymore, but this is one I want for my collection. And Nick Nolte: Bravo.

9. MY WEEK WITH MARILYN
The look of Technicolor. Many discussions about Method acting. Seeing Vivien Leigh and Arthur Miller portrayed to a T. Michelle Williams’ performance. This was a theater nerd/cinephile’s wet dream. Was it groundbreaking or subversive? No. Did it push any envelopes or remind me what it is exactly that film can do? No. But I loved the shit out of every minute of this movie. It succeeded where J. Edgar failed: J. Edgar tried to compress into 2 hours what was a very long and fascinating life; Marilyn took one particular instance and leisurely let you fold into it. The result was clunkiness for the former, delicate voyeurism for the latter. We, as the audience, didn’t see as Marilyn Monroe, we saw Marilyn Monroe through Colin Clark’s eyes, who was just as star-struck as any of us would have been. Note: I loved that there was no epilogue. No “And then Marilyn Monroe was found dead, etc etc etc blah blah blah”. The film acknowledges that the audience might know a thing or two besides what’s immediately in front of us.

8. WIN WIN
I feel like Thomas McCarthy’s first three films could almost be an unofficial trilogy. The Station Agent, The Visitor, and Win Win all deal with men struggling to figure out their lives and finding unlikely families in the process. The humor, message, and even color palette are the same throughout. “The Found Families” Trilogy. Don’t steal it. I’ll send him a memo. And damned if Alex Shaffer isn’t a young Sean Penn. I hope he gets offered more roles, but I always fear the Stallone Problem: Oh you mean he IS Rocky, and that’s why he’s so good.

7. THE DESCENDANTS
Another film where my personal life may or may not have clouded my feelings about what I was seeing. I have all sorts of Sick Mom Anger Issues, and while my mother is still very much alive, the frustration of forced silence lingers. I spoke with someone else who thought that the mommy issues were secondary to Matt’s struggles, but if his wife were not in the state she was in, would we even have a movie? Even though it’s in the background, Matt’s relationship with his wife is what propels the majority of the action. But what sticks out for me is the silence. She can’t be confronted. She can’t deny her actions or defend them. No one can vent their anger or frustration at her. She’s a blank slate, and the characters have to play off of that void. This aspect resonates with me in ways I hope you will never have to understand, and seeing it portrayed on screen was cathartic.

6. HUGO
This isn’t the last film on my list that reminds me of how magical movies can be, and isn’t that really the point of the film? People have reduced it down to an homage to Melies, a call for film preservation, a vague autobiography of Scorsese himself. But when you boil it down, didn’t Marty just make a film about the magic of film? Within the film, cinema brings people together and tears them apart. It both makes and ruins lives. It is our greatest triumph and our biggest tragedy. It is our own reflection. That’s what I got anyway, and Marty doesn’t hold back in using every tool available to him to make the story burst with life on screen. The CGI didn’t annoy me. The 3D was breathtaking. The historical context was appropriate without being disarming. Scorsese created a world defined in the opening sequences, and then expanded on each visual to full effect. I was sold the moment we saw Hugo’s larger than life eyes peer out of the clock in the train station. It’s important to notice iconic images as they happen. I feel privileged to have noted and remembered it the first time through. We’ll see it over and over again in years to come.

5. ATTACK THE BLOCK
In all fairness, I just watched this movie last night and haven’t had the proper time to digest it. But, it should say something that it instantaneously made it into my top five. It’s like the creepy negative version of Super 8, but works just as effectively if not more so (depending on your taste). Instead of white suburban kids fighting aliens with kindness, we get a rag tag crew of of urban hoodlums fighting evil aliens with guns, knives, and Super Soakers. Instead of the world stopping in awe to watch the alien depart, we see kids getting arrested as the aliens burn. The two movies would make a great film-study double feature about how to diversify a familiar story.

4. WAR HORSE
Sorry, guys. I’m a Spielberg nut, and in terms of directing this is some of his best work. Yes, my God, it is ridiculously sentimental and manipulative, but that’s always been Steve’s niche, no? What he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in skill behind the camera here, because any film junkie’s breath should be stolen by the stunning landscapes, transitions, camera work and color palette. I don’t generally do well with stories about animals, it’s the one thing I’m overly sensitive about, but sitting through the few gut-wrenching scenes (I had to hide my eyes) was well worth it. It’s the sort of film you feel nostalgic about even while you’re watching it. It doesn’t seem of this time or place, and you can picture children, as they age, telling stories about how it was the first movie that made them cry, or the first movie that really made them appreciate film as a medium. Or maybe it’s just the sort of movie that will confuse the children of 2011 into thinking they were watching an older movie, in the same way that Happy Days confused me when I was younger: Wait, it’s from WHAT year? Those sort of reactions aren’t to be ignored; they signify an achievement in film-making that only few can accomplish: timelessness.

3. MELANCHOLIA
I honestly didn’t think I would like this movie. I’ve shied away from von Trier because I have a thing against movies that appear to be disturbing for disturbing’s sake. However, I walked out of the theater shaking in a way that I’ve never shook before. I was ecstatic about what I’d just seen, not depressed. The culmination of music and visuals at the end affected me physically, and I can’t think of another film I can say that about. It was the most visceral experience I’ve ever had in a movie theater. There isn’t a whole lot I can say for people that haven’t had the experience, but I can offer a protip for those who will be watching it at home: Watch it in the dark with the volume as loud as you dare.

2. SUPER 8
This was my number one film of the year, easily, until I saw the movie that became my number one. I’ve gone over this again and again, reading about other opinions about film in general, but, is there anything wrong with getting lost in a movie that simply reminds you of the magic of movies? Leaving Super 8 for the first time, I had a feeling that I hadn’t had since Jurassic Park. It was a feeling that other cinephiles should recognize, regardless of the film, that feeling of your world opening up and knowing you’d just seen something truly special. It makes your heart pound and your senses open. It makes you want to tell everyone you come across to RUN DO NOT WALK TO THE NEAREST THEATER. It makes you almost want to punch someone who doesn’t share the same opinion because the feeling you just had is too good not to be had by others. It makes you high. From the stunning train crash to the deep, sad eyes of Joel Courtney, Super 8 hits every emotional beat. Here’s how it breaks down. I can think of two artists that, in my opinion, can write and portray children better than any other: Stephen King and Steven Spielberg. This ability is what makes their best stories, and their best characters, stand out in what is often considered overly popular pap. I know Super 8 is an Abrams film, but come on, we all know what Abrams was up to here, and it worked. Becoming the next Spielberg means harnessing his magic, and harnessing much of his magic involves grasping the idea of child-like wonder. It reduces the audience to its most basic, common denominators.

1. DRIVE
I feel pressure to say something profound here. ::panic:: For as much style and thematic riffing as Drive had, it really synthesized itself down to its most basic components. Romance meets gangsters meets violence meets tragedy. It could be a thousand other films, but no film is Drive. It’s so tightly wound that you can feel the spring about to pop at any moment and in each of the films many silences you can read into it at least a thousand words. When we left the theater, my friend and I decided that Drive is a combination of Tarantino and Lynch; the story and its bursts of hyper-realistic violence are Tarantinoesque, but its bizarre, silent distance with unsettling shots such as the Driver staring into the club with that mask on are Lynch at his best. It’s a weird combination, and neither director has been mentioned in terms of the films myriad influences, but it’s what I saw immediately, and made me wonder what it would be like if those two dudes ever decided to work together. It was the highlight of My Year At The Movies. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay.

MAJOR OMISSIONS
Martha Marcy May Marlene, Tree of Life
I really liked both, but the former made me feel nothing, and I’m sick of those ‘huh’ endings, and the latter made me feel so much that I need to watch it again before I decide anything.

MOVIE I ALMOST PUT ON MY LIST BUT DIDN’T OUT OF FEAR OF BEING SHUNNED
The Twilight Saga, Breaking Dawn Part 1
The best of the series, bros. Sorry to say.

MY FAVORITE SUPERHERO MOVIE
X-Men: First Class

MOST EMBARRASSING MOVIE-GOING CONFESSION
I got weepy every single god damned time I saw a trailer for Titanic 3D.

BIGGEST DISAPPOINTMENT
The Swell Season

FAVORITE UNNECESSARY REMAKE
Fright Night

My Year In Lists: On Heavy Rotation

Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:50:55 -0500

I don’t think I could ever be a music critic. I can’t just listen to a brand new album once and make a snap decision about it (usually), and I spend most of my year delving back into history for things I missed or revisiting things I lost track of along the way. Most of my favorite music that provided the soundtrack for my year was not actually from 2011. Nonetheless, here is what 2011 sounded like to me.

LOS CAMPESINOS!
I did not discover LC! this year, but it was one of those magic moments, a right time right place scenario, where, while listening to an album I’d listened to multiple times before, something just HIT me. I can’t pinpoint if it was something lyrically, or if their sound was something that I grew into, but as the year wore on, LC! gave The Hold Steady a run for their money as the band that holds my heart. The road trip I made with my closest girlfriends to see them live last month was the highlight of my year, and I have a local show in early 2012 to look forward to. Every mix I make in the foreseeable future will have a Los Campesinos! song on it, most likely this one:

THE FUTURE OF THE LEFT
It’s funny that Best Exie doesn’t really care for most of the stuff I recommend to him, yet he is able to pick things out that he thinks I’ll love and he’s usually right. FotL was one such suggestion in early 2011 and I haven’t looked back. Heavy rhythms, snarling vocals, and delightfully weird lyrics (I didn’t know using plastic forks could be so scathing), FotL has all the elements I look for in a band. There’s also a new album to look forward to in 2012. The song that introduced me:

NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL
Yes, I put this off for a very long time. Years ago, when I lived with NB, our roommates tried to get us to listen and we dismissed it for the sole purpose of being contrary. I’m glad I waited though, because NMH is a band that should be appreciated fully and at the right time. Especially because I bought the album mere days before Jeff Mangum performed at Occupy Wall Street and I was able to catch the live feed. Timing is everything. The beauty and sadness is more than I could have anticipated, and how do you even classify them? Where do they fit? What would call this to someone who had never heard it? I haven’t found the words yet.

SLEIGH BELLS
Proof that my musical taste is evolving. I usually prefer something more lyrical and slightly more melodic, but I can’t deny the buzz I get when I listen to Sleigh Bells. I want to rock and scream and dance and fight and kiss. All those things. Also, this video is one of my favorites:

THE BEACH BOYS
I had never taken the time to really listen to Pet Sounds before. You guys. While everyone can sing a smattering of the hits, my favorite Beach Boys song quickly became this one:

The Best of The Rest
Telekinesis - 12 Desperate Straight Lines
Ida Maria - Katla
The Strokes - Angles
The Mae Shi - Hlllyh
Iceage - New Brigade
The Kills - Midnight Boom

Lyric That Makes Me Wanna Do It
“The last time I was there she let me wear her clothes / She painted my lips red so that we both ensured / I’d kiss her every inch / My God the girl looked like she’d burned”
-Los Campesinos!, “Songs About Your Girlfriend”

Most Embarrassing Musical Purchase
Maroon 5’s Hands All Over

2011 Single That Made Me Most Anticipate a 2012 Release

My Year In Lists: BOOKS! Check 'Em Out!

Thu, 15 Dec 2011 18:24:56 -0500

Each Year End list I write will have a slightly different format. I rarely read newly released books, so feast your eyes on my five favorite books I read in 2011. My reading list this year wasn’t nearly as grand as last years, thanks to the Dark Tower series, which took up the majority of 2011 for me, and I refuse to flush out a full top ten because most of them would end up coming from that series and no one wants to read about the same thing over and over. Without further ado…

5. EYES LIKE STARS by Lisa Mantchev
The first in a trilogy of YA novels and centered around a theater in which all of drama’s characters reside, Mantchev managed to zero in on the major theater nerd in me. Ariel is sexy and kind of mean! What happens when the words in The Book are changed! What if faeries were my best buds! I haven’t read the other two books yet, but will our protagonist end up with magical, cruel Ariel or supersweet Nate the pirate? Because of course there is a love triangle. Who are all these teenage girls getting involved in love triangles? No such thing ever happened to me. I was lucky if one kind of awful dude liked me at a time.

4. WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN by Lionel Shriver
I read this in prep for the film, which STILL has no release date here. What everyone says is true: the plot is frustrating in that no one is sympathetic, but that’s what I appreciated about it. Eva is self-involved and cloying, but it’s rare to see such a distinct portrait painted of a woman who never really loved her child, especially when it turns out that child is the monster she always knew him to be. I’ve read tons of books and studies on school shootings, and there’s always someone you sympathize with. We Need to Talk About Kevin makes you question which character is worse: the sadistic teen with a violent streak, or the distant, unfeeling mother that raised him.

3. THE CORRECTIONS by Jonathan Franzen
Finally got around to reading this. Is there any insight I could have into this Great American Novel that hasn’t been said before?

2. A TERRIBLE SPLENDOR by Marshall Jon Fisher
You don’t have to be a tennis fan to enjoy this book, although a basic knowledge of the scoring would be helpful. It chronicles the 1937 Davis Cup match between the United States and Germany. Think about what I just said, and if the historical context doesn’t fascinate you, nothing about this book will. It wasn’t JUST a tennis match, it was a symbol of a “world poised for war”, it meant life or death for the German player, Gottfried von Cramm (he was gay), and it was played on the hallowed grounds of Wimbledon. It’s not only a portrait of the major players, but an in depth look at Berlin as Hitler took charge, and a story about the power of sport.

1. MOCKINGJAY by Suzanne Collins
I saved the third book of The Hunger Games trilogy to be the first book I read in 2011 and it didn’t disappoint. Like Rowling before her, Collins isn’t afraid to hurt you, depress you, kill off people you love, and reduce the most sympathetic, heroic character of the bunch into a crazed near-martyr for a cause. For anyone who feared the YA label or any rumors of a love story, I urge you to look past those things and delve into this dystopian world of kids killing kids for entertainment value. This isn’t Twilight, folks, and Katniss is no Bella Swan. She’s a hard-edged, thoughtful, strong, responsible and fully realized character that other girls should be urged to look up to.

THE REST
FOOL by Christopher Moore
REPLAY by Ken Grimwood
RECONSTRUCTING BRIGID by Lee Nichols
THE GREAT GATSBY by F. Scott Fitzgerald (reread)
THE GUNSLINGER by Stephen King
THE DRAWING OF THE THREE by Stephen King
WASTELANDS by Stephen King
WIZARD AND GLASS by Stephen King
THE WOLVES OF THE CALLA by Stephen King
SONG OF SUSANNAH by Stephen King
THE DARK TOWER by Stephen King
COSMOPOLIS by Don DeLillo
HOTEL WORLD by Ali Smith

CURRENTLY: doing a reread of EXTREMELY LOUD AND INCREDIBLY CLOSE by Jonathan Safran Foer

IN 2012: Finishing up Mantchev’s trilogy, 11/22/63 by Stephen King

I Have These Heavy Things

Wed, 14 Dec 2011 18:18:37 -0500

Objects are not people, yet we often place such sentimental significance on them that they may as well be. I hold on to ticket stubs and programs and thank you cards and wedding invitations. My current memory box is almost full to capacity, and will eventually make its way home to my parents’ attic where it shall remain with its brothers and sisters so that other bits of memorabilia can make the long journey from my purse to my bulletin board to a brand new over-sized plastic bin. These items are manageable, but not only that, most of these items are linked to a specific time, place, event, feeling. But I have these other items, three to be exact, that I carry around like an albatross.

One is a room divider, a three-way folding screen that NB and I found on the side of the road when we lived together. It’s wood grained on one side, but the other has these lovely fabric panels with painted on leaves and flowers. Even when he and I lived in a house together, the screen served no real purpose other than looking cool, but the apartments I’ve lived in since have only allowed the screen to be used as a clunky wall decoration. On top of that, one of the cats continually jumps at it and scratches it, having already pulled off one of the fabric panels which he now sleeps on. The second item also came from the house NB and I shared: a large, heavy wood framed mirror, definitely bland 70’s style, that is too heavy to hang on my frail apartment walls. The last item was a Christmas gift from Best Exie: a very old record player, old-timey boom box style, with speakers that open from the sides. It has to weigh at least 60 pounds, and has NEVER worked properly.

So I have these things. They’ve moved with me in and out of apartments, they collect dust, they get shuffled from one part of my room to another, the cats play with them, they clutter my living space, they make me claustrophobic. Why can’t I get rid of them?

When I started living alone, I liked the idea that my apartment was made up of these various things, these different aspects of my life coming together and essentially making me a whole person. They allowed me to retain a sense of my past, present and future all at once in tangible form. Every time I think “God, this mirror is in my fucking way, next trip to Goodwill, this thing is in the trunk” it’s immediately followed by “Oh but it belonged to NB’s grandmother, and it’s part of the house we painted together and I don’t want to erase those memories”. Nevermind the fact that he hasn’t spoken to me in 4 years, and the last time I heard his voice the words coming through the phone at me were cruel. Nevermind that he now lives in that house we shared with his wife and daughter, and he literally painted over everything that could possibly remind him of me. Nevermind those things. Nevermind.

I’ve made these objects larger than they are. They’re just things. Frankly, kind of useless things. Useless things that weigh me down. Carrying them to the curb will set me free. To quote Ruth Fisher, “I am surrounded by these relics of a life that doesn’t even exist anymore”.

Anyone want to help a girl carry her load down four flights of stairs?

I Got Used. Wait, Was I Used?

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 21:43:15 -0500

My weekend was progressing as I envisioned it: two trips to the cinema and lunching with friends, but otherwise solitary, holed up with my cats and cheap beer and Netflix. November left my brain and my bank account drained and when I saw that I had no commitments this first weekend in December, I seized that and made plans to have very few plans at all. This meant thwarting texts on Friday summoning me out for karaoke (my kryptonite), but I managed to stick with my plan and that felt good.

It’s strange that sticking to a plan of “nothing” can feel like an accomplishment.

Saturday progressed in much the same manner except this time there were no calls from friends requesting my presence, perhaps having learned their lesson. Then, at 1:45 a.m., I received a text message from a guy I hadn’t thought about in weeks.

I didn’t write about him here previously, partly because I didn’t have the energy, and partly because I was in the midst of a dry spell when it came to recording my thoughts. To bring you up to speed: Girl meets boy at Halloween party. Girl and boy flirt. Boy asks for girl’s phone number. Girl texts boy the next day. Boy admits he has a girlfriend. Girl tells boy to text her when he’s single.

The incoming text at 1:45 a.m. read “Guess who’s single? You’ll never guess.”

The initial reaction was something like swoonyblushingohmygodherememberedgiggling. Then the exchange. I told him I hoped the breakup happened more than five minutes ago. He said it’s been about two weeks, that he’s content. We discussed how both sexes are crazy and that therefore everyone is crazy. Then he told me he was in my city (he lives about an hour away) and wanted to know what I was doing.

Listen, I enjoy drunken makeouts as much as anyone, but for almost two years that’s what my life has been. I don’t want to scare dudes away by getting all serious, but the thought of straying in to booty call territory with this fellow, who I legit liked upon first meeting, was nauseating. So I deflected by saying sorry, I stayed in tonight, I’m in my sweatpants, let’s grab drinks another time.

THAT’S when he tells me that actually, his friends abandoned him at the bar, and, actually, his other friend passed out and isn’t opening the door, and, actually he needs a ride and a place to crash. Maybe this is the point where you’re screaming at your computer screens to NOT GO GET HIM, WHAT ARE YOU STUPID? WHAT A FUCKING ASSHOLE, DON’T BE AN IDIOT! but instead, I tried to tow the line between super nice helpful person and doormat, got my ass out of bed, and drove to pick up a drunk quasi-stranger who may or may not be trying to sleep with me.

He was at a bar on the other side of my moderately sized suburb. At 2:30 a.m. it’s about a 10 minute drive, maximum, but he called me no less than two times while I was en route to check my location. He spilled beer in my apartment, talked so much I couldn’t get a word in, and took control of Spotify. At the time I wasn’t so angry about these things, as I’ve been that drunk friend before, wreaking havoc and forcing people to listen to music they probably didn’t care about, but now that I’ve had time to think about it, it all adds to this feeling I have of being used.

I can’t tell which is greater: My theoretical anger if he’d tried to put the moves on me, or my real anger that he didn’t even bother. (Okay, we DID spoon, but I’M ONLY HUMAN, OKAY?) Most of my anger stems from the fact that he buttered me up, opening with his line about being single and making me think for just one second that he was thinking about me in THAT way. Granted, he doesn’t know me very well, and therefore doesn’t know that I’m a pretty kickass person, who would help a friend in need without being placated first. The artifice then lead to embarrassment as I realized how silly my attempts to wrangle an actual date out of him were.

This morning I was smothered to death with thanks and apologies, and I don’t believe he had any concept of the myriad feelings I had on what transpired, but god damn. (SIDENOTE: Every time I use the word “myriad” I think of Heathers.) I’m approaching a slippery slope with men, where I’m becoming more and more cynical toward them, while my standards grow higher and higher, a scenario that is going to make it exponentially more difficult to find a mate.

Gah, I can’t even think of an appropriate way to end this entry. I’d try and come up with something snappy, but there’s nothing snappy to say. He’s just incredibly lucky he caught me sober on a Saturday night. And he owes me big time.