cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (neon sign)
Music is magic, as any teen could tell you. In SIGNAL TO NOISE, the teen is Meche, who discovers she can work spells with her friends using vinyl records. Of course, the teens seek to change their miserable social lot through magic, with dubious results.

The teens' story is solidly set in 1980s Mexico City, expertly interspersed with chapters recounting adult Meche's return to Mexico City for a family funeral. The back and forth in time feels flawless, as deftly handled as the changes in point-of-view, which allow readers into all the characters' heads (teen and adult alike) without ever being confusing. While the teens' story ramps up to disaster, adult Meche's story is more about internal change. This is not to say the adult story is any less magical--even more so, perhaps. After all, it's easy to believe in magic when you're young. As we age, that faith gets kicked out of most of us.

Some readers will resist sympathizing with Meche, who has a prickly personality and tends to abuse her few faithful friends, even as an adult. But I enjoyed her strong identity and the fact that she is who she is. She grows and improves, but she remains fundamentally herself, which is an admirable feat for anyone, but especially for a female coming-of-age heroine. Her prickliness makes her moments of tenderness even more touching. For example, I loved her relationship with her grandmother, which was gentle but not sappy.

A subplot involving Meche's friend Daniela and a teacher, though completely believable, felt a bit pat to me. I would've preferred more focus on Daniela's self-perception as a person with chronic illness, especially when that illness seems cured, at least temporarily, by magic. But that's less a complaint than a desire for more of this world Moreno-Garcia has conjured. (Luckily, the author has provided a playlist to let us live there a little longer.)

SIGNAL TO NOISE conveys the raw emotions of the teenage years without slipping too far into nostalgia or downplaying the emotional struggles of adulthood. It's a marvelous balancing act. I can't wait to see what Moreno-Garcia does next!
cafenowhere: Latina in surgical gear examining something up close (lana parilla)
I've started no new reading since last week, just chugging along with the same trio of books. Since I have a novel revision looming, however, I've been unable to disengage editorial instincts as I read.

For example, Mouseheart, the read-aloud I've been doing with Tweetie, begins with a prologue. I've heard so many agents and editors advise cutting prologues and just start the story already that I automatically question the necessity of such intros. As I near the thrilling conclusion of this middle-grade talking-animal fantasy, I've pretty much decided that this book did not need a prologue. So the question is, why use one? In this case, it gives the reader a more swashbuckling hero at the start, and it introduces a feudalistic fantasy element that the publisher might think helps distinguish the book from other talking-animal stories, which...maybe not? LOTS of books take animal "kingdom" literally these days.

(Also, at some point we need to talk about why we give our kids a steady stream of feudalist-inspired battle-and-intrigue fantasies, especially when YA novels are so dystopic lately.)

And despite my ranting last week about the awful female character, I continue reading Valley of Bones. What's interesting is that Gruber can write great female characters--when they're positioned as maybe villains, maybe victims. Not your typical noir femme fatales, much better than that. In fact, in this very book, he presents a really fascinating woman, Emmylou, telling her own story of how she got caught up in huge, possibly supernatural events. But this Lorna character he's created... She's the love interest of the male lead, Paz, and she just revolts me. The one thing that might have made me sympathetic to her--her mother's death from cancer and her own consequent hypochondria--is just buried under racism and classism and fat-phobia and superiority. I've tried to interpret her as a variation on a theme--how is she like/not the "villain" here?--but it's exhausting.

So I'd have cut Lorna out completely. :D But something else I might cut from the story are the numerous excerpts from a supposed history of an order of nuns. One or two have been useful, but I'm not sure why we couldn't get the same (much-abbreviated) info via the point-of-view characters. I like to withhold judgment on such things until I finish reading the book and I see how it all (might) come together, though.

Because I've been reading this book so critically, I've also realized that Lorna's pov is written in present tense, whereas Paz's is firmly in past tense. Going back to the first book, I see Gruber did the same thing there, alternating between tenses for the two leads. Here it bothers me, and I think it's because we're already veering between past and present in Emmylou's account of how she got involved in these murders that Paz is investigating, PLUS we have those excerpts of nun history. So, I'm feeling unnecessarily tangled up.

All of which contributes to much wariness as I contemplate the third book in the Paz series. I think/hope that having worked through this second book, I will be more willing to bail on the third if it annoys me half as much. :D
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hangover)
Still recovering from my women's weekend. My abs ache from laughing, my arms and one leg are sore from a tumble I took, and my head is full of wondrous sights. I feel sorry for anyone who refers to the Midwest as "flyover" country (while reserving the right to punch them in their ignorant face). Most of our travel time was along the Mississippi River, and we stayed at a home with incredible views of the bluffs. At night, I had the best stargazing OF. MY. LIFE. We saw so many shooting stars, we didn't even have to share wishes--not that I could think of anything to wish for, being so relaxed and content. During the day, we saw hummingbirds and vultures and dragonflies, herons and cranes, more birds than I can even name. On one walk, we found a (literal) stone fox beneath a tree in a clearing. I didn't have my camera, so I have no picture. It is better, I think, to have no proof, so we have to re-find it every time we re-visit. I did, however, get a pic of the nightlight (night-lamp?) in my bathroom. Clearly a tale of good and evil.

good eagle bad fish
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (jack skellington)
This week I watched two horror movies that long eluded me, Paranormal Activity and The Descent.

Actually, I eluded Paranormal Activity for a long time. It looked too much like the Blair Witch Project, which I totally did not get. (And the confusion seems to have run in my family. At a wake, a pair of our seldom-seen but much-loved cousins made me weep and pee-my-pants with laughter as they recounted their own bafflement at the ending of Blair Witch.) To my mind, Paranormal Activity makes a lot more sense than Blair Witch.

Paranormal Activity is the story of Katie, an English grad student who likes beading and knitting but is utterly unequipped to decorate her new tract home in San Diego. Complicating Katie's life is an extremely possessive, overbearing, entitled, Type-A entity who has stalked her for years. Supposedly "Micah" is a day trader, but we never see this guy do anything but record Katie's every waking moment, attempt to get nude photos of her, insert himself into all her relationships, ignore all her requests/pleas/demands, play blame games, and belittle her beliefs. The movie does have a happy ending, at least. Katie eventually embraces her girl power--although under the guise of being demonically possessed--and beats the stalker to death. She then flees the suffocating suburbs, presumably to work as a small-town preschool teacher.


In truth, PA is one of those horror movies that gives the viewer almost nothing to work with, and still manages to scare audiences silly. As I told J, I was afraid to yawn or blink too long, because I might miss a split-second scare or a ghostly visage in the blurry background. The signal-to-noise ratio for this movie is so measly, missing anything would've made the experience a total loss. 

I don't know why I never watched The Descent. I think it came out when I was still in the throes of postpartum weirdness, so I thought it was just another slasher movie, only using a spelunking gimmick to get maximum sweat and cling to the girls' wardrobe before their inevitable demises. Then I got the idea that it was really gory, and I just wasn't looking for that. But [ profile] intertribal said she appreciated it, so when I saw it at the pawn shop, I snagged it. (This one is the original cut, with the "depressing" ending supposedly unfit for American audiences. I never get that.)

The Descent is an odd little gem, not unlike Dog Soldiers, the werewolfy Scottish film also directed by Neil Marshall. For one thing, The Descent features an all-female cast, almost unheard of in the genre, and those females are unequivocally kick-ass. To the film's credit, I never felt like the camera was perving on the actresses. Even when they wore body-hugging clothing and did stretches and stuff. I felt more awed by their physical prowess than anything.

I hesitate to say the movie passes the Bechdel test, because although the women do discuss things other than the *one* man in the movie, the events are precipitated by Juno's affair with Sarah's husband. So the movie kind of misses the "spirit" of the Bechdel test (especially if one watches the depressing ending). Moreover, the film implies that Juno is on par with the uber-Gollum monsters the women encounter while caving (and, according to the gestalt dream theory of horror, Juno is the functional equivalent of a child killer). Personally, I never found Juno--or any of the human characters--unsympathetic, and I resented being manipulated that way. 

The movie squeezes the inherent dangers and thrills of spelunking for all they're worth. It's very suspenseful before the monsters even show up. Frankly, the monsters never made evolutionary sense to me, but as I said to J, the frequency with which we insisted "but wait, that could never happen" might've indicated just how freaked out we were: the lady doth protest too much? I suppose the movie IS gory, but I'm not the best judge of that. When one character sinks into a pool of blood and bits, I was more squicked by the Freudian implications (rebirth, now with Phallus!) than the gore.

I'm interested to see what's on the commentary track, so I'll probably watch The Descent again soon.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hammer head)
Tamora Pierce ([info]tammypiercesounds off about the upcoming NBC tv show "Playboy Club" that completely infuriates me as well, but for which I couldn't summon the necessary righteous eloquence.


Jul. 1st, 2011 10:57 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (misunderstood)
 Last night I watched The Town, and I liked it in the moment, but the more I think about it this morning, the less satisfied I am.

The niggling doubt was the extremely thin characterization of the female lead. At first I thought she wasn't a great actress, then I realized she had nothing to work with; she was merely a foil to the hard-knocked, blue-collar professional thief played by Ben Affleck. She was vaguely "rich," a do-gooder with a tragically dead little brother, innocent to the realities of life in Charlestown, MA, the armed robbery capital of the States. Toonie to Affleck's townie. Thinking about the script, I have to say, there's not much more on the page for Affleck's character, but he seethes with beatdown antiheroism. He also wrote and directed, so he knew the character through and through. (That and he acted opposite Jeremy Renner; dude forces you to bring your A-game.)

Then I started thinking, the female problem was the same thing that happened in Gone Baby Gone, which starred Ben's little brother Casey, and which Ben wrote from Dennis Lehane's novel and directed. I remember really liking that movie, too, except I never understood why in that movie, the male/female private investigating team came down on different sides of an ethical dilemma, considering they grew up in the same town and practically lived the same life. The female partner just "feels" differently than our hero, and viewers never get a good explanation as to why.

Brooding over this matter last night, I totally forgot it wasn't Ben Affleck starring in both movies, because it's essentially the same setting, same main character, same "civic" pride battling with desire for something better... Don't get me wrong--I think both movies are good, even great. I love that the characters are blue-collar, never quite law-abiding (because, shit, when you're poor, it's easy to go astray), proud and loyal. I love the fully realized settings and the sense of neighborhood-twisted-with-family history. I hope the Afflecks make plenty more movies, because they provide something I don't see much elsewhere. But thus far in this genre, their something doesn't include understanding or even much interest in how women navigate the same struggles.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (book)


In my mind, Argentine poet Alfonsina Storni and Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral are sisters. Thus Storni's poem about a lighthouse naturally finds its counterpart in Mistral's poem about a woman seeking out the man of the lighthouse. But the mood of Storni's poem is stony and implacable, whereas Mistral's crackles with violence and sensuality. Not surprisingly, this poem is part of Mistral's "Madwomen" series.

The Pious Woman

by Gabriela Mistral (1954) 
transl by Randall Couch
I want to see the man of the lighthouse,
I want to go to the rocky point,
taste the wave in his mouth,
see the abyss in his eyes.
I want to reach him, if he's living,
old man of salt and brine.
They say he looks only eastward
--walled up while still alive--
I want to cut him off from his waves
so in place of the abyss he'll see me.
He knows all about the night
that's now my bed and my road:
knows undertows, octopus, sponges,
knows a cry that ends all knowing.
His faithful, battered chest
is spat on by the tides,
he's whistled at by gulls
and white as any wound,
and so still, so mute and absent,
he seems as yet unborn.
But I go to the lighthouse tower,
climbing the knife-edged track,
for the man who's going to tell me
the earthly and the divine,
One in each arm, I bring him
a jug of milk, a sip of wine...
And he keeps listening to seas
that love nothing but themselves.
But maybe now he listens to nothing,
stalled in forgetfulness and salt.
Translation is a special torture. Like wrestling with angels in the desert. So I won't pick at this version.
...well, not too much.
In Spanish, Mistral's poem rhymes, which is especially fitting for a poem set oceanside. Another regrettable casualty is that "lecho" in the phrase "lecho y camino," presented here as "my bed and my road," connotes not only a bed, but a riverbed in particular, enhancing the sense of affinity between the woman and man. Another, more idiomatic way to render the penultimate line is "But then again, maybe he listens to nothing".
My minor bitching aside, Couch's collection of the Madwomen poems is invaluable for English readers. I'm so grateful to have found it.
cafenowhere: abby from TV show NCIS, eyes closed, listening to music (abby dreaming)
Memorized Poems

This is the last poem I memorized for myself. I memorized some of Milton's poetry for a college class, and I've inadvertently memorized some haiku since then, but this is the last poem I committed to memory for sheer love of the verse. It was junior or senior year in high school, and I'd write the verses on the back chalkboard of trig/calculus. One of my buddies wrote parodies, because he didn't like the idea of mad girls or of me being one. He also liked to smear off my red lipstick and scribble off the boys' names on my textbook covers. And guess what? It worked. I am now a very good girl. Not mad or bad at all. Nope.

Mad Girl's Love Song

by Sylvia Plath (1951)

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I've posted/written about this poem before, because it's a villanelle, but I don't think I mentioned that it was originally published in Mademoiselle (1953). It's hard for me to wrap my head around that, that Mademoiselle was once known for fiction, not fashion. 

Women on TV

Nov. 1st, 2010 10:01 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (garcia)

i. I love Supernatural, you know I do. I can compartmentalize like nobody's business. But I could've given myself an aneurysm this Friday trying to suppress my fury.

Dean is sitting in a bar feeling sorry for himself (as per usual) and the bartender strikes up a conversation. My interest skyrockets. Because the bartender is a black woman--and she has lines. (Entire episodes of SPN pass without a woman in a speaking role, let alone a black woman.) This woman is not glammed up, but she's attractive. She seems sympathetic but not naive, as a good bartender should be. She's got lines of dialogue. Is she an actual character? Will she be important? I'm on the edge of my seat.

Then the truth curse hits and she blurts out that she's afraid she can't get pregnant because God knows her marriage is a sham. I am shocked. Didn't see that coming, and her character just took on loads of depth. And then, while Dean and I are still processing, she blurts out that she's been snorting oxy all day.

And there goes that delusion of mine. Figures that Show gives a black woman a speaking role only to unveil her as a druggie.

ii. We don't need another Law and Order show, and yet...Skeet Ulrich and Terrence Howard. My brain says NO, my heart (or is it my ovaries?) says YES. I watched two episodes of Law and Order: Los Angeles. And regretted it.

With the first, I decided I didn't buy Ulrich as a cop/detective. Director might be overcompensating for Ulrich's still-youthful vulnerability by making him play it too reserved and beatdown. I also disliked that all the female characters in that episode were merely dots connecting the male characters, who were the ones really driving the story.

With the second, I realized the female characters as connecting dots was a Thing for the show. And the episode was about a blond American woman who is so desperate for love that she converts to an extreme form of Islam (is there any other kind on television?) and becomes a terrorist. Nice. And Terrence Howard plays a typical tv DA: he uses those soulful eyes and pleads until I'm willing to testify to anyfuckingthing (hell, he could have my next child) and then when it suits his case, he throws the witness under the bus.

Done with that show.

iii. A headline on the front page of the Lifestyle section of USA Today proclaimed "Kick-butt aim is true / Girls rule TV." The photo made clear that girls meant women and kick-butt meant willing to use a gun.

Intrigued, I turned to the actual article, where the revised headline read, "These ladies want a piece of the TV action." So they don't rule, after all. They just want a piece.

The article profiles four female tv characters. Of the four, only two are really the stars of their own show, and one of the other two prefers "getting her flirt on with her trademark 'sex-pionage'."

So girls don't rule, only some of them kick butt, and only some of them have the ratings to get a second season. But if you just read the first headline, you'd think, Wow, women are taking over!

iv. I don't watch a lot of non-PBS Kids tv, and I don't think that's changing anytime soon.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (so tired)
Hellraiser is the first horror movie I remember wanting, desperately, to watch. I was 12 or 13, so I could only watch it on video. The time between theater release and video availability was excruciating, and only intensified by my friends' subscriptions to Fangoria magazine, which offered tantalizing behind-the-scenes photos. (My then-boyfriend would wrap presents for me in pages from Fangoria magazine. Ah, young love!)

You cannot imagine my glee when I got my hot little hands on that VHS tape. I loved that movie. It was horrible and beautiful and gruesome and mindblowing.  I think I watched it by myself the first time, because I sort of remember knowing when to wander off (during the sex scenes) while watching it with my grandpa.

Hellraiser II was even better, more brutal and grander in scope. The two movies sort of fused in my mind. So much so, I had trouble locating the images for this picspam at first because I couldn't remember which scenes happened in which movies.

Here is Julia. Clearly, the 80s were evil.

Julia is married to Larry, but had an affair with his brother, Frank.

But then Frank "solved" the Lament Configuration puzzle and got dragged to Hell.

Julia helps Frank return to our world by supplying him with plenty of fresh blood. Watching this woman hammer a man to death was a formative experience.

This is Kirsty Cotton, Larry's daughter. She hates Julia, though she doesn't know why. She finds out soon enough.

I loved how much of Kirsty's emoting conveyed "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Julia and Kirsty are the human forces to be reckoned with in this movie. Everything happens because of them. Frank Cotton may have solved the puzzle box and summoned the Cenobites,

but he wouldn't be incarnated (in his brother Larry's skin!) if it weren't for Julia. And it's Kirsty who lures the Cenobites to Frank for the infamous Jesus Wept scene, which is #19 on Bravo's 100 Scariest Movie moments.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (abby)

Ritzy Periwinkle:

This is my 8" Bic Buddy Custom "Ni Una Mas" in honor of lives lost in femicides in Juarez and surrounding cities in Mexico. The back says "Ni una mas madre hija hermana"


Are the femicides in Juarez, Mexico, over? Have the cases been solved? Or are they simply overshadowed by the cartel violence that has given the city its infamous status as Murder Capitol of the World?


Jul. 8th, 2010 02:01 pm
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)


scorched taffeta, smelted bitterness
The wedding dress deflates in the firepit
like an over-roasted marshmallow.
Black-bubbled satin and blistered pearls
puddle in the cooling coals.
slow asphyxiation to soothe
the burn of betrayal


The Inspiration )
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)

Gram's earrings,
faux-pearl hand-me-downs
I've had since she died,
now have me

    down on my knees.

I search the hotel elevator
for the lost one,
too new to be vintage
too cheap to be an heirloom.

The elevator is mirrored
like a funhouse jewelry box
   now you see it
   now you don't

and it smells of sunscreen
and chlorine: the ghosts of other

I rise from my
faux deep sea dive
And my rippled reflections sigh

   another lost treasure.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)

Last week a guy came by to try to sell us a home security system, one not based upon ensnaring potential evildoers with our untamed lawn. I told him to come back when my husband was home so he could weigh in. Later I told J about it and he snorted. "Did you tell him we live in a neighborhood where people don't even lock their doors, let alone use security systems that don't go woof?"

I didn't. It honestly hadn't occurred to me—although it's true not just of our neighborhood but also most of the town. When we leave the house, I lock the door. If I'm walking down the street with Tweetie, I lock my door. Even when I'm at home and waiting for a visitor, my door is locked. Most of the time, I don't even think about why anymore. It's not as if I am actively fearful of something specific in my environment. It's just habit.

I grew up in bad neighborhoods. When I was 16, a guy broke into my house while I was home alone. I was lying bellydown in bed, writing. I happened to look over my shoulder and a stranger was standing in my doorway. Watching me. I blustered my way out of the situation--I got hit but not raped--but between that and a bunch of other shit... Almost twenty years later, not to mention half the United States away, I still lock my doors.

Maybe J has acclimated, but I don't think I ever will. If the home security guy ever came back, we must've missed each other. I wish he'd never come by at all, so I could've kept locking my doors automatically, not thinking about why.


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (abby)

Oh "Glee." Only you could dedicate a show to empowering young women, and end said show with two boys discussing one of those girls (ex-girlfriend to one, girlfriend to the other) like a possession, while she's standing right there--and she's too smitten to call them on it.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)

He counts
her pills--loves me,
loves me not--and wonders
why she doesn't trust him. She counts



Mar. 28th, 2010 10:25 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)

she mops baby's cheeks
while mom chats on the phone
playing grown-up

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (neon sign)


Two girls
locked in a trunk
tossed overboard
--no more or less
than I expected--
so, disgusted yet resigned,
I crawled into a corner
and debated in the sinking dark:
Death by drowning, or asphyxiation?

You bothered me
all that fumbling and scratching
I mistook for panic
You crowded me
as you maneuvered for leverage
and let the ocean slither in
I swore: our odds lurched toward drowning.

But then you snapped the hinges
you grabbed my sleeve
you gulped a breath
and I did too, self-preservation
kicking in, like a canary waking
in a coal mine
You slammed the lid back
we kicked free in a muted blast
and churned through the bubbles
to the shimmery surface.

I thought the moon was a mirage
the light at the end of the tunnel of
my deluded, dwindling consciousness
but you broke through the sea's elastic ceiling
and you pulled me up, too
The moon glossed your eyes
made you wild and bewitching
but it was the cunning I saw
bright as salt on my tongue
that made me believe.


Oh, yeah. Poem #190. :D
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (coffee addicted)

Tonight is Family Film Night. We're watching G-Force. Yay talking guinea pigs!

As an indication of how together I've got it, last week I finally saw Zero Effect, a movie that was recommended in last year's WisCon panel about movies so bad they're good. Zero Effect wasn't an exemplar of the deliciously bad, I no longer have any idea why it came up at all, but the premise (quirky private investigator is tasked with finding a rich man's keys) reminded me of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, so I made a note of it. The movie was solid. A funny light-noir starring Ben Stiller as the handler of Daryl Zero, the world's "most private detective," played by Bill Pullman.

Lucky Number Slevin is the first movie starring Josh Hartnett that I was able to watch without going into mommy mode, which is really weird, because A) Hartnett's only two years younger than I am, so I don't know why I want to smooth his hair and clean his nose for him—oh wait, he shares a birthday with my brother; that might explain it--and 2) His character in the movie, Slevin, gets the crap beat out of him often enough that the boy could really use some looking after. But, for whatever reason, I didn't go into mommy mode and instead I got to enjoy this crime caper.

Close up of Josh Hartnett looking attentively serious in Lucky Number Slevin


Visually, it was GORgeous. I haven't seen such stunning wallpaper since the ambassador's office in Transporter 3. Seriously, the wallpapers nearly stole the show several times. And then the costumes! Slevin's argyle sweater vest and his purple floral towel...mmmm....

Big watercolor floral wallpaper, with half-dressed Hartnett and fully dressed Lucy Liu


rose taupe and coffee-hued floral wallpaper, with mostly dressed Liu and fully dressed Hartnett in an argyle sweater vest

monocromatic venn diagram wallpaper, with Hartnett & a big gun


To my great relief, Lucy Liu, although the love interest, was not "Sexy Asian Chick." She was just "Lindsey," the neighbor girl that Slevin falls for, and no wonder—she's smart, funny, sweet, and too lovely to be real, but not an ethnic stereotype. As I watched this, I hated Bruce Willis's performance, but in retrospect, I understand what he was doing and why. Maybe it won't bother me so much the second time around. And there will be a second time, since we bought it on a whim.

I also watched Adventureland, but I disliked it so much, I do not feel like sitting here cataloging each piss point.

Todd Alcott has wrapped up, I think, his analysis of Bambi. Apparently this Disney classic is even more depressing than I thought. To quote:

did Bambi ever get what he was after? Did he ever learn, did he ever become wise? [H]is entire life was one long series of curveballs and losses. He never went looking for love or responsibility, those things came to him -- everything came to him, and, what's more, caught him unawares. One of the starkest, most daring aspects of Disney's Bambi is that it suggests that there is never a place in life where one can rest...where one can be comfortable, knowing that wisdom and experience will get one through..."

Sweet Sue, he makes it sound like a zombie flick!

Okay, time to get Family Film Night on the road. Happy Friday, everyone!

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Maggie with Coffee)


His mother
His psychiatric nurse
social secretary
His wife
(the whiny real life one
and the sultry dream version)
His private detective
and her pregnant lesbian lover
His as-yet unnamed
corporate pursuer, "She"
And me, Janey Come-lately,
his sympathetic Miss America



cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)

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