A short primer

Archetypes currently found in and around Hollywood, Part One:

This is Alec Baldwin.



Alec is what is known as an Alpha Male Actor. That means he can get puffy and mean and many, many people will still desire him.

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This is Carrot Top. He is what is known as a Prop Comic. This means he can wear a thick matte base and mutate his bodily parts at will, because he "entertains."

Don't make eye contact!

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This is Paris Hilton.
She is known as a Celebutant, which is Latin for "taunting you with her celebrity." That means she can use racial slurs and be on television and people will pay her lots of money to stand in one place.

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Here is Susan Sarandon. Susan is commonly known as an Alpha Female Actor. She's as old as your mom, but much, much hotter. She has paired off with an Alpha Male Actor, Tim Robbins, and some felt he had an unfortunately doughy affect. Their feelings about him, however, have since shifted to more generous impression, due to his extreme talent, but sone suspect he could do with lightening up, perhaps by drinking draft beer while playing air guitar.

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This is Robert Downey, Jr.

This is a fine example of the rare Distractingly Attractive Multi-talented Hyphenate. (Please disregard the lavender suit.)

He is currently dating, Dear Reader, yours truly.

Yes, way.

Tomorrow: Part Two! A short primer of celebrity endorsements

Sunday's Spring Cleaning

Content Missing

I wrote about the new indie film "Teeth," and my comments, which used some Official Medical Terminology, attracted simply the most interesting traffic one could wish for. Now said content has been removed, so, hie, ye smut searchers, to more fertile ground.

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Ode to Ann

Coulter’s constant wrath

A pretense for attention

Or just steroid rage?

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Stuff of Dreams

High School Daze

I looked at my last post and it seems I'm on some Man kick. I started thinking about other men in my life. Boys. Guys. Fellas.

I like men. I like how straightforward they are. You are either a woman they desire, or they like you, but don't desire you, or they dismiss you entirely because they don't like you. That's about it. Compare that to the one hundred subcategories women place their friends (Movies Only, Gym Partner, Mom Buddy, Frenemy, PMS Support) and you see why it's so refreshing.

Here are a few men I knew only as boys:

My very first day of high school, a boy one grade older and widely known as a violent bully whipped out his penis and shook it at me. Oh, yes he did, too, while bellowing something about putting it somewhere. I was somewhat unclear on the concept of where, at barely fifteen. I kept my face neutral, because that's what one did at that age to show one wasn't Freaked Out. Yelling violently while showing me your dick in a deserted quad? Oh, puhlease. I am so not impressed. (A sneer would have been better, I suppose, with hindsight. Or it would have gotten me slapped.).

This was in those creakingly ancient 1980s, when that sort of thing was considered what some naughty boys did (and date rape was simply known as a "bad date," you may recall) and was not generally thought to be an official offense. It never occurred to me to tell anyone, and I made certain to never wear my Jessica McClintock skirt again, because the lace trim surely had been the inciting detail.

He was a sexual predator of many throughout high school and he was killed in a war many years later, by his bunk mate. Others have come forward to say they would have killed him, had they been given the chance.

So, you know, I won that one by waiting it out.


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I was madly in love in high school, with a boy who threw rocks at me and called me filthy names. Well, first we had one wonderful date, where he sat me on his knee during a party while singing along with The Rolling Stones. And then he turned poisonous and I didn't know why. And it ate at me for years and years. In fact, this was the pinnacle of the Bad Boy routine - a boy whom I would have soon realized all on my own I did not much like, beat me to it by not liking me first, thereby securing my undying fascination with him.

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I don't often think of Chip, but when I do, it is with great fondness. He was my first crush. Kindergarten. He asked me to make him watercolor flower paintings to pass off as his own to his mother, and I did so willingly. He did not return my affections. He had red hair and freckles and reminded me of Howdy Doody (before my time, but still an icon) and I thought that was remarkable.

Now my son, in my life some 35 years after my last glimpse of Chip, quite strongly resembles him (and Howdy Doody, I suppose). I don't think that's closure, but it is a bit weird. Are we all living in some sad sack, thin ghost version of "Groundhog Day," with minor revisions of the same people walking through your life over and over until you sort things out? Well, that would hardly be the worst thing.

Bedrest

I have had the fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu. I am a shell of my former self, I tell you.

Moments I revisited in my head while lying in bed, looking for movies On Demand to eat away the few remaining hours of my life:

. The look Adam West gave me when I went all wrong on him. Hey, that right there is as close to Clooney I'll ever get. Leave me to my dregs.

. The time Bobby from up the street called my baby brother a "pig" and I jumped forward and before I knew it, had his bottom lip between my teeth. And I bit down hard, because no one talked smack about my brother besides me. I was five years old and FIERCE (in a totally non-hot, non-tranny reality TV show fashion).

. My first kiss. Dolly Parton was playing "Two Doors Down" on someone's portable radio and Trey took me by the hand behind the bushes. He leaned forward and kissed me. Soft, soft lips, no tongue because I was, what? 12? Just a simple kiss, and the best one ever in the whole wide world. I actually swooned. I fell sideways against the stucco side of the building and scraped my arm.

And when I wasn't hallucinating minor moments from my life, I was watching "Rock Of Love 2" and wondering if this is, truly, the End Of Days.

Today, I rose, yea, verily, from my deathbed and took the kids to San Francisco. How did I not ever know about The World Famous Bush Man?



I stood in a thin, apathetic gruel of rain, with some one hundred people, watching him. Pure madness. And yet, it is fascinating to witness, and, as you may be able to tell from the video, not hostile or creepy or strange. At least, no stranger than past the general concept of someone sitting and then shaking two handfuls of branches at people and going "Arghh!" while staying seated and hoping to get paid for it. And then getting paid for it.

I think there is an analogy I can make here between the Bush Man and blogging, but I won't.

Presenting Miles Fisher!

(soon to be found dead in a ditch near you)

Cringing, still

Mid summer. Crazy hot. A college/community swimming pool. I was 13. I had just mastered the ability to jump off the high dive after a summer of dreading it, and was so proud that I was defying a possible watery death.

Every time I hit the water, I noticed, the crowd of young boys hanging onto the sides would duck their heads under, with their goggles on. It wasn't until maybe jump six or seven that I realized they were watching me hit because the force of the water flipped my bathing suit top up, around my neck. It's one of those memories I still cringe over, one gazillion years later, because they were laughing.

I'm gonna decide, even though I wasn't, that I, too, was essential to a formative event.

Righteous indignation

Where have I been? I have been sick. Where have I been? Sick in bed. How sick have I been? Sick enough to watch Cher, Eva Mendez, Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear in "Stuck On You," people I don't know in the maybe-vampire indie movie "Habit," Eddie Vedder and Laird Hamilton discussing honoring the wave in "Iconoclast," and Kevin Costner as a serial killer, with William Hurt as his wacky sidekick, in "Mr. Brooks."

You don't want to know the dreams I am having. That list? That's the worst possible in-your-feverish dreams/cocktail party combination ever.

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Who here is going to Comic-Con this summer? I am advised, as a writergrrl, to attend. And yet, I don't write about graphic novels or most gang buster movies the kids today, with their shiny newfangled phones, like to watch or oh, so much of what will be there. My last conventions were in the the '80s, when I hung at Boskone, drinking Peppermint Schnapps with big girls in chain mail and attending all-night animation marathons. So, you know, I'm more than a little out of my league, plus out of the all the loops.

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Some stuff some other white people like:

Crazy architecture

Robert Downey, Jr

Jambalaya recipes

and

Robert Downey, Jr.

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Things I learned in March

While one may spend several hours concocting the best home-made cupcakes ever, with the best home-made frosting ever, children will vote every single time for the frosting stuff from the can, because lard is just that good.

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I think that's it. It's been a slow month.

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Oh, and also? Someone from a Canadian bank found my blog this morning by searching for the term "p*ssy snorkling savannah."


Hello, Canadian bankers! We salute you! But not in that way.

While I don't know what the search term means exactly, it does seem to indicate that I have unfairly dismissed the world of Canadian banking as unduly staid.

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One more thing:

Let's take a moment to recognize Cloris Leachman.

Why now? Well, Chloris is the goddess of places shaded by trees, shrubs, and vines - so happy Spring, y'all. While she may not have that goddessy "h" in her name, Cloris Leachman has won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, nine Emmys and a Golden Globe. She's damn funny. She's been in everything from "Twilight Zone" and "Lassie" episodes to "Schoolhouse Rock" to fantastic Japanese anime to Mel Brooks' features. And stage. And "Mary Tyler Moore." And "Malcolm In The Middle." And she stole "Spanglish." And on and on.

Cloris Leachman? You "Schoolhouse Rock" my world.

[Okay, this one is very upbeat. Almost "punchy." You need to stand to belt this one out, preferably while on a slightly wobbly three-legged stool, to give the illusion of drinking.*

*Or, you know, start drinking.]

Smarty and sassy!
Remarkably classy!
It's a shame
You haven't been hit
with more fame!

Cloris Leachman,
you're a peach, and
we don't care that
you don't have an "h"
in your first name!

Fewer than ten items

I stopped into the grocery store late tonight, after 10 p.m. The place was full of college student buying EVEN MORE BEER. The man in front of me, though, was my age, or close. He was in field clothes - jeans with muddy cuffs, boots, a cowboy hat. He smelled like earth. He looked tired.

He paid for his things with a WIC voucher, and it jammed in the register. The cashier, a young guy, fed it back through, and it gummed again. And again. The cashier asked for keys and did something. And we waited as he fed it through again.

The boys behind me were rhythmically knocking their suitcase of Bud cans against the candy stand and one was talking about how he saw a video of a six-month-old baby reading out loud. Can a baby possibly be, like, that super smart? he asked his friend. And our eyes met.

I smiled, We picked the wrong line.

He laughed and said we'd so totally get it back in good karma later that night and did anyone else hear that high-pitched noise? And his friend said, Oh, Dude. You are so high, dude.

The man was trying to buy two generic gallons of milk, two loaves of wheat bread, and several jugs of apple juice. The cashier admitted he had screwed up the WIC slip. The man nodded and, without saying anything or looking angry, just paid for one milk with the cash in his pocket. He helped place his other things in a cart to be put back on the shelves.

I watched all this, my brain ticking along furiously. I itched to help him. My chest was tight with it. I wanted to just lean over to the cashier and mutter, I'll get that, and buy the man and the kids waiting at home those simple staples. Milk. Bread. Eggs.

I saw something I could do that was simple and just right NOW. Dammit. I was trying to figure out how to do it, just do it, without embarrassing the man or smiling in a way which might lead him to think I felt beatific or smug, or make him confused or upset and how could I tell him that exactly three years and one and two-thirds months ago, my credit card was rejected and I had to hand back some milk and apples for my children and a bag of food for my dog at the same store? How could I say that in a few simple sentences and not make a scene and not make him feel like he owed me something?

I hesitated, over-thinking thinking thinking it, and the moment passed. So what if he thought I was just another guilt-ridden liberal? It would be about me, sure, but it could be about me as little as possible. So what if I stammered and did it badly, and did it baldly? And the stoned boys were annoyed or snickered as they watched?

I didn't have a way to help him anonymously and that's what the moment needed, or what I needed, and I was too stupid to think of anything else. And so the man took his single milk and left the other food to be put back on the shelves. And I wondered if his kids were asleep.

If you had been me, with that urge, what would you have done? Suppressed it? Shoved your credit card at the cashier? I really don't know how abnormal I might just be. Do you have urges like that, ones that might scare people off, ones that seem overly intimate, and overly involved? I donate money and things and time, so it isn't like that was my one, lost outlet. This was, what? Over-identification? Codependency? Middle class, liberal guilt?

I was next, and I paid for, I swear it, a basket full of white wine and red tulips.

Complaints are beautiful

Simple, declarative (albeit sometimes whiny), sentences from today, all true, that read like the opening lines of bad poetry:


I planted,
on the Ides of March,
mesclun seeds:
"spicy mix."

- - -

I left the free
stair stepper
in the rain -
the bag of potting soil
got wet, too.

- - -


My shoes
are
too tight.


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Making enchiladas
with canned tuna
was my first mistake.

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I am retaining water
so you
don't have to.

News that gives me chest pain

Woman sits on boyfriend's toilet for 2 years
"Girlfriend was physically stuck to the seat — her skin had grown around it."

What? Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?

Let's assume she had some mental health issues that kept her seated, and it wasn't a case of abuse. What kept the boyfriend from calling for help some 1.89 years ago? He brought her food and water and asked her to come out of the bathroom a lot, apparently, but he never said, Hey, Sweetie, I know women sometimes hog the bathroom, har har, hey, well, I'm no Jay Leno, but I, too, can slay a tired old cliche right? So, anyhoo, this anxiety thing of yours? Yeah. It's a leetle out of control. How's about we go see someone? No? How's about I call a doctor and get you some small, round "helping candy?" No, again, you say? Try to stop me! You can't stop me, can you, Sweetie? Because your legs have atrophied!

Time for some small, round "helping candy" for the house.

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And then there's this:

Jack Kevorkian to Run for Congress

Hey, the guy doesn't follow archaic "rules" of conduct and he sure Gets Things Done!

Monday again, and we're all about the inappropriate

My ode to the fabulous Eddie Izzard triggered some interesting emails from folk asking if I am turned on by cross-dressing.

Nope. I don't "get" it emotionally, by which I mean I don't do it (or have it done, um, "near me") and it doesn't turn me on, but it doesn't flip me out. I'm one of those people, the boring, cheerful ones who don't have a freak flag to fly, but wave at you as you hoist yours.

Your flag, I mean.

I had a neighbor friend who was quite into - well, I don't know what to call it and I don't want you to make fun of me for not knowing what to call it, but it was a subset of S&M. It involved leather and pain clubs and stage performances and gender bending and there was some reference to faux vampirism and who knows what else. I only listened with one ear because the titillation factor is fun at first, but eventually other people's naughty stuff gets dull and any lingering interest quickly fades when you are up three times a night with the baby and have to go play "Thomas The Tank Engine" again Right now, Mommy and please come wipe my bum!

So. I was grousing to Fetish Barbie at the playground about being mildly bored and depressed (see: bum wiping) and needing to feel more awake somehow, and said Fetish Barbie responded with an offer to take me with her to the Boston Fetish Fair.

Well, duh.

So, off we went, with the tacit understanding that I was there simply as a Writer, by which I meant a Snoop. She attended a lecture about something involving straps and I sat in the upper lobby, just people watching. And, yes, folks stood out in their collars and leather bits, but I was the only person who raised eyebrows, in my Lands End fleece and mom jeans, because context, my friends, is everything. I wished I looked slightly more fierce as I sat outside the room where people were learning about pony play. And when my friend was done with her lecture, I went down the mezzanine to meet her and came face-to-face with my elderly grandma neighbor, who was wearing bifocals, a tasteful sweater and a quite thick, leather, double-ringed slave collar.

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I ran home as quick as my little vanilla legs could carry me, because that was simply too juicy to keep to myself. And Oh! I thought. She must be so upset that I saw her! Our eyes had met and it was one of those zing! movie "eye meets," where we both froze and stared, agog, and then I pivoted left and she pivoted right. I said to Fetish Barbie later something along the lines of She must be worried I'll tell the neighborhood. And Fetish Barbie rightly pointed out that she saw me there and probably thought I, too, had been an enthusiastic attendee, albeit with some fleece-and-clog Issues.

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I did not know that one of the original sins was Sadness. Do you suppose people were depressed way back, or was the sin more of a general moping? We have no electric light. We have no antibiotics. I have ticks. Dude, the Dark Ages suck.

The Vatican has updated the list of sins to be avoided (instead of relentlessly pursued, I suppose), and the ones to skirt include extreme wealth, genetic modification and drug-taking. A shame, really, because I am all about snorting the down off of gold-plated, cloned ducklings and no one is taking that away from me.

This is why I am not Catholic.

Wherein I write excretable lyrics regarding my unnatural fondness for Mr. Eddie Izzard

(The first word should be sung with much gusto. Really. Can't go over the top here.)

Well!

I have a crush
on a man in heels!
A man who appeals
to my viewing zeal

I like to watch
this man who acts
a man who, in fact,
wears mules with slacks

I want to bake
for this cross-dressing rake
an upside down cake
then my need (utterly platonic, I swear to you. I'm not getting all NSFW over here) he'll slake

(This part should be performed while making air fists.)

Oh, Eddie!
I'm ready! I won't shirk
in the face
of your commitment to skirts

(Heartfelt chorus)
We can dine!
What a time!
Have a ball!
Hit the mall!

Yes, I'm in love
with a man in boots
lace up boots
not traditionally manly boots ...

Ad nauseam.*

* Oh, yes, it continues for Quite A While. I haven't even begun to discuss**, for example, the many fabulous ways Mr. Izzard wears swishy overcoats.

** I feel I may be a sufficient threat to musical theater. Why, if Stephen Joshua Sondheim were dead, he'd be rolling in his grave right now. As it is, I'm sure he is quickly growing most concerned about my usurping his title.

Thank you, and good night

Medical Mystery Solved

The story, in part:

"A mysterious nerve disorder that hit some slaughterhouse employees with debilitating symptoms apparently was caused by inhaling a fine mist of pig brain tissue."

Does anyone need to read past the first sentence? Can anyone read past the first sentence?

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Which of the Seven Deadly Sins wristbands suits you best? I wish one of the sins were "Apathy." It would be so fourteen-years old Junoxious to wear. But, you know. Whatever.

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Not Martha makes Bacon Cups; who thought anyone could ever perfect the concept of the winning bacon mat? And where, pray tell, is the much-needed Bacon Bikini? When it's cooked, you know you have to get out of the sun - it's time to snack, and, hideo ho, your kicky outfit has shrunk by two-thirds. Plus, your skin is so moist, like a roasted suckling pig!

Oh, no, you don't. The Bacon Bikini is my idea. The Bakini. The Baconi.

Okay, I don't yet know what I'm calling it, but I am so gonna TM it.

For the more demure among us, might I suggest the tasteful Canadian Bacon one-piece?