Cloying and cliche, here they are!

2008's been a so-so year for me. I have to admit I became complacent, stagnant, let myself--and I'm certain others with my oft-defeated attitude--down and allowed things in my life to happen that I swore I wouldn't. Despite all this, I feel energetic about a New Year and the decisions, some of them difficult, that I will have to face and make peace with.

In the hope that publishing these resolutions will yield a higher return on results, they go something like this:

1. Cook once a week
2. Blog once a week, even if it's boring. I need the mental exercise
3. Start, and finish, a book once a month. This is also in direct proportion to watching less TV for TV's sake
4. Continue my awesome past three days of exercise and hopefully gain 5 or so pounds in muscle. It's superficial but I'm tired of having a gaunt upper body, ok?
5. Take up tennis in the spring (you still with me, Jess?)
6. Decide if I'm really going to attend grad school, and how I might go about doing that
7. Take a couple-week trip to either Europe or Southeast Asia. You see, my perspective has become rather myopic
8. Regularly volunteer and donate to a pet shelter
9. Could it be possible for me to finish a screenplay rough draft? I feel the ideas coalescing over the past couple of weeks
10. Hmm just to round up, be a better inhabitant of the Earth and do my best to reduce, reuse and recycle. Oh, and get a donated piano into my house so I no longer have an excuse to resume playing
A bonus resolution would be: Practice kindness, even though it's not as fun, at least in the immediate gratification sense

I wish everyone a Happy New Year and even if you don't hold yourself to every resolution, the fact that you have the forward-thinking cognizance and intention to correct not-so-rights in your life speaks enough volume for me.

On a (much) lighter note

You know how sometimes, after repeated pleas and various manipulative tactics, people won't take down pictures of you that make you cringe every time you browse their profile? Then you just have to 'own' the snap as a sad reminder of how hideous you can look and try to move on with life?

Like this one, from Christmastime 2006 at our apartment:


Truth hurts, so you may want to sit down (well, you're at a computer, so the chances of you standing are fairly low), but I actually proceeded to go out after this picture was taken. No, like, out in public. I believe it was to a bar or club.

Other than not being my best angle (or posture), let's forego the hair, face and winter solstice tan and instead focus our critique from the neck down. I guess at some point while clothes-shopping, I decided a classic white V-neck would look good on me. Little did I know this style only looks good on guys who actually lift weights on a regular basis, and the crease in my shirt actually makes it look like I'm a 12-year-old girl with budding, sore raisins.

With that in mind, I guess it was good I cover up my gaunt frame from the harsh elements (two birds with one stone) with a jacket, but it just makes me look my dad when he was called out to fight a fire in the middle of the night and had to throw something on in a pinch. And then there's the pants. They actually have a pretty nice fit and I still wear them to this day, although you wouldn't be able to tell with how high I've hiked them up with a cinched belt, causing the upper thigh area to balloon and making me look like someone who benefits from a rewards card at Northern Reflections (ahh, bonus points to anyone who remembers that store).

Turning our attention away from the disaster on the left, my friend Amelia has that settle, forlorn expression that suggests, "Well, I guess if he feels confident, that's all that matters." And Paul's his usual giddy self. Oh, and if you're getting into details, we bought our own Nativity because I love them. And yes Amanda, that's the Buddha head I told you I would ironically use to cause blunt-force trauma on a criminal who dares trespass while I'm at home alone.

In a state

With Prop. 8 getting me down and not knowing exactly where to direct my anger, I can't help but agree that is still a bit jarring — but hopefully less and less so in the near future — to spot a wedding dinner place card that reads:


Two months ago, I took the place card home for a laugh; in hindsight it's become a little less humorous. I hate to admit there was an instinctual tinge of shame in collecting the card at a suburban Indiana wedding, though thoughtfully written by Paul's cousin-bride. Now, I feel that shame may be best reserved for others.

But committed to not being bitter, I remain optimistic and find this song by the lovely Polly Jean Harvey an (interpreted?) inspiration.

One day I know
We'll find a place of hope...

Walk tight, one line
You're wanted this time
There's no one to blame
Just hold on to me...

I walk, I wade
Through full lands and lonely
I stumble
With you I wait
To be born again
With love comes the day
Just hold on to me

Halloween office party!

A find all my own

Romeo Void is my type of an '80s band that won't be featured on any tired retrospective compilations (I should know, I own a 7-disk collection of '80s radio hits). The now-slightly absurd name might make you think they're a throwaway nostalgia trip, but I'm sure any serious music enthusiast of that day would remember them. So it's kind of like finding an obscure treasure and imagining myself a cool, slightly moody 1983 college freshman being into music I could be proud of these days.

Anyway, I looked up some of their music after I remember my oldest sister, quite some time ago, singing the hook to one of their songs, "I might like you better if we slept together" (not directed toward me, or anyone in particular as I remember it in my naive state). I previewed some songs and just ended up buying the whole best-of iTunes album, "Warm, In Your Coat." It was ultimately worth it. I haven't so much gotten into the moodier pieces, but I love the uptempo stuff and it makes for some unsuspecting great cardio music. The lead singer has an incredibly, naturally sensual voice, someone I imagined (past tense intentional) to be a big, sexy blonde like Alec Baldwin's fling in the movie "She's Having a Baby" (either you get that reference or you don't). Anyway, my research tells me they're a New Wave band for all you genre freaks, but they have a jazzy or maybe a bit of an early ska feeling due to their repeated use of undeniably blissful horn solos.


Here are my top tracks, listed in order of essentialness:
1. Myself to Myself
2. Talk Dirty To Me (the song could be like a minute shorter with all its repititions, but it's still sassy and humorous and not obscene, if that's what you're getting at)
3. Never Say Never (the one that lead me to the album. It's still great, but too long to keep my attention)
4. Just Too Easy
5. A Girl In Trouble Is a Temporary Thing (this was another one of their hits. I like its core, but it doesn't sound as timeless as the others)
6. Wrap It Up (a slight rockabilly vibe on this one)
7. Chinatown (perhaps the sister to Siouxsie's "Hong Kong Garden")

A gender bender, blended

Our friends Mark and Aaron have insisted on the nickname "Kate" due to my wispy similarities to Kate Moss. Whatever. But last week when they were visiting from California, over Paul's home-cooked dinner al fresco, I was asked if I had to be a woman, who would I be? Well, you may find this shocking, but I didn't have a ready response. So I've thought about it for the past few days, and while I can't just name one I would be thrilled to have a Freaky Friday moment with, I managed to narrow it down to four.

This could have several alternate titles, as well. Such as: If you were to go Weird Science (in this case, Fag Hag Edition), who would it be? Another: The ideal woman I'd kill to co-parent with, or at minimum borrow some eggs. Here we go:


Clockwise from top right:
Catherine Keener: Confident, good-bitchy and love the smoky voice. No dainty flower; womanly, not girly.
Penelope Cruz: Mostly physical in reference. Lovely natural body, lovely Spanish complexion, graceful and lends a touch of the exotic.
Polly Jean Harvey: The polite Brit who can unleash fury when needed, and proves you don't have to be a freak to wade in dark waters. But also explorative, unfazed and pretty in a big-featured kind of way. Any musical talent would be very welcome!
Parker Posey: Oh, the funny girl next door...if your neighborhood's the West Village. Always makes me laugh. The consummate bohemian hip nerd.

Honorable mentions, for one reason or another: Amy Sedaris, Fiona Apple, Cindy Crawford, some righteous chick from the past. Others TBA.

Waterlogging

Fortunately, all my time wasn't spent in rural Indiana (no offense to my rural Indianan readers. Holla!). On Sunday afternoon, we returned to Chicago and hit up the Polish district for some breads, pre-made pierogi, kielbasa and pastries. It almost seemed like walking down a street in Krakow, as the vast majority of store signs and market items were in Polish, with Polska women over the PA system announcing the day's specials (or maybe they were informing customers that their pochwas itched, what do I know).

Him: There were just so many sausages in that market! I don't think I could ever get to tasting all of them.

Me: *Long stare to the back seat* I doubt that.

Afterwards, we met Jen's boyfriend's family on Diversey Harbor, located just north of downtown Chicago. They keep a boat there during the summer, so each dock just turns into a seasonal neighborhood lane. Luckily, it was a warm, sunny day and Lake Michigan was as calm as Paula Abdul on Vicodin. So we went for a cruise around Navy Pier, feeling like one of the beautiful people while the landlocked commoners looked on with envy.



After idling for a few minutes, we entered the locks to the Chicago River, and cut through downtown to the sounds of Frank Sinatra. The river traffic was almost non-existent, so we felt like kings and queens of the City that Blows.

And then there was Pam. I would describe her essence as a (more) energetic SJP who could do seamless voice work for Leah Remini, and with a splash of Elaine Benes for good measure. She was a total blast; energetic, eccentric and spontaneous. It's unfortunate we only have this photo of her on the camera, but hopefully we'll get to hang out some more next visit. She pitched a show idea to me with the working title "Dock D," so I'm considering writing a pilot. But honestly, she could easily have her own reality show because she's a go, go, go kinda girl. Even watching her mix drinks was riveting. Vive la Pam!


We returned to the dock at twilight and feasted on an awesome seafood grill, which included my first cut of the elusive Chilean Sea Bass.

The next morning we shot down to H&M and down came the rain. Just as well, as we had to get to the airport. But in order to retrieve our luggage, we had to walk about eight blocks from the train station to Jen's apartment. Note: Greater Chicago neighborhoods are not cab-friendly, especially during a torrential downpour.

In closing, I would like to issue an apology to Jennifer S. for clogging the toilet before I left. I had to leave everything mid-swirl, but I swear most the brown went down. It's just that I forget that antique toilets can't hold as much TP as my recent-edition crapper. I did what I could with some paper towels, but your brother was yelling at me to get in the cab. Now, if you had come back to drive us to the airport instead of staying at the golf course during what was an obvious all-day weather pattern, this crisis could have certainly been avoided. So actually it's your fault. The saddest part is that I had to say goodbye to your mom with these rushed parting words: "Have fun this week, we'll see you in a few days. And I clogged the toilet, so don't use it until Jen gets back, ok?" *Cab door slams shut*

Bridal Gives Back

I typed out an exhaustive (and rather witty) recap of my recent Midwest weekend, but didn't paste it into blogspot before I had a chance to save it. So now it's lost forever. Lucky break for you.

In essence, I visited Chicago/Indiana for Paul's cousin's wedding, who married a man originally from Crown Point, Ind.

Cousin Angela married into a Macedonian family (close to Greece geographically and culturally), so all sorts of traditions went into the wedding and reception. Of course, food, drink and music were the three major elements. This included the tradition of "Buying the Bride," where the groom and his gang encroach the bride's home and financially bribe but eventually storm the dwelling and seize the betrothed, who is hidden in a back room protected by her kin (that may be the gayest sentence I've ever written, and that's saying a lot). Let's just say Virginia Woolf would not be amused. As you can see, it all kind of looked and felt like a Publishers Clearing House commercial, as there were roughly 50 high-spirited people in the driveway.


After the bride was drug out (by her hair), she danced a pavement jig and headed off to the chapel for an Orthodox union. Festive music marked the entire day (Paul's sister Jennifer was a bridesmaid, so we were there from her updo to the last song), and I'm confident I've been exposed to enough Macedonian music to last me a solid decade or two. I would map it somewhere between Bollywood and Polka with a dash of Europop. I don't even want to YouTube an example; that's how averted I am right now. But let's turn our attention to how stunning Jennifer looked on this day:


It was all in good fun though. As someone who comes from a comparatively reserved Anglo background where weddings are quiet and often sterile affairs, it was a welcome shake-up.


Above: Tony (Jen's boyfriend), Rosario (Paul's mom) and moiself. Below: The bride and the gentlemen of the evening. I had an involuntary gay response when I dropped the regretful platitude, "You go, girl!" during this photo shoot.

Countless shades of Grey

September is a perfect month for a film like Grey Gardens. My first viewing was right before summer of last year, and I didn't initially take to it (ie. I fell asleep). But over a few days of watching and re-watching various scenes, I became a convert to the extremely weird yet totally relatable (for me) ways of Big and Little Edith Beale. After a couple of calls from the independent movie rental store asking me to return it, I purchased my own Criterion Collection copy and now regard it as the best film on family relationships I can think of. It's hilarious, tragic, largely indecipherable, escapist, a life lesson, a warning sign, and a tale of high society gone haywire. Here in the reel lies what happened to a dream deferred, even if that dream is as vague as the stream-of-conscious monologues and dialogues that a master screenwriter cannot and could not trump.

Shot during the early fall of 1973 (in the midst of my favorite decade of cinema), with that signature period cinematography, Grey Gardens documents the life of an aged, mostly immobile Edith Bouvier Beale and her middle-aged daughter, Edie. The Bouvier surname is not just a coincidence; they are the paternal aunt and cousin of Jackie O. Amongst the pristine summer homes, Grey Gardens is the dilapidated East Hampton estate reduced from its floral glory to ghastly overgrowth, and a sanitation nightmare municipally condemned. Feral cats roam the halls, raccoons have not only taken residence in the attic (and, eventually, the home itself), but are fed by Little Edie. "Mr. Beale" left sometime in the '30s or '40s, who really knows, and Edie compromised her imminent "big chance" (at 35, no less) in New York City to care for her mother. Fast-forward 20 years later and with no definable life of her own, and what's left is a former beauty who now traipses around in odd clothing and a stunted, if not regressive, emotional state. Big Edie's guilt trips, power trips and manipulation of sympathy and daughterly duty didn't exactly help the duo's current predicament. And though you want to venerate and excuse the defenses of an old woman, it's clear that this feline-lovin' matriarch is not. so. innocent.

The past has shifted into overdrive by the time the Maysles brothers show up to film, and Little Edie's ready to unleash her flirtatious knack for the absurd and eccentric. The female duo more talk at each other than to each other. Little Edie missed her "big chance" but boasts her return to an independent life; Big Edie's too old to care about life's regrets yet tries to save face by claiming her own marriage was a "terrible success." And that's just the top layer of the mold. With no objective voice to balance out the two, the film's mystery and appeal is that the past is only opinion, and these are two very opinionated characters. By making just enough sense in their fragmented banter, their world is whimsical yet jarringly realistic and, at times, completely heart-breaking.


The film really left me with a despairing feeling, but in the grand scheme Little Edie's life (she died in 2002) was not so bleak. Yes, she clearly missed the marriage and children boat, and all a Social Register life could provide (ie. graceful restraint, eccentric repression, adultery and alcoholism). But in exchange, Little Edie gained a cult following, became the subject of several tribute books and photo journals, and her makeshift style has been referenced in fashion spreads and designer collections. In addition, the family's story was the subject of a recent Broadway musical (which I regretfully missed) and an upcoming, big-name HBO film.

Though it may seem like I've said more than enough, there's always something more to be said about this film. If you want to get introduced to a great example of cinéma vérité, start with this movie before it, and its heroine, go (more) mainstream. Acknowledgment or not, any reality show junkie owes quite a lot to this film of a brilliant mess caught on camera.

Drill, Baby, Drill!

Just can't seem to get this chant (and image) outta my head. Go on witcho catchy sound byte-prone selves, RNC!

Sunday brunch banter

Him: This [live] lesbian acoustic jam is not getting me closer to fine.

--------------

Her: You remember Sonique, right? When her mom found out she was pregnant with her, she went on this drinking and smoking binge for like the first trimester to try to get rid of it...I mean Sonique's not mentally screwed up or anything, but she was like born with no teeth.

Him: Oh my God! No teeth?!

Him2: Well, most babies are born with no teeth.*

Him: Oh yeah! That's right, huh?

*I know, technically babies are born with unexposed teeth. And this footnote pretty much reveals me to be the speaker of this line.

A change is in the air

The latter half of Labor Day weekend served as a reminder that while warm days are not gone forever, they will increasingly become the exception, not the rule. In the meantime, our garden is producing a bounty of tomatoes and vegetables, and tell-tale signs of summer's end: the sunflowers are in full bloom and every night brings a cricket's symphony.


Luckily, last week Lucy and I spent some Q.T. wandering aimlessly in the backyard and soaking in the late August rays. Paul's done a bang-up job on the yard, and though it's hard to capture on camera, our recently created flower bed looks kind of like a vivid Mario Bros. 3 level: strange flora I've never before encountered--a bouquet of colors, textures and shapes. One in particular makes a great Asian-inspired hair accessory and you don't even have to pluck it from its 6-foot stalk:


I can't say I'm really looking forward to the change of seasons. I try to enjoy fall on its own merits, but ultimately it's just a reminder of the winters I find increasingly insufferable. I'll be flying solo for three total weeks during a one-month period, so maybe it's just that I'm not looking forward to transitioning into a, shall we say, introspective (and insular?) experience. My stagnant fall wardrobe probably has something to do with it as well. But any way you slice 'n dice it, my lil' autumnal ginger snap will be with her (second-favorite) daddy, taking time out to watch the sun set and keep on the lookout.

Fitting the bill

There is a supreme level of intellect on display in my work parking garage. Case in point:

Memory Lane Monday: Troll Mates

Growing up in a family where my only brother was a basketball star and my dad's hunting/fishing/drinking buddy, I didn't find it appropriate to ask for Barbies. But I did make up for lost time at my cousins' house in Bountiful, probably much to their bore. Like a fat kid at a pastry buffet, I had to stockpile my Barbie time to get me through the dry spells. Luckily, blocks and Matchbox cars kept me entertained until I returned to the glory of the miniature fashions, the be-spackled Barbie motorhome and the teal '57 Chevy.

I did, however, try to abide my Barbie longing by, shall we say, more gender-neutral substitutes. Like Trolls (insert laughter sound byte here). I was a fairly worldly child-- interested in other cultures, languages and, of course, ethnic costume. So when I started collecting Around the World Trolls (to loosely correspond to my rival collection of mini flags of many nations), I found the perfect symbolic fusion of diversity and unisexual normalcy (again with the sound byte).

I kind of repressed, er, forgot about my 15 trolls that I shoved in a shoe box and buried in the closet when I hit junior high. This was until mother dropped off my Rubbermaid-encased childhood a few weeks ago (her 6-bedroom, childless home just didn't have room). I was pruning the excess memorabilia yesterday and there they were. I adorned the box with colored markers, listing each Troll's origin, lest I forget.

As I was finishing up my organizing, The Olympic closing ceremony was just beginning upstairs. Paul and I clocked in some record Olympic viewing this year (we calculated it at around 40 total hours), and I thought, "What a fitting tribute to a briefly unified world celebrating our similarities. Here I am, 15 years later on the other side of shame...that's it, you're making your comeback, Trollies!"

I headed upstairs and staged the Trolls atop our wine cabinet. I had to do a little primping, but the Trolls were essentially in mint condition. Paul and Billy walked in just as I was putting the finishing touch on placements, and of course found another source of mockery which I clearly anticipated and totally welcomed.


But I can take it now. My Trolls were, are and always will be with me. They've weathered shame, denial and outright neglect. But they'll always be in that shoe box (I put them back before bed) with a friendly smirk, over-processed and extremely dry hair and their trademark jewel bellies.

And that comforts me.

Separated at birth

I love the boundlessly talented Tracey Ullman. I love her Tracey Takes On character Linda Granger, the has-been network star of "VIP Lounge" and recovering alcoholic, sexaholic and cult gay idol. She's 100% glamorous, and her twin happens to be my eldest sister, Holly.

The gift that gift gave

Ok. Fine. I'll just admit it. I was a gifted child.

I don't talk much about it because there are only a few gifted children born every generation. Plus it makes ungifted people feel awkward and treat you like a freak even though it's masked gift envy.

As far as my mom's concerned, I was always gifted. But I do remember at about age 4, I recognized the gift. It didn't come in ribbons or bows; gifted people are able to see beyond the tangent obvious. Often what separates ungifted from the gifted is the gift of abstraction. It was definitely a figurative gift. A Child of God? I pondered the (unlikely) theological possibility at like age 6. But definitely a Child of Gift.


Through brief empirical observation, I concluded I was the only gifted child around in small-town Utah. I then used my exceptionally developed aptitude for a priori reasoning to speculate that I may be the only gifted child in America. I definitely sensed there were Japanese and Korean children of gifted extraction. But they attended school like 13 hours a day, so in the end it was probably hard to distinguish the gifteds from the hard workers.

Then in 2nd grade my mom volunteered to lead a group called Odyssey of the Mind. Turned out, there were like 8 gifted children in my class alone, which is extremely unusual to have such a concentration of gift in the same topographical region. They (the Gift Guiders) would separate us an hour a week and we would outperform each other with crosswords, cryptograms, deductive reasoning puzzles and trying to get objects disentangled by using our advanced sense of geometry and spatial reasoning. Another activity involved ping pong balls too, but I don't remember the specifics. I think I was too gifted to actually waste energy excelling at that particular "challenge."

After an hour of touching the gift (that's the day single, 30ish but oddly-living-in-a-small-town Mr. Brown subbed), we would return to the normal class and breeze through rudimentary spelling exercises, laughable times tables and your run-of-the-mill art projects that would consume those without gift.

Of course, gifted children turn into gifted adults, with or without the capitalistic education model formality (though I did go on to excel in college, my gift wasn't recognized by the Ivy League. But I've come to understand their Myopic predisposition). These days, I've learned to relate on a surface level with the non-gifted.

And see, you probably didn't even notice (though I'm sure in some ungifted way, you did).

Let's keep it in the closet

Last week I celebrated my 26th birthday. Not a particular milestone year, but it was a nice, relaxed multi-day proceeding (are there any other kind?). Yes, I am on the backslide of my 20s, but I think 27 sounds a lot worse (no offense).

Paul had been holding out on me as to what my gift would be. All I knew was that I was going to receive it a few days before the big day, which of course sent my mind reeling. I had limited it down to either a DVR instillation or a second dog. Of course, the latter would probably be a Paul present rather than mine.

I came home from work one evening and the doorway to our dining room --which really is a transformed second bedroom (and also known as the room that contains my closet)-- was wrapped like so...


Of course it still didn't occur to me after unwrapping the door, but then it finally clicked. It was a new, professionally-installed closet to hold all my deeply discounted (but still brand name) fashions. Anyone who has been on our home tour knows my disdain for the post-War tiny closets. Carrie Bradshaw would have a coronary, while I was just bugged by the single, 3-foot rod spanning the closet. Such wardrobe management inefficiency! But now, thanks to my darling darling, it now looks something like this:

Ooh!

Ahh!

Mmm-hmm!

We celebrated the actual day (ok it was Sat. Aug. 2; apparently I'm very good at slipping in my birthday into everyday conversation) with a small-gathering, predictably delicious lunch al fresco courtesy of Paul, followed by a wonderful lemon tres-leches cake with caramel layer (per my request). Yes, that's a 3 candle from Paul's 30th birthday earlier this year, but the deliciousness more than made up for that particular oversight (also, my cheek looks fat but it's just air).


We then proceeded to an evening wedding and bountiful reception, then wrapped up the night with some drinks at home before transitioning to an unfortunate hour at a dance club.

All in all, a varied fun day.

If ever a truth was told...

This past Sunday afternoon was bliss.

Mr. Cumy? Is there a Mr. Cumy? Your Swiss ball is now ready

Either Gold's Gym billing department is dense, my "member advisor" cannot write legibly, or everyone just has a sense of humor.


But you can imagine how two r's written in succession and closed up by the y could produce a last name like Cumy. Right?


I thought about calling up to, er, rectify the problem, but then realized what the imagined conversation would sound like. I then decided it was just best for a blog post. I'm just glad they didn't leave the n out of my first name. Now THAT would be one for the books.

Running for office

In my down time I like to impose my face on images of Stranger's with Candy's Jerri Blank, played by the brilliant Amy Sedaris. Anyone who knows a thing about me knows that I love the short-lived show (the movie? Another matter), and I incorporate Jerrisms into my daily life with somewhat similar, er, flair. I'd take the opportunity to quote but some people wouldn't appreciate it anyway, even when taken in context and with imagined Jerri delivery. My love of Strangers with Candy is at least a very lengthy blog post unto itself. But let's get to the repugnance:



While I'm by no means a master touch-up artist (I had to convert this to grayscale because of skin color mismatching, after all), I still am equally parts pleased and disturbed that I can create some semblance of such a hideous, yet strangely relatable, character. Plus, we could all use a dose of Jerri-tics after the past eight years.

They're called SUBtitles for a reason

I enjoy a good foreign film every now and then. But since I'm not fluent in any particular language, subtitles are my savior.

Recently, a coworker enthusiastically recommended I read "The Kite Runner," so naturally I picked up the motion picture adaptation at Blockbuster. We only got about 15 minutes in before turning it off. Offensive language? No. Gratuitous sex scenes? Please. Bad acting? Hardly. The subtitles were written in a thin, pale yellow font laid over the scenes. And considering it's a movie partly based in the Persian desert...well, you can understand my frustration. The following doesn't come close to a prime example, but it's the only screen cap I could find in an online pinch. I present to the jury Figure 1 of 1:




Paul and I tried our best to decipher lemon chiffon key dialogue laid over sand hills, pale tablecloths, crisp white shirts...all further complicated by a moving camera. But after squinting and piecing together the broken text for what I consider a reasonable amount of time, I had to return to the DVD's setup menu and see if there was an English-dubbed version. Nope. Well there's a waste of 4 dollars and a movie I would have otherwise found culturally enlightening.

This kind of carelessness maddens me to no end. And I'm watching it on a larger high-definition TV with a contact prescription I had updated two months ago, so it's not my eyesight. Can the DVD authors, the producer, the director, the intern, maybe watch 5 minutes of it to see if the text is decipherable to the average U.S. American? No? Well then here's what you do:

As with most films these days, the movie's presented in widescreen. Thus, large spans of black emptiness frame both the top and bottom of the picture eager for a purpose. I believe it's actually called letterbox. The name seems apropos, so let's go ahead and put the text there. That way, the dialogue is clearly legible. And with the exception of black, you can present text in any color of the rainbow. Switch up the colors, play with fonts, all caps, no caps, whatever. Plus it makes your movie look prettier with text-free frames. It's really a win-win for all involved.

For directors who've anticipated the audience's need to understand the movie through dialogue and have formatted the text accordingly, thank you! I'm going to start keeping a list of offenders, though. Don't make it any harder than it has to be for Americans to experience cultural diversity through film.

So, I guess this means I'll have to read the book now.

Each song does not correspond to a desire

Must-have album: Suzanne Vega, Nine Objects of Desire (1996)



Luka stopped being used as a human punching bag and decided to take the sonic high road. This is a great New York '90s record with an air of French sophistication. You may have heard the third track "Caramel" during the dessert-eating scene of "The Truth About Cats and Dogs" (yay) and it was also used in promos for the pretentious drivel that was "Closer" (yuck).

In what was the probably the height of my guarded female singer/songwriter obsession, I cherry-picked this album at Media Play (time warp for a second there) on my 15th birthday after seeing Ms. Vega perform on The Rosie O'Donnell Show (back when she wasn't a hyper-sensitive hose beast). Anyway, Nine Objects has a signature, slightly kooky but smart sound thanks to producer (and Suzanne's then-husband) Mitchell Froom, except for two acoustic-driven tracks. SV's reedy voice remains characteristically smooth and calm throughout, but still emotive, and the lyrics are expertly-conceived and don't require a metaphorical compass to decipher. The end result is nicely gelled pleasure that doesn't stay too long (every song is in the 2-3 minute range), so just hit play and you've got a great soundtrack for making good food, eating good food, or for simply feeling urbanistic in an otherwise anonymous neighborhood.

I tend to get blissters

Buggin' phrase: "Find/Follow Your Bliss!"

Offenders: Condescending celebrities, innately unhappy people.

A blog by any other name wouldn't smell as sweet

Since I've recently speculated and subsequently confirmed I don't have much to do during my single life time (roughly 9:30 to 11:00 weeknights), and lately said time has been spent half-engaging familiar Seinfeld reruns while half-heartedly playing laptop solitaire and simultaneously skimming obscure Wikipedia entries, I've decided it's time for an Idle to Give Back (exactly like when they use a movie's title in character dialogue and you think, "Wow, I so get it now! The movie's called 'Sick of Killing Time,' and the character just said she was sick of killing time!")

P.S. I already sorta kinda had a blog on MySpace which I made private for no valid reason (I reported about one friend request a quarter, to give you an idea of my rampant popularity). So depending on how I feel, I may just do the old switcheroo (damn those Seinfeld reruns) and post an old blog. Not that you'll be able to tell the difference.

According to recent global scientific population studies, there are roughly 8.4 billion registered blogs and only 3.9 billion online users, so you may be asking yourself: "Other than my own uninspired life and voyeuristic tendencies, why should I commit to typing in 'Idl' every hour/day/week, having my URL box populate accordingly and hitting return?"

Well, three reasons:

A) Just check in once a week for now; hourly would scare me if I came to find out. As long as we're on the subject, I'd prefer if you dropped in Wednesdays before midnight.

2) This site is primarily for my extremely skewed and often unrecognizable recap of events, so I likely won't link every minute reference for your cultural convenience. That's not to say I won't have occasional tidal waves of inadequacy and self-doubt if you don't comment in a thoughtful way that doesn't compel me to respond to reader questions. So on that note, please keep all questions rhetorical in nature.

and, C) Because, trust me, you aren't going to find too many 20-something committed non-Mormon openly gay men from Utah who have an Irish Terrier to make up for the fact that they have no real distinguishing factors themselves other than being a 20-something committed non-Mormon openly gay man from Utah.

If I develop a following, and by this prodigious start I most certainly will, I might suggest Idle Worshippers as a fun, catchy and conformist moniker. Think about it.