Menage a Tois Mis en Scene

So, I totally know about Skinemax, soft core flesh flicks to while the late-night hours away -- why do you think my roommate and I had premium cable channels in college?

But I didn't realize that HBO had jumped on the everything-but-the-creamy-center bandwagon. At least not until this morning, at 2AM, when I was flipping through channels looking for some sort of eighties comedy travesty to lull me to sleep.

Click, some weird british film with a scrappy woman doing a dance.
Click, Skeleton Key, starring Goldie Hawn's mini me, Kate Hudson.
Click, two plastic looking women soaping up each other's naked bodies and moaning.

Whoa. What is this? Passionless girl-on-girl action?

Well, perhaps it's worth investigating.

Turns out, it was an absolute gem of a film. The description, from HBO's Web site:

A prehistoric cavegirl with a penchant for passion finds pleasure in the company of archeologists when she is accidentally transported to the future. Cavegirl Tara leaves her lover Tiko behind when she is warped to modern times via a black hole. When several attractive archeologists find their sexy discovery, passion ensues...and escalates when lustful Tiko makes his way through the black hole as well!

The description, I must say, does not do it justice.

The black hole? Actually a poor CG of a big circle pasted on the picture.

I missed the transport of Tara, the cavegirl, into the future. The scene I stumbled upon was, I guess, the part where the archeologist's girlfriend cleans Tara up in the bathtub, with her tounge. But I did see when Tiko made the leap. He was giant and hairless with huge pecs and long highlighted hair. He was wearing a loincloth and ugh boots. He saw the giant cg circle in the sky and leapt for it.

Then he landed in the future and grunted about. He leaned down, tasted the dirt, and announced, "Tire tracks."

Seriously. Why do they even bother? Does it become more titilating (pardon the turn of phrase)if you half-ass a plot? Or is it for comedy value?

Because it was really, really funny.

And possibly one of the more lonely moments in my life, as I had absolutely no one to riff on it with me.

But, back to the important parts -- so, the archeologists get together and set up their TRS 80 (OUR EQUIPMENT. FOR OUR EXPERIMENTS) in the living room and tell their wives not to disturb them under any circumstances. So the one wife turns to the other wife.

Wife one: "So. What should we do?"
Wife two: "Want to see my new nightie?"

Awesome!

Then the Bikini Cavegirl came downstairs, all clean, with her tats sticking out of her dress.
Wife one: So, this is your cavegirl, eh?
Wife two: Yeah.
Cavegirl: You smell like a summer breeze!
Wife one: Is she calling me a douchebag??

This is amazing writing, people.

Then Tiko the caveman showed up and there were various threesomes in various combinations and various cries of "WOW! AMAZING! PREHISTORIC!"

And then I went to sleep.

So, the point of my story? I just thought you might want to know the keywords to enter into your Tivo.

Johnny: All Class

Me: Don't forget you're my date this weekend to Casey's wedding.
Johnny: Right.
Me: Casey says you have to shower.
Johnny: There will be liquor at this wedding, right?
Me: Are you kidding? It's an Irish/Indian wedding! It's gonna be awesome!
Johnny: That's dot, not feather, right?
Me: . . .
Me: . . .
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (ad infinitum)

and, scene.

Fucking hot.

Fucking hot.
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

Q: What to do when the heat at Ravinia is all fierce and ready to melt your sweet cool core and create a supernova puddle of boiling former person?


A: Use ingenuity! And sheer brilliance! And child-like wonder! And a blanked and some foldy chairs to make your very own sun tent! Clearly, the sun tent has the ability to transform E into the picture of happiness.

Let's Pet Some Motherfucking Puppies

jailed
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

My adorable, boulder-climbing sister Rachel arrived in Chicago from New Mexico on Monday. I picked her up from the airport at noonish.

We ate some soup.

Me: What do you want to do?
Che (my nickname for her): I dunno. Whatever.
Me: Want to go pet some puppies?
Che: Totally.

Everyone, enjoy our outing to Let's Pet Puppies!

Gateway Drugs

Firstly, in praise of the single life, I must say this: I don't have to ask anyone before I make what some would consider a fiscally irresponsible decision.

No one will say to me, "Just because it's half off doesn't mean you have to buy it."

The people who would say that to me, by the way, wouldn't necessarily be in the know. Because it's not just any bargain. It's half-off MARC JACOBS. People, it's half off THIS SEASON MARC JACOBS.

No, wait -- it's half-off-butter-yellow-smoot-as-a-baby's-sweet-pink-bottom leather. It's luxury incarnate. It carries your wallet, your cell phone, your little packet of travel size cosmetics, and an immeasurable amount of holy-fuck-that's-a-gorgeous-Marc-Jacobs-bag STATUS.

I blame the handbag girls. More than anything, I blame the fact that I am back to let's-go-shopping-at-lunchtime agency life. I blame the Kenneth Cole bags, the Coach wristlets, the Furla bag, the Cole Haan bag, the same way junkies everywhere blame that first cigarette, that sweet deep haze of burbon, that exhilarating snort of coke for their eventual heroin-cooking habits.

I talked to the dealer.

I wasn't, it's true, in a nightclub restroom on the dirty floor, I wasn't crouched in the back bedroom of a dark, dank, electricity-free crack house with human feces rotting in the corner.

I was, in fact, in a well-lit, clean, handbag department at Nordstrom, and my dealer was a young man named, improbably, Cliff Countryman.

I know this because when he agreed to put the potentially dangerous dose of handbaggage on hold for me, he gave me his card. He said, "You'll want to call me by the end of the day. This won't be on hold forever."

He said, "You don't find Marc Jacobs half off. Like, ever."

My friends, my Countryman, I'm finding myself drawn, inexorably, into the rabbit hole, beyond the point of no return.

Or, in this case, no returns.

My credit-card hand is twitching above my wallet, Nordstrom is wafting the sweet scent of Italian leather into my office, all of it saying, come back, own me, carry me.

I am a classic.

And just because it's half off. . .

Fuck it. I'll just do it this once.

I'm sure I can stop anytime.

SHOWTIME! You bastard.

Showtime just somehow made me catch this movie, again. Seriously, it's a terrible film.

But it is full of fascinating things, including:
- Elle MacPherson wearing that hat she seemed to have on in all her film roles from the nineties.
- Sarah Jessica Parker and Elle both make out with a totally ugly dude with the gayest haircut ever. (And, oh, sweet jesus. Click if you dare.) Apologies to my gay friends. I know that a self-respecting gay man would never butcher his head like that.
- There is a teeny-tiny-baby Scarlet Johansson sucking on a lollypop suggestively, interacting cutely with a vaguely funny, poorly coiffed Ben Stiller (inexplicably named "Bwick").
-Predictably, the only one who comes out unscathed, here, is SJP. She is not a style victim, even when she wears the little blue dress with black opaque tights and big chunky black shoes, a'la Sleater Kinney circa 1996. That's classic, though. Seriously.