Seattle, Baby

DSC_0050
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

Annevan and I have set our sights on Seattle, where it is already Autumn, all crisp sunshine and gorgeous sweet hay and pine-filled air.

We are visiting a boy named Max.

This picture? Not of Max.

This picture is of Nicholas Beach, who we met at a cafe while we were eating crab- and mushroom-filled omlettes and generally acting goofy.

Together Anne and I become more than the sum of our parts, some kind of endlessly gregarious dynamic duo who make friends wherever we go.

Nicholas was rockin' his second day on the job yesterday, and we salute him and his sassy customer service style.



Anne: Just some constructive criticism?
Nicholas: (skeptical) um, yeah?
Anne: Bring a pen with the check.
Nicholas: . . .
Anne: I'm just sayin'.

Nicholas mistook us for local drama scene divas.

Not so much. See his perfect teeth? He's totally an actor.

Anne says, "Seattle totally wants us to move here, so they can hang out with us all the time."

I totally agree.

Gotta go, there's a baby that needs to be played with.

Max:

HP Movie Review: The Curve

When I was in college, I spent one summer interning for the local public radio station in my hometown in Southern Indiana. I reported directly to the news director. She was not only the news director; she was also the reporting staff, the editor, and the host of Morning Edition. What I’m getting at, here, is that it was a skeletal staff. So, pretty much as soon as I established myself as capable of forming sentences and otherwise trustworthy with a microphone and tape recorder, I was out doing stories and soon was filling in as a part-time radio host.

It was a pretty cool thing for a twenty-nothing semi-slacker.

Anyhow, there were several sort of generally malaised dudes that worked there, the type of guys who have vague ambitions of being “in radio” but no real motivation to actually do that much. The type of guys who like to talk a lot about how undervalued they are as a way to justify spending most of their days on the dial-up Internet (hey – it was the nineties) researching conspiracy theories.

I loved those guys. They would give me cigarettes and we would sit on the back steps of the big old dilapidated mansion that served as the public radio and TV station HQ and they would tell me all about the in-depth serial killer biographies they were reading. At the time, Andrew Cunanan had just terrorized gay clubs across the country in his manic pursuit of Gianni Versace, probably pissed at all those loud patterns.

(No? Nothing? Too soon? Eh, I digress.)

So, I was just thinking of this period in my life as I nursed my hangover this weekend to the sweet sound of bullshit b movies on tv. As I stumbled through the channels seeking something that would not over stimulate my neurons (fucking electrical activity, ouch), I came upon The Curve (curiously mislabeled on IMDB -- as if they can't even bother with it), an early production of MTV’s stint in movie-making.

This is an exceptionally bad film, starring Felicity during the height of her career, before she gave herself a much-needed haircut and got rid of some of those cascades of butt-ugly dirty blonde curls.

Basically, the movie is about a couple of guys who conspire to kill their roommate and make it look like a suicide so they can get an automatic 4.0 for the semester.

And the way I weave all this rambling together is by saying that when this movie came out, it seriously ticked off one of these cigarette-toting radio dudes. Apparently, he had written a script based upon this very premise! And now? Someone else? RIPPING HIM OFF.

Me: Did you actually try to sell your script to someone?
Cigarette-Toting Radio Dude: Well, I talked about it.
Me: So, like, you didn’t send it out?
CTRD: Well, I might have, when it was done?
Me: You didn’t finish it?
CTRD: Well, I didn’t really write it.
Me: Huh.

We smoked together on the steps in the waning sunlight and I imagined him, holed up in his dreary basement apartment in Southern Indiana, smoking pot, watching TV, and dreaming up film premises.

And, having finally seen this film, I just want to say, maybe it’s better that he didn’t get credit for the genesis of this idea. Because it was total crap.

Good Night, Sweet Prince.

I have to say, it isn't shocking that Steve Irwin is dead at the tender age of 44.

When you were the guy who popularized the term "Crikey,", someone's bound to stab you in the chest with a stingray.

Defending Flatland

The US Army today announced that they have discovered yet another way to declare the worth of the human lives they send off as cannon fodder -- taking a page from flim studio marketers, it's FLAT DADDY!

I'm not sure who thought of this idea, but, wow.

This choice bit of journalism is especially compelling:

‘‘Any time I get invited somewhere, I take it with me,’’ she said. And the gynecologist? ‘‘He just thought it was really neat,’’ she said.

I'm imagining the dialogue:
Sweet War Wife: Aw, well, yeah, we miss daddy, but we take flat daddy with us everywhere!
Smarmy Reporter: Oh? . . . (insert lecherous pause here) . . . even to the. . . GYNOCOLOGIST??
Sweet War Wife: (without missing a beat) He just thought it was really neat!
Smarmy Reporter: (Sketching his version of the scene in his reporter's notebook) That's SO NICE! So. . . does Flat Daddy. . . vibrate?
Sweet War Wife: What?
Smarmy Reporter: Nevermind.

The thing is, from there, the article takes an even more sinister turn:

Despite his anger at his father, Kevin was able to relate to the life-sized likeness, Sherri Fish said. ‘‘He’d sit at the end of his bed and tell him what went on at school that day,’’ she said.

Even after Richard Fish returned home last October, Kevin continued talking to Flat Daddy while his father was at work, she said.

Later, when the dog was found vivisected in the woods, Kevin insisted he had nothing to do with it. "It was Flat Daddy! I begged him not to do it, but he said it had to be done!"

Is it wrong to get weepy about a hyperlink?

Seriously, y'all. I don't yet have my own Wikipedia entry, but the Career Women piece is linked to from that scourge Michael Noer's entry.

Someday. . . .

I've got space dementia!!

You live life only once, you know, so it's important to take every opportunity to enjoy the little things.

Just like that whimsical moment in Amelie when the eponymous Amelie looks all adorable and dimpled and sweet because she's enjoying simple tactile pleasures like sinking her sweet little adorable fingers into a big barrel of dried beans or quirkily delighting in a fly on a movie screen:



Well, you may be saying to yourself, that would be the entire treacly expanse of the film, and you would be totally right. But, still.

One of my great simple pleasures in life, aside from the warm toasty smell of fresh coffee in the morning and the smooth embrace of expensive sheets at night, is the butterscotch stallion.

I just look at Owen Wilson and it makes me laugh. He is reason alone to have Tivo. Delightfully, Tivo knows all kinds of weird, not-Owen-Wilson-vehicle films in which Owen Wilson plays a small part.

Those are staples of the many b-movie channels that crowd the cable lineup.

One of those many great films is Armegeddon. Perhaps you've seen it.

Many people have. Because it was a big blockbuster vehicle for everyone's favorite bald savior of the universe and father of a teenaged girl named Rumer (insert pithy teens-and-rumors-comment here), Bruce Willis.

It's a very important film.

It explores themes of manhood, class, and asteriods.

Ben (father of Violet) Affleck plays the young cowboy oil driller, A.J. He's constanly running off at the mouth and taking crazy risks, and pissing off Harry, played by Bruce Willis, who really flexes his cocky-eyebrow-raising-muscles throughout the film.

There are lots of amazing moments, one of which is when Steve Buscemi starts to get a little nuts while he's on the asteroid, and the NASA pilot says, "HE'S GOT SPACE DEMENTIA!" And they have to wrestle him to the ground.

I first saw this movie with my mother, in a crowded theater in Southern Indiana.

We almost got beaten up, because we giggled uncontrollably the entire time.

We totally blamed it on space dementia.

It's still one of my favorite self-diagnoses.

Feeling cranky? Blame it on the Space Dementia.

Pissing people off? Space Dementia. Not my fault.

Writing long boring rambling blog posts? Sorry. Space Dementia.

Breaking News: Moronic Edition!

I came across this article recently, while I was on one of my many recent pilgrimages to Southern Indiana.

It wasn’t so much as I was browsing through the Evansville Courier and Press as I just picked up the front page. This was the main lead story at the same time that the supreme court was ruling the Bush wiretapping snafu illegal, the same time that Lebanon was getting pounded into the ground by Israel, the same time that – well, right, you get the picture.

This article shared the front page with another article about local dogs being euthanized and, I think, something about the local high school cafeterias.

I really love a lot of things about this hard-hitting news piece. For example:

Early Monday, the toilet paper (TP) vandals struck again

.

Just in case you aren’t familiar with the vernacular, y’all, TP is short for TOILET PAPER. If you missed that, you may be befuddled throughout the rest of the article. In that case, there is nothing I can do for you.

Complaints about TPing are "few and far between," said Williams. "We do get them periodically, but a lot of times people don't report them because they know it's been done by friends of their kids," he said.

Basically, according to law enforcement, this issue isn’t really an issue. And yet, the article? Goes on.

"And they are obviously not cheap," she said, holding up an empty bag of Quilted Northern, purchased at Schnucks.

Obviously. Only the best toilet paper (TP) for this particular job. If you would like to purchase your own. . . wait a minute. How did she know IT WAS PURCHASED AT SCHNUCKS? I smell a rat.

Although a popular TP cleanup technique, Williams warns people not to light toilet paper on fire to get it out of trees and shrubs.
"I've heard stories about people catching more on fire than they intended," he said.

Ha. Hm. Ha. HA. HAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAAAAA!

The crazy thing is, Evansville, Indiana isn’t a tiny town. It’s not a big city, but it isn’t Mayberry, either. And the locals don’t like that implication. They’re kind of defensive that way. But crap like this is where Americans get the reputation of being absolutely insular, completely blind to what’s going on in the world.

It’s silly, it’s shameful, and, I think, irresponsible to allow the focus of your newspaper to become so pedantic.

But, I digress. Let's get back to the important thing, making fun. Check out this poll:

How much toilet paper does it take to properly TP a two-story home?
8
12
24
More!
None, it's vandalism!

Y’all! “More!” just barely beat out “None, it’s vandalism!” Power to the people!

I hearby nominate this article for Gawker's prestigious Great Moments in Journalism award.

HP Reviews: The Illusionist

The film is a rousing mystery period film, full of . . .okay, no. This film is just arousing.

So, right, this movie is all about Edward Norton sporting some finely tailored suits and shiny, shiny shoes. Lots of dramatically lowered, black-bearded chin, brown laser eyes shooting sexy thousand-mile stares with deadly frequency. Lots of gas firelight throwing dramatic sepia-toned shadows on his sexily-exposed forearms jutting from rolled-up sleeves.

The other thing the movie is about is Jessica Biel, and the best review I can possibly give her is that I did not once think of her as the wayward oldest daughter of a preacher, Mary Camden. Girl looked really gooood.

My movie review of the Illusionist, in ten words: Edward Norton, come down off that screen and date me.

This was also my original review of Fight Club. Of course, Ed and I had a total falling out when I felt like he was being pretentious and long-winded, well, almost always.

But, damn, that man.

I cannot resist him.

He must be magic.

LOOK AT ME (no, don't look at me)

Today, following the popularity of my dashed-out photo essay, I watched the stats to my little blog explode. Suddenly, instead off the thirty of you who read this here navel-gazer there were ten thousand people.

I felt a little bit of vertigo while I stared at the lists of domain names -- among the ubiquitous comcasts and rrs, there were NASAs and Cornells and Harvards and Yales and Princetons. There were government people and media people and people with boring jobs who have time to click on things that make them snicker.

All of a sudden I felt just like an obnoxious little girl who has been jumping around in her favorite ruffled party dress and glittery shiny patent leather maryjanes screaming LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME MOM MOM MOMOMOMOMOMOMOM LOOK! and then, suddenly, a curtain raises and there are ten thousand people looking at you. (Including my mom -- hey mom! -- who thinks everything I write is brilliant. So, like, no pressure there.)

Come to think of it, it's kind of like when Cindy went on that quizbowl show. She was all cocky and braggarty about it until that made-from-cardboard looking camera flashed that red I'M ON light and she totally froze.

Then I went to bed last night and dreamed I was at a party with several Chicago bloggers -- that is, people who have blogs I read but not people I know in person. Which may make this like some kind of psuedo-celebrity dream, or just some sort of subconscious stalking. Erin Lady Byrne invited me to come to dinner with Poundy and Drunken Bee. Mimi Smartypants was there, too. It was a grand time, there were other people there who treated me nicely and I had only slight dreamtime social anxiety about the whole ordeal. I was a little perplexed, though, at their choice of venue, it was a Texas Roadhouse, and there were peanut shells everywhere and we all sat at long, picnic-table-type tables with big mugs o' frosty beer.

I woke up deriding myself for being such a goddamn Internet geek that I would seriously actually have a dream about meeting bloggers.

Even though, like, it would be so dreamy.
Oh, God. I've said too much.

America, Fuck Yeah

Thanks so much to Gawker (I'm sorry I said you were over), and Gapers Block (I love you always) for giving my cathartic top nine list a shout out! Also: Feministe!

Um. . . and. . . Slate! Hey everybody! Wow and stuff!

A Slideshow Of My Own

Disappointed in myself for taking the recent misogynist pap published in Forbes so seriously, I have decided, upon some thought, to publish my own photo essay: Nine Reasons You Should Marry a Career Bitch. Enjoy:

1. She won’t be so clingy if she got something to do. I think this is pretty self-explanatory – send her to the office all day, let her feel important, and she won’t be interrupting you every five minutes with needy whining because she’s bored at home. “Wah, I need to talk to an adult, Wah, I need a raise in my allowance to buy shoes, wahhhhh, pick up the drycleaning on the way home.” Useless.



2. She’ll end up with a major guilt complex. Lisen. Even if she is making more than you, no one has to know it. You can take those checks, buy yourself some golf clubs, and exploit her sense of guilt about not being around for her kids to ensure that she’ll spend the whole weekend with them, cleaning the house, and crying on the phone to her mom instead of nagging you to clean out the garage. The result? Tee time, baby.



3. She’s more likely to order pizza. And let’s face it. You married her for her ass, not her cooking skills. Bring on the pepperoni, baby.




4. She’s less likely to turn your son into a sissy mama’s boy. And that kid is never going to be on the varsity team if he’s still on your stay-at-home wife’s apron strings. Sticking him in daycare gives him a chance to get some guts, so what if the other kids are beating him up, gives him goddamn character. You know what happens to sissy boys. They take theater class in high school and they end up light in their loafers.



5. She’s less likely to make your baby girl into a tragic mess. Women who work have way fewer hours to enter their children in little girl beauty pageants, harping in their weight and various imagined shortcomings, and ultimately turning her into a possible sociopath who is going to end up being one of “those girls” in high school, possibly marring your reputation in the community, or, even worse, banging one of your buddies.




6. She will be more likely to wear high heels. Women who stay at home let themselves go. No sooner are you married than your woman is lying around the house all day in sweatpants and dirty socks. Want a woman to keep wearing those hot black hose and stilettos – send her to the office.



7. She’s less likely to question your “business trips,” if you know what I mean. All you have to do is say, “Baby, you’re a career woman, you know what this is all about.”




8. You might be the one to get something out of the divorce. Hey, if she's making more than you, YOU could be the guy living on alimony. Sweet.


9. She won’t notice you’re a douchebag. She will be too tired from trying to do everything, and deal with you, that she won’t have any time left to notice that she's married an asshole.

Forbes, you stupid fucks.

This . . . article . . .

Yes, it's likely that marriages where both spouses are career-oriented are likely to encounter rough patches. Is this because careerwomen are essentially not "marriage material?" (Please note that particular sentence was dripping with sarcasm, so don't take too long pondering the answer.)

Careers are time-intensive. Marriages are time-intensive . Understandably, two-career marriages are a huge challenge. Is that because of women?

No. That's because of human nature.

Look -- There are just so many common sense criticisms you can make to an article that, quite seriously, lists "9 reasons not to marry a careerwoman" -- but, to me, it just gives yet another excuse for people who are like my sexist asshole ex-boss to denegrate women in the workplace.

This type of tone -- the idea, even, that this type of tone is acceptable for mainstream business press is horrific -- and unbelievably sexist. And disappointing and hurtful. And sad.

And note to self -- don't marry a man with a subscription to Forbes.

Stupid fucks.

I really want this.

A little something for everyone.

Wow. Television is so full of riches. I just made a most incredible discovery. Who Wants To Be A Superhero?

It's just like a regular reality show, only all the contestants wear bizarre superhero outfits. They refer to to each other by their superhero names -- including "Major Victory" and "Fat Momma."

There is a super villian named "Dark enforcer."

The elimination involves a big oscar-the-grouch style trash can.


I just. . . I can't. . . I want. . . Just. . . Look.

Dorks.

Look! I'm Putting Something Up Here!

First off, "Scientists invent sodomite robot?" EFF YEAH!


Okay, now, some tidbits:

I took a knife skills class last night from a local cooking school. Where you stand around with other yuppies and try out various fabulously sharp, expensive knives and chop things! I chatted pleasantly with some of my fellow class-goers, and was slightly disappointed that no one laughed when I referred to my knife as "A pretty good shank."

They just looked at me blankly and nodded.

I also got overenthusiastic and took a chunk out of my fingernail. The instructor chirped cheerfully, "That's what fingernails are for!"

Thanks.

I had an awkward job interview, pushed on me by an overenthusiastic recruiter. The job was a Power Job. A Director of North American Stuff for a Huge Fortune Five Hundred Company in the Suburbs. That would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.

A job that there is no way in God's sweet heaven I would want, much less really be truly qualified for.

Me to recruiter: Um, yeah, I have heard bad things about the corporate culture at Big Fortune Five Hundred Company.
Recruiter: YOU NEVER KNOW UNTIL YOU TALK TO THEM! IT COULD BE AWWWWESOME!
Me to recruiter: I'm kind of happy where I am.
Recruiter: YOU GOTTA GO FOR THIS IT IS AWESOME!

Did I mention that the recruiter also told me that the hiring manager for this job was going "under the radar" by hiring a recruiter in the first place, because she was "bypassing HR?"

Those who know me know I'm leery, at best, at the prospect of "bypassing hr."

Subsequent phone interview:
Hiring manager: So, what are you doing now?
Me: Well, I work 30 hours a week, I have time to pursue things I love like writing classes and freelance projects and volunteer jobs.
Hiring Manager: So, why are you interviewing for this job?

Good goddamn question. I just had a huge revelation that I don’t have to go after the big fat jobs just because they’re there – in fact, I don’t want to do anything like that at all.

I’m just saying, life is pretty good right now. Wouldn’t want to jinx it by adding stressful, unnecessary opportunities.

So, right! More time to look at robots Online! And watch this video of Dwight crashing his car from The Office on YouTube:

In Which I Regress to My 19-yr-old-self

So, I read about how you can check for vanity plates in Gapers Block, So I checked on, um, the fantasy plate of my Ween-obsessed 19-yr-old self. Ween is in trouble here, dudes.

And dude, Check it:


I love the look on Jessie's floating head above said plate. Excellent.

Work The Eff (Dobber -- I censor for YOU) Out.

Work Out is the most amazing show.

By incorporating the elements of:
- bizarre, immature workoutfreaks
- akward lesbian dates
- weights, crunches, boot camp classes
- a super christian mom of a lesbian
- a weird little latina named "mimi" who bites a lot
- the sweetest, most sincere main character ever to dominate a reality show

It manages to create the most compelling television ever.

Not to mention, it included the best line of overdubbed narration ever: "After I showed a picture of my boyfriend's penis to Jodi Watley, I knew I was probably in trouble."

PS: Jodi Watley also says, "Hey Jackie, I hear you're looking for a new love." She also wears a shirt that reads "I heart JW." That's for Jodi Watley. She hearts herself.

Jodi watley is so damn crazy.

Brilliant

So, my friend MK and I have a habit of amusing ourselves throughout the day by sending emails to each other.

The emails have no subject line, no text, just a picture cut and pasted from the internet.

Generally, these exchanges will start when one of us sees something that tickles our fancy, perhaps a nice photograph of a dog wearing sunglasses or a cat with a stupid haircut, maybe a man dressed as a giant hotdog. Normal stuff. Usually, the inital photograph or two will set a specific theme, and we'll go with that theme -- photo after photo, for example, of dogs with casts. Or, say, Glen Danzig. There actually have been an alarming number of photos exchanged of Glen Danzig. I might have seen every photo of Glen currently residing on the Internet.

But, yesterday, we really hit, I think, a new high in sophistication with a most excellent theme that started, inoccuously enough, with this photo I saw of a lovely little beauty queen:

From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 3:58 PM
To: MK
Subject:



MK took this, one-upped it.

From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:39 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:



From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:35 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:



From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:59 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:



From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:58 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:



From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:16 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:




From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:15 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:



From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:31 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:



From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:32 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:

To that I say:

Check, and Mate.

Boobies

Ethereal Boobies
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

So, my work is, like, 98 per cent women. Really girly girls. Super girlish girly mcgirlytons who like handbags and shoes and pink drinks and manicures.

There is, in fact, a manicurist in the office on Fridays.

They know the names of nailpolish colors. (Favorite combo -- Essie -- coat of ballet slippers followed by a coat of madamoiselle.)

Anyhow, lately there has been a lot of talk about boobs.

My boobs.

Apparently, at the last drunken company outing, the merits of various boobs were discussed and, in my absence, mine were declared big winners. Some descriptors include:

Fabulous

Like kittens

Giant

Thanks, ladies.

In Decidedly Less Tearstained News

Saturday night, Sus, E Money, Danny, John and I went and got all VIP at this VIP party for VIPs.

I am sort of related to this party by work, so I kind of can't say anything about it being lame or poorly run or anything, but they did have hundreds of glasses of free booze. The kind of free booze that you drink copiously, perhaps against your better judgement.

The biggest lapse of judgement (or stroke of genius?) was the decision to drink copious amounts of that alcohol along with big glasses of Red Bull.

Susan, wide-eyed and enthusiastic, announces I LOVE RED BULL!

Then she gets her dance on with extreme predjudice. In a circle of people clapping. That's badass. (Later, she says to me, "In my mind, I felt everyone was probably super impressed. I'd like to keep it that way." Also, later, it is the thing that turns me from helpless sobbing to helpless laughter as I remember her dance, hair flying, so fabulously unbridled.)

We ended up manning the door at the end of the party, stamping hands for reentry, watching people get literally carried out the door by burly body guards.