Band of Skulls

I should be brushing my teeth and swishing Listerine, readying myself for another day of paid hyperbole and, what we in the trade like to colloquially refer to as "total and utter BS," but I'm not. Yet. First I'm going to gush about my latest musical obsession, Band of Skulls. 

As is often the case now that I'm no longer a child in the '70s/'80s devouring Kerrang!, Rolling Stone, NME and Creem with hungry dripping jaws to read up on the next Hanoi Rocks or Pulp, I'm late to this party. 

Never the mind. It's better to bust in after a few kegs are drained. By then, most of the savages have fallen into a stupor (or slumber), and you're left with the people who want to sit on a tree stump and talk about Rush. 

So...Band of Skulls. I listen to Planet Rock on the weekends (streaming, of course) and sometimes I dance around the dial to other UK stations to hear what's being played over there. I kept hearing this band and kept finding their sound an interesting mix of heavy, catchy, infectious and dreamy. All words I look for in my escapism.

And then, that wondrous thing happened that only comes around every so often: I found that I'd been unconsciously drawn to this band because a few of their songs (the songs I kept playing over and over, elatedly) were—lyrically—mirrors of things I'm going through in my own life at this exact moment. Which just gave my love more weight. 

"Nightmares" is my new driving song. When I have the courage to drive. Which I'm finding I have more and more when I listen to the song. And "Bruises" is a close second.

I've already pre-ordered their new album, Himalayan. I look forward to more wild animal anger and padded catharsis. Meanwhile, I'm going to brush and gargle. But while the others are tapping pens on steno pads today, flinging the BS, I'll be a million miles away, watching the bruises heal. 

It Was The Ultimate Sin

Rumor has it blogging twice in the same day is a cardinal sin among hipsters. I hate hipsters, so here's my second post of the day.

I'm thinking of starting a separate blog for fiction. Micro fiction to be exact. Since reading The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God & Other Stories by Etgar Keret, I've been obsessed with the freedom and irresistible challenge of extremely short stories. For a journalism major (just the facts) who wanted to write movies (...and the music swells), micro fiction is my long-awaited peanut butter cup. 

If I get some together I'll throw them into a separate blog and give you guys the URL.

Meanwhile, has anyone besides me heard Jake E. Lee's new band, Red Dragon Cartel? 

If so, thoughts? To be journalistically just, I'll hold mine until I've listened to the entire album a few more times, but I've always loved Jake's style.

Grimly Fiendish

I'm no parapsychologist, but I'm pretty sure if your idea of the perfect weekend is staying up until 5am Saturday morning after a breathless four-hour conversation about pain, beauty and art; sleeping 'til 11:00; waking to a cold, wet-charcoal day and thinking "Yes!"; and proceeding to celebrate the lack of light with a medley of early Metallica while wishing you had a view of the moors...you just might be a vampire. 

I blame whoever gave me my first copy of Hound of the Baskervilles and let me play Help! on my Mickey Mouse turntable, thus infecting me with full-blown Anglophilia by the age of nine (you know who you are). 

I do not like scraping ice or shoveling 18 inches of snow. Nor do I like the kind of precipitation that can rip your roof off. But I love to be cold and I love rainy days. It brings out my inner Shirley Manson (who's always in there, millimeters behind the worker bee with my Achilles' Heel poised to pummel your teeth in).

Rain gives me the social go-ahead to slow down, which I damn well do anyway, but feel pressured to lie about come Monday morning at the water cooler: 

THEM
How was your weekend? Did you have a good weekend? What did you do this weekend? Did you do anything fun this weekend?

 ME
Oh, pretty good. I started reading Infinite Jest, plus the first few chapters of Candide, watched a documentary about J.D. Salinger, and outlined an idea for a series of short stories that use geographical metaphors to explore the current emotional state of the average middle class Gen X American within an increasingly insular society.

THEM
I built a tree house for charity. 

Telling sunny types you don't like sweating through your bra by nine a.m. for nine months a year is like telling them you're bringing fetus fajitas to the spring picnic. They'll figure you're either a vampire or a Muslim.

So I relish days like today when the joggers, the cross fitters, the triathletes and the yoga booty ballerinas are stuck inside watching Pretty Woman for the hundredth time. Not that I begrudge them their sun. I just need a few dark days to keep breathing. 

Cue the Nick Cave!


Push The Sky Away
(lyrics)

I was ridin', I was ridin', oh
The sun, the sun, the sun was rising from the field
I got a feeling I just can't shake
I got a feeling that just won't go away
You've got it, just keep on pushing and, keep on pushing and
Push the sky away
And if your friends think that you should do it different
And if they think that you should do it the same
You've got it, just keep on pushing and, keep on pushing and
Push the sky away
And if you feel you got everything you came for
If you got everything and you don't want no more
You've got it, just keep on pushing and, keep on pushing and
Push the sky away
And some people say it's just rock 'n' roll
Aw, but it gets you right down to your soul
You've got it, just keep on pushing and, keep on pushing and
Push the sky away
You've got it, just keep on pushing and, keep on pushing and
Push the sky away
You've got it, just keep on pushing and, keep on pushing and
Push the sky away

 

Buried Treasure

Sometimes the universe goads you to keep going. This was the case this morning when I woke up singing "All The Way From Memphis," one of those songs that—after you hear it the first time—makes you wonder how you ever lived without it. 

My brain being a database of rock and roll relativity, the song made me think of Joe Elliott (a huge Mott The Hoople fan), which made me think about the Planet Rock radio show he hosts, which made me want to listen online to his most recent playlist. 

This, and a pound of Peet's coffee, is what got me out of bed. 

Alas, the UK-based Planet Rock radio player wouldn't load on my US-based Mac. I updated my Flash player to no avail. I tried and tried and tried until it became a quest. 

But, in the end, I had to give up and load Sirius instead. Which led me to Tom Petty's Buried Treasure, a channel I'd never clicked on before. I like Tom Petty. I like him a lot, but had always assumed his catalog would be flooded with Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers. And it was, but I heard a Neil Young song I'd never heard before ("The Loner") that, musically if not lyrically (or perhaps both) embodied the essence of my '70s childhood. And a Zombies song I'd never heard before ("This Will Be Our Year"). And a Hendrix song (whose title I've stupidly forgotten) that prompted Petty to say, "Wow. If you listened to that song with headphones every day, I'm not sure you'd be able to walk very well." 

Did I say I liked Tom Petty? I love him. 

Throw in the three seasons of Veronica Mars I've just begun watching on Amazon Prime (never saw the show before), the David Foster Wallace book I downloaded to my Kindle (never read him before), my new Adobe Creative Cloud subscription (I can't wait to learn Muse), and the fact that I'm getting my eyebrows reshaped and I'd say I'm turning a sucktacular week into one kickass glass of frontier spirit lemonade. 

To keep my chi cranked up, I'm creating a collage of framed black and white photos for my hallway of people I aspire to be like, because they inspire me to be myself. Here are a few of them. Who would yours be?

Blame It On Bob Diamond

To quote one of my all time favorite film characters, Bob Diamond, from Defending Your Life, I'd tell you where I've been but you wouldn't understand. 

And then you'd say, "Try me." 

And I'd say (to again quote Bob Diamond), "I was trapped in the inner circle of fault." 

And then I'd make fun of your little brain. 

So let's skip that awkward moment and just jump back in. Not much has changed. I moved to a new apartment about a week ago, and now I can walk to work. So I don't have panic attacks on the way to work. But now I have them everywhere else. When stuck in traffic in other people's cars. When lost in Olive Garden on my way back from the bathroom. And my favorite, when trying to explain to my therapist, the panic attack specialist, why I can't tell my boss I need to leave early once a week to see my panic attack therapist who refuses to see me outside of her 9–5 office hours. 

The best part of that story is that when—during a text conversation with her—I told her I was really sorry my work schedule was inflexible and thanked her for all she'd done to that point, and that I hoped we could work out a schedule in the future, her professional psychiatric method of consoling me (the panic attack sufferer) was to completely blow me off. That's right. She never replied to my text and I never heard from her again. 

I did see her from afar while celebrating the holidays with my mom at a local hotel. I don't know if she saw me. I didn't stick around to find out. I think my exact words to my mom were "Shit! My therapist!" and I dropped to the ground and crab-walked into the nearest gift shop. 

That pretty much brings us up to date! 

I'm only halfway unpacked in my new place, which may very well be my optimal way of life. I have what I need but I'm ready to take off. I signed an eight-month lease here and, without going into it because I don't want to ever talk about work in my blog (or its comments section) because God knows who might find it and read it, it looks like 2014 won't be the year I tour Europe signing hardcover copies of my imminent best-seller: "What Would Rob Halford Do?" 

However, I am spending tonight with Rob Halford. After a crushing day that left my psyche shanked and splintered, I consoled myself by eating a really big sandwich, drinking a glass of chocolate almond milk, and watching my favorite two episodes of Metal:Evolution (NWOBHM and Thrash). 

So, as I contemplate responsibility, mortality, and Alfonso Cuaron's herpes joke, I am—as Penny Lane instructed—visiting my friends from the record store (okay, so she said to visit them IN the record store, but there aren't any of those anymore, thank you bullshit millennial culture). It's nice to know that after 30 years, no one can cheer me up like those particular friends. 

And that, after 30 years, my beloved Sheffield boys can still make the mean reds fade away, back into the inner circle of fault.

Dear Diablo

Dear Diablo Cody, 

I just watched Paradise, and I need to apologize. I haven't been fair. I've been jealous and petty and hoping that your success was a fluke because I wished I had the courage and tenacity to get my stuff out there the way you have. 

I liked Juno (everyone liked Juno), but I crossed my arms across my chest after your star blew up because I thought it should be ME sitting next to Jay and Dave, talking about my dysfunctional upbringing and artistic salvation through humor and words. 

Bitches be crazy, what can I say? 

You, Jenji Kohan, and Callie Khourie are contemporary writers I admire and envy. Yeah, yeah, yeah—we should think of ourselves as writers, not female writers. Bullshit. Everything's different for women. 

We have to work twice as hard as men for a good 15-20 percent less and show no emotion. We have to shove all critical opinion of our male superiors so far down our throats we teeter into VIVID award territory. 

We're supposed to get up every day and do all of this (while looking pretty) and NOT go crazy? 

I'm going crazy. I fully admit it. It used to be "I can't drive over bridges." Then it became "...or highways." Now I have panic attacks every single morning on my way to work. Sometimes I have to pull over for twenty minutes to (a) stop crying from the depression and fear and anger that this is happening to me, and then (b) find the courage to climb back into the Death Star trash compactor of traffic that's one crass commuter away from blood-soaked anarchy and make it through an endless stream of red lights without passing out from the adrenaline surge of terror that consumes my entire mental and physical being. 

There are no safe medications at this time (that I can take while driving). My only two choices are join a convent or get on with it. 

It's not about cars or driving or traffic. It's about isolation. It's about loneliness. 

It's about fear of insignificance. 


I'm not talking about being famous. I've watched a great number of nice, brilliant people lose skin and teeth from fame. I'm talking about relevance. Leaving something behind. It could be a novel, it could be $5 in a charity cup at Starbucks. It's all proportional based on your dreams. 


But dreaming leads to fear, which leads to exhaustion, which leads to procrastination, which leads to more fear. 

Which, apparently, leads to paralysis. Which is where I've been the past two weeks, battling a John Philip Sousa crescendo of anxiety attacks, coupled with a feverish flu. When you haven't had the flu in a few years you forget how morose it is. 

Thursday night I cried while watching a Rhoda rerun where Rhoda and Joe were breaking up. I don't mean I teared-up—I sobbed. 

When I made it to quitting time yesterday, I drove home, stocked the fridge with comfort food (who knew Kraft now has both veggie and organic macaroni & cheese?), and planned to spend the entire weekend on the couch, kicking the infection. 

Malcolm woke me up at 6am today because he's a cat and cats aren't emotionally equipped to distribute compassion. I fed him, couldn't sleep, made breakfast and scanned Amazon Prime for new releases. 

And there, Diablo, was Paradise. Did I primarily choose to spend $9.99 on your film because Russell Brand was in it? Of course. But if the trailer had shown him dancing around Las Vegas with a Capuchin monkey on his head while he and Octavia Spencer dueted to a Ke$ha version of "With A Little Help From My Friends," I likely would have passed. 

I watched it because I knew—the same way you know how melted butter on a baked potato will taste—that it was going to be the movie I needed to see right now, this week and this day, to make me feel better. 

And it was. It reminded me to get back on the damn bike, drink some freaking spinach juice and B-complex and quit my bitching. Having the flu sucks. Panic attacks are scary. Orlando is hot hellhole full of churches and twits. Blah, blah...

Life's too short to stay curled up on the couch. So I got a little bit burned. And I'm afraid to let the world see me this way because I'm afraid they'll feel uncomfortable.

You know what? I no longer care. I'm tired of hiding away because I might be crazy. I'm a nice person and I try to be good to people who deserve it. I might not be able to drive a car, but I can still make people laugh when they feel sad. And listen when they need to talk. And feed the feral (crazy) cats who wait outside my door every morning because they know I offer safety and nourishment. 

And I can still type.

I"d rather be weird than boring. And I'd rather feel things intensely (even fear) than go through life as a Saltine, floating in a room temperature sea of lumpy instant soup.

Diablo Cody, thank you for reminding me of this. And for writing and directing a movie that's beautiful, hilarious, and original (be careful, that last part might get you thrown out of Hollywood).

And for doing it all while being a human woman in this world. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish hanging aluminum foil around the exterior of my apartment to keep the CIA and aliens from reading my thoughts.

Unbelievably Satisfying!

When I met Layne Staley, back in the '90s, he was knee-deep in heroin, had a broken leg and was surrounded by sniveling sycophants. I wasn't a huge fan, but had promised a friend who worshiped him that I'd try to get her an autograph seeing as I'd gotten a backstage pass by working as a cashier in a record store and knowing (yes, just knowing) their regional A&R rep. As I made my way over to him, shaking in my grunge boots, I remembered that he and I were both people. He was a human being with fears and insecurities and a need to be validated and appreciated just like me. 

But perhaps not on that particular night because he was horrible. 

Toss in two decades and a half dozen or so more encounters with fame (including two back-to-back Soul Asylum moments—the first being wonderful, the second being cringe-worthy), and I've come to the conclusion that it really isn't a good idea to meet your heroes. 

"Please don't put your life in the hands of a rock and roll band who'll throw it all away." —Noel Gallagher 

"You're a star f*cker, star f*cker, star f*cker"—The Rolling Stones 

When I heard Russell Brand was coming to Orlando, after checking the almanac to see if it was, in fact, the beginning of the apocalypse (Orlando? I thought there was a border patrol that kept intelligent, free-thinking entertainers out of the state), my dear and generous mother offered to buy me second row center seats because she knew I'd never be able to afford them. 

Second row center to the Russell Brand Messiah Complex show? Throw in one of those beds from the Westin and a basket of cheese fries and you've got my mental Instagram of heaven! 

A few days before the blessed event, one of the two close friends I was going with found out from her boss (a high powered CEO in the health insurance biz in NYC) that, long story short, he knew someone who knew Russell's publicist and that we should stay on high alert for a phone call before the show instructing us where and when to report for a "meet & greet/photo op." 

Five years ago I would've been hooked up to a liposuction hose on one end, and a collagen needle on the other. I would've been standing in front of my bathroom mirror, practicing my best Bond girl voice: "Mr. Brand, I presume..." I would've convinced myself that this was my one and only chance to say something so clever and so witty that he'd whisk me away to a life of A-list guest writing gigs. 

But last weekend? Not so much. Maybe it's because my anxiety attacks have caused me to give up all consumption of alcohol and I've grown accustomed to liking myself sober. Maybe it's because I no longer need to touch someone's sleeve to feel like I matter. 

Maybe it's because I actually read the f*cking title of his show? 

Whatever the combination, when we never heard from the publicist until thirty minutes after the show, basically to tell us that it wasn't going to happen, I've never reacted in a more Zen-like manner. My friend, who was a little buzzed by that point in the evening, was distraught, crushed, embarrassed (she didn't produce the gift-wrapped celebrity) and angry. 

All somewhat understandable. 

But I was actually relieved.

I've been a fan of Russell's for so long (ironically, this same friend who almost snagged the starf*ck moment once texted me during the VMAs to say "Who the hell is this British guy hosting? I've never heard of him in my life. Where did they get HIM?" To which I replied, "Trust me, you'll know who he is soon.") And seeing him perform live was, to me, so much more than being in a very large room with a very famous person. 

His show made me laugh until I cried. But it also reiterated ideas and philosophies and basic human kindnesses that I've often felt very alone believing in (reminder: Orlando). 

It was kind of like going to church, if church included the occasional blow job joke. When the show was over, he came down into the crowd and allowed the thronging masses to grab, kiss, hug, and paw at him for a good ten minutes. It was like watching somebody open a van of starving hyenas. Forty and fifty-year-old women in brittle peroxided hair, micro-dresses with stilettos, and a half gallon of fake tanner were literally climbing over one another's heads to get to the stage and touch him. I was almost swallowed whole by the tidal wave of pulsing estrogen. 

Being (a) claustrophobic and (b) horrified, I high-tailed it outta there and watched, bewildered, from a few feet away. At one moment, as Russell was being led away, back to his real world by security, he must've caught a flicker of my flaming red hair because we locked eyes—maybe two feet from one another—and he momentarily appraised me, self-removed from the herd (mostly women) who apparently hadn't listened to a single f*cking word he'd said all night about celebrity and false idols and the emptiness of fame. 

But damn if they didn't snap a selfie with him! 

His eyes flickered away, he waved one last wave to us all, and was gone. 

For the next two hours, my friend and her husband lamented the publicist who never hooked us up, wondering why—had they misunderstood? Was it their fault? Whose fault was it? 

I simply enjoyed the three onion rings I'd put on my white appetizer plate in the Hard Rock Cafe, relived my favorite punchlines, and sent Russell a mental hug for reminding me that sometimes, the best way to know your heroes is to listen to them. 

By the way, if you want to learn the significance of this blog title, you'll have to see the show! 

Celebration Day

I hold these truths to be self evident: 

1. When you're home alone and no one can hear you, it's fun to sing in your Cher voice

2. Ethiopian food looks like vomit

3. Jimmy Page is a god 


Did I cram myself into a multiplex last October to see the theatrical release of Celebration Day? No I did not. Why? Because I had to work late each of the two nights it played here. 

Have I since purchased the DVD and watched it a thousand times? Again, no. And I'm not really sure why. Maybe I've been waiting for the perfect moment. I do that with music and movies sometimes—wait for a weekend when I don't have to shoehorn my spiritual salvation in-between scrubbing bathtub sludge and extracting blobs of Malcolm's ear wax from the carpet (he has an issue; let's leave it at that). 

But this is Labor Day Weekend! And...it's the first weekend in months when I don't have any "work from work" to slog through. I actually have three entire days to stay in my pajamas until two o'clock! Paint my toenails at midnight! Play with my new Bumble and Bumble Dryspun Finish and spend an afternoon as That Girl (that B&B stuff is the bomb, by the way). 

So my big ticket purchase this holiday will be the DVD I've been waiting for, lo these long months. I've painfully refrained from watching YouTube clips. It'll be fresh and new. Even though I already know they didn't play "Achilles Last Stand" (my all-time favorite Zep song), I imagine it'll be akin to how devout Catholics feel when they watch the Pope speak at Christmas. Is the Pope getting on in years? Sure, but he still knows how to rock a stadium. 

Clear the furniture, people—I'm gonna boogie!

All I Wanted Was A Pepsi

Don't you love it when someone turns you onto a new band...AND YOU CAN'T BUY ANY OF THEIR CDs IN THE U.S.???

I heard Michael Monroe on Sirius the other day talking about singer/guitarist Dregen of Sweden's Backyard Babies, which got me thinking "I've loved Hanoi Rocks and Michael Monroe for decades, and I've heard the name Backyard Babies forever, but I've never listened to them. Maybe I should?" 

Well, guess again, girlie—because you CAN'T! 

Not on iTunes. Not on Spotify (save for a few throwaway songs from compilation/tribute albums). And here's what you get when you look up most of their stuff on Amazon:

So, while I hunt this elusive Swedish band like the dirty dogs they are, here are some videos. And also the S.T. song from which this post gets its frustrated title. 

Turning Japanese I Really Think So

And now that I've gotten The Vapors song firmly stuck in your head, click the pic and watch the trailer for Keanu's latest action extravaganza.

As some of you know, Keanu and I met once back in 1989 when he was here in Orlando filming Parenthood. I had a friend of a friend who was a Production Assistant on the film, and she'd heard I had a classic schoolgirl crush. I'd just seen River's Edge and Permanent Record and had my sixth sense that he was going to be big. I also somehow knew that he was a gentle, intelligent, very guarded soul. 

The P.A. invited me to the set where I waited outside for hours in the sun, nervously reapplying Maybelline lip gloss (I was only 19; I didn't know yet about high-end cosmetics), running lines in my head to ensure I wouldn't say anything childish or cliche. 

Of course when the moment arrived, I did both. I never got a photo. My sixth sense dropped the ball on that one. Doesn't matter. I can see it just fine in my head. The way he smiled down at me, holding onto my hand while he asked about my life with a quiet intensity.

When people ask me what he was like, I say this: not only was he the nicest celebrity I've ever met, he was one of the nicest human beings I've ever met, period.

Over the years, I've felt a little protectively towards him. Wishing I could shield him from snarky publicity and snotty reviews. He's a good person. Lay off. 

Maybe I'll bump into him again someday. We'll both be 25 years older. He'll have 25 years of stardom, travel and scars. I'll have the perfect shade of Clinique lipstick and patience.

And this time I won't take a picture on purpose. Because 25 years later, I'd rather have the words.

P.S. If you're a cinephile like me, check out Keanu's documentary Side By Side, a fascinating look at the evolution of digital filmmaking.

My Favorite Bob

When I was eight my heroes were Ace Frehley, Luke Skywalker and Kelly Leak (anyone who doesn't cry at the end of The Bad News Bears In Breaking Training has no soul). 

When I was twelve, a new name got added to the list: Robert Redford. 

That's because I saw Ordinary People for the first time. Kind of an odd movie choice for a twelve-year-old, but I was always melodramatic. And a little melancholy. 

That film completely changed my life. When I found out it had been adapted from a novel I had to read the novel. Once I read the novel I had to study the screenplay. And when I studied the movie, over and over, it hit me—people made up stories that sometimes got turned into movies. And when a truly beautiful and human director got a hold of it, it became a masterpiece. 

It spoke to me on painfully personal levels at the time, and in a lot of ways, was a friend. It led me to writing, and it probably saved my life more than once. Because it taught me how to ask for help. 

Is it rational to love Robert Redford for those reasons? Why not? Even if he hadn't also starred in and/or directed some of the greatest movies in film history AND fought viciously for the environment way, way before it was granola-hip-trendy, I'd still love him. Even if his singular achievement in life had been directing Ordinary People, and after that, he'd gone on to host a game show or open a hair salon in Canoga Park.

So, when I leafed through my new Entertainment Weekly tonight and found out he has a new movie coming out in October that's causing whispers he might finally win a Best Actor Oscar, I ran to YouTube to watch the trailer. 

When I saw him in An Unfinished Life, I thought "How can he possibly top that?" His performance left me in one of my favorite states of being: emotionally emptied, like a giant box of Legos strewn across an Oriental rug.

Watch this trailer. I think he's about to top that.

True North

Where have I been? Sleeping, eating too many ranch-flavored rice cakes, obsessing over the stray kittens, and feeling way too exhausted from the heat to come up with an original thought worth sharing. 

Mostly wishing I lived somewhere cooler. 

Somewhere like Scandinavia.

I've often thought I'd thrive in the region. I love fish. I enjoy wearing sweaters. And in the past decade, my man taste has morphed from witty big-haired Londoners (who I still want to be friends with), to mysterious artist types like Viggo Mortensen and Mads Mikkelsen. 

Mads first set my radar on red alert back in 2004 as Tristan in Antoine Fuqua's King Arthur. Who was that long-haired man with the bird? (Seriously...No woman should be expected to look at this picture and not start walking funny.)

I began to investigate. When he popped up as Le Chiffre in Casino Royale I was excited to see his star ascending, but prayed it wouldn't lead to schlocky Hollywood Spaghetti-Os. There was 2010's Clash of the Titans (which I've yet to see so I can't comment), and a possibly awful Three Musketeers movie, but aside from those two—he's mainly flourished outside of the limelight. Outside of America.

Until Hannibal, which I can't watch because of my weakness for nightmares, but which I've heard from close friends and every critic on the planet is a prime time masterpiece.

Being the journalist at heart that I am, I've been on a Mads mission of late, watching some of his Danish films via Netflix streaming and Amazon Prime. To say they've been a revelation would be like saying Havarti is better than Kraft Singles. 

I was right, back in 2004, that he had a je ne sais quoi that made him riveting to watch. But it's not just his range of emotions—it's the way he controls his emotions that makes him one of the most fascinating actors working these days. 


Let's all say a collective prayer that no matter how successful Hannibal gets, he never ends up on Jane Lynch's Hollywood Game Night (I apologize to any friends who love this show, but it's horrible), although it would be great to watch Mads use charades to get Kristen Chenoweth to scream "I know this! Hans Holbein The Younger!"

Here are two of my favorite films of his so far: 

A ROYAL AFFAIR

 

AFTER THE WEDDING

 And here's another I'm dying to see when it's released on DVD: 

THE HUNT

I've also discovered a series of Swedish movies based on popular crime novels (all of which I plan to read) by writer Liza Marklund. They're called Annika Bengtzon: Crime Reporter, but I can assure you–there's nothing Nancy Drew about them. 

They're produced by the same people who made the Millennium Triology (the REAL "Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" movies) in Sweden, and they're available via Netflix streaming. 
 
Be warned: they're Pringles. You'll be in all weekend. Like the female characters in the Danish films, I love that Annika's character is strong, flawed and unapologetically real. And that she wears Converse sneakers instead of stilettos. 


Will I ever get there? Perhaps. My mom and I have played with the idea of a vacation to Scandinavia for years. I haven't taken a vacation in five years. I think I'm due.

Will I ever get there? To the ideological social oasis that I see progressive countries such as Denmark, Norway and Sweden embodying? I hope so, someday.

Although, right about now, I'd settle for meeting a nice Nordic guy who believes in sustainable farming and doesn't ever ask me to wear tube tops.

Stray Cat Blues

There are four of them. A very young, very thin mother and her three innocent kittens. 

They're living in the palm frondy Florida bushes outside my apartment building, subsisting off lizards and the dry food a few of us neighbors have been sliding under a staircase to keep it covered from the torrential summer rain. 

At night, while the rain plops onto the concrete and pings off the metal staircase, I sit on the bottom step and offer them canned food, which they devour. A few of them come closer each time they see me (I'm The Tasty Food Lady). But then they scurry off, looking over their shoulders with primal suspicion. 

Last night, two of my friends who volunteer at a cat shelter came by with animal traps (which are spring-loaded and perfectly safe and humane), and instructions. We've set a plan into motion: 

1. They'll make an appointment at a vet
2. Once we have the appointment, I'll go about trying to catch all of them in these traps where they'll stay just a few hours, inside my apartment
3. My friends will pick the cats up that night, take them to the vet first thing the next morning, and get them spayed, neutered, de-flead, and vaccinated
4. They'll bring the cats back to my place to recover from their surgeries, where they'll live in my air conditioned laundry room (to keep them safely separated from Malcolm, who might freak out) with blankets, towels, a litter box, toys, and all the wet food they can eat until we find foster homes for them (apparently, this is "Kitten Season," and all the local shelters are at full capacity for cats and kittens)
5. I will then fall madly in love with all four of them, decide we need a bigger place, and move to a beat-up old country house in Eustis with three bedrooms, a built-in gun rack and a neighbor who deep fries gator tail. 

It's gonna be great! You'll see! 

Faster Pussycat

Ssshhh...be very quiet. I'm trying to catch a kitten. 

About a week ago as I was leaving my apartment complex for work, I saw a little black cat running into some bushes. I had my usual reaction to seeing stray animals which was "I should try to catch him and take him somewhere safe. He could get hit by a car. If I leave him (or her), I'll be thinking about him all day, worrying that he's hurt, starving, or worse...that something horrible will befall him." 

But then pragmatic logic set in, "You're already late for work. You can't be late today because there's a 9:30 meeting. Where would you take him? Your vet? How would you catch him? He could have rabies. He probably belongs to someone." 

So I drove to work. Yet, in the back of my mind I promised myself that if I saw him (or her) again, I'd do something.

Tonight, as I was coming home from Publix with my trunk full of grocery bags, I saw him again, peering out of the same bushes—this time right at me. He's not tiny. I'd say about 2-4 months old (I'm terrible at guessing ages, cats or people, which is why I'm continually attracted to male celebrities only to find out they're 30 or 32, leaving me feeling both old and creepy). 

After hauling my bags upstairs, I dug out Linus' old food dish and filled it with wet food. He (or she) came towards me at first—then stopped (I know this trick). I sat there very quietly, as the daily thunderstorm rolled in. After 30 minutes of our staring contest I left the dish and went upstairs. Ten minutes later the dish was empty.

My plan (not that I really had one) was to eventually zip him into Malcolm's pet carrier, keep him separated from Malcolm in his own room, take him to my vet down the road, get him a checkup and any necessary shots (or medicine), and—if the vet said he (or she) was up for it, health-wise, bring him home and gradually introduce him to Malcolm. 

If they seemed to get along, I'd adopt him (or her). 

But he wouldn't come near me. So I made him a little shelter/fort, which I left right outside my front door, complete with a comfy Downy-fresh towel to sleep on, and food and water. My front door is recessed a bit from the main wall, so it's not highly visible to the neighbors. 

I'm really hoping when I wake up tomorrow, the food will be gone. 

And maybe...just maybe...if I keep this up over time, I can get him to a vet. 

And maybe...just maybe...I'll end up with a new friend and Malcolm won't eat him or poop in my shoes. 

Is this a good idea? Not really. 

But in a strange way I can't explain, I feel like I don't have a choice. 

UPDATE: He ate most of the food! I don't know why this makes me so happy, but I'm positively ecstatic!

The Peanut Gallery Is Open (Or, How To Leave Comments)

I believe you can now comment without having to "sign in" anywhere.

Where it says "OR PICK A NAME ?," you can check "I'd rather post as guest" to avoid those "first born/blood type/deed to your home" hoops.

When you check "sign in as guest," you'll still have to enter the name you want to appear next to your comment, and an email address. Then click the arrow and you should be all set.

If this still proves to be too much of a PITA, please let me know! The last thing I want is a blog no one reads or comments on because it's a hassle. Thanks!

Chile, Hold The Queso

I'll be honest, if Gael Garcia Bernal made a documentary called "Let's Watch Moss," I'd pay to see it. 

I've been a fan since Y Tu Mamá También (which I can never pronounce or spell correctly, kind of like Zach Galifianakis, who I lazily refer to as Zach Snuffleupagus). And now it appears Gael's going to star in Jon Stewart's directorial debut, which skyrockets his cool quotient into galaxies only inhabited by the likes of Luke Skywalker and Ace Frehley. 

But when I read the description of his 2012 film, No, my first (very American) reaction was 
Hmm...it's about history. Chilean history. That's not just another country—it's another continent. A continent I learned nothing about thanks to 12 years in Florida public schools. How will I possibly relate to this film? What's in it for me?

The only famous Chilean I knew of up to that point was this guy:

I loved the premise: An ad exec creates a television campaign with the sole purpose of overthrowing a violent dictator. Kind of like what I do, only substitute "overthrowing a violent dictator" with "selling things." I decided to give it a whirl. 

It's a great film in much the same way that Argo is, given the political tension and the fact that it's based on actual events. 

To American audiences it may feel a bit slow (nobody drives a Hummer off the Empire State Building). And, it has subtitles which I know throw some people off. An old friend of mine once said while trying to watch the delicious Queen Margot, "I wish they'd stop flashing those words on the screen. When I stop to read, I don't know what's going on."

Much like All The President's Men and Network, No doesn't just tell a taut story, it explores the most basic, primal elements of humanity and how they haven't changed much over the past millennium. It's inspired me to learn more about Chile and its history, as well as add South American writers like Gabriel García Márquez to my must-read list. 

Who knows? Maybe carefully chosen words do matter? 

Sunday. Not My Fun Day.

There's no time of day more terrifying than 10pm on a Sunday night. 

Terrifying, that is, if you have to leave the white cloudy heaven of weekend opportunity and head back into another work week. A work week of stress and deadlines and meetings where people in Dockers and polo shirts swivel back and forth around conference tables.

For me, the terror started around 4pm today. It was a suffocating sense of no longer having time to think about the world or watch old Humphrey Bogart movies or cook Chicken Kiev or call people I like who live far away or listen to all the bands that anyone I've ever met has told me I should listen to or sketch that children's book about the importance of being kind to animals that I've been dreaming about since the '90s. 

It's Sunday so I have to wash bath towels and underwear. I have to vacuum up cat hair and grocery shop for 17 bags of produce (Keep On Juicin'!) and resist the very strong urge to wish a pox on the skinny lady in front of me with a cart full of Dr. Pepper, cookies and Funyuns while I'm relegated to a life of greens and nuts. 

I want to stay up all night reading this stack of books: 

I want to spend three more days watching Noel Fielding interviews on YouTube and looking at his art, admiring his wonderful ability to put it out there. 

That would lead me to looking up info about other artists I like: El Greco and Chagall and Goya and Henri Le Sidaner. Which would lead me to reading about all the places I wish I could visit: Spain and Portugal and Finland and Iceland and Antarctica and Chile and Denmark and Greece and Wales and possibly Savannah, Georgia.

I've never seen The Road with Viggo Mortensen. Or all of Anchorman. I've never read The Sun Also Rises. I've never been to Gatorland. Or Graceland. Or volunteered with the Special Olympics. I've never listened to an entire Black Label Society song. Or seen the Iditarod. Or walked through Central Park at Christmastime. 

Another weekend gone, with none of these dreams realized. I did go to Sea World, though, and hand fed the mantas. They feel exactly what I imagine my spleen would feel like.

 P.S. While feeding the mantas, this conversation took place between myself and my friend, the zoologist: 

MFTZ: If you hold the fish like this, they'll take it right out of your hand with their mouths! 

ME: Neat! 

(A few minutes pass, but none of the mantas will eat the fish I'm thrusting at them.)

ME: It's not working. I'm shoving it right into their mouths but they just turn and swim the other way. Here, watch...

MFTZ:  Yeah. That's not his mouth.

Screw You, Circus Girl

I came home from work today to find three wonderful, unexpected presents: a paperback from a "mystery sender;" a wonderful card from a friend I love dearly; and a Time Out New York magazine from the same friend, with an earmarked Nick Cave article. 

And to think, all I'd been looking forward to was a dinner of spinach and apple juice. Notice I've refrained from using the phrase "Granny Smith juice." Yeah. I know you guys.

In the same Time Out there was an article about a thirty two-year old New Yorker who up and quit her financial consulting job to join the circus. Just up and quit. How very Noah Baumbach. In the article, the circus girl says that lots of her friends are doing the same thing; that there's a lawyer who quit to become a florist. 

Alright! I think I'm going to do this, too! Let's see...I've always wanted a holistic pet therapy center that I run out of the house that Diane Keaton moves to in Baby Boom. You know, the one where she gets to canoodle Sam Shepard. Wait—did she canoodle him in the house or at his veterinarian practice? I can't remember, but clearly you can see why I love this movie. 

First, I'll quit my job. Next, I'll sell all my IKEA furniture. That should rake in enough for a welcome mat. I'll subsist on wild grass and cardboard until things get rolling. Malcolm, of course, will still eat Purina One in cans because if I don't give him that he'll pee on my cardboard. And I'm going for more of an alkaline diet. 

In the springtime I'll catch wild trout with my teeth and Malcolm and I will grow our own papyrus, which we'll use to create flyers. Our farm neighbor, Potus, will drive us into town (I'll have to sell my car to pay for the papyrus seeds) to distribute the flyers and before you know it—boom! I'll be a holistic pet therapist dating a Pulitzer Prize winning playwright! 

How hard can it be? 

Idiots.

New Thing This Week: Twin Peaks via Amazon Prime. Better late than never. And dear mystery sender: thank you!