Sunday, March 08, 2009

jumping ship

i've moved to prettier waters, y'all.

s0rree blogger! tumblr hath tempted me too greatly. and i didn't even lose any of my posts, thanks to some amazing internet dude and his amazing javascript jamalamadingdong tool! whee!

i hope you all will follow me on my tumblr journey. keeses.

I trust you, I trust you more than anyone I've ever met

It was a Czech New Wave weekend: Milos Forman's Firemen's Ball on Friday nite and Loves of a Blonde last night at my new favorite theater in the world (okay, maybe still after Chicago's Music Box): The Beverly. It was a wonderful double bill, like spending 4 hours with my goofy Czech relatives. One of them was a dead ringer for my great-uncle Fred, whose frothy mustache, kind demeanor, and blind blue eyes are among my strongest childhood memories. 

These films portray their sweet, unassuming characters so very tenderly, with such love and affection; Forman is really quite masterful. The chaos of Firemen's Ball versus the quietude of Loves of a Blonde was such a perfect pairing, now I must get my eyes on more Forman immediately. And the cinematographic styling, my god, the styling! Just look at this winning last frame:

Brilliant. Unfortunately that's only half of it, I couldn't find the full frame online. I wonder if that frame served as Gondry's visual inspiration behind the bed on a beach scene in Eternal Sunshine. Beds outside: dissonant visual gold.

And later, when the Drawing Room dive was closing, I was putting the finishing touches of a finger-fog painting spelling out LOVES OF A BLONDE on the cold back windshield of a car in its parking lot, when its owner approached. That never happens. "Oh, uh, is this your car??" "Yep." He was all smiles and cheer about it though, I think he dug it. 


Friday, March 06, 2009

adding kindle to the fire


Devil with a USB Port, USB Port, USB Port on. I hate this product more than any other 2.0-era gadget, you guyz. I even hate it more than 25 Things Lists on Facebook. There was this chick in the Proust book group juliet & i made an attempt at joining last week who announced to a group of people, meeting about Proust, under the roof of an independently-run bookshop, that she was reading the novel on her kindle. I had that immediate fantasy, you know, of like running up to her in slow-motion with my fists all asunder and a crazy look in my eyes, animated steam perhaps shooting out of my ears. Plus, she had rhinestones on her back jean pockets. She had made a deliberate choice, to buy, and wear those jeans. With faux-converse sneakers. And, she sported a bigass diamond ring on her wedding finger. Seriously. What is the world coming to. WHAT IS IT COMING TO.
And in unrelated but equally irate news, I ask, WHY HAS NO ONE MADE ME A CAKE LIKE THIS YET?????

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

in a station of the metro

the apparition of these faces in a crowd
petals on a wet, black bough
top, my favorite photog guy bourdin, bottom, strikingly similar composition via ffffound

Monday, March 02, 2009


Biked right behind J.K. Simmons today at the gym!!!!!!!!!!! He was, you know, only in my favorite comedic film in the history of cinema (The Ref -- he played Lieutenant Siskel, an army school teacher blackmailed by his student for incriminating sexshewal photos). He was also seriously excellent as a twisted Nazi fucker in Oz (directed by Terry Kinney, who directed me in a play at Steppenwolf back in the day! Shit, that was kind of an 'in.') I totally should have said something. Instead I kept grinning to myself goofily, looking around wondering if anyone else was as thrilled by his presence as I was. No one else even seemed to notice! I kept fantasizing about passing him a note while he worked out, something like "HEY, YOU ARE WONDERFUL," just so he knew, you know? But of course it remained a fantasy, as I 1) didn't have a pen 2) am a pussy.

You see, for me it's not about running into Angelina Jolie or Christina SpearsLoveAnistonHudsonHathaway, it's about guys like these, and gals like Doris Roberts. There's a thrill to running into a "celebrity," sure, someone that's been on covers of magazines and splashed across the various voyeuristic portals allowing us stronger glimpses into actors' lives to which any of us should have access, but above all, the thrill for me of watching Richard Lewis make a left hand turn in front of my car (today!) is recognizing someone out of the context of the fabricated world in which you already know them. Of course I don't already know them, but I have a strong, daily tendency to refer to movies to help me handle any given situation, so I've visited and revisited and revisited again (I also have a tendency to re-watch films like 9238493284 times and never get bored) these characters, scenarios, and stories, and so I guess what I'm trying to say is, the thrill comes from the shock of seeing them out of context, and also from just being honored to be in such close physical actual proximity to such performative talent. It ain't about the "fame," really (otherwise I would have given more than two shits about this particular run-in), it's about really loving, appreciating, and digesting what these people have done with the characters they've been given. And that's what leaves me slack-jawed and giggly. Here's to working beside you someday soon, Sir Simmons.

The Ref:

"And in my dream, I was served Lloyd's head on a plate of spinach...with his penis sticking out of his ear.

And I said,
'I didn't order this. "

And the waiter said,
"You must try it. It's a delicacy.

But don't eat the penis:
it's just garnish."

- Mmm.
- Lloyd, what do you
think about the dream?

I think she should stop telling it
at dinner parties to all our friends."

Sunday, March 01, 2009

this big, ruined hotel

"Ninety percent of this is psycho bullshit, I realize. But ten percent of it is real." Frank pointed a finger at Van Ness's throat. "And that's the ten percent we have to watch out for." -Already Dead: A California Gothic by Denis Johnson, my fortuitous Portland Powell's find (my happy place).

Photo by alex aristei