A shitload of stuff I saw lately

I can't even remember all of it. I'll do my best.

Grizzly Man: Who gives a grizzly sh!t about this grizzly hippie and his grisly death?? Though I do have newfound adoration for Werner Hertzog. I have decided that ALL documentaries must now be narrated by him. Starting with March of the Pengies. Sorry, Morgan Freeman.

Hustle and Flow: LOVED IT. I know, I know, the lead character is a pimp and petty criminal, but he had me from "yo, bitch."

Crash: OPEN LETTER TO TERRENCE HOWARD. I LOVE YOU. THAT IS ALL.

King Kong

Seriously Andy Serkis is a genius. One of these days someone besides me will figure this out. SERIOUSLY. At least 3 hankies, big thick ones too.

No More Morning Sedition?!

I don't know how many of you listen to Mark Maron's show on Air America Radio. But I do! I mean, during Howard's commercials... Anyway, I really love this show, and apparently it has been cancelled. I can only hope Maron's going to Sirius, like Howard. I'm in deep mourning at the moment. If anyone knows what went down, please send me the scuttlebutt.

A History of Violence

Pure crap. Creepiest sex scenes ever. What got into you, Viggo? Blech.

oh also, Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit

TWO WORDS:
FUCKING BRILLIANT.

Bad Santa and Bend It Like Beckham

I can't imagine why I avoided either of these movies.

Beckham was about as feel-good as can be. I guess I didn't want to feel good. Actually it gave me that awful yearny feeling, like "oh, that main character is starting her life adventure and mine's stalled." but that's my issue, not the movie's. Also, it had Keira Knightley, who is so gorgeous and tall and thin and REALLY good at soccer, plus Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, who was so great as an ersatz-David Bowie in Velvet Goldmine. He's NOT cute but hot nonetheless...

Bad Santa was MUCH funnier AND darker than I thought it would be -- it was smarter across the board than I realized. I think I was expecting something cutesy, despite the title, and it was distinctly un-cutesy. I absolutely detest Christmas, so it spoke to my inner curmudgeon, AND also to my inner happy-ending-loving-sap. I hadn't realized the Coen Brothers were involved or I would have watched it sooner...

Elvis Mitchell made much of its exploration of depression and alcoholism... i don't know about that, but yeah, I could see that it was sort of a weird twisted comedic look inside the head of a total waste of life who's nevertheless redeemed, in the most unlikely way. "I beat up some kids today... but it was for a purpose." I mean, that's just gold.

March of the Penguins

If I wanted to cry this much, I would have chopped a bushel of onions for shit's sake.

hate mail

Jeezus, this motorcycle article has been more trouble than a mosquito nest. I've got hate mail from another Tribe member that I can't bring myself to open, and now I've got hate mail pouring in from people who searched for my name on the web and found me thru a little literary magazine I've written for.

Why bother? Seriously. My great-grandpa Max always said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything." Which my mom used to repeat as, "If you don't have anything nice to say, shut your goddamn mouth." Uh... she had four kids, people, let's give her a bye...

anyway, I'm just a bit weighed down by this. As I anxiously await an email re: that job I am up for, my email dings, and it's just another overeducated schmuck "informing" me that the story that was assigned to me was dreck. Well, thank you, people. If you can explain why magazines that print this dreck sell like hotcakes and therefore pay so well, be my guest.

I hate everybody. Seriously, everybody. Well, not you. I don't hate you. But everybody else.

Six Feet Under

I watched the first season and then fell off because Boyfriend didn't like it, but now I'm back on the bandwagon... in fact, I'm unhealthily obsessed. And there are only like 2 more episodes. This week's episode, with Nate's funeral, did such a good job of capturing not just the pain, but the way a family comes together when a young person dies unexpectedly -- shit. I don't know how they did it. David broke my heart, becoming a young boy again; the mom was so graceful in her handling of him; I'd love to have Lauren Ambrose option one of my teen books and produce a film of them, because she just has the whole zeitgeist of my characters imprinted on her DNA. Outrageous. Best of all was Brenda, who's so much like me it's sort of frightening and awful.

Anyway, it reminded me of my cousin Marc's funeral, more than 10 years ago now. He died about a year before Kurt Cobain, if I'm remembering correctly... the thing that killed me was the way they filled in the grave themselves. The Jewish tradition is for everyone to take a handful of dirt and toss it into the grave as a symbolic gesture, but none of us could bear to leave until we had completely covered him ourselves, first with armfuls of flowers, then with the dirt. Oof, I hate that a TV show was the catalyst for my remembering that, but hey -- I'll take it where I can get it, I guess.

Usually, dream sequences in movies or TV shows are so fake, it's annoying. But HBO seems to have nailed them somehow. Those dream episodes on the Sopranos are the best, and the dream where Nate and David go surfing really captured some kind of longing in David. And -- well, so well done, Mark Ball or whoever.

Who the fuck was Patricia Clarkson's character, anyone know? And Kathy Bates was just weird.

Couple New Things

I watched Whale Rider. Yes, it was really good. Yes, it was haunting. I kind of saw it all coming, but enjoyed the ride. Heh. Ride. Um... here's the thing. I don't know if I've gotten old and cynical or what, but ... I don't know. I was at improv practice the other night and this girl was like "Oh if I met Bob Oedekirk I would fall on my knees in worship." And I was like, man, if I met Tom Waits, Harpo Marx, David Bowie, Mel Brooks, sitting at one cafe table, I still wouldn't fall on my knees and worship. I don't have awe like that anymore. I have appreciation, but not awe. Same with this movie. If I saw it in 12th grade, I'd be wearing the movie poster as a T-shirt and running out to the shore to try to ride grouper in imitation. But now I'm like, "Huh. Good female-empowerment flick. I like the Maori. Next." I wish something would make me feel awestruck. I guess if Lenny Bruce were at that table I might stumble a bit, and at least feel awesome. So.

I look back at stuff I've written and I think, "God, I used to be funny. What happened?" I'm in such a rut. I hope I get this job and it wakes me up and makes me feel like I'm engaged with my life again. I'm too bored with everything, and it's starting to make me feel like it's not everything else that's boring... IT IS MOI!!

Back to my proposal. I hope I don't sound like an idiot. I feel like an idiot. I am filled with self-doubt, self-loathing, and the salmon I had for lunch. THAT was delicious. Marinated in bourbon stuff with a dill-cucumber sauce. Ha-yum.