Word Whore

Normally I make it a point NOT to cross the streams, keeping the things I write for other people a considerable distance away from my personal ramblings- but today we have an exception. Never you mind that my lack of imagination and inability to put together a coherent paragraph caused a dramatic lull in performance. This blurb actually contains one personal anecdote and at least two references to a celebrity.

So there.

http://www.culturebrats.com/2012/08/tom-hardy-and-bang-bang-chicken-both.html

 

Fully understanding that it takes an extra step to click this link (a step, if I’m being honest here- that I wouldn’t take) I leave you in the capable hands of Culture Brats and all their greatness.

Blowing the Lid Off of the 30 Year Old Conspiracy

My cousins are actually in this picture. Salt in my wounds. I should have been there!!

I wish our parents had liked us a little more and bothered to document our childhood hijinks  carefully instead of sending us out into the wild to forage for berries and fend for ourselves.  

Because  if they had I would be able to show you hours of priceless film footage of my cousins and I playing various games of King Kong vs. Godzilla or Rodan vs. Son of Kong with a final round of Mighty Joe Young saving the orphans from the burning building before riding Mothra off into the sunset.

In reality no such footage exists  because they were too busy drinking pitchers of iced tea  and smoking cigarettes in the backyard stopping only long enough to scream around the front of the house for us to be quiet because they were working on their tans. Well, everyone except my Grandma who was nursing a Dewar’s and water and wearing a sensible sun hat.
The only variation on  this monster vs. monster theme that I can recall are a number of staged boxing  bouts at our grandmothers house between pretend Frasier, Foreman and Ali (it WAS the 70′s you know?) where we talked smack about floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee and playfully punched each other in the face with hands covered in multiple layers of stolen sweatsocks.

This game never turned out well since it required sneaking down a long easy to see hallway and always resulted in a real fight about who was going to be Muhammad Ali.

But again, I digress…..

Today  we are here to use our junior detective skills to unravel a painful 30-year-old mystery shrouded in sad silence.

On November 10th super mega producer Dino De Laurentis passed away causing a wave of pent-up nostalgia to wash over me and opening the lid on the  chest of unrealized dreams I keep under my bed.

So I  called my mom to get the truth on what we in my family call the twin tower king kong midnight run episode  that I “missed” where my cousins got to make an undercover of the night trip to the city to watch the  Dino de Laurentis produced movie KING KONG film the last scene of this not quite so seminal remake .

You may remember this as the blockbuster that launched the early breathy career of one Jessica Lange and her equally shagtastic and bearded suitor Jeff Bridges. Others recall scratching their heads and wondering if a careless typo had resulted in her characters  name being DWAN instead of DAWN.

I remember it as the biggest missed opportunity of my childhood.

To this day when I watch the final frames of the movie where the gathered crowd moves forward to encircle the now dead Kong- lying lifeless on the pavement at the foot of the world trade center-  I become consumed with regret because I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE.

This was going to be my pinnacle moment. For weeks it was all my cousin and I could talk about. His parents (my aunt and uncle) were going to shepard us down the Palisades parkway and over the GW bridge to a magical place where Hollywood would be transporting us directly into the monster movie of my dreams.

There was a call for extras to shoot a scene in the dead of night in NYC and we had plans to mix in with that crowd and insert ourselves directly into the Kong fantasy we’d been dreaming about all those years.

And then the big day came. My mom suggested I go to sleep for a while before they came to pick me up and then the next thing I know?

It’s morning.

I missed it.
The tears of agony. The wailing. The disappointment!

WHY? I cried into my Count Chocula the next morning . I was inconsolable.

As far as I’m concerned there is no reason good enough to have taken that from me , hence the anti-climactic phone call to my mother.

Me: Mom, what really happened that time you didn’t wake me up to go see the filming of that King Kong scene in the city?

Mom: Oh I had no intention of letting you go, so I let you fall asleep and pretended that we couldn’t wake you up.

Me: That’s horrible! I wanted to see that more than anything else in the whole world!

Mom: You were six and a half years old and I had NO intention of sending you into the city for a 3am extras call.

Me: So everyone knew but me?

Mom: Yes.

Me: You are a monster.

Mom: Yup.

So there you have it folks. Small child with dream of touching childhood monster hero foiled by entire family conspiring against her.

Mystery solved.

Who Knew?

Today I’m jammed up with practices, carpooling and shifting all parental responsibility for the weekend directly to my willing mother but I thought I’d share a little something with you before slinking back into the cave I crawled out of.

For the past two weeks Netflix streaming has put ALL of the Woody Allen catalog on Watch Instantly which means I’ve been greedily doing two per night sometimes three.

Hannah and Her Sisters, Interiors, Stardust Memories, Manhattan, Radio Days, Alice, The Purple Rose of Cairo, I just can’t get enough.

Strangely enough, someone told me that the biological offspring of Mia Farrow and Woody Allen (and a big part of their old trial and custody dispute) is now some sort of special advisor on humanitarian and NGO affairs at the State Department.

I looked closer at his resume and found out he entered college at 11 years old and was accepted to Yale Law at 16.

Oh also, he looks like this?

Who knew Woody had it in him?

 

Oh gosh, I almost forgot! I’m over at Culture Brats today too. I like pie.

How About a Wager?

Enough already! Start knockin' boots you immortal prude.

It’s not every day that I take on an extra task that requires time, attention, patience and skills. Much like the large jungle bound sloth I like to spend extra free hours lying very still and not expending any energy, mental or physical.

BUT, I do love a dare. So it was with morbid curiosity that I accepted a 30 day challenge.

Sadly, I never stood a chance.

I was standing in a circle of women, all of us clucking like the ministers gossipy wife about this or that when one of my inner circle turned to the other and said “I LOVED it!” They all tittered approvingly and started trading opinions on book vs. movie and why the scenes were so romantic and gripping.

“You are NOT fucking talking about that stupid Twilight thing are you?” I said astonished.

“Yes we are!” they all laughed musically like they were part of a club that only the very enlightened could join.

“Why you read and watch that shit is beyond me” I griped.

Conspiratorially  with half lowered lids they all turned on me and gave me a long list of reasons WHY these books and movies were so compelling and addictive.

“How about a wager“, chided the most successful of the group “if you take 30 days to read all the books and then see the movies, I guarantee you will get sucked in. It’s like crack, and soon you’ll be the crack whore”

“You’re on” I challenged with the ferocity of a thousand sleeping turtles.

“You just wait” deadpanned one “you’ll be a fucking goner”

And so it began.

After the massive success of these books and movies I think I might remain the only village idiot unaware of the long reaching influence and sway this series has had on popular culture.

You just wait, they laughed.

These were successful, busy, happy women with children. They ran networks, put criminals behind bars and gave lethal roundhouse kicks to the head when it was warranted.

The idea of  these gooey, romantic, bodice ripping ,vampire  time wasters getting a grip on and holding me hostage was preposterous. I would be completely immune to the charms of these  fictional people.

Even had a pep talk ready for myself that sounded like this:

Listen here, slightly more menacing Cedric Diggory and wheezy asthmatic girl without an inhaler from Panic Room, you’ll need more than the  breathy denials of your  primordial urge to rip each others clothes off to destroy me.  I actually READ Ulysses and didn’t use it as a door stop, like my roommate did and I’ve even finished a few Martin Amis novels without experiencing the gaping void of inadequacy that usually overtakes his readers afterward. I’m going to STAND, FIGHT, WIN!!

Ha!

I was about to throw myself on the funeral pyre of classic literature that  been passed up in favor of this crap ,and single-handedly resurrect the masses long faded love of the oldies.

One month my ass.

I ripped through the entire four book series in three days flat stopping only to  throw old half gnawed chicken bones at a group of hungry children who somewhere in the haze I remembered to be mine. I’m on NO sleep. The kids are fraying my nerves as I toss leftovers and ramen at them screaming that they need to grow up sometime and feed themselves.

When is this guy going to bang the shit out of her? How many different ways are there to describe ragged breaths of restrained lust? (Hint, it’s endless) I even got up and fanned myself when he finally got the chutzpah to do the deed on their honeymoon.

“Stop interrupting my reading” I would hiss like a strung out addict jonesing for my next quiet free ten minutes to devour the story.

That Stephanie Meyers bitch sure knows what she’s doing.

All I know is that my inner 16-year-old girl lept straight out of my chest and compelled me to read like a rabid librarian at a book burning convention. The  background noise  of a billion women’s panties hitting the floor with a wet sickening thud was my soundtrack. Reading this stuff is like emerging from the bowels of the hormone soaked visceral years of your teens and early 20′s when every thing felt so deep, real and life altering and realizing you’ve been away for too long.

You could  probably argue that we crusty ancient harpies don’t have enough raw passion in our lives so we locked onto this fantasy. You could also say that the poor fellow who plays Edward in the movie must want to wipe himself down with a disinfectant towel when he thinks of the four million different ways that billions of people have imagined defiling him in one hour. I’d suggest a hot bleach shower to wipe his mind.

So, long story short. I lost. HARD.

(cue the giggles and thunderous applause)

A week of my life virtually disappeared while I stole every free moment available to retreat to the ivory tower and gobble up more plot. I didn’t eat OR sleep more than two hours a night and I wondered about fictional characters while driving carpool.

Stephanie Meyer, I don’t know what kind of black magic you are weaving over there but I am the proof that it’s working like a charm since I have actually contemplated the logistics of sexual relations with the undead and admitted to my contemporaries that I spent chunks of precious time huddled over my kindle begging for more.

Now if I could only get a grip on the pavlovian response I’m having every time I hear Robert Pattinsons voice on Entertainment Tonight.

Cockroach

So how are you? Hey what's in that can you're aiming at me? AHHHH!

Last night while I was watching movie previews in my basement and being promised by the man with the rich baritone voice that this film would be THE explosive feel good juggernaut of the summer, I was confronted by the second most evil creature you can encounter during the warm months in the city.

The bold, massive, and unrepentant cockroach.

He chugged on over like we were old friends at a high school reunion bobbing his little antennae and looking for a conversation opener.

Before I continue with the part that has me screaming and running for the spray can of Raid, I’d like to point out that I’m not the squeamish type and I do possess an understanding of the many urban creatures that city dwellers have to accept and deal with .

 Rats and cockroaches are the two filth riddled mistakes that I cannot come to terms with.

There is something about a bug or animal that counts eating shit, carrying around plague and skittering through dark alleyways among its merits that gives me reason for pause.

So here I was in a Mexican style standoff with Mitch the friendly cockroach who I would need to pole vault over to get to the bug spray on the opposite side of the room.

He clearly didn’t have the common decency to turn and run for his life. He just sat there, and looked disappointed that I’d dashed by and we didn’t get that chance to catch up.

I hit him so fast the poor bastard didn’t even see it coming before he shriveled up in that painfully contorted way people do when you cover them in deadly chemicals.

And then he died.

But because I’m no dummy and I’ve spent countless years watching horror movies where the killer/monster has seemingly expired but then jumps up again to begin its third full assault on its exhausted victim who’s all like “JUST DIE ALREADY!” but she can’t scream as she no longer has use of her vocal cords because that monster ripped them out in the last scene.

And that is ironic AND sad because if she could yell maybe those banjo playing neighbors could give her a hand.

Now let’s all go back to standing over the dead cockroach we left earlier in the story shall we?

Because I don’t ever trust a first death I sprinkled him with Comet and doused him with a Clorox wipe that while creating a low hanging toxic cloud in my basement, insured he was indeed expired and not “faking it”.

So, while I went to war and vanquished the Kaiser Soze of the insect world his comrades still remain out there walking the streets under cover of darkness waiting for an opportunity to strike.

An open door, a crack in the foundation, a missed visit from Orkin Pest Control. You never know what might trigger the onslaught, just don’t be caught unprepared.

A Special Brand of Wonderful

 

I had no idea these were fat free! I've been inhaling these for years.

Long before I existed in a permanent state of awesome, I didn’t enjoy an all access pass to the funpark of fantastic like I do now, so I had to improvise.

It involved a lot of low-budget dinners and  endless movie watching and it made a film buff out of me.

 There is nothing more exhilarating than the deafening roar of Dolby surround sound, the smell of fake butter and jujubes. But I can also spend a lazy rainy weekend day curled up on my couch re-watching Annie Hall or the Godfather; from which I can recite EVERY line.

I watch action, horror, rom-com, documentaries, dramas, period pieces, foreign films with subtitles, and cartoons.

 You name it, I’m willing to give it a whirl.

Lately I’ve had to curtail my film watching because of the extensive activities scheduled by the offspring. Not that I’m bitter about that or anything but it seems like only yesterday that my leisure time had fewer restraints and I’m feeling the film void.

Despite having had to endure the crimp in my movie habit I’ve tried to come up with a sensible solution that involves Netflix streaming, late hours and a set of headphones.

I’m slowly catching up with all the gems that slipped through the cracks because of  people continuously hanging on my arms and screaming my name but I’ve a way to go before I rise to my former glory as movie queen, tossing off quotes and arguing about plot twists, hidden meanings and surprise cameos.

Soon though, very soon.

Rewind

Good times.

Clearly I’m having some sort of strange 80′s rewind that is affecting my life in several unforseen ways. My husband is quietly but inquisitively watching me from behind slightly arched eyebrows as I collect memorabilia from yesteryear, dust off my old LP’s and generally become way too enthused about defunct bands washed up actors and bad movies. I’d say the worst was the day I ran so fast to meet the UPS man delivering my autobiographies that I nearly concussed myself tripping over fourteen sets of discarded kid shoes. Now I’m wondering if there is something from this era I left unfinished (like my maturity?) so therefore deep down I have this unsatisfied need to return over and over to the same point in time to relive this era and fix whatever mistakes I made. Or perhaps it’s nothing more than the childish wish to go back  to a time where music, movies and life in general packed so much punch?

I had this exact model.

Naturally, I imagine my enthusiasm will wane and I’ll find something more important to do with my time (my husband is hoping it’s laundry, cooking and cleaning) but what is it about these little raw moments from the past that give rise to such excitement? I’m a firm believer that there is something very revealing about what we connect to, either in the past or present, that shapes our lives in a strange way. Although seemingly frivolous one would do well to take a hard look at what made or makes us tick and why that spark of childlike excitement lights us up when we come in contact with these things marching down the path of life. Things that have passed us by sometimes still have the ability to get us going again. I may have ripped down the Police posters that adorned my bedroom walls and shelved the VHS tapes of blurry films but somewhere in a hollowed out pit in the back of my grey matter is that blindingly shiny slice of time where we jumped up and down at the park blasting a cassette tape of Regatta de Blanc out of the speakers of our massive gun-metal grey radio and tried to get our covergirl purple  eyeshadow just right. I have a vivid memory of a summer night when I had just acquired the legal ability to drive ,of pulling up in front of the New City, New York Bradlees to gather party materials for later in the evening with “It’s Alright for You” blasting from the speakers.

Later on we would eat junk food, watch The Terminator and Sixteen Candles back to back and struggle valiantly with the Rubik’s Cube. God, those were the days.

sigh....

Still confounds me

Hello Sweet Freedom.

O.K. , so I just received my get out of jail free card from the very official sounding lady from the CDC. Her email informed us that we were “free to go about normal business” as long as none of us start exhibiting the tell tale signs of H1N1. Then they will swoop down upon us while opening up a can of fierce disease control measures whoop ass. To celebrate my  new found freedom I decided to see a movie. Being sprung from the shackles of voluntary confinement inspired me to see X-Men Origins, Wolverine. First off I’d like to say, “thank you Hugh Jackman, just…thank you”. You fantastic specimen of manhood. He is just an awe inspiring colossus, a big heap of what is right with the world. Womanhood owes you a debt of gratitude. When he flies up out of that tank after they inject him with that terribly painful dose of admantium (I think I spelled that right X-man aficionados) my retinas began to fry right out of my head.
Now that is the way to kick off the summer movie season! This one promises air conditioning, popcorn, thrills, chills, bang-bang shoot em’ ups, and two hankie weepers. I cannot wait!!