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February 28, 2007
1060: D'ya like dags?
Last night, for the first time in three million years, Pete and I were able to hang out.
Naturally, we spent it watching Snatch.
Posted by ashley at 10:57 AM | TrackBack
February 27, 2007
1059: Thanks. Not.
A few blocks from our office, seemingly every afternoon, a crazy guy pulls up on a mountain bike out front of Starbucks. He jumps off the bike and switches on a boombox he evidently carries with him all the time.
And then, enjoying watching his reflection in the windows of Starbucks, he dances like a complete maniac!
No lie.
Today, Jon saw him dancing to this...
And because I now can't get it out of my head, neither can you!
Posted by ashley at 05:08 PM | TrackBack
1058: Dreams really do come true!
Victoria Beckham's Shoe-Shopping Adventures Latest Subject Of Reality TV Craze (From Defamer)
NBC is close to a deal with former Spice Girl Victoria Beckham for an upcoming reality show, a source with knowledge of negotiations confirmed on Tuesday.
The show would focus on Beckham's move to America with her husband, international soccer star David Beckham, who will be plying his trade for the Los Angeles Galaxy of Major League Soccer beginning this summer.
England's Daily Mail newspaper values the deal at $19.6 million.
The pending deal was reportedly brokered by Simon Fuller, who managed the Spice Girls, brokered David Beckham's new soccer contract, and is behind Fox's smash hit American Idol.
"The Americans were falling over themselves to sign Victoria up for a TV show but we had to choose the right deal for her," Fuller was quoted as saying in a British paper. "NBC won out in the end as they have really taken a shine to Vic's hilarious sense of humour [sic] and they want to capitalise [sic] on this."
This is all I've ever asked for in life!
Really.
Well, this and to spend my life surrounded by bunnies, an endless supply of chocolate and nonstop episodes of Sharpe.
Posted by ashley at 04:55 PM | TrackBack
1057: Cruel Shoes!
Thanks to Chris, for sending me this:
Heavy Metals
By Armand Limnander (9/25/07, NY Times)
At a time when kinky fembots are motoring down the runways, designers have a soft spot for X-rated hardware. Witness Hermès’s thick collar necklace ($900, at Hermès stores); Giles Deacon’s lipstick-red case for Mulberry ($795, at Mulberry stores); Christian Louboutin’s mesh heels ($570, at Bergdorf Goodman). Worried that these provocative accouterments will attract overeager admirers?
A swift kick to the shins with D&G’s silver-studded stilettos ($560, at D&G) should deflect any unwanted attention.
Ashley: Those black pumps are crazy! How would you even walk in those?
Chris: Evilly.
Ashley: Bleedingly.
This, of course, leads us to remember the old Steve Martin story on shoes...
Cruel Shoes
Anna knew she had to have some new shoes today, and Carlo had helped her try on every pair in the store. Carlo spoke wearily, "Well, that's every pair of shoes in the place."
"Oh, you must have one more pair..."
"No, not one more pair... Well, we have the cruel shoes, but no one would want..."
Anna interrupted, "Oh yes, let me see the cruel shoes!"
Carlo looked incredulous. "No Anna, you don't understand, you see the cruel shoes are..."
"Get them!"
Carlo disappeared into the back room for a moment, then returned with an ordinary shoe box. He opened the lid and removed a hideous pair of black and white pumps. But these were not an ordinary pair of black and white pumps; both were left feet, one had aright angle turn with separate compartments that pointed the toes in impossible directions. The other shoe was six inches long and was curved inward like a rocking chair with a vise and razor blades to hold the foot in place.
Carlo spoke hesitantly, "... Now you see why... they're not fit for humans..."
"Put them on me."
"But..."
"Put them on me!"
Carlo knew all arguments were useless. He knelt down before her and forced the feet into the shoes.
The screams were incredible.
Anna crawled over to the mirror and held her bloody feet up where she could see.
"I like them."
She paid Carlo and crawled out of the store into the street.
Later that day, Carlo was overheard saying to a new customer, "Well, that's every shoe in the place. Unless, of course, you'd like to try the cruel shoes."
Posted by ashley at 03:20 PM | TrackBack
February 26, 2007
1056: Death of a hairstyle.
I did it. Another aborted attempt at growing my hair out à la Dita. I just couldn't deal with the added styling time required every morning, the frustrating awkwardness of the growing out process, and the overwhelming fear of split ends. I'm sorry.
I know, I've been doing this every 3 months or so since 1998. I get my hair cut, then I get too busy to have it cut on time the next month... and then I see how nice it looks long-ish. I start to muse on how it might look really long. I give it some time. I work out some in-between styles to hide the growing out hideousness. I get some encouragement. And then I get tired of it and chop it all off again.
Some day I will come to grips with the fact that I am meant to be stopped by strangers and told, "You look like Aeon Flux." I think that's a slight step up from being told, "You look like Trinity."
Actually, I'm not sure about that.
Posted by ashley at 01:32 PM | TrackBack
1055: Damn it!
Every time we order food from the Comfort Diner, I manage to pour a little orange juice on my pants. Every time! Today was no different.
Ashley: i just poured a little orange juice sur mes pants
Chris: oh la la
Chris: now you will reek of l'orange! haw haw haw
Ashley: pants a l'orange!
Chris: ha ha
Ashley: also the stigma of being assumed to have peed your pants
Chris: ha ha ha
Chris: and peeing orange juice
Ashley: what annoys me most of all
Ashley: IS THAT I JUST CLEANED THESE PANTS
Chris: ha ha ha
Chris: sucker
Several minutes later...
Ashley: damn it!
Ashley: you won't believe it
Ashley: I JUST DID IT AGAIN
Ashley: the other leg had just dried!
Chris: ha ha ha ha
Ashley: DOH!
Chris: all your pants are belong to orange juice
Posted by ashley at 12:00 PM | TrackBack
1054: "I'm going to eat a hat." - Jodie Foster
Aside from Scorsese getting his long-overdue Best Director win* and the excited screams heard subsequently throughout my apartment building (and not just from me, mind you!) the other big highlights of the night were -- obviously -- les vêtements.
Without further ado...
Helen Mirren, how do I love thee?
She's my best dressed lady.
She's totally age-appropriate and yet completely foxy. I like how she kept reminding people along the red carpet that she was "an Essex girl," which really means very little to the Ryan Seacrests of the world. To some of us, however, the only response to that is, "YEAH, YOU ARE!" and a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. But seriously, she looked amazing -- as always. What a beautiful lady!
Similarly, I like how Daniel Craig always, always dresses to impress. I mean, even when he could look sloppy in paparazzi shots -- he just doesn't. At the risk of appearing vain or girly,** he really takes a lot of care when it comes to dressing himself. Thumbs up! Although I'm not really a fan of the bowtie when there's other equally appropriate choices available, he gets my vote for best dressed dude:
Right after this photo was taken, his girlfriend was snatched by two SPECTRE henchmen and Craig did a sweet little parkour move up the side of one of those giant Oscar statuettes. It was AWESOME! (And thanks, everyone who emailed/texted to let me know whenever our man, Blond Bond, was on the carpet.)
Chris has suggested an Oscar for Awesomeness. Daniel Craig would win.
Thanks also to everyone who texted or emailed last night to say: "OMG! Le Chiffre is at the Oscars!" Awesome, right? It would have been slightly more awesome had he shaved and gotten a haircut, but as was pointed out to me, he's probably not going to see a barber any time soon due to filming for Valhalla Rising. I did like the black-on-black thing, being a big advocate of black myself (obviously). Here's Mads Mikkelsen bringing scruffy back at the Oscars versus a similar outfit at the Berlin premier of Casino Royale (alongside the ever-appropriate Daniel Craig).
The above smirk says, "I have a body in the trunk -- and you're next, fool!"
The rectangular bulge in the breast pocket (more easily seen in other photos, but I picked this one because his wife looks so nice) says, "Chainsmoker!"
And here's the gang, doing the black-on-black thing (to better effect) in Berlin:
To round things out for the men, I have to say, Mark Wahlberg (or "Marky Mark" as Pete chooses to call him) always looks good at these things. Needless to say, his Departed costar DiCaprio always shows up (with his mommy!) looking great but so does Marky Mark. Always appropriate (although I could do without the sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket), always put-together. And he might be the only person nominated last night that you absolutely, never-ever want to rumble with. I respect that.
For the most part, I aggree with all the "best dressed" lists I've seen so far, with three notable exceptions.
I didn't think Cameron Diaz's dress was as awful as everyone claims it was. It was funky, yes, but it suited her. She looked great. True story.
And why, oh, WHY did everyone rip on Nicole Kidman's dress? True, it had a little bit of that bow-from-outer-space thing that Charlize Theron's gown (last year?) had but if anyone could pull such a fierce dress off, it's Kidman. Sure, she's Botoxed to the point of looking like a dolphin but I love her. She's beautiful. And this dress was probably one of my favorites of the night:
And while I'm not a fan of Gwyneth Paltrow as a human being, I am a fan of how much she looks like my beloved college roommate, Sarah.
Sarah could totally pull this off, Gwennie-style. Except rather than being all aloof and righteous, Sarah would tell you about something she once removed from a cadaver. And you'd be like, "WTF?" And Sarah would slap you like the sissy you are! And although it would sting, you'd rub your cheek and think, "Wow, she looks great in that!"
* Tragically, time travel has yet to be perfected to the degree that the Academy can travel back through the years and give Scorsese awards for Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, etc.
** He survives this by virtue of the fact that he could totally bust your skull. WITH HIS FACE!
Posted by ashley at 10:41 AM | TrackBack
February 23, 2007
1053: There it is.
You know what makes days like these bearable?
Watching DiCaprio beat someone with a glass of cranberry juice.*
(Apologies for the R-rated language, kiddies.)
There. I feel better now. Don't you?
* Actually, he doesn't grab the cranberry juice, but I really wish he had.
Edited to add: Another favorite moment...
Police Camera Tech: Who the f*ck are you?
Dignam: I'm the guy who does his job. You must be the other guy.
Posted by ashley at 01:27 AM | TrackBack
February 22, 2007
1052: I feel a little... I don't know...
Like this:
To ease my teeth-gnashing state of sheer rage (interrupted by moments of discontentment and indifference), Morrissey has announced (sorta) a US tour.
From True-to-You:
"Morrissey will undertake a 40-date tour of North America beginning 27 April. Venue details and ticket prices will be announced within the next two weeks. Tickets for all concerts will go onsale on the same day."
So, I've got that going for me.
Edited to add: Hold up. I know what I need. I need more than Danish junkies sniffin' rat poison and savin' babies -- I need... Metallica!
Posted by ashley at 11:55 AM | TrackBack
February 21, 2007
1051: "I thought this was shish kabob."
We saw this on the news this morning and, quite frankly, I'm a little disturbed...
Gothamist: "Dancing with Scissorhands."
I love dance and I love this movie irrationally, but I don't know that I love them... together. I assume Tim Burton OK'd this* and I certainly appreciate the sentiment but I can't help but feel this were all better left untouched. (Click here to visit the musical's official site.)
In fact, the creative team seems to have overlooked one major detail -- the casting of Edward.
Was Davey Havok not born to play this role?!
I selected that photo over more Edward-like ones because it has a wee, severed Danzig head in the corner -- which I like. Also, a bunny that can see into your soul! What I don't like is the mention of "goth-core." What the hell is "goth-core"? Is it "Music made by guys with eyeliner and guitars"? Wouldn't that be "Anything played on MTV which is not rap, r&b or pop"?
That's no jab at AFI, who've been receiving my love since they were covering Misfits songs with cracking voices and their college applications in the mail. The truth of the matter is that they've become the face for a soon-to-croak trend among babies. The last time we saw them, honestly, I don't know how the rest of the audience were allowed out so late. Of course, I'm pleased to see AFI so successful after all these years but ultimately, when the so-called "goth-core" thing implodes, AFI will fall out of favor bigtime. Although, to be fair, I've been saying that for some time now and eyeliner-and-Feria-bright-black bands keep popping up as the only rock-like answer to Akon (or whatever) -- at least in the MTV universe.
Do I even want to know what Danzig thinks about this? About how his straight edge, vegan demon spawn accidentally gave birth to... "goth-core"?
I hope he's too busy sacrificing goats in the backyard to have noticed.
* According to the site, he has.
Posted by ashley at 12:50 PM | TrackBack
1050: "Danish Bunny Steeplechase"
From the country that gave the world Legos, the answering machine, and Mads Mikkelsen...
(via cuteoverload)
NB: Weird, yes, but to those of us who live with rabbits, it's also completely amazing. I mean, my bunny can barely figure out that he gets fed at the same time every day -- how on earth could he manage any sort of sport-related training? Every morning, he's like, "OMG! What's in that bowl! OH, SNAP! I LOVE PELLETS! This is so awesome!"
Posted by ashley at 11:11 AM | TrackBack
February 20, 2007
1049: BRUTAL!
From an IM conversation earlier today:
Chris: man, i want to talk about metalocalypse with you but i gotta run to a meeting
Chris: least metal thing i've ever said
Man, I hate it when work gets in the way of metal!
Posted by ashley at 04:11 PM | TrackBack
1048: PWNED!
Walking to the office today, I found myself having to deal with the kind of crap most city-dwelling girls have to face every day; the kind of harassment from guys that makes you wish you carried a Taser. Obviously, in my long wool coat, scarf, and hat, I was totally ASKING FOR IT.*
As if working on a national holiday (Monday) weren't enough, I had to get stopped by the fool handing out freebie newspapers at my subway stop so that he could forcibly comment on said hat. You know, because it's not a compliment if it doesn't make you uncomfortable and involve some invasion of your personal space. Being a beret (shut up!) it seems to invite unwanted attention for reasons that continue to escape me. Quoth the newspaper jerk: "Ooh la la! That's it, baby. YEAH! LOOKING GOOD!" Looking good, feeling warm -- that's me, fool! In all seriousness, the hat seems to earn me that sort of strangely aggressive and strangely... strange commentary at least once a week. What a naughty hat!
Get a new one? I would but despite the obvious downsides of wearing a beret in public, I've found that it's one of the best types of hats to wear if you're the kind of person who worries about his or her hair all the time -- which I am. Also, as doofy as I feel my hat is, it's way awesomer than what I see on other people's heads. I don't understand how girls my age get themselves dressed to the nines before heading out of the apartment and then stop... to put an inverted wool bucket on their skulls. WTF?
In all fairness, I'm not a hat aficionado; I leave all matters concerning hats to Liz. In any event, I seem to be sporting the SEXIEST CHAPEAU EVER!
Lucky me!
So... Tuesday morning... I'm headed to work in the aforementioned hat. I walk quickly, even more so when I notice in the distance some fool intent on bothering me. I stare straight ahead and never make eye contact.
I pretend not to hear a word that's said to me, although doing so requires me to fight the urge to claw another human being's face off with my bare hands. In my peripheral view, I see him staring straight at me with the crazed intensity of someone who is unquestionably looking for a slap.
I keep walking and, to my horror, find that he's joined me. He stares straight at me, talking all the while, and becomes increasingly angry with each passing second as I continue to ignore him. I don't pick up speed, I don't flinch, I don't do anything that would indicate I'm even aware of his existence.
He keeps up, annoyed, and decides he should get in my way. He begins to crowd my personal space in a way that makes me a bit nervous, not that I betray that at all; I just keep walking, eyes straight ahead, as he continues to bother me. Walking backwards with all his attention on me, he struggles to keep up with my already rapid pace along the sidewalk.
And then he slams right into a massive metal parking meter.
Girls: 1
Jerks: 0
* I'll save some of that venom for another post, another time.
Posted by ashley at 03:37 PM | TrackBack
1047: "Flames!"
On Taxi Driver, which we discuss daily...
Ashley: Best movie ever!
Jon: No...
Ashley: What?! Yes!
Jon: No, I'm sorry. I know you feel that way but you're wrong.
Ashley: NO!
Jon: Clue. Clue is the best movie ever.
Whoa. He's right!
If there's anything good about how often I find myself completely and utterly enraged, it's that it gives me the opportunity to do this all the time...
<3 Madeline Kahn forever
P.S.: Anyone notice how IMDd has revamped its look a wee bit?
Posted by ashley at 02:03 PM | TrackBack
February 19, 2007
1046: Lil' Man, updated.
Thank you, everyone who wrote in to ask about Dewey's progress.
I'm still waiting on the test results after I took him to see the vet last week, so if you'll all continue thinking good thoughts for "the little jumper" (as Michael calls him), we'd appreciate it. We haven't started him on the prescription we received from the vet because we'd rather be absolutely sure he needs it. Since I took him on Wednesday, I haven't noticed much (if any) sneezing. He sneezed several times on Saturday but I didn't hear him sneeze once on Sunday. There's been no change in his appetite or desire to go completely buck wild around the apartment.
In fact, when I woke up on Sunday morning, I knelt on the living room floor to say hello to him and watched him race around the coffee table to sneak up behind me and NIP ME ON THE BUTT before continuing around me and into the kitchen. What a cheeky little bunny! I told you he was a flirt.
And, my apologies. That photo of him in Wednesday's blog entry is actually quite old. We took that photo of him when he was just a baby and couldn't yet jump onto the couch without our help. I attempted to take an updated photo of my little buddy yesterday but couldn't find the charger for my camera's battery. In any event, he doesn't look terribly different from the way he did as a baby.
You know, dark, flirty...
but roughly the size of a sneaker.
Posted by ashley at 01:44 PM | TrackBack
1045: "Just another bum from the neighborhood."
Question: If Rocky were made today, would it be as awesome or a complete piece of garbage?
Answer: A complete piece of garbage.
Well, Pete and I think so. We watched it over the weekend and spent some time musing on how it would be adapted for 2007, and whether it would still be the amazing film it was in 1976. Doubt it.
Adrian would be played by some model-turned actress, and incapable of being believed as a loveless nerd. Also, she'd probably get slapped around or something, but have an opportunity to fight back with a punch Rocky taught her.
Paulie's behavior would have to be excused in some backstory and he'd be given a chance to redeem himself; he'd probably get involved in Rocky's training and clean up his own life and blah blah blah.
The trainer's falling out and subsequent reconciliation would be overwrought with emotion and also involve some kind of elaborate backstory engineered to make him a tender, understandable character.
Also, Rocky would have won.
OK, if that spoiled anything for anyone, I apologize but please, please, please don't tell me you've a) never seen this movie or b) assumed he'd win.
Pete is a Philly native and I went to college in Main Line Philadelphia. We're both very pro-Philly but not in the "Dude, it's the 6th borough!" way of thinking. Should Philly be flattered to be deemed a virtual extension of New York City by hipsters fleeing from Williamsburg? Wouldn't that be, you know, patronizing? Anyone who's ever spent any meaningful amount of time in Philadelphia would know that's the kind of thinking that could get your front teeth knocked out. Philly is its own city, if not its own little universe. It likes being whatever it is and despite however things in Center City have improved in recent years (since I've graduated, I've watched entire blocks transform from abandoned storefronts to retail giants like Urban Outfitters and H&M), Philadelphia seems to take a little perverse pride in being... Philadelphia.
"Dude, look at how dirty and crappy everything is!"* we shouted with glee. I love that about Philly; it really is all dirty and crappy. And it really wouldn't want to be any other way. It is, after all, "the town that booed Santa." A place which not only reinforces my anxiety about germs and safety but may trump me in directionless rage and stubbornness -- How could I not love this city?!
Concerning Rocky, perhaps the quintessential Philadelphia ("Filthydelphia! Killadelphia!") movie, I have two problems:
The first is petty and small, but for me, it ruins an otherwise perfect scene. When Rocky sprints up the stairs of the art museum, all we need to see is him silhouetted against the skyline as he raises his arms. The whole sequence would be so much tighter and sophisticated if it cut right there rather than shifting, inexplicably, into slow-mo. It's not needed and it doesn't even really fit with the rest of the film's editing. Pete and I particularly like the scene in which Rocky tells off his would-be trainer only to chase after him and offer reconciliation on the street outside his apartment. We don't see Rocky or his trainer looking tearfully humbled or apologetic; we only see them shake hands in the distance, as a train goes by on the elevated tracks above them.
The second problem is not really a problem at all -- it's simply that Rocky perceives himself to be a complete loser but he's obviously totally awesome. He's funny and warm, and even if he gets paid to beat up people for wannabe gangster, we don't really have much reason to think of Rocky as lowly as he seems to think of himself as being. He's instantly likable, so why is everyone so crappy to him all the time? Are they so low themselves that it taints their perception of others? That can't be it; Rocky's trainer is cruel to him, he says, because he saw Rocky's potential being wasted. Other people (Adrian, the trainer, Paulie, etc.) evidently see Rocky's worth, but they're also meant to represent "the neighborhood" from which he seeks to distinguish himself -- even at the expense of public embarrassment and physical harm. Like I said, this isn't a "problem," per se -- just an observation. It's just hard to see Rocky as the loser he feels he is, but perhaps that's the point and that's why he's such a compelling, empathetic character.
On the subject of great movies, I received a message from fellow Pee-Wee fan and paragon of good taste, The Incredible Amoeba, concerning my blog entry about Lost in Translation. He raised a good point about the way in which all of the Japanese characters are written, perhaps unfairly, almost as caricatures.
I have to confess, I hadn't given that problem much thought before. Pete and his mother (who is Japanese), weren't particularly hurt by the misrepresentation in the film, and like me, they seem to feel these characters are all simply written in service of the film and without intending any offense. Perhaps these characters are written as being one-dimensional because that's the way in which Charlotte and Bob perceive them as being, largely due to their own inability to fully interact with these characters and their culture. For the purpose of the film, both Charlotte and Bob need to be believably isolated from the characters and world around them, and in Japan (where they're particularly isolated due to their inability to speak the language) that would seem understandably possible. That the Japanese people they encounter happen to be written so flatly and artificially is unfortunate but I don't know if that was intentional. As the charming Amoeba points out, even the non-Japanese characters are treated in the same fashion. The film really only has two fully dimensionalized characters, and that the Japanese aren't more accurately represented I think is unfortunate but unintentional.
Comments? Thoughts? Owl-shaped stuffed animal?
* I have never had a long-term friendship or relationship that didn't ultimately develop its own unique form of communication based largely on pop culture references. My brother and I can discuss any issue in life, no matter how difficult, through song lyrics and movie quotes. I really can't think of a situation that isn't, in some cosmic way, able to be linked to Ronnie James Dio. I know that Pete and I are meant to be together because he often claims people have "the heart of a champion."
Posted by ashley at 11:57 AM | TrackBack
February 16, 2007
1044: Creepy, kooky, mysterious, and spooky.
And now, 49!
Thanks, Liz, for reminding me -- it's Lisa Loring's birthday. (You may know her as the original Wednesday Addams.)
Posted by ashley at 01:40 PM | TrackBack
1043: Sometimes I read, too.
I keep meaning to update the side column here with what I'm currently reading because it's now severely out of date. It's been months since I last read anything by James Ellroy, and leaving My Dark Places over there seems to imply some kind of endorsement on my part -- which it's not.
In all honesty, it's the Ellroy's choice of subject matter which appeals to me and not at all his style of writing. I think people often confuse the two -- his style and his subject -- in describing his work as being "brutal." He writes about gruesome, heinous things (notorious L.A. murders being a favorite subject) but he does so in a distractingly overwrought, heavy way that deflates the inherent brutality and intensity of his stories. I don't find his work "brutal," and at the risk of sounding completely put-the-lotion-in-the-basket crazy, I find it falls short in this respect. I could do with something much more brutal -- something like Mishima.
I love, love, love Mishima. Although, obviously, I've only ever read his work translated into English, he writes about equally brutal subjects (sometimes in the sense of being psychologically brutal rather than physically, but there's still plenty of gratuitous bloodshed) with a far more brutal sense of restraint. His writing is sparse, whereas Ellroy's is dense; Mishima picks a few perfect words to hint at something unspeakably gruesome, while Ellroy devotes pages to beating a dead horse. And however nutty Mishima was (which is evidently quite a lot), he didn't talk about wanting to sleep with his murdered and mangled mom like, say, Ellroy does. (To quote Ari Gold, "True story!") I suppose my biggest complaint about Ellroy is that he, like many true crime or true crime-inspired writers, can't leave well enough alone; why doesn't anyone trust that the facts (however few and far between those are) concerning the Black Dahlia (for instance) are interesting enough in their own right? The truth is often much more shocking and upsetting than fiction.
Case in point: Whitey Bulger:
For the amount of time I spend on CrimeLibrary and all my curiosity about true crime crap, you'd think I'd have given Mr. Bulger more of my attention than I have. It wasn't until Pete and I, being loyal Scorsese fans, sat down to watch The Departed that I became significantly interested in the Irish mob. I promptly got to work on teh internets and plowed through Black Mass: The True Story of an Unholy Alliance Between the FBI and the Irish Mob. I scared Pete's mom a bit* by launching into everything I now knew about the subject, but the truth is that the Irish mob's story is a completely fascinating one -- particularly where Whitey Bulger is concerned.
I won't go into much detail about his exploits or relationship with the law here, out of a desire not to ruin The Departed for anyone who hasn't yet seen it. As I've mentioned before and as many of you well known, The Departed was based on the Hong Kong crime thriller Infernal Affairs and major characters in The Departed were based on actual mobsters and FBI agents in and around the Boston area. (In the film, these FBI agents are written as State Police, with whom the FBI have a long-standing rivalry and plenty of bad blood -- all of which is detailed in the above-mentioned book.)
Without providing any spoilers, let me just say that however incredible the deceptions and violence in The Departed seems, what's happened in real life is far, far more incredible. The level of corruption within the Boston FBI and Bulger's ability to manipulate law enforcement are both more than a little horrifying. For years, it seems, Bulger not only had the FBI protecting him as he rose to power in Boston's criminal underworld, but also used the agency to eliminate anyone who might stand in his way. And what's more -- he effectively got away with it!
I wasn't sure what I wanted to read next, but thanks to a well-chosen gift from Pete, I found myself with a copy of Shiya Ribowsky's Dead Center: Behind the Scenes at the World's Largest Medical Examiner's Office. Without exaggeration, Ribowsky is a hero. His book describes the day-in, day-out work of a medical examiner, his unusual career path, and what he considers to be his life's most important work -- spearheading the World Trade Center victim identification effort.
It's not the most beautifully written book, but the subject is innately interesting and Ribowsky's dedication to his work is genuinely inspiring. I joke about how the book taught me how to perform an autopsy (how helpful!) and enjoyed the grossed-out looks of people reading over my shoulder on the subway (bwhaha!), but one thing this book does that I appreciate is to humanize people like Ribowsky. In the same way that David Cordingly's Under the Black Flag: The Romance and the Reality of Life Among the Pirates (another personal favorite) dissected and deflated popular culture fantasies about pirates, Ribowsky's book sheds light on the reality of medical examiners and their dedicated staff.
Shows like Law & Order (for which Ribowsky has acted as a consultant) tend to misrepresent these people as being whacky, slightly off-kilter jerks who nonchalantly eat food in autopsy rooms while cracking wise about the stiff laying out before them. (Actually, Law & Order, to its credit isn't particularly guilty of this offense -- it's mostly CSI-type shows that feel it necessary to portray medical examiners in this fashion.) The truth is that the people responsible for examining bodies at crime scenes and other difficult, unpleasant and sometimes traumatizing experiences are just as human as anyone else. They don't love corpses in some unnatural way. They're just doing their jobs, which Ribowsky realizes is just as essential to law enforcement as it is to helping the families of the deceased grieve. This is perhaps most evident in the OCME's dedication to identifying the remains of the 9/11 victims, on which Ribowsky spends the bulk of the book. It's worth reading, if only for his personal accounts of tunneling several stories underground through the WTC rubble. Amazing stuff. This guy is a hero. If I saw him on the street, I'd absolutely tell him so.
And now for something completely different...
I was again at a loss for what to read, and on a whim, I picked up a copy of Marie Antoinette: The Journey. Initially, I was put off by Kierstin Dunst (ugh!) being on the cover, along with that annoying "the book that inspired the film!" bubble thrown into the cover's design in a truly crappy fashion. I hate that. I don't know why, exactly, it just kind of sets me off. The reason I bought the book had nothing to do with the movie, which I haven't seen yet but undoubtedly will soon (more on that in a second), but with the fact that when I flipped to a random page and started reading, I was immediately taken with it.
I like history. I like, in particular, European history but I can't say I knew too much about Marie Antoinette as a person. But, like Whitey Bulger, as soon as I opened myself up to knowing more about her, I couldn't get enough. She's not at all the person pop culture has assumed her to be; in fact, she's completely adorable -- if a little childish. The book is as much about the world surrounding her as it is about her on a personal level, and it paints a picture of a girl struggling to carry the burden of international relations on her very young and largely under-prepared shoulders. She means well. She's virtuous. She's hampered by insecurity. The world turns on her as swiftly as it fell in love with her and she's unable to defend herself against unfounded, cruel criticisms on a national level as well as in her very home. And she had really great clothes. Do I love her? Oui.
Watching Lost in Translation with Pete again last night, I decided to scope out the soundtract for Marie Antoinette. I mention this, of course, because Sophia Coppola directed both and every time I see Lost in Translation, I'm always struck by perfectly chosen the soundtrack is.
I love this movie. Like every reasonably intelligent girl, I can't help watching it without identifying a bit with Charlotte or falling in love with Bill Murray just a little, in that charmed but sex-less, undefined and perfect way. For Pete it carries additional meaning because it reminds him of living in Japan, and for both of us it has the surreal contentment of overseas travel and of nights that seem pleasantly without end, when you're young and foreign and unburdened by responsibility. It's sad and funny and tender, and owes much of this in no small part to its soundtrack.
I wondered, despite however bad everyone tells me Marie Antoinette was, did Coppola manage to at least make the same excellent use of music that she did in Lost in Translation? I'm crossing my fingers that she does and I can already feel that this is going to be one of those terrible movies I forgive for being terrible and love anyway -- if only because of its art direction, its ambition, and its music. Siouxsie Sioux? The Cure? New Order? I already love it. I just married it and had ten thousand of its babies!
* I think I scared her a bit more when I couldn't stop talking about the Mossad, but really, can you blame me?
Posted by ashley at 11:26 AM | TrackBack
February 15, 2007
1042: Lil' Man
I've had one hell of a day.
I'd been dreading it from the start because I knew I'd have to deal with the unpleasant task of getting my beloved Dewey to the vet, which is more complicated than it sounds.
Firstly, he's a rabbit and not every vet is really qualified to treat him. In order to get him in to see an appropriate vet, you've got to cope with the annoyance of a little travel, a not entirely convenient time-slot, and perhaps a wait to even schedule a visit.
Secondly, well, he's a rabbit. It's not like putting a leash on a dog and walking him to the animal hospital. Rabbits, particularly this one, aren't very travel-friendly. We can barely get a grip on the little guy to trim his nails, which ends up being a traumatic experience for everyone involved. If a rabbit doesn't want to be caught or held, he just won't let it happen. Nature made rabbits fast because nature also made them delicious to the rest of the animal world. Although attempting to catch an unwilling rabbit may look like a Benny Hill chase scene, it's neither fun nor easy, and no one ends up making out with a surprised female cop/nurse/etc.
On Monday night, I resigned myself to having to deal with all of this because it became apparent that Dewey might actually be sick. Unlike our New Year's Eve adventure when he went limp and lethargic, before spontaneously recovering like a little, fuzzy Lazarus, Dewey continues to show no significant change in terms of his energy level. He's his normal, thumping, jumping, running-around-the-house self. He's got a healthy appetite (for both food and destruction). He seems to be a healthy bunny. The only cause for concern is the fact that over the past two weeks he's been sneezing and while this is completely, 100% adorable, it's also a sign of illness. Since there was no nasal discharge and the onset of his sneezing coincided with a sudden cold snap, we wondered if it had something to do with the apartment being over-dry due to the heating or simply allergies.
We monitored things for a while, but decided to make an appointment when Dewey, inexplicably, sneezed out a tiny glob of white goop. It looked like Elmer's Glue, the kind you used in elementary school to adhere macaroni to cigar boxes for your Mom. (Perhaps some of you even ate it -- I, for one, would NEVER but to each his own, n'est pas?) After this horrifying discovery, I promptly freaked out, called Pete, called the vet, scheduled an appointment for Dewey, and then lay on the floor for a few hours staring at my little buddy who seemed completely unfazed by the incident. So unfazed, in fact, that we're not sure he's even sneezed since it happened. In any event, I had an appointment and being a responsible pet owner, I knew the thing to do would be to take him in to be checked out. That was Monday night and today is Thursday, the day of his appointment.
I dreaded having to catch him and get him down to the vet myself but Pete wasn't able to assist due to work obligations. I had to be brave. I had to be firm. So at 10 AM, shortly before I needed to leave with my carrier-contained rabbit, I set into motion my slightly ill-conceived rabbit-trapping plan.
Dewey has complete access to the living room and kitchen, and the doorway separating the two is a fairly wide space in an exposed brick wall with a small, black I-beam running along the top to form a doorframe. The apartment has hardwood floors throughout, which prove to be a little tricky to navigate at top speed for someone with furry feet like Dewey's. He's much faster in the living room, which is largely covered by a tatami-like rug that provides greater traction. In the living room, he can be almost impossible to catch because he can run so much faster and change direction with greater ease; in the kitchen, the floor is far too slippery for him to elude you effectively. As Dewey nonchalantly munched pellets in the kitchen, oblivious to what tragedy was about to befall him, I casually set up a babygate in the doorway to keep him trapped in the kitchen.
When Dewey was a young thing, we kept him in the kitchen with this same set-up. We (I) thought he might injure himself in the living room if left unattended, but over time he's proven himself capable of avoiding any potential dangers there (knock on wood) and we've effectively rabbit-proofed the place to keep him from getting electrocuted Looney Toons-style. Now that he's got free run of these rooms, he's not at all impressed by having to be stuck in the kitchen and cut off from the living room, which is where he does most of his hanging out.
He came over to inspect the blockade, at first with a bit of arrogance and a little curiosity. However amused he was then, he quickly became annoyed. He made an admirably parkour-like attempt to jump the babygate, thumped with irritation, and issued a few grunts. He ran around the kitchen in a state of increasing rage, at which point, I decided it was time to introduce the next phase of the bunny-getting effort.
I placed the hideous carrier on the floor, opened one side of it and threw in some treats to tempt him into exploring it. My idea was to get him inside, under his own steam, and then shut the carrier door behind him. Simple. In reality, however, it was not quite that easy. I knew that I only had one shot at getting him inside, and if he managed to get free, he'd never get near the carrier again. He knows what's up. In fact, as soon as I put the carrier on the floor, there didn't seem to be a doubt in his mind about what was happening. He had zero interest in getting near it, and instead continued to focus on trying to jump the babygate.
The carrier is a whole story in itself. When Dewey first started sneezing, I figured there was a trip to the vet in the near future. I scouted around online and found a suitable carrier available at Petco and went to check it out. Most cat carriers would be too large for him, as he's dwarf-sized, and I didn't want to have him rattling around in it because that might be infinitely scarier for him than the already terrifying experience of being trapped inside a dark animal carrier against one's will. I wanted it to be fairly soft, so he'd be comfortable, and it needed to be in an appropriate size. Unlike most bags made for carrying dogs, it needed to have a door which opened on the side, allowing the rabbit to hop inside rather than having to be picked up and dropped inside. Anyone who's ever held an angry, jumpy rabbit will know how much angrier and jumpy it will get as it nears the ground and thinks it can secure its own escape by whatever means necessary. And unlike a dog-tote, there can be no spaces out of which the animal can pop its little head and survey the outside world; a bunny would make better use of that space and fling its little body into the air in its effort to get away. The only solution to my rabbit-carrying problem: an unspeakably hideous, rainbow-colored ferret-carrying piece of junk.
Observe, if you will...
WTF?!
Yeah, but given that this was all Petco had to offer me, I went for it. People unabashedly stared and JUDGED. Whatever. I care more about my rabbit than about the opinions of douche-y people who judge others based on the attractiveness of their pet-carrying devices.
Since purchasing the carrier, I'd been putting it out periodically for Dewey to explore in hopes that he'd eventually come to like it. After carrying him around the arctic city all day, I'm sure he feels less warmly towards it now than he previously did but for a while he seemed to genuinely like it. Now, of course, he hopes it burns in Hell but -- hey -- them's the breaks, bunny rabbit.
His anger over the gate blocking his way into the living room and the ominous (and hideous) pet-carrier placed on the floor behind him upset Dewey further. I continued to stuff treats into the carrier, thinking I'd eventually win him over and -- to his dismay -- eventually it worked. He got his little body close enough for me to shove him by the butt inside and zip the door behind him shut. I stood up, grabbed my coat and bag and ran outside to get a cab. Getting him into the carrier had taken longer than expected and I didn't want to miss the appointment. Getting a cab seemed to take even longer, as every sissy-pants in the city attempted to get a cab as well -- even after it became obvious that I was struggling with some kind of furious animal in a clown car of a pet carrier. Eventually, I grabbed a cab and headed down to the vet.
As soon as I walked into the animal medical center, I felt happier about the world. Everyone in the place seemed pleasantly baffled by the rainbow-colored thing I was carrying and, knowing it contained an animal, they were all eager to look at him. He was, of course, pretty terrified to be gawked at like this but not nearly as terrified as he was outside where it was loud, cold, and completely nuts. The driver seemed to take us through some kind of Dukes of Hazzard-like vehicular nightmare; at any moment there, I thought we might launch ourselves off a ramp and over a cop car. Yehaw! Inside the vet's waiting room, all we had to fear were... well, pretty much every other animal there. Even the limping, overweight terrier belonging to the woman sitting across from me wanted a piece of my bunny. And who could blame him? My bunny is a total cutie! All of the security guards were enchanted by my terrified rabbit in its Technicolor dream ferret carrier.
The vet saw me not long after we arrived, and to my dismay uttered something to another vet about "the one that died." Uh... yikes. I followed her into an exam room, where we were joined by a small army of vets-in-training. I explained the situation to the lovely lady vet and at her request, opened the carrier. I did, and unzipped the side of the carrier to reveal Dewey's furry little butt. The studio audience laughed. The vets-in-training laughed. The vet laughed. Dewey peeked around himself and, if he could have, would have shrugged. That's my bunny, a born comedian.
He hopped out, now on his best behavior despite his ferocity at the apartment. He even stood up on his hind legs and charmed everyone wearing a white coat and name tag. I just rolled my eyes. Dewey is, evidently, a bit of a flirt. He sat on the vet's clipboard. He strained to peek over the edge of the exam table as if ready to jump. He glanced at each of the vets-in-training and they all (even the boy) went, "Awww!" After his exam, the Allison Janney-like vet announced that he was very, very cute. All of the attention went to his head and he hopped back inside the carrier without putting up a fight. The vet and her comrades took him out for some blood work and I took a seat beside some elderly cat-owners. The waiting room had an industrial ickiness about it, a big downgrade after our last vet experience in which I waited in an entirely too-posh room across from a very handsome-looking Joan Allen with my rabbit in a shoe box. Not yet owning a weird-looking ferret container, I stuck my baby bunny in a New Balance shoe box. Joan Allen smiled politely. I died a little bit inside.
When Dewey was returned to me, I paid for the visit and was told where to pick up his prescription. I made my way over the two or three blocks to the mom-and-pop pharmacy used by the vet. Being on the Upper East Side, it was filled with Botoxed women who have nothing better to do with their days than to wonder about their various (and possibly imagined) aches and pains. I waited in line at the pharmacy desk surrounded by plump, vaguely surprised looking women who resembled Zsa Zsa Gabor. They were all quite curious about my hideous container and whatever was in it pitching a fit.
"It's a rabbit," I said with a polite smile to the woman nearest to me. She stared at me with the emptiness of a woman who is rarely spoken to, and with seemingly no awareness of the fact that she happened to be wearing a rabbit fur hat.
She nodded, eventually, and returned my smile. "A rabbit!"
"Yes," I said, lifting the carrier for her to get a look. Dewey peered out at her with his default expression of sheer panic. "A rabbit."
"How exotic," she said in a dreamy, drugged-up voice. I laughed and glanced away, but noticed that Zsa Zsa continued to stare at close range. She nodded again, to which I smiled.
"He's sick?" Zsa Zsa #2 asked, turning away from the counter while in the middle of her transaction. The pharmacist glared at me for causing this disruption.
Zsa Zsa #1 continued to stare. "I love your eyes, dear." She said from another planet entirely.
"Thank you." I smiled and directed my attention to the rest of the Gabors. "He's got a cold." I announced to the ladies, who were all apparently charmed by the idea of a rabbit blowing his nose into a wee little hankie. Cold, as in, respiratory infection -- whatever. These women probably put Fancy Feast into a bowl every night for a stuffed cat whose time among the living ceased many years ago. "I'm picking up some medicine for him." I added, gesturing to the pharmacy counter, which is where I aimed to be ASAP. God willing!
Zsa Zsa #2 smiled, oblivious to the druggist behind the counter.
This continued for several minutes before I was served by a surly, exceptionally loud woman. I was told to wait 15 - 20 minutes for my prescription. I found a spot to stand with my rabbit carrier, which was actually quite a feat considering how cramped the little store was and how many Zsa Zsas there were clogging up the already scarce floor space. Eventually, my prescription was ready.
"Dewey?" The pharmacist screamed. We'd already gone through a Vaudevillian-style routine in which she asked "Name," I gave mine, and she assumed the rabbit was named "Ashley." When I explained that the rabbit's name was "Dewey," she stared at me like I said it was, "Tickity-Boo, Skuttle-Whomp III, Esquire." What does it matter anyway? It's not like the rabbit is going to whip out his Amex and pay for the drugs himself. Why does the name matter? And why does everyone think "Dewey" is such a weird name? He's named after a paper towel roll that Meatwad plays with on ATHF, but that means really nothing to 99% of the world (particularly the part which lives in Boston). Just give me the goddamned drugs!
Armed with my prescription, my bag, my rabbit and my rage, I shook off the Gabor sisters and tried to get a cab home. I couldn't subject my little buddy to the noise of the subway and I wanted to get him out of the cold fast, so a cab was really the only choice. Eventually, I got a cab but not before witnessing some acts of extreme wimpiness.
Can I be frank? No man should ever step around a slushy snow puddle like a girl. I mean, really. If I were a man, I'd ask myself a very simple question before doing something that idiotic -- "Would Michael Corleone do this?" No? Good, then don't, sissy-pants.
I patiently waited in various piles of snow as lesser men danced around like fools, blocking access to the street by using the least slushy paths possible. Eventually, I was able to get into the street and secure a cab. I even made a point of stepping into a 1" deep puddle like a man's man just because I knew it would horrify the sissy standing nearest to me; his eyes widened and he glanced away because despite my wee, little girl frame, he saw that I was more of a man than he'd ever be. Then I head butted him, just for good measure. No, I didn't, but I should have.
Instead, I hopped in a cab and returned home. I overtipped as usual, and ran upstairs with my bunny. I plopped him back on the kitchen floor and opened the carrier door.
He hesitated.
I removed the babygate.
He came out and thumped as he ran into the living room, which is his way of flipping me the bird.
I love you, too, Dewey.
Posted by ashley at 01:33 PM | TrackBack
February 14, 2007
1041: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
Because I love you so much, I give you... DEATH RACE 2000!
Posted by ashley at 10:10 AM | TrackBack
February 13, 2007
1040: We love movies.
Given how much time my office BFF Jon spent on various planes during his vacation, he was able to catch up on a lot of movie-watching that he had (much to my horror) neglected to do over the course of 2006. He tells me he dedicated a particularly long stretch of his in-flight movie-viewing time to me and my sometimes questionable taste in movies.
Luckily for me, he liked The Departed. After I'd hyped this up to an absurd degree, there was obviously a lot of potential for me looking foolish when the movie inevitably failed to live up to my totally unrealistic claims of "OMG BEST MOVIE EVER!"* He threatened to call my neighbors and tell them totally false, and completely vicious things about me should The Departed fail to live up to my screeching hype. I'm not sure why that distressed me as much as it did, but I'll be honest and admit that I was not at all excited about the possibility of my otherwise friendly neighbors suddenly turning on me. Of course, it's possible that they're only polite because Pete and I once witnessed one of them unable to get into his own apartment because he was too drunk and occupied with screaming "I FEEL LIKE SUCH A JERK! I CAN'T EVEN UNLOCK MY OWN DOOR!" to get around to actually unlocking his door. Also, I'm sure they often hear me putting on freaky voices to my pets but whatever. That's normal. And in any event, Jon liked The Departed ("it made me hate DiCaprio less") so my reputation around the building remains untarnished. Sweet! And yes, I know this is a remake of Infernal Affairs (or "Internal Affairs" as Cameron Diaz christened it during the Golden Globes) and FJ may slap me stupid for saying this but The Departed is, hands-down, a better movie.
"And then I watched Crank," he says, giving me the proverbial Evil Eye. What? I'm not responsible for that movie, and I don't know why people act as if I were. Is it wrong that I loved it? Yes, maybe, but pooh on you for judging like that... you... judger. Besides, what -- aside from getting wrecked on chocolate covered donuts and Diet Coke** while watching Pee-Wee's Playhouse for hours on end -- could be more Ashley than Crank-type garbage? CelebMatch tells me that Jason Statham and I are destined to be BFF, and if you really loved me like you say you do, I don't understand why you haven't opened your heart to him yet. You'd better, because he'll headbutt you to bejesus and back.
Jon didn't care for The Prestige, which is also apparently my fault. Sure, I was giddy about it prior to seeing it (Batman > Wolverine, obviously) but did I ever say "This is the best movie ever!" No, I said it was "entertaining," which it was. That opinion is probably not shared by everyone standing in line to see it as we left because Pete chose to announce the movie's major plot twist as we exited the theater. Whatever. No biggie. That didn't spoil the movie like, say, the way Scar-Jo channeled Natalie Portman's V for Vendetta faux accent with the same indifference to consistency. Yikes!
Jon also -- much to my dismay -- saw Casino Royale again.*** Hearing this, I shrieked and nearly flipped over my desk. I considered talking Pete into seeing it again while we were on vacation but Pete swiftly thwarted my efforts to subject him to yet it again by falling asleep (cunning!) and when I mentioned this to Jon, I was surprised that it failed to illicit any sort of jealous "How dare you try to top me in my fandom by seeing it once more, you sneaky little freak!?" reaction from him. Oh, that's because HE ALREADY WATCHED IT A FIFTH TIME WITHOUT ME!
Someone get Jason Statham on the phone. I'm not at all pleased.
* Psych! Taxi Driver is the best movie ever!
** I haven't had a Diet Coke since Dec. 31st, 2005! Considering I was once up to 8 a day... I'd say, that's a job well done, innit?
*** Casino Royale viewings to date -- Jon: 5, Ashley:4. How many have you got, Alan? If you say 5, I'm going to completely and unabashedly LOSE IT!
PS: Hello to Lindsey, who is totally not working right now!
Posted by ashley at 12:34 PM | TrackBack
February 12, 2007
1039: 'Sup.
I'm back! Miss me?
I'm just catching up on things now, so regular blogging will resume shortly but in the meantime I just wanted to thank everyone who emailed while I was away. Thanks to everyone who wrote in to tell me to have a good vacation (I did!), and thanks to everyone who wrote in to tell me about Anna Nicole's death or the possibility of iPods being banned on the streets of NYC, as both of these stories are obviously dear to my heart. I'm not kidding.
Actually, I got quite a lot of those kinds of emails -- you guys know me so well!
Evidently something about me screams "please tell me about Anna Nicole" because while I was away COMPLETE STRANGERS CAME UP TO TELL US ABOUT ANNA NICOLE DYING. Weird, yet not. I mean, it would be weird for someone else but obviously not for me.
Posted by ashley at 10:48 AM | TrackBack
February 02, 2007
1038: No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!
I'm on vacation -- my first full week of vacation in over 2 and a half years!
Jon will be wrapping up his week of much-deserved vacation, and with me away, I'm sure he'll appreciate some additional help around the office. May I recommend...
Posted by ashley at 07:04 PM | TrackBack
February 01, 2007
1037: "We smoke as we shoot the bird."
I don't have words to describe how pleased I am about this...
"When Silly Promotions Go Bad (Where Are NYC's Mooninites?)"
(from Gothamist)
As part of a promotion for Adult Swim's Aqua Teen Hunger Force, a series of wee, Lite Brite-like contraptions were hung around a handful of major cities in the U.S. I haven't actually seen any in here in NYC, which is disappointing, but in Boston, the signs were evidently mistaken for being potential bombs.
What?!
Who would make a bomb that looked like a little, light-up, cartoon man?
I can't tell what I love about this incident more -- the wild overreaction in Boston or that whenever you see footage of the Police investigating one of these signs, you can clearly see a Mooninate flipping everyone off. Brilliant.
Edited to add: Check out the work of all the lovely people in this LiveJournal community - The Boston Community
"You and your third dimension!"
Who created this? I love you.