Faith

The boxed DVD set for all five seasons of Angel was released this week. Cleverly timed, I'm sure, to coincide with Halloween and all. And no offense, but I only ever watched Angel when Eliza Dushku was on workin' the Faith role. I just adore Dushku, and Faith was the most exciting, problematic, fucked up mess of a hero ever conceived. Oh Faith, many misunderstand you, but not I, darling. Not I. Or me, either.

BigFoot for Halloween

The Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization has several images posted taken by R. Jacobs' remote camera positioned in the Allegheny National Forest in Northwestern Pennsylvania.

Excuse me while I have my' what the fuck moment' here.

At first I thought, oh, it's a mangy bear, but then I started talking to my sister, Junior, and we decided that yeah, it's Bigfoot.

So that settles that.

Itty Bitty Lives Down To Its Name

Miss Kitty insisted that we had to attend at least one movie at the Pittsburgh Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, and since I didn't have a counter argument, we picked the closing night's screening of 'Itty Bitty Titty Committee'.
Where to begin? This movie is so flawed that it shouldn't be shown anywhere that alcohol isn't being served. To call it directionless is too kind. Too call it a disaster of epic proportions is unfair to the word epic.
Given how much we loved director Jamie Babbitt's previous effort, 'But I'm A Cheerleader' we had high hopes for 'Itty Bitty'. But those hopes were seriously compromised once we learned that the movie would cost 15 bucks a pop. Call me crass and cheap, but if you are going to charge twice the going rate for a movie, that movie better deliver in spades. This movie was more like Old Maid. Every tired cliche about feminism, lesbianism, and feminist/lesbian activism is lamely trotted out. It's nothing more than an exercise in recycling. The only remotely fresh aspect in the movie was that none of the characters had any heart and all of the relationships were emotionally vapid and devastating. The only thing I can think to liken the way that the characters lied and bed jumped to was that Babbitt directed this hodge podge like a five year old playing with dolls, manipulating the characters actions in the most famously Mary Sue fashion that she could muster.
Not a single aspect of this film worked. It was shot on the cheap and it showed, clunky acting, horrid script, bizarre dystopic direction, and other stuff too.
Do yourself a favor and skip this film. Instead, write your own and retrieve your My Little Pony collection from your parents' cellar to enact the action.

Danger!

This was the fortune that George W. Bush pulled from his cookie over the past weekend when he ordered Mei Fun and spring rolls take out from Number 1 China House while watching the boxed DVD set of 'Dallas' season two with Whiskey Jane Taylor and Pervy McNulty. Afterwards they styled each others hair and played pin the bomb on Iran. Though this information is highly classified, Whiskey Jane has a loose tongue after a few shots of George Dickel.

Soup

Today I'm trying once again to make vegetable chowder, a soup I often leave on the burner too long and it gets scorched. So, wondered my brain, what lurks in my subconscious that wants to sabotage the chowder? I looked deep, deep into the core of my being, turning over a myriad of buried disarticulated skeletons and you know what I found? The Timex Cinderella watch I had as a kid!
Whew. Glad I solved that mystery. Soup success is surely guaranteed now.

The Bad Spidey Tingling

My life, at times, is beset by ironies. Just the other day I was obsessing about how my basement is the spider kingdom and how I'm phobic about spiders and he whole nine yards...and now the hot water tank has taken a bath and I'm down in the cellar, dodging the cobwebs and shutting off the water and the gas. Sheesh. Surely spiders realize that we're terrified of them, they've got to understand that they're hideous creatures. All those legs and eyes. And the eyes are heaped up on top of each other like pustules or something! *shudder*

Well, all I know is that The Snake Doctor (tm) better get here pretty quick and replace the hot water tank because I'm not going down there again. Spiders can smell fear.

Monday Randomness

I really should be doing something productive, like posting more of my collection of the curious and really weird on ebay. Maybe later.
For now I'm still thinking about the awful loss the Steelers suffered last night in Denver. And what is up with Faith Hill singing that bizarre Sunday Night Football song? It's set to the tune of Joan Jett's recentish classic, "I Hate Myself For Loving You", but the SNF version lacks all of the self mocking snarkiness. Meaning, it lacks the in your face beauty and spirit of the original and comes across as a lame mashy rip-off with silly football hype lyrics. And I use the term 'lyrics' loosely. Whoever penned those words should be spanked, and not in the fun way. Plus, I thought Ms. Hill had more sense than this! Isn't this the kind of gig Toby Keith would take?

Also, I'm sorry that the Cleveland Indians lost the ALCS. I'm kind of fond of the Tribe by proxy because our own Pittsburgh Pirates are cellar dwellers, so I have to pick somebody else to root for (a non NL team). Since I'd picked up an Indians shirt at the thrift store I figured it was kismet. And now we're stuck with the Red Sox, and I'm so sick of them. Yes, a few years ago I wanted them to win the world series, and now I just want them to slink back into frustration and bitter disappointment and leave the rest of us alone. Like the Cubs.

Duck, Duck, Pigeons

FYI, the 2 female mallard ducks represent me and Miss Kitty. The pigeons, loathesome creatures that they are, represent the cluttered thought process of D-Man, the aforementioned (in an earlier blog) boyfriend of my sister. The pizza crust at the center of the picture is a metaphor for the birthday party we were all at last night.

Now, within this scenario, duck and pigeon imperatives are entirely at odds and at the mercy of cruel fate to resolve themselves within a framework of bird brained reasoning. Which means that nothing got resolved, D-Man misconstrued a conversation that he wasn't a part of, and he ended up storming off and then driving through the party host's yard in a huff. First, though, he called me an asshole numerous times, especially once I started laughing. I couldn't help but laugh because D-Man thought we were talking about something different than what we were, and when we tried to disabuse him of this wrong thinking, well, then he got really angry.

Miss Kitty, WASP that she is, was properly mortified. Her number one rule is to avoid conflict at all costs. I told her that we honor her rules around her friends and family, and we go by survival of the fittest around mine. So far, it seems to work! I'm sure today, after sobering up some, D-Man has calmed down, but really, what a fool. My mother said that I'm just as bad for engaging him in his misdirected malcontent, but Miss Kitty said that it was all ok, but that I shouldn't bait someone who is obviously upset and clueless. Dang. Where's the sport in that?

Precious

Life is just one big ass mystery, and then you find a cat mummy under the porch. Last summer when the porch was torn up, so that the decking could be replaced, we discovered a mummified cat. I snatched up the curiosity and carefully dusted it off with a paint brush.

I just don't know what to do with this thing. Miss Kitty won't let me keep it in the house, so it's in a box in the garage. I should probably just post it on ebay. I mean, it would make a great Christmas gift for that ghoul in the family.

Wine, Oh

It's that time of year! The grapes are in and they long to yield their precious juice to the fermenting tank.

Miss Kitty has put me in charge of making the wine, mostly because I'm fairly fearless when it comes to alcohol induced explosions. Oh, I like the way that sounds!

Currently we've got five gallons of something similar to a Bordeaux in the carboy, having racked it from the fermenting tank over the last weekend. I have to admit that I'm a bit nervous because we added roasted oak chips to the mix and who knows how that'll turn out, with the added tannin and all.

Still, even if it's just this side of poison, I'll drink it once it's ready to be corked, and then uncorked!

More or Lessing

Yesterday morning I awoke to discover via my trusty email that every Doris Lessing book I have in my online store inventory had sold. I had a colossal WTF moment because typically her books are slow movers, selling primarily to lit majors who are required to read her oeuvre. Then I was listening to NPR and learned that Lessing had won the Nobel prize for literature and I got to have my ah-ha moment.

I have to admit that I'm not very well acquainted with Lessing's works. I've only ever read "The Fifth Child", while on vacation at a beach house in North Carolina two years ago, and remember turning to Miss Kitty when I finished it and saying something along the lines of, "What was the point of this?" To the best of my recollection she replied, "It's considered an important work." And I said back, "My who? Dr. Caligari's closet?" The last reference proved too arcane because Miss Kitty doesn't watch seminal horror movies, and the rest of my argument suffered because of it. Damn me! Still, "The Fifth Child" did leave me wondering what alternative to applied anthropology Lessing studied.

Then a few months ago a friend (thanks Glaurung!) sent a link to Ursula K. LeGuin's review of Lessing's most recent book, "The Cleft". Despite being scathing, I also think after reading other's thoughts on "The Cleft", that LeGuin was being a tad kind in her assessment that reads in part: "If we are offered the story as an origin myth of human sexuality and gender, I can't accept it. It's incomplete; it is deeply arbitrary; and I see in it little but a reworking of a tiresome science-fiction cliche - a hive of mindless females awakened by the shock of masculinity. A tale of Sleeping Beauties - only they aren't even beautiful. They're a lot of slobbering walruses, till the Prince comes a long." And yes, in Lessing's imagining of human origins females are indeed walrus-like creatures who only evolve and advance once they stop reproducing through parthenogensis and instead mate with the few male mutants (called, 'squirts') that they've birthed. Hmmmm, a premise such as this goes a long way in explaining why critic Harold Bloom called Lessing's work of the last fifteen years, "...unreadable, fourth rate science fiction." While I agree that Lessing is unreadable, I don't agree with Bloom when he says that the Nobel award was "...pure political correctness..."

Huh? Because of the feminist underpinnings of "The Golden Notebook"? That book is older than I am! Ok, it's the same age as I am, but the point is that Lessing hasn't written anything vaguely PC for decades. In fact, it could very well be argued now that she's the antithesis of PCness with her obsession of portraying sex within the conservative constraints of procreation.

Anyway, there's always controversy when a woman wins anything, but in this instance, I think there are a lot more women more deserving, starting with Margaret Atwood.

the Goober

On the side of a condemned building someone had glued newspaper cut outs that they'd thickly outlined and half drew human characteristics. I loved it! I found it engaging and curious. Simplistic, yet I cannot turn away.

Good Eats

A week or two ago Anthony Bourdain mentioned something in his Bravo Top Chef blog about the foodie methodology of Vietnamese cooking that piqued my interest. I immediately started researching recipes and discovered one for Pork Riblets Simmered in Caramel Sauce that turned out to be absolutely delicious. The dish is a bit time intensive, but it's so worth it, especially if you're new, like me, to preparing Vietnamese cuisine.

Not Insane

Miss Kitty and I were driving past one of Pennsylvania's fine mental institutions and we stopped to properly document the moment. You'd think that being that close to court ordered confinement would have me nervous, but I laugh in the face of psychological observation! Hahahahaha!!!1!

Ahem. We drove off quickly and didn't look back.

Be Prepared

My son, Riechter Von Sanchez, is considering studying photography. My only advice to him was to start carrying a camera with him at all times because you never know what you're going to stumble upon. Lord knows there's stuff everywhere, the world is cluttered with any manner of wonder. So, I said, oozing wisdom like an infected wound, get accustomed to having a camera attached to your person. Walk with it, eat with it, sleep with it, zip-loc seal it if you take it in the shower.

After all that, he shot a roll of pictures of the cat, sleeping. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, I've seen worse, and more boring, at the Warhol.

Pinch Me

I spent the day with my mostly crazy sister. She's more fun than a monkey butler on meth. Thank God she doesn't read blogs, or I'd have to censor my observations, out of shame or caring or love or whatever. But, she's gleefully off the grid, pretty much, which frees me up to use this space as my confessor.
Anyway, my sister, let's call her Junior, and her boyfriend, let's call him D-Man, have this wild plan to script a reality series that's part Seinfeld and part Real World. They want my kid, Riechter Von Sanchez (talk about a sucky fake name, but he picked it himself), to film the whole thing and me and Miss Kitty to be the token lesbians. Plus they've cast themselves. Then, to round out the roll call they've got an alcoholic half retired dentist and his seventy year old urine (and more) stained drinking buddy, Doc and Doody, respectively.
I was all like, yeah, this is gonna work. It has youtube fame written all over it! Everybody thinks that they're so fucking special and the world just hasn't noticed. Uh huh. I'm on that page, seething, chuckling, clipping my nails.
If any of this ever sees the light of day, I'll give all three of my regular readers a heads up on the youtube link ;)

Zombie-ism

I realize that this is neither here nor there, but I've been working on this zombie novel for three and half years. Well, truth be told, for the last two years I've been actively avoiding finishing it. It's a sick dance. I look at it, it looks at me, and then I move away slowly, but not without a certain elegance.

But then, all of the sudden last night I realized what my problem was: I lacked a proper metaphor in which to frame my tale of blind brain eating. So I wisely chose to not look for the metaphor, nor wait for the universe to give me one. Instead, I thought I'd do what has become a time honored tradition in my family. Give up.

Then, just as I was getting used to the idea of finally not shooting suspicious glances at the pile of notebooks (I old fashioned), the ideal metaphor crept on spider legs into the forefront of my consciousness. Damn! Now I have to finish the cursed thing! My hand is already cramping up in anticipation.

After it's done, I guess I get to explore the exciting world of self publishing. Miss Kitty? Do we have room for crates of books in the basement?

Evidence of the Apocalypse

It's official. The world has come to an end and only fans of "Top Chef" are aware of that fact. Casey, darlin', muffin...what the hell happened? Did you panic and try too hard? Did you lose your laser pointer, I mean, focus?

I have to admit, I'm in a bit of a shock. A big ass state of shock, big as your beloved Texas, Casey dear. While Miss Kitty and I were out on a power walk last night along the Monongahela River we were scrutinizing every shred of minutiae imaginable concerning the last five challenges and surmised that the finale was yours...to win or lose. And woe! You lost.

Still, you did yourself proud throughout the competition and you helped make Top Chef 3 the best one to date. I just really, really wish you'd won!

Update: Now that my sour grapes have had a chance to ferment, what ghoul from planet X threw Howie into the mix as a sous chef? That is just cruel, unjust, and sweaty. Yes, other than Brian coming back, Howie was next in line...but Howie!?! All I know is that I'd rather have a drunken sock puppet helping me in the kitchen than him.
Yes, Hung deserved to win, and I'm grasping at straws, but damn. Of all times to get teamed up with that Howie Blockhead...

I'm Such a Boar

I was diligently planning out this evening's menu, waffling between chicken marsala and veal scallopini, deciding to go with the veal because who doesn't want to masticate the tender flesh of traumatized baby cows? When it hit me: I have an overdue library book!

Yes, it's nonstop action around here. I can barely contain myself, despite the hermetically sealed bubble I seem to dwell in, or on.