I [Didn't] See The Signs

Too bad, had I known that office pyschopaths actually existed, I might have faired better against my old Boss From Hell. I guess my dream of one day becoming Clarice Starling will never be realized. I'd make a hell of a rotten FBI agent. Heh.

TRH - Movie Update

Even with the major demolition happening of this past weekend, I still managed to watch a few movies. We started summer hours at work, which means I've got Friday afternoons off, and because my RRHB wasn't letting me in the house at first while they tore the walls down, I went and saw Mission Impossible III. I know about all the arguments not to give the crazy-ass Tom Cruise any more money. I know that he's all wacky and has a kid for the sake of publicity—I hear you. But the film has things other than Tom Cruise going for it (or not going against it, rather), namely, Philip Seymour Hoffman and J.J. Abrams.

It's like a giant Alias episode, which means that it's totally over-the-top, totally self-aware and self-reflexive (ah, inside jokes, love them! Cruise shaking a cocktail, Cruise on a bike with no helmet, Cruise writing on glass, heh!) in a way that only adds to its enjoyment. Oh, and while Tom Cruise is a total hambone, he certainly does run fast on his tiny little legs, you go Ethan! The plot might be a bit convoluted but the film still remains a perfect summer movie plus it's way better than X-Men: The Last Stand. Or should I say, X-Men: The Last Crap.

We managed to sneak seeing the film in after we finished the demolition—my RRHB was dying to watch it. But I'll tell you, what a waste of a perfectly good franchise. It's too long, too full of characters that have no use except as plot devices to make up for the fact that there's no real story, and the whole freakish anti-aging stuff they do up top to Sir Ian and Captain Picard makes them look like they belong at Madame Tussaud's. Anyway, I was totally frustrated by this film. Unlike MI:3 where the stunts are so over the top that you realize they're burning money just thinking about them, they still fit into the script and into the style of the picture, the stunts in X-Men seem contrived and just so absurd that you're looking at them thinking there must have been an easier way. The whole film feels like a mash-up episode where Brett Ratner decided that if he couldn't have the stylized X-Men of Bryan Singer, he was going to go way overboard just to prove he's got more, ahem, balls.

Oh, and then we watched The New World. Terrence Malick is one of my all-time favourite filmmakers. I love, love, loved both Badlands and The Thin Red Line, both of which I got to review for HT when I worked there. Just like those two movies, The New World is a beautiful looking movie, with luscious landscapes the backdrop to the story of Pocahontas. Colin Farrell's Captain Smith is a man of few words (works so well in this film) and Christain Bale plays John Rolfe, the man who eventually becomes the Indian princess's husband. In fact, this was my favourite of all three films I watched this weekend.

The CNMAs

Last night I had the chance to attend the swanky Canadian New Media Awards through work. I wasn't as interested in seeing the awards (which were nice, although somewhat Juno-inspired, right down to the CBC host, a comedian who had appeared on The Royal Canadian Air Farce) as I was in seeing the inside of the Carlu, which has been newly renovated over the past few years.

As I missed last weekend's Doors Open (one of my favourite things to do in the city) because we were bashing done doors of our own, I went to take a look at the renovated "Art Moderne" splendor. And it's true, it's a lovely venue, it's all golden and shiny, and has a great auditorium. The award ceremony was blissfully short and it's nice to celebrate the industry even if it's a bit self-congratulatory (sponsors being nominated and then winning awards, but hey! who cares, it's all in the name of 'the work,' right?).

All in all I had a good time, which is funny because I hate, hate, hate formal-type events where I stand there awkwardly not really saying anything except to the people I already know feeling strange about being chubby and slightly puffy making a pathetic attempt at small talk wondering if everyone else feels as geeky as I do and not knowing if I should talk about movies and books and television and all the other things I'd normally chat about to my real friends but instead being polite and nodding a lot and thinking about how I'd rather be at home eating rice chips and watching Munich because it's already going to be late until I've had a glass and a half of contraband wine and I'm feeling a bit better so let's dance and keep on going until it's 3 AM and there's nothing left to do except drink up the last of your pint and swear that you'll never do it again tomorrow.

Sigh, if it only happened that way.

Ed Norton...

...Makes Down in the Valley sound really good in this interview. If only the movie were as lovely as he sounds here. And nary a mention of whether or not he's dating his adolescent co-star.

Dust To Dust

I, and everything I own, am covered in a layer of dust. We have finally begun the home renovation in earnest and this weekend, my RRHB and pile of friends, knocked down the entire first floor of my "house."

Hundreds of collective years of dust (come on, if each particle is a hundred years old, that's a lot of years!) has now descended upon every inch of the upper floors where we've been living. We hauled six tonnes (and I can't even think about all of that in the bloody garbage; it makes me sick) of plaster, lathe (bundled up to burn at the cottage), drywall, lumber, wire mesh, old insulation, newish insulation, and all kinds of other material out and dumped it into a bin.

I've never been so sore in my entire life. And we're still not done. Today we have to clean up all the mess we made after the past two days of demolition. I am not looking forward to it; but it's a really, really good kind of tired. It's a kind of tired I haven't felt in ages, one that comes from hard work and real energy, no disease exhaustion in sight. How's that for good news?

#42 - Elements of Style

Similar in tone and story to Jay McInerney's The Good Life, playwright Wendy Wasserstein's Elements of Style follows the intertwining lives of some upper crust New Yorkers after 9/11. But unlike McInerney's novel, I quite enjoyed Elements of Style; it's an easy reading kind of novel, perfect for a Sunday morning, sort of like a fictionalized version of Friends With Money. In fact, I think even though the storylines are so similar, Wasserstein's novel comes out ahead because it's got hat heart that was sorely lacking in McInerney's book.

Each chapter is from the point of a view of a different characters, each representing a different sector of life in the Upper East Side of New York. From old money socialites like Samantha, to newly minted ones like Judy Tremont, the lifestyles of the rich and famous are represented with Wasserstein's keen ear for satire, comedy and reality. The book opens and closes with Dr. Frankie Weissman, a pediatrician to the stars, whose own father is succumbing to Pick's disease, and slowly evaporating before her eyes.

Frankie is the heart of the story, the character who ties everyone together, and the reason why the novel works. She's an earnest, good person whose success comes from hard work, something rare to be seen in typical chicklit (damn you Plum Sykes, damn you! [and I'm not talking about Gemma and her ilk either]}. Yet, writing these totally relatable, completely compassionate (as the book jacket tells me, thanks John Guare) characters seems to be Wasserstein's forte. Even the cruelest, most callous woman in the book has a human edge to her, and that takes talent.

I remember, years ago, being in New York and seeing The Heidi Chronicles with Christine Lahti. I was young, in high school, and all I remember about the play was coming away with how strong the main character was, how she just dealt with life as it was, life (if that makes any sense). That's the kind of plain truth that Wasserstein brings to the novel, to a world full of people who take the idea of "Turkusion" seriously (a dinner party theme meant to be a mix of Turkish, English and Asian influences, so ridiculous, so funny, so perfect), there's that sense that reality will eventually catch up to them and of course, much to my delight, it does.

A Little Bit Of Love In The Mail

I got home today from teetering around the Home Despot after my RRHB in my fabulous shoes to find a $15.00 cheque in the mail from Taddle Creek. Payment for my poem in their last issue. I am now officially a paid poet. How fun is that?

And I've got something to look forward to as well—the next $15.00 cheque coming from my poem in their *new* issue out next Friday. So, money for poetry, free beer (at the June 2 launch party), and great weather—a girl doesn't need much more.

The Needle - Week Three

This morning before I went off to work, I gave myself the needle. Perhaps not the smartest thing to do on an empty stomach, but because I'm sticking it right into my skin, what does it matter?

Here are the side effects I'm noticing, note this is two weeks before any of the "real" side effects are scheduled to happen (because the meds take that long to work in your system):

1. The needle makes me super hot, like I'm running a fever; I'm all flushed and roasting. All day at work I kept saying, "Feel my forehead! Feel how hot I am!" People were shocked. They were amazed. Or not. When I told my RRHB that the needle makes me hot, he said, and I quote, "Like horny?" Heh.

2. My belly burns. It burns! I say it burns! And then gets all itchy, which I'm assuming isn't so strange because I'm jabbing it with a pin prick-sharp needle full of methotrexate.

3. Even though the nurse at my family doctor's office showed me what "subcutaneously" is—I'm still not sure I'm getting it right. I do pinch the chubb and then insert the needle, but how will I know I'm not missing an organ (thanks .H for putting that into my mind).

But, on the whole, I like the needle far better than taking a pile of pills that make me throw up. BUT, again, I might be too happy, too soon, because I might end up being dead sick again when the actual side effects kick in. Fingers crossed it doesn't turn out that way.

Your Body, Yourself

As a woman who has gone through her share of health problems, the idea of manipulating my body for the sake of convenience out frightens me. Why on earth would anyone want to do this to themselves?

God knows a visit from your 'lady friend' or whatever euphemism you'd like to use, isn't always a welcome part of the month, but it's integral to a healthy, happy system. I mean, I know there's a reason why it's called "the curse" but that shouldn't equal treating it and then eliminating it from our lives by drugs.

Yes, the pill changed the lives of women forever. Yes, there are great medical benefits to it and great leaps forward in terms of women controlling their bodies instead of the other way around, but goodness, when is too far gone too far?

What makes women women in the first place? Biology? Psychology? I can't answer that, all I know is that I'm repulsed by the idea of one pill ensuring that a women never has her "visitor"—goodness, it would be a shame if nature interrupts her busy life to remind her every now and again that she is, indeed, a woman.

Top 11 Worst Songs

They couldn't just have The Top 10 Worst Songs, oh, no, they had to add that last, ingratiating one and make it 11—anything to stand out from the crowd AOL. Yawn.

And is it a coincidence that 3 out of the 11 had something (at least one appearance, I'm looking at you Meat Loaf) to do with American Idol?

Best. Quote. Ever.

Joan Didion on reading:

What book do you recommend?
“I actually can't answer this question. One person's "must read" is another's "already been there" and a third person's "don't care”. Sometimes I think reading is our last entirely personal activity.”

From a great interview on Flare.com.

However, I do think reading has become less personal with the idea of the lit blog, book blog and personal journal-type blogs. I mean, everyone here knows exactly what I think about every single book I read. The only part I don't share are all the books I don't read to the end, because I don't think it's quite right to list them until I've finished them entirely.

But the act of reading is intensely personal, any more so than watching a movie or television? Maybe not, but if only because so much of it takes place in the mind, in the imagination, I can kind of totally agree with what Didion is saying.

And It Continues...

The parade of people from my past continues as I got an email from an ex-boyfriend from university today via this very blog. Will wonders never cease?

Life As I Know It Is Over

Here are 5 reasons why I'm so sucked into May sweeps:

1. Jack, love of all that is manly and awesome about life, has been beaten half to death by the baddie Chinese he escaped from last year (Lesson #1: Always run away from your past (and your daughter too if she's on the phone because mean-ass guys are waiting to pounce)). Not even Jack's awesome canvas sack of awesomeness could help him then.

2. Lorelai slept with Christopher. Okay yes, decidedly sexier than Luke, and yes, obviously rich and super hot and totally he worked the fact that they've been into each other forever that night, but man—she's in love with Luke. She said so to Jan (from The Office, see below) for goodness sake.

3. Pam. Jim. Kissed. Okay, and it was a totally honest, totally heartbreaking scene where he told her everything and she "didn't know what to say." He cried one tiny tear (they get you every damn time!). Don't f*ck this up. Please.

4. Blah McDreamy stares at stupid Meredith, blah there's a dance, blah Denny kicks it, blah, to be really supportive, Meredith sleeps with DrBlahMcDreamy thus officially making her the "other woman." Blah she stands at the apex of a triangle of loooooveeee people—between Ronald Miller and Robin. One used to mow your grass; the other is Batman's right hand man. Yeah, yeah, I know no contest, McDreamy will win. But dammit: WHO CARES. Enough with the love triangle already. It's so over and it's not even finished yet. I miss Denny. I know it's not logical but I do—why make him go through all that and then just kill him anyway. I was scared of sharks nipping at the heels...they can sniff the blood. They can.

5. Various episodes of Law and Order with cast changes. The exits were dramatic (ohhh, dead bodies in cars, ohhhhs scandals with the IAB, ohhhh). But for the most part these shows are stable and I'll keep watching them before bed. They're better than sleeping pills.

Oh, and I would have watched the season finale of Medium but my cable crapped out so the Faux-Vo recording sucked. That makes me sad.

Is that it? Is it all over? What's a girl to do now that all of her shows are finished, she's reading books that she can't write about because they're advance reading copies, and there are crap movies out there to watch?

Well, this girl waits for two weeks for the finales to The Sopranos and Big Love then sits back and patiently waits for Deadwood to return. What do you think the chances are that I'll get a pile of writing done this summer? Good, I think. I will not, I say, will not be tempted by So You Think You Can Dance.

I live in constant fear that I will now to begin to bore you dear reader. How wil you all survive now that all your favourite shows are over and not even So You Think You Can Dance can fill the void?

Down In The Valley Redux

My "official" review of Down in the Valley is live if anyone's interested.

What's Worse?

Than being sick on your birthday? Few things. My poor RRHB has a migraine, which means he spent six hours sleeping this afternoon on his birthday. Now, I'm going to have to try to figure out a way to make it up to him. Anyone have any suggestions?

I Want My DNA

Damn, how badly do I want to do this? But $107.00 USD? That's way too much for me to spend on finding out my ancestors—but man, it's totally fascinating. The Genographic Project is one awesome way you can truly, truly know where you're from, and all the places your genes stopped in between.

The Danger Of Pandora

I've been on a kick lately to listen to more music outside of my usual influences (which count as my RRHB, really, and maybe a bit of Scarbie and KPL, when I used to work at the Evil Empire). I had some great suggestions from a friend in Ireland (holla!) and now, of course, my RRHB discovered Pandora a few months back, which means I've been forced to listen and am now converted to the damn site as well.

It's totally dangerous. Why? A) because it's freaky in how it delivers stuff that you actually like and without commercials or really annoying radio hosts and b) it clicks you right over to iTunes, which results in a hyper-expensive bill for all the new songs I'm downloading. Today, it's A Tribe Called Quest radio. I've only downloaded one song so far ("Good Music" by The Roots), but I've also only had Pandora on for about ten minutes. Check in later and I'll be broke, I'm sure of it.

Oh, and 'fess up if you use 90210 as your zip code because it's for US residents only? I'll bet it's not just me...

University Ephmera

And speaking of baseball, when I was going through some of my boxes the other week, I found this Bo Jackson rookie card that Blair Macdonald had given me at Queen's. He was a friend of a friend, a very nice fellow, who gave me the card when he found out about my hip. Apparently, Bo Jackson has also had his hip replaced. I've got it on my desk now, an ever-decreasing amount of space left for real notebooks as I pile the stuff on to help keep me inspired. According to the card, Jackson won the 1984 Heisman Trophy. And I think, if I remember correctly, I spent a drunken night making out with him, but that part's a bit fuzzy.

And I wonder what ever happened to Blair Macdonald (and even if that's how he spelled his name). But chances are I'll probably run into him over the next few months as the university session of the "remember whens" will inevitably start up...

Antiques Anti-Roadshow

For my RRHB's birthday last year, we went up to Aberfoyle for the day. It ended up being a lovely day, and the first time we seriously sort of started discussing the whole, "can we really get married one day" thing.

Annnwaay, it's one of his favourite things to do (at least I think so) and despite the rain, despite the near freezing temperatures, we muddled through the many booths and he found something quite fascinating to purchase.

For the most part, we don't buy many things, but this time, he couldn't resist. The purchase? An electric accordion. You heard me. It has its own amp and some funny looking power box thingy. According to the seller, you'd have paid thousands for it if you bought it brand new (said the huckster to the huckee), but it was so strange and interesting that he had to have it.

But it was crazy-expensive and when he got it home (after we stopped in Freelton at the other fun antique/flea market where I bought a $20.00 Robert Davidson print that's now sitting on my desk), he couldn't get it work for the longest time. However, I'm pleased to announce that my RRHB, who has never played accordion in his life, did get it to work and it's loud, synthesizer-like tones graced the hallowed halls of our half-wrecked house. Happy birthday to him! He was even kind of giddy it made him so happy. Who cares if we're now broke and have to eat the mouldy cheese in the fridge until I get paid on Thursday.

I'm kidding.

Well, I'm half kidding.

And what can I say anyway considering when I was off on sick leave a few weeks ago I almost shopped myself into oblivion. Sometimes you just have to spend the money. It's a reality and a fact of life.

TRH Movie - The Natural

There are those movies in everyone's life that they'll watch over and over again, and you repeat every word, know every gesture the actor's make, and never grow tired of them. One of these movies, The Shawshank Redemption the RRHB and I watch every year, even though we don't own it, usually at Christmas time. It's like a good wine; it grows better with age.

Another of these films for my RRHB is The Natural. Coming late in life to my obsessive-compulsive movie watching, I'd never seen it (like many 'classic' movies). And since it's his birthday weekend, we went searching on Friday night for it (we were supposed to go to a party but he ate an apple and then had some strange allergic reaction that's still bothering him, poor soul), but couldn't find the film at our local video store. So, on Saturday, when I was out anyway, I bought it and a CD as special, one-and two-days before his birthday presents.

Annnywaaay, it's a delightful movie, as you well imagine. The story of a great natural baseball talent, Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford) who has a tragic accident just as he's about to embark on his pro career. Injured and unable to play, the film picks up sixteen years later as he gets back in the game. At first, the game, in the form of head coach Pop Fisher (Wilford Brimley) kicks him right back again, until he starts showing his mettle, and the NY Knights start winning games. When Roy starts winning, things start happening for him. He gets the girl, Memo (Kim Basinger), but that doesn't end up all it's cracked up to be, as she's bad luck, which comes in the form of a losing streak. Oh, and she's in cahoots with the team's co-owner, The Judge (Robert Prosky), who's trying to oust Pop and run the team into the ground. But when Roy's first love, Iris (Glenn Close) comes back into his life, everything changes for him.

But for a fairly typical sports film, it shows incredible heart, and even though you know Roy's going to a) knock it out of the park and b) going to be forced to retire from his injury, you're still happy (and not at all jaded) to see both happen. Some of the shots age the film (oh, the slow motion, it's so painfully sloooow), and the ending has been parodied so much that when I saw it, I felt like I'd seen it a million times on The Simpsons, which I probably have. But on the whole, it might just be one of those movies that makes the ever-after rotation.

**Ahem, interesting, non-related Blogger note: when Shawshank comes through the spellcheck, it wants to be corrected to "shagging". Oh, you, dirty spell check.