Oct. 30 (Bloomberg) -- Brazil, the record five-time
champion, will host the 2014 World Cup as soccer's biggest
tournament returns to South America for the first time since
1978. ABOUT TIME.
AND BECAUSE OATS AND I HAVE THE PERFECT HALLOWEEN COSTUME SORTED. I HAVE BEEN SWORN TO SECRECY. SO YOU WILL JUST HAVE TO WAIT AND SEE. BUT IT WILL BE A REAL CRACKER. AND WE'LL MAKE A REAL PAIR.
30 October, 2007
29 October, 2007
after reading an article in la repubblica about the growing batch of italian singer- songwriters and bands writing and performing in eeenglish, one such specimen caught my eye.
why? they call themselves: CANADIANS
and they are from er..verona....
anyway they have a sort of indie rock thing going on. errr...
well it's not half bad...errr... and they do have a knack for eye-catching song titles...
(this one caught my eye oddly enough)
summer teenage girl
28 October, 2007
27 October, 2007
Lesly: I don't think you're insane.
Jackie-O: You don't?
Jackie-O: You don't think I'm an eensie weensie bit insane?
Lesly: I don't think you're insane. I think you're just spoiled.
Jackie-O: [exasperated] Oh please, if everyone around here is going to start telling the truth, I'm going to bed.
i do consider this play (written by a canadian, natch) one of the finest black comedies to have come out in a long time in its complexity and incisive humour. the film adaptation was mighty fine, with a deliciously deranged parker posey. here is the writer's reflections on something, nothing short, of a cracker.
The play started with a particular house, a house I saw in an elegant suburb of Washington, D.C. There was just something about this chic, moneyed house that made me want in. And Lesly begins the play wanting in.
The title came from a graffiti I saw written on a bathroom wall: "We are living in a house of yes." And that made me think about Edgar Allan Poe and pornography and mostly about amorality. The play is about people that have never been said no to. It's about an insularity I see in the upper classes, people who have cut themselves off from the rest of the world and are living by the rules they've invented.
It is a great mistake to imagine the play is "camp" because the characters pretend to be Jack and Jackie Kennedy. To do the play that way is to undermine its emotional truth, and the love, however twisted, between the characters. Mrs. Pascal desperately loves her daughter and is trying to protect her, and the twins love each other deeply, tragically. However to speak of such thinks is "déclassé" and the characters only allow themselves that luxury at one or two points in the play. It is that tension between the Noel Coward veneer and the Pinteresque subtext that makes the play both funny and moving.
Some common questions. What's the deal with Anthony? Why does he do what he does? Perhaps because he truly loves Lesly and shares his brother's longing for "normalcy." Perhaps he's out to finally outdo his older brother. Or perhaps he tears Marty and Lesly apart for his sister's sake.
What's the deal with the assassination game? The construct of the two Kennedys allows the twins to make love to each other. In a blurring of events, they have confused the Kennedys with their own parents and we are merely watching an X-rated version of children playing house.
Finally, who is telling the truth at the end of the play? Did Mr. Pascal walk out on the family or was he, in fact, murdered by Mrs. Pascal? I will only say that every actor must present their character's version with absolute conviction.
24 October, 2007
5 years: oats is industriously painting, drumming and drawing tattoos. pod is chasing down central bankers and government leaders they do not live in the same city
10 years: oats is broke, moves in with pod, who now pays a mortgage on a flash flat in hong kong with maude, who has sired 20 pups and is a great-grandmother twice over
20 years: hong kong was eaten up by smoke, pod is executive editor of Time Out New York and she and oats are living off of comps in the village. they own a dive bar in nyc and a biker bar in SF and divide their time between the two, which both sport rocking chairs, and spend holidays in tuscany
5 years: still here. still in rome. natch. sat opposite each other. number of fegolas in their inner circle: tripled. dogs: the ever-loyal and now sterile maude. bf: none gf: none. shags: bi-annual. regular meetings: AA on wednesday nights. smoking: like chimneys. weight: stable
10 years: oats has finally got her shitt together. designing tats and getting paid for it, a novel concept. a chance encounter with jeremy fish has got her into the underground biz and she moonlights between NY, SF and Rome. Her hair is down to her ass. she now has 20 tats. and owns a motorbicycle. she's an outspoken critic
of the death sentence and takes her message around the world. a poor man's angelina. if you will. crowbar has gone awol somewhere in asia. every so often she resurfaces with a cryptic message.
20 years: oats. she lived fast. she has to die young. craddled in her darling crowbar's arms she sighs and whispers her last words: either that tat goes or i go. refering to a hideous ring crowbar got on her finger, after taking vows with her second gf in 20 years. i know, i know, crowbar mumbles in a flood of tears and loud gulping sounds. you sure know how to pick em', oats says. i know, i know, pod replies. elliot smith is playing in the background. shall we, oats says. go on then, crowbar cooes back. just as they're about to hang/stab each other. oats says: ``i have one!'' crowbar, pipes up: ck! oats: that's the one! they die at the ripe old age of 101. 2 minutes apart.
(more pics of the evening blow-by-blow to ensue)
here are a couple of hightlights (memory blackout notwithstanding)
1. oats' look when she thought i was being cheap and getting her the teeny weeny tat i got for me (for her). abject horror is how i would describe it.
2. spying on and snickering at oats stripped down to her bra-straps, with a slip of a ginga' holding a needle to her skin.
3. oats' post-tat exhileration: ``i want more'' whispered hungrily in a tone reminiscent of kirsten dunst's baby vamp.
4. endless array of crap photos of all and sundry. not to mention flash's distressing camera exercise of magnifying romolo's beard till it looked like a contagious and dangerous skin condition.
5. excitedly planning a carnival: oats the tattooed lady, dena the trapeze artist, flavia the bearded lady, romolo the stick insect, flash the fat lady.
and so much more. that must be kept on the DL
22 October, 2007
Say, I pray thee, thou [art] my sister: that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall live because of thee.
(The Dead Girl, 2006)
και εαν εχω προφητειαν και ειδω τα μυστηρια παντα και πασαν την γνωσιν και εαν εχω πασαν την πιστιν ωστε ορη μεθιστανειν αγαπην δε μη εχω ουθεν ειμι
21 October, 2007
after a three hour drive, with a hysterically pregnant dog, we arrived and had the obligatory chat with local yocals at which point we entered the house, which was in a state disarray. why you may ask, young reader? nothing upsets the young fraulein krause as to see her archive of film not in the established order. so with an unusual vigour, whigh in my 12 years of knowing mein schatzie i had yet to see, she became myopic in her pursuit of cinematic perfection. she told me, dismissively, to get on with whatever i have to get on with, because SHE would be seriously involved in rearanging and organizing the home-video collection with a logic all of her own. which involved tape markers, categories and sub-categories, alphabetization was contemptated but swiftly abandonded (after the 4 glass of wine).
the day after, armed with nothing but a bowl of broth, she went to collect 5 tonnes of chestnuts.
yours sincerely perplexed lisa
16 October, 2007
13 October, 2007
11 October, 2007
o: so it's amazing?
f: yes it is. it requires work. all their stuff kind of does. and
i drifted off into something else cause i was getting
o: oh boy. the amsterdamminess of it all. pal. it's good that we're
hanging with naps tomorrow, she's like an amsterdam antidote.
f: I KNOW pal. that's why i didn't want us both in country ALONE
o: GOOD FUKING POINT. oh my god. just had vision of us two, found
weeks later, one still swinging from the rafters, the other with
dried up foam at the mouth. suicide by amsterdam. alone in the
f: me wandering off into the woods to hang myself. you're
sprawled somewhere else.
o: no no, i would hang myself. you would be the frothy one
f: ufff.. as long as i get to leave a note saying wipe off the drool.
`to whom it may concern, thank you for finding our rotting OMC
corpses. we would like to apologize in advance for the
inconvenience and leave a small compensation to cover the cost of
cleaning us up and ensuring we are gorgeous once the vultures arrive.
please wipe off any residual froth. and make sure any rope burns
are covered up. also, make sure turn off the ipod - emily, elliot
t and thom are likely hoarse by now. farewell, cruel world,
hello rejkjavik. X O X O ''
f: pal... erm.. are we a bit morbid?
o: is it morbid if you're cheered by thoughts of your death and the
death of your loved one? umm
f: not just cheered but positively giddy with the chuckles
o: yeah, we're morbid
10 October, 2007
my passion for the brontes, or rather emily, has been banged on about,
admitedly, exclusively, by myself.
there are few to no pictures of her, apart from the well-known family
portrait executed by her brother branwell (who erased himself from the ensemble
painting, an alcoholic and drug addict, natch). As a child she created an
alternate universe for herself, where she would take refuge from the world.
At the beginning, it was an imaginary world shared with her sisters, where they
exorcised their demons and found an outlet for their pent-up creativity
and frustrations. But she lived out "Gondal" into adulthood and never
renounced it. It was the one place where she was who she was, defied all
logic, all rules and where everything impossible became possible.
We may never know how great her poetry was, beyond what survives,
she burnt so much of it.
she assumed a man's pseudonym. and something of her fantasy survives:
"the same unreality of this world, the same greater reality of another,...
and a unique imagination."
The Prisoner (fragment)
"Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;
My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:
Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found,
Measuring the gulph, it stoops and dares the final bound,
"Oh dreadful is the check--intense the agony--
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again;
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
"Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;
The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;
And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,
If it but herald death, the vision is divine!"
She ceased to speak, and we, unanswering, turned to go--
We had no further power to work the captive woe:
Her cheek, her gleaming eye, declared that man had given
A sentence, unapproved, and overruled by Heaven.
Emily Jane Brontë (July 30, 1818 – December 19, 1848)
died age, not yet, 30.
it's a cracker. now i can hear you sighing...i see the raising of eye brows. but this was quite the little revelation. not a teen crud. not in the sense i usually mean. compare/contrast with battle royale.
i heart korea
in the course of musings and exchanges...our lady V sent me a quote about the human condition which am sure she knew would resonate. and so here it is. all love and back to work. Rounds........
our 'heartbreaking inability to sustain contentment'
08 October, 2007
Marion: It always fascinated me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all, nothing. It hurts so much. When I feel someone is going to leave me, I have a tendency to break up first before I get to hear the whole thing. Here it is. One more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really love this one. When I think that its over, that I'll never see him again like this... well yes, I'll bump into him, we'll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together, then we'll slowly think of each other less and less until we forget each other completely. Almost. Always the same for me. Break up, break down. Drunk up, fool around. Meet one guy, then another, fuck around. Forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness start again to look for true love, desperately look everywhere and after two years of loneliness meet a new love and swear it is the one, until that one is gone as well. There's a moment in life where you can't recover any more from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you sixty percent of the time, well you still can’t live without him. And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well you love his sneezes more than anyone else's kisses.
i almost let this absolute gem slip between the cracks. it's a real find. a keeper. julie delphy, CHAPEAU!
read a nice review here from fastest indian
07 October, 2007
a faithful, if idiosyncratic, account of 7 hours spent in a one-horse town that prides itself in the (worst) wine. it comes out of fountains, supposedly. we sat on the footsteps. jamming and yapping with the locals. and the rest.
06 October, 2007
ok well. i am absolutely riveted by glenn close's Damages
it's smart. taut. compelling.
and well, for a certain vestibule tot, offers not one but TWO strong female leads. yes, glenn is brill but rose byrne is right up there MORE than holding her own. ted danson is simply a revelation. seeing is believing, folks. and zeljko ivanek is blowing my mind. you can download it on itunes. in the name of all that is sacred. just do it already.
meredith monroe was hands down the best thing in dawson creek, which i stopped watching very soon after her character left. forget the god-awful katie holmes. michelle williams was fab but also got her break. what happened to mer? i did rather enjoy new best friend but it's strictly for fans of teen crud. but after. a few one off or bit parts in different shows. she is utterly compelling in whatever thing she does. more please.
Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
Trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera.
well. well. after another display of alpha tendencies i decide enough is enough and take maude to the vet..........describe to her the old rubber chicken symptoms. and errrrrr..yup. maude has feigned two pseudo pregnancies (both a month/two months after being on the rag). apparently she is defending her fictious pups to the death and is errrrr lactating. so she needs to get knocked up at the next round and then be sterilized or risk contracting tit cancer.
oh dear. women......
am i bit tipsy?
yet do i believe..
in the truth of one word?
in the forgetfulness of sleep?
05 October, 2007
oh deary dear. lordy lord
there is a reason i don't listen to radiohead.
it tips me over the edge.
oats had the unfortunate idea to show me a clip
during an easy going emily-haines listening friday afternoon
oh well.......there is no turning back is there?
f: well you've gone and done it. listening to radiohead.
o: hahahah. ooooops..
f: PAL what have you done?
o: i'm NOT GOING there. sticking with em for now
04 October, 2007
The American CGI-animated Surf's Up is a treat. It's a skit on two recent cinematic cycles: penguin pictures and romantic, aggrandising documentaries about the history of surfing and its heroes. The film, sometimes using amusingly faked newsreel footage, traces the career of Cody, the young penguin surfer from Shiverpool, Antarctica, who grows up worshipping the great penguin surfer, Big Z, is recruited by talent scouts and taken to enter the big time in the Pacific. Jeff Bridges in his laidback Big Lebowski-style sounds terrific as Big Z. Fun, but the proper length should have been an hour, not 85 minutes. Phillip French
surf. penguins. jeff.
Hesitation's always mine,
Hesitate outside the times.
With all I don't say, with all I don't do, I'm sending you...
Oh, call me or drop me a line.
Say you've been with me,
Say you've been with me.
Say you've been with me this whole time.
my recent discovery of more emily haines tracks, from a live 2004 concert in toronto. has predictably tipped me over the edge. bare-boned. haunting. she touches the raw core.
By Flavia Krause-Jackson
Oct. 3 (Bloomberg) -- Chico, Pope Benedict XVI's nine-
year-old ginger Siamese cat, has published a tell-all book for
children about the life of Joseph Ratzinger, from his childhood
in Nazi Germany to his election as supreme pontiff in 2005.
``The story of my friend starts on April 16, 1927 on a
very cold night,'' begins the tongue-in-cheek biography of
Chico's master, told from the point of view of his favorite pet
by German author Jeanne Perego.
``Joseph and Chico'' (Edizione Messaggero Padova) has
papal authorization and includes a foreword by Georg Gaenswein,
Benedict's personal secretary since 2003.
``Here, dear children, you will find a biography very
different to the others because telling the story is a cat --
and it's not every day that a cat can call the Holy Father his
friend and write his story.''
Chico, who confesses to having scratched Benedict's face
one Christmas, tells his readers how he knew the pope was
feline-friendly after spotting a sculpture of a cat in the
garden. If it had been one of a dog ``I would have thought
twice before setting a paw'' there, he says.
03 October, 2007
02 October, 2007
``ho visto il loro certificato di nascita, poetico, incredibile: l'unico paese al mondo dove nello stesso certificato si augura lunga e serena vita al nascituro.''
am feeling quite nauseated by a surge of token activism, which seems to me as futile as it is genuinely insulting. red shirts? the point being, er..what? expressing solidarity? am sure the lifeless corpses of thousands of monks are touched and grateful. if someone could organize something big and bold. a march of hundreds of thousands, millions of non-burmese citizens trying to bust through the land frontiers on all sides, from india to china, or to try at least to be physically close, then sign me up. but red shirts? petitions? if all those efforts, and the resources and money vested, could instead be re-directed to one single and basic concept. of barricading the country not with soldiers, guns but people like you and i. everyone giving up something that is more than an afternoon of flag-waving and candle-lighting but something far more concrete: a holiday, savings, real time and real effort. change is brought about by boldness and courage. not empty rhetoric and forwarded emails. nor political expressions of sadness and sympathy. nor pointless sanctions. or useless reports of journalists not even there and certainly not by the spurious visit of the UN nigerian to the country. our solutions seem as tired as we are.
01 October, 2007
i am in a horrid mood. am sure this futile exercise will soothe my chafed nerves.
mmm..yes. starting to feel better already. what can i say. this is the man that ends all men. wrote the script to paris texas..stars in days of heaven...is shacked up with jessica lange...the ultimate epitome of the intellectual marlboro man. hose me down..
always had a soft spot for asians. am sure i was not alone in going weak at the knees at the rugged mongolian in crouching tiger, hidden dragon. i then lost the plot when i saw him again, shaved head and shirtless, in taiwanese masterpiece three times (in the country folks...). hose me down..
visconti's muse. sublime. tragic. magnificent. doomed. say no more.......
yeah. yeah. yawn. yawn. hose me down.
maxine...maxine...blame ``being john malcovich''
new entry: ellen page. canadian pixie. distressingly talented. smart. must pipe down.
cause he was the DADDY. a dude to end all dudes. jeff bridges is his spiritual descendent. that effortlessness. that cheeky grin. the lazy eyes. hose me down!
must work now. ho hum.