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• little loves • Eddie Cibrian's Dimples
Because c'mon! Shame on Invasion's slowburn peril for not providing them a more frequent showcase. Wentworth Miller
He's my boyfriend. He is. No, he just is. He's all green-eyed, widow's-peaked, melting-pot hotness and oiled-massage voice. He's it. • past loves • |
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So I killed my knee again, my knee that I originally injured in Australia something like two years ago. The story goes a little something like this: On Sunday evening, I went to the movies. At nine o'clock when the movie was finally over, I got some vegetable soup from Soup Box on Broadway. Every time I wait for the #36 Broadway bus after 9 p.m., it takes 45 minutes to an hour to arrive, so I decided to walk two blocks east to Sheridan to catch the #151. Of course -- because every time I try to change my habits for efficiency's sake, I choke -- the #151 took a good 45 minutes to arrive. My vegetable soup was then cold. I'd already eaten all the free bread that comes with it while sitting on the curb. All seats on the bus were taken, save one. I went to it. Just as I was turning to sit down, the bus accelerated forward in a powerful lurch and my knee -- which was turning -- slammed against the seat and there was a sound like when you rip a chicken leg out of its socket. Gross. I was instantly covered in a cold sweat, thisclose to barfing and my vision started swimming around like I was going to pass out. Plus, my knee really hurt. That's the story of re-busting the knee. However, the night got better. With my pre-movie novel, my purse from the market in San Antonio and my now-cold soup resting in my lap, I fought off the nausea. At some point, some jerk -- who apparently finds about-to-hurl women attractive -- sat down next to me. He started caressing my thigh. Ew. Just ew. I told him to knock it off. A few moments later, he started up again. I told him I was going to hit him in the face if he didn't stop. A little while later, there were those fingers again. So I elbowed him in the mouth. I'm a real city girl now, in case you care. I've been sexually harassed on public transportation (the numerous men who show you their dicks don't count because that just happens all the time) and, simultaneously, I've assaulted a fellow CTA passenger. Also, years ago, I was pooped on by a pigeon on my way to work. (I feel your pain, Girl-Bart, but I still like birds.) So, except for being sliced in half by an icicle falling from a skyscraper, or witnessing a drive-by shooting, I've got all the urban-living bases covered. So much for old news. You may notice that I've added a new movie-related section to the right. While I'm likely to give more in-depth analyses over here, that's just a quick reference for all y'all. I know my movie-going opinion means a great deal to you, as illustrated by the quote on that page which flew from the lips of my ever-loyal brother Bart when we worked together at Hastings Home Video. Finally, I saw the trailer for The Eye this weekend. Cree-pee. You can't go wrong with Asian horror films. Even when they make no sense -- and they rarely make sense -- they're always scary. Watch that trailer. The scene in the elevator? I know I'm going to cry when I see that part of the movie. Yay! jlb | 15:01 So here's something weird: I seem to have given myself a black eye -- in my sleep. Dude. Near as I can tell, I must have been sleeping with my eye right on top of my jade bracelet or something. There's a first time for everything, I guess.
Happy belated birthday (though I did talk to him twice on the phone) to Bart. The bastard gets to see the Stripes in concert. jlb | 10:26 Everyone should go see L'Homme du train. C'est si bon!
jlb | 16:16 Francie Brown gets a lot of dialogue coach work in Hollywood. I saw two movies yesterday and her name was in the credits of both. Good for her. In The Shape of Things she only had to contend with Brit Rachel Weisz doing an American accent, but I'll bet she really earned her money in X2, it's so chock-a-block with foreign actors. Shape was undeniably interesting, as most Neil LaBute movies are whether you like them or not, but some scenes felt really forced and "stage play"--which it was originally. Then there's X2, which is apparently its whole title, not just a shorthand way of referring to it, like T2. I'm having a lot of mixed emotions about it because everyone else in the world seems to love it and I...didn't. I recognize that in nearly all aspects, it's a superior movie to the first. The special effects, especially Nightcrawler, were far and away the best I've seen so far this year--except for the majorly fake-looking X-Men jet--but I didn't have the visceral connection to it that I did to the first one. I remember leaving the theatre after the original X-Men feeling totally exhilarated! I was so pumped I saw it three times the following weekend! Not so with X2. I think the sequel lacked an emotional core that X-Men had in abundance. In the original, the Wolverine-Rouge dynamic was the heart of the whole film--two friendless outsiders who not only find each other, but are integral to each other's experience of the new world into which they're thrown. There was something to care about there. In X2, I'm still struggling to find something similar. I think they were trying to make the Wolverine-Jean Grey-Cyclops love triangle the emotional center of this one but, dude, who cares? It was a boring aspect of the first and it's even less interesting in the sequel, chiefly because Cyclops is M.I.A. for all but about 10 minutes of the movie. And what was up with that? Note to Bryan Singer: James Marsden is hot. Give him screen time. I shouldn't have to tell a gay man this. You came through with the wet, nude Hugh Jackman, though. Good work. I was impressed that there was a human body count this time around. I do so love Wolverine when he's all berserker. I also like that he got his ass so thoroughly kicked by Lady Deathstrike. But he lost a lot of his humor--the whole movie did!--and I hated that. I understand that they were going for a darker tone with this one, what with the human-mutant war coming and all, but they failed to make me feel anything. I didn't get an impending sense of doom. I didn't feel like anything was inevitable or that anything could be lost. It was all just grim without dramatic tension. As for the ending, are we really supposed to care about Jean Grey diffusing or whatever it was that she did? She's a secondary character that we never truly got to know in any meaningful way. Furthermore, we know absolutely nothing about her relationship with Cyclops, so are we supposed to feel bad for him now that she's gone? Or for Wolverine? That really bothered me. And how come there are so few evil mutants? They don't seem like such a threat when there's only Mystique and Magneto running around versus an entire school of good guys. It lessens the impact of the two sides needing to team up against the humans. So, unfortunately, a big ol' who cares to X2, which makes me really sad. jlb | 11:17 Today, I saw a turtle's tongue. Little dude was packing away the lettuce leaves, sitting in his food bowl. It was awesome. There were also three tarantulas in plastic food containers about the quarter-pound size you get at the deli. Why they couldn't run around their little enclosure was beyond me and there wasn't a PetCo employee to be found whom I could ask. If anyone asks, Spellbound is fantastic, Ben & Jerry's new Brownie Batter ice cream, despite my deepest wishes, is not. jlb | 22:18 The Last Samurai. Um, what? I'm very confused by this teaser trailer. Is Tom Cruise a samurai during the Civil War? Oh, how to resist Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear in a movie together! I know! Have the Farrelly brothers direct it. jlb | 16:09 Following is an edited passage from Philip Gourevitch's short story, "Mortality Check," published in the Zoetrope: All-Story anthology. I feel like Kretzky nearly everyday, except for the fainting part. Kretzky had fainted before. The previous summer, on his honeymoon, in Valence in the Provence, he had sat on a cafe terrace with his wife, Erika, and watched as an antique bi-plane returning from an air show crashed into a water tower. A shout came from inside the cafe, and a man hurried into the street, where he stumbled, lost his balance, and fell forward on his knees ... The man's head smacked into a cement planter holding geraniums ... When he sat back up, blood lined his face and pooled behind his glasses, which had survived the fall in place and unbroken. Kretzky believed he saw a bristling eyebrow torn and dangling over the man's nose, and he felt the sweat start running down his chest ... He sat hyperventilating in a swirl of bitter thoughts--for instance, that his brother, a doctor, would not be such a helpless wreck. His brother had a purpose in the world of detached eyebrows. Kretzky could only be in the way. He thought he wanted to be a filmmaker, and he'd wound up working as an exhibition designer at the Museum of Natural History, a good job he would have to quit if he ever hoped to make a film, if he could ever decide on an idea for a film he believed in enough to leave his job, if he could ever be certain enough about his willingness to take on the uncertainty, if he could ever be as certain of anything as he was, at that moment, of his overwhelming uselessness. jlb | 11:56 At Clark and Diversey tonight, I fell in love with a guy on the street. You know how that happens sometimes? You see a stranger and get a feeling low in your stomach like "Yes! That guy! Right there! He's awesome!" for no discernible reason. It's completely different than seeing a cute guy on the street, thinking "Wow, he's hot!" and then going on your way. You grin and blush as you walk behind him and entertain the notion that if you had met him somewhere where you could have actually, you know, met, that you're positive in some weird, reptile-brain way that you would have hit it off. Right afterwards, I saw a Jaguar -- the old Jaguar, the long Jaguar, the real Jaguar, the European Jaguar, the one it's okay to pronounce all British: Jag-you-ar. So I was in love and had just seen a sexy car, so I splurged on the avocado benedict with hash browns at Granny's. Then I went to the Landmark. The mannequins in Express were absolutely hilarious. They had pointy nipples that stuck out in opposite directions. Attractive! I saw Lukas Moodysson's new film Lilja 4-ever and it totally broke my heart. Later, waiting for the #36 bus, I started thinking again about teaching ESL because my current job sucks the big one, and then I came home to do some kickboxing. I wish I had my brother Bart's courage to just up and change jobs at the drop of a dime. I believe you have my stapler. jlb | 00:18 One question burns within us all: Where is Zombie Jesus???
jlb | 22:21 Spent yesterday driving to Girl-Bart's commencement in Iowa. I got a piece-of-shit Ford Escort SE rental. It was completely the wind's bitch (okay, 50 mph-plus wind, but still) and it doesn't go up hills. The eastern part of Iowa along I-80 from the border to Pella is, for those who don't know, all hills. Commencement was...commencement but with more praying than usual. Girl-Bart had a dozen pieces of flair on her robe and her name in the event program 42,318 times because she's a super-genius. If you can swing it, I highly recommend driving along County Road T-14 at sunset. It was really gorgeous. This morning, I experienced the folly of staying on I-80 instead of switching to I-88 in Illinois. I thought I would save myself $2.70 in tolls but got an hour of 50 mph construction zone instead. So I got off the interstate and zipped north on State Road 40. About 15 miles south of Rock Falls, I passed Alice's Prosthesis Shop. I guess there are a lot of horrible farm accidents in western Illinois. Back on I-88 I realized that, though it'll cost ya, you share the road with only three or four other cars all the way to Aurora. Sweet. $2.70 well spent.
jlb | 18:02 Yay! Nathan and Alan are doing a commentary for War Stories on the Firefly DVD! Yay! jlb | 00:06 Wow. My neighborhood is really neighborhood-y in warm weather. I love that. Tons of people walking around, kids on the playground at 8 p.m., the condos across the way playing the Red Hot Chili Peppers loud enough for me to hear it from my sofa, loud enough that I have to turn Episode 10 of Cowboy Bebop up really loud to hear it. I think I'll have to find some cool Bebop merchandise to own. And I told myself I would shun it, but I ended up watching the last hour and a half of The Matrix on FOX tonight. Now I'm so excited for the sequel I can barely stand it. Except for that damn love-conquers-all ending of the first installment. I hate that so much. I don't hate everything though. I love Francis Ford Coppola's Green Label Shyra. And his Zoetrope: All-Story. I'm one swallow away from an entire bottle of wine. Whee!
Note to Fat Guy: Southside in the Twin Cities at Rib Fest on 24 July! EEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! You should take Mr. P and Marge. Let me know if you want me to come North for the occasion! jlb | 22:49 I just sat through another mind-numbing content management system demonstration at work. Normally, I would be totally pissed off right now because my time was wasted yet again. Today, however, I'm a little energized post-demo because Bryan, our main presenter, was really cute. God help me, I have a crush on a Microsoft shill! I'm considering going all 13-year-old girl on his ass and crank-calling him in Oregon. Hee. No one should ever give me a business card. I only use them for evil.
jlb | 16:22 What happened to 24? Was it their plan all along to save all the engaging episodes for the end? Did I really have to suffer through 20-odd hours of mostly crap before I was treated to the past two episodes? It's really annoying. Sure, Season One had a few clunker episodes, but not a dozen-plus in a row! None of you care about my 24 woes, but I'm running out of good TV here, people. I want this show to remain worth my while. Isn't the trademarked Sutherland velvet always going to be worth my while, you ask? Probably. I'm weak-willed when it comes to Kiefer. I blame it on Lost Boys.
jlb | 21:45 I'm full of allergy medicine. My obsession with Zombie Jesus must somehow be allergy-induced because here I am thinking about him again. And I'm worried. Zombie Jesus is still M.I.A. In fact, I've never seen him on his cross with its lovely view of the Uptown branch of the Chicago Public Library, from which I have yet to apply for a library card. What's up? Did he go for his first nightly, soul-sucking sojourn and get lost? Is he just caught up in conversation with his many friends in Graceland and Wunder Cemeteries? Or is he kickin' it with the clergy in the rectory, watching DirecTV and eating CornNuts? I don't have evidence that the St. Mary of the Lake priests eat CornNuts, but I just have a feeling that Zombie Jesus would snack on them between soul meals. They're crunchy. Digression: "CornNuts!" Hee. Just try not to hear it in the strangled voice of Heather #1 just before she smashes into the glass coffee table. Speaking of CornNuts, I had my first CornNuts on my recent road trip odyssey with the Fat Guy. I will be peppering Things I Learned From My Road Trip Odyssey with the Fat Guy throughout subsequent entries since I have not the will to sit and write one, long trip account, nor do I have the non-drowsy allergy medication with which to make such a thing possible. That said...
jlb | 15:57 I have to take a quick moment to pimp a movie. The Italian Job. It was completely off my radar until I saw Identity a few weeks back. Digression to add: Identity, which I pimped some time ago is highly watchable. It's two hours long, but feels like 30 minutes, and can absolutely boast the most brilliant central conceit of a psychological thriller in a long-ass time. I figured out all the major plot twists and turns long before they happened, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a really original idea. Anyhow, I'm not pimping The Italian Job because of the seriously capable cast or the fun-looking caper storyline, but because I saw the trailer on the big screen and was EEEEEEEE!-ing about the Minis. Look at the Minis!! EEEEEE! I have an unhealthy crush on that car. I could seriously see myself buying one in the next year or two. And, oh yes, my friends, mine will have the dorky racing stripe on the hood! Damn straight it will. jlb | 15:17 I realize I should have been more specific in yesterday's post. The Robert Patrick Terminator, the T-1000, hunted John Connor. The Arnold Terminator hunted Sarah Connor -- also John Connor by proxy, I guess, since he was hunting Sarah so that John would never be born. Anyway. Just wanted to get that in there before Bart read it and saw fit to correct me. I had a thought this morning that I was never a kid. That's not to say I'm mature or an adult, because when I hold either of those words up next to my own self-concept, they lose all meaning. But I was walking past the Buena Park playground today and experienced the "delighted cries of children" as you've certainly read about in literature and heard in movies. I don't ever remember screaming in delight as a child. Laughing, sure -- but that high-pitched, ear-piercing shriek that you hear on playgrounds? Never. Not that I can remember. In fact, I don't ever remember a time when I did anything with that famous childlike abandon. I can't remember ever doing anything without thinking about the consequences first. That's not to say I've never done anything stupid. I just don't remember ever doing anything spontaneously, without consideration. It's kind of depressing. jlb | 11:44 If there was any doubt left, let me assure you that, somewhere along the way, I missed out on a giant chunk of How To Be a Girl training. It's already common knowledge that I don't like babies and that I never notice things like new haircuts -- you know, the girl stuff -- but today it became desperately, achingly clear that I can't even pretend to do the Girl Thing civilly for twenty minutes. Not even when there's chocolate cake with chocolate frosting involved. A girl in my group is getting married next week. Let's call her "My Best Friend." (If you don't already know that story, I'll tell it sometime.) A few women in the office organized a surprise wedding shower for today. I'm not particularly buddy-buddy with My Best Friend -- in fact, I find her exceedingly irksome -- so I didn't contribute for the gift and cake, nor did I plan to attend. At five minutes to two, another member of my group, Ritalin Girl, came by my office and asked if I would attend. The party was a bust because, apparently, the majority of women in this office find MBF as annoying as I do. I was nice and I went. Beyond pretending that I care a wit about MBF's impending marriage, or happiness or anything that happens in her life in general, I had to sit in a small room with a dozen other women who, sadly, are into the Girl Thing. It was hell on earth, friends. You know the expression "the cackling of hens"? Well, that's all I could think of the entire time. And that was before the TMI portion of the shindig. MBF is getting married on the beach in Hawaii. We were lucky enough to hear the entire itinerary -- and, dudes, this girl explains everything in the most excruciating minutiae -- but I'm only giving all y'all the mega-paraphrased, nausea-inducing highlight. Neener neener. She graciously explained to us that the car package she and her husband-to-be purchased for travel from the airport to the hotel includes the lei ceremony upon arrival. Bully for them. Of course, someone had to make a "lei'd in Hawaii" joke, to which MBF replied something along the lines of "or maybe before," which brought on the first bout of the aforementioned cackling and a truly mortifying, euphemistic discussion of airplane sex. Gross. Just ew. Then Ritalin Girl had to ask if the husband-to-be was a good lover, and the Queen of Micro-Managers had to egg on that scintillating discussion. I started to wonder if I could erase those moments from my memory if I stuck a red-hot piece of metal through an eye socket deep into the once-innocent, fluffy-bunny layers of my brain. The truly truly terrible girly part was yet to come. Cake was handed out, gifts were opened. The shriek of "Oh, isn't that cute!" was heard round the world. Then someone -- I'm not sure who, but she is now my mortal enemy and I will hunt her down with the tirelessness of the Terminator hunting John Connor -- asked to hear the story of MBF's first date with the husband-to-be. The drippy "ahhhhhh"-ing sigh was not to be believed. To revive a favorite expression from the 80s: Gag me with a spoon! No, really. Gag me. No spoon, you say? Here, use one of these plastic forks that came with the cake. Never have I wished more to be one of those handful of cases of spontaneous human combustion. I really hate girls. I hate them exactly as much as Father Tightpants hates them. But in a totally different, non-uterus-stabbing way. jlb | 16:26 Would a better slogan for Zombie Jesus be "He doesn't want brains. He wants your soul!"? I can't decide. My original, maybe-dogwood, maybe-cottonwood, allergy-induced idea is more morbid. Morbid is good. But in Christian mythology, Jesus doesn't eat us, we eat him, so maybe my second, largely clearheaded idea on this fine, rainy morning is better. Rain crushes the maybe-dogwood, maybe-cottonwood allergens. Rain is mighty. Long live rain! Happy birthday, Girl-Bart! jlb | 11:26 |
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