What's The Last Movie That Made You Cry?

This is a question I got asked today. I had a ready answer, already written up and stashed in away. The last movie that made me cry f-ed me up so bad I think I wrote about three different times.

With my move and the few possessions I wanted to retain being scattered to the four winds, I don't have access to all those angst-ridden ponderings. But lucky, lucy you, I got at least one of them.

So, playground rules in effect: I'll show you mine with an understanding of reciprocity.

Disclaimer: Though I say it below, I feel the need to be clear on this point--I don't do weepy movie time. I don't like crying in general, and it's few and far between that I find book, music, film or other media that inspires it.

The film in question was The Jacket. My original thoughts were a lot less linear and much more reactive. This is not a logical review of the movie. It's a visceral response translated into the weak words I could muster to convey what I felt. Here's an excerpt of what I originally wrote:

This movie. This damn movie just hit me in that secret place you live; that private grotto where you stake out your last stand, you and all your fears. 

It wasn't enough to cry during the movie. I ended up crying afterwards as well.

Maybe I'm just tired, and getting soft and sentimental in my dotage.

But I hate crying. I hate it.

There is a horrific beauty in this movie, in more ways than one. Ironically, I was looking for poems on beauty today to send to some friends. And here I come home to a horrorshow marvel, a poetic phantasm. 

But more than that, here is the piercing heartache of terrible purpose. The kind of purpose that destroys as it fulfills. And failure to fulfill is beyond destruction. It's worse than death. 

Failure means you stay here and live forever, knowing in your heart you took the wrong train.

Typing it out makes it easier. We are, after all, reactive creatures and require proof in the pudding. So after making a lifetime out of dodging destiny, it becomes easy to dismiss existential worry--there's no evidence. None except that wriggling, niggling, mildew worm that shuffles just to the right of your line of sight: missed ya, missed ya, missed ya. . .

Tomorrow is almost here, look at all this sensory input. Hard and concrete. Large and discrete. Easy to measure, easy to feel. None of this gobbledegook, if you will.

I read that now, and I can understand that it might mean nothing to others. Truthfully, the Tyrant known as Distance has given me some sense of calm about that film. I even wonder to myself, was it really that bad?

But believe this bub, I will Never Watch That Fucking Thing Again. I can be detached discussing it right now. But that mofo carved out my heart and did the Mexican Hat Dance on it. I was weeping, weeping, halfway through the film.

A movie hasn't filled me with that much anguish since, ironically, The Pianist. Another movie I will Never Again View.

(Sidebar: I hate movies about the Shoah. Hate hate hate hate. I hate them because they are true, and I can't ever separate the action on screen from the reality that This Shit Right Here Actually Happened to These People. I watched The Pianist under protest. The guy who picked it up as our rental did it despite my displeasure. He then had the audacity to look at me halfway through and say, "God, what's your problem? If it's so bad we'll turn it off." Yes, he was a dick. Yes, I hope his falls off.)

So what can I add to the above that might make some kind of sense? Here's what made The Jacket so gut wrenching: tragic inevitability. Every frame just drips with Impending Doom and Horrific Consequences. It's awash in Inescapable Destiny. People searching for tiny patches of sunlight, who would be content with mere seconds in the sun, but instead are pummeled by tsunamis of terrible circumstance.

And I think it's so particularly poignant because the catastrophes are so small, so personal. We've all heard a version of the quote that if you kill one man it's a tragedy, if you kill thousands it's a statistic. Well here is one small, singular tragedy. The lens of the camera magnifies it to an epic exploration of the horror of flawed fate.

I'm sure all of this just oozes something psychologically disturbing and embarrassing about me, but the truth is I've never bothered to revisit the whole thing long enough to do a post mortem. Some movies bum you out. Some harpoon your soul. Thar she blows, mateys.

I had a dream last night. . .

I visited my cousin. He decided it was high time I learned how to cook. We settled on chicken hot dogs, because anything else would have been too much commitment for me. Sad, but also hilariously true. We laughed about it a lot.

Even though we were at his place, I ended up departing his house from his car. It was starting to drizzle. I let myself out of the car and busted his chops, saying "If only I could meet a man who would hold the door for me. . . *sigh*"

He replied that if I ever let someone in my heart, they'd be a knight and turn it upside down. (No, I have no idea what that means, either).

I ran home, cutting through sideyards and skipping over puddles. I caught reflections of myself in people's porch glass and back doors. I was beautiful, and it looked nothing like me. I was wearing some kind of elaborate gold dress, straight out of Hollywood. I remember seeing my reflection at one point and thinking, "Well, the plastic surgery paid off."

The main point was not getting wet, so I ran in between the raindrops and around the puddles, in that wonderful way I can only achieve in dreams. I was wearing some fabulous and ridiculous Louboutin style pumps that fit like a dream. And (so unlike my real life) I wasn't heel-heavy at all---I flitted by on the balls of my feet, popping from one slippery patch to the next.

I beelined for the back porch door, and passed my parents who were sitting in a car, in the dark. (No, I don't know why everyone is sitting in cars in this dream). I realized I might be "in trouble" for being out, yet at the same time I couldn't be, because I'm all growed up now.

Back in my bedroom, which was straight out of my great Aunt's lovely and incredible quasi-victorian old house, I divested myself of the fabulous frock and waited for the worst: facing the truth of my reflection. I imagined that now that I was home this sort of glamour would have dissipated, the illusion would have evaporated, and it would be me again.

And it was, but it wasn't. My hair was wild and messy and batshit crazy from the rain. I thought "Why the hell doesn't anybody ever tell me I look like this? I could be institutionalized from my hairdo alone?" (This is something that happens to me in real life, my hair just goes apeshit and I walk around looking like a mental patient and have no idea).

I didn't look perfect, but I looked so much better than I actually do. Thinner, stronger. A body with a hope of betterment.

That was it. A murky reflection in a looking glass.

*********
In possibly related news, I think I can safely advise that one should not watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Silence of the Lambs, American Psycho, Miller's Crossing, and Much Ado About Nothing within the same day.

Miller's Crossing I watched on purpose, since it has been languishing in my Netflix pile for about, oh, I don't know....12 months? DA DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUN!

The rest I came across on television. It must have been Must See TV for the Mentally Deranged night.

Cuckoo I only caught the last hour or two acts of, but mercy. What an awesome film. If you've ever wondered why people make a big a deal about Jack Nicholson, watch this film. There's an extremely brave shot where they just let the camera linger on his face for about three minutes, and you get to see him think. It's fucking great. There is no way he's Acting! in that shot, he's really thinking, and feeling, and remembering.

And maybe I'm still operating under the influence, but did anybody else get a "Catcher in the Rye" vibe from Cuckoo, especially the dialogue? Makes me want to read the book. Was that Kesey? Of Electric Kool Aid fame?
*************
Are the Oscar's tonight? Is is odd that I'm asking this? I wish Ricky Gervais was hosting. Franco and Hathaway seem nice enough, but the move seems cold and calculated. Though if the fates see fit to transform into looking like anyone else anytime soon, Hathaway would be just dandy, thankyouverymuch. I will also accept transmogrification into: Salma Hayek, Natalie Portman, Iman, Zoe Salramdanahana, Paget Brewster, Madonna (circa "Bad Girl" or "Human Nature"), Sophia Lauren, Lisa Edelstein, Jodie Foster, Audrey Hepburn (wtf, ya know? go big or go home), or Claire Forlani. I'm sure I'm forgetting scores, but just in case the Universe is handing out Freebies today. . .

*************
And so we close, gentle reader(s?), another chapter here at BlatherBlahg. Wherein you have gotten to hear all my weird ass shit because, frankly, no else cares to. Aren't you lucky?

Something from a bit back, maybe even another lifetime:

Seven years past, according to the records:

i sure do wish you'd called tonight

i could've stood to heard a(your)friendly voice

in late evenings where epitaphs

seem more likely than song

i don't know what i might have said

or even if you could have supported

this peculiar bond i feel so strongly 

that we have

as if in my universe

amidst the roiling and mistaking

we may fall back on each other

(even in error)

we may fall back on each other

and know the comfortable palm of connect

if you had let your voice

come down the line to me

i would have known what to name this feeling

this tiny ship called hope

You know those mornings when you realize. . .

• that you feel like crap on a stick for no particular reason, but that feeling is here to stay?
• belatedly, that you should have just belted one back at the house before heading out?
• you should probably just leave and head to the nearest bar or bowling alley, immediately?
• if none of the above are plausible, take mallet. Apply to head. Repeat as necessary.

In other news, stalking is alive and well, but sadly geographically misguided. My future ex-boyfriend Gerry apparently loves NYC and wants to spend all his time there. Not cool, Gerry. I don't care that J-Dog lives there. She will never love you like I do. 

This is exacerbated by the fact that he has decided to start looking amazingly hot again. I love him all the time, but SRSLY, this is just stupidly good looking:

I am just a sucker for the longer locks, of which he is sporting an abundance of lately. I believe I spy a wayward cowlick. How come it looks good on him, and just deranged on me? 

Insult to injury, apparently GButz was hanging out in FL around the winter holidays. 

WAT??? Gerry, why do you torment me so? That's like shooting alligator luggage. Like you are actually *trying* to rub my face in it. 

I like that pose there. It's all Action!Gerry. Ready to kick off those flops and clear the hurdles of drooling South Beach Babes in a single bound. 

And just to please myself (since nobody else is in a rush to):

Aww. They are so cute here. I like to think this is where they realized they didn't have to fight over me, and that their friendship would endure.

This is the kind of shot that one dreads---being caught with your mouth open and eyes closed. It's like being caught eating. But ABrods profile shots are a thing of beauty that I will cherish in any form. (Gerry knows it, too. He's like, "Check this shit out, this mofo is gonna end up on BlatherBlagh, fo shizzle!")

Sneaking Suspicion and Platitudes

I'm a little worried about something. Well, somethings. But here's one of them:

What if I've used up all my responsibility? My motivation to get shit done is a big fat el zilcho. I just want to veg out, hide, waste time, and generally be useless.

I'm even having trouble doing the day to day, making myself go to work, go to the store, etc.

What if all I had was about a decade of ass-busting, and I used it all up? I mean, I've never been an overachiever, but looking back I have kept myself pretty busy this last ten years or so. School, work, working out (in MULTIPLE and seemingly ENDLESS forms), social organizing, blah blah whatevercakes.

I mean, I left my last situation feeling burnt out. I was hoping a massive change of scenery and culture would knock my ass back into step. But I was also worried that my burn out was more extensive, and wouldn't be so easily rebounded from. (I couldn't figure out how to end that sentence without sounding like a pretentious ass, so the preposition will dangle.)

But what if it's worse than burn out. What if the power bar indicator on my Responsibility Meter is permanently depleted? Out of Rupies? No Hearts left? Yes, I loved Scott Pilgrim, why do you ask?

This notion hit me as I was leaving work on Tuesday, and when I got in my car the song on the player was "We Never Change," by Coldplay. Apropos.

********

Today at a work mtg with one of my bosses and a co-worker, we touched on the Universal Truism About Dating.

We all pretty much agreed it boiled down to this: you never find someone until you stop looking, and as soon as you aren't looking/start dating someone, everybody and their brother starts hitting on you.

I can attest to this. If I start seeing someone, folks come out of the woodwork to make a play. Total strangers hit on me (not in my normal everyday existence). There's probably a lot of factors involved in this, including subtle cues of improved esteem and increased looseness with behavior (you don't have to be guarded because you are "spoken for"--kind of like assuming that it's safer to hang out with a married person than a single one, since the married person is off the table. Strangely, it's the married people who have the hardest time remembering this, while naive singletons think it's a given. Spoken as a former naive singleton).

I've observed the first part to be true as well--people who are desperate for relationships never get them. I'll cop to the fact here that in this case I'm kinda like that skinny bitch who says she never diets--I'm never looking, really, so I guess I'm in the perennial state of non-seeking, and whatever vibe that puts out.

So we're shooting the shit about this, and I realize: this only works in dating. How come other things in life don't come along when you aren't looking for them? I mean, like, I wasn't looking for a million dollars this weekend. So how come a million dollars didn't drop in my lap? What's the deal?

My co-worker noted it was probably because you never really divested yourself of those other desires. And she's probably right. But still. Come on. There have been times I wasn't trying to become independently wealthy, achieve enlightenment, find inner peace, or whatever. And it STILL didn't happen for me while I wasn't looking.

I'm calling shenanigans on this one. SCREW YOU, UNIVERSE!! I SHAKE MY IMPOTENT FIST AT YOU!

But maybe I'll still get away, just turn my back on the crowd. I really have been thinking a lot more about living conditions on the tops of remote mountains. Can you be too old to join the Peace Corps? Do you have to be Tibetan to join a monastery?

Well, That Was A Fantastic Success

Yesterday's invite for group discussion went nowhere. Fast. 


Took a long walk. Off a short pier.


I see a pattern emerging on this blog.


95% of posts--no comments.


5% of posts--at least one comment.


What is so special about that 5%? Well, it's probably because they are the posts with pictures of Hot Mens. And when I think about it, it really isn't that surprising. I mean, Hot Mens *are* way more interesting than me.


We've got a new hire at work, who shall henceforth be known as So Wrong.  


So Wrong is one of those people that makes me laugh until I cry. Which he has done several time in the last two weeks, bless his heart. In that small amount of time, people already are asking, "Hawkeye's head is down on the desk. What did So Wrong do?"

I'd say he's been a bit of a catalyst, as some of the rest of us are talking more, or eating lunch out, etc. My once-a-week workouts have had an effect, too. The effect of turning me into a ravenous monster who threatens to do the Tokyo Stomp if I don't get lunch. So I've actually left the office with others for lunch lately.


On one of these lunch trips, many things were discussed. Preparation H for the use of undereye bags came up. And I have a story about that. And a relative. And Tucks Medicated Pads. And a Very Bad Thing What Happened Next.


I'm not really supposed to tell the story. 


Later that same day, I found this on my desk:

Fur Realz. I about fell out.


Then, this last week and many silly emails later, I received one titled "A PURM"

 GUR I done wrote you a PURM!

 YUR so FURNY

I think I nurd an attorney

Mur burly so furl

From the lurnch were hurd turday

Thurnks for lurfter

Yur srud mur were

Neither one of us can figure out what the last line says.

I have also received Emailz of Awesomeness from other friends as well. My Man-Friends are hitting it out of the park this week. From my hurney Omey, because as he tells me, "I know what you like."

Yes. Yes he do, sugar. And bless him for that.


DirtyBertie send a Police video I hadn't seen. Apparently my OCD *does* know some bounds.

I rove Stewart Coperand. I rearry rearry do.


And finally, a doctor's note for what to do with your long weekend.

Talk Amongst Yourselves: Chelsea Hotel

Something is stuck in my head, so you know what that means. . .

DISCUSSION TIME!!!

The song is “Chelsea Hotel” by Leonard Cohen. What? You don’t know it?

Well, here at blatherblahg we believe that sharing is caring, so here you go—3.01 minutes of free music, courtesy of playlist.com:

http://www.playlist.com/searchbeta/tracks#chelsea%20hotel/all/1

So, go listen and then we can talk.

Seriously, stop reading and go listen.

Now.

Okay, so I don’t know any of the backstory on this song. My take on it is straight out of my brain.

There are a couple hooks in this song for me. One is the image of the Un-Beautiful People, resentful yet defiant

And clenching your fist for the ones like us

who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,

you fixed yourself, you said, "Well never mind,

we are ugly but we have the music."

This is made even more poignant when juxtaposed by the preceding lines (I think this is one of those songs that is good upon first listen, but it’s the repeat plays that really make the song.)

You told me again you preferred handsome men

but for me you would make an exception.

Of course, what hooked me first and hardest was the chorus.

Ah but you got away, didn't you babe,

you just turned your back on the crowd,

you got away, I never once heard you say,

I need you, I don't need you,

I need you, I don't need you

and all of that jiving around.

I love the character here. Somebody who doesn’t play the usual yo-yo games.

For some reason, the first time I heard this song I thought of Janis Joplin. Just a random thing there.

In these lines he’s ostensibly talking about someone who rejects the game, walks away from the crap and doesn’t get trapped in the b.s. But the character he’s singing too also seems to be exactly the kind of person who would fall prey to that kind of trap. She’s railing against the gifts given to the beautiful and lucky, and making grand statements about what kind of person she is in opposition---people who are angry are often envious, and when given an “in” are desperate to take it.

So maybe when she “got away” it wasn’t from the falsehood, but fell in with the phonies.

I also wonder if he means she died. The ultimate get-away.

I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best,

I can't keep track of each fallen robin.

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,

that's all, I don't even think of you that often.

Then the closing lines. Is he being honest—this is a strong memory he has, but he’s not particularly sentimental about it or attached to this person?

Or is he using the old writer’s trick of stating exactly the opposite of what he means. Is there a term for this device? When you state plainly the opposite of what you mean, usually contrasted against a narrative that lead in one direction only to be overturned by a contradictory statement or tone.

Two other examples of this that I can think of are The Police’s “Can’t Stand Losing You” and Andrew Bird’s Bowl of Fire’s “Pathetique.” (the wonderfully plaintive closing of “I'm over you, so come on come on ... come on back to me, ok?
Alright.”)

Questions? Answers? Who will pay the dancers?

A.M. WorkoutS (Sequel!!!)

Hey you guys, guess what? (What, blatherblahg?)

Blatherblahg is tired, that’s what!

I am woah out behind my a.m. workout. Which was injury free, if you don’t count the immeasurable damage to my fragile ego. Crushed beyond repair, it is. Out of shape beyond reclaimation, I may be.

Rock hard abs, toned thighs, a Jedi craves not these things. BUT IF MARK HAMILL HAD THEM WHY CAN’T I? MY R2 UNIT HAS A BAD MOTIVATOR. (I wish there was a font that communicated “Luke Skywalker whine”).

At least I didn’t feel like a total Vomitous Rex at the end of this one. But juuuuust barely.

Finally, the end of the work day arrives and I can go home and lay down behind all this activity. Mercy.

Happy Valentine's Day, Y'all: Links o' Love

You guys know that BlatherBlahg loves you, right? How to show it, hrm.....

Oh! How about a bunch of links that most of you have already seen? In agreement? Great!

Hit the link below and just let it play through. No video, but classic, completely insane Outkast. Um...NSFW. But when you got to express your emotion, just go with it, right?

Just remember playa, I got my running shoes laced up TIGHT.

******

I don't care what your politics are, this next clip is hilarious. I'm declaring it a New Classic. Let's see who can work these quotes into everyday conversation around the office. My boss is German, so it's extra interesting for me.

******

My leetle seester sent me this. I'm warning you now, THIS DOES NOT MAKE SENSE. But it makes me laugh every damn time. I started laughing in the middle of the day, in my apartment, alone, yesterday, just thinking about this. It might be the Power Chord of Awesomeness.

(I might have just sunk my whole work day looking that thing up. I'm crying right now. They might be on to me. Seriously. Cannot. Stop. Snickering.)

******

The band Genesis is not necessarily equated with scathing, pointed political satire or social commentary. There are a few hipster d-bags out there who will advance the Van Halen Argument*, but that's a whole other story.

What is easy to forget, especially in the wake of Phil Collins selling his soul to Disney, is that Genesis did a lot of great pop songs, and had a pretty good time making fun of themselves as well as others for a while there. And if anyone deserves mockery, it's those who prey on the fears and hopes of others. Watch for the recurrent eye twitch. It's great.

(C WUT I DID THAR? PREY? PRAY? AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!)

******

And here's one for all my babbies.

(Brief backstory: Most of you know about Yahoo Answers, that magical realm where anyone can post a question, and the legions of well informed Web surfers can chime in with their insightful responses. Well, one day somebody asked a question about procreation. And some kind soul gave an amazing answers. 


And even kinder soul created an animation to go with the Q&A session, with the original text attached.)

You will either love this, or not understand it at all. But that's okay. You can still be my babby, either way.

Babbies!

******

So Happy Valentine's Day, babbies! Special shout out to any of my former co-workers at The Engineering Form Which Shall Not Be Named--today would have been my 6 year anniversary. Pour a little of your 40 out for a missing homie.

*Preceding from the often cited, but not proven, Van Halen Effect, Pt. 1. Dissertation available upon request.

To publicly shame myself

I'm awake. But my calves have informed me that they are Not Available for my 7 a.m. torture session.

Out of shape wussiness continues. I now forfeit one of my classes at this establishment.

I wish I had made this decision yesterday or even last night. Why go through the angst of anticipated pain and an early wake up if you don't have to?

Because I'm an idiot. (Oh, yeah!)

Bodies at rest tend to stay at rest, while bodies in motion tend to stay in motion (and weigh less and have much better cardiopulmonary fitness levels). I know this, and I try to trick myself sometimes by front loading my days---just getting out there and getting going so that I'm forced to get things done. And there are so very many things I need to get done.

But inertia is a powerful force. And somewhere in there is a middle ground wherein you get stuff done but still give yourself a break. I haven't found that space, and it feels like I've been looking for it forever. How can you know something exists, have an idea of its form and content, and still be unable to find it or recreate it?

I got some sage like advice one time to never put more than three things on your to-don list for any given day. Perhaps it is time to apply that in a more rigorous fashion.

Seriously?

Okay, really?

I woke up 1.5 hours ago after the day I had?

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

Okay, Universe. I give. What does it take? What do you want? What did I do?

Well, whatever it is: I'm SORRY!

But that dont seem to please you people.

To Quote My Friend, Jester CM:

"I feel like I'm gonna tho' up, y'all."

5:30 am workout. Circuit interval training. I am Out. Of. Shape. I couldn't even do the final abs exercises---literally could not complete all the reps, hold proper form, none of it.

I can usually *at least* do the abs routine.

Tell you what, I staggered out of there feeling like I got hit by the ol' Grundelfly.

Had to go home and lay down behind it before I went to work.

Nausea, piercing headaches, and some neck problems later, I finally grabbed some lunch. (I did eat breakfast, as well).

Am I skinny yet? No.

Riddle me this: why are the negative effects so immediate, and the positive so distant and long term?

A Peek Back In Time: Still Crazy After All These Years

You know, I wasn’t always depraved and deranged.

Okay, that’s probably untrue. Let me re-state.

You know, I wasn’t always publicly depraved and deranged.

But as I’ve gotten older, I have either come to accept myself more, or else I just don’t give a damn. The genesis and inevitable downward spiral of my mental illness is far too complicated and boring to trace. And could I track it, even if I tried with all 100% of my brainium? 

But some things I can trace. A penchant for shared public lewdness and drooling, for one.

Email and interwebz has probably done more to reduce office productivity than anything since the introduction of indoor plumbing. It allows one not only to waste one’s own time, but to enjoin others in your slack ass ways of misbehaving. 

One day at work, some of the crew and I were discussing, you guessed it, Hot Mens. During this discussion, I had an epiphany. 

Hot Mens, much like NCAA teams, horse breeds, and hell, have brackets. Or divisions. I realized that during our conversation I had identified a heretofore Unrecognized Bracket in the Hot Mens listings: Ichabod Crane Hotties.

Eager to share my discovery of this, complete with pictorial proof, and desirous of just spreading beauty in general, I rushed back to my office. Whilst there I composed what, until now, was an email phenom restricted to the folks on my contacts list.

But like Typhoid Mary, I want to share what I’ve got with the world. After the recent Spaderpalooza and the barrage of Brody sightings /Stella Artois ad, I thought it might be instructive for my gentle readers to reveal the incident that sort of started it all.

So I have recreated that initial email here, for you. Because caring is sharing. There may be solace or insane anger in the fact that for some of you, your tax dollars indirectly paid for the original exercise.

So, with that preamble, I give ye:

ICHABOD CRANE HOTTIES

^{(AND OTHERS)}

Hi, I’m Jeff Goldblum. I sort of re-invented this category after Jimmy Stewart left the scene. Except that I’m way more Ichabod-y than Stewart. Actually a little hotter, as well. Don’t be fooled by my young, spoiled, 1980’s stockbroker look here. Though I can put on the glam, can’t I?

Well, here I am again. Quirky, but cute, right? Actually, I’m sort of disturbingly beautiful in that top shot. You’re starting to feel my vibe, right? 

 So, the hotness thing. I mentioned that, right?

Yeah, I’ll put on some muscle for a film and go shirtless. But only if it supports the artistic integrity of the film, you know? That’s really noble, upstanding sweat on my pecs there. Those are seriously method abs. Really.

 

This one’s for Svetlana. Who even digs me in blue. True hotness knows no racial boundaries. Or species boundaries, I guess. 

 Hi, I’m Dougray Scott. I can wear the hell out of a tailored shirt. My face is a little too rough to be pretty, even though I don’t qualify as an ICH. My hair is great though. I’m pretty much dead sexy. Just FYI.

Zach Quinto here. Proof that the younger generation has a chance at achieving some ICH role models. I’m pretty sure my fate was sealed when I played Spock in the Star Trek reboot. I made that bowl cut look smoking. I’m a little afraid Hawkeye might be stalking me, so I have to wear my uber nerd glasses to keep my vision sharp. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to help reduce my hotness or stalkability. Not much does. Damn.

See what I mean? If I go missing, you know who to talk to.

Some people won’t understand the appeal of an ICH. But no such mystery here, mates. Just a wicked fine Australian with a secret geek/nerd gene that somehow didn’t affect my looks. Included for Svetlana. And hotness in general.

Hey ladies, Gerry here. We’re definitely taking a detour from classic ICH. But don’t let my ridiculous good looks fool you. Inside this scruffy chest beats the heart of a true dork. And that is like catnip to Hawkeye. Sweet, crack-cocaine laced catnip. 

Hawkeye also doesn’t mind when I express my feminine side. Guyliner and hair extensions? Cool. Running around in leather skirts? Not fazed a bit. In fact, Hawk is always so supportive, pushing me towards exploring my boundaries. So selfless. Um, does anybody know if it’s true that I should be going commando in this outfit? 

Hi, I’m Adrien Brody.

I’m the current god-king of the Ichabod Crane Hotties. You can call me A-Brods, Snookums, or what most girls end up saying a lot around me, “Omygod - pleasedon’tstop - i’mgonnadie - fromthisyesyesyesyes.” You know, whatever works for you.

How does one get to be god-king? Is it my brooding, ethnically vague good looks? My sometimes winsome smile?

Maybe it’s my soulful eyes and hangdog expression. The incredible schnozz? Or perhaps you like your men lanky and lithe. It is, after all, the Ichabod Crane Hottie division we are talking about here.

Though, like my predecessors, I will undergo a grueling, horrific transformation if the role requires that kind of honest, raw truth.

I’ll even get muddy and kill aliens. It’s all about the craft, you know? I’d take this time to mention I’m also of Jewish descent, but I really don’t want to have to take out a restraining order on Hawkeye. Chances are Hawk’s out there right now, having an attack of the vapors just talking about my nose.

If you are thinking “Having two such hot, attractive objects in such close proximity to each other is actually skirting the plausibilities of physics as we know it,” then you are right. You are also about to burst into flames.

RDJ: Look, A-Brods, I dig you and all. But we are about to cause a serious cosmic disturbance.

Adrien: I feel ya, man. I almost created a rift in the space time continuum with Gerry Butler at a Lakers game last week.

RDJ: Being hot is hard.

Adrien: Word, my brother. Word.

HoYay!:

It’s not just for San Francisco anymore.

Weighing in with the final word on ICH:

I’m Sam Motherfucking Waterston. 

I basically rule the world. The second coming of Christ will look a lot like my amazing hair. Brody may have out-nosed me…..but nothing’s been proven yet. Peace out, bitches.

Rando

On the way to work this came on my player. It's sad and it's sweet, and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man's clothes. There's a haunting sweetness to this, and it's worth clicking on the link and giving it 3 minutes of your time.

Do you carry every sadness with you

Every hour your heart was broken

Every night the fear and darkness

Lay down with you

http://www.playlist.com/searchbeta/tracks#half%20acre/all/1

Then there is this.

"This fall I think you're riding for--it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environement couldn't suppply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started."--J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

My cousin sends me a lot of emails with little sayings and prayers and some terrible chain letters. But there was a line in one the other day:

Life is a coin, you can spend it anyway you wish, but you can only spend it once.

We talk about spending our lives all the time, but I never thought of it in that way before. How am I spending the coin of my life?

And finally, a little Bobby Burns. Is it just me, or are all his poems really songs?:

Coming Thro' The Rye

O Jenny's a' weet, poor body,


Jenny's seldom dry: 


She draigl't a' her petticoatie, 


Comin thro' the rye! 


Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 


Comin thro' the rye, 


She draigl't a' her petticoatie, 


Comin thro' the rye!

Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the rye, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the glen, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


Need the warld ken? 


Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the grain, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


The thing's a body's ain.

Translation of a sorts at http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/coming_through_the_rye.htm

Attack of the Grundelfly

So, I stopped by a grocery store after work today. Finally.

It was much nicer than I expected. I guess Ralph's vary by location.

Anyhoo, in a classic case of This Doesn't Happen To Normal People, my first stop was the deli. The two worker there were finishing up a conversation. I guess I looked amenable to waiting, because they continued some chatter about a woman that had managed to get pregnant 10 times. The deli lady was of the opinion that at some point

"You just get something tied off or something."

Her companion spent most of his time ducking behind the counter and trying to keep from hyperventilating from laughter.

"But you know, her pastor had said that he didn't believe in birth control, so she was there with 10 kids."

At this point I opened my big mouth and said, "Isn't it funny how people who don't believe in birth control are always the people that don't have 10 kids?"

This earned me a high five from the guy behind the counter, and full entry into the strange gossipy world of Ralph's Deli section.

A few miscarriage, secret birth control, vasectomy, and clap-penicillin stories later, my deli lady conceded my point that things had changed, and one really had to worry about more than just unwanted pregnancies these days.

"I know. Now you get something and your stuff just start falling off. Like in that movie Grundelfly. You remember that movie."

Well, I was still recovering from the image of genitalia falling off all over the city, but I managed to squeak out that I wasn't familiar with film in question.

"You know, it's from the '80s. With that one guy. The one with the big eyes. Jeff Goldblum! And his parts start falling off and keeps them stored up in a cabinet."

Well, that did it for me. I was a goner. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Grundelfly (American title: The Fly)--and the best goddamn movie synopsis since my moo described Army of Darkness. (Sorry, but that story is a treasure that we keep in the immediate friends and family circle. So we can tell intruders and pod people from our own kind).

I cried re-telling this story tonight. I've got tears in my eyes right now. Fucking Grundelfly.

1:22 a.m.

sometimes I wake in the night, for no specific reason. i always imagine it's ultimately due to some lack of proper care on my part.

Usually there's this uncomfortable hot feeling, too. Even if the room is cold. I'll probably be freezing in the morning. And undoubtedly sleepy as hell. What can you do?

I gave up on sleep an hour or so ago and finished reading "Catcher in the Rye." I bet if old Holden Caulfield had been hanging around in this day and age, he would have been a voracious blogger. On the shallow side, I kept wanting the poor guy to get a shower, what with all the cigarettes and sweating. It makes me want to take a shower and brush my teeth, just thinking about it.

Well, illuminated objects don't help you sleep, or I've heard. Apparently the one reliable sedative in the world is the alarm clock telling you it's time to be at work.

This post was brought to you by iPad.

Indications That One Might Have A Problem

Is it a bad sign when people across the country are sending you link to the same thing? Am I that predictable? Is it so obvious? Could these questions be any more rhetorical?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0c5agGJQAE

No, I didn’t see it during the Super Bowl yesterday. As shocking as it may be, I wasn’t watching the Super Bowl. I don’t usually watch the Super Bowl. In fact, the last time I can remember making a point to watch it was at the house of one Albeson Melbeson, in the 9^th grade. I am now going to pointedly NOT mention how many years ago that was. But it was, like, a bunch.

Thanks to all my friends, though, who are aware of my freakish stalking refined appreciation for Msr. Brody’s nuanced theatrical skills.

Though, as I mentioned to my bubbly champagne loving friend and sometimes commenter, this does raise a few questions.

Bless his little pea-picking heart. I really do wonder about his seeming propensity for self injury. I mean, he takes the what could possibly the single most testosterone laden, American machismo defining moment of the year, the mouth-breathing-knuckle-dragging grunter’s high holy day, and chooses that time to sally forth in an artsy, jazzy commercial about imported beer.

With a French accent.

French.

This raises an interesting set of questions as to Monsieur Brody's state of mind:

1. Really perverse sense of humour, and willing to tank career just to make himself laugh?
2. Really perverse sense of humour, and wants to fuck with anyone who liked his manly man performance in Predators? (Take that, you wankers that finally gave me some notice because I made things go ka-blooey. You can’t pigeon hole me! Now somebody get me Halle Berry to make out with.)
3. Self destructive and self sabotaging? (Take that, action movie star cred! Now somebody get me a coffin-like structure in which to entomb myself.)
4. Soooooooooooooo high that it seemed like a good idea at the time?
5. So in love with himself that it seemed like a good idea at the time? (Damn, I’m even sexy when I sing in a faux French accent to beer! C WUT I DID THAR? Faux? French? Damn, I’m the shit! Now get me a picture of myself to make out with. Just grab one off of Hawkeye’s computer.)
6. Just does not Give A Fuck. At All.

Sub Question:

a. Who the fuck is in charge of marketing at Stella Artois and what demographic were they aiming for here? 

In my universe, the one in my head, there is a 7^th option.

  7. Did it for me, to make me smile. (There is no need to point out the sheer crazy     behind this. I know. I’m aware. Once I find a 12 step, I’ll join it. Maybe.)

As unlikely as #7 is, if it has any pertinence outside my delusional wistful wantings, allow me to advance a small suggestion to ABrods: next time, make me smile by being in the same room as me. Just a thought, throwing it out there.

Summation: 

Adrien Brody. Following in Brando's footsteps, and making women the world over wish they were named Stella.

PEE ESS: There is a person in my office who has a picture of a Bakugan character that he and his friend cooked up. He’s called Adrien Barodius, invincible to all things except the Power of Love, and able to make his enemies weep at will. I’m not making this up. It’s not just me.

Scary, huh?