"Life's no fun without a good scare"

Sigh. Isn't it strange how every few weeks we're struck, either by some unforeseeable catastrophe or stricken by an impromptu private sorrow, by that overwhelming reality of, you know like, grown-upness? With everything going on around us - with this nation on what I truly feel is a generational revolution, I can't help but feel half privileged and half indignant that fate chose to bring me to fruition at such a turbulent time. At the same time though (and this is why I feel "privileged"), I think it's almost inevitable that every culture at its heyday realizes its hubris at some humiliating and crippling moment, and it happens every thirty or so years, or basically third-centennially. Our parents saw the socioeconomic makeup completely make over itself in the 70s; their parents saw America lose half its workforce (but come out a superpower) in the 40s. There seems to be some inherent difference though that is SO hard to put my finger on (TWSS*). Is it that America is finally getting its wrist slapped in the most translatable sector (the economy)? Is it because the war's on our turf now? Is it because, with the thoughtfully ruthless noise of interwebs and blogs and Blackberries (thanks McCain!), we can hardly ignore each other? I dunno. What is going on?

Anyway. Times, they are a-changing, that's for certain. I was just perusing YouTube and for only YouTube explicable reasons I ended up serenading myself on Danny Elfman's masterpiece, The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't know why (maybe it's because I had already drank some vino, which by the way I indulge in only when there's too much oxygen in the air), but this little diddy rings as aesthetically valid and inspirational as it did when I was seven. Fear... awe... some sort of compulsion to march around in blind obedience to the Pumpkin Throne? How many things can you say make you think THE SAME EXACT THING you thought when you were 15 years younger? Touché. American apocalypse may be upon us, but so are the holidays. And I sure as hell would rather watch a flaming Jack Skellington than another minute of that Pitbull in Lipstick!



* That's what she said.

Isn't it the worst????!!!!

... when you "discovered" some magical, wonderful, insatiable artist like, eight years ago, and then suddenly they're famous. No, seriously, Lady GaGa, I'm happy for you. But A) release your fucking soon to be fawesome album already, and B) play the shit you played at the club and stop letting the record bitches over process it. You know what, I'm not even like a "music aficionado" or anything --- I HEARD YOUR SONG ON MYSPACE --- but I'm mad that the economy chooses to favor you in a well-deserved limelight that's two minutes too late. And when I can barely afford to buy shit from the breakfast cart on 47th and Lex in the morning.

You know what, whatever. Here's the source of my wrath: the recent, toned-down-yet-still-pleasant sounds of the Virgins, and their "latest"....

PS: I still love you, Virgins...

PPS: Love the Robyn Bird shout-out for the "Private Affair" video. (Yes, I know who Robin Byrd is. Don't pretend like you don't.)

When men was men and dames was dames

I haven't paid any heed to this blog in so long - I'm a terrible parent. And then I choose to steal away to it during work. Shame on me!

But. Speaking of mixing leisure with work, I have a new obsession. And it doesn't come from a bar well or the Gawker media network! No, lately I have been fully ensconced in AMC's beautiful confection Mad Men, an ode to the sexist, elitist, Kennedy-era executive kingdom of skirt chasers and four-martini lunches. (As per usual, I am once again slow on the latest brilliant pop culture uptake, as Mad Men has already been lauded by publications like Vanity Fair and graced the cover of Entertainment Weekly.) It's funny, because as misogynistic and philosophically concrete as the time was, there's something still so appealing and captivating about the gloss of it all: the economic optimism, the epicurian habbits of wining(scotching) and dining(smoking), and the impeccable approach to sex and how to sell it. I remember stories of my grandfather (though not in advertising, a thirsty member of Washington's lawyer crowd after he was swiftly ushered out of Kennedy's State Department) spending more time guzzling down lunch than inquiring about his wife and four children. Sure, it sounds a little irresponsible, but as the alpha female of Mad Men, Joan Holloway, says of the behavior, "isn't it the best?"

To sum up the mantra in one scene, here's SterlingCooper's resident slimeball, Pete Campbell, musing for the non-con, ambitious secretary Peggy Olson his idyllic vision for existence:



Fucking hurrah for chauvenism.

I'll have what she's having.

Here's hoping that my substance abuse impediments never find this sort of affect on my social skills.

After catching up on the last few episodes of Project Runway on YouTube, one of the thumbnails under the "project runway" search list really caught my eye. Here it is for your viewing pleasure - I hope you start to feel as uncomfortable as I was watching it. Luckily Tim Gunn shatters the icy wall of "WTF"ness by declaring a most decidedly out-of-character exclamation that puts his "holla atcha boy" moment with "that little gay grommet" Blayne to shame. Never have I loved the man more. Enjoy:

SUCKS FOR YOU!

(... that's what they should've called it.)

Tonight marked a few firsts for me:

1. The first time I ate at least a quarter pound of bucheron all on my lonesome (thanks, FRIENDS, for being ladies and not helping me polish it off).


2. The first time I came home to find my roommate there before me AND asleep.


3. The first time I threw away not only a food stuff, but an alcoholic stuff! I cannot believe I tossed at least a quarter bottle of my $13.95 bottle of Placido pino grigio. Perish the thought!


4. The first time I sat up straight and paid legitimate attention to an old, black-and-white, mid-century-accented Bryant Park lawn movie. You know, until I got back from a trip to the bathroom and fell asleep.


5. And tying in with such rapt curiosity, the first time I had ever consumed a full Alfred Hitchcock feature. Considering my twisted, dark, and absolutely unforgiving penchant for the "what-if?", I find this simply appalling and unacceptable.
   

Such were my musings after my viewing of the movie Lifeboat. 'Twas a propagandist(?) WWII cross of and Survivor, Titanic, and Lord of the Flies wherein the folks left to their own devices in the middle of Fucked Avenue and Screwed Boulevard must decide what truly matters in this world we call HUMAN life. Do we work in the interest of MEMEMEMEMEMEME or do we put in (or out) for the greater of the common good? Do we sacrifice our most prized possessions, our own body parts, our loyalty, our kin, or (horror of horrors) our own selves for the pure understanding that the survival of just six living bodies is better than that of just our own?

As Hitchcock virgin, I felt that this little project he pinched out for Twentieth Century Fox c/o John Steinbeck (in 1944 - before the landlord of the Twilight Zone became a mainstream icon in pop culture - but wholly private - mental terrorism) was an apt introduction. It has enough psychological mindfuckery to make you wonder why the bosses of HBO's Bryant Park Summer Film Festival would sick it on a group of after-5 drunken 20-somethings looking for a summer Monday release, but not enough evil perversion to trump other, more perverted films. Because really, can you get any saner with this man? My roommate, a true old-timey movie afficianado (her dad can name ever Oscar winner since like 1325) insists that Lifeboat isn't as an appropriate first film as Rear Window, but I aint complainin. Lo, my Hitchcock naïvété welcomes the enlightened insight of those better versed in the man's portfolio.

Eye candy

If I blogged about my more personal life, then I would blog about this, which really did happen, and really did happen because - in a nutshell - I'm an alcoholic and INSANELY STUPID.

What I really want to share with the world is my newfound fascination with this chick, Marilyn Minter, whose work graces the cover of the latest edition of Time Out New York. She also has a featurette as part of their "Success" profile, and TONY was decidedly NOT shy about showing some of her more... exotic pieces. Regardless, I've looked this lady up and can say that I absolutely floves her eye for pure, unadulterated glamour trash. I also admire her embrace of the pornographic, and her emphasis of its truly bizarre aesthetic. As TONY points out, homegirl really does deliver in the same mode of a man. You know, like, a man with a raging, unforgiving hard-on.

Also, during my interwebz cruise for Minter, I came across CoolHunting.com and this other photographer who is totally awesometown. And makes me want to nom.

Dance across the Rio Grande

Last night, as I was drunkenly responding to one of those soul-searching surveys people propagate across the ethers of the interwebz, I was caught up in a storm of cheesy 80s music videos while I cruised YouTube.  I must say that the most arresting and captivating piece of work was the video for Duran Duran's "Rio":

Yes, this video is truly bizarre, and full of that essential, let's-pour-some-mysterious-fluid-on-a-hot-chick, unashamed sexual innuendo.  But at the end of the day, you really have to appreciate this 1982 number as a grandfather to the neon bubble pop avant-gardeness of the 80's.  Plus, doesn't it just make you want to slam back Miami Vices while you get a killer tan in Belize?