The Fabulosity Process Begins!

BEFORE:

AFTER:

(All right, I need to clean my camera lens. Sorry.)

Fortunately for you, dear reader, during the interim of when I finished painting my living room through when I photographed it last night, my desire to spew forth on the various vagaries & horrible circumstances of painting has largely exhausted itself. Suffice to say, it was hell. The one rather perfect anecdote I will proffer is that after a solid 5 days of standing on a ladder, bruising my shins & feeling my weak ankle getting weaker, it happened that last Wednesday not two minutes after I officially finished painting, said ankle snapped & I found myself on the floor, my face contorted in an unnatural grimace of pain. Actually, it still hurts. Never again will I be so foolish as to disregard numerous offers of help in painting, as I imagine that actually having other people would greatly increase both the speed & fun of the process.

BUT. The ceiling is now a nice warm yellow shade of white from Benjamin Moore called "Linen White" which improves greatly upon the previous stark Wal-Mart white, not that the difference is apparent to anybody save yours truly. The ceiling's peeling cracks & water damage were largely eradicated by mesh fiberglass tape, joint compound & oil-based stain blocker. As for the walls? I love, love, LOVE the color, though I'm unsure as to whether the nighttime photos truly represent it at its best. I need floor lamps in half the space (the Ventana Lamp is the one for which I currently lust). The shade is "Olive Tree" by Ralph Lauren. (Naturally, I've fallen in love with the most expensive line of paints short of YOLO Colorhouse.) It's fantastic & PERFECT. A green enjoying such a yellow undertone that it's a very warm color. Saturated sans garishness. Technicolor without tackiness. Plus, it meets the goal of indulging my purple/green fetish by its effortless harmony with my purple velvet chair. The one bummer is that to me the color looks so natural in the space that I almost feel like I didn't do anything. John at Powell Paint Center was absolutely correct when he said it was "bitchin'". It's too bad that the retarded monkeys who painted the room that nasty pale piss yellow had never heard of a little thing I like to call painter's tape, because now I have to figure out what to do about all the woodwork that's splashed with yellow.

In conclusion! Lots o' work left. Touching up the paint. Acquiring artwork for the walls (when I went out on Saturday to find some, I ended up buying a buffet (shown in the second "after" picture) instead. Which is fine, because I really needed that too). Rearranging the furniture. Getting more furniture & a nice rug. Figuring out whether I want to go to all the trouble of staining the futon a darker color, or if I should just sell the sucker & get a new one. Plus then there's the rest of the place. But nevertheless. I've completed an important first step in the fabulo-zation of my apartment. And I'm extraordinarily pleased with it.

Can You Say "Gimme"?

Okay, so three famous friends of Martin Scorsese - George Lucas, Steven Spielberg and Francis Ford Coppola - were the presenters of the Best Director Academy Award last night...and you're tellin' me the winners are a secret? Bitch, please. I am glad that Scorsese finally won, though I hardly number among his acolytes, if only because now people can no longer whine incessantly about it. The Last Temptation of Christ & Goodfellas are about the only films of his I can stomach. Though, yes, I have been intending to watch The Departed.

On an unrelated note, although the German cinephile in me is pleased as punch that The Lives of Others won Best Foreign Language Film, the me in me is totally bummed that Pan's Labyrinth didn't get it. But, per my earlier wish, Guillermo Navarro got Best Cinematography! Sweet.

Mind, I didn't actually watch the Oscars. Given the paucity of contemporary film in my viewing selections of recent years (although said dearth has been recently somewhat allayed by more frequent trips to the cinema & borrowing from my mother DVDs such as The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants & Hidalgo, which somehow are the wrong kind of cheesy to allow inclusion in my Netflix queue, but obviously I secretly want to watch anyway), I generally haven't seen/have no interest in seeing much of anything that's been nominated. That said, I was mildly interested in witnessing this year's telecast; but as I spent Sunday cooking up a storm & tending to the hungover person on my futon, I clean forgot.

Still, somehow I don't think I missed much.

Good God! I Need To Change My Panties

This is so dork-tastically awesome. I've got a film geek's hard-on for the Criterion Collection, but a cheapskate's abhorrence of the often $40+ price tags. (For the record, if anybody out there has a love for me that is priceless & would like to prove it, they can buy me this & I will worship them forever. For those whose love is budgeted, the recently released 50-title Essential Art House - 50 years of Janus Films collection will get you blind adoration for at least a decade.) So news of their Eclipse sublabel makes me quiver all over.

The Eclipse collection is dedicated to releasing series of noteworthy films from noteworthy directors that don't quite conform to the Criterion mission of "gathering the greatest films from around the world and publishing them in editions that offer the highest technical quality and award-winning, original supplements", but are nonetheless essential viewing for serious fans & have heretofore been unavailable outside the big city art-house circuit, unless you could get yer mitts on a crappy VHS copy.

In fact, one of the only times I have truly regretted not living in New York City was during last fall's Kenji Mizoguchi retrospective - I mean, I had had the good fortune to see all six of those titles previously in 16mm prints, but that was years ago, & there's simply no such thing as too much Guch & no such thing as Guch DVD, 'cept Crit's recent release of Ugetsu (a spectacular work whose richness inspired probably the best piece of theory I've ever written, regarding Noh theater's influence on the film). So to read that Eclipse intends to correct this grievous error & at some point release a Mizoguchi series, well, it provides the inspiration for this post's title.

While one could quibble for days about Criterion's choices (for instance, I would argue that Ozu's Late Spring & Early Autumn are surely worthy of the luxe treatment), the point is that these films are finally going to be available on DVD, at prices averaging about $15 per title.

And that's something that every cheap-ass film fuck should get happy about. Hot damn!

Wrong. Wrong. WRONG!

Courtesy ABC News reporting on next season's "Dancing With The Stars" lineup:
Nice little career capsule, right? So you might think. BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG. Prior to this year's sudden interest in football, the only manly sport I ever watched was basketball. In the late 80s to early 90s. When Clyde Drexler played for the PORTLAND TRAILBLAZERS. The TRAILBLAZERS, people. The very first "my team" selected, yes, based solely on geographic proximity. Who gives a crap about the Rockets? He won the Olympic gold medal while he was a BLAZER. He was named one of the 50 greatest players in NBA history in 1996. In other words, his qualifications stemmed almost entirely from the period in which he was a BLAZER. He graced the Wheaties box as a BLAZER. To wit:


The only reason he played for the Rockets was because he wanted to win an NBA championship. Not that I can blame him - by 1995, the Blazers' glory days were fading (from what I understand, they have yet to cease fading). And he deserved one. But come on. He played in Houston for three fucking years. He played for the Blazers for OVER A DECADE. TWELVE YEARS. Houston doesn't get Clyde the Glide just because he grew up there. Or went to college there. Or even because he deigns to live there now. They passed him up in 1983 draft, fer chrissakes! And fuck ABC.

I concede that I may be overreacting to a miniscule biography from a news story on some stupid (yet strangely fascinating) show. But for a time, I was every bit the fiercely irrational, utterly obsessed Blazers fan. I bought that Wheaties box knowing full well that I never had & probably never would eat Wheaties. I watched every game. I knew every player. I would've worn the equivalent of the cheese hat for the Blazers. So, yes, dismissing nearly the entirety of a man's career as a result of sloppy/lazy/don't give a fuck research does ruffle my feathers a bit.

But If You Look Twice You Can See It's All Lies

Lily Allen is pretty friggin awesome. It took a few listens, but I'm totally addicted to Alright, Still. It's as fun as I wanted Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds to be (which, apparently, is my music equivalent of Office Space - everybody else fawns over it, but for some reason I found it passable at best & not in the least remarkable). Regardless, my adoration of Alright, Still is a completely personal love with no basis whatsoever in anything resembling theory or reason. Christ, I don't even know the names of the songs, because I haven't printed a track listing. But still. I really, y'know, kinda relate to that album. It speaks to me & of me from a joyously poptastic palette. It indulges, bouncily, & it dances precariously on the precipice betwixt sunny, happy sounds & acrid, biting sentiments. Is it any wonder then that I've come to love it? The album practically is me. To paraphrase Dr. Cox, it's a creamy-coated chocolate with bastard filling. Trying to find a spot of Ms. Allen's lyrics to illustrate this is well-nigh impossible, since the whole thing is a veritable minefield of bitterness-tinged bon mots.

And even though I don't much care for Portland's Aladdin Theater as a venue due to the ponderous number of seats it contains (which might have posed an impediment to my enjoyment of the fantabulous Los Amigos Invisibles show, replete with an encore performance of Devo's "Whip It", except hardly anybody was there (what the hell, people?)), I'm so going on 28 March to see her. It's the least I can do, given that singing loudly & terribly to the CD saved my sanity on Tuesday when I was about 12 hours into a 16-hour pain(t)fest. Whether the next-door tenant, who listens an average of thrice-weekly to Fiona Apple's Tidal (could be worse - could be Ani DiFranco) & what sounds like I imagine to be emo the rest of the time, was able to maintain her sanity is a matter for debate.

I don't know anything about Ms. Allen. Don't think it really matters. What more could I possibly need to know beyond the fact that she's got a link to Stuff On My Cat on her website? She's fantastic.

Question: Why Are Red & Green Christmas Colors?

Currently I'm knee-deep in the laborious, time-eating & painstaking process of painting my living room walls an utterly fabulous shade of green (no doubt entirely too much more on that later). It occurred to me that, even though red & green are a pretty terrific color combination, I would never feel comfortable using red for, say, my futon cover. At best I would use red for accent pieces. Maybe a pillow, or a bit in a painting. All because of this Christmas crap.

It seems entirely unfair that the same holiday which stole so much from the pagans should also take away a perfectly valid color scheme. Why? Why green, why red? Why couldn't they have picked yellow? Or beige? I don't like either of those. I know it's not like you can't use green & red in tandem...but who wants to, given the implications? You might as well paint the walls with red & white vertical stripes.

My initial thought was that green = tree & red = blood (from sacrifices during Saturnalia - though it seemed unlikely the Romans would make sacrificial offerings during this celebratory festival, they did get their jollies from watching gladiators prance about slaughtering exotic animals, so...). While forming definitive answers to most anything is of little interest to me, I did come across the following in a brief perusal of Google search results:

1) Green = tree. Red = poinsetta.
2) Stolen from the Africans! In this version, green is the adopted color of Islam & means "everlasting life". Red symbolizes blood shed in defense of the principles of love, truth, peace, freedom & justice.
3) The red represents the blood of Jesus Christ at the time of his crucifixation (I'm not much of a religious scholar, but is this not why we have Good Friday & Easter? Isn't Christmas a celebration of his birth?). The green was stolen from the Africans! Nah, it didn't say that, but it did say "everlasting life".
4) Romans gave each other gifts of green plants during Saturnalia, including holly, which has red berries. The plants were meant to symbolize the continuance of life & the coming of spring.
5) According to a former Wal-Mart employee who was "let go" after writing this email, red & white represent the aminita muscaria mushroom. No mention of green.

So, I have gone from having a vague guess to having some vague ideas, with no notion as to the veracity of anything I read. Oh, internets. You tease with knowledge & statements the truthfulness of which tends to be questionable.

Holly seems to be quite the loaded symbol, though. You've got your thorns & your drops of blood in the leaves & berries. Steal the wreath theme from the Romans & you can make a nice little crown.

Too bad it's for the wrong holiday.

Why Not Then Continue To Look Upon It All As A Child Would...?

As a child growing up in very rural Oregon, I always loved walking in the rain. There was something about it that was so...real. It made me feel gloriously alive. Rain on the face, arms, whatever limbs I'd left exposed to its simultaneously de- & re- mystifying ways, had a way of taking me outside myself, beyond inner world & out into world world, something with which I've always struggled. (And yes, we can debate what real & world world mean til the butcher kills the cows, but I have yet to find a more concise & definitive argument than G.E. Moore's "Here is a hand. And here is another" in defense of the existence of the external world. Since I never could even approach a firm decision regarding that particular quandry, let's just make this a post about rain & leave it at that.) It's the quickest fix for an enduring issue. Forget hats, raincoats & galoshes, I just liked to walk in our field whenever it rained. (Which, this being, you know, Oregon, I had ample opportunity to do.)

So it was a bit out of the ordinary, then, when I went to college in Massachusetts & suddenly for the first time in my life found myself the proud(?) owner of...an umbrella (gasp!). If it was raining, the umbrella was my friend. I always chalked it up to growing up - assumed the rain simply didn't astound as it once had. The childlike wonder was replaced with irritability over sopping wet clothes. Also, the fact that around my third year I actually deigned to wear the glasses I'd been prescribed since I was 13 may have had some influence. (I still kinda miss blurry world, but that's a tale for another time.) And as anyone who wears glasses surely knows, glasses + rain = match made in hell.

As I found myself living in various areas of the East Coast, my newfound avoidance of the rain grew unabated. From Massachusetts to New York City to Pennsylvania to Virginia, I always had an umbrella or three. (This despite never actually having purchased one, umbrellas being one of those things that just kind of make their way into lives.) After many years of this, I pretty much assumed that rain & grown-up me could only communicate with each other through the umbrella-interpreter. Well, except for one night last summer when I stood barefoot & bare-headed in a constant rain listening to that song by Eddie Kendricks & that song by New Order & that song by Robyn on repeat on my iPod & chainsmoked & cried for a really long time. However, I think I was drowning myself more in vodka & tears than rain, so it doesn't really count.

But last November I learned to love the rain again. It wasn't a big deal - I was just walking in the rain. No barriers comprised of rain-retardant gear. And suddenly realized I enjoyed it again. (Don Ray's "Standing In The Rain" was my mental soundtrack, which probably didn't hurt.)

See, here's the secret: Pacific Northwest rain isn't really kin to the rain in those other states. It's immeasurably more pleasant to walk in the rain here. Usually. It drizzles, it teases, it's rain enough to be rain, but not so much rain that you feel the ill effects. It invigorates but does not overwhelm. And, best of all, as when I was a child, it still reminds me that I am alive in the world. And that the outside world is vastly more open & interesting & fascinating when you're in it, than it is when you're looking at it from the inside world. Inside is for grownups, which is not always a bad thing. But right now, outside is where I want to be. Even if my glasses get wet.

North Park Blocks

En route to Powell's Books on Burnside yesterday, I passed this charming 12-foot sculpture in the North Park Blocks. It was a gift given in 2002 to the city from a Chinese businessman, Huo Baozhu, whose company made reproductions of Chinese artifacts. This particular one is a replica of an object dating from the Shang dynasty (1200 - 1100 BC). It's embellished with figures from ancient Chinese mythology, & the baby elephant symbolizes that offspring shall be safe & prosperous. (To which I say, whatever.) Huo decided to make & give the statue to the city as he was dying of a rare blood disease, because he'd traveled to Portland on many occasions & admired the city's balance of urban & green spaces.

And apparently Portland loves elephants. So do I!

They're All Very Moral Maladies

The first time I ever saw Bernardo Bertolucci's The Conformist was in a community college night class I took for high school credit. It was a crappy VHS copy, with the original Italian soundtrack dubbed in English; the film was never widely available & indeed, as I've learned, was barely released theatrically in this country to begin with (& then only at the behest of Coppola, Penn & Lumet, among others). I was just learning how to "watch" movies at that point & hardly knew what to make of this one. But it seared itself into my brain nonetheless. For instance, the above image I have carried with me exactly as it is ever since I saw it. (Obviously my TV screen picture doesn't do it justice; it's a magnificent tracking shot.)

For twelve years I have waited to see this film again.

It never had a proper VHS release that I could find; & since the dawn of DVDs I have scoured Google for news of its release. Although I really thought it would get the deluxe Criterion treatment, Paramount finally released the DVD in December 2006. Of course, I immediately bought it - as a Christmas present for somebody else. But yesterday, I finally went out & bought my own copy which I watched as soon as I got home.

The film is fantastic. Watch it. I command you.

Vittorio Storaro made his name & reputation as the cinematographer for this film & it's patently clear why - the entire thing is gorgeous. The disc's extras are sparse, given the richness of the film (the Mean Girls extras are more in-depth, fer chrissakes), but the most revealing thing to be gleaned from them is Storaro's inspiration for the look of the picture, which was specifically Caravaggio's The Calling of Saint Matthew. To wit:


Namely, that line over on the right betwixt shadow & light. It's pretty much the summation of the picture.

So, I'll give ya the bare-bones plot outline here: Marcello Clerici (Jean-Louis Trintignant) thinks, for reasons I'll not disclose, that he's different from the others. He wants to be like everybody else (hence the title, eh?). Of course, he's also living in fascist Italy in the 1930s, so his wanting to be like everybody else is a bit different from, say, some whiny teenager's. Although, he's convinced that he's so different, & feels such a need to conform, that he goes a bit further & volunteers to do a job for the fascist secret police that will, in effect, erase any reminders for him that he just mightn't be the perfect little fascist after all. But can you ever really escape yourself? (Cue "dah-dahn" here.)

Personally, my new favorite scene from this viewing is one in which he has a conversation with his old philosophy professor about Plato's cave (but I've always had a soft spot for that cave). Good stuff & just stunning to watch. I was also very impressed with the scenes which were filmed in the E.U.R.

From what I understand, this 1970 release is the most readily accessible of Bertolucci's early avant-garde films. Not having seen any of the others I can't speak as to the truth of that, but rumor has it The Conformist created a bit of a rift between Bertolucci & his "mentor" Jean-Luc Godard, who thought Bertolucci told its story too conventionally. I say, hallelujah! Let Godard go off & make dreck with Jane Fonda. I've yet to enjoy even one of his films, honestly - I fell asleep during Breathless, for starters - though I've meant for an age to watch Contempt before giving up on him entirely. (The funny part is, little as I care for Godard, I totally ganked his Tout Va Bien tracking shots for the first film I ever made. Nobody noticed, but I did get a Fellini nod from my professor. It's okay. Coppola ganked The Conformist's blowing leaves scene for The Godfather Part II.)

Also, what favorite movie of mine would be complete without a couple of hot girls? I can't believe there aren't better pictures of these two out on the internets, but alas! here is the best I can do:

Such A Great Idea

How cool is this? There are several bare hanging light bulbs in my apartment. Okay, there are two: one in the bathroom & one in the water closet. There are other hanging lights with, whaddayacallem, shades or something. But still! I'm so doing this. Not sure I like the bottle so much, but no doubt I could dredge up a modicum of ingenuity if I put my tiny mind to it. It even comes in three forms: lamp proper, PDF instructions (two euro!) & DIY kit. More info here.

Prince = God

The glory of my team's victory made me almost forget about the fantabulous halftime show. Not having seen any Superbowls before, nor having felt particularly inclined to seek out clips (read: Jackson nipple) on YouTube, I don't know how it ranks in comparison to others.

But I do know this: I *heart* Prince.

They'll Do Until I Find The Roller Kitty

Hee hee! The nadir of a shopping spree begun yesterday evening as a means of combatting my flagging spirits is pictured above.

I'm going to practice in my loft before I take these bad boys out on the street.

The best part: if nothing else, now I can finally shut up about wanting roller skates. Thanks, eBay!

MUST...FIND...ROLLER KITTY SKATES

Anybody who knows me, even a little, should know that I've been salivating over roller skates for a couple of years now. DYING to have a pair. Somehow, roller skates never quite made it into the budget, though. Not that there was anywhere to roller skate in Virginia, anyway - inside & outside were equally dicey propositions. But now that I live near an enormous roller skating rink, & spurred by the girl I saw skating blithely down 10th Avenue a while ago, I have decided that until I can buy a bicycle, roller skates are obviously the most logical method of in-town transportation.

I'm past the Britney Spears Skechers roller skates. They're actually pretty ugly. I want something...girlier. Sparklier. Prettier.

Like the Puma Roller Kitty roller skates. I WANT THESE SO MUCH IT HURTS. They would go fantastically with the strapless pink cotton candy confection of a dress which I bought in November that's currently biding time in my closet til spring. Of course, they came out in 2002. So I can't find a pair anywhere. But MY GOD they are BEAUTIFUL. I would be willing to postpone buying a bed for yet another month if I could find these:
Maybe Nike has some sweet roller skates in their secret goody shop. The one you can only get into if you are, or know, a Nike employee. Apparently it's chock full of one-off experiments, seriously discounted shoes & other fun stuff. Hmm...worth a shot.

There Will Be No Boogers in the NYT

The Colts' Bob Sanders intercepting a pass. This picture reminds me of a commercial often shown during football games, which posits that "some things just aren't meant to go together", using a football musical as its example. I would totally go see a football musical. Good lord! That would be so, so fantastic.

I WON!!! I WON!!! Colts won the Superbowl!!! Hee hee. Although not as thrilling as the AFC championship game, this too was a damn good game. Admittedly I felt a bit dejected after Hester (whythefuckwouldyoukicktoHester,Vinatieri?!?!?) took the opening kick all the way down for a touchdown. But things evened out - the pouring rain was a great unifier - & the game had a close score nearly throughout its entirety. Personally, though I know the Peyton Manning MVP win was a gimme, I thought Joseph Addai &/or Dominic Rhodes would have been more worthy. Although, really, as one article I read put it, this truly was a team effort. (Gag, choke.) I mean, seriously, the Colts defense? I remember during the regular season, it took four of 'em to drag down one dude. And when they actually did it, they were all as excited as any college freshman. I don't know what happened, but the fact is that their performance in every single playoff game was simply stellar, & did not slack off in the bowl.

Speaking of defense - somehow, it was during yesterday's opening Colts defense roll call that I discovered there is a Colts member who willingly allows others to call him "Booger"...Booger McFarland, that is. He is a defensive tackle. I can't say as for certain, but I'm guessing that means his job is to hit people. Anyway, it appears the New York Times ain't down with the Booger love. In their picture showing his sack of Rex Grossman (I maintain that Grossman slipped of his own accord), he is named only as "Anthony McFarland". C'mon guys. You gotta give the Boogs some respect.

Although I rather meanly said last night that Rex Grossman was now my second-favorite quarterback (after he slipped & fell twice in a row), he actually did a decent job. I just think that, all things being more or less equal, a lot of it came down to QB experience. Manning has it in spades. Grossman doesn't.

And, push come to shove, although everybody was sloppy as shit out there, the Colts were just a little less sloppy.

But let the good sportsmanship not detract from this simple fact: COLTS WON THE SUPERBOWL!!!!!!! Hell yeah.

Also, if you ever wondered, as I did lo! just last night, whatever happens to the loser's "Superbowl Champions" t-shirts, well, here ya go.

And finally, one of my own personal favorite-things-about-football, amply illustrated - the post-game man-love:Sigh. It's so...sweet.

SuperPop? Super Disco? Supercool.

Los Amigos Invisibles make some of the funnest spacedancepop ever. I am still quite sore that I somehow managed to miss their performance in Charlottesville. And that was like four years ago. But now, finally, thanks to the magic that is the cross-country move, I will once again have the opportunity to see them, on their (nearly exclusively West Coast, sorry) tour. Full list of cities here. And the Aladdin Theater is only 2 miles away from me, hurrah! (I also suspect I will be rubbing it hard at the Badly Drawn Boy show at the same venue on 25 March.)

I'm kind of ridiculously pumped for this. I'm of a like mind about their (apparently Grammy-nominated) last album, SuperPop Venezuela, which was released mid-September 2006. Given that at that time I was having trailer hitches installed, packing, cleaning/emptying house, trying to finish up work stuff & generally experiencing levels of stress previously unknown to me, it's little wonder its release went unnoticed by me; but fear not! First thing Monday evening I'm gonna pop over to Music Millennium on Burnside & buy this puppy like it's on fire. Really, how could it not be? The Amigos cover their favorite Venezuelan pop songs on this album, with production by my revered discohouse god Dimitri from Paris. I refuse to even entertain the notion that this could possibly be anything less than fabulous.

And, egads! Somehow I missed another certain-to-be-fantastic thing - Dimitri from Paris & DJ Muro's Super Disco Friends, which was released in April 2006, thereby providing me no excuse whatsoever for not already having it. All right, there's two CDs I'll be buying come payday.

Frankly, this is all way more super than any ol' bowl could ever dream of being.