This World of Ours It Felt Brand New

Full disclosure: I was going to make a full disclosure. Then I remembered that art does not exist without the viewer/reader/listener/etc. And that individual interpretation need not make excuses for being intrinsically, unavoidably, personal. Why, for instance, am I moved to tears by the photography of Andre Kertesz, yet continually find every encounter of Andy Warhol's oeuvre insufferable? Who cares? It just is. Because of who I am. I don't have to justify my reactions/feelings/existence, any more than anybody else has to.

Disclosures aside, New Order's "Face Up" is the only thing I've been able to listen to for two months. All right, so I did spend an evening with Fiona Apple's "Never Is A Promise". And I did listen to Eazy-E on repeat on a six-hour drive. But this is the song to which I find myself continually turning. It is my comfort. It is my mac & cheese. It is my hot chocolate with marshmallows on a cold winter's day.

Somebody told me recently that they find the tone of this song to be one of anger. I don't feel that way. This is a song of sadness, of taking tumbles, of things not being that way. The way you thought they were. It's a reaction to that, but not really a venomous one, despite the best (or worst?) efforts of the narrator. When Bernard Sumner sings "Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you", sure, he's angry. But he's also hurt, confused & bitter. And no one emotion outweighs any other. "I always knew you were cold" ends one verse; "At the start you had a heart" begins the next. This is a narrator giving into his instinctual emotions of pain, yet simultaneously finding himself unable to deny the beauty of what was, in spite of the hurt that is. I.e., "Don't let anybody tell you/What you should do/because it's not that way" into a repeat of the chorus. You can hear Sumner's voice tearing throughout the song (most particularly in the chorus) - the narrator doesn't know what to feel. He may not be able to bear the thought of you, but don't fool yourself for one second into believing that he's not going to think about you anyway. Perhaps a mere glance at the lyrics would lead one to believe that this song is angry - but a listen, a real listen, obliterates the easy interpretation of the song into a singular, definable emotion.

Guess what he's going to do to you? Sure, he sounds all pissed off, but you know what? He's got no idea what he's going to do.

News Flash!

This blog-thing is on indefinite hiatus.

I just couldn't let its last post be about Angelina Jolie.

It's A Small World After All

I may have joked about it...I may even have taken it semi-seriously...but, really, never thought I'd actually be RIGHT about it.

It turns out that Angelina Jolie really does want the continental sampler pack of children. "Hmm...I've got one from Asia...one from Africa...now one from North America...where should I go next, South America, Europe, or Australia?"

Given the level of my correctness about this, I don't think it too far-fetched to imagine that she will not stop until she gets herself a penguin from Antarctica, adopts it & christens it Yomama Jolie-Pitt.

Unless she takes a second go-round on the contintental baby carousel. And, you know, I think she might just be noble & brave & even selfless enough to do it.

MY GOD PEOPLE. How do you go from hottest creature in the universe to its whackest bony bore in such a short amount of time? I'm sure somewhere, deep down, Billy Bob Thornton is to blame for this.

Manna From Heaven

This is probably the most-requested baked good I've ever made, thanks to a couple of multi-road-trippin' fools I know. And actually, it's good for summer, too - sure, there's cooking & baking & some "hot in the kitchen" goin' on, but once the bierocks (pronounced BEER-rocks) are done, you've got 12 tasty treats that make great on-the-go lunches & should last for a little while (provided you don't eat them all at once, of course). Room temp, warmed in the oven - they're fantabulous either way. These come courtesy of 18th & 19th century Russian Mennonites & are now also made in south-central Kansas. I'd like to dedicate the posting of this recipe in particular to Gabe Traber - now you've no excuse not to make them yourself, darlin'.

BIEROCKS

For Dough:
1 tsp. active dry yeast
5 cups bread flour (unbleached - as if I needed to specify that)
1/2 cup sugar
Salt (Kosher or sea is always best, fuck iodized)
1 1/2 cups lukewarm milk
10 tbsp. butter, melted
2 eggs, lightly beaten

For Filling:
3 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 yellow onion, peeled & finely chopped
1 lb. ground beef
4 cups shredded green cabbage
1/4 lb. mild cheddar cheese, grated
2 tbsp. dijon mustard
Freshly ground black pepper (as though there were any other kind)

For dough, dissolve yeast in 2 tbsp. warm water in a small bowl. Mix together flour, sugar & 1/2 tsp. salt in a large bowl. Add milk, 8 tbsp. butter, and eggs to yeast, then stir into flour (if dough is too dry, add more water). Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until elastic, about 8 minutes. Put dough in an oiled bowl, turning it to coat with oil, then cover bowl with a clean dish towel and set aside for dough to rise until doubled, about 30 minutes. Punch dough down, then set aside to rise for 30 minutes more.

For filling, heat 2 tbsp. oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and cook until soft, about 15 minutes. Increase heat to medium-high, add beef, and brown for 8 more minutes. Stir in cabbage, cook for 10 minutes, then add cheese and mustard and season to taste with salt and pepper. Cook for 5 minutes more, then set aside to cool.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Return dough to floured surface and divide into 12 balls. Roll each piece, one at a time, into a 6" round. Spoon about 1/4 cup beef mixture into the center of each round, then fold edges of round in and pinch closed. Place, seam side down, on an oiled (or parchment paper-lined) baking sheet and set aside to rise for 20 minutes. Bake until golden, 15-20 minutes. Brush tops with remaining 2 tbsp. butter.

Bliss out on one of humanity's utterly perfect creations.

Protocol Be Damned-ing, Part II: The Quickening

Today when I awoke the first thing I asked myself (after, Why are my cats such assholes sometimes?) was, Self, you went shopping yesterday. What else don't you usually do? To which Self replied somewhat shame-facedly, Hiking. (The shame derives from the fact that two years ago, I was immensely fond of hiking & engaged in it often. Then I kinda skipped hiking last year.) I slapped my knee & said, Self, that's even better than shopping.

So I went to Shenandoah National Park & hiked my out-of-form ass off. Though I cringed as I paid my $15 vehicle fee (next time, I'm ponying up the $30 for an annual pass), forge on I did. Skyline Drive is 105 miles of Enormously Gorgeous, though I was glad to endure only 15 miles at the 35 MPH speed limit. First, I went to Hawksbill Mountain, which is the highest point in the park at 4,051 feet above sea level. And immediately discovered that, um, I need to hike more. My uphill endurance is nil. Sheesh. However, upon completion of the 700-foot ascent, I was rewarded with an absolutely AMAZING near-360-degree view. A falcon caught my eye, & luckily I overheard my fellow hikers' conversation with a gentleman who was kind of parked on a rock. Apparently, five peregrine falcons had just been released into the wild - they are to be fed through the end of July, & he was keeping an eye on them. Upon leaving that pinnacle, the downhill mode was in effect, thankfully. And I was so stupid happy to be hiking again, finally. I had this goofy grin on my face the whole time (as long as I wasn't going uphill). 'Tis a pity my digital camera's battery compartment went kaphlooey, but alas! there was precious little to be done about that today.

So completely happy was I that upon reaching the denouement of this 2.9 mile circuit, I was sad that it was over. Never fear! I had a map which told me that not more than 3 miles down the road was another circuit, of 4 miles in length. It followed along a creek & there were some waterfalls & whatnot. I happily flounced downhill for 2 miles, pausing here & there to sit on various rocks in the midst of the creek & read some of Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies,which was so unbelievably perfect an experience I don't think I shall attempt to read Rilke far outside such settings again.

Of course, what you may have noticed is that I was going downhill for 2 miles. On a 4 mile circuit. I'm sure you can imagine what's opposite of downhill, which is what I experienced over the next 2 miles. But that's of little consequence now - I hiked & I'm happy & I got all sweaty & definitely worked off that beer of which I've been a bit too fond lately & I communed with nature & saw CHIPMUNKS! (which are so much cooler than squirrels) & loads of centipedes, which are really fun to watch & even a deer nonchalantly nibbling on a tree branch on the roadside. And I came home & oh my god took the most bee-you-tee-full bath EVER & put on my new girl clothes & yes even the heels (don't know how long I'll last in those).

In conclusion may I say: Shopping = Good; Hiking = BETTER. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Oh Baby Yeah, Don't Stop

What is it about film/BBC adaptations of Jane Austen novels that rubs so gently yet effectively against the clitoris of my emotional vagina? I like a good period film (as in era, not cycle) plenty, but something about Jane Austen movies just does me in (except Emma, but for that I blame the well-bred high-strung filly that is Gwyneth Paltrow).

Perhaps it can be related to the utter simplicity of the stories. Take girl who is allegedly bereft with regard to financial situation (yet, poor as they are purported to be, still have servants) + rich man, throw in a few complications, then (of course) end with all well & love conquering. The beloved sister experiencing parallel travails is optional. All any of the characters has to worry about is love. The "poor" aspect never really affects anything, except to perhaps throw a minor wrench in the middle of the movie. Hey, if all I had to do all day was giggle, wander about & fall in love, I'd be a happy camper. There is something so simplistic yet endearing at work here. Although I know some people really don't care for Austen, I don't see what the issue is, so long as you don't take it too seriously. They're like well-written & well-executed Harlequin romance novels. Naturally, every one makes me cry as the fingers slowly move from clit to vaginal penetration. Not exactly high-school-curriculum worthy, but definitely valuable as comfort food.

The most recent adaptation, 2005's Pride & Prejudice, I find myself unable to judge for the above captioned reasons. It seemed a little over-directed - but I can't fault Joe Wright for wanting to provide a fresh take. I liked the window theme. However, the director of photography seems to have fallen prey to the John Toll school of cinematography - 2/3 of the movie is drenched in those warm "golden afternoon" i.e. yellow filter tones. Seriously, people. Blech.

Whatever. As long as they keep making 'em, I'll keep watching 'em.

(Note: I don't generally care much for Keira Knightley (a bit too bony for me), but if she continues making movies where she smiles & laughs as much as she does in this one, I'll be forced to revise my opinion. She's irresistible doing either. Oh & I'm sorry - while Matthew Macfayden suffices as Darcy, he can't even touch Colin Firth...but (sigh) who can? Firth owns Darcy.)

We're S-H-O-P-P-I-N-G

Terribly sorry, Pet Shop Boys, I realize your song is uber-political & all - but really, when you wrap a critique of Thatcherism around such an eminently chantable chorus, how can you expect me to not use it in reference to the glorious capitalist orgy in which I today indulged?

The first thing I bought was the best thing I bought - yes, the plant which belongs to that gorgeous beast pictured above is now MINE. It makes me want to drop acid & just stare at it for 8 hours until I completely understand its myriad complexities. Fuck it, I don't even need acid to do that. Orchids fucking rule.

So, the thing is that my overall rule with this whole "blog" is to generally not superfluously specificate my day-to-day personal life info. I-did-this-&-then-this-happened-&-I-bought-that-&-after-that-I-talked-to-so-&-so is as boring to me as it is to everyone else. I mean, obviously, these posts are about me, but I guess what it's not meant to be is a means of exploring the deritus of my personal life on the internet (that need is fulfilled by my actual journal). Nothing against people who like to blog about what they ate for lunch with who, but for me I find it most beneficial to explore the things'n'thoughts that occur to me, few & far between as they may be. That said, I'm totally breaking my protocol for this post.

As I'm sure some (okay, probably all) of you know, my boyfriend is in Barcelona. And I am in...Charlottesville. It's one thing when a friend goes away - but it's kind of hard when the person with whom you share your life is suddenly absent from it, even if only for a week, to go partying/journalist-ing in Barcelona. Don't get me wrong - he's having a great time & I am totally ass-happy thrilled for him - but it's been somewhat of a challenge to get excited about going to the grocery store or changing the cat litter given the circumstances. You smell me?

So when I woke up this morning I thought to myself, Self, what don't you ever really do? And being a girl, self replied, Shopping! I'm the sort of person who can talk myself out of buying band-aids when I'm bleeding, so you can imagine how frequently I engage in pleasure-shopping. But on this morning I said, Self, that's a really good idea. And discovered that my capacity for multi-hour extended shopping binges far exceeds what I had previously thought. It isn't even that I bought so much - I actually spent the last hour and a half just looking for a PLAIN SUMMER-RIFIC BROWN SKIRT, which apparently is a difficult thing to acquire. Shorts are far more plentiful, and look an awful lot like skirts on the racks. But shorts are pants gone retarded, & I hate nearly all pants to begin with. I have a couple pairs of pants. I wore one of them like a year and a half ago.

But anyway, you know how people say that shopping is therapeutic? This was a big surprise to me, but it's actually true. A few plants, some shoes, a couple tops, a skirt, droppin' some bucks at Victoria's Secret...I even got a bright, yet tasteful, orange razor to finally replace the one that disappeared in Rome, a purchase prompted mostly by M. taking his razor with him. My body hair stubbornly refusing to cease growing until his return coupled with my desire to wear things without sleeves meant something had to be done.

Anyway, yeah...S-H-O-P-P-I-N-G was a surprisingly effective path to feeling B-E-T-T-E-R. I should get down with my girl self more often.

Ice Beer, Ohhh Ice Beer, Ice Beer

For the record, the song in "reality" is titled "Eisbaer" but that wouldn't make much sense given the context. (But oh! talk about a memory-connotation-laden song...Ross, you should know what I'm talkin' about (hint: think DJ Dan). Though your memories of it are undoubtedly of a slightly more pained variety).

Anyway, this delicious, deliciouser, & yes even muy caliente delicioso brew comes to us from Seattle. From the Pyramid Brewery. I've kept an eye out for this Apricot Weizen in the microbrewery wasteland that is Virginia ever since I first delected upon its delectableness while in Oregon last year. Of it I am so fond that I took this picture all by my little ol' self, just to prove that I actually have it. Funny thing is - me & fruity beers, not so much ('less we're talking about lambic). But there's something about this one - the aroma is so good you can practically smell the fuzz. It's light-tasting but still tasty & somehow there's a perfect undetectable balance betwixt beir und fruit.

Well you may imagine my delight when, after deciding to spoil myself with a nice Belgian from the Wine Warehouse, I espied two six-packs of this baby near the register. Could the timing have been any better? The perfect summertime beer, returning to me at the perfect moment when such blissful happenstance is most thoroughly appreciated. Aaahhh...life is good.

Although there may be more than a bit of "thrill-of-the-chase" syndrome in my effusive praise, if you see this beer, give it a whirl.

Dots are Fun!

Stumbled across this bit-o-whimsy whilst fruitlessly searching YouTube for Dwinell Grant films. 'S okay - this is fruit enough to compensate.

Norman McLaren is apparently something of a national hero amongst our north-of-the-border neighbors. This despite being, well, Scottish & all. Dots (1940) is pretty neat. Not only were all of the images directly painted onto the film, but the soundtrack was directly scratched upon it as well. I saw McLaren's Pas de Deux a few years ago & was quite impressed, so when this presented itself to mine eyes I jumped on it like a sailor on a whore. And thereafter was I sated for at least ten minutes.

Squishy noises. Squishy images. One minute seventeen seconds of FUN.

New Boyfriend

This is Bernard Sumner, my new boyfriend. I haven't dumped either Lloyd Cole or Greg Dulli (although after that last Twilight Singers album, we're definitely on hiatus) - I've got lots o' love so there's plenty to give Bernard (& no, I won't be calling him "Barney").

I've always kept New Order at arm's length, for the largely ridiculous reason that I've felt like they "belonged" to the person who really introduced me to them. So, I've heard the albums loads of times, but I've never actually really, truly listened to them before now (excepting Technique, of course; & also Get Ready). It's officially love. I guess properly speaking the whole band should be my new boyfriends (& ex-girlfriend), but I'm singling out Bernard for the utterly arbitrary & completely obvious reason that he's the singer, & I find myself more readily identifying with his voice than, say, Hooky's bass.

That said, however, although Bernard may be the poster child for my NO love, if I saw them in concert, I would so be wearing four pairs of panties for stage-throwing purposes.

I've Got a Peppercorn in My Behind

New favorite phrase EVER. Apparently it's got something to do with being restless. It's a German saying...of course.

Second new favorite phrase ever comes courtesy of E-40. "You smell me?" meaning "You understand me?" Do I ever!

I can't wait to incorporate these into my everyday conversation as frequently as possible. In fact, I've totally got a peppercorn in my behind about it. You smell me?

Boy George Don't Know the Half of It

I hate it when I make a resolute vow not to do something & then when presented with the opportunity immediately go ahead & do it anyway.

Like crying at airports. Dammit! I suppose it's more reasonable than when, say, ABBA makes me cry (which isn't often, but has been known to happen on occasion). Still! It makes precious little sense to my waking mind; but apparently the tear ducts just bypass my enormous super-powerful brain & connect directly to my secretly enormouser & super-powerfuler heartstrings. Or summit stupid like that.

I did inadvertently devise an effective lather-rinse-repeat strategy, though, which I'd highly recommend (possible variations are of course infinite) - two listens of NO's "Low-life" on the drive home followed by two beers, two episodes of The Muppet Show on DVD & a two-hour nap. Felt mucho better.

Bernard Sumner & the Swedish Chef know what I need.

Why Oh Because

I love me some Donovan, just in case that wasn't already patently obvious.

& I love the song "Happiness Runs". With nary a smirk, sneer or knowing sidelong glance. This song is the mortal enemy of irony & cynicism. It makes me so, well, happy.

What would the world be like if Donovan had beat out Dylan (see: D.A. Pennebaker's Don't Look Back) to become the generational voice turned revered (practically sainted) elder statesman?

You'd probably hear a lot more flowers & sunshine in music.

The Earth Will Not Nourish 'Em

Of late, rain in Charlottesville has veered more toward farcical notion than needed reality. In fact, it quite reminds me of a remark made in Cold Comfort Farm, that most excellent film based upon dubious book (seriously, don't even get me started on how great the movie is, or how grievously Kate Beckinsale has squandered her talent since):


"The seeds wither as they fall into the ground, and the earth will not nourish 'em. The cows are barren and the sows are farren and the King's Evil and the Queen's Bane and the Prince's Heritage ravages our crops. 'Cos why? 'Cos there's a curse on us, Robert Poste's child."


But tonight - oh, wonderful tonight - it is really & truly raining! Not in the apocalyptic thunderstorm fashion so common round these parts, but a semi-quiet & consistently steady downpour.

Actual, real rain. Hurrah!

Fellow Citizens, You Confound Me

I knew the U.S. & I weren't gonna work out when I saw a Sunday newspaper ad for Uncrustables. Apparently throughout my life I have failed to comprehend the vast difficulty inherent in spending 5 minutes taking two slices of bread & smearing them with peanut butter & jelly, then, should it offend one's delicate sensibilities, cutting the crust off. Quelle horror! Right then & there I decided the U.S. & I had to break up. (I'm not even going to get into the complete lameness of taking issue with bread crust.)

But even worse. Smuckers was able to get a patent on this? They have sued other people who make foul frozen ravioli-like objects stuffed with pb&j? Oh wait, it looks like the patent is more generally for "a sealed crustless sandwich for providing a convenient sandwich without an outer crust which can be stored for long periods of time without a central filling from leaking outwardly." Um, which kind of sounds like things people have been making for centuries (i.e., bierocks & pasties). Does the U.S. hand out patents like so much Halloween candy or what? Although, to somebody's credit, "as of April 2006, the patent was reexamined and the claims were rejected. Smuckers has appealed the rejection to the Board of Patent Appeals and Interferences(BPAI). The BPAI has yet to render its judgement" (Wikipedia).

Like sandwiches are so frickin' hard to make. Maybe Uncrustables thaw magically in a matter of seconds (I wouldn't put it past you, America, to devise some nefarious means for this) but assuming they do obey some basic laws of nature, I'm thinking it's actually faster to make a sandwich than to wait for an Uncrustable to thaw. But then you might miss a minute of your TV show. And that's not what life, liberty & the pursuit of happiness are about, now, is it?

I want OUT.

ä-n&-"mä-t&-'pE-&, -"ma

onomatopoeia

hee hee! What a great word. It's almost hard for me to believe its validity, let alone that it has such an amazing yet appropriately hazy correspondence betwixt actual word & definition.

Also, for a good time go to Merriam-Webster & have fun putting together audio pronounciations of various words (hint: making M-W say "ass fiesta" is mightily amusing.)

Having said that, I am willing to accept that the online-dictionary-as-good-time concept might be unique to me. There was a vicious rumor when I was in 7th grade that I read the dictionary for fun (couldn't I just have been a slut like everyone else?). Not true! though I cannot deny I would occasionally open my Webster's Unabridged Dictionary to a random page, just to learn a new word.

But that is NOT the same as "reading" the dictionary FOR FUN.

Um, yeah, so...

Watching

• The Marriage Circle by Ernst Lubitsch
• The Eyes of the Mummy by Ernst Lubitsch
• Unseen Cinema: Early American Avant-Garde Film 1894-1941

Reading

• Romantic Comedy in Hollywood, from Lubitsch to Sturges by James Harvey
• Ernst Lubitsch's American Comedy by William Paul
• Theda Bara: A Biography of the Silent Screen Vamp, with a Filmography by Ronald Genini

...in case you didn't know, I'm a research freak. I only hope that if anybody else in C-ville wants to check books out of the library on E.L. this summer, they can read either French or German.

The Theda Bara is just for fun, though. According to Eve Golden, "she is one of the few stars responsible for a word -- 'vamp' -- being placed both on the dictionary and in everyday use." Unfortunately, nearly all of Bara's films have been lost in the intervening years (Netflix has one), but ever since I first saw the above picture when I was ~15, I've been semi-intoxicated with the idea of her. (It's a still from Cleopatra (1917) - she was the first to portray the Egyptian queen on-screen.)

"What an Artist Dies in Me!"

That's right, kids, on this day a mere 1,938 years ago (aka AD 68), Nero Claudius Cæsar Augustus Germanicus stabbed himself in the throat. That most noble of emperors - killer of adoptive fathers, stepbrothers, birth mothers & aunts alike; abandoner of "imperial functions in favour of the equestrian and dramatic and musical arts"; wearer of flower-patterned mini-tunics with frilly muslin collars; persecutor of Christians; & player of lyres - was induced to commit suicide by the revolt of the senate & the army against his reign of theater-lovin' tyranny.

Shockingly, it seems his body was not thrown into the Tiber.

Note: One of my personal favorite Nero stories involves the Games of AD 55, in which Nero decreed that the heretofore omnipresent praetorian guard were relieved of their obligation to maintain order at said Games, so that the citizens of Rome might feel they were afforded greater freedom. The result? "[S]erious brawls broke out between the gangs favouring rival ballet-dancers..." (Michael Grant, The Twelve Caesars). But of course!

Kay Vs. Miriam; or, Everybody Wins!

Okay, seriously, who can choose between Kay Francis & Miriam Hopkins? And does Ernst Lubitsch demonstrate his genius in any way more clearly than in his ability to cast hot, smart women (or at least women who come across as such in their roles)? I mean, I'm not writing an essay on Trouble in Paradise (1932) just because it's a great film (which it is). Getting to spend a lot of time watching Francis & Hopkins is a major plus - Miriam Hopkins' gown in the first scene alone is worth the price of admission.

Far be it from me to engage in idolatry of eras past whilst bemoaning an inadequate present, but Lubitsch's film has more joy & sex - & takes more joy in sex, really - in a single frame than any recent film of which I can think (see also: Lubitsch's Design for Living (1933), also starring Hopkins). Q: Why is sex either nonexistent, rendered impotent by excessive cutesy-ness, or made so ugly as to be unbearable in nearly every contemporary movie which flickers across a screen? Even allegedly sophisticated Euro-film suffers from this problem, at least insofar as I am aware. I do believe that Catherine Breillat is trying to single-handedly eradicate the act of sex entirely by ensuring that anybody who suffers through one of her films (& one is enough, believe me) will feel so gross about sex that they will never want to engage in it again.

Ugh. I don't want to think about her anymore. I'm gonna look at the rest of my pictures of beautiful girls from the 1930s.

Eremotherium laurillardi

Oh gi-normo ground sloth, why do you freak me out so? Little camels, big bugs & T. Rex (no, not that one, this one) could not do what the sight of your gi-normo skeleton at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History did to me. You are prehistory incarnate.