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.

These Boots Were Made For...Oh, Never Mind

I likes walking. Is good. Fun. Wherever.
Even if it's not always happening on the Appian Way. Still good. Walking gets down with its bad self. Hooray for feet, for legs, for walking!

Lord Knows I Try To Be Good

I’ve indulged a blind adoration for Garbage ever since their first album. I’ve seen them live 3 times (granted, the last time was 9 years ago, but still). Shirley Manson is super-hot, not least because of the stylin' Scottish accent. I loves me an accent. I totally had a crush on her way before I figured out that it was actually okay for me to like boys and girls. Even as I’ve grown older & stopped taking the lyrics quite so seriously, my weakness for Garbage persists.

Their second album, Version 2.0, is their best (okay, I haven’t heard Bleed Like Me yet, so I’m taking a bit of a leap here). And I loved every song on it from the moment I bought it. Except one. Always, always, always would I skip Track 11, “Wicked Ways”. Hated it with the fire of a thousand suns. It sounded nothing like the rest of the album. There were no lyrical edges for me to identify with & cling to, like “I was angry when I met you/I think I’m angry still”, or “Somebody get me out of here/I’m tearing at myself/Nobody gives a damn about me/Or anybody else”. She didn’t sound mad, pissed-off, sad, or depressed. For my listening purposes, “Wicked Ways” simply did not exist.

Until one day, several years & much personal growth later, I listened to it again. And suddenly loved it. Now, it’s probably my favorite song on the album. All the things I once hated about it have become the things I like. It doesn’t sound like anything else – it’s light. Buoyant, practically (like a certain comic-strip-based flightless water fowl I can think of). I love that the lyrics & delivery aren’t overly heavy & dark. I love that she sounds all flirty (the way she sings “C’mon sugar, let’s go out tonight” is one of the best moments) & insincerely apologetic (really, Shirley, you can attempt to sell “And I tried, and I tried, and I tried” as many times as you like – I’m not buying.) She may have tried to mend her wicked ways, but she’s totally blaming you for her ultimate inability, no, unwillingness, to do so (“Clutch your pictures of the Pope/Pray to God for love & hope”) before she moves on to the next unwitting man.

The point, & believe it or not there is one, is that it is things such as this which encourage me to pause before passing o’erly hasty judgment. With regard to music, of course, but also with regard to most of the rest of everything else. It’s not that I don’t have opinions, it’s more that it’s important to me to try & recognize the fluidity & mutability of them. To not get stuck in the mud, but go with the flow, more. (Although I did make the point up just to conclude the post, the sentiments expressed are actually pretty true.)

The second point is that Scot-rockers & buoyant water fowl rule!

Un Very Stylish Fille

Poll time, people. Even though there's only a handful of yous out there. Still - advice, please. Is my new dress appropriate for my office job? I work in a very casual-type office, & I've definitely felt comfortable wearing all manner of sparkly skirts & patterned stockings & the like, but my jury's out on the strappy debate. I usually do shy away from straps in the office, but I think that's mostly because all of the strappy things I own also highlight my ta tas. It's not that I haven't been known to wear boob shirts to work, but boob + strap seems excessive.

My thought is, this definitely does not show my tits. It's actually quite modest, even with the straps. (Modest Straps would be a great name for something.) So, what do you think - yea or nay on the work tip? Full confession: I'm actually wearing it at work today (so Mandy, consider yourself obliged to respond). I'm fine with it, but I'm looking for more of a consensus opinion.

Mmm Coffee Pie I Love You

The perfect summer dessert. Especially when it's too damn hot to drink coffee, or bake things in the oven for long periods of time. Puerto Rican in origin, this is one of those rare, impeccable creations. The ease of making-to-impressiveness ratio on this one is high.

Crust:
1 package Nilla wafers, crushed
2 tsp unsweetened raw cocoa or 1 square unsweetened chocolate, grated
1/4 c light brown sugar
1/2 cup almonds
1/2 cup unsalted raw peanuts
1/4 cup walnuts
2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tbsp coffee liqueur
1/2 tbsp Bacardi rum, preferably brown

Filling:
1/2 c softened unsalted butter
3/4 c granulated sugar
4 tsp instant coffee, dissolved in a little hot water & cooled
3 eggs (room temperature), well beaten

Topping:
1 c heavy cream
2 tsp to 2 tbsp granulated sugar, to taste (optional)
1/2 tsp vanilla extract (optional)
chocolate-covered espresso beans (for garnish)

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Spread nuts out a baking sheet & toast for ten minutes, occasionally shaking the pan. Let cool. Finely chop nuts.

Turn oven up to 375 degrees. Combine Nilla wafers, cocoa or chocolate, brown sugar, & nuts in a bowl. In another, small bowl combine vanilla, liqueur & rum. Stir vanilla mixture into Nilla wafer mixture until smooth. Place evenly in a nine-inch pie plate, pressing the mixture firmly against the bottom & sides. Bake in the oven for 10 - 15 minutes & let cool.

In a bowl, beat the butter until creamy with a hand mixer on medium speed. Add the sugar gradually & beat until light & fluffy (about three minutes). Add the eggs slowly, beating on high speed for about 15 minutes. Turn the mixture into the pie shell, cover, & refrigerate overnight.

For the whipped cream: Place bowl (preferably metal) & beaters in the freezer for 5 minutes. Take out & put heavy cream in bowl. Beat on high speed until thickened; then, if desired, add sugar &/or vanilla. Continue beating until soft or stiff peaks are formed (whichever you prefer).

Top pie with whipped cream. Add chocolate-covered espresso beans if desired. Serve & enjoy!

Not for Epileptic Onions

Okay, okay, so I just posted about an experimental filmmaker. This is not going to turn into an avant-garde wankfest, people, wherein bloggy head gets shoved up experimental ass. I promise. Except - this is special. Really. I was almost inspired to start this post with OMG - & I like computer shorthand about as much as I like the smiley faces & emoticons or whatever they're called. E.g., not so friggin' much, but that's a tale for another time.

Anyway. What I have so newly discovered is that Ken Jacobs recently created a 2005 extended made-for-DVD remix of a "Nervous System" film performance I'd seen in 1999 - Ontic Antics Starring Laurel & Hardy. From the flyer for that screening (of course I kept it - & it was Thursday, May 27, 1999 at 6:00 pm, to be exact):

"The Nervous System places two identical film prints on two projectors capable of single-frame advance and freeze. The twin prints step through the projectors frame by frame as dictated by the artist-projectionist, caught somewhere between movie and slideshow. They tend to advance slightly out of synchronization, usually with only a single frame difference. Difference makes for movement and uncanny three-dimensional space-illusions when a spinning propeller up front, between the two projectors, interrupts and alternates their cast images. Tiny shifts in the way the two images overlap onscreen create radically different visual effects. The throbbing flicker is necessary to the creation of 'eternalisms,' unfrozen slices in time, sustained movements going nowheres unlike anything in life. For instance, without discernable start and stop and repeat-points, a neck may turn...eternally."

watch the trailer

No really, please watch the trailer. It's the reason I started this post in the first place. I didn't think I'd ever have the chance to share even part of this with anyone.

I practically couldn't walk when this was over. It peeled back the perceptual layers of my world in a way that I'd never experienced without chemical inducement. I mean, it was such a manipulated experience - but its lasting effect was to heighten reality, somehow. At the time I'd only recently discovered Phil Solomon, whom I blame for knocking me off my narrative horse. While I was trying to figure out if I wanted back on, this experience occurred & basically annihilated the crux of the choice.

Apparently, what Jacobs has done for the DVD is create a three-part version. (1) He committed a specific performance as described above to posterity, followed by (2) the original Laurel & Hardy film he uses, Berthmarks & then (3) a segment in which Laurel & Hardy "struggle to resolve themselves against the prominence of the digital pixels".

I am slightly confused as to why I cannot readily locate an opporunity to purchase this DVD. Presumably Mr. Jacobs' presence is not required to put the disc in the player? Perhaps I am merely being toyed with, a DVD-carrot dangling forever just out of reach. Oh, cruel fate.

Rock Out With Your Cock Out

Whilst listening to a signature tune of the divine Miss F.'s (meaning Marianne Faithfull, of course) last night, it occurred to me that you don't really hear too many songs with lyrics including the word "cock". Well, maybe you do, but I don't & I'm certainly not about to Google that shit.

Just sayin', is all.

Then again, it's fairly uncertain exactly how many people who aren't Marianne Faithfull or Mick Jagger can actually sing about cocks without sounding like, well, jackasses.

Phil Solomon

Precious little can be said to describe the sheer unadulterated beauty of Mr. Solomon's films. Should you ever be afforded the opportunity to see his work, please do & you can thank me later. Somehow he managed in The Exquisite Hour (1989) to capture on film that exact shade of beautiful, magical blue which occurs between sunset & darkness (& is particularly well-observed in winter), while simultaneously breaking my heart absent any semblance of the traditional tear-jerking which is the stock in trade of narrative film. He's my rock star - I *heart* Phil.

Jumping Off Bridges

Starting a blog is strangely akin to when I was 15 in rural Oregon & pregnancy was the fad amongst my classmates. Girls would find all sorts of sneaky ways to become impregnated, often because all of their friends were pregnant.

Consider the condom cut.