So what did I do? I bought it. Do I own a PlayStation 2? No. That's how out of control this addiction/compulsion is. Luckily, Matthew shares my compulsion and we spent many hours playing the game last night.
The cast of regulars has returned, but the best feature of SCIII is creating your own character. I created a lovely little girl with green hair and a cape named Vergina (inspiration for name comes from here), and Matthew created a dude named LeDouche. I'll take pictures of them so you, too, can enjoy my geekiness.
Now its time for news-ish stuff.
Tyra gives up runway modelling on December 6th. Yeah, right, and Cher's not going to tour ever again.
Sulu is a homo. Puh-leeze, like I didn't already know that shizz.
And I just found out about the new Stephen Frears movie starring Dame Judi Dench entitled Mrs. Henderson Presents with Christopher Guest and Bob Hoskins.
She now joins the ranks of one Libby Mae Brown.
Them's some fine lookin' women working at the DQ--I think its a requirement of the job (I worked at the DQ in high school).
Here's the latest from the NY Daily News:
Parker Posey has been accused of damaging her posh Sydney rental apartment to
the tune of $12,000. The alleged problems range from missing toilet brushes to
damaged antique furniture, stained carpets and scratched marble flooring. A rep
for Posey said her client had nothing to do with the damage.
Quentin Harris' latest, "Let's Be Young" is released on NRK this week. While the original mix is tight and laced with disco horns, my boy Ashley Beedle really brings that old skool house flavor (that would fit surprisingly well in the Party Girl soundtrack). [Real Audio samples]
If you can't make it to Savannah . . . This year's Savannah College of Art and Design will be video pod-cast which is pretty much awesome because Walter Murch, Ellen Burstyn, Don Bluth, Jeff Daniels, Terry Zwigoff, and Natasha Richardson will all be part of panel discussions and lectures. [Natasha--He-he-hello!]
Gilmore Girls news . . . Milo Ventimiglia will be reprising his role as Jess, Rory's ex. He's got a big-shot now and Rory has to re-think living with Grams and Gramps. Plus, David Sutcliffe will make an appearance as Rory's dad. Maybe he can shake some sense into her. And finally, a top secret guest star will be making an appearance as someone from Luke's past who will test his and Lorelai's relationship. Does anyone know if Milo and Alexis are still dating in real life? Oh yeah, and tonight is my fave Sec'y of State, Madeleine Albright showing her acting chops by playing none other than herself. [via WFAA]
ANTM news . . . Janice Dickinson signs deal for reality show. Don't get it twisted. [Article]
And I think that's it for now.
On Sunday, I was scheduled to help Rachel move. So when I get a hold of her, she tells me that my phone has been going straight to voice mail. Really.
So I check my voice mail and it turns out that I am loved and I am wanted. Sorry for being a pouty-face.
Moving Rachel was a total blast. Ten people helped with the move and it was pretty painless. Great group of people, too. Then Rachel took us to dinner at B & O Espresso--and I've gotta say, I was pretty impressed. We had two hookas on our table with double apple tobacco, and we smoked leisurely as we awaited our entrees and later, desserts, yum!!
Now its time for news.
This is most likely the final season for Arrested Development. Even though DVD sales are pretty good, FOX will probably not renew the show. (And will probably cut the number of episodes this season.) Article.
Sarah, the confused and easily led contestant from ANTM, is interviewed by some lesbians about how the taste of the tang. Article.
A scathing article out of New Zealand on ANTM titled America's Next Top Slave.
And finally, a big CONGRATULATIONS to Melissa McCarthy aka Sookie from Gilmore Girls who tied the knot October 8th.
I know, I talk about it too much, but I'm hoping that like Trent over at Pink is the New Blog, and Andy over at Towleroad, some generous soul will give me a screening of Jake and Heath (penis picture) making out in cowboy gear. So here's what some Sydney paper had to say about Brokeback Mountain:
Every once in a while a film comes along that changes perceptions so much
that cinema history thereafter has to arrange itself around it. Think of Thelma
and Louise or Chungking Express, Blow-Up or Orlando - all big films that taught us to look and think and swagger differently. Brokeback Mountain is just such a film. Even for audiences educated by a decade of the New Queer Cinema phenomenon - from Mala Noche and Poison to High Art and Boys Don't Cry - it's a profound shift in scope and tenor.
So yesterday I was telling J-Wise how I found a page that had all sorts of pics of the new James Bond's weenie. However, I could not find said schlong again. Thankfully, Jared at JustJared was kind enough to male--er, mail--them to me.
For your edification.
For the best ANTM recaps (and a rolling crying count), check out FourFour. Rich is the nicest (seeming) guy with attitude to smoke, burn, and scatter to the four winds--and he has the prettiest cat.
Anyway, via The Futon Critic, I got this info.
UPN kicks off a month of special guests and major events for the November sweep beginning with TOP MODEL WEEK as the girls from the past four cycles guest star on UPN's comedies and dramas throughout the week of Nov. 7, including Norelle, Mercedes, Toccara, Keenyah, Brittany, as well as fan favorites Jay Manuel and J.Alexander, aka Mr. Jay and Miss J., while former participant Michelle, a wrestler, will appear on FRIDAY NIGHT
Award-winning writer, director, and producer David Lynch will speak about
"Consciousness, Creativity and the Brain" during a special appearance at
UW.Lynch will speak about his films and about his 30 year relationship with
Transcendental Meditation, and its role in his creative process. He will be
joined by physicist John Hagelin, who was featured in the documentary "What The
Bleep Do We Know?" and neuroscientist Dr. Fred Travis, Director of the Center
for Brain, Consciousness, and Cognition at Maharishi University of Management.
I have, on occasion, gone an entire day without speaking to anyone whilst in the Vault. Today, however, I believe I have spoken to every co-worker in my department, and this, of course, after a night out which has left me incapable of putting two words together. They scratch their heads and give quizzical looks when I answer questions like, "Did you get a chance to get around to it," to which I respond, "No, I just had a cup of coffee." Beware bounding nonsensical non-sequitors.
A new report (reg. req'd.) by Simmons Market Research states that the gays like their South Park. And who can blame us, really? Matt and Trey send up everything from sex with hamsters to Jennifer Lopez. If there is a sacred cow, Matt and Trey have suckled at its teat.
On cable, gay men are most likely to watch — in this order — Comedy Central, Discovery, Spike TV, A&E, Bravo, Sci Fi, CNN, Lifetime, Fox News Channel and HGTV, it said.
Wow, who would have guessed. The part that freaks me out is the part that says we watch Fox News. Hopefully that's just in a "know thine enemy" sort of way, and not in a "Fair and Balanced" kind of way. At least it ranks beneath Lifetime.
And in more nerd related news (but still on a gay TV bent), Russell Davies has been tapped to write one-off episodes of Dr.Who featuring bisexual Captain Jack Harkness. Am I excited? Well, can you see my woody? And, I've gotta admit, I've been a John Barrowman fan for a while--well, since the short lived Central Park West.
And to end the post, how about a quiz. Me? I'm a postmodernist . . . cool. Does that mean I need to get dark rimmed glasses and wear black?
You scored as Postmodernist. Postmodernism is the belief in complete open interpretation. You see the universe as a collection of information with varying ways of putting it together. There is no absolute truth for you; even the most hardened facts are open to interpretation. Meaning relies on context and even the language you use to describe things should be subject to analysis.
Cultural Creative 69%
What is Your World View? (updated)
created with QuizFarm.com
Its Friday which means I won't post over the weekend, which means that I sort of feel obligated to post now. So, here goes.
The BBC reports that Serenity has moved into the top slot in the UK proving that, indeed, you cannot stop the signal. The UK also has Cronenberg's newest in the 4th spot. This just proves that the Brits know good cinema when they see it. After my viewing of A History of Violence, I began ruminating on Cronenberg's films. Has he made a film I don't like?
Let's find out.
Shivers, Rabid, The Brood, Videodrome, Scanners, The Dead Zone, The Fly, Dead Ringers, Naked Lunch, M Butterfly, Crash, eXistenZ.
Of course there are a few that I haven't seen, but as far as track records go, Cronenberg is a marathon man. Next up? London Fields based on the amazingly mediocre novel of Martin Amis.
When I imagine Cronenberg directing a film, I like to imagine him as the character he portrayed in Night Breed (horrible film with some ok visuals, and a great turn by Cronenberg). (See picture)
Anyway, on the cinema front, I believe that Bill and I will finally be going to see MirrorMask this weekend. Also up for next week--StarBall with Mike and Janice.
And also on tap--
I'm torn for tonight. Do I go to Element to see Tyler Stadius? Or do I go to Trinity to see Groove Junkies? If I go to Element, then I'm a lot closer to home when I decide to bounce. Both sets should be good. Tyler's been dropping some shit from Sensei and Urban Torque that I just really dig on, and the Groove Junkies first disc out on OM is drop-it-like-its-warm-and-needs-lounge-by-the-pool. Both crowds will have a high ick-factor, but I'll probably know more people at Element. What's a boy to do?
Today is a very special day for a very special lady (and not special like retarded). Warmest, gushiest birthday wishes to my girl Janice!
Now for completely unrelated stuff.
Holy shit, you guys! Did you see the pics of Tom "Man of My Dreams" Ford?
Ok. Here ya go, from Style.com
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York.
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank, all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kaballa because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccupped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blonde & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930's German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin metrasol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 AM and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination--
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time--
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
San Francisco 1955 1956
Also this weekend, inspired by Cameron's delicious carrot/ginger soup last week, I decided to make a squash soup. And, not to toot my own horn, I think it turned out really well. Its even veggie friendly so I can foist some of it onto the neighbors. The real test is Vicki, my seventy-something year old neighbor. I took some to her yesterday. If she asks me for the recipe, then I know its good. If she doesn't, then back to the drawing board--but really I think its pretty good.
If you're interested in knowing how I made it, I'll send you the recipe (actually, I work sans recipe for most of my dishes, but I know what I put in it, and about how much). No, the image on this post is not my actual soup, it is merely a representation.