Month: September 2005

oh how laughing hurts right now

This is beyond brilliant. “The challenge? Take any movie and cut a new trailer for it — but in an entirely different genre. Only the sound and dialogue could be modified, not the visuals.”

THE SHINING as “a saccharine comedy — about a writer struggling to find his muse and a boy lonely for a father. Gilding the lily, he even set it against “Solsbury Hill,” the way-too-overused Peter Gabriel song heard in comedies billed as life-changing experiences, like last year’s “In Good Company.””

Related to this are WEST SIDE STORY as a Zombie Film and TITANIC as a horror film.

munching on things that maul children carries a certain satisfaction. CLICK ON THE PICTURE.


Make way jungle, we want oil!
Originally uploaded by Nick Lyon.

So it’s not tonsillitis after all. Apparently it’s strep throat.

This week has been red lights and green. Wolf Parade was exquisite. A hipster sardine packed illicit space with ghetto lighting and terrifying wiring for the stage, I led Ryan and Andrew successfully to the very front. I leaned against the monitors and tried to dance crammed next to a short asian student of cultural ethnicity with my shirt off and tucked into my bag. I suspect her disapproving looks did wonders for my mood. The opening band was fun, stealing back everything from music that Weezer made suck, and when Wolf Parade came on, we offered them James‘ place in Montreal as a crash pad. (You should toss them an e-mail, lovely. See how serious they were, win some points with all those pretty girls with asymmetrical haircuts). Opening with Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts* set the tone well, though they could have been a bit louder with the vocals. You Are A Runner And I Am My Fathers Son is quite the experience live. The lead singer is a lean wrung out guy who froths at the mouth and screams with musical fury through a cigarette that he barely holds onto in a Keith Richard pout, and the keyboardist glares with such concentration it was surprising his intrument didn’t melt. His grandfather was in the audience somewhere, though I would imagine he would have been hiding in the back next to the hole-in-the-wall bar. I was situated a foot in front of the man playing theramin and he was just as impressive, holding his little electric keyboard above him as if that would bring is closer to some holy god, his eyes rolling trance-like into back into his head. The room was dripping wet, sodden with brilliantly sweaty notes that just didn’t translate well onto the album. (Though one must be mad to not to appreciate I’ll Believe In Anything.) In summary, the heat was unbelievable and the music just as hot. The concert next month, with Wolf Parade opening for The Arcade Fire is my next most anticipated thing. Everyone capable should go. *both albums for download with this link

The Fetish Masque afterward wasn’t half as fun, nor was the burlesque show. Andrew went home and Ryan and I stopped to dress properly for the occasion, gothing to the nines with feathers in my hair and running gold powder down my face. When we arrived, we let someone take us from the burlesque line-up to the fetish one around the side and downstairs, therefore missing the show entirely through a mismanage of poor timing. Aaron was there, and Brian and Kevin, but Herminia stole us away upstairs before I could properly find them. Tristan was upstairs, and a friend of ours was attempting to MC, poor thing, on no warning whatsoever. The show was apparently terribly last minute, so disorganized that it only took me a moment to infiltrate the blueroom and begin ordering people around. “Who’s in the band, you’re up next. This fruit is to go out to the table. You, cut it up with me?” Ten minutes later I was curling someone’s hair in the backstage bathroom and trying to think of ways to get away while the organizer thanked me. I don’t know how to curl hair. I escaped by carrying a plate of peanut butter chocolates out to the covered pool-table and re-collected Ryan. It was getting to be close to shut-down then, so after a bit of dallying, I smuggled us into the freezer and we stole out with some strawberries that no one was going to miss and a pineapple in my skirts. When we came back is when we found Kevin finally. His hair had gone from white to an attractive jewel-tone blue, and I’m remembering now as I write this that I really should drop him a ring. I hope e-mail will do, this not having a voice could make things difficult.

Plunderification, bitches.


it might be a pickle
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

torro-toise

Sarah has graciously offered her home this evening as an alternative to tonight’s NIN canceled Korean Movie Monday. There will be no korean movie, but it’s practically the same thing, if you squint at it a bit.

My day’s gone by with nothing addressed. I’m going to be in desperate need for some food later. I feel like going to sleep in a public park, let them erect a fence around me, and just wake me up when this all ends. I’ll be a public exhibit, free of charge, until the apocalypse has come and gone to the mountainside. When the weather is nice for ducks, I may turn to my side and let the wind destroy my possessing dreams a little, but that would be all. The grass will grow around me and tickle my hair into fantastic shapes. When it gets dark, it might get lonely, but I fail to see how that’s any worse than my current overwhelming lack of comfort, and maybe little animals might burrow in my skirts. Squirrels curling up for the heat of my body and sharing the night with me. Pets with human eyes I never see.

Did you know Queen Anne was buried in a cubic coffin?

Whipping past reflective surfaces, I make it though the day without looking at myself as much as possible. Work has two change-rooms, one next to the other, that are walled on three sides with mirrors. This makes it difficult, so when I stand in front of them, I try to focus on the colours in my hair or the angle of my shoes against the carpet. People tell me I’m pretty and I want to bite them. Pretty is useless. Pretty is not a skill. There are mirrors in the back as well, one in the hall and a large one in the bathroom. I’ve hung manniquin busts on the bathroom mirror, and so far no one has moved them, but the hall mirror makes me twitch whenever I pass and catch myself in the corner of my eye. The manniquins, however, I have fallen in love with. My hands trail over their bodies when I dress them, and I feel remembered sparks of tenderness when I smooth their artificial hair. I want to take them home with me and curl myself around the hard plastic bodies, protect them from the people who treat them as objects instead of people. I feel for them almost the same way I felt for the people who were the BodyWorlds Exhibit. A deep abiding respect with an underlying current of wanting to know their names. It’s commiseration that runs like oxygen through blood.

I remember when I was beautiful to you

Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing. He concludes by saying: “Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed.” “OH NO!” the President exclaims. “That’s terrible!” His staff sits stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands. Finally, the President looks up and asks, “How many is a brazillion?”

The bottom of the world fell out beneath me when I saw you on the street. My lungs dissipated, my breath sinking out of view. I was in the wrong company to stop, with the wrong people to demand they leave me behind. I’m wide awake, wishing the lights were out, but knowing that it wouldn’t help at all. Sheer certainty makes your name a holy thing, hard in my mouth like stones on a pale horse. In between the click of my teeth against yours, there used to be rare moments of brevity. Now there is a vacuum. I am in no safe hands, there is no warming me. I told Michael the truth, that every night I wake up crying. Court was held on the front porch, a open floor on which to pour my wounded emotions. You looked away and wouldn’t speak. Instead there was a comment about speech, about thought, and then a turning around and away. I feel like I’m a symbol for every woman who stood in the street and cried out, “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.“

I carried a sword with me to the car. Black and silver, same as my hat. Same as my jacket and pants and eyes. The strap of my bag bit into my shoulder and I winced, hitting my knee when I leaned down to drop it into the back seat. The father sat in front of me, in the drivers seat, and reminded his daughter that her ex-boyfriend is now an age where he can be legally tried as an adult for rape. I saw where his direction of conversation was going five minutes before she did, and so I put a fist to my mouth, smothering bitter laughter and looked solidly out the window where she could not see my face. I wanted to believe in something beautiful again, so I tried to remember standing on the beach in California, but all I got was the memory of feeling incredibly unattractive on the white sand of Santa Monica.

Tomorrow is the Nine Inch Nails concert. I have a floor ticket, currently in the hands of Christopher. I feel like I should be excited, but I can’t seem to muster any enthusiasm. My hips are going to swing, it’s obvious, but there’s no spark yet. When I get there, I’ve been told, it will be inescapable, and I believe them, but that still leaves me wondering what it is that’s currently wrong with me. I am still glad to meet new people, but how burned out can a human be without losing basic functions?

Vote a 10 for me.
if only because Topless Jhayne would make a great name for something.

Then download this.

Last night I was madly upset, but earlier than that I stole a pineapple from a burlesque show.

I got the Real Woman talk again last night. The one that says I Cherish You But You’re Not For Fun. The Adult Elegance talk, the You’re Evil But Untouchable. I Want You But I Am Going To Go Home With her Because She Is Not As Important As You Are.

Somehow it’s satisfying, it’s a flattery I can only and utterly respect. It quells the worries that spring up whenever I spend the majority of my time with young people that perhaps they are rubbing off on me in ways that I don’t want them to, eroding my prescience with their uncountable dramas, but amusingly, it irks me too. In a completely irrational, very female way. I am fully aware, yes, that kissing me isn’t like kissing most girls, but do you have to point it out? I would like to at least occasionally pretend that I could be permissive too.

Bah.

Boys.

Also, Three dozen trained killer dolphins have escaped and may be armed. True fact.

the voice of “Ducky” from the Land Before Time: a girl who was murdered by her father at age 10

Tonight after work is Wolf Parade with Architecture in Helsinki then Cirque De Sade with possible Big Birthday Bash afterward.

When my camera download died is when I felt myself finally geared up into taking real pictures again. The irony of this is no more lost to me than the multitude of little chocolates that Ryan has scattered through my room. Picture a girl, pale skinned, almost the tint of home made strawberry ice-cream. Remove her shirt and put a cloth over her face. One eye can see you, the other is closed. Title this do not shoot me. Picture a boy, his arms are stretched out and his face painted gold. Picture bottle green velvet against mulberry crimson, a giant red lizard like sleeping with a voodoo doll, a feather mask dipped in a bowl of dead flowers, an x-ray lit from behind over the head of a sleeping man, this is what the doctor said – a eulogy for the dead party city. Click.

as if I knew what to say


com asas não se abraça
Originally uploaded by extrapolar.

Before I looked up, I knew he was there. Oh so casually I waved, as if my skin had not just contracted. Nervous tension, the reverse of the beginning. If I could have an assurance, wear the confidence in all the places it’s not showing. I hate this waiting. My bitter tongued need for some confirmation. If I put my hand to the air and cup it, I can feel the warmth of flesh pooling there, as if my palm were a flotation device keeping me from sinking down through the floor and earth until I hit a molten sky and evaporate into cinder. Ashes, my face is painted on the inside with ashes. Soft and gray and secret, there was a promise once, a whisper, skin.

what man is there
who claims worthiness
(such things)
yet deflects driven arrows
aimed straight through his holy heart?

Midnight of the Equinox trapped me with dimmed lights and you never held my hand.

no it’s not batman forever


three legged boy
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Tonight has been set aside for cinema. Dominique is visiting with a copy of Alphaville to watch before the midnight showing of Corpse Bride at the Van East. As ATIC has announced they do indeed have my power supply in today, today seems to be shaping itself into a day far more pleasant than yesterday. (Excepting you people in Houston, though hurricane Rita has just been marked down from a Cat5 into a Cat4, I still recco hauling ass out of there. In fact, escape the states entirely, I can put you up for a week or two depending on how well you cook. More permanent settling in will have to be dealt with on a case by case basis, and those who bring glitter, chocolate, and pretty dresses will get first dibs.)

Tyler‘s birthday was pleasant, (minus the being egged on the way and the drink knocked directly into my lap), as the company was splendid. We had a chance to talk about something that had been misunderstood a few months ago that had been bothering him, which is always positive, and I was reprimanded by the staff for being up on the tables, which is also usually a good sign. My real moment of excitement, however, was earlier.

My very first driving lesson in a four wheeled vehicle. Ray drove Ryan and I out to the airport and let me slide behind the wheel of his Element box. It was a tiny bit terrifying, that distinct feeling of being on the wrong side of the car. What we were doing was vaguely illegal, I don’t have a learners license yet, but as I didn’t hit anything or anyone, and didn’t flub the clutch thing half as often as I thought I would, I’m willing to say that it was a success. The cyclist even managed to get away safely.

vividly in memory though I never had a chance to meet her in person

I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m going to steal Warren’s post because it carries everything needed to say. She was one of the nicest people I met through him on-line. I didn’t know her as well as many did, but she was a sweet support through my recent rough patch and her words were always cherished and smiled upon. I am stunned to have this news. I wish I were close enough to go to the memorial and pay my respects properly.

“My friend Leticia Blake, also known as Eva Lux, died yesterday afternoon. She was 32.”

mutable like pushing the body through dance


Yann Arthus-Bertrand – p146_f
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I’m listening to River of Orchids, arguably the most perfect piece of music XTC ever crafted. It’s on repeat. I’m singing too quietly for my house to hear, but my eyes are closed as I’m typing this and I’m swaying like the most classic of butterfly catching hippie girl. Pluck, and the strings echo the sound of a drop of water exquisitely caught. Unison, tears, a little thread of hair, two fingers, pluck. It’s something complex simmered down into it’s simplest components. A long haired orchestra, a chorus of flowers. Alchemy, singing into gold. Want to walk into London on my hands one day. The harmony is untouchable, flawless, layered in every direction like the air on windless day in a sunny field full of glory. This is my hindsight soundtrack to everything good in the world. It’s both childish and meaningful, lushly encompassing a world of celebration. Visual paeans flit past my mind when I put this on too long. Winding scenes of incongruous joy.

It’s bloody addictive.

I put it on because it’s beautiful, because I’m a little bit nervous. Someone interesting is coming over for dinner and a movie. Something cyclical and charming is required, something that reminds me of stand up memories. The mural we had in the basement always disappointed me, it was always a little too dull yellow for my tastes and they never asked me to take part in any way I felt I could respect. I took pictures anyway, when we left, of that wall that I painted topless, smearing white paint with a demoniacal grin. The home-made bars on the windows were covered in gray electrical tape.