Someone

...really likes Augustine's "Confessions" -

Hint: it's not me.

more crap from thought catalog

Sassy kids.

Now Accepting Applications

She's so absurd that she belongs in another era, but she won me with her opening attacks upon short people. I have no problem with short persons, I'm just saying; live in a mushroom? That's funny.

"I have an almost never-ending list of personal flaws and past mistakes, yet I sit atop a golden throne of judgment,"

Well that doesn't ring any bells. It seems to be that being a total prick is sometimes really well-counterbalanced by owning and criticising one's assholish ways. That's my approach anyway.

http://8tracks.com/

I use this site every day at work. I've discovered things I wouldn't really expect to like, like Mariee Sioux. Not that there's anything unlikeable about her but anything that seems kind of hipstery cute just pisses me off. My only complaint is that when you choose the "soul" tag, 100 stupid mixes come up, "music to make you smile," "music that reminds me of my trip to france," blah blah blah.

I am looking for Sam Cooke, not the Sundays.

cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies

amazing. beautifully creepy, in a rose for emily sort of way.

"doilies are like dream-catchers," he says. doily-makers are a type. even i don't have much inclination to pick that one up. when i worked in picture framing, i hated the doilies. people would bring in outrageously sized things they had bought on vacation somewhere, some quaint township in the countryside somewhere in the u.k., a complex doily with perhaps the rustic image of a farmhouse or cow knotted inside. it took hundreds of stitches to get them down. and then what did you have? a fucking doily on a blue velvet mat in an oak frame!

Oh, wait

ayyy lauv yaaauuu

If I can turn that around then I can certainly take care of national syndication. I will start with SF Gate. BLAM

dreamy days

Tori

I love this Tori. She looked like such a strange, rumpled pixie then, with her wild red hair and strange outfits. She had some kind of beatific realness to her. This early stuff is so rattlingly good to me.

I never listen to her anymore. Sometimes it's just too much.

I hadn't heard this cover before. In love with it. And with the intense and melancholy way she plays it. It feels like she's alone, playing it for herself.

Poor Care.

Ugh. I watched a biography of Carole Lombard today, the same one I watched several years ago. I cried then and I cried today! I'll never get over it.

Obviously she's terribly beautiful but I don't really like the photos of CL as seductress. She was such a crazy card that who wants to stare at another aryan siren reclining in silk when you can see photos of her sitting with her ankle on her knee on the set as she asks some visiting nuns if they want her to help them get laid tonight.

I decided to stop wryly blaming Clark Gable for her death. It's an easy joke to make when you consider he was home fucking Lana Turner (ALLEGEDLY! and can you imagine? blah.)[1] while Carole was on tour selling war bonds in the first days of our involvement in WWII. Carole caught wind of that rumor and chartered the doomed flight home immediately, hopefully intending to slap his fake teeth out. He knew this and blamed himself for her death his entire life. His anguish was obvious; he flew to the crash site and had to be physically restrained from joining the search party, hindered as it was by the forest fire the wreck had created, for survivors on the lonely side of the mountain. He only would have found a gruesome nightmare. Months later, he enlisted in Carole's honor and served until 1944. Most people in his inner circle called him a shadow of the person he had been before she died.

[1] what am I, a catty gay entertainment columnist specializing in dead people of the 1930s? goddamn right, except I'm not gay (biggest regret) and not a columnist (2nd biggest regret).

I kissed a polish lancer, too...before he died

Ninotchka is so icy, just like LA GARBO (don't get me into my hatred of her stage name again) in real life. No one else could have played this role. And though it was a day when frozen little blondes were a dime a dozen in the 30s, no one could have matched her austerity. A lot of roles are mis-awarded to the wrong person and because I've been watching TCM like it's the news, imagining another actress made me think inexplicably of Jean Harlow, and how she would have been as Ninotchka. The New Jersey Ninotchka. Anyway, Garbo owned this role, but the first time watching it was boring. Second time, I started to get the jokes. Obviously the male romantic lead is no good as they were all no good in the day with several exceptions. It's really difficult to accept ultra-urbane original metrosexuals (but oily, hokey chaps of the 30s wouldn't be the originals, would they? who should we attribute that to? 17th century french male aristocrats? this effete behavior has been going on since the pharaohs) as anything other than a brother or a gay friend, but whatever. I just deleted a tangent about Leslie Howard, who deserves his own post anyway.

Anyway. Garbo is so DOUR in this movie. I love it. The way she treats what's his face in the beginning is certainly the way I have felt when in unfortunate company. She has zero inclination or ability to conceal her distaste.

WWBDD

I have never liked Joan Crawford. She must have gotten to me as a child somehow because when I see her aged face, I think of severe elementary school matrons; tight-lipped, icy old thornbushes. I guess I changed my mind at some point, however, because when I watched Baby Jane last night, I actually felt a dash of warm familiarity as I searched for remnants of 1939 JC in 1962 JC's face. I've watched The Women so many times that my love for her as bitch homewrecker Crystal melted my anti-Joan sentiments. And who the fuck am I to dislike a woman's irregular beauty? Sorry Joan.

She was a bitch, though. We know this. And when it comes to taking sides (which I do early and often), I am BDATW

BETTE DAVIS ALL THE WAY

The Chandler Ostrich Centennial

I will be working the Ostrich Festival next Saturday.

This in spite of some ugly memories of being almost-attacked by an ostrich at a private zoo in the early 90s; I figured it was time to let go.

Luckily I don't think I'll be within striking distance of anything. I will be there to discuss the importance of the upcoming Chandler Centennial, and apparently conducting a survey re: "Do you care about the centennial? Y / N" - feel free to leave your response in the comments if you cannot make it to the ostriches.

Some day.

This is a pretty forgettable piece, How to Figure Out if You're Happy, but this quote resounded with me as I am a lifelong planner-for-tomorrow:

"Do you think you’ll be happy eventually, so that it’s OK that you’re unhappy at this juncture? Do you think that you’re "putting your life on hold" so that it will be better, later? Do you think there is a "one day" (i.e. “One day I’ll do it, when I feel more ready”). I think that the universe is not privy to your plans."