All Licked Out

Still laughing at this typo that appeared on my Facebook feed last weekend.

Top of the Lake

On paper, Top of the Lake is the most captivating you'd think you'd ever watch:

• a pregnant preteen 
• a cult 
• murder 
• crooked cops 
• a missing person 
• Holly Hunter 
• incest 
• roofies 
• rape 
• child rape 
• incestuous rape 
• accidental incest followed by intentional incest 
• Peggy from Mad Men's boobs 
• more naked women than I've ever seen at a single time 
• recreational drugs 
• an insane man 
• Xena Warrior Princess 
• dart injuries 
• paternity tests 
• enlightenment 

But then you watch the miniseries and it's like, "How is this so boring? Why is this paced to take all of the excitement out of everything? How did so many illicit things happen and yet it feels like I watched nothing?"

I'm still hoping it takes home some Emmys because look at that list again! Turning all of that into something that's a chore to watch is a feat!

Forbidden Love

Forbidden Love

I stare at her longingly

Desiring to possess her

Yet I'm always told

Don't bother

The agony of seeing her

And being unable to hold her

My hatred towards society

And their silly viewpoints

I should be able to have her

We connect in so many ways

Who feels so elevated

That they dictate conditions

Of true love?

I happen to believe

That blood relation

Makes our spiritual bond

Even closer

Susan unearthed this poem I wrote as a teenager. For a while, writing inappropriate poetry was a pastime of mine (making me an inappropoet?) and I especially got a kick out of "Forbidden Love"'s last stanza incest reveal. I submitted it to my high school literary magazine where it was initially rejected. So then I intentionally became friends with the editors, and without me having to ask, they reconsidered and ran it anyway.

I did have some reservations about publishing the poem because, in a world where people take things at face value, particularly when it was presented alongside other angsty and unironic teenage poems, I wasn't sure that my peers would get that it was a joke. But then I figured, heck, I graduate in three weeks. The real fun would be knowing that if a scandal were to arise, my sister still had two years of high school to go.

Love you, Alison!

No really… LOVE YOU!

Eurovision 2012 Final: The Performances You Need to See

Given my expressed fanaticism, I’ve been asked to do a Eurovision final recap. Initially, I didn’t see the point because I already compiled a video of the funniest Eurovision songs and many of the most absurd songs were (justifiably yet infuriatingly) eliminated in the semifinals. After going to great lengths to track down a projector and inviting friends over and, if Eurovision weren’t as entertaining as I had promised, it would have been a major letdown.

Thankfully, the Eurovision final didn’t disappoint one bit, as there was still plenty of hilarity to go around. Allow me to give you a rundown of some of the live performances you shouldn’t have missed:

1. Moldova

The cheesy, not quite sensical English lyrics are great, but it’s the harsh, angular steps of the background dancers in clashing dresses that really steals the show. Best believe we at home immediately tried to recreate our favorite moves, particularly the one where they roll on their stomach like a rocking horse while positioned underneath someone (at the 2:10 mark).

2. Russia

Perhaps nothing summarizes Eurovision better than this song by some dancing grannies that finished in second place. No really, Europe declared this the second best song in the whole continent this year. Granted, they’re really cute – they even bake cookies on stage – but there’s no actual talent here. Maybe Europeans are in on the joke, too.

3. Albania

 You are going to be so confused yet entranced by this video. You have to see this woman’s hairy chest to believe it – what exactly is going on with that world’s longest, misplaced rattail? Is it supposed to distract you from the fact that she’s screaming rather than singing? She doesn’t even stay on key as she wails, but still managed to finish the competition in the top 5.

4. Turkey

This seventh place finisher “sings” like some karaoker whose sole objective is to make his drunk friends in the audience giggle. If you can somehow manage not to laugh at the effeminate, caped, vampire-like background dancers, just wait until they turn their costumes into a boat toward the end.

5. Sweden

Sweden is the night's winner, and well deserved, I’d say, considering the competition. It was easily one of the best songs performed, and yet she also kept things entertaining with her unusual dance moves. The way she swooshes her arms around the stage, and oh my gosh that epic crabwalk… we agreed we’d be borrowing some of her moves the next time we’re at a dance club.

6. Greece

If you’re looking for one song that’s the most typical of Eurovision, I offer you Greece’s entry: simple lyrics, awful but wholly amusing dancing, and more than a hint of sex. Also, this song easily has the best chorus of the night: “Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh/You make me dance like a maniac/Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh/You make me want your aphrodisiac.”

7. Ireland

Of course I have to mention the Ritalin-deficient twins who do flips, high five in the air, and put their hands together to form a heart. Oh, and then the performance culminates in the brothers taking a shower together.

8. Lithuania

This young guy sings while wearing a bedazzled blindfold (the song is called “Love Is Blind”, get it?) until things take a turn for the super awesome. At the 1:30 mark, he tears the blindfold off, does a one-handed cartwheel, and starts thrusting inappropriately like some kid who is about to get chastised by a chaperone at prom.

You guys, I’m telling you that this shit-show is terrific. Eurovision 2013 cannot come soon enough.

Sisters United in Love

Saturday Night Live's "The Kissing Family" sketch may seem farfetched, but I used to live with two adult sisters who would put these actors to shame. They were not only emotionally close, but super affectionate, hugging and kissing constantly. They would go so far as to tell their boyfriends that they could never love them as much as they loved their sister, and the boyfriends would just have to accept this weird dynamic and watch their girlfriends cuddle.

One time, a bunch of us broke into teams to play a board game, and the sisters decided to be a pair. After brainstorming a team nickname, one finally shouted, "SISTERS UNITED IN LOVE!", an idea they both loved, prompting them to hug for a long time. They have since made matching shirts with this slogan on them.

Just like in the James Franco skit, the sisters were no strangers to communal bath time, often showering together. On one such occasion, my dad was in town. As we had a conversation in my room, we could the sound of running water, kissing, and the two ladies repeatedly saying how much they loved one another. Part of me knew I should explain how unbelievably close they were, but the rest of me felt too awkward to address it. I continued to say nothing when they walked out the shower wearing only towels and holding hands.

Later in the day, while making reference to my roommates, I referred to the girls as sisters. Surprised, my dad asked, "Wait, they're sisters?" At first, I didn't get why that was so astonishing to him. They were showering together and saying "I love you" - how would you not think they're sisters? Only then did I realize he must have assumed they were lesbians, which, if you think about it, is a way more reasonable assumption than incestuous sisters united in love.

Dinner Theatre

The LA Times published a picture of me, 'cause I'm some awesome socialite who attends hip, local, cultural events, namely my friends' gallery's dinner theatre fundraiser.

Right before the photo was taken, I mocked Jessica for grabbing two plates to go through the buffet line. No, she wasn't making a second plate for someone else, she just wanted two plates full of food.

So of course the LA Times photographer walks over and snaps her picture. Just after it was taken, I laughed at her and told her she was going to look like a fat-ass in the paper. Granted, the photographer took hundreds of pictures that day and there was no real reason to believe that photo would be used, but I just know as a rule of life that if you are photographed pigging out, it's guaranteed to be published.


I must apologize, though, because clearly Jessica does not look like a fatty. If anything, and I think the camera angle contributes to this, it showcases her gangly arm. She could use a third plate full of food, actually.

And why not grab another plate? That buffet spread was mighty impressive and tasty. When I go to brunch with Jessica, she often orders a "white trash omelet" - her own invention consisting of onion and American cheese. So when she's presented with an opportunity for classy food, she should by all means have at it.

The classy part ended at the food, since she proceeded to pull a jelly jar full of wine out of her purse. Most of us were under the incorrect assumption that it would be an open bar, and Jessica bragged, "I had inside information." Annoyed, I told her that her LA Times caption would read "Hungry, boastful Jessica." Too bad they didn't get that part right. At least I had the largest piece of broccoli I have ever seen to console me. Allison and I ate it simultaneously from both ends Lady and the Tramp style.

Other than that, how was the play, tubby?

Ah, right, the theatre portion, here I am focusing on the dinner. The play was a Greek tragedy adapted from the myth Tereus. Oh, and it was fucked up. I say that with all due respect to the actors and director involved; I'm sure they wouldn't be insulted by this comment anyway, because by all accounts it was a fucked up story. Catch a whiff of this plot:

So there's this king Tereus and he wants to get married, so he hits up this father with two daughters. The dad gives him permission to marry Procne, and so it is so, and they have a baby. But, turns out Tereus really wants to bone Procne's sister, Philomela, so he rapes her. So that she won't be able to tell anyone, he cuts off her tongue and hides her away where no one can find her. Philomela stitches Tereus's wrong-doing in message form in a blanket and sneaks it to her sister. When Procne learns the secret, she gets revenge in the most sensible way imaginable: she kills and cooks her baby as a meal. Tereus eats his own baby before learning what he is eating. Enraged, he goes to kill the sisters, but suddenly all three characters magically change into birds. THE END.

So yeah, rape and baby eating. Also, that was the full plot, it's not as though I left out the boring scenes, it all just happened like that in succession. That said, it was provocative and I actually enjoyed how it threw me totally off-guard as an unsuspecting audience member, but there's no wonder why the LA Times skipped over specific details about the play.

Orphan: It'll Scare You Parentless

Have you seen Orphan yet? It’s like the Citizen Kane of our time, except instead of a sled, there is a homicidal adopted child.

You should see this movie. Not only did I enjoy Orphan, but I knew I would enjoy it because I was spoiled. My roommate’s friend reads scripts for a living and he read the Orphan screenplay a few years back. He says he is shocked it was actually produced since it was one of the five worst scripts he’s ever read, which is saying something for someone who does just that day in and day out.  I agreed to be spoiled since I figured it was a film I would never actually take the time to see down the road, but after hearing the plot and gimmick, I knew I had to see it.

For this reason, I’m just going to spoil the whole damn thing below. If you’re willing to take my word and stop reading, good, just go see the film. But I figure in this case it doesn’t hurt to just tell you everything that happens, because knowing just made me actually want to view it even more.

SPOILERS SPOILERS OHMGUH SO MANY SPOILERS BELOW

So we start with Kate, the film’s protagonist, who immediately experiences a bloody miscarriage. It’s exaggeratedly gory since Kate’s merely having a nightmare, but apparently it happened a while back in real life, which is important to note since it sets up the ongoing character trait of Kate being a failure of a mother. I mean, she can’t even give birth right, you know? On top of it all, Kate is a recovering alcoholic, takes anti-depressants, lost her job, and her daughter almost died in a pond due to her neglect. SHE IS DOING THE BEST SHE CAN!

At least Kate has a seemingly supportive husband, John. Yes, that’s right, their names are John and Kate, which, intentionally or not, foreshadows the state of their marriage. Kate has two living kids aside from the stillborn. There’s the son, Danny, who pretty much does nothing, and Max, the deaf daughter, played by Marlee Matlin, I think. Max loves to have Mommy Kate read her the story about the time she miscarried and her sister went to heaven every night before bed. So Kate has to use sign language to convey her tragic tale, and Jesus, that would drive me to drink and deaf Max laughs like it’s the best story ever. Consequently Kate is a wreck, but she wants to adopt to fill the void left from her flawed vagina, show the world she can raise a kid that won’t nearly drown, and replace the obnoxious handicapped dud she already has.

So Kate and John go to the orphanage where John spots a snowman and calls it a “snorphan.” It’s the movie’s only joke, aside from the running miscarriage gag, and is kind of funny, if not out of place. He takes a quick liking to the strange Russian orphan, Esther because she is a brilliant painter. They figure they might as well adopt a child with preexisting gifts and talents since they can’t otherwise raise one on their own.

Anyway, Esther is totally weird because she lies, injures her classmate, uses the F-word, and won’t let her new mommy see her naked. Kate starts to have concerns. Then a nun from the orphanage shows up at the house to announce that she is finding some disturbing facts in Esther’s history, so Esther secretly follows the nun and bashes her head in with a hammer. Murdering a nun with a hammer is now totally on my bucket list.

Esther is afraid that brother Danny is suspicious and puts a knife to his crotch and threatens to “cut off [his] hairless prick before [he] even know how to use it.” That part is awesome and it shuts him up. Then Esther desecrates the stillborn memorial Kate built, which is evil, but probably necessary. She also tries to kill Max by taking the car out of park and letting it roll down a hill. Kate suspects Esther is evil, but can’t prove it, and everyone is all like “Oh, Kate, you’re just being you – a bad mom, why don’t you love your new daughter?” Then Esther intentionally breaks her own arm in a vise to make it seem like Kate is abusing her. And John wants a divorce!

But then Esther sets fire to a tree house while Danny’s in it – should have neutered his hairless prick while she had a chance – and he is hospitalized and even though Esther removes his life support and suffocates him, the doctors ultimately say “he will be okay” as if there was never cause for alarm, mainly because he’s boring and we don’t need him in the story anymore.

Kate knows Esther is responsible and freaks out until she needs to be sedated because she is the worst.mother.ever. Back at home, Esther dresses like a child whore and tries to seduce her drunk father. He doesn’t fuck her, so she stabs him to death.

Meanwhile Kate gets a call from a mental institution. Apparently, and THIS IS THE BIG TWIST: Esther is not a child, she is a 33-year-old insane woman from Estonia with proportional dwarfism posing as a child to infiltrate families and kill them. No, really, she’s done it several times before, even!

Now the deranged dwarf whore is stalking the deaf child to kill her, too. But a medicated Kate gets back in time to have an epically bloody battle. And every time you think it’s over, Esther is still alive because midgets won’t die! Finally, though, the film ends with a showdown on the frozen pond between Esther and Kate. Losing the fight, Esther reaches out and says, “Help me, Mommy.” Kate screams, “I am not your fucking Mommy!” and kills her in the pond, even though she promised not to let her kids die in the pond anymore. Way to be a bad mom again, Kate. At least Max can suddenly hear again! Okay, no, that’s a lie, but Kate did manage to get rid of that dumb shit husband without wasting money on a divorce lawyer.

If being a good mom means saving your children from homicidal little people, Kate is the best mom of them all! And they all lived happily ever after! Well, except for the dead and maimed characters, and the stillborn. But, you know, at least we all learned a valuable lesson: never ever adopt. That’s just asking for trouble.

The Lapdog

While I went through security at an airport in Vermont, the attractive lady behind me had nothing but a kennel with a cute yippy dog named Foxey. I tried to figure out what her deal was since she had some sort of temporary permit rather than a boarding pass. Where was she taking this dog?

She took a seat near me in the terminal, took Foxey out, and cooed to it in French. The plane that goes back and forth between NYC landed and I read a book while waiting for the passengers to get off so that I could subsequently board. A couple that I could tell was from Long Island before it came up in conversation deplaned and immediately became the center of attention as the woman shrilly screamed with excitement to see her new doggy.

Evidently, the couple had flown from New York just to pick up the puppy. The man was mostly silent, likely a learned condition from not being able to get a word in edgewise. The woman was awful in every way; I've never actually seen The Real Housewives of New York, but I'm pretty sure she'd fit in with that crew from my understanding of the show. "Lynette" as we'll call her, fake air kissed the dog's caretaker and screamed shrilly about how excited she was to get a new puppy. She took the dog into her arms, held it awkwardly by its butt so that it had no head support, causing Foxey to struggle to free itself from the unsafe, uncomfortable grip. At the first sign of struggle, Lynette commanded, "Take it!", dropping it in her husband's arms.

Lynette thanked the other woman, an employee for the breeder who had come to Vermont from Canada to transfer the puppy for making the trip. Lynette promised to be the best Mommy ever to the dog, rambling about some expensive dog supply store in the city, and claims to have bought "everything possible" from this shop, most notably a deluxe bed, large enough for a human adult. "It's so comfortable, I wish I could sleep in it. And I stay in only nice hotels, you know? It's that comfortable. Plus, I got her silk pajamas."

The breeder politely laughed about it sounds like the dog will be spoiled. "Isn't it great?!" Lynette responded. "I've bought things I don't even think a dog needs!"

Having delivered the dog, the breeder tried to excuse herself on numerous occasions, but Lynette kept saying, "Just a few more questions." Some questions were reasonable, inquiries about feeding and vets, but others were just ways of bragging. "Will she like it if I take it to a place to get doggy massages?" "I've been researching companies that make nice clothing for dogs, can you recommend any good ones?"

At some point, Lynette mentioned that she hated the name Foxey and was going to rename the puppy Maggie. "Maggie? That's the name of my boss' dog," the breeder said. "Oh, I know!" said Lynette. "That's the dog I had my heart set on. I saw a picture on the internet and I knew I wanted it, told him I'd pay anything. He said no because it was the family pet so he couldn't sell it, even when I kept increasing the offer. Finally, we negotiated that I would get one from the same litter. I'm naming it Maggie so I can just pretend it's the same one that I fell in love with."

Before she left, the breeder took the deposit of eight hundred dollars. I never heard how much the dog was in full, but if the deposit is $800, it must be pricey. They handed her the deposit, a bag with the money in cash. Although the breeder declined each time, Lynette told her it would be fine if she wanted to take it out and count it there in the terminal; I suspect she just wanted another way of flaunting her wealth.

Just as I thought I would finally get to leave the couple behind, they stood up with the dog and lined up to get back on the same plane. They had their lapdog and were ready to bring it back to NYC to its new posh lifestyle. In line, they told strangers how they had paid $750 for last minute plane tickets just to come get the dog. As luck would have it, my assigned seat put me in the row in front of this couple so I had to hear this horrid lady chat about the dog. The family across the aisle took an interest in the dog, which just encouraged Lynette further.

"I never thought I'd own a dog, they just seem so dirty. But a lot of rich people are doing it these days, you know, with the cute little ones. I love this breed because they're so rare. Years ago, only royalty owned these dogs because they're special. The dogs themselves were bred selectively, so it's like they have their own little royal bloodline!" I snickered. Some call that incest.

“Another reason I love this dog is because she’ll be bilingual. Since she was born, the breeder has just spoke French to her, so soon she’ll know two languages. I think knowing two languages is so important these days. Especially something nice like French. My daughter insisted on taking Spanish in high school, I didn’t understand that.” Maybe she could use the Spanish to speak to the help? Obviously, French is so must more practical to know in America than Spanish. And don’t get me started on the idea of a bilingual dog.

The other family was only able to reveal a few facts about themselves: the father owned a few restaurants in Quebec and they were all going on a vacation to NYC. Lynette wanted to recommend some restaurants for them to eat at. The father reminded her that he owns restaurants so he’s familiar with the scene, but Lynette would have none of it. She was so confident about her knowledge of New York City that she actually insisted that he “get out a pen! get out a pen!” until he obliged and did as he was told.

She spoke of one restaurant in particular. "But it has a strict dress code. We just went in for lunch this time and I was wearing jeans. These weren't just jeans, though, these were designer jeans and they weren't going to let me in. I started yelling that I spent a couple thousand dollars on these jeans and that I looked good in these jeans until they let us sit down. I think I might be the only person to have ever worn jeans in that restaurant!”

The flight couldn’t have landed sooner. I can’t recall encountering a phonier person in my life, someone so consumed with wealth and appearance. The dog might be living the most luxurious life a dog ever has, but I don’t think I envy it one bit.

Smith-Smith

"You should marry your sister and hyphenate your last names." - Andrew

It's backwards, yet progressive at the same time!

Marry, Fuck, or Kill: Your Sister

J: You should be a bartender, B's sister does that and she cleans up.
Me: Okay...
B: Yeah, but she's also an attractive female.
Me: (feigning offense) What are you trying to say?!
B: That I'm attracted to my sister.
J: He would marry his sister if he could.
B: She's not the marrying type. But I'd fuck her and kill somebody else.

Sleepaway Camp

In addition to the awesomely horror-ble film Troll 2, Alex introduced me to Sleepaway Camp, which is just as terror-ific. True to its name, Sleepaway Camp is a campy 80s film with a thin premise and cheesy acting. I love it so much that I recently watched it for the second time this year. It’s not a typical horror movie in that it rarely even attempts to be scary, mainly playing out like a bad, melodramatic teen film.

Sleepaway Camp also holds the distinction of featuring my favorite cinematic villain ever: Judy. Ohmguh, Judy is outrageous. Before we even catch a glimpse of her, a camper reveals that Judy has sprouted some breasts since the previous summer:

Just kidding, those aren’t her breasts. Believe it or not, that’s all man, baby:

That’s actually Ronnie, an absurdly jacked camp counselor. He exclusively wears muscle shirts and the world’s tiniest shorts, all too often putting his penis prominently on display. The male campers also have questionable fashion tastes like midriff-baring shirts and tight cut-off jean shorts. Evidently, the 80s were super queer.

Anyway, back to my love, Judy. She’s a witch. Judy is so over-the-top, she could seamlessly slip into Saved by the Bell canon. In every scene, she literally saunters in out of nowhere and announces her presence with some needlessly cruel comments. Plus, she emotes like nobody’s business: her face rapidly fluctuates between expressions, none of which are remotely pleasant or attractive. All of this awesomeness is accentuated with an oversized side ponytail. Trust me, you’ve got to see Judy in action.



Sleepaway Camp does not feature any notable actors, though James Earl Jones’s dad appears in what is probably the most offensive African American role since minstrel shows.
Whoever Earl Jones serves as a foil to two characters: the camp cook, an unnerving child molester and the camp’s owner, Mel. While Mel is not a child molester per se, he doesn’t exactly reject the sexual advances of one of his young camp counselors. Really, though, who wouldn’t love this face?
The whole film strives for ridiculousness, including one of the more sensationalist death scenes I’ve ever seen: shoving a hot curling iron up the victim’s vagina. (Relax, it’s implied rather than depicted, if that is, in fact, cause to relax.)

But unlike most films of this genre, it’s not just about amassing a body count. There’s so much more! Several inches more, even.

YOU JUST NEED TO SEE IT TO BELIEVE IT/YOU MIGHT NOT EVEN BELIEVE IT WHEN YOU SEE IT!

As a media scholar, I’m anxious to discuss all of the socio-political implications of this film, but I refuse to give it away. You’ll just have to experience it for yourself.

I can make it easy for you, too. Someone bootlegged the film and put it in its entirety on YouTube. If you’re a stickler for quality (by which I mean video quality, if overall theatrical quality is a priority, you should probably skip it altogether), then you might prefer to rent it.

Watch Sleepaway Camp on YouTube.

Friar Tuck's

Lindsay, Amy, and I went for a ride late Thursday night, looking for something fun to do. We passed a bar, Friar Tuck's, that looks like a castle from the exterior. For years now, my friends and I have talked about visiting this sketchy bar because it seems both hilarious and gross, but we had never made it inside. We came close once, getting as far as the parking lot. Two carloads of us pulled in and we surveyed the scene inside via the open door as we drove by. I can't accurately articulate what it was we saw, but it simultaneously unnerved each one of us. Rolling down our windows, the members of both cars quickly conferenced and decided that none of us felt comfortable exiting our cars, so we abandoned that plan for new ones.

On this past Thursday night, Friar Tuck's had a sign advertising karaoke. Lindsay encouraged us to go. Initially, I expressed my hesitation, but then reconsidered since it would surely provide the adventure for which we were aimlessly searching. We drove by the entrance three times, peeking in each time, before deciding that we were actually up for it.

The bar was filled with angry-looking dirty dudes and the women who love them. (The picture above is from the bar's myspace page and provides a pretty good idea.) The average patron wore black and had three visible tattoos. The floor was sticky with spilled beer. In a room on the side, baseball capped jocks cheered while playing beer pong. In spite of the scuzzy-ness, the bar was standing room only. We hovered in the back until an end table freed up. I grabbed us a pitcher of Budweiser (that seemed to be the only beverage anyone was drinking), deciding against lapping up the four cups of beer spilled on the tabletop by the table's previous patrons.

The karaoke performances are subpar and boring. Rather than watching the singers, I devoted my attention to a toothless woman who stood less than five feet tall and was twice the age of everyone else in the bar. She sat amongst the surly young folks who seemed to permit her presence but largely ignore her. This yokel troll would bop her head and bounce her pink sweatshirt-ed breasts to whatever song was playing. She drunkenly caressed a mullet-ed man who could easily have been her son and he did not seem to protest. I appreciate the yokel troll on several levels: she was absurd, unintentionally entertaining, and she was the only reason Amy, Lindsay, and I didn't look like the most out-of-place people in the bar. I pointed the troll-lady out to Amy, but since she had slept funny the night before, she had hurt her neck and couldn't turn her head to the left in order to observe her.

After a short amount of time, Lindsay was beckoned to sing her staple song, "Welcome to the Jungle." Since this was the type of crowd that listens to Guns-n-Roses in their leisure, there was audible excitement at the opening bars of the song. Unfortunately, it was difficult to hear Lindsay because the backing track was far louder than the microphone used for vocals, and she didn't receive the usual fanfare. At least the lesbians know talent when they see it.

Amy was called soon thereafter to sing Hanson's "Mmmbop." She had done a hell of a job with that song in the past, so I suggested it again that night as a joke, thinking she wouldn't have the guts to try that song in this type of bar, but good on her for accepting the challenge. Again, it was hard to hear the vocals during her performance, but "Mmmbop" was entertaining nonetheless as it was just the song that prompted the yokel troll to get off of her stool and go right up front with two surprised young men boogying with a toothless grin. Amazing!



I was deliberate with my song choice, selecting the Violent Femmes in order to fit with the tone of the bar. I didn't want to come across ass being "too Broadway" in front of a bunch of ex-convicts. (I'm sorry, that's not fair -- I'm sure some of the Friar Tuck clientele have never been caught for their crimes.) It didn't go so hot, because a lot of the song requires a low voice, and I can't sing low loudly, so I just sort of mumbled as the backing music outdid me until halfway through when the screaming starts. When done right, you're not singing "Kiss Off," you're screaming it. I generated a fan up front, who was digging it and gave me a hug afterward and tried to chat me up. I wouldn't say he was hitting on me, that would never fly in this setting, but I wasn't a fan of his douchey brotherly love either, so I brushed him off and he trotted back to his game of beer pong.



I started to feel bad for having stereotyped the bar so severely without having been in it. In truth, it wasn't so bad. Well, actually, it was bad, but it wasn't nearly as scary as I had thought it would be. Just as I was expressing to my friends how I could see myself coming back again, a fight broke out a few feet away. One guy, intoxicated and irate, threw punches at another while the one blonde lady in the bar (that means she's a hot commodity, obviously) stood between them trying to get them to stop. Fists continued to fly, however, and suddenly the aggressor had pushed his victim onto our table. I reflexively (and successfully) grabbed the pitcher before it spilled as Lindsay was coated with cigarette ash that shot in her direction during the scuffle. Meanwhile, Amy, who can't turn her head to the left if you recall, knew something was happening immediately beside her, but couldn't see it.

We backed away from our table, leaving it to the fighters whose standoff continued for another minute before the bar managers forced the aggressor outside. The yokel troll who had seemed nervous during the altercation seemed to forget what had just occurred more quickly than a goldfish, almost instantly resuming her routine of smiling and clapping to the music. My friends and I contemplated leaving, but hesitated when we saw the puncher pacing just outside the bar, waiting for the other guy to come out so he could "fuck him up."

After twenty minutes, we weren't feeling anymore comfortable with the situation, and decided to bolt. We didn't see the ejected patron in the parking lot, but we did get to overhear a curse-laden relationship squabble. While I wonder whether a certain element of danger might be what karaoke has always been missing, I'm not sure I'm going to be rushing back anytime soon.

Quince Dresses

In 8th grade, I was instantly fascinated when I first learned about Quinceañeras in a short essay in my Spanish textbook. As described by the book, a Quinceañera is a lavish party of wedding-proportions to celebrate Latina girls' fifteenth birthday. Families save money for years to pay for an elegant dress, limousine, and reception of epic proportions. Because it seemed so absurd, I wanted desperately to attend. Of course, growing up, I did not know a single person of Mexican heritage, so I never had a chance to be invited to such an affair, though I was able to attend the affluent white alternative in the form of my Jewish friends' Bat Mitzvahs. They're both cultural events tied to a religious ceremony with a large price tag attached, except that at Quinceañeras there are more tiaras and fewer yarmulkes.

Once I moved to California, I met people who had actually attended Quinceañeras, and I lived vicariously through their tales. I made it my goal to eventually be invited to a Quinceañera so I could experience one firsthand. On one occasion, a friend and I heard of a Quinceañera occurring nearby and considered crashing the reception. Instead, we developed a working title for a screenplay: Mom, I'm Pregnant and It's My Quinceañera. In combining a cultural rite of passage with an unexpected biological one, it had all the workings of a dramatic, captivating film. Unfortunately, a couple of years ago, someone else seemed to think so, too. Quinceañera is a film with that precise story line, but with a less catchy title if I do say so myself.

While I still haven't been to a Quinceañera, I came as close as I ever have this past weekend. As a teacher to a predominately Mexican-American student body, Jessica has attended several Quinceañeras, not that I'm totally jealous or anything. One of Jessica's students lent Jessica the "official" video of her Quinceañera, and of course I didn't turn down the offer to view it. When Daniel saw the DVD's cover, he asked if it was a porn. I can't fault his misperception because the grainy, low-quality photograph of a young woman making a sultry pose with a showy cursive pink title could easily be slipped into an adult film store without notice.

The video was nothing short of ridiculous. It starts with our almost-fifteen-year-old in what looks like a slip while frolicking on the beach and splashing in the water. Later at home, she pretends to fall asleep and with the magic of some special effects, she wakes up wearing her dress. Then she poses with it on a bridge, in a meadow, etc. According to Jessica, this girl is a rebellious anarchist type who didn't even want to have a Quinceañera, but here she was primping and posing, playing the part of debutante. It made me feel a little sad.

Skipping ahead (we fast-forwarded, too), the reception was the best part. Here, our birthday girl and her escort (her much older cousin! Jessica claims that that's customary) dance, as do about twenty of her friends. For weeks, these kids rehearse choreographed dances to perform for the girl's family. Alas, these kids aren't on So You Think You Can Dance, they're more like a couple dozen Cloris Leachmans, minus the bravado. They all act a little too-cool-for-school, not wanting to seem as if they're enjoying themselves or the odd dance moves that they're doing to differing beats.

As I stared with wonderment at the lack of synchronization, I noticed that kids are also outfitted nicely, with the boys in tuxedoes and the girls in matching "bridesmaid" dresses. It occurred me that since friends tend to be of the same age, a lot of these poor kids must have to go through this ritual and literal song-and-dance several times in the span of a year. Jessica acknowledged that my theory is true, and that those girls have to buy those dresses each time, an expensive undertaking for the girls who are asked to be in several Quinceañeras. If they can't afford the dress, they have to turn down the offer to be in the reception.

This conversation inspired a new screenplay idea:

Miley Cyrus stars in:

Quince Dresses

Premise: When Miley's father gets a job promotion, Miley's whole family must move from their entirely Caucasian small town in the Mid-West to an exclusively Mexican-American community in southern California. After some initial trouble adjusting, Miley's quest to make friends works a little too well, as she finds herself being asked to participate in numerous Quinceañera celebrations: fifteen to be exact. Amassing a collection of frilly, unattractive dresses, Miley must deal with her jealousy of always being the bridesmaid, yet never being Latina enough to have a Quinceañera of her own.

Conclusion **WARNING -- SPOILER**: As Miley begins to throw a temper tantrum, her father throws a surprise Sweet Sixteen birthday party where Miley is permitted to wear a slutty outfit rather than an unflattering dress, shares a keg with her friends, and is gifted an expensive new car. In the absence of choreographed dances, religious ceremonies, and cousin-dating, Miley's party is a raving success, elevating her to the status of the most popular girl in school.

Let me caution any would-be idea poachers that while I was willing to let my Mom, I'm Pregnant and It's My Quinceañera concept get away without a fight, I will sue you aggressively if you try to make Quince Dresses. This'll be my million dollar idea, and it'll be the only way I can afford to pay for my own child's Quinceañera one day. That's right, you can bet that regardless of my kid's gender or ethnicity, my kid will have a Quinceañera; after all, you only turn quince años once! Plus, it might be the only way I ever get invited to one.

Thanks Giving and Receiving

L: Will you be around for Thanksgiving?
A: No, I'm going home to see my family.
L: Boo!
A: Yeah... I love my mom.
L: Boring.
A: I know, I know, I love her, I'm sorry.
K: You two do have a lot in common. You both love each other... you both teach young children... you both have sex with your dad...
awkward laughter
A: Yeah, my dad is why I'm actually going home. And I'll be there for a whole week, so you know...
K: So turkey's not the real reason you like Thanksgiving?
A: It's the stuffing.

You've Never Looked Wetter

On Thursday, Lindsay and I trekked to Six Flags. We lined up for our first ride, and although it was all of a five minute wait, I already had more than I could handle of this too-cool-for-school dad listening to an I-Pod standing next to us. He spotted a kid wearing a Metallica shirt nearby and chatted him up. "Have you ever seen them in concert? Oh, you've GOT to do it, man!" I really wish there was more than two feet of space between him and me, as I did not wish to catch his obnoxiousness. Being a braggart to a twelve-year-old is so becoming. Even more becoming is that he held up the ride to get in a fight with the attendant who told him that, for his safety, he must remove his earphones. Safety-shmafety! Metallica doesn't follow the rules, man!

He was only the start. Forget the rides, people-watching is the real source of amusement at the park. In particular, people's t-shirts fascinated me. A fine pot-bellied gentleman wore a stained t-shirt advertising "Friend with Benefits." I literally had to restrain Lindsay to prevent her from asking for his number. Even better was a woman wearing an "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" t-shirt. If I were to generalize, I'd say she was of the appropriate demographic to have her trailer ravaged by a tornado, so I liked to imagine she was sent on a Six Flags vacation while her home was being renovated for television. Then again, it might be equally funny to imagine she loves the show so much that she went out and bought a shirt to commemorate it. I was so busy admiring her attire that I completely ignored her husband (though it could have been her brother, I'd hate to assume) who was wearing a superior shirt, which read: "Let Freedom Ride!" complete with an illustration of the Statue of Liberty riding a motorcycle. Given that the Statue of Liberty is a symbol of immigration, I would read the shirt as a message of pro-immigration, even though I'm almost positive that wasn't what he was trying to convey. I can't even begin to count the number of vaguely offensive yet patriotic shirts we witnessed that day, but one more does stand out. A man, a line-cutter no less, jumped in front of us. The back of his shirt had a cartoon of a ferocious dog flexing his biceps (which had a patriotic tattoo on it) and it was hauntingly captioned "FREEDOM ISN'T FREE." So I guess that means that to maintain our freedom, we need to beat others up... and train attack dogs. Freedom isn't free -- that's so real!

By the way, "That's so real" is the new catchphrase I picked up from Lindsay. It's best used to respond to something ridiculous or unbelievable, or as Lindsay suggests "as often as possible." For example, "That guy refuses to take off his headphones during the ride." "That's so real!" Reality is subjective, you know?

It wasn't all rides and patriotic clothing, however. Early in the day, Lindsay became sick from the rides, which she claims is a first in a storied history of park-going. Though this turn of events put a slight damper on our subsequent activities, Lindsay proved to be a trooper, insisting on "staying the course." (So patriotic. So real.) So we kept doing the rides, which might make me an ass for not insisting on just going home if we weren't feeling well, but as I saw it, if she were to vomit, I'd be close enough to her to get it on me, too, which would be an appropriate punishment.

The problem with Six Flags is that there is no pretense of entertainment. Though Disney has comparable waits for rides, Disney at least attempts to provide diversions during the wait time. Disney offers videos, statues, animatronics, music, and placards to keep visitors preoccupied, while at Six Flags, you're lucky if the buildings even have a decent paint job. There's no magic to the environment, just roller coasters that afford stunning views of the neighboring roller coasters. Occasionally, there are advertisements to break the monotony. My favorite was a Lunchables ad placed after a log flume ride that didn't even make us damp. The advertisement said, "You've never looked wetter!" The statement was neither true nor appropriate. Nevertheless, it was so real.

While her nausea persisted, Lindsay invented a deathbed metaphor to keep her focused. It didn't matter that she was ill, there were certain rides that she had heard so much about in the past that "even if she were on her deathbed," she would go on them. I worried that maybe it wasn't a metaphor but her actual state of mind, but who was I to deny someone her dying wish? I mean, that's so real.

Consequently, we did all the big and scary ones. If I'm being honest, many of these roller coasters don't captivate me like they used to. It used to give me a thrill as it challenged my fear of heights, but when done in succession, I start to lose the anxiety that makes it fun. The last roller coaster we went on was billed as the scariest, but I somehow doubted it. Signs along the way taunted us, "Are you man enough?!" Lindsay assured me that her dick could handle it, though I was more concerned with her stomach. I figured it was all hype, but it was probably the most frightening ride I've ever been on. I had one of my freak outs as we ascended to the top where I thought, "I'd do anything to get off this ride right now," but it's always at a point where it'd be much safer to just stay on the ride and finish it out that attempt to climb to the ground. When panicking, however, my mind plays tricks on me. It was just the ride I needed to get excited again, and it proved that I am, in fact, man enough. I have three testicles now, actually.

At the end of the trip, I was able to return Lindsay home with no harm done. Well, almost. We had gone on this one water ride where we avoided getting wet the entire way until the last dip, where upon we got completely drenched. I had gone on expecting to get wet, but once I was nearly at the end with nothing more than a couple of drops of water having splashed on my shirt, I realized that I was content to stay dry after all, and that's when the water hit us. Then, in fact, I had "never looked wetter." Lindsay commented, "I hope this water isn't chlorinated, it makes my skin break out." She could have spoken up sooner, I felt like I had been torturing the girl all day.

The water? Chlorinated. Hours later, Lindsay had broken out in hives.

That's so real.

Never Tell the World

Contrary to popular opinion, Free Design is not all fun and games: It's not just kite flying and bubble blowing. Free Design is not afraid to tackle more serious social issues such as taboo relations. In fact, this subject matter is precisely the focus of the wonderfully harmonized tune "Never Tell the World."

Listen or download: The Free Design - Never Tell the World

Never Tell the World
The Free Design

Never tell the world, no, no, no.

Never tell the world, never give it reason
To mock a love like ours; never sing our song.
Keep it locked inside, keep it just between us.
Keep it secret, never confide until they all have seen us.

Never has the world complied with a love that seems to reproach it;
And every wrong-spoken word that we’ve ever heard....warns us:
We better keep our cool, our love’s too precious,
People hate a broken rule, people won’t accept us.

But someday the world might change and a love like ours might belong,
But until that day comes along...never tell.

Their love is pure, but the world is not. The first time I heard this song, I assumed it was about interracial dating. Over time, I recognized the ambiguity of the lyrics leave the circumstances of this relationship up in the air. It could be so much sexier than an interracial pairing. They could be homosexual in a time before gay marriage, or perhaps there could be a large age gap, the kind of adorable statutory rape scenario that similarly inspired Alanis Morissette to pen songs. And maybe, just maybe it's about an inter-species relationship. We'll have to look for clues of bestiality when we investigate the song "Daniel Dolphin" in the future.

Only today, however, while preparing this post did the most obvious answer strike me: incest! Duh, it's a family band. According to the band's website, sisters Sandy and Stephanie "urgently" cowrote the lyrics to this song before calling upon their brother to add some music. It is a collaboration out of inspiration and/or necessity.

With any luck, some day society will be accepting of their affection. In the meantime, love freely, Free Design.

Introducing The Free Design: Kites Are Fun

I've decided to start a new regular feature at this blog: Free Design Fridays. For those people not in the loop, The Free Design is a family band that originated in the 1960s. The siblings' respective vocals combined to form magnificent harmonies that only blood relation could create, or as I like to call it, symphonic incest. The Free Design's songs are pure pop, both sugary and cheesy (my two favorite groups), complete with lyrics that will not soon be forgotten.

I was first introduced to The Free Design through Cecilia who came across the band's CD in a thrift store, initially attracted to the album's cover art. This event was nothing short of fate; when Cecilia shared the album with me, I was completely smitten and demanded a copy. In turn, each person I've shared the CD with has been similarly enamored. If you don't find Free Design's songs beautiful and ridiculous, then you probably don't like music or family or wholesome fun and you should probably get out of the United States

It wasn't hard to choose which song to first introduce to this blog. "Kites Are Fun" is not only the first song I heard by The Free Design, but also the first song that The Free Design's leader, Chris Dedrick, ever wrote, as well as the band's first single and hit. Though the title, "Kites Are Fun," is obvious and innocuous, it's also, for lack of a better word, swell. Check out the song in the video below, animated by a Free Design fan.



On The Free Design's website, Chris explains the inspiration for the song. "It's a song to cheer you up," says Chris. "I wrote it on a rainy day when I was feeling kind of lonely. I was thinking about a girl whose initials were K.A.F., and out of the initials popped Kites Are Fun. It says, 'Whatever it is you like, go ahead and do your thing.'"

I like flying, flying kites.
Flying kites, flying kites.
Kites are fun.

See my kite it’s fun,
See my kite, it’s green and white
Laughing in its distant flight
All that’s between us is a little yellow string,
But we like each other more than anything
And we run along together through the field behind my house
And the little drops of rain caress her face and wash my blouse
And we’d like to be a zillion miles away from everyone
‘Cause Mom and Dad and Uncle Bill don’t realize:
Kites are fun.

I like flying, flying kites.
Flying kites, flying kites.
Kites are fun.

There are several reasons that I enjoy this song. First, the origination -- oh, to be the young lass whose initials are immortalized by "Kites Are Fun." Second, the subject matter, although fairly trivial, is treated earnestly, particularly the intensity of the harmonization that goes into the sentence "I like flying kites." Third, the giddy sound of a flute. Fourth, the lyrics that specify that in spite of the distance the little yellow string puts between the kite and the flyer, they are still quite fond of each other; it's a necessary clarification. Fifth, the fact that Mom and Dad and Uncle Bill are tyrannical and not accepting of kite flying. They just don't seem to get what it's about, to the point where the kids are willing to run away. It's as if Uncle Bill thought kite flying were equivalent to drug abuse. Then again, maybe "flying kites" is a metaphor for some illegal substance; the song might actually make sense that way.

Stream and/or download "Kites Are Fun" by The Free Design

Rethinking Rape

I take the controversial stance of being firmly opposed to rape. To tell you the truth, I haven't always been that way. That's not to say I've ever been in favor of it, but my perspective toward it was in need of some adjusting. During high school, sometimes at lunch, I would lay on the ground, close my eyes, and say aloud, "Someone could rape me right now and I wouldn't know who it is!" No one ever took me up on my suggestion, however. Another time I wrote an essay about a female character who I argued was weak, my main evidence being that she had been raped. Correctly, my teacher objected to this reasoning. At the time, I was indifferent to the revision, but now I'm embarrassed.

By college, I fell in with some legitimate feminist types, not the watered-down housewife variety most commonly found in Connecticut. Through them, I adopted a more earnest perspective. With that transformation, however, comes the temptation to still abuse its "don't touch" attitude. When preparing a standup comedy routine for my History of Laughter class, I wrote a bunch of offensive jokes for the act. While the abortion and incest jokes made the cut, I did not have the guts to go forward with the rape one because I figured it would be so taboo it would turn the audience against me.

What's worse than rape? (Highlight below for the answer.)
Having to take her out to dinner first.

I have yet to have anyone react to that joke with genuine laughter, though there is plenty of the awkward not-sure-how-to-respond laughter, which is why I hesitate to share the joke even now. It's important to realize that I created this joke while brainstorming the most offensive thing I could think of to say. It's wrong because I made it wrong. I certainly don't endorse this viewpoint, in fact that's the part that makes it a joke: if not funny, it at least is not meant seriously and does it's job of shocking.

On this blog, I say offensive things all the time, but rarely do I clarify that I'm joking. I don't normally feel the need to explain such a thing, but the truth is that in this case I'm afraid of the repercussions of not doing so. Heck, I'm afraid for sharing it at all. I find it noteworthy that this internal conflict is occurring now when it normally doesn't.

Oddly, the only jokes about rape that have been acceptable within my circle of friends are of the dead baby variety. I would guess that raping dead babies is just so foreign and obviously not commonplace in our world (though perhaps I should just speak for myself) that it can be laughed off as over-the-top offensive material. Still, sometimes even a baby rape joke has been known to halt a crowd, demonstrating its taboo nature.

At Margarita Mondays a few weeks ago, Professor Keeley brought up how many animals rely on rape to procreate. This is something I learned from the Biological Exuberance book (yes, it revealed the prevalence of rape in addition to homosexuality), but didn't know exactly what to think of its implications. Keeley used the example of otters, wherein the female will fend off the male for up to three days, attacking and submerging one another until the male finally tires out the female to the point where he can conduct his business. This "foreplay" of intense scratching and biting results in blood before copulation. Apparently, some scientists prefer to use other terms for the sort of rape that ensures re-population to differentiate it from the act perpetuated by humans. Isn't the otters mating ritual rape, though? The female never consents. Of course, if the rape didn't occur, there would be no more otters. So in this case rape is good? Or acceptable anyway? Am I even allowed to say that?

Then there are animals where both sexes are not interested in one another, like pandas. Most panda bears would sooner gouge their eyes out with bamboo than have sex. In fact, one of the main reasons they are endangered is because they just don't tend to enjoy mating, resulting in very few babies. What a zookeeper wouldn't do for a panda rapist, though! If they found a panda willing to copulate without the other panda's consent, that panda would get passed around the world for species propagation, perhaps even be declared a hero.

Sigh. If only there were a panda rapist.

For hero status, I guess I would be willing to rape a panda.

Wait, is that another rape joke I'm not supposed to make?

Hello?

Doth Tapped

I've actually been pretty excited to teach Antigone, in spite of the challenge it poses. Though the play lacks action and modern day language, it has such strong messages about morality, choices, family, honor, and sacrifice that I was eager to get the students thinking. The reason I'm a teacher is to hopefully have some kind of positive influence on making the next generation have good people. The reason I'm an English teacher specifically is to use literature as a way of addressing moral topics without having to look too preachy.

Unfortunately, this play's entire success relies on convincing the students that they can relate. I am unable to do this, however, because of the incestuous occurrences. It's pivotal for the students to know the origins of Antigone so they can follow the story, which means revealing that she is Oedipus's daughter, a birth from his marriage to his mother. Anytime I ask the kids to put themselves in Antigone's place, they spout off that her mom is her grandma and that it's gross. Just when I thought we might be getting past the incest thing, we read the scene that reveals Antigone is engaged to her cousin, Haimon. It's difficult to convey to closed-minded teens that while marrying your mom was icky, marrying your cousin was quite romantic at the time. Now they want nothing to do with Antigone, and the events that ensue are not considered nearly as tragic as they should because "she nasty."

Even the comprehension suffers at the hands of incest. When asking a student about her prediction for how they play will end, she makes reference to Creon and Antigone ending the fight and getting married. "But Creon's her uncle and she's engaged to his son!" I say. "Yeah, but they like incest," she states matter-of-factly. I suppose that's true: if it's going to be incestuous, it might as well be as incestuous as possible. "Okay, what evidence do you have to back up this prediction?" I ask. "Well they had sex." "Antigone's a virgin!" I say exasperated. "It says so in the story!" "I'll give you a billion extra credit points if you can show me where in the play it says that." Opening to a random page, she pretends to quote Creon in her best Sophocles's language, "I doth tapped that once or twice."

Sometimes, you've just got to laugh.

Truer Words Have Not Been Spoken

“Incest is a Win-Fest!” – Ted