May 31, 2012

Operation Fornicazione

“May I unclog your pipe, Princess Peach?”

“Why, yes, my Super Mario, but be gentle, my pipes are tender and there is not enough toilet paper in the world to clean the mess if you break it.  My pipe has been broken by one of your kind (Italian) before and it took years of therapy (ie, boring my friends to tears and crying in my dog’s back)  and drinking a vineyard of wine for me to open the door for your services  (plumbing).  But you know what, Mario?  I am okay with it all. Sometimes you just have to throw caution in the wind.  Make a decision. TAKE A VACAY!  Slap it on a credit card.  Sell all your crap on eBay to pay for it. Because life is long and if you don’t fill it with a story, then all you’ve got is a toilet that is clogged because you tried to flush the TV guides.  So yes, my Super Mario, take your plunger and pump away as I, Princess Peach, am ready to be ravished!”

Let me explain this one.  Out of the blue, a friend asked me to go to Italy for a week this summer, a cheap and cheerful little holiday, with air mile points and to survive off of white carbs and local plonk. This is our prime and this is our time, she said, let’s do it.  Eat, pray, LOL, I thought.  I want to go!  But there were pros and cons to weigh.

“You are broke,” my mother, nay-sayer said, “If you can’t afford it, you shouldn’t go.”

“You will get Italian bone,” A friend, yay-sayer, said.

Decision made.  Italian bone trumps poverty.

Apparently Italians in actual Italy are different from Italians here in North America.  I’ve been to Italy once as a young lady in the ’80s, menstruating her way through Europe.  That is my curse, literally, every time I go on vacation, without fail,  Aunt Flo packs her bag and hitches a ride. Back then, I had noticed European men were freaky about lady flow.  ”You will curse our village, and its citizens, with your sangria clotting, cover your astro turf and be away with you!”  Was the rough translation, via a pocket dictionary and through my understanding of latin based languages based on one Spanish course I took in third year university.

North American men don’t care about such things.  They will pull a ‘pon with their teeth and throw down a towel to get to their destination.  Which is far more civilized as far as I’m concerned. Maybe things have changed in Rome and Aunt Flo and I will be in luck.  In any case, I have compiled a list of my favourite Italian-ish men…let’s groove:

First of all, I do believe that this is Andy Garcia, who is not Italian but Cuban descent. But when I googled “Italian men” his picture came up on a blog with the caption “Close Enough” and if its good enough for this awesome blogger, its good enough for me.

Fabrizio Moretti, the drummer from the Strokes, who is only half Italian and actually born in Brazil.  I like him because he dated Drew Barrymore for a while.  I always thought Drew Barrymore would play me in the film version of my life.   He is super cute. I also thought he was full Italian.  Joke’s on me.

This is Dario Franchitti, IndyCar champion, winner of Indy500.  He is married to Ashley Judd who I love because she is the bi-polar Voice of Reason of that crazy Judd family.  They were the best guests that Oprah ever had and when Wynonna Judd sang “I Want to Know What Love Is,”  I actually cried.  You think I’m joking but I’m not.  I have a super mushy side.  Anyway I love a man who puts up with all that whacked out estrogen.  But again, he is only half-Italian…the other half, Scottish.

I make no apologies for my love of Leonardo Dicaprio.  His modelizing ways makes me feel like he is floundering his way through love.  He and Kate Winslet need to get it on.  Kate Winslet is in the running to play me in the movie of my life so maybe Leo could play my future husband since they’re so good together.  Oh, and he is about as Italian as my secret ingredient in pesto (Corn Flakes!) but the name counts.

Seriously, even Super Mario is a watered down Italian.  He is created by a Japanese designer and although originally from Brooklyn, lives in Mushroom Kingdom.  But his M.O. is to save the damsels in distress.  Or just unclog their pipes, which is all I’m asking at this point.

And here’s Wynonna on Oprah, wanting to know what love is, which might be the next step AFTER ITALY:

 

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May 24, 2012

The Sequinned Side of the Moon

In my high school in Quebec, the students were segregated: Disco and Disco Sucks.  Disco Sucks were the majority rule and those who were Disco walked silently down the halls, heads down, not looking at anyone in the eye.  Discos ate lunch in the bathroom, where the mirrors were, and they could pick their perm ‘fros and practise their hustle moves without getting kicked in the head.

The first time I saw a Disco person up close was this girl who was new in the school,  and who had unknowingly claimed a locker smack dab in the midst of Pink Floyd disciples.  She was wearing a bunny fur bomber jacket, high-waisted skintight jeans tucked into platform boots.  Her dyed blond hair had perfectly executed side flips, like wave breakers, and no curling iron marks!  Do you know how hard it is to make it smooth? Hers looked like a helmet. And her face was perfectly maquillaged, swoops of blue eyeshadow under razor-thin arched eyebrows, streaks of pink blush, and layer of shiny fuchsia gloss so thick that if you stared at it, you would go blind.  Like an eclipse.  She was awesome.

Some plaid boy hissed:  ”Disco bitch!  Kill her with fire!”

She barely batted an eye: “Go fuck yourself, farmer.”  As she swung her silver sequinned purse over her shoulder, she clomped away with her pack DuMauriers, a whiff of Shalimar trailed her. We all stared, the girls and the boys, dressed stupidly and all the same in our flannel shirts from the men’s department at Horizon.  Nobody bothered her again.  She was a French girl named Louise and she turned out to be A-OK.  Once we skipped gym class and went to Gaby’s for french fries and she told me that she missed a couple of years of school because she had a baby at 12!  She gave it up for adoption and her parents made her live with her crazy grandma. She was very funny and could blow smoke rings without moving her jaw.  She only stayed a year and never ended up graduating with us but when I think of Disco, I think of her.

I also thought of Disco last week when Donna Summer and Robin Gibb passed away.  Like I said, it was just not cool to like Disco in my neck of the woods.  We listened to “Progressive Rock” like Genesis, Pink Floyd, and Yes.  But when someone would put on the “Dark Side of the Moon,” I would get anxious.  Please stop the howling.  I couldn’t take the tedious moaning from a cave sounds.  I didn’t own any of these albums because there was no point.  You couldn’t escape them from the radio station we listened to called CHOM.  It was a downward spiral of screaming and endless guitar riffs that could set your watch by, day after day, night after night.

Secretly, and I’m only confessing this now because I am a LOCA and I don’t give a fuck, I LIKED DISCO!

I loved to go shopping in downtown Montreal in the 70s and go to Jean Junction where they would blast the music and I would sing along, joyfully, trying on Road Runners:  BURN, BABY, BURN!  DISCO INFERNO!

And I never told any of my friends from school this but on Friday nights, my French friend and I would go to a roller rink in Brossard and skate with boys who had blow dried feathered hair and wore gold necklaces with little mini Jesus crosses over their furry chests:  JIVE TALKIN’!

And the very best times were had in the summer, going to LaRonde, the amusement park at Man and His World.  You would take a little trolley train from the Metro to the gates of the parks and see couples in full-on coital, humping on the grassy hills underneath the trees.  I think people in general had more mojo back then, and I think Disco helped. Something about the beat and all the moaning.   The rides at the park were operated by toothless Carnies who gave you extra spins if you weren’t wearing a bra.  My favourite ride was the Bobsleigh, where you would go around and up and up and down super fast while the lights flashed and the music blasted:  I FEEL LO-OOOOOVE! I FEEL LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE!

Why on Earth would you want to go to The Dark Side of the Moon when you could feel such unbridled joy?

I kept my secret, all through high school and up until now.  I was grateful that Disco didn’t actually die like they said on the cover of Newsweek when they closed Studio 54…it seeped into other genres, sometimes furtively and other times with a wink and a nod.  For example, it was perfectly acceptable to like David Bowie, but let’s face it, he had Disco Fever along with Mick Jagger and all the other androgynous types wiggling  their crotch lizards around in tight satin pants.  Blondie was considered “Punk” when she came on the scene.  Bitch, please…Disco with rap, hardly anarchy.  Even Patti Smith, who is the coolest chick ever, had a Disco bone…just listen synthesized to the riffs on ‘Dancing Barefoot” and if you don’t want to put on a pair of roller skates and whirl around shakin’ your groove thing, I don’t want to know you.

Dubstep:  You have some homage to pay.

And here is Cake, playing a classic Disco song “I Will Survive” and not without hipster irony either:

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May 15, 2012

We Are The Freakies

Do you know what your real age is?  A woman in a yoga class asked me that a few years ago and at the time I said “37!” because I had just turned 36 and wanted a year to ease into the next age so I wouldn’t be traumatized  because what a drag it is getting old…and 36 was a scary age because Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana died then and no way was I getting on that proverbial boat, The Candle in the Wind. As long as I could miss it and die at any other future age, I would be golden.  Golden Brown by the Stranglers!  That’s my funeral song, by the way, don’t wear it out  just yet.

“No, not your chronological  age, the age you are in your mind…for example, I am 39 but I think I am 21 because that is when I was my hottest,” this woman who asked the age question was pretty hot, if she was any hotter she would be fornicating her way down the street so maybe getting old in her case was a good thing.

Oh!  That’s easy, I’m 12.  That is how old I was when I figured out the world.  Currently, as a Lady of a Certain Age, if I were to transport the mind my pre-adolescent self, age 12, into my peri-menopausal vessel, I think I would function the same way, if not better.  I was a sharp 12 year old.  I knew stuff.  I was a keen observer of human behaviour and hid in corners and spied on conversations.  I read a bookshelf full of Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins novels.  I stayed up late and watched the pornography that would come on the community channel after midnight…only in Quebec!

In Grade 6, I turned 12 in May, I was in a class where the teacher thought it would be groovy try a new learning method where the students would complete modules and go at their own pace.  It was the thing to do in the seventies.  We sat in quadrants in the beginning but we could change things around…freely!  Nobody hates change and freedom (I’m a bottom!)  more than me so the whole scenario gave me anxiety.  I was an introvert and really quiet and a head taller than everyone else.  Like a like a cigar store Indian statue, I was just a grim background fixture in the classroom.  But in my seating group in the beginning of the year, the new girl at the school, named Lynn, held court.  She had the kind of personality that was larger than life, that everyone was drawn to and was just the catalyst I needed to break out of my shell.  She was fearlessly funny and really kind to me.  We wrote stories and drew pictures, sang jingles at the top our lungs;  ”WE ARE THE FREAKIES, WE ARE THE FREAKIES, AND THIS IS OUR FREAKIES TREE!!!”  Good times.

When we got to Grade 7, we had to smarten up.  It was a new high school because in Quebec it went from Grade 7 to 11 and then CEGEP.  Also we were in French Immersion so we had to concentrate and sit in rows, single file.  The part of the brain where you learn language is made out of a low quality gluten filler in my head so paying attention was a waste of time.  I would make comics and pass them to Lynn after class.  I had this continuing strip about a young woman named “June Thursday” who was making it on her own as a secretary and coping with her roommates but everything always went amok.  It was crudely drawn on looseleaf and completely pornographic and politically incorrect.  Lynn loved it and was my task master, demanding more each class. I think I churned out 2 or three pages a day.  I didn’t know it then, at age 12 she helped me hone my imagination because let’s face it, when you are in high school, the last thing the school system wants to churn out are free thinkers.

She wrote poems, not for school, just for fun.  I still have one about a lonely whale named Finnegan, a freak attraction because he is “The Last Whale” living in a fetid, polluted lake in the fictional town of Omega where tourists come and throw breadcrumbs at him.  In the end he kills himself out of despair and I dare you not to cry if you read it.

When we were 12, we had unbridled creativeness and our whole lives ahead.

Flash forward to last week when my friend, Lynn Crosbie, had a book launch party at The Mascot for her latest book, Life Is About Losing Everything.  Lynn writes the weekly Pop Rocks column for the Globe & Mail on Tuesday and has written several books, described as poetry and prose, including Dorothy L’Amour, Queen Rat, Pearl, Paul’s Case, and Missing Children.  My daughter, who wants to be a writer when she grows up in two minutes, just finished her first year of English at University of Toronto.  One of the books she studied in class was “Missing Children” and she was thrilled to tell her friends, “My mother knew her when she was 12!”  She and I went and it was packed and there was love in the air.  And beer!

The book, check it out here, is a memoir that jumps back and forth through time.  She  recounts little anecdotes, descriptions of people that are tragic and hilarious. You don’t really need to know what’s going on at all times, suspend your imagination and relax and enjoy the moment.  I can’t express how good it is, I read it in one sitting on Mother’s Day.  I am featured in a chapter as Silver in Did You Think We Wouldn’t Notice?  I am most honoured!

Through the beast that is Facebook, Lynn and I had caught up on our lives a couple of years ago, and it was like we were 12 again.  Except with booze.  We even made a prank phone call.  And the other day, she took me out for a birthday drink…yes, I got older but trust me, I am 12, I’m still collecting toys in cereal boxes…we talked about getting older and redefining who we are as there has been much man-baggage zapping our precious energy. Existentially, we are becoming liberated as LOCA’s who don’t give a fuck and we have the best years ahead.

We are The Freakies:

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May 8, 2012

The Resurrection of Linda Evangelista

This week in first world problems, 1% edition, Linda Evangelista and French billionaire Francois-Henri Pinault have reached a child support settlement after a couple of days of hilarious court testimony. Oh, the accusations! It was said that she wanted $46,000 a month for round-the-clock nannies and body guards, he said she was a gold digger, they had only dated briefly when she got pregnant in 2006.  It was getting really ugly so they had to back-pedal.  Supposedly it was all wild gossip, she didn’t ask for that much and he didn’t say she should have had an abortion.  One thing for sure, nothing attracts rampant sperm better than a set of achey-breaky ovaries.  Mammas, tell your sons when they grow up to be cowboys, DON’T RIDE BAREBACK!  And if an “accident” happens, man up, pay, and shut your pie hole.  Nobody wants an asshole for a father.  You go, girl.  You can tell whose side I’m on.

My level of excitement over the press coverage of this brouhaha went through the roof.  I’ve been a Linda fan since the “Haircut” back in the 80s.  When my friends and I started reading fashion magazines, we picked our favourite models, the ones that looked most like us, and copied them.  We didn’t make a fuss over how it was presented to us like they do now, whining:  ”All that photoshopping makes that level of  beauty unattainable!  Magazines should be showing real women, blah blah!”  Fuck that! I don’t want to see “real” anything, I want to look in a magazine and be blown away.  You don’t expect to open up House and Home and see pictures of  kitchens with mismatched Rubbermaid containers half-eaten bags Dempster bread on the counter ( welcome to my crib).   I feel the same about fashion models.  Let them be better than us, even if it’s fake.  I need something to aspire to that is totally superficial otherwise I am bored.  Iron out those wrinkles, stamp out that cellulite…challenge accepted!

When I was a youngster in Montreal, my friends and I looked at fashion magazines for inspiration to hone our own personal style.  We didn’t complain about the airbrushing as it was back then, instead we took the cues and applied them to our own lives.  Magazines were our guides to successful modern living. Attaining the look was an adventure. Seventeen magazine had Phoebe Cates in Butterick sewing patterns that we messed up in high school Home-Ec class.  We diligently followed the “bikini blast diets” that Glamour provided for us every spring.  We copied Isabella Rossellini’s cat eyes from Mademoiselle with some vintage liquid eyeliner we got at Ben E. Noodleman’s pharmacy in Westmount.  We rolled up our Levis jeans like the photo spread called “Mean Jeans” and I got my hair cut like the model that looked like Elvis….so began my perpetual ever-changing hair metamorphosis.

And then came Linda Evangelista in the late 80s with her shorn locks and for the next 20 years, my hair plan was mapped out for me.  She was the most super of all the supermodels, in my humble opinion.  She got a bum rap from that comment she made in Vogue:  ”We don’t wake up for less than $10,000 a day.”  Whatever, let them eat brioche. I get what you’re saying, sister.  Besides, she’s a model, not an oracle.  I long for the days where models were actually in magazines, not out in the streets with their tragic lives exposed to the world.  And! I personally don’t want to live in a world where D-List actresses like stumpy troll Hayden Panitierre are pushing products for cosmetics companies…that is a job for a supermodel!  Bring them back and I might actually buy a magazine again.

Enough ranting, here’s the gallery:

This is the short hair that put her on the map.  Pro tip: Short hair requires accessorizing and a lot of manipulation.  For me, it was a pain in the ass.  I am lazy and I hate the feeling of product, whatever kind crunchy or greasy.   But without it, I looked like a  hedgehog.  The “sideburns” would inevitably grow out unevenly and I’d end up trimming one side and then the other, then making a mess…not good.

This one was “the bob” which is super easy for me, my hairdresser at that time said I had Asian hair and should just be worn straight.  I think Linda has some wave in hers and this was probably a bitch to style.  The uber-short bangs only last that way for about a week but it’s just as well.  One of my friends once dubbed this hairstyle “the retarded Dutch girl” and once you see that, it cannot be unseen.

The red hair was my favourite look, makes green eyes pop. I dyed my own hair back then and ended up using clown red Manic Panic in a desperate attempt to keep it fresh.  Problems include the red hair dye fades super fast and stains your towels and pillows and your hair eventually goes brassy.  And again, when the word “clown” can be used in a description of your hair, you are fucked.

This blond business was four years ago.  My current hairdresser copied this perfectly for me and made it look “money,” not like a dumb,fun, blond but like a lady with a rich husband and a mean backhand. Blonds do not have more fun.  I couldn’t handle the fraudulent representation of my lifestyle. The floor boards screamed out “Liar!”  So my friend and I dumped a box of generic brown hair dye on it and brought it back to reality.  That was when I fired Linda as my hair guru, in my mind of course, she has no idea I exist.  Later, I ended up getting my hair lopped off like a hairstyle that I had copied from her 10 years earlier but I considered it self-emulation because she doesn’t not have the patent on the pixie cut.

4 years later, I haven’t really thought about her and of course, I have been growing my hair out.  I don’t really have a fashion mentor these days, everything I do is inspired by the Buddhist philosophy of detachment.  I don’t want anything.  I shop in my own closet.  You’d be amazed what it is stuffed in the back.

Then Linda appears on the news! How interesting is it that we currently have the same hair style!  It is serendipity! She is back in my consciousness and I love her!  I WANT THOSE SUNGLASSES SHE IS WEARING TO THE COURTHOUSE!!!

(Update:  A smart style hound from my Facebook identified those sunglasses in the top photo as Derek Cardigan for Clearly Contacts in Birch and they are on sale for $59…my pair has just been delivered and are sitting on top of my head like a crown,  I am basking post-hunt glory!)

And lest we forget:

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May 3, 2012

There’s a Ghost In My In-Box

A few days ago, I had one of those “lucid dreams” that I’ve had regularly since I was four years old.  You know those ones you have where you are not quite awake and you are dreaming but you are aware you are dreaming, and you want to move but you can’t move a muscle and you swear that there is a someone in the room and he is going to come and sit on your chest and suck all the oxygen out of your lungs and you want to scream but you can’t because you are in a state of sleep paralysis?  I can’t be the only one who has these because Wikipedia tells me it’s normal (ish).  They call it “Old Hag Syndrome” because in some cultures, it is an old hag (always a woman!)  that is sitting on your chest blowing evil spirits into your soul.  Yes, that seems legit, some ghost bitch wants to go to all the bother of riding my grill.  Lil ol’ me, I have no power anywhere in which to wield any kind of malevolence, my credit cards don’t even work.  What a waste of nefarious ectoplasm.  You would think if an evil spirit wanted to spread around its diabolical agenda, he or she would do it more efficiently, like squatting in the water filtration plants of majors cities.  They could form an Occupy Movement for disgruntled ghosts and spread the word through the pipes so that in the morning, we all get an extra jolt of bitchiness in our cup of joe.  Maybe that explains morning rush hour road rage.

Most of the time, I think my “old hag” is a raccoon that casually waddled into my bedroom from that ridiculous window that swings open on its own even when there is a tiniest breeze.  So far its all been my imagination but I have duct taped the window shut just in case.  The other night, the thing was bigger than a raccoon.  It was man-sized and super clingy.  I couldn’t tell if I was scared or excited.

“Maybe you were visited by Jesus,” my Facebook friend suggested.  He the one that lives in Australia and was instant messaging when I finally fully woke up at 3:40 and was able to turn on the lights to find solace on the interwebs.

“No, it wasn’t Jesus, I would have felt a prickly beard and smelled B.O.   This thing was smooth and hairless…maybe it was AN ALIEN!”

“Well that’s enough internet for me, gotta go now, bye,” and he logged off.

I was fully awake so I checked my email.  Every once in a while one of you kind readers of this blog will send me a private message because writing a comment is such hassle.  You have to decipher wobbly writing of some gibberish and then say something that’s not embarrassing or make up a clever user name because it is out in the internet and somehow your mother might read it.  One of my favourite e-mail pen pals is George who lives somewhere near Bay City, Michigan, at “the base of the thumb” whatever that means.  He first wrote me a couple of months ago saying that he found my blog serendipitously by googling “hand bra” and he ended up laughing instead of fapping (no such thing as “too much information” in my world)  and he has been reading all the posts ever since.  I love him so.

The night of my lucid dream, he wrote:

I  can’t sleep!  Sometimes I wish you lived under my bed and I could take you out and play with you whenever I wanted.  I don’t mean to sound creepy.  I just mean we could have a few beers and play Scrabble while we watch tv.

Not creepy at all, George, just mind blowing.  Maybe we are all living under each others’ beds waiting to come out and play. In the night, our sleeping spirits become interlopers moving fluidly through U.S./Canada border.  The internet is like public transit for ghosts.  George is my “old hag” but he doesn’t want ill-will, he just wants to hang!  That is so cute!  I’m not afraid to go back to sleep now…sweet dreams, George, let’s spoon!

And this has nothing to do with anything except when I think about ghosts, I think about Jack White and here he is in my video of the week, beating up Gary Oldman:

 

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April 25, 2012

The Creep, The Weirdo, The Bachelor And The Elevator

Yesterday I had big, important plans but I ended up not doing any of them.  First I was going to go to the gym first thing but it was too cold to move so I deemed it a Possible Snow Day, pretended to be sick and took to the bed.  I ended up watching “Live with Kelly” where Jessie Palmer was her cohost. You know who Jessie Palmer is:  He was born in  Toronto (homeboy!), raised in Napean, played college football for Florida, then the New York Giants and the Montreal Alouettes.  He was The Bachelor in 2004 and now he is a football commentator.  He looks like this:

My big question watching the show:  Why is he still single?  He’s so handsome and he has a bubbly, agreeable personality that even your mama would like.  He’s funny and self-depracating.  He thinks Megan Fox is “out of his league.”  Bitch, please. As though any man, no matter how dysmorphic or Aspergery, thinks he is out of any woman’s league.  That kind of stupid talk sort of makes you want to hit on him.  But then you don’t, because he’s just too perfect.  The litmus test fantasy is what would happen if you were trapped alone on a broken elevator with him.  He is the man you want to love but ultimately when you stand next to him, you become hyper-self-aware of ugliness vapours emanating out of your rapidly gaping pores.  Nope. Pass.  Press the emergency button.

The other important plan was to obtain Jack White’s new release CD, “Blunderbuss” at an actual record store, NOT iTunes.  I need solid, concrete music, not this internet sorcery that is my current music library since getting separated, this is me:  ”Oh, you can take all the CDs, I will just copy them onto this computer one by one until I grow old and die.” Of course I missed a bunch of albums that I ended up obsessing over even if I would never listen to them again.  On one hand, there is less clutter but on the other, it’s a precarious situation, the computer will probably break and the iPod will spontaneously terminate itself and I will be tuneless.  And alone.

By mid-morning I had moved from bed to couch, still too cold to go out.  Pretending to be sick would be an all-day event so Evangeline offered to go get the Jack White before her class downtown.  Yay.

Now I love Jack White.  Here he is:

Toronto Star’s Ben Rayner describes Jack White as a weirdo, which can’t be denied and is why I love him so.  He looks kind of like Johnny Depp on estrogen supplements.  He is a temperamental genius, graphic proof here…and is there any other kind? He dresses in costume, like a 19th century bandit which is kind of off-putting and badass at the same time.  Repulsive and fascinating, the dichotomy is a recipe for capitulation. Imagine being trapped in an elevator alone with him.  Somehow, without even knowing how you let it happen, you would walk out with a hickey and a broken bra strap.

While she was gone, I put on my favourite movie of all time:

Vincent Gallo’s Buffalo 66 with Christina Ricci before Thinspiration ruined her and her acting career.  This  is one of those independent cult movies that if you say the phrase “spanning time,” people will either look at you blankly or laugh knowingly, the video clip says it all.  Vincent Gallo has such intense charisma that it is creepy. His default expression is a mug shot. You can’t spend too much time thinking about him or you might go out and get his name tattooed on your chest.  One thing you might want to consider, is checking out the shop on his personal website.  For $50,000 you can go out on a date with him and for $1,000,000 you can get his sperm!  Not bad.  And if you were ever so lucky to be trapped on an elevator with him, be prepared to re-enact a certain scene from The Brown Bunny.  Or maybe that’s just me.  Should probably just take stairs from now on.

And with that, I leave you with the viral video of the week, Carrie Manolakos and her cover of “Creep’ that is sure to make your ears orgasm (I didn’t make that up):

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April 18, 2012

My Badass Heart Will Go On

I saw the Titanic in 3-D over the weekend.  I know we’ve all moved on to other topics and I don’t care what the haters say, it was totally exciting and I have been ruminating about it ever since.  The next night I pretended my couch was a life raft and I was safe watching the ABC Titanic Downton Abbey-like mini-series and then Saturday Night Live waiting for the rescue ship to show up.  And then during Aquafit on Tuesday, I pretended all the bobbling silver lady heads in the water were drowning victims and our pool noodles were life vests and we were flailing for our lives when really we were doing  rocking horse kicks.  Such fun!

My daughter and I went to the local Beach Alliance theatre where I wore my Neil Degrasse Tyson tshirt in honour of his contribution to the newly revised version of the film.  Hipster geek girl ticket taker “got” my tshirt as she must be a Redditor. No secret codes of when the narwhal bacons (google it) were exchanged because she was probably weirded out that an old lady, who could never see a narwhal bacon because midnight is past her bedtime and she was probably alive when the real Titanic sank , was wearing a meme shirt:

Memes may well be the newest lowest form of humour but I’m still laughing.  LOL.

Anyway, apparently the star configuration in the sky the night the Titanic sank was all wrong in the film. After seeing the film for the first time, Astrophysicist extraordinaire, Neil Degrasse Tyson contacted James Cameron in a letter to let him know of this anachronism. James Cameron ignored it. Years later they bumped into each other at a planetarium of all places and Neil asked him why the sky was whack and James said:  ”Dunno” then puffed up his chest and said:  ”Well, last I looked Titanic grossed 1.3 billion dollars, imagine how much more I would have made if I got the sky right?”  As he is all about the details (change the devil or God to “James Cameron is in the details!”), he fixed it for the new version, so just for that, it’s worth seeing again.

Otherwise, it’s pretty much the same as it was the first time.  Kate Winslet casually walks around in flimsy short sleeve dresses on the deck of the ship like she was in Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s April on the North Atlantic, brrrr.  Dear James Cameron: Did they not have goose bumps back in 1912?  Those would have looked amazing in 3-D.  The rest of the effects were sort of meh and those 3-D glasses tickle the third eye chakra, it’s almost distracting.

Also the second time around (actually the bazillionth time I’ve seen it, but second in the theatre where I am not distracted by the spiders and clutter in my own personal tv watching ashram), I got the gay subtext between Creepy Cal  (Billy Zane) and his man servant Bruuuuuce Ismay  (Jonathan Hyde).  Why else would dude run around a sinking ship chasing Jack because he was on the payroll?  Only a man with a boner would bother.  Did dapper society men in 1912 get their eyebrows groomed? I bet the latent homosexual ones did. And whatever happened to Billy Zane in real life?  Is he crazy?  I have a feeling he is a heap of trouble.

Also just so you know, according to the laws of physics, Jack and Rose could not have shared the raft.  Force of gravity is larger than that of buoyancy, so they both would have sunk, so let’s not joke about it anymore.  And I like a fat Kate Winslet better than this new sinewy version:

I love how she went around, promoting the re-release of Titanic 3-D talking trash about how she hated that Celine Dion song and about the reversal of fatness between her and Leo.  Don’t get me started about Fat Leo.  I. Love. Him.

Here are my thoughts on Leonardo DiCaprio, who has eclipsed my lust for Fat Vince Vaughn:

He reminds me of  Orson Welles and Orson Welles was my favourite fat man.  Maybe he will even get that rotundo, in which case he will probably not score with the models so much. Speaking of which, I feel like Leo’s chronic modelizing is just because he is not self-actualized. Dr. Drew would know what I mean.  I know of a fellow who modelized for years and when he did settle down it was with a Filipino nanny of one of his spawn (modelizers often breed randomly, I’m looking at you, Mick Jagger).  I feel like it’s a just a phase for Teflon Leo, he hasn’t met me yet and my environmentally friendly ways.  I recycle bacon grease!  Dear James Cameron:  Hook me up!

And on that note, check out this video about the Titanic artifacts and it  actually did melt my cold, icy heart and make me cry, DON’T LAUGH:

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