thoughtcrumbs : january 2000

Brad always has the best resolutions:

I will flirt with straight boys less.

But more productively.

I will pretend not to care what my TiVo thinks of me.

I will make my bed. At least once.

My resolution? To correct the droopy "r" when I sign my last name.

If you have any love in your heart for the musical, go see Chicago. More enthralling than the typical stage play (and keep in mind you're reading the blog of a Broadway obsessive), the movie jumps, Moulin Rouge style, between spectacular shots of the same character in a dizzying array of environments. Not only do you get to see the "real" Mama (Queen Latifah) in her mussy prison guard garb, you simultaneously see her mental self, wrapped in silk and sequins, stashing bribes down her ample bosom. (Which leads to the fabulous "tit for tat" allusion . . .) Hindered by physics, stage producers can't jump between the dazzling melange of sets we get to see on the big screen. And it's breathtaking.

Chicago eradicated my previously mediocre estimations of Gere, Zeta-Jones, and Zellweger, highlighting their surprisingly stunning dancing and singing abilities. Yes, even Richard Gere. Never again will I mock him, unless you taunt me with Runaway Bride references. Unlike those of Moulin Rouge, the stars of Chicago hold their own, eliciting applause from flabbergasted crowds. I don't have enough superlatives to describe it; not in several years have I been so unexpectedly thrilled by a movie. It's worth seeing several times on the big screen.

To inaugurate my purty new pistachio Kitchenaid mixer, Karren and I made biscotti yesterday. For eleven hours we slaved, peeling and slivering almonds, wrestling sticky dough, and sipping Amaretto and (foul) apricot-flavored brandy (both required for the recipes, and how could we let the rest go to waste?). Behold:

The Emo Video Game: The Get Up Kids have been kidnapped by Steven Tyler, who wants to do things frequently referenced in South Park to them. Your mission? To assemble a crew of Emo superheros such as Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes) and Chris Carabba (Dashboard Confessional) to save those wussy rockers. A tremendously well designed Flash game, and smashingly funny if you can get past the juvenile ass jokes. Cameos by a bloated Courtney Love monster and Carson Daily. Also features a How Emo Are You? quiz:

(T/F) You have been mistaken for an ugly version of the opposite sex.

(T/F) You generally hate yourself and wish you were dead, but really know you're not that bad.

Best rhyme of the century: "the sun" with "laudanum" and "fecund." From The Legionnaire's Lament by the Decemberists. Kicking myself for not staying the time my cousin's band opened for them a few months ago. (Postscript, the next day: Damn, that's worse than name-dropping. I'll try to stop compensating by making references to how cool my friends/relatives are. We're all actually a bunch of losers.)

Great story over at Itzpapalotl today. All the better in Spanish. But roughly tranlated:

LAST CENTURY

Today Juliana told us at lunch that she'd been walking down the street one day and this guy began to say "things," stupid, rude things that that type of guy says when ladies pass. So, she turned and asked him:

-Excuse me, sir, tell me something. In what century are you living?

And he, very surprised that the lady in question spoke, very sure of himself and with all authority said:

- In the twentieth century.

Everything became clear.

I'm so going to ralph. Christmas chocolate should not be given in large quantities to people with little willpower who are alone in their offices in the evenings. Unngh.

From Rolling Stone's People of the Year interview with John Mayer:

Q. Did you destroy anything this year?
A. I promised I'd break a hotel-room lamp this year, but I haven't done it.

Q. How are you going to do it?
A. Respectfully. I'll probably lay it down, shed a tear and put a towel over it. That's how singer-songwriters trash hotel rooms.

Stocking stuffers, perhaps?

"Why undergo dangerous surgery? A practical, low cost, safe alternative that is COMPLETELY NATURAL - Certified Natural Bust Capsules!"

No, it's a curling iron burn. But thanks for the vote of confidence.

Last Gilmore Girls quote, I promise. Probably. Says the mother to her sixteen-year-old daughter: "I need to know where you are at all times. Especially if you're wearing my shoes."

Review of Stefan Fatsis's Word Freak over in reading.

In Bad Sex with Bud Kemp, from this week's This American Life, Sandra Tsing Loh contemplates the strong, potentially capable hands of her platonic movie buddy, and whether, well, could he be used for sex? When the phlegmatic Bud is afraid to look at her sexy black bra, donned intentionally in a Pizza Hut bathroom after their company softball game, she decides the answer is no.

I'd like to get the sheet music from Amelie. It's unfortunate that the European vendor some musicians have recommended, di-arezzo.com, and the publisher, Editions Bourges, both have such untrustworthy websites. Both sites are littered with gramatical errors. Di-arezzo's shopping cart breaks, and Editions Bourges requires an international phone call to use a credit card. The music is available from the slightly more reputable Sheet Music Plus, but there's a four-to-six week wait, and that's because they get it from one of the previous vendors anyway. None of the local stores carry it, and it doesn't look like any libraries have it, either. (And that's in the world, not just Portland. One of the perks of working in a library is I now know how to use WorldCat.) The web has destroyed my patience; four to six weeks is mentally interminable. So I'll just complain about it.

Today's word of the day from Dictionary.com:

booboisie \boob-wah-ZEE\, noun:
A class of people regarded as stupid or foolish.

I've had two different colds over the past three weeks. Sometimes life just isn't fair.

On TV yesterday:
Mom: "There you go." (Sets down plate.)
Adult Daughter: "Mom, I think someone already ate that."
Mom: "That is a mashed banana on toast. I used to make this all the time for you when you were a little girl."
Daughter: "You did?"
Mom: "Yes, whenever you got sick, I made that for you."
Daughter: "You sure it wasn't the other way around?"

The faint swick of a hand sliding up the strings to change chords on a guitar is the sound of lips parting after a quick kiss.

Harvard researchers estimate that cell phones contribute to about one in 20 U.S. car crashes, causing about $43 billion damage every year. Coincidentally, the convenience afforded by cell phones has been valued by users at that same amount. While the monetary values and crash statistics are little more than extrapolation, (sample quote: In addition to property damage, people were asked "what [they] would be willing to pay to avoid pain, suffering, and death"), the scary part is that approximately 2,600 people die each year from drivers with cell phones. Let's hope that policymakers considering a ban don't think the two sides are quite so equal.