noprah

Since I'm already being filleted for my hatred of Once, the muppets, and egregious grammatical errors, I may as well climb out on the nearest limb and really bear my soul.

I hate Oprah Winfrey. No, just let me finish. It's not because she's a pompous, self-important megalomaniac, it's because she interrupts constantly. Pathologically. And she always redirects the conversation to herself. One time she interviewed a woman with terminal cancer, who had just suffered the indignity of shaving her hair, to which Oprah blurted out, before the woman was finished speaking, "I know just how you feel, I got a terrible perm one time and had to cut my hair really short." This pretty well epitomizes my beef with her.

Now, I'm not marching in any anti-Oprah parades or anything, but I'm really firm in my opinion, and the margin for changing my mind is razor-thin. While I do offer half-hearted applause for her Angel Network, and her impact on literacy, I cannot help but think that the underlying, possibly overriding, purpose behind these endeavors was to send her ego soaring to new heights. Okay, I digress.

Getting back to that razor-thin margin, Oprah has recently done two things that have given me pause in my loathing.

First, she endorsed Barack Obama for president.

And second, she launched a new reality television show, The Big Give. To summarize, the show's contestants compete to see who can give away Oprah's (or the network's--whatever) money in the most grandiose and meaningful ways. Back story: When I was very young I told my mom my life's ambition was to save all the kids. I even used to cry seeing stop signs in the rain. I have a deep-seated need to know that everyone is warm, safe, and fed. But I lack the means to make this possible, a fact which has fractured my seemingly black heart. But we'll delve into my overly sentimental side another time. So I have a soft spot for virtually everyone. That is, everyone I don't hate, lol. I knew this show would touch me, and I was right on the money (no pun intended). The challenges have ranged from making the best use of $1,000 in 24 hours, to remodeling an entire inner-city school with only a few thousand dollars on which to build. Once the catty, in-fighting, camera-whore players are done hustling to complete their tasks, we get to see the big reveal. I could never convey in words the power of these moments. I know they are edited to pack a greater punch, and I know that ultimately, it's entertainment, but these are real people whose schools are being rebuilt, whose disabled children are being given the treatment and equipment they so desperately need, and real wounded soldiers, who have been cut off by the VA, whose mortgages are being paid. I don't have television, because everything on TV is shit, but my mom records this and, okay, I'll admit it, Lost and Jon & Kate Plus 8. Yesterday I watched two episodes of The Big Give, and I was sobbing like a child, absolutely racked, a worn-out husk of myself. The emotional cord struck by these people in need being relieved of their financial burdens was almost more than I could bear. I don't care about the motives for the show, or who is getting richer, or whose celebrity status is elevated into outer space. I'm in it for the people. I suspect this comes as a surprise. Underneath this caustic, venomous exterior, is a hopeless old softie who wants to heal the world. So I am forced, in spite of myself, to confess that my hat is off to Oprah.

Now, if only she created a show wherein the teams covered all the stop signs with blankies...

once: one time too many

Does anyone know the going rate for two hours of my life? Because I need a refund. Yes you read correctly. I just endured a movie whose intended audience, I am certain, is lobotomy patients. Who are deaf. The offending movie? Once.

Listen, I know how it is. We intellectual types are supposed to get all swept up in the ephemeral charms of the latest indie art house movie du jour, and then strut around like peacocks expounding upon all the profundities, subtext, deeper allegories, ad nauseum. Or maybe faint on our fainting couch, which we keep nearby in the event of a life-altering experience such as The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. P-l-e-a-s-e. If ever there was a case of the emperor's new clothes, it was The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I have seriously almost had my teeth knocked out for denouncing this movie, despite the fact that it had absolutely no merit whatsoever.

My teeth may be in even greater jeopardy now, because I am here to warn you, much like the soothsayer, against this movie. First of all, I really went into it with an open mind, which doesn't happen very often. Second of all, as soon as it opened, I hated it. The main character, a guy whose name I couldn't decipher for all the mumbling, was supposed to be a gritty, lovable, average Irish Joe, but instead he was the ratty, crusty, bug-eyed roommate you had in college whose neediness knew no bounds, and whose teeth knew no dentist. His name, roughly translated, may have been Arhflgnm or something. Onto the girl, whose name, I think, was also Arhflgnm. My major beef with her was that she reminded me of Love Actually's Lucia Moniz (Aurelia), but was in fact, not her. I kept waiting for her to become Lucia Moniz, but it never happened, and I never forgave her. So he's this haggard musician playing for pennies on the curb, and she wanders up to him and they decide to spin their palpable lack of chemistry into lyrical gold. What ensues is 90 minutes of the same song, set against a hole where there ought to have been a plot. You know it's bad when you're scanning the streets of Dublin for a McDonald's, or anything to connect you to what you're watching. So they play songs, and he grins his desperate grin, and she smiles shyly but never takes off her coat the entire movie. It's as though the writer, no wait, there couldn't have been a writer because there was no plot. So, it's as if someone set stream-of-consciousness to a movie, but all they ever thought about was "ummmmm..." If it were a dance, it would be the insecure kid in the corner shifting his weight back and forth.

Apparently I was born without a soul (or, more likely, I sold it to buy some clothes at Old Navy), because scads of people in my life are gushing about this banal bullshit, er, movie. My own mother, who BOUGHT it, argued that my lack of enthusiasm for the story could only be explained by a serious character flaw on my part. And I am afraid to tell Gabrielle my verdict, for fear that she will get medieval on my ass with her various "craft" implements. I'm just so curious how there can be such a discrepancy between friends who agree on so many other points? Danskos are fabuloso, this movie is shit. Why is that so difficult? Can't we just get along? I fear an angry mob will soon appear, weapons in-hand, to pummel me for my ignorant, callous, misrepresentation. When they arrive, I shall tell them, "You think my hating this movie is bad, Karen hates the Muppets!"

a league of her own

B's comment on my previous post was so (what's the word?) delicious, I had to showcase it:

Hold On, I have to side with the Fitz kids here. While Faith deserves Straight Up to burn on in Eternal Flame, or at least go out in A Blaze of Glory, it was The End of the Road for New Kids and Milli Vanilli. Nothing Compares 2 U using that Poison as a history lesson. It's time to Rush Rush back to the ancients and learn how to Walk Like an Egyptian. I don't mean to sound Cold Hearted but I can just imagine Reilly giving you The Look as you gave those tunes One More Try.

You are my rockstar B.

i might rather pour honey on my head

Late at night I become susceptible to a sort of ethereal reasoning and say and do things that feel monumentally wise at the time, and then in the morning I want to slit my throat.

Tonight, I'm copping to the fact that I hate the Gilbert House. That's right, I hate it. I know my crunch factor just dropped by ten thousand recycled hemp points, and I don't even care. I know I'm supposed to dress my kids in uncoordinating Hanna Andersson sweat suits until they are fifteen, and encourage them to memorize every exhibit, if not create some of them, and I know I ought to spend every sunny day there. But I just can't. Because I hate it. I'll try to restrict my explanation, as I've already hogged most of cyberspace tonight, but okay, I can't handle not being able to see my kids for thirty minutes at a time. Nor am I fond of them disappearing into some labyrinth of broken necks, into which I could not fit if I tried, and would therefore fail at rescuing them. (If you're wondering if know I'm crazy, I do, and I take a lot of pills, but I can't shake the pervasive safety phobia.)

Fortunately for my kids, we have a lot of friends who guilt me into going, paying little mind to my delicate mental state. The kids instantly enter that cage/maze/chamber, and are not be seen for half an hour, when they emerge asking for hot dogs, another fear of mine. So we go, and they run, which is wonderful, and they visit the exhibits and punch and choke each other in the shadow room, and I try to get a colorful educational vibe rather than a dank desperate vibe. I know one mom who agrees with me, and she had BETTER come forth in unity, for I fear after this gets posted, she may be my only friend left.

I don't want to get too detailed about why I'm uncomfortable there, because 40% of my friends either built it, or run it, or consider it a member of their family, and I'm not aiming to hurt anyone. But it's specifically configured to choke and/or hide your child(ren). I always want to take everyone into the baby room and sit safely amongst the shape sorters, but nine year olds are prohibited, and they get pissed when you try to hold them there. They want to be slopping around in that sticky bubble bullshit, or assembling people's garbage into crafts that must be brought home and cherished forever. I just can't take it. But, I'm a mom, first and foremost, and I shan't deny my kids these liberties just because I'm scaredy cat with ocd. So, if you're not busy setting fire to my house for this act of treason, and you happen to be headed to AC Gilbert's soon, and everyone else on your list turned you down, and you hate me, go ahead and call me. We'll probably come.

no country for sissies

B and I are on a little movie kick these days, and last night we selected No Country For Old Men. Critics gave it an A, and the film and its crew were showered with Academy Awards the other night. Plus, Tommy Lee Jones is really cute, so how cold we miss?

Within eight seconds of our arrival, my blood was running cold. Set against the backdrop of the dreariest old western landscape, Josh Brolin was making one gruesome discovery after another. Soon he made the fateful mistake of absconding with two million dollars he liberated from a rotting carcass, and the hunt began.

Enter the creepiest m-f-ing villain you have ever laid your tender eyes upon. Dark and silent, tall and relentless, with eyes can that could turn you to stone. Or at least make you cry. Granted I am prone to some exaggeration at times, but this man was so sinister I wanted to leave the theater. His gaze bore a hole straight through my heart, and I literally trembled throughout the entire movie. As crazy as it sounds, his face was not his most frightening feature, nor was his modified oxygen tank murder weapon. It was his hair. When a fraction of my terror subsided a bit, I was commenting to myself that his medieval pageboy was really the source of my fear, and that's when Brandy leaned over and whispered, "What's up with that Prince Valiant hairdo?" It was the only smile I was afforded the entire night.

So grim guy tracks dumb luck guy, in search of the money, and our audience was breathless for two hours. This pursuit was so chilling, so hopeless, and so so bloody, no one made a peep. You could actually hear my nails tearing the flesh of B's arm.

Spoiling the ending isn't really a problem here, because A) the Coen brothers spoil their own endings, and B) this post is about Javier Bardem being the most ominous son of a bitch in the history of my cinematic life. So disturbing is he that I refused to believe, when Sam told me, that he actually had a name. That he could have an actual mother, or worse, that he is walking around somewhere. I think he should be imprisoned just for looking like that.

After dropping B off and managing to make it home without him popping up in my back seat, I immediately Googled him to see if he was in fact human. Surprisingly, he is, and does have a mother, and even smiles! This latter fact was the only reason I got any sleep last night at all.

So, do I recommend the movie? Um...yes, if you like to lose control of your bowels, no if you require satisfying endings.

But I consider it a badge of honor to have survived. B, sorry I mutilated your arm. Go heavy on the Neosporin!