And the Oscar for the Best Supporting Actress Goes To . . .

And so, on this rainy, filthy Wednesday evening - February's cameo day known as the 29th making its first appearance since 2008 - I have to end it on a kick and a leap and a little something extra-appendage-y. Because nothing says snapshot than Angelina's Right Leg. A leg that has, since its similar cameo appearance at Sunday night's Oscars - and keep in mind we may never see it again the same way Meryl may never see the podium for a fourth statuette - gone viral and become an internet meme. It's even got its own Twitter account. And, predictably, it's placing the focus on itself, while fame lasts, a thing that hopefully won't be larger than the actress hosting it. You go, Angie's Right Leg! You go and leg-bomb the Net with a kick and a twirl and milk that notoriety right up to the slit, and by that, I mean slit.

Quick Peek at Madonna's New Single Girl Gone Wild

Quite an improvement over her first single off of MDNA and hot on that single's demise from the charts is Girl Gone Wild. It's got all of the classic disco sound that she's become known for, similar in tone to Get Together, and it should return her back to the top 10. Easily.

Remembering Elizabeth

Big girls need big diamonds.

 You would have turned 80 today. Not that it matters - your beauty is timeless and so are your films.

Three Times Meryl

Meryl vs. Margaret - uncanny?

Yes. it's been 30 years since she accepted anything belonging to her, but tonight, on a surprising note that had Viola Davis as a participant, Meryl Streep emerged a winner.

Earlier in the year Streep became the contender and actress selected to portray a film based on the life of former UK Prime Minister Margaret Thatchder, UK's Prime Minister for the most of the 80s. I have not seen the film and would be hard pressed to push it towards any prize, but if the Academy voted it so, she must have done a serious heck of a job. After all - she is the greatest living actor of any gender the world has witnessed. Screw Bette and Katherine - would they have closeted their ego in the demands of such a role? Really?

So now I am anxiously awaiting the release of this movie that I will most definitely see over wine, cheese, and crackers. I mean let's face it, when you think of ACTING -- BEING the part, does Megan Fox come to play? Heck - anyone??

No. Meryl Streep. Meryl FUCKING Streep.

Anyway, good night, safe partying, and I'll be back in a day or two. Providing. :)

But the One on the Left--

From the Facebook page Military Humor. Four cadets (?) do a cute routine to the beat of Darude's 1999 Sandstorm. Front-left (monitor's and your left), the one that is the most muscular, is sporting quite a tight pair of shorts . . . and package to boot.

Welcome Home, Marine

This picture tells a thousand stories.

The Fontaine Blows

A 31 year old unidentified club-goer went to an early grave February 24th at the Fontainebleau in Miami after doing a little too much blow up his air-holes - allegedly. It's still being investigated. Even so, this is why if you're going to turn your nose into a Dyson and get a little happy, portion control and tiny, skinny lines are always best for the figure. Especially if the snow is coming from Colombia. I've had their coffee. Kept me up for a week until I was a blubbering, jittery mess with bulging eyes and chattering teeth, peeing on myself.

So I'm dedicating this song to this lottery winner.

Queer IV on Terence Malick's The Tree of Life

Bob and I didn't really have this in plan; the movie happened to be at the top of our queue and before we knew it there it was, the flat red envelope from Netflix, the title The Tree of Life staring blankly at us with a synopsis that was/is as vague as anything we could have forseen going into this movie. But before I go in I should tell you this. The reason we decided to watch this baby was because this is Oscar month, and not being movie goers we simply wait for the DVD release and watch it in the commodity of our own living room, letting the Chardonnay run free like it's going out of style as we sit back and indulge. And let's face it, anyone who pays almost 13 dollars to sit in a theatre with people on all kinds of smart phones and iPhones and crying babies, restless kids, rowdy teens and the possibility of catching bed bugs knows that movie-watching just isn't the kind of pleasure one can indulge in just like that.

And anyway, if the movie turns out to be a turkey, you can't say you were gypped and gimme my money back, bitch. You have to suck up your losses and move the fuck on, to better pictures and a better use of your time.

So Friday night, there we were, about to watch this movie. I'd selected it because according to what I read, Jessica Chastain (Oscar-nominated for her supporting role in The Help) was a revelation in Malick's picture. Check. That was it. I didn't know anything about it. Headlong into it I dove, cheerfully ready to rip it apart the same way I ripped apart Malick's 2005 art-picture The New World. That was all I needed to expect here: a pandering, aimless movie filled with so much static poetry I could walk away, do my laundry, have a quickie in the bedroom, come back and still be able to follow the plot.

You probably won't see it. I recommend you do. I don't want to give much away because there are events on a macro-universal level that are intrinsically bound to the events that unfold during one summer in the lives of a Texan family who subs for every American family. There is a Family, a loving Mother (Chastain), a stern Father (Brad Pitt), and the three sons they produce. The oldest has some inner demons he comes to grapple with. The middle goes into music and is serene. The youngest is sort of a foil to the older ones, typical of youngest brother.



When the movie opens it is the 60s and the Mother receives terrible news: her son  has died. It sends shock waves throughout the entire family nucleus and as she walks out, aimless, grieving, the Father trailing behind, I was reminded of a scene in Alain Resnais' Hiroshima Mon Amour when Emmanuelle Riva's and Eiji Okada's characters are in conflict with each other. She walks ahead, he behind, neither quite reaching out for comfort of resolution. Flash-forward to the present and we see the oldest son, Jack - played by Sean Penn - awakening to a day of the same-old drudgery in the architectural firm he works for, unable to focus. It seems at one point that his older self is caught in the same instance of grief that emotionally shattered his mother. Both send their thoughts to the sky . . . and here is where the Universe comes into play, with a montage reminiscent of the final sequence of Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, or a James Michener novel.

Eventually we make it back to Texas in the the 1950s because there is a story to be told in its own universe. There is little high drama, other than the one time Father has a Bad Day trying to sell a patent and comes back home, fuming mad . . . and takes it out on the children and the wife. What Malick paints here is life in suburbia. You'll recognize yourself in any of the small scenes. Take your pick. You'll see yourself swimming in the community pool and witnessing something bad, you'll see the book you used to read as a kid, your dad as he taught you how to tackle the world because the world as it is, is a dangerous place. You'll see your mother - an all-encompassing protecting angel who embodies grace, the essence of security. You'll even see yourself as a teen - Jack in this case - rebelling against your father, and doing some unthinkable things that make you shudder in quiet horror. You'll then see yourself retreating from the security of your mother, knowing there are things you cannot share with her. And it all comes to a  head in the present, and the future, and the beyond, in one sweeping, emotional moment.

Again, The Tree of Life won't win anything. It's too esoteric. Too impressionistic. However, its meaning is almost like fractal geometry - everything folds and unfolds, revealing a repetition, a pattern, a tone, a purpose. Like the novellas of Marguerite Duras, this is one of those small, intimate stories that goes far beyond the scope of what we can grasp and makes us wonder at how insignificant and simultaneously transcendental we are.

David Dust and Queer Iv Rediscover New York's Oldest Bars

[source]

When we were both Nubile Young Things new to the asphalt jungle that has always been Manhattan, fellow blogger and friend David Dust and I both were warned by our more mature and all-knowing friends that of all the gay bars in the City, the one never to go to was Boots & Saddle located in the heart of the Village. Stories of extreme sleaze and overall perversions only the ballsiest could withstand without irony filled out ears, and not wanting to get anything unwelcome (and filthy! ugh), we stayed the fuck away. We made to the friendlier Ty's and Duplex, sometimes traveling as far as (shudder) Queens and Brooklyn in order to mingle with the non-Manhattanites as if both of us owned the island and were conceding to disclose our urban presences into the Great Unknown.

Of course, little did we know that none of our friends had ever set foot into B & S - they were just parroting what they themselves had been told by others with prejudice. And yours truly made sleaze his home by being a regular in leather bars such as The Lure, Manhole, and J's Hangout. Oh, the good times. . . . New York has become Disneyland.

So imagine our surprise when these two found themselves sitting at the bar Thursday evening, ordering drinks (I ordered a Hooker on tap and it, like its title's meaning, delivered the goods), and felt immediately at home. The crowd: other men like us - people who'd ended their workshift and were looking to wind down. Deep house filtered through speakers, flat-screen TVs showcased both the news, bar events, and some vintage video of Donna Summer, ABBA, and other 70s staples. A cute, cherubic go-go dancer named Francisco strutted his stuff at the far corner, and this was just 5:30 PM. The night was, as a matter of fact, young.

[source]

At around 8:00 PM Francisco left, gave David a fraternal hug and the writer a flirtatious squeeze in his left arm. [Alright, I choose to believe it was a squeeze with a little extra. Fuck it. I'm single and he's cute.] That sent the crowd into a dispersal and although Francisco was replaced by the even hunkier Marco, we were hungry. After all, being in the presence of all that beef had made us practically salivate.

Again, we were met by a dilemma: where to go chow without having to formally sit down and spend 20 dollars on a burger that might or might not be up to the standards of the Department of Health? All I wanted was a small snack to carry me through the next couple of hours, and David shared my sentiment. Knowing Julius serves food but never having been there, I suggested it off-handedly.

"Oh my Gawd! I've never been there. I hear their burgers are great!"

"I read that too! Could you believe I don't even know where it is?"

"Oh, I know--I've passed right by it!" David sighed. "Another one of those places you just never went to, because you were afraid to walk into a time capsule and run into the ghosts of Stonewall past."

Wouldn't you know? No ghosts, no sea of dramatically older men (well, there was perhaps one or two at the bar, talking animatedly with some attorney types). No, they were all young urbanites, hip, settled in energetic conversations filled with life and laughter as the music, a concoction of soft rock, chill, and cool jazz, hovered in perfect balance. We were, again, floored. Of course, you have to understand - these aren't bars that are within the center of action: Julius is tucked away in a quieter region of the Village, as it has been since the earlier portion of the 20th century, and has been in business non-stop since then. When you think Julius you think old, really old, and who wants that? However, this was quite the place: up to the times, warm and welcome, buzzing with a kind of special, "you are family" vibe newer bars could learn about. It also held an intimacy reminiscent of Cafe Vivaldi on Jones off of Bleeker, or the closed Factory Cafe on Christopher.

And the food? Like Francisco the dancer, finger licking good. Enough to make us agree on an encore for next Thursday. Wouldn't you, if you saw him up close as I did? Of course you would. Ah, next Thursday cannot come quick enough . . . .

Let's Change the First Line in the Book of Genesis

There. That's better.

A Songbird Dies: Whitney Houston

Earlier this afternoon my friend Bob an I took our leisurely drive to get some coffee. The afternoon was a little cool, but that was appropriate, being it was and still is winter in much of the country. As we walked into Dunkin Donuts we heard over the radio the unmistakable voice of Whitney Houston, singing one of her signature hits, "Didn't We Almost Have it All", and I became somewhat wistful. I couldn't place it. Everything was fine in our own little microworld - why should there be a moment of introspection.

Bob turned to me as we waited in line for our usual drinks. "That was some voice she had."

"I know, right? Incredible . . . this song brings me back."

"I can't believe a woman who was at the top of her game could collapse the way she did."

"Yeah, it's a shame, Bob. It shows what happens when you make the wrong choice and it becomes your entire life. She chose drugs." He didn't reply after that, and I grew silent. Meanwhile, Whitney dove into her chorus, fearless. Nothing other than she hung in the air that moment. Her voice. As if it were saying, I'm still here, bitches.

We returned shortly after, chattering about a laundry list of smaller things, the way two men who have shared their lives for almost 15 years do, intertwined with the "what'll you do this evenings". I felt oddly at ease, close to Bob, as I always do. At that moment, Whitney's sad song had apparently, vanished, and my shadow of nostalgia had dissipated into thin air.

I occupied the later afternoon by taking care of the minutiae that is always there to keep oneself busy, listening to old jazz standards on Pandora. I had a fleeting temptation to type her name and create a radio station based on her style of music and her best hits, but I wasn't up for it now.

Soon after, I succumbed to a need to nap, and lay there, comfortably numb on soft cotton.

And then, the bleeps came. At first, I thought "Oh come on who is paging me when I'm at my evening rest?" And then I saw the bubbles. And the text contained within those bubbles. She was gone. Gone.

There wasn't much to think about. Another pop icon bit the dust in the hell of their own making. Time for me to acknowledge her passing, and hope she was in a better place. I skirted the issue of blaming Brown in my mind, because I did not know her personally. It was always best, anyway, to remember the music, the songs, her lovely, rich voice not many singers have.

Because that is what lives forever. A person is only human. Rest in peace, songbird.

Science Vs Religion

Without the illumination of science and knowledge, we're pretty much left with darkness stemming from the religions of fear.

Madonna and Leno

The cutest and funniest spot aired during the Super Bowl Sunday night. It speaks for itself.

Sweet Dreams

Michele Bachmann was the PERFECT Candidate

Michele Bachman stated on Bloomberg TV today that she was the perfect candidate for the Republican primary race even after she folded up into a tent and called it quits after she placed pretty disgustingly low in Iowa.

"I was. I was the perfect candidate. America had their chance with the perfect candidate. But any of our candidates are going to be acceptable to the American people, and more than acceptable, because right now, if you look at the Gallup map that came out this week, President Obama is in big trouble all across the country."

I kind of miss her. Her crazy eyes, her waxing inanities, her fruity husband who is positively, absolutely, for real-for real NOT gay. I miss her nasal voice, or her reaction at being asked the big questions. But most importantly, I miss her unintentional stupidity that paves the road for brilliant comedy. Oh well. Every show has its curtains that must be drawn, slowly, in lieu of being dragged off screen in a cane. Now we have Newt. Newt and his claims about the Moon. And that, folks, is better than doughnuts at the Doughnut Plant in NYC.


[quote from Huff Post]

Sex-Etiquette

Like Bullets Over Broadway . . . "Don't Speak."

How Obama Snuck into the Halftime's Psyche

This could not have been an accident if it tried. Clint Eastwood, master of measured narration, delivered a solemn yet hopeful, encouraging speech in a Chrysler commercial that made my hair rise. His quote:

It's halftime . . . and our second half is about to begin

was something I almost missed. What it truly meant.

He's sending, through the metaphor of the Giants and the Patriots as well as an American-made car - manufactured in Detroit, that dying city that one held a powerful significance just by its name - a message. It is halftime in our country. The economy continues to hurt and the fingers of blame - from the Occupy people right up to our own fear of the future and what lies ahead - made us doubt our very nature. By going into the auto industry - something we were leaders on for the first half of the twentieth century - he can make us think about how to tackle the situation, namely, by keeping Obama in office.

Brilliant spot.

Best Super Bowl Halftime Show Ever!

Now this is how you make an entrance. This is how you serve an intermission. This is how you bring it, and make a show work. Referencing the over the top, protracted, suspenseful entrance that Elizabeth Taylor made in her 1963 film Cleopatra, Madonna, dressed as a Viking, spurred on muscular gladiators onto the stage. Once established, she and her crew proceeded to perform the hell out of her biggest hits - namely, Vogue, Music (which she mashed up with LMFAO's Champagne Showers and Party Rock Anthem), her new hit Give Me All Your Luvin', Open Your Heart Express Yourself (where she dueted with Cee-Lo Green), and Like a Prayer. At the end of Like A Prayer she was whisked away in a puff of smoke, leaving the arena awash in golden lights spelling out "World Peace". And, if you didn't see it and were expecting controversy, nothing major happened. Unless you were really paying attention, rapper M.I.A., who sings with Madonna and Nicki Minaj on Give Me. . . flipped the bird on the camera. Too bad NBC attempted to blur it out - they were two seconds too late. Oh, and I really didn't catch the one or two seconds where Madonna slipped a little. I was too entranced to notice anything else. So in a nutshell, yay for the halftime, and double-yay for the Giants' win. Now, let the network apologies ensue for the barely-seen middle finger.

M.I.A. flips the bird, prompting a blur that came 2 seconds too late.

Super Bowl's Brady Quinn

And . . . why not?

SNL Comes to Lana del Rey's Defense on Weekend Update

Last night on SNL, Kristen Wiig donned a wig, a dress, and adopted the mannerisms that made her look like a dead ringer to the new girl in town Lana del Rey. As you know, saw and heard, del Rey recently performed - term used somewhat loosely - a couple of songs and sent the critics, bloggers, and anyone with an opinion into a rabid frenzy that made Janet Jackson's titty blunder seem something antiquated. [Then again, at 40, any titty might look antiquated to begin with. Glad you put that away and kept it there, girl. If it's not neumatic, it doesn't belong inn in the public.]

Anyway - "del Rey" went on to dispassionately dismiss people who dissed her performance and her change in name, languidly throwing everyone under the bus from Cher to Sting, and sailed off into a haze of her own making. Which sends a message: performers might sing badly, but SNL will always be their back-up performers ready for any deflection of criticism. After all, it is a live show, and shit happens. Right?

Superbowl Eye-Candy: Tom Brady

A little levity this Super Bowl Sunday afternoon.

Review: Madonna - Give Me All Your Luvin'

 

"Don't play that stupid game cause I'm a different kind of girl / every record sounds the same, you gotta step into my world." This might be all she has to say to Lady Gaga's blatantly insincere adulation as Gaga pilfers from Madonna's body of work yet fails to prove originality. As a matter of fact, this is the reason why Gaga and every female pop singer who came after the Madonna era must pay attention. Madonna is the first, she's the trailblazer, she's the innovator, the one who expertly blends sophistication with pop culture, the queen of reinvention, and of risks. She is the one who can even have the luxury very seldom artists can do - self-reference herself in her current explosive hit Give Me All Your Lovin' which was released yesterday on YouTube and today on iTunes. By itself, the song is pure fun and a whirlwind revisit of her 1999 hit Beautiful Stranger mashed up with Toni Basil's 1982 classic Mickey that cleverly lapses into a hip-hop bridge rapped by guest artists M.I.A and Nicki Minaj. However, the video offers a different spectacle. Madonna channels every Doris Day move down to the cute little walk and the twirling of the hair and soon swings into Material Girl redux as she throws herself onto the arms of a football team and later lampoons her own incursions into Marilyn (and even makes fun of her own bad acting) from the late 80s. All that's missing from here are references to hydrangea abuse and the video would be heaven. Oh, who am I kidding - she throws a baby-doll off screen after pretending to nurse it. And those faceless cheerleaders? I have a sneaking feeling that again, she's throwing an F.U. to Gaga (et. al) and all of her imitators who have always sounded like cheap knockoffs. And that, people, is priceless. If this is what a quasi has-been, over the hill, old, time-to-retire pop singer sounds like I can only wait for when she turns 60, or even 70. Your queen is back, folks!