I wonder how it feels to murder something beautiful. Let's ask these ladies.
Mar 10, 2009
big pictures
This morning's Hollywood gossip channels remark two very different actresses and their polar feelings about photographers and being photographed--
On the one hand, that little, underaged, gymnastics-stunted television star, Hayden Panettiere.
On the other, that little, wise and beautiful, divine fur coat-sporting, eating disorder-stunted movie star, Christina Ricci.
Obviously, it's unfair for me to compare these two. Ricci is a founding father, A&P is down with most anything she has to say (we don't even impeach her for Black Snake Moan--that shit was Craig's fault). Panettiere, on the other hand, is one of those of the younger generation that we spit on for fear of being prematurely aged by the Culture Industry and because dudes think she's hot and we disagree. However, with or without an oppositional quote from steady(ish), grown Ricci, Panettiere sounds over-dramatic and foolish. What kind of an upstart young actress doesn't want attention from reporters on a red-carpet? Long before these internets, when Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks took their 1920 honeymoon press tour of Europe (yes, publicists were around before sound), a whistle stop appearance in Lenin's Moscow brought a crowd of over a million fans, a number of whom were trampled to death--so powerful and far-reaching was the celebrity created by our first cinema. I mean, talk about ruination! In later autobiography-authoring years, Pickford would recall that Soviet photo-op as the most miserable and frightening experience of her life.
I have a lot to say about tabloids, the imaging of celebrity, the desire to appear as a photograph; a large portion of my book on B. Spears is dedicated to popular imagery--paparazzi pictures, music videos, and television commercials. And, of course, I view much of this stuff as dangerous and violent, but working actors do press. It's simply part of their job, and don't tell me anyone who becomes an actor isn't categorically attention-seeking, particularly child-actors like these two. Methinks Miss Panettiere has delusions of grandeur, a notion that she is the sort of Hollywood star who has passed into the heady death valley of people-turned-visual-icons. She is not. She is a girl on a primetime drama who dates her costar and has some generationally ordained name recognition and maybe a few magazine covers (Self, Seventeen...?). Lady needs the Entertainment Tonight correspondents of the world to affirm her employee status and keep her afloat (working past the age of 25). Lawd.
On the one hand, that little, underaged, gymnastics-stunted television star, Hayden Panettiere.
On the other, that little, wise and beautiful, divine fur coat-sporting, eating disorder-stunted movie star, Christina Ricci.
Obviously, it's unfair for me to compare these two. Ricci is a founding father, A&P is down with most anything she has to say (we don't even impeach her for Black Snake Moan--that shit was Craig's fault). Panettiere, on the other hand, is one of those of the younger generation that we spit on for fear of being prematurely aged by the Culture Industry and because dudes think she's hot and we disagree. However, with or without an oppositional quote from steady(ish), grown Ricci, Panettiere sounds over-dramatic and foolish. What kind of an upstart young actress doesn't want attention from reporters on a red-carpet? Long before these internets, when Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks took their 1920 honeymoon press tour of Europe (yes, publicists were around before sound), a whistle stop appearance in Lenin's Moscow brought a crowd of over a million fans, a number of whom were trampled to death--so powerful and far-reaching was the celebrity created by our first cinema. I mean, talk about ruination! In later autobiography-authoring years, Pickford would recall that Soviet photo-op as the most miserable and frightening experience of her life.
I have a lot to say about tabloids, the imaging of celebrity, the desire to appear as a photograph; a large portion of my book on B. Spears is dedicated to popular imagery--paparazzi pictures, music videos, and television commercials. And, of course, I view much of this stuff as dangerous and violent, but working actors do press. It's simply part of their job, and don't tell me anyone who becomes an actor isn't categorically attention-seeking, particularly child-actors like these two. Methinks Miss Panettiere has delusions of grandeur, a notion that she is the sort of Hollywood star who has passed into the heady death valley of people-turned-visual-icons. She is not. She is a girl on a primetime drama who dates her costar and has some generationally ordained name recognition and maybe a few magazine covers (Self, Seventeen...?). Lady needs the Entertainment Tonight correspondents of the world to affirm her employee status and keep her afloat (working past the age of 25). Lawd.
Love In This Club: Adrian Veidt and Edward Morgan Blake
Whether Watchmen is actually unfilmable (Zac "so-not-gay" Snyder being the proof of that) is irrelevant. Billy Crudup's crazy glowing blue wang, Patrick Wilson's enjoyable (but understated) wang (god, there was so much wang) are also a bit irrelevant—to Alpha at least.
Let's get back to the book. To why Alan Moore (as scared of him as I am) is really a fucking genius. Let's get back to the actual characters. And let's get back to what A&P does best. Let's get back to the love in this club:
Contestant #1. Adrian Veidt (aka Ozymandias). The smartest (and often implied to be the prettiest) man on earth, forever cursed with that burden. Say what you will about his actions, but the man's motives are understandable and direct; he believes the world is worth fighting for, and does so with ruthless efficiency. While obviously purported to be the "villain" of Watchmen, once you really listen to the sick mind behind it all, you can't help but believe in him. Just steer clear of Manhattan and enjoy the calamari...
Contestant #2: Edward Morgan Blake (aka The Comedian). Another one of the (quite possibly the) greatest morally ambiguous characters in fiction ever. They call him the Comedian because he gets the ultimate fucking joke: life. It's silly. It's self-defeating. It's not worth saving. It's simply worth maintaining. And gaining bloody satisfaction in doing so. Is it any wonder contestant #1 (SPOILER ALERT) had to kill him? Not at all, and the fact that Blake took it with the dignity and professionalism one would expect?... make love to me...
I'm OK. You're OK.
Just a little fun-times to raise team morale... Unfortunately, no one wants us to have a good time (especially the devil's new favorite website, YouTube) so I have to link it... Great muppety Odin, how I wish it was displayed prominently on the site... cuz this is my favorite song, I sing along when the DJ throws it on...
Mar 9, 2009
Verses
At fifteen, this was my most favorite poem—
"The Young Housewife"
William Carlos Williams
1916
—And here are some lovely Mainers formalizing it.
"The Young Housewife"
William Carlos Williams
1916
At ten AM the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband's house.
I pass solitary in my car.
Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.
The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.
—And here are some lovely Mainers formalizing it.
I Demand Satisfaction
I realize that A&P has been man-negative recently. It could have something to do with a few unsavory March anniversaries or how it seems pretty clear that Chris Brown intended to kill Rihanna. But in an attempt to free my system of man-negativity by wallowing in it, I've elected to post a "baby oil and belt" beatdown (lord—how that sounds!) from 2007's This Christmas, a film which incidentally starred Chris Brown, and a game of abusive hubby bruising "Grit Ball" from my most favorite film of the past decade, Madea's Family Reunion—
Expansion (and Deflation)
I need to expand my comment on Pillow's "...Broad" post below into a proper post of my own. Because I just got sucked into reviewing several years worth of Vice Magazine (which I haven't read since 2005) "Do's and Don'ts," first looking at our old friend and then on and on and on. And though there are a few quirky old drunks and bums featured, like our Founding Father smelly aunt down there, most of the mugs are young girls and guys. A girl is a "Do" if she makes Vice's "pants tighter" or causes them to "whack off" or "think of getting married," a "Don't" if she dresses poorly or looks "diseased." A guy is a "Do" if the Vice fellas admire his estilo or otherwise find him relatable, a "Don't" if he dresses poorly or generally seems "normal" and "douchey."The prose is pithy and fun-as-ever, and their opinions not always so predictable as one might imagine, and I don't really mind using sartorial choices as a major criteria for hotness, because clothes tell you a lot about a brother/sister. But I have new information since 2005—I've dated a couple of these Vice employee types, these blue-collar, over-the-hill skater, record collector, mannered, dinge-aesthetes (one of them was a featured "Do" back in '04). And it didn't go so well.
These hyper-specific, but all too common boyfriend-characters were (as the "Do and Don'ts" authors self-proclaim constantly) nerds in high school (but the kind that took a lot of acid in Jr. High...?). I know that there are sweet dudes who avoid this particular noose, but most high school nerds turn out to be whopping misogynists. Obviously, those who were jocks can also wear that mantle, but often, they do so openly. Nerd-turned-'hipster'-misogynists tend to hide their woman-hatred, born of painful memories of rejection and humiliation at the hands of pretty girls (I recall a drunken fight with an ex that began with him saying that he "would have hated me in high school."), beneath a frosting of liberality and "alternativeness."
These guys are obsessed with beautiful women in the shallowest way, as possible fixes for their public validation addiction, their crippling insecurity. The most dangerous of the species seek to belittle and punish these much-desired femmes once they've drawn them in with adoration and half-serious marriage proposals and mixed CD's. When you've actually loved and co-habitated with a textbook case, a deep suspicion of all men (especially the ones who ride bikes and wear beards and horn-rimmed glasses) sets in.
Today, in 2009, I still found Vice "Do's and Don'ts" amusing and absorbing, but my absorption was inflected with dreary recollections of waking up next to a guy who was jealous of me (inevitably these unions are rife with class issues), a guy who would essentially never stop hating the part of me that he imagined hated him.
Founding Fathers: This Broad
I heard that a chick I used to know was a recent "do" on Vice's grating "Do's & Don'ts" list, so I took a gander at the website. I'm really glad that I did because I found this little slice of elegance, in the "do's" section no less.
The Best Thing Going (For Monday)
This map was originally published in Morse's American Gazetteer in 1797. Can you believe this presaging of neon highlighters?!
More Sinistration
Daylight Saving Tiempo is just sickness, further, extreme, March-styles sickness. I wasn't so phased yesterday, being that it was Sunday and I had nothing to do but sleep in and watch One Tree Hill on SOAPnet. But this morning has been a serious test of my will-to-live mettle. I feel like I've gotten less sleep and less sun at the bitter end of a season that generally makes me feel tired and dim. Fuck you, Ben Franklin (srsly).
Verses
"Zero"
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Shake it like a ladder to the sun
Makes me feel like a madman on the run
Find me, never, never far gone
So get your leather, leather, leather on on on on
Your zero
What's your name?
No one's gonna ask you
Better find out where they want you to go
Try and hit the spot
Get to know it in the dark
Get to know it whether you're
Crying, crying, crying, oh oh
Can you climb, climb, climb higher
Shake it like a ladder to the sun
Makes me feel like a madman on the run
No you're never, never far gone
So get your leather, leather, leather on on on on
Your zero
What's your name?
No one's gonna ask you
Better find out where they want you to go
Try and hit the spot
Get to know it in the dark
Get to know it whether you're
Crying, crying, crying, oh oh
Can you climb, climb, climb higher
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
Hope not!
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
What's your name?
Your zero
What's your name?
No one's gonna ask you
Better find out where they want you to go
Try and hit the spot
Get to know it in the dark
Get to know it whether you're
Crying, crying, crying, oh oh
Can you climb, climb, climb higher
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
Hope not!
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
Hope not!
What's your name? (x7)
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Shake it like a ladder to the sun
Makes me feel like a madman on the run
Find me, never, never far gone
So get your leather, leather, leather on on on on
Your zero
What's your name?
No one's gonna ask you
Better find out where they want you to go
Try and hit the spot
Get to know it in the dark
Get to know it whether you're
Crying, crying, crying, oh oh
Can you climb, climb, climb higher
Shake it like a ladder to the sun
Makes me feel like a madman on the run
No you're never, never far gone
So get your leather, leather, leather on on on on
Your zero
What's your name?
No one's gonna ask you
Better find out where they want you to go
Try and hit the spot
Get to know it in the dark
Get to know it whether you're
Crying, crying, crying, oh oh
Can you climb, climb, climb higher
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
Hope not!
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
What's your name?
Your zero
What's your name?
No one's gonna ask you
Better find out where they want you to go
Try and hit the spot
Get to know it in the dark
Get to know it whether you're
Crying, crying, crying, oh oh
Can you climb, climb, climb higher
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
Hope not!
Was it the cure?
Shellshock!
Was it the cure?
Hope not!
What's your name? (x7)
Mar 8, 2009
Sinister Minister
I know I've mentioned it before, but at A&P we're old friends (family really) with more than a few traits in common. We have comic-tragic taste in men. We drink (preferably the brown stuff). We get maudlin. We dwell on/in the past, revisit all the old bastards and losses and triumphs and television shows. These are year-round pursuits, sometimes blissful, but in winter, the grave sorts of reminiscences seem denser, joy and its memory scarce on the ground.
This past week, the first of March, it snowed in both of our homes, Memphis and New York. And as various weathermen clucked the phrase, "in like a lion, out like a lamb" over and over again, I began to feel anxious. At root, or after much repeating, it's a pretty sinister, strange saying, which is appropriate, because March is a pretty sinister, strange month with its inconsistent weather and Caesarcide. So, without getting into the sordid details of my March (with the damn Ides still to come!)...I'll say: friends—lay low, self-care, set your clocks forward, feel free to be a mess. In a matter of weeks, this spell will lift and we can start wearing shirtsleeves and eating at outdoor tables again. Blame March. Stay up.
Mar 6, 2009
Love in this Club
Digging on roughnecks?...check out this picture of Croat chiefs from Roger Fenton's 1855 Crimean War portfolio!
(Click image to enlarge.)
"stay carried"
I've been watching Season 1 of The Sopranos for the first time since it aired on HBO in winter 1999. It's a theatrical joy (as remembered), and I am once again hearting/lusting Tony and Christopher (in all of his tracksuit-and-chain-wearing glory!) and the John and Junior Soprano of Tony's late sixties flashbacks, a den of violent, narrow, philandering gangsters.
My dear friend PMC decries this sort of archetypal male role, "the lovable misogynist." And I agree--the hero who blithely (or with a scant few pangs of regret) commits crimes and uses up a string of adoring/sad/angry women is a threat to culture, a dumb, toxic product of patriarchal art-making, a pin-up for femmes who hate themselves. But, try as I might, (sorry Ma) I can't apply good politics to sex--I'm one of those suckered femmes--I find "lovable misogynists" irresistible.
When I was eighteen, I was on a date with a nice, Jewish boy, a little older than me. We were on our way to a bar in Allston-Brighton, cruising through tunnels in his zippy little silver, CA-plated Beemer listening to "Let's Get High" off of Dre's Chronic 2001, an album with quite fond High School associations. He asked if the song bothered me. I laughed, said, "Sorry, I'm confused." He explained that it had just struck him (stoned) how "sexist" the lyrics were. He was embarrassed.--
[all together]
All these niggaz and all these hoes in here
Somebody here gon' fuck! (repeat 4X)
[Hittman]
Talkin that, walkin that, spittin at hoes
Smokin this, drinkin that, hittin at hoes
Fuck this I'm hittin that I'm hittin em both
Have one ridin dick, one lickin my toes
When I'm lovin these hoes there ain't no love involved
No hugs, no kisses, bear rugs, bear britches
Rare bitches like to pose in them Black Tail pictures
Bitch jumped off my dick, "Is that Dre over there?"
[Dr. Dre]
Yeah -- I just took some Ecstasy
Ain't no tellin what the side effects could be
All these fine bitches equal sex to me
Plus I got this bad bitch layin next to me
No doubt, sit back on the couch
Pants down, rubber on, set to turn that ass out
Laid the bitch out, then I put it in her mouth
Pulled out, nutted on a towel and passed out
[Kurupt]
Come on let's get high (hiiiiigh..) let's get high (hiiiiigh..)
Come on let's get high (hiiiiigh..) let's get high
All my ladies let's get high (hiiiiigh..) high (hiiiiigh..)
Let's get high (hiiiiigh..) Come on let's get high
I make the four hop {*hydraulic sound*} pull up at the spot
Weed by the barrels in my G'd up apparel
Stompin in the party, Kurupt, Young Gotti
I'm fuckin somethin in this bitch, hit em with some gangsta shit
Put somethin in your mouth bitch real tasty...
...Kurupt with an ounce an' got all the hoes in this motherfucker bouncin {*hydraulics*}
Down to.. YO WHATTUP SCRAM JONES?
Mel-Man what's crackin? Whassup wit all these ol' punk ass hoes in here?
[Ms. Roq]
Nigga WHUT??! I'm a hustlin bitch!
I like them get rich niggaz, them hit the switch niggaz
Niggaz bout the sex and which bitch to hit next
While I'm kickin my game and collectin them checks
Got all y'all niggaz vexed to fuck this triple-X rated hoe
You say you ain't eat it - you ate it though
And uhh, Roq don't stop, can't be droppin no drawers
To the niggaz how you figure got you shittin in yours
Yeah, little dicks always runnin they mouth
While a bitch is better off to masturbate and be out
All you bitches up in here know what I'm talkin about
Get the loot, get the ice, fuck the wife, no doubt
Tryin to live lavish, marry a big dick and stay carried
Holla back at them niggaz that hollered at me
Pop the Cris', whip the six and shit
And have all y'all niggaz limp when I twist my shit
Yeah! Bitch ass niggaz!
All these niggaz and all these hoes in here
Somebody here gon' fuck! (repeat 4X)
[Hittman]
Talkin that, walkin that, spittin at hoes
Smokin this, drinkin that, hittin at hoes
Fuck this I'm hittin that I'm hittin em both
Have one ridin dick, one lickin my toes
When I'm lovin these hoes there ain't no love involved
No hugs, no kisses, bear rugs, bear britches
Rare bitches like to pose in them Black Tail pictures
Bitch jumped off my dick, "Is that Dre over there?"
[Dr. Dre]
Yeah -- I just took some Ecstasy
Ain't no tellin what the side effects could be
All these fine bitches equal sex to me
Plus I got this bad bitch layin next to me
No doubt, sit back on the couch
Pants down, rubber on, set to turn that ass out
Laid the bitch out, then I put it in her mouth
Pulled out, nutted on a towel and passed out
[Kurupt]
Come on let's get high (hiiiiigh..) let's get high (hiiiiigh..)
Come on let's get high (hiiiiigh..) let's get high
All my ladies let's get high (hiiiiigh..) high (hiiiiigh..)
Let's get high (hiiiiigh..) Come on let's get high
I make the four hop {*hydraulic sound*} pull up at the spot
Weed by the barrels in my G'd up apparel
Stompin in the party, Kurupt, Young Gotti
I'm fuckin somethin in this bitch, hit em with some gangsta shit
Put somethin in your mouth bitch real tasty...
...Kurupt with an ounce an' got all the hoes in this motherfucker bouncin {*hydraulics*}
Down to.. YO WHATTUP SCRAM JONES?
Mel-Man what's crackin? Whassup wit all these ol' punk ass hoes in here?
[Ms. Roq]
Nigga WHUT??! I'm a hustlin bitch!
I like them get rich niggaz, them hit the switch niggaz
Niggaz bout the sex and which bitch to hit next
While I'm kickin my game and collectin them checks
Got all y'all niggaz vexed to fuck this triple-X rated hoe
You say you ain't eat it - you ate it though
And uhh, Roq don't stop, can't be droppin no drawers
To the niggaz how you figure got you shittin in yours
Yeah, little dicks always runnin they mouth
While a bitch is better off to masturbate and be out
All you bitches up in here know what I'm talkin about
Get the loot, get the ice, fuck the wife, no doubt
Tryin to live lavish, marry a big dick and stay carried
Holla back at them niggaz that hollered at me
Pop the Cris', whip the six and shit
And have all y'all niggaz limp when I twist my shit
Yeah! Bitch ass niggaz!
--I said, "Oh, it's never occurred to me. I mean, there's the part with the chick at the end. I don't know. I'm not bothered by that stuff."
Mar 5, 2009
Amusement for Thursday
Obviously a parody, but early on makes some rather interesting points about skankiness in America.
Would You Excuse Me? I'm Feeling Emotional...
I don't know why it took Alpha so long to post this, but I saw Shirley Manson on that awful Chelsea Handler show the other night, and the next day spent a long time deciding between her's (Chelsea's) and Carrie Fisher's books at *that* local bookstore, and decided (klar klar superstar) on Carrie's...The one thing keeping me undecided was that Shirley Manson has never appeared on Carrie's Lifetime television project, Interviews From The Edge...
In any event, the Chelsea Really? interview reminded me of exactly how much I love the Shirley. I have loved her since the first day I met her (see below for details). Pillow and I saw her live (with Corsica) a few years back, and the bitch is still on fire. Nearly 6 feet tall, she kicked some random line-stepping fan in the head, a story we do still regale the younguns with...And I figure, since we're all about the 90's redux here, I'd just give you another great throwback...
I remember my first day with Shirley quite vividly. I discovered Garbage The Rock Band (as Chrissie Hynde so lovingly refers to them), infantalized and fresh from my morning routine (at age 10. Please do check yourself into a clinic if you think that's hot). Seemingly out of nowhere, this video came on, and I decided at that exact moment, this woman was going to be the end-all-be-all for me.
First off (even at 10), blue eyeshadow on a green-eyed redhead? Crazy! (although Able, on her first meeting with Alpha, would dare the same thing... on HIM...). Then, upon further review, fishnets and goth and actual clinical depression and everything Gwen Stefani at that time was not (despite their apparent lifelong friendship).
Y'know, it's all quite possibly why I'm gay; it's probably why my love for alt-rock prevents me from keeping a man (or an actual gay one, at least, who doesn't love Sonic Youth more). And her current run (acting!!!) on the FOX television thing, Sarah Conner Chronicles, is most certainly why I act even more like a robot these days. ..
Regardless, this is the video that made me the Alpha we all know and love. Enjoy. Listen to it many times if you don't have the CD nearby. Because, deep down, you know you want to...
In any event, the Chelsea Really? interview reminded me of exactly how much I love the Shirley. I have loved her since the first day I met her (see below for details). Pillow and I saw her live (with Corsica) a few years back, and the bitch is still on fire. Nearly 6 feet tall, she kicked some random line-stepping fan in the head, a story we do still regale the younguns with...And I figure, since we're all about the 90's redux here, I'd just give you another great throwback...
I remember my first day with Shirley quite vividly. I discovered Garbage The Rock Band (as Chrissie Hynde so lovingly refers to them), infantalized and fresh from my morning routine (at age 10. Please do check yourself into a clinic if you think that's hot). Seemingly out of nowhere, this video came on, and I decided at that exact moment, this woman was going to be the end-all-be-all for me.
First off (even at 10), blue eyeshadow on a green-eyed redhead? Crazy! (although Able, on her first meeting with Alpha, would dare the same thing... on HIM...). Then, upon further review, fishnets and goth and actual clinical depression and everything Gwen Stefani at that time was not (despite their apparent lifelong friendship).
Y'know, it's all quite possibly why I'm gay; it's probably why my love for alt-rock prevents me from keeping a man (or an actual gay one, at least, who doesn't love Sonic Youth more). And her current run (acting!!!) on the FOX television thing, Sarah Conner Chronicles, is most certainly why I act even more like a robot these days. ..
Regardless, this is the video that made me the Alpha we all know and love. Enjoy. Listen to it many times if you don't have the CD nearby. Because, deep down, you know you want to...
Mar 3, 2009
Reunion (Early March Jam)
Senior year of high school was awash in 50 Cent (and Cam'Ron and Lil' Kim and Missy and Jahiem and Mr. Bigg and Beyonce and Justin Timberlake and Sean Paul and Pharrell). "21 Questions" (Nate Dogg, I love your work.) was the radio song of lazy, hazy, dazy, teenage truant spring afternoons. Or, really this was...but still, hearing any of that G-Unit stuff (from between 2003 and 2006) makes me feel like a happy, dancey fool, like I want to bob my head and snap and sing the hook and drink pink wine, like I'm at a reunion, like I'm forty (or 18?), like I'm listening to a pop relic. The sound is easy and shameless and always/already past.
"Hate It or Love It" was a hit collaboration between 50 and The Game released amid stories of the rappers' (non-event) falling out. The Trammps sample and nostalgic rhymes are evocative of this general "reunion feeling-notion," the whole, familiar and right. Oh the pure, aughtsy aspirationalism of it all! Dig that last shot of the black and red limited edition U2 AIDS Ipod. GGG-G.
Disco Bloodbath
If you haven't been watching RuPaul's Drag Race on LOGO, then...well, what the hell is wrong with you? Seriously, it's the best reality "game show" out there (although that one with Vivica A. Fox is pretty choice, I never know when it's on, which is my burden). This week was the most severe episode yet. I'll try to make the synopsis brief:
Everyone hates beautiful "fish-like" bitch, Rebecca Glasscock (note: "fish-like" is used to describe a drag queen that goes more realistic than artistic), but she won this week's challenge (making tough female competive fighters into their drag "daughters") and thus stays in the competition. Her archenemy Shanel (who says she's only 29, but she's really 89) is livid.
The problem is, despite winning this challenge and being the hottest bitch there, Rebecca is the weakest competitor at this point. RuPaul had no other option than to place bubbly man-girl Ongina and Grace Slick's long-lost sister Bebe Zaharra Benet in the bottom two. In my opinion, both should've at least been in the TOP 3 at the end of this thing, so seeing either of them (cue the lightning and thunder) LIP-SYNC FOR THEIR LIVES was devastating. So devastating, that RuPaul had to excuse herself from the stage to contemplate who would have to go. I assume this involved reviewing the girls' overall work in the competition, and a big ol' cigarillo packed with the good shit, but I digress...
In the end, sadly, Ongina was given the size 14 stiletto boot, only because Bebe is a madwoman on the stage. Seriously, she's a beast. Last week, Jenny Shimizu pointed out that she would be doing coke with Bebe if it were still the 90s. She's a brilliant throwback to that early/mid 90's 7-foot glamazon drag queen in a sea of club kids thing (...and who does that remind us of?).
Below is the final 7 minutes of the show. Takes about 2 minutes before the lip-sync, but OMG, it's worth it.
Everyone hates beautiful "fish-like" bitch, Rebecca Glasscock (note: "fish-like" is used to describe a drag queen that goes more realistic than artistic), but she won this week's challenge (making tough female competive fighters into their drag "daughters") and thus stays in the competition. Her archenemy Shanel (who says she's only 29, but she's really 89) is livid.
The problem is, despite winning this challenge and being the hottest bitch there, Rebecca is the weakest competitor at this point. RuPaul had no other option than to place bubbly man-girl Ongina and Grace Slick's long-lost sister Bebe Zaharra Benet in the bottom two. In my opinion, both should've at least been in the TOP 3 at the end of this thing, so seeing either of them (cue the lightning and thunder) LIP-SYNC FOR THEIR LIVES was devastating. So devastating, that RuPaul had to excuse herself from the stage to contemplate who would have to go. I assume this involved reviewing the girls' overall work in the competition, and a big ol' cigarillo packed with the good shit, but I digress...
In the end, sadly, Ongina was given the size 14 stiletto boot, only because Bebe is a madwoman on the stage. Seriously, she's a beast. Last week, Jenny Shimizu pointed out that she would be doing coke with Bebe if it were still the 90s. She's a brilliant throwback to that early/mid 90's 7-foot glamazon drag queen in a sea of club kids thing (...and who does that remind us of?).
Below is the final 7 minutes of the show. Takes about 2 minutes before the lip-sync, but OMG, it's worth it.
Mar 2, 2009
Snow Day
Last night, betweeen 1 and 3 A.M. about a foot fell over the five bouroughs (another ten inches to come today). After waking early and determining that I would not have to go to work, I turned on NY1. Joel Klein, New York City School Chancellor sounds despondent. After "deliberation deep into the night," Joel and co. chose to close schools, a thing that's happened twice in the past 20 years (for much larger blizzards). Evidently people in Manhattan are miffed, because this is really an outerbourough and commuter issue. The Staten Island Ferry is closed; there are train delays and suspensions, tricky bridges. I find this dourness and uncertainty really nutty, because in Memphis, literally everything shuts down at the least sight of snow, our school-closers quick-to-action, our citizens happy. So, Pat Kiernan (who gets dishier with each repeated news segment) is surprised that schools are closed, but I'm not. Snow days are made for pausing. And, in the first week of March, we are SICK of winter, and none are equipped to trudge and argue with it.
I'm OK. You're OK.
Eh, somebody I'm friends with on the dreaded MySpace added this song on their profile...that's not so important. What is important is that it reminded me that this is my mom's 2nd or 3rd favorite GNR song ever...
Somewhere in 1991, there's a little boy riding to catholic school in a Mazda 626 with this song blasting, quietly wondering what will become of him...
Somewhere in 1991, there's a little boy riding to catholic school in a Mazda 626 with this song blasting, quietly wondering what will become of him...
Mar 1, 2009
Nail Color For Sunday
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