Monday, December 31, 2007

How Has it Been Permitted

People!

We forgot to come up with a motto for 2008! Oh my goodness. We got, like, 6 and a half hours before it's too late. All of your best-laid plans will gang agley* if you don't help me with this , I promise you.

*Burns, you fucking Philistine

Saturday, December 15, 2007

And Speaking of Fandom

Of interest to perhaps three readers, tops --

Ok, this is why I love it when I am able to trick folks into visiting
The Get Down. Tempest, provacatrix behind the conversation about POC in fantasy I linked to two posts ago commented here and reminded me -- via my extensive cyber-jaunt through her site[s] about Orbital 2008, which Lawd knows I'm mixing my very best rootboxes to try to attend. Of course, your man, China, is one of the featured guests. I just posted on a bb I frequent that his hot socialist ass is still my nemesis, holding strong through 2007 and looking good for the new year. But! I forgot that Neil Gaiman is also going to be blockrocking beats at the Radisson Heathrow next year! Even though I've never clapped eyes on the man , he lives in/near Minneapolis, so the prospect of travelling to London to gladhand him is not firing me up -- not when I feel as if I just spend enough time hanging around the Triple Rock he might show up. Unlikely? Hell yes. But come on. An old punk is still a punk, right? Anyway -- and you better still be with me, hoes -- a quick detour through Gaimania reminded me that I was also kicking around the idea of finally trying to get to Clarion this year. Unlikely? Hell yes. But 2008* is the year for big pimpin and spending cheese, family. Let's all agree to dream big, shall we?




Right. So, where was I?

Right! Triple Rock, Clarion, and then...dang...






Dang. I've forgotten how or why I hyperlinked there, but I ended up at Moorcock's Miscellany, which is where I learned the thing that made me start this post 40 damn minutes ago: there is going to be an Elric of Melnibone movie. Gatdamn. Did everyone else already know about this? And if you did, why didn't you tell me?

Friday, December 14, 2007

For a Reason

Although I can't promise not to use this information against you at some unspecified future date, I'm curious:

If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?

To be clear, I don't mean that you would be required to listen to said song on 24-hour loop; you could decide when and where you would hear your selection -- but it would be the only song you would ever hear again. In life.

I'm only asking because I've been listening to the same 5 country songs all morning and while I wouldn't choose any of them to be my final ne plus ultra in this particular instance, I'll probably happily have them on repeat for the rest of the day.

For what it's worth, my choice is either "This Woman's Work"* or "Jolene"** or "Lover, You Should Have Come Over" or "God Is Trying to Tell You Something."

* and ** are both notable for being examples of songs in which I [heresy!] prefer remakes to the originals. As much as I love Kate Bush and Dolly Parton, I stan for the opaque grace with which Maxwell imbues "This Woman's Work."



The utterly transcendent Jeff Buckley:



Mindy Smith, manages to do the impossible: she manages to evoke the stark desperation of that song as well as Dolly -- but by making the song sound super creepy. As far as I'm concerned, the unnamed singer of "Jolene" in the Mindy Smith version sounds as she's got blood-stained hands, if you catch my meaning. In the very best tradition of Child ballads, if you ask me.


Video is a bit shit, frankly. As far as I'm concerned, they missed a trick not having some nu-skool David Fincher film it.

And for Fergus, Teri, and every knucklehead in the Horton family who doubts the power of my one-woman Color Purple:



ETA: Those of you [rightly] wondering why there's no Chris Whitley represented on this list should know that I couldn't pick just one song.

Halliburton hit in rape lawsuit

A 22-year-old Texas woman claims she was gang-raped by Halliburton/KBR co-workers in Baghdad, held in a shipping container without food or water for at least a day and warned to keep her mouth shut or lose her job.

read more | digg story

The Default is Faulty

Although I think Bryan [unwisely] gave me posting privileges over at the TNOC Zone, I don't want to just step in and hijack the site without telling him. So I thought that I would post a link here to a very interesting discussion on people of color in fantasy literature.

I'm sure that everyone reading this blog -- including that knucklehead steady googling "street hoes" and ending up here -- knows that I wrote a rather dashing dissertation on race and gender and sexuality in fantasy literature (well, its attendant ephemera, at any rate); so this is a subject quite close to my heart. I'm particularly I2I with the writer who notes that assumption of a default subject position (white, male, straight) is never the default for writers of color, and only rarely so for writers from other marginalized positions. It's something to think about, surely. Why is it that when Tony and I swap "Here's What I'm Working On Now" updates, I always have to make it clear that I'm writing about a black woman/a black man/people of color in general; but it's just assumed by both of us -- because he doesn't say -- that Tony's characters are white? And why is it that I'm made to feel as if my focus -- as a black woman -- on black female characters is somehow solipsistic? I'm not navel-gazing here, but I'm made to feel as if I am. Does Tony feel the same thing when he writes yet another white male character? Thefuckouttahere.

There's a whole discussion we could also have about the nasty sexist undercurrent in the denigration of what's euphemisitically called "Mary Sues,*" but I have neither the time nor the energy to get into it with you hoes. Plus, I have an interview in 45 minutes. Wish me luck, ya bastids.

* I'm not denying the reality of the phenonmemon; I'm suggesting that every heroic female figure in fiction is not simply adolescent wish fulfillment on the part of hysterical women authors.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Going Back To Cali

Circumstances dictate that I make an unscheduled trip back to Minneapolis this holiday season. I'm very excited. Even though I only moved to L.A. one month ago, I already miss winter in the twin cities.

Don't start with me. I know that I will be sick of it in a week. But that's why I will be flying right on back to Cali when the disgust sets in.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Let My Tongue Cleave to the Roof of My Mouth

My friend, Marie, says that you can't have Saint Jude as your patron saint. I think that is b.s. My whole life is a lost cause! How you gonna deny me the special intercessory might of the patron saint of lost causes, Marie?! Saint Jude and I go back long ways!

Anyway, as any good Catholic can tell you, when you offer a petition to this patron, you do so with the full knowledge of the spiritual exchange that must accompany fulfillment of your desires. That is, one promises "to be ever mindful of this great favor, to always honor [Saint Jude] as ... special and powerful patron, and to gratefully encourage devotion to [him] by publishing this request." To wit, if Saint Jude intercedes for you in your lost cause and you are shown a way out of your troubles, you have to publicize that fact.

As a child, I used to be semi-obsessed withe classified section of our local newspaper. I was especially interested in two things: the personals ads and the sporting goods section (I was always on the look out for an epee or foil -- or indeed, any fencing supplies). But I was mystified and intrigued by the Saint Jude petitions. I had no idea what they were for or to whom they were addressed, but the numbers of people who had spent their hard earned money begging for his aid all seemed to belong to an exclusive club. Amongst the petitions you would occasionally find the requisite publication of success. I have no idea if there were so few because Saint Jude wasn't taking too many calls or if, as penitents are wont to do, the prayerful became the forgetful and simply forgot to thank the saint after their petitions were answered.

There are places on the web [virtual community, we] for the desperate, lonely, and scared to post their petitions and likewise, to publish the outcome. I have used those spaces before. But, I have my own web space and this space works just as well. So...

Thank you, Saint Jude, for prayers answered and help almost despaired of.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Before I Forget



Dicebox: don't forget to get the latest scene tomorrow and every Wednesday over at dicebox.net. You will not be sorry. I've become obsessed with Griffen...much in the same way I used to be captivated by David Bowie, I suspect.

From the Bottom of the Bottle

Is there anyone around who still remembers "From the Bottom of the Bottle," with Earnestine Vines? Old Hollywood gossip at its finest!

Saloon, So Long!
After lengthy convalescence on a dude ranch in Montana, yours truly celebrated her release from the beef tea bed-n-breakfast by taking a hike with the local Girl Guides. Somehow your intrepid adventurer got separated from the troupe of hardy explorers after sneaking out one night to use the ol’ log-line-loo. I was found three days later, eating buttons and smoking twigs, with an elderly bearded woodsman who turned out to be none other than that silver-haired fox, Eddie Tarrant. Although no one has seen him in a dog’s age, Eddie assured me that he’s planning a triumphant comeback as soon as his Hayes’ Code suspension has expired. Well, lasso me a low-ball, Eddie, and get back to the ol’ watering hole! Zapata!





*
Yours truly was massaging a wounded ego last night at MacHoulihan’s, when who should walk in but Hollywood’s newest It Girl and a picante Latin dreamboat. They tried to hide their passion, darlings, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s knowing when the glitterati of Tinseltown are making the beast with two backs. No one told me it was Mardi Gras! Ole!


*
Ladies’ Night at Lefty Bruvee’s Juke Joint is a raucous affair, my friends, and make no mistake! Yours truly despaired of making it through the pickled-egg cakewalk without injuring innocent passers-by. The room was that full of revelers! But shouldering (and elbowing) on through bravely, your pal gave it the old college try. And won! And who should be awarding the prizes but that notorious recluse, Hilda van Douten! Guess someone finally aired her out and slipped her a trolley token! Let me tell you, my lovelies – yours truly stumbled out onto the street after dawn much the worse for wear, but that ol’ scallywag, Hilda, was still going strong. Toot-toot, train’s pulling into the station!

I'm Inexplicably Saddened By This

cash advance

Wilkommen


My a-mazing new site meter is telling me that the following google searches are bringing readers to The Get Down lately:

1. "Ebony Adams" + macalester
2. street hoes
3. "street hoes"
4. Mark Lamarr austin
5. Street Hoes
6. jaw wire shut dental care
7. jugo street fihgt [sic]
8. street bitches
9. Hearts of Darkness
10. ebony street hoes

Y'all ain't got traffic like that. Don't even try to cater to the peoples like I do.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Reversible Destiny (Making Dying Illegal)

Hotel Reversible Destiny, Paris

Reversible Destiny


Having observed near and far how the body moves through its surroundings, having thought lengthily of still other ways to surround it, and having built a few tactically posed surroundings, we now notice ourselves to have been tracing an architectural body, or at least a landscape for one. We see architecture not merely as that which stands by and gets linked up with, as structures that life lightly avails itself of in passing; not passive, not passively merely hanging around to provide shelter or monumentality, architecture as we newly conceive it actively participates in life and death matters.


Architecture, in anyone's definition of it, exists primarily to be at the service of the body. The question arises as to how to be most fully at the service of the body. Who would not want to live in a world built to serve the body to the nth degree? The question arises as to what the body is in the first place. Serving the body to the nth degree will include as much as the body bargains for and more. It is mandated for the body that it fend off its own demise, and an architecture that would be unstinting toward the body, that would slavishly deliver up to the body all that it would seem to need, must take this as its mandate too.

--From Introduction to Architectural Body, Madeline Gins and Arakawa (click here for the rest)

Sunday, November 18, 2007

I swallowed a bug

When I lived in the apartment at Fifty-seventh Street and Sixth Avenue, someone began making anonymous telephone calls to me that always followed the same pattern: the phone would ring, I would pick it up and say "Hello," there would be silence and then the caller would hang up. Then a few minutes later, the phone would ring again and the caller would listen intently while I kept repeating, "Who is this? Why don't you say something? Look, I think it would be advisable for you to see a psychiatrist at your earliest convenience."



After about three months, the caller, a woman, spoke for the first time in frightened, tremulous low tones. I asked her who she was and why she kept calling me, and finally wheedled some answers out of her; she said she had been fixated on me for years, ever since A Streetcar Named Desire was on Broadway. I asked her what she did for a living and she said that she was a hold-up artist -- that is, she masterminded robberies, mostly of liquor stores; she planned the "jobs," as she put it, while a deaf-and-dumb friend who drove a motorcycle did the dirty work. After a three-hour conversation, she revealed that for months she and this friend had been making plans to kidnap me and take me to Long Island, where she was going to imprison me and cannibalize me.



--From the best book in the history of life, on this or any other planet



Let me tell you something: no one will ever touch Brando when it comes to sheer, inspired lunacy. He is the platonic ideal of the nutjob. Ninety percent of the crap you hear about him was complete fabrication, but it doesn't matter because the remaining ten percent is so desperately awesome in its absurdity that you want to travel back in time and kiss Brando right on the mouth.

Francis Ford Coppola had observed Brando on Bertolucci's set and hoped for something that momentous from the actor as Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now (1979). He even hoped that Brando could pull the character out of himself. But as I wrote after the 2001 release of Apocalypse Now Redux:

Focused improvisations on sex and food—both of which Brando knew intimately—are one thing; lofty ruminations on the meaning of Good and Evil are something else. In the outtakes included in [the documentary] Hearts of Darkness, you can see Brando scraping the bottom of his own banality. When Coppola prompts him to improvise on the theme of why humans are the only living things that kill for pleasure, Brando chews on a nut and says: "The human animal is the only one that has bloodlust. … Killing without purpose, killing for pleasure. … [Pause] I swallowed a bug."

-David Edelstein


I promise you, people: if you don't go pick up this book, I swear I will imprison and cannibalize you.

Friday, November 16, 2007

19 Year Old Saudi Girl Sentenced to 200 Lashes and Jail for Being Raped

In a new verdict issued after Saudi Arabia's Higher Judicial Council ordered a retrial, the court in the eastern town of Al-Qatif more than doubled the number of lashes to 200. A court source told the Arab News that the judges had decided to punish the woman further for "her attempt to aggravate and influence the judiciary through the media."

read more | digg story

Es Yo Esta Parado En La Necesidad Del Rezo

Glorioso Apostol, San Judas siervo fiel y amigo de Jesus, ruega por mi, pues me encuentro desesperado en esta hora de gran necesidad. Socorrame visible y prontamente te premeto bendito San Judas recordar siempre este gran favor. Nunca dejare de honrarte como mi mas especial y poderoso protector, Amen.

Ofrezo este rezo para me y el Bernadetta. Las ruedas se han caido el Living The Dream autobus del viaje, mi amores!

Thursday, November 15, 2007

The BBC: Bitches Be Crying (part the second)


I think that the advent of BBC America has obscured something important about the transmission of British shows to these shores. I suppose that, really, the problem is wider than that: there's also the easy availability of tv-on-dvd to blame. But the point is, it didn't used to be so easy for a sister to watch the creme of BBC programming. Kids today have no idea. You can netflix as much Green Wing, Coupling, or My Family as you want -- although why the hell you would want to is beyond me -- and watch it at your leisure. Everyone (mostly everyone) has access. Time was, you could only catch British shows on PBS. Remember when PBS was like that Are You Being Served candy man, and you kept saying you wouldn't be back because you knew that shit was rotting your brain, but you kept coming back for another fix? The early version of A&E tried to get on the game in the 80s, but it wasn't the same. If you wanted to chill with The Good Life or nod along to Yes, Minister, you knew where you had to go. The Pusher Man.

PBS.

You know, it wasn't until I was an adult and had lived half a dozen places that I realized that there was more than one version of PBS? I thought it was like CNN. One channel, broadcasting the same shit, at the same time, everywhere around the country. Unbeknownst to me, some people were getting the good stuff. Like, a couple of times a year, our local affiliate would lay a couple of episodes of Red Dwarf on us and I would get hooked all over again, only to have my heart broken the next week when it wouldn't be on. Seriously -- there were some sick programming bastards at the PBS station in my region. I would sit in front of the screen, just willing something (like, weirdly, the time I was obsessed with Rising Damp) to come on, and I would feel myself getting more and more desperate as another MacNeil-Lehrer News Hour would come on and then after that, Last of the Summer Wine or some bullshit like that and eventually my parents would tell me to go to bed and I would want to get out my Lisa Frank folder and purple gel pen and write a letter to somebody. I never did, though. I just thought PBS worked that way. And man, when those interminable pledge drives would start up, I would pray that someone, anyone, would pledge enough to get Red Dwarf back on. Someone: please keep that quality programming on the air. I'm only 6 years old. I don't have any money.

So anyway, one of the things I could count on -- fairly consistently -- was Doctor Who. It came on Sundays at 11 in the morning (holla, Fergus!). Man, at 10:58 my ass was planted. It could be beautiful outside. There could be an ice cream truck, made of teddy bears and money and Now'n'Later candy out there, but I was going to be maxing and relaxing with the Doctor. Every Sunday (unless that sick bastard in programming was messing with me that month). Doctor Who, to me, is Sundays at 11 in the morning.

So imagine my surprise when I learned that a) some PBS markets didn't carry it; b) some markets carried it, but at some wack hour, like Saturdays at 2 in the morning; c) some people were getting the good shit!

Let me explain: when I was coming up, the first doctor I knew was Peter Davison. Yeah. And you know what, to this day he remains my favorite because he was my first. And also because he had Tegan, Nyssa, Adric, and Turlough as companions. I loved all of them knuckleheads. To me, Doctor Who was Sundays at 11 in the morning and it was Peter Davison.

And then, they started tossing some curly haired throwback at me. Turns out this cat was also the Doctor. In fact, he was the Doctor before "my" Doctor. I grew to love him. In time, I found out about all the rest. And before, when I said that Peter Davison was my favorite Doctor? I was lying. It's totally Jon Pertwee.

This post has gotten way out of hand, but that's what the Doctor does to me. I get all raw emotional. And children! I come here to tell you the Doctor has done it to me again! I just finished watching the first season of the revived series!

I can't even be bothered going into it here -- which is odd, given that I've wasted this much of your time already -- but let me just say that I get it now. I listened to all the jibba jabba about Eccleston's leaving the role after one series, and I honestly didn't give a crap. Because I hadn't seen, you know? But now I have. I have seen. And all I can say is, it's a good thing that I saw David Tennant first (just like Peter Davison the last time) and imprinted on him. Because if I hadn't, I would have set the place alight when the ninth doctor sacrifices himself for Rose and regenerates. I'm not kidding, people. I was that in love with the ninth doctor for all three days it took me to watch all the episodes.

Captain Jack Harkness, however, can kiss my natural black ass. Who is this guy? I didn't like ya when your name was Tom Cruise, and I don't like you now. Get off my screen! Torchwood...bah!




You'll remember that I watched the second season of Doctor Who before I watched the first and was all up in my feelings about it, too.

Proof











I haven't made a decision about euthanizing The Get Down yet. Until I do, however, enjoy these handy breakdowns. You've all seen the rap graphs by now (haven't you?); but have you clapped eyes on the metal ones yet? Nah, you haven't. 'Cause I got that brand new, son (courtesy of the folks on the urban75 boards).

read more | digg story



Wednesday, November 14, 2007

The Bells Are Ringing Out

Blogging While Brown
Ironically, it's only a few days after I found out about Blogging While Brown that I'm forced to consider the viability of this heah online 40 acres. This has nothing to do with the fact that two former students just popped up to say that they found The Get Down -- although it would be nice if one could occasionally surprise one's ertswhiles with a more compelling virtual tableau...I mean, pictures of Jim Kelly and Mark Lamarr and Fred Sanford are well and good. But where's the substance?! I ask you. Frankly, family, I only meant to keep this up long enough to help me finish the dissertation. I've finished; I've defended; I've moved the fuck on. Perhaps it's time for The Get Down to go dark? I don't know. All I know is, I'm more interested in every single link on my blogroll than I have ever been in The Get Down.

Anyway, I haven't made up my mind yet. Watch this space. Or you know, don't.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

How You Gonna

Broc has gently reminded me that I forgot to let the family know that I also spotted Tyrese on Friday. If you know him, it will be from the films 2 Fast 2 Furious or Baby Boy, or possibly from his recording career.




If you are as old as I am, you will remember his Coke commercial (you know, the one where he sat crooning to himself on a city bus? And everyone was supposed to think, "who is that talented and gorgeous young man??" But as an actual, bonafide, in-the-flesh city bus-taker, I was thinking, "I would have hit that fool with the back of a textbook. Go busk somewhere else, Pretty."). Anyway, eventually I, too, fell under the spell of that dark Adonis...until I read this past year about his allegedly beating up on his pregnant girlfriend. Not a good look, Tyrese. What was a good look, however, was the limo he was being driven around in on Friday night. What the hell kind of work is Tyrese getting* these days that he rates a limo?

* Don't say it

Edit: Our waiter at The Newsroom looked just like Neil Sims, erstwhile Catherine Wheel drummer and currently one half of 50ft Monster. I can't find a decent picture to illustrate this, and that's fucking with my caffein-a-phoria this morning. Nevertheless, I thought you should know.

Edit two times: Video for "Sparks Are Gonna Fly." I always liked this song: the repetitive drive of the guitars and drum loop reminds me of what being on cocaine was like.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Forget that Other Post


...and surrender to this one. I'm not really interested in the handwringing going on regarding the casting for J J Abrams' Star Trek project. Frankly, that movie could be headlined by Vivica A. Fox and Rob Schneider and I would still go see it. Nevertheless, I recognize that there are lot of people for whom all of the speculation about the new Spock and Kirk matters; to those people, I say: go draw a bad Spock. It will make you feel better. So much, much better.

The rules for submission are simple:

1. Hackneyed, maybe you were drunk when you drew it
2. Totally Punk Rock, you should actual break your pen when drawing it
3. Ham fisted, as if you had not understanding of form
4. Half Baked, the dumber Spock looks the better
5. Sloppy, as if a chimp with metal hooks for hands dipped them in ink
7. Don't let your ability to draw (or lack there of) get in the way of drawing Bad Spocks!
8. Not Spock with a beard that is Evil Spock from the Dark Mirror Universe!
9. What happen to Number 6?
10. If you don't like Star Trek all the better!



This post courtesy of the blogroll over at Spock Jones' site.

You're KIDDING Me

Because he takes his duties as ho-supplier seriously, Paul called me on Friday evening and asked me to join him and his coworkers at The Liquid Kitty for some drinks. I had spent the afternoon chilling in some restaurant in Beverly Hills, trying desperately to see some more motherfucking stars. And then Bill Nighy and Alicia Silverstone showed up and obliged me nicely. Yeah, I don't know what they were doing together, either. I tried checking out imdb but came out with nada.

Edit: I just found this photo of the two of them together. Apparently, they were in a movie called Stormbreaker. Hmmm. Must have become friends. Right on.



Dag. After all that, I don't even remember why I started this post!

Friday, November 09, 2007

More Talk


Joss Whedon blogs about the strike here. I attached a picture of Sally Field as Norma Rae to this post because I saw her being interviewed yesterday from the scene of one of the rallies. I don't know if that was deliberate, but I certainly hope so; it was the most delicious piece of arch-commentary I've ever seen.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Listen to Bill

I really love Kiva and so should you.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

This Is What a Writer Does

Boobies
I remember having a conversation with a fellow writer friend of mine a long time ago about the exigencies of writing those 75 min Skinem.ax/ Playb.oy Channel erotic thrillers. He was telling me that there are rules for the minimum number of sex scenes, and the maximum amount of pages that can elapse in a script before more banging takes place; that these are hard and fast rules that are never, ever deviated from shocked me at the time.

You probably didn't know that I have a nascent career writing erotica, did you kids? Rest assured, it's just a way to make money, not satisfy my soul. But having said that, there's something a little surreal about the post-its dotting my laptop that say things like "you still need an an.al, rev.erse cowgi.rl, and MMFer in this story before you can send it out. REMEMBER."

Monday, November 05, 2007

The Fifth of November

What's the 411? Let Me Know, Hon

For those of you a little confused over the reasons behind, and consequences of the writer's strike:

John August breaks it down very helpfully here.


Yes, Victoria: this means that there are going to be troubles on Y&R. Sorry, Fergus.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

'Fro-fessional


Yanked from King Magazine online, a link to "Cleary Gottlieb Has a Bad Hair Day." Vivia Chen breaks down what happened when a visiting Glamour editor (you'll note how the person responsible gets busted down from "editor" to "junior staffer" once Glamour realises how fucked up her comments were) declares that afros and dreadlocks (and other "political" black hairstyles) are inappropriate for work. For what it's worth, I disagree with the Cleary Gottlieb's managing partner: he thinks that the woman who made the comments was simply "oblivious," but not actually racist. I tend to think it's both, actually; the woman said something racist (and in this instance I think it's important to keep the link between holding racist views and actually being a racist forged in our minds) because she's oblivious to anything outside of a western European beauty aesthetic. And who can blame her? By far the majority of black women this woman sees -- in print, on television, in films -- will conform, to a greater or lesser extent, with white standards of beauty we've all been conditioned to accept: including straight[ened] hair. The fact that most Americans -- including many black people, sadly enough -- equate black hair in its natural state with bad hygiene, sloppiness, dirtiness and wildness OR overweening political posturing means that of course afros and dreadlocks and bantu knots and twists and cornrows are going to be seen as inappropriate for a corporate environment.

More here from So Wise Sista: "Locs Down." It's an older post, but still interesting.

Anyway, this post was provoked by my finding that picture above, which is the 'fro of my dreams*.


*yeah, I know I say that every time I get online and go looking for pictures. But this time I mean it, babe

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

This is Messing With My Afternoon

Shamelessly stolen from Shades of Caruso*! So if you have been tricked into visiting The Get Down by my gracious inclusion in Canyon and the Admiral's blogroll, I apologize. Actually, I don't apologize. Watch this shit again! It's that funny and you know it. This post is going out to Orlando, who won't be able to appreciate its minty goodness because he still flucks with dial up. Seriously.


Already, I'm a Different Person

Things I've knocked out in L.A. so far:

  • a couple of visits to some art galleries
  • a fair amount of writing
  • some running
  • some stand up comedy shows
  • a karaoke championship
Many thanks to Jen, Special Agent Chen, Spencer, and Achilles for making the transition neat, sweet, and reet petite.

Special special thanks to Jen for reminding me of Austin Stories/ Howard Kremer (aka Dragon Boy Suede). Fergus and I used to love this show. It was on MTV in the late 90s, and I'm killing you fools by taking you back there.

Watch this episode for Howard. Skip everything else:


Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Keeping You Hoes Supplied

In honor of his 55th birthday, which I missed yesterday.


Elon Gold doing an amazing Goldblum impression

"...and we'll have barbecue jumbo shrimp, motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"


Trust me. You have to watch this through to the end.




For clarification: by "peaches" he means "Ebony," while peach pie means "Ebony, ass up in my huge bed in my tastefully-appointed home in the Hollywood Hills."

And finally,


Jeff Goldblum is watching you poop.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Speaking of Orlando...and Clint

...he loves this movie.

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The Beguiled

Image Hosted by ImageShack.us


Sister Rosetta* and I have just written our first murder ballad! It's called "Child Bride," and it concerns the gruesome murder of a Union soldier by his teenaged wife. The song and its content are actually terrible, but I'm actually quite proud of it.

*Sister Rosetta is my beautiful Ibanez guitar, which was given to me by the always solicitious, always generous Orlando

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Everytthing is Everything

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Speaking of Pi Bar in Minneapolis (which is where the video detailed in the previous post was filmed), I want to introduce you to Chamindika Wanduragala, who is my favorite artist in the whole wide world. Her murals are all up in Pi.

Her art makes my brain vibrate and hum.
I wants.

Let the Record Show

Damn, fam! I forgot all about this!

One of my very, very, very good friends, BLC called me up early one morning (and I mean errrrrrrrly) to come down and watch one of his friends shoot a music video. This turned out to be great, because I was going to be talking about queer hip hop ( shout out to all the heads in the homorevolution) in class not long after, and because I would up being in the video. Hello. Check it: it was way too early in the morning; I was still wearing my glasses and my headwrap; I was dancing like I came from that town in Footloose and this was my very first motherflucking time moving my bodyu. Sorry about that. Anyway, this video is notable for the presence of a) Ramon, who is funny/salty as hell and also used to work at Macalester; and b) those Playgirl twins (I'm not bothering to google their names. Suffice it to say that it was a trip having them there, not least because one of them brought his "girlfriend" -- yeah, right, bro -- and was seemingly not feeling the whole queers-of-color vibe. His twin, on the other hand, was jocking the [professional] dancer you see in the video fiercely. He was cool). Anyway, you can barely see me in this, but do your best anyway.

GOOD MORNTING



Tori Fixx | More Videos

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

The Rage of the Creative Underclass

I'm intrigued and irritated in equal measure by those "What I'm reading/listening to/diddling myself with" mini-meme themes that can be found on many personal blogs these days. In my typically self-satisfied and self-absorbed fashion, I suspect it's because I couldn't care less what anyone else is doing. Of course, I still really want to tell you, dear reader, exactly what I am up to and why I am up to it; but I'm too lazy to actually compose the summation -- so I simply provide a shorthand Baedeker in the form of

Reading: The Bible
Eating: Cheetos
Listening to: Klezmer dance mixes

...and that's supposed to tell you something about me. And it does, I suppose. But whenever I read someone else's bulletpointed lifestyle recaps, I think: "who gives a crap that you're reading The Kite Runner? And also, no, you're not. You're not reading The Kite Runner, and you're not listening to Al Green and you're not doing any of the things you are say you are doing. You've constructed that list to sound cooler than you are. You're sitting on your ass watching 30 Rock with the rest of us." The sole exception to this is Athena, who was reading China Mieville that one time -- and I think making butternut squash soup and painting a seascape with her feet and listening to The Dead Kennedys -- and I just thought, "this bish is making me look bad" and it was not the first time I have been jealous of that ringletted temptress and I am sure it won't be the last.

Anyway, you should not care, but if you can't stop yourself: this is what I am reading at the moment -- Gawker and the Rage of the Creative Underclass. It's quite interesting, particularly as I've just taken up residence in Los Angeles and am desperately trying to realize my own dreams of creative success. I recognize that the surest way of getting there for many -- at least for writers, which I consider myself to be -- is to nurture what the author of that article considers to be a rather self-defeating and hysterical (and more than slightly disingenous) rage. It's the prose of the perpetually irritated. It's the smugness of the disenchanted obsessive. It's the raison d'etre of sites like this one. Anyway, it's hard not to fixate on the catalyst for this dressing down of Gawker, which seems to be Grigoriadis' injured pride at the bashing she and her new husband took over entirely ludicrous interwebby kind of reasons; nevertheless, her point is more than reasonable and really: if I read one more rationalization of misogyny or casual racism as "snark," I'm going to go Naomi Campbell in this piece and start throwing cell phones.

Watching: old clips of Sanford and Son. duh duh duh duh DUH!


Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Someone For Me

When I Was 15


I fell totally in 15-year old style love with one of the program coordinators at the Wyoming High School Institute. Oh my goodness. I was in serious, serious love for 3 whole weeks! I will not use this dude's name here, but anyone who knows me -- or who also attended HS Institute *ahemZachandCaroline* -- will know who this person is.

I don't know what made me remember that this morning, so let's just file that reminiscence under "Wack Wednesday" and keep it moving, shall we?

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

All Those Moments Will Be Lost


Update: On the freakydeaky dial, I've probably dialed things down to a fairly manageable 3, down from yesterday's high of 9. Thanks to the concern of some members of the "Keep Hope Alive" Peoples Party, I've once again convinced myself that this move can work.

And it's all because Broc said the magic words: "coffeeshop job." Say them softly and it's like praying. Honestly, family. When have I ever gone somewhere and not had to shake a little tailfeather behind a bar of some sort? I should have known. I mean, don't get me wrong: I'm still looking for job more fitting for a woman of my stature, but gigs as Lane Bryant models usually go to chicks much younger and hungrier. Plus, I may have priced myself out of the market; I'm commanding the big bucks for wearing those big girl panties.

Anyway, more to come as the situation develops. Stay dialed in.

Today's "Tell Me 'Bout It Tuesday" question: what's the scariest thing you've done this year?

Monday, October 01, 2007

You've Got to Shoot Straight



Lake Streeters...this be madness. I am leaving for L.A. in little more than a week; and I am so completely, utterly, criminally underprepared. How much longer can I go on fooling myself? How many more times will I pull this kind of crackhead maneuver, the life choice equivalent of licking a finger, testing the wind, and then jumping off a cliff?

I'm moving to L.A. in little more than a week, and I am not ready.

I mean, I'm ready. But I'm not ready? Yah say?


Don't be surprised if posts in the foreseeable future come courtesy of The Let Down, family.

Anyway, applying for tenure track gigs in the LACCD...fingers crossed, please.

*images will continue to spring from Blade Runner as long as I feel like it*

Friday, September 28, 2007

The Tannhauser Gate


I neglected to mention something: I am moving to L.A. in 2 weeks.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Feel My Body Getting Cold





"911"-- Wyclef Jean and Mary J. Blige

Today we're talking about the marriage of violence, death and narrativized passion, particularly as it manifests itself in popular music. For a variety of reasons, I think that Americans are most familiar with a Spansh-inflected, border-accented version that owes a considerable debt to our romance with the iconoclastic western hero. But there are examples, of course, from every cultural tradition; they're all awesome, but I must confess that I like the ones where someone dies the best. Even if that death, pace the Wyclef video above, is only metaphorical. Listen to Mary growlingly demand that "someone... call 911...tell them I just been shot down." Chills, family.

Anyway, here are a couple of musical treats for "Tell Me 'Bout It Tuesday," a new feature here at the Get Down. What's currently occupying mental real estate in your part of town, family?


"Seven Spanish Angels" -- Willie Nelson and Ray Charles



"Death Letter" -- Son House


"El Paso" -- Marty Robbins



"Ode to Billie Joe" --Bobbie Gentry
*bonus points for inspiring a film (directed by Max Baer Jr -- best known to you losers as Jethro Bodine) that starred a weirdo trifecta of Glynnis O'Connor, Robby Benson, and James Best. Coo, coo, coo!

Monday, September 24, 2007

Finally. Googling Myself Pays Off

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...In which I get quoted

Trailing Clouds: Immigrant Fiction in Contemporary America

Prudence Peepers asks, "Who's that making that nasty noise?"

Image Hosted by ImageShack.usRussian Viggo says "dis muthafucka right here..."

I sold my soul to David Cronenberg for Dead Ringers. You might think that I would have given it for The Fly, but I didn't see that until I moved to Japan years later. But I do thank Mr. Cronenberg for instigating what has become a 15 year lust thing for Jeff Goldblum. Thanks for nothing, David!

I made Brigitte go see the latest Cronenberg flick with me, and family... Please! Go! See! This! Movie!

This recommendation is primarily for Orlando, Fergus, and Special Agent Chen. Orlando, because he was the first person to whom I expressed [what turned out to be ill-founded and mistaken] dismay about Viggo Mortensen's encroaching decrepitude (to the point that I started referring to Eastern Promises as Viggo Mortensen: The Oldening); Fergus, because 'Go is straight up killing it in those suits in this picture and so Fergus needs to step his tailor game up; and Chen because she likes a crackhead movie review [by the by, my crackhead review of this year's RenFest will be along as soon as I upload the (few) photos I took].

This film gets 4 bitchcakes out of 5, people.
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It would have gotten the full monty, but Naomi Watts was wasted in this. Her part could have been played by anyone. I defy you to say that about any of the other principals, though.

Now go see this movie before I press your face in cookie dough and make gorilla cookies, sucka.



Thursday, September 20, 2007

The Spook Who Came In From the Cold

Image Hosted by ImageShack.usMI-5


...if there's anything I can't stand, it's badly written characters on tv shows that could do, should do, so much better. There is truly so much drama in the LBC, family. So whatever, I've added MI-5 to the list of shows I blitz through on dvd, and things were going well -- or at least, they were trippingly along amusingly -- when, inevitably, the hang up of some wack broad rears its ugly head.

The show, obviously, is about Her Majesty's Secret Service. And I wouldn't even be talking about it here, because the show ain't even that great (at least, 4 episodes into season 1 it ain't) except for this super irritating narrative turn wherein the main spook's girlfriend is finally told that he's a spy. She gets all up in her feelings and starts pulling bitch move after bitch move. How did this trick get vetted?! For fuck's sake! First of all, the girlfriend has a 5 year old daughter, Maisie, with whom the main spook (honestly, I can't even be bothered learning these fools' names) has developed a close relationship. Yeah, that's great. Whatever.

First of all, when the girlfriend starts freaking out and is all "Oh My God, I can't believe you didn't trust me holy moly why didn't you tell me everything all you've ever said is a lie this is about trust blah blah blah," I was like HO, SIT DOWN. It's not like we're talking about his not telling you about that trip to Cancun in '95 where he and his best friend got like, totally loaded on Coronas and "wrestled," ok? He's a fucking spy. That shit is supposed to be secret! That's the nature of the fucking business! He should have trusted you why? Look at how you're acting now! Then, it's all "what's your real name I can't believe you've been lying to me all this time you have to tell Maisie the truth she deserves to know." Now, I've moved past HO, SIT DOWN and have started yelling BITCH, PLEASE. Good thing I'm offering 'em half price. Your five year old needs to know that the dude you've been screwing is a spy? In what world is that a wise move? This is not like telling the kid that Santa must have just run out of time before hitting your house this year -- this is like telling your kid that Daddy is Santa. And meaning it. Fuck outta here with that noise.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Wow. Fuck All Y'all

Sometimes, the blogosphere really depresses me.

People just say some nasty, low-down, ill-informed, sad shit sometimes.

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Saturday, September 15, 2007

Sing Below Inveterate Scars or, Why Didn't Someone Tell Me (pt. 6)


This looks just like my old landlord

There is a scene during the penultimate episode of the third season of Wire in the Blood in which our "hero," clinical psychologist Dr. Tony Hill, sits down to share a meal with a woman he's recently met on a plane. The scene is played in such a way as to highlight its excruciating banality...which is absolute genius you see, because the woman that Tony is sharing this meal with is delusional. She's broken into his house and prepared a lovely meal for the two of them, but the charming domesticity that she fabricates is wholly the product of her own mind. This woman, Patricia, imagines that she and Tony have a relationship and she behaves and thinks accordingly. It's an absolutely pitch perfect scene for several reasons, but the most important of which is this: much of the tension in the series arises from Tony's woeful lack of social skills. So there's a moment when Tony is deciding whether or not to indulge Patricia in her fantasy before having her hauled down to the pokey/insane-o 'sylum, and then...he just decides, "ah, fuck it. I'm eating." Everything we've seen of Tony thus far assures us there is very little chance that he will ever enjoy this kind of intimate moment in any other fashion. I realize that I'm not conveying the brilliance of this moment adequately, but oh my goodness, people! Someone else start watching this show! When you have to make the decision between another lonely meal at home and eating with what amounts to a sympathetic stalker -- a Canadian one, no less -- when you even reach the point in your life when these two options actually seem equally viable...READERS, I QUIT THIS BITCH. I almost fell off the couch watching this episode(it's called "Nothing But the Night", by the way). So good. When Tony looks at that chick and the food she's made and tells the looney bin operators to wait half an hour and then come get her? Lawd Jesus. This show just got bumped up to A-1 with a bullet.

People, this show has been killing me. Or rather, Robson Green has been killing me. Brigitte and I have been watching it [semi] obsessively since I happened upon the dvds at the library. Apparently, Green's character has got something akin to Asperger's syndrome (it's interesting to note, however, that the conceit behind Hill's allure -- and that of another fictional detective, Adrian Monk -- is some sort of mental disabilty that, having ordered viewers' expectations, largely disappears after the first season. But I digress --), and while I have no idea whether Green accurately captures the essence of interactions with an Asperberger's sufferer, he is definitely capturing something. What's tender and evocative and poignant in the first season, however, becomes something rather different in the third series. Anyway, I've already said too much. Just go watch the damn show.



Also, Robson Green looks just my very first Minneapolis landlord. Fergus, back me up here: doesn't that dude look just like Josh? That is effed up.

Hudson-Hatton Nuptials 8/25/07



www.flickr.com



Wednesday, September 12, 2007

I'm so happy to see you


I'm so happy to see you
Originally uploaded by profspecula
Back from more than three weeks on the road, children. Hawaii was lovely, and so is my new sister-in-law. Portland wasn't as deeply wack as I left it, but it's still chugging along in the crapstacks stakes.

More to come. Including pictures of Brian, Orlando, Bernadette, and Tina!

Monday, August 06, 2007

GENIOOOUS

Today -- and everyday, really -- I am laughing at Pop!Justice, which is a brilliant British music site. I don't know how I've missed Dumper's "collums," but they are straight killing me.

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Heya I'm DUMPER and I love pop music, it is GENIOOUS, i buy pop music by Scooch and I love BCascada, I waned to see Cascasasa at GAY but they didnt' let me in evern though I am old enough, \:)(;;LOL

So Ive got a collum on Pop justice, I can write watever IU want in it, about pop msuci,I will write a columm probahly once a week, my faovrite xtuff to write about is pop music which is not as popular as it should be!! ! I t gets me excited, sometime's my cerciuts overheat and my eyes flash on and off wen a pop song is not a hit, I do not know why I wish it would stop :( :(

if you wan be my friend ADD ME on mYSpace, my page is www.myspace.com/iamdumper cos I am Dumper!! Would be nice to meet you!

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Don't Even Try to Think of Something More Disturbing

Did you know that someone out there has been writing Andy Griffith fanfic? Did you?

Do you know what's infinitely more unsettling? That there's a lot of fanfic about Lazy Town out there, too. Like, a whole lot. And it's pretty much exactly what you would expect. Naaaaaaaaaaaasty.

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Ca Ne Marche Pas Comme Ca

Zut alors...regardez Harry Roselmack, mes grandes. Il faut pratiquer mon francais encore une fois.

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Thursday, August 02, 2007

Txt

  • holy crap! i-35 bridge in minneapolis collapsed into mississippi
  • lord JESUS
  • r u ok
  • Mary AND Joseph
  • R u ok?
  • I'm fine and on solid ground
  • hey cuz, I am just checking on you. My mom and sis Lori told me about the bridge collapsing and I wanted to make sure you were not hurt. Let me know something
  • I'm fine and safe and thanking God. I drive that bridge every day
  • r u ok?
  • I'm cool, boo.
  • thx 4 note. shldnt ty phone line but I am worryer. L, mb & da
  • r u ok?
  • yes, sitting here at doty hall with joe
  • marie & fergus good, too
  • This is kristen. You ok?
  • We're ok. Everyone is ok. But its bad. We were down there. Sash helped.
  • See you tomorrow

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Monday, July 30, 2007

Don't Bring None...Won't Be None

So, I'm in training for another race, and I've been working out with my boss, Brigitte. Brigitte is French, and is she is so gangsta in a way you would not believe. She just left a message on my voicemail that said, "put down that drink and start having some water! You need to be at my house at 6 tomorrow to run....ha ha...no, seriously, call me if there is any problem...[silence, then ominous voice]...there won't be any problem."

I guess there won't be any problem, family. I'm going to bed. I gotta run in the morning.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

The BBC: Bitches Be Cryin'

Lawd Jesus, I just finished watching season two of Doctor Who, family! Don't you know that the final scene with Rose and the Doctor had me feeling raw emotion. And you know how I hate that!

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Still, I am all about Martha Jones, the companion who succeeds Mizz Tyler in season three.
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Now come on, folks! I used to rock that hairstyle all the time! You know that's supposed to me in the Tardis!

Friday, July 20, 2007

It Takes All Kinds Of Vegetables

Outside of the themes from The Jeffersons and Good Times, this is, by far, the funkiest piece of candy from the 70s. Thank me later*.

Theme from Vegetable Soup




* I know that no one else remembers this show, but I remember 70s children's tv very well.

Ain't You Got No Gingerbread

Ladies, I'm sorry to do this to you, but gatdamn! Why didn't somebody tell me that Khia had an advice column in Hood magazine? I got questions, and she got answers.

In response to a dude who asked what he should do about his girlfriend of 7 months, who "hadn't even let him glance at the pussy":

What's really Hood Mike? This sounds like some Jerry Springer shit, 7 months without even a glance at the pussy what is that about, you sure she's not a man? I know you said she has two kids but damn are they her's? You know there's a lot of punks out here getting ass shots and tittie jobs but for real you say you ain't feel no ass, titties or nothing. What is she saying about this because something in the milk ain't clean. What is she telling you when you try and get some, damn I'm lost for words. Well all I can say is if you really care about her talk to her and find out what's really going on and why she's holding back. Tell her your needs as a man and let her know how you feel cause shit she's going to have to drop them panties sooner or later and I hope she ain't hiding a dick under there. Shit maybe she's waiting for marriage this time you say she has two kids already, maybe she wants to do it right this time and if so you better start shopping for a ring or move...Next!!!!!


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Peoples, you know I'm like a See&Say. Now that the phrase "something in the milk ain't clean" has entered my life, I hope it never leaves.

*this post courtesy of Dame Freshalina at Crunk & Disorderly. I owe that broad my everything.

I don't know what I'm more in love with: the notion that a chick who is uninterested in sex must actually be trans, or the fact that a copyeditor just said "...you know what? Eff grammar" and let that piece run as is.

And yes you do know who Khia is. She's the one responsible for this chanson d'amour:



Ok, and just to wrap up this "Not Safe For Work/Why Did Ebony Bother Coming Back From Hiatus With This Bootleg Post," let me ask you who the fluck bothered to try to sync up the explicit version of "My Neck, My Back" with the non-explicit video? Again, someone is just walking around in a bathrobe, smoking Newports and mumbling "eff effort, main."

Monday, June 11, 2007

Does it Bend Toward Justice?

An update, for those of you who were interested in the case of Genarlow Wilson, whom I wrote about
earlier this year. A judge has overturned his conviction, but the prosecutor, inexplicably, has moved to block his release pending appeal.

Appeal Blocks Release

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." -- Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

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Saturday, May 26, 2007