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


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.


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.


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.


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

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.