Rewarding mediocrity.

You must all expect how angered I was by last night's Crash upset. My initial response to the film when I saw it in theatres back in April was "like", but not with any great sentiment to sway me into either loving or hating the film. Crash was simply mediocre, and very, very problematic. And I recognized that immediately. However, in April, it was on my top 10 list, though no where near the top 5. Now, the name fills me with rage and disappointment. Both at the same time.

We are asked to forgive a stupid rich bitch and a cop who doesn't follow protocols (in any sense of law and civil rights) simply because they have no friends and are taking care of their aging father. These are not reasons to forgive these characters. Furthermore, the issues presented in the film are overly stereotypical and, as we say in the business, very on-the-nose. I don't think a film that wins best picture should be so blatant and obvious. Think about how heavy handed the direction is, and the writing. And no, it's not a deus ex machina, or fate. Magnolia had that and did it well. Crash is a shallow movie that manages to pretend it has depth because it addresses so many issues inadequately.

It's a think peice for people who don't actually like to think.

I feel the following quote from Los Angeles Times critic Kenneth Turan helps support my last point:

"Despite all the magazine covers it [Brokeback Mountain] graced, despite all the red-state theaters it made good money in, despite (or maybe because of) all the jokes late-night talk show hosts made about it, you could not take the pulse of the industry without realizing that 'Brokeback Mountain' made a number of people distinctly uncomfortable," he said, adding:

"So for people who were discomfited by 'Brokeback Mountain' but wanted to be able to look themselves in the mirror and feel like they were good, productive liberals, 'Crash' provided the perfect safe harbor."

That's exactly what Crash did. It allowed people to feel like they were involved in a deep social issue. It made audiences feel good about themselves because they, too, are not fans of racism.

I'm not a complete advocate in the "Brokeback Mountain should win Best Picture" camp, but I do feel that Crash robbed four very deserving films of the chance. Brokeback is revolutionary, and though I was moved by it, I would call it a love story that happens to be about men who have homosexual sex, because neither Jack Twist nor Ennis Delmar would have called themselves gay. (They'd be trade if anything and anyone who's queer knows it.) It's not a gay love story, but it is a love story and that, I feel, is the revolutionary bit. Brokeback is a love story about men--and that's what's new and different about it.

Good Night and Good Luck is about one of the most important figures in journalism; likewise, Capote is a film about a man who changed the face of 20th century literature. Munich was more about racism than Crash could ever hope to be. And I can tell that from the short clip they showed at last night's awards without having seen the film. Each of these films deserved to be in that category. Crash did not.

Rewarding a problematic film like Crash continues our longstanding American tradition of rewarding mediocrity.

Domino goes zombie hunting.

My friend Amber lives in a terrifying place. If you follow Patterson past recognizable signs of civilization and take several awkward twists and turns through some kind of bizarre nursery, you will eventually make it to a series of creepy abandoned green houses. And there, behind them, you will find the tiny house in which she lives.

Actually, to call it a house is a complete misnomer. It's somewhere between a trailer and a toolshed.

This is the fucking scariest place I have ever been. It would make an excellent setting for a horror movie in which the Hollywood Video and Game Crazy crews go zombie hunting in the rain.

What sweetens the deal is that this creepy nursery is allegedly built on an Indian burial ground.

Zombies for sure.

Domino goes zombie hunting.

My friend Amber lives in a terrifying place. If you follow Patterson past recognizable signs of civilization and take several awkward twists and turns through some kind of bizarre nursery, you will eventually make it to a series of creepy abandoned green houses. And there, behind them, you will find the tiny house in which she lives.

Actually, to call it a house is a complete misnomer. It's somewhere between a trailer and a toolshed.

This is the fucking scariest place I have ever been. It would make an excellent setting for a horror movie in which the Hollywood Video and Game Crazy crews go zombie hunting in the rain.

What sweetens the deal is that this creepy nursery is allegedly built on an Indian burial ground.

Zombies for sure.

Vui ne znaete, gde mogy kypitz . . .

Telephone midterms are by far the weirdest things I've ever experienced.

Situation: I am renting an apartment in Moscow and need furniture. So I call an ad left in the lobby of my building. I ask this person, who knows no English, played by my professor, if they are still selling stuff and where I can buy stuff if they don't have it.

Tre bizarre.

However, I have to give mad props to the Slavic department because I am actually learning and using Russian. Not that I can have conversations with Dima, his mother, Ivan or Anna in Russian yet, but if I ever need to purchase furniture from them. I am set. I could probably have conversations about UCSB with them, and their alcohol preferences (which better be vodka or congac). My speech is ochem limited. But I am actually learning.

This is more than I can say for the Italian department, where I have learned absolutely nothing that I didn't know in high school. Oh, except for the passoto remoto. Which is fucking useless.

Now if only I had Cyrillic fonts on this computer, the title of this entry would look right. (Though I realized just now that I was typing the letters to make them look like the Russian and not how they would be pronounced in English. I spelled "gde" as "rge"--which is how it is actually spelled in Cyrillic.)

Long live the Octoberists.

I am a bounty hunter.

With the impending release of Tony Scott's Domino, and the massive buzz about it around the video store. The boys have taken to calling me Domino. Josh explained that I reminded them of her because of "the hair" (which apparently resembles Ms. Knightley's cut in the film) and my "insatiable urge to kill."

I take this to mean my intense rage and propensity toward yelling.

Apparently, Knightley's Domino also has a propensity toward yelling. And she fancies tattoos. And throwing stuff.

I like projectiles.

And I've gotta say, I wish more people noticed that they really wouldn't like me when I am angry. Because there are a good handful of people who managed to piss me off today.

Let me tell you, kids, my new nametag at work doesn't just say "Bounty Hunter" because I like to make geeky movie jokes.

Oh, no. This is business.

The Vaginas are Coming!

The Vagina Monologues are coming to the UCSB Hub on Feb 23, 24, and 25!

Tickets are available at AS for 8 dollars, or at the door for the same price.

Doors open at 8:00 PM, show starts at 8:30.

All profits from the show will go towards women in need, both locally and worldwide!

Whose angel are you anyway?

There is nothing more serene than the sound of Heather singing with an acoustic guitar.

She has such a deep, velvety voice. It's hypnotic.

I don't know why she doesn't do this more. Or play coffee shops.

The Voodoo Club could be your Schwabs.

Kids, it's finally happened. I finally got an internship. I now work at the Pacific Coast Business Times.

This is life beginning. You all have no idea.

I start Feb 27.

I'm calling my Dad now.

Rejoice in the Ides

Best friend is coming to visit in March!!!!!!!!! It's only for two days, but it will be an awesometacular two days because he'll be here for or Jamacian night. (And you all know what that's going to entail.) And then we'll get tattoos . . . and and . . . then maybe he'll actually buy me a birthday present!

(God, that's far too much excitement for 9 AM.)

F is for France

(I know . . . there's a lot of letters missing between B and F, Stevi . . . I'll get back to them.)

France was supposed to be small because of the presence of an expensive green liqour imported from Czechoslovakia.

France was not small. But, somehow, I still have Absinthe. I wager that this is probably because no one enjoyed the Absinthe 35, which is a white absinthe that is supposed to have more wormwood and make you trip harder. It tastes like death. When we had a regular old run-of-the-mill green absinthe at my 20th last year, it tasted like death, too, but a welcome, licorice-y death. We have much less of that kind left over.

This dinner was the first one that we actually served exactly when we said we would. Usually "Dinner's at 8" in my house means "We'll be eating at exactly 8:30." But dnner was served promptly at 8.

I made fancy menus and decided that my true calling is to be a menu writer . . . a step down from editing for Food & Wine, I know. But someone has that job, and it may as well be me. Below, you may observe my craft at its finest.

Prosciutto Salade
mixed spring greens with thinly sliced Italian ham, candied walnuts,
and raspberry vinegarette

Tourin Perigourdin
a garlic and tomato soup served over gruyere cheese
and freshly baked French bread

Crepes
warm French-style pancakes served with your choice of
carmelized onions sauteed with white wine and herbs
or
gorgonzola, candied walnuts, and sliced apples

Provencal Vegetable Gratin
baked eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, onions and garlic
topped with a layer of breadcrumbs and parmesan cheese

Ganache au Coulis de Framboises
a rich chocolate custard served with fresh raspberries

Charles Shaw Chardonnay
a crisp, sweet white wine from Northern California

Absinthe
a green liquor imported from Czechoslovakia that will make you trip balls

(I am especially proud of that last one.)

Kitty Wittermans.

Let me begin this post by saying: Megan--I both love and hate you for this. I wish you had never posted this on your blog because I will spend hours at this site. However, it is an instant cure for depression, so I can't be angry for that.

The title of this post is an exclamation I say every 10 minutes or so of perusing this webpage.

Oh yes. Kitty Wittermans.
.

The hits just keep on coming.

I do these things because I know that Jenrikay actually cares and will read them. We only know of one another's lives through blogs and occasional run-ins on campus.

Three Names you go by:
1. Stevi
2. ZZ
3. Stephanie

Three Parts of Your Heritage/Ethnic/Cultural Background
1. Italian
2. Irish
3. Intellectual

Three Things That Scare You
1. squirrels
2. clowns
3. unabashed ignorance

Three of Your Everyday Essentials
1. mascara
2. engagement ring
3. pens

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now
1. white pajama pants with big fat pink kitties on them that say "miao"
2. eyeglasses
3. my fox ears that Corey made me for my birthday

Three Things You Want in a Relationship (other than Real Love)
1. commonality
2. conversation
3. commitment

Two Truths and a Lie (in any order)
1. I design clothing, but can't pattern make to save my life.
2. I have gone hiking in the Italian Alps.
3. Robert De Niro is family friend of ours.

Three PHYSICAL Things about the Opposite Sex that Appeal to You
1. eyes
2. facial hair
3. haircut in general

Three Places You Want to Go and Haven't Gone
1. Spain
2. Russia
3. Argentina

Three Things You Want to Do Before You Die
1. Take lots of ballroom and swing classes.
2. Publish a novel.
3. Make gnocchi from scratch.

Three Ways that you are stereotypically a Girl/Guy
1. I love clothing more than any sane person should.
2. I heart shinies.
3. I adore high heels.

At least I know I'm on the right path in life.

You scored as English. You should be an English major! Your passion lies in writing and expressing yourself creatively, and you hate it when you are inhibited from doing so. Pursue that interest of yours! Linguistics 100% English 100% Dance 92% Journalism 92% Theater 83% Mathematics 75% Philosophy 75% Sociology 67% Art 67% Anthropology 58% Psychology 42% Engineering 33% Biology 33% Chemistry 8% What is your Perfect Major? (PLEASE RATE ME!!<3) created with QuizFarm.com

A warm mug of liquid sleep.

Worst sleep of my life! I tried, around 2:30 this morning, to go to sleep. I had no plans of waking until about 10 am.

Trying to fend off an approaching coughy cold thing for fear it would ruin my birthday drink-a-thon, I took some theraflu.

Theraflu usually knocks my ass cold. I have no tolerance for the stuff. It's like a warm mug of liquid sleep.

However, the stuff I took last night was not what I expected. I woke up at 4 something, and fitfully slept again until 6. I tried to put myself to sleep again at 6, but after an hour or so of tossing and turning I gave the fuck up.

I don't feel tired. Or sick.

But it is 7 am and I haven't voluntarily seen this hour in quite a long time.

I am so restless; it's like I took speed instead of liquid sleep.

I just went and looked at the Theraflu box and under common side effects it lists typical things like "marked drowisness" and, at the opposite end of the spectrum, "excitability in children." There is also a notice printed in very large letters that one should not use Theraflu if the sealed package is open or torn.

That's common sense, right? Well, apparently, I've none of that.

As I shook the contents of this morning's Theraflu packet, little bits of sandy sleep capsules flew about my kitchen from a tiny tear in the bottom. Figuring that either I or one of my roommates had caused said tear in another bout of sickness and in urgent need of rest, I said, Whatever, and prepared my disgusting beverage anyway.

And now it is 7 am on my 21st and I have slept, collectively, between 3 and 4 hours. This is not the turnout I'd desired.

A day late and a dollar short.

On the morning of my 21st birthday, I return from work to find that my prodigal roommate's car is parked outside our apartment complex.

She skipped town without leaving me rent money.

Which was due on the 1st.

I want to kill her a little bit.

I find her asleep and in my room I find two checks. One for nearly $400 for rent. Another made out for $10.50 for electric.

I am glad to finally have the money that I had to front so the rent would be on time. (Which was my fucking birthday money, mind you. That money should be spent on booze and shoes! Not roommates!) However, it is still 2-3 days after the rent has been paid and rent has always been due to me, the Responsible One, on the 28th of the month. By my count, it's about a week late.

Now I just want to rough her up a bit. Especially because I am a fucking Birthday Princess today and I may do as I please.

I should hit her just for writing two checks when only one was necessary. "Waste not the young saplings, bitch!"

Just add water.

How is that you can give someone a grocery list full of items and they return with a bunch of snack foods and other assorted crap that doesn't actually help you make a meal out of anything?

This baffles me. This is why I buy food for the house. Clearly, the other person with a car cannot be trusted.

But maybe I'm being too hard on her. After all, I've never seen her cook a damn thing since we moved in here. How would she know that snack foods aren't meals?

Dani is leaving soon, and our new roommate, Miss Ashley, will be entering our strange universe. I can only hope that she will adapt well . . . or we will completely scare her off. One of the two.

You gotta work blue.

(Dave Chapelle is on TV in the background)

me: You know . . . I don't really like any black comedians.
heather: Dave Chapelle?
me: Not funny.
heather: Chris Rock?
me: Chris Rock is really smart, but if he weren't so damned annoying I might like him.
heather: Well, what about Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy? Ok, like, 80's Eddie Murphy.
me: Maybe a little 80's Eddie Murphy. And I don't really know Richard Pryor's stuff.
heather: What kind of comedy do you like?
me: I like Jewish comedy a lot.

(About five minutes of silence pass as we change channels. We come across Triumph the Insult Comic Dog on Conan.)

me: Well, I do like Triumph.
heather: Stevi . . .Triumph's not black.
me: He is a rottweiller. Of course he's black.
(Heather stares at me incredulously.)
me: Oh, come on, he has black fur!
heather: Oh, I am so putting this on facebook.

I've missed your sweet clacking.

I have returned from the darkness that is the loss of the internet. A new adapter has finally been purchased, and I may begin again to chronicle my Costanza moments as well as the cooking adventures we embark upon.

Soon I will regal you with tales of: Cambodian food, raging dykes, Danish food, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, Egyptian food and the porno I bought my coworker for Christmas.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I write Christmas cards.

The Bee Box Revisited

I want to personally extend my thanks to poet Lowell Parker who added his poem in a comment on my post "The Bee Box." I read his poem some years ago and it came to mind again when I saw the sparkly peach mummified bee ring at a jewelry vendor on campus. I'm very glad he provided the text so that others may read it and understand the sacrifice that love ought to be. I've reposted the text below so you won't have to search through the comments for it. Thank you, Mr. Parker.

"The Bee Box"

In this small box, my love,
you'll not find a ring,
but instead, a brave, little bee.
He'll be dead by morn, having given his life
defending his flowers against me.
I felt his sting
while picking the small, purple pansies
growing wild along the roadside,
in hopes of an afternoon bouquet for you.
And I grieved the sting,
more for him than me,
knowing full well the price he paid
for my small pain.
And I allowed him his victory,
leaving his flowers as a memory,
and brought you instead
this brave, little bee,
who proves there is love
even in the smallest
of things.

-Lowell Parker

Not Your Advert Whore

Due to the fact that people are using my comments section for their own devious purposes, I've changed my comment policy.

I realize that the internet is a public forum, but comments are intented for commentary (hence the word), not for advertising.