For whom the bells toll.

With Marcus working on the other side of the country, the majority of the wedding planning falls upon me. (He has contributed to finding us photographers, videographers and other such creative types amongst his professional friends.) We have a place and a time and a date and a caterer and an open bar, which are really the huge and important things, and we have open quotes from a florist and a DJ. We have an abundance of photographers and a videographer who told us he'd shoot for free because, "um, I kind of invited myself to your wedding." We've ordered invitations, and, yes, lo, I have ordered my dress.

There are still a lot of details to be handled: food has to be chosen, groomsmen are still up in the air, bridesmaids must be wrangled and put into dresses, we need to start talking to cake people, I need to find people in San Francisco to make me look pretty, etc. But by and large, I feel like this thing, for being planned 350 miles away from where it's actually happening, is pretty under control.

Edan once told me that I should marry someone with superpowers if I was going to plan a wedding outside of my place of residence. I, apparently, have superpowers. And super, super parents.



That, by the way, is my wedding dress. 255 days away from actually getting to wear it!

Sweeps Theory

I have this theory that, like many of my theories, says that real life is highly influenced by pop culture. In Sweeps Theory, that bit of influential pop culture is television.

In the months of November, February and April, television writers always bust out their most dramatic, life-changing, character-based plot structures. In November, they do it to get a nice ratings push before the half-season mark in early December, after which the networks will usually take a hiatus in showing new episodes of a show. So the plot lines of shows in November start to get pretty intense.

If the show example we were using to illustrate this were Friends, this would be a point in time where Ross and Rachel would either begin to break up, or begin to get back together, depending on what season you watch. If this were a show like The X-Files in this example, you would notice a change from MOTW episodes to plot-driving episodes developing complications in either a. Scully’s abduction/harvesting/motherhood issues/crisis of faith storyline or b. Mulder’s sister’s abduction/Syndicate plot/conspiracies/”the black ooze” storyline. In the X-Files example, whether the storyline they choose to develop is A or B, you will probably also see some intense relationshipping going on between our two FBI agents.

Sweeps is also repeated in February to get a ratings boost after the winter hiatus, which is now actually formally recognized by networks who place filler material like game shows and specialty competitions in the spots of their normal shows to avoid showing reruns during Winter. I think that because of this change, Sweeps is no longer during the month of February specifically, but really the period of mid-January through mid-February when the new episodes resume. Sweeps are some of the best written TV episodes you will ever see. They’re awesomely riveting and dramatic, even in comedies like Friends.

Sweeps also happens during April, though I'm not entirely sure why, from a network television standpoint. Maybe to keep people watching TV when the weather starts to get nicer? (That would be pretty evil, I'd say.) In any case, you will also see Sweeps episodes in April.

So that's how Sweeps works in the television world. Now let me apply the lessons of television Sweeps into day-to-day, non-television related existence.

Some time during high school, I noticed that all of our dramatic events coincided with Sweeps seasons. People would break up with their boyfriends or girlfriends, struggle with grades, battle addictions, etc. at a higher rate during these time periods. In high school, these things also often coincided with quarterly report card time, auditions for plays, speech competitions and, of course, dances. There would be spectacular catfights between myself and some other friends regarding who got what role in the musical (which were cast in November), and, come spring, why I never received a role in a comedy unless there was a spot for a dumb blonde. (Though a redhead now, I was a blonde for all of high school, except for the brief summer during which my hair was blue.) I think some of us would literally go for the entire week post-casting deliberately not talking to each other. I can guarantee that during sweeps, I spent more time on the phone with Eric working crisis control for each other than I did doing anything else.

I think the theory works outside of the dramatic world of theatre kids. We, as a rule, spend our lives trying to make them as much like film and television as possible. But this business happened, I believe, in every high school social group. (Including some weird Sweeps-crossovers where, say, a theatre kid would date a jock for the duration of Sweeps.)

I hadn't thought about Sweeps Theory in quite some time, as I'm sure you can tell by my examples. Clearly, when I was developing this theory, The X-Files was still on, I still occasionally watched Friends, and reality television was far less prevalent. I do not, as yet, have a stance on how the world of reality television relates to Sweeps Theory. I only know that real reality, my reality, coincides its drama with the drama on television.

Sweeps Theory just came to mind at the end of last week when discussing the recent events in my friend Jenn's life. Suddenly, I remembered Sweeps Theory. It actually was a great explanation for her as to why the drama was so suddenly following her absolutely everywhere. Simple: It's Jenn's Sweeps.

That’s Sweeps Theory, a theory which, in short, might state: the theory that plot lines of television shows and plot lines of real life converge with dramatic consequences during periods in which networks attempt to boost ratings.

An impossible dream

After this morning's announcement of the 2006 Academy Award nominees, I keep reading headlines all over the internet about Dreamgirls being "snubbed." To begin, having 8 nominations is definitely not a snub. Not getting a nod for Best Picture, while it may seem like an oversight to exclude Dreamgirls from the top honors category, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why that is.

Dreamgirls is not that good of a good musical.

Dreamgirls is not a bad movie by any means. It is technically very well made. Art direction. Costumes. Editing. Sound. All good. The acting? All good. (Though I am not at all suprised that Beyonce was left out of the acting categories, because she was the weakest link in Dreamgirls by a long shot.) So how does Dreamgirls not deserve to be included in the top spot?

First of all, I'm very disappointed that this came from Bill Condon, the writer of Gods & Monsters (incredible) and Chicago (basically the best modern movie musical). The script (and maybe this is something I'm missing having not seen the stage version) is a bit lacking, as is the music. Which is really odd, coming from a musical that is, in fact, about a musical group.

After I saw it, I was entertained, but not wowed. And I was not promised entertainment. I was promised kick-in-the-crotch, spit-on-your-neck fantastic. That's what I got out of Chicago, and I expected it out of Dreamgirls. Why were my expectations so high? Let's put it this way: I actually hate Chicago. It's a terrible play with no point that is lucky enough to have been choreographed by Bob Fosse and has a great score by Kander and Ebb. It was also very lucky to have, when it debuted on Broadway, leading ladies like Chita Rivera and Gwen Verdon (who I secretly want to be). These are all things that made Chicago stand out, because the story on stage certainly couldn't have done that alone, as its real killer-diller Velma Kelly also knows.

I expected Dreamgirls to be great, even if it was a lackluster stage show (which I again reiterate that I do not know enough about to say, as my only previous experience with Dreamgirls is when Ellen sings the role of Effie White in the film Camp), because Bill Condon took a piss-poor story like that of Chicago and made it about something. He turned a fluffy vaudeville revue into a powerhouse movie musical about the power and influence of the media. I don't know how Condon did this, but he did. I just wish he could have infused the same life into Dreamgirls, providing it with Chicago's perfect blanace of story and song.

I think that imbalance of story and song is one reason, though, why people really like Dreamgirls. People who don't like musicals like Dreamgirls. It's more a concert than a musical, really. Or a movie about music, at best. 90% of the songs are production numbers--things that are meant for entertainment, for performance, rather than things that move the plot. Off the top of my head, I can think of only 3 songs that move the plot, and 2 of them are marginal: "And I'm Tellin' You I'm Not Goin'," "We Are Family," and "Listen." As far as musicals go, its about as much of a musical as Ray and Walk the Line.

But people really liked both of those films, and I don't blame them. For some reason, people really aren't comfortable with watching someone break out into song. And I don't understand this notion. We think its cool when people bust into rap freestyle, right? Everyone seems to accept that Eminem and Xzhibit can freestyle in a Detroit factory lunchline in Curtis Hanson's 8 Mile, but to watch Edward Norton and Natasha Leyonne tap dance about how much he loves Drew Barrymore in Woody Allen's Everyone Says I Love You? No, that's not cool. (Watching Edward Norton tap dance is actually one of the coolest things you will ever see. But unfortunately, you will also have to hear Julia Roberts sing.)

I wanted Dreamgirls to have a better balance of production numbers and songs that move the plot, which for those of you who haven't studied the history of American musical theatre as my fiance and I do, are one of the biggest changes in musical theatre made by Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein II. I want a musical to mean something, to tell a story--not just be entertaining and feature some nice singing and dancing.

There just seems to be this mentality that using music to tell a story isn't as acceptable as experiencing music as you would at a concert, which is why these concert-like musicals are so acceptable. People just can't seem to suspend their disbelief into a realm that allows people to express themselves through song when the character isn't a singer or musician. And this baffles me. We'll willingly believe that a psycho slasher killer hunts young teenage girls on road trips, that Hobbits, elves and men fight the forces of evil in Middle Earth, or that people can actually enter airports to say goodbye and hello to loved ones. So why can't we believe that song is an acceptable form of narrative expression? That's the whole point of the genre of musicals, especially those written after WWI, and the concert-style musicals just aren't what musicals are supposed to be. It's sort of cheating a genre.

And people were accepting of Chicago because it made the original vaudeville style of the show into an acceptable way of cheating the genre to market it to audiences who aren't willing to suspend their disbelief to include a world where song and dance happens spontenously. In Chicago, Roxie's dreams of stardom create an alternate reality in which song and dance spring to life from every day occurrences. The sounds of the jailhouse become the rhythm and bass for "Cell Block Tango," which takes place in Roxie's head in something Bill Condon called "Razzle Vision." But even then, even when we remove the spontaneous song and dance element from the real world and put it into Razzle Vision, Kander & Ebb's songs still furthered the plot and told narrative stories about the characters in the film. (How would Roxie and Velma ever partner up if Velma hadn't sang out about how she simply "Can't Do It Alone?")

And that's what Dreamgirls lacks. It lacks a powerful narrative. It lacks balanced songs that drive the plot and drive the characters. This is a problem with a number of musicals about music--they forget that a musical has to tell a story through music, not just feature it. At least Jersey Boys really tried to be both a musical and a play with music about music group. (It didn't always work, but at least it tried. I mean, what the hell is "Earth Angel" doing in Act I, anyway?)

So, I understand why people love love love Dreamgirls. Please, go ahead and love it. At least its continuing to show some small acceptance of the musical genre, even if it is a bit misguided and ill-informed.

Don't get me wrong. I didn't hate Dreamgirls. I really liked it. It had too many good artistic aspects and performances, including Broadway's Anika Noni Rose, whom I adore, to be bad. But it wasn't great. And the Academy Awards are not supposed to award mediocrity . . . but then again, Crash did win Best Picture last year . . . so perhaps the Dreamgirls lovers are right. Maybe Dreamgirls is supposed to be in that category. But I don't want it to be, just like I didn't want Crash to be there. Both of those films are good, but they are not Best Picture. So I will accept the fact that Dreamgirls was not nominated for Best Picture as an official apology to me for giving the award to Crash last year over ANYTHING ELSE in that category, be it Brokeback Mountain or Capote.

This geek is officially pimped.

Magen and I were treated to the joy of the Beauty and the Geek makeover episode. And I have to admit that now I have something of a crush on Trekker Drew, and only because I think that in his transformed state, he bears a slight resemblance to Jason Dohring on Veronica Mars.

Witness the before . . .


And the after . . .


Now compare to Logan Echolls . . .


I wish I could find better pictures of Drew's makeover at this point, but perhaps I will update later when the CW updates its website and I can find better evidence of Drew becoming Jason Dohring.

Could a CW promotional crossover be in the works?

An annotated list of awesomely bad movie titles slated for 2007 release.

Best movie sequel titles of films to be released in Spring and Summer 2007

Live Free or Die Hard
Another installment in the Die Hard series. Awesome title because it makes me giggle, and I think the movie poster of this should be an image of the title being carried on a banner in the talons of a bald eagle. This image can be painted on the back of a motorcycle jacket (preferably worn by Bruce Willis, who turns his head slightly over his shoulder and wears sunglasses), or tattooed on the back of a hairy biker.

Hostel: Part II
Awesome because they really aren't trying hard to be clever or good. At all. Part of me appreciates their simplicity, and part of me is appalled. It could only be better if they called it "Hostel, Part 2: Hostility."


Restaurant-themed titles that make my heart dance with glee

Ratatouille
A rat wants to be a culinary master. In other news, puns on French are awesome!


No Reservations
The movie is about a perfectionist chef (Catherine Zeta-Jones taking care of her neice (Abagail Breslin). It's a truly great RomCom-Chick Flick title because its very nuanced. I like that someone really thought about this before they titled it. It's punny, but meaningful.

Speaking in tongues, or experiencing Pentecost daily.

My viewpoint on the need for Americans to stop thinking English is the be-all and end-all of linguistic existance is vindicated in recent research at Toronto's York University.

Bilingualism delays onset of dementia.

There. Take that everyone who won't see foriegn-language films, took ASL in high school instead of taking a spoken language or thinks that when you are in America (a country founded by immigrants and exiles) you should speak "Goddamn English."

Here's the basic scientific evidence from Professor Ellen Bialystock:
"In the process of using ... two languages, you are engaging parts of your brain, parts of your mind that are active and need that kind of constant exercise and activity, and with that experience (it) stays more robust."

Please help fight the demise of your own grey matter by reading some interlinear translations, watching foriegn-language films and learning a second language if you don't already have one. Then, once you've done those things, start code-switching from English to your newly acquired language, even in small quantities. Not only will you help heal your brain cells, but you will also automatically appear smarter and sexier.

I see no downsides to this.

Note: Above I blasted a "take that!" at people who took ASL in high school as a replacement for a foriegn-language requirement. I by no means think that learning ASL is a bad thing of that ASL is not a useful and productive form of communication for the Deaf community. I do, however, disagree with the fact that some schools offer ASL as an alternative to learning a foriegn language. ASL works on a different synaptic level than spoken languages do. It's visual, not aural. I think its great that ASL is taught in schools and people should be able to take it, just not as a replacement for foriegn language.

An open letter to the women who sat next to me at Babel today,

To the elderly ladies who sat to my left, you two are the exception to my rule that people over the age of 65 can do whatever the fuck they want and no one can tell them otherwise. During the entirety of this film, which, by the way, is a movie about how people fail to listen to one another and improving personal and international communications, you traded comments amongst yourselves about obvious things that were happening in the film. It doesn't matter if rifles are "the key" because a. they aren't and b. Babel is not a mystery we have to solve; it is clear from the beginning that the stories are interconnected. At one point, in what I assume is a reaction to the violence onscreen and the potential peril of several characters, one of you turned to the other and said, "I am never coming to see movies like this again." I suggest, if that's true, that you never see anything rated R ever again. If you want happiness and sunshine and puppies, why don't you go see something rated PG-13 or lower? Babel tried to make a point about violence and undue hardship being a result of people not listening to each other--something which you may have picked up on if you hadn't been constantly talking.

Also, whichever one of you was wearing the blackberry, lavender and vanilla perfume needs to stop wearing so much of it. Normally, I like that combination of scents and I have had a perfume that smelled exactly like that before, but please don't wear so much of it! I had to breathe through my sweatshirt for the majority of my Babel-watching experience! My nose is very sensitive. I can discern a variety of scents in a glass of wine. I can definitely smell your fucking perfume overload and it makes me queasy.

Oh! And then, then one of you decided to file your nails during the movie! I wanted to murder you! Can't you fucking wait to file your nails at home? Where are you from? Jersey?

And to the middle-aged woman sitting to my right, I fucking hate you. I hate everything about you. You constantly vocalized your emotions about the film, going so far as to grimace and groan loudly as Gael Garcia Bernal wrings a chicken's neck. Let me ask you now if you are a vegetarian. Because I am. And that didn't bother me at all. So please, I want you to remember that scene the next time you're eating delicious chicken wings at Santa Barbara Chicken Ranch. And maybe you will choose not to eat meat and spare chickens that neck-wringing fate. But otherwise, I also tell you not to see rated-R movies. They are rated R for violence, language and sexuality. And if you are squirmy about violence, perhaps you shouldn't spend you money on something that's going to make you so uncomfortable--and me by extension if I am unfortunate enough to sit next to you.

Also, I'd like to let you know that no matter what desperate plea you mutter to yourself, the characters can't hear you. Gael Garcia Bernal is not going to stop the car because you ask him to. The Moroccan doctor is not going to stop sewing up Cate Blanchet's wound because you're afraid of needles or think Morocco is unsanitary or what have you. It is commited to celluloid and it is not going to change because you will it to. You are experiencing abject horror. Deal with it.

So, collective horrible movie-watching ladies, please get Netflix and stay the fuck away from me.

Thank you.

Addendum, as of 16 Jan 07: I found this quote from Inarritu in an AP article about his film winning last night's Golden Globe for Best Picture, Drama that really sums up my earlier points about why Babel is definitely a movie you shouldn't talk during.
"I think the power of cinema is universal and at the end, emotion doesn't need translation and that's the beauty of it." --Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu

Vulvan mind meld.

An excerpt from this morning's office IMs, involving fun typographical errors that reveal my lesbian sensibilities . . .

me: If i have to hear about direct deposit ONE MORE TIME!
me: Death will occur.
bill: Get out of my brain!
me: maybe you should label those corn dogs . . . since, you know, we seem to have vulvan mind meld powers
me: maybe i will eat them with my amazing mental faculties
bill: hehe
bill: only
bill: you are the only one with vulvan mind meld powers
bill: I might have vulcan
me: stupid vagina monologues
me: all i can write is vulva

A list rejected from the BOL:

Fantastic Sender Names in This Morning's Spam

Snobbery C. Revivify
Onesiphorus Gullickson
EvilBeet Fangasm

I call dibs on EvilBeet Fangasm as my new band name.

Addition to the list as of 16 Jan 2007: Fitzpatrick G. Hornblower

Garfield would be appalled.

This morning, I dropped a frozen lasagna on my big toe.

It was painful.

Still is.

Update: Today, Jan. 2, 2007, I ate said frozen lasagna. My toe hurt at the very mention of the lasagna's name. Also, the lasagna was sub-par. Perhaps it internalized some of the pain it caused my toe.

Princess "This-Office-is-Really-Freakin'-Cold."

Some things that have been said to me today while wearing my Moon & Star Cuddle Wrap, a snap-up, zip-up blanket thing that makes me look as ridiculous as this woman . . .



. . . but still cuter in the face:

"Okay, Princess Red Feather, or whatever your name is today."

"You look like a wizard."

"Wow. You must be cold."

"Actually, your name could be Princess Winter Sun Moon in that."

"Okay, seriously, you really look like a wizard in that thing."

An Open Letter to Eva Green:

Dear Eva,

I have been a fan of yours since The Dreamers, which has remained one of my favorite films to this day. I love it so much that I am appaled that an R-rated cut even exists on DVD because that film is PERFECT the way it was released in theatres. In any case, you are awesome. And you were awesome in Kingdom of Heaven, though I admittedly found a lot of that film to be hilarious when it shouldn't have been, but for that I blame Liam Neeson. Naturally, I was thrilled that you would be Vesper Lynd because I knew you would be awesome. And you were! My God! Your English accent is impeccable!

But I need you to know something: I've stolen your face.

I didn't mean to. I've had this face for 21 years, nearly 22. And you've had your face for 25. So you've had your face longer, which means I somehow stole it.

Let me explain.

When Casino Royale was released, a friend of mine saw it and immediately sent me a text message afterward that read:
"Have you seen casino royale? The main female lead looks remarkably like you. Even more so since you've done your hair dark. Its cool. U look like a bond chick!"
Naturally I brushed this off. There is no way I look like Eva Green, I said to myself. But thanks, man, that's a compliment because that girl is hot.

My finace even told me that when I saw the film, I would be able to see what I would look like if I'd drowned.

Then I went to see Casino Royale a few weeks later with that friend's girlfriend. As soon as you enter that train compartment, I knew he was right. Nearly every angle in Casino Royale made you look like me. It was uncanny. And when you drown, it was as though I was watching myself drown. Marcus was totally right about that.

So, before I submit the evidence of this, I would like to say that I'm sorry I've stolen your face. I had no idea that I'd taken it! I hope that we can live in harmony with our similar faces. I promise I'll always pay to see your movies, and you can just keep on being awesome.











That last photo is the one everyone keeps showing me and going: "YOU STOLE THIS WOMAN'S FACE!" and I only wish I had one of my old prom photos available for comparison.

This may be a little bit of a stretch to those who don't know me, but to those who do, when you see Casino Royale, it will be like watching me hit on Daniel Craig for two hours. And then drown.

Beautiful freak.

So, clearly, I think this is the coolest thing in the world:


Yep. That's a 7-legged deer. Although, to be technical, the legs are pretty miniature as far as supernumerary limbs go, so I would guess that they are less like extra legs and more like extra feet. I wish there were better pictures of this little critter, because I'm sure it would have the most fascinating anatomy.

Oh, did I mention that its also hermaphroditic? (Several publications have mistakenly referred to the deer's possession of male and female sex organs as "asexual," but if its got two pairs of parts, it's definitely a hermaphrodite.)

It's actually terribly sad that this creature is deceased. It seemed to be doing fine on its own, despite its extra feet-things and dual sex organs and nubby little antlers. It would have been great to see it move because, according to some reports, its appendages are semi-functional, appearing to move like crab pinchers as the deer ran.

The hunter who killed it ate it, claiming "it was tasty."

The internet is a girl's best friend.

This is what happens when I let myself go unchecked.

I just wrote this in leiu of continuing to give facts in the sidebar column I do every week at the paper. (Note: I'm working off a survey about jewelry industry response to the film Blood Diamond, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Connelly's eyebrows and a magical black man known to the world as Djimon Hounsou.)


More than two thirds of respondents were impressed with Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance, especially in light of the fact that Titanic seems to be all over the TV this holiday season and that is definitely one of the actor’s worst performances. Ever. This is also in spite of the fact that when everyone saw What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, we all thought he was actually retarded because no child actor could be that convincing. Especially with a name like Leonardo.

Had I kept going, I might have continued like so:
The survey did not cite opinions on Djimon Hounsou, despite the fact that he was nominated for Best Supporting Actor in 2004 for In America but lost to Tim Robbins for Mystic River, or Jennifer Connelly, despite the fact that she has actually won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress for A Beautiful Mind in 2002 and despite the fact that my friend Bryna swears up and down that Miss Connelly's very presence "nearly ruins Labyrinth." Apparently, David Bowie more than makes up for the sucktacular acting of those 16-year-old eyebrows.

I really wish sometimes that I could slip things like this through, like my list of office pets rejected by the Business Times (most of which are variations on the Blank the News Blank theme, such as Scoops the News Gerbil or Inky the News Squid). But I suppose my random Academy Award rants have no place in the newsroom, and will be banished to my particular dark corner of the internet.

Step right up and save the marvelous Mr. Sideshow.

In beginning my studies of the tattoo community and tattoo history, local artist Permanent Mark (who did the triskell behind my ear) told me about the man in the photo above.

That man is Captain Don Leslie, a living legend in both the tattoo and sideshow communities. The Captain worked in the sideshow for 42 years. He is a tattooed man, a sword swallower, an artist, a firebreather and a true performer.

Permanent Mark has a painting in his shop that the Captain made for him. It features PM as a sideshow performer, like Leslie was. It is designed like the old sideshow promotional banners that the Captain lived so many years under.

Leslie's own writings and interviews with the writers I'm studying have been incredibly helpful in my research. Had I the means to get to Chico and the time to do so, PM would have helped me interview Leslie myself.

But it seems that, at this juncture, that will be impossible.

Captain Don Leslie was diagnosed in August with terminal cancer of the mouth and throat. He was given 6 months to live. At times, he cannot speak. This, I feel, would be absolute agony.

Madame Chinchilla and Mr. G at Triange Tattoo & Museum in Humboldt county have set up donation fund for the Captain to make his final days more bearable. You all can read about that here. Donate if you can, if you're interested in helping someone who has lead such an incredible and full life.

The Captain is one of the last remaining vestiges of a performance tradition that pushed the human body to its limits. The fact that his marvelous body is now failing him is really the irony of show business.

He is an amazing man--and I hope that Chinchilla and Mr. G will receive enough donations to help his final days be as good as they can be.

TransNYC.

NYC to Change ID Rules for Transgendered

I came across that AP article this morning on Yahoo! News, and all I can say is that this is why New York is fantastic. As the body is a site of conflict that I am particularly interested in--says the girl writing an English department thesis on tattoos--I can only smile with the hope that a number of other progressive cities will realize that the flesh we are in does not define our gender identity, and that in this culture of plastic surgery and body modification, making our exterior packaging reflect the internal should be a standard. If its culturally acceptable to fix your nose, why shouldn't it be so easy to fix your genitals?

This is an incredible stride for the transgender community. I expect my home metro hub of San Francisco to follow suit. After all, we were all about equalizing the queer community with the straight community by allowing same-sex marriages. We should be next in line to take the transgender community out of the margin by giving them birth certificates that match their reassigned bodies.

Double plus ungood.

I am amazed at the logic here. It's as though they don't realize the irony, despite the fact that the father had to literally read the entire book to cite which phrases and passages he found objectionable.

My wedding, my dowry.

Discussing the cost of my wedding with my parents went far better than I expected, especially considering the fact that the conversation began with the cost of their wedding, back in 1980.

(a slightly fictionalized version of last night's conversation with my parents*)
Me: How much did you wedding cost, Mom?
Mom: Oh, well, hon, you know, we had it at on the base in the military chapel and we only had about 50 people there so, I don't know, um, $500 to $700.
Me: What? What the fuck? Mom! Mom! That cannot be the cost of your wedding. That is unfuckingfathomably low!
Mom: Well, hon, it was over 20 years ago. Money is different now.
Dad (yelling, in the background): Hell, our cars were only $2,000!
Me (stammering): But, how? What? I don't understand! Plane tickets to Ireland are $500! How much was your dress? My god! It had full sleeves! How much!
Mom: Oh, Grandma made it. And she did our flowers, too.
Me: Gah! What? $500?!!

I then inform them that my wedding will be at least $9,000. To which my mom goes, "Gah! What? $9,000!"

Initially, that figure was unspeakably high for me, but it includes a 5 hour sit-down dinner for about 100 people with a choice of 2 entrees, an open bar, cake cutting and coffee services, 5 different kinds of butler passed hors d'ouevres, free champagne and a free suite for me and Marcus for the evening. I also get chair covers and centerpieces.

When I discussed this figure with my father, he said, "Are you sure its not missing a zero somewhere or there isn't a one in front of that nine?" and then "And that price is with an open bar? And they'll let us bring our own wine without a corkage fee? That is pretty damn good."

I love my dad. Paying to help Marcus' parents get rid of their son in such a manner is basically my dowry.

"For my daughter, you get a 3 course meal and all the booze you want!" I can imagine my father actually saying this. But anyone who marries me gets free booze for life anyway. When the intial parental introductions were made, Marcus' father wanted to know if livestock would be exchanged, but the faux dowry of wine won out over the faux dowry of camels. Because my dad has wine. My dad does not have camels.

I feel like this is an excellent choice for us. I (theoretically) only get married once, and it may as well be goddamned opulent. I will never get to have a party so exquisite again in my life . . . unless I become unspeakably wealthy. I may as well have my wedding be the epitome of 1930's Hollywood glamour.

Now its just a matter of getting in touch with the wedding sales manager at the hotel and booking this place.

*The slightly fictional parts are the parts where I swear a lot. Even now, I still don't say fuck around my parents. Unless it's really well deserved. Or if I stub my toe on something.

Fishy fishy fishy fish . . .

This is the most awesome photo ever. I found this while stumbling around blogs. Here's the link to the whole photoset.

At some point, we all change how we look.

Welcome to my new look!

In the spirit of Halloween, my blog has dressed up. In that same spirit, I did as well. But apparently, its not considered cool to dress up when you are an Adult and live in Adult World (which is not as pornographic as it sounds).

I work downtown. In an office. At a newspaper. Most of us dressed up. But most of us also did not leave the office. When I left the office in the middle of the day, I received a number of odd looks from many people on the street. But then again, I was dressed like this:



That's right. I was Jem today. I fulfilled my little girl fantasy of being a music executive by day, rockstar by night. Oh, it was indeed showtime, Synergy.

In addition to the huge pink rocker wig, crazy makeup, pink dress and earrings that you can see in that photo, I was also wearing pink patent leather pumps.

There was a whole lot of pink going on in my general vicinity. So I suppose the looks of concern were somewhat justified. I guess those poor onlookers didn't grow up in the late 80s and early 90s.

Surprisingly, I think I received more disparaging looks from the hobos who drink outside the Borders on State St. than the business people I encountered during the day.

I'll have everyone know that I lost the costume contest we held at work to the Hamburgler. I feel like that was well deserved. I mean, I was every girl's fantasy character from the 80s, but Stephanie was the motherfucking Hamburgler.

So I dressed up for today, and tomorrow I return to Steviness, which is considerably less pink. But I fully intend to use that wig for years to come in a number of costumes: Debbie Harry from Blondie, rock singer Pink, Gwen Stefani during her "Return of Saturn" years, any number of anime characters including Haruhara Haruko from "FLCL" . . . the possibilities are endless.

The blog, on the other hand, will be dressed up for some time. I am also in search for a new name for it. Suggestions? I think some rebranding would be good overall.