Runway the Real Way, or TDBKR in Heaven

On my birthday trip to Vegas with Magen, I discovered London designer Ted Baker and realized that he is the guy for me. I came home from that trip with a "souvenir" from Ted's store in Caesar's Palace, courtesy of Magen's parents: a $325 silk day dress in navy blue and red in a pattern that I can only describe as "1970s Russian folk wallpaper." As far as I can tell, Ted Baker no longer makes or sells the red and navy version of the dress, which was the only color available in January and thus, I would guess, is the original version. Mr. Baker now offers the "Latifa" dress in a birch brown, onyx and silverly-blue "cloud" versions.

The onyx version of my fabulous Ted Baker dress.


I was out shopping today downtown and what is the first thing that I spy when I walk into ANGL in the Paseo Nuevo? Oh, that's right, a really cheap looking version of the exact dress pictured above. And what's behind it? Another knockoff of Ted Baker's dress in a light blue color that could be construed as "cloud," and one in a burnt orange and brown (birch brown?), and then, stuffed behind those, my dress. My red and navy Ted Baker dress.

The ANGL knockoff dresses are precisely the same pattern on the Ted Baker dresses, although there might be a slight difference in the crowns of the large flowers at the bottom of the dress. They are the same cut. There are really only two differences between the Ted Baker dress and the ANGL knockoff that would be noticeable to someone who doesn't really notice much about fashion.

The first of these differences is obvious: the ANGL dresses aren't silk. Everything from the sheen of the fabric to the way that the dresses were presented on the racks (wrinkled) yells "cheap imitation poly-blend." (My god, couldn't someone have at least purchased a steamer so that the clothing will look nicer on the rack, not like it just came out of a box that was on a tramp steamer from China?) The other difference will be more noticeable to the wearer: there's no pretty soft lining inside to preserve the quality of the outer fabric, in part because the outer fabric is already not of quality.

Now, I'm all about affordable clothing. I'm fucking lucky that I have a Ted Baker original, and I only have it because of Magen. I'm all about spending money on things that look more expensive than they are because ultimately, the only thing that matters about the quality of clothing is that they're sewn properly so that they're durable and fit well, that they fit well on you and that they look expensive.

My problem with the ANGL knockoffs is that they, presentation-wise, don't look expensive. And yet, they are. ANGL is charging $59.99 for a wrinkled poly-blend of a designer silk dress. Granted, $60 is not $325, but I should never, ever pay $60 for polyester blends. I can get a 100% silk blouse by INC at Macy's for only $70. INC is not Ted Baker, and I wager that if INC were doing a knockoff of my Ted Baker dress, they'd be charging about $100-$120 for it and using real silk and it would be a fucking steal. That's about the right price for that kind of quality of fabric. I only paid $325 for my dress because its Ted Baker.

But $60 for polyester? That's certainly cheap, but not cheap enough for the diminished quality of the dress. A polyester dress should be at least half that price. Actually, a polyester dress just simply shouldn't be.

In fashion magazines, there's always a feature called "Runway the Real Way" in which the magazine's editors take pictures from recent designer's hot hot hot runway shows and send their stylists and buyers out to find more affordable versions of the catwalk fashions. The idea is that you, too, can look like a runway model for about 1/5 of the price of the designer brand.

The difference between the things you see in "Runway the Real Way" segments and the Ted Baker knockoffs at ANGL comes down to quality and integrity. No editor who wanted to keep her job would ever suggest that polyester could substitute for silk. She might go out and find a lower-priced silk dress in a similar style, but never a polyester one--her magazine, after all, is supposed to uphold a standard of quality dressing. Furthermore, and this is the thing that really bugs me about the ANGL knockoffs, these dresses aren't simply imitations of Ted Baker's dress (say, if it were the same pattern, but cut completely differently, or the same cut but with a different pattern), these dresses are copies of Ted Baker's dress. You don't steal someone else's designs. You just don't. Just like you don't plagiarize the works of Megan McCafferty and call them original, Opal Mehta. It's as though the "designer" who created these knockoffs just found Ted Baker's sketches in a trash can and erased Ted Baker's name from them. A "designer" who steals other people's designers is not a "designer" at all, and that's a sort of stylistic integrity that shouldn't be compromised.

Naturally, as soon as I saw these dresses, I called Magen from the store and told her all about them. Her response was just to remind me that I have in my possession a dress that someone actually wants to make knockoffs of--and that's pretty cool.

Minding the Gap.

I am interested in the naming of things. Why things are called what they are called is a fascinating meditation, and its even more fun when the things you are contemplating are word puzzles with actual solutions, such as why brand names are what they are.

Today I was thinking about something that's bothered me for some time: why is Banana Republic named after banana republics? A banana republic, the kind of country, not the Gap brand, is definied by Wikipedia as follows:

Banana republic is a pejorative term for a small, often Latin American or Caribbean country that is politically unstable, dependent on limited agriculture, and ruled by a small, wealthy and corrupt clique put in power by the United States government in conjunction with the CIA and the US business lobby. The term was coined by O. Henry, an American humorist and short story writer, in reference to Honduras. "Republic" in his time was often a euphemism for a dictatorship, while "banana" implied an easy reliance on basic agriculture and backwardness in the development of modern industrial technology.

Of the four Gap brands--Old Navy, Gap, Banana Republic, Forth & Towne--only Banana Republic doesn't seem to sell products that suit its name.

Old Navy sells clothing that is intended to be casual and fun for the whole family. They sell weekend wear and day wear--nary a fancy party dress or pair of beautifully cuffed trousers in sight. It's the kind of stuff that's all-American, what you picture a sailor might wear when barbequeing with his wife, kids and faithful dog when he's lucky enough to have shoreleave in the summertime. Hell, maybe he was even lucky enough to go see the wife and kids on the 4th of July. It's the kind of clothing that's okay to get grass stains on, that's okay to spill mustard on, that's okay to wash and wear. The fits aren't stellar, but that's the kind of fit you get at that price point. I, personally, hate Old Navy. (Even though my sailor father definitely took me shopping there when I was little and there was a brand-new Old Navy near our house. I think he liked the novelty of the name more than anything.)

The Gap's name is no mystery. The company widely publicizes the fact that their name refers to the Generation Gap between young people and adults that reached its peak when Gap was founded in 1969--the Summer of Love. It's also no suprise, then, that Gap originated in San Francisco. While I have no knowledge of the style of clothing found at the Gap in the late 60s and early 70s, I know that in the 80s and 90s Gap embraced a style that transitioned easily between work and the weekend. The store is filled with basic work peices that can look more high end when mixed with nice trousers for work and can go casual with jeans. The store came to reflect the versitility of the lifestyle of people in their 20s and 30s, which are the years that really "fill in the gap" between childhood/adolescence and full-blown responsible adulthood. They even added a "Baby Gap" to help with that transition. Granted, Gap has had some major troubles maintaining the popularity of their basics in recent times and floundering sales led to the resignation of their CEO. They did manage, though, to do a number of things crucial to my generation. Gap pushed forward the Neo-Swing movement with their 1998 khaki commercial set to Louis Prima's "Jump, Jive & Wail," which Brian Setzer had coincidentally covered around the same time. (He sounds spookily like Prima on that record.) They also brought the gifted and talented Rufus Wainwright to the attention of the world when he asked us what we were doing on New Year's Eve in his white dinner jacket at a black baby grand during Gap's holiday campaign. The Gap also started Macy Gray's career and revived popular interest in musical theatre with their "West Side Story" commercial, for, fittingly, chinos.

Fourth & Town is the newest addition to the family of Gap brands. It is a very high end specialty retail store that is organized by "collections" and has a community of individually-styled fitting rooms. The shopgirls are meant to act as "stylists," although I can't say that's true for the one here in Santa Barbara. Fourth & Town, from the product it carries to the way the store is organized and the feel you get from walking in and being greeted by the shopgirls, fits its name. The kind of people who shop there, who like that lifestyle, who can afford the faux-couture clothing might live at an address such as "Fourth & Town."

Those things all make sense to me. The product each of those stores carry and the atmosphere they create all seem to reflect the name. Except Banana Republic.

Banana Republic, or BRep, as I like to call it, sells some of the finest workwear ever made. Some of the peices can be casual, yes, but the majority of the clothing sold at BRep is meant to transition not from work to the weekend, but from work to an evening out, or from a day in the office to a nighttime networking event. In BRep, you've left the world of family fun created at Old Navy. In BRep, you've even left the world of casual-minded Gen Xers with tots who shop at Gap. In the world of BRep, you've got style even Tim Gunn would approve of. (And clearly does, as Project Runway awarded its first two winners with jobs on the design team of BRep.) Banana's designs are all well-cut and highly-styled, and that kind of attention to detail and aesthetic is reflected in the price point of most of their items. They're not cheap, but they're definitely not as expensive as the faux-couture of Forth & Town.

So with that in mind, what's with the name? The meticulous care with which BRep's garments are crafted certainly don't have the raw, natural-fiber look of items made in such banana republics. My coworker Bill suggested that it was because BRep was the proxy government running the Gap, however, while it's a good analogy, BRep was established in the late 70s and incorporated into The Gap, Inc. in 1983. So the high-style running the lower-styled store doesn't exactly measure up.

But then I remembered what Banana Republic looked like in the late 80s and early 90s. And I remembered why I used to hate it. Granted, those years were definitely not good years for fashion for anyone, but I recall a Banana Republic that sold high-end resort wear. Imagine Tommy Bahama-style but with less tack: fewer loud prints, more raw, natural fibers and more neutrals.

Marcus has a jacket from BRep circa 1992 that I refer to as his "hobo jacket" because it truly is that hideous. It's some olive green linen thing that looks like a combination between a happy coat and a painter's smock. If it were part of the Seinfeld universe, I imagine it's something you'd buy in the J. Peterman catalog and wear with your "urban sombrero." I might burn it one night while he's sleeping.

If this jacket is the kind of style BRep had cultivated for itself until the late 90s--and certainly til Tim Gunn's blessings were bestowed upon them--then I get the name. It is similar to Bill's conjecture, only Gap is the despotic ruler-from-afar and Banana Republic is, well, the banana republic. The upscale resort wear manufactured for old BRep might be the kind of thing the dictator might wear while running the country. (I'm sure a majority of their products are actually manufactured in third world countries, as I'd wager is the case with all Gap brands.)

I'm glad that BRep has been touched by the hand of Gunn and that their style is no longer as heinous as it used to be. I love that they still sell natural fibers and that some of the peices do seem to have the worldly influence that their clothes have always carried, but now that worldliness is so much more sophistocated than the hobo jacket.

You're lucky, Banana Republic. Even with your really odd name, you're the only Gap brand I'll actually patronize. I forgive you for your misguided youth. And the hobo jacket.

And eyes in the back of my tiny little head.

Some IM madness exchanged at the office this afternoon between myself and Bill. Let me preface this by saying that my desk faces absolutely no one, which is why I have covered the wall I see for 8 hours a day in pictures of a variety of mustachioed animals, and California Farm Bureau president Doug Mosebar.

me: what kind of chips are those?
bill: S + V
bill: My god, how did you know I was eating chips with your back turned
bill: oh
bill: wait
bill: you have ears

Jim Henson's dead and gone, but his muppets still live on.

I ran into Bert today. You know, that big yellow unibrow-spoting fellow from Sesame St. who may and or may not be in a homosexual relationship with a man who eats cookies in bed.

Yeah. That Bert. The muppet.

And I have never been so scared in my fucking life.

Co-workers and I are heading to Cold Stone not so long ago, and we walk out of the office onto the landing we share with Montecito Bank & Trust and who comes up the stairs with balloons but an overwhelmingly tall, walking muppet.

My immediate response, after the uncomfortable laughter we all experienced, is to get as close to the wall as possible and act like he can't see me. I duck down behind Rose, who is only about 5'3" and a few centimeters, she says, so that wasn't terribly effective. Bert definitely saw me.

Bert says to us, "Was it something I said?" apparently as bewildered by our reaction to him as we were by his countenance. I want to go down the stairs and run away. But I can't because BERT IS ON THE STAIRS! He is physically preventing me from escaping. This is horrible. I cower.

Bert says, "Hey, do you guys know where Kevin Something-or-Another hangs out?" (I'm not censoring his name for poor Kevin's sake. I just don't remember because my fight-or-flight instinct had kicked in and I was trying to keep from huddling in a ball in the corner.) We point to the bank. I run down the first flight of stairs as Bert tries to buzz himself into the bank. He is allowed inside (though I have no idea why any sane person would allow this) and I hide in the corner, laughing uncomfortably as he immediately starts singing "Rubber Ducky" when he sets foot inside the bank.

It takes me and my coworkers about 5 minutes of uncomfortable laughter and me squeaking, "What the fuck?" to process this strange occurrance.

Until this point, I did not know that I was actually this terrified of life-sized dolls/puppets/singing telegrams. I've been afraid of dolls, the creepy porcelain or life-sized kind for quite some time. Puppets I am simultaneously attracted to and repelled by. But the dreadful combination of life-sized doll AND puppet is too horrifying for me to bear. And then there was the singing.

I tried to find the name of the singing telegram company that could have sent this monster near me, at least to show you all a picture of his terrible yellow face on his uncomfortably tall body. I wanted to share my horror with you. But instead, I found something that disturbs me even more:



That would be Bert and Ernie telling little Dutch children the tale of Sinterklaas, which is discussed by my fiance here in his holiday blog. The Sinterklaas story tells of how St. Nicholas delivers all the presents to the little Dutch children with the help of 6 to 8 black men. This story is also brilliantly recounted in "6 to 8 Black Men" by David Sedaris. I cannot tell it as well as either of these men, but the image above makes me wonder about why Bert gets to be good ol' St. Nick and Ernie has to be his Moorish slave. I won't get into the odd and inherent racism in the Dutch story, which the Dutch, as I understand it, do not see as a. odd or b. problematic. I am more interested in how this picture, and the racial roles it implies, may help the "Bert and Ernie are queer" argument.

The Sub/Dom roles are obvious, but that extends to hetero relationships as well. I'm interested in Ernie playing the role of the Moorish slave in the Dutch Christmas pageant because, in a number of literary works I read in Foster's 165GL, the gay body is often conflated with the racial body as a mark of otherness. Consider the homosexual encounter between two young boys in a slave cabin in Gore Vidal's The City & The Pillar. Here, gay sex is marked with the same otherness as the racial otherness experienced by slaves. Is Ernie, perhaps, othered in a similar fashion with his Black Man #5 mask? Does that increase the amount of minority otherness on his furry little crumb-loving muppet body? Why does Bert, then, get to be Sinterklaas . . . other than the fact that the mask fits his head better? Is it because Bert, while he may live with a man with whom he shares a bed, manages to keep an outward appearance of "muppet-u-linity" that keeps him on the proverbial "straight-and-narrow?"

I don't really know where I'm going with the Sinterklaas thought. I was mostly just continuing to be creeped out by my visit from Sinterklaas/Bert and then was doubly creeped out by the fact that there is a Sesame St. Sinterklaas book in existence.

So now you know. I am afraid of singing telegrams.

Souvineers from the Everglades

I text message exchange I had with Marcus at about 4 p.m. this afternoon, which I could not post at work because I was unable to stop laughing:

Marcus: Dude! We just stopped at a gas station, and Coop found a back-scratcher made with a gator's hand!
Me: Buy it!
Marcus: Too late. After she saw it, she almost vomited. I'll try to find one later.

There are a few things I love about this exchange:
1. I think it's so funny that I can't stop laughing every time I read it. I am literally near tears with laughter. The notion of a back-scratcher made out of a gator paw is just too funny. Seriously, imagine handing it to someone when they ask for a back-scratcher.
2. As implied in the final sentence, I think Marcus might actually buy me one if he manages to find one again during his business trip to Florida. Imagine the great conversations I can start with that hanging on my wall.

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.