and another thing

Another idea that percolated in my mind as I was watching Notes From the Underbelly that I have to share: how do people who have never lived in L.A. stand to watch shows that take place there and constantly drop references to obscure things?

In one scene characters talk about Arclight. Some guy says he loves their popcorn, especially the caramel corn they make fresh there. Why the name dropping really? Is this a new type of product placement (with limited sales possibilities, since most of the audience will never go to Arclight)?

Or the street and freeway name game. Actually, Allie makes fun of me all the time for talking that way so maybe it is a very L.A. thing.

The show is very westside, though. At least the commercial streets are.

on the unspeakable of sexual politics

Last night I decided to check ABC's free streaming archive for something to watch. I settled on the two episodes of Notes From the Underbelly. Ordinarily I wouldn't be drawn into a show about pregnancy. Come on, as if this damn society doesn't cater enough to the worship of children, I need to see it on TV (or my computer). But the pilot got me because the guy (quite cute and young looking, and actually he's playing a character older than he) was the one begging the wife for a kid. How often do you see that? I'm sure it happens quite a lot in reality, but pop culture would have you think that the only way we multiply society is by women trapping men into having children (and maybe or maybe not sticking around to raise them). Overall, the show is amusing enough that I'll stream another episode eventually, but I'm not so in love with it that I feel the need to watch it.

There is something that really bugged me. The sexual politics of the show are whacked (big shock, I know). In the second episode, one of the main themes is that the couple hasn't had sex in 25 days (their longest dry spell) because she is constantly nauseous. In typical sit-com setup, you think that might change when he comes home to a house romantically set up with rose petals, candles, and soft lighting. He's so excited! Then his wife tells him she's out the door and he can take care of business on his own. She set the romantic mood so he could jerk off. But of course she can't even utter the works "jerk off" or "masturbate" (FCC's doing maybe?) but has to resort to some nonspecific euphemism. In the process she tells us that this isn't something they ordinarily talk about, because there's no reason to since their sex life is usually so great. Uh-huh. (This scene works quite well with an essay I read yesterday by Samuel Delaney called "On the Unspeakable.")

Where do I begin? First, this reinforces the notion that sex should be paired with romance. You want romance, fine, but there is really nothing inherently romantic about swapping sexual fluid. Society tells us it should be this way to keep us in line. If you think sex is romance then you're less inclined to have nonromantic sex or godforbid sex with strangers (worse yet:) in a setting that isn't a bedroom. Next, this places masturbation in a less than positive position in the sexual network. You should only masturbate when your partner has shut you out for a month and then gives you permission. I guarantee in the real world that man had masturbated each of those 25 days, because he regularly masturbates even when they're having sex! Masturbation shouldn't be interpreted as some sort of dirty secret that gets the job done when your partner's libido doesn't match your own. Society would crumble if we admitted it was a positive experience of exploration whether you have a sexual partner or not. This leads me to my final point about the lack of communication about self-pleasure between a married couple. How fucking sad, really. The shame people must feel to discuss what does or doesn't turn them on to never speak about something as banal as masturbation. Great sex life, huh? (Pair this with The OH in Ohio, which equated masturbation with adultery for a really morally-warped time.)

And then there are people who feel as though they can't share certain desires with the people they love, but yet will do it with those they have less invested in. I can see why this is in such a world, but that doesn't mean I think it's a healthy way to be. The show didn't address this, of course. There's nothing shameful about desire. I won't say there's nothing shameful about some actions, however. But as long as it's between/among consenting adults and abides by the golden rule, I say go for it. (That means I don't condone cheating nor prescribe monogamy, either.)

fountains of stream of consciousness

Check out the interview with Adam Schlesinger I've linked you to above. Although there is really no discussion of Fountains of Wayne's latest CD, it completely made me want to go listen to it with the intent to buy. The whole success of "Stacey's Mom" really put me off. I've been a fan since the "Radiation Vibe" days, though I tend to prefer "I've Got a Flair" from their debut album. They write ironic little pop ditties, that's what I love. But "Stacey's Mom" was so damn popular that when I was substitute teaching at the high school I attended I overheard some kid tell another that Fountains of Wayne could never do a serious song after that one. I butted in and told him that if you knew the band, you'd know they've never had "serious" songs. Plus, actually, I thought that album (Welcome Interstate Managers) sucked pretty badly. It was no Utopia Parkway. "Red Dragon Tattoo" is just too damn good. I used to have this humongous t-shirt that read "Red Dragon Tattoo" and "Fountains of Wayne" on either side of it that I got at a concert in 1999. I wore that shirt out. It was a night shirt that I'd run around the house in. I eventually had to throw it out when the tiny hole in the armpit stretched to the point where you could see my tits through it.

course evaluations?

This semester I'm taking a class in the English department with Judith Halberstam on the status of the alternative in contemporary critical theory. ("Huh?" Yeah, don't worry, that part isn't really important for this blog.) Anyway, she handed out the course evaluations today. When Judith opened the envelope and asked if we prefer to take them home, I thought it was a joke. Then I got the sheet and read that it requests you take 10-15 minutes to write a critical essay evaluating the course keeping a long list of questions in mind. You're kidding, right?

In Policy, Planning, and Development we fill in bubbles. Okay, there are three short answer questions too. But an essay? Who the hell is going to read that? Even in American Studies at Maryland we did the short answer format to a series of very specific questions and a handful of agree/disagree stuff.

which is a more unlikely pairing?

Helen Hunt and Martin Sheen or Sharon Stone and William H. Macy? (Or Macy having an affair with Heather Graham?)

I just saw Bobby. Who wasn't in that movie? I'm actually surprised that Charlie Sheen wasn't in it, since pops was, and of course, his brother wrote and directed it.

Just as I had heard, there are too many subplots going on, but the film still works. I didn't actually get bored, which surprised me. And that's quite a feat. I mean, I knew how it was going to end. I have to say the title sucks. It seems to undermine RFK's authority by just calling the movie (meaning him) "Bobby." How about One Night at the Ambassador? (Sounds a bit porny really.) It was surprisingly relevant, and it made me nostalgic for an era I never experienced. Funny, huh?

"it would be a superdrag"

Finally got my new Superdrag CD and found the time to listen to it tonight over some Sudoku.

Superdrag simply can do no wrong. Even the stuff that ends up on the cutting-room floor is superb. Though I have to say that the final versions of "Keep It Close to Me" and "Extra-Sensory" are better than the demos on Changin' Tires on the Road to Ruin.

I'm just going to have to add this to my regular rotation of Superdrag listening. The disc really showcases their melodic side...never a bad thing.

And those bastards had to go and put two live tracks on there to remind me how great they were live.

looking for mr. goode bar

Recently I really felt like seeing Imagine Me & You again since I hadn't seen it since its theatrical release. And god damn I really like Matthew Goode. He was recently in The Bible's news with statements he's made to the media about how he can't make rent through his acting gigs. He can stay with me! He looks like Topher Grace, only better (partly because I've never seen him in a hoodie). And he hasn't made a Spiderman movie. Though, unfortunately, they've both had on-screen relationships with Scarlett the Harlot. No one's perfect...but put stubble and glasses on that man and I may not be able to control myself.

Naturally part of my imagined romance with Goode is his character in Imagine Me & You. He is the great guy, totally loving, concerned, and fed up with his capitalistic job (which affords incredible views of the Thames from the south bank). How could you not love this guy? When he gets crushed you want to be the one to pick up the pieces. He's the loyal type, and don't we all want that? (Loyal, good looking, clever...).

r.i.p. noho dq

This evening I spent some time in North Hollywood. Before meeting a friend I was planning to stop at the Dairy Queen, because I couldn't bear the thought of being near it and then not enjoying it! Especially since I complain about how inconvenient they are, and this is the only real DQ I know of in these parts (the rest are ones that share space with Orange Julius in malls).

Well, guess what. I get there and find that DQ is no longer. In its place is one of those damn overpriced yogurt shops. My heart was too broken to even bother giving them a chance, but I have to say they had more interesting flavor choices (including raspberry-pomegranate) than the other places I've seen.

another superdrag lament

Allie may be right. In the Valley of Dying Stars just might be Superdrag's best record. I was partial to Head Trip in Every Key for so long that I sort of burnt out on it. I listen to Last Call for Vitriol a lot in the car, because I taped it for some reason (and not the others!). Oh my god this stuff is so good. Why can't they reform? It's not enough to have John Davis sing about Jesus. It lacks the edge of Superdrag.

But wait, on Tuesday, Superdrag's B-side album, Changing Tires on the Road to Ruin will be available! It's not enough, though. And I think it's either dangerous or a clever marketing technique to have the title so close to Supergrass's recent album Road to Rouen. When I blabber about Superdrag, people are usually like, "Oh yeah, I like Supergrass." So do I, but they're no Superdrag.

p.s. on the dead hard drive

I failed to mention the one bright spot about the whole hard drive dying incident. When such a thing happens and the computer is under warranty, you get to bring it in to an Apple store for diagnosis and repair. And we all know there is a disproportionate amount of attractive men working at Apple stores. My "genius" was the super sexy Clay. And yes, he was sporting the perfect amount of stubble. It was almost worth it, even if it was The Grove.

I'll admit I've gone into Apple stores to browse for men rather than Apple products (do you really need a store to do that anyway?).

"they always come in threes doesn't mean it's the last of these"

That lyric haunts me. Seriously.

It's been a long couple of weeks for me. First, Lenscrafters (don't ever go there; seriously, they are morons) fucked up one of my lenses while adjusting my glasses and wouldn't replace it because I didn't buy it there. Cutting through a long complicated story about my poor vision, three weeks later, my eye issues aren't completely resolved since I don't see properly out of my left lens (the axis is off...it has to do with my astigmatism and the curve of the lens). I have to wait so long to see the same doctor again, and in the process, I'm getting used to this screwed up vision. Ugh. But I know I still don't see properly...let's hope something can actually be done about it.

Next, someone broke into my car to steal my garage opener (while parked in my building's garage noless) and busted the driver-side lock. So for two weeks I had to open the passenger side, crawl in, unlock my door, and then enter properly. That was annoying. A kind neighborhood fixed it for me with a part I bought on ebay. For awhile this was the only thing resolved.

The real icing on the cake came on Sunday when I returned from The TV Set to find my hard drive dead. Totally dead. Ten months old, and dead as a doornail (computer SIDS?). Luckily I backed up about a month ago so I didn't lose anything major since everything else I did of consequence was backed up via web-based email (what a fabulous invention). Since I finally got my computer back this afternoon and spent hours re-setting it up, I have placed an event in my google calendar that reminds me to back the mofo up every Friday night. No more of this crap, please.

Friday is the 13th. Please, don't pull anymore nasty stuff on me. I don't think I can take it.

On the upside, I've secured summer employment. Oh and I think this blog had its two-year anniversary and I didn't buy it a gift. I hope that doesn't come back to haunt me later.

who's watching you?

I'm long overdue for a blog about The Lives of Others. Just go see it. One of the most powerful movies I've seen in a long time. It's a very conventionally told story, but completely griping. The French could learn something from the Germans with the thrillers that reveal all the information to the audience, that's for sure.

What amazes me is how Germans are able to produce such quality and critical films of a recent era that is sure to have such emotional stock for so many people. And the historian in me has to report that this movie truly shows the power of the archives.

I cried.

the boob tube

I saw The TV Set this afternoon with a whole bunch of other people. That kind of surprised me. Usually when I go to a Laemmle theater, I'm one of the handful of people there, but today there was quite a crowd. Maybe because it's Easter and everything is closed, maybe because it's L.A., and this movie is perhaps only going to really play here.

It was worth the price of admission alone to see the girl whose "cuteness doesn't get in the way of her hotness" tell Jonathan Silverman that she absolutely loved Weekend at Bernie's. Yeah, I did too, when I was ten. But she saw it 50 times! But seriously, I got a kick of the making fun of Silverman because I've always liked him, and we never see him anymore. Justine Bateman is also in the movie, and she hasn't acted in what, 20 years?

The movie was very funny. And watching it, you definitely have the reaction of "this is why there's nothing on TV I like!"

slumber party for one

I don't know what possessed me to rent Sleepover from the library this evening. Actually, it's because Sam Huntington is in it, and well... he's attractive. I'm only about twenty minutes into the movie as I start typing this, but already I think the best has happened. Jane Lynch and Jeff Garlin are Alexa Vega's parents (uh-huh). Steve Carell is some weird neighborhood patrol officer. And I'm watching some stupid movie designed for tweeners where eighth graders have just graduated and can't wait to start high school, because of course, it's going to be the best time they have (as long as they sit at the fountain for lunch). What the hell is wrong with me?

Actually, the best part just happened. The fat girl that Alexa Vega invited to her party after she was insulted by the popular girls just stole her dad's electric car so they can complete the scavenger hunt that includes meeting some guy off some dating site called something like "safedate.com." Ok, something positive just happened. Vega and friends told the fat girl she isn't fat and that there are guys out there who will like her for who she is.

If only I was ten years younger.

leather beats

I heard part of The English Beat's set tonight from my apartment. Huh? How is that possible, you ask?

I came home from dinner, fiddled a bit with stuff, and then I started paying attention to "Sooner or Later" blaring from the street. I thought, "You know, that's a pretty good cover." Then when it was over I thought I heard the announcer say it was The English Beat. But how could that be?

Well, according to the website for the Street Fest LA, it sure as hell was The English Beat. That certainly beats the unbelievably bad death metal that was torturing me earlier. (Who knew middle-aged men in leather chaps really liked that kind of crap? The Queen cover band wasn't bad, though.)

I didn't know this was happening today. When I did my laundry this morning I noticed food vendors setting up on Santa Monica Boulevard. And I thought, "Oh cool, I'll check it out later. I hope they have kettle corn!" When I returned home this afternoon from a spell in Westwood with Andrew, I saw the leather chaps, and realized that it was the leather festival that costs $15 to get into. If it was cheaper, I'd totally go. I wonder if they'd let me in?