Repostathon II: This Time, It's Personal.

Last week (on Valentine's Day, in fact), The Eye was kind enough to publish my long-labored-over long-lead article: "A Female Tarantino,"a musing on the plight women in film, both in front of & behind the camera, as examined specifically through gender stereotypes, demographic statistics, the Athena Film Festival, & a few choice podcasts. 

Today, Melissa Silverstein, co-founder of the Athena Film Festival & all-around ladyfilm guru, was kind enough to repost the piece on her supercool blog, Women & Hollywood. Among other things, this excellent development reminded me that, speaking of reposting, I've once again managed to let months of published pieces go by without so much as a blip hereabouts. So, for those curious where my words were going during all that time, here's a smattering:


Girls Getting Gross.
A meditation on the current grodiness of onscreen female comedians.

A few weeks ago, a friend sent me a link to the trailer for Bachelorette—the latest buzzed-about summer comedy. ... Though the film’s plot is fairly predictable—a wedding looms, everything goes wrong until it doesn’t, characters start flawed and end less so, etc.—the particular twists and turns of Bachelorette’s tale did make me think about a noteworthy comedy trend, one I both appreciate and wonder at—one I think can most easily be termed “Girls Getting Gross”...

Rebel, Rebel.
Because Rebel Wilson rocks, but our reaction to her doesn't.

So, Rebel Wilson is awesome. That, I won’t deny. From her hilarious turn as Kristen Wiig’s roommate in Bridesmaids to her cameo as a juggalette on Workaholics, everything I’ve seen of this lady, I like. And I’m not alone—see: Sandy Cohen’s HuffPo post from earlier this month, titled “Rebel Wilson: Is The ‘Bachelorette’ Star Hollywood’s Next Leading Comedienne?” Yes, the Industry seems all in a tizzy over its latest discovery—but not, I would argue, for all the right reasons...

Cum-parative Literature.
Because "Hysterical Literature" is a webseries well worth examining (& because it's always fun to get the word "cum" in print).

...What I saw was a static, black-and-white shot, taken waist-up across a typical school desk, of a woman in cat-eye glasses and a polka dot blouse. “Hi, I’m Stormy Leather,” she stated, perfunctory, audition-like, into the camera, “and I am reading from American Psycho, by Brett Easton Ellis.” And that’s just what she did, beginning with a passage in which the deranged narrator waxes poetic on Whitney Houston. After more than a minute, I’ll admit, I was a bit confused, if not disappointed—left wondering what, exactly, qualified this pseudo-adult storytime as “hysterical.” As Stormy went further, though, her tone began to change, rising and falling at odd intervals, Ellis’s prose getting gradually jauntier, even belabored—until, at last, it became eminently clear: she was cumming...

Edible Deodorant.
In which attempt to turn a ridiculous new product into a metaphor for our obsession with celebrity sex scandals. (Yes. Come with me on this. It totally works.)

In browsing the world for 20/20-worthy pop culture this week, I came across what seemed like a veritable onslaught of potential topics, a decent number of which had something to do with Sex. ... However, if I’m being honest, what I really want to talk to you about today is none of these things, and still somehow all of them—a topic so wonderfully inane, yet still so hateful. It is, ladies and gentlemen, edible deodorant. Yes, you heard me: edible deodorant.

Fighting "The War on Men."
In which I do my best not to have a conniption over Suzanne Venker & her whole pile of crazy.

I tried hard not to let it get to me. Like, really hard, you guys. Because honestly, when you see an article pop up seven times in fewer than 20 minutes on Facebook, you know it must be a rabble-rouser. Then, of course, when you note that it’s from Fox News, you have to ready yourself for the distinct (and, I would say, likely) possibility that it’s nothing more than a series of provocative non-facts, hardly worth fretting over. And by the time you get around to noticing that it’s called “The War on Men”—once your brain actually processes that this is, verbatim, the oldest, dumbest feminist stereotype—that something like this could even get published, let alone taken seriously, in this day and age— (Pause. Deep breaths.)...

Still Trapped in the Closet.
Why the return of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet is the best thing since—well—the premiere of Trapped in the Closet.

When I saw the news, I almost spat coffee all over my computer screen. I just about literally jumped for joy. I definitely squealed and jittered and damn near wore out Facebook’s “Share” function. Of course, my emphatic reaction may well have been influenced by the fact that I was on the tail end of a cracked-out three-day study binge—but I’d like to think that tidings of R. Kelly’s groundbreaking hip-hopera, Trapped in the Closet, would provoke a comparable response from anyone who’s experienced even one of its initial 22 glorious chapters.

In addition to the above, I also found time to pen a more somber piece on my experience in Israel this past summer & a tongue-in-cheek romantic advice column, as well as conduct an interview with the (fantabulous, unparalleled) Dita von Teese for our Halloween issue.

&—scene. End shameless self-promotion.

Stay tuned, though, for some (currently half-baked) musings on Girls, gluten, & hair-tearing movie tropes... Until then, team.


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Astro Zombies—The Misfits.

Because there are days on which thrashing incoherently to this song is really, really important. Because a daily guitar-drum sucker punch is life-sustaining & The Misfits are ideal. Because, if I'm honest, this is all I wanted to say, all I gotta do.

A Mistake—Fiona Apple.

So, you know when you hear a song for the first time & you're overcome with a feeling of, "Yep, well, that's my entire brain." Enter, "A Mistake." (Fiona Apple, at it again...) Even to excerpt any of its lyrics would be to do the rest injustice; this song quite simply sums up a large fraction of my (&, I would imagine, others') headspace—& with a jazzy jaunt to boot.

Shady Love—Scissor Sisters (feat. Azealia Banks).

This past winter break, a friend of mine came down to visit from Maine, & one night while out, he deftly threw this song on the speakers, making the whole room swell & sway—& making me, I suppose, the bitch [he] met up in Boston, whom [he] didn't see very often. (Because yes, I did vote for Obama, dance frequently to Madonna, & have been known, in my day, to cut an eighth like a Benihana pro.) The next morning, I woke up with it buzzing in my temples & have been unable to let it go since, especially Azealia's in-your-face refrain. A perfect dance anthem for getting out of ruts—leaping out of them, in fact, jiving oblivious down empty suburban streets through the midwinter thaw.

In Which I Prove Myself Both a Curmudgeon & a Cumberbitch.

When I took over Managing Editorship of my beloved Eye, one of my major initiatives was the creation of a new section: 20/20, a clever lil' vision pun that was to headline a page devoted to what I called "pop-culture op-eds"—punchy, funny, incisive nuggets of commentary, no more than 450 words, on a topic of the author's choosing. The idea was to increase the readability of the magazine by adding shorter, lighter pieces directly after our customary 3,000-word lead story. Sounds like a decent plan, right? I thought so, too.

Little did I realize that, as willing writers are few & far between, this would essentially entail turning myself into a raging snarkmonster on at least a bi-weekly basis. At this point, I've wigged out unnecessarily over Justin Bieber's burgeoning sexuality, Daniel Radcliffe's alcoholism, Scarlett Johansson's barfy tattoo, Madonna's whiskey-scented perfume that never was (just to name a few)—& now, it seems, I'm back again (o wretched column inches, will you never just fill yourselves?) with another wee tirade. 

This time, I bring you even more proof of my eternal curmudgeonitude & general fashion cretinhood: "F no, FNO," or, "Why Fashion's Night Out Is Pretty Effing Terrible." (Also, look out for another contribution from yours truly this upcoming Thursday—about what, I have no ungodly idea yet, but I'm sure I'll be inordinately upset about it.)

Meanwhile, I've been trucking away, nose pressed firmly to that infernal & omnipresent grindstone—by which, of course, I mean, "reading about 10 pages, getting up, making a snack, reading another 3 pages, painting my nails, listlessly thumbing through the remaining 100-some pages, sighing, & ultimately succumbing to Netflix." 

These days, that tends to mean Sherlock, Season 2 of which is now finally available thereupon. (Adios, sketchy Russian streaming sites!) If you haven't seen the show, do, not only because it's whip-smart & expertly put together (the way they handle text messaging is honestly, filmically fascinating), or because it's created/written by Doctor Who's Steven Moffat, or even because it stars Benedict Cumberbatch (AKA, Bandersnatch Cummerbund), whose austere, Victorian cheekbones have chiseled out a place in my heart of hearts—& whose devoted fans, I've just discovered, are called "Cumberbitches," so there's that—but mostly because this show can honestly claim to feature the single sexiest scene I've ever seen on television, like, ever. Behold:

Chills, I tell you. Chills. 

Until next time, team. Happy Monday.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Weekend Wars—MGMT.

So, guys, there's this great band I just discovered—they're called MGMT? Like, the abbreviation for "Management"? Yeah, they're pretty sweet. You should probably check them out. (In all seriousness, though: for whatever reason, this particular song has been worming its way onto my playlists as of late, burrowing between my ears & refusing to leave. The heart wants what it wants, I suppose—& it is honestly a better song than I think it's gotten credit for, crowded out by the hyper-success of "Kids," "Time to Pretend," "Electric Feel," etc.)

That, & this:

Momentum—Aimee Mann.

The simple answer: I recently re-watched Magnolia in service of a class-sanctioned review of PTA's newest cinematic stab, The Master, text of which will be posted here post haste (once, you know, I actually write the damn thing). The honest answer: upbeat melancholy is my favoritest of tones, & no one plucks my particular mania's heartstrings quite like Ms. Mann. Jaunt & brass clash against bald-faced despair, raucously condemning the future to death—perfect for scrambling to find a second sock among dirty dishes in yesterday's make-up, already 10 minutes late to a meeting no one would mind if you missed.

& this:

Exit Music (For a Film)—Easy Star All Stars (Radiohead cover).

Radiohead gone reggae-fied, & successfully so. Need I say more?

"The Filmic Equivalent of Vajazzling": A Trying Tale of RomCom Trailers.

As you're probably aware, dear Reader, it's Thursday, & we all know what that means: another lovely issue of The Eye came out today—including, as it does with rather disturbing frequency, another contribution from yours truly.

Unfortunately, as I'm so tied up in the business/organizational end of things, when I write for my favorite publication these days, it's almost always because someone else dropped out & we have some space that needs filling. Today's case was no different, but rather than struggling to fill the 450-word limit, I found myself really getting into the topic—such that I ultimately scribed a 900+ word opus, which then had to be hacked & mercilessly hacked again, like the evil stepsisters' toes in the grimmer Grimm tale, in order to fit its proper place.

So, though I encourage you to check out the version currently online & in print, I've also posted my original below for your reading pleasure. Behold, "Modern Love, Hollywood Style"—or, as I secretly wanted to call it, "The Filmic Equivalent of Vajazzling":

It’s not like we didn’t know what we were getting into. But we were in the mood for a movie, & my mother had just read an article about the new release Friends With Kids—how it was the endeavor of writer/director/star (& Jon Hamm's long-term partner) Jennifer Westfeldt, how the film seemed relatively interesting & Westfeldt relatively savvy & down-to-earth. Plus, it seemed like an appropriate choice for this, our annual mother-daughter trip to Montréal (yes, it’s exactly as adorable as it sounds). Most importantly, we reasoned, this would give us an excuse to look at Jon Hamm’s face for at least the better part of an hour. So, at 2 PM on that fateful Thursday, we made the decision so see a Romantic Comedy at a Canadian multiplex.

Still, only after the crowd (of 11) filed in, the lights dimmed, & the first trailer started to roll did the full gravity of our situation kick in. We were seeing a Romantic Comedy. At a Canadian multiplex. We exchanged a determined cringe, clutched our cup-holder armrests, & braced ourselves for fifteen minutes of trailers advertising some of the most hateful cinematic drivel ever to grace the silver screen.

I don’t mean to sound overdramatic. Okay, maybe I do—but believe me when I say I am, at most, only slightly exaggerating the baffling atrocity of these previews. I mean, surely my adverse reaction was compounded by the sheer volume—one after another after another, like a never-ending freight train of Terrible—but to be perfectly frank, my reaction to "RomCom" in general is not unlike my reaction after attending my first (& only) frat party: People actually think this is awesome?!, intoned with an incredulity hovering somewhere between rage & despair.

It seems that modern Romantic Comedies—as this onslaught of trailers so aptly exemplified—are specifically & infuriatingly marketed to a demographic that I think just simply doesn't exist—or if it does, it's only as an unfortunate result of this kind of marketing. To me, these movies represent the filmic equivalent of vajazzling: yeah, sure, it's something you might entertain—especially after reading Jennifer Love Hewitt's memoir—& you may even enjoy it on occasion, but not because you would ever organically desire this ever, ever, ever. (Unless, of course, you're Jennifer Love Hewitt, in which case I'd be willing to believe you came up with that on your own.) I just find it frustrating that, as an avid moviegoer—&, let's be real, a female moviegoer of marriageable age—I'm constantly being pandered to by a marketing philosophy that does little more than shout "it's pink, there's kissing, get into it!"

But let's get into it, lest you think me some hyper-hip cynic. The first trailer was for a Canadian film, the title of which I really don’t remember, but which we’ll call Boring Man Becomes Slightly Less Boring, because that sums up its utter lack of conceit with room to spare. In short: an American businessman meets a mysterious Canadian lass &, both at a crossroads in their lives, they decide to abscond on a whimsical road-trip through the wilderness. Think wide, scenic shots of wide, scenic landscapes, Guy making some cynical remark, Girl replying with stark genuineness, “But it’s beautiful”—etc. Sound relatively familiar? That’s because what the directors barely even try to conceal is that you’ve seen this movie about 800 times before (anyone familiar with the term “Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” employ it here)—except this time, it's Canadian.

My particular favorite moment: at a diner counter, Guy looks skeptically at his plate as Girl explains, “It’s called poutine.” For those blissfully unaware, “poutine” is a famous Québecois dish, consisting of french fries, cheese curds, & sometimes even foie gras or Canadian deli delicacy “smoked meat,” all slathered in gravy. So, Girl forcing Guy to try some is a typically Manic Pixie action—the equivalent of Zooey Deschannel making Joseph Gordon-Levitt yell “penis” in a park—except instead, she’s asking him to experience a uniquely Canadian heart attack.

Next, we open on Jennifer Garner & Anonymous Attractive Husband receiving unpromising news from a fertility doctor—a predictable premise, as romance has been known to lead to babies, & Jennifer Garner has been known to portray infertile mothers. (Thanks again, Diablo Cody.) Garner & Husband then retreat home & begin drinking (also understandable), at which point he looks into her eyes & says, “Let’s make a baby. Tonight”—a sentiment later complicated by a “Walt Disney presents” titlecard. If you’re thinking (as I was) “This gives a whole new meaning to ‘kiddie porn,’” never fear: apparently, what Hubby means by “make a baby” is “write adjectives on notecards, put them in a box, & bury it out front, in hopes that a mud-covered seven-year-old will show up in our living room tomorrow morning.” Because, of course, that’s what happens.

Yes, following a dark & stormy night, like a gremlin clawing his way from the depths, a little boy named Timothy appears in their home—addressing them casually as “mom & dad," as if by wacky coincidence, they buried their son alive instead of tucking him in. Rather than shoot the creature on sight, they decide to adopt their creepily immaculate conception—& from here, we get a montage of wholesome & heartwarming images, including a number of off-puttingly Jesus-y shots circling around the boy, his eyes closed & arms crucifixion-spread in the middle of a soccer field as inspirational orchestration swells. A final card reveals this masterwork is called The Odd Life of Timothy Green. Understatement of the decade, that.

But wait, there’s more. Indeed, by far the worst was What to Expect When You’re Expecting, as it appears to be 1) a movie based on an instructional pregnancy book, because that’s apparently a thing we’ve allowed to happen; 2) one of those “Let’s round up all of the famous people desperate for a paycheck & parade them past the camera!” ensemble feats, à la Valentine’s Day & its unfortunate cousin New Years Day; & 3) so deeply unfunny-looking as to warrant physical revulsion. Example: the tour-de-force joke—the one worthy of featuring in this, its marketable highlights reel—shows a group of BabyBjörn-clad men pushing strollers in slo-mo, set to hardcore hip-hop. But wait—a man in childcare garb, you say? Surely not, no! That would be like a dog walking on its hind legs! Oh, what a chuckle-worthy notion! Knees slapped all around!—& case squarely in point.

Pale-faced & deeply shaken, my mother & I squeezed hands, unsure if we could bear two hours more of what someone who would ever consider watching those movies ever might find pleasant. However, as it turns out, Friends With Kids is actually kind of excellent. First off, it’s populated with nuanced & realistic characters—friends who banter the same way mine do, getting over-invested in running hypothetical games (“Death by alligator or shark?”) & making just-too-vulgar jokes. Moreover, the Rom woven through this ever-present Com is particularly refreshing—in no way star-cross’d or easy, no character capitulating or suddenly changing heart, allowing each sequence to unfold in unexpected turns. Still, the film's not so busy flouting convention that it forgets to be entertaining—a genuinely pleasant mix of easy laughs & subtle surprises.

Especially as framed by this wasteland of recycled premises & empty one-liners, Westfeldt’s film proved that, plainly put, not all Romantic Comedy is inherently a suckfest. Now it’s up to the rest of the film factories to follow her lead.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

In Every Dream Home a Heartache—Roxy Music.

So, full disclosure: normally, for this section, I don't actually post the single song I've been listening to most that day/week, as 1) it would likely be the same song for posts on end (re: 99% Bowie/Iggy), & 2) it would often be really, profoundly embarrassing (re: Evanesence). Plus, I do genuinely want to recommend music that I think others will dig—that's cutting-edge or otherwise somewhat abnormal, but no so much as to be alienating, etc.

However, today, I'm performing a massive "fuck that" & putting up this song, which I woke up with a sincere yen to listen to & have been repeat-repeat-repeating all day long—one which is deeply bizarre & long & alienating, but also, therefore, deeply excellent. Like so much of Roxy/Ferry/Eno, it's electronic without being subsumed by synthesizers, pleasantly sinister until it breaks, wailing, into guitars. Also, essentially, it's a love song to a blow-up doll, AKA, my plain-wrapper baby—one line boasts, I'll love you 'til death-size—an ever-elaborating series of innuendoes, which culminates delightfully at the surge of all surges: I blew up your body—but you blew my mind. So get into it.

Meat? Cute! (AKA, I Made a Movie.)

So, I think I was set up on a meet-cute by God.

For those not so versed in the shorthand of everyone's favorite filmic genre—that is, of course, the Rom(antic) Com(edy)—"meet-cute" refers to the oft adorable way in which your charmingly flawed protagonist pair first encounter one other. Common examples include mixed-up food orders, shared recognition of a song—&, inevitably, on-street bumpings-into, pratfalls, or other generally unrealistic levels of clumsiness.

The meet-cute is a particularly dangerous stumbling block for screenwriters, too—particularly screenwriters of particularly short films—particularly young student screenwriters of particularly short films who are particularly strapped for ideas. For example, at the end of last semester, some friends & I spent a box of wine trying to come up with a 12-page story for my final assignment, only to realize that every single remotely interesting or comedic idea we had was ultimately a meet-cute—to the point where we resolved to make either one of two films: 1) Meat? Cute!, in which a young-at-heart dreamer, played by Zooey Deschannel, visits a down-on-his-luck butcher, played by Joeseph Gordon-Levitt, at which point the two have profoundly raunchy sex among the carcasses & the film reveals itself to be a hardcore porn; or 2) A Fucking Autobiography of Frida Fucking Kahlo in 12 Fucking Pages Or Less: A Meet-Cute Between Man & God. (This one came toward the very end of the box.)

Still, it's important to note that meet-cutes are commonly regarded as loathsome not only for their ubiquity, but for their ubiquity despite the fact that they are, by definition, deeply & fantastically unrealistic—even, indeed, when you're actually dropped into one.

To set the stage: last Thursday, snagging dinner before an evening class, I sat down at an unoccupied-enough table in one of the school's least economically designed dining facilities with the intention to dine & dash, when I noticed the gentleman sitting a mere few seats away. He was:

1) ...reading the second issue of The Eye, which I had spent until 2 AM the previous night putting together—for which I wrote a short piece on silent film (&, more importantly, calling James Franco both a masturbator & a buffoon).
2) ...sitting by a bundle of filmmaking equipment, which was clearly from the same place I had visited earlier that afternoon to check out my own supply.
3) ...not-so-quietly singing "In Dreams" by Roy Orbison, as used prominently in Blue Velvet, my favorite movie by David Lynch—about whom I had just discovered a fantastically anecdote-worthy video.
4) ...very, very, very, very pretty.

Sure, okay, the whole singing in public thing is indicative of minor insanity, but that's honestly a plus in my book. The long & short of it is, this man was implicitly providing me with a statistical anomaly of possible conversation-starters. For example:

1) So, what do you think? (Pause for look of bepuzzlement.) The magazine. I'm always curious to hear feedback from our readers.
2) Are you shooting this weekend? (Pause for affirmative response.) Me too—what for?
3) Blue Velvet? (Pause for reference recognigtion.) Tell me you've seen the commercials for Lynch's new coffee line. Damn fine.
4) I like your face. Can I put mine close to it, please?

So, which did I use, you ask? Why none, of course, dear Reader. Why, you ask? Who knows.

I could say the sheer number of options was overwhelming (which it was); I could say I had homework to do before class (which I did); that my salad was almost certainly stuck between most of my teeth (also valid); but the plain truth of it is, I am an incorrigible fraidy cat when it comes to making the first move. Indeed, to compensate, I often find myself going to ridiculous extents to create scenarios in which those whom I admire will see me being Effortlessly Attractive & Eminently Approachable, thereby saving me the trouble of instigating. (In this case, that meant prominently laying out marked-up film readings & notebook doodles while craning my neck just so. It was, as usual, unsuccessful; he hummed off without a trace.)

Cut to the short film I was checking out all that equipment in order to make: First Impressions, the product of 72 hours, no lights, & four beautiful (dedicated, talented, wondrous) people. Are there things about it I want to fix? Certainly. Are there things about it I actually can fix & likely will in a soon-to-be-released Special Edition Director's Cut? Probably. Still, for now, it stands: a meet that never quite cutes—or perhaps, the clumsy merger of my (so-called) life & the hastily compiled fictions it tends to produce. Enjoy.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Lo Dudo—Los Panchos.

As an officially declared Film Studies major, when not making movies, I'm often asked to watch/analyze them—& recently, I was lucky enough to have one of those movies be the beyond brilliant Almodóvar career-maker, Law of Desire. Those who've seen the film may remember the song's prominent (& telling) placement, but for those who haven't, 1) do, & 2) you can still enjoy this trillingly mournful little ditty—even if, like me, you speak only the most cursory approximation of Spanish. All you need to know are those thrice repeated eponymous words: I doubt it, I doubt it, I doubt it (...that you will ever find a love purer than the one you have in me—or something like that).

Cross-Posting A Go-Go.

As aforementioned, these past weeks have been stuffed to bursting with work on the Eye, the (glorious, effervescent) arts & features magazine for which I am now managing editor. At long, long (long) last, at the asscrack of dawn (5:30-something, my foggy memories tell me) this past Thursday, the stars aligned, the dream was realized—&, indeed, the first issue of the magazine was published.

Look how pretty! Click to read the pdf!

Of course, such intense Eyely pride made me remember that I've been an absolute lump when it comes to cross-posting the many words I've logged in its service. So, for any & all interested in what I do with my Clark Kent self—that is, the shy, bespectacled newspaper persona, who fills the hours between my righteous badassery (AKA, Blogsmanship)—here's what I was up to last semester, while, you know, going entirely AWOL hereabouts:

Cinema Verité.
In which I profile the site of my fabulous fall internship—the Maysles Cinema, a nonprofit documentary cinema in Harlem, founded by Al Maysles of Grey Gardens fame—& give it some well-deserved love. (Everyone should go there! Always!)

“Excuse me, can I interest you in some information on upcoming screenings at the Maysles Cinema?” This phrase tumbles out almost mechanically after hours spent repeating it, my handful of fliers dutifully thrust forward into a stream of oncoming pedestrians. As the Cinema’s new graphic design intern, I initially imagined myself more on the crafting than the distribution side of the promotional process—but, after only a short time behind the scenes, I know I’m exactly where I want to be: on the steps of a local Harlem church, making sure everyone I can possibly reach knows about the cutting-edge sociopolitical discourse going on only blocks away at 127th and Lenox...

Let's Bounce.
In which I interview Big Freedia, queen diva extraordinaire of the Bounce scene—which was amazing, because it's Big fucking Freedia, but which was rough, because we had to talk over the phone, & my deafness did not mix well with her somewhat overpowering drawl.

So, I’ve heard that, even within Bounce itself, you’re in a sort of subgenre called “Sissy Bounce”—which I find especially cool because I feel like, in the music industry, there isn’t often a platform for genderqueer artists, and it seems like Sissy Bounce represents a place for that.
Well, we don’t separate it here in New Orleans. There’s no such thing as “Sissy Bounce.” It’s all Bounce music and we have a few gay artists that work within the Bounce culture, but we don’t separate it. That just got misinterpreted through an interview that was done a while back, and they named it “Sissy Bounce” or whatever, but here in New Orleans we don’t separate it at all. Everybody just calls it Bounce music—and, you know, myself [and] Katey Red, we represent a part of that, and we’re gay artists...

From Stage to Screen.
In which I traveled to a swank-ass midtown screening room to see Roman Polanski's latest cinematic foray, Carnage, adapted from Yasmina Reza's Broadway smash The God of Carnage—& then subsequently compared it at length to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, thus nudging at the question of what makes these simple-seeming plays cinematic.

“I believe,” oozes Christoph Waltz, in the same sinister drawl that earned him an Oscar for Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds, “in the God of Carnage—the God whose rule has gone unchallenged since time immemorial.” Dressed as a modern American lawyer in a Paris-shot-for-Brooklyn parlor, he’s lending his villainous appeal to Carnage, the latest cinematic foray of infamous auteur Roman Polanski, which opened this year’s 49th Annual New York Film Festival. The film, based on Yasmina Reza’s Tony Award-winning play The God of Carnage, chronicles a conversation between two bourgeois couples—the Longstreets (Jodie Foster and John C. Reilly) and the Cowans (Waltz and Kate Winslet)—as they confer about a violent dispute between their young sons...

Abnormal Halloween Costumes.
In which I collaborated with the lovely & talented Margaret Boykin to dream up some creative solutions to the year's most intense outfit dilemma.

Sexy Feminist: Think Susan B. Anthony & Simone de Beauvoir…if they were in Mean Girls. These two feminists are already rolling in their graves at the sight of knee-highs and push-ups, so why not bring the empowerment-through-sexuality to a head? Simone loved black turtlenecks—but how about going backless, American Apparel style?...

Untested Development.
In which I ask the question no one wants to ask—that is, "Should there really be an Arrested Development movie? No, but really—think about it..."—&, in the process, drag in David Lynch, Joss Whedon, & Exiled: A Law & Order Movie.

“No, I don’t see it as a series,” acclaimed director Ron Howard says in the final moments of Arrested Development—a surprise cameo that is a typically tongue-in-cheek move for the show he narrated through three seasons. He pauses, fingers tapping. Then: “Maybe a movie?” This hanging question has gone on to haunt diehard fans and entertainment news outlets alike since the show’s 2006 cancellation, through an agonizing five years of will-they-won’t-they pre-production turmoil with enough ups and downs to inspire its own Lifetime miniseries...

Health Over Weight.
In which I rehash America's body image crazy, focusing specifically on the new documentary America the Beautiful 2—whose director, Darryl Roberts, savvily debunks the BMI myth—the Adipositivity Project—whose photographer, Substantia Jones, may just be one of the coolest people in the history of ever—& the controversial children's book Maggie Goes on a Diet—whose author, Paul Kramer, then kindly took the time to yell at me in the comment section.

“So, who do you want to look like?” The question catches me off guard. She smiles sympathetically, folds a stray piece of honey blonde hair behind her ear, and rephrases: “I find it's helpful to have a goal in place—a physical role model.” She grabs a dog-eared People from behind her desk and opens it. “What about Kate Winslet? She’s pretty healthy-looking, don’t you think?” I’ll admit, when I entered this nutritionist's office I was hoping for something a little different—given that none of the previous three had produced lasting results. Despite layers of meticulous meal logs and food pyramids camouflaging my fridge, I remained a significantly overweight (and therefore significantly distraught) 13-year-old—weary of feeling socially inferior to my classmates because I was physically larger. So when the doctor brought out her pictures of Kate, I smiled back and nodded and prayed silently that this plan, please, would stick.

Best of 2011: Best All-Nighter.
In which I recount the "best" of my many hateful study experiences—which can best be summed up by three key terms: "Immanuel Kant," "cockroaches," & "Valentines Day."

As a college student, consummate procrastinator, and incorrigible coffee fiend, I exhibit all possible risk factors for a user and abuser of the All-Nighter. Though my year has thus seen plenty of these harrowing 20-plus hour library entombments, one in particular sticks out: At 10:30-something on a Sunday night in icy February, I enter Butler to begin a five-page essay on the Categorical Imperative of Herr Immanuel Kant, due Monday afternoon...

Then, of course, I also edited a few articles—including one on aging punk rockers (called "Crusty Punks") & another on knitting culture (entitled "Yarns & Recreation").

...&, scene. End shameless self-promotion. (But, seriously, y'all—read the Eye!)


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Right in the Head—M. Ward.

More rumbly, mumbly acoustic boys, perfect for rumbly, mumbly brain-brambled girls, hacking away at keyboards long past the point of sanity.