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.

A Hurricane, a Birthday, & a Plethora of Tunes.

Oh, dearest Reader. Quite a bit has transpired since last we spoke.

First & foremost, as you can't not have heard by now, a hurricane recently smashed into the east coast, knocking out power, flooding subways, & generally making a huge & devastating mess from which many have yet to recover. While my part of New York City went relatively unscathed—only a few felled trees & broken windows, green-gray skies & horizontal rain—my heart & supplies & funds go out to those who fared far, far worse. If you're interested in helping out, check here, & if you or someone you know is interested in being helped, don't hesitate to let me know.

Meanwhile, here's an interesting (&, I think, important) article from The Atlantic, titled "The Hideous Inequality Exposed by Hurricane Sandy"—that inequality being economic. The writer notes that there were large groups of people who were simply, financially unable to "take off work," even in preparation for a natural disaster:

In the Union Square area, New York's privileged - including myself - could have dinner, order a food delivery and pick up supplies an hour or two before Sandy made landfall. The cooks, cashiers and hotel workers who stayed at work instead of rushing home made that possible. They were a diverse group. Some were young people in their twenties. Others were middle-aged Americans who had never landed white-collar jobs. Most were immigrants.

A friend & I spoke about this with the doorman who was still on duty at her building during the worst of the storm (though, to be honest, we spent most of the time talking about old movies & the brilliance of Jimmy Stewart). At least, he told us, the university had arranged to feed & shelter its remaining employees in the event they got stuck on campus—but still, I can't imagine how frightening it must have been to be stuck so far from family amid the doomsday prophecies pouring from every available media source. I can only hope his home was in one of the less-affected neighborhoods.

On a somewhat lighter note, amid the crash & bang of whipping rain—to the strains of Marilyn Monroe's crooning for JFK followed by The Smiths' "Unhappy Birthday," with microwave popcorn made haphazardly on a stovetop & Franzia White Zinfandel in a plastic Lion King cup—I turned 21. So, there's that.

Mostly, though, I've been itching to post about music lately—so much of it tingling in my fingertips for week upon stressful week. So, without much coherency or organization, here's a bunch of excellent songs / artists / noises that fill my head & make me move. Here's hoping you like any of them nearly as much as I do:

Runaway Love—Diamond Rings.

I first heard about Diamond Rings when a friend of mine sent me the single "Something Else" a few years ago. I loved it immediately—everything about it just mellow enough, just poppy enough, 80s-ish & quietly danceable & lovely. "You Oughta Know" was a close second—a little darker, slower, thick with echoes of Ian Curtis—deep-voiced & blithely melancholy over electronica in the best & hauntingest of ways.

Now, with the release of his new album Free Dimensional, I can truly call Diamond Rings a favorite (enough to buy a ticket to his concert in NYC on December 4th). There really isn't a true dud in the bunch, but some highlights include: "Runaway Love," above, which is the only song I want to dance to, ever, for the rest of my life; "All the Time," minor-tinged Platonic electropop; "Everything Speaks," ponderous & charged; "Put Me On," insistent & more Curtis-like than ever.

Not About Love—Fiona Apple.


Every Single Night—Fiona Apple.

I'm really glad I didn't get into Fiona Apple when I was younger—before I had even a modicum of my shit sorted out—because if I had, I honestly wonder if I would have done anything but stare at my wall & let her words soak through my skin. For whatever reason, her voice cuts right to the core of things, her lyrics somehow exactly what you always meant to say before you knew you wanted to say anything at all. Aside from the two songs above—whose videos are both deeply excellent, hence their embedded posting (Zack Galafinakis's cameo at once hilarious & poignant; the squid dangling on her sallow head the only way I feel these days)—I've also fallen for "Paper Bag," which is light & tumbling & so sweetly sad, & "Tymps," to which I'm (mentally) working on choreographing a zombie/necrophiliac-themed burlesque routine. (It's totally going to work, you guys.)

Ex-Girlfriend—The Dolls (No Doubt cover/remix).

On Tuesday, October 16th, I went alone to a MIKA concert. (No shame: MIKA is like a shot of pure sugar to your brainstem, effortlessly happiness-inducing but never insipid—which is an incredibly difficult balance to strike, & I think he does it brilliantly. I stand by my man.) Opening for him was a band I'd never heard of before: The Dolls, who the Internet told me consisted of DJ Mia Moretti & classically trained violinist Caitlin Moe. No albums, only one single, few available live recordings—my hopes weren't necessarily high. But, lo & behold, I found them kind of excellent.

There's something about the sound of string instruments in particular that's just irreplaceable—incredibly beautiful, pulling at you in a way other noise simply can't. It's why I get lost in violin covers of pop songs, why I tend to flock toward bands from What Time Is It Mr. Fox to The Adicts—& why, I think, what The Dolls do works so well. Hearing Moe's violin wheedling along to Moretti's remixed tracks—sometimes playing along to the melody, say, of Fiona Apple's "Criminal," sometimes adding dissonant tones & trills on top of Garbage's "Bad Boyfriend"—her playing became more than mere accompaniment or kitsch, a fusion of electronica & classical noise that just plain fit.

What really got to me, too, was the energy of Moe's performance—her wild swaying, knees knocked, pacing frenzied, sometimes falling to the floor then clambering up again, bow arm slicing all the while. It's the highest compliment you can pay a musician, I think: that sound really moves them on an involuntary, bodily level. 

Though I'm usually staunchly against the practice of taking concert videos (because seriously, you paid for a live experience, so put down your fucking phone & experience it), I couldn't help but record these guys for a bit—especially as I recalled the dearth of their music currently available online. In case you're interested, here's a playlist of the videos I took; more than a little clunky & distant & not the best quality—an improvised breaking of a DJ set's blend & flow into individual tracks—but you should be able to get the idea.

Fatty Boom Boom—Die Antwoord.

Yep, they're at it again. I fucking adore Die Antwoord. Sure, their blatant lampooning of Lady Gaga in this video is a little awkward at times in its length, its pettiness—but, you know, I happen to agree with their implicit message: compared to their out-&-out fantastically grotesque bizarreitude, Gaga's "weirdness" is painfully vanilla. Also, there's plenty of other anti-authoritarian symbolism throughout—referencing their less-than-amicable departure from Gaga's label, Interscope (referred to as "Inter-coke Records" in the equally ideal "Hey Sexy"), not so subtly flipping off the preciousness / Othering / general stale crapfest that is Music Gone Mainstream (see: the mural behind Yo-landi, which features a hydra of Gaga, Kanye, Nicki, & other label signees shitting out the Black Eyed Peas). But honestly, all of that interests me far less than simply watching the excellent combination of words & sounds & images their beautifully twisted brains have chosen to put together. I mean, come on—that body paint is just too much, in the most delightful way.

California Uber Alles—Dead Kennedys.

An oldie but very, very goodie. It was playing in the bar on my First Night of Legal Drinking in Public, & is playing again in my headphones now. It's one of those songs that seems to have special access to the back of your neck, twitching it into an involuntary headbang at the cut-out-two-strum chorus.

Ne Me Quitte Pas (Live, 1959)—Jacques Brel.

There is no one better than Jacques Brel when it feels like the world might be ending. His stumbling cadence, his barely composed face—every twitch of his lips breaks my heart.

Violin Concerto in D, III—Johannes Brahms.

I've posted about this song here before, as part of my motivational playlist from around this time last year. At the time, I was studying it as part of a class on the Masterpieces of Western Music, but then this particular piece got so far under my skin that I sandwiched it between the likes of The Yeah Yeah Yeahs & Azealia Banks & listened to it multiple times a day—sometimes solo, on repeat-repeat-repeat, so many times I can now hum along to all 8 minutes. 

To friends who've asked, I explain that I think it sounds how a panic attack feels—hot & frantic, twitching, bombastic, endorphins & fear exploding across your synapses, radiating out to your limbs, making you shake. I've said before, too, that I think violins sound like longing—& in this case it feels like longing for freedom: from the time signature, from the merry-go-round of its jagged theme, from major chords & orchestral coherence. The lead-in to the last minute—the screech of bow across strings as everything starts to fall apart, overflowing, tumbling avalanche-like toward a haphazard conclusion— I am, quite simply, in love.

Doodling With Science.

There are days on which school seems like, plainly put, the Worst: days when I have to tumble 10+ blocks through frigid wind for a morning Astronomy lecture, despite the fact that I have Zero enduring interest in Astronomy & moreover have been tossing & turning past sunrise the night before, over-anxious about some other academic banality. On days like these, I get predictably bitter, then guilty about being bitter, then bitter about being guilty about being bitter, & ultimately seriously consider what it would take to withdraw my tuition, put it in a series of gym bags, & hand them out to various developing countries.

Then, something like this happens:

In case you're wondering what this possibly could be—why, for example, I would get at all excited over a surprised stick figure made of hamburger meat channeling his inner BeeGee—I invite you to meet Carbon Monoxide Man. No, he's not the world's worst superhero ("What happened to them, officer?" "I don't— Aw, fuck, Carbon Monoxide Man was hiding behind the couch."), nor is he the slightly more noxious version of Chicago's Mr. Cellophane.

What he is, is molecular art.

I'm going to let that sink in for a second, then elaborate: these are carbon monoxide atoms, arranged on platinum into the shape of a man by the artist (their word, not mine) Zeppenfield, then photographed with a Scanning Tunneling Microscope.

Seriously: drawings, on a molecular level. I never thought I'd live to see the day.

Mark this, dear Reader: in 20 years, when you're sipping white wine at a swanky gallery on the Lower East Side, complaining about the clunkiness of your X-Treem Magnifying goggles, remember Carbon Monoxide Man.



Today's Headphone Fodder:

Sally's Song—Fiona Apple (Nightmare Before Christmas cover).

Like all somewhat morbid pre-teens, I went through the requisite Nightmare Before Christmas obsession phase—followed quickly by the requisite Poe obsession, then the "I'll wear this Hot Topic dress, but only to go to the Dresden Dolls concert" era (you know you've been there)—but, throughout all of this, I've never really liked "Sally's Song." I was always more of a "Jack's Lament" girl myself—"Jack's Obsession," too. "Poor Jack." Of course, any Elfman music is head & shoulders above most human deployments of sound, & Catherine O'Hara is basically  ideal, but regardless, I never quite came around to Sally or anything she might be singing—that is, until now.

What a fucking fantastic cover—a reinterpretation that manages to be both unpredictable (i.e., not the Marilyn Manson "This is Halloween") & still augment sentiment of the song, almost more so through reinterpretation—leaving to come back, flying by falling. Plus, fan or no, it's simply sonically lovely: the jolt cut-out of the background music in the final chorus makes my heart skip.