Cult-Chic

I've always hoped that I was anything but normal. Though eccentric and bizarre are generally not particularly pleasing adjectives of characterization, they have always been much more appealing than plain or ordinary.

Thus, it was only a matter of time before I discovered the great "underground", as it's called. Through music and film I was able to access a labyrinthine counterculture which I connected to much more readily than the Abercrombie-50 Cent society.

Throughout history there have always been the Jackie O's and the John Waters, neither of which I find myself having a likeness to, but both immensely fascinating folk. However it's always been the Waters and Lynchs that have attracted me over the Monroes and Jackie Os.

After viewing my first Tarantino and listening to my first Neutral Milk Hotel I became even more intrigued by the cult-status culture.

Not even 30 years ago, deviating from the norm was widely rejected. Surrealist films like Dali and Bunel's Un Chien Andalou followed by Midnight Movies like Pink Flamingos, Eraserhead, Night of the Living Dead, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show were passionately and religiously followed by a specific and minute audience and abhorred by the majority. It was in this clash between culture and counterculture that the power of the neo-underground began to shine through.

But things have changed. As usual. And in this case I'm not convinced it's for the better. I've found identifying with the underground is no longer a unique effort but a posh and commericialized phenomena. It seems I've even fallen into the hypocrisy of being intrigued by giant billboards and commercials that advertise independent productions; i.e. my allegiance to IFN, the indie music scene, etcetera.
Even the style of the "in" clothing today, coming from Urban Outfitters and the like, creating thrift-storeesque garb for only ten times the price, depicts the mainstream of the "individual".

A quote that I've always liked is "Always remember you are unique, just like everyone else". It seems that in our struggles to proclaim ourselves as individuals, we are merely edging toward the same goal, once again hurling ourselves back into the Pleasantville masses.

Even this semi-rant of mine, set off by watching a documentary on "Midnight Movies" which are avant-garde films from back in the day, certainly isn't anything that hasn't been said before.

Yet another quote I'd like to bastardize is by Goethe, he says, "All truly wise thoughts have been thought already thousands of times; but to make them truly ours, we must think them over again honestly, till they take root in out personal experience."
So I guess that's all I can hope for from fulfillment. Which, overall, probably isn't such a bad deal.

Anyway, there really isn't much of a point to this post. I just didn't want to let the bottle of red wine and well-done documentary go to waste.


This may be filed under: Inebriated and generally useless babblings/ My self-indulgent take on pop culture thus far/ I'd really like another glass of wine.

Is This An Intervention?

A cult is on the rise in our midst. Luring in the bored and lonely, it prays on the weak (and anyone who can afford a digital camera). Though many claim there is no harm for they are merely "keeping in touch with old friends" allegiance and addiction have blinded them.
Where is this cult you ask? Under your very nose. For it is Satan himself lurking on your webpage under the guise (and rather spiffy though not entirely creative) MySpace.

Okay. No, MySpace isn't really Lucifer's womb. But after my third time logging on in a 10 hour stretch, I am forced to wonder what aphrodisiac force impedes my mind every time I see a computer, beckoning me to check for any friends requests or new picture comments.

Sure, I first succumbed to the MySpace phenomena when I realized that it was a wonderful gateway to keep in touch with ex-campers or other pals from past programs along with a great bunch of people from my old city days.
Having the option to drop a line whenever you like (or whenever you feel like your comments are starting to look a bit low and you want them to comment back) is one of the many pleasing features of the site.

But that still does not justify the addiction. Though I've been in recovery for the past months, the old familiar taste of logging-in still haunts me. Well, not really, but I'm making with the dramatics.

True some are still fervently against creating an account, taking the opportunity to taunt the camerawhores-with-self-confidence-issues and other assorted disgruntled youth whenever possible. But they will fall soon enough.

So I say to you, watch out, be ware.
Oh, and ADD Meeee! :)

And go round and round and round in the Circle Game

(click to enlarge)

Down to one more year 'till I'm legal and on my way to becoming a full-fledged human being.
Well, shit.

On the bright side, I get to make hundreds of Monty Python junkies and Broadway buffs covet me as I go to see Spamalot for some pre-birthday festivities.


And remember kids, there's no better way to show your love than buying me pretty things.

Not Matt Dillon, but pretty close

So tonight I was strolling around the upper east side, taking in the sights with a few friends from my old Manhattenite crew.

After 10 pm, you know you're passing in front of a bar when you suddenly enter a cloud think with cigarette smoke and post-collegiate frat members, as opposed to the usual skyline smog.

Passing Brother Jimmy's, a local meat shack & bar, I began to peruse the mob of inebriated Bush voters and their blonde, well-endowed escorts for the evening, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a particularly dashing yet slutty dress. After I followed the dress from hem to neckline, past the hive of blonde, I instinctively moved on to the gentlemen accompanying this fine garment and it's host.

Low and behold, puffing on a cigarette, grabbing at the dress' waistline was not my old friend Matty D. but Christian Slater, a close second.

Starstruck, or at least momentarily intrigued, I continued to gaze at the former celebrity. And only did I stop this gaze when I realized that Mr. Slater was returning my glance, watching me checking out his package.

Hey, I was curious, what can I say.
But instead of averting my eyes as I usually do when I'm caught scanning a man's family jewels, I politely nodded and offered a gentle smile, which was returned with the classic smirk that only a former 90's actor like Christian Slater could have.

So that is my short and generally unnecessary synopsis of my encounter with yet another famous hunk o' man.
And though it lacked the spandex of Matt Dillon, I did get a devilish smile out of the deal.

It's not TV. It's HBO.

For the past four years I've been a faithful viewer of the show Six Feet Under. Though keeping in mind it was just a televised program, the things addressed in the show were a frighteningly accurate portrayal of this thing we call life. Whether I was lusting after the deliciously disturbed Billy or identifying with the confused youth of Claire, the show has always found a way to interact with me.

Now don't get me wrong, I love the crude fat jokes and racial slurs found in Family Guy and South Park as much as the next chick, but it's been nice to have something a little heavier screened in front of me every so often.

Now, after seasons of dialogue spiced with dark humor and great actors, the show has been put on a permanent hiatus. Though a little sad, the closing is just another example of the reality that the show had set out to breathe to life. All things come to and end.

"The only thing I know is everything you love will die. The first time you meet that someone special, you can count on them one day being dead and in the ground."
However the thing most people seem to leave out is that this isn't necessarily a morbid concept. It's just the truth. Which is a whole nother set of problems all together.

But instead of writing an even more indepth account in which I sound like yet another angsty person who perhaps needs to get out more often in order to wean herself off the movie channels, I'm just going to leave this entry with something a little out of the ordinary for me. Content thoughts.

My birthday is coming up in just a few short days and I've been thinking about how I've missed out on so much already. By flooding myself with worry about squandering away my youth, my life, I seemed to have missed out on all the fun in squandering. So, whether due the series finale or my upcoming birthday, tonight I have something that I believe I pushed out of the way a long time ago. Hope.

An excerpt from the season finale of last years six feet under seems to explain this well:

Nathaniel: You're missing the point.
David: There is no point. That's the point. Isn't it?
Nathaniel: Don't give me this phony, existential bullshit. I expect better from you. The point is right in front of your face.
David: Well, I'm sorry but I don't see it.
Nathaniel: You're not even grateful are you?
David: Grateful? For the worst fucking experience of my life?
Nathaniel: You hold onto your pain like it means something. Like it's worth something. Well let me tell you something. It's not worth shit. Let it go. Infinite possibilities and all he can do is whine.
David: Well, what am I supposed to do?
Nathaniel: What do you think? You can do anything, you lucky bastard. You're alive. What's a little pain compared to that?
David: It can't be that simple.
Nathaniel: What if it is?





Alright, now enough of this emo bullshit.
Don't you think this must've hurt?

Picture Dump, part deux

I still have way too much useless albeit amusing material on my computer.
Again, I've posted some of my favorites before sending them to the infinite abyss of the trash bin.

oy vey.

The Adventures of the Man with No Penis

This is Fabrizio. He is Italian.

Cinderella or the Wicked Queen?

don't mess with The Jesus

upstate New York during the 80's in a nutshell

This Little Piggy

sound advice

On the Road Again, Eh?

Though it's only been a week since my arrival home the window has already started to seem like an appealing option. Thus I'm happy to announce that this morning I'm leaving for some quality time with my Jeep Liberty past the jungle of the Northeast.

Again, I wish you all a great summer and if for some odd reason you happen to be in the Toronto area, hit me up.

Now I leave you with McSweeny's take on Reasons to fear Canada

For every animal you don't eat, I'm going to eat three.

While perusing The Best Page in the Universe I came across Maddox's sardonic yet accurate account on blogging/blogs.

Though finding his rant amusing and then deciding to "blog"about it is pretty damn hypocritical, it still seems appropriate.

Blogging: If minds has anuses, blogging would be what your mind would do when it had to take a dump.

Home Sweet Home

Well some may be happy to know that I'm back in the tri-state area for the next week or so.
I'm rather less than enthusiastic about my homecoming, though it should be nice to catch up with some of the townies.

After a month of gallivanting around the New England region, mainly alternating from the greater Massachusetts area to Vermont, Cape Cod, and occasionally Connecticut, I'm now awaiting my visit to the Canadian folk.

But before I head out on another adventure, I'd like to take the time and acknowledge what a wonderful time I had at Amherst this summer. Not only were the kids great, but the faculty, or rather my "mentors" were top-of-the-line entertainers. Plus, spending time on such a beautiful campus not only restored the coffee house bohemian in me, but my incentive to shop for colleges as well.

That said, I just hope my trip up North turns out equally well. And if not, oh well, I hear the Canadians have managed to keep the drinking age down.