Oscar Tamed

The Academy Awards always make me feel nostalgic, perhaps for the good old days when cinema was an art. There is just this mystical heir of glamor and sophistication looming among those starving actresses in spanks.

It is a night of true appreciation of the highest in cinematic arts...or it is supposed to be.

Last night, the golden man himself left me thoroughly disappointed. When Will Smith got up to talk about achievement in editing in sound--under appreciated, incredibly difficult categories, he also added a one liner along the lines of "my (action) movies have fans." The clips that followed were of this years nominees, which were all across the board, ranging from Wanted--a ridiculous graphic novel brought to life by the larger-lipped half of Brangelina, to Slumdog Millionaire and Wall-e, both big winners in their categories.

Comments like Smith's, began to lower the quality of the evenings presentation, and I could see the little man himself began to tarnish with embarrassment.

I wonder if the future for Mr. Oscar will be left in the hands of Smith's action loving fans. Do we really not care about hard, truthful stories anymore? Do we really just want to watch fast cars and slo-mo bullets? Are indie films only watched once they show up on award's season radar??
In the words of Meryl Streep "I have doubts. I have such doubts." About the future of cinema, that is.

for all my groutfitti fans out there, news flash, the groutfiti has emerged from the men's restroom, and has made its way to the outside of the door and has lept across the hall to tarnish the women's room door. No meetings scheduled for discussion yet. will keep the world posted.


oh what a country song i would write...

The past few days I have found myself stricken with a broken heart.  It is much like the gnawing pain of chili fries heart burn, but the pink stuff won't make it go away.

What's worse is the effort and agony that goes into the masking of the broken heart.  A hotpink cast with neon sharpie doodles would be a much better treatment. 

This got me thinking, how does one truly mend a broken heart?  Of course the movies make it look easy.  Painful, but easy.  They tell you it involves pints of Hagen Daaz and Elizabeth Taylor, Jimmy Choos and a bottle of tequila,  Sinatra and Sleepless in Seattle.

Even empowered women make it look easy.  Every night on Sex and the City Carrie Bradshaw would climb into bed with the man of her dreams, her neck draped in long faux pearls, yet in the morning she never awoke with them choking her slender neck, even on those episodes when the man in her life was absent.

In this case, however, my heart does not break for a man, which in fact, could be part of the pain.  I'm overwhelmed with a sense of guilt for feeling pain in a place of my body that culture has assigned to men.  Maybe that is why Meg Ryan is no help to me now.  Maybe that is why a broken heart is not so easy to cure.  Its not as clear a medical condition as the television says.

 They just don't make women as glamourous as Ms. Bradshaw, and maybe if they did, with glamour would come better acting skills. 


The Groutfitti Culture

Yesterday I had the pleasure of sitting through a mandatory meeting addressing the concern of the overtake of groutfitti in the men's room at work.

What is groutfitti one may ask (believe me I had no idea)? Groutfitti is the idiotic idea of writing jokes encompassing the word grout in grout-lines between the tiles above urinals.  

First of all, why would anyone have the desire to write jokes about grout.  There is nothing funny about grout.  It is boring and grows bacteria and is hard to clean.  Not a laughing matter.

As the meeting progressed, it was made clear that the issue itself was not that of groutfitti, but rather that it had expanded to the wall, which was apparently not ok.

So then, what is it that makes writing on the space in-between the tiles perfectly acceptable, but then it isn't ok to write on the wall itself?  

Because my lack of urinal experience made me question this culture as a whole, I posed the simple question "why can't you guys just pee and be done with it."  
The male response I received?
"Because we have a free hand!"

I'm sorry, while I pee, I have two free hands, but it doesn't mean I sit on the toilet and make origami swans.

Having a free extremity doesn't mean you have to use it, and if you are going to multitask, it should at least be constructive.

So by the end of the painstaking half our the conclusion was drawn to provide the able handed gentlemen with a white board above the urinal to voice their opinions.  

And when I mentioned that we are not in first grade and do not write on our bathroom walls at home, a conference table full of blank stares looked back at me.

So maybe I'm wrong and should put up some butcher paper next to the toilet tank and let the enabling of childish habits thrive.


I Want Bloody Froyo

I sat down tonight, with full intention to blog about overpriced shoes.

But instead I find myself burdened with a question: Is getting your way worth it, or gratifying if you bully your way into it?

Is owning that fabulous pair of shoes--the only pair in your size--worth snagging if you have to trip the tall leggy blonde next to your for them?

At some point I feel getting what you want might not be what you want at all if it comes at the expense of others, or at the expense of your own conscious.  The stilettos might slim your ankle and improve your posture, but is it worth the blister that will leave an unsightly scar on your pinky toe?

Right now I want froyo.  In the morning my lactose intolerance will tell me it was not the decision I wanted to make at all.  Yet, I have consumed the low-fat delicacy multiple times this week despite my tummy grumbles.  

So then why is it we as humans push so hard to get what we want if we know in the end it isn't what we wanted at all?
And if it is, is it worth a guilty conscious, or worse bloody feet and stomach cramps? 


The Most Desperate Housewives

Last night when paroozing the Etsy forums, I came across a disconcerting thread.

There was negative discussion about shop owners bombarding the world with self promotion.

Last time I checked, websites have forums with categories like "critique" and "promotion" for just that reason.

Does it make someone who doesn't shamelessly self promote a better person? Certainly not if the non promoter is poo-pooing their fellow etsians. 

So what is it that has lead to all this self promotion?  Are we really that desperate?  Perhaps we are not all as pretty as Eva Longoria, smart at Felicity Huffman, or as great a baker as Marcia Cross, but we are definitely desperate.

Times are tough, especially for people who make a living through arts and crafts.  Is it really the job of their peers to insult the pursuit of profit?

And perhaps its not all desperation.  Did it ever occur to anyone that fruitless self promotion could be just a person's outlet for sharing their creativity.  Isn't it something they should be proud of, sharing their creations with the world?
Selling hand-made goods isn't always about money, its about sharing art with others.

And lets be honest, I'm sure Donald Trump got where he is in life with a little self promotion.


a world post v-day

Valentine's Day has passed. The chocolates are gone.  Hallmark has taken a breather.

Somehow I just feel a little less love in the world.
Do we love more between, say, Feb. 1st-14th?
Once the holiday ends do we as a culture return to our rude, loveless ways?

For example, lets take drivers.
Every morning I pull my car out of the world's most obnoxious driveway.  The week before Valentine's Day several drivers were kind enough to stop and let me into the chaotic line of cars.
Starting yesterday, however, my volvo and I got no such love.

So then do we just stop loving the world after the middle of February? If so, why not celebrate St. Valentine many times a year, hell, why not year round.  We could all use the chocolate.  It is an excellent source of antioxidants after all.