So, the guy who was going to try to get eaten by an anaconda had to call it off after the anaconda started squeezing him. Um… how else did he think the anaconda was going to do it? Did he not even once watch a constrictor eat? I mean, did he consider the part where the snake puts its teeth into the prey, too?
I believe the way for things to change for women is for women to come together for each other, to check on each other, to find each other and tell each other our stories.
But I have to say, I keep thinking about how often Death is a woman, the rivers, lakes, and streams are women, sailors can be married to the ocean, and all those ancient earth goddesses. All the places you might put a woman where she’ll never be found, they’re all considered to be feminine spaces.
I don’t know. It makes me sad.
I’ve never watched an episode of any of the Kardashian shows, but that doesn’t prevent me from dreaming about them, apparently. I dreamed that I was taking a shower in their house (or one of their houses, I guess) and I got to use their shampoo and conditioner and it was amazing. My hair was so soft and luxurious and tangle-free.
I also kept having people open the curtain to talk to me or to get my opinion on whatever they were talking about, but it was totally worth it. Because of the bath products.
I have no idea what days it is, really. I’m depressed about this state and what it means to be a woman in it. But I don’t see any easy fixes. The Democrats don’t really exist. There’s no legitimate opposition. No reason for them to temper their actions.
Two things made me feel incredibly old this week. One is Kim Kardashian, in that I see everyone having opinions on her in her various states of nakedness and I thought she looked cute and like she was having fun. You know when you feel like a grandma? It’s when you see a shiny, naked lady being all sexy and your first thought is, “Oh, she looks so cute.”
And the other is that I listened to the new Azalea Banks album and I liked it. I found it a little strange sounding and I couldn’t quite understand half of what she was saying, but my feet tapped. I don’t know exactly how to explain it. But it was the first piece of music I heard that was obviously marketed to adults which I found just felt weird about listening to because she sounds so young.
I still listened to it a bunch. But it was weird. I mean, I’m glad there’s youth culture and I’m also really glad I don’t have to keep up with it. I can just be interested in what I’m interested in and ignore the rest.
So, I wanted to say a little bit more about it, because we ended up talking again last night about how much we enjoyed it. I just wanted to expound on how visually funny it is. I know Joe Hill only wrote the story, but there were so many sight-gags that it kind of made me wonder if they weren’t also paying a little homage to his comic book background.
The diner is “Eve’s.” The guy who gets horns has a brother who plays the horn. One of the characters gets two of his fingers blown off so his hand is permanently giving devil horns. Ig is turning into a demon at the same time he drives a gremlin.
I mean, they’re cheesy, but they’re cheesy visual puns in a really fun way.
Daniel Radcliffe’s accent is hilarious. I mean, it’s definitely an “American” accent, but I don’t know where in the United States someone has an accent like that. And this movie contains more peeing than most movies. Also Ig spends a great deal of time with his pants undone. It’s really interesting just because he has a body on-screen in a way men normally aren’t embodied.
Anyway, I liked it. But I was confused how Heather Graham has ended up doing bit parts.
I have been thinking to myself a lot “the way out is through,” and I got to wondering who said it originally. And there, in a pile of inspirational quotes, was “The best way out is always through” attributed to motherfucking Robert Frost.
If you know Robert Frost, you know why I say “motherfucking Robert Frost.”
Robert Frost is like king of the pithy quotes that, when taken out of context, seem, yes, inspirational and wise. You know Robert Frost only two lines at a time, you think Robert Frost is some sweet old New England farmer handing out gentle wisdom while leaning on his hoe, overlooking his lovingly tended garden.
“Oh, Mr. Frost, I seem to be tangled up in your blackberries, which also may be a metaphor for my life!”
“I see that, girl. But just keep coming toward the sound of my voice. ‘The best way out is always through.'”
“I’m free! Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Frost.”
“I don’t have time for gratitude. I have to help this person trying to make a big life decision decide which path in a metaphorical woods he should take.”
That’s never how a Robert Frost poem goes in real life, though. They’re always sad, someone is always missing a connection with another person or about to.
And thus it is with “A Servant to Servants.”
I’m still going to think of that phrase, but it feels maybe a lot more honest and a little less inspirational to know that the speaker of the poem feels rather ambiguous about it. As you do, when you’re thinking about your crazy uncle locked in a cage in the barn.
But I feel like a book that describes itself like this is going to be awesome:
You know all about Son House and Muddy Waters, but have you ever heard of Eraserhead Morgan? Lester “Proudfoot” Jackson? Hootin’ Jack Wilson? Probably not, because technically they never existed. The fact that they’re imaginary does not mean that their stories aren’t worth sharing. Obscure Early Bluesmen (Who Never Existed) helps to fill in the gaps left by music historians who refuse to acknowledge the important role played by fictional performers. Inside this book, you’ll find accounts of seventeen entertainers who, had they existed, may very well have had some impact on modern music.
So, they have it on HBO right now and the description calls it a mockumentary, which meant that I spent the first twenty minutes waiting for it to be funny. Happily, it was weird and creepy, so even though it wasn’t what I thought it was going to be, I kept watching. And wow. I don’t say this lightly. I think this is one of the best ghost stories I’ve ever seen/read. At least among the most satisfying. It’s not a typical horror movie. There’s no brutal murders (on-screen or off). There’s no inexplicable malevolent forces of evil. There’s not even anything that jumps out at you. It’s just a whole movie’s worth of dread and horror.
It is filmed like a documentary, which means that there’s a lot of reminiscing about what happened, and a lot of pretending like these events would have been so well-known to you, but here’s the real story. This leads to this wonderful moment about a third of the way into the film, when a handful of really creep things have happened and you’ve convinced yourself that it’s okay, because they’ve–in real life–just done it with mirrors and trick camera work, when they “reveal” in the movie that they’ve just done it with mirrors and trick camera work. I can’t tell you how delicious this moment is, when you feel like you’ve drifted off into a “not real, but close to real” realm so there’s some distance, some ability to sit back and just enjoy, and the film makers reground you hard in the real world.
I was telling the Butcher, too, that it’s a little like watching a Penn & Teller act as a horror movie. They show you how they did everything. I still found the last frame of the film to be fucking terrifying.
I don’t know how this didn’t make a bigger splash when it was released. I mean, yes, it’s a low-budget Australian ghost story, but it’s so well-done. I was really hoping I could talk the Butcher into rewatching it last night, but he didn’t seem that game. But he eventually conceded I had been right about Trollhunters, so I think I can get him on-board with this eventually.
Edited to add: I ran across this, by the guy responsible for making it look the way it does. It makes me want to watch it again.
I don’t say this lightly. I am still in awe.
You guys, I spent a lot of last night listening to different versions of “In the Pines/Where Did You Sleep Last Night?” and I feel a little like my mind is blown. This is the best thing. Not best song. But I am completely enamored by the song’s ability to completely transform meanings just based on what gets left out or added. In some versions, the singer is a man whose woman is being unfaithful in the pines and he’s heartbroken and calling her on it. In other versions, she appears to be a woman who has to prostitute herself because her husband has died in a train accident and the singer is just someone observing her plight. But in other versions, it’s the woman who loses her head in the train accident and her body has never been found and it is her loved one who is desperately asking her to reveal the location of her body.
I want to write a story like that. I’m not sure how or what it will look like, but, oh, damn, that’s some good shit.
Some days, mere minutes after wishing you’d ever heard the version of “In the Pines” where a dude gets decapitated, you learn that the most recent prominent version is that version:
I heard these back to back on accident yesterday and decided they followed each other pretty well. I think it’s something about the rhythm that fits together nicely. I’ll also say that my opinion of Kings of Leon is not that great. But this song is so good! And I was so disappointed to learn that they’d done it, since now I’m going to have to think at least a little fondly of them for this.
Also, that first song… not until yesterday did I realize “brand new pair of roller skates” was a euphemism for her vagina. And I think we sung that song in elementary school! Was there no one to say “he has a key! A brand new key! Don’t let the children near it!!!!”?
Also on my endless drive home yesterday, I realized you can always tell a Metallica song, even if you come in during an instrumental part, because those guys love random, nonsensical key-changes.
Today my hair is totally doing… I don’t even know what. It’s huge and curly and has, so far, been caught in the seatbelt, caught in the door, and had some leafy bits caught in it.
Thus leading me to wonder how the little girl in Brave manages to run around with loose hair on horseback and not have a brambly mess.
I like it. I don’t know if I love it, but I like it. I’m going to have to see how it holds up over multiple listens.
That’s what they try to tell you about writing. I wrote a story. My first one after turning 40. I think it’s good. It needs some polishing, but it amuses me. I’m mulling over what’s next. I have this thing niggling at the back of my brain, a Midwestern thing. A story with a big sky and bugs thick on your windshield. But I’m not sure yet.
I need, also, to figure out what I’m doing for October. And I need to try to run into a bunch of people to see if I can keep all the various things that are supposed to be in the works moving forward.
Yesterday, there was a blind item on the internet about a back-in-the-day A list country singer and his tv star wife who throw the most spectacular swingers parties in Nashville. This morning, on our way to work, the Butcher and I decided that, if Clint Black made no comment, but “leaked” a cover of him doing John Anderson’s “Swingin’,” he could have all our money.
Hee! I love how zombi-ish Frank looks.
I don’t watch “Game of Thrones,” but I just want to say this. If you run a show and you say something like “the scene wasn’t rape, because by the end of the sex, she wanted it,” you, sir, are a dumbass. The idea that you can fuck your way into a yes is really, really disturbing. And probably something you should think long and hard about.
Jessamy linked to this on Facebook–the hunt for Geeshie Wile and Elvie Thomas. It’s excellent.
So, hey, listen, I’m going to talk about the Hozier song “Take Me to Church” and I’m including the video because I’m assuming not all of us have heard it. But the video is really affecting. Like you’re going to watch it and then you’re not going to feel like talking about what I want to talk about. You may want to cry. So, fair warning.
Anyway, so Lightning 100 has been playing this song:
And I have been insisting to the Butcher that it’s a cover of a Rihanna song. He insists I’m nuts. So, today at lunch I found the Rihanna song and they aren’t the same song, at all.
But, my people, they are the same song. You’ll probably be asked to sit through a commercial on the Rihanna one, but as soon as it finishes, hit play on the Hozier song. Just let them play together. See if I’m not right.
Tomorrow is my official first day, but my boss said she’d see me about eleven today, so… yeah…. I think today is it. The new me doesn’t start until May 1, so there will just be a lot to do. And I don’t know if or how I’ll get it all done. I tell everyone I’m excited because it seems so ungrateful to just be stressed. But, honestly, I’m just stressed. I think I’ll feel excited later. But this month? I’m expecting long hours and just feeling like crying most of the time.
So, my dad wants us all to go down to my brother’s for Easter because my brother doesn’t yet feel like traveling with the baby–which I think really means that the car seat only fits in his girlfriend’s car and his girlfriend’s car isn’t sound enough to make the trip to our house. Which is fine. Except that this somehow translates from Mom and Dad going to my brother’s for Easter to my dad trying to figure out how we can all go. And I’m feeling a little unheard. Like all my talk about how busy and stressed I am must just be bullshit. Can’t we drive down there after work on Friday and drive back late Sunday and the Butcher and I could still get to work? And these questions come up and I just feel this kind of split reality where my brain is rushing ahead thinking “You haven’t listened to or taken seriously a damn thing either I or the Butcher has said to you about how crazy this month is for me.” and my mouth is just exasperatedly saying “And what about the dog?” which is supposed to mean, “Have you at all considered the logistics of this from our end?” Because, frankly, I feel like he hasn’t. The only logistics to be considered, always and forever, are my brother’s. He’s the one constantly in crisis, so let’s all constantly rearrange our lives to meet his needs.
I mean, for sure, let’s go down on Friday so that he can ignore us all of Saturday like he did at Thanksgiving.
Anyway, I finished David Cantwells Merle Haggard: The Running Kind, which is pretty breathtaking on quite a few levels. But the thing that stuck with me and seems of a theme to this post is how Haggard would find these really talented women singers and then marry them and then hoist himself up on top of their talent and they would find their careers as anything other than duet partners with him stalling out. And then we find out that he’s in hot pursuit of Dolly Parton and I swear, it’s just about as harrowing as anything in a thriller. Will he get her and thus stall her career out?
And it’s not like he’s purposefully doing that. He’s not some intentional career serial killer. It just seems like he has an idea about how the world works–that he should get to have a great career and a great partner both singing and romantic and that he should also get to do whatever the fuck he wants while they raise kids and tolerate it–which is an idea about how the world works that the record companies are glad to go along with. And there’s no point at which Haggard seems to step back and say “Wow, the way I am in the world really curtails the lives of these artists I really admire. In fact, I couldn’t be how I am in the world without curtailing these artists I admire.”
Which is understandable. Holy shit. Who wants to look in the mirror and wonder if they’re some inadvertent Madame Bathory career-wise to the women you love?
What was my point? Oh, right. I sometimes think that my family expects from me a certain stalling out. Like I’m cheating the family if I have a job or ambitions that take me away from whatever drama we’re all supposed to be giving a shit about at the moment. But what can I do except feel hurt and keep on keeping on?
Which, ha ha, also, joke’s on them. Because I am terrified of stalling out. Afraid I have. Afraid all the writer I’ll ever be is “Frank.” But stalling out in that way doesn’t benefit them in the least.
But man, Dolly Parton and Merle Haggard.
There are many couplings I like to imagine (not in a lewd way, but…). I mean, my god, when you read about Loretta Lynn’s life with her shit-stain husband, don’t you hope that she and Conway Twitty were getting it on? And looking at Merle Haggard in his prime? Shoot, I hope Parton took him for a couple of test drives before deciding he wasn’t right for her.
“So, you’re going to hang out in my grandma’s chair in a painting that was in her living room. The guys from Duck Dynasty or your band doing a reasonable impression will show up in canoes and play.”
I am very proud to bring you my Kelis Grand Unification Theory of all Awesomeness. My only warning is that I discuss earworms. Which means songs that, if you hear them, will indeed be stuck in your head for the rest of the day, or, in the case of “Neanderthal Man,” your life.
I’m thinking about writing about my Kelis is a genius theory this evening, but it’s going to require listening to “Sugar Sugar” by the Archies, and I just don’t know if I can do it.
Both of these songs are the kinds of songs you have to sing, loudly, in your car with the windows down. But I’m not quite sure why. It’s something in the musical arrangements, where there’s a kind of swelling grandeousness.
But, if I knew more about music, I’d wonder if they’re not in the same key and, if so, if this key, for some reason, just screams to me “Sing this, loudly.”
Also, the beginning of the Miranda song is “Norwegian Wood,” isn’t it? Tell me I’m not hearing things.
It was so dark on my walk this morning. And yet, somehow I still missed it when the stars faded and only Venus was left.
So, that was the end of True Detective. I liked it but I didn’t love it. The hallucination could not have been cheesier. And I feel pretty sure that those injuries were life-ending. But the maze was creepy as fuck and so sad.
I don’t know. I just really felt like, in part, we were being lead toward Hart’s daughter being at least tangentially involved–girls from school talking about it and upsetting her, at least.
But I was glad to have my walk. It’s very dark out there, but noisy. Someone was snorting in the bushes when I walked by.