The Wicker Man

One Gandalf Mantooth seems to think that The Wicker Man is a horror movie.  One Sarcastro Smartypants seems to agree.  I’d dare say that perhaps old age has rotted their brains, but the remake of The Wicker Man seems clearly to be a horror movie.

What the fuck?!

For those of you who don’t know, The Wicker Man is a tragedy.  There’s this cool group of pagans who live on an island and keep to themselves and practice their own funky dirt-worship.  Sadly, the crops fail and in order to survive, they need to appease the gods by making some large sacrifices.

So, they lure the most insufferable prig of a guy to the island.  The symbolism is pretty straightforward.  The good guys represent a healthy attitude towards sex and women and death and magic and all that good stuff.  The bad guys represent patriarchal Christianity.  Granted, it might be a little heavy on the Christian bashing, but they’ve got to make him seem like the biggest prissy jerk in order to justify killing him. 

So, yeah, they kill him, but it’s open-ended as to whether his sacrifice appeases the gods.  That’s the only shitty part about it.

But to call that a horror film? " Insufferable prig gets his comeuppance" is the plot of a horror film?

I just don’t see it.

It Puts the Lotion on Its Butt

A dog is like a stupid, but enthusiastic child.

A cat is like a sullen roommate who throws up in your bed and leaves it for you.

So, unlike with Mrs. Wigglebottom, we rarely touch our cats.  Who wants to risk it?  You’re going to end up getting scratched or bit or having your laundry peed on.

Sometimes, when they’re laying in the sun all belly to the warmth, I just figure the retribution is worth it for a chance to rub their tummies.

But usually, they do their thing, I do mine.

Today, though, the tiny cat was looking in distress at something on her ass.  Luckily, since she pulled all of the hair on her ass out this winter, it’s fairly easy to see what’s going on with it (though, in another month, when it finishes growing in, it won’t be.  Poor cat.  Hairy in the summer.  Bald in the winter.).  I looked and she had a big red dry patch right on her top butt (Hey, I’m no vet.  I just call it as I see it.) with some red itchy looking bumps.

I rubbed at it, to determine that it was indeed kind of rough and dry.  She seemed grateful.  Surprisingly grateful.  Like she just sat there and took it.

So, I had this brilliant idea that I would rub a little lotion on it.  And she loved it!

God, it was like kitty spa day at my house!

And, I didn’t get bit or given pissy looks!

Will wonders never cease?

It Has More Oomph Coming From Him

Short and Fat, who has served in more branches of the armed forces than you*, has a brilliant post this morning about when it’s bullshit to oppose the war and when it’s bullshit to wholeheartedly support it.

You should go read the whole thing, but I’ll tempt you with this part:

You know, the ones who offer a buffet of thoughts and doctrine on the importance of staying in Iraq but are too chickenshit to actually go. There are tons of these cocksuckers all over the place, a bunch here in middle Tennessee. If you analyze it, it is really a supreme sort of self serving cowardice. If you believe the United States of America is threatened by Iraq…why the hell are you sitting here? You accuse those of not supporting the war in Iraq of being “non-patriotic” but here you are in middle Tennessee, all busy NOT fighting for our nation. If you really believe our country and our way of life is in danger you should enlist tomorrow.

Preach on, Brother Short and Fat**.




*Navy, Air Force, Kiss Army, just to name the ones I’m aware of.

**Man-loving folks, I know from the descriptor that you’re picturing a stout, squat Major Dad.  Instead, you should be picturing a guy who looks like he should be an astronaut or a fighter pilot.  If he’s somehow the unattractive one in his bunch, he needs to start taking pictures of his friends half-naked and posting them on his blog, because they must be smoking.

Strange Things

Y’all, I swear Mrs. Wigglebottom is magic.  I’m driving home from the first reading of our play and I see this couple walking a very small dog with shiny green eyes and I slow down to get a look, and I look really hard, and then I roll down my window–“Is that my dog?”

And the Butcher says, “Yes, yes it is.”

And some girl says, “Woo hoo, it’s Tiny Cat Pants in the flesh,” which just tickles me.  I think she was a Sarah.  Hopefully not Saraclark, because the Butcher does not need to be bringing scandal into my house.

Oh, shit, I am tired.

But how is it that Mrs. Wigglebottom can change size?  That’s what I want to know.

But I just wanted to say how much it tickled me to hear actors reading words that I wrote.  I have a little piece based on some of our discussion here, so of course, it starts out with a Sarcastro-like character fighting with a Me-like blogger and, fuck me, y’all, we two say some funny shit.

I’d had time to get used to hearing other people read my words, but it about bowled me over to hear other people bickering in the way we do.  Or used to do.  Back when we hung out some.  Now days, a girl can’t even get a beer with the dude.

There are four of us writing it: me, the Playwright, the girl who needs a nickname, and the Recovering Baptist.  I don’t know what I’m doing, but everyone else has some theater experience.  Anyway, we write some shit and then, it seems, the Recovering Baptist magically makes it better.  I don’t know how and I’m totally jealous, but she just has a good eye for picturing how things can go on a stage and how they can fit together.

I’m kind of a patchwork quilt type, I guess and she’s the quilter who’s not afraid to hack up fabric and get precise shapes.

It intimidates me just a little.