Bold But Red-Faced

Or soon will be.

I willfully give Mizzou’s Concerned Student 1950 for 2015’s truly most embarrassing moment. Not for what she did necessarily, just the way she did it

Child, I don’t know you, your pedigree, your hometown, if you loathe Lima beans.   I don’t know If you have the  gift of gastric onomatopoeia (within a burp, you can taste the way lunch smelled). But I know this much—that televised account of your anti-media rant during the racial protests on campus will come back to haunt you.   Not necessarily professionally.   I’m talking personally.  Don’t get me wrong–taking a stand is always good. Just be careful that the foot your standing on doesn’t end up in your mouth.  

You’re young and impressionable.    Everything takes on a different  hue when you’re out from under your old man’s roof and wrapping your head around all these new concepts like religion and waging war against what was instilled versus the expansiveness found in of the parentheses freedom of young adultery.

I know, I know.   It’s adulthood.   Hat tip to the late Kermit Schaffer

But my little miss blonde Idealist, this is a stage in life, and your right on target, It usually occurring in your collegiate years.    If you’re 28, 30 and out marginalizing the marginalized du jour just for a photo op, then you’re just  as dazed and confused as Woodersoon, alright, alright, alright.    

Twenty-25 years from now, you’ll be dropping off little  Pottsdamn or Shagella at soccer practice and/or for a probation hearing and you’ll think of the ass-hattery you participated in on that college campus that you once thought was so hip, proud and socially astute.  Years later it becomes cringeworthy.  You shudder as an expletive tumbles audibly from your lips.     You shake your head.   And guess what?  You’ll only realize you have dandruff.

My, My, my. I know you’ll one day look back on this and almost be grateful in a skewed way that the horrible terror attacks in Paris took away all media attention.

You see, I’m entering the very early stages of the autumn of my life. I can see age 60 on the horizon. I’m learning that you make this trek towards maturity, while shaking off a lot of things you once thought were were so principled.   A protest here, saving a whale there. But there’s also the seedy underbelly of young adulthood, that comes after all the social consciousness. Your social unconsciousness. Like getting shift faced drunk at Tracy’s wedding and incoherently insisting on explaining to her 83-year-old Jewish grandmother what a choad penis is……on video; like talking to that creepy older guy with the weird pants with three–count’em—three front pockets. One might have been an odd pouch of some sort. It was with this man with four cornered hair that you shared a pina colada on that cold, rainy Tuesday at Trader Vic’s…..his hair was perfect.  Running out of the house half clothed after creating a fart infused shit splatter art stain on a “friend’s” bed linens minutes after having biblical knowledge of each other….THEN seeing him at a job interview two days later; how you’ll forever rue the first day you tried to be so cool at B’s lake house in 1979 when everyone laughed when you snorted your first line—-of artificial sweetener.

These are, you understand, just oddly specific incidents made up for entertainment purposes. Not memories or experiences culled from real life, least of all mine.

Emboldened & Red Faced

I willfully give Mizzou’s Concerned Student 1950 for 2015’s truly most embarrassing moment. Not for what she did necessarily, just the way she did it

Child, I don’t know you, your pedigree, your hometown, if you loathe Lima beans.   I don’t know If you have the  gift of gastric onomatopoeia (within a burp, you can taste the way lunch smelled). But I know this much—that televised account of your anti-media rant during the racial protests on campus will come back to haunt you.   Not necessarily professionally.   I’m talking personally.  Don’t get me wrong–taking a stand is always good. Just be careful that the foot your standing on doesn’t end up in your mouth.  

You’re young and impressionable.    Everything takes on a different  hue when you’re out from under your old man’s roof and wrapping your head around all these new concepts like religion and waging war against what was instilled versus the expansiveness found in of the parentheses freedom of young adultery.

I know, I know.   It’s adulthood.   Hat tip to the late Kermit Schaffer

But my little miss blonde Idealist, this is a stage in life, and your right on target, It usually occurring in your collegiate years.    If you’re 28, 30 and out marginalizing the marginalized du jour just for a photo op, then you’re just  as dazed and confused as Woodersoon, alright, alright, alright.    

Twenty-25 years from now, you’ll be dropping off little  Pottsdamn or Shagella at soccer practice and/or for a probation hearing and you’ll think of the ass-hattery you participated in on that college campus that you once thought was so hip, proud and socially astute.  Years later it becomes cringeworthy.  You shudder as an expletive tumbles audibly from your lips.     You shake your head.   And guess what?  You’ll only realize you have dandruff.

My, My, my. I know you’ll one day look back on this and almost be grateful in a skewed way that the horrible terror attacks in Paris took away all media attention.

You see, I’m entering the very early stages of the autumn of my life. I can see age 60 on the horizon. I’m learning that you make this trek towards maturity, while shaking off a lot of things you once thought were were so principled.   A protest here, saving a whale there. But there’s also the seedy underbelly of young adulthood, that comes after all the social consciousness. Your social unconsciousness. Like getting shift faced drunk at Tracy’s wedding and incoherently insisting on explaining to her 83-year-old Jewish grandmother what a choad penis is……on video; like talking to that creepy older guy with the weird pants with three–count’em—three front pockets. One might have been an odd pouch of some sort. It was with this man with four cornered hair that you shared a pina colada on that cold, rainy Tuesday at Trader Vic’s…..his hair was perfect.  Running out of the house half clothed after creating a fart infused shit splatter art stain on a “friend’s” bed linens minutes after having biblical knowledge of each other….THEN seeing him at a job interview two days later; how you’ll forever rue the first day you tried to be so cool at B’s lake house in 1979 when everyone laughed when you snorted your first line—-of artificial sweetener.

These are, you understand, just oddly specific incidents made up for entertainment purposes. Not memories or experiences culled from real life, least of all mine.

New Year Doldrums

The unrest in the Middle East can keep a news cycle hopping. Genocide and atrocities can too, but if those things don’t happen in countries with which we ate allies? Forget about it. Not sure why, where things happen lack a certain news ‘wow’ factor. So from now until March, with a slight increase around Valentine’s Day, as long as the Middle East continues to implode, there will be a few headlines, but other than that…..yawn.

So to entertain myself, I’ll go after the things that irk me. The ones I call the periphery people who saw a celebrity at the same restaurant and insists they had dinner with this away with person. Under the same roof, doesn’t equal being at the same table.

I’d love to be able to say that as I type, I have opera on the old stereo as I sip a humble chai tea while thumbing through the most recent reports on NATO troop movement.

But I can’t. Mainly, because that would be a lie. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I even want to be. I wonder if that could even describe a handful of people and if that’s who they are, surely they’re confident, or at least too self possessed to tell anyone about it.

I dropped out of Facebook because of all the puckered red lip selfies. Celebrating a good hair day or finally locating the right concoction that would almost cover the four facial moles, with eight hairs protruding from them. I dropped out because of all the bullshit lies piled up on FB like a virtualstockyard. I was smellin’ through their spellin’.

You’ve seen the pitiful offerings:

“I’m so in love. These very carefully selected photos of us together and happily posed ought to irk that bitch ex wife of his”

“Aww, he went to Jared’s”

“Look, we’re better than you. WE’RE traveling abroad this winter”

“See How gorgeous my children are. Or DNA co mongked so much better than yours”

“Look what a great mom I am……what a great dad he is”

“I re-post nifty sayings and memes from authors and noted thinkers to make it seem I’m so smart and so together”

“Trump”

“Hillary”

Narcissism has been given a green light to run amuck. Thanks Zuckerberg and that Napster guy.

Instagram? Some kind of cracker, right? Twitter? The sound a bird makes for $20, Alex.

Tumblr. Used to be a shatterproof cup for the clumsiest of families. It also described ‘one who tumbled’.

I’m a middle aged, chubby woman currently with a bad hair cut. If I have good days, I keep them to myself because they’re private and frankly, rare in occurrence. So, why share?

I think we share too much this days, we give away our souls. I used to do that…..give away everything….right here on this blog as well as professionally. I was clueless as to what boundaries really meant. They exist as s protective coating. Not impenetrable, we have to fortify them for that. And then again, being impervious isn’t all that fun either.

So forgive me if I don’t care if you feel like quoting Camus today. I don’t believe you can make up for the lack of a formal education by wishing Saliere a belated birthday. If Ptolemy is your fave ancient know-it-all, I’m not sure anyone cares but you.

If you quote Heidegger one minute, then start cooing like a seventh grader over the latest Taylor Swift or Frankie Avalon song, it’s all for naught, honey. That falls flat, lacks ooomph. Be consistent.

Impress us with some throat singing from the Mayanmar Three or a little Wagner beyond KILL D’ WABBITT!!!!!

Next up: FOX News, Donald Trump and consultants…of any kind.

A New Year

As I type, 2015 is hours away from becoming history.

I see it as water swirling down a toilet, leading to that eventual full flush and then poopie doops aluhlah, there you have a clean bowl.

Will 2016 be that porcelain bowl filled with water good enough to poopie in? Yes.

But as the calendar flips, it does so with uncertainty. Here as I sit high in an ivory tower that’s far from 99 and 44⁄100% pure, I do believe that my optimistic view of the next 365 days is obstructed. There’s ISIS (I remember when that was a cartoon starring some Greek chick with powers in her wrists or something), now it’s an ideology hell bent on destroying anyone with blue eyes and a voter registration card. I think calling for an Executive Action on gun control/ownership restriction, etc., only ensures a Republican will move into 1600 Pennsylvannia Avenue next January. If so, hope he (or she) has her to do list in order, and will implement it only after the “Un Do” list has been completed.

I fear what the new year holds personally. I have two parents both in their mid 80’s. Both are embracing ailments of their years. Not trying to think the worst, but let’s be realistic. There’s no guarantee they’ll exit the mortal coil, but I’d woukdnt bet on any quality of life improvements either. Shoes will continue to perplex, depth perception will force more male pattern baldness from scratching and the ability to recognize me as a distant relative, much less a daughter will only worsen. I steel myself in preparation.

Aging and its process past the mid century mark is insidious.

Other predictions:

A terrorist attack on a small American town….Anytown, USA. Perhaps it’ll be in the heartland of America, maybe an attack in its soul, or its lower intestines in South Texas. Or in an armpit somewhere on the West Coast. This has been a weird feeling that’s plagued me for a while now.

Big Oil will return to normal sometime in 2016, but it’ll have a body count in its wake. What goes down must come up, but there is no set amount of time given in order for a commodity to rebound properly.

Leonardo diCaprio will win the Oscar for Best Actor for that movie he’s in. Can’t remember the name or what it’s about, but I’m seeing Jack Dawson standing at the podium with a little gold statue in his hands, so I’m assuming what’s been eating Gilbert Grape will stop after this win.

Aanother Hollywood star or celebrity of some will die in a plane crash.

A Kardashian will use the word “like” 43 times in one sentence. The guys at Guiness World Book of Records will take notice.

It’ll be a year to discard the things and relationships that no longer work. Ditch and run when a yawn is the only emotional rsponse you can muster amid the stagnation. If that’s th case, then say good luck, Godspeed and goodbye. Please help me let go of you. Allow me to openly dislike you as much as I do. I can’t fake th chitchat any longer. It’s time to move on before I lose the desire to ever try to love again.

here will be a correlation discovered between earwax build up nd cell phone usage. Earwax will actually find a commercial use. It’ll be excavated not unlike the hydraulic fracking in of oil and gas production.

Due to threats, there will be certain no fly zones over major industrial sights, including oil and gas rigs.

Oprah will announce she’s grown tired of network work and will pull back on her hands on involvement with OWN. She will marry Deepak Chopra just for the grins and back a production of Candide while selling produce in a farmers market admiring sea birds. Oprah Chopra producing opera a while hawking okra and digging Ospreys. I like it.

My niece will get married to her Beloved, Devin. I’ll write my book and perhaps even find love, real love, lasting love not the charade it’s been, between the chapters. Th future Mr. Kendrick will be a childless orphan…no heirs or pesky moms. He’ll be blind, will have no sense of smell, thinks I sound 35 and very thin, his prostrate will be the sign of a prawn, consequently he’ll have zero libido and will insist on living in separate houses fully staffed by obsequious Attendants. My monthly allowance will seem like war reparations, the likes Germany had to shell out circa 1919.

An animal act will star in the number one boffo new TV hit in the fall season. I’m thinking a nice family of ocelots who run a halal butcher shop in Scarsdale, NY.

And Generalissimo Francisco Franco will remain dead throughout most of 2016.

I’m no prophet, but just remember: you heard it here first!!!

AHS Hotel Episode Three

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I cant tell upon whom Evan Peters (Tate from season one, lobster Boy from last year) is basing his character.    One could assume Leo DiCaprio doing Clark Gable doing Clifton with Larry Mathers as “The Beaver”.    But this character, Mr March loved to kill and built his wondrous Hotel Cortez to be a bright shiny murderous paragon of evil.

“How do you know so much about me?”

“I Goggled you”

“That sounds gruesome.”

Secret rooms, hallways, torture chambers ( even an acid pit—–ooooh, how Vincent Price).    He’s a ghost now and his spirit is all riled up at the notion that his fabulous hotel might be sold and worse, remodeled.    So, the Countess’ new Boy Toy, who’s now a vampire who can kill with impugnity is in cahoots with Mr. Ward who wants to restore the Cortez to the killing capital it once was.

And then……Naomi Campbell gets killed by the human mattress pad, and Kathy Bates tells us the harried story of the strange vegetarian cult  lives of mother, Iris and son, Donovan and then……and then…..and then…I fell asleep.   Tried to stay awake.  Just couldn’t.

So, can someone help me out with a  perspective and narrative that I missed??

Got any spare dialog for an old alta boy, fadduh?      I’m a Cat’lic.

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AHS: Season Five, Episode One & Two

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At the beginning of every season of American Horror Story, I pray to St. Cecile of B. de Mille that each episode will make sense and offer logical and proportioned story telling.   And for the previous four seasons, I’ve been sorely disappointed.   The show never fails to fail me, but like my inability to watch a young Hollywood starlet spiral out of viral control. I can’t help but watch the descent.     I’ll watch season numero five if for nothing else, to keep a running tally of every production rule broken before the first commercial break.

The Hotel Cortez is lavishly decorated; Art Decor splendor with a cast of characters that are all delightfully broken souls.     Failures, addicts, fringe types— Denis O’Hare portrays bellhop/bartender with a fetish for Liz Taylor (the caftan years).

Th production is equally lush with Kubrickian camera glides down hallways and use of special fish eye lenses on cameras the elevate in height—the kind that makes TV fangoria even more…well, goriia.

Sex, drugs  sex, ambitious career dreams doused with lighter fluid, sex, homosexuality, murder, mayhem, rape eith pointy conical spheres, gratuitous ass shots, sex, vampires, a ghost or two, kidnapping, ornate dildos and violence all displayed before you imagelike a horror buffet.  Kathy Bates plays Iris, the stern, never smiling hotel manager.   She fights with residents and guests and she works at the hotel to keep tabs on her wayward son who happens to be an addict, a boy toy and a vampire.   Fortunately, son Donovan didn’t seem to inherit his mother’s vision.  Those glasses???    She can kill dreams AND ants from 60 feet away.

I must confess–my first look at her prompted me to think of the result of a genetic commingling of Brett  Sommers (the  Mrs. Jack Klugman) of Match Game game fame and of the late Hollywood super agent And Odcars after party host extraordinaire, Mr Swifty Lazar.image

Sarah Paulsen returns for her fifth consecutive season. She plays Hypodermic Sally, a drug addict with a hairstyle that looks a lot like the unconditioned bob I sported back

AMERICAN HORROR STORY --

in ’84.  She “lives” at the hotel and has a tempestuous relationship of some kind with Iris.   Apparently, they’ve loathed each other for the past 20 years.    Nancy is a drug addict that lured her teenage son Donovan into the Hotel Cortez for a vein full of China White. He must have been an at risk kid, because Iris had been spying on them from her car.   Iris bribes Liz Taylor, looking lovely in fuchsia, and he tells her the room the two junkies are in.   Iris goes upstairs, enters the room; the son is out cold, Nancy is loaded but coherent.    The two women exchange words.   Nancy flounces out of the room, into one of the hotel’s six hundred looming hallways, then finds an open window.   Iris pushes her out, she falls several floors, we assume to her death.

This event happened in a flashback from 1994,     Two commercials later, Nancy is back In the present day, looking haggard and all Nancy Spungeon-esque, but still part of the story line, we assume, as a ghost.  Fast forward to present day and iris and Nancy are still at the hotel, mainly because Nancy might be a ghost.

There’s a police detective, a Jon something or other, who plays his part a lot like Kyle MacLochlan portrayed FBI Agent Dale Cooper in Twin Peaks.    He’s investigating s number of murders that involve rape with conical-shaped metal dildo strap-ons.    He’s crank called by the murderer who lures him to a house, which I swear is the iconic Frank Lloyd Wright Hollywood home of the doctor who’s been linked to the vicious murder of the Black Dahlia in the Forties.    He find  two men brutally murdered and in suspended cages.     But just after that, we learn i the flash back contained in a flash forward that his son had been kidnapped from a carousel on an amusement park on the beach.   This happens when he turns his back for one minute.   And as familial trauma is want to do, this creates a problem with his pediatrician wife( Chloe Zevigny)

Lady Gaga stars as the countess and own of the hotel.   Her acting consists of some dialogue, but mostly crafted profile shots and pouts I perfect keylighting, but she’s a singer first.    She’s a vampire, apparently over s hundred years old and she needs the blood of children to keep,her looking good in a meat suit.   But fear not, not one member of the four basic food groups was harmed in the costuming of her character.   She wears rather fabulous closes, incredible gowns with trains, Bedazzled elbow length gloves with their own special scalpel sharp nail on the index finger.   She has four Hitler youth looking children, who stay in a special game room behind s secret door….that is when they’re not stealing a scene from The Shining, appearing at the end of the hall, then sprinting  off Hussein Bolt down one of the hotels 347 hallways.

Behind this secret door, the kids sit quietly while attached to machines that collect or purify blood (or both) while playing an ancient version of Mine Sweep.   After only two episodes, we’ve learned that one of the kids is the cop’s kidnapped son.   I guess they feed on the blood of addict murder victims (and those are a dime a dozen in this hotel), th blood is then removed of additives and Gaga and Donovan (Iris’ son).

But the CoUntess  wants to sell the hotel to an ascot wearing clothing designer from the East Coast. He’s flamboyant yet has a son with enough of an Asian gene pool to make him looked like a perfectally coiffed Sanjaya from American Idol, 2007.

This is the best pic of young Lachlan Drake I could find.

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There’s a heaviness to this season; more so than Asylum (Season 3).    It’s darker, more morose.   The hotel s clean as a whistle, dark in the places it should be.   Just enough ambient lighting to create shadows. I get the sense that love is a culprit this season—-and so is vanity.   People have killed maniacally for both.  And in a hotel where police tape is considered devor, we’re talking about victims, ripe for the picking.    And they pay for their sins in painfully gory ways.

More familiar actors from years past will return over the next several weeks.

Oh yeah, I almost  forgot—Hume Cronyn is back.   Well, Hume C. The actual,noted actor jettisoned this mortal coil several  years ago, but the same actor who played the crazed reanimated Montgomery baby that often lived in the basement of Murder House I. AHS’s first season one of many ghosts of ha returned as some sort of creature that spears in walls and can often be found in s crudely stitched mattress.

See what I mean?

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The first episode of Season 5 left  me yawning.    The second episode was better, or rather good enough for to commit to watching a third episode.    One motivation for doing so, is seeing Finn Whitrock.  He played th the murdeereous inbred psychopathic Dandy last year.    in Season 5, he’s a bad boy model really into snorting “Columbian  Marching Powder”. He walks out in the middle of a fashion show and falls under The Countess’ spell.   One romp in the  sack and he too is a vampire, but not only that, he’s replaced Donovan as her boy toy.

Here a scene of the pair in a post coital make up application session.

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And here’s Gaga in one of her basic housdresses. Lovely.   Now, I don’t know if this crock proves shoulder pads are coming back…………OR…………

She oddly wears Maxi Pads on her shoulders.

Either way, I hope the look comes back.   I’ll be back for episode tres.

American Horror Story: Season 5

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If it’s fall, it must be AHS season.     Yay.

The strange series that offers a different plot each season, begins tonight on FX ( check you local listings)

The 2015 offering sounds interesting.   It’ll  focus on all the strange goings on at a LA-based hotel with a dubious reputation.   In this case, it’s The Hotel Cecil, a real run down flea bag type of in , which was the scene of numerous suicides, robberies, rapes  and weird happenings, including the strange story of a young Canadian woman who was staying there and went missing,    This happened after a security camera captured acting very strangely inside an elevator. .   She punched all the floor buttons, poke her head out the elevator doors, hiding in the corner….perhaps even engaging in a conversation with someone out of camera sight.

The young woman went missing after that.

Then a week  later,  hotel guests started to complain that the water smelled AND tasted funny.    Maintenance workers checked out the water tanks on the roof and that’s where they found the nude, decomposing body of the young woman floating in the water.  I mean, can you imagine?????   Gag.    Wretch.    I’d rather drink a gallon of dirty denture soaking water.

Heave.   Yuk..

And not only that, convicted killer, Richard Ramirez, the so-called Night Stalker, stayed at the Cecil during his murderous reign of terror in Southern California, and so did another killer…a German psychopath whose name escapes me.

So, naturally the hotel is haunted..  Of course.

No Jessica Lange thus season, but Lady Gaga (see photo above) takes a break from wearing the four basic food groups and tries her hand at acting.    She’ll portray as the hotel’s fashion forward owner,  Sarah Pauley returns to season five as a drug addict, plays a Kathy Bates id back as is the fabulous Angela Bassett.  Look for a number of familiar faces who’ll be reprising characters of creepy, broken souls in one form or another.

iI’ll share my irreverent reviews of each episode after it airs, so join me, won’t you, as I try to find logic and proportion in crazed, but entertains nonsense.