Go ahead, rent Horrible Bosses

So b/c Brad is a Netflix slacker (i.e., he takes 3 days to send already-watched DVDs back), thus we didn't get two more discs of Law & Order season 8 in the mail today; and b/c I slept like crap and then had to spend the day on campus, thus resulting in super low motivation to do work tonight; we rented and watched Horrible Bosses by the light of the Christmas tree (well, and a lamp). 

We both had relatively low expectations, but, I'm pleased to say, it was actually pretty darn funny. Not think-of-it-5-days-later-and-start-randomly-cracking-up funny, but funny enough that one of us laughed at least every 4 minutes. Which isn't too bad at all, considering that most comedies are mildly disappointing at best. 

(It should be noted that Brad's claim that I "hate laughter" - simply b/c I always reject watching funny movies/shows in favor of dramas - is patently untrue: I spend a good part of every day laughing at people. So there.) 

The best part of the movie was the fact that a bunch of the minor characters were really famous actors - Kevin Spacey, Jennifer Aniston, Colin Farrell, Jamie Foxx (who was soooooo funny) - and the characters they played were pretty darn humorous. Plus it was fast-paced, and who doesn't love Jason Bateman?! 

Now, this movie is certainly no The Hangover or Dodgeball or Wedding Crashers, but it is a good Friday night $1 pick (gotta love Redbox). It has successfully withstood our "No More Wasting Our Lives on Crappy TV/Movies," a policy we instituted (and have basically stuck with since) this summer after one too many horrid time-wasters from Netflix streaming. The basic gist: if you'd like a light-hearted laugher, drop a dollar and you'll even get to see Bunk from The Wire fame.

PSA: George Clooney will not Remarry

Dear Ladies, 

George Clooney has gone public about his relationship with Stacy Keibler, whoever that is. These two gorgeous people (though she really doesn't do anything for me; blondes, IMO, are over-rated) have been spending some time together for the past few months, and, undoubtedly, they will continue to do so for the next few months/years. Even so, you can be sure that Ms. Keibler will not be the next Mrs. Clooney. 

Why? 

B/c George Clooney said a long time ago that he will never remarry,* and numerous long relationships that have not led to a walk down the altar should be evidence enough that he means business. That is, the business of staying a bachelor. 

If Clooney's ex-flame Elisabetta Canalis, who is smokin' hot - she's like one part Kate Beckinsale and one part Alessandra Ambrosio and one part Italian accent - couldn't get the guy to put a ring on her finger, I assure you, there is not a woman out there who will. 

So: stop dreaming, stop theorizing, stop guessing, stop scheming. If what you want is a big ol' rock; the romantic vowels on the beach; the growing fat together as you grow old together, try pinning your hopes on someone other than one of only three men* to rank as People's Sexiest Man Alive twice (1997 and 2006). Besides, he probably works too much and doesn't pick up his underwear.

Signed, 
Yours Truly 

* Clooney was married to Talia Balsam in the early '90s. 
** Brad Pitt and Richard Gere (yum) were the other two. 

Good ol' music and the good ol' days

I am, hopelessly, a devotee of the bands I fell in love with circa a decade ago and, more specifically, the songs and albums they put out back then. The big names that made it - Train, Vertical Horizon, Third Eye Blind, 3 Doors Down, Tonic - and the little and/or local ones you don't hear much (or anything) from these days - Athenaeum, Caroline's Spine, Black Lab, the Clarks, Dexter Freebish, Neve, Collapsis. They had my heart then and still have it - as their songs play randomly from my iPod. 

(And don't even try to tell me my music ain't sophisticated b/c I couldn't give a hairy backside.)

According to Chris Rock, you'll always love whatever music you were listening to when you started getting . . . well, you know. (Yes, for the record, I am referencing Chris Rock, and I'm proud of it. I can't think of anyone more hilarious and on-point at the same time with the exception of Seinfeld. So there.) Since I remained a virtuous lass until I wedded my dearest, I'm going to have to tweak his statement and say that whatever music you listened to while coming of age (which sounds a lot less cool than "getting laid," admittedly) will be music you love forever. I mean, isn't there just something that gets you about the tunes you loved way back when? 

And let's broaden that out to the whole music experience. I'm totally having a nostalgic moment for the Pittsburgh music scene of my high school and college days (and I know Brad joins me in this nostalgia, although he hates - hates! - my music). 

Back in t he day, Pittsburgh used to actually be a place to see up-and-comers, and man, was it fun. My senior year of high school, I went to a bunch of shows at different clubs around town. There was Graffiti, where I saw Stroke 9 while wearing a ridiculous back-less shirt and - eeks! - no bra. There was Club Laga in Oakland, and while I can't remember who I saw there, I do remember it was about 1000 degrees. And, of course, there was my favorite, Metropol, in the Strip District.

Oh Metropol, oh the memories. Amanda and I and a bunch of our friends saw Vertical Horizon there - I can still remember the bass player's maroon, skin-tight leather pants (we spazzed out - it basically screamed sex). I'm actually pretty sure that we saw them there twice. We also saw Splender - and after the show I kissed the super hot bass player, but did not accept his invitation to join him back at his hotel room . . . . 

An 18-yr. old me looking oh-so-very-excited with Matt Scannell,
lead singer of VH 

And the number one show of all time (for me, at least): we stood in the front row, smashed against the stage, sweating and screaming and singing and otherwise freaking out as Train performed its debut album (titled, of course, Train). This was before Train was "Train" and, sadly, before Metropol (and the bustling nightlife of the Strip) was no more. 

I remember talking to the band members in front of the club after the show (yes, Patrick Monahan is really that sexy) and one of them said to me, shocked and flattered, "You knew all the words to all our songs." 

I was like, "Of course! I love you guys!" At that point, they'd released only "Free" and "Meet Virginia," glorious things that they are, and most of their fans knew only those words. But we dear high school girls had, of course, virtually memorized their cd. And it was soooooooo cool that they noticed. I've still got the $10 bill that their drummer signed and gave to me. (I was into collecting things from my various hot-guy-related quests, haha.) 

So, as I sit here listening to a song Brad and I listened to courtesy of Napster on the evening of our first date in 2001 ("Send It Up" by Vertical Horizon), I want to give a shout-out: to the bands from back in the day (and all their amazing music that was felt like the soundtrack for my life) and all the old Pittsburgh clubs that didn't make it but kicked *ss while we were lucky enough to have 'em, you oldies-but-goodies are the very, very best-est. Rock on, rock on, rock on. 

Movie Un-Recommendations

Tonight, Brad and I are relaxing on the patio behind our house, listening to Coltrane on his iPod speakers, futzing with the new fire pit, and just generally enjoying one another's company. B/c the breeze is so nice (or chilly, if you ask me - and I've got the sweater, fleece pants, and blanket to prove it) and the light is out so long, we're doing our version of communing with nature instead of what we usually do on nights like this - that is, on summer nights when I've got no work to do. (For the record, I do have school tomorrow, but I turned in my translation of the opening of The Trial this morning.) 

Normally, we curl up on the couch in front of the flat screen and, if there's no Burn Notice or True Blood or NCIS going on, we watch a movie from Netflix or RedBox or our personal stash of DVDs, or something streaming from Netflix on our super high-tech excessive BluRay (a gift from the in-laws, of course). 

A lot of the movies we've recently been watching, however (with the exception of Inception), have been so crappy it hurts. It seems that every now and again we get to the point where we've exhausted all of the movies of mutual interest, and we end up watching garbage (of seemingly mutual interest). Well, we're at that point. Now we need to take a little break from our flick viewing so that I can stop saying, "I can't believe I just wasted my life on that crap!" 

To hopefully save you from the same fate, here are the movies that have bored, irked, baffled, and just plain disappointed us in the past 2 months (in no particular order). They definitely receive my heartfelt un-recommendation. 

--------------------
   Black Swan 
This was obviously my pick. And I've paid for it mightily in the form of groaning and moaning from Brad. I figured all the critical raving about it meant it was worth seeing. And, after all, Natalie Portman - who I like a lot - won the Oscar. Well, it sucked. Her performance was one dimensional ("a crazy, frigid ballerina," is Brad's description, and he doesn't say this lightly - he, like, loves her), the movie could've been an hour and 5 min. instead of an hour and 48 min., and the lesbian love scene was so over-hyped. 

Vincent Cassel was probably the best thing about this movie. He seems to often play a somewhat unhinged person, and he does to quite well. But that's about all I have to say in favor of this one. Don't see it unless you feel obligated to watch all of the "hip" movies of the year. 

   True Grit 
Love love love Jeff Bridges, and he does a nice job in this movie. (He's a U.S. Marshal named "Rooster" Cogburn.) The main female character does a nice job, too, but the story is really slow, it doesn't get interesting until the last 25 minutes (of an hour and 45 min.), and Matt Damon (whom Brad and I adore) plays a mostly lame and uninteresting (though at times humorous) Texas Ranger. I was a little shocked when Brad told me it was a western. but I went with it. Oh, folly. 

The ending is so so so unacceptably unsatisfying that any ground the movie might have made up in the last 25 min. is instantly lost. Even Brad, who feigned interest, was greatly shocked and irritated by the non-ending. The movie's based on some book, by the way. That's all I got. It was dumb. 

   Taking Lives 
I don't know why you would see this movie now - it's from 2004 - but we just watched it yesterday. Angelina Jolie is her usual gross, skanky self. (Those lips give me nightmares.) Ethan Hawke is his usual rat-looking, feminine-sounding self. The plot was what you might expect from something called Taking Lives - serial killer, FBI agent, childhood baggage, questions about who's who, etc. etc. There was a pretty hot sex scene, but it was too drawn out. We normally like these kinds of movies b/c they keep our attention and don't require much thought or emotional involvement; this one required a great amount of thought, however: we had to answer, Why did we pick this? 

(Even though I can't stand Angelina Jolie, we did enjoy Salt recently.) 

   Stone 
This movie's got one majorly great thing going for it: Bobby D. 

Brad and I are somewhat obsessed with Robert DeNiro (can you be "somewhat" obsessed?), and so we'll sign on for most anything he does (including American Express . . . okay, not really, but still). But even he and Edward Norton couldn't save this movie from Milla Jojovovich and a horribly slow and unexciting story line. Mil-Jo, as Brad calls her, is just awful in my opinion (in his opinion: hot), and this film was no exception. 

I wanted to like this movie - it's serious, nicely filmed, trying to be complex and grapple with deep themes. But it's just a disappointment. Another one with not enough going on either plot-wise or character-wise, and although I might be the only person who feels this way, a thuggish, convict Edward Norton just isn't very convincing to me. 

   Perfect Getaway 
Okay, so we didn't see this in the last 2 months, but it was so bad and I dislike Mil-Jo so much that I've got to mention it. Steve Zahn is the other "name" in the movie, and he's also endlessly irritating to me. This was a sort of - I don't know - psychological thriller? or something. It did have me "tricked" - that much I'll say for it. But it was so over-the-top and stupid-weird that I just couldn't wait for it to be over. There was no interesting depth or nuance to the psychological level - just weirdness and craziness. And I can't stand Mil-Jo!

I'm part of the problem

Yesterday, I started a post on Charlie Sheen's bizarre-o antics. In fact, I wrote an entire post, but it felt like two separate efforts. About 5/8 (probably my second favorite fraction) of the way through, I did an about-face, switching from light-hearted mockery to serious appraisal of his situation and the nation's attitude toward mental illness. And then I felt icky about what I'd written. I couldn't click the big orange button to send it into cyberspace b/c something just felt wrong. 

Then my mom came over to help with the powder room renovation, and when we got to talking about Sheen's behavior (we both get sucked into celeb gossip), she grew serious: "Yes, it was funny - for a while. But then it went on and on, and I started to think, There's a real problem here - something is not right with this situation." 

Her sentiments were very similar to those at the end of my unposted post. But my mom didn't laugh. Not for the first 5/8 of the conversation; not at all. 

So, having had a day and a half to sit with this, I write now to say two things. First, shame on me. (This will be echoed, deservedly, below.) Last weekend I laughed at Sheen when Brad and I had friends over; a few days ago we watched Jimmy Kimmel lampoon Sheen and cracked up, and we even talked about it the next day. Shame on me. Shame on me for being part of the problem. 

The problem is the second thing I want to talk about. What follows is excerpted from my initial post. The first two lessons - I now lower my head as I say it - were jokes at Sheen's expense, rife with references to winning, Adonis, and Tiger's Blood. But the third one is the only one worth reading, and the others have vanished into the world of "cut" text. 

"Lesson 3:  No one is exempt from the threat of mental illness, and as a society, we need to revamp our attitudes toward it. 

All joking aside (and I do love joking), Sheen's behavior isn't just weird, it's off. There's a pretty real chance that Sheen suffers from bipolar disorder or some other serious - and untreated - mental health problem. And if that's the case, then this post and all 6 million Charlie-Sheen-mocking articles out there are contributing to a really really big problem in this country - an insensitive and ignorant approach to mental illness. And, if this is indeed what I'm contributing to, as someone who takes mental illness very seriously, let me be the first to say it: Shame on me. 

In 'Charlie Sheen Isn't Funny' from the LA Times, a long-time sufferer of bipolar disorder comments on the social stigma associated with mental illness in this country: 'In Hollywood, "it's easier to say 'I was smoking crack and hanging out with hookers' than admitting 'I'm deeply depressed or deeply in pain,'" said Abbey, who spent years working in the entertainment industry. "People are quick to judge you when you're manic depressive. I think Charlie Sheen, like a lot of us, doesn't want to wear that label."' 

It's quite likely that something serious - beyond an unpleasant personality - is plaguing Charlie Sheen and contributing to his very, very public meltdown. And while lots of people realize this, many more don't. It took me several weeks (and a newspaper article) to even consider the possibility. 

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, more than 25% of the country's population suffers from some form of mental illness during a given year. That's a HUGE number. These problems are very real for the sufferers, their parents, children, spouses, and friends. As a culture, our general lack of knowledge about what constitutes mental illness and what it "means" leads to lack of awareness about how to handle it and a lack of sensitivity to the subject. I don't believe most people are purposely cruel. I'm certainly not. And yet, to read my unposted post, you'd have every reason to believe I was. 

Mental health problems are just that - health problems. They should be no more a source of shame and embarrassment for those who suffer from them than is a torn rotator cuff, asthma, rheumatoid arthritis, migraines, or heart disease. But that's easier said than done. Any hope for a change in people's attitudes toward those with mental illness will have to derive from education. Our society needs to become educated about the signs, symptoms, and causes of mental illness. We can't stick our heads in the sand - these problems aren't going away." 

So ends the only respectable part of what I wrote yesterday. 

A super-size ego is funny, but manic depression is not. Arrogance - amusing; self-destruction - not at all. And I'm pointing a finger at myself.

To Tweet-er or not to Tweet-er

Yeah, it's Twitter, I know. I know. But I did just call it "Tweeter" by mistake (a mix-up of "Twitter" and"tweeting," that's all, for crying out loud) and garnered the mockery of my tech-savvy husband. 

The title refers to Bradley, not me. I think Twitter is stupid. Sorry to offend if I have offended. Well, not that sorry, b/c I do think it's stupid. Maybe I just don't get it. I mean, for sure, I don't get it. And maybe that's the only reason I think it's dumb; then again, maybe not. Maybe it just is dumb. 

Anyway, we're sitting at Starbucks presently, and my dear hubby announces, "I think maybe I'll start doing Twitter." 

Me:  twitching, half-laughing, trying to appraise his seriousness-level. 

Him:  serious. 

This man I am sitting across from with whom I share a home and cats and myriad other things just said to me, only half-jokingly (and how I wish it were more than half), "It's a revolution in communication." 

I sigh. Were we not in public, I would weep. He's not interested in blogging, but this whole Twitter thing is, somehow, appealing. He says he wants to use it, at least in part, professionally. I have no idea what that means, and he hasn't quite articulated what that means. Does this mean he doesn't know what that means? What do I mean? What does the universe mean? What do I mean by "mean"? Okay, now I'm being unnecessarily silly. 

Anyway, my husband may soon become the next Mr. Twitter, joining the ranks of Demi Moore, Jim Carey, and apparently a host of "profressionals" who are tweeting about who-knows-what. Will that make me Mrs. Twitter? I really, really hate the sound of that . . .

The Friday 4: Fab Hairstyles

The subtitle I really want seemed excessive, so I'll put it here: 

Fab Hairstyles I Wish I Had the Guts/Ability to Get (but don't) 

There. Much better. And actually, coming back after having written most of this post, I think I need to add a sub-subtitle: Some Random Notes about Prom. Now, onto the haircuts: 

4.  My husband (and mother and friends and neighbors) would have a panic attack if I got this done to my hair. (And I'm pretty sure I would, too.) Is he one of those guys who likes long hair? Of course. But he also likes my hair short. Just not as much. His health is not the reason I don't go for Michelle Williams's pixie look, however; it's b/c I would look, well, stupid. I don't have the face shape for it. My mom, Brad, and I have been unable to figure out precisely what shape of face I do have, but whatever it is, it's not the one you need to pull this look off. 

3.  Yeah, this is the second time Kate Beckinsale has appeared on my blog in a month's time. What of it? I mean, she's gorgeous, has great hair, and plays a vampire in the movies. There's not a whole lot more that I ask for from celebrities. Anyway, Kate's long wavy hair doesn't look complicated or difficult. And, for her and her team of a bajillion stylists, it probably isn't. But real hair doesn't do this sort of thing. And certainly not my hair. Fullness without poofiness, soft waves that stay wavy without the hardened look of hairspray (which doesn't work in my hair anyway and which I haven't used since probably my senior prom) - this is movie/photo shoot/photoshop magic. 

2.  I simply adore this hairstyle. I don't quite know what's going on with it - like, is this the work of a blow dryer and round brush? hot rollers? a curling iron? 800 nearly undetecable layers? It's really hard to say. But this bob is just so darn cute - too cute for me, in fact. I'm just not that cute of a person. Note: I really can't stand Katie Holmes. She's done nothing of interest in the past decade (marrying Tom Cruise is NOT of interest), and I tired of Joey Porter at about the same time my hunky date to my first prom noted that he and his hunky friends adored Dawson's Creek and watched it religiously. Talk about 2 birds, 1 stone. 
 
1.  Ohhhhhhhhhhh, lovely. Lovely! I've been a huge fan of this hairstyle for years. The texture and thickness of my hair is not dissimilar to Reese Witherspoon's, so I could probably rock the long, straight layers pretty well. But bangs - esp. straight-across-the-forehead one - take guts. Guts I don't have. Taking the leap for my current side bangs (which now can be pulled back into a ponytail!) was like choosing a single stock in which to invest a life savings. But I did it, and then I loved them. For three seconds. And then I hated them. For three months. Finally, I learned how to fix them, and we now maintain a sometimes cordial, sometimes strained peace with one another. 

*For the sake of consistency, I guess I'll say something about my junior prom as well. Um, my hair looked awesome and my dress was fab and unlike anything anyone else wore, but my date was a dud. I only asked him (yes, I asked - so what?!?!) b/c I knew my mom was imagining scenarios where I didn't go to the prom and turned into a troll and lived forever in her house, husband-less and eating bon-bons all day. He was the younger brother of a friend, cute enough, but lacking seriously in the smarts and personality arenas.

Am I really eight years behind the rest of the world?

So, I've frequented Starbucks this past week or two, and, if you've been there for any chunk of time, you know they have a tendency to play songs over and over again. When you're there for 3 or 4 hours, you get pretty familiar with whatever you can't block out with ears plugs, John Coltrane, or index fingers. Plus, the annoying guy sitting to your right helps you out b/c he sings every other line out loud, humming the tune in b/t. (Sorry, I had to complain about him again. He really put a damper on my Tuesday.) 

But anyway. I am currently obsessed with a Jayhawks' song called "Save It for a Rainy Day" that I've heard umpteen times at that delicious coffee shop. (And please, I don't want to hear how it's so commercial and bourgeois, etc. etc. Their coffee tastes good, and the place is relatively clean. There:  it's officially met my requirements for coffee-selling establishments.) So, I look the tune up today, and it turns out it came out in 2003. I'd been thinking either late last year/early this year or maybe the 1960s (seriously). How do I miss things for EIGHT years? 

Are the Jayhawks super famous? No. Am I a super-up-to-date music person? No. But this song is right up my alley, and in 2003 I was a college junior still 300% into finding new music. I mean, I'm out of touch, sure, but it's a little shocking for me to learn I'm this out of touch. 

(The video's actually pretty cool - it's got Mary-Louise Parker wearing old school clothes. I guess that means it officially meets my requirements for music videos . . .)