The Salty Academic

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! Futbol clip of the WTF

2009-06-24T19:49:00.000-07:00

Clearly somewhere Satan is roaming the Earth, because something truly exceptional has happened. Spain 0 - USA 2. What? What?!

Yeah, that's what. Not like it matters. This is the Confederations Cup and frankly who fucking cares. But USA is going into the final with some of the greatest players from Brazil (Kaka, Robinho and little Pato), so I guess this is worth a mention.

I mean really the only thing I can say quite confidently is that Sergio Ramos needs a big fat c*ock in his mouth, because basically all he is pretty face. He played like Jello in this game, confirming the fact that he's better suited for playing splashy-splashy on the beach in a pair of tight shorts, then for playing footie on the pitch. What's happened to you Ramos? You had so much potential.

At any rate, Spain was kind of whatever and The USA took advantage of some lucky opportunities. That pretty much sums it up. However, the San Francisco Chronicle’s (delusional) Alan Black commented that:

“What we saw today was a foreshadowing. At some point in the
future, the USA will be the best soccer team in the world, and win the
World Cup. That will be the day when an extra star could be added to
the flag, the star of the ‘international’ state.”

Hilarious.

Postcards from the Edge

2009-06-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

Here are some postcards I wrote to my bff Ali in 2000 whilst she was living in Paris and I was travelling in Holland. Before Holland though, I had stayed a couple of days in Paris with Ali. And it was one of the single best holidays EVER! We were attacked by her roommate, a Tolouzer named Gregoire, who one night while belligerently drunk tried to breakdown the door to our room screaming all the while, "Open the door you fecking American bitches!"

It was so exciting! We even called the police! And when the cops arrived, Gregoire opened the door and casually asked, "Bonsoir, Il y de problem?" What a freak. Turns out he had kind of a drinking problem. Whoops.

At any rate, I always regret not having lived abroad. But I'm super glad Ali did, and that I was able to visit her. She was the greatest host and the best tour guide. Don't leave me!!

Off the beaten track

2009-06-10T04:26:00.000-07:00

Every Wednesday I check out Rob Breszny's freewill astrology in hope that it will illuminate the cosmic order of the coming week. And as is most often the case, Breszny's horoscope leaves me more perplexed than enlightened. But its part of my weekly interweb reading habits, and as such, one that I just can't quit.

This week though, Breszny offers Leo's some sage advice, which I believe coincide with the laws of intention that all humans should abide by.

Here he states that Leo's should chant this mantra, a poem written by Andrea Carlisle to spiders, several times a day:

I am now receiving many fine fat flies in my web. My web is strong and masterful. My web is irresistible to all the attractive creatures I like to nibble on. I am amazingly clever and extremely popular. Even now, hundreds of juicy tidbits are headed toward my web.

Staten Island - The Monaco of New York

2009-06-09T09:24:00.000-07:00

Summer-break fun kicked off, oddly enough, with a trip to a little isle off the coast of Manhattan, called "Staten Island". Interestingly, I've lived in the city for exactly ten years now and have never visited this place they call Staten Island. But the ferry ride is free and I was told that a majority of the inhabitants of this place are square-toe loafer wearing guidos, my favorite kind. So despite the fact that we were very tired, we were also very merry, and we rode all day and all night on the ferry...actually we only rode the ferry to and from the isles, but if you've already guessed that I'm quoting Edna St. Vincent Millay, you're a nerd and we should get together for coffee someday.

At any rate, the trip was quite fun. Mostly because I went with my very good friend Ali, who happens to be from my hometown, and whom I've had the pleasure of knowing since I was a wee 16 year old. What I particularly like about Ali is that despite both of us being unnecessarily over-educated, when we get together, our collective IQ plummets 100 points. And we spend hours being silly and crude, and offensive. Needless to say, this field trip was Ali's brain-child and it was brilliant.

We met in Brooklyn and walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, then proceeded to stroll through the financial district, and then to the Staten Island ferry where two young Israelis asked us where the tickets for the Statue of Liberty were sold. I felt good about myself when I flippantly directed them over to Battery Park.

Then it was on to the boat the Captain Spirit of America (Boo-Ba-Da-Boop!). The boat, and yes it is a "boat," since as Sailor Dave once explained, ship's are vessels that carry boats (call me Sailor!), had three floors and possibly a snack bar. Honestly, I didn't really look around the boat since the minute we were bull-penned onto it, Ali and I bee-lined for a seat on the outside deck like proper tourists and were already scouting guidos and trying to identify various landmarks (I the former, she the latter). In light of all of this we saw nary a guido, but did determine that Governor's Island is haunted.

20 minutes after cruising the Hudson, we finally landed on Staten Island, and were surprised at how quaint it was - kind of like the Monaco of New York! Granted we only walked in a radius of ten blocks from the ferry terminal into, what we aptly called Staten Island Village, but what is probably called something else. This is mostly becuase I was scared. But Ali is brave and held my hand and we traversed the four blocks away from the ferry dock. None the less, it felt as if we were on vacation in some New England shore-town. We even had lunch in a restaraunt named Karl's Klipper, which was a total yokel bar.

At the Klipper, which is what I'm sure the local's call it, we were given fun and educational placemats that showed all the US presidents up to George Walker Bush (racists!). Naturally, after we realized that there are presidents we've never even heard of, we commenced a rousing game of "Who would you fuck?" And if I may, James Monroe is one sexy piece.

After lunching we headed back to the ferry. As per usual, I was suffering a bloated belly, and Ali did not feel obligated to indulge me in a little tummy rub. On our way back to the port we were accosted by a bus driver, who surreptitiously snuck behind us and hissed "do you need a ride?" I was startled. But Ali, ever the wayfaring traveller, understood what this man was implying, and politely said, "No thanks."

And after that it was pretty much back onto the boat and back to Manhattan. The trip back was kind of romantic - it started to rain as we passed by Lady Liberty - and had Ali been a guido I would've totally put the moves on her. But despite all the fun we had on Staten Island, we were both subdued with melancholy. See, part of the impetus for this little excursion is due to the fact that Ali will be moving to San Fransisco in August. Which is to say that my circle of friends will be reduced significantly, thus leaving me all alone in this cold-cold world...

At any rate, for your pleasure, just some interesting facts about Staten Island:

The Indian name (that's the term that was used on the site where I pulled this fact, and its staying) for Staten Island is Monacnong, or Enchanted Woods.

The first recorded European contact with the island was in 1524 by Giovanni da Verrazzano (an absolute guido, no less) who sailed through The Narrows.

In 1609, Henry Hudson established Dutch trade in the area and named the island Staaten Eylandt after the Staten-Generaal, the Dutch parliament.

Post-semester Bender

2009-06-09T05:36:00.000-07:00

The year has finally come to a close and as is normally the case in academia I'm still working on various projects for the sake of vocational posterity. And not doing a very good job of it, might I add. This is because technically I should be on vacation, frolicking on some distant beach with a young, sun-kissed local. But I'm not - I'm in Brooklyn. Engaging in a never ending circle of writing and researching projects that I already wrote and did research on. It all once seemed so determinate...

However, not one to postpone a celebration due to lack of funds or lack of friends or lack of want, I spent all last week making up for the last four months where I was camped in the Batcave, hunched over books, turning humans into numbers, attempting to predict the mental health of New Yorkers in light of the economic crisis and pecking at the computer until my eyes bled. Which is why, I believe, the little bender I went on this last week was completely merited.

So stay tuned folks!

Here comes the first week of summer vacation in the life of the Salty Academic.

Note: This is the first picture that comes up when one googles "Summer Vacation" - so apropos.

We are the Champions...The Champions!!

2009-05-29T04:10:00.000-07:00

A little piece of me dies every time a cup is over. And this year, the Champions League was no exception. Especially since two of my favorite teams, Manchester United and FC Barcelona, arguably two of the best teams in the world, went head to head for the title.

A little recap for those of you who didn't watch: The first ten minutes Man U started out strong and it looked like Barca just couldn't find their footing. But in good ol' Barca style, they came in on a surprise attack and once Eto'o (go to min 2) put in the first goal it was all over for Man U.

After that, Barca had complete dominion over the game, stringing together all kinds of gorgeous plays, thanks in part to Xavi and Iniesta (it should be illegal to have these two playing together). And even though Ferguson finally had the right of mind to start my Carlitos Tevez in the second half, there was nothing that Manchester could do to salvage the game. Especially once the little wonder Leo Messi put in that doozy of a header (see minute 7) - who'd a thunk it, right Van der Saar?

Anyways, it was a great game, and Barca was shoulders above Manchester in every way. Which just goes to show, you can buy all the best forwards in the world Manchester, but you can't cultivate the kind of elegance of an entire squad when it's in top form.

On a side note, I know the clip is long but the quality is so good that it captures every one of Cristiano's pouty disappointments (keep trying little one). Also, honorable mention to Puyol, simply solid all the way.

ps. If i never have to hear Heineken scream "The champions" ever again, that will be too soon.

Ships Ahoy! Salty Academic does Fleet Week

2009-05-28T16:50:00.000-07:00

Fleet week always starts out, innocently enough, with a joke about New York City getting filled up with sea men. And then in the wink of an eye (shout out to Sailor Dave) it ends with an inoculation and a broken heart. Its true, fleet week wreaks of Sex and the City desperation. But none the less, good times are had by many a woman who despite their better interests can't deny a man in uniform.

Which is to say that when the six Navel ships carrying some of the US' finest service men and women pulled into New York City harbor, a wave of giddy excitement was felt by every hussy from Brooklyn to the Bronx. And I will admit, I myself was quite tantalized by the prospects of chatting up a hunky piece of southern man-meat.

Which is how I ended up one night at that god awful establishment Coyote Ugly, a bar immortalized in history by its vast array of grody brassieres left behind by over-sexed and inebriated patrons. This picture is is what Coyote Ugly resembles. The circus lighting, the bras on the walls, the guys hovering about, cheap beer in hand, and the ladies hoofing it on the bar reiterating their best Spring-break debacle from ten years ago, when their tits were still perky enough to entice some young stud to drop a rohyptnol into their Malibu bay breeze. However, come back to reality and visit the Coyote Ugly of today and imagine the same scene, except with that arched back of this rowdy twink being attached to a 30-something (more like 41) bride-to-be from New Jersey.

Anywho. For the most part our men in white are not those juicy sailor types you imagine from the movies. Most of them are just normal guys without six-packs. Granted there are a few strapping young men (and I mean young!), as exemplified by this picture of my partner in crime, Marissa, doing her best Patty Hearst impersonation while being looked over by a burly corn-fed marine. But since I’m not particularly discerning when it comes to the male species, I’ll take whatever comes my way. Especially if that whatever is already six beers in and has been at sea for last 7 months.

Initially I came onto the scene to act purely as wingwoman for our ever fun loving Marissa. Which was fine with me. After all, on most social occasions the sociologist in me gets over-zealous and I end all wrapped up in the complete back story of my current drinking companion. Needless to say, I learned a lot of interesting Naval facts, which I will surely pull-out the next time I’m at an office party and have run out of air-quote usage.

So while Marissa chatted up a VERY young (ahem) blond, blue-eyed Midwestern boy, who, if I might add, will be in GQ’s September issue highlighting the hottest US service men (go on girl!), I was conversing with this burly stag from Georgia. Of course my initial attraction to him was based purely on the fact that, basically, I’m cheesy and like guidos. So when I saw this swarthy and muscular little man, I didn’t hesitate to entertain myself with some inane conversation. However, it turned out this this surly creature was quite captivating and a fantastic conversationalist.

In fact, the sailor told me all sorts of really fascinating things. Like about his past, how he was adopted by an Irish family, his house in Virgina, about being at sea and fighting the Somalian pirates. Obviously I was intrigued by this mixed-up little Italian Stallion. And when he told me that he’s being discharged after serving 14 years because of some silly policy regarding rank, my heart fluttered a little.

And that’s where things got interesting. After the sailor told me that I would be well-suited to work on the ship in a more clerical capacity, I asked "But what about blowing things up? Do I still get to do that?" And as he began to tell me about the two different guns I would learn to use, I started to get distracted watching his mouth. And as I slowly sipped my G&T, probably more lasciviously than naught, I was entranced. That's when I went in for the kiss. And in my head I screeched, “I’m kissing a sailor!”

Fortunately for me, the rest of fleet was rather uneventful. Except for the fact that Marissa and I were subsequently invited to tour the USS Iwo Jima, the ship that our sailors were aboard. And now I can confidently say that was one of the most informative two hours I ever spent on a boat. Equipped with our very own live in sailor as a tour-guide, we trudged through the bowels of the ship stopping in the galley, and the well-deck, and then in some control room. We were even taken to the ship’s gym (I had to really control myself from busting out a set of squats). But best of all, we were taken to the men’s berthing room, which is basically their barracks. And I’ll say, It was a real trip to see (and smell) how these sailors slept. Three bunks high, all jammed together in one room, with just a little curtain for each bunk should a sailor need some privacy. What’s more, when we walked in, our sailor announced, “Female on deck!” which almost sent me into an orgiastic fit. A girl can dream...

That said, I’m honestly glad to have been privy to the hot mess that is Fleet Week. And frankly I’m glad to see that its over. I can only handle so many boys, as I’m not as young as I used to be. But those boys were real gentlemen. Real sweet and real smart. And its nice to think that in the grand tradition, for some, life is at home in the sea.

For your Easter viewing pleasure

2009-04-11T17:12:00.000-07:00

Futbol Clip of the Week

2009-04-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

While I was out mucking about on the pitch this Sunday, I missed one of the better games of the weekend - Manchester United vs. Aston Villa. However, thanks to the power of technology i.e. cable, I was able to see it re-broadcasted later that night.

I have almost equal adoration for both teams. And if Berbatov would just mosey his way back to that country of which he came and leave my little Carlitos Tevez to take care of business as is meant, I wouldn't have to favor Aston Villa. None the less, AV has been doing great on the tables for the last two years and have really given the top four a run for their money. As witnessed from yesterday's game, AV almost made fools of Man U, equalizing with a sneaky little header and then putting one in right after. But, and I hate to admit it, were it not for Ronaldo all would be lost for The Red Devils.

That said, our delicate Cristiano has some serious competition both in play and in gel usage in the form of a young little thing (17 and NOT legal fyi) named Federico "Kiko" Macheda. Tune into minute 1:45 for Macheda's brilliant goal.

I'm not obsessed

2009-04-04T07:19:00.001-07:00

I want to say that the reason I haven't been posting lately is due to the fact that I live an extremely hectic life. But truth be known I haven't been posting because I drink.

At an rate, in my ongoing quest to lead the most superficial existence known to humankind, I've been running myself ragged juggling all sorts of insipid activities. These include, thinking about having sex with cute boys, trying to convince cute boys to have sex with me despite having zero game, partaking in high-brow academic discussions and then drifting off into fantasies about having sex with cute boys, and playing footie. Surely, I shall burn in hell.

I really don't know how I came to this. And frankly I'm not sure if my current existence is some sort of gift from the universe or some kind of reprimand for being so pathetically vain. But as things have been going, I wake up every morning incredibly anxious only to go to bed incredibly tired. A state, I've decided, that can only be rectified by having sex with cute boys. But that merely exacerbates the problem, since, as I've come to realize, I want all the things that I simply can't have. So you see, its a terribly vicious cycle, albeit full of interesting introspection, to which sex is clearly not the answer.

Which is why to my astonishment when we picked up Freud in class the other day, I was mortified to find that I have both oral and anal fixations, am a total neurotic (duh) and engage in cathexis, which broadly put is the act of investing libidinal energy into an object, person or idea, on an alarmingly consistent basis. Mom would be proud.

And yes, I know that I am not original. In fact, Freud would say that every human enters into these psychical processes precisely because they are intrinsic to the human psyche. However, I like to believe that in some way my psychical plight is much more complex and interesting then it really is. Surprise, surprise.

At any rate, I should preempt my rant by stating that I love psycho-analysis and therapy more generally. I love the idea that the mind might perform repeating patterns which serve to (in a very backass kind of way, might I add) subdue the effects emotional traumas developed along the road. And consequently, patterns of which we all have a plethora of, and, act out in our daily lives with or without cognizance.

I am well acquainted with my mental boo-boos. Which is why I am constantly needing to tell myself to "get it together". Mine typically revolve around my family, specifically my absentee father and years upon years of emotional blackmail. It enacts itself by serving me up a plate of disctractions, whilst simultaneously provoking me to loathe males in a way that goes beyond a simple eye-roll. And yet lately, I've all but had to invoke the power of jesus to disentangle a web boys that I may or may not have been terrorizing via text message. And one of which, god love him, is the object of my cathexis. Morbid fantasies included.

Again, I get it, this is normal. And thankfully so.

Sexy times is good times

2009-03-12T18:26:00.002-07:00

Horrorbabecentral.com is an incredible site. I'm honestly not sure what kind of demographic it caters to, but if you've ever fantasized about having sex with satan (you totally did, admit it), then this site is for you. In fact, if you've ever fantasized about rimming the puckered hole of an alien while giving him a hand job, then this site is also for you. Vampire Milfs? For you. Invisible sex maniac? Yup, for You. They even have a three part story called Creature Busters, developed by none other than the site creator himself, James LeMay. The story follows a delicious and curvey dark-haired minx named Bunny Mallone and her boy toy/associate Hyde Wallace. Together they hunt for monsters and get off.

I love this Bunny Malone, she's so fucking sexy. I'd let her suck my blood any day. That's right my friend, she could wrap her strong arms around me, pull me in close, and I'd be sovereign to her every wish. I'd give her anything. And yes, I'm totally into this vampire thing. I love the idea of simultaneously experiencing pleasure and pain, and that whole bit about walking a tenuous line between life and death. Or undeath, as it were. Its a sensual overload I'm sure.

At any rate, what I'm trying to say is that there's a lot of interesting things on this site. Things that I didn't know I might be interested in. Like super heroine porn, for instance.

Frankly, I'm a bit of a fitness buff, so you can imagine why I might like this. Just look at all those muscles! I mean, these women are strong. Strong enough to take on extraterrestrial villains - freeing themselves from their tentacular death grips via sheer strength alone!

And while our heroines may end up with a tentacle in every orifice at the end of it all, and despite our heroine essentially being raped by (literally) a one eyed monster only to end up falling in love with her perp, it's still an altogether awesome, fem-centered pornographic experience. Especially if you consider all the ladies out there who have rape fantasies that they can never be act out, either because its taboo, or they have trust issues (and rightfully so), or because you need balls and/or money to hire someone to do it. Why not imagine an hyper-aggressive romp with a creature that doesn't exist in objective reality? Couldn’t be smarter or safer, really.

I know what you’re thinking. “But Salty Academic, these pornos are just a reiteration of the normative sexual objectification of women.” And indeed, you’re right. I mean, its true, tits like those exist only in the minds of men. And yes, the fact that our heroine falls in love with her captor basically supports the notion that women need a good rough-up every now and then to keep them in line. A reprimand that they will be grateful for no doubt.

But frankly, that’s not where I take issue. My problem is really with the fact that this porn, and most porn really, is nothing more than (yet another) subconscious attempt return to mommy. Or rather, to turn you into mommy. You see, those giant tits, ladies, are not sexy to men because they weren’t breastfed, or breastfed too long, or whatever Freudian mumbo-jumbo you want to name it. The depiction of a bounty of booby is a symbol older than sin! It presupposes the showiness of modern pornography, by being just a different kind of showy pornography. Its only difference being an unabashedly conscious attempt to propagate procreation by idealizing fertility. A gentle reminder, if you will, that females are the bastions of generations to come.

And if that’s the case, then that means that these big tittied women are just another iteration of pre-historic porn. A mere reminder of the necessity for reproduction. Which is not to say that purchasing a big, ol' pair of fake titties likens you to a baby-making machine. But it probably does. More so, at least, then the pre-op tranny-esque, flat-chested body of an athletic female. Which is fine by me. And which is also why, come the apocalypse, I probably won't be given the title of Queen Bee - a position aptly suited for spawning. No, with my face and figure, I'd probably be put on late night guard duty.

At any rate, on an up note, I’ll gander that 75% of porn is watched during solo-sexual experiences, and thus, the jiz never completes. Phew! A self-regulating form of eugenics - how very Durkheim.

P.s. Do you think some little neanderthal teen jerked off to the Venus of Willendorf?! Like the workout tape your mom used to have...

Futbol (Fan) clip of the week a.k.a this is why nobody likes you

2009-03-09T07:09:00.000-07:00

I don't know much about Spain's Athletic Bilbao fan demographic, but this guy looks like he could of just stepped out of an episode of The Hills. Which is why I'm not surprised that given enough Malibu Bay Breezes I might either; let him rub up against me or punch him in the nuts.

A little back story on this nuisance of a man - Athletic Bilbao advanced to the the Spanish final cup after beating Seville 3-0.

And now I feel dirty...

Yes I am.

2009-03-05T05:15:00.000-08:00

This video has been around for a while. But when something is so awesomely creepy while being simultaneously cute (hold me mommy), it just can't be gotten rid of.

A foray into ethnography

2009-03-04T04:38:00.000-08:00

In the last of my little vignettes, I make like an ethnographer and ask the age old question: Who are these savages?

Al telephono espere que llames tu...

2009-03-03T18:37:00.000-08:00

I love Raffella Carra almost as much as I love Mina Mazzini. Italy has a way to turn out some of these most amazing women. But Raffaella Carra looks as if she's been unlucky in love a few too many times, and since I'm feeling somewhat nostalgic, I think it might be a good idea to have a listen to one of my favorite songs; Fiesta.

There are so many versions of this song on YouTube, and they span at least a decade, so it was hard to decide which one to show you today. At last, I went with this one (for obvious reasons). As you'll see, the video is almost as good as the song. It's a bit campy, but I dig its gay vibe. I just want to yell, "Hey! How come you get all those round, pert little hairy bottoms!" Sigh. Anyways.

Some choice lyrics:
Desde esta noche cambiara mi vida
(desde esta noche, desde esta noche)
no quiero ser la abandonada,
(no quiero serlo, no quiero serlo)
cuando lagrimas he derramado
cuantos besos he desperdiciado
el decia que era culpa mia
que añoraba ya su libertad

On a side note, Raffaella Carra has a song called 6868357, which has been translated in over three languages! AND she herself has sung them in all of those languages. So you see, you can be prolific and jilted, and/or prolifically jilted. And yes, that is her phone number that she keeps repeating - just waiting for her crush to call...

Marx and Engels

2009-03-03T04:24:00.000-08:00

In this cartoon I have conversation with the ghosts of Marx and Engels, who confirm my suspicion that I'm quite dumb.

Good luck parsing the writing. But I hope the general feeling of anxiety which permeates much of my life is conveyed.

Monkey Talks - On Bananas

2009-03-02T17:49:00.000-08:00

Our dear friend Bård Edlund has made magic with his new series Monkey Talks.

Episode 2 is brilliant. Enjoy!

Jigga What? Jigga Who?

2009-03-02T15:41:00.000-08:00

Wow! Yes, its been so long since I posted that I'm referencing a Jay-Z song from 1999. A year that will eternally be burned in my mind as the year I unsuccessfully tried to get tag-teamed by two little frenchies I met while working at a shoe store on Broadway aptly called Rubber Sole. I was desperate. It was retail. Nuff said.

Actually, it wasn't so bad. Mostly due to the influx of tourists that work the whole Broadway area, you know, doing touristy stuff. And as you also may know, I love tourists of all flavors. Plus my coworkers were a motley crew of Jamaicans, Egyptians and Haitians of dubious character - so actually it was a great job for me. It was the first time I heard that someone actually sweeped their floors, I lead a sheltered existence.

That said, now, after having been laid off from one of the best jobs I'd ever had the pleasure to work and the tenacity to keep, I find myself a) gainfully unemployed b)aspiring to be a pro-futbol player c) back in school working on the PhD.

So for your viewing pleasure, here is a sketch I drew during a semester of Sociology of Knowledge, whilst completing my Masters.

The caption says: This is our state of the art people making machine. You just put the clay in here...you pull down the God lever...select your color...and bam! One humanoid devoid of reason, logic and compassion!

There's more to come.

Note: Yes, I have the penmanship of a serial killer. No, I wouldn't trust me either.

Strangers on a Train (More Movie Madness...and Spoilers)

2008-07-27T10:54:00.000-07:00

I'm adverse to black and white films. Probably because I'm a child of the 80s and thus unable to focus on anything that was not proven to cause epileptic seizures in Japanese school children. However, Alfred Hitchcock's film Strangers on a Train, was not just an all around fantastic film, but the dizzying pace and onslaught of surreal situations made me forgot that I was watching a movie that came from the 50s.

I really, truly enjoyed this movie. And after having watched Rear Window and liked it only "very much" because I thought it was a little soft on the gore, and a little heavy on the Jimmy Stewart, I'd like to say that Hitchcock delivers a superb cinematic masterpiece with this movie.

Why, you ask?

1) As you may have figured out, awkward sexual tension and strained relations as a result of that, are my M.O. And so when we have a character who's a bit of a homely hussy, that enjoys a ride through the tunnel of love with not one, but two ineligible bachelors (who doesn't?), you've already got me.

And as it turns out, Hitchcock also loves strange sexual encounters and other sorts of bad behavior. Let's face it, Miriam is ugly and as opposed to most movies where only pretty girls get laid, is a total tramp. I love that whole chasey-chasey scene at the fair where she plays coquette with Bruno Anthony. Just brilliant! Couple that with the fact that she's kind of a bitch and ruses to exploit her husband's celebrity status (as a tennis star?) despite the fact they were going to get a divorce and she's unapologetically knocked up by a different man, and well, we have the making of a fabulous villain.

2) And while we're on the subject of fabulous villains and sexual tension, Bruno Anthony is simply the the most relentless, difficult, and possibly gayest villain ever. What with his his Oedipal familial relations, his OCD-like behaviors and sexual ambiguity, Bruno Anthony is the perfect candidate for being the kind creepy-weirdo who you might meet on train and then find out he's killed your wife. Plus that robe he wears when relaxing at home - also fabulous.

3) Every character in this movie serves a purpose beyond entertainment. And while Guy Haines is not an exceptional character, he's the perfect door-mat for Bruno Anthony's sheer evilness. And as annoying as Anne Morton is, with her constant state of doe-eyed, half-open-mouthed anguish that makes me want to throw things at her, she actually makes great companion for Guy. Well suited for each other in their patheticness. Then there's the tenacious Babs. The uglier, brainier sister to Anne, who also may have a little crush on Guy. She's awesome in how she wants to help exonerate Guy and unabashedly cops a feel of Hennessey's no-no bits in the meantime (awkward). And what about that Hennessey? Why is he so considerate of Guy's feelings, its so weirdly paternal.

I can go on and on with this movie, that's how much I liked. Of course I love the ending with the carousel, which Hitchcock made seem as though people really got hurt (thank you). And the unsuspecting girl that was riding it - brilliant! While Guy and Bruno were fighting and the carousel was spinning faster and faster out of control, she was having a total blast!

Of course there were some inconsistency issues, like when they were looking at the map with the flashlight, or those tennis montages where there appears to be a glitch in the time/space continuum. Um, hello? But we can forgive this, since, as my partner so astutely put it, this movie was made in time when you had to wait for film to develop.

Anywho. Great movie. In fact, so great, I think it may just deserve a 10.

A short of a short

2008-07-22T16:11:00.000-07:00

Before it was cool to be a teenage vampire, I had attempted to write a short story about a family of vampires that move to New Zealand in order to reinvent their lives. Here's a taste, so to speak...

Isobel stared into stopped time. Nothing moved. Like a world made of plastecine, with only Juliet hurrying in the background. A performer miming dismemberment. Juliet playfully snapped a finger at the knuckle and gasped with delight as a soft spray of blood misted the air.

Instinctively Isobel opened her mouth and instantly felt the wet warmth sprinkle her face. She was brought into the present as she savored the ruddy iron.

The door opened.

"Girls what are you doing down there?"

It was mother. Wide-eyed, the girls looked at each other across the torso, searching for an excuse.

"Its a coven!" Juliet yelled up in mock-innocence. "We're just making an offering!" Followed Isobel.

The girls sat motionless as they waited for their mother's response. Satisfied, Mother shut the door and turned her back to the basement. But she knew. The smell of the newly deceased was unmistakable. And it carried with it the quiet sadness that was only particular to murder.

You Can Count on Something Ordinary - Monday Movie...oh, whatever

2008-05-28T10:59:00.000-07:00

The lameness of the movie poster says it all, but just in case...

I've been struggling to write some kind of commentary on the Oscar nominated movie You Can Count on Me (starring Laura Linney and Mark Ruffalo). Clearly this is due to a compilation of emotional and psychological factors that prohibit a thoughtful response. The first being that I'm an emotional retard. The second being my "Its not you, its me" approach to familial dysfunction, and by extension, movies that portray the more banal moments of familial dysfunction. But wont as you are for some sort of review, I've turned to other people's completely unprofessional reviews, to which I shall comment on their commentary.

gbheron from Washington DC notes "Not all stories need a crisis for the characters to resolve or an issue to press to be compelling. Some stories are just slices of our workaday worlds, packaged and presented in such a way as to entertain us. " Which is why I'm so lucky to have my own workaday world to entertain me, and by entertain I mean bore me to the brink of tears. No gbheron, I'm almost certain that when I watch a movie I don't want to be reminded that I'm living a measly, pedestrian existence with 300 million other losers.

almaier from Canada states "Here, the characters think, act and talk like real people. They could be us. That's the genius of this movie." And while this business of acting like "real people" is the genius of this movie, it also happens to be the plague of my existence, since for me, the mundane familial situations that these "real people" are finding themselves in is not so much emotionally cathartic, as emotionally debilitating.

m_madhu, hailing all the way from Chennai India, muses "the characters are...just real people, with real failings and real weaknesses, real moments, real feelings, real warmth, real stupidity ... you can count on me is a simple story that is beautifully told. a romantic movie, a family movie, a warm movie about human relationships, the complexities and the tender moments in between." Seriously, kill me.

fougasseu from gay Paris "Something about watching and listening to these characters moving about inside the wreckage of their family, and seeing the story gently unfold, made this a remarkable experience." Really? Well, fougasseu, if you like to watch families listlessly fall apart whilst emotionally blackmailing each other and repeatedly yelling for no reason, feel free to spend the day with my family on any given holiday. And permitting that my father decides to attend this family function, be prepared for a truly remarkable experience.

I could go on like this for hours, especially since people the world over (who write reviews on IMDB?) really loved this movie. Which just goes to show that only family can fuck you up in a way that could make a magical and touching film like You Can Count on Me repellant to the point of dry heaving.

Mrs. Cleaver is a Slut

2008-05-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

I was alerted recently by our dear Norwegian friend/lust object, Bård Edlund, to this telling piece of American psychiatry otherwise known as the "Marital Rating Scale—Wife's Chart," a test developed in the late 1930s by Dr. George W. Crane, as a means to give couples feedback on their marriages. And while a backhanded slap to the mouth is enough feedback for me, I guess some spouses need to see things in writing.

Of course I decided to go ahead and rate myself, just to confirm my suspicion that if somehow I was tele-ported to the 1930s I'd more likely end up cemented in a basement wall than in a partnership of marital bliss. And not to my surprise, I'm a bad wife, a very very bad wife - with 15 demerits and 7 merits. Naturally, flirting with other men threw me over the edge. And while i do also put my cold feet on my partner when he eventually decides to come to bed, I'm also a terribly sweaty sleeper, which while not on the list I believe earns a demerit, since as he states "who wants to sleep next to a wet rag".

kickette.com? it's a site I fancy

2008-04-29T12:34:00.001-07:00

We sometimes forget that Fútbol players aren't just great athletes, they're also sex objects to be adored (i.e. shamelessly fantasized about in two's). For this reason alone we must thank the ever industrious team across the pond at Kickette.com, who work hard everyday bringing very important news on footballers and they're WAGs (wives and girlfriends, bitches, get a clue). And while it's no surprise that fútbol players love themselves some coke and hookers and/or random gold-digging socialite figures who can otherwise be confused as models or perfume spokespeople, it is always a surprise when David Beckham opens his fat trap and let's slip his quavering Kermit the Frog voice. But that's neither here nor there.

Ladies and genitals, let's have a hearty hulloh to Kickette.com - where it doesn't matter how you play the game, just who's fucking the people playing it.

Smells like Teen Spirit - Monday Movie Madness goes international

2008-04-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

What you may not know, dear reader, is that I have a weak spot for teen flicks. And when these teen flicks are all about kids falling in love, making out with the wrong people for all the wrong reasons, and nerds avenging themselves in face of that evil which we will call 'High School', the few little heartstrings in the caverns of my chest are ever so delicately plucked. Which is why I was touched by the story of Sapphic love in Lukas Moodysson 'Show Me Love' (a.k.a Fucking Amål). And not simply because in the end love prevails, but also because it demonstrates, sans doute, the transnational suckitude that is being a teenager.

Without further ado:

1) Can one song ruin an entire movie? Yes, it can. Especially if it's Robin S's 1993 dance hit 'Show Me Love'. However, when the movie is set in Sweden one can make concessions. After all, we can't just blame the Swedes for their love of cheesy dance music. No, the Nordes in general (including Holland), have dubious tastes in all things cultural. Take Elin's boots as an example. But more broadly, such plagues as Ace of Base, Henrik Ibsen and death metal, whose fans, by the way, burned down churches that were centuries old, and even to a heathen such as myself is simply terrible, if not for the sheer historical consequences.

2) Other than that song, which we shall not name, the soundtrack was quite good. After all, a teen flick without punk music is like a prom without dirty dancing. Interestingly, as a teenager I was into big band jazz, which just goes to show how my prom turned out (or didn't turn out, for that matter).

3) This movie followed the standard teen flick formula that we all know and love. There's the bad kid (Elin), who also happens to be the cool kid that hangs with the "In" crowd. She comes from a broken home with absentee parents, is sexually active and likes to party. Then there's the good kid (Agnes), who happens to be the nerdy outsider, who mostly spends time at home. She comes from a seemingly healthy family with reasonable and understanding parents, and enjoys writing in her journal and staring at pictures of her crush. When these two characters meet, there is an initial conflict that then leads to a reconciliation and, after much emotional melodrama, otherwise known as "being a shitty teenager", at last leads to an alliance, breaking the stereotypical mold of high school life and reminding us all that to be truly happy we must remain true to ourselves. Normally, this formulaic plot is ridiculous, albeit insanely entertaining. And while I'm biased towards teen movies in general, I can say that Show Me Love is one of the better teen flicks I've seen and more closely resembles an actual "film". As opposed to its American counterparts, which more closely resemble a Lifetime movie on amphetamines. So basically, its a teen movie for adults. This is to say that on a scale of believability, its a notch above "Drive Me Crazy" and a notch below "Elephant" (although nowhere near the awesomeness that is "La Boum"). And speaking as an adult, that's a happy median.

4) I guess if your cool enough you can proverbially/literally and confidently come out of the closet in front of all your peers and everything will be ok.

5) Perfect ending -teenagers doing what they do best, talking about nothing important.

So there it is. My review of Show Me Love. The acting was above-par and the direction was solid (I think?). This movie deserves an 8.2.

When a Harebrained Scheme Goes Awray (or Monday Movie Madness)

2008-04-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

This is the kind of movie that warrants investigation on the accuracy of what is being told. And now that I know the truth, I'm not sure which story I like better. The fictitious Bonnie and Clyde by Arthur Penn, or the real life Bonnie and Clyde...of Wikipedia.

What really struck me about this story, both the Penn and real-life version, is that the most interesting character is Bonnie Parker. Its as if she doesn't really fit into the story and yet she eclipses everything else within it. That said, from the minimal research I conducted, it appears that in real life, Bonnie Parker wasn't just a small-town girl looking for an out. No my friend. And if we can believe the wikipedia entry (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonnie_and_Clyde) that states that Bonnie was actually an honor roll student who, "excelled in creative writing, won a County League contest in literary arts,...[6] and even gave introductory speeches for local politicians", then we'd have to wonder why a girl would be so desperate to leave her rural home? It doesn't sound too bad. Kind of homey and all-American, which is quite nice really.

I guess the real-life Bonnie just imagined something different for herself. And I think Penn did a good job of showing this.

Here Penn paints Bonnie as a beautiful misfit, enveloped in a world of romance. A kind of Gilgamesh, unfurling towards the distant dream of immortality at the expense of her own. Clyde, on the other hand, just kind of floats onto the scene. A mediocre small time robber, who on top of being emasculated by his own impotence, is just a shadow compared to Bonnie. And perhaps Penn took a bit of artistic license there, but I like it.

However, what I like even more is the possibility that Bonnie purposefully jeopardized her future just for kicks. And I can respect that perhaps she was more imaginative than practical. And of course, I like to think that she never really loved Clyde, but rather that she used him as a vehicle for her adventures, whose motivations, by the way, we're still not fully informed of. After all, what can a petty thief bring a girl on the honor roll (besides down)?

1. Let's just get the most important bit out of the way - how ridiculously beautiful is Faye Dunaway? One can't imagine a better Bonnie Parker. And Warren Beatty, who is a supposed hunk, doesn't even compare.

2. Those little bumblefuck towns are creepy. If I grew up in one of them I'd be desperate to get out of there too. Or I'd probably be an inbreed, and thus wouldn't be able to tell left from right. Note: As an Armenian I probably am inbred somewhere down the genetic grapevine, which probably explains why I can't tell left from right.

3. W.D is an idiot, but his daddy sure is clever.

4. Fantastic death scene. You could almost feel it. And the way Bonnie just hung there like a leaky bag of jelly, brilliant.

At any rate, this is one of those movies that's good on film but better in hindsight. And I think the movie works best in tandem with the "real-life" story, thus the average rating is pulled up to an 8.5. Go Bonnie!

Is that a big gut, or you having a baby?

2008-03-24T20:00:00.001-07:00

I've been living the past two months as if life has lost its luster. Balling my fists and cursing the heavens. That is until now. What with winter on the wing and glorious spring warming the outer mantle, life, my friends, seems slightly reinvigorated. It's no surprise, then, that we see a little more pregnant women waddling about. After all, humans, like most mammals, like to hole themselves up in the cold of winter and, for lack of anything better to do, fuck.*

Which, contrary to how well reasoned i thought this analogy was, has nothing to do with the story of the transgender male who is now carrying the baby of his wife. Because, as I realize now, this guy really had to work to get knocked up. I mean, after all, this isn't easy-peasy man on woman intercourse. No this is woman with turkey baster on woman in man, kind of intercourse. That aside, and for the sake of my analogy, I'm going to pretend like somehow this makes sense.

And it does. Kind of. It just takes a moment to internalize.

Here's the thing, I have absolutely no qualms with "transgender". In fact, I'm all for it. I say yes to it all; gender is a construction, biology isn't enough to ascribe social conventions en absolut, and absolutely, whatever it is that you have to do to better yourself, do it.

However, when I first heard of this story I said, No. No, No, No, No. I'm sorry, but you cannot have it all. You got to take your hormones, you got your breasts removed, and as if it isn't enough that you get to be a male, the favored of the human species, you also get to breed your own biological child?

Alas, I realized these prudish sensibilities were ridiculous. And now I say, "Work it out boy!". You do what you got to do to have your family. After all, there's all kinds of dummies breeding out there, and since the government won't mandate a (legitimate) eugenics program as they probably should, then I'll settle for a seemingly intelligent and thoughtful couple raising a child in a somewhat unconventional manner.

*According to the US census, the most popular month to have a baby is July, which actually means that people start mashing nasties sometime around October/Novemeber.

What's a strike without a protest?

2008-03-23T10:11:00.000-07:00

I realize, in retrospect, that trying to figure out what makes the Argentinean tick through recounting my trip to Argentina was quite a lofty endeavor. Not because I can't solve the enigma that is their erratic personality, but because really, why bother. The fact of the matter is that I love the Argentines. I love their food, I love their accents, I love their sense of humor, I love their footie, I even love their nonsensical hairstyles. So trying to figure out why Argentines can be simultaneously wonderful and awful is like trying to figure out how Cheney can survive multiple heart attacks; both a fruitless and beguiling endeavor.

So as a means to wrap up the recount of my trip, and since I'm sure you're all dying to know what happened after we landed on Punta del Este and thoroughly oogled the natives like a plymouth pilgrim, I'm going to give you the highlights of the trip (in chronological order).

1. Thanks to a comedy of errors we miss the bus from Punta del Este to Montevideo, thus missing the ferry that takes us back to Buenos Aires. The main culprit of this debacle is the time difference between Punta and BA, or more specifically the fact that there is no time difference. Let's examine. In December Argentina puts in effect a "summer hours" daylight savings time (DST), pushing clocks one extra hour forward on the normal daylight savings time, thus increasing the amount of hours in the waking day. Punta del Este, on the other hand, does not have these "summer hours", and instead favors regular DST. To make matters confusing, Argentina is 3 hours ahead of New York under this new time, and Punta is ALSO 3 hours ahead of NY despite being under good ol' DST. However, and thanks to sleep deprivation, we assume that because Uruguay is so close to Argentina, that Punta is on Argentina's old DST. You see? But as we come to understand, it's wrong to make assumptions. And basically, for the three days in Punta del Este we were living on our very own make believe time. Which thinking about it now makes me feel somewhat renegade.

2.Once we finally arrive in Buenos Aires, we have to rush off to visit with the brother in-law, as his band is leaving on tour and he won't be around to bid us farwell when our sojourn comes to an end. The in laws live in a stately mini-mansion in a suburb of Buenos Aires close to the Rio Plata. The house was built by a Spaniard at the turn of the 20th century and has all the discombobulated features of a Cerevantes novel. Which is to say that, twists and turns of corridors lead to random enclaves with wooden ladders that lead to loft spaces and other sorts of dead-ends. It was acquired in the early 70's by the sister in laws family.

It's a beautiful place, as you can witness from these pictures. However, the in-laws are, as commonly referred to by family, "bohemian". Which is to say their kind of dirty. And because of this, the house is in various stages of disarray, with crumbling walls that breed strange molds and house pre-historic insects that make audible noises. That said, staying at the in-laws is a trying experience. And for a first worlder such as myself, I feel that a home should be a haven not a veritable camping experience.

Anyways, as the evening grew longer, we realize that the options were to make the harrowing trip from the suburb of Martinez, where the in-laws live, back to Buenos Aires via mass transit, or stay over the night. Naturally, I opted for mass transit, but my companion opted to stay the night. And of course, I lost this argument, despite having pointed out that the last time we stayed there I came home with head lice. Actually, and quite amazingly, I took these lice back to the US with me, and didn't even have to declare it. I amuse the notion of some kind of lice pandemic every time I recall this incident, but that's tangential.

So we're staying the night. And Fernando, the in-law, is kindly pulling the mattress from the foyer (yes, they keep a mattress in the foyer) into the living room. Well, I'll tell you, firstly, the mattress was stained in the way that can only conjure the image of a drunken bout of explosive diarrhea, and of course, it smells as if it were found in a thicket by the river. Indeed, it probably was. And secondly, as Fernando is pulling said mattress there appears, cowering behind, a beat up and emaciated white cat! To which Fernando states, "hm, that doesn't belong to us". And this cat is no joke my friends. It has one cloudy eye that is scarred half-shut, probably after getting into a fight with some other feral creature.

3. Its always the same when you leave in laws. Something akin to being sprayed with a fecal mist, that while invisible to the naked eye, makes you feel dirty, sticky and smelly. But despite that feeling, we make the journey back to BA with spirits high, what with the prospects of a decent shower looming in the distance. Plus I'll have to admit that I love to take mass transportation in any country, as that is most indicative of national character. Especially when mass transportation involves a bunch a people sitting in the back of truck in folding chairs with the back door open, like this:

That said, once we arrive safely in Buenos Aires, back at the flat, and into the shower, I begin to have an irritable sensation on the left side of my head. An hour later I notice several small bumps on my jawline, which thereafter, begin to itch and burn like the dickens. Naturally, I chalk this up to some sort of spider bite that I must have received while sleeping at the in-laws. And of course, I regale anyone and everyone about my horrific sleeping experience, showing off my bite as proof. Until, that is, someone mentions that this spider bite is curiously shaped like a teeth marks. In which case, my trash talk of the in-laws intensifies. Of course, we are leaving back to the States the next day, and I decide that waiting for rabies to incubate another 24 hours won't kill me, will it?

4. Did I say we were leaving the next day? I actually meant that we were supposed to leave the next day, which in Argentina means that you will most likely be leaving in two days. This is because Argentina's bureaucratic machine runs with kinks. And by kinks I mean robust protesters. See, Argentines LOVE a rousing protest. And in Argentina, there is plenty to protest about. For example, when the government runs out of money they cut off water and electricity. This is done using rolling outages, whereby one area of the city looses power or water for a bit (anywhere for a couple of hours to a couple of days) and then the outages move to another zone. Now, this seems kind of fair, no? After all, the Argentinean government isn't run by a bunch a savages (any more). Well, the citizens of Argentina don't think so. And they will go out of their way to air their grievances by protesting in their neighborhoods, effectively cutting off streets and creating traffic congestion.

Generally these types of protests work by being irritating reminders of the injustice at hand. And the government deals with the these nuisances much like one would a mosquito hovering above the bed while one tries to sleep - by ignoring it. And in the end, the only people who are affected by these protests are the other citizens who are just minding their business and trying to get home after a long day at the call center.

That said, the ariport strike that we had to endure at Ezeiza was more than ridiculous. It was downright insane, and if I may, a little frightening. The first day we arrived at the airport, we were greeted by 500 travelers crammed in the departures terminal. At that point I thought, we're not leaving tonight. And within minutes we learned that there was an airport strike. Apparently a couple of outgoing domestic flights were cancelled, and after waiting nearly 24 hours to get a flight, the passengers of these flights started to protest, which of course inside an airport is never a good idea. Enclosed spaces and protesting should be banned. At any rate, this protest got a little out of hand, as the passengers started to throw furniture and even rip computers out of the check in desks. The airport workers, fearing for their lives, ran out of the airport calling a strike. So you see, in this spectacular event, we were blessed with both a protest and a strike! At any rate, we went back to the flat where we were staying and waited until the next day, when we were advised to return to the airport to see if the plane would be leaving.

The next day comes, the airport is a little less crowded, except for the nearly 300 passengers who had to sleep at the airport and looked like shit for it. Including a good handful of passengers who somehow managed to get super-shit faced over the course of the night. There's no bar at Ezeiza, so who knows how that happened. At any rate, we entered the airport and immediately I get into some line. While waiting in this line for a good 20 minutes I tell my companion to go check out where this line leads to. Turns out this line is 30 people standing behind one guy who is all by himself looking up at the departures sign! Which just goes to show, humans crave organization, and when there is no organization, they will create it themselves. This revelation alone is enough to merit an extra days worth of travel. That said, we arrived at the airport at 6am, and got on the plane at 1pm. So in the end, we got to leave our beloved Argentina, but not without the trying aftermath of a protest/strike and having to rub elbows with smelly, disgruntled Argentines, pushy and rude Americans and a couple of very edgy Bolivian nuns.

5. After a total of 28 hours travelling we arrive back in the states and immediately I go to nearest infectious disease doctor. For all I know I may have the Dengue, although I am still suspecting a good ol' case of rabies. However, after being thoroughly inspected, and by that i mean, lifting my chin and turning towards the light, the good doctor proclaims that I have Shingles. So basically all of my trash- talk of the in-laws was for naught. Luckily, I have manners, and all of my bad-mouthing was done behind their backs so I didn't have to do anything silly like apologize.

So that's it friends. That's Buenos Aires over the holidays in my very little world. I hope you all learned a lot about something, and probably nothing about Argentina.

Festen, a yucky celebration

2008-03-12T05:13:00.000-07:00

When a movie is well-rounded and plain ol' good, there's really not much to say about it. This is the case with the Danish film Festen a.k.a The Celebration. And even though this film didn't make me audibly laugh, cry or inspire fear, as we had hoped it would, It did spur the inklings of emotion that would earn a nod of approval from any therapist.

With that in mind, let's just say that the plot is brilliant. Here lies the story of a family secret that comes out during a large family gathering. So, as you can imagine, watching the drama play out is quite entertaining.

1) The way this film was shot was fantastic. I particularly like its gritty nature, which is reminiscent of a home video or perhaps like watching through the eyes of child.

2) The characters were well developed, which says a lot since there are about 4 or 5 important ones. Of course the mother's complacency was vomituous, and made me want to throw something at the TV.

3) I really wanted to know what the yellow speech said.

4) I also wished that the letter was less cryptic and more...I don't know, descriptive? I'm just a glutton for gossip.

And just because...

5) The fact that the Nords/Scandinavians/Teutons can speak English so well never ceases to amaze me. Anecdotally, I've never met anyone from this cohort that hasn't been able to switch from their native language to English with fluid ease. Perhaps its because English is a linguistic cousin?

6) In the same vain, Nords/Scandinavians/Teutons love to party, and boy do they know how to make a family reunion exciting.

So there you have it, a solid good movie. And for that I give it an 8.5.

Fútbol clip of the week, not really

2008-02-23T15:01:00.000-08:00

After watching the Fulham v West Ham game, I realize that there's nothing better than watching two well-matched teams duke it out for that much needed point, even if they're just the little fish in a big pond. And for that I was going to post highlights of the game, becuase really, it was just splendid. However, it seems I was alone in my appreciation of this match and thus couldn't find any clips worth showing. But luckily for you footie fans, I will supply my completely arbitrary commentary for your pleasure.

Fulham put on quite a fight against the burgeoning West Ham. Alas, despite giving West Ham a run for their money, nothing went in the net. My advice to Fulham would be as such: scrape together whatever dough is in the till and purchase yourself a South American on the cheap. River Plate's Falcao, for example, would be a great candidate.

That said, Argentina is a fantastic resource for international teams, specifically in the UK, where they can add a bit of delicadessa to the thuggery that is British footie. The thing is, there's not much left of the Argentine greats. For instance, Palermo would make a great addition to a foreign team, but you can't have him without Palacio, and to break up that duo would be a crime. Then there's River Plate's Ortega, the aging gallego who's performance on the team has been consistently brilliant. And let's not even talk about Riquelme, who's tied to Argentina like a newborn baby to its mother (literally). None the less, there's a lot of newbies on those Argentian teams that can benefit greatly from globalization and a weak peso.

And if that doesn't suffice, one could easily snatch up a Brazillian. It seems they've become quite the crowd favorites with their little scissor kicks, look no further than Ronaldihno, KaKa and by extension, Ronaldo.

So get to it, Fulham.

Monday Movie Madness (on Friday) - Don't Look Now, it's a 10 minute sex scene

2008-02-22T11:45:00.000-08:00

As per usual, spolier's below.

So I finally got around to watching Nicolas Roeg's psychological thriller, "Don't Look Now" - only to realize that I've already seen it! However, considering that I didn't remember that I'd seen it until I caught a glimpse of that wretched mini- killer running around in her little red mac (raincoat, for those of us who don't know 70s-speak or aren't British), it was just like watching anew.

1) I've never been to Venice, but it looks wet. And despite the fact that I have what I consider to be a Mediterranean look (read swarthy), I'm not too keen on water. On top of that, my acupuncturist told me I have a wet constitution, I happen to be a Leo, and I'm also a weak swimmer. In other words, the topographical location of this movie alone makes me uncomfortable. Myself aside, Roeg did a great job with the setting of this film. Venice has an all around creepy look about it, which makes the perfect backdrop for a psychological thriller.

2) Not that I'm any authority on child rearing, but I'm not sure I agree with the Baxter's leaving their last living child in an English boarding school while their off in Venice. I understand that Mr. Baxter needs to excavate a building in Venice, but what is Mrs. Baxter doing? Emotionally recuperating from her loss, I guess. But still, what about their son? He should be with his parents trying to assimilate to the bonanza that is life as the only child of bereaved parents, and not at some glorified orphanage (no offense if you went to boarding school).

3) Wow! Talk about an extended sex scene! I imagine Roeg in the cutting room pulling at his hair and yelling to his editor "More! MORE!...(then calmly) Now flashback" This movie should win the prize for most drawn out sex scene, and/or scene with most conventional looking sex, and/or sex scene with the most human-like horse...c'mon, doesn't Donald Sutherland doesn't look like a horse? Anyone?

4) That said, Sutherland and Christie play their characters to a tee. They both did a great job of showing the audience the various faces of mourning and how differently persons in a relationship might cope with the death of a child. I liked Sutherland's quiet reservation as opposed to Christie's more palpable sadness. And while I don't generally ascribe to gender roles, in the case of husband and wife their acting made sense. Plus I think they had great chemistry, it seemed as if it was easy for them to play a married couple.

5) The scene where Mrs. Baxter somehow convinces the Mister to sit in on a psychic session with the two sisters was brilliant. In this scene, towards the end of the old woman's psychic revelry, she goes into a kind of rapture and cries out some sort of premonition between pants and orgasmic-like affirmations. It was both fabulous and horrifying, and much like Bernini's the Ecstasy of St. Theresa, it inspires the kind of uncomfortable feeling that will make you want to go to church. As if being an elderly blind psychic isn't creepy enough!

5) The ending was well done and fairly believable considering the outlandish plot. I like the way Mr. Baxter dies (I imagine a hit to the jugular makes a bloody mess) and the mini-killer was kind of endearing.

This movie was solid and, well, good. Its the kind of film you take at face value, which I can appreciate. You just have to roll with the plot, and much like Sutherland's character, you have believe what you see without (over)intellectuallizing anything i.e. what a coincidence that their daughter died in her red coat and the killer happens to be a tiny Venetian wearing a red coat! However, besides the terrifying scene where Roeg shows us his take on septuagenarian ecstasis, the movie wasn't all that scary. In sum, this movie deserves a 7.3.

Monday Movie Madness - There Will be Blood, but there won't be entertainment

2008-02-04T07:30:00.000-08:00

Let me pre-empt my Monday Movie Madness 2nd entry by saying that, as you may have realized, I'm not skilled in the art of movie reviews. So unless you're planning on seeing any of the movies that I review on this here blog, I would be wary reading the rest of my entry, since I may unwittingly give some of the plot away.

With that in mind, onward!

There Will be Blood was a BIG movie, with big ideas, about America's most important commodity, and yet, I left the movie theater with that feeling you get after gorging on sushi - you know, 2 hours and 45 minutes later you're hungry again. Put more succinctly, I was dissatisfied. And frankly, I was surprised that this movie came so highly recommended by many a person, one of which stated that it was "Shakespearian".

1) This movie could have easily been wrapped up in 90 minutes without losing any significant value. It was simply too unmemorable to be this long. And when there are a plethora of scenes that I visually can't recall, I get the feeling that they were simply fluff and filler. Out of curiosity, I looked up the director and I saw that this Anderson was the man behind Boogie Nights, which I loved, Magnolia, which I loathed, and Punch Drunk Love, which was so-so, and ALL of which were TOO long. So, I guess that explains that.

2) Maybe I've been jaded by the Bush/Cheney years, but Daniel Plainview isn't such a spectacular villain, especially when viewed in the historical time line of the United States. In fact, Anderson paints this man like he's just a regular Joe trying to make a buck. Yes, Plainview is unscrupulous and has little regard for humanity, but he's not exceptional to any other businessman. But maybe Anderson wanted to show the banality of capitalism? In which case he did a great job. But if this was Anderson's attempt to demonize early capitalism, then he'll have to try harder.

And a note to Anderson: if the latter is the case, it shouldn't be worth 2hrs and 45 mins of hard work. Especially when you're talking about capitalism in this great country, where Manifest Destiny and the Protestant Ethic form the most perfect union of exploitative prosperity. Frankly I've been more distraught after reading an Upton Sinclair novel.

However, maybe this isn't Anderson's message. Maybe this is me wanting Anderson to show capitalism for the evil agent that it often is. None the less, even if this is my subjective interpretation, the fact that Plainview ends up an emotionally destitute alcoholic is trite. I mean, a man who was a laborer, actively sought to expand his empire, and in the end built an immense fortune, does not tumble into life of inebriated disarray. No, this man breeds and bequeaths his fortune to his progeny; invigorating his empire and taking over the world!

3) Speaking of trite, its so timely and Hollywood to show religion as the ignorant and vulnerable masses who get exploited by big business. Its as if Anderson read Marx and thought, "well I can make a movie like this about the oil industry". Except this is the US, and we are not, and never were, a secularized country where religion is just the opium of the masses. Oh no, religion is our big business. And, as I stated before, in the US you can't have capitalism without religion. So chances are, if there ever was a Plainview, he was probably a religious man.

4) That whole Paul/ Eli Sunday ordeal was confusing. For a while I thought Eli and Paul were the same person. And almost as if Anderson had read my mind, he threw in that scene where Eli attacks his father at the dinner table, which rather than clarifying anything, further confused me.

5) Big ups to the scoring of this movie. I'm almost inclined to say that without the soundtrack this movie would have been disastrous. I loved how eerie and ominous it was.

6) Just a comment on my colleague who said this movie was Shakespearian - it's not. Shakespeare would never leave a message to be parsed. S/He'd have nailed that message in a coffin and buried it to rest.

Here's the thing about reviewing movies - when I left There Will be Blood I thought, "that was ok". But now that I've fully internalized what I viewed I realize that this movie is sub-par. There Will be Blood deserves a 6.5.

Look Mom, I swallow: A follow-up

2008-01-30T05:15:00.000-08:00

So after spending valuable time and money, the fourth doctor in the saga of "Veronica's swallowing problem" determined that I will need to have more studies conducted. Phew! For a second I thought someone was going to diagnose me with something.

But when the doctor is young and tall, and "Just got off the plane this morning after biking through Patagonia", it's easy to forget that you may possibly have Eosinophilic Esophagitis, that pesky allergy of the esophagus. Which just goes to show, good looking people can get away with murder. Note to hospitals.

In any event, both the good doctor and I were in agreement that my problem is more likely psychological than physiological, but as he said, let's do a biopsy just to be certain.

So let's! Let's put little Veronica under sedation (the right way). And let's stick a lighted instrument down her throat and scrape out little chunks of her esophagus.

I'll let you all know how that goes.

Punta del Este ain't for sissies

2008-01-29T19:17:00.000-08:00

After a bit of hobgobling around Buenos Aires, stuffing our faces despite the heat, and knocking back Cinzanos without shame, we decide that its time to make a move. And thanks to SunTime travel, in a day we were on our way across the Rio Plata to visit the friendly neighbor to the North, Uruguay. A country, as I've been told, that exists only to act as a buffer between the mega-powers that are Argentina and Brazil.

I've also been told that Uruguay, in this intermediary position, gets the good fortune of being neglected in the world's political/social forum, thus leaving it to its own devices. Which are in no way significant.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure Uruguay has something good to offer the world. After all, Punta del Este, a city located on the coast, sprawling with beaches and yacht clubs, has been called the Monaco of South America. But still, a harbinger of culture it most certainly is not. And if i can be frank, the only things of significance in Punt del Este are the beaches, which are reminiscent of the Mediterranean, and the boys, which are exceptionally nice. And young. And show off their sinewy limbs while walking shirtless in the streets. That's worth a trip to Uruguay.

You see, Punte del Este's biggest import is Argentineans. And not just your regular, run of the mill Argentines with their mulletesque haircuts. Oh no my friends, these folk are the upper crust of Argentina, who obviously come from the right side of the tracks. Blonde and blue eyed, with really great bone structure, and smokin' hot bodies.

But more than just the nyph-like appeal of these vacationing Argentines, what interests me is the fact that these argies are aesthetically different from the other argies. Mar del Plata, Argentina's big resort town, for instance, brings a more down-home kind of crowd. And I'm not just talking about the family Campinelli and some of their friends. No, I'm talking about an evacuation of 60% of the city of Buenos Aires in January alone. So, imagine if you will, hordes of dark skinned and dark haired Argentines. All sad eyes and sly smiles, bustling about with their "catarra-catarra", playing fútbol on the beach, no less than two feet from "prima Milli" and her girlfriends from secondary school. Blankets and towels practically on top of each other. And then compare that with the lackadaisical world of the buxom Punta del Este crowd.

I think what's going on here is work in tandem. For instance, money and good looks went up to Uruguay, where a little more dough can buy you the peace and tranquility of pi-pi-cou-cou Punta del Este. While the working class folk and the cabezitas negras went four hours South to the rocky shores of Mar del Plata, where space is tight but nice all the same. After all, every Argentinean deserves a vacation carajo!

Which is not to say that Mar del Plata is a shite town. Not at all. Its a beautiful city, with great jagged cliffs that jutt up against the sea. And indeed, while the people are darker, they are also ridiculously hot (Argentina is a genetic phenomenon). And they like to eat and drink and stay out late. And really, in the end, it doesn't make much difference. After all, Mar del Plata like Punta del Este, is the kind of place where it ain't summertime until you've drank maté on the beach at dusk, had yourself a meal on the dock, and witnessed a pack of 8 year olds reaking havoc in the streets at midnight, drunk with sleep deprivation.

Chinchulines, the real way

2008-01-28T19:33:00.001-08:00

According to my sources, Chinchulines are typcially cooked by FIRST soaking the intestines in milk for about a half hour. Then the caca is flushed out using the sink faucet. AND, chinchulines aren't commonly cooked on the grill, but ALWAYS cooked on the grill.

So now we've cleared that up.

Monday Movie Madness - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

2008-01-28T19:14:00.000-08:00

As you all know, I love the French in a way that can only be classified as an "unhealthy obsession". Then how is it possible, you ask, that a Francofile such as myself would not keep up on the latest Fraunch films. Well,this is because while I love all things French, I don't necessarily understand them. I know this sounds cliché, but all cliches hold some truth. And when it comes to French cinema, the truth is that the French simply love to examine the tribulations of human emotion. And consequently, the more one suffers, the more convoluted the plot, the more insufferable the film. And just in case you think I'm being pedestrian, let me throw out a few films as an example: Le Moustache, Jeux d'enfants (Guillaume Canet, hello handsome), that movie with the violinist that falls in love with the crazy person, and then the one about the con-man that falls in love with American journalist, anything Goddard.

That said, there's really nothing more splendid than going to the movies on a Monday at 2:45pm. Especially when you know that besides the handful of other extraordinary individuals who somehow managed to evade the drudgery of "work", everyone else is slaving away at a computer while you're watching French cinema. Yes, my friends, life is good. And after watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the latest Julien Schnabel flick, I may even venture to say that life is a gift.

Or in the least I'd say, when life gives you shit luck, you should write a book about it. That way when everyone else is carrying on about their pitiful lives you can feel superior. Content in knowing that you have overcome a great deal of suffering and put forth a wonderful work of art that is tender and inspirational. And that kids, is a most gratifying feeling.

With that in mind, let's proceed with my completely arbitrary review of the film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

1) Mathieu Almirac, France's answer to Andrew McCarthy only less creepy, and the second dreamiest French actor next to Malik Zidi, should win some sort of acting prize. Even with his eye all aflutter and practically popping out of his head, he still manages to be ridiculously charming and absolutely cute. Kudos to Almirac for making me think naughty things about a man in a vegetative state.

2) On that note, I love that Jean-Do remains saucy even in his vegetable-like condition.

3) Schnabel did an amazing job capturing the absolute horror of what it must be like to be trapped in one's body. And cinematically the imagery was all around amazing. The blurry faces and disembodied voices, the non-peripheral views, the flashbacks, the diving bell buoying in a vast sea of green and blue, were all perfect. The scenery was fantastic, with Breck looking desolate and bleak, all the while quasi-therapeutic. I really loved what he did with this movie. And thankfully Schnabel had the right mind to limit the gratuitous befuddling scenes to a minimum. Like when JD is on that pier like object in the middle of the ocean, yeesh, what's that supposed to mean?

4) Sometimes I got mixed up with the female characters. Perhaps my memory is bad or perhaps the females all looked somewhat similar, but sometimes I couldn't tell who was who. Like when they took their trip to Lourdes. I believe he went with the prettier nurse, not Henriette, but I just can't tell. I don't remember her having been so tall until I saw the Lourdes scene, but maybe that's because Jean-Do was always laying down. On second thought, did the trip to Lourdes even happen? And then there was that scene when JD was shaving his father, and at one point there was no shaving cream and at another there was. These are the kinds of continuity issues that my brain tends to harp on. However, I can overlook all of this simply because I understand that poor Jean-Do is living solely on memory, and if memory is anything, its erratic (and often fictitious), so it would make complete sense that images would be tangential and the dialogue circuitous. Applause to Schnabel, even I got that one.

In sum, this movie was excellent on many levels, and thus deserves a rating of 9.0. I was moved and entertained, which for someone like myself who has often been deemed cold and unresponsive further proves that this is a great film. I'd also like to note that despite being a simpleton, I understood this film. And even I can truly appreciate the notion that life can be brief and arduous, but beautiful all the same.

Food, Glorious Food: A Buenos Aires story continued

2008-01-26T09:21:00.000-08:00

Turns out that all things good in Buenos Aires are ingestible. For instance, the "Super Vermicelli con Tuco y Pesto" from Pippos restaurant (located on Montevideo b/w Saramiento and Corrientes) will make your brain explode. Its that delicious. And the whole experience of slurping down a plate of homemade pasta amidst the work-a-day lunchtime bustle of the porteños; Half smothered with a pungent pesto sauce and half with a meaty bolognese, and you'll see what's what.

And let's not even begin to talk about Argentinean ice cream. It tastes exactly as you imagine a delicious ice cream would taste, except without the horrible realization that what you're really eating is made out of styrofoam. The "crema de fresas", strawberry ice cream, is exactly that. Strawberrys and full-fat milk, frozen. So good.

Then we have the "milanesa" made of beef, and of course the "milanesa suprema"made of chicken. Both of which go great with Ensalada Rusa. Then you have the pizza, more commonly referred to by the Argies as "pitzack". Entirely different taste then American Pizza, and with a thicker crust that's soft and buttery. There's also "facturas", the Argentinean answer to morning croissants. Yum.

However, Argentina also has foods that make a foreigner go, "Hmmm". Things that seem to exist without rhyme or reason. Take "faina". A bland, dry, flat cake-like substance, that the Argies put on top of their pizzas. Why bother, I ask, when the pizza is good on it's own.

Then there's "chinchulines". The lower intestines of the cow. Generally soaked in lemon and then doused in salt, and most commonly cooked on the parrilla. If you don't like being surprised about what might squirt in your mouth as you chomp down on your food, then chinchulines aren't for you. And while we're on this subject. I applaud the fact that Argentineans believe in eating every part of the cow, but really, if it smells like piss, it probably tastes like it too. And, well, piss tastes bad.

But of course, what takes the cake, chews it up and then barfs it out, are any, neigh all of the delightful dishes that mixes cream and fish. For instance, "Merlusa al Rochefort", one of the most disgusting things i've tasted in a long time, is served with a long, flat oily fish called Merlusa. Three or four of which have been rolled up, and covered with a cream sauce made of rochefort.

Now, imagine you take the sickening thought of that flavor explosion, and magnify it 10 times. That would become a dished loved by 3 in 4 Argentines, "Vittell Toné". A dish whose name betrays itself to anyone who is familiar with the romance languages. Vitell=Veal Toné=Tuna. Oh yes, dear friends, veal and tuna. Or rather, thin slices of veal, smothered in a sauce made of tuna and mayonaise, served cold.

Note the picture above. A table laden with plates upon plates of salads. You see, its dead summer on New Year's, so everything is served cold. Then you hear,"Don't give her any vegetables, she'll only eat the Vitell Toné". And you can't understand how anyone could think that the combination of meat and fish could be enjoyable in any way. Its frightening.

And just for good measure, I realize that I never mentioned the "Asado". Its a grill and meat. Nuff said. But for your viewing pleasure.
A typical asado.

Meat, Pharmaceuticals and Rock Nacional

2008-01-15T17:29:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I said I would write and I didn't. Which just goes to show that along with my firm belief in coupling ones vices, these kinds of empty promises will ensure my children at least 10 years of therapy. However, I'm not completely heartless. In fact, a part of that black little lump of coal that I call a heart really wants to make good on fallen promises. So I'm going to do what my parents always did whenever they ended up disappointing me - indulge you in ad hoc gratuitous gifts, which in this case, and basically because I'm cheap, will be stories of all the revelries, mishaps and banalities (that I can remember) of my trip to Argentina.

Firstly, I'd like to note that I'm probably one of the best travelers there can be. When flying I anticipate delays and discomfort, and thus am content with sub-par standards. I never argue with the stewards over there not being any alternatives to chicken for diner, I could care less when children shriek at the top of their lungs (poor things can't rationalize cabin pressure or turbulence), and I only roll my eyes when other passengers get up from their seats even when the seat belt sign is lit. However when flying on a plane full of Argentineans, my general placid demeanor slowly starts to ruffle.

The thing is, not yet minutes into the flight and already I've came head to head with the ever irritating, yet often endearing Argentinean character. Classified as bittersweet and plagued by unwieldy polarities in nature, the Argentine can be simultaneously charming and loathsome. While the passengers are loading into the airplane, I notice that the Argentines are incredibly flippant in respect to common courtesy. Their acts of benevolence towards fellow passengers, which while being manifold, are bristly and insincere. And when viewed as an outsider is an eerie reminder that if the plane goes down, the kindly act of allowing women and children to go first out the emergency exit is to ensure that their corpses can be used as comfy floatation devices.

You see, it’s no exaggeration when I say that I’ve never come across a culture that’s anything like that of the Argentineans. Say what you will about the French and their sang-froid disposition, or the tarty Italians, the English with their pomp and snobbery, and of course we horribly irksome and loud Americans, but the Argentines are a special breed that seem to have perfected the art of platitudinous discourse. And when coupled with their particular Spanish "sh-sh-sh" dialect, that somewhere along their ancestral history has acquired the off-putting dissonance of whiny cat, one begins to realize that it’s a wonder that Argentina continues to peacefully coexist in South America.

The truth is somehow the Argentineans have acquired a national bipolar persona, and I hope that through recounting my trip I can help uncover why this is the case. I imagine that it’s part of their pedigree that has resulted from being the product of a country whose illimitable Pampa allows for endless forays of the imagination and that also fosters a kind of desperation. A country with its jungles to the North, mountains to the West, the Atlantic to the East. It has the widest river, the largest street, the Southern most tip of the Americas. A country that was built by immigrants, with cities that have streets named "O'Higgins" and an airport named "Jorge Newberry". A dictatorship that spurred paranoia. Decades of monetary deflation that manifested ambiguous work ethics. And a general distrust of everyone and anything. A country where anyone kisses everyone when greeting. A society that is culturally progressive, harvesting some of the world's most revered literati, and yet remains politically antiquated. A people whose acrid complaints are copious and yet always told with a laugh. In short; The tristesa of the tango, the fanaticism of fútbol, the grisly "asado". Beloved Argentina.

Salty Academic does Argentina

2007-12-28T06:53:00.001-08:00

Ok kids, Mommy's heading on a little vacation. Don't worry, your great aunt Irma will be staying with you. Won't that be fun? No, no, don't start crying, Mommy will be back soon enough. Yes darling, I promise to write while I'm away.

That's right kids, as the year winds down and the post-holiday depression starts to set in, sometimes the best thing to do is take a two week vacation to Argentina! I don't know how I finagled this one, but I left the office last Thursday with my boss' blessing for a bon voyage. So I'm going to leave my care-free world behind, and head down South to an even more care-free world (if that's even possible).

However, fret not my dear little ones. I shall continue to post whilst traversing the globe. Why? Because not only do I love you, but because if you're reading this blog you're probably in dire need of a diversion. And I promise that I will do my darnedest to supply it. So while I'm not cajoling some cute little porteño with my big American dollars to do despicable acts in a dirty bathroom just so he can pay for his biology textbooks, I'll be recounting all my misadventures here.

And if last year's trip to Buenos Aires is any indication of what to expect this year, then be ready for one heck of an emotional roller coaster ride. And I promise, this time Auntie Veronica will not get tipsy and fall on top of little Guadalupe during a game of chasey-chasey in the living room.

Fútbol Clip of the Week

2007-12-23T09:51:00.000-08:00

Eventhough I'm still picking up the pieces of my shattered spirit after witnessing AC Milan wipe the tomato sauce off their chins with the wet rag that was my beloved Boca Jrs. in this month's Club World Cup, I muster the courage to post this week's fútbol clip of the week.

Looking to the English and their bounty of ridiculously good imported players, this week's clip highlights the Arsenal v. Tottenham match (2-1). All around excellent playing by the Gunners and the Spurs, with the young and agile Fabregas making some exceptional plays.

Online Videos by Veoh.com

all in a days work

2007-12-21T15:03:00.001-08:00

Its 5 o'clock, I haven't showered and I'm still in my PJ's, which coincidentally have acquired an unknown stain at the right hem. Very odd. At any rate, I was just catching up on today's stock tradings and perusing the New Yorker's archives, when I came across this picture of those supposed lesbians that form Russia's pop band t.A.T.u

And then I thought, do animals ever think their fellow animals are crazy? For instance, say a dog were frolicking in the park, and he came across another dog that was rolling around in its own shit, would dog A think, "motherfucker is crazy". Furthermore, do animals have the capacity to make those kinds of judgements? If so, that means that animals also have the capacity to reason.

The thought follows, craziness is a concept that is construed when an action does not follow the contrived practices that make up day-to-day reality. Laws and other social/cultural rules are in place not just as a gentle reminder of how we should function within society, but also to perpetuate certain standards and conventions that solidify what is considered "normal" behavior. Drive on the left. Eat with utensils. No sex between first cousins.

It's when we do things that are out of the parameters of what is considered "normal" that we get labeled crazy. It is acceptable to think about going against the norm. However, these are just "finite provinces of meaning" that like day dreams are, "...enclaves within the paramount reality marked by circumscribed meanings and modes of experience" (Berger and Luckman). Stay too long in your finite province of meaning and motherfucker is crazy. And really, from there it's a stones throw away from talking in third person i.e "Cheney's going to go up the path and then straight to the snatch, you see?"

That said, I still don't understand why financially profiting off deception and the murder of hundreds of thousands of innocent people can be considered normal. Just based on sheer demographics, 300 people who conduct that sort of behavior does not trump the 303 million who don't. So I ask, who's making the rules here? These people are crazy and need to be locked away!!

Awww, but Salty Academic, its Christmas...Ok, then we'll just have to tickle them to death.

Happy Holidays?

2007-12-21T09:23:00.000-08:00

I went to a holiday party last night, so today I have a terrible headache. The kind you get when imbibing alcoholic beverages without rhyme or reason. Although it can be argued that, "all beverages were fermented from grapes" is a kind of genus, and "simply because I can" is a fairly good reason. However, chasing red wine with champagne, then following champagne with white wine, and finally, when clean glasses are no longer accessible, drinking some kind of Greek grappa from a used glass, is not what one would consider orderly drinking. But hey, that's what the holidays are all about, hence last years debacle with the pirate leg and the two black eyes (I'll save that story for another day).

The good news is I wasn't drunk enough to do or say anything incredibly inappropriate. And while my conversations tended to veer to the scatological, I assure you that's not atypical of any other day. Yes, I had the tendency to hug (a.k.a assault) unsuspecting party goers and erroneously make air quotes with my fingers, but this can be viewed as more charming than imbecilic.

And frankly, I should be commended for successfully suppressing my desires to french-kiss every male at the party. And really, the term Dirty Sanchez only came up once in conversation. Then why, Bacchus great god of disorderly drinking and orgies, have you punished me with this splitting headache?

Is it because at one point I squeezed my own breasts? Or is it because I accused the door man of letting someone steal my coat, only to realize I was looking for my black parka, when in fact I had worn my purple pea coat?

It's because I overdid it with the air quotes isn't it?

Yes I may have exhausted a lifetime of air quote usage in a single evening, but seriously, the air quote conveys a world of information via nuance, and sometimes, well, I like to be subtle. And you must understand, for we Americans, nuance is not something we fully understand how to accomplish. Look no further than US TV programming, nothing implicit there (except for those insipid and questionable exchanges on the Hills). So while we Americans may not understand when to use air quotes, we're still quite enthusiastic and prolific about it.

You see, here in the US of A, as I assume in most English speaking countries, we make our air quotes by forming a V with the index and middle fingers on each hand. Then we flex the fingers at the beginning and end of the phrase being "quoted." As such:

The Germans, on the other hand, sometimes comprise one hand inverted relative to the other in order to imitate the German-language quotation mark, which I believe looks like this:

And Le Fraunch also utilize the V-shape as a means to imitate guillemets, which look like this:

So you see, while the air quote differs in presentation from country to country, the use of satire in common parlance does not. And I'll wager that the abuse of air quotes by tipsy revelers is also not dissimilar across the globe. So please, Bacchus, enough with the headache. Bring me four Advil, and maybe just a nip of Glenlivet.

Rogue feelings - River Plate underwear

2007-12-19T20:08:00.000-08:00

more like warm tingly feelings...

Ah, Mondays...

2007-12-17T07:40:00.000-08:00

Oh you like that do you? Want more good, wholesome fun? Check out Neil Swaab's 'Rehabilitating Mr. Wiggles' under Sites I Fancy.

Fancy a shag?

2007-12-15T19:00:00.000-08:00

Psychosexual development is a funny thing. And like Freud I ask, who are we really if not a molé of our adolescent sexual experiences? In fact, I gladly assert that all of my more accessible childhood memories are sex related. Which is why it's no surprise that Dan Savage's column is brilliant. If not simply for the plethora of insight that Savage, the ambiguously sexually-oriented sex guru, bestows upon the act of doinking, but also because other people's sex lives are superiorly more interesting (and freaky) than my own.

Let's give a big welcome to Dan Savage's weekly column 'Savage Love' under Sites I Fancy.

Fútbol Clip of the Week

2007-12-14T07:49:00.000-08:00

Today I bring you Liverpool vs. Marseille (4-0) from last week's UEFA match. And while my love for the French is tantamount to obsessive drunk dialing, I find their footie to be repugnant. But in the game of love (read stalking), a little shitty football isn't enough to deter my affection.

Not Mr. Wizard's World

2007-12-14T06:38:00.000-08:00

Remember how Mr. Wizard would explain scientific theory through fun experiments? Well, I do. And more than just watching a grown man and a child work a Bunsen burner, Mr. Wizard's World was a cacophony of audible stimulation, which for a seven year old is as arousing as humping a giant stuffed animal. And I will admit dear reader (big ups to nobody i for being my only consistent audience), to this day nothing titillates me more than hearing someone cut construction paper on TV.

That said, things have changed since Mr. Wizard's World, and science, as I know it, has become much more complex. And when you mix science and art together you get something far greater than a dry ice experiment. In fact, what you do get is a "grown a replica of an ear with living human skin cells, miniature wings with the flesh of a pig and mouse cells in the shape of a tiny leather jacket". Or so, that's what you get when you're a bioartist, forging the boundaries of ethics and fashion.

Ionat Zurr, of SymbioticA, a bioart laboratory in Australia explained that the bioart process works by choosing cells from an animal, "painting" them onto a three-dimensional scaffolding made of degradable polymer (a type of plastic), and then allowing the cells to grow over whatever shape the scaffolding takes, turning it into a living sculpture of skin. One of SymbioticA's latest projects was a steak made up of frog tissue, that the artists later fried up and ate.

This idea is both horrific and intriguing, which is why I love it. And if anyone had any sense they would make an entire collection of clothing from skin cells from the cast of The Hills. And then people can dawn on the outfits, LC and Whitney masks included, and bring those interminable silences to life.

Evolution strikes again!

2007-12-13T20:17:00.000-08:00

As if I needed more reasons to believe that pregnancy is something out of an van Vogt novel, scientists have discovered a new element to the mechanism of birthing. According to the article on NPR News, evolution has adapted women's vertebrae to be wedge shaped, unlike their testicular counterparts whose vertebrae has remained the same. These wedged vertebrae allow for the spine to become more S like throughout the pregnancy. This helps the back muscles support the cumbersome load of the growing fetus and the gallons of goop and goo that encase it, thus making pregnancy easier. So now the only hard part of spawning is trying to remember who the father is. Sigh.

One of the authors of the article, Liza Shapiro, explains that the evolutionary impetus is a result of being a biped and having to carry the load in the front of the body. Shapiro likens the experience to that of carrying a box, and states "The weight of the box is trying to pull you forward, so in order to offset that weight, you have to … contract your back muscles to push your spine the other way." And while harbouring a fetus is like carrying a box, once you put down the box, the box doesn't shit itself every other hour and then grow up to disappoint you.

None the less, I like evolution's chutzpah. Specifically the way it turns a blind eye to over-population and dwindling resources, and forges ahead with its agenda to facilitate human procreation. Never mind helping tigers and other endangered species adapt with claws that turn into Kalashnikov-esque assault rifles, or in the least, giving them Aristotelian reason and the ability to speak in human tongues. I also tip my hat to evolution for making females more evolved than males, which consequently helps to purvey my dream of institutionalized male servitude.

Lastly, I'd like to note that i was born without wisdom teeth, which makes me super-highly evolutionized. And if evolution were to ask me what I would like to have adapted, I'd say that I would like to have my tail back. Because frankly, tails are sexy.

As Long As The Music Is Loud Enough...

2007-12-10T05:46:00.000-08:00

I don't get out much, and unfortunately, I also don't have a particularly exciting home life. This I'm sure can be attributed to television. And while I'd like to think that I control my life through my own volition and not via a roster of mind-numbing reality TV shows, I'm also quite realistic. Which is why Sunday night's lack of must-see TV makes passing the time hard for me. And often I feel like a baby whose pacifier has been abruptly yanked out of its mouth, cruelly dangled in front of its face, and then tossed by the wayside. Which is also why, when there isn't anything on the tube, I turn to TV's more sophisticated sister, le flick.

Last night I had the pleasure to watch a fantastic movie. The premise; Queen Elizabeth travels through time with the aid of a mystical being and finds that present day Britain is bleak and horrid. Part Clock-work Orange, part punk, part Nazi revival, stir with a little anarchy, add some kink, and you've got Derek Jarman's Jubilee.

However, The reviews of this movie on IMDB are incredibly mixed. Those who loved it did so for Jubilee's art-house flavor and interesting imagery. Those who hated it thought it was watered down punk or unnecessarily violent and crude. And while I'm as punk as George W. Bush is literate, I can understand why people who "know" movies and/or the punk scene may think that Jubilee is obvious and overly conceptualized. However, I'm all for the glaringly evident, and I don't see why ideas have to be masked behind frilly metaphor. So for people like me, Jubilee is great in that it conveys all sorts of sociological phenomenon through an amped-up visual lens, leaving little to be parsed. In fact, and without giving anything away, Jarman reaches just beyond the grasp of the imagination. And for a square such as myself, I'm awed at his ability to put picture to thought in a way that is far more sophisticated than my level of creativity. And while at times Jubilee is disjointed, what it lacks in continuity, it makes up in spirit.

Fútbol Clip of the Week

2007-12-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

This week I bring you another blast from the past with Dennis Bergkamp's goal from a 2002 Arsenal vs. Newcastle match. Bergkamp, a Dutch master of sorts, pulls some fancy footwork right in front of the box. Watch it in all its glory.

I promise to start bringing some more current clips soon enough. Hopefully the FIFA Club World Cup will reunite AC Milan and Boca Jrs for another excellent match (2003 ended Boca winning in pk.s).

it's definately not teen spirit

2007-12-07T19:14:00.001-08:00

Cat behavior is peculiar to say the least. So when my cat spent an entire day in one spot staring intently at nothing, I knew something was up. Unfortunately, it took me two days to realize that what was "up" was the time of whatever creature decided to make a coffer of my living room wall.

So now the smell of some unholy decomposition is emanating from my wall and permeating the entire left side of the room. Sometimes I counteract this smell by lighting incense, which makes the smell not only bearable but, if i may, enjoyable. And I imagine myself like Laura Ingalls, when the whole family moved to the prairie and lived in a knoll. Just for a second of course, that thought is hard to sustain.

I give props to Ingalls for being an early 20th century female writer. And for being able to create such good TV fodder. And also for introducing me to the afternoon snack. When I was in the fifth grade I would come home from school everyday, make myself a mayonnaise sandwich and watch Little House on the Prairie. One day I came home, made my sanguie, sat myself down to watch the show, and then realized, thanks to a lack in ambient noise, that my parakeet Freddy had died. Well I'll tell you, from that day on I would have nightmares of being perched on the edge of a HUGE jar of mayonnaise and feeling inexplicably compelled to eat all of it. I gave up mayonnaise all together. And while for years i forbade mayo's condimentation, I never gave up Little House on the Prairie.

the Salty Academic takes on religion

2007-12-07T18:14:00.000-08:00

As you all may have noticed I had not posted in the last few days, mostly because I've been working (a.k.a not getting drunk before noon), so I have quite a bit to catch up on. And lately the topic of religion has been all the rage in the papers, so I think I'll start there.

I'd like to preempt this entry by acknowledging that openly discussing religion, much like kicking a little dog in the face, is an impulse one mustn't act on without careful consideration. However, not only am I stupidly impulsive, I'm belligerent to boot. So, naturally, religion ranks as one of the favorite topics of discussion.

With that in mind, the AP wire "Germany Seeks to Ban Scientology" caught my attention. Those familiar with Scientology probably are in the know thanks to the the crazy shenanigans of Tom Cruise and other well-to-do media elites. And while Scientology garners unconventional philosophies, it does have specific texts, a kind of hierarchy, and an astounding membership, all of which, I believe, makes it a religion. Some people, however, might call Scientology a "cult". But really, all religions are cults. That is, a cult as defined by Webster "1. A community or system of religious worship and ritual". And surely if its alright to believe that women were created out of a rib from a man (as is the case in Christianity), then it should be equally alright for one to believe that humans evolved from mollusks (cheers Scientology for that one).

That said, Germany's claim that Scientology is, "a commercial enterprise that takes advantage of vulnerable people", thus threatening Germany's "peaceful democratic order" is ridiculous an appalling. Firstly, all religions are commercial enterprises that take advantage of vulnerable people. That's it's shtick. And any Marxist or Weberian can attest. However, to reduce Germany's claim as a matter of mere economics is too simple. Yes, Scientology can be likened to a kind of mafia, but again, this is no different than other religious groups. So, what's the real problem Germany? Is this an attempt to reclaim some kind of global democratic notoriety in the face of a sullied past? Well, if so, you've got it all wrong.

There can be no democracy, no 1st amendment if you will, without a pluralistic state. This is to mean, a country must accept different worldviews and the institutions that support them in order to be considered truly democratic. And this idea extends particularly to religion. Now, those of you in the "religion is bad" camp will probably say that religious systems have resulted in numerous wars and other sorts of blood-shed, so Germany is on the ball. But this is not entirely true. The 20th century had numerous wars and plenty of genocides. Clearly one of the bloodiest periods in history. And yet none of these were the result of religious persecution. And if you're going to ask, "but what about The Holocaust?". I will answer that the Jews, while the greatest beneficiaries of that horrible suffering, were amongst a slew of other groups to perish under Nazi nationalism (Gypsies, Slavs, Poles, gays, mentally disabled, etc.). And, if one day Judaism would address whether it should be considered a religion or an ethnic group, I will gladly revise my position. Until then though, and for the sake of the argument at hand, I'm sticking with ethnic cleansing.

So, with that in mind, I take us to Mitt Romney. According to journalists and political pundits, Americans have reservations about voting for Mitt Romney because he's Mormon. Nevermind that Romney switch hits on social issues, or rather, doesn't address any issues. No, the fact that Romney is Mormon is more than enough to make people feel "very uncomfortable" (AP-Yahoo poll).

This is understandable. The Mormon Church, or The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints as they are referred to on the many heart-warming commercials they diffuse throughout TV, gives off that strange, "cultish" vibe. Maybe its because the Mormon Church was founded by some random guy who claimed to have translated the Book of Abraham from papyrus rolls before the Egyptian hieroglyphics were decipherable? Or maybe its the polygamy? I don't really know. But one thing is for sure. The Mormon Church is the American religion par excellence. And while you may not have to agree with their doctrines, you do have give put up with them. Otherwise, you obviously hate America.

In sum, if you're going to vote, definitely don't vote for (or against) religion. Because while religion can bring you a world of interesting ideas and fanciful visions, it probably won't bring you any economic capital (and no, being the owner of mega-church doesn't count).

*This last statement, while being completely valid can also be refuted (with empirical evidence). However, I'm not getting into it.

Somethings I will never understand

2007-12-06T05:06:00.000-08:00

There are a couple of topics that I'm actively avoiding because I find them too perplexing and complicated, like Middle East politics.

However, there is something that I've been trying to wrap my head around for some time now, and while it is equally perplexing and complicated, it merits investigation. This is, why is Antonio Banderas the voice of the animated bee in the Nasonex commercial? Seriously, why would a doofy little bee, with its sleepy little eyes, have a Spanish accent? I wonder what that marketing pitch was like.

Executive Myspace

2007-12-04T17:19:00.000-08:00

I alert you, dear reader, to Nicholas Carr's blog http://www.roughtype.com/

Now, I really don't know anything about this Carr except that, presumably, he's versed in technological matters and he's published two books. I came to his blog somewhat circuitously and read his Nov 28th entry. Here Carr shares his ponderings on the imminent invasion of social networking software into the corporate sphere.

Carr writes a bunch of interesting musings, of which I'll spare you all of them. But basically he's saying that one day, the "formal" organization of the corporate world, which is construed by conventional IT systems, will be replaced by "informal" organizational systems akin to Myspace and Facebook. However, Carr also states that current informal systems include "email, PowerPoint and Excel", which frankly are as informal as getting a hand-job from the Queen of England, but I see where he's going. Carr is thinking, improbably, of an office full of executives that post memos and other such material on their personal sites, and where their little minions log on and look at them and post comments.

Fun! Except you're still answering to this guy.

The Salty Academic adds a new feature...

2007-12-03T12:56:00.000-08:00

Notice if you will the new feature to the Left "Sites I Fancy".

The one site listed (thus far) belongs to an intelectually superier Norweigen named Bård Edlund.

Check out his comics and other broody material, my favorite being:
Empty - An 11-page epic. More French film than Hollywood blockbuster. Operates on its own internal logic.

Don't bogart the genetic decoding, man

2007-12-03T07:53:00.000-08:00

I'm all for science. After all, I claim to be somewhat methodological in nature myself. So when I read this month's cover story from WIRED magazine "Your Life Decoded", I was happy to see that the business of genetic decoding was being handed to the common man.

Indeed, it would be great to put a little spittle into a cup (2.5 milliliters to be exact), send it off to the lab, and in a few months get an e-mail with all your genetic history splayed out for your perusal on your very own e-file. However, as I mentioned this is a business, and genetic decoding don't come cheap. Well I'll be honest, the genetic decoding service provided by 23andME, a company that claims to "give people a look at their genome and help them make sense of it", isn't all that expensive when viewed with bourgeois sensibilities. In fact, the entire 23andME service costs a mere $1,000, which is chump change when compared to all the other gadgets and gizmos, and frivolities that we purchase these days (you can also get your entire genome examined for a silly $250,000).

So for this mere $1,000, here's what you get: navigate through your 23 chromosomes, a scholarly investigation that relates your genome with current research on various health conditions like diabetes and Chrohns, an ancestral overview of your DNA, and a type of DNA networking page where you can compare your genome to those of your familiars. So essentially, with this service you can learn what diseases your prone to get in the future so that you can take measures to rebuff them in the present. Thus, you can live longer, stronger, and happier, knowing that while you cheated death for a decade or so, your fellow humans are dying away and suffering terrible, fatal diseases. Go you!

However, the sociologist in me can't help but give a disconcerted head-shake. Once again science is evading a large demographic of individuals who can't afford to fork up for a little genetic decoding. Demographically speaking, in the US, Hispanics and Blacks have lower household incomes than Non-Hispanic Whites. So frankly, I'm starting to think that along with cryogenic freezing and stem cell therapy, this new service is all part of the scientific community's ploy to promote an all-White planet Earth. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, science is racist! And since Jesus loves all the little children, it's easy to see why so many poor folk turn to God instead of science. Mystery solved.

But becuase I'm in favor of science and against racism, I'm sort of in a moral bind. Should I let God win the hearts and minds of the poor and/or colored? Or should I let science triumph in the name of racism?

Well, fret not poor and/or colored people of the US! I have a similar and free service for you. It's called, numerology. Basically, you add the digits of your birthday to get one single "Life Path" digit. Then you go here:

http://www.astrology-numerology.com/num-lifepath.html

From there you can figure out what your life is all about; what wills you and what will be your demise. Now I know that its not really the same as genetic decoding, but frankly, who cares. Only the rich and over educated are paranoid enough to take proactive steps to increase their longevity and forsake some of life's greatest pleasures like drink, and chocolate, and threesomes. And I don't want to toot my intellectual horn here, but isn't numerology a kind of rudimentary genetic decoding? Or put differently, isn't DNA a set of genetic instructions guided by numerological precepts like division and addition?

So take that science! You're plan for a "Bright White Future" has been foiled.

As for you God, I'll deal with you later.

The Fútbol clip of the week

2007-11-29T20:23:00.000-08:00

I've decided that every week I will show 'The fútbol Clip of the Week', hopefully highlighing the week's best play. However, I haven't been watching many games lately and of what I did see on the internet, like Tevez' goal vs. Sporting, I wasn't much impressed. England is making him soft.

This week I am going back to my maternal roots and showing you a clip of my familiar team (although this is disputed by claims that we are actually of San Lorenzo). The noble River Plate. Nicknamed Los Millonarios. Here we see a stupendous goal against Estudiantes, finished by Falcao.

Look Mom, I swallow

2007-11-28T16:51:00.000-08:00

I know many of you who have been wondering what ever happened with that mysterious ailment that had been plaguing my body and slowly killing my spirit for the past year. Well I’m pleased to say that as of today we are one step closer to solving the mystery. Thanks to the wizardry of modern medicine, trial and error has once again proven that my swallowing problem is not a condition of the throat.

In case you need a reminder, over a year ago I had what I thought was anaphylactic shock triggered by a piece of breaded shrimp that I ate while sitting in the back of a BMW convertible speeding down some Long Island highway. Firstly, if you know me, you know that not only am I the world’s worst driver, I also am the world’s worst passenger. Even if I were being driven in a children’s parade, I would still have the overwhelming fear of having my legs smashed to bits in a terrible accident. So my uneasiness about being in an careening automobile coupled by the fact that I was being suffocated by my own body while my hair was painfully whipping my face, then multiplied by the fact that I was in Long Island, made this event horrible on multiple levels.

After that terrible day I confidently assumed that I had an allergic reaction to shellfish. However, the following months would prove that there was something amiss. And eventually all types of food would make my throat clam-up. A visit to two separate allergists proved that I have no allergies whatsoever. This news was quite disheartening. And I was angry that I had wasted so much energy carrying around a bulky epi-pen in my purse for half a year. I was told it was anxiety. Of course, I thought, one would have anxiety when their body decides to strangle itself.

"Less stress would be the cure", they said. "But if I’m anything its not stressed", I argued. To which they answered, "Well, if it makes you feel bad, don’t eat it". And that’s when I realized with certainty that doctors know fuck-all about health. Yet despite my dubious and perverse feelings on modern medicine (thanks in part to my acupuncturist), I’m not opposed to seeing more specialists.

Which brings me to my latest attempt at understanding my bodies rebellious nature to food. Over the last couple of months I’ve been choking on more mundane foods like bread, so I decided to have another go at conventional medicine. This time I went to see an othorhinolaryngologist, less respectively called an Ear, Nose and Throat doctor. Now, I actually like going to doctors. Mostly because other than this small swallowing issue I’m in great health, and I love having people confirm this. I also love to tout that I have abnormally low blood pressure and the resting heart rate of a dead person (I also have thin wrists and ankles).

Well, 45 minutes in the examination room and after already having been visited by the nurse, who much like a stripper, leaves you feeling unsatisfied, the doctor comes in and starts the second round of questioning. Although I know that doctors don’t need much information to make an assessment, I like to inundate them with anecdotes related to the problem. Like the bard, I tell my story with enthusiasm, allowing the doctor to relive my horrors and relish my heroism. I use this time as a kind therapy. And frankly, after having been made to wait in the exam room with nothing more a bunch of pamphlets on sleep apnea to leaf through, I feel I’m owed that much.

And then the doctor does what she was trained to do. She takes a device and sticks it in my nostril and gently pushes it down into my throat, mentioning ever so casually that it may be "slightly uncomfortable". Now I’m no stranger to having things crammed down my throat, so in the least, this silly device was nothing more than mere a tickle. This doctor also happened to be well trained in the art of suspense. So while she’s servicing my throat, she utters not a peep. Not an "aha!" or "hmm…that’s weird". Nothing. After she pulls the device out of my head and waits a few moments to further build suspense, she assesses that I have some kind of irritation. "Really? Tell me more" I say. "Well," she continues, "you seem to have some kind of irritation caused by reflux. But you don’t actually have reflux. The reflux may be caused by something else. You will need to see a gastroenterologist". Apparently, and here’s where it gets good, I may have an allergy in my throat.

And that my friends is the beauty of modern medicine. Of course she prescribed me some reflux medication which I obviously turned down, since, as she had just stated, I don’t have reflux. But I did take her recommendation on the stomach doctor, because unlike Scooby Doo, I don’t think one can solve a case by running away from fear and eating scooby snacks. Nay, like Sherlock Holmes, one must solve the mystery with the aid of an intellectually limited yet resourceful doctor, who despite being analytically inferior is brave and efficient.

Damn that feeble heart!

2007-11-27T17:58:00.000-08:00

After my last three entries, I realize that I haven't exactly taken on any hard-hitting topics as I had originally advertised. I scoured the interweb this morning trying to find some news worth mentioning, but because Dick Cheney survived yet another heart problem, I lost interest.

We'll get you next time Cheney...

Come and knock on my door...

2007-11-26T05:35:00.001-08:00

The only thing that brings me more joy than deciphering a Thomas Pynchon novel is deciphering Lauren Conrad's wordless expressions. That's to say, despite being a sophisticated intellectual, I love TV. More specifically, I love reality TV. And when people refer to reality TV as "mindless garbage" a little piece of me dies.

The Hills, for instance, is to the 21st century what Three's Company was to the 20th century. An incredibly entertaining, often creepy display of sexually ambiguous cavorting, incestuous enterprises, and emotional abuse, all set in a place where there are palm trees and roller skaters. And now that I think of it, most reality TV is set in sunny locations with palm trees. Which i suppose makes sense, since as we all know, you can't see titties beneath a parka.

I also love The Real Housewives of the Orange County. Do I care where Orange County is? No. Does Lauri's face reflect the look of someone who's been sitting in a pair of piss-stained trousers? Yes. And why do these women's mouths remind me of vaginae? Its a subconscious archetype. Like Santa Claus, this show is beyond ridiculous and thus can be classified as magical.

Don't get me wrong though, I'm not completely indiscriminate. I tried Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and well, fell behind. But when Kim Kardashian feigned modesty, worried about taking her clothes off for Playboy, it was just too much for me. This from a girl that gives blow-jobs on tape for profit. Haven't the Armenians suffered enough?

Reality TV aside, scripted TV (now don't get confused) is equally entertaining. For instance, I still watch The Nanny despite having exhausted every episode. And thankfully its awkward morning time slot of 8am does not affect my commute. And then there's the food channel. This channel has the best of the worst. Rachel Ray, who needs to stop tucking in her shirt, and Giada De Laurentis, whose head is ginormous (yes, bigger than mine), both have multiple shows that are simultaneously annoying and engaging. And then there are the shows where people go ghost hunting. I also love these. Why? Because like a dog that stops to lick it's balls in the middle of the street, there are just some things that are so good they defy reason.

Viva Mexico Cabrones!

2007-11-25T10:55:00.000-08:00

A breakdown of the demographic of those that make catcalls to me on the street shows that 5% are working class, 15% are African Americans, 20% are homeless, 10% are drunk by midday and an astounding 50% are Mexicans. What does this show besides the fact that I can do simple mathematics? Mexicans make up my #1 fan base.

I am not bothered by the catcall (as frequent as they may be). In fact, most, if not ALL of my self-esteem is confirmed when I hear a stranger tell me that I'm looking good. I even give props to the more creative spectator. For instance, a while back as I walked by a lunching construction worker I heard him say, "Look at those ham-hocks". And while It is ordinary to hear commentary on the girth of my thighs, I thought the reference to a savory and delicious holiday dish merited a fair amount of kudos.

On that note, I will say, perhaps inexplicably, I hold the Mexican catcaller dear to my heart. Maybe its their bold attempt to engage me in conversation with a kind greeting like, "Have a good day"? Or the way they've adopted the "Ga Blesh You" of their brethren? But the Mexican catcall is different. Gentler. Respectful. And while I hardly ever respond to most catcalls, the Mexican earns my nod of approval. And in the end, I'd like to think that with our mutual exchange, the world is better place.

I've tried to wrap my head around what Mexicans can find so attractive about me. After all, let's face it people/person, I'm not a conventional beauty. And perhaps therein lies the secret. Briefly, I have a giant head (so I've been told). And my facial features gravitate around my bulbous nose as if attracted by a powerful magnet. So I can say with certainty that my good looks are not intimidating. I'm also fairly squat, measuring a modest 5'2 and strong like a bull. But i think the clincher (pun intended), is that I have a squoval ass, and that my friend(s), is like honey to the bee.

Now I know one can't simply lump ALL Mexicans in the same pool and claim to be their goddess. But if this blog is about anything, its about sweeping generalizations (see description), so yes I can. That said, I'm not so uncouth. Obviously, there are differences between the Mexican from Puebla and the one from Mexico City, and those differences are important in ways that I can't really understand. Mostly because I'm American and the class/race systems of other countries eludes me. But in the end it doesn't matter. I don't care from which part of Mexico you hail, or if you are dark-skinned or illegal. Just, por favor, don't stop worshipping me!

It's not you, it's the tryptophan

2007-11-25T09:01:00.000-08:00

Generally against my better judgement, I'm always ready to jump on the bandwagon. So its no surprise that after years of hearing about these things called "blogs" I have decided to join the fray. After all, who could be better suited to make commentary on newsie social issues (i.e anything that strikes my fancy), than someone who has not one, but two masters degrees. And really, what better time to get started on such an endeavor than after a weekend of binge eating, shameless consumerism and high school reunions? If the great masters of art and literature have shown us anything, it's that inspiration springs forth from commercialism and the kind of self-loathing that can only come from an evening of tryptophan-induced awkward mingling.

Yes, I liken myself to Rembrandt and Balzac. Yes, the word "mingling" sounds like a sexual maneuver that involves bamboo shoots. No, I did not attend my high school reunion (or was invited for that matter). However, if I did, believe me, I would be filled with the kind of self-loathing rivaled only by Mary Cheney. Although, I will maintain the assumption that not having a drug problem or eating disorder puts me ahead of most of my old peers both in intelligence and general emotional stability. So actually, when I say self-loathing, I really mean unbridled hubris.

That said, like a good upscale hooker, I don't want to give away too much too soon. Lest I satiate your hunger and loose my audience. But since I'm only proverbially fellating, I'll say, dear reader, not only have you the greatest intellect I've ever seen but i can do wonders with puns and have an extensive vocabulary. And by extensive I mean limited to the 1000 words I had to learn for my GRE.

Stay tuned for my next post as we explore why Mexicans make up my #1 fan base...