Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! Futbol clip of the WTF

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

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

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

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

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!!

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

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

Futbol Clip of the Week

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

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

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

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.

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

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...

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

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

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

Episode 2 is brilliant. Enjoy!

Jigga What? Jigga Who?

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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?

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?

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

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

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

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.