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I was just having a chat with my friend Candy about Marlon Brando in that scene in "Last Tango in Paris" where he's shoving butter up that woman's ass.
Who thought that one up? Is/was this a common thing, butter-packing? Do you think it inspired others to squish some "Land O' Lakes" between the cakes?
Imagine the director, Bertolucci, telling Brando "Ok, the butter…you put uppa her ass, no?"
Brando was probably like "But then what do we put up mine, paté ? Frozen, or fresh? I need to know how to project the texture - it's a Stanislovski thing."
I do wonder how one mentally prepares for a day of filming that requires a straight face while implementing a stick of butter into someone else's rectal area. Or for that matter, being on the receiving end of the dairy product. Was there like 20 takes with a big cooler of fresh butter from craft services at hand? Can you tell the difference if they use margarine instead?
Think of the conversations between the stand-ins while the lighting is being tested for this shot, or better yet, imagine the actress, after the scene, deciding the best route of removal. Let it melt or is it latex glove snapping time?
Were there other items that Bertolucci first opted for butt plugging, but found they didn't suit the scene? What was the deciding factor that butter was the clincher?
I used to play with this drummer who let me have a go on his kit whenever we took a break at practice, that is, until he told me his girlfriend would shove his drumsticks up his ass whenever they had sex. I can still hear the clicking sounds of the sticks when they fell from my very sorry hands to the unsuspecting floor below (that floor never did forgive me). I scrubbed like a surgeon about to crack open a lawyer after that tidbit of information (there is a limit to how well informed I want to be). It certainly gave new meaning to the term "rim shot", if nothing else.
I guess I'm boring vanilla, since I'm pretty much an "exit only" person when it comes to the workings of my butt, though I don't begrudge those that get hopped up on the old "reach around", I guess. Your thing is your thing.
How does one broach the subject these days? Especially if butter is the insertion of choice. Do you just stop off at the fridge on the way to the bedroom, point and raise your eyebrows? Or do you discuss it beforehand, over dinner when the bread arrives?
Currently listening :
I Should Coco
By Supergrass
Release date: 1995-07-18
Today I was buzzing through the internet looking up something about the song "This Will Be Our Year" by The Zombies, when I found that the band OK Go did a cover of it (of course it's on my playlist now).
I was late to the party when it came to OK Go, but when I arrived, hot damn it rocked! I think I first saw Damian Kulash on The Daily Show of all places, and believe me, if I have a type, he is so it. He's the lead singer/guitarist for OK Go and even though I found him highly lickable, I wasn't about that song with the treadmills. That was all I had seen at the time and I didn't pursue it further until one of my best buds, Bonnie, schooled me on their finer points.
Sweet chocolate Christ, I can't believe it's been 3 years since "Oh No" was released. It's OK Go's second album and I would marry it if I could (please don't tell Pat Robertson as I'm sure there's something in the Bible that claims this act is cause for one sort of damnation or another and we don't want to open that can of blue suits now do we?). This album is just that - an ALBUM. Most efforts out there nowadays are a collection of songs, but this is a work in totality. The songs that are not portrayed in treadmill videos show the smokier side of Kulash's vocals, and the warmth in some of the recordings…you can almost smell the wood in the studio (not that kind of wood, geeze).
Upon first listening of "A Million Ways", I definitely felt a Franz Ferdinand vibe and thanks to Google, I knew why in a matter of seconds. Tore Johannson of Sweden produced "Oh No" and FF's self titled debut. You're a big fucking deal if your production leaves that much of a mark, so Tore is now in my mental producer rolodex hanging with the likes of John Leckie, Alan Moulder (heavy hitters in the 90's), and of course George Martin, aka the 5th Beatle.
I could definitely tell that OK Go was heavily influenced by The Zombies, who are one of my all time favorite bands. I would even go so far as to say that Colin Blunstone possesses the most beautiful voice that ever slipped across my ears. All of their recordings were done before I was sent down to this planet (or up, I really can't remember), but to me, "Odessey and the Oracle" is one of the best pieces ever made. And, yes, "Odessey" is spelled like that on the jacket. It was a 1967 misprint, but they ran with it.
There isn't enough digital space for all the great things I have to say about The Zombies and that album, but they did reunite for a US tour this July, and if you're lucky enough to be near one of the venues DO NOT miss it. I've seen Blunstone on his own, and my mouth was on the floor during the entire performance, I can't even imagine…well if you get good tickets, let me know. If Southwest flies to that area, I'm there. Same goes if you get good Radiohead tickets too! My neighbor works for Southwest. I watch his cats when he travels, he gives me tickets =)
Ok, so Kulash isn't quite Colin Blunstone, but close enough. On "Lately, It's so Quiet" the swoon meter busts out on top. That silky voice with those slightly dirty chords completely does it for me.
"Maybe, This Time" is probably my favorite. I can hear a Les Paul in there, and the simplicity and spacing of each part is nothing short of captivating. It reminds me of some 80's song that I can't quite recall, but someday when I'm overmedicated and bitching about social security (or the lack thereof), I'm sure it will come to me. Probably won't be able to hear by then, yeesh. (If you know me at that point, please help me load the gun.)
I've never seen OK Go live, but that's definitely on my "to do" list for this lifetime. You should see the list for my next life. =]
Currently listening :
Oh No
By OK Go
Release date: 2005-08-30
"I'm honest about my lying." Me (in an email I wrote the other day)
Everybody lies, and you'd be lying to yourself if you're thinking that you don't. EVERYBODY LIES!
We all have lied when asked "How ya doin?" We aren't ALWAYS fine, but we know that not everyone needs to hear about our she cramps or jock itch (if you've ever had both of these simultaneously, I so want to hear that story). Harmless lies, but lies nonetheless.
People have always lied to protect others, but usually themselves. Most lies are told for personal gain, and some assholes just lie for no apparent reason. These idiots keep lying even when they're caught, and no they aren't minors, just stunted and damaged grown people. "Adult" physically, but mentally the jury is still out.
I really struggled with this last year when I was unabashedly lied to for reasons unbeknownst to me and really I just couldn't get my brain around it. I've never seen lying as rampant as I do here in Florida, maybe it's the humidity, but my guess is that lying is their favorite past time here. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if they had a museum devoted to it someday. They could have an exhibit showing the evolution of lying and how the advent of certain jobs and means of communication have affected how one lies in today's society.
There could be men's, women's, and unisex parts of the exhibit as certain types of lies from jealous bitches differ than the lies put forth to get them into bed and then out the door ASAP.
I know both sexes lie equally, but as a child, I always found men with facial hair dishonest and creepy, like the hair was hiding something. All the serial killers except Bundy had it. Now I think its guys that wear hats all the time that are the ones to watch. Especially in 90 degree weather at night. I met two mean liars in a row with this particular habit. The second one almost lied his way back into my life a few months back (my hopes are that one day his hat swallows his head and then engulfs the rest of his lying ass), but Scorpios always have a way of getting past my radar (note to self: find out how to recalibrate radar).
Overly friendly super, super, nice women - all huge liars. They lie because they are trying to please everyone and that's impossible. Pissy people like me will shoot straight from the hip most of the time, but once I'm lied to, I give back ten fold. I hate lying but feel it's my karmic duty to give as good as I get, especially when I didn't do anything to deserve such treatment.
I didn't have trouble getting over the people that lied, I had trouble with the fact that it made me teeter on the edge of losing my faith in humanity altogether. When you're lied to, the underlying message is that you don't deserve any respect and it's assumed that you're stupid. Not fun - humiliating, actually, but the liars don't apologize, they don't care - till it happens to them, then the fucking world stops.
One day the big, mean, liars will lie to the person who is one pill away from a loaded weapon - you never know if you're the LAST STRAW for someone do ya? What may seem like a small little lie that gets you out of an uncomfy situation may be the last jerk needed to pull the pin on the right/wrong grenade.
I've met (but am not friends with) some seriously dangerous liars with harmful STD's, that do not clue in the people they get "friendly" with. I've also been acquainted with people that died from AIDS they got from the cheating spouses who outlived them. Everybody lies, but they do have a choice not to.
After a string of blatant liars I met some awesome people that brought me back from the edge. Scott from Ireland was one of my favorites. Held my hand everywhere we went for the short time he was visiting. Even if he lived here (or me there) though, it couldn't work. He was straight up about wanting a minimum of FIVE kids and he was totally into the Catholic thing. I'm so not. It's easy to be honest when you are just visiting, nothing to lose maybe?
I met one guy (also not from FL) who was very up front with me about how he wants and likes to be a total manwhore and is not into the boyfriend thing at all. This guy does not lie about anything (some think he should, but not me) and I respect the hell out of him. Some people aren't that self aware but that poses the question, why will they bother getting to know you if they don't even know themselves?
I want someone to play Scrabble with, to dance with me, to listen to music with, hit a few concerts maybe, someone to discuss with me whether the color orange or the fruit called "orange" came first.
Simple things really, but why does it seem like you have to swim through saturations of complexities to get to them?
Because… (say it with me now) everybody lies.
(Can I get an A-MEN up in here? No? A B-MEN? No, there's already enough C-MEN! oh no I di n't!)
ps. I hope not everyone from FL is a fuckhead, by all means, prove me wrong =]
Currently listening :
The Runaway Found
By The Veils
Release date: 2005-01-25
"They call me a tom boy and I love it
Cause only a tom boy could stand above it" Tom Boy - Bettie Seveert
I'm not sure what a typical Tom Boy is. Judging by Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary, my guess is that everyone is completely full of shit when it comes to compartmentalizing people with these hard, fast gender rules.
What is TYPICAL? I've been called a Tom Boy but I don't play or watch football, I don't dress like a guy, and I don't give a rats ass about cars. Those seem to be the consensus of what a Tom Boy is on the internet. (Incidentally, who the hell is the Tom that "Tom Boy" derived from?)
I don't think I'm a typical girl, but what is a typical girl? I hang with both sexes equally, but prefer men sexually, and aside from the girls I hung with in high school, guys seem to be more into music than the girls I've met, so I tend to prefer their company. Guys are more loyal in friendship too, well at least to other guys' heheheh oh but that's another blog.
I'm girly sometimes, I wear hot pink lingerie, nice perfume, and I love shoes as much as anyone could (boots even more, I LOVE BOOTS). Don't do flowers and jewelry though. Those aren't my thing. I never had a wedding planned out in my head (I'm not married to the idea of marriage, but I'm not dead set against it either), but if I ever do get nuptial fever, I would definitely walk down the aisle to "Thank You" by Led Zeppelin, instead of the traditional "march". How awful is that? A march? Yeesh! You march to your execution, not your future husband (well, one would hope they aren't one in the same).
A few years back I was at an Oasis concert with my friend Danny and this very sexy woman asked me for a light (I used to be a smoker, now I just sneak one with a drink every few months or so). After she walked away I announced "That woman was very sexy. I'm not sexy."
Danny was like "Yeah ya are, c'mon". I wasn't downing myself, nor was I upset or jealous or fishing, it was just sort of a realization that I was having. I'm not typically SEXY.
I explained myself but Danny waved me off saying "Look, you are so sexy that if I had no teeth, I'd say you were 'thexy'!" (The crying laugh made its appearance for that one.)
My mom never acted "sexy", but I can't go anywhere with her that she doesn't get hit on. She was a stay at home mom that would make cookies with us but also took us out in the snow and made giant igloos with us kids too. She never leaves the house without makeup on (I always do), but she'll pick up a poisonous snake and throw it at you for a laugh. (The only way I could find that funny is if I paid someone else to pick up the snake to throw back, or if the snake boomeranged back and bit her- not a big fan of the reptiles I gotta say.)
My mom loves to arrange flowers, but she also coached my little league team and could hustle you at pool anytime, anywhere. She taught me how to fire a shotgun, but then introduced me to sewing so my Barbies could have "originals".
I don't think we can be condensed into a category. As much as label-itis is catchy, it's useless.
"Can I break the spell of the typical?" Typical - Mutemath
Currently listening :
Mute Math
By Mute Math
Release date: 2006-09-26
If you were driving down McMullen Booth Road Tuesday at about 6AM, you may have seen a petite, dark haired, crazy chick shrieking at a turtle that was crossing the overpass at Tampa Rd.
I had to take my mom to the hospital for a biopsy at insane o'fucking clock in the a.m. (her appt was 5:30AM for realzzzz). I usually put face to pillow between 3-4am and firmly believe that the hours of 4:30am - 12:30pm should be permanently removed from the day as we now know it, or at least just be reserved for sleep. I'm not a morning person in any capacity, and I only bounce out of bed in emergent situations or if someone actually bounces me out =]
Waking me up, even one minute before I want to be up, is definitely taking one's life into their own hands. The only thing you have going for you at that point is my complete lack of coherence, so that gives ya time to duck before whatever object I can reach is throttled in the direction of your head (I aim for the eyebrows, even without contacts in).
Anyways, yesterday I napped for an hour before delivering my mom to the creepy hospital (which is even creepier in the dark). Once assured that this would be an all day thing and that I should go home to wait, I got back in my Celica and locked into that feeling one gets when they find out it's a "snow" day and they get to go back to bed instead of yuckyfucky school.
Others were just beginning their drives to work as I was relishing the thought of the sea of purple pillows that would be catching my drool soon, but then I saw it. A big, big, four times the size of my ass turtle dragging his home across the left lane towards a cement wall. They aren't noted for their intelligence, poor things, hence why I repeatedly stop and give them a hand.
Yes, I am the kook that will stop all of traffic to put certain reptiles, or any other animal, out of danger. I don't care if you hit me, but there is no way in hell some poor, innocent creature is going to get pancaked on my watch. This was on the beginning of an overpass and traffic wasn't too bad when I pulled over and buttoned the "hazards". I grabbed some towels thinking I could pick it's slimy ass up and sit it in the back seat till I got to a park a couple of miles ahead. It could either hang its hat there, or become gator food - once you let them go, it's anybody's guess. I've done this a few times and once I scoop 'em up, I turn into Pee Wee Herman when he rescues those snakes from the pet store like the link below, but not in said plane.
http://peeweesoap.ytmnd.com/
I told the turtle how things were going to go down, and then bent over to pick it up. The second my toweled hands tried to clamp on, this bitch let out some straight from the fires of hell hiss and somehow spun around like a break-dancer exposing me to its claws and snapping jaws. I had on high heeled sandals and went flailing backwards out into where traffic could be any second, and was screaming as if that were the only way to regain my balance. It somehow worked, but the turtle gave me grief every time I went in for another try and mounting traffic was in earshot. I told the turtle to fuck off and that it was on its own, but once I was back in the car, I felt bad.
I drove off thinking maybe I'd see a cop and convince them to go back and do something (they do sometimes, as a gator blocked this bridge once and I got a cop to get it out of my way - peacefully), but there was no donut shops on the way home and even going 10 over didn't attract any uniforms. It was that kind of day.
I turned the Death Cab for Cutie up and drove home to bed. I wasn't asleep 45 minutes when my mom's doc called. I was too tired to kill him or my phone, and I told him that but I swear he was on crack. He sounded like he had just gotten a blow job from a ghost and had to tell SOMEONE.
Way too freakin' chipper for a morning telephone call. He said "Yeah you can pick her up about 9:30 10" and I was like "Tonight? Then why are you calling NOW?" I was so out of it. He laughed and told me to check the clock. I'm fashioning a voodoo doll in his likeness this weekend.
Got some Newman's Own Organic Coffee, Café Almond Biscotti in me and then summoned my broom, eh..er..car. On the way back from getting my mom, I braced myself for the gore I was sure that I would witness once the overpass was in sight, but much to my delight, there was no sign of shell remnants anywhere.
In my fantasy world, some rugged fire and rescue guys on their way back to the firehouse stop and grab the turtle and put it in a swamp behind their basketball court. The turtle then tells all the other reptiles and word gets to all the snakes to stay the fuck away from the house where the crazy, high-heeled, towel chick lives.
And they do =]
Currently listening : Narrow Stairs By Death Cab for Cutie Release date: 2008-05-13
I taught myself how to read when I was three years old. By four I could read and write at a second grade level but no public school would take me. A brand new Baptist Christian Academy would, and did. They accepted grades K-12 with many seats to fill and promised my mom they would let me excel at my own pace. (They failed to mention that I would be excelling whilst alone locked in a dark kitchen, but that's a story for my future shrink.)
The school had an interesting reward system that suited me perfectly. Each Friday, if your grades were at a certain level, you got to leave school before lunch for a pre-arranged activity. The activity depended on how many kids had the right grades. A lot of kids meant roller or ice skating, season permitting, but once or twice I was the only one with the optimal grades, and I received an afternoon with an ass-breathed vice principal trolling local train and farm museums, followed by an awkward gorge-fest at an "old time" ice cream parlor.
One of the better outings was McDonalds and an afternoon tour of the local firehouse. Our guide was Mr. Nail, and no, this is not the beginning of a porn script, he really was "Mr. Nail". I don't remember his rank or first name; I just knew that my five year old heart was completely taken with him. Not because of his looks, or uniform necessarily, but because he only allowed one person on the fire truck, and that person was moi. Yes, being a Shorty McShrimpy had its perks for once. I stood out for being so little and he just felt sorry for me, I'm sure, but I got to do everything from get behind all the steering wheels to sliding down the infamous "pole".
To a kid this is amazing shit, to a female it's mind blowing. The only pole we get to option is that which accompanies sticky floors and lap dances. It's funny how physicality determines jobs with poles. Braun is the obvious choice for a firefighter, it just has to be. Whereas "bounce" is the likely status of those that slither up and down the poles in dark clubs that change their names every four months or so.
The firehouse pole was enough cylindrical metal for me in this lifetime, as I'm so not, or ever was, stripper material. (I've never even been in a strip club - such a sheltered life).
Mr. Nail was a volunteer firefighter; he was also a police officer. I found that out after writing him some retarded love letter that my father mailed for me. My family was out for pizza one night and of course, Mr. Nail in full uniform with his partner, appeared and was seated at the booth next to us. My father and sister humiliated me till I slid under the table where I stayed for what seemed like hours. I contemplated severing their carotid arteries when they slept that evening, but I thought that would complicate things further with Mr. Nail as he, himself, may have to arrest me, and I imagined he would take a dim view of the whole murdering thing, thus restraining myself.
I downloaded the first season of the show "Rescue Me" with Denis Leary, whom I adore (and always will), to watch on the plane when I went to New Mexico recently. That show is crazy and hilarious and it made me think of my first crush on Mr. Nail, who I never did see again.
I'm not into that sort of "man's man" kind of guy like I was when I was 5, I much prefer the metro-sexuals of today, but you really have to admire the types of people that do these insane jobs (especially when your own house is on fire - I was 9 when we lost EVERYTHING). Leary's show portrays them as repressed, sexist, bigots, and you have to have some thick skin to get it, but I found it highly entertaining and thought provoking.
The theme song for the show is the Von Bondies' "C'Mon C'Mon" (Detroit in the house!), which gives you a peek at what sort of music will be floating in and out of every episode. From John McRae to The Brian Jonestown Massacre, the music is a primary cast member of this quirky, but raw drama.
I don't love a man in a uniform, but I'll watch anything with Leary in it. He looks pretty awesome for an old guy, but I likes 'em all wiry like that. Kind of like Mr. Nail. =)
Currently listening : Rescue Me By Various Artists Release date: 2006-05-30
I like The White Stripes, but when I first heard The Raconteurs a few years ago, I was astounded.
"Broken Boy Soldiers", the first effort by The Raconteurs (or as they're known in Australia, The Saboteurs), was released in 2006. Even though it often reminds me of some undeserving ears that I once played it for, I still adore a good load of the songs on that disc. "Hands" is just gorgeous, and kickin it down the highway with "Intimate Secretary" bursting out the windows is the only way to travel.
That album almost sounded like Led Zeppelin took a Beatles pill, and then went into modern recording mode. Delicious.
At the end of March of this year, the follow up "Consolers of the Lonely" was released, and I couldn't wait to get my ears on it. I had heard the single, "Salute Your Solution" and was totally psyched. A track like that makes me want to bust out the roller skates and some sled dogs (they can pull my dehydrated corpse to the M.E.'s office when I drop dead from the Florida heat and HUMIDITY - I'm delicate).
A couple of days ago, I finally downloaded the rest of the album, and a marathon of car insurance commercials would be less painful than the disappointment that puked all over me when I listened to it.
I kept looking at my IPOD each time a new song began so I could see the name of my pain, and I swear about the 5th song in, the IPOD read "Who Fucking Cares? This SHIT BLOWS!" I was in a bit of shock, but I saw it through to the bitter end. Actually, having it end was the best part. OY VEY!
Sounds like Jack White and his pals drank some moonshine, and decided that Southern Rock was the direction most fitting for a good portion of their sophomore project. I'm not a huge fan of Southern Rock, at least not of the bearded variety; the more clean shaven ones like Tom Petty are cool by me, though. I don't know why, but something about the hair to skin ratio is relevant in this genre. Just listening to some of these songs made me fear that some unruly sideburns might attempt to grow on my face, if I was exposed much longer. That's certainly not a look I can pull off, and you can forget about me wearing a vest of any kind - I'm much too chesty and dare I say, tasteful, for such garments.
I can dig some Neil Young, but I've never been able to lock in on people that are heavily influenced by his sound. At least, not that I'm aware of.
The Raconteurs definitely have tripped over the Mason Dixon line in some areas of the recording, but in others it sounds like Paul McCartney (Wing's era Paul) joined Styx. Grapefruit covered with creamed corn sounds more palatable.
I think my brain hurt more when I realized that I had to hold two opposing thoughts in my head at once: They are trying WAY too hard, and they aren't trying hard ENOUGH.
The use of horns pretty much canceled me too. I'm not a fan of the horns in music, and believe it or not, I played trumpet as a kid. Here and there in Bowie's drugged years, or in some Reggae, horns may work. But in straight up rock, I would prefer their absence.
There seems to be a hint of a concept album that forked off into a dumping ground of scraps from other songs. Namely The Kinks "Living on a Thin Line", Bowie's "Rock N Roll Suicide", and The Rolling Stone's "Sister Morphine". I don't know. There's something sort of unforgivable when you taint such legendary pieces in that way.
It's sad, I feel like a really great relationship didn't work out - it's like the sex was good, but they could never pronounce my name correctly, and I found out they ate live animals on weekends. I'll never look at them the same.
Now, will my Ipod ever forgive me?
