Dr. Manhattan, Meet Ethel Merman

You know those really violent movies that involve so much brutality that it is a relief for there to be dialogue in between butcherings so that one can breathe a sigh of relief and loosen the white knuckle grip one has on the sticky movie chair arm rest? This was not that movie. This one had no rest between butcherings. It was dialogue dubbed over brutal chainsaw dismemberings - social commentary woven amidst the hacking of meat cleavers into brains and women being raped and/or shot in the face.

It was the first date they had had in a while.

He had assured her that it wouldn't be bad. "It might even be funny, " he said. "Not at all like Sin City or Kill Bill- much less violent. Trust me."

She had finally found her voice after sitting through such heinous atrocity, and was trying to decide how sincere he was in his repeated, pleading apologies. "I'm so sorry," he whispered scene after scene, "I promise I didn't know." And then after, "Let's go somewhere nice - anywhere you want - have some wine and something lovely. We can hang out.. talk."

She said, " but you said.." and then repeated the "it might even be funny" part of his speech.

"I didn't know."

That's the reason why it was ridiculously funny for them to be eating in the restaurant they were in - classy and expensive as seen in the absurdly large wine glasses that held splashes of twenty dollars-a-sip Cabernets. "Look for the legs," they were taught, "after you smell the cork, swirl the glass, and inhale the aromas." She knew that they were out of place. They weren't like these patrons. They weren't dressed up enough, plus they were still covered in the filth of the movie. She imagined that everyone who looked in their direction knew this about them as they were being paraded to their table in the back of the restaurant.

He tried to ease the moment by ordering wine and sitting on her side of the table with her. She tried to be rational - it was a good movie overall, just little too much violence. Yes. Focus on the message.. um.. that humanity will eventually fail, even if people are willing to sacrifice a few (millions) for the many (billions). Or maybe the message was that good guys are actually warped, desperate people who can only play at being good.. What was the point in good guys existing? This wasn't going well.

He interrupted her train of thought.

"So, I know you think there isn't just one soul mate for each person, because what if that person is in Bangladesh and you are here and you never meet," he said. "You think you could probably make it work with lots of people. Right?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, curious. Her attention turned to making a list of people she knew with whom she might have "made it work".

"I think I was Ethel Merman in a previous life, although it wouldn't have been a previous life because she was living at the same time as me. Do you think you could be married to Ethel Merman?" He then broken into a much too perfect chorus - "Everything's coming up roses.."

She smiled, in spite of herself.

"There it is," he said, referring to her smile. "You're going to write about this, aren't you?"

"Probably,"she acknowledged, though she hadn't really processed the moment fully.

"Damn. I wish I had picked to be the reincarnation of someone who had a penis, then." He smirked at her and then hugged her. "I really am sorry."

"It's OK," she said. "Don't worry about it, Ethel."

What will you do when the zombies come?

Hang a banker? I think that's the right response. It is according to these folks:


And the follow up newscast:


*Thanks to Mark for the links.
For more visit
http://www.g-20meltdown.org
http://newsov.org

I don't know why the comments don't work when I post videos.. If you want to comment on this one and don't have the option, leave it on the previous post. Sorry for the inconvenience.

An Odd Encounter in Concrete and Heels

So the other night we were at a swanky coffee and wine bar where they were playing some live music. After having a glass or two of house Merlot, I excused myself to go to the ladies. To get there I had to wander through a cold concrete maze, following vague signs and arrows, similar to what you would see in a parking garage, usually in a scary movie. What made it bearable was that I passed several colorful people in glam gold spandex and platform shoes. Once I finally found my destination, I walked in to find that there was one other person in the restroom and she was at the mirror applying make-up.

Earlier in the evening I had noticed her. She seemed to know a lot of people in the crowded coffee house, and was constantly getting up and sitting down and hugging people, then kissing them - all European-like. I have to admit that I was a little annoyed since the room was so crowded that there was only an inch and a half space between us, and I was looking at the back of her head. I was sitting on a plush red church pew which was hard to scoot around on, and each time she got up and sat down, I had to scoot around to see the bands. She was very pretty, at least, and I envied her gorgeous, thick hair. Plus she was very at home in her skin. There's something really nice about that.

Anyway, I walked in and she was at the mirror, applying make-up and singing. I tried not to smile, as I found it amusing that she was singing to herself and I caught her. But then I remembered what I was there to do, and now it was quiet in that cold, concrete, now silent bathroom. I was acutely aware of the sound my sassy stilettos made as I walked into a stall - click clack clack clack - and closed the door, the sound echoing back and forth off of the walls. I unbuttoned, sat down and then waited.

Awkward silence.

For far too long.

Years maybe.

No noise, whatsoever.

And then she started singing again. And that's all it took. I took care of business and shyly came out of the stall to wash my hands. I was all prepared to wet my hands, grab a towel, and jet without looking up, because seriously, how embarrassing! Then she spoke to me.

"What color should I go with?"

"Huh?" I said.

"I'm really tired. What color of eyeshadow would help me look less tired: green, copper, or sparkly?"

"I'd go copper with what you're wearing," I said realizing that I- the least girliest girl in the world when it comes to wearing make up - was dishing out advice like Elizabeth Arden.

"Thanks" she said.

"Are you playing next?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm just trying to look presentable which is really hard right now since I am so tired."

"What time are you going on?"

"Nine-thirty."

"I wish I could hear you play, but we only have the babysitter until 10, and we live a ways away from here." In my brain, as I said this sentence, I couldn't believe I was still talking. Maybe I should tell her that my baby is five months old and that it's my husband's birthday, and that I had a c-section, and my favorite month is October. Lamely I asked, "Do you have a Myspace or anything so that we can catch you at another event?" What? Shut up! I swear I'm not hitting on you, I thought, and I am also not a computer geek...no wait...

"Yeah, she said. Grab a sticker with our web information. Our band is called Inner Frequency."

"OK. Thanks."

And I left- click clack clack clack- feeling a little bit strange and a little bit cool, too.

I Saved Gilbert Flannigan

I am often cognizant of the (more than likely) fact that I am soul mates with author and comedian, David Sedaris. We are so close that we finish each other's sentences. Or really, he writes the sentences that I wish I could. I bought his new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and in it is a story called "April in Paris". In the story, Sedaris who joins the American Arachnological Society, studies and befriends a spider that lives on his window sill in France. He names her April and he ends up taking her to Paris and showing her the Eiffel Tower. Hence, we have the title, "April in Paris".

Just like Sedaris has, I have my own special relationships with some of the infestations in my home. I suppose I don't bond with many of them. Actually, I usually ask most of them to leave, politely of course. The sugar ants are by far the most uncooperative and intrusive, but the ones I really can't tolerate are the roaches. I rarely see them in the house, but if I do, then it's pretty much a scene - hardcore yelling and throwing things. But spiders, especially, are helpful creatures, for the most part, so I usually just ask if they wouldn't mind moving their homes for a few days while company visits.

Last night I befriended a very large fly. He has a striped black and grey body and red eyes, and he told me his name is Gilbert Flannigan. He was just passing through when some thoughtess person closed the door on him, keeping him stuck here until morning. That's what his travel agent implied, anyway, though she didn't come right out and say it. It turns out that Gilbert is very interested in me, and because I literally can't even harm a fly, I tolerated him last night as he watched me get ready for bed. This was mildly uncomfortable, and I have to admit, I felt a little self conscious. Once I turned off the lights to go to sleep, I heard Gilbert flying around, and I thought, "Rich is probably right. He probably is just looking for a place to die." And then I was a little sad for him.

This morning was typical. I got up when I heard our Baby Smuch stirring. I turned on the coffee pot and checked my email. Smuch and I played for a while, Rich got up eventually, and then I decided to bathe. I drew my bathwater and settled in to what I would call an "almost perfect" bath - a nice temperature, a recent New Yorker Magazine in hand. Right in the middle of an article about how McCain ruined a perfectly good Sunday afternoon by kicking a puppy (or something like that), Gilbert showed up.

"I thought you would be dead by now," I whispered to him.

"I'm not dead, yet" was the reply.

"OK," I thought, "that's a pretty resilient beastie, and who am I to end his life? Just because he eats poop and lands on stuff...stuff that my baby touches.."

And that's when it happened!

Gilbert flew directly into my bathwater! I started gagging. My brain was all confused. This was so gross, and yet, I felt horrible that he was struggling to swim. And then came this mental montage: "Flies can't swim, right? Well they sort of can. Look at Gilbert. He's swimming. No. He's flailing... Drowning.. If a fly's wings get wet can he fly? Then he can't eat. Or leave. Or do anything else that flies are wont to do. Why am I doing nothing? I'm complete shit!"

And just like that, I vowed to save Gilbert.

I looked around for something to help because God forbid I would actually touch Gilbert. I ripped out a page of my New Yorker, and fashioned a make-shift buoy for him to cling to. Like a good fly, Gilbert grabbed on. I flipped him out of the bath and after standing on the side of the tub for a pulse check, he flew away. I finished my bath and went about my day.

This afternoon (four hours after the event) Gilbert came to see me in the kitchen to say, I would assume, thank you. He must be pretty grateful, seeing as he let me take his picture, and on the David Sedaris book, no less.

Hedonistic Afternoon, Serious and True

Two girls at a coffee house are giddy at the realization that they can get their coffee in actual mugs - colorful and substantial - like the regulars they imagine themselves to be, instead of in those lifeless, generic paper cups.

"Vanilla latte!" the barista calls, "and a mocha frappe!"

The girls, smiling, skip to the counter to retrieve their overflowing cups of well deserved goodness and then return to their Geo-political discussions, unmarked reminders of their professionalism aside. As they continue their conversation, they find themselves in a state of discontent. They turn their mugs this way and that, confused. Frustrated. How, they wonder, are they supposed to actually consume their coffees from these lovely mugs that they celebrated just three minutes ago?

And then they note the folks around them who are staring and giggling at the girls' blatant awkwardness.

"Ah, go ahead. Put your face in it," one particularly large man on the corner couch brays in between unanswered blue tooth demands.

And they heed the advice with complete determination (or was it defiance?), remembering the words extolled by their new, matching, oddly sagacious fridge magnets:

"Ever notice that what the hell is always the right decision?"

"Forget you, Vanity! We will not be held back by society's presumptuous laws of decorum! " they silently exclaim to one another in a single glance. With a shadow of a smirk, their eyebrows raised, they dive in head first.

As they emerge from their mugs, victorious- the coffee conflict conquered- they declare, in their most confident warble to the man on the couch and to all of the other distracted caffeine connoisseurs, "We like whipped cream on our noses! So there! Take that!"

And they did.