what comes around

Moving to a new place is weird cuz you don't know the streets...You don't know how to pronounce "Schuykill"; you don't know which food trucks will give you food poisoning..but most importantly, you don't know the RADIO STATIONS. It's unexplored terrain and it's frighteningly vast. Yeah, I know there's satellite radio and this new thing called the IPOD but AM/FM radio is so powerful because it's contextual. Coming from Los Angeles, I was totally spoiled by KCRW, which had the perfect mix of liberal news coverage and kick ass music. When I lived in Berkeley, I fell in love with KMEL and Energy 92.7. KMEL was your run of the mill top 40 hip hop station but on Sunday evenings they had this program "Street Soldiers" where reformed gang members would talk about their experiences. A lot of frustrated mothers and grandmothers would call in and talk about their children and grandchildren. It was just perfection. Oh god, a quick Google search has informed me that Street Soldiers was cancelled. F*** corporate radio! Well, Energy was an amazing dance station partial to electronica, house and techno. Imagine you're at a gay club. Then imagine it is playing the best dance music on earth. Then imagine you didn't have to pay a cover; you only needed to turn on the radio! It provided the soundtrack for many late night impromptu dance parties during my college years. A quick google search has informed me that ENERGY 92.7 HAS BEEN REPLACED BY A TOP 40 HIP HOP STATION. WHY?!! It was dubbed "the little gay station that could." But, I guess it couldn't...Ugh...okay I will try to continue writing but I'm pretty upset...RIP Energy...

Now I live in Philadelphia and I'm trying to get a handle of the radio stations. Of course there's the local NPR station that provides stimulating news coverage...and I've found a good station that plays only Al Green on repeat it seems. But the station I think I'm falling in love with? WKDU...A COLLEGE RADIO STATION. Yes, college radio... The dregs of music. Entire shows devoted to Hungarian synth pop and annoyingly obscure B sides. When I was a Berkeley student I avoided the local college radio station like the plague. The DJs were too knowing and I was a little hater. But now that I am older and wiser, man, college radio is the sh*t. Punk's not dead! F*ck the police! Yeah! I'm making up for lost time...

Mrs. Dalloway

There is a bookstore in a college town (the same college I attended) that sells novels and,then, exclusively books on how to garden. It's called Mrs. Dalloway's. On one of the walls of the store is painted the first sentence of the book,"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." I used to ride my bicycle by that store a lot, and I would wonder how they got away with calling the store Mrs. Dalloway's. What about copyright? What about decency? I mean, I wandered in the bookstore once to look around. I was just totally grossed out. To reduce the book, Mrs. Dalloway, to a story about flowers and then to build a store around it seemed sacrilegious. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf is not really at all about flowers. And, it is certainly not about gardening.

I read this book in my junior seminar of an English Literature program at school. We were encouraged to explore Woolf's mindset at the time of writing this, along with pertinent themes in the novel. I went wild with that freedom, writing a convoluted, lengthy paper about not only the female relationships in Mrs. Dalloway, but about how Virginia Woolf, herself, actually cherished, appreciated, and respected intimate relationships that women (in general) had with each other over Woolf's respect for the boring relationships between men and women.

I can't even believe I not only worked long and hard on such an absurd topic, but that I had the audacity to turn it in. My professor, after allowing me to drone on and on, finally looked at me and asked, "What is it about female relationships that YOU see as so appealing?" and "What about the intimacy of two women potentially in love is so daunting to you? Could it be that it is too close to your own feelings?" She really didn't have to say more. I was spending lots of time pouring over Mrs. Dalloway, searching for the legitimization of female relationships. I did this not to understand Woolf's frame of mind or her writing style, but to understand my own mindset.

That is what Mrs. Dalloway may do for you. There are so many layers to this novel (and even the connotation of layers has layers) that you may find yourself reading it all the way through only to highlight especially touching phrases. I know that it must have helped me tremendously to study this book in a class and have my professor on hand for discussion and questions. But, you can still read this on your own. When, after you get done reading all the way through, you go back and look at sections you starred or underlined, ask yourself why that particular passage meant so much. Maybe you won't have Professor Abel asking you the tough questions, but, when it comes right down to it, you are already asking them of yourself for yourself.

Dixie Carter (Designing Women)

Designing Women was a bit like the poor man's Golden Girls. Younger, but not sassier. These ladies ran some sort of design business, I guess. But, you know they were always sitting around with each other, drinking tea and talking. I mentioned to a friend that Designing Women seemed sort of surface-y and not very important. He reminded me about the themes that ran rampant in the series. I mean, we have working, independent, mostly single (some mothers) women. There was a gay, black employee named Anthony. Okay, I guess it really wasn't all that progressive. I mean, a gay interior decorator isn't really revolutionary. And, I think that Anthony had a police record that was addressed in passing in one or two of the episodes. I really hope that Anthony's character was an attempt to showcase characters of different backgrounds and not a nod to racism. I'm in an optimistic mood, so I'll give Designing Women the benefit of the doubt.

As I'm sure you've heard by now, Dixie Carter (who played Julia Sugarbaker) recently passed away. I really didn't know much about her aside from her role on Designing Women (and a really great t.v. movie starring Shannen Doherty and Kevin Dillon called Gone In the Night) and that she was married to Hal Holbrook. Well, sometimes after someone passes, you learn a lot more about her or his life than you knew when s/he was alive. That's true for celebrities and non-celebrities. I learned that Dixie didn't meet and marry Hal until she was in her forties. That really does warm my heart. To think that she could find some sort of career success, have children and then meet her soul mate really makes me believe that life is always worth living because you never know where or when you'll find love. I don't care if I'm reaching when I call them soul mates. I don't care if I sound corny. I remember seeing Dixie and Hal in interviews, and they seemed like they really adored one another. Of course, the love between this couple makes Dixie's death all the more sad.

I know this sounds selfish and maybe even morbid, but when I hear about a celebrity who has died, I search my brain, trying to remember if I liked her in a certain role or how she was connected to my life in some way, even by way of the television. I have to say that I felt like Dixie's passing was sort of emotional in a very selfish way because I really didn't think too much of Dixie's daughters or her own loved ones. I thought about the love that she and Hal had. I thought about how that same sort of love still has the potential to show up in my own life. Though it may sound self-absorbent, I really feel like Dixie's passing allowed my heart to open a little more. Love. Love love love. Is there anything more important, more valuable? I hope not.

Sometimes, words move me so much

Yeah I know. Where's the review of Crazy Heart? What about the 10 most badass film heroines?

Fail. I know. But I can't make every trip here an apology.

Maus, the comic book by Art Spiegelman is one of my favorite books of all time. A story within a story, Spiegelman writes and draws about his dad's Holocaust experience. Jews are represented as mice, Nazis--cats.

Did I mention I have a mouse problem? I should say "mice problem" but the plural is so much more daunting. So, I have a mouse problem. Today my landlord said: "This is not an accusation but no one else in the building has reported mice problems." ANY SENTENCE THAT STARTS OFF WITH "THIS IS NOT AN ACCUSATION" IS VERY CLEARLY AN ACCUSATION. Does he think I am lying about a mouse problem? That I enjoy CALLING my LANDLORD? Talking to one's landlord is way up there with going to the dentist or watching "Thirtysomething" (Why Hershkowitz/Zwick? Why??) Or rather, that I am a pig, a slob, an unrepentant frat boy? Ugh...

Back to Maus. There's one passage that gets me every time. Art is talking to his therapist, discussing his forthcoming comic book about the Holocaust.
Here is the exchange:

Therapist: So, do you admire your father for surviving?
Art: Well...sure. I know there was a lot of LUCK involved, but he was amazingly present-minded and resourceful...
Therapist: Then you think it's admirable to survive. Does that mean its NOT admirable to NOT survive?
Art: whooosh...I-I think I see what you mean. It's as if life equals winning and death equals losing.
Therapist: Yes. Life always takes the side of life, and somehow the victims are blamed. But it wasn't the BEST people who survived, nor did the best ones die. It was RANDOM!
Therapist: Sigh. I'm not talking about YOUR book now, but look at how many books have already been written abou the Holocaust...What's the point? People haven't changed...Maybe they need a new, bigger Holocaust.
Therapist: Anyway, the victims who died can never tell THEIR side of the story, so maybe it's better not to have any more stories.
Art: Uh-huh. Samuel Beckett once said: Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
Art: On the other hand, he SAID it.

How perfect the passage is. How masterfully Spiegelman mixes in the weightiest concerns in the world with a dose of ultra reflexive humor. I won't describe it too much. What's that quote? Trying to talk about art is like trying to dance about architecture.

The Bad Seed

It feels strange to review this movie because I feel like it's inevitable that you've seen it. The Bad Seed. I loved this movie when I was a kid. But, now that I think about it, I really don't even know if it's a kids' movie or not. But, I never liked anything deemed to be normal in terms of movies of television shows for kids. I mean, my 10 year old cousin watches everything on the Nickelodeon channel or whatever it's called and I KNOW that I NEVER would have watched any of those kid shows. I'm not even nostalgic for Full House. That's how snobby I am.

The Bad Seed is arguably my favorite movie in the world. It was made in 1956. (I think there's a remake out there that you could not pay me to see.) I think it was originally a play because that's how the movie is set up. There's basically one set--an apartment living room. And, at the end, the cast comes and takes a bow. So, onto the story. It is great in that it's really evil and creepy. Rhoda is the little girl. She's angelic--blonde, braided hair and a perfect dress. She goes to a class picnic where a little boy drowns. How can I put this? He wins a medal. Rhoda wanted that medal. Rhoda--the little sociopath--gets what she wants at whatever cost. Get it?

Rhoda's mother and the nice neighbor lady adore Rhoda. She's perfect. She rubs her mother's neck, saying "Oh mother. I have the most beautiful mother. I tell all of my friends at school that." Well, as time goes on, the mother grows suspicious of Rhoda. She wonders how Rhoda got her hands on that dead boy's medal. So does LeRoy, the maintenance man in the apartment complex. He tells Rhoda that he saw her throw her bloody shoes (from pummeling the boy from the picnic and then pushing him into the lake to die) down the incinerator. Remember that it's the 1950s and there was one incinerator for garbage for the entire apartment complex. LeRoy is totally creepy himself and he reminds me of a guy who served time for a nonviolent crime and needs a job while he's out on parole. LeRoy's always sort of baiting Rhoda to confess about the shoes and Rhoda never quite gives in. But, she does need to protect herself and her crimes. Yep, you guessed it. She takes care of LeRoy--showing him how powerful that incinerator really is.

The best character is the little dead boy's mother. She comes over to visit Rhoda's mother. She's on to Rhoda and she's pretty vocal about suspecting her of killing her son because Rhoda was the last person seen with him. This lady is drunkety drunk drunk in most every scene and she plays it perfect. Just unappealing enough to make you uncomfortable, but not so belligerent to let you forget that she's a grieving mother.

Rhoda is a bad, bad, bad girl. She's evil to the core and does her best to behave like an angel to the people who matter--like her mother and the neighbor. I won't tell you what happens to little Rhoda at the end. I'll just say that her mother attempts to right wrongs. But, come on, Rhoda is the devil's spawn. She's too powerful to be conquered. And, anyway, sinners are way more fun, right?

My Own Private Idaho

Today was a My Own Private Idaho kind of day. I just felt the need to look up photos of some of the most beautiful boys (possibly, probably) in all the universe. Oh, I am still hot for you, Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix (circa 1991...But, let's face it, Keanu; if I see you in the right light and in the right role, you are still perfection to me). My Own Private Idaho is so much in my subconscience that I feel like I've already written about it here on Images Move Me. Maybe, I've referenced it, if only to myself while writing about other art. Truth be told, I've referenced this movie my whole life; I've compared every love affair and every longing I've ever felt to the relationship between Mike and Scott (Keanu and River).

My Own is directed by Gus Van Sant. Later, he directed Good Will Hunting. My Own is, like, the antithesis of Good Will Hunting. (By the way, that is the best compliment I can give to My Own.) Where Good Will Hunting is about angry, young men with all of the potential and smarts in the world, My Own is about two men--one of whom has very little potential on the outside world, but has a mess of longing and tenderness on the inside. River Phoenix plays his character, Mike, with all of the fragility that warrants an honest lover. Looks really do go far in this movie, but plot counts, too. It's like looking at an interesting painting. You get kind of lost in it.

My Own is a take on the Shakespeare play, Henry IV. (Shakespeare even gets a writing credit; it's that close.) In college, I was forced against my will to take a Shakespeare class, and I kicked and screamed the whole way through. So, I say My Own is Shakespeare only begrudgingly. It's really Van Sant and the beauty of Keanu and River. The plot goes something like this: Scott (Keanu) is a rich, snobby kid who has a trust fund-life set up for him by his father. He goes off on his own for a bit, embarrassing his father and his father's name. Scott takes up with some deviants--some male prostitutes who work the streets sucking dicks for money. Mike (the late River Phoenix) is a gay prostitute who befriends Scott and then falls in love with him. Scott says he's straight, but he sort of does/doesn't have a love affair with Mike. Mike's life is kind of disturbing and complicated, and I don't want to give anything away about his family life. Let's just say that his narcolepsy is an effect of his conception. Scott and Mike travel to find Mike's mom and then end up in Italy.

The sex scenes are shot like works of art. Like still photographs. They are in black and white (if I remember correctly) and the sex with the two men (as well as with Scott and a woman) is shot all the same way in this form. The lighting is perfect and serene. We never see the act. We see choice positions, and imagining what takes place instead of being told in pictures is more satisfying somehow in this intimate movie.

If you've read Henry IV, you know where this is going. You know about Scott's familial obligations and that Mike is the metaphor for the gritty, lusty life societal standards will not let him lead. But, it's beautiful. And tragic. And hard to forget.

Salt N Pepa

Babes with bangin' bodies are images that really do move me. I'm craving them. Yeah, women like this are in real life, but what I want is some tough women on television. I want to be able to watch them, mouth gaping open, without feeling awkward for staring. I want to admire. I want to lust. Basically, I want Salt N Pepa back.

Salt N Pepa was a bad-ass girl group in the mid-1980s that lasted until about 1995. And, I think by the mid-1990s, they were pretty much done. Oh my, these women were FINE. Brassy, ballsy, frank and hot. Enough saucy adjectives for you? Salt N Pepa were pretty much best friends and they were rappers. Their DJ was Spinderella, another woman. Their music videos featured these sexy ladies in tight little jean cut-offs or spandex suits. They were athletic, strong, curvy, and--best of all--totally into showing their bodies. They sang songs like, "Push It" (my personal favorite) and "Let's Talk About Sex." Yes, I KNOW it was the '90s, and messages about safe and positive sex were all the rage, but this was a woman duo singing for their sisters. Did I mention, "If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight, it's none of your business"? The song drips with female empowerment and entitlement--elements we are seriously lacking in the year 2000 and way beyond. And, that is really disturbing and disappointing. I want that full blooded female type back.

The only way Britney Spears could have embodied a little bit of that good arrogance was if, when she shaved her head, she actually went around with a shaved head and prominantly displayed it. She could have been liberated and ditched the tired blonde hair. But, no. Instead, she donned a weave and called it a day, depriving us women of witnessing a "fuck you" to societal beauty standards and, possibly, a nod to the guts and beauty that was Salt N Pepa. I mean, Britney totally could have pulled off having a curvy, strong body. She just wouldn't push herself enough. And, so, we are stuck with the likes of Katy Perry--who is never raunchy enough and who insults a boy by saying he has pms. That's not empowering to women. That's degrading. And, big deal...you kissed a girl and loved cherry chapstick (one of the lamest lines ever!). I mean, who has NOT kissed a girl? Believe me, the chapstick or lipstick just gets in the way.

So, I want my buxom, bold rap stars or singers or actresses back. I want to ogle their goodies. I want to want a woman with shape, with arrogance, with power. But, in the mean time, I'll watch old videos of Salt N Pepa to tide me over until the next wave of female empowerment comes. It's got to be soon. I mean, we're way over due.