Only you are as obsessed with beauty as you assume the rest of us to be.
I mean, between the two of them, in how many movies have these two starred?
And of those, how many have been anything that could even remotely be considered critical or box-offices successes? Okay, or just not god-fucking-awful?
And yet, Hollywood, you fooliest of fools, you commit the great folly of hoping they can carry a film together.
Are they pretty? Well, yes, in a bland, bland, dull, unoffensive, boring and bland sort of way. Can either of them act their way out of the proverbial paper bag? Notsomuch. Will a movie about sunken treasure and drug loot, featuring the two of them, Tyson Beckford (Snort, hee! I can't believe he let them make him look this, well, you know, Village People), and a character called Tec-9 suck giant squid nuts? Undoubtedly.
I weep for cinema!
*Fade to black*
Articles here, here, and here.
Noble effort, or shameless publicity-mongering?
Review and discuss.
The Great Archives determine you to have gone by the identity: High Priestess of The Night
Known in some parts of the world as: Demon of The Lost
The Great Archives Record: A lonely one who guides the lost - but not to safety, to their doom.
Hear that, bitches? To your doom! Bwahahaha-
I always knew I was the High Priestess of something. Sadly, none of this even surprises me. I totally see it.
Thanks Viv! This totally feeds my melodramatic megalomania! And my suspicion that, on the inside, I'm truly evil! Top that psychological self-flagellation, Mr. C! I'm totally kidding. Please don't. I wish to reign supreme in this area. Thanks.
Note to self: low quantities of drink while blogging = overuse of "totally."
Not A Luxury
Bless you, Miss Danyel. You unnastand my position! LOL.
Breakfast on Pluto
So, I haven't quite readjusted to this part-time salary, obviously. I was doing my budget for the next two weeks and things look fairly bleak. So I thought about all the crap I've bought over the last two, and I am beginning to get all worried about poverty and doom, and am generally embarrassed at my utter lack of control over Puma spending. Dammit.
But I'm keeping those Pumas. I have to, I've already worn them all over creation. Ahem.
One of the things I did buy that I can get rid of, though, is my $30 ticket to the Sunday showing of Neil Jordan's film Breakfast on Pluto. It's the centerpiece of the New York Film Festival. It's Cillian Murphy--get this--as an IRISH transvestite in the '60s and '70s. God help me, you KNOW I REALLY want to see this movie, but for $30? I can wait until it comes to one of the little indie theaters in November. Sigh.
So, if you want the ticket, and want to give me $30 for it, email me. Y'all get first dibs. I did post this on Craigslist, too, though, so I dunno how long I'll have it. I think the show is already sold out. The Saturday showing certainly was. Of course, the Saturday showing will also have the cast and Jordan there.
And if nobody wants it? Well, then I guess that'll just be fate and I'll have to see it, won't I?
I am so sad. Maybe I'll just sell all my CDs, instead...
Oh wait! I wonder when I'll be getting my gym attendance reimbursement from my health insurance folks...
The thing is, I'm not actually broke. I've just chosen this inopportune moment to treat my savings account as, you know, a place to save money, as opposed to an extension of my checking account. And I'm obsessed with paying my credit charges off in full every month, after some minor idiocy in my youth, so I'm so not living off credit for the next two weeks. Meh. I will not touch my savings, I will not touch my savings, I will not touch my savings....
Eating out.
I had to split my Harlem adventuring in half, since I started late today, but I managed to make it to the Schomburg and pick up a few books. I've got some solid info to build on when I go back Thursday.
On the way back, I picked up dinner from Bayou.
Crawfish bisque and pecan-crusted chicken breast.
It was derishus. And I only ate half of the food, so I'll have lunch tomorrow, as well. I will absolifically go back, and next time, I want to eat in.
What's that you say? What about my trainer and diet? Well, see, what had happened was, it was all in the name of research. See, I was working on this background info for something I'm writing and I need to be, you know, familiar with the urrea quizzine and what have you, and, uh, oooooh, look, a fiver!
*runs*
I feel like the whore of Babylon.
This post was so unneccesary.
So I've removed all the text and left this cryptic message here instead, in hopes that people think it was much more scandalous and exciting than it actually was.
Dearest Harlemites:
Pretend, for a moment, that I am an intergalactic alien traveler (Mother. Not. A. Word.) and I am in your galaxy for, oh, eight hours. I am interested in seeing Harlem. That's it, just Harlem. But in those eight hours, I want as much of the Harlem experience as I can possibly get. Some history, some art, some architecture, some food, some booze. You are my tour guide. Please (please, really, please, drinky-drinks for the most wunnerful submission, which I hope comes from Berry since we still have to get some dranks on, anyway, lol) list the stops on our tour.
Thanks.
Siddificent.
Full-Time Sid/Part-Time Sid
Whee, new feature time, wheeeeeeee!
As we all know, Sid likes to make up features as though this blog were in fact some legitimate entertainment Internets destination. Bitch-in-Kitch, Haiku Tuesday, Fifty-Word, uh, Thursdays?*
In keeping with this great tradition, Sid would like to introduce "Full-Time Sid/Part-Time Sid," a weekly look at how one siddity bitch with a penchant for rare cheeses, colorful kicks and 18 year old scotch fares on a part-time salary in The City.
In our first installment of "FTS/PTS" let's take a peek inside Sid's bathroom cabinets and makeup drawer:
FTS uses:
Lorac Sheer Emotion lip and cheek stain
L'Occitane Shea Butter lip balms in honey and blackberry
Lorac Concealer in C5
Nars cream shadow in Decameron
Nars lip lacquers in Medea and Butterfield 8
L'Oreal Featherlash mascara
Frederic Fekkai Shea Butter hair mask
Terax Crema conditioner
Farouk Biosilk glosser
Farouk Biosilk mousse
Philosophy Lemonade bath-and-shower gel and shampoo
When all that runs out, PTS uses:
Sonia Kashuk lip and cheek stain in the one color it comes in, from Target
Blistex, SPF 15
H&M silver cream shadow
L'Oreal Featherlash mascara
Terax Crema conditioner
Farouk Biosilk glosser (or, when times are really tough, CitreShine, dammit)
Frizz Ease mousse
Citrusy bodywash from the "Yellow" section of the nearest T. J. Maxx toiletries department
We see some repeats, because, well, sometimes a gal just has to sacrifice for the best, and sometimes the best is no sacrifice at all.
Tune in next week for another round of FTS, PTS. Next time: Eats and Dranks (or, what is sacrificed to afford all that Terax and Biosilk goodness)
*And as with these past features, expect this one to appear just as sporadically. As in, if I remember, and whenever the hell I feel like it. Thank you, Management.
This article was a bit of encouraging news in a rather depressing NYT weekend edition. Crisis! Evacuation! War! Dead Dogs! Busing that works! Whuzzat?
It sounds like the Raleigh plan really is working. Test results of minority children went from below half scoring at grade level to nearly all scoring at grade level. Students encounter economic and racial diversity from their earliest days. In a plan based on income rather than race, thus neatly sidestepping the race/social-engineering/unconstitutionality argument. Only about 2.5% of said children are assigned to schools they wouldn't voluntarily attend for sake of economic balance. Well-off suburban kids are actually heading into the urban areas to attend top magnet schools. At no additional cost to parents. The only drawback involved for any of the students is a longer bus ride. And in the end you have a community of better educated, more productive adults across the board. What the hell is the problem? Why are people fighting this?
I think it's ridiculous that, in a nation that claims meritocracy, there is so much opposition to giving all of its most vulnerable and blameless members (er, that would be the children) an equal educational start in life. I, for one, would gladly support an education plan that would draw from federal tax funds, at greater cost to me, if it meant that all schools, and the children therein, would receive equal funding and thus equal quality of education. And I don't have any children of my own to consider, as yet, nor do I expect any children of mine to grow up in poverty, at risk of attending underperforming schools. Better schooling for all children is just good policy.
And yet, there are still folks who just cannot stand the idea of putting poor children in rich schools. Like the suburban mama who complains that the busing is wrong, that economic busing is proxy for race. To which I say, so fucking what? Is it working? In the sense that the children, all the children, are faring better than they did before, not in the sense that your little golden children may or may not have an hour less to watch the MTV every day? Yes. So, what is your problem? Unless, of course, your complaint that the problem is busing is just "a proxy" for your racist desire to keep your children separate from the dark hoardes. *eyeroll* These are the same people, of course, who will swear up, down and sideways that they oppose affirmative action on the grounds that it is an unfair advantage for the undeserving. *deep breath* Oh, and for those who'd argue that we shouldn't be busing "our" children out to "their" schools, we should just be improving "our own"? Mmmm, yeah, shut the hell up. You keep working on that plan. Let us know when that works out for you, okay? In the meantime, I'd be happy to put my kids in a place where they'll learn what they need to cope in this society right now.
Ohdamn. Now I done gone and got all worked up. It's a good article. Read it, then email it to your favorite anti-busing crusader.
Happy Sunday.
Slavish devotion.
There are no excuses, really. They just called to me from a shop window as I passed. I haven't bought any new shoes in ages, anyway. And look at that color! Lurvely!
I also committed to a a full-size tube of Fekkai shea butter hair mask. I don't even want to get into how much that cost, but if a 1.6 oz. travel tube was $8.50, imagine how much my 9 oz. tube set me back. Dammit.
I'll go all Madonna on your arse.
The fake accent, I mean, not the whole Kibbley-Kabblah whatever red-string thing.
So I'm sitting here, watching Ny-Lon, cruising ticket prices to London for next spring on British Airways (they are having a sale, after all, until, uh, Thursday, I believe), when the lead character goes running into a hotel, and I think, Ha, I think I stayed around there. Then the door of the hotel swings shut and I realize I actually did stay there, in that hotel. It was crap. Anyway....
I think it's a sign. That, plus the $400 round-trip fare BA's got going.
That Rashida Jones is just so fucking cute. I hate her. In a girl-crushy way.
Meh.
I think I have a cold. This means two things: 1. I'm going to be superbitch for the next few days, because I almost never get sick, so when I do, I'm worse than a man; and 2. I'm going to be so the high on OTC drugs. Can you tell I've already started hitting the Theraflu? Not good. Not good at all.
OH MY GOD! AGAIN!
So, I just figured out how to work the "On Demand" feature on my boob tube. (Don't laugh. I only watch television about 2 hours a week, tops. Seriously.) I figured it out because I ran out of Netflix and interesting reads, turned on the TV, flipped around and discovered I get BBC America On Demand.
High class, bitches.
And what's on BBC America On Demand? Fourth season of Monarch of the Glen, that's what. What, not impressed? Well, only the first three seasons are out on DVD, okay? Yeesh.
So I started to watch it. Mind you, I haven't watched the third and final disc of season three, yet (see Netflix, "ran out").
And OH MY GOD! Hector is DEAD?!?! Archie and Lexi are ENGAGED?!?!
What! The! Fuck! How could they kill Hector off? AND WHAT ABOUT KATRINA? They could not have been serious when they sent her to London to work in politics, and think we'd believe that was the end of her and Archie. Pshaw.
Is this "the change" that the anonymous I assumed to be Ding was talking about?
Holy crap! Sad.
Also, here are a few reasons to wish you were at my house right now, you know, aside from the opportunity to engage in witty repartee with your host and/or watch all the "On Demand" stations:
1. First stilton soup of the season, now with hextra deliciousness, courtesy of my return to carnivory, served with
2. Prosciutto and raclette on rosemary bread, toasted, followed by
3. homemade lemon-blackberry shortbread wheels
Yurm.
Wondering what I could possibly have done last week that I was so goddamned excited about that I would write for three hours? I learned to shoot. I know, very unliberal of me.
OH MY GOD!
One-day sale on houseware at Amazon!
Did I mention that one of the things that went wonderfully right last Thursday, you know, when the bloggificently disastrous screw-up went down, was that I got this here knife at T.J. Maxx for $25? You see how that's almost $60 off the suggested retail price, right? I love discount home goods!
I seethe with rage.
Just so you know, I had spent the last 3.5 hours writing a really good post of magazine-publishable quality about my activities today, when Explorer sent me one of those irritating "we have encountered a problem and need to immediately close" messages, fucking me all to hell and erasing said post forever.
What's that, you say? What about Blogger's "recover post" feature? Oh, yes, splendid idea! I've been working on it so lone, there must be a good bit saved!
Ha. First 10 sentences. That's it. That's all blogger saved in 3.5 hours.
Of course, the only window that froze was the one I was writing the article in. So I had time to write this little post.
Or did I?
Nope, nope, because the first time I wrote this, as I was finishing it, with literally the punctuation of the final sentence (which was, I believe, "I'm going to go curl up in a corner and weep.") left to go, it, too, went *poof*
I'm so motherfucking pissed right now. I'm going the fuck to bed. FUCK!
Welp, cain't say much is happnin' round these parts.
I am in a blog slump. Here's why:
I've been alternately working my ass off and visiting family. Which means I ain't done shit in the last few weeks anybody else'd care about.
Also, I've devoted my free time of late to watching the entire first three seasons of this show. I love it. Love. Why can't we get good, wholesome entertainment like this in this country, eh? Eh?
Said slump may or may not resolve itself in the near future. Here's why:
1. I just got a new roommate. So far, so good. Funnily enough, having someone else move in--shoving my stuff aside, cleaning, rearranging--has made me realize just how much of a settled life, such as it is, I've developed in this godforsaken town. No longer can I cling to the fantasy that I could up and move at the drop of a hat. A year means acquisition of a lot of shit, apparently. Lordhamercy.
2. For sake of my soul and general mental hygiene, I've cut back to half time at the place (hence, roomie), effective today. Wheeeeeeeee! This means, however, less money. And I don't care how cheery and starry-eyed I sounded about that last summer; designing my entire life around how to entertain myself for free sucks donkey stones. So I'm looking for a new part-time gig. One which, God willing, pays as much as my current gig, returning me to my former well-kept splendor, without any of the nasty six-day work-week side-effects.
So today, as I have the day off, completely, as part of said new schedule, I can choose one of two paths: child path--watch three movies, back-to-back, breaking only to get cheezy pretzels, Twizzlers and Slurpees from the snack counter and to make peepee; or adult path--haul my ass and laptop to the local Starchucks, work on this damned video script (again. God help me, I'm not even making enough off this to cover my expenses to do it, at this point), do some phone interviews with the folks in the video, go to the gym, and then, if I am still alert and the hour is decent, go to a movie and see Red Eye. What? That Cillian Murphy is a pretty lass.
So, unless you want to read more posts like the ladybug bit...tune in Thursday night, when my life will have gotten moderately more interesting.
My A/C is busted.
So I opened a window.
Now I'm playing host to almost half a dozen ladybugs, a firefly, and a couple of UFIs.
It's not so bad, really. The ladybugs are peacefully touring my north and west walls, and the firefly has developed a tendre for my super-long-last lightbulb. But one of the UFIs is going apeshit, and I really wish it would just chill the fuck out and sit its ass down somewhere.
That is all.
Now, generally, I try to avoid lotto madness. I come from a long line of colored folk who live, swear and bet by that little green dream book, who can look at a license plate, pick out three or four digits, and tell you who's name/birthday/dead dog's manner of death correlates to said digits according to said dream book, who play numbers--a lot of them, not just one or two--every day, twice a day. So I don't much like the lottery.* My people'd be a whole lot richer without it.
But damn.
See, this is my exception. I'll play if the pot gets over $50 million, if I remember to play. (What? It is in my blood.)
And my li'l--okay, not-so-li'l--colored behind is not forgetting to play this right shyeah. One more reason to hate New York, though: these bastids take more money in taxes than any other state in which you can play the game, meaning you get less in New York than anywhere else. WTF? Curse you, New York! You're already the most expensive goddamned place in the country! Cut folks some slack, damn!
*Okay, except for when I visit said relatives and play those scratchy card. Once I got $27! Woot!
Just a few notes on crack.
My sisters. If you insist on wearing jeans low enough to show crack, please take the following into consideration:
1. Low-rise jeans are not made for our people. Un-scientifically proven fact: many of our booties start several inches higher than those of our paler sistren. You know, the sistren for whom such jeans are designed. So even non-super-low-rise jeans can turn into super-lows on a sister. Keep that in mind when you're hitting the Conway sales, that's all I'm saying. Try them on in the store. Sit in 'em. Have somebody--anybody--check them for decency.
Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.
My point is, don't do it unless you means it, bitches.
2. If you do--mean it, that is--please, for the love of God and all that's holy, keep that area extra-cute. This means no gangsta tats, no stretch marks, no ass-pimple scars, no exposed bullet wounds. Exfoliate. Moisturize. Frankly, just don't do it if you are over a size 4, and then it's a no-go if you're a 4 under 5'7", because a lot of your size is likely to be concentrated in the asstank area. Oh, and wax that isht, christamighty. You think we don't see the tuft of fuzz creeping up out of your jeans? We see the tuft of fuzz. God help us, we see it.
I think this all falls under the umbrella of the golden rule. If you don't want to see mine, I prolly don't want to see yours.
That is all.
This post brought to you by the letters J, L, Z, a dude named Brian and some booze
Deargod.
I went out with these folks last night.
Deargod.
That were fun. Drunken ridiculous fun.
At least I made it home. Despite the fact that home seems to be spinning around me, still, oh, 7 hours later.
Thanks for a good time, y'all.
*passed back out*
Who needs coherent thought when you've got a rack like this!
The best part about freelance work and phone interviews? Doing them in the altogether. Ha! I'm asking you important questions, but I'm bare-ass-nekked, suckers! Couldn't do that in an office as a staff writer.
Listen, I'm just trying to make myself feel better about the lack of career-building I've managed over the last year. All that's about to change, though, because I'm switching back to part-time at "the place" as some bloggers would say, and man, Imma miss that money. Which means I gots to hustle from here on out if I want to continue to live in the manner to which I have grown accustomed.
I'd say more important things, like how the government's failure to help Katrina victims has pissed me all the way off, but others have already said it better.
Happy Friday.
I ain't bloggin' today.
Check out some of the lurvely ladies and gents on the blogroll.
Okay, except for this smibbit of info--that Boots Botanics eyecream I bought at Target the other day? The one that's supposed to brighten undereye circles and moisturize the delicate eye-area skin? Well, since it's one of those creams with pulverized shiny bits, it sure reflects light good to make it look like your circles are gone. And boy, does it moisturize! The eye-area skin looks nice. Sadly, my flamingitchyburnyred eyeballs are not so fond of the stuff as the surrounding skin.
Meh.
