Thursday, February 18, 2010

It's Lent.

And I'm excited.

And this sounds strange coming from me...with all my venomous cynicism, turrets-like swearing, and penchant for potty humor.

Because Lent (at least real Lent) isn't about Giving Up Chocolate or Losing 10 Pounds "New Year's Resolution" styles. No. It's about looking at a specific character flaw within oneself and trying to exorcise it. This doesn't mean making it perfect, just better.

So, in honor of Lent, I am going to try to make the blog a little more emotionally egalitarian. Don't worry, the Snark will still be here, but I am also making a concerted effort to balance the Snark with interstitial, positive praise.

For example:

I now like Victoria Beckham. I mean, I know she has a serious eating disorder. Like, it's clinical, no doubt. But she seems like a nice lady. It's kind of amazing really. Because when she speaks, the sour puss-pouty face goes away. And this small, unassuming voice comes out. And the words, while not super intelligent, aren't bitchy, diva-ish, or calculating. She's like that really quiet, nice, insecure girl you went to high school with. The one who over tans and under-eats, but does it all so that she can be someone's friend and won't talk shit about you once she becomes one. Seriously, check the link. She's sweet. Way sweeter than that Hasselbeck broad, for sure.

Stern Posh


Smiling Posh

And her clothing line is getting rave reviews. And not just from "People" Magazine. Independent, mainstream, and Titans of the fashion industry are lauding it left and right. And it does look good.

But not as good as some of the other stuff that's walking down the runways right now. (Full NY Fashion Week run down in a few days when it's all wrapped up and I can sift through and compile everything more efficiently). Until then, I will continue to try to be more positive than usual. Especially since I will have to stop being nice when the Oscars roll around. My bitch will definitely not be contained on that subject.

So, to counterbalance approaching Oscar Venom, here is yet another plea to all of you to go see good movies instead of Avatar.

The Hurt Locker

It's at 96% on Rotten Tomatoes. It has 9 Nominations. As many as Avatar. And it's beyond better. It's really, really great. It's thoughtful and mainstream. It appeals to the masses and the asses. It's out on DVD. Go rent it. Now.

An Education

I'm sure you still haven't seen it, but you should. Please. Watch the clip below. Don't be afraid. Anything you learn during the clip won't spoil the plot or the movie. It will only whet your appetite. And you will see why Carey Mulligan deserves the Oscar much more than Sandra Bullock. Because this scene is with Emma Thompson. And while Emma is funny and does her job well, Carey steals the scene. She acts Emma right out of the frame. Yeah. She's that good.

P.S. On a sad note...RIP Alexander McQueen. You will always be one of The Greatest. Ever. And you are loved and will be missed.

1 comment:

  1. A young person dying before her time has elements of tragedy in the event. Her death itself is not the tragedy; it is the life before the death and the relationships she had with those around her. How did all the strings come together at exactly the wrong moment...This brings me to Alexander McQueen.

    Incredible genius comes at the cost of emotional instability. Depression, drug abuse, fixations on the macabre. Run-of-the-mill suicide.

    It is painful to keep the creative head attached to its body; the emotions preferring to run out and into the world in violent streaks of red, of loud electric yellow fireworks no longer suppressing that singular joy. Look down and you see the emotions that have escaped as a slowly dripping paint, though never losing their whole and refusing to dry until the right time has passed. The paint will know. These are just the emotions. What about the unconscious mind? And the conscious mind that believes itself in charge? (It's not.) All the while my head exploded. Yet I am here. Ink splash on the computer screen. Paint dripping down my back. The smoke of fireworks spent linger around the haze of my aftershock.

    Alexander McQueen had all this chaos and haze in his head. Sometimes they could work together, other times the emotional haze would cloud his vision.

    A lifetime of build-ups and bottle-ups, of freely-given criticisms. One day something seems out of place. Someone said something. A reminder. Or an event. Not just one, buy many until finally all it takes is a mundane detail, but you snap.

    May you rest in Peace, Alexander McQueen.

    And to all those out there who are geniuses in your own way: There is a way to live in harmony and that is for you to figure out. We aren't fond of our artists dying young.