2.11.2010

Gurl, you burnin' up, burnin' up like ~fiyah~!


No but seriously, the previous three nights I layed on this very couch with a fever of no less than 100.1 degrees. Of course the first day is a great relief especially when its a monday and you are suddenly presented with a much needed three day version of a weekend. So I spent the first day lounging around in my wonderfully huge flannel pajama pants and an old as hell christmas sweater, which I am beyond amazed still fits me. I cannot even lie to you, I ritualistically watch Regis and Kelly and The View each and every time I'm sick, maybe its all of the drugs I'm on but they are freaking hilarious. By noon I amble out to the kitchen, but not before slipping on my glorious lady bug slippers to heat up one of those good old campbells condensed soups that can only be delicious when sickness has numbed your taste buds. I remember being particularly excited when I stumbled upon a criminal minds rerun on at 1, growing incresingly more delerious when I realized it was one I had yet to see. As any sick day should end, I closed the afternoon by falling asleep to the ever so trashy but ~honest~ lifetime movie channel. Seeing as I had a fever all day Monday, I expected to spend Tuesday at home again but I remained confident that I would make by big recovery by wednesday. Wrong. Wednesday rolls around and I'm still impaired to the point that I can't go up and down the stairs without my body retaliating with a massive headache. Great. Another day at home. By 2:00 Wednesday I have no more fever and I feel like maybe a celebratory jig is appropriate; but I stop myself when my natual klutz comes out and I manage to tangle myself in this laptop chord causing me to hit the floor before even fully standing up. Cute and quirky or dumb as hell? The World may never know.

To make a long story short, wednesday night my fever came out of hiding forcing me to stay home again TODAY. I don't think I have ever spent so many days in a row at home only taking one trip outside...to shovel. Luckily it is now...9:25 pm and I am at a cool and collected 97.3 degrees! PRAISE JAYZUS.

Dear make-up work,
Please treat me kindly.
Love,
Shannon

Currently Listening To: Ladyhawke-Back of the Van
Net-freakin-flix: Amelie
Tearin Up Them Pages of: Franny & Zooey by J.D Salinger.

1.20.2010

Those Crazy Kids

MANIC

Director: Jordan Melamed
Cast: Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Don Cheadle, Michael Bacall, Zooey Deschanel, Cody Lightning, Elden Henson, Sara Rivas

Lyle (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is pissed off. Raging even. He's stuck in a hospital room, his head bleeding, when a doctor (Don Cheadle) comes by questioning him. He is the staff pyshchiatrist and he begins to wonder out loud how Lyle "got his ass kicked". Lyle ignores him, resisting having to talk to this institutionalized excuse of a man. He especially will not talk to a man accusing him of tweaking, or worse, being a pansy.

It turns out, Lyle is not some innocent victim here, he smashed another kids head in with a baseball bat. The boy becoming a victim of uncontrollable rage. His mother, scared to death of her own son, calls the authorities to have him committed until someone else can figure out what to do with him. He winds up in the Northward Mental Institution, confronting a various pack of troubled kids, joined together out of nothing but relentless and surly anger.

As kids-in-pysch-ward films go, this one is pretty run of the mill: a pattern of abuse started in youth, continued with them, eventually effecting their teenage lives. The kids comfort eachother, taking hold of the only stability they have yet to encounter, some comfort even resembling something more along the lines of romance in the case of Lyle and Tracy (Zooey Deschanel). Manic leans heavily on familiarity, making the kids victims of abuse by both parents and ward attendants alike. As the film's pyschology spells out, this pattern of abuse makes the kids themselves  fearful and abusive, unable to committ or make informed decisions.

The most effective scenes in the film, are without a doubt the scenes in which they kids are observed from afar (without the distractions of the loud "crow man" in the basketball court). Many of these scenes include "real kids" institutionalized teens who agreed to be in the movie. The actors, spend a lot of time in the rec room, either relaxed, raged or dazed, as their meds make it difficult to do anything but watch the tv. Lyle and Chad (Michael Bacall) are eventaully given the opportunity to self medicate (weed it up!) in the bathroom, while blasting the radio. They take the party out to the rec room for music hour and slip in their own tape while the attendant goes outside. The two proceed to slam themselves around the room, breaking whatever is in their path, and grabbing the attentions of the other kids, who join in. Now in the middle of a mosh pit, they'd be fine, but here, this could lead to nothing other than disaster.

The basic lesson here is that these kids are completely on their own, even the adults here who mean well, cannot truly help them. No Nurse Ratched here to boss you around, just you and you alone. Which leads us back to David, struggling more and more to figure out how to deal with the charges--let alone how to help these kids. David's approaches are alternatively conciliatory and confrontational asking questions like "How do you deal with your anger?" or "Tell me right now, what is one thing that gives meaning to your life?". Despite his efforts, he rarely gets a magical movie answer and little progress is made.

David's complexity is symbolic for his inner frustration and anxiety, displayed by a mundane question and answer session in his office. This montage seems overly ordinary at first, until Lyle turns into Tracy, who turns into Chad who finally turns into David himself being in the patient's chair. Whether this means he is imagining himself as them or is them is irrelevant. They are all searching for some sort of "meaning" to life, but what are the chances of finding it in an underfunded institution who's idea of "recreation" is one basketball hoop and a few benches? Just so, the group discussions go off into complaints tangents, and no matter how hard David tries he cannot seem to get them to give "constructive" responses to one another's rare, heart felt admissons. They refuse to feel responsible for themselves, let alone eachother; with his own sense of responsibility suffocating them.

It isn't David's fault, of course. Manic, is a movie studying learned behavior: Lyle's father beat him around, as did every other aspect of society around him, insisting he is unworthy, dysfunctional, inferior even. Kenny (Cody Lightning) is by far the most outrageous case: A native American kid, whose father left him with a medicine bag to ward off "evil bad things" and whose step father is just that, compelled to sexually abuse him even right in front of David in the visiting room. His stepfather even being allowed into the building is a crime in and of itself., but it does one hell of a job providing a visual image of the damage adults can really do.

Is there actually a way to save a kid from drowning in the currents of an abusive relationship? Manic.

1.14.2010

Lessons In Becoming A Serial Killer? FTW.

“Is it hard for you to get up in the morning? Has your life lost a sense of purpose? Do you feel like giving up is the only option? Don’t despair because Mike Wilson can help you! Once suicidally depressed, Mike turned his life around when he became a serial killer. Now he’s going to share his secrets with you in this amazing life-changing seminar!”

Have you ever drooled over the idea of ripping apart the guy who pushes an elderly woman out of the way because her walker is blocking the hall? No...maybe it was just me then.

But whatever the case, Mike (Dameon Clarke) is definitely a serial killer, and one who dreams of nothing more than to spread his mastery of technique to others. He goes as far as to hold a seminar in which he teaches his pupils to "listen to the voices in your head" and to quit repressing those liberating feelings. He promises self confidence, fulfillment and a new lease on life, all for one very low price.

When Mike meets Bart (Matthew Gray Gubler), the clerk in a rather shabby local video store, he feels as though he has found the perfect lost soul longing to act out upon his inner violent tendencies...or perhaps he takes note of an impressionable young man that could be easily influenced at the promise of a true friend. But whatever the case may be, the two become as inseparable as Alice and her Wonderland, as Mike takes Bart under his wing and takes him on one heck of a wild ride: Living the life of a serial killer.

How To Be A Serial Killer shot in part live action, part documentary format, is one serious twist on what we may call today--a bromance. Unhealthy friendship, manipulation, psychosis and murder all wrapped up in one hilarious comedy. The laughs, which I promise you are abundant, are interrupted every so often by violence and gore that nearly slap you across the face with surprise. Director Luke Ricci brilliantly paired a happy go lucky, upbeat soundtrack with the gory scenes of the film, adding both insanity and a much needed contrast. As the saga continues, the film becomes less comedic and focuses more closely on Mike as his severe disturbance bubbles towards the surface. For those of us who have had sinister thoughts about permanently shutting up an overbearing boss or teacher, the film can be particularly satisfying seeing as those thoughts are fearless acted upon, but also particularly distressing as the reality of actually committing such a crime is also played out in sobering technicolor. No amount of peppy beats or gleeful grins can make the reality of taking someone's life any less haunting. Maybe I should just hand that essay in on time this week.

Despite its grim title, How To Be A Serial Killer, truly delivers; with the laughs slipping out before you can even look around the room to see if you are embarrassing yourself. Dameon Clarke is incredibly charming, but don't get me wrong, he'll turn that charm off just in time to put you through your on lawn mower. Matthew Gray Gubler, appears in what may be a shocking role to those of you who know him as Dr. Spencer Reid of Criminal Minds, a genius with an iedetic memory who throws serial killers in lock up. Despite his lawful acting background his performance is equally as believeable as Clarke's, easily transitioning from a quiet impressionable kid to a devious serial killer. The progression of Dameon Clarke as Mike from happy go lucky and fun to disturbed and irrational is extremely effective, as the demons held within only occasionally show through a  word, a moment of insecurity or an evil look across his face.

How To Be A Serial Killer was theatrically released in late August of 2009 and the DVD was released in October. The film maintains the amaturistic grit of an independent while having a high enough production caliber to win over those viewers that may not be used to the not-so-professional look of non Hollywood fare. Being a serial killer could be fun...if it weren't for the severe mental imbalance necessary to commit such morbid fantasies and the inescapable repurcussions that follow.

Do yourself a favor and track down a copy of How To Be A Serial Killer! Unfortunately, it is not available at very many mainstream video stores, but a more independent based place such as Best Video of Hamden may carry it; and of course, the ever growing Netflix will get it to you in a jiffy!

1.10.2010

Hey you guuuuuyz, how do I be indie?


It seems like everyone all of a sudden wants to be this new thing called "indie", but little do they know it is an old as hell catergory, and not one that measures people. If you were to simply type "what is indie" into your little google task bar it would probably tell you that indie is "a pop group not affiliated with a major record company" or "Indie is a slang term which appeared in the 1940s. In the 1990s and 2000s it was used in various, sometimes contradictory ways, often to describe types of young, recently-settled urban middle class adults and older teenagers with interests in non-mainstream fashion and culture." Either way you look at it, indie is nothing  new, and yet the masses seem to think it is. Once someone tries to fit into this "category", if one can even call it that, it loses its true non-mainstream aspect. Anyway, why can't everyone just wear what they want and listen to what they want? I go thrifting, I frequently make trips to h&m, I listen to The Pixies and Beach House....does that make me Indie? Even if it does, I don't give a flying fuq because I just want to be me, not same lame version of me pretending to be cool. I love my old man sweaters, and my bright red keds, but only because they make me happy, not because they make me cool. Come on y'all be who you are, not what some "friends" want you to be.

But while we're at it I might as well share with y'allz my top indie (if we must call it that) picks:

Music: The Pixies, Bright Eyes, Lissy Trullie, Beach House, Architecture in Helsinki, Halloweentown, She and Him, Grizzly Bear, Talking Heads, Of Montreal and Passion Pit.

Movies: Manic, George Lucas in Love, How To Be A Serial Killer, Sunshine Cleaning, (500) Days of Summer, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, O Brother Where Art Thou?, The Wackness, Saved!, Clerks, Fargo, anything Alfred Hitchcock and any other cheesy as fuq horror filmz.

Books: Rats Saw God, Catcher In The Rye, Running With Scissors, Mark Twain, A Clockwork Orange, The Virgin Suicides, Shakespeare and Hemingway.




1.09.2010

(500) Days of Winter


(I wish)

I say it every year, without fail, "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy is it still winter?!" I'm freezing, its only 60 degrees in my house, by the time my car heats up I've already reached my destination and those darn winter hats make my forehead itch and my hair flat. I shovel the walkways, clean off my car and then realize that I can no longer feel my hands, and when I can finally feel them again its only because they hurt so bad its all I can think about. The snow turns brown and everything looks like complete and total  shit. Great.

Only I can't help it if everything I think and feel is purely hypocritical; I j'adore winter time. I love that I can walk around in my house in mis-matched fuzzy socks and big warm oversized man flannel, burrowing myself in blankets hiding from the cold. I love jumping into the toasty warm car after sprinting down the parking lot slipping and sliding on each and every icy patch. I'm pretty sure I own over ten different winter hats in ever color of the rainbow; there is nothing better than slapping knitwear over your narsty as fuq flat bed hair. Each and every moring I wake up and see the cottony blankets covering the deadened grass and it all feels new, nothing beats that. Even the plainest of neighborhoods seems beautiful, and the busiest of cities seem calm.

And do not forget Christmas; which for me, lasts all through December and possibly even halfway through January...longer if I'm lucky. I've never encountered a Christmas sweater I didn't hold impeccably close to my heart and the same goes for the always lovely jingle bell santa earrings. If only I could sleep underneath the tree each and every night staring up at the eccentricly decorated branches, my face glowing in the multi colored lights. When I was little I obsessed over having a Charlie Brown tree one year, which much to my disappointment, never really happened. This year however, the family tree was smaller than usual. Crouched on my knees unpacking all of the ornaments it became rather apparent that all 5 foot 7 inches of me could reach the top even without standing...but that only made me love the tree more.

I suppose you could say I have a love hate relationship with winter. Every year I wish to lose it and every year I fight to win it back when it disappears.

And Christmas, I refuse to stop celebrating you. Even after new years, when my wonderfully tacky plastic light up lawn ornaments grow to be eyes sores, part of me wishes I could leave you there all year long.


So winter, this year, don't leave too soon.


1.08.2010

Hey You, Four Eyed Freak!


"O, the next one is O....E....T"
"If you tell your sister ONE more of those letters I will drag you out of this room"
Foiled again.

Third grade and I just got my braces on and now they tell me I have to get ~GLASSES~?! Fuq no. My little 8 year old self could not understand what having glasses meant. Doesn't every little kid feel like having glasses is the stamp of doom on all chances of being part of the awesome social scene pre-pubescent life promised? I know I did. I can remember staring at myself in the mirror with my teal rimmed glasses wondering how the freak this happened. My eyes had only been part of this world for 2,920 days, how could they already be so impaired. I cursed the eye doctor, that mother effer was surely lying to me; but if he was...then why was that tigger poster looking more and more like a blob of swirling fire?

Anywhoo, enough of that moping. By 6th grade, I loved having glasses and my little sister was jealous as hell. ~GLASSES~ were great! You get a new pair almost every time you went to the eye doctor and it was like a classy as fuq reward for all of the eye drops and eye prodding. It was better than a simple, "It was great poking you in the eye, here's a jolly rancher now GET THE EFF OUT."

I think by now, I must have had over six different pairs of glasses with my favorite pair so far currently. Naturally I wear contacts now, because my hella sensitive ears tell me that glasses hurt but that doesn't mean my eye glass obsession has ended, oh no, it is stronger than ever. I am currently lusting after a pair that I must, must, must get my hands on (see above picture).
And with that my precious y'allz, I give you the glasses hall of mother fuq-ing fame:

 

Mr. Woody Allen

Mr. Matthew Gray Gubler

Ms. Zooey Deschanel

Ms. Marilyn Monroe

Mr. Buddy Holly

Mr. Ben Folds

1.07.2010

Beo-freakin-wulf


Beowulf is one feirce as hell momma effer. Cuttin down hoes and shankin' bros with his homemade toothbrush shank. Called to Denmark by the Pimpin-est G there ever was, KING HROTHGAR. You see, this ~D~ face of a hairy freakin monster named Grendel had been killing gents for years now and Beo-freakin-wulf is the only one who can TAKE HIM THE EFF DOWN.

After KING HROTHGAR accepts Beo-freakin-wulf's offer to beat the crap out of that D face, Grendel, he throws a bangin feast for him. However, during this event of mad food stuff some doofus dane who we are going to call Unferth taunts the hero saying he aint nearly as awesome as erryone be sayin. It is then that the great monster arrives; and because Beo-freakin-wulf is an arrogant bro he fights him with his bare firsts of fury, throwin his shanks and nun chucks to the wayside. He rips the effers arm off and once that hairy as haaaale monster runs away they hang up the narsty as freak severed arm in the Mead hall, next to all their famous as shiz pens.

They throw another party filled with their usual bumpin' and grindin' but the joyous event naturally cannot last too long. Grendel's momma shows up lookin to avenge the death of her son since the baby daddy left a long ass time ago. She kills one of KING HROTHGARS most trusty steeds before going back to her swamp, where that hag belongs. Of course that crazy mother effer goes to chase the hag and kill her too. Beo-freakin-wulf dives into the murky at shit water and (setting their relationship aside ;]) slays the swamp-hag with a shank forged by a giant! But he aint done yet, because he is narsty he chops that ho's head off and brings it as a prize to KING HROTHGAR.

Denmark is now free of its hairy as hell ~D~ FACED MONSTERS.

He rulez as king of Geatland for ~fifty~ years until some stupid as freak man disturbs a hella fierce dragon. Beo-freakin-wulf knows his death is hangin over his wrinkled head and decides to fight him. Without surprise the dragon is killed but in return it bites Beo-freakin-wulf in the neck and the venom poisons the effer til he dies.

For his burial the Geat gentz obey the hero's wishes and BURN SHIT DOWN...erm..cremate him. OH and also they send him with his all ~worldly~ treasures. How pimpin'.