The economic crisis has hit Disneyland. I thought the "Happiest Place On Earth" was recession proof until last Sunday when I went to the "Magic Kingdom" with three cousins from Mexico City. Traces of the crisis (pronounced "cree-seas" in Spanish) were everywhere, from the lower admission cost to the manageable lines.
The ticket price was our first indication that things were not all rosy at Disneylandia. Instead of the 90-something dollars the website cited for adult admission, our tickets were only $69 each. (When I say "only" I mean "only" in the sense that I had been prepared to fork over a hundred dollars for a day at an over-crowded, overrated money sucker.) My cousins got in for two dollars less because of their senior status and we were all pleased by the surprise rate cut.
The lines were another sure indication that all is not well with the world. We waited 10-15 minutes for most rides and 30 minutes at the more coveted Indiana Jones and Space Mountain. Five minutes for It's A Small World? It is possible! Only half capacity at the Tiki Tiki Room? Yes! This actually made the visit more pleasant for me, as I had started the day dreading long lines and lack of private space. It was the Sunday before Christmas, after all, and I figured the weekend was the worst time for Anaheim. Not so.
I enjoyed my trip to Disneyland. Indiana Jones was a pretty decent attraction and the Christmas decorations covering the park were pretty, especially in It's A Small World and in New Orleans Square. I laughed and screamed my way through the ever-reliable Space Mountain and was impressed by the animatronics of Pirates of the Caribbean, including its spot-on Johnny Depp/Jack Sparrow character.
I was pleased that Disneyland has caught on that they can't totally gouge people for money like they used to. Who's going to pay $90 for Disneyland when you can get into Knott's Berry Farm or Universal Studios for half that price? It's still a total rip-off and they should be ashamed for charging a family of four $260 to get in, but at least we happened upon the Magic Kingdom when its luster is as faded as America's.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Riding The Long Beach Loop
Every first Thursday of the month, three Long Beach bars coordinate an event called the Long Beach Loop. For $10, riders are shuttled on a red double decker bus from Alex's Bar to the Prospector to the Pike and back to Alex's Bar. The $10 pays for transportation and cover charges at all three locales, which all have bands playing. It costs $5 to get into the bars if you're not on the Bus. The Loop has been going on for four months now.
I accidentally joined the party this past Thursday with my friends Peter & Valerie and their friend Scott. Peter wanted to see a San Antonio band called Girl In A Coma that he'd discovered at South By Southwest. They were playing at Alex's Bar and the plan was to eat and meet at his house and then trek on over.
We arrived at the bar around 10pm and discovered that the band wasn't going on until 12:30. Oy! What else is there to do but drink at that point? We had whiskeys but most of the crowd was stocking up on the 24 ounce Tecates that were on special for $3. Those same Tecate tall boys sell for $2.25 at Albertson's, so it really is a deal.
Alex's Bar is located on a desolate stretch of Anaheim Blvd., an industrial street I usually avoid at night. You can't really see the bar from the street and you have to enter through the alley. It's dark and red inside like Hollywood or Eastside bars but has a definite local flavor.
The crowd is mostly overweight Latinos dressed like modern Rockabillys. Lesbian couples are well represented as are Long Beach hipsters. But the difference between Long Beach hipsters and Eastside ones is that the Long Beach crowd doesn't cop an attitude. People are polite. They stand back to let you pass or step aside when you need to get to the bar for a drink.
We had seats at the bar and at one point I left my cocktail to go outside. There was a woman sitting in my chair when I returned, and when I reached past her for my drink, she apologized for sitting there and offered to move. This does not happen in Hollywood.
Bella Novela and Girl In A Coma were on the bill as was a good DJ who kept the mood light between sets. Because of a dimly lit stage with a red velvet backdrop, it looked like the poor bands were playing in the dark. No spotlights whatsoever. Nevertheless, opening act and Long Beach locals Bella Novela rocked the house with their Siouxsie Sioux-like vocals and synthesizers, and girl rockers Girl In A Coma blasted through their loud set.
My group was the oldest in the place for sure but no one cared or looked twice. I even ran into my sister's niece Maggie (my brother-in-law's niece) in the bathroom. Maggie is a super cute 21-year-old and if Alex's Bar is cool enough for her, it's definitely good enough for me. I will be back -- just not by myself because it really is in a sketchy neighborhood.
I accidentally joined the party this past Thursday with my friends Peter & Valerie and their friend Scott. Peter wanted to see a San Antonio band called Girl In A Coma that he'd discovered at South By Southwest. They were playing at Alex's Bar and the plan was to eat and meet at his house and then trek on over.
We arrived at the bar around 10pm and discovered that the band wasn't going on until 12:30. Oy! What else is there to do but drink at that point? We had whiskeys but most of the crowd was stocking up on the 24 ounce Tecates that were on special for $3. Those same Tecate tall boys sell for $2.25 at Albertson's, so it really is a deal.
Alex's Bar is located on a desolate stretch of Anaheim Blvd., an industrial street I usually avoid at night. You can't really see the bar from the street and you have to enter through the alley. It's dark and red inside like Hollywood or Eastside bars but has a definite local flavor.
The crowd is mostly overweight Latinos dressed like modern Rockabillys. Lesbian couples are well represented as are Long Beach hipsters. But the difference between Long Beach hipsters and Eastside ones is that the Long Beach crowd doesn't cop an attitude. People are polite. They stand back to let you pass or step aside when you need to get to the bar for a drink.
We had seats at the bar and at one point I left my cocktail to go outside. There was a woman sitting in my chair when I returned, and when I reached past her for my drink, she apologized for sitting there and offered to move. This does not happen in Hollywood.
Bella Novela and Girl In A Coma were on the bill as was a good DJ who kept the mood light between sets. Because of a dimly lit stage with a red velvet backdrop, it looked like the poor bands were playing in the dark. No spotlights whatsoever. Nevertheless, opening act and Long Beach locals Bella Novela rocked the house with their Siouxsie Sioux-like vocals and synthesizers, and girl rockers Girl In A Coma blasted through their loud set.
My group was the oldest in the place for sure but no one cared or looked twice. I even ran into my sister's niece Maggie (my brother-in-law's niece) in the bathroom. Maggie is a super cute 21-year-old and if Alex's Bar is cool enough for her, it's definitely good enough for me. I will be back -- just not by myself because it really is in a sketchy neighborhood.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Tailgating Is Great Sport
Tailgating is one of my favorite sports. It goes hand-in-hand with football and doesn't require much skill other than drink mixing, munchie consumption, and locating decent bathrooms.
I tailgate once a year with my family for a Notre Dame football game (my sisters are both Notre Dame graduates). In 2007, this meant renting an SUV and partying on the golf course adjacent to the Rose Bowl for the Notre Dame/UCLA game. This Thanksgiving weekend, the occasion was the Notre Dame/USC game at the Coliseum.
The Coliseum is a lovely venue but it's tough to coordinate a tailgate because it costs 40-100 dollars to park anywhere near the stadium and 25 dollars to squeeze into a parking garage that doesn't permit pre-game activities of any sort. Access to the prime parking areas are limited to those USC super fans who pay $2500 a year for membership to the Cardinal and Gold Club and get nice parking spots as a reward. For the rest of us, it's all about finding a nice patch of grass or friendly Trojans to party with. We opted for the latter and spent the afternoon with our longtime hairdresser Yvette and her USC clan.
Yvette has been cutting hair for our family for years. She married a mega USC fan a couple of years ago and invited us to join them at their tailgater. The party was ideally located across from Tunnel 19 and was easy to find thanks to its high-flying American, Marine, and USC flags.
It was a serious spread: full bar with top shelf liquor, salty and sweet snacks, burgers, chicken, sausage, and all the fixings. Our eight-person group put only a small dent in the amount of food and booze they had there. The other SC fans throwing the tailgater were in great spirits and quite welcoming despite us cheering for the opposing team. I attribute this either to the flow of alcohol or the fact that Notre Dame was no match for SC this year and we all knew it.
Tailgating puts people in a good mood -- revelry replaces rivalry when drinks are flowing. The scene is also the backdrop for unexpected reunions: In the women's bathroom, I ran into a gal I was a cheerleader with in high school; my mom saw a high school friend she hadn't talked to since they graduated 50 years ago; and one of my sisters met up with both work friends and fellow ND alums.
You don't even have to like football to enjoy a tailgater. Just show up, have some food and drink, and enjoy. It makes a rout like the one Notre Dame suffered much more tolerable.
I tailgate once a year with my family for a Notre Dame football game (my sisters are both Notre Dame graduates). In 2007, this meant renting an SUV and partying on the golf course adjacent to the Rose Bowl for the Notre Dame/UCLA game. This Thanksgiving weekend, the occasion was the Notre Dame/USC game at the Coliseum.
The Coliseum is a lovely venue but it's tough to coordinate a tailgate because it costs 40-100 dollars to park anywhere near the stadium and 25 dollars to squeeze into a parking garage that doesn't permit pre-game activities of any sort. Access to the prime parking areas are limited to those USC super fans who pay $2500 a year for membership to the Cardinal and Gold Club and get nice parking spots as a reward. For the rest of us, it's all about finding a nice patch of grass or friendly Trojans to party with. We opted for the latter and spent the afternoon with our longtime hairdresser Yvette and her USC clan.
Yvette has been cutting hair for our family for years. She married a mega USC fan a couple of years ago and invited us to join them at their tailgater. The party was ideally located across from Tunnel 19 and was easy to find thanks to its high-flying American, Marine, and USC flags.
It was a serious spread: full bar with top shelf liquor, salty and sweet snacks, burgers, chicken, sausage, and all the fixings. Our eight-person group put only a small dent in the amount of food and booze they had there. The other SC fans throwing the tailgater were in great spirits and quite welcoming despite us cheering for the opposing team. I attribute this either to the flow of alcohol or the fact that Notre Dame was no match for SC this year and we all knew it.
Tailgating puts people in a good mood -- revelry replaces rivalry when drinks are flowing. The scene is also the backdrop for unexpected reunions: In the women's bathroom, I ran into a gal I was a cheerleader with in high school; my mom saw a high school friend she hadn't talked to since they graduated 50 years ago; and one of my sisters met up with both work friends and fellow ND alums.
You don't even have to like football to enjoy a tailgater. Just show up, have some food and drink, and enjoy. It makes a rout like the one Notre Dame suffered much more tolerable.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Miracle of Technological Miracles
Miracle of technological miracles -- my mom's computer and my computer are both online, and we're not stealing our Internet connection from the neighbors either! It took me two hours to install, uninstall, install, and uninstall the blasted AT&T high speed caca, but I finally got it to work.
There are so many passwords and things to remember when signing up for a new account. No wonder my mom had me do it for her. "Who's your favorite singer?" "What's your first pet's name?" "Where was your last vacation?" "Tampons or maxi pads?" Each question meant a separate trip from our home office to the utility room where my mom was watching TV. "Mom. What are the last four digits of your Social Security number? What do you want your umpteenth password to be?"
My snafu had something to do with something not recognizing my modem's sign-in. "Please enter your AT&T login and password." "Uh, is that the login I just created 15 minutes ago or is it one of her other logins?"
I made it to the final page of the installation four times before the modem recognized itself (or whatever the hold up was.) Whew! And here I told my mom it'd be easy. I hope installing Office software goes more smoothly tomorrow.
Getting my wireless connection going was much more simple. Search for wireless networks, punch in a couple of numbers and bam! I'm working from the dining room instead of the office (the only place I could pick up our neighbors' wireless signal.) The coming days will determine whether or not I can get the signal from across the house or from the backyard.
There is still a printer to hook up, wires to untangle, a fax machine to figure out, and boxes to clean-up but I am going to bed satisfied that we are finally online and high-speed passengers on this Internet train.
There are so many passwords and things to remember when signing up for a new account. No wonder my mom had me do it for her. "Who's your favorite singer?" "What's your first pet's name?" "Where was your last vacation?" "Tampons or maxi pads?" Each question meant a separate trip from our home office to the utility room where my mom was watching TV. "Mom. What are the last four digits of your Social Security number? What do you want your umpteenth password to be?"
My snafu had something to do with something not recognizing my modem's sign-in. "Please enter your AT&T login and password." "Uh, is that the login I just created 15 minutes ago or is it one of her other logins?"
I made it to the final page of the installation four times before the modem recognized itself (or whatever the hold up was.) Whew! And here I told my mom it'd be easy. I hope installing Office software goes more smoothly tomorrow.
Getting my wireless connection going was much more simple. Search for wireless networks, punch in a couple of numbers and bam! I'm working from the dining room instead of the office (the only place I could pick up our neighbors' wireless signal.) The coming days will determine whether or not I can get the signal from across the house or from the backyard.
There is still a printer to hook up, wires to untangle, a fax machine to figure out, and boxes to clean-up but I am going to bed satisfied that we are finally online and high-speed passengers on this Internet train.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
"I've Got Blisters On My Fingers!"
Yep, real live blisters on my fingers. I didn't get them from shredding the guitar as in the famous Beatles quote, I got them from helping my mom in the yard this morning.
My job was to dig up grass where she wanted to add a couple of cement squares along the driveway. My tool was a shovel, which I used to chip into the grass before having enough "give" to fully dig into it.
Having just blow-dryed my body in an effort to warm up from our cold house, I started this task wearing jeans, a long-sleeved pajama top, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt. About midway through I put a belt on to avoid "plumber's crack" and steadied my top half with a bra. By the end of it all, the sweatshirt was on the grass and my jeans were caked in dirt. I sweated and sneezed throughout the dig but admit there is something nice about earning my keep with this manual labor, blisters and all.
After my outdoor work, I thumbed through the L.A. Times and the Daily Breeze. The Daily Breeze is a slim local paper that is one half AP stories and one half stories about the South Bay. In honor of the start of the city football playoffs, the Breeze's sports section had a big article on Carson High School's football team. My team, Banning High, got a small paragraph about their match against Crenshaw High.
My favorite Times article of the day was one of those "no duh" stories: "Traffic Rises As Gas Prices Fall." Oh really? Anyone on the roads this month could've figured that one out. I drove up La Brea to Melrose, then down La Cienega to Jefferson the other morning and it was hell. It wasn't even rush hour. Perhaps if gas prices stayed high there'd be some real movement towards alternative modes of transportation. I'm not even a commuter and I can't stand it!
The more I live in the South Bay where the traffic flows, the less life in the city appeals to me. Sure, I miss out on concerts and happy hours and spontaneous access to friends but at least I am sane behind the wheel. I'm not saying there isn't traffic down here but it's nowhere nearly as awful as on the major thoroughfares in L.A. proper.
I shouldn't be shocked by gridlock having lived on the Westside for ten years, but I am. Even more loco was Sunset Blvd. on the night of the Madonna concert at Dodger Stadium. I couldn't believe it. Eastbound traffic so bad that signals would change without a single car moving. And Frank McCourt wants to develop Elysian Park???!! What a crock. It's already hideous getting into the park and nothing has ever been done to alleviate the mess of hundreds of thousands of cars trying to get through quaint streets. Developers stink.
My job was to dig up grass where she wanted to add a couple of cement squares along the driveway. My tool was a shovel, which I used to chip into the grass before having enough "give" to fully dig into it.
Having just blow-dryed my body in an effort to warm up from our cold house, I started this task wearing jeans, a long-sleeved pajama top, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt. About midway through I put a belt on to avoid "plumber's crack" and steadied my top half with a bra. By the end of it all, the sweatshirt was on the grass and my jeans were caked in dirt. I sweated and sneezed throughout the dig but admit there is something nice about earning my keep with this manual labor, blisters and all.
After my outdoor work, I thumbed through the L.A. Times and the Daily Breeze. The Daily Breeze is a slim local paper that is one half AP stories and one half stories about the South Bay. In honor of the start of the city football playoffs, the Breeze's sports section had a big article on Carson High School's football team. My team, Banning High, got a small paragraph about their match against Crenshaw High.
My favorite Times article of the day was one of those "no duh" stories: "Traffic Rises As Gas Prices Fall." Oh really? Anyone on the roads this month could've figured that one out. I drove up La Brea to Melrose, then down La Cienega to Jefferson the other morning and it was hell. It wasn't even rush hour. Perhaps if gas prices stayed high there'd be some real movement towards alternative modes of transportation. I'm not even a commuter and I can't stand it!
The more I live in the South Bay where the traffic flows, the less life in the city appeals to me. Sure, I miss out on concerts and happy hours and spontaneous access to friends but at least I am sane behind the wheel. I'm not saying there isn't traffic down here but it's nowhere nearly as awful as on the major thoroughfares in L.A. proper.
I shouldn't be shocked by gridlock having lived on the Westside for ten years, but I am. Even more loco was Sunset Blvd. on the night of the Madonna concert at Dodger Stadium. I couldn't believe it. Eastbound traffic so bad that signals would change without a single car moving. And Frank McCourt wants to develop Elysian Park???!! What a crock. It's already hideous getting into the park and nothing has ever been done to alleviate the mess of hundreds of thousands of cars trying to get through quaint streets. Developers stink.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Tea For Two
Until I find a job, I am living with my mom in Wilmington, California.
Wilmington is about 20 miles south of downtown Los Angeles but it's a world away in many respects. It's an industrial town surrounded by refineries, a sanitation plant, and the Port of Los Angeles. Container trucks rumble down the streets, trains block traffic, and oil companies regularly set off bursts of flames from what look like oversized concrete candles.
Wilmington is not pretty but it is a community. Generations of families pass through Banning High School's doors; new friends and neighbors are likely to be related or married to old friends and neighbors; and the mostly working-class residents are a proud bunch. Some even want to improve the neighborhood, as is the case with Nacho and Alma Velasquez, the owners of Hojas, the new tea house in town.
Hojas (meaning "leaves" in Spanish) is an anomaly here. Wilmington doesn't have a Starbucks or a Ralphs, let alone a place specializing in premium teas.
I spotted the business a couple of weeks back. It's in a Pacific Coast Highway mini-mall next door to a Salvadorian restaurant, a liquor store, a nail salon, and a taco truck. What caught my eye was the store's signage: a simply painted facade that reads "Tea House" in a nice font. You can't really see into the store because of its tinted windows, but the tasteful lettering seemed like a good sign -- it looked like a shop you'd see on the Westside or some gentrified part of L.A.
I pointed the store out to my mom today and she suggested we stop in. As suspected, the space is nicely decorated in a clean, modern style. There's a bar on one side where patrons can sip and sample teas, and there are tables and leather seats for wi-fi work and socializing in the main space.
Shortly after we walked in, Hojas's owner Nacho invited us to sample some teas at the bar. He explained some of the benefits of his teas and brewed us two types of green teas -- one plain, and the other mixed with a flowery substance I forgot the name of.
Nacho and his wife Alma both grew up in Wilmington and have been tea devotees for a decade. They opened the store in September and celebrated their grand opening this past Saturday with tea ceremonies, a live band, and samples.
Nacho said their clientele is a mix of locals, tea connosisseurs, and Palos Verdes housewives who stumble upon the shop while passing through town for pee-wee football games. People from Palos Verdes don't usually step foot into the town or patronize local businesses, so it's encouraging that they put aside their fears and/or prejudices to enjoy a cup of tea.
Hojas sells tea pots, cups, and saucers as well as an assortment of herbal tonics, herbs, and organic and loose leaf teas. It hosts tea parties and events and has its walls decorated with black-and-white photographs by Banning High alumni.
My mother and I were both impressed by Hojas and are going to patronize it. Tea really isn't my thing but if drinking it means I can help keep this business afloat, I'll do it.
Wilmington is about 20 miles south of downtown Los Angeles but it's a world away in many respects. It's an industrial town surrounded by refineries, a sanitation plant, and the Port of Los Angeles. Container trucks rumble down the streets, trains block traffic, and oil companies regularly set off bursts of flames from what look like oversized concrete candles.
Wilmington is not pretty but it is a community. Generations of families pass through Banning High School's doors; new friends and neighbors are likely to be related or married to old friends and neighbors; and the mostly working-class residents are a proud bunch. Some even want to improve the neighborhood, as is the case with Nacho and Alma Velasquez, the owners of Hojas, the new tea house in town.
Hojas (meaning "leaves" in Spanish) is an anomaly here. Wilmington doesn't have a Starbucks or a Ralphs, let alone a place specializing in premium teas.
I spotted the business a couple of weeks back. It's in a Pacific Coast Highway mini-mall next door to a Salvadorian restaurant, a liquor store, a nail salon, and a taco truck. What caught my eye was the store's signage: a simply painted facade that reads "Tea House" in a nice font. You can't really see into the store because of its tinted windows, but the tasteful lettering seemed like a good sign -- it looked like a shop you'd see on the Westside or some gentrified part of L.A.
I pointed the store out to my mom today and she suggested we stop in. As suspected, the space is nicely decorated in a clean, modern style. There's a bar on one side where patrons can sip and sample teas, and there are tables and leather seats for wi-fi work and socializing in the main space.
Shortly after we walked in, Hojas's owner Nacho invited us to sample some teas at the bar. He explained some of the benefits of his teas and brewed us two types of green teas -- one plain, and the other mixed with a flowery substance I forgot the name of.
Nacho and his wife Alma both grew up in Wilmington and have been tea devotees for a decade. They opened the store in September and celebrated their grand opening this past Saturday with tea ceremonies, a live band, and samples.
Nacho said their clientele is a mix of locals, tea connosisseurs, and Palos Verdes housewives who stumble upon the shop while passing through town for pee-wee football games. People from Palos Verdes don't usually step foot into the town or patronize local businesses, so it's encouraging that they put aside their fears and/or prejudices to enjoy a cup of tea.
Hojas sells tea pots, cups, and saucers as well as an assortment of herbal tonics, herbs, and organic and loose leaf teas. It hosts tea parties and events and has its walls decorated with black-and-white photographs by Banning High alumni.
My mother and I were both impressed by Hojas and are going to patronize it. Tea really isn't my thing but if drinking it means I can help keep this business afloat, I'll do it.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Intro -- My First Post On This Site
Hello all. This is my new blog. I've moved it from MySpace so that anyone can access it at anytime. This more public space is also good inspiration to blog more often, as I've dropped off in recent months.
I'll be writing about anything that crosses my mind, whether personal, political, or purposeless.
I'm reading Stephen King's memoir, On Writing, right now and in it, he advises would-be writers to write at least ten pages a day and to read as much as possible. The TV is the enemy in his mind. As much as I agree, I've already spent hours vegging out to What Not To Wear, Project Runway, and the Real Housewives of Atlanta and don't think I'll give up the boob tube entirely.
King's book has helped me realize that I'm not a writer as I've claimed in the past, but rather someone with mild interest in the craft. I am competant, sure, but not at the same level as people who sit down every day for hours and can rightfully be labeled "writers." I wrote for a living for seven years, yes, but it is definitely not the only thing I am capable of doing. The writer's lifestyle is romantic but I don't have it in me to be a freelancer. I am a 9-5 kind of gal. I like steady paychecks.
So for now, I'll just write about whatever suits my fancy and save delusions of granduer and bestsellers for later. I'm thinking there will be lots of music, movie, and TV musings as well as my take on unemployment and living at home again.
One thing that's on my mind today is the movie Slumdog Millionaire. I read glowing reviews of it and fell for the hype. I should know better: no movie is ever as good as critics make it out to be. I wanted it to be fantastic for a couple of reasons: 1) I think Danny Boyle is a great director, 2) I like "feel good" movies, and 3) Slumdog was the first movie I was going to see in a theater with my new boyfriend Chris, and I wanted it to be memorable.
What Slumdog turned out to be was a perfectly competant tale of a poor Indian kid's journey to winning 20 million rupees on TV. The main character is a contestant on the Indian version of Who Wants To Be A Millioniare and is arrested for cheating on the show. As he's interrogated and tortured by the police, flashbacks reveal how he came to learn information vital to his TV win even though he was poor and uneducated. The other main characters in the movie are the tough brother and the beautiful female friend, and it's no mystery who ends up with whom in the end.
I rooted for a movie in the vein of Danny Boyle's tearjerker Millions or his flawed, but touching, Sunshine, but didn't like it as much as those titles (I cried like a baby watching Millions and highly recommend it, and stand behind Sunshine for the first two-thirds of the movie.) That said, Slumdog was better than your average movie and made the sights and sounds of India come alive. There was also social commentary that didn't hit you over the head and that's a good thing.
On my never-before-revealed ratings system (pay full price, see it at a matinee, wait for DVD, maybe catch it on TV, or forget about it entirely), I say wait to see Slumdog Millionaire on DVD.
As for some of the other movies I've seen lately, here are my opinions: Waitress was a dud -- forget about it, Black Book was solid matinee/DVD fare featuring lots of toplessness by the attractive lead actress; A Man And A Woman is a French classic worthy of a Netflix; The Lives Of Others is full price material; Michael Clayton is matinee/DVD material; I'm Not There is only for Bob Dylan fans catching it on TV; and The Darjeeling Limited should be renamed the DarjeeLAME Limited-- do not see it, even on TV.
I'll be writing about anything that crosses my mind, whether personal, political, or purposeless.
I'm reading Stephen King's memoir, On Writing, right now and in it, he advises would-be writers to write at least ten pages a day and to read as much as possible. The TV is the enemy in his mind. As much as I agree, I've already spent hours vegging out to What Not To Wear, Project Runway, and the Real Housewives of Atlanta and don't think I'll give up the boob tube entirely.
King's book has helped me realize that I'm not a writer as I've claimed in the past, but rather someone with mild interest in the craft. I am competant, sure, but not at the same level as people who sit down every day for hours and can rightfully be labeled "writers." I wrote for a living for seven years, yes, but it is definitely not the only thing I am capable of doing. The writer's lifestyle is romantic but I don't have it in me to be a freelancer. I am a 9-5 kind of gal. I like steady paychecks.
So for now, I'll just write about whatever suits my fancy and save delusions of granduer and bestsellers for later. I'm thinking there will be lots of music, movie, and TV musings as well as my take on unemployment and living at home again.
One thing that's on my mind today is the movie Slumdog Millionaire. I read glowing reviews of it and fell for the hype. I should know better: no movie is ever as good as critics make it out to be. I wanted it to be fantastic for a couple of reasons: 1) I think Danny Boyle is a great director, 2) I like "feel good" movies, and 3) Slumdog was the first movie I was going to see in a theater with my new boyfriend Chris, and I wanted it to be memorable.
What Slumdog turned out to be was a perfectly competant tale of a poor Indian kid's journey to winning 20 million rupees on TV. The main character is a contestant on the Indian version of Who Wants To Be A Millioniare and is arrested for cheating on the show. As he's interrogated and tortured by the police, flashbacks reveal how he came to learn information vital to his TV win even though he was poor and uneducated. The other main characters in the movie are the tough brother and the beautiful female friend, and it's no mystery who ends up with whom in the end.
I rooted for a movie in the vein of Danny Boyle's tearjerker Millions or his flawed, but touching, Sunshine, but didn't like it as much as those titles (I cried like a baby watching Millions and highly recommend it, and stand behind Sunshine for the first two-thirds of the movie.) That said, Slumdog was better than your average movie and made the sights and sounds of India come alive. There was also social commentary that didn't hit you over the head and that's a good thing.
On my never-before-revealed ratings system (pay full price, see it at a matinee, wait for DVD, maybe catch it on TV, or forget about it entirely), I say wait to see Slumdog Millionaire on DVD.
As for some of the other movies I've seen lately, here are my opinions: Waitress was a dud -- forget about it, Black Book was solid matinee/DVD fare featuring lots of toplessness by the attractive lead actress; A Man And A Woman is a French classic worthy of a Netflix; The Lives Of Others is full price material; Michael Clayton is matinee/DVD material; I'm Not There is only for Bob Dylan fans catching it on TV; and The Darjeeling Limited should be renamed the DarjeeLAME Limited-- do not see it, even on TV.
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