The future of this LiveJournal account

I don't even know if I have anyone who watches this LiveJournal account anymore, but if you do, you can clearly see that I haven't been keeping it up. For a while I had it set to crosspost from my main blog ( but for some reason, due to some bizarre CDN setting that I probably screwed up while in a drunken fog, the images either didn't port over right, or did, and then later got screwed up ... I have no idea. No interest in troubleshooting that dumb little bug. So forget it.

Which leaves me with this LiveJournal account that I haven't much use for. But then, it's a permanent account, which I paid like $150 or some ungodly amount for many, many years ago. So I wonder what I should do with it. Maybe I'll use LiveJournal as my SUPER SECRET HIDEOUT where I can post all sorts of secret stuff. Do they still let you change your username on LiveJournal? I wonder if I could go back to my original username. It would be like the circle unbroken and all that.

Ah, LiveJournal. We've seen so much, you and I. This is like a trip down memory lane. There's a beautiful simplicity to LiveJournal that I'd forgotten.
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I saw Philip Glass last night!

I'll never wash these eyes again!

They're having this five-day series through PICA (that's the Portland Institute for Creative Arts, not the malady suffered during pregnancy in which the pregnant woman craves clay, ash, lime or other weird indigestible things) called "Philip on Film" during which La Philip and his Fanjoobulous Band provide live accompaniment to some of the films he's scored. I took a pass on Poyasquattsi, Koyannisquatsi and Dracula (The soundtrack for Dracula didn't turn my crank and I've seen Koyannisquatsi about eighteen quadzillion times) but there was one that I just couldn't miss--Jean Cocteau's "Beauty and the Beast."

Yow! What a superb film! What sublime music! What utterly crappy seating! (hard steel & vinyl chairs, the kind you find in a Holiday Inn Banquet room)

I got all dressed up in a short black wool skirt, a purple silk noil shirt, and to set off my embroidered raw silk clutch purse, my NEW black velvet coat! (it came the other day, it's so lovely.) I wore Todd Oldham* perfume, my favorite.

*Note to Karl Mamer ... sorry, it was the only brand name I could drop! I buy everything else wholesale! Horrors! ;-)

Oh, how sophisticated I felt walking through the Portland Art Museum's sculpture gallery, with all the trees lit up with little white christmas lights. How chic I felt mingling with all the very intellectual-looking Philip Glass fans, with their tortoise-shell rimmed glasses and their very black clothing and their vaguely New Yorkish air of boredom and disdain! How sore my butt felt after two hours of sitting in those crappy chairs!

After the performance, Philip signed CDs. Luckily, I'd had the forethought to tuck a couple of CDs into my pretty little purse against such an eventuality. I was second in line and he signed my copy of his exquisite Symphony Number Five. Then he passed it to Michael Reissman, the conductor of that night's performance, and Monsieur Reissman signed it also. Which is kinda lame, given that Monsieur Reismann had nothing to do with Symphony Number Five, that I can tell. So what, you just sign something that you didn't have anything to do with? That seems a bit cheesy in my book. I mean, if I'm ever a famous author at a swank booksigning, and someone hands me a Terry Pratchett book, I'm sure as hell not going to ink my name on the inside cover, you can take that to the bank!

Anyhow, the signing was all very anticlimactic. Of course, I wanted to say something very clever and memorable to him, like "Your work means so very much to me, genius God man!!!!!!!!!" (with all those exclamation points indicated by little spasmodic up & down bounces) but when the man signs autographs, he does so like a machine; head down, completely focussed on his work. Pass the CD, sign. Pass the CD, sign. Pass the CD, sign. Can't talk. Signing.

Oh well. What do I care if Philip Glass knows I like his music? More importantly, what the hell does Philip Glass care if I like his music?

It was a fun evening all around. And when I got home, I found that my husband and daughter had baked me a huge chocolate chip cookie, rather burnt.

Of course, I ate it.

Moulin Rouge

There are people in this world who have decency in their souls and an appreciation for artistic taste and refinement. Then there are people who liked Moulin Rouge.

After seeing this garish cavalcade of stink, I left the theater and rushed to my Web browser, searching for reviews, hoping to indulge myself in a chuckle or two over what I was sure would be scathing reviews.

But most of the reviews weren't scathing. Ebert and Interchangable Asshole gave it two full-toothed, make-sure-the-money-is-in-small-bills thumbs up. Heck, even the wank on NPR's Fresh Air didn't tear it the new bunghole it deserved to have torn. He was cautious. Said it was "flawed" but "satisfying" on several levels.

I suppose it was satisfying, in the same way one feels satisfied when one is really ill and one disburdens oneself of the contents of ones stomach and thus, feels somewhat better.

I was offended not only by the movie--which was ravishingly gorgeous but completely lacking in content, probably much like a roll in the hay with Pamela Anderson--but by the fact that I am obviously drifting so far out of the rapid torrent of mainstream opinion. I was so certain that Moulin Rouge would be universally despised. And now, lo and behold, it's become quite the popular little number.

How can this be? It's like waking up one morning and seeing the sky turned to the color of grass and having no one think this fact odd or unusual. A very disquieting feeling.

Well, I knew it would happen someday. I knew I would fall off the cultural merry-go-round all together and become a bitter, kvetching old woman, taking pot-shots at the "young people" and "that garbage they call entertainment." I just didn't think it would happen at age 32.

What the hell was Baz Luhrmann thinking, anyway? Was he just trying to be original? If so, what was up with the hackneyed, stale, no-good-excuse-for-a plot? How about being original by writing a movie that is interesting, entertaining, AND beautiful to look at? (I want to live in the elephant, by the way.)

It's true, I admit it, visually, this film was an eyepopper. Those reds! Those blues! But instead of redeeming this vastness of suck, the gorgeousness of its production made it's other flaws all the more tragic. Can you imagine a movie this luscious with a real plot? With a real avant-garde edge? That would be too much for most people to bear, I guess. We'd all pass out dead in the theater from an overdose of magnificence and wake up in Heaven and be disappointed at the substandard lighting effects and insufficient color saturation. More gold in the halos, people! More rouge on the archangels! And let's get some top 40 hits playing in the background, can't we? This is HEAVEN, for christ's sake!

Oh, I wanted this movie to be so much better! When I saw the trailer a few weeks ago, I was flattened. My jaw dropped. My heart raced. It was so much like my dreams I couldn't stand it. I honestly felt like crying. And even as the trailer ended, the horrible prayer formed on my lips--please God, don't let this movie suck.

I've only been that seduced by a trailer twice before in my life. The first time was the trailer for Brazil. And that was the most joyous event of my life, because I saw the film and it was actually better than I could have hoped. I stayed in the theater and watched it again before floating home on an orgasmic cloud. Then, there was the trailer for Beetlejuice. I was similarly ravished, and I skipped class to catch the first matinee. But I was betrayed! Beetlejuice stunk! How could it be? How could that fabulous trailer have disguised a film that consisted entirely of Michael Keaton pratfalling and Geena Davis looking all bug-eyed and creepy?

Anyhow, with Moulin Rouge I was determined to keep my chin up and let the chips fall where they might. I maintained my cheerful optimism and cockeyed hope. True to form, I skipped work to see the first matinee. My God, but that was a long five hours. I squirmed in my seat, wondering what mediocre "hit" they were going to butcher next (I would never have thought it possible to butcher "Like a Virgin,"--can you kill a pig that's already dead?--but Luhrmann seems to have taken this as a challenge, rather than a caution.)

The snap for me came at the part of the movie, when Jim Broadbent is talking about "Spectacular Spectacular" and he refers to it as the "all-singing, all-dancing" something or other. At that moment, I couldn't get the Fight Club quote out of my head (nod to Chuck Palanhiuk, like he needs a nod from me): "We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world."

So true.