Radical Transparency

(in case the other blogs need a friend)

On Folding

He clumsily tried to fold her into his arms, a bit like folding a bottom fitted king-size sheet but not getting it right and starting over and getting it wrong again and finally saying oh the hell with it.

The Spectator calls that a "toe-curlingly bad analogy." Andrew Sullivan seems to agree, though he does offer some approval by calling it a "beaut." I'm a less critical audience; I call it metaphorical genius.

'Cause If You Do

I like that this isn't a straight love proclamation. It's contingent on same-pageness. Which is a pretty good contingency, as contingencies go.

And I like that it's weird because it's Ween and it's not weird.

Stay Forever is track 10 on White Pepper.

(download)

Lyrics, Karma, and the Hot Hot Heat

How do people feel about loving a song but not loving the message a song's poetry sends?

The track below is a mild example. Sarcastic wishes for vengeful romantic karma.

And, if, with mild, I'm referring to salsa, which I can be if you want me to be, look no further than Tupac for the hot hot heat.

I think Willie Nelson might have written Funny How Time Slips Away. Not sure how this version was originally released, however. Maybe on a CD single that's not available on Amazon anymore? Maybe only on Al Green's More Greatest Hits.

(download)

Love and Popsicles

I think I might be checking in on this site every once in a while.

At first, I thought there was something a little bit suspect about the concept.  I don't love comparisons.  They make me think of favorites.  Favorite pets, favorite friends, favorite children.

But I'm coming around.  Comparing apples to cubist clay sculpture works in a way that apples to oranges simply doesn't.

I love you more than I love popsicles.

Exactly.

One Thing Led to Another

Back from DC.

Opened Google Reader.

Skimmed a few articles.

Saw that Fred Wilson had written something new.

He saw Slumdog Millionaire last night, loved it, and posted the trailer.

As I started watching, I realized it was the same movie I'd heard Danny Boyle talk about on NPR the other day.  India.  Destiny.  The land of spirit contradictions.  The land of joy and love and beggars that maim themselves because a blind kid fills the coin cup faster than one that can see.

Doyle said he wouldn't have had the courage to make the movie had he known anything substantial about India before he arrived.

I wondered what made him make Trainspotting.

And what made Ewan McGregor make Trainspotting.

And then I thought of Brassed Off, a movie I watched in fast forward, in Culver City, CA, on the Sony lot, working in casting on The Patriot.  We were looking for a love interest for Mel Gibson.  Tara Fitzgerald was an option.  My job was to find all scenes in all movies she'd made in which she either acted well or looked especially beautiful.

One of those scenes I'll never forget.  Ewan and Tara are musicians.  They have romantic history.  It's ancient.  But she's recently back in town, and they've been playing together and then out hanging with a barful of other musicians.  Ewan walks her home.  And they get to her door...

(Imagine amazingly thick non-Parliamentary British accents.)

Tara: Do you want to come up for some coffee?
Ewan: I don't drink coffee.
Tara: I don't either.

Brilliant.

With Your Carefully Designed Topless Swimsuit

Accidentally put this song on this morning.  Hadn't heard it in months.  I love it when that happens. 

He wants to look inside her head.  And he can.  Which is exciting.

If the song doesn't grab you, watch Hotel Chevalier, and I bet it will.

Where Do You Go To (My Lovely) is track 1 on The Darjeeling Limited Soundtrack.

(download)

Like Internet Dating, Only Better

Jenny the Bloggess is hilarious and probably totally ridiculously gorgeous in real life, so my plan is sweep her off her feet with love comments and convince her to marry me.

I made my first attempt last Thursday when she posted a transcribed conversation in which her husband called her the world's greatest grampa (with an m) and refused to buy her a new curly straw...

Please dump Victor and marry me. I'll give you hats and straws and burritos AND zebra stripe gum. If you're not sick of zebra stripe gum, of course, which I guess you would be if you smell it all day long. But that would imply that you smell your feet all day long, which I don't mean to imply, because I'm pretty sure you'd never do anything weird like that. Though it isn't weird if you do it, because I can imagine that if my feet smelled as good as yours, I might strategically slip out of my shoes and let the zebra smells waft more often. But I wouldn't really know how these things work because my feet smell like feet (I think), and I don't even know what zebra stripe gum is. Which I should never have admitted because if my friend Danny is right that he'll never marry a girl that's never heard of A Tribe Called Quest, then there's no way you'll marry a guy that's never heard of what's probably the best gum ever invented. Man. Bummer. Tell Victor he wins for today. But I'll try again…

No response.  Yet.  Which is ok.  I don't expect one.  Yet. 

I will continue commenting.  And hoping and dreaming.

Her most recent post is about ground squirrels and spelling mistakes, however.  Not the most romantic subject.  Which makes it tough to comment effectively. Which is a worry.  But I realize that these things take patience.  So I'm going to go to sleep and think about it and see how I feel in the morning.