Someone with too much time on their hands animated some of Eddie Izzard's funniest bits by means of Legos.

Most likely not safe for work for language. Use some headphones.

Death by tray it shall be!

Do You Have a Flag?

Posted by: Kathy at 08:38 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 43 words, total size 1 kb.

It is May 22, 2008. Today Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is released to the general public. Meaning me.

Good God. I'm tweaked.

C'mon Kath. You know what a cautious fellow I am.

And that's precisely the problem here.

The lure of one of my childhood heroes coming back to the screen for the first time since I was fresh out of high school. Of course I'm going to go and see it. I have to go and see it. I can't avoid it. This is the equivalent of the husband missing the Star Wars prequels. I know it's probably going to suck, diminishing the entire series in the meantime, but I can't freakin' help myself. I MUST go and be reaquainted with Indy. Even though I know it will probably disappoint me terribly.

Sigh.

I have a bit of a confession to make: I actually wrote an Indiana Jones screenplay. Back in 1997. Well before they ever started talking about a sequel. It was one of my first forays into writing, and while I actually had no clue as to how to put a screenplay together (and still really don't, despite reading many books on the subject), I recently found it again, and I have to admit, it wasn't that bad. Except for the fact that a. I couldn't come up with a decent artifact and b. it lacks an ending. I set it in the summer of 1953 and the plot was centered around the young Shah of Iran. If you're not familiar with that point in time, it was pivotal in modern Iranian history, as Mohammed Mussadeq led the Iranian Majlis or parliament, to nationalize the Iranian oil industry. This shut down the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company, which did not please, to say the least, the Tory party of Winston Churchill and future Prime Minister, Anthony Eden. They enlisted the help of the Einsenhower Administration, and the Brothers Dulles, to do something about that pesky Mussadeq, who was proving incredibly popular in Iran, thus weakening the Shah. Alan Dulles sent in Kermit Roosevelt, grandson of Teddy, to foment a military coup, to keep the Shah on the throne (because that was iffy at that point in time) and to marginalize (and that's a nice way of putting it) Mussadeq. Ultimately, Roosevelt was successful and, in the process, actually managed, to reassure the Shah that the Western powers were behind him, to get the British Government to have Big Ben strike the hour erroneously. (Yes, that's where the Bond people got that from. It actually happened.) The BBC World Service still, to this very day, begins every hour of programming with the chiming bells of Big Ben. When the bells rang one more time than was necessary, the Shah was assured of their intentions to keep him on the throne.

But I digress. While, ultimately, the Shah was kept in place, at that point it was iffy in the extreme.

Indy, at the time, was not-so comfortably ensconced in his professorial duties, and had pretty much put his derring-do's behind him. Until, one day, at a conference in New York, he was confronted by a young history professor, the daughter of diplomats, who'd spent the years of WWII as a teenage OSS courier in Teheran, where her father was stationed. An envelope of photos---some of Indy, some of Marion---has anonymously been mailed to her. She doesn't know why, but by coincidence, she recognizes Indy at the conference and confronts him with the photos, wondering what the hell is going on.

And we're off.

The young woman, Kate, of course, was Indy and Marion's child. She had been put up for adoption by Abner, Marion's father, and Henry Sr., who had cleaned up Indy's mess, of which, Indy was unaware. (The whole thing started off with a young grad student Indy and Marion hooking up, Abner finding out about it and being, understandably, PISSED OFF about his daughter's deflowering. After an entertaining chase scene through 1920's Chicago, Abner caught up with young Indy, the metaphorical shotgun was wielded, and while he was initially willing to go along with the marriage scheme, because he truly was in love with Marion, Indy ultimately couldn't go through with the plan and bolted.) I came up with this cockamamie idea after watching and rewatching the Nepalese bar scene in Raiders, and wondering, ultimately, what the story was. So, because I never got an explanation, I made one up.

Fast forward through CIA intervention, Marion's being held hostage, Indy finally realizing he's procreated, promises of the return of the Ark to Indy wielded in exchange for help in finding an artifact the Shah desperately believes he needs to stay in power, the Russians being not so cool about this, Indy learning that modern airplanes (well, modern in 1953) have hydraulics and when they're shot to bits, it's kind of hard to control a plane, a trip to Persepolis to retrieve an artifact Darius the Great (I think. I don't really remember.)had brought back from Ancient Greece with him...and you have a morass of a screenplay that never really got anywhere. I tried not to throw the kitchen sink in there, but I couldn't quite help myself. I eventually gave up and consigned it to the scrapheap of failed ideas, of which I have plenty.

So, as you might imagine, I'm somewhat invested in viewing the new Indy. I want to know if my ideas were better. I wanted Indy to be extremely uncomfortable with the idea of having a daughter (who, of course, inherited Marion's hollow leg). I wanted Senior to be thrilled that he's finally allowed contact with his grandkid. I wanted Indy and Marion to hook back up, and for good. These were the ultimate goals of the film I envisioned, but I also wanted it to be the next goddamn Raiders. I didn't want it to suck. But it did. Badly. The original setting, and ideas might have been fairly decent, I needed help with the execution. I needed Lawrence Kasdan, and it was obvious I wasn't going to get him. I had all sorts of fantasies about how I would give the screenplay to an acquaintance who had moved to the Hamptons for a job, and he would, somehow, slip it to Spielberg. I was pathetic, and ultimately, it was pathetic. Besides, at that point in time Lucas was wrapped up in re-releasing the altered versions of Episodes IV, V, VI. Spielberg had, seemingly, moved on to bigger and better filmmaking, with Saving Private Ryan in his immediate future. And, most importantly, Harrison Ford had repeatedly said he had no intention of EVER revisiting Indiana Jones. It was unlikely, even if I had a. finished it and b. dramatically polished it up, that it would ever get made, so what was I wasting my time on? Hence, I gave up. Maybe I shouldn't have.

So, this thing HAD BETTER NOT SUCK. I am entirely worried that there are entirely too many reviews which list all its faults, but whose authors qualify their criticism with their overwhelming happiness that Indy is back. While I'm as happy as the next person that Indy is back (and that Marion is back, too.), I want his return to not have a sucky story attached to it. I do not want another Temple of Doom. I would prefer another Raiders, but that's unlikely, so I'll settle for something along the lines of Last Crusade. Something that leaves me with warm, fuzzy feelings for my favorite anti-hero.

But what the fuck am I saying? That makes me just as bad as the critics. How low have I, and others like me, let the bar drop when we say we just want Indy to come out alive. Fer chrissakes, I'm disgusted with myself for letting my expectations fall so low.

Alas, however, I shall hand over my nine dollars sometime over this long weekend, and I intend to vent my spleen if it, indeed, sucks.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:40 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 1347 words, total size 8 kb.

Received via email from various friends and family.

Numero Uno: Why Did The Chicken Cross the Road?

BARACK OBAMA:

The chicken crossed the road because it was time for a CHANGE! The chicken wanted CHANGE!

JOHN McCAIN:

My friends, that chicken crossed the road because he recognized the need to engage in cooperation and dialogue with all the chickens on the other side of the road.

HILLARY CLINTON:

When I was First Lady, I personally helped that little chicken to cross the road. This experience makes me uniquely qualified to ensure -- right from Day One! -- that every chicken in this country gets the chance it deserves to cross the road. But then, this really isn't about me.......

DR. PHIL:

The problem we have here is that this chicken won't realize that he must first deal with the problem on 'THIS' side of the road before it goes after the problem on the 'OTHER SIDE' of the road. What we need to do is help him realize how stupid he's acting by not taking on his 'CURRENT' problems before adding 'NEW' problems.

OPRAH:

Well, I understand that the chicken is having problems, which is why he wants to cross this road so bad. So instead of having the chicken learn from his mistakes and take falls, which is a part of life, I'm going to give this chicken a car so that he can just drive across the road and not live his life like the rest of the chickens.

GEORGE W. BUSH:

We don't really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.

ANDERSON COOPER - CNN:

We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.

JOHN KERRY:

Although I voted to let the chicken cross the road, I am now against it! It was the wrong road to cross, and I was misled about the chicken's intentions. I am not for it now, and will remain against it.

NANCY GRACE:

That chicken crossed the road because he's GUILTY! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks.

PAT BUCHANAN:

To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.

DR SEUSS:

Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad?

Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY:

To die in the rain. Alone.

JERRY FALWELL:

Because the chicken was gay! Can't you people see the plain truth? That's why they call it the 'other side. Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the liberal media white washes with seemingly harmless phrases like 'the other side. That chicken should not be crossing the road. It's as plain and as simple as that.

GRANDPA:

In my day we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough..

BARBARA WALTERS:

Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish its life long dream of crossing the road.

ARISTOTLE:

It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

JOHN LENNON:

Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together, in peace.

BILL GATES:

I have just released eChicken2007, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your check book. Internet Explorer is an integral part of the Chicken. This new platform is much more stable and will never cra...#@&&;,^(C% ......... Reboot.

ALBERT EINSTEIN:

Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

BILL CLINTON:

I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What is your definition of chicken?

COLONEL SANDERS:

Did I miss one?

DICK CHENEY:

Where's my gun?

Personally, I think Einstein's contribution is quite clever.

The second, from dear friend Mel, who lives in Northern-ish England:

Working people frequently ask retired people what they do to make their days interesting.

Well, for example, the other day my wife and I went to Worthing and went into a shop. We were only in there for about 5 minutes. When we came out, there was a cop writing out a parking ticket. We went up to him and said, 'Come on man, how about giving a senior citizen a break?' He ignored us and continued writing the ticket. I called him a Nazi turd. He glared at me and started writing another ticket for having worn tyres.

So my wife called him a Shithead . He finished the second ticket and put it on the windshield with the first. Then he started writing a third ticket.

This went on for about 20 minutes. The more we abused him, the more tickets he wrote.

Personally, we didn't care. We came into town by bus.

We try to have a little fun each day now that we're retired. It's important at our age...

Heh.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:55 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 919 words, total size 5 kb.

1 My favorite is always: ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die in the rain. Alone.

Posted by: Margi at May 22, 2008 03:00 PM (M2NT5)

2 WWAFD? (What Would Al Franken Do?) Sorry. I hadda.

Posted by: Margi at May 22, 2008 08:36 PM (M2NT5)

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Devoted Cake Eater reader, Russ from Winterset, points moi to this post, where his final pre-diabetic eating experience is recorded for all the world to see.

See if you can spot him.

I know Russ recapped his experiences over at Ace's, but damned if I can find the post. Maybe Russ can help out here because, ahem, it's not like he doesn't have Cake Eater access, ya dig?

Posted by: Kathy at 09:24 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Per rabid commenter, Russ from Winterset's, recommendation we watched The Great Escape last night. Again. For, like, the fiftieth time.

All I can say really is, again, damn Steve McQueen to hell for making me CONSTANTLY believe he's going to make it over the fence. Grrrrrrr. I'm really getting tired of being suckered by him.

Oh, and another thing I noticed last night: whomever was in charge of continuity on that film really needed to pay more attention to Donald Pleasence's (Colin, the Forger, and the character who strikes a blow for blind guys everywhere to escape from Nazi POW camps) socks. They're white when he gets on the trolley to go down the tunnel, then they're gray when he's helped off the trolley by Richard Attenborough's Roger, then they're white again as he's getting into the plane with Hendley. Someone wasn't paying attention, ya dig?

Granted, however, it took me fifty viewings to notice this, so, perhaps, I'm being a little too picky.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:36 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 176 words, total size 1 kb.

Yes, my devoted Cake Eater readers, it's time to lighten things up a bit around here.

I present for your edification on this fine Wednesday morning....The Muppets.

If, perhaps, that was a bit too blowsy for you, well, then I shall give you a bit of depth. But the Muppet theme still rules, so it won't get too deep, hence negating the whole lightening of things.

Feel better? I do.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:23 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 76 words, total size 1 kb.

Even though I don't really feel like it.

A couple of things, though, in the ever handy bullet format.

• I'm feeling much better, thanks for asking. But the infection and the subsequent yuckiness really took the wind out of my sails. I keep waiting to get my energy back, and it does come back in short bursts, but then I crash. Again, I guess this is just yet another lesson in how fragile our bodies can be and while they can take a substantial amount of abuse, it does take some time to get back up and running.
• As far as where we stand on the pain in the ass lymphocele, well, that's a long story. Last week, once I'd recovered from the infection, I called in to Dr. Academic's office, to see where we went from there. The nurses jointly decided they wanted to see me, to check out my still-weeping wound (yes, the lymphocele was actually draining out of the incision they'd made when they'd inserted the dreaded catheter). The nurse practitioner, a nice lady who I had met before, decided that they wanted me to keep the wound open for at least three weeks, and while I was in the shower every day, to press down on it, to get more fluid out, the theory behind this being that it would reduce the inflammation. The rest of the time, I needed to keep it clean and covered with gauze. To put it bluntly: yeeeeuch! I was skeptical it would work, but I went along with it, because, after the first try, it actually did seem to reduce the inflammation and the pain. I was to check back with them in three weeks, whence I'd probably have another scan to see where we were at.

  Unfortunately, however, the wound decided it, indeed, had a mind of its own and decided to close up the other day. It happened in about four hours, and there really wasn't much to do about it, other than call in and inform the nurses of what had happened. It was then decided that since the lympocele had, in actuality, shrunk up dramatically, according to the cat scan I had when I was in the ER, that they wanted to see if it would continue along that path. I was to report in if it became more painful or the pressure increased, but for the time being, we be on our own, kids.

  So, pretty much, we're right back where we started. The lymphocele is actually smaller. I can tell as much by feeling it, but there's been so much intervention that the scar tissue has become quite tough and it feels like there's a medium sized nugget in my lower left pelvis. It's rough. It's bumpy. And it shouldn't be there. The original pain that led me to go through all this nonsense is back, as is the numbness in my thigh. Sigh. Fortunately, they put me on a new, non-narcotic pain killer that actually works better than over the counter pain relievers. It's called Tramadol, and it's actually fairly decent and doesn't leave me loopy. I highly recommend it for anyone who doesn't want to go the Percocet/Vicodin route for any number of reasons.

  As far as surgery is concerned, the nurse practitioner is very much against it, because, mainly, it could just bring me right back to square one in the future, as in I might get another lymphocele because they went in and took this one out. Apparently, according to her, these things form, partly, because of the retractors they use during surgery, to hold the area open so the surgeons can work on the innards. It didn't make much sense to her to put me in the same situation, with the same tools in use, to solve the problem. I got the feeling that surgery wasn't off the table entirely, but that it would be a fairly drastic measure that they're not at all sure would work. It's sort of a Hail Mary, I gathered.

• I went to a luncheon yesterday at one of the local country clubs (you can't swing a dead cat in this neighborhood without hitting a country club. Or a spa, for that matter.) to "celebrate" the volunteers at the hospital. I think I'll skip going next year because, dear God in heaven, was it incredibly boring. Oy vey. We had to sit through two speeches, one from the president of the hospital, thanking us for all our hard work, and one from the customer service chief at the hospital, who, according to one of my table mates, had appropriated her speech from one of Oprah's latest online self-improvement seminars. Then we had a storyteller for "entertainment" purposes, and I had the "pleasure" of hearing "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" in Finnish. Woohoo! By the time the food arrived, we'd been sitting there for two and a half hours already and I was about ready to go, so I lied to my table mates and told them I hadn't expected this thing to go so long, and I had an appointment to go to, so I scooted out before dessert was served. My bad, but it allowed me to leave before I became absolutely exhausted, so I don't feel too badly about it, on the whole.

  Another weird thing was that they "honored" me for working 300 volunteer hours. I don't quite see how that's possible since I've only been volunteering since January. At four hours per week, that puts me at sixteen hours per month. Three months x 16= 48 hours. I know I picked up some extra shifts along the way, so the number is actually higher than that, but someone didn't do the math correctly.

• If you've got some extra room on your prayer list, throw one out there for one of my brothers, would ya? I'm not getting into it, because, honestly, that would be the last thing he needs at this point in time, suffice it to say, however, he's going through a very rough time right now and could use any happy thoughts/good vibes/prayers anyone would be willing to send his way.
• I would really appreciate it if spring would show up sometime soon. We had snow on Saturday. I shit you not. It's been freezing here, and I can't hardly believe that the first of May is tomorrow. This is just bullshit, and the husband and I are seriously considering moving south of the Mason-Dixon line. We're tired of it.
• The husband and I have a book launch party to go to tomorrow night and, as I've never been to a launch before, I haven't the foggiest idea of what to wear. If anyone has any clues, drop them in the comments section.

Hopefully, that will do you for a time, my devoted, yet neglected, Cake Eater readers.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:16 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 1162 words, total size 7 kb.

This afternoon I had the pleasure of speaking briefly with our beloved Kathy. While she is toughing it out in true dignified Cake Eater fashion, she is not feeling that well at the moment. The catheter that was inserted last week has developed an infection. She is presently on antibiotics and hopes to resume regular posting as soon as she is able.

Take care of yourself, Kathy.

You are loved.

Posted by: Christina at 05:40 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 76 words, total size 1 kb.

In no particular order:

• Goddamned dishwasher motor crapped out about a week and a half ago. (Yeah, because we all know how much Kathy enjoys washing dishes by hand!) The repair guy came last week, took ten minutes to diagnose the problem, and then, after collecting a check for this admirable task, left, because he didn't have the part in his truck. Fortunately, it was covered under warranty, but they'd have to ship it out to the house, said he, and he'd be back in a week to install it.

  The part shows up yesterday, but not before the repair company calls FOUR freakin' times to a. tell me to call them regarding my service call b. to make sure that the part is there c. to tell me to call them when the part gets there, to confirm my appointment and, finally, d. to confirm the appointment, again, in case the computer gnomes erased the appointment.

  I spent more time on the phone with these jokers than it took to replace the motor.

• Oh, and the dryer is broken, too. Refuses to tumble, or so I'm told by the various males who live in the building. The landlord has been informed. Whether or not he'll do anything about it in the near future, I have no idea. One can only hope, but the fact he lives in Ohio now doesn't really help facilitate the speedy repair of things around here.

  As the husband was completely out of underwear, I had to wash the white load, then hang it up to dry, like I was living in the seventeenth century or something. Even with Downy, you can probably imagine how nice and soft his boxers were this morning when he put them on.

  The socks are another story entirely. They could stand up of their own accord, and perform a song and dance number if they wanted to.

• The dreaded drain is a real pain. Both literally and figuratively speaking. It hurts, yes, but it's just not ideal to have to drag this bag around all the time. God Forbid anyone sees it, because the fluid is yellow and they'll probably get the wrong idea. They gave me this nifty velcro strap to thread through some holes on the bag, and, in theory, you're supposed to wrap this strap around some part of your body; the strap will hold the bag in place and no one will be any the wiser. In reality, however, the strap itches like a bad case of poison ivy, and since this is a gravity bag, it's supposed to go around my thigh, so it will drain properly. Of course, my vanity can't be bothered with the wearing of sweat pants all the time, so I place it up under my boobs when I go out, where an overly large flannel shirt of the husband's hides it perfectly. The nurse disapproves of this move, but, fuck it. My sweat pants are, also, dirty, and I can't wash them because, ahem, the dryer is broken. She'll have to deal. It's not like I'm heading out and leading a normal life all that much right now, anyway.

  And, of course, this being something related to my body, and of course, is now attached to my general bad luck, it's not working. I'm still producing copious amounts of drainage, so I have to back in tomorrow for another round of "Kathy is the Human Cocktail Shaker!"

  Oh, and have I mentioned that it's, on occasion, leaking?

  Good times, my devoted Cake Eater readers. Good times!

• From the National Weather Service in Chanhassen, Minnesota. Ahem.

  {...}RAIN WILL TRANSITION TO SNOW ACROSS WESTERN AND MUCH OF CENTRAL MINNESOTA THIS EVENING. THE SNOW MAY BE HEAVY AT TIMES DURING THE MID-EVENING INTO THE OVERNIGHT HOURS. ACCUMULATIONS BY DAYBREAK FRIDAY OF FOUR TO EIGHT INCHES ARE EXPECTED IN WEST CENTRAL MINNESOTA. MORE SNOW WILL OCCUR DURING THE DAY FRIDAY...WITH TWO TO FOUR INCHES OF ADDITIONAL ACCUMULATION. TOTAL SNOWFALL AMOUNTS OF SIX TO TEN INCHES ARE EXPECTED WITHIN THIS AREA...WITH POTENTIALLY NEAR A FOOT IN A SWATH FROM CANBY NORTHEASTWARD TOWARDS LITTLE FALLS. THE SNOW IN WESTERN AND CENTRAL MINNESOTA WILL ALSO BE ACCOMPANIED BY STRONG WINDS...WITH PATCHY BLOWING SNOW EXPECTED IN RURAL OPEN AREAS.

  IN THE WARNING AREA IN WEST CENTRAL WISCONSIN...PRECIPITATION IS
  EXPECTED TO TRANSITION TO SNOW THIS EVENING. IT MAY BRIEFLY BE
  HEAVY...WITH ACCUMULATIONS OF ONE TO THREE INCHES EXPECTED NORTH
  OF THE HIGHWAY 8 CORRIDOR. MORE SNOWFALL IS EXPECTED DURING THE
  DAY FRIDAY WITH AN ADDITIONAL TWO TO FIVE INCHES OF ACCUMULATION.
  STORM TOTAL SNOWFALL ALONG AND NORTH OF THE HIGHWAY 8 CORRIDOR IS
  EXPECTED TO BE FOUR TO SEVEN INCHES.

  WITHIN THE WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY A MIX OF PRECIPITATION IS
  EXPECTED THIS EVENING...WITH PREDOMINATELY LIGHT PRECIPITATION
  EXPECTED OVERNIGHT. A TRACE TO AS MUCH AS ONE INCH OF ACCUMULATION IS EXPECTED WITHIN THIS AREA TONIGHT. HOWEVER...PRECIPITATION WILL BE PREDOMINATELY SNOW ON FRIDAY WITHIN THIS AREA WITH AS MUCH AS TWO TO FOUR INCHES OF ACCUMULATION.

  THE HEAVY SNOW IS IN RESPONSE TO A LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM MOVING
  NORTHEAST FROM NEAR KANSAS CITY EARLY THIS EVENING TO NEAR
  MILWAUKEE BY FRIDAY EVENING.

  Get all that? No, I don't know how much snow we're supposed to get either.

  I just know that it's supposed to snow. In April. On the TENTH of April.

  Gah. Screw this state. I'm moving south of the Mason Dixon line. I've HAD it.

• Ok, since when did gauze pads become such a highly valued commodity that you have to take a freakin' loan out to buy them? $5 for 20 gauze pads? And that's the Walgreen's brand! What? Is this only the finest Venetian gauze, gathered lovingly by EU-protected laborers? Eh? And, if I wanted the Johnson and Johnson gauze pads, I would have had to spend the same amount for half the product! What the hell is that all about? Don't get me started on how much tape costs.

  Fortunately, however, you can get a boatload of alcohol swabs for $1.99. Just never mind that whatever you need to sterilize won't be sterile for long because you can't afford to buy the gauze to cover it up.

  I swear to God the nickel and diming of all this medical crap is going to drive me to commit murder of some jackass pharmaceutical rep before this whole thing is over and done with.

• Upon the recommendation of Mr. H., who lusts after Jonathan Rhys Myers, I have been viewing the first season of The Tudors.

  Surprisingly, it's turned into yet another one of those "post menopause" experiences for me. Ever since they took my ovaries, modern day advertising doesn't work on me. I look at the writhing bodies that are in most ads nowadays and wonder just what the hell they're advertising. It makes no sense to me, she who hasn't the daily recommended requirement of sex hormones running rampant in her body. Watching The Tudors is much the same for me as looking at these ads: it's a big "What's with all the copulating?" moment for moi. I'll bet Henry VIII wasn't exactly a slouch in real life, but I'll be damned if the guy was really as, ahem, active as this series portrays.

  Other than that, it's a fairly decent show. Again, I doubt it's very historically accurate in the details, but it's a good drama and is highly entertaining, nonetheless. Sam Neill and Jeremy Northam are very good, as Cardinal Woolsey and Sir Thomas More, respectively. However, the standout performance, if you ask me, is Maria Doyle Kennedy as Catherine of Aragon.

That should do you for a time, my neglected Cake Eater readers.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:10 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 1293 words, total size 8 kb.

The Fug Girls, who have a pretty suh-weet gig commenting on all things fashion related for New York Magazine have some valid things to say about Vogue's "Shape" Issue. If you're unfamiliar with the "Shape" issue, this is when "my hair is bigger than my body" editor Anna Wintour decides that it's time to put out an issue to appease The Big Girls, and by "big" I mean the girls who wear a size six, not a fourteen.

Cut to the Fug Girls:

Every year, as a nod to the abnormality of its bony universe, Vogue publishes a shape issue purporting to spotlight non-model bodies for a change. It often feels as perfunctory as it sounds — like alpha-twigs know anything about cellulite? — but this year we dove in with extra curiosity thanks to Anna Wintour’s recent criticism of runway models’ diminishing frames. Would that sentiment bloom into an issue that actually honored real clothing sizes and three-dimensional shapes?

Not so much, apparently.

{...}Yet, short of featuring a bacon-cheeseburger on the cover, this is sadly probably the best we can expect from Vogue. It just isn’t in the habit of realism. Because it peddles fashion and fantasy better than anyone, these clumsy attempts to soften up just feel as patronizing and ham-handed as a Very Special Episode of Blossom, but without the hats. So while we’d love to see women of various sizes in the magazine — wearing bizarre $20,000 goat coats like any other model — if it keeps feeling like an act of bored, forced obligation, we’d rather Vogue climbed back on its pedestal and left us to get our feel-good fix from Glamour. And a pizza.

The Girls have a point. Vogue is, well, Vogue. It's meant to be the fashion bible, and, yes, while it's frustrating to look at the photo spreads in that magazine and be disheartened that a. the models keep getting younger and younger (and, no, I don't mean that in the context of my getting older; they're honestly no more than fourteen or fifteen years old at most, and hence have the body types associated with that age (no hips, no boobs, they've lost their baby fat, but haven't gained any Reese's peanut butter cup-associated fat, either.)) and, b. that the clothes are extremely impractical and just are not meant for anyone. At some point you just have to realize that they're peddling this magazine not to budding fashionistas, and people who love clothes, but to photographers, and the art world. The clothes are the art, and as such, you want the art to look good, so you hang it on a nice wall, aka a size zero model.

I know I'm rare in that I've actually modeled a bit---and when I mean "a bit", I mean I had a total of three jobs when I was in high school, and I did it a. as a favor to a lady I knew who worked in the advertising world, who needed models who weren't from the local Barbizon school and b. for the cash, because I got paid $50 a pop. While it was actually the most boring job I've ever held down (and that's saying a bit), tottering around in high heels on a four-foot platform the size of a child's shoebox, it was, nonetheless, educational. If I had to go on tee vee, even now, almost twenty years later, I could do my own makeup. I know what clothes are most flattering and work with the limitations of the cameras (no red, no checks, or optical illusion-type patterns). But mostly what I learned is that, if you're smart, you realize that they don't really want you because you have a charming personality, charisma, or a vivacious smile, although that's part of what you bring to the table, it's that whatever they're peddling will look good on your body. You are just a hanger for their clothes. That's it. Therefore to sit there, and flip through Vogue, and base your entire self-image on what the hangers look like is a bit ridiculous. If you're looking through Vogue to find women who "look like you" and you aren't an androgynous, prepubescent, bony young girl, you're going to be a bit disappointed, aren't you?

I'm just tired of playing this game. The fashion magazines are in existence to sell clothes. They make a lot of money on this, hence, they know how to do it, which means they're going to use skinny, young models, with dewy skin and the bodies of a twelve-year-old boy to sell the wares. Women read fashion magazines to keep up with the latest trends, to see who's doing what in fashion, to see what they want to buy. But there is a disconnect---the clothes that are advertised, generally speaking, aren't made for the women who buy the magazines. This is just what the deal is. I'm weary of reading article after article about how the average American woman is a size fourteen and how disheartened they feel after watching tee vee or reading a fashion magazine, how angry they are that none of this is meant for them; how these magazines and designers are holding them up to a standard they'll never meet. I'm tired of the argument of how the fashion magazines, the entertainment industry, et. al, are encouraging eating disorders in young girls because of the images they put out. I'm sick of Kate Winslet and other actresses holding themselves up for the admiration of all because they claim they choose not to starve themselves, when it's patently obvious that they're nowhere near "average size" and that they simply cannot be because of the demands of their jobs, in front of cameras, which really do add ten pounds. I'm sick to death of all of it, even though, from time to time, I'm just as guilty of perpetrating these issues on this here blog as anyone else who's bitched about size-two models. I've had a change of heart, however. As Joshua once said in War Games, the only way to win the game is not to play. While I will grant you, he was a computer and was chatting about Global Thermonuclear War, the machine's got a point.

It's time for an attitude shift.

If women are really sick of what Vogue and all the other magazines are peddling, STOP BUYING THEM. Stop buying the products they advertise. That will send them a message as clear as anything else. If, however, you want to buy the magazines and wear the clothes advertise, start working out so you can fit into them. It's your choice. You won't be happy, probably, because no one wants to be hungry all the time, but if that's what you really want, go for it. You have my blessing, because at least you'll be doing something about it, instead of wishing for the impossible to happen. If young girls are starving themselves to fit some preconceived notion of what beauty is, my question usually is, where are the damn parents? How can they not see that their daughter is excusing herself to go and throw-up after every meal? I once read a story somewhere about a girl who had hundreds of empty paint cans shoved under her oversized princess bed, and instead of being full of paint, they were full of vomit. This was how she chose to hide her problem. She knew that the toilet in her bathroom would eventually plug up, so, living in a new development, where there were plenty of empty paint cans available in dumpsters nearby, she started appropriating them and used them as her own personal vomitorium. How did her parents not realize this? This whole thing is a sick, co-dependent cycle. There is choice involved. Women choose to participate in this game and on either side of it, each needs the other's dysfunction to keep going, otherwise they themselves will disappear.

Is this a reality-based solution? Probably not. But, I have a bit of a different perspective on all of this since I went through chemo. I hit absolute rock bottom in terms of vanity toward the end of my treatments. There's no getting around it:I looked like a spud. A bald spud whose face had been rounded off with steroids. In fact, you could pick out all of Dr. Academic's patients in the waiting room because we all looked alike. I had no eyebrows or eyelashes, which you need for facial definition. I had no hair, through which to express my personality or my sense of style, despite what I was wearing. Because my skin was gray, with nary a shade of pink to be found in my cheeks when I went severely anemic, and the deep, dark circles of exhaustion under my eyes that never went away no matter how much sleep I got, I looked ill. There was absolutely nothing I could do in terms of clothing or makeup that would make me look like anybody other than what I was at that point: a sick person. While I wasn't happy about it, there wasn't much I could do about it, either, and that, in itself, was, surprisingly, liberating. I could go out of the house and know that this was as good as it got, and while it wasn't very good, at least I wasn't "looking good and feeling better" in a room on the oncology floor of the hospital. I could leave my house, do what I could manage to do, and while I didn't look great, and, most of the time didn't feel great, this was, in and of itself, a big deal. I was alive and moving, and that wasn't too shabby. I knew that, someday soon, the rest would come back once the treatments were done. And it did come back, even if I was impatient for it to do so. When my eyelashes, eyebrows and---Mother of God!---hair came back, it was cause for much rejoicing. The first time I could put on mascara in a few months, I was happy as a clam, and I'm still get a small, cheap thrill every time I put the stuff on. I'm sure I'll get back to bitching about the crap soon enough, but all of this provides an important lesson, to be sure: none of this stuff is necessary. Sure, putting on make-up and dressing in stylish clothes can make you feel nice and normal, but, on the whole, this is stuff you can live without. You can live without reading Vogue as well, or buying new clothes, or trying to live up to someone else's standards about your appearance. You don't have to play the game. In fact, the only way to win the game is not to play.

Perhaps this is all overly optimistic of me, because I'm obviously not coming from a place where too many people have been, but that's just the way I see it. You have a choice: you can either buy into this scenario, choosing one side or the other, or you can choose not to. It's up to you.

Posted by: Kathy at 12:13 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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It may be really wrong of me to say so, what with the exploitation of a three year old to describe the downfall of Eliot Spitzer and all, but, screw it, it's still funny.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:09 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Good grief, but does that stupid gray pillbox hat bother me. Taaaaaaa-cky. The whole outfit is hideous!

If one is unaccustomed to the duties and responsibilities attached to first lady-ship, like Carla Bruni-Sarkozy obviously is, it seems reasonable that one would look to see how others had done it, for inspiration. The only problem with looking to Jackie O for fashion inspiration is that, ahem, she was first lady almost fifty years ago. Anything you come up with that Jackie would have worn, way back in the day, is bound to be a bit dated, n'est ce pas? You live in Paris, with some of the world's best designers in your mobile phone, and this is what you come up with for your first state visit?

That the hat is, apparently, shrouded in the wool from a WWII era blanket, is beyond the pale. I wonder if it reeks of mothballs, because it looks like it should. Don't even get me started on the shoes.

It's not every day when you can say Queen Elizabeth II is more fashion forward than an ex-model.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:03 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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The Terminator shitcanned Dirty Harry.

...and lived to tell the tale.

Must have something to do with the fact he's actually a robot and those .357 .44mag* bullets just pinged right off.

Don't know what I was thinking. My apologies. Thanks to Bike Bubba for the correction

Posted by: Kathy at 10:46 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Courtesy of TechCrunch, we have for you this morning, the digitized version of the Vietnam War Memorial.

Here's the story:

Footnote has taken the initiative to digitize all 58,000 names inscribed into the Vietnam War Memorial. It has also correlated them with military personnel records from the National Archives and made this information searchable from within an interactive Flash application.

The project started by hiring a National Geographic photographer to take over 2,000 high quality photos of the wall. The company then stitched them together, indexed the names, and pulled out information about each person from two major national databases: one for casualties and one for personnel. The whole process took about four months to complete and the end result is being provided for free.

If you want to find a particular name, you can run a simple keyword search. YouÂ’ll be shown key facts such as the personÂ’s rank, grade, specialty, and casualty date. You can also search for names that conform to certain criteria such as enlistment type, race, hometown, casualty date, squadron, and much more.{...}

And it works well. For instance, meet the man for whom the husband is a namesake.

Pfc. Michael Laverne Pheiffer is the husband's first cousin, and, unfortunately, he was killed of "multiple fragmentation wounds" in Binh Duong province a little over a month after his first tour of duty started. This is information the husband never had. If his family knew this information at all once upon a time, it's information that was lost over the years. All the husband knew was that he was named after his cousin who died in Vietnam; he didn't know any of the particulars. But now he does. The husband has always felt a little awkward about the fact that he knew relatively little about the relative he was named after. He once told me it felt a little disrepectful to carry this man's name, but to know so little about him. This will never tell him what sort of a person Michael Pheiffer was, or what he was like to know, but it does provide something that his family had never provided: bare facts about what he was doing there (he was drafted) and how successful he was in his mission (sadly, not very). From that you can deduce a few things, none of which make Michael Pfeiffer less of a person or a soldier, but, nonetheless, fill out the story a bit more.

There are an awful lot of people who can't make it to the Memorial in D.C., for one reason or another, but due to the wonders of the internet, they can at least take a peek at the names on the Wall, and find out some very valuable and relevant information that's not necessarily available to those who visit in the flesh.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:16 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Last night, Mr. H. and I ventured down to the Minnesota Zoo's IMAX theater to take a peek at U23D.

Now, I'd never seen a movie filmed in the IMAX format before, let alone a 3D movie (yes, kids, somehow I missed Jaws 3D), so I wasn't really familiar with the format, let alone if a 3D experience was really, well, three dimensional. I figured, if nothing else, it would be an opportunity to see the Vertigo tour show, because Mr. H. and I had been cruelly shut out of ticket purchasing opportunities when they hit town two years ago. While I am a U2 fan, and have been listening to their music ever since I was fourteen (which is, precisely, the same time my well-documented crush on The Edge developed) my fandom is nowhere near the level Mr. H. has attained. He's a U2 fanatic. He has every album they've ever released, including the rare imports. He has books and DVDs. And, after one memorable front row experience on the Zoo TV tour, he has, in a Ziploc baggie, carefully preserved a tee shirt he was wearing that Bono's sweat dripped on. So, as you might have gathered, after the cruel ticket mix-up, Mr. H. was really looking forward to seeing this film. I, too, was looking forward to it, because, honestly, it never sucks seeing U2 perform.

We were, however, not expecting what we got, which was, well, everything even the most lackadaisical U2 fan could have ever wanted, let alone someone as dedicated in their fandom to U2 as Mr. H. It went ABOVE AND BEYOND anything we could have expected. It was amazing.

Imagine, if you will, a sixty-five foot white wall, and steep, expansive, theater seating opposite it. We positioned ourselves in near to the middle of the seating, placed our overlarge 3D glasses on our heads and strapped in for the ride. The opening of the film, when they were rolling the credits, was, I believe a way to orient the viewers to the 3D experience. You followed a young woman, running, and it became obvious, only after a few moments that you were following the first person through the gates, and she was doing the mad rush authorities no longer allow you to do when you go to a concert---rush for the general attendance spots near the stage. The shot then went to a darkened arena, where the fans were anxiously awaiting the band's appearance on stage. Confetti was thrown, and it seemed you could reach out and touch it as it fell. The Argentine flag was being waved, and it felt as if you could have been whipped by it. People in the audience were positioned directly in front of you, and, again, it felt as if you could reach out and touch them.

Then the band came out.

They started off with Vertigo, and when they screamed, "HOLA!" and the South American crowd went wild, the illusion was complete: it was real, you could reach out and touch them if you wanted to. By the time they played my personal favorite song of all time, Where the Streets Have No Name, I actually had to remind myself that I was not at a U2 concert, and jumping up, dancing, singing along, and in general just going wild, would not be welcomed by my fellow movie viewers. It's hard to describe the experience. The people at the IMAX had put up, before the film started running, tidbits of several positive reviews of the film, and one of them said something to the effect of, "It's better than being front row at a U2 concert." And it was---but in a very specific way. If you've ever been to an event you've only previously watched on tee vee, and then gone to the same event as it was staged live, you know that cameras can provide something you, the average spectator in a huge arena, cannot view: your eyes simply aren't good enough, your brain cannot process all that several camera operators and a crew in a control room can. But you'll never, when watching a concert on film, have the experience of being jostled by the crowd as you gaze up to see your favorite band playing; you'll never feel the heat of all the people crowding you; or the absolute communal exhilaration when the band rocks the house down to its foundation. The twain, in other words, do not generally meet. Here, however, they do. You get the experience of seeing it all, being able to catch things only cameras can see, whilst simultaneously feeling as if you're there. It's amazing. I don't know how they did it, but the filmmakers managed to accomplish the rare feat of making a concert film that actually makes you feel like a participant, not just a spectator.

The sound was fantastic, but wasn't overpoweringly loud. The play list was exceptional, and included many favorites like Bullet the Blue Sky from The Joshua Tree, but also New Year's Day, Pride (In the Name of Love), Sunday Bloody Sunday, that are U2 staples, and fan favorites, but that they don't play live all that frequently because they prefer to focus on the newer stuff. The play list was obviously tailored to appeal to all, but in this instance, it wasn't shooting for the lowest common denominator audience---this is STILL quality music, that is still worth listening to, almost twenty, and in some instances, almost thirty years later. It wasn't at all like when The Stones roll out Brown Sugar for the umpteenth time, and you can see that while they're bored with it, that this, nonetheless, is what pays the bills, so give the audience what it paid $120+ (per person!) to see, lest they not want to show up again and feed our largesse. This is music U2 still cares about, and that's enough for them to play it properly and with verve.

About the only downside of this film is that Adam Clayton, the bassist, was obviously having fun with the 3D aspects and he kept hamming it up in front of that particular camera. Many times it felt like you were going to get smacked in the face with the end of his bass, but, honestly, that was the only downside of the film. It's an AMAZING experience, and if you like U2 even a little bit, or even have a grudging appreciation for the band, let alone are U2 Fan #1, YOU NEED TO GO AND SEE THIS FILM. It's incredible. If you can see it in IMAX, I highly recommend doing so. Mr. H. tells me it's going to general release soon enough, but the IMAX experience is well worth the extra high admission price.

Trust me on this one. You won't be sorry.

Posted by: Kathy at 12:02 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I was chatting with my niece, Maggie, on the phone last night. They were waiting for their easter eggs to get up/down (?) to room temperature before they could dye them. After discussing how chocolate easter bunnies are lovely things, and how solid ones are better than hollow, I asked Maggie a simple question:

Me: Are you going to be a good girl for Easter?

Maggie: Are you going to be a good girl?

She didn't even pause whilst coming up with an expert deflection. She just zinged it right back to me.

By the way, she's seven.

Way to go, Maggie! {insert sniffles of pride here} I suspect you have a long future ahead of you in the legal field.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:45 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Seems as if the Easter Bunny has been doing some of his runs early.

I can practically feel Moses' temper being tested, can't you?

Posted by: Kathy at 09:17 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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It's interesting the people you meet on the web.

A few years back, I had the pleasure of meeting a lovely lady, Pat, on some boards I used to frequent. She's a professional translator, who used to live with her husband, Pascal, and their three kids outside of Toulouse, in a little town called Auterive. A little over a year ago, the family uprooted and moved to Dakar, for Pascal's work, which has something to do with water treatment plants. They still, however, have their lovely farmhouse in the French countryside, which was built on the ruins of a monastery, and now you, if you can afford to travel to France despite the atrocious exchange rate, can rent their guest house!

Go here, if you're interested.

There's decent skiing nearby, and the joys of the Pyrenees abound. It's a short hop to Lourdes, and if you're looking simply for a base in the region and have a car rental, it would make a good location.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:38 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Stealing is wrong.

But when someone actually manages to be clever about it, instead of the number of thieves in this city who simply attach a chain to a truck and pull out window frames or walls to steal cigarettes from a neighborhood convenience store (What? A black market in smokes in Minnesota? Couldn't possibly be! Nice job, Pawlenty!), well, my feelings become somewhat conflicted about casting them in a civic morality play. Yeah, they did wrong, to a great number of people, but you can still be impressed with their cunning ways, and think, perhaps, they should get some points off for being clever, quick and non-violent about it.

Take this guy, for instance:

If the accusations against Chad M. Storey are true, give the North Oaks man a big fat A for effort, along with some jail time.

Storey, 34, is accused of concocting an elaborate system of hoses and switches that allowed him to siphon gasoline from another vehicle into his own, all from the comfort of the driver's seat of his shiny red Dodge Ram 1500 4x4.

Storey was charged Tuesday in Ramsey County District Court with one count of possession of burglary tools. The sophistication of the device automatically elevates the charge to a felony, according to sheriff's investigator Tom Rudenick.

All Storey had to do, authorities said, was pull alongside a vehicle, stick a hose in its gas tank, flip a switch under his dashboard to activate an auxiliary fuel pump, then sit back and wait.

Authorities said they could only speculate about whether Storey was reselling gas after they found a valve on his gas tank -- clearly not installed at the factory -- that could be used to empty his tank.

{...}It took slightly less than 2 1/2 minutes to siphon 5 gallons from a gas can into the pickup truck. Authorities said it would take 6 to 8 minutes for Storey to steal the 20 gallons needed to fill his tank.{...}

I don't know much about siphoning gas, but what I do know is that it's messy, dangerous and takes a while, which, ultimately, creates more time to get caught. This guy, apparently, looked at the downsides of siphoning, found a way around said dangers and engineered a different option. Yeah, it's still stealing, but at least, he MacGyver'ed it. Which shows he's got some potential in the engineering realm, if he ever wants to turn away from a life of crime.

{ht: buzz}

Posted by: Kathy at 08:34 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Are you perhaps, my devoted Cake Eater readers, having a wee bit of trouble understanding just how the hell JP Morgan was able to pick up Bear Stearns for the bargain basement price of $230 million (when the Bear Stearns building in Manhattan is worth about a billion itself) or thereabouts?

Go here.

Instead of "RSG Investments" insert "Bear Stearns" and you'll be good to go.

You can thank me later.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:00 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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