Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Monday, July 2, 2012
Today, I have a mishmosh of stories to tell you. Don't you just love that word? Mishmosh. Mishmosh. Mishmosh.
Anyway.
First things first.
We are so excited in our corner of the planet. We have a real life celebrity in Da House.
My sweet, doe-eyed, curly girl Julia.
My skateboard princess, with her scrappy, neon-blue nail polish.
My artist and lover of everything of the earth, including all of God's creatures, no matter how humble. When she's not in the house, I know I can always find her in the leaky Jon Boat, shin deep in murky lake water, spellbound by the tiny minnows sashaying back and forth.
My archery warrior, who discovered her love for the bow and arrow, long before Katniss was a character on a page.
My Annie Oakley in her bathing suit, jumping from the pool to take a shot or two at her empty milk jug container target with her pellet gun, as she is wont to do.
This good and sweet girl of diverse interests has become obsessed in the past year with the British boy-band, One Direction. We know every word to every song on their album because the music plays in our house Every. Single. Waking. Moment. Of. The. Day. Baby you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed. It is my own personal form of music torture.
I guess it could be worse. At least it's not Nickelback.
Last week, One Direction came to town on their concert tour and we were SO VERY EXCITED. There were spazzy fits of squeals at the most unexpected moments, usually right in my ear, leading up to the big day. There was much thought and preparation put into the makeup, the outfit, (she wore the colors of Ireland, the homeland of her favorite One Direction boy, Niall) the hair, the phone calls to the other One Directioners, where they shrieked their excitement to each other in One Direction squeal code.
On the concert day, we sent our pack of girls off with a paid bodyguard, one very big brother. They left early in the day to tailgate and try with all their 14-yr-old wiles to get into the sound check.
It was worth every bit of my 80 dollar chaperone fee not to expose my ghost skin to the broiling Florida summer sun and most especially, not to have the sound of thousands of teenage girls' collective lusting shrieks reverberating through my inner organs.
They had a great time. Alas, they did not make it into the sound check, but my Julia was over the moon excited just to be breathing the same air as her beloved boys in their skinny jeans. The girls loved the concert and we chalked it up to one fabulous, teenage dream memory.
Until the next morning.
My hubs had been up for awhile, but Saturday is my sleeping-in day. I was in dreamland with my three horse dogs curled around me, when my hubs burst into the room, laughing uproariously and saying, "You are not going to BELIEVE this!" I was instantly awake and I saw he held the paper in his hands.
My first thought was, "Oh-oh, did one of our friends go crazy and end up in a high speed cop chase?"
Because there are a few of my peeps . . .
He held up the paper and as I peered through bleary, sleep-drugged eyes, I saw my girl, in her orange and green glory, giving her best Rock of Ages pose, her trademark fusion of leather and twine and peace bracelets, circumscribing her tiny wrists and rolling down the length of her forearm, as she flailed about in utter joy.
There—on the front page of our paper. There—representing the legion of girls packed into the amphitheater to shriek their undying, or at least for-this-year love of One Direction.
My girl on the front of our Tampa Tribune.
We couldn't be prouder. And she feels like the rock star that she truly is.
My dear friend Todd who is one of the big honchos at our local NBC affiliate, (the Tribune is part of that media conglomerate) sent me the print after he saw me post it on Facebook. Thanks again Todd for your kindness.
So that was our big excitement this week.
In other news, I've been a little negligent over here at my beloved blog because we had a spur of the moment trip, to: hold on, brace for it, you'll be so surprised . . . The Wine Country!
And yes, I do travel to other places. I really do. It's just that there is no better spot in the world than in the vineyards of California in my wine-soaked opinion.
Right before we left for the trip, I contracted what I thought was a nasty-ass cold.
That nasty-ass cold gripped on tight, not letting go. It exhausted me. I'd make my way through my day, weak and listless and fall into bed at night, exhausted from being listless all day.
My hubs had been fussing at me to go to the doctor, but I just knew by the next day I would feel better. When the next day turned into a week and I still felt like roadkill and I was two days away from vacation, I buckled.
When the nurse called me back for the mandatory heinous weigh-in, I asked her, as I stepped on the scale and closed my eyes to please not announce the lb numbers out loud.
I don't feel the need to know my weight. I don't want some numbers determining my mindset. I prefer to guide my health through the feel of my clothes, the state of my physical fitness. Until last year, I didn't even own a scale until my hubs bought one for his ammunition. Don't ask.
I've always had nurses who agreeably jotted down my numbers in silence, but not this fun-sucker.
This Nurse Ratchett actually said, "Oh, I am tellinggggg you your weight."
And I was all, "Nuh-uhhhh." Because I am super mature in most situations.
And she said, "Yes, I am."
And being the mature woman I am, I said, "Well then, I'll just cover my ears and hum."
And she was like, "I'm going to make sure you know."
I stepped on that scale, determined to keep my hands over my ears the whole doctor's visit, if that's what it would take not to hear those numbers. For all I cared, the doctor could mime her diagnosis, just so long as I didn't have to hear the NUMBERS.
But before I could even press my hands over my ears, that bitch had yelled out my weight.
And I was all, "Huh. Okay, that's really not bad. In fact, those are happy numbers."
And the nurse was all, "See? Aren't you glad I told you?"
I only told you that story because I was a little astounded by Nurse Ratchett. I mean, this is America and if I don't want to hear my weight, I'm pretty sure I have the right not to hear my weight! But also to say that those happy numbers turned sad from the debauchery that was eight days in Napa Valley. Time to start killing myself again.
That would be with exercise.
For the record, I'm not like starving myself or anything. There's no way I could do that. There are too many Doritos left in the world.
Oh and by the way, I had bronchitis and two ear infections.
By the time I made it over the Golden Gate into my beloved San Francisco, thanks to a litany of horse drugs, I felt much better.
Our trip was a mix of business and pleasure. Oh, who am I kidding! Really, the whole thing was pleasure, but a few days of our trip were hosted by a company my hubs does business with, so I had to behave professionally and that is always hard work for me.
The first part of our vacation was just the Hubs and me at a little B&B I've been yearning to stay at for the longest time, but there's never any room at the Inn. This time I lucked out. Chateau de Vie totally earns its ranking of #1 on Trip Advisor. If you ever go to Napa Valley, the biggest tip I can give you is try and stay with Peter and Phillip at their fabulous B&B. You won't be sorry. If you book several months in advance you might even get to stay in their beautiful carriage house.
My hubs is usually not a B&B kind of guy, but this is no creaky old Victorian house with overly friendly hosts, this is the uber cool Peter and Phillip and their house built to feel like a chateau in the middle of a vineyard.
This is what Phillip's breakfasts looked like in the morning:
And under that delicious pile of greens, was a perfectly cooked sunny side egg, one of my favorite things in the world:
And this is the scenery from our breakfast table:
If you want to hear more about Chateau de Vie, check out my Trip Advisor review, right here, where I gush about the place. I also spill a little secret about one of the reasons for our trip. You want to know? Check it. Over there. But not just yet. Finish my War and Peace post first, y'all.
When we regrettably left Peter and Phillip, we headed over to Sonoma, the part of the trip where I had to be all proper. Hard work for me. It was a lovely few days where we made new friends, (Hi Sophia and Lance!) and were treated to some incredible evenings.
One of those evenings was spent on a mountaintop at a winery where we feasted on fabulous foods in an unbelievable gorgeous setting.
Desserts from the pastry chef at French Laundry.
Afterwards, we traveled back to our hotel, satiated with wine and delicious foods.
We hung out poolside with a gang of business associates where heat lamps were turned on and more wine was ordered. The men smoked cigars and Sophia and I, the only ladies daring enough to brave the chilly night air, blanketed ourselves in pool towels and talked the night away. Finally, long after midnight, Sophia and I decided snacks were in order and we wandered to the lobby in pursuit of a menu.
Unfortunately, Northern California shuts down early. (Napa and Sonoma in particular.) It doesn't matter how much you gussy up a town with wine and fancy restaurants, the truth is, the wine country is a place of farmers and farmers rise with the sun. There was no food to be had, but the concierge directed us out the front door and into the night, just a quick walk from our hotel to the best food in town.
Sophia, my kindred spirit, lit up, when she realized where our adventure was going and she said, "Let's do this! You want to do this?"
And I was all, "Oh, hell yeah!"
So we got our men because Sonoma is a working-man's town, a dark and desolate place in the black of the night and took a walk to:
The taco bus. That's my friend Lance, in his cool fedora.
Me and the Taco Bus Lady and Ernesto, up there, making the fabulous food. And yes, I brought my glass of wine with me to the Taco Bus. Doesn't everyone?
Lance and Sophia with the goods. And let me tell you, the best Carnitas Quesadillas I've ever had in my LIFE. Those lb numbers went up like a Vegas slot machine jackpot. DingDingDingDing.
At this part of the trip, my sister-in-law, the Bad-Ass, joined us. For those of you who aren't aware, I call her the Bad-Ass because her job requires her to carry a weapon at all times. Her job also requires her to be an active part of all national emergencies where she has done things like scuba dive for bodies after plane crashes. She has also infiltrated Cartels and just other really bad-assery stuff like Angelina Jolie in Salt except my sister-in-law is actually doing the bad-assery instead of hovering at the catering table eating her daily allotted piece of lettuce while a stunt double commits the bad-assery. Because of her Bad-Ass status, I cannot show you her pictures, but I can tell you she is major fun with a capital F-U.
As most of you know, my darling hubs and his family had a pretty tough 2011, losing both their parents within months of each other. When our trip came up, we invited my Bad-Ass sister-in-law and her husband, who is also a Bad-Ass to join us. Since it was spur of the moment, they had no one to watch their young children, so my SIL's Bad Ass Husband who is also one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet, insisted she come out for a little well-deserved R&R.
Two short stories about her and I swear, we're almost through. Are your eyes hemorrhaging yet?
In Sonoma, my SIL put all of her bad-ass paraphernalia she's required to travel with, in the safe. The safe that was in the bedroom my hubs and I were staying in. But she forgot one crucial thing. When we got home from wine tasting, our room had been cleaned, the beds made with dark chocolates on the pillow. And there, on the nightstand, right next to the sweetly made up bed, sat the Bad Ass's steel handcuffs.
I couldn't look at our maid the next day when we passed her in the hall.
We left Sonoma and spent the last leg of our trip in my city by the bay, San Francisco.
We took the Bad Ass to our favorite Italian restaurant, right on the outskirts of North Beach in a lovely residential pocket of town. We sat next to the big windows overlooking the street. At the end of dinner, my SIL announced she was going to give her leftovers to a homeless person. And just as she said this an older, dignified looking gentleman pushing a personal folding shopping cart came strolling by.
Now.
A great number of city residents, especially the older set, use those shopping carts on a daily basis as they get about the town. I guess my SIL saw this as a symbol for homelessness.
She jumped up and declared that gent would be getting her leftovers.
I protested, telling her that he was most certainly not homeless. She insisted he was. And as I continued to protest my hubs squeezed my leg under the table and said, "Let her do it."
Oh my Lawdy.
We couldn't breathe, we were laughing so hard. She, shoving her styrofoam container at him, rubbing her stomach and saying, "Yummy. Yummy." He, walking faster and faster to get away from her as she picked up her pace and the urgency of her Yummy Yummy's. He finally waved and said, "Bye. Bye" to her as my hubs and I fell off our chairs in hysteria.
And finally, one more bit of excitement.
We stayed, as we always do, in the wonderful Mark Hopkins Hotel.
Our kind friends there put us up in the most magnificent room I've ever been privileged to stay in.
It had a freaking solarium. On the 16th floor. Overlooking beautiful San Francisco.
I tell you, I felt like I was in Pretty Woman. Although, for the record, my hubs did not pay me thousands of dollars for favors. Hey, on second thought . . .
My hubs went to the airport to return our car the day we got there. Tip number two: Don't rent a car in San Francisco. You do not want to drive in that town, trust me on this and the parking fees aren't worth keeping a car when there are so many other transportation options.
The Bad-Ass and I were relaxing in the solarium when she, with her professional bad-ass eyes said, "Look, there are snipers on the roof next door."
And sure enough, if you can tell by this blurry shot, there were two men dressed in all black with duffel bags and binoculars, scouring the city from their eagle eye perch.
They honed in on us, and I, of course, started dancing for them. My dancing did not impress them. Matter of fact, it doesn't impress anyone. Matter of fact, my daughter imitates my dancing and my entire family laughs and laughs because they are all a bunch of assholes.
Anyway, the Bad-Ass then pointed to the men in suits with earpieces in their ears on every street corner and lining the entrance to the hotel, the Fairmont. There were also uniformed police everywhere and the sidewalks were roped off.
The Bad-Ass said all of this fuss meant someone important was coming to the Fairmont, someone super important.
So, of course, I was all, "Do you think it's Brad and Angie!"
She was thinking more along the lines of a Presidential Cabinet member or maybe visiting dignitary. And then she said, "Let's go find out."
I protested, telling her they wouldn't just come out and tell us, since this looked super important with the black jumpsuited snipers and the men with earpieces.
And that's when she flashed her bad-ass badge that overrules every other law enforcement in the land and I was all, "Oh yeahhhh!"
So we left our hotel and thrust ourselves in the midst of all the fuss and frenzy to chat up two local police officers. The Bad-Ass said the local cops are always the friendliest and she was right, these two men could not have been nicer. I forgot my phone in the room or I would have taken a picture with these nice gents.
They informed us it was the President of South Korea coming in for a visit. I was a mite disappointed. I was hoping for maybe Vladmir Putin, because that dude cracks me up with his super manliness or the recently booted Nicolas Sarkosky and his beautiful French wife or Heaven help me, William and Kate!
But the Prez of South Korea? I don't even know who that is. I mean, I was glad it wasn't the douche from North Korea and yay for freedom and all of that, but really, South Korea? So because it was cold and it was the guy from South Korea and because there was wine to be had in our Pretty Woman solarium we went upstairs and danced some more for the guys with the binoculars.
And that was it for our trip.
Except for one more thing.
My favorite winery, not for the wine. In fact, I didn't even try the wine in this place, I was too busy making out with my gorgeous new friend.
That St. Bernard, bigger than me, would not let me off that floor. Every time I stopped rubbing his fluffy fur, he'd burrow his big old head into me and hit me with his giant paw. We are officially in love.
I promise not to be such a stranger any more. I'm writing, revising, writing these days, in a holding pattern, waiting to hear some news. That's all I want to say about that right now.
This week, we're headed to the beach, where I will swaddle myself in layers of clothes in an effort to keep my skin its fabulous glow in the dark color. I come in handy when the lights go out.
Happy Fourth to everyone! Let Freedom Ring! Equal Rights For Everyone! And yay Anderson Cooper for telling the world you're proud and gay. I love that man even more than I did before. Which is almost as much as I love that St. Bernard.
Today's Definite Download: We were fortunate enough to have satellite radio in our rental car. I kept it tuned to my favorite channel, The Spectrum, which spans indie rock from all ages. I was beyond thrilled when we tuned in to Brandi Carlile live, singing most of her new album. I love Brandi Carlile as a singer, but most of all as a profound lyricist. Her new album is a jewel and I've already played her new songs a thousand times on my iPod as I try to get through the laundry.
Here's one of my new favorites, Save Part of Yourself.
Enjoy~
Thursday, July 7, 2011
I have a bit of business I need to attend to here first, guys and it goes like this: Hey Beth, my BF from high school! I got your comment on my blog, but I have no way of reaching you. Please email me. Look right above you,where it says "Contact Me." Hit that little link and there I'll be.
Alright. Now let me get this out of the way, first things first.
And he said, "Just keep hittin it, baby."
He called me baby.
After we chatted genially for a way too short elevator ride, I smiled as the elevator door opened and said, "I'll see you tonight."
Like we had a date.
Which we did, since we were headed out to the Grand Ole Opry where Darius was headlining.
Sadly, I did not get to see Bicep Man again on our date, our date with the hundreds of other people in attendance at the Grand Ole Opry, but my daughter did get to squeeze Darius's hand, reaching up to the Opry stage as he performed.
Stories for another day. I should probably make a list of all the stories I've promised you. They're becoming quite backlogged.
Mr. Security stood there, silent and menacing, his mean arms crossed until the elevator door closed.
There is no way I would ever go on a date with THAT kind of jerky security man.
So, that was as heartbreakingly close as I got to Bono.
We did try the next afternoon. The Escalades were lined up outside again. I tried to act as cool as possible, standing on the steps of the hotel as my family sat in the car, yelling for me to GET IN. I simply ignored them and acted like I had no idea who this lunatic family was screaming at. Until finally, one of my "friends" told me the cars would sit there until they were called to the service elevator and sometimes that could be a long wait.
My hubs drove us around to the service elevator where we hovered for about 20 minutes with my girls all whiny, saying, "Come ONNNN! This is not how we want to spend our time in Nashville."
And my response to that was, "Well, waiting until you straighten every infinitesimal square inch of your hair and try on the 3,000 outfits you packed, is not how I want to spend my time in Nashville."
My hubs told me he'd sit there for as long as I wanted. But he did point out the three security guards and the driveway, literally two steps from the elevator where the Escalades would most likely pull up.
This is us,stalking waiting.
And then I thought about the what if's. What if, after all this time, the same amazing stretch of years I've known my husband, after decades of singing Bono's songs, knowing every line, every word, of loving his music, of loving him, what if, in this finite moment of serendipity, when our paths finally, finally crossed, what if Bono said "Sorry, I don't have the time."
I would be brokenhearted forever.
And yes, I know he has the right to a life of privacy. And I know he has the right to be too tired or too busy to stop for a photo because everyone in the world wants just a few seconds of him and his time.
But after all this time, through mullets, (on both of our sides) and young rebellious years, (ditto) and walking these parallel lives of growing up and becoming and maturing (sort of), I still squeal like a teenager every time I catch a glimpse of him. He's been with me throughout all these years, even if he never knows that and to have him turn me away would crush me.
As silly as that sounds.
And so, I watched that door for a few more seconds, bit the corner of my mouth like I do when I'm anxious and finally said, "Let's go."
My hubs looked at me and said, "You sure?"
And I thought about the fact that sometimes idols are often better left high upon their shelves, to ensure they don't crack or shatter.
And I thought about this serendipitous path I've traveled with U2, all these years crossing lives in accidental ways.
And I knew then without a doubt that sitting in an alleyway outside of a service elevator was just not my time.
Another time, perhaps.
Another time. I'll wish on a star for exactly that.
And I turned to my husband and with a firm nod of the head, I said. "Yes. Let's go."
And off we went. And oh, Internet, I have so many tales of Nashville to tell you.
I am officially in love with Music City.
We did go to the U2 concert thanks to a certain someone. And in my next post, I have a magical tale of lives intersecting at just the right moment in time. Hi, Josiah!
Stories to come. Many, many stories to come.
And on one more note, I know I am sorely behind on stopping by all my beloved blogs. I promise, promise, promise to be over to all of your spots soon. Life—it really gets in the way of blogging.
Oh and one more thing: My friend Liz gave me a fine bit of solace when I wrote in my Facebook status that it was killing me, knowing Bono was sleeping one floor above me. She responded with, "Well, you could say you slept under Bono."
I'll take it.
Today's Definite Download: You will be treated to a barrage of U2 videos in the next few posts. In the four times I've seen this tour, this is always one of my favorite moments. Bono asks the crowd to sing with him and then steps away from the microphone as the Edge's guitar take over. As the familiar chords of "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" washes over this enormous gathering of U2 fans, the entire stadium lifts their voices and sings back to Bono the entire first chorus.
I have climbed highest mountain
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you
I have run
I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
Only to be with you
Only to be with you
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
This fan video I found on youtube is a bit far away from the stage, but it was my favorite of all the Nashville videos I scanned. It gives you a sense of the immense crowd, of the number of people, singing out to the open sky and the stars. The video's audio doesn't do it justice, the sound of thousands of people's voices in unison, singing out, giving Bono back his song. It is always an amazing moment and as a writer I always wonder how glorious that must feel, to have your words tattooed on someone's heart, so much so, that they can sing them back to you, word by word.
And if you happen to watch the whole video, the song on the back of this one is called "The Wanderer." Bono wrote it for the incomparable Johnny Cash for their Zooropa album. Bono refused to sing the lead on this song, even though producers pressured him to. He said it was Johnny's song. A tribute to the man, the legend, here in the town he ruled for all his years.
Enjoy.
I have a bit of business I need to attend to here first, guys and it goes like this: Hey Beth, my BF from high school! I got your comment on my blog, but I have no way of reaching you. Please email me. Look right above you,where it says "Contact Me." Hit that little link and there I'll be.
Alright. Now let me get this out of the way, first things first.
I did not meet Bono, as I choke back my sobs.
I did, however, come close. Very close.
When I booked our hotel, I had no idea U2 would be coming to Nashville nor did I realize our hotel was just blocks from the stadium. I've just always had this amazing serendipity when it comes to those four Irish boys.
My sister doesn't believe I was that ignorant about Bono's whereabouts, but I swear I had no idea.
I mean, I might be a little Bono obsessed,
Bono and me and Bono's wife's hair
but it's not like I follow him around and stalk him.
Okay. I may or may not have lingered in front of two of his homes on two different continents at two different times. But we'll talk about that another day.
My sister doesn't believe I was that ignorant about Bono's whereabouts, but I swear I had no idea.
I mean, I might be a little Bono obsessed,
but it's not like I follow him around and stalk him.
Okay. I may or may not have lingered in front of two of his homes on two different continents at two different times. But we'll talk about that another day.
No matter what my sister thinks, I did not stay at the Hutton Hotel to find Bono. Divine intervention drove me to the Hutton Hotel and of course, the summer special on their suites.
See, it's one of the inconveniences of having three children, besides having to always buy the big car instead of the sporty little vroom vroomer and having to wait every single time for the big table in the restaurant instead of the 4-top and never, ever getting to hear an entire teacher presentation at open house. Two parents plus three classrooms equals lots of dashing.
A family of five is a fire code in a regular hotel room.
A family of five is a fire code in a regular hotel room.
And so, I'm always stuck paying the extra quarters for a suite. Damn kids.
I can't imagine how the Duggars do it. Probably lots of camping.
Gross.
I'm not trying to insult any of you campers out there. I'm just saying for me and my cashmere needs, it's gross. Sleeping in a bag and no blow dryers are just the top of the list of elements I find abhorrent in camping.
But that's just me. I don't like Popsicles or Cheez Its or ridiculously sweet cupcakes or most shellfish. And if you offered any of them to me, I would come up with the same response.
Gross.
Everyone should own their personal grossness.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Gross.
I'm not trying to insult any of you campers out there. I'm just saying for me and my cashmere needs, it's gross. Sleeping in a bag and no blow dryers are just the top of the list of elements I find abhorrent in camping.
But that's just me. I don't like Popsicles or Cheez Its or ridiculously sweet cupcakes or most shellfish. And if you offered any of them to me, I would come up with the same response.
Gross.
Everyone should own their personal grossness.
And that's all I have to say about that.
The Hutton Hotel was utterly fabulous. Their staff was extremely attentive. The hotel was beautiful. And even better, they are a sustainable hotel, with card reader lighting, recycling programs, bamboo flooring, walls and furniture, LED lighting and the best of all, digital showers.
Oh, how I loved this shower, especially since my shower at home has multiple dials and if one of my hotel hogging daughters messes with my dials at home, I can never get it back to the perfect temperature. This one had a readout where you plugged in your exact comfort level of heat.
Mine was 106 degrees.
Oh, how I loved this shower, especially since my shower at home has multiple dials and if one of my hotel hogging daughters messes with my dials at home, I can never get it back to the perfect temperature. This one had a readout where you plugged in your exact comfort level of heat.
Anyway, back to Bono.
We were at the hotel for almost a week and in a week's time, you tend to make friends.
And sometimes in friendships, certain pertinent information is exchanged. I shouldn't say exchanged, because I didn't have anything of importance to barter except my best vacation tip, which is always wear your new, pretty heels constantly the week before your trip to avoid vacation blisters. But since the vast majority of people don't consider heels a good walking shoe and since my friends may or may not have been dudes, my share of the barter was not that helpful.
But they didn't care. They were cool and free with the information. And since I so appreciated certain key confidences they shared and I don't want to get anyone in trouble, my wonderful friends will remain anonymous.
And sometimes in friendships, certain pertinent information is exchanged. I shouldn't say exchanged, because I didn't have anything of importance to barter except my best vacation tip, which is always wear your new, pretty heels constantly the week before your trip to avoid vacation blisters. But since the vast majority of people don't consider heels a good walking shoe and since my friends may or may not have been dudes, my share of the barter was not that helpful.
But they didn't care. They were cool and free with the information. And since I so appreciated certain key confidences they shared and I don't want to get anyone in trouble, my wonderful friends will remain anonymous.
We were told that the big tour buses parked outside the hotel for days on end were Darius Rucker's. And that is why I realized the gorgeous man I shared an elevator with one early evening, with muscles that looked like they were carved from stone, was a member of his crew. It was the Hootie and The Blowfish tag on his luggage that made my hubs ask what his job was in the band.
Mr. Stone And Muscle was the head of Darius's security team. And because all I could do was gape at those stony biceps and try and resist the primal urge to reach out and squeeze those guns, I came out with this bit of genius blabber: "So, how do you get such incredible cuts?"
Mr. Stone And Muscle was the head of Darius's security team. And because all I could do was gape at those stony biceps and try and resist the primal urge to reach out and squeeze those guns, I came out with this bit of genius blabber: "So, how do you get such incredible cuts?"
And he said, "Just keep hittin it, baby."
He called me baby.
After we chatted genially for a way too short elevator ride, I smiled as the elevator door opened and said, "I'll see you tonight."
Like we had a date.
Which we did, since we were headed out to the Grand Ole Opry where Darius was headlining.
Sadly, I did not get to see Bicep Man again on our date, our date with the hundreds of other people in attendance at the Grand Ole Opry, but my daughter did get to squeeze Darius's hand, reaching up to the Opry stage as he performed.
Stories for another day. I should probably make a list of all the stories I've promised you. They're becoming quite backlogged.
Earlier in the day, someone, as in one of my friends who probably didn't benefit from my vacation heels tip, had told me that if they were a betting person, they would bet that a certain Bono would most likely be arriving late that night.
For the rest of the day, I couldn't think straight. I felt like I was in high school again, my stomach in knots, plotting out how to drive by that cute guy's house oh so casually, or in this case, stand outside his hotel room as casual as one can act hovering outside a rock star's hotel room.
After the Opry and a late night dinner, we headed back to the hotel.
And there, there, there! Stood a fleet of Escalades with a bevy of excited people, mostly women, flocking around the drivers, peppering them with questions of U2 and Bono.
And there, there, there! Stood a fleet of Escalades with a bevy of excited people, mostly women, flocking around the drivers, peppering them with questions of U2 and Bono.
We headed into the lobby and my hubs asked one of our new friends,"So, where's Bono?"
We were told he'd arrived a little while before and had used the service entrance.
So, here's the thing.
Remember that part about my annoying kids? How inconvenient they make it for hotel lodging?
Well . . .
I've never been more grateful for those three kids in my life.
See, our suite, the room I was required to book because of this brood of mine, was one floor below the penthouse floor. Just one convenient elevator card swipe away from our floor.
My daughter is the one who suggested we head on up to the penthouse floor.
And so we did.
The halls were empty. And there we were, all five of us, tentatively tiptoeing around.
And yes, I know we're not the most traditional parents, having our kids stalk a rock star with us. But as of today, none of them have turned to drug trafficking or serial killing, so I think our nontraditional parenting style just might be working for us.
We tried to wander the halls with a modicum of giggling, but there were three young ladies in tow. Needless to say, we weren't the quietest of stalkers.
We came around the corner and right in front of us was the Mac Daddy suite of them all. I'm pretty sure the rules of rock and roll state the front man gets the biggest penthouse and so, since no one was around, I stood there nonchalantly trying to peek into the surprisingly large gap in the door.
Now...
Do NOT sit on your side of the computer, gasping and being all, "OMG! I thought she was just a semi weirdo. But here she is peeking through the doors of Bono's penthouse! She's a full-on wack job!"
Let's define wack job.
Yes, I wanted to meet Bono. Yes, I was trolling around the penthouse floor trying to bump into him with my family in tow. And yes, I may have, once, tried to smuggle dozens of vodka laced Otter Pops into a Police concert by stuffing them down my pants.
But I am no wack job. I wasn't pressing myself up against the door in an effort to catch him strolling into the shower or anything.
I was a respectful few feet away. Here, see for yourself.
And for the record, I was semi squatting. My ass, when not squatting, does not almost bang into the wall.
All I could see from that distance was a hallway.
Now that doesn't mean if he happened to traipse across that hallway I was peeking into, I wouldn't have run up to the door and pressed my lips to that gap and called out to that beautiful Irish man.
There is a time to lose all sense of propriety and that moment would be exactly one of those times.
But as I was giving it my best Gladys Kravitz, all of a sudden, my three girls, the ones who have been a complete economic disadvantage in my life, started waving frantically at us and jumping up and down in only the way hysterical teenage girls can manage.
And we were both like, "Be cool, girls."
Because clearly, we have not schooled our daughters properly on walking a little to the left of normal.
And yes, I know we're not the most traditional parents, having our kids stalk a rock star with us. But as of today, none of them have turned to drug trafficking or serial killing, so I think our nontraditional parenting style just might be working for us.
We tried to wander the halls with a modicum of giggling, but there were three young ladies in tow. Needless to say, we weren't the quietest of stalkers.
We came around the corner and right in front of us was the Mac Daddy suite of them all. I'm pretty sure the rules of rock and roll state the front man gets the biggest penthouse and so, since no one was around, I stood there nonchalantly trying to peek into the surprisingly large gap in the door.
Now...
Do NOT sit on your side of the computer, gasping and being all, "OMG! I thought she was just a semi weirdo. But here she is peeking through the doors of Bono's penthouse! She's a full-on wack job!"
Let's define wack job.
Yes, I wanted to meet Bono. Yes, I was trolling around the penthouse floor trying to bump into him with my family in tow. And yes, I may have, once, tried to smuggle dozens of vodka laced Otter Pops into a Police concert by stuffing them down my pants.
But I am no wack job. I wasn't pressing myself up against the door in an effort to catch him strolling into the shower or anything.
I was a respectful few feet away. Here, see for yourself.
All I could see from that distance was a hallway.
Now that doesn't mean if he happened to traipse across that hallway I was peeking into, I wouldn't have run up to the door and pressed my lips to that gap and called out to that beautiful Irish man.
There is a time to lose all sense of propriety and that moment would be exactly one of those times.
But as I was giving it my best Gladys Kravitz, all of a sudden, my three girls, the ones who have been a complete economic disadvantage in my life, started waving frantically at us and jumping up and down in only the way hysterical teenage girls can manage.
And we were both like, "Be cool, girls."
Because clearly, we have not schooled our daughters properly on walking a little to the left of normal.
And then, just like that, those three albatrosses who have planted themselves so firmly around our necks, took off—took the freak off. They fled around the corner without a thought to their parents, the people who have shelled out more than a few dimes on those ungrateful leches.
And their reason for fleeing?
The large scary looking man, obviously security for U2, who appeared out of nowhere, his enormous arms crossed in a silent posture of, "What the f**ck do you think you're doing up here?"
Here's the picture where we were busted, my hubs whipping around to catch a glimpse of Mr. Security, while I'm trying to quickly get out of my squat and peek pose.
Without a word, Mr. Security "escorted" us to the elevator. As we waited for what seemed like an eternity for the elevator to come, my hubs and I acted as nonchalantly as we could for two people who just got busted peeking into Bono's penthouse.
The large scary looking man, obviously security for U2, who appeared out of nowhere, his enormous arms crossed in a silent posture of, "What the f**ck do you think you're doing up here?"
Here's the picture where we were busted, my hubs whipping around to catch a glimpse of Mr. Security, while I'm trying to quickly get out of my squat and peek pose.
Without a word, Mr. Security "escorted" us to the elevator. As we waited for what seemed like an eternity for the elevator to come, my hubs and I acted as nonchalantly as we could for two people who just got busted peeking into Bono's penthouse.
Mr. Security stood there, silent and menacing, his mean arms crossed until the elevator door closed.
There is no way I would ever go on a date with THAT kind of jerky security man.
So, that was as heartbreakingly close as I got to Bono.
We did try the next afternoon. The Escalades were lined up outside again. I tried to act as cool as possible, standing on the steps of the hotel as my family sat in the car, yelling for me to GET IN. I simply ignored them and acted like I had no idea who this lunatic family was screaming at. Until finally, one of my "friends" told me the cars would sit there until they were called to the service elevator and sometimes that could be a long wait.
My hubs drove us around to the service elevator where we hovered for about 20 minutes with my girls all whiny, saying, "Come ONNNN! This is not how we want to spend our time in Nashville."
And my response to that was, "Well, waiting until you straighten every infinitesimal square inch of your hair and try on the 3,000 outfits you packed, is not how I want to spend my time in Nashville."
My hubs told me he'd sit there for as long as I wanted. But he did point out the three security guards and the driveway, literally two steps from the elevator where the Escalades would most likely pull up.
This is us,
And then I thought about the what if's. What if, after all this time, the same amazing stretch of years I've known my husband, after decades of singing Bono's songs, knowing every line, every word, of loving his music, of loving him, what if, in this finite moment of serendipity, when our paths finally, finally crossed, what if Bono said "Sorry, I don't have the time."
I would be brokenhearted forever.
And yes, I know he has the right to a life of privacy. And I know he has the right to be too tired or too busy to stop for a photo because everyone in the world wants just a few seconds of him and his time.
But after all this time, through mullets, (on both of our sides) and young rebellious years, (ditto) and walking these parallel lives of growing up and becoming and maturing (sort of), I still squeal like a teenager every time I catch a glimpse of him. He's been with me throughout all these years, even if he never knows that and to have him turn me away would crush me.
As silly as that sounds.
And so, I watched that door for a few more seconds, bit the corner of my mouth like I do when I'm anxious and finally said, "Let's go."
My hubs looked at me and said, "You sure?"
And I thought about the fact that sometimes idols are often better left high upon their shelves, to ensure they don't crack or shatter.
And I thought about this serendipitous path I've traveled with U2, all these years crossing lives in accidental ways.
And I knew then without a doubt that sitting in an alleyway outside of a service elevator was just not my time.
Another time, perhaps.
Another time. I'll wish on a star for exactly that.
And I turned to my husband and with a firm nod of the head, I said. "Yes. Let's go."
And off we went. And oh, Internet, I have so many tales of Nashville to tell you.
I am officially in love with Music City.
We did go to the U2 concert thanks to a certain someone. And in my next post, I have a magical tale of lives intersecting at just the right moment in time. Hi, Josiah!
Stories to come. Many, many stories to come.
And on one more note, I know I am sorely behind on stopping by all my beloved blogs. I promise, promise, promise to be over to all of your spots soon. Life—it really gets in the way of blogging.
Oh and one more thing: My friend Liz gave me a fine bit of solace when I wrote in my Facebook status that it was killing me, knowing Bono was sleeping one floor above me. She responded with, "Well, you could say you slept under Bono."
I'll take it.
Today's Definite Download: You will be treated to a barrage of U2 videos in the next few posts. In the four times I've seen this tour, this is always one of my favorite moments. Bono asks the crowd to sing with him and then steps away from the microphone as the Edge's guitar take over. As the familiar chords of "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" washes over this enormous gathering of U2 fans, the entire stadium lifts their voices and sings back to Bono the entire first chorus.
I have climbed highest mountain
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you
I have run
I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
Only to be with you
Only to be with you
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
This fan video I found on youtube is a bit far away from the stage, but it was my favorite of all the Nashville videos I scanned. It gives you a sense of the immense crowd, of the number of people, singing out to the open sky and the stars. The video's audio doesn't do it justice, the sound of thousands of people's voices in unison, singing out, giving Bono back his song. It is always an amazing moment and as a writer I always wonder how glorious that must feel, to have your words tattooed on someone's heart, so much so, that they can sing them back to you, word by word.
And if you happen to watch the whole video, the song on the back of this one is called "The Wanderer." Bono wrote it for the incomparable Johnny Cash for their Zooropa album. Bono refused to sing the lead on this song, even though producers pressured him to. He said it was Johnny's song. A tribute to the man, the legend, here in the town he ruled for all his years.
Enjoy.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Love Happens is not worth your time, especially since it just got me more worked up about my eye because it was that stupid and annoying. It should have been called, Stupid and Annoying Happens When Snoozehound Jennifer Aniston Is Involved In A Movie.
And the one other thing I will say about this movie, is there's this scene where the two moms dropped their girl off at college for the first time. And as the mommies were saying goodbye to their girl, they were so full of grief. They both swooped up their daughter and just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
And in that moment, I thought, "Wow. It's a pretty good thing I'm not a lesbian." Not that I don't love lesbians. I have some very dear lesbian friends, but if my life partner was another girl, I'd still be crying over my Olivia leaving for college. And that was two years ago. Seriously.
Thank God for my Hubby who patted me on the back, kind of mystified by my grief, but his manly stoicism helped me pull myself together after about a week of tears. If he'd been a woman? Forget it. We'd still be crying together.
So, go see, The Kids Are All Right immediately, or at least wait until you finish reading this and then go.
Okay, so last week, the fair and beloved Empress of the Blogworld said she was waiting for me to review this next movie and I was all, "Don't you worry, Empress. I am about to rain down some bad voodoo on this movie."
Because as I watched this movie, all I could think was, I cannot wait to blog about this bunch of hog crap.
Inception.
And let the debate begin.
Here's what I'm hearing from everyone. You either loved it or hated it. I am a hater.
I just didn't get it. And I have my suspicions that there are some people out there who are PRETENDING to like this movie because it was so out of control weird and hard to follow and confusing and they think that by liking it, they'll look really smart.
I don't care who knows. I didn't get it.
Just like I don't get Jackson Pollock art or foie gras or the Dow Jones or the weird ass fashions on the designers' runways or cilantro or the European man's affinity for wearing speedos or Fiona Apple or Hunter S.Thompson. All things I am supposed to like or understand but I don't.
Here's an indicator of what I'm talking about:
Approximately 20 minutes into this film starring Leonardo Dicaprio, I yelled, "I have no idea what's going on!"
My Hubby kind of chuckled, all puzzled like and said, "Neither do I."
And that was pretty much the movie.
Leonardo Dicaprio plays a dude who steals corporate secrets from people while they're dreaming. But they have to be dreaming within a dream or maybe dreaming within a dream within a dream. And also? Leonardo Dicaprio gets stuck in a dream. Or maybe not. He could just be dreaming he's stuck in a dream.
I don't freaking know.
All I know is you will spend the movie whispering under your breath, "What the hell is happening?"
Either that, or you'll PRETEND you know what's going on and you'll ooh and ahhh and nod your head like you are IN the know. Kind of like people who think modern sculptures are brilliant.
This is not brilliant. This is what my dogs would come up with if I let them loose in a pottery studio.
And in this Inception, you'll have no idea what's real life and what's a dream.
And on top of that, it co-stars Ellen Page who quite possibly might be the most annoying person on the planet.
I have found her annoying since her starring role in Juno.
Because if I could have stabbed a movie to death, I would have gone all Juliette Lewis and slashed Juno with a butcher knife until it was a bloody mess of pulp.
That's how much I hated that movie.
And sorry about the detour. It's a movie review within a movie review.
Anyway, Juno was oozing with contrived dialogue. And if there's one thing I hate, it is contrived writing. It just works too hard to be something it's not.
I honestly think Juno was such a darling of the critics because it was written by Diablo Cody an ex-stripper.
Now I have nothing against ex-strippers.
In fact, one of my dearest friends in the blog world, my soul sister in writing, is an ex-stripper. My girl, Christine Macdonald is busy working on her memoir, Pour Some Sugar On Me: Tales From An Ex-Stripper. I have had the privilege of reading excerpts of her book and trust me when I say, it will be a bestseller. Unflinching, hard at times to read what she's been through, but always, always beautifully written. This will be a brilliant piece of work when she's done.
Write hard, my girl. And I promise, we will do a conference together, sooner than later.
And now I'm really messing with your mind, a book review within a movie review within another movie review. Take that, Inception!
Anyway, back to my review that lies outside this review.
Besides the fact that you will have no idea what's happening 99.8% of the time in this movie, it has two things going for it; Amazing, amazing special effects. The kind that will make you feel like you're in your own dream, which you probably will anyway since none of this movie makes sense.
And then there's the men's suits. I would go through the pain of watching this movie again just to see all those beautiful men in their to die for suits. I don't know who the wardrobe person was in this movie, but they should win the Oscar for those suits.
Yum.
And more yum.
And hot fudge sundae kind of yum.
Towards the end of this movie, you're brought back to the beginning scene of the movie. I promise you, you will understand it even less than you did at the beginning. And I won't give anything away, because I really didn't understand any of it to give it away. But I yelled out in complete frustration, "Now who the hell is this old man? Where did he come from and why is he helping Leonardo of the beautiful suit get out of his dream?"
I still don't have any answers.
So if you want to be more confused than if you were doing some geometry homework, watch Inception.
And one more.
Go to the movies and just pass right by those stupid Fockers, because really? The first one was brilliant. The second one had its funny moments. Now, it's time to give it up.
Go see The Fighter. Trust me. You'll fall in love.
It stars Mark Wahlberg or as I like to think of him, Marky Mark. It's the true story of Micky Ward, a blue collar boy from Lowell Mass. who fights his way up to the welterweight title. But it's so much more than that. It's the story of a family, of an older brother who once knocked down Sugar Ray Leonard in a fight but now lives on the memory of his one big moment and the crack that now fuels his veins and the dysfunctional family that influence these two men.
And I know it sounds like a total downer, but it is not in any way. It is sweet and hilarious and riveting.
I dragged my hubby to this one because he of course, wanted to see The Fockers since there was nothing worse playing. And not only did I have to listen to his griping at first, the movie theater was full of rowdy folks. And I really don't like people who don't know when to be quiet. It really distracts me. And so I was getting upset because I had a loud talking girl in front of me and just a lot of blaa, blaa, blaaers around me and then right before the movie started, in walked a bunch of dudes who could have easily been the cast of Jersey Shore all talking belligerently loud. And I was all, "Great. Here comes the thugs."
But within the first few minutes of that movie, even the thugs were silent. You could hear a kernel of popcorn drop, it was just that riveting.
And even though, Marky Mark took four years to get in prize fighting shape and produced this movie, it is Christian Bale's film. He is a Daniel Day Lewis kind of actor. He disappears into his role. He lost 30 pounds to play Dickey, but it's just not that. He becomes this lost soul who still lives in the one shining moment of his life.
Here's a link to the trailer. Go see for yourself.
And so for today, we give two thumbs up to two movies and two thumbs down to three movies.
Now, shoo, get off the Internet and go spend some time at the movies. Marky Mark is waiting for you.
Today's Definite Download: The Fighter, along with being a spectacular movie, had one kick-ass soundtrack. And it started out with one of my favorite, favorite songs. The Heavy's "How You Like Me Now" and this, my friends is a song you have to appreciate by listening to it. So, go here. I know, I'm just killing your fingers and attention spans with all these links, today.
Hey, it was no party for me either, okay, to just link up all over the place. So for all my hard work, you better get your ass over to Youtube right now.
That's right. How you like me now?
☃☃☃☃☃☃☃☃☃☃☃☃
Today we have, Taa-Daaaa! Movie Reviews.
Today we have, Taa-Daaaa! Movie Reviews.
And yes, I know I still haven't finished vacation tales, but my vacation tales begin again next week and get ready, Internet, because . . . well, you'll see.
I'll give you a little peek. I did not get kidnapped in Mexico nor did I become The Man's drug mule. Although, I almost got abducted. For real. And that's just the beginning. Just you wait.
I'll give you a little peek. I did not get kidnapped in Mexico nor did I become The Man's drug mule. Although, I almost got abducted. For real. And that's just the beginning. Just you wait.
I have four movie reviews for you today because I've been awatchin' the movies. All for you, Internet, all for you. You are welcome.
When I was having my eye trouble, there wasn't much I could do because I don't know if you know this, but when you can't see, it affects pretty much everything except for sleeping.
I decided one night, with my eye patch on, to watch a movie, any movie that might take my mind off my troubles.
I settled on Love Happens, with Aaron Eckhart and Jennifer Aniston. I figured it had the gorgeous Aaron Eckhart in a love story. How could I go wrong?
I forgot about Jennifer Aniston.
And I'm sorry if you love Jennifer Aniston. I know my sister does, although I've yet to figure out why.
Jennifer Aniston, I have come to realize, is the most boring person on the planet.
She is more boring than Fr. Finnegan who taught me religion in the 6th grade.
That man did not speak. He droned. On and on and on.
And the only highlight of his monotonous droning was when he would say the word third. His thick Irish accent pronounced it turd. And let me tell you something mister, there is no bigger thrill for a 6th grade boy than to hear his teacher say turd. The boys would search the Bible for questions that would have to do with anything third. And if they could get him to say 33rd or "turdy turd" that was the jackpot, man.
But because Jennifer Aniston doesn't ever say the word turdy turd, she gets the crown of most boring person on the planet.
She's vanilla. And she can only play vanilla. And she just makes every movie she's in, a big, ole vanilla turd-less snoozefest. Don't believe me?
She is more boring than Fr. Finnegan who taught me religion in the 6th grade.
That man did not speak. He droned. On and on and on.
And the only highlight of his monotonous droning was when he would say the word third. His thick Irish accent pronounced it turd. And let me tell you something mister, there is no bigger thrill for a 6th grade boy than to hear his teacher say turd. The boys would search the Bible for questions that would have to do with anything third. And if they could get him to say 33rd or "turdy turd" that was the jackpot, man.
But because Jennifer Aniston doesn't ever say the word turdy turd, she gets the crown of most boring person on the planet.
She's vanilla. And she can only play vanilla. And she just makes every movie she's in, a big, ole vanilla turd-less snoozefest. Don't believe me?
She was in a movie with Gerard Butler and there were no sparks. Not a single one.
We're talking Gerard Butler. Gerard Butler could create fireworks with a dairy cow who has an udder full of mastitis. I know, gross. But true.
We're talking Gerard Butler. Gerard Butler could create fireworks with a dairy cow who has an udder full of mastitis. I know, gross. But true.
Don't hate me for this, but I really think it's why she can't hold onto a man.
Here's what I'm talking about.
Let's look at Brad Pitt's dating history over the years.
Robin Givens. Now, this is a woman who has gotten punched by Mike Tyson. You KNOW, this woman has some good stories to tell. If I were her boyfriend, I'd be all, "Okay, so enough talking about you. Tell me about Madman Mike."
If you've gotten punched by Mike Tyson, you are an interesting person. It's just a given.
Juliette Lewis.
Not the most attractive girl, but total, total weirdo. I mean, have you seen Natural Born Killers? Who looks at that script and thinks, "I get to spend the whole movie murdering people including drowning my dad in a fish tank and burning my mom alive in her bed? Sounds right up my alley!"
It gives me the shudders thinking about that psychotic bloodbath of murder, even now after all these years. And now she's given up acting to be a punk rock singer who wears ill fitting bizarre getups.
And you cannot get more interesting than that.
It gives me the shudders thinking about that psychotic bloodbath of murder, even now after all these years. And now she's given up acting to be a punk rock singer who wears ill fitting bizarre getups.
Then you have Gwyneth Paltrow, who might be insufferably smug with way too thin hair, ( how come this girl doesn't ante up the money for some hair extensions?) but she's a good actress and she knows like 500 languages and she names her kids after fruits and she did a knock up job on Glee proving her versatility and she stars in two of my favorite movies of all times, Shakespeare in Love and Emma and to top it all off, she's married to a rock star. Interesting with a smug, capital I in 500 different languages.
And then of course, you have the slattern who stole Brad Pitt away from the Bore. Angelina Jolie wears blood as jewelry and french kisses her brother and plans on adopting a child from every country in the world. Weird. Beautiful. And a global mother. Interesting, for sure. And before you get all up in my grill, yes, I hate her as much as every other woman on the planet. But she is still interesting.
What has Jennifer Aniston done except play lame, vanilla Jennifer Aniston in all of her movies and play Jennifer Aniston on Friends and of course, have good hair. Who wants their claim to fame to be good hair?
Boring. Boring. Boring.
Boring. Boring. Boring.
I hate boring people. The other night, we had someone who stopped by our house and so, as usual, we brought out the wine. As I've said before, my Hubby has mad skills when it comes to his wine pouring. He is generous and subtle at the same time. Your glass is always full. But as we sat there talking to our guest, who we didn't know very well, we realized he was rather boring. I was stifling yawns behind my hand. And then something I've never seen before happened, my hubby stopped pouring the wine. And for a few awkward moments, we all just sat there, drowning in this dude's boredom with empty wine glasses, hoping he would get the hint.
After the boring dude blessedly left, I remarked to the hubby that I'd never seen him stop pouring wine before.
And he said, "He was so boring. He wasn't wine worthy."
I think Jennifer Anniston, if she came to our house, would not be wine worthy.
This movie, in a nutshell, was about Aaron Eckhart who plays a self help guru who tours the country helping people pull themselves out of the depths of their grief. But in real life, he's a big mess who's never gotten over his own wife's death.
I know, right? Sounds like a real party, so far. Definitely something you want to see when you're trying to forget the fact that you may or may not be going blind.
I know, right? Sounds like a real party, so far. Definitely something you want to see when you're trying to forget the fact that you may or may not be going blind.
Jennifer Anniston is this hipster, flower shop owner. And it just burned me up in annoyance because Jennifer Anniston cannot play hipster. What she did play was, boring vanilla girl with good hair trying very badly to play a hipster.
And she has all these annoying friends and in one super annoying scene they're all a-smoking the hookah which they look ridiculous doing because they're clearly so not hookah people, and then they're traipsing through town, chewing gum and placing it on some gum wall sculpture and visiting Bruce Lee's grave, like they're uber cool, which they are not. They are annoying, is what they are. The director should have stopped right in the middle of that scene and just said, "Cut! This is so not working! Get me Drew Barrymore. And some less annoying friends. Where's Joey?"
I won't give anything away, because there's nothing to give away. It's that damn boring. But I will say, the final scene is the gorgeous Aaron Eckhart and Bore Jen finally having their first kiss.
And it was the worst thing I've ever seen. It was more cold fish than actually kissing a cold fish.
Love Happens is not worth your time, especially since it just got me more worked up about my eye because it was that stupid and annoying. It should have been called, Stupid and Annoying Happens When Snoozehound Jennifer Aniston Is Involved In A Movie.
And then there was this:
Sighhhhh.
I have been waiting for this to come out on DVD, since I missed its short run at the theaters.
It was so worth the wait.
If you must see one movie this year, see this.
I made everyone I know, above a certain age, watch it. If they stepped foot in my house, I popped this movie in and pushed them down on my couch.
Everyone, that is, except my Hubby. He has a great aversion to my kind of movies. You know, the good ones. And even though I tried to coerce him by telling him there was a lesbian sex scene, he wouldn't budge. He just went back to his MacGruber.
If you, by chance, have been living under a rock, this movie is the surprise hit of the year. And why wouldn't it be with my boyfriend in it?
It's the story of two teenage kids who seek out their sperm donor father and develop a relationship with him. This brings all kinds of complications to their once happy family, a family consisting of their two lesbian mothers.
The cast of Annette Benning, Julianne Moore and of course, Mark Ruffalo makes this movie just absolute scrumptiousness.
And if you didn't love Mark Ruffalo before, this movie will make you want to have his baby. He is that dreamy and manly and just gorgeously sexy in this movie.
I want to have his baby which says a lot since I no longer have a uterus. Thanks hysterectomy doc!
And the one other thing I will say about this movie, is there's this scene where the two moms dropped their girl off at college for the first time. And as the mommies were saying goodbye to their girl, they were so full of grief. They both swooped up their daughter and just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
And in that moment, I thought, "Wow. It's a pretty good thing I'm not a lesbian." Not that I don't love lesbians. I have some very dear lesbian friends, but if my life partner was another girl, I'd still be crying over my Olivia leaving for college. And that was two years ago. Seriously.
Thank God for my Hubby who patted me on the back, kind of mystified by my grief, but his manly stoicism helped me pull myself together after about a week of tears. If he'd been a woman? Forget it. We'd still be crying together.
So, go see, The Kids Are All Right immediately, or at least wait until you finish reading this and then go.
Okay, so last week, the fair and beloved Empress of the Blogworld said she was waiting for me to review this next movie and I was all, "Don't you worry, Empress. I am about to rain down some bad voodoo on this movie."
Because as I watched this movie, all I could think was, I cannot wait to blog about this bunch of hog crap.
Inception.
And let the debate begin.
Here's what I'm hearing from everyone. You either loved it or hated it. I am a hater.
I just didn't get it. And I have my suspicions that there are some people out there who are PRETENDING to like this movie because it was so out of control weird and hard to follow and confusing and they think that by liking it, they'll look really smart.
I don't care who knows. I didn't get it.
Just like I don't get Jackson Pollock art or foie gras or the Dow Jones or the weird ass fashions on the designers' runways or cilantro or the European man's affinity for wearing speedos or Fiona Apple or Hunter S.Thompson. All things I am supposed to like or understand but I don't.
Here's an indicator of what I'm talking about:
Approximately 20 minutes into this film starring Leonardo Dicaprio, I yelled, "I have no idea what's going on!"
My Hubby kind of chuckled, all puzzled like and said, "Neither do I."
And that was pretty much the movie.
Leonardo Dicaprio plays a dude who steals corporate secrets from people while they're dreaming. But they have to be dreaming within a dream or maybe dreaming within a dream within a dream. And also? Leonardo Dicaprio gets stuck in a dream. Or maybe not. He could just be dreaming he's stuck in a dream.
I don't freaking know.
All I know is you will spend the movie whispering under your breath, "What the hell is happening?"
Either that, or you'll PRETEND you know what's going on and you'll ooh and ahhh and nod your head like you are IN the know. Kind of like people who think modern sculptures are brilliant.
And in this Inception, you'll have no idea what's real life and what's a dream.
And on top of that, it co-stars Ellen Page who quite possibly might be the most annoying person on the planet.
I have found her annoying since her starring role in Juno.
Because if I could have stabbed a movie to death, I would have gone all Juliette Lewis and slashed Juno with a butcher knife until it was a bloody mess of pulp.
That's how much I hated that movie.
And sorry about the detour. It's a movie review within a movie review.
Anyway, Juno was oozing with contrived dialogue. And if there's one thing I hate, it is contrived writing. It just works too hard to be something it's not.
I honestly think Juno was such a darling of the critics because it was written by Diablo Cody an ex-stripper.
Now I have nothing against ex-strippers.
In fact, one of my dearest friends in the blog world, my soul sister in writing, is an ex-stripper. My girl, Christine Macdonald is busy working on her memoir, Pour Some Sugar On Me: Tales From An Ex-Stripper. I have had the privilege of reading excerpts of her book and trust me when I say, it will be a bestseller. Unflinching, hard at times to read what she's been through, but always, always beautifully written. This will be a brilliant piece of work when she's done.
Write hard, my girl. And I promise, we will do a conference together, sooner than later.
And now I'm really messing with your mind, a book review within a movie review within another movie review. Take that, Inception!
Anyway, back to my review that lies outside this review.
Besides the fact that you will have no idea what's happening 99.8% of the time in this movie, it has two things going for it; Amazing, amazing special effects. The kind that will make you feel like you're in your own dream, which you probably will anyway since none of this movie makes sense.
And then there's the men's suits. I would go through the pain of watching this movie again just to see all those beautiful men in their to die for suits. I don't know who the wardrobe person was in this movie, but they should win the Oscar for those suits.
Yum.
And more yum.
And hot fudge sundae kind of yum.
Towards the end of this movie, you're brought back to the beginning scene of the movie. I promise you, you will understand it even less than you did at the beginning. And I won't give anything away, because I really didn't understand any of it to give it away. But I yelled out in complete frustration, "Now who the hell is this old man? Where did he come from and why is he helping Leonardo of the beautiful suit get out of his dream?"
I still don't have any answers.
So if you want to be more confused than if you were doing some geometry homework, watch Inception.
And one more.
Go to the movies and just pass right by those stupid Fockers, because really? The first one was brilliant. The second one had its funny moments. Now, it's time to give it up.
Go see The Fighter. Trust me. You'll fall in love.
It stars Mark Wahlberg or as I like to think of him, Marky Mark. It's the true story of Micky Ward, a blue collar boy from Lowell Mass. who fights his way up to the welterweight title. But it's so much more than that. It's the story of a family, of an older brother who once knocked down Sugar Ray Leonard in a fight but now lives on the memory of his one big moment and the crack that now fuels his veins and the dysfunctional family that influence these two men.
And I know it sounds like a total downer, but it is not in any way. It is sweet and hilarious and riveting.
I dragged my hubby to this one because he of course, wanted to see The Fockers since there was nothing worse playing. And not only did I have to listen to his griping at first, the movie theater was full of rowdy folks. And I really don't like people who don't know when to be quiet. It really distracts me. And so I was getting upset because I had a loud talking girl in front of me and just a lot of blaa, blaa, blaaers around me and then right before the movie started, in walked a bunch of dudes who could have easily been the cast of Jersey Shore all talking belligerently loud. And I was all, "Great. Here comes the thugs."
But within the first few minutes of that movie, even the thugs were silent. You could hear a kernel of popcorn drop, it was just that riveting.
And even though, Marky Mark took four years to get in prize fighting shape and produced this movie, it is Christian Bale's film. He is a Daniel Day Lewis kind of actor. He disappears into his role. He lost 30 pounds to play Dickey, but it's just not that. He becomes this lost soul who still lives in the one shining moment of his life.
Here's a link to the trailer. Go see for yourself.
And so for today, we give two thumbs up to two movies and two thumbs down to three movies.
Now, shoo, get off the Internet and go spend some time at the movies. Marky Mark is waiting for you.
Today's Definite Download: The Fighter, along with being a spectacular movie, had one kick-ass soundtrack. And it started out with one of my favorite, favorite songs. The Heavy's "How You Like Me Now" and this, my friends is a song you have to appreciate by listening to it. So, go here. I know, I'm just killing your fingers and attention spans with all these links, today.
Hey, it was no party for me either, okay, to just link up all over the place. So for all my hard work, you better get your ass over to Youtube right now.
That's right. How you like me now?
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