Wedding Crashers

Funniest movie since There's Something About Mary. Swear. To. God.

Read more here...

Bewitched

Not only is it too cutesy, flopsy, in love with itself, it's also in love with the fact that it's a wink, wink, inside look at the shallow, shallow (wink, wink) world of Hollywood.

Read more here...

I’m Not Considering Divorce (Yet)

All right, here are some incoherent thoughts on my husband, Jason Mraz’s* sophomore album, Mr. A-Z. And some of this pains me to say, because I try to love my husband* unconditionally.

The first lines of the opening tune ("Life is Wonderful") have an incoherent melody and make it awkward to settle into listening the whole album. He tries to ramp it up nicely with the arrangement, but I'm still a little unforgiving of the entry.

"Wordplay" They’re playing this every twenty minutes on the radio. Like, could they kick the crap out of that song any more, please? The song doesn’t impress me and the video for it kind of freaks me out in a bad way. Unremarkable in the melody and annoyingly self-absorbed in the lyrics. Skip.

"Geek in the Pink" Has a really twee intro, like he thinks he's the Fresh Prince of Bel Air with his DJ Jazzy Jeff circa 1988. I really dig the rest of the song, though. I think it's fun. Perhaps not as much fun as "Waiting for My Rocket" or "Too Much Food", and I suppose comparisons to tracks from his first full-length album are inevitable, but I'd like to avoid them at all costs. Mostly, I guess I just dig this song because of the title.

"Did You Get My Message?" Annoying and repetitive. Skip.

"Mr. Curiosity" It's funny, I've seen Mraz slip into opera in a live show and it really works very well in that setting because his voice is beautiful and can fill up the space, but on an album? Maybe not the best choice by the producer. It's not the kind of clip you're going to want to hear on repeat, is all I'm saying.

"Clockwatching" + "Bella Luna" Both unremarkable. Although "Clockwatching" may grow on me.

"Plane" This one I am entirely sure would rock live. He could just dim down all of the accompaniment and belt the sucker out and make the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. I don't know, maybe he just didn't jive with the producer. Maybe he just hates the recording studio. Maybe he was just over-ambitious... I don't know.

"O. Lover" I got nothing.

"Please Don't Tell Her" This one I know rocks live. There’s something about the way he grins “She’s a warrior”. And I think it's the best track on the album, despite the fact that the arrangement starts out like some Coldplay/Keane-hybrid-wannabe. That part pisses me off.

And then the album just sort of peters out. It's not a coherent ALBUM, either. The tracks don't pull together to give you a sense of plot, development, beginning, middle or end. Plus, dude is just really digging on himself throughout, and I like a cocky man as much as - or maybe more than - anyone, but he's losing universality with all the "me"-talk. (Dear Mr. Mraz, you are not a Hip Hop star singing about your cars and your women and your bling; please tone it down.)

With Rocket, I got the sense that Mraz was almost embarassed to have made a self-indulgent piece of work, what with all the pictures of the cocky ol' rooster acknowledging his presence throughout. I got the feeling that maybe next time around he'd strive for something deeper than his own surface psyche. That's why the theme of Mr. A-Z puzzles me. The jacket art is all about Mraz-as-student. But instead of being the diligent student committed to the subtle turn of phrase and the nuances of his big voice, he ends up coming off more as the class clown: totally into himself, begging for attention, whoring it up for a laugh and cutting corners on quality.

With the exception of about three tracks, I guess I don't like it. It's not as good as Rocket, and nowhere near the quality of his live album.

That said, he's still a thousand miles better than John Mayer (who I no longer enjoy,) with his "I hate the label of sensitive singer-songwriter" whining. Dude? Then stop singing songs about how fathers should raise their daughters properly so that they can grow up and have sex with John Mayer who will treat their bodies like wonderlands. I mean, REALLY.

*in no way is he really my husband.

Please Come Soon

In the moments leading up to Ray’s taking of the stage, ejdl and I had engaged in a battle-royale of Ray-association. (Highlight’s included my “If he were John Cusack with a boombox, he’d be ‘Ray’ Anything, and her brilliant “If he were Hamlet with a skull in his hand, he’d be a solilo-Ray!) The three of us (ejdl, The Voice of Reason and myself) had found a table with our backs to the wall, off stage-left, and were more than happy to ignore the mediocre Cobain-inspired relic from 1992 that served as opening act, and just revel in some silliness before Ray arrived. “If he were the object of King Kong’s desire, he’d be ‘Ray’ Ray… Nah, that doesn’t work!”

Not a one of us had ever seen a picture of Ray before. “What do you think he looks like?” ejdl asked.

“I think he is tall and wiry thin, with a big, bushy beard and a lonely country demeanor,” I offered. I don’t know why I thought this. I’d really never seen a picture of him before. It’s just what his voice evoked from me – something about the mood of “All the Wild Horses”. And sure enough, as he stepped into the blue spotlight his thick hair and full beard glowed, and his thin frame lit up from within. Exactly as I had imagined. And as he opened with the wounded and jealous “Burn”, he broke my heart.

“Oh so kiss him again
just to prove to me that you can
and I will stand here
and burn in my skin”

A simple guitar, a spotlight, the voice that takes your breath away and the soul of a poet – that is Ray LaMontagne. I have never heard a crowd so hushed as when he finished that first song. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of his shy eyes through the fixed crowd in front of me. In between songs Ray took what felt like extended breaks, often in silence, as if to let me absorb the meaning of the last. Sometimes he spoke, low and unintelligible. He is painfully shy, but that only adds to his power when he sings. While he spoke of the difficulties he has encountered in the past year, a woman catcalled out from the audience that she could make him feel better. Embarrassed, he stopped right in his tracks and raised a hand to cover his eyes. The attention was too much for him to bear. I whispered to ejdl that it’s like he’s the shy guy in class that you always suspected of being a bottomless well of emotion. If you get the chance to examine someone like that, so exposed by the spotlight, you can’t help but be rapt.

And so, I wasn’t surprised when murmurs of sing-along built up slowly in the chorus of “Trouble”.

“We'll I've been...
saved by a woman”

I wasn’t surprised to hear ejdl’s pure soprano pipe up in the chorus of “Jolene” (quite possibly the saddest song ever.)

“Jolene
I ain't about to go straight
It's too late
I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze on my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
in the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means”

I wasn’t surprised to catch my breath at the beauty of the line “It’s as if they’re applauding the quiet love that we’ve made.”

And I wasn’t surprised to see The Voice of Reason lower her gaze into her lap, hold her breath in, and absorb the moment as if it were holy. But her silent reverence was definitely the most affecting part of the evening for me.

Ants Ants Ants

So here’s how I know I’m a grown up now:

I love Ned. Pretty much unconditionally at this point. Let’s forget about the way he looks at me like a baby Ewok. (Seriously, I’m considering getting him a little spear and an orange hoodie. The pooch is the spitting image of Wickett.) Let’s forget about the way he belly-flops on the hardwood floors when he attacks his tennis ball, and let’s forget about the cute way he rolls over on his back and wiggles both his front paws at me to scratch his belly. Let’s forget about the embarrassing plethora of nicknames I’ve developed for him, including Nedders, Neddles, Neddykins, Sir Neddingham or Professor Nedison. Let’s forget all about how he runs circles around my feet when he knows it’s dinner time, and let’s definitely forget about how I was reduced to tears of relief and joy by solid poop, people! Because god knows I would never forgive myself if puppy had continued to have diarrhea, got dehydrated and died! Could NEVER HAVE LIVED WITH MYSELF! How I really know I’m all grown up has to do with ants.

Last month, I put Ned out on the front lawn just before bedtime. He does his business, sniffs around the lawn for a bit, flops down on the dew to cool himself off, and puppy-flops towards me to be taken inside. We go up to my room and I deposit him in his cage and get ready for bed myself. Lights out, all appears normal.

Scritch, scritch, scritch. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Plaintive whimpering.

Oh, dude, Ned, no. It’s BEDTIME. Go to sleep.

The vet has told me that shih-tzus are a wilful breed, and that in order to prove that I am the boss I should ignore Ned’s whimpering because he’ll just do it for attention. So I dutifully follow the vet’s advice. I thought I was being a good mom. I sleep fitfully for a few hours, because I can hear the little critter being restless in his cage from time-to-time. Pace, pace, pace. Pant, pant, pant. Scritch, scritch, scritch. WHIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!

Oh, dude, Ned. What the hell is your problem? I’m EXHAUSTED!

3AM. I give up. Irritated, I flop out of bed, open the cage door and drag puppy down to the lawn again. He dribbles a bit of pee, and then turns towards me, and cocks his head as if to say “Um, now what?”

For that?! For that you got me out of bed at 3AM?! Oh, this is not a game I’m willing to play, puppy.

I scoop him up off the lawn and drag him back upstairs to bed. Door on the cage slams shut and I drop back into bed. Before I scoop the covers back over me, I notice a single, solitary ant crawling on my leg. Poor little critter, I think to myself and then smack it dead and turn the light off. Phew. Darkness. Sweet relief.

Except…

Sting. Ow. Slap. What the hell? Tickle, tickle, tickle. Sting. Slap. Ouch. I scritch-scratch my ankles together. Clearly, my imagination is over-active. Stupid puppy woke me up. Now I’ll never get to sleep. I sigh and roll over. Ned the Puppy scratches about in his cage some more.

Sting. Sting. Sting. STING. OUCH! No, seriously? What the hell is going on?? I reach an arm over to my nightstand. Lights on AND…

There are ants. EVERYWHERE. Crawling on my legs. Crawling on my bed. Crawling on the floor. There are at least fifty little red fire ants milling about, doing dastardly deeds and stinging and biting my lower extremities with glee (I can tell.) It’s like something out of a horror movie: I feel them crawl on me; I reach for the lights and BOOM— insect nightmare. I actually screamed. Thank god they only had six legs, and not eight, or (gulp) more.

I spring from the bed and grab some Kleenex and go to work on manually killing the little buggers. Pow, pow, splat. I’m still actually kind of screaming a bit while I do this. And also, I’m in a decent amount of pain now as the formic acid tingles unpleasantly under the epidermis of both legs and feet. The duvet gets a sound beating and gets tossed to the floor. The sheets get swept liberally. I beat at the pillows with my fists. I hit the floor on hands and knees and slap ‘em good. Pow, pow, splat. It’s as if I’ve gone into some sort of insecticidal trance. I’m bound and determined to get every last one of those six-legged stingers. But wait… where did they come from?

It’s at this point that I cast a glance over my left shoulder at the five pound shih-tzu in his cage. Ned, at this point, has his ass butted up against the bars of his cage and is proceeding to furiously dig up his pillow and scratch through the floor of the cage. Oh dear god! For four hours you’ve been sleeping with killer ants! I’m SUCH A BAD MOM!

I fly over to his cage and spring him from his insect-infested prison. I wipe off his little legs and belly and his pouffy tale. I get stung in the process, but this time it doesn’t seem to enrage me so much as feel like punishment for negligent pet ownership. When Ned’s clean I toss him on the bed, which is also clean at this point, and run downstairs to find the Raid. Then, like a good protective mama bear, I spray the shit out of the floor, under the bed, and poor little Neddle’s cage.

It takes me about forty-five minutes to be satisfied that I’ve gotten all of the ants. I wipe up their poison shells and clean up the floor. Ned, lucky exhausted pooch that he is, gets to sleep the rest of the night on the bed with me since he can’t sleep in a cage lined with a thin film of Raid. He wiggles around for the rest of the night, never quite getting to sleep, but I sort of sigh a happy sigh as he nudges his cold nose up against my arm to snuggle. I have saved my puppy from the certain doom of being eaten alive by fire ants. I’m a grown up now.