The Bridges of Madison County...

...is a pretty good movie. Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood have good chemistry and, as always, Mr. Eastwood is a skilled and sensitive director. Just one comment: Clint is a sloppy, old-man kisser. He's mostly very sexy, but every time they go in for kiss I find myself pursing my lips, as if I can somehow instruct him to tighten up a little bit. It's just... I don't know... lippy? There's a lot of floppy lip just sort of out there, like he expects Meryl to chew on it a bit. It's weird... It's very AARP and, I don't know, it's like I can smell the halitosis and Depends coming my way.

Judge for yourselves. This is a nice scene otherwise, but the action starts at about 4 minutes into the scene. A bonus, this clip is dubbed in Spanish, for just a little Almodovar flair.

Side note: the actors that play Meryl's kids are awful and some of their scenes feel, um, incestuous? Yeah... incestuous fo' sho'.

I promise I'm going to try - in earnest - to write more

So, guys, here we are again. I'm back for a second night in a row. Shocking, I know. Let's make a go of it - really start dating again. I'll realize you're all crazy again soon enough and that you're sucking up all of my time, but for now, let's enjoy this stage of infatuation.

I realize I watch a lot of movies - more than any human being should - and so, this seems like a great place to at least share thoughts and maybe offer some advice on what's available to all you peeps who don't get a chance to watch so many movies. After all, when you do get a chance to see a movie, you want it to be a good one. So, let's start with an excellent recommendation that just happens to be a Christmas gift that I'm finally cracking open. When my mother and I went shopping at Costco, yes, Costco, friends, I didn't anticipate I'd be (unknowingly) walking out with one of my favorite Christmas gifts of the season.

See, I went to Costco, you see, under the impression that we were to buy groceries and so I picked up bulk cheese, an 8-pound bag of trail mix and four stalks of celery for the price of one (who doesn't want 4 stalks of celery on the eve of Christ's birth?!). I know we bought much more that day, but those were by far my most exciting purchases, for varying reasons. What I didn't realize was (foolish Dan), my mother also intended to do a little last-minute gift shopping. I should have known better; she's a terrible procrastinator and always drags me along on one of these pre-Christmas shopping trips for a bit of inspiration... if only she took my advice! What she was searching for was an ideal contribution (or two - one for Gary as well) to our annual Pollyanna/Yankee Swap/Rob-Your-Neighbor family gift exchange.

So now, in a West County Costco miles away from the comfort of Harry Connick Jr.'s Christmas Albums (1, 2 and 3, my friends) and a garage-full of Coke Zero Vanilla, I was given a list of groceries to gather while my mother searched for that elusive Pollyanna gift that would provide her with 365 days of gratification. 365 days of gloating that she had managed to find the best Pollyanna gift of all just 2 days before Christmas during a 30-minute (ahem, read 2-hour) tour of Costco by Highway 270. Wow. I've really digressed from the aim of this posting... but, now that we're down this path, I really must continue 'til we get back on track.

Though she may be a terrible shopper, she is unmatched in the ability to disappear within any store she patronizes and we all know there is no better store for hiding (save IKEA) than Costco.

Everything is so enormous there that Mom could easily place herself on a palette, crack open an industrial sized box of crackers and entertain herself for days among boxes of slankets, dickies and ink toner. Within seconds of handing me her grocery list she had disappeared into racks of discount coats and cartons of books (where else but Costco are books sold out of a cardboard carton as if it belongs next to breakfast cereal?) and I was left to look for puff pastry and half-and-half.

Costco is a fascinating place to shop. It's also a sad place to shop - a gallery of obesity in a place where the obese must feel extraordinarily comfortable among aisles so wide and boxes so big that even Andre the Giant would feel overwhelmed by the scale of the place. When I wasn't gaping at roly-poly clans circling sampling stations like vultures, I managed to knock off some high priority items, the celery and half-and-half included. Actually, don't ask about the half-and-half. It turns out some of us can't see the glass as half full (no pun intended) when their son manages to find a full gallon of heavy cream for $5 in lieu of half-and-half. I mean, who can really tell the difference? Am I right? It was during my visit to the dairy section that I found myself face-to-face with some extraordinary cheese options. There were the classics: cheddar, pepper jack, brie. There were the Riley-repulsives: blue cheese (I know, these people are fools), Parmesan and American. Finally, there was the truly majestic: Manchego. My favorite. Delicioso. It was while I was fondling a wedge of Manchego that I made a new friend, Carl.

Carl, a reserved, plaid-shirted sexagenarian, identified me as gateway to cheese heaven. He saw my appreciation for that cheese section and he saw my newly-grown beard as an invitation to join the cheese club. As my sister Betsy noted, this beard has given me unmistakable street cred (look for a followup post on that subject). I don't know how the friendship blossomed so fast, but soon after a few tentative comments followed by some polite laughter I was sending Carl home with a pat on the back and a handful of Spanish cheeses that I was describing as nutty and salty, but mild. He was a satisfied customer and I felt proud introducing a grisled Midwesterner to a taste of Catalonia.

I was on a Costco high and knowing Mom was undoubtedly having no luck finding Pollyanna gifts, I decided to take my jumbo cart over to the media section and check out what entertainments the Cc had to offer. Costco, I discovered carries a vast array of films on DVD, both old and new. The Help, Midnight in Paris, The Hangover II, Bridesmaids, Harry Potter - all the hits of 2011 were on display.

Wisely, I knew aiming for one of these obvious hits would lead to some duplication at the old gift exchange. No, we needed to think a step above these crowd pleasers, but I was on the right track. The DVD gift basket is a Pollyanna classic and when done right, it's an elegant gift appreciated by all ages and with "Tracy and Hepburn: The Definitive Collection," how could Mary go wrong?! Yes, friends, I found a boxed set of Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy films - 9 in total - for the grand price of $24.99. Major score. Add in the HBO Miniseries "John Adams" for the gents and you have two very excellent (OK, the second one was a bit lazy) Pollyanna gifts that any two people would be thrilled to take home.

Delirious from aisle hypnosis, Mary returned to me by following instructions via cell phone (turn right at the cobbler sampler. No, don't bother with the blueberry, it's gross. If they're sampling lemon, though, get two.) and when she saw my brilliant plan she fell on her knees and wept at my feet. As her tears fell on my suede topsiders (still trying to get those stains out, thanks, Mare), they transformed from water into wine and a Christmas miracle was observed by all fortunate enough to be parked next to the sweatshirt bins on Aisle 921. What I didn't realize was that I had unknowingly chosen not only Gary's contribution to the Pollyanna (John Adams), but also my very own Christmas present, namely the Tracy and Hepburn DVD set. If anyone had told me in that moment that I would be opening up said collection two days later on the floor of our living room in my Christmas pajamas, I would have probably told them: oh man, you're totally right. Hindsight is like totally 20/20, you guys.

OK, I really don't have time to review the films inside this incredible DVD collection tonight, so that will just have to wait until tomorrow... and, hello, we still haven't even talked about the OSCAR nominations! Ugh. So much to talk about. So many digressions! I'm out.

You guys, I never blog...

Whoa, you guys, I haven't blogged since June 2010! Do you know how much has happened since June 2010?! Maybe that's why I haven't blogged since June 2010... on second thought, you guys should probably be really happy for me for NOT blogging since June 2010. That means, instead of writing to all you miserable people, I was out partying in N-Y-C, yo! I was clubbin' it up to the latest Kesha song.

Staying out late hittin' the latest nightspots - the one with the live ponies, that one with seesaws, that other one that serves sugarless cotton candy (uh, huh, totally

disgusting). Doing lines of Cocaine off Penn Badgley's abs (he's a really sweet kid, but a little bit of a pushover). Having pancakes after hours at Per Se (their cherry-infused syrup is amah-zing). I mean, I was totally doing that through the rest of 2010, all of 2011 and the first 24 days of 2012. And then, Oprah called me.

Yes, friends. Today, Oprah called me and I said: Oprah? Is that you?

And she said: Hey girl, we need to talk.

Me: For real? Oprah? What's up?

O: We have a problem.

Me: What's wrong, O? Is Gail "missing" again? I

can totally go back to Bolivia again if need be.

O: No Daniel, this is about you. I want you to tell me one thing.

(long pause)

Me: Yes?

O: Are you living your best life?

(longer pause)

O: Mm - hmm. I know. I know. See, Dan, when I met you in June of 2010 and invited to you to join me on a journey of self-reflection and self-affirmation, I didn't invite you to join the dregs of society. I invited you to explore parts of yourself you could never know. Spending your days in

slumber and your nights in sin does not a centered young man make. Daniel, when I made a promise to bring you to your best life, I invited you to climb aboard a magic carpet of self-discovery. But today, we are far from that destination and I fear it's too late to turn around.

D: But, O -

O: No. Don't speak. Words cannot bring you to your best life alone. It takes action and it takes willpower. You must blog again, Daniel. You must find express yourself in words and in words you will find your true self. Refine those words and your best life will ascend like a phoenix... from the fire... into your soul... and into the eyes of the world.

D: Wha?

O: Hush. Hush and think about the mission I have given to you. I know you will heed my words, because I am Oprah and I know you can find yourself, again, on the path to your best life.

D: I'm humbled, Oprah. I don't know -

O: I know. I know. Well, next I'm speaking to Gabourey Sidibe, so I'll leave you now, but know

this: You is kind, you is smart, you is important.

D: Ok, now you're just quoting The Help.

O: I loved that movie.

D: Eh, it was OK. I mean, I put it above Fried Green Tomatoes, but below Steel Magnolias.

O: That's fair.

D: Thanks.

O: Ok, Daniel, two words I leave you with: Best. Life.

D: I love you, Oprah.

O: Thank you.

And that's how I decided to blog again. Like all great decisions, it began with Oprah. She reminded me that I needed to stop thinking about myself so much and start thinking about how I could start telling people about myself instead. What better medium? Don't say

Twitter. That's f-ing obnoxious. Best life, people! Oprah will make me her next Gabourey Sidibe. It's coming in 2012!

quick comment

Tom Cruise must have the best plastic surgeon in the country...

Serrriously! Listen, the man is completely nutballs - sadly, the dream of him being a nice, normal, mentally-stable human being are gone forever - but, (and this is a big but) this image of Tom's new face almost (just almost) convinces you that he's the same old handsome man who wooed in Jerry Maguire and caused a little palm sweating in Mission Impossible. He looks like he dipped his head in the Scientology fountain and went back to 1996! I'm super duper impressed.

I acknowledge that this lighting is superb (as is his hair, but that's another story), that many photographers (even paparazzi) have their shots photoshopped these days and that he is in excellent physical condition. All that aside, you can't make sweet, sweet lemonade like this with sour fruit. His companion is proof of that statement. It's hard to believe Cammy D is a full 10 years younger than Tommy Boy! Dang, girl! What did you do to yo face, child? You're getting Meg Ryan cheeks! (Prepare yourself for that posting... a clear sequel to my Joan Allen diatribe.)

Alright, Mr. Cruise, I'm giving you a point on my scoreboard. If you keep away from your squinty "wife" and avoid reminding us that you're a Xenu-loving, Dr. Phil-wannabe, crazy-town nutjob, then I think there's hope for you yet.

you guys, prepare yourselves...

today we're going to talk about bad plastic surgery. this is is going to be scary, because we're going to be looking at some horrific plastic surgery. it's going to be so scary that this is going to be at least a special two part series, because i don't think even i can stomach to do this in one sitting. if you've eaten recently, you might be in danger of having a free lunch (shout out to sharon! and sharon's sister! best phrase ever). yep, you might crap your pants. it's that scary.

i'm not talking about kiddy work like boob jobs and nose jobs. leave that for the dumbos hanging out with hugh hefner. i'm talkin' bout crazy stuff: mature ladies who took it too far. we're talking: crazy. lady. faces. this is going to be a mixed bag because it's a little funny, just a little, but it's mostly really sad... like, reaaaaally sad. reaaaally. ok, let's begin.

this whole posting is inspired by one woman, in truth. you may call her my mutant muse, if you will. i had noticed her from time to time over the years. she's an unusual woman by hollywood's standards: tall, strong-jawed, a little masculine, but definitely a woman in touch with her lady business. it took me awhile to find her in a movie that interested me, but when i finally saw her in "the contender," i was in awe. (if you haven't seen it, i implore you. it's brilliant! much, much better than the tv show it spawned: "commander in chief." speaking of crazy faces... poor geena davis. i digress!)

in "the contender," joan allen was radiant, lovely, charming, disarming, dare i say, brilliant? as a senator nominated to ascend to the vice-presidency, she was incredibly authoritative. cool, calm, but tough and ballsy. it was an excellent movie (ok, it was a better-than-most movie) centered upon her excellent performance, which is all too rare for women of a certain age. she got a well-deserved oscar nomination for the role (she lost to julia roberts. that was a tough year: laura linney in "you can count on me," ellen burstyn for "requiem for a dream."). joan was in her prime and she looked great.


look at that sexy biatch! perhaps she's a little over-made up here (that lip liner, those spider lashes!), but overall, she looks like a woman confident in her skin! embracing her age! loving that menopause! she followed up the contender with a few nice roles here and there and, if you can imagine it, (no need to imagine, my friends, photographic evidence is a'comin') she looked even better a few years later in "the upside of anger."

dayummm, woman! look at that hot mama! maybe standing next to kevin costner makes you look hotter. maybe it's that low cut dress. maybe it's that sassy little flippy haircut she's got goin' on, but something is working here. but, we're still looking au naturel. but, you know, roles weren't necessarily flow joan's way and, methinks the lady got a little desperate. i mean, the same woman who won a tony for "burn this" and was nominated for oscars for "nixon" (that movie was insane. and long.) and "the crucible" agreed to co-star in a little film called "death race." 'nuff said. ya dig? perhaps she thought she needed to freshen things up a bit. give herself a little edge over some of the other baby boomers.

so, before her big return to broadway (in a stinker of a play called "impressionism" - don't even bother to google it. you're wasting your time, chasing that cultural reference) she decided to have a little work done. thankfully for us the new york times decided to do a big profile on that famous punam. and, well, this is what the photographer found when he showed up.

ahhh!!! it's horrifying!! whatever you do, do not look directly at the image. for the love of god, use your peripheral vision! i mean, it's shocking. i'm pretty sure the first time i saw this photo in the times i gasped out loud. i can't even discuss what we're seeing yet.

let's talk about the circumstances: firstly, if her publicist was present at this photo shoot and knew that this shot was occurring, he/she should be fired. secondly, said publicist should have told the photographer beforehand: "i swear to god, if you shoot a picture of my client's crazy chipmunk cheeks up close, i will castrate you." (or, steal your lady parts if the photographer in question is a woman.) why not take a cue from the title of her play at the time and insist that they publish an impressionistic portrait of the lady? eh?

but, no... that new york times photographer knew he had struck gold with this train wreck. he saw those porked cheeks and that mound of barbie hair and must have thought: this is too easy. can you imagine being that photographer? i mean, i wonder if someone prepped him for what he was walking into. a little aside, like, "by the way, don't make a big deal about it, but joan had some crazy plastic surgery. she looks like a muppet now, but it's totally hot. totally normal. she's going to look great. just shoot her from behind. can you imagine trying to keep a straight face in the presence of this? if not crack up, i'm pretty sure i'd at least get caught staring at that blob of silly putty that used to be her face! perhaps what impresses me most though is that they not only convinced her it was a good idea to do a closeup, but that they should do it with her playing the role of an asylum candidate. how in the world did they convince her to do this manic, over-the-shoulder, death stare? and why so much barbie hair in the frame!

ugghhh! joan, i'm so sad! why?! whyyyy!?! it's all so bad now. all that intelligence, all that dignity, all that loveliness gone! and for what? so that you can look like kelsey grammer's dumbo wife? (all due respect, camille, you've stuck with frasier through thick and thin. big ups.) my face hurts just looking at your face. it just looks like your poor skin could pop at any moment! take those chicken cutlets out of your cheeks so that you can frown again.

to be continued...

In defense of poor Ke$ha...

Friends! It's been so long since I've posted... I've failed you. I'm ashamed! I'm horrified! I've been busy! So, here goes, dipping my toes back into the murky water that is known as... I can't even bring myself to say the word (blogging). Let's call it sharing, shall we?

So, this is old news, I realize, but I just finished a conversation with my sister, Betsy (Holla! What up twin that's 10 years older than me? What? You don't understand?! Neither do I. Ask Jesus how twindom can span a decade.), and I feel compelled to share our thoughts. We have both confessed that we appreciate the weirdness that is known as Ke$ha and I for one feel compelled to defend the girl's freaky SNL performance.

This girl is truly bizarre in the most embarrassing and amazingly un-self conscious ways. She's not weird-cool like Lady Gaga, who has hoodwinked everyone into thinking her particular brand of abstractness, aloofness and product-placement is the second coming of Andy Warhol dressed in Alexander McQueen. Ke$ha is just weird. This girl is like middle-school weird. Not middle-school weird like, I wear my grandma's vintage clip-on earrings (that's Gaga territory), but middle-school weird like, I wear my grandma's teal nightgown with a bandanna and neon snap bracelets because I think it's boss. Or middle-school weird, like I put Fritos in my peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. Yet, somehow I think it's working for her and I'm starting to really dig this freak flag-flying weirdo.

Ke$ha has so many elements to which I'd normally find oppositions. How did I get to this level of appreciation? How did I overcome all of the misspellings and gross-misuse of capitalization? Let's discuss. First of all, at first I hated that song "TiK ToK." There is just no way to justify it as genius or ambitious songwriting. Then again, I should start criticizing songwriting only when, like this man, I write a song that has both infected the minds of innocent, unsuspecting civilians and generated gajillions of dollars. It's a weird song, full of strange references that seem somewhat contradictory. Do Valley-girls who appreciate pedicures on their toes and tryin' on all their clothes really brush their teeth with a bottle of Jack Daniels and seek out men that look like Mick Jagger? (By the way, which Mick Jagger are you looking for, Ke$ha? Are we talking '60s Mick Jagger? I'd even accept '80s or early-'90s Jagger, but present-day Mick Jagger is unacceptable. I won't allow it. Proof below.)

But, against all odds, this song has still managed to get this booty a'shakin'. I freely admit that my last trip to the gym was made 10 times more pleasurable by two things: Oprah's vocal ac-RO-baaaaa-tiCCCCs (Damn, girl, that's an art! And, who doesn't love watching Oprah on their day off while working an elliptical?) and Ke$ha's "TiK ToK" video. That song got me freakin' pumped! She built me up! She broke me down! My heart DID pound! Ya, she got me. With HER hands up, I put MY hands up! I gave in.

Let's move on to another serious, potential source of opposition: the dollar sign. Ke$ha, what is this?! Do you realize how strange this is? Did Prince convince you to do this? P. Diddy? You should know, both of those men have had name-identity crises. I'm very perplexed. I think it's very confusing for all of us. You might have won me over sooner if you didn't have both a dollar sign in your name AND misspellings PLUS alternating capitalizations in your first single. It's just too much for America all at once. We're not ready! What's next? If I see an @ symbol, I'm really going to reconsider my level of affection. I'm serrrrious. Still, here I am, defending your weirdness... oh, who am I kidding?! It's going to take a lot more than an @ sign to shake me, you crazy loon!

Somehow, Ke$ha makes all these wrongs just feel so right! It's a perfect storm of weirdness that is beautifully embodied in her performance as musical guest on SNL a few weeks ago. There is so much here to discuss that I'm at a loss for anything beyond simple exclamations. Skin-tight metallic wetsuit! Acapella/synthesizer opening! American-flag cape flaunts! Awkward toe-tapping and eye-searching as the first glorious Nintendo beats hint of the weirdness to come! Truly inspired hand motions! The fist in the air for each "Don't Stop!" Valley girl hair flipping! Robot-arm dangles! Time-lapse booze bottle tipping! It's all here. All of this genius, however, culminates in the most amazing, indescribable dancing, gamely delivered by truly talented astronaut-helmeted robot dancers. Don't get me wrong: first, just enjoy the weirdness of Ke$ha here. She is, without a doubt, the main attraction in this freak show from the facial expressions to the laser orchestrations. But, do yourself a favor: watch the video a second time. Take the time to really embrace the commitment her backup dancers bring to this roboting. Watch those hip rotations. Love those crunches. Try to emulate those happy skips and arm pumps. It's the kind of dancing that can only be achieved when made anonymous by astronaut helmets. I just may get one myself. After all, what if we really ARE the aliens?

It's Been Good While It Lasted, Netflix DVD

You should all be happy to know that I finally watched a DVD that I've had from Netflix for almost an entire year.

That's right. I have been paying $10 per month, for a year - for you math dummies, that's $120 - to have a DVD collect dust in my apartment. I have essentially been allowing Netflix to use my apartment as a storage facility. How did this happen, Dan? Where did this go wrong. So many questions... I received the DVD on March 13, 2009. There was so much promise then, so much anticipation! At one point, I looked forward to receiving this DVD! I pined for it! And now, almost an entire year later - a year of guilt and self-loathing, a time that I looked at that DVD with both sorrow and resentment - now, $120 later, I have finally watched this film, which I could have bought on Amazon for $17.99 (plus shipping and handling).

Why has it taken me so long, you ask? Only god knows. I've resisted it for so long for no good reason. Firstky, it's an Almodovar movie... I love Almodovar! Every time I hear he has a new film coming out, I freak out! I love his movies so much that I study the trailers and obsessively seek out interviews, articles... and yet, there are countless movies that he made in the past three decades that I've never seen and apparently am in no rush to see! Here is a perfectly delightful and fascinating example of his cinema - one of the films that, no doubt, made his reputation - and I have treated it like my redheaded, bastard stepchild. Why is that?! Why would I be so cruel to Pedro? Especially when all of his movies are consistently good. This one is called "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" and it turned out to be excellent. Was it his best ever? No. Then again, that's a tall order. Still, it was better than 70% of the films I saw this year (and I've seen a lot).
In truth, I'm sort of sad to return the movie... it's been with me for so long. I mean, first of all, it's seen my bedroom in so many configurations! It was here when I added the new desk. It saw the end of the green sheets in favor of blue stripes. It sympathized with the addition of a sad little khaki dust ruffle (poor dust ruffle never had a chance - was always a disappointment to me). It even supported me when I made the brave decision to add a nightstand to the side of the bed that I don't use for my non-existent (but, somewhere-out-there) boyfriend. Speaking of, it's been with me through good dates and bad. It's witnessed the full-cycle of a relationship (and maybe a few friendships). Yes, it sulked in the corner as I watched the entire first 4 seasons of the Office (not to mention an entire year of other instant Netflix films and tv series), but it stuck with me through the spring rain and the windy fall, through the blistering summer and through the snowy winter. It didn't quite spoon me on my birthday and through the holidays but, I felt its envelope-y presence. It might just be the best, most non-judgmental friend I have!

So, on this Wednesday, February 24th, Happy (belated) Valentine's Day, Netflix DVD and Happy (early) Anniversary! I hope you find luck with your next recipient, but I'm almost certain it won't be a long term relationship like ours. Netflix DVD, je'taime.