To Da Moon

Perhaps you've heard of this crazy French silent movie from 1902 Le Voyage Dans La Lune (A Trip To the Moon) that is considered the first science fiction movie made. The hand colored versions by its creator were thought to be lost until a version was found in Spain in the 1990s. There is an excellent story about the film and the new soundtrack over at NPR. You can see it here

The film looks to be both completely antique (much closer to vaudeville than what a modern audience would think of as a movie) and totally psychodelica, trippin' like a thousand screaming monkeys. Apropriately, the soundtrack was produced by a groovy French band called Air, who I like but have never paid much attention to. Now, I've decided I need this soundtrack. Groove on.

Party Dogs

I attended a party at my old office this afternoon for three of my former colleagues who are retiring. Welcome aboard, that's what I say. It was much more amusing than I expected, very much a reunion since I have steered clear of the joint since I retired last year.

Naturally, everyone asked me "So what are you doing these days?" and seemed baffled when I replied, firmly and honestly, "Nothing." Look, I get paid for not working. Why should I feel compelled to do anything? If it weren't for porn and trolling blogs at 3:00 in the morning I would be comatose. Speaking of which, a big thank you to MJ over at Infomaiac for turning me on to the band Juantrip. Too groovy.

I also had the dubious pleasure of running into a broad who used to have the cubicle next to mine and whose planning of her step-daughter's wedding was the grinding bane of my existence for two fucking years. She was this fake sweet genteel Lady who tried to hide her homophobia from me but never succeeded. We had never liked each other particularly so why she came bouncing up to me today with a big kissypoo hug hello and stuck by my side until I almost had to scrape off my shoe with a stick was beyond me. What's with that?

I kept remembering another party years ago when one of my bosses, who could be a steel hard bitch and also despised this woman, marched up to her and told her she was not invited and that she had to leave. Now. So let's see, on one hand, we have the saccharine sweet Goody Two Shoes and on the other The Bitch Who Will Cut You and I like the bitch best. What's with that?

The party could have definitely used a swimming pool and strippers. But then again, can't they all?

Shot Me with Your Shot

I got a new camera, cause the old one was getting all cranky and stuff. As usual with new technology, this camera can do a bazillion fabulous things I don't need when all I want to do is take a goddam picture.

It's blue.

The first picture, of course, was Saki, looking very suspicious.

I also shot the painting I have in my bedroom Super Agent Fred painted long long ago. I adore it.

Random graffiti.

And a birthday party for Super Agent Fred. The waiter somehow decided it was also our friend Amy's birthday so she got a candle too. I think the waiter needed to either take more or fewer of whatever medicine he'd been prescribed because assigning Amy a birthday wasn't his only oddity. His idea of charming us seemed to consist of random observations and questions including "Are you German?"

I, I Who Have Dementia

I was at a very gay shop in the Castro buying birthday presents (we have a cloud of friends who were all born right around the middle of January so I snag presents by the bunch this time of year) and the soundtrack was playing a dynamite version of Shirley Bassey singing I, Who Have Nothing.

Our dear friend Kebbin has long claimed this as his signature song should he ever be forced into doing drag in public, which I think is a brilliant choice. I was thinking about that and smiling to myself when the shopboy, who I assume was in his 20s, but looked like he should have been in junior high, asked if I liked Dame Bassey. Of course, I said yes, and then asked if he knew the Tom Jones cover of this. "Tom Jones?" he responded blankly. I was going to explain, but I figured I didn't have time.

For those of you who remember a galaxy long ago and far away.

Absolutely, Totally Fabulous

I realize it's sort of after the fact to be writing about Ab Fab's return, but since I've just posted a paean to my own tardiness, I think I get a pass. I'm assuming we all sat ourselves down to revel in Absolutely Fabulous Sunday night, did we not? Certainly I did, even going so far as to avoid the leaked versions floating around the interweb earlier because it seemed more fitting to watch it on BBC with their amusing, slightly prissy commercials.

I had wondered how the girls might hold up after all this time; the answer, of course, was brilliantly. The episode might not have been as solid as some of the earlier ones, the misbehaviour not as honed, but it was still more insanely hilarious and irreverent than any thing else available on television.

An early stroke of genius: the prison gates swinging open to reveal not Pats as you expect, but Saffy. It takes familiarity with the show to understand why the vision of Saffy (Saffy!) in jail is funny, but if you have it, then the reward is a big laugh.

You have to respect the writers for not being lazy and leaning on that built-in knowledge that most of the audience brings with it. When Saffy demands to be brought up to date with what's been happening while she was in the big house, a lesser show would have used the opportunity to role out a big block of exposition to bring us all up to speed with the characters' back stories, but not Ab Fab. Instead, we get jokes about how big Fergie's ass was at the royal wedding. And good jokes delivered as only Bubbles can.

Still, that familiarity was there, even without being written into the show. When Pats first entered, the audience spontaneously applauded. Hell, I applauded. There was just such a sense of pleasure at having them back.

Here's what I came to realize during Sunday night's show: Patsy is my favorite. Eddy gets the best lines. Bubbles is the funniest, Saffy the most cutting and Mother the most sly, but Eurydice Colette Clytemnestra Dido Bathsheba Rabelais Patricia Cocteau Stone is my favorite. I think it's her absolute refusal to let go of the 1980's. Right on sister.

Tick. Tock

I went to dinner tonight with our old friends Karen and Randy for some wonderfully tasty Italian food. Karen is the kind of charmer to whom everyone with a pulse is drawn; the hostess, bartenders, waiters , kitchen staff and owners were all fawning over her like she had been their prom date some magical long gone evening. It was very amusing and gratifying to trail along in her majestic wake.

It was also sweet of them to put up with me being late, again. I got ready plenty early, started reading and looking at the internet and pondering profound thoughts and suddenly the Late Fairy was working her magic.

It's always the same, I start out thinking "I'm going to need to go in a while" and suddenly switch over to "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm going to be late. Again." I seem to have some kind of chronological blind spot that allows the "Time to go" sweet spot to slide right past me. It was one of the few things that annoyed the ever sweet R Man. We wound up having plenty of discussions that involved the word "dawdling" as we were scrambling to get to whatever appointment I had made us late for. Again.

Alarms, schedules, nagging boyfriends: none of them work. It's like I see the time coming, fully prepared to get up and go, but at the neccessary point I am, instead, wondering about Barbie dolls or tacos or string theory or something and then, oops, late. Again.

The War of Roses

I have a most glorious rose bush in the backyard. When it's in the mood, it blooms and blooms, the blossoms are white from a distance and pale pink up close and it has a lovely delicate scent. Here's some of the flowers from a couple of summers ago.

It is also vigorous and grows like it was clawing its way out of a rain forest jungle. That means I need to vigilant about pruning it, but last year, R Man was so sick I ignored it, so by this winter it had gotten to be a monster about as big around as a Volkswagen and nine feet tall. Not kidding, not kidding at all.

So I squared off with it this afternoon, determined to cut it down by about half.

The rose saw me coming and was all "Girl, you think you so badass with them sissy little clippers. Do your worst."

And I as all "Are you talking to me? You talking to me? I know you are not talking to me."

And the rose was all "Bring it bitch."

And I was all "Consider it brought. Bitch."

Insolent shrubs. There are some things one simply cannot condone. Actually it wasn't so bad, I whacked it back and only wound up with a bunch of scratches and a busted lip, which is inevitable when dealing with roses. They gots thorns and do not fight fair. I assume it will be worth it come May when there will be roses aplenty.

Random houseboy booty, completely unrelated to gardening.

Holiday Spirit

I've meant to feature this album cover since my friend Rich and I found it in thriftshopland last July, but I never got around to it until now, so I hearby declare today to be the end of that stupid Christmas/New Year's holiday thing and the start of Tropicana Holiday. Woo hoo.

I'm especially glad to have moved past all that other, lesser holiday stuff since they didn't really work out that well. A tradition in the South is to eat black-eyed peas and cabbage for good luck on New Year's Day. Usually I make my own peas and cole slaw to revel in my southern roots, but this year I wasn't feeling the culinary love, so I sprang for canned peas, feeling all the while as if I were letting my every female antecedent down as I did so.

I was so ashamed I failed to notice what I was buying was actually black beans. Oops. And I forgot the whole thing until 11:45 tonight and I was so rushing around to get it together, I wound up putting in way too much salt in the cole slaw. I managed to choke down a couple of bites but the garbage disposal got most of it. I only hope that counts and that this is not some augury of the year to come. 2011 was bad enough.