Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
I blame Larry King. Take that bastard off the air.
Come on, people. The body is starting to smell.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
But then something or someone crosses it. And all bets are off.
Tonight, I read this post by my friend Lulu, who'd gotten caught in a ruckus in the comments of another blog. It all started with a reasonable post about children and television watching. I would post the link to the original, but the blog owner has already had to deal with a firestorm and it seems unfair to contribute further than I already have. And while I read the original post and the comments about television, this quickly became about something else for me.
I really dislike it when people use sweeping generalisations to pigeon-hole others. I really hate it when they are so full of themselves and their inflated sense of self that they assume all people not making the same life choices must be unfulfilled. I hate it when people insult others with knowingly inflammatory language, and then when they are called on it plead that they were only stating their opinions and didn't really mean it.
I hate it even more when they spend time defending themselves and don't do the honorable thing and apologise immediately. People aren't perfect. We say and do things that are perhaps not the best choice, and when we do we owe it to the world to apologise to those we've wronged. In my opinion, those who don't understand this haven't just MADE a mistake, they ARE a mistake.
And most of all, I hate it when someone insults one of my friends.
This is the sort of exchange I witnessed, all directed by one person towards my friend Lulu. And it made me mad. Really mad, actually. Over-the-line Angry.
And once we're on the other side of the line, I no longer try to exercise restraint. I do that 95% of the time. On the Other Side of the Line, I practice the Doppelganger Golden Rule, letting others' behaviour determine how I treat them. Lash out at strangers with sweeping generalisations? Fine, if those are the rules, let the games begin. Call others names intentionally to hurt them? Bring it on...I'm an English major and I've got the vocabulary to put up a fight. You want vitriol, you got it.
Which brings me to what I hate most about incivility. It turns me into the thing I hate.
First I lashed out in the original post comments. Then I lashed out again at the offending person in Lulu's comments. And when I say lashed out, we're talking a Cat o' Nine Tails the Blood of Jesus kit can only dream about. The blog owner reprimanded me, and rightly so. I apologised, and I deleted both comments so as not to cause further trouble. While my opinions on the matter haven't changed, I will express them here, where I own the conversation and I set the rules.
I watched a lot of TV as a kid in the sixties and seventies. (Which makes me MIDDLE AGED, just like Lulu.) But things have changed since our time, and children get exposed to all sorts of electronic media, likely causing an overload that is not healthy for them. I've watched my brother and sister-in-law raise my nephews with no television and limited video watching in their home. I've watched many of my friends do the same with their kids, all in an attempt to teach their children to be inquisitive and imaginative and self-entertaining. And it seems to work well, so I heartily endorse this policy.
I am sure many children who are allowed television and videos as part of their daily life still turn out fine. I'm sure the mean-spirited woman who attacked Lu is not actually hurting her children with television, and will likely not raise morons who sit on the sofa and play Grand Theft Auto 75, even though that is what I accused her of in my anger. But I do, however, maintain that part of good parenting is setting a good example. And while her children likely don't read her blog comments, if the lack of civility she has displayed recently online is any indication of her interpersonal skills in the real world, I maintain they have bigger problems than television.
And for my lack of civility? I hate it, and I am sorry to offend. But I don't have children, so the world is safe. (And I still think that woman is a closed-minded, sanctimonious twat, but I will keep that to myself from now on.)
Tuesday: Went to work. Scrambled to finish everything in time for Wednesday AM's presentation. It wasn't easy, but I got everything done in time. At 1530, left for the city. We had a thing in London...we were hosting a dinner to celebrate our suppliers' contribution to our business. We were at the Dali Universe, which is right next to the London Eye. Schmoozed, mingled, drank much wine. Networked my way to a possible job in China. Told our US CEO that I was on a death watch for the head of travel to retire so I could move back to Minnesota and run the travel division until I could overthrow him and run the company. Got rather drunk. Exited just in time to stand by the Thames at midnight while Big Ben chimed the hour. One of the coolest things EVER. Took a cab to my hotel, checked in, and went to my one bedroom suite. Was located very near the train tracks for all rail coming into Waterloo station, which meant that I had a great room and a great bed and got no sleep due to the clatter outside.
Wednesday: Up at 8, showered, quick breakfast, and went to do my presentation at a client's office near Piccadilly. Retarded doorman, but posh digs. Presentation went well, I think. Took the tube to Euston, grabbed a sandwich for the train, and took the train to MK. Taxi to office. Hell was breaking loose on my Friday project, so spent much time on my mobile phone. About 2 pm, crisis averted, I got a call from the Account Manager alerting me that the client wanted us to present at 5 PM on Thursday instead. Another panic attack. Worked until 2 AM finishing my presentation.
Thursday: In at 9 AM. Finished presentation, rehearsed, left for the client's at around 3PM. We were late starting, and then about 15 minutes into my presentation an obviously hostile member of the audience started asking all sorts of questions and derailed my plan. He was a COMPLETE jerk. I had answers for him, but got so frustrated I ended up asking if he wanted me to stop presenting and just review my budget so he could press all his concerns during my time allotted. Others in the room redirected. We ended up staying until 8PM, which was actually a good thing since the others in the group were very receptive to my ideas. It actually turned out to be a great presentation, especially considering that we'd moved it forward by 24 hours. Home around 930. Sucked the lifeblood out of three babies to alleviate my exhaustion (not really...that's just a joke for someone special, what since I'm a bitter middle-aged spinster.) Crashed into bed.
Friday: Had another deadline for Satan in the Office, who was in a strop that I'd not been working on her project while I'd been busy with these other things. (Word is she's complained to others, but she was sweet as pie to my face.) Had some follow up questions from the twat on Thursday's gig, so spent time revising budgets and researching new things, but got everything done around 6. Came home, ordered Chinese, watched American Idol and blogged excessively about it on American Idolatry, and went to bed.
Saturday: Up at 8, at uni by 9, spent the day working on my entrepreneurship project. Came home. Made three of these, two and a half of which I've consumed.
1 shot iced Stoly
1 shot Bombay Sapphire
splash of dry Martini vermouth
splash of olive juice
shake, don't stir, then pour on top of five olives and sip.
Am watching a show called When Will I Be Famous? which is hosted by Graham Norton and is a British Gong Show. Right now, there's an act called The Human Slinky performing. Quality. Dirty's kids should be watching. Will reheat the Chinese from last night for dinner and then head to bed early.
Sunday: Who knows? I have a crap load of research to do for ENT, and a project to work on for OB. On Tuesday I fly to Marrakesh for a few days, so tomorrow I must do laundry and pack, and that's my last day for school work before Friday, when we present a draft of our business plan.
Next week looks ridiculous, too, but at least I can shop in the souks.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
No, I have a crush on Orthodox Mandy from Yentl. I wonder if this transfers to Lubavitchers? Probably not. Beards require trimming, plus I like to keep my Friday night options open. (Let's face it...sometimes it's been a long week and all you really want is a book and a bath, no matter how great the mitzvah.)
But Avigdor? I can hear THAT, Papa.
I know many of you share my hatred for the Kristians and their wacky world of bigotry and ignorance. If you've ever gotten me talking about religion, you know how angry I am that they give my religious tradition a bad name with all their crazy. Bastards. So I vent my frustrations by ridiculing them and their ilk, something in which my friend Timmy is more than happy to assist. Tim has hooked me up with many many sites of blasphemous good fun, such as the Jesii of the Week and the Lego Life of Christ series.
Today, Tim hooked me up with Kids in Ministry. Sadly, this site is real. Not only do they offer Jesus Camp for the little nippers, they have the most fascinating visual kits to help teach the little ones how to prophesize, bathe in the blood of Jesus, and reenact the great moments in Bible history. They don't like it when we call them scary, and rebut by saying that obviously if you think they're scary you are either ignorant or the spawn of Satan.
I am neither of these. I find them scary because they are manipulating impressionable young minds, filling them with half-truths and bigotry by using out-of-context biblical quotes and single-minded scriptural interpretations. I find them scary because they pick the ugly, violent, vengeful side of God and use it to bend children to their will, rather than sharing the inclusive, love-focused message that is actually the "Jesus" part of the New Testament. (Don't get me started on that misogynist Paul and all his letters telling people what to do. Pleh.)
I find them scary because of things like this.
And as a little something extra: The Sacrifice Lamb
"it's an absolute MUST for the series on the Blood of Jesus.. It stands 15 " tall so it is nearly life-size of a new-born lamb. Perfect for carrying under your arm, or around your neck. Fits perfectly on the cardboard Brazen Altar!"
Other than the Cat of Nine Tails Whip listed above (perfect for the kiddies, I always say, not to mention a nice plus for the mommies and daddies,) my personal favourite kit inclusion is in Our Amazing God. You get a human brain mold, both a learning tool AND ideal for jello salads or terrines for those church potlucks. Wondering how they use it in the curriculum. Perhaps to show which part of the brain you need to lobotomize in order to commit fully to strict creationism?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
There are many awards ceremonies in my industry here in the UK, always black tie and held on weeknights in London. Members of the leadership team take turns attending, and other seats are then handed out to people within the company who can represent us...sometimes we've purchased a table, sometimes we're hosted by others. When it's your turn to attend, you generally find a way to do it...it's a good networking opportunity and it's usually pretty fun.
There was a sales awards event on Thursday night, and since the two US VIPs that were supposed to attend ended up postponing their trip by a day, I got a last-minute invitation on Wednesday. There's been a leadership shakeup on my team this week, and so while I had a lot of work to do and couldn't really afford the time out of the office, I also couldn't say no to the invitation.
We headed into the city around 430. Took a cab to our hotel, ran upstairs to change and met in the bar for a quick drink before heading over to the event. There were six of us attending...my friend Claire (who handles PR), our MD, two sales guys and one of our Client Services Directors. Our MD was already there, so the five us us piled into a cab and made our way to the Grosvenor House. I must admit, my favourite part of these evenings is riding in a London cab with men in tuxedos, wearing an evening dress and completely nonsensical shoes and carrying an elegant handbag on my wrist. This is so not the life I'd imagined. Actually, it IS the life I'd imagined, just not one I thought I would actually have.
We'd spent more time in the hotel bar than we'd thought and the traffic in Hyde Park was a bit heavy, so we ended up running through the lobby and the abandoned cocktail reception just in time to take our seats for dinner. We sponsor an award, and were hosting the nominees in our category. They were lovely dinner companions. (We also had prime real estate so the walk to the stage was short and sweet, giving us an unobstructed view of the evening's event.)
I always struggle at these things...all these years as an event planner make it difficult to let my professional brain relax so I can enjoy the evening. Instead, I critique the room setup and decor. I monitor the efficiency and courteousness of the waitstaff. I second guess the menu choices. (The goat's cheese and roasted tomato tart was a fine starter, if a little rubbery, but selecting venison for 1100 people seemed an unwise choice. Fish or chicken would have been much safer for dietary concerns, not to mention less sensitive to overcooking. But at least it was plated. Silver service pisses me off.) All in all, it was an average evening...effective, but nothing spectacular. Claire and I kept ourselves occupied by picking a horse to back for each award and cheering uproariously for them if they won.
We drank a load of wine and toasted our guests with champagne. Claire and I found our friend Michele and had a good gossip. Went back to our table and caught a glimpse of one of our colleagues in a rather intimate dance with an "old friend." It made us both a bit uncomfortable. They were doing this hand-holding-hooded-eyes-swaying-sexy-sexy thing to a fast song. We high-tailed it to the bar as quickly as possible to avoid the awkward moment where he realised we'd witnessed his seduction behaviour. (Seduction behaviour usually looks ridiculous to outsiders, and this seemed especially so.) We had more wine and champagne to get rid of the memory.
The hooded eyes paid off, so there were only four of us in the cab on the way back to our hotel. By this time, it was well after 3AM and the streets of London were much less congested. We were very rowdy passengers, laughing loudly and a bit out of control. At one point my friend Andy even went flying across the cab when he lost his grip on the handle during a particularly fast corner. (We found this hilarious.) Our cabbie tried to throw us out about 10 blocks short of the hotel, but we managed to convince him to finish the trip (keeping quiet with loud SHHHHHs the rest of the way, so as not to upset him.)
We forgot to push the buttons in the elevator, so it took longer than usual to get up to our rooms. I got ready for bed, and since my dress now smelled like smoke I opened the window a crack to get some fresh air in the room. It was an old-fashioned wooden sash window, so I struggled a bit but I managed. Or so I thought, until I got out of the shower and went to close it. I'd not only opened it, it had slid open entirely and there was a three-foot-square hole in my wall. (No wonder it was so noisy that I couldn't sleep. Here I'd thought the night bus was making it sound like I was sleeping on the street when, in fact, I practically was.) By the time we'd caught a train back to MK, I'd been up for 26 hours with about 45 minutes of fitful sleep. I was exhausted. But I had a work project to deal with quickly and then had classes in the afternoon, so no time to rest.
Made it through the afternoon, came home and got a decent night's sleep, but have felt hung over all day, even though I had a sensible Friday evening. I took a nap when I got back from AM classes today, but am still ready for bed early. Luckily, tomorrow is Sunday and, though I have quite a few things to do for work and school, I can still sleep in so this should be fixed by tomorrow.
I am old.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
not fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
Some men never think of it.
You did. You’d come along
And say you’d nearly bought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.
The shop was closed. Or you had doubts –
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly.
I might not want your flowers.
It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly brought
Have lasted all this while.
The things about you I appreciate
May seem indelicate:
I'd like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I'd like to have you in my power
And see your eyes dilate.
I'd like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower
Or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I'd like successfully to guess your weight
And win you at a fete.
I'd like to offer you a flower.
I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I'd like all your particulars in folders
I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath)
I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work,
I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I'd like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,
Something familiar for something strange.
I'd like to give you just the right amount
And get some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you nod and hold a teacup.
I like your legs when you unwind them.
Even in trousers I don't mind them.
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them.
I'd always know, without recap,
Where to find them.
I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I'd like to cross two hemispheres
And have you chase me.
I'd like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I'd like you to embrace me.
I'd like to see you ironing your skirt
And cancelling other dates.
I'd like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I'd like to soothe you when you're hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.
I'd like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I'd let you put insecticide
Into my wine.
I'd even like you if you were the Bride
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian's
Jekyll and Hyde.
I'd even like you as my Julian
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean mathematics.
You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I'd like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in.
I'd like to put my hand beneath your chin.
And see you grin.
I'd like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I'd like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I'd like to make you reproduce.
I'd like you in my confidence.
I'd like to be your second look.
I'd like to let you try the French Defence
And mate you with my rook.
I'd like to be your preference
I'd like to be around when you unhook.
I'd like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book,
Your future tense.
This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)
Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb - born with a weak heart
I guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing
Hi yo I got plenty of time
Hi yo you got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up and say goodnight . . . say goodnight
Home - is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home - she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time Before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be . . . where I'll be
Hi yo We drift in and out
Hi yo sing into my mouth
Out of all those kinds of people
You got a face with a view
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me on the head Ah ooh
Her harlequin hovers nearby
Awaiting a word
Gasping at glimpses
Of gentle true spirit
He runs, wishing he could fly
Only to trip at the sound of good-bye
He waits by the window
At the empty place inside
Heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams
Did he hear a good-bye? Or even hello?
They are one person
They are two alone
They are three together
They are for each other
Stand by the stairway
You'll see something
Certain to tell you confusion has its cost
Love isn't lying
It's loose in a lady who lingers
Saying she is lost
And choking on hello
They are one person
They are two alone
They are three together
They are for each other
Such Great Heights
I am thinking it's a sign that the freckles
In our eyes are mirror images and when
We kiss they're perfectly aligned
And I have to speculate that God himself
Did make us into corresponding shapes like
Puzzle pieces from the clay
True, it may seem like a stretch, but
Its thoughts like this that catch my troubled
Head when you're away when I am missing you to death
When you are out there on the road for
Several weeks of shows and when you scan
The radio, I hope this song will guide you home
They will see us waving from such great
Heights, 'come down now,' they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away,
'come down now,' but we'll stay...
I tried my best to leave this all on your
Machine but the persistent beat it sounded
Thin upon listening
That frankly will not fly. you will hear
The shrillest highs and lowest lows with
The windows down when this is guiding you home
The Postal Service
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Could also be the review for "Because I Said So", or so I hear.
Or, for you atheists, what Google Earth sees when he looks down at me. Note - you can see the ducks on the pond. This appears to be in happier times, before the swans showed up. Unless they're hiding under the trees. That's possible.
Google Earth - yet another way to distract me from doing my homework.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Who is Stephen Tobolowsky, you ask? Hey now, don't you tell me you don't remember him 'cause he sure as heckfire remembers you. He played Ned... Ryerson. "Needlenose Ned"? "Ned the Head"? C'mon, buddy. Case Western High. He did the whistling belly-button trick at the high school talent show? Bing. Ned Ryerson, got the shingles real bad senior year, almost didn't graduate?
When I see Stephen Tobolowsky, I see him in Groundhog's Day, annoying our protagonist, Bill Murray, as he walks down the street and then into a giant puddle. But his talents don't stop there. He's been in hundreds of television shows, ranging from Buffy to Seinfeld to CSI to Deadwood. His credits include edgy things like Memento and stupid things like Freaky Friday (the Lindsay Lohan version, of course.) He was even on the Rockford Files. The guy is an everyman, a chameleon. I imagine him to be the sort of guy that could just as easily have been an accountant or a middle-manager in some Little Rock advertising agency as he could an actor. He's a clock in, do the job, clock out, and go home for a nice dinner with the family sort of guy. Or maybe he's some crazy alcoholic barfly who dates transvestites and smokes two packs a day. Who knows. I mean, he's just that good.
And he's a dark horse, as well. Check out this documentary he made. He says it's better than Spiderman 2. I'm inclined to believe him.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Exhibit A: Photo of newspaper with topical headline about explosions in Kansas City.
Exhibts B and C: Photos of dogs.
Is she holding the dogs for ransom and using the newspaper to prove they're still alive? Did the dogs cause the mysterious explosion? Are they terrorists who hate us for our freedom?????
Inquiring minds want to know.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
They were FAB-U-LOUS. Red leather motorcycle boots with a black rubber Vibram sole. Oil and water resistant. Kind of tomboy, kind of girly....very much like me. Good with jeans, good with skirts, good with pretty much anything I chose to wear. Never wore them with my black tulle ballgown skirt, but thinking I could have done so on the right occasion.
Friends had mixed feelings about my boots. Some found them a daring choice, what since red is mighty bright for footwear. I told them red was the new black, and once even claimed they were made of the finest bird leather...rare, they were, not just precious. Eventually folks saw the light. (My patent red leather mary janes joined me at a similar time, as well, and so perhaps they just became immune to red on my feet.) Darlene nagged me now and again to spruce them up because I was looking a bit dutchy, but she never disrespected the aura of the boots...just suggested I show them some love.
England is a wet country, and about six months ago I noticed that my feet were slightly damp sometimes when I wore my red boots. I took time to inspect the soles, and sure enough, they were starting to wear into the seam. Rats, I thought. They need help.
I continued to wear them, but when I was home for Christmas I took them to the cobbler in my hometown (who is known to work magic with boots) in hopes he could solve the problem and buy us some time. Sadly, they were terminal. I wore them a few more times while I was home, but worried that I was merely hastening their end. I even bought a pair of deep red danska clogs in an effort to replace them in my wardrobe. But I couldn't bear to part.
When packing to come home, I didn't have enough room in my suitcase for everything and I had to leave something behind. Red boots, new danska clogs. Red boots, new danska clogs.
It took me a few minutes to decide. I went back and forth a few times. But, in the end, I chose the clogs. I left my red boots at my folks' house, giving my mother STRICT ORDERS to ensure they were safe and did not end up in the landfill or the Depot while I'm away.
I made it a whole three days back in the UK before I began googling for red engineer boots. To no avail. None. Just the orange ones you see above and the bog-standard brown and black. The search became something of a mission. And then I found these.
And they were on sale. Not engineer boots. Not pure red. Not perfect. But they had potential. And so I decided to give love another chance.
My boots arrived yesterday. They are actually a bit more mauvey-red-cranberry than I'd expected. But I think they will fit into my life. They zip instead of slip on, they have more of a fashiony look than I'd expected, but they are smart and comfortable and well worth the investment.
But I'm still not ready to commit. I've decided to consider my options before I give myself so freely again. Here are some of the candidates I've found at Zappos:
Obviously, I have a little Western thing going on right now. I've never really considered myself a cowgirl, but why not try new things once in awhile?
I'll keep you posted on how the relationship develops.
And note to my mother: Just because I'm seeing other boots doesn't mean I'm not expecting a reunion with my favourites when I'm home this summer. Don't you be getting ideas.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
But we're supposed to get six inches of snow tomorrow instead.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
No, instead, it is in the last throes of battle centered in my cheekbone sinuses. Last night, I had to sleep upright because I didn't want my nose to drain on my pillow because then I'd get nose drainage in my hair. Today, I've had to excuse myself from meetings THREE times because my nose is leaking. Seriously. Leaking.
I have the kind of cold children get that gives them a glistening upper lip with a little snot halo around their nostrils.
This is SO not cool.
J.T. Walsh is easily one of the most talented actors of the 20th Century. If there were an academy award given in lifetime achievement for Creepiest Mutha in a Supporting Role, Walsh would give Dennis Hopper and Christopher Walken a good run for their money. There are 72 entries for his work in the IMDB between his first film in 1982 and his death in 1998. That's quite a bit for a 16 year career. He did goofy, he did sinister. He did violent, he did conniving. He is positively brilliant as the husband with the hitman in Red Rock West. Talk about pure evil. And yet he also rocks as the anti-Santa villain in the under-rated remake of Miracle on 34Th Street. And as the stick-in-mud townsman in Pleasantville. And in A Few Good Men. And in pretty much everything else he did.
Monday, February 05, 2007
One of the things I love about these people is that they are such a great ensemble, and that got me thinking about people who don't have to be the stars of everything, and then it got me thinking about character actors, and then I decided it is time to salute the ones I love.
Day One - Wallace Shawn
I love this guy. It always seems like he's spitting when he talks. His whiny, nasal voice is incredibly animated and he can convey an impressive range. I think my first Wallace Shawn moment came during The Princess Bride when he and Fezzick and Inego Montoya kidnap the Princess and take her to that scary cliff place. He rocks as the squiggy little know it all. And he is perfect as the debate teacher who falls in love with the liberal teacher with crooked glasses in Clueless. And his vocal turns in The Incredibles and Toy Story are spectacular.
He is also the comic narrator in Melinda and Melinda, my namesake Woody Allen movie. His Melinda is the crazy-haired-wacky Melinda. Which makes us cosmically linked.