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We love you, Liz.
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Of girls bought and sold, desired and desiring, powerful and degraded, as audience and performer, glittering artifices and gray realities, the past held close to your bloody heart that makes you wonder about the future that, as the song goes, will still contain the past.
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It's always the sex memes that go around--well, like VD, don't they? (And it seems oh-so-appropos that [ profile] cabenson infected me first!) So today we have: If you could choose two people to have sex with--one from the same gender as yourself and one from the opposite gender--who would you choose? Answer, then tag six people. No back-tagging. (I don't know what exactly back-tagging would be except perhaps slapping a "KICK ME NOW" sign on someone's back, and I have no intention of doing that to you, lovely flist.)

Male: Surprisingly, this is a toughie. On the short list were Jude Law, Hugh Jackman, and Jake Gyllenhaal (in cowboy regalia, please...well, let's dress them all up as cowboys! Woo hoo!). [ profile] noir_moll had the brilliant suggestion of Paul Newman circa the 1960s. And damn, that is some vintage manhood right there. But I decided to go with a contemporary British version of the Gorgeous Bastard variety that Mr. Newman represents: Clive Owen. Yes, it was because of those damn BMW films. Stop looking at me like that. And then he completely won my heart when he told Julia Roberts to "fuck off and die" in Closer.

Female: Just one, eh?

The short list: Sigourney Weaver, Patricia Clarkson (it's the voice), Gillian Anderson, Simone Lahbib, Mariska before she went over to the dark side, Renee O'Connor (although Renee and Marish both need a trip to the hair salon), Angie Harmon (maybe with a gag handy in case she starts blathering about the GOP), vintage Liz Taylor (1950s, 1960s), vintage Diana Rigg (1960s, 1970s)...okay, list becoming notsoshort, sorry.

The "winner": I know you all have high hopes for me, you were all expecting me to nominate a woman of impeccable taste, but sadly, I can neither fathom nor explain the strange, powerful hold that Lucy Lawless still exudes over me. I hang my head in shame. Lord knows there are far, far FAR better actresses and frankly La Lawless should be bitchslapping her agent about those stupid "vampire bat" TV movies and let's not even get into that whole Tarzan fiasco, although her Battlestar Galactica role is a small step toward redemption (one hopes). But let's face it: She will always be Xena (for she's better as a brunette), and I will always be mesmerized by those eyes, those thighs.

You're all tagged.
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...the world would be a better place, Manhattan would be a giant island of greenery where puppies and kittens chase butterflies (and only good coffee), and who knows, I might even be bisexual: He loves his big fat wife! And I love him for it. (p.s.: Yes, you have to log into Salon to read the article. I know it's a nuisance.)
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This is what I'm really worried about! (And before you say anything smart, I am way too old and fat to be a hipster, and I hate Charles Bukowski.)

p.s. Gillian? Call me!
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Happy Birthday, [ profile] lonejaguar!

"Darling, the Bentley is ready and I've got the Widow Cliquot on ice. Tell that Heather person to hurry up with the picnic basket and we'll be off..."
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Women have orgasms because by and large they refuse to launch monstrous ultraviolent illegal soul-deadening wars over oilsucking phallocentric powermad landwhoring BS powergrabs and therefore they fully deserve all the inexplicable otherworldly cosmically infused clitorally energized pleasures they can get.

~ Mark Morford, in a SF Gate article
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Last night, whimsical me decided to do a book purge, as I am wont to do when my shelves become overflowing. (I usually end up either selling or trading unwanted books to Cranky Chainsmoking Bookstore Guy up the street or donating them to the Housing Works Bookstore.) Do I really need a book of mediocre short stories about James Dean? How about that big fat book on Jean Genet written by Sartre that I will probably never read unless I'm sent to prison? (Okay, I admit, I kept the Sartre; I am nothing if not a pretentious twat.)

After I had my little pile assembled (much smaller than I'd hoped), I began shuffling books around and filling up my newly aquired space--nature abhors a void, and so does a bookshelf. As I rearranged things, I noticed several biographies, all in a row: Leni Riefenstahl, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Gluck, Jane Bowles, a special issue of a fiction journal on Djuna Barnes. Fucked-up women, I thought.

Then I noticed a couple more: Patricia Highsmith. Dolly Wilde. "You know," I said to Teh Wife, "I bet I could create an enitre shelf of books about fucked-up women!"

"You must like fucked-up women," she replied.

"Why yes, I do."

It earned me the first swat of the day.

We continued our mutual tasks. A few minutes later: "Would Iris Murdoch count as fucked up?" I asked excitedly, as I stumbled upon a biography of Murdoch.

She pondered this. "Sure. Why not?"

Iris went on the Fucked-Up Shelf.

Then I hit the motherlode. "Ohmigod, THE MITFORD SISTERS!"

"Woo hoo!"

I wasn't successful at finding any others that night, but this morning I realized I'd forgotten Jean Stafford and Freya Stark. And Virginia Woolf. And...

bad fan!

Nov. 30th, 2004 01:38 pm
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So out of it: I just found out that my beloved Patricia Barber has a new CD out. She is jazz, she is cool, she is hot, she is gay, and she has...really, really nice hands, the hands of a pianist. Squee!
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Teresa Heinz Kerry: Hot or not?


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