Bond, James Bond

When I decided to go back to school to become an English teacher, one of the undergraduate pre-requisites I was missing was a film studies class. Trying to fit it (and my other two missing pre-reqs) into my full Master's schedule was a little difficult, so I was only able to get into an upper level film course, the focus of which I was unaware of at the time of scheduling.

When I found out we'd be watching James Bond films all quarter, I nearly dropped the class, havoc wreaked upon my carefully planned schedule be damned. I mean, James Bond was misogynistic camp. What could I possibly learn from the bad puns, ridiculous gadgets, scantily clad women with suggestive names, and imperialist attitudes?

Plenty, it turns out. Our professor focused on just how jacked up the Bondian views and attitudes are while we came to appreciate the unparalleled level of campiness that Ian Fleming had no idea that he even wrote into the novels. (True story--Ian Fleming had some bizarre bathroom issues, which you can see if you carefully [and not so carefully] read the novels and watch the films. For example, in the book version of You Only Live Twice, the uber-villain Blofeld ushers Bond into a huge room over a volcano where a seat with a hole has been built into the rock over a roiling sea of molten mud. The villain cackles in delight as he threatens Bond with the fate worse than death--molten brown liquid exploding out of the "throne" up at Bond's vulnerable nether regions. You CANNOT make this crap up. Unless you're Ian Fleming and potty training went so badly for you that you are still bitter about it 50 years later).

Last weekend, the little one actually went to bed at a decent hour on Saturday and J and I stared at each other, wondering what the heck to do with ourselves. We had the usual difficulty in deciding on a movie until I saw that Netflix was streaming From Russia With Love. Ah, yes, Connery as the original Bond. An actual faceless villain who cackles and strokes a cat at the same time. (What's really ridiculous is that this is not a euphemism). Beautiful women writhing for no reason. What more can you ask for from a Saturday night feature?

Perhaps a plot that didn't have quite so many Mack truck sized holes. (So Red Grant is planning on killing Bond and the Russian Bond girl, but he just poisons her with a sleeping pill so he'll have to kill her later...And Kerim Bey installed an actual periscope in the floor of the Russian embassy in Istanbul, but no one there notices the giant scope bulging out of the floor?...The Lektor Machine is such an obvious MacGuffin that Bond doesn't even know what the damn thing does...)

But we enjoyed seeing Istanbul, Venice and other locales far removed from Lafayette, Indiana. And frankly, Sean Connery can make bad, bawdy puns for me any day.

On Top: ANTM Cycle 17, Ep 1

Happy, happy half-birthday to me!

As promised, Cycle 17(!) of America's Next Top Model premiered on Wednesday. It was even more than I had hoped, dreamed, or imagined.

Yes, okay, that statement is a bit tongue-in-cheek. But what I'm loving about this season is that the show has given up all pretense of being an actual modeling competition. Unlike previous "cycles" where the women are (mostly) young up-and-comers--or just the prettiest girls in their high schools who have grand illusions of being world-famous--this cycle features women who already have agents, some who have been in national commercials, and who have already attained fame, or at the very least notoriety. There are still prizes there: a spread in Italian Vogue, a contract with Cover girl, but for women who have already reached at least some of their goals, what more is there? Why do this show?

And so ANTM 17 has pretty, skinny girls living together, trying to out-pretty and out-skinny each other for little reason more than any other reality show. Their faces are on TV. They get paid. And maybe they get to be skinnier and prettier than 12 other girls. Man, I love this show.



I'm excited to see "supergay" Kayla, weirdo art director Allison, and Couture by Grandma Wanda Laura. Though not the best model in the bunch Hawaii-Harlem-fabulous Sheena might actually win this thing, since it's about time ANTM has an Asian winner. And I have to root for Jake's girl from the 716 Angelea and our local girl Isis.

The rest I can give or take, though I am missing Toccarra (who has her own reality show on TV One), Nik, Jenah, and sweet little Jaclyn. Ah, well.

I'm glad party girl Brittany went home this week. Not because she annoys me or models badly--in fact, I rather liked her on her season, and she reminds me of a young Janice Dickinson. Which is a compliment, I swear. But, in a weird cross-reality show twist, she and co-model Lisa wound up rooming together.

Lisa was the party girl of her cycle. She drank a lot, talked to plants, and did some unmentionable things while dressed in a diaper on a photoshoot with the boys from Jackass. A few years later, she went to rehab. But not any rehab, no. Like any "respectable" famewhore, Lisa went to Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew. She wound up being the most boring person that season, leading me to believe she actually took this thing seriously. For all I know, she could have fallen off the wagon already, but rooming with Brittany could have had real disastrous connotations for her recovery.

Or maybe I just think about reality television too much.

Oh, wait. There was a runway show in front of a crowd of fans, and a completely forgettable photoshoot. And Nicki Minaj was the guest judge. Whatever. This isn't a modeling competition any more, and I for one am very excited that the show has gleefully given in to its own ridiculousness.

Next week: "Oh, we've already given you makeovers we thought would help your career? And they didn't? Ah well, let us try again. And maybe we'll make some of you cry more!"

90210

A few weeks ago I was aimlessly flipping through channels, looking for something to pass the time, and I landed on the new 90210 reboot. I'd seen maybe a handful of episodes when it first started; mildly curious to see what this return to Beverly Hills was all about. Who's the new Brenda? Does it start all earnest and message-y (remember when they ran out of "very special" topics and they resorted to urging you to give blood?) and then go full soap? The basic premise is the same: siblings move to Beverly Hills from the Midwest (Kansas instead of Minnesota this time, and they're not twins either), enroll at West Beverly, and gawk at all the fancy cars and fast living that LA has to offer. At the beginning they brought in a couple original cast members (Kelly was a regular for a while, Brenda made an appearance), and the Kansas kids had parents who had regular screen time, but it seems that has all been abandoned. I'm guessing they weren't getting enough young viewers and olds like me tuned out after a few episodes after the novelty of the reboot wore off.

Last night I caught the premiere of the new season (3, I think) and it was both entertaining and infuriating, like all the bad tv I love. I'd caught the last couple episodes of the previous seasons in re-run over the last few weeks, so I had a vague idea what was going on. This is the season that most shows that start in high school dread: off to college. You have to at least pretend for a bit that they're not all going to end up at the same school (ex. Andrea picks CU over Yale, Rory goes to Yale instead of Harvard, and while I can buy Willow wanting to stay to help the Scoobies, UC Sunnydale is no Oxford), but in the end the fates conspire to keep everyone in LA. Last night, Annie (the new Brenda) is all set to study acting at Carnegie Mellon, but on her way out of town she finds out that the money she was bequeathed by a recently deceased former starlet for whom she worked for a few weeks (yeah chew on that) is being contested by the relatives (um yeah!) so she has to defer a semester. That was quick. Poor Brenda had to go all the way to Minnesota, get made fun of by her roommate, and then move home a couple weeks later. Annie's brother, Dixon, was all set to go to Pepperdine, but drops out before he even starts to pursue his music. So it looks like everyone who is college-bound is headed to good old fictional California University!

Lest you start thinking that this show is actually about school, let me assure you that most of the show revolves around back-stabbing, love triangles, betrayal, and spending gobs of money on fabulous things. These people can't be more than 19 but they live such grown up lives. We already have a married couple (he has cancer, so it's kind of a carpe diem thing), and last night there was a proposal. It was declined, but not because they're obviously too young but because the young man didn't call the young lady all summer while they were apart. Okay... And we have Silver and Naveed shacking up (in the house she's lived in alone through high school), and taking in his sister who is a high school senior. And they're shaking their heads at her juvenile behavior (she wanted to go out at midnight and they wanted to go to bed), and agreeing that they should be patient with her because she's so young. She's one year younger than they are! Geesh. And let's not even talk about Naomi buying an enormous home (she needs an awesome pad to be able to throw an awesome party to impress the CU quarterback), or Dixon getting an ocean front Malibu apartment. I mean, these kids have a lot of money, so I guess they get to skip the crappy apartment with a billion roommates thing, but whoa. And how are they buying all this alcohol? Naomi throws a party with $200/bottle champagne how? The boys drink at a beachside bar and at least slip the guy some extra cash to overlook their age, which was plausible, but that gets erased at the end when Liam wakes up on the beach after too much beach beer to find he's bought the bar with the money he made on a fishing boat over the summer. He's 18!

It's so obviously cheesy and fake and terrible, but actually kinda fun, so I think I may stick with it this season.

Car Singing

I have some very strong opinions when it comes to car music. I feel that the driver is the god-like decision maker when it comes to what music is played during a drive--to the detriment of my husband's hands early in our relationship when he tried to change a station while I was driving. Now he just turns sad eyes on me when a song he can't stand comes on and mouths "Save me!" I also feel that the car should be a judgment free zone when it comes to musical preference and singing ability. I have been known to really throw my head back and belt out a note that I cannot possibly hope to reach along with Phil Collins or Whitney Houston, sometimes with my eyes closed, provided I am at a stop light or some other driving situation wherein sight is optional.

This habit of mine has earned me looks of scorn and actual guffaws of laughter from children in neighboring cars, but I am unrepentant. If you can't sing along (badly) to terrible music in the privacy of your own car (never mind if you have passengers), then dear lord, where can you sing?

My car singing has gotten worse (both in quality and quantity) in the past year since I moved to Lafayette, Indiana. I cannot claim to have had my finger on the pulse (or really, anywhere touching skin) of modern music anytime in my adult life. But at least in Columbus, Ohio, we had some really good radio stations that would introduce me to music from this millennium on a regular basis. In Lafayette, however, my choices of music are WGOD (all Jesus, all the time), Moldy Oldies broadcast from the local high school, one of those ubiquitous ClearChannel radio stations that goes by a man's first name, and even more WGOD.

When J was presented with these non-choices of radio listening, he chose silence over the crap that was offered for our listening pleasure. He has lived with a broken radio in his car since last October. This is unacceptable for me, so I have on occasion found myself actually listening to all seven stanzas of the song Thank You For Being a Friend (of Golden Girls theme song fame) by Andrew Gold. I'll bet you didn't even know it had seven stanzas. I sang along to the parts I knew. My son LO was unimpressed.

In the past week, I have subjected my innocent child to my off-key renditions of the following songs:

The Chapel of Love by The Dixie Cups--I sang this as part of the chorus in my high school's production of Leader of the Pack. I was both placed in the back row to hide my lack of mastery of the (ridiculously simple) choreography and asked to not sing too loud.

Ode to Billie Joe by Bobbie Gentry--Because there's nothing like a song about suicide, Southern Gothic style, to soothe a cranky baby.

I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That) by Meat Loaf--I fully expect to lose the respect of several of my friends for not only listening to this song from beginning to end recently, but also knowing all the lyrics.

Material Girl by Madonna--I still can't figure out why Madonna threw away the diamond necklace in the video. Bothered me as a 6 year old and still bothers me now.

(Everything I Do) I Do It for You by Bryan Adams--Okay, I couldn't listen to this from start to finish. Apparently I have some standards.

Running Through My Head: Ce Jeu

Je suis une Francophile. It started in my first grade classroom, where Mrs. Carr had French phrases posted up around the classroom. I took years of French in middle- and high-school, but, like most American teenagers, never really got further than asking where la bibliotheque was. My crowning achievement was singing "On My Own" from Les Miserables in its original French in 11th grade. And I love cheese.

But, hey, Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong.

And now, I love all manner of French music. Jacques Brel and other cabaret-style singers? Yes, sign me up. Edith Piaf? Oh yeah. Les Nubians? Mm-hmm. I own an album by the first lady of France, former model Carla Bruni, and I'm not embarrassed by it.

In that vein, running through my head today is "Ce Jeu" by French band Yelle.



I have no idea what the lyrics to this song mean. My translation class in grad school might have helped me read about Victor Hugo's impressions of the theatre, but it did nothing for my understanding of pop lyrics.

A couple of years ago, Jake was watching MTV for some reason. (Really, I don't know why. I'm not casting aspersions on MTV, he just doesn't watch it.) Maybe he was flipping through channels; I don't know. In any case, I was in another room. He called me in with a "Hey, you love this, right?"

And I did.

On screen, there was the most 1980s-esque video I'd seen in a long time, with a cute girl rapping(-ish) in French. There was whistling. There were handclaps. There were crazy costumes just before the advent of Lady Gaga. I was hooked.

To be fair, I don't actually know if this is considered "stupid entertainment" in France. For all I know, Yelle is lauded like Lady Gaga. But by the pure fact that it's pop and 80s-inspired, with a white woman rapping(-ish) in French, I'm including it here.

It doesn't matter in the least that I don't know the words. The super-catchy tune still sticks in my head, in le foot-tapping fashion de les Francaises. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

21st Century Girl

I've never really been resistant to new technology, just too lazy and cheap to be an early adopter. I didn't get a cell phone until about 2002, and when everyone was crowing about the iPhone I was just getting around to buying a flip phone. I bought the cheapest piece of junk TV in 2005, lugged it across the country from DC to CA in 2007, and didn't get around to replacing it until faced with the thought of moving it again when we got a new apartment in May. We happily dropped it off at Goodwill, headed over to Best Buy, and picked up a bright and shiny 42" HD TV. It's lovely.

This past weekend I had to make a trip over to Comcast to drop off our old cable box and router (yes we moved in May, and no I didn't remember we still had the stuff until August. Lazy remember), and while I was there I decided to take the final leap into the 21st century and got a DVR! I'm so excited. I figured with the new TV and this here new blog it would be stupid not to. I can't wait to load it up with all the good, bad, and awesomely bad that TV has to offer. I won't have to wait for things I've missed to come to On Demand. And I won't have to miss large chunks of shows because I'm busy cooking or the phone rings. I don't think I've made it all the way through a show in prime time without some sort of interruption.

Here's how my pre-DVR TV watching would go:

8:10 PM- (stirring something on the stove, look up at clock) Oh crap, Vampire Diaries started!

8:12 PM- (turn on TV) What did I miss? Is that Elena or Katherine? Crap, gotta stir the soup!

8:17 PM- (run back to TV) Commercial?! What the hell?

8:25 PM- Ooh Tyler is turning into a werewolf. This is going to be--(phone call from husband saying he's on his way home). Commercial again? (go back to stir soup, cat knocks water bowl over with his face, mop it up with paper towels)

8:40 PM- (turn up TV in desperate attempt to find out what's happening while prepping a salad). Someone's screaming, better go see what's up. (run to TV) Bonnie's bleeding? Vamp? Werewolf? What is happening? Argh. Another commercial!

8:45 PM- (food set up on the coffee table. Ready to watch the last bit in peace. Hear keys in the door) Hi honey! How was your day? (chit chat while keeping one eye on the TV with the volume down)

8:57 PM- (drop spoon on floor, fight off cats who descend like vultures, go to kitchen to grab a clean one, miss the cliffhanger ending)

10:00 AM the next day- (read the recap on Entertainment Weekly)

So yeah...that pause button will come in handy.

From One Jersey Girl to Another....

I am dubbing myself the blog black sheep since I have yet to contribute anything. Long story short, in apparently an enormous lapse of judgement, I decided to take all three kids and our gigantic dog to my in-laws' and then parents' house for a week while The Hubby was in South Africa on business. WHY I thought this was a swell idea, I don't know. The kids ultimately had a decent time (and seriously, my in-laws and parents deserve awards for hosting us since living with us is akin to dwelling with a carnival sideshow) although each day ended with a very large glass of red wine for me. Our little "vacation" concluded with us racing back to VA in an attempt to beat Irene's arrival--which apparently half of the USA was also doing. Oh and then we lost power for the weekend....Because, you know, even though all the power lines in our town are underground, the power MUST go out for at least 24 hours when there is even the slightest breeze. At any rate, we are home again, power and internet are back up (hooray!!) and I figured I better introduce myself before I get ousted from here permanently...Which would just make for a very awkward situation at work with Jenn (Hi Jenn!) ;-)

I initially became hooked on reality TV waaaaay back (think the first season of Real World on MTV---Lord I am old) and I am not sure if my taste in reality TV has gone downhill in recent years or if the quality of reality TV has rapidly plummeted and I have just gone along for the ride. I DO know that The Hubby stopped watching with me the summer that Fox aired Farmer Wants a Wife. (Think Bachelor in the middle of Missouri farmland---truly BAD enough that it warrants a post all its own--Keep your eyes peeled).

I am writing a post today about Real Housewives of NJ--It's become SO ridiculous in recent weeks, it would be irresponsible NOT to comment about it. Being a Jersey Girl born and bred, and the fact that RHW of Orange County had ended it's season, I started watching this last year and was immediately a fan. This show has everything that makes a bad reality show perfect. The women are all insanely wealthy and live in a manner that is completely beyond my understanding. There are husbands who, I swear, have Mob connections (What??!! Mob connections in Northern NJ?? No way. I am sure that pizzeria you own is bringing in 3 million a year). There is a gaggle of Prada-wearing, hot-pink-Barbie-dune-buggy-riding, miniature NJHW- in-training-kids that can throw tantrums rivaling my own offspring...and if you have ever seen mine in action, believe me, you'd be impressed. Add the fact that these women all live in the area of NJ that I grew up in and it makes for the ideal formula.

Last season, my favorite character by far was Danielle; a divorcee with 2 kids who had an interesting past to say the least. As the season unraveled, the women, deciding that Danielle was bad news, proceeded to dig up gory details of her past, spread it all over NJ and well, the entire country I suppose, as it was a focus on the show's storyline each week. Now granted, I think the feeling that Danielle was certifiable was completely justified...

(Hello? Crazy eyes anyone??) but the womens' actions reminded me of the things that middle school nightmares are made of....not that it made me stop watching of course.

Sadly (?), Danielle left the show last season and so now I need to lend my favoritism elsewhere. HOW will I make this decision? Danielle was the obvious choice but now that she is gone, I am completely torn.....Teresa is in the running simply because I am thoroughly entertained by her constant mispronunciation of things (Cymin? Kuhhminn? Koomahn?).


However, Melissa is a forerunner also because she is the underdog/newbie, Teresa CAN'T STAND her, and well, I find their interactions overall hilarious.

There is a very heated, long lived brawl going on between these two and every week I waffle between my favorite. I suppose I will just have to continue watching...Maybe one of them will throw a piece of furniture.

That would put them up into first place permanently in my mind...Well until next season at least.

Do you have a favorite Jersey HW?