PunkKittyDiddy

Happy Halloweeeeeeeeeeeeen!

  Gratuitous Halloween cuteness........

Adventures in Netflixing: "The Reaping"

Whew!  It was a relief, after the heavy subject matter of my last rental, to return to more light-hearted fluff, like biblical plagues and women getting impregnated with the spawn of Satan and characters going to investigate scary sounds coming from the basement armed with not even a flickering flashlight..... 

The Reaping stars Hillary Swank as a former missionary turned scientist-specializing-in-investigating-and-debunking-religious-phenomenon.......not the most intuitive career transition, but hey, I hear a good life coach can work wonders with professionals suffering from existential crisis.  (Actually, she loses her faith after losing her family to sacrifice at the hands of pagan villagers in Africa.)  Soon into our story, Swank is called upon to determine if a small town in Louisiana is indeed being spammed by Lucifer, or if the ignorant locals are just too uneducated and weighed down by lugging their Bibles everywhere to recognize scientific stuff going on.

Unfortunately, I had a hard time fully focusing on this movie because I was too busy wondering why one of the actors in it (David Morrissey) looked so damn familiar to me.  Rather than do the sensible thing - pause the movie, and go look it up online - I stubbornly tried to bully the recollection back into the forefront of my consciousness, and thus most of my brain cells were otherwise occupied trying to place him in another movie for me to really digest this one.  As it turns out, I was remembering Morrissey from having once watched him in an episode of a rather unorthodox BBC musical miniseries entitled, "Viva Blackpool," in which he played a shady limey casino backer with massive Elvis sideburns who was prone to bursting into song at random, when he wasn't busy swindling people.  You'd think a role like that would have stuck with me.............

I digress, as usual, though you can hardly blame me....there's not a lot of worthwhile stuff in The Reaping to hold one's attention, despite Hillary Swank's presence.  It's tired, it's predictable, it's not the least bit scary......efforts of the requisite creepy feral kid character and cast of Satan worshippers notwithstanding.  And Stephen Rea is utterly wasted as a priest who crank-calls Swank's character on a regular basis to more or less say, "God help you - you're screwed!"  (To be fair, though, if a priest has you on speed dial so he can call you up every day to inform you that you're screwed, you probably are screwed.)  Speaking of screwed......when will single heroines in scary movies wake up and recognize that a good-looking, sensitive, well-educated, well-employed, heterosexual, mansion-owning man who is eerily available is just Satan's way of getting them into bed?  No, your luck hasn't changed - it's just the apocalypse, and as a general rule, it's never a good time to start a new relationship when biblical plagues are underway.  At the very least, if you notice the local river running red with blood, and you can't see three feet in front of you for all the swarming locusts, it might be a good time to take extra precautions with your birth control, anyway.

I give this a C-.

Why Charlie Wouldn't Bother Touring A Spinach Factory (Nor Would Anyone In Their Right Mind)....

I learned a valuable lesson this past weekend, which is:  no matter how determined you are to turn over a new leaf and then eat it drizzled in a light vinaigrette dressing, thanks to a vow you made to ingest more veggies and prepare more healthful meals............. never, ever, ever waste your time with a brownie recipe that calls for spinach.  Sure, the cookbook author might attempt to entice and cajole and lure you into her web of deceit by writing things like, "These brownies fool everyone!" and "You won't believe how scrumptious these are......."  But after having a go at this recipe, I'm here to blow the lid off of these silly rumors.  Brownies made with spinach are not scrumptious, and will never be scrumptious in the manner that brownies made without spinach are.  Shocking but true.  For that matter, the word "scrumptious" has no place anywhere near a description of how this recipe actually turned out.  Just eat your spinach the way nature intended - drowned in cheese sauce. 

Because otherwise, if you actually spend some time slaving over a mixing bowl while forging an unholy alliance between chocolate and spinach, you will then be left with a heavy, misshapen, Frankenstein-like creation laying lifelessly upon your kitchen table.....only you will be the one saying, "Uggggggggggghhhhhhhnnnn!" after you eat it, and then, desperate to obliterate the memory of what brownies made with spinach actually taste like, you will hastily whip up a batch of real chocolate chip cookies (they only take 9 to 12 minutes to bake, after all), made with whole tubs of butter and several cupfuls of sugar and chocolate chips, which you and your partner will proceed to scarf down - the whole batch - while they are still warm from the oven, in the midst of which you might catch a glimpse of your 13 month old toddler tugging at your pant leg, licking her lips forlornly as she watches you scarf down chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, so you decide it wouldn't hurt to let her have a bite - or two - and you do so, but then she suddenly transforms into that Chuckie doll, affixing herself to and gnawing at your leg, going, "Grrrrrrrraggggh!" until you let her have a few more bites, at which point a sugar rush infuses her with almost Herculean strength, and her previously harmless hobby of rearranging your living room furniture takes an ominous turn as she takes to juggling sofas and flat screen TVs above her head while cackling gleefully, and it then takes a full hour and a half for her to expend the extra energy from that sugar rush.............and as the dust settles, you see your living room in complete disarray, your partner laying half-comatose over the upturned sofa, his bloated, chocolate-chip-cookie-filled belly rendering him useless as you begin to assess the damages and restore order..............

Well, this is what happened to me when I stupidly followed a brownie recipe that called for spinach.  Your own experience may vary.

Adventures in Netflixing: "The Wind That Shakes The Barley"

Ah, yes - the darker side of being Irish, waaaay beyond the soap commercials that leave you with that warm, fuzzy feeling, and the ale that leaves you with that warm, nauseous feeling.

The Wind That Shakes The Barley follows two brothers circa 1920 who first join forces to fight the British, and then later find themselves at odds, during the subsequent civil war, in determining how the Irish should rule themselves.  It's an outstanding film, albeit depressing - or depressing, albeit outstanding, depending on whether you're a glass-half-empty or glass-half-full type.  I can find no fault with this flick, which poses a bit of a problem, seeing as how finding fault with movies is something of a hobby of mine.   Just picture me sitting here, twiddling my thumbs and whistling during this awkward moment......... 

Cillian Murphy is impeccable and irreproachable, and....oh, screw it.  These types of movies inevitably get me to wondering what I should teach Z. about human nature.  It somehow seems wrong to tell her that humankind will never unite in peace because we're petty, greedy, beady-eyed creatures who turn on each other at the drop of a hat.  You don't hear them singing about this stuff on Sesame Street - not even Oscar on a bad day wants to be responsible for that kind of downward spiral in mood.  And yet, eventually a parent has to impart the less enticing lessons about life on this planet, right?  Sigh.

This is why I prefer vampires and werewolves and zombies.  They're less terrifying and monstrous to ponder than plain ol' everyday people.

Still - I give this an A++.   

Baby Feng Shui

Z.'s developing so rapidly now, and in such unpredictable fashion, I practically need jedi mind control to stay a step ahead of her.  Her latest thing isn't walking or talking - it's rearranging our furniture.  I haven't read about this in any of the baby care manuals in my possession, and frankly it strikes me as a little weird.  She pushes stuff around, across the room even, repositioning items to her satisfaction.  She can't quite get the larger stuff, like the sofa or bed, to budge yet (fortunately, though not for lack of trying), but let me tell you, the chairs and wastebaskets and end tables are flying fast and furious.

Is this an unusual quirk?  Shouldn't she learn to talk and say things like, "This window treatment really opens up this area of the room and makes it pop!" before she tackles interior design?  Or is she deliberately practicing some form of baby feng shui, having decided that our auras could all use a little tweaking? 

Well, if I suddenly find myself financially prosperous, infused with mental calm, and enjoying a new, seamless harmony in my personal relationships, I guess I won't knock it.      

"I'm The Meat In A Johnny Depp And Cillian Murphy Sandwich" Blog......

.....is what this blog would have been named, had I realized the free sample prospects of a shrewdly marketed blog. 

I recently came across this fabulously themed blog - The Chocolate Blog.  Good reading - though it rendered me sick with envy.  As I was drooling over the descriptions of assorted chocolate products, I encountered this sentence, trotted out most casually by the blog's author:  "From time to time, companies send me chocolates to try out."

WHAT??!?!?!?  I'm embarrassed to admit that the free giveaway potential of such a single-minded and cleverly selected blog theme never even occurred to me.  Had I understood what was at stake, this could have easily been the "Expensive Prada Handbag" Blog or the "I Like To Wear Sparkly Jewelry From Head To Toe" Blog.  Perhaps it's not too late for the "Ooooh, Oooooh, I Like Chocolate Even MORE Than That Other Blogger Over There....Come ON.....Whadda Ya Say?!?!?  Send ME Free Chocolate!!!  Please?" Blog. 

Not to mention, as noted above, if their publicists are looking to stir up some unusual and inventive press coverage, the "I'm The Meat In A Johnny Depp And Cillian Murphy Sandwich" Blog has a nice ring to it.......ahem......

No?  Ah, well.  This concludes today's entry in the newly renamed, "A Day Late and A Dollar Short" Blog.  Thanks for reading.

Drive-By Nagging

So, half the state's on fire at the moment.  We're fortunate enough to be cities apart and many miles away from the action, but it's still sad to see it happening.  It hasn't really impacted our daily lives - until about an hour ago.

I took Z. for a walk today in the stroller to run some errands on foot - mail some letters, hit the ATM, drop off some drycleaning, etc..  A ride in the stroller is about the only reliable way to get Z. to nap (which she was doing quite contentedly today), and I prefer walking to driving anyway - good exercise, good for the environment.......everybody presumably wins.   

So we're out walking when, out of the corner of my eye, I see this minivan pull up alongside of us.  The driver, a 50-ish looking, well-groomed woman, is trying to get my attention.  She looks harmless enough, and my guess is she's lost and in need of directions or something - so I pull off my headphones and say, "Yes?"  She shouts, "You should NOT be walking your baby!  This air is VERY DANGEROUS for her to be breathing!!!!"  I was gobsmacked....but managed to recover enough to respond with, "Uh......exactly which air are you suggesting she should be breathing?"  "This air is FILTHY!  She should not be breathing this!" she hollers back at me.  I picked my jaw up off the sidewalk and said, "OK, I'll leave her alone at home without a babysitter next time - thanks for the tip!"  I resume our walk without looking back, and she drives off - presumably to lecture the next hapless pedestrian she encounters about lord knows what........not eating enough fruits and vegetables, perhaps. 

(I'd like to point out the irony of this woman driving her gas-guzzling minivan around, contributing to the already high smog level, and stopping to lecture me - a pedestrian - about poor air quality.....and I'm still not sure what this drive-by harpy was suggesting I do, anyway.....keep Z. hermetically sealed in a bubble?  Move to the Swiss alps, where the air quality is more suitable?)

I've grown used to complete strangers chiming in with their child-rearing two cents worth in elevators, book stores, grocery stores, parks......"It's a bit chilly, shouldn't she be wearing a sweater?" or "It's a bit warm, are you sure she should be wearing a sweater?" or some endless variation thereof.  I try to let it slide as best I can.  Once I even had a pair of sweet old grandparent types giving Z. the ol' cootchie-coo while we were all waiting to cross at a stoplight.  They asked me how old she was, and after I told them, the old man then queried with, "And was it a natural childbirth?"  I somehow refrained from pulling down my pants and showing him my C-section scar.

Regardless, I've never actually had someone stop their car to tell me my business as a parent before!  And it's not like I was pushing the stroller into oncoming traffic while smoking my crack pipe and taunting rabid dogs that crossed our path.  I was on the sidewalk, minding my own business, and Z. was napping blissfully. 

I know it takes a village to raise a child, but geez......there's a lot of village idiots running amuck.

I Coulda Had a V-8! If It Was Covered in Cheese Sauce and Wrapped in a Chocolate Crepe.....

A few days ago, I.G. sent me one of those doom-mongering chain emails entitled something like, "Scary Ways You're Probably Giving Yourself Cancer Right Now This Very Second!"  I am guilty of pretty much every offense on the list.  I'm a cheese-gulpin', sugar-guzzlin', microwave-usin', plastic-clingfilm wrappin', steak-lovin', chocolate-worshippin' fool.  According to this email, fruits + veggies = good; cheese = bad....really bad.....mucus-makin', cancer-feedin' bad.  This creates a dilemma for me.  About the only way I can think of to make veggies palpable is to cover them in cheese.  So do I risk cancer by not eating enough veggies?  Or do I risk cancer by eating more veggies, albeit ones covered in cheese?   

I'm trying to mend my ways.  For the moment, I can get away with feeding Z. healthy foods as I slyly push my own veggies to the side of my plate (and under the pretense of having some dishes to wash, go cower in a corner of the kitchen, gulping down a bowl of ice cream in secrecy) because Z. does not yet possess the verbal wherewithal to say things like, "How come I have to eat this green crap if you don't?  And why are you hiding beneath the kitchen table, guzzling chocolate sauce like a rabid zombie?"  But sometime soon, I'm going to have to set a better example for her - and yeah, I wanna live for a good long while so I can be around to watch my kid raise her kids.  I've just ordered a cookbook on Amazon.com that has sneaky-healthy recipes designed for the veggie-adverse.  (OK, OK...it's about cooking for kids, if you must know, but obviously I can benefit from a stealth delivery system for veggies and fruits myself.)  For instance, you puree cauliflower and then add that to the cheese sauce of macaroni and cheese.  There's that ominous, menacing, mustache-twirling villain cheese again.  But even our pediatrician is recommending whole milk and yogurt and cheese for Z.'s diet, so dairy can't be all bad.  "Everything in moderation" is a better approach than militant veggie-ism for me and mine, I think.  If I had to go the rest of my life with no more chocolate, or steak, or coffee, or cheese, where's the joy?  Besides, I.G.'s email mentions happiness as a means of living longer, too.

Here's another tangent to consider.....B. very sanely shared with me some wisdom passed on from one of her father's old crony friends: "Assholes live forever."  This truth resonates with me as strongly as does the wisdom of eating healthy foods and exercising on a regular basis.  Maybe I need to be more of a jerk in order to guarantee my longevity.  See you later....I gotta go double-park my car in front of the apartment building for my own convenience......mwahhahahahahahaha!  IMMORTALITY IS MINE!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Adventures in Netflixing: "Transformers"

Allright, allright, allright - stop your snickering.  I got exactly what I deserved for renting a movie that was targeted solely to a 13 year old male audience drunk on 80 ounce servings of Mountain Dew.  But the trailer for Transformers sucked me right in.  A diesel careening along an L.A. freeway at breakneck speed suddenly transforms into a massive alien robot?!  Come on - it did look pretty cool.  If you're gonna watch a brainless, big budget blockbuster, you might as well watch one with a story that simply couldn't be told without special effects, right?  And admittedly, a story about alien robots that transform into cars and cell phones and other assorted gadgetry wouldn't make a very good stage play.

You'd think my chief complaint here would be the weak script - the half-hearted attempt to stagger the action scenes with something resembling a story.  But no.  It was a lot like watching porn when the filmmakers attempt to stagger the shagging scenes with something resembling a story.  I would have preferred zero story.   Don't waste my time.  We all know what we're here to see.  I wanted big massive alien robots in action.  I didn't want the robots to give grand, syrupy speeches about how humankind and freedom are worth saving, and I didn't want to hear the leading lady's...er, leading teenage girl's sob story about how despite the fact that she's built like a 24 year old porn star, she's really an intelligent and talented tomboy at heart thanks to her convict dad who taught her everything she knows about hotwiring cars, and screw you if you misjudged her just 'cause she's wearing a miniskirt and five inch heels and posing gratuitously atop the cars she's hotwiring - she doesn't need your pity, you jerk-off.  Now if you'll excuse her, she's gotta go lube up a stick shift......

Oh, and what creative genius decided that one of the robots should whip out his, uh, cog and pee all over a bad guy?   Nice to see that the latest summer blockbuster managed to lower the bar even further for cheap sight gags.

Shia LaBeouf is normally likable, but way too schtick-y in this - he reminded me of a teenaged Woody Allen, what with all the hand-wringing and angst-ooozing.  Some former male models who used to do Calvin Klein underwear ads play a squadron of well-chiseled military types whose job it is to alternately flex their pecs and battle evil.  And I was actually shocked to find the normally better-utilized John Turturro wandering around amidst the robots and flexed pecs, hamming it up as a secret agent type.

While watching this movie, I just wanted to be transformed into a person who wasn't watching this movie.

I give it a D+.  (The quite spectacular special effects save it from a flat-out F.)

Adventures in Netflixing: "28 Weeks Later"

28 Weeks Later happily defied the low expectations I have of sequels.  It's a zombie movie chock full of suspense, allegory, intelligence and timely social commentary.  It's also a zombie movie (key word: zombie) chock full of severed heads and limbs, gnawed-through throats, and gouged-out eyes and such, so I can't recommend it if you prefer to watch the human body fully intact and drinking tea in, say, English period costume dramas made by Merchant and Ivory.  I will grant you that, as far as dialogue goes, "Perchance any news of Mr. Darcy?" is far more melodious than, "Grrrrrrrrrrrragggggggh!!!!"  But sometimes I'm simply in the mood for a good "Grrrrrrrraggggghhhh!"

As this sequel opens, we learn that the rage virus from the first movie has infected and decimated all of Great Britain.  Who are you going to call upon to sensitively re-establish a sense of equilibrium and cultural identity to the devastated Londoners?  Who is qualified in such situations to address the subtle psychological nuances of rebuilding a once-magnificent and sophisticated country?  Who possesses the advanced biotechnological knowledge required to fight an intricate, unknown mystery virus?  The rootin', tootin' American armed forces, naturally!   Yeeeee haw!  The Yanks do a bang-up job, of course, and their so-called quarantined zones are teeming with the blood-sucking undead in no time.  (The filmmakers do manage to handle the whole American occupation parallel and make their point without getting too heavy-handed.....well, as far as you can avoid being heavy-handed with such a high disembowelment count.)

One nice feature of this flick was that seemingly main/heroic characters die unexpectedly throughout the film.  In a Bruce Willis flick, you know that Bruce has carte blanche to get shot at, stabbed, firebombed, beaten with a Volkswagen, fed McDonalds, and buried alive without actually dying.  But when it's open season on every character, it adds to the suspense.  It's been a long time since I watched a scary movie that had an ounce of suspense in it, and I must say it's refreshing to not be forced to watch some dimwit go investigate the scary growling sound in the basement armed with only a flickering flashlight and a below-average IQ.

Robert Carlyle, splendid per usual here, has always displayed a knack for playing characters who often take the moral low ground and still come out on top with some likability intact.  In 28 Weeks, his character takes the moral low ground and re-emerges with rabies and an awfully bad twitch.  Jeremy Renner is a lot more likeable as the rooftop army sniper with the heart of gold.  (Didn't think rooftop army snipers had hearts of gold, did ya?  See, at least the stock characters have been freshened up a tad.....)  Rose Byrne also delivers a solid performance, but her exceptional physical beauty (particularly the impeccable makeup and hair) makes her slightly unbelievable as a high-ranking and beleaguered army doctor.  She's light years ahead of Denise Richards clad in Daisy Duke shorts and breast implants playing a nuclear scientist from that James Bond film several years ago, but still......I'm not saying a woman can't be hot and a high-ranking army doctor saving the world from flesh-eating zombies, but when the undead are chewing their way through steel doors to eat you, would you really take the time to put on lipstick?  I'm a big fan of putting on lipstick in pretty much every circumstance, including driving to the hospital in labor at 4 a.m. (guilty!), but even I would probably question the need to dab on on a spot of L'oreal's "Saucy Sangria" when being attacked by ghouls with bleeding eyeballs.  I think mascara and some blush are more than sufficient in those situations.

And the closing shot of the movie?  Genius!

Powerful, entertaining, outrageously suspenseful movie for those with a strong stomach.  I give it an A+.