Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Some Movies

I tried to watch an old movie on Netflix called "Those Redheads from Seattle."

My family has a thing for old movies, probably because we only had a VCR growing up (no tv) and our mom would rent old, silly movies so as not to warp our morals.  Fat lot of good.  But in spite of us now practicing all manner of heathenry, she did manage to instill in us a love for old, cheesy films and their accompanying soundtracks.

The description was mildly intriguing:

Determined to reunite her scattered family, Mrs. Edmonds moves her daughters north to the Yukon to be with their father.  But the man's been murdered, and now the penniless women must make ends meet while finding the killer.

It sounded a little noir-ish with the twist of a mainly female cast.  But it's a damn musical.  And it's horrid.  They are going to find their father's killer and do a very modest can-can, exclaiming all the while about how daring they are to let anyone catch a glimpse of their bulky pantalettes.  I haven't finished the movie, and I doubt I will, but I have no doubt the killer will be drawn in some way to those bulky pantalettes.  They always are, you know.

Which brings me to another movie I watched earlier today.  It was a very stupid French film called "Emmanuelle."  I'd never heard of it, but I feel certain it is well known among connoisseurs of early 70s erotica.

Not being a connoisseur of early 70s or any other kind of erotica, I'm not sure what I was thinking.  I thought it would be stylish, I guess. But it wasn't. It was about a wealthy, hedonistic band of white people upholding the dignity of their respective countries by screwing around Thailand; and Emmanuelle, the nice French girl they wanted to corrupt for their own gratification.  For a film which contained a sex act in nearly every scene, including a young girl masturbating to a picture of Paul Newman, and a flexible Asian chick lighting a cigarette with another cigarette from the part of her anatomy you'd expect her to light it with if you were in Thailand, it was boring as hell.

The last quarter of the movie had Emmanuelle, at the insistence of the hedonists, being escorted around Bangkok by a patriarchal old pervert attempting to rid her of her inhibitions and convince her to accept the tenants of eroticism by making her smoke opium, having her forcibly taken by natives in the opium den, offering her as the prize to the winner of a very lame Thai boxing match (which the winner, remarkably free of bruises or cuts, gleefully accepted on all fours in front of the entire gathered assembly), and then giving her a new dress.  All the while, the pervert remained clothed in a dark, somber suit, and lectured constantly as to what she should be thinking.  It was like being raped to a sermon.

I guess it was supposed to do something for you, or at least make you uncomfortably sure that you'd be heaped with scorn by the sexual sophisticates for thinking Emmanuelle looked kind of silly with her skirt over her head for most of the film.  Mostly what I took away is that hedonists are just as humorless about sex as puritans.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Oh For The Love Of...

I visited the eye doctor yesterday and got the spankiest new pair of eyeglasses.

I also found out I have something called Pigment Dispersion Syndrome, which is where the pigment in the colored part of your eye flakes off into the fluid which can clog in the drainage ducts of your eye which increases pressure and can lead to glaucoma.

Now of course, the second I get the news, my hypochondria kicks into hyperdrive and I'm convinced I have blind spots and I feel like my eyeballs are about to pop out of my head.

And even more pathetically, I'm worried slightly less about the glaucoma and possible blindness than I am about having a milky eye.  I don't want a milky eye.  I may not win the blue ribbon at the county fair, but I'm a little vain about not having a milky eye.  

I just don't know how I'd handle being introduced to people and having them not look at my milky eye.  I'd probably do something awkward like say, "Hi, my name is Zelda. I have a milky eye, and I'm totally fine if you want to stare at it.  Or not.  I'm cool.  Just because I have a milky eye doesn't mean I'm not cool.  Fucker.  You try living with a milky eye and see how you like it."

But it might be totally worth it if I get to look at Jethro seductively through a colored contact and ask "with or without?"  That poor man.  I'll have him up to his eyeballs in midgets and glue (and chocolate for me) yet.

And to top it all off, doing anything that jiggles your eyeballs around can cause more pigment to dislodge, so I was told that I am not supposed to exercise.  I have been waiting all my life to hear those words, but of course they come just after I find an absolutely flipping fantastic sports bra 

and began draggin' my wagin around the block so I can do a Warrior Dash in November. It really is almost epically bad timing.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Ok so the new blog was short-lived.  It gave no more incentive than the old one, so back to the devil I know.

It seems Chris Noth has some stern, meaty thighs.  NSFW in case the adjectives weren't enough of a clue.

So how is everyone else doing?  Anyone out there?