Heather's High School

Goddamn. Winona Ryder is fucking skinny.

I'm watching Heathers now and remembering high school. Not the nightmare it could have been but it was like a prison. I was never close to being popular with the people that went to that school. I though maybe that if I had had more friends I would have been happier. Then I wouldn't want to still hurt all those little fucks who pulled out my hair or spit at me. I wouldn't have the idea that friends are just there to kick me in the head and run off. Or for me to run off first. I wish I knew what I know now.
I'd have ignored all those people and focused on myself. Taken myself out to movies and worked more and read more and slept in and learned to paint and sing. I would have kept dancing. I would have written more. I definitely would have ditched more class to have a little fun. (Cause in the end, it really didn't matter if I was sitting silently, doodling in my notebook in English class or not.)

I wouldn't have dated the same boy all through high school. I would have met a tall boy with glasses who would swim and run and make me laugh. He would make breakfast for dinner and he would never stop asking questions and talking about silly things. We would dance in Times Square and travel...straight to the Taj Mahal, down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and then up the Tokyo Tower. How...very.

Where do I come up with all this bull shit? Whatever. Time to get going or get left behind. Whatever, indeed.

Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

Forever

The longer you stay with someone the more you ruin each other.

After a particular line is crossed, you can't go back. There's no fixing some kinds of hurt. I will forever be sad about things that were said and done.

When we dance, all I remember is him walking out of the apartment in a rage.
When he says, "I love you", all I hear is, "Why did you even come here?".
When he tells me I'm so beautiful all I hear is him xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx and then me running for the toilet to throw up.

Some things can't be unsaid. Some things can't be undid. They live on forever like radio signals, forever expanding into the universe.

William Holden and the Death of Old Hollywood

I think I hear a flat-line.

Or maybe it's just someone breaking into the liquor store down the street. Either way, I feel old Hollywood may already be dead.

I started to feel this way when I was watching one of the few shows I watch on the rectangular screen in my living room the other night. Hollywood Treasure on the SyFy network (I'm not sure why it's on that particular station either) is about Profiles in History, an auction company run by Joe Maddalena, whose passion for movie and TV memorabilia make me look like a chump(ette). I love this show yet at the same time, I want to throw things at the screen because I wanted the screen used stepper motor driven turbolaser tower from Return of the Jedi! I wanted Jack's santa sleigh from Nightmare Before Christmas! And I so want Mary Pickford's cigarette case.

I went to their website and it turns out that for the last two days they had one of their huge, amazing auctions. And to my happiness (and totally jealously) day one of the auction had a loose theme - The Golden Age of Hollywood. And as I scrolled through the digital catolog, one item stopped me dead in my tracks.

William Holden's Oscar.

If you ask, 'Who the hell is William Holden?', punch yourself in your face then get on Netflix and educate yourself, dammit. His time on I Love Lucy. Sabrina. Paris When It Sizzles. Bridge Over the River Kwai. Stalag 17. Sunset Blvd!!  Ok, now that you've watched all those movies...

Bill Holden was a complicated guy (but aren't we all?) who loved women, animals, and (allegedly) the drink. He bought a chunk of land in Africa as a preserve for the animals in the volatile area in East Africa. His collection of antique Asian art can be seen at the Palm Springs Museum of Art. He dated Audrey Hepburn, Capucine, Stephanie Powers and Grace Kelly.  Humphrey Bogart allegedly hated him. I love the both of them and would have arranged a play date for them if I had been around at the time.

In 1953 he won this Oscar for Stalag 17, where he played an antisocial prisoner who openly barters with guards in their POW camp who may or may not make it out alive. Some felt this was an apology Oscar for snubbing him for Sunset Blvd. He had the shortest acceptance speech in the history of the shindig, merely saying  "Thank you." and heading off.

In 1966, he was in Italy where he was in a drunk driving accident that killed a man. He was sentenced to 8 months, suspended. Friends say this was the point when his marriage began to fall apart and his drinking became worse, racked with the guilt of a man's death.

In 1981, at 63 years old, he tripped on a rug, banged his head on the corner of a table and bled to death alone in his apartment. No one found him for days.

'So what?' you may ask. Another Hollywood actor dead from excess. Why bother with this whole bloody article? It's not just a quiet and sad death. I feel like it's all something more. Something irreplaceable and special, the likes of which we shall never see again.

When scrolling through the catalog, staring at the Oscar, I begin to scroll down and there is more and more of Holden's things. A framed flight report, awards, his Emmy. And as much as I covet, it makes me a bit sad that someone is selling off The Golden Age for profit. Or out of desperation. At least the cynical part of me thinks that.

I hope that the person who bought it takes good care of it. Appreciates where it came from and what it witnessed.

Hell, if I had $120,000, I'd give it a pretty good home too.

UPDATE: Just checked "Prices Realized", it DIDN'T SELL. I wonder if they would take the grocery money for the month. Also not bought: Marilyn Monroe nudes, Mal's space suit from Firefly, Harpo Marx's wig and Mary Pickford's cigarette case.

check out Holden's legacy here.
Profiles In History website here.

Da nuh... da nuh...

No one loves the killer in the shadows. Except me.

In honor of the upcoming Shark Week, I wanted to share my thoughts on my favorite under-the-sea creature. (Screw you adorable seals!)

Not only are sharks fascinating, complex and varied but they are truly beautiful. There is something elegant about a creature that hasn't had to evolve since the time of the Megalodon, which existed roughly sometimes between 28 to 1.5 million years ago. (Please don't email me evolution deniers. I'm not going to read it cause I don't have to and honestly don't want to...Sorry, life isn't fair... Just ask the Dodo.) Some dispute that the Great White is related to the Megalodon and it's more closely related to Mako. I choose to believe the former because it makes for a better story. Take that, science!

I love the idea of a huge (60feet long), toothy (7 inch long), hungry (munching on whales) shark mostly because it's terrifying beyond anything I actively have a reference to...

What draws me to this creature is that it's not just a fascinating study in biology and evolution but it's also the pure fear i feel when I see footage and pictures of all types, from the sweet looking Woobegong to the Great White beast. I've only seen one in real life once, exploring a sunken ship in the Caribbean. I was frightened but at the same time, I found myself swimming straight for it as it swam away. (Because I'm an idiot...)

So curl up with some seal steaks, and see what Discovery has to offer this year (since last year wasn't so spectacular, in my opinion.)

And hey, if it sucks, I'm watching Jaws.

God Save the McQueen

I would kill for one of his dresses.

Well, I would definitely kick someone in the shins or cut in line. I would probably run though Times Square naked.  I would definitely pay, if I had the money. (Will work for red feather strapless dress with white tulle underskirt.) He was new, shocking and so inspiring in a sometimes uninspired landscape. (Tommy Hilfiger, I'm looking at you.) His clothes were like stories, portals into a stories, into the bodies of characters. Never was there a boring piece. It was art.

Even if you don't follow fashion, you have probably seen his work. A blatant ripoff of a wonderful McQueen dress was featured in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (part 1), not to mention on the red carpet, covering Lady Gaga, Cate Blanchett, Michelle Obama, and if you've been keeping up with all the silly royal wedding madness, Katherine Middleton's wedding dress was based on a McQueen design.

For his 2004 ready-to-wear collection, instead of the standard runway, McQueen staged an extravaganza, reenacting "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?". Models and dancers started the show with exuberant dancing moves, and ending with a sole dancer, barely keeping her head up, then collapsing on stage. McQueen and the choreographer carried her off stage. Not only was the staging ingenious but the clothes themselves were beautiful and innovative.

I personally loved that he dress the common girl to the first lady. He had a line at Target a couple of years ago but also creates dresses that retail in the tens of thousands. And he knows and loves women. Now, you might want to argue that after seeing some of the contraptions he puts his models in but I would argue right back. You can't look at some of his beautiful dresses and say he doesn't worship our bodies. The chest-plated outfits and high collars, I argue, are statements, art speaking about changing our shapes via harshness. But that's just one girl's opinion.

In this month addition of Bazaar, close friend Annabelle Neilson wrote about "Lee" (his true given name) on the one year anniversary of his death. In the article, she seems still in shock about the whole thing, her retelling scattered and grief-stricken. She spoke briefly that he had promised her that he would never go the way of Isabella Blow. 

Isabella Blow was a editor, style icon and muse for the fashion forward. She suffered from depression after the people she helped get started in the business left her behind, infertility and money issues, not to mention her ovarian cancer and bipolar diagnoses. She drank weed killer that finally ended her life but, according to Daily Collegian, before that she had attempted to do so by jumping off the Hammersmith flyover in London (breaking both her ankles), car accident, getting horse tranquilizers, drowning and overdosing on various pills. The woman was determined. And in the end, so was Alex.

Alexander McQueen meant something to me. It was as if he knew how I wanted to dress; the secret wish that I could be like the girls on his catwalk. They were romantic, tough, sexy, and highly strange. I would often see a dress and fall deeply in love with it only to find out that it was a McQueen. ("Of course it's a McQueen!" I would shout in the middle of the grocery store magazine aisle.) Dripping in style and never compromised, he never pussy footed around the concept. He was brave. And that's what I wanted.

I'll miss you, amazing designer, visionary and fabulous person. 

Crazy.

I am crazy for you.

And I think you know what I mean. Not Joaquin Phoenix or Margo Kidder kind of crazy. More like the Marquis de Sade. No wait, bad example. Like Debra Carr. So happy, so incandescent in her joy that she can't help but burst into song, dancing, twirling around the living room with Yule Brena. But where does the music come from? How does everyone know the words? Maybe they're not even there, maybe there is no music...

So when we start dancing and singing and the little blue birds encircle us and the little furry woodland creatures shyly venture out of the forest to greet us, they will come in their crisp white coats and padded wagon to take us away. Together.

But don't cry for us, Argentina. The truth is we never left you. No wall can hold us back and our happiness is like sunshine through the cracks and falling parts. In our matching pajamas, hand in hand, we will skip down to the main gate, tossing over our shoulders the homemade sticks of dynamite we made during arts and crafts time in the sunshine room. The armed guards stead themselves for a fight. They are blinded by a cloud of carnage. Out flies a ninja star, a rubber chicken, a bumper to a 1974 Cheraco. Shooting from the chaos, a photon particle beam nearly misses your head. Grown men cry out for the mommies, running out to the horizon in nothing but their BVDs. Finally, with a war cry that would make a grown man wet his underoos, a Care Bear stare takes out the remaining, whiting out the landscape for a few moments with it's brilliant rainbow, strawberry scented light. The mushroom cloud clears and we emerge from the smoke and dust unblemished, stepping over the piles of unconscience men. And I'll kiss you and say, "I love you", as we ride off into the sunset.

So this is love....

You don't want to forget this.

The way you feel right now. The way that you can't wait to see him. The way you ache when you miss him. The way you just sit and think about how happy you are. Right now.

Never take these moments for granted. This beginning stage where everything is wonderful. You are Cinderella and he is Prince Charming. Little blue birds sew your ball gown and you sing to the mice and they sing right back. There is good and bad and black and white and you are glowing sunshine.

When he forgets your birthday, remember the first time he said he loved you. When he keeps doing that annoying thing you used to think was so cute, remember dancing in your living room to Nat King Cole on the record player while dinner burned in the kitchen. When you have your first knock down, drag out fight, remember that the first present he brought you was canvases so you could paint to your hearts desire.

Now some say that this right here isn't true love. "True love" is not getting divorce after he goes to Vegas with his friends on your anniversary. It's holding her hair back while she puking pepperoni pizza and beer. It's getting up at 4am to feed the baby, even though you have to go to work in 2 hours, so he can sleep a little bit longer. I agree fully, but this too is love.

This shiny, happy moment is gone before you know it. There is more to come, but just don't forget this. It can keep you through the lean times and move you through. Don't ever forget.

Marr-wige!

Mariana believes in love.

Sappy sweet lovey dovey love. It's torture.

She sat on her couch, me zooming in and out of her kitchen checking the roast she was trying to burn, while she jumped from youtube video to youtube video. I knew it would be a long night when she turned on the Wii, booted up the web browser and typed in "Will you marry me?".

She spent half the evening crying and yelling, "Isn't that so romantic?" She watched the surprising and inventive ways all these men asked their girlfriends to marry them. I wanted to scream back "NO! Can we please watch Frankenstein now?"

So as a backlash to my evening of sappy and annoying love, here is a list of some "romantic" relationships.

• Burt and Linda Pugach

These two are a piece of work. Burt and Linda went out but when she found out he was married with a child, she broke it off. Like any rational human being, Burt hired thugs to throw lye in her face, scarring and blinding her. He continued to write her from jail and 14 years later he was release and they got married. Psycho, both of them. Thank the busy bugs and furry creatures they found each other. I know I wouldn't want either of them interested in anyone I cared about.

• Lana Turner and Johnny Stompanato

After Lana's 4th marriage she met Johnny at a nightclub. But once she found that he was involved in LA's seedy underworld she tried to leave. Apparently his charm and good looks were too much for her to resist. (that, and his giant shlong and his propensity to kick the crap out of her.) When she was filming Another Time, Another Place with Sean Connery, it's said Johnny became insanely jealous at the idea that Lana and Sean were having an affair (they weren't) and brought a gun to the set. Now Sean, being a badass muthafucka that he is, landed a "I'll mess you up homie."single punch BAM! bitch goes down and he takes the gun from him. (Seriously though, if your gonna be bitch slapped in front of your lady, wouldn't you want it to be Sean Connery?) I digress. On the evening of April 4, 1958 Lana and Johnny were having another knock down drag out fight... so Lana's daughter freaks out, grabs a kitchen knife and gives him a new hole. I bet Joan Crawford would have loved to have her as a daughter instead of that whiny Christina.

• Dan and Betty Broderick

He was an amazing asshole and she was probably a little crazy to begin with but in the end, he drove her to be one crazy hoe. It's the typical starter wife story. She puts him through medical and law school by working while she bore him 4 children and ran the house. After he graduated and got a nice big job (cha ching) in San Diego, she went on to be June Cleaver mom wife and caretaker while he banged the ex-stuartess secretary on his mahogany desk. Nastiness ensued. She flips out when he dumps her and the kids in a rental house so he and the receptionist can play house in Betty's home. Yep. And Betty didn't help her situation. Dan sold the house without Betty's permission...so she ran her car into the front of the house. She was awarded alimony of 16,000 a month which seems like a lot, until you realize he's making 300,000 a month. (so much for 50/50; Remind me not to get divorced from a lawyer.) So to get back, she smeared pie on their bed. He'd drop the kids off without notice. She would leave threatening messages on their machine; she said things that would make a sailor blush. In the end, the multi millionaire was ordered to pay his wife of 20 years less than 30,000. And then she went full on loony tunes. Got the gun. Drove to the newlyweds. BANG BANG. She'll be eligible for parole in 2011.

Ain't love grand?

An article that makes my point for me

• Beginning of the end for marriage?

The way we move

Dancing is silly.

You wave your arms and shake your ass and jump around. It's quite a sight.

But for me it is more. So much more. It's life, love, pain. It's a religion. It's everything. And there is no real way to explain it. Only other dancers know this feeling; it fills you up and makes you move. It makes you beautiful and perfect, everything you want to be.

My gorgeous friend Georgiana dances flamenco professionally and she said something that sums it all up for me.
"The truest expression of a person is in their dance. Bodies never lie."
Maybe that's why I love it. The moment you open your mouth you can lie lie lie but dance and that is you. Then open you mouth again and say what you will but I just saw it all buddy.

I can tell you, from my personal experience, dancing is the best medicine. A cure in modern times. It's so much better than a spa weekend, than therapy, and yes, even sex. There! I said it! It's better than sex. And you can quote me.

When I dance ballet or jazz or at the club or tango, swing, waltz or just tossing myself into the pit, I'm in control of all yet nothing at all. I'm in the spotlight but so is everyone else around me. We are player on a stage of our own lives. The main role in our own movies.

I was in a little dance club in Osaka and saw this beautiful girl, so demure and sweet looking. She had short dark hair and a short skirt on, that she kept pulling down and straightening. A new song came on and the lighting queue changed and she marched on out to the dance floor and started flailing and bouncing and rocking out. I sat there and thought to myself, "Fuck yeah!" That's my kind of girl.

I probably look ridiculous. I look like the crazy people at the asylums dancing with their arms over their head, spinning to the songs that play in their head. (G-d bless their heads) But that's why dancing matters! You can't judge those people, the ones without rhythm or sense of space or movement. Just look at their faces. They feel that same love and joy that any fully qualified professional dancer feels. So why would you judge that pure joy?

We are all fools, whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance. You should too.