23 posts tagged “qotd”
What's making you smile today?
You've done it all, you've broken every code
And pulled the rebel to the floor
You spoilt the game, no matter what you say
For only metal - what a bore!
Blue eyes, blue eyes, how come you tell so many lies?
Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, run on wild
There's nothing left, all gone and run away
Maybe you'll tarry for a while
It's just a test, a game for us to play
Win or lose, it's hard to smile
Resist, resist, it's from yourself you have to hide
Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, run on wild
There ain't no more, you've taken everything
From my believe in Mother Earth
How can you ignore my faith in everything
When I know what Faith is and what it's worth
Away, away, and don't say maybe you'll try
Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, run on wild
Which book would you love to see adapted into a film?
I'll get to that - because there is something else that is getting screen time: history. History is hot. History is money. And one family in particular is attracting the attention of filmmakers who know as much about their subject as I know about roof thatching. In their eyes, the Tudors are tight-bodiced, heaving, pouting, smooth-faced and spotless.
I can start with the soon-to-be-relased The Other Boleyn Girl. Now, it's a little unfair to tease it for any inaccuracies, as its origins are in Philippa Gregory's book of historical fiction. It's speculative reality. Also the relations between Anne and Mary Boleyn are not my strong points. I do, however, know that Anne was black-haired and olive-skinned, slim and sharp. I just don't think that a dewy Natalie Portman is the girl for the job. And why the devil someone couldn't run to the nearest drugstore and buy a henna rinse for Eric Bana (Henry VIII's hair was auburn - a small point maybe, but still a physical trait closely associated with the man) is beyond me.
And then there was Showtime's gangsta epic, The Tudors, starring 'Henry 8'. I've written about this in more detail, some time ago. But suffice it to say that the sight of a whisper-thin, brooding Henry, in a blouson shirt and tight, shiny pants simply withers my soul. People, I am not interested in your new, swinging version of history. History has happened. It is an established fact. That's why we call it history. Don't f*ck with it.
Moving on. First, let me say that I positively revere Helen Mirren. She's tough, talented, dignified and beautiful. I just can't understand why she portrayed Elizabeth I as a hormone-addled schoolgirl.
When she and Leicester (Jeremy Irons) were strolling together towards her assembled army at Tilbury, where she would give her famous speech, she said something like, "You know, Bobby, my Edible Earl, I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a King!" He pauses...he has a look in his eyes...yes: it...just...might...work...
Cut to the next scene, she's speaking to her men and using that very line. I believe that is when I set my hair on fire and went outside to howl at the moon.
I can't say much about Elizabeth: The Golden Age. I haven't seen it, and you know Aubrey likes to be fair.
And on a side, non-Tudor note: Ms. Coppola: if the only way you can portray a teenager's angst - as she is flung from the safety of her home to a foreign court, to marry a foreign king - is to throw in a pair of Keds amongst her satin slippers, you, madam, deserve to be slapped. History has its own irony - it doesn't need yours.
OK. That's better. As for books to film: this weekend I read in Vanity Fair that a screen version of 'Brideshead Revisited' is in the offing. I will be watching developments very carefully. I've read the book close to ten times. I've seen the PBS series nearly as often. Both are thrillingly wonderful. Suffice to say, I know the story well.
I didn't find any of the acting choices offensive. Julie Flyte looked a little lost, but perhaps she'd just had an ice cream and was exhibiting the symptoms of a brain freeze. I am pleased to say that Emma Thompson will play Lady Marchmain - however in her photo, she looked a little too cold, too intimidating. Weren't her destructive qualities seen only through th eyes of the most dysfunctional members of her family - her husband and her younger son? Still, she was weariang a lovely olive and black cloak, so that made it better.
I know that I can be too judgemental when it comes to historical re-enactments and portrayals. I can be very steely-eyed when it comes to a new interpretation of something I care deeply about. But I'm not saying people shouldn't try.
They had just better be careful.
What fictional creature do you wish were real?
Even as a young Aubrey, I know that I was waiting to see something.
I knew that there was one thing I wanted to bump into as I walked around the corner. I would hear its claws scraping the sidewalk; I would smell its hot breath melting the glass of the shop windows; I would see the stars of light on the ground reflecting off its scales, right before I would get my chance to meet it.
I knew that I would like to see a dragon. But as the opportunity never presented itself, I decided to draw them instead.
What do you have, what do you need and what do you want?
Submitted by Miss Scotch.
I Have:
A Boyfriend, fellow Vox friends and Cute-mongers who have inspired and encouraged within me an appreciation and affection for bunnies...their beauty, their dancing, their twitching, their disapproval.
I Need:
People To Understand that -
1. Bunnies make HORRIBLE Easter gifts.
2. Bunnies DO NOT taste good (I learned this years ago, pre-Bunny Appreciation Transition, in Canada, when I tried Rabbit Pie. Not enjoyable.)
I Want:
An Anthem for Bunny Appreciation Day -
"Callin' out around the world, are you ready to appreciate?
Summer's here and the time is right; to bink - don't hesitate.
They're binking in Chicago (binking in the street)
Down in New Orleans (binking in the street)
In New York City
All we need are bunnies, just bunnies
There'll be bunnies everywhere
They'll be hoppin', purrin' and disapprovin',
Binking in the street
Oh, it doesn't matter if they stare, bunny love we're here to share
So everybody: grab a bun
Everywhere, beneath the sun
They'll be binking , they're binking in the street.
This is an invitation, across the nation,
A chance for folks to meet,
They'll be hoppin, purrin', and disapprovin'
Binking in the street
Philadelphia PA, Baltimore and D.C. now,
Can't forget the motor city
All we need are bunnies, just bunnies
There'll be bunnies everywhere
They'll be hoppin', purrin' and disapprovin',
Binking in the street
Oh, it doesn't matter if they stare, bunny love we're here to share
So everybody: grab a bun
Everywhere, beneath the sun
They're binking, binking in the street
Way down in L.A., every day, they're binking in the street
Let's form a big strong line - bunny hoppin' time
We're binking in the street
With Buz, Indy and Niblet too, me and you
We're binking in the street"
Did you go to summer camp? Which one? What did you enjoy doing?
Submitted by Something Else.
My brother and I were sent to a day camp with a name that conjures up unspeakable secrets, hidden abuse and sickly morals. Camp Smile-A-While.
We weren't even there for an entire summer; it was a day camp. Which made it even worse. It was concentrated misery. The campers were situated in groups. Groups with names that had the same sort of terrifying smile as a clown does. We were the...Beach Bunnies. My brother, caught up in some other circle of Hell, I never saw.
My first day: I arrived late. All the other girls in my group were already in their swimsuits, prepatory to going to the pool. As I recall, it seemed like everyone was in a classroom, and I was standing in back. I was told that I should get into my swimsuit as well. There was no changing room, no corner to hide in. I had to change right there.
Now, I must have been about 11. Old enough to be embarrassed. Yet, by some Houdini-esqe contortions I was able to get into my demure suit WITHOUT first shedding my civilian clothes. The rest of the day was similarly disconcerting.
When my brother and I got home we were both full of lamentations. But he was more vocal. I was silently miserable, I believe. My specialty.
Mother got the message. She brought us home. Even though she had enjoyed her afternoon without us; spending her suddenly free hours in the backyard on the lounge chair, trying to convince her pale skin that it should accept its inner brown-ness while listening to her transistor radio.
I felt guilty that her plans for a summer of lazy afternoons had ended. I was old enought for that, too.
But really, the situation was intolerable.
People do many different things to cope with stress, loss, and "bumps in the road". How do you handle stress and hard times?
Submitted by RedlyGal.
Sometimes it's not so much a matter of what you do, but of what you need.
In times of the deepest, murkiest, muddiest stress, I need three things.
I need lawyers:
I need guns:
What clothing item do you wish could be banned?
Submitted by Mike E.
This is a question fraught with danger. So many people can be insulted. So many misunderstandings. So many misguided opinions. So many harsh words and sharp blows. So many tears and bitter recriminations. So many families split. So many divorces.
But what else can you expect - when one person's couture is another one's ipecac?
What fun.
So let's start:
Knitted caps. Caps of knit. Woolen beanies. Close-fitting head coverings which automatically rob the wearer of 50 IQ points once they are fitted on.
Now, in a climate colder than the one I am cursed with, these are necessary objects. I understand that. I know that many of my Vox neighbors live in Canada, and other places that feature cold, and that white stuff. (And I don't mean the stuff you can find in the storage freezers at Chateau Marmont.) In fact, I think I'm being a little harsh here, but I can't help it. This question reaches out to a pain that is fundamental: a labyrinth of despair that cannot be uprooted.
So I'll continue. I'm not talking about the pretty, frothy caps; or ones made with a broad, cable knit. Or ones with the cute strings draped down on each side. Or the oversized ones which are just right for you if your face has the same amount of flesh as a 16-year old gamine.
I'm talking about the tightly-knit, tightly-fitting, unadorned caps, drawn close over the eyebrows...making the thought of an exposed forehead nothing but an idle dream.
Like I have said, there are many situations where these head socks will come in handy.
But here in Los Angeles, they are apparently worn to make a point, as a legitimate fashion statement. An idea which makes me laugh until the blood gushes out of my eyes.
Here, the only statement they make is one of guilt.
What other names did your parents consider for you?
Well, my father wanted to name me Rita. This was before the time of lovely meter maids, so the only reason Mother put the kabosh on this idea was that to her it sounded like the name of a truckstop waitress. (I pause to apologize to any Ritas currently in the audience. Oh, and not that there's anything wrong with truckstop waitresses, either.)
So there's that story.
Who is ever initially content with their given name? I HATED mine!
What if I was in on the naming process? What if, still in swaddling clothes, I knew right then that I wanted to grow into a hopeless romantic - how would I style myself then: 'Yseult Danaé is the confidante of M. Gillenormand. She is a vampire slayer who is gifted with magickal powers. Her hair is lush amber and her cerulean eyes are soul-piercing. She is instantly recognizable by her rakish scar.'
It's many years later. My lush amber hair has been cut short and is now black. I wear glasses so men's souls are safe from my eyes' piercing properties. But the scar? I remain proudly recognizable. Jean Claude St. Claire de Fleur de la Tour et Lafitte avec Buerre could fight well.
What is the most interesting class you have ever taken?
Submitted by Melissa.
Oh, I've had interesting classes. Why some of them even broke the fourth seal and became fascinating.
But I would like to mention the fascinating classes that I didn't take - the opportunities that were there, but which I did not grasp.
Long ago, when many of my Vox neighbors were still in their fetal stage, I held a job in advertising. The afternoons were long, we were bored, and usually spent said afternoons xeroxing articles about spontaneous combustion and Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
But one day, I was handed this sheet, and it seemed to offer endless possibilities:
Many classes caught my eye:
'Creative Suffering'
'Learn The Proper Way To Harrass' (I considered applying for a teaching job for that one)
'What To Do With Your Conversation Pit'
'Tap Dance Your Way To Ridicule'
'Skate Yourself to Regularity'
'Bonsai Your Pet'
Yes, I could have investigated any of these classes. But something must have come up. I probably had something to xerox.
Where do you go to get away from it all?
Submitted by Hops.
Get away from it all? Everything? Well, that would involve complete oblivion - sleep, or maybe something darker.
Now, if today's question is edging towards escapism - a state of mind wholly desireable, totally unrealistic and one proven to be unhealthy (like any vacation, departure is a pleasure, but the return trip is a grim pain, with more rocky landings then I care to recount) - well, if I can't be here:
And if I can't see this:
I would most certainly escape into history.
History is a comfort. You are reading and learning about people that died away centuries ago. And yet, in the hearts of the readers and the minds of the teachers, they live on.
History is sights, smells, textures and events that you can only imagine. And there's the escape: your mind. History's facts are caught fast in your imagination, like flies in amber.
Peering through the eyes of people shimmering through history's fabric, shouldering their feelings, placing your feet in the mud of their battlefields, in the dust of their unpaved roads...you're experiencing something that is a chronological impossibility. And there's the rub. And that's the escape.
