Thanks, J. K. Rowling, for making the fantasy genre a little bit gayer.

I like Harry Potter and have read all of the books, and I've always thought that the series was worth analyzing as literature because J. K. Rowling put, in my opinion, many references to modern-day political issues into her stories. But I found her revelation this weekend that Dumbledore is homosexual was a little, well, retarded, frankly.

On one hand I admit that having a great hero in children's literature be recognized as gay is great for gay rights. But as an English major, I find it rather insulting to have an author tell this to me directly when there is absolutely no basis for this in the characterization of Dumbledore. Rowling never touches on his past or personal life until the final novel, and even then his "friendship" with the evil wizard Grindelwald (omg this post is so gay, btw) doesn't feel like anything other than a friendship. It's a children's book, so there's (understandably) a lack of sexual situations, but still: there are plenty of characters in English and American literature whose sexual orientation is analyzed, and that's because there's some textual basis for it. For Rowling to come out (heh) and say, months after the series has ended, that Dumbledore was gay seems like a manipulative and political move that is completely unnecessary, even as a publicity stunt.

Do you think Michael Gambon is going to play this character differently now that there's a "subtext?" Blah.



Related:
Fan's ponder Dumbledore outing [CNN]

Morgz.

My friend Morgan, whom I've mentioned before, is all sorts of awesome. She's probably the most creative person I know, which is why I'm sharing with you her newest project:

People, she made a chandelier out of tree branches she collected. It's the best thing to come out of Rock Creek Park since Chandra Levey. (Too soon?)

Morgan is perhaps better known as the gal behind Panda Head, but she also writes style columns for Brightest Young Things, as well as the designer of muss.

Also, her Panda Head photos have been submitted to Street Clash, where they're up against a fashion blogger from Copenhagen. So go over there and vote for DC and show that our great nation's capitol actually has some style.


PS. Her boyfriend, Ben, is pretty talented, too.

Shocking revelations.

Sometimes my mom and I email each other while we're at work, none of which are very informative or worth sharing unless she tells me something specifically kooky. I thought that we had reached that point this morning when she told me that she also had that Klute haircut in college, but it went to a whole other level this afternoon. I'm including screen caps to show you I didn't make this up, and I apologize for what you're about to read.





Excuse me, but not until college? I assume that means she didn't choose to blow her nose until college, but still, that kind of baffles me. And I guarantee that she told me that if I didn't blow my nose I'd get ear and throat infections, as no one else would give me such health advice. Either that, or she was just trying to frighten me into blowing my nose so my sniffling wouldn't annoy her.

To say that I'm living a lie cannot begin to aptly describe this Earth-crashing information.

Play Dumb for Me.

Last night I watched Play Misty for Me, Clint Eastwood's directorial debut. It was OnDemand, so I didn't waste any money or a Netflix rental watching it, which was fine because it was dumb. It's saving grace was Clarice Taylor, most memorable (at least to me, anyways) as Cliff Huxtable's mother from The Cosby Show. In this movie, she gets cut by the crazy bitch who is in love with Clint Eastwood:


Recognize the crazy bitch? Why, that's Gangy from Arrested Development!


If you haven't guessed, the plot of this movie is similar to Fatal Attraction: Clint Eastwood is a jazz DJ who sleeps with a fan. He thinks it's a one-time thing, but she's in love with him and starts showing up at his house with groceries and yelling at his neighbors for no reason. And when he finally tells her to GET OFF HIS BACK, she goes crazy and tries to kill herself. Then him and his other lady friend, who has a bad Klute-knockoff haircut. I cannot find a picture of her, but that's okay because the only TV show she was on was Knot's Landing and SNOOZE ALERT.

The movie did have a couple of great moments, like when Eastwood decided it'd be a great idea to play "The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face" by Roberta Flack in its entirety during a montage where his character walks on the beach with his non-crazy girlfriend, whom he then fucks in a stream under a waterfall.

Also, Jessica Walter's "lounging pajamas":

I need to get me a pair of those.

Also, this is the trailer, which makes it look like a hilarious, swingin', jazzy film:



The best scene is shown at the end of the trailer, and since I can't find a clip of it, I'll have to describe it with the "written communication skills" I brag about on my resume. Clint is lying in bed and rolls over to see Jessica Walter standing above him with a knife, which she plunges into the pillow next to his head while screaming her face off. Then he gets out of bed and calmly walks around his house in his underwear, which makes you think, "Oh, it was just a dream. THANK GOODNESS." But then he walks back to his bed and you see that the knife is still there in the pillow, and the fact that it wasn't a dream and the bitch just disappeared and he wasn't, you know, freaking the fuck out makes you wonder what the hell kind of world these people are living in. How can you not be frightened by that, Clint? It's the elephant in the room, or, if you're familiar with the similarly bad film Cruising, the big black man in a jockstrap who smacks the shit out of you. In fact, I wouldn't have been totally surprised if something on this caliber of random and fucked up (and obvs. NSFW) happened:



Oh, did you need to see him again? Fine.



The '70s were weird.

Heads will roll.

When I logged into out system this morning, I was informed that I "owe" the school $1,753 for my class. Obviously I don't because I'm an employee and get free tuition, but this is just another example of how poorly run things are around here. I have to go make phone calls now to figure out who can fix this.

I've also started getting emails from students asking me about holds on their accounts. Terrific.

Meanwhile, this afternoon I have the first of two interviews this week at Northwestern. At least I get to have two half-days. I just hope I get at least one of those jobs.

Blogiversary.

My blog turned 2.0 on October 5th and, being the bad blogger than I am, I completely forgot about it. I was going to do a recap of sorts about the crazy shenanigans that have happened since last October, but then I realized that I really didn't want to do that. So, uh, happy birthday, blog.


Birthdays aren't so much fun anymore, are they?

Vagabond ways.

John and I were at Roscoe's on Saturday night, drinking Miller Lites and trying to find someone to bum cigarettes from when this older gentleman in a black turtleneck and gray suit walked by. John turned to me and said, "Is that Udo Kier?!"

"YES!"

Now, I wasn't sure how I knew him or, uh, why he was there, but it was definitely Udo Kier, the German actor. Oh, and this is what he looks like for those of you who don't recognize the name:

Doesn't he look like he's about to eat someone? Yeah.

Anyway, I told John to say hi since he actually had seen (and owned!) two of his movies on DVD (Andy Warhol's Blood for Dracula and Flesh for Frankenstein). So John turned around and said, "Are you Udo?" He shook his hand and Udo replied, "Yes... do you have any cee-gaaar-ettes?" He was kind of drunk. We apologized and said no, and he kind of staggered away. And then we followed him because, duh, this is Chicago and you don't run into celebrities, must less INTERNATIONAL TREASURES.

After we saw him walk out and fall into a cab, I sent out a mass text message that said, "I just met Udo Kier. Look him up on IMDB."

And for the record, meeting Udo Kier in a bar means I am now two degrees from Lars Von Trier, Madonna, Keanu Reeves, River Phoenix, Bjork, Nicole Kidman, Chloe Sevigney, John Malkovich, and Marianne Faithfull.

Speaking of Marianne Faithfull, I finally got my shit together and saw a movie at the Chicago International Film Festival yesterday, called Irina Palm. Faithfull plays a middle-aged English woman who becomes a sex-worker in London to raise money for her grandson's cancer treatments. I went to see it just because I love Marianne Faithfull, but the movie was actually really good and, if it ever comes out, I recommend it. Here's the trailer:



I also met Dale from Top Chef on Saturday, but I wasn't as excited because I don't watch that show. Plus he has that dumb mohawk.

I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT AL GORE.

I don't like Al Gore. Okay? I didn't like him in 2000 (even though I would have voted for him if I could have, obviously), and I don't like him now. I watched about twenty minutes of An Inconvenient Truth and couldn't handle it.

I'm not going to say that I think pollution is a problem and we should conserve energy, etc., and, okay, climate change may be an issue, but I'm not totally convinced and I'm not going to base any of my opinions on what Al Gore has to tell me, and this is why:

Do you see that image? It makes you think that pollution creates hurricanes, doesn't it? Oh, shit, like Katrina? Shit, do you remember that hurricane? It was the worst hurricane ever. Well, after the 1970 Bhola cyclone, which killed up to half a million people in Pakistan. Even China had one that was worse: Typhoon Nina in 1975. And while Katrina killed about 1800 people in 2005, the worst hurricane in American history was the Galveston Hurricane in 1900. Katrina was the most destructive hurricane in our country's history, causing the most property damage and becoming a major political issue, but I think it's been exploited by both the right and the left and the most important issues it pushed into the mainstream do not involve not what caused the hurricane (because, really, we know what causes hurricanes by now).

Basically, my problem with Al Gore's Nobel Prize is that he won it based on a movie that exploits our country / generation's fear of everything. You can argue that it was for "the greater good," which is a terrifying phrase, but the truth is that Al Gore exaggerates his truths, and I'm not convinced that's a good thing.

So please, World, stop giving this man awards, if only because I'm tired of having to hear him accept them. I just wish he'd be honest with himself and the rest of us and take a cue from Doris Lessing, this year's winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature:


PS. I'm more excited today about the trailer for Tim Burton's adaptation of Sondheim's Sweeney Todd, starring (surprise!) Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, which seems to be in denial that it is a musical.

Snot machine.

Here's the reason why I'm not sorry about calling in sick today, even though I felt kind of guilty about it this morning. (Why is it that I have tremendous guilt when I'm actually sick, but not when I'm just hungover?)

Making difficult decisions.

Sometimes I'm all, "Hey, I don't remember when I showered last. That means I should shower." But then, I'm like, "Hey, it's eleven o'clock, so I just want to go to bed, because if I shower now, my hair will be wet when I fall asleep and be extra crazy in the morning." But then, "I will not wake up in time to shower in the morning." And, "My hair looks better when it's a little dirty anyway! Like today, it looked great today!" "Yeah, but eventually nature is going to catch up with you and people will smell your dirty hair and body." And then I'm like, "Fuck you, life. That's why Febreze* and Axe Body Spray were invented. THE END."




*I also have issues doing laundry, natch.