With Ben’s sickness spilling over into another week, we have been hitting the Netflix pretty hard. Without “Downton Abbey” to lean on, we are back in the sometimes murky waters of movie selections. We start watching “Finding Neverland”, and then Ben starts to doze. I’d seen this film before…and admittedly had one of those big ‘caught without a tissue and wiping your face on your sweater’ kind of cries. I figured if he was going to sleep, I might check another program out. I select “Beautiful Darling”, a documentary of Andy Warhol Super Star, Candy Darling.
Looks like my kind of movie right? Ummmmm. I don’t know, I love me some pop culture education…but it was creepy and morbid. Maybe I wasn’t in the mood for it, cause creepy and morbid is usually something I can’t resist. The thing about Ms Candy Darling is that…she’s a terrible actress with a breathy voice, and watching her huff and puff her way through monologues feels like hot breath on your neck while standing in an elevator.
In a nutshell: James Lawrence Slattery, born 1944 in Forest Hills, Queens was a future transvestite with a dream. (S)he inspired Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side”, made movies with Andy Warhol, added her own lashing of avante-garde, disco-glam style on the cultural landscape before dying of lymphoma at 29.
It was uncomfortable to watch. Darling is like your boozy aunt, only your boozy aunt has a penis and wears far too much rouge to compensate.
Furthermore, the Bear didn’t actually sleep. There’s that relationship osmosis when you know your partner is uncomfortable, and by virtue it makes you extremely cognizant of all the potentially uncomfortable aspects of your shared experience. A girlfriend of mine once took her husband to “Brokeback Mountain”–and he didn’t know what it was about. That story never gets old to me, it cracks me up. If my relationship osmosis theory was rooted in any actual science–that moment would have been a record breaker. Still, he says nothing. We sit in silence, I’m tapping away on the computer, reading about Andy Warhol and another Factory favorite Edie Sedgwick.
“Are you watching this?” Ben asks. I’m aware of it’s existence. I’m listening to it and occasionally looking at the colors and light. It’s inspiring a new thread of nerdy internet research…but I’m not married to it. There’s also this element of not wanting to admit that I think it’s weird. I don’t want to be creeped out. And perhaps Ben is also trying to ride it out as well. It’s like a game of chicken…only it’s a new fangled visual, media aged ‘strange chicken’, circa sitting through “Two Girls, One Cup” and trying not to barf. Of course, the closest I’ve ever been to that vile piece of scatological nonsense was having it explained to me one long-ago Christmas morning while walking with my two brothers and my fiance. I of course, had many questions. Who were these women? Did their mothers know where they were? How much would one get paid to shit in a cup and have someone vomit on your face? What made the director select “Lovers Theme” by Hervé Roy as the soundtrack?” “Did they look unhappy?” The more the boys explained, the more the urge to retch at the memory seized them. My god, why watch that? Why do that to yourself? More importantly why would you do that to Questlove?
Of course, if uncomfortable moments were salsa, “Brokeback Mountain” is medium, “2 Girls, 1 Cup” is hot, making Candy Darling a mild concoction. Nonetheless, if you aren’t in the mood for salsa, even mellow Old El Paso is simply the wrong flavor. If you want to throw a game of chicken to me, give me the tractor race in “Footloose”.
I’m sorry, by the time Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding out for a Hero” starts to peak, I’m holding my breath.
By the time Lori Singer is running through somebody’s daddy’s field, and Bonnie Tyler is full steam ahead, and I am running strictly on goosebumps and exhilaration.
(I couldn’t find a picture of her mid-sprint , but I can do you one better. I can post the link to the scene and offer you this bonus image: this amazing t-shirt and arm-length jean zipper is too good to pass up. You can just image the photographer here “Yes darling, love it, love it…now point at the t-shirt…perfect! We got the shot!)
Good ole what’s her name. Apparently Madonna wanted to play Kevin Bacon’s love interest Ariel, the promiscuous preacher’s daughter with her sassy red boots, but some casting agent was like “That Madonna girl is a nobody, it’s Lori Singer who’s going to be a star”. Now, I’ve seen “Footloose” a time or ten, and every time I do…well first of all, I have a really good fucking time. Secondly, I cringe at Singer’s skeletal frame; I want someone to feed Lori Singer a little less cock, and a little more casserole. My god, by the end of the movie when she’s fussing with her dress–“do I want it on my shoulder/off my shoulder”, expressing her self-consciousness with the majesty of fabric fiddling…I’m like, I’m sorry did we run out of money? Can we not cover these shoulders? How is Ren McCormack going to fit her in his yellow Beetle? Does she have to turn sideways to get through the door?
We all know what happened to Kevin Bacon, he’s six degrees away from Christ himself, but whatever happened to Lori Singer?
“Sunset Grill”? Now there’s a restaurant I won’t be eating at. I’d rather watch ‘2 Girls, 1 Cup’ than this cheesy train wreck. They even airbrushed out her god-damned shoulders. And who the fuck is Peter Weller? Peter Weller hasn’t even heard of Peter Weller. From the look of the cover, the mustache, the dirty band-aid, that ‘held at gunpoint date-rapist intensity’…what appears to be a tie-die shirt, you gotta know that he is going to bad-act the shit out of it. He’s the male Candy Darling…he’s Randy Darling, which would be an improvement from stupid ole ‘Pete Weller’, poor man’s Tom Selleck. Poor ole Lori, probably thought she had properly broken into the biz with “Footloose”. Singer’s probably clutching a highball glass slumping her expansive shoulders, glaring at a recent photo of Madonna–“that should have been me, those Gollum arms and immortal skin”, damn you “Footloose”!”
Yikers, she’s someone you wouldn’t want to bump into in prison. I don’t really know who she’s fooling. She’s older than the dinosaurs, but more muscular than Arnold Schwarzenegger before he married a Kennedy and made a love child with his maid, when she was supposed to be making the beds. Of course, plastic surgery is a real point of contention. Not that I’d deny you the right to just put whatever knives and needles and injectable toxic swill into your face if you think it buys you more time. It really doesn’t, you’ll still die and you’ll look like Mickey Rourke in the meantime. Do you want to look like Mickey Rourke? Will that help you feel alive?
Huge improvement right? And it only cost $100,000. Good call Mickey. And the thing is…I came across some post-surgery Mickey Rourke photos just now…and let me tell you, I wouldn’t want to see Mickey Rourke on his best day, fresh from a bubble bath and tucked up in fresh jam-jams, much less post-surgery. With these procedures, there is ample recovery time…which is great because you look like a wax museum after an arsonist attack, and no one wants to hire you because you’d frighten a feral dog looking the way you do. The more you tweaked, the more you had to recover. Folks like Joan Rivers would live their lives in constant cycles of metamorphosis and healing; and surgery is no joke, to me, that’s a horror movie, it’s not a solution to self-consciousness. Which brings us to tonight, when I picked a Joan River’s “Don’t Start With Me”, a comedy special.
Joan Rivers is someone I’d like at my dinner table, but not on the stage. I think she is ruthless and fearless, and a true comedy icon. I would love to sit through a bad movie with her (Sunset Grill, perhaps?), wander through a crowded mall and people watch…or maybe an afternoon at the zoo? I bet Joan Rivers would have a lot of opinions about all of God’s creatures. As long as I don’t have to stare directly at the blaring sun that is her face. Mostly, when looking at the screen, I just focused on her fabulous coat. After twenty or so minutes of her routine, which included a Oprah/Gayle/”sisters going downtown” bit, I was rubbed raw. Forty minutes more I could not take, (yes, sometimes I do write like Yoda talks). I guess that’s her schtick, aggressively bitchy and wildly offensive. People were lapping it up, but again, it’s not really where I’m at. It’s more a blueprint of my golden years, as opposed to the evening’s entertainment. Oh, I like to get a little bitchy, maybe dip my toe and make a little splash, but I’m not ready for a big cannonball. I don’t have nearly enough money to be that brand of bitchy. The day I can pull off rainbow stripes, fifteen pounds of medical grade plastic, and that coat, I’ll throw out some real zingers. They’ll just love me at the nursing home.
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