Katie Neuner and the Unbreakable Sternum of Doom

Remember that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where the Bad Priest with the horn-helmet reaches into that guy's chest, rips out his heart, then lowers the now-heartless dude, still breathing, into a pit of fire? And then the heart catches on fire and Bad Priest has a good laugh, and there's a lot of ceremonial drum beating? Yes? Okay.

My brother and I watched the shit out of that movie as kids. We watched the shit out of everything in the Indiana Jones franchise* (including the 'Young Indiana Jones' series - remember that? With River Phoenix? RIVER PHOENIX IN FRANCE? Granted, there was a fair amount of trench warfare going down, but still. RIVER PHOENIX IN FRANCE. Dork girl fantasies breathed alive, my friends.) But particularly that one. It was the most fun. The plot was the easiest for kids to follow. It was the only one that featured a kid. And the only one without Nazis. Even if they do get their faces melted off in the end, Nazis are always a bummer.

So even though Raiders of the Lost Ark's Marian was a better feminist role model, and Sean Connery was cranky-screwball hilarious in The Last Crusade, it was still Temple of Doom that hooked us the hardest. It taught me a lot of influential life lessons: adults can sit on pillows on the ground to eat dinner. Don't pour perfume on elephants' heads. If someone is shooting at you in a crowded nightclub, run behind a giant gong until you find a window to jump out of. And, while I didn't realize it until recently, that de-hearting scene cast a drippy net over my whole life, bled into everything.

The way I saw it, unless something could - metaphorically - rip my heart out through my sternum and set it on fire with a combination of squeezing and maniacal laughter, then it didn't matter to me, and I was fine. Be it a person, an event, an experience, a feeling: all that mattered was keeping my breastplate intact. I went for so, so long with a miniature Short Round perched on my shoulder, shouting, into my ear, with utmost concern 'Indy! Cover your heart!'

I mean, in a way, it worked. I was vigilant. If I never gave anything the power to pull my heart out, I was completely safe. I could take or leave whatever, whoever I chose. It never hurt to leave. It made it very, very easy to pack up and bounce, or to let wonderful people fall out of my life without putting up a fight. When you live like that for too long, it's easy to start thinking you're invincible. But of course that's not the case. Bulletproof vests don't make you bulletproof. They're just vests. And eventually, someone will just shoot you in the head.

But delusions of invincibility have a habit of lingering, a way of getting tied up with your sense of worth and your sense of purpose, and, ultimately, the pernicious little conclusion of leaving you entirely, utterly cold. I don't for a moment second guess where I am right now, or how I got here - in a way, I'm glad I was so unattached to the operations management elements of my life. Gracious, I might have actually become a lawyer**. But what I would like to do right here is give a big, messy, runny mascara and knotty haired apology to people in my life I may have treated like that. Cold is worse than mean, cold is worse than bitchy. Cold is worse than crazy. Cold implies that you don't matter. And you did, you do. You matter. So I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, that I didn't give you the power, I didn't even give you the opportunity to root around in my - metaphorical - chest cavity. I covered my heart for way too long, and you deserved better. I'm sorry I assumed everyone, everywhere, was trying to sacrifice me to unspecified gods and dump my body in a hole full of lava.

Because that is completely insane. No one is trying to do that. Life is not trying to rip out my - metaphorical - internal organs in a creepy underground religious ceremony. Or, maybe it is***. Maybe it is. Maybe life, when you actually like, participate in it, is all just that part where the Kali Ma dress Willie up in that white outfit and lock her in that cage-contraption and she's raised-and-lowered over the fire pit for like, ten minutes while they try to wake Indy up from the Black Sleep, and the entire time she's like 'WTF!' and semi-hysterical, and all the flowers from her massive lei are falling off, and her hair's getting all crazy from the...humidity? Why did I assume it was humidity? Maybe just because she was getting kinda sweaty down there, but anyway - the point: She looks super fly in that scene, and after she gets out of the cage, she's so much more badass for the rest of the movie. I think she even punches some big dude in the face at one point. And, I don't think she'd have reacted to the Rope Bridge of Death Over Crocodile Canyon incident nearly so well if she hadn't been through the whole fire pit ordeal.

We don't really learn what happens to Willie - in the Last Crusade she's out of the picture and Dr. Jones is chasing that (Nazi) German chick (which - come on Indy, have you been paying any attention? The Germans are always the bad guys!****) but I'm pretty sure she turned out okay. Nothing probably seems too overwhelming after a giant dude in sweaty face paint and a fake-goat hair loincloth yell-chants at you while a bunch of hypnotized cult members bang drums and the guy you're sleeping with locks you in a cage while under the influence of an evil blood-drink. After that, she could probably handle anything.


*I loved Indiana Jones so much, that, for a time, I really wanted to be an archaeologist. I guess working in historic architecture is kinda the same ballpark, and I'm glad I veered slightly  to the right on that one, because oh my goodness, have you ever met any archaeologists? They are the weirdest motherfuckers on the planet. Like, I am honestly not trying to throw shade at archaeology, but its professionals are truly odd. I can only imagine archaeology conventions. I would need so many drugs to prevent turning my hand into a fist and eating it. And I bet I could be on drugs, or be eating my fist, or both, and probably no one would notice. And NO ONE even vaguely resembles 1980s Harrison Ford.
**I love you, lawyer friends! No shade here, either! Just - let's be honest. Attorney-hood would really not have been my jam.
*** I do believe in magic rocks, after all
****I can say that because my last name is German.

Lions and Tigers and...Well, that's Enough, Really.

There are some evenings when I'm home and it's freezing outside and all I want to do is be entertained without effort. On those evenings I turn to my television, and when its myriad channels disappoint me, I often think about disconnecting the whole thing and subsisting solely on my dvd sets of the The Wire and Chappelle's Show. But I don't, and next thing I know I'm sucked into Top Chef, or Real Chance at Love, or Rock of Love Charm School, and the night dissolves into a weird shame spiral that usually involves a lot of red wine.

Then there are other nights where my HBO subscription pays for itself, and all it's under-performing sibling movie channels, in one glorious swoop. Last night was one of those nights. Last night, I found 'Cat Dancers' .

"Ron Holiday, Joy Holiday and Chuck Lizza, aka the Cat Dancers, were one of the world's first exotic-tiger entertainment acts. For years, the trio shared a happy, if unorthodox, life as performers and lovers - until a pair of bizarre deaths brought their story to a tragic end. Premieres Monday, December 15 at 8pm.

I don't want to ruin it for you, because YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT - for Ron Holiday's performance outfits alone. There's one scene where I swear to God, he has constructed suspenders out of black index cards individually taped to his chest. There is so, so much spandex, and his mullets get progressively more glorious throughout the flashback footage - made all the more incredible by the present-day interviews in which he is completely bald, and expresses his personality via elaborate wigs. Seriously, in the first five minutes, dude looks so much like Buffalo Bill, I honestly didn't know where the story was taking us. I didn't even know if 'tiger' was going to be the cause of death.

See, Ron Holiday and his wife, Joy - who, when choosing between devoting her life to the dance or to the Lord, was told by a nun to 'dance for God' - had a dance act. They danced everywhere. Ron was a lead male nude dancer at the Folies Bergere (an episode to which they devoted like, ONE SENTENCE, to my great dismay) and they did odd sexual ballets at Radio City, and everything was sparkly and amazing.

One night Ron (I assume) overdosed on quaaludes and had a dream where Joy was dancing with a cat. So they just like, got a leopard. And trained it to dance with them. Then they got a whole bunch more cats, and travelled in a circus, and stole a man-boy named Chuck from a competing circus, and trained him to dance with the cats, and then he started wearing satin booty-pants and shirts made out of deconstructed party favors from an event at Studio 54, and it's just insane. Right? This was fucking riveting. And this is all BEFORE Ron tells us about his first sexual encounter with Chuck. Ron and chuck got down! Then Joy started banging Chuck, too. THEN EVERYONE WAS SLEEPING WITH EVERYONE AND DANCING WITH BIG CATS. The best part was how hard these three loonies dug the shit out of their lifestyle. I mean, this was so, so crazy, but watching them all be like "This rules. We just have sex with each other and feed our enormous jungle cats huge portions of raw meat. We're so happy."...it was really convincing. I mean, not like they were hurting anyone. OH WAIT.

Because then they ate a bad batch of mushrooms, and decided to get a white tiger, which I guess was questionable not so much in that they were adopting another thousand pound wild feline to live in a cage out back, but in that white tigers are often inbred, and therefore unpredictable. But they get one anyway, because these people are completely insane. So they get this tiger, and they name him Jupiter, and he's clearly an asshole, but rather than you know - getting rid of their UNSTABLE TIGER they decide he's just 'a brat.' Because tigers are completely analogous to toddlers, and they grow out of these bratty phases. OH WAIT.

Here's the part where I totally spoil this for you: spolier alert? Is that what I'm supposed to say? We already know this doesn't end well.

One day there's a crew of electricians fortifying the fence at Rancho Insano, and rather than leaving all the tigers in their cages until they're finished working, the Cat Dancers put their full grown wild animals on leashes and walk them around. And Chuck, while walking Jupiter, slips and falls - apparently because he has moccasins on - and the tiger BITES THROUGH HIS FUCKING NECK. And then I guess it cried. So Ron blamed the moccasins, and kept their MAN EATING TIGER in their backyard.

Except all is not well, as Joy becomes consumed with grief, and spends the next month in her bed without food, or, apparently, a shower. Which is sort of understandable, I guess, considering her child-lover was just de-throated by a giant cat that's still living in the backyard. I'd probably freak out, too. I'd probably shower a few times, but these people are working on a different scale of reasonableness, so I'm just going to move on.

After about five weeks of stewing in her own filth and hunger pangs, Ron convinces Joy to go out and like, pat the cats, or something. So they go into the garage, and Joy like, rubs her hands with meat and makes out with their ocelot, or whatever, and everything's going well, and then Ron decides to bring Jupiter into the garage. Like REALLY, Ron? Jupiter? Now? But apparently he loves traumatic shock therapy, so in comes the white tiger. Who, upon seeing Joy, LEAPS ACROSS THE GARAGE AND TEARS HER THROAT OUT. And then I guess it made it's 'crying noise' again, and Ron - putting all the pieces together at last - shouts: "Jupiter - YOU'RE INBRED!!!" No, Ron - JUPITER IS A FUCKING TIGER. IF THERE WAS A TIGER IN MY GARAGE, AND THE TIGER DID NOT EAT ME, MY RESPONSE WOULD BE 'WHAT IS THIS TIGER, INBRED?' HOLY FUCK.

Right. Exactly. It's the most fucked up shit ever. I scratched the surface, too - there's so much more. For instance, we learn that since the tiger mauled his family, Ron now teaches ballet to children - creepy, especially considering the wigs - and also posits himself as an 'animal behaviorist' and gives tours of the exotic ranch his big cats now live on. That's like calling yourself a criminologist because you invited some wacko drifter to come stay in your house and he murdered your whole family. I don't want animal behavior advice from this guy - HIS TIGER ATE HIS WIFE. YES HE STILL HAS TIGERS.

I could talk about this shit all day. Please do yourself a favor and do whatever you need to do to see this film. You may have bizarre dreams about leopards and leotards for the next few nights, but it is so, so worth it. SO yes - thank you, HBO. You truly are more than just TV.

Oh, Lord. Awkward Confession Time.

I have a dilemma, sort of.

See, there are approximately 20 movies out now/that will be released in the near future that I really really really want to see, and 'Milk' is at the top of the list, because it's supposed to be amazing. However, unfortunately for me, I already know that I will not enjoy 'Milk' - at least not like everyone else will. And you know why? It's the worst reason ever. It's...because ever since Sean Penn starred in 'I Am Sam' I CANNOT TAKE HIM SERIOUSLY. It's so stupid, but I can't get over it. It's not even Sean Penn's fault - I just hate movies that are purposely emotionally manipulative, I hate mannequins and I hate robots*...so OBVIOUSLY I hated 'I Am Sam'...

I am trying to get over this. Generally, I think Sean Penn seems like a pretty whacked out dude, and that's pretty appealing - I like my artists a tad unhinged. I'm aware he's actually a really good actor or whatever. AND THE MAN PLAYED JEFF SPICOLI. I mean really. What is my problem? 'Milk' is going to kick ass. Gus Van Sant! James Franco! I am going to love it. Really. NO I PROMISE MY BRAIN WON'T OVERRIDE THE SYSTEM AND ONLY HEAR SEAN PENN YELLING "IT MATTERS TO ME" DURING EVERY DRAMATIC MOMENT. I promise to try, anyway. Sheesh.

* Dakota Fanning is probably a robot.

Feel It

In the year 2007, a movie came out called 'American Gangster'. It was good. It wasn't great, but it was good. Although, I could probably sit in the dark and watch Denzel Washington eat soup for three hours, and emerge from the theatre proclaiming the experience worth the price of admission. Ridley Scott is pretty sweet too, (although if I were him I might have retired after Blade Runner. What else is left?). And Russell Crowe... his mere on-screen presence didn't cause me to hatch a vengeance plot involving the kidnapping of his dog, so that was a pleasant departure the usual. (No, I have no reason to hate him like I do. I just think he's a sucky actor, and honestly, it makes me feel left out that everyone digs him, and I totally do not. I think that if I had a cool accent and just acted really pissed off at everything on screen with me, people would tell me I was a good actor, too. It's not fair. You can't intimidate people into thinking you have talent. Well, maybe Russell Crowe can, sometimes, but it hasn't worked on me. Ok, Crowe? I'm not buying it. You stink.)

Anyway, the theatre in which I watched the movie in had lovely seasonal Harpoon on tap, so that quieted much of the animosity between Russell and myself, and made the Scott-direction that much more awesome. But the movie's appeal can't be explained by the Winter Warmer alone. (How could it be? They only let you buy one at a time, and I would have had to tromp all the way through the theatre, and then up some stairs, and then find my way back to my seat, holding an uncapped beverage no less.) There was some other element that made the American Gangster experience worth every nickel. Oh yes. The bananas soundtrack.

The ability to make a decent, original, surprising soundtrack to any event is a difficult task. Doing so for a movie must be (I imagine) that much more complex, what with all the copyrights out there just ripe for the infringing. Plus, movie soundtracks have to complement actual plot and character development, rather than, say, 'Joey's Going Away Party' or 'Chet's Engagement Soiree' or some other event that you will attend with 20 drunk friends who share your taste in music. A well executed movie soundtrack is a beautiful thing. And one you want to listen in your own home, on your own time? Spectacular.

Needless to say, I have found the American Gangster soundtrack pretty damn gorgeous. Along with supporting the actions of the characters in the movie, it's also ideal for washing dishes, or putting on makeup, or walking the dog, or picking out what to wear, or dancing around your kitchen to see if what you have chosen to wear will survive the evening. (I happened to be listening to it on New Year's Eve. I had many diverse tasks to complete.) It is incredible.

If you don't want to take a gamble on the entire cd (or you aren't one of the 19 people left in America who still buys cds) do yourself a serious favor and just get (by which I mean download, because I don't think you can even purchase a single anymore. Remember singles? Did itunes kill the single? So depressing.) Anthony Hamilton's 'Do You Feel Me' which is my favorite song of 2007, and most of the rest of the 2000's. If you don't sit down on the floor or cry or clap or something the first time you hear it...well, then you're probably just a whole lot more chemically balanced than I am, but that isn't really the point. You'll like it, I promise.

The soundtrack - and Mr. Hamilton's contribution in particular - made me like a Russell Crowe movie. There are transformative powers here.

Discretion Advised: Apocalyptical Delusions, Hating and Bad Language Ahead

Ever know someone who seemed perfectly nice, well mannered, polite, unobjectionable looking, totally unremarkable in almost every way; a person that all your friends and colleagues either liked or (maddeningly) adored - and who you could not fucking stand? Yes?

To add to your frustrations, this person - let's call them Jerry - is so evenly appreciated across all segments of the population,poor little you can't find a soul to commiserate with. Not a one. Conversations start with promise, then wither and die on the vine, like so:

You: "Hey, do you know Jerry?"

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Who?"

You: "You know...Jerry?"

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Oh. Yes."

You (sensing a possible twinge of disgust - an opportunity?): "I...don't really like Jerry as much as everyone else does."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Really? Neither do I. I - "

You (excited, ecstatic, it's Christmas in July): "REALLY???? Yay! I fucking hate Jerry! I hate his smarmy face, I hate his entitled demeanor, I hate his shallow soul, I hate his creepy sense of entitlement resting on the knowledge that he will be critically and commercially lauded because Cameron Crowe wrote every word that comes out of his date-rapey mouth and directed every drippy, saccharine moment in which he speaks. I hate his complete and total lack of actual spiritual and moral development. I hate that no one else notices that he is the same GAPING ASSHOLE from the first second we meet him until the moment we walk away. I hate that I am the only person walking away in disgust. I hate that Jerry, that caustic prick, takes a series of connected moments of self-entitlement and overblown egotistical grandstanding and spins them into actual character development. I hate that racist, sexist dickhole, and I hate the world that he lives in and the air that he breathes, and he makes me believe in the concept of Hell and that Satan walks among us in human guise."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "I was going to say I adore Jerry."

You (deflated, foiled again, ego bruised from once again misinterpreting the tone of another party in a conversation): "Oh."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Seriously? You hate Jerry Maguire? Everybody loves Jerry Maguire. It was like, the best movie of the mid-90's."

You (red-faced, moving towards scarlet; all shame and embarrassment swallowed by your boiling rage): "The widespread success of the film Jerry Maguire was the very first sign of the Apocalypse."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: Remains silent. Turns and walks away. Avoids you around the water cooler and at all future social gatherings. Whispers conspiratorially with those gathered near them, glancing towards you when they think you aren't looking: "she hates Jerry."