THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.

A TRIBUTE TO OSCAR

2012-02-25T19:33:00.003-08:00

Yes, Soulmates, it's that time of year again. Tomorrow night will mark the 84th annual presentation of the Academy Awards, aka "The Oscars", on which occasion the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts And Sciences (AMPAS) will hand out those little gold statuettes to members of the Hollywood community deemed worthy of recognition for their various contributions to the movie industry. Banal teleprompter banter and cheesy production numbers aside, the Academy Awards are, in my opinion, an important reference point in American culture, and, I will be watching tomorrow night, as I have every night since 1972, trying my best not to fall asleep before the final award, for "Best Picture", is announced and the glamour gives way to a station break followed by the local news.
Who do I think will win this year? Well, although I'm nowhere near as certain as I was last year, when I predicted multiple awards for "The King's Speech", I do have a feeling that "The Artist" will shine tomorrow night, and that George Clooney will finally receive some long overdue recognition for his understated and always solid acting in "The Descendents." I also think that "The Help" will be recognized in substantial measure by the Academy. And I will be looking for Sacha Baron Cohen to make some kind of statement by appearing in his "General Aladeen" costume from "The Dictator". Nothing spices up an Academy Awards show like a little calculated renegade behavior. The glamour of "The Oscars" has always been interspersed with faux pas moments and outrageous statements from self-serving actors eager to utilize that white hot spotlight. From Marlon Brando's infamous no-show on behalf of what he considered to be the movie industry's unfair treatment of Native Americans. to David Niven's suave segue following the sudden appearance of a streaker on stage to Bjork's red carpet swan song. That's what makes them fun. That's why we watch them. And in honor of that aspect of what is without argument one of the movie industry's greatest contributions to pop culture, I present my three favourite notable Academy Awards moments for your pleasure and edification.

The 1973 Academy Awards
"Accepting the award for Mr. Brando is..."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QUacU0I4yU

The 1974 Academy Awards

"Showing us his shortcomings"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IIl3zSYL8k

                                                            The 1999 Academy Awards
   "I love everybody!"
                                            http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cTR6fk8frs

    That's it for this post. Until next time...xoxoxoxxoxoxoxo

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: Forget Pink Elephants, Bring On The Squirrels

2012-02-23T12:02:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: Forget Pink Elephants, Bring On The Squirrels: Just for the record, Soulmates, I was going to write about disgusting retro recipes this post, recipes that, for the most part, and for ...

Forget Pink Elephants, Bring On The Squirrels

2012-02-23T12:01:00.000-08:00

Just for the record, Soulmates, I was going to write about disgusting retro recipes this post, recipes that, for the most part, and for reasons known only to the denizens of the mid-20th century recipe makers, seem to include a preponderance of Jell-o and/or canned vegetables. But it being the week after Valentine's Day, my thoughts are still on hearts, not heartburn. IN keeping with what has apparently become my personal tradition, Valentine's Day did not go particularly well again this year. While not quite as bad or as bloody as the infamous Valentine's Day Massacre, last Tuesday wasn't exactly Cupid's greatest moment, either. Hearts and flowers? Try hearts and duct tape. As in there ain't a roll of it big enough to cover the cracks in my battered ticker. But that's another story. You can probably find it on the Lifetime Movie Channel. In fact, most of the last few years of my life can probably be found there. At this point, I'm beginning to think that I should be receiving royalties.

Which leads us to the actual topic of this post. Pink Squirrel cocktails. If you've never imbibed one of these frothy, pastel-colored, retro wonders in a glass, you're missing out on one of the best reasons to have been a barfly in the 50's and early 60's. One sip, and you're Lana Turner in a slinky black dress sitting on a barstool in the Boom Boom Room. If music is the food of love, pink squirrels are the salve of the lovelorn. To drink one is to be transported back to an age of gentlemen, glamour, and sultry saxophone music in darkened bars on dim-lit back streets in a film noir world. Two or more sips, and you're likely to start spouting lines from Raymond Chandler novels.
"So, what's a nice girl like you doing out on the town all by yourself?"
"Painting it red. I'm starting with pink and working my way up."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"No, just a hole where my heart used to be. Just as well. The beating sound was annoying me anyway. Now I can at least concentrate on my reading."
"What are you reading?"
"The Lorena Bobbitt Story."

    The problem with pink squirrels is that it's damned hard to find a bartender who can make a good one, or even one at all, unless you live in a place like New York City or some other teeming metropolis. You can try your luck, but chances are, the bartender will either not know how to make one, or the bar won't even have the right ingredients on hand. Face it, pink squirrels are a retro concoction, a drink of the past, a fading star on a stage crowded with tacky starlets with names like "Sex Bomb" and "Fuzzy Navel." But if you can get one, you'll be a better person for it. Or a more appreciative drinker, at any rate. Will the consumption of a Pink Squirrel take away your heartache? Doubtful. But look at it this way. If you're going to be sitting in a bar with a broken heart, you might as well look as classy in the midst of your despair.
   "You're a beautiful woman, you know that? What's your secret?"
   "Salt baths."
"You take salt baths?"
"No, I cry salt tears. See this pink squirrel? It's my chaser."

Well, that's it for this post, Soulmates. Don't be a stranger. And remember...if someone offers you food followed by the statement "I'm just going to throw it out anyway", just step aside and give them a clear shot at the trash can. You'll sleep better for it. Til next time. xoxoxxoxoxoxxo

The Black Eyed People Are Coming

2012-02-21T15:12:00.000-08:00

No, we're not talking about a Black Eyed Peas concert slated for your city or town. We're talking about black-eyed people, as in men, women, and children whose eyes are seemingly entirely black, as in all pupil and no visible iris. I first read about them on the about.com paranormal site and was immediately and strangely fascinated by other readers' accounts of their encounters with these mysterious and apparently prolific beings who have allegedly been spotted in such disparate locations as the local Wal Mart and highway rest area bathrooms. In nearly all of the accounts, the sighting is accompanied by a sense of dread on the part of the "victim." "I felt as though I was going to die" is how many of them describe their reaction to the unexpected encounter. In the most unsettling accounts, the encounter is preceded by a strange, methodical knocking on the author's door or window, usually at some ungodly hour of the night.

Such was the case in an account submitted by Jenna L., a resident of a small city in Michigan, who was reading quietly in bed around 11 o'clock one autumn night in 2009 when`she heard a sudden slow knocking on her front door, got up and went to answer it. Upon opening the door, Jenna wrote, "I saw two young boys, about nine or ten, both dark-haired, dressed in jeans and hooded sweatshirts and sneakers. I was wondering what two boys that age were doing out by themselves at that hour of the night when I noticed their eyes. They were completely black. I felt this sudden sense of dread, as though I was in danger. The taller one simply looked at me and said, 'Please let us in.' I asked them why they wanted to come in. He said. 'We need to use the phone." When I asked who they needed to call, he replied, "Just let us in. Please. We won't hurt you.' It was a strange thing for a boy that age to say. And he spoke in such a quiet, calm, almost adult cadence of voice. I don't know what came over me, but I just said, 'Sorry. I can't let you in.' and shut the door. I made sure it was locked. But no sooner was I back in bed, then I heard the knocking again. I got up and went into the living room where I could see the front door from the window.

The two boys were standing in exactly the same spot, the taller one in front, the smaller one directly behind him with his head down. Then, almost on cue, they both turned their heads and looked in the direction of the window. I felt that sense of dread again, more acutely this time, and hurried back to my bedroom. They knocked for several more minutes, then they stopped and, I assumed, went away. But it really frightened me in a way that is difficult to explain. I felt as though my very life was in danger. If I had let them in, I honestly believe that I would have been harmed in some way, or might possibly even have died."

Jenna's account of her encounter with black-eyed kids is frightening enough, but the one that really made my skin crawl came from "Carl S", whose encounter took place in, of all places, a Wal-Mart. According to Carl, he and his wife were heading down the electronics aisle of the store when they noticed "a very thin, dark-haired woman dressed in a white T-shirt and shorts" coming toward them. As she got closer, Carl recalled, "she looked directly at us and that was when I realized that her eyes were totally black. No iris color at all, just black, and very large. As she passed us, I felt very strange and uncomfortable. A weird sense of dread that came over me. I'm not a guy who spooks easily. I'm 6'"2 and, at that time, a over 200 lbs. I've had martial arts training. But I was freaked out by this woman. So was my wife,. She told me later that she had the strange feeling that the woman wanted to hurt us. There was no reason for her to think that, but she did. We both turned and looked at her as she passed us, and she was looking back at us. The really freaky part was that, as we were coming out of the store about half an hour later, we saw the woman again. She was standing in the parking lot, next to the shopping cart corral, where our car was parked a few feet away. She didn't say anything as we passed her, just stared. We couldn't get out of there fast enough."

   So, who are these black-eyed people walking among us in Wal-Marts and knocking on our doors late at night? Google the subject and you'll find many stories of encounters similar to the one above. But apart from describing their fear on seeing these disconcerting strangers, none of the witnesses seem able to offer an explanation for the strange encounters. One woman posited that the black-eyed people could be "demons from another dimension", but if they are, what do they want from the Jenna L's and Carl S's of the world? So far, no one seems to have actually come to harm at their hands. The black-eyed boy in Jenna L's seems to have stepped full-blown out of a vampire movie with his insistence that she let him into the house. We all know that vampires have to ask to enter a house before they can come in and sink their pointed teeth into our necks. But if the black-eyed people are vampires, why are they walking around Wal-Marts in the middle of the day? It's a question pondered in many a paranormal chat room.
   Of course, it goes without saying that at least a good portion of these accounts are probably pure fiction. But too many of them have a genuine ring of truth, their details too singular and nuanced to be dismissed as the creations of bored pranksters. In my all-time favorite account, which can be found here, the author had his encounter when he stopped for dinner at a roadside diner late one night. Captivated by the charms of his waitress, he made a point of trying to speak to her before he left the establishment. Following her into a back room (a pretty bold move, in any case), he discovered her standing in the middle of the floor, screaming, her arms at her sides. On seeing him, he claimed, she began to zip across the floor without moving her feet, still screaming. Understandably freaked out, he made a quick getaway, jumped into his car and drove off, only to catch a glimpse of her face in the rear view mirror, her mouth still opened wide in a scream. Of course, turning around to look, he saw nothing. Not surprisingly, he never went back for her number.
   Accounts of black-eyed people continue to pour into paranormal websites from all over the world, and I continue to read them with a combination of fascination and inexplicable fear. It's the same way I feel about snakes. I'm terrified of them, but whenever I see one, I can't seem to look away. If nothing else, it's one more reason to avoid shopping at Wal-Mart. Fortunately, as far as I know, no one's ever spotted a black-eyed person at a Target.

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: Paranormal Post

2012-02-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: Paranormal Post: This week, we find ourselves strangely fascinated by some old school paranormal cases So, give that fire another poke, pour another bran...

Paranormal Post

2012-02-07T14:19:00.000-08:00

This week, we find ourselves strangely fascinated by some old school paranormal cases So, give that fire another poke, pour another brandy and settle down. Ready? Let's go.

     First off is the dubious, but nonetheless interesting case of Gef, the Talking Mongoose. If you've read a lot of paranormal literature, you're probably familiar with the story ol' Gef (also known as The Dalby Spook), a supposed mongoose (what else?) who allegedly lived in the walls of a farmhouse owned by a family called Irving on the Isle of Man in the 1930's. If you don't haunt the paranormal book shelves, you may find yourself strangely fascinated by this well-known and fairly well-documented case just the same.
It all started when members of the Irving family spotted what appeared to be a strange, vaguely weasel-like creature in their garden in the spring of '31. It was described as "yellow in color" with a "bushy tail" and "flat nose." James Irving, the patriarch of the family, expressed surprise at the time that the animal's appearance in the garden did not alarm the chickens. Within a few days, the Irvings saw it in the house as well, and shortly thereafter became aware of odd scratching sounds and muffled grunts within the walls. In a matter of only a few days, the entity developed an actual voice, with which it began to repeat nursery rhymes and, after another brief interval, actually converse with the family. Its voice was described as being high and screechy, yet clear, and a few degrees higher in pitch than a human's.
   New reports at the time suggest that the real voice behind Gef was the family's 13-year-old daughter, who one reporter claimed to see covering her lips as the unseen Gef was answering reporters' questions. However, despite such claims, no one could say for certain whether the girl was in fact engaging in trickery. The situation was made even more mysterious when Gef occasionally showed his dark side, hurling stones at family members as they walked to and from the house and shouting invectives if they took too long to bring him food in exchange for the dead rabbits he left for them on the doorstep. Mrs. Irving told reporters that she had at one point stroked Gef's fur through a crack in the wall, only to be bitten in return and then told by Gef to "go and put ointment on (the bite)."
   None other than Harry Price, president of the British Society for Psychical Research at the time, visited the Irving farm in 1935 to try to get to the bottom of the mongoose mystery. Unfortunately, Gef declined to make an appearance during Price's visit and impressions of pawprints taken from the property and sent away for analysis could not be identified.
    So, was Gef a real talking mongoose, a spirit, or simply the product of a young girl's perfidy? We'll never know, of course. When asked about his origins, Gef replied that he had been born in New Delhi, India and that he was "a little clever, extra clever mongoose", but never explained how he had come to live inside the walls of the Irvings' farmhouse. No one who knew the Irvings personally seemed to think that they were capable of playing a hoax and no member of the family ever confessed that they had done so. Still, it is telling that the subsequent owner of the house claimed not to have ever heard so much as a single word from Gef. For all practical purposes, the strangely fascinating case of Gef, the Talking Mongoose ended when the Irvings sold their farm.

    Another case involving Harry Price centered on the infamous Borley Rectory, known as the "Most Haunted House in England" during the 1920s and 30s. Built on the site of an old Benedictine monastery, the house was first occupied by a Rev. Bull and his family until the death of Rev. Bull in 1892, at which time it passed to his father and then to a Rev. Smith. But it was in the 30s, during the five-year tenancy of Rev. L.A. Foyster and his wife, Marianne, that all hell broke loose.
   During the 1890s, there had been reports of a ghostly nun who allegedly traipsed through the drafty halls of the rectory, but the Foysters' arrival seemed to prompt an onslaught of paranormal activity which included stones and pebbled being hurled at them from an unknown source, random coins appearing out of nowhere, and strange scribblings on the walls addressed to Marianne, the most notable of which stated, "I am crazy. Help me, Marianne." Unexplained footsteps and phantom knocks also plagued the Foysters, sending the apparently delicate-nerved Marianne into a tailspin that eventually led to the Foysters' departure from the problematic scene.
    As seems to have been par for the course when it came to many of his investigations for the SPR, Price's stay at the rectory failed to turn up any definitive or conclusive evidence pointing to the source of the alleged haunting. Once again, the world was left to ponder the question of whether the haunting of Borley Rectory was real, imagined, or fraudulent. Unfortunately, the rectory burned to the ground in the 1940s, leaving the question not only extant, but forever unanswerable.

    Our last case has a musical component. In fact, it was all about the music when it came to English pianist Rosemary Brown and her alleged dealings with spirits. The classically trained Brown claimed that throughout her career, she had been aided in composing piano music by the spirits of such deceased classical music luminaries as Franz Lizst, Ludwig von Beethoven and Frederic Chopin. Critics, of course, scoffed at her claims and insisted that the songs composed by Brown were not in the same league as the music made by Beethoven and his ilk when alive.
    But Brown held firm in her claims, even sharing a very amusing anecdote in which the spirit of Beethoven, trying to impart musical knowledge, was continually interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Finally, exasperated, Brown said, the spirit put a hand to his head and exclaimed, "Mein Gott!"
   Brown's own version of her story can be found in a series of memoirs, the best of which, Immortals By My Side, was published in 1974 and is still in print. Brown passed into spirit herself in 2001. No word on what the immortals had to say about how well she did their work for them when alive.

   Welll, that's all for now, gentle readers. We hope to make another foray into the world of the unknown soon, and in the meantime, remember....when the world gets too mundane, don't get bored, just turn and face the strange. Til next time. xoxoxxoxoxoxoxxox

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: More Creepy Mannequins

2011-12-29T22:38:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: More Creepy Mannequins: Here they are....more creepy Christmas mannequins. View at your own risk. The family that looks creepy together.... Don't let ...

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: More Creepy Mannequins

2011-12-27T16:38:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: More Creepy Mannequins: Here they are....more creepy Christmas mannequins. View at your own risk. The family that looks creepy together.... Don't le...

More Creepy Mannequins

2011-12-27T16:35:00.000-08:00

Here they are....more creepy Christmas mannequins. View at your own risk.


The family that looks creepy together....


Don't let the wig fool you. She's a mannequin.

So, okay, they seem needy, but, trust me, it's a ploy...


The girl of your nightmares.


No....no,no, no...so wrong.


In what universe are these images conducive to selling clothing?


Need I even try to make my point?

So, there you have it. Hope it brings you a bit of non-Christmasy cheer. Remember...mannequins are not your friends. Be advised. xxoxoxoxoxoxooxox

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: The Sordid Side of Christmas

2011-12-25T06:52:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: The Sordid Side of Christmas: Does anyone really like fruitcake? I tend to doubt it. I daresay that, for the most part, anyone who actually professes to like frui...

The Sordid Side of Christmas

2011-12-25T06:51:00.000-08:00

Does anyone really like fruitcake? I tend to doubt it. I daresay that, for the most part, anyone who actually professes to like fruitcake is playing some kind of twisted mind game, one even darker and more insidious than the unspecified games that Santa's other reindeer wouldn't allow poor Rudolph to join in. I mean, come on. Fruitcake? It's hard, sticky and made up of ingredients that aren't even really fruit. How it came to be a classic component of Christmas cuisine, I'll never know. And although I don't fear it as I do some other things...mannequins, for instance....I feel compelled to take a public stance against it at every opportunity. And what better opportunity than in this brief holiday post? In fact, fruitcake isn't the only annoying and/or disgusting element of Christmas. Let me acquaint you with a few more.

You've seen it countless times on "Christmas Story", and replicas of it in stores, and you may even have one of your own in your very own colored light infested, holiday-trimmed home. God knows I did, until my son took it with him to college. To be fair, I actually like the damned thing, mainly because I am...well...strangely fascinated by such icons of pop culture kitsch. But there's a thin line between celebration an iconic image and falling victim to overkill. Of late, I have even stumbled across knock off versions of this holiday lamp classic. That's just not right. Not to mention that it means that the only way to restore the inherent cool of the item within the context of one's decorating scheme is to alter its appearance in some subtle but creative manner. I, personally, would opt for sequins. I always opt for sequins. They rock.

Inflatable lawn decorations irk me anytime of year. Whether it's Halloween witches, Easter bunnies, or Christmas-themed nutcrackers, these saggy symbols of holiday commercialism strike me as the visual equivalent of fingernails raking across a chalkboard. Colored light-laden plastic reindeer and jolly Santas might be off the scale as far as the Christmas cheese-o-meter is concerned, but they at least have a history and durability that lends them some appeal. Inflatable snowmen and elves are just oversize balloons listing on borrowed time. Say no to inflatables next Christmas. Please. The sense of pride you save may be your own.

. It's not the movie itself. I'm a huge fan of both Jimmy Stewart and Frank Capra, and "It's A Wonderful Life" is one of their best and most enduring cinematic efforts. Any movie that still draws in viewers over sixty years after it was first released deserves to be canonized.....if movies could be canonized, that is. So, no, it's not the movie that irks me. It's that damned scene where Jimmy Stewart goes to see Lionel Barrymore (aka the nefarious, Grinch-like Mr. Potter) and is almost, but not quite persuaded to sign away his soul on the dotted line in exchange for a better job and a higher income. What's my gripe? It's that every time I watch that scene, I find myself hoping that, this time, Stewart will give in, take the money, and buy his huge family a house with stairs that aren't falling apart and refurbished windows that don't let the heat escape. I mean, it's a huge family. Self-pride and a commitment to a higher purpose are all well and good, but are they going to pay for Juju's college tuition or make it possible for the daughter who plays the piano to take lessons so that she can learn to play more than one annoying song? No, they're not. And although it wouldn't be much of a movie if Stewart caved and gave into the fat man's cajoling, it would make me feel better about the future of the Bailey clan. Sorry. Sue me. Just not on Christmas.

Well, that's it from the tree streets. If you celebrate Christmas, have a good one. And if you don't, well, you'll just have to find something else to complain about. See you on the other side. xoxoxoxxoxooxxoxxoxxooxox

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: For Liva, My Granddaughter, This Christmas

2011-12-22T21:22:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: For Liva, My Granddaughter, This Christmas: My dear Liva, It has now been almost six months since I last saw your gorgeous little face. It was in late August that you and your mother...

For Liva, My Granddaughter, This Christmas

2011-12-22T21:21:00.000-08:00

My dear Liva,

It has now been almost six months since I last saw your gorgeous little face. It was in late August that you and your mother went back to Denmark...to Copenhagen....the city where you were born and in which you lived until you were four. When you left the US last August, you were a big girl of six.

It was your mother's decision to go away, one based on a lack of work, ensuing financial difficulties, and personal problems that we won't mention here. The bottom line, my sweet girl, is that I have been bereft of your presence for much too long, and with Christmas (or Noel Yule, as you Danes call it) only days away, my heart aches for you to the point of breaking. What can I do except tell you that I miss you? And what better present can I give you than to share with you some of the most important things I have learned since you went away? Perhaps, in doing so, my lessons will serve you in the future as well. Here goes. I only hope that you don't get bored and fall asleep.

1.) FAMILY

Families are about the most important thing that a person can have. Under perfect conditions, a family is something that you are born into and the people in it remain in it, never leaving, never changing in negative ways, and are always supportive, loving, and focused on doing what's best for little kids like you. But you know by now that families, like people, aren't perfect, and that even something as wonderful as love can't always make things work the way we want them to. But one thing I can tell you is that when the members of a family love a child as much as the members of your family love you, there is nothing that is not possible. Bad times can be forgotten as good times take over, sad memories can be overcome by good ones, and all of the tears that have been shed over the course of weeks, months or years can be replaced by smiles and laughter and conversations about happy things.
But, of course, it always easy to accomplish those changes. In our family, it sometimes seems that the darkness is stronger than the light, and some of us, myself included, struggle daily with that darkness. The good news is that we haven't given up. There's an old saying, "nothing good comes without some kind of fight", and while that isn't always true, it seems to be true in this case. Families, whether they are the ones you are born into or ones made up of special people to whom you feel very close, are important enough to fight for if that's what it takes. Never give up on your family, Liva. But no matter what, I can promise you that I will never stop loving you.

2. FRIENDS

This world would be a pretty bleak place if we didn't have friends. You had some good friends here in the US, and I know that you have some good friends in Copenhagen now. One thing I have learned since you left, though, is that it's important to choose your friends carefully. Since you left, some of the people I thought were my friends turned out to be not very good people at all. One of them even stole my precious kitten! That makes me very sad, still, but I am trying my best to look at that horrible incident as a lesson. It's hard to say exactly what it is that you should watch out for when you are trying to make new friends, but I think I can give you a fairly good assessment of what it means to be a real friend. The way I see it, a real friend is someone who doesn't lie to you, doesn't hurt your feelings unnecessarily, doesn't judge you, and doesn't put their own wants over yours when the going gets rough. In fact, when the going gets rough, a real friend is there without being asked, does whatever they can to help you even if it isn't convenient for them, and encourages you to do what's best for you, not what they want you to do. Most of all, Liva, a real friend is someone who is still your friend even when you can't spend much time with them or it is difficult to stay in touch. Like a diamond, a real friend is forever. I have a few real friends. I hope that you always will as well.

3. LOVE

This is, perhaps, the most important thing that I have learned since you've been gone. Do you remember that game we used to play at bedtime...the "Would you rather?" game? You used to ask me if I would rather be a princess or date a rock star and things like that. When I asked you those same kinds of questions, you always chose the answer that included a boyfriend. You so wanted to have a boyfriend! Well, I have met someone who is very nice, but even though he's a wonderful person, I have learned that the best way to have love in your life is to make sure that you keep some for yourself. I made a mistake before. I gave all my love away, and when that person stopped loving me, I felt like nothing. That's not a good way to feel about yourself. I had to learn to love myself all over again. I am still learning to do it. That's why I hope that you will go forward in life already loving yourself and feeling good about who you are without trying to fit someone else's idea of who and how you should be. You are perfect the way you are, Liva. You are unique and special, and even if you weren't already the most beautiful little girl in the world, your smile would make people think that you were. Your smile is more beautiful than any Christmas tree lights, or even the stars, because it comes from a heart as pure and loving and kind as any heart could possibly be. Whatever course your life takes, please remember that the world is a better place because you are in it, and if you weren't, there would be one less reason for anyone who knows you to smile. You are the perfect flower that grows in the wilderness, the brilliantly colored bird that sings from the branches of an old, twisted tree. You are the loveliest chord on the piano, the most melodic note of a song, the warm ray of sunshine that kisses the winter snow and melts it so that spring can return.

You are my year round Christmas present, Liva. I love you.

And here are some of our family members who love you as well.

xoxoxxoxoxoxoxo

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: Creepy Christmas Mannequins

2011-12-18T05:48:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: Creepy Christmas Mannequins: You knew they had to come. As usual words are superfluous. Enjoy. Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Joyous Kwaanza, Nifty Noel....

Creepy Christmas Mannequins

2011-12-18T05:30:00.000-08:00

You knew they had to come. As usual words are superfluous. Enjoy.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Joyous Kwaanza, Nifty Noel.....see you on the other side.
xoxoxoxoxxoxxoxoxo

2011-12-14T18:36:00.000-08:00

Nuns With Guns Are The Bomb

2011-12-11T23:18:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: Let us begin with a disclaimer. We are not Cat...: Let us begin with a disclaimer. We are not Catholic. We have attended Mass for years, possess a small, but highly prized collection of C...

2011-12-11T23:17:00.000-08:00

Let us begin with a disclaimer. We are not Catholic. We have attended Mass for years, possess a small, but highly prized collection of Catholic saints miniatures and other religious icons, and eschew meat on Good Fridays (although we absolutely, unequivacably cannot and will not eat fish, not even for Jesus). But we've never actually taken the eucemenical plunge, mostly because we don't really see the need for it when we already believe what we believe and, if what we believe is correct, are pretty sure that God knows that we believe it, too. But that being said, we have to admit that, despite our lack of official status as a Catholic, we have always been strangely fascinated by nuns. Yes, that's right. Nuns. But not like the one below, who, while no doubt a fine person and nun in her day, pretty much seems to embody the nun "ideal."

But while we are fascinated by Sister ability to be a nun at all in a world increasingly at odds with all of the things that the vocation represents, we are even more fascinated by those nuns who, even within their specialized little world, are considered oddities. What do we mean? Well, take a gander at the bullet-totin' brides of Christ below.

The picture, which we found on the Intelligent Genealogy websiite, isn't captioned. But our guess is that these sisters are members of an archery team. "Rifles For Redemprion" or some such thing. No doubt charity is involved in some way And from the smiles on their faces, it's clear that the Beatles weren't far off the mark when they sang, "Happiness is a warn gun." But it's not always smiles...

Not quite sure where these sisters are showing no mercy, but you probably wouldn't want to be counting your rosary beads there. But wait! There's more!

The last image is, of course, from our new all time favorite movie, Nude Nuns with Big Guns, the 2010 nunsploitation epic that introduced the world to Sister Sarah (played by Asun Ortega), who, after being raped, beaten, brainwashed by corrupt members of the clergy, recieves what she believes is a message from God telling her to mow down the grimy bastards responsible for her...uh...duress. She isn't always naked, but she does pack a couple of big pistols, which she uses to carry out the Lord's work, a task made even harder when the clergy hires a morotcycle gang to kill her. The end result is a holy mess of twist and turns in. this B-movie cult classic to be, which, I confess, I have watched at least as many times as I've attended Mass in the last year. (Seven). For fans of nunspolitation films, it's probably the most exciting addition to the genre in years. And it makes a wonderful Christmas gift for the person who already has all the glow in the dark saints.

Well, there you have it. Our little post with the big potential to inflame our readers, but, really, why should it? The Christian God of the Old Testament was all about vengeance and smiting stuff, so why shouldn't the brides of Christ shoulder an uzi? Nunsploitation films may raise a few eyebrows here and there, but my only issue is with the ones that portray nuns as sex-starved sisters of mercy coinstantly on the look out for a fallen angel to help them find heaven. Bottom line, for me, is that nuns and sex is absolutely, unequivocably taboo. But nuns with guns? That's entertainment.

This sister is one bad mutha.

Thanks for reading our post. See you next time. xoxoxoxxo

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: This Week's Strange Fascinations.

2011-12-04T10:30:00.000-08:00

THESE STRANGE FASCINATIONS.: This Week's Strange Fascinations.: What constitutes a strange fascination? The criteria is obviously subjective, but, this week, at least, we're pretty sure that the thing...

This Week's Strange Fascinations.

2011-12-04T09:42:00.000-08:00

What constitutes a strange fascination? The criteria is obviously subjective, but, this week, at least, we're pretty sure that the things we have fascinated by are on the periphery of the usual demographic spectrum. But why waste time analyzing? It's time to show and tell. To wit...

ANTIQUE PLUMB BOBS

Antique plumb bobs. Couldn't you just eat 'em up?

Who knows why? We have no carpentry skills that we know of, and symmetry has never been our strong suit (or even a remote contender), but there's just something about the shape and construction and purpose of these quaintly named little tools that makes us feel strangely comforted in the face of ongoing personal upheaval and conflict. Oddly, we have never even owned one of these gems, nor even had the pleasure of a close, personal encounter, but, nevertheless, we can't seem to keep from scouring the internet for new photographs to add to our burgeoning collection. While we're especially fond of brass plumb bobs, we've experienced a few extra heartbeats at the sight of ivory plumb bobs, which we think add just the right touch of haute coutre and glamor to the otherwise mundane task of making things level.

Whether our fascination comes from a previous life spent utilizing these little tools, or we're just reacting to some undefined longing connected to the distended state of our personal life, we just can't get enough of antique plumb bobs.

NUDE NUNS WITH BIG GUNS

We've never been a big fan of the action movie genre, although we have a soft spot in our duct-taped heart for the image of Clint Eastwood in a poncho on a windswept plain. But from the moment we took our first gander at a clip of Nude Nuns with Big Guns (2010, directed by Joseph Guzman, starring Asan Ortega), we were absolutely in love with Sister Sarah (who isn't always nude, by the way, and never fully so) and her holy resolve to gun down the drug cartel monsters who robbed her, beat her, raped her, and left her for dead. You would think that Mexican drug dealers would have had a little more respect for a woman married to Christ, but their folly is our gain. Nuns with guns is B-level cheesiness with A-level cult potential. And Sister Sarah is no soft-spoken angel of mercy in conflict over mowing down her would be murderers. She is, as the movie tag line goes, "one bad mother," Say your prayers, sinners. She's coming for you. Just like your next bad habit. We'll light a candle for you.

RUBBER CLOTHING


The cat's meow

As a kid in the 1960's, we used to play "secret agent" a lot, and somehow or other, always ended up in the imaginary persona of a character based on "Catwoman", the slinky, sexy, salacious nemesis of Batman and his frumpy little sidekick, Robin. Perhaps that's the reason that, now, all these years later, we can't stop thinking about how exciting it would be to add a rubberized dimension to our wardrobe. Spandex is fine, of course, and we have no issue with leather (sorry, Peta..well, kind of), but we just find ourselves strangely fascinated by the idea of walking down the street decked out in something like this.....

or this....

and especially this...

Of course, at 52, there's a chance that we might take a few hits for dressing inappropriately for our age, but we couldn't care less. The Europeans get it in a way that Americans never will. It's all about the spirit. The body obeys the spirit, not the other way round, and our spirit is a dominatrix cracking a whip of fire. Someday, that may change. But for now, we'll stack our rubber clothes wearing rights up against any 25 year old's. You got it, flaunt it. And we've always been good at that.

So, that's it for this week. Hope we have raised your spirits in some, small way. If not, well, at least we haven't robbed you ar gunpoint and stolen your plastic go-go boots. But that's another post, and one which has a happily resolved ending. (Thanks, Sister Sarah). See you anon, xoxoxoxxox

Strange Fascinations: Forgotten Minor Celebrities: Totie Fields

2011-11-20T19:02:00.000-08:00

Strange Fascinations: Forgotten Minor Celebrities: Totie Fields: If you're under 45, you've probably never heard of her. If you're over 45, you may have heard of her, but have somehow confused her with...

Thanksgiving? Stuff It, Please.

2011-11-16T01:14:00.000-08:00


Guess who won't be floating the gravy boat this year? That's right. Moi.

"The Pink Goes It Alone"

It's hard to believe, but next week will bring yet another reason for misanthropes, depressives and the socially disenfranchised to feel bad about the world in which we are forced to live. That's right...Thanksgiving. That most quintessential of American holidays is only a week away, and if, like me, you can hardly bear the thought of being exposed for the loner and/or social or familial pariah that you are, you've probably been doing your best to shut out the reminders of its encroaching presence. Hard to walk around stores with blinders on, though. Even harder to avoid conversations with friends who are all hepped about the advent of the holiday season and insist on gushing about their plans as though they can't imagine anyone not sharing their enthusiasm for a holiday that deifies the concept of family and togetherness and, in doing so, marginalizes those who don't have the option of celebrating in that time-honored manner.
    It's ten times worse when you're a woman. In fact, from what I can tell, for most people, the only thing more incomprehensible than being a woman alone on Thanksgiving is being a woman who would rather be alone on Thanksgiving than be the designated "outsider" seated in the "pity chair" at a family gathering. There's nothing worse than being the person in that chair; especially if, until recently, you were the hostess at your own holiday gatherings and are still smarting from the cessation of the familiar, cherished rituals. Somehow, though, it's almost impossible to explain that to the well-meaning friends who invite you to share their tables because they can't stand the thought of you sitting home alone. The ensuing discussion never seems to resolve anything and , invariably, ends with the well-meaning friend sighing and patting your arm and saying, "Well, the invitation stands, if you happen to change your mind."
    I won't be changing my mind. When the holy turkey day rolls around next week, I won't be sitting among the fortunate members of a happy, intact, thriving family with a forced smile on my face as I try to pretend it makes me feel better to be included in their holiday festivities. I won't be dusting off my own gravy boat, either. I'm doing the only thing that I feel like doing under the circumstances. I'm going to ignore Thanksgiving and shun its accourtements like bubonic-carrying fleas on a Macy's Department Store basement rat. No mixed nuts, pumpkin pie or leftover turkey in a Tupperware bowl for this gal. No witty repartee over pre-dinner cocktails whilst trying to pretend that I really am glad that accepted the invitation, after all, and am, despite my previous misgivings, actually grateful for the chance to forget my sorrows for a few hours before going home and resuming my close relationship with them. Nope. Next week, I will be eschewing the classic eats and turning my back on the trappings of a holiday that seems to have been tailor made to torture people like me. Patti Smith sang it best, in her dark hymn to alienation: "Jesus died for your sins, but he didn't die for mine." I don't know about Jesus and my sins, but Smith was definitely on to something. To paraphrase: Tom Turkey died to feed your family, but that basted bastard didn't die for me. Not this time anyway.
    And now, in an effort to show that I'm not a complete sad sack with a chip on my shoulder the size of one of those hideous inflatable pilgrims that have been decorating lawns for the past several weeks, I offer the following random images for your perusal, enjoyment and possible edification.

Cry me a river....again.


She was very funny. (I think.) And dead now, too.

John Taylor of Duran Duran. That is one very lucky bass guitar.


Mermaids are very distracting, one must admit.

What's better than a Butterball? Greta
in the long haul. His loss.


Jimi Hendrix. Always appropriate. The wind cries Mary still.

Our eerie-eyed blog mascot from "Wisconsin Death Trip." We take her everywhere.

Sister Sarah from Nuns With Big Guns. Best acted nunsexplotation film ever.
This is no nude bimbo with a bad habit and a Saturday Night Special. It's
Sister Theresa meets Rambo in a cult classic fandango.

Forgotten Minor Celebrities: Totie Fields

2011-11-09T00:46:00.001-08:00

If you're under 45, you've probably never heard of her. If you're over 45, you may have heard of her, but have somehow confused her with actress Kim Fields who played a character named Tootie on the 80's sitcom "Facts Of Life." But some of us still remember Totie Fields as a frequent guest on the 1960's and 70's television talk show circuit. Born "Sophie Feldman:" in Hartford Connecticut in 1930, Fields was a comedienne and singer in the old school variety tradition who got her big break when Ed Sullivan caught her act at the Copacabana (shout out to Barry Manilow!) in New York and booked her on his really big shew. The rest is minor celebrity history. Sadly, in the late 70s, Fields' health began to fail, starting with a blood clot that eventually led to the amputation of her left leg, which was followed by two heart attacks and the removal of her right breast after she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1977. A year later, Fields was voted "Female Comedy Star of the Year" by the American Guild of Variety Artists and was poised to begin an engagement at the Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas when she suffered a fatal pulmonary embolism at her home. Fields was 48. Her ashes are still in Las Vegas. Sadly, the Sahara closed in March of this year. To see Fields in action (and in a really strange dress) hit this.

Mannequins Make Life Hell

2011-11-03T13:51:00.000-07:00

That's right, strangelust succubi and wanton wastrels. It's the first Friday of what looks to be a long, overwhelming month, which means that it's time once again for another post on that most horrifying of man-made creations---the mannequin. As horrified as we are by mannequins and all that they represent (which we can't even begin to articulate this late on a Friday afternoon without some sort of fortifying addition to our bloodstream), our "creepy mannequin" posts seem to be our most popular. Call us an attention whore, but we like having readers. So, grab a stiff drink, swallow hard and long, and take a gander at the godawful images we've found of mannequins from all over the world. (Oh, yeah, they're freaking everywhere. It's a plague.)

The theme here seems to be "scary mannequin." As though the adjective is necessary!

Too real, too real, too real. Next picture, please.

Arty concept or toilet humor? The real question is, why must they exist at all? Mannequins, that is. We are cool with the toilet

If God had wanted mankind to make plastic likenesses of people and stick them on pedestals in stores, we would have been given the ability to make them somehow look less creepy. But since that isn't the case, apparently, why not just switch to artistic shelves or clothes holders or something? They would never come to life at night.

No, no, no. Ever. Jeez....

Wide mouthed mannequins are waaaay too prevalent. Is it an inside joke? A conspiracy? All we know is that we hate this mannequin..

What's Mr. Roger doing here? What do you think? We get scared uploading these photos of mannequins in our dark flat at all hours of the night with no one around to say comforting things to us. We just sort of needed Mr. Rogers to help us regain our sense of equilibrium. And now that we are once again certain that we are special just the way we are and that even if a mannequin did come to life, it could never get past the self-defense moves of Daniel Striped Tiger... We just want to say that we hope you enjoyed this latest unsettling traispse down Mannequin Lane, and rest assured there will be more opportunities to revisit this hideous section of that crazy, always-a-blue-light-special, vlean-up-in-aisle-three, express lane closed department store we call LIFE. xoxoxxo

Wonderous Woes and Strange Sorrows: The Tragic Truth Behind Wisconsin Death Trip

2011-10-24T08:48:00.000-07:00

The first time I saw a copy of Wisconsin Death Trip was about a decade ago, during one of what seemed to be an endless succession of visits to Marshfield, Massachusetts during that particular time in my life. The friend with whom I was staying prevailed upon me to accompany her to a "get together" at the house of a man known for his New Age sensibilities and gracious manner.
"You'll love him," she told me as we drove toward the neighboring town of Norville, where Mr. Sensitive lived with his Lhasa Apso and an extensive crystal collection. "He's a truly gifted person with the most amazing energy. I know he'll make you feel right at home." Translation: I was about to sacrifice a couple hours of my life sucking down white wine, listening to the local New Age crowd discuss meditation techniques and then, if I was lucky, I might be able to convince my friend to stop at a bar for a real drink on the way back to Marshfield, The late 90's were a difficult time for me. My trips to Marshfield were an escape from some of the more uncomfortable aspects of that time period. My friend's attempts to indoctrinate me into her The 1890s were not a good time for Black River Falls, Wisconsin. Like much of the rest of the country, the residents of the small, remote Wisconsin town were suffering through an economic depression every bit as devastating as the so-called "Great Depression" of the 1930s. And like many other Americans during that last decade of the 19th century, the men and women of the small rural community experienced the effects of the nation's economic hardships on a personal level that was sometimes overwhelming, if not altogether ruinous. In the course of that one decade, the city of Black River Falls was host to the dissolution of a mining operation which served as its primary money-making enterprise, a crazed gunman who held 26 people hostage in a local church on what he claimed were God's orders, a rampant epidemic of diphtheria, a succession of unusually gruesome suicides, the murder of a farmer at the hands of two children, a number of unexplained deaths, a breathtakingly high rate of infant mortality, and regular bouts of window smashing at the hands of a middle-aged woman who claimed that she always took a dose of cocaine afterwards to settle her nerves.
That's a hell of a lot of tragedy for one little town to bear, you're probably thinking. Which is exactly what journalism student Michael Lesy was thinking when, in the early 70's, he happened to come into possession of a stack of old photographs documenting the horrible events visited upon the unfortunate citizens of Black River Falls nearly 80 years before. The photographs were the work of Charles van Shaint, the official photographer for Jackson County, Wisconsin, who, it would seem
spent an inordinate amount of time photographing the residents of the strange little burg, pointing his camera lens at everything from deceased infants to murderous siblings with paper bags over their heads trying to outrun lawmen on horseback.

Lesy's fascination with van Shaint's photographs prompted him to delve deeper into the stories behind the pictures, most of which were documented in contemporary news accounts. Lesy utilized excerpts from those accounts to provide the narrative of the book he went on to write. Wisconsin Death Trip hit the book stands in 1973, its title inspired by hippie vernacular in which the word "trip" is used to refer to a personal experience as well as to an actual, physical journey. Lesy's "death trip", with its stark, unfiltered newsprint and morbid, unsettling, sometimes surreal imagery, quickly became a cult classic. But it wasn't until 1999 that someone undertook the daunting task of trying to turn the strange little work into a feature film. In March of that year, Warner Brothers released a film version of Wisconsin Death Trip, directed by James Marsh (Man on Wire, The King) to mixed reviews. Like the book, Marsh's film draws heavily on the original photographs, recreating some of the events depicted in them and attempting to link them to modern day Black River Falls. The result is a film that one critic have called "disturbing, but empty", a sentiment that seems to be the prevailing one among critics and fans of the book. But of course, some books are harder to transpose into film than others, and a book like Wisconsin Death Trip, with its formless narrative and morbid imagery, is more elusive than most. Still, if nothing else, Marsh's film has turned a murky spotlight on Lesy's work and brought it to the attention of a new generation of fans.