Is it just me, or does the frenetic ebay selling off and buying up of “beauty-queen” artifacts from the closet of dead-six-year-old JonBenet Ramsey seem really really creepy? And how about the confessed-murderer’s (”it was an accident!”) use of his arrest in Thailand to create photo-op’s for himself, replete with his oh-so-studied, this-is-what-pedophile-killer-celebrities-look-like poses, splashed on the pages of every American rag, from The New York Times to People Magazine. Such a “story” seems much more interesting, I guess, than, say, the lethal effects of cluster-bombing on children. Anyway! For an entertaining and hilariously REAL treatment of the sexualization of little girls (and their adult “fans”), check out the new film “Little Miss Sunshine,” my make-em-laugh pick for your end of summer viewing pleasure. It’s “good,” in both funny-ha-ha and funny-weird ways.
You must be logged in to post a comment.
August 26, 2006 at 7:01 pm
Susan, I’m home on a Saturday afternoon due to an oil-based disaster: Been given a home permanent that’s gone horribly awry — bear an eerie semblance to “Annie” from the Broadway production and let me tell you… this time the sun may not come out tomorrow. Thought I’d jot down a few musings on OIL before I shoot myself. FUCK OIL (or would that simply mean using a latex-based condom?) Later….Debra
Dipshits and Diphthongs:
“Candy is dandy”
“Liquor is quicker.” And ain’t that all very sweet and neat.
But Oil is toil, baby –
Toil and blood, power and water, pumpin’ and bumpin’
Ain’t no one pure and ain’t nothing simple about it.
But Oooh, Oooh, Oooil.
How I do love the way that word makes the cheeks dance,
Sucking in some parts, puffing out others, tickling the palate.
Yes indeedy, I’ll take Falling Diphthongs for 200, Alex.
And the Dipshits keep pointing at the ground,
Chanting to our young: “Go Fetch and Die!”
Can you hear them? Right here, right now.
We all be falling for this diphthong, baby.
Believe you me, we all be surely falling.
August 27, 2006 at 6:34 pm
Dear Debra: So sorry to hear about yet ANOTHER oil disaster, especially if it kept you home on a Saturday night! But viewing your incident from the (plastic) glass (of oil-slicked dish-soaped) half-full slant o’ light (electric, of course) brite-side: At least you weren’t out drinking (something jet-fueled, imported and boutique-y, natch), only to be caught up in the (oil-spun) nets of L.A.’s Finest’s drunk-driving blockade! — oh, to be young again; oh, to have enough oil for celebrity-worthy plastic surgery and professional hair treatments! Sigh. Pause. Segway. Nice poetic effort, Debra! I particularly enjoyed singing your lyrics to the tune of “Oil Makes The World Go Around”! xoilx Susan