peevish mama

If it involves Richard Linklater, I’m in. He is absolutely the director of our generation. Slackers was the first movie I saw in those turbulent post-college years that truly represented the ramblings – physical, metaphorical and verbal – that my friends and I were on. And Dazed and Confused remains one of my favorite movies to this day. Brilliant, funny, cruel, honest and such a slice. I love it. So much.

Many of us are watching our boys morph from little boys into teens, in that shuffling, mumbling and heartbreaking way that remains utterly mysterious to us mothers. I know what it feels like to be a teen girl, with the big feelings and the torrents of tears and laughter. Too many thoughts, too many emotions and too many words. But what does it feel like to become a man, when you mostly choose to keep it on the inside, letting us see only glimpses of the joy and angst that play catch with your growing heart?

This movie was filmed over 12 years with the same boy. What a labor of love. I am so there.

This commercial had my family HOWLING last night. We  had to rewind back and watch it a few times and it just doesn’t get old.

And for mothers of sons? All I can say is: touché.

Wasn’t I just talking about Wes Anderson last weekend? I swear, I was. Gushing, yes, a bit, perhaps.  Probably a shade defensive about the fact that I fall, unabashedly, hook line sinker and anything else he cares to put on the screen for his “hipster aesthetic.” I know it’s a thing, I know it’s supposed to appeal to people like me and you know what? It DOES. It so very much does. I love and adore everything he has done – Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The Darjeeling Limited and Fantastic Mr. Fox. Funny, sad, odd, and atmospheric, his movies are just a feast to me. They are all so beautiful, with such a distinctive visual feel, and yet they manage to take such a tender view of their flawed heroes and heroines. This one looks to be on par. I simply CANNOT wait.

Oh, my. It has been a great while since I’ve felt this swept away by a film, by a book. Saint James, Supergirl and I had all read it prior to settling into our seats, so we were absolutely brimming with anticipation of what was to come. The book, a clever combination of drawings and writing, is fabulous. It has all the elements of a gripping story: a loss, a puzzle, a quest, a love. It is a perfect story, presented with tenderness and a generous allowance for sadness. The movie, by Martin Scorsese, not only does this book justice, I’d argue it tucks it onto a pair of wings and makes it soar. Twinkly 1930’s Paris, with these characters is exactly where you want to escape to this time of year for a couple hours, so do it. With kids or without, having read the book or not, this movie is magic. Go see it. Alors, vite!

I’ve got a thing for knives. I love and require a good, sharp knife in order to be happy in the kitchen. I often travel with a knife if I’m going to a rented cabin or home. Supergirl got mad at me once because she found a paring knife in her backpack – I had brought it along to cut an apple at a soccer game and forgot about it. Ya, I know. Not good. In addition to knives, I like things that are handmade, I like writers, I like people who talk about their art, I like the communities that spring up out of unlikely common interests, I like people who lead an examined life and all of that is wrapped up in this very cool short film about Brooklyn knife-maker, Joel Bukiewicz, of Cut Brooklyn. You need a few minutes to watch this, but it’s very inspiring and makes me feel hopeful.

Boy, am I ever excited to see this documentary by Cameron Crowe. It looks so gooooood. I can’t help but think of my friend, Saucilicious who loves and adores Eddie Vedder – always has, always will. Wish we could watch it together with a couple bottles of wine, but she’s in Pennsylvania. Instead I’ll watch with Dash and I’m thinking Saint James too. The boy goes completely still and hyper-focused whenever we catch any concerts or music documentaries on TV. These days I’m all about people who turn their loves into their lives. Both Vedder and Crowe seem to have managed to do that and it’s completely inspiring.

There’s a Richard Linklater film series at the Walker and I plan to catch as many as I can. Dazed and Confused is possibly one of my favorite movies ever. It’s a stoner coming-of-age story, but ever so much more. By turns dark and hilarious, it manages to tell the story of a group of Texas teens with a light hand but huge insight, even affection. Not much happens, it’s sort of a day-in-the-life, but man, are you ever taken there – sitting on the warm hood of a car, shooting the shit with your buds. And Matthew McConaughy is brilliant as the affable, slightly post-peak BMOC. I just love it. Dash and I saw it in a crowded little theater in Boston, a place where it wasn’t out of the question to see a mouse scurrying for cover as you found your seat. More than any other director, Linklater felt like one of us, making movies about us. Like our lives at that point, his movies are short on action and long on conversation and ideas. I swear that I spent most of my early twenties just walking and talking. Nothing about that period of time is as vivid as the rambling. We were young, we needed to be moving, but there was so much to talk about. So we did both. I’m curious to see whether I’ll still find these movies compelling, now that I’m old-ish. I’ll soon find out. I’m suddenly in the mood for a good ramble, though.

Incidentally, if you have elementary school age kids and haven’t watched School of Rock with them, do it pronto. A more recent Linklater movie, it could have been stick-your-finger-down-your-throat saccharine, but it’s quite the opposite. It’s hysterical and uplifting and sorry, but Jack Black can sort of do no wrong in my book. So good.

I’m excited to see this documentary. As an experiment, people were asked to submit video footage from their day on July 24, 2010. 4,500 hours of footage in 80,000 submissions from 140 nations was received. That art or truth can be distilled from that much youtube-ness, is an interesting premise. I’m a sucker for this kind of thing and I can already tell it’s going to make me all teary and goosebumpy.

On Wednesday night Doctor Dash and I got a sitter and went on a bike date. We rarely go to movies anymore, especially in the summer, but I had a bee in my bonnet about seeing Buck and so we did. I love documentaries and I love horses, so it was kind of a no brainer for me, but you don’t have to be a horse person to love this movie. Buck Brannaman has a heartrending backstory (which I won’t share here because you’re going to go see this movie) but manages to turn himself into a good man with an uncanny ability to see into the hearts of others. His easy, even, deft touch with horses becomes a metaphor for how we should deal with not only animals, but spouses, children, strangers. Buck comes from a place of kindness and non-judgement and that is the key: to teach, to heal, to love – you have to have an open heart. The movie is beautifully filmed and edited – just a joy to watch. And it ends with this Pearl Jam song that never fails to chills up my spine: Just Breathe.

I just may swoon.

Paul Newman is so gorgeous that it took me minutes to register the denim jumpsuit. And, I must say, he is owning it.  He is annihilating that denim jumpsuit. I think I need some smelling salts. And Clint. Good lord, Clint, who was already so awesome at this point and yet, AND YET, had 99% of his awesomeness ahead of him. Check out this tumblr of Awesome People Hanging Out Together. There are so many gems. SO MANY GEMS! Like this –

So fabulous. Oh, and this!

Damn. Just go look. Quick!

And here’s my own personal contribution to Awesome People Hanging Out Together in honor of Maestro de Bife’s birthday today! Maestro de Bife and Devil Baby April 30, 2011, Naples, FLSaint James, Supergirl, Doctor Dash and Maestro de Bife, April 28, 2011, Bonita Springs, FL

Happy Birthday little bro! xoxo

Red Vogue is an amazing photographer and lately she’s been trying her hand at video (although the word video seems too banal for what she does). They really are moving photographs and to me they possess the same quiet, authentic, purity of her still photos. This video of Supergirl is such a snapshot in time – it captures her right now, age eight, suspended between being a little girl and a big girl. Actually, who am I kidding? She’s a big girl. You can see it in her eyes, her self-conscious laugh – she is no longer a naive baby, no longer an open book. She’s a girl – with all the complex feelings and  self-awareness that entails. Supergirl is as open a person as you’ll ever meet, yet in this, I see her safeguarding a little piece of herself. I guess this is what we do as we mature. We gain dimension. We develop an inner life, which, I suppose, by definition, makes us less visible, or rather, less readable to others. Sniff. It squeezes my heart. Oh, how it does.

Devious Knickers turned me onto this project by Argentine photographer, Irina Werning. She ferrets out old pics and gets the subjects to reenact them. Her ability to bring the same light and texture to these photos is uncanny. Not to mention the outfits! What a trip.

Last night Doctor Dash got home from work and the following conversation ensued:

DD: Saw your present!

Me: Oh ya! Do you like it?

DD: Well, is it printed on a thong or something?

Not only is that totally funny to me, I think it’s a fabulous idea. Oh Darling, Let’s Be Adventurers! Hilarious.

Dash and I had a special Valentine’s din with our sweetie-pie brood. I made sure to stick to the big faves: rib eye steak with red chimichurri sauce, Caesar salad, potatoes roasted in olive oil and sea salt, a crispy baguette and brownies. That dinner, simply, is my way of saying to my family: I love you. I love to feed you. I want you to chow until your little bellies are distended. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.

Tonight is part two of our Valentine celebration (because why not milk it?) and the dashing Dash and I have gotten a sitter so we can go see the Illusionist and then (fingers crossed) grab a couple of seats at the bar at La Grassa for a late night bite. I’m really excited for this movie – it’s by Sylvain Chomet, the same guy who did The Triplets of Belleville which completely enchanted both us back in the day. Here’s to long, drawn-out and delicious Valentines plans.

Sometimes I walk around carrying something in my mind, turning it over for days like a smooth rock in my palm, before taking one last look and putting it down somewhere safe. Then I stumble upon something else that makes me think of that first stone and I rush to pick it up again. Holding one in each hand, I see things I didn’t see before and as if by magic, the connection becomes clear: Why they struck my fancy to begin with. Why, among the reams of sounds, sights, and ideas that pass through my sieve of a brain without sticking, these were worth holding on to.

Here are some cool things I’ve stumbled upon in the recent weeks that seemingly had no connection up until the point when their connection was utterly undeniable. For lack of a better term, these all involve the “mash up.” Worlds, aesthetics, genres, technologies and moments in time colliding to create something new, and for me, irresistible.

Peevish Mama loves herself some cross-pollination.

The Bronx is a hard core punk band out of L.A. who just put out a mariachi album. For real and legit and totally catchy.

Art, architecture and technology = large scale mesmerization. Is that even a word?

This line of fabrics and wallpapers by a Scottish design firm called Timorous Beasties, is sick, subversive and sublime. The name alone is something I want to wallow in. I especially love the toile, which at first glance looks like the bucolic vistas stamped across tablecloths and throw pillows in the most proper of homes, but upon closer inspection reveal some serious heavy, sad, violent urban decay. Crack addicts, prostitutes and blighted landscapes on toile! So cool.

Men’s fashion meets ganstah swagger for the most clever thing I’ve read in ages. This tumblr feed called Fuck Yeah Menswear is seriously my newest favorite discovery and quite possibly my first web crush. Who are you FYM? I am intrigued, to say the least. Here’s just one of many brilliant examples:

You think I give a fuck about chambray?

Just make sure you bring my critters, bitch.

Tryna get WASPY.

Lilly P belts with the guns still tucked in them.

Volvo station wagons with boarding school girls still getting smashed in them.

Prepset.

Prepset.

Prepset.

Fuck with me real quick.

Turning out VIP with my squad.

Rugby’d out.

Wrist on bling.

Making herbs Kiel over.

Left and right.

Bow ties.

Bow ties.

Bow ties.

They can load up if they want.

Aim atcha boy.

Take shots at the throne.

But these workwear goons should know.

I never leave the cape without protection.

Patchwork Kevlar.

Unabashedly Teflon.

Cardigans.

Cardigans.

Cardigans.

Got my hater blockers on too.

Warby Parkies.

Clear lenses on smash.

Always watchin’ that money.

New or old.

I don’t give a fuck.

As long as I stay stacking cheddar.

Boat shoes.

Boat shoes.

Boat shoes.

Go to hell pants hand sewn by demons.

The same beasts.

Who haunt you.

When you flip through the pages.

Of that one Free & Easy.

Your cousin got you.

Because he lives near a Japanese bookstore.

The same beasts.

Frankie exorcised in ‘08.

When he took over The Crew.

Vampire Weekend.

Vampire Weekend.

Vampire Weekend.

Me and my clique.

Leavin’ chalk outlines.

Outside of the Pop Up Flea.

Peep these rugged clowns.

They soft.

They shook.

They leaking.

They sleeping.

Forget The Bloods, son.

You got bigger problems.

We bleeding madras up in this motherfucker.

Often, when I walk around my beloved Lake Harriet, I think of the Wim Wenders movie, Wings of Desire. Ah, ring a bell? If you were like me, you would have shuffled into an art house or slipped in a VHS tape circa 1991, when movies were films and you had time and emotion to burn. Maybe you held your boyfriend’s hand, shifting elbows and fingers to find the clasp that felt like two puzzle pieces locked in place. You would have been blown away by this beautiful dark German film and then talked about it, earnest and teary, hunched over beers in a loud bar, feeling separate, special and immune for the emotional and artistic journey you had just taken. It would have underscored what a compelling medium cinema could be, how challenging and gorgeous and smart, in the right hands, with the right story – almost better than books and music. For a few years anyway. Until you got over yourself, ditched the metaphorical beret and really got down to the business of living for someone other than yourself. Movies were a way to try on other lives, try on other truths, all so very important to a young woman trying to figure herself out. Wings of Desire was about an angel who was weary. As he walked around the sooty gray urban landscape, he could hear people’s thoughts. The words, sounding like papery whispers, would flood him and the burden of so many voices, so many worries and desires, was taking its toll on the angel.

This has always stayed with me. It’s easy to forget that each and every person we pass has their own internal monologues running through their heads. They have private thoughts and preoccupations that are given body and pulled into long swirling strands by words, silent words. When I circle the lake, I’m usually by myself and my mind is on fire. I daydream, I analyze, I remember, I imagine, I plan, I brainstorm, I wonder, I decide, I vow, I fret, I exhalt. I take epic journeys forward and back in time. I think about the angel’s burden, the burden of being privy to all of this and I wonder: the woman walking with her head bent slightly to the left, what is she thinking? What if we could hear each other’s thoughts?

Yesterday I stumbled on this tree of wishes at the lake and I was captivated. Flicking gently in the wind are all those voices I wonder about. I stopped and read a few, and then a few more, and then a few more. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know who started it, but people are responding. They are responding with whimsy, with pain, with pleading, with wide-eyed hope, with pragmatism, with honesty. As I read, I could hear the whispers: I wish my mother would stop fighting with my brother. I wish for a clean bill of health at my next check up. I wish for a dog. I wish for equal rights for all regardless of race or sexual orientation. I wish for world peace. I wish for lots of snow this winter. I wish K would propose to me. I wish for our cancer journey to be short and our outcome to be a miracle. I wish for my baby to be healthy. I wish for a happy marriage and lots of babies. I wish for more lake friends. I wish that I get divorced and have my kids 90 % of the time. I wish for love, happiness, success and confidence for my child. I wish my knees would stop hurting. I wish. I wish. I wish.

In case you’re wondering, she wishes for dolphins to swim in the lake.

And me? Well, only the tree and the air and anyone listening to the whispers can know.