Confessions of a Leftist Elitist, Part MCVIII

Next time I get my hair cut, I'm going to ask my stylist, "Do they teach you how to cut hair for developmentally challenged girls who can, at best, comb their hair in various directions after they wash it? Because if they did, give me that."

I have had, like, thirty years to learn how to work a hair dryer and I still cannot seem to wield one in a way that makes my hair look better after I use it than before. Part of the problem is my hair, which is full of cowlicks and half-full of curls. It won't do curly well, and it won't for the life of me do straight. However, most of the problem may be my impatience. Even though my hair is so fine it can dry before I get the hair dryer plugged in, I often lose interest before I get halfway done.

Last week, I scrunched some mousse in my hair, got sidetracked by something shiny, didn't even so much as comb it before I picked out my outfit, slathered on my half-bottle of lotion, got dressed, and picked up my towel and dog-walking clothes before remembering my hair was as I left it, crumpled like a bad essay on the Peloponnesian War. I tried to save it, but it was too late. I went through the rest of the day like that. The sad part was, it was so close to my usual hair disaster that nobody said, "What the hell is that on your head?"

This morning, I was tippy-toeing around in the bathroom, trying not to wake up The Captain, asleep after a long night at the fire station, wondering whether to attempt hair dryer success today after the 10,950th failures that came before. Then I laughed and walked out.

The Best Worst Movie You Missed In 1988

So Jason Schwartzman was on Fresh Air this week and he mentioned sitting at home as a kid watching his cousin, Nicholas Cage, in Vampire's Kiss. He was so blown away that he watched it over and over again until he could do all Cage's scenes.

I was intrigued. Drew and I don't have a "Song" like other couples do, but we have a Movie. Well, a couple of movies. Neither of them are what you would call, you know, good, but they are, for reasons shrouded in history, ours.

One is Valley Girl.  Nick Cage's performance in what could have been a forgettable confection based on an even more confectionary pop song is a tour de force of scenery chewing above and beyond the call of duty or logic. It's thrilling to watch the budding crazy.

Since Valley Girl, he has shown some signs of the old wild-eyed hammery (Moonstruck, Wild at Heart, Con Air), but after that 1983 break-out performance, he seemed to reel in the crazy and just give the audience enough goofiness to remind them how much they enjoyed a glazed ham.

But all this time, there was this...THING that he did after Moonstruck and before Wild at Heart, where he let his freak flag fly at the tippy top of the mast.

If you are at all interested in seeing Nicholas Cage shrieking the entire alphabet at his psychologist, this is the film for you.  If you are at all curious at how Cage could get the most out of the line, "Am I getting THROUGH TO YOU, ALVA?" and if you just want to hear Cage speak in the silliest foppily psuedo-English put-on delivery (except when the character "forgets" to put it on), then Dude. You need to experience Vampire's Kiss. It's all there.

What's it all about? In spite of the title, there are no real vampires in the movie.  Cage's character, with the help of a few coincidences and a lot of crazy, convinces himself he's a vampire and the illest of illnesses ensues.

It's on Netflix instant view. I highly recommend it if you have a couple of hours and maybe a bottle of wine to kill.  If not, try the ten-minute YouTube greatest hits version.

You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Backsliding

I was doing great on my secret diet. Hunger didn't bother me. Salads were my friend. I was losing two pounds a week for three weeks straight.

Then hormones struck and I gained three pounds overnight.

My diet mojo was lost.

That was a week ago.

All I have to say is that Monday better watch its back. Because Monday, the Double Secret Fat Killer Diet is back on.

You might remark that it is Friday, and I could get quite a leg up on Monday if I just started back on the DSFKD right now.

You might want to shut the fuck up.

In Which I Wish I Were There

Dean is in LA, competing at the USA Cycling Elite Track National Championships.

Every year, Dean goes down, freaks mostly out, pulls out a win in the team sprint on the last day, and everyone moves on to training for next year.

Every year that I travel down to watch, I freak totally out, try to tamp down my Gordian-knotted stomach with whatever Valium or Xanax I can scrounge, feel worse for it, and vow to stay home next year for the sake of us all.

The last two years, I have taken my own advice and have stayed away. It helps me cope and it allows Dean to relax and concentrate on his job.

Somehow, my stomach did not get the memo and is acting up regardless of the 962 miles between it and LA.

Despite my stomach's whining, I am still missing seeing Dean with his inscrutable game face wheel his bike onto the track, get in position, give a last minute tug to his toe clips, and then play some genetically modified hybrid of pro wrestling and drag racing.

Tonight, he has escaped disaster again by making it into the match sprint finals, but he was matched with one of the fastest in the business for the next round.

Damn. Wish I were there. I'm sure my stomach wouldn't sustain permanent damage.

Next year for sure. Maybe.