First up: Irish drinking songs gone American Idol-ified!
Oh, crap. I quite enjoy this. It may be beyond polished, it may be painfully cheesy but the lyrics are so clear–perfect for people who like to memorize–and look how much everyone’s enjoying themselves! An audience of multigenerational lassies smothered in a glow of green fawning afore technically impressive folksong enthusiasts in their prime! It’s so convivial, however commercial! But to paraphrase A.O. Scott’s review of About A Boy, I succumb to the warmth and bonhomie as the alternative is to wallow in not-as-good renditions by… wait, Luke Kelly’s version is really good, too. I love the Rocky Road to Dublin, but not rocky roads, nor Dublin, terribly.
Following fast on the heels of the Hibernians, I present a fretful sampling of my most favorite lady rappers. No other lustful 90s triad was as weird, aggressive, friendly, imperfect, gender-bending, natural and awesome as Salt N Pepa. No other unit of ladies barring the unit of me and my imaginary cadre of Amazon defenders moves me quite like they.
In the third place, a representative movie trailer.
I LOVE TRAILERS SO MUCH. TASTE TRUMPS MATURE TYPING STANDARDS WHERE MY LOVE IS INVOLVED. My friend Sarah says trailers are a “lie.” It’s true that some trailers are much better than their realized wholes, but I don’t agree. I treat them, I guess, as separate entities. I like some movies. I like some trailers. I like long stories and I like the short, tighly-wound, knuckle-clenched emotional punch(!) of a good trailer. Conclusion: I love trailers and am not afraid of treacly cheese, overwrought emotions and recycled movie music if it serves a greater (ripping my heart out/patching it up) purpose. Visual/aural outlets need no tasteful restraint. If trailers were people, I’d be a more tolerant person.
Fourth and further down, I offer you a video I can’t embed, a video I can’t but describe below.
Ah, Mysterious Skin. Not to condescend, but I can’t think of another descriptor, so I’ll just go ahead and call fan videos like this total (efficacious, and appreciated!) catharsis porn with their pathos-provoking helpless babes, incensing movie music and anger-dispelling eroticism wrought by indignation, pity and angry, desperate desires for righting action… at least that’s my reaction. This video has an effect on me similar to that of a Holocaust documentary, specifically The Last Days. (But not the one about Kurt Cobain.) It additionally has the effect of swelling my motherly devotion towards my nimble cat, who–as I write these solemn words–reclines on her back with her head propped up on the inside of my calf which, in turn, has the snowballing effect of bolstering the extra empathy engendered by this fan video towards the young, mute and needing of succour, just as I–meta-self, am in need of mine own. I’m not sure if that’s a proper sentence. However, Joseph Gordon-Levitt reminds me of my brother.
Fifthly and finally, Angels in America, again and evermore.
I don’t know why Tony Kushner doesn’t respond to my letters.