The myth of fingerprince

A short state of the union, mostly about things eaten and seen recently:

I made risotto for breakfast at like 5:30 this morning, but I don't really know how to make risotto since I've never made it before. But now I know that undercooked risotto tastes almost exactly like undercooked popcorn. Like I needed another reason to think the gourmet industry is a sham. I did eat my first truffle last week. But I couldn't taste it. Plus, I consistently find that colby cheese is the most underrated of all cheeses.

I watched the entire first season of Dexter in a straight shot the other day. It's only about ten hours, so it could have been worse, as far as pathetic ways to spend a day go. Could have been, if there weren't two football games on afterwards. But that's not the point. It's a pretty good show. On the one hand, Michael C. Hall, who plays David on Six Feet Under, is so much more doable with his hair done all disheveled that it's crazy.

<- Less doable

<- More doable

Plus, check out his triceps. They're amazing. On the other hand, the show's big mid-season plot twist is so predictable it's even crazier, and the end-of-season twist of the knife that they try to tack on is, if it's possible, even more predictable. But that doesn't really mean it's bad, because what's fun about the show is how doable Michael C. Hall is in it, and, more especially, how much I want Dexter's sister to make me feel like an idiot.

One of the cooler things about the show, in terms of my response to it, was my relationship, as a viewer, with said sister. She's written as this foul-mouthed romantic, and they cast this nine foot tall amazon athlete woman with seemingly no sense of shame to play her. Needless to say, I fell in love with her in pretty much her first scene onscreen. But what's cool is, a quarter of the way through the season she turns into the demonic diva harpy. But then, just like always happens, it turns she's wounded and vulnerable and she needs help, and she can't quite get enough of it and that damages her even more, but when anybody tries to help her, the that just ends up damaging her even more – effectively creating a microcosm for every relationship I've ever had. Pretty cool. Then, in the second to last episode, you get to hear her voicemail prompt, and it's “It's Deb. Do it.” And they play it a few times during high-drama, high-tension scenes, and it made me laugh every time.

I watched Hard Candy last week at five in the morning, by myself, with nobody else. Best poster ever?

Ellen Page, in this movie, reminds me of an ex of mine, mostly by merit of this particular look she has – she'll stare somebody down like he's a fucking idiot, but at the same time like she's completely enchanted. It's irritatingly endearing, and I was continually making the connection, because there are just these intertwined airs of gravitas and flippancy that pop up and run parallel over and over, and it's just a very familiar sort of thing. But then, the movie gets to this – and this is a minor spoiler for the movie, so if you want to see Hard Candy fresh, and I recommend it, I guess don't read this? – this half-hour long castration sequence where Ellen Page ties Patrick Wilson to a table and taunts him while she cuts off his junk. Seriously, like a half-hour. And it was just harrowing to watch. It would have been harrowing anyway, but I had all this extra Freud baggage to go with it. A chunk into it, I had to take a break because it was too taxing to watch. So I went down to the laundry room in my building, where there's a pop machine, and bought a Pepsi. And then, on my way back to the elevator, I accidentally sneaked up behind a maintenance guy in a Fat Albert parka and scared the shit out of him. It was kind of wonderful.

I wrote two of the worst papers imaginable after I got back comments for my first one that threw around the P word (rhymes with "mublishable"). Also: I think I hate grad school.

My brain doesn't understand the fact that Heath Ledger is dead, and I understand now that my love-hate thing with him is the biggest compliment I could've paid him. I do wish I could have paid him a bigger one.

Be well, friends.