In case you forgot: our current batch of Congressional Republicans shut down the U.S. government for more than two weeks at the start of October 2013, causing hundreds of thousands to temporarily lose their jobs and costing the economy (24) billions of dollars. Remember that when you’re voting Tuesday.
Perhaps with the 10th anniversary of the “classic” movie Love Actually upon us, you’ve seen some of the variety of cons and pros and cons about the movie and other general articles about its applicability. And what it’s all about.
But last week i discovered this one on jezebel.com, and I just had to share:
I Rewatched Love Actually and Am Here to Ruin It for All of You by Lindy West
It is priceless, and you should read it — but I also wanted to share it with those who haven’t seen the movie or don’t want to read the full thing. So below, check out some of the awesome amazing quotes that work just as well even if you’ve never seen the movie and (until the end) are completely lacking name/relevant plot points and spoilers. Enjoy!
[AAA] falls in “love” with [BBB] at first sight, establishing Love Actually‘s central moral lesson: The less a woman talks, the more lovable she is.
None of the women in this movie fucking talk. All of the men in this movie “win” a woman at the end. This goddamn movie.
[XXX] falls instantly in love with [YYY], which is understandable, because she hasn’t yet exceeded her Love Actually attractiveness word quota. (Twenty-seven. The quota is 27 words before you become Emma Thompson and must be destroyed.)
LOVE ACTUALLY SEES NO PROBLEM WITH TREATING ITS FEMALE CHARACTERS LIKE GIANT BIPEDAL VAGINAS IN SWEATER VESTS.
This is a movie made for women by a man.
To be perfectly honest, Liam Neeson is really acting the hell out of this movie.
…but she doesn’t know he exists. Probably because he’s been hanging out with the men of Love Actually too much, so he just sits around being a self-pitying douche instead of FUCKING TALKING TO HER LIKE A HUMAN BEING.
Hey, idea: Could someone respect a woman for one second in this fucking movie? Or could we at least confine the misogyny to women who are actual characters in the film?
This entire movie is just straight white men acting upon women they think they “deserve.” This entire movie is just men doing things.
IT NEVER FUCKING MATTERS WHAT WOMEN SAY. THEY LITERALLY JUST TOOK A LINE AWAY FROM A WOMAN AND REPLACED IT WITH A NONSENSE SYLLABLE. SHE COULD HAVE ACTUALLY SAID SOMETHING AND INSTEAD SHE JUST GOES “MEEP MEEP” AND BILLY BOB THORNTON POPS A BONER.
Thanks, Love Actually. Thank you for telling a generation of men that their intrusiveness and obsessions are “romantic,” and that women are secretly flattered no matter what their body language says.
[XXX] decides he needs to fire [YYY] because she’s 2 tempting 2 believe. Then he has this Actual Conversation with his secretary:
Secretary: “The chubby girl?”
[XXX]: “Would we call her chubby?”
Secretary: “I think there’s a pretty sizable ass there, yes, sir. Huge thighs.”
Can we not refer to a woman who worked her way up to a job in the prime minister’s office as “the chubby girl”? Also, can we fire the entire government for sexual harassment?
[QQQ] is still totally stumped about the best way to force [RRR] to love him against her will. I mean, he’s tried everything. He tried staring at her, he tried never ever talking to her, he tried complaining
OH MY GOD, OR YOU COULD JUST GO TALK TO HER.
TALK TO HER.
TALK TO HER.
Love Actually puts a lot of stock in the idea that people are either good or bad. People either love or they don’t, reciprocate or they don’t. The grander the gesture, the greater the crime of not reciprocating. LOVE GOOD. NOT-LOVE BAD. It’s a pleasant fantasy, I think, because if you accept the difficult truth that people are more than just good or bad, then you have to question whether or not happiness really exists. Because if people are more complicated, then happiness must be more complicated, and at that point is it really happiness?
Oh, god, why am I bothering. Actually.
—(POSSIBLE) SPOILER ALERTS BELOW–THE REST OF THESE HAVE SOME SEMI-PLOT POINTS YOU MAY WANT TO AVOID IF YOU’VE YET TO SEE THE MOVE–OR MAYBE BY NOW YOU’VE DECIDED NOT TO IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY
So he abandons Christmas dinner with his loving family and flies back to France. The one expression of genuine love in this movie and [AAA] peaces-out to go hump a stranger.
He’s like, “I am here to ask your daughter for her hand in marriage,” and the dad is like, “Say what!?” because he thinks [AAA] means his other daughter, who is fat and gross, and that would obviously makes no sense, because women who are slightly larger than some other women deserve to be alone forever unless they’re the size-6 kind of fake fat like [YYY]. Then the dad offers to pay [AAA] to take fat daughter off his hands. [AAA] is like “Ew, no. I only want to purchase/marry HOT women I’ve never spoken to in my life.”
Once the truth gets sorted out, fat daughter says: “Father is about to sell [BBB] as a slave to this Englishman.”
FIRST SENSIBLE LINE ANYONE’S SAID FOR THIS ENTIRE MOVIE.
Oh, also [QQQ] has now chased [RRR] all the way to the airport, where he’s broken through security and is leading TSA agents on a “wacky” chase to the gate.
I feel like this scene would have been way less wacky if that was a brown kid instead of a white one.
When they get there, [BBB] looks horrified and is like, “What the fuck are you doing at my work!? I don’t even know you, dude! Get out of here! Oh my god, I’M TRYING TO RUN A RESTAURANT HERE. GO AWAY, YOU CREEPY ENGLISHMAN.”
No. Just kidding. She agrees to fucking marry the guy. Forever. Even though they have never spoken.
In a painfully fitting finale, [ZZZ] returns from America with the woman he got. He literally brings her back to England with him like a fucking airport souvenir. But don’t worry, [WWW], HE IMPORTED AN OBJECT WITH NO AGENCY FOR YOU TOO. HERE, PUT YOUR MOUTH ON IT.
That’s love, kids.
Oh, wait. Actually, it’s shit.
This is seriously too good to be true. Anyone in Chicago interested in forming something similar? I’m totally game.
(This happened a few weeks ago, so I’m a bit behind in posting, but this is quite amazing.)
If you don’t already know Banksy, you should. He/She (do we really know?) is an artist doing art in public places (mostly), making you think. Banksy is currently doing a residency in NYC with lots of awesome stuff that you can see on the official residency website. The residency is for October 2013, but some pieces are likely to last beyond that, so if you’re in NYC, check it out!
Anyway, even though Banksy mainly does works in public spaces, he/she also has had pieces obtained by museums and individuals, and they are worth A LOT. That’s why it’s so amazing that Banksy set up a little stall outside Central Park to sell pieces at $60 a pop, each worth tens of thousands of dollars, to people that appeared to have no idea what they were getting into. If some art dealer or similar knowledgeable person would have found out, they probably would have tried to clean the stall out (if Banksy would have allowed it… unlikely).
You can read more about this event in a few different articles, too:
Banksy Sold $225,000 Worth of Art at a Central Park Stall for $420
Banksy sells original works worth a fortune for £38 each in New York booth
You can also find out more about Banksy in Exit Through the Gift Shop, a pretty sweet little movie.
Today in the US it was a National Holiday to celebrate Christopher Columbus.
The Paper Machete is a great live magazine happening every Saturday at the Green Mill in Chicago (with a great podcast as well). Every month the host, Christopher Piatt, hosts an open mic incubator series called The MASH, which I attended again this evening. Below is the piece I wrote for this iteration. For those of you outside of Chicago or didn’t catch it on the national news, the context for this piece is at the bottom.
It was performed in character, so imagine a voice a little bit like Yogi the Bear but more depressed. Enjoy!
Hey guys—my name’s Larry—some people call me L Train—it’s my nickname—but you can call me Larry.
I’m a ghost.
First off, I just want to say, I’m sorry. You probably all heard about that CTA crash Monday morning in Oak Park on the Blue Line, where a train seemingly driven by no one ran into another train sitting in the station: well, that my bad.
I wanted to come out tonight and publicly take full responsibility for my actions. I had no intention of hurting anyone, sure as hell not injuring more than 30 people just hanging out in one of those fresh, almost potpourri smelling CTA cars.
See, here’s what happened: I’d been visiting CTA stations off and on this summer and kept seeing these signs for Ventra, you know? And it was really piquing my interest and everything because I didn’t know if maybe it was some kind of new Starbucks coffee size or some player for the White Sox or new female orgasm tool or whatever, you never know what they’re advertising in there.
But then one night not too long ago I snuck into this woman Sharon’s place. It’s kind of nice over there: she lives in this first floor walk-up and leaves the window open; the fact that she walks around naked really has nothing to do with it. Anyway, she had on that WGN TV station and I heard ‘em say “Ventra”, so my ears perked up, you know, as much as ghost ears can—with about the same ineptitude as my you know what can’t perk up any more either, but that’s another story—but anyway, I heard ’em saying Ventra’s this new way to pay for bus and train trips, and it all starts to come together, you know, just like the end of that movie the Sixth Sense, which I can’t mention here without also making sure you’re aware just how much every ghost hates that movie, because every ghost KNOWS they’re a ghost, from the get go, there’s none of this thinking you’re a person shit that Shamalamadingdong guy pulled on all you gullibles out there. But I digress.
But this Ventra shit sounds kind of crazy, am I right? Do you know all about this? I mean, first it’s run by a private company, which isn’t so surprising here in Chicago where you don’t even own your parking meters, but still, strike one if I do say so myself. And I do say so myself. Then you have the fact that you’re basically signing up for a credit/debit card with this thing, and then you get all the fees for all the bells and whistles the company is planning to charge. And then, if you just want to buy a one ride ticket, it costs $3 instead of $2.25. And there’s not even an option to pay with cash, even on the bus. To all that I give a big BOOOO, if you don’t mind the expression…
Anyway, I got to the CTA station Monday morning, still kind of pissed about all this Ventra stuff—and a bit of an aside, I suppose, pissed is apparently how lots of people riding CTA elevators feel, if you catch my drift—but I decided, what the hell, I’ll jump the turnstile today, who’s going to see me? Ghost joke! Am I right? Am I right?
So I head up to the station and there’s no train around so I just kind of mosey over to the rail yard where they keep all the extra cars and I find one I like and head inside. And I realize I have never been in a train car by myself before, and it’s pretty cool in there. I mean, there’s no one’s ass for me to grab and pretend it’s “because it was bumpy” or whatever, but there’s also no one trying to sell me any candy for their youth sports leagues so it all kind of balances itself out.
And then I’m like “Larry, you should go into the cockpit or whatever that place in front is called where they drive the fuckin’ train.” That is literally the sentence that ran through my head. I’m sorry I’m kind of slow sometimes, but I haven’t slept since 1953 when they demolished my house with me still inside to make room for the Eisenhower Expressway. You all seem like smart people, you all don’t need that history lesson, right? Maybe another time.
Anyway, I head inside the cockpit or whatever and then I got to thinking… “Hmm, what if I, you know, drive this thing?” So I hit a few buttons and before I knew what was going on the train was moving. I mean, I was surprised I could even go anywhere, right, since the crash, I’ve heard or all this stuff that should have stopped me: the breaks, obviously, which would have needed a key to release them, but also—and I know when I tell you this you’ll be all like “L Train, you better not be shittin’ us”, but I swear this is real—something called a “dead man control” which has to constantly be pressed or else the motor shuts off and the brakes are applied. I guess they have that in case a train operator had a heart attack, or, you know, there’s a ghost who wants to operate the train.
Maybe if they funded the CTA half a shit all those things would have actually stopped me, but the train just kept on barreling down the tracks, and I’m all on the intercom, shouting shit like “L Train in the house!” and singin’ “Peace Train, sounding louder, ride on the Peace Train” all Yusif Islam style and then WHAM! Impact. I ain’t felt that kind of crash since that wrecking ball came through my bedroom window. Anyway, I’m kind of freaked out, realizing what happened, and I just get the hell out of there.
I felt kind of bad, but it’s kind of cool, too; I mean, the Trib even called it a “ghost train”, which is kind of validating for me and Tim and Sparky and all us other ghosts who never get any respect. It took me a couple days before I felt comfortable getting on the train again, but today I decided I’d give it another try. So I was on the Green Line this morning, sitting on some lady’s lap and reading the Red Eye, and I couldn’t help but start laughing to read that the National Traffic Safety Board, who was investigating the crash, had to stop working Monday night because of the government shutdown. To that I say, “Thank you Mr. Boehner!”
So once again, I just wanna say I’m sorry for injuring those people and delaying the blue line for the west side and northwest side hipster riders. It’s hard out here for a ghost. Thank you.