The Producers

By all rights, I ought to adore the movie Moulin Rouge. Every time I've seen it, I've had the best of company -- I'd say I've viewed it with the vast majority of my favorite people. I like the music, I like the spectacle, I like the setting, I like Ewan McGregor, and I like Baz Luhrman. Sure, the script has some glaring plotholes and dubious character motivation, but so do several of my favorite cult films. Moulin Rouge should be among them.

Instead, I don't like it enough to buy a cut-rate VHS.

The problem is the woeful miscasting of Nicole Kidman. Kidman can't do "sexy". She is not remotely believable as Satine. And without a believable Satine, the entire movie falls apart.

Who should have been cast instead was the chief discussion topic at this week's family night.

The problem is that Hollywood doesn't do "sexy" either, despite what numerous ranters would have you believe. Think about all the lead actresses you know: they're pretty. Pretty -- not sexy, not beautiful, and rarely even cute. Nothing that would have too much personality. (The actors, in turn, are cute, with only a recent renaissance in "handsome.") To come up with a viable Satine candidate, we had to go to the music scene, which does push "sexy," (except when there's a better opportunity for "earnest").

Madonna. Madonna should have played Satine.

The four of us arrived at this conclusion independently -- Uncle Rex by music, me by Desperately Seeking Susan, and Max with stunning paralells between Moulin Rouge and Dick Tracy.

It should be noted that this is the only time the four of us have completely agreed about anything. We weren't really sure what to do with ourselves, so we tried to argue about it anyway. When this failed completely, we had to leave each other's company to escape the surreality.

The Godwaffle

I had a fucking awesome weekend. Much of this can be credited to my sleep schedule, which was about the way I like it -- stay up until 6 or 7 in the morning, sleep until noon, have a laid-back at-home afternoon, then go out until about 6 or 7 the next morning.

This is, as far as I am concerned, the ideal way to live. I actually like being home during the afternoon, much as I want to get the hell away from Hole in the Wall during any other time of day. I like sleeping when it's light outside. I like being outdoors when it's dark. I like the honest surreality of 3 A.M., the bond between night owls, and the conspiratorial feeling of knowing the world in a way the 9-to-5-ers never will.

This is also the opposite of the schedule that I have been forced to adopt for the majority of this year. Part of that has to do with trying to schedule time with Val, part of it has to do with Dallas' near complete lack of nightlife, and a lot of it has to do with 9 o'clock classes and hour-long commutes.

In any case, this weekend was stupendous. I've already mentioned the Clerkstastic evening in the Texaco mart and the pancakes to follow; there was also the dirt cheap purchase of both an Avengers box set and George Lucas In Love, not to mention some Sailor Moon. I swiped a Borders promotional poster featuring Wonder Woman, and I once again beat everyone at RoboRally.

Patrick had a bit of a blow up Saturday evening which I will credit to family politics, illness, and stress. This precipitated his rapid egress, leaving me, Val, and a cadre of The Richardson Boys in a compromised position since we were ostensibly his guests, although it greatly elevated my opinon of Patrick's older brother, Chris. Val went home. I stayed.

This was really the first time I'd been around The Richardson Boys as a group without Patrick there -- in this case, it was me, John, Chad, and Merlin. The four of us piled into Merlin's trusty car, Bessie, and drove about town for several hours. During this time, Merlin revealed to us a larger-than-life statue of Lenin outside of an old-school burger joint. Apparently, said statue was purchased by the owner on a tour of the USSR just after the end of the Cold War; it was going to be torn down. Apparently, there was trouble getting it through customs. Now, it is emblazoned with the brass legend, "America Won."

(I'm rather glad that Patrick left, although I would have enjoyed his company; the fact that his leaving did not deter me from staying, or being invited to stay, provides credence to the belief that The Richardson Boys are becoming my friends instead of just Patrick's friends who I borrow.)

At around 4, we wound up at Waffle House, where the following conversation occurred:

/CHAD and MERLIN are facing each other across a BOOTH. Chad is a struggling Science Fiction author and humorist with a strong sense of quiet gallantry; Merlin is much like a soft-spoken cross between Jim Henson and Colonel Sanders. They are relaxed, but involved in what appears to be an important discussion. ROMIE, the artfully-dressed object of their mutual affetion, returns from the BATHROOM to catch the tail end of the conversation./

CHAD: (quietly content) It's not an issue.

ROMIE: (sliding into the booth next to Merlin) What are you talking about?

CHAD: (smily softly) Nothing.

END SCENE

I have no idea what that charming bit of crypticism was about, (and apparently can't even recall it properly,) but I have several theories -- the leading of which hinges upon Mafia business. Another involves Chad actually being a millionare who uses his money to anonymously endow fledgling computer game companies. A third casts both Chad and Merlin as undercover aliens aborting their plot to obliterate Earth because they've decided they like the company.

After Waffle House, I arrived home exactly in time to collect a phone call from Johnny which kept me up until 6.

Throughout the entirety of the weekend, I looked amazing.

And to make everything even better, the nasal spray my doctor just gave me has a pronounced stimulant effect comparable to low-impact amphetamines.

's lovely.