Mood:  chatty

Happy new year!  There isn't much new to discuss, other than the good news that Oranges and Sunshine will soon begin filming.  It's great to hear David is back at work again.  It's been a long time since I've seen anything new of his, especially in the theater (has it really been over a year since Australia?)  Still haven't seen Public Enemies yet.

A very generous friend from inside the computer sent me a copy of the Murray Whelan series on DVD this Christmas (thank you, Generous Friend!!).  It had been quite a long time since I watched them.  Both my videotapes broke, in a terrible VCR tragedy, not long after the series originally aired.  In a way, it was like watching them again for the first time.

So you know how, in The Brush Off, Murray is standing at the sink watching the water spiral down the drain, just before the flashback to the events of the previous night?  Well, I've always wondered about whether water really does go down the drain the other way in the southern Hemisphere.  In the Murray scene, the Australian water swirls definitively clockwise.  I sat there trying to remember which way it goes in our hemisphere, and couldn't for the life of me recall.  Clockwise?  Counterclockwise?  It was really bugging me.  Finally I had to pause the movie and perform a scientific experiment in the bathroom.  I filled the sink with an inch or two of water, then pulled the plug up and watched it drain.

And....it went straight down.  No swirling.

So I tried again, this time filling the sink up about halfway.  This time, the water swirled clockwise.  Definitely clockwise.

Then I went downstairs to the kitchen sink and tried it there.  Counter-clockwise.  Tried it again: clockwise.  Third time: clockwise again.

So much for that myth.  

So, since our last confabulation, I've left L.L. Legume for a better job offer, right in my hometown.  It's a company that processes payments of various types (check, credit card, wampum) for a bank known as....um.....well, we'll just call it "Bwank of Bwamerica".  The work isn't nearly as cuddly as working with photos of fleece pullovers and cute golden retriever puppies romping in snowy pine woods, but there are moments of thrilling Jim Doyle-like frisson when doing things to a database with 100,000 live corporate bank account numbers.  I would never in a million years steal the numbers, but it's a deliciously naughty feeling, like rolling around in a big pile of cocaine.  (Not that I know what that's like.  I understand it feels gritty.)  Anyway, the downside is that the company has security policies up the wazoo.  I had to pass a complete background check, the computer passwords are ridiculous ("Mrnw09FJ3Pf$q?"), and every door is badge-access only.  Woe betide you if you go out to the kitchen for tea, say, and forget your badge.  The police will find your cobweb-covered skeleton six months later, leaning against the metal door, with two bony palms pressed beseechingly against the tiny window.

To get to the bathroom, you have to walk about three quarters of a mile down this corridor that consists of a series of airlocks, like the opening credits of "Get Smart", with doors slamming portentously behind you, and mysterious tunnels off to the side marked UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.  I have to plan my bladder activities very carefully during the day, because it's a five-minute hike to the other side of the building.

The company also has an office in Melbourne.  I'm half tempted to phone down there and ask them if they could do a drain test for me, but they'd probably have to put me on hold while they trek 1.8 miles to their bathroom, fill the sink, note the results, and hitchhike back.  It would cost a mint.  I'll just have to take Murray Whelan's word for it.

Over the holidays, when I wasn't busy trekking to the bathroom and jeopardizing the world's butter supply for various baking projects, we saw a couple of movies with actors in them who have worked with David Wenham in the past.  Actually, David's built up enough of an oeuvre by now that it's quite commonplace to spot former co-stars, although I wouldn't say he's approaching "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" territory yet.  Once he appears in a movie with Kevin Bacon, then we can all start playing "Seven Degrees of David Wenham".

Anyway, we saw Avatar the day after Christmas, with Sam Worthington giving a wonderful performance as a wounded marine trying to save a tribe of blue long-waisted aborigines from being displaced out of their homeland on the planet Pandora.  You see, the aboriginies made the silly mistake of planting their Home Tree on top of a huge deposit of a valuable mineral called Unobtainium (which, as Mr. DC remarked afterwards, must be an isotope of "Extremely Rarium"), thus attracting the attention of an evil corporation that had hired some military types to infiltrate the tribe and persuade them to move them elsewhere so they could chop down the tree and get at the ore.  Eventually the corporation gets tired of waiting, and launches a full-scale invasion with helicopter gunships against bows and arrows.  Unfortunately, it's an old, old story.  We saw it in 2-D, because movie theaters around here are too chintzy to spring for the extra D.

Later we rented The Ugly Truth with Gerard Butler, which was astoundingly, teeth-grittingly terrible.  I don't know what Gerard Butler was thinking, appearing in this film.  The script should be fed to dingos.

Also saw Invictus, which has nobody directly connected to David in it, but it does have Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela, who David once mentioned as being an admired figure, as well as Matt Damon attempting a South African accent (strange to say, but he just doesn't sound right without the wicked thick Haavahd-Yaaahd accent).  I can truthfully say that, as holiday rugby movies go, it's right up there with the best.

Unfortunately, the filmmakers forgot to show us which way the water drains in Johannesburg.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:57 PM EST

Updated: January 14, 2010 11:12 PM EST

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Mood:  accident prone

Christmas is upon us, dearest Groveapudlians.  Time to reflect on the past year, from Jerry Springer to Public Enemies to Pope Joan, and look ahead to what lies in store for 2010.  So far, all we can count on are animated owls, and the possibility of a good orphan drama.  But we're a tough, gritty, determined bunch, we Daisy fans, and we can wait patiently for our next fix without drumming our heels on the floor and forgetting to use our indoor voices.  (Much.)

So, I spent a little time job hunting at the end of October, because the working-two-states-away thing was getting very old (as was my car).  While I was filling out job applications online, my stupid-ass computer kept hiccuping and and sending them out mid-edit.  I'm sure prospective employers were very impressed with my "atention to detai" and "excellent written and verbal communication skulls".

Despite my totally unawesome internetting skullz, I found a consulting gig last week with the E-commerce team of a large mail-order clothing company headquartered here in Maine.  (We'll call it L.L. Dean to protect its delicate identity from the evil, remorseless gaze of Google.)  The job involves maintaining and testing their website, which changes every day as new promotions and products get added.  Links and HTML tags have to be checked, copy verified, and payments handled.  Essentially, in the course of probing for defects, we get paid to sit around and shop.  I pretend to buy tote bags with fake credit card numbers (though I have to remember to cancel the transactions, otherwise they actually go through and a kayak arrives on my doorstep a week later).

Our department is right next to Product Testing, so we can see all the clothes and outdoor gear being auditioned for upcoming seasons.  There's an entire room devoted just to duck boots, and trash barrels full of fabric swatches, and people walking around in really odd getups, like bike shorts and fleece slippers.  Snowshoes, ice skates and skis litter the hallways.

Interestingly, there's a lady in my department named Mary Whelan.  That name seems somehow...familiar.  I'm wondering when the acoustical ceiling tile will cave in above her desk.

But let's get on to the real topic of this post.  I've been reading up lately on handicap theory, which is an evolutionary biological principle that states that deliberately taking on handicapping characteristics actually makes one more attractive to potential mates.  No, not the sort of handicap that makes you email dopey half-baked misspelled resumes to potential employers, but physical characteristics that signal "I have health and vigor to burn!".  For example, the tail of the male peacock is useless, unaerodynamic, and nutrionally costly to grow and maintain, but it advertises the health of the peacock to all the peahens.  Examples in the human realm would be things like tattoos, smoking, and motorcycle riding, all of which say "I'm strong enough that this stuff doesn't kill me!"  For females, very short hair and wearing men's clothing work similarly.  In order to get away with these, one has to have sexiness to spare.  (I think this is one reason why guys like it when girlfriends wear their shirts around the apartment).  Same for men who cook or use moisturizer:  rather than dealing a fatal blow of insta-gayness, it makes them that much more attractive.

This, I think, is key to why so many of us love David.  He can don a bridal gown, or coke-bottle glasses, or horrible jeans and a mullet; he can smear cream bun on the tip of his nose; yet his awesomeness overcomes these handicaps and makes him all the more more endearing.  When playing hapless or dorky characters, he can afford not to take himself too seriously.  He's got fabulousness to spare.  Maybe that's what makes a great actor: character quirks don't stick to them.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to raze my hair into stubble and get  forearm tattoos.  This will signal to my new employers, "I've got corporate dress style to spare!" and they'll promote me.  I want to be the person who walks around in bike shorts and fleece slippers.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:09 PM EST

Updated: December 5, 2009 11:46 PM EST

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Mood:  mischievious

Did you know that your candy has been cursed by witches?

It's true, I'm afraid.  Earlier today, while readying a large bowl of sanded horehound candies, my blackthorn cudgel, and a lecture on dental hygiene in preparation for tonight's onslaught of Halloween-costumed urchins, I ran across this article at Charisma Magazine, by a woman named Kimbery Daniels.  (It was also briefly featured on Pat Robertson's Christian Broadcasting Network website, but was apparently too out there even for their tastes, because it was pulled down shortly afterward).

After alerting us to the hidden perils of pumpkins, bonfires, and the colors brown and orange, Daniels writes:

"During this period demons are assigned against those who participate in the rituals and festivities. These demons are automatically drawn to the fetishes that open doors for them to come into the lives of human beings. For example, most of the candy sold during this season has been dedicated and prayed over by witches."

Yes, you read that right.  It's true.  For example, Hershey employs a coven of Wiccans to stand over the Heath bar conveyor belt and mutter incantations.  (Don't worry, they're union witches.  Local #377: Pipe Fitters, Air Traffic Controllers, Stagehands, and Candy Witches).  Nestle has seventeen voodoo priests on the payroll.  Cadbury stores its products prior to shipping inside a big pentagram surrounded by candles.  Every Three Musketeers bar you buy has a creamy nougat-and-demon center.

This confirms something I've long suspected:  Candy does indeed whisper secret, Satanic messages to us.  (I mean, besides "Eat me for dinner.")  The Devil works his way into our hearts via chocolate, because it's readily available and melts in your mouth, not in your hand (unlike vanity and greed, which turn into a puddle when left in direct sunlight).

So, let's put on our Church Lady hats and decode the hidden demonic meanings behind the sweets we give out at Halloween:

 Have you ever seen more ungodly candy?  Look, it's got the Angel of the Bottomless Pit right there on the wrapper, smugly raking his pile of coals in anticipation of the next unwitting victim to make an impulse sugar buy at the cash register.  Pure malevolence.  If you listen closely, you can almost hear him backward-whispering "Listen to Judas Priest!  Sass your parents!".

 Ditto.  Candy like this makes burning in hell for all eternity seem attractive, and deliciously cinnamon-flavored.

 Mike and Ike: pushing the gay agenda. (By the way, what is "the gay agenda"?  "Item 1: those curtains have GOT to go"?)

I believe this one is chanted over by lesbian witches.

 Hershey's Kisses teach children about promiscuity.

 Pixie Stix:  Training wheels for cocaine addiction.

 Why don't you just chuck a handful of reefers into the trick or treat bag while you're at it?

 Pagan gods?  Not in MY Hallowe'en stash!

 Fun Dip comes with a sugar stick that you lick....slowly....up one side, then down the other.....circling...flicking your tongue....paying special attention to the end......Then you slide the stick, moist and glistening, into an eager pouch filled with flavored sugar...and out again.....and in.....and out....in, out...in, out...

FILTH!  FILTH, I SAY!   ABSOLUTE FLIN-FLARN FILTH!

 Blow Pops.  Need we say more?

 BLEEP you, you BLEEPIN' $&#* asterisk ampersand!  If Satan has his way, your kid will come home from the apple-bobbing party cussing like a longshoreman.

 Here, we glorify the swingin' singles lifestyle.  Cruising the bars, looking for action, sleeping with Richard Gere...it's just one short step from there to sleeping with Beelzebub.

 Change one letter, and you've got S&M.  Do you really want fetishists on your doorstep?

Besides, you know what they say about the green ones.

 Special Dark.  Special Dark.  You see what's going on here?  Darkness is being privileged.  Lucifer's realm is being exalted.

 Nice try, Skittles!  We see that big ol' gay pride rainbow right on your wrapper!

 Who else carries a pitchfork?  Hm...let me think...let me think...

"Reese's" is a homonym of "Rhesus".  As in "monkey".  As in "evolution".  Oh, the devil would LOVE for you to believe we're just one species in a breathtakingly beautiful, fragile, interconnected web of life, now wouldn't he?

As for the word "cups", I think we're better off not exposing our children to THAT sort of gutter talk.

 "Spree": a word that's always preceded by "crime-", "drinking-", "gambling-", "shopping-", "Lord of the Rings watching-" and other unspeakable activities.

 Silly wabbit.  Twix are for pwostitutes.

 BEGONE, FOUL TEMPTRESS!!!

So you see, Halloween candy is just fraught with danger.  To paraphrase David, it tastes good, but it's doing something slightly harmful to you.  One minute you're biting into a Nestle Crunch, the next minute you're tap-dancing down in hell with Jerry Springer, gay Jesus, and the Ku Klux Klan.  Just remember, your dentist may not be equipped to handle fillings AND exorcisms.

Alas, I must run, dear Grove denizens - evil never sleeps, and neither does vigilance - but I'm delighted you could drop by to chat about demonic candy, and the myriad ways in which it lures us to iniquity.

Here.  Before you go, have a horehound drop.

What?

Why are you snickering?

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 1:18 PM EDT

Updated: October 31, 2009 3:49 PM EDT

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Mood:  suave

Back in June, the air was chilly, the furnace was running full time and everyone was wearing sweaters.  Now it's October, there's thunder and lightning outside, and the a/c just kicked on. 

Checking to see if I live in the Southern hemisphere.  (Update: no)

****

Well.  It never occurred to me until just recently - maybe it was seeing the Pope Joan movie trailer that triggered this -  but Pope Joan and Eowyn have quite a lot in common.  For example:

1) Both live in feudal societies subject to periodic disruption and invasion, where strength and bravery are valued more than literacy.

2) Both long to play active roles in traditionally male arenas (battle, for Eowyn; and knowledge, for Joan).

3) Both are frustrated by the constraints of their expected roles, and the barriers placed around them simply because of their gender.

4) Both disguise themselves as men to overcome this barrier.

5) Both find true love flowering tenderly amidst all the darkness, pain, and chaos.

6) Both fall for a gentle, sensitive, understanding, shining-armor type nobleman, played by David Wenham.

Now, before you go cutting off your hair and donning a fake beard and football pads in the hopes of attracting a chivalrous, auburn-haired swain...

...which reminds me, did you know there's a breed of chicken called Gingernut Ranger?

It's a variety of Rhode Island Red noted for its valor in battle.

Where was I?  Oh yes, I was about to pound my shoe on the table and reiterate how wondrous points 5 and 6 above are:  the clever girl gets the guy.  And not just any old pocket-protector-wearing, squeaky-voiced Melvin, either.  The real deal: the ripped, courtly, sensitive warrior who can hack a Burgudian garrison to pieces while keeping a baby chick warm in his helmet.

Why is this so awesome?  Because for eons, the first lesson taught to writers at Cliche University has been: Men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses.  In the vast majority of movies and books, the blue-ribbon romantic pair is Ken and Barbie, not Poindexter and Edna.  Ken and Barbie embrace in the sunset, and we're supposed to admire them, sigh over them, fantasize about their beautiful white wedding.  Scrawny Poindexter and brainy Edna lock lips, and we're meant to say "Oh, isn't that cute?  They think they're people".  The storyline convinces us these rigid pairings are just the natural order of things.  (Occasionally they'll mix up the rules, just to be daring:  Poindexter gets jiggy with Barbie, or Poindexter and Ken shack up together.  But Ken rarely finds romantic sparks with Edna.  Girl geeks on screen must always be portrayed as strange, isolated, and sexually unappealing.)

In stories, especially fairy tales and comic books, smart or boyish-looking girls nearly always get relegated to the romantic sidelines: think Velma from Scooby Doo or George from the Nancy Drew series.  Or they get paired up with odd specimens, like Big Ethel and Jughead from Archie. The prom king and queen slow-dance in the spotlight and live happily ever after, but the nerd romance gets accorded lesser, comic status.  Even in LOTR, I'm afraid, it seemed to me on first read that Tolkien sort of "married off" Faramir and Eowyn  to each other because they were both damaged goods, and we were really meant to be wistfully envious of the perfect Arwen-Aragorn relationship.  And yet I was far more interested in what went on between Faramir and Eowyn.  Their love came across as more real, more vibrant.  You could imagine them actually keeping house together.  Arwen and Aragorn, with their grand, remote, fairy-tale love, seemed more like statues (of course, it didn't help that most of their courtship was buried in Appendix A).

In Pope Joan, Joan gets the primary, not the secondary romance, all to herself, which makes it even more of a daring celebration of female intelligence than Lord of the Rings.  Gerold loves her because of, not in spite of, her spunkiness, her quick mind, her passion for learning.  I like Better Than Sex for the same reason: the entire film is devoted to the passionate love affair between two quirky, average urban hipster-geeks with lumps and warts and freckles and love handles.  Cyn is allowed to be sassy and smart and strong.  Josh is allowed to have moments of insecurity.  I remember reading a complaint about BTS from one unsatisfied (male) viewer who objected to the premise, saying "Why would anyone want to watch ugly people having sex?" He misses the point:  the real sexual heat gets kindled by Josh and Cyn's minds, not their bodies.

Luckily, real life and love are messy and don't follow the Hollywood cliche playbook.  Men and women aren't so neatly categorizable into Ken/Poindexter/Barbie/Edna boxes, and nearly everyone finds confidence and smarts and independence to be attractive in both sexes.  Still, it is interesting to reflect on why Hollywood clings to this trope.  Why does it feel so refreshingly upside-down when the independent-minded tomboy, the anti-princess, snags herself a medieval honey?

Perhaps the film will bring us more answers.

And so, having pondered this, I must mosey off now....Poindexter Ken is in the kitchen, preparing a lavish dinner.  Besides, my fake beard is itching.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 4:22 PM EDT

Updated: October 5, 2009 8:45 PM EDT

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Mood:  happy

 About a month ago, our book club decided to read Pope Joan, by Donna Cross.  Now, I know you'll never believe me, but I had absolutely nothing to do with influencing the choice.  While everybody was discussing which book to read next, I happened to be in the bathroom changing out of a wet bathing suit.  (We'd had our club meeting in the middle of a lake.  Because every book club should be at least partly amphibious.)

When I came out of the bathroom, I heard "blah blah blah Pope Joan blah blah Pope Joan blah blah Pope Joan".  At first I thought they were just the usual voices in my head, but then someone asked me what I thought.

"Why, that's a terrific book", I said (supressing the urge to jump up and down and squeal like a game show contestant).  "Great choice!  Let's do it!"   We love discussing history, politics, and social justice, plus it's a great story, so I knew everybody would enjoy it.  The woman who proposed it said she'd found it through Google, when she was looking for historical novels about Rome to get ready for an upcoming trip.

Later that week I emailed Donna through her website, to see if she would be willing to call our book group and chat with us.  She sent a warm and enthusiastic reply, and we arranged a 7:30 call (which turned out to be a little later since she had some unexpected things come up, but we were delighted when the phone rang.)

Right off the bat she told us she'd be happy to answer any questions (although "I'm not telling anyone my weight", she said, which made us laugh, though she looks quite svelte in her photo!).  It was a delightful conversation - she had a lot of interesting quotes and observations.  One thing I hadn't known: she wasn't a feminist before she started writing the book.  She said (I can't remember exact quotes, so I'll have to paraphrase) "I've never burned a bra in my life, and I was part of a generation that was raised to be reasonable."  After researching Pope Joan, and discovering how brutally women were oppressed and treated like chattel during the Middle Ages, her eyes began to open to sexism, ignorance, lack of education, and its profoundly corrosive effects on society.  We talked about what "being reasonable" means for women, and her attraction to unreasonable, strong female characters.  Her next book features a similarly unreasonable heroine (whose name she could not divulge, for fear her publisher would "rip my tongue out", but it's set in 17th century France).

For me, Pope Joan opened my eyes to the way women have long been marginalized in literature and on film, usually because they aren't the ones who get to tell the story.  Joan, a courageous woman motivated by knowledge, creativity, and generosity, is such a  refreshing rarity.  Generally, women in fiction are given the motivation of romance/love/seduction, and not much else.  They are rarely shown trying to improve society or change the world (and if they do, they still must be smokingly hot and perform all their karate kicks in 4 inch heels, thankyouverymuch Dan Brown).  This is why films like Julie & Julia feel so honest and surprising: the two women in that film are shown achieving fulfillment through work, with romance relegated to a supporting role.

There's a thought experiment called the Bechdel Test (invented by the comic strip artist Alison Bechdel), which can be applied to movies and books as a sort of rough measure of sexism.  The test has three parts:

1) There must be at least two female characters

2) who talk to each other

3) about something other than a man.

It's surprising how few films pass the Bechdel Test.  Now, keep in mind it has nothing to do with how good or bad the movies are: Citizen Kane flunks the test, while High School Musical 3 passes.  It's not intended to be used as a guide to the worth of a movie.  Rather, it's a measure of how thoughtfully female characters are treated.  Are they central to the story?  Are they allowed to advance the plot, or are they just an appendage to the action hero?  Do they have agency, or are they just arm candy?  (If the character wears a gold lame bikini, chances are good that it fails.)

Of course, one does have to make allowances for settings where women wouldn't naturally be - films set in all-male military schools, or prisons, for example.  Also romances, where "talking about men" is the whole point.

I'm not sure very many of David's movies would pass the Bechdel test.  300?  Not so much.  Van Helsing? Nope.   Better Than Sex passes the first two but flunks on criteria #3.  Lord of the Rings...has female characters, but they never talk to each other.  Australia passes (Sarah Ashley and Cath Carney get brief war-related dialogue).  So does Three Dollars (mother & daughter bath scene).  Pope Joan should pass handily if any of the tender exchanges between Joan and her mother, Gudrun, about the pagan gods make it into the film.  (Even if not, Pope Joan arguably could earn an exemption from the Bechdel Test, since the entire point of the story is that Joan must make her way in a male dominated world). 

By the way, here's my version of the Bechdel Test to assess the quality of a film:

1) There must be David Wenham in it

2) Does anything else really matter?

But anyway, back to the chat with Donna.  We went on to discuss whether we ourselves would ever have had the courage to risk what Joan risked, and endure what Joan endured, for the sake of an education.  Donna pointed out that many women around the world, every day, engage in similarly courageous acts, like the three Afghani girls who had acid thrown in their faces last year by the Taliban for attending school.  Despite being permanently disfigured by the attack (one girl is half blind), they returned to school a few months later and are still attending.  Now that's courage.

We also touched on the "Pope Mary Sue" issue.  Joan is a pretty extraordinary character - she invents modern courtroom procedure, germ theory, intinction, healing techniques, rescues peasants from floods, among much else - and some readers have questioned whether it's too overwhelming to make her into Superwoman, on top of rising to the top of the Catholic hierarchy.  Donna replied that Joan, being the main character, can't sit on the sidelines and be passive - she has to be a prime mover, she has to act on the world, and she did indeed possess a keen intellect that surpassed most of the men of her day.  Also, quite a few of her "inventions" are known to have sprung up close by and in roughly the same time period, so it's not a stretch to suggest that Joan might have known about these things, or been able to apply her knowledge to improve existing techniques.

NOW THEN.  What you really want to hear is The Scoop On Gerold, yes?  It is, after all, the elephant in the tiny little room of this Grove post.  During our chat, I had been weighing in my mind all evening whether it would be too forward and fangirly to ask specifically about Gerold/David.   Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was hijack the conversation or ask self-indulgent questions.  However, the phone call had started late, and most of our members were preparing to leave.  After some thought, I decided that well, if the group dwindles it might be all right to ask about the upcoming movie.....and perhaps casually, in passing, with the lightness of milkweed down brushing past the wee whiskers of a sleeping white kitten, mention that the casting of David as Gerold was a fine choice.....and then quickly move on to the More Businesslike Topic of The Movie In General.

There was some desultory shuffling of feet and goodbyes as the club members started to depart, and Donna very generously said she'd be willing to keep chatting with anyone who could stay.  The last two people remaining were me and Erica, the host.  I asked if I might have one last question and Donna said "Of course".

"Well," I said, "I'm VERY excited about the upcoming movie, particularly because I'm a huge David Wenham fan..." For a moment I paused, trying to quell my fangirl attack and casually move on to the second part of the question (something to do with how wide of a release she thought the movie would get in the US), when Donna pounced at the mention of David's name.

"Oh!" she said.  "David Wenham!  Oh, I'm so glad you've heard of him!  I have great news for you...he's an absolute sweetheart.  He is the nicest man in the world.  I just adore him to pieces.  My daughter loved him too.  I first met him in Morocco, but when we were in Germany, he went out of his way to make sure I felt at home."

"Gawrsh!" I said (or something similarly hicklike...by this time my face was beet red. Erica tactfully drifted out of the room and began putting away dishes).  "I think he's a fantastic actor.  I've seen just about every one his movies."

"I've seen quite a few of them," Donna said.  She told me that she first saw David as Faramir in Lord of the Rings and said to herself "That's Gerold!!"  At that point she was already working on the screenplay for Pope Joan (apparently it's taken 10 years, 8 scripts, 7 producers, and 5 directors to get the film realized).  She knew right away she wanted to cast David as Joan's romantic lead, and lobbied hard to get him on the project.  The producers also agreed he was the best choice.  At the time there was some other project in Australia that David was committed to, or going after, or occupying him (she didn't say what), so she ended up writing a pleading letter to him.  It said something to the effect that even though people generally think of him as an action-hero type, he'd really be amazing in a romantic-lead, Clark Gable type role.  ("By the way," she said, "even though he looks great with short hair, he really should wear his hair long more often.")

We talked more about Lord of the Rings and the epic tragedy of leaving most of Faramir's romance scenes on the cutting room floor.  "One minute they're in the garden gazing at each other," said Donna, "and the next minute they're kneeling next to each other at Aragorn's coronation."  (By this point in the conversation I had zillions of little cartoon hearts percolating over my head for Donna.  I tell ya, nothing bonds women like ginger manes and badly edited romance.)

I commented that I thought Pope Joan would be good therapy for dissatisfied Faramir/Eowyn fans who didn't even get to see them smooch.  Donna replied something about there being a nude sex scene in Pope Joan (though she wasn't there when it was filmed, so couldn't supply details).

!!!!!, I said.

"Did you see Public Enemies?" she asked.

"No, not yet" I said.  "I heard David wasn't in it very much."

"It was such a waste!  I heard his voice, and he turned his head, and I said to my husband, 'Is that David Wenham?" and that was literally all you see of him in the film.  I can't believe they wasted his talent like that."

Truer words were never spoken.  I agreed, wholeheartedly, that it must be frustrating for actors sometimes to put in all that work only to have most of their scenes wind up cut, even though it's an artistic decision, not a personal one.

Ignoring the pointed yawns of Erica, I went on to ask "Did David get a chance to read your book?"

"That's an interesting question," she said.  "I left a copy in his trailer with a note, but I don't know if he ever got around to reading it."

I told her the story about David getting the part in 300 without having read the book first, and then going out and buying a copy and flipping it open, and the first thing he saw was his character in the nude telling a story by the campfire.  And that he swore he would never agree to another role without first checking out the book.  Donna thought that was quite funny.

At this point Erica sort of bodily intervened and said "I hate to cut things short, but I do need to get to bed".  I certainly didn't want to impose any longer on our host, though it was a shame, because I think Donna and I could have chatted all night about Faramir, Gerold, and the 179 kinds of awesome that David's acting is made of.

Oh dear.  Two women, chatting about a man?  I'm afraid our book club failed the Bechdel test.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 1:55 AM EDT

Updated: September 14, 2009 11:06 PM EDT

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Mood:  on fire

Today, we peep inside the mind of Australia's uber-arch-villain as he shares his nassstiest, 140-character thoughts.  Presenting...

Neil Fletcher On Twitter

# Collected 500 gallons of rainwater.  Enough to flush the toilet 147 times.  I counted. 

# Dinner, movie tickets, chloroform....this date with Cath Carney is costing me a fortune!

# A note from the library complaining about water-damaged books.  Well, obviously I wouldn't take books I *own* into the bathtub. 

# The ranch next door has gone bust.  I will miss wondering how it stays in business.

@KingCarney: Your egotism reminds me of myself.

# Brushing up on my cursing today.  Got a few greeting cards coming up.

# Asked Nullah to sing a Swedish model to me.  Ended up with an Ikea floor lamp.  Cheeky little bastard.

# Canadians joining in war effort.  Canadians are all right.  Their geese are jerks, though.

# I've decided I need a signature fragrance.  Something that captures the essence of bitter ambition and wasted potential.  And lilacs.

# Off to YMCA, to simulate running and Christian principles.

# Who knew?  With a little chlorine, your bath water can last all summer.

# I'm home, and by "home" I mean no longer stealing cattle.

# Lady Ashley: I am so over you.  Me:  Oh, please.  You couldn't get over me with a sherpa.

# If I lived in the northern hemisphere, would I twirl my mustache counter-clockwise?

# Went up to Darwin yesterday arvo.  Learned that opium is the opiate of the masses.

# Winter can be so depressing.  When you finally get a slow day, you're behind on personal hygiene and can't enjoy it.

# If you're happy and you know it....I didn't punch you hard enough.

# Overworked and underdrunk.

# Night's curtain falls and charms my wavering consciousness.  Going out to bash some roos with an empty lager bottle.

# The best part about church is the free breakfast money they pass out on the little plate.

# Oh gosh, little creamy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to knock you off your tricycle.  Let me hold your ice cream sandwich while you   TA TA, SUCKER!!!!

# If you love someone, hold onto them until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in.

# It's Australia Day Eve.  I have to leave a jar of Vegemite at the window.  Otherwise Skippy the Bush Kangaroo climbs in and eats you.

# Some blokes are fighting the Japs.  Some blokes are fighting the Germans.  I'm fighting Vampire Hitler.  HE'S NOT BOTHERING YOU BECAUSE I'M TAKING CARE OF IT.

# I declair twoday too bee Typo Toosday.

# Just between you, me, and the lamppost, I may need new brakes.  And a new lamppost.

# This is one of those days when my thoughts turn to darker things.  Such as chocolate.

@drover Your fly is down. Ha! Made you look.

# I bet the town hall meetings in Germany are full of protestors comparing Hitler to Hitler.

# Dreamt I was doing community service, collecting trash from a gulch in Yulura and helping grandmas cross the road.  WTF kind of dream is that?

# If you're looking at your bum in the mirror while making over-the-shoulder kissy faces, there is not much you can say if your wife catches you.

# Darwin bombed to rubble yesterday.  Now I'll never find out what happened to that girl who didn't listen, hit her head, and had the weird hallucination about ruby slippers.

# I'm doing manly chores around the station.  Like banging on the doohickey with a wrench, and yelling at that clacky thingie.

# Some half=naked dude is imitating a flamingo up on the water tower.  He's got something in his hand.  Looks like a glass tipped spea

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 9:37 PM EDT

Updated: September 14, 2009 10:01 PM EDT

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Mood:  incredulous

While strolling in the park recently, one balmy golden eve, I came upon a twentysomething couple holding hands.  Ah, young love, thought I, smiling indulgently.  Then they came closer, and my heart froze in horror.  He was wearing a Yankees hat.  She was wearing a Red Sox hat.

Oh, fie!  Vile, vile, filthy abomination!!  Worse than Hatfields and McCoys.  Worse than Capulets and Montagues.  A love wrong on so many levels.  What if those two got married and had kids?  Mutated, confused kids, who chant "1918!" while getting all weepy over "Sweet Caroline", whose only role models are Roger Clemens and Johnny Damon?  It doesn't bear thinking about.

The Federal Defense of Baseball Act states: Marriage is between one Red Sox fan and one Red Sox fan.  Or one Yankee fan and one Yankee fan.  Period.  I can't even look at this photograph without flinching.  Those pinstripes are...touching...his strike zone..... 

This prohibition applies across the board, by the way.  Cleveland fans may only marry within the American League West.  Mets and Braves gametes must not mingle...well, you get the idea.  Exception:  Cubs fans may intermarry freely.  They're like the universal blood donors of baseball fans.  Everyone loves the Cubbies.

Speaking of things Chicagoesque, the consensus on Public Enemies seems to be that you should not go see it solely for David, as he is not onscreen a great deal and doesn't have much of a speaking role. (Although he is the first character seen in the film.)  However, you should definitely see it if you like Johnny Depp or Christian Bale or have an interest in that period of history; and of course the big-screen theater experience can't be duplicated at home.  (Well, not at Casa DC, anyway; I don't know about your home setup....)

I think I'm probably going to wait for the DVD, mostly because free time is in short supply this month.  Review to follow later.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 12:35 AM EDT

Updated: July 11, 2009 1:35 AM EDT

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Mood:  cool

There's an Australian expression, "gone troppo", meaning someone who's gone mad or soft in the head, presumably from baking under the tropical sun too long.  It's probably one of those slang phrases that's only used in front of tourists and George Harrison, but I've always liked it.

Apparently, we need an equivalent expression for northern climates - gone freezo? gone tundro? - because here in the northeastern US, we're all about to go stark gibbering bonkers from the perpetual rain.  About six weeks ago, the sun disappeared behind a boiling bank of cement-colored clouds, and has barely been seen since.  Either it's drizzling, or misting, or pouring, or thundering, or all four at once.  The trees are sodden, the parking lots are flooded.  There's mushrooms in the basement, the lawn looks like a radioactive Chia pet, the Portland Head foghorn is hooting mournfully, and we shouldn't be wearing polar fleece and paying oil bills in July.

Some volcano in Alaska erupted in March and disrupted the North Atlantic oscillation, causing the jet stream to move way south and trap storms over the Great Lakes, and that's why we're stuck with this perma-blah weather pattern.  It reminds me of that Ray Bradbury short story where the sun only comes out once every 100 years for an hour, and the girl gets locked in the closet by her classmates when the magic hour arrives.  It's especially cruel to be robbed of summer after suffering through nearly six months of winter.  And senseless, when the rest of the country is currently broiling in a heat wave.  Hey, Florida, can you guys send us 20 or 30 degrees of that 110-degree high, if you're not using them?  We've got some extra fog and puddles we can swap you. 

To while away some of this interminable rainy-day silliness, the other day I was emailing my friend, whom regular Grove readers (is it too optimistic to use the plural here?) know as The Elrond Swooner.  I wanted to try out my new gmail account.  Google mail is slightly creepy because it scans your emails for keywords, and then places ad links next to your email page based on the content of your emails. (Similar to what Tripod does with the banner ads on the DC page.)  So, I sent Elrond Swooner an email recounting the previous night's shenanigans, when we had to take the cat to the emergency 24-hour clinic at 12:30 am.  That was the hour at which he suddenly decided to start throwing up gelatinous goo and doing Unspeakable Litterbox Things on the bed.  By the time we got home, it was 3:45 am.  It was a toss-up between going back to bed or saying "the heck with it, might as well just shower and go to work early."

So, I inaugurated my gmail account by sending this plaintive, uh...plaint of thwarted sleep off to Elrond Swooner.  When she replied, I noticed all the Google ad links had changed and were now offering remedies for insomnia, sleep deprivation, and sleep apnea.  Which gave me an idea.  In my reply to her reply, I said "Let's see if we can manipulate these Google links into saying something more interesting.  David Wenham blah blah David Wenham blah blah blah David Wenham."

In response, Google Ads offered up "Suffering from insomnia? Play the Didgeridoo!".

Elrond Swooner gamely gave it a try: "Rich single men dipped in chocolate!" she wrote back.  The links didn't budge.

"You'll have to try harder," I replied.  "Much demand but very little supply."

"I AM HAVING TROUBLE MAINTAINING AN E.RECTION," Elrond Swooner responded. "WHERE CAN I GET CHEAP V.IAGRA?"

"Thanks a LOT," I wrote back. "How's that 15-day a.cai berry w.eight loss program going? And your N.igerian husband, how is he?"

(Please excuse the periods.  I don't want the Tripod ad generator getting any funny ideas.)

The links, of course, went nuts....er, went troppo over those little keywords.  I suppose one could conclude that David is less popular than a.cai (but still more popular than spinach).  Or, more likely, that there is much, much more money to be made off of w.eight l.oss r.emedies than copies of "Answered by Fire".  But still....couldn't Google at least try to sell me some Lord of the Rings figurines or a 300 lunchbox?

By the way, the cat was fine.  Mild c.o.n.s.t.i.p.a.t.i.o.n.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 2:09 AM EDT

Updated: September 14, 2009 10:19 PM EDT

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Mood:  suave

One of the qualities that I most admire about David Wenham is his ability to avoid gaffes in interviews.  On video and in print, he comes across as mature, confident, and very well-spoken.  Some of this, I suppose, comes with years of practice handling press conferences, Q&As, and interviews, but you really can't fake menschiness (for lack of a better word). He always answers questions thoughtfully and to the point, with just the right touch of personal wit (I love, for example, his post-300 comment: "I'm up to seven cheat days a week").  When it comes to other actors and directors, he's unfailingly gracious, praising their good points without being gushy.  He isn't prone to ghastly career-killing oopsies, like Holocaust denial, beating hotel clerks with phones, or plying minors with rum and quaaludes.  Nor does he say ditzy things like "I've been noticing gravity since I was very young."

I say this because for some reason, I've had several encounters with gaffes the last couple of weeks.  I have this theory about gaffes.  You see, thoughts are like the inmates of a mental hospital, constantly plotting to escape.  We all have weird, dark, or inappropriate thoughts from time to time.  But most people also have a desk person sitting at the front of their brain, whose job it is to prevent the more alarming inmates from escaping into the outside world, and to only allow the sane, socially acceptable thoughts out.  And most of the time, that desk person does a good job.

But every once in awhile, the Desk Person gets distracted and starts reading the newspaper, or doing her nails.  Then an inmate slips past and escapes into the outside world, and voila: a gaffe.  You probably know people who don't have any sort of Desk Person at all.  Every thought that bubbles up into their mind is immediately voiced, regardless of how inappropriate it might be.  "Wow, you look sallow today," they'll say. "Did I tell you my episiotomy tore?  Yeah, turns out our sex swing is only rated for 300 pounds.  By the way, I saw a cow once."

My Desk Person isn't that bad, but she does nod off a lot.  Luckily, the inmates of my asylum aren't mean, evil, or vicious.  They're more of the non sequitur variety.  You know, the kind of dumb things you blurt out privately to someone at a party just as one of those random conversational hushes falls over the entire room.

For example:  Last week at a work meeting I brought up a concern to the engineering team about our software product's Excel add-in.  The add-in was allowing access to custom financial formulas developed by one of our clients.  The formulas are proprietary, and our client doesn't want other companies to see them.

"Oh," said the development manager, "well, that's not a big deal.  They'd have to know what the formula was and actually type it in."

At this moment, my Desk Person apparently got up and went for coffee.

"Not a big deal?" I blurted.  "Someone could still stumble across it by mistake.  Supposing a monkey happens to get loose in their office?  And starts randomly banging away on a keyboard?  And it somehow accidentally opens Excel, and by pure chance types one of the formulas?  And then the client sues us, and the monkey gets sent back to the zoo, and it never gets the opportunity to write Hamlet?"

This was the team's response: 

*crickets* *crickets* *crickets*

And then, the grownups resumed talking.

This is why I'm not on Twitter.  Because Twitter is dangerous for people with lunatic thoughts and a faulty Desk Person.  Dark impulses go from your brain straight to the internet and stay there forever.  140 characters is just exactly the right length for embarrassing outbursts.  These things go on your permanent record, you know.

The past couple of weeks alone, we've had several Twitter gaffes from politicians.  Senator Chuck Grassley, channeling his inner 13-year-old girl, sent out this tweet during Obama's visit to Paris:

Pres Obama while u sightseeing in Paris u said 'time to delivr on healthcare' When you are a 'hammer' u think evrything is NAIL I'm no NAIL

ZOMG, Senator!!!11oneone  You mean he's not your BFF?

Then Rep. Pete Hoekstra of Michigan issued this melodramatic tweet:

Iranian twitter activity similar to what we did in House last year when Republicans were shut down in the house

In other words, when Nancy Pelosi blocked that energy bill last fall, it was just like the violence, suffering, and massive civil unrest sparked by the Iranian elections!

It's like saying:

Had to wait in line for 5 minutes to buy coffee today.  Now I know how East Timor citizens felt when they voted.

Stubbed my thumb on the door latch this morning.  Reminded me of Faramir getting shot by arrows and dragged by a horse and set on fire.

I finally beat my husband at Scrabble.  It was just like the Spartans at Thermopylae.

And finally, GOP operative Mark Green shared this delightful uncensored thought with the world:

JUST HEARD OBAMA IS GOING TO IMPOSE A 40% TAX ON ASPIRIN BECAUSE IT'S WHITE AND IT WORKS

Let's face it, politicians shouldn't be allowed near social networking technology until they can pass a basic literacy and 21st Century Mores test. I realize racist Cro-Magnons don't have Desk People (or even desks), but still.  Do they not realize that other people besides their junior staff interns use the internet?

*****

I also wanted to take a moment to extend condolences to Michael Jackson's family, friends, and many fans all around the world.  Without Michael, the world would never have enjoyed Doug's sneaker-squeaking moonwalk in Cosi.  (One of MJ's songs also inspired the title of one of David's interviews, "Smooth Criminal", which I'm too lazy to hunt down and link to right now, but you know the one...it's got David shooting pool on the cover).

It's hard to think of any other entertainer who was so universally known and loved all over the world, even in remote places and countries torn by war, hardship, poverty, and disease.  He'll be missed.  I hope the afterlife has a great dance floor.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:40 PM EDT

Updated: September 14, 2009 11:19 PM EDT

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Mood:  lazy

Some headlines you may have missed: 

ONE-EYED SPARTAN ASSISTS LOCAL WOMAN WITH STUCK PICKLE JAR Crimped Metal Lid No Match For 190 Lbs. Of Ripped Greek Fury

JOHN O'BRIEN TAKES SECOND PLACE AT NATIONAL CHARADES CHAMPIONSHIPS  Loses When Teammates Fixate On "Road To Maracas"

POPE JOAN EXPECTED TO EASILY FEND OFF OTHER ECCLESIASTICAL GENDER-BENDING FILMS AT BOX OFFICE  Femalekai: The Story Of Mother Damien May Not Do As Well As Producers Thought

NEIL FLETCHER CAUGHT KNITTING  Secret Blackmail Photos! 

MYSTERIOUS NEW SYNDROME: RAW CHAFED SPOT BETWEEN FIRST AND SECOND TOE CAUSED BY SPRINTING IN RUBBER FLIP-FLOPS, NICKNAMED "SPIT SPOT" BY DOCTORS   Patients Advised To Take Bus Instead

HELL EVICTS JERRY SPRINGER Talk Show Host Deemed "Too Sleazy" For Eternal Pit Of Torment

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 12:03 PM EDT

Updated: June 14, 2009 1:07 PM EDT

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