Gone With the Awesome

by Jillian Butler, Ampersandology

On the day the word "outstanding" was redefined, I simply stood in awe and watched. 





Like...okay. 


This is awesome. Today is a day I love people, espeically people who make fan vids of old 1930s epics with crappy pop songs. 


Intellectually, I know there are several things wrong with this video. One, Avril Lavinge. Two, Scarlet's inability to build a bridge and get over that foppish whelp Ashley Wilkes already. Three, not nearly enough Rhett. Four, Scarlet's such a fierce bitch, why does she even LIKE Ashley? Five, Rhett. Six, like seriously O'Hara, he's a hardcore ginger! And not the good kind. 


But intellectually don't get you squat diddly in the proud hall of the Pop Culture Unfortunates. For the record, Melanie Hamilton is like so whatever. What a do-gooder wet blanket. Stop wearing your hair like a helmet, Melanie. And stop marrying your cousin. 


My enjoyment of this wondrous video very much like my love of Gone for the Wind itself. Basically, my head says, "ooooh problematic romanticism of race and class!" and my heart* is all "wheeeeeeeeee curtain dresses and really big hats!" If it's on, I will stop everything and watch it, despite that I would put the gross estimate of my viewings thus far at ABOUT FORTY TIMES. For kicks, I quote obscure lines from this movie TO MYSELF constantly, despite the fact no one on earth (except maybe Spike Lee) will understand. What? I don't have a TV, okay? 


Look, I'm not saying two wrongs make a right. I'm just saying you're going to have to forcibly remove the part of my brain that loves everything about this crazy racist movie. 


The only thing I enjoy more than the above video is perhaps the suggestion that my beloved Tallulah Bankhead was considered for the role of Scarlett O'Hara:  





Then again, it seems every actress working in Hollywood at the time was considered during "The Search for Scarlett"--a very clever marketing gimmick for the studio to build excitement about a movie that wouldn't be made for years (and was plagued by trouble when it was). In truth, there were only three or four actresses that were ever seriously considered, but, the mythology surrounding the search is more than tempting--a cross-nation search with the old-fashioned grandeur of the 42nd Street Moment. How funny then, that the part went to a British actress. Still, Bankhead would have been INCREDIBLE as Scarlett. Absolutely wrong for the part, but INCREDIBLE. Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

Oh no. I just found the Lady Gaga remixes. There's no turning back now. 

*or the angry fist where my heart should be. Wevs!


Have a suggestion for a future Ampersandology topic? Got something you’d like to say? All feedback welcome! Shoot us an email at ampersandology@gmail.com, or follow Ampersandology on Facebook. 

My fingers are choosy and will only write on overpriced paper.

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology


So. Moleskine is cruelly trying to bankrupt me. CRUELLY. I thought they loved me. First, they started making their standard notebooks in new, EXCITING colours. Then, they changed their dayplanner, almost DARING me to buy a new one. Then they made...they made... THE FOLIO. 

From Swipe.com: 

Moleskine recently launched the Folio Collection, a new series of large format notebooks, sketchbooks and accordion portfolios. Aimed at the fine art and design communities, the line simply scales up the classic  hardcover Moleskine to either the standard A4 format (8.25″ x 11.75″) or to an impressive A3 format (11.75″ x 16.5″). Both sizes feature the traditional rounded corners, back pocket, elastic closure, and internal bookmark of the familiar pocket and A5 lines and the paper used in all Folio Collection products is FSC (Forest Stewardship Council)-certified.

And quite frankly, they are beautiful. I was in the market for a bigger notebook to supplement my research, and I saw this and...it's $32, which I'm fairly certain, no matter how thoughtfully I explain to Irene, my accountant, is NOT tax-deductible (she recently figured out that I use colorful pictures and loud noises to distract her, and our professional relationship went downhill from there: the trust is gone). My usual model is the unruled, 5" x 8" plain notebook, so indulging in this folio would be a happy new adventure. 


SIDENOTE! A friend of mine who lives in England knows a guy who works with Moleskine. This was surprising to me: until that point, I had no idea that Moleskine had to be manufactured. I thought they just emerged from the foaming sea on a conch shell, surrounded by angels. Or some near approximation. If I disappear one day without explanation, it may be to make this man my bride, thus gaining the inheritance of unlimited lifetime Moleskines. 


Stuff White People Like can make fun of them all they like, but the Moleskine is a different creature altogether (also, Stuff White People Like, we're still totally feuding, so your opinion is stupid anyway). HEMINGWAY USED THEM! ...probably. Use a pencil on their delicate, acid-free pages, and the friction they illicit is something near holistic. Also, they feel good in your hands. Also, it's my money and my children aren't starving (thanks to the fact that abstract figments cannot starve --that proviso has saved my conscience more than once, let me tell you!) so shut up I'm going to buy overpriced notebooks all I want. 


LOOK. I take notebooks very seriously. It's an occupational hazard, as I end up with a lot of notebooks. When it comes time to give me gifts, people assume that one thing a writer will definitely need is more paper to write on. And some of my collection have great stories attached to them: one was bound by an old esoteric boyfriend, and another (one of my favourites) was a gift from an charming older artist I used to pose for. I have convinced myself, the same way I convince myself that Gossip Girl is a modern retelling of Edith Wharton, that you can never have too many. 


Now, in this sense, 'too many' is abstract enough to excuse any manner of sins, including the fact that I purchase replacement Moleskines approximately 16 pages before I need them. Someone, please help me. Help me before it's too late. Because I think I might buy the Folio. I buy them because I use them up, and I use them up because I keep buying them. VICIOUS CIRCLE! 

A House With Yellow Walls

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology

I think people doubt my devotion to Paul Newman sometimes, especially now that he's gone. But not only has it not dimmed in the least, I've also figured out a way to (yet again) discuss him in my master's thesis. Do you know why? Because if there's one truism about my life, it's that I will always find a way to talk about Paul Newman (some more).

So I submit to the jury what hangs on my living room wall, proudly and a little sadly.

It's from Hud. I commissioned it from a wildly talented artist of my almost-acquaintance. I consider its placement in my home my official entry to the Charmingly Obsessive and Borderline Eccentric Brigade (Howard Roark was the founding father!!!!). Before I owned this, I didn't have an answer to the question, "What would you save if your house was burning down?" Now it's less a question and more a firm statement. An avowal, if you will.

Work Hard and Be Nice to People

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology

This is a letterpress print by Anthony Burrill; I have wanted it for a very long time. Isn't it marvelous? It's already in its third printing. Just look at that simplicity, and admire the almost rustic lines of the wood block print process--no two would be the same. There is a vitality to this print, mark my overly-attached words.

No matter how trendy it seems to be in typography these days (and yes, I just used the words "trendy" and "typography" in the same sentence), I just never tire of the powerful simplicity in big words in a white space. The Keep Calm Gallery's print collection more or less fulfils this hole in my day.

"Work Hard and Be Nice to People."

"Do What You Love and Love What You Do."

"Freedom is in Peril."

I could live by these words. In fact, I more or less do live by them. I'm pretty sure you could convince me to do anything if you churned that sans-serif suggestion out of a letterpress on some satisfyingly thick paper.

But I just... I can't justify dropping what will probably come to a cool Benjamin on the Burril print when I already have spent enough money this year on typographic art. I mean, I CAN justify it, but let me tell you, it is NOT convincing. No matter how worthy I think the cause is, somehow the government doesn't agree with me that typography should be a tax break. Go figure! It's a war fought in vain, my friends.

I've already brought this beauty home this year. It came all the way from foggy Londontown! Many reproductions have cropped up in the past year, and this 1939 British propaganda posters have become almost trendy. But I wouldn't drop my change on any old reproduction...no my beauty is straight from the source, beautifully hand printed on Rives heavyweight paper (mouldemade in France!) with deckle edges. You can smell the peril, I swear to God.

...This is why Stuff White People Like has me on speed dial, isn't it? I do this to myself.

Postscript: I might make an exception for this mouth-watering Douglas Wilson print. IT IS PRACTICALLY FREE.

In this corner...

Helvetica vs. Arial. Death match.

Let's weigh in the contenders, shall we?

Helvetica:

Was developed in 1950s in Switzerland by Haas Foundry.

Is awesome.

Has become the deserved standard for modern, minimalist design.

Had an amazing documentary about it that I certainly did NOT tape off TV at great personal frustration. HA. HA HA. (twice)

Arial:

Is a flimsy knockoff made for cheap-ass Microsoft.

Only became the popular font it is today because it's bundled into every Microsoft product.

Generally sucks. Also, I hear it kicks puppies for fun. And controls the weather.

Let justice be done. Beat up Arial; long live Helvetica.

Phony Me, Phony You

Oh, J.D. You lovable scamp!

Anyone with half an ear tuned to the ground would have heard the literary stomp that came after the recent announcement of an unauthorized sequel to The Catcher in the Rye. J.D. Salinger, notoriously silent in the 40-odd years since the novel was published, is mad as hell, and he’s not going to take it anymore. He’s talking lawsuits, and he’s talking raining hellfire, and…it’s pretty much the first thing he’s talked in about 40 years.

And my response? Eh.

What can I say? Salinger’s solitude –driven, as I understand it, from the intense and somewhat misguided fervor of the novel’s fans—has become something of an American cultural touchstone. To seek out Salinger’s remote mountain location is to chase some simmering footnote of American memorabilia. Like Howard Hughes and his toenail jars, or the mother-daughter two-punch of Grey Gardens, Salinger’s willful exclusion reeks of an American experience so thoroughly out of place that of course it couldn’t happen anywhere else.

Let me expand. Few other cultures seem to grant this celebrity-like status on the members of its societies who decide to exclude themselves. America’s a funny place like that: while it was fostered on hard-boiled individualism and the triumph of will, it can’t help but point at the weirdoes who choose to exert that will in a way that goes against the populist grain. In other words, if you don’t join into the reindeer games, what the hell is wrong with you?

Anyway, I think the point I was trying to arrive at is that Salinger’s actions, in a way, created its own cult that probably extended the shelf life of his novel. In the interest of full disclosure, there’s no love lost between the original and I. I held off on reading it for the better part of my life because of its devoted cult-like following. I read it eventually, because I felt it was my cultural duty, but walked away with the reaction I suspected I would have: eh.

I’ll put my own personal animosity aside for a moment to say this: The Catcher in the Rye is fine. But it’s really a work that’s become bigger than itself. Holden Caulfield has been adopted into the popular mindset, if not in name, at least in spirit. Could it be, then, that Salinger’s "most powerful…most eloquent, perhaps his most lasting work of art" is his silence and disavowal of society, as Ron Rosenbaum suggests?

If that’s true, then kudos on the commitment. This guy could put Brando to shame.

For an article comparing this latest controversy to one involving Vladimir Nabokov, an author of profound merit, read Ron Rosenbaum’s latest at Slate.com.

My early childhood just came screaming back to me.

You may remember Mark-Paul Gosselaar from his stints on Law & Order, NYPD Blue or even sharing a birthday with yours truly. That is, unless you were grew up in the early 1990s, in which case you will forever know him as Zachary "Zack" Morris from Saved by the Bell. Yes, Mark-Paul Gosselaar (or, as I affectionately refer to him, MPG 2 the MAX) occupies a treasured place on the wall of Pop Culture Unfortunates: so many have bonded over his super-cheesy, neon-stained stint on what has become a secretly beloved, sorely admitted adoration (OMG YOU GUYS! Remember the LISA?!? The dance craze for everyone!!!!)

Well, I have the best news. A few nights ago, he reprised his role as Zack Morris during his interview on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. And when I say 'reprised', I really mean 'gloriously resurrected from the annals of pop culture death.' And this is...whoo, boy. This is remarkable for too many reasons. Instead of trying to pretend that I wasn't rendered speechless by this massive development in world history, I will itemize the reasons below.

1. Attention to detail.

Study the picture. Notice how the shoes appear three sizes too big? How his hair is inexplicably at least three different shades while pretending to be normal? The unnaturally pale shade of his denim? You can't just roll out of bed, grab the first things your hands find and emerge THAT mismatched: it takes skill, perseverance and commitment. No one outside of 1993 would even think of laughing so boldly in the face of fashion. Kudos.

2. Giving us what we didn't know we needed.

Case in point: A reunion of Saved By the Bell (or, as it's known in Germany, California High School) is something that society doesn't know it needs until it happens. And God bless Jimmy Fallon for pointing that out. Let's return to the simple days of the early to mid 90s, a time of Sonic the Hedgehog and discotheques, neon leggings and checkered spandex. Can't we go back? Mark-Paul will be our guide.

3. Breaking character.

As in, not once. Where does Zack Morris end, and Mark-Paul begin? This is Method acting at its finest and most tender (is it possible that Gosselaar studied with Lee Strasberg at the Studio? Because I swear, some of his inflections...).

4. What kind of day has it been, indeed.
It's the little things. When Zack Morris first boasted that 23 pound cellular telephone (Because back then, we said said the "-ular" suffix aloud) he was the living embodiment of the bee's knees. Now, we laugh at that phone. But why laugh when instead, we could look back fondly and admire how far we've come in such a short time? Zack Morris is no object of derision--he was a pioneer of communication.

Oh, think what hi jinks Zack would have avoided if not for his fast livin', get rich quick ways--not unlike, say, our modern world. Did I just blow your mind? I thought so. There is a lesson here, that all of our days, no matter how meagre, lead us to a point of revelation: that hard work and patience leads to real rewards, and all of life's lessons can be learned in 22 minute chunks.

That point was witnessed by Jimmy Fallon. And its messenger was one Zack Morris. I rest my case, sir.

Big news for people who love small news.

Javier Bardem has been cast as a "villainous, stock-shorting hedge-fund manager" in the much-anticipated (by me anyway) sequel to Wall Street. Great news, hedge-fund managers: there's so many of you villainous, stock-shorting troublemakers out there that no one will think for a second it's based on you! Oh, you little scamps. We just can't take you anywhere (mostly due to your private jets being grounded)!

Also, I have more plot details, and juicy set gossip secrets!!! From NY Mag:

...the film is set in the months preceding the October 2008 collapse of the
world's economic system. Gordon Gekko has just been released from Shady Acres
federal prison, where he had spent the last twenty-plus years paying his debt to
society for his greedy ways. Shia LaBeouf plays an ambitious young Wall Street
trader in the Charlie Sheen mold, only this time around, his character isn't as
keen to impress Gekko as Bud Fox was in the original. Rather, the device that
brings the two protagonists together is the fact that LaBeouf is engaged to
Gekko's estranged daughter (that role isn't cast yet, but we think it would be
hilarious if they landed on Megan Fox). You see, Gekko has grown a heart during
his time in prison, but when nobody listens to his cautionary words to his Wall
Street cronies that the "end is coming," he becomes "obsessed with trying to
repair his ruptured relationship with his daughter."

I say OUTSTANDING. This has the exact right amount of implausible coincidence that I've come to expect. Suggestion! Leighton Meester for the daughter. Bam. What's next? Barbar: James Gandolfini. Bam. John Wilkes Booth? Jason Schwartzman. BAM. Perfection. I could do this all day. (ask me about my Breakfast Club remake!)

Okay. In the interest of full disclosure, when I first read the story I was too excited, and (incorrectly) assumed that Javier would be replacing Michael Douglas as Gordon Gekko. My first thought was of confusion: 'That's ridiculous!' I said to myself, 'Who replaces a perfectly good steak with another exotically named, strongly accented steak?' Then I got mad. Like, really really mad. Who in their right mind fires Michael Douglas, a national treasure and practically Hollywood royalty? This would ruin the whole movie! I was ready to jump ship on my whole-hearted endorsement of this remake, and officially withdraw support.

I want you all to understand: I was actually upset at this development. I was getting ready to write a strongly-worded letter. About Wall Street 2. Think about that.

Yeah. I already know.

Anyway! My fears were unfounded and now Javier will once again dance the confusing line between 'exotic sexpot' and 'Mr. McCreepy.' And, once more, I will be forced to find him undeniably attractive but also kind of repellent,* turning my movie-going experience into yet another heady mix of confusion, lust and shame. Damn it, Javier: every time we do this, EVERY TIME!


*See also: Morgan, Dexter; Draper, Don.

Full story at Vulture/NY Mag: Wall Street 2 Goes Limp

Eight Blog Posts In Search of an Author

As is my way, I tend to get carried away with high color abstracts. I get real excited about an idea, then if I don't immediately engross myself with it before I get distracted, it falls to the wayside when the Next Big Thing comes along (and trust me: the Next Big Thing? It always comes along). So in the interest of full disclosure, I post this, which is quite literally the least I can do: a list of blog topics without a post.

Ian McEwan: Cold-Hearted Bastard or Lovable Mad Scientist?

5 (Other) Reasons to Beware the Ides of March

The Young People Terrify Me

You Want to be a Cool Guy? Use a Hedara.

The Rise of the Hip-Square and the Death of Camp

Bad News Bears: A User's Guide

Sad Guys on Trading Floors

The Mystifying Peggy Olson

Fake Interviews with Unlikely Subjects (an ongoing series)

I wrote them down, meant to go back to them, and never did. Sad, really. I'll probably still tackle a portion of them someday, but for now, I'll just let them stand as a monument to the addled cobweb of distraction that is my mindscape.

Aftermath: Catastrophe.

I KNEW IT. Almost $5,000 on the nose. 

Lunch with Jon Hamm has gone to someone else. a***c, you have made a powerful enemy in me today. 

Ladies and gents...a HOT MESS in the making.

Lunch With Mad Men's Jon Hamm Up For Auction On Ebay. 

Um, so can anyone loan me some money? I'm probably going to need at least...$5,000. Yeah, that should do it. Man, you know I'm good for it! 

C'mon guys! How often is that you get to be a PART OF HISTORY? And not some lame chapter of history, with old dead guys and boring trade negotiations. The HOT MESS part of history, the kind where everyone involved should have known better! You know those bystanders, sadly shaking their heads from the sidelines? That could be you!!! A part of you has always wanted this, buried deep in the darkest tangles of your mind. You know this is true. 

So please forward all donations as soon as possible. I want to seal this up quickly...you understand, of course. 

And now, a word from our sponsor…

A look at my own little love knot, the ampersand.

Scottish writing, 9th century

In the most delicious turn of events, the modern ampersand is the product of many centuries of evolution—in other words, an unholy corruption of its hard-working ancestors. Derived from the Latin and ,‘et’, the letters began their life as separate lovers. They lived in different parts of town, kept their own place, had their separate hobbies. It was great. But over time, they got closer and closer until, in the immortal words of the Spice Girls, two became one.

Around the ninth century, as scribes got a little quicker and hence lazier, the word had evolved into a tightly formed ligature that comes closer to what we know today. As far as I know, the name itself (“ampersand”) is the bastard child of the Latin “and per se and,” which has a weird Latin reason for repeating itself.

Unfortunately, with the rise of slab serif and sans serif typefaces in the 19th century, the roman version of the ampersand (the basic model: &) got invited to all the typefounding parties, in both italic as well as roman style. It was a harsh scene. I HATE YOU, SANS SERIF! (I'm kidding! I love you! But for very different reasons.) Thankfully, all the old guard kept it together, and you don’t need to look farther than Jenson, Garamond, Baskerville, et all to see some truly beautiful examples of ampersands done correctly.

That’s because for typographers, the ampersand has always been the playground of typefaces: you can let loose and channel your inner Prince, allowing for the most artistic of expression. I’m not going to lie, the italics of many modern typefaces are like poetry read by a lecherous but well-meaning Frenchman, drunk on his own lovemaking skills:

Actual usage of the ampersand varies across languages. English and French condone the use of the ampersand as a substitute for and, but I think it’s reached the point when it’s most generally accepted either in design or as the in-text bridge between a pair (eg. Gilbert & Sullivan). The Germans only condone it in formal and corporate titles--it is VERBOTEN in running text. 

*

You might say I spend too much time looking this stuff up; my counter would be a triumphant chuckle as I insisted I already knew it, hence required no research. Then, as I realized the implications of my rebuttal, my victorious smile would darken, and my head would droop ever so slightly, and I would finally put a name to the feeling that haunted my days: it is shame. Never has a victory felt so like a defeat. 

Thanks Adobe, for indulging my geekiest sounds. 

This entry doesn't deserve a title.

GODDAMNIT WHY IS THIS SO AWESOME? 

Judge. Jury. Executioner.

My anticipation of the upcoming Watchmen is tempered with cautious retraint; I've been burned by comic book adaptations one time too many (X-Men: The Last Stand, ARE YOUR EARS BURNING? Good, that's because I lit them on fire. Jerk!). With each new trailer, it seems more and more like your standard, "slow-mo walking, look mournfully toward the heavens" kind of superhero pic, and I get sad, and consider writing Alan Moore to tell him he had the right idea. 

However. 

This video, depicting a PSA about the Keene Act, forced me to get my geek on and yes, GET HAPPY. I can now say that I am officially "anticipating" Watchmen. STAY TUNED for the next exciting installment of me passing judgement on movies I haven't seen! 

If you don't know what this refers you, stop reading. Go buy Watchmen. Read it. What, you think you're too cool for school? Well, I've got newsflash for you, Walter Cronkite. YOU AREN'T. You are nothing without your robot car-- NOTHING. 

 

Doubt me if you must, but...

"This is one time where television really fails to capture the true excitement of a large squirrel predicting the weather." -Phil Connors (Bill Murray)

Groundhog Day: truly, an underrated masterpiece. 

The Pop Culture Unfortunates

Don’t let the brows fool you: every Ibsen-reading, wine-drinking, Truffant-quoting fancy pants has a store of Pop Culture Unfortunates in their past: those little blemishes on the hull of any perfectly cultivated intellectual inner life. It happens to the best of us: the five-star restaurant foodie who secretly devours Doritos; the opera connoisseur who watches Two and a Half Men; the hipster poet who digs Phil Collins without a trace of irony (he’s got two ears and a heart, doesn’t he?). They’re all alike. And I happen to have it on good authority. What’s that good authority, you may ask? Well, my own sordid past, of course. Full disclosure, kids. That’s what I’m all about.  

 I know all the words to Hungry Like the Wolf. On purpose.

Look, you can’t help love, right? And I happen to love Duran Duran. More than a little. Actually, more than a lot. I think that not only are they great artists, they also constantly redefine the word ‘awesome.’ Also? Their poetics put a tear in my eye, yet a song remains in my heart. Look no further than the exotic seduction found in Hungry Like the Wolf, the stylish yearning of Rio, the tense, moody staccato of Wild Boys, and you’ll see why Duran Duran is the word. . True science fact: Simon Le Bon is a dreamboat.

Nearly everything on the list of Stuff White People Like applies to me.

No, like, everything. Brunches, girls with bangs, gentrification--I am guilty, guilty, guilty. And I accept this accomplishment with equal parts pride, shame and resignation. But, like most White People, it’s mostly pride.

Stayin’ Alive.

Yeah. The real shame from this admission comes from the fact that not only do I like it better than its predecessor (Saturday Night Fever, and I don’t know WHY you would not know that already). It’s from the fact that I…what’s the word? Like it at all. No, I’m sorry. Like isn’t strong enough. I kind of love it. I just…man, when he puts that snooty British lady in her place by letting her fall during the big dance number? I’m all , “LAWYERED, baby. Outstanding.” In fact…

Just say three words: bad. Dance. Movies.

There’s like my Achilles heel, but instead of leaving me dead on a Greek island, these “films” leave me soaring on clouds of rhythm and joy. Ain’t a terribly crafted, shoddily plotted dance movie that I don’t love with the fire of a teenage poet. Bad dance movies teach me how to live my life (Fight for your dreams, says Flashdance. Never give up, says Step Up. Kevin Bacon should have a place in your heart forever, says Footloose). Do you demand more proof? HAVE IT: I paid money to see Take the Lead. In theatres. WHERE OTHER PEOPLE COULD SEE ME.

(UPDATE! On December 29th, I was in a store that had cruelly placed Footloose and Stayin' Alive next to each other, both for seven dollars and ninety nine cents. Seven dollars and ninety nine cents! I don't know how this store stayed in business, charging next to nothing for the greatest films of my whole life. Y'all, it was like Sophie's Choice up in here. I left empty handed becuase the weight of that choice would haunt me like, for at least twenty minutes.) 

Gossip Girl.

Do I need to say any more? Of course not. Because I still totally don’t watch it. (BLAIR + CHUCK 4EVAH!!!1!!)

 More like The Rules of the LAME.

Okay. I know The Rules of the Game (or La Règle du jeu, 1939) is supposed to be this amazing, benchmark film. But um. Okay. It kind of…sucks. Like, not a lot: it’s not like Showgirls or anything. But I don’t really get the big deal. It seems pretty standard to me. Madcap servants, delusional rich people. Isn’t that, like, the whole point of European cinema? Also, I detest Christine, the quasi-protagonist: I fail to understand how one man would be interested in a stale, boring old prune like her, let alone three (that was the final tally, wasn’t it?). I don’t want to say hackneyed but…okay, I kind of do want to say hackneyed. But I won’t! Because I’m pretty sure they’d take away my White Person membership (see above).

She may be the Man, but I AM THE SHAME.

Okay, this one is hard to admit. But DAMN IT. I have to say it. She’s the Man (starring Amanda Bynes and Channing Tatum) is a good movie and a clever adaptation of Shakespeare! I won’t stop there: Amanda Bynes is charming in it and Channing Tatum actually comes close to emoting. Also, I’ve seen it more than once. There. I said it. Okay? Stop LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!

Clint Eastwood? No thank you.

For some reason, I made up my mind to never, ever willingly watch a Clint Eastwood film. Not that ones he’s in, mind you, only the ones he directs. It has something to do with the fact that he makes the most depressing, life-sucking movies of all time. It’s like the feud between the Capulets and the Montagues: it goes back so far I don’t even remember what started it (OH WAIT. I do. Unforgiven. Do you know who emerges from that stupid film unforgiven? Clint Eastwood.) So that means I haven’t seen any of his blasted critical darlings—a list that includes Mystic River, Million Dollar Baby and Letters from Iwo Jima. And God-willing, I never will. I REALIZE THE ERROR OF MY WAYS. I just refuse to change, that’s all. Isn’t that the best possible way of ensuring personal growth?

 I just saw The Shawshank Redemption for the first time.

No, yeah. I know.   

Citizen Kane posted an event...and nobody came.

Why do I get the terrifying feeling that if Citizen Kane was remade today, the bulk of the investigation into the life of Charles Foster Kane would take place...online? 

I mean, obviously, Citizen Kane will never be remade. It can't exist outside of its perfectly preserved bubble of time. Also, I'm pretty certain that Orson would literally overcome death to make sure that never happens...or at least, to get first crack at the director's chair. 

But I get scary close to visualing it...Charles leaves an omnious status update on Facebook in his last moments: '...rosebud...' With the help of the servants, the faceless reporter (played by Shia LeBeouf) hacks into his account and discovers the dark truth. The interviews with those who knew Charles best are, naturally, conducted on MSN. 

The entire plot could honestly condensed into the Facebook universe: 

*

Charles Foster Kane left the group Opera Lovers of New York. 

Charles Foster joined the group Opera Lovers of New York. 

*

Emily Monroe Kane left the group C.F. Kane for Governor. 

* 

Susan Alexander and Charles Foster Kane are now in a relationship. 

Susan went from "in a relationship' to "it's complicated." 

Susan is now listed as "single."

*

Jed Leland left the network The Chicago Inquirer. 

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Charles Foster Kane became a fan of Being Alone. 

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And if Google enters the picture, I'm afraid all bets are off. 

Ooh, check out the serifs on her!

Proof of what I've been saying all along: typography is sexy, yo. 

Part One. Part Two

Part Three.

If this doesn't make your synapses have babies then chances are YOU ARE DEAD INSIDE (ask your doctor to confirm!). For a gal who spends 23 minutes comparing serifs to figure out what font is used in a header design, and considers learning the detailed history of her favorite ones as "useful" and "fun,"this stuff is like catnip. You may call my activities strange, but there's a more accurate word for this behavior: FRUITLESS!

Please don't forsake me; I know not what I do.

Gossip Girl's Chace Crawford (NAAATE!) took Grazia's Guy Fashion Quiz and failed like the adorable little manpie he is. He thinks beige is the in color for fall...and that it's dark! Well, I can't lie. That's...that's the most darling thing I've heard all day. Beige for fall! Oh, Chace. That's not right at all! Boys don't know clothes, you guys! Isn't that something?!? At the 2:13 mark, when he gets so happy about knowing the difference between a wedge and a stiletto? It's just too much adorableness for me to handle. Stop asking her to repeat the questions, Chace; you're not going to get them right plus she only wants to make out later behind the cafeteria (AND MAYBE MORE...?!?) so quite frankly you're wasting her time!

To be fair, the only fashion question he needs to know the answer to is "Will you please take off your shirt now, Chace?" And the correct answer is, "Yes." I can say that because in real life he's the same age as me, not like in the show, when he's like, sixteen. So it's not pervy. Oh yeah? Well, SO IS YOUR FACE. Anyway. I don't even know why I watched this clip in the first place; I was so confused because I still totally don't watch Gossip Girl (omgiloveyounaaate! butnotasmuchaschuuuuck!). 

Oooooohhhhh no. 

Know your Ascenders!

And now...the subliminal messages your font choice sends (courtesy of Typocalypse, a Flickr set made by the guy whose parents knew he'd turn out to be either an evilgenius or some kind of font savant and named him accordingly: Lars Willem Veldkampf. I yearn to know more about this man: What is his story? What is he like? If I say his name three times, and my aim is true, will he appear and take me away to another time, another place? IS HIS HEART WHERE ALL THE FONTS LIVE?).

Ahem. I digress! 

Haha! Fair. See, it's funny because it's mostly true, AND it's kind of mean AND it only sort of applies to me. ONE TIME does not a Jenson user make. Plus, I'm pretty sure that one time? It wasn't even my idea. 

That is so deep. And here I thought Futura was just sent back to us from the ultra-mod future to mock us for our unfortunate dependance on serifs. Nope. Turns out, it was to spout confusing pop-poetry and speak for the airlines. 

Boy, this Lars guy sure is hitting them where they live, ho ho! I wonder what he says about my favorite...WHAT! NOOOOO! 

HEY. Too far, Lars Willem Veldkampf, TOO FAR. You've made a powerful enemy in me today.  I will not forgive this slight so easily. Good day sir...I SAID GOOD DAY. 

What? I take my fonts pretty seriously. Some may say "too" seriously. I would not call them wrong. This must be how Ren felt when he had to face Rev. Shaw and the whole town council to prove why dancing wasn't a sin. He was up against incredible odds...just like me and Garamond, and the hardships we face every day. Wow. I'm never gonna watch that movie the same way again! 

Typocalypse. Go there. Feel judged. You're part of something wonderful.