No Words Can Express...

My Dear Sir Bradley-Kelly (oh shame on hyphenated names)-

I shall not hasten in my response to the blog war because I must get all the retched Black Dahlia/Sutton Christopher muck out of my brain before it completely dissolves into nothing.

When going into a film that is named after a blockbuster (in sorts) in hope that people will mistakenly rent it instead, I have low expectations. However, until last night I was not capable of forming expectations low enough for a film. Few people have had the opportunity to watch the movies I made in middle school/high school such as Supergirl and The Wannabees but in all honesty I think they are legitimately better. I cannot understand how a company like Lions Gate is willing to distribute such utter trash to Hollywood and Blockbuster. We’ve all had our fair share of renting random bad movies but there is no comparison to The Black Dahlia.

Lets talk about…

Plot: Fucked

Character development: Fucked with no costume changes

Cinematography: Fucked and cameraman should be shot

Acting: (sorry Chris) Fucked

Screenplay: Not sure there was one

Of course the only reason we watched this film is because our friend Chris is in it. I do feel bad talking trash but I know Chris didn’t do it because he thought it was going to launch his career. Not to mention while watching some of those shots I almost felt that karma was working its magic, well maybe.

I could easily run through the plot, making my critiques at every corner but this movie was just too bad. I don’t want to relive it in my head. I haven’t seen much porn in my time but I assume that most porno movies are along the lines of the Black Dahlia, same amount of plot but more nudity and cum in the face.

I do hope I can move on from last night and never think of The Black Dahlia again. However I know that won’t be possible. Now every time I see pigtails, little old men, cops wearing hoodies or Christopher Woolsey sleeping, the horror will return.

Luke-I think we should have gotten high and watched La Strata.

Blog WAR: TEETH

This film reminded me of junior year of college when I took a feminist film studies class. The zombie-like female? professor didn't take a liking to me, probably because I was one of the only non-dikes in the class. I didn't see the issue. I wrote my final thesis paper on the empowerment of Ana by fucking two young boys and helping them realize their homoerotic tendencies in Y Tu Mama Tambien. I think I got a C-. Maybe its an anti-feminist stance, but in my mind there is nothing wrong with using the shit you got for your own benefit, especially when it means screwing Gael Garcia Bernal.

The myth of vaginal teeth was obviously invented by a man, as was the pad, the thong and douche. Some guy in some weird tribe in Borneo probably couldn't get it up and his girl probably told the tribe so he counteracted by saying she had vagina teeth. Typical. Despite the masochistic origin of this myth, I think vagina teeth can be awesome and there are times, like when I sleep with this guy, that I wish I had them. I liked that in the movie the teeth only came out when she was having unwanted sex, however I found it hard to believe that all these men were pre-pedophiles. In my heartest of hearts I think that all men are ass holes, but they aren't all rapists.
This leads me to another recent discovery, and the most anti-feminist of them all. Take this, Professor Butch. This is so fucked up. I didn't choose to be born with a vagina and yet I am suppose to stick some plastic tube up my shit so I can "protect" myself? If your so pathetic and scared that you actually believe wearing one of these is an option, you should most likely be hospitalized. Yes, one in every eight women are sexually assaulted in their lives but I am not wearing a man made vagina tooth just in case I am one of them. First off, unless I am walking all bowlegged, no on will know I got a fucking snaggletooth up my vagayjay. Then if I do get raped and my plastic apparatus bites them, they aren't going to be too happy. So lets see. Rape or rape and murder? Hmmm....Either way, its bullshit. I am sure there are some women who would feel safer with one inside them or who were already raped and are fearful of it happening again. Well get some karate training, an M-16, a fucking bodyguard but not that thing! Shit!

So now lets actually talk about the movie. Uhhhh...yeah, I have never really seen a castration scene in a movie, let alone three, one with a dog. I don't even have one of those things and I had to cover my eyes, as my BFF crossed his legs and screamed like a girl next to me. The best part of the entire movie was when she used her shit to bite off her step-brothers member. Then as he looks around to find the detached bit, she realizes where it is and "lets go." WOW! Let me say that again. WOW!

The movie also reminded me of my chastity/Jesus lovin' days. Of course I didn't have to be forced to spread my legs, it only took 12 shots of Absolute and a motel room in Port Angeles. It also reminded me how much I can't stand sexually repressed people. How lame is it to save your virginity? Who does that, other than Tori Spelling? I hope a bunch of Christian girls saw that movie and realized it was best to just give it up and not wait to stain their perfect white wedding dresses.

My good friend Frank was also in this movie. He has had a lot of starring roles lately, and I think he really has a career ahead of him.

Unplanned Blog War: Cloverfield

The anti-Frank response can be read here


What do you get when you combine a monster with a bad case of lice, five douches in their 20's, a couple of crazy Black (this detail will become relevant later) kids and one really angry audience member? You get the 9:20 showing of Cloverfield at Lloyd Cinemas.

So in case you didn't know I am one of those crazy obsessed Lost people. I also watched most of Alias and of course Felicity so me and J.J. Abrams are practically old friends. J.J. is capable of some shitty stuff but I felt I owed it to him to go see this movie. I hadn't read any reviews and didn't really have any expectations (probably a good idea). The whole apocalyptic NYC concept is getting pretty old. I kept expecting Ben Affleck to jump out and announce he was going to save this "great fucking city." I feel that Cloverfield could have been so much more effective if it had taken place in Kansas City or Sacramento.

This film could have been a lot more compelling if I wasn't pulling for all the characters to die within 30 seconds of appearing on the screen. It reminded me of going to frat parties in college and always feeling like I didn't belong because I was surrounded my mindless ass holes who wanted to fuck and party. Yeah I wanted to fuck and party but with people who knew the difference between Simon and Garfunkel and Simon Cowell. Lucky for me they did ALL die in the end, though I wish I could have seen them get bitten and explode like Marlena, no contamination sheet needed.

Now to the most likable character of the movie, the Monster, who I will lovingly refer to as Frank. You see Frank had the least amount of character development. I don't know if he came from the Al Qaeda's secret ocean bunker or Rosie O'Donnell's ass, but he was pretty awesome. The best thing about this movie was despite a giant Frank overtaking the city, no one really focused on where he came from. I know you say, how could they think about Frank's origins when they are fighting for their lives? Well if you look back you will remember that all these jerks dragged their asses to midtown just to get Beth. That takes some thought process. I don't understand that process because I am a save yourself type of girl. Now if it was Gael Garcia Bernal I might consider turning around but something tells me no one would be accompanying me. Anyway no one, including all the news anchors said, "did that come from the Lost island? "

Now to the Black part. So as me and Harry and my BFF (though I didn't know he was in the theater. STALKER!) intently watched the film, there was a bit of a commotion. Several teenagers in the theater who had pretty much been talking the whole time and running back and forth like fucking lunatics, got a little too loud. Right when Frank becomes apparently clear to all audience members, they get whack. Then this crazy guy in one of the front rows stands up and starts screaming at them (his words escape me now). To make a long story short, a fight came close to breaking out, I witnessed the biggest pussy security guard ever and everyone got their money back but me because I went out the wrong exit to see seven fucking police cars because everyone knows Portland cops have nothing better to do on a Saturday night. So I was thinking, your Black, you're watching Cloverfield, where there are NO Black characters and your in Portland, full of crackers. This is society breaking you down, so you might be a little ADHD during the movie right?

Fuck if I know. Wish I had got my money back. I want a Frank action figure for my birthday.

"I just had to get it. It totally reminded me of you!"

This morning I received a package in the mail from my friend Annie. She told me she was sending me a late Christmas gift. She hadn't told me what it was but had called me when she bought it. She was really excited and said, "I just had to buy it. It totally reminded me of you!" When I opened "it," took it out and placed in on my desk, I couldn't not stare. However, I wasn't starring in awe or wonder. A fear gripped me as I looked at the nails, bullets and silver charms and I wondered, "how does this resemble me? Am I a cracked green piece of driftwood adorned with charms from times long ago, with four bullets coming out of the top, scaring off anyone who might want to touch me?"

Other than the leather briefcase on wheels my dad gave me for Christmas, this is the weirdest gift I have ever received. I'm afraid to light the vanilla scented candle because its being held in place by bullets, which a co-worker tells me have already been fired. I have my doubts. As this "thing" sits in front of me, I can't help but feel uncomfortable. Maybe its the fact that it creates a need to look inside myself and see how I am like "it." Maybe its because there is a green piece of wood with bullets on it sitting on my desk. Either way, something is wrong.

Blog War: Our Love to Admire and Bodysuits

For this blog war, I will need to bring my wit and intellect down a notch so the retard who participates can comprehend. Also for the benefit of their autism is the pronunciation key below. All you need to do is click on the pretty gray picture. Go on, click it!

pro·gres·sion /prəˈgrɛʃən/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation

1.	the act of progressing; forward or onward movement.

When I was 8 years old I owned and valued a floral bodysuit. It had purple petunias and looked beautiful with my black tapered jeans. If you aren't familiar with bodysuits its necessary to point out how they must retain that tightness factor in order to exude the awesomeness factor.

There are two flaps with three buttons that can be snapped at the crotch. To take this wondrous piece of clothing off you must either unsnap the buttons and pull it up or wiggle out of the shoulders and pull it down. Both options create issue. If you choose the snapping option you must then re-snap to get it back on. This can be quite complicated as you need to stretch the material past the crotch and then bend over in order to view which snap goes where. As an 8 year old I did not have the sort of brilliant hand eye coordination I now possess.

Then there is the downward pull alternative. Though this doesn't create as many issues getting on and off it does offer the possibility of stretching out the body suit. There is one element that makes or breaks the amazingness of a body suit, its tightness. Loose this and you got nothing. You might as well wear a turtleneck and change your name to Sandy. So by pulling the bodysuit on and off it begins to sag, loose its shape and in my case had the potential to put more emphasis on the boyish haircut I had due to my mom taking me to a hair salon in Vancouver called Hair Country.

For the two necessary times during the day in which I had to put on or take off the body suit for dressing purposes I would take the snap option, as I had more time to devote to the process. However, there were also the numerous times during the day that I had to remove the bodysuit for the purpose or urination. I remember standing in the lime green stall with my pants around my ankles, debating which option made more sense. Then my 8 year old brain had a mental breakthrough. It had been an e=mc2, Moonlight sonata, mould=penicillin moment. I would hold the snap opening of the bodysuit to the side, as I peed. It was true brilliance.

So I sat on the toilet and my small prepubescent hand held the Lycra fabric to the side of the place I thought had two holes and not three and let my lunchtime chocolate milk out. As Niagara Falls continued, the fabric in my hand got tighter and tighter until I could no longer hold it. The bodysuit propelled its way back into place, pee splashed upwards and the purple petunias turned yellow. That night I unsnapped the bodysuit for the last time.

Buying that bodysuit and making that fashion statement showcased my awesomeness, pissing in the bodysuit was a mistake and putting the bodysuit on a hanger in my closet never to be warn again was a progression. I took a step forward, I learned from my mistakes and look at me now. WOW.

For Interpol, Turn on the Bright Lights was a showcase of awesomeness, Antics was a mistake and Our Love to Admire is a true progression.

The Blog War Continues-There Be Blood (Clever Double Meaning)

That's right it's a blog war!

After you are blown away by me, you can read my BFF's not as awesome response here.

It’s hard for me to come to any concrete conclusions about this film because part of me is still thinking "wtf?" from the last fifteen minutes. Just about every actor in this movie blew my mind. I didn’t think that films were capable of the type of cinematography that TWBB showcases. I was made to feel like I was covered in oil and had grown a mustache. However, I still can’t consciously say it was the best film of the year or it changed my life. If anything, it bothered me on a lot of levels. I could go on about the father-son relationship, the switch of narration from Sinclair’s book or how long Daniel Day Lewis’ torso is, but I won’t.

Daniel Plainfield is one of the most vividly disturbing/compelling characters I have seen on the screen in some time. I wouldn’t go as far to say I have a soft spot for him but every now and again there is this dichotomy of an evil vengeful man and a sad guilt-stricken man. There is a part of Daniel that seeks redemption but when he does get it, it comes in the form of unwillingly accepting Jesus into his heart in exchange for land. Because he is a greedy, angry man, Daniel’s guilt for abandoning his child will never fully diminish.

After two and half-hours, Paul Thomas Anderson seems to give up on the film, plot and characters. Daniel is no longer fighting within himself over who he is. Suddenly he is a complete and total bastard. He tells his grown-up son (who I didn’t believe for a minute) that he is actually an orphan and then bashes Eli Sunday’s head in after reminding the pathetic preacher that he drinks his milkshake. "I drink your milkshake?" Excuse me? Remind me not to give my academy vote to Anderson for best screenwriting. Did they even have milkshakes back then? They didn’t even have cow’s milk just goat milk.

Daniel’s relationship with Eli Sunday is the most compelling of the film and yet it could have been so much more amazing. With Johnny Greenwood’s epic-creep-you-the-fuck-out soundtrack, I expected something absolutely prolifically satanical to happen. Ok, maybe no crucifix up the vagina but with Eli’s crazy preachin’ I did have higher expectations. But just when things are getting good, he jumps on a train. Sure his head might get bashed in at the end but I like to pretend those scenes never happened, as they were completely POINTLESS.

I would like to go back to the scene where Daniel Plainfield and his half-brother are laying on the beach, reveling in their accomplishments. They both lie their heads in the warm sand and close their eyes. Daniel sighs and you almost get a hint of a smile from his lips. Then there is a loud "plop!" Daniel looks up and the camera takes his eye view. From the sky comes a large dark green reptile and bounces off his forehead. Heavy droppings of green frogs followed by loud "ribbets" fall on Daniel and his brother. The two men stand up and look at each other in awe. As a frog slides off Daniel’s head and onto his shoulder, he looks at his brother and says, "I drink your milkshake." THE END.

Tell Thom!

How long have I been alive? And how have I never seen Radiohead? Finally a US tour was announced but guess who they forgot? The most important city of them all---PORTLAND! Well here is your chance to change that. I guess morning show Greg has some in, according to Ezra and End Hits so a petition has been created. I have already emailed from my numerous email accounts and now its your turn. Please help change my life by letting me hear Green Plastic Watering Can's live. All you have to do is send an email to portlandwantsradiohead@gmail.com and tell them Radiohead needs to come to Portland.

Getting my Shit Together!

So on a depressing Sunday morning (even though it's sunny out) I decided to read last year's New Years resolutions. Not sure I met any of them but the one I found most prolific was to stop bashing bands on my blog. That must have been before I kicked the Valium habit (that was another resolution) because I did continue that and plan to continue this tradition through the year of 2008.

I never actually stick to resolutions but more or less write them so I have something to laugh at the next January 1st. So here we go. Buckle up, sit back and read 10 things that will probably never happen.

1) Get a boyfriend
-This has nothing to do with wanting a boyfriend. The whole concept really turns me off and I don't think I have ever enjoyed being single as much as I do now. However in order to discontinue some of my current behaviors I can only imagine a boyfriend would do this. The other option of a chastity belt and rehab just doesn't sound too appeasing.

2) Continue acting like I am 24 without guilt.
-Ever since I have moved back from LA I have finally started having fun and not being the ass hole at home on a Friday night. However some of my actions have derived a decent amount of this thing called guilt. Maybe without it I would actually get out of control but I am sick of waking up and cringing due to the night before. I am one my youngest friends so I should revel in this and remind all the 30 somethings how awesome that is.

3) Try to remember what a life plan is
-I used to have pretty much everyday of the next 5 years mapped out. Now I am lucky if I can figure out Wednesdays. Then again I am supposed to be in D.C. working as a journalist in some brownstone by now. After LA I just gave up on knowing what I should be doing with myself. Its actually way less stressful. Actually I think its a good thing. nevermind.

4) Dust more.
-I can see the dust on the tv and the wall clock. People must judge me.

5) Stop telling people I have a cat and then say he only has one eye.
-It's not even a disability and yet I feel the need to enlighten everyone of this fact. It's like when my grandma starts out a story with "I was talking to this Black man..." only to finish the story and realize race had nothing to do with it. I am sorry Odi.

6) Be on time.
-I am such a procrastinator and its already 2. I am going to be late. Sorry I didn't make it to 10.

The Shortcomings of Bloggers

You can read the other (wrong) opinion here

99.9% of people who write about music, do it for the wrong reasons. These hipster douche bags possess high trafficked blogs for one purpose. They want to be the tastemakers. These were the kids in high school who sat in the corner picking their noses, had their first sexual experience at 25 and still own an Atari. Lucky for these freaks, unattractive traits are now dubbed "cool."

Then there is me. Heather "the one" Nordeen. My awesomeness is not transmitted by a 3,000-word essay on the technical innerworkings of Grizzly Bear’s new single. No! I am here to pull the reproduction shag rug out from under all the ass holes who think they are making amazing music and in turn, remind the music blogging community that we have a responsibility to blog the bad.

This isn’t about YOU, the blogger and how extraordinary your music tastes are. This is about outing all the artists and bands who are taking us down a very dark road.
They are forcing my peers and I to be remembered with the same disdain as the disco generation. This is the red scare and I am Joseph McCarthy.

I have been on many a first date where things are going well and then after too many vodka-crans I ask the infamous question, "Who are your favorite bands?" Soon a small about puke wanders its way up my throat as the person in front of me responds with "Jens Lekman, Xiu Xiu, MIA, Deerhunter, Animal Collective. You know." I suddenly realize the person who I was considering sleeping with is absent a brain and a walking Stereogum blog.

As bloggers, we must remind these impressionable idiots that there is such a thing as your own opinion in music. Yes its possible you might loose some of your "hipster cred" (which some people I know hold on a pedestal) but at least when Brooklyn Vegan posts about how great Ashlee Simpson’s new album is you will be able to stop and say NO! This is wrong!

We can’t continue to allow these bloggers to let their narcissistic music picks dictate our lives. Of course some of the bands that these blogs say are wonderful, are wonderful. But I am not here to say "good job!" I am here to tell Brandon Flowers he is a Mormon douche obsessed with early Springsteen. God has put me on this earth to remind people that just because a band has an animal in its name does not make it groundbreaking.

You can call me a hypocrite and say I am no different than the rest but you are wrong. What separates me from the music-nazi bloggers is that I am never wrong. I am amazing. I am Heather "the one" Nordeen and my criticisms are as good as the word of God.

Blog WAR

If my rantings on musical blasphemy aren't enough conflict for you, the blog of all blog wars has begun between my #1 BFF and myself. Though he may present some sort of challenge I have confidence that I shall come out as the winner of each and every entry. There has been some misgivings about how this conflict originally began. Though he may have impregnated me with Satan's offspring, I believe the issue started in the recovery room after his unfortunate accidental sex change. He couldn't seem to find humor in having his genitals removed instead of his tonsils. His lack of regard for this amusing situation forced me to start the blog war, as a means to help him cope with the loss. Though I may hold some sympathy, I will crush him. Let it begin... And one more thing...who the hell is Ben Goots?

The Obligatory Rivers Cuomo Post

First I want to make something clear: I haven’t listened to this album and have no plans to. I devoted a good seven years of my life to this man so don't tell me I am being a hypocrite. I don't have to listen to it to rail on it. Do you go to the wedding of the ex who is getting married to the girl he cheated on you with before you bitch him out? NO!

Alone: The Home Recordings of Rivers Cuomo is full of eighteen tracks of music that Rivers recorded from 1992 to 2007. I admit that I might really appreciate hearing the original recording of Buddy Holly or unheard songs from the ominous Black Hole album. However, I got fucking principles. Not to mention there just happen to be three other band members involved and yet this is a Rivers Cuomo album?

So why blog about an album I have never heard? Because to this day I cannot retire the disdain and anger I have towards Rivers reprehensible behavior that started with The Green Album. Its not just what happened after Pinkerton, it’s the fact that to this day Rivers still doesn’t realize what he did to some of us. Ten years later he thinks we have all gone away or forgotten. Well I haven’t forgotten about Hash Pipe and I am not alone. If hell continues to freeze over Weezer will make another album and unless time travel is invented and Rivers can go back and tap that talented naïve little boy, we are in for another musical disaster.

People tell me I need to move on with my life, leave The Blue Album and stop singing My Name is Jonas when I am getting fisted by the gyno to calm myself. But I won’t. I refuse. If it wasn’t for that album I wouldn’t know the difference between Three Dog Night and Nate Dog. We can’t forget until one day Rivers is sitting in his Asian pagoda, clutching his guitar, singing El Scorpio in between sobs as he realizes what he did to us. I will never forget.

Back

I left the blogging planet for a short while but I am now back. Though I seem to focus on music I have decided to make things a bit more general since the Killers won't have a new album out anytime soon. I have an inclination that this is going to be the biggest thing to hit the internet since porn, so sit back and enjoy my pure wit, intellect and life lessons.