I am Edie Sedgwick and this is my little corner of the web.
A room of my own where I gather my thoughts and explore my aesthetic.

My drum studies continue in prepartion for my 09.11.07 show. I have mastered the kick and snare drums. This weekend, I must concentrate on the hi-hat and ride cymbal. That leaves Monday to master the floor tom, and I should be good to go.

I watched “The Sarah Silverman Show” on Comedy Central today. The show was not “live”—I ordered it “On Demand” via Comcast. I’m not sure why I demanded “The Sarah Silverman Show.” I was curious about her unique brand of sexy racist toilet humor, I suppose.

Sarah Silverman emphasizes that the characters on her show do not learn lessons and do not grow/mature. In the 1990’s, “Seinfeld” pioneered this “no-learning” aesthetic and midwifed the postmodern sitcom. In 2007, so many shows now emulate “Seinfeld’s” no-learning aesthetic that, every once and awhile, I wish that sitcom characters did grow/mature. Fortunately, “Everybody Loves Raymond” and “Friends” are still syndicated. Thus, there is ample opportunity for Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, Monica, Chandler, Joey, Raymond, his wife, his mother, his grouchy father, his numerous children and I to grow/mature together.


I am playing a show here next Tuesday, 09.11.07. My drummer of choice is unavailable—thus, I will be forced to play the drums myself. This is an obstacle—I do not know how to play the drums or any other instrument, and have to digest the whole history/art/idea of percussion in the next seven days—but not an insurmountable one. I mourn our nation’s current drummer drought. Of course, any yo-yo can play the drums. However, to play the drums well—tastefully, with attention, and without playing a bunch of stupid jackoff fills—is no easy task. If you are a drummer who is tasteful, attentive, and does not play a bunch of stupid jackoff fills, please contact me. Women preferred.

I watched The Painted Veil (2006) starring Edward Norton and Naomi Watts on DVD last night. Like Superbad (see 09.02.07), this film was anti-feminist and conservative. I think The Painted Veil is about the transcendent power of marriage. Perhaps Moonies will appreciate this: Naomi Watts follows Edward Norton to a Chinese cholera zone to salvage their loveless marriage. There, they find love, but Norton dies of cholera. Maybe they should have stayed out of the cholera zone—loveless and un-transcendent, but alive.

I guess I spoiled The Painted Veil for anyone who hasn’t seen it by revealing the ending. Trust me—if you are interested in China, marriage, or cholera, this movie’s still worth a look.

I saw Superbad (2007) in the theater last night. Superbad was occasionaly hilarious, but unexpectly dark. At some points (“cool” cops strategize to cover up drunken rampage, numerous fistfights break out at coke party, pedophile runs over main character in parking lot), the film was decidedly unfunny. The 40-Year Old Virgin and Knocked Up(2007), producer/wunderkind Judd Apatow’s two other critically-hailed works, were better-crafted, though—in their bizarre takes on pre-marital sex and abortion—conservative and terrifying.

If there is a difference between Superbad and Porky’s (1982), I am hard-pressed to understand that difference. Just because a film is made by a “sensitive, smart” producer fetishized by NPR doesn’t mean it is not an anti-feminist pseudo tit-flick. In a pivotal scene in Superbad, a drunken partygoer menstruates on a main character’s leg while “freaking” him on the dancefloor. This was funny. However, the message—“mestruation is gross”—is offensive.

A gentlemen sitting behind me in the theater yelled “Faggots!” at the screen when Superbad’s two main characters explored homoeroticism for laughs. “If them faggots kiss, I’m leaving,” the man remarked. After the film, his comment led to a discussion about my own use of the word “faggot” and phrase “that’s gay.” I declared that my use of these homophobic slurs might be “sensitive” and “smart” but, ultimately, was offensive. However, I will continue to say “faggot” and “that’s gay” when I feel the setting is appropriate and no one will be offended. This begs a question: if you say “faggot” in the forest where no one is offended, did you engage in hate speech?

This question is fascinatng for a minute but, like all “Zen” paradoxes, is ultimately revealed as tedious.

I offer a silent prayer for American comedic visionary Owen Wilson, who may have attempted to schedule an appointment with the Grim Reaper this week. Thankfully, the star of Anaconda (1997) and Armageddon (1998) was unsuccessful.

I watched Shortbus on DVD last night. The problem with sexually-explicit films made by the L Train crowd is that they are less sexy than “thinky.” I prefer old-fashioned, shitty, overtly sexist porn. Still, one brave Shortbus actor ejaculated on his own face in the name of art. I can make as make snarky comments as I want, but while that actor was cumming on his own face in the name of art, I was probably struggling with the ProTools upgrade I bought at Guitar Center.

I watched “South Park” on Comedy Central last night. In this episode, “Smug Alert,” residents of South Park buy hybrid vehicles. This leads to more pollution, as “smug”—a.k.a. the alleged “I’m better than you” attitude of hybrid vehicle drivers—threatens the town. Humor ensues.

A friend of mine hates “South Park” because he feels the show’s creators erect a veneer of edginess and risk-taking around their creative product but, ultimately, they are “pretty much okay with the way things are”—global warming, George W. Bush, the war in Iraq, et cetera.

I find this assessment accurate.

I watched The Maltese Falcon (1941) on Turner Classic Movies last night. Turner Classic Movies is an appropriate channel for The Maltese Falcon, since the famed John Huston film is ranked #23 on the American Film Institute’s “100 Best American Movies” list and oozes class.

Film noir—of which The Maltese Falcon is a prime example—is often called existential. Yet, Humphrey Bogart’s Sam Spade transcends mere Sisyphean struggle. “I won’t play the sap for you,” he snaps as he turns in his lover Brigid O’Shaughnessy (played by Mary Astor) a murderess. Though Spade is a cynic, he cannot betray his bourgeois sense of honor. Were he a true existentialist, Spade would take the rap and, like Ruben “Hurricane” Carter or Judith Miller, report dutifully to prison and suffer in silence.

I watched M. Night Shyamylan’s The Village (2004) on the American Movie Channel last night. Since I read O. Henry as a young girl, I have been skeptical of “gotcha”-style twists within narrative structure and, post-Unbreakable(2000), a Shyamalan detractor. Though a Shyamylanian twist might thrill, this tiresome device does little to advance the themes of his cinematic works. When I saw The Village in the theater, I groaned at the “Oh shit! These ancient villagers live in the present!” conclusion.

My second visit to The Village revealed the genius of Shyamylan’s direction. I had wondered why William Hurt and Sigourney Weaver had phoned in such wooden performances in stilted “olde timey” dialogue. Now I understood—though they live in the present, these characters must self-consciously act as though they live in the past. Thus,The Village is trebly metaphysical:

Reality #1: William Hurt/Sigourney Weaver themselves as actors in The VillageReality #2: William Hurt/Sigourney Weaver’s characters as “olde timey” elders in The Village Reality #3: William Hurt/Sigourney Weaver’s characters denying the present in The Village

In short: a “meta/meta/meta” Shyamylanian layer cake of postmodernity.

I played this dyke bar last night. All dykes present were friendly and accommodating. All biologically male customers are required to have a female escort. I was assured this rule would be waved if I wanted to visit in the future and was taught a “secret handshake” to guarantee entry. Because this “secret handshake” is classified (and obscene), I cannot describe it further here.

I watched Patton (1970) on the American Movie Channel today. George C. Scott won Best Actor in the title role, but refused to accept the award. “The Oscars are a meat parade!” C. Scott exclaimed. I wondered if George C. Scott had participated in a “tobacco parade” before filming Patton. His teeth look quite nicotine-stained.

I am playing a dyke bar on Sunday. Very curious to see how the other half lives. My diplomatic mission makes me think of Nixon in China, or the SALT treaty negotiations between Leonid Brezhnev and Jimmy Carter.

I watched Barefoot in the Park (1967) starring Jane Fonda and Robert Redford on Turner Classic Movies today. Jane Fonda was a gifted actress—a young, beautiful diva. I regret that she betrayed our nation in Vietnam.