monicalorandavis

[monicalorandavis]

I think love

I’ve been thinking about you again, you dreamy bitch. Where’ve you been hiding? 

I’m only asking to make conversation. I like to ask big questions like that as a way to divert attention away from myself. Philosophy is poetry pointed at yourself. It’s a way of making love to your own mind.

But where is love now? I haven’t seen it in so long. I’m asking you, the internet reader, because I can’t actually just sit with the loneliness. I am dead without romance. 

I choose not to blame myself because that feels self-deprecating and I don’t care for that. I think self-indulgence should be fun and irreverent. Self-deprecation is self-indulgence pointed the wrong way. In, not out. It’s maudlin. And maudlin women make me think of the best friend from Buffy who shoved a flute up her pussy. 

And yet...

Something is not right. I must acknowledge my neurological tricks because I have many. That is the truth, plain and simple. I have played them well. I see now I’ve created this loneliness as a cage of sorts. I have lived impenetrably. High up in the castle. I have used my mental jungle to keep visitors out. 

All my smarts have sharpened my inner critic. I’ve got Siskel and Ebert running the play by play of my daily life.

Judgment has become water - nourishing, necessary. There was a time when love did that. When I loved someone and he made me feel better, more whole, more myself. I would go all day without food, sated by the warmth of his attention. 

It didn’t last long. Nor should it have. He cheated then lied. That story repeated and repeated again. Sometimes they were drunks. Sometimes they were drug addicts and drunks. 

I am good at moving on. I am good at cutting people off. My needs are not really needs as much as they are things to be tackled. They are temporary. I am a survivalist. Feelings are obstacles that I overcome. I stalk and hunt them and, of course, because I am always this way, conquer them. 

But I fear conquering is not an important part of love and growing old. I am so lonely now that I have lots of conversations by myself. I think I have been too strong. It is, as I have long suspected, not such a good thing. My discipline has become handcuffs. I see people who have found the person they’ve chosen, for life. They are not interested in winning life like I am. They are normal. 

Again, I reflect on the things I have too much of. 

I am too pious. I am too righteous. I have been preparing for the trial of my life like, at some point someone will replay all my decisions and weigh them like a prime rib. 

This is a unique ministry. Most people think, “Only God can judge me.” As if their inadequacy does not plague them. As if they are not being measured by their own impossible standards.  

But I have learned things from my observation deck. 

Love is about softness. To be a woman, a desirable woman, I must be so soft that I can slip into someone’s pockets. It is easier to be held when you are a squishy small cotton ball. That means I must break now, just a little.

I think I am starting to.

Whatever it is, I am changing. Things are coming my way. I will break down. I will cry out. I will go slow. I will say, “Ok great idea” when I know it is a bad one. Maybe in 30 years I will look back at this time and say, “You were so funny little Monica how worried you were,” because my life will be so safe and full of grandkids and my husband will be carving wood and my dog will be keeping my feet warm and outside the window there are birds singing to each other, returning to their nest with worms to share. 

And beyond that, a lonely bird will sing to no one and I will hear him too. Like I always have.

[monicalorandavis]

The last date

I met “Lee” at a singles event I’d learned about from TikTok. I was unimpressed with the selection of men there so I drank too much. I rolled my eyes at the small talk happening around me. My friend and I kept getting separated and I clung to the wall, drink in hand. 

I made friends with a lovable lesbian who took a shine to me. “Lee” took a photo of my friend and I on his phone. Then he sent it to me so he’d have my number. I knew he was doing this as a ploy. Too awkward to let it happen naturally. Or maybe he thought himself clever. I allowed it because he was fat and harmless. He was tall and had nice eyes and I don’t care much about fatness. So maybe, I thought, I could give this one a shot.  

The text the next morning confused me.

“I hope I didn’t offend you.” 

Then another one:

“So sorry if you’re upset.”

I was panicking. I had no recollection of being upset, offended nor did I have this mysterious number saved. Then,

“You seemed drunk and I didn’t want to take advantage.”

Enough now. I asked what the hell was going on. Lee told me I had ordered him to kiss me but he refused because I was drunk. This I did not remember. If this was the guy I thought it was, I would have done no such thing. Probably. 

Frantically, I texted my friend. She didn’t recall any such behavior so I responded to Lee, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please explain.”

To this, he responded, “Oh in that case, let’s drop it!” 

I was thrown off. Was this another scheme to get my attention? He succeeded. Before I knew it, he asked me out but that night was my birthday party. And I was casually dating a few other people at the moment. I dared not invite him. I was already feeling guilty about not inviting the man I was sleeping with (and sad about the other other man I was sleeping with who had not wished me happy birthday). 

At any rate, Lee asked me out the day after my party but I didn’t want to go to the event in question. (Some car show downtown that had a corny Instagram flyer.) But he wasn’t discouraged.

Over the next few days, he asked me out many more times to random events that all sounded very adult dodgeball league. Not bad, per se. Just...suburban. I turned my nose up and refused. I don’t like meeting strangers over shared interests. I don’t like activities. When it comes to dates, especially first ones, I expect a dinner and my meal to be expensive and paid for.

After two weeks of these pseudo date invitations, I told him, “If you want to go out with me, you need to ask me out on a proper date. None of this group crap.” And he, maybe embarrassedly, agreed this was an appropriate course of action. 

He invited me to see “Everything Everywhere All At Once” and I said yes. But even this proved difficult. 

He canceled the first time to watch a college basketball game with his friends, and, I, trying to be amenable, allowed this because I too am a basketball fanatic. But after the game, when I asked if his team won, he admitted he was not much for basketball. The game was just “very exciting” and he thought it better to watch with his friends. I was in disbelief. He was very apologetic. 

Was I missing something? The lovable lesbian from the singles event shared that Lee was feeling nervous because I was sexy. This seemed logical. I am very sexy.

My texts turned cold. I responded with one word answers and he got the hint, scheduling the do-over and procured tickets. I forgave him. All the other men I was dating had fizzled out. Plus, with so many of my friends in relationships, I decided that in order to be in a relationship, one has to be easygoing.

The day of our movie date, Lee showed up half an hour early and started texting me, “Hey are you hungry?” He was prone to a barrage of texts so I didn’t know where this was going. I was about to get in my car to head to the theater. I didn’t have time for a meal before the movie. I replied, “I ate a little while ago but might be hungry after the movie.” A little presumptuous that I'd even want to hang out after but I had to admit, I admired the forethought. 

I could not have guessed what he said next. He replied, “I spotted an Indian buffet across the street and the aromas called me over.”  Repeat: Indian buffet minutes before a movie date. It’s giving cheap. It’s giving fragrant. It’s giving strange.

I am gobsmacked. “Do your thing,” is all I could text him. I am in my car, boiling with rage, headed to the Landmark on Pico when I should be driving off a cliff into the Pacific Ocean. This is my rock bottom. I am running into the house fire. But I can not stew in this tikka masala spiral for long because Lee follows up with, “Hope you’re not getting fancy because I’m not.” As if I’m the one who needs a note on how to dress. As if he would be wearing a tux to an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. I immediately texted my best friends with updates.

“This man is getting Indian food before the movie. And told me he isn’t ‘fancy’. He is a psychopath, correct?” 

Each of my friends was too stunned to respond without sarcasm. “Monica, this man is going to murder you.” 

“I know,” I responded. But it was too late. Maybe murder was what I wanted after all. 

When I arrived into the lobby of the theater, Lee was nowhere to be found. I went to the restroom to cool off. When I exited, I spotted him. He was wearing a melange of mismatched gray hues. His grey sneakers were cheap and beat up. His grey beanie was too small for his head. His stomach poked out from underneath his henley that was a size too small. The only thing that wasn’t grey was the bag across his chest that was “full of snacks” (his words). I wanted to leave but he hugged me, cloaking me in an envelope of oniony body odor. He paid for my popcorn and a glass of wine and I followed him into the theater. I was in shock. He reeked and was perspiring nervously. Sober now, I could see that this man was a bumbling oaf. I had been charmed by it in my drunken madness but now, at 1:30 on a Sunday afternoon, I was scared someone would recognize me with him. I sunk into my seat. Just then, his phone rang. It was his mother. He answered.

They talked for several minutes and I sarcastically said, “Tell her I say hi”. That needlessly confused her and she needed minutes of explanation. After too long, he ended the call and we were able to talk. He became inquisitive. I was asked many deep questions I didn’t see coming. During a trailer for the A24 psychodrama, “Men”, he asked suddenly if I was pro-choice. I replied curtly, “I’m pro-abortion,” and he dapped me. I rolled my eyes. What was I doing here? I looked to the exit. 

But then the movie swept me up. I felt myself softening towards him on account of the quality of the film. It was emotional and visually stunning. I realized this date was a metaphor for life: the twists and constant disappointments. I cried and so did he. When it ended, we filed out like everyone else and I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I felt high with creative energy. I had high hopes that this date would be good. I’d put on makeup and a clean pair of jeans. Maybe I was being too harsh on him. Maybe he would take me to lunch and that’s when I would meet a handsome stranger. I could turn this day around with the right attitude. I just knew it. 

He asked if West Hollywood was far and I said not really. Turned out, he didn’t have a car and was headed to a business meeting. He asked if I wanted to come along. The audacity startled me and I said yes. My day was free and I couldn’t think of a lie. The drive took 15 minutes or so and he seemed suddenly ashamed that it was taking so long. But as we talked, I realized, through another interview session, he was very serious about settling down, as I was, and that was a good thing.  

He asked me about my parents and I asked him about his. When we arrived at the location of his meeting he pointed out a bookstore nearby and begged to go inside like a child. I love bookstores so I needed no convincing. Once entering, he treated the bookstore like a grand adventure and pointed out many different displays that we needed to discuss. I was entertained. He read me a poem and asked that I read him one too. Then he bought me a book and we met up with his business colleague for a few hours and it was lovely. Everything turned out to be much more normal in the presence of a third party. It settled his constant questioning and he conducted himself in a professional manner. But he still sweated in a concerning way. I assumed it was from being in the presence of such a beautiful woman as myself.

Many hours later than I expected to be done, I headed home but not before he asked to see me again. He was quite literally blushing and I hated to admit that I’d actually had a good time in the end. His business colleague was sort of cute and maybe I could see him again one day. I agreed to another date with this strange, sweaty, poorly-dressed, onion-smelling man.

While Lee was certainly the oddest man I’d gone out with, I was unprepared for the second date he suggested. He invited me to sunbathe at his friend’s house who he was house-sitting for. I had the afternoon free and this seemed like good material. He warned me it was a long drive, deep into the valley. I needed some sun and had reading to do for class. Plus, I deserved some pool time. I started on my trek optimistically. If Lee turned out to be the man I ended up with this would be a wonderful story. But when I arrived, I had no service and Lee made jokes about there being cameras in the bathroom. I felt the hairs on my neck stand up. I was one hour from home at a stranger’s house with a man I barely knew. And now I had no cell service. He was not handsome enough to make serial killer jokes. I don’t think he was even handsome enough to be a serial killer. Ted Bundy he was not. More John Wayne Gacy. But JWG killed plenty of folks too. I guess serial killers come in all forms. 

No matter. I had just driven straight into his web. This could get bad fast. I started thinking how to get out of there. I was aware of everything he said and kept a mental log of it. I recounted every turn I had made on the way there. Worst comes to worst, I could beat him in a foot race.

The weather proved to be on my side. It provided a lovely excuse to leave quickly. The wind caused a commotion and I couldn’t do much sun bathing. I needed to get out before it was dark. Just in case, I started writing my obituary in my head. I knew this scenario was sketchy. I could be found dead in a stranger’s house wearing a blue bikini. Sensing my anxiety, Lee started throwing money at me which is all it takes for me to drop my guard. He offered me many cannabis treats and edibles and ordered me a burger. I sent a text to my friends in hopes it would reach them in time. I made sure my location was turned on. 

When the food arrived, Lee put on some Disney+ show and started massaging my very dry feet. He leaned in to kiss me and I could feel his nose running. I was sure at this point, God would be merciful and let me die of a heart attack right there with this man’s runny nose dripping on me. But no, I had to pull away from him and excuse myself. I decided that, yes, murder was my punishment and let myself make out with this man. Before I knew it, he was all over me but my mind was light years away. 

After several minutes, he suggested we go upstairs and I agreed. That’s probably where the knives were so I might as well make it easier on him. The last thing I wanted was his heaving body flopping around as he fumbled with weapons. Giving him some dignity afforded me a little dignity in death, I surmised. The march upstairs was slow but I was stoic. He undressed and the sight of his naked body arrested me. 

This was not my fate. Something was wrong. With him. With this picture. I didn’t go to the gym six days a week to be murdered by an Indian buffet man with a runny nose. I was a beautiful, insecure, personal trainer with poor judgment but I was hot, god damnit. I realized the only way out of this was to play nice. We hooked up a little longer and I looked into his sad eyes. I tried not to bristle when he touched me. He told me he had suffered a sex-induced injury to his penis that effectively broke it. I knew this was my opening. He was vulnerable. I moved for my clothes. In one movement, I was up and heading downstairs. He mumbled something about the sunset and was on my heels alarmingly fast. He took me to some rock outside and put his arms around my waist. He could choke me to death at any moment. 

I thought about all the men I’d dated and how lucky I’d been. I could make it out once more, couldn’t I? I deserved one more shot. I looked at the sun slowly fade behind the hills and thought about my fading shot at freedom. Now or never. He opened his mouth to say something rude. I forget now what it was exactly but it was an effort to keep me there. I was now hip to his bag of tricks. “Negging” or another manipulation tactic the Pick-Up Artist advised. I didn’t acknowledge it and threw my things in a bag, making sure to take all the goodies he gifted me.

My feet hit the dirt road before I’d even put my sandals on. I bee-lined for my car. But again, he was faster than I expected. He was walking alongside me, practically running. I hopped in my car and he leaned into the door jamb. He kissed me sloppily and I slammed the door. I was making a U-turn before I exhaled. 

Ten minutes later, he called. I had left my sunglasses on the table. I would not be coming back for them. I could not think of anything I wanted less. They somehow seemed tainted by his having them. 

I got home 40 minutes later, speeding recklessly. My heart was beating so fast my chest was sore. I would not see Lee again. I could not be trusted to date anyone again. So now, I don’t date anyone. And frankly my life is very good. For years, my life was a disaster with sprinkles of humorous anecdotes. But at what cost? I wouldn’t die for this life. I didn’t deserve to die because I was in pursuit of one more good story.

My last two dates were with a man who I was initially charmed, then, repulsed by. In hindsight, that’s the story with all of them. I needed to fix the thing inside me that was broken, searching for connection with any weirdo that was interested. 

#dating #disaster

[monicalorandavis]

Sleep demon

Thank god it hasn’t turned green yet. But fuck, it’s big. It’s 90 degrees in LA so I can’t wear sleeves. I could but the sweat makes me look like I’m coming off a bender. Which, luckily, for once I’m not. Problem is, my clients keep noticing and I have to pretend I don’t see their pupils dilate. 

“It’s fine,” I tell myself. There are a million reasons why you’d have a hand-sized bruise on my arm.

They’re all bad reasons. 

The most obvious of course being that someone grabbed me. Someone really pinched down with their mitt for this sucker though. Could it have been an act of passion, they wonder. Love-making got a little rough? Sure. But not this time. The truth is stranger, and as a result, I delude myself.

I’m so busy, so it’s almost fine.

I went golfing yesterday. Well, technically, I went to the driving range. My mother got me a set of clubs because I mentioned to her I’d been to the driving range once with a friend. Being the person she is, she insisted that I have my own set of clubs. She mentioned something about meeting a man at the range and I rolled my eyes and accepted the gift. 

Anyway, men. This isn’t about men. But it is about a man. No one at the driving range though. It’s just that when I went golfing I got quite sore and when I changed clothes a few hours later, I saw the bruise and put 2 and 2 together and told myself, yes, the bruise could be from swinging the club so hard. I was waling on those poor bastards. 

But then, my friend mentioned the full moon and we said, “Isn’t it beautiful?” and they stopped looking at my arm for a moment. Then, our other friend, admiring the fullness of it asked, “Should we make a wish?” This reminded my friend that she’d had the strangest dream last night about a guy she used to sleep with. Then I remembered. I’d had a dream too. My face went white and their faces looked terrified. I was visited by my sleep demon. Some people call him Chris. They said, “Oh my god, Monica, we thought somebody died.”

It’s worse. My ex-boyfriend visits me in my dreams because he’s blocked on my phone and in my email. The only way he can contact me is when I’m defenseless and unconscious. 

He’d been fighting with me. In the dream (and when we dated). Things turned physical and he was holding on. As I explained this to my friends, I grabbed my right arm to demonstrate. The bruise was exactly the same size as my own hand. I’d been wrestling myself in my sleep. My stomach twisted. 

As other people drift off to bed and imagine flying to faraway lands, I inflict harm on myself. I scrape and scratch and kick and scream. I thought about all the other bruises that appear inexplicably. The years of sleep-walking. What it must be like to know peace. 

I remembered the time I felt a cigarette sear my skin. I woke up so frazzled I hadn’t even looked for matches. “it was just a dream,” I told myself, pulling my pajamas down over my stomach. Some things are better forgotten.

But the bruises are getting bigger. 

And Chris still visits. 

#dreams #nightmare #night terrors #sleep walking #sleep #can't sleep

[monicalorandavis]

Everything Everywhere All At Once

See it.

#everything everywhere all at once

[monicalorandavis]

Charles Douglas Johnson

It's my grandpa's birthday today. Many years ago, when he was alive, and it was my birthday, he'd send a card with 5, maybe 10, bucks in it and scribble something along the lines of, "Buy yourself a cheeseburger.” I would laugh and think, “How does he nail it every time?” 

When we were younger, my little sister and I spent the summers with him. I say it this way even though, in actuality, we spent only about 3 or 4 summers with him. This is a truth I admit to myself, and now you, because I think remembering the truth, even when you’re sentimentalizing someone, is very important. Then one summer, without any indication of his declining health we didn’t visit. Then he had a stroke.

But before the stroke, we had a lot of fun. No, I did. My younger sister was scared of him.

He hated that my younger sister and I never played outside. I’d venture a guess and say that he hated many, if not most, things about us. We were so annoying and stupid and obsessed with TV and had all these inside jokes and favorite lines from movies that we’d repeat ad nauseam - to think about it now seems like some torture my parents exercised upon an old man without any consideration that he was spending some of his last good years with two children who needed to be in an institution, not their grandfather’s care.

He hated us so much so that he forced us to camp in his backyard once. He forced us to. He left us a tent to assemble, a cooler with some hot dogs in it, a grill, and a black and white TV. He even made us a sign for the event and pitched it next to us, Camp Crockett. He was so proud of himself. He snapped a photo then wiped down his mustache with his first finger and his thumb like he always did when he would feel himself grinning. He never liked letting on that we were being funny. Oh, how I miss that. The refusal to give us an inch. (A gem, this man.) That evening, he locked the doors to the house and bid us adieu. 

That night, it started to hail. It was startling. My 7-year old sister and I, 11 at the time, panicked. We poked our fingers through the tent, and to our surprise, the tent disintegrated just there where we’d poked. Then, rain and hail started coming in through the holes. We were city kids. Born and raised in LA. We had no survival skills. I was sure that he was testing us. I wanted to pass the test so I figured we'd just have to sleep through the hail and soggy tent floor. She complained but I insisted this was normal. We'd probably get a cold, or something worse, but we'd survive. We were tough. We had hot dogs and a black and white TV. 

One good thing about being a city kid is your delusion. If you’ve been robbed, you’ll be ok. But then, minutes later, he appeared, in a rain jacket, his hat, holding a flashlight, with a faint look of concern plastered across his face. He told us to get inside at once. We, of course, did as we were told and left our things behind. We didn't talk about the hail or the tent in the morning. But they’d already been packed away. I figured, maybe he'd felt bad about the whole thing. But it was best never to discuss it. I was a good sport. I was the one who saw little green snakes in the backyard once and didn't scream. I could take anything. We ate our breakfast like normal.

There was another time at my grandpa’s house during that summer, or any other summer, when I ripped an ice cube from my tongue like the scene in Dumb and Dumber when Jeff Bridges’ tongue got stuck to the ski lift pole. I had seen the film already, obviously, and pressed an ice cube to my tongue to see if it would, in fact, stick. When it did, I panicked and went to rip it off, only, it didn’t budge. I tried to rip it off again and then felt the buds on my tongue peel away from the cube bitterly. It was slow motion. I had to stop a tenth of the way down. It was just too painful! 

I gathered my strength and courage and steeled my nerves to rip it off in one go. I remember calming myself down and then doing it, sitting in the upstairs TV room. But I immediately tasted the fresh tang of blood fill my mouth. This was more blood than I’d ever tasted before. Something was wrong. My tongue was bleeding too much. Not profusely, but, a lot. I didn’t have a towel nearby but the decorative pillow on my grandpa’s couch was the closest thing to me so I grabbed it. In a panic, I licked the pillow and saw a fresh streak of red blood across the back of its yellow canvas surface. My eyes widened and the cold realization of impending doom swallowed me whole. I was too terrified to confess. I flipped the pillow over and raced downstairs to my room and slammed the door. 

I don't know what he assumed happened but I never brought it up. He never confronted me about it and the anxiety of holding in that secret gave me a short fuse. A few days later, when I was brave enough to check the same yellow pillow I’d sullied, it was still stained with my guilty, now mud-colored stripe of blood. I assumed he hadn’t noticed it yet. But he must’ve at some point. Was it a week later? A few weeks later? A few months later? 

Nevertheless, he must’ve known it was me. He knew I must’ve done it. Who the hell else would it have been? He had no friends. He had no other visitors. But, for whatever reason, kindness, understanding, compassion, he never shamed me for it. 

I never forgot about the pillow either. Years later, when my grandpa was not speaking but still living in that house with his crazy second wife, “Mrs. Mitchum” who he used to call his “roommate”, I checked the pillow again. It was clean. Somewhere along the line he’d seen it and fixed it. He’d fixed it and never punished me. He figured it was best not to ask. And that feeling of blind forgiveness never left me.

And now, only now that I remember the pillow and its return to clean yellow, untainted, unstained status, I think of my grandpa and his sly smiles to himself when I would crack a joke. I imagine, when I’m really feeling hopeful, that we were there for him during those times in his 70s because he wanted to spend his last good, mobile, active years of his life with us. Had he asked my parents for that time? Had he been the one all along to ask for time with us? Perhaps my parents never offered us up after all. Maybe my parents hadn’t tricked him. Maybe he was acutely aware that things were slipping and he wouldn’t have much more time to show us around and take care of us. And I don’t think he would’ve dared to take us on as his wards if he wasn’t in fighting shape. Oh grandpa. What did I ever know?

He was always trying to toughen us up. I recognized his efforts but had no interest in participating. On several occasions, my grandpa would take us to the lake he enjoyed walking around but my sister and I were too lazy to walk with him. We insisted that he should leave us behind at the jungle gym because no kidnapper was crazy enough to take us. We were always right. No adult even looked twice at us. We were trouble and any pedophile could see it from a mile away. 

But then, one night, my grandpa left us at the jungle gym and the sun set. We were swinging on the swings and my sister dismounted but screamed before hitting the sand. She was prone to fits of dramatics so I brushed it off. But then, she continued to wail and scream and flail her body in possessed circles. She wasn’t joking. She got a fly stuck in her eye but was too hysterical to bring herself to verbalize the horror for several minutes. By the time she caught her breath, my grandpa was racing our way. He started asking me what was wrong in agitated barks as he approached. I had no clue but was sure it couldn’t be that bad. She hadn’t fallen on anything. She wasn't bleeding. She looked fine. Her eyes were shut tight and she was crying. I couldn’t see anything unusual. Plus, it was now dark. My refusal to admit something was wrong only made her cry harder and derail her from her ability to use her words. She was maybe 8 (tops) at the time. Finally, he was able to still her small body and place a hand on her shoulder and pry open her eyes. 

There it was. A thick black fly, caught in her bottom eyelid. He peeled it out with a delicate swipe and she choked back snot. It was embarrassing and I wasn’t even the one crying. He was trying not to roll his eyes but I could tell he was sick of her histrionics. Even after the fly was out, she continued bawling. He clapped a hand too hard on her back to hurry her into the back of his truck and the aggression of it made her cry harder. Such was their way. He couldn’t stifle his judgment of us. We were soft. I knew this. She knew it. But she was too little to change. She needed to be soft. She was allowed to be soft still. 

He couldn’t get a grip on her sensibility. She was, for all intents and purposes, too sensitive and too emotional. No child, despite their age, should behave this way. He asked one time if she was “retarded” because she missed my mom so much that she started to cry after dinner. In hindsight, he would’ve been canceled but, he was from a different time. I think those sort of questions were OK then.

I would put on a brave face to show him I could be trusted. Yes, my little sister was weird and cried all the time. But I, I would prove to him I was a wise and dependable soldier.

He was my most favorite person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, is the thing. 

He was so funny and yet, so intimidating. He’s funnier than you’re imagining, by the way. You’re thinking of his funniness in jokes. But it was in his eyes. That stare. You won’t ever understand because you’ve never felt it. 

He thought I was funny too and that made me feel good. Ever since I was little. I could tell he thought I was special. He asked one time if I wanted to be a singer because I was singing Britney Spears’ “Sometime” in the car. I must have done an alright job because when I scoffed that I could never be a singer he jibed, “Well, I don’t know what the hell else you’re gonna be.” And that felt right. He was always right. I wish I was always right. 

But not everyone can be right all the time. In fact, very few can. I’ve had the pleasure of knowing just one. But, I wonder, if everybody has that person. I hope so. Everybody deserves their North Star. The one who sees them and yet, they bend themselves into pretzels to impress. 

I wish I could tell him that the world he left was a little less racist, but I don't think that it is. I wish I could hear him laugh or sing or play the same melody on the keyboard. I have somehow, somehow forgotten the exact tenor of his voice and it makes me so, so sad. You think you'll never forget those things but then, suddenly, you do.

I told myself when he died that I would think about his voice every day so I’d never forget but it ended up hurting too much so I stopped. And then the memory slipped away in the middle of the night. 

But, if I’m being very honest, in between each vertebrae I still feel it. The electricity it used to spark. The sound of his keyboard plugging into the wall would make me climb up the stairs to his TV room. Late at night, some creative bug would nip at him and he’d tap at the keys and I’d sit on the stairs and watch him play between the metal bars of the stairwell. My butt planted just a few stairs away from the landing of the upstairs TV room, just feet away from the pillow I’d ruined. 

He’d warm up and play the same chords he always played. Then he’d look at me and sing a few bars of the same song he always sang. He’d go on like that until he allowed himself to really sing out. His voice floated in the air like a cloud. Warm like summer. 

Then I’d go up and sit on the floor underneath him and watch him like a star. I, his biggest fan.

Oh grandpa. Wherever you are. I hope you buy yourself a cheeseburger. 

[monicalorandavis]

loner

I don’t know that I miss people. I am reminded that life is not normal during the day when I have nowhere to go. But besides that, this lifestyle agrees with me greatly. You see, I’m quiet by nature. It’s only that I've learned the value in speaking up and taking up space so I do those things now with great ease. I do not enjoy being the center of attention. It just seems to be the way that I express myself best. 

But the inner world, the quiet me, is my truest me. I think of myself as an elf essentially. I have very specific skills that work towards a mission. Everyone recognizes me and my skills and navigates around me as such. 

There are those people who are mysterious. Their personality works within a system of riddles and mazes. To know them is to earn their respect. 

I am not such a person. I give of myself freely because I understand intrinsically how hard it is to be a person. To work for access seems wholly cruel when you consider any day could be your last. Do people not understand that life is fleeting? This moment now could be your last. These words I type could be my last recorded thoughts. It’s best to make your words true. So, if anything of mine be eternal, let me say what’s on my heart:

I am stupid and horny and lonely and quick-tempered, but, despite all this, I'd rather be alone.

[monicalorandavis]

covid

I found mouse poop on the headboard of my bed. I found some a few weeks ago and then some a few days ago. I’ve already cleaned out the closets. I’ve already thrown everything away. I’ve already sterilized the walls, the floors, the sheets. I cleaned out under my bed and found the little rice-shaped turds. It’s so disgusting. It keeps me up at night. And now, more.

Not a great time to call the exterminator. I can’t have a stranger with his germy boots traipse into the house. Who knows what he’ll bring with him? Nobody washes their hands. Certainly not the exterminator. Can’t trust him. Can absolutely not trust him.

Parents are too old to risk it. I’ll have to deal with the possible mouse attacks. I’ve looked up the diseases caused by mice and it seems that the mouse would have to pee directly into my mouth for me to be poisoned by it. So as long as that doesn’t happen we should be fine.

My cleaning lady sounded desperate in her text message. She actually used the word “desperate” and the vulnerability startled me. Jesus. Would I ever be so bold as to say I was feeling desperate? Never.

This is going to be bad. People’s fathers and mothers and daughters and brothers have died. They died in isolation. In beds where the people next to them were dying. 

The jails are fucked. Everyone will die there. The stench. The hacking. The moist air stuck to the walls. Damp and dank. They will die in hell.

I watch it all from my room, slowly growing more and more anxious. This is going to be very, very bad. 

My dad didn’t want Bernie Sanders to win and I blame him a little for his dropping out. The old guard couldn’t let the Socialist with the good ideas win. My sister didn’t get him either. What’s the deal with people in their 40′s? They make a little money and they can’t come to terms with paying higher taxes. Was being broke ever so bad?

Yes. It’s actually terrible and I know that. 

I hope I get that writing job. It’ll help with the anxiety. Not that I’d like to brag during these times. Everyone is so scared. Better not add to the general unease. Why can’t people just stay home?

#corona #covid

[monicalorandavis]

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco” is one of the best films I’ve ever seen

If you thought J.Lo’s snub for a Supporting Actress nod at The Oscars was outlandish then buddy, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” being shut out is unlawful. God damn is this movie a revelation. 

I find solace in this: great films don’t always win Oscars. We like to believe that excellence is to be rewarded but not always. Great films are often overlooked for their commercial counterpart. (Have you watched “Titanic” recently? Mehh...) It’s a cliche now that the Academy often rewards actors after totally getting it wrong at previous years’ ceremonies (Denzel won in 2002 for “Training Day” when he should’ve won in 2000 for “The Hurricane”, and the list goes on). So perhaps, justice for “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” will come down the line. Maybe it won’t. Maybe we’ve given far too much power to awards. All this external validation would make a Buddhist monk bristle. So, in an effort to take a page from said (completely hypothetical) monk, we must simply love something because it is good. Let go of the prize. The prize is in the doing. The prize is in the thing itself. And so I must love “The Last Black Man in San Francisco”. Yes, I’m a year late and for that I’m very, very sorry.

In my defense, it slipped through the cracks. Hear me out. So much so, the lack of publicity raised some questions on the internet (not enough questions that I actually watched the film but we’re moving on!!!). What’s worse is that it did absolutely everything right, winning Best Director (for first-timer Joe Talbot) at Sundance and a Special Jury prize for a Collaboration category. It was even picked up by A24. Yes artsy powerhouse A24 who’s got all the sad-girl faves of the last decade or so: “Mid90s”, “Eighth Grade” and “Ladybird”, just to name a few in recent memory. “The Last Black Man” should’ve soared. But I wonder if it was too good for across-the-board success. I know, I know. “Too good” is a fake thing we say to our friends who are single for ever and ever and I know this because I hear it all the time. But, really. In this case, it might be real. I wonder if this film fell victim to its own brilliance.

Sometimes works of art come to be that are so beautiful and rare that they go by undetected. Invisible in plain sight. They’re too shiny to see. Our eyes are not yet trained to see those colors. It’s true, you know. The Icelandic language has 45 words for green. So perhaps this was the case with Talbot’s masterpiece. We couldn’t quite see it yet. And now I will contradict myself by attempting to describe something you’ve never seen before and make you love it too.

It is a ballet of performance and sound. Images break-dance then freeze down to slow-motion tableau’s when you least expect. All while a masterpiece soundtrack plays. The film does not need such beautiful music. The music is the icing. No, even more superfluous, it is a beautiful, ripe, red cherry atop an already soaring picture. Indeed, the film is gorgeous on its own. Its charms inherent to the inherent charms of the city it depicts. The songs of “San Francisco” shine in such a way that I was compelled to study the person responsible. And to one Emile Mosseri, sir, you did that.

You don’t realize how much you know a place by the sonic landscape until sights are taken away. And here, and partly because we have a character who’s lost his sight, the filmmakers turned the volume up on San Francisco’s phonic touchstones. Those textures that make San Francisco a world-class city. The clanging trollies and humming ships at sea. Soft waves lapping constantly in the background and homeless people singing and musing to themselves. We all know San Francisco but somehow, we all got stuck with the old San Francisco and forgot to visit. I don’t think we know how bad things have gotten for regular folks in the last decade. Yes, Silicon Valley has changed the landscape but, did we know that it demolished whole neighborhoods? Generations of black people are gone, extinct. Well, as the film’s title suggests, just about. 

And it is interesting, isn’t it, how we love the things that push us away. (Cats spring to mind.) We love inanimate things in this way, as well. And for those who know San Francisco, and old San Francisco, the city is romantic, lonely, and, a little depressing. It’s in the fog and the water and the bridges and the trolleys. It belongs in a different time. It is no longer in that time. It is a figment of our imagination. But the fog persists and the filmmakers capture the dreamy texture of those billowy ground clouds. 

How it obscures things just two feet in front of you. And how frightful it is in a city like San Francisco full of cliffs and sharp angles. It’s a scary, high-up place. It’s a crowded, haunted, smelly, drunk place. Part city, part water. It’s a dangerous place. Earthquakes and fires. And it’s all anchored in this aching sadness that I long for, that the characters long for even while they’re standing in the center of it.

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco” takes those feelings and presses it against a story of friendship, a complicated, unusual friendship that doesn’t look like friendship stories we often see in movies. No, instead we get “Mont” and “Jimmie” (played by Jimmie Fails whose own family history inspired the script), friends who represent very different sides of old San Francisco archetypes: the artist and the skater. The California version of the comedy/drama mask.

This story felt like a daydream. More accurately, it felt like Jimmy and Mont’s daydream that I got to watch. And in the way we all imagine we get to observe our crushes when they’re unencumbered with performing for us, we see their soft parts. The secret parts. I think that’s why this movies breaks my heart again as I write this. We see nostalgic skater, Jimmie, lose his house and his family’s legacy. Playing the Sam to his Frodo is Jonathan Majors as Mont, acting his ass off in a role that needed a damn parade (but again, we release such expectations). Tender, strange, soulful, defiant, Majors is the actor of his generation. There is no one more equipped for the role of brave theater geek. Small but strong, strong-featured but sweet, the man possesses the sex appeal of another classically un-handsome sex symbol in the likes of Willem Dafoe or John Malkovich.

So, what’s the point of all this? Gentrification is bad? Things change? You can never go home?

Well, duh, that. Those. This. It’s all bad. It’s all changing. Home is an idea and you can never go back. 

But also, what if friends are home? That’s the case for Jimmie and Mont. Safety in the isolation, chaos, and danger of being the last of your kind. But having each other. 

The isolation of being a man and having such limited emotional language. The compounded loneliness of being stuck in an armor of masculine limitation.

Jimmie and Mont are everything to each other and, while the images of the film are so epic and stunning, these two are unable to tell the other because in their world it would be too vulnerable and too strange to share such tenderness. They are each other’s rock and yet, because men don’t necessarily have the tools to communicate such vulnerabilities, they lean on each other silently, stoically amidst the world crumbling. It’s a beautiful, poetic, (dare I say) masculine story that offers a universe of emotion in all the unsaid. Why is it when things are quiet do we think so deeply? I don’t know. But this movie makes you travel inside its heart and think things about friendship and gentrification that are not heavy, intellectual thoughts as the title might suggest. 

No, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” is about running towards the thing that hurts you and allowing your heart to break again.

#the last black man in san francisco #jimmie fails #joe talbot #oscars #sundance #sundance jury #jury prize #sundance best director #2019 movies #best movies of 2019 #best movies on amazon #amazon prime movies #quarantine #corona movie #quarantine movies #san francisco #san francisco movies

[monicalorandavis]

“Miss Americana” sucks.

I don’t know who needs to hear this but your queen is bad. Swifties, do better.

A political icon she is not. A blond, good-natured songwriter she is. With flying colors. Colors of a LGBT flag? Girl. I guess.

I don’t like my gay icons moderate, but therein lies Pete Buttigieg’s whole entire appeal and he fared surprisingly well so you can ignore all of this. America is the land of moderate popularity. 2020 the year of the fence-rider. Look at Joe Biden for chrissakes...

I won’t spoil any of “Miss Americana” because although I don’t love the film or the subject, one thing I do protect is the sanctity of a viewing experience. Y’all are entitled to that. Plus, at this point, if you wanted the whole thing spoiled there are enough op-ed’s on Vulture to make your eyes bleed.

I will start and end with the singular political act documented in the film, Swift’s long-awaited, overly-publicized tweet against Marsha Blackburn for the Tennessee Senate race in 2018. It was considerate, well-researched and pointed. It was not incendiary. It was respectful. I respect her for doing so. She incurred some blowback from the Right. Trump said he liked her music 25% less. If you’re rolling your eyes, me too.

So let’s really talk since people want to act like the girl was really being risky. Umm, how? In the grand scheme of the woman’s career, she is the first artist whose four albums have all sold over one million copies in the first week on the Billboard 200. She is breaking records. She is still snatching trophies. Objectively, you have to admit, she is doing just fine. She didn’t burn a bra on stage. She didn’t cry “Fuck Marsha Blackburn and the racist, homophobic horse she rode in on” like she could’ve.

Nor do I think she needs to go that far, especially considering she’s just only dipped her toe in the political pool (at the age of 30 which is a whole other discussion). But, the rest of the film takes a turn towards this “We are the resistance” angle and I missed the part where that all happened. Resistance??? Implying protests, strikes, organizing, activism, sit-ins...

I saw one tweet, just one, where she urged people to register to vote and vote against Blackburn and after all of that, Blackburn still won. I agree, the positives were many. Youth voter registration ballooned immediately. But, now imagine, if she’d used her voice two years prior in 2016. Could she have impacted the election of Trump? I’d say yes, even if just slightly. And for that, I hold her accountable.

I am happy Taylor Swift found her political voice but I’m not above holding people to the fire for past silences. No more silence. No more passivity. It’s dangerous. And I expect more from any “resistance”, honey. This is white feminism at its finest and it’s, frankly, very boring.

#miss americana #taylor swift #swift #trump #marsha blackburn #netflix #netflix doc #2020 #taylor swift 2020

[monicalorandavis]

I went out with a famous man and it was bad.

I’m not going to do the thing where I tell you everything up until the point that you know exactly who I’m talking about in hopes that it saves me a modicum of decency. I’m not sparing you his name out of decency. The opposite in fact. I’m scared - particularly when it comes to the possible ramifications to my career in the “biz”. I’m also not going to say that this was an intense affair because, girl, we went out twice. It wasn’t serious. We didn’t even kiss. We hugged at the end of the night after he walked me to my car. And then, that exact same thing happened at the end of the second date. That’s it. We don’t keep in touch. We ain’t friends.

I would’ve let the whole thing go but he’s stayed in the Twittersphere on a near constant level with some malarkey here, there and everywhere. And now, here I am, about to chime the fuck in.

So, a little context. The man in question, let’s call him “Jack”, is a writer and comedian who has been successful and widely recognized as such for the last twentyish years. I’ve been to his house and it’s big and expensive and poorly decorated and covered in dog hair. The sort of house I’d imagine a much younger man dwelling in, but, that’s not important. He’s got money and although he’s not traditionally good-looking, he’s got a certain swagger that wealth affords you. I’m not a looks girl, so it didn’t bother me. 

Now, he hasn’t been able to shut up and keep those Twitter fingers silent so he catches a lot of heat for some pretty wild opinions on wealth. He’s pro-wealth. In Trump’s America, that puts you in a pretty weird position. One that most Hollywood types avoid like the plague, in spite of their own bloated bank accounts. I guess you could give it to the guy for being honest but then again, he could just not say anything about the wealthy because they hardly need any defending. They are not the ones getting screwed left, right and center. They’re the ones who rigged the system in the first place. So, no Jack, your opinion is not welcome.

In the context of the present entanglement Jack has found himself in, he’s a snob and it’s boding poorly for the guy. Turns out, 2020 is not the year of the snob. It might very well be the year for the common man. Bernie might win (I said “might”). And that in and of itself is a bit of a triumph. Not so, if you’re Jack.

In Jack’s world, the rich should be treated, according to his tweets, and to a certain extent, the conversations we shared, “fairly”. But, in this present moment, in this America where many people beg for spare dollars for life-saving surgeries on Go Fund Me, fair is a construct. There is no fair. The poor are not afforded fairness. In fact, the poor deal with constant disregard for a fair wage. Their paychecks go to that evening’s dinner whereas the rich earn, and save, and create opportunities for their future generations. The whole system is, in fact, wholly unfair. By nature of being born with wealth, or white, you have a leg, or two, up from the rest. People don’t like hearing that. They like believing they’ve earned it all. But wherever you are on the issue of privilege, it exists.

This is where I come in: I had to say something having had first-hand experience with Jack who is perhaps the weirdest person I’ve ever spent time with (and I went to Berkeley where my professors ranged from very likely the next Unabomber to full-blown Fascist). Jack is someone I’d describe as “smug and uncomfortable”. And I use uncomfortable in all senses of the world. He made me uncomfortable but, also, this is a man who’s very deeply uncomfortable with himself. Turns out money can’t buy you chill.

At the sake of being petty, Jack had a very, very odd physical disposition. He’s slight, his eyes are watery and he seemingly suffers from near constant allergies to the point that he was left rubbing said eyes compulsively. Lastly, and most unusual, Jack suffered from a condition known as Robert Durst-itis - he burps uncontrollably at the faintest hint of confrontation. Yes, I sat across from a man who burped uncontrollably for a good 15-20 minutes, then stopped, then did it all over again. It smelled dreadful and I was too polite to leave, and frankly, I was too stunned to move. I have never, nor imagine, will ever be in that situation again. It was like seeing someone cut open and staring inside of their dysfunctional digestive tract. It was real life “Operation” except this man was discussing the sorry state of comedy and I smiled and nodded. My mind was in twelve different places at once. I’d seen “The Jinx” on HBO. I’d loved it. But we all remember that final moment when Durst is being hit with evidence implicating him in the murders. It went viral because of the burps. It was his only defense, as if his body recognized defeat but presented one last line of defense - a parasympathetic response to the confrontation. It was a skunk spraying at its aggressor. I was stuck at one of my favorite bars with a man who physically disgusted me. His only acknowledgement of the burps was a casual, “Doctors don’t know what it is”, but my mind leapt at the worst possible scenario. I was sitting across from Robert Durst and instead of running away, I thought to myself, “maybe this guy will read my script.”

WHAT??!?!

In the end, the burps were gross but I was grosser. I was willing to endure what should be by all accounts the un-endurable. And for what? The smallest chance that this man I respected would like me enough to take a shot on me. To just give me a little of his time and extend that olive branch that could change my life. And, he didn’t. We walked out of each other’s lives and I would’ve loved to have left the whole thing in the past. But when he decided to avenge the cause of rich-bashing, I needed to pipe up. This is somebody who does not have the decency to keep breath mints or gum on him, let alone stop burping, how dare he talk about fairness!!!! To make matters worse, the dude was a world-class mansplaining hater of all things current. He hated everything on TV and everything I loved. He thought everyone had copied his show - and spilled all the tea about his famous friends. 

I needed to say something because, in more ways that one, Jack sort of sucks. But so do I. Only difference being, I accept it. I don’t hide behind accolades and famous friends. I own my relentless social climbing. It’s part of the gig. It’s the worst part of the gig.

 I like to let myself off the hook because rich white men still run this town. We are all guilty of placating them. But, I don’t like it. And I certainly won’t allow another man, no matter how powerful, burp (figuratively or literally) in my face again.

#comedy #dating #los angeles #show biz #twitter #parasite #Oscars 2020 #oscars so white

[monicalorandavis]

The official list of people who should win at the 2020 Oscars

Every year, every single year, there are the winners at the Academy Awards who spring up on that stage and feign shock and awe at their surprise win and we all politely clap (yes, we, the viewing audience included) when we know that the award should’ve gone to Glenn Close in ‘The Wife’! (I’m looking at you, Olivia Colman! Give Glenn her things!!!!)

So, in honor of the ones who deserve their things, I’m going rogue with a people’s choice edition of the Oscars. The committee (me) has been highly selective and factored in many different considerations when coming to our decisions. Again, this has been a tough year for film and performances. So many strong characters and not enough awards. Please read on for the official winners of the Oscars selected by me.

Best Supporting Actor:

Kevin Garnett, Uncut Gems. Now, did we all see the same movie because all this talk about Adam Sandler this and Adam Sandler that seriously overshadowed the real breakout of the film, Kevin Garnett. So natural and easy on screen, his performance was delivered with the same grace with which he played. This is a man so athletic, so natural in his body that I fear his ease in the role tricked audiences into taking it for granted. No, it is not easy to act across seasoned, professional actors. But KG made it look effortless and in a role that required grit, hostility and a quiet intimidation he got overshadowed by his own cool reputation. But I recognize you today, sir. Job well done.

Best Supporting Actress:

Jamie Lee Curtis, Knives Out. May Mrs. Curtis never put her knives away ever again! We’ve been craving big bitchy energy (hence why Jennifer Aniston is finally collecting her awards this season for her work in The Morning Show.) But there is no one who plays entitled, rich bitch like Jamie Lee. She was riveting and hilarious in a role that felt pared down in the face of a lot of Chris Evans. Not complaining, just saying we could’ve done with another epic dressing down moment by the scream queen herself. She left us wanting more. And that’s from a woman of Hollywood elk. You’d think (wrongly) that we’d seen everything she can give. No, no. She knows the score. For the sake of us all (me, especially), she needs to be in every movie, all the time.

Best Actor:

Timothee Chalamet, Little Women. A beautiful and sensitive portrayal of a character who can quite easily come across creepy or cloying. The Laurie of yore (famously played by Christian Bale) is now his own man with a unique love story full of tenderness for Jo, then subsequently, Amy. Bale’s marriage to Amy in the 90s version of Little Women left me feeling sorry for Jo. The reveal of Laurie’s marriage to Amy was a gag for the ages that Jo takes poorly. (Not, my baby sister!!) But then again, she turned this man down brutally...not important. This time around, Chalamet gives us dimensions. Layers! He turns in yet another sensuous (yes, honey) performance that has left me besotted with the young actor. It’s uncomfortable but so is unrequited love, Ms. Alcott!

Best Actress:

Jennifer Lopez, Hustlers. Of course. The pride and joy of the Bronx didn’t even earn a nomination at the real Oscars but in this world where I reign supreme, she’s a winner, baby. Her turn in Hustlers was gorgeous and nuanced. It is extraordinary to make a thieving, manipulative con woman such a grounded and compassionate character. But what does J.Lo do? JUST THAT. She has never been more charismatic and I am so happy to give her this honor. It is also the great honor of this academy (of me) to promote Ms. Lopez to the status of ‘actress’ and not ‘supporting actress’ because we must recognize the role that was Ramona. She was supporting nobody. They were all in support of their rhinestoned queen. We, the lowly audience, got the chance to live in Ramona’s world so let’s put some respect on the performance puh-lease.

Best Documentary:

Beyonce, Homecoming. Yes, the film is by and large performance footage of both weekends of the now famous Beychella. And what footage it is! Now, concert films tend to repel Oscars consideration. Yet, I award the highest recognition to Beyonce for Homecoming because it is pure artistry on every inch of that stage from the band, to the design, to the choreography. It is a treat for the eye, ear and spirit. For those of us who weren’t lucky enough to experience it in person we have Netflix to thank. Homecoming has forever raised the bar on concert films.

Best Screenplay:

Shia Labeouf, Honeyboy. This film was my favorite movie of the year and while the acting was wonderful, the story is the secret weapon. We wouldn’t believe it if it wasn’t Labeouf’s own story. It has the potential to feel very after school special. But Honeboy somehow defies preconception which is especially surprising considering we’ve known Shia Labeouf since he was 13. We should know his story. And in a way, we do. But, we didn’t know the why. The foundation of him, the roots start as all ours do - with our parents. (Call your therapist.) Disney made sure to hide Labeouf’s father, and with reason. He is an elusive, abusive, alcoholic with a crazy man’s penchant for (underage?) women. But, in the rarest sort of self-expression, Labeouf bares his soul, and his father’s soul, in the most brave storytelling of the year.

Best Director:

Alma Harel, Honeyboy. The fact that Alma Harel was nowhere in the mainstream Oscars conversation is such a disgrace because rarely has a film held aesthetic and emotion so equally in its grasp. Honeyboy was an absolutely dazzling film that tore apart a father-son dynamic so tortured and fraught it felt like some gonzo cinema verite-meets-Big Brother hybrid that I didn’t know I needed. Harel’s crisp storytelling compounded so much story and whimsy into a 90-minute vehicle and in a year of overly-long, bloated yarns (The Irishman) it felt like a special feat to carve such a spectacular treasure in such a short amount of time.

Best Film:

The Google Black History Month commercial - Wow. The jury was unanimous here. Lots of great contenders but the Google Black History Month commercial slid right in there at the buzzer and the cultural impact of it has rocked the entire country. It’s indisputable. A beautifully constructed 2.5 minutes of film making. Truly stunning. Hats off again to Google. Keep up the good work and we expect big things from you in the future!

#google #black history #black history commercial #jlo #hustlers #oscars 2020 #oscars #oscars so white #shia labeouf #shia #alma har'el #knives out #kevin garnett #uncut gems #adam sandler #best film #academy awards #academy awards 2020 #best screenplay

[monicalorandavis]

J.Lo and Shakira’s halftime show was good

I have watched it and rewatched it and taken my time to mull it over. The verdict is: I thought it was good. I didn’t think it was “OH MY GOD, cancel my plans I must learn this choreography immediately”-good and I’ve been there before.

In fact, four years ago when Beyonce performed at the half-time show with Bruno Mars (and Coldplay), I did need to shut my life down and recuperate. I was shook. Beyonce, you see, invoked another era and still thrived in the present. She, like the very best artists, hearkened back feelings, moments, nostalgia of yore and challenged it with the full toolbox of the culture at present. She was a Black Panther and an alien and everything in between. I am not even a die-hard Beyonce stan like that but as far as Super Bowl half-time performances go, we’re all still waiting for anyone to top her.

I know, I know, Prince sang in the rain and his two dancers somehow managed to avoid devastating catastrophes on stage. Guitar solos, sex appeal and, again, all that rain. I don’t know how it happened either. Prince was a beautiful pixie-sex-god. Simple as that. Don’t overthink his contributions to the culture. His sex appeal exists in a different realm than the physical. We do not yet have the words to describe the colors he painted with. So, no, I will not compare Beyonce’s performance to his. Beyonce is many things, but she’s firmly, confidently a woman. Meaning she’s of this world, not fairy land, so we can not explain away her drive or success as coincidental. She is the hardest working woman in show business (though J.Lo appears to be right behind her). But she is a woman nonetheless. All of her hard work is pounded out step by step, day by day, meal by meal, soundcheck by soundcheck. She’s a craftswoman and, in addition to her talent, I believe that’s why she’s the queen. No one can outwork her and I love a work ethic. I believe we all do.

And that brings us back to the matter at hand, the halftime show was good. They clearly worked hard on a dazzling show. No if’s and’s or but’s about it. Anyone denying that is either racist or sexist and I won’t engage with a third option.

Let’s now take a moment to address the blow-back from the right wing (who, I fear, is being stupid on purpose at this point), J.Lo and Shakira have beautiful bodies that they’ve clearly spent decades toning and gyrating and choreographing with. I will not tolerate any bad-mouthing about their overt sexiness and lack of taste. I hate America’s prudishness when it comes to our female artists. Especially when we’ve promoted Britney Spears since she was 17 talking about ‘Hit me baby, one more time’. It always feels like we take greater offense when the women being discussed are non-white (yes, I am citing the Janet Jackson nipple-gate scenario). We (the larger “we”, not me personally) applaud the Victoria’s Secret fashion show but now we want to condemn these beautiful women, over 40, for loving their bodies and showing them off on the biggest stage of their careers? Make it make sense. Is it because they’re Latina? Or have thicker thighs than those models? Or is it because they seem totally self-possessed and in charge of how they present themselves? Do we hate women being in charge that much? How is one sexiness acceptable and the other isn’t?

The Victoria’s Secret fashion show appears on CBS. That’s as basic cable as it can get. I wonder if it boils down to the Super Bowl being a “family-friendly” show and the VS fashion show is explicitly sexier. Perhaps these critics were just caught off-guard and they hate surprises! (But just take one look at the asses on some of these players in those see-through pants and tell me that the whole premise of the NFL is not the lovechild of a horny Grindr executive! I dare you.)

Plus, to the point about J.Lo and Shakira being half-naked, they better be! They are athletes and athletes get hot! (We don’t expect tennis players to cover up.) Of course they wanted to show off what they’ve worked their entire lives for. Nobody gets in that kind of shape on accident. Plus, it felt right to showcase their athleticism on America’s greatest stage surrounded by other athletes for the world to see. To dance that hard and work all that hair and appear to be having the time of your life is grueling! They pulled it off swimmingly. Dare I say, joyfully??

Now, where the show falters for me is this, it did not shock or stun or educate me. And I know the last one sounds funny but let me explain. I do not need live performances to give me an education in a classic sense. But I do like art, and that includes cheesy half-time shows, to reveal something of the artist. So in that sense, I do look for some emotional or spiritual education to take place. Show me something I don’t know, if you will. Give me some reveal, some baring of the soul. And, I don’t think anyone can say we got that.

Yes, J.Lo referenced ‘Hustlers’ with a gorgeous pole-dancing number which I adored as a political statement to the Oscars (a real, ‘How you like me now?’). And, Shakira played guitar and the drums and did some very cool Afro-Latino dance moves that broke from her tradition of wacky inflatable tube man gyrations. We could say her performance felt very global and that felt cool. And yes, most overtly, little kids sang in cages. They might’ve been Cinderella-inspired beautiful, shimmering, easily-escapable cages...but, didn’t we want more?

It’s not J.Lo or Shakira’s job to stick it to the man at the most watched television event of the year. But I did leave the performance really craving a more biting indictment of our country’s hypocrisy. Remember, this is the year after every artist under the sun (except Adam Levine) refused to perform the half-time show as a show of solidarity with Colin Kaepernick. In spite of the NFL’s hardest-hitting attempts at addressing police brutality with some pointed commercials, no NFL executive or spokesperson made a statement in regards to it. They left all the explanation to the families of the victims of the violence. And needless to say, those people were black. Because, as always, we expect black people to solve racism.

So, I think you’ll excuse me for expecting a heavier hitting political statement. Is it unrealistic? Yes. But so was Beyonce pulling off a Black Panther inspired performance in the face of the NFL and entire country. I wanted to love, love, love the half-time show and I certainly enjoyed it. I mean, how could I not?! They’re both so gorgeous! And fun. And cool. God, I’d love just one day with either of their hair stylists but amazing hair simply can not make a political statement on its own. And I wanted juuuuust a little bit more.

#superbowl #superbowl halftime 2020 #halftime show #jlo halftime #jlo #shakira #latina #2020 #nfl #beyonce #jay z #colin kaepernick #standwithkaep #kaepernick7

[monicalorandavis]

Love Island UK is back and I don’t need a man because they’re all right there on my tv screen

that’s it. thanks.

#love island #love island uk #uk reality tv

[monicalorandavis]

‘Outlander’ is very horny

 Ummm...so y’all were going to let me go on and on about Tobias Menzies being the hottest piece of British ass since Colin Firth and not tell me about ‘Outlander’???

Wowwwww...

Well, fair enough. You horny old dogs have been hogging it like General Mills cereal tabs but I’m here to tell you, time’s up, bitches!

I’ve seen all of one episode and I’m balls deep in this shit, hoe. Time travel and horny English people?! Yes please!

Tobias Menzies and Caitriona Balfe have some very fiery chemistry that makes me feel creepy as fuck which is always a good sign that horniness is a-comin’!

Picture it, the year is 1945. England has been ravaged by war. Husbands and wives have been torn apart but after years of violence, they reconnect. And so we meet our protagonists (though things go afoul pretty damn quick).

Twenty minutes in to the episode and these two horn dogs can’t keep their hands off each other! It was like Gosford Park meets American Pie! And I didn’t hate it! Even better, my main man Toby M gets down on his knees in an abandoned castle and you can basically hear the lonely women of the world collectively gasp. And when I say, Tobias is getting jiggy on his lady’s post-WWII vajay, I mean he gets jiggy. Plus, we know that thing ain’t trimmed. He’s going full ass weed whacker on it and I ain’t mad at him. Let that be a lesson to us all, men ain’t scared of hair. That’s grown man shit. I’m never trimming another pubic hair. You heard it here first.

‘Outlander’ is definitely the horniest show on television and I’m mad at all you fantasy freaks for keeping it to yourself.

#caitrionabalfe #tobias menzies #outlander #starz

[monicalorandavis]

[monicalorandavis]

If you’re not black, I’m not discussing Kobe with you. Period.

My high yellow ass has something to say for ev-er-y-bo-dy:

KOBE IS A GOD DAMN LEGEND. So put some respect on his name.

In the year 2020, we’ve all got a different consideration for victims of sexual assault but can we not sort out some things first?

Can we not accept people as flawed and complicated makers of mistakes, especially when they’ve provided so much to society at large? We’re not discussing the likes of Woody Allen, Bill Cosby or even, I’ll say it, Michael Jackson here.

No, I don’t think Kobe belongs in the category of violent sexual assaulters. Nor do I think you feel he should belong with the likes of those fallen stars.

No, I think your motivations are insidious. Even if you can’t see it as such, I find it odd that these conversations surrounding Kobe’s flawed past are coming from non-black people.

In less than one day, I have fielded three separate conversations from women who are not black and all have something to say about Kobe’s “sexual assault”. (According to the public record in 2020, he was not convicted so I will be putting it in quotations.) While the black community is notoriously slow to publicly condemn our heroes, this feels very different. The tarnishing of his name in the same conversation of his death is petty. I do not think black fans have that in them. So why do other fans?

I have an idea.

I have an inkling that it could have something to do with race in America. Black men and white women and rape. It’s as American as apple pie. And I don’t even want to acknowledge how stupid and embedded your racism is but if you can’t see it then I guess I have to do the work for you.

Aaron Hernandez is a convicted murderer. I have a friend, a white friend, who refuses to acknowledge his conviction because “He’s too fine”. But yesterday, on the day of Kobe’s death she gives a monologue on how “she never liked him as a person” and then goes on to reduce him to the 2003 trial.

What are these judgments? An actual convicted murderer is granted compassion but the man who was accused of rape is forever tainted. Think about it.

How is it that racism is so obvious to those who see it and so painfully obscure for those who don’t?

As I scroll through Instagram and Twitter, it’s more of the same.

“Don’t forget Kobe assaulted a woman”.

Let’s say that it was all true. Are we not allowing for any redemption for anyone? Are the past 17 year of this man’s life worth nothing? His four daughters. His marriage. His commitment to sports. His commitment to their sports. His work in the community. The camps. The role in women’s sports. The WNBA. The US Women’s soccer team. His excellence.

If you’ve ever been excellent at anything you know what that feels like because excellence is earned. No one is born excellent. No one worked harder to be excellent than Kobe...

Instead, you’ve decided to point to one action to mean more than everything else and, frankly, you do not have that authority. You, nor I, stood there when humans and conscience was created. Meaning you have no actual power in deciding who’s good or bad. We’re all just trying to be as good to each other as we can. So when it comes to this man’s legacy, your reduction of him to his lowest moment makes you look resolute in punishment. He must be punished. He must be made less. You willfully ignore the sum of a man’s life.

And again, I suspect the root of that, whether you admit it, or want to admit it, is race.

Why is it that these people who are reminding the world of Kobe’s criminal trial are all non-black?

Why do you think that is?

#kobe #kobe bryant #gianna bryant #tragedy #2020 #lakers #RIP #RIP kobe

[monicalorandavis]

Teresa Giudice: surprisingly insecure.

Oh you don’t think this deserves an entire blog post? Well fuck right the fuck off because I’m going in bitch...

Mrs. Giudice. You know, the table-flipping, forehead-challenged, bikini clad, ex-con, mother of four - her. She’s not doing great. This season has offered an insight into the woman who made The Real Housewives of New Jersey the best of all Housewives franchises. And, I hate to say it, especially since she’s acting like a total asshole, she deserves our sympathy.

Let’s, for a moment, remember the early days of the Real Housewives. The women in Orange County were rather polite in retrospect. No violence anywhere. It was all name-calling and mean tweets. Every one in a while, the passive-aggressive forgotten invitation to a birthday party. You know the sort of social kamikaze’s that women launch on their most hated enemies. “Oh, I didn’t know you’d like to come. There weren’t anyone’s husbands around for you to steal”...You get the picture.

But then Teresa came along with her huge wads of cash and ditzy/tough girl Jersey thing and the American public gobbled it up. She was unlike the others on the cast. There was Caroline Manzo, the maternal, good-natured lioness. Then Dina, Caroline’s younger, hotter sister with a cool demeanor and distant husband who was always traveling. (Didn’t work out *spoiler alert*). Then, there was Jacqueline who was all fake smiles and puppy dogs and rainbows and...someone should check on Jacqueline because she always seemed one glass of Sauvignon Blanc shy from losing her mind in the middle of a Cheesecake Factory. But Teresa was the surprise hit. She had all those daughters with their bright blue eyes and sassy, ready-for-camera one-liners. It was too insane to be written. And then, fast forward and Teresa’s husband, Joe Giudice aka “Juicy” (I hate myself for knowing this) gets indicted on several felony counts of fraud. Then to make matters worse, he takes Teresa down with him. Her signature is on everything. It looks like Teresa was a co-conspirator in the fraud. Could she have been a sinister mastermind? Was all the flashiness a big ‘fuck you’ to Uncle Sam?

She certainly didn’t seem like she had the brains to pull it off. No shade. But, she was more concerned with Gia’s dance recitals and keeping Milania off the banisters and alive. She didn’t have time to scam people with phony contracts. Nor, did it seem, that she’d ever risk anything that would tear her away from her kids. No, this was the work of her husband and for whatever reason he hadn’t taken the necessary precautions to legally protect his wife. It was a sad day for RHONJ fans. Teresa and Joe were charged with 39 counts of fraud. She would serve her time first and then Joe would do his. The judge seemed to grant them some leniency by allowing them to serve their terms back to back as opposed to stripping their daughters of both parents simultaneously. A small victory in light of the sad events.

But it wouldn’t be a typical Hollywood sentencing for Tre. She had to do 15 hard months at a Federal Corrections Facility in Danbury, Connecticut. But, and this is the best part, she came out looking like a million bucks. She was shredded out, buff, and in fabulous spirits. Truly, it was inspiring. She came out ready to work and make up for lost time. Despite some pushback from the girls, she was back in the swing of things. All looked promising for Joe too. He had watched over all four of the girls with aplomb. Doing hair, packing lunches, getting everyone to practices, study groups, games and play dates and seeming to really dig it. They seemed to be doing just fine.

And yet, this season of RHONJ has been devastating for the Giudice family. Joe went in to serve his 41 month sentence. Then, right on cue, Teresa started acting like a raving bitch to everyone on the cast. She was picking fights with Melissa, Jackie, then Margaret, then Jennifer, then her brother and back again. It’s horrible to watch. She uses her anger to diffuse any of her wrongdoing. It’s an old trick of hers but this season it’s more vicious. It’s cruel. She seems to be liking making everyone sad and scared. Then, all of a sudden, word on the street is, Joe is being held in an I.C.E. facility because he’s not a U.S. citizen. But how???

Wouldn’t he have filed for that when he got married? They’ve been married for over 20 years. Surely, he would’ve taken care of that by now. Surely!

Except, not. Turns out, when pushed on the issue, Joe had no valid reason as to why he hadn’t taken care of his citizenship. He simply never got around to getting his US passport. He hadn’t filled out the necessary paperwork just because...he didn’t.

And that, my friends, is Joe Giudice in a nutshell. A scrub. The kind of man who doesn’t do the things he’s supposed to. Not for any good reason but because...he just didn’t. The worst kind of man. Shiftless, arrogant, “things couldn’t possibly go wrong for me”-ass man. Sure he can flip a few houses and use the profits to invest in another shady business deal but are all the contracts legal? No. Are his papers in order? Nope! Does he have a new Range Rover? A duhhhh.

Now, here is the larger issue. Teresa is a slamming piece of ass (to quote Marge Jr.) and she’s the star of the family. A human being could not be in better shape. She could (and, rumor has it, has) snag any old thing she wanted to. Joe sure couldn’t. I remember a few seasons back when it seemed painfully obvious he was sneaking phone calls to a little girlfriend that the show was kind enough to hide (sort of). Nobody cares about him. I think even Joe’s family would admit, he’s been riding Teresa’s coattails through this whole thing. Luckily, Gia seems down to help her mother (though she’s understandably very loyal to her father). So, it’s most likely only a matter of time until mother and daughter start their own fitness brand and, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll sign the fuck up.

Now, how is it that Teresa is still stuck with this man? (I just got word that they are separated but still...)

I was under the impression that if no one else knew how much of a scrub her husband was, Teresa sure as shit knew. But in the most recent episode of RHONJ, Teresa, who’s had her fair share of red wine, is almost in tears lamenting that no one is going to want her now following a fight with Joe in which he told her that she was basically a washed up dirty dish rag. She, like anyone with common sense, should’ve shut that shit down immediately. She should’ve driven her ass to the ICE facility and broke her husband out for the sole purpose of sending him on a one-way flight to Italy to never return. Arrivederci! 

I almost don’t want to watch the show any longer if I have to watch Joe Giudice’s miserable toxis ass! I watch Real Housewives for the fun, positive messages of female independence and friendship. Yes, there’s fights every one in a while that I selfishly enjoy. But I don’t like seeing men try and destroy their wives’ self-esteem. It’s a remnant of a bygone era. And I should be compassionate to Joe’s circumstance. Yes, he’s in an ICE facility and that’s very traumatizing. But I hate this narrative that his experience in ICE is somehow a vendetta against him by the federal government. I also hate that his experience in ICE is just as horrible as everyone else’s. Sir, you are not in the same boat as these Honduran children you are being housed with. These are people running for their lives and you, you are someone who didn’t do the paperwork you were supposed to do 20 years ago when your wife brought it up to you the first time. You are a man who was convicted of 39 counts of fraud serving a felony sentence. You ain’t innocent.

The saddest part, besides the horrible wreckage it has done to their daughters, is the toll it’s taken on Teresa’s self-esteem. It’s corroding her. It’s as if her self-esteem is so blown to shit that she’s punishing herself with this terrible friendship to Danielle. She is almost unrecognizable. The very same woman who Teresa very famously flipped a table over, is now the friend she refuses to part with. And while Danielle is very good at picking out vulnerable prey, there seems to be a larger issue at hand. Teresa seems not quite right. The decisions are not adding up. Obviously, Teresa has demonstrated shitty taste in men (Joe) and the occasional screw-up with friends (never-ending Jacqueline drama!). But this business with Danielle is disconcerting. Danielle is just another toxic leech trying to suck you dry, Tre! Break the cycle! Your girls need you!

#real housewives #RHONJ #new jersey #giudice #teresa #teresa giudice #joe giudice #bravo #bravo tv #real housewives of new jersey #andy cohen #WWHL #watch what happens live