Dream A Little Dream...Again

Tonight, I will be seeing Christopher Nolan's Inception...for the third time in 2 weeks.

Who says I have an addictive personality?

Seriously, this movie has become an obsession. I can not stop thinking or talking about it. It's almost as if...

***SPOILERS!***

...the movie itself is an inception that someone was hired to plant in my brain. Or maybe the movie doesn't even exist and we're all just projections of Christpoher Nolan's subconscious! GOOD GOD, HELP ME! I CAN'T MAKE IT STOP!!!

If anyone who hasn't seen it yet has been reading my Twitter feed of late, despite the numerous "SPOILER!" tags I've employed, they either hate me for ruining the whole thing for them, or they REALLY have no idea what's going on. As Roger Ebert put it, you could give away the ending and it still wouldn't make any sense unless you understood how it got to that point. I tried explaining this to a friend who was adamant that I not reveal anything to him that even if I did, it would sound like: "When Leo went up the stairs, did Ellen Page's character release the chicken, or was it Valentine's Day?"

He didn't believe me, and yelled at me for mentioning the chicken, even though there really was no chicken and the chicken was completely hypothetical. Then he yelled at me for giving away that there was no chicken.

No chickens were harmed in the making of this film. Or this post.

I Am Never Eating Anything, Anywhere, Ever Again

Restaurant Inspection Information: NYC Department Of Health And Mental Hygiene

My local McDonald's has 43 violation points. 43!

I gotta get the hell out of Nogales...

Hassling Hasselbeck

According to The Daily News, Elisabeth Hasselbeck believes that "a lot of older lesbians would have turned out straight...if they could only land a man."

Well, I believe that a lot of former Survivor contestants wouldn't have become hosts of 'The View'...if they could only land a Playboy pictorial.

I also believe that stupid opinions like this wouldn't even be aired or considered...if only dim-witted, ignorant bimbos weren't hosts of a fatuous, asinine talk show.

Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

Some of you (by which I mean — out of the whole 6 people who actually follow me — Dalia) may have noticed lately that I haven't exactly kept my promise to myself to post something every single day. And despite the fact that nothing of critical importance is dependent upon me posting something every single day, I still feel incredibly guilty for failing to live up to my own lofty self-imposed expectations. So by way of apology, redemption, and explanation, I offer you this tale from Hyperbole And A Half — by far one of the most oh-my-god-I-can't-breathe-from-laughing-so-hard hilarious blogs on the whole Interwebz — which is so precisely applicable to my life that I swear I must have somehow written it myself with my own subconscious:

This Is Why I'll Never Be An Adult.

So consider this my return from summer hiatus. I hope you enjoyed the reruns and are looking forward to the new season premiere. :)

Voice Mail Fail

My office voicemail system may be the most counterintuitive piece of technology I've ever encountered. Presented below is the process through which I have to go just to listen to a damn message:

"Welcome to [system name]. For help at any time, press *8."

First of all, what would I possibly need help for at this point? I haven't done anything yet! And "*8"? What, the traditional "0" just wasn't unneccessarily complicated enough for you?

"Please enter extension, followed by the pound sign. Please enter password, followed by the pound sign."

Ok, that's pretty universal. No complaints.

"Mailbox of Rebecca Godan."

Uh, I'm pretty sure I'm already aware of who I am...

"To record messages, press 1."

What? Why would I need to do this? This is my first option?

"To get messages, press 2."

Standard...almost.

"Voice call from [caller]. Received at 10:28, Wednesday, July 28th. 12 seconds. Extension [caller's extension]."

Gee, after all that detailed information, who needs to hear the actual message, AMIRITE?! No shit it's a voice call — this is my VOICEmail. AND WHY DO I NEED TO KNOW THE PRECISE LENGTH OF THE CALL WHEN I CAN JUST LISTEN TO IT MYSELF??

"To listen to this message, press 0. To delete, press *D."

Now you decide to go with "0"? When every single other voicemail system in the world goes with "1"? What, you just wanted to feel special? And "*D"? Are you kidding me? You've become so elaborate now that you need to use 2 keys and a letter? Plus, WHY WOULD I WANT TO DELETE THE MESSAGE IF I HAVEN'T EVEN HEARD IT YET?!?

All this superfluous junk to wade through, just to listen to "Hi Rebecca, it's Lucy. Call me."

Boys and girls, it's the accumulation of little things like this that makes people bring rifles to work...

Beccapedia

A typical conversation between me and my co-workers at lunch:

Me, apropos of nothing: "Hey, remember Gumby's sister?"
Them: "What? Holy crap — I do! Wow, what made you think of that? Oh man, what was her name?"
Me: "Shit, I should remember this. It's on the tip of my tongue..."
Them: "Seriously?"
Me: "Of course! Damn it, I know this...OH! Wait — you know who would know? My brother."
Them: "Seriously?"
Me: "Yeah, he's obsessed with Gumby."
Them: "... Seriously?"
[text to brother]: "What was Gumby's sister's name?"

Less than one minute later...

[text from brother]: "Goo."
Me: "Yes! See? I told you!"
Them: "There is something seriously wrong with you."

Apparently it runs in the family.

Maybe It's Time To Talk To Your Doctor...

The book I am working on right now is titled: "RAMCAP Plus."

Surprisingly, it is not a prospectus for a new erectile dysfunction medication.

Take It Off!

Several Saturdays ago, I went to a midnight showing of Doc Wasabassco's Burlesque at Union Hall. One of the first thoughts to pop into my head upon my decision to attend this engagement was: "Finally! An excuse to wear my lavender feathered cocktail hat with my leopard-print pumps!"

Yes, these are the sort of things I spontaneously muse upon.

And before I go any further, let me just advise you all that when you're wearing stiletto heels, it is NOT a good idea to follow the HopStop directions that include the step "Walk 10 blocks south on 5th Ave."

Anyway...

I'm a big fan of burlesque (then again, I'm also of the opinion that pole dancing is a legitimate art form). Maybe it's a result of my third-wave feminist streak and love of unique and creative self-expression. Or maybe It's just because I like to look at pretty naked girls. Either way, it's fun. And as I briefly mentioned in this post, I'm also a big fan of the unorthodox and unusual. People usually associate burlesque with a kind of kitschy, old-fashioned flirtiness. Which is why when the stage went dark in preparation for this next dancer and I heard the opening strains of Tool's "Sober" — a decidedly unburlesque piece of music — I knew I was in for something interesting. And most likely unforgettable.

And boy, it was.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

Magdalena Fox's Sugar Skull/Day Of The Dead Piece

(WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT)

Trouble viewing? Click

here.

At the end of the show, the male MC, Doc Wasabassco himself, surrounded on stage by 7 topless girls in g-strings, announced to the crowd: "Hi. This is my job. What do you do?"

I do believe I'll be back for more. :)

P.S.: In compliance with the requests made in this post, here is a partial pic of my heavenly headpiece:

Two Birds With One Craigslist Posting

I'm looking at another apartment tonight.
That has 2 bedrooms.
With the cute broker guy I met last week.

I wonder if he's looking for a new place, too...

Things That Make Me Absolutely Furious

Every single person waiting on this line with me.

Things That Make Me Uncomfortable: Appendix

Co-workers who brush their teeth in the ladies room.

People near me on the subway watching movies with sex scenes on their iPads.

Shirtless guys in public.

Waiting for someone to finish using the copy machine.

Someone waiting for me to finish using the copy machine.

Hardcore Brooklyn hipsters.

THE DECISION!

After an unprecedented period of anxious speculation, BeccaGo has offically announced what trusted sources have reported and confirmed: She has decided to leave the living room and go to the bedroom. It was a tough choice, between staying in the living room, going to the kitchen, or going to the bathroom, but she feels that she's done the best thing for her. She appreciates the support she's received from the living room, from both the couch and the coffee table, and she will always be grateful for the experiences they have shared, but she believes that her style of sleeping is more suited to the bedroom, and she couldn't pass up this opportunity for herself. She looks forward to joining the bed and the pillows and working together as a team to achieve what has so long eluded her during her otherwise illustrious afternoon — a nice long nap.

One-Man Army

I haven't been to this site in a while, but I remember when I first heard about it, a friend had mused, "You know, if more people in our military were like this guy, maybe the rest of the world wouldn't hate us so much." I don't know how true that may be, but I do know that if more people in our military were like this, I'd love to hang out with them.

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present: Skippy's List

I'm Melting...

It is over 100 degrees in NYC today.

OVER.
100.
DEGREES.

This is completely unacceptable.

I think weather should play by schoolyard rules, like basketball, and stop once it hits 100. Can we vote on this somewhere?

Liberty

So tomorrow (well, technically, today) is the Fourth of July, more formally known as Independence Day. And in honor of our nation's independence, I've planned to immerse myself in the highly patriotic pursuit of looking at pretty clothes. No, really — I will be celebrating my love of country by visiting the Metropolitan Museum Of Art and the Brooklyn Museum to view, respectively, their exhibits American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity and American High Style: Fashioning a National Collection.

It honestly doesn't get more patriotic than that for me.

I've stated proudly before that when the issue of citizenship is in question, I am a New Yorker first, an American second. I've also stated before how profoundly lucky I feel to be surrounded by such a wealth of culture and opportunity, to live in a place where world-famous sites and events are so easily accessible that I only need a bus pass to get to them. By wonderful chance, I get to experience some of the best that not only this city, but this country, even the world, has to offer. And I am thankful my country allows me the freedom to do so.

Museums are one of my favorite ways to take advantage of this abundance. To put it simply, I like pretty things. I can stand in front of a painting staring at the subtle gradations of color and individual brushstrokes for hours. I will marvel at the delicacy and detail evoked through something as seemingly unyielding as metal, wood, or stone. I am fascinated by exotic myths and icons. And it amazes me how some of these things have been handed down and saved through history: I am physically looking at time.

I'm particularly fond of social history — the stories of individuals and everyday life. When I saw the Titanic exhibit some months ago, we were given "boarding passes" at the entrance, each with the name of an actual passenger who had been on the ship. Each contained a brief history — where the person was coming from, where they were going and why, who they were travelling with, which class they were in. My passenger's name was Ellen, and she was travelling second class with her mother and aunt, on her way to America to be married. It put the exhibit on a whole new level. The artifacts specific to the second class were now of particular personal interest: "I" had eaten from this china; this was what "my" bed had looked like. It was exciting, but also distressing, due to the fact that at the end of the tour, lists were posted that named the passengers who had survived and those who had died. I was actually nervous as I approached the lists, and genuinely relieved to discover that not only I, but — amazingly — my whole party had made it. Miss Ellen would become a bride after all.

And speaking of brides, I am also a fiend for fashion — color, texture, pattern, design; elaborate period pieces and theatrical costumes; traditional dress of different cultures and avant-garde ensembles never meant to be worn, only to be seen as living art [see "pretty things" above]. And what could be more American than these simultaneous displays of American fashion? The Met exhibit in particular provided an eye-opening history lesson. Focusing more on what's now considered the "ready-to-wear" side of fashion, it was split into several sections by era: "The Gibson Girl," "The Bohemian," "The Suffragist," and "The Flapper," to name a few. Besides different styles, these categories each represented a type of emancipation for the women of the age: physical, intellectual, political, economical, sexual. These clothes weren't just pretty, they were functional for their era: skirts that allowed women to ride bicycles and horses in the traditional style rather than sidesaddle; Grecian and Oriental-inspired silhouettes that displayed worldliness and artistic appreciation; practical military uniforms incorporating elements from those of the men; a sartorial counterpart to the societal loosening of restraint. This wasn't just about changing hemlines — these represented stages in the progression of American women's freedom, a historically significant part of our country's heritage.

As an American woman, I find this connection meaningful, and as a self-identified, dyed-in-the-wool feminist, the idea of independence itself is especially meaningful. It's an issue I've struggled with, and still do, to an extent. My autonomy is important to me, but it's been a battle to balance my sense of self against society's expectations. I don't consider myself especially patriotic, in the fireworks and flag-waving sort of way, but I will always be grateful to live in a country where I have that choice not to be so, and the right to voice those beliefs.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch James Cameron's thinly-veiled anti-American propaganda piece, Avatar.

Top 5 Reasons I Should Have Been Born A Gay Man

1. Adam Lambert
2. Johnny Weir
3. Daniel Vosovic
4. My obsession with Lady GaGa.
5. I really like sucking [expletive deleted].

Oh, and I am frequently outrageous and controversial, as illustrated in #5 above...

Stimulate This!

Courtesy of Dalia B. and some intrepid soul on the Interwebz:

Sometime this year, we taxpayers will again receive an "Economic Stimulus" payment. This is a very exciting program and I'll explain why using a Q & A format:

Q: What is an "Economic Stimulus" payment?
A: It is money that the federal government will send to taxpayers.

Q: Where will the government get this money?
A: From taxpayers.

Q: So the government is giving me back my own money?
A: Only a smidgen of it.

Q: What is the purpose of this payment?
A: To use the money to purchase a high-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.

Q: But isn't that stimulating the economy of China?
A: Shut up.

Below is some helpful advice on how to spend your stimulus check wisely and best help the U.S. economy:

* If you spend the stimulus money at Wal-Mart, it will go to China or Sri Lanka.
* If you spend it on gasoline, it will go to the Arabs.
* If you spend it on a computer, it will go to India, Taiwan, or China.
* If you spend it on fruit and vegetables, it will go to Mexico, Honduras, and Guatemala.
* If you spend it on an efficient car, it will go to Japan or Korea.
* If you spend it on useless shit, it will go to Taiwan.
* If you use it to pay off your credit cards or buy stock, it will go to management bonuses and they will hide it offshore.

Instead, keep the money in America by:

1) Spending it at yard sales
2) Going to ball games
3) Hiring prostitutes
4) Buying beer
5) Getting tattoos

...as these are the only American businesses still operating in the U.S.

CONCLUSION:
Go to a ball game with a tattooed prostitute that you met at a yard sale and drink beer all day!

No need to thank me, I'm just glad I could be of help....