Carry me up, Up in the Air

Can you name the last movie you saw that made you re-evaluate your life's values and your views on the unholy sanctimony of marriage to the point of inspiring true flutters of romantic desire? Now I can.

On top of doing that to me (I literally hear George Clooney's voice now as I type, creepy... he now narrates my life part-time), the movie Up in the Air tackles the dichotomy of the salary-driven individual and the dreamer so poignantly it may as well be you in the hot seat receiving a "packet." 

As George, in his best-fitted role yet of professional "termination technician" Ryan Brigham (a role literally tailor-made for him by writer/director Jason Reitman), says, "I'm your wake-up call." 

This movie, an astute, properly sentimental triumph of Reitman's, is a wake-up call for anyone wanting (or needing) to take another look at their lives and what they value. And even if you're already set, I suspect you won't find the movie fluffy or purposelessly sappy.

A most moving moment is, like many parts of this movie (or any good movie), a result of simply edited, simply beautiful shots of characters with soul. And, of course, the perfect song. Sad Brad Smith's Help Yourself plays as we see George enjoy the company of his plus-one (and potential love interest) at his sister's wedding. (The haunting, astoundingly charismatic Alex played by Vera Farmiga is unimaginably George's perfect match.) The song lyrics perfectly supplement the footage — plus, the music provides the slightly melancholy notes the imagery needs to bring you to your own realization of the importance of these moments — things you don't want to skip out on.

Equally important, though, is the career lesson. Of course, the current climate of the workforce in North America is uncharacteristically brash, so the timing of this movie couldn't be better. Up in the Air has two legs firmly planted in the present, and summarizes the times by demonstrating the desperation that comes with unemployment, especially for those who've practically spent their entire lives labouring for their respective companies; but it also reminds us, those who are young enough, to make a change if we'd feel empty after a lifetime of working. It's an eerily on-point summary of a generation who got married young, procreated young, and worked to accumulate wealth to mobilize their families.

At what point does a salary take hold of your dreams? Will our generation be any different? And was the last generation even wrong, especially for those so lucky to remain happily married, to have a witness to their lives and to have conceived offspring to love and be witness to? These are the kinds of questions George is still asking me.

I can't help but wonder... Are We Mormon?

I'm recently off of a great night out with about 14 crazy bitches. Seriously. Never before have I so inconspicuously flanked a group of queen-bee party girls; I wouldn't have even made the outtakes for Girls Gone Wild had someone been filming the lot of us — and I'm not someone particularly used to losing the screentime.

If you've been following my career (which all 3 of my friends who read this have), you know I was recently keeping a sex column in college — which I thought was often brash and cutting. Well, let me tell you, after dining at Hu's on Ellice with a couple of ladies with true tales about zucchini mishaps and "Pussy Wizards," I had to draw just one logical conclusion: I'm a Mormon compared to these gals.

However, it appears I'm not alone. You might think I'd launch into a topical analysis of the show Big Love now; a show that spins a relatively sensitive portrayal of a functioning polygamist family which got Chloe Sevigny a Best Supporting Actress Golden Globe yesterday, or jokingly compare my life to Mormon men and women who save themselves for marriage (albeit plural). Nope, I'm going to talk about that other show about Mormon fundamentalism: The Bachelor.

Before you start defending your "guilty pleasure," don't assume I'm trashing the show. 'Cause I'm not. I simply want to point out the injustice that was done to poor little Rozlyn in The Bachelor Season 14's alleged sex scandal. If you're in the dark about this, apparently Rozlyn, a contender in the show, had a sexual encounter or affair with a staff member of The Bachelor, and was outed by the other cast members competing for one man's heart (surprise, surprise). 

For many people, the logical conclusion to that issue played out: Roz was kicked off the show for her transgressions. ....But wait a minute, critical thinkers: Isn't Mr. Bachelor playing every single one of these girls? Isn't polygamy kind of the purpose of the show? If you ask me, they're all in open relationships, considering the girls accept that he's dating every one of them at once. Why should he get to demand exclusivity? — unless we believe like Mormon fundamentalists believe, that only men can collect wives/girlfriends. Women share.

Sincerely,

FrotchShadowOnTheWall

The Incarceration of Mimi?

Ok, I'm not here to hate on The Diva for getting a little tipsy. Lord knows, there will be tomorrow, and I don't want to be judged a hypocrite (did anyone catch my reference to Mariah's lyrics in that last line? It was a bit feeble).

Especially since her drunk-ass speech has been talked about e'erwhere, and it took place at the Palm Springs International Film Festival (having never heard of this, I assume it is at least a C-list event and Mimi may have even put it on the map with her inebriation).

Of course, being a Precious movie fanatic makes things a little more charcoal. I mean, the girl gives this decent, subtle performance as a jaded New York City social worker, even abandoning her looks (a faux lady 'stache helped camouflage The Diva's good looks in the movie). And some film board, likely wanting any excuse not to vote for the famous R&B icon, gives her an award.

But even so, Mariah couldn't ditch her Divatinis for a night. Granted, the PSIFF sounds like something you would have a couple drinks at, but you may as well not attend if you think it's so laughable you don't care if you're coherent enough to give a proper speech. (And even by lower standards than properness, Mimi barely mentioned the movie and couldn't even feign an emotional response to receiving the award.) Mimi then had the audacity to blame her buzz on the director, Lee Daniels, because they hadn't been together since filming and must've done a little sipping together that night.

Moral of the story: Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Mimi. After Glittergate, you were lucky to be cast in anything. Ever again. Especially to have a director cast you in a challenging role in an important and relevant movie, risking some of its success on you and your cursed past.

(Apparently though, she and Daniels were friends and he was impressed by her work in a flop they filmed together called Tennessee.) Having previously cast Helen Mirren for the role (who had to bail), Daniels received a call from Mimi at the right time wanting to split a bottle (presumably). And so the beautiful fairy tale goes about a drunk diva who knows how to twist her fate through alcohol. Can she evade an Oscar because of shitty speech-giving abilities?

Sincerely,

A Diva in Training

An Ode to McNally Robinson Polo Park

Oh, hi McNally.

... Remember when I learned all about steaming milk (the act, not the noun) while working as a barista at your restaurant and bakery?

And remember when I had to stare at my creative writing teacher’s picture on the wall all day because it was so near my view as a once-hostess?

Remember when my brother took a call from you and thought I was working at a tattoo parlour because of the name Prairie Ink (which I thought was cool, but decided I didn't want the pressure of reminding people to disinfect their piercings and whatnot)?

Remember when I got to listen to nice, lightly-amplified music while serving cute hippies?

Remember when I was working there and at The Sun and my coworkers would make a point to read my silly little stories?

Remember how cute I thought the story behind Holly McNally keeping her former flame's name in the brand was, until Wikipedia just told me it was because she couldn't afford to replace the signage at first? (It's still cute.)

Remember the tree erected in the restaurant?

Remember the staff book/meal discounts?

I do.

I remember it all well, and I will never forget one of my longest runs at any job (8 months — shut up, I’m commitment-phobe) and the place that helped earn me enough buck to move out into my first apartment.

What swell digs this place was, and what a great staff/atmosphere to boot.

May the best of this place trickle into Grant Park, and make it all the more swell.

P.s.: Sell my book one day.

RIP.