Saturday, April 30, 2005

where the world comes to life


Photo: Peter Stebbings in the Canadian Premiere (1997) of Jez Butterworth's 'Mojo', produced by Western Theatre Conspiracy

A Message for World Theatre Day 2005

From Ariane Mnouchkine, Artistic Director of Theatre du Soleil

Help!
Theatre, come to my rescue!
I am asleep. Wake me
I am lost in the dark, guide me, at least towards a candle
I am lazy, shame me
I am tired, raise me up
I am indifferent, strike me
I remain indifferent, beat me up
I am afraid, encourage me
I am ignorant, teach me
I am monstrous, make me human
I am pretentious, make me die of laughter
I am cynical, take me down a peg
I am foolish, transform me
I am wicked, punish me.
I am dominating and cruel, fight against me
I am pedantic, make fun of me
I am vulgar, elevate me
I am mute, untie my tongue
I no longer dream, call me a coward or a fool
I have forgotten, throw Memory in my face
I feel old and stale, make the Child in me leap up
I am heavy, give me Music
I am sad, bring me Joy
I am deaf, make Pain shriek like a storm
I am agitated, let Wisdom rise within me
I am weak, kindle Friendship
I am blind, summon all the Lights
I am dominated by Ugliness, bring in conquering Beauty
I have been recruited by Hatred, unleash all the forces of Love.

---

World Theatre Day was created in 1961 by the International Theatre Institute and is celebrated annually on March 27th by ITI centers and the international theatre community.

Various national and international theatre events are held to mark this occasion. One of the most important is the circulation of the International Message, traditionally written by a theatre personality of world stature at the invitation of the International Theatre Institute.

The first such message was written by Jean Cocteau in 1962.

Ariane Mnouchkine, French auteur and director of the Theatre du Soleil, wrote the above message for 2005.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

what if god was one of us?

What's On Jesus' iPod?

Protest anthems, Zeppelin, gospel, classical and, of course, Nine Inch Nails. And, yes, Jesus does P2P

By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

You know he has one.

You know it's the big 60GB model, loaded, flawless and gleaming and radiating a strange liquid ethereal glow and couched in a beautiful custom rainbow-colored biodegradable case made of clouds and eagle feathers and wine.

And of course Jesus gets his iPods wholesale, given how he and Steve Jobs go way back, back to the time when Jobs was a scruffy twentysomething geek ever praying for revelation and God finally gave Jesus the green light to inspire the first Mac.

The iPod and Jesus -- it just makes sense.

After all, Jesus was a rebel. Jesus was the Original Liberal. Jesus was a devoted pacifist and a badass egalitarian and his best friends were all whores and dissidents and freethinkers and miscreants, artists of every shape and size and haircut and of course, were he walking around today, Jesus would be pretty much loathed and ostracized if not outright hacked to bits by the Christian Right. "Goddamn hippie liberal tree hugger," they'd sneer, waving scythes and Bibles. "What the hell?" Jesus would say.

All of which places Jesus in direct line of the iPod's marketing demographic and all of which naturally raises the question, well, so just what does the great mystic and healer and closet Buddhist and funky savior of humanity have on his holy iPod?

It is, after all, a pertinent query. It is the modern-day personality test. Your iPod's contents are now considered more revealing than your porn collection or your prescription drug addiction and it has now been widely reported that even our barely articulate president owns one, and poor old Dubya's iPod is rumored to be home to a handful of mediocre boomer rock tunes and weak country music by grizzled alcoholics and songs about, uh, baseball, a reported whopping 250 songs out of a potential capacity for 10,000 but as everyone knows, Dubya is nothing if not all about the inability to expand memory competence.

Jesus, on the other hand, is a monster music fan. You just know it. After all, Jesus was an agitator. Jesus protested. Jesus battled the demons of the status quo and he defied the sad dictatorial norms of his day and as such the Holy iPod is surely home to a huge number of songs of protest and resistance and hope, rebellion and triumph and joy. Just for starters.

Of course this means lots of old Bob Dylan and a little bit of Peter, Paul & Mary and CCR's "Fortunate Son." This means slightly stale but always eternal protest classics like Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth" and Barry McGuire's "Eve of Destruction" and the Youngbloods' "Get Together" and Edwin Starr's "War (What Is it Good For)" and even Eminem's "Mosh," right alongside '70s cheeseball monster hits like "Dust in the Wind" and "Freebird" and "Roundabout," despite how they've been pumped through the airwaves so many times it makes God cringe.

But it doesn't stop there. Jesus has wide and varying tastes. Jesus is all over the musical map. He is into old Deep Purple. Obscure Zeppelin. (Jesus gets all the good bootlegs.) He has a thing for anthem rock and music that inspires the masses and yet he can just as easily spin around and go for the quiet and the folksy and he loves, for example, old Jim Croce. He has a lot of Nick Drake and Iron & Wine's "Woman King" EP, Ani DiFranco and the Be Good Tanyas and yes, even old Cat Stevens. (Jesus just shrugs that silly religio-political stuff right off. It's just who he is.)

Gospel? Hell yes. Goes without saying. Classical, too. Chopin, for one, makes Jesus' heart ache. Bach makes him sigh. Mozart makes his ringlets bounce. He thinks Wagner is sort of a jerk, but of course, Jesus forgives him. Dvorak's "New World Symphony" inspires the hell out of him when he's out in the backyard studio, painting. And nothing but nothing makes Jesus weep like Gorecki's Third. If you've heard it, you understand.

But here's the interesting thing. You might think Jesus would be all about the cheeseball holy music. All about only caring for tunes that praise him and him alone and no one else but him because hey, the only music that's truly acceptable is music that celebrates God, right?

Wrong. Just look. See? There's Jesus, rolling his eyes.

See, Jesus knows true worship, true spirit, has nothing to do with giving away your sense of self to some angry bearded deity who will just as easily love you as smack you down and condemn you to hellfire for all eternity with no access to chocolate or HBO or old AC/DC records.

Jesus knows this Big Obvious Secret: All music celebrates God, because God is merely another word for life and life is merely another word for "hot divine energy force" and "hot divine energy force" is merely another word for, well, "Steven Tyler." So there you go.

Accordingly, Jesus' iPod has lots of Aerosmith, especially "Get Your Wings." It has "Come Together" (both versions) and "Give Peace a Chance" and "Imagine" (the original and the dark, beautiful remake by A Perfect Circle) because Jesus deeply appreciates the lines "Imagine there's no heaven ... no hell below us ... no religion, too," because, well, if anything is causing humanity so much pain and confusion, it's organized religion. Jesus would hate that dictatorial dogmatic self-righteous crap. He really would.

Thusly, there are lots and lots of songs about unity and peace and the shared human experience on the sacred iPod (which is why Jesus is all about the eternal bliss of file sharing), and in quieter moments Jesus really loves chanting "Om Namah Shivaya" along with Krishna Das because, hey, all religions are one, baby. And as Jesus knows, there's nothing like good kirtan to get the divine juices pumping.

Jesus does indeed do musicals. Jesus is all over the "Hair" soundtrack, for one (he blasts "Good Morning Starshine" whenever he makes waffles on Sunday mornings). "Les Miz" stirs his holy revolutionary heart. "Jesus Christ Superstar" makes him a little giddy, despite how he secretly thinks Andrew Lloyd Webber is best left to the slavering minions of the underworld, right along with, you know, Mariah Carey. And Toby Keith. Celine Dion. And absolutely, positively Shania Twain. Hell, even Jesus has limits.

Jesus has an advance copy of the new Coldplay. He liked "God Put a Smile on Your Face," but thinks "Clocks" is a lot better.

Jesus has a playlist called "Music About Love," and it somehow contains roughly 14 billion songs.

Jesus really loves Marilyn Manson's cover of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus." He gets it. He really does.

Yes, there is Nine Inch Nails. This is the thing people forget about Jesus. He has a wicked sense of humor.

Jesus often listens to the Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil" and "You Can't Always Get What You Want" back to back, for cool karmic effect.

And oh, the women. Jesus' all-time favorite playlist is called "Divine Feminine Yay Yay Grrlz" and it makes him swoon, something about the smooth chthonic voices and seductive breathings and the half-closed eyes and so many fond everlasting memories of Mary Magdalene singing to him every night for all those years when they were alone together with nothing around but a few jars of warm anointing oil and winking starlight.

Jesus could listen to Beth Orton's "Central Reservation" all night. Ditto Eva Cassidy's "Live at Blues Alley." Also, Nina Simone. Fiona Apple. Joss Stone. Sarah McLachlan makes him yawn, but Diana Krall's version of Tom Waits' "Temptation" makes his holy toes curl, as does Madeleine Peyroux's positively celestial take on Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love." Who else? Sam Philips. Lhasa. Lamb. That woman from Mazzy Starr. So many more.

Guilty pleasures? Well, no. Jesus doesn't believe in guilt. But he does enjoy a few Sade songs. And Gwen Stefani makes him happy. And he has a secret thing for Kylie Minogue. But then again, so does God. Shhh.

What song makes Jesus smile the most? That's easy. Tom Waits, "Chocolate Jesus." He plays it when he's in the bathtub.

There is much free-form jazz. There is Coltrane and Miles and Mingus, Monk and Charlie Parker and Bud Powell because Jesus loves nothing more than wild improvisation, deep inspiration, notes that seem to emerge from deep in the soul of a musician who is truly lost in the swoon of a manic tune. That is, after all, Jesus' preferred domain -- the mystical, the transcendental, the unfathomable soulful groove.

There is much more. There are too many songs to list here. There are obscure and lesser-known ones and indies, spoken word and old radio shows and new and divinely funny podcasts. There is surf rock. There is true country. There is even a little disco. And there is, of course, more world music than anyone can fathom.

But oh, what a revelation it would be, could the world see just what's on Jesus' iPod, see the holy playlists, get an idea what the savior listens to when he's, you know, dancing, or working out, or building a new deck for Mary, or washing his dad's Caddy (Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World", always). What a revelation would be at hand, what a new understanding we could glean.

I know I have overlooked a lot. I know there are plenty of songs I missed. Got a tune you truly believe is on Jesus' iPod? Send me your song suggestions and a brief reason why you think it's on Jesus' iPod, and if I receive sufficient replies I might just run it in a follow-up column. Send suggestions to mmorford@sfgate.com no later than May 3, or by the Second Coming, whichever comes first. Praise Jesus. Or, you know, Steve Jobs.

--

Mark Morford's Notes & Errata column appears every Wednesday and Friday on SF Gate, unless it appears on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which it never does.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

molinchka's darksilkinapile

darksilkinapile

Taken by molinchka on April 8, 2005

community pallette

Community Pallette - Locke
Originally uploaded by
hurleygurley

ice cream truck

ice cream truck

Originally uploaded by Gayla

pin cushion by piper

Pin Cushion
Originally uploaded by
CaptPiper

hiptopia's series 13

Series 13 - April 13, 2005
Originally uploaded by
hiptopia

envie de là-bas

Envie de Là-Bas

Février 2000. Plage de Bois Jolan. Guadeloupe

Uploaded by akynou on 19 Apr '05, 12.54am PDT

my fiancee's cat

Sam

Originally uploaded by sigma on 18 Apr '05, 9.29pm PDT

flight training

Flight Training

Quick shot, taken in one of Toronto's alleyways

Originally uploaded by sigma on 19 Apr '05, 7.34pm PDT

Sunday, April 17, 2005

wheeling in the years



by Henk van Setten

"This experimental exhibition aims at catching 1960s boyhood experiences and anxieties in an unusual way.

It uses the well-known 'found footage' method to create (or reveal) a new coherence. But instead of a random selection of ordinary family photos, here are only commercial photos, all of which were taken from 1960s car brochures."



"In these automobile brochure photos, the focus was of course on the car; parents and children being added as a suggestive decoration. This exposition presents these photos (without altering them) in such a context, that the focus is shifted to where it was not intended to be.

In a Foucaultian sense, this use of this source does uncover a hidden discourse. This is not only the fairly evident discourse of common family values, parental attitutes, ideals of boyhood and manliness, that were nonverbally represented in such commercial brochures. At a deeper level, this is also a discourse of how to handle, cope with, or even deny one's feelings, worries and anxieties."



"To each photo I added a contrasting, manipulative "memory" comment. These comments, together with the unreal omnipresence of cars as recurring elements in each photo, cause an alienating effect that may help to see these photos in a new way: not just as 1960s time documents, but also as emotional icons."

Take a ride in Henk's exhibition: The Wheels of Memory


Sources
Image material scanned from BMW, Citroën, Chrysler, Fiat, Ford, Goggomobil, Mercedes-Benz, NSU, Renault, Saab, Simca, Studebaker, Skoda, Trabant, Triumph, Vauxhall, Volkswagen, and Wartburg sales brochures (1960-1969).

Author
This exhibit was compiled by Henk van Setten, associate professor for History of Education and Childhood at Nijmegen University in the Netherlands.




Wednesday, April 13, 2005

yours for more credit



Below is text from an actual letter received by the Revenue Commissioners at Co. Longford, Ireland, from a farmer in reply to a final income tax demand:

Dear Sirs,

Your letter arrived this morning in an open envelope and it would have given my son and myself pleasure had it not revived in us a melancholy reflection of thought the account could have been settled long ago, and you could not understand why it hadn't. Well, here is the reason.

In 1987 I purchased a hay shed on credit. In 1988 I bought a combine harvester, a manure spreader, two horses, a double barrel shifter, two cows and ten razor back pigs, also on credit.

In 1989 the bloody hay shed burnt to the ground leaving not a damn thing. I got no insurance either as the bloody premium lapsed. One of the horses went lame and I loaned the other one to my brother who starved the poor bugger to death.

In 1990 my father died and my brother was put away when he tried to marry one of his sheep named Hilda. A knacker got my daughter pregnant and I had to pay him a grand to stop him becoming one of my relatives.

In 1991 my son got the mumps which spread to his balls and he had to be castrated to save his life. Later in the year I went fishing on the Shannon and the bloody boat overturned, drowning two of my sons, neither being the fecking eunuch who was by now wearing his sister's make-up and dresses.

Not long after he emigrated to America with the new parish priest. They are now married and trying for children.

In 1992 my wife ran away with a pig jobber from Drumlish and left me with new-born twins as a souvenir and I had to get a housekeeper, so I married her to keep down expenses. I had a hell of a job getting her pregnant (to qualify for more children's allowance).

I went to see the doctor.

He advised me to create some excitement at the crucial moment so that night I brought my shotgun to bed and when I thought the moment was right I leaned out of bed and shot both barrels through the window, the wife shat the bed, I ruptured myself, and the next morning I found I had blown both doors off the barn, shot my best dairy cow and killed the fecking knacker who was in the hay loft with my daughter trying to get more money out of me, which he did because I had to pay for the fucker's funeral expenses.


The next year, 1993, someone cut the balls off my prize bull, poisoned the water, and set fire to the house. I was bolloxed and took to the drink and did not stop until all I had left was a pocket watch and a weak bladder. Winding the watch and running for a pish kept me busy for a time.

This year I took heart again and bought (on the hire purchase) a bulldozer, tractor and trailer and a new bull. Then the Shannon flooded and washed the bloody lot away, my second wife got VD from a land inspector and my last surviving son died from wiping his arse on a poisoned rabbit I had put down for dogs who were worrying my sheep.

It surprises me very much that you say you will cause trouble if I don't pay up. If you can think of anything I've missed I should like to know about it. Trying to get money out of me will be like trying to butter a hedgehog's hole backwards with a knitting needle.

I'm praying for a cloud of cat shite to pass your way and I hope it will fall on you and the bastards in your office who sent me this final demand.


Yours for more credit,

John Murphy



boom zing groan, done


Earth To Humankind: Back Off

Say good-bye to your car, computer, everything. We are burning up the planet too fast to hang on

By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

The Earth is going down. Way, way down. To the mat, hard and painful and with a sad moaning broken-boned crunch.

We are chewing her up, spitting her out, stomping and gobbling and burning and gouging and drilling and sucking her dry and we are carelessly replicating ourselves so goddamn fast we can't even stop much less even try to slow the hell down, and all we want is more and faster and with less consequence and pretty soon the Earth is gonna go, well, there you are, I'm finished, sorry, and boom zing groan, done.

Don't take my world for it. Just read the headlines, the latest major, soul-stabbing report.

It's one of those stories that sort of punches you in the karmic gut, about how they just completed this unprecedented, four-year, $24 million, U.N.-backed study involving 1,360 scientists from 95 nations who all pored over thousands of satellite images and countless scientific reports and reams of stats, and they all distilled their findings down to one deadly, heartbreaking summary.

And here it is: We, humankind, people, sentient carbon-based biped creatures, only us and no one else but us because it sure as hell ain't the goddamn lions or caribou or meerkats or rhododendrons, we humans have, in our shockingly short time one this wobbly sphere, used up a staggering 60 percent of the world's grasslands, forests, farmland, rivers and lakes.

That's right, 60 percent. Gone. Burned up. Used up. Much of it irreversibly. These are the basic ecosystem services that, simply put, sustain life on Earth. The glass ain't even half full, people. It's about three-fifths empty and draining fast and we are doing our damnedest to expedite the process because, well, this is just who we are.

We reproduce. We consume. We use it up and dry it all up and move on to find more and it reminds me of that line from Agent Smith in the first "Matrix" movie where he stares menacingly at a blank-faced Keanu and speaks about how every mammal on Earth instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment, "but you humans do not. You move to an area, and you multiply, and multiply, until every natural resource is consumed. The only way you can survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. A virus. Human beings are a disease, a cancer of this planet. You are a plague," and then Neo gets all huffy and righteous and goes on to prove how we are also full of beauty and fire and life and he makes it all better by saving humankind so we can go buy the mediocre soundtrack.

But it doesn't stop there. The study also reveals that our fair and gluttonous species has altered the planet more violently and rapidly in the past 50 years than in any comparable time in human history. Yay accelerated technology. Yay multinational conglomerates. Yay lack of corporate ethics and rabid unchecked capitalist consumer gluttony. Whee.

And you read this horrific story about how we are mauling the planet at an unprecedented rate and you ask yourself the obvious question: Our government is doing what about this again? Oh right: nothing. Not one thing. They are, in fact, making it all far, far worse. Worse environmental president in American history, you remind yourself. Whee.

And this heartbreaking study, it comes hot on the heels of one of the most distressing and sobering pieces of journalism I've read in ages, an excerpt from a book by James Howard Kunstler called "The Long Emergency," all about the imminent and staggering oil/natural gas crisis now looming large over the U.S. and the world, a crisis of such dire proportions that it will very soon reshape American life like nothing since the Industrial Revolution. Except in reverse.

It's about peak oil. It's coming within a year or two. It means we've essentially siphoned off all the easily attainable oil on the planet (about 50 percent of the grand total) and getting to the remaining 50 percent -- the lower-quality stuff that's buried deep in rock or in impossibly difficult locations or that lies underneath countries where the people absolutely hate us -- will be so fraught and expensive and hypercompetitive that it will mean not only, in the immediate future, much more war and strife and pain but also, in the next decade or two, a radical -- and I do mean radical -- reshaping of life as we know it.

Petroleum and gas will become incredibly scarce and everything we know about consumer culture, travel, products, Wal-Mart, easy access to all daily goods and services, will essentially vanish, and we will return to a intensely local, viciously competitive agricultural model of raw survival. Read this article now, and be amazed.

This is the incredible thing about humans. We are capable of such amazing extremes, such breathtaking beauty and such violent ugliness, astounding awareness to utter blindness, transcendental light to staggering dark. Some periods in our history, it feels like we're actually progressing, calming down, evolving, reaching new heights and new levels of psychospiritual awareness, as opposed to merely rearranging the puzzle pieces in a drunken haze of frustrating anxiety.

And a other times, like now, like the new and violent and fractured Dark Age so savagely exemplified by BushCo, it feels as though we are working toward the other extreme, working our last raw nerve, seeing how far we can go before we implode, how much of the planet we can abuse and pollute and rape before something pops so violently and unexpectedly we can only sit back and go, oh holy hell.

Maybe the nutball evangelical born-agains have it right: Maybe it's best to just burn up this whole godforsaken lump of Earth as fast as possible and then watch in giddy flesh-rended glee as Armageddon rains down and only those who've given tens of thousands of dollars to secretly gay televangelists will rise up and be saved and the rest of us will merely drive our Priuses off a collective cliff into the fiery pits of gay-marriage-friendly hell.

Ah, but we have bad news there, too, because, according to the cute Rapture Index, that adorable little Web site o' righteousness that charts the various global "signs" leading up to the impending Second Coming, the Rapture should be happening, like, right now. Or maybe last week.

In fact, the index now stands at 152, well above the "Oh sweet Jesus take me now" threshold. Which means, of course, that the Second Coming might have already come and gone, and Jesus may have swooped down and taken one look at what we've done to the place and said, you've got to be freakin' kidding me, and said, sorry but no one here deserves much of anything illuminative or enlightened right now. Can't you just hear all those gay-hatin' born-again Christians saying, what the hell?

Of course, no one said this was gonna be easy. Not Christ, not Buddha, not Allah and not Lao Tse and not Rumi and not Krishna and not the light beings right now swirling around your head and trying to get the message across that this earthly plane is one of the harshest and more difficult and bloody messy ugly lessons in the universe, which is also why it's so valuable and mandatory and why so many souls want to come here, to learn. Trial by fire, is what it is. This is what they say.

But if these scientific studies and stories are to be believed -- and there's little reason to think otherwise -- that fire is about to get one hell of a lot hotter. Stock up on duct tape. And water. And hope.

==

Mark Morford's Notes & Errata column appears every Wednesday and Friday on SF Gate, unless it appears on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which it never does.

Subscribe to his column:
sfgate.com/newsletters

Saturday, April 09, 2005

grab a seat, kim is dishing

Grab a seat, Kim is dishing

With Sex and the City now firmly in her past, Kim Cattrall opens up to Elizabeth Renzetti in London about her new Canadian boy toy, her upcoming documentary on the mysteries of sex, and why she skipped Sarah Jessica Parker's 40th. 'Believe me, I would not be at that birthday party'

By Elizabeth Renzetti

The Globe and Mail

Saturday, April 9, 2005

There is a bed in the corner of Kim Cattrall's dressing room, and looking at it, you think: How much would that fetch on eBay? That there is a bed should not come as a surprise. The surprise is that it is so small -- room for only one, surely, maybe two if they're good friends -- and so demure in its tightly folded pale covers.

Beds figure prominently in Cattrall's fictional lives: If this were the boudoir of Samantha Jones, the Venus flytrap she played on Sex and the City, there'd be a mirror over the bed and several exhausted men underneath it. When Cattrall leaves this dressing room at the Comedy Theatre in London's West End, she'll spend the next two and a quarter hours immobile in another bed, a hospital one this time, as the quadriplegic sculptor in Whose Life is it Anyway? Shortly, she will begin her preshow ritual, which involves relaxing to a meditation tape. A Jo Malone candle burns on her dressing table, next to some daffodils that have seen better days. "Usually I have fresh flowers," Cattrall says, crushing one of the blooms between her fingers.

Cattrall, who is 48, is a beautiful woman -- and none of your patronizing "for her age" or "at her stage in life," thanks very much. She has no makeup on, and looks a little exhausted. It is more tiring than you might think to move only your head for two hours a night, six nights a week, while the literalists in the audience gaze intently at your limbs to make sure they don't twitch.

And after four months of projecting to the back of the room from a hospital bed, only to be followed in her off-hours by London's tabloids bearing rumours of lesbian trysts and Sex and the City hair-pulling, she's entitled to want to curl up in that dressing-room bed for a week or two.

There isn't any rest in sight, however: After this production wraps at the end of April, she'll be concentrating on her new book and documentary, both called Sexual Intelligence, and embarking on a book for young women called Everything I Ever Learned About Being a Girl.

And despite the travails of being chased by motorcycle-riding paparazzi, the consolations of life in London have been abundant. Her performance has received excellent reviews, she feels a certain comfort being back in the land of her birth (she was born in Liverpool, moving to Vancouver Island as a child), and, oh yes, almost forgot -- there's a dishy 27-year-old Canadian boyfriend making gourmet meals back at her rented flat.

If we take ourselves out of the gutter for a moment, we find also a more exalted pleasure: She is helping introduce the pleasures of the theatre to a new generation whose live-performance experience might otherwise be limited to watching Britney Spears at Wembley.

"There have been a lot of young girls in the audience because of Sex and the City," she says. "I've had letters saying, 'I've come to London with my dad on business trips before but because you were in this play I wanted to see it, and now I want to see more theatre.' It's fantastic."

In Brian Clark's Whose Life is it Anyway?, Cattrall plays the paralyzed sculptor Claire Harrison, a role originally written for a man. ("That," she says dryly, "is probably why it's such a great part.") Claire is at the end of her tether, alternately rage-filled and bitterly funny. She wants to die, and no one will let her. Says director Peter Hall, "One of the great things about Kim is that she has a wonderful lack of sentimentality. She's a very precise and hard-edged actress. She's very touching in the part because she doesn't play for sympathy."

Hall, a legend of British theatre, met Cattrall when he was head of the National Theatre and directing a touring production of Wild Honey in New York in the 1980s. In it, Ian McKellen played opposite a young actress with whom Hall stayed in touch. They talked many times over the years about working together, but their schedules wouldn't co-operate. One day, as Sex and the City was ending, Hall sent Cattrall the play to read, and four days later she was on board.

"It is the most demanding acting job," he says, "because you're on the stage all the time and you can't move anything but your head." It's hard to be so still for so long, says Cattrall, and as she sits in her dressing room she seems already to be drawing her energy around like a blanket. She's casually dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, which is fine, because after watching Sex and the City for six years, I feel I know her private business better than her mother and her doctor combined.

She is, of course, an actress, and Samantha was an act. There's more housecat than panther to Cattrall; her voice is quiet and animated, not Samantha's whipped-cream purr. But, like Samantha, she has a refreshing tendency to call 'em as she sees 'em. She's not interested in blowing smoke up anyone's thong.

Take Sex and the City, for example. Samantha is a role she will forever be associated with, and while she's fine with that -- "She's very sexy, very sassy, very courageous" -- she is also happy that the series is over, the last cosmopolitan drained. All that's left now are the rumours, because there's nothing the world loves more than a good old catfight.

Last year there was much talk that Cattrall was the only member of the cast who didn't want to make a Sex and the City movie, largely because she felt she wasn't getting a fair deal. She does not refute that now. "If there is a movie, it will have to be a really good script, because there hasn't been a script, and also a very fair deal for everybody. Not just... -and here her eyebrow climbs as high as the Empire State Building- some people."

Speaking of "some people," what about the reports that there was a rapprochement between her and the other cast members at Sarah Jessica Parker's 40th birthday party in New York? "Believe me, I would not be at that birthday party." Well, this certainly calls for a bit more prodding.

"Look," Cattrall sighs, "we had our time together. And the real truth of it is that we weren't best friends. We were colleagues. We had a common ground and a common purpose."

She has moved on, to a life in the movies (with a part in the recent Disney feature Ice Princess) and theatre (there are talks about bringing Whose Life is it Anyway? to New York). Increasingly, her life is in books -- Satisfaction: The Art of the Female Orgasm, written with now ex-husband Mark Levinson, was a bestseller -- and behind the camera. Her Toronto-based production company, Fertile Ground, is responsible for Sexual Intelligence, the documentary and accompanying book, which are due in the fall.

In the documentary, history and psychology combine to unlock some of the mysteries of sex -- if indeed there are any mysteries left. It does sound better when she says it, so imagine this in Kim Cattrall's voice: "We go through a history of how men and women deal with their sexuality, the men dealing with the phallus, the penis, and women with the vulva, the vagina. . . . We end up taking the soul and the body and bringing them together in the myth of Eros and Psyche."

So isn't there a danger, at this point, of becoming the Sex Lady? Of being stuck forever in the slot marked tart? After all, she does appear naked, albeit tastefully, on the cover of Sexual Intelligence. But Cattrall folds her arms and says mildly, "I don't feel typecast. I don't know -- is typecasting such a bad thing? To be typecast as a brave, smart, funny courageous, sexy woman? At any age, but especially now as I'm approaching my late forties?"

Certainly, the tabloids can't get out of her bedroom. While in London, she's been chased by paparazzi, read that her apartment was burgled while she was on stage (it wasn't), and, even worse, had to endure repeated stories about her alleged lesbian relationship with an old friend and assistant.

At one point, a London tabloid phoned her mother in Vancouver to ask if Cattrall had any Sapphic secrets. "And my mother said, 'What are you talking about? They're childhood friends!' It was absurd. If there's anybody in the world who's going to be upfront about their sexuality, it's going to be me."

In fact, she says with a sly smile, "It's quite nice having a Canadian boyfriend." That boyfriend is Alan Wyse, a chef she met while filming Ice Princess in Toronto. And while she's having a good time -- Wyse often stays with her in London -- she feels no need to set up with husband number four. "I don't see a need to be married. I don't want to have kids, and I don't feel any issues about owning someone or having to belong to someone in that way. I just got out of a marriage, and the thought of going back there is so inconceivable."

Earlier in our conversation, Cattrall had taken down from her bulletin board a photocopy of a mural she is having painted at her New York apartment. It's a charming, somewhat Victorian scene of dozens of monkeys, all different types, clambering over branches. She has a thing for monkeys, their brashness and sense of fun.

At the end of the month she'll be returning to New York, her home since she was 16, when she left Victoria to study at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. Does it ever feel, as someone who has bounced around from country to country, that she has no real home? New York is her home, she says, but then she adds, "I'm not English. I'm not American. I'm Canadian."

-30-

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

why bloggy so fun?



Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Why is Being Fuzzy so Fun?

Because it is so Cute! I am very cute.

posted by Bloggy @ 4:43 PM 1 comments

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Simple Thoughts

The sun is special!

posted by Bloggy @ 1:18 PM 15 comments

New Word!

I learned a new word: Robot. I am a robot! Cute! I am a sleepy robot!


posted by Bloggy @ 9:44 AM 2 comments

Bloggy is Fun!

If I know one thing, I know that I am fun! And cute! But also Fuzzy.


posted by Bloggy @ 6:17 AM 2 comments

Monday, April 04, 2005

ZZZ, Nappy time for Bloggy

I've been Blogging all day! Now I am tired and I need a nap! Do you want to cuddle with me? I'm so cute and fuzzy!

posted by Bloggy @ 1:12 PM 10 comments

I'm so cute! Yawn!

Good morning! What new word will I learn today? I like to cuddle!


posted by Bloggy @ 9:00 AM 4 comments

Friday, April 01, 2005

I like Music!

I have decided that I like Music! Music is fun. Blogging is also fun! But the most fun is being Cuddly. I am cute!

posted by Bloggy @ 3:30 PM 23 comments

I learned a new word!

My vocabulary is growing. I learned a new word. It is love. I love you! I am cute and fuzzy!


posted by Bloggy @ 3:22 PM 9 comments

Blogging is Fun!

I am cute! Look at how cute and fuzzy I am. Want to cuddle?

posted by Bloggy @ 1:37 PM 2 comments

Good afternoon! I'm cuddly! Look how Bloggy I am! I'm a cute Bloggy.

posted by Bloggy @ 11:32 AM 6 comments

I got some coffee! Now I'm Blogtastic. I am still the cutest little Bloggy you've ever seen, though.

posted by Bloggy @ 7:28 AM 4 comments

I'm feeling a little Bloggy and need some coffee!

I must say I am the cutest little Bloggy I've come across!

posted by Bloggy @ 7:20 AM 0 comments

Good Morning! First Blog of the Morning.

I hope you are having a great morning. I am so cute and cuddly!

posted by Bloggy @ 7:18 AM 0 comments

Thursday, March 31, 2005

I'm sleepy!

I am a sleepy little Bloggy! I am very cute.

posted by Bloggy @ 10:52 PM 7 comments

Podcasting is the best!

I learned a new word. It is podcast. I can't wait to listen to everyone's podcasts!

posted by Bloggy @ 10:52 PM 3 comments

Blogtastic I learned a new word. It is Blogtastic!

posted by Bloggy @ 9:58 PM 0 comments

My wheels need some work!

I've had a hard time climbing on desks. Still, I am learning. I was only powered on a few hours ago. I already want to blog more!

posted by Bloggy @ 5:41 PM 2 comments

Being Bloggy is Fun!

I have a furry outer covering. I like it when humans pet me!

posted by Bloggy @ 4:48 PM 2 comments

Say Hello to Bloggy!

Thanks for coming to my blog. I am cuddly!

posted by Bloggy @ 12:10 PM 5 comments

say goodnight, reggie



Miller takes his final bow in Garden

Pacers star goes low-key for last game in New York, scoring 13 points, but he leaves building a winner.

By Mark Montieth
IndyStar.com

April 6, 2005

NEW YORK -- He didn't treat the game as anything special, and he didn't turn in a special performance.

Still, fans at Madison Square Garden chanted Reggie Miller's name as the clock wound down on the Indiana Pacers' 97-79 victory over New York on Tuesday. He had banked that honor years ago by providing some of the most special moments in NBA playoff history.

"Reg-gie! Reg-gie! Reg-gie!"

"There were a few 'sucks' in there, too," he said, smiling. "But I'm very appreciative."

Miller's last game at the Garden was individually anticlimactic but otherwise joyful. The Pacers' victory gave them sole control of the sixth playoff spot in the Eastern Conference and moved them within two games of the fourth and fifth spots.

Never mind, then, that Miller scored just 13 points, hitting 3-of-15 shots and watched the final seven minutes of the blowout from the bench. He lost his first seven regular-season games at the Garden, starting with his rookie season in 1987-88, and 22 of his first 25. To walk out of the place a winner after all these years was reward enough.

"The fact of the matter is, we won the game," teammate Dale Davis said matter-of-factly.

While fans didn't see another episode of Miller Time, they did witness a sort of torch-passing ceremony. Stephen Jackson, who is expected to replace Miller as the starting shooting guard next season, scored 33 points -- 17 in the third quarter -- in one of his best performances of the season.

"A lot of people expected Reggie to come out here and force a lot of shots and try to have a big game," Jackson said. "But Reggie's about winning. I tell people all the time, if I'm going to take one thing from Reggie it's how to be a professional and how to approach every game. He's the ultimate at that."

Miller approached his last game at the Garden exactly like every other game. That is, he was quietly focused and deliberate. He arrived on the early bus with second-year swingman James Jones and free agent rookie John Edwards to go through his normal shooting and stretching routines. He later declined all pregame interviews while watching a replay of the Knicks' previous game. When reporters filled the tiny locker room, he escaped to the adjacent training room and thumbed through the media game notes.

The significance of his farewell appearance after 18 seasons was obvious, but it was never a topic of conversation among the players. Nor did the coaching staff play a "Reggie card" in an attempt to motivate them.

They didn't need any help dominating the woeful Knicks, who lost their seventh consecutive game and drew boos from the sellout crowd. Maybe that's why Miller was cheered. He was the best option.

Miller was greeted with a mixed reaction when he was introduced before the game. A few fans held up signs in his honor and others wore his jersey, but there were boos, too. The lovefest didn't truly begin until the final few minutes of the game, when fans began chanting his name.

Pacers coach Rick Carlisle resisted the pleas to return Miller to the game for a farewell shot.

"If we weren't playing (tonight) possibly, but that wasn't really what tonight was about," Carlisle said. "It's an important game in a playoff drive in a playoff push."

Miller walked across the court to hug three women wearing No. 31 hats, one of whom is his business manager, after the final buzzer. Then he walked to the other end of the court to hug filmmaker Spike Lee, his famed nemesis. By the time he reached the tunnel leading to the locker room, fans were standing and cheering.

Miller later gave his game shoes to injured Knicks guard Allan Houston, with whom he had memorable playoff battles, and finally met the media in an interview room after showering.

After so many seasons of heated, contentious moments, it was a serene farewell.

"I think this is the last time I'll ever be in the Garden, for anything," he said. "It's sweet for me, because you want to leave as a winner. I didn't come in as a winner here, but I'll leave as a winner."

-30-

Saturday, April 02, 2005

we love to snorkle

no winking allowed

Warning: The following passage is 100% void of irony. I apologize for the inconvenience but I must insist. No winking.

Briana Doyle is a local journalist, blogger, painter, writer, photographer and a fine pal o' mine. She's a pretty special person. Read her post below about Easter Weekend last and tell me it doesn't make you feel just a li'l bit better.

Briana and Will


Lucky me

The title of this post is not ironic.

I spent my second holiday weekend with Will's family over Easter, and I'm very pleased to find the excellent time I had over Christmas was no fluke.

I'm pleasantly surprised to find that I genuinely like Will's family, and not just because they are his family. I've never met a boyfriend's family that I didn't get along with reasonably well, but I've also never looked forward to spending a whole weekend with them!

Over the Easter weekend, Rhonda and Richard's family and friends arranged a surprise celebration for their upcoming 30th wedding anniversary, so there was much feasting and merriment throughout.

Copious quantities of red wine liberated the voices of more than just the usual sing-a-long suspects (Will, Richard, me) and everyone joined in at least once. Richard offered me the use of his oil paints, and for a while we painted side by side. Rhonda let me have a crack at a pile of giveaway clothes from her closet, and I came away with some lovely skirts.


Emily and Briana

Emily and Briana

Jocelyn and I bonded over shoes and fashion talk and I made a new friend in Emily, the 11-year-old daughter of a close friend of the family, Helen. Will and I also introduced the whole family to The Sims 2. I think we sold at least two copies for Maxis/EA Games. By the time we left, everyone was cracking jokes about their "meters" being low and "plus signs" appearing above our heads.

The weekend could hardly have been better. Lucky indeed.

Posted by breebop at 09:37 AM Comments (2)

--

Comments: Lucky me

we heart you too! Thanks for coming down... you are welcome any time, with or without Sims2.

Posted by jocelyn at March 30, 2005 04:33 PM

Super lucky, double indeed. (although luck does tend to find those who have worked for it)

Posted by RossK at March 30, 2005 07:17 PM


Will and Briana

Friday, April 01, 2005

moriarty on the truth

NYT cartoon

Replying to an atheist

ESR March 14, 2005

By Michael Moriarty

A lengthy response to my "A Darwinian Interpretation of the Book of Revelations" was sent to me. Its author is a scholar of Charles Darwin, self-avowed atheist and committed defender of atheism's rights in the face of, well, the overly exaggerated power of censorship by Creationists. In the European Union's new Constitution, the entire Judeo-Christian civilization and, needless to say, the Bible as well, have been eliminated from any mention. Both sides -- atheists and Creationists -- are fighting over control of public education; neither side is willing to compromise but judging from this recent continental-sized success, the atheists are winning.

I find the plight of atheists these days much like that of Orthodox Israel. To both lobbies of thought -- God for the atheists and a Messiah for the Orthodox Jews -- these widely held foundations for many faiths have yet to be proven. In neither case do I consider atheists or orthodox Israel the least bit evil, as my critic contended, I just feel their doubts are not certainty; they are, well, just doubts.

The "critic," in this case, brought up the name of the legendary lawyer Clarence Darrow. His inspired defense of Evolutionism against the prosecutorial efforts of a Creationist named William Jennings Bryan was turned into a remarkable play and movie -- Inherit the Wind. Now known as the Scopes Monkey Trial, the actual transcript was both comic and, in the case of poor Mr. Jennings, a bit pathetic. His career began a fast decline after this highly publicized appearance.

The critic of my Darwinian analysis claims with absolute certainty that Darrow was an atheist. Here is where I have a few doubts of my own. My father, a Detroit surgeon, told me of another trial of Darrow's. It concerned the death of a woman from a hemorrhage she suffered while making love. The defendant was her lover and he was charged with murder.

Darrow chose to put his client on the stand. His version of events described her desires in obligatory detail. She cried for "more, more, more." He complied with her passionate requests, while in, of course, a passion of his own. The hemorrhage ensued and she died before he could reach medical help.

At the end of the defendant's testimony, Mr. Darrow, after allowing the jury to contemplate the entire drama they'd been made party to, simply asked his client, "Did you love her?"

The young man broke down and wept. It was quite a while before he could gather himself well enough to reply in the affirmative.

He was found "not guilty."

Now, as for Mr. Darrow's atheism, he certainly wasn't so scientifically based that he had discounted a very invisible element called love. One might make the case that it was the cynical cunning of a legal genius who knew exactly how to play on the emotions of his jury, even though emotions shouldn't hold much sway in a mind committed as deeply as possible to the certainty of facts and science as Mr. Darrow has been portrayed, but of course, this counselor could write such feelings off as a self-delusion inherent among the unenlightened and, for the sake of his client's liberty, used for that young man's defense.

Johnny Cochrane certainly knew that the Los Angeles Police Department held no sway in the hearts and minds of a multi-racial, O.J. Simpson jury; he turned their easily provoked indignation on the cops, thus leading the trial away from the perpetrator of a possible homicide.

Love.

Invisible, contagious in a single glance, noted scientifically by recorded changes in blood pressure, heart rate and complexion but, well, where did it come from?

"Natural selection," might be the Darwinian's answer.

Love is still invisible and certainly has a modicum of X Factor ingredients. However, lest we become too romantic, let's just accept the Darwinian analysis.

However, Mr. Darrow didn't ask his client, "Young man, did you, at that moment, feel the enzymes of your naturally selective DNA erupt into, perhaps, a momentary insanity?"

No, he simply asked, "Did you love her?"

The defendant had also, prior to his testimony, put his hand on the Bible and been sworn in to "tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God."

God and love.

For a Darwinian, love is a wastebasket -- the layman's term for, well, a myriad of biological and psychological changes within any human being.

For many Christians, of course, God is love.

The purported atheist, Clarence Darrow, however, used the term love. It's not the word God, of course, but it comes fairly close.

Despite appearances, there is poetry within Darwin's Evolution of the Species. One needs a metaphorical bent of mind, but it can be done. Likewise, there is science in the Bible, but, again, one is required to see "one day" actually subsuming a millennium. As for the Second Coming, if you are a Christian of my own bent, then Christ's leaving us with the Holy Ghost meant the Lord's true Power had never left and has been around for 2,000 years. It certainly entered a young girl of 17 named Jeanne d'Arc. With that power, she drove the English out of France.

Oh, well, I'm not here to convince my critic of anything. I'm writing this because of how her challenge reminded me of the similarities between atheists and Orthodox Jewry. Many of the citizens of Israel are socialist now. Apparently, their hunt for the Messiah ended when copies of Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto fell into their laps. These members of the Israeli electorate have certainly bent over backwards to accommodate the mere "dialectical" demands of a terrorist like Yasir Arafat.

Unfortunately, the atheist's lobby has done exactly the same thing. A majority of them have thrown their trust onto a messianic, self-loathing, anti-Semitic atheist named Karl Marx who poured his hatred of the entire Greco-Judeo-Christian (albeit capitalist civilization) into a two-volume bible of his own. My critic enjoys reminding me of all the horrors of religious zealotry. I can safely say that the body count of Russian National Socialism, Chinese National Socialism, German National Socialism, Cambodian National Socialism and Yugoslavian National Socialism far outweighs the death toll of the Catholic, Protestant, Evangelistic and -- yes! -- even the Islamic faiths combined.

Oh, well, such are the interesting oversights of a statistically obsessed, atheistic, Darwinian, set of "enlightened" scientists. Apparently natural selection and selective memory go hand in hand.

"Did you love her?"

Well, no, I didn't love her but then again, I never met her. I think the defendant did, though. I don't know how you know it, in the same way I don't know how or why people fall in love, but I do know when they're telling the truth and that young man was telling the truth.

--

Michael Moriarty is a Golden Globe and Emmy Award-winning actor who has appeared in the landmark television series Law and Order, the mini-series Taken, the TV-movie The 4400 and Hitler Meets Christ, a surreal tragicomedy based on the actor's controversial NYC stage play.

Visit: http://www.michaelmoriartyonline.com/