Celebrity Interviews: http://www.bluntreview.com Blunterettes , I lead a truly strange life as film reviewer and celebrity interviewer Emily Blunt of BluntReview.com...this is true. In the a.m. it's off to interview a celeb, and by the afternoon, I am dining off The 99 Cent Store products, in the evening - it's gowns and petit fours among the "elite." Oh, this double-life that's mine. You wanna know what I'm up to? Sure, here you go.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Da Vinci and Divine Dilusions

Okay, I’m sure you’ve heard the buzz about The Da Vinci Code film’s release. Not only are some folks beside themselves – but some are (get this) protesting via a death strike. Literally killing themselves because they disagree with an idea ...

Um, ironic isn’t it that Darwinism is in play fighting a faith. What do I mean? Think about it Theologists' biggest nemesis the dreaded, “Survival of the Fittest,” is presently playing itself out over faith. Yep, the people stoo-pid enough to kill themselves over a film – that most I am sure have not even seen – a fictional tale that boohoohoo, disagrees with their beliefs. Misplaced martyrdom and pure Darwinism: themselves are weeding out the simpletons among the strong. Goons. And I mean that in the nicest way.

I have seen the film (full review at http://www.bluntreview.com) and it is first and foremost a thriller whodunit. But, yeah it’s kinda the anti-Passion of the Christ if you’re into the whole Jesus was a virgin born virgin died deal. But, I say why would a handsome Jewish fella be single in those days? AND what is the big deal if he was betrothed? Holy criminey – sex isn’t everything, and doesn’t the bible itself go on and on about the importance of union between a man and a woman. All others a sin? Hmm, seems to me it’s another case of reading want you want, taking what you want, and kind of pretending you don’t see what you don’t want to.

Truly isn’t it time we looked at this book – that pooped up after an emperor was loosing control of those pesky Christians - with an eye detached from mere faith and wonder a bit about its, our, origins? Please people. Faith is just that. Faith. The bible helps folks follow a faith, but in your heart is where the spirit lies.

Oops I’ve gone and perched upon my soapbox. But, right now as we read this or debate whether or not The Da Vinci Code is evil personified, every day – in the real non-fiction world - children and animals are abused beyond fathomable belief, woman traded like baseball cards, men are kidnapped to populate armies – sometimes to fight their own families in the name of “god.” This we can live with and pretend is not happening, but Ron Howard directs a film DARING to cover a best selling fictional BOOK’s deciphering of another best selling book (the Bible) and people are willing to kill themselves in protest? Stand up and fight for what they believe is unjust? What’s next Paris Hilton as Supreme Court Judge?

And speaking of decipher. Louis Cipher. Lucifer. FOX has been sending me alerts – press alerts – on that stoo-pid new OMEN film being released on 6- 6-06. Every day I get a fed ex’d postcard delivered at the crack of dawn at a cost of what? 15.00 per alert? The over perky Fed Ex guy shows at dawn (well 900am), and I assume (naturally) it’s my neighbor who has forgotten my “Not before 10:00am” Intrusion policy…I open the door in my blanket ala toga’d, sans make up, and hair in a twirly Tim Burton-esque grinched point. It’s not the “best” time of the day for me…the guy is mortified and dumps (stealthily) the poops for the press. Today he just snuck the package in the doorwell.

Oh, and ahem the date on the postcard warns that it is almost 6.6.06 Hahahah. Um, 2006 is not 666. Duh, It’s so dumb I cannot type one more character.

Wait? Did I just give the new Omen free PR?


Da Vinci Decoded at http://www.bluntreview.com

Friday, April 28, 2006

It Aint Angelina Jolie Lips She’s Sporting

Okay. I have a friend in New York who likes to buy me beauty products. Expensive “finds” she discovers en route to the poor house.

She has been a friend since we were toddlers and knows, I am incapable of spending 40.00 for lip-gloss. I just wont do it. Call it the Scot’s blood that runs along side my Hungarian blood. The 5.99 stuff is the same in my eyes…and I have 34 bucks left over - burning a hole in my pocket - to frolic about with while sporting the reasonably priced version of the make-up. It just makes more sense.

So, she sends me some hoity celeb hawked lip-gloss in a swell cutesy bag – the fancy hand painted bag is used to blind the consumer of the high price tag for gelatin-based color… I place it upon my dresser and wait for a "special" eve to break out the good stuff.

Viola. About four days later I have this super fun event at the Egyptian Theater with coupla great guys: Eddie Muller and James Ellroy. We all just did the commentary for Warner Bros. CRIMEWAVE. I directed/produced and they spoke about the film – it’s gold and will be released within a Warner Bros. Home Video set …soon.

Well, Eddie Muller, who's considered the Czar of Noir, has a Film Noir Foundation he’s started. It’s a grassroots foundation developed to bring lost Noirs back to the public eye, and restore those films that time has abused. He and a group of cohorts also host a yearly Film Noir Festival in San Francisco. They were bringing it to Los Angeles for a weekend. I promoted it and got hundreds of emails from BluntReview.com readers that were excited to go. The opening night was sold out and Ellroy was to speak. Those of you, who know this cat, know that’s an event in itself. Muller was going to kind of reel the man in – KINDA.

The two were presenting CRIMEWAVE in all its glory on the big screen. Sterling Hayden 75 feet tall blazon upon a screen? I am there – even if I have seen the film ten times at this point. “You cannot get enough Sterling in a week,” is one of my mottos.

So, I get dolled up as depending on the evening perhaps we will venture out post viewing, grab a friend and head out – wearing the new fancy lip-gloss my friend sent atop some cool blood red Film Noiry plumper base.

I was not to see a mirror again till well past the witching hour as I am barely the female habit sort as it is…

Big mistake.

See, the new lip-gloss apparently has some sort of reaction with the bottom coat and creates a scary Lorre-esque clown-lip effect; I am swollen and have a ring-o-gloss circling my lips. Super creepy. I have no idea.

I also do not leave after the show – no – or it would be a story of escaped embarrassment – which never seems to be in the chess game Gad’s playin’ with my days. I have a “social” evening. I usually exit stage left and shimmy home in time for the hour of watching South Park re-runs strewn across the couch spoon-feeding bon bons to my elderly poodle.

Not tonight.

I waltz over to a few BluntReview.com readers to say hello, meet the PR rep I deal with at the theater and run down to say hello to Eddie and James – all the while video and cameras are flashing. I have no idea – and no one says a word – that I have this lip thing that looks like a five year old that’s eaten half a dozen red pops without looking at a napkin.

I notice about three hours after adding the lipstick – just enough time to be in full allergic reaction mode. I look, in a word, bizarre.

As this is Hollywood I suppose a few folks witnessing my lip faux pas figured it was botox gone bad. But, needless to say, I certainly made an impression with my readers – now many of their “caught-in-the-headlights” expressions become perfectly clear. I thought they were stoned or just strange. But, I may be safe from ridicule as I have MS – a disease no one gets till they get it – so many probably figured my lip protrusion was one of the many symptoms. Always look for the silver lining right? My horrific disease bought my a “get out of humiliation free” card. They probably thought, “Poor kid. Well, she does have a brain disease – guess she can’t quite get the lipstick between the lips, and on the actual lip part of her face. Poor thing. Don’t stare.”

I tossed the lip-gloss.


Thursday, April 06, 2006

Just My Luck!

Okay last week I had this wildly unique experience of being a part of an event that touched my heart. Director Julian Temple is making a documentary on Joe Strummer (who you may or may not know was very important to me). My gal pal was being interviewed for the piece and asked me to join her for a campfire chat/party. It was very special.

The “set” was peppered with Joe-style furniture; an oversized comfy-chair accented with cowboy pin striping, an eclectic collection of mod-meets-mexi thrift chairs, a ratskeller-esque couch and a few TVs with the fronts smashed out (I guess it’s punk and does not show the lighting).

Around this array of kitchi-kool hang-out furniture was Joe’s 1950’s Cadillac, a row of waving multi national flags, and a stunning shiny chrome Airstream camper. The centerpiece was a “roaring fire,” Hollywood style. That is, a propane gas fed psuedo campfire complete with faux woodlike logs set in a perfect circumfrence. where Joe’s family and friends laughed rememered and met for smile, as Temple taped and did selected one on one’s. This whole surreal serene spot was atop Griffith Park in a private heliport area (rentable to film crews) that overlooked the whole city of Los Angeles down to the ocean – a spectacular view I hadn’t even known existed.

This was a magical night. ‘Cept one snafu.

I am – and have always been - a sweet blooded buffet to the insects of the night. I’m the one you want in the group so the rest are safe from these parasites. As this was a protected area you could not drink, smoke or WEAR INSECT REPELENT. No eco-system finagling allowed. So, naturally I was being eaten alive once the sun set. And the sun had set itself fast, tucked in tight, and put a do-not-disturb sign across its dark horizon. I was getting miserable. I refused to give in to weeakness coming on from the depletion of vital fluids and sat trying to smile as if I had that extra quart-o blood still happily pumping through my chilled carcass. I was there for four hours…

So, shoot ahead a week…

I am at my new fancy Yoga class. It’s a non-schmoozy venue filled with really nice people – in other words…not the pseudo riche that speed through Yoga trying to suck in the peace and good karma like the class is a spiritual ATM and because they heard it’s very “in” to stretch and contort. Then post “ohms,” immediately reboot the cell phone, jump into the Hummer, and hook up the coffee IV. No. My place is truly relaxed, low key and not even a patchouli wearer in sight.

I wear big girl sweat pants and a Steven Segal sized tee. This paticular eve my hair was in my signature pre-shower Grinch twist and I skipped the mirror check en route to the front door figuring, “It’ll be the same middle-aged folks and me – I aint there to impress anyone.”

Now, my legs were bitten raw and welts had replaced mini-bites. The itching ceased, but my legs looked as if I had some sort of tropical rash or worse an S.T.D.. Getting the picture?

Naturally - what walks in the door of the place? A mansteak who looks as if he is some sort of experimental love child of Javier Bardem and Benicio del Toro from the Island of Dr. Moreau. And this slabo man heroin had the good sections of each. I immediately take notice. Then it, err, he speaks as expected – or wished for – in an Antonio Banderas-ish drawl. Oh no – the smit bug was hovering! This buck was the carbon-based definition of MY TYPE.

So I immediately ignore him and avoid eye contact of any kind while shuffling to the other side of the mat. These ploys are my signature way of showing I’m absolutely smitten.

He plops right next to me and says something like, "Hello" or "Hi," – I couldn’t hear through my heartbeat-in-the-brain that immediately started when he was within a foot of me.

I manage to some how seem semi-sane and get through the ordeal. But not before an embarrassment – topping the day my booby burst free exposing a breast LIVE at the 73rd Annual Oscars on the red carpet. I digress (cue cartoony memory waves and harp sounds)I bent over in my fancy schmancy gown, instantly broke the spaghetti string strap as one of the twins danced out doing a Jimmy Durante impersonation. Nervous PR reps wondered if I’d popped the boob out on purpose for publicity and began rushing their celebs from the paparazzo’s flashing frenzy. I didn’t, it was simply a bending in Gucci gone wrong.

Back to last week’s trauma and soon to be mental scarring.

I am feeling his eyes all over me. I was mixed with joy and shyness as the instructor asked us to, “Position 4,” our bodies. That is an ultra unflattering movement that involves hoisting your ass over your head and your legs up to the sky. As I do this, however, the big over size sweat pants I am sporting betray me and slide down toward my shins – uncovering my three-day-old mosquito welts. Welts that have aged to the point of puffy blistering syphilis-like craters. I just wanted to roll into position 12, “The Fetus,” and die.

By the end of the class some how the handsome chap had maneuvered to the front of the class, directly opposite of my area, and struck up a conversation with the mini-waisted big-breasted model with the cell phone clipped to her spandex. I couldn’t blame him.

“Why is god so cruel?” I begged silently towards the sky.

Then I heard it my answer – this man was asking the yogi master if he could LITERALLY sleep in the back as he was being evicted. Ah yes. Of course! This hunk was a Hoser. And I was saved and protected from myself by my guardian angel who has promised me NO MORE LOSERS - and looks like Nic Cage in my imagination. See, he was there because even though I know in my heart I always attract these creatins, and I obviously have not perfected my invention of sunglasses that probe into the inner-pre-scan-loser-spotting ray section of the brain, (aka The Dickhead Detectors - the prototype can be found in the BluntReview.com store), my clever the angel - who obviously has a sense of humor - chose a somewhat cruel, yet effective, turn of events to assure my safe escape from another doomed relationship, and provide a great Martini hour tale en route post experience. Brilliant actually.

I walked a little lighter towards my car. But just in case, still wary of my new found power-of-loser-resistance, I quickly switched the music in the car from a world beat mix to an anarchistic rebel yell of defiance via the “London Calling” cd.
This odd point was needed - beleive me. The seemingly unintentional musical switch was actually a proud salute to my Guardian Angel’s guiding protection, as I knew the wickedly handsome beau was right next to me – basically lurking – or perhaps perusing the alley for proper element coverage for the evening - and if he heard the world beat of the current musical selection he would have a perfect excuse to talk to me next week – I was not giving him that psychological edge. I am just not that strong…yet.

Self-sabotage or self-preservation?


http://www.bluntreview.com BluntReview.com

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Bluntly Speaking: A Big Old Batch of Lemonade

Bluntly Speaking

There are a few annoying - none the less true - verbal clichés in the world; the most notorious of these phrases involving the fact that life is sure of few things but you can count on death and taxes.

I ad to that conundrum of truths a special human phenomenon – if you will - Jon Brion.

It’s been a few months since I was able to sally forth to Largo – Brion’s Friday evening menagerie of mayhem. I asked for a four-top table for a few friends who were in from various parts of the world and doing the film festival/awards season.

See, I feel, a good-deed-for-the-day is done when one tunes in , or turns on , another person to a soulful slice of rarebit in this hectic, often homogenized, world.

This small gathering of mine for de jour was a nice group of what they call in LA ”creatives.” They were I a sort-of micro-social gathering of the cogs of a fine film's production.

We had the obligatory actor (– who caused people of the public to stop and look at him in that RCA dog pose, wondering where they’d seen him - gawking but not speaking). Though tonight, sadly, his handsome face was radiating no light comedy. He wore an O'Neill face of a harmed heart; he has recently lost his wife, best friend and lover of 18 years, and was trying to emerge slowly back into the fold of society. We promised him great music and booze. The other representation at the tisch was an indie director. His current film is in the festival farmlands looking for love and distribution. His new adventure will have him off to Hawaii to film a new feature among the beauty. Me, the dreaded writer. And, rounding–off bevy of talent, - who ordered her first drink as we entered the club (ahem)- is my sister friend who happens to dabble in cinematography when she’s not literally sailing around the world (film festival to festival) in her 1940’s yacht, to traffic the flow of films, from port to port like a Columbian overlord works heroin (though the films in question actually meet her via fed ex in the port-of-destination– no sea swells and scurvy tales of faring the triangles for these celluloid yarns).

For their audio and cerebral pleasure I offered up my style of personal heroin. Jon Brion. I had to do something with my guests. We started at my house. I had a great cd Henry Rollins had burned for me – French music circa 1964 café rue. I was sharing. Little did I know how apropos this musical treasure was going to prove to be mon cheri j'adore.

Hmm, what does one do with the Capote-esque crowd that culminates for two eves, once a year-ish? The entertainment gene in me felt the pressure. Plus, we were here within the city of phony baloneys, bimbo conversants, and the dreading landscape of stretch Hummers. Yech. Inside is safer. I for one was content (as usual) staying in sanctuary with a good cd and chatting about world subjects till dawn's light. But I was the hostess – and we were low on flavor enhancing aperitifs…they needed to vacate and mingle among the bees.

“Ah yes!” I thought, “Guaranteed, artistical refuge!” I shall take them to Largo.

I admit, I used a bit of clout to arrange the table. Hey, my name is still good for some things, and we all deserved a bit of special treatment...

It had been a tough year for me too. I lost my dog-son of seventeen years (and I had to “make the decision”). I have been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis after a horrific motorcycle accident’s MRI revealed many answers to odd questions I’d passed over as quirky flashbacks. And started a dream job that will change my $25.00 a week living habit. Till now, due to demand, I "held on to pennies like a prisoner" as they say in the bonnie scotts.

Oddly, a guy I don’t even know has pretty much been my only reliable constant in the past year. I knew what was lacking in this Brave New – unmapped - World of mine, was an up-to-date shot of pure uncut Jon Brion music; I can count on this lad for a dose of smiles and giggles - without any relationship drama; the perfect date...
Hahahahaha. I digress.

We got to Largo sat and pre-show chatted.

The place was unusually electric – something was in store for the intimate group of believers. Brion’s play friends are of the exquisite set. I try not to scope the room; it’s so tacky ya know. There's always a recent celeb-of-the-week in the rustic shadows.

But, even though I was trying not to scope-out-the place, I could have sworn I saw Michel Gondry. Nah. “Hey,” I thought, “Is that Kayne West (again)?” Nah. Okay I had to stop half-sleeping/hallucinating and calmly sip the tall Guinness before me (served with the straw for my Howard Hughesian phobia of germ contact with the rim of the glass…). Chill-out chick.

Mr. Brion – who I have not seen in six months - gets up and has a terrible cold – of course that doesn’t stop him. Contrary. I instantly know this means (because I was a Friday-night Largo barfly-of-sorts over the past year and a half), Jon will be doing a lot of those wonderful head tripping solo-y guitar riddled self-feeding pieces. Of course the man plays alone any way – but I mean he takes a song turns it inside out, reverses a bit of its structure throws in a twang of cultural hoopla – a riff from another land for those listening – and trips the light fantastic into Sudafed land.

As an audience member while he indulges his throbbing brain - and if you are remotely into letting your guard down – it’s a bit of a journey.

The table of four horsemen were positively just in the mood for this kind of excursion from Earth.

Brion whips up a set of musical magic (per usual) then invites MICHEL GONDRY jam. He also asked a great piano player to join in the dream – but as I was sick myself I missed the name of the talent…

Jon’s “real” audience knew and went beserk. I was happy a few near me didn’t recognize Gondry (so my musican faux pas was – could be - excused…)

Okay. Michel Gondry is my third favorite – living - director. I actually paid retail for his dvd collection (unheard of for me…). Those not in the know, know now – Gondry does all The White Strips videos, Bjork, my all-time favorite video of dissecting music via modern dance, and of course, likes to direct Charlie Kaufman scripts; a Renaissance man extraordinaire. Michel also plays drums …


Then the set-break. My guests, the director and actor depart in an almost post-coital fashion; beaming and all glowy, their steps (for a while) a tad lighter despite life's cruel jabs. My duty done.

But Alex and I stayed – determined to squash the sleep fairies that were parading in, slipping past Mike the door guy, trying to woo us back to out blankets and pillows.

We made it – barely. At about - I don't know 1:00am - Brion returns to the stage. Rips out a couple songs and decides it’s play time kids. He beckons Adam Levine to the stage. Adam dutifully wiggles through the expectant crowd. Next Kayne West. And as I dared to dream – yes – Michel Gondry joined the trio. They did a few West songs and odd a Chip and Dale cooing amongst the talents. As tired as I was, some how I still managed to drink in the spectacle. This was (believe it or not) the second time I’d caught West and Levine playing in the sandbox here.

When Gondry left the stage, and knowing he’s French, I amused myself by yelling as he passed, “ I love you man.” Like a girl-fan at a Lynard Skynard concert sans the lighter in hand waving.

Post concertette Gondry was hanging out in the corner – chatting. Flash bulbs were going off. Instead of departing with my dignity (an act I am incapable of here – as I continuing pull a Stan and practically throw up in Brion’s presence) I made the executive decision (for what ever reason) to be geek chic and coo at Mr. Gondry.

I stood in that dreadful “meet and great” line. When I was in his audience my mind betrayed me as (trying to be cool) I blurted out like a fandork, “ Thank you for everything you’ve ever done.” Hey, at least, I didn’t say the ever-confusing deal, “ Thanks for being.” Which, I personally think says it all, but folks tend to wait for - being what?

He was beside, Patricia Arquettetcroques (who was in Human Nature and is on Medium). Trying to be polite. And realizing another talent was before me. I said, (like an ass), “ Oh, and congratulations.” Her shows like number two or something. Then, as if the hole was not sinking swiftly enough, spotting Patricia’s guest, Liv Tyler, I said, “Oh, and you’re just stunning.” I felt like a rabbit from a Carroll play.

I tried to quickly back up into the dark comfort of the club, trying to shake off that morbidly shy realmscape I tend to go to amid extreme talent and dissipate into the evening with my friend, who just looked as if she understood I was actually tongue-tied, but had to say thank you to Mr. Gondry. Of course I’ve interviewed him. Though in truth, during the interview, (ala The Ladder 49 red carpet Robbie Robertson spotting and meltdown fiasco) I simply grinned like Id’ eaten one of Alice’s special brownies, and left hi thinking I must know someone high up to be here…

Folks, there are few folks that bring on this morphing schoolgirl persona in me: Brion, Burton, Gondry and Bardem.I need interaction therapy.

I slept with sugarplum notes and creshendoing backbeats wailing in my head; in other words, like a babe in a toy factory with a thousand dollar gift certificate during a 75% off sale.

Sure, there’s been a heaping helping of sucky mold infested lemon deals in my life this past year – but then this impish cusackmccartney styled man hits a few instruments and reminds you why you actually bother getting up everyday. Because, we lose a few we love, we trip through these sitcom like scenarios that convince you God’s playing a game of chess (for fun) with your life and then viola. You go to Largo; a womb like world of wonder – and Guinness on tap. Brion helps you make lemonade with life's sourest of lemons.

Go Buy Gondry stuff->

Emily Blunt's : Jon Brion CD Reviews/Interview and way more glee than should be legal->

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Fear of Flour

An Emily Blunt Rant

Fear of flour. Yep. It’s true. As we grow older and more comfortable with ourselves, we admit things. My fears and phobias are simple and not necessarily rational; are these things suppose to be?

My mom is to blame – as are most of our adult traumas of the psyche.

She loved to cook – as do I. She did however tend to maintain a kind of post-war attitude about foods. My brother and I noticed, while unpacking at a new home mom’d bought, this Morton’s Clam Juice Bottle.

I’d sworn I’ seen that bottle in Wakefield nearly three years prior. And, my brother, who has five years on me, recognized it from a small place we lived in Melrose ten years back. Gross. So old was this bottle of clam juice it had actually started to evaporate. Shudder.

When we asked our mother if we could finally throw it away she said, “ Vat, und vast da stuff? You tink da food grows on trees!” Up into the cabinet it went. I tore a smidge of the label as a way of "tracking it."

Our first reaction - or protective instinct - was to never eat her signature Clam Sauce with Linguine again, the second thought was, “How would you dispose of the bottle?” I mean really. By now there’s bacteria and so forth that Steven Hawkins would ponder over. If we dumped it down the sink it could harm the city’s water supply. If we threw it in the trash it could break and exude fumes, or seep into the city dump's soil and innocent little moles, while feasting upon the remains of some succulent Twinkie circa 1972, that had been "tainted" with a drop of my mother’s long-expired sea (<- the start of life as we know it claim many) product would morph into some kind of half clam half man carnivorous six-foot beings with death ray eyes and elongated fangs. Or the juice could sprout a new kind of mold that would - over eons – populate he Earth and claim our little planet as its own.

What ever. It sat on the shelf (though now I swear I saw a Jolly Roger in place of the corporate logo!). It's still with mom - it's now in Florida retired on the shelf - lurking.…

But, back to the flour.

So, you get the drift; my mom saved everything and tends to not waste food.

We always had bags and bags of cooking flour around. Somehow it fell upon me to get the flour while she was creating.

A sweat would break, my palms itch. What would I find in the flour! I must have been a pirate in my past life. I have an unnatural fear of scurvy, love the open seas, and despise flour.

Why? Read on...

See, there’s these…. these…. weevils or something that seem to appear – suddenly – even in fresh flour. WHY. They are like beetles or something. suits of armor and quick as a fan to the side of George Clooney.

My mom is also a Felix Unger personality; you can literally eat off her floors. This is not a dirty woman’s cupboard – yet there the beasts were. Scurrying. Trying to disappear into the sands of time. Yet, they seemed actually willing to be baked into the Swiss-apple pie de Jour. Was it some twisted master plan to invade our inner beings? Or were they really just dumb little bugs thinking if they can't see us, we can't see them; I lay awake at night...wondering.

When I’d complain about the brave new world thriving in the flour, my brother would advise, "It’s extra protein," and my mother would say, “Nonsense.” It was obvious they were lost to me. Their minds filled with weevils running the cogs and gears.
To this day, I am the only member of my family that does not eat, ask for, or covet, my mother's "apple pie."

I was convinced recently by a so-called friend to buy flour. I explained, “I’m not a big flour person. What would I use it for?” They went on about the glories of flour. I bought the stuff; man, it’s cheap.

Sure, ‘cause the “others” want you to hide them in your cupboard so they can spring to life from nowhere as SeaMonkeys do – their master plan.

I’d forgotten the flour. Made sure it was in the non-frequented area of the cabinets. Then one eve I was making Weiner Schnitzel. I remembered, “ That’s right, I have flour to dredge the meat through…”

Dear readers, I am still semi-catatonic. There they were; a thriving community of tiny creatures, in their powder-white metropolis with cavernous subways and northpole-ish skyscrapers. Oh sure they tried to rebury themselves – but it was too late. I was on to them. I swear I heard a low hum of morse code from the sack.

Dinner was ruined, naturally, and I threw the whole bag away. Wasted the whole bag. Double bagged it and slipped down to the trashcan a tad guilty about the other end’s new problem.

As I dry-heaved up the stairs, I swore, “I will never ever own flour again.”

Then my friend said, the weevils – or what ever they are – are actually in the cabinets and feed on flour PRODUCTS of all kinds – my brain scanned the ingredient lists present in the house as we drove. Then without a care in the world she says, “Why, they’re unavoidable,” smiling as if straight out of a scene from Pod People, as I recalled many a flour induced meal at her home; I felt ill and betrayed, alone and on guard.

I now live in a flour free home. Thank you. Today is Thanksgiving and I am en route to cook and serve, assist and devour at the very same friends' home - you know the smiling Judas of Breads…I shant be leaving her alone in the kitchen for a nanosecond. And, if she reaches for "the flour" I do not know what I am capable of.

BluntReview.com Movie Reviews, Celebrity Interviews, Music and Mayhem.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Just When Ya Start Feelin' All Bad For Yourself...

Good things can come from the oddest of circumstances – truly. Okay, so I’m dating this tall older guy. Not “my type.” But, no one really seems to be (excluding apparently Oliver Stone…but that’s entirely another tale). Back tothe tail, er, tale at hand...so,"Super-Plus Tampon Man" is what you’d call fun and adventurous, and had a smart brain - so one forgives the other stuff - for a while... The downsides were manageable (especially since it was a light-no-frills to-do 'tween us). He had a few, shall we say, idiosyncrasies – a weird twitch, apparently one dress shirt to his name and an obsession with motorcycles (<- but swell fancy fast machines; the sexy kind...the evil sexy kind).

You always gain something even from the most mundane experiences or bad dating soirees and faux pas. Here I gained the knowledge that I adore driving really fast in the wind (motorcycles are really a kind of convertible heroin), and I was willing to giggle at truly bad jokes, and partake in lame conversation centering on sprokets, knowing - always - this tedium would have an end result; which was a road trip at 100 MPH in the backwoods of America.
In point? I dug the motorcycles – as in stayed past the point of even really liking the guy, just to ride with him - well, have him chaffuer me around at high speeds. Shallow I know - but guys do it all the time no? Did I mention he looked swell in skin-tight leather to boot. Now, who's shallow there you!

The good news is after we had “an accident,” as he kind of liked to drink and drive too (told ya before – bad taste in men is a gypsy curse in my family – see rants at bluntreview.com for that whole sad-story. The lighter-side of near-death is my new found ability to dump him guilt free – and without any real “excuse” development! He hadn't really done much to "upset" me - he just kind of "was." Breath was starting to grate on my nerves...But I was out scott-free! Well, less the permenant damage and all. Hey, it’s pretty hard to be the heal dumper after the guy cripples ya right? I’d found my silver lining in traction – who woulda thunk it. What's he gonna say, 'Sure kid . I crippled ya. But, look on the bright side...I drink too much, have luggage Vuitton wouldn't label, and I'm mediocre in bed. How could you leave me? HOW?" Tah.

Then they did a brain MRI post accident “just in case” that weird new leg numbness and eye twitch was something blood-on-brainy. Guess what? They found MS. Yep. Multiple Sclerosis. I was still okay with their words – NOT happy, natch. But, I remembered thinking, "At least it’s not a brain tumor.” Though later I would learn a tumor may have been better; they cut it out, you have some rehab and viola your back on a horse. Or your not.

So, I adapt. No more kickboxing. Period. And my mountain bike has an inch of dust. I then lost my dog – I know kick ya when your down right? So, I slid into “cheesecake mode.” There’s very little a cherry cheesecake fed ex’d from New York can’t help heal. It helped but alas left me fluffy. Yep. Twenty pounds in two months. Yech. The Dino was blasting, Darin was wailing and Rosemary tried to audibly help - all to no avail. I jhad the slumps. Bad.

Just as I was starting to get all dramatic about the woes of my life – my nephew – the semi-secret agent – pulls one of his calls and says, he’s out of Korea and en route to Iraq – sniper division. I am in a n MS meeting when I get the call...his message says, "Oh, and the cell phone number wont work in two hours – so call soon or perhaps it'll be a year." I'd gotten this call a few times… What is this an episode of 24? Well, yeah kinda actually. I ring him during the relaxation segment break; It’s true – he is leaving on a mission in the 0500am to “take care of some things…” That’s double talk obviously. So, I said, ‘Just promise me you’ll stay safe.” He says in the worst Bogart I’ve ever heard, "Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine.” Dear god this little boy I love is now some manly-man off to fight in this ass war. But, he choose to do this – he found his calling – and he’s an uber Democratic patriot; so he must feel the work’s important enough to get involved. I spared him any of my thoughts and reiterated how much I missed him and he has to come back so we can chat about film. He is (ironically) always blown away that I meet celebs. Too cute really. My hero thinks I’m a hero. So, I tell him quickly (as he's checking his equipment) about the George Clooney interview. he knows my mom is a HUGE George fan - he asks if I got his aurograph. Silly goose - no. Clooney's quite cool I tell him - a regular Joe under he looks and charm. Pishaw he insists. He wants me to interview Jessica Alba; and yes he got the Frank Miller hamdcuffs I'd sent to some "location." He's still a boy.
I have o get off the line - I am just gonna wail; and there isn't enough Jazz in the house for this call. So, as shopping is a viable distraction (and safer then cheesecake and valium), I head out today spend my birthday gift certificates at Trader Joe’s. Then it hits me. I may limp, and get tired easy, but you know what? I aint gonna die of MS - it's a new chapter; hard but acceptable. I was able to break free of an increasingly annoying relationship, and most important - for one's perspective on the truly bad parts of life's swirls - I am not on my way to some country to kill or be killed. And, I am not his mom. Or frankly, I’d probably be fit to be tied long ago with his shenanigans. Oddly he’s the spitting image of Jim Carrey- so how exactly does he “slip in” places? That always piqued my interest – but, I’ve probably already said too much. (que Mission Impossible Theme....)

This Friday starts GEORGE CLOONEY WEEK at BluntReview.com: Interview, Film review (good night, and go0od luck) and a few retro-dvd Clooney reviews, and his dear Aunt's early works cd gets a nod. FRIDAY http://www.bluntreview.com

over and out of it

Emily Blunt

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Heard Em Sing...Heard Em Say ; Kinda

Those who read Blunt Review (or my life-diary-bloggy-deal) know a few things about me; I am often very lucky, get rockstar (aka "Kojak" in-the-front) parking spots, tend to get real emotional at and about film, and presently (post Strummer death) dislike 95% of the music out there (hence the music reviewer at BluntReview.com aint me - soundtracks aside - it wouldn't be really fair to the music people who do seem to like the homogenized crapshit pushed on them...).

I also, socially, go to musical mecca Largo just about every Friday night to see Jon Brion. I'd say,"I have my own table," But, door guy Mike doesn't care who ya is- 1st come 1st serve - which I respect. But, I digress.

So, I reserved a hightop table (not an easy task mind you)last Friday eve. I wanted under a certain photo on the wall(Kurt Cobain's) - it's the table which has the best stage view - but I was placed at the first high-top table (tah). It's under Lennon's photo, so, who's complaining? My fellow Libra and demi GOD...probably a good-luck omen.

So, Jon Brion does his usual maniacal 1st set; tonight running about the whole mini-stage, using most of his "toys." JOY.

I'd brought a friend this eve who'd come, basically, to see what the h-e-double hockey sticks, I am constantly attending the "same guy's" show for; "Isn't it always the same set ala every other musician out there?" She thought aloud. Ah, two songs in - she got it. I knew our post-arrival deal (to get her to go) was to simply stay for the first set...not till the wee hours of the morn (my usual stint) - even though, it's the second set is when Jon's friends show and play...

Fair. I'll suffer half-a-fix if it means turning my pal onto audio nirvana.

Okay, today's tale: the table next to us, marked "reserved," suddenly has a "posse" sitting (ascending) upon it. The group is big, loud and done up in that hilarious P Diddyish Gucci wear with car-hood necklaces, except for one smart dressed chap. Also thrown into the mix is a slight-if-cute nebbish sort of guy in a Starsky and Hutch-style sweater. It's dark; and even if I could have full-light, unless Jon's secret guest(s) de jour is Elvis Costello or say Steve Tyler, I dunno who they are...

Here's the fun part (you knew it was coming...). I see this table of obvious VIPs using the cell phone DURING Jon's playing - which is tre taboo. I mean this is UNHEARD of at Largo. People have been tossed to the curb for even shutting the damned things down inside while the maestro plays, er, creates. Yet, Mike the door shark does nothing. The owner Flanagan - a Guy Ritchie mobby sort - does nothing..."Hmm," I thought - these guys are big - BUT WHO in the heck are they?

Break time.

I run out and ask Mike (who's usually mum). I don't really care who the star is (he knows that in me by now), but what was with him NOT jumping on them like a rabid Rhesus monkey about the Snoop Dogg-like cell phone messaging commercial going on?

He tells me, " That's Kayne West." I admit folks I semi-blank. Then I remember he's the guy who TOLD OFF PRESIDENT BUSH during a recent interview regarding the folks down south and the horror of our response from the government; wasted lives, blatant molasses-like dispatches and terror-end-of-world meelee; super power my ass...But, back to Kayne, I think he said (and this was LIVE on air - before they could edit for west coast so I am paraphrasing from friends' information)when asked what he felt President Bush was doing about Katrina, " He doesn't care about black people." Um, or poor white people, or elderly, or gays, or cats, or chi;dren (the U.S. is number 37 in health care benefits for families and "the common folk" people! # 37).

Plus, Jon Brion co-produced West's new cd (that nugget o'info I'd just read and stored in the "possible purchase item just because if Brion's involved it outta be good" area of the cranium).

I didn't ask who the second "guy" (the sweater hotty) was...

I go and tell me journalist friend - she explodes, "That's impossible, Kayne West is doing a marathon in New York how could he be here" blah blah blah. Maybe he flew? The telethon was delayed after his outburst on Bush...but I said nothing. I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I got the name wrong." It's not like I know any names post Who/Clash/Beatle references (at which point I am Trivial Pursuit good at the minutest of facts...).

Jon gets back o stage - beaming - He beams anyway, but this was a "cutey with a surprise gift for his friends" beam; that parent has a "Puppy in the box" for you smile...

Then after sipping his signature coffee chased with Guiness, Jon introduces, "The man who told off president Bush ladies and gentlemen - Kayne West (West comes on stage - handsome fella)and (continues Mr. Brion)...Mr. Adam Levine."

"Who the hell is that?," I thought. My friend knows and as well as 99.9% of the club - as they erupt in deafening applause! I find out later Adam's from Maroon 5. Blank.

Well dear readers, ya know how you always hear about Dylan's earlt pre-legend days, when The Band, and Janis would "stop by" in his local bar/play spot and do a song or two in the Village - just for shits and giggles? Or when rock-music clubs like Boston's "Tea-Party" would have surprise sets by the Who (Keith Moon era)? The Musical Urban Legends of our music loving fore-fathers?

That was this evening. The trio of oddly unified souls "freestyled" a coupla songs for the few witnesses... West did a impromtu rap on the Katrina disaster ( wildly beat poetic - that's what rap is right - 'cept perhaps a tad more urban and rough 'round the edges?) Then Adam did a rappy-Princy voiced Beatles' song, "Nobody Ever Done Me." while Brion, played on...

Just wild. Later, Brion tried to get the two back up by starting the back-beats of "Under Pressure" the rap version. Only to be advised West had left , to which he quipped, 'Yeah, they're probably over at the Mondrian with some prostitutes..." Adam leapt from his table, "I'm still here!' Jon, a tad read faced, but not skipping a beat (pardon the pun), invited Adam up to do the Bowie version of "Under Pressure" - all harmonies and musical creshendoes. And, as always when the "guest music celeb" forgets the words of the non-rehearsed song, Mr. Brion - who is "an encyclopedia of lyrical knowledge" assisted the rockstar while we in the audience chuckled at our leader. The claw is our master...

Go check out the Amazon cd of Jon and Kayne's . Adam Levine from the fab 5 is on the first song, 'Heard Em Say." Or go to BluntReview.com - read and know Brion and order his work (in the interviews section under Music Folks) - you're only helping yourselves...