The Big Reveal

You can all exhale now.

The new blog is up, running, and waiting for you to visit. Here's the address:

http://prinzessin.blogs.com

Update your links, bookmarks, and blogrolls, please. I'll obviously leave this page up as long as I can, but no guarantees.

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you on the flip side.

PSA

I'm moving!

Well, not really. My blog is moving. But still, that's pretty exciting, right? No? Who asked you, anyway?

So if you're wondering why the formatting around here is weird and/or non-existent, it's because I had to export all these posts to a new (still undisclosed) location. It's a bit of a hassle, but it's going to be worth it. I hope.

I'm going to be busy setting up the new blog (I hate that word. Can't anyone think of a nicer one?) but feel free to send me suggestions. It should be all prettied up by tomorrow. Until then, try to contain your euphoria.

Love, Sarah

There are two questions I hate answering.

One is "What are you going to do with a history degree?", because honestly, I don't really know. Journalism? Law? Both are possibilities, and interesting ones, sure. More importantly, though, stating these options satisfies your curiousity and makes me feel like I'm going somewhere, even though I'll probably still end up in a cubicle. I mean, if I'm lucky.

The other one is "Have you read the Da Vinci Code?", because (brace yourself) no, I haven't. And every time I concede my ignorance of this great treasure of a novel, I'm greeted with reactions ranging from incredulity to outrage.

"Are you serious? You haven't read the Da Vinci Code? But it's so good!" I'll say it again. No, I haven't read the fucking Da Vinci Code. But I have an excuse, weak as it may be. I've been busy reading other books (yes, they do exist). Books like Fahrenheit 451. Books that matter.

"Oh my god, you have to read it! It's incredible!" Yeah, I'm sure it's a real pageturner. But do I really have to read it? I mean, in twenty years, are my kids going to be coming home asking me for help with a book report on the Da Vinci Code? I don't think so. Are they going to be researching Dan Brown for their project on the greatest American writers of the last century? I hope not, because then I've wasted a lot of time reading Faulkner and Hemingway and Twain.

"You're the only person I know who hasn't read that book! What's wrong with you?" Well, I don't exactly know. Maybe my literary tastes have yet to reach the level of refinement necessary to appreciate such an insightful work of literature. Or maybe you should shut the fuck up, trend slut. Just a thought.

Nick thinks I'm crazy (well, part crazy) and doesn't understand why I wouldn't want to read the book everyone's talking about. I guess it's the same reason I never went on the Atkins diet or watched a season of American Idol. I don't actually care if it's on the bestseller list, Oprah, or your piece of shit blog. I'm not going to give up bread, I'm not going to suffer through bad music, and I'm not going to read a book about something I'm not even faintly interested in.

Besides, half the reason "everyone" talks about the damn novel is the controversial subject matter. Apparently there's a big religious conspiracy, and some uptight Catholics don't appreciate Mr. Brown's take on it. I have news for these people. The whole religion's a fucking conspiracy. Move on. Go read some Graham Greene.

Look kids, the Da Vinci Code probably isn't a terrible book. But I'm really not interested in reading it. Ever. That means I'm going to live the rest of my life not having read the Da Vinci Code, and you know what? I think I still have a shot at fulfillment.

What Sarah Said

That old black magic has me in its spell

I went to see Skeleton Key too late last night, and it gave me hoodoo nightmares. I'm easily affected by scary movies, which is why I usually avoid them like the clap, but once in a while I love a good suspense/thriller/mystery/anything that manages to be frightening without also being sickeningly gory. SK fit the bill perfectly, and delivered with surprising style.

Okay, before I go further, I should warn you that this review will be biased. I was prepared to like Skeleton Key, even if it ended up being as dumb as those TV previews suggested, because

a) It's not a remake, or a - what's the term these Hollywood types are using to hide the fact that they're completely out of ideas and creativity? - reimagining.
b) It doesn't star Jessica Simpson. Whoever told that girl she could act should be tied up and forced to listen to "Irresistible" playing on repeat for a week. (Actually, her dad would probably like that.)
c) It does star Kate Hudson, who is adorable and talented.

However, those factors aside, it was still worth paying to go see, and because I have nothing better to do at the moment, I'll tell you why.

Firstly, I'm a very visual person, and I tend to enjoy any movie that's well-styled and well-filmed. Skeleton Key oozes with creepy atmospheric suspense -- blank-eyed dolls in dusty corners, empty chairs rocking in the breeze, Spanish moss dripping from every branch. Almost everything in the film is highly unusual, yet nothing really seems out of place. What I loved most was the dim, pervasive mood of fear enshrouding every scene. Watching it feels like stumbling through a cold, damp fog, the kind that slowly settles into your bones.

Secondly, SK is as easy to like as it is hard to swallow. It's a Deep Southern concoction of ghost stories, oddball characters, dark history, Gothic conventions, and folk magic. The premise - "it's not real unless you believe it" - is thought-provoking at times and simply confusing at others. The plot is pretty twisted, but essentially, a young hospice worker (Hudson) from New Jersey moves into an old mansion in the backwaters of Louisiana to help an elderly woman care for her paralyzed husband. That the house has a secret comes as no surprise, but the full nature of it certainly does. The mystery unfolds at a frenzied pace in the last twenty minutes, resulting in a breathless double take of a conclusion.

The best surprises in this movie, though, were the skillful acting and character development. Kate Hudson doesn't shine, and that's her biggest triumph, because she would have ruined the movie with her natural radiance. Instead, she manages to be both subdued and intensely focused as she moves, slowly and convincingly, from cynical outsider to terrified victim. Hudson is supported by a number of highly talented actors, including Gena Rowlands as the sweet-voiced, secretive Mrs. Devereaux, Peter Sarsgaard as the estate lawyer and almost-perfect gentleman, and Joy Bry...uh...never mind.

Still, my guess is you'd be hard pressed to find a glowing review of Skeleton Key. The first three quarters are unnecessarily bogged down in exposition, and even the dialogue is slow and heavy at times. The story - while creative, interesting, and even, at times, completely unpredictable - is marred by a surplus of Southern tropes and zany superstitions.* Mostly, however, it falls into a kind of no man's land between campy horror and provocative mystery; it's too intricate for most scary movie lovers and too exaggerated for most film critics.

*Personally, I enjoyed the fussy, theatrical contrivances, and felt they deepened the creepy atmosphere. (Well, the horrific black-and-white flashback to the double lynching, that I didn't enjoy so much. Sorry for the spoiler, but I feel you should be warned if you're going to see it, which I think you should anyway. Just cover your eyes when you see the ropes go up. Oh god, that sounds flippant and callous. I'm sorry. It was really, really upsetting, and we all know how I like to joke about things that upset me.)

Bottom line? Go see it, if only for the spectular, genre-defying twist of an ending.

You just laughed it off, it was all okay (click to hear a really good cover by Ben Lee)

I spent Tuesday night with my two favourite girls from high school, Heather and Kaylie (who isn't in any of these pictures, because she's scared of the internet. Or something cute and Kaylie-esque like that.)

We ate at the two unhealthiest fast food places we could think of, Taco Bell and Dairy Queen, which happen to be conveniently located right next to each other on Wharncliffe Road, also known as the express route to heart disease.

One of the many things I love about spending time with these girls is how comfortable and easy it always is. They've watched me go through phases and changes and hard times, and they understand why I am the way I am. They knew me when I was shy and awkward and wore this godawful yellow-and-pumpkin-orange coat because I couldn't tell my mom I didn't like it. ("It's Columbia. That's cool, right? That's what the kids are wearing?" Yes, but they're wearing it in colours that don't resemble Thanksgiving décor.) Basically, I can do anything I want around them and know they won't even blink, because I've already done something sillier, geekier, or just plain dumber.

On a childish whim, we drove through the quiet streets of my old neighbourhood looking for somewhere to play. Heather parked her car in a pool of yellow light on Victor St, in front of Alayna's house, where I used to go every morning before we walked to school together. We called her cell phone but there was no answer, so the three of us got out and walked into an empty, unlit playground surrounded by grass and trees. Belvedere Park, it's called, and when I lived around the corner I used to go there all the time with my little brothers and sisters and play tag or hide and seek or race to the "good swings" in the corner. They're not there any more, sadly, but there is a shiny new jungle gym. We played and climbed and swung and slid and laughed at each other and ourselves and the sheer randomness of being together, the three of us, for the first time in six weeks, in a playground well after dark.

On the drive home I tuned the radio to the only station I can even tolerate. A sweet song came on just as Heather was dropping me off, and I said "Listen to this, it's really good." I opened the passenger door and slid out, a little clumsily with my huge bag. "I know a place where no cars go." She probably didn't know what I was talking about, but she laughed anyway because she's used to me not making sense. I love that.

small words

Yesterday someone asked me, "What's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to you?"

I was surprised by the first memory to surface. It wasn't even a compliment, really. It had nothing to do with my intelligence or talent or anything I had done to merit praise.

"You feel like you were made to be held."

Instead, it had everything to do with love, and belonging, and all the things I didn't know how badly I needed until then.

I hesitated to even write about this, mostly because I knew I couldn't convey the overwhelming "rightness" of that moment. Typed out on a screen, words lose their fresh sincerity and gain the aspect of a script. Still, I wanted to prove a point, no matter how overly sentimental it sounds.

At the end of my life, I feel that the "big things" will shrink into the recesses of my fading memory. The dreams and the achievements, the comebacks and triumphs, none will keep me warm in that grey twilight. My last thoughts will be of small words, whispered by people who loved me.

If you want me, won't you take me home? I'm lost in the cracks between the paving stones

Death Cab for Cutie lovers, restrain yourselves. The new album, Plans, has been leaked to the Internet, and you can now download standout tracks like "Crooked Teeth" anywhere.

I got this news from Stereogum, and while I was there, I couldn't resist checking out the comment section. As usual, it was full of whiny hipsters jacking off about how much DCFC sucks now that they're popular. This kind of thing pisses me off more than you can imagine, so of course I wrote a comment of my own. And of course, some pretentious ass decided to respond. Here's our friendly little exchange.

See, this is just what I love about indie kids. They will sell what's left of their souls for a shitty basement recording of a band's first EP, but god forbid they should enjoy the same band's expertly mixed and produced major-label studio album. Because clearly, major label = bad and increasing popularity = worse. Never mind that DCFC has always been a pop band, even before they were popular, and that they have not changed their attitude or approach to music since they started - the only thing they've ever cared about is making the best songs possible. Ignore the odds of a group like this getting "less interesting" as they mature and develop their sound. Completely dismiss the fact that if some "buzzworthy" new Pitchfork darling of a band came out with THIS EXACT RECORD you would be all over it like Kevin Federline on a bag of Cheetos. No, you just keep spouting your ignorant, indie-snobby opinions about how the quality of a band's output is inversely proportional to the number of other people who listen to that band. Then go listen to your secret copy of "Futures" (ironically, of course).
Posted by: Sarah at August 9, 2005 12:12 PM

Oh, Sarah, I know you've got it bad for Mr. Gibbard and all, but it doesn't make the music any better. Have you heard anything from Death Cab's rock & roll era? Were you listening to them then? Perhaps you came late to them thanks to an appearance on the O.C. or maybe a shining recommend in "Allure." In any case, they were a great band once and you should really check out their early stuff so you have something next to which to compare the fluff they're making now. It's as if they've said, "We want to pinpoint and corner the 14-19 year-old female market, "and ran with it. This is maturation?
Posted by: narcpress at August 9, 2005 12:48 PM

I've been listening to Death Cab since high school, and I probably have every song they've ever recorded. But, you know, don't let that stop you from making condescending assumptions about me.
Posted by: Sarah at August 9, 2005 02:23 PM

Score: Me, 1. Anonymous fucktard, 0.

In other music news, I'm currently loving Fluxblog. I found this great song there - "Sodium Light" by David Wrench - and it's so eighties fab. That's where the title lyric comes from, if you care.

sand and grass

On Saturday my boyfriend and a bunch of his friends went camping, and on a whim I decided to go too, girly clothes and all. Billy and I drove up to meet them, picking up Dan on the way. We got to the campsite just after the entrance closed, and when we tried to sneak in by lifting the gate we were promptly accosted by a man so bitter and uptight, the guys nicknamed him "Sargeant Fuckwad". I think he owned the place, which partially explained his attitude. I mean, if you lived in a campground/trailer park all year, you might be full of rage too. You might take every chance you get to go on a long power trip. You might get off on threatening college kids with tough-guy lines like "If you can't follow my rules, then get the fuck out of my park." (Note: the rule we broke was driving faster than 15 km/hr.) You might also say things like: "Do you want to drive back to London? No? Then follow me, and GODDAMMIT, DRIVE SLOW THIS TIME." (He was so dead serious when he said this that I cracked up laughing in the backseat. Luckily he didn't hear me, or we might have had to get the fuck out of his park.) You might also drive a golf cart like it was a hummer (i.e. with a lot of machismo) except instead of actually driving it, you might coast on fumes just to piss off the college kids who are trying to drive in an actual car behind you. Then again, you might be a decent human being.

When we finally caught up to our friends on the beach, it was like stumbling into a scene from a summer movie. They were all drinking around a campfire, along with a few strangers they had met who looked like they were straight out of That Seventies Show. The guitarist's name was Marty, I think, and he was hilariously drunk, yet still managed to play the hell out of an acoustic. His hippie friends played the bongos. There was also a girl wearing clothes that looked homemade and probably smelled of patchouli. The whole thing was a lot of fun and a little surreal. I wish they had stayed longer, but not long after we got there they disappeared into the pitch black. I almost think they were wandering ghosts, or time travellers.

It was a perfect night, just cool enough to draw everyone in around the campfire. We drank and talked and laughed and drank more. I swilled white zinfandel straight from the bottle, but I almost didn't need it. The lake air was intoxicating, clear and tangy. I felt more alive than I have in a long time.

Then I got smashed. And smoked a little pot, which normally I would never do because the smell makes me sick and it's not really my thing anyway, but I was drunk on a beach with my friends and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I can't really explain my progression from sober to ridiculous, so here's a little photo sequence.

This is me making love to the bottle. David says I have a funny way of drinking; is he right?

As you can see, I've only had about half a bottle, maybe less, at this point, so I'm happy and fine and making perfect sense as I talk to Billy. I don't remember why he was pointing at me like that, though.

This is after Billy convinced me to "do weed" (sorry, inside joke, sort of). Everything became brighter and funnier and crazier. At this point, I think I was rambling on about a search light, which was really just the camera flash.

I was drunk, okay? And high, don't forget that either.

Awww, look, my boyfriend's helping me up. Don't be fooled by the shining display of chivalry, though. He was the one who took all the previous pictures, while I was begging him to stop. And those are some pretty embarrassing pictures, too.

Oh, and while we're on the subject of embarrassment, here are some nonsensical things I apparently said while in my semi-delirious state:

- "I'm hungry. Can we go to the pizza place down the road?" (We were on a beach. In a campground. In the middle of nowhere. I don't know what I was thinking.)
- "My feet are bleeding, and the sharks in the water are going to smell the blood and come after me." (I was barefoot and walking on sharp rocks, but they weren't actually bleeding. Also, there obviously weren't any sharks in the lake.)
- "Home is a place where you keep your memories in boxes. What do you do if you move?" (Okay, I have a lot of issues when it comes to "home" and "family" and the like, because I moved out under very difficult circumstances. Now that you know that, can you make any sense of those two sentences? If so, leave a comment, because I'm completely confused by my own subconscious.)

I don't know how well I've expressed this, but it was a crazy, magical, once-in-a-lifetime kind of night, and I don't regret any of it. In the immortal words of Ferris Bueller: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."

So, where were you while we were getting high?

Let's Spend The Night Together

I have sand in my hair, smoke in my clothes and the Rolling Stones in my head.



Last night I went on a spontaneous camping trip, unprepared and unsuitably dressed. It was magic. As soon as I fully recover, I'll post pictures and (mostly embarassing) stories. Until then, don't drink and comment. It's a new rule around here.