I want to marry Baz Luhrmann and have his babies...

So, re-watching scenes from Moulin Rouge today in my Hollywood Musicals class, and I stand amazed at Baz Luhrmann. I want to stand next to him, hold his hand and take in his Aussie goodness. How amazing would it be to be his muse? What an honor. My hats off to his wife, Catherine Martin (CM) for being that girl. Siiigh...

Other people whose babies I would like to have (had) [in no particular order]:

*Gene Kelly
*Alan Cumming
*Ellen Degeneres (alas, nature would not allow it!)
*Wade Robson

I can't think of any more, but imagine those talented little babies! My heart goes a-flutter just thinking about it.

In a completely unrelated note, my time here in England is down to 1 week and 2 days. While I am officially ready to get out of this god-forsaken place and immerse myself in dancing, smog and Broadway a la NYC, I've realized that I'm going to miss some of the colorful characters I've met along the way.

For example, there's Finn from Finland. Apparently his name is actually Jonas, but he goes by Finn because he's just that cool. Where else would I meet a Finnish fella who is loud and proud? I can't think of anywhere.

Then there Dan "Smiffee" Smith. He has this uncanny ability to simultaneously adhere to and defy stereotypes. He has the build and manner of a London cabbie, he plays rugby and says "mate" a lot, but at the same time he's kind of prissy and is a smart, smart fella. I'm gonna miss Smiffee for sure.

And I'll miss Laura "Spencey" Spence. I don't think I've ever had a friend so completely opposite me, but we get along. We say "good for you" or "different strokes" when we can't meet a mutual opinion, and we move on. I knew it would be quality with Laura when we had a "serious" conversation the first time we ever talked. I never do that, which makes me hate meeting people because chit-chat is crip-crap. And Spencey and I keep each other sane. Two strokes, girlfriend!

So, there are plenty of other people I'm leaving out, but there's a taste of my life in Norwich for those of you who haven't gotten much good information from me. I'd imagine that's all of you because I'm no good at talking about myself -- it's all in the written word, baby.

And that is all for now. In summary, I'd provide an egg for Bazmark Productions any day o' the week (provided I could go in the Red Room), and I'm gonna miss England, shockingly. The best of all worlds would be if we could take the people we meet in one place and transplant them into our day-to-day lives forever, bringing them up as we wished. But I'm sure that'd be mad chaos, so I'll just let it transpire as it will. Siiiiigh...

"Who are you?!"

That's what I feel like asking myself tonight. Instead I asked the bus driver that played a trick on me that drove me to tears. Wanna hear it? Here it goes...

Laura & I went to see 12th Night. It was good times, and I have seriously found the British equivalent to Tim Jones. He was the cutest thing ever (though Tim Jones is, of course, cuter by all accounts). But that's not the story at all. The story is that we were waiting out in the frickin' cold for a bus. When the right one finally comes, I step on, the first person, ready to hand over my pass and take my seat peacefully and efficiently (my only available service to the people behind me). I was already a little anxious because a bus driver wouldn't let me use my return pass this past Saturday because it was past midnight (it didn't matter that that's never been a problem for me before, of course). When I hand over my fare, the bus driver says, "The bus is full." The bus was not full... it only had 3 people in it. I looked at those three people, looked back at Laura who is giving me a completely blank stare, look back at the driver and say, "What?" To which he again states with total deadpan, "The bus is full." Eventually I get to sit in my seat, and that's only where the psychosis begins.

Somehow this prick bus driver who thought he was being funny had so shaken my fragile emotional state that I felt the need to cry. So I'm sitting there blubbering, and Spence is giving me no recompense. I think the words "Get over it" were used. Dash that, I know they were used -- "Get over it." Well, I wasn't about to get over it, and I leaned on Spencey tears streaming, at which point she wants to know what's wrong with me. The problem? I have no idea.

As anyone who knows me understands, I am staunchly anti-crying. I don't cry, and I don't get sick. Well, I've gotten sick 3 times in the last year and a half (and if the ache in my throat means anything, it might soon be 4). And I had a serious crying bout right before I left for England thanks to Kelly on American Idol.

I don't like crying because I can't "cry pretty". There isn't a single tear streaming down my cheek. I instantly transform into an unkempt, red-faced, green-eye basketcase. Then if I try to laugh it off or talk it out, I just sound like I'm wailing, which makes people more concerned. I don't like being the center of attention, and suddenly I am it in my most vulnerable state. There is nothing quite like crying to make you (or me, as it were) feel out of control.

I have no idea where it came from, but suddenly I seem to be out of control all over the charts. Stress is written across my face in the form of about 4 or 5 ostentatious pimples. I have 2 papers due in just over a week that I know will be for shit. I'm not going to be in a "settled" situation until February, and even then I'll be back at Middlebury where suicidal thoughts and a soul-less sensation are handed out with every purchase of $50 of books or more.

Nothin' like a good cry to slap you back into reality off of a high, eh? Right now I'm cowering in front of a flashing neon that says, "Your life is not falling into place. Get over yourself. You are not on top of it. Don't expect to be."

I'm sure I'll be happier tomorrow. Don't call me or e-mail me about my problems because I won't have any answers for you. I still don't know why I cried tonight... but thanks for "listening".

Reviewing like it's nobody's business

So I'm feeling active today -- I even did my hair! -- so I actually did some stuff. Nice change of pace, and I think eventually the ass-grooves in my bed might shift back to normal... I've just gotta keep getting up and leaving the room on a daily basis. It'll be an uphill struggle, for certain, but my heart is in it this time.

First, a bit more on Justin Timberlake.

As I mentioned in my review, his latest single "Cry Me a River" is wicked. The video basically explains that Britney cheated on him. In this same video, he goes to "her" (perhaps even their) house and tapes himself getting it on with this tan, dark-haired girl so that when stand-in Britney comes back (after a romp with her man-on-the-side), she'll see this and know JT knows. Isn't it delish?! And Justin is so good at being that sort of little devil. There is one section where he's doing all these weird contortions and another section where he once again ventures into falsetto whilst being intoxicated by the scent of stand-in Britney's hair, but I'll forgive him those discretions. I ripped apart JT on my album review, and I think rightly so -- he's not worth all the hype -- but I must admit that he's thoroughly enjoyable, and "the greatest dancer" (in the words of Sister Sledge).

Second, a bit of leisure reading

Scary to think it, but I am becoming a reader. I've decided that I probably should look at other people's styles if I want to cultivate my own ouevre (p.s. I don't think that's an appropriate usage of the word oeuvre, but I like to use it in all possible contexts, regardless; I also have decided I'm going to use the word 'orgiastic' in at least one paper by the end of my college career).

I've been versing myself on comic memoirs lately because that's basically what I'll be doing to earn my keep (or my $3,000 grant as it were). The first was How to Lose Friends & Alienate People, and the one I'm currently reading (and hoping to finish if I can pull myself away from the thrall of 1960s Ibsen criticism) is called Under the Duvet, by an Irish writer named Marian Keyes. I originally discovered her in an Irish girly stories novel called Girls About Town, which features stories by the likes of Maeve Binchy, Collette Caddle & Cathy Kelly. (One of the stories was even called "Thelma, Louise & the Luuuuurve Gods" -- yes!)

Anyhow, the book is a good'un -- a compilation of all of her articles from Irish Tatler and various newspapers. I've got a section of it left, and I've been trying to read it since last Friday to no avail. I think tonight I will forsake my lover Henrik to finish my business with Marian. It really is lovely. She at once talks about her intercontinental travels, her blunders as a shoe-addict (ring any bells to my family lfie?), her fear of failing her driving test, her bout with alcoholism and her family's year selection box (assorted chocolate cookie) eating contest. It's not as academic as How to Lose Friends & Alienate People, and it's definitely more girly, but for those of you in need of a quick read on commute, I'd highly recommend it.

Finally, a bit of filmic goodness

Went to see a Danish film called Italian for Beginners tonight. It, like many of the films I have seen courtesy of my ₤12.50 donation to the Union Film Soc this year, was a charming and delightful film. It's about the lives of 6 people in Copenhagen whose lives are intertwined for one reason or another and who all end up in an Italian class. And in the end, they go to Venice! (This last part was especially exciting having just been to Venice myself & seriously, seriously wanting to go back...)

But the real lesson I learned is that I apparently need to go to Denmark to get some ass. All 6 people in the movie ended up hooking up with another one of the 6 people -- 2 of them even got married (not gay couplings, unfortunately, but I know where to find that elsewhere, thank you). The unfortunate side effect of this coital bliss is that people all around you die in Denmark (a rather Hamlet-esque dilemma, I'd say). But all the people who died were old and bitter anyway, and their deaths essentially cleared the way for the love to blossom, so there ya go. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for rewards to come... at least in Denmark.

So, what have we learned today?

* Justin Timberlake, despite the chipper falsetto, is a hurt & bitter individual -- and it works for him!
* Irish girls authors rock my face off
* Plunder Denmark when you need a little booty-booty

Comin' atcha like a tsunami

So, folks, here is the final draft of my Justin Timberlake Justified review. It's a long'un, but a good'un, or at least I think. I don't have a title because the folks at the Campus are gonna do that for me, but I'll give it a punny title because I'm that girl.

In a related note, I got a 74 on those two short Justin Timberlake articles (and that's a good score in England because 70 is first class work). Just goes to show, ceasing to care and turning in half-baked crap pays off.

Justify My Love

Is Justin Timberlake’s solo debut Justified? Decidedly not.

Timberlake said he wanted to do something “different” and “more me” with this CD. If by “more me” he means contrived and by “different” he means exactly the same, then Timberlake is right on track.
Many have touted this album as the Off the Wall of Generation Y, which positions JT as the new King of Pop.

Timberlake feigned humility in British magazine Attitude, saying, “I don’t think you can compare [Justified with Off the Wall]. … I wouldn’t do that to myself. That was a moment in time when Michael was willing to show the world exactly what he could do by himself. He was no longer just a part of the Jackson 5.”

The irony is lost on the drooling reporter who responds, “But isn’t this the moment you show the world what you can do without *NSync?”

Note to Timberlake: You are not Michael Jackson, even if you have dreamed about this since you “was a little boy”.

No, Justy, you are more like Lionel Richie after he left the Commodores. A few guilty-pleasure, poptastic hits may come your way, but ultimately there will be a scandal (there always is), and you will be conveniently placed in pop exile (or forced to return to *NSync with head bowed, whichever is worse).

But never fear, Little Prince, you’ve got a year or two of hits served to you on a platinum platter, and you can always stage your glorious return in some maudlin nostalgia flick like The Preacher’s Wife. I’m sure Mickey Mouse will recognize a man-in-need-of-a-comeback when he sees one.

So, to the business at hand.

Justified opens with “Señorita,” a favorite of Timberlake’s femme du jour, Alyssa Milano (best known for Charmed and Who’s The Boss—seems Justin can’t get enough of other former child stars). If “Señorita” speaks for the whole album, then I pity anyone who has parted with the cash-money to buy this piece of offal.

Though the album is much more enjoyable on the whole than “Señorita” would have us believe, it does foreshadow the derivative and unbelievable nature of the forthcoming songs inasmuch as Timberlake attempts to seem like a playa.

Note #2 to Timberlake: Just because you collaborate with Timbaland and Pharrell from N.E.R.D. doesn’t mean you got game, Memphis boy.

Next we have “Like I Love You,” Timberlake’s debut single and for my money the best track on the album. It isn’t as drastically different from *NSync as Justin would have us believe, but it does blend a variety of different styles, rhythms and hit-making lines such as “I just love your brain.”

Bottom line: “Like I Love You” gives the album the most hit potential because it lends itself a great dance routine, and apparently that is all we ask of our pop stars today.

Among the tracks clearly recognizable as Timbaland’s contributions is the next joint, “(Oh No) What You Got.” However, Justin chooses “Cry Me a River” for his second single. With a title stolen from jazz, background sounds direct from Timbaland’s Aaliyah collaboration “Are You That Somebody?” and a video that spells out the Britney break-up, this song is a ready-made hit.

The lead guitar riff from “Take It Here” – I swear – sounds like Weezer’s “Island in the Sun”… I keep waiting for Justin to say “hip-hip,” but all he does is talk about what he would do to get with some girl. Apparently he loves her that much, but I don’t trust the fact that Timberlake would actually do these things himself rather than sending his assistant.

And that distrust, I think, is the problem with pop music today and, more specifically, Justin Timberlake’s solo debut. It’s all too easy, too polished, too sampled and, above all, too contrived. Clearly, Timberlake doesn’t get that as he again compares his work and MJ’s.

He reflects, “Thriller… to me isn’t as special as Off the Wall. [Off the Wall] feels less constructed, less organized. … Thriller was like, let’s get Eddie Van Halen because he’s the hot guitarist, let’s get Paul McCartney so we’ve got a Beatle in there.”

If Justified is supposed to be more like Off the Wall, then how do we explain the necessity of a veritable star parade on the album? Among the name-dropping possibilities are hot new act The Clipse, producers-of-the-moment the Neptunes and Timbaland.

Justin even involves The Rolling Stones (maybe unintentionally) as “Nothin’ Else” is all-too-reminiscent of “Paint It Black”. I dare say this new R&B fusion of Mick and the boys’ work is even scarier than the original.

Perhaps the most earnest song on the album, “Still on My Brain” hits on a strand of emotion unfamiliar to what we know as pre-packaged pop splendor. However, we soon hear the la-la-las of “My Cherie Amour”, and Timberlake’s trademark falsetto sounds hollow.

Stevie Wonder he ain’t.

If I had it my way, the next single would be “(And She Said) Take Me Now”. It has the same appeal of “Like I Love You”, intermingling synthesized rhythms and old school instrumentation.

However, an intense study in the governing laws of pop music tells me that Justin will probably put out a ballad like “Take It from Here” next in order to keep the teenage girls swooning (and buying records, merchandise and sharpie pens for autographs).

There is a certain amount of pleasure in the biographical speculation around Timberlake’s songs.

For example, the song “Never Again” begins like a typical *NSync bubble-gum ballad, but the lyrics are biting and unforgiving (“Girl, you lied straight to my face/ Looking in my eyes/ And I believed you 'cause I loved you more than life.”). Who do you think Justin doesn’t want to forgive?

On that note, Timberlake can take credit for writing his own lyrics. But that could ultimately be a liability.

After all the hunks from 98° wrote such classic lines as “You’re my sunshine after the rain, you’re the cure against the fear and the pain.” And Britney herself did pen the virtuoso piece “Dear Diary”.

When I listen to that tripe, I’m left with very few options. First, I think Maybe middle-aged men are better at articulating the pains and trials today’s average 20-year-old. Then I think Well, maybe I should just lower my standards. Finally, I start to silently praise Eminem: He is clever. He has shown evolution as an artist. He knows that his popularity is based on an act, a farce…

And then I want to shoot myself.

So, as a card-carrying teenybopper I bow my head in shameful submission when making this assessment, but having surveyed the new releases from supposed dynamos like Timberlake, former Backstreet Boy Nick Carter and Christina “Raccoon Eyes” Aguilera, I must now officially call the time of death on pop music. Disregard the weeping.