Jessi Klein's NotBlog

Yesterday I went with a friend to see Children of Men.  It’s a very beautiful, totally absorbing film about the world, just a few decades from now, becoming a literally barren dystopia.  Gorgeous, well acted, great, especially as anchored by the manliest human being alive, Clive Owen.

Unfortunately, the casting of Clive Owen directly undermines the movie’s thesis.  I’m supposed to believe that in 2027 the world has become a horrible, horrible place where women can no longer become pregnant.  But the thing is:  how can the world be that horrible if someone as sexy and delightful as Clive Owen is running around in it?  I mean, if he’s still walking about, talking in his delightful accent, looking at you with his beautiful, wolfish eyes, and just generally being Clive Owenish – then I contend that the world just cannot be that bad a place.  Even if he isn’t talking in his delicious accent; even if he isn’t looking at you, like maybe he’s looking at someone else, like maybe this alleged “wife” he has; and even if he’s not being all Clive Owenish – maybe he has a day where he’s kind of acting like Randy Newman – I’d still say, the world simply isn’t that awful, no matter how polluted and Orwellian the rest of the situation is.

And really?  I can’t get pregnant in the future?  You mean I could have sex with Clive Owen a million times and not have to use a condom or worry about getting knocked up?  How awful. 

And I don’t think just straight girls feel this way.  I asked another friend, an avowedly heterosexual male, who also saw Children of Men, to admit that he would let Clive Owen do any number of lurid sexual things to him.  He paused for a moment before he answered.  “Well, yeah.  But I mean – I would want to do stuff to him too.”

Its January 2007, and I just remembered to remember Elliott Smith.  I know this is probably the 9 millionth blog entry about missing him, but whatevs magevs.  I miss him.  So sue me!  And I didn’t know about him till I saw Good Will Hunting and heard Between the Bars.  Yeah!  I’m that uncool!  And I’m STILL not on MySpace!!!  And I still haven’t finished my 2005 taxes! And I still haven’t seen your precious Godfather movies!  Yeah, NEVER!  Get off my case!  Jeez, you’re suffocating me!  I need to see other people.  No, I wouldn’t have wanted space if you hadn’t violated so many boundaries. 

There was a weird smell in Manhattan today.  Gassy, poisonousy.  Mayor Bloomberg came out and said it was probably just a really bad smell.  Nothing dangerous.  But the thing is, it was a really, really bad smell.  Some people fainted.  I guess because it seemed to go away we’re just gonna let the weird leaky factory or evil terrorist (or evil factory and weird leaky terrorist) just sneak off without a punishment of any kind?

Elliott Smith and the smell aren’t really related, except maybe for the fact that thinking about how much I don’t miss that smell made me think about how much I do miss Elliott Smith, and eight years back when there were no ominous weird smells, and no need to think about them, and what they mean, but just listening to Either/Or on a jukebox, and then walking home, drunk and happy.