An Open Letter to Santa

Dear Santa Claus,

We realize our absence from the blogosphere might have bumped us over to the naughty list, but we want you to know that we fully intend to be Good Little Bloggers™ next year in hopes that you will bring us everything on our Christmas list.

Now you might well say, "Ho, ho, ho young Liz and Cailey...what is it you could possibly yearn for? What could you want that you don't already have?"

We don't ask for unicorns, or as-yet-unreleased Apple gadgets, or even private audiences with certain sparklevamps dressed as St. Nick. If you're reading this, you will have noticed by now that our tastes run more to the....eclectic.

Without further ado, we present Cailey and Liz's Funtimes Christmas List:

The Great Muppet Flag Caper!

We aren't the happiest of froggies this evening after yesterday's midterm election. Sure, we knew it was coming, but that doesn't stop us from being disappointed and a little apprehensive.

Well, at least here in California we can take the edge off with some newly legal "herbs"...

...oh wait...

...we can't...

...crap...

Next best thing? MUPPETS!! 

Happy Election Day, America!

Now, go out there and vote! Please! Do it!

And once you've voted (huzzah!), go find some hapless, exhausted-looking young thing chugging a red bull, holding a clipboard, picking ramen noodles out of their hair and say:

"Let's go GOTMFV!"*

Democracy is a beautiful thing, isn't it? 





*Get Out The Mother Effin' Vote

A Vindication of the Right of Women…to Objectify Men*

A month or so ago, Liz, being – as always – hip to important pop culture happenings, told me that I should purchase Katy Perry’s newest single, “Peacock.”  

“Peacock?” I repeated, by way of confirmation.  

“Peacock,” she answered, not willing to divulge anything more.  

Now, I was not so foolish and/or innocent as to completely miss the innuendo of the title. I didn’t expect a zoologically-detailed musical celebration of the medium-sized male pheasant with jewel-toned plumage.  

Teatime...For Angle...And Germany! Winter For Poland and France!

Weirded out and rendered vaguely ill by that post heading? Fear not...we're just quoting/butchering Mel Brooks and The Producers...

And no, we're totally not suggesting that Nevada's own Sharron Angle is anything like Hitler. We'll shy away from the old Ad Hitlerum (AKA intelligent conversation kryptonite) malarkey at all costs. BUT...as what we've got going on in America right now is...well, how should we put this? A situation where people who are in favor of policies that really never push society forward (Have your rapist's baby and love him/her no matter what! Pay for that rabies shot with a chicken from your coop! Send all farm workers back from whence they came and live off nothing but fast food! Screw your anti-obesity initiatives First Lady Michelle Obama, vegetables are SOCIALIST!) We felt the need to put some of America's favorite tea partiers in our Sound of Music, flag tearing blender...just to see what will happen...

Happy Birthday Dame Julie!

Not only is it the start of October (when did that happen?!), but it is also - and more importantly - the birthday of one Julia Elizabeth Andrews, aka a lady who will never be a nun, aka MARIA VON TRAPP!

Julie, all we can say is: somewhere in our youth - or childhood - we must have done something good to deserve you in our lives (via the television, that is).

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Love,

Liz and Cailey

F**k You, Colin Firth

Dear Colin Firth,  

Fair enough - you have the right to look perplexed. And I hope you won't take too much offense, as you seem like a perfectly nice person. You’ve been married to your Italian wife for a long time and you have two cute kids (plus that one you had earlier with the lesser Tilly sister) and seem pretty low key. Plus you’re self-deprecating in that fabulous British way. But still, I have to say: Fuck You.

Do Bad Things: Vol. 2

 

Previously on Do Bad Things: Sam had just encountered a Nazi flag hanging outside Merlotte's...Terry and Lafayette reacted with PTSD and ennui, respectively...Jason vomited (but not because of the flag...because of the A-A-A-A-A-Alcohol)...and Bill had just made a motion to tear it down, when he was distracted by the arrival of Eric. As were Liz and Cailey...

Cailey: But now we're back! And I shall not allow myself to become distracted by that tall drink of water, that Norse god descended to earth, that...Liz what is happening in that photoshop project (above)?!

Liz: You likey?

Cailey: I'm simultaneously repulsed and aroused.

Liz: Mission accomplished!

Do Bad Things: Vol. 1

                                         

Honestly, what did we do before True Blood came along? 

We here at TID are well-versed in all entertainment vampire-related (see here, here and here for stone cold proof). Yet this show is clearly in a category all it's own. Yes, we'll always be hopelessly devoted to Buffy, Angel, and the Whedonverse, but - dare we say it? - not even the Almighty Joss could have brought to life a show so shamelessly, wantonly sexy and so out-of-it's-cotton-pickin'-mind (Talbot's glass urn? zomg. Marianne's meat statue? zomg. Lafayette and Jesus's crazy trip drug dream? zomg. "You need to bless the Jell-O so everyone can eat?" zomg. You get the picture.)

Dick: An Apologia

There are plenty of less-than-stellar contributions to contemporary culture that I get a lot of joy from and whose lowbrow qualities I will defend to my more effete friends. But I know how far to take my waxing lyrical about the (yes, I will admit it) debatable merits of, say, Twilight and “Keeping Up With the Kardashians.” Then there are those few precious contributions that I truly believe merit inclusion in the pantheon of culturally important artifacts. The ones that I would take an pseudo-intellectual bullet for, like Clueless and Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the TV series, not the movie). And then there’s Dick. 

Oh C-Anne-ada!

Full disclosure: I was a total book dork as a child (and dork-dork, but that's another story...). I was known for my ability to read for hours at a time,  completely unaware of people coming, going, asking me questions, holding a gun to my head, etc. If I could bottle that level of focused joy and sell it, I'd put Adderall out of business. 

But this is not some Wordsworthian lament for lost youthful exuberance. I'm just here to marvel that, despite my years of avid, geeky reading, I somehow missed out on the JOY that is Anne of Green Gables. According to my mother, I was a particularly stubborn child - although I remember being nothing but a delight - and at some point in my wayward youth I got it into my head that I did not want to read the books or watch the miniseries and successfully avoided them for well over the next decade. 

This Just In...

As responsible webmistresses, we like to see how folks are meandering the interwebs and ending up on our humble blog. Well, interestingly, it turns out we're NOT the only ones who want to see "Richard Engel Shirtless" because people are Googling said phrase right and left and being directed to us. Unfortunately, we have no shirtless pics of Engel to share (sorry to disappoint), but we can offer you this excerpt from his book A Fist In the Hornet's Nest:

"I wanted to be ready at a moment's notice, which also made sleeping something of an issue. I don't generally sleep with any clothing on, which could potentially have led to somewhat awkward circumstances if the hotel caught fire, was stormed by fedayeen or if bepistoled intelligence agents burst into my room in the dead of night. I envisioned myself standing outside the Palestine Hotel naked as a fish, a bed sheet wrapped around me like a swami, redfaced in front of the other reporters. It wouldn't have looked very professional." 

People Of The Internet, you're welcome. 

Richard, we TOTALLY get that you're an über-responsible correspondent who would never post such a salacious picture of yourself. But keep in mind, it's not really that taboo anymore. After all, remember this picture...

Yeah. New World, New Rules. FTW.

We Wish You Were Right, But Goshdarnit! You're Wrong: Baroness Elsa Schraeder Edition

Welcome readers, to the inaugural post in what may or may not become a regular series on this fair blog: We Wish You Were Right, But Goshdarnit! You're Wrong. Our featured player this week is, appropriately, the Baroness Schraeder, a.k.a. Elsa, a.k.a. the apathetic, draped-in-pointless-luxury Austrian lady of leisure who was presumptuous enough to think she could get in between Maria and Captain von Trapp. Ha! As if, lady...

Even a stopped clock is, as we know, right twice a day, and the Baroness was on the money with: "Somewhere out there is a young lady who I think will never be a nun." Good call, Elsa. And hey, we'll even grant that maybe, just maybe, that strudel was entirely too delicious for your figure.

But we're here today to talk about some dangerous advice you've been doling out to impressionable young girls who might develop a bad "habit" (zomg punz, stop it...) because of you. 

Know what we're talking about, Elsa?...

Wasilla Is For Wankers

OK, boys and girls...

We, the gals of TID, have a confession to make: we've been languishing in our StephEnie Meyer-esque conflict-less comfort zone for a while now, bundling up cozily and basking in the warmth of heroes we love. Brave individuals who tear it down without a second of hesitation.  

But adulating idol worship, though awesome and necessary in certain situations, is not the main purpose of this blog. And we've failed you, dear readers. 

We exist to call out the cretins. The dunces. The wishy-washy. The fuckwits. The folks who, when staring straight at a Nazi flag flying from the rafters of their home/apartment/ranch/castle/chateau/estancia/hovel allow the monstrosity to fly. They do not tear down the flag and destroy it then and there...

Live From The Danger Zone

We're going to go ahead and call this TID less of philosophette exercise/game in what does or does not drive a man to take action against hate and hate-filled symbols and more of a thank you note/love letter...after all, asking if these two subjects - the incomparable Michael Ware and the stellar Richard Engel - would tear it down is like asking if Don Draper would care for a few midday fingers of Scotch...duh! 

For Your Clarification...

It recently came to our attention that a visual aid might be of assistance to some of our readers who haven't quite fully grasped the concept of the TID game. 

Does your face look like this...

Flaming Ice

Good Lordy, Miss Johnny...

Look at that delicious Sparkle Prince. Just gaze on his lithe, expertly muscled form. Bask in the sheer delight the impish, fabulous figure skater (well...figure skater on sabbatical) brings. He's like a light-box in the depths of a Scandinavian winter, a beacon of felicity in the oft barren and boring (cf: Lysacek, Evan) world of men's figure skating (and the world in general). 

A Very Happy Bastille Day, From Us to You...

In honor of French Independence Day (and one of our favorite holidays), Juillet Quatorze, we TIDers would like to wish you a day chock full of liberté, egalité and fraternité...

Nothin' But The Rain Sir...After All, This Is Forks, WA

 

Let's propose a hypothetical scenario in which we find ourselves upon Robsessed (how ever did that happen?!) and, unable to navigate away, stumble upon this incredible video (after the jump)...

Robsten: The Power - The Glory - The Angst

Let's set something straight. We're not here to speculate on the existence of a passionate young love affair between on-screen eternal mates Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart. We're simply present today in our official capacity as TID philosophettes with a completely healthy perspective and critical distance regarding the Twilight Saga phenomenon.


Wait. Who are we kidding?

Sparkle Diapers!

One of us (rhymes-with-Bailey) has a...potty problem.

Not in real life, not during tests, or job interviews, or in middle of dinner, but at the worst possible moment: the climax of a movie. Up she gets, leaves the sweet, succulent darkness of the theater and goes off to some dirty cinema bathroom...leaving her movie going partner-in-crime (rhymes-with-Fizz) to fill her in on what came to pass in her absence. It is as infuriating as Michele Bachmann and as constant as the sunrise...

Mad (Modernist) Men - Part Two

 Previously On TEAR IT DOWN...

Last week, we left you with an illustrious crew of Modernist poets in etherItaly minding their own Modernist business...

There was torrid romance ("Hey, hey! Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin...this is not a mature content blog...put that away!"), there were Irish fishwives (Jimmy Joyce won't leave home without at least three), there was machismo (For only one man can make us thoroughly comprehend the importance of being Ernest Hemingway), there was unrequited passion (D.H, we will always love you, even if no one else will), there was goodhearted medical advice dispensed (William Carlos Williams: the original House, M.D) and there were CATS EVERYWHERE. And yes, T.S Eliot was giving them rather impractical names. 

Then...a scream cut through the fragrant gloaming air...all were perturbed...but just who was it that made the high-pitched squeal...and why???

Mad (Modernist) Men - Part One

So, picture the etherScene: two committed and zealous (though some might say jejune) wee thought experimenters are trying with all our might to take things a step further and put some actual, real historical perspective on these flag tearing shenanigans... and then just as we're making headway, getting down and dirty with actual thoughts on how actual men and women who lived during the era in question might have actually torn down actual Nazi flags that they encountered...Ezra Pound plonks himself down at our table in the etherCoffee shop and starts infiltrating our veryveryserious discussion...

An Open Letter to Stephen Sondheim

Dear Mr. Sondheim,

I'm not sure if you're still draping yourself in sheet music these days, but I'm writing you in the hope that your retrospective tendencies haven't totally canceled out your interest in new material. See, I've had a fascination with a certain story for quite a while, and I know there's only one person who can do it justice: YOU. 

What's the story, you might ask? Well...attend the tale of Mussolini's body!

She Saved the World. A Lot.

There's only so long a gal (or gals, in this case) can hold out. In the immortal words of the Vampire Slayer herself: "Seize the moment, 'cause tomorrow you might be dead." While our love for the Whedonverse is no secret, we realized that we were dearly overdue for a TID tribute to the Chosen One. 

Did we hesitate because Buffy is such "a hell of a woman", as one vampire of chiseled jaw and peroxided hair might say, that we were afraid we couldn't do her justice? Perhaps. After all, there are plenty (if not as many as there should be) women who can kick ass - and maybe even a few who can do it while also being smart, thoughtful and hot. But there is only one Buffy Anne Summers (disregarding affronts to the canon such as this and, lord have mercy, this). She is an icon for all women - particularly those who came of age in the '90s - a strong, independent yet not invulnerable female leader who kicked paranormal ass for seven glorious, touching, hilarious, tear-jerking and wacky seasons (We are not among the Season 7 naysayers). With all this televisual baggage, could we do justice to a Buffy encounter with the flag? 

David Duchovny, Why Don't You Love Me?

In honor of the fact that we share an alma mater with his highness, the great David "Fox(y) Mulder" Duchovny and that alma mater's reveling in a weekend of celebrations dedicated to the great god Bacchus (a.k.a "Reunions"), may or may not have been responsible for the extreme belatedness of this post (please forgive us!) we decided this would be a good weekend to have David Duchovny step into our thought experiment and potentially tear down the flag.

As the seminal (no pun intended) celebrity to claim sex addiction as the reason for the near-breakup of his marriage and to enter rehab for it waaay back in 2008, David Duchovny is quite the trailblazer. Does this pioneer spirit translate into an ability to tear down the flag? You'll just have to wait and see...

Words To Live By, Rachel Style...

No, not Rachel from Glee, as much as we love/love to hate her...though it was amusing to learn on last night's Gaga-themed episode (stellar) that Rachel's two dads were huge Friends fans, thus she was named after Rachel Green.

In a brief mid-week interlude leading up to next Friday's big T.I.D (brace yourselves...start playing this on your car stereo with the volume cranked WAAAY up to prepare), we'd like to offer a little wisdom from the one and only...Rachel Maddow:

Help Me, Aunt Fancy, You're My Only Hope

Hearing the words "bachelor president," one might conjure an image of a paunchy but dashing Michael Douglas romancing Annette Bening in The American President, Aaron Sorkin's imperfect but charming precursor of sorts to "The West Wing." And then you might get distracted and think: Bradley Whitford, what happened?!  

But the actions of Bartlet & Co., in all their snappy dialogued glory, are a topic for another T.I.D. (Don't fret, it will happen!) The perpetual bachelor president on the docket today is none other than lucky number 15, James Buchanan. Routinely voted one of the worst presidents this great nation has ever seen, dear old James has quite the cringe-worthy legacy.

What Would Jamie Fraser Do?

US!! HE WOULD DO US!!

We kid, we kid. One of the many reasons we love 18th-century Highlander James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser is because he's a man fiercely dedicated to one woman, and one woman alone: spunky 20th-century nurse-turned-doctor, Claire.

If what we've written so far has your head spinning (18th century Scotsman...20th century doctor...huh?) then it's likely that missing...elusive...something you've been feeling in your life is because you haven't read the time-traveling historical romance epic, Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. We politely suggest you get on that, immediately. 900-pages later, you will be thanking us. But, if you insist upon the Cliffsnotes version, check out this or this (we absolve ourselves of all responsibility for the intensely cheestastic qualities of the latter.)

The Divine Art of Being Baldwin

Let's cut right to the chase. You know that's how the Baldwin brothers would play it. Even the mountebank Baldwin. Especially the hot Baldwin. 

Cailey: So, let's say that Daniel Baldwin's totally off the wagon.
Liz: Biggest. Bender. Ever. Like a wild weekend with Ke$ha and Liza Minnelli.

Cailey: Obviously we now have to insert this picture for no reason:

Liz: Except the reason that it's the best picture EVAR. And now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

The Unsung Cat Man

No, not that one. And definitely not this one (warning: NSF your mental health). Sing, instead, muse, of the love of man for cats. Some women are into guys who are in bands. Or who direct cool indie shorts (ie: unwatchable mumblecore) in their spare time. I am into guys with cats.

We all know about the unfairly maligned cat lady, and the Grey Gardens-esque images she often evokes. There's plenty I could say about this - for now I want to note that antidotes to this vicious smear campaign include Julian of Norwich, Beatrix Potter and, for more modern times, Katy Perry.

But today I want to honor the men who are manly enough to love a cat (or cats!). Without further ado, I present to you some of my all-time favorite cat men...

Kickin' It (or Tearin' it Down) Old Skool

That's right, folks, we're going Tudor on your asses (a phrase we're sure will catch on any day now). "But wait!" you might protest, "How would King Henry VIII even know what a Nazi flag is?" To that we say: why are you reading this, Scully? Stop harshing our mellow. Just as Schrodinger had his cat, we have our flag. This is our thought experiment, and we don't claim any great practical applications for it. We're more...theoretical physicists of the nuances of contemporary sexuality and the masculine/feminine divide.

BUT WE DIGRESS...

"My parents were famous Nazi hunters, so they weren't around a lot..."

We had pretty ambitious plans for the very first lady Flag Tearer-Downer.

After all, this thought experiment/measure-of-a-man's-character scale did come into existence as a response to namby-pambies of the supposedly "less-fair" sex, not our own. Our treatment of the first woman to tear the Nazi flag off the estancia (if you're still clueless as to our mission statement, or a first-time reader, here is a helpful reminder) would be an important gauge of whether or not we are as gender-blind regarding guts and day-in-day-out heroism as we think we are. We know that there are weak, Emo, female namby-pambies as sure as there are fearless, effortlessly confident and cognizant, modern male Amazons. 21st century dudes aren't all John Mayers, Rod Blagojeviches and Jesse Jameses who crawled out of their box of "Summer's Eve" brand douche to torture us...there are many good lads out there. We know this for a fact. A semi-fact, at least. But we just keep running into the FailBoys: men who - to quote 'Sixteen Going On Seventeen' - are "roués and cads" that apparently just want to write on us. Manly fail. Like this one:

A Weeping Man Is Often Endearing. Not In This Case.

Let us all suspend disbelief for a moment and take politics entirely out of the equation before we delve into this prickly, prickly Friday flag-tearing-down scenario...

Yes, we know...Temporarily suppressing the political animal is a Herculean effort, especially when staring right at the smug mug of Glenn Lee Beck, b. 1964. It's hard for us too. We follow politics like pint-chugging Liverpudlians follow soccer/footie/the beautiful game. Like hawt hawt Kiwi men with borderline frightening musculature and skin kissed by the wicked sun follow rugby. Like us brawny Americans in team jerseys eating guacamole and following OUR GRRRRRRR FOOTBALL. Yes we are girls. Yes we occasionally use sports metaphors. Stop the presses and call the AP.

There might be a Darwin fish stuck to the rear-end of one of our (fuel-efficient) cars. One of us might, in fact, have thought for a rather long time that the Darwin fish was the original kind of car fish.

"What if I’m not a superhero? What if I’m the bad guy?"

And what if, just what if, Edward Cullen, you came back from your headboard- and pillow-destroying bonefest with Bella and - instead of having to deal with a demon baby that will end up being cursed with the demonic name of RENESMEE - found a Nazi flag hanging from your airy glass house in lovely Forks? What would happen THEN?!

We're weak. And not, let us assure you, from hunger. We're weak-willed and couldn't wait any longer to let you know how we think Edward Cullen, modern-day Byronic hero, naturally glittering immortal, and champion of eternal monogamy, would tear down the flag. (Disclaimer: NOT to be confused with Robert Pattinson, who will have his morose, dirrrty hipster, Zac Efron-loving, emo day with the flag, we promise. KStew may or may not be involved. Also, a bong. Might it look something like this? We will neither confirm nor deny.)

New Rules, Old Words

Words have power. Yes, yes, yes, we all know that.

And I'm not going to make a lot of stuffy points better suited to aging professors about semiotics and facts and true-life things changing drastically depending on what words we assign them and what connotations we associate with those words. You can arrive at those conclusions on your own, 'hos.

I'm just going to play it loose and random. Like Diana Vreeland...

...Why Don't You?

Rahmbo! Oh, Rahmbo... You and I Should Dance A Mambo...

In a world devoid of über-masculine, balls-to-the-walls buckets of pure testosterone outside of novels written for Dakotan haüsfraus and womanizing creatures from any clichéd action flick, there is one notable, heart-stoppingly captivating exception... 

[cue dramatic movie trailer music] 

HE lives his life at the center of power, privy to the darkest - most dangerous - State Secrets, intimate with all the forces that shape our perilous world...

Years ago, HE lost an appendage in a tragic, tragic accident... 

HE fights for what he believes in and lets nothing get in HIS way...

HIS temper is furious. Rumors of HIS crushing wrath have traveled far over land and sea...

And yet, for all his Alpha-'Bro'-ness, HE is devoted to one lucky woman, the mother of HIS three children...

HE is a man, a myth, a living and breathing (faithful) legend...

Creation Myths, Or: How It All Began

So, gentle readers (if you exist and/or are gentle), perhaps you are wondering: how did all this flag-tearing-down postulating begin?

And even if you’re not, we really want to tell you. This is a blog, after all. A shrine to our ongoing games of T.I.D (Tear It Down) and so much more - things pertinent and impertinent.

It all began in college (not that long ago, we swear). We - Liz and Cailey - had just finished dinner with a group of our female friends, all of whom were lamenting the general state of men(?) in their lives. These men(?) were not all romantic prospects or long-term lovers. 

I've had it with this motherf****ing flag on my motherf****ing house

There are few episodes of manliness so great, so pure, so iconic as Captain von Trapp tearing down the Nazi flag. You know what we're talking about: Georg has solved a problem like Maria by marrying her and they’ve just returned from their honeymoon, during which time the Nazis entrenched themselves in Salzburg and Freidrich has abandoned the bright blue eyes of Leisl for the red, white and black of the National Socialist German Worker’s Party. And they’ve hung a big ol’ swastika flag from front door of the otherwise glorious Von Trapp estate.

The honeymoon is most decidedly over.

So what does the luscious Captain Von Trapp (as played by the eternally dashing Christopher Plummer) do? He tears down the flag. In one swift, decisive motion. He rips it in half in another, and bundles it up to hide it from the children, approaching in the car with Nazi-appeasing, laissez-faire stage parent Uncle Max.

It’s a scene lasting perhaps 15 seconds, but in these few precious moments Captain Von Trapp displays more gusto, more chutzpah, more cojones, more mensch-liness (yes, one of us is Jewish) than pretty much any man — real or fictional — that we have ever encountered. It is the ultimate benchmark by which we judge all men – how would they tear down the flag? Would they tear down the flag? What would they do with it once they tore it down?