(Don't you just LOVE the hair?)

And here's a picture of me earlier this morning:

So, imagine my surprise and delight when I finally revisited my blog today and learned that I have been nominated for a couple of awards for Book Blogger Appreciation Week, which is going to be held from September 15-19.

Hooray! 

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

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Now I feel like this, but even more beautiful and appreciated than she is.  It probably helps that she's been dead for a long time ( =   (Notice the hair similarity?  And here I thought I was one of those cool librarians -- hah!) 

Please go over to My Friend Amy's blog and vote!  I'd love to win something, but the biggest honor is just to know that there are a few people in the book blogging community who enjoy reading my entries and sharing their ideas and opinions with me.  I love your intelligence and humor, and you make me very, very happy indeed!  Now I feel so good that I'm going to end this entry with a fun dance I found on youtube.  Have a fantastic weekend! 

It's a fun gallery. And that's no dumb blonde joke.

View gallery >>

John Robie (Cary Grant), ehemals als die "Katze" bekannter Juwelendieb, muss seinen Ruhestand beenden, als bei mehreren Einbrüchen seine Handschrift, lautlos über die Dächer einzusteigen, kopiert wird und er unter Verdacht gerät. Auf der Suche nach dem wahren Täter, trifft er auf die Millionärin Mrs. Stevens (Grace Kelly), die als potentielles Opfer gilt - eine Romanze bahnt sich an. Ein elegant inszenierter Krimiklassiker.

Zeitlos amüsante, temperament- und geistvolle Kriminalhumoreske, die mit spitzzüngigen Dialogen und einem raffiniert verschlungenen Spannungsknoten vorzüglich unterhält. (Lexikon des Intern. Films)

Se ela quiser eu posso cuidar muito bem dessa bunda maravilhosa que parece uma maçã durinha. Dou pra ela todo dia 18cm de prazer latente. Assim garanto que o bumbum como ela gosta de dizer vai continuar perfeito e os quadris mais acentuados.

Para quem não sabe mulher que dá o rabo acentua melhor os quadris e a bunda fica mais arredondada.

Portanto mulheres dar a bunda é bom!!! Mesmo que doa um pouquinho e que tenha uma certa dificuldade em sentar no dia seguinte.

Pô! E ele tá sabendo!?
Pior é que tá. Parece que ele a convidou para seguir no cruzeiro "Emoções em Alto-mar 2009”.Não é tudo que você sempre sonhou!? </ironia>. Pouca realeza é bobagem - Grace Kelly e o Rei ! Muitas emoções...
Vai rolar "releitura" do uniforme dele, já já! (aliás, ousarei falar de moda daqui a pouco!)

 Audrey Hepburn, Bélgica

Catherine Deneuve, França

Grace Kelly, Estados Unidos

Ingrid Bergman, Suécia

Marilyn Monroe, Estados Unidos

Monix

(publicado originalmente em 6 de janeiro de 2007, no blogue antigo)

Found this in my spam fliter and thought I would answer it.

talapoku "In your opinion, what’s the best movie ever created"

It was left on a post that had nothing to do with movies but I thought it would be fun to answer.

In my opinion the best movie ever would be Rear Window directed by Alfred Hitchcock. The lead roles are played by Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly. Hitchcock was the master of suspense. This movie may be one of the best suspense movies ever without being full of blood and guts. Too many movies today are called suspense but are really horror or slasher type movies. The acting in this movie is outstanding. The way it is flimed where all of the action takes place as viewed from a window is amazing.

So, now it is your turn. What is the best movie ever?

Does it matter if you know who a blogger is? I suppose that by knowing their real name, and seeing a photo of them, you can somehow relate them to yourself and they become more real for you, which means you can empathise better. Also maybe it’s a power thing, like in all those myths where knowing someone’s true name means you control them. If you know the blogger’s real name and face, you feel satisfied, because now they are on the same level as you – they are no longer a mystical figure, they are Michael Handcock, cursed with an unfortunately funny name and unfortunately spacious earlobes.

If you saw my face you might recognise me on the street. I don’t know how I’d react to that… it would be weird. But if you saw my face, when I retell my encounters with Rhiannon and Danny and CAMHS people and so on, you could stick it into the conversation and see a version of events closer to reality.

Is it important, though? Maybe if I read a blog where, even though the blogger assured us she was a right munter, I had built up a picture of her in my head looking pretty as can be, and she then posted a picture – I would get a shock. It’s shallow, but surely everyone judges on appearances, at least a little, however hard you try not to. I think I would feel let down, and when I read her posts I would probably view them in a different light, simply because I felt let down by her. Then again, there are three blogs I read where I’ve seen the faces behind them, and two of those three built me up for a fall with their descriptions of themselves and turned out to actually be just as pretty as can be, and the other one never mentions her appearance, and therefore gave me no preconceptions. They’re all female bloggers, though. Maybe we girls just like to judge ourselves.

If it turned out I was actually a fifty-year-old man, what do you think the reaction would be? OK, so I’d be a bit surprised, for one thing, but seriously now – this isn’t my attempt at testing the water before a confession – just hypothetically. If it turned out that a blog purportedly by a fifteen-year-old girl was by a middle-aged man, would people stop reading? Feel disgusted? Betrayed? Isn’t it the quality of the writing that matters, though? Every day older men write as younger girls and then it’s called being an author. But I suppose in that situation, you’ve entered into a contract with the author: it’s fiction, he knows it is, you know it is, and you’re prepared to accept that. When the same thing happens but that fiction is presented as truth, people get ditched by their publishing houses; they get taken to court. They’re liars.

To me, it just feels like validation of a friendship. You can make artificial friends with somebody over the internet, but only a real friend knows what you look like. Showing an internet friend a real-life photo brings the internet friend into your real-life world: I’d stop being Suzy Robinson, prolific blogger, and start being Suzy Robinson, blunt-fringed blonde kid with unrealistic dreams and hopes higher than Everest. And freckles.

Maybe I ought to do a sulz (yes, she really does have all the best ideas). She hid a post in her archives that linked to another hidden post, one which could be opened only with a password. If you found that post, you could ask for her password, and if you got it, you saw her photo. Theoretically, only her real internet friends would go to all that trouble, and if someone who wasn’t did, she could simply refuse the password. I never got the password. Then again, I never looked, because I missed the post in question by a couple of years.

Should I do that? Heh… I don’t know. It might be fun, though… Actually, before I get any high ideas, I would really like to know how you see me. I mean, take Chouette for an example (only because I've been reading her blog longest), who, for some reason probably related to the fact that chouette sounds like chat, I imagine as looking vaguely catlike. Do you have a very neat black bob, Chouette, and almondy eyes? I doubt it. But that’s the mental picture that has for some reason built up in my head from reading what you write and how you write… in fact, you look a bit like Amelie. From Amelie. (And then it turns out you are in fact Audrey Tautou, the woman who played her, and I am recognised internationally as a psychic of the highest order. Nice work, Suzy.)

(The title is talking about Grace Kelly, by Mika. I just realised that unless you're in love with Mika (well, his hair, at least) you may not have caught the line in question as he sang it. Not that fancying him would make any difference... oh, well.)

"Rear Window" e un lung-metraj de Hitchcock din 1954. Un fotograf, L. B. Jefferies (James Stewart), cu piciorul în ghips, care stă în casă şi-şi spionează vecinii pe fereastra din spate a apartamentului său. O iubită, Lisa (Grace Kelly), care îl vizitează în fiecare zi. Privind pe fereastră, Jefferies descoperă că unul dintre vecini, un comis voiajor, şi-a ucis soţia cicălitoare. Jefferies n-are dovezi, dar ştie. Nimeni nu-l crede, dar nu se dă bătut şi, până la urmă, găseşte dovezile. Pentru a scăpa, comisul voiajor îl împinge pe Jefferies pe fereastră, apoi e prins şi, ca într-un adevărat film clasic, mărturiseşte crima pe loc. În final, Jefferies, cu ambele picioare fracturate, se se odihneşte într-un scaun cu rotile, cu Lisa lângă el.

Subtitlul blogului e doar o replică din film, luată de pe IMDB.

IslamOnline published an article this month about the hijab going mainstream. It was a truncated version of the Telegraph's piece on the headscarf making a fresh foray into fashion. The piece in the Telegraph opens with the journalist feeling none-too-happy with her "babushka" appearance as she tries on a headscarf. (Sidenote: the scarf was Hermes. If she'd care to donate her castoff Hermes to me, I'd be more than happy to show her that there is no reason to feel frumpette in those threads, wallahi!)

Anyway, Dolce & Gabbana, Jean-Paul Gaultier, Vera Wang and other designers are jumping into the  market, looking to "liven up" the headscarf and "introduce it to a younger generation."

This isn't anything entirely new. Top-notch designers have been designing abayas for years and selling them to the Middle East's upper crust. Rummaging through a friend's closet recently - looking for something to wear to a party we'd be attending - I had my pick of abayas: stunning purple, gilded turquoise - from Lolita Lempicka to Dior. (To my chagrin, my feet were too puny for her Louboutins.) In her closet, modesty met fashion, for sure. But wait - if it's a flagrant display of cha-ching, is it modesty at all?

What is new is the 21st century push to revive the headscarf in the West. Sure, Grace Kelly rocked it. So did Audrey Hepburn. It's even shown up on runways over the past 5 years -- but hasn't made its way into the fashion rags as an "it" trend.

Faith at Muslimah Media Watch has posted an insightful and interesting commentary about this, which I recommend you read here.

Acquaintances of mine have since lambasted sub-editors, probably because they know I used to be one.  One described them as, "pernickety, humorless, touchy, afraid of opinions, overly sensitive to legals and not half as clever as they think they are."  Another thought that they only served to dumb down the literary jewels that writers claw from the cerebral cortex.

Siding with Coren, Laura Barton woefully describes in The Guardian the newspaper editing process.  "A writer files an article to an editor, who then passes it to a sub-editor, who sets it out on the page, cuts the words to fit, checks for spelling and grammatical errors, wanton cursing and factual inaccuracies."

It took her colleague David Marsh, a sub-editor on The Guardian, to give the full story.  "Perhaps she [Barton] didn't have space to mention the coruscating headline-writing skills, visual flair, compendious knowledge and ability to turn sows' ears into silk purses on a daily basis that makes the sub-editors who put together the very section that she writes for one of the most brilliant journalistic teams in the business."

Marsh goes on to stress the vital role of the sub-editor at a time when some are arguing that the position is superflous in this digital age.  "Today's subs design, lay out and publish pages (in print and on the Web), write headlines, standfirsts and captions, edit, cut and make sense of copy (from whatever source and no matter how dubious its quality), check facts, grammar and house style, ensure stories are legally safe, select and crop photographs, edit picture galleries, handle audio and video ...  In short, they are the people who know what "coruscating" means. And they can write, too."

It is all too easy for writers and reporters to take a flippant and dismissive view of sub-editors but when a sub-editor falls down the job, his or her newspaper can be made to look silly, at best, as can the writer of the piece; at worst, the publication can become the defendant in a libel case.

An example of a newspaper being made to look stupid can be found in today's editions of The Daily Telegraph and Daily Mail.  Both papers picked up on a story from The Press Association that originally ran in The Brighton Argus.

The story in question concerns Oscar-winning film director Lord Attenborough condemning modern films for de-sensitizing people to violence and blaming them, in part, for the wave of knife violence sweeping Britain.  He told The Brighton Argus that he "abhors the pornography of violence" in modern films.

The Brighton Argus article goes on, "Lord Attenborough said, "Thirty years ago if Gary Cooper pulled out a gun the audience would give a sharp intake of breath.""  That quote appears in the other three versions of the story, although the Daily Mail fails to cite the source.

I shall now don my sub-editor's hat.  Thirty years ago would refer to 1978.  Gary Cooper died 17 years earlier in 1961.  I doubt cinema audiences would have been giving a sharp intake of breath, unless the ghost of Cooper suddenly appeared trying to find a vacant seat.

And cinema audiences must have sucked every milliliter of oxygen out of auditoriums during the denouement of "High Noon" and the demise of the Miller Gang from the barrel of Cooper's gun, with some assistance from Grace Kelly.

The sub-editors handling this story should have modified Lord Attenborough's quote to read, "Fifty years ago."  And before howls of protest cry out about the sanctity of a quote, it is permissible to modify a quote to make it read better, providing the meaning of the quote is not altered.  In this case, such a modification would have saved Lord Attenborough from embarrassment.

But since the quote is already flawed, it should have been cut from the story.  It doesn't add anything and only serves to make it appear that the 84-year-old Attenborough has gone ga-ga.

Maybe all the sub-editors involved were cowed into leaving the quote alone because of the recent criticism and because it came from a peer of the realm.  Maybe it was because they have a poor knowledge of mathematics and the cinema.  Whatever the reason, the sub-editors were clearly not doing their job.

I love Mika! Out of all of his songs, this is my favorite. He has a unique, retro pop-ish sound. and Man, can he hit those high notes! He's just fabulous!!!

Whenever i hear this song, it gets my blood pumping and i feel a surge of adrenaline go through my veins. What's great about this song is that its so energetic, lively and optimistic yet the meaning of the lyrics contrast with it. In an interview of Mika, he said when he wrote this song he was actually angry! If you just read it, it IS angst-y. 

Mind the lyrics...

Do I attract you?
Do I repulse you with my queasy smile?
Am I too dirty?
Am I too flirty?
Do I like what you like?

I could be wholesome
I could be loathsome
I guess Im a little bit shy
Why dont you like me?
Why dont you like me without making me try?

I try to be like Grace Kelly
But all her looks were too sad
So I try a little Freddie
Ive gone identity mad!

I could be brown
I could be blue
I could be violet sky
I could be hurtful
I could be purple
I could be anything you like
Gotta be green
Gotta be mean
Gotta be everything more
Why dont you like me?
Why dont you like me?
Why dont you walk out the door!

How can I help it
How can I help it
How can I help what you think?
Hello my baby
Hello my baby
Putting my life on the brink
Why dont you like me
Why dont you like me
Why dont you like yourself?
Should I bend over?
Should I look older just to be put on the shelf?

I try to be like Grace Kelly
But all her looks were too sad
So I try a little Freddie
Ive gone identity mad!

I could be brown
I could be blue
I could be violet sky
I could be hurtful
I could be purple
I could be anything you like
Gotta be green
Gotta be mean
Gotta be everything more
Why dont you like me?
Why dont you like me?
Why dont you walk out the door!

Say what you want to satisfy yourself
But you only want what everybody else says you should want

I could be brown
I could be blue
I could be violet sky
I could be hurtful
I could be purple
I could be anything you like
Gotta be green
Gotta be mean
Gotta be everything more
Why dont you like me?
Why dont you like me?
Why dont you walk out the door!!

The song's story is straightforward enough. Basically, the protagonist tries to please his lover by changing himself. "I could be brown, I could be blue... ...I could be anything you like" 

So he probably changes a lot about himself to "fit" the other person but whatever he does, its still NOT enough. Until the protagonist has had enough of the other person's bullshit and kicks him out of his life.

It just goes to show that changing yourself for somebody or trying to change somebody to fit what you want wouldn't result to anything GOOD. Anyway, why would you change yourself for somebody who thinks you're not good enough as you are? That's ludacris.

I strongly believe in committing one's self to personal growth and changing for the better. But if ever you do want to change something about yourself, make sure its what YOU want and not because your boyfriend/girlfriend wants you to. 

It's only when you wholeheartedly love and accept yourself that you can begin to love others. LIFE is wayyyy TOO SHORT to be a people-pleaser. Always remember you can never PLEASE everyone no matter what you do. So why not just please the most important person in your life: YOU!

Ed Robertson
Pop Culture Critic and Entertainment Journalist
Co-Host, Talking Television with Dave White
Share-a-Vision Radio, KSAV.org
www.edrobertson.com
www.doctorrerun.com
www.talkingtelevision.org

Please tune in to our tribute to Dick Martin on Tuesday, July 29 beginning at 10:30pm ET, 7:30pm PT on Share-a-Vision Radio, KSAV.org.

Ed Robertson
Pop Culture Critic and Entertainment Journalist
Co-Host, Talking Television with Dave White
Share-a-Vision Radio, KSAV.org
www.edrobertson.com
www.doctorrerun.com
www.talkingtelevision.org

Please tune in to our tribute to Dick Martin on Tuesday, July 29 beginning at 10:30pm ET, 7:30pm PT on Share-a-Vision Radio, KSAV.org.

   Desde que vieron juntos por la tele no una, sino muchísimas veces, la película La ventana indiscreta, Samuel pasaba muchas horas espiando las de casa de enfrente. Pero corrieron dos años y en las habitaciones que cubría su mirada no  sucedió asesinato alguno sobre el cual investigar ni se asomó ninguna chica que se `pareciera, ni de lejos, a Grace Kelly. Qué pena. Su madre murió poco después. Y a Samuel tan sólo le quedó la ayuda de una asistenta que venía tres horas por las mañanas. Sin embargo su fe no decayó: a excepción de los asuntos del corazón, que exigen mucho salir, ya era capaz de despacharlo casi todo.

 Durante un mes las ventanas de la casa de enfrente permanecieron cerradas. Un día apareció un camión de mudanzas y allí se instaló una residencia de estudiantes de postgrado. Cuando Samuel se cansaba de hacer sus ejercicios y de leer, miraba a las chicas que estudiaban. A veces  le levantaban la vista. Algunas, incluso, sonreían. Samuel era alto y bien parecido, y mediaba la treintena. Recordaba que su madre veía en él más encanto que en el propio James Stewart. Se lo decía cuando le preparaba tarta de zanahoria y nuez con nata, su postre favorito. Y a él no le hacía mella su invalidez. Quería comunicarse con las chicas de la residencia, hablar con ellas. Demasiados metros: aunque la calle era tranquila y silenciosa, no llegaban las palabras.

 Un día que escuchaba la radio el dial se detuvo en el 96´ 5 FM. Sonaba, muy coqueta ella, La danza de las horas. En la residencia de enfrente, estudiaba con la ventana abierta  una chica de ojos rasgados y pómulos marcados, como de princesa rusa. Samuel subió el volumen, y la chica se quedó escuchando y cerró el libro que estaba abierto sobre la mesa. Lejos de enfadarse, sonrió, se levantó de la silla y ensayó unos pasos de ballet al ritmo que marcaba Ponchielli. Samuel la seguía con la mirada, de ventana en ventana.

  Desde entonces, semana tras semana, Samuel sintonizaba Clásicos Populares. Un tipo muy simpático llamado Fernando Argenta introducía temas musicales de compositores famosos que él no había escuchado hasta entonces, pero que producían efectos maravillosos. Unos eran una explosión de ritmo y colorido. Otros, puro lirismo. La tarde que sonó el allegretto de la 7ª Sinfonía de Beethoven la posgraduada de la tercera ventana de la residencia se le quedó mirando y se puso a llorar. Otro día cantó Alfredo Kraus  Vasconavarro soy, del valle roncalés...y al escuchar el zorzico una navarrica que preparaba oposiciones le dijo por señas que quería conocerle. Bajó de la residencia, cruzó la calle con un paquete de chistorras y a la hora de la cena se las tomaron entre vinos y risas. La música es un río que nunca sabemos dónde desemboca.

 Samuel hizo suya toda la que sonaba en aquel programa. De la misma manera que el cartero de Pablo Neruda le robaba poemas al poeta chileno para ofrecérselos a su amada como propios -la poesía no es de quien la escribe, sino de quien la necesita, argumentaba impecable- él  afanaba los mejores temas de los clásicos para comunicarse, animar la calle, vacilar con las vecinas de enfrente, declararlas su amor y, al cabo, sentir que, aún sin piernas, era capaz de volar y hacer volar en alas de la música. Seducida por una coral de Cantata nº 147 de Juan Sebastián Bach  que se apoderó de otra tarde , la estudiante, ya talludita, que trabajaba su tesis doctoral  sobre el protagonismo de la luna en el drama amoroso del siglo XVIII no pudo resistir más, arrancó una sábana de su cama, rotuló en ella un QUIERO HABLAR DE MÚSICA CONTIGO y la desplegó bajo su ventana. Samuel se quedó estupefacto, sin saber ni qué cara poner, durante varios minutos. No sabía si ella estaba interesada en el viejo organista de Leipzig o en él, y, en este caso, temía que ella no hubiera advertido su minusvalía.  Pero ella interpretó que el que calla otorga, y sin pensárselo dos veces apagó su ordenador y se presentó en el piso de Samuel con una falda y una blusa camisera a juego que, casualmente, llevaba sin abrochar los tres primeros botones. Tres horas después de haberse acabado la emisión de  Clásicos Populares, y según versión de Petra, que era la más cotilla de la residencia, se les veía besarse entre las lamas de la persiana.

 A todo esto, la calle, conquistada por la música, se había transformado. El portero del edificio paredaño con la casa de Samuel fue el primero en arrimar su receptor de radio a la ventana para amplificar el sonido de Clásicos Populares. Poco a poco lo hicieron muchos vecinos más. Una mujer de esas que soportan una mala salud de hierro durante lustros y que se muere todas las semanas, esperaba que Fernando Argenta le programara el Lux Aeterna dona eis  del Réquiem de Mozart para despedirse de este valle de lágrimas con la seguridad de haberse ganado la gloria. Entretanto, los jazmines y plumbagos, las vincas, las buganvilias y las damas de noche trepaban por los muros de las casas como si los clásicos fueran su mejor fertilizante, y los árboles respondían al milagro de la música  desarrollando sus copas hasta convertir aquel rincón de la ciudad en un remanso de frescura y de aromas embriagadores.

 Pero todo cambió cuando Fernando Argenta  anunció que Clásicos Populares  dejaría de emitirse. Razones empresariales, ya se sabe. Con él entraban en el ERE Beethoven, Bach, Brahms, Mozart, Haydn, Haendel, Vivaldi, Berlioz, Albéniz, Falla, Verdi, Wagner y hasta los Niños Cantores de Viena. Sabios gestores habían dado la razón al príncipe Salina de El gatopardo. Sí, el que sugería que hay que cambiarlo todo para que nada cambie. Al menos para que no cambie la necedad humana.

 El caso es que la voz de Clásicos Populares enmudeció. Y entonces Samuel, sin esperar siquiera a ver qué nuevas estudiantes habían llegado a la residencia de enfrente, cerró su ventaba, corrió los visillos y las cortinas y llamó al Servicio de Asistencia Domiciliaria para Minusválidos solicitando que se hicieran cargo de él.

NON, je ne vais pas vous parler d'une tasse de Darjeeling ni de la jolie frimousse de Grace Kelly !

Je viens de me connecter et je vois mon compteur de connexions défiler : 499, 500, 501...

Merci, merci à vous tous. J'ai tout simplement lancé ce blog pour faire "un petit quelque chose" sympathique sur ce que j'aime. Cela me réchauffe le coeur de voir que vous êtes déjà plus de 500 personnes élégantes/curieuses/subtiles/givrées à être venues sur mon blog en à peine sept jours.

Mais vous, qui êtes-vous ? Quels sont vos goûts, vos envies ? Laissez-moi un petit commentaire , histoire de faire connaissance...

Ed Robertson
Pop Culture Critic and Entertainment Journalist
Co-Host, Talking Television with Dave White
Share-a-Vision Radio, KSAV.org
www.edrobertson.com
www.doctorrerun.com
www.talkingtelevision.org