Brian Butler is convinced that ice cream people exist. So he collects artist renditions of humanoid ice cream. If you're wondering what the hell that means, check out his blog. Above is one of his best finds, a philosophical version of the subject from artist Valesca van Waveren. We all scream for it, ya know.
That settles it. I'm wearing my white halter jumpsuit next time I hit the cineplex.
The Look of Love (from the Columbia picture "Casino Royale")
Don't Talk To Me
You and the Night and the Music
I Can't Get Started
Live for Life (from the United Artists motion picture "Live for Life")
Isn't It Romantic?
Mean to Me
For All We Know
My impatience got the best of me. Instead of waiting to watch the season premiere of Dexter in HD (the preferred format to watch his morning routine), I watched it online. It was a back-to-basics return for 'ol Dex, with a few surprises thrown in. One surprise: Jimmy Smits, who keeps his usual smug smarm in check for his guest turn as a prosecutor with a special interest in Dexter's latest kill. You can watch the premiere here by entering the password "lady killers." You can also watch the season premiere of Californication at the same location, if your taste runs to online porn addiction rather than serial killing.
As a huge fan of Mad Men and illustration, I was excited to hear that illustrator Dyna Moe is making illustrations of every episode this season. After designing this Christmas card for Rich Sommer (a.k.a. Harry Crane), she kept going. Here's last week's Betty rockin' the house à la The Clash. Thanks to Ted for the tip!
I've always been kind of meh on Brad Pitt, with one exception: his Floyd in True Romance. The few minutes he graced the screen in a stoner torpor made me wish the whole film revolved around him (nice try Pineapple Express, but no cigar). In Burn After Reading he does it again as the weightless meathead Chad. The movie was slight but fun, almost as if the Coens were hired by HBO to make a pilot for a new spy thriller and decided to screw with them. As usual, the Coens have found brilliant uses for their players, from an angry John Malkovich doing aerobics to George Clooney lugging around a Liberator sex cushion. But watching Pitt drink a Jamba Juice is worth the price of admission.
Flickering neon lights, mossy cypress trees, pulpy sexuality and vampires: I reluctantly admit I'm a sucker for all, so I enjoyed the premiere of True Blood last night. Yeah, it lacked enough realism to ground its attempts at social commentary. Sure, the Southern accents didn't seem authentic. But the story of virginal Sookie's budding attraction to a Civil War-era vampire brought back all my adolescent, Anne Rice-inspired swoonyness. I'll be (guiltily) coming back for more.