Tag Archives: chick flicks

Piracy and Perceptions

Ah, me hearties, here I sit, the night wind whipping through me bedroom, as I scheme and plot. How difficult, really, would it be to sneak on over across the way and steal me that surely-leaky rowboat, strap it to my scooter, head down to the mouth of the Fraser, and set sail? How many hours – three, four, a thousand, more? – would it take to finally reach the Caribbean, where I’m sure to not only find Captain Jack Sparrow, but seduce him?
A piece of cake, I’m sure. As good as done, she says.
Okay, all right, so no such lofty plans exist. Ya found me on out. I’m just a big liar/dreamer/whatever kinda gal.
Instead, I sit here in my jammies, my fleece sweater zipped to its very top, my toes curling in the chill of this unseasonal wind, thinking simply that Johnny Depp fucking rocks.
It’s funny, we all have our definition of sexy. Me, it tends to be guys with a little extra around the middle and broad shoulders and baby-ish faces. Can’t tell you how often I fall for that look. It’s just the flavour that suits my tastebuds the best.
And everything in that description is what Johnny Depp isn’t. He’s short, skinny, has a chiselled face, and so forth. But he’s so fucking cool.
Depp’s gotten where he is with little compromise. If there’s anything sexier than someone who makes it on their own steam, their way, with zero compromises, I wish to hell someone would show me. For me, that’s as hot as it gets.
I try to never compromise, but the realities of my life dictate it happens more than I’d like.
Johnny Depp, though, has never, ever compromised, as far as I’ve been able to tell.
I remember my first dose of Depp. It was grade eight and classmate Joyce called me to tell me about the dreamiest new guy on this Vancouver-shot series, 21 Jump Street. She and I differed on the heady topic of men, though. I was more into George Michael and Corey Hart, and she liked the lead guy from A-ha and other skinny people like that. I grumbled and muttered, “Oh, I’m sure he’s hot,” but secretly thought he’d be another scrawny sour-puss type guy.
Well, I was so wrong. I sort of liked him. He gradually grew on me, even though I was more into Peter DeLuise for a while there. But then there was the fraternity of geeks episode, where Depp had to play a pocket-protector type nerd. He just came alive. He was so comfortable playing an absolute outcast that I couldn’t help but love him.
And since then, Depp’s become the iconoclastic outcast. No one but no one identifies with the outside as much as Depp, and even as a millionaire, you still believe that about him. There’s just this air of outsider integrity that he’s never been able to shake. And unlike all the other so-called “bad boys” in the world, he’s absolutely as polite and gracious as can be.
Depp is the new man. A rebel and a sweetie and an artist and an intellect and a politician, all rolled up into one sexy little package. Men who wonder how to show their sensitivity and how much is too much should look at Depp. The guy’s in interviews admitting that he plays Barbie for 12 hours with his daughter and, “It rocks.”
The guy’s in touch with that side of himself. Being vulnerable isn’t the end of the world, men. Letting us know you’re a little broken and a little bent means we can appreciate more of you. Don’t worry, you’re not failing us when you’re not Big Strong MegaMan. You’re just a guy who’s being dug by a girl, and who’s toppled a wall of his to let us in a little.
Hell, Johnny Depp’s getting $37 million for being unabashedly himself. He’s dressing up with necklaces and eyeliner and being called the sexiest man in the world. Do the fucking math.
The “man’s” man isn’t what it used to be. Depp’s the not-so-metro-sexual who’s redefining what makes a man in the 21st century. Tell you one thing, a man of his ilk hasn’t been seen ‘round these parts in many a decade. Hollywood ain’t been makin’ ‘em like Depp. Not ever. Dude’s in that rare air reserved for stars who steal the screen – Jimmy Stewart, Bogey, and Cagney – who can pull off thick, theatrical eyeliner. Oh, that narrows it down to Erroll Flynn, then, doesn’t it? Bogey in black-lined eyes… hmm, no.
Whatever. That rowboat across the way is not long for this world, baby. Get me some rum, some sunblock, and I’m on the seven seas, baby. Arr, matey. Anchors aweigh!

A Shut-in Saturday Night

It’s a my-time-of-the-month movie night tonight. Legally Blonde is playing, followed by Miss Congeniality.
I so suck, I know. Normally, I’m a fan of those crazy things called Subtitles. I like artsy flicks and intellect and drama and suspense and sexiness (hence subtitles: bring on the Latin flicks). But when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I like the stupid shit.*
I screwed up my back again! JESUS CHRIST. What, is this the reality check of “Miss, you’re 32 years old now, you can’t DO that shit anymore”? Because, I tell you, I’m getting pretty choked.
You know what it is? When I’m exercising regularly, I’m fine. Right now, though, I’m trying to get back into exercising after having real life intrude with my willpower/etc. Ever since my bro’s accident, everything kind of just stopped. Workaholic, sick, obligations, all that stupid crap began to interfere, and I was WEAK. I was UNDISCIPLINED.
And I am PAYING for it now.
I’m lucky I’m normally able to feel as well as I am, when I keep active & exercise a lot. In the last decade of my life I have:

  • Been thrown from a horse.
  • Been in accidents where two cars were totaled (both other drivers running red lights and t-boning me.)
  • Been rear-ended twice.
  • Been in a scooter (ie: Vespa-type) accident where I was thrown off and landed on my back in an intersection.
  • Been in two wipe-outs on the scoot.

In short, I’m a fucking catastrophe on legs. I’ve had bad luck in the past, and though that’s all behind me now and life is good, I need to be more vigilant with being regular on the exercise thing. I get really passionate and dedicated, but whenever life turns up the heat, it’s the first thing I drop when I start losing my grip on things, and it takes a long time to get it back. If there’s anything I hope to change about myself, that’s it. I enjoy being active, I push myself fairly hard when I get into it, but this copping out and rough-ride-back bullshit is making me a little too cognizant of being over 30 and what the consequences of neglect-meets-age might be.
But isn’t that the way it always is? We forget how good “normal” can be, we let things lapse, they fall apart quicker than we’d have fathomed, and getting it back to par is a hell of a chore. And sometimes, you can’t help but start thinking it’s unthinkable, or even, “is it worth this?”
And this is what I’ve done, I neglected myself. I started living a lifestyle I hate – one commanded by work and money, not time and passion. And I forgot the little things I need to do to keep myself in the zone of Steff that I love the best, the one where I feel good, up, happy, and like a player. I love the vibe I have when things are good – so why do I stop?
Once I get to this point, I smarten the hell up for a good long time. Invariably, once every year or so, though, this happens.
It brings on another realization, though. The difference between blaming others, and blaming yourself. You’ll notice, I’m not blaming life – I’m blaming my own inability to better manage my time. I know the fault lies on me, and that’s the thing I need to know, because then I know I can change. That’s the beauty of accepting responsibility for shit: You know you’re not a victim, you know you’re in power, you know you can be an agent of change.
So, here I sit, bitter and angry at this world of discomfort I’m in, but I know it’s my fault, and this time is the last time for a while. I am now a stretching fiend. Limber is my name. Heh. Right?
My den of slack and agent of change (aka: living room and remote of control) are beckoning me back to the realm of sloth. I hear my calling, and I choose to accept the task before me. Later, I will go for the loser-slouchy-sore-back-girl walk around the block where I feel like an alien creature has infiltrated my spine, causing me to walk as if I’m auditioning for George Romeros.
How I dream of muscle relaxers. Anybody? Anybody?

*You thought I had something bright to say? Something new, exciting? No, no. It’s just whining.