I am trapped at home with a violent case of the Rose Colored Eyeholes. That is my keeping-it-comical spin on the worst Punk Skunk Stunk Eye infucktion of all time. I look like I just spent 15 hazy days trapped inside Snoop's hookah. 'Tain't so, though. Granny used to say "'Tain't so" when you'd made a statement of egregious error toward her personage.
I have accidentally abstained from television of any kind for the past 24 months. For reasons you are wise enough to glean, for the past couple of weeks -- and especially during my ocular convalescence -- I have been voraciously consuming some of pay television's better programming: The Tudors, Secret Diary of a Callgirl, Californication, Dexxxter, and a handful of documentaries including Commune, the seies This American Life, and Indie Sex, which details the history of sexual images in cinema. During the middle of the last century, there was a sexual revolution of sorts in cinematic execution that pushed the boundaries of what was considered to be proper and acceptable. I half listened to the first episode of Indie Sex as the soundtrack to my housework. Five days with the kids and a killer schedule for all of us makes for plentiful domestic obligations by the time the weekend cometh. I listened to the cheers for the radically honest pioneers of great modern filmmaking. And in doing so I heard a name that instantly took me back to a thousand dates with Granny. The name: Elia Kazan, famous filmmaker who according to Granny was investigated by the Federales (during a time when The Manny's grandfather was ironically head of the CIA in the Southeast) for being a communist in the 50s.
And that got me thinking about Granny's very best friend, Anna Hill. Also known by Elia Kazan as Anna Hill Johnstone. Granny spoke of Anna Hill more fondly than any of the other birds I came to know and recognize by name through Granny's beautiful