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A View From a Broad

The Beautiful, Affordable World of Art.com

by Anna Collins on August 31, 2010

Let’s face it; most people can’t afford an authentic Renoir, Caravaggio or Jack Vettriano. Or can they? Well, it just so happens that I, a person of formerly formidable means, have a wonderful Tamara De Lempicka in my bedroom. The piece is called “The Sleeper” and I acquired it after my real estate career went into the crapper. My De Lempicka is a full 24 x 36 inches. On canvas. Is it real? Of course. Is it authentic? Hardly. It’s from my favorite affordable art gallery – art.com. It’s amazing how many people don’t know of this little treasure trove of art. So let’s zoom in.

What’s so cool about art.com is that you can find virtually any famous, and some not-so-famous, artists' work there. And they are always having sales. There’s always something that can be squeezed into just about any budget or lifestyle, no matter what you’re looking for.

For instance, say you want to feel thin but don’t necessarily want to starve yourself on a diet. Click on over to art.com and buy yourself a few paintings by Fernando Botero. Hang those rotund babies up in every room and before you know it – you’ll start thinking you look like Kate Moss after a TicTac diet. And with all the money you save, you’ll be able to buy a few extra muffins at Whole Paycheck Foods.

You can learn a lot from art.com too. Perhaps you were absent that day in Art History class when they discussed “Impressionism.” Heck, you may even have skipped the whole course - but now you need some impressionist artwork for your second bathroom – to match the candlesticks you bought at Tuesday Morning – and it’s Thursday and you have family visiting next Friday! Not to worry. Just type in “Impressionism” in the search field located on the home page and voila! You’ll be able to choose from artists like Benson, Monet, Degas and other Impressionist artists.

Not sure what you want? You can click the tab that says “art styles” and peruse by Movement, Era, Nationality, Decorative Art, Vintage Art or Photography. There are other tabs too, that display the art by Subject, Artist, Project Type, Collections and Best Sellers. You could spend a whole afternoon just looking at art! Sure beats the hell out of paying attention to the boring day job. Make sure you have another window open though, so you can “alt tab” over to the TPS reports or the XL spread (the boredom) sheet when the boss man walks by.

Art.com even offers a little educational bonus. Each piece of art features a little blurb about the artist – just enough for you to sound like you know what you’re talking about – which you will after you memorize your lines.

And here’s what I really love about art.com – you have choice of how you want to receive your artwork. They don’t just send it to you one way – nay, nay! You can get your Renoir on a giclee print (says art.com: “The Giclee printing process delivers a fine stream of ink resulting in vivid, pure color and exceptional detail that is suitable for museum or gallery display.”) Or you can get it “wood mounted.” Using this process, your selection is mounted to a 3/8" solid backing board, then laminated with a UV filtering film. This protects your artwork from fingerprints, dirt, moisture and other undesirable elements. Or, you can get it to look like an authentic canvas. Or you can simply have it framed the traditional way.

So, if you’re looking for a cost-conscious way to make your own home or workspace perk up with some great art – believe me when I say you can afford it on art.com. And keep in mind art.com is always having sales – usually 25% off. So sign up for their mailing list and wait for your coupon – then let the Starry, Starry Night be your limit.

And that’s the View from this Art Aware Broad.

The Writing Life: A Morning Visit with Fun, Discipline, and Balance

by Anna Collins on August 15, 2010

I’m supposed to be writing my column.

Instead, I stare at my cell phone. A top o’ the line model. OK it’s from Metro PCS. But still. My phone snob friend Jason poo-poos it saying it’s not as good as his HD2 – HTC. Of course he tells me this verbally because he hasn’t quite figured out how to send text yet.

I continue staring at my phone. Who could live without its interruptions and insufferable amount of ringtones; some made to sound like a freight train heading towards you at full speed? Others, samples of rap tunes telling you, you’re a biaaatch and to answer the damn phone. How about one that rings out: You’re ADD! Focus on what you’re doing!

OK, I need to write my column. It’s about being a disciplined writer. Not a phone critic. I glance to my right and see Discipline standing there, his arms folded across his chest; a disgusted look on his face.

“Collins you think you can concentrate on your column for five minutes instead of admiring your phone, dickin’ around on the Internet, or checking your e-mail every two freakin’ seconds?”

This guy annoys me.

“Get off my back Discipline. I’m writing, I’m writing! And it’s going to be brilliant. Then I’m going roller-blading.”

Discipline doesn’t back down. “You could have been at the park now had you started this earlier….but nooooooooo…you were too busy procrastinating. As usual.”

That’s when Fun butts in.

“Hey, hey, fella! Back off! Listen, I know you’re Discipline and you have “a job to do” – but if her writing’s not done in a spirit of fun – it’s gonna show. Maybe Collins needs to get in “fun mode” checking for cute shoes online and what not, before she can really get into her column.”

Discipline lets out a long breath.

“I don’t know who’s fulla shit more – you or Collins. Let me tell you something Mr. Fun – you’ve screwed up more things in Collins’ life than her own mother. She could have gone to Harvard or at least finished Cosmetology School, but you were always there with the drinking and the partying and the cute young guys with excellent hair.”

Fun doesn’t back down.

“And your point is? Let me tell you something Discipline – you’re good in small doses! Too much of you and nobody’s laughing. Too much of you and people develop those austere lines around their lips from never smiling. And I hate to say this – but you can be very borrrrrrring!”

That’s when Balance appears. He looks relaxed, sure of himself, and well-rested. He’s wearing a black beret and black Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

“Hey guys, what’s up?”

Fun is pissed. He jerks his thumb at Discipline. “Douchebag Discipline over here always wants to spoil everybody’s good time – nose to the grindstone, nose to the grindstone! He is such a giant hard-off.”

Discipline is incensed. “Well if it was up to Fun Boy – nobody would ever get anything done! All he thinks about is instant gratification – and escape from reality.”

“Reality is highly overrated!” Fun shoots back, pulling a flask from his pocket.

“Are you guys through?” asks Balance. Everybody nods, including me.

“Look, you all have to learn to get along. It’s give and take. Fun – too much of you and nothing gets done. Discipline – too much of you and the joy gets sucked out of life. Take turns. Play nice. And you know you can always call on me if you’re stuck. I’m underutilized. And I’m safe. Nobody ever ODs on Balance.”

Fun, Discipline, and I look at each other. Balance is right. He’s always right. We all shake hands and promise to try to get along better.

Balance smiles and lowers his Ray-Bans. “OK you guys, I gotta go – there’s a woman across the street trying to eat a whole birthday cake and wash it down with vodka – I need to pay her a visit.” And with that, he vanishes.

And like magic, my column is done.

And that’s the View from this Disciplined Fun-Loving Broad.

 

“A View from a Broad” Hurricane Season Issue

by Anna Collins on August 02, 2010

 

Helpful Hurricane Tips for the Ferklempt in Florida

It’s that time of year again – time to stock up on flashlights, umpteen boxes of “D” batteries and most importantly – the liquor cabinet.

That’s right folks, let’s give a warm round of applause to that recurring yearly phenomenon that we hope will never perform for us again, give it up for – The Hurricane!!

God, I hate that part of living in Florida. But hurricanes are the tradeoff we all pay for the advantages of living in the Sunshine State – beautiful beaches, café con leche served at the local Shell station, and being able to wear a tube top in the middle of January (even if you’re a man).

Whining won’t make getting prepared for a disaster any easier, but wine will, so let’s get down to business.

Stuff You’ll Need

1. Batteries & Flashlights. Chances are you have 700 batteries and 12 flashlights left over from last year, but darn! If only you could remember where you put them. So buy some more and be sure and go to Lowe’s or Home Depot at the last minute so you can have the full “annoying hurricane chore” effect of waiting in line for two hours behind the guy with the 800 pieces of plywood and duct tape, that has no I.D. and will be writing a check from the Bank of Gwamba for his purchases.

2. A battery powered television – Not for the weather – you already know it sucks outside – but you’re certainly not going to miss Dancing with the Stars because of a stupid Cat 5, are you?

3. A Surf Board – In case there’s a storm surge, you may as well take advantage of it. Nothing like catching that perfect wave – off the roof of your house.

4. Prescription Drugs – For those of you who got stuck with certain relatives or neighbors and may again, I cannot stress how important the use of prescription drugs can be to get you back to your “happy, tolerant place”.

5. Extra phone batteries – So you can text: OMG! MY BFF just got blown away! LMAO!

6. Important Documents – Keep ‘em in a Ziplock and know where they are. Like the return slip for those cute shoes from DSW that turned out to be a tad tight around the toes – no ticky, no returny.

7. Clean underwear – Let me not have to explain this one, people. You never know whom you’ll meet when the ‘lectricity goes out and everybody has to empty his or her freezers for the big community gas grill-BBQ-shindig-drunkfest. “Hurricane Love” could be just around the corner. (Hint: Guys, don’t even think of wearing a retro, “I was Blown by Wilma” tee-shirt, unless your last name is Flintstone.)

Essential Beverages and Food

1. Beverages – Anything alcoholic. All hard liquors, cognacs, wines, beers, aperitifs, liqueurs, Robitussin and NyQuil.

And what’s that other liquid thing people keep constantly harping at you to have? Ummm…Oh yeah —

2. Water. Get some water.

3. Food - Chips, Cheez-whiz, Cheez-Its, M&Ms (peanuts and plain), Little Debbie anythings, those round Ferrero Rocher Hazelnut Chocolates that pretend to be high class, but you can get at Walgreen’s and Publix, and some spicy Slim Jims just for good measure. Hint: SJs are awesome with NyQuil. It is an acquired taste, however.

I know, you’re saying, “Oh, Anna, everyone knows to bring all that. It’s a given.”

You’re right, I just didn’t want you to panic and buy healthy crap when you couldn’t remember the list. This way it’s written down.

Remember: Refrain from purchasing any health foods like granola bars, flax seeds or mung bean nuggets. They have no bartering power. If food starts to run out, a fresh bag of Cheetos, Fritos, Cape Cod Chips or Ding-Dongs have clout. One guy in my building actually got laid for a large Baby Ruth bar. I’m not sayin’ it’s right – but I understand.

No one’s interested in fat grams, calories or cholesterol levels when we could all perish at any moment. Hedonism and bad nutrition are de rigueur. A hurricane is probably one of the few times you can eat like a stoner and not have the Whole Foods groupies on your back. I’ve seen a few of those wheat-grass swigging humps chomping on a Milky Way and washing it down with a Mountain Dew during the last storm. So rock on.

Where to Stay if You Have to Evacuate

My first choice would be the Ritz, in Paris, but it’s so hard to get reservations on short notice.

1. Hotels, motels – When it’s time to go - don’t wait until the last minute to evacuate. I’m telling you, all the good hotels and motels – Motel 8, Knight’s Inn, and La Quinta - which translated, actually means behind Denny’s - will be taken. Make a reservation somewhere just in case.

2. Friends – If you’re staying with friends, make sure they’re good, solid friends. Preferably ones with sinus conditions that have trouble breathing. Nothing kills a friendship quicker than the aroma produced by the lack of a daily shower. As my dear grandma Collins used to say: “After three days, fish and company start to stink. She should know – she was European.

3. Your car- provided it’s in another state.

That about covers it. Take care during this June to November weather watch. May you all stay high and dry, my dear readers.

And that’s the View from this Florida-Lovin’ Hurricane Watchin’ Broad.

Standup Comedy: 10 Reasons Why Doing Standup is Better Than Sex

by Anna Collins on July 19, 2010

After an almost eight year hiatus from standup comedy – I’m back behind the microphone again. And it’s true: It’s more beautiful the second time around.

Comedy is a relationship – with the club owners, the audience, the road, the agents, the shitty motel rooms, the big fancy resorts, the Waffle House, the biker bars, the country clubs, the one-nighters in B.F. Egypt – all of it. And like any relationship, sometimes you just need a break.

Hopefully, during that break – you realize what you missed most and what you appreciated most, and in my case – it was my audience. I just love them. I love looking at their happy faces when I tell a joke and they laugh. I especially love when I tell a joke and I hear those incredibly loud belly-laughs – that’s the best – to know someone really “got” me. There’s no better feeling. I’m not going to use the old cliché that comedy for me is better than sex (although I just did) but really, it is. How can I compare the adoration of hundreds of people laughing and cheering at my shows, to one sweaty guy on top of me grunting and moaning? Hey, call me crazy, but I think the former is way better. Plus standup doesn’t smear my makeup or afterwards, ask to borrow ten bucks.

In fact, Standup is WAY better than Sex and here’s 10 Reasons why:

10. I can talk for a full 30 – 45 minutes and there’s actually men listening to what I’m saying!

9. I can wear whatever I want and I don’t have to shave my legs beforehand.

8. If I choose to, I can drink on the job.

7. I can say things to men that in “real life,” would get me punched in the face. On stage, I get applause!

6. No matter how good I think I am in bed – no one is going to get up after it’s over and give me a standing ovation.

5. The more people in the audience the better. Not so in the bedroom.

4. My show is guaranteed to last over a minute. No guarantees with sex.

3. I don’t mind inviting my mother.

2. I don’t have to use a condom or wear the dominatrix mask.

And the Number One Reason Why Standup Comedy is Better Than Sex:

1. I’ll never get bored because I can do it with a room full of new people every night!

And there you have it. I hope you can be one of those people in my audience. At least you know I won’t be thinking of anybody else but you!

And that’s the View from this Probably-Never-Getting-Laid-Again-After-Guys-Read-This Broad.

Anna Collins will be appearing at these clubs during the summer.

New York Comedy Club, Friday, July 30 & Saturday, July 31.

New York Comedy Club, 8221 Glades Rd., Boca Raton. Call 561.470.6887.

Lauderdale by the Sea Hotel and Resort, Friday, August 6 & Saturday, August 7.

Lauderdale by the Sea Hotel and Resort, 4116 N. Ocean Dr., Ft. Lauderdale.

Call 561.470.6887

To see videos and more info on Anna Collins, go to: www.annacollinscomedian.com.

 

A View from a Broad (Special Edition)

New York – New Spark

by Anna Collins on July 04, 2010

At least twice a year, I leave my beloved Florida and make the white-knuckled plane ride to New York. Every time I go there, I come back inspired and invigorated. How could you not? New York is like an adrenaline rush to artists; the people, the events, the lunacy of it all – it’s just so …New York.

This trip, I went to perform standup comedy, see a play, and visit with my best friend, Barbara Scott, a well-known New York astrologer, who very conveniently has an apartment near the 59th Street Bridge. From the minute I stepped off the plane, I was in a cultural marathon.

We went straight from the airport to an amazing Greek restaurant in the city where we feasted on Middle Eastern food. Since Barb is Greek and I’m Armenian, between us we ate enough garlic to knock a buzzard off a meat wagon. (Thank God neither one of us was looking for a date.)

The next day I had my gig. The show was in New Haven, Connecticut, about an hour out of the city. I had no idea what kind of neighborhood the club would be in. We arrived at Joker’s Wild Comedy Club about 90 minutes before showtime. As we got out of the car, I said to Barb: “So what kind of ‘hood do you think this is?” As if on cue, a shiny black Cadillac with the license plate “Bada Bing” pulled into the parking lot. (You can’t make this stuff up.) In addition, we arrived in the middle of the St. Andrews Feast, wherein flowed an abundance of fried dough, sausage and pepper sandwiches, and endless canoles – the staples of Italy. The star of the feast was a cardboard rendition of St. Andrew himself, with dollar bills pinned to him. We even met two old-timers who, Soprano’s style, were sitting in lawn chairs outside their men’s club. Since they liked us, they invited us in for a tour of the place. When I turned on my vidcam, the gentleman showing us around got a weird look in his eye and asked me if I was from the FBI. I assured him I was merely a columnist and comedian looking for material. (He seemed appeased, but kept giving me sidelong glances.) That night at the club, I remarked in my act that I met some of the locals and they told me if I wasn’t funny, they were gonna whack me. It got a laugh. I’m still alive.

The following day, we went back to Manhattan to Times Square, where I found out if you stand in line at the TKTS discount booth, the day of a performance, you can get substantially discounted Broadway show tickets – as much as 50% off! In about 15 minutes, we had mezzanine tickets to a play – and several hours to kill.

We decided to roam Times Square and check out the characters. The first one we saw was The Naked Cowgirl (a/k/a Sandy Kane) – a fifty-something woman dressed in pasties, a cowboy hat and boots. She had recently been on TV regarding a heated controversy with The Naked Cowboy (a/k/a Robert Burck), who claimed she was treading on his naked territory. Turns out, Naked Cowboy is from New Jersey and Naked Cowgirl is from Manhattan. Looks like the Cowboy is going to have a tussle on his hands because New Yorkers don’t give in easily and they sure aren’t intimated by anything - especially New Jersey.

After our bare encounter, we saw. . .more nudity. A buff young man in a bath towel was touting the show Naked Boys Singing – and believe me, this guy didn’t even need to open his mouth – you could have just munched on popcorn and stared at him for an hour. Beside the buff guy, there were women giving out free hugs. And beside the free hugs women was an American-Indian flutist. Where else could you find this trio side-by-side on a sunny Saturday afternoon?

We then decided to take a seat at some outdoor tables set up in the heart of the Square. A few minutes later, a phenomenal thing happened. Suddenly, we were in the middle of hundreds of bubbles! People all around us starting blowing bubbles from little bottles, bubble guns, and big bubble wands. We didn’t know what started it, but found out later that it was a Facebook invite and apparently everyone and more showed up! For a good 45 minutes, the air was just filled with hundreds and hundreds of bubbles. It was really a cool experience because it was unusual to be surrounded by hundreds of people who were smiling and happy instead of the usual bitching and miserable attitude.

Finally it was time to head to the show. The play we were seeing was Next Fall at the Helen Hayes Theatre.

Next Fall, produced by Elton John and David Furnish, is the story of Luke and Adam – a romance between two gay men, where Luke believes strongly in God and Adam barely believes in himself. Filled with situations that test tolerance, understanding and love between a committed couple, Next Fall follows a relationship that spans five years and ends with a life changing accident. Full of humor, passion and sensitive issues, the play was engaging and intelligently written and I highly recommend seeing it. (By Geoffrey Nauffts. Cast: Patrick Breen, Maddie Corman, Sean Dugan, Patrick Heusinger, Connie Ray, and Cotter Smith)

The next day it was back to the Gunshine State. I bid New York a fond and grateful adieu. Fond, because New York never ceases to amaze and entertain me, and grateful because the spirit of its people reminds me of all the things that are right with the world.

And that’s the View from this Broadway lovin’ Broad.

(P.S. Check out my video of some of the trip’s highlights!)

Literary Lamespeak: Clichés — I Wouldn’t Touch them with a 10-Foot Pole

by Anna Collins on June 19, 2010

When writing memorable prose, one should try one’s best to avoid clichés like the plague. Clichés are tiresome. And yet the word itself sounds and looks so interesting, like it could mean some elegant French seasonal event you might long to attend: “Did you make it to Jean-Claude’s mid-summer cliché? It was to die for!”

Or a cliché might be a delicious pastry: “These chocolate clichés are awesome! I must have the recipe.” The recipe is: take a hefty amount of laziness, a dollop of vocabulary deficit, and mix together with a handful of words that have been pounded to death by repetition and—voila! The cliché.

Clichés are very common to Americans, but if you’re not familiar with the English language, they can be confusing. Take for instance the phrase, “What goes around comes around.” A friend recently used this phrase on her Cuban boyfriend, who asked her what it meant. “You reap what you sow,” said the cliché queen. Que? Clear as mud.

Clichés are as old as the day is long. People love them. Let’s face it—you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Well, maybe you can, but you don’t want to bite the hand that feeds you. And I especially wouldn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. But when push comes to shove, clichés are convenient—better safe than sorry.

Clichés really are bewildering, though. Take the phrase, “Barking up the wrong tree.” Now this would lead one to believe there is a “right” tree. When actually there’s no tree at all. In fact, there’s not even a bush. And as we all know, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Not if you throw a net over the bush, it isn’t. Who knows? That may yield you four or five in the bush! See, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Never judge a book by its cover.

And how about the phrase: “You’re singing to the choir.” Why? Don’t they have enough singers? Besides, how would they even hear you over all those other voices? But maybe someone else will hear you. Perhaps it’ll go from your lips to God’s ears. I didn’t know words could travel that far. I guess they could—if they were on a wing and a prayer. But that’s just wishful thinking.

And how about “Like father, like son.” Not necessarily. What if your son is a transvestite? Then it would be: “Like mother, like son.” I guess that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Which way is that, anyway? You could crumble a cookie with your fist or a mallet. There’s two sides to every story, three, if you’re an isosceles triangle. That’s as plain as the nose on your face.

I guess I may have an ax to grind, with all of this. But, in the end, I always let bygones be bygones. I guess I’m getting bent out of shape over this a little. I need to concentrate more on fun. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. What about Jill? Who’s going to emancipate her? Poor Jill—always the bridesmaid never the bride. Although she sleeps with anyone at the drop of a hat. Maybe that explains why no one buys the cow when they can get the milk for free.

Anyhoodlum, I figure let sleeping dogs lie. And why, pray tell would you even want to wake them? You’d have to be as dense as a London fog. No good will come of it. They may bite the hand that feeds them. It’s a no-win situation.

I guess I’m just a baby boomer that’s bad to the bone. I have bats in my belfry. I’m nuttier than a fruitcake. I think having a good vocabulary is the best thing since sliced bread and I’ll bend over backwards to use it. Avoiding clichés and thinking up your own description of the situation is the bee's knees. Put on your thinking cap. Come back from the dead. Cut out all this monkey business and get a life. Go the extra mile. This is a wake-up call. Don’t wait for the ink to dry. Take the bull by the horns and give it the acid test.

Remember, clichés are about as fun as a skunk at a lawn party. And as luck would have it—I’m out of time.

That’s the whole ball of wax.

And that’s the bird’s eye View from this Broad.

Reality Shows? Give Me Something Scripted –

Unless It’s The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia

by Anna Collins on June 05, 2010

Is it my imagination or is every other new show on network TV becoming a reality show? Is scripted TV going the way of the Dodo bird? Are we all becoming Dodos from watching these vapid, brainless shows with nimrods, ne’er do wells, hoarders, and drug addicts? I don’t know about you – but I don’t want reality – I want fantasy! I have enough reality in reality. I want a show somebody put some fabricated thought into. Okay, it doesn’t necessarily have to follow an exact script – like Curb Your Enthusiasm for example – which is excellent and is somewhat ad-libbed – but it should have at least a hint of a storyline that might lead to oh, I don’t know. . .entertainment?

 

The reality show I really detest is Jersey Shore. What a horrible example for young people. Can you imagine having a daughter like Snookie? Just the name makes me angry. The Urban Dictionary defines her as a “4'9" umpalumpa. . . best known for being punched in the face.” That’s an achievement. And how about those walking tubes of unbridled testosterone “Mike the Situation” and his ass-clown friend “Tommy D”? The collective IQ on that show probably isn’t even as high as the channel number it’s on. It’s just TOO stupid. C’mon folks, we gotta draw the shaky line somewhere.

But you know what? Besides the overt machismo, promiscuity, and stunted vocabulary– the biggest crime of Jersey Shore is that it’s just not interesting. After one episode – there are no surprises. The characters have no dimension to their personalities. They’re predictable and boring. Stupidity is not creative. Ditto for the Housewives of (fill in the blank), a bunch of wealthy women with no taste in clothes or men fighting with each other over who got talked about at the last drunken girl-party. But reality shows are way cheaper to produce – hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars, less than scripted TV, so once again the bottom-feeder line rules.

I realize that reality shows are probably here to stay and I’m sure no matter how much I rail against them and try to point out their incalculable contribution to the stagnation of the cerebrum, staunch fans will remain unmoved. Fair enough. But if you’re going to watch reality – then at least watch something interesting. That said – have I got a show for you! The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia.

Produced by Johnny Knoxville and Jeff Tremaine (creators of Jackass) and directed by Julien Nitzberg, The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia is a documentary that beats any reality show I’ve ever seen. Ever. Director Nitzberg succinctly describes the Whites as a “multigenerational criminal family.” Set in Boone County, West Virginia, the movie follows the lives of the notorious White family – a highly dysfunctional and openly drug and alcohol abusing mountain clan who all freely admit to breaking the law and raising hell. Repeatedly.

The Whites aren’t stupid though, perhaps a tad uneducated, but these are wily people who are totally aware of their reputation and spare no antics for the camera. There’s no “hamming it up” with these folks; this a brutally honest depiction of how these people live in their coal-mining corner of Appalachia. Though they may be rebels, renegades, robbers, embezzlers, and armed felons—the Whites have an incredible family bond and are always there to support each other in times of crisis, which is usually daily.

The matriarch of the clan, Bertie Mae White, is a featured character as is her daughter, Mamie (the eldest of 13 children) whom I can only describe as the embodiment of mental mayhem, topped off with a wickedly tight ponytail. The filmmakers spent over a year with the Whites and came up with an excess of 500 hours of footage they condensed into 88 minutes of free-wheelin’ fun. My favorite line in the movie is when Derek White says: “Wanna hear the Boone County mating call?” He then holds up a prescription bottle of pills and shakes it.

The film is often funny, lots of times sad, but always real. That’s why I like it. It’s a part of America most people would never see if it weren’t for these filmmakers. It’s part of the human condition, and love it or hate it, you’ll at least feel something after you see it.

The predecessor to this film, another must-see, is The Dancing Outlaw (1991), starring Jesco White, the tap-dancing, hard living mountain man who has a fixation on Elvis and who enthusiastically huffs gasoline. You’ll see Jesco in the new film as well, and I’m happy to say, he hasn’t changed a bit. And as Mamie so eloquently put it: "Coming into this world is nothing, going out is nothing... but at least the world knows who the fuck we are."

So, if you’re sick of the same insipid crap that passes itself off as reality – git to rentin’ The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia. It’s a feel good ‘n’ crazy kinda time!

 

And that’s The View from This Here Broad.

 

(Rent The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia on OnDemand Comcast or Amazon Video. For more info visit www.TheWildandWonderfulWhites.com)

Watch the trailer: http://www.wildandwonderfulwhites.com/trailer/

The Lure of the Undead: Examining the Vampire as a Compelling Literary, Film, and Television Star

by Anna Collins on May 21, 2010

 

For being dead guys, vampires sure have longevity! The recent spate of books, TV shows and films featuring vampires is enjoying a plethora of cadaverous popularity. And no wonder – they’re SO entertaining! There’s the Twilight series books-to-film by Stephanie Meyer, The Vampire Diaries on the CW network, and the so-bad-it’s-good HBO series, Trueblood.

Nowadays, some of the new vamps can venture out in daylight, but personally, Dracula is my favorite. When I was eight, I saw my first Dracula movie and it completely hooked me. Then I read the book in my teens and Bram Stoker stoked me all over again. Then I saw the smoldering Frank Langella in the film

role and I remained smitten and longed to be bitten.

I never went for princesses or princes that were pure, lovely, and wholesome. In fact, when I saw Snow White I identified with the Evil Queen, not because she was evil but because she was infinitely more interesting than the dull, one-dimensional Snow White, who wanted nothing more than to get married to that Ken doll of a prince. Yawn. Plus, the Evil Queen had a magic mirror! Who would you rather hang with?

Like evil queens, vampires are interesting and exciting. I mean come on, they’ve lived for centuries – imagine the references! You can talk to vampires about anything from the Black Plague (the disease) to Black Sabbath (the band). And interesting is sexy. So is confident. And what’s more sexy and confident than a vampire? That’s why we dames love ‘em.  

Physically, vampire men are usually handsome with a well-toned physique and fabulous hair—dark, thick, lush manes—the kind you love to run your fingers through, like that necro-Adonis Damon from “The Vampire Diaries.”  So what if he smells a little fermented when you get up close—just hold your nose—he’s still hot.

Vampires are always smart dressers too. What with their starched white shirts, high-collared capes, cool medallion bling and such, what woman wouldn’t swoon? And what about the modern day vamps who favor Armani suits or John Varvatos jeans? You could take these guys/cadavers anywhere and not be embarrassed. You’d never catch a vampire showing up at your cousin’s wedding in a Budweiser hat or wearing Tevas to a Bar Mitzvah – they’d rather die. Again.

 And here’s another plus to the vampire genre: They’re not morning people! That alone makes them endearing. Not an early riser myself, I relate to the creature that considers sunrise something that could kill you.

Vampires assuage bothersome tasks. If you don’t feel like driving, a vampire can take flight with you clinging on his back for a quick trip to the mall, eliminating the frustrating search for a good parking space. And vampires are strong, and I believe, highly underutilized when it comes to moving. Cripes! One vampire could move an entire house in about 30 minutes—not like the usual lethargic slugs you hire for the day that take a break every 10 minutes and complain about the heat.

I think vampires especially appeal to women for all the aforementioned reasons but also because as the song says, girls just wanna have fun. So what could be more fun than a vampire? Money is never an issue – ok, so they have to suck a few necks here and there to get it – but because they are highly intelligent, vampires have the savvy to invest their earnings into legitimate businesses thus affording them their lavish, nocturnal lifestyles. And really – who goes to chic clubs, ballroom events, and meaningful social soirées during the day? All the good stuff is always at night.

And finally, vampires are wacky and unpredictable. Leave a vampire alone in room full of people and watch the shenanigans! Who’s missing from the party? Who’s staggering around in a daze with fresh puncture wounds in their neck? Why was the garlic bread thrown away?

Put all this in a book, a TV show or a film and how is it not a hit? Vampires embody everything we mere mortals wish we were or could do. We are willing to overlook the cold-blooded killer side of that particular coin in favor of the glamorous and supernatural aspects of associating with the undead.

All hail Vampire Nation and the authors, screenwriters and filmmakers who entertain us with their tales of the be-fanged rulers of the night and who let us know that being dead, can sometimes be really lively.

And that’s the fang-dangled View from this Broad.

Vehicle Art: A Moving Exhibit

by Anna Collins on May 09, 2010

People love using their cars as a canvas—a mobile art form. Every time I drive, I see something new and distracting on the cars around me; or the same things, distracting me in new ways.

Like bumper stickers, for example. Have you seen the one that spells out “Coexist” with a moon and star, a peace sign, the man and woman symbol, the Wiccan star, the Star of David, the yin-yang symbol, and the cross? Why can’t we all just get along? it begs. It’s interesting to look at, but challenging to imagine a gathering with all the groups represented. Come to a full moon party! Located between Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt and Temple Oy Gevalt on the Medicated & Meditating camp grounds. Men and women welcome. BYOD (Bring Your Own Dogma).

Then there’s the fish symbol, a stick-on object, with the word “Jesus” in the middle, so we know the people driving in front of us are of a certain religious persuasion. This is important when negotiating heavy traffic. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been stuck on 1-95 and blurted out: Christ! Get me outta here!

Then there are the humans that cram about 4 or 5 thousand tiny stuffed animals in their car’s rear windows, like an overpopulated, fiber-filled zoo. Imagine the mental process that considers such a thing worthy of display. Were these people deprived of toys as children? Why the rear window of a car? Why not put your collection in a place where—oh I don’t know—it wouldn’t obstruct your driving view? Second grade is over. Move on.

My personal car art favorites are the spinnin’ rims and the undercarriage neon. Poetry in motion. I’ve seriously thought about getting the rims and the neon for my own vehicle. OK, maybe it looks cooler on a Chrysler 300 than on a Honda Element (that’s part plastic), but still. The only thing holding me back is how do I enjoy these embellishments? If I’m driving the car, I can’t see either one. What a gyp! I’d have to have a friend drive my car by me, several times in a row, back and forth, so I can stand there and enjoy the effect. Well let me tell you, it’s difficult to coordinate everyone’s schedule to do that on a regular basis. I have a hard enough time arranging a racquetball game! And friends or not, they’d probably get testy after being asked for the fifth or sixth time. Maybe even the first. So for now, that treat is on hold.

I’m also a fan of the steering wheel cover. An object that’s not only creative, but practical. You have to kind of wrestle it on your steering wheel, it’s a tight installation piece, but the workout is worth it. I favor the rubber model that has the little nubby, grippy things on it – sort of like a French tickler for the steering wheel. It gives you a good hold on the wheel, looks edgy, and protects your fingers from being seared off by the Florida sun.

WHAT?! I can’t hear you over the din! How about those over-wrought-with-male-inadequacy drivers that affix certain mufflers to their cars to make them sound like a jet engine in flight. “LOOK AT ME!” they seem to scream. “LOOK AT ME, DAMMIT!! IF I CAN’T GET YOUR ATTENTION ANY OTHER WAY – I’LL BE LOUD!! ME AND MY SMALL PENIS ARE LOUD! LOUD! LOUD!” Performance and installation art all in one. It’s all very Freudian, with assholian overtones.

But by far, the best car art comes to us in the form of a male scrotum. No, I’m not making this up. Known as ‘Bumper Nutz’ amongst other names, the usually made-of-metal piece hangs from the rear bumper of the vehicle to proudly announce to the world: I’m into balls. What else could it mean? This is not a gay thing either. These are normally straight men displaying these faux testicles, and that, in and of itself, is something to be analyzed. These guys usually consider themselves ultra-macho. Typically, I see the balls on the back of the “F” series trucks. Never on a Miata or a mini-Cooper. Men are just so weird. Think about it: No sensible female would drive around with metal fallopian tubes or a uterus hanging from her rear bumper. (Just looking at those plastic models in the gyno’s office is enough to make us cringe.)

But the beautiful thing about all this car art is that it definitely takes your mind off doing something mundane—like watching the road.

And that’s the motoring View from this Broad.

 

 

 

 

Tribute to a Staunch Performer: The Inimitable Style of Little Edie Beale

by Anna Collins on April 25, 2010

 

Tribute to a Staunch Performer: The Inimitable Style of Little Edie Beale

 

I am absolutely enthralled with the Edies.

Big Edie and, especially her daughter, Little Edie, are two broads this broad would have gladly hung out with (albeit whilst wearing a flea collar). For those of you who aren’t acquainted, the Beales, Edith Bouvier Beale (Big Edie) and Edith Beale (Little Edie) were mother-daughter eccentrics—the aunt and cousin of Jackie Kennedy-Onassis—who once lived in East Hampton, New York in a ramshackle mansion called Grey Gardens.

In the 70s, Albert and David Maysles made a documentary about the Edies called Grey Gardens which is now a cult classic. I went to a theater in Boston with my own mother to see the movie when it premiered in 1975. I was instantly hooked. I’d never seen anything like it. I talked about it for years – and for years nobody knew what I was talking about because the movie was a limited release and not a box office smash. I remember thinking how crazy and wonderful the Edies were; completely out of their minds, funny, tragic, spirited, and in seemingly absolute denial of their circumstances.

The Beales were at one time, wealthy and privileged members of New York high-society who lived as recluses in poverty and squalor, due to Big Edie’s divorce and subsequent loss of marital income. (Apparently, it never occurred to either woman to get a job.) Grey Gardens, once an impressive well-tended manor, suffered, at various times, from no running water, bad plumbing, the constant stench from multiple cats with no litter boxes, regular visits from the local raccoon population, and landscaping that rivaled the jungles of Nairobi.

 

But it was Little Edie’s personality I found most fascinating. She was completely unselfconscious, opinionated and staunchly individualistic about everything. (Edie loved the word “staunch.”) She was naturally funny and quite witty, despite her environment. She performed uninhibitedly for the camera, often improvising her song and dance act, flirting with the Maysles’ and all the while casting a blind eye to the dilapidation around her.

This was 1975—nobody in real life acted like Little Edie, nobody outside of a mental institution anyway. There she was—prancing around in her crazy head-scarves (she had lost all her hair to alopecia) always accented with the ever-present, bow-shaped brooch; wearing skirts upside down with stockings over pants, and singing and dancing just as if she were in her right mind! I couldn’t get enough of her. I remember watching that documentary, riveted to the screen, just dying to see what she’d do next. She was so interesting because she was so removed from her circumstances. This was an educated woman from a wealthy family whose life made a complete 360 to the land of Opposite. A true riches to rags story. But Little Edie never once made reference to the unsightly living conditions. How was it possible NOT to see it? Yet, there she was; always well-spoken, never missing an opportunity to address her bed-ridden, demanding mother as “Mutha Dahling.” Oh, I just loved her!

And although she was living in what looked like an episode of Hoarders, Little Edie somehow remained above it all, removed from the banal, like for instance, housecleaning. It never occurred to her to maybe grab a bucket with some Mr. Clean in it and tidy up the joint. Or maybe get a few litter boxes for the cats to pee in, instead of say, the front of an oil painting. But Little Edie was no common housekeeper.

As an ambitious young woman, Little Edie’s dream was to be an actress and a

dancer. She had already been a model and a strikingly beautiful debutante. She was never concerned about getting married or having babies. I related to Little Edie, that day in the theater, because she mirrored my feelings of wanting a career and not wanting the confines of marriage and the subsequent offspring that often followed. I saw her as an inspiration, and thought she was highly underrated—as what I didn’t really know—just as a unique character I supposed. This shows you how twisted I was at age 20—and how right. Now Little Edie has a cult following that seems to be growing by the minute. But I had loved her way back when. Little Edie was the first and foremost reality show star.

What happened to Little Edie’s budding career all those years ago? As a young woman, she left East Hampton for New York City, where she lived for five years trying to break into show biz. By her own account, she was beginning to make some inroads. Then in 1952, her mother summoned her back home to Grey Gardens (to take care of the elder Edie) and it was there Little Edie remained until her mother’s death in 1977.

With her mother gone, Little Edie, at age 60, started her own cabaret act which she performed at Reno Sweeny’s in New York City. In 1997 she moved to Bal Harbour, Florida where she lived until her death in 2002. She was 84.

Little Edie was a proponent of never giving up, of living life on her own terms, and marching (literally) to the beat of her own music. Debutante, socialite, cabaret performer, and reality star. Edith Beale was, if nothing else, a great entertainer.

And that’s the View from this Broad, dahling

Editor's Note: For those interested the 1975 documentary Grey Gardens is available through Netflix. Grey Gardens was made into an HBO film that starred Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore as the Edies. The HBO film first aired on HBO on April 18, 2009 and won six Emmys and two Golden Globes