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Celestial Clockwork: A Movie Overlooked

This is a strange one...

Hey, I missed you guys! Due to the dedication to the new QPDX Podcast, 2 Girls 1 Podcast, I’ve been a little busy of late. However, I love writing about  movies, and little could keep me away from this blog for long.

Celestial Clockwork, made in 1995 by Venezuelan director, Fina Torres (Oriana and Woman on Top), is one of the stranger movies I’ve ever seen. Recently, going through some of my older posts, I realized how few foreign films I’ve reviewed. So, I thought I’d start with one of the first that really surprised me.

The movie begins with beautiful Ana (Ariadna Gil) at her wedding altar. It’s clear that she loves the opera, and is terrified to get married. She’s about to speak her vows, when… she realizes that settling down would compromise her biggest dream, to be an international opera star! There is no choice, but to hightail it to France where she can train.

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MUNCH: How to seduce your spring fling.

Making cookies together is a sacred act of love.

Making cookies together is a sacred act of love.

So you see a cute something something making eyes at you across the aisle of the bus and you start having all of these dirty images of the two of you comingling in someplace public and dirty. But you’ve never talked to this person and you have no idea how to cross the vast gulf of the aisle.  Luckily, you have a few cookies in your pocket. This is how you will succeed–at love and at life.  Always keep a few freshly baked cookies on hand just in case the opportunity strikes.

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Meet me in my beater.

Lately I’ve been munching my way through interesting conversations with straight men calling about my 1980 Datsun 210 wagon for sale. Sometimes the questions about the car become questions about me. “I’m assuming that your husband has a car, too?” “You sound cute. I didn’t realize that you were so young.” Today’s conversation ends with his vadude magnetgue whispery words telling me to call him if I feel like it. It feels like this isn’t even about the car anymore. He’s not even that into my car. My car that looks to me like a Birkenstock and Carhart wearing dykemobile. The sort of thing that one would pack with smelly lesbos and drive to clothing-optional hot springs and women’s music festivals. It is decorated with bumperstickers that say “keep Portland weird” “No on 8” and “well-behaved women rarely make history” for goshsakes. I might as well have a bumpersticker that says “smash patriarchy with me and my hella hella gay friends.”

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