Days have become months.

Oh, who are you again? Who am I? I am internetting over there and my brain is smooshed. All apologies, except where apologies would be extraneous. The sorry only counts when you back it up with action. Moving on.
So The Messengers: Not unscary. Directed by the Pang Brothers, who B says are known for their horror-mastery, and who are often lumped in the “Americans loving Japanese horror film” category by erroneous reviewers, despite the fact that the Pang Brothers are from China. Many pretty shots, sometimes bad acting, and the second boyfriend from Sex in the City, as supporting character. (Adrian.) We are horror film geeks and it ranked above The Descent, below The Exorcist, to give ballpark. Previews: Ghost Rider looks terrific. But I’m biased: Nic Cage is my favorite actor to watch act (vaseline teeth of Charlton Heston descent; never-wavering puzzled squint; Nic Cage as NIC CAGE).
More intriguing: the last day of Ron Mueck sculpture exhibit at Brooklyn Art Museum — also first Saturday and Black History Month: the lines wove beneath the glass panel roof like ants in a greenhouse. The Egypt room was virtually empty, though. When I die, please bury me in a sarcophagus, wrapped thick in cartonnage, and paint my face above it. Paint my face on wood cut from the sycamore of Matarria. Give me bigger eyes than I have. Make me look innocent. Wrap me in a garland of blue lotus and water lilies.
In 1999, Ron Mueck made a lifelike sculpture of his dead dad and titled it “Dead Dad,” a hobbit-size depiction of his nude father in rigor mortis, his body sunken and grey, his nakedness less stark than the expression on his face: one of vulnerability and suddenness. It strikes only empathy. All of them did. The boy kneeling and peering into a mirror, the man and woman half-nude and spooning, the tiny baby hanging from the wall in a colicky crucifixion stance.
They are never to scale: he sculpts them either very small, or very large, as with the room-sized rendering of his despondent wife looking upwards from beneath her duvet. I thought her expression was that of a woman immobilized by depression (maybe post-partum, in keeping with his baby theme): she looks up, pupils dilated, her hair dull and plastered to her forehead as though she hasn’t recently showered, her hand draped against herself as if to imply need, but also a reluctance to accept help. The classic grey stare of those frozen in their sorrow. And while I found all his sculptures to be incredibly sad, their vulnerability and aloneness a common thread between them — all captured in various states of solitude — those were also the things that made them great, and loveable. It’s one thing to become a master sculptor, to spend painstaking months plugging in little head hairs and painting placenta marks onto your giant newborn baby sculpture. It’s quite another to accurately capture the discomfort and miraculousness of being born in that baby’s expression. Mueck deeply understands the most common emotions and how they manifest on the human face.
I feel like I should tell you, because I haven’t been able to update for awhile and don’t know when I will again, that my favorite song right now is Mims’ “This is Why I’m Hot.” Reason: self-explanatory. It is the perfect manifestation of the YouTube age: instant celebrity, merit unrequired.
It’s also an important representation of post-Dipsettian logic: I’m Hot, Because I’m Hot.
(I’m Hot, Therefore I’m Hot? Put that in your capsule review and smoke it.)