Along the lines of subliminal brain-hints, I have an amazing ability to misplace my cigarettes immediately after I buy them. One might argue that this is the universe’s way of telling me I should quit, to which I might respond that if the universe is going to be that passive-aggressive, it can go fuck itself.

So you know, Luvabeans is going to be a breezier place for a while. I have hopes, yes, as well as dreams and concerns, but I really don’t have anything conclusive to tell you these days. I have a yucky tendency to glom on to amorphous hopes, dreams, and concerns, because such dwelling leads to a melancholy and wistfulness that is like crack to me. That would be just dandy if I was a nineteenth-century Russian novelist, but I’m not, thank God. They seemed like a bunch of miserable bastards who did not rise in the morning ready to greet the sunshine, and dealt with more than their fair share of syphilis.

I wanna greet the sunshine! I don’t want syphilis! Hello! Where’s my funny?

So.

In effort to further test yesterday’s theory that movies filmed and produce in the Northern UK are depressing, even if advertised otherwise, I decided to rent yet another seriocomedy made by our Scottish friends across the pond. I should’ve guessed by the title that Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself probably wasn’t a picker-upper, but the synopsis on the back of the DVD led me to think that it was about redemption and introspection through zany hijinx, with some genuine ell-oh-ell moments.

Also, I asked myself: Who would expect to take a character named “Wilbur” seriously?

After only watching half the movie, I received my answer: THE SCOTTISH.

It is a good movie, but so far my reactions have been some “Oh, cute,” a bit of “Ha! Yay!”, with a steamy helping of “These people are fucking up their lives, and I’m here to watch.”

I get way too hypnotized by movies. You should have seen the sobbing heap I was when I saw “Whale Rider.” I rent sweet romantic comedies or weepy dramas and get shamelessly involved in them, and have been known to watch them several times in a row because I miss the characters.

These northern UK movies throw me for a loop. There is love, and then there’s blatant deceit. There’s poverty and terminal illness. There are numerous pot shots at the expense of the Welsh. And it’s not like I want all my movies to be ice cream and buttercups, but the movies in question interweave tragedy so insidiously that things just keep hitting you.

It’s my right, as an American, to have the media Powers That Be make me feel exactly how I pay them to make me feel. This is why I never read the newspaper, and every night, after placing a dead liberal at the altar of our goat-footed leader, I poke a chopstick up the bunghole of my Michael Moore voodoo doll before falling asleep to the sweet vocal stylings of Clay Aiken. It’s true!

The United Kingdom is too thinky and crusty for my tired little Yankee brain. The solution to this? UK Disney.

It was an error in judgment to think that the chic Parisians would warm to the uncomplicated ways of our happy six-foot mouse, but maybe the Brits would like it, in their own way. They’re suckers for groovy comedic irony. The Young Ones, in Mickey Mouse ears? So wrong, it’s right.

Turn “Mister Toad’s Wild Ride” into an interactive IRA adventure! Spin in the teacups with replicas of Princess Di and that Dodi dude, amid the frenzied flashes of rabid paparazzi, while the dormouse from Alice in Wonderland recites, “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Bat”! Turn Fantasy Land into something much different, simply by adding Benny Hill and his bevy of bimbos! Erect a MacBeth themed Haunted Mansion! (Man, that would be awesome.) Munch on fried Mars bars or sandwiches with pickles and eggs, and smoke a fag as you wait to board the flume atop Eel Pie Mountain! Flip Brer Rabbit a backwards peace sign and tell him to sod off! Zippa-dee-doo-DA!

Lines are much more fun when they’re called “queues.” The very word is loopy. Imagine the roller coaster! What a theme park.

I’m here to teach the UK how to wake up and greet the sunshine. (Don’t let me say that ever again.) Eel Pie Mountain is already making me chuckle.

Now, I’m off. I have to finish this damned movie. I can’t rest until I see the nicest character get killed off by pancreatic cancer, and find out how karma kicks the asses of his wife and brother, who are sleeping together while he’s “in hospital.”

But first, because I recently had a dream about Britney Spears, here’s a list:

1. The aforementioned Britney Spears one, in which I am in the camera crew for her non-existent reality TV show. I follow her around, silently begging the heavens to make her do SOMETHING interesting. The heavens do not hear me. Of note: According to my dream, Ms. Spears lives in a 1950s-style malt shoppe.

2. ER’s Noah Wylie proposes to me while we’re shopping in an African crafts store which sells little wooden giraffes. I refuse him on the basis that I’ve never actually met him, and would only be marrying him because he’s on TV.

3. Ricky Martin gives me a horrible haircut, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I hate it. Awkward.

4. The awesomest dream of all time, in which I have sex with Adrien Brody.

I’ll let you know if Wilbur kills himself, unless you don’t want me to spoil the ending. My guess is that no matter what the movie’s outcome, I’ll go to sleep wishing I had some alcohol.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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