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4:58 p.m. - 2010-01-01
New year, same old sh*t.

So yeah. New year, new decade, feh. Consider me underwhelmed. After the letdown of the whole millennium thing- no moon colonies, no cool automated houses on stilts, no flying cars, I'm not a one who's going to froth her panties over some numbers on a calendar. Though I am wondering, have we decided how to say this year? Is it two thousand ten or twenty ten? We're leaning toward the latter, mostly because it's nice break from saying out the 'two thousand' part. Plus there's the preconditioning by Zager and Evans…"In the year 2525 if man is still alive…" If it was good enough for those two wacky prescient kids from Nebraska then it's good enough for me. Twenty-ten it is.

If you've been here a while you know my kid's thing with hoodies. Always with the hoodie. Now there's new bent to his hoodie thing, he wears them with the hood up. Gone are the days of the Indiana Jones hat. When we were out exchanging/returning gifts the other day we're slogging through the mall and I turn around to check on the kid (walking with parents? LAME!) and it struck me that he's got the hood up and had had it that way all day. Hood up, hands in pockets pulling the hoodie downward and taut, head drawn inside as far as possible (all the better to get that coveted Darth Sidious effect) sloping along behind us at the required sullen pre-teen 20 yards, and I realize my beautiful son has become one of THEM. A hoodie kid.

For some reason this seems to be exclusively a skinny kid thing, maybe fat kids already understand they can't ever be as invisible as they want to be no matter how deeply they bury their heads in a hood, I don't know, but by no means was my son the only gangly stick figure furtively making his way down the mall concourse. A quick sweep of the area netted me four other hoodie kids, all them scrawns with their preferred cloaking devices firmly drawn over their noggins, hands in pockets, slouching along like felons who'd committed unspeakable crimes and whose only hope of escaping the electric chair (and/or having Mom speak to them in public or worse still have her try to wipe their hopeful nascent moustaches off with a spat upon napkin) was to disappear inside their hoodies and pray they not be recognized by the police.

I further realized I had unwittingly aided my son's retreat into the adolescent witness protection program by gifting him with two brand new hoodies for Christmas. One in a pestilent brownish-orange color that's (get this) lined with acrylic pile 'fur' and the other a pale grey covered in quasi-religious symbols and graffiti. If Dr Dre and Dan Brown designed a hoodie it would look a lot like this dopey thing my son owns. Delightedly so, I might add, he thinks he's cooler than King Shit with his way hip urban hoodie with its foil highlighted graphics of faux gang tags and stylized angels and demons. When I was shopping for these stunning wardrobe additions I just bought the ones I'd refuse to wear under pain of death and figured they'd be perfect. If Mom hates it it's pretty much a given that a 12 year old would love it. Correct as always, Holmes.

Oh! Speaking of Holmes, Mick and I went to see the new one the other night. 'Brokeback Baker Street' was an interesting take on the Holmes-Watson relationship. Certainly not one I'd ever seen limned before. The traditional supercilious Holmes and cheerful old duffer Watson were supplanted by a scrungy bitchy wildly jealous and possessive Holmes and a fastidious but equally waspish Watson. The two bickered and chafed each other like any cinematic long term couple, with the added fillip of Watson's determination to 'go straight'. And I am not talking about dealing with his implied gambling addiction. Holmes' whacked-out bitter attempts at quashing Watson's engagement to the pretty Mary alternating nicely with his snarky overt flirting with and wooing of his obviously still in love with him former life partner Watson was truly hilarious. On Watson's part it was pretty clear that resisting the temptation to gamble away every cent that came into his hands was far less a tussle than tamping down his need to get horizontal and funky with his impossible to live with yet impossible to live without lover, Holmes.

Without being too much of a spoiler I'll quote one bit of dialog and let you draw your own conclusions as to whether I got a false positive on my gaydar screen. Holmes implores Watson to cut him loose from the hangman's noose Holmes had put himself in to test out his theory on a faked execution and says, "Do get me get me down. My tongue's going numb and then I'd be of no use to you at all."

Uh huh.

'Just friends', riiiiiight. The beards of the fiancée Mary and Holmes' *ahem* love interest Irene Adler really didn't do much besides add some necessary female voices to the otherwise all male cast. The furious bitch-fest love between Watson and Holmes rang through loud and clear. I'm not complaining, mind you, I'm just saying they weren't fooling anybody.

Anymore than my son's retreat inside his hoodie fools anyone into believing he's invisible.

Happy New Year, ~LA

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