Queens & Balls

So, it was another freezing Minnesota winter day (in fact, I'm hearing the howling wind right now as I type this, and even the cat, in spite of a thickened winter coat, is stretched languorously in front of the radiator); the weather number is programmed into my phone, and when I dialed it this morning, the cheerless electronic voice let me know in no uncertain terms that the air temperature was a balmy 14 degrees but the windchill was something like -6.



Perfect day to go see a flick, which is what I did. I met my friend and her mom and we saw Helen Mirren in "The Queen," and I highly recommend it. She utterly disappears into the role; and although the character is staid (to say the least--perhaps that is a ridiculous understatement) and steeped in monarchical tradition (boy, do those Royals like their martinis), she actually manages to humanize the Queen and display a range of complex emotions (and thank God, because the Royal Wardrobe is dull beyond belief--all woolen earth tones and muted plaids and tweeds and sensible heels, although I do like those nubby British Isles knits on men and, may I just add, the hunting scenes looked like sweeping L.L. Bean photo shoots).

Hence the recently-awarded Golden Globe and the Academy Award nomination (which I believe she will get).

There is some beautiful parallel symbolism with a gorgeous and very noble Buck (given that the story is set during the week of Lady Di's death, it was an effective device), and I can't say more without giving it away. You'll have to see it, and I hope you do. 5 stars. Two thumbs up. All of it.



Oh, and the stumpy Royal Corgis. What a HOOT! All four of them and their little waggling butts, and as the credits roll, well, let's just say one of the Corgis lets fly in the Royal Gardens at Balmoral, and I'm so happy they left that in!

In an entirely different vein, I received a voicemail from a friend of mine in Oregon who wanted to share a sighting with me: vehicular testicles. Apparently, male insecurity has hit a new low. It's no longer enough to roar around in a jacked-up pickup. You have to prove to God and the Universe that you have something significant (or insignificant, but at least something) between your legs (whenever I think of insecure, over-compensatory males, I always recall that scene in "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" wherein the imported Asian wife is leaving her beefy Aussie hubby and, waggling her pinky in his direction, says to him, "Me no like you anyway; you got little ding-a-ling!").



But "Bumper Balls?" I really have to wonder who thought these up, and why anyone would want them--no doubt the same knuckle-draggers that have those pissing "Calvin" stickers on their back windows, watch the WWF ('cause it's so "manly," all those long-haired dudes tackling each other in their stretchy gold lamé singlets) and vote for you-know-who.

My Oregon friend wondered into my V/M if these unfortunate accessories had yet found their way onto the bumpers of insecure Midwestern male motorists, and my MN friend (with whom I'd just seen the flick) assured me they had.

What would the female equivalent be? Driving around with big, round mud flaps that look like gigantic boobs? Or possibly ovaries?

Well, as they say in these parts, that's different.