In-Zane In The Membrane

This Saturday, while healthy rays of sunshine beat through the rusted metal gates that prevent late night rapists from entering my abode, I lay in bed, feeling under the weater, and cranky as hell. AS. HELL. One of my old roomates came back to claim her microwave, which is like travelling back to the Middle Ages and taking away fire -- I hadn't had a hot meal all week, and debated warming a Lean Cuisine neath my tireless yet generous buttocks -- like a mamabird goading her hatchling out of its egg, only my hatchling would contain the same amount of sodium as a bullion cube, and taste like it was shit out of TWA's asshole. I'd been subsisting on Fibars all week, rediscovered at my supermarket, and something I haven't eaten since mother induced a binge eating disorder in me when I was 11.

There I lay, chewing on a Fibar. I should also add that I was extremely hungover following a night where I solved the question "What would a drink with ALL the flavored Stoli vodkas mixed into it taste like?" The answer is: Die-licious. Having already seen the last 7 seasons of Trading Spaces thrice-fold, I turned instead to my On Demand feature and took a looksie.

This is where I strapped on a kid-skinned glove to catch some delicate moments from my past.

I spend my afternoon watching Titanic (Cinemax). Holy God. What a movie. While I think Kate Winslet looks like a washed up corpse at her funeral, and speaks like she has a cow prod nestled firmly in her ah-noose, Leo DiCappy ropes her in to deliver an underaged, slightly femme, and highly glistening turn as "Jack."

But I think we all know who the real scene-stealer is.

Billy Zane.



Good fucking lord, is he a mad scientist genius or WHAT? Seriously, after every line I was a-cackling! Some quothes -- picture every line spoken sleazily with more than just a cocked eyebrow:


"My fian... my fiancee! Yes you are and my wife. My wife in practice if not yet by law, so you will honor me. You will honor me the way a wife is required to honor a husband. Because I will not be made a fool Rose. Is this in any way unclear?"


"You can be blasé about some things, Rose, but not about Titanic. It's over a hundred feet longer than the Mauritania and faaar more luxurious."

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Cal Hockley: Where are you going? To him? To be a whore to a gutter rat?


Rose: I'd rather be his whore than your wife.

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Rose: Oh mother, shut up! Don't you understand? The water is freezing and there aren't enough boats. Not enough by half. Half the people on this ship are going to die.


Cal Hockley: Not the better half.

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Ham Hockley: You know, it's a pity I didn't keep that drawing. It'll be worth a lot more by morning.


Rose: You unimaginable bastard!

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And you wouldn't think it existed, but I give you The Billy Zane Museum, a website almost as mind-bogglingly hypnotizing as its subject. I spent 3 hours reading every article under the subject heading "Craft." As though it could teach me Billy Zane's craft. I also really appreciated the headline "Billy Zane: Humanitarian First, Thespian Second." Those poor, poor starving African children. I hope they like ham!

And it should be no surprise that one of Mssr. Zane's upcoming project is entitled "The Pleasure Drivers." All aboard, Billy. All. A. Board.

Coming up tomorrow: I will expound on why "Heathers" (also on demand) is one of the best movies ever made.