more like a blog, less like a banana
Exciting things have happened lately. For example, yesterday, the Day when We Take Our Souls to be Dry Cleaned And Have to Stand around and Wait til They're Done, Mr. Ben and I atoned and then went for a long, lovely walk by the water on the Upper East Side. In case you're not down on your Manhattan geography, that's where the beautiful go to procreate. After some sunbathing on a bench watching the stroller parade, we took a brief tour of the Gracie Mansion area and the neighborhood in general before Ben stopped short and said, "My coat!"
His beautiful black leather coat that he found in a thrift store in Carreboro, NC! The one that makes him look just a little like James Dean. (Or Jason Priestly. Carpe Diem - he looked hot in it!) Apparently it had gone the way of so many items of clothing he's had over the years that I admired, that he can't remember not to lose.
But maybe not. I remembered that he had last been wearing it on the bench 15 blocks and an hour back. "This is the Upper East Side!" I reasoned. "These people wouldn't be caught dead stealing your second-hand coat. Unless it was Prada." We wound our way back, found the exact bench we'd been warming, and sure enough, slumped over the banister, there it lay, as though drunk! Best ever.
That could have been enough suspense and drama for one weekend. But no! I also bought my very first pair of Fluevogs, the shoe brand I've been eyeing for a YEAR, because getting all my hair cut off made me giddy. That's right: I have only an inch or two left, and the resulting bobbish cut has been called Cute, Dykey, and Sporty (which is just another way of saying dykey, except when referring to the _____ Spice). I, when taken together with the hair cut, have been called an Ingenue, told that i Sparkle and seem to have Grown Wings.
My favorite exchange so far goes like this.
Me: "I kind of look like Sigourney Weaver!"
My friend: "Yeah! Except she was really tall. And really thin."
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Saturday, September 30, 2006
safety first
My mother sent me a safety-tips laden email yesterday, even though the only dangerous thing I do on a daily basis is read two newspapers and occasionally walk by Cranes of Doom. Being a dutiful daughter, I did the email's instructions one better: instead of merely forwarding them on to some chicks I knew, I decided to post them here for the edification of all. My personal favorite is #7, but feel free to pick your own.
>>>
After reading these 9 crucial tips, forward them to someone you care about. It never hurts to be careful in this crazy world we live in.
1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do!
2. Learned this from a tourist guide in New Orleans . If a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you....chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you, and he will go for the wallet/purse.RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!
3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.
4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc. DON'T DO THIS!) The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS AND LEAVE.
a. If someone is in the car with a gun to your head DO NOT DRIVE OFF, repeat: DO NOT DRIVE OFF! Instead gun the engine and speed into anything, wrecking the car. Your Air Bag will save you. If the person is in the back seat they will get the worst of it. As soon as the car crashes bail out and run. It is better than having them find your body in a remote location.
5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking garage:
A.) Be aware: look around you, look into your car, at the passenger side floor, and in the back seat.
B.) If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.
C.) Look at the car parked on the driver's side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out.
IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)
6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot. This is especially true at NIGHT!)
7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control,ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN, Preferably ! in a zig -zag pattern!
8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP. It may get you raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked "for help" into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.
9.Another Safety Point: Someone just told me that her friend heard a crying baby on her porch the night before last, and she called the police because it was late and she thought it was weird. The police told her "Whatever you do, DO NOT open the door."
The lady then said that it sounded like the baby had crawled near a window, and she was worried that it would crawl to the street and get run over. The policeman said, "We already have a unit on the way, whatever you do, DO NOT open the door." He told her that they think a serial killer has a baby's cry recorded and uses it to coax women out of their homes thinking that someone dropped off a baby. He said they have not verified it, but have had several calls by women saying that they hear baby's cries outside their doors when they're home alone at night.
Please pass this on and DO NOT open the door for a crying baby ----This e-mail should probably be taken seriously because the Crying Baby theory was mentioned on America's Most Wanted this past Saturday when they profiled the serial killer in Louisiana.
My mother sent me a safety-tips laden email yesterday, even though the only dangerous thing I do on a daily basis is read two newspapers and occasionally walk by Cranes of Doom. Being a dutiful daughter, I did the email's instructions one better: instead of merely forwarding them on to some chicks I knew, I decided to post them here for the edification of all. My personal favorite is #7, but feel free to pick your own.
>>>
After reading these 9 crucial tips, forward them to someone you care about. It never hurts to be careful in this crazy world we live in.
1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do!
2. Learned this from a tourist guide in New Orleans . If a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you....chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you, and he will go for the wallet/purse.RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!
3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.
4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc. DON'T DO THIS!) The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS AND LEAVE.
a. If someone is in the car with a gun to your head DO NOT DRIVE OFF, repeat: DO NOT DRIVE OFF! Instead gun the engine and speed into anything, wrecking the car. Your Air Bag will save you. If the person is in the back seat they will get the worst of it. As soon as the car crashes bail out and run. It is better than having them find your body in a remote location.
5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking garage:
A.) Be aware: look around you, look into your car, at the passenger side floor, and in the back seat.
B.) If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.
C.) Look at the car parked on the driver's side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out.
IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)
6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot. This is especially true at NIGHT!)
7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control,ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN, Preferably ! in a zig -zag pattern!
8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP. It may get you raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked "for help" into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.
9.Another Safety Point: Someone just told me that her friend heard a crying baby on her porch the night before last, and she called the police because it was late and she thought it was weird. The police told her "Whatever you do, DO NOT open the door."
The lady then said that it sounded like the baby had crawled near a window, and she was worried that it would crawl to the street and get run over. The policeman said, "We already have a unit on the way, whatever you do, DO NOT open the door." He told her that they think a serial killer has a baby's cry recorded and uses it to coax women out of their homes thinking that someone dropped off a baby. He said they have not verified it, but have had several calls by women saying that they hear baby's cries outside their doors when they're home alone at night.
Please pass this on and DO NOT open the door for a crying baby ----This e-mail should probably be taken seriously because the Crying Baby theory was mentioned on America's Most Wanted this past Saturday when they profiled the serial killer in Louisiana.
Monday, September 25, 2006
... and so on
Does anyone else see these headlines for articles about the Pope meeting Muslims to work out their differences like this one, "Pope says 2 faiths must overcome enmity," and imagine that they continue "... in order to be united against the Jews"? Or is that just me?
Happy Rosh Hashanah! Especially you, George Allen, you racist lying liar. Things are going so badly for Allen that I almost feel bad for him -- the news cycles about him lately have gone revealed that he is a Racist, a Jew, and a Racist again -- but mostly I spend my taking shaking my head over the fact that my ancestors and his may have at one point swapped garlic-scented spit or hid from the Cossacks together. Ugh. Allen is definitely from what I like to call the Abramoff branch of the family: those of which we are ashamed.
Does anyone else see these headlines for articles about the Pope meeting Muslims to work out their differences like this one, "Pope says 2 faiths must overcome enmity," and imagine that they continue "... in order to be united against the Jews"? Or is that just me?
Happy Rosh Hashanah! Especially you, George Allen, you racist lying liar. Things are going so badly for Allen that I almost feel bad for him -- the news cycles about him lately have gone revealed that he is a Racist, a Jew, and a Racist again -- but mostly I spend my taking shaking my head over the fact that my ancestors and his may have at one point swapped garlic-scented spit or hid from the Cossacks together. Ugh. Allen is definitely from what I like to call the Abramoff branch of the family: those of which we are ashamed.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
it took exactly one year
I have finished the first draft of my nahvel. I have just under 350 pages and no title. Please feel free to offer suggestions or just tell me your favorite title. I'm trying to tap into how they work.
Meanwhile, whee! One year ago I sat in Rosh Hashanah services, reading the story of Hannah and her son Eli, the priest who becomes the kingmaker. And I thought, "Gee! Wouldn't it be great to break the monotony of my shallow, dead-end job with a project? Set in Brooklyn Heights? About a family who could be sitting here with me right now? Wouldn't it be great to write a book?"
I didn't have Lindsey Lohan threatening legal action to entertain me while I was in my old office, you see, and after three months as a receptionist I could feel my brain leaking out of ears. Although I hadn't written any fiction since a sour experience in a class my freshman year of college, I figured what the hell, give it a shot. While I was at it, I could try to immortalize my first out-of-college professional experience at the Very Important Talent Agency.
If I hadn't, three months later, lost that shallow, dead-end job, I would never have had the time to devote to writing that enabled me to put together the bulk of the book. So thank you, employers, by the way, for cutting me loose right before Christmas, during the transit strike, after I had trekked all the way in from Brooklyn and gotten in EARLY. Thank you for reminding me that there are things I am better at than loading and unloading the dishwasher, cleaning up after models' children and dogs, answering the phone, mopping piss off the bathroom floor, and taking out the garbage.
Although, in the spirit of this season of atonement, I should add, also, I forgive you.
And, again, whee! First draft done! Now I can entertain dizzy fantasies of the book getting sold and made into a movie, wherein all the Jewish characters will be played by totally goyish types like Tom Cruise and Mel Gibson. One thing for sure: the sexy angel? Definitely Jude Law.
ETA: I finally pasted all parts of the first draft into one document and got the word count. 110,591. Yowza.
I have finished the first draft of my nahvel. I have just under 350 pages and no title. Please feel free to offer suggestions or just tell me your favorite title. I'm trying to tap into how they work.
Meanwhile, whee! One year ago I sat in Rosh Hashanah services, reading the story of Hannah and her son Eli, the priest who becomes the kingmaker. And I thought, "Gee! Wouldn't it be great to break the monotony of my shallow, dead-end job with a project? Set in Brooklyn Heights? About a family who could be sitting here with me right now? Wouldn't it be great to write a book?"
I didn't have Lindsey Lohan threatening legal action to entertain me while I was in my old office, you see, and after three months as a receptionist I could feel my brain leaking out of ears. Although I hadn't written any fiction since a sour experience in a class my freshman year of college, I figured what the hell, give it a shot. While I was at it, I could try to immortalize my first out-of-college professional experience at the Very Important Talent Agency.
If I hadn't, three months later, lost that shallow, dead-end job, I would never have had the time to devote to writing that enabled me to put together the bulk of the book. So thank you, employers, by the way, for cutting me loose right before Christmas, during the transit strike, after I had trekked all the way in from Brooklyn and gotten in EARLY. Thank you for reminding me that there are things I am better at than loading and unloading the dishwasher, cleaning up after models' children and dogs, answering the phone, mopping piss off the bathroom floor, and taking out the garbage.
Although, in the spirit of this season of atonement, I should add, also, I forgive you.
And, again, whee! First draft done! Now I can entertain dizzy fantasies of the book getting sold and made into a movie, wherein all the Jewish characters will be played by totally goyish types like Tom Cruise and Mel Gibson. One thing for sure: the sexy angel? Definitely Jude Law.
ETA: I finally pasted all parts of the first draft into one document and got the word count. 110,591. Yowza.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
You, too, can be treated like Katie Couric!
This is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. Granted, I've never been in a Bombay slum, or public school in Boston. But still: a camera that SLIMS DOWN its subjects. Isn't that great? You will notice, of course, that in the ad, the people worthy of slimming are white women. Why not just call the camera "the Male Gaze C3000"?
This is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. Granted, I've never been in a Bombay slum, or public school in Boston. But still: a camera that SLIMS DOWN its subjects. Isn't that great? You will notice, of course, that in the ad, the people worthy of slimming are white women. Why not just call the camera "the Male Gaze C3000"?
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
politicks
Primary day! Considering that I had little knowledge of and no personal investment in any of my local candidates, and that I wasn't sure I was even going to vote, I hit quite a high after pulling that level. Self-gratulation maybe. I fairly glowed with it.
Of course, I couldn't help but wonder how awesome I'd feel if I'd voted in a race that mattered. One race! Any race! Casey v. Santorum, DeWine v. Brown, Allen v. Webb! I mean, most of the time, I love living in a lefty area. If I needed the morning after pill, for example, I could be confident that I'd have access in a safe, well-lit pharmacy, probably for free, and to the soothing accompaniment of a string trio. But when it comes to casting a vote, MAN do I wish I could cast it in Missouri or Arizona, where it might conceivably make a difference.
My book group this evening discussed, at my suggestion, Baker's the Fermata, which is about a guy who uses his ability to stop time to fulfill certain fantasies. Not an uncontroversial book, and I was, to be honest with you, a little nervous as to how it would be received. I shouldn't have been: my book group rocks the Brooklyn casbah. One of the things we ended up discussing was what we'd do if we had the same power -- would we, for example, stuff ballot boxes?
One of the women, who has in her own words been increasingly radicalized lately, said why not. Especially if the other side is doing it. Couldn't it just be seen as keeping up with traffic?
I argued that by subverting democracy, ultimately, you'd lose even more faith in the system. And while going back to stuff ballot boxes in Germany 1933 would avert disaster, we're not facing a facism certain enough that immoral measures would feel worth it. At least not yet.
Basically the only legal (and physics-permitting) thing I can do is give money. I'm happy to do it, but I make under $30K a year; I have to be judicious. So where do I go? The TN race, where Ford looks ascendant, maybe? But could still easily lose? The PA race, just for the thrill of contributing to the ignominious defeat of that dumbquatty asswipe Santorum? Except I buckle internally, a little, at the idea of giving money to Casey (you know, THAT Casey). Somewhere else entirely? I'm open to suggestion.
Primary day! Considering that I had little knowledge of and no personal investment in any of my local candidates, and that I wasn't sure I was even going to vote, I hit quite a high after pulling that level. Self-gratulation maybe. I fairly glowed with it.
Of course, I couldn't help but wonder how awesome I'd feel if I'd voted in a race that mattered. One race! Any race! Casey v. Santorum, DeWine v. Brown, Allen v. Webb! I mean, most of the time, I love living in a lefty area. If I needed the morning after pill, for example, I could be confident that I'd have access in a safe, well-lit pharmacy, probably for free, and to the soothing accompaniment of a string trio. But when it comes to casting a vote, MAN do I wish I could cast it in Missouri or Arizona, where it might conceivably make a difference.
My book group this evening discussed, at my suggestion, Baker's the Fermata, which is about a guy who uses his ability to stop time to fulfill certain fantasies. Not an uncontroversial book, and I was, to be honest with you, a little nervous as to how it would be received. I shouldn't have been: my book group rocks the Brooklyn casbah. One of the things we ended up discussing was what we'd do if we had the same power -- would we, for example, stuff ballot boxes?
One of the women, who has in her own words been increasingly radicalized lately, said why not. Especially if the other side is doing it. Couldn't it just be seen as keeping up with traffic?
I argued that by subverting democracy, ultimately, you'd lose even more faith in the system. And while going back to stuff ballot boxes in Germany 1933 would avert disaster, we're not facing a facism certain enough that immoral measures would feel worth it. At least not yet.
Basically the only legal (and physics-permitting) thing I can do is give money. I'm happy to do it, but I make under $30K a year; I have to be judicious. So where do I go? The TN race, where Ford looks ascendant, maybe? But could still easily lose? The PA race, just for the thrill of contributing to the ignominious defeat of that dumbquatty asswipe Santorum? Except I buckle internally, a little, at the idea of giving money to Casey (you know, THAT Casey). Somewhere else entirely? I'm open to suggestion.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Six degrees of separation + one bad idea
Considering that I've been officially diagnosed now with a Crazy (I mean, everyone has one, sure, but this one's mine and it's my first so I'm naturally a little defensive / protective / ashamed of it) and I've realized that this is going to be a hard year for my Crazy since thinking about the future is what tends to trigger it, and one's engagement year often entails thinking about just that -- with all of that in mind, what I really shouldn't be doing is reading Heartburn from start to finish.
Who knew I did so much of my living on the edge?
Part of the appeal of the book is that Ephron is a straightforward, drama queen type writer, not afraid to let herself look bad. That she's telling an engaging story, the break-up of her marriage to Carl Bernstein, doesn't hurt. Part of the appeal is that it's a roman a clef set in Washington, which means, for those of us who grew up in Washington, that it's fun to ponder who's who and what's what and I wonder which bench at Dupont Circle they were making out on.
But part of the appeal is also the funny coincidences. This book, which was made into a movie, started Ephron's film career (and gave Meg Ryan a reason to exist, for better or for worse). Meryl Streep plays Ephron and Jack Nicholson of all people plays "Mark," or Carl Bernstein, or, as I like to think of him, Dustin Hoffman. Coincidentally, Streep and Hoffman share the screen as a divorcing couple in Kramer Vs. Kramer, a movie that you really should see if you haven't. None of the issues it brings up are passe today. None! That's incredible!
To proceed: Ephron's writing (and, to a degree, her life) reminds me a lot of Carrie Fisher, who also grew up with literate, witty, alcoholic Hollywood types and eventually wrote romans a clef about the experience. Fisher herself co-starred in Ephron's brilliant When Harry Met Sally AND paralleled Ephron's trajectory when her most famous memoir-type book, Postcards from the Edge, was made into a movie. And who played the Fisher character? Who else? Meryl Streep.
I guess when they say she can do "accents," what they really mean is she can play all KINDS of real-life privileged LA women who get cheated on. Just kidding, Meryl! I love you!
To add redunancy to redundancy, both movies were directed by Mike Nichols. And I'm pretty sure the handsome, randy actor the Fisher character meets at the funeral is supposed to be based on Jack Nicholson. And I'm going to stop now, because I imagine you get the point.
Considering that I've been officially diagnosed now with a Crazy (I mean, everyone has one, sure, but this one's mine and it's my first so I'm naturally a little defensive / protective / ashamed of it) and I've realized that this is going to be a hard year for my Crazy since thinking about the future is what tends to trigger it, and one's engagement year often entails thinking about just that -- with all of that in mind, what I really shouldn't be doing is reading Heartburn from start to finish.
Who knew I did so much of my living on the edge?
Part of the appeal of the book is that Ephron is a straightforward, drama queen type writer, not afraid to let herself look bad. That she's telling an engaging story, the break-up of her marriage to Carl Bernstein, doesn't hurt. Part of the appeal is that it's a roman a clef set in Washington, which means, for those of us who grew up in Washington, that it's fun to ponder who's who and what's what and I wonder which bench at Dupont Circle they were making out on.
But part of the appeal is also the funny coincidences. This book, which was made into a movie, started Ephron's film career (and gave Meg Ryan a reason to exist, for better or for worse). Meryl Streep plays Ephron and Jack Nicholson of all people plays "Mark," or Carl Bernstein, or, as I like to think of him, Dustin Hoffman. Coincidentally, Streep and Hoffman share the screen as a divorcing couple in Kramer Vs. Kramer, a movie that you really should see if you haven't. None of the issues it brings up are passe today. None! That's incredible!
To proceed: Ephron's writing (and, to a degree, her life) reminds me a lot of Carrie Fisher, who also grew up with literate, witty, alcoholic Hollywood types and eventually wrote romans a clef about the experience. Fisher herself co-starred in Ephron's brilliant When Harry Met Sally AND paralleled Ephron's trajectory when her most famous memoir-type book, Postcards from the Edge, was made into a movie. And who played the Fisher character? Who else? Meryl Streep.
I guess when they say she can do "accents," what they really mean is she can play all KINDS of real-life privileged LA women who get cheated on. Just kidding, Meryl! I love you!
To add redunancy to redundancy, both movies were directed by Mike Nichols. And I'm pretty sure the handsome, randy actor the Fisher character meets at the funeral is supposed to be based on Jack Nicholson. And I'm going to stop now, because I imagine you get the point.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
late to the party
I am not nor will ever be a You Tube junkie. That means that other people have to separate the wheat from the chaff for me. Here, friends, is some serious wheat: the can-you-believe-they're-American indie boys of OK Go dancing on treadmills. Wow.
I am not nor will ever be a You Tube junkie. That means that other people have to separate the wheat from the chaff for me. Here, friends, is some serious wheat: the can-you-believe-they're-American indie boys of OK Go dancing on treadmills. Wow.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Homesickness
Nothing makes me miss college more than attending the kind of entertainment that was rampant on campus. You know the radical cheerleaders? We had some of those. And though the choreography of cute, earnest, androgynous adolescents never convinced anyone of anything, it was totally great to watch.
Circus Amok, the subversive clowning show which Mr. Ben and I trekked out to Coney Island to see today, reminded me a lot of them. In fact one of the performers looked SO MUCH like a thicker, butcher version of my friend and former radical cheerleader S. Kelly that I felt a pang go all the way out to Seattle, where S. Kelly is currently buttering cupcakes for the ACLU. Or something. S. Kelly, and all those other fugitive '04ers on the west coast, come home!
More to the point: Circus Amok gathered a huge crowd, and when I say it was diverse I don't mean that it was, like, black. I saw black families, Hispanic families, Orthodox Jewish families, Muslim families, and lots of assorted vagabond types like Mr. Ben and me. The parents in general didn't seem to be turned off by the cheerfully political bent to the show (one of the acts is a gymnastic tribute to the lefty governments of South America) and the gender playfulness of the performers.
While the performers managed to weave a statement on immigration or health care or race relations into every one of the acts I can remember except the one wear a guy takes a wire coat hanger and works it all the way up his body and eventually over his head, none of it would have worked if the clowning and acrobatics weren't so much fun to watch. All of the details, from the colorful ragtag costumes and the klezmer-style band, worked to the troupe's advantage and made sure that, first and foremost, their show was entertaining.
The rest of the weekend was notable principally because I began eating adult food again. Three cheers for feta, scallion and tomato omelettes! They taste especially good when you've been eating nothing but noodles for DAYS. And while I participated in two social situations where I felt like I had to play hostess (ick), I also got to spend a lot of quality time with my nahvel. I will have a first draft done by Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. So help me, I will.
Nothing makes me miss college more than attending the kind of entertainment that was rampant on campus. You know the radical cheerleaders? We had some of those. And though the choreography of cute, earnest, androgynous adolescents never convinced anyone of anything, it was totally great to watch.
Circus Amok, the subversive clowning show which Mr. Ben and I trekked out to Coney Island to see today, reminded me a lot of them. In fact one of the performers looked SO MUCH like a thicker, butcher version of my friend and former radical cheerleader S. Kelly that I felt a pang go all the way out to Seattle, where S. Kelly is currently buttering cupcakes for the ACLU. Or something. S. Kelly, and all those other fugitive '04ers on the west coast, come home!
More to the point: Circus Amok gathered a huge crowd, and when I say it was diverse I don't mean that it was, like, black. I saw black families, Hispanic families, Orthodox Jewish families, Muslim families, and lots of assorted vagabond types like Mr. Ben and me. The parents in general didn't seem to be turned off by the cheerfully political bent to the show (one of the acts is a gymnastic tribute to the lefty governments of South America) and the gender playfulness of the performers.
While the performers managed to weave a statement on immigration or health care or race relations into every one of the acts I can remember except the one wear a guy takes a wire coat hanger and works it all the way up his body and eventually over his head, none of it would have worked if the clowning and acrobatics weren't so much fun to watch. All of the details, from the colorful ragtag costumes and the klezmer-style band, worked to the troupe's advantage and made sure that, first and foremost, their show was entertaining.
The rest of the weekend was notable principally because I began eating adult food again. Three cheers for feta, scallion and tomato omelettes! They taste especially good when you've been eating nothing but noodles for DAYS. And while I participated in two social situations where I felt like I had to play hostess (ick), I also got to spend a lot of quality time with my nahvel. I will have a first draft done by Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. So help me, I will.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Boo!
An evil restaurant poisoned me almost a week ago. My recovery's been pretty rocky. The best part is I keep getting more information as to the things I can't eat. The list now consists of:
- caffeine
- alcohol
- fruit
- vegetables
- dairy
- anything sugary
- anything spicy
- fiber
- fat
At one point, I interrupted the nurse to tell her, "I'm a vegetarian, and I'm swiftly running out of food." Seriously, how many meals of simple carbs can one person eat?
To the list I have to add -- after some disasterous experimentation -- Excedrin. I tried taking some for a headache brought on by not drinking caffeine; my stomach exploded. Apparently stomachs don't like aspirin when they're feeling sensitive.
Not all is lost. Though I did end up staying home today, coddling my stomach, trying to woo it back with saltines, soup, and bland pad thai, I broke the 300 barrier on my book. I am officially on page 302. At what point the head of Knopf will call me, begging to sign me to a three-book deal and a six-figure advance, I can only guess. And I've been reading Freakonomics, a nice follow up to The Tipping Point, which I finished last weekend. Both are pretty easily digestible, the vegetable udon of social science books. Still, I hardly read any nonfiction except for the news; doing so feels like something of an accomplishment. Take THAT, gender stereotypes!
Oh, and speaking of stereotypes -- and some serious dumbquattery -- did you happen to see this study showing that short people are less smart than tall people? I could actually discuss the flaws in the reasoning -- like to say, for example, that the [taller than average] people running the study didn't discuss whether, since people on average are taller than they used to be, we're smarter than we used to be -- but I'd rather just say that the findings are clearly impossible because everyone knows jews are not, on average, tall.
Dumbquat is my new favorite word, coined in honor of a fuckwit who broke my friend's heart. But it may be applied liberally.
An evil restaurant poisoned me almost a week ago. My recovery's been pretty rocky. The best part is I keep getting more information as to the things I can't eat. The list now consists of:
- caffeine
- alcohol
- fruit
- vegetables
- dairy
- anything sugary
- anything spicy
- fiber
- fat
At one point, I interrupted the nurse to tell her, "I'm a vegetarian, and I'm swiftly running out of food." Seriously, how many meals of simple carbs can one person eat?
To the list I have to add -- after some disasterous experimentation -- Excedrin. I tried taking some for a headache brought on by not drinking caffeine; my stomach exploded. Apparently stomachs don't like aspirin when they're feeling sensitive.
Not all is lost. Though I did end up staying home today, coddling my stomach, trying to woo it back with saltines, soup, and bland pad thai, I broke the 300 barrier on my book. I am officially on page 302. At what point the head of Knopf will call me, begging to sign me to a three-book deal and a six-figure advance, I can only guess. And I've been reading Freakonomics, a nice follow up to The Tipping Point, which I finished last weekend. Both are pretty easily digestible, the vegetable udon of social science books. Still, I hardly read any nonfiction except for the news; doing so feels like something of an accomplishment. Take THAT, gender stereotypes!
Oh, and speaking of stereotypes -- and some serious dumbquattery -- did you happen to see this study showing that short people are less smart than tall people? I could actually discuss the flaws in the reasoning -- like to say, for example, that the [taller than average] people running the study didn't discuss whether, since people on average are taller than they used to be, we're smarter than we used to be -- but I'd rather just say that the findings are clearly impossible because everyone knows jews are not, on average, tall.
Dumbquat is my new favorite word, coined in honor of a fuckwit who broke my friend's heart. But it may be applied liberally.
Monday, August 21, 2006
this birthday brought to you by O. Henry
Set up: Mr. Ben the Birthday Boy had been told by his father to hold Monday evening for a special birthday surprise. Expecting dinner at a fancy restaurant, I am in the office dressed all fancy-pants, waiting for word to trickle to me as to where to go.
Lunchtime, Mr. Ben g-chats me with the trickle.
1:24 PM Benjamin: ester! sweetie.
me: hi babydoll
Benjamin: hiya. just talked to my father.
me: hi :) whassup? and? and? did i dress up for nothing?
Benjamin: he said, as i sort of feared that we're going to mother courage tonight
1:25 PM me: are you serious??
hahahhaahaa
Benjamin: yeah!
me: that's hilarious!
well, we did want to see it again
1:26 PM did you tell him we just saw it last night?
1:27 PM Benjamin: yes.
it's a little ridiculous. i also told him we wanted to see it again,.
1:28 PM apparently lisa got up at 4 in the morning in order to wait in line for us.
so there are only two tickets and we get them.
Apparently no Mother Courage is too much Mother Courage. Considering it was one of the most technically proficient, beautifully acted, emotionally searing theatrical productions I've ever seen (and for free!), I guess that's all right. Especially because, despite having torn up the asphalt to get back to NYC from Philly in order to make it to the show, Mr. Ben the Birthday Boy and I were thwarted by the subway weekend wackiness and missed the first half hour.
Still, two nights in a row of 3+ hours of Brecht might leave me a little loopy. If I come into work tomorrow tearing my cheeks with my fingernails while screaming in German about the bitter unfairness of the world, you'll know why.
Set up: Mr. Ben the Birthday Boy had been told by his father to hold Monday evening for a special birthday surprise. Expecting dinner at a fancy restaurant, I am in the office dressed all fancy-pants, waiting for word to trickle to me as to where to go.
Lunchtime, Mr. Ben g-chats me with the trickle.
1:24 PM Benjamin: ester! sweetie.
me: hi babydoll
Benjamin: hiya. just talked to my father.
me: hi :) whassup? and? and? did i dress up for nothing?
Benjamin: he said, as i sort of feared that we're going to mother courage tonight
1:25 PM me: are you serious??
hahahhaahaa
Benjamin: yeah!
me: that's hilarious!
well, we did want to see it again
1:26 PM did you tell him we just saw it last night?
1:27 PM Benjamin: yes.
it's a little ridiculous. i also told him we wanted to see it again,.
1:28 PM apparently lisa got up at 4 in the morning in order to wait in line for us.
so there are only two tickets and we get them.
Apparently no Mother Courage is too much Mother Courage. Considering it was one of the most technically proficient, beautifully acted, emotionally searing theatrical productions I've ever seen (and for free!), I guess that's all right. Especially because, despite having torn up the asphalt to get back to NYC from Philly in order to make it to the show, Mr. Ben the Birthday Boy and I were thwarted by the subway weekend wackiness and missed the first half hour.
Still, two nights in a row of 3+ hours of Brecht might leave me a little loopy. If I come into work tomorrow tearing my cheeks with my fingernails while screaming in German about the bitter unfairness of the world, you'll know why.
Friday, August 18, 2006
ex-cult members. there's no reasoning with them.
R: So my annoying co-worker, the ex-cult member, asked if she could ask me something. I should have run screaming. Instead I said okay. And she said, "You're Israeli, right?" I tried to explain, "I'm an American Jew." And she said, "Same thing. So, as an Israeli ..." I stopped her: "I'm a Jew, but I'm not an Israeli. It's not the same thing. I don't agree with a lot of Israel's policies, and neither do most of my friends; we have a conflicted relationship with the country." She said, "Uh-huh, uh-huh. Okay, so as an Israeli, don't you get annoyed at all the horrible things your country does?"
Me: No!
R: Yeah! I shouldn't have even bothered but I tried to explain again, you know, cuz maybe third time's the charm. I said that historically a lot of people haven't been able to make the distinction and it's sort of dangerous. I told her I haven't even BEEN to Israel.
Me: Boy. You're a really bad Israeli.
It's been a busy week and there must be a hole in my pocket or something because I've been leaking money. Since Mr. Ben returned from Allemande, we've had a very full social calendar. It's actually been super fun. Courtesy of WNYC, I scored us two free tickets to an advance screening of The Illusionist. It turned out to be a middle-brow brew of middle-browness that falls apart the closer you look at it. However it's enjoyable enough in the during AND it provided me with a much-needed dose of my personal heartthrob, Edward Norton.
The next night, courtesy of my friend Erin, I scored us two free tickets to The Fantasticks, possibly the silliest, most middle-brow musical I've ever seen but also enjoyable enough in the during. Especially the first act, before it gets all Wizard of Oz on you, wagging its finger in your face for DARING to think that happiness might be found outside your own backyard. My friend Erin, of course, was awesome.
To compensate for these intellectually passive activities, I've also been doing the NYT crossword every day. I even managed to finish yesterday's (Thursday!!) with help from co-workers. Today's I couldn't dent. But life is long. I'm going to be ambitious and consistent about this. Just watch me. But first I'm going to Philly for a party weekend to sacrifice a few brain cells for the greater birthday good.
R: So my annoying co-worker, the ex-cult member, asked if she could ask me something. I should have run screaming. Instead I said okay. And she said, "You're Israeli, right?" I tried to explain, "I'm an American Jew." And she said, "Same thing. So, as an Israeli ..." I stopped her: "I'm a Jew, but I'm not an Israeli. It's not the same thing. I don't agree with a lot of Israel's policies, and neither do most of my friends; we have a conflicted relationship with the country." She said, "Uh-huh, uh-huh. Okay, so as an Israeli, don't you get annoyed at all the horrible things your country does?"
Me: No!
R: Yeah! I shouldn't have even bothered but I tried to explain again, you know, cuz maybe third time's the charm. I said that historically a lot of people haven't been able to make the distinction and it's sort of dangerous. I told her I haven't even BEEN to Israel.
Me: Boy. You're a really bad Israeli.
It's been a busy week and there must be a hole in my pocket or something because I've been leaking money. Since Mr. Ben returned from Allemande, we've had a very full social calendar. It's actually been super fun. Courtesy of WNYC, I scored us two free tickets to an advance screening of The Illusionist. It turned out to be a middle-brow brew of middle-browness that falls apart the closer you look at it. However it's enjoyable enough in the during AND it provided me with a much-needed dose of my personal heartthrob, Edward Norton.
The next night, courtesy of my friend Erin, I scored us two free tickets to The Fantasticks, possibly the silliest, most middle-brow musical I've ever seen but also enjoyable enough in the during. Especially the first act, before it gets all Wizard of Oz on you, wagging its finger in your face for DARING to think that happiness might be found outside your own backyard. My friend Erin, of course, was awesome.
To compensate for these intellectually passive activities, I've also been doing the NYT crossword every day. I even managed to finish yesterday's (Thursday!!) with help from co-workers. Today's I couldn't dent. But life is long. I'm going to be ambitious and consistent about this. Just watch me. But first I'm going to Philly for a party weekend to sacrifice a few brain cells for the greater birthday good.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
best perks
My corner of the company celebrated a 25th anniversary, in honor of which it decreed every employee would receive a gift. Having worked at offices before, I was not about to hold my breath over said "gift." My first office gave me a thermos with a packet of hot chocolate and $30 for Christmas; my second office gave me a pink slip. So my standards were pretty low.
This office? Gave me an iPod.
Me. iPod. It's even an ester-sized iPod, being a Nano. I don't want know what to call it, except maybe, "Exceeds expectations." And that's a pretty lousy name for something that could get stolen on the subway. I'll keep thinking.
Better still, this week all the bosses have been away at a conference. As per the tradition among the assistants during this annual event, a few of us took a long lunch break and went to see a movie. The new Woody Allen, which answers the question, What does Woody Allen hate more than women? The British!
Seriously, what is with his obsession with those suave, handsome, rich fellows across the pond? Are they the most anti-Woody Allen thing he could think of?
That aside, the movie was cute and enjoyable. I prefer his comedies, when they're funny anyway. And Scarlett Johannsen, though she seems really awkward at first, is mystifyingly sexy -- not so surprising, you might think, considering she has the body of Marilyn Monroe, BUT costume designers always drape her in unflattering clothing. She has to look great in these movies despite her clothing, and I admire that she's up for the challenge.
The movie more or less fried me for the rest of the day, productivity-wise. But it was fun.
My corner of the company celebrated a 25th anniversary, in honor of which it decreed every employee would receive a gift. Having worked at offices before, I was not about to hold my breath over said "gift." My first office gave me a thermos with a packet of hot chocolate and $30 for Christmas; my second office gave me a pink slip. So my standards were pretty low.
This office? Gave me an iPod.
Me. iPod. It's even an ester-sized iPod, being a Nano. I don't want know what to call it, except maybe, "Exceeds expectations." And that's a pretty lousy name for something that could get stolen on the subway. I'll keep thinking.
Better still, this week all the bosses have been away at a conference. As per the tradition among the assistants during this annual event, a few of us took a long lunch break and went to see a movie. The new Woody Allen, which answers the question, What does Woody Allen hate more than women? The British!
Seriously, what is with his obsession with those suave, handsome, rich fellows across the pond? Are they the most anti-Woody Allen thing he could think of?
That aside, the movie was cute and enjoyable. I prefer his comedies, when they're funny anyway. And Scarlett Johannsen, though she seems really awkward at first, is mystifyingly sexy -- not so surprising, you might think, considering she has the body of Marilyn Monroe, BUT costume designers always drape her in unflattering clothing. She has to look great in these movies despite her clothing, and I admire that she's up for the challenge.
The movie more or less fried me for the rest of the day, productivity-wise. But it was fun.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
somewhat un-PC question
Aren't these "opt out" men of recent NYT fame the new Welfare Queens? Except possibly worse, since at least the so-called welfare queens were usually raising children?
Part of me sympathizes with these fellows. Their skill sets having gone obsolete, they don't feel compelled to work simply for the sake of working. Certainly not having them clogging the pool of job applicants helps more motivated other folks. And they're not hanging out on street corners with 40s, or playing game after game of Grand Theft Auto; they're playing pianos, writing bad novels, having a grand old time.
I enjoyed being unemployed. Far be it from me to begrudge anyone else their early retirement.
But. This article strikes a very interesting tone, in my opinion, staying verrrrry carefully this side of judgement. Is that because the subjects are generally middle-of-the-road white men, men who put the I Am in American? Why isn't the government passing legislation intended to get them from welfare to work? And their poor wives! Where are they in this tale of sloth? While I don't agree with this Huff Poster's cry of sexism, I do think the piece is subtly trying to incite hysteria of a specific kind. White men! In America! Aren't being productive!
Only Laguna Beach type women can get away with being entirely self-indulgent. The vast majority of women work, either outside their homes or inside them or both. Now, an article about WOMEN that showed large numbers of them drifting out of the capitalist system not to have babies or to be wives but to cultivate deadend artistic ambitions and lie around -- what would that look like?
Aren't these "opt out" men of recent NYT fame the new Welfare Queens? Except possibly worse, since at least the so-called welfare queens were usually raising children?
Part of me sympathizes with these fellows. Their skill sets having gone obsolete, they don't feel compelled to work simply for the sake of working. Certainly not having them clogging the pool of job applicants helps more motivated other folks. And they're not hanging out on street corners with 40s, or playing game after game of Grand Theft Auto; they're playing pianos, writing bad novels, having a grand old time.
I enjoyed being unemployed. Far be it from me to begrudge anyone else their early retirement.
But. This article strikes a very interesting tone, in my opinion, staying verrrrry carefully this side of judgement. Is that because the subjects are generally middle-of-the-road white men, men who put the I Am in American? Why isn't the government passing legislation intended to get them from welfare to work? And their poor wives! Where are they in this tale of sloth? While I don't agree with this Huff Poster's cry of sexism, I do think the piece is subtly trying to incite hysteria of a specific kind. White men! In America! Aren't being productive!
Only Laguna Beach type women can get away with being entirely self-indulgent. The vast majority of women work, either outside their homes or inside them or both. Now, an article about WOMEN that showed large numbers of them drifting out of the capitalist system not to have babies or to be wives but to cultivate deadend artistic ambitions and lie around -- what would that look like?
Monday, July 31, 2006
Can you spell 'Schadenfreude'?
M-E-L G-I-B-S-O-N.
The rest of the news of the past week has been so grim, the revelation that when Gibson was arrested for speeding under the influence, he cursed out his captors, called one officer "sugar tits," attempted to piss himself, attempted to run away, and, most notably, finally abandoned all pretense of not being an anti-semitic asshat. "Fucking Jews," he ranted to the cops, and that's just the beginning -- please help yourself to the police report, linked above.
In short, he took the mask off and put the white hood on.
Abe Foxman condemned him, of course; more interestingly, so did Ari Emanuel, the power-agent represented by Jeremy Piven on Entourage. This leads the cognoscenti to ask, when they're done chuckling: will Hollywood abandon him to his shame, despite Mel's recent mega-success? Or will studio heads, regardless of their personal religious affiliation, choose the allure of the bottom line over the demands of their conscience?
My money's on the money winning out, of course. But it will be fun to watch Mel spend some time eating (kosher) crow. What do you think he'll do to try to convince people he's changed his fuckhead ways? Perhaps he'll be prescribed the Hollywood version of penance: make three miniseries about the Holocaust and one documentary about sexual harrassment.
It's been a hard week in Lake Woebegone for the chosen people. With Israeli airstrikes killing Lebanese civilians at a frightening rate and no end to the violence in sight, Al Qaeda demanding worldwide retaliation against Jews wherever you find them, and one man in Seattle having proven himself eager to do his part, how can you not want to hide under the bed? At least the prospect of mocking Mel in company gives me a reason to leave the apartment.
M-E-L G-I-B-S-O-N.
The rest of the news of the past week has been so grim, the revelation that when Gibson was arrested for speeding under the influence, he cursed out his captors, called one officer "sugar tits," attempted to piss himself, attempted to run away, and, most notably, finally abandoned all pretense of not being an anti-semitic asshat. "Fucking Jews," he ranted to the cops, and that's just the beginning -- please help yourself to the police report, linked above.
In short, he took the mask off and put the white hood on.
Abe Foxman condemned him, of course; more interestingly, so did Ari Emanuel, the power-agent represented by Jeremy Piven on Entourage. This leads the cognoscenti to ask, when they're done chuckling: will Hollywood abandon him to his shame, despite Mel's recent mega-success? Or will studio heads, regardless of their personal religious affiliation, choose the allure of the bottom line over the demands of their conscience?
My money's on the money winning out, of course. But it will be fun to watch Mel spend some time eating (kosher) crow. What do you think he'll do to try to convince people he's changed his fuckhead ways? Perhaps he'll be prescribed the Hollywood version of penance: make three miniseries about the Holocaust and one documentary about sexual harrassment.
It's been a hard week in Lake Woebegone for the chosen people. With Israeli airstrikes killing Lebanese civilians at a frightening rate and no end to the violence in sight, Al Qaeda demanding worldwide retaliation against Jews wherever you find them, and one man in Seattle having proven himself eager to do his part, how can you not want to hide under the bed? At least the prospect of mocking Mel in company gives me a reason to leave the apartment.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
your face = your life
This MyHeritage site is better than the best web site ever because in addition to being frivolous, entertaining, and a first-class time sucker (all of which any contender for "better than best web site ever" would have to be) it also answers the vital question we face throughout our lives: what celebrity do you most resemble?
Depending on the picture, I resemble: both Olsen twins, Scarlett Johannsen, Heidi Klum, Bobby Fisher, Alexis Bledel, Cristina Ricci, Oscar Wilde, Rachel Corrie, Michelle Rodriguez, The Rock, Reese Witherspoon, Sally Field, Billy Bob Thorton, Kris Kristofferson, Claudia Schiffer, David Carradine, AND Colin Firth. ReMARKable! Did you even know those people looked alike? Me neither! Imagine what it would be like to get them all in a room together. (Just squint hard at my face and I'll assume that's what you're doing.)
I burst out laughing when it delivered "Rachel Corrie" as a result. I feel kinda bad about that. A friend of mine at work tried it and got that she resembled YASSIR ARAFAT. He was in among the movie starlets and Hollywood nymphs. Hilarious! My friend found it disturbing. More soothingly, but incredibly, in the very same picture she also looked like Meryl Streep.
Sad that in no picture do I resemble Kate Winslet. Deep in my heart of hearts, that's what I kinda wanted. Still, Heidi Klum and Billy Bob Thornton. I should consider myself lucky.
This MyHeritage site is better than the best web site ever because in addition to being frivolous, entertaining, and a first-class time sucker (all of which any contender for "better than best web site ever" would have to be) it also answers the vital question we face throughout our lives: what celebrity do you most resemble?
Depending on the picture, I resemble: both Olsen twins, Scarlett Johannsen, Heidi Klum, Bobby Fisher, Alexis Bledel, Cristina Ricci, Oscar Wilde, Rachel Corrie, Michelle Rodriguez, The Rock, Reese Witherspoon, Sally Field, Billy Bob Thorton, Kris Kristofferson, Claudia Schiffer, David Carradine, AND Colin Firth. ReMARKable! Did you even know those people looked alike? Me neither! Imagine what it would be like to get them all in a room together. (Just squint hard at my face and I'll assume that's what you're doing.)
I burst out laughing when it delivered "Rachel Corrie" as a result. I feel kinda bad about that. A friend of mine at work tried it and got that she resembled YASSIR ARAFAT. He was in among the movie starlets and Hollywood nymphs. Hilarious! My friend found it disturbing. More soothingly, but incredibly, in the very same picture she also looked like Meryl Streep.
Sad that in no picture do I resemble Kate Winslet. Deep in my heart of hearts, that's what I kinda wanted. Still, Heidi Klum and Billy Bob Thornton. I should consider myself lucky.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
but my heart, maria! but my heart!
I may have physically left the Entertainment industry, yet sometimes my fingers still clutch at the air where a copy of Variety should be and I thirst for utterly irrelevant information about movies. For example: we seem to have been inundated with "blockbusters" this summer, even worse than usual. As I haven't ventured out to spend $11 for Death By Superhero IV every weekend, from my perspective it's all been kind of a blur. Today I wondered, How have they been doing? Clearly none has tanked, or we'd know about it; which succeeded, though, and which were the kind of disappointments that get you fired while you're in the maternity ward?
In case you're as weirdly interested in these things as I am, I gathered the data. No, no, don't thank me. I'm increasing your dork quotient by .45 every minute you spend reading this.
#1) Surprisingly, despite its mediocre reviews and what I had thought was a lukewarm reception here in America, the record holder for 2006 is The Da Vinci Code. Closer examination of the numbers explains it: the stupid Catholic conspiracy movie that ended up pulling its punches only made $214 million at home. Its standing in the charts comes from the whopping $740 million it made from the Akiva Goldsman-loving hordes of people worldwide who were desperate to have their beloved religion challenged -- except not too much.
#2) Pirates of the Caribbean II, starring Keira Knightley's ribcage, Mr. Squidface, a translucent Orlando Bloom, and some promising young unknown fellow who's wearing a lot of makeup for some reason, has drawn a whopping $326 million so far domestically and HALF A BILLION DOLLARS worldwide. Some studio should really sign that newbie playing the pirate -- I think he's going places.
#3) X-Men: The Last Stand $232 mil here, $439 out there.
#4) Mission Impossible III: $133 domestically, $373 worldwide.
#5) Superman Returns: $179 domestically, $289 worldwide.
While these movies aren't done running yet, it's fair to say though that their momentums are set. Superman Returns is probably not going to stage a sudden, violent comeback to challenge Ron Howard's work of surpreme nonsense for first place, for example. To know more deeply who's a winner, who's a loser, though, you need more info. Making $200-some million dollars is a huge achievement, UNLESS you cost that much to make. Let's check budgets.
#1) Production budget: $125 million. That doesn't even include advertising which, as we all know, essentially rented out Times Square as its bitch/billboard for two weeks prior. Let's assume, oh, $40 million for that. That takes the budget up to $165, which means that domestically the film only eked out $49 million in profit. If not for those Frenchmen and Ghanains who needed their faith not so much shaken as lightly stirred, Tom Hanks would never work in this town again.
#2) Production budget: $225 million. Wow. Can we stop and think about that for a second? Wow. I've never heard of a movie costing that much to make. That's how much Catherine the Great would spend, maybe -- except, instead of the Winter Palace, you end up with 2.5 hours of celluloid pirate shenanigans. They've spent on advertising, too, but not as much as the Da Vince folks. Let's assume $25 million. That puts the domestic profit at $76 million.
#3) Budget: $210 million. Jesus! Those are still Marie Antoinette levels, and we saw what happened to her. Assuming $25 million for advertising, it actually LOST $3 million and was saved only by the grace of those spend-happy audiences abroad.
#4) Budget: $150. It only made $133 here! That means, even before you factor in advertising, MI:3 was in the red by a significant amount. Shameful.
#5) Budget: $260. Excuse me, I have to wipe off the monitor -- my head just exploded. Who decided to bet the farm on this dutiful, mediocre remake of what's considered a classic in the genre? Even factoring in worldwide grosses, this one has only barely broken even. Oops, wait -- factoring in advertising, it probably hasn't broken even at all. Astounding.
The last movie I saw in theaters, by the way, hasn't done too shabbily by itself even with competition from these monsters. Inside Man made $88.5 domestically and $185 worldwide, but only cost $45. Let's assume $10 for advertising. That comes out to a respectable $33.5 in domestic profit. AND it was good.
There's a moral to this story somewhere, kiddies. Let me know if you find it (and if you discover the name of that delightful up-and-coming swashbuckler! Let's just hope he doesn't get typecast as fey. Then he'll never get work, poor kid.)
I may have physically left the Entertainment industry, yet sometimes my fingers still clutch at the air where a copy of Variety should be and I thirst for utterly irrelevant information about movies. For example: we seem to have been inundated with "blockbusters" this summer, even worse than usual. As I haven't ventured out to spend $11 for Death By Superhero IV every weekend, from my perspective it's all been kind of a blur. Today I wondered, How have they been doing? Clearly none has tanked, or we'd know about it; which succeeded, though, and which were the kind of disappointments that get you fired while you're in the maternity ward?
In case you're as weirdly interested in these things as I am, I gathered the data. No, no, don't thank me. I'm increasing your dork quotient by .45 every minute you spend reading this.
#1) Surprisingly, despite its mediocre reviews and what I had thought was a lukewarm reception here in America, the record holder for 2006 is The Da Vinci Code. Closer examination of the numbers explains it: the stupid Catholic conspiracy movie that ended up pulling its punches only made $214 million at home. Its standing in the charts comes from the whopping $740 million it made from the Akiva Goldsman-loving hordes of people worldwide who were desperate to have their beloved religion challenged -- except not too much.
#2) Pirates of the Caribbean II, starring Keira Knightley's ribcage, Mr. Squidface, a translucent Orlando Bloom, and some promising young unknown fellow who's wearing a lot of makeup for some reason, has drawn a whopping $326 million so far domestically and HALF A BILLION DOLLARS worldwide. Some studio should really sign that newbie playing the pirate -- I think he's going places.
#3) X-Men: The Last Stand $232 mil here, $439 out there.
#4) Mission Impossible III: $133 domestically, $373 worldwide.
#5) Superman Returns: $179 domestically, $289 worldwide.
While these movies aren't done running yet, it's fair to say though that their momentums are set. Superman Returns is probably not going to stage a sudden, violent comeback to challenge Ron Howard's work of surpreme nonsense for first place, for example. To know more deeply who's a winner, who's a loser, though, you need more info. Making $200-some million dollars is a huge achievement, UNLESS you cost that much to make. Let's check budgets.
#1) Production budget: $125 million. That doesn't even include advertising which, as we all know, essentially rented out Times Square as its bitch/billboard for two weeks prior. Let's assume, oh, $40 million for that. That takes the budget up to $165, which means that domestically the film only eked out $49 million in profit. If not for those Frenchmen and Ghanains who needed their faith not so much shaken as lightly stirred, Tom Hanks would never work in this town again.
#2) Production budget: $225 million. Wow. Can we stop and think about that for a second? Wow. I've never heard of a movie costing that much to make. That's how much Catherine the Great would spend, maybe -- except, instead of the Winter Palace, you end up with 2.5 hours of celluloid pirate shenanigans. They've spent on advertising, too, but not as much as the Da Vince folks. Let's assume $25 million. That puts the domestic profit at $76 million.
#3) Budget: $210 million. Jesus! Those are still Marie Antoinette levels, and we saw what happened to her. Assuming $25 million for advertising, it actually LOST $3 million and was saved only by the grace of those spend-happy audiences abroad.
#4) Budget: $150. It only made $133 here! That means, even before you factor in advertising, MI:3 was in the red by a significant amount. Shameful.
#5) Budget: $260. Excuse me, I have to wipe off the monitor -- my head just exploded. Who decided to bet the farm on this dutiful, mediocre remake of what's considered a classic in the genre? Even factoring in worldwide grosses, this one has only barely broken even. Oops, wait -- factoring in advertising, it probably hasn't broken even at all. Astounding.
The last movie I saw in theaters, by the way, hasn't done too shabbily by itself even with competition from these monsters. Inside Man made $88.5 domestically and $185 worldwide, but only cost $45. Let's assume $10 for advertising. That comes out to a respectable $33.5 in domestic profit. AND it was good.
There's a moral to this story somewhere, kiddies. Let me know if you find it (and if you discover the name of that delightful up-and-coming swashbuckler! Let's just hope he doesn't get typecast as fey. Then he'll never get work, poor kid.)
Thursday, July 20, 2006
a holman in my heart
So, I turned 24. One of my coworkers draped a shiny metallic birthday sign on the wall by my desk to give everyone who walked by a clue what to say to me instead of just pretending they don't see me checking gmail. Another dropped by to tell me that my birthday was nothing compared to hers, which this year fell on 6/6/06 -- she was so preoccupied with potential apocalypse she ended up celebrating by watching An Inconvenient Truth. By herself.
As I had a more run-of-the-mill sort of day, we decided to take a totally normal two hour lunch and go to Tabla. We brought one of the fellows from this site to help bolster our hoity-toity NYC restaurant cred.
When the chips were down though he failed us: he didn't know what "cru" was either. For a while we played the menu version of Balderdash, all offering our wackiest guesses. Short for "crudite"? Short for "cru d'etat"? A miniature chocolate rowing team (served on a boat, of course!)? Jay-Z's posse? To relieve the confusion, I ordered it in my haughtiest tone of voice and was relieved to discover: cru is hip for delicious. Saying any more would spoil the surprise.
The food was amazing, very Iron Chef (which I'm kinda hooked on), and since it's restaurant week, 3 courses only cost $24.07. Then I hung out with friends, but would the almighty Ruth Reichl describe my friends as "impressively offbeat" and "so powerful, original and unexpected that they evoke intense emotions"? Case closed.
Seemingly another run-of-the-mill summer flick, Aniston and Vaugn's The Break-up actually holds a box-office record. Spokespeople claim that it has the highest three-day opening ever in the United States for a romantic comedy that was released in June.The reclusive Eva is back, just in time for summer! Enjoy this limited time offer while supplies last.
In other news, I hold the record for being the only person who has sat in my room with the lights off watching Simpsons dvds and eating Choco Tacos during the month of June.
So, I turned 24. One of my coworkers draped a shiny metallic birthday sign on the wall by my desk to give everyone who walked by a clue what to say to me instead of just pretending they don't see me checking gmail. Another dropped by to tell me that my birthday was nothing compared to hers, which this year fell on 6/6/06 -- she was so preoccupied with potential apocalypse she ended up celebrating by watching An Inconvenient Truth. By herself.
As I had a more run-of-the-mill sort of day, we decided to take a totally normal two hour lunch and go to Tabla. We brought one of the fellows from this site to help bolster our hoity-toity NYC restaurant cred.
When the chips were down though he failed us: he didn't know what "cru" was either. For a while we played the menu version of Balderdash, all offering our wackiest guesses. Short for "crudite"? Short for "cru d'etat"? A miniature chocolate rowing team (served on a boat, of course!)? Jay-Z's posse? To relieve the confusion, I ordered it in my haughtiest tone of voice and was relieved to discover: cru is hip for delicious. Saying any more would spoil the surprise.
The food was amazing, very Iron Chef (which I'm kinda hooked on), and since it's restaurant week, 3 courses only cost $24.07. Then I hung out with friends, but would the almighty Ruth Reichl describe my friends as "impressively offbeat" and "so powerful, original and unexpected that they evoke intense emotions"? Case closed.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
sap sticks to your hands
I opened my mail today to see the face of a tall, skinny, white woman draped with something translucent and bedecked with flowers. She looked very pleased, perhaps because she had just learned from the accompanying text that "DREAMS ARE POSSIBLE!"
Not if you've just been killed by a rocket fired by someone in an adjoining country who doesn't know you yet cheerfully hates you on principle; but if you're a typical tall skinny white woman? Sure, why not. On that note, I have to wonder why Israel is bothering bombing the middleman, as it were. Yes, Lebanon serves as Hezbollah's happy host. If Syria and Iran are funding the crazies, though, you have to assume the craziness won't stop until you attack them. Of course that might be suicide, but there's a certain nobility (not to mention efficiency) in trying to destroy the nerve center, as opposed to just hacking at tentacles and not caring what innocents you hit along the way.
I'm not sure how many metaphors I mixed there; let's just move on. I was going to talk about weddings! They're way easier to make light of than war, especially when cities you get really nostalgic for are being targeted. ("Dear Sir or Madam Hezbollah: Perhaps you know that your rockets are hitting Haifa. Haifa is a very pretty, apolitical city, and Jewish-Israelis and Arab-Israelis have a record of getting along well inside it. Also there are Bahi gardens. Have you been? They're splendid, almost as splendid as the beaches. Please aim elsewhere. Sincerely yours, An Infidel.")
One of the charming women in my book club -- which basically consists of six post-menopausal women named Jane, and me -- gave me a copy of I Do, But I Don't: Walking Down the Aisle Without Losing Your Mind. Author Kamy Wicoff struggles in retrospect with all of the societal nonsense that surrounded her wedding like The Fog, rendering obscure her feminist objections to the process. Essentially Wicoff, having been a relatively typical bride despite herself, is trying to atone for that sin by writing about it. Since I'm sure she received a hefty advance and got, you know, published in the first place, I'm a little skeptical: isn't she basically trying to have her wedding cake and eat it too?
Still, Wicoff comes off as an honest narrator. She exposes her flaws as well as her decision-making processes as she attempts to retrace her steps from Thinking Feminist Person to Drone Bride #1,140,562,311. It's interesting reading for me. Some of it doesn't apply since luckily my mother, a party-planning goddess, has taken charge of everything stressful; and I'm young, and not a lot is expected of me as a Woman, let alone a Wife in Training, yet. But a lot of it rings true. The nahrishkeit about the diamond ring, for example. Oy! Who needs it. The idea of carrying your wealth around with you on your hand makes me tired, and that's before I even start to think in terms of carats and cartels.
It is odd, being so young a person and having a wedding in the works. It means that in many respects the thing seems like a second bat-mitzvah. I get to make some decisions; my mother retains most of the control and the veto power. On the other hand, the resulting event, I'm sure, will be more memorable and classy than anything I could arrange, and we have compromised on most things that matter. And I do get to occupy myself with wondering Who Will Come to the Wedding?, an inversion of the question I used to ask my morbid teen self, Who Will Come to my Funeral? That morbid part of me still wonders to what extent the guest lists will overlap.
I opened my mail today to see the face of a tall, skinny, white woman draped with something translucent and bedecked with flowers. She looked very pleased, perhaps because she had just learned from the accompanying text that "DREAMS ARE POSSIBLE!"
Not if you've just been killed by a rocket fired by someone in an adjoining country who doesn't know you yet cheerfully hates you on principle; but if you're a typical tall skinny white woman? Sure, why not. On that note, I have to wonder why Israel is bothering bombing the middleman, as it were. Yes, Lebanon serves as Hezbollah's happy host. If Syria and Iran are funding the crazies, though, you have to assume the craziness won't stop until you attack them. Of course that might be suicide, but there's a certain nobility (not to mention efficiency) in trying to destroy the nerve center, as opposed to just hacking at tentacles and not caring what innocents you hit along the way.
I'm not sure how many metaphors I mixed there; let's just move on. I was going to talk about weddings! They're way easier to make light of than war, especially when cities you get really nostalgic for are being targeted. ("Dear Sir or Madam Hezbollah: Perhaps you know that your rockets are hitting Haifa. Haifa is a very pretty, apolitical city, and Jewish-Israelis and Arab-Israelis have a record of getting along well inside it. Also there are Bahi gardens. Have you been? They're splendid, almost as splendid as the beaches. Please aim elsewhere. Sincerely yours, An Infidel.")
One of the charming women in my book club -- which basically consists of six post-menopausal women named Jane, and me -- gave me a copy of I Do, But I Don't: Walking Down the Aisle Without Losing Your Mind. Author Kamy Wicoff struggles in retrospect with all of the societal nonsense that surrounded her wedding like The Fog, rendering obscure her feminist objections to the process. Essentially Wicoff, having been a relatively typical bride despite herself, is trying to atone for that sin by writing about it. Since I'm sure she received a hefty advance and got, you know, published in the first place, I'm a little skeptical: isn't she basically trying to have her wedding cake and eat it too?
Still, Wicoff comes off as an honest narrator. She exposes her flaws as well as her decision-making processes as she attempts to retrace her steps from Thinking Feminist Person to Drone Bride #1,140,562,311. It's interesting reading for me. Some of it doesn't apply since luckily my mother, a party-planning goddess, has taken charge of everything stressful; and I'm young, and not a lot is expected of me as a Woman, let alone a Wife in Training, yet. But a lot of it rings true. The nahrishkeit about the diamond ring, for example. Oy! Who needs it. The idea of carrying your wealth around with you on your hand makes me tired, and that's before I even start to think in terms of carats and cartels.
It is odd, being so young a person and having a wedding in the works. It means that in many respects the thing seems like a second bat-mitzvah. I get to make some decisions; my mother retains most of the control and the veto power. On the other hand, the resulting event, I'm sure, will be more memorable and classy than anything I could arrange, and we have compromised on most things that matter. And I do get to occupy myself with wondering Who Will Come to the Wedding?, an inversion of the question I used to ask my morbid teen self, Who Will Come to my Funeral? That morbid part of me still wonders to what extent the guest lists will overlap.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
crazy vampire doctor and his blown-up house
I'm not sure if this awesome story made it out of New York and I'd hate for you folks not lucky enough to be here to miss it. Precis: an Eastern-European immigrant, Dr. Bartha, marries, moves to America, buys a house, succeeds. Has two little girls. House appreciates in value. It's the American dream!
However. (Cue the ominous music.) Things begin to go sour between the doctor and his wife. Husband is dark, angry, abusive. His harrassment includes decorating the house with swastikas. Wife, whose Dutch Jewish family was persecuted in Nazi-occupied Holland, cannot stand it anymore and moves with her daughters to a tiny apartment in Washington Heights. Begins divorce proceedings. House is valued at $12 million. Wife feels entitled to part of that money. Judge agrees.
Dr. Bartha says, Over my dead body. And, with a consistency I frankly find refreshing, next thing you know, Dr. Bartha's charred body is being dragged from the 62nd street rubble. Not dead, though -- those who want to die never do. They end up wasting away, increasingly bitter and frail, until their expiration comes not as relief but as the ironic nail in the coffin. (Viz., Dorothy Parker.) Besides, in my professional opinion, Dr. Bartha is a vampire, and it takes more than some gas and brick to kill one of those.
The other great spat currently accesible over the internet is between Katha Pollit and Ana Marie Cox. As you may or may not be aware, Cox panned Pollit's new book last weekend in the NYT book review. Pollit responded today with an Op-Ed: "Thank You for Hating My Book." Now you might think these intelligent, talented, professional women were arguing about the state of feminism in this country. The second wave vs. the third wave! The old vs. the young! The rational vs. the sexy! The past vs. the future! In actuality, I think the disagreement is more subtle (and the review less damning) than it seems.
Let's add it up. Ana Marie Cox once helmed the almighty site, Wonkette. Was funny, nasty, raunchy, smart, but was not confined to Sex and the City and so was also taken seriously. +5
Cox left Wonkette at the height of her popularity. +2
Wrote a disappointing book that didn't end up doing very well, causing people to wonder, Was she overrated in the first place? And why aren't those new Wonkettes very funny? -2
Hasn't done much since the book to resume vaunted place in spotlight. -1
In review, bashes "feminism" while calling herself a feminist. References high heels and Hilary Clinton, bra burning, and other cliches. Tries to be snarky, yet profound; kinda fails at both. Does, however, make the valid point that people just aren't on the Pollit wavelength anymore; acknowledges war on contraception/abortion; nods at complexity of situation. 0
(Bonus points for being sexy AND funny: +3)
Total score = 7
Katha Pollit writes for The Nation and has been around, making herself heard as unapologetic and intelligent, for decades, without getting written off as a Crazy. +5
She spoke at Swarthmore though and actually wasn't that great. -1
Has written books, articles, poetry, op-eds up the wazoo. +2
Her most recent book was panned (or didn't you hear?) -1
Although she then wrote a funny piece about the experience, which takes some serious can't-buy-'em-online balls of steels. Also, her title "Virginity or Death!" is a reference, whether inadvertent or not, to the fantastic Eddie Izzard "Cake or Death!" routine. +2
Total score = 7
Holy smokes, it's a tie! What are we going to do? Examine the funny in their respective recent works to see who really holds sway? No! This is America! The bottom line is THE BOTTOM LINE: the Amazon sales rank. Virginity or Death is currently #423. Dog Days? #137,949. Today, at least, Katha Pollit wins the title. Better luck next time, Cox.
I'm not sure if this awesome story made it out of New York and I'd hate for you folks not lucky enough to be here to miss it. Precis: an Eastern-European immigrant, Dr. Bartha, marries, moves to America, buys a house, succeeds. Has two little girls. House appreciates in value. It's the American dream!
However. (Cue the ominous music.) Things begin to go sour between the doctor and his wife. Husband is dark, angry, abusive. His harrassment includes decorating the house with swastikas. Wife, whose Dutch Jewish family was persecuted in Nazi-occupied Holland, cannot stand it anymore and moves with her daughters to a tiny apartment in Washington Heights. Begins divorce proceedings. House is valued at $12 million. Wife feels entitled to part of that money. Judge agrees.
Dr. Bartha says, Over my dead body. And, with a consistency I frankly find refreshing, next thing you know, Dr. Bartha's charred body is being dragged from the 62nd street rubble. Not dead, though -- those who want to die never do. They end up wasting away, increasingly bitter and frail, until their expiration comes not as relief but as the ironic nail in the coffin. (Viz., Dorothy Parker.) Besides, in my professional opinion, Dr. Bartha is a vampire, and it takes more than some gas and brick to kill one of those.
The other great spat currently accesible over the internet is between Katha Pollit and Ana Marie Cox. As you may or may not be aware, Cox panned Pollit's new book last weekend in the NYT book review. Pollit responded today with an Op-Ed: "Thank You for Hating My Book." Now you might think these intelligent, talented, professional women were arguing about the state of feminism in this country. The second wave vs. the third wave! The old vs. the young! The rational vs. the sexy! The past vs. the future! In actuality, I think the disagreement is more subtle (and the review less damning) than it seems.
Let's add it up. Ana Marie Cox once helmed the almighty site, Wonkette. Was funny, nasty, raunchy, smart, but was not confined to Sex and the City and so was also taken seriously. +5
Cox left Wonkette at the height of her popularity. +2
Wrote a disappointing book that didn't end up doing very well, causing people to wonder, Was she overrated in the first place? And why aren't those new Wonkettes very funny? -2
Hasn't done much since the book to resume vaunted place in spotlight. -1
In review, bashes "feminism" while calling herself a feminist. References high heels and Hilary Clinton, bra burning, and other cliches. Tries to be snarky, yet profound; kinda fails at both. Does, however, make the valid point that people just aren't on the Pollit wavelength anymore; acknowledges war on contraception/abortion; nods at complexity of situation. 0
(Bonus points for being sexy AND funny: +3)
Total score = 7
Katha Pollit writes for The Nation and has been around, making herself heard as unapologetic and intelligent, for decades, without getting written off as a Crazy. +5
She spoke at Swarthmore though and actually wasn't that great. -1
Has written books, articles, poetry, op-eds up the wazoo. +2
Her most recent book was panned (or didn't you hear?) -1
Although she then wrote a funny piece about the experience, which takes some serious can't-buy-'em-online balls of steels. Also, her title "Virginity or Death!" is a reference, whether inadvertent or not, to the fantastic Eddie Izzard "Cake or Death!" routine. +2
Total score = 7
Holy smokes, it's a tie! What are we going to do? Examine the funny in their respective recent works to see who really holds sway? No! This is America! The bottom line is THE BOTTOM LINE: the Amazon sales rank. Virginity or Death is currently #423. Dog Days? #137,949. Today, at least, Katha Pollit wins the title. Better luck next time, Cox.
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