Went to Miami recently for a conference for folks who are in a travel-related industry (I am not, but for my job have reason to go to such events from time to time), and I had a pleasant-enough experience, but it did nothing to dispel the notion that people who work in the travel & hospitality industry go to conferences largely to get busy. Apparently, all sorts of licentiousness occurs (as I found at a conference I went to last year). Was at a table waiting for lunch and overheard a woman talking about a man whom another man she was chatting with knew. She told the guy that they had actually dated, and that it caused some sort of controversy at the time because both were married. She said it with a sort of nonchalance, and I could tell the guy worked to keep his surprise to a minimum so as not to display any strong emotions that may hint that he felt her actions to be morally questionable. This reminded me of another time when I was talking to someone who used to work in the cruise industry, and she told me that she slept with a guy who was married at a conference she went to, but said it as if it were on par with drunk-making-out with a stranger at a frat party. Basically, she said that she was young, and at these conferences people always hooked up, and that his wife probably had something going on the side too. Somehow I find that hard to believe.
I think what surprised me more than hearing these tales of infidelity was that these folks were so open about speaking about them to people whom they barely knew. I guess it shows that they either don’t care what people think of them, or assume that no one will be shocked by it. Not sure if that frankness is admirable or inappropriate.
Anyway, here’s a sign I’m getting old…have traveled to fun cities like Vegas and Miami for work in the past two months or so, but was in bed by midnight after doing work in my hotel rooms most of the day (with the exception of seeing an old friend in Miami). Had no desire to do the cities. In Vegas I gambled a total of $3 playing slots. (One of those dollars was in the airport to kill time). Then all I could think was that I could have used those three dollars to buy water and pizza Combos for the flight. Maybe I’ll do Vegas right if I ever go back, but I think I’m aging so quickly at this point that if I do go back all I’ll do is sit at the slots with buckets of quarters like so many senior citizens who gamble away their social security money, monopolizing several machines at a time and glaring at anyone who dares pull my lever. Then I’ll hit the buffet wearing my lobster bib before I go to the Celine Dion show. Sigh.
*****************
RCNY Sighting: Man on subway platform with about 3-foot-tall Hulk Hogan action figure. Can’t tell if it’s a gift or if he is the Hulkamaniac.
Go see: Brokeback Mountain; Heath Ledger is heartbreaking. And in case you’re wondering, Jake's the catcher—but was there really any doubt?
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Club 30
A friend of mine who is turning 30 soon doesn’t want to have a birthday bash to celebrate, even though most of our circle of friends did something of some magnitude for their 30th. She doesn’t really seem to be looking forward to it.
On the other hand, another friend who just recently turned 30 loves it; she doesn’t even mind that when she told her 40ish coworker about Forth & Towne, Gap’s new store for women 35 and older, the coworker responded, “Oh, it’s for women like us?”
According to Bravo’s Best Things About Being…30 show, there are many good things about being 30. Here are a few things that they believe to be good about being 30, in no particular order, and my take on them:
They say: You can date younger men.
I say: Because those are the only ones who are left, unless you expand your repertoire to divorcees, single dads, Star Trek nerds, or all of the above.
They say: You can buy stuff.
I say: And I’m in deeper debt because of it.
They say: You know who you are.
I say: I am resigned to be who I am. It’s too late to be considered an ingénue of any type.
Despite how it sounds, I do like being 30. I feel like I can call myself a woman instead of a girl now, even though nothing about myself has changed, either physically, professionally, or financially. When I was 29, that would have made me sad. Now that I’m 30, I say, oh well.
It sounds rather depressing, but I suppose how you feel about your life in its current state is all relative. No, I’m not raking in the dough; on the other hand, I’m not getting someone’s coffee or making copies. Plus, if you feel older and more sophisticated, you can trick others into thinking of yourself that way. Perception is greater than reality, after all.
Whether or not I’ll feel that way at 31, however, is a different story. I guess I’ll report back in about six months…
On the other hand, another friend who just recently turned 30 loves it; she doesn’t even mind that when she told her 40ish coworker about Forth & Towne, Gap’s new store for women 35 and older, the coworker responded, “Oh, it’s for women like us?”
According to Bravo’s Best Things About Being…30 show, there are many good things about being 30. Here are a few things that they believe to be good about being 30, in no particular order, and my take on them:
They say: You can date younger men.
I say: Because those are the only ones who are left, unless you expand your repertoire to divorcees, single dads, Star Trek nerds, or all of the above.
They say: You can buy stuff.
I say: And I’m in deeper debt because of it.
They say: You know who you are.
I say: I am resigned to be who I am. It’s too late to be considered an ingénue of any type.
Despite how it sounds, I do like being 30. I feel like I can call myself a woman instead of a girl now, even though nothing about myself has changed, either physically, professionally, or financially. When I was 29, that would have made me sad. Now that I’m 30, I say, oh well.
It sounds rather depressing, but I suppose how you feel about your life in its current state is all relative. No, I’m not raking in the dough; on the other hand, I’m not getting someone’s coffee or making copies. Plus, if you feel older and more sophisticated, you can trick others into thinking of yourself that way. Perception is greater than reality, after all.
Whether or not I’ll feel that way at 31, however, is a different story. I guess I’ll report back in about six months…
Monday, September 12, 2005
Street fair fanaticism
Dammit. Instead of spending a contemplative day thinking of the ones lost on 9/11, or sipping coffee at a leisurely post-church brunch, or reading Harry Potter in the park, I got sucked into spending money at a NYC street fair. I’m usually pretty fiscally conservative (though my credit card bills may say otherwise) but there is something about the street fair that draws me in and sucks the money out of my pocket. I’m the unwitting child, and the smells of Italian sausages, chicken gyros, and $1 Thai food is the Pied Piper.
I don’t know why I get all excited when I see a street fair. It’s always the same stuff: booths with bulk socks, bangles and beads, and belly-expanding mozzarepas. But I feel the way you feel when you’re little and your mom takes you to McDonald’s—-you know, the good one with the playground. And then by time I’ve walked to the end of the ten blocks, my wallet is suddenly a lot lighter.
Here’s what I spent on this particular street fair excursion (which expanded from about 64th to 74th-ish street on the Upper East Side. I blame the total on my recent obsession with accessorizing:
$6: on a ring and two necklaces at $2 each (a bargain!)
$20: on three necklaces that were $9 each if bought separately
$2: pack of metallic Asian dishwashing sponges
$1: ice cold LEMONAAAAADE!!!!!
$2: Mentadent toothbrush that was #1 in Consumer Reports
$1: Kenneth Cole eyeglass case
$4: two bracelets at this woman’s jewelry booth
$20: on a topaz necklace at same woman’s booth after going to the ATM to get money because I really wanted the necklace, which supposedly was a bargain at $20, she says, because it would be at least twice that at said woman’s Soho boutique. When I went back with the intention of getting the necklace, I asked her the price again. She said, “$25, but for you $20.” Which means I ‘m not really special, but that’s okay.
Cost of items purchased while strolling the street fair: $56. Egad.
Cost of guilt over spending money on items which are likely to gather dust (with exception of Mentadent toothbrush), or will only be in style for one season, and could have been donated to the hurricane victims: Priceless. And not in a good way.
(Things I almost bought: a tall plant for the patio. Another necklace. A CD of New York City Subway artists, though I opted instead to hold off on the CD in lieu of checking out the Web site of the band I saw performing, Spokinn Movement, in case I wanted just their CD. They were really good). I also applied for the new Amex IN NYC card, which doesn’t bode well for my debt-riddled future. Street fairs are my crack.)
*****************************************
RCNY Sighting: This was actually a sighting from earlier in the summer, but I was in a CVS late at night grabbing some feminine products and a CVS employee (male) was also in that aisle, picked up a box of tampons and a box of pads, and appeared to be sniffing them. Also appeared to be talking to himself. I thought he was on a cell phone at first, but didn’t notice one during my quick side glances at him.
I don’t know why I get all excited when I see a street fair. It’s always the same stuff: booths with bulk socks, bangles and beads, and belly-expanding mozzarepas. But I feel the way you feel when you’re little and your mom takes you to McDonald’s—-you know, the good one with the playground. And then by time I’ve walked to the end of the ten blocks, my wallet is suddenly a lot lighter.
Here’s what I spent on this particular street fair excursion (which expanded from about 64th to 74th-ish street on the Upper East Side. I blame the total on my recent obsession with accessorizing:
$6: on a ring and two necklaces at $2 each (a bargain!)
$20: on three necklaces that were $9 each if bought separately
$2: pack of metallic Asian dishwashing sponges
$1: ice cold LEMONAAAAADE!!!!!
$2: Mentadent toothbrush that was #1 in Consumer Reports
$1: Kenneth Cole eyeglass case
$4: two bracelets at this woman’s jewelry booth
$20: on a topaz necklace at same woman’s booth after going to the ATM to get money because I really wanted the necklace, which supposedly was a bargain at $20, she says, because it would be at least twice that at said woman’s Soho boutique. When I went back with the intention of getting the necklace, I asked her the price again. She said, “$25, but for you $20.” Which means I ‘m not really special, but that’s okay.
Cost of items purchased while strolling the street fair: $56. Egad.
Cost of guilt over spending money on items which are likely to gather dust (with exception of Mentadent toothbrush), or will only be in style for one season, and could have been donated to the hurricane victims: Priceless. And not in a good way.
(Things I almost bought: a tall plant for the patio. Another necklace. A CD of New York City Subway artists, though I opted instead to hold off on the CD in lieu of checking out the Web site of the band I saw performing, Spokinn Movement, in case I wanted just their CD. They were really good). I also applied for the new Amex IN NYC card, which doesn’t bode well for my debt-riddled future. Street fairs are my crack.)
*****************************************
RCNY Sighting: This was actually a sighting from earlier in the summer, but I was in a CVS late at night grabbing some feminine products and a CVS employee (male) was also in that aisle, picked up a box of tampons and a box of pads, and appeared to be sniffing them. Also appeared to be talking to himself. I thought he was on a cell phone at first, but didn’t notice one during my quick side glances at him.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Chinatown bus drama
Rode my favorite form of transportation the other day, the Chinatown Bus. I took it to D.C. and back, and was happy to see that D.C. lines are now more frequent than they were in the early oughts, when the C-town buses first started becoming legit (and I use the term “legit” loosely).
Of course, no C-town bus ride can be complete without its fair share of random events or drama. There is usually always someone demanding to be let on a full bus because they somehow feel they are owed a seat, just because they bought a ticket. This trip some woman was yelling at the driver, telling him to move out of the way, because by the beard of Zeus she was getting on the bus. A friend of mine even told me that once a lady stood in front of the bus until they agreed to take her, or until she stood down. Not sure if she ever made it on the bus, but the moral of the story, people, is that YOU ARE ONLY PAYING 20 BUCKS FOR A FREAKING TICKET. A TICKET THAT YOU CAN REUSE LATER. These bus lines barely operate legally—you think they care less if you report them to the Better Business Bureau? I don’t think so. In fact the bad service, the fight for customers by hawk-eyed saleswomen who can eye a “too-cheap-ass-to-even-ride-on-Greyhound” denizen from a block away, and the whole “will I get a seat?” uncertainty, is part of the adventure of riding the C-town buses. If you want something with a little less “character,” then go pay six times more for a ticket on Amtrak. Yeah, I didn’t think so, ya cheap bastard.
I ask, on Greyhound would you get up to ask the driver how much longer, or demand he pull over to a bathroom, or ask to be let off at some random exit? Yes, all these things have happened while I’ve ridden the bus. I usually want to tell these complainants to save their breath, but in most cases the drivers (who usually can barely speak English) have to give in. All the complainants do, however, is delay the trip for those of us who are just happy to have gotten a seat that isn’t by the stankerific bathroom. In some cases it seems to me the non-Asian riders feel they can bully the drivers because they can’t speak the best English.
In fact, I have mixed feelings about the “gentrification” of the C-town buses. I mostly think it’s been a good thing. On the one hand, to attract the non-immigrant clientele (mostly starving college students and the few brave white-collar workers willing to trade comfort for price), it seems bus lines have instituted a lot of “upgrades”: more frequent service, online ticketing, movies shown in English. On the other hand, I have to suffer a lot more annoying, uppity complaining—plus I was subjected to the Phil Collins blasting from the headphones of the man sitting next to me.
Anyway, I love regaling people with my and my friends’ C-town bus stories. Mine aren’t even as interesting as my friends'; the worst that happened to me was that one of the buses I took back from Boston was having “brake issues.” Luckily it was before we took off, and we were transferred to a different bus. And once, after the rest stop most buses take halfway through, the driver got a call when we arrived in D.C. that he had left a woman behind. But here’s what some of my friends have gone through:
A friend of mine saw a man, she thinks an angry passenger, pull a knife on another man by the C-town bus. She also once rode an airport-shuttle-like van to Boston, and it had very bad shocks.
Another friend riding it to D.C. sat near a man who was eating a whole bag full of crabs. He had to suffer the stench and the loud crab-eating noises.
I’ve heard several stories of C-town buses breaking down on the side of the road.
Some have called the C-town buses “the chicken bus” because they are barely better than the stereotypical rural buses you think of in third-world countries on which people are carrying livestock. I always thought this was rude and somewhat smacked of racism. Except that my coworkers’ friend actually claimed to have sat next to a chicken in a cage on the bus. I don’t know if this is just urban legend, but it really happened, to a friend of a friend….
******
RCNY Sighting: Maybe I just thought of this guy because I was thinking about Chinatown buses, but twice this summer while walking back home from the subway I’ve seen a tall black man wearing those big Asian straw hats, the ones that you think of when you envision the stereotypical image of an Asian person working in a rice paddy. I’m not sure whether to be offended or flattered. Is he trying to honor another culture by wearing traditional garb? Or is a he a waiter or host at some Asian fusion restaurant that tries to instill some kind of authenticity by making their staff wear “traditional” garb (you know, like how the Penang waiters wear sarongs)? Or is he just crazy? I guess I’ll never know…
Of course, no C-town bus ride can be complete without its fair share of random events or drama. There is usually always someone demanding to be let on a full bus because they somehow feel they are owed a seat, just because they bought a ticket. This trip some woman was yelling at the driver, telling him to move out of the way, because by the beard of Zeus she was getting on the bus. A friend of mine even told me that once a lady stood in front of the bus until they agreed to take her, or until she stood down. Not sure if she ever made it on the bus, but the moral of the story, people, is that YOU ARE ONLY PAYING 20 BUCKS FOR A FREAKING TICKET. A TICKET THAT YOU CAN REUSE LATER. These bus lines barely operate legally—you think they care less if you report them to the Better Business Bureau? I don’t think so. In fact the bad service, the fight for customers by hawk-eyed saleswomen who can eye a “too-cheap-ass-to-even-ride-on-Greyhound” denizen from a block away, and the whole “will I get a seat?” uncertainty, is part of the adventure of riding the C-town buses. If you want something with a little less “character,” then go pay six times more for a ticket on Amtrak. Yeah, I didn’t think so, ya cheap bastard.
I ask, on Greyhound would you get up to ask the driver how much longer, or demand he pull over to a bathroom, or ask to be let off at some random exit? Yes, all these things have happened while I’ve ridden the bus. I usually want to tell these complainants to save their breath, but in most cases the drivers (who usually can barely speak English) have to give in. All the complainants do, however, is delay the trip for those of us who are just happy to have gotten a seat that isn’t by the stankerific bathroom. In some cases it seems to me the non-Asian riders feel they can bully the drivers because they can’t speak the best English.
In fact, I have mixed feelings about the “gentrification” of the C-town buses. I mostly think it’s been a good thing. On the one hand, to attract the non-immigrant clientele (mostly starving college students and the few brave white-collar workers willing to trade comfort for price), it seems bus lines have instituted a lot of “upgrades”: more frequent service, online ticketing, movies shown in English. On the other hand, I have to suffer a lot more annoying, uppity complaining—plus I was subjected to the Phil Collins blasting from the headphones of the man sitting next to me.
Anyway, I love regaling people with my and my friends’ C-town bus stories. Mine aren’t even as interesting as my friends'; the worst that happened to me was that one of the buses I took back from Boston was having “brake issues.” Luckily it was before we took off, and we were transferred to a different bus. And once, after the rest stop most buses take halfway through, the driver got a call when we arrived in D.C. that he had left a woman behind. But here’s what some of my friends have gone through:
A friend of mine saw a man, she thinks an angry passenger, pull a knife on another man by the C-town bus. She also once rode an airport-shuttle-like van to Boston, and it had very bad shocks.
Another friend riding it to D.C. sat near a man who was eating a whole bag full of crabs. He had to suffer the stench and the loud crab-eating noises.
I’ve heard several stories of C-town buses breaking down on the side of the road.
Some have called the C-town buses “the chicken bus” because they are barely better than the stereotypical rural buses you think of in third-world countries on which people are carrying livestock. I always thought this was rude and somewhat smacked of racism. Except that my coworkers’ friend actually claimed to have sat next to a chicken in a cage on the bus. I don’t know if this is just urban legend, but it really happened, to a friend of a friend….
******
RCNY Sighting: Maybe I just thought of this guy because I was thinking about Chinatown buses, but twice this summer while walking back home from the subway I’ve seen a tall black man wearing those big Asian straw hats, the ones that you think of when you envision the stereotypical image of an Asian person working in a rice paddy. I’m not sure whether to be offended or flattered. Is he trying to honor another culture by wearing traditional garb? Or is a he a waiter or host at some Asian fusion restaurant that tries to instill some kind of authenticity by making their staff wear “traditional” garb (you know, like how the Penang waiters wear sarongs)? Or is he just crazy? I guess I’ll never know…
Monday, August 15, 2005
There’s no business like the news business
Can I just say how ridiculous consumer reporting has gotten? I used to love hidden-camera exposes that news stations do, in which they try to catch The Man pulling the wool over the poor consumers’ eyes. It always ends the same way, with the ambush of some no-good retail-giant executive or business owner who has stiffed some poor schmuck who didn’t know he was buying contaminated meat or hiring an unlicensed contractor. The news report would always end with The Man angrily swatting at the camera or running off to hide from the persistent journalist.
I suppose that model hasn’t changed much, but the ridiculousness factor has increased tenfold. A few weeks back I watched Penny Crone on Fox 5 report about some new three-hour diet, and the professionalism was akin to Joan Rivers on the red carpet. She’s double-fisting fast food as she spews forth the deets on a new fad diet (essentially, eat whatever you want in small portions every three hours to keep your body from burning lean muscle instead of fat) while wearing something that decidedly was not your standard broadcast attire (floral shirt, I think) and sporting deep-purple fingernail polish. Her sign off was a brisk powerwalk off camera as she proclaims, “I’m Penny Crone, and I’m running to get a burger,” as the cameraman trails behind. (You only see the back of her head). Wtf? I mean, I know it’s Fox and everything, but I still thought it was pretty ridick.
There was a report I was watching once by another Fox consumer reporter, Mary Garofalo, who was doing the typical chasing-after-the-consumer-swindler-who-is-shielding-her-face-and-running-off-in-shame bit. But instead of saying, “Ms. Swindler, don’t you want to tell your part of the story? Are you going to offer a refund?” Mary starts screaming at the woman, “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Since when did it become okay for journalists to curse on television, even if it is just the B-word? Wasn’t there a local reporter who got fired for cursing on camera when he thought he was off-air? And a while back I remember seeing another “consumer” report once (wait a minute, I see a pattern here—I think it was also on Fox), to “expose” a fortune teller who would do the egg cracking bit, where you break an egg into a bowl and the yolk comes out all black, which means that someone wants you dead or has put a curse on you or something. In real life, the fortune teller has palmed some bloody animal part into the egg bowl. Ace Reporter was “exposing” this woman for some lady who kept getting swindled out of money to have anti-curse spells performed. Anyone who thinks that fortune-teller clients are helpless, innocent consumers who need help from getting swindled must have run out of real consumer complaints to address. Isn’t there someone getting screwed over by a Times Square electronics dealer somewhere? C’mon, even Arnold Diaz, of CBS 2’s “Shame, Shame, ShAAAAmmmeeee……SHAME ON YOU!” finger-wagging fame wouldn’t stoop that low.
Even non-consumer reporters are getting in on the act. I can’t stand how whenever John Montone reports on a story about someone getting murdered, he always concludes with, “the slimebag got away,” or “the sicko is still on the loose.” No one is saying these men aren’t slimebags or sickos, but c’mon 1010 WINS, you only have 20 minutes to give us the world, so let’s keep the little extra commentary to yourself.
Now with the death of Peter Jennings (Rest In Peace, Mr. Jennings), I’m afraid that even more real newsmen and women are becoming a thing of the past. Boohoo. I really hope up-and-coming journalists model themselves after those guys and not the sensationalists of today. I really don’t think the world needs any more reporters who seem more fitting for A Current Affair than World News Tonight.
**********
Random Crazy New Yorker (RCNY) sighting: Well, I don’t know if this counts as a New York sighting as I was actually on Long Island when I saw this RCNY, but I went to Long Beach, and there was a rather large woman sunning topless on a decidedly non-topless beach. There were little kids running around everywhere, but she seemed happy to free her willies. When I first saw her, I thought she must be just a very large man with very large man-boobs, since we weren’t on a topless beach. But later when she sat up, I saw that she was definitely a woman. My friend informed me that the indecent exposure laws were changed after that whole controversy over the double standard that lets men go topless, but not women. But after that whole Central Park protest of breast-baring women supporting the woman who was arrested in New York for sunbathing topless, I now realize that Ms. Nude-on-a-Non-Nude-Beach was in fact breaking the law. Even if you were allowed to do it, however, doesn’t mean you should. I just got the shivers. Please God erase the image burned in my mind.
I suppose that model hasn’t changed much, but the ridiculousness factor has increased tenfold. A few weeks back I watched Penny Crone on Fox 5 report about some new three-hour diet, and the professionalism was akin to Joan Rivers on the red carpet. She’s double-fisting fast food as she spews forth the deets on a new fad diet (essentially, eat whatever you want in small portions every three hours to keep your body from burning lean muscle instead of fat) while wearing something that decidedly was not your standard broadcast attire (floral shirt, I think) and sporting deep-purple fingernail polish. Her sign off was a brisk powerwalk off camera as she proclaims, “I’m Penny Crone, and I’m running to get a burger,” as the cameraman trails behind. (You only see the back of her head). Wtf? I mean, I know it’s Fox and everything, but I still thought it was pretty ridick.
There was a report I was watching once by another Fox consumer reporter, Mary Garofalo, who was doing the typical chasing-after-the-consumer-swindler-who-is-shielding-her-face-and-running-off-in-shame bit. But instead of saying, “Ms. Swindler, don’t you want to tell your part of the story? Are you going to offer a refund?” Mary starts screaming at the woman, “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Since when did it become okay for journalists to curse on television, even if it is just the B-word? Wasn’t there a local reporter who got fired for cursing on camera when he thought he was off-air? And a while back I remember seeing another “consumer” report once (wait a minute, I see a pattern here—I think it was also on Fox), to “expose” a fortune teller who would do the egg cracking bit, where you break an egg into a bowl and the yolk comes out all black, which means that someone wants you dead or has put a curse on you or something. In real life, the fortune teller has palmed some bloody animal part into the egg bowl. Ace Reporter was “exposing” this woman for some lady who kept getting swindled out of money to have anti-curse spells performed. Anyone who thinks that fortune-teller clients are helpless, innocent consumers who need help from getting swindled must have run out of real consumer complaints to address. Isn’t there someone getting screwed over by a Times Square electronics dealer somewhere? C’mon, even Arnold Diaz, of CBS 2’s “Shame, Shame, ShAAAAmmmeeee……SHAME ON YOU!” finger-wagging fame wouldn’t stoop that low.
Even non-consumer reporters are getting in on the act. I can’t stand how whenever John Montone reports on a story about someone getting murdered, he always concludes with, “the slimebag got away,” or “the sicko is still on the loose.” No one is saying these men aren’t slimebags or sickos, but c’mon 1010 WINS, you only have 20 minutes to give us the world, so let’s keep the little extra commentary to yourself.
Now with the death of Peter Jennings (Rest In Peace, Mr. Jennings), I’m afraid that even more real newsmen and women are becoming a thing of the past. Boohoo. I really hope up-and-coming journalists model themselves after those guys and not the sensationalists of today. I really don’t think the world needs any more reporters who seem more fitting for A Current Affair than World News Tonight.
**********
Random Crazy New Yorker (RCNY) sighting: Well, I don’t know if this counts as a New York sighting as I was actually on Long Island when I saw this RCNY, but I went to Long Beach, and there was a rather large woman sunning topless on a decidedly non-topless beach. There were little kids running around everywhere, but she seemed happy to free her willies. When I first saw her, I thought she must be just a very large man with very large man-boobs, since we weren’t on a topless beach. But later when she sat up, I saw that she was definitely a woman. My friend informed me that the indecent exposure laws were changed after that whole controversy over the double standard that lets men go topless, but not women. But after that whole Central Park protest of breast-baring women supporting the woman who was arrested in New York for sunbathing topless, I now realize that Ms. Nude-on-a-Non-Nude-Beach was in fact breaking the law. Even if you were allowed to do it, however, doesn’t mean you should. I just got the shivers. Please God erase the image burned in my mind.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Don't sneak into Batman Begins
Just saw Batman Begins. It rocked. Everyone should see it—even if you are not a Batman film fan. (Considering that the last 10 or whatever Batmen they’ve made suck, non-fans probably aren’t hard to find.) Bale’s Batman blows away those other Bat bitches. He’s seriously a total rock star, Michael Caine finally shows us that Alfred is a real person and not some mere unusually-devoted manservant, and Katie Holmes, well—she didn’t annoy me and make me think, “Hey, Joey Potter is playing an assistant DA,” which is saying a lot.
My only complaints were that the movie is a bit long (I think it runs about 2 hrs and 20 minutes), and Morgan Freeman could have had a bigger role. But watching the back story is worth the extra time, and Freeman is good in whatever he does, so whatevs. In this Batman you finally understand exactly who Bruce Wayne is and why he’s so physically impressive (I never quite believed that Michael Keaton would be able to take out beefy bad guys by his own abilities). By the way, did I mention Christian Bale is a total stud? He’s all ripped—pretty surprising considering his role right before was as a manorexic in The Machinist, which I’ve yet to see, but am almost afraid to because of his hollowed-out appearance.
I’m not one of those who pants after watching comic-book-cum-films, but Batman Begins is compelling on its own, even without the legacy behind it. (I can’t say the same for many other comic films I’ve seen; I wasn’t that impressed with the first Spiderman or either X-Men film). I think Christopher Nolan (see Memento, if you haven’t) might be my favorite filmmaker of the moment. (SPOILER ALERT: The ending implies a sequel, of course, but also that the sequel might include a Joker appearance—would be interesting to see if anyone replaces Jack Nicholson.) By the way, did I say yet that Christian Bale is exceedingly hot in this movie?
Anyway, my friend and I tried to do the juvenile thing and sneak into the War of the Worlds but after some reconnaissance work, we decided the bad-vest-clad theater attendees were safeguarding the theater entrances too securely. One guy was actually looking at the ticket stubs instead of doing the blasé-minimum-wage-worker glance over. It would have been great to execute a personal FU to the whole TomKat craze by not paying for at least one of their movies, but we decided not to chance it because of how embarrassed we would be to get caught and admonished as cheap, immature bastards—who are 30 years old, at that—who won’t shell out another $10.75 for a movie. Because the most criminal thing I’ve ever done is shoplift Mentos in junior high, sneaking into a movie is a thrill for me that’s probably on par with the rush a bank robber gets from a big heist. And it’s not really about the money, it’s about the thrill of beating the system. Alas, tonight my criminal intentions would not be fulfilled. But just you wait, Loews, I will get you yet. Buuuwaaahahahahhhh.
My only complaints were that the movie is a bit long (I think it runs about 2 hrs and 20 minutes), and Morgan Freeman could have had a bigger role. But watching the back story is worth the extra time, and Freeman is good in whatever he does, so whatevs. In this Batman you finally understand exactly who Bruce Wayne is and why he’s so physically impressive (I never quite believed that Michael Keaton would be able to take out beefy bad guys by his own abilities). By the way, did I mention Christian Bale is a total stud? He’s all ripped—pretty surprising considering his role right before was as a manorexic in The Machinist, which I’ve yet to see, but am almost afraid to because of his hollowed-out appearance.
I’m not one of those who pants after watching comic-book-cum-films, but Batman Begins is compelling on its own, even without the legacy behind it. (I can’t say the same for many other comic films I’ve seen; I wasn’t that impressed with the first Spiderman or either X-Men film). I think Christopher Nolan (see Memento, if you haven’t) might be my favorite filmmaker of the moment. (SPOILER ALERT: The ending implies a sequel, of course, but also that the sequel might include a Joker appearance—would be interesting to see if anyone replaces Jack Nicholson.) By the way, did I say yet that Christian Bale is exceedingly hot in this movie?
Anyway, my friend and I tried to do the juvenile thing and sneak into the War of the Worlds but after some reconnaissance work, we decided the bad-vest-clad theater attendees were safeguarding the theater entrances too securely. One guy was actually looking at the ticket stubs instead of doing the blasé-minimum-wage-worker glance over. It would have been great to execute a personal FU to the whole TomKat craze by not paying for at least one of their movies, but we decided not to chance it because of how embarrassed we would be to get caught and admonished as cheap, immature bastards—who are 30 years old, at that—who won’t shell out another $10.75 for a movie. Because the most criminal thing I’ve ever done is shoplift Mentos in junior high, sneaking into a movie is a thrill for me that’s probably on par with the rush a bank robber gets from a big heist. And it’s not really about the money, it’s about the thrill of beating the system. Alas, tonight my criminal intentions would not be fulfilled. But just you wait, Loews, I will get you yet. Buuuwaaahahahahhhh.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Awesomely bad reality tv
Admittedly, I watch too much reality television. But these days, it’s okay to admit that you are hooked on American Idol (and even voted), enjoyed the first two seasons of The Apprentice for it’s educational content, or support a cult-fave-but-not-commercially-successful show like Project Greenlight. However, there is a slew of reality television out there that you watch because it’s so bad it’s good (doesn’t all of reality TV really fall into this category?), but that you don’t necessarily want to admit that you watch. Not that you care, but these are the ones I’m hoping stay on air:
Showdog Moms and Dads on Bravo
This show reaffirmed my belief that extreme animal lovers (I don’t just mean the people who love their family pets, but the ones who will, for instance, lick an ice cream cone after their dog has licked it) are certifiably insane. These dog-show people are the real-life versions of the folks from Best in Show. In some instances, the dogs replace children that the couples don’t have. In other instances, the dogs are basically live stuffed animals that the owners dress up for show. In all instances you will wonder what the hell are wrong with these people. My favorite couple to watch was Brandon and Ryan, the gay couple who were attempting to make their rat dog into a showdog, even though they didn’t have a clue how to go about it. (At one point, they were told by a trainer that they had to massage Liberace’s balls to make them drop, because a judge would have counted that against the poor thing, who gets thoroughly felt-up in competition.) I love dogs, but I just can’t wrap my head around what makes these folks tick—other than that it makes for great bad reality television.
Love is in the Heir on E!
The show and its “characters” were so ridiculous that I can barely recommend it as a reality show because I actually think it was all fake. And not even fake in the way producers can contrive drama; fake in the way that I actually think all these folks were actors. But as the show has not been unveiled as a fraud yet (it’s over so I don’t think anyone will do any serious investigation to defraud it—and I highly doubt anyone thought it warranted an investigation even when it was on) I will have to continue to label it reality television. The premise is that a Persian princess with no job and no skills is given something like six months or a year to achieve her goal of becoming a country singer, of all things. If she doesn’t achieve the goal—and marry a respectable guy, preferably also of royal blood—then mummy and daddy will cut her off. Why I think this show is fake:
Sign #1: The Princess comes off as dumb as rocks. She is Ridiculous with a capital R. In the early commercials she tells a story that is supposed to epitomize the amount of pampering she got while growing up royalty: Because everything was done for her, it took her the longest time to figure out even the simplest things—like to prevent a glass of water from spilling over, you had to stop tipping the pitcher. WTF?? Even chimps can figure this out! I mean, shouldn’t she have been educated in the finest schools? Also, although the fam was all based out of London, and she had supposedly only come to LA a short while before to make like Martina McBride, she has NO English accent, save calling mom “mummy.”
Sign #2: Her assistant comes off as dumb as rocks. He shoves a plate that is full of food—I think it had a whole chocolate cake or something—into the dishwasher. His role is supposed to be the funny gay sidekick but he rivals the princess in the game of how-low-can-your-IQ-go. He was, though, for me, probably the best part of the show. He at least kind of seems as if he’s in on the joke.
Sign #3: The princess’ love interest comes off as dumb as rocks. He starts out as her personal trainer (fyi, he is not ripped the way you might think a trainer—especially an LA trainer—would be) and is totally painted as the clueless and hapless dumb boyfriend who means well but still ends up screwing everything up (like following the princess to a fancy soiree where she is supposed to meet some other royal guy who has husband potential). Besides, I could have sworn I’ve seen him in a commercial.
Sign #4: The show is totally shot and edited like it is a sitcom. There are reaction shots and multiple camera shots and all those things that, while I’m no expert, look to me like scenes had been reshot. Despite all this, it was still fun to watch. The only thing that made me think it could be real: She never makes it as a country singer (very plausible, considering she couldn’t sing) and is thus cut off, and so she has to return home.
Project Runway on Bravo
PR actually falls into the category of reality show you shouldn’t be afraid to admit that you watch. The designers are all drama queens in their own ways, but it’s fun to watch their catwalk creations. I was totally rooting for winner Jay all the way, though I thought Kara Saun was actually the most talented. I loved watching the designers’ take on everything from Oscar gowns to postal-service uniforms. These people (well most of them anyway) actually had talent.
Supernanny on ABC
I prefer this version over Nanny 911 because I like Jo, the British Supernanny, over the multiple British nannies on the other show who look like they would eat bad kids. Anybody who wants to have children had better watch this show first. It pretty much proves that kids these days are spoiled brats. They can be pretty horrific—they smack their parents in the face and curse at them but then cry and refuse to sleep at night unless their mom stays in bed with them. The formula for making these kids better is pretty much the same every show—sticking kids in a time-out corner, sticking to a schedule that keeps them busy, putting kids back in their room without acknowledging them when they refuse to stay in bed—but I’m still amazed whenever, at the end of a week, the kids turn into these sparkling angels. Of course, this could be creative editing on the producers’ part, but it’s still nice to know that spoiled brats can be redeemed. As for me, I still don’t think the whole time-out thing works. I think I’m more of the psychological intimidation/guilt trip type. Telling kids they’re the reason for Mommy’s mental breakdown never hurt anybody.
Hit Me Baby One More Time on NBC
I was deciding whether to give my Seal of Approval for this one or the Dancing With the Stars show, and I decided I liked this one better because you get to hear music that makes you nostalgic. And I’ve always wondered what happened to bands like Animotion and Flock of Seagulls. I’m always most surprised to learn that some people actually get normal jobs after their fifteen minutes are up. The guy who wrote 867-5309, for instance, is a software engineer, and an Animotion singer is a graphic designer. Admittedly, some of it is hard to watch, especially when the singers do their own renditions of modern songs—like watching Haddaway (of What is Love? fame) crawl on the floor while singing Britney Spears’ Toxic—but sometimes the renditions are really good, like the one that Arrested Development did of Heaven by Los Lonely Boys. Then the audience votes on their favorite comeback performance, and the winner’s money goes to charity. I think this is a copout; when I first saw commercials of this show, I actually thought the artists would be competing for a new record contract—which is so awful but would have made the show much more compelling, no?
What Not to Wear on TLC
I love any show that has to do with makeovers, but Clinton and Stacy are my faves. If I ever dress like some of the people on this show I hope someone shoots me.
Now that there’s pretty much a new reality show every month, I’m sure there are tons more that I could put on here (I’m curious to see how that Bobby Brown show goes—I’ve seen the first episode and can’t tell if it’s going to be awful or intriguing) but these are the ones that I’ve grown especially fond of. Honorable Mentions: America's Next Top Model (I always watch the marathons on VH1); Blow Out on Bravo; PoweRgirls on MTV.
Showdog Moms and Dads on Bravo
This show reaffirmed my belief that extreme animal lovers (I don’t just mean the people who love their family pets, but the ones who will, for instance, lick an ice cream cone after their dog has licked it) are certifiably insane. These dog-show people are the real-life versions of the folks from Best in Show. In some instances, the dogs replace children that the couples don’t have. In other instances, the dogs are basically live stuffed animals that the owners dress up for show. In all instances you will wonder what the hell are wrong with these people. My favorite couple to watch was Brandon and Ryan, the gay couple who were attempting to make their rat dog into a showdog, even though they didn’t have a clue how to go about it. (At one point, they were told by a trainer that they had to massage Liberace’s balls to make them drop, because a judge would have counted that against the poor thing, who gets thoroughly felt-up in competition.) I love dogs, but I just can’t wrap my head around what makes these folks tick—other than that it makes for great bad reality television.
Love is in the Heir on E!
The show and its “characters” were so ridiculous that I can barely recommend it as a reality show because I actually think it was all fake. And not even fake in the way producers can contrive drama; fake in the way that I actually think all these folks were actors. But as the show has not been unveiled as a fraud yet (it’s over so I don’t think anyone will do any serious investigation to defraud it—and I highly doubt anyone thought it warranted an investigation even when it was on) I will have to continue to label it reality television. The premise is that a Persian princess with no job and no skills is given something like six months or a year to achieve her goal of becoming a country singer, of all things. If she doesn’t achieve the goal—and marry a respectable guy, preferably also of royal blood—then mummy and daddy will cut her off. Why I think this show is fake:
Sign #1: The Princess comes off as dumb as rocks. She is Ridiculous with a capital R. In the early commercials she tells a story that is supposed to epitomize the amount of pampering she got while growing up royalty: Because everything was done for her, it took her the longest time to figure out even the simplest things—like to prevent a glass of water from spilling over, you had to stop tipping the pitcher. WTF?? Even chimps can figure this out! I mean, shouldn’t she have been educated in the finest schools? Also, although the fam was all based out of London, and she had supposedly only come to LA a short while before to make like Martina McBride, she has NO English accent, save calling mom “mummy.”
Sign #2: Her assistant comes off as dumb as rocks. He shoves a plate that is full of food—I think it had a whole chocolate cake or something—into the dishwasher. His role is supposed to be the funny gay sidekick but he rivals the princess in the game of how-low-can-your-IQ-go. He was, though, for me, probably the best part of the show. He at least kind of seems as if he’s in on the joke.
Sign #3: The princess’ love interest comes off as dumb as rocks. He starts out as her personal trainer (fyi, he is not ripped the way you might think a trainer—especially an LA trainer—would be) and is totally painted as the clueless and hapless dumb boyfriend who means well but still ends up screwing everything up (like following the princess to a fancy soiree where she is supposed to meet some other royal guy who has husband potential). Besides, I could have sworn I’ve seen him in a commercial.
Sign #4: The show is totally shot and edited like it is a sitcom. There are reaction shots and multiple camera shots and all those things that, while I’m no expert, look to me like scenes had been reshot. Despite all this, it was still fun to watch. The only thing that made me think it could be real: She never makes it as a country singer (very plausible, considering she couldn’t sing) and is thus cut off, and so she has to return home.
Project Runway on Bravo
PR actually falls into the category of reality show you shouldn’t be afraid to admit that you watch. The designers are all drama queens in their own ways, but it’s fun to watch their catwalk creations. I was totally rooting for winner Jay all the way, though I thought Kara Saun was actually the most talented. I loved watching the designers’ take on everything from Oscar gowns to postal-service uniforms. These people (well most of them anyway) actually had talent.
Supernanny on ABC
I prefer this version over Nanny 911 because I like Jo, the British Supernanny, over the multiple British nannies on the other show who look like they would eat bad kids. Anybody who wants to have children had better watch this show first. It pretty much proves that kids these days are spoiled brats. They can be pretty horrific—they smack their parents in the face and curse at them but then cry and refuse to sleep at night unless their mom stays in bed with them. The formula for making these kids better is pretty much the same every show—sticking kids in a time-out corner, sticking to a schedule that keeps them busy, putting kids back in their room without acknowledging them when they refuse to stay in bed—but I’m still amazed whenever, at the end of a week, the kids turn into these sparkling angels. Of course, this could be creative editing on the producers’ part, but it’s still nice to know that spoiled brats can be redeemed. As for me, I still don’t think the whole time-out thing works. I think I’m more of the psychological intimidation/guilt trip type. Telling kids they’re the reason for Mommy’s mental breakdown never hurt anybody.
Hit Me Baby One More Time on NBC
I was deciding whether to give my Seal of Approval for this one or the Dancing With the Stars show, and I decided I liked this one better because you get to hear music that makes you nostalgic. And I’ve always wondered what happened to bands like Animotion and Flock of Seagulls. I’m always most surprised to learn that some people actually get normal jobs after their fifteen minutes are up. The guy who wrote 867-5309, for instance, is a software engineer, and an Animotion singer is a graphic designer. Admittedly, some of it is hard to watch, especially when the singers do their own renditions of modern songs—like watching Haddaway (of What is Love? fame) crawl on the floor while singing Britney Spears’ Toxic—but sometimes the renditions are really good, like the one that Arrested Development did of Heaven by Los Lonely Boys. Then the audience votes on their favorite comeback performance, and the winner’s money goes to charity. I think this is a copout; when I first saw commercials of this show, I actually thought the artists would be competing for a new record contract—which is so awful but would have made the show much more compelling, no?
What Not to Wear on TLC
I love any show that has to do with makeovers, but Clinton and Stacy are my faves. If I ever dress like some of the people on this show I hope someone shoots me.
Now that there’s pretty much a new reality show every month, I’m sure there are tons more that I could put on here (I’m curious to see how that Bobby Brown show goes—I’ve seen the first episode and can’t tell if it’s going to be awful or intriguing) but these are the ones that I’ve grown especially fond of. Honorable Mentions: America's Next Top Model (I always watch the marathons on VH1); Blow Out on Bravo; PoweRgirls on MTV.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Visible signs of aging, and I don't mean wrinkles
In honor of turning 30, here are some signs that you (and this does mean you!) are growing old, in no particular order. I’m in some stage or another of all of these, and I’ll probably add to it as I discover more signs that I’m turning into a cantankerous, crotchety, ornery old person:
1. You start to hate teenagers. When you see them coming down the street, you cross to the other side. You don’t understand their taste in clothes, dress, or music. And they’re so damn loud in the movie theaters. You want to shake your fist at them.
2. You start to say things like, “I remember when we had to set the timer on the VCR to record TV shows. We didn’t have things like TiVo, and we got along just fine.”
3. The musicians that you used to rock out to are now staples of the easy listening station. Or they’re referred to as "classic rock." (See my "Everything old is new again" entry.)
4. You would rather burn yourself with a cigarette than tolerate the whiny bitches on the Real World. You’d rather relive your childhood watching “I Love the 80s” on VH1.
5. Staying up late means midnight. When you stay out “partying” till 3 am, you pay for it the next day.
6. You need more clothing items with the words “control” or “slimming” or “flattening” in their names.
7. You are irritated by the interns at your work (who were born in the mid 80s) and their sense of entitlement. (Hey, we all sorted mail and made copies during our internships—those punks should get over it.)
8. The plastic 70s dishware, Fisher Price toys, and mass-produced, stackable Eames chairs that you used when you were little are now sold in antique stores for way too much.
9. Instead of t-shirts and posters with ironic sayings you find yourself strangely drawn to pictures of kittens and puppies proclaiming, “Hang in there!”
10. Your parents start to go from nitpicking about your future spouse to pushing for any member of the opposite sex with no visible signs of mutation.
1. You start to hate teenagers. When you see them coming down the street, you cross to the other side. You don’t understand their taste in clothes, dress, or music. And they’re so damn loud in the movie theaters. You want to shake your fist at them.
2. You start to say things like, “I remember when we had to set the timer on the VCR to record TV shows. We didn’t have things like TiVo, and we got along just fine.”
3. The musicians that you used to rock out to are now staples of the easy listening station. Or they’re referred to as "classic rock." (See my "Everything old is new again" entry.)
4. You would rather burn yourself with a cigarette than tolerate the whiny bitches on the Real World. You’d rather relive your childhood watching “I Love the 80s” on VH1.
5. Staying up late means midnight. When you stay out “partying” till 3 am, you pay for it the next day.
6. You need more clothing items with the words “control” or “slimming” or “flattening” in their names.
7. You are irritated by the interns at your work (who were born in the mid 80s) and their sense of entitlement. (Hey, we all sorted mail and made copies during our internships—those punks should get over it.)
8. The plastic 70s dishware, Fisher Price toys, and mass-produced, stackable Eames chairs that you used when you were little are now sold in antique stores for way too much.
9. Instead of t-shirts and posters with ironic sayings you find yourself strangely drawn to pictures of kittens and puppies proclaiming, “Hang in there!”
10. Your parents start to go from nitpicking about your future spouse to pushing for any member of the opposite sex with no visible signs of mutation.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Mr. T's ode to moms
Mr. T pities the fool who don't treat his mother right!
Forwarded to me by a friend. This is hilarious. Back in the day, this was considered an appropriate educational video. I especially love the snaps in the beginning; I'll have to use those some time...
Happy Belated Mother's Day!
Forwarded to me by a friend. This is hilarious. Back in the day, this was considered an appropriate educational video. I especially love the snaps in the beginning; I'll have to use those some time...
Happy Belated Mother's Day!
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Choose your own morality tale
Stumbled across a link to this on someone else’s blog. It’s a list of mock Choose Your Own Adventure books; kinda crass but funny as hell. Wonder how long it’ll take for a cease-and-desist order to take effect.
I was obsessed with CYOAs as a child. I still collect them; I’ll pick one up if I see one in a used bookstore. I especially love the old-school ones that Edward Packard wrote and Paul Granger illustrated. I think my favorite was No. 5, The Mystery of Chimney Rock. I read it so much it got all torn and wrinkled and I think I had to throw it away. I would dog-ear the pages with choices so that when I died (which you do in a lot of them, and quickly) I could backtrack and try the other option.
On the one hand, I loved those books because if you died you didn’t get all sad that it was the be-all and end-all of your personal story. There was never a feeling of finality or fatalism. I think I loved it most because I so wished life could have been that way. Sure, you may have accidentally opened the wrong door and died a slow and horrible death, but you can also just go back, start over, and find some treasure and live happily ever after.
On the other hand though, the books were pretty morbid. So much freakin’ death. And it’s actually “you” dying, not some fictitious character. The worst was when you would peek ahead to the page you chose and saw the words “The End.” The cheaters would go back and insist that that was not the choice they would have made anyway, so it didn’t count. But I would get so pissed at myself for making the stupid decision that got me killed in the first place, even though I was dead and couldn’t possibly continue self-flagellating. I think these books were written as morality tales for kids: If you make the wrong choices and die, you only have yourself to blame. Thanks, Bantam Books, for instilling self-loathing in me at such an early age.
But I still love those old books for keeping it real. After all, in life, you really only are successful with maybe five out of every 25 choices you make. And everyone dies eventually, even if you are a high-ranking space captain or some awesome superspy. What happy childhood memories. Sniffle sniffle.
I was obsessed with CYOAs as a child. I still collect them; I’ll pick one up if I see one in a used bookstore. I especially love the old-school ones that Edward Packard wrote and Paul Granger illustrated. I think my favorite was No. 5, The Mystery of Chimney Rock. I read it so much it got all torn and wrinkled and I think I had to throw it away. I would dog-ear the pages with choices so that when I died (which you do in a lot of them, and quickly) I could backtrack and try the other option.
On the one hand, I loved those books because if you died you didn’t get all sad that it was the be-all and end-all of your personal story. There was never a feeling of finality or fatalism. I think I loved it most because I so wished life could have been that way. Sure, you may have accidentally opened the wrong door and died a slow and horrible death, but you can also just go back, start over, and find some treasure and live happily ever after.
On the other hand though, the books were pretty morbid. So much freakin’ death. And it’s actually “you” dying, not some fictitious character. The worst was when you would peek ahead to the page you chose and saw the words “The End.” The cheaters would go back and insist that that was not the choice they would have made anyway, so it didn’t count. But I would get so pissed at myself for making the stupid decision that got me killed in the first place, even though I was dead and couldn’t possibly continue self-flagellating. I think these books were written as morality tales for kids: If you make the wrong choices and die, you only have yourself to blame. Thanks, Bantam Books, for instilling self-loathing in me at such an early age.
But I still love those old books for keeping it real. After all, in life, you really only are successful with maybe five out of every 25 choices you make. And everyone dies eventually, even if you are a high-ranking space captain or some awesome superspy. What happy childhood memories. Sniffle sniffle.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Everything old is new again
Went last night to see the always-fabulous Erasure in concert at Irving Plaza, and it basically ended up being a three-hour blast from the past. I felt like I was somewhere between the ages of 12 and 18 again, but was simultaneously reminded that I am no spring chicken.
I last saw Erasure during the Wild! Tour. I think I was in eighth grade or early ninth grade at the time. Hearing Erasure classics like Oh L’Amour, A Little Respect, and Sometimes reminded me of the days when I would play cassette tapes in my dual-deck tape recorder, trying to read the lyrics in the mini-script printed on the little fold-out tape covers. I can’t believe that I listened to songs before CDs existed. I remember hearing Erasure’s Innocents album for the first time in junior high, when someone lent the tape to my sister, and remember thinking, “What is this devil music?” That’s mostly because up until that point I really only listened to hip-hop/rap, as that was what was popular in my pseudo-ghetto school. I also listened to some top 40 stuff that used to come on Q107 (any D.C. old-schoolers out there?), but mostly listened to R&B stuff that came out on DJ100 (home of local D.C. go-go) and WPGC.
I thought all that new-wave, Brit synth-pop stuff was weird because their videos had lots of goth-looking people (the Cure videos, especially would creep me out—the one with the spider? Ugh) who sounded like they were worshipping the devil in their is-this-really-considered-singing wails. I think my sister was growing out of her R&B phase at that time (asymmetrical haircuts a la Klymaxx, anyone?) and underwent the inevitable draw to synth-pop that seems to lure Asians like the Pied Piper lured children. (Seriously, it’s like moths to a flame. I think Asians have some sort of synth-pop-affinity gene. And a Spam-affinity gene.) Go to any Pet Shop Boys/New Order/Erasure/Depeche Mode concert, and I can guarantee almost half the audience will be Asian-American 30-somethings reliving high school. Anyway, needless to say, I, too, soon became a loyal follower of the New Order/Erasure/Pet Shop Boys trifecta (didn’t really get into Depeche Mode until high school) and vis-à-vis my sister, came to love their old stuff as well.
So now here’s where I start feeling old.
First sign: My coworker, who is my age, tells me that Erasure and similar synth-pop bands are gaining popularity amongst the hipsters, as the youngsters start to discover “the classics.” There are also new bands that are paying tribute to their synth-pop forefathers, such as Scissor Sisters and Elkland, the band that opened up for Erasure. Elkland has replicated that 80s sound perfectly (in fact, with every song they played, my equally ancient friends were thinking, ‘Isn’t this a remake?’ Or, ‘Don’t I know this song?’). But the kids in the band looked like they are all of 15 years old and were probably half-formed fetuses in the womb when the first Erasure album came out.
Second sign: No one in the audience looked like they were younger than 25 or so, and in fact, skewed older. People with grey hair were mouthing all the lyrics. I mean, these people probably had to find babysitters to come to this concert for goodness sake. Anybody who looked young was probably one of Elkland’s street team, or one of those kids who insist that the “old music” is better—the way that people of my generation get into the Ramones or Bob Dylan, and lambast music of our generation as prepackaged drivel. Even Andy Bell said to some of the folks in the audience that they “probably weren’t old enough to remember this next song.” The only other times I felt this ancient were when my 21-year-old brother asked me whether Madonna’s “Dress You Up” in the Gap commercial was a “real song.” Or when I was watching John Mellencamp on TV with my roommate’s boyfriend, who exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, he’s still around? Wild Night was such an old song!” I retorted, “Wild Night!? What about Jack and Diane?” only to be met with a blank stare. Sigh.
Third sign: After the concert, there were no attempts to wait until the crowd clears to procure an autograph, or take advantage of the post-concert high where you don’t go home just yet, but drive around and blast the music of the band you just saw and stay up all night hanging their posters up on your wall and fall asleep in the $15 concert t-shirt you just bought. Instead, I made some halfhearted attempts to look for a t-shirt stand, didn’t find one, so immediately shifted my efforts to getting on the subway, going home, watching the late night news, seeing who’s on Carson—I mean Leno—and rubbing my aching feet (which probably would have given out if there’d been another encore), and massaging my sore neck, which hurt from craning up to look at Andy Bell in his sparkly red speedo.
Fourth sign: Speaking of sparkly red speedo, Andy Bell was in great shape. But he did look old. Or at least older. He’s in his early 40s now, although my friend thought he looked much older. But how often do you see a singer who’s had both hips replaced prancing around the stage in bedazzled underwear? More power to him. Vince Clarke always did look older, but now he REALLY looks older, though still demure and diminutive in his gold lame tux. (I always like to think to think of Vince as good-naturedly going along with whatever Andy wants to wear—as in, “Oh, alright, Andy, I guess if you’re going to wear the sparkly Elvis-in-Vegas outfit, I’ll wear the gold lame tux. But just for this tour.”)
Anyway, I felt a little like one of those folks who go see those hair bands from the 80s, like Motley Crue and Poison, or who still worship the Grateful Dead or Jimmy Buffett. Am I going to go to a New Kids on the Block reunion in 2015, screeching like a schoolgirl at age 40? Will I take my kids to lawn concerts and dress them in fluorescent Erasure baby concert tees? Or when they’re teens, in a rebellious hipster stage, will I scorn at them wanting to pay $40 in an urban vintage store for a distressed Vanilla Ice concert tee—that I probably still have at the back of my closet?
What made me feel better was that at least I could say that Erasure has a new album out, and therefore has reason to be touring, AND all ten or so shows they played at Irving Plaza sold out, so I am at least comforted in knowing that I am not alone. Plus, Erasure still rules.
That night, as I returned home, I relished the mini-escape the concert afforded me for three hours, letting me believe that I wasn’t a working stiff who had to get to the office the next day and pay the bills—I was a bopping prepubescent teen whose biggest drama was not making the pom squad. At home, though, it was back to reality. I took my shower, rested my weary feet, took my vitamin, flossed, and watched my stories before going to bed. I will definitely look into getting the new Erasure CD. And Elkland’s as well. I guess that’s what the kids are listening to these days.
I last saw Erasure during the Wild! Tour. I think I was in eighth grade or early ninth grade at the time. Hearing Erasure classics like Oh L’Amour, A Little Respect, and Sometimes reminded me of the days when I would play cassette tapes in my dual-deck tape recorder, trying to read the lyrics in the mini-script printed on the little fold-out tape covers. I can’t believe that I listened to songs before CDs existed. I remember hearing Erasure’s Innocents album for the first time in junior high, when someone lent the tape to my sister, and remember thinking, “What is this devil music?” That’s mostly because up until that point I really only listened to hip-hop/rap, as that was what was popular in my pseudo-ghetto school. I also listened to some top 40 stuff that used to come on Q107 (any D.C. old-schoolers out there?), but mostly listened to R&B stuff that came out on DJ100 (home of local D.C. go-go) and WPGC.
I thought all that new-wave, Brit synth-pop stuff was weird because their videos had lots of goth-looking people (the Cure videos, especially would creep me out—the one with the spider? Ugh) who sounded like they were worshipping the devil in their is-this-really-considered-singing wails. I think my sister was growing out of her R&B phase at that time (asymmetrical haircuts a la Klymaxx, anyone?) and underwent the inevitable draw to synth-pop that seems to lure Asians like the Pied Piper lured children. (Seriously, it’s like moths to a flame. I think Asians have some sort of synth-pop-affinity gene. And a Spam-affinity gene.) Go to any Pet Shop Boys/New Order/Erasure/Depeche Mode concert, and I can guarantee almost half the audience will be Asian-American 30-somethings reliving high school. Anyway, needless to say, I, too, soon became a loyal follower of the New Order/Erasure/Pet Shop Boys trifecta (didn’t really get into Depeche Mode until high school) and vis-à-vis my sister, came to love their old stuff as well.
So now here’s where I start feeling old.
First sign: My coworker, who is my age, tells me that Erasure and similar synth-pop bands are gaining popularity amongst the hipsters, as the youngsters start to discover “the classics.” There are also new bands that are paying tribute to their synth-pop forefathers, such as Scissor Sisters and Elkland, the band that opened up for Erasure. Elkland has replicated that 80s sound perfectly (in fact, with every song they played, my equally ancient friends were thinking, ‘Isn’t this a remake?’ Or, ‘Don’t I know this song?’). But the kids in the band looked like they are all of 15 years old and were probably half-formed fetuses in the womb when the first Erasure album came out.
Second sign: No one in the audience looked like they were younger than 25 or so, and in fact, skewed older. People with grey hair were mouthing all the lyrics. I mean, these people probably had to find babysitters to come to this concert for goodness sake. Anybody who looked young was probably one of Elkland’s street team, or one of those kids who insist that the “old music” is better—the way that people of my generation get into the Ramones or Bob Dylan, and lambast music of our generation as prepackaged drivel. Even Andy Bell said to some of the folks in the audience that they “probably weren’t old enough to remember this next song.” The only other times I felt this ancient were when my 21-year-old brother asked me whether Madonna’s “Dress You Up” in the Gap commercial was a “real song.” Or when I was watching John Mellencamp on TV with my roommate’s boyfriend, who exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, he’s still around? Wild Night was such an old song!” I retorted, “Wild Night!? What about Jack and Diane?” only to be met with a blank stare. Sigh.
Third sign: After the concert, there were no attempts to wait until the crowd clears to procure an autograph, or take advantage of the post-concert high where you don’t go home just yet, but drive around and blast the music of the band you just saw and stay up all night hanging their posters up on your wall and fall asleep in the $15 concert t-shirt you just bought. Instead, I made some halfhearted attempts to look for a t-shirt stand, didn’t find one, so immediately shifted my efforts to getting on the subway, going home, watching the late night news, seeing who’s on Carson—I mean Leno—and rubbing my aching feet (which probably would have given out if there’d been another encore), and massaging my sore neck, which hurt from craning up to look at Andy Bell in his sparkly red speedo.
Fourth sign: Speaking of sparkly red speedo, Andy Bell was in great shape. But he did look old. Or at least older. He’s in his early 40s now, although my friend thought he looked much older. But how often do you see a singer who’s had both hips replaced prancing around the stage in bedazzled underwear? More power to him. Vince Clarke always did look older, but now he REALLY looks older, though still demure and diminutive in his gold lame tux. (I always like to think to think of Vince as good-naturedly going along with whatever Andy wants to wear—as in, “Oh, alright, Andy, I guess if you’re going to wear the sparkly Elvis-in-Vegas outfit, I’ll wear the gold lame tux. But just for this tour.”)
Anyway, I felt a little like one of those folks who go see those hair bands from the 80s, like Motley Crue and Poison, or who still worship the Grateful Dead or Jimmy Buffett. Am I going to go to a New Kids on the Block reunion in 2015, screeching like a schoolgirl at age 40? Will I take my kids to lawn concerts and dress them in fluorescent Erasure baby concert tees? Or when they’re teens, in a rebellious hipster stage, will I scorn at them wanting to pay $40 in an urban vintage store for a distressed Vanilla Ice concert tee—that I probably still have at the back of my closet?
What made me feel better was that at least I could say that Erasure has a new album out, and therefore has reason to be touring, AND all ten or so shows they played at Irving Plaza sold out, so I am at least comforted in knowing that I am not alone. Plus, Erasure still rules.
That night, as I returned home, I relished the mini-escape the concert afforded me for three hours, letting me believe that I wasn’t a working stiff who had to get to the office the next day and pay the bills—I was a bopping prepubescent teen whose biggest drama was not making the pom squad. At home, though, it was back to reality. I took my shower, rested my weary feet, took my vitamin, flossed, and watched my stories before going to bed. I will definitely look into getting the new Erasure CD. And Elkland’s as well. I guess that’s what the kids are listening to these days.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Topless bars and crazy buffets
Got back from Florida about a week ago where I was visiting my sister, who lives in the Tampa/St. Pete/Clearwater area. I’m a child of the suburbs and have visited my sister before, so the trip shouldn’t have been any sort of eye-opening experience. But for some reason being there this time made me truly realize how much of a bubble we New Yorkers live in.
First of all, I couldn’t get over how many overweight/borderline morbidly obese people I saw. I guess it doesn’t help that many New Yorkers, especially when one ventures down into Soho, are unabashedly anorexic, but the weight differences were pretty stark. I guess I should be lucky that I’m forced to live in a city where I have to walk everywhere, as opposed to having to drag my ass around in a car. If I lived in the burbs I’d probably have to go to the gym twice as much just to avoid gaining any weight, much less lose weight.
I also couldn’t get over the inordinate amount of strip clubs there are, in the most random areas. We’d drive down a main street and there’d be a strip mall, gas station, office building…oh, and there’s the local XXX topless bar, right next to that there dentist office, not to be confused with the OTHER topless bar that’s over by the Winn-Dixie. Nobody seems to make any big stink about the placement of such “entertainment venues.” So weird. There didn’t appear to be a seedy part of town; the red-light district was woven into the suburban landscape as naturally as a Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts. And they are always relatively well-attended, even on a weekday in the middle of the day. There also seem to be more Hooters per square mile there than in any other place I’ve been. If not Hooters, its Muggs N’ Juggs, which I imagine to be like a Hooters, or Molly Goodhead, a raw oyster bar I saw advertised on a billboard. I guess that’s why my coworker calls Tampa Trampa. (On an aside, I once heard Conan O’Brien refer to Florida as “American’s Flaccid Penis” in a sketch about what state taglines should be on the new quarters. From what I saw, it doesn’t seem like flaccid is the right word. Maybe, "America's Erectile-Disfunctional Penis in Search of a Remedy"?) Now that Times Square has been converted from peepshow central to a breeding ground for corporate megalomania, you don’t see too many topless-type places anymore. Or at least I don’t. Maybe I just don’t hang out in the right neighborhoods.
I also realized how lucky I am to be able to find within 20 blocks of my apartment all types of ethnic restaurants, museums, dive bars, upscale bars, cafes, movie theaters, boutiques, chain stores…etc…etc. I mean, I grew up in the suburbs, but Tampa is different from even the D.C. suburbs, which, as far as suburbs go, is pretty darn great. I found Tampa to be kind of desolate and depressing. There are pretty neighborhoods in St. Pete and beautiful beaches, but I think I would have hated to grow up there as a teenager. I probably would have ended up boy crazy with fake boobs and auditioning for the Real World.
On the other hand, we did do some great suburban things that I miss out on in New York City. I love, love, love being in grocery stores where I can do cartwheels down the aisles if I wanted to. And it’s so much cheaper there. Unlike New York, where I roam cramped aisles full of overstuffed shelves, pay nosebleed prices for things that I can get for half price in the burbs, and take a health risk every time I opt to buy “fresh” meat or vegetables. And I also got to eat at TWO great buffets: Sweet Tomatoes and Crazy Buffet, which, despite the name, is a slightly fancier Asian buffet. My family loves us some buffet. We go to town at those places.
I also hung out at a pool hall (where it was smoky—not used to that since they outlawed indoor smoking in NYC) and bowled a 150. I have never in my life bowled such a high score. I’d forgotten how fun bowling can be. Not to say I can’t bowl in New York, but it’s a different vibe. As with everything else, New Yorkers are capable of turning even an event that requires ugly shoes into a costly-for-what-it-is, slightly pretentious experience. (Ever try to go to crowded Bowlmer Lanes on a Sat. night?)
Anyway, the trip was relaxing and I’m glad I got out of town for a week. And I always have to go through this slight adjustment period whenever I come back from vacation, in which I wonder whether I’d be willing to exchange living in a cultural and commercial mecca for somewhere that’s less cost-prohibitive. But then I snap out of it. At least right now, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be.
First of all, I couldn’t get over how many overweight/borderline morbidly obese people I saw. I guess it doesn’t help that many New Yorkers, especially when one ventures down into Soho, are unabashedly anorexic, but the weight differences were pretty stark. I guess I should be lucky that I’m forced to live in a city where I have to walk everywhere, as opposed to having to drag my ass around in a car. If I lived in the burbs I’d probably have to go to the gym twice as much just to avoid gaining any weight, much less lose weight.
I also couldn’t get over the inordinate amount of strip clubs there are, in the most random areas. We’d drive down a main street and there’d be a strip mall, gas station, office building…oh, and there’s the local XXX topless bar, right next to that there dentist office, not to be confused with the OTHER topless bar that’s over by the Winn-Dixie. Nobody seems to make any big stink about the placement of such “entertainment venues.” So weird. There didn’t appear to be a seedy part of town; the red-light district was woven into the suburban landscape as naturally as a Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts. And they are always relatively well-attended, even on a weekday in the middle of the day. There also seem to be more Hooters per square mile there than in any other place I’ve been. If not Hooters, its Muggs N’ Juggs, which I imagine to be like a Hooters, or Molly Goodhead, a raw oyster bar I saw advertised on a billboard. I guess that’s why my coworker calls Tampa Trampa. (On an aside, I once heard Conan O’Brien refer to Florida as “American’s Flaccid Penis” in a sketch about what state taglines should be on the new quarters. From what I saw, it doesn’t seem like flaccid is the right word. Maybe, "America's Erectile-Disfunctional Penis in Search of a Remedy"?) Now that Times Square has been converted from peepshow central to a breeding ground for corporate megalomania, you don’t see too many topless-type places anymore. Or at least I don’t. Maybe I just don’t hang out in the right neighborhoods.
I also realized how lucky I am to be able to find within 20 blocks of my apartment all types of ethnic restaurants, museums, dive bars, upscale bars, cafes, movie theaters, boutiques, chain stores…etc…etc. I mean, I grew up in the suburbs, but Tampa is different from even the D.C. suburbs, which, as far as suburbs go, is pretty darn great. I found Tampa to be kind of desolate and depressing. There are pretty neighborhoods in St. Pete and beautiful beaches, but I think I would have hated to grow up there as a teenager. I probably would have ended up boy crazy with fake boobs and auditioning for the Real World.
On the other hand, we did do some great suburban things that I miss out on in New York City. I love, love, love being in grocery stores where I can do cartwheels down the aisles if I wanted to. And it’s so much cheaper there. Unlike New York, where I roam cramped aisles full of overstuffed shelves, pay nosebleed prices for things that I can get for half price in the burbs, and take a health risk every time I opt to buy “fresh” meat or vegetables. And I also got to eat at TWO great buffets: Sweet Tomatoes and Crazy Buffet, which, despite the name, is a slightly fancier Asian buffet. My family loves us some buffet. We go to town at those places.
I also hung out at a pool hall (where it was smoky—not used to that since they outlawed indoor smoking in NYC) and bowled a 150. I have never in my life bowled such a high score. I’d forgotten how fun bowling can be. Not to say I can’t bowl in New York, but it’s a different vibe. As with everything else, New Yorkers are capable of turning even an event that requires ugly shoes into a costly-for-what-it-is, slightly pretentious experience. (Ever try to go to crowded Bowlmer Lanes on a Sat. night?)
Anyway, the trip was relaxing and I’m glad I got out of town for a week. And I always have to go through this slight adjustment period whenever I come back from vacation, in which I wonder whether I’d be willing to exchange living in a cultural and commercial mecca for somewhere that’s less cost-prohibitive. But then I snap out of it. At least right now, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Subway pet peeves
In December The New York Times ran an editorial about subway etiquette that was in response to some new city regulations that prohibit people from putting their feet on seats. The author wrote about some of the other subway transgressions that might be worth regulating, including taking up seats with shopping bags and high-poundage persons trying to squeeze into small seats. Here's some of my biggest subway pet peeves in no particular order:
—People talking really loudly or making a lot of noise in an otherwise quiet car. For some reason if there’s a lot of chatter or background noise, I don’t mind it so much. But every once in a while the subway ride can be peacefully quiet, and when those silences become disrupted with loud talking or cackling it really grates on my nerves. The other day on a crowded 4 train a woman and her girlfriend (or very effeminate boyfriend? Hard to tell without looking straight at them) were talking and giggling really loudly, and their kisses were loud smacks. Groan. It’s especially annoying if they are talking loudly in a different language, because then you don’t even get the option of eavesdropping if you wanted to.
—People who stand by the door on a crowded train and don't step off to let others off, or at least don't turn sideways to let the foot traffic out. Get out of the frickin’ way!!!!!!
—People who eat on the subway. This is just plain gross. Ew. Usually the perp is eating McDonald's or some form of fast food. One doesn't grab a hamburger with the same hand that one uses to grab the subway pole.
—Panhandlers who sing like two lines of a song and then expect a donation. SNL did a funny skit about this; they showed various types of panhandlers getting on the subway, but one of the riders constantly refuses to give money, giving a poor critique to the performers. I don't like uninspired panhandling performances. Give me something to work with, people!! On a side note, I think that panhandlers should be employed as telemarketers. They are good at memorizing canned speeches, sound convincing when retelling the same stories over and over again (like the woman with her baby who claims to be trying to collect bus fare to her home in North Carolina; it seems this woman has been stuck for at least a year or two), and handle rejection quite well.
—People who lean against the subway pole, creating no space for others to grab the poles.
—Guys who open their legs wide and encroach upon your personal space when you’re sitting next to them. I’ve found this to be almost exclusively a guy thing.
—People who constantly say "excuse me" to get around you even though you’re also getting off at the next stop.
—Call me sexist, but guys, especially younger guys, who don’t get up to give their seat to an elderly person, pregnant woman, or young children. Women should do this as well, of course, but for some reason I find it so unchivalrous when guys don’t do it.
—People who leave trash on the subway. Take your food wrappers, glass bottles, and coffee cups with you, you $&!!# litterbugs!
—And finally, people who lean too much into the poles that are on the side of the subway seats that are closest to the doors. This often results in standers sticking their backpacks or jackets or arms into the faces of the sitters. I know sometimes this is unavoidable in a really crowded car, but I got clocked in the eye once by a girl who wrapped her arm around the pole. When she was pulling her arm out, she elbowed me in the eye. She was apologetic and I was nice about it, but I was still annoyed that I got hit.
—People talking really loudly or making a lot of noise in an otherwise quiet car. For some reason if there’s a lot of chatter or background noise, I don’t mind it so much. But every once in a while the subway ride can be peacefully quiet, and when those silences become disrupted with loud talking or cackling it really grates on my nerves. The other day on a crowded 4 train a woman and her girlfriend (or very effeminate boyfriend? Hard to tell without looking straight at them) were talking and giggling really loudly, and their kisses were loud smacks. Groan. It’s especially annoying if they are talking loudly in a different language, because then you don’t even get the option of eavesdropping if you wanted to.
—People who stand by the door on a crowded train and don't step off to let others off, or at least don't turn sideways to let the foot traffic out. Get out of the frickin’ way!!!!!!
—People who eat on the subway. This is just plain gross. Ew. Usually the perp is eating McDonald's or some form of fast food. One doesn't grab a hamburger with the same hand that one uses to grab the subway pole.
—Panhandlers who sing like two lines of a song and then expect a donation. SNL did a funny skit about this; they showed various types of panhandlers getting on the subway, but one of the riders constantly refuses to give money, giving a poor critique to the performers. I don't like uninspired panhandling performances. Give me something to work with, people!! On a side note, I think that panhandlers should be employed as telemarketers. They are good at memorizing canned speeches, sound convincing when retelling the same stories over and over again (like the woman with her baby who claims to be trying to collect bus fare to her home in North Carolina; it seems this woman has been stuck for at least a year or two), and handle rejection quite well.
—People who lean against the subway pole, creating no space for others to grab the poles.
—Guys who open their legs wide and encroach upon your personal space when you’re sitting next to them. I’ve found this to be almost exclusively a guy thing.
—People who constantly say "excuse me" to get around you even though you’re also getting off at the next stop.
—Call me sexist, but guys, especially younger guys, who don’t get up to give their seat to an elderly person, pregnant woman, or young children. Women should do this as well, of course, but for some reason I find it so unchivalrous when guys don’t do it.
—People who leave trash on the subway. Take your food wrappers, glass bottles, and coffee cups with you, you $&!!# litterbugs!
—And finally, people who lean too much into the poles that are on the side of the subway seats that are closest to the doors. This often results in standers sticking their backpacks or jackets or arms into the faces of the sitters. I know sometimes this is unavoidable in a really crowded car, but I got clocked in the eye once by a girl who wrapped her arm around the pole. When she was pulling her arm out, she elbowed me in the eye. She was apologetic and I was nice about it, but I was still annoyed that I got hit.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Star gazing at Sundance
Just got back (because I’m such a lazy blogger, "just got back" means three weeks ago) from the Sundance film festival. I feel so in-the-know and all cultural-like, actually traveling outside of New York to go see movies. Park City was beautiful. You can’t beat 40-degree weather, snow that didn’t turn black within 10 minutes of falling, and lounging around in a lodge all day. Plus there was the fun occasional celebrity sighting.
I’ve read some reports in Variety that the festival this year wasn’t as eagerly anticipated as in the past. And there was criticism, even from Mr. Sundance himself, Robert Redford, that the festival is getting too big for its britches—literally, in the sense that the festival is outgrowing the town of Park City, and figuratively, in that it’s becoming too commercial (there was a party sponsored by a dog-food company. Wha?).
Well, being a first-timer, I didn’t have anything to compare it to, so I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Don’t know much about the commercial aspect of it, and I didn’t attend any crowded beautiful-people blowouts (all the regular bars close at 1 a.m); I was just happy to have avoided the New York snow storm and relax a bit. The hardest thing I had to do was decide which movie to try to get tickets for. I got the opportunity to go because a friend of my roommate’s was debuting his short film there, Swim Test. Quite an impressive achievement, saying you made a movie AND it got into Sundance. Anyway, his family rented a condo lodge for the weekend (made out of real logs) and he housed a bunch of his friends, and for a brief weekend I lived in a commune-like enviroment, as if I belonged to one of those radical Mormon sects where the menfolk have like twenty wives. It also reminded me a little of those youth-group retreats I used to go on in high school, the major difference being the lack of ramen bowls at each meal and the whole Jesus aspect.
I think the feature that I enjoyed the most was The Matador, a movie starring Pierce Brosnan and Greg Kinnear, in which dashing Pierce lets his gut go playing a smarmy assassin who’s losing his cool; he’s burned out and starting to grow a conscience. Greg Kinnear plays the down-on-his-luck businessman who has a chance meeting with Brosnan at the hotel bar and ends up being an accomplice to his final gig as a "facilitator of fatalities." It was funny and quirky and had some clever dialogue.
Another feature I saw was a Korean movie, Green Chair, which is basically a soft porno. I’m still not used to seeing Asian actors make out; it’s kind of like watching your relatives do it or something. Plus I was sitting next to my friend’s dad—hello, THAT wasn’t uncomfortable. I mean, there are blow job scenes and everything. Anyway, the movie was about a 32-year-old woman and a 19-year-old boy who try to continue their relationship even though she’s been sentenced to community service for statutory rape (in Korea, you’re still a minor under 20). It definitely had it’s sweet and funny moments, and it’s interesting to see Korean movies becoming just as graphic, whether it’s in violence or sexuality, as American movies are. I am still not sure whether the last few scenes, in which the lovers throw the minor a 20th birthday party, inviting essentially every other character in the movie (including her ex-husband and his parents) was a dream sequence or real. Overall the movie was enjoyable and tries to break some of the gender roles that may still hold in Korean society, but I couldn’t help thinking that the female lead comes off as a bitchy, moody, and slightly crazy Korean girl. I mean, I’m bitchy and moody and slightly crazy, but I don’t want the rest of the world to know that.
The final feature I saw was The Jacket, a suspense movie starring Adrien Brody and Keira Knightly. Brody plays a Gulf War vet who gets shot in the head but recovers. Later, when he’s well enough to hitchhike, he helps a drugged out mom and daughter (supposed to be Keira’s character as a little girl) on the side of the road, starting their stalled car—though he lets the clearly brain-fried mom back behind the wheel. Later Brody catches a ride with Brad Renfro; it turns out the guy is a fugitive who shoots a cop who pulls him over. Brody blacks out after getting caught in crossfire, gets framed for the crime, and is sentenced to a mental institution. He is clearly not crazy, yet is forced to undergo these insane treatments where he’s drugged and put in a mortuary drawer in a strait jacket. During the few hours that he is in the drawer he somehow hallucinates himself into the future where he meets and falls in love with Keira Knightly as a young woman, who proceeds to tell him that he’s going to die…they go on a Scooby-Doo like mystery hunt to find out how he dies…etc. etc. This is where the story gets kind of convoluted. One plot twist is that (SPOILER ALERT!) it turns out that Brody doesn’t actually die in the hands of some evil psychiatrist as you may be led to believe, but because of an accident that could have been easily prevented with some rubber-soled shoes.
The movie was alright; I enjoyed moreso seeing the celebs who came to the screening. The cast was there (Brody’s girlfriend was wearing a glittery tank top in 20-degree weather). Tobey Maguire was there some 50 pounds heavier and clearly didn’t care that he looked a schlumpy joe who sits at the Ruby Tuesdays on a Friday night downing Bud Lights at the bar. You know what though, I say good for him—it’s okay to let yourself go once in a while. And I’m sure he’ll be back in shape once he realizes that he might lose his Spiderman role to his trimmer doppelganger Jake Gyllenhall.
Speaking of Jake Gyllenhall, sister Maggie was on our flight coming back from Salt Lake; she was looking bored and tired along with the rest of us who were waiting for the plane folks to unfreeze the cargo doors so our baggage could come out. She was with her mom, I think, and a friend, and seemed like an overall pleasant person. Also on our flight was celeb chef Tyler Florence, who’s on the Food Network in a show called Food 911. One of his entourage, a woman was complaining into a phone that yes, she was with Tyler Florence, and that she was being tortured having to wait for her luggage. Tyler himself seemed to take it in stride. At one point he tried to put a dollar into the vending machine, which only took quarters. My roommate and I were tempted to go up to him and say, "Having a food emergency?" and whip out quarters like guardian angels.
Other random celeb sightings: Bishop Don Juan (some real-life pimp that gets play on MTV) in a Louis Vuitton overcoat and mariachi hat (the clothes were made out of that LV canvas used on the bags, not clothes material); Jay Mohr walking down Main St. and talking loudly; Tilda Swinton, I think, looking kinda ghost-like at The Jacket premier; Simon Rex, who I think was part of Adrien’s entourage, at The Jacket; Steven Soderbergh and Jules Asner also checking out The Jacket; Peter Cincotti crooning on Main St.
Some noteworthy shorts: Swim Test, of course…Are You the Favorite Person of Anybody? Staring at the Sun, Victoria Para Chino, Spelling Bee, and West Bank Story (the last two I enjoyed but thought they were a little too long).
Anyway, it was really hard to come back to New York. I would never want to move to Park City or anything, but it’s always hard for me to get back to the same mental state I was in before I left the city. I was basically a walking zombie for a few days but I’m back in reality now. Sigh.
I’ve read some reports in Variety that the festival this year wasn’t as eagerly anticipated as in the past. And there was criticism, even from Mr. Sundance himself, Robert Redford, that the festival is getting too big for its britches—literally, in the sense that the festival is outgrowing the town of Park City, and figuratively, in that it’s becoming too commercial (there was a party sponsored by a dog-food company. Wha?).
Well, being a first-timer, I didn’t have anything to compare it to, so I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Don’t know much about the commercial aspect of it, and I didn’t attend any crowded beautiful-people blowouts (all the regular bars close at 1 a.m); I was just happy to have avoided the New York snow storm and relax a bit. The hardest thing I had to do was decide which movie to try to get tickets for. I got the opportunity to go because a friend of my roommate’s was debuting his short film there, Swim Test. Quite an impressive achievement, saying you made a movie AND it got into Sundance. Anyway, his family rented a condo lodge for the weekend (made out of real logs) and he housed a bunch of his friends, and for a brief weekend I lived in a commune-like enviroment, as if I belonged to one of those radical Mormon sects where the menfolk have like twenty wives. It also reminded me a little of those youth-group retreats I used to go on in high school, the major difference being the lack of ramen bowls at each meal and the whole Jesus aspect.
I think the feature that I enjoyed the most was The Matador, a movie starring Pierce Brosnan and Greg Kinnear, in which dashing Pierce lets his gut go playing a smarmy assassin who’s losing his cool; he’s burned out and starting to grow a conscience. Greg Kinnear plays the down-on-his-luck businessman who has a chance meeting with Brosnan at the hotel bar and ends up being an accomplice to his final gig as a "facilitator of fatalities." It was funny and quirky and had some clever dialogue.
Another feature I saw was a Korean movie, Green Chair, which is basically a soft porno. I’m still not used to seeing Asian actors make out; it’s kind of like watching your relatives do it or something. Plus I was sitting next to my friend’s dad—hello, THAT wasn’t uncomfortable. I mean, there are blow job scenes and everything. Anyway, the movie was about a 32-year-old woman and a 19-year-old boy who try to continue their relationship even though she’s been sentenced to community service for statutory rape (in Korea, you’re still a minor under 20). It definitely had it’s sweet and funny moments, and it’s interesting to see Korean movies becoming just as graphic, whether it’s in violence or sexuality, as American movies are. I am still not sure whether the last few scenes, in which the lovers throw the minor a 20th birthday party, inviting essentially every other character in the movie (including her ex-husband and his parents) was a dream sequence or real. Overall the movie was enjoyable and tries to break some of the gender roles that may still hold in Korean society, but I couldn’t help thinking that the female lead comes off as a bitchy, moody, and slightly crazy Korean girl. I mean, I’m bitchy and moody and slightly crazy, but I don’t want the rest of the world to know that.
The final feature I saw was The Jacket, a suspense movie starring Adrien Brody and Keira Knightly. Brody plays a Gulf War vet who gets shot in the head but recovers. Later, when he’s well enough to hitchhike, he helps a drugged out mom and daughter (supposed to be Keira’s character as a little girl) on the side of the road, starting their stalled car—though he lets the clearly brain-fried mom back behind the wheel. Later Brody catches a ride with Brad Renfro; it turns out the guy is a fugitive who shoots a cop who pulls him over. Brody blacks out after getting caught in crossfire, gets framed for the crime, and is sentenced to a mental institution. He is clearly not crazy, yet is forced to undergo these insane treatments where he’s drugged and put in a mortuary drawer in a strait jacket. During the few hours that he is in the drawer he somehow hallucinates himself into the future where he meets and falls in love with Keira Knightly as a young woman, who proceeds to tell him that he’s going to die…they go on a Scooby-Doo like mystery hunt to find out how he dies…etc. etc. This is where the story gets kind of convoluted. One plot twist is that (SPOILER ALERT!) it turns out that Brody doesn’t actually die in the hands of some evil psychiatrist as you may be led to believe, but because of an accident that could have been easily prevented with some rubber-soled shoes.
The movie was alright; I enjoyed moreso seeing the celebs who came to the screening. The cast was there (Brody’s girlfriend was wearing a glittery tank top in 20-degree weather). Tobey Maguire was there some 50 pounds heavier and clearly didn’t care that he looked a schlumpy joe who sits at the Ruby Tuesdays on a Friday night downing Bud Lights at the bar. You know what though, I say good for him—it’s okay to let yourself go once in a while. And I’m sure he’ll be back in shape once he realizes that he might lose his Spiderman role to his trimmer doppelganger Jake Gyllenhall.
Speaking of Jake Gyllenhall, sister Maggie was on our flight coming back from Salt Lake; she was looking bored and tired along with the rest of us who were waiting for the plane folks to unfreeze the cargo doors so our baggage could come out. She was with her mom, I think, and a friend, and seemed like an overall pleasant person. Also on our flight was celeb chef Tyler Florence, who’s on the Food Network in a show called Food 911. One of his entourage, a woman was complaining into a phone that yes, she was with Tyler Florence, and that she was being tortured having to wait for her luggage. Tyler himself seemed to take it in stride. At one point he tried to put a dollar into the vending machine, which only took quarters. My roommate and I were tempted to go up to him and say, "Having a food emergency?" and whip out quarters like guardian angels.
Other random celeb sightings: Bishop Don Juan (some real-life pimp that gets play on MTV) in a Louis Vuitton overcoat and mariachi hat (the clothes were made out of that LV canvas used on the bags, not clothes material); Jay Mohr walking down Main St. and talking loudly; Tilda Swinton, I think, looking kinda ghost-like at The Jacket premier; Simon Rex, who I think was part of Adrien’s entourage, at The Jacket; Steven Soderbergh and Jules Asner also checking out The Jacket; Peter Cincotti crooning on Main St.
Some noteworthy shorts: Swim Test, of course…Are You the Favorite Person of Anybody? Staring at the Sun, Victoria Para Chino, Spelling Bee, and West Bank Story (the last two I enjoyed but thought they were a little too long).
Anyway, it was really hard to come back to New York. I would never want to move to Park City or anything, but it’s always hard for me to get back to the same mental state I was in before I left the city. I was basically a walking zombie for a few days but I’m back in reality now. Sigh.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Cringe-worthy company Christmas parties
I know the holiday season is over, but I have to talk a little bit about company Christmas parties. I usually find them pretty cringeworthy. There was a survey in the Metro NYC newspaper recently in which 3 percent of poll respondents said they hate going to their corporate Christmas parties. Hate is a strong word for me; I don’t hate them as much as get the creeps from them. It makes me feel weird to see people in coat and tie, who are older and likely much more senior than me, dancing to "It’s Getting Hot in Herrre (So Take off All Your Clothes)." It’s that same feeling you used to get as a kid when you ran into your teacher in her "casual" clothes getting groceries late at night.
I like the free food, drink, and chatting with my immediate coworkers, but when they start to clear the dance floor after the CEO’s welcome, I feel myself shrinking a little in my chair—yet unable to tear my eyes from the scenes occuring in and around the dance floor. It really is like watching a train wreck. In addition to some nameless, faceless executive who starts doing The Elaine on the dance floor because, for him, this is THE event of the year, there’s that guy skulking around the outer perimeter boosted by liquid courage looking for someone to sexually harass. (There’s always that guy whom you suspect is a pervert, but who doesn’t actually act on those impulses until the holiday party).
I guess, though, if the enthusiastically-enjoying-this-holiday-party contingent weren’t there, there would really be little else to entertain me through the night (and by night, I mean 7 p.m., because that’s when the flyer says the party is over, which the company makes sure of.) Pointing out special dance moves helps fill lulls in the conversation. And the world would be a much gloomier place if everyone had the same holiday-spiritless attitude that I have. So perhaps in the end, I actually enjoy going to the company Christmas party. As my coworker pointed out to me, I love to hate it.
I like the free food, drink, and chatting with my immediate coworkers, but when they start to clear the dance floor after the CEO’s welcome, I feel myself shrinking a little in my chair—yet unable to tear my eyes from the scenes occuring in and around the dance floor. It really is like watching a train wreck. In addition to some nameless, faceless executive who starts doing The Elaine on the dance floor because, for him, this is THE event of the year, there’s that guy skulking around the outer perimeter boosted by liquid courage looking for someone to sexually harass. (There’s always that guy whom you suspect is a pervert, but who doesn’t actually act on those impulses until the holiday party).
I guess, though, if the enthusiastically-enjoying-this-holiday-party contingent weren’t there, there would really be little else to entertain me through the night (and by night, I mean 7 p.m., because that’s when the flyer says the party is over, which the company makes sure of.) Pointing out special dance moves helps fill lulls in the conversation. And the world would be a much gloomier place if everyone had the same holiday-spiritless attitude that I have. So perhaps in the end, I actually enjoy going to the company Christmas party. As my coworker pointed out to me, I love to hate it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)