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January 24, 2006
THE WINTERS OF OUR DISCONTENT: R.I.P. SHELLY
Mary Q., a woman with whom I used to be good friends (and who, sadly, was later diagnosed with schizophrenia and, much more sadly, later took her own life), once wrote a long article about Shelly Winters that she intended to have published in the Village Voice. The paper looked at the fact that in virtually every film she was in, Shelly Winters’ character met a gruesome death and it concluded that far from being a contingent or random development, this repeated murdering off of Ms. Winters satisfied some ineluctable narrative logic of gender, personality and desire. The name of the paper was “Shelly Winters Must Die” and, to the best of my knowledge, it was never published by the Village Voice or any other publication. I was reminded of it the other day, when I read of Ms. Winters’ passing. It seemed an appropriate tribute to both my deceased and long suffering friend and to the deceased and long suffering actress to note, in passing, that if this thesis was indeed true, then Ms. Winters, in her real existence, had finally (if less gruesomely) complied with the dictates of her filmic destiny. R.I.P. Mary and Shelly.
MEDIA AND METAPHYSICAL OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
All over the subways and billboards of the city, I see ads for Heather Graham’s show,
Emily’s Reasons Why Not.—a show that was recently cancelled after its first episode. The ads boast: Emily’s Reason’s Why Not. (The possibilities are endless.) By simply crossing out the “Why” and changing the tense of the verb from present to past, the civic-minded graffiti practitioner can restore the ads to accuracy and relevance:
Emily’s Reasons Not! (The possibilities were endless).
This spectacle of print media persisting well past its point of relevance and signifying in an unintended and ironic fashion, brought to mind another less comedic (indeed haunting) instance of the phenomenon. In 1994, I was traveling with a friend around Mexico in the months prior to the presidential elections. Huge billboards urging citizens to vote for a candidate named COLOSIO (Luis Donaldo Colosio) were virtually ubiquitous. While I was there, the candidate was assassinated. What was striking was not so much the assassination of a presidential candidate—particularly in the notoriously vicious and corrupt world of Mexican politics--as the way those huge billboards were transformed by the event--persisting no longer as calls to action but rather as inadvertent memorials. It was truly haunting to see a name emptied of all content and turned into a tomb. To have absence itself advertised.
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Posted on 1/24/2006
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January 18, 2006
HOW DID I HONOR MLK DAY?
When I did my laundry, I put the whites and the coloreds together in the same machine.
It was not premeditated. The appropriateness of the tribute was noted some time during the spin cycle.
On a more serious note: I saw Charlie Rose’s interview with the celebrated African-American historian John Hope Franklin. In the course of the show, Franklin spoke with hard-earned moral authority about racism being the great unacknowledged truth of our nation and argued that the deep racial divide in this country will never be bridged until there is some collective confrontation with both the fact of slavery and, more important, the consequences of slavery . He was speaking of the ways in which our nation built its wealth on the slave economy and the way the black culture and nuclear family continue to suffer the pernicious effects of this institution to this day. He wasn’t interested in monetary reparations or any such thing. He was simply interested in some kind of real and honest dialogue. Race and racism are the elephant sitting in the national room that no one is willing to talk about. Not that anyone knows quite what might be said or done about it. But simple acknowledgement would seem to hold some long term therapeutic promise. Despite Rose’s efforts at liberal optimism, Franklin didn’t hold out much hope that the “shock” and “outrage” over black urban poverty in the aftermath of Katrina would lead to any serious redressing of the inequities. He claimed that most Americans have long been aware of the fact that poverty and unemployment plague the African- American population disproportionately and simply don’t care. They don’t want their illusion that “ America is doing quite well thank you very much ” to be challenged. In his mind, what was revealed by Katrina was less the scandal of the poverty, than the scandal of our collective callousness as a society. And he doesn’t hold much hope that this has been or will soon be changed. I applauded his bracing skepticism—delivered less with bitterness than with fatigue and disappointment. In this age of lies and evasions and diversions and entertainments and info-mercials and advertorials and false promises and miracle cures, it’s nice to hear something soberingly, sadly real being said every now and then.
RACE RELATIONS IN THE CINEMA:
That said, I would like to at some point write a letter to the Amsterdam News, or some appropriate black publication –in the role of a concerned citizen—about the phenomenon of African-American youth talking out loud during the movies, as if no one else is there in the room with them. (Let me qualify: This phenomenon is not exclusively a black youth thing, but it is certainly largely so.) I would like to say, hey I’m perhaps the least racist white person you’re ever going to meet, so I figure better that it come from someone like me, than from some grand wizard in disguise. The point is, responsible adults in the black community might want to make their kids aware of the effect this behavior has on the other people in the cinema. It makes them feel angry and aggressed and it tends to feed all kinds of negative racial stereotypes. My suspicion is that it’s not usually an act of intended aggression or disrespect so much as it’s a symptom of cultural difference and a certain lack of awareness. Anyhow, I only bring this up in the hopes that it might help in some small way to break the cycle of racial animosity.
I can only assume that white people do all kinds of unconscious and inconsiderate things as well and encourage having those kinds of correctable activities pointed out.
Yours, just looking for some kind of honest dialogue unfettered by the paralyzing fear of violating the strictures of political correctness,
Teddy Vegas.
Non Racist, Concerned White Guy.
TEDDY VEGAS IN THE CINEMA
The truth is I often confront such vocal viewers in the cinema, as a mouthpiece for the passive-aggressive mumblings of the white people around me. And I am usually quite direct, if not inflammatory—as I think it’s more racist to treat them with fear and kid’s gloves than to treat them like you’d treat anyone else. I’ll usually say something like “Excuse me, but do you think you could save your comments till after the movie’s over?” And if they persist, I’ll usually say something like “Would you please shut the fuck up?” (Note the diplomatic addition of the “please.”) Anyhow, I mentioned this tactic to my mother once and she got very concerned: “That’s dangerous, honey. You never know what hostile crazy person will just wait till after the movie and knife you or something. Promise me you’ll stop doing that.” So to reassure her, I told her I’d adopt a more deferential M.O. I’d say, “Excuse me, but your talking is sort of bothering everyone around you. Either it’s an act of hostile aggression or merely an act of obliviousness. If it’s the latter, I’d just like to make you aware of the effect your behavior is having, so that you can make an informed decision about whether you’d like to continue it or not. But of course if your behavior is a conscious act of hostile rebellion then, by all means, carry on…and I apologize for the interruption.”
MISSED OPPORTUNITY OF THE DAY:
Damn: Maybe I should have included that whole thing as a Cartoon Without Illustration. Hey, maybe I’ll still do it. There’s no law against repeating myself, is there?
ATTEMPT TO CAPITALIZE ON MISSED OPPORTUNITY OF THE DAY:
Cartoon without illustration #17
Visual: We see a skinny follicularly-challnged white guy in a cinema addressing some talkative inner city youth:
Caption: Copy and paste little monologue above.
MODIFICATION OF THE DAY:
Actually, on second thought: It might be better to address this as a generational thing rather than a racial or socio-economic thing. And to appeal to MTV to do some kind of funny public service announcements to address it.
DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY:
The peculiar theatrics of a subway fart. Everyone becoming simultaneously a suspect and a sleuth. Of course, one suspect is just pretending to be a sleuth but you don’t know who it is. And that’s the strange beauty of it.
SLOW MOVING PRODUCT OF THE DAY:
The Collected Air Drumming Recordings of Gregory "Styx" Greenstein.
SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
She had the unique ability to call you and, when you picked up, to make it seem like you had just called HER and awakened her from a deep sleep.
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Posted on 1/18/2006
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January 11, 2006
MOST FREQUENTLY INTERNALLY VOCALIZED QUESTION IN THE WORK PLACE:
OK, what am I supposed to act interested in now?
METAPHYSICAL THOUGHT OF THE DAY:
(On Indecision and the Infinite).
In the book I was just reading (“What I Loved” by Siri Hustvedt), some 20th century French writer is quoted as saying something to the effect that, in the absence of faith, indecision is a viable strategy against death.
Indeed, being indecisive keeps us infinite in a certain kind of a way. An empty and unrealized and pathetic kind of a way. But a way nonetheless.
OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
The North Fork Bank at the corner has been renovated and reworked so dramatically as to be, essentially, unrecognizable as a bank. There are little plants and comfy chairs and cozy little nooks all over and it feels more like a family room than a financial institution. Looking around the disorientingly unconventional space, it occurred to me that it was a brilliant security measure because a bank robber would have absolutely no idea where to go to say “Stick “em Up.”
VERBAL HOUDINI ACT OF THE DAY: (OR: IN PRAISE OF BREASTS AND LUCK)
A large-breasted woman I know had been talking about some emotional issue and I was genuinely attuned to what she was saying. I guess in my contemplation of her predicament, my eyes drifted down to her mammary region. “Hey, stop checking out by boobs.” She playfully complained—trying to bust me. “I wasn’t,” I responded. “I was looking at your heart but your breast just happened to be in the way.”
I felt (to jarringly shift the metaphorical field of play) like I had closed my eyes, swung at a pitch and, by sheer, dumb luck, had hit it out of the park.
I'll have to remember that one.
PALM-RELATED ANECDOTE OF THE DAY PART I:
GETTING HANDS DIRTY WHILE GREASING PALMS AT THE PALM:
I had an interesting experience in The Palm men’s room. I went in to wash my hands before dining with a friend. Upon entering the fancy facility, I was greeted by one of those men’s room attendants who insisted on turning the spigots on for me, applying liquid soap to my hands and then handing me a napkin. I didn’t resent the implied suggestion that I was too feeble or incompetent to perform these services for myself. But here’s what bothered me: The fact that I then had to reach my newly scrubbed hands into my less than antiseptic pocket to rummage up a couple of filthy singles to tip him…thus re-exposing my hand to the very contaminants (fecal particles and the like) I had come in here to wash away in the first place. As if the germ path in a public bathroom is not problematic enough already. Anyhow, I washed my hands again and left the pretentious pissoire without proferring a second tip --although I was tempted to simply wash, tip and repeat in an endless –if financially unsound—performative loop for the entire evening).
PALM-RELATED ANECDOTE OF THE DAY PART II:
GETTING CREAMED AT THE PALM:
On the dessert tray that they tote around (nay, stagger beneath), one can find a cartoonishly large (think Flintstone brontosaurus burger) wedge of chocolate cake, a sumo sized portion of Tiramisu, a pound and a half piece of cheesecake, a coronary’s worth of cream cheese carrot cake and a nice little bowl of unadorned berries. In honor of my new year’s resolution to stop eating like it’s new year’s day every day and my having read a long and mortifying article in the NYT that same day about the unacknowledged national diabetes epidemic, I ordered the berries. Minutes later our lovely waitress unloaded from her tray this little bowl of berries, now obscured by a softball sized scoop of heavy whipped cream. I imagined the scandal that my order must have caused in the Kitchen. Emergency! Emergency! Rogue fruit cup trying to get out of the kitchen cholesterol free! Stat! Apply schlag!! Apply schlag!!
KNICKS NOTES:
I haven’t seen a Knicks game in a while. Fascinating to see that the bags underneath Clyde’s eyes (what I like to call the sub ocular scroti) are almost exactly the size and shape of the eyes above them. It almost looks like I’m seeing double.
Must be a fun job coaching that kind of talent. You’re basically just patting a preternaturally gifted behind for a living. And a damn good living at that.
Frye. With the nice shot.
Refs. With the bad call.
Lebron with the nice passes
Larry with the nice glasses.
I like the way Marbury is not getting into a pissing contest. Nice patience. Allegiance to the collective cause.
POST-MARXIST CONSUMER RUMINATION OF THE DAY
Watching the commercials (Wendy’s, Nike, Chevy etc) I contemplate that the brand (or image) is what disguises the reality. In Marxist terms, it’s commodity fetishism. The way a product is abstracted from its component parts and the conditions of its creation. (Hence a Wendy’s hamburger patty gets seen as something other than shaped and processed dead steer; The Nike sneaker is seen as something leaps and bounds away from a process of human labor). Truly fascinating-- the bizarre perceptual alchemy by which value is created. I can see why Marx was obsessed with it, but I fear his analysis was moralistic and reductive and didn’t sufficiently embrace the creative power of the consuming act and the inherent imaginariness of the human being.
Arguably our most mercifully adaptive feature as humans is not merely our ability to deceive, but our ability to be deceived.
Anyhow: Commercial over. Game resumes. Let’s go Knicks!
Lebron keeps everyone involved. As only a guy who knows the joy of being loved can do.
The Lebron James Story: Generosity. Rewarded.
OK, Nice. Cavs finally miss and Ilgauskas, under the basket, is left as alone as an ugly guy at a bar who’s just farted. He gets the easy offensive put back. That hurts.
Crawford as unconscious in the 4th as Lebron was in the 3rd. This game is a pleasure.
The Cavs are starting to miss all kinds of open perimeter shots.
The theme now seems to be: Lebron. Generosity. Unrewarded.
Huge rebound by Crawford. Loving the way Marbury’s not trying to dominate the game. Lebron on the other hand is arguably being too selfless.
Amazing 4th quarter performance at both ends of the court. Cohesive, intense team D. Nice self-less ball distribution. Great clutch shooting. Exemplary.
Huge huge. Win. LOVE the way Marbury dealt with the challenges of the game withour resorting to his old do it yourself-hood. Feels like a real milestone in the gelling of the team and the maturation of the Marbury.
Stephon with the nice passes.
Larry with the nice glasses.
And, I suppose, the nice classes.
AN INSTANCE OF WHY THE BEST DAMN SPORTS SHOW PERIOD IS UNQUESTIONABLY THE WORST DAMN SPORTS SHOW PERIOD.
They have Derek Jeter on. They ask him about the Mets’ moves in the off season. He praises the job Minaya has done and says he wishes them all the best, except when he’s playing against them. They all crack up in shameless sycophancy as if Jon Stewart or Chris Rock had just fired off the funniest damn thing they’d ever heard period. They were one step from putting on knee pads for some hero worship.
PAGE SIX THOUGHT OF THE DAY:
Sort of sorry that Angelina Jolie admitted she was pregnant. I wished she’d stonewalled with denials straight through the gestation and the delivery. I think that would have been a much cooler act of celebrity performance art.
SELF PROMOTIONAL LETTER I WAS AMBIVALENT ABOUT SENDING OUT BUT WHICH IS NOW SAFELY ENOUGH DISTANCED FROM ANY POSSIBLE RELEVANCE TO BE COMFORTABLY SHARED.
Time sensitive act of shameless self promotion
I have been made aware at the 11th hour of this thing called the
Bloggies. They're essentially the Emmys or the Oscars for the
blogosphere (in fact, many in Hollywood refer to the Oscars as the
Bloggies for people in movies.) except that unlike their less august
and venerable cousins, they are determined by popular vote rather than the decision of a small academy of experts. Anyhow, here's the thing: The voting ends today (Tuesday) at 10 p.m. If you can find room in your heart or busy schedule to vote for my blog, that'd be great. The voting is at:
http://2006.bloggies.com/
The awards carry a $20.06 award and about as much prestige as the high school honor roll. If I win, I promise to divide that generous sum among all of you good people who supported me. And even if I reneg on this offer, you can feel good knowing that you have help put me twenty dollars closer to being able to quit my day job and devote myself full time to satisfying your diverse time wasting needs.
Note: Evidently, voters have to vote for at least 3 blogs...so if you know of any other ones that'd be great. I hear that there are quite a few out there, although I think the whole idea of blogging is ridiculous and I don't read any of them myself.
Thanks.
Best,
TV
SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He multi-tasked during condolence calls.
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January 06, 2006
PITHY COMMENT OF THE DAY:
Ah the Internet…how did we ever manage to waste time before it?
ODYSSEY-LIKE EXPERIENCE OF THE DAY:
(Actually the night. Actually, about 30 nights ago, but I forgot to post it before now).
I bought tickets about 9 months ago to Spamalot in order to take my mother for her birthday. Anyhow, last night, was, finally the night. I get there after the anticipatory gestation period and find lo and behold, that a huge 400 pound woman is seated beside me. A veritable two seater. So huge that her excess flesh is protruding into my my air space. I have spent $125 for the seat. But I am only getting, at best, three-quarters of a seat. It’s not the kind of issue you can really address comfortably with the offending individual. But I sort of wonder if I’m entitled to a partial refund. I spend the whole evening leaning uncomfortably towards my mother. Yes, sandwiched between the Scylla and Charybdis of strange fat and oedipal awkwardness, Vegas opted for the latter.
QUESTION OF THE DAY:
A propos of Spamalot. Is it possible for a contemporary Broadway Musical to pander to neither the gays nor the Jews? I suppose that’s like asking if it’s possible for the KKK not to pander to racists or the Republican Party not to pander to the KKK? Hey, you’ve gotta stimulate your base. But still, it was a bit glaring. Especially the song about how in order for a show to make it to Broadway,” you’ve got to have Jews….you’ve got to have Jews…YOU’VE GOT TO HAVE JEWS!!!” As a Jew, it makes me a bit uncomfortable when Jews feel the need to bring attention to themselves as Jews. Strikes me as a bit immature and self-involved. Me? I’d rather just bring attention to myself rather than to my people. Me. Me. Me. Look at me. Now THAT’s evolved. Who wants to share credit with the whole tribe? ☺
CARTOON WITHOUT ILLUSTRATION #37
An obsessive compulsive woman on her death bed uttering her last words to her husband: “Honey, please check “die” off on my “To Do” list?”
BAD BUSINESS IDEA OF THE DAY:
Small and Short shops.
RANT OF THE DAY:
Evidently Pat Robertson claimed that Ariel Sharon’s stroke was divine punishment for “dividing god’s land.” I hate these dumb bible-happy freaks with their 20-20 scriptural hindsight, wrapping the lord’s will around the contingent developments of human experience. Like when those poor believers sang “Praise be to the Lord” when—due to the horrible communications error-- they heard that 12 of the 13 miners had survived. Well, did they then sing “Screw the Lord” when the communication error was corrected and they found out all their relatives were now dead? It's terrible and it's tragic but sometimes bad stuff happens--without meaning or moral. Deal with it. When Pat Robertson is felled by a stroke or a cancer or whatever it is he ends up being felled by, I really hope some one points out that it was god’s punishment for being an asshole.
DESCRIPTIVE METAPHOR OF THE DAY:
An air freshener in the bathroom after a dump is the olfactory equivalent of a bad toupee.
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January 05, 2006
PREFACE OF THE DAY:
As noted in the penultimate posting of 2005, one of my new year's resolutions was to make the contents of my two blogs converge. Hence, this entry is largely redundant with the most recent entry on the sports blog. The only big difference between the two is that there's some extra sports-related stuff over there. OK, so, without further ado...
FAULT ON "MATCH POINT."
I can forgive Woody Allen the whole Soon Yi thing. I can forgive him the recent spate of woefully sub-standard movies. I can forgive him apparently forgetting that he made “Crimes and Misdemeanors” and essentially remaking the same film in a less compelling fashion with “Match Point” (after all he’s old and entitled to a little senility). And I can forgive him borrowing liberally from “A Place in the Sun” for this latest effort, for a master filmmaker (even one suffering from cinematic senescence) is entitled to wholesale plagiarism under the banner of interfilmic homage. But what I can’t forgive him for is this: Asking me to buy Jonathan Rhys-Meyers' limp and laughable tennis strokes as those of a former touring pro and rival of Andre Agassi’s—something requiring a suspension of disbelief (and denial of all sensory evidence) greater even than that needed for a non deaf person to buy Tom Cruise’s Irish accent in "Far and Away."
PET PEEVE OF THE DAY.
People who call you back without listening to the message. Hey, I see you called. Yeah, did you listen to the message? No, I just heard your voice and then erased it. What’s up. Well, idiot. You could have at least paid me the minimal courtesy of listening to it rather than calling me back and making me repeat the whole frigging thing. Asshole. I mean, you couldn’t spare 60 seconds of your precious time to hear what I had to tell you…so now you’re going to waste 60 more seconds of my precious time repeating it? Damn, makes me want to hang up on someone just thinking about it. Plus I take such pride in my improvised message leavings that to think they’ve been tossed to the scrap heap of oblivion without ever having been heard by human ears…unacceptable!
THE DEVIL'S DICTIONARY INSPIRED DEFINITION OF THE DAY:
The strip club. Where the illusion of female availability meets the reality of male stupidity.
SUBWAY ANECDOTE OF THE DAY:
OR VEGAS’S ATTEMPT TO REDEEM AN ACOUSTICALLY PAINFUL EXPERIENCE.
My New Year's eve began with an interesting encounter with a guy who was quite possibly the worst subway singer ever. He played a New Year's themed playlist (John Lennon's"So you say this is Christmas?", U2s "New Year's Day" etc.) wondrously free of self consciousness or evidence of an ear. Most people moved away or smiled at each other uncomfortably or put on their iPods in self defense. (Idea for a cartoon). My feeling was: here was a celebration of genuine effort and human imperfection. In my mind the way his voice corresponded to the song's notes pretty much paralleled the way our lives and actions correspond to our goals and new year's resolutions: (which it to say in a minimally recognizeable manner...but in some kind of a fashion nonetheless.). I thought there was something nice about this representative embrace of human effort and imperfection on the eve of a new year and a new set of resolutions. If my life in the new year can ressemble the idealized life of my dreams as much as this vocal experience ressembles the John Lennon song, I will be doing reasonably well. And so I stepped forward as others stepped away, and dropped, to the singer's obvious surprise, a dollar into the empty guitar case.
RACIALLY INFORMED INTERACTION OF THE DAY:
A black guy politely but enthusiastically asking a corporate-looking white guy about the gadget he was using.
“Excuse me, sir: What kind of a game is that? I see people playing it a lot. Is that like a Playstation?”
The pinstriped white guy. finally realizing this black guy was talking to him, looks up from his Blackberry and gruffly responds: “It’s not a game.”
KNICKS UPDATE OF THE DAY:
I have to report experiencing ambivalence while watching the amazing Knicks-Suns game on Monday night. On the one hand, I was loving the Knicks’ remarkable effort and renewed commitment to their youth brigade and was for rooting for them to have something positive to build on. But on the other hand, it is hard to root for a team fronted by Stephon Marbury when it’s playing against a team led by Steve Nash. It’s the expansive, egolessly creative, contagiously generous spirit of a true point guard versus the sulky, slightly thuggish aura of a scorer in point guard’s clothing. But that, said, it was a truly amazing game. The bizarre FT and 3 PT disparities have been widely noted. But for me, highlights included the irrepressible David Lee creating havoc at both ends of the court. Curry, looking like he was on the verge of some kind of cardiac casualty, knocking down 2 FTs to send it into OT. Nate Robinson making a number of remarkable interior passes and stripping the usually impregnable Steve Nash in the open court near the end of regulation—but also arguing obvious foul calls and yelling “Fuck” after missing a big free throw in OT. Nash’s career high 22 assists—many of them of the aesthetically stunning variety—but also his uncharacteristic traveling violation on a key 2 on 1 break that could have put the game out of reach in the second OT. And, most shocking of all: Marbury coming up veritably Nash-esque in the 3rd OT, making all kinds of big plays to ice the victory. It was one of the most pleasurable viewing experiences of the year for me and I hope it serves as an actual turning point in the Knicks' woefully unfocused and disappointing season and not just another random tease.
PSYCHO-PHARMACOLOGICAL OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Friends who go on anti-depressants are tricky. It’s like they lose their interpersonal navigation system and need to have their sense of humor frequently recalibrated.
SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY: He thrived in an open-bar situation.
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